The glowing blue beam lit up the atmosphere, reflecting off the grains of sand in the dust storm, and ripped into the oncoming war machine. The groaning creak of metal grinding against steel reverberated through the cockpit as Charlie slammed the brakes to a dead stop, instantly backpedaling to avoid a collision. Narrowly missing her opponent’s Battle Crane, Charlie shook out her long hair, the purplish, lavender hue glowing oddly in the sand-fog under the scorching crimson sun, and she thrust her fist outward, the arm of her Sparrowhawk Mecha mimicking her gesture, punching the foe’s smaller, less-armored Crane in the head.

“You fucking cunt! My computer's fried; I’m out of here.”

“You owe me a drink after the battle, Chris. See you when the smoke clears.”

She paused her Battle Crane, slowing down to allow her opponent to jettison from the hulking, metal hull, lest he be crushed underfoot, and then veered off to the side, blasting another foe in the back, their Crane smoking, then erupting in a brilliant flash.

“Somebody send medical over to Justin’s Buzzard, please. He looks a little rattled from my tough love,” Charlie broadcast on the common comm.

Then, over her group’s private channel, she screamed, “And will somebody please get this tank off my butt? The last time anything was that far up my ass, it bought me dinner first.”

“On it, Captain,” Shanta chimed in. “But I get to go up your ass, deal?”

“No fair. It’s my turn. I could use a piece of ass.”

“I don’t care how hard you fuck my ass; you’re not getting a raise, Roulph. Speaking of ass, there’s one I need to kick. Has anyone seen Geoff’s new Crane? I owe that motherfucker.”

“Why, what’d he do, cum too soon?” Roulph’s laughter came through the comm with a static-contaminated warbling, explosions throwing EMP pulses all around.

“No,” Shanta laughed. “He stole her panties!”

“When did you start wearing them? That’s news, boss lady.”

“Shut the fuck up and kill something, will you? Those damn bills won’t pay themselves.”

“Fuck! I think I just stomped on the video crew’s truck by mistake. Sorry, fuckers; all’s fair in love and war.”

“And it’s definitely war, Shanta. Please tell me it was the Red Corona Network. Did you guys see how badly they butchered my last interview? Take out that lying Mercedes bimbo along with the truck, and I’ll give you a big bonus.”

“As big as your ass?”

“Go fuck yourself. I have a sweet, little ass. I was told that three times last night.”

“Yes, you do. I fantasize about it all night long.”

“But you were with me last night, Roulph.”

“I know. Still though. On your four o’clock, Shants. Look out.”

“I like a threesome, but this is more like a gang bang. A little help here. There’s too many of them.”

Charlie spun her bird, a giant metal, robotic, humanoid-shaped mecha, turning the torso into a nearly impossible angle, and she pedaled the lumbering arsenal into a fake reverse, then lunged forward, weapons coming to bear.

“Easy as one,” her slug-firing Gauss rifle erupted with a thunderous report, electric-blue sparks shooting out of the barrel along with the heavy projectile. “Two,” her other Gauss fired, hitting the same exact spot her first shot had targeted, dead-center torso. “Three!” Her final shot, from the arm-mounted particle cannon, knocked the Osprey back, and it fell prone with a grinding, metallic clunk. The cored Crane’s body lay there for a second, convulsing, then erupted in a multicolored plasma explosion as the cockpit jettisoned and skidded away.

“Who’s next? Mamma’s hungry for little of the ultra-violent.”

“Wow,” Rouplh exclaimed. “Did you see that beach? Once we clear the field, what say you that we break out the boards and catch some waves? It’s been a while since we had a beach party.”

“Count me out, but you kids go ahead. You’ve earned some R-and-R.”

“Party pooper. Don’t like the beach?” Roulph’s voice descended into some guttural growls as he perforated a V-tol copter that was raining death down on them. “Suck it, fly-boy. Happy landings.”

“No, Big-R,” Shanta laughed. “Charlie don’t surf!”

“Get your heads in the game, lovebirds. Apocalypse now, party later.”

“Fuck! Who the fuck out there is targeting the cockpit with ballistics? That one messed up my hair.”

“You’re so hot with your hair all messy, Charlie. Sorry about that. It won’t matter in a minute, though; I’m going to roast your turkey.” Her opponent’s voice was jovial.

“Fat chance, Beauford, I’ve seen your baster; it isn’t even long enough to penetrate my armor, let alone roast me.”

“Oh yeah. The last time you were begging, slut. Eat lasers.” Beau’s Crane, a smaller variant of the Hawk, spewed multicolored beams of light into Charlie’s Sparrowhawk. 

“Thanks for the massage; your shoe’s untied.”

The famous pilot’s Crane was vastly superior in firepower, and her twin Gauss rifles blew out Beau’s Mecha’s knees, making his Battle Crane limp, moving slowly. A burst of hellfire, all of her lasers focused on the Hawk’s legs, swept back and forth, cutting the legs off the newer but lighter piece of hardware.

“Woo-hoo! That really evens the odds. What is it? Fifteen to one, now?”

“Fourteen,” Shanta screamed. “Thirteen; unlucky for her, you rookie! Twelve.”

“You go, Shants!”

Explosions, gunfire, rockets, and more exploded all over, unrelenting and pervasive. It was a galaxy-wide miracle that no new mercenary fatalities had been recorded in over six months. Charlie and her crew, calling themselves Pagan Vengeance, strolled through the chaos, meting out destruction to anyone in their path.

A rising star, Charlie was currently one of the hottest, most famous mercenaries in the galaxy. Her name and face were known in every sector, and sexy posters of her adorned bedroom walls on scores of the settled worlds. There were even sex bots modeled after her, which she took as a compliment, albeit a perverted one.

She was a mercenary, a warrior for hire, and while she did enjoy her celebrity status, she was known as something of a rebel to the media. She didn’t play up to them in search of higher ratings. The wars could be televised or not, as far as she was concerned; she was in it for the thrills as well as the money. She was ambivalent that war was now the main source of entertainment for the masses, galaxy-wide. It had its perks, but being on camera every second of every day could be daunting.

“Looks like Solar Flares Incorporated is playing with knives on their new Chicken Hawks. Did you see the size of that one’s sword? Melee weapons versus missiles don’t seem fair.”

“I’m a Chicken Hawk, and you’re a chicken!”

“Keep your distance, Roulph, and take it out at range. Melee weapons may seem a bit silly, gladiatorial, but one or two hits from that claymore, and you’ll lose an arm.”

“I’m invincible! Besides, if you don’t have it, you wield it in battle. Overcompensation!”

“I don’t think there’s enough steel in all the worlds to compensate for your lack of endowment.”

“Still too big for your mouth, and that’s saying a lot, Shanta. Watch me duke it out with the little birdie.”

“The fuck you say! If you fuck up your Crane, it’s coming out of your pay.”

“I got it. Watch this!”

“Cool moves, Rook! I told you that going heavy on the Auto-cannons was a good layout for your Night Owl. Now, clean up your mess like a good boy.”

“It was ‘Sex god’ last night, Shants. Why the demotion?”

“Because you fight like the local militia fucks; slow and sloppy. You suck ass, Roulph.” 

“You like it when I suck your ass. Hey, Charlie! Isn’t that your boyfriend over there?”

“Hiya, Geoff?” Charlie laughed over the communal comm. “I’ve come to collect my pay and thong panties. Give them to me or feel my wrath.”

“Hey, babes. Didn’t you say the same thing the night I got your panties? Bring your best. You’ll never penetrate my new armor. Why did you stop your bird? Afraid of me and my giant cock?”

In her trademark move, what the media called The Dazzler, Charlie screamed a long, drawn-out shriek, firing all her lasers at once, blinding her foe. Precisely aimed, exactly why she’d stopped her lumbering, stomping Crane, the concentrated beams cracked the cockpit glass. 

“When I’m done spanking you, I’m going to tie you down and gag you with my panties, fuck-face.”

“I’ll fuck your face, you purple-haired whore!” 

”Promises, promises. Eat shrapnel.”

Her twin rifles fired, the souped-up particle cannon finishing the job. Smoke, then flames, erupted from Geoff’s Battle Crane, followed by him leaping from the mechanized technology of destruction, landing in a roll. His Battle Crane, the motor destroyed, just stopped, not even falling over, and slumped there. Where it stood.

“How much did that fancy armor run you? I think you should try to get a refund. My panties, your mouth. Later, babe.”

“The next we meet, I’m going to do unto your ass the same as you did to my bird! You’ll rue the day.”

“Rue? Isn’t that a light gravy? It’s a date.”

“Fuck, I lost my arm! Help!” Shanta screamed, her voice distraught. “There goes my fucking bonus.”

“I’m coming. Hang in there, Shanta.”

“Damn, Charlie, that’s some sharp shooting. Thanks.”

“Good one, Captain. That one whizzed by my head so fast that I thought I was doomed. Glad it’s you. That’s some real William Tell shit, there.”

The battle raged for hours. To the mercs, it was simply another day on the job. While the reality was gritty and held real danger, as pilots do occasionally die, the rewards matched the risk. Fame, fortune, glory, and lots of young, nubile groupies who would do anything to sleep with you weren’t a terrible trade-off for those who did well. The scrapyards, however, were filled with the burnt-out husks of what used to be the Battle Cranes of the young and foolish.

When humanity took the stars, the way things had been disappeared into the annuls of history. It wasn’t just a brave new world; it was a dozen, then dozens, then hundreds. Mankind had mastered the stars. Most current humans have never set foot on Barnard’s Star, let alone Terra. But, along with the new frontiers came new challenges.

The League of Planets, as it was originally named, first sought to unify the Terran sphere and its outlying settlements. Over the years, spanning a few centuries, governing so many worlds, so far apart, became too cumbersome to bear. Local governments, confederacies, and corporate conglomerates staked their claims. With so many vast and varied interests looking to gain profits, resources, and power, disagreements erupted, soon evolving into interplanetary wars and rivalries. As it was too costly to maintain constant, interstellar armies, mercenaries became the primary source of military might. Then, the media got involved.

Live coverage of battles grew into broadcasting the complete wars. Humankind, throughout the entire sphere, quickly grew addicted to the real-time chaos, and the mercenaries who piloted the powerful, robotic weapons that were the Battle Cranes became the new celebrities. They were the new sports heroes, except the action was real and deadly.

“Almost done cleaning up this sorry planet. Hey, Sophie, how many more do we need to kill?”

Sophie, Pagan Vengeance’s Star jumper pilot and eyes in the sky, spoke then, her voice sounding tinny due to her being in orbit. “Just you and a few of Dexy’s crew are left. Unless they’re hiding reinforcements, I think we’ll take the day.”

“The Midnight Runners!? I hate those dirty birds. Is Dexy on deck? I owe him for laying me up for three weeks.”

“Oh, like lying in bed while sexy nurses fawn over the big, famous Bird Jockey is so horrible, Roulph.”

“Weld it shut, kids. Break time is over.”

“Um, exactly when were we on break, again?”

“Shut the fuck up and fight.”

Battered and bruised, but none the worse for wear, Pagan Vengeance emerged victorious. Their Cranes, as they were called, were pockmarked and rented with holes, tears, and dents. The pilots, however, suffered nothing more than a few bruises, some overheating, and the jitters that always follow putting one’s life on the line.

“Oh, look!” A buxom blond reporter squealed. Her cameraman, easily spotted due to his eyes glowing blue when he was recording, looked right at Charlie. “It’s the infamous Charlie X.” She trotted over, her big boobs bouncing in her skimpy top, her pink slit sporadically exposed when her tiny skirt flipped up as she jogged. “Time for a few questions?”

Over the centuries, news and entertainment have blended into the same entertainment venue. While the archaic term, television, was still used, the onslaught of information, disinformation, propaganda, and entertainment permeated every form of communication. Reporters were both sources of data and entertainers. Because of that, they dressed provocatively and were known for their outrageous exploits throughout the settled sphere. 

Charlie sighed, looking to her crew mates for immoral support, but they were likewise occupied. “I guess just a few. I need a fucking shower, a hard cock, and a wet pussy.”

“First off, why are they called Cranes?” the blond woman began.

Charlie laughed at that. For a moment, she’d forgotten what a backwater planet Dogon IV, sometimes called the dust bowl, was. It was a standard, lead-in question, and Charlie had given the same speech on countless worlds.

“Hundreds of years ago, before we could travel to the stars, there were these big, metal machines, called cranes, used for constructing large buildings and objects. Eventually, as technology improved, they became much smaller and evolved into large but mobile exo-suits. A single human could lift several tons while wearing these exoskeletons, and, since they replaced the archaic cranes, they were also called cranes. In the Reaper Wars of the twenty-first century, some pinned-down soldiers welded armor on one, strapping weapons to it, and the first Battle Crane was born. The moniker of ‘Crane’ and the affection of naming the models after birds is a callback to our history.”

“See, Humes,” the television personality sang into the microphone. “Brains as well as lethal beauty. So, if you’re so sexy, smart, and lethal, why aren’t you married?”

“Because I have a kink for bubbly blonds with big tits.”

Charlie had to hide her smile when the woman’s jaw drooped, her cheeks blushing. The cameraman focused on the announcer, laughing hysterically, which allowed Charlie to slip away, heading toward the temporary bar that had been air-dropped a few leagues away from the battlefield. 

War and conflict were big business in the sphere. Every time a battle would occur, or a war would erupt—which they often did—a plethora of enterprises sprung up alongside the various mercenary encampments. Bars, mini-hotels, medical services, and entertainment of every ilk were dropped into place, creating a carnival-like atmosphere just outside the war zones. Performers, groupies, sex workers, repairpersons, and merchants cavorted about, all hours of the day and night. The tavern Charlie marched toward was just another typical specimen.

“Wait! Charlie! I have more questions. Why is your last name X? Do you have any retirement plans? Who’s your next victim, I mean opponents? Are you really working for House Danzeen? Are you really into blond women?”

She stopped and turned, smirking at the bouncing blond as she hurried to catch up. When she was close enough, Charlie flipped her oddly-colored hair back, grabbed the woman by the waist, and pulled her in for a kiss. While shocked, the broadcaster didn’t resist; she even moaned into Charlie’s mouth as she reciprocated, giving as good as she got.

“I need a drink. Come with me if you want to cum. But after I get zark-faced, I’ll want some love. Your choice.” Charlie neglected to mention that the press was not allowed inside the establishment. It was a merc bar; no “squibs,” as they called the media, were allowed.

The blond just stood there, panting. Charlie shrugged, then walked toward the tavern. Had it not been for the fact that the tavern was recently dropped into place, the outer shape and shell identifying it as a mobile building, it could have been any dive bar on any planet in the sector. The rough and tumble patrons, mercs mostly, plus their staffs, groupies, sycophants, and camp-followers, were typical, except for maybe the bits of body armor, arsenals of weapons, and scars.

Mercenaries loved to live life, a by-product of knowing it could be snuffed out at any moment, and this bunch was wild, rowdy, and mean-looking.

“Hail the conquering heroine! You fragged me good; buy you a drink?”

“I kicked your bird’s shiny, metal ass, Bender. How about I buy, since I got the purse? Barkeep, one round for everyone on me.” The victorious group commonly bought at least one round of refreshments for everyone else. It was one of the unspoken bits of protocol that were rigidly followed; the rest of the unwritten rules were more like suggestions.

Although the bill would come to several hundred credits, money means little to those who live on the edge, especially when they have a few million newly earned credits in their account. The temporary drinking establishment was packed with wall-to-wall people, all of them mercenaries and their entourages. Although known for their brutality, they were respectful of one another, each one waiting to receive their free drink and holding it until all had been served. All eyes faced Charlie as she raised her glass in a toast. Her preferred drink, the ultra-potent Mind Fuck, glowed and bubbled in its glass, wispy steam rising from the rim.

“To fallen foes,” she began. It was the traditional toast, one that all mercenaries, throughout the entire interstellar sphere, knew.

The others lifted their glasses high and, in unison, responded. “And fallen comrades.”

Then, all of them shouted, “One and the same!” and drank deeply.

Oddly civil, those that were enemies mere hours ago, gunning for blood, now drank and celebrated together. Battlefield exploits, some real, some highly exaggerated, permeated the din of conversation. Some harsh words were exchanged between rivaling people or factions, but not a single blow was struck. Altercations were settled on the battlefield, not in the tavern.

Charlie, still wearing her skin-tight pilot’s suit, sought a quiet corner to drink and reflect. She wasn’t in the mood to carouse, although she did enjoy the company of her peers. Only a mercenary could truly understand the life of another. Flipping open her personal communicator, the Merc Captain browsed through potential job offers, looking for their next payout. Then, she saw her.

Even dressed like a cheap slut and wearing a wig, Charlie instantly recognized the newscaster who had attempted to interview her. She’d changed from her scarlet satin, broadcaster uniform, custom-designed to enhance her physical charms and flash her nudity while on camera, into something even more scandalous. Eschewing her blond hair for a red wig with glittery strands woven throughout, the announcer put on a pair of see-through shorts, so skimpy that more than half her ass was showing, and her blond pubes could be seen through the diaphanous material. A thin, gossamer scarf, twisted in the center, was tied around her tits, serving as a modesty-lacking top. With her makeup caked onto her face, she looked very much like any other Bird Jockey groupie, dressed for sex.

Charlie ignored her, wondering how she gained entry, still browsing through potential jobs. Each sip of her drink turned off a logical, thinking portion of her brain, turning up her primal, hedonistic impulses. Although she pretended to ignore the network personality, Charlie kept track of her location and activities, more curious than anything else.

“So, this is life for you,” the interviewer said when she finally made her way over to Charlie. “You try to kill each other all day, then drink together in the evening?”

“Not my life; it’s merc life. We’re paid to fight, not hate. Today’s foe is tomorrow’s ally. It’s how the eagle soars.”

Charlie looked the woman over. It was no secret that network announcers were glorified sluts. They were paid to look good, act like whores, and get the story, no matter what or how. The buxom blond looked devastatingly sexy in her professional attire, but, dressed as a slutty toy for mercenaries, she was lust-inducing. Her nipples were hard and perfect; she even had puffy areolas, which Charlie always liked. On her big boobs, which sat high and round, they simply looked delicious. Her pubic patch was big and broad, an inverted triangle of sparse down, and the woman’s posterior was incredible.

“I’m Emma Cloudheart, by the way, with Federal Sun Media. Here’s your drink. I took the liberty of ordering you a Mind Fuck; you seem like the type that loves letting loose.”

“Indeed,” Charlie said, saluting her with her half-drained glass. “You made it inside, and I keep my promises. Ask away.”

“What’s your real last name, Charlie?”

The lavender-haired Crane pilot leaned back in her seat, stretching out her legs beneath the small table. One of her feet touched Emma’s, and the woman didn’t pull away or break contact.

“I was born an orphan, which everyone knows, so I don’t have a family, let alone a clan name.” Charlie slipped off her shoe, running her bare foot over the interviewer’s. “I chose ‘X’ because X-rated sounded a bit silly.”

“Are you currently under contract with any of the great Houses, corporations, or firms? In other words, what’s next on your agenda.”

“No. Pagan Vengeance is strictly freelance on a job-to-job basis. We’re beholden to nothing and nobody. However, there’s a scorched earth contract up for grabs on Roswell 51, so we’ll be star-jumping there come dawn.”

Charlie’s foot moved up, rubbing up and down the contours of Emma’s calf. The buxom woman moaned softly, then took off her wig, revealing her blond locks.

“I like you better blond; keep it that way.”

“Or what?”

“Or I won’t take you to my cabin later and make you cum.”

“What makes you think I’m into women?”

“Nothing at all; just hope.”

A rowdy ruckus erupted in the far corner. A group of mercs were watching some of the groupies go down on each other, making bets on which one would orgasm first. The two women observed this for a few seconds, Emma spreading her legs wide open when Charlie’s foot finished its travels up her leg, finally resting on her barely-covered pussy. Charlie’s toes moved up and down, caressing Emma’s swelling clit through her flimsy shorts.

“If you don’t stop that, Charlie, I’m going to cum right here in this shitty bar.” She didn’t stop.

“Let’s get out of here and fuck.”

“I thought you’d never ask.”

Hand in hand, the rough and tumble, sexy mercenary captain and the shapely reporter meandered through the dunes. Charlie’s guards let them pass into their encampment, receiving some bottled booze for their efforts. Unlike other merc outfits, Charlie’s cabin was exactly like all the others. 

“No ego, I see. Most mercenary leaders like larger temporary quarters as befits their station.”

“Fat lot they know! On the field, everyone’s equal. A rookie can frag you just the same as a self-styled mercenary king. Now, let’s get you stripped and fuck.”

To pontificate her desires, Charlie unzipped her flight jumper. She was nude beneath her pilot’s rig, and her cleanly shaven pussy glistened with anticipatory moisture.

“Are you going to give me your famous Dazzler, Charlie? Just so you know, I’m no groupie. I don’t sleep with the people I interview.”

The Battle Crane pilot ignored her words, pulling the woman’s shorts down, then gently forcing her onto the cot. Lowering her head, Charlie breathed in the musky, arousing scent of Emma’s pussy, then feasted on her loins, suckling her swollen clit and jabbing her tongue into the woman’s velvety tunnel. Adding fingers, penetrating Emma’s convulsing cunt and asshole, the horny mercenary got the reporter off quickly.

“Now, fucking lick my cunt, you slut. Make me cum, and don’t stop until your entire face is soaked with my juice.”

Emma, obviously enjoying herself, turned onto her back, spreading her legs, and she opened her mouth, wagging her tongue up and down, while she furiously fingered her pussy. The reporter was obviously into women, and she was so filled with lust that her fingers slammed into her cunt, fucking herself with vigor.

“Ride my face, Charlie. You have no idea how many times I fantasized about this.”

“I thought you said that you were a reporter, not a groupie.”

“Shut up! I’m not a groupie; I just have a lady crush on you. Please let me lick your pussy.”

“Anything for a fan. Now, lick it good, and I’ll let you spend the night with me.”

The lavender-haired Crane pilot straddled Emma’s face, grinding her slit over the woman’s nose, lips, and eager tongue. The newscaster gripped Charlie’s thighs, devouring her sexual nectar, her tongue swirling over an engorged clit and soaked hole.

“Do my ass, too! Make me cum.”

Emma moaned into Charlie’s pussy, her fingers quickly heightening her arousal toward another orgasm, as she feasted on flesh.

“Fucking cumming. Lick it, slut. Drown in my cum.”

“Mmm, aah,” Emma moaned as another orgasm ripped through her core.

The door to Charlie’s mobile cabin opened, and a mercenary, with a handsome, rough-and-tumble look about him, entered, knocking on the wall. “Is this a private party, or can anybody join?”

Startled, Emma stopped licking, quickly covering her nudity with her hands.

“I didn’t tell you to stop. Keep eating my cunt.” Charlie was so close.

“You won,” the man said, openly leering at Emma’s bountiful breasts. “I brought your delicates. The next time we meet, though, you’ll be the one doing repairs, and I’ll get the big payout.”

“Oooh…” Charlie moaned. Her thighs were quivering, and she cupped her breasts, squeezing her nipples in passion. “Geoff, meet Emma. She’s with Federal Sun Media.”

“I thought she was just another groupie. Nice rack you’ve got there, Emma.”

“Emma,” Charlie groaned as a soul-shattering orgasm coursed through her heated flesh. When she could once more form words, she continued. “Meet Geoff. He’s returning my panties.”

“And I brought eros-rock from Dramadon as a peace offering. Want to get horn-tripped and fuck?”

“Sounds like exactly what I need. You up for some blitzed three-way action, Emma?” 

”Oh, my, fucking, gods! You’re Geoff, the Joker! I’m a huge fan. I have your poster in my home over my bed.” Emma may have been a popular television personality in the sector, but she had a thing for Bird Jockeys.

“In the flesh, little lady. You sure you’re not a groupie?”

“No! I’m a professional newscaster and reporter. I’m sure you’ve heard of me.”

Charlie laughed at her. “Yeah, so NOT a groupie.”

Geoff, the second in command in his mercenary group, shrugged. He was gaunt, muscular, and hard-edged with a scruffy beard, lots of tattoos, and a look of brutality about him. On the battlefield, he was a fearsome warrior. Once he climbed out of his Crane, though, he was kind and sweet, and his humorous wit made him a pleasure to socialize with.

“But, what’s Dramadian eros-rock?”

The two mercs’ eyes met, and they laughed.

Charlie grabbed Emma by the hands and pulled her up into a sitting position. She possessively put her arms over the other woman’s shoulder.

“Eros-rock is native to my home planet, Dramadon. It’s a nut, tree fruit. When baked, it looks like a knurled, black rock. If you eat one, it amplifies your feelings and lowers your inhibitions. It’s called eros-rock because it’s primarily used for sexual recreation.”

“Gimme!”

Emma sprung up from the soft, luxurious cot, her modesty forgotten. Her large, shapely tits bounced and jiggled as she pranced over to Geoff with her hand out.

“Pubic hair! The Joker likes.”

“You’re such a sweet-talker. Did you get a refund for your shitty, high-tech, new armor? You went down like a whore at a bachelor party.”

“Let’s do business some other time, shall we?”

“Really, Geoff? What would you rather do?” It was a rhetorical question, as there were two nude, horny women in the small quarters.

“Do I call you by your nickname, Joker, or Geoff?” Emma asked.

“Call me anything you want, so long as I can lick your pussy.”

Emma downed two of the tiny morsels, and Geoff tossed a small, metal mesh bag to Charlie, who deftly caught it, opened it, and poured the nuts into her mouth.

“How long do these take before the effects… oh, fuck! I’m tingling all over and so fucking horny.” 

“Now spread your legs like you do the news, and let me get some of that lovely cunt of yours.”

“Holy shit, Geoff! These are uncut. Where’d you get pure Eros? I haven’t had any this potent since I was home last.”

“I know a guy. He owes me—his life.”

“So horny!” the reporter moaned. 

Emma threw herself to the floor, writhing as her hands caressed her entire body. Her legs were wobbling, and her hands were squeezing her breasts so hard that they turned pink. The shapely blond’s hips started gyrating up and down, her lusty need so overpowering that even humping the air felt like pure sexual bliss.

“Fuck me! Fuck me! Fuuu-uuck meee!”

“You heard the lady,” Charlie sighed, her hands getting busy between her legs.

The lithe, lavender-haired watched the sex show unfold before her. Her hands and fingers self-molested her, brutalizing every millimeter of flesh, penetrating every hole in horny fervor. Geoff, as menacing as he looked, was also strikingly handsome in a rugged, edgy way, and his body was sculpted to perfection from years of arduous, battlefield activity. Charlie had always liked him but loved his cock even more. She drooled at the sight of his long, turgid erection, adding two more fingers inside her dripping snatch.

Emma momentarily stopped pleasuring herself, pulling Geoff into her. The hardened merc quickly stripped, then dove between the newscaster’s gyrating thighs, pushing them apart and lowering his face to her oozing slot.

“That’s it, lick her puss. Get in there, real deep, and make her scream.”

Charlie paused, scooping up her returned underwear before approaching the other two. Emma was moaning, reduced to mindless, sexual pleasure by Geoff’s expertly talented tongue. 

“Don’t stop. Please, don’t stop. I’m going to cum. Make me cum hard. Oh, ooh, oooh!”

Charlie got down onto the floor, wadding up the panties and rubbing them all over her overheating cunt. She slid herself under the kneeling mercenary warrior, taking his long, thick shaft into her mouth. She sucked on it as if it were a piece of hard candy, slurping and licking.

“I’m going to fucking cum. Oh, aah, fuck! I’m being eaten by the Joker. Oh fuck. Breaking news, I’m cumming!”

Geoff divided his focus between the blond bimbo humping his mouth, and the glorious feelings of the sharp-witted mercenary swallowing his shaft. A veteran of many trysts, as well as many battles, he fucked one’s face while the other ground against his.

“Get on your back; I need fucked. I want it rough, hard, and brutal.” the reporter forcibly grabbed him and spun him around.

“Hey, I was enjoying him pleasuring my slutty mouth. If you’re taking his cock, then you need to lick me.”

“Gimme,” Emma commanded. She rolled off the supine man and lay on her back. “Shoot your missile into my puss. Give me your cunt.”

Charlie, still fingering her twat, scrunched up the now-saturated panties and jammed them into Geoff’s panting mouth. “A promise must be kept. Now, fuck her senseless.”

“Fuck me as hard as you fight, you fucking beast,” Emma moaned, her hands fondling her large tits.

“Mmmph, ummph,” Geoff replied through the soaked, soiled panties.

The trio fucked like that for a very long time. Dramadian eros-rock heightens both pleasure and arousal, but it also energizes. None of them could get enough. The blond, slutty reporter squealed for more, Charlie cursed and swore, and Geoff pounded into that hot, tight cunt as roughly and forcefully as he could. 

Once the blond newscaster got going, she couldn’t stop cumming. Her pulsating cunt oozed, poured, and dribbled out nectar at a record pace. All she could do was writhe, begging for more. Charlie's orgasms were hot, heavy, and so intense that her flesh took on a reddish hue, her blood boiling beneath her skin.

The gagged Geoff, lost in his own world of passionate bliss, managed three orgasms before his cock just couldn’t take any more lusty pounding. Finally, ending with all of them in a circle on the floor, each one pleasuring the other, they’d mutually exhausted each other and laid in quiet, sighing repose. Nude, sweat-covered, and basking in the afterglows, the trio spent the rest of the night chatting, laughing, and bonding.

Shortly before dawn, Geoff announced that he had to return to his encampment. Emma, again donning her “fuck me” clothes, kissed them both and left, promising to hook up with Charlie when they next met.

“Well,” Charlie mused to herself, turning off her cabin’s video recording, “I don’t need rest. I’ll sleep when I’m dead.”

She packed and stowed her belongings, readying her portable, on-site cabin for lifting back to the Star Jumper, pagan Vengeance’s starship. Finishing her domestic chores, she downed a full day’s worth of sustenance, although some solid food was her preference, and went to the cabin shared by Shanta and Roulph. All of that took less than an hour.

“When you two are down rimming each other’s asses, we’re jets-up in an hour.”

Pulling her smiling lips off of Roulph’s turgid shaft, Shanta, looking as if she also hadn’t slept, said, “You have got to see this, Captain! You should know better.”

Disentangling themselves, Roulph verbally commanded the Vid-Screen to show the local news broadcast.

Emma, the blond, buxom reporter, back in her newscaster garb, filled the large screen. She was speaking to another broadcaster.

“Oh, yeah. Not only is Charlie X an insatiable whore in bed, but she has a kink for eating cum out of a freshly-fucked pussy.”

“You heard it here, on Federated Sun, first,” the serene male said. “So, what does the future hold for Charlie X and pagan Vengeance?”

The blond bimbo smiled victoriously. “They’re headed to Roswell 51 in just a few hours.”

“You usually have your head about you, boss lady, but this? Fuck! You just spilled our destination to a fucking reporter. Now, every Bird Jock in the sphere will be there, gunning for us. You just murdered us all!”

Charlie laughed so robustly that her entire body quaked. “We’re not going to Roswell.”

“Huh?”

“Come on! A reporter that just so happens to have the hots for me? We’re going to Druidia for a rescue mission.”

“Druidia,” Roulph mused. “What’s there?”

“Ah, druids.”

“Funny, Shants. Let’s pack. Sorry to doubt you, Captain, my Captain. Let’s lock and load.”

To be continued…