That's it. That's just it. That's top of the line on his wish list, number one with a trivial edit - get them an audience. Get Keeler on his bony knees before him, darling mouth opening up wide, while Encke slides in real slow, and all the fucking brass enjoys the view they'll never own on order, cash or credit. Get Keeler out of right and reach, completely and unfailingly possessed, past dibs, due and manipulation. Get Keeler off the market, 'look, don't touch' status and no more private worries that the next man who boards the ship could wave around his dick and enough weight to spirit a precious navi face away on 'indefinite transfer leave.'
But that's not tonight's priority. Shouldn't be.
"Mmmmm... that what I want?" he drawls out, rolling each sound over with a heavy tongue, barely remembering spoken words and meaning. Keeler's a prodigy, every performance virtuoso, and if Encke minds that he's been outplayed, game, set and match, it's only because one day he'll have to extend a challenge demonstration to the four-six hours he'd really appreciate for... scientific purposes. Note-taking. Sure. They should go on leave at one point - seven days of artificial sun bliss, colony wanders and Keeler's exertions. Encke can live with that thought. Encke might not live past that reality, but he can live with the thought.
Body limp and strange, he contorts until he's thwarting a few laws of physics and many of common sense, all in the noble service of tipping Keeler's chin up and away from his groin, of sweeping in for the killl of a kiss, light and airy. Slow. Just enough to circumvent humiliation and stymie early climax. To appreciate the aftertaste of man and brew. The room amenities. Right.
"I like my coffee with more sugar," he murmurs with an expectant rise of his brows, as if Keeler should know and correspond, as if every decision of what enters the navi's tempting mouth should be in preparation of it being ravaged.
He smirks at that, finally starting to pull away, move.
"What I want, lieutenant, is you running recon on just how soft this bed is, while your boy does some looting." Lube. Condoms. Paraphernalia. Accessories to his inevitable murder at Keeler's hands and lips. He'll be damned if an orgy madhouse like the Proxima's not packed to the brim with them, but every prize needs digging.
no subject
But that's not tonight's priority. Shouldn't be.
"Mmmmm... that what I want?" he drawls out, rolling each sound over with a heavy tongue, barely remembering spoken words and meaning. Keeler's a prodigy, every performance virtuoso, and if Encke minds that he's been outplayed, game, set and match, it's only because one day he'll have to extend a challenge demonstration to the four-six hours he'd really appreciate for... scientific purposes. Note-taking. Sure. They should go on leave at one point - seven days of artificial sun bliss, colony wanders and Keeler's exertions. Encke can live with that thought. Encke might not live past that reality, but he can live with the thought.
Body limp and strange, he contorts until he's thwarting a few laws of physics and many of common sense, all in the noble service of tipping Keeler's chin up and away from his groin, of sweeping in for the killl of a kiss, light and airy. Slow. Just enough to circumvent humiliation and stymie early climax. To appreciate the aftertaste of man and brew. The room amenities. Right.
"I like my coffee with more sugar," he murmurs with an expectant rise of his brows, as if Keeler should know and correspond, as if every decision of what enters the navi's tempting mouth should be in preparation of it being ravaged.
He smirks at that, finally starting to pull away, move.
"What I want, lieutenant, is you running recon on just how soft this bed is, while your boy does some looting." Lube. Condoms. Paraphernalia. Accessories to his inevitable murder at Keeler's hands and lips. He'll be damned if an orgy madhouse like the Proxima's not packed to the brim with them, but every prize needs digging.