He's fucked navis before - that's no news and no surprise and, in the grander scheme of the fleet's future, no bother. They don't recruit whores and dress'em up in whites, but the general expectation is, genetically engineered human sacrifices epitomize artificial intelligence design and have a great ass, to boot. Of course they'll appeal. Of course you'll end up courting'em. And of course the likes of Encke got tested upon registration, until three independent medical wards confirmed fighter candidates were, in fact, not blind.
So, Encke can see what's before him, and he can see it's - different; it won't be 'tumbled with another navi' going in his ledger tonight, but 'slept with Keeler.' 'Had the opportunity.' 'Earned the bloody privilege.'
He can live with that, mouth finding Keeler's, hungry in thanks, damn well ravenous.
"Thought we - thought we were," and he's struggling to laugh, because Keeler's parading his pearly whites, and rule number one is, you don't leave your navi hanging, not in bridge quarters, not in a bird, and not in a bed.
...though, damn, next time (and the next time that follows the next time, and the next time after that, and all their heirloom successors), Encke's introducing a caveat: if he's not allowed to roll over before Keeler's come, then Keeler's sure as hell not allowed to put on a show. There're forty-nine different faces the Sleipnir's sweet little lead navigator can make between the sheets, lieutenant Keeler, sir, all beastly and beautiful, and Encke's committed each to memory, beside a symphony of whispered urges and sublimated moans.
It's as if Keeler's fighting pleasure sometimes - the rational acknowledgement of it, and not the carnal overture, where he's all willing courtesan happily on display, and so fucking tight and good that Encke's hissing his curses between gritting teeth, rutting into his navi and reducing it all to domination. Maybe that's the key to it, to getting Keeler to let the fuck go: steal bliss from him.
Kiss, thrust, punishment, heat - "Gonna let us hear you scream, lieutenant?" - and with a vicious stroke of Keeler's cock, grin.
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So, Encke can see what's before him, and he can see it's - different; it won't be 'tumbled with another navi' going in his ledger tonight, but 'slept with Keeler.' 'Had the opportunity.' 'Earned the bloody privilege.'
He can live with that, mouth finding Keeler's, hungry in thanks, damn well ravenous.
"Thought we - thought we were," and he's struggling to laugh, because Keeler's parading his pearly whites, and rule number one is, you don't leave your navi hanging, not in bridge quarters, not in a bird, and not in a bed.
...though, damn, next time (and the next time that follows the next time, and the next time after that, and all their heirloom successors), Encke's introducing a caveat: if he's not allowed to roll over before Keeler's come, then Keeler's sure as hell not allowed to put on a show. There're forty-nine different faces the Sleipnir's sweet little lead navigator can make between the sheets, lieutenant Keeler, sir, all beastly and beautiful, and Encke's committed each to memory, beside a symphony of whispered urges and sublimated moans.
It's as if Keeler's fighting pleasure sometimes - the rational acknowledgement of it, and not the carnal overture, where he's all willing courtesan happily on display, and so fucking tight and good that Encke's hissing his curses between gritting teeth, rutting into his navi and reducing it all to domination. Maybe that's the key to it, to getting Keeler to let the fuck go: steal bliss from him.
Kiss, thrust, punishment, heat - "Gonna let us hear you scream, lieutenant?" - and with a vicious stroke of Keeler's cock, grin.