Pinga's first day - part 2

Lunch was chaos, but the good kind—warm, loud, messy, and filled with curvy bodies in tight clothes. Most of the crew was present: Amaterasu had bridge watch, and April was down in the reactor chamber, but the others crowded around the long table, plates piled high.

Pinga was chewing through a mountain of fried potatoes like she hadn’t eaten in weeks. In truth, she hadn’t.

"Where’s Macha?" she asked between bites, unaware of the grease on her lips or the sauce trickling down her chin. June raised an eyebrow as she leaned back in her seat.

"We seriously need to teach you table manners before we hit a civilized planet."

"Or we’ll have to keep you locked on the ship," Aslög warned, half-serious.

"Can’t have you embarrassing the Captain at some fancy dinner," Bari added with a grin. Everyone nodded solemnly like it was doctrine, while Pinga, cheeks bulging, tried to wipe her chin discreetly with her sleeve.

"But to answer your question," Metzli said, "Macha went to get changed." Just then, the galley doors hissed open, and in walked Macha.

Silence fell like a dropped plate.

She was in black patent platform heels and sexy French maid outfit, all lace and frills, complete with gloves and a little cap perched on her curls. The skirt barely covered her round ass, and her cleavage spilled from the frilly bodice like an invitation.

For a heartbeat, no one said a word.

Then came the wolf whistles, catcalls, and pounding of fists on the table. A full-on explosion of rowdy approval. Everyone joined in—except Pinga, who stared wide-eyed, utterly stunned by the outfit and the shameless delight of the crew. Macha raised a gloved hand with theatrical disdain.

"Quiet down, you thirsty sluts. I need to get lunch to the Captain." She made a beeline for the buffet and started piling food onto a tray—only to stop suddenly.

"What the—hey! Why is there so little food left?"

The room fell suspiciously silent. Pinga froze mid-bite, painfully aware of the heavy plate in front of her and the way no one was meeting Macha’s eyes.

Macha’s gaze locked on her. Pinga blushed and scrambled to explain. "I—I didn’t realize—I’m sorry, I—"

But Macha stepped up, placing one gloved finger against her lips.

"Shh, little bunny," she said softly. "This is my fault. I should have cooked more. You need food more than most—skin and bones, you poor thing."

Then she turned to the rest of the crew, her tone shifting instantly.

"And you gluttonous whores should be on a diet," she snapped, slapping June’s fat breast with a silky flick. That brought another roar of laughter—until Aslög stood, slamming her fist on the table.

"Enough." Her voice cracked like a whip. Even the music seemed to pause.

"Captain needs at least eight thousand calories a day," she said flatly. "Pinga probably needs half that just to rebuild. The rest of us? Maybe three thousand. Tops. So suck it up and give up some of your food already!"

Macha surveyed the remains of the food and nodded as the other women moved delicious things to her tray.

"It’ll do. We’re cruising, and the Captain’s actually resting." Bari gave a lazy wolf-whistle, which earned her a look. Macha began stacking her tray with practiced grace.

"I’ll take this up to him, and you sluts are cleaning up." Groans and protests followed.

"Oh, and one more thing," she added with a wicked smirk. "You’re making dinner. Real dinner. Enough to fill every last belly. Because once the Captain sees me in this outfit?" She gave a spin, skirt flaring, lace flying. "I’ll be far too busy to cook."

The women groaned louder, tossing napkins and muttering insults. But Aslög only snapped her fingers once and fixed them all with a glare.

"We got it," she said. "Go, Macha. We’ll handle this." Macha left, heels clicking rhythmically on the deck, hips swaying like a tease in motion. Once the door slid shut and her footsteps faded, Aslög turned back to the table.

"I’m pulling rank. I’ll take bridge watch."

Everyone froze.

"You lot—figure out cleaning and cooking among yourselves. No eye-gouging, no hair-pulling, and absolutely no broken teeth."

She was already halfway to the exit when she added, without turning around:

"Remember—there are cameras in the galley. And I will check."

Then she was gone. The remaining women exchanged glances, the first hints of territorial tension rising behind their eyes. Pinga sat quietly, blinking. She wasn’t sure if she should thank someone… or run.

The soft click-click-click of heels echoed down the corridor as Macha made her way to the Captain’s quarters, her hips swaying with every step. The tray was perfectly balanced on one hand, piled with protein-heavy fare, but her real focus was the effect her outfit would have. She pressed the door chime with her elbow. The lock disengaged with a quiet chirp.

"Enter," came Luke’s voice, rough from sleep and faintly amused. She stepped inside, letting the door hiss shut behind her. Luke was reclining shirtless on the bed, his muscular chest crisscrossed with old scars and the gleam of polished implants. His gaze flicked up—then stayed there. The tray didn’t even register.

"Well," he murmured. "I must be dreaming again." Macha curtsied, making the frilly skirt dance and giving him a perfect view of her thighs. "Lunch is served, Captain," she purred. "And dessert is included."

Luke sat up slowly. "Is this a new uniform regulation?" She walked over, swaying, and set the tray on the bedside table before climbing up onto the bed on all fours, careful not to spill anything. The lace and satin of her maid outfit rustled softly as she straddled his thighs, placing one hand on his chest.

"I just thought you might need a little... bedside service." He arched an eyebrow, letting his hands drift up her thighs.

"Macha. You wore this entire getup just to tease me?"

"Tease you? Captain, I came to serve you." She leaned down, letting her hair brush his skin, her voice a whisper in his ear. "And if you're still hungry after the food… I’m fully equipped for seconds."

His hands slid to her hips, gripping tight through the silky layers of ruffles. "You’re unbelievable." He took his time letting his eyes roam over her—black fishnet stockings clinging to creamy thighs, the frilly white apron tied snug over her hips, lace-trimmed gloves hugging her arms. Even the ridiculous little maid headdress perched atop her curls made him smirk.

"You really went all out," he murmured, running a palm over the curve of her skirt. "Just for me?"

"Don’t flatter yourself, Captain," she said, though her voice was low and teasing. "I just thought the ship could use a little more… domestic discipline." His fingers slid under the hem of her skirt, brushing the tops of her stockings. "Discipline, huh? That sounds promising."

Macha leaned in, her silk-gloved hand pressing against his bare chest. “You’ve been a very demanding man lately. It’s only proper I come dressed to serve.” She rolled her hips gently against his lap. “Clean your quarters. Feed your appetite. Relieve your tension…” Luke’s hands gripped her hips, keeping her still. “You really want to be used like a maid, Macha?” She kissed his jaw, then whispered: “I want to be enjoyed like one.”

That did it.

He flipped her onto her back in one fluid motion, Macha let out a delighted laugh, her petticoats flouncing as she settled onto the pillows, legs spread beneath her skirt. Luke knelt between her thighs and slowly pushed the frilly black fabric up, exposing her matching panties—lace, sheer, and soaked through. He didn’t remove them. He only hooked them aside with one practiced finger and dipped his head to taste her, savoring the way her thighs trembled against his shoulders.

Macha’s moans were muffled as she bit down on one gloved hand, her other arm flung above her head, fingers tangled in the bedsheets.

“Gods, Luke—yes—just like that…”

He kept going until she was gasping, her headdress askew, stockings wrinkled, apron rucked up around her waist - the evidence of a mounting passion. He pulled back, lips wet, eyes gleaming. “Delicious.”

“Are you talking about the lunch or me?” she managed between deep breaths.

“You.” The simple answer made Macha's heart flutter.

With no warning, he pressed into her—slowly, deeply—keeping her skirt hiked up at her waist and her panties still hooked aside. She cried out and wrapped her legs around him, her heels digging into the small of his back. The rhythm they found was steady but deep, bodies pressed close but the ruffles of her costume brushing his skin with every thrust. Luke grabbed the loops of her apron and used them for leverage, holding her in place while she writhed beneath him.

“You really want to serve me?” he growled in her ear.

“Yes,” she moaned. “Use me. However you want. I’m yours.”

He grabbed a fistful of lace at her neckline and used it to pull her upright, bringing her flush against him in a sitting position. The movement made her gasp again, her breath ragged against his neck.

“Then serve your Captain properly,” he growled, nipping her earlobe. They stayed like that—her perched in his lap, hands gripping his shoulders as her orgasm hit hard and sudden, making her cry out into the curve of his neck. He wasn’t far behind, growling her name as his hips stuttered against hers.

Afterward, they collapsed into the pillows, Macha still fully dressed—rumpled, sticky, and glowing with satisfaction. She reached for the food tray with one hand and offered him a piece of roast potato.

“Eat, Captain,” she said with a wicked smile. “You need your strength. Who knows what I'll clean next—with my tongue.”

He laughed, full and rich, and took the bite from her fingers.

“Best maid I’ve ever had,” he said. “I may have to give you a raise.”

“You already did,” she purred, rolling her hips against him again.