Breakfast - [BJ]

Around 0730 Hours, everyone was sitting around on the Mess Deck. A couple were still eating, but most were lingering over coffee, waiting for the 0800 Hours Comm-Link conference with Ensign Bauer and the others up on Stratos. Smith, Hammer, and Moonwatcher were at one table; Wallace, Dawson, and Gladden at another; with Farasha and Lavella at the third.

The loud banging on the secured hatch to the access ramp caused all heads to look in that direction. Before Commander Smith could tell the Boatswain to respond, Lieutenant Moonwatcher volunteered.

"I'll get it," he said, leaving the Mess Deck and checking the small view-screen mounted on a stanchion next to the main view-screen at the Navigations and Communications station. Recognizing the blue jump-suit and cap of a longshoreman, Moonwatcher pressed the button that caused the door to lift quickly with a whooshing noise.

"Sorry to interrupt you, Sirs," the man said as he stepped inside, removing his cap. The clipboard in his right hand indicated that he was a stevedore. "And M'ams. But I need to get into the cargo hold."

"Why?" Moonwatcher asked, thinking the man was referring to the hold containing the funds to pay for the Zenite.

"We have a shipment of ore to put onboard," he replied.

The man was almost knocked down as Smith, Hammer, Wallace, and Gladden raced for the access ramp. Moonwatcher sat down at his station, waiting for someone outside the ship to contact him.

Smith: Captain to 5-EX.
Moonwatcher: 5-EX here.
Smith: Open the number two upper cargo hold.
Moonwatcher: Opening number two upper cargo hold, aye.

Outside, the 5-EXers stood off some distance, away from the overhang of the rim encircling the main hull, so that they could watch the operation. With a loud hydraulic whine, a section of the rim lifted, exposing an empty compartment below.

Crews of blue-clad men moved long ramps into place, four in total, and what must have been one hundred men with straw baskets began the process of transferring the ore from the wagons to the ship.

"They are doing it by hand?" Commander Smith asked, more shocked by this than anything he had seen so far on his visit to Ardana. Looking upward to the cloud shrouded city floating against the pink sky, he continued to talk to himself. "How can a civilization with such technology rely on manual labor for loading a spacecraft?"

"That is the way things are done here, Captain," a woman's voice said from behind him. "Everything on Ardana is done by hand. Troglytes are cheaper than machinery."

It was Farasha speaking. She and Lavella had joined the others outside. Dawson, of course, had stayed onboard cleaning up after breakfast and Moonwatcher remained at his Navigations and Communications station, waiting for Bauer's call.

"But . . . but that will take forever," Smith sputtered.

"Not forever," the Stevedore replied as he stepped forward. "Each man can carry fifty pounds. Each ramp is wide enough for two lines; one walking up loaded, the other walking down empty. If it takes three minutes to dump the contents of a basket into the hold, we can load six thousand pounds - that's three tons - in an hour. Working with relief crews around the clock, we can have fifty tons loaded in . . . " He consulted his clipboard. "A little under seventeen hours."

The Stevedore held out the clipboard and a pen, requesting that Commander Smith sign a form. He had asked Moonwatcher to sign it, but the Second Officer, not wanting to step on the Captain's toes, had sent the man to him. Smith angrily scrawled out his name in a large, flourishing signature, the insanity of using coolie labor driving him crazy. However, there was no further discussion on the topic as his Comm-Link sounded. Moonwatcher had established contact with Bauer.

"Keep an eye on things, Boatswain," Commander Smith said as he strode past Chief Wallace, patting him on the shoulder.

An hour later and Doctor Boyce had set up a folding table and chair in the shade provided by the outer rim of the ship. On the table were two metal boxes that had top and front lids. When opened they revealed racks of small chemical containers, a small electronic scanning device, and a microscope. Basically, a mobile ore-sampling lab. He made repeated trips to the wagons as they rolled in, grabbing handfuls of the ore and taking them back to his table. The results of his tests, he entered into a notebook.

"I have to hand it to you, Captain," Commissioner Anderson said to Commander Smith as the two stood near the access ramp, watching the well choreographed movement of dozens of labors. "This time your 'gunboat diplomacy' paid off. Maybe you missed your calling. Instead of being a spaceship Captain, you should have been a Diplomat."

"On the trip back to Merak II," Smith replied, "I'll tell you about Commodore Matthew Calbraith Perry."

The sounds of footsteps on the access ramp caused both men to look up. It was Farasha and Guardian O'Connell departing to go over to the Port Foreman's office to catch a vertical transport for her 1000 Hrs meeting. She was wearing a blue dress with thin white vertical stripes. It had a full skirt, and from the angle Smith and Anderson were viewing, they got a good look at her stocking-tops and the bare backs of her thighs.

Delaying the two for a moment, Commander Smith pulled Guardian O'Connell off to one side. "Where is Ensign Bauer?" the Captain asked. "How come he is not with the rest of you?"

Looking down at the ground and rubbing the back of his neck, O'Connell cast a sidelong glance at Smith and answered in a lowered voice, "Uh . . . I think he went back to bed, Sir."

"Back to bed!" Commander Smith exclaimed before quickly looking around and lowering his own voice. "Since when do Midshipmen go 'back to bed' during duty hours?"

"Er . . ." O'Connell again felt put on the spot. During his brief time onboard the 5-EX he had learned that one did not ever . . . ever . . . lie to the Captain of a ship. "It's, uh, not his bed . . . Sir."

Commander Smith blinked his eyes a couple of times as he processed the information. Then he started laughing. A loud, hearty throwing-back-the-head laugh that drew everyone's attention. "Very Well. The man is following his orders. I can't fault him for that."

Turning to Farasha, a signal to O'Connell that he was 'dismissed', he called out, "Good luck at your meeting, Miss Farasha."

"Thank you, Captain," she nodded while tugging at the tops of her short white gloves. "But why do you keep calling me 'Miss' Farasha? You've even got High Advisor Ishlass doing it."

"That, is why I do it," Commander Smith winked.

As those two walked away, the Boatswain walked up. "Begging your pardon, Captain," he began, "But are we still restricted to the base?"

Looking at all the activity swirling around them and the steady, non-stop sound of ore clunking into the cargo hold, Commander Smith answered, "No. No, I supposed not . . . But if you are going ashore, I still want you to wear a side-arm." The Captain headed for the access ramp. "Come on, I'll issue you one."

Although it was mid-morning, the fact that the space-port had 'come alive' again had brought out the hawkers, huskers, and beggars. All milling around the main gate of the fenced-in area of the landing zones. Chief Wallace made his way through those, ignoring their solicitations and offerings. But as he walked further out into the sprawling black asphalt sector where the cargo containers were stockpiled, he slowed at the sight of three women leaning idly against one of the large metal boxes.

The woman in the center, seeing that Wallace was looking in her direction, pushed away from the container and sashayed her way over, swinging her wide hips in an exaggerated fashion. Her black skirt was short and tight, displaying fleshy thighs. The scoop-neck short-sleeve pullover shirt with broad red and yellow horizontal stripes was equally tight, emphasizing her full bosom. On her feet were black leather loafers. She was not young, probably in her late thirties to early forties, with heavy make-up and short, puffed up bleached-blonde hair.

"Looking for some fun?" she asked when she got within speaking distance.

Wallace had danced this dance countless times in countless ports throughout the galaxy. He came straight to the point. "How much for a blowjob?"

Without batting an eye, she quoted him a price. It was slightly higher than what the other 'working girl' had charged the other night, but not unreasonably so. When he asked where, she jerked her head towards the rows of containers behind her. He nodded in agreement and followed her as she led the way towards the lines of storage units. The other two women watched, but said nothing. They did not want to 'spook' their friend's client.

Once they were out of sight, between two of the tall forty-foot long boxes, he handed her the money and un-zipped his pants. She watched with a slightly bored expression on her face as he reached inside for his dick. When he pulled it out, she stepped up closer to him and bent over from the waist. Using her finger-tips and licking tongue, she soon had him hard. After she had accomplished that, she took him into her mouth, closing her lips around his dick and started to bob her head up-and-down. All the while sucking on his member. Her hand came up to grab the lower part of his shaft, pumping it in rhythm with her head movements. She placed her other hand on his thigh to maintain balance.

But Wallace wanted her on her knees. Resting his hands on her shoulders, he pushed down while stepping towards her, throwing her off balance. Naturally the woman did not want to kneel on her bare knees on the rough asphalt, so she responded by squatting. Now her body was below his but she was still on her feet, not on her knees.

Both of his hands clasped the back of her head and he started thrusting his hips back-and-forth, shoving his boner deeper into her mouth. Although she had a hand wrapped around the base of his manhood, he was still forcing himself further into her mouth than was comfortable. She made loud, awkward gurgling noises as he fucked her mouth.

Struggling to pull her head off his cock, she finally succeeded in breaking free of his grasp. Saliva dripped from her mouth as she gasped for air, her jaws gaping as she tried to catch her breath. Wallace immediately took hold of her head again, pulling it towards him while jamming his dick back into her open mouth, his hips again bucking. She slapped frantically at his thighs with both hands, trying to free herself once more.

"Damn, Mister, give me a break," she wheezed as she snapped her head back, her body rocking away from him. "You're **** me here."

He stared down at her in contempt while moving his right hand away from her. At first, her eyes went wide in fear, as she thought he was reaching for his holster. However, he was going back into his pocket for the folded script that served as money on the planet's surface. Peeling off one bill, he glared down at her for a moment before peeling off a second one. Holding the two pieces of paper over her upturned face, he locked eyes with hers, waiting her response.

The squatting blonde hesitated, her eyes going from the script, to Wallace's face, and back to the script. Taking a deep breath and exhaling loudly in resignation, she reached up and took the money from his hand. Folding the script, she shoved it down the neckline of her shirt as she had with the initial payment. Tilting her head back and opening her mouth wide, she waited for him to resume his rough face-fucking of her.

She did not have to wait for long. Wallace stepped up closer to her, his legs spread with one foot on either side of her feet. He inserted his cock into her offered mouth while gripping the back of her head as before. With quick, powerful jerks, he snatched her head to and fro, causing her to once more make those loud gagging noises. Spit was flowing from the corners of her mouth and her eyes were watering from the repeated hammering of the head of his dick against the back of her throat.

Again she pulled free, her chest heaving as she gasped for air. He allowed her two deep breaths before invading her mouth again. When he took another step forward, she lost her balance and fell back on her ass, her arms extending behind her.

"Awwk . . . Awwk . . . Awwk," she gurgled from Wallace's thrusting hips. He was no longer jerking her head back and forth, but rather was holding it still as he crammed his cock in and out of her mouth and down her throat. His balls slapped against her spit covered chin.

He pulled out, letting her take a couple of much needed lungfuls of air, then resumed his **** on her. Face-fucking her furiously. As she sat there with her head tilted back, her arms splayed out behind her, her palms pressing into the rough asphalt, she would stomp first one foot, then the other, then both in unison as she struggled to breathe.

When he pulled out of her mouth one more time, her cheeks were black from the running mascara and she was hyperventilating. When he started to enter her anew, she groaned but remained in position, letting him pillage her mouth and throat. Brutally mouth-fucking her.

Just when she thought her ordeal would never end, Wallace suddenly started thrusting even faster. Even more powerfully. She figured either she was going to pass out, or he was going to drop his load.

It was the second option.

Grunting and gasping, Wallace ejaculated into the blonde hooker's mouth. Thick, hot blasts of his gooey man-juice. Normally she did not swallow a client's cum, but in the position she was in, with her neck arched back, she had ****. Each swallow caused her to clench her eyes shut in disgust as she ingested his sperm.

When he finished emptying his nuts into her mouth and down her throat, Wallace staggered back, shoving his spent cock back into his pants and zipping up. The blonde remained sitting on the asphalt, but was leaning forward, her forearms on her widespread knees, her head hanging down, her shoulders lifting and falling as she caught her breath.

Wallace stood there for a while, watching. Her position and short skirt gave him a clear view of her crotch. She wore no panties and her hairy pussy was on open display. His earlier suspicions were confirmed. She was not a natural blonde.

At last she lifted her head and started to rise. Wallace stepped forward, extending his hand and helped pull her to her feet. She stared into his face with confusion at the unexpected chivalrous gesture. Even more confusing for her was when he pulled his handkerchief from his pocket and dabbed at the corners of her mouth and chin. Handing her the handkerchief, he said, "Here. Wipe your face."

She did just that, swiping under her eyes and around her swollen lips. Her bewilderment was as intense as ever. When he strolled away to return to the ship, he called back over his shoulder, "You can keep the handkerchief."