Fierce Enchantments Page 18

  “Oh,” Peyton cried softly, caught between the two men, unable to pull forwards or backwards.

  “Don’t damage them, Brannon,” the sergeant warned. “She doesn’t carry spares.”

  Brannon let go of her aching tits and put his hand round the back of her neck to pull her to him. For a moment she felt like she might be snapped in half between the two men, and then she was sliding down Brannon’s sinewy body, face pressed to the scars and the ink, over the ridges of his hard stomach and down onto a long cock marbled with blue veins. She gobbled at it gratefully, glad for the respite from those hungry hands. He had come so close to hurting her … and now her breasts buzzed and stung with need, and the ache was sinking right down through her body to her sex.

  But Sergeant Jomoa didn’t give her long to analyze her feelings. As Brannon started to spring a sweat, he snagged his fingers in her hair once more to free her from the prick that pinned her in place.

  “Fuck,” said Brannon softly, grabbing his cock.

  “Now,” the sergeant said, turning her head to look down the line. “You’ve met the squad. Your turn to choose. Which cock do you like the look of best, Corporal?”

  She licked her lips, trying to think. Not Brannon—too intense. Not Hayes—too boisterous. The sergeant—but he was so big, she wasn’t sure she could cope right away. She went with her instincts—precognition by any other name. “Eriksen,” she said. He was the only one who’d showed real restraint.

  The sergeant’s brows rose in surprise, but he nodded. “Eriksen: forward,” he ordered. “You’re first.”

  ♦♦♦

  She doesn’t feel the EMP. She just realizes that the exterior bulkhead doors aren’t responding when she hits the button to close them. Throwing herself at the handle of the manual close, she begins to turn it frantically.

  Sarge! Door circuits down! We’ve got Spiders close by!

  —THAT’S OKAY PEYTON JUST SECURE AND STAY COOL IT’S WHAT WE’D EXPECT SNAFU

  They’re drawn to electrical signals. It’s like throwing chum into seawater. They’ll come in all their glowing long-legged beauty, and they’ll fry any electrical equipment that isn’t caged or hardened, and they’ll fill the radio frequencies with such interference that comms are fucked and the human race is reduced to shouting and semaphore. That’s where the Psliders come in, of course.

  —POSITION PEYTON! WE’RE GOING IN—WE NEED YOU ONSIDE! His voice is clear in her head. She’s got a mental picture too: a plaza with a colonnaded walkway. She’s studied the schematics of the building until she knows every square foot. She knows where they’re heading. It’s her task to keep them in touch with one another. Psliding from head to head, relaying information and orders, watching everyone’s back. Keeping them all safe, so that when pickup sweeps through and snags the capsule, they’ll all get home together.

  ♦♦♦

  “Shit, man. Not fair.”

  “Don’t be a dick, Hayes.”

  “I just like to go first. It’s tighter, you know.”

  “That’s because yours is like a cocktail sausage.”

  Ignoring all this, Eriksen stepped forward and caught her by the cotton vest still bunched up at the top of her breastbone. There was no sign of pleasure on his face at having been chosen; if anything the blue-ice glare deepened.

  “By the numbers, Private,” said Sergeant Jomoa dryly, wandering off a little to light another cigarette.

  “Yes, Sarge.” Twisting the cloth until it pulled uncomfortably tight under her arms, he passed his other hand over her exposed breasts, petting and rubbing, petting and rubbing … and then breaking off to tug experimentally at her hard nipples before going back to stroking her. If he’d squeezed her roughly it would have just been a grab, but these caresses heightened her breasts’ sensitivity almost beyond bearing. Peyton couldn’t have hidden her response if she’d tried; the rush of sensation made her close her eyes and bite her lip, though that couldn’t stop the little breathy moans escaping.

  “Oh fuck yeah,” murmured Hayes.

  Then Eriksen trailed his fingers down her body, right into the soft and hairless split of her sex. Standing on tiptoe, it wasn’t particularly easy to open her legs wide enough for him, but obedience was ingrained. As his fingers slithered around in the copious wet he found and delved into her passage, her pussy tilted instinctively and ground into his palm. She’d never been touched by an actual man down there—but when he held her sex in his hand, it was like she was made to fit him.

  It was almost enough to make her protest when he withdrew his fingers. But then he lifted them to his face and inhaled her bouquet, tasting one fingertip and then another.

  “Ah, fuck,” said Rialto in the distance. “Real pussy. None of that machine shit.”

  All the time Eriksen was watching her face, as if assessing her reaction to being played with. No, she thought—not assessing. Judging. No imprinting was needed to recognize the disapproval that burned in his cold eyes. She had a sudden panicky moment as she thought she’d picked the wrong man entirely.

  So it took her by surprise when he swung her around by her shirt and sat her on top of the nearest foot-locker, pushed up her thighs—and then sank down to a crouch between them, burying his face in her open pussy. She lost her balance and tipped back with a cry, her head and shoulders flopping down onto the hard military mattress of the bed behind. The machines—the vids—the doctors—none of them had prepared her for this: the feeling of a man’s hot face between her thighs, the scour of his stubble, the hungry sucking play of his tongue. It was almost too much, just for that first moment, and she cried out and kicked, her legs finding no purchase on the air. But Eriksen grabbed her calves and pushed her legs right up and back, pinning her in place. And after that it wasn’t too much. She only wanted more.

  “Shit, man,” Hayes complained. “Hurry up, my balls are blue here. Fuck that romance shit. Do it later.”

  “What, after you’ve spunked all over it?” Rialto asked.

  “Hey. Maybe he’d like a little gravy on his meat.”

  Eriksen emerged for air, leaving Peyton bereft. “She has to come. That’s the point, isn’t it?” He had some sort of European accent.

  Brannon grunted. “She’ll come. Look at her. She’s a real pslut.” He said it without rancor. “Just fuck her.”

  The thing was, he was right and Peyton knew it, though she’d never been with a man before this day. EFORCE had trained her mind for psliding and her body, with equal thoroughness, for orgasmic response. Once aroused, she could be pushed into climax over and over again—until she was beyond satiation, until she was no longer able to think, until she was weeping with exhaustion between bouts, but burning for another one the moment it began again. It was what she was. How else was she to bond with her squad? Or endure the life she’d been assigned to?

  “Don’t take all day, Eriksen,” said Sergeant Jomoa mildly.

  With a grunt, Eriksen heaved himself to his feet, though he looked down at Peyton as if she were a piece of meat. Only his massively stiff cock betrayed any emotion. Draping her heels over his shoulders, he muscled up against her pussy, slid one thumb over her clit and slipped his length inside her. Contraception wasn’t an issue—her eggs had all been harvested already. He didn’t hurry. He didn’t push deep before he partly retreated, waited a moment and then slid in again just as slowly. It was as if he didn’t want to commit any other part of him than his cock to this enterprise.

  But it was enough for Peyton. The slip of his thumbpad over her aching clit, the girth and pressure of his shaft—and then, the slight tightening of his jaw, the grimace of effort around his cold eyes. That was enough to tear the ripcord and let her first orgasm tumble out in a red silk explosion. She arched her back as it billowed through her, and wailed.

  “There you go,” said Brannon.

  For a few seconds Peyton simply soared on
the pleasure. Then she started to hear it, like the sound of a radio gradually being tuned in to a clear station: broken snatches of a voice in her head.

  —RIEL … UT THE … TIGH … WHAT IF SHE GO …?

  It was Eriksen. She’d been told all about this moment, but the sensation was still eerie: In the moment of orgasm your mind will open to the person you are in congress with, and you will imprint upon him. She could hear his thoughts … not just the unarticulated words, but the great mass of emotion behind.

  —BASTARDS FUCKING BASTARDS SENDING US THIS WHOREGIRL WHAT AM I DOING THIS IS ALL FUCKING WRONG SHE’S SO

  Peyton whimpered. Behind that studied indifference, Eriksen was burning with rage. She could feel his coagulated resentment, thick as blood clots.

  —NOT THE SAME FEELS SO GOOD OH I FUCKING HATE THIS SOMETIMES WISH I WAS DEAD LIKE HER I SHOULD HAVE BEEN OH FUCK THIS WHOLE SETUP IS SO FUCKING WRONGWHATINEEDWRONG OH ORIEL

  She stared up at him, aghast. His face was slackening now, his eyes no longer focused, sweat beaded on his temples. He’d forgotten her clit at some point; now he was just gripping her hips and thrusting into her, like his cock was a weapon and he was stabbing her to death. She could feel his suffocating hurt, and his desire to pass that hurt on. She could feel the rising darkness of his orgasm, pushing him forward on every stroke. He was ramming hard and fast into her pussy, looming forward, juddering all the breath out of her.

  —OH FUCK OH FUCK ORIEL ORIEL ORIEL!!

  Then he was coming, and she caught a blurred mental glimpse of black curling hair before his climax came crashing through her mind like a grenade going off, blowing everything else away, words and images blasted to pieces. He came, and so she came too, sharing the jagged white-hot release.

  When she regained her senses she reached up and touched his face, stroking the sweat from his skin. He caught her wrist and pulled her up so she was sitting on the locker. Breathing hard, they stared into each other’s eyes.

  “Who’s Oriel?” she whispered, a moment before thinking better of it.

  A steel shutter came down across Eriksen’s mind. Without a word, he yanked out of her and stalked away.

  ♦♦♦

  —CORPORAL YOU IN POSITION? WE’RE IN THE LOBBY.

  She is. With the building schematics arrayed around her on both internal monitors and backup paper maps.

  I’m good. I’m good Sarge. I can see you. Take a left through those double doors. You’re looking for stairs down.

  It’s like her training exercises—a bit, although instead of alternate headcam views on her screen, she has five heads to pslide between. She can hear what they hear and what they’re thinking, she can relay information silently between separated marines, and she can even see through their eyes as long as she concentrates. That’s the hardest part: building an accurate idea of who’s where, doing what, while each individual is in constant motion.

  —SHIT NO LIGHTS IN HERE

  That’s Brannon. There’s a pause as chemical glowpacs are lit and one tossed gently down the corridor. They can’t carry battery flashlights, after all.

  —WE GOT STAIR DOORS

  That’s Rialto, taking point. Peyton squints through his eyes, her own closed so she can see the markings in his mental image more clearly.

  That looks right. You want to head—WAIT! Hold on! Anxiety makes her broadcast so loudly that everyone in the squad hears her at once.

  —OW! DON’T SHRIEK GIRL complains Hayes

  Precog makes her skin tic, the nerves jumping. There’s a truckload of Spiders in the stairwell, she tells them urgently. A whole nest. You can’t go that way without a major firefight.

  —YOU GOT AN ALTERNATE ROUTE CORPORAL?

  Yes, she says. Yes. Hold on.

  ♦♦♦

  Peyton put a hand over her mouth and looked around. Somehow, without moving, it was as if the other four men had taken a step back.

  “Corporal Oriel was your predecessor,” said Sergeant Jomoa. She thought he looked disappointed. “You do know the privacy protocols, Corporal?”

  “Yes Sergeant. I’m very sorry.”

  What happened to her? she wondered.

  “Let’s hope that’s the last dumb-ass mistake you make. Rialto, you’re up next.”

  Rialto uncoiled from his perch on another locker and stepped forward, his mouth pulled sideways into a grimace. “That was sloppy, girl,” he told her in a low voice.

  She looked away, nervously. She had hardly gotten her breath back and this big hairy man stooping to loom over her—this condemnation—felt like too much to cope with. “Honestly, I’m sorry,” she repeated.

  “Luckily for you,” he said, plunging his hand between her thighs to grope the gash Eriksen had opened and then abandoned, “I don’t mind sloppy so much.” He showed his teeth. “That’s one slippery snatch you got there. You ready to read my thoughts, girl?”

  Wide-eyed, she nodded, stifling a whimper. His fingers were thick and callused.

  “Gotta warn you, girl; they’re pretty fucking dirty thoughts. Hope you’re not shy.” He pinched her clit accurately between two fingers, and Peyton found herself suddenly incapable of stifling any noise.

  “Ohhh!” Her cry made the men around her snicker.

  “That’s good. I like a girl who lets it all out.” He grinned. “When I make you come, I want that dickhead Hayes to know it, right? Every time.”

  She didn’t know what answer to give to that, but luckily he wasn’t waiting for one. Grasping her thighs, he tugged her forward and lifted her bodily, big hands sliding under her ass. She clung to his shoulders, but she needn’t have bothered—he held her with as little effort as he might have held a plasgun.

  “Open wide,” he said, lowering her down his torso to spear her with his cock.

  Peyton squealed in shock at the invasion—gratifying Rialto no end, judging from his expression. He let her sink right the way down onto his length, all the way to the thick root, and leaned backward. Suddenly he spread his arms wide. Impaled on his stake, her weight entirely on his pelvis, Peyton clung to him as he found his balance.

  “Look! No hands!” he announced happily.

  “What are you, man—a circus act?” Hayes complained. Even Eriksen, sitting on the edge of a bed and lighting a cigarette, was watching. Brannon snorted.

  “Go on. Give it to her.”

  Rialto obliged. Grabbing her ass again in both hands and setting his stance broad, he began to jerk his hips rapidly, pummeling Peyton’s crotch while his member rammed her core. It felt like the breath was being shaken from her lungs. It felt stupidly, horribly, freakishly arousing, having her deepest parts brutally rattled like that, feeling her whole body centered on his cock. She was trapped there, skewered, and every little thrust stabbed her deeper and split her wider. Her wriggling efforts to lift herself, to escape even one inch of her impalement, gave way to a stiff-legged tension. Her mouth formed and locked in an O of tormented pleasure, and as her climax tore her open she threw back her head and let loose a wail that went on and on, like a siren. She forgot to hold herself, forgot to worry about the watchers, forgot how precarious their upright stance was—she arched her back and let the light arc through her, until the darkness that came after nearly swept her away.

  —THERE THAT’S RIGHT OH YES JUST PERFECT FUCKING BEAUTIFUL

  Rialto’s voice burst into her head loud and bright, as warmly colored as firelight. There was no sense of anything held back, nothing but avid appreciation. When he lifted her from his stiff cock and let her slide to her knees before him, his fingers wound in her hair in a manner that was nearly a caress. “There’s a good girl.”

  —SHE’S LIKE A DOLL SO FUCKING TINY PRETTY LIKE A DOLL LIKE A SEX TOY GONNA FILL HER WITH CUM LOOK AT THAT DOLL MOUTH JUST RIGHT FOR MY COCK

  “Suck it,” he rasped. “Come on, girl.”

 
She blinked back into focus, finding herself face-to-face with his stiff and waving erection. Despite the ease with which he’d lifted her before, his body was now glistening with sweat. And his whole crotch area, she saw, was greased and slippery with a cocktail of her sex juices and Eriksen’s semen, which much have gushed out of her pussy as he pounded it. It streaked his thighs and blobbed like pearls in the dark hair of his rucked balls. She could smell it, grass-green and musky. Her mouth watered at the scent.

  Peyton loved the taste of cum. She’d had the harvested spunk of soldiers dripped onto her tongue by syringes as she’d reached her machine-orchestrated climaxes in the fuck-engines—just so that she’d grow used to the flavor and associate it with her own pleasure. And she’d been thoroughly trained in the sucking of cock. She remembered hour after hour of oral exercises: strapped into the machine with one dildo pumping her pussy, she’d had another fed to her lips, and her reward for making the artificial penis spurt salty ersatz-jizz each time had been the brush of a vibrating pad to her engorged clit, allowing her to come.

  Now she had the chance to prove herself with the real thing, and the prospect made her pussy ache with emptiness. She opened her mouth to Rialto with a will.

  —OH FUCK YEEEEEES AT LAST AT LAST SO WARM AND GOOD LIKE A OH GOD IS THAT HER TONGUE? HOW DOES SHE DO THAT?!! IT FEELS LIKE FUCKING ANGELS DANCING ON MY COCK SORRYHOLYMOTHER SHE SUCKS LIKE A FUCKING ANGEL CHRIST EVERY BIT AS GOOD AS POOR ORIEL I LOVE THIS DIVISION SOMETIMES IF YOU CAN SAY ONE THING ABOUT THIS WAR IT’S PRODUCED SOME AMAZING COCKSUCKERS AND THEY LOVE DOING IT THAT’S THE THING THEY JUST LOVE IT LOOK AT HER DOLL MOUTH WRAPPED ROUND MY DICK HOW DOES SHE GET IT SO DEEP THERE’S NOTHING TO HER SHE’S TINY WHERE DOES IT ALL GO? I’M GOING TO DIE AND BE BURIED IN THERE AND I DON’T CARE THIS IS FUCKING HEAVEN. JESUS. JESUS. I’M GOING TO COME. JESUS. OH. OH. OHHHHHHHHH YES THERE OH HOLY FUCKING CHRIST OHHHHHHHH FUCK SHE’S COMING TOO LOOK AT HER LOOK AT HER SHE OHHHHHHHHH