I couldn't help but wonder what nurse Lauren Clemens was thinking when she let go of my erection as I lay back in the coffin-like tube. She closed the lid over me, smiled and whispered, "See you in month. Sweet dreams, John."
Ah, lovely Lauren. Surely I'd dream of her.
I shivered a bit -- I was nude and the climate control had not reached the perfect 93 degree temperature -- as the gas, smelling faintly of roses, filled my chamber. I breathed deeply, surrendering to the drug, remembering Lauren's intriguing smile as she'd gently wrapped her fingers around my hard cock, stood it up, and inserted the catheter. Her in and out motions -- were they necessary? -- had felt a lot like she was sounding me, and had she perhaps given my penis a couple additional brushes as it twitched in her hand?
As I settled in I mused that four weeks was indeed a long time, but the first session had passed quickly. In the staggered schedule dictated by the scientists, each passenger would be awakened after a month to get up and try to reverse whatever bone and muscle loss had occurred, then go back into hibernation.
Our ship, traveling over 12,000 mph in its Hohmann Transfer Orbit, was far too small for all of us sojourners to all be up and about at any one time, so all on board, except the pilots and medical staff, were sleeping our way to the Red Planet. It would take seven cycles of four weeks down, one up to reach the Mars colony, where we'd deplane and begin fulfilling our year-long contracts.
As the first image filled my mind, I marveled at how the gas provoked especially vivid visions, memories from my past. My sexual past. I smiled as the image of Kyla drifted into my mind.
**
Like every straight guy in the room, I noticed Kyla Bergson the first day of our college biology class. Five-six, sleek, fit and trim, her wide shoulders and shapely hips made her narrow waist appear even thinner. Lustrous sandy hair fell to compact, upturned breasts, and her luscious lips began paper thin at each end and blossomed to a voluptuous pucker. They were habitually cast in an intriguing, ambiguous smile, reflecting the internal conflict between a vivacious, even daring nature, constrained by innate reserve. This juxtaposition created an ineffable allure, but it was her eyes that most compelled attention. Dark amber with luminous gold flecks, they seemed almost too large for her classic, oval face.
Despite my several, gently rebuffed, early overtures, we didn't get together until the late-spring field trip to the Platte River flats. As the river was five hours from our college, and it was essential to be in the bog just as dawn broke to see all the cute critters, it was an overnight trip, with us students bunking on rollaway beds four to a room at a fleabag that our state U could afford in a small burg on the river.
As I'd been angling for a way to talk to her for months, I leapt at the opportunity provided by the group info-dinner. At the cafeteria-style, pizza-house group repast, I wedged myself into line just behind Kyla, began chatting, and followed her to a table. At first she seemed cool, even aloof, but then my muse seemed to flow and she began smiling, even laughing, at some of my wisecracks as the prof outlined all we'd do tomorrow.
I walked out with her after dinner, continuing our conversation. We talked easily and seemed a natural pairing, perhaps because we were older than the other students. We'd both ignored our academic advisors' advice -- what do they know, anyway? -- and delayed taking the science course required to complete the core curriculum. For three years. Thus, we were the only seniors in a class populated by geeky pre-med freshmen and a random collection of second year students who embodied the term "sophomoric" if ever anyone did. I tried to lead Kyla away from the stragglers after dinner, but some of the goo-eyed children seemed insistent on hanging with us. While Kyla didn't object, I wanted her alone. When I suggested it, she smiled her assent and we went into a bar. When the doorman carded the babies, we found some peace.
And a damned good country band. No, that's not an oxymoron. While Kyla claimed a table for two in the back, I went to the bar and started a tab. She didn't question my white lie that they were having a special on Jose Cuervo Especiale Gold shots and Corona bottles. She squeezed the lime into the shot and sipped it like it was V.S.O.P. Courvoisier. I flooded her with questions about herself -- a good tactic, as most of us like to talk about ourselves -- and it gave me the chance to learn more about her and meld my persona to hers.
While I don't often dance, I had a slew of lessons as a kid, and when I suggested it and she smiled, I pulled her onto the floor. Kyla had moves and looked quite fine indeed, drawing glances from all the other guys despite the annoyed looks of their partners. I did some of my practiced moves and then just settled into a standard shuffle while Kyla strutted her stuff. She obviously loved dancing, and frequently flashed those captivating brown orbs at me as she undulated enticingly. When I offered a compliment on her dancing, she returned it. I knew it wasn't true, but was even more charmed.
When we sat sipping tequila between dances -- I'd nodded to the barmaid for another round as we went to the floor -- Kyla unchained her quirky, winning sense of humor, seductive smile, and weaponized eyes. They flared, those gold flecks flashing, and sucked mine into hers when I slid my stool close. When we began to broach more personal matters I was thrilled. My plan -- to woo this fascinating, lovely woman -- seemed to have launched propitiously.
As I returned from the bar with a third round of tequilas, I caught those wonderful eyes roaming my body. I hoped that her tongue lightly licking her lower lip indicated that she liked what she saw, a physique toned by running three miles in less than 18 minutes three times a week and punished with heavy dumbbells on the off days. Seeing her check me out made me realize just how captivated, and highly aroused, I was by this beautiful, intelligent, witty, and quite bold young woman. We laughed easily at her clever quips and my bon mots, and I actually felt graceful on the dance floor. We ended up having a great time. And a lot of tequila.
Slow dances were my favorites, and Kyla's subtle perfume was as enticing as the way she worked her thigh between mine and rubbed against my erection. The last dance of the night -- a classic -- went on forever, and just a minute into it her scent, her breasts prodding my chest, her rubbing, and the highly sensual aura, had me fighting to control the liquid pooling at the base of my pole, burning, eager for release. As the dance stretched on and on, the fog in the room thickened until only Kyla existed.
When the bar shut down at midnight -- we were in the sticks, after all -- we just wandered, hand in hand. It was a beautiful, moonlit, cool spring night and we were connecting, definitely not wanting to go to our respective motel rooms. We found ourselves on a secluded bench in a park. My first kiss was tentative -- I didn't want to scare her -- but when she responded, it intensified naturally. Then we were seriously making out.
To be clear, I wasn't being unfaithful. While I'd been reconnecting with Marla, my high school flame, each summer when we both got back in town, we attended different colleges and certainly weren't exclusive. Kyla wore no telltale ring and wasn't acting attached. Plus I was high, truly enjoying myself, and Kyla had become more gorgeous and entrancing with each hour. I was truly smitten.
Kyla proved a very good kisser, but what blew my mind was that only two minutes into our osculatory endeavors, when I was still just touching her neck, shoulders, arms and back, plotting a course to her breasts, she reached over and started caressing my cock.
