Author's Note:
Note for the uninitiated: The purpose of the AIS series is sex, and no frills. There will be No Character Development, No Real Plot Lines and No Moral Justification. There just Will Be Sex.
I promised myself after writing the first "Alone In Space, Or: In Space, Nobody Can Hear You Moan" that there would never be a second. Then I wrote a second due to popular demand (well, three people said they liked it), so here's the third, because I may as well go with the flow.
Technically, this is no longer an Alone, and less of the In Space, but it was suggested by number 2, subtitled "Let The Fuckers Fuck Me", and I decided that maybe some human interaction was just what her pussy needed. Besides, I was running out of distinct ideas. So there's no machinery in this one, just a machinist. Of course, having written this Note before the actual story, I might still change my mind...
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"Alone In Space 3" Or: "No Longer Alone"
Every minute of a pilot's day is divided up for them by experts (technical term: "Cunts") who have never set foot in space themselves, never encountered weightlessness, and never even been in a stuck lift. But they have their charts, and their diagrams, and their theories, and their big fat books on Ergonomics, and their research and, more importantly so far as the pilots, who would otherwise just read their instructions and put on serious faces and hold up their hands and swear an oath to uphold them and then ignore them, were concerned, they had access to the computer programmers.
So, every minute of a pilot's day is divided up for them by experts. There are leeways, of course. Concessions have been made for the fact that not everybody takes the same amount of time on the toilet, for instance, and not everybody reads or processes data at the exact same, to the millisecond, rate, and not everybody has the exact same musculature or nervous system.
But, in essence, every minute of a pilot's day is divided up for them by experts.
But it's hard to follow sometimes. When you're awake, for instance. And when you're so close to a Station that you can practically feel the open spaces and smell other people's sweat already.
Those are the times when the electronic books and movies play on by themselves in the background and the eyes flick hungrily between the screen displaying the chart view, the screen displaying the unaided visual view, the screen displaying the combined (in different colors) active and passive radar view, and the screen displaying the aided visual view, watching the representative dots slowly creep closer at gradually decreasing scales, then the glow of detected mass or emissions, then, finally, the faint speck of light that signifies hope.
Of course, most of this is undertaken at an acceleration, deceleration this time, gradually ramping up from 0.1G to 1G as the craft is slowed on the approach. When active radar starts picking up something, deceleration is ramped up to 3G. When the aided visual screen starts showing a dot against the darkness, that's usually when deceleration is ramped up to 4G. When the unaided visual screen shows a dot, the pilot is strapped in as deceleration moves all over the place under automatic control as the computer in the ship is slaved to the (a) computer in the Station, and the computer in the Station tries to jockey forces and masses and energies and other masses and get the ship to mate smoothly, safely and without causing major structural damage to the Station itself, without at any time the exhaust jets of deceleration causing damage to anyone else either.
Most pilots are quite prepared to let the computers do that. But none of them are happy with the gradual increase to 4G. They'd be quite happy to go from weightless to 4G and just stay there, and save the extra time.
Loneliness is hard to take when you have no choice and humanity is far away from you in any direction you can look, but when the time ticks down and the imagined noises of strangers become almost tangible, tooth-grinding frustration sets in.
It's difficult to grind your teeth under sustained 4G, when you are strapped into the pilot's chair, angled to provide best protection against the force, with an iron lung breathing for you and blood pressure monitors getting paranoid about your well-being, but Jade was managing it. She had been warned by the company Dentist on her last shore leave about that, but didn't really care. Dental care was part of the company's responsibility, along with all other aspects of her health, and as they seemed singularly uninterested in caring about her retirement or life outside work (as little of it as there was), she intended to let them take care of it.
Jade did, however, have one furious thought that never failed to circle her brain when the G-forces rose. Breasts. No matter how well-fitting her flight suit, no matter how supportive the iron lung (she really was encased by metal, that lined her sides and back and front to prevent her torso distorting under pressure) and no matter how small the breasts of a pilot who survives training and the testosterone-pumping exercise that was part of her daily routine may be, breasts get painful when pushed against your chest for hour after hour.
If she came out bruised, she wouldn't be able to enjoy her shore leave as much, would she?
So she never failed to get evil-minded when the Station approached, no matter how attractive its contents might be.
The wait for docking was interminable, the computers programmed for fuel conservation and an almost paranoid level of safety, taking by consequence several times longer than necessary to creep slowly up to the station, check that it was in the right place, dock, check that nothing had gone wrong, connect all life support lines, check that they worked, let each system (Station and ship) check that the other was compatible, open the doors, do a final scan for pathogens or toxins, and then release her.
When she finally got out, she was nearly screaming with boredom, and felt unhinged from frustration. Or was that the other way around? She didn't feel mentally collected enough to decide.
The console spat two sheets of paper at her before she was released, and wouldn't open the door until she had taken them. Which was fine by her. The sooner she got the formalities out of the way, the sooner she could hit the fleshpots.
Starting, of course, with the formalities.
The man who met her, to take charge of her cargo, was the usual hard-muscled, wiry and short Station official, able to be agile and quick through tight spaces. Jade, taller than him and far more wiry, slightly unsteady on her feet after so long in zero or near-zero G and feeling her social skills rusty and nearly atrophied after even longer, was still able to see his relief that she was a woman (a horny male pilot was probably more a worry than a disappointment), and his eyes dropping from their natural level near her neck to a more comfortable level near her jumpsuit-hugged breasts.
Jade wouldn't have minded, but it made her horniness harder to avoid, and that made it difficult to concentrate.
She nearly threw the sheets at him, and he read them with one eye on her prominent nipples and the other for the words on the page. Satisfied with both, he leeringly gestured her ahead of him into his office (a small hole in the corridor, lockable only because the law required the protection of the documents it contained), muttering "Nice ass as well," as she passed.
Coming to an abrupt halt, she shot her hand back and unerringly grabbed his groin, cock half-hard, making him nearly double up with shock, an explosive gasp pushing out the last syllable of the "well".
"How badly do you want to fuck it?" Jade asked, evenly.
It's /really/ hard to check official documents and sign them legibly, or hold her finger steady long enough for the DNA signature to the taken, when you're being slammed back and forth from behind, but at least he didn't take longer than the paperwork did before shooting up her.
She headed from the docks to the social area, stopping only to find a toilet and get rid of the slime inside her. She didn't want her next man knowing that he wasn't the first since she landed.
No two stations were built quite the same, and there were in fact a couple of competing ideas about the best way in which to build them at all, but for one who had been in more than, say, three, they were never hard to navigate through.
You just had to find the right person to ask.
The right person, as in this case, was usually a harassed, skinny, quite short cleaner. There were some things that were so unexpectedly complicated, and so unexpectedly unexpected, that robots couldn't do them.
There were still shit jobs for the humans.
She found such a man, walked up behind him and said "I need to find naked women fucking poles."
"The Cages Bar," he snapped back before realizing that a woman's voice had asked him.
"Thank you," Jade said with her best attempt at a charming smile before heading straight for the named spot, her pilot's memory having memorized the Station's modest map already.
The Cages Bar displayed the typically unimaginative, unsubtle, unsuccessful name of all establishments that tried to hide their purpose from the common traffic that walked past all day and knew exactly what was going on inside.
There were men seated at tables in a dim half-gloom, drinking. There were scantily clad, sometimes topless, waitresses walking around delivering more drinks. And on three separate stages, scattered around the end of the room, were three elaborate cages, in each of which was a female dancer dressed in high heels, jeweled and tasseled crotchless G-string and even brighter bra, suspended off the stage on a pole that was slowly dropping from the shrouded ceiling into the floor.
The slowly lowering poles meant that each dancer was climbing up it just as slowly, staying off the floor and using shins, thighs (usually /very/ high up), arms and even, it looked like, breasts, to cling on.
It was a fantastic athletic display from each of them, but Jade wasn't really watching as the poles lowered enough to reveal a thick, studded dildo on the top of each.
What Jade was watching, as each girl seized the pole beneath the dildo, hoisted herself up and then inserted the tip into her cunt, raising her legs to a horizontal split as padded ankle slings descended on chains from the ceiling, and then slid downwards onto the full length of the dildo while holding the split, were the men in the bar.
There had been a ripple of interest as her lean but still feminine silhouette had appeared in the doorway, but as she had stepped far enough in to reveal her uniform, there had been a ripple of casual disinterest.
