Dry No Lube Ch 04A Desperado

Greetings, Pixy fans! All five or six of you!

I do love writing about her, but it's pretty rare that a new story occurs to me. So I appreciate whomever wants to indulge themselves by spending some time with one of my favorite characters and her merry band of fuckups. And if you're coming across this on the New Stories hub? By all means, read the other Pixy ones first. They all stand alone, but they're probably more fun if you know the backstory. I promise you'll like 'em.

Enjoy!

* * *

She lay in the bluish glow from the light-lizard at the bedside, staring. Beside her, Cheyra laughed.

"You need to stop staring at my lizard," she murmured, slapping playfully at Pixy's ass. Her hand stayed there, resting comfortably, fingers splayed, but Pixy didn't look away.

"It's my first time seeing one," she confessed. The thing squatted motionless in its little tray, breathing evenly. "New tech, y'know?"

"Light-lizards are

the

thing to have at Yule this year," Cheyra mocked. "See? If you take a staff job here, you'll have access to all the bells and whistles."

"Ah," Pixy snapped, "but my ass will get flat from sitting."

"This ass?" Another slap, less playful, and Pixy at last rolled back over into Cheyra's arms with her pussy stirring once more. "Your ass is never going to be anything but perfect."

"Mmm." She pushed her mouth against Cheyra's: new lips for Pixy on a woman she'd only met that afternoon, lips fresh and vibrant and tasting like cunt. "You do know how to talk to a girl."

"Yeah, well." Cheyra stretched her long legs on the bed. "They made me an Assignments Officer because of my people skills." She smiled, claiming Pixy's tongue once more before she chuckled. "You don't seem to mind. And neither do I, honestly."

"Shut up, ma'am," but Pixy was grinning to match. The bed was a wreck. They'd left all manner of fluids around themselves, the afternoon highly pleasant. "You're just saying that because you like my dildo."

"Well? Why the fuck wouldn't I?" It was true, too; the older woman hadn't let the thing out of her sight since Pixy had arrived. Pixy had done her homework, thirteen years in Fleet reminding her how things worked: when you're going into an interview with an Assignments Officer, newly promoted

and

newly transferred from one command to another, it was wise to bring a bribe. And when that Assignments Officer is a well-known collector of antique sex toys and you just happen to have a few antique sex toys in your storage locker, one of which you're happy to let go at a bargain price?

No-brainer. Besides, she'd been planetside here at The Hub for too long. No space pay. The money was getting thin, and a sale would be nice.

What Pixy had

not

expected was that Cheyra would want to try out her new dildo immediately. "You say you've got a few more of these?" Cheyra ran her fingers lovingly over the thing's surface, and Pixy pretended to be impressed. Truth was, she was not a frequent user of toys. She preferred the real thing.

She shrugged, nestling her face into Cheyra's tits. "Quite a few. I inherited a bunch. One of my ancestors was there on the Wad when they started the factory."

"No shit!" Cheyra went rigid. "This is a genuine Year Three Naida-Shvindl Model 1! From before they came up with the dial-a-dild modification! Do you have any idea how rare this is?"

Pixy took a deep breath and gnawed briefly on the nearest nipple. "Um. Rare enough that you'll approve my assignment request? Ma'am?" Cheyra stayed tense, and Pixy hurriedly added, "There are more where that came from. Special prices, too, for a special collector like yourself..."

The older woman sighed, lowering the toy, her other hand mussing Pixy's short hair. "Look. I'll be honest with you, Pfeiffer," she began, with just a little sweetness to soften her official tone, "you're in an unusual situation."

"I'm an unusual person," Pixy put in.

"Well. In a way..."

"I've got two Silver Crosses. A Service Cross, too."

"Yeah, no shit. Even

I've

got a Silver Cross."

"Army Combat Cross, as well," Pixy interrupted. "And my evaluations? All stellar. I don't shy away from a fight, ma'am."

"Pfeiffer," Cheyra soothed, "look. Your resume is pretty impressive. Very impressive for a Service officer. You're the famous Firehole Pfeiffer, who blew up the Flasbards and found the Cathos Vremein." Pixy frowned. She hated her nickname, but mentioning that it bothered her was the best way to make sure people would keep using it. "But now? You're coming over to Combat Command. Lots of our officers are highly decorated. I'm sorry, but being a badass just isn't all that unusual in this Command." She kissed Pixy's forehead, as if to point out that all this was nothing personal. "And, like I said in my office, you're a Subcommander. That rank sort of shuts you out of a lot of jobs..."

"Not XO. And I need to be an XO in order to qualify for a command." Cheyra did not reply, and when Pixy looked guiltily up at her saliva-smeared face she cringed. "Sorry, ma'am. You know all this."

Cheyra sighed. "I do. Better than you. And your rank deserves an assignment as XO of a Combat ship. But, see, here's the thing. The XO has to manage every detail on the ship, right? And you're new to Combat ships. You know nobody in Combat. Not personally. The culture, the favors, the politics, it's all new to you. And giving you an XO billet, at this point? Before you've gotten to know your way around Made a few contacts?" She shrugged to point out how hopeless it all was, and Pixy felt her face go stony.

"I'm making a contact right now..." she muttered, her fingers straying down to Cheyra's pussy, but the other woman just chuckled.

"Yeah. I'm the first of many Combat officers you'll probably have to suck on before you've paid your dues." Pixy froze. "Look, I'm sorry. I don't make the rules. But you're starting at the bottom with us here in Combat." She patted Pixy's butt once more. "The

real

bottom. Not this kind."

Pixy sighed. "So. You were never going to approve my application."

Cheyra shrugged. "I'll do what I can for you. I'll find you someplace that will get you as far ahead as I can. But no, Pfeiffer. I'm not going to let you run a Combat ship right now."

Pixy felt the rage growing, pulsing in her mind.

Breathe,

she reminded herself, but it was already nearly past that point. Fucking Combat shitbirds. Even when they'd just sodomized you with your own antique dildo, they still wanted to fuck you in the ass. She felt her teeth clench. "So. What are my options, then? Ma'am." The last word was a cold hiss, Pixy's fingers now frozen in Cheyra's vagina, but the older woman was examining the markings on the dildo and didn't seem to notice.

"Your options?" Cheyre sighed, her fingers idle on Pixy's little tit. The woman seemed to enjoy her nipples, Pixy had noticed. "I'll find you a job where you can get face time with the right people. Probably that staff slot here, then XO in maybe three years. Guaranteed. Then you can take a command maybe four years later? If you do well."

"I'll do well," Pixy grunted, sour. "I usually do."

"Or? I can find you a job running a department on a Combat flagship, like for a whole squadron. That'll get you more pay, because you'll be in space the whole time. But?" She grinned wickedly. "The department would be Supply."

"Fuck that!" Pixy sat bolt upright, the rage nearly red-hot now, her pulse pounding in her temple. "No thanks, Commander. I'm not going back into Supply. Not ever."

"Nobody in Combat wants to be in Supply," Cheyra pointed out mildly, "but someone has to. You'd be working directly for an admiral, too, and that might speed things up. If, you know, you could grease the wheels a little." She flushed. "And I can tell you really know how to grease things. But of course you'll be in space, in battles and shit." The older woman glanced down, across Pixy's back, to the ugly scar there above her butt. "That's the trick: survival."

Pixy's nostrils flared.

Breathe...

"I'll survive." It was a low, venomous mutter. "I always do." She felt her eyes narrow as she gazed at the Commander's naked body, at her own pussy juice smeared across the woman's chin... "So, like, what? You can't really do anything for me? You just brought me up here... what, to steal my dildo?"

"Your first lesson in the culture of Combat Command." Cheyra shrugged again and rolled over, her muscled back softened by the glow from the lizard. "Never pass up a chance to get laid, Subcommander Pfeiffer." She chuckled. "Oh, and no, I'll

buy

your dildo. But for 25% off. Sound good?" The chuckle became a laugh, her long-lashed eyes crinkling in mirth. "I'll have my secretary send you a chit."

Pixy paled, her whole body trembling.

Breathe...

said part of her brain, but then the rest of it said,

Nah, fuck that breathing shit,

and she was moving with all the strength her rage could give her. Pixy was up on her feet on the bed before Cheyra could react, standing over the taller woman with her fists balled up, the decision already clear in Pixy's reddened brain: superior officer or not, Commander Cheyra Thajk was going to get a stomping.

Pixy's bare foot drove hard into Cheyra's ribs, hurting both of them, but while Cheyra curled up in agony Pixy had her rage to help her ignore her foot. She lashed out again, to the woman's pretty face this time, two sharp kicks to the cheekbone. "Fucking smug cow." The commander looked up at the furious Pixy, her mouth open and her eye already bruising, while Pixy stooped and picked up the priceless dildo. .

"You did it,

ma'am

. You pissed me off."

Cheyra took a look into Pixy's face and whimpered. "Shit."

"Yeah, you know what's coming," Pixy hissed, straddling the older woman's back. "Just lie there and take it, bitch." She hawked and spat hard, her finger already working her saliva into Cheyra's butthole while the woman squirmed beneath her. Pixy twisted, her scar protesting, and smacked her over the head with the dildo. "Quit whining," she smirked. "I'll make sure you enjoy it."

And she did. Eventually.

* * *

Pixy didn't even clean off the dildo before she laid it on the counter at DeOssie's, the second-choice pawnbroker she used when she was here on Juliet IX. She always went short of funds on The Hub, deprived of her space pay and with drugs so much more expensive than they were aboard ship.

Staff job?

she grimaced to herself, remembering that bitch Thajk's idea about a slow, steady break-in to Combat Command.

Staff job here, dirtside for three years with a guaranteed XO slot at the end of that sentence. Fuck that shit.

She'd be broke within a week.

The broker frowned as he sniffed suspiciously at the toy. "Jesus H Buddha," he grimaced.

"Yeah, yeah." Pixy glared over the counter at him, sizing him up: draggled hair around a bald, spotted crown. Pox scars. An earlobe missing. She smiled tightly. "That whiff right there? That's more ass than you've gotten in two years."

"Hmph." He glared at it suspiciously. "These get faked all the time."

"Not that one. That's the real deal. Naida-Shvindl Model 1. Third version, from before they figured out the dial-a-dild mod." She had no idea; she hoped Thajk had been telling the truth about all that.

"Well, duh," the guy sighed, "but it's missing the sperm reservoir." Pixy just stared at him. "They came with a sperm reservoir," he added helpfully.

"Look, dude, do you want the fucking thing, or not?" DeOssie's gave decent prices, but it was an absolute smelly shithole. Pixy was starting to regret that she'd worn her uniform in here. She was vaguely aware that this wasn't the kind of place subcommanders ought to be in. "I have to be at work in an hour," she lied. "I'm more than happy to take it down the street to Chinko's."

The guy rubbed a bristly chin, too cheap even to get himself an autowax. He frowned. "And it's missing the box..." he whined.

"It's four hundred fucking years old!" Pixy snarled. "Last chance, dude. Take it or leave it." She steered her arm toward the counter, praying he'd take it; she'd already tried Chinko's.

"Fine, fine." He was quicker, snatching the dildo off the counter with a speed that told her he'd always intended to be the buyer. "Three thousand," he quoted her, and Pixy had to work hard to tamp down her enthusiasm; Thajk had been meaning to pay her just a thousand, the fucking thief. Pixy managed a pretty good facsimile of an ouraged scowl.

"Fuck off. It's worth six." She had no idea, really.

"This is a pawnbroker, dumbass," he reasoned. "You know what that means. Full value is not why you're here."

"Whatever." Pixy squinted at him. "Fine. I'll take four."

"Thirty-five hundo and I won't even expect a blowjob," he countered flatly, and so Pixy Pfeiffer limped back out into the smeary sunlight with her account quite a bit healthier than she'd been expecting. Two thousand was what she'd asked Commander Thajk before the bitch had dragged her into bed instead, so all things considered things could be worse.

Pixy did feel slightly concerned that she'd kicked the piss out of the Combat Senior Assignments Officer before she'd gotten orders. But perhaps it would all work out. By the time she'd left the old hag had been begging for more, burrowing into Pixy's cunt while she was getting butt-reamed, and they'd left on pretty cordial terms, considering the black eye.

Pixy snickered, thinking she could now tell people she'd once stuck 3,500 credits up a superior officer's ass, but then she remembered she had no one to tell; she was just another brand-new subcommander awaiting orders after completing a course, which made her a nobody.

Pixy Pfeiffer was not used to being a nobody.

* * *

The vox box in her temporary quarters chirped two days later as the rain slapped against her window, Pixy nude and dripping with sweat after an especially punishing workout. She was not really a fitness nut, but when there was nothing else to do? She smacked the receiver toggle. "Commander Pfeiffer," she snapped into the mic.

"Hello? Oh. Commander Thajk needs you to come in as early as you can." The voice was calm and bell-like.

"Commander who?"

"Thajk." She woman spelled it out, and Pixy chuckled; she'd been mispronouncing it that whole time. "It's a command performance, ma'am. She says you're to come at once."

She burst out in laughter. The bitch had said the same thing the other day, and to be fair? Pixy had, indeed, cum at once. The power of that old-school dildo! "Okay. I'll be right there. Uh, Westmanshof Building, right?"

"Yes ma'am. Office 4579."

"Right." She snapped her fingers, and her quarters took over from there; the room had heard the conversation, knew she needed to get going, and prodded her uniform to iron itself and straighten all the medals. She heard the disinfection suite powering up, and she sighed; one of the many, many things Pixy missed from being in space was actual showers with water.

Fifteen minutes later found her, still limping slightly, passing a line of Stellar Marines in their burnished helmets and pikes, the Westmanshof rising before her like a stalagmite. She felt self-conscious as she glanced down at herself, the new black Combat uniform still feeling like a costume after so many years of Service blue.

And it was still a very new experience, getting saluted by lieutenants. The cape was longer, too. Some Fleet women looked forward to the subcommander promotion because commanders' capes finally covered the butt, but Pixy didn't really understand that. A woman who got squeamish about having her ass checked out had no place being a Fleet officer, in her mind. You never heard Fleet's males complaining when people like Pixy grabbed their junk. You either accepted the rampant two-way sexism as being the price you paid for being able to shoot things at aliens, or you stayed on your home planet and learned to be a clone trainer or something.

Besides, Fleet was stressful. If you couldn't blow off steam once in awhile by, say, jamming dildoes into people, you'd get an ulcer. She'd heard rumors, though, that there were reformers starting to rise to higher Fleet positions, reformers with

ideas

. Like, that maybe Fleet should be more Noble. Like it should get rid of onboard prostitution, betting on battles, rodent torture, semi-official drug rings, bedwarmers, and Russian roulette. Like Fleet ought to offer compulsory alcohol education. Like it should be some sort of Force For Good In Society.

Pixy didn't care much about Society, which was why she chose to be in space as often as possible. And Fleet was about war. It had little room for prudes. In her world, if you could find the balls to close with the enemy and take an attack on in, that was all that mattered. What you did in between fights? Who cared.

She'd surprised herself to be so good at war. When she'd commissioned, in those old short-cape days as a junior lieutenant, they'd offered her a slot as Assistant Fourth Officer aboard a cruiser. Combat Command! But back then, the Wars had been going slowly; there'd been few battles to fight. The Flasbards hadn't yet attacked Kortus III, the Cathos Vremein hadn't even been heard of, and all Fleet had been doing was mopping up the Antareans and mothballing ships. Back then, Service had been the Command to go into: constant space duty, month after month underway. Pixy had gone almost four years once without feeling planetary gravity.

And she'd loved it.

But then she'd found herself in the middle of a battle, at Detached Engagement 447. Then, later, there'd been that Army operation on the Flasbard homeworld. Then capturing that fucking probe. And she'd learned something important through all that: that maybe, just maybe, she could do combat better than the Combat people could. And, worse, that maybe she liked being in danger. There was a thrill involved in being at the very edge of control, where a slight mistake or a run of bad luck would blow you away.

Like flying a shuttle at high speed, she reflected as she reached Westmanshof's great bronze doors. Maybe that's why she'd always been such a good shuttle pilot, even back in the Service days.

The yeomen at Reception didn't glare anymore when she came in; Fleet functionaries had a lot more regard for black Combat uniforms than for blue Service ones. "Yes, ma'am?"

"Commander Pfeiffer, to see Commander... uh, Thajk?" She was sure she'd said it wrong again.

The man blinked up at her. "Ma'am. There are over thirteen thousand staff officers in this building. Do you have an office number?"

Pixy made a face. "4579." The man bent to his console, giving her a withering glance when she added, "I think."

"Yes. Here she is." He gestured for her hand. "I'll just program your implant to show you the way."

Pixy had not been enthusiastic about the implant. Everyone was required to get one on promotion to senior rank, and she was not at all sure she wasn't going to go in after it with a knife later. It bothered her, having a computer hitchhike with her... but, to be fair, it did make Westmanshof easier to navigate. The moment she stuck her finger into the yeoman's little machine, she suddenly had perfect knowledge about how to find Thajk.

Just three days since she'd been in her office, but the mazelike Westmanshof would have defeated her without that little computer and the odious desk yeoman's upload.

The black eye looked wicked when Cheyra looked up from her desk. She wasn't smiling, but in fairness she hadn't been smiling the other day either, until Pixy had made her cum. "Oh. Hi."

"Ma'am." Pixy hesitated. She'd beaten up her superior officers before, and it was always awkward afterward. "I, uh, I trust you're healing well."