This is, in some ways, a different sort of Pixy story. It had been marinating in my mind for quite some time, so I finally bit the bullet and set it down. I'd been wondering about the viability of a Juno spinoff, but this story has told me that's not a great plan. But? Once I write something down, published or not, it has "happened." So? Here you go.
If this is a little darker than Pixy's previous adventures, that's only because her service aboard Desperado has always been a bit tentative. Let's hope for better things in her future! [hint, hint...]
I do hope you enjoy!
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Prologue
* * *
The unblinking vidcam churned on in its corner, buried in the wall and then hidden behind a translucent paintscreen, completely unnoticed by the writhing men on the bed.
Not that they'd have cared, though. They were being pleasured by the wet lips and expert fingers of Sharaya Suryasta, which meant they were oblivious to everything but what she was making them feel deep in their minds, souls, and balls.
She was excellent, recruited from the pleasure ships orbiting IV-Kovolev-D and then sent to the Army's best sexual-enhancement training courses, the ones they saved for prospects bound for service with generals and diplomats and people like that. And Warrant Officer Suryasta had been top of her class, as well as top of several men, meaning she'd been sent off to work for the shadowy "Subcolonel Smith" and his weirdo aide Captain Corcovado, which might have even been his real name.
Nobody in the rest of the Army, once she'd left the school, had heard much about her ever again.
And now she knelt above a planetary viceroy and his chief of staff, a noxious little sadist with a small dick that now pushed insistently into Suryasta's eager mouth while his boss, possessed of a significantly larger penis and three mutated testes, watched from his pillow.
He's a three-bagger,
Smith had cautioned her,
so it'll take awhile before he's relaxed enough for you to kill him without danger
.
She'd tossed her long hair, definitely outside of Army regs, and curled a contemptuous lip at the colonel. "Do I look like I'm worried about emptying as many balls as I need to, sir?"
He'd smiled at that, grimly, knowing the value of his woman: WO Suryasta had never, ever failed an assignment, and she didn't intend to fail this one either. She had no clue why she'd been sent to liquidate these two minor functionaries; she didn't really care, though. Maybe Corcovado knew, maybe not; hell, maybe Smith didn't even know. It didn't matter.
They were soldiers. They followed orders.
The little chief-of-staff moaned, her hair wrapped tightly around his graceful fingers as her mouth flickered along the base of his head. He'd tasted like sweaty underwear when she'd arrived, but by this point in the evening he mostly just tasted like her: like her spit and pussy, and like his boss' semen from when he'd taken sloppy seconds earlier. He was as hard as he'd ever been, she knew, her tongue curling against the big vein on the top of his shaft, and her brain allowed a tiny moment of satisfaction when she reminded herself that, if she did her job right, he was as hard as he'd ever get.
The camera, she knew, was watching.
Killing two at a time was a challenge, she reflected as she hummed on his cock, her fingers resting on his hairy thigh. She'd wrapped the other hand firmly around the viceroy's triple nutsack, marveling at its heft. He was her very first three-baller in the Army, though she'd encountered a lot of them back on that squalid Kovolev fuckship. She wondered idly about her batting order; the idea was that you obviously killed the more dangerous one first, but she was having trouble figuring out which one that was.
She thought it might be the viceroy. He certainly had the power. The chief-of-staff was odious, sure, and quick, but she figured she'd be able to murder him calmly enough once his boss was done.
Sometimes it mattered how the killing happened. When she'd first come to work for Smith, he'd sent her on simple, direct assassinations, or as an assistant to more experienced women. Those had usually been done with cautery, or a pistol, but later there'd been times that the thing needed to look less specific: like a suicide, say, or a lover's spat. Other times he'd wanted it extra-gruesome, to serve as an example for the enemy.
Or, at least, for Subcolonel Smith's enemies.
This was one of those times. "Go ahead and use the knife, Sharaya," he'd advised in his grave, cool manner from behind his desk aboard the
Kilven
. "Make it nice and bloody." She'd smiled, tight-lipped, accustomed by nature and experience to limit her revelations, and now as she felt the chief-of-staff's balls quiver against her chin she decided he was close enough to cumming that she could get started on his boss.
Her pussy still ached from where the viceroy had pumped into it not five minutes before, his semen still running thick down her inner thigh; her hand on his body felt nothing but total relaxation, complete lassitude. She'd drained him four times now, and she figured she could be quick enough to leap onto him, her hand going for the knife she'd hidden in the headboard, and slash his throat while his chief-of-staff was still ejaculating and wondering where her mouth had gone.
Then, she could deal with
him
. And once he was incapacitated, she could start carving them both. And the camera would catch the whole thing.
The hairy little fellow beneath her arched upward, his leg tensing beneath her palm, a strangled moan cracking from his throat as she bore down. Every sense of hers was on alert now, a deer in a shooting gallery, the timing clear in her mind. Her task was well-rehearsed: the moment she knew he'd start to spurt, he'd be completely unable to do anything as she murdered his master.
So? She got ready.
The knife was clamptaped along the top of the headboard, four shining inches of titanium, sharpened to a keen edge by her tattooed apprentice Nia, the unit's scum-bitch. The viceroy lay sprawled, his penis amazingly beginning to lurch back into thick, sticky life against her fingertips, but it was too late for him now as the dick in her mouth trembled, firming, launching.
She was off the chief-of-staff at once, his cum fountaining grandly into the air, her fingers flexing toward the hidden knife while her other hand convulsed hard around two of her target's balls. He was grunting, the breath leaving him even before she knelt on his chest, and he still didn't quite know what was happening as her knife plunged hard into the side of his neck and then ripped across, her arm dragging it from the shoulder as Corcovado had taught her so many months ago.
The other man's semen hadn't stopped arcing before the viceroy's blood joined it, twin streams pumping like the Imperial Fountains on Hyksos III. She distinctly felt the three-bagged cock give a twitch against her foot as the viceroy started to bleed out, but by then she was already springing off his body and back onto the mattress, squatting, ready to lunge at the chief-of-staff.
Who was twisted off to the side, fumbling for the bedside table with his cunning eyes fixed on her reddened blade and his fingers going for the basket-drawer...
Suryasta did not wait, did not try to gather herself or plan her assault or seek a new position: she attacked at once, driving forward from her sex-strong thighs, her body smacking into his wide-eyed face and bearing him to the floor beneath her, the knife already coming down into his chest as his head struck the deck.
"Goddammit!" she grunted, her hand clamping over his mouth as his eyes went wide: she was using a swept-sheepsfoot blade, for slicing, and it didn't want to slide neatly into the man's torso. She angled it further down and forced it in, hard and slow, his breath coming out in strangled gasps between her fingers. The force of her strike drove her hand painfully hard against the hilt. "Come on," she muttered, willing the blade to find something useful behind those ribs.
