The Brown Bag

The Brown Bag

By Jess Faulks

Captain Rhiannon McDonnell wasn't halfway between the swinging, stainless steel doors and her intended stool when the brick-shithouse-of-a-man behind the bar noticed and sized her up. Gloss-black , featureless eyes made his exact focus less apparent but she knew the look: it was the one everyone in a position of authority gave in these off-route, interstellar truck stops.

Every Alliance refueling station was a marvel of two-hundred-year old technology, a mass-manufactured, mile-wide ring interspersed through deep space. Culturally, that never seemed to do them any favors and local, 'portie' bloodlines would not leave one for generations, raised on a limited and latent flow of Alliance regulated, corporate entertainment products and messaging. Each was a self-sufficient, backwater town of a few thousand, floating in the middle of nothingness, a light year away from the next one.

Rhiannon stopped with an unamused glare, presenting herself for judgment, her palms out and open at her side to show she was unarmed, at least visibly. The bar was kept a blue-hued darkness but for some colored, neon lights and maybe he wouldn't notice anything else. A long moment passed of him appraising her from head to toe and when he found what he looked for, he started shaking his head before he opened his mouth.

"We don't serve your kind here. You gotta go." Thick, pythons of powerful arms crept across his broad chest to fold, presenting tribal patterns nano-tattooed on them in high contrast to his dark skin, their smooth edges turning sharp and the greens and blues shifting to reds and oranges, in a display of some wealth or at least, extreme dedication to the art or lifestyle. Most porties couldn't afford such tech. Heads turned from the other four patrons in a barroom which could seat ten times that many.

Rhiannon deflated with a sigh, sizing up the scene and her eyes naturally found the one woman in the bar first. A thin, cute blonde, hardly old enough to be here sat with a pair of folded glasses sitting next to her clear, iced beverage . Alliance Stations like these were absurdly strict about liquor sales. They were inspected randomly and frequently so this girl had to be at least 21.

She wore a grey, civilian jumpsuit and studied Rhiannon with another familiar sort of attention: the shocked, never-seen-her-kind-before face but minus the "'..and I hate you' part. This was the kind of longing stare which typically came before a backalley romp with some spacer floozy looking to expand her horizons, whose name she never bothered to ask. Seated at the far end of the bar, furthest from the others, she didn't look like she quite belonged either.

This was no time for flirting. Not yet. She had to run the gauntlet first and her attention moved on. Two of the other patrons were dockworkers by their beige jumpsuits, in their forties or fifties and drinking on their lunch break. At the far end of the bar sat an old man, at least seventy and sickly, with his jaw halfway to the counter under eyes that had latched on her tits.

Should things turn violent, the barman was the only real threat in here but she couldn't afford a fight. Her ship, The Hecate needed to be hooked up for refueling for the next three hours, and she needed to stay out of the brig for that long.

A stray clump of auburn hair fell into her face, the ends brushing her chin as she moved subtly, fighting against taking defensive body language. She was a Captain, not a troublemaker. At least not anymore. "My kind?" Sometimes playing dumb worked when the lighting was low.

The man stabbed an arm out toward a sign behind the bar without having to take his eyes off her. In capitalized, bold red letters it read:

NO SPLITS SERVED.

"You're being a bit presumptuous, don't you think?" she said curtly but the barman didn't waiver.

"I can see your fucking freak, donkey dick down your pant leg. Why don't you try actually dressing like a woman if you want to pass for normal? Though your fat, cow tits would still give you away. "

Like any split had never tried that, Her clothes weren't directly revealing: a tailored, brown three-piece suit of trousers, a blouse and a tailcoat. There was only so much she could conceal with the extremes of her build beneath, short of wearing a burlap sack and why should she have to do that? it wasn't her fault. These were the people who had the problem.

"She could be from Proxima B!" the old man at the end of the bar barked up with a shaky voice. The barman glared sideways without moving his head.

"Jesus, Bob. Can't you see she's got a fucking dick bigger than mine? People are gonna wonder about you if you keep staring."

"I'm not asking you to suck it. I just want a drink."

"Then go somewhere else."

"Is there another shithole bar in this shithole station?"

"No."

Rhiannon took another deep breath and turned her attention to the others. The blonde had put on her glasses now for a better look at her and her expression had gone from

interested

to

please fuck me

. Repressed, porties curious about Split lovers were the saving grace of places like this and Rhiannon had three hours to kill.

'Portie girls party,' one of her younger crew-girls would joke, and she wasn't wrong. It was also one of the reasons why their counterparts, portie boys liked to try to beat up splits like her. Those boys were often oblivious to how many of her kind had been sent off to military school by disappointed parents when they started to develop in ways they had not anticipated. Many of those girls had grown up to fill out the more dangerous companies of the Army, Space Force or Marines and if portie boys knew what most split veterans had survived, they would reconsider crossing them.

With a tilt of the head and a sliver of a smile, Rhiannon acknowledged and the younger woman caught exactly what was being thrown. First, she needed to be allowed to the bar and hopefully soon after, a restroom stall with this lovely, young thing.

The two dockworkers watched the confrontation as any bystander would, curious but not getting involved. The old man was undeterred in his leering.

"This place is dead and you need the business. I'll buy a round for everyone."

"No dice, lady. Go back to your ship and wait with whatever freak crew lets you serve."

"It's my ship."

"Go back to it. I'm not gonna ask again."

Something changed in the scene. A chip card appeared on the counter in front of the blonde, waiting to pay with expectant eyes on her. Her amorous demeanor was only more obvious and Rhiannon smiled only enough to not offend the barman. "Fine. I'm gone." On her boot heel, she turned sharply and walked back out through the double, swinging doors into the poorly lit, hexagonal hallway of whatever this place was called. These pipe and ducting-lined corridors were generally well-lit on stations closer to the Sol system but out here it was normal for the sunlight-frequency lighting to have every two or three fixtures, saving power but kept the hallway a dim yellow. She continued far enough to not be seen from the scratched up and dirty windows of the bar. Out of sight of the barman, she leaned back against a pipe-covered wall and waited.

Less than a minute passed before the young woman burst out the doors and she exhaled with relief to see the Captain waiting for her, pushing off to stand upright. "Hi there," Rhiannon purred, a sultry layer added now to her alto voice. "Something I can help you with?"

The girl lowered her head slightly and brushed a curly, blond lock from her face. "I've never met a real split before. I've never even seen one outside of... pictures."

She raised a brow and held back her grin. "Pictures? I can't think of any intersex celebrities in the UA. I don't think they'd broadcast any that were."

The girl blushed. "They say that Serena Stardancer is a split."

"The singer? They just say that because she has a huge rack."

"I've seen some shots where you can see she has a bulge, like you. She claims they're altered, but they look pretty real to me."

The Captain of a star ship should know better than to argue about pop stars with someone just past teenage so prudently, she nodded. "Hey, we shouldn't hang out in front of this place for long. Did you want to go somewhere with me?"

The girl blushed deeper before giving a single, shallow nod. The smile on Rhiannon's face widened, and she offered her hand but the girl gave a small shake of her head. "Not in public." She brushed past her to lead the way.

"So you're from... this place?"

"Gallup S5? Born and raised. I've never been anywhere else. I just had my 21st birthday so now I can be an honest alcoholic like all the other dock workers. Until then, there was literally nothing to do. I'd work, get drunk, huff solvents and beat off in VR."

"So you need me to get you out of here?"

The girl stopped and turned around, recoiling with some surprise. After a long moment, she shook her head. "This is where I live. My friends are here. My life is here." Rhiannon only blinked before giving a small nod, backing away with her posture. "No, I just want to see your dick. The barman was right: it's like a donkey's. I know splits are hung but you're like, Upright hung."

"You have Uprights on..." What was that name again? She deliberately tried to ignore names of places like this, only good for not running out of fuel in deep space. " Gallup S5? Or..."

"Pictures," she said with a coy smile before turning and leading the way again. Of course they didn't. This place was too small for the Alliance-regulated segregation of the genetically-engineered servant class of humanoid animals. She'd never seen one in even a larger Alliance or Galactic Republic station but knew they were there, busily working in the lower decks. Uprights only intermingled with humans in the near-lawless, extraterritorial space and very infrequently, in remote Europa stations.

The girl led them down corridors after corridor, getting further from the populated parts of the station. The sparse crowd thinned as they went until they hadn't seen another person for the last three turns and they were now deep into service areas. The Captain reassured herself that her wristcom Lidar-mapped the route as she walked via the pearl-sized earring antennae she wore so she'd have precise directions back to the hangar. This place was backwater enough for other concerns with running off with a strange girl. Could she be bait for a mob of split-hating locals waiting to kick the shit out of her up ahead? Had she called them somehow from the bar? It would be quite the performance for a station girl to be acting so eager. Rhiannon had fought in wars and wasn't scared of a few local thugs, but she did have her slimline derringer pistol along the side of her torso in her jacket just in case, occasionally nudging the back curve of her breast with cold steel.

"You sure you know where you're going?"

"Yup, I work around this part of the station. No one else comes here. I mean, I bring my boyfriend out here to fool around so our parents can't catch us."

"Your boyfriend?"

"He's fine with me messing around with other girls. Just not boys."

Rhiannon bit her lip and considered the statement but this wasn't the time or place to be questioning this girl's cognitive dissonance.

The last corner ended at a service panel for some auxiliary system of the station and thankfully, not an ambush of angry, portie, no-neck boys. The girl turned to face her and slipped her glasses off but instead of putting them away, her index fingers tapped along the tops of their frame.

"What are you doing?"

The girl pushed them back on and drank in Rhiannon before giving a breathy swoon. "Perfect. I'm adjusting these for the light. They're old." With that she stepped up and mashed her body against hers, and shoved the Captain against the back wall, grinding herself against Rhiannon's brown, buttoned-up tailcoat enough to pop a button right off, clinking against metal walls and floors into oblivion. Youthful hips met the bulge of her poorly hidden endowment, an eager thigh rubbing along it. The girl did not anticipate the ergonomics of making out above such a bust as hers and her first attempt to meet her lips didn't quite reach. Falling short, she buried her face in her blouse instead, mashing her nose and cheeks into clothed cleavage while her fingers moved to dig into her collar rather than going straight for the top button.

"Whoah, careful girl! I didn't bring a change of clothes. "Rhiannon slapped lightly at her hand before taking her shoulders and guiding her back. "I guess you've never seen a rack like this either?"

"Only Serena Stardancer, but she's never done nudes. Show me those big girls."

She paused for a moment to reflect on the comparison. Serena Stardancer must be quite a hit at this station, but she was too old herself to keep up on those kinds of trends. These remote stations got their interstellar media delivered on recorded quantum drives from the entertainment corporations, sometimes as seldom as twice a year so it wasn't uncommon for their taste in music, movies and shows to be narrow and dated. That was an odd thing to say regardless.

The girl before her was strange but eager enough and so she teased her with a slow unbuttoning, first of the tailored tailcoat, freeing the remaining two, vintage brass buttons. She shrugged it off and to her feet, careful of the holstered pistol concealed within, all the while the girl stared at her blouse-wrapped chest, her mouth agape with quickening breath. "Maybe you should take your clothes off too?"

The girl nodded and obliged, stepping out of her boots on the metal, mesh floor, with a wince before she unzipped her jumpsuit and peeled it off with practiced grace. She wore only a cheap, black bra and matching panties now, revealing soft, pleasant curves between bony features boasting more of youth than any active lifestyle. With her clothes tossed aside, she stepped back into her boots to cope with the uncomfortable floor. "Hurry up and get undressed!"

The Captain of a ship wasn't used to being bossed around, even in these kinds of intimate settings but the girl knew what she wanted. She unbuttoned her blouse quickly and tossed it aside with her jacket, revealing a white, semigloss sports bra with thick, broad shoulder and side straps, keeping her abundant breasts in place. Centered over her cleavage on the front-top was a small logo in the center like a Venn diagram, a B inside one circle and an H in the other:

BoulderHolders

were a cheeky, luxury brand of activewear specifically for women of her figure. They were a Proxima B-based company whose active, low-friction nanomesh material would dampen, restrain, support and distribute the size and weight the most cumbersome of endowments.

Don't get in your own way,

the adverts would say, hinting that breast-reduction nanosurgery, a popular, permanent and government-subsidized procedure wasn't necessary for an active lifestyle so long as you bought their very expensive bras. They were right though and it was the best purchase she could remember, aside from her ship and now she owned several of them in different cuts for various occasions. This one, her favorite was old enough to have the previous version of their logo on it. At the moment with her present company, she remembered their current spokesmodel was the busty pop-star from Proxima B: Serena Stardancer.

Rhiannon reached behind her to deactivate the patented

active nano-fit

feature and her breasts fell several inches to take a more natural shape before she tugged the bra off over her head, exposing her trembling, naked bosom, each breast the size of her head.

The girl lunged for them, attacking soft, pale flesh with hands and mouth, squeezing and kissing, holding and lifting, her delicate hands dwarfed by their obscene scale. Lack of experience with such proportions was obvious but made up for by her enthusiasm and it was working for Rhiannon, who groaned quietly as she felt herself throbbing to life down her pant leg.

"You like 'em huge like this, don't you? There are a lot of busty girls with big dicks on my ship, you know." Sometimes mentioning that would convince them to come back with her for some group fun. The crew always appreciated that.

The girl didn't acknowledge, continuing to lavish her breasts with attention, easing down to squat lower until she was face-to-crotch with Rhiannon, a distinct outline of her half-swollen cock reaching down her thigh over testicles of proportionate size, easy to see the shapes of in her tight pants, with any kind of decent lighting. Fingers released her belt, an old-fashioned buckle that matched her pseudo space-cowgirl style then opened the button and zipper of her fly to expose the top of her girthy cock, surrounded by a neatly trimmed patch of reddish pubic hair. The girl dove in and took a deep inhale of it's powerful scent before giving it a kiss.

Bent down for the moment, the girl shifted to a squat before tugging at the outside of Rhiannon's trousers, revealing more and more of her thick thighs and cock. "Jesus, your balls are like my fists."

"We're going to make a mess." Rhiannon smiled, reaching down to caress her, the girl out of sight beneath her chest in her current position. The tugging had her pants almost down to her knees before her semi-stiff girldick sprung free and bumped the girl in the face with a lazy tap.

"Holy shit! You might be bigger than an upright!" The girl took a moment to marvel at the monstrous girlcock before her, hanging forward and swaying, half-hard from her attention. "I don't know if it will fit."

"It will if we're careful," Rhiannon assured, guiding the girl's head to her cock purely by feel, but she closed the last of the gap on her own. The first thing she felt was a tongue slide under her half-retracted foreskin, and she sucked in a sharp breath of delight. "Mmmm. Good girl." She was ambitious and moved closer still, carefully working her mouth around the broad curve of her glans, getting lips almost entirely around it before wincing and withdrawing.

"It's too much." She shook her head but undeterred, leaned in again, one hand hefting her scrotum while the other started to stroke the swelling shaft which her delicate fingers could only reach halfway around. Eagerly, her mouth moved in to kiss and lick along her length, veins becoming more prominent. Rhiannon swelled with arousal, her foreskin peeling back until she reached a full, towering erection of a scale that would have been both unnatural and record-worthy for a person less than two hundred years before.

It remained a hotly-debated subject within politics if 'splits,' a slang that had at one time been considered derogatory, were still human at all but despite fringe theories about aliens, they were scientifically provable to be. Intersex people were nothing new to scientific literate communities but the United Alliance liked to argue against that on their platform of ambiguous values and tradition. What had changed dramatically as mankind proliferated through the galaxy into all manner of new worlds, was how common they were. What called into question their status as homo sapiens even by the liberal-leaning scientific community were the other traits that had begun to manifest: splits often measured stronger, tougher and taller than either "mono" sex. Less agreed-upon studies suggested higher IQs and in blind tests, they were commonly found to be more traditionally attractive. Not unrelated, they were far more likely to possess hyper-sexualized and hyper-fertile traits, like extra-wide hips, hypermastia or the horse-worthy erection of Rhiannon's which now filled the face of this young, portie girl.