𝗧𝗵𝗲 𝗩𝗲𝗿𝘆 𝗯𝗲𝘀𝘁 𝗼𝗳 𝗙𝘂𝘁𝘂𝗿𝗲𝘀 𝘄𝗶𝘁𝗵 𝙏𝙝𝙚 𝙇𝙖𝙙𝙮𝙎𝙥𝙞𝙠𝙚

𝘣𝘺 𝘙𝘢𝘭𝘱𝘩 𝘎𝘳𝘦𝘤𝘰, 𝘑𝘳. (𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩 𝘢𝘯 𝘪𝘭𝘭𝘶𝘴𝘵𝘳𝘢𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯 𝘣𝘺 𝘑𝘰𝘦 𝘚𝘸𝘢𝘳𝘤𝘵𝘻)

The girls were whipping knots as we sluiced to periscope depth. Setting the toes of their short metallic boots, rolling their loosed ponytails around blushed downy necks, breasts heaving (even Julie who only sported firm little B-cups), each piston insertion worked my feminine engine to an unmitigated forth, their sweat (and other juices) flowing down and out the tendrils of the StemSuits, converting their secretions into engine steam via the hollowed-out, plasticine, octopus-like ductwork dangling from the ceiling. The trio of our current shift gave me a hearty smile in unison, knowing their tireless efforts were seeing us safely away from Dr. Malt and his crew.

Malt was none too happy with our progress of late, henceforth his giving chase south of São Paulo. We had had many a run in, that particular doctor and I, and I knew he as much had his eye on The LadySpike as he did my engine crew.

Who could blame him? What heterosexual man wouldn’t be after these women? Luckily for me, I wasn’t tempted in this manner as my particular desires ran to my own gender. Still, I did enjoy fitting the ladies into the StemSuits I had helped invent as much as they liked getting into them; the tight leather backpack deliciously pinching into their bare backs, the two thick straps running under each woman’s armpits pulling her prone, the heavy gum-heel ankle boots securing each pretty little barefoot, positioning the piston close to each woman’s bare and oiled rear for quick access. I was as enamored by the look of my lady crew riding multiple orgasms to fuel my ship as I was just happy that they did so.

Illustration by Joe Swarctz ©2022

“Starboard, coming in fast,” Bents grumbled loud enough to be heard above the rivets knocking and Cindy’s guttural moans. The most vocal of all the women, she had a true skill for keeping herself riding the very crest of her waves as we rode under the crests of real ones.

I swung the periscope to me. The ship Bents was referring to was indeed gaining, a sleek metallic vessel I did not recognize even from viewing up under her.

“Take us down,” I called.

“Aye, bulkhead flappers engaged,” Bent replied, seeing to my command as the women suspended at the far corner groaned louder (Cindy meowed), and we made depth. These days, it was hard to know who were fellow smugglers lighting out to pry their pickings just as we did or what vessel might be the law—such that existed out here in wild southern waters. They may have even been agents of my arch-nemesis.

“Going,” Bents said, and I ‘felt’ that unknown ship glide over us.

I sighed as we angled downward; these lower byways carry as much comfort as they do caution.

“Shzzz Akka’ak,” I heard, then saw the grey snake attack Bents with such speed I barely had time to jump from my listing chair and knock him away from it.

“Siapa, sippa sippa,” the undulating tube spoke as it bounced over the raised metal floor, spraying spunk steam far and wide.

In the exact moment that I lurched to get the undulating tube secure against the bulkhead, I spied Bents standing to brush himself off. My squat, best friend was the most resilient of crewmen; it was more Rachel I was worried about, sprawled as I suddenly saw her to the far corner, jettisoned as she was out of her suit, harness, and that loosened tube. I braced for the worst but was happy to find the redhead merely unconscious folded in on her naked self, a bruise at her lower back, and a shallow slash across her right shoulder. Although professionals, their concern for Rachel won out, and Cindy and Julie unhooked themselves as I attended Rachel. Bents went back to the conn.

I do admit my mind, as it always is, was as much on the women as on the ship. Surely, I was concerned for the pretty, petite lady lying on the wet floor, and I recognized the need for her fellow sisters to attend to her, but I also had The LadySpike to worry about. The ship was the mother of us all and the lady we counted on the most. If we lost power because we spent too much time attending a fallen crew member, we’d all die.

“I better stay. Julie can get her down to Delilah,” Cindy said, standing and seemingly reading my mind.

The tallest lady of my six wasn’t being unkind as she was being practical. Like me, Cindy knew that, yes, our only Nubian crew member Julie could walk Rachel down to Delilah, our engine/nurse. But with those three engaged then in sickbay, and Angela and Season both not yet ready to return to their suits, we’d be short. Cindy took a step to hook herself back up (the women can do so certainly in emergencies, although we all prefer the ritual of me helping), smiling at me, realizing what I too had suddenly realized.

I stood fully, and turned to get Rachel’s swinging pack over my head. There’d be time to figure out why Rachel’s suit had given way. For now, though, I had to undress, and fast!

I was Captain, after all. ✦

Ralph Greco, Jr. is a professional writer and musician living in the wilds of suburban NJ on the east coast of the United States. Ralph works in both the mainstream and the adult space and his essays, poetry, fiction, interviews, reviews, erotica and children’s stories have appeared in nine countries. Ralph has had his one-act plays produced across the U.S., co-hosts the Licking Non-Vanilla podcast, and is an ASCAP licensed songwriter (Ralph’s music can be found at the cleverly named, www.ralphgrecomusic.com) Ralph can be reached by writing ralphiedawriter@gmail.com

Joe Swarctz is a graduate of the Joe Kubert School in Dover, N.J. He is a professional illustrator and animator who, over the last four decades, has worked for animation studios, corporations and on private commission. Joe’s most recent project is the Echo City Capers children’s book series, of which Joe is creator and illustrator. Joe can be reached by writing josephswarctz@gmail.com