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Anger filled her as she worked her tongue across him, drawing his intruding member deeper into her, her jaw working. She nursed him hard, sucking with force and determination. Her mouth worked up and down, pursed lips hard around his cock, satin skins rubbing together. Stray droplets of spittle ran down her chin, as she raised mascaraed eyes to his. Tight fingers in the knot of her braids, plunged her head down, forcing the cock farther back, till her chest heaved and eyes swam. Gulping air in with short gasps that released the grip of her lips on the intruding member, she worked up her strokes, panting at the bottom then dragging lips and mouth back to the top. The rhythm built as the background faded: the carpet pressing her stockings into her knees, the tickle of crinoline bustle against her hip, the slick feel of her dampening satin thong, and the itch of the lace sleeves. None of these things mattered anymore. There was just this cock, in her mouth, pushing its way in, not. Any babyborn with that dominant blood type would change almost as soon as theyrecovered from being born and those evil little microbes or nanites, orwhatever they were, found him.When Captain Strelnikova returned, she seemed different. Darker, moreserious. She looked at General Mason Ballard and told him, "Sir, you haveto let me command the 'John Paul Jones'. That is my ship, my mission. Ihave the rank, I have the space hours, and I am the only American who hasever seen and spoken to a dickgirl. If you give anyone else command ofthis mission it will be the height of colossal stupidity."General Ballard was working to keep his voice from becoming an angrybellow as he responded. "I have been in this man's Air force for thirtyyears, man, and boy, so excuse me while I work to keep my temper in thepresence of a subordinate officer who, for the moment seems to have losther god damned mind. Now having established that, do you suppose youcould tell me why in the name of holy hell I should.
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