Daverna Transit Station
Year 5342, Saurellian Calendar 

Damian needed to get laid.

His cock was hard as a rock, and he wanted to sink it into warm flesh.

He took a long slug of his drink, scanning the room for prey. It was an easy enough place to find women—hell, he’d been here a thousand times for the same reason. He surveyed the stage, judging each dancer carefully. It was a tacky place, the kind of bar where men went for one reason and one reason only. Sex. Cheap sex. The women dancing on the stage weren’t looking for commitment, and they certainly weren’t interested in relationships. They wanted cash. Fortunately, he had credits to spare.

His men had already found companions, but he held off for the moment. For some reason none of the girls looked all that good. They all seemed worn, as if they’d been dancing too long. He might not be fool enough to expect his companion for the night to truly enjoy his company, but he wanted one who at least took the time to pretend.

He took another drink, then stood and sauntered across the room. He sat down at the edge of the stage, hoping proximity would pique his interest. The woman before him gyrated listlessly, and he tossed her a credit chit, hoping it might make her come alive. It didn’t. She scooped it up without smiling. The music changed, and she stood, bowing briefly to the crowd before walking off stage. He sighed, wondering if he’d end up alone tonight after all. Bedding down someone like her would be more like masturbating than having sex. He’d jacked off too much for one lifetime already. A new woman sauntered out.

She caught his attention instantly.

She was tall, with long dark hair and dusky skin. She wore a spacer’s coverall, although he’d never seen a spacer wear one that tight. Her lips were rounded and pouty, and her breasts swelled like two plump fruits just waiting to be squeezed. His cock leapt in response.

He wasn’t alone in his interest. Every man in the room perked up, and she smiled seductively at all of them as she stuck one long, slender finger into her mouth and sucked on it, apparently judging the crowd. Her face held a speculative look. He wanted to know what was happening in her head, he thought suddenly. She seemed so much more alive than the women around her.

She walked forward, swaying with the music, rubbing one hand up and down the front of her coverall while still sucking delicately on the other. She was still fully clothed, but there was something so incredibly sensuous, so dirty about the way she touched herself that her motions held more eroticism than anything he’d seen on the stage.

Her hips swiveled with sensuously as she strutted down the runway. Here and there poles pierced the floor, rising up to the ceiling, and occasionally she stopped rubbing herself long enough to grab one, swinging her body around it as she moved. His breath caught in this throat as she came to a stop near him, backing herself into the nearest pole and rubbing against it with her ass as she slowly slid down to the floor. She crawled forward on her hands and knees until she faced him directly. She pushed herself up on her hands, thrusting her breasts toward him, then licked her lips, allowing her heated gaze to trail across his face and down his body.

He swallowed, shifting uncomfortably in his seat. His pants were suddenly far too tight for this.
 

From Survival's Price, Copyright 2004, Joanna Wylde