PRECIOUS CARGO Copyright @1999, Maureen. All rights reserved. Part 10 Caitlin was playing with Katie again in his own quarters. Windrunner was in the captain's bedroom, in bondage. Fodessa was alone on the bridge. A good time to do things that needed complete privacy. The clouded leopard flopped into the captain's chair, calling "On!" The tachyon transmitter flared into 3-D life. "ID number eight," she told it -- that was the one that would make her transmitted image that of an impala doe, big-eyed and innocent-looking. "Dolcett Meat Packing Company contact site, code nine-eighteen four B, via the Underwave Network." After several long seconds, the viewcube flared into life, showing a silvery sphere and a few lines of text: "You have reached the Dolcett Meat Packing Company. If you made it here, you probably know how to proceed. If you got here by accident while tachyon-cruising, fuck off." "Code seven-six-seven, forty-two hundred. Cult of the Dead Cow." She'd never figured out the meaning of that password; she'd been told it was a historical reference. "ACCESSING . . .," the screen displayed in bold red letters. At last it cleared, to display the rotating green hypercube logo of the Jegarlik Anarchist Anti-State. She knew her connection was being scanned and analyzed by tools more sophisticated and powerful than those of most planetary governments. "Jegarlik Ministry of Foreign Affairs, please," she said A few moments later, the screen cleared again, this time revealing a young male coyote relaxing in his chair, his arms folded behind his head. Or, at least a transmitted image of a coyote -- it was probably a false ID like hers. He was dressed in nothing more than a blue tartan kilt -- traditional business-wear for the dominant culture of the planet Guineachloch. Fodessa appreciated the irony. "Okay, I'm here. State yer business," the hacker said, grinning. The disguise transmitted expressions, although it could fake voices easily enough. His was middle-toned, smooth, with a faint Guineachloch accent. "I need some research and analysis," she told him. "So tell me." "Analysis and tracing of several incidents. One: a firefight at Dock One Hundred Thirty-Seven at La Grange Station Five, eleven days ago, hour twenty-one hundred local. Two: murder of a suspected Darksex Underground member, name Felan, a civet, on Nikume, fourteen days ago. Three: a number of other incidents, all GBM arrests. The details will be in the dossier I'll t-mail you. I want to know any correlations, any common threads, rumors, your speculations about this, anything at all. My return address will be in the dossier." It was for one of several heavily anonymized accounts she held. He nodded, and Fodessa could swear there was a gleam of interest in his eyes. Word was definitely getting around. She wished she knew what he was thinking. "That'll cost ye," he said. "Give me the account ID and we'll start talking." Fodessa gave it to him. "There's one thousand Galactic credits in there, plus five hundred shares in Hamas-Mitsubishi Enterprises." He couldn't entirely conceal his surprise. She'd just demonstrated that she was very, very serious. "Will that be enough?" she asked. He nodded, recovering himself. "Plenty. How soon do you want the results?" "As quickly as possible -- no more than two days." "Good enough," he said. "We'll accept your commission." After another call to hire bodyguards for Perion, she ordered off the transmitter and walked down the corridor to her private bedroom. Windrunner lay on her bed on his back, his arms at his sides, fastened down by the security straps that were meant to hold the occupant during high-G takeoffs. The restraint system accepted only her voice. The handsome wolf looked up at her as she came over to the bedside, his green eyes holding a curious mixture of sexfear, longing, and (she noted with a strange feeling) genuine pleasure at seeing her. His penis was already hardening, lifting above his swollen balls. Fodessa smiled as she sat down on the bed at his side. "Well, well, did you miss me?" she inquired sweetly. "Yes, I did," he answered, a little smile touching his own muzzle. "Good." She bent over to kiss him, smelling her own drying vaginal fluids on his face; she'd used his mouth three times already this day-cycle and hadn't permitted him to wash. "Because now I'm going to give you even more attention." She reached down to touch his swelling cock, running one stubby cat-finger up and down it, feeling its heat, its need. Then she began to tease it, stroking slowly with her whole paw, then one or two fingers, tickling, then stopping again. Soon she had clear precum seeping from the tip, and she smeared it all over the burgundy skin, admiring how his starving cock and bulging balls twitched and his hips moved futilely under the straps. She chuckled deeply, straightening up to look at his face again. His lips were pulled back from his teeth in a grimace of frustration. "A bit hungry, are we?" she chuckled. She would have loved to masturbate standing over his face, letting her juices drip down to torment him even further, but the bed was way too soft to make it safe to stand up. Instead, she ran a finger through her wet labia and wiped it dry on his nose, giving him even more of her scent. He slurped, trying frantically to lick every last bit of love- juices off her fingers, until she pulled her paw away. Then he whined. She reached downward and teased him for more long moments. "Do you want to come, slave?" she demanded. "Yes, yes, oh, Slaaneth yes, Mistress, yes, please, Fodessa," he grated. "Good. Beg for it, boy. Let me hear your lovely deep voice begging like a slave, begging for me to let you come." "Please, Mistress," he moaned, and Fodessa closed her eyes to lose herself in the sound of his voice, the desperation in it. "Please let me come. I beg you. I beg you to let me come. Oh, gods, I need to come so baaad . . . . Pleaaaaze . . . ." She kept him begging for a full half-hour, teasing up his cock to keep him continuously near the brink of orgasm. His lean, shaggy body bucked and strained at the straps, fighting them, making the bed squeak, as she caressed his need. His head tossed, his tail flopped aimlessly. The bedroom reeked of sex odors: her own faintly ammoniacal, acrid feline heat-smell, Windrunner's musky doggy-odor of rut. At last, she decided he'd had enough. "Good slave," she said. "I'm going to make you come." He barely had time to gasp, "Oh, thank you, Mistress . . . " before her paw speeded up, pulling, sliding, stroking to take him over the edge. He uttered a choked howl, his body shook like a hooked fish, he arched his back as well as he could under the restraints -- and his cock twitched in her grasp, to shower himself, the covers and even her arm with a long, long spray of whitish semen, the fruit of eleven days of pent-up frustration and craving. It seemed to last forever, the prolonged orgasm of the male canid, as he gasped and panted. She kept on stroking as long as she sensed it added to his pleasure, until at long last she felt his penis flagging in her paw, beginning to soften. Then she took her paw away, letting his maleness go limp, and turned to look up at his face, glorying in the fact that this happened solely because of her whim. Loving her power over him. At first she thought he'd actually passed out. His eyes were closed and his jaws hung open to let his pink tongue dangle out onto the sheets. Then he opened his eyes, closed his mouth, turned his head slowly, blearily, to look back at her, and managed a smile. She returned the smile, moving up to lie on top of him, slipping her arms around his torso. She peered down into his face, inhaling his scent, his breath, feeling the utter, contented smugness of a pleased cat. Her tail waved in the air, undulating with pleasure. "Feeling better now?" she asked. "Oh, yes, Mis -- Fodessa," he answered, smiling weakly. She grinned. "Good. Unbelt," she ordered the restraints, and they retracted, freeing him. They fell asleep like that, her on top of him, her head on his shoulder, like lovers. Direct comments and criticism to: maureen_lcn@yahoo.com .