SPACERIDE

In space, no one can hear you yawn.
That was Larry Boden's inescapable conclusion, after six days floating one
hundred miles above the Earth. Once past the novelty of rocket travel and
zero-gravity, life on Eurostation Alpha was as sterile and boring as the jet
flight from Belfast to Florida to get here. He wished he had a job, like the
seven permanent crewmembers onboard.
But no, he was a passenger, a "lucky" winner of the fund-raising lottery set
up by the financially-beleaguered Eurospace Agency. He hadn't even bought
the ticket himself; it was a birthday present from his mates at the Child
Benefits Office, complete with all the expected jokes about not coming back,
etc. Ha bloody ha.
Not that he hadn't appreciated winning the week's trip - at least, at first.
It was better than visiting the Costa this time of year, and would certainly
make a better fanny magnet than scoring a goal for your local team.
Astronauts, even passengers, got the girls.
The reality of life in space was different. Weightlessness had its benefits:
without gravity's influence, his double chins disappeared, and he gained
height and lost his beer gut now that his spine no longer had to support
him. But the ultra-clean filtered air left his skin dry, and his head and
nose eternally stuffed. The low-residue, rehydratable foodstuffs they
consumed onboard were the culinary equivalent of eating bricks, and the
medicines they took to keep their digestive tracts working left him slightly
constipated. Captain Kirk didn't have to suffer like this.
But the physical discomfort was tolerable, when compared to the boredom. The
crew had a stringent schedule - their various governments' high investments
in putting them in orbit meant nearly every minute was accounted for. But
even those off-duty avoided him; Larry knew that some of them - well, all of
them - looked down on him, saw him as an unwelcome guest in their exclusive
little club at best, a potential disaster at worst.
To be fair, they'd given him opportunities to help out, but these (and he)
generally turned out the worse for wear: he dry-heaved his time in a space
suit floating outside the station (and lost his camera in orbit); damaged
the Russian's tomato experiments when he had a bit of a nose around; broke
one of the exercise bicycles used to combat zero-gravity muscular atrophy;
and after failing to properly secure the toilet's vacuum seal, had to chase
after a swarm of his own turds.
They'd more or less left him on his own after that.

Larry hung in the air at the mouth of his quarters, occasionally reaching
out to keep himself from floating one way or another, and watched and
listened to the activity going on in the rest of Alpha. The mouth of his
cabin, like all the other modules, was attached to the Central Corridor;
from here, he could stay out of the way, while he waited for six o'clock.
During more poetic (read: bored) moments for Larry, such as now, Alpha's
design, with its cylindrical modules attached to the Central Corridor,
nicknamed Main Street, like broken ribs on a spinal cord, and the huge
purple solar panel array in the aft section, together resembled nothing more
to him than the sun-bleached skeletal remains of a peacock, with some of the
tailfeathers still intact. Which made him a maggot picking at the corpse, he
supposed, shrugging; he'd been called worse in his lifetime. Hell, he'd been
called worse in the last week.
He checked the time again; no, not yet six. He fancied heading over to the
American modules, the most comfortable in the station. Not that he'd be
welcome by the Yanks. The same would be true for the Germans and French in
their modules. And the Englishman onboard treated him like his thick country
cousin visiting the big city for the first time. Wanker.
Of them all, only one of them was worth sparing a second glance at-
And there she was, on time as usual. He grinned at her, hoping the subtle
alterations in facial expressions caused by zero-gravity didn't make him
look like he'd just caught his dick in the airlock. 'Sophie! Dopriy-
dobriyehchoo- vyechyeer-'
'If you're trying to say "Good evening" in Russian: don't.' Zofia Ivanova
Kosparov had slowed her sail through the central Corridor long enough to
impart this bit of advice.
Larry pulled himself out of his cabin just enough to block her continued
passage down to the Russian modules. 'Still, as long as you get my meaning,
eh?' He raised his eyebrows, wishing his face didn't feel so inflated.
Closer to her, he could smell her sweat, a sufficiently raw stimulus to make
his cock twitch inside his jump-suit. Good; at least that still worked.
'Soph, I was hoping to catch you alone for a moment.'
She wasn't a small woman: broad-shouldered, broad-hipped, big-chested, with
thinning chestnut hair ponytailed out of harm's way, and thick, pouty lips
over imperfect teeth. Definitely one of those Russian girls raised on a
potato diet. 'I don't have a moment. I've just finished my shift-'
She raised her hand, as if to push him out of the way, but he grasped it
like a lifeline. 'Sophie, I... want you. I need you.'
She stared as if he was a particularly repulsive fly in her soup.
Still, she hadn't immediately cursed him out - always a good sign - so he
pressed on. 'I know our time together so far hasn't been on the best of
terms - I'm still extremely sorry about those turds getting in your hair -
but it's just that it's been so very lonely for me, cut off from my family
and friends on Earth-'
'You've only been here for six days, and go back home in five hours.'
He continued, as if he hadn't heard. 'But I also know how lonely it must be
for you, too; I know you won't risk compromising your position with people
you work with up here. but I'm just a visitor, here today, gone tomorrow.
And never to see you again.'
He studied her expression as he recited his carefully-prepared speech, as
pragmatic and direct as only a Russian could appreciate, but still laced
with Western poetry. Then he played his ace, withdrawing from his breast
pocket the miniature bottle of Hennessy's he'd illegally smuggled onto the s
tation. 'And before I go, I want to share this - and my love - with you.'
He paused, afraid to breathe and astonished at how natural it had all
sounded. The cognac was the exclamation point to his offer; he knew Sophie
and that dickhead comrade of hers Anton had been in orbit for six months
now, without a drop to drink. And he'd seen the genuine response in her
face; maybe his cognac, and his straightforward offer, would have been
laughed away on Earth. But up here, both probably looked very enticing to a
woman in Sophie's position. The drink certainly was tempting to Larry, who'd
been bursting for something, anything alcoholic, for nearly a week now and
was glad of the willpower he'd mustered to keep from wasting such a powerful
bargaining chip on just himself.
Finally she twisted around to look behind her, before whispering, 'Give me a
chance to freshen up. Ten minutes, then come to my quarters.'
He frowned slightly. 'What about Anton?'
'He'll be busy in Communications for the next hour, relaying data Earthside.
I've already given instructions for me not to be disturbed.' She smiled.
'Now I have a better reason than just sleeping.'
He swallowed a yell of triumph rising in his throat, simply smiled and
shrugged suaveley, backing into his cabin to let her float past, patting her
lightly on the ass as she departed. She didn't kick him in the face when he
first tried that three days ago; another good sign, he judged.
Immersing himself fully into his cabin, Larry checked and rechecked his face
and breath, then reached into his "bed", a rigid sleeping bag with straps to
keep one from floating away, removing the hidden condom he'd also smuggled
onboard with him, never thinking he'd have the opportunity to use it, except
as a balloon for an impromptu game of zero-gravity volleyball. He'd planned
on seducing Sophie here, where he knew he wouldn't have been disturbed. but
her room was just as good a place as any to make history.
And history he would make, as well as piles of cash. When the first lottery
winners arrived in space, they were the darlings of the media, making
potloads of money advertising everything: toothpaste, trainers, even
underwear. But the novelty soon wore off, and by the time Larry's turn
arrived, the best he could do was a free bottle of Malibu for wearing a
T-shirt in space emblazoned with his local pub's name and address.
Until some anorak in his pub before he left had pointed out that while space
had been conquered, some activities in it had yet to be. And though women
had been astronauts/cosmonauts in space since 1963, no one had, officially,
ever tried the obvious: sex. Unless wanking counted (in which case Larry had
already made the history books. No, not quite the fame he'd been looking
for).
Of course, looking at pictures of those old Russian boilers who'd been shot
into orbit, Larry could well understand. And though some of the Yank and
French birds were stunners, none of them were here this week. He had to
settle for Sophie.
Not the woman he'd expected to lose his virginity to, here in space.
Not that she wasn't sort of pretty, or interesting, in her own way. Zofia
Kosparov had been among the first civilian female cosmonauts, helping to
construct the station back in the last decade. She'd apparently already been
a minor celebrity before her spacefaring days, according to Anton, as a
child actress in a Russian TV comedy in the Eighties, and after this tour of
duty, she'd plan to return to that work, perhaps as a respectable presenter
or lecturer.
Larry's cock twitched further as he considered how he would achieve a
different kind of fame, a lot sooner. Then there was the money to be made:
he'd sell his story to one of the English papers, or maybe even an American
TV network. The Stallion of Space, they'd call him. After all, if that guy
who had his dick chopped off by his wife could go on to become a celebrity,
why not he?
And the girls. The girls who'd all flock to him, to get a taste of the
Stallion...
As he ran a slightly nervous hand through his hair, his erection grew firmer
and larger, until he thought it would draw all the blood from the rest of
his body.

'Sophie?'
Larry broke the station rule about opening an airlock to someone's quarters
without permission first. But hell, what would they do, throw him into
space? Besides, the shuttle would be here soon to take him home!
'Come in, muksun.'
Larry assumed it was a Russian term of endearment, and punched the air
triumphantly (momentarily sending him into a spin from the force of the
gesture). He swam through the curtains, closing the airlock hatch behind him
for greater privacy.
Sophie was there, and as she turned her head, her now-unbunned hair floating
behind her, like the trailing tendrils of a jellyfish propelling itself
through the water. Her red jump-suit was discarded, leaving her in matching
grey vest, boxer shorts and socks - not exactly the best from Ann Summers',
but then this was a space station, not a disco; besides, strangely enough it
seemed to suit her. Her thighs were large, but mercifully smooth, and she
wore no bra; her breasts, heavy under gravity's influence, hung forward in
her vest, as if supported by invisible hands.
Larry was in love her immediately - or at least, for the next twenty
minutes. 'Darling, you're... beautiful.'
'Spasee'ba. Where's the cognac?'
While a smile he drifted closer to her, casually flinging the miniature in
her direction, watching it spin in seeming slow motion towards her open
hands. Then she, with her ankles wrapped around a foothold to keep herself
anchored, grasped the bottle, unscrewed the cap and unceremoniously downed
its contents in one gulp.
'Hey, what about me?' Larry moaned. He'd been dying for a taste himself; now
he'd have to wait until he returned to Earth!
Sophie smacked her lips, meticulously slipping the bottle and cap into an
adjacent sealable refuse bag. 'You'll get your fill of something else now,
muksun.' She pulled her vest over her head, revealing two round white
breasts with brown peaked nipples, bouncing as if in water.
For an instant, Larry was daunted. Not overwhelmed, of course; that was a
job for all the women he'd soon grace with his body. But daunted by the
unique nature of his environment of seduction. He'd even considered making
up the story completely when he returned to Earth, but knew that some anorak
in the audience would catch in on some minor technical point. But he also
knew that the best lies were the ones that had a grain of truth to them.
She stared at him, looking amused. 'Am I your first, Larry?'
Before he realised it, he'd answered, 'Yes.' He didn't know why he'd told
her the truth, when he planned on telling no one, let alone her. For that
matter, he didn't know why it was true in the first place. He was
undoubtedly a pussy magnet already; was it his fault there were so many
stuck-up lesbians in Northern Ireland? He knew he shouldn't worry about the
slip; it wasn't as if Sophie would pop up in his local pub to tell his
mates, now would it? Still, he tried to cover it up. 'I mean, I could have
had lots of girls-'
'Of course, of course.' She seemed convinced.
Baser instincts took over, as he imagined her whole body weakening
momentarily at his approach, her lips parting as their tongues met and
danced together; he could taste the cognac on her breath, the next best thin
to actually drinking the fiery nectar. He was aware that, arms locked in a
passionate embrace (her skin was like cool leather), they were twirling like
ballerinas (she must have released her foothold), and he was half-afraid of
bumping his head on the bulkhead or on one of the other sleeping enclosures
beside them.
Then his fears dissolved as she dug her fingertips deeper into the muscles
of his neck, and her lips continued to wantonly grind onto his. He enjoyed
the soft/hard sensation of her breasts against his chest, as he drove his
hands down the back of her shorts, cupping cool, fleshy buttocks. he tried
straying around, still beneath the waistband, to the hot cleft he knew
waited for him at the front, but her efforts to undress him made him stop
and help her, casting his jump-suit ands trainers into the air. His cock
rose like a tentpole inside his own briefs, which were just as quickly cast
aside. She stared at his erection, then looked at him with a grin and said,
'Tyehsnah.' It was obviously a compliment, and in another moment, her
remaining clothing was discarded.
He stared boldly between her legs, admiring the trimmed delta, expecting to
see much more hair on a Russian bird; maybe she'd taken time to shave down
there, just for him? She parted her thighs, and he felt himself begin to
salivate; yes, it was just like in Hustler!
'Finger it.'
He'd wanted to get down to business - even if he hadn't been eager to
finally sample the delights of intercourse, who knew how much time they had
before someone came looking for either of them? - but he couldn't resist her
commands, having obviously inflamed her passions, and found her pussy tight
and wet, and eager for his touch. As he pressed harder, Larry found he had
to hold onto her with his other hand, or risk pushing himself away. She
sighed and dug her nails into his bare shoulders, clinging to him and urging
him to go faster. he obliged until his arm ached, and his cock throbbed for
attention. He twisted his body until his erection pressed against her thigh,
hoping she'd take the hint.
She did, grasping it by the root and giving it a few tentative, teasing
tugs, before barking, 'Condom!'
It was a sharper voice than he'd expected, until he understood; strands of
clear pre-come hung like spiderweb from the tip of his cock, and if released
in zero-gravity would float about causing havoc with the machinery, as his
turds had done. He nodded, then cursed when he had to reach out and retrieve
his floating jump-suit for it. Still, he recovered with a grin as he
expertly opened the package with his teeth and smoothly fitted on the
rubber. Maybe he could do an advert for Durex: Soar to new heights of
passion, with Durex! He looked down at his cock, which now looked like it
had its own spacesuit, and giggled to himself.
In fact, he continued giggling until he realised she was using his own
shorts to tie his hands behind his back. 'Hey, what-'
'Shut up.' As she tightened the fabric's grip on his wrists, he simply
stared at her, stunned. Despite all the Reader's Letters he'd read in the
magazines, he never expected to find a woman with a genuine interest in
bondage! Now he had one, and for his first time, too? Brilliant!
His attention was abruptly brought back to the here and now, as Sophie was
on him again, literally, quickly and remorselessly planting herself on his
cock, and he gasped at the hot, tight grip she had on him. It was such a
wonderful, novel sensation - better than his own hand! - and he thought he
could feel her wetness mingle with his pubic hair as she fully opened to
him. Sophie's legs were wrapped tightly about him, heels digging into the
soft flesh beneath his buttocks, as much of his cock as he had to offer
rudely stuck in her as she straddled him.
It was a bizarre ballet, and Sophie called all the shots, pulling herself up
off him, letting inches of him out of her, then back again. Larry knew he
couldn't have stopped her, even if his hands were free; while there was no
weight in space, there was mass, and Sophie's exceeded his, giving her the
advantage in strength while not impeding her sweet assault on his body.
perhaps, when zero gravity sex became commonplace, bigger women would become
more desirable up here?
Sophie, writhing like a woman possessed, continued to speak in Russian as
she squeezed him tight with her legs and pussy, and he groaned at the
pressure of her clinches on his front and rear. He shook his head
frantically to rid himself of the sweat on his brow, and tried to lean
forward to suck on her breasts, but she clutched his head of hair and kept
him back.
He wanted to come, demanded it - he was so close! - but apart from grunting
each time she let him enter her further, she remained in cool, complete
control. His ego, any sense of masculine pride or machismo, had now been
jettisoned like so much dead weight, leaving only his need for physical
release. Thus, when Sophie ordered him to bark like a dog, he barked. When
she told him to call himself a miserable, limpdicked wretch, he happily
complied. Anything, anything to end this exquisite torture!
Then the moment finally arrived, and he cried out as Sophie somehow
increased the pressure on his cock at the right moment; how could women do
that? He was arched backward like the letter C, gasping, as he stared into
her cool eyes; she didn't appear to have reached any sort of climax (not
that it mattered much to Larry; in his story, she'll be over the moon, so to
speak).
Still, he recovered enough swagger to ask her, 'So, did the Earth move for
you, Soph?'
She must have understood the joke, but only something like a smirk lifted
one corner of her mouth. 'At about 16,000 kph.' Then the smirk disappeared.
'Rest time's over. Now for Round Two.'
 And Larry groaned aloud.

Sophie had seemed insatiable, demanding more and more from him than he'd
expected any woman to do. Somehow he managed to escape her clutches before
suffering serious injury, and returned to his cabin to pack his gear, eager
to return to Earth and make his fortune.
As anticipated, Larry became a nine-day wonder, with the tabloids offering a
five-figure sum for his exclusive story. His was a stirring tale, he the
dashing explorer, she the winsome maiden eager to partake in the delights of
love in space. She'd been overwhelmed by his power, his passion, the titanic
strength he had to keep in check for fear of driving her mad
His moment of fame had arrived: guest spots on Eurotrash, appearances at
local events, deals for magazines and TV adverts; having quit his job at
Child Benefits, he now had time for them. And the girls: not just the local
pub tarts, but the names - actresses, models, singers. Larry was in Hog
Heaven, with enough sycophants around to shield him from the criticism about
how all this publicity might be affecting Sophie, now returned to Earth.
Larry, and the rest of the world, soon found out, with the release of a
video - not the expected Hollywood movie about the affair, but the real
thing, covertly taken by Sophie in her cabin. And despite some editing for
public consumption, the whole world quickly saw a different version of
Larry's original account - mostly less of Larry the well-endowed, studly
seducer, and more of Larry the tied-up, barking, self-debasing victim of
Sophie's insatiable sexual appetites. Further, the video release provided
English translations of her Russian dialogue, all of it caustic comments on
his size and performance;  "muksun", for instance, meant "asshole", and
"tyehsnah" was "tiny". Had he not been the object of humiliation, Larry
might have laughed along with everyone else.
The publicity had earned Sophie a Hollywood agent, with America calling her
the New Roseanne, a potent new image of female liberation. Women started
buying space lottery tickets by the thousands, and even private companies
were making plans for the first luxury lovenest in space.
As for Larry, the Sun sued for their money back, money Larry no longer had,
having spent it all on that wild fortnight of debauchery, while his other
business deals quickly fell through, and all the women who once flocked to
him either ignored him, or worse, laughed at him.
What hurt most of all for him, though, was the necessity of switching pubs,
to one whose regulars wouldn't immediately recognise him. They never
questioned why he drank alone, shoulders hunched up to conceal his face, and
left whenever the TV showed another episode of that new Sophie Kosparov
comedy on MTV: Spaceride.


.

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