White Owl Stowaway…snippet 04

The big spacer was definitely freaked. His hooded steel blue eyes popped open wide, rolled around looking for a focus, and found nothing but floor…

Then he suddenly felt the floor with odd parts of his body, and realized he was mostly nude, except for a strange new singlet. And there were odd uncomfortable lumps beneath his chest and hips. He wriggled, trying to get off them, and that was when he realized there was weight on his back…weight which was wrapped around him, locked onto him.

An unbidden panicky sensation of Bot Innard Interference swelled, threatened to blot out his sentience, but long experience in controlling his reactions kicked in and he stubbornly caught it up, and froze it. His pupils contracted from huge bottomless Get the Bots Out pits to dark Calculating Odds of Usefulness barrels.

He knew he was still on The White Owl. He’d worked exceedingly hard to sneak past scanning sensors and bots of all kinds to get on board, and his senses told him he had not yet been thrown off the ship. His senses easily told him that he was no longer in an outboard cargo bay, but somewhere deeper within.

However, first things first.

He channeled his thoughts, analyzed the sensations he was getting from the weight, its distribution, and shape. He realized what it was: The White Owl’s owner, the second most important thing he obsessed over, an intriguing mind wrapped in a mysterious package he found impossible to put out of his head. That was what owned the warm shape latched onto his back.

He tried reaching behind his shoulders with his free arm, looking for something he could use as leverage or a possible control point, but could not grab anything. Her clothing was too smooth, too form-following, and she flipped her long wavy hair out of his reach.

He rolled over, taking her around with him, a move which effectively pinned her beneath his back. Then he tried again to find something to grab. Except for a fleeting touch of wavy hair spread out on the deck, which he couldn’t snag, again there was nothing. The only result of that manuever was that her feet were no longer locked onto his hips, they were locked to each other at the ankle above his penis.

He gathered his abdominal and thigh muscles, focused them, coordinated them, and threw himself up with a loud grunt, redhead and all, into a sitting position. Now she clung to his back with gravity no longer her ally, and she latched on even tighter.

“Why,” he growled in a precise baritone, “are you latched on to me?” He could feel her breath against his back, but she said nothing, which irritated him more than anything that had happened in getting aboard.


~ by tinkianmotion on April 22, 2010.

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