This story is fiction. Actually, the setting of an artificial world in Space and the year being 2109 should have been enough to clue you in about that.
I don't care how old are. I don't care how young you are. However, the law does care, so if you are too young, go away (or at least try not to get caught).
If this story is against the law where you live, then like the young folk, go away. Or at least...
Anzu James: Naked in Orbit, Part 14 (Saturday, Night)
(zero-G dancing, drug use, zero-G ff, rom)
I got to the suite just as Botilda was going in, and we didn’t get the door closed before Rashida showed up.
”You ready to jee-up
‘till you burn?” the somewhat sweaty-looking dark
Botilda started laughing, and couldn’t seem to stop. I was entranced by the musical quality of my lover’s laughter. Rashida rolled her eyes, but then she looked at me as if studying my body.
“You’re not really wearing a see-through scarf, are you?” she asked, “’Cause I don’t think that’s allowed, unless it’s the ‘shrooms or PLeaSe-D.”
By this time they were both peeling out of their costumes, as they would just be too hot for hours of raving. At one point, we were all three naked at the same time, and I just floated there, blinking. These two women are just too damned beautiful to look at when they’re both naked and I’m rolling.
“Hey,” Botilda chirped, “why don’t we all shower together. We need it, and it’ll be faster than taking turns.”
I thought this was the best idea I’d heard all day. I was really wanting some excuse to get my hands on Rashida. It wasn’t so much horniness, really. Well OK a little bit, but mostly I just wanted to feel her skin and keep looking at her. That blonde pubic hair really shone out against her skin. If I’d been on PLeaSe-D, I’d’ve thought it was part of the trip.
Rashida looked at us, and seemed to hesitate. After almost a full minute she said, “OK, I’ll shower with you. But if you’re thinking threesome, you can forget it. I already tried a girl, and I just don’t swing that way.”
Fair enough. I didn’t really want to DO her so much as I just wanted to TOUCH her.
We climbed into the shower, a prettier and slightly larger version of what I’d already experienced in the locker room. The water felt great, of course, and soon the three of us were wet and soapy. My own skin felt wonderful, and I knew that Botilda’s or Rashida’s would feel even better. But Rashida made no move to touch either of us, and after what she’d said it didn’t seem respectful to touch her, nor to touch each other in front of her. Sure, we brushed against each other from time to time, and I loved that, and I knew they did too. But I made sure not to exaggerate this, and they seemed to be careful, too.
“Could one of you wash my back?” the hot blonde asked.
“I’ll do it!” Botilda and I said together.
The three of us started laughing, Botilda almost uncontrollably so. Rashida turned herself around to look at us.
“I said ‘wash my back,’” she pointed out, “not ‘make hot soapy love to me.’ So as long as you keep it to my back and above my ass, go for it, both of you.”
We went for it, both of us. That woman had the cleanest back in cislunar space by the time we were done, and then of course Botilda needed her back washed. I did let my hands drift to her ass, but didn’t go for the front.
Then it was my turn. I felt hands glide over my cheeks, and I don’t mean the ones on my face. That was Botilda; I recognized her touch. Rashida was making sure my back was as clean as hers, and then, just like that, we were back to rinsing ourselves off, not touching each other any more than we could help.
We floated out of the shower and each dried off. Rashida kept looking at us, and we kept looking at each other. The sexual tension was thick enough to cut with Darth Vader’s light saber, and one of us was going to have to say something. Maybe it’s because of my Program experience, but I was the one to acknowledge what all three of us knew.
“Look,” I said, “all three of us are about ten centimetres from coming. Now I don’t know about you two, but I’m gonna jill myself before I go out there and mix with all those people. I can go back into the shower if you don’t want to see it.”
“I wanna see it,” Botilda offered. Big surprise there.
“You know,” Rashida murmured, “I need it too. Why don’t we all do it right here? If Anzu can fuck Bret right in front of everybody, I can handle jilling myself in front of you two.”
So we did. We formed ourselves into a sort of triangle, and as each of us fingered herself, I felt like we were family, but not family, because family isn’t supposed to be sexual together, but something like that. It was like a sort of love, sexual but more tender than it was sexual, even though we were fingering our pussies together. Some of that was the X3, but some of it was just the sweet sharing of something as intimate as masturbation.
Rashida came, and then I did, and Botilda started before I was finished. Rashida seemed satisfied at this point, and calmly watched as my lover and I each jilled ourselves to another, and another after that.
We laughed then, and as they put on their dancing clothes I thought about how sweet sexuality is, and how we seem to want to make it dirty. Why? How can anything so wonderful, and so bonding, and so much fun be a bad thing? It isn’t bad. In fact it’s one of the purest expressions of goodness a person is likely to experience.
I had been putting my homers on: one on each fingernail, one on each toenail, all set to strobe. The fireflies were each the size of a grain of rice (long-grain rice, but still), and there were two for each homer. They would fly around me, set to pulse in alternating colors, always maintaining a half metre separation from the homers. If I moved my hand or foot too fast for them to keep up, they would close the distance as quickly as possible. By moving just right, I could create a light show that would give pleasure to those watching. In addition to the homers and fireflies, though, I was going to attach lights to my body. My two friends were also using lights tonight.
Botilda placed non-lit homers on several parts of her body, and she had at least fifty fireflies to go with them. She was going to be surrounded with a small cloud of them. She also put a white strobe in her mouth and a pair of earrings which would change colors and pulse with the music.
Rashida used no homers or fireflies at all, but she did have the same sort of earrings and a metre-long string with a light-stick on each end. I’d seen Rashida light-string all of once, and she’s good.
I waited for Botilda and Rashida to finish attaching their own lights before I spoke. “’Tilda,” I asked, “would you attach the lights to my chakra?”
“Gotcha,” she giggled, “so spread ‘em.”
I spread my legs wide and smiled as she attached the tiny light, same size as a firefly, directly between my vagina and anus. This light I would soon program to glow red. The next was placed about halfway between my navel and my clitoris, and would glow orange. The next was between my naval and breasts, and its glow would be yellow. The next was between the breasts themselves, a bit high, and would be green. Finally, one was placed between my eyebrows and another directly on the top of my head, facing up. These two would glow blue and violet, respectively.
Now if you were paying attention Wednesday, then you might remember that these chakra and colors are also associated with the frame drum strokes of, from bottom to top, ka, daum, tak, brush, and mwam (there’s one for the chakra between the eyes, too, but I didn’t cover that). They are also associated with the elements earth, water, fire, air, and space. The one betwixt the eyes is associated with “will,” for all that this has never seemed like an “element” to me.
I used my cell to set each to its correct color, and I also programmed them to pulse in time with the music.
“There,” the gorgeous Orin cooed when she was finished, “you’re all set to shine tonight. But you’re showing some stubble; you might wanna renew the shave.”
I’d forgotten all about that. I smiled at Botilda. “Wanna shave my coochi, hot stuff?”
“You betcha!”
We quickly located the extra razor I’d brought. Rashida leaned in close, though why it was so interesting to her I don’t know. I thought I was going to cum again when Botilda spread the cream on me and started shaving. Every stroke sent chills up my spine, and the hot wet washcloth made my whole body seem to pulse like my fireflies were about to.
Rashida made one last comment before we left the room. “That was, like, utterly cool, you know?”
Botilda was in silver short shorts with matching T-shirt, spaghetti straps, and Rashida’s shorts and sleeveless T-shirt were the exact color of her hair. But as hot as they both looked, it was (surprise!) the naked woman who got the most attention as we headed to the Planets Ballroom. We were running late and had to stop at the three-quarter G level and wait another several minutes for it to arrive.
The Planets Ballroom is an enormous elevator. Over the course of an hour the entire 2,400 square metre ballroom would move from the full-G level to the zero-G level. It would immediately start moving back to full-G. This would be repeated eight times over the eight hours that the rave would last. As the Constellation is only fifteen hundred metres in diameter (meaning only 750 metres radius) the trip is so slow that there is no appreciable Coriolis effect. This ballroom was a technical marvel and had only been added nine years ago. Seventeen other hotel ships had them now, but the Planets Ballroom is the original.
We entered the dance space and the music hit with a physical force. The music at a rave is loud, and is strongly rhythmic, sometimes with one than one rhythm playing at a time. A tempo of two hundred beats per minute is common, and four hundred isn’t that unusual. Dancing to this music can involve intricate steps with different parts of the body moving to different rhythms and several light-producing devices coordinated in a fantastic whole, or you can simply wave your arms in the air. Me, I basically do veegeewushu moves while keeping to the main beat. As I’ve said before: I’m only a passable dancer, but I can hold one beat.
Right away we started dancing. There were some people hopping up and down already, but that wouldn’t be a major feature of the dancing until we go down to a quarter G. I could see a lot of fireflies, and some light-stringers were making arcs of light that swerved and curved and brought faces briefly to light. I was entranced by all the colors, the movement, and the music.
Botilda and I started forms where we punched and kicked past each other, never hitting of course. Like me, she can hold one beat. Of course, with all those fast movements, our fireflies were streaking like mad to keep up, and my twenty were mixing with her fifty or more (I later found out it was fifty-seven). In the semi-darkness of the room they left trails of light behind, trails that changed in color, intensity, and location. Her earrings were keeping to one rhythm, but we were moving our bodies to another one. Soon, one song blended into another, and now our bodies and lights kept the same beat, but as I looked at Rashida, she was keeping two with her body and another with her head.
“Holy shit, are you naked!?”
“As a jaybird,” I answered, turning around to see who it was: a boy of about fourteen, a strobe in his mouth and a row of lights across his forehead, each a separate color. He was wearing the standard shorts and T-shirt, with a Martha’s Igloo logo.
“So is this some promotion,” he asked, “or a Program thing, or what?”
“Program thing,” I answered, still dancing.
“I hope I’m as cool about it when it’s my turn,” he said, shaking his head.
Botilda made herself known at this point. “If Anzu here were any cooler, she’d have icicles hanging from her nipples.”
He seemed to give Botilda as much of the eye as he had me. Can’t say as I blame him, though. About that time Rashida stepped over and started dancing with Botilda. Glowsticks and fireflies shared airspace and strings somehow crossed without tangling. Suddenly, Rashida’s sticks were strobing instead of just glowing, so that instead of being surrounded by arcs of light, she and Botilda were surrounded by bars of light in curving formation. Botilda kicked a leg high into the air, held it, and the sticks went back to a steady, blue glow as they swooped around and interacted with my lover’s upright leg. Strings wrapped and unwrapped while fireflies swarmed about and dodged sticks.
Botilda put her leg back down, threw some open-hand chops to either side of Rashida’s head, and then the two women parted, Botilda continuing her veegeewushu moves and Rashida hopping into the air and swooping sticks beneath her feet, or bending at the waist to spin them behind her back. And all the time, she kept to the main beat.
“Wow, she’s good!” the boy shouted, shouting being the only way to be heard over the music. “I think she’s better than Ricky Owodu.”
I frowned. It’s considered bad form to say that one light dancer is “better than” another. Rave culture isn’t about competition, and dancing in particular is about giving pleasure to others, not about beating others. It wouldn’t just bother Owodu to have heard that comment; it would have bothered Rashida. She put considerable effort into being better, but better than she used to be, not better than somebody else.
Don’t get me wrong, I’m all for competition, in its place. I mean hell; I’m on the spoccer team, right? That’s all about competition, except that it’s also about teamwork. And veegeewushu; that’s even more about competition. And make no mistake: I like to win and I don’t like to lose. It’s just that a rave isn’t the place for that sort of thing. That’s why a passable dancer like me can enjoy shaking her ass and throwing kicks, even if she’s dancing next to Rashida the Lightstringing Wonder.
“What’d I do?” the boy asked.
“You said one dancer was better than another,” I pointed out, “that’s not really…”
“Omigod that’s right!” He seemed genuinely contrite. “Sorry, I’m new to this.”
“That’s OK,” I told him. “PURL.”
“PURL,” he nodded, and then we danced together, Botilda soon joining in.
PURL is kind of the raver code of conduct. It stands for Peace, Unity, Respect, Love. In your time it was called PLUR, and it’s not that different from the hippy maxim of Peace, Love, and Understanding from the 1960s. For that matter, it isn’t too far away from the teachings of Jesus or several other religious founders. Peace, Unity, Respect, Love. If you have these four, how can you wrong another?
The boy eventually wandered off, and by the time we were weightless I’d lost track of Rashida. I’d even lost site of Botilda for a few minutes, but then she was right there, swinging a foot over my head and blocking a dozen punches. But again, our moves were timed to the music, and we were dancing, not fighting.
We were at about a tenth G as the Planets Ballroom was on its way back down, when somebody asked if he could touch me. This is a pretty common request at a rave, because so many people are on X3 and touching skin feels wonderful when you’re rolling. Being touched is great stuff too, so I said yes. This wasn’t like a Reasonable Request; it wasn’t a sex thing; it was just somebody asking to touch me.
He ran his fingers up my legs, over my hips, across my belly and between my breasts, up over my shoulders, and down my back, taking his fingertips off of me just as he got to my butt. It felt so good! I’d done this before, of course, but it had always been limited to short strokes on arms, legs, or face. This had just gone on and on and on, without any interruption because of clothing. Yes, he had touched my breasts, but just a little with his fingertips, on the inside, and he hadn’t tried to squeeze or go for the nipples. It was sensual without being sexual.
By the time we reached full G, an hour later, two other people had touched me, and I’d touched one of them back. Neither of them tried anything sexual, and neither did I. I was starting to think about maybe doing something sexual with Botilda, but in private, not here.
But for now I just wanted to dance, and by God I did. I also drank plenty of water, because you sweat buckets dancing like mad for hours in a crowded room. One problem with the ecstasy of your day is that it sort of turns off the body’s sense of thirst, so you can lose track of how much water your body is losing, forget to drink, and become dehydrated. This doesn’t happen with X3, though. I felt thirsty and I drank water.
The ballroom started back up again, and Rashida relocated us about the time we got to 0.1 G. She was standing on one hand and spinning her sticks with her feet. I don’t know how; she still had her shoes on so she wasn’t using her toes. She switched to her free hand and spun them around her legs from time to time. Then she tossed them into the air, used both arms to propel herself upwards, and caught them, still spinning, with one hand as she did slow flips on the way down.
A lot of people were up in the air and flipping or spinning or cartwheeling. Botilda and I were in the air and in a sitting position. She put her feet on mine and, holding hands which we waved to the beat, she did a wide split, taking my bare feet with her. Our crotches almost touched, the pulsing red light between my legs reflecting off of her silver shorts. Just before we hit the ground we separated, and then we were dancing next to each other, but not with each other.
And to show how much a raver appreciates a good light show, please note that Rashida got more attention than the naked one did, and that I myself received nearly as many comments on my lighting scheme as I did on my nudity. Almost.
Before long we were back at zero-G, and the floor was less crowded because of all the people in the air. We’d been at this for three hours, and I was getting tired. Also, I was just overwhelmed with the sheer beauty of… everything. It’s hard to explain, but, well, you know how sometimes a guy will be in love with a girl who’s a little bit pretty, but when he looks at her she’s this utter knockout? When he tells her, “you’re beautiful,” he’s not just being nice. This is called “love goggles,” and when you’re on X3, you look at everything through love goggles.
That goes for the music, too. The hard-driving, rhythm-based loud music of a rave is sometimes too much in any other setting, but here I was just drawing energy from it. This happens every time, whether I’m using psychtives or not. But with X3, it gets a bit overwhelming. Also, I think the nudity was adding to things.
Botilda and Rashida drifted over to me and Botilda put her head next to mine. “I think it might be time to hit the chill-out room.”
“I agree,” I told her, “Anybody know where it is?”
“Waitaminnit,” Rashida shouted, “Surely there’s some old movie that works for chill-out. Some psychedelic thing from the 1960s or something?”
Botilda and I grinned at each other, and then we grinned bigger, because each of us knew what the other one was thinking. We said it together, “Faaaaaan-tasia!”
We could have picked a lot of movies: Head, or maybe Hair, or even I Love You, Alice B. Toklas! would have been fine choices. Barbarella was pretty trippy. But while those were good tripping movies, none of them were really good chill-out movies, and Fantasia is. Funny thing is, it wasn’t from the 1960s. Fantasia hit theaters in 1940, years before LSD was even synthesized and before the use of ‘shrooms or other psychedelics became popular outside of shamanism. Even marijuana, while it was in use, wasn’t well known or accepted outside of specific subcultures.
We floated out of the Planets Ballroom and took an elevator to the full-G level. We soon found a room that was being used as a theater. This was the sort of room where Rashida had seen Star Wars. Each of these rooms held twelve people, and would be cycling through any of a dozen or more movies. Holly-Kon is, after all, a convention dedicated to old movies, and since everybody has their favorites, there have to be a lot of these rooms, and it’s best if they serve a smaller crowd. While it would of course be possible to show movies on people’s cells, there is an effort to recapture the Twentieth Century theater-going experience, the use of many small Cinema Rooms was the chosen solution.
We chose one of these, and our car was a ’57 Chevy, four doors, red and black. Rashida had seen Star Wars in the Egyptian, so this was new to her. We had to assure her that no, the black parts of the car were not occasionally shifting to green.
So we watched it, and as always it was cool. I’ve always loved Fantasia, even straight. With X3 it’s something else again, but weed and PLeaS-D are the psychtives to take before watching this. I’ve heard that ‘shrooms are good, too, but haven’t tried it yet. Botilda laughed a lot, but then those parts are supposed to be funny. I though Rashida was going to pass out laughing over the dancing mushrooms, and I was glad the “car” had a bit of soundproofing as she and Botilda started yelling “MUSHROOM! MUSHROOM! MUSHROOM!” at each other. I ended up shouting it once or twice myself.
Suddenly, Rashida started saying, “oh no,” very quietly, over and over, and she looked… well, I don’t know. Almost embarrassed. I wondered what was up with that, and why she kept looking at Botilda.
Soon, however, we were watching Mickey Mouse and his dreams of omnipotence, and then the adventures and plight of the dinosaurs (though they got the extinction wrong), then we met the soundtrack, represented in wonderful abstracts and squiggles. Botilda and I both wiggled our hands in imitation, but then we always did that.
“How much of this,” Rashida asked, “is synesthesia and how much of it is the movie?”
“If it’s just sound and visual mixed up,” I assured her, “that’s the movie. It’s supposed to be like that.”
Botilda laughed again. “How would you be able to tell the difference?”
Well, she had a point there. Unless you’d seen Fantasia straight, how would you know what was acid and what wasn’t?
But then we were seeing nude girls wading in a forest pool. One walked out, and I heard Rashida gasp. She hadn’t been expecting the girl to be a centaur. I’d been just as surprised the first time I saw it. That they were nude never really got to me. I mean, they were bathing, so of course they were naked. When I started to develop myself, I’d paid a little more attention to the boobs, and I’ll admit that I got a little charge out of them at that time. Truth is, I’ve always gotten a bit of a tingle from looking at naked women. Guess I really am bi. There, happy?
Now, with the Program and all, I took new notice of their nudity. It seemed that none of the female centaurs were concerned about being seen, breasts and all. They did cover a little before consorting with the male centaurs, but even then they weren’t what anybody would consider “modestly dressed,” and they seemed to be wearing flowers as much for ornamentation as modesty. The guys, by the way, didn’t wear a blinking thing.
Again, though, Rashida looked distressed and started murmuring “oh no” over and over. I was going to have to ask her what was up with that.
She was fine during all the
ostrich and hippo and crocodile stuff, and didn’t even freak out during the
whole “Night on
We walked out and took our time getting to the elevator. The con, I should point out, was still going strong. The Constellation operates on a round-the-clock basis, because guests arrive from all over the Earth and the Moon and dozens of habitats between. Every possible time zone is represented, and so it’s always morning, always afternoon, and always party night at the Constellation, and really any other hotel ship.
So it shouldn’t be surprising that people were walking around in costume, or that there were people wanting to pose with me for pictures. Botilda and Rashida got a break, because they weren’t in costume anymore, but I was still naked, so pose I did. I had Dracula biting my neck, the Devil reaching for a booby (no, I didn’t actually let him grab it), and a group of seven little kids, each dressed as a different dwarf from Snow White & the Seven Dwarfs. They had me pose holding an apple as they stood around me. One person after another asked who I was supposed to be.
“I’m Shirley Mills in Child Bride and Shirley Temple in Curly Top. I’m Brooke Shields in Pretty Baby. I’m…”
Finally we were in the elevator, headed for the quarter-G level, and that’s when I asked Rashida why the whole “oh no” thing. She looked puzzled, blinking at me, and then her eyes got big and she launched into a verbal dance I’ll never forget.
“Oh, well, I mean, like, um… Well there’s like, no Melanesians in, that is, not in Fantasia, right? But I mean, there’s some, well not really, you know, but it’s that really, Botilda, didn’t the mushrooms, you know, bother you? And Anzu, didn’t, you know, the one girl, like, offend you? I mean, maybe it, like, should me too, but it’s, you know, not a Melanesian, but still, it’s that it’s like a walking, you know, stereotype, not of cent…, I mean… And the mushrooms! Botilda, they were, like, the eyes, you know?”
By this point she was almost shaking. I’d started getting used to the idea that Rashida didn’t talk like that when she was rolling or tripping, so now I knew she was amazingly nervous. I just didn’t know why.
“Easy, Rashida,” Botilda told her. “Is this a bad trip? The mushroom you ate? Just take a few breaths and remember: we’re all friends here.”
“That’s right,” I added, “Whatever’s wrong, we can handle it together.”
Rashida took several breaths, and chuckled. We stepped out of the elevator and walked to where the Planets Ballroom would be in a few more minutes. She took another breath and told us what was bothering her.
“The dancing mushrooms were an Orin stereotype, with pajamas and slanty eyes and… that was really there, right? That wasn’t the acid?”
Botilda was standing there, blinking. But I knew what our friend was getting at, and I took her hand in mine. “No, Rashida, it wasn’t the acid. That’s what they looked like.”
“Well that SUCKS!” she shouted, then brought her voice back to normal. “And that horrible little… jackass-human-hybrid-Afrin-centaur thing! The buck teeth, the fat lips, that stupid hairstyle… and it wasn’t a Melanesian. It was an Afrin, and did you notice she’s the only one who had to work?! Everybody else is lying around or dancing, but she’s filing hoofs and rolling carpets and… and… she was so UGLY!”
The poor girl threw her arms around me and actually sobbed a couple of times. Then she stepped back and ran her eyes over my naked form.
“Why couldn’t she look like you? Shining and bare and proud and beautiful? Her horse-part would look noble like the Pegasus, only black like the male. Instead they have to make her this, this…” She dropped her voice to a whisper. “They made her a nigger.”
Well, there’s a word I never thought I’d hear come out of one of my friends’ mouths. In fact, I’m not sure I’ve ever heard it outside of a movie.
Botilda was trying to explain it to her as we stepped into the dance space. “It was another time. Race was a big deal, and there wasn’t the appreciation of all people that there is now. It honestly didn’t occur to anybody that this sort of thing would be offensive.”
Rashida wasn’t giving it up that easily. “How could it NOT be offensive? I almost feel ashamed for liking any of that damned movie.”
“When you take up history,” Botilda pointed out, “or you take up a hobby from way back when, you have to accept that things were different. Not all the differences will be cool or funny. Some of them will be shocking, ugly, and unpleasant. There’s no reason to be ashamed; it’s a beautiful movie. Always has been. But it comes from a time when things were acceptable that no longer are.”
Rashida looked like she wasn’t buying it.
“It didn’t take until now for it to bother anybody,” Botilda continued, “You couldn’t even see Fantasia with Sunflower in it between 1969 and 2023. That’s her name, Sunflower. She was excised because the times had changed.”
“She should still be excised!” Rashida cried.
“No she should NOT!” I barked. As my friend whirled around to look at me, I made an effort to soften my expression. Rashida was on my side. She was offended for my sake, and for that of my lover. I was also sure to soften my voice. She didn’t deserve to be barked at.
“OK, look,” I tried again, “excising Sunflower would be censorship, which is bad. It’s bad even when what’s being censored is yucky. Also, it’s just plain wrong to screw around with art like that, to try to make something from 1940 acceptable to people in 2109. If we can’t accept it for what it is, we should watch something else. Besides, the artists aren’t alive anymore. They can’t defend their work. Finally, it isn’t right to try to cover up anything ugly in the past. This just makes it look like the past was some kind of paradise, where everything was cool and funny and nothing offensive ever happened.”
I took her hand in mine, and I stroked her blond hair, so striking against her darker-than-mine skin.
“You’ve heard people say,” I continued, “that things were better in the past, that ‘it was a more innocent time,’ or ‘we didn’t have these problems back in my day,’ or ‘people knew how to act before’ whatever or things like that.” She nodded her head. “Well forget all that,” I told her. “It’s a load of horseshit. I’m a history buff, and I know the past wasn’t some magical Golden Age when everything was wonderful. And trying to pretend that things like measles and racism and famine didn’t exist just lets people fall for the lie. Excising Sunflower just makes the lie a little bit easier to believe.”
I gave her a quick hug, activated my lights, homers, and fireflies, and added, “It’s actually a GOOD thing if I’m occasionally reminded that I’d’ve been a second-class citizen in 1940. Keeps me from falling into the ‘I wish I could have lived back then’ trap. Oh no I do NOT wish that I lived back then. Now let’s dance.”
She smiled at me. “PURL.”
“PURL,” Botilda agree, and I nodded as I added my own declaration of, “PURL.”
We danced. It was at least half past midnight, Mendocino time, and we were ready to enjoy a couple of more hours of raving before the party ended, the X3 wore off, and we were just too pooped to party.
It wasn’t long before we were at zero-G, and I saw Rashida with some guy, linked by the ankles and slowly rotating about each other while lightsticks whirled about, sometimes strobing and sometimes steady. I was later to learn that the guy was Ricky Owodu. I wouldn’t say that one was better than the other, but I will say that they were great together.
We had returned to full-G and were well on our way back to zero when the three of us decided to call it a night. Botilda and I floated along with Rashida to the david, where she would catch a quick nap on the way home.
“Don’t forget to catch the nude circumference walk at three,” Botilda reminded her.
“Wouldn’t miss it for all the water on Europa,” Rashida assured her.
I had plumb forgotten it. Well, by four in the afternoon, I’d be rested up enough.
Rashida was off then, and while Botilda and I briefly considered returning to the rave for one more hour, what we really wanted to do was make love. You’d think we’d be too tired, but we had gotten a second wind, or maybe a third or fourth wind. So back to our suite we went, and Botilda was out of her clothes faster than I would have thought possible. I didn’t even bother taking my lights off, and she activated her fireflies, I took the cue and activated my own. We were immediately surrounded by a cloud of tiny lights, whizzing about like so many animated stars.
I’ve heard of couples from Earth getting into a weightless suite and having trouble with sex. Getting stranded in the middle of the room and having trouble getting to each other, or bouncing off the walls with such force that it ruined things. I chuckled the first time I read about some of the predictions made in your own day: that vigorous thrusting would force the lovers apart and send them flying in opposite directions, or that all sex in zero-G would have to be a threesome, because two people wouldn’t be able to insert Tab A into Slot B without help. It’s funny, really. Did they think that there was going to be some mysterious force pushing people apart? Was lovemaking at the time totally dependent on gravity to hold couples together?
The answer to all of this is really quite simple: hold on to your lover. I don’t care how lusty thrusty you get, if you grab het butt and hold her in place, and she grabs your butt and holds you in place, then neither of you is going anywhere. And if she wraps her legs around you, well.
As for zinging around the room and bouncing off of walls and such; that only happens if you push off of a wall. If the two of you start in the middle, then how can you go zipping around? What is there to push off of? Only each other, and since the goal in sex is usually to stay together, you can’t gain any momentum that way. Sex is wonderful, but it won’t give you a reactionless drive.
Botilda started the music, kind of a soft jazzy thing that seemed to suggest that there was really only one thing to do while listening, and it wasn’t dancing. From long practice in zero-G, not only girl/girl sex but also spoccer, veegeewushu, dancing, and just playing around, we quickly put ourselves right in the center of the cube-shaped room. It was four metres each way, which is plenty of room. We were in each other’s arms as we slowly drifted, so slow we didn’t notice it at first.
Botilda nibbled me on the neck and asked, “So, what’s it like?”
“What’s what like?”
“Being with a guy, of course! Having him inside of you, doing it with him? Tell me all about it.”
I laughed. “You are so mimidoshima!”
“Don’t you mimidoshima me!”
“You’re the one who mimidoshima’d me!”
“Wait a minute,” she gave her head a little shake, which sent her long black hair flying about. “When did ‘mimidoshima’ become a verb?”
“When a certain stunning beauty who’s still high on weed used it as one,” I reminded her.
“Oh yeah,” she chuckled. “So, what’s it like?”
“Being high? Like you don’t know.”
“No no no no no,” she waggled her head, her hair forming a kind of halo. “What’s it like fucking a MAN?”
“I knew what you meant,” I assured her. “It’s hard to explain. It isn’t that he touches some way a woman can’t, or that his cock’s any harder or bigger than a toy, but somehow it’s just… I don’t know, more masculine.”
“A man is more masculine,” she murmured, then broke into a fit of giggles. “I should hope a man is more masculine!” she snorted, when she was able.
“And a woman is more feminine,” I whispered in her ear as I ran one hand over her smooth ass.
“Mmmm, yeah,” she murmured, giving my own butt a squeeze, “You know I like it.”
And with that, we kissed. And it was different than with a man. In fact, I was confident I could stand blindfolded and be kissed by a dozen people, and tell you each time if it was a man or a woman. I knew I could pick Botilda’s kiss out of any multitude.
Our bodies pressed together, and there was nothing touching me but Botilda. There was the air, of course, but I couldn’t feel it. There was no breeze I could detect, and the air wasn’t hot enough or cold enough to feel that way. There was no floor against my feet, or bed under my back. The only thing I could feel was my lover’s touch.
We kissed briefly and often, and we kissed lips, cheeks, noses, eyelids, ears, chins, shoulders, and before we knew it she was licking the exact spot where my neck and shoulder meet. My own lips held a nipple, one of those big nipples that I love to nibble. Nipple nibble nibble nipple. My own left nip got a little bite, and then the licking and sucking began in earnest. Had you been there to see it…
We would have screamed and called security! Get out of our room, you pervert! ha ha ha
But until we noticed you, you might have felt that one of us was upside down. Not exactly sixty-nine, but maybe a lower-case version. Instead of our faces being buried in each others’ crotches, we sucked each other’s tits, except when we returned to kissing faces. We were very, very slowly tumbling end-over-end.
At just the right moment, and how we each knew it was the right moment I can’t explain, we started kissing down bellies, and then it was sixty-nine. Or ninety-six. Again, in zero-G it hardly matters. Our rotation sped up a bit, but it was still slow enough that we weren’t going to get dizzy. Maybe we turned around once every minute and a half, maybe slower.
I didn’t really have any desire to time it, though, because my face and mind were filled with the site, feel, taste and smell of Botilda Hu. I wanted to make her happy, and I knew how. Her clit was hard as pebble; she was juicy and hot. She liked what I was doing. I could tell, because she started doing the same thing to me, and I liked it. A lot.
I came just before she did, when suddenly her pussy pulled away from me and my face was sliding up her body. Her navel, tits, and neck slipped by, and she held my head in both hands, looked into my eyes for a couple of seconds, and fastened her mouth to mine. I could taste myself on her tongue, and I tasted good.
My feet barely touched the wall, and I pulled myself around so that Botilda and I were face-to-face and toe-to-toe. It didn’t take more than flexing a toe for each of us to send us slowly drifting across the room again. Slowly, that’s the way to avoid the ricochet problem. We never would have touched the wall if we hadn’t strung ourselves out over three metres and more.
Hands were roaming, and every time she or I moved a hand, a bunch of fireflies would follow after. We had more light from the fireflies than we did from anything else. There was a cloud of them flitting about her crotch, and another about mine. As we fingered and fondled, we formed a sort of “A” with our bodies touching at lips and hands, and soon we were panting again. She was pumping two fingers into me for all she was worth, and I was rubbing in circles. I would’ve had my fingers inside of her if it weren’t for that hymen. Each of us had a hand free, and each of it let it glide from hip to arm to thigh to breast to face.
Suddenly, I whipped out my leg and wrapped it around her waist. She responded in kind, and we pulled our bodies closer as our hearts knew, knew as well as the bodies themselves, what we both wanted. And we got what we wanted as we pressed against each other. We were sweaty, and slippery, and free to slide about each other without hindrance from a surface or gravity. For a moment I was behind her, and teased her big nips while rubbing my own up and down her back. Then we were face-to-face again, kissing again, and arching torsos, and I was glad I’d touched up the shave, because I’d hate for the stubble to scrape her pussy as it ground against my own. We cried out as we came together, and barely slowed down.
We were head-to-crotch again, licking. We were face-to-tit; she was behind me; I was behind her; we were crotch-to-crotch with our ankles over each others’ heads. We came and laughed and came and panted and came and finally we’d had enough, or at least as much as we could take. We just snuggled in each others’ arms, panting.
After a while, I heard my lover say, “I’m glad you still want to do this.”
“Huh? What?” I blinked at her, unsure why she would say such a thing.
She looked away, and didn’t look back as she spoke. She was so quiet I wouldn’t’ve been able to hear her if we weren’t in such a quiet setting.
“After you started with Bret, I wasn’t sure you’d still want to do it with me anymore. We were just doing each other until we started with boys, and now you…” Her voice trailed off.
I took her face in both hands and gently turned her until we were looking into each other’s eyes.
“Botilda, really,” I told her, “How could you ever think I wouldn’t want to be with you? I love you.”
And then suddenly I realized that I do. Love her, that is. I loved her as much as anybody had ever loved anyone; as much as Mom and Dad love each other. Whatever happened with Bret or the Program or anything else in my life, Botilda was going to be a part of it.
I felt the tears start in my eyes, and as I looked at my love, I saw that she was weeping already. Tears were collecting over those enormous windows to her enormous soul, and after a while she blinked, sending a blob of salty water drifting across the room.
Then we just clutched onto each other, crying a good cry like women do sometimes.
“I love you too,” she said at last. “I always have.”
We fell asleep in each others arms, and didn’t awake until almost noon.
* * *