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Copyright ©2013 Alice Gaines
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Everybody knew the filthiest, most overcrowded, desolate, rat-infested planets in the galaxy had the best bars.
Jax Solomon sat in one of those establishments listening to a quartet of assorted instruments play greasy funk and drinking up the profits of her last raid. A cloud of blue smoke engulfed the small stage in the corner, making the musicians look like ghosts, and the scent of leafrag floated back to her. Thick enough to give her a contact high, it settled over her and would cling to her clothing and hair long after she left.
How economical. She didn't have to buy her own but could get good and high off someone else's stash. Only problem was the stuff made you horny enough to fuck the next cock that came along, no matter what grimy bastard it came attached to.
She'd propped her booted feet on the only other chair at the table to warn any asshole who thought he could move in on her he really ought to reconsider. If that didn't work, her "not-interested" scowl ought to. If that failed -- it only had once, and the guy had survived, barely -- the obsidian dagger hidden in her boot would work. Not nearly as impressive as some laser weapons, the knife breezed right through metal detectors and didn't make a sound. She could drink her simu-Scotch and listen to the music unmolested.
But then, there was the whole other leafrag thing. Partly because of the smoke and partly thanks to the drug's mild hallucinogenic power, the edges of the room lost their sharpness and even their straight lines. The musicians moved too slowly to keep up with their own music, and yet, the rhythm didn't slow and the sound didn't distort. A stray beam of light hit one of the horns and reflected back into her eyes, blinding her for a second.
When she could see again, her being had lost its boundaries and expanded to embrace the crowd, the band, and even the tables and chairs.
Too fucking weird. Someone down front had gotten hold of some amazing 'rag, all right, and was sharing it vicariously with the whole club. She took a swig of her Scotch, and it suddenly tasted like the real thing, or at least, the way she remembered her only taste of the real thing. The burn in her throat as it went down wasn't authentic, but the fumes that penetrated her nostrils and her brain would get her just as drunk as the best single malt.
All she had to do was figure out how she'd get herself back to the ship once the place closed up. If it closed up.
She continued drinking, now sipping more slowly, as she watched the crowd on the small dance floor. The band had switched to something slow and wicked with a beat that matched the rhythm of her heart. It thumped through her, vibrating at her crotch. The fact the 'rag had created that illusion didn't make it any the less real. The dancers appeared to have felt the same effect, because they held each other close as their bodies moved in time with the music.
Pelvises ground together, and some of the women rode their partners' legs, their eyes closed in surrender to sexual arousal. One woman in a skirt that barely covered her crotch went to her knees, undid her partner's fly, and pulled out his fully erect cock. Most likely a prostitute, she did nothing to hide the elaborate blow job she gave the guy. She bobbed her head, taking most of his shaft into her mouth, and pumped the base with her fist.
Jax watched out of eyes that had half closed and did not want to reopen. In her mind's eye, she could picture having both the cock moving inside her and the woman's mouth on her pussy, tonguing her clit. The images worked their way from her brain down to her sex, and moisture collected between her thighs. Damn, but she could use some of that.
Marc might be back at the ship when she returned. If so, she could work out her frustrations on him. However, she'd given him the night off to find his own fun. They'd been cooped up together too long, and besides, sometimes he needed another man. He'd probably be out all night fucking his brains out. He might even be too tired or not interested when he returned. Marc could usually go at it for hours, but he was human, after all.
No, she'd have to figure out some other way to scratch the itch that kept getting more and more urgent.
She downed the rest of her drink and put the glass next to the first three she'd emptied. Now she had a real problem. A place this seedy didn't bother with waiters. She'd have to get up, go to the bar, and get herself another. Aside from the fact she'd miss the show... and it sure as hell would be sweet if the prostitute let everyone see the guy cream when he came... she wouldn't likely be all that steady on her feet, and walking would only make the throbbing between her legs worse.
Still, she'd fled through asteroid belts with whole formations of government ships hot on her ass. She ought to be able to navigate a smoke-filled bar without help...