Docked at the station. Earth glows blue below the viewport. Hums of fans in corridors. Beep of airlock panels—my keycard swipes in. Neutral orbital hotel. No one knows us up here. Mission wraps tomorrow. Perfect for a naughty stopover.
Crew suits off. Christophe, hot tech whiz, 32 like me. Vincent, short physics geek. Serge, 51, battle-hardened commander. Nicknamed As-des-As. Ten missions. Burly, Clint Eastwood vibe.
The Orbital Layover
Galley dinner. Teasing starts. ‘Ready to fuck for science?’ Vincent grins. Tomorrow’s experiment: conceive in zero-G. Me and Christophe lottery winners. Scientists’ checklist: caresses, touches, erection, lube, excitement, penetration, ejaculation. No orgasm needed. Bullshit. I blush. Heart races.
Bunk time. Tossing in sleep restraint. Stress hits. Hand dives under suit. Fingers graze tits, then clit. Slides into wet pussy. Faster. Thumb on button. Muffled moan. Cum shakes me. Sleep finally.
Morning. Breakfast float. Jokes fly. ‘Don’t float away mid-thrust!’ Quick bite. Rendezvous 10am. Lab module. Swipe keycard. Harsh white lights. Elastic-strapped bed. Strip pants, panties. Shirt stays. Lie back. Wait.
Christophe beeps in. Shy nod. Turns, drops boxer. Decent cock, but limp, floating soft. Caresses fail. I suck hard—lips tight, deep throat tries. Nothing. He dresses, bolts. Defeated.
Pensive float. Door hisses. Serge storms. ‘What the fuck? No erection?’
‘Protocol failed.’
‘Bullshit with you.’ Rips shirt. Ripped pecs, abs. Boxer off. Massive cock juts hard. Veins bulge. Gland purple, ready.
Slides in. Hands under shirt. Pinches nipples stiff. Lifts shirt, licks tits. Tongue flicks. Down south. ‘Not protocol!’
Floating Fuck Fest
‘Fuck protocol.’ Tongue splits lips, circles clit. I flood. Legs on shoulders. Hands grip ass. Thumb rims anus. Pushes in. Tongue laps clit. Double assault. Never anal before. Crave it now. Grip his head. Cum gushes in his mouth.
‘Excitation checked.’ Kiss neck. My turn. Dive under sheets. Grip thick shaft—fingers barely close. Lick length. Suck gland. Swallow deep. Zero-G magic? Balls-deep throat. No gag. He groans.
‘Stop or I blow.’ Emerge.
‘On back.’ Legs spread wide. Gland nudges pussy. Slow push, then slam. ‘Fuuuck.’ Pounds hard. Straps snap. We float, locked. Legs hook him. Cling shoulders. Thrusts continue. Bump walls. Spin wild—barrel rolls, loops. Head bonks vent. Doesn’t stop. Cock swells.
‘Cum in me!’ Jets flood deep. Hold tight.
‘Protocol done.’ Float tangled. Laugh. Dress. Swipe out.
Report: Serge subbed. Ground gripes, but data wins. Christophe sheepish, grins at my glow.
Undock. Reentry burn. Keycard returned. Earth looms. Twins later—Serge’s sturdy boys. Christophe godfather. Best stopover ever.