Harriet And The Heman

Harriet and the Heman By Lark Westerly

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Harriet and the Heman - Tarot: 8 of Wands Copyright © 2004 Lark Westerly Cover art and design by Martine Jardin All rights reserved. Except for use in any review, the reproduction or utilization of this work in whole or in part in any form by any electronic, mechanical or other means, now known or hereafter invented, is forbidden without the written permission of the publisher. Published by eXtasy Books, a division of Zumaya Publications, 2004 Look for us online at: www.zumayapublications.com www.Extasybooks.com

Tarot: 8 of Wands 8 of Wands—Swiftness, journeys, understanding and harmony. A time for 'grasping the nettle', taking the initiative or taking charge. Correspondence, and favorable news. A card of hope.

Lark Westerly

“Cornish Pisky”, Holding Bay 17, June 1st 2190. TWIMC; On May 1st, I received my third Hiram Heman Seductor from your company. This Mark 3 model (recommended by the Skyjockey Licensing Board) was guaranteed indestructible and undistractable, fully adjustable and always eager to please. Halfway to Xenon 9, it lost its starch and its marbles. Are you sure you didn’t send me a Newton Noodle by mistake? The Mark 3 Seductor is no more satisfactory than the others. If you cannot provide the Pursepecker I asked for originally, please stop sending me these inferior substitutes and credit my refund immediately to my account. H. Barnstormer (Captain.)

Heman Inc. Hi-Tower 676, June 3rd 2190. Captain Barnstormer; As we explained at the time of our first transaction, Hemen Inc. runs on a strict no-refund policy. Naturally, we undertake to replace the faulty equipment at your convenience. This time, we will send you the very latest 1

Harriet and the Heman upgrade at no extra cost. The Pursepecker model you originally requested ceased production many years ago. A.

“Cornish Pisky”, Holding Bay 17, June 5th 2190. TWIMC; Since you seem unable (or unwilling) to sell me a Pursepecker, you may keep your Upgrade and shove it where the sun don’t shine. I am lifting for the deep-space run to Castor 6 on the 10th, and I believe I would get more satisfaction from an electric toothbrush. H. Barnstormer (Captain).

Heman Inc. Hi-Tower 676, June 7th 2190. Captain Barnstormer; We at Heman Inc. stand by our promises. The upgrade is guaranteed to give you considerably more satisfaction than any toothbrush. Production is not quite complete, but one will be delivered to you as soon as it becomes available. We regret we cannot provide a Pursepecker. Market research has proved that clients much prefer the naturalistic Heman range. 2

Lark Westerly A

“Cornish Pisky”, Launch Dock 7, June 9th 2190. TWIMC; I find your attitude unhelpful. Market research is clearly incorrect. After all, I am a client. No market researcher has ever approached me for my opinions. If they had, I would have explained that I am a busy professional, and my sexual needs are simple. A Pursepecker is neat, quiet, and perfectly adapted to self-service. It is a disgrace that these wonderful sexmates have been taken off the market. H. Barnstormer (Captain).

Heman Inc. Hi-Tower 676, June 10th 2190. Captain Barnstormer; We at Heman Inc. regret your disappointment in the matter of the Pursepecker. Market research has found that 99.98 percent of clients (taken from a random listing) prefer interactive sex with a quasi-human partner, as provided for in the Heman range. We trust you will shortly be satisfied. A 3

Harriet and the Heman

Harriet Barnstormer arched her spine backwards until her shoulder blades almost touched. She reached out with both arms, striving to reach the narrow walls of the cockpit with the tips of her fingers. Up went her right leg, until her booted heel propped itself in the niche well above head level. Two seconds later, the other leg joined it. Harriet raised her chin, then rolled her head slowly to the left. The wall was blank. Most of the pilots on the deep-space run filled this wall with holographic pictures of sexmates, real, simulated, or imagined. Harriet had had no sexmate since she’d bounced Hiram Heman Seductor Mark 3’s sorry ass down the disposal chute on Xenon 9. She’d had more fun complaining in writing to the Heman company than she’d ever had from Hiram Heman Marks 1, 2 or 3. As for the promised upgrade—it had not yet arrived. Nor, alas, had her yearned-for Pursepecker. Harriet sighed. The Skyjockey Licensing Board endorsed Heman products, but what did they know? There were plenty of other brands on the market, and Harriet Barnstormer truly believed she was no slave to convention. She glanced at the schedule that was counting down on the display. Three minutes to takeoff. There might be just enough time to zap off an order to Aphrodite Atlas… but would that be any better? Bulging biceps and bouncing balls would lack entertainment value when the brains were made of plastic, and seductive pillow talk soon palled when it was engraved on a silicon chip. If the Skyjockey Board 4

Lark Westerly didn’t insist on regular internal workouts, she’d give up sex for good. She thought longingly of her trusty Pursepecker. It had served her needs for almost a decade before its power pack had finally failed, leaving her stranded halfway to orgasm on the Polydeuces run. She hadn’t had a decent climax since. If only she could get another Pursepecker. She sighed, remembering her failed attempt to detach the relevant part from Hiram Heman Seductor Mark 1. The thing had simply crashed due to a claimed ‘service malfunction’. Fortunately, there was more than one way of keeping fit, inside and out. Harriet rolled her head to the right, and waggled her fingers. “Looks like it’s just us, girls,” she said aloud. She gave her flexible muscles one last stretch and relaxed. Maybe if she made herself really calm, she could sit out the thrust without needing any workout. She was closing her eyes when her brain jolted to attention. So did Harriet. There could not be a man peering in through the window. It must be a hallucination. The Cornish Pisky was docked snugly in the launch chute, so any such person would be fitted equally snugly between the chute and the Pisky’s curved wall. In less than three minutes, he would be a nasty smear of cinder. Harriet stared fixedly at the thickly curved diamasheet of the window. The man stared just as fixedly back. “Scat!” said Harriet. Knowing he wouldn’t hear 5

Harriet and the Heman her, she gestured for him to leave. He shook his head, showing large, square teeth in a grin. “Go!” ordered Harriet, jabbing backwards with her thumb. The man continued to stare. A loud ping from the display alerted Harriet as the countdown entered the final sixty seconds. If he didn’t leave right now, he’d be— Harriet brought her heels down from their niche with a clatter, surged out of the deeply padded blast chair and reached above her head to pop the hatch. The man’s eyes, already wide, bulged as she stepped up on the chair and peered over the edge of the hatch. He had been staring at her torso. Now his eyes were level with her groin. “If you’re not gone in forty seconds, Pisky jumps and you’re toast,” she said to the top of his head. “I don’t care if you want to be a kebab, but the paperwork’s a pain in the ass and so would the hearing. And I can’t abort. This cargo has to catch the Silk Fair at Castor 6. What do you want?” That woke him up. He moved so fast that Harriet had only time to leap back as he vaulted onto the roof, dropped feet-first through the aperture, and landed on the deck. As they faced one another across the blast chair, Harriet had a fleeting impression of a tall, muscular body clad in spacers’ greens, and a face with broad cheekbones slanting up towards short, soot-black hair. Before she could form any opinions, the stranger 6

Lark Westerly bent to peer at the data streaming across the display. “Twenty-five seconds.” He reached up and clamped the hatch so swiftly that the pressure seals chuffed with displeasure. “You can’t do that!” objected Harriet. “Why not?” “Pisky’s about to jump!” “In fifteen seconds,” he agreed. “We’d better get settled.” “I’m not licensed for passengers.” “I’m not a passenger. I’m—” “There’s only one blast seat. You’ll be crushed.” “Ten!” said the countdown loudly, (just in case they hadn’t noticed.) “We’ll have to share it then, won’t we?” “Nine!” The stranger subsided onto the blast seat and lay back, holding out his arms. “Eight.” “I’m the pilot!” protested Harriet. “Seven.” “Fine.” He sprang up. “You take the seat and I’ll sit in your lap.” “Six.” “But then I can’t reach the—” “Five.” He looked at her hard. “This is no time—” “Four.” “—for a board meeting, Captain Barnstormer. Decide!” “Three.” Harriet jerked her head at the seat. 7

Harriet and the Heman “Two.” He was back in place in less than a second and Harriet flung herself backwards into his lap, deadheating with the countdown’s sonorous “One.” His arms came around her and folded snugly under her breasts, the countdown hit zero and the Cornish Pisky vaulted out of the chute and slammed through the atmosphere like a hot skewer through butter. The clamor battered Harriet’s ears, and the pressure forced her deep into the padding of the seat. Well, it would have done, if it hadn’t been for her uninvited companion. As it was, she found herself closer to him than she’d been to any person for longer than she remembered. Flesh molded to flesh, limbs aligned to limbs. She felt his steady heartbeat right through the ship’s hyper speed vibration. Pisky charged on, whooped through the last of the gravity gates, then cartwheeled gracefully into the slingshot maneuver that would take her out to the deep-space lanes. She hit the groove at a dead run, and Harriet reached out automatically to cut the thrust and engage the old-style gravity switch. The silence struck like a blow. Until then, Harriet had been engaged in the process of takeoff, but now, as the lights came up and the pressure normalized, her brain came back on-line. And not only her brain… Various bodily sensations suddenly added up and began to squeal for attention. Ruthlessly, Harriet squashed them down. Riding the Pisky through the gates always made her horny, but she had her standards. Ship captains didn’t leap 8

Lark Westerly lustfully on stowaways and demand a sexual service. “You’re naked,” she said. “No, I’m—dammit!” She heard him slap his leg with his left hand. “You are,” she accused, running her hand along his flank and up past his hip. “You’re utterly bare-assed naked.” Might this be construed as an invitation, perhaps? Did shipping out have the same effect on him as it always had on her? “My emulator’s on the blink.” He sighed, and she felt the warm ridges of his chest pressing against her. And that wasn’t all that was pressing. There was something stirring hopefully against her lower back. Maybe she wouldn’t have to leap. Maybe he’d do it for her? Mentally, she slapped herself into a cold tub. She was utterly shocked at the idea of interacting that way with a human male. “That bloody salesman swore it was good for six weeks without a recharge,” he added. Harriet blinked. She had very little experience with men, but surely six weeks was a little long for hydraulic priapic recharging? Even the Hiram Hemen Seductors had managed better than that. At first. “I’ll sue him for false advertising,” continued her companion. “I’ll have him for exposure, and shame and suffering. Emulators are supposed to be reliable—” So he was talking about the emulator. Phew. Harriet knew all about bloody salesmen. That smarmy git at Heman Inc… “Just ask for a refund,” she said. “Why are you using an emulator, anyway? What’s wrong 9

Harriet and the Heman with good old-fashioned clothing? It’s back in vogue, along with physical letters and paper books.” “I might ask you the same thing, Captain Barnstormer.” “The question is not relevant. I’m not using an emulator.” “I can see that.” He shifted slightly in the seat, and brought his other hand back to its original position, sliding his fingers across the skin of her torso. “I can feel that, too.” So could she. And it felt gooood. His fingers were firm, but had none of the roughness she associated with manual labor. He wasn’t a mechanic, then. “I’m just naked,” clarified Harriet. She tried to pretend her body wasn’t adjusting itself so his fingers could touch the undersides of her breasts. She took a deep breath, and clenched her thighs. “I never pretended to be anything else. That’s completely different from using an emulator to simulate the clothed state.” “I didn’t say it wasn’t,” he said. “What’s your excuse for deliberate nakedness?” “I don’t need one. This is my ship, so I dress as I please.” “Or not,” said her companion. His thumb began to explore. “Or not.” Harriet flexed her buttocks, and tightened her abs as she prepared to dismount from the blast chair. She wanted a good look at this stowaway and she didn’t have eyes in the back of her head. Besides, if he kept on doing that, she wouldn’t be answerable for the consequences. Orgasm was a 10

Lark Westerly private thing, not a spectator sport. “Don’t do that,” said her human cushion. He sounded mildly dismayed. “This is my ship. I give the orders.” Harriet bounced up and, planting her booted feet well apart, folded her arms and waited for him to explain himself. Instead, he folded himself like a deckchair and fumbled at his ankle. “You’d better not be drawing a weapon,” said Harriet. In the back of her mind she acknowledged he must be pretty limber to manage that pose in a blast chair. She bit her lip in frustration. He was a stowaway, right? And stowaways couldn’t expect all the rules of courtesy due to passengers? He glanced up at her. His eyes were the gray of a rain-washed sky, with darker rims and deep dark pools in the centers. His voice, at variance with his expression and body language, was perfectly relaxed. “No, Captain Barnstormer. I’m endeavoring to conceal the one I’ve already drawn. Nakedness has some disadvantages for males.” There was a soft click, and he was dressed again, this time in a crisply cut gray business suit and polished loafers. Harriet frowned. She did not admire the corporate type. “I thought you were a spacer.” He shook his head, getting unhurriedly to his feet. “I never said so, Captain.” “You were wearing spacers’ greens.” “How else would I have gotten past the Security check at the port?” 11

Harriet and the Heman “Huh. Some Security check, if they can’t tell a thread uniform from an emulator. Or did you bribe them?” The stranger stood where he was, seemingly at ease. Only the still-wide pupils of his eyes betrayed his interest as he stared at Harriet. Harriet stared back. “Well?” she said finally. “What are you waiting for?” He tilted his head a little. “I’m waiting for your orders, Captain Barnstormer. As you so rightly put it, this is your ship, and I have no official standing.” “And I’m not licensed to carry passengers. Or pirates. Or illegal space aliens.” “It’s just as well I’m none of those things, then.” “What are you? Besides a stowaway?” He bowed; an infinitesimal inclination of the head, and the merest suggestion of clicked heels. “Xander Heman, at your service.” Comprehension flashed suddenly through Harriet’s mind. “I see.” She folded her arms, smiling with satisfaction, because now she did see. “Well, you’re not what I asked for, but you’re an improvement on the last model they sent me, aesthetically at least,” she drawled. “I’ve got to hand it to them—when they send an upgrade, they really send an upgrade. For a while there, you had me convinced you were human.” “Thank you.” He smiled, lifting one dark brow. “Disappointed?” “Relieved,” she said. “If you had been human I would have had to sort out a great deal of paperwork and probably face a disciplinary board.” Or jettison 12

Lark Westerly him quietly halfway to Castor 6. “I suppose I should be glad you let me onto the ship.” “I thought you were human,” she reminded him tartly. Him? It? She had never been able to decide. The Pursepecker had been ‘It’, but this one definitely looked like a Him. “Toasting humans carries the same penalties as carrying them.” “You’re all heart,” he murmured. “Of course, I could eject you now. There’s no penalty for tossing hardware, provided I own it. Or if it doesn’t appear on the lading docket.” Harriet stared at him appraisingly, and absently licked her lips. He really did look very human. He sounded human, too. The timbre of his voice was pleasing, and its pitch varied in a pleasantly natural way. He was quite different from the other Seductor models she’d had from the same company. Her eyes narrowed. “Are you sure you’re a Heman?” she said abruptly. “Not an Aphrodite Atlas? Or an Eros Companion?” “Please!” He managed to sound quite outraged. “Do I look like one of those muscle-bound pretty boys?” “No. But you don’t look like a Heman either. They’re all blond and compact.” “I believe you specified a compact model when you first approached my company?” “Yes, but I was talking about a Pursepecker.” “I assure you, Captain, I am the genuine article. Do you want my documentation to prove it?” His hand strayed to the pocket of the emulated suit. “Don’t bother,” said Harriet. “I’m not signing 13

Harriet and the Heman anything until I’ve made a proper assessment. And an emulated document isn’t worth the paper it’s not written on.” “I see, Captain Barnstormer. You have already made up your mind that I won’t give you satisfaction.” Harriet felt a slight stirring of compunction. This one did seem human. Even self-aware. “Your predecessor wound up in the disposal chute on Xenon 9,” she warned him. “I see, Captain—” “That was after he went totally limp, and told me seventeen times that I was a rose of mauveness. He also said I had melons like ripe breasts, and tried to stick his head inside my boot.” “I can see that might have been a little…” His voice trailed off, and Harriet frowned. “Don’t tell me your power pack is draining already!” “No, Captain Barnstormer. I assure you my power pack is fully charged.” “Good.” Harriet discovered she had been clenching her teeth (and her thighs) and tried to relax. The tension from riding the gates hadn’t even begun to drain, and she didn’t fancy doing the finger-andthumb jive with the Heman standing by. And why should she? Harriet reached behind her and flicked on the automatic pilot. Then she thumbed the mode switch on the blast chair. Its arms sank, and its contours swelled and stretched to make a wide, low couch. Harriet lay down on the couch and beckoned the 14

Lark Westerly Heman closer. She was aware of a feeling of anticipation; a definite stirring in her stomach and loins. The previous Hemen had been dull conversationalists even before their circuits scrambled. This one promised better entertainment. “Take all that gear off,” she said. “You look like a catalogue advert.” “You don’t find the executive look attractive? Most clients do.” “Not me.” She could almost see the synapses firing and the data being overwritten, so she added quickly; “And before you ask, I don’t go for togas, fake fur or faux leather chaps either. I’ve never seen the point of paying big credits for useless extras.” She frowned. “In fact,” she added, “I’ve never quite seen why things like you are made so big. Even the so-called Compacts were almost my size. The early models used to fit in a purse. The first one I had was perfectly adequate.” “Most clients prefer the more natural action provided by the human shaping,” he said. “It’s a waste of fuel,” she said sternly. “A pursestyle model is much more economical. I wish they still made them. About the only good thing I can say about you man-styles is that you don’t buzz. You’re still wearing that suit. Are you sure your power pack isn’t drained?” He bent and touched his ankle again, and the sharp suit drew in at the seams and vanished, leaving him as naked as Harriet. No, more naked, since he wasn’t wearing boots. “That’s better,” she said. She looked him over as 15

Harriet and the Heman she parted her legs. “Come on.” His eyebrows rose. “You want me to make love to you now?” “Don’t be silly. Just get on with the job I’ve paid for.” “Captain Barnstormer, I need an answer to my question.” “What?” She peered up at him. “I need your explicit request or permission before I proceed.” Harriet sighed. “A Pursepecker would have done the job by now,” she grumbled. “I suppose this is some newfangled programming thing, right? To prevent accidents? Or is your pecker voiceactivated?” He nodded thoughtfully. “You might say that, Captain. Please? Do you want me to make love to you?” “That isn’t the way I’d put it. A Pursepacker—” “—would have done the job by now. Yes, so you keep saying.” “Make love to me,” she said. The code sounded strange, but it appeared to be right, for he joined her on the couch. He had obviously engaged his priapic hydraulics while they had been talking, for he was already suitably engorged. He put his arms around her, drawing her against his chest. He was pressing urgently against her stomach, and she reached down to adjust him. He was stroking her buttocks, cupping them in warm palms to gather her more closely against him. She stiffened with surprise. None of the other Heman models had ever done that. He also 16

Lark Westerly seemed very slow to engage. “You’re too high,” she said, squirming. “You need to move down.” “You want—” “Down!” she said irritably. “Or do you need a special code for that as well?” To her astonished annoyance, he moved to kneel between her knees. “Unless you’ve got a telescopic attachment it won’t reach from—ahhh!” Her objection ended in an astonished exclamation as he put both hands on her thighs, bent his head and kissed her gently. His tongue touched her, flicking in and out, licking and lapping. His programming was obviously very much awry if he thought— “Aghhh!” The cry was torn from her as her body abruptly took control. Her legs parted and her boot heels sought the niche above the panel. She felt him slide warm hands under her buttocks again, lifting her to his mouth. He was now sucking her to such a maelstrom of sensation that she could form no coherent words. She heard her own voice panting, moaning and crying out as her orgasm rose to a pitch she had never imagined, let alone experienced. She quivered and strained, throwing her arms above her head in an effort to find something, anything to ground her in reality. The sensation died away in waves, and she felt him lower her hips to the couch as her feet slipped from their braced position. She was still speechless and breathing hard when he moved smoothly into place on top of her and thrust himself in. And compact he was not. 17

Harriet and the Heman Harriet turned her face aside to catch her breath before launching an objection. The Heman was still holding her, thrusting away as if—Suddenly aware that the thing was depleting its power pack needlessly, she felt for the off-switch, which was usually located up at the back of the neck. Her fingers met nothing but a very natural-feeling hairline and some warm, slightly damp simu-skin. Damp? Harriet drew her hand down to her eye-level and looked at it suspiciously, then brought her fingers slowly to her mouth. She tasted salt. Amazing! But wasn’t that taking verisimilitude a little too far? And the Heman was still working away, fingers now clamped to her shoulders. She moved a little in protest, and he buried his face in her neck, kissing and licking as if…well, as if he was really enjoying himself. Harriet found herself stroking the flat plane of his shoulder blade, and gasped as his teeth closed over the junction of her shoulder and neck. It didn’t hurt, exactly, but sent a surge of astonished pleasure through her body. Her mouth watered, and she rolled her face in to find the corresponding ridge of tendon on him. The smooth skin tasted agreeably of fresh salt, and she licked and nibbled, cradling his head in her arms. They were clasped as closely as they had been during the liftoff, and the memory sent Harriet spinning unexpectedly to a second climax. She cried out against the Heman’s neck, and heard his reciprocal cry muffled in her flesh. For a moment, they lay coupled together and then his urgent grasp slackened. He rubbed her back 18

Lark Westerly gently, then stretched, rolling aside so they were lying face to face. “Did I give satisfaction, Captain?” he asked softly. “You notice I never mentioned roses of mauveness once. Nor did I succumb to any urge I may have had to stick my head in your boot.” Harriet disengaged herself. She felt strange. Her body was sated, purring and tingling; very much pleased with its bargain. Salt still lingered on her tongue. She should have been totally satisfied, but something was definitely wrong. She felt empty and somehow cheated. “Captain?” The Heman sat up. His torso gleamed, and faint red marks bloomed on his shoulder. He reached out and brushed the top of her cheek with one finger, then held it up to the light. “You’re crying.” Harriet sniffed. She felt ridiculous, shamed and foolish. And that really was foolish. She was the Captain of this ship. “Where is your off switch?” she asked. Her voice sounded tight. He stared at her, the teardrop still sparkling on his finger. “Your off switch,” she repeated roughly. “In all the other Hiram Heman Seductors it’s located at the back of the neck. And all the other Hiram Hemans arrived in plasticrates and had to be activated before use. They did not arrive on foot and jump into the Pisky.” “I’m not a Hiram Heman Seductor. I am Xander Heman. I told you that before.” “Whatever,” she said. “The switch?” He pursed his lips. “You want to deactivate me 19

Harriet and the Heman already? How did I fail to satisfy you?” “You did satisfy me. You should have stopped right then. To continue as you did is obviously a waste of power.” “Oh!” He smiled, but his gray eyes looked wary. “I have a reciprocal program, Captain. That means I am programmed to continue until I am satisfied as well.” “I see,” said Harriet. She was aware of a great red anger replacing the bleakness in her heart. “This reciprocal program serves exactly what purpose? Beyond depleting your power packs?” “It makes the experience more natural for the user,” he said. “It prevents unnatural strain on the unit, and market research suggests that most clients prefer to give pleasure as well as receive it.” “I am not most clients.” “No,” he said. His eyes grew cool. “I can see that, Captain Barnstormer. You are a professional person who wants her needs catered for efficiently and unemotionally. Correct?” “Exactly.” “And yet you cried.” He touched her other cheek, and she flinched away. “Tears are a perfectly natural reaction to a good rogering, Captain Barnstormer. They’re just another form of release. Nothing to be ashamed of.” Harriet glowered at him. “The only thing I’m ashamed of is allowing myself to be taken in. You’re not a Heman Seductor at all. Upgrade or no upgrade, those things don’t sweat. They don’t have blood, or tears, and they don’t expect pleasure. You’re a man.” His naked shoulders rose in a shrug. “I never said I 20

Lark Westerly wasn’t, Captain.” “You said you were a Heman.” “I am. My name is Xander Heman.” He paused and, when she didn’t respond, added; “My grandfather founded the company.” “And you have nothing better to do than go about taking advantage of your clients? Your ex-clients?” “I never said I was a Seductor,” he reminded. “I said quite specifically that I wasn’t. And how did I ‘take advantage’, Captain? You needed that, and you specifically requested it. And, in my professional opinion, you enjoyed it to the point of ecstasy.” She glared at him. “I could have gotten the same service from a Pursepecker.” “No doubt,” he said coolly, “but would the Pursepecker have enjoyed it as much as I did?” “It doesn’t need to enjoy it. It doesn’t have a brain.” “No,” he said thoughtfully. “It doesn’t have a heart, either.” Harriet was aware of a tightness in her head. She was either going to explode with rage or burst into a storm of tears. Neither was a suitable reaction for a deep-space captain. “I should eject you.” There was a brief silence. Then the Heman—no, Xander Heman—met her gaze with a faint smile. “If I have caused you distress, I am sorry. I never meant to do that. Quite the reverse.” “How do you make that out?” Harriet shivered, although the ambient temperature in the Pisky was the same as usual. The perspiration was evaporating on her skin. Xander Heman rose to his feet. “Do you have any 21

Harriet and the Heman clothing on board?” “Uniform,” she said, jerking her head towards the bulkhead. “Nothing else?” “No. Unless you want to rifle the silks in the cargo.” She meant to be sarcastic, but he nodded decisively. “Good idea. Don’t worry; I’ll pay the market value for anything we use. Through there?” He gestured to the rear hatch. “Yes.” “Then wait right here.” Reflecting that there weren’t many places she could go, Harriet checked the pilot, then removed her boots and stepped into the shower cubicle. Recklessly, she turned on the needle-jet shower and stepped under the spray. She was still there when the door opened and Xander Heman peered in. “Excellent idea,” he said, and joined her under the spray. The unit was single, so his move brought them very close together. Harriet would have retreated, but a half-pace backwards sent her hard against the wall. “I see you use the real stuff,” said Xander, picking up the soap. He began to run it over his chest, and the scent of roses and honeysuckle crept through the cubicle. Water streamed over his shoulders and splashed down his flanks to drain into the puri-cycler “When you’ve quite finished with my soap, I’d like to use it,” said Harriet tartly. “I do beg your pardon.” Xander smiled down at her, then put one hand on her shoulder to draw her up against him, while he rubbed the soap down her 22

Lark Westerly spine. “You’re smaller than I thought,” he said. The smile was still in his voice. “Those boots of yours must have seriously high heels.” He wrapped one arm around her, and soaped his way down to her buttocks, resting his cheek on the top of her head. “You’re not objecting,” he said. “There’s no point, is there?” said Harriet. “You’ve already seen it all.” He’d felt it all and tasted it all too, but she wasn’t reminding him of that. “Why did you come?” “I’ll tell you when we’re dressed.” He returned the soap to its holder and turned off the spray. Harriet switched on the air-dry, watching the fine dark hairs on his chest curling into life. She had a sudden urge to stroke them, and quickly raised her hands to tousle her own short, curly hair into shape. Xander caught his bottom lip between his teeth, then bent and dropped a kiss on one of her breasts. “As you said,” he excused himself, “I’ve already seen it all.” Back in the cockpit, he pressed the emulator again, and the virtual gray suit reappeared. “I thought you wanted clothing,” said Harriet. “That’s for you.” He picked up the swathe of peacock-colored silk he had chosen from the cargo, and frowned at her thoughtfully. “Lift your arms a little.” Bemused, she did so. “Right.” He tossed the silk over her head and brought it snugly around her breasts, crossed the ends and knotted it neatly. “There,” he said. “Is there anywhere to sit? I don’t want to recline like a Roman emperor.” 23

Harriet and the Heman Harriet depressed a lever and the couch reconfigured itself to a long settle. She sat down, folding her legs to one side. Xander smiled. “You look like the Little Mermaid, Captain Barnstormer,” he remarked. “If you won’t get to the point, I will,” said Harriet. “You bluffed your way past Security and onto my ship. Then you misrepresented yourself and took advantage of my misunderstanding. Since then, you have tried to charm your way into my confidence by trying to justify your actions and buttering me up.” She paused. “Well?” “That seems a fair assessment to me,” he said. “But you forgot the bit about putting you in breach of your license code. I really am sorry about that.” “But what is it all for?” He crossed one immaculately-suited leg over the other, and examined the gleaming loafer. “It’s like this, Captain Barnstormer. For some time I’ve been feeling that we at Heman, Inc. are going in completely the wrong direction with the Seductor line. My correspondence with you simply clarified the opinion I had already begun to form.” “Your correspondence with me?” “Certainly. I’m the person you have been addressing somewhat insultingly as ‘TWIMC’. Whatever that means.” “To Whom It May Concern,” she said. “That figures.” “But that person signed the responses with an A.” “A-for-Alexander, which is my formal forename. Not that you ever troubled to ask.” 24

Lark Westerly She tilted her chin. “Why would I?” “Well, if you’re on familiar enough terms with a man to tell him to stick a sexmate where the sun don’t shine, you surely should know his name.” He paused, but when she didn’t respond, he continued. “It was obvious from our correspondence that none of our current models suited your requirements. They’d not only failed to satisfy you on the physical/psyche level, but that all three suffered quite devastating systemic crashes while in your keeping. I decided that rather than simply send you another model to reject, and/or ruin and recycle, I’d try to find out exactly what was going wrong.” He raised his brows. “Come on, Captain. Explain. I gather you have approached them all in a somewhat dictatorial way, but they should have adjusted to match your tone. What’s been happening?” “I already told you. The things lose their starch, and their programs scramble.” “Yes. I did wonder if you were reacting to them in a negative way during use as well as before it, and if the negative feedback was damaging the circuits, but having rogered you myself—” He broke off as she flinched. “What?” “Do you have to say that?” “You didn’t want to call it ‘making love’.” “No, but rogering sounds so cold.” He smiled, not very nicely. “But you are cold, Captain. Or so you seem to believe. I did wonder if your attitude was causing the problems with the Seductors, but I now believe the explanation is a lot simpler than that. This ship of yours is quite old, 25

Harriet and the Heman right?” Puzzled, she nodded. “Pisky is an original stratship… the only one left on the deep-space run.” “I’m not surprised. You do seem to cling to redundant technology.” “Vintage,” she corrected. “Yes. An ancient ship, a real-water shower, real soap, paper letters, real clothing (when you wear any), very old fashioned cargos…” “Silk fetches an excellent price on Castor 6!” she snapped. “So do microcircuits, and the payload would be incalculably higher. And then there’s your attachment to the Pursepecker, a sexmate model that scarcely changed in two centuries. It was antique when my grandfather bought out the license.” Harriet felt her cheeks redden. “It suited me very well.” He shook his head, half-smiling again. “I don’t think so, Captain. You see; you are a romantic. You love tradition and old values. You prefer the real, over the simulated. That’s why you reacted so ecstatically when I made love with you.” Ecstatically? she thought. Was that what it was? Aloud, she said, “What happened to roger?” “I think we might consign roger to the disposal chute, along with the Seductor Mark 3. I wonder if you would agree to help me with my research for the new upgraded model?” “It’s already done, isn’t it?” “No, Captain Barnstormer…as I said, we have decided to rethink the way that line is developing. I 26

Lark Westerly believe—” His voice broke off as he was suddenly naked again. “Dammit!” He bent forward to tinker with the emulator. “You might as well leave it off,” said Harriet. “I told you I don’t find the corporate look attractive.” He glanced up at her. “What do you find attractive, Captain? Besides your Pursepecker?” “Skin,” said Harriet. She reached out to brush her fingertips down his chest, tracing them down to his waist. Then, remembering what he had done, she knelt between his knees and lowered her face to his groin. She rubbed her cheek against the curling hair, inhaling a scent composed equally of her favorite soap and the spicy scent of clean male. She realized he was stroking her hair, and took him in her mouth. “Captain Barnstormer?” His voice sounded strained, so she sat back on her heels. The silk seemed to be binding her too tightly, so she reached behind to loosen it. His hands were already there. “You know what I am this time, Captain,” he reminded her. “If you do this, you will have prejudiced your case against me.” “What case against you?” “That I forced my way aboard your ship and misrepresented myself. Surely if you tell that to your Spacejockey Board, they’ll acquit you?” She shook her head. “No. They’ll give me a harsher penalty for allowing you to do it. Captains are supposed to be accountable.” She leaned forward as the silk came free and fell around her knees, so she was kneeling in a peacockhued pool. Xander held out his arms and swung her 27

Harriet and the Heman around to nestle in his lap. He kissed her neck and then her mouth and then, slowly, giving her time to stop him if she chose, he laid her down and took one breast in his mouth. This time, no longer frantic from the effects of takeoff, she had time to appreciate the attention he was giving different parts of her body. And, knowing he was a man, she found she no longer wanted to compare him with her lamented Pursepecker. By the time he rolled onto his back and pulled her astride him, he was hard and pulsing. He guided her gently down and tucked her face into his shoulder. He held the pose for a few seconds, and then kissed her jaw. “Ready, Captain?” She nodded, nestling closer. “By the way,” he said, “what’s your name? I can’t keep calling you ‘Captain’.” “Harriet.” He laughed, causing a pleasurable vibration. Harriet gasped, clenching her well-developed inner muscles around him. “Harriet.” He repeated her name three times, thrusting smoothly into her. She gasped again, then reached down between their legs to stroke the warm, soft skin. The climax that overtook her was less shattering than the one before, but she felt a rush of warmth for the man, and lifted her head to kiss him deeply as he shuddered in his own release. This time, they remained clasped together for a while then Harriet toppled suddenly into a deep sleep. She woke to find herself pillowed on Xander’s 28

Lark Westerly shoulder. He had his arm around her, and had covered them both with the length of silk. “Xander? Mr. Heman?” His eyes opened, gray and smiling. “You’re very formal, Harriet. And thank you for confirming what I already suspected.” “What’s that?” She felt languorous and sweetly fulfilled, so her voice wasn’t as waspish as it might have been. “It was nothing in your reaction that ruined the Seductors. After that somewhat dictatorial start, you’re a delightful lover. I take it you didn’t overuse them?” She snorted. “They’re supposed to last more than ten days, surely.” “Maybe if you used them three times a day they might have—” “I didn’t. They weren’t anywhere near as satisfactory as my Pursepecker.” He half sat up, spilling her onto the couch. “So, we’re back to that superannuated gadget again! What precisely did it do for you that the Seductors didn’t?” “Well, it didn’t tell me I was a dahlia made for fellatio.” “A dahlia?” “Yes. And once it was a highly fackable starfish.” Xander laughed. “It didn’t go limp in the pecker, either.” “Well, it wouldn’t. If I recall properly, it was made of semi-rigid plastic. However, it did lack the ability to stimulate other pressure points before, during and after engagement.” 29

Harriet and the Heman Harriet recalled the delicious sensation when he had gently bitten her neck and sucked her breasts. When he had cupped her buttocks and kissed the point of her jaw. Stimulating pressure points. Huh. “So,” he coaxed, “can you explain exactly what the Pursepecker did for you that I wasn’t able to equal?” “Well, of course,” said Harriet. “Speed and efficiency.” She lifted her hands and began to number points on her fingers. “The Pisky takes off, right? I sit in the blast seat and monitor the process until I engage the gravity switch. Then I take the Pursepecker and switch it on, and run a few passes before I insert it. I set the intensity and peak within three minutes or so, dismount the blast chair, clean the unit and am back at the con ten minutes after I threw the switch.” “But—” “Hush,” she said. “You wanted me to tell you. Now, with you, I wasted some time talking, and then after I was satisfied there was more time for your reciprocal feedback program. Or whatever you called it. Then I needed a full body shower, and that led to another engagement, and then I went to sleep.” She glanced at the chrono. “It’s now three standard hours since I threw the switch and I’m still not back at the con. So—” “Harriet!” “So,” she repeated, “the Pursepecker offered a quick service without any tiring extras. You see?” “I see,” he agreed, a trifle grimly. “So, my best efforts are spurned for a soulless, bloodless, mindless piece of antique hardware.” 30

Lark Westerly Harriet shook her head. “I’m not spurning anything, Xander. I just told you what the Pursepecker could do that you can’t. As you say, it was a thing. I didn’t need to consider it in any way but to clean it. It delivered quick, efficient orgasms when I needed them. You gave me more than that. You liked what you were doing, and what I did for you. You made me feel more like Harriet than like Captain Barnstormer…” “Surely that’s a good thing?” he said, frowning a little. He licked his fingertip, traced it around her nipple, then blew and watched it crinkle. Harriet laughed. “Not on a ship, Xander. On this ship I need to be ‘Captain Barnstormer’. I can’t be ‘Harriet’. It’s too lonely.” “Is that how the Seductors made you feel?” he asked. “Too much like Harriet?” “Not a bit!” she said, surprised. “They weren’t efficient and neither did they give me any joy.” “So, you see the two acts and applications as being separate rather than two versions of the same thing?” “Well, of course,” she said. “Doesn’t everyone?” Xander bent and kissed her gently on the lips. “Thank you, Harriet. You’ve shown me the way for the next generation of Seductors. Now, we need to sort out this mess I’ve put you in.” She sighed. “I’ll go before the board and take what’s coming. I can hardly eject you now.” “I have a better idea. I think the best thing is if you finish this run just as usual. When we reach Castor 6, I’ll leave the ship in my tech emulation, and, after a decent interval, I’ll catch a passenger transport home. 31

Harriet and the Heman Your name will never come up at all. I’ll pay you for the silk, and also for your research assistance. Deal?” He held out his hand. Somewhat dampened, Harriet took it. So, it was that easy? “Good,” said Xander. He let himself down beside her again, and drew her back into the circle of his arms. “How long does this run to Castor take?” “Five days,” said Harriet. “Of course, a transport can make it in a lot less, so you’ll be home in a standard week.” “Five days,” he repeated. “I think we could have a lot of fun in five days, Captain Harriet.” He hugged her, and she let herself relax against him. Treat it as a vacation, she told herself. Pretend it’s R & R on a distant sybaritic planet where you’re not known. “By the way,” said Xander, “you say you used to use the Pursepecker while you were still in the blast chair configuration. Does that mean you had it close to hand?” “Of course. It tucked down beside the arm.” “And what about the Hirams? Did you keep them on the blast chair as you shipped out?” “No. They’re much too big. I told you compact models were more practical.” “You didn’t share the chair with them as you did with me?” “Why would I?” “I think the last piece of the puzzle has just clicked into place,” he said. “In a ship as old as this one, you need a blast chair to ride the liftoff. Remember, you 32

Lark Westerly told me I’d be crushed if I didn’t use it?” “Oh,” she said. “Oh, indeed. I believe the Seductors suffered system stress during liftoff, and so were never properly operational for you.” “You can’t blame me,” she said. “Your instructions never said they had to ride in a blast chair.” “In any halfway modern ship, they wouldn’t need to.”

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Harriet and the Heman

**** ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Heman Inc. Hi-Tower 676, 1.00, July 15th 2190. Captain Barnstormer; We at Hemen, Inc. pride ourselves on satisfying our clients, and so we invite you to be the first to sample our new upgrade. The Heman Pro-pecker purse-pack model comes as part of a one-time offer, made only to clients personally selected by the manager. Since the two-tier product is a little more complex than our previous offers, a consultant will visit you to run a workshop. If we fail to hear from you before 3.00 on July 1st, 2190, we will assume your agreement and proceed as suggested. A.

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Lark Westerly

Harriet reread the formally worded communication. So, it was back to ‘A’ and ‘Captain Barnstormer’ again. Her lower lip quivered a little. She was tempted to reject the ‘offer’, but the deadline for rejection had passed already. In fact, she realized with a jolt, it had passed before she had even received the letter. How very unsporting of him. A shadow caught the tail of her eye, and she glanced outside the Pisky’s window. Xander Heman was peering in. “Go away,” said Harriet, but she knew she didn’t mean it. She stepped up on the blast chair and raised the hatch. “Your emulator’s on the blink again,” she said. “And I don’t have time for any workshops, Pisky is about to jump.” Xander grinned, and swung himself up and in through the hatch. “I’m not wearing an emulator. These are real spacers' threads.” He patted the badge on his breast. “Cost me a leg and a half, too.” He sat down in the blast chair, leaving Harriet staring at him. He smiled, and she thought he looked tired. “What’s wrong?” she asked. “Not a thing. Sit down, love. I’m coming on the run with you.” “But I’m not licensed…” “I am.” He patted his pocket again with evident pride. “As of this morning, I am a fully licensed skyjockey. Only a third grade, but what can you expect from crash courses?” “You took the course in a month?” 35

Harriet and the Heman “I did. I started as soon as I boarded the transport on Castor 6.” “But—why?” Xander touched her cheek. “Do you really need to ask why, love?” “Yes. And what happened to A and Captain Barnstormer?” “They can go the way of roger and the Hirams. I took the course so I can travel with my muse whenever I feel the urge. No more hole-in-a-corner slinking-off in foreign ports.” “I see.” Harriet tried to frown, but her mouth was already turning up in anticipation. Other parts of her were humming hopefully too. “I’ll have to install another blast chair,” she said. “Ten!” said the countdown suddenly. “Oh, I don’t think so. I rather like the one we’ve got. How does it go, now? I sit here and you perch on top?” “Nine!” Harriet glanced at the countdown. “You’d better take that uniform off,” she said. “I wouldn’t like to mess it up.” “Eight!” “Done.” He pulled the tag and let the uniform fall around his waist. “Seven!” Xander tugged off the uniform entirely. A small package hit the floor and Harriet bent to pick it up. “Six!” “What’s this?” “Five!” 36

Lark Westerly “Oh, that’s your upgrade. The prototype auxiliary pro-pecker purse-pack, especially for professional ladies.” “Four!” “Auxiliary?” she asked suspiciously. “Three!” “Of course. For use when the primary unit is unavoidably absent.” He sat down and opened his arms, obviously ready for anything. “Two!” “Which I don’t see happening any more often than is absolutely necessary.” Harriet flung herself backwards, into his lap, deadheating with the countdown’s sonorous “One”, and ready for anything, herself. His arms came around her and folded snugly under her breasts, the countdown hit zero and the Cornish Pisky vaulted out of the chute and slammed through the atmosphere like a hot skewer through butter. Harriet smiled and wriggled a little with happiness, in for the ride of her life. It was beginning already, and they hadn’t even hit the gravity gates yet!

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About the Author ark Westerly lives in the island state of Tasmania, a place of wind and rivers, wild places and hidden delights. She enjoys walking over the hills, gardening, collecting china dogs, listening to music and wallowing decadently in a hot bath. Lark has been married for some years, and has two grown children. She writes under a variety of names, and lives in many worlds- most of which don’t bear much resemblance to the 21st Century.

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