Spaceport Affairs (Box Set)

By Mikala Ash

Follow the affairs of Peri Barberossa, award-winning sex reporter for the immensely popular guide The Galactic Tourist, and Fyche, her faithful AI, as she avoids becoming the newest addition to General R'nok's harem, investigates the savage murder of a pleasure worker, survives a hijacking by terrorists, saves a planet, and searches for her missing mother and sister, renowned reporter Holly Barberossa.

Everyone is more -- or less -- than they seem in this erotically charged collection of Peri Barberossa adventures, where secret agendas abound and the name of the game is undiluted pleasure.

Publisher's Note: This box set contains the previously published novellas The Cannis Affair, The Adana Affair, The Supernova Affair, and The Erogenous Affair.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Changeling Press
• Release date: Oct 31, 2020
• ISBN: 9780718502317

Book preview

Ash

Spaceport Affairs

Mikala Ash

Follow the affairs of Peri Barberossa, award-winning sex reporter for the immensely popular guide The Galactic Tourist, and Fyche, her faithful AI, as she avoids becoming the newest addition to General R’nok’s harem, investigates the savage murder of a pleasure worker, survives a hijacking by terrorists, saves a planet, and searches for her missing mother and sister, renowned reporter Holly Barberossa.

Everyone is more -- or less -- than they seem in this erotically charged collection of Peri Barberossa adventures, where secret agendas abound and the name of the game is undiluted pleasure.

The Cannis Affair

Mikala Ash

When Peri Barberossa, award-winning sex reporter for the sealed section of the immensely popular guide The Galactic Tourist, flees in order to avoid becoming the newest addition to General R’nok’s harem she encounters two military fighters in the intergalactic void. Peri watches in horror as the two duke it out with quantum torpedoes, and she rescues the unconscious pilots as their ships disintegrate.

What can a dedicated sex reporter do with two gorgeous hunks in her power? The fact that Laz and Rendido are sworn enemies bent on each other’s destruction only adds spice to the heady mix, and Peri studies their sexual mores in an atmosphere brimming with tension… sexual and otherwise.

Chapter One

Naked and at ease in the feather soft bed, I was completely at one with the universe, when reality slapped me across the face.

At first I thought I simply misheard General R’nok’s solemn commitment to have me locked up in his harem. He’d said something about customary law and me being his property for life. Experience has often shown me that post coital bliss can play havoc with one’s perception, so I sought clarification. I propped myself up on trembling elbows, acutely aware of my erratically beating heart, the result of five gut-wrenching orgasms in ten minutes.

What, darling? I asked.

The general paused, balanced on one leg, the other tangled up inside the kilt of his kaleidoscopic uniform. You are now mine.

I’m sorry?

He cast a steely Etile glance toward me, his dark eye ridges folding slightly. Are you deaf?

Uh-oh. His gruff manner was so different from the smooth wooing of last night. No, I just didn’t understand what you said.

You have had both orifices filled by my flesh, he said.

And you filled them so well, I purred, trying to recapture the moment, remembering his two cocks driving into my pussy and ass at the same time, but I should have known that when it comes to men, there’s always a catch.

When you give both holes to an Etile warrior you have given your soul, he said as if he were explaining to me the intricacies of a paperclip. You belong to me now, my concubine. We are bound for life.

I didn’t realize that was the custom, I explained, attempting to keep my voice level, though inside I was in an acute state of panic.

It is not a custom. It is the law.

Oh.

Wait here. My aide will show you to your cot in the harem.

Cot? Harem?

He turned away from me and stretched an arm out to grasp the bedpost while he untangled his foot. The thing that jumped into my field of vision, apart from the erratically bobbing dual phalluses, both cocks still erect despite our recent exertions, was the stainless steel codpiece which had given me so much amusement at the embassy ball.

I remembered how heavy it felt in my palm when I’d disrobed him prior to our session of athletic passion and as I contemplated a lifetime spent in his harem, instinct took over.

The codpiece made a satisfying clunk as it impacted the side of his head. I use the passive voice when I describe the assault on the general’s high-ranking skull. It seemed like I’d been possessed and not in conscious control of my actions.

Had this been a consciously deliberate attack, I would have said the codpiece felt heavy and cold in my hand as I raised it shoulder high and, after taking careful aim and with all my might, swung at his right temple, feeling the skin split as I struck.

You’ll note the difference between acting instinctually, out of fear, versus deliberately striking the most powerful man on the planet. That’s my story and I’m sticking to it.

In any case, the general grunted appropriately and toppled over onto the floor. I jumped off the bed, pulled on my evening gown, transparent silken web from the Spider House on Gaskolin IX, slipped into my pumps, the latest Jess Boscolon creations, and raced to the door to listen for any activity.

From what I remembered of last night, when the general had so smoothly extricated me from the boring embassy party and lustily thrown me onto his bed, his chambers were in the east wing of the sprawling palace and conveniently close to the spaceport.

I found my handbag, a snappy little sequined number from the exclusive Balinese Collection, and rummaged about until I found my diamond encrusted Joclyn communicator. I called Fyche, my ship’s AI, and asked him to order a spaceport taxi to meet me outside the general’s door in five minutes flat.

"Oh, and power up Jalapeño’s converters, I added somewhat breathlessly. We need to leave."

Again?

I didn’t have time to respond to his petulant whine because behind me the general gave a long, burbling groan. That wouldn’t do. I needed more time. I returned to his prostrate body and tied him up with the exquisitely fine deshlen bed sheets. The silky fabric, soiled by our sweat and his copious spending, was super strong and made a good binding. Once I had him secured I stuffed his mouth with my Gaskolin Haute Couture scarf and rolled him under the bed.

Then I fled the chamber, immediately tripping over a startled aide who was inconveniently sitting on the threshold. I stopped midstride to explain that the general was resting and didn’t want to be disturbed. The aide nodded sleepily and resumed his position on the tiny stool. Had he been there all night listening to my moans of passion and screams of ecstasy? I suppressed the moment of embarrassment and calmly asked for directions to the palace’s front gate.

A dull thud sounded from inside the room signifying the general had regained consciousness and was no doubt surprised to find himself under the bed with what I hoped was an enormous headache. The aide reacted, and to distract him, I expressed confusion at his surprisingly clear and succinct directions and asked him to show me out himself. A smile, a wink and a flash of my right boob did the trick.

I endured his roving hand for fifty-two floors during the elevator’s lazy descent and was very grateful when I found the taxi waiting at the palace gate; Fung knows what Fyche had paid to have it there so quickly. I gave the aide a peck on the cheek and a quick rub of his erect and very impressive dual phalluses. He was rewarded with a messy ejaculation inside his dress kilt and I left him swooning against the granite pillars. That good deed, I hoped, would buy me another chunk of precious time.

Twenty minutes later, Fyche had us in orbit and we were away.

* * *

From my vantage point, perched high above the galactic center, the Milky Way is an exquisite arrangement of gemstones set in an elliptical filigree of white gold. I imagined something of equal beauty adorning my décolletage, given to me by some alien potentate following a night of sexual abandon.

My sex pulsed in desire and I lowered my fingers to satisfy its demand for attention.

You have a deadline, Fyche reminded me.

I was thinking, I protested.

Daydreaming, more like it.

You sound more like my mother every day.

She sounds like a remarkable woman. I would like to meet her some time.

Very funny. Reluctantly I removed my fingers from the folds of my pussy and for the benefit of Fyche’s many cameras, gave them a petulant lick. Did you access the Etile library while I was at the party?

Affirmative. You’ll find the complete compendium of sexual mores of the Etile Hierarchy in the culture file.

I speed read the relevant section. It was immediately apparent that sexual and marriage customs on the planet Et were inextricably linked. So, when I had pushed the good general’s top cock into my pussy and then nudged the second one into my ass -- notice I’m using the active voice here -- and by ignoring his hesitation, slight as it was I might add, I’d actually been expressing my willingness to be his forever. Then, when he allowed both his organs to be simultaneously taken into my welcoming body, he’d accepted my offer of lifelong servitude. The penalty for breaking the bond, which was sealed when he ejaculated in both my willing orifices, was death by slow dismemberment.

I shivered. I wish I’d read this before I went to the ball.

I don’t want to say I told you so…

Consider it said.

Really, Fyche can be an old woman sometimes.

Well, no harm done. I was now well beyond the general’s reach; Fyche had done a great job of quantum celestial navigation by jumping in and out of both normal and quantum space to disguise our tracks. He’d even followed a couple of well-used trade routes to bury our tachyon signature with those of a thousand other ships. So no matter how peeved the general could be, I was sure he’d never find us.

I better write this article under a pseudonym, I said, just to be sure. I’d hate R’nok to track me down through the widely read articles which document my sensual sojourn through the space ways.

Good idea.

I’ll write it as a warning to those who follow in my wake: don’t jump into an Etile bed until you know the customs.

"Wasn’t that your first rule for sex tourists you posted in issue seventeen of the Galactic Tourist?"

He was right, as usual. As obnoxious as he could be, I am blessed to have Fyche watching me, really. He picks up on these little tidbits, ensuring I don’t make a complete ass of myself by not remembering what I’d written before.

Good point. I’ll refer to Peri Barberossa’s rules in the body of the piece.

Who will you be this time?

Okay, so this wasn’t the first time I’d broken my own rules and needed to write under a pen name to disguise my true identity. But hey, how can you get the best stories if you’re playing safe all the time? Besides, you could say that safety was my middle name. I’d already had my body genetically re-programmed to reject any disease, so getting down and dirty was never going to be a problem, and I’d been taught by one of the best hand-to-hand combat exponents in the galaxy, so if an overzealous lover got a bit too physical he was in for a big surprise.

I had a flash memory of letting Master Hinko throw me to the mat so I could pull him down and fuck his taut, athletic body. Ah, those were the days.

I think I’ll be Petal Rose again.

Good choice, she got good reviews.

She did, didn’t she? I agreed in a self-congratulating tone. The article Fyche referred to had been a piece about the erogenous zones of the Mendovian male. I’d discovered, quite by accident, that caressing the eyestalks while simultaneously pinching the third of their six nipples turns them into a quivering mass of jelly and sends them over the orgasmic edge, but ladies, look out for the fire hose ejaculation. You could drown in that stuff.

"So, how about Two Etile cocks are fine, but not at the same time by Petal Rose?"

Catchy, he said with a slight but distinct pause.

He did this often, and I ignored him as I usually did when he commented poorly, no matter how subtly, on my writing. What did Fyche know about titles? The editors at the Galactic Tourist loved my titles.

What’s the best way to describe their cocks? I asked him. They have a cock in the normal place you’d expect to find them, with a slightly shorter and thinner second cock sprouting from between the first one’s root and the start of the ball sac. Dual phalluses or should it be phalli? Is there such a word?

You were right the first time, phallus; late Latin from the Greek phallus.

So, does dual phalluses mean there were four of them?

Why not stick to ‘his two cocks’?

You’re right. The KISF principle. Keep it simple, Fyche.

He didn’t laugh at my jibe. You might consider anterior for the top organ and posterior for the bottom one.

I laughed at his unintended pun; juvenile of me, I know, but who cares? I was in a good mood. Narrowly escaping sexual servitude for life has that effect on me.

They were nice, though, I muttered as another flash memory of the general’s pulsing organs entered my mind as devastatingly as they had entered my body. His anterior cock, the one on top, was so thick and swollen with lust I had trouble getting my mouth around the glans. I was lucky to even get my lips around it, let alone get it inside my mouth. I remember I switched to the posterior cock; it was easier to suck, though I had to watch that I didn’t poke my eye out with the top one as I deep throated him. When I had him deeply embedded in my throat my nostrils were pressed against his hard flesh. He had a pleasant, nutty sort of scent that certainly got my hormones racing.

I reached once again for my pussy and found it exceedingly sultry. I wished I had a man with me to help me get over the disappointing general. As suave as R’nok had been at the ball, after he had me every which way, he’d turned into the typical male of my recent acquaintance, showing me scant regard and contempt. The tone of his voice when he announced I’d be taken to his harem had shown him to be a misogynist to the core.

I hated him!

But his two cocks… mmmm. I loved those.

He had been very slow and deliberate when he fucked me with his posterior cock, letting the top one slide along my belly with each thrust, and the dual pressure from within and without was unexpectedly erotic. As sensuous as that was, I’d been impatient to have the big brother in my pussy and had tilted my hips accordingly so it nudged my lips apart and stretched my pussy to the limit. The little brother missed the mark, however, and I had to guide it into the puckered flesh of my ass. I needed little lubrication; I was sopping wet down there already as my pussy had been overflowing with juice.

The general held back for a moment but I slapped his ass to urge him inside and he complied with gusto. The dual invasion of my body lifted me to a series of mind-numbing climaxes. Like a machine gun they ripped through me one after the other, making me scream in delight. The walls of my pussy clenched around his anterior shaft and my sphincter squeezed his posterior cock (how aptly named that is, now that I think about it) and the come just gushed out of him. He filled me to overflowing with his hot misogynist spending.

Breathless with all my screaming, I expected him to be tired as well and in need of a rest, but no. Despite his prodigious ejaculation he started fucking me again, and he continued on in that vein all night.

He came at least five times with each cock, and I lost count of how many ripping climaxes sliced through me. If only he hadn’t ruined the occasion in the morning I think I could have spent some quality time with General R’nok.

Sense-typing one-handed on my faux-antique Delosian keyboard while the fingers of my other hand played deep inside my pussy, churning the hot juices that the memories of R’nok’s twin cocks had stirred up, was devilishly difficult. I kept losing focus, but after an hour of solid work I had a rough draft of a good article, and I figured I could polish it later.

Work finished for the day, I concentrated on my tingling clit. Despite his misogynist attitudes, the general knew his way around a woman’s body. While he fucked me, his lips and tongue were in business sucking and licking my nipples, playing with my earlobes (that alone sends shivers of delight cascading across my skin) and holding my hips with just enough pressure to imprison me beneath him without hurting. He was an expert, that’s for sure. The one failing was that he didn’t go down on me. I so much enjoy a tongue licking and lapping at my clit while a finger caresses those little spots deep inside me that…

I was on the brink of a great self-induced orgasm when out of empty space just outside my viewport, a small military fighter burst out of a quantum portal. In a flash it passed me at an unbelievable rate. What the hell was that?

Then a second fighter appeared out of quantum space and likewise zipped past my viewport. A streak of light projected from the first to be met by another multi-colored streak from the second. The two beams collided and flashed into a ball of incandescence before fading into black.

Are they fighting?

Affirmative. They are firing quantum torpedoes. I recommend we leave the area immediately.

It made good sense but my skin was buzzing with excitement. Get us somewhere safe but where I can still watch.

This is not wise.

I’m a reporter, remember.

For a sex guide, Fyche reminded me unnecessarily.

Still a reporter, I asserted. It’s in my blood. It’s a family tradition; my father was a reporter and my sister’s a reporter, though she leans more to the political stuff despite what happened to Dad.

As you wish.

Fyche took us out of the battle zone on reaction motors, so as not to attract too much attention. He explained that quantum torpedoes might mistake us for a belligerent if he used anything more powerful. He nagged me again about leaving completely but I was adamant. I’m a reporter, damn it!

Quantum torpedoes are, as you’d expect, packets of fundamental particles wrapped up in a tight electromagnetic field. The field interacts with the few molecules of dust and gas you find everywhere in space, creating a rainbow wake that shimmers magically against the velvet black and is soon gone. They are quite beautiful if you forget their deadly purpose. Traveling at a fair chunk of the speed of light these pretty little things pack a wallop.

The two ships, the first a compact one-man job and the second a slightly larger escort fighter, traded torpedo after torpedo while they maneuvered crazily about the little sphere of intergalactic space they’d made their combat zone.

A torpedo flashed uncomfortably close and without asking, Fyche quantum jumped us a good ten light minutes out of range. The battle raged for a long while, both ships showing remarkable agility, twisting and turning at impossible angles. The pilots, champions of their chosen art, were at the top of their game, but it couldn’t go on. Sooner or later one would succumb.

Unexpectedly, both fighters momentarily flared incandescently and the battle was over. They’d simultaneously disabled each other. Somehow escaping total destruction, the two fighters had gone dark, all power lost due to the quantum torpedo frying their electronics. If the fundamental particles held inside the torpedo interacted with the particles in the ship’s metal shell then the hull would be breached, placing the pilots in great difficulty.

Any life signs? I asked Fyche.

Both show organic life.

Are the hulls breached?

Both ships have been holed.

But there is someone alive in both?

It appears so.

Then we should rescue them, I said decisively. I know my Law of Space as well as anyone. If you come across a stranded vessel where life is extant then you must render aid.

This is clearly a war zone, Fyche said. As a civilian craft we are not bound to intervene.

There’s always a catch with you, Fyche. You know that? I said in frustration. The battle’s over and there is no one else to help. We have to assist.

"You intend to bring both belligerents aboard?"

Fyche had a good point. These two jokers just tried to kill each other when they had a million clicks between them. What they would try to do to each other with only little old me to stand between them I couldn’t imagine.

But I wanted to find out. I’m a reporter, remember.

Chapter Two

The smaller of the fighters was the most damaged, with a jagged hole in the portside where the anti-particles of the torpedo had annihilated themselves in the ship’s hull.

Strapped into his acceleration couch was a space-suited figure. There was too much blood splattered on the inside of his helmet for me to get a look at him, just enough to ascertain he was male. Despite the quantity of blood in his helmet, his life signs seemed to indicate he was okay.

Fyche hadn’t been able to identify the insignia on the fighter’s tail from the registry, and thus what kind of creatures we were dealing with, but my little handheld med-sensor told me he was breathing oxygen. I unbuckled him from his couch, pulled him free of the cabin, and propelled him easily into the airlock of the Jalapeño.

You better hurry, Fyche said. The reactor coil of the other fighter is about to go critical.

Well, get us over there.

Hold on.

I gripped the handrail outside the Jalapeño’s airlock door, and Fyche maneuvered us toward the second fighter.

The second ship was a nice piece of work with smooth lines and graceful curves. It was obviously built as a dual-purpose shuttle and escort vehicle, not simply as a fighter. But it had matched guns with the little sprite so the owners of this craft, equally anonymous in the galactic registry, were technologically pretty crafty.

There was a ragged blast hole amidships. A body, horribly dismembered and vaguely humanoid, floated in the main deck area and I knew I was nightmare bound with that one.

On the flight deck an unconscious space-suited figure was strapped into an acceleration couch. The control panel in front of him was still functioning; lights blinked and unfamiliar text flashed across screens.

I looked into his faceplate. He was handsome in a rugged sort of way, about my age. He looked as if he’d been in a scrape or two; his nose was bent to the left and a thin scar ran down his right cheek. That and the cleft chin lent him a bit of character. I felt a stirring between my thighs, and my heart began to race beyond my currently high arousal.

Sensors indicate detonation in thirty seconds, Fyche reported.

Fuck me dead!

I grabbed the pilot’s buckles and released them with fumbling fingers.

Suddenly his eyes opened, dark pits inside the shadowy helmet, and he pushed my hands away. I grappled with him for a second, but it was clear I was not the object of his struggles. I let him have his way, and he reached over to the control panel and pressed a few buttons in rapid sequence. Then his eyes rolled back into his head and he was out again.

Change that, Fyche said. You now have two minutes.

The pilot altered something in the controls.

One minute fifty seconds.

I know, I know.

I hastily pulled him free and dragged him out of his ship, across the few meters that separated it from the Jalapeño and got him into the airlock.

No sooner had the airlock door slammed shut than I felt the sudden acceleration as Fyche took us away from the derelict as fast as he could. My stomach lurched as we punched into quantum space and lurched back again as we popped out a moment later. As I shucked off my slinky Helena Rubens designed environmental suit, the airlock viewport flared into brilliance as the normal blackness of space was lit by what appeared to be the light of a small star that dimmed quickly and was soon lost.

That was close, I muttered.

Too close, Fyche said. Any closer and we would have had a bad dose of gamma radiation.

Well, we better see what we can do for these two.

I decided to help the one with the blood in his helmet first. His helmet latch and lock design resembled a standard issue suit so I had no trouble opening it and exposing the pilot’s blood-covered face. I wiped the blood away with a medical cloth and realized with a rush of relief that the full extent of his wounds was a bleeding nose.

He’s breathing normally, I muttered as I stripped him of the rest of his environmental suit and his blue flight suit beneath. I gasped in surprise. His skin was blindingly white, like polished marble. His alabaster flesh shone with a strange ethereal glow, and I wondered if he was an albino or had had his complexion purposely altered.

As far as I could tell he was perfectly well. And perfect in more ways than one. Though he was small of stature, maybe six centimeters shorter than me, he had the body of an athlete. A swimmer, I’d say, with broad shoulders, narrow waist and hips and muscular legs. His blond hair was long, tied at the back with a blue ribbon.

His face was finely boned and ivory white with full sensuous lips that were striking, in a pink sort of way. He was probably a half dozen years younger than me, but looks meant nothing when comparing the almost infinite varieties of humanity.

I resisted the urge to look at his manly equipment as long as I could, but when I finally succumbed I was not disappointed. It was a nicely shaped cock, large relative to his body size but would be a nice easy fit in my… I squeezed my thighs together at the thought of how grateful he’d be when he woke up. Maybe he’d reward me with a little…

I suggest you secure him in the sickbay. He may have a concussion, and I can monitor him better from there.

Roger dodger, I said, and after checking that the other pilot’s vital signs were still green, I dragged my marble swimmer to the sickbay.

Thankfully, he was reasonably light, and I didn’t have to struggle to get him up on the examination bed. I connected him up to the medical sensor array, and Fyche secured the door behind me as I returned to the airlock.

I repeated the process with the second pilot. Naked, he was tall, half a head taller than me. Though not an athlete, he was well built and fit. I’d say he was used to hard work because his broad chest was hard and firm with muscle but not sculpted as the albino had been. He was well endowed; his flaccid penis was long and thick, the head resting on his thigh, the single eye staring at me inquiringly.

I’ll put him in my cabin, I said, my voice husky. You can lock the door and monitor him. I’ll sleep in my study for the time being.

Hopefully that arrangement wouldn’t last too long, and I’d be fucking one or the other, or both of them, in my own bed. My pussy gave a pulse of anticipation and my nipples hardened agreeably. The notion of entertaining both their cocks at the same time, just as I had with the general, made the apex of my sex tingle and I warmed all over, inside and out.

I had to struggle a bit to get him into my cabin. He was too heavy to carry so I grasped him under his armpits and dragged him the short distance. His scent was a little heavier than the blond pilot’s, which had been virtually nonexistent, but very alluring just the same.

I got him under the covers and sat on the edge of the bed. I had worked up quite a sweat myself, what with a hair-raising EVA and the chore of lugging these two hunks about the ship. I decided a shower was in order and went to the bathroom.

Is this wise, given you have a strange man in your bed?

Fyche was right. I’ll tie him down.

I turned back to the bed. The pilot was snoring peacefully, and his fine body showed its commanding form under the coverlet. I could clearly see the outline of his cock, and I gave a petulant sigh. I could do with that between my legs right about now. Despite my best efforts I didn’t disturb him as I rummaged through my bedside table. It’s surprising how noisy a couple of accidentally activated vibrators can be in a drawer. At last I found what I was looking for; velvet-lined sonic manacles. I slipped one around his wrist and the other around the bed stanchion.

That’ll hold him.

I gave the outline of his cock a thoughtful gaze before dragging myself to the bathroom. I shucked off the loose-fitting coveralls I wore under my environmental suit and dropped them into the UV cleaner. It gave a flash and they appeared a moment later on the out-tray nicely pressed and clean.

I turned on the tap and stepped into the cubicle. Before the Plexiglas steamed up I considered the handsome face of my patient. I went all gooey inside at the prospect of fucking his brains out, but I resisted succumbing to the desire beating through my pussy lips in time with my accelerated pulse.

Any luck identifying them? I asked Fyche, more to divert my amorous thoughts than a desire for factual details.

Their ships are not on any registry. They are obviously at war and keeping their spacecraft a secret from each other as well as everyone else. The insignias on their hulls also didn’t match anything in my records; however…

I hate it when he does that. We play this game a lot, him keeping me in suspense, showing off how superior he is. Just because he has a gargantuan memory core and a prodigious computational matrix and all I have is, well, a lump of wet, grey stuff that when seen in isolation doesn’t inspire confidence.

And?

The design of spacesuit belonging to the pilot in sickbay is reminiscent of an exhibit held in the Central Galactic Museum of Technology on Halcyon IV.

It looked pretty ordinary to me.

Be that as it may, the latch configuration is old fashioned. About five hundred years out of date.

Suggesting?

"Just when that particular design was popular a colony ship departed from the central systems for the closest of the Milky Way’s satellite galaxies, now known as Cannis. The ship was not heard from again