There are many thing less pleasant to walk in on than a beautiful woman artfully posed on a bed. There are few as awkward when one is not expecting it, either. The pilot smiled up at me shyly through her eyelashes and pulled her hair out of her face with a graceful motion. I had no idea what she had done to the uniform jacket I had given her, but it was very flattering.
"Master," she purred in a vaguely Spanish or Italian accent. "Your slave has been waiting for You."
I swallowed dryly. Whatever conditioning Moreau had done to her appeared to be potent indeed. She rose in a sinuous arc and sashayed towards me, stopping just within my reach, and assumed a submissive pose before me, head bent.
"M-miss..." I began unsteadily, "I tr-trust that you are finding your accom... accommodations to.. to your liking?" The last word raised in pitch as she began to play idly with the zipper pull on my jumpsuit. She raised her face and the sheer adoration there took me by surprise.
"Your slave is glad she has such a kind Master," she lilted. "This room is beautiful, and she appreciates the clothes You gave her!"
I was rather conflicted. On the one hand, a comely lass was expressing an interest in me. On the other, I was uncertain as to the provenance of her feminine wiles. Were they natural, or had they been the product of some deviltry of Dingus manipulation at the hands of the scoundrel cooling his heels in the brig?
I gently placed her in one of the chairs in the cabin and sat across from her in the other. A look of disappointed acceptance crossed her symmetrical features.
"M-master?" she asked, tears welling in her green, slitted eyes. "Has Your slave offended You in some way?"
I could not help placing a calming hand on her shoulder. "Of course not." I smiled at her. "I merely wished to make sure you were all right..." The words I'd intended to say were cut off by her sudden presence in my lap, crying on my shoulder.
"Your slave is so glad she has a caring Master. She was so afraid..." she trailed off, sobs wracking her shapely frame.
We sat like that for some time, until her breathing evened out and I could tell she was asleep. I gently placed her on the bed and tucked her in. I walked from the room and returned to the bridge, and a shouting match.
''We don't just borrow words; on occasion, English has pursued other languages down alleyways to beat
them unconscious and rifle their pockets for new vocabulary.''
-- James Nicoll
"Master," she purred in a vaguely Spanish or Italian accent. "Your slave has been waiting for You."
I swallowed dryly. Whatever conditioning Moreau had done to her appeared to be potent indeed. She rose in a sinuous arc and sashayed towards me, stopping just within my reach, and assumed a submissive pose before me, head bent.
"M-miss..." I began unsteadily, "I tr-trust that you are finding your accom... accommodations to.. to your liking?" The last word raised in pitch as she began to play idly with the zipper pull on my jumpsuit. She raised her face and the sheer adoration there took me by surprise.
"Your slave is glad she has such a kind Master," she lilted. "This room is beautiful, and she appreciates the clothes You gave her!"
I was rather conflicted. On the one hand, a comely lass was expressing an interest in me. On the other, I was uncertain as to the provenance of her feminine wiles. Were they natural, or had they been the product of some deviltry of Dingus manipulation at the hands of the scoundrel cooling his heels in the brig?
I gently placed her in one of the chairs in the cabin and sat across from her in the other. A look of disappointed acceptance crossed her symmetrical features.
"M-master?" she asked, tears welling in her green, slitted eyes. "Has Your slave offended You in some way?"
I could not help placing a calming hand on her shoulder. "Of course not." I smiled at her. "I merely wished to make sure you were all right..." The words I'd intended to say were cut off by her sudden presence in my lap, crying on my shoulder.
"Your slave is so glad she has a caring Master. She was so afraid..." she trailed off, sobs wracking her shapely frame.
We sat like that for some time, until her breathing evened out and I could tell she was asleep. I gently placed her on the bed and tucked her in. I walked from the room and returned to the bridge, and a shouting match.
''We don't just borrow words; on occasion, English has pursued other languages down alleyways to beat
them unconscious and rifle their pockets for new vocabulary.''
-- James Nicoll