Not a member?     Existing members login below:

Sex, the Stars & Princess Simla

I
Androids do not suffer from seasickness, but Shap felt uncomfortable devoting precious processor time to
staying upright on the barque as it heaved on the Great Ocean of Pendor. He had a notion, as far as his android
brain would allow, that though his Prime Directive was to defend his mistress, it should in fact be efficiency.
And efficiency was not increased by sliding across a slippery deck while Princess Simla smiled at his
discomfort. The sun was sinking in the turquoise sky of Pendor and the wind and waves had picked up,
throwing the three-masted ship around like a toy.
Simla went over to lean across the rail at the side of the ship and Shap’s concern circuits kicked in so that he
was at her side almost immediately. “Mistress?”
She cupped her hands to her mouth and retched, and Shap instinctively laid his broad metallic hand on her
shoulder.
“Perhaps you should go below, ma’am.”
The ship heaved again and Simla’s hand flew out and the dazzling, golden bracelet on her wrist, embedded
with jewels, glittering in the moonlight, flew from it and shot into the boiling waves.
“Oh, my!” Simla screamed, throwing her hands to her mouth again, but this time in horror. “The bracelet!
My father’s gift. It’s priceless.”
“It bears the diamond, Eye Of Venus, and is indeed priceless,” Shap intoned.
“You must retrieve it. Shap. You can get it. I know you can.”
He could and he would. He clambered nimbly over the bulwark and without a pause stepped forward and let
his heavy metal body slip under the crashing waves.
Simla smiled and wiped the salt spray from her face with the sleeve of her jerkin. Quickly, she turned and
loped across the deck to the forecastle, her slim, athletic figure cutting through the raging wind. Her light
green eyes flashed with anticipation and excitement. A door, a few steps, a short corridor and she was into
Torzil’s cabin. He lay on his fur-covered bunk, bare-chested and magnificent and the sight of him made
Simla’s breath catch in her throat. The slamming door made the big man turn and raise himself on his elbows.
“You’ve come then, my fine trollop,” he breathed huskily, using the arcane style favoured by his class. Simla
quite liked it and wasn’t averse to slipping in a few words herself when the occasion required.
3
Remove