The Lost Colony

Chapter 39

Yes, yes, don't stop," she groaned. Her lenses glinted, even in the dim light. They were at once mysterious and erotic.

"That little body, f**k!" Sparr had long since given up trying to guess which partners would readily accommodate him, and which would struggle. He had bedded tall, athletic women who had all but fought to keep him from penetrating them, while other, more petite lovers happily welcomed him into their depths, wriggling against the mattress while he impaled them.

"Yes, yeah yeah yeah," Tracee panted. Her body rose and fell to meet him. "Use it, hit it."

Warning bells were ringing, begging Sparr to slow. He liked to think he had respectable staying power, but going all out into Tracee's slick, tight p***y was quickly dragging him toward the edge. Eager to prolong the session, he slowed.

"No, no!" she groaned. "No, I need it hard tonight. No slow grind, Alain!"

"I'll c*m," he gasped. "f**k, that sweet thing..."

"Cowgirl then," Tracee said. She wriggled free. For a moment, the two faced off, Tracee's dark lenses boring into Sparr. "On your back."

Sparr took advantage of the transition to catch his breath and draw back from the edge of release. As they switched places, he admired Tracee from a different angle. Her body was sleek and ripe. She had to be nearing thirty, but had a girlish quality to her. Sparr watched her breasts quiver as she climbed on top and lowered herself into his c**k.

"Mmmm yes," Tracee sighed, "this will do." She wriggled briefly before she found the perfect angle. She lifted her hips, let them fall against Sparr, then repeated, building toward a steady rhythm.

"Yeah," agreed Sparr. He settled back, enjoying the sweet sensation and enticing view. Tracee's brunette bob tossed and danced around her face, sometimes swinging forward to hide her features, sometimes flipping back to expose her slender neck.

"The d**k is good," Tracee said, bouncing against him. "Really good." Her eyes slid shut.

Sparr settled in for a good session. He always lasted longer in cowgirl. Women on top rode in a position which suited them, not their partner. "Enjoy it," he groaned. "Take as much d**k as you want."

"Mmmph," Tracee groaned. She was riding him at her most athletic now, her ass and thighs slapping against him. "Ahhhhhh."

Time slowed. What was probably just a few minutes stretched out into a seemingly unending coupling of two bodies. The room echoed with sounds of Tracee's cries, Sparr's moans, and the sound of their bodies colliding. The petite brunette began to tremble as fatigue caught up with her. Sparr reached out to grip her upper arms.

"Yes," she panted. "Hold me. Hold me and f**k me." Held up in part by Sparr, Tracee continued to ride him as aggressively as her fading strength would allow. Droplets of perspiration dotted her skin.

Sparr watched as Tracee turned the corner to orgasm. Hidden beneath the tremble of her fatigue, a growing shudder began to emerge. Her p***y clamped down, eased, then clamped down again. Slitted eyes clamped shut as her mouth opened. He wouldn't be far behind.

Finally, she collapsed upon him, shaking with exhaustion. "Oh f**k," she groaned. "I can't... Please... finish me... use me!"

He understood. Still gripping her upper arm with one hand, he locked onto her shoulder with the other. Mercilessly, he slammed her down onto his impaling c**k, pulled her back, and slammed her down again. Tracee's little body shook.

"Yes, that!" she moaned. "Harder, finish in me!"

The brunette lay against him, spent from her efforts. Sparr was happy to take control, to satisfy both their needs. He drove her down onto his c**k, grinding up and into her. Again and again he used her like a puppet, warm and passive in his arms.

"Oh god, Alain," Tracee groaned. She scratched at him. "Harder." Her p***y clenched. "Harder!"

"Tracee, f**k!" Sparr was at his limit. Tracee's p***y was deliciously slick. Her athletic assault on his c**k in cowgirl had been arousing. Her complete surrender, offering herself up for his use, was on another level entirely. "I'm... I'm going to-"

"Fuuuuuuuuuuuck," Tracee cried out. Her body jerked with orgasm, helpless against him as ecstasy tore through her. "Oooooh, my p***y!"

"Guhhh," Sparr moaned. He came, hands locking the brunette in place. A gusher of hot c*m shot into Tracee's already dripping slit. "Fuhhhhhhhhhhhhh!"

"Alain, pleeeeeease," Tracee sobbed, shuddering with release. Her face was pressed against his chest.

Sparr bucked wildly, coaxing every drop of pleasure from the compact body held in his arms. His balls contracted, blasting out two weeks of c*m. "Yesss..." he groaned. He shuddered, lost in the throes of ecstasy as Tracee twisted against him, lost in hers.

The two embraced long after their orgasms slipped away.

***

Sparr left the factory behind, taking with him more questions than answers. Someone who had been aboard the Odysseus was sending out drones, reviving machinery, and dabbling with something they should be leaving up to him. The collection of DNA was the specific domain of K2 Genetics. Did they think him dead? It wasn't a bad assumption. If the Alliance crew had found Kaybe to be as inhospitable as Sparr had, they might have written him off. Still, only his employer held rights to the planet's genetic resources, at least for now. None of it made sense.

The afternoon passed uneventfully. Sparr encountered few other travelers, mostly traders in small groups. They either eyed him nervously, or made no acknowledgement of his presence at all. Toward evening he began to grow nervous. The question of how he might safely pass the night weighed upon him. He had no idea whether or not the dusk hounds favored the increasingly swampy terrain, and little interest in finding out.

Finally, as dusk arrived, he reached a town. In response to the swampy terrain, Racas largely had been built on stilts. Some of the structures were appealing, with solid walls, windows, and compact but decorated gables. Far more were disreputable, leaning awkwardly, with gaps in the walls, or seemingly too close to the rotting soil below. A network of elevated walkways connected them. Toward the far side of the little town, Sparr could make out similar walkways stretching to reach a brackish lake. There, barges of various sizes were tied up, or hauled onto the muddy shore. It was as uninviting a place to rest as he could imagine. He had little choice.

A small throng of townspeople and travelers were entering. Sparr joined them, passing along a single, wide walkway. After less than 20 meters it opened onto the town's modest square, itself raised. He identified two likely inns, marked, like those in Vonde, with a simple drawing of a bed frame. The first looked promising, with a high roof and a sturdy, carved door. When Sparr approached, a man in a crisp uniform appraised him skeptically.

"Twenty tokens, if you're looking for a bed. Five for the meal," the man grunted.

Twenty-five tokens would nearly deplete his funds. "Do you have HoloVision Plus?" he asked, before turning away, leaving the man staring in confusion.

The second inn was grim in comparison. The roof was flat and low, the stoop marked with soil. As Sparr considered the establishment, a man lurched out of the flimsy door and staggered to the rail, clearly drunk. Like others that Sparr had spotted, he wore curious, baggy trousers fastened just below the knee. His ankles and calves were caked with dirt. The man eyed Sparr vacantly before lurching away.

The inn was just as cramped as it looked from the outside. The front room was crossed with beams low enough to threaten Sparr's head. A small fire, little more than embers, did nothing to chase away the chill. A woman Sparr assumed to be the innkeeper, oddly, sat on the other side of a barred window.

"I'm looking for a bed for the night," Sparr said, half-crouching to be seen.

"Ten tokens for the room," the woman said. Her eyes took in Sparr with interest. Perhaps sensing his hesitation she added, "I can give you a bunk for five."

"I'm on a budget," Sparr said. "Three tokens."

The woman snorted, jabbing a finger in the direction of Sparr's chest. "You're with the Origin. You can spare five tokens."

Sparr had forgotten that his shirt was decorated with the Origin seal. "Five tokens," he agreed, "and a bowl of... soup?" A strange but not entirely unpleasant smell reached him.

"Stew," she grunted. "Five tokens."

Sparr reached for his pouch, then stopped. Each token represented the ability to fabricate a piece of colonist-era technology. So far the only one he had deemed potentially useful was the electrical part, but he had forgotten which of the tokens it was. With each transaction he would reduce not just his funds, but the ability to make those parts. There was nothing to do for it. He passed the innkeeper five of the common, silver tokens, then took a seat.

Near the fire, two men and one woman that Sparr took for locals sat in brooding silence. Like the drunk Sparr had seen earlier, they wore the same short pants. He surmised that they were fishermen. No doubt their work involved stepping into the muck to check traps and load their boats. Each had been drinking, but unlike their friend, were still alert. They watched as Sparr paid his tokens, was served a bowl of stew, and seated himself.

Either the stew was surprisingly good, or Sparr was hungrier than he realized. It consisted mostly of the rice-like plant he had seen from the road, some sort of vegetable pulp, and a few chunks of shellfish. He prodded a bit of the meat, isolating it on his spoon. It resembled an Earth crab, although darker fleshed than any Sparr was familiar with. When he tasted it, the crustacean was just as sweet.

The bunk, on the other hand, was barely adequate. The room, which contained several other bunks, was at the end of the building, both darker and more damp than the rest of the inn. It sloped discernibly, giving Sparr the impression that at any minute it might slip away into the swamp below. A single window could have broken the gloom, but by the time he settled into the room, the sun was long set. Sparr tucked his pistol into the waistband of his trousers, and slipped into dreams.

Communicator out of range.

"What?" Sparr pulled himself groggily from sleep, momentarily uncertain of where he was. The walls of the cramped bunkroom swam into focus. An unpleasant draft rolled across him.

Communicator now out of range, his implant repeated.

Sparr sat up, clutching at his waist. His pistol was still in place, but his survival pack was missing from underneath his bunk. The thief, whoever he or she was, had stolen it right from under him. His eyes shot to the open window. "s**t!"

For the second time in less than a day Sparr cursed his own inattentiveness. He leapt up, tugged on his clothes, and, with considerable difficulty, squeezed through the window. Whoever had stolen his pack was smaller than he was by far.

"Last bearing?"

One hundred sixty degrees.

Sparr had crawled out onto a derelict walkway that bordered the inn. With only the light from Cheddar to guide him, he tried to orient himself. "s**t," he said again. If he went to the right he would end up back at the square, hardly a likely destination for a thief. Instead, Sparr took off to the left, moving as swiftly as felt prudent on the narrow walkway. Unless he was mistaken, one hundred and sixty degrees would take him toward the docks he had seen the previous evening. He was developing a theory about the thief.

The town was a maze. Even during daylight, Sparr suspected, its raised alleys would be difficult to navigate for a newcomer. At night it was all but impossible. The man more used to ships' corridors and residential compounds on Earth found himself lost among the dim, irregular buildings. Again and again, Sparr would emerge from an alley to find he had taken a wrong turn. Each time he doubled back slowed him. He could only hope that the thief would slow or stop.

At last he stumbled into the open. Before him, the walkway led to several docks, each a host to numerous small barges and skiffs. Farther to his right, to the south, an elevated road led toward a cluster of dark structures which might be abandoned colonist factories. Taking a chance, Sparr ran toward one.