By POW

Unical date: 3752.563.22 (nineteen days until scheduled arrival at Kappa Redulans)

It was a bit strange to adjust to living in the simspace.  Sam was accustomed to moving from place to place to handle the various aspects of his day.  Wake up in the sleeping space, move to the bathroom space, then the eating space, then the working space, then the playing space or the relaxing space, and end up back at the sleeping space at the end of the day.  Here, instead, his body stayed still and the space around him changed to supply whatever he wanted.  Need the toilet?  Make one, use it, then dismiss it.  Conjure a restaurant into being long enough to enjoy breakfast, then send it packing.

There were only two things he needed to leave the simspace for.  One was to check the ship’s progress.  He headed for the command bridge, feeling a bit strange about padding around the ship in the buff but really there was no reason not to.  There he spent about twenty minutes in all doing his “job”.  All status lights were green, all reports from the navigation AI indicated systems were operating normally.  That part was done in two minutes but he stretched it out to almost ten, double- and triple-checking things that didn’t need to be double- and triple-checked.

Next he checked for messages.  This required slowing down.  At the speed he was traveling, subspace communications were unreliable to the point of being little more than garble.  Slower ships could travel and stay in contact at the same time, and comm technology would probably soon progress to the point where that would be true for this ship too.  For now, though, when he was traveling at full speed, he was effectively cut off from the rest of the universe.  Hence the reason Bareem didn’t get his bad news until their arrival at RS-98.

Somewhat counter-intuitively, the best way to slow down was to drop out of warp completely.  Unlike rocket-driven ships that built up momentum as they traveled and needed to shed that momentum to decelerate, Sam’s ship was not “moving” at all.  It was disappearing from one point in space and reappearing in another with no change in momentum.  He could stop in an instant and start back up again just as quickly.  And as long as he kept his break short, this was actually easier for the navigation AI to calculate and handle than dropping to one-half or one-third speed would be.

So he stopped the ship.  The omnipresent hum that he had grown accustomed to abruptly ceased as the engines powered down.  The quiet was almost eerie, as though he were suddenly on a ghost ship.  There was one message waiting from Kappa Redulans letting him know that their situation was stable (if desperate), so no need to push the warp engines into the red… yet.  He replied, acknowledging receipt and reassuring them he was on his way with all due haste, then sent a report back to base saying the journey was proceeding on schedule, all systems nominal.   Then he fired up the engines again.  The background hum resumed and he felt satisfied with the state of things, assured that he was doing everything he could do at this point… and that he could therefore justify spending the rest of the day in the simspace.

But before doing that, he needed to take care of the other matter that could only be done from the bridge: changing the simspace’s interactivity level.  He stood up from the command console and went to the finger / retina scanner to authenticate himself.

“Beta omicron nu delta alpha gamma three,” he said in response to Pyrellia’s prompt.  It was his go-to passphrase for one-off use.  Whenever he needed something easy to remember for a temporary purpose such as this flight, that was what he picked.  The Greek letters (which he knew thanks to the math classes pilots were required to take) spelled out βονδα𝛄3 with a digit thrown in at the end because some systems required them.  It perhaps lacked the creative flair of Bareem’s mangled tongue-twister, but at this point he had used it often enough that he wasn’t likely to forget it.  The letters rolled off his tongue.  Once authenticated, he requested level 3.  No life-threatening harm… but “discomfort”?  Yeah, baby, bring it on.

Back to the simspace.  For his next adventure he decided to take the top role.  He found a sim from Studdz, a studio whose offerings he had enjoyed in the past, though with much humbler systems to run them on.  This one was called Damoclan Dick.  Setting: Damoclan Prison in the Lubeus system.  Characters: one guard, one inmate (optionally expandable to up to three of each, but Sam was going to keep it simple).  Plot: guard works inmate over because Reasons.  Or inmate turns tables on guard.  Fucking and sucking ensue.  Other variations were possible when more characters, either real or generated, were added to the mix, but really, how much plot did a porn sim need?

It went… okay.  Sam took the role of the guard and very much enjoyed the part where he had the inmate bound to the cell’s barred wall and was thrashing him with a flogger.  It was a great form of exercise, swinging his arm and feeling that satisfying smack of contact.  He also enjoyed grabbing his victim’s vulnerably-dangling balls and squeezing them in his fist until the inmate was gritting his teeth and trying not to whimper.  Very masculine, just the sort of reaction Sam wanted from him.  Such a sense of power to have a man’s nuts between your fingers and your palm, playing him like a violin with the tiniest movements of the muscles in your forearm!

Then later he enjoyed re-tying the inmate on the cot and plunging his dick into the man’s open mouth.  Squirting his load straight down his victim’s throat was satisfying, too.  It helped that the inmate stayed hard throughout the scene and naturally had a porn-character-generous endowment.  It’s probably for the best that I’m on top, he thought at one point as he was stroking the massive Damoclan dick.  Getting fucked by this monster would do some serious damage!

The only problem, and he tried to convince himself it was a small one, was that deep down Sam knew it was all fake.  The inmate wasn’t a real person.  He was a character with no mind of his own, reciting canned lines and responding in fairly predictable ways.  During the flogging, there wasn’t much variety in what he said and in fact he started to repeat himself well before the point where Sam was ready to move on.  And when Sam untied him from the cell wall to move him to the cot, there was no danger that he would lash out and take control, leaving Sam to be the one tied up on the cot getting his tonsils drilled.  Because that was the scene Sam had specified, and so that was the scene he got.

So… pretty good overall, but lacking a certain spontaneity.  Which was fine, really.  It had to be.  With no one else here on the ship with him, Sam really needed to make sure he didn’t get himself into a predicament he couldn’t get himself out of.  He definitely wanted to do a scene where he was the bound one, but he would need to make sure it was foolproof first.  Hopefully the level 3 interactivity setting would ensure that he never got in over his head, but without another human here to intervene, Sam would have no fallback in the event of some sort of system screwup.  His nightmares could all too easily envision the result if something were to go wrong:

In nineteen days’ time, Pyrellia’s Wing would arrive at Kappa Redulans, drop out of warp, and wait for its human pilot to handle the final approach and docking.  That pilot would, unfortunately, be unable to perform this, his one and only duty, the entire reason for him being on this mission at all, because he had regrettably managed to get himself tied up / locked in / strapped down somehow and couldn’t get out.  Oopsie.  And then, depending on the timing and the details of his entrapment, he might survive to the end of the voyage despite lack of food and water.  Or he might not.

Once there, the survivors at his destination would be overjoyed at first to note the arrival of his ship.  That joy would quickly sour to disappointment as the ship and the salvation it carried stubbornly lingered tantalizingly close to their disabled station and yet uselessly far away, not responding to any attempt at contact.  Perhaps they would manage to improvise a way to reach the ship themselves and if so they would either rescue him or discover his restrained remains when they came on board.  Perhaps, if he was lucky, they wouldn’t realize this was a simspace at all?  Perhaps they would assume he had been set upon by a band of cutthroat space pirates who had chained him up as punishment for his failure to have a cargo hold stuffed with gold doubloons for them to plunder, then set the ship back on its course.

Unlikely.  This was not a Captain Jack novel.  More plausibly, the survivors on the station would not be able to reach the ship and would all die when their energy reserves finally gave out.  And then the truth would be discovered when Starmada’s second, slower rescue mission arrived, the ship carrying the rest of the supplies needed for permanent repairs after Pyrellia‘s cargo had gotten the emergency stabilized.  They would arrive some eight days later to find a sad tableau: shields failed, living space awash in lethal radiation… and a perfectly intact ship hovering nearby with supplies that could have prevented the disaster, except that the pilot’s dick had taken over for his brain.  The name “Sam Green” would go down in infamy as a synonym for “idiot who fucked up far, far beyond the bounds of common, everyday fuckuppery.”  He might even become a verb: “dude, what were you thinking?  You really Sam Greened it there.”

So, yeah: if he was going to be the bound one, it absolutely had to be something he could get himself out of.  In theory, he could rely on a simspace-generated character to set him loose, but fundamentally, he needed to be the one in charge even when playing a submissive role.

Satiated from his session at Damoclan, Sam spent the rest of the morning lounging around.  Instead of the beach, he had Pyrellia create a deck next to a lakeside cabin surrounded by mountains and pine trees.  Same warm simulated sunshine; different background sounds.  The sky was vivid blue, which was much better for his psyche than the magenta-maroon one of the world with the hot tub, and the air was cooler and less humid than by the sea.  A peaceful, pleasant spot.

He spent an enjoyable hour with Captain Jack.  (A treasure-filled derelict spaceship!  Guarded by photon snakes!  Caught in a decaying orbit around a black hole!  Will the fearless rascal be able to escape with the loot?  Spoiler: of course he will.)  Then a bit of exercise, a light jog around the lake with the magic of the simspace ensuring that wherever his body actually went, the illusion had him tracing a trail around the circumference of the lake, and no matter how far he went, when he was ready to be done, there was his deck just ahead, awaiting his return.  After that, a brief nap in the shade, and then it was time for lunch.

He opted for a chef’s salad at Tinbroker, a restaurant on Vinpretl, the homeworld of the dandressi, a race highly regarded throughout the Confederation for its culinary skill.  The restaurant was situated on the edge of a high bluff overlooking a waterfall famous for its beauty and its long drop.  Sure enough, the sight from the veranda was spectacular.  Silvery sunlit droplets cascaded off the rim of the cliff on the other side of the chasm and spilled down in slow motion to eventually strike the floor of the canyon more than a kilometer below.  Half the water never reached the bottom at all and was instead borne off by the wind to speckle the walls downstream.

This was due to the canyon’s alignment with the prevailing wind direction and the fact that it narrowed in width by about half just before the point where the water came pouring off from one of the side walls.  Air already in the canyon was accelerated due to the funnel effect and as a result most days of the year saw winds of at least forty kilometers per hour inside the canyon, sometimes as high as sixty.  The fast-moving air whipped the falling water into a spray and bore the drops as far as twenty kilometers down the canyon.  The mist that resulted brought moisture to an otherwise dry environment and the result was a thriving ecosystem of plants and animals adapted to a vertical existence, a pocket biome of life forms found nowhere else on Vinpretl.  Meanwhile, at the top of the walls where Tinbroker was, diners experienced no more than a gentle breeze and a stunning view.

All this Sam learned while browsing through the informational pamphlet left on all the tables at Tinbroker as he waited for his meal to arrive.  (Sure, he could have synthesized the salad right away, but the point of eating at a restaurant at all was for the experience of it.  He had a lot of hours to fill up.)  Munching later on his artfully-flavored greens and protein slices, Sam marveled at the deep, almost black hue of the cliff-hanging plants, the flitting of birdlike creatures and bat-like creatures from one patch of foliage to another, the way that some plants had evolved sail-like leaves that they deployed to catch additional light and moisture when wind speeds were moderate but which could fold up and retract when the gusts grew too strong.

It was glorious, a delightful place to have lunch.  And once he had finished eating, it was a delightful place to ponder his next adventure in the simspace.  Once more diving into the library of all-male porn, he found another that looked worth trying.  This one was called “Put It In, Coach” and had a sports theme.  The actual sport was never specified and it didn’t really matter.  The setup was that one of the players needed an attitude adjustment and Coach was going to deliver it.  This time Sam took the submissive role, that of the player.  Tinbroker, the canyon, and the waterfall evanesced away and an archetypical changing room took their place.

Once again, the result was not bad, but not great.  Coach was perfect for his character: tall and muscular, imposing and intimidating.  The locker room was convincing in all ways: sight, sound, smell.  The bench that Sam was tied to was suitably hard and unyielding.  The ropes that Coach used to fasten him to it were reasonably secure but Sam was fairly certain he could have wriggled his way out of them if he had needed to.  The spanking that Coach delivered to his bare ass was something new for Sam, who had never tried that particular fetish before.  It hurt at first, but as his ass warmed up the blows started to feel good in a way.  That warmth lasted through the subsequent fucking, too.  And Sam had gone into the settings menu and specified that the coach’s, uh, athletic equipment should be about three sizes less than the maximum possible.

Sam sassed the coach during the spanking.  “That’s all you got?  Musta been slacking off on arm workout days” and “If I hit like that on the field, you’d have me benched in two seconds flat” and “Swing it like you mean it, motherfucker!”  His lip might have spurred the coach to greater intensity than he would have otherwise used, but then again it might not.  It was hard to say.  Considering the power of the simspace, Sam had expected more, but the coach’s lines, like the Dude From Damoclan’s, weren’t very imaginative.

At least, not until the very end.  Once the loads had been shot – Coach’s landing on Sam’s reddened ass and Sam’s landing on the locker room floor – Sam started feeling a bit of disappointment.  Once again the experience felt fake, which was understandable: it was fake.  Maybe Sam was just experiencing post-orgasm letdown, but suddenly he felt like spending more time by the lake and less time being pretend-abused by pretend people.  Coach untied him and he stood up.

“Thanks.  You’re not bad for a hologram,” Sam said.  An unwarranted bit of snark.  The guy had performed his role perfectly – it wasn’t his fault he wasn’t real.

“Thanks.  You’re not bad for a meat puppet,” Coach replied, accompanied by a semi-affectionate, none-too-gentle punch to Sam’s shoulder.  Sam’s eyebrows furrowed for a moment.  Was that… a joke?  A breaking of the fourth wall?  If so, it was a more sophisticated thing to say than any line the coach, or any character, had yet spoken.  Perhaps it was just a canned response, an Easter egg put into the sim by some programmer who anticipated a player saying something like what Sam had just said?  The coach turned and walked out the door, leaving Sam alone in the locker room.

“Pyrellia, end program.”  The locker room vanished, the grey walls of the simspace reappeared, and Sam set off to check the nav systems again, still not quite certain what to make of the coach character’s last line.  Eh, it probably didn’t matter – he was reading more into it than could possibly be there.  He pondered instead what he might do next.  For now, something non-sexual; he was drained.  But after that, perhaps he’d be in the mood for a third go-around in the evening… or maybe he might like to do something completely different.  It was a beautiful thing, having all this open time ahead of him and complete freedom as to how to fill it!

As it turned out, he had dinner at a casino, letting the buzzing hum of other people’s conversation wash over him while he sat at a table with Fred Boltzer, Pierre Jacques-Rouen, and Nedandra Mokembe, three of the hottest-looking (in Sam’s opinion) holo-stars from the last two decades.  The conversation was smooth and easy (non-porn characters apparently had better vocabulary programmed in), the food was superb, and the sight of these three gorgeous men in their formalwear was very pleasant to Sam’s eye.  Sam himself was still naked – his uniform still lay in the unused cabin where he had taken it off days ago.  There was just no reason to put clothing on at all.  He was comfortable and nobody around him cared.  Despite his nudity, the situation never turned overtly sexual.  Perhaps if he hadn’t shot two loads already earlier in the day, he might have invited one… or all three… of his dinner companions to bed afterward, but sleep actually appealed more.  There was no rush.

 

Unical date: 3752.563.23 (eighteen days until scheduled arrival at Kappa Redulans)

The following day he decided it was time to leave pre-canned porn scenes behind.  Perhaps that would help reduce the feeling of make-believe that he was getting from them.  He also decided that he was going to try not shooting a load for a bit in the hope that focusing on the bondage would help him get good and horny again, and avoiding orgasm would let him stay that way.

After another quick course and message check (all still in order), he ordered up the equipment he would need and configured the room.  Then he summoned last night’s dinner companions back into existence.  They appeared before him, still dressed in their tuxedos.  Sam, by contrast, was still stark naked.

“Hi, guys.  Here’s what I’d like you to do.  Secure me in that sleepsack there, then strap the sleepsack down to the floor.  Keep me in it for six hours unless I say ’emergency exit’.  After six hours, or if I say ’emergency exit’, or if I appear to be in distress or am having trouble breathing, undo the straps and let me out.  Aside from that, don’t do anything I may ask you to do.  Got it?”  The “no life-threatening harm” setting of simspace level 3 should take care of that last issue, but it didn’t hurt to be extra safe.

“Happy to oblige,” said Nedandra and the three holo-stars set to work.  Sam cooperated, lying down in the open sleepsack and sliding his arms down into the internal sleeves.  Fred and Nedandra worked on lacing and strapping the sleepsack while Pierre placed a heavy hood over Sam’s head and tightened it down.  In short order, Sam’s body went from totally free to completely embraced by leather that pressed in tightly from all sides.  Steadily, the trio worked on pulling all the slack out of his bonds, tightening laces and straps one by one, then returning to tighten each one further.  The pressure on Sam’s body steadily grew and his mobility steadily disappeared.

By the time they finished with the sleepsack, all he could do was bend his legs a bit and buck his body.  Then they secured the sack to the floor and even that ability was removed.  Sam was lying on his back, arms at his sides, legs together, unable to bend anything.  His head was strapped down to the floor so he couldn’t even turn it from side to side.  This was as immobilized as he had ever been and it was magnificent.

He fought the bondage at first, testing and exploring to see if there was any play.  There wasn’t.  His trio of holo-stars knew their stuff, it seemed.  Then he spent a while just relaxing into the restraints, savoring the sensation of being helpless and controlled.  How long each of these stages lasted, he could not have said – time always seemed to flow differently when he was bound.

Eventually he felt the itch to move and it rapidly grew.  He tried to thrash but wasn’t sure if any of his efforts were even visible outside his leather cocoon.  It was frustrating, but the frustration was exactly what he wanted and so it worked for him.  This was real enough.  Sagging back into acceptance once more, Sam felt his dick stiffening up, inspired by his helpless situation.

That lasted for a little while, then his mind drifted away and he relaxed again.  Some unknown while later, the urge to move struck again and this time it struck hard.  Sam strained against his bindings and it made not a bit of difference.  Suddenly the bondage was too much and he felt like he absolutely had to move or go crazy.

“Hey?  Fred?  Pierre?  You guys out there?  You suppose you could loosen me up just a little bit?  Just for a minute?”  Five seconds after the words were out of his mouth he regretted them.  Buck up, man!  It isn’t really bondage until you want out, right?  Still, he couldn’t stop himself from continuing to strain, moaning while he did.

Then he felt a nudge against his ribs.  “Hey, pipe down in there,” a voice called from somewhere overhead.  Fred’s?  Could be Nedandra’s but no, probably Fred’s.  Sam groaned some more, still struggling invisibly inside the sleepsack.

“If you think whining is going to make us have pity on you, forget it.  You know what to say if you want out, and I haven’t heard any safe words yet.”

No, Sam hadn’t said the safe words.  He almost did right then, the temptation to be able to be free was that strong.  But he knew he’d hate himself if he bailed out early.

“How much time is left?” he asked instead.

“You don’t get that information.”  Right, of course, Sam had specified that.  “Either say the safe words, or shut the hell up, understand?”  The toe nudged his ribs once more and then Sam heard footsteps receding.  He was alone in his plight once more.

Breathe, just breathe.  This will pass.  He took breaths as deeply as he could, long and slow, hoping it would help.  And eventually it did.

The restless urge struck twice more before they came to set him free, and by then it felt as though he had been lying there for an entire day, not merely a quarter of one.  His bladder was achingly full and he had almost pulled the plug for that reason, but kept hanging in there one minute at a time.  When at last they released him, he was a sweaty wreck, and a hungry one.  Standing on wobbly legs, he thanked his trio of holo-star hunks for their help, then banished them to wherever it was that simspace characters went when they were no longer needed.  The thought was sort of disquieting, but he managed to not think about it too hard while he emptied his bladder and then wolfed down a sandwich.

Not a bad morning, not at all.  He was proud of himself for having endured all the way through, but man, it had sure taken a mental toll.  He found himself tired and so after lunch, despite the fact that he had just lain perfectly still for the last six hours, he went and took a nap.

***

The simspace monitoring systems now had a fairly good idea of what made Sam tick.  It was their job, after all, to be aware of and responsive to the needs and desires of the users of the simulations.  It was not their job, however, to speculate how those needs and desires could be turned to someone else’s advantage.

That feature was the work of something else entirely.

 

Unical date: 3752.563.23 (later that day)

Sam realized that his circadian rhythm was getting out of whack – the late lunch and nap had left him feeling like this was a brand-new day, and yet it was only early evening.  He was not at all hungry for dinner and bedtime was going to be a long way off.  And it didn’t matter one whit because he was the only person here.  As long as he could manage to time things so that he was awake at the proper time eighteen days from now when he arrived, who cared when he ate, slept, peed, wanked?  It made no difference at all.

The afternoon session involved an alien because why not?

Ordinarily Sam was not much into xenophilia.  Some people had that fetish; they were attracted either to members of a specific species or just to aliens in general.  Sam’s tastes, though, were definitely focused on human males.  But this voyage was a great time to experiment and there was no chance of causing an interplanetary diplomatic incident by sleeping with the wrong foreign visitor, so why not give it a try?

The library’s selection was, of course, comprehensive.  There were representatives of forty-two races from systems the Confederation had contact with.  There were hephaestans, of course, who looked pretty much just like humans except that their ears were pointy and the ones he had known at the university had been depressingly dull at parties.  And there were warxons, who were just as unwelcome at parties due to their habit of taking outsized offense at tiny imagined slights.  Then there were chilurreans, dandressi, sin shan gan, hilaxitans, trechubays, zeta garnians…

He winnowed the list down by excluding races that were too different – six-limbed, half-meter-long ghopurs, hive-mind smahallaroids, aquatic orca-sized k’chenderee… all just too different.  And then he ruled out a much larger group of aliens that were basically just bumpy-headed humans with unusual skin colors.  There were reasons why so many races were bipedal mammals, reasons that Sam had theoretically learned about in his xenobiology lectures, but, again: he had been aspiring pilot at the time, focused pretty much exclusively on things that go ZOOM.  And on checking out the other aspiring pilots around him, which is why he hadn’t really paid attention to the talks on why so many different evolutionary trees led to such a similar endpoint.

He opted for a tarachsian, a race of upright bipeds: close enough to be appealing, but definitely different in some fundamental ways.  The particular tarachsian that appeared was about Sam’s height and, like Sam, was unconcernedly naked.  His body was covered with a thin coating of downy fur, though he was not a mammal; tarachsians bore a closer resemblance to birds and reptiles than to mammals in that they laid eggs externally.  His skin was a deep red, so dark that from certain angles it appeared brown.  Very faint stripe patterns were visible running vertically along his torso, a slight hint of red in both skin and fur alternating with deeper mahogany.

A soft penis – a very human-like penis – dangled between his legs.  A tail about half a meter long dangled down behind.  His face was close to human in that it had two eyes, two ears, a mouth, and a nose, but the proportions were very different.  The eyes were set wide, near the edges of the head.  The ears were like cat’s ears set on top.  The nose and mouth protruded like a muzzle, though the lips were hard like a beak instead of soft and flexible like Sam’s own.  That made his speech a little difficult to understand, but Sam hadn’t conjured him up for his sparkling conversational skills.

Sam took the top role, tying the tarachsian – whose name was Keck – in a standing spread-eagle against a metal frame, arms and legs stretched out to the corners, muscles flat and taut.  He summoned up his trusty flogger once more and laid into the fuzz-covered skin of the chest and stomach.  At one point, inspecting the skin for marks, he discovered that Keck lacked nipples, which made sense for a race whose females did not breast-feed their infants.  But it meant there was nothing for Sam to squeeze and pinch and nibble on.

After warming up his victim, Sam dropped to his knees to do a bit of sucking, at which point he discovered another unexpected difference between the species: tarachsians lacked testicles.  And the penis, when hard, wasn’t quite as human-like as it had seemed when soft.  It lacked a flanged head and instead was just a shaft that tapered to a curved end.  With the tarachsian’s reddish-brown skin it looked exactly like a thick hot dog.  Presumably these were normal traits and not some sort of malformation, so Sam just rolled with it.

The missing testicles were a constant surprise.  Burying his face in Keck’s crotch, he kept noticing and re-noticing the absence of a fleshy sack dangling underneath.  His chin never pressed up against a fur-covered pouch that seemed like it should have been there.  His hands kept seeking for something to grab onto and not finding it.  But then at one point his hand reached further back, passing over the hole and then, abruptly, met with an obstruction.  Oh, right, the tail!  The moment he touched it, Keck’s moans doubled in volume and Sam realized he had just found the tarachsian equivalent of nipples: a part of the body that was not obviously connected to the genitals but which played a role in sexual stimulation all the same.

Well, now that he knew…

The tail turned out to be powerful erogenous zone and Sam had a great time seeing what he could do with it.  Eventually the time came to bring things to a close.  When Keck came, the resulting fluid was like liquid glass, almost completely transparent.  Sam used it as lube to stroke himself off, squirting his load onto Keck’s spent dick and thus completing the loop of exchanged fluids.

“Thank you for that experience,” Keck said as Sam untied him and uncaged his tail.  “Your soft mouth is capable of astonishing feats.”  Right… a species with a beak would be terrible at giving blow jobs.

“Thank you,” Sam countered.  “That tail is an amazing organ.”

All in all it was good.  Similar but different, and the differences were interesting rather than off-putting.  Still… having scratched the xeno-itch, Sam figured he would be quite content sticking with human males for the rest of the voyage.

 

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