Space station of the sluts

“God, Zanth,” Megan said. “You feel amazing.”

Red curls bobbed, a massive spill of them hiding the medtech’s face from view. A disembodied voice purred something unintelligible and self-satisfied. Warm lips brushed Megan’s thighs, circling, never landing for more than a moment.

Zanthia liked to tease.

“Kiss me,” Megan begged. She touched her friend’s curls with light fingertips. The cabin’s atmosphere was sealed and the gravity set low; strands of Zanthia’s hair floated about her hand in a soft cloud. “Kiss my clit, hon, please. I want you bad tonight.”

A soft giggle came from between her legs. Ghostly fingers danced along her thighs. Zanthia’s touch was always soft — she had the most amazingly long, slender hands. The medtech bounced gently on her knees, swaying in the low-gee at the edge of Megan’s bed. Her pale back arched down and away toward heart-shaped curve of her buttocks. Soft breasts swayed out of sight, touching first one of Megan’s legs and then the other.

“Don’t teeeaaaase,” Megan groaned impatiently. The redhead’s tongue was a flicker of warmth against her vulva, there and then gone again, never still. Megan could feel her breath coming faster and faster. Her cunt seemed to defy the grav settings — it felt thick, heavy, and wet, sodden with more than Zanthia’s spit. The air smelled wet and musky.