Don Pendleton - Civil War II Read Online Free Page B
Author: Don Pendleton
snarling face in the revolving mirror, and laughed outright at the fierce countenance. But he still felt nettled as he stepped into the cabin—he could not get rid of it all simply by laughing. He went over to the table, lit a cigarette, studied the service box, decided he didn't want anything, then took his cigarette to the recliner and made himself comfortable. Windows! That's one thing he remembered and missed on these modern jobs. Windows! Once there were windows on airplanes. You could sit there at the window and look down to the earth, far below. Well, what the hell . . . never could see anything anyhow. You sure couldn't sit around bare-ass on one of those old crates. You couldn't get your suit pressed, or take a shower, or take a stewardess to bed. Hell, he didn't miss the damn windows.
He lay there in a quietly troubled reverie and finished the cigarette, then dropped the butt into the tube, puffed the pillows beneath his head and began trying to put the pieces back together in his head. His door opened and a pretty young woman stepped in. She wore the familiar sky-blue shortie smock of the Accomodations Stewardess. She smiled and moved to the table, picked up his AMS card and ran it through the service box, then shrugged out of the smock and posed for his inspection.
Accustomed as he was to female nudity, Winston gawked nevertheless. She was a tall girl, maybe five-nine or ten, her body flowingly arranged in rose-tinted hues of soft hills and vales and swinging planes. Her hair was some odd shade between black and red, the eyes wide-spaced—almost oriental—glowing with lights. A red gem, probably synthetic, adorned the deep dimple of her belly button.
"Acceptable?" she asked quietly, turning to give Winston the side view.
"I guess I got the wrong section," he growled.
She studied his face briefly, then said, "This is the accommodations suite. Didn't you want sexual accommodation?"
He shook his head, a bit uncertainly, and told her, "Not especially."
"Then you programmed the wrong box when you boarded," she said. "But as long as you're here .. ."
"Well, let's not, and just say we did," Winston murmured. "Nothing personal, tigress. I just . . . uh . . . want to lie here and think."
The girl moved on to the recliner nevertheless and perched on the edge, a warm hip pressing against him. "I already ran your card through," she pointed out. "You may as well get your ten minutes' worth. If you don't want sexplay, how about a little massage?" Her hands were already kneading the flesh of his arms, the delightful aroma of her creating a delicate atmosphere between the polarized bodies.
His hands merged with the soft warmth of her body. "Don't any girls of this generation ever wear hair?" he asked casually.
The girl wrinkled her nose at the remark and languidly wriggled her midsection in recognition of Winston's presence there. "Girls today don't have that kinkup," she told him. "Anyway, who needs hair there ? The skin's the thing, isn't it?" She eased down and kissed him softly on the lips, bringing the rose-tipped breasts to rest on his chest. She found him with a free hand, giggled softly into his mouth, and playfully manipulated his torrid zone.
"What do you want massaged first?" she asked tauntingly.
Winston gently slapped her hip and said, "You win," :md pulled her down beside him, his hands tracing the outline of smooth flanks and flawless femininity.
The girl laughed and pulled free, reasserting her command of the situation. "You sure don't need an I'uergizer, do you," she commented.
"In my day, an exciting woman was all the energizer a guy needed."
"Here it comes," she said, sighing.
"Here what comes?"
"The lecture I get a dozen times a week. On the modern generation and chemical sex."
"I'm no lecturer," Winston told her, and showed her.
"Wait a minute!" the girl cried. She struggled to her feet and went to the service table, returning with two small plastic packets. She tore them open and shoved
He lay there in a quietly troubled reverie and finished the cigarette, then dropped the butt into the tube, puffed the pillows beneath his head and began trying to put the pieces back together in his head. His door opened and a pretty young woman stepped in. She wore the familiar sky-blue shortie smock of the Accomodations Stewardess. She smiled and moved to the table, picked up his AMS card and ran it through the service box, then shrugged out of the smock and posed for his inspection.
Accustomed as he was to female nudity, Winston gawked nevertheless. She was a tall girl, maybe five-nine or ten, her body flowingly arranged in rose-tinted hues of soft hills and vales and swinging planes. Her hair was some odd shade between black and red, the eyes wide-spaced—almost oriental—glowing with lights. A red gem, probably synthetic, adorned the deep dimple of her belly button.
"Acceptable?" she asked quietly, turning to give Winston the side view.
"I guess I got the wrong section," he growled.
She studied his face briefly, then said, "This is the accommodations suite. Didn't you want sexual accommodation?"
He shook his head, a bit uncertainly, and told her, "Not especially."
"Then you programmed the wrong box when you boarded," she said. "But as long as you're here .. ."
"Well, let's not, and just say we did," Winston murmured. "Nothing personal, tigress. I just . . . uh . . . want to lie here and think."
The girl moved on to the recliner nevertheless and perched on the edge, a warm hip pressing against him. "I already ran your card through," she pointed out. "You may as well get your ten minutes' worth. If you don't want sexplay, how about a little massage?" Her hands were already kneading the flesh of his arms, the delightful aroma of her creating a delicate atmosphere between the polarized bodies.
His hands merged with the soft warmth of her body. "Don't any girls of this generation ever wear hair?" he asked casually.
The girl wrinkled her nose at the remark and languidly wriggled her midsection in recognition of Winston's presence there. "Girls today don't have that kinkup," she told him. "Anyway, who needs hair there ? The skin's the thing, isn't it?" She eased down and kissed him softly on the lips, bringing the rose-tipped breasts to rest on his chest. She found him with a free hand, giggled softly into his mouth, and playfully manipulated his torrid zone.
"What do you want massaged first?" she asked tauntingly.
Winston gently slapped her hip and said, "You win," :md pulled her down beside him, his hands tracing the outline of smooth flanks and flawless femininity.
The girl laughed and pulled free, reasserting her command of the situation. "You sure don't need an I'uergizer, do you," she commented.
"In my day, an exciting woman was all the energizer a guy needed."
"Here it comes," she said, sighing.
"Here what comes?"
"The lecture I get a dozen times a week. On the modern generation and chemical sex."
"I'm no lecturer," Winston told her, and showed her.
"Wait a minute!" the girl cried. She struggled to her feet and went to the service table, returning with two small plastic packets. She tore them open and shoved
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