He scanned the view screen, squinting at the passing stars as if the object of his desires might suddenly appear, magically. But there were only stars and space garbage.

“Slow to impulse,” he snapped, swivelling in his chair and cupping his chin in a tanned hand. He pulled absently at his elegant beard, then Capitain Karlo Rural crushed his paper drinking cup in his hands, forgetting that he had not finished his beverage (steaming hot latte, sprinkle of chocolate). It was not, however, the scalding coffee which made him grimace. “Kewtbot,” he hissed between his teeth, quietly enough to almost count as an soliloquy but loud enough to attract the attention of his crew, who all immediately sank lower in their chairs. “Where are you, my little sex demon? Where are you, you purveyor of pleasure on a grand scale?”

He was just about to turn away, give orders to change course, when he saw it.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw it.

A clue.

“Lock on the tractor beam and bring it here,” he commanded, pointing. Lulu at the helm hesitated a second before complying. It looked like a-

When the wavy light flashy effect, accompanied by a whooshy sound effect, had finished flashing and whooshing, the crew of the pirate ship beheld on the little transporter pad on the bridge:

A huge purple dildo. Rural knew this dildo. He knew it very well and the knowledge made him squirm a little in his big captain’s chair. But he had to make sure…

“Run a level 69 diagnostic,” he ordered, and, at the helm, Lulu pressed a series of buttons which in turn caused a series of lights to pass over the huge purple dildo. The crew held its collective breath.

“Well?” Rural barked. Lulu straightened a little in her chair and then said, “Scans indicate the object contains traces of dna attributable to the following species: Human (26%), Venutian (4%) and "

“Enough with the pregnant pauses, get on with it!” Rural snapped, gripping the arm of his chair.

Lulu cleared her throat. “Kewtopian (70%).”

The dildo seemed to quiver slightly under the gaze of the crew.

“So, Kewtbot. I’m on the right track. And this time there will be no one to steal you from me.” Rural stood up, tall and beautiful, his white teeth dazzling and perfect. The crew were suitably impressed.

It was just such a shame he had a great big damp patch on his pants.

“Plot a reverse course on that dildo, and on to glory!”

***~~~***

The Planet Pout was a beautiful place; its nine continents mostly lush and verdant, its climate temperate and its peoples well-formed and elegant, tall and graceful. The planet was ruled by the Tang Dynasty, headed by King Ugo. His lovely daughter, Liv, the apple of his eye, the pride of his people, had been long engaged to Orlando of Oliphauntia, and the nuptials were fast approaching. Indeed, Orlando’s ship the SS Cirdan was expected to make port in the next few days and then the pact between Oliphauntia and Pout would be sealed and the war which had raged between the two planets on and off for centuries would finally be over.

King Ugo was a little disappointed, however, at his daughter’s reaction to this news.

“I don’t want to marry him, Daddy! I don’t want to marry anyone! I want to live first - have adventures like a man! Be a mercenary… Discover the cure for line dancing… You can’t make me marry this stranger I haven’t seen in ten years!” Liv screeched, her eyebrows drawn down like diving herons upon her exquisite pale face.

King Ugo sighed. “You must marry him, daughter. Marry, have children, bring peace to our two worlds, learn to embroider… have affairs if you want, who cares? Just marry him, daughter. For daddy?” He ducked a stuffed marmusian bear which Liv had tossed, then several cushions.

“I hate you, you are cruel and evil,” she sobbed, falling upon her bed.

“Poppet, don’t take on so. Daddy will buy you that small island you always wanted,” Ugo tried. He hated to see his little girl so unhappy. But a deal was a deal and the wedding would go ahead no matter if he should lose his daughter’s love because of it. “You’ll like being married, truly you will. Besides, with a bit of luck, this Orlando fellow will be hung like a Kassanovian Cave Troll. Here’s hoping, eh?”

Liv lay upon her bed and beat the mattress with her fists.

“I’ll leave you now, sweetums. I’ll ask cook to send you some chocolate up; that always seems to make you feel better.” King Ugo withdrew. He prayed to whichever god might be listening that his daughter would see sense before Friday. If Orlando should come to claim his bride on behalf of Oliphauntia and be disappointed – well, Oliphauntia would be in its rights to exact a bloody and vicious revenge on Pout.

The Oliphauntians never forgot anything, of course. They particularly favoured the tried and terrible torture of the towel-whip. A man could scarcely survive twenty lashings of the towel-whip. Ugo winced and rubbed his arse. He'd felt a few of their stings, upon his most recent trip to Oliphauntia, after a night with the King's daughter. Bloody bastards. And the King there had promised twenty more such lashings, and to be dressed in drag for a month, should the marriage fall through.

King Ugo simply despised high heels.

***

Mong'dagain tried to ready himself for when the Captain would come in, lounging on the Captain's desk in his office. He'd gotten the upper hand. He couldn't lose it now, or he might never find himself the test subject for Mortensen's fabulous lubes again.

Would he even get the chance to try that lube on the Captain? Oh no. No, he couldn't even think that. But oh, that would be good wank fodder for in-between times.

He jerked to attention, then just as quickly forced himself back into the casual sprawl across the desk, as Mortensen entered the room, looking at him with a mixture of anger, ire, lust and expectation, slamming the door behind him.

"I do hope there's a good reason for this, ensign. Do I need to show you who is commanding officer on this ship?"

Oh yes! was the immediate reply leaping to Mon's tongue, but he tried to remember Kewtbot and drawled instead, "If . . . . that is what you wish." Dramatic pause. "Sir." He slowly rose to his feet, slunk over to Mortensen, and ran a finger up from that spectacular codpiece up to Mortensen's lips, pushing in his finger a little to feel the slick heat of Mortensen's mouth, quaking inside and wondering if he'd just signed himself up for Cook's duty for the next millennium. In for a pound . . . oh what the fuck. He leaned in and captured Mortensen's mouth in a searing kiss.

He was not prepared for the ferocity of Mortensen's kiss back. Usually, it was with an almost bored look on his face that the Captain pressed his Captainess into Mon's body. Now, Mortensen was clawing at Mon's uniform, lapping at his mouth as if he were the finest whiskey from their engineer's home planet. Suddenly Mortensen grabbed Mon by the thin fabric of his Slashfleet uniform and threw him to the desk. With a few deft moves, the codpiece landed in a jingling clink of many sparklies beside Mon's head.

"I want to know . . . where you learned this. You didn't figure . . . this out on your own." Mortensen's voice was rough and ready, his hands tearing off Mon's uniform, spinning him about again to shove him down on the desk once more, this time on his back. Mon was speechless. The results were much uh--more potent than he'd figured on.

"Kewtbot," Mon squeaked, losing his cool entirely. He groaned as the Captain's fingers pushed into him, sliding around that favourite Lube Number Five.

"Kewtbot," Mortensen growled, as he leaned forward and pushed in. And then he did something he almost never did while inside--he kissed Mon again! Mon could have wept for joy. Oh, this was . . . . really good. Fucked and kissed at the same time. Who knew the Captain was so talented?

"Are you mad at me, sir?" Mon managed to get out, as the Captain repeatedly slammed into him, hands grasping at his happy pole and stroking until Mon came. Mortensen came as well, roaring, then covering Mon with his body. And this was nice as well. Desk was . . . well, almost like a bed. Better than the janitor's closet, anyway.

Mortensen glared at him, and Mon shrank back a little. Maybe he had gone too far. Maybe Kewtbot had been wrong.

"From now on, ensign . . ." The Captain's voice was a thick snarl.

Mon tensed.

" . . . You're to act that way ALL the time. And come to my chambers tonight after you're done with your duty. I want everyone to know you're polishing my brass. That was marvellous out there. The way they all stared at you. My . . . little . . . ensign."

Mortensen grinned. Mon grinned.

By Slashfleet, Kewtbot was right.

**

To Be Continued in Episode 10 . . .

To Inset - Kewtbot the Early Years: Assimilation