Maltese Pulp Part 5

STARSHIP INTERCOURSE

Part Five

by William Maltese

"…inform you it is imperative you change course immediately, rendezvousing with Starship 12B as quickly as possible. Your time for rendezvous has been approximated at three years and eight months. Your coordinates for such rendezvousing are: 002-4.3 21464-5 WSWTV2. You will reactivate freezing units to allow the trip’s completion without defrost of any member of the crew. You will defrost only Captain Peterson at the present, informing him of the situation, leaving the remaining members of the crew in freeze. You will hand Captain Peterson this directive with orders that he comply immediately. While he may attempt radioing us for verification, he is to change the ship’s course whether verification is received from this headquarters or not. I repeat: Captain Peterson is to proceed to rendezvous with Starship 12B whether or not verification for him to proceed is received from us. Starship 12B has been given proper coordinates for rendezvousing with you in Galaxy 4-5-21, Interstellar Chart 4. You will meet and join, utilizing Code Name Polar. In no instance shall this code name be made known to anyone else besides you, as radio operator, and Captain Peterson. You are warned — REPEAT: WARNED — that you may have on board one or more of the species of aliens mentioned in the first portion of this critique. The situation, as it has played out thus far leads us to believe they might well have had agents aboard all interstellar experiment ships leaving our ports after year 1978. Reports of destroyed and/or lost ships tend to verify this suspicion. Your rendezvous with Starship 12B has been programmed and analyzed as the only possible locking up of experimental ships in your segment of the galaxy. Three other spaceships have been scheduled for mid-space docking elsewhere, their coordinates to follow for your future reference. It is with the greatest possible regret that we here at Control inform you of such catastrophic interference by other beings, and we only hope that you will be able to carry on and survive where we have failed.

"Rendezvous scheduling of:

V-AcH-200 and P-DTU-4…"

The communicator module went silent. Lieutenant Margaret Masters adjusted her headpiece, switched dials, and attempted to clear the headphones of the galactic static that was suddenly rumbling in her ears. She eyed the decoded ciphers on the radio tape with a degree of horror and disbelief.

The ship seemed suddenly tomb-still.

She kept focused on the instrument panels. Everything seemed in working order. She re-inspected the series of messages which had been received by Charles Wilcox: Lieutenant Wilcox had been the radio communications man who had been defrosted to accept the last recorded message on file. All had been in order during his shift. He’d scribbled out a handwritten message to Margaret on the margins of that last decoded cipher sheet:

"Remember me in another three years, Margaret, baby. By then, this boy is going to be ready for a hot and sweaty fuck."

She had smiled when she’d remembered their last night on Earth together. Foolishly, he had screwed her without protection. Foolishly, she had let him. They’d both known what the results of that could have been, but the very danger of an unacceptable outcome had somehow added to the pleasure of the moment. She only thanked God that she hadn’t become pregnant. God knows what would’ve happened had she come out of deep-freeze and found an unborn baby in her suspended-animation cell. She discarded the horror of that particular scenario and, then, went back to dealing with the horror at hand.

She had defrosted right on schedule. At the time, the ship’s dials, coded forms, computerized data had given all indications that the experiment ship was progressing on course according to schedule. She’d made all the necessary routine checks before putting on the earphones. She’d checked the time, the date, and the other instruments which would assure that the message beamed from Earth would be picked up as scheduled. Her routine check of the ship’s operative components had taken her longer than she’d expected, and she’d taken her seat at the communications panel one minute prior to the moment of proposed interception of broadcast. She’d sunk back into the comfortable foam of the chair, wondering at how two years in deep-freeze had left so little tiredness within her bones. She’d engaged all necessary radio equipment and had waited. When the vacuum waves had still hummed nothing but static a minute later, Margaret had hastily re-checked her equipment. Everything had been operative. Everything had been in working order. Still there had been nothing incoming. She had again checked the time dials, running info through the computer to find any clue as to some undetected time lapse — a precaution she’d already taken earlier. Again the lights had blinked green, yellow, red; again the machine vomited out its tape.

Date: 23

Month: March

Year: 2003

Time: 2:15 p.m.

Date checked, re-checked,

Information accurate—

REPEAT: ACCURATE. Replay

Panel 5C2.

Margaret had pressed panel 5C2, and again the same information had rolled forth. The day had been right. The month had been right. The year had been right. The time had been right. All equipment had been operative. Yet, there had been no message received.

Automatically she had turned to the recorder. She should’ve checked it before, but priority on awakening had stressed that she first assure that the ship was in operative condition. By the time she’d finished with that, it’d been time for the message to come in.

She had pushed the rewind button, noticing that there had been, in fact, a fairly long length of used tape. Nervously, she had waited for it to rewind. It had finished with a click; a red light had gone on to indicate readiness of replay. She had hesitated nervously, had checked one more time to assure that there was no message in over the other equipment, and had pressed the replay switch. The dire message had begun:

"When you hear this, we shall be dead, destroyed, murdered. It will be up to you to carry on the human race. There will be no more Earth, no more of its men, no more of its women, and no more of its children.

We therefore must…"

In discussion of the "freezing" process induced by pulseometer

A state of consciousness will return by degrees, as the subject is merely awakening from a deep sleep, or from the deeper realm sometimes induced by hypnosis. In fact, the subject has been under a sleep of sorts, one induced electronically, through utilization of the pulseometer, and the conduits of electroregulators as applied to both the duodenilenta segments of the brain cell pilota. And as electronically as the sleep was induced, likewise, electronically the sleep will be removed. During periods of "sleep" the subject’s body functions will be slowed down as in archaic "freezing" techniques utilized in the operating theatres of the twentieth century. Slowed to the proper level, the subject will still exist but at a level wherein what would ordinarily take place in seconds can be programmed to take place in years… —SECURITY: CRYTO-TOP SECRET.

Charles Wilcox returned to consciousness by degrees. It was, indeed, rather like awakening from a deep sleep but not a lengthy one.

One always had a tendency to regret such awakenings, thinking momentarily that one hadn’t really been given the rest actually needed. This phenomenon, labeled scientifically Brotumulla by the medical staff at Experiment Headquarters, was sure to appear whether the subject had been asleep minutes (as in initial experimentation), hours (as in intermediate experimentation), months (as during final experimentation), or years (as in actual flights into deep space).

The darkness in Charles’ brain lifted, giving way to a light gray, which faded into white, which turned opaque as he opened his eyes to let the reality roll over him.

The body was never cold, because, though the archaic terminology "freezing" and "defrosting" held over from the early beginnings of experimentation in suspended animation, freezing was never actually what occurred. There was no lowering of the body temperature whatsoever.

If anything, Charles was a bit warm, a resultant effect of his blood’s suddenly increased circulation throughout this body.

He lay there in his tube quietly, trying desperately to gather his senses (a process termed Bilotmea by the staff, and Muddle by the crew), and felt that something was desperately wrong.

He’d felt this very same way the time he’d had to fight his way back through the black, the gray, the white, the opaque, to actual consciousness to learn there’d been a machinery malfunction and he’d almost died. Two other subjects had died.

He sat up in his animation tube, glancing about the cabin. Everything seemed in working order. The right lights seemed to be blinking; the right noises seemed to be coming from the computers. But something still felt wrong.

He had defrosted: that was what was wrong! Either he’d defrosted prematurely or the others hadn’t defrosted per schedule. He’d been scheduled for revival only once during the course of the mission, and that time was over and done. When it had occurred, he’d received standard information on the communiqué beamed from Earth right on schedule. He’d activated one minor change in the ship’s course, according to received instructions, and had then gone back to his tube. His next revival was to be upon their arrival at Omego D, along with the whole crew. Presently, he sensed no re-awakenings in any of the pods grouped around him. In the tube immediately next to him, Corporal Kelly still slept on in his dream world; the dials of his pod set for revival mode in nine months.

"What in the hell is going on?" Charles asked aloud.

Suddenly, he heard muted sobbing.

He surveyed the room, more carefully this time, and noted each and every pod, its instrumentation, and its occupant, until he finally found one empty.

"Margaret?"

"Charles?" Her voice was weak and came from somewhere in the adjoining compartment. "Oh, God, Charles, help me."

She sounded so damned pathetic, so shook up, that he felt compelled to get to her as quickly as possible.

His legs were weak but operable.

"There will be a certain degree of physical weakness," the instructors had told them, "but that’s to be expected. Initial care should be taken that unused muscles are not strained, despite artificial stimulus, via biolatent froxexins, administered periodically during freeze state.

"Margaret?"

He found her huddled in a corner. Her eyes watered, and her face was screwed up in a grimace indicative of pain, fear, or a combination of the two.

End of Part Five -- taken from one of William's Greenleaf Classic pulps, long out of print, available only from collectors who demand big $$$, but serialized here as a free read by courtesy of the author.

Starship Intercourse Part 4

From the alienated brain of William Maltese comes part four of his pulp fiction from Greenleaf Classics... STARSHIP INTERCOURSE...

“Well?” Susan had asked later, letting Patricia know by the very sound of her voice that she certainly didn’t believe one word of the story about the car breaking down.

“Well, what? Patricia had replied. But she’d long ago decided this was one secret she wasn’t going to keep to herself. There were some things a girl just had to get off her breasts, or bust (she had smiled at that bit of word-play). She had looked at Susan and given her a girl-to-girl smile. “It’s a good ten inches,” she’d whispered with a girlish grin.

“You lucky bitch!” Susan had squealed.

Patricia had noticed how the squeal brought glances from others in the dining room. For once, she didn’t care.

“How was it?” Susan had asked, her voice returning to a whisper.

“I thought I was going to die,” Patricia had said. Then smilingly, she rolled her eyes. “But what a hell of a way to go!”


***


Pushing her hips up to meet the downward deep-thrust of his cock, Patricia rolled slightly as Buzz’s penetrating erection ripped into her. It was as if twenty-five years of lost fucking had been channeled into this one frantic hump.

His hands stroked her ass and, simultaneously, pulled her body in close to his each and every time his cock rammed the dewy corridors of her twat. He increased his frantic pumping.

“Harder!” she screamed. “Harder!” She wouldn’t have cared if her cries had awakened the rest of the crew. She was too far gone to give a damn about anything except the pleasure. “Harder!” she screamed again.

He was already pumping her hard; any harder and she would’ve passed out with the pleasure and the pain. He brought his lips to her cheek, slobbering in his attempt at kisses. His tongue ran over her face, turning it wet with spit.

She worked to return his every thrust. Her tongue simultaneously wet his face with her own spit. Her body thrashed on the padded floor, her cries filling the air as if she were being impaled on a Krupp-steel spike rather than a taut pole of human flesh.

He echoed her moans, his cock speeding through the juice swimming within her hole, drilling her — in and out — in and out. Their breathing grew heavier, deeper, and more frantic. Their rasping heaves sounded loudly as their trembling bodies pushed closer and closer to orgasm.

She climaxed, first, and her insides melted and then rolled in heavy waves of pleasure like the sea in motion. Wave after wave of ecstasy washed through her and threatened to drown her. Somewhere through the resulting blur, she became aware of Buzz’s cries of pleasure, feeling his cummy come explode up the crack in her lower belly.

“Fuck!” she screamed, her mind fooled into thinking this fuck was all fucks, her mind’s-eye remembering all the other times Buzz had fucked her, all the times Williams had fucked her, all of the other times any and all cock had pumped cum up her hole. Her mind conjured a collage of three-dimensional phalli spurting, spouting, and spewing hot jism up her guts.

Buzz held to her climaxing body, hugging it with an intensity that might have been painful if not for the overshadowing pleasure. He kept her entrapped within his embrace as his cock continued its frantic pumping even after the last reservoir of his sperm exited his completely deflated nuts.

Finally, he was through. He rolled off of her and lie beside her.

For the next few moments, there seemed to be no sounds within the space that contained them, except for their ragged breathing and rapid heartbeats as they recuperated from their mutual climaxes. Then, their beating hearts and breathing quieted, too, and Buzz’s cock finished its wilt into complete flaccidness within her still-containing twat.

Suddenly, his body stiffened but not in orgasm.

“Buzz?” she asked.

He pressed his mouth in close to her left ear and said, “Listen.”


She listened, hearing nothing. “I don’t hear anything.”

“Not a thing?”

She listened again. She could tell he was holding his breath. She did likewise. “Nothing,” she confirmed finally.

He lifted his head from her neck.

“Oh, my God!” he said and got up from beside her; their sweat glossed their parted flesh.

“Buzz, what is it?”

“It’s past,” he said. “The time, I mean.”

She got to her feet, too, suddenly, like him, realizing the full impact of what had happened.

“We missed it, you mean?”

“It would seem so?” He was dismayed, rightly so, and sounded that way.
He flicked a button on the machine marked RECORD and waited for an instant before pushing REPLAY.

They listened … to the silence.

“We didn’t miss anything,” Buzz said. “There’s no incoming message to miss.”

“But…”

“There wasn’t any incoming message to miss!” he repeated with emphasis.

“Maybe they sent it early,” Patricia tried hopefully to rationalize. “Maybe it’s already recorded and back-logged.”

Buzz stepped to the machine, again, and pushed all the proper buttons.

Again, they waited.

William Maltese - Starship Intercourse Part Two

And now, return to the days of Greenleaf Classics with your host and author, William Maltese, as he presents...


STARSHIP INTERCOURSE

by William Maltese

Chapter 2

And so, Lt. Buzz Shaw, communications’ expert, and Lt. Patricia Riley, ecologist, fucked aboard Starship 12B en route to a tiny galaxy in outer space termed on the charts as nothing more than Beta 10.

They both sank down into the padded flooring of the briefing area, not too far from the radio which would soon be broadcasting their latest instructions from the planet Earth. Patricia acted coy at first, trying to put off Buzz’s insistence, but her resolve (Had she actually had any?) was soon dissolved amid his kissing and caressing. After all, as he said, who would know four years from then, when they were scheduled to reach Beta 10, that Buzz and Patricia had fucked in outer space? Besides, it wasn’t like they hadn’t done it before. In those hectic days before blast-off, the two of them had gone at it until both were bordering on exhaustion. The doctor at the final examinations had eyed Patricia carefully. It’d been Dr. Kenault.

“Poor Doctor Kenault,” Patricia said.

Buzz was already naked and out of his flight uniform. His twenty-five years in outer space certainly hadn’t shrunk his cock any.

“What about Doctor Kenault?” he asked, handing her one of the preventatives, which she swallowed.

“‘Cut out the fucking,’” he said to me. “‘Or else you’ll be too damned weak to make the trip.’”

“Doctor Kenault said that?” Buzz laughed. “That meddling old buzzard.”

Poor Kanault, Patricia thought. He was old then. God, how old is he now that twenty-five years have passed, and he hasn’t been in suspended animation to preserve his looks? Patricia shuddered unconsciously. Buzz mistook it for a sign of passion.

“I’ll set these dials,” Buzz said, “so that when the message arrives, we’ll be able to hear it. I mean, there’s no sense in interrupting playtime until it’s absolutely necessary.”

Patricia again noticed his cock. It was ten inches of hard meat if it was an inch. Its fistlike head glistened in the low-light flashings of the machines.

Patricia stretched out on her back spreading her legs. After twenty-five years in bed, her muscles were more than just a little stiff. Buzz turned back from the radio, coming toward her, finally kneeling down. He lowered his body on top of hers, his prick mashing between their bellies. Patricia opened her legs farther, letting his lower body slip between them.

He kissed her, rubbing the wetness of his prick along her lower belly. After twenty-five years in deep-freeze, the fire in their bodies hadn’t been extinguished. If anything, defrost had allowed the flames to burn even higher. Already Patricia’s hole was leaking its juices, streaming them from her cuntwalls to dribble out the mouth of her hair-lined slit. She could feel the stream leaking out of her twat’s mouth, slipping stickily down the crease of her ass.

“God, baby, God!” Buzz muttered. He’d pushed his cock’s head to the doorway. He was previously planning on a lot of foreplay. But after a few minutes of actual body contact, he and Patricia both agreed — without actual voicing it — that nothing more was needed to prepare either one of them for direct action.

The prick’s thick tip pressed its way into her wet tightness, followed by inches of hard cockshaft as it sank deeper and deeper into the offered slit.

Their bodies seemed to fit together perfectly. He’d noticed it before when they’d humped. They seemed to belong together like two peas in a pod, like the right nut for the right screw. It was heaven. It was just as he remembered it.

“This is Lieutenant Shaw,” Dr. Kenault had said. “He’s to replace Williams on the Beta 10 expedition.”

Lieutenant Williams had been found to have a heart murmur. Nobody really knew how it had managed to escape notice until that late in the game. The Beta 10 expedition was scheduled for departure in less than two months.

“You’re replacing a good man,” Patricia had said. She’d meant, of course, as a member of the project. She’d little imagined that Buzz’s cock would soon be replacing Williams’ cock, also.
.
Patricia and Williams had been fucking around since the expedition’s members had been selected. Everybody knew they’d been doing the sex scene. In a way, it was expected. In one way or the other, the whole Beta 10 contingent had paired off in groups. It wasn’t always an equal dividing line, however. It was a well-know fact that Lt. Martin and Lt. Perkins were Lesbians. But then, Lt. Susan Pilon had done her share for the well-being of the operation by taking on three men at the same time: an arrangement which everyone, Susan and her three men included, had no objections to at all.

But because of Williams’ heart murmur, he was taken off the team. Taken off the team and taken off Patricia. Where they’d transferred him — five-hundred miles away as an instructor at Camp Piptolincan — his cock, no matter how long (and they’d measured it once as nine and a quarter erect inches), had been unable to manage the stretch now required to reach Patricia’s distant cunt.. After a few letters, Lieutenant Williams had settled down with a redheaded civilian nurse, and Patricia had decided that Buzz Shaw was better than nothing: anyway, his ten inches of hard cock sure as hell beat the Coke bottle she’d been doing herself with since Williams had left the scene.

She had, at first, been rather reluctant about Shaw. For one thing, he wasn’t exactly her ideal of a he-man. He was rather nice-looking (she thought a bit too nice-looking, if that were possible), and he exuded that air of self-assurance that is normally only found in the very rich. And Buzz Shaw, or rather Buzz Shaw’s family (which boasted governmental heads back to pre-World War II), did have money. In short, Patricia found him spoiled, conceited, and too cock-sure of himself to actually replace Williams in more ways than one. She might’ve managed not to succumb to his sexual charms (which at first she thought were nonexistent — she’d yet to find out about the ten-inch cock) — if it hadn’t been for Susan.

“Have you two been doing it?” Susan had asked. Though she already had three men humping her, she was always scouting around for more.

“I hardly think that’s any of your goddamned business,” Patricia had replied.

Susan tended to get just a bit personal at times. She figured since she didn’t mind discussing her sex life that everyone else would be just as candid about theirs. Patricia’s blunt reply had admittedly stung.

“I’m sorry,” Susan said, and she said it in such a hurt, downcast way, that Patricia was immediately sorry she’d been so rude. She’d told herself time and time again she had to be more understanding around Susan. Susan, despite her good looks, wasn’t really out to hurt anyone. Despite the fact that her IQ was near-genius, if not genius, she reminded everyone of the “dumb blonde”, and she seemed to prefer that role herself.

“I used to be a bookworm,” she’d once told Patricia in one of their infrequent girl-to-girl chats. “But I found out that a girl doesn’t get anywhere acting superior to the guys — or to the girls, either, for that matter,” she offered as an afterthought.

Patricia never bothered to delve into the meaning of that last bit of unsolicited information.
.
“It’s my middle-class upbringing,” Patricia had said, finally, feeling tinges of regret at her blunt reply to Susan’s innocent questioning. “I sometimes still get very upset over this sex thing.”

“Oh,” Susan said, immediately brightening up. She was always easy to forgive someone. She’d had years, before flowering into maturity, when she’d been really quite unattractive. Bad looks and a superior brain had made her very undesirable company. She still remembered those days, and even though the ugly caterpillar had metamorphosed into a beautiful butterfly, Susan never forgot her days of social ostracism. She always thought the day might come when the butterfly would somehow revert to the cocoon, coming out finally the ugly caterpillar again. She had nightmares about it that she never told even her doctor.

“I didn’t mean to pry, after all,” Susan said. “I mean, he’s just so damned cute, and Walter said he was hung like a goddamned horse. But then Lieutenant Williams was hung like one, too, wasn’t he?” Susan hurried on. “But Walter said this one is much bigger.”

Walter was Captain Reynolds, head of the Beta 10 mission as well as one of Susan’s paramours.

Patricia wondered just why Reynolds had been so goddamned observant as to the size of Shaw’s cock. It had been rumored, more than once, that Reynolds was kind of fruity, but as long as he kept his extracurricular activities private, and satisfied Susan sufficiently so that she would boldly broadcast his masculine virtues, no one had nearly enough reason to complain.

“That’s the only reason I asked,” Susan said, biting into a roll which was oozing yellow butter. “I’ve never really had a big, big one. I mean, Walter has a good-sized one, but he said Shaw’s must be at least ten inches.”

Patricia had choked on her milk.

“Are you all right, honey?” Susan had squealed, running around the table and giving Patricia a slap on the back that was loud enough to draw the attention of those who hadn’t already noted Patricia’s gagging.

“I’m fine,” Patricia tried to say, but couldn’t get it out. She gagged again, and Buzz Shaw had left his tray to see if he might be of any assistance.

When Buzz arrived, Susan had slapped Patricia’s back once more, and Patricia was almost completely recovered from her ordeal. She was, all the time, despite her gagging, attempting to conjure in her mind’s-eye the actual dimensions of a ten-inch cock. She’d remembered just how large Williams’ had looked, and how they’d measured it with a tape measure.

“Are you sure you’re okay?” Buzz had asked.

“Fine,” Patricia had said, finding her face not two inches from Buzz’s crotch. Her imagination singled out the lengthy crease in his pants, which she was sure must be concealing his flaccid prick. It was right then and there that she decided she was going to one day soon be able to tell Susan just what it was like to be jabbed with a ten-inch spike of hard male meat.

(to be continued)

William Maltese - Vintage Pulp 1

SURE, I’M GOOD! … BUT WORTH 1000 BUCKS?

If I’d been a genuinely smart author, way back when, first starting out and pumping out books for Greenleaf Classics (while I was busy pumping something else as well), I would have held on to a helluva lot more copies of my books than I did. Instead, I passed along all my author comp copies to friends and associates, like Jesus passing out bread and fishes.

Actually, I guess, compared to some other authors — very few who survive from the time of Golden Pulp Fiction —I managed to save at least one copy of all my books, with the possible exception of MASTER BLACK, which I wrote as Wm. Lambert III (if anyone has an extra copy, please send it along).

What’s happened, of course, is that those pulp books have since become hot items (in more ways than one) for collectors, for just the very reason that so few of them, considered as disposable as toilet paper in their day, have survived. You thumbed through them, you jacked off to them (I didn’t call them “one-hand reads” for nothing; and, yes, I do hold the trademark rights to that phrase — one-hand read), you got their pages all stuck together with your dried cum, you gave them a toss in the wastepaper basket, and you went down to the dirty-book section of your local sleazy hole-in-the-wall and picked up a couple of the more recent offerings. In those days, the halcyon days of pulp-fiction erotica, Greenleaf was putting out as many as four straight fuck-books and four gay-fuck books on a monthly basis.

While, over the last couple of years, I’ve noticed the decided increase in the amount of money anyone has to shell out for a good many of those early smut books, mine included, even I was surprised to find a copy of my straight STARSHIP INTERCOURSE erotica, written by me as Lambert Wilhelm, offered up the other day for the asking price of $1000.00. Of course, the cover is by none other than Robert Bonfils, an illustrator who has only recently started receiving critical praise for his work, but still …

I’ve decided to provide all of you frothingauthor.blogspot.com readers with a free peek at what, these days, you’d have to dig deep into your pockets (and not just to play with yourself) to see … because, as luck would have it, I do still have one author’s copy of STARSHIP INTERCOURSE in my collection, not only signed by me but by Robert; I’m holding on to it in order to pay for some very plush days of retirement.

Therefore, with no additional fanfare — feel free to unzip, pull out, and grab hold — for …


“Hi,” he said. “Remember me?”

Patricia Riley — Lieutenant Patricia Riley — yawned, stretched, lazily blinked her eyes, then suddenly realized where she was.

“My God, are we there?” she asked, sitting up with a start.

“No,” Buzz Shaw replied with a smile. “I just got lonely.”

Patricia looked about the cabin, noticing the neatly lined suspended-animation cylinders holding the Captain and the rest of the crew. She then turned her attention back to Buzz, who was still grinning like a little school boy.

“You’re mad,” Patricia said. “Absolutely dotty. Do you know what Reynolds is going to say when he finds out about this?”

“What do you mean, when he finds out?” Don’t you mean, if he finds out? I’m sure as hell not going to tell him. Are you?”

“Hell, yes,” Patricia said, indignantly. “You’ve committed a breach of orders. They’ll court-martial you for this. It’s my duty as an officer on this ship to see that those orders are carried out to the letter. You had no authorization to defrost me until we reached Beta 10. You were instructed in the briefing that no one was to be defrosted before Beta 10 unless it was an emergency. Then it was to be Captain Reynolds.” She looked at his smiling face, finding it really impossible to be mad at his baby-faced grin. The impossibility to feel anger annoyed her.

But then Buzz Shaw had always annoyed her. He wasn’t somebody she ever would’ve believed to be Space-Corps material. He was more of the country-club, cotillion, lawn-party, high-tea set. He wasn’t the dedicated sort of gung-ho person one expected to be wrapped in the cobalt blue of the Experimentation Squad. He was too carefree, too happy-go-lucky, and too unobservant of rules and regulations. He’d been that way from the beginning.

“You bastard!” she said finally. “You silly-assed, goddamned bastard!”

“Such language for a lady,” he smiled.

“They’ll have your head for this,” she said, trying to let some form of seriousness creep into the conversation, sink into his head. “They’ll cut the goddamned thing off, shove it in one of the vacuum tubes, and jettison it back to Earth before the rest of your body gets there.”

“How about a kiss?” Buzz laughed. He’d always thought Patricia a bit too serious. Not that they hadn’t had some fun times together. They’d surely had some of those. That’s why he’d decided long ago to defrost her when his turn came up to receive the periodic communiqués beamed to them from Earth.

“Like hell, I’m going to give you a kiss!’” Patricia almost screamed. Her attempt at impressing him with the seriousness of the situation had apparently gone way over his head.

“Hey, baby,” Buzz grinned. “When I pushed all those buttons, I thought I’d defrosted you. You’re just as frigid as ever.”

“My God, my God,” Patricia muttered hopelessly. “What more can I say than that?”

What more could she say? What more was there to say? Here they were, the only two conscious people in an intergalactic vessel in outer space. She was suddenly at a loss for words.

“Come on,” Buzz said, extending a hand. “It can’t be all that bad. Who the hell is going to know four years from now that Lieutenant Shaw defrosted Lieutenant Riley and fucked her in outer space?”

“Who fucked who, where?” Patricia asked. She retrieved her hand, which she’d extended for help in getting out of her suspended-animation tube. “Nobody is fucking this baby, anywhere.”

“Guess I defrosted the wrong bitch,” Buzz pouted. “I was really tempted to push the buttons for Susan. Now, she wouldn’t have bitched. She would’ve been pretty damned appreciative.”

“I guess you should have,” Patricia said, lying back down in her tube, crossing her arms as if she were a Pharaoh being laid out in the sarcophagus. “As a matter of fact, you can just freeze me back up and go defrost Susan.”

“And what makes you think I won’t take advantage of you once you start to go under?”

“You wouldn’t!”

“And just think what would happen if I didn’t get my rocks off fast enough. Everyone would wake up on Beta 10 and find my cock frozen up your cunt.”

“Ach!’ Patricia said, sitting up again. “You are damned impossible. And I suspect you’re a little perverted to boot.”

“The truth is,” Buzz confessed, “I haven’t got time to defrost Susan.”

“What time is it?”

“It’s time for me to check the ship and see if it’s in working order.”

“You haven’t done that yet?” Patricia was flabbergasted.

“Come, now, sweetheart,” Buzz consoled. “Things can’t be too bad. We’re all in one piece, all the machines are still making noise, and we are still moving.”

“And how about the message? You know your whole purpose in having been defrosted according to a schedule was to accept the message beamed from Earth.”

“I thought if you’d help me check out the ship, we’d have a few minutes to talk before the message. I mean a guy could get pretty damned lonely with nobody but the machines to talk to.”
“Just talk?”

“Or whatever.”

“What does that mean?”

“I thought maybe we could fuck. I told you that.”

“I haven’t been taking preventatives,” Patricia said.

“No fear,” Buzz smiled, extending his hand again. “I just happen to have some on me.”

“You just happen to have some?” Patricia asked immediately. “You just happen to?”

“Sure,” Buzz said. “I picked some up before boarding. “No one even noticed them in the pocket of my flight uniform.”

“You were instructed to bring nothing,” Patricia said. “Nothing at all except what the regulation set out. This goddamned ship has a maximum-weight capacity.”

“Now, how many excess pounds to you think I added by smuggling aboard one small box of preventatives?”

Patricia shook her head disbelievingly.

“Your time is fast arriving,” she said. “One of these days you’re going to do something you weren’t supposed to. Then look and see what the hell is going to happen.”

“Gee,” Buzz said. “Just because I wanted to fuck a fifty-five-year-old woman? Such static?”

“Just who in the hell do you think you’re calling a fifty-five-year-old woman?” Patricia asked indignantly.

“It’s the year two-thousand-three,” Buzz said.

“My God!” Patricia replied. She automatically checked her body for signs of age.

“You asked me once why I became a member of the Space Corps,” Buzz said. “Now you know. Who else could look twenty at fifty?”

“My God,” Patricia breathed. “Twenty-five years of my life gone in one night’s sleep.”

Unresisting, she let him help her from her capsule.


(to be continued)

Note from Jardonn: William's web site (Link HERE) has more pics of his pulp classic covers, as well as his library of hot erotic fiction still in publication. Best of all, he has an extensive collection of artwork based on his photograph that he calls "'Artists Do' William Maltese."

Best of the best of all, he's put together excerpts of Starship Intercourse from his Greenleaf Classics days for posting to this blog. It is a rare treat, ladies and gents, for here will be words you will find nowhere else -- not unless you were clever enough to save such material from when it was in print.