Chapter 1

Caution: This Science Fiction Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/Fa, Ma/ft, mt/Fa, Mult, Consensual, Reluctant, Coercion, BiSexual, Heterosexual, Science Fiction, Polygamy/Polyamory, Interracial, Black Female, Black Male, White Male, White Female, First, Oral Sex, Masturbation, Pregnancy, Voyeurism, .

Desc: Science Fiction Sex Story: Chapter 1 - A series of errors cause a teacher and his class to take a field trip to the stars.

The Kamikaze Project served as one of the better justifications for having established think tanks and research colonies. The genesis of the project was the result of an observation made by a Commodore Singh. He watched the effects of his dependent toddlers on a stack of papers piled on his desk. He advanced the concept with one open-ended 'if' question to an AI, made without well-defined parameters, and then compounded the situation by turning the idea to subordinates without any limitations.

The resulting plan was to create inclement weather as a weapon to use against the Swarm. In theory it could have, should have worked; F5 plus tornado winds caused by a monstrous force field bellows scattering Swarm forces across a battlefield. In reality, that turned out to be unfeasible; the idea had been a complete failure. The modified generators would have required only about fifty thousand cubic feet of available space, no more space than an unexpanded habitat pod. The energy expenditure on the other hand required a seventy-thousand-ton Goddess Class Battle Cruiser's entire energy output, while committing the generating ship to a near geosynchronous orbit. The Navy never even received the proposal. It went straight into the misfit file.

Resurrected from that file, the idea found use on a much more delicate scale. Locating the field generators outside of the Artemis moon base solved two of the issues instantly. The power requirements were reduced by over three magnitudes, down to half of what a factory replicator needed. Between the Earth's rotation and the moon's orbit, the relative differences in angular momentum supplied power for the fields' movements similar to dragging your foot to stop a rolling automobile. These furrows in Earth's atmosphere never could actively control the weather. But by making tiny adjustments, changing the barometric pressure a few millibars in an area, drawing moisture toward or away from a location, it, more accurately, shaped the weather. The occurrence of forest fires, droughts, and floods had been changed. Growing seasons became a bit more stable. Even a few cyclones and hurricanes had either never grown in intensity as originally projected, or they had remained offshore. Such subtle changes required little effort, given a few days or weeks to nudge a parameter or two.

Such was the case in central Florida during the rainy season. Specialist Miyazaki Hideaki delighted in playing with thunderstorms. If only he had had this setup when he was seeking his M.S. in Meteorology at Virginia, life would have been much easier. Miyazaki's assignment was to create a storm as cover for an extraction operation. That was last Tuesday. He started shifting the sea breeze collisions westward at 2:30 PM on Wednesday. By Friday, 4:00 PM the National Weather Service at Ruskin, Florida had issued a severe thunderstorm watch for Hillsborough, Pasco, and Polk Counties until 9:00 PM.

Hideaki picked eight target cells. By 5:15 PM, the tops of those clouds reached sixty thousand feet. He made conductive conduits between his creations eliciting a heavy display of lightning. Once the extraction team was in place, he would increase the lifting force field over the selected thunderheads. The sudden cooling of that tropical air would trigger the thunderstorm. Now the dance began. He had to keep the potential threat active, but deny the formation of a funnel cloud. Mimicking circulation in the clouds for the local weather radars to view became the challenge.

Corporal Edward Ramirez found his predicament not amusing at all. Yes, he still had a valid driver's license good for another three years. He still had brown eyes, black hair, and the natural honey tan any Puerto Rican sported; unfortunately, it didn't reflect the sixty pounds of muscle or the nine extra inches added to his frame. He couldn't flash his Confederacy ID, as this was a covert mission. His hair kept rubbing into the sagging headliner of the battered USF maintenance van, flakes of something kept falling. When he found the punk who pissed off the Intelligence Department and got his squad volunteered for this operation ... Officer or not, that guy needed one good punch to the gut.

Having the Kusari body armor did little to comfort him. The nanotube scales effectively made seventy percent of his body able to withstand an AK47 round. It was the fact that his head was in that exposed thirty percent which added to his tension. Having an MPC carbine eased his worry a bit. About the size of an H&K MP5, the close-quarter plasma weapon brought to the table a wicked set of surprises. These even included a stunner mounted under the main barrel in place of the GL-8 grenade launcher. Stop 'em, drop 'em and then fry 'em; a recipe for Earth First Fritters.

The wind buffeted the van, jarring him back to the present. Lightning flashes danced bright and seemed to be very near. Booms followed within three seconds.

The professors' people being extracted believed it took a semi to deliver the cargo-rated transporter pad. They had been snowed big time. Captain Unitas didn't like the setup one bit, saying his 'butt hairs weren't as kinky as this fuck up'. They were there that Friday night to evacuate a group of engineering pre-packs, snatching them two days before an Earth First plan to fake a pickup, kill the volunteers and acquire a weapon to attack testing centers. On Sunday afternoon, the Earthees would find no scientists waiting to be killed, just a marine ambush.

Driving slowly, he made his way to the cluster of engineering buildings. He had thought having a GPS with flashing arrows was annoying. Try having an AI give you directions while storm clouds are brewing. It was times like these that he wanted to rip the computer interface out of his head. If it reminded him one more time that the turn into the Math-Physics parking lot is not a direct ninety-degree left...

The AI continued the onslaught that only he could hear. "The turn into the Math-Physics parking lot is not a direct ninety-degree left. You will be required to signal a U-turn followed by an immediate right turn."

Ramirez turned sharply. The abused van bounced over the flat twenty-foot wide median. Driving onto the sidewalk, he took the most direct route to the back faculty parking and service area.

"Had a law enforcement official been present to cite you, you could have accumulated over twelve points on your license." The smooth voice served only to further agitate him.

Arriving at his destination, he shifted the van's transmission in park and shut off the engine. The growl of anger, frustration, and rage ended as Ramirez shook his torso back and forth using the wheel to steady himself.

"Fucking AI! Sarge, I want it removed." Ramirez could see spittle flying from his mouth.

Avery Dumont, Ramirez's sergeant, rolled out of the front seat onto the pavement. Laughing hysterically, he pointed at Ramirez. "Payback's a bitch!"

He lay there until Ramirez crossed to his side of the van. He stood looking down at Dumont then thrust out a helping hand. Grasping the corporal's hand, the sergeant took Ramirez's offer to help him stand.

"Payback for what, Dumont?"

Dumont motioned for a moment. By now, the six other members of the team were filing out of the van watching the display. Taking a deep a breath, the sergeant got that look he did when he talked to the AI. He turned to address the men trying desperately to decide if laughing was appropriate.

"I see twenty tables and two hundred chairs. They need to be stored in the custodial area of Engineering Building Two." He pointed to a loading dock with a half-open rolling steel door. "There is a catering crew wandering around. Blend in. Remember to act like you are lifting something heavy, other than the van." Choosing safety in action, the men dispersed to the task.

"Let's get the bags out of the back."

Opening the back, Dumont handed the top two bags to Ramirez. "Remember when we got picked up," Ramirez smiled. "I had to lose my Prince Albert." Ramirez glanced down quickly at Dumont's groin. "Who convinced the AI that I would need instructions on how to use my fixed dick?" He finger quoted the words 'fixed dick'.

Memories flooded back, Ramirez felt his jaw where the tooth had been temporarily lost that fateful evening. Ramirez began snickering. "Come on Sarge, I remember the look on Enid and May's faces when you yelled out, 'I do have the necessary skills to use my own cock'." In slow motion, Ramirez faked an illegal low blow. "What those two did to you that night to verify the truth for the AI will live forever in battalion lore."

Dumont smiled, shifting his package to the right, "Maybe."

"Trust me, I have the box score."

Dumont just smiled, shrugging his shoulders. A sudden thunderclap ended the mirth. He and Ramirez shifted into readiness mode.

"Get inside with Brady and isolate the communication links."

Ramirez jogged toward the back of the building carrying two equipment bags. Dumont watched him enter before turning his attention to his men.

"Sarge," droned out a complaint, "why are we policing this area?"

Dumont paused long enough to push thoughts of murder out of his mind. "I believe the words 'move these fucking tables and chairs inside' came from out of my mouth!" He grabbed the last two large equipment bags out of the back of the van. "The eight of us need to blend in, Porkins. Try to act like you belong here."

How the squad of men ranging from six-foot-seven to six-foot-nine could look inconspicuous didn't seem to bother private Porkins. This was Charlie Company's last pickup before heading out to a post.

Porkins put the last few chairs onto the dolly. "I'd rather be on Brak bangin' my women." He lifted the front half of the loaded hundred-chair-dolly up over the curb and onto the sidewalk with his foot. The fact that he lifted five hundred pounds with little effort never registered. He moved to the back of the dolly, lining it up to lift the rear wheels onto the sidewalk.

Sergeant Dumont set the equipment bags on the stacked folding chairs. "We have a tight timeline. Keep jackin' around, and fuckin' up, and the only place your dick is going is up a maneuvering thruster on our shuttle to check for carbon buildup while I burp the throttle."

Porkins lifted the back half with his foot, setting the dolly wheels firmly on the ramp to the loading dock. "Sarge, is that how they used to cure crabs?"

"Only for little tweezers dicks like you..." Sergeant Dumont paused.

Porkins halted the half-ton dolly, keeping it from rolling into Dumont.

"Specialist Miyazaki Hideaki is preparing to strengthen the thunder storm." The AI spoke calmly into each squad member's implant. "Simulations predict the National Weather Service will declare this a severe thunderstorm in approximately twelve minutes. Corporal Ramirez has deployed the systems interrupt module. The internal functions of the targeted Engineering Building are now under Confederacy control."

The greenish black hue dominated the sky, triggering Dumont to flashback to his youth, growing up in tornado alley. "You faggots heard that, move it!" All of the university buildings might be hurricane shelters, but fucking twisters were scary.


Robbie Moore pushed the vendor cart along the sidewalk of Apple Drive in front of the library. Getting the vendor permits to sell at the Friday market in front of Cooper Hall had been one of his granddaddy's best ideas. Eight months of onsite observations, it also meant spending more time with his bitch-wife Joyce. However, the trinkets she sold had kept him in beer. Since it was still warm, there was a good bit of eye candy flaunting itself for his viewing pleasure. What a man must suffer to be a patriot. He hummed the James Bond theme.

"We're coming tomorrow Robbie, right?" Joyce asked.

There were disadvantages to being with Joyce in public. He couldn't afford to slap her in the face. "Tomorrow yes, Sunday is the Jets game."

"The people from Dahlia's Florist want me to bring all the triple layer plant hangers I have." Whiney as ever, she was like a child seeking approval.

"Regular price?"

"No fifty cents off each..."

He jammed his index finger into the ribs he had punched this morning. She flinched and stepped away.

"How many?"

Trembling, she replied while pulling her hand up to her chest. She made a fist then a peace sign. "Fifty units Robbie, the last of the ones from spring."

"How much are we getting?"

"Two-twenty-five."

"Get the van open. I'll think about what to do while I walk over."

Joyce wasn't fun anymore. No more tears, the fight was all gone, she was just a pleasing manikin. As his granddaddy would say, you should trade women when you trade boats. He had seen the neatest Bass Tracker last week at O'Grady's. He would buy it when granddaddy's plan worked out. A storm was brewing; he pushed the cart a little faster.

Back in January, Colonel Jessop had contacted Robbie's granddaddy, Vernon. He and some of his Vietnam War buddies knew what needed to be done. Sometimes sacrifices happened; sometimes innocent people had to die. This Confederacy plot was just a way to bring about the New World Order. Everyone swallowed the bait. The United Nations even had a vote. It wasn't like the Freemasons who were holed-up, waiting to swoop in and take over; it was aliens. Once the humans had beaten the lizard guys back to the far side of hell, this Confederacy would want to keep them as slave warriors.

A boom of thunder made Robbie look up. He needed to get to the parking lot. Joyce had the back doors open, and was setting the ramps in place. He would be able to load quickly.

As he neared the divided four-lane street that served as USF's main entrance, a van full of college workers cut over the median. He watched them hurrying up the sidewalk behind the three-story building, where the outside demonstrations had been for the Expo. They looked like football players through the windows, perfect patsies for the New World Order.

Crossing the four-lane street, he saw them exit the van in the distance near, near the back of the building, where a bunch of chairs and tables stood. These wannabes who couldn't make it at UF or LSU, rejects who'd get their brains wired and bodies pumped up on steroids. Then they show up selling a pack of lies while pretending to be Space Marines. They had computer interfaces in their head, once implanted they were nothing but robots. They never knew he and his granddaddy were gonna save punks like them from becoming duped slaves of aliens.

Those humans strong enough to resist received low scores like his. The few people whose mind was strong enough to possibly expose them, were murdered. Their killers hid behind a law protecting those with six point five or higher scores.

To keep different universities from seeking the truth, the Confederacy tossed money and technology crumbs for the professors to play with. Old Mack, one of Vernon's soldiers, had a great-grandson involved here at USF. They had developed what they called a land torpedo. Robbie had seen the video that Old Mack had. It could ram through any wall, cover over a quarter mile in eight seconds, and carry two tons of explosives. They were working on a way to stop it from melting and let it turn.

It took three months of surveillance to verify that the torpedo existed; followed by two months of covert contact until they convinced Professor Jenna that they were part of the Confederacy.

Hook, line, and sinker, those so-called geniuses swallowed the bait. Sunday night, the last day of the Engineering Expo, would be the pickup. Trophy fish on this stringer would include a few prototypes and the people who could build more. The Confederacy would never know until testing centers started blowing up.

A fucking Spic in a security cart waved at him. Robbie forced himself to wave back, another wetback taking a job from a real American. If this invasion was real, maybe they could force the Swarm to land in Mexico. Eat a bunch of greasy Spics, the aliens would die from Montezuma's Revenge. That thought he would share; he would get a laugh from Vernon. Robbie lifted his leg to help ease out a long fart.

Joyce knew nothing. The stupid bitch was only able to drop daughters anyway. Hell, she was twenty-six, ten years down the drain. She had even become part of the PTA at the girls' school. Having been given a copy of the pre-pack list, Robbie had his eye on a possible replacement or two. After all, he was six inches over six feet and even had a uniform. He touched the two concealed Hi-Point 9mms well hidden on his big frame. He'd be a marine tomorrow night for those two blondes at the end of the list.

Nearing the back of the van, he stopped. He grabbed a soda from the cooler. After two quick sips, he pushed the cart up the ramp into the rear of the van. Snapping the quick connect rings he pushed the cart forward, taut against them. He could hear Joyce clicking the ones on the front, making the cart secure while driving.

A strong gust of very cold air refreshed him. The one thing that made summer rains tolerable were the waves of cool wet breezes that flowed before them. The very hair on Robbie's arm started to stand. He sat back into the van quickly. The flash and boom stunned him.

"Robbie, you OK?" Joyce whined.

Looking up, he saw her staring at him. He nodded.

"Robbie, I'm scared!" That became a shrill screech as the van eased heavily to its right under the howling gust.

He wasn't safe there. Papers in the parking lot had started to swirl. He stepped out of the open sliding door. Turning to close it, Joyce was there. Pulling her out, he slammed it closed. He could see other people rushing into the lobby doors.

"See them?" he pointed to the buildings. "We're gonna need to ride this out in there."

With that, he began to jog toward the building. He could hear Joyce behind him. Even with the cold moist air, he had to stop. Robbie grabbed his knees and gulped air. Joyce went by. She stopped turning back to look at him. Embarrassed that Joyce out ran him, to save face he looked back at the van. "I thought I forgot to close-" another flash lit up the sky. With a renewed sense of self-preservation, he sprinted the last seventy feet to the doors.

"In here! Move!" A short, heavily tanned man held the door. The wind helped to push Robbie through. "You're safe inside, lady."

"Thank you," Joyce offered. "That was scary."

"Maria, get her to the hall where the guard took those kids." Robbie expected the woman to jump. She was rounded, long dark hair with a softer tan. Just under hand-sized tits. She held her hand out to the short guy at the door.

"Tony, there's nobody else outside." The guy went to her; Robbie mused he must be whipped.

They exchanged glances. Shorty looked outside the doors. They shook as the lights flickered, accompanied by blasting thunder. Instantly the rain dropped in waves. The wind smashed those waves against the lobby windows.

"The hall is right through those doors." Shorty and his round ass wife left. Robbie walked past Joyce. She knew enough to follow.

Sometimes cunts are right; at least Shorty's cunt didn't rub his face in it.

Once in the hall, Robbie wished he were riding this out in the van. He found himself surrounded by kids with a fucking nigger wearing a badge.


Raymond Mackay pushed Manny into the security cart's driver's seat. "If you don't get home to Condoleezza tonight for your anniversary..." Trilling his voice up a bit, Ray opened his eyes extra wide, shaking his head. "Ain't getting nuttin," grunting each time he pounded the palms of his hands together, with one set of fingers facing Manny and the other his chest. "That is a fine 'Rican woman you got. She wants her Receta Plantain with beef." Manny blushed. "Or," Ray mimicked unzipping his pants, snatching out, and stretching his genitals. "She's gonna snip a few things off, son." He punctuated snip with a cutting motion.

"Ese," Manny said in a thick stereotypical Mexican bandit accent. He grabbed Ray's scissoring fingers with one hand, "she's addicted to my cojones." He grabbed his crotch with the other. Together they laughed, holding the cart to remain upright. "How are you going to get to PD to clock out and stay dry?" Any trace of an accent evaporated, hinting at Manny's concern.

"Look behind you." Manny turned. A blue minivan pulled into the parking lot. "Salome is coming to get me here. She'll take me by headquarters to clock out. We'll meet you two in the room at the Hyatt."

Manny turned back, "Stop being my big brother. I know you two will get there. We won't start till after nine." He threw a halfhearted, high jab past Ray's ear.

Ray raised his hand. "I'm staying 'til that field trip is rescued. Go pound a nut for me, hombre."

Sending Manny home took less time than Ray thought it would. Ray strode toward his wife. The stroller sat outside of the minivan, and Salome was attaching the baby carrier to it. He could hear the twins encouraging him to hurry and set them free of their seats. First, he went to his wife.

"Ray-ray," she breathed hoarsely, "you got Manny outta here." Salome placed a hand on each side of Ray's face and kissed him full on the lips. "You get to live."

"Thank you mistress," He intoned as he leaned down forward a bit more to mouth at a breast.

She swatted playfully at his antics. The twins roared their approval. "Pervert," she whispered. They watched the storm build. "Your momma will watch the kids later." Ray wished they were at Fort De Soto Park watching this come ashore. He started pointing out shapes in the clouds to his twins.

A sudden beeping erupted from his radio. "Severe weather alert, severe weather alert, all campus personnel proceed to nearest building to shelter.

Ray looked at the stranded kids sitting around the entrance.

"Ray, it's..." Manny was cut off by static.

"Salome, I got to get these people inside. Get to the door."

"Manny, Ray here. What do you want?" Static crackled from the speaker, accompanying a flash of lightning. Quickening his pace, he opened the door for Salome and the boys.

"There's a catering van and a maintenance crew finishing up at the back of ENG B2, repeat catering and maintenance at back of ENG B2. Over," Manny replied.

"Go in. I need to stay here a second and hold the door for those kids." He gestured to a group rushing up the steps. "Point to that hall by the elevators, it has a tornado wall symbol." Manny repeated the message.

"Roger, Manny, get to cover quick, switching to maintenance channel 1."

"I just crossed Holly on Maple; be at UPB in 45 seconds, out."

Ray turned the selector three clicks to the left. "Campus PD Officer MacKay to maintenance team at ENG B2, come in."

"Crew chief Dumont, Officer Mackay. How may I assist you?"

Thank God, this guy has a level head. "Bring your crew in and secure the loading dock door. Then proceed to the labeled tornado wall, over."

"My team has the door down. We are in a secure area."

Ray noted two other couples rushing in the lobby door. He motioned to them to follow.

"I'll have about forty people in the lower main hallway. Stay put until you get the all clear."


He had four or five more hours to suffer before he could enter his empty apartment. Wilbur Jenkins had one consolation -- at least his name wasn't Leroy. Wilbur was bad enough. It usually took a few days in grade school and sometimes he needed to unleash a left hook to convince his peers to call him Bill. Today had been one long comedy of errors. Forty minutes ago, the bus left with sixty-three people. Yes, school buses can carry sixty-six passengers. Two busses had dropped off ninety-eight people this morning. Only one had come back this afternoon. He was facing another ninety minutes of wait time for the bus, followed by two hours bouncing home, and then hanging around the parking lot for the parents to appear.

The lead teacher on the field trip, Judy Tremble, resisted giving him the permission forms in the manila envelope for those students staying with him. He finally suggested that she stay. Judy made a big production of removing them from the binder. It could have been worse but a PTA vice president harboring the reputation for teleporting to the county office watched the exchange from her seat on the bus. This year at The Peace Road K-12 Gifted Center was starting out early with minefields.

The humidity mixed with oppressive heat this fine September afternoon encouraged rivulets of sweat to flow down his brow. Visually surveying the languid forms of his twenty-nine middle school students, a wonderful mixture of sixth to ninth graders, he could see the growing sweat patches under the kids' arms growing. He had just notified the principal that he personally contacted each of the parents with an explanation as to why they were going to be home after nine tonight. All of course from his cell phone, on his dime. Wandering over to his fellow teacher, he sighed.

"Two hours of sweaty middle school boys bathed in Axe cologne. What a beautiful way to spend a Friday night ride."

Leslie Howard snickered, stifling a laugh. "God, you can be an arrogant shit at times."

"Shocked I am that an English teacher would use such a qualitative descriptor."

"No more than I than the fact you let those two stick us with this duty."

She was right. He could have demanded that the science teachers stay. Their royal majesties had planned the entire trip. It started as soon as the bus snafu became apparent. They began to plead and whine. 'We have kids in soccer in the morning. We have to drive all the way to Polk County to go home.' Translation: you are the divorced loner who can handle angry parents.

"Leslie, I..."

She cut him off. "You're just a softy and wanted to avoid the whole bitch-fest that would start Monday morning."

Leslie was right. He hated faculty politics. He had one last card to play. "Yes, Ms. Howard."

"Ah I see. I now need to add low-life butt-kissing to the arrogant shit description."

Bill had forgotten rule three: never get into a battle of words with a woman possessing a quick wit and a Literature Masters. The Cheshire Cat Grin defense and withdrawal was still his best option.

A cool breeze ushered in a collective wish for November. Heavy with a wet, clean smell, rain was coming, soon. Swiveling his head back and forth, Bill scanned hopelessly for the bus. Leslie made the decision. The ground felt as if it shook from the thunderclap.

Leslie called to him. "Bill, the building has a lobby."

Tiffany Carlson wandered over with a questioning look. Before Bill could speak, a second heavy, elongated rumble stopped all conversations.

"Follow Mrs. Carlson and Ms. Howard into the building." At times like these, the students were reminded that Mr. Jenkins' voice could shake dust from the ceiling.

Tiffany nodded, spun, and then shooed her daughter's group toward the front entrance. Leslie began driving the rest of the group to the entrance as Bill looked for stragglers. Spinning back, he almost bowled over Louis Mercier. A brilliant kid, always wanting to learn, able to ask important and relevant questions, often at the wrong time, he would probably one day end up in prison after pissing off a state trooper during a simple driver's license check.

"Mr. Jenkins, is that the greenish-black sky color you talk about when inclement weather is approaching?"

Bill stopped. He turned his, his gaze following to where Louis was pointing.

"Yes, Louis." Bill took hold of Louis's pointing fingers. He rotated Louis by moving the extended hand, until they faced the building. "We need to hurry!"

Bill followed the last of their charges into the lobby. Fortunately, a police officer held the door. The line of refugees entered into an inner hall. Once inside, he pounded the wall with the tornado sign. "Crouch next to this wall!" As always at these times, the girls were handling the emergency better than the boys. Anne and June were helping an Arabic woman with two small boys. Thunder seemed to shake the very floor. Flashes of lightening winked under those doors of those offices that faced the outside. The hall lights blacked out, eliciting a few squeals from the kids.

"Ms. Howard, I'm scared!" the voice of a girl called in the darkness.

"Cindy, stay down," came a calm reply from Leslie.

Within seconds, the emergency lights illuminated the hallway.

About that time, the wind started howling; it made a heavy drone, like a passing train, constant with little variation. The door to the stairs opened and four women emerged from the stairwell.

"You need to get against the wall!" bellowed the officer. Before they could find a spot along the wall, everything went quiet. The emergency lights failed, yet the flashes remained.

Leslie thought she had gone deaf. The baby picked that moment to burp. A giggle started with the two little boys that carried over to the students.

Light burst from the far end of the hallway. A huge figure was silhouetted in the opening. The lights returned, revealing a strongly formed, yet smiling face.

"The interdiction field is blocking the storm. We are perfectly safe. This way to the multipurpose room please." He beckoned the group to follow.

Leslie Howard took the lead. Quick on the uptake, she came to a realization. A Confederacy pickup was taking place here and now, during a thunderstorm. The uniform framed the butt of the man in front of her making her wish her CAP score was two tenths higher. Fortunately, he walked in the middle of the hallway; otherwise, she might have plowed into one of the plants or desks that protruded from the alcoves. Still, following the ass a few feet in front of her was the highlight of her sex life since the start of school. For those few seconds, she lusted after Hotbuns. His face was a bit fuzzy but that is not what she wanted to feel up.

Entering the multipurpose room, Leslie realized that a lot of shit would hit the fan come Monday. The room was as big as the lunchroom at school. It held round and rectangular tables covered by gold and green tablecloths. Chairs waited for people to use. Groups of naked people stood huddled around the few clothed ones. One blond-headed girl was busily pumping her face onto an Asian man's crotch. Even from across the room, the slurping sounds were evident. Guiding her head, he pulled her deep. Grunting several times, he let her fall away. The collected vulgarities from her male students drowned out exactly what he said. Still, voices could be heard and the woman sat down on the floor in front of him, wiping her mouth.

Weaving around the fifty-odd draped tables, Hotbuns led them to another large man in uniform. Leslie could feel herself getting very damp. She fought wanting to reach between her legs and subtly shift her undies in an effort to add a bit of friction to her clit. Hotbuns stopped and motioned everyone forward.

Turning, she pointed at several tables on the nearside of the room. "Take seats here!" she ordered her students. She felt a bit like Bill. Hotbuns started to take a seat. "We all know what happens during extraditions." That wasn't the right word but she went with it. "Stay out of trouble!"

The large man, who sported three chevrons on his sleeve, making him a sergeant, waved the group forward. He waited for the stragglers to make their way to where he was standing. Several of the boys were scoping out the naked female bodies twenty feet away.

"Eyes Front! Welcome. I am Sergeant Dumont of the Confederacy Marines, Brakat Battalion 1, Charlie Company Uh-Rah!" The voice was clear, heavy and authoritative.

"Charlie Pride! Brak-at!" Answered the voices of the other marines in the room, leaving a sudden silence in their verbal wake. Leslie felt several of the students pressing toward her seeking potential refuge.

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