I’ve been tempted (!) to post my flashfic MOVING ON after the prompt at Chuck Wendig’s Flash Fiction Challenge: Thy Name is Vengeance.
I’m huddled alone in the fuel room, monitoring the gauges. Enough in Tank #3 to power His craft back to the space station, safe and smooth.
Barely dried tears still nestle in my beard.
I shouldn’t care. Open relationships are the norm nowadays.
That’s what He said last night, through lips that smiled at my shock, that were still halfway down Second Officer (Onboard Facilitation) Grend’s cock.
Seven months together is a bloody long time on a space station, when soporific days are marked only by a change of task sheet. Where intimacy is planned in advance, lusty breath rationed, precious lube usage kept to a minimum.
I thought it’d count for something.
I’m too old to fall into that ‘screwing your boss’ trap. Funny how even in such a rigidly controlled environment, libido blows common sense farther than any satellite.
Humiliation. Can’t forget. Betrayal. Calls for action!
I glance at Tank #3, pumping its precious feed to His craft.
There’s a heady thrill in giving way to your emotions, albeit adolescent, vindictive and probably criminal.
I flip the switch on the tank lid, and an amber light awakens.
I remember doing this once, on an Earth car. Belonged to a guy who dumped me. I was only a teenager.
I unscrew the lid. There’s only a matter of seconds before the break in flow is noticed.
The amber light starts flashing. So, scold me. I unzip my suit, disengage the urine bag, release my cock. And piss into the tank.
Not enough to endanger the landing: enough to make it choppy as all hell. Twenty seconds of hot, pure, rejuvenating revenge.
Zipped again, I tighten the lid. Amber returns to a pale green pout.
And I’m smiling like that teenager I once was.
We can all move on, right?
copyright / Clare London / posted first 2018 on QSF Facebook group