A rabbit-punch had gotten me to drop the strop; full-Nelson kept me from retrieving it! I must've looked quite the sight --- struggling within Jimmy's grasp --- boner pointed northward --- expression mimicking an imbecile.

And across the way, contesting the Captain's hastily applied hammer-lock, Mos comprised a mirror image!

Talk about kindred spirits!

"Qua-a-a-a-a-a-a-a-c-c-c-c-k-k-k-k-k! Agah! G-a-a-a-a-gft! Qua-a-a-a-a-a-c-k!"

"Quack! Quack! Gah-nah-bah! Qua-a-a-a-a-a-a-a-a-a-c-k!"

Then, above the din, the Captain's voice rang out.

"Jimmy, Hit the P-button!"

The earlier placed holophone call suddenly connected. Poof! Just like that, Commander Goodenough's 3-D image materialized, three meters tall; complete with digital sound!

"Friar, ye old bastard! How the fock are ye?"

"Goodenough,... ye crazy Sot. How'd ye think I'd be, after thet Nunnery adventure last moon-year?"

"Har! Har! Hee! Nyuk! Ye should've seen the look on yer face, when the Mother Superior started puttin' on them rubber gloves! Har! Har! Nyuk! We'd had a photo blown-up; used it on our Hanukkah card!"

"And ye should've seen the look on her's, when I supplied the coordinates to yer rejuvenation-chamber! Nyuk! Nyuk!"

"Fer Clinton's sake! Thet explains why I'd woke-up with me voice raised three focking octaves!"

"Har! Har! Har! At least ye had a place ta showcase it! By the way, how did the Michael Jackson impersonation contest go?"

"Hee! Hee! Ho! Ho! 1st fockin' place! Ho! Hee! Ha!"

"Ho! Ho! Har! Congratu - fockin' - lations! Har! Har! Har!"

"Hee! Hee! Thank ye. Hee! Ho! But tell me, Mate", Goodenough composed himself, "what the fock's the occasion of yer call?"

"Glad ye asked, Mate! I've got a Lad here, who covets a spot in Star-pilot school! I figured ta give ye first crack at 'em!"

"Me? Doesn't he fancy the Barber life?"

"Not a fockin' bit!"

"Is he a good Lad?"

"Fock yah! Analyzes situations like ye've never seen! Euclidian to the bone! He's a find, Mate. That's a focking fact! Only problem is,... Hubie's decided differently!"

"Fock Hubie! Me only concern would be yer opinion, Mate!"

"I'll vouch fer the Lad personally, Mate!"

"Then I'll take 'em!", the Commander boomed. "No fockin' questions asked! I'll pair 'em up with Lieutenant Maxwell!"

A huge explosion abruptly rocked the transmission, causing it to momentarily break-up. When reconnected, Goodenough was looking over his shoulder, watching a star-fighter go down in flames. Then he turned back to us.

"Those bastard Nunworldoans!", he hissed. "On second thought, Mate, we'll team him up with Lieutenant Spiff!"

"Fockin' marvelous", the Captain responded. "Then it's a done deal?"

"Fock yah! But can I say hello to the Lad now? I mean, is he there?"

"Well,... errr,... yah. I guess ye could say he is."

"Well fer the love-o Clinton, put 'em the fock on, Man!"

"Well,... Heh! Heh!,... he's a bit,... how would ye say,... indisposed at the moment, Mate!"

"Huh? What could he be doing thet's more important then makin' a first impression? Tappin' a kidney? Powderin' his nose? Come on, Mate! Put 'em the fock on!"

"Ok! If ye insist."

It'd been a moment I'd dreamed of countless times.

Suddenly, an ear-piercing sound erupted!

No. Not another explosion.

"Yipes!", the Commander exclaimed, as my image appeared. "Fer Clinton's sake, he looks like he's being electrocuted!"

"Yah. I'd mount no argument against thet", the Captain nonchalantly agreed.

Wow! Talk about first impressions! There loomed me! Glaring eyeballs! Gnashing teeth! Foaming saliva! Blathering like an idiot! Hocking lougies like I were at a spitting contest! A lock-jaw victim would've looked more civil! Let's face it,... Mr. Neighborly I didn't resemble!

Then the holo-image widened --- showing the rest of me --- torso reared backward --- extremities locked in spasm --- fists tighter then Scrooge --- knuckles blanched cocaine-white --- rocking on tippy-toes! And,... oh yah,...

"Oh? So it's Postulate # 3, is it?", the Commander placidly observed. "And is thet Spin doing the duty?"

"Yah to both, Mate! I see ye remember thet surprise birthday party I'd thrown fer ye. Nyuk! Nyuk!"

"Fock! Who could forget? It'd taken a whole moon-month fer me eyes ta uncross! Don't ye recall witnessing it?"

"I'd gone temporarily blind, meself, thanks to them twin sisters from Planet Waifslutso ye'd brung along! Had ta learn braille jest to find me way ta the fockin' washroom!"

"Ye don't fockin' say? Gee, can ye imagine what might-o happened had some bloke switched the signs? Ye could've wound up in an embarrassing situation --- like takin' a leak in the General Assembly hall, or something like thet! Hee! Hee! Ho!"

"Why ye old scalawag! Nyuk! Nyuk! So ye're the culprit! Actually,... it'd been at the Admiral's wife's Garden Party! They say I'd hit the punchbowl dead-on, ye know! Har! Har! Har! Nyuk!"

"Hoo! Hoo! Hee! I wish I could've been there, Mate! Ha! Hoo!"

"Nyuk! Yah! Especially conciderin' what the Admiral's wife did next! Har! Har! Har!"

"Ye don't mean thet she...? Ho! Ho! Oh ye old fockin' rascal ye! Ha! Hee! Hee!"

The holo-image broadened further, showing that it wasn't just me shrieking like a banshee!

"Great Clinton's ghost!", Goodenough exclaimed, "Is thet Sgt. Mos stovepipein' away?"

"Yah, Mate."

Mos was boffing Justine, prying apart her bottom cheeks; thrusting like a pile driver; grinning ( no surprise here ) like a fool! He rocked on heels for leverage, picking up steam with each plunge. Magneto-dynamism, besides keeping the girl perfectly positioned, allowed for gads of fleshy recoil --- the essence of eye-candy!

"Yabba!", the Commander yelped, ogling Justine's charms! "Lookie the way her hamstrings ripple! That's a spicy meat-a ball-a!"

"Har! Har! Har! Ye and Mos are two-peas-in-a-pod when it comes to the undercarriage department! Thet's a fact! But ye won't catch me disagreein'! Womanliness is a hoot! Sure as shit!"

My pleasure-barometer suddenly hit the red-zone! Voicebox too! Spin had lip-locked my prickhead; was tongue-swirling away; steam-rolling me with the 'look'! Her bare feet drummed; gorgeous tits joggled! All charmingly out-of-synch! Too ball-breaking for words.

And remember those sleighbells?

"Fer the love-o Bubba", Goodenough blurted, "I love thet jingling!"

"M-Me t-two-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-e-e-e-e-e-e-e-e-e!", I screamed!

It'd been my first verbal exchange with the Commander, uncovering a kindred-spirit of sorts. Hey, what a coincidence! Both of us digging the sound of sleighbells, sported by a woman on her knees, totally naked; throating away! How's that for happenstance?

Mos grabbed the spotlight again. Or, rather, Dry did ( Oops! Forgot to mention that Dry had also been summoned! ). She'd been patiently kneeling; arms criss-crossed behind ( like Spin ); eyeballing the action; awaiting her turn! And when Mos abruptly wrenched his dick from Jus's puss ( expelling a lewd pop ), Dry reacted like a hound in a hamburger shop --- boobs careening; fingers and toes clawing; throating him to the balls; gurgling like a clogged latrine!

"Lookie thet!", Goodenough rasped, sounding like he's swallowed broken glass. "She's bodacious!"

"No fockin' argument, Mate!", agreed the Captain.

"Yah! She's-s-s-s-s,... Gr-r-r-r-r-r-r-e-e-e-e-e-e-,... Quack!,... a-a-a-a-t-t-t-t-t-t!", screeched Mos!

As I would eventually learn, Postulate # 3 ( blow-hole maintenance takes precedence ) was so solemn, that all female participants were extensively drilled in it's proficiency ( no pun intended )! Which explains why, when Mos pulled out of Justine, Spin immediately shuffled over on her knees --- still lip-locking my dick --- towing me along --- relinquishing only to gobble lube from a dog-bowl --- then attacking Justine's privates --- furiously tongue-teasing --- making things fabulously slippery --- then re-mouthing me --- dragging me over to Jus --- fitting me into her ( I'll bet she excelled at those 'put-the-pegs-in-the-holes ' aptitude tests ) --- caressing --- primping --- nose nudging --- lining me up for an unencumbered plunge. Which, of course, utilizing dead-weight efficiency, I obliged!

My pelvis flattened Justine's curvy ass; balls whopped her hairlessness with a lewd slap! Girl-goo spattered. Sweat percolated. I'd laid pipe so savagely, the girlish recoil was astounding --- muscles knotted --- joints flirting with dislocation --- everything wincing!

Spin slid southward, mouth hugely open, cross-hairs on my testicles; unconditionally glory bound!

"Great Clinton's ghost!", Goodenough yelled! "Lookie what she's doing now! And the expression on the Lad's face! It's,... it's,... "

"Unbelievably loony?", the Captain suggested.

"Yah! It sure as focking shit is! Fer the love-o Bubba, if thet smile get's any broader, his fockin' skull's gonna explode!"

Now it was me boffing Justine --- addled by surging testosterone --- thrusting maniacally --- transforming her puss into a superhighway! I'd ripped my shirt off; was on tippy-toes; clutching her hips like a bronco-buster; mauling girl-lushness into grip-handles! Curiously, an urge to study art history materialized ---

Then Spin cranked things even higher --- mashing her face between the action --- smooching my dick on each backstroke --- nudging it to daylight --- throating it --- rimming Jus --- doing the nasty --- then shoving me back in --- all done exclusively with her talented kisser --- nose, lips, and tongue --- while wallowing on her knees --- boobs gavotting in bare, slappy, unfettered splendor --- sleighbells altogether rousing!

Let's face it. If you need more of an argument for keeping a ponygirl's arms criss-crossed behind...

I was overheated --- sweat pouring --- as flushed as lobster --- as articulate as one too!

And Mos?

Ditto!

And heck, why the fuck not? After all, we were both getting the same treatment! In fact, we were cycling!

After I'd have a go with Justine, Spin would nudge me out; Dry would tug Mos back. After his whirl, it'd be my turn again. Take your pick --- puss or windpipe --- one of us was plumbing one!

That's how it went. Again and again and again!

What a combo!

Spin and Dry's A-game.

Justine's glorious bottom, and the surge I'd gotten from flogging it silly!

And, of course, the province of Postulate # 3!

No wonder Mos and I were flashing more teeth then a band saw!

"So tell me, Mate", the Captain inquired of Goodenough, "when do ye think ye'll be pickin' the Lad up?"

"Well,... Hee! Hee!,... from the looks of him now, I fathom he's gonna require some rehydratin' first! Plus, I've got a few loose ends to tie-up with the Nunworldoans,... Hee! Hee!,... if ye know what I mean! What say we fetch him in two weeks?"

"Loose ends? Har! Har! Nyuk! Nyuk! Oh ye old lecher ye!", the Captain chirped. Then he turned toward me.

"Two weeks and ye'll be a Star-pilot, Lad! Hope thet meets with yer approval?"

"Ah,... gah,... nag,... Quack!,... zah,... "

"Oh by the way, Lad", Goodenough added, I'll be needin' yer Celestial Security Number ta get the paper-work started."

"Errr,... Lad?", the Captain butted-in, "the Commodore asked ye a question.

"Yoo hoo! Lad?"

Although my reply ignored the inquiry, it sure didn't lack volume!