The Worst Man on Mars

Miss Leach was once more both literally and metaphorically floating on air as she pulled herself into her cabin and locked the door behind her, clinging onto the handle to steady her trembling. She could hardly breathe as she kept running that kiss over and over in her mind.

What a kiss!

And what a man! There was something so raw, so primal, so manly about Mission Commander Flint Dugdale that her mind always turned to mush in his presence. Strange hormones pulsed through her, reaching parts of her body that no hormones had ever ventured into before. Delicious sensations dribbled through her palpitating form.

Emily managed to calm herself enough to review what that kiss might signify? Lacking a sufficiently encyclopaedic repertoire of past kisses to draw on, Emily could only guess at the significance of this one. However, based solely on the reactions it had produced within her central nervous system, its significance was surely Immense.

Emily gave herself a hug and allowed a wide grin to spread across her face.

With a start she glimpsed the human form strapped to her bed and her grin vanished. The figure lay silent and still. Six-foot-tall and dashingly handsome, dressed in long boots, riding-trousers and an unbuttoned, wet-look shirt. There were straps at the wrists and ankles, plus a larger strap across the chest from which sprouted a healthy bush of manly hair. There was no sign of life, no movement, no breathing. Emily caught her breath and put a hand to her lips. “Oh my,” she squeaked. “Oh my, oh my ...”

She fanned her cheeks with greater gusto and propelled herself towards the bed.

“It’s a lucky thing,” she said to the immobile human form lying before her, “that I didn’t invite Commander Dugdale back for a coffee.”

The mysterious figure made no response.

“Or what would he have thought of me?” She undid the top two buttons of her blouse and fanned herself some more. “What would he have thought?”