“So how are you enjoying your retirement?” Baal asks.
Sam considers the question, taking another sip of her martini. Her bare feet are up on the mahogany desk, her slim, muscular legs angled appealingly.
“Are you fishing for compliments?” She says, standing and moving over to where the last Baal clone is kneeling on the floor, naked, hands tied behind his back.
Baal chuckles and looks down at the floor, a thin parody of demure. Nothing gets by Sam, he seems to acknowledge.
“It has its perks, I’ll admit,” Sam says, looking pointedly at the thick, flushed erection curving up toward her.
Baal chuckles again. “Admit it,” he says, “half the reason you like having me around is that you’re putting one over on them. You like getting away with it. You likes knowing you’ve got your own personal Baal clone as a pet, and they’ll never be the wiser.”
“Well,” Sam says, “Golf, fishing—never interested me. I think I’m entitled to at least as much, given how many times I’ve saved the world—including from the likes of you, I might add—and still, I was never treated as an equal. All because my reproductive organs are on the inside, not the outside.” Sam shakes her head in mock dismay.
“Any way I can start making it up to you?” The clone says. “On behalf of all the males of your species? It sounds like you’ve got a great deal of frustration to work out.” Baal looks up at her hopefully. “You can call me”—he searches his memory—“Jack, if you like. Or—Landry?”
Sam almost spits out her martini laughing. She almost feels sorry for the hurt, bewildered look on the clone’s face. “That won’t be necessary,” she assures him.
Sam places the martini on her desk, looking over his lean, muscular form.
“But as for making it up to me? You can get started at least. We’ve got all afternoon.”