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Don't Let Her

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One of the things that made Bill Adama an ineffective Commander -- in fact, one of the reasons the old man was being put out to pasture by the Admiralty before the frakking worlds ended -- was that his crew lacked discipline. He got too close and failed to enforce the mandatory rules of conduct for those men and women enlisted in the Colonial Fleet.

One of those being discretion and the other fraternization. That’s how Admiral Cain had learned that the teacher the idiots remaining in the worlds dared call a president was not only dying but also hopped up on chamalla most of the time. It took a simple search through her CMO’s medical journals to learn that too high a dose of that particular drug would kill someone. Less simple but still far too easy was finding a Corporal from Galactica who had a store and was far too willing to believe in its’ effects on the new commanding officer’s beloved old doctor suffering from prostate cancer, who she tearfully confessed she cherished as a surrogate father.

Helena Cain wasn’t an entirely impatient woman and she would have been willing to wait, not too long if reports were correct, for Laura Roslin to die naturally. But when the bitch dared to stop her from protecting her officers from Adama’s ragtag crew of miscreants, and do so while looking far too strong for a woman days from death, she knew she had to act.

It was far too easy to get past the kid with the awful ties who trailed Roslin like a stray dog; in fact her simple excuse that Adama had asked her to consult with the president on an important matter not only gained her entrance into the president’s bedroom but also told her that Adama and Roslin together had the whole fleet wrapped around their joined fingers. It simply served to solidify her resolve.

She’d expected to have to overpower the woman, which wouldn’t be too hard considering her size, age, and illness, and she’d even gotten off, hard, at the idea of the president wrapping her admittedly nice legs around her waist as she tried to fight her off. She imagined Roslin bucking frantically, a frightened look in her eyes, as she plunged the syringe into her neck and came when she thought of the woman going limp underneath her, her mouth slack as she fell into a coma.

Instead, she found the politician writhing in her cot, sweat dotting her brow, eyes open but unfocused. Her sources were correct; from all appearances the woman was high out of her frakking mind. Helena’s nipples hardened at the view of those legs the president’s short silk night gown betrayed. She got wet thinking at how perfectly reality could meet fantasy.

She approached slowly, silently, until she was finally sitting on the edge of the president’s makeshift bed. When the older woman still failed to register her presence she decided some fun wasn’t unwarranted as long as the mission was completed.

She ran a finger from the president’s porcelain calf up to where her thigh became her ass. It was only when she made her way to the inner thigh and felt Roslin shudder under her touch that Cain remembered chamalla often rendered its’ patients both horny and stoned. Bolstered by that remembered knowledge, she dared to slip her fingers higher, inside the president’s panties. She wasn’t surprised to find her soaking wet. It only added to the dampness inside her own military issued underwear.

Roslin moaned as Cain fingered her sex and the admiral immediately paused, on alert. When the president didn’t scream or try to get help she bravely found her clit and stroked it gently.

“Bill,” the president muttered, her neck arched back in obvious pleasure. She bucked into the admiral’s hand eagerly.

Helena smirked. One rumor confirmed. The old war horse was, on top of everything, frakking his commander in chief.

Not enough, however, Cain surmised when she worked a finger inside the president and her walls immediately clenched around the digit desperately. She started a hard scissoring maneuver and was rewarded with increased moans from Roslin, whose eyes were still unfocused and staring up at the drab ceiling of Colonial One. Aware of the aide sitting right outside, Helena clamped a hand over the president’s mouth to silence what were now moans mixed with desperate grunts.

When she came, she came harder than hard, shaking violently, eyes rolled back in her head, through several orgasms. On number three, Cain realized with a smile that Roslin was struggling for breath, her chest heaving with exertion. Her eyes were wide -- she was sober now, whether from the orgasms or the knowledge that death was near -- and she clutched ineffectively at Cain’s hand, still placed firmly over her lips.

Helena allowed herself to stroke her nipples with her free hand as she luxuriated in the president’s increasingly desperate struggle. When the woman looked like she was about to lose consciousness, she dropped her own breast, found the syringe in her pocket, and plunged it mercilessly into Roslin’s pulse point. She worked her own hand into her uniform pants as her victim started seizing again, so similar to her orgasms and yet so different. She came when the president started clutching desperately at her own chest, in obvious pain. By the time Helena recovered from her own climax Roslin was lying still, limp, and colorless on the bed.

She was surprised and disappointed when she heard on the wireless the next morning that the president had been rushed to Galactica in the final throes of her cancer.

She was not at all surprised to find herself later that day staring down the barrel of Commander Adama’s gun.

“For Laura,” were the last words she heard before darkness claimed her for the final time.