Now a quick check in the mirror.  The effect... acceptable.  A wet finger traced and tweaked one exposed nipple casually, making it perk up in outrage as much as arousal.

Over the top went the silver spandex tunic-dress.  A broad patent leather belt cinched it tightly at the waist, not that it needed much cinching; it clung to every curve and contour of the body, betraying even the skimpy lacing of the corset, then flared out at the hips, barely covering the panties.  Tarnished gold lamé officer's epaulettes were sported proudly on the shoulders, although they didn't correspond to any army or fleet that would exist for another three hundred years.

A cheap plastic toy was velcroed to the belt, a kid's ray gun.  Obvious, and obviously not threatening.  Kitch and kinky, just the desired effect, complimenting the shiny leather low heeled knee boots that tired feet were squeezed and stamped into.  The wig added the final touch, a boldly fraudulent short tumble of tight auburn curls.  The ensemble was complete, and the night's work could begin.

A taxi to the docks was a necessary extravagance.  The bus guaranteed taunts and abuse, sometimes physical.  Tonight's taxi driver stared openly and greedily in the mirror but kept his mouth shut, maybe through a tenuous sense of respect, maybe just through a lack of language to convey his lewd thoughts.

The night was chilly, but the fleet was in, so there wasn't long to wait for a lone sailor with the right tastes to stagger drunkenly past the alley.  A soft whistle, a twitch of the hips and shoulders to display the toy ray gun and insignia, and a nod of agreement from the sailor.  The chase was on, and just as quickly concluded.  A hairy hand clamping a neck, a squeal of pain - not faked this time - and a token struggle, ending in a backhanded slap.  A stumbling to knees, a flip of the tunic-dress, and a brief fumbling before the brutal, selfish taking.

Afterwards, there were just the sobs of self hatred and pain, as the sailor stood up and zipped himself back in.  "Not bad," he slurred, the fives and tens among the handful of change that he tossed onto the shivering spandex-clad body confirming the compliment.  Then he was gone, humming a half remembered serial tune, and there was a moment alone, to wipe away the tears and blindly smear foundation on the already rising bruise on the cheek.

But it was a big fleet, and there were more sailors out there waiting to be serviced.  The hooker dragged himself slowly to his feet and stumbled back to the street, wiping the alley grime from the epaulettes that proclaimed his rank and name.  The night was young, he had a mission to fund, and a craving to satiate.  As he looked up yearningly up at the distant stars, 'Captain' Orion Blastar vowed once again that no matter if he had to turn ten thousand, a hundred thousand tricks, he would buy his passage back to them.  The stars didn't approve, but they would wait for him, and that was enough.