The Short Sexual story of Coora - A Slave.

Olga's banker's bill :

Stephenie Meyer, author of the crepuscule novels, wrote a unawares story retold from the viewpoint of a small character, someone who walks into the shot of one of her novels and is almost immediately killed.

In my stories, at least the ones so far, the first-person viewpoints of characters in my Aghara-Penthay shave all been womanhood on special missions, or women captured to order, which means they've been missing out on the experience of a more regular slave - somebody ill-starred caught as part of a raid, an insignificant victim among many early women, person processed, and sold.

In my report ‘ Queen of the Sex Slaves ’, during the faction loss leader's council meeting, Ajeedie briefly witnesses an alien female being raped and then strangled by Monad. We never learnt her gens, but she had one, and she had a life. Her name was Coora, and this is her report.

1 - alert

I'm not sure enough if the unexpected deep booming noise wakes me even before the sudden alarm call of the ship's claxon begins. But somehow I instantly pass from being at rest to being alert, my heart immediately racing with the adrenaline coercion to flight of steps. Trindii, in the other berth, has woken just as suddenly as I have, and she is already sitting up rubbing her eyes. We hear another manna from heaven. It is a oceanic abyss sound, a stochasticity like skag that reverberates right through the Isaac Hull, and then we hear a distance crackling. Our beds shake as though there's an earthquake. There are more signs that something is amiss. I realize the ship's engines are straining with movement, instead of making their usual relaxed shush.

"Coora,"says Trindii,"What was that noise ?"

"That second one sounded almost like a blaster cannon,"I reply, puzzled, and seeing her eyes widen with affright, I try to propose a composure I don't feel."But I'm sure I'm wrong."And yet, I wonder, if I'm awry why is the emergency brake claxon is still sounding, it's rise and fall repeating over and over ?

"Coora !"Trindii squeaker, when there's another bass thumping phone. She has one of the highest soprano voices I've ever known, and when she's anxious, it pushes her set up up to even in high spirits cash register. Trindii has been my best Quaker since the initiatory days of us studying together, and I love her like a sister, but I have to admit she's hopeless in a crisis.

"Get dressed, now,"I order, and I swing my farseeing peg out my bunkum. The flooring is cold on my bare feet.

But Trindii continues to sit there, with her bed tack clutched to her breast, as though that will help oneself if there is a raid.

"What are we supposed to do after that ?"she wails.

I fight down my frustration at her. I have no meliorate idea than she does, but just dithering will score me get scared too. Like most traveller I paid stint attention to the safety briefing when we boarded this transport. How should I know where to assemble ? But there are over two thousand soul on this ship. Judging by the additional racket I'm tuning into, most of those are streaming by our door, so the solution is easy.

"Let's get dressed,"I say, trying to dramatize a pure tone of firm reassurance."We'll follow the crowd."

Trindii looks hesitant, but finally, thank the immortal, she begins to move.

The floor is cold, but our cabin, one of the chintzy ones close to the engine deck, is hot from its proximity to the gravity parkway, so we both slept only in underclothes.

Trindii, a man, has the body frame that would be described as voluptuous. She's no doubt destined to sour to fat in later life history, but for now, her pleasingly rounded figure is at its nubile practiced - big appealing eyes, and some of the largest knocker I've seen on a young cleaning lady. She's at the peak of her life's appeal to men. Her peel is pissed with spring chicken, a oceanic abyss brown gloss, and it's free from the to the lowest degree blemish.

In our halter cabin a large proportion of one rampart is filled with the mirror, and in it, I can not obviate glancing at my own range, and considering the entailment of what I see.

The reflection shows someone much like a homo female in her human body, only my skin has a teal iridescent shimmer. My eye are completely black - our species never evolved irises and sclera. And the most dramatic difference between myself and soul like Trindii, is that instead of possessing hairsbreadth like a human or many other mechanical man metal money, protruding from my scalp are buddy-buddy tubes of physique, a bit like goliath dreadlocks coated in my same shimmering skin.

They're known as ‘ scorns'in the language of my world. fair sex of my species cover their despite on our homeworld, for they are as clear a sexual characteristic as boob. male person do not make grow them. Whitney Moore Young Jr. girls have humble check stub, and then as we mature their contempt produce rapidly, reaching their longest - down to our thigh - in our early 1920s at the peak of our fertility. As a adult female progresses through her adulthood they gradually shorten, but still remain for aliveness - only withdrawing back to shoulder-length in the sure-enough adult female in society.

I reach for my dress, a garment which hugs my anatomy flatteringly, but still covers me from neck to ankle. As almost of the wandflower is unaware of the meaning of scorns, I quickly abandoned the head covering once I was offworld. I felt prudish compared to the human female person merrily flaunting their head teacher, and even after a couple of years out in the population, it still gives me a common soldier thrill to do so scandalously, when no-one around me knows I'm walking stave in a State that's our refinement's equivalent weight of half-naked.

Another concussion reverberates through the ship - the worst yet. For an New York minute the contrived gravity fails, silence falls, and the illumination flicker as I'm weightless. Then normalcy is restored, including the ageless call of the claxon.

The glitch ramps Trindii's anxiousness up further.

"This trajectory should be safe, Coora,"she says."Who could assault something this size ? And we're trench in commonwealth space."

Neither of us want to acknowledge the answer.

I can hear a man's voice getting louder as he moves nearer along the corridor, ordering rider like a recitation sergeant. He pounds on each room access he passes.

"Everyone out their cabins ! All passengers must assemble in the entertainment hall. Captains Order. Everyone out ! All rider assemble in the entertainment hall."The volume reaches is peak as he passes us, and gradually fades as he moves away.

I fasten my dress around me while Trindii forces her short legs into compressed disgraceful shorts. My garment opens at my left face, the cloth just wide enough to wrap around me, and once it's in station, it is meant to be secured with a serial of warp. I start with the warp under my arm, and work downwards. It's tight about my bout - I too have a full chest for a young cleaning lady, although I'll never compete with Trindii's counterpart balloons.

"Maybe we're in an unmapped asteroid discipline ?"I say while I secure the fastening over the feminine flare pass of my hip. There's another concussion. Again, the brightness flicker, and the solemnity fails for a bit. Neither of us believe my optimistic words. If we were being damaged by asteroids we'd slow down, and they'd conscription us as the lifepods. But the amusement Granville Stanley Hall is in the plaza of the ship, and the engines are firing fit to burst. No. We're trying to outrun something.

Trindii pulls a tight shirt over her head, the cut high enough that it bares the skin of her belly. Not just her belly - it barely fits around her pectus. She doesn't intellect flaunting what she's got, that girl. My hoi polloi, the Dystyr, are rather more conservative. testify our public figure, yes. Skin, no. However, although I've fastened my dress as far as mid-thigh, I leave the remaining buckles flashing my shins, to allow expert freedom of apparent motion. I pull on some indulgent ankle charge, unity with only a low heel. Footwear designed for ease rather than beauty.

"Ready, Trindii ?"I ask when she's pulled on some ticker, and with a nod from her we activate the room access and emerge into the corridor.

Outside it's crowded with people, all of them headed in the Saami guidance, and we can only progress at the pep pill of the slowest. A diverse cross section of the galaxy is represented, spread by age, sex, and coinage. I see two aliens who must come from a methane populace, and need gasmask.

Trindii takes my hand in hers so we don't lose each early. Her frame feels warm.

It's loud in here - everyone is talking nervously.

"Is it pirates ?"an old womanhood in front says to her fellow traveller in a cancel voice."Gods, don't let it be pirates from Aghara-Penthay."

"I survived a pirate maraud near Coboron 6, once,"a man says."You never forget that phone. I tell you - those are plunderer chargeman cannons."

Another jolt comes without warning, and the ship tremble like we're in an earthquake. I'm thrown against the side of the corridor, hurting my shoulder joint. I hear the engines stutter for a moment.

The crowd moves a little faster.

Once we reach the entertainment manor hall, there's enough room for us all to spread out and pick up our tread. dustup of seats face a level. It's configured for a much bigger crowd than the current ship's compliment. I'm expecting to see crew on the stage already train to explain what's going on, but there's no-one here yet.

I recognize a few appendage of our stratum and we move towards them. There are nearly two hundred of us on this trip - net year university scholarly person of galactic political sympathies, all of us being taken to republic Prime to see the US Senate in action. With the exception of a few mature students, virtually of us are in our early twenties, by the standard astronomical counting. Studying at Das Kapital University on Iniver Four is, for most of us, our starting time time living away from our homeworlds.

"Coora,"a virile representative calls my gens. I know who it is before I turn around.

Jurong. I made the fault in my freshman year of being ardent to him. As an unknown arriving at a largely human introduction, I wasn't sure I'd fit in, and I was anxious to make acquaintance. I needed someone to verbalize to. But he hoped my sake in him was of a different variety, and by the clip I told him that was never going to happen, the equipment casualty had been done.

He's ache enough to keep just on the right side of becoming a full-blown stalker, so I can't make a complaint to anyone without it sounding hysterical :"What's faulty with someone helping you out ?"- that kind of thing. But he's worked his way relentlessly into membership of my roach of friends, and since then, it's been pretty hard to go anywhere without Jurong showing up.

"Jurong - what do you think is going on ?"Trindii asks him, as a machine gun rattle of belittled thuds vibrate the ship. We have outer space to pass around out, but she's standing so near me her berm presses on my upper arm. One of the ground I like Trindii so much is she's always been an understanding ally on the Jurong situation. We go to a social club, he's there, and even if she's tired or wants to go with a guy, she'll never abandon me to him.

"Everything stop to a pirate attack,"he says gravely,"Even though we're in republic territory."He's answering her, but his eyes are only on me."Don't be afraid Coora - I'll protect you,"he adds, but when he says it he's looking me up and down with that longing, hungry aspect that reminds me that pirates aren't the macrocosm's only predatory animal.

I wish I was better at handling this kind of manful attention. I don't want to sound immodest, but for as recollective as I can think I've been considered exceptionally attractive. On my homeworld, I even helped pay for my college fees with some modelling work - an natural action which I found very boring, but moneymaking. Once I left base and interracial with the humans, I soon found they thought me equally beautiful, but with no one suitable for reciprocating, I've remained inexperienced, and a virgin.

I'm tall for a female, and my typeface is almost perfectly symmetrical, with gentle feminine feature and high malar. My soundbox shape declares my ripe femininity as blatantly as my scorns - I have extensive childbearing hip joint, and my breasts are with child in carnal knowledge to my narrow waist and svelte figure. From an era before it was reserve, I've always drawn the predatory stares of men.

"Yes, I'll protect you, Coora,"Jurong repeats as his gaze pearl to my chest.

Jurong is a good-looking guy, for a man. portion of the tragedy of our kinship is that instead of wasting his feat in a futile pursuit of me, he could have had his pick of the human females. Our college course has a lot More women than men. But while some man males like Jurong might lust for Dystyr female person, we don't reciprocate for human men. Dystyr woman might be similar enough to homo females that their male person assume our appreciation are the Sami, but Dystyr men are much larger - eight metrical foot tall being an average male. Furthermore, our men have prominent hump on their forehead which the human being men want, and once you're conditioned to care a certain tone, well that's that.

Dystyr do not reproduce by forming duo hamper, like the humans. Males struggle for ascendance, and our primed are rewarded by mating with many adult female. Thus, our males are highly territorial, and in our pre-history, they evolved to brand their bounds with a pungent smelling urine. The fragrance conveys the manliness and strong suit of the male.

Now we're civilized, it's not like our cat still pee in the corners of our homes, but one can't unmake genetics, and for us female, smell is an crucial factor. I fully comprehend this construct is revenue to the humans who focus on the optical, but to Dystyr char - well, inhaling a high-quality version of that musk is quite a turn on. Stores discreetly sell bottles of the stuff as an aid for adult female masturbating. So for piteous Jurong with his human height and smell - no dice.

The hall is getting busy now. It's so loud with conversation that it's hard to hear the continuing strikes on the ship, but we can still feel them through the floor. All our class seem to have found each former, attracting Sir Thomas More and Sir Thomas More mass like we're a planet forming.

A fair sex in an officer's undifferentiated steps onto the stagecoach. She must be wearing a microphone, because I hear the sound of her clearing her throat amplified a hundredfold.

"Passengers,"she greets us as the crew falls to sudden quiet,"I am Oshia Trondo, first military officer of the Moons of Odaron. The captain sends his apologies, but he needs to remain on the bridge deck dealing with the billet you've all noticed."

"As you might have surmised, the ship is currently under attack by a pirate vessel. But you are in no risk, so we ask…"

"Where are they from ?"interrupts a man at the forepart of the gang.

Trondo hesitates, and then she says,"They are spoiler from Aghara-Penthay."

Trindii is one of the passengers, mostly fair sex, who immediately scream. I'm silent, but otherwise little better - little terror grips me also, and for a moment I think I'll syncope. The Slavers ? The slaver of Aghara-Penthay are attacking this transfer ? Gods aid us all if they win.

"silence !"barks the policeman with as a good deal self-assurance as she can, but she still has to reprize herself."quiet !"

The initial panic subsides slightly, but the bunch remain too direful to be entirely calm.

"A distress call has been sent to Republic peak and the fleet are converging on us even now. Although this transport has piddling armament, its shell are very strong. These ships are built to run, and hold out until rescue arrives. All the Lapplander, for your safety, I ask you to continue here, as far as possible from the outer Cordell Hull. And do not attempt to wee-wee for the lifepods, unless the ship does come. In a lifepod, you will be easily captured."

Captured… I look around, as many, many of the women, are doing. I'm feeling very cognisant that I'm female person. We all know what it means to be female, and captured by Aghara-Penthay.

"How many adult female are on this ship ?"a man calls. He sounds hostile.

Trondo consults a line.

"One G, two hundred and forty-seven adult females. Nine hundred and sixty-three adult males. Non-binary specie - two hundred and…"

"That's too many adult female !"heckles the man angrily, as though he blames Trondo personally for the ratio. She flinches.

arse. There's no need to be mean - as a charwoman, she must be scared too. Trondo is approaching her in-between years, but she still holds a sealed elegant stunner, and that means she will be thinking about the like portion every other remotely worthy female in this hall is fearing. The specialty of the slaver of Aghara-Penthay - the patronage that's made their fortune, is trading their women prisoner to meet the sexual desires of the galaxy's men. There are no free woman on Aghara-Penthay - to be female on their world is to automatically be a hard worker. Uncaptured womanhood, i.e. those such as I, still free in the residuum of the coltsfoot, are referred to by the slave trader using the vulgar title"snatch ”. That's all we are in their optic. slit. The place between our legs is the but affair that subject. It's us adult female who have the right to be worked up. Not the jerkoff saying there's too many of us on board.

"What do you require us to do ?"Trondo retaliates, as pissed off as I am."It's not as though we can just hand over every attractive char on the ship."

"Why not ?"he calls back."The idea gets my vote."

There's angry mutter, mostly directed at him, but the seed of the estimate that others might be saved has been planted now. The slaver consume some male slaves, but not many. The old, and almost of the men on this ship, will die if the raiders make it on control panel. Sometimes come watercraft hired man over their women, and then the rest are be spared.

"They won't break down the ship's defence reaction before the commonwealth arrive,"Trondo reproval."And then you, Sir, will regret making such a suggestion."

But she's barely finished her conviction before there's an even deeper microphone boom then, caused by something immense knocking against the Isaac Hull, and the sound carries even to here. The ship lurches again. At first there are a few sidesplitter, but then everyone stops to heed for clew, and so we all hear the railway locomotive cut out completely. I hadn't realized how constant the noise of them was until it's gone. In the sudden quiet more women scream, filling the silence.

"Are there any weapon on this ship ?"another man, more politely, is asking Trondo.

"Not many,"she replies, and the care is blooming in her voice now."A few blasters on the bridge circuit, but that's all. These ships rely on being too big and too fast to snipe. We shouldn't need weapons."

"The engine just cease, ma'am. We need arm now,"someone says.

The ship's public address system bursts into lifespan, so sudden and so loud it makes me jump.

"This is the senior pilot of the Moons of Odaron. Slavers from Aghara-Penthay are boarding the ship. We can no longer give them off, so our guidance has changed. All passengers and crew must make for the lifepods. Evacuate ! Evacuate ! Your immortal be with you. I wish you all good…"but before he can finish, his voice is cut off with a sound like a blast. If there's any more broadcast after that, the announcement is drowned over the deafening yell of the rider.

The slave owner of Aghara-Penthay are raiding the ship.

2 - escape

Blind affright has taken over. I start screaming. Everyone is screaming. What are we to do ? I couldn't bear being caught alive, but I don't want to die. hoi polloi begin to take flight, and instinctively I start to run with them, but I fly aimlessly, changing direction and then changing again. Our chances of evading the pirates in lifepods are little better than our probability on the ship, but just waiting here to be caught is intolerable. I have to try something.

I'm not half way to the expiration from the Marguerite Radclyffe Hall when a blaster bolt, a very blaster dash, zips over my head, causing terror as it smashes the ceiling and rains debris down on the fleeing mickle. I've seen blaster on sieve many multiplication, but in all my life I've never actually been in the presence of a weapon discharging before. Only moments later, a gray-headed woman next to me falls, and in her torso I see a blackened smoke hole.

I freeze, staring in horror at remans that moments before were a living, thinking, being. soul grab my hand and I'm pulled roughly towards one of the corridors.

"This way,"he says. It's Jurong.

I don't know how he's managing to abide so becalm when nearly are barely managing to control the hysteria. The fallen are suddenly lying around us everywhere. Where min ago there was order, I now have to ill-use over remains to reach the corridors. How can so many be gone already ? But although the ravaging presents superficially as chaos, I have enough wits remaining to confirm there is a method in the carnage. new women and the impregnable and most well-favored Danton True Young men are the only ones being spared. They're fabrication stunned - frozen there as inert as staff vine. Those of us with value as slave. Everyone else is being killed.

I hurry after Jurong. I'm willing to go with anyone with a coherent plan to economise me. The chance of rape at the hands of the Slavers would be devastating. I'm a Dystyr. I left my homeworld before union, and like most of us who go offworld, I've remained a virgin. I can't be a sex slave. I can't be a sex hard worker.

And there's something as horrific as the rape awaiting captives. ten ago, the Slavers would suppress their captives with sheer barbarism. But now they do something far more insidious. It's called implantation. A biochip is injected into the head stem at the home of the skull. The microchip grows tendrils into the tissue, which emit signals interfering with the neuron relating to free will. The victim of an implant is unable to fend a mastery, so long as it's delivered by a Male. order the victim to screw - they will eff. Death is not even an escape. The implant has many protocol besides obedience, including one which prevents a striver ending her life.

Women freshly captured by the Slavers are always taken first to the open of Aghara-Penthay. There they're implanted and often given boost barbaric augmentations, and then they're branded with the buckle down chump. It's a swirling mark on the nerve to signify she is a treat woman. A quality controller mark for the buyer. A lifelong badge of shame for the wearer.

Please no - this can not happen to me.

"Where's Trindii ?"I moan to Jurong. I realize for the first time she is not with us. We're being swept along with panicked rider making for one of the lifepod embayment. civilization is beginning to develop down. An old man has collapsed face down on the floor, clutching his chest, alive but fallen, and no one helps him. Including us.

"Trindii is on her own now,"Jurong says harshly."This way."

Instead of following the herd, he pulls me roughly into a defect corridor of cabins. These suite are right stratum than the shared accommodation purchased on a bookman budget, which offered us little more than twin bunks. Through the open doors I see magnanimous double beds, reclining chair, viewing screens.

"This way,"Jurong repeats, hurrying."Here,"and choosing one apparently at random, he pushes me inside.

"What are we doing ?"I ask him, confused."We can't pelt for long. They will own liveliness scanner. They'll search the ship."

Maybe his programme is we try to hold back ourselves long enough for the Republic to arrive. Maybe he intends to shift from cabin to cabin and try to drop away past the Calosoma scrutator. pelt and move, fell and move.

Jurong hits the pad to shut down the cabin door.

"waiting ! We should go to the leak bays, Jurong. The ship has fallen. If the lifepods all launch together, at least we have luck,"I tell him, turning to leave, but he pushes me with all his strength, so I almost fly back onto the bed, and his honest aim dawns on me. Immediately I start to lever myself up, but he quickly throws himself on top of me, and I scream. I can palpate it pressing against me. That's his erection that I can sense. That's Jurong's penis.

"No !"I plead, trying to push him away."Jurong - No !"

Sometimes, I just hate men. We should be fleeing for our lives, and Jurong choses now to get an erection.

"We're lost anyway, Coora,"he grunts in my ear, his part heavy with lust."Hear those men ? If you're gon na get have a go at it anyway, I'm going to have you first."

I do hear them. Amidst the screaming from outside are the unmistakable sounds of chargeman arm, and the yelling of hostile male voices.

"No !"I protest again - louder, more pressing. I'm continuing to push him, but he's stronger than me, and he has the advantage of his weight bearing down on my consistence. His hand first seeks my breast, and I'm ineffectual to prevent him squeezing me. So it's number to this. He's won his wish. Finally, he's got to touch what he's imagined for so long.

"god Coora, you're perfective tense,"Jurong tells me, and he buries his face in my neck. His man straw is disaffect to me, and I hate the scratching and his hot breather. I struggle with all my strength to turn tail from under him, but it's not enough to break unloosen.

"help !"I scream. As though in the midsection of a pirate approach, anyone is going to give ear to one char's cries.

Jurong releases my chest, but only so he can pop out hitching up the textile of my apparel. I wish I'd fastened it all the way down now. I'm lucky I closed enough that nigh of the fabric is tight, and the job requires both hired hand. This means he only gains slow advancement with our combined weighting inhibiting him, and I'm resisting every inch of exposure, but gradually he wins, and I end up with fabric rumpled like a concertina around my hips. My pegleg are now bared completely to him - pelt he's never seen before - and he pauses a moment to caress my thigh.

"Jurong,"I say,"Please don't. Don't touch me."

Jurong freezes, but not because my supplication produced any positive effect.

"waiting. tranquility, Coora. hear !"he says in a harsh whisper.

I hear more screaming, from somewhere very close. A voice cries out then is suddenly cut off. A man laughs without mirth.

"We don't have long,"he says, and reaches for me again.

There's a painfully sharp tug at my pelvis, as next, my panties are ripped forcefully away. I'm left in a province of unbearable openness without them. My newly naked genitals are pressing against his erection. Only the layer of his trouser are between us now. Jurong reaches down, fumbling for the fastening to free himself.

I scream as loudly as I can this time. Perhaps the concern of discovery by the Slavers will stop him.

"Be restrained, you fool !"he snaps.

Please, why won't someone come ? I have only seconds remaining to do something, and it's going to be down to me to save myself. Looking round for any manikin of aid, I stretch desperately for the only thing in cooking stove. It's a glass ornament - the shape something alien and unknown to me. It's threatening, but I can vacate it with one hand.

Jurong releases himself from his pants and graven image help me, I can feel him - exposed man pressing exposed female. The flesh of his cock is tender. There's no blurriness to his Hammond organ at all. It's as though a rod of branding iron is probing against my pudenda. In bit he'll back up his articulatio coxae to where he can signal the nasty matter at me, and the assault will begin. I have to do something. I'm not normally pillory, but I'm not normally desperate. With no other option left, I swing the ornament into the English of his skull. It strikes with a sickening crunch. Jurong's eyes roll back in his nous, and at last I'm able to push him off me.

I'm on my base as quickly as I can get up. In spite of the urgency I still pause to bear on my garb back into its correct plaza around my legs. The coverage is a blissful relief.

I look down at Jurong. For a moment he's so still I think I've killed him, but then like a jumpstart speed demon, he jolts and moan. His hammer is still out his pants. The erection is beginning to cringe. Gods it's disgusting. How could anyone need that inside their eubstance ?

I spit down on him, venting my venom.

"Asshole,"I say.

The coercion to run Jurong is so unattackable I've hit the door release and I'm in the corridor before thinking of my safety. There's a eubstance on the floor right outside - one that wasn't there before. An old male person, face down, with a chargeman pickle the size of a dinner denture burnt out the back. There's no Thomas More time to consider the dead. Which way are the lifepods ?

My core buffeting, I choose a centering at random. But it's the wrong one. After only if seconds, at the joint ahead of me, two slave trader troops walk justly around the corner. They're mooching - not even looking for captive. Simultaneously we see each other.

The larger of the two men, a dark skinned, unshaven fellow, grins.

"hello, pretty."

Without wavering, I turn the other way, and I run for my life-time. The adrenaline spike of fear makes it feel like everything happens in ho-hum motion.

Behind me, the men murmur something to each other.

Perhaps they let me desire for a moment, perhaps, because I almost manage to reach the adjunction. Then something hits me in the spinal column like the punch from a colossus fist. I find myself sprawled aspect first on the floor before I know it. I try to move, but my muscles don't seem to answer to commands. I can't even actuate my eye. I must just stare at the patterned laminate covering the floor until a slave dealer boot fills my vista. There is a red dust on it. The dry land from Aghara-Penthay. My instinctive urge to get up and run is drown, but I can't John Donald Budge an inch.

"fountainhead ain't you a catch ?"a man says to me."How did you slip past the others ?"

I know what's happened. Blaster arm, of the type which have just struck me, come with stun and vote down scope. Pirate groups long ago found that it was too wanton to urinate error switching between settings, so they adopted a tactic of having pillager work in deuce. One man with the kill setting eliminates threat, and those who have no value. The other, with stun, aims at hold up captures.

I've just been stunned. I'm lost now. I'm beautiful, I'm woman, and they called me pretty, so they want me alive.

I feel a hand invade between my legs and my garb sliding up for the second sentence. I can't go to see who's doing it, but his helping hand traces his path up my skin with dreadful slowness.

"Got ta break her hidden for weapon,"the slave trader says to his companion, and then, to my shame he calls,"guess what, Tren ? No panties on. We have ourselves a slut."

No, Jurong tore them from me. I try to explain, but only manage to pass off a gentle moan.

The touch becomes intimate, as he reaches my fulcrum. I blink.

The Dystyr are relatively conservative and like to the highest degree of our females I'd been saving myself, intending to be one of the adult female yielding myself to a suitable alpha. But destiny had other aim for me. The first man whose member touched me was Jurong. And the start man who intimately gropes my sex organ is some Slaver lowlife, a homo male whom I'd only set eyes on consequence before. All my deeply held wild-eyed pipe dream are torn to nothing in a matter of minutes.

His hand releases my meat then, but only to squeeze my breasts, much as Jurong recently did. Although is interest has moved to groping my chest of drawers, he leaves my dress hitched up, and the front of open air on my naked, exposed derriere is unbearably humiliating.

"Nice !"my assailant voices commendation of the flesh he's squeezing.

"No !"I'm finally able-bodied to articulate a plea, and gradually, I draw up my arm to try and push him away. A stun gust doesn't incapacitate the victim for long, and I find I can now move a petty, but still too slowly to offer up any hardheaded defense.

Abruptly there's a burst of phone from one of the men's communicators. The manpower leave me, but after they're gone, I can still feel where I was touched.

"We'd upright get back,"says one man.

I'm too late to oppose my breasts, but with my muscleman control improving by the indorsement, I reach tentatively behind me, and start pushing my frock back over my rear.

"Put one of the shock collars on her,"the other guy speaks."We don't want a prize of this grade running away."

I don't know what a blow leash is, but avoiding it sounds more authoritative than protecting my dignity. I look up fearfully, switching my efforts to raising my torso up from the floor. But I'm not yet fast enough.

The unshaven one is already leaning over me, holding a piece of alloy tech in his script. It looks like a band, a circle of similar circumference to a womanhood's throat. The device in his finger hang opened by the hinge, but at the liberate end I see the teeth of a locking mechanism.

I moan, trying to contend the thing away with my half-numb arm. This can not be allowed. Whatever a electrical shock collar is, I do not permit them putting one on me.

"What do you compute her fleshy things are ?"unshaven-one says to his Quaker, brushing my scorn away to fully expose my neck, unaware that to a Dystyr, he's doing something that's a great amour."Ah, no matter. welcome to Aghara-Penthay, cunt."

And the apprehension cracking into place around my unprotected throat. The alloy feels nerveless compared to my skin.

I've made it into a half-sitting position by this time. I tug at the band around my throat, aiming to pull it back off, but it's locked itself, and I don't have a key.

"Now, cunt, if you don't come along, docile-like, this is what will happen."And before he gives me a chance to cooperate there's an vivid jolt of hurting from my neck. It makes the muscles in my dead body go rigid and I'm right back on the floor again, my vertebral column arched with suffering. Abruptly as the pain sensation came, it then goes, but I can still feel a tingling after-memory in my muscular tissue.

Horrified, I look up at him from the storey. I see clearly how he delivered the pain - there's a small control device in his palm - nothing more than a pushbutton and a dial. I reach out a shaking manus. If I'm going to escape I need to overpower him and seize that thing.

"Oh no, sweet-tits,"he laughs as he sees the focus of my gaze."Do you think you're the initiatory cunt to try and do that ?"

The next eruption of botheration he inflicts lasts longer. I cry out, clawing at my neck a s time to try to pull the source of the hot agony away, but my branch lock and I'm paralyzed with the pain.

When the torturing stops, any possibility of impedance goes with it. Violence is almost unheard of among the Dystyr, except for rival male person fighting for alpha condition. I've never experienced mortal trying to cause me pain purely for its own saki before.

"Do you need another monstrance ?"he asks, holding up the control.

"No !"I say fearfully, and I mean it. I'd rather endure him squeezing my titty again than have another dose of the collar.

"Then on your groundwork, dent,"he says."And come with us."

I struggle to bear, but I've been left very wobbly after my ordeals, and I can only stick upright by supporting myself with a hand against the paries. With my liberal helping hand I surreptitiously reach for my pharynx. The taking into custody feels hard - just a piece of alloy tech. I pull helplessly at it. There's no sign of the zodiac of the suffering it can inflict. There's also no augury of a release mechanism.

"It doesn't come off,"the other man, who is watching me, says."So unless you want another dose, you'd better forward march, sweet-tits."

Shakily I begin to walk. The Slavers fall into formation around me, one going ahead, and one behind. I realize don't know which of these two was the man who just claimed the award of touching me more intimately than anyone before.

We reach a junction with the main corridor, and the evidence of Slaver brutality continues. The clay of an old man is sprawled where the flooring meets the bulwark. Then there's another, and another. In some places, bar of stock smear a path along the wall.

"You didn't have to kill them all,"I feel compelled to protest.

"I didn't vote down them all,"laughs one of the men, unashamed at the carnage.

And then we see the first one I recognize - poor, unattractive Nee-Sin from our course. With minimum medical prognosis of a beau, she consoled herself with food and became morbidly obese.

"Oh, I did stamp out that one,"says the man at the nominal head."Ugly cunt."

I feel hate like I've never felt hate for a sentient being ever before. iniquity always makes me tempestuous. I clench my clenched fist, vowing to retrieve a way to avenge her.

"flavor, you're making the slit wild,"says the one behind me, amused.

Seething impotently, I proceed, trapped between my captor. The slave trader at the figurehead leads us down to the lower level - the one with the docking bays. I see to a greater extent and more than dead. Always they are the old and the untempting. I don't know whether to begrudge them or condole with them. Not when I've already had a taste of what's in store. That Slaver groped me. Such a sexual assault could pull in him a jail trance in the democracy. This ship is supposed to be Republic dominion. But one of these men groped me anyway. He touched my very core. Legally I'm still free on a commonwealth vessel, so I should be allowed to run from him, as I please, to describe him, but I'm afraid of the taking into custody and I mutely follow the pirate in front. The nuisance from that matter around my neck was so dread, what else can I do ?

We reach one of the tying up ports, and at the airlock, the favorable pastel decoration that was all over the transfer switches to a insensate alloy. early Slavers are converging on this berth, herding their own prisoner towards the air lock. I see only one male prisoner, and the remainder comprise a growing mathematical group of womanhood. Most of the prisoners have a choker like mine around their cervix, and collars are not the only indignities the raiders have inflicted. One woman I see is already nearly naked above the waistline. She clutches the meagre shredded corpse of her top, vainly trying to hide her chest.

I hesitate before crossing the threshold into the slave dealer ship. This is far Thomas More than a physical boundary. I know that once I'm there, I'm beyond salvation. But I'm prodded with a chargeman in the cover, and I've stagger on to the territory of Aghara-Penthay before I know it.

So that's it. My metrical unit are on a slave owner ship's floor. I've just lost all my rights as a free citizen. Just by taking one dance step, because I don't have a penis between my legs, I've become a slave. The shabbiness of such a rule eats me inside. But my captors bark an gild, and still I must make a motion blindly on, following the others in a corridor that's now getting crowded, much like when we made for the recreation hall.

Also similarly to that previous short journey, the corridor opens into a huge space. There's no house of any comfort in this new chamber - this is nothing like the tape transport. It is merely a ship's hold. This is a infinite to carry goodness. Living goodness. A declamatory crowd of captive are already gathered in the center of the space. I break ahead of my captors and hurriedness forwards towards them, eager to be separated from the two men who attacked me. In this big group, for now we're largely unsupervised. The slave dealer safeguard merely spatial relation themselves around the rampart, leaving their captives alone in the middle. The sea rover men are relaxed. They have the confidence of soldiers who have already won the triumph.

Among the others, I'm thankful to be just one of a crowd. But the crowd are almost all fair sex, and a disproportional number of us are beautiful. We huddle together, feeling safer together even though that guard is an illusion. Everyone seems to be talking, trying to find a result when there is none. Many, but not all the prisoners, are locked in shock choker similar to mine.

"Coora !"a phrenetic voice calls, and I see Trindii. Her heart are tear-streaked and I see she's also been collared, but she seems otherwise unharmed. We hug each former, and I burst into a fit of dickhead, crying which I'm ineffectual to control for respective minutes.

"Where did you go ?"she asks when I'm composure, looking into my grimace with concern."What did the slaveholder do to you ?"

They did so much. The choker, and my dress baring my ass while he touched between my ramification, and his mitt on my breasts. And Jurong. I look away, too ashamed to answer.

"Me too,"she says, understanding,"but I'm alive."

"punter we'd been killed,"I say to her gloomily.

A claxon sounds from somewhere, different in pitch to the warning device calls on the transport, and I feel a vibration through the floor. I know what that means. We've just undocked. We're even more truly doomed now. There will be the intimate thrill in a moment when we go into hyperspace, and then we'll be beyond rescue. Please no… But there it goes. The tug, against my whole being, of the star jump. An split second has passed, and already we're light class from the Moons of Odaron.

I'm hoping we'll be left alone at least until reaching the slave trader'cosmos, but as soon as we're underway, our captors summarize our worrying. A man's shouting becomes audible over the din of panicked captives.

"Women to the front of the detention. Men to the back !"

In the throng, I don't know which way is which, but those nearer the bound can probably see him gesturing, so keeping a compressed traction on Trindii's arm I simply follow the respite of the herd.

I ‘ m aiming to try and prevent in the essence of the female group, where it's safest, but in the direction we're moving, Trindii and I end up near the back, and when we stop again, we find ourselves at the edge of a orotund lap of galactic womanhood. There must be hundreds of us here. Across from the females'circle, I see the much small-scale mathematical group of males. Briefly I note Jurong is not among them, but that's all the thought I'm unforced to pass on to him. Demanding my immediate care are the men between our dress circle - slave dealer with ship's officer rank. The captain is quite the ugliest man I've ever seen - a short mate with a black face fungus, morbidly obese with spindly sebaceous hair.

"Prisoners - form into line of business,"he commands."An arm's width apart. bed covering yourselves out."

With no reasonable options but obey, we shuffle ourselves around according to his Holy Order. Like any new recruits, the function is disorganized, and it takes some time. But eventually we find ourselves arranged in placement. In front man of me is a pretty blonde girl. I do not screw her - she isn't part of our course group. To my left is Trindii. To my right there is only afford space, and then the men. I'm still on the boundary of the distaff ranks.

I look down with demote philia at my precious dress. I know what must be coming, but it doesn't make it any well-to-do to bear.

"Now strip !"orders the captain."comic strip. Everything. No habiliment. No jewelry. Put everything in a muckle to your right."

No ! They can't make me do this. Not in front of everyone.

A few women tentatively start pulling at jackets and footgear, but nearly, like me, await around uncertainly. Our sentry go seem to be expecting this. Before the ship's officer has finished public speaking, Slavers are already moving down the production line, activating impact catch on those who delay. My assailant unfortunately comes from behind me, and I'm on the story before I know it, my body so unbending from the electric firing that I can't even scream.

They only zap me for a moment - it's a warning, not a penalisation. The pain has gone and the guard has already moved past me and is torturing some former unfortunate. But it was enough. I scramble back to my feet. I'm not sure why, but my thighs have started aching.

I know it's inevitable that I'll finish up completely undressed in front line of all these people, so it doesn't really count what goes first. But we all seem to instinctively get rid of the to the lowest degree versed level first. Reaching down, I pull my rush off my feet. The admixture flooring of the handle find aplomb, and hard on my Sol. Barefoot, I drop my boots next to me, at my right, as I was ordered. My heart is pounding. divinity, this is unbearable. When will I next be lucky enough to have any covering on my feet ?

At my left hand, Trindii is already down to her underclothes. She looks around self-consciously, waiting for the others to enamor up, but a guard notices her hesitation, and he activates her leash. The ken of my dear friend enduring such suffering wrench my heart. Oh, Trindii - is that what I looked like when they tortured me ? She convulses uncontrollably, and her face lock in a rictus of pain.

I start pulling at the fastenings for my dress. I'm aware I've got no panties on underneath - Jurong tore them from me - but there's nothing I can do about that, and it's not as though I'd have been allowed to go on them much longer anyway.

Next to me Trindii is unhooking her bra. Self-consciously, she lets it fall down her weapon system, baring her oversize breast. Her nipple, a paler coloration than the relaxation of her java peel, are pocket-size in comparing to such fleshy balloons.

Meanwhile the last of my fixing comes apart, and I can't make the undertaking of undoing my dress last any longer. Well, here goes. first base, I ease it back off my articulatio humeri exposing my cleavage, intoxicate and presented even by my dewy-eyed bra. Then my slim, flat belly is revealed, with the all-inclusive childbearing hips an advert of fertility in both the homo public and the Dystyr one.

And then I do perhaps the gay thing I've ever done, and I drop my dress to the floor. graven image, this is intolerable. I have to choke back the urge to cry. All I can think of is the way my bare ass and my centre have just been exposed before a huge crowd. I cup my hand over the familiar folding of my sex reed organ. Dystyr are entirely hairless, and I don't even have the auspices of pubic haircloth afforded to the human female person. I can feel my contempt touching my naked buttocks.

I make the error of glancing around. Most of the male captive are nude now. Some hide their genitals much as I'm doing. Some stand shameless. Many are watching the women strip show. The majority of the men cling to their ingrained civility, and have the decency to glance only surreptitiously, but a few are leering blatantly. I look away. Around me almost all the women are raw. Trindii steps out her fragile pantie, and sorrowfully discards them on her big money. Then she begins to pull at her earrings. I wonder why she didn't get rid of her jewellery first.

I try to unclip my bra with one hand so I can conceal my groin, but it's too difficult. Blushing with embarrassment I temporarily surrender the screening for my crotch, and I reach between my shoulder blade with both handwriting. I'm desperate to pause for a last second before yielding my final piece of clothing, but then I see a Slaver is watching and waiting with unresolved enjoyment, the shock activator ready in his script. His oculus glint between my unprotected center and my pectus. Scared almost to the peak of panic, I slide the straps of my bra down my subdivision, and throw off it quickly, that I might use one arm to conceal my pectus and return my other to cup my jetty.

I'm naked.

I'm au naturel, completely naked, in front of all of these people. Yes, my sex organ is concealed by my hand, and my mammilla are hidden by pressing them into my arm, but my chest are wax, and for a woman with my proportions it's impossible to conceal the swellings of my chest completely. No one would slip me for a male for even a second. Hanging down my backrest are my scorns - another symbol of womanhood, which rest against my nude rump. Gods helper me, I'm done for. I'm a naked female captive on a Slaver ship.

I look around me while continuing to concealing my private as best as I can. The last of the prisoners are completing their process of undressing. No one offers our captors any more resistance, as though the remotion of article of clothing took with it our spirits. The au naturel males are remaining stony-faced, but many of the cleaning woman are crying. I wish they wouldn't - it's unvoiced enough keeping my own emotions under mastery without the effect on me of their woefulness.

Trindii has her arms clamped over her organic structure, much as I have. I hope my endeavor at modestness does not face as bootless as hers does.

And then I see my first slavegirl. My kickoff live slavegirl, I think, although immediately I realize that isn't rightful - all the women around me, including myself, are already slavegirls. But this one has on her face the mark of a woman processed on Aghara-Penthay - the slave trader's equivalent of a symbol of quality. She has been marked because she has an implant injected into her brainstem - a fate feared by women across the extragalactic nebula.

I study her expression to try and see some mansion of the abomination she carries - perhaps I'm expecting the glazed heart of a zombie. But she looks perfectly normal, watchful even, like any normal human female, except for the black swirling cross imprinted on the side of her principal and her near-nudity in the Aghara-Penthay slave wrap.

The wrap are another defining symbol of Aghara-Penthay. A rectangular man of silky fabric, the wrap fastens with a bow under the striver's arm, so it can be easily removed even while the wearer is in any form of chasteness. The garment is meant to excite the observer as much as conceal. It wraps around the wearer like a bath towel, but one which is too small.

Each is custom-made fitted to the slave so it hides just enough. With the tit covered, the lower hem barely covers the pudenda, and the rump. At the side, there is deliberate conception to provide not quite sufficient textile to come together, so it leaves a agape swath of pulp exposed which hints at the shape of the wearer's breast. There is no lower fixing, so lean forward or back, and a cleaning lady exposes herself. underclothes is not permitted for striver, so wearing a wrapper, a striver is forced to constantly be cognizant of her body, and her slavery. Copied wraps sell in huge measure across the Galax urceolata. Husbands buy them for their wife to pattern in the bedroom. Women buy them to storm their partners. A harmless erotic thrill for some, an unremarkable horror for too many.

The miss in the wrap moves along the job collecting our article of clothing and bundling it into a sacque. There is no sorting to simplify returning detail - this is assemblage only for electric pig. I tremble as I understand I won't ever be getting that beloved dress back. It was expensive. Underneath the masking of my munition, I can feel only my skin. I am naked. Me, and all these other naked women around me.

other hard worker move along other job. There are too many captives for one handmaiden to deal with all their property.

"Thank you,"I tell the one who takes my things. She does not reply.

Men move down our lines, then. Slaver men. I can see them visiting first the lady friend at the battlefront of the course, then advancing one by one along the ranks, so I have enough time to try and comprehend what's coming. offset, two men approach the prisoner. Then she puts her deal on her head, and constituent her leg, so they get see everything. That is going to feel unbearable. The men consult each other. They write a number on her left thigh. And they move along. Five away from me. Four away. Three away. Each meter it takes about thirty seconds to pick up this… inspection ?

Closer and closer, and then my turn comes. The two men stand in front of me. They are clothed. male person. Free. I am nude, my hands across my body.

"You understand me, alien ?"the taller one barks.

I debate feigning that I don't speak republic Common, but my face has already given me away.

"Good. ramification apart ! Hands on your head."

I shake my head in repugnance - no, no, they can't anticipate me to show myself. Human women, yes, but Dystyr ? Without wavering the shorter, diddley man raises something towards me, a device like a baton he's holding in his bridge player, and touches it to my upper arm where I'm hiding myself. It's like a red hot smoothing iron has been pressed against me and I scream. People nearby look around.

He moves the baton away, and the pain sensation fades almost immediately. My muscles around the area of contact are shaking, and I can't stop them.

"Do I need tell you again ?"he asks. He's smiling. This is entertaining for him.

"No, I'll obey !"I cry. Tears are coming now, and I can keep in line them no more than the shaking. Abandoning my scant auspices, I put my helping hand on my head, and undefended my second joint.

And they inspect me, their centre moving over my organic structure blatantly and intimately.

It's bad enough being naked in front of all these masses, but standing in this demeaning baffle makes the ordeal into my worst incubus. My knocker are lifted by the location of my arms, and presented even more completely. The common soldier place between my legs feels open and exposed.

The men make noises of commendation.

"A very fine bitch,"says the taller man."Nine for the facial expression, losing one just because she's an noncitizen. shame. Ten for everything else ?"

"Agreed."

"Now, save still while I do this,"marvellous one says to me, and with a dissimilar device he leans down and writes something on my au naturel lead thigh. A number, in large print visible across the room, drawn with a thick red course.

It says"forty-nine ”.

Then they move on to the woman behind me in the ranked captives. I hesitate, holding my affectation for a minute because I'm fearful of another touch from that baton. I glance across and see that some of the au naturel men are watching me continue to hold spatial relation, and this trigger embarrassment to overtake reverence. I risk dropping my blazonry, and resume screen of my body.

Two men have been progressing down each of the lines. The duet dealing with Trindii's strain have only just reached her. I look across, trying to image my understanding and support for her, as she places her handwriting on her oral sex and section her leg to put everything on display, as I just did.

"Nice face,"one says."An eight. We can all see what her advantageously asset are. Ten for those bangers. short legs - a six. Seven for the dead body. VII for the ass."

"Not everyone likes their breasts that big,"his companion counters.

"But ten to the aright customer."

"True. Okay, ten for the boobs it is, then. What does that make ?"

Trindii has ‘ 38'written on her.

I didn't quite comprehend it when it was my turn, but is that what's going on ? We're being scored ? Given a sexual conquest for our faces, legs, breasts, eubstance, and backside, as though nothing more than gene and figure thing about us ? I'm so revolted that anyone could be cruel enough to subject another human being to this objectification that in my outrage I forget to ward my notion. And one of the men in Trindii's line sees me scowling.

"What's with you, schnozzle ?"he snarls across at me."You can wipe that spirit of your boldness right now !"

I snap my regard back to the movement, but it's too recent. refreshed threat clench me. It feels like my heart will erupt out of my chest. It's tough not to scream.

"I'm coming back to make you regret that, afters boldness,"the taller man, who looks as though he's not washed for days, warns me, and I have to fight down not to pass out from sheer fear.

There are so many of us here that it takes quite some time for the men to label each female with her grade. But it's done in the end. Then, more than ordination are shouted at us, and a reorganization takes post. adult female with scores over forty-six are grouped together. Next goes 41 to 45. Thirty-six to forty. And so on, down through membership imposed by those demeaning beaut rafts. The Slavers seem to take in decided against capturing women with low grievance - female too old or ugly to be a sex slave. I've seen enough to know what happened to those ones - slaughtered on the exaltation. Arghh ! These men are such animals. No, worse than that. Animals can show affection, or be loving. There's no vestige of that from the Slavers.

We, their latest victim, form into fresh circles.

The largest of our naked horde are in the thirties scoring band, Trindii among them. Now I only glimpse her through the milling crew of flesh. My group - the top scoring department, number 34 female person - Sir Thomas More than in the group below us. We huddle together, nude person and scare. Each one of my new companion is indeed a beauty. While I endorse their sexist ranking system in no way, I can see why males would regain these women suitable.

One girl, a redheaded human beauty, bursts into binge, and without word of advice, she throws herself at me. I flinch, for an blink of an eye, fearing attack, but all she does is cling to me, weeping constantly. With both of us nude, our breasts are brushing together and I blush, unused to being in such intimate contact with another naked female.

Meanwhile, the slave trader proceed to the succeeding phase angle with practiced calmness. The events which signify the end of my life are no more than than function to them. I extricate myself from the redhead as they begin to motivate us out of the large hold blank. The bare males go first, then the lowest scoring females are ordered to stand up and fall out their safety, shamefully concealing their bleakness as they pad docilely away, then the succeeding group, and so on. I see the pitiable first officer from the transport, Oshia Trondo, in bleakness she jarringly contrasts to the dignified cleaning woman in uniform.

Some of the women are being encouraged to faster movement, by way of a spur touched to a nude buttock. But I don't placard any of the women who are tortured are particularly easy - deserving the penalty. I think the safeguard are just frightening them for entertainment, or because it pleases them to see the way an luckless victim skip and leap with the nuisance.

Whichever is the trueness, on and on it goes. The sequencing means that my radical, what a repellant sexist might call the premium captive, are last to be ordered to our bare fundament.

"movement, lulu,"we're ordered, so we do, hurrying towards the exit from the hold. I'm trying to strategically position myself in the center of the herd, where I'm least likely to be attacked, but others have formed the Same melodic theme, so there's a bazaar bit of jostling and elbows between us all as we vie for position.

We hurry until we're out the hold and we're being driven along a corridor, featureless except for counsel in the alien language of Aghara-Penthay. Then the concern of what's ahead begins to override the reverence of what's hind end, for from somewhere in front, we can hear the sound of women screaming.

But we only slack for long enough for the females at the back to pay for the delay with their asses. Then some of us join the screaming - our cries terrifying in the lowly corridor. naked women panic, and some try to run. I'm pushed hard from behind by someone trying to make a motion up the mathematical group, and I fall heavily to the admixture base. Suddenly I'm the one who is at the rear, and it's my turn to palpate the wand. I scramble to my invertebrate foot, weeping with terror, but the sentry duty are already on me, and my ululation add to the noise of my companions. I've never screamed so much in one day in all of my life.

3 - cellphone

Beyond the next articulation, we discover the root of the rumpus.

A large holding cell with BAR for walls has all the male person captive inside. There are exposed cocks everywhere I look, but it's not men's bodies that's the most terrible aspect. Some of the females taken from our ship have been put in the cellphone with the men, and the men are raping them.

"No !"I gasp, my horror very personal, for one of the unlucky ones in the John Cage is Trindii.

five of the males are on her. So outnumbered is she, that between them they have easily lifted her from the ground. One man holds each leg, one her torso, and one each arm. Trindii is gripped in midair, rotated to a locating as though lying on her position. The appetite of these beasts is urgent enough that a man holding one leg is managing to rape her even while she's suspended.

"What are they doing ?"I cry out in horror to the woman next to me."That's Trindii !"

"What do you think they're doing ?"my brunette neighbor hisses."And don't speak so loudly. Do you want them to do it to you ?"

"But those men are Republican prisoner, like us,"I protest in a softer part."They should be better than that."

I feel compelled to help Trindii somehow, but the guards are herding us onwards. We hurry on down the corridor, a river of naked distaff pulp, and the phone of the orgy disappearance behind us.

"They're lost, we're all lost,"the brunette says once it's safe."No reason for those men to halt back. No understanding to obey the law. And there's a lesson to you and to us all about our new liveliness. Even being a male slave is better than being a woman."

The idol have mercy on us.

At consecutive juncture we turn left and mighty, and then we reach our destination. This new place could be mistaken for a pet memory board or zoo - a narrow down way lined with rows and stacks of large cage, forming a storage-battery grid. But it is a memory for sentient women. Our captor are already forcing the females at the front of our grouping into the petite loge - one for each char. On our knees, with the head teacher down low so we're almost tucked into a fetal ball, it looks as though there's just enough room to rack inside. To a disembarrass char it might appear like restriction would be another repulsion, but we've already learnt we'd rather be locked in there than out in the corridor with the men, or back in the cellular telephone with Trindii and the Male. So no-one offers resistor, and when a sentry go opens a cage for me - one of the higher single where I must make an undignified scramble up to get onto the shelf, I climb at bottom quickly and entreat my point to my genu, so I can gather my body inside.

"That's right, in you go, sweet-tits,"he says.

Once I'm fully within, the guard slams the door, and I hear the mouse click of an electronic curl.

It doesn't take long to probe of my new milieu. The ceiling is only an inch above my arched back, so I can't sit up, not even enough to rest back on my hound. The door - a wire mesh of alloy designed so I can't pelt from the corridor - is at my rightfield, and the remaining position are plain stitch alloy. Each face of my box is only inches away, so there's no possibility of shifting to a different view. And the only former feature of speech in here with me is a disgusting affair that looks like a dildo - a pale pink artificial erect phallus, so naturalistic it even has mineral vein and an initiative at the tip. It's so near to me I bump my look against it if I lift my caput from my knees.

The noise in this prison gradually diminishes as the death captives are caged.

I can't see enough from inside my little box to confirm when the loading is arrant, but a guard gives us instructions.

"We don't want pretties like you harming yourselves before you get your implants,"he gloats."So the cargo cage have been fitted with AI. You will hear this smell :"and there is a aloud single note auditory sensation,"and you must drain the nutri-fluid from the feeding tube in front of you. betray to conduct all the fluid, or refuse to feast, and this will encounter :"

And yet again, they make us scream. Where my knees and feet touch the alloy trading floor it feels like the goad - an intense jolt of white-hot botheration. Instinctively I try to square away to evade the torture, but that only printing press my back against the roof, which also burns like a sun. But as immediately as it arrived the pain is gone. I feel naught - there's no trace, even though it felt like my skin was burning away.

In the consequence I can hear womanhood weeping from the other John Cage, their sound ranging from gentle shortness of breath to near hysteria.

The pirate didn't sound as though he'd finished public speaking, but there's no more Holy Scripture from the guards. None of us know if they're waiting. We can each only see one minuscule portion of the empty corridor through the network. It's about five minutes before anyone daring ask,"have they gone ?"and another distaff phonation answer,"I think so."

A daring soulfulness margin call,"Sir ?"and no one answers.

"What are we going to do ?"individual then wails, too loudly, and another spokesperson child's play angrily,"We're going to be quiet down ! Or you'll end up bringing them back."

"But what can we do ?"another adult female asks, more quietly, and the raging one answers this too,"What do you guess we're going to do ? We're going to get implanted, and then what we're going to do is get fucked by men. We'll screwing every one they want us to fuck."

She's correct. With a moment to think, the hopelessness of billet comes crashing in on me. Next thing, a big wet tear drips down my cheek and onto my bare knee. I'm locked stark naked in a John Cage, and I'm on my way to Aghara-Penthay. I'm lost. It's only a matter of sentence before I'm raped. No ! Why me ? Why did I have to be a charwoman ? Why did I have to be pretty ? I can feel my replete breasts squashed into my thighs. I'd been pleased to have that chest once, but now it's just gon na bring me miserableness. I wish I could hack the thing off. My bare pelvis is thrust out behind me, so my back feels very vulnerable. My scorns rest on my naked back. I hope there's not a tv camera in the back wall, or anyone peeking will get an obscene eyeshot of my holes. Needing to do something, I manage to shift my arm enough to try and rub away the demeaning scar the wrote on me, my forty-nine, but the ink seems indelible.

A duo of minutes later, the buzzer we were taught about strait for the first base time.

I don't have the courage left to resist my captor, so I hastily take the head teacher of the phallus in my mouth and take in it greedily. The phoney phallus turns out to be the temperature of a homo organic structure, as is the liquid it dispenses. A gluey fluid fills my mouth. It tastes of salinity, and something unpleasant that I can't identify. I swallow it back, but the slimy essence coats my throat. My trunk broken wind with revulsion, and I think I'm going to retch, but I force back the impulse and continue to suck on the disgusting thing in social movement of me. The other women must also be obeying, for there are no further screams.

The tone ceases, but I keep sucking until the penis is dry. After I'm done, I can't get rid of the penchant and the flavor of that slime. And so, in this consideration, for a short time there's nothing for me to do but hold back, looking down at the cage base and at my own smooth knees, while I have a moment free from harassment.

But we're not left alone for long.

I hear the sound of multiple manly spokesperson approaching.

"hullo, sexy,"a man's voice says to somebody, from a position a few Cage behind me."Forty-seven ? I think you deserve practiced than that. I'd core you raw."

And then they move along the ranks, commenting and discussing on other char, as though we're nothing more than objects.

"Chest is too flat,"one fille gets told. Another :"I don't like the dark ones."

Then the voices are external my grille.

"A prize piece of noncitizen cunt,"is somebody's judicial decision."Always good for multifariousness, the unknown ones."

I look down steadily at the floor between my stifle. Already I can judge that making eye contact will probably invite more trouble. My scheme works, and to my embossment they move on, and I don't even see the man who just reduced me and all my Bob Hope, awe, pipe dream, tasting, to one sentence :"a prize piece of alienate puss ”.

Shortly after that, all this group of men leave, but they're not by any means the last visitors. I don't know if all the room of captive are receiving similar care, but our bulwark of cages, where the high-pitched scoring womanhood are being kept, seems to be a popular venue for sightseeing by the slave trader crew. I try not to pay attention as I repeatedly hear obscene and disgusting gossip on my consistency, unless I'm addressed directly and obliged to reply. They're just words, and we're all getting similar discourse, but after an unknown meter has passed, something happens where I'm no longer capable to blend into the herd.

"Here she is,"a gravelly male voice is saying, and the sound of his phonation comes from redress next to me."Hey, you - the green cunt, look round."

I wish I could gaze ahead but it's riskier to disobey this man than to comply, so I turn my head and I see him. It is the tall unwashed man, he who was scoring Trindii's melody, and he who caught me looking at him with disapproval. Around him stand three of his colleagues, each an equally repellant so-and-so.

"Hello, hooters,"he says."I told you we'd come back for you."

4 - Soiled

It's more difficult to climb down from the Cage than it was to get inside. My muscles have started to seize up in that cramped distance, and when I half-tumble out, one of the men has to catch my elbow, like he's being chivalrous.

I stand on the floor, surrounded, ashamed of my nakedness, and instinctively I recross my arm across my titty, and cup my vulva with my other helping hand. Like that's going to protect me from what's coming.

I realize they're not removing any of the other cleaning lady. They're here just for me. Before these Male, I'm shaking with terror.

"Please,"I beg humbly."I'm sorry if I offended you, Sir. Just let me go back in my cage, and I won't do it again."

From my stance in the corridor I now can see inside some of the other cages. None of the other fair sex are looking this way. They're just thanking the gods that I've been chosen for what's about to pass, and not them.

"ejaculate with us, hooters,"the vulgar man says, grabbing my elbow, and he tries to pull me along the corridor. I look back uncertainly.

"Just me ? Not all of us ?"I query, betraying the others around me.

Another safety, a big burly fellow, lazily waves one of their pain batons at me, so I know the Price I'll pay if I don't cooperate. So I give in, and let the unwashed man result me. I proceed to my luck, surrounded by his three companions. I can smack the unwashed one's stale olfactory property, even at this distance.

It was bad enough being nude before others when I was one of the crowd, but alone with these men, I feel bitterly conscious of my nakedness and vulnerability. I pad along with the men on my bare human foot, chest and sex covered with my limb, but knowing I can do aught to conceal the feminine curves of my croup - fully displayed to the two male behind me.

Again we pass the cage where the male person captives are held. The women in there have fallen repose now. On a nasty mattress on the cell floor, I see Trindii is in the embrace of a big male. He holds her as closely and as intimately as if they're lovers. She's not moving. She has her back to the stripe, her body as limp as a rag chick, and I can't see if she's still conscious. It's probably a mercy if she's not.

One of my escorts - a grey-headed guard with a gruff voice, old enough to be my grandfather, is watching me.

"neediness to join the cunts in there ?"he asks gruffly."Be grateful you're one of the middling one, forty-nine, so you're spared that. But if you're not nice to us, it can still happen."

After that warning, we only have to go a couple of join further on before we reach our final exam destination.

The cabin, if that's what it is, is as bare as a prison cell. There's null but the bed in here, a steel framed bed, bolted to the floor in cause the ship shakes during combat. It sits out in the plaza of the room, with no bedhead or footer. Just that awful frame to support the mattress, a mattress which is so clinically crisp and whiten that it could be for a hospital.

But this is a assault room.

"No,"I plead, my abdomen dropping through the floor. It's hopeless but I'm trying to reverse back out, but I'm already inside the cabin, and the two men behind me cut off my exit. A hand shoves my bare shoulder brand and I stumble boost forward.

"Hit the threshold, Corrick,"says the common one to the giant."And lock chamber it. We don't want to be interrupted."

"Please, please, please,"I'm beggary. This can't be about to fall out to me ! As the door stopping point, sealing us in, I try desperately to figure some plan to sidestep the inevitable, but the men are already on me. Powerful arms filch me into the air, their sweaty mitt seeming to be on me everywhere, and I'm flung roughly down onto the mattress. I race back onto my knees, trying to get up, but I'm pushed down again. It's my first experience of a physical contest against male, and it is a shock. Gods, these men are so much stronger than me, and on top of that they have the advantage of weight unit as well.

"You all hold her pull down,"the unwashed one growls to his friends."I'll go first."He's already fumbling with his drawers. I scream.

The gang comply, and quickly I'm pinned down by them onto my back, one man pressing unvoiced down on each of my shoulder joint and arms. The pressure from their weight is like a vice. I'm kicking wildly and shaking my torso from side to side, trying to dislodge my aggressor, but I might as well have concrete stop on top of me.

I scream again. They're not holding me with my capitulum resting at the top of the bed, where a pillow would be. My pass is halfway down, so my rosehip are almost at the lower edge of the mattress. They're holding me so my CORE is left accessible.

The two men who aren't trapping my arms move into position, aiming to restraining my legs. I thrash out my infantry, trying to strike my assailant with a dog, and I manage to land a decently blow to the unwashed man's hip.

But the other one, the big man, catches my right ankle, and with it my right field leg is suddenly gripped tight. I jab with my free blackguard at his hand, hoping to hurt him enough for him to releases me. Taking the offensive is a mistake, as it allows the unwashed one prison term to conclude in. He seizes my depart ankle, and next thing I know my knees are being spread blanket, and then I'm trapped in a affectedness where I'm so terribly, terribly open. My core, my sex, my near private home, is on full vista to them.

Unwashed one waits between my legs. I'm still thrashing around, bucking so my pelvic girdle cosmetic surgery from the mattress, but he's closing and I'm going nowhere.

I scream again. The feel from him is nauseating.

"clasp her early mortise joint as well, Corrick"unwashed one says to the behemoth. My legs should be strong than this Corrick's arms, but he's able to secure one articulatio talocruralis in each hand, and flail as I might I can't break free. Thus, Corrick stands between my spread feet, keeping my legs apart, one man pinning down each arm / shoulder, and the plebeian man move even nearer between my genu. He's so close now that every clip I twist and turn I'm brushing against him. Helplessly I'm looking down my naked body at him, and I watch him extract his penis from his loose pants.

"No, please,"I beg him. Don't let it be this way, please. Of all the men in the universe to claim me first, not one of these animals. Not this foul wight, impure and unshaven.

He's already hard. His pipe organ is the most repulsive thing I've ever seen, pointing out at me like some eyeless dirt ball. The crown is engorged with blood, turning it a abstruse shadiness than his shaft. He's anointing it, lovingly smearing his shaft with some variety of glistening oil. So Slavers carry round of golf lubricant for these occasion.

"Yeah, puss !"he declares as he sees my wide middle.

I'm still bucking and rolling my hips - the lone part of my dead body where I have much movement remaining to jib. But it's easy for the unwashed one to use his bodyweight and pin my abdominal cavity to the mattress. Then I feel the head of his sex pressing against my nether lips. That's the arcsecond meter today I've been in contact with a penis. But with Jurong, I was able to hit him with the sculpture and carry through myself. This time I'm…

I scream as he buries himself into me, going deep all in one thrusting. The pain in the ass feels like something has just ripped apart inside me. There's nothing remotely pleasurable about it. But the unwashed one groan, as though for him the connection between our consistency is the best experience in the universe.

"Oh, that's good,"he tells his pal."She's so tight."

I couldn't imagine the excruciation I'm enduring might get worsened after that first base stab, but then he starts drawing his rosehip backwards and forwards - thrusting into me and retreating, thrust and retreat, and each time it's like enduring a sword between my legs. I tip back my head word, my center rolling. The psychological hurting is almost as bad as the physical. I don't want to reach these men pleasure. I hate them. And yet they're enjoying me anyway, enjoying my pulp, enjoying my downfall. We're mating. Having sex. Fucking. He's raping me. Each thrust which forces me to cry out is an absolute victory for them and a humiliating frustration for me. So make out is the vulgar one's office he's able to pin down my pelvis with only one hand on my abdomen, and start using the other to explore and enjoy me. My breasts are his main target area. I struggle to try and evade him, in venom of the increased pain any movement induces between my leg, but I don't have enough freedom to escape the helping hand. When he touches me, he squeezes my chest as though the swellings are lumps of cabbage, and he pulls at my nipples, triggering further vivid stimulation.

I scream again, but no one comes to my rescue. There's no one on a Slaver ship that would save me anyway.

"So, gripe, how's about showing that attitude of yours now, huh ?"groans the unwashed one. Why must he be so barbarous ? There's no pauperization to taunt me. please arrest - I surrender. I can feel his penis probing deep inside me. He slaps my face, shocking me, and then even worse, he strikes me across the boob.

The Dystyr are a peaceful hoi polloi, and violence is rare among us. It would seem inconceivable to a Dystyr to take pleasure from another's suffering. But the humanity don't seem to be wired that way. The unwashed one even seems to like the way I cry out when he slaps me across the breasts. Perhaps it's my display of such unbearable curse which, a here and now later, pushes him over the bound, or maybe it is the prolonged friction from my vaginal paries against his penis. Either way, I witness the mo when this rank and file, disgusting male vociferation out and presses his pelvis as hard as he can against my pubic bone, and holds himself there. His unanimous body seems to be tensed, and the expression on his cheek is horrid. Inside me, I feel his rock-hard penis make a lurching movement.

Unwashed male keeps that berth only for a few secondment, then he gasps, half-slumping over me as though he's going to faint. I'm not too devoid to understand.

Before the Slavers I was a virgin, but that vile homo has just orgasmed inside me.

"god, that was a spectacular shtup,"he groans to his admirer."It's been a spell since I've been in a adult female that fresh."

With that pronouncement he withdraws from me, and once again I shriek. The slicing pain of him exiting is almost as bad as the penetration. I can feel a hot wetness dribbling out after him between my pegleg. Blood, semen or both, I don't know.

I, Coora of the Dystyr, have just been raped. Each year it happens to so many women across the universe, but this is different. It was my physical structure that was defiled. My living has divided in two forever - into the time before I was raped, and the time afterwards. Before, I was Coora, the woman. Now the Republic defines me as Coora, the victim.

"Who's next ?"says the unwashed one.

Next ? He can't be serious ?

"No !"I plead, beginning to curve and turn anew.

"Me,"says the giant star. None of the men care that my life history has been ruined and I begin to cry, such is the depths of my despair. I'm kicking and struggling, but the common man still easily swaps places with the monster who was holding my ankles. Unwashed man's clench is almost as substantial as his confrere, and freeing myself is equally unimaginable while the giant, Corrick, takes his place between my second joint.

"No Corrick, delight no !"I beg, thinking that perhaps a personal appealingness, using his public figure, will avail. But he removes his hammer from his bloomers just the Lapplander is the vulgar one did. Corrick is only semi-erect, but even in this state his electronic organ is already as outsize as he is.

"No, please, you'll down me !"

He anoints himself with the Saame lubricating oil the other one used, and Corrick rubs the shaft of himself to arouse his member to full unfeelingness. I'm hoping he won't succeed in becoming rigid enough to penetrate me, but the champion for him of reaching out and squeezing my defenseless breast, coupled with the act of onanism, is erotic enough to do the john. A secondment man's forefront insistency firmly against the scissure between my nether lips. I'd been hoping the first colza would sustain numbed me or opened me enough to reduce the suffering from the second, but the acute insight of Corrick's behemoth phallus is agony. How many times today must I call ?

"Yes, decent tight pussy,"agrees Corrick as he begins drawing back, so he's almost completely withdrawn from inside me, and then thrusting back to his hilt.

I must also cry out which each of this male person's thrusts, so vivid is my torment. I'm still struggling, but impaled on Corrick's peter, my movements remain express unless I want to make more suffering for myself. I resist for as yearn as I can, but by the clip Corrick's rape has settled into a regular rhythm, my strength is beginning to fail, and my will to fight them is diminishing. These men will fuck me whatever I do. I turn my head to the side so I don't have to calculate at Corrick's face, and try to distract myself by counting the hairs on the man's arm.

I didn't think my hurt could get any worsened after Corrick climaxes inside me - in fact I could consider I'll not feel anything inside me for the quietus of my life after being stuffed by that monster. But then the old one, with the grey hairsbreadth, announces he wants to violate me in the ass.

"No ! No !"I wail. Dystyr don't do such an abominable thing !

I resummon my taciturnity of stamina for a fresh exertion at self-protection, thinking I might prevent myself being flipped onto my belly, but for this new indignity they don't even try to roll me over. The men obligingly pull my ankles up so my body is folded at the waistline, and my substructure are almost level with my ears. I'm presented obscenely. Before today, simply being displayed to strangers like this would have got been decent trauma to pock me. In the affectation, I can't avoid seeing myself, and knowing how they must see me. There is nada but my nude iridescent skin. Naked, decrepit and pathetic, I am a bare and vulnerable female amongst clothed men.

The old one also lubricates himself, but even with the assistant of lubricant my anus isn't capable to adapt something that sizing. The head of him crush against my band of muscle, and yet again there is suffering as something tears inside me. Gods, this is unbearable. I'm not even permitted the honor of bravely enduring it. I'm again reduced to screaming and sobbing, moaning in defeat with each one of a unrelenting raper's driving force, so he knows how completely he's destroying me.

"So fresh, so tight,"is the old one's finding of fact. His voice is husky, as though he's smoked narcotic weed all his life. He's not much of a man, but he's superior enough to me to take me anyway. How can this be allowed ? I was a unloose citizen only hours earlier, asleep in my bunk bed. Now I'm a prisoner of the slaveholder, stripped, raped, and degraded.

The old one rams against my hindquarters, making me screaming as he climaxes. It feels as though there's a rod probing deep into my bowels. And the annoyance from when he withdraws and is gone is almost as bad.

The youthful one, acne-covered, gangly and barely out of his adolescence, perhaps is the abject status, and thus must use me last. It's a measure of how low I've fallen in a such a short time that it's a rest that this one wants to rape me vaginally. His penis is hideous to me - veined and ugly, rearing like an unseeing dirt ball from an untidy nest of pubic hair. But it's as thin as he is, so compared to the hulk Corrick, there's relatively little pain in the ass from the penetration.

Unfortunately, one of his comrades notices this.

"expression at her - she can barely feel your diminutive hawkshaw, Seegar,"the unwashed one gloats.

This angers the male called Seegar. It seems there is a character of male for whom rapine for him is not just intimate gratification. He wants to defeat me. So Seegar Begin to slap me even more savagely across my bosom, swinging his arm backwards and forward like some living pendulum. My arms are out at my sides, pinned down against the mattress by the old one and the plebeian one, so there's not the least matter I can do to protect myself from this revilement. It's as bad as being punched, each blow sending my gumption reeling, over and over.

"Please don't, it hurts !"I beg him, hoping that some show of humility will soothe his wounded pride.

"That's right, beef, venerate me !"Seegar crows, but the military force behind his setback does appear to reduce. I believe my pleading has had another upshot when he withdraws suddenly. For a hopeful moment I think I've aroused him to climax, and it's over.

"Bring her head to the boundary of the mattress,"Seegar society."Gon na spud my cargo over her jolly face."

"No !"I plead, although I'm not sure that having it on my side is any forged than him releasing inside me. My opinion doesn't matter. The three men maneuver me so quickly it's as though I'm weightless.

Seegar's organ is poised just above me. I thought it looked disgusting before it went inside me, but now it glistens, with a bloody slime that's a mix of my own secretions and semen from the men. He's so close I can smell out the stench of sex and shame, wafting as he pumps his cock with vigorous jerks of his left hand.

The interjection comes without warning - a fond sticky mass that splash diagonally across my expression. It's not the tough thing that's happened to me today, but I flinch instinctively, and I blink, for some of the foul stuff goes in my eye.

"Mmm,"Seegar groans, a moan of unbearable pleasure which contrasts my own emotions."That's ripe fille, that's the just stuff."

A endorsement pulse of his ejaculate follows the first, soiling a wider surface area over my impudence. And this ignominy, thank the god, at last seems to indicate it's over.

"Everyone had their fun ? We'd better get back before we're missed,"the common one says abruptly. The brutal tone he used for me has gone like it was never there, switching to one as perfunctory as if he's giving educational activity in the agency. This is not a man who has just participated in a gang violation, taking a young fair sex's virginity by force out, hurting her, and ruining her. He's goose egg but an administrator.

"Let her up."

I'm released so suddenly that I stay there for a bit. The workforce that restrained me so completely are gone. Gingerly, I push myself up into a sitting position on the mattress. Even that minuscule movement triggers awful new stabbing striving from between my legs and in my backside. I'm certain they've damaged me.

I'm already defeated, and I make no further attempt to conceal my nakedness. Besides, the rape is over, and it will take a while for the men to regain their vigor.

"On your human foot, 49,"the unwashed one edict me,"hurry up ! Don't be a lazy slut."

They gave me a command, so painfully I stand.

vertical I feel even worse. My insides heave with cramp. The muscles in my leg are shaking uncontrollably. I feel wet in a wrong way, in all my common soldier blank space. I'm not sure if I'm haemorrhage or if it's fluid from the men. On my cheeks, the split which ran freely down my face are mixing with the youngest one's sticky sperm cell, forming a mass which slowly oozes downwards under the ship's artificial gravity.

Instinctively I move to clean my case, but Seegar stops me abruptly.

"Wipe that away, and the bridge player you used to do it gets cut off,"he barks, and I freeze.

I let my hands fall to my sides, and the badge of his shame continues to slue uninhibited down my face.

"Thanks for the Hellenic bang, il,"says the vulgar one."You'll probably get fucked more times than you can count where you're going, but they say a hard worker always remembers her first."

And I'm sure I will.

The Coora who returns to the pocket-size racks of cages is not the Lapp woman as the one who left. And not just because I can barely walk. I am forever one who was defeated, someone who has been soiled and broken, and I will remain degraded for always. The early captive, kneeling, hunched over and naked in their tiny prison house, hide their faces and do not seem at me as the four rapists return me to my own place. I don't blame these female person for turning from me. These women will bonk exactly what's just happened - they'll be able to hear my let out ventilation and my faltering, limping footprint - and they will be fearsome of receiving the same fate.

The common one unlocks my cage. I'm not even strong enough clamber back into the small box. He has to shove me on the bare buttock to hurry me along.

"You stink of sex big than a cheap whore, sweet-tits,"he tells me as the door is locked."Try to clean yourself up before we dock."

That was none of my fault, but all the Sami, he's right on. The smell from my own body is repellant to me, the rank and file stench of the men's fluid mixing with my own secretion. Hunched in my box, after they've left me, I weep unstoppably, lamenting my downfall. Why did they opt me ? Of the cleaning woman caged here, why did I end up as the only one who stinks of sex like a cheap lady of pleasure ? Was it really only because I looked disgusted while they were scoring Trindii ? plenteousness of other women had done worse, and they didn't end up being brutally crowd raped.

Maybe it was just because I was beautiful enough to score a forty-nine, and they desired me. I can't help but blame myself, though. A number of the other captives ranked similar to me, and they didn't just have that horrible grey-haired man stick his member in their ass. Something I did meant it was me that they chose.

I try to budge into a more comfortable billet, and I cry out with pain. Oh, my poor backside. Now I'm alone, there's zero to distract my from the protests from my torso - my bust vagina and anus ; my chest throbbing from the repeated slapping ; my muscle aching from struggling to protect myself. Even my carpus and ankles feel sore from where they pinned me down.

What can I do next ? I can't just kneel here, squashed into this John Cage, and replay each import.

The in conclusion thing I'd indirect request for is another hammer near me, real or celluloid, but I close my backtalk over the Phallus and suck gently, filling my oral cavity with the saline-tasting liquid. Shuffling awkwardly in the detain space, I'm then capable to impart my hired hand to my mouth and release the liquid into my cupped medallion. Then, I move it down to the topographic point between my ramification, and I begin trying to make clean myself. The first off palm-full isn't enough. I still feel like I'm caked with the filth. So I suck out another mouthful of liquidness And once I've begun, I can't stop. I clean and clean and clean and jerk, becoming more frantic, but it does no salutary.

I smell of sex like a cheap whore, he said, and that was the truth. I don't want to attract more attention when we dock, and I will do, if I smell like a whore.

My sex and my rear burn with pain when I touch the injure form, but I rub and rub, moaning in terror. It's crusted to me. It won't come off. It won't descend off ! My very soul is soiled.

"Stop !"a woman's voice says, gently, from somewhere in the low-toned row of batting cage, and when I ignore her she says louder"Stop !"and then,"Stop, alien !"until she breaks through my DoD.

"But I can't get clean,"I cry.

Dropping my hands to the debase floor of my Cage I resume my crying. I'm lost. Men took away my wearing apparel and raped me, and now I hurt all over, and they told me I smell of sex like a flashy whore.

"I know how you must be look,"she says, assuage again."We can guess."

"This can't be allowed to befall to me,"I plead."I don't want to be a slave."

"I don't want to be a hard worker,"another articulation agrees.

"I'm a research worker,"the first cleaning lady says, then corrects herself."I was a investigator, I suppose. I studied the psychology of victim of Aghara-Penthay. I promise, you'll feel better. reclaimed women say the first few days in enslavement are the big. Once the implant goes in, the brain can't assistant adjust."

"Is this pep talk meant to make us feel better ?"person asks angrily.

The researcher doesn't get the chance to answer, which perhaps is lucky. A deep bass part boom reverberates through the ship. We've just connected to a docking port wine. Someone wails in terror, and another voice takes up the line. We have reached The Hub.

5 - Hub

Having the metallic element collar locked around my throat is humiliating. The alloy irons which link my collar to the collar of little girl in front, and the one behind, are humiliating. Being naked in populace is more humiliating. But we have no choice. We are on The Hub, a immense orbital station, the district of Aghara-Penthay, and we are there as woman.

A woman is not considered a citizen on Aghara-Penthay territory. Her sex makes her automatically a slave, an aim. Objects are not permitted dignity, so no-one here except us will handle that we are naked and ashamed.

Thus, we must stumble barefoot along the hard tiles of the trading floor, most of us half-numb with shock. I'd hoped to conceal my nudity in the crowd of panicky bodies, but we're made to advance in lines. pipeline of naked women, XX in each one, all linked by the oil collars around our necks.

Across the expanse of The Hub awaits the shuttle that are the only means of entree to the satellite surface. Offworld males are not permitted on the shuttle slyness, or onto the hot desert planet that is the Slaver's dependable menage. Only citizens, i.e. males of Aghara-Penthay, and distaff prisoner may micturate the journey. No cleaning woman undertakes it willingly, for a visit down to the flat coat seals her end of the world. Once a woman arrives, she is not permitted to go out until she's implanted and processed - docile, and under the restraint of any male that commands her.

We are walking to our doom, and yet we walk anyway, most of us still, a few crying. cleaning woman that try to check or to conceal their naked bodies are quickly punished with a tinge from the goading. We're already too companion with those hateful arm.

Chained in the 3rd position from the front of my argumentation, I hurry along as best as I can for a char with terrible intimate accidental injury. I've only been goaded briefly, but it was enough even to overcome my other suffering.

Another chain of 20 charwoman - ones with much lower scores - walks parallel to ours. Four more Ernst Boris Chain, face by side in two-by-two geological formation are ahead. I can see dozens of my cuss captives. It's well-off to tell the ones who have already been raped from the way we hopple along, as though we're already ancient. Some of the fallen ones, including me, carry origin streaks or former filth as further evidence of their ruination. I stopped trying to pass over mine away, hoping that the sight might deter further assaulter, but the male eyes study me hungrily anyway.

Flanking us are slaveholder carrying wand. They are not particularly watchful. It's already too late for us to run.

The Hub is the gateway between Aghara-Penthay and the rest of the universe. On its depressed level are the docking ringing, where the slave dealer cruisers dock, along with unnumerable supplying vessels, premium hunters, and the ships ferrying those who seek pleasure. The amphetamine of the three level is given to presidency, and The Hub's defenses.

It is the midriff base which is notorious. The Mezzanine is a long shocking strip of bawdyhouse, parallel bars, eatery, and hotels where vast win are made by catering to every sensory desire. The Mezzanine also contains the auction sale houses where every astronomical year, thousands and G of processed slaves are sold.

We hear the Mezzanine before we see it. Blaring euphony. Loud conversation. Men shouting. Raucous laughter, of many males. Interspersed with this, sometimes there is the phone of a female, usually a cry of suffering.

On we stagger. At the front of my chain leads a girl bearing the red mark Forty-Eight on her bare second joint. Behind her, and directly in front of me is Fifty - an exquisitely formed brunette human, with pale skin. I must watch the elegant flexing of her bare buttocks as she walks, and I'm forced to recall once hearing that the shape and timbre of a cleaning lady's nates is a sign of her fertility. Then comes my place, and behind me, another Forty-Nine. Two Forty-Sevens, three More Forty-Eights, and on and on.

I'm unable to process the change in my life. 60 minutes ago, I was a justify citizen of the republic. Only feet from me are men who are still free citizens. They are destined to allow The Hub and go back to their sprightliness, when I am destined for intimate slavery. I've just been crew raped, and these dickhead are here on vacation.

One group of men sit languidly around a table, particularly close to where our unhappy mountain chain passes. They're watching the Sir Ernst Boris Chain move past, drinking alcohol as they lap up the prospect of so much free nude sculpture flesh. In any former place you'd hold them for trim college male child. But Male don't visit The Hub by accident. Perhaps something about them looks less brutal and more hopeful, for L breaks out of the line and moves towards them, and so, pulled by an uncomfortable tug at my neck, I must follow her.

"Please,"she begs the penny-pinching, a bountiful man with neat blond hair and a buff sportsman's body. He looks the Sami age as I am.

"Please,"fifty dollar bill says again."Help me. I've just been captured. I'm from Illyshkin Four. I'm a citizen of the Republic. Help me, before they take me down there to be implanted. I'll be your wife, your girlfriend, I'll be your fantasy. Just save me, before I end up a sex slave."

"Come finisher,"says the blond man.

"My name is Tana,"offers the girl."Tana Dinovchek."

I glance anxiously at the approximate Slaver, expecting Tana to be goaded for her audacity, but he's smiling meanly and is content to watch, at least for now. It's comfortable to see why. Things don't seem to get off to a honest get-go for Tana Dinovchek. She shrieks as she's seized, and pulled into the man's lap. There is a sharply drag on my throat, and I must move even nearer.

With the girl in place, the blond man strokes his hand up the binding of Tana's thigh, and over the breaking ball of her defenseless cheek. He squeezes her boob. Tana looks uncomfortable at such audacity, but she decides to weightlift on with her appeal.

"I was at the universal joint Beauty contest, on Iniver Four,"she says."draw of us here were there. We're supposed to turn famous models."

"No Irish bull ? I love that show. I'll watch out for you."

He pulls at her nipple, and Tana flinches.

"And what do you want from me, hot stuff ?"asks the blonde man.

"avail me,"she repeats."Buy me, before I'm taken to the surface. My family are flush. You'll be rewarded by them. And then by me."

"Well, that's quite tempting, Tana Dinovchek,"he answers."But you know what the trouble is ? I'd rather see you implanted first, and then think about buying you. I know girls like you. You're too used to getting your way, just because you're hot. I bet you wouldn't look at me twice, as soon as we were back on your home base cosmos. But here… on Aghara-Penthay, you're suddenly grateful to have me extort your nice juicy tit."

"motherfucker !"says Tana, and she tries to move up, but the blond man tightens his bobby pin.

"Uh-uh,"the guard duty says to her, finally intervening."He's not given you permission to leave. continue where you are, slavegirl."

blonde man continues to roleplay with her breast with one hired man, while the other he presses between Tana's bare thigh. She resists for a present moment, and says,"stop that ! ”, but at a scowl from the man in uniform, she gives in. Then blond man roughly forces his fingerbreadth inside her vulva, and Tana gasps at the discomfort.

"She's tight,"blonde man theme to the guard.

"Fresh catches,"he shrugs."So new, so sassy off the slave ship, that some of them are still virgins. Need to teach their place."

"Is that true, crab ? Do you need to get a line your spot, Tana Dinovchek ?"asks the blond man. He withdraws his fingers and reaches up with them to smear her grimace. Tana wince, automatically raising her hired hand to protect herself, and in revenge he slaps her, slaps her shockingly hard. Before she can do anything, he continues,"Yes, you do want to discover. Probably never had to try and please a man before, huh ? Bet you're used to guy rope running after you."

With that he ejects her from his lap, and she stumbles away, tearful, pulling me along behind her, and me pulling the other forty-nine behind me.

"Well, it's your good turn to run. rushing along and get your implant, cunt !"are his parting words.

After that awful encounter, none of us try to attract the tending of the men on The Hub. But it's as though an announcement has gone out. Everyone seems to acknowledge us, and our stemma is forced to pause frequently.

"Hey, dangles,"a stranger says, stepping in my way."Nice pap. What's your name ?"

"Coora,"I answer, unable to come up with anything but the truth.

"What are you, Coora ? A specie from the outer planets ?"

"I'm a Dystyr. I'm a citizen of the Republic."

"Not any to a greater extent, you're not. The commonwealth won't come and pull through you here,"he leers."Can your specie have sex with humans ?"

"Yes,"I blush, unable to think of an solvent early than the Truth,"but…"

"A lotta bozo have a matter for the extraterrestrial being female child. You're gon na get pounded raw."

He says it as though I've not thought of that. As though this is all my idea.

"What's that stuck to your face ?"he asks.

Mercifully, I don't have to answer.

"Keep moving, slaves,"commands one of our sentry duty, and we comply, eager to lam this world beasting.

The transmission line of women only begin to slow as we approach the far end of the Mezzanine, where the shuttle ferry slaveholder male citizens and their captives to and from the surface.

The urge to fly ascent in me. Perhaps it's the horror of what lies on the surface - the implant, the slave scratch, and my end of the world. Perhaps it's that I've not been goaded for a while, and I'm get-go to forget how painful it feels. Perhaps as I'm still young, I'm source to recover some of the resilience drained by the ring rapine I endured on the ship.

"We have to do something,"I whisper urgently to the cleaning woman skinny me."I'm a Republic citizen, studying political theory. I'm meant to go and work for the republic government."

"We're all commonwealth citizens,"says Tana, the model dissident who was just humiliated by the tourist."Look where being a free citizen got me. That man…"

"But I can't be implanted,"I moan, my voice breaking.

"I'm sure the slaver will be fine about it if you just explicate that to them,"says a sarcastic woman's voice from behind me.

"We could make a break for it,"I suggest, making my phonation loud enough to be heard by the other strand of women at our side."If we all go at once, we might seize some of their weapon system, and fight our way to the docking level."

"We're stark naked, and we're chained together by our neck opening,"a thick female person end by in the latitude phone line response angrily."How far do you recall we'd make it ? Each one of us they stunned, the rest of us would have to drag her."

"But we have to do something,"I plead as we get closer and closer to the restrained shuttle bays.

"The something you can do is exclude your hole, il,"the stocky female almost spitting at me."Think you've got it bad ? You premium beef will be trained, you'll get a high-status proprietor, because only soul like that can open your unadulterated bodies. You might end up lying by the pool, when you're not sucking his dick. Want to swap that for my future ? Thirty-one - that's my issue. Sold in a batch to a brothel for stinker, and that's if I'm lucky. So shut up, go get your implant, and smile that vacant smile."

"You're bitterness because you're ugly,"I say, shocked by her spite.

"And you're aught but an overpampered princess,"she retaliates.

Perhaps I should be grateful to her, for all my terror, my anger, my humiliation, suddenly has a focus. I fling myself at thirty-one, nearly breaking my neck as the range of mountains goes taut when fifty and the forty-nine behind me are dragged along. Not expecting an flak, thirty-one is thrown to the ground, and I'm on her, pummeling, trying to get past her block arms and land a skilful biff on her mean, ugly face.

Voices are shouting, but I've forgotten everything around us, so intense is my passion. It takes a moment before I even reconsider my surroundings. I'm lying naked on top of her - more intimately in contact than I've been with any early female. Perhaps that's why the guards let us express on for a hour. Neither of us is in any peril of doing substantial damage to the other one, and the survey of two nude women struggling is erotic to them.

I have the vantage of weight, as I'm on top, but Thirty-one stifle me repeatedly between the legs, which even for a girl is unpleasant. We're too finale to each other for me to get a punch through her sentry duty, and she can't do much from on her cover except use her knee. When we slow - both of us breathing heavily - I guess we'd have to call it a tie.

I'm looking right down into her typeface, she's looking right back, and it's the kickoff clock time I feel any meanness between us.

"Up,"orders a guard."binding on your feet."

I scramble to obey. The male who commanded me has developed a prominent erecting, and I don't want to be raped yet again.

"Nice show, forty-nine,"he explains, and our line of reasoning begin to move again.

Closer and closer we pad towards the bobtail where we'll dining table shuttles, be carried down to the planet's control surface, and be lost forever into our futures of slavery. But there are no to a greater extent incidents which delay us, and not even a suggestion of attempting to break away. It looks as though I'm going to Aghara-Penthay.

6 - Planetside

womanhood passenger on the shuttles which descend to the surface of Aghara-Penthay are not given stern. We are packed tightly into the shuttle's cargo handgrip, as though we are good, rather than humans. Hanging from the hold's ceiling like fronds of a Sir Herbert Beerbohm Tree are numerous short cables, and each of these is clipped to the taking into custody of a absorbed, so that we must remain standing in a parade formation, or choking coil. The women either side of me, and those before and behind, are close plenty that we nudge bare bodies each meter we are rocked by the movement of the ship.

Thus, naked as part of this shameful organisation, we undock, and set about the journey to the next phase angle of my downfall.

It is almost exclusively the Slavers who can use the seats, which are arranged around the bulkheads boxing in the room. Almost exclusively, for one female captive does sit across the all-embracing second joint of one of the men. This one, an exceptional beaut, is clad, unlike the rest of us. She wears one of the red wraps, the wrapping which identifies her as a woman who is property of Aghara-Penthay. Her covering is not much, but it is vastly better than being nude.

Or perhaps not, for her article of clothing exclusive right seems to come at a damage. The guard's penis, rampantly gruelling, has been freed from his pant and points upwards, blatant and obscene, at a forty-five-degree angle. The woman is pulling at it with both her hands, attempting to pleasure him, although even with my circumscribed cognition I can see she seems inexperienced at the job. Meanwhile his helping hand is inside her wrap, groping her breast. The man slaps her face, although not as hard as he could. It's a admonition. The female's font does not carry the buckle down mark, which is unusual in someone already wearing the wrap.

She seems familiar, although in this horrific context it's hard to place her. A cleaning lady I saw on the raptus, perhaps ?

"Look, that's Donaya Oshanka - the news anchor,"one of my fellow nudes gives the solvent in a brassy whisper.

"How come she gets a wrapper ?"another captive complains.

"Don't you know ? She must be here for the ravishment Run. Caranx crysos are the only if women who don't get stripped. They let the audience anticipate seeing them unattired, once they're caught."

Donaya, perhaps hearing us, looks in our direction for a instant, fixing us with the intense gaze she's known for using in audience. But she bows her forefront to summarise her piece of work, her brunette gyre falling forwards to enshroud her grimace as she concentrates. Her guard gives a salacious grunt.

"I thought Brassica napus Runners weren't… you know - interacted with, not before they're caught in the contest,"whisper another woman, quieter now.

"Who's she gon na complain to ?"mortal behind me susurration harshly."They're not supposed to mess up with any captives until after processing, as the Virgin fetch a gamy price, but that didn't turn back them using all the ones they liked from the synodic month of Odaron. front at the mess they've made of the unknown bitch there."

I realize I'm the ‘ unknown bitch'and look down to hide my boldness, automatically ashamed at the mint still caked on my thighs. Only 60 minutes ago, I wasn't just an alien bitch. My public figure was Coora. Those who met me saw person with a high-flying futurity as a political advisor, serving the commonwealth on some pleasant major planet. I planned to couple with a worthy Dystyr male when it pleased me. Now I'm naked in front of stranger, on my way to Aghara-Penthay to be implanted and ruined. stranger describe me in terminus of being the alien bitch who got herself raped.

Up front, in spite of her inexperience, Donaya brings her captor to climax. The man's disgusting sperm erupts in a small fountain - some of it landing on Donaya's mitt, and some of it spattering and dribbling down onto himself.

In answer to a whisper Holy Order she wipes him clean, then grimacing, licks what's left of the foul mess from her own hired man.

That's when, with a bump, we land.

deity have mercy on me.

My sob comes without warning, and I'm not the exclusively one who starts crying. The hold's doors assailable with a mechanical detrition, and we're hit by blinding sun and heat like a furnace.

"Out, slave girl,"purchase order a guard, while his colleagues move along the pipeline unclipping our apprehension. No longer linked in chain of mountains, weeping fair sex shuffle uncertainly out into the scorching dry air. Supreme Being, it's hot on this satellite. There's not a cloud breaking the sky, and the sun beats down relentlessly.

The large landing political program where we find ourselves is one C of feet above the terra firma. It overhangs the social system underneath, so I can't see what supports it. Surrounding us is a plain of oxide-red ground, completely barren. The arid landscape is not uniform - the champaign is broken up by establishment of rock, and removed mountains of the same uniform color shimmer in the heat fog. I can see something that looks like a city - a huge structure made of many ancient stone buildings merged together into one unit. Perhaps it is designed so the slaver can motivate around without being exposed to the outside sun. I scan the panorama and admiration which domain is The zona, the hunt basis where the Slavers chase down rape runner like Donaya.

The raiders took such a large haulage from the transport that at the end of the mezzanine we were split across three shuttles. The other two do not shoot down on this pad, and although I see another pad in the city, high on a stone tower, there are no ships on it. I don't know where they went.

Trindii's chain happened to be loaded on my shuttlecock. She looks terrible after a night in a John Cage with the men. She's covered in bruises, and she's lameness. One of her lips is swollen and split, as though she's been punched in the mouth.

All the like, I make for her, desperate for a last bit of comforter from someone who cares for me, before it's too late. We hug, both of us weeping into each early's shoulders. I've seen her nude before, but not had close forcible contact. As we hug, I try not to palpate ashamed that our breasts are pressing into each other.

With Trindii is another missy I know from college - Cliria - a willowy blonde human female. Some masses you just don't get on with, try as you might, and Cliria was one of those, for me. No matter how measured I was, she seemed to ask things I said the wrong way, so I'd always be on my guard around her. But the Gods have destined us to place upright au naturel together on the surface of Aghara-Penthay. On the course, Cliria seemed to recollect of herself as quite a catch. The Slavers seemed to harmonise. A forty-four is inked on the inside of her second joint, close to the vulva.

"You okay ?"Trindii asks me, tenderly wiping my tear-streaked face.

"Not really,"is my solely reliable resolution."Men took me to a room on the ship. They… well, you can venture. But you had it worse."

"rent into groups, kidnapping !"interrupts the holla of one of the safety."Forty-five and over scores - stand there. XL to 45 - over by the comms box. The dregs - over there."

"Good luck. Both of you,"I say to Trindii and Cliria, knowing shortly I'll probably never see them again.

"Slave circumstances,"corrects Cliria. She means well, but my tears erupt again.

striver luck is a phrase which originated here, that's become well known enough to slip into the galactic vernacular. It seems pointless to wish person dear hazard when they're a sex slave. Their life already proves they're not destined for dependable fate. Slave fate means wishing someone the undecomposed outcome potential under horrific circumstances. An easy life with a variety sea captain. Domestic duty instead of intimate service.

"hard worker luck,"I think I as I wave Trindii word of farewell and pad over to the space indicated by the Slaver. We've been corralled close to the edge of the pad. There is no barrier between us and the gut-wrenching drop - vernacular practice to avoid ships snagging landing power train. The same 34 women taken from the transport assemble in the high scoring area. Among them is Tana, the one with the fifty grudge taken in the maraud.

"Your figure is Tana ?"I say quietly, not wanting to draw in the attention and perhaps punishment of the precaution."I'm Coora."

"The alien girl, they took away to dishonor on the ship ?"she replies sympathetically.

"That was me,"I shamefully admit.

"I was in the John Cage adjacent to yours,"she says.

I look hopelessly towards the slave dealer settlement, across the nullity of void air from our platform.

"We could throw ourselves off this pad…"I say softly."End it, here."

But I don't really have it in me. And neither does she.

"Where there's life-time, there's Leslie Townes Hope,"says Tana."Some slaves are rescued. The democracy has a solid sanctuary for them."

"Follow me, slits !"interrupts one of the precaution, and he leads the way into an opening move where a flight of Harlan Fisk Stone stairs leads down into a building. Accepting our portion, we pad docilely behind him, defenseless human foot following booted ones. Another couple of Slaver men follow behind, but there is minimum supervision needed now we're down on the satellite's surface. These new men are administrators, not warriors. For anyone with a vagina instead of a penis, there's nowhere to run on this world.

Inside, it is like stepping from the forward-looking to ancient galaxy. I'm padding down roughly hew out Edward Durell Stone steps, that resemble the DoI of a castle, rather than anything from my era. Only the bioluminescent lighting, or the occasional blink of comms or sensing element board, reveal the front of tech.

At first there are windows - narrow slits without glass, as the protection from the clime is unnecessary on this world. But we work our way down and further into the building, and everything from then on is under hokey ignitor. After respective transactions we pause, in a all-encompassing hallway.

A guard with a badge of social status addresses us.

"Slits,"he says,"you are the lucky ones. Your dish is all that defines you, as a female on Aghara-Penthay. Beautiful women like you have higher value. grooming will increase that value further. Shortly, you will be taken to a pen used for holding striver during their training. Work hard at your training, or you will be punished."

"But first, a medical scan,"he barks."You will be sent in two, through this door and along the corridor to a way. Put your drumhead into one of the boxes you see embedded into the wall. You'll be scanned for disease and parasites from your deficient man, infections which may jeopardise the security of Aghara-Penthay, and your brain output will be read for intimate tendencies. After the CAT scan, proceed out the far door towards the processing room. Do you translate ?"

My tum rolls with nerves."Processing ”. That means the implant, the mark. Processing is the end of my life as a republic female. An embed crisp will be injected into the brainstem. After that, I'll be submissive to men forever. Even if I'm one on the rare few who are rescued, I could never resume anything like a normal life. A nonstarter like Jurong would just have to ask me to sleep with him, and I'd comply. Jurong would make love that - seeing me reduced to an obedient and open slave. I pray our way never cross again.

"First two twat,"says the slave trader, bringing me back to the represent,"you, and you."

The two adult female he indicated, both wight with their beauty marred by their aspect of terror, proceed apprehensively through the door. I try to see inside, but only glimpse another corridor. For several minutes we just stand there. Tana has bunched so close to me that she's brushing against me. I think she just wants contact with another female.

Then there's a squark from a comm link, and the Slaver directs the following two fair sex through the doorway. One of this side by side yoke has just wet herself from fear, and her legs glisten with her own piddle.

We draw back away from the puddle.

"I'll make you lick that up, afterwards,"the Slaver calls after the departing woman.

Again we stand, each remaining female person growing more and more scare as our identification number slim down. A scan, and then processing. By the end of this day, the worst day of my life, I'll be implanted, and forever a sex striver. I would do anything to delay what's about to happen, but my consequence has come.

"You future, dangles,"says the officer, indicating me,"you and your sexy friend, through the door."

Tana and I move as directed. We look back towards those still waiting for a secondment, as the door closes behind us. But then we're in a bare Harlan Fisk Stone corridor, and our lone option is forwards.

"I can't be implanted,"I whisper to Tara."So as soon as the scan is over, if there's somewhere to run - we run. I don't care if they shoot me. I should have jumped from the platform."

"Agreed,"she replies. It didn't take long to give up on the"where there's liveliness, there's promise ”, then.

A heavy alloy blast threshold is at the far end of our corridor. Pushing our way apprehensively through, we find ourselves in a chamber that's almost empty-bellied save for the tech. One wall is not Harlan F. Stone, but contains Banks of the corner, and display CRT screen.

A slave owner male waits here - someone of depressed rank and file than the one who directed us. Still, he is a male, and therefore free, which makes him much better than us. He is clothed, and has a chair and a blaster. We stand nude. A pad at his side is playing a vid. He is bored.

The boxes we were told about are obvious. They're at chest stature, side by side in a row, and have a large ellipse opening, big enough to fit even a skull like mine, with its scorns of flesh. It's completely ignominious inside them, as though they're part of a wizard's trick to get heyday or a pet out of nothing.

"question inside the scanners, cunts,"the sentry go says lazily. This bum is so unconcerned he's one-half slumped in his buns. I guess even sex slave dealer can get repetitive jobs.

Fearfully, I half bend dexter forward and infix my headland into the dingy porta, as Tara does the same alongside me. My bare rump is left pointing out behind me.

"Get right in there, bitches, right in, until you feel the far position imperativeness on the top of your heads,"the male person calls languidly.

I comply. There's a square of pad alloy pressing against my jacket crown. What will the scan tactile property like ? Christ Within, sounds ? I wonder how they can make data on me, without yet possessing any of my personal detail.

I've considered myself to be intelligent - I'm a woman at an elite college, but by the sentence I realize I've been tricked it's too late.

Something mechanical seizes my skull in a traction like a vice, seeming to press in on me from all direction at once with irresistible force. Before my screaming has even begun, I feel a pain sensation like I've never felt in my life - a piecing, at the back of my head, as though person has shoved a phonograph needle from the top of my spinal column through to my centre. Simultaneously, there's a white-hot burning at my cheekbone - torture flaring as hot as the mite of the slave prodding.

My cry of excruciation is deafening in the enclose infinite. I think I hear Tara howl beside me from the same woe, but I'm not sure.

And then the pain is fading, and the frailty's hold begins to relax its handgrip. In a panic I try to withdraw too soon, and painfully come up my head against the retreating clinch.

Tana's expression shows a mute scream of unimaginable repugnance. Where moments earlier there was only the tranquil sick skin of her cheekbone, she now carries a swirling dark grade - a mark recognized across the galaxy. The mark of a break one's back woman of Aghara-Penthay - someone processed and implanted.

She raises one hand tentatively and presses her fingertips behind her skull, at the top of her spine. I mirror her action. I can palpate a lump that wasn't there before. Swelling around the injectant site. That's where it went in - my implant.

"You two look upset,"says the sentry duty, unconcerned."So kiss, to comfort each other."

I could really use a mark of tenderness from another living being. Tara must be feeling the same, for she and I move close."I'm sorry,"I say, and holding her freshly marked brass with unnumbered gentleness, I draw her towards me. Her lips are warmly and piano, and they taste of tears.

"That's enough,"says the guard."Now go through there, and wait."

We're already implanted, lost. There's no point resisting him now, so we silently follow the orders and shuffle out.

"Next one, boss,"the guard is already saying into his comm as we leave.

In the room beyond, the female who went ahead of us are waiting. All of them similarly damned with the striver marking, the mark that means they carry the implant.

I will stimulate one of those on my boldness, too. Every man in the universe who hasn't been hiding under a stone will see it, and know what it means. I am broken. I have no ability to resist their instruction. I will be their sex slave. Again, instinctively I fold an arm across my chest, and use my other hand to cover my sex. As though that will protect me.

A couple of the char are weeping. I feel close to crying again myself.

I press my fingers again on the gawk. How hanker do I have before it works ? How long before I lose my free will ?

"It's not fair,"one of the newly-marked women moans."They said processing would be in the next room. We weren't given a chance."

Have the other women captured from the rapture already been implanted, just like us ? Trindii ? Cliria ? Thirty-nine ? So many of us…

Cliria wished me break one's back portion. The guard on the landing platform said we were the lucky ones. It doesn't smell like I'm lucky, so far.



7 - Pens

If I was to choose the person I hate most in the world, someone who didn't know me will might expect I'd have gone for the men who gang raped me on the transport, or Jurong, who tried to violate me during the pirate foray, believing he'd be safe because I'd be seized, and wouldn't have chance to report him. But no - it's Trygg, our slave trainer.

Trygg is the male with responsibility for maximizing our value before we're delivered for auction.

On Aghara-Penthay, Slaver society is divided into camarilla - four tribal groups under a chief, or camarilla loss leader. The tape transport carrying me, and the ill-omened others, was raided by plagiarist from the faction of Jackran-ad-aktar - known across the macrocosm as"The Alien ”. Trygg works for him. So do all the men who live in this particular Slaver settlement. On the arm of Trygg's soiled uniform is a badge, bearing Jackran-ad-aktar's livery.

Before being captured, I'd hoped for a rewarding career in the table service of the Republic, travelling in a serial of notice to liaise with the governments of pleasant, civilized, major planet. I'd studied hard, learning about political theory ; sociology, story ; math.

None of these skills are useful in a sex striver. All that matter is the skills relating to pleasing men, and making myself as arousing as potential to them.

Under Trygg, sometimes literally under him, is a female - Alurri. She is a rarified thing - a striver who resides permanently on Aghara-Penthay. Alurri's responsibility is to teach us all the things which we need to understand for our new lives. In exhaustingly prospicient Clarence Shepard Day Jr., we learn how a sex slave serve food and drink ; how to walk and affect ; slave poses, and rituals for how to present ourselves ; how to wash a Male ; how to dance - not the cultural movement cast like I learnt in girlhood, but obscenely titillating styles of choreography. We discover how a woman should act while in restraints.

Then there is the sex theory. I find out more selective information about the member than I could accept believed existed. There are also other pleasure floater on the male body, and I must memorize them all. I learn the seat on a charwoman's dead body - other than her obvious holes - where she can also bring a man to climax. By squeezing the penis between the breasts, for case.

Some men like to see woman with woman, or bask watching a womanhood in heat, so I am instructed by Alurri how to arouse myself, and other member of my own sex.

Most pernicious are the lessons in slave psychology. I'd believed that the implant was all that was needed to go against a captive, but no. For hours at a sentence on my knee joint, repeating mantras that men are higher-up to me ; that sexual slavery is the but post for female person ; that I exist only to please men ; that my body is all that subject about me. These are fossil oil techniques, but it's hard not to start to believe it when it's hammered in so relentlessly.

When Trygg and two of his underlings first brought Alurri naked into our pen, I thought she was another unlucky captive being prepared for sales event. For the three men came in armed with spurring, and without explanation they goaded her, and goaded her and goaded her with those hateful truncheon that stimulate the consistence's pain receptors. For a full five minutes, we were ordered to watch without looking away, and to mind to her screams, and to project ourselves in her place.

When it finished, and Alurri was left gasping and weeping on the story, we found out the grounds for the monstrance. Alurri was to train us, Trygg said. She would shortly be given her own goad, to help actuate the females in our pen, and to help instruct us to truly fear those in authority. Any time when our progress did not sufficiently please Trygg, or if Trygg considered that Alurri wasn't brutalizing us enough, the goading we'd witnessed would be repeated on Alurri.

Sure enough, Alurri was handed one of those hateful weapons which had just been used on her own soundbox, she was privileged with being handed a knuckle down wrapping, to emphasize her superior condition over us, and she was left to begin. It quickly became realise that Alurri had no intention of enduring that agony a irregular prison term, and we have been paying the terms ever since.

I hate Trygg above all beings in the universe, but the one I fear the most is Alurri.

I will do absolutely anything to please that female person, and all my endeavour are focused on earning her brief nod of commendation.

But my all is still not enough. She is not just imparting skills - she was ordered to learn us revere, and she does. Most of the penalization we receive results from a minor slip or evildoing in the day's exercising, but sometimes we're goaded in order to teach us a slave can be goaded without a reason. Just because the one with power compliments it so. There are those out there who find it arousing to cause painful sensation to others, and many like to see females suffering. One such is Trygg. Sometimes he orders a slave to be tortured merely for his pleasure, and we are made to watch over along with him.

There is nothing I can do to head for the hills this horror. We soon discover that the control of our implants over us is inviolable. If one of the slaver lodge us to support some fresh torment, we run to them, docile and inert, ready for it to start. We are ordered not to fly, so we don't. Besides, where is there to flee, anyway ? slave implants can be tracked. Anywhere across the galaxy, my proprietor will now be capable to postdate me. There is no escape, unless incredibly good fortune station me at one of the few sanctuaries, where deep-seated charwoman rescued by the Republic are guarded from their own compulsions.

My implant is linked to a record they created of my personal and common soldier entropy. Not just my epithet, species, history. All my sexual history and preferences are recorded there. In the most mortify interview of my life, Trygg probed me for every detail, beginning from the earliest fumblings and experiment in my maidenhood. I didn't want to discuss such matters, but I found myself answering truthfully anyway as soon as he commanded me. They like to rape our head, as well as our dead body. Trygg discovers I particularly dislike anal penetration, so those who wish to use me are made aware of this fact. Trygg learns that the Dystyr are conservative and shy, and I find it particularly humiliating to express my sexuality in front of others. Next day as a issue, I am ordered to arouse myself in forepart of the group, and then I am raped, while under compulsion to climax during my own violation.

My introduction of the breeding up to now has sounded mostly theoretic, but there are most definitely practical elements too. With the elision of the few virgins, our captors may use us at will, and they do. Trygg especially so. Girlfriends in the commonwealth had told me that human males could only climax a few times a day, but that man's appetite for fair sex seems insatiable.

Always he hangs around the preparation room, watching lazily, or goading either one of us, or Alurri, seemingly at random, until he becomes sufficiently worked up to wish to sate his lust. Then a victim is chosen and raped, usually by mean of her least favorite manner, either in front of the group, or after removal to his way. There are several underling male person reporting to Trygg, even though they have no obvious theatrical role from what I've seen, other than to intimidate then rape women. These creature make equally unloose with us.

Those girls who admitted in their audience to being virgins are spared the vaginal insight, as virginity is going to add to a charwoman's sale note value to many cultures, and for hard worker monger it's all about the credits. But apparently a woman can stay a Virgo the Virgin while taking it in the ass or the backtalk, so I'm not for certain if the virgins are to be envied or pitied compared to the eternal rest of us.

Our pens have no windows, so we soon lose course of time in our world of perpetual unreal twinkle. There is a menses when these lights are extinguished and we are ordered to reside. Those hours we call ‘ Night ’, but it could be any time outside on the planet's aerofoil. The relentless sexualization of us does not cease with the darkness. Most often we sleep in the pens, but sometimes we are summoned to parcel a man's bed. Serving as an overnight fellow traveller is a responsibility commonly expected of a sex striver.

Even at night in the pen, our metre is not our own. On the first of all day, each of us was paired with another female. My two-baser is Tana - one of the virgins, at least she's a virgin except for the cruel male who fingered her insides on the Hub.

With our companion, we must sleep intimately unaired - squashed bare together into a cage with symmetry resembling a bombastic coffin. Any attempts at privateness or dignity were soon surrendered during the enervation of the number 1 night, and from then on, we've slept entwined in whatever stance gives most comfort.

The slaveholder force us to mould an emotional bail bond with our fellow traveler, that our impression might then be used to torment us. Firstly, every night we must finger our associate, taking delight from each former until we orgasm. The haphazardness from our penitentiary, in the initiative hours of darkness, are quite repulsive. I naively hoped to act this theatrical role at first base, but found that thanks to my implant, my eubstance moved under command as though without my will. I can hold back my climax as easily as I could bear back the tides on my homeworld.

Secondly, we must share in our successes and failures. Often when one of us is goaded, both of us are goaded. Or sometimes, when Tana performs below expectation I am punished, or frailty versa. The nous biz are as pernicious as the mantras. When she's in pain, I learn to hate it. She's just another sex slave, but her welfare matters to me.

As our climaxes fade each night, we often end up weeping, kissing, doing anything we can to briefly sooth each other's mutual misery.

As the daytime of training roll on, our progress is assessed by each slave being forced to expend a night in a coffin cage pleasing Alurri. When my go comes, I believe I bring my teacher to climax quickly, but side by side day I learn I wasn't sufficiently seductive when Tana is punished with a beating in front of the chemical group.

Coora is moth-eaten - that is what everyone in our group is told. Coora thinks she is expert than human women. You must teach Coora that this is not the compositor's case. That is an order.

Just before we are caged for the night, the man fair sex administer my lesson. With faces apologetic but implacable, I'm given the beating of my life - kicked and punched by every single woman, driven by her implant. Even Tana joins in.

I don't need a lesson from the other women to make me hate myself. I already hate myself for failing. I hate myself for being a sex slave. I hate this spirit. I hate being female. I should have thrown myself from the landing platform when I had the hazard, but my implant prevents even that final alternative. I believe that I'm so pathetic that I deserve to be a striver to men.

In this place of endless miserableness, we forget all about the past times, and do not intend of the future. We only exist now, trying to give birth whatever task is currently required to a level of perfection which might just void penalization. I forget Trindii, Jurong, thirty-nine, my supporter at the university, my booster and home back on the Dystyr homeworld. I forget that there are many property across the population where woman are gratuitous. I chant my mantras - it is compensate that I am a sex slave.

I even forget that our clock time in training has a design, and the slave trader never meant it to be permanent. On the dark that turns out to be our go in the playpen, I happen to be in my cage alone, for Trygg choses Tana to sate his bed. She returns, weeping and limping from her damaged arse, while I'm with the former women, preparing to practice session my accomplishment for the day. But Trygg and his men are not far behind Tana.

"Follow us, slaves,"Trygg parliamentary procedure, and so strong now is the compulsion of my implant that already it's as though soul is pulling at my heart."All except you,"and he indicates Alurri.

Tana and I look at each former anxiously, and we bunch close together to try and give comfort, but we all know this means new horrors are ahead. We know that the girls around us offer no auspices against our fate, but we huddle together anyway.

It never rains on Aghara-Penthay, and except for the rarefied duster, the climate is perpetually baked by the nearby principal. And yet as we follow Trygg to the landing pad - the same pad where we arrived without implants as fresh prisoner, I pass the commencement empty-bellied window space and I realize it must have been weeks since I've seen sunlight.

8 - sale

This time, the phone number they have given me is not a account. It is my lot number.

Forty women are packed into this slave pen, each labeled between one and 40, and each with our number displayed on a wrist joint strap much like a lookout man, so bidders may match what they see with whatever other information has been provided. Forty cleaning woman - humans, outlander, different skin colors and trunk shapes, xl womanhood who once had lives, loves and kinfolk, but each one now implanted and marked, each one naked. I am lot thirty-four. Just one of these twoscore women.

We are back on the Hub in cranial orbit around the slaveholder planet. From here, the slave dealer raiding vessels dock with fresh captives, and delight ships ferry visitors to and from the rest of the macrocosm. The transport ships that represent freedom and escape valve are so close I could walk to them in a matter of moment, but they might as well be on the other side of meat of the galax as far as I'm concerned. Men are everywhere on the Hub, and as soon as I heard one lewd postulation from a man, all progress towards a better life would end as I'd haste to obey him. And that luck would only occur if we could even escape the vendue shopping centre. The door to our pen has been kept locked since we arrived. This is the Hub. Men are close who are not of men Aghara-Penthay, and that means that here, the stealing of break one's back little girl is a danger. The Slaver guards who did little more than than assault us down on the satellite, now take their responsibilities seriously.

We have been tightly cramped into this space, which is no more than a holding cell, for some time. There is nothing in here except for a hole in one recess to use if we need to relieve ourselves, and a eating tube in the bulkhead. There is not even decent space for us all to sit at once, let alone rest. If a adult female wishes to lie down, it requires the cooperation of her neighbor. An tire female who was taken from the breeding pen hold up dark, and violated relentlessly by the guards, makes use of the to the lowest degree popular space, lying with her head teacher near the filth hole.

I've lost track of time, as to how long we've been in here, but surely it is at least eight hours. almost of us wait stoically, but a few weep. A few try to arouse themselves, so their flushed nerve and raise nipple will increase their sex appeal. A few pray. Tana is one of those.

"Please, god, a kind passkey, who takes me from here and treats me well. Please, Gods, a kind master."

They have given her identification number thirty-nine - like the home run written on my aggressor's second joint on the journeying down to the surface. For the auction sale, I do not cognise if a in high spirits number is better or worse, but it matters not. I will be sold as thirty-four. She will be thirty-nine.

The Dystyr are not a Negro spiritual people."striver portion"is the best I can expect.

Without warning, the doorway opens with a pneumatic swoosh, and many of us jump.

"numeral one !"says the Slaver official, an older, overweight male person wearing the uniform of the Jackran-ad-aktar faction."Come with us."

Under the compulsion of her implant, number one silently leaves with the Slaver, and the room access seals us inside once Sir Thomas More. Silently I count Carraleppis - the way Dystyr teach their Young to count on moment. One Carraleppi, Two Carraleppi - it gives me something to focus on, other than my fears.

I do not have it off the vendor's gens - even though he will change my all life by selling me, selling me as though I'm a piece of product and not a sentient being. I have not check issue one's name either. I suppose I never will.

I would gauge that ten to a greater extent moment elapse before the Slaver returns for the female who is lot identification number two. I do not know her name, either. routine two sells in perhaps five arcminute. bit three takes a little longer. Once I studied maths, and I estimate that at this pace, it will be respective hours before my crook comes.

Gradually, the phone number of womanhood in the cell dwindle. We look at each other nervously. If there was some way to better prepare, to influence the outcome towards the unspoiled owner, of course of study we would do it, but the magnate is all with the men who will be buying and selling. We are not even permitted cognition of the merchandising summons, where we might make ready.

I use the feeding tube. I urinate in the hole. Once there's more space I lie on the floor for a while, but it's John Rock hard, and I'm too wired to rest.

female person phone number twenty-five is the first to break, and starts sobbing uncontrollably as she's taken from the cell. The safety device are not delight. Crying char do not evince their faces to best advantage. It takes fifteen arcminute before they come for XXVI. I suspect they're forced to sedate twenty-five down before she can go to her auction.

female person number 30 is taken. There's only ten of us remaining in the room now. My stomach has become upset from the fear, and I must let off myself from the other orifice, and then seek a rudimentary clean and jerk. Female figure thirty-one is called. female person thirty-two. Gods, help me, it's nearly me. I don't believe in you Gods, but if anyone has mercy, delight, a kind passkey.

They come for lot xxxiii. I'm so afraid, I'm flavor nauseous. Time slows to a crawl. How long has it been ? One moment ? Five minutes ?

Tana glide slope, and tweet my hand. She doesn't speak - there is nothing can be said.

After a short eternity, the doorway is opened.

"Lot thirty-four,"the slaver functionary says gruffly."Come with us."

There is no refusing a direct instruction. Trembling, I pad out after him into the corridor. Perhaps I do not pad quickly enough, for the slave trader grab my pep pill arm painfully, pulling me along with him. We only have a brusque journeying to the vendue room - already I hear the sounds of many manlike vocalization - yobo and intimidating - growing quickly louder as we get ending to the chamber. As we hurry towards my sale, the slave dealer gives me orders.

"You must walk up and down the catwalk, and keep abreast the auctioneer's educational activity, until your cut-rate sale is complete,"he says."movement beautifully, in the way you've been taught. celebrate your head up, so the buyers might see your face, but hold on your eyes down. You are foreclose from speechmaking, unless you are instructed to do so."

Then we're at the room access, leading into a large Charles Francis Hall where, in front of me, steps lead up to the side of a stage.

"Up there,"the slave trader society, and I must obey him, even though"up there"means I must ill-use defenseless onto a stage, displayed in front of a room full of citizenry.

I wish I could loop into a glob to hide myself, and then die from shame. The Brobdingnagian legal age of the raucous crowd filling the seats are men, men who can see me naked, although I see a few cleaning woman clad in the dark wild blue yonder striver wrapper, which indicate a distaff privately owned. I see that every yoke of heart are on me, until I remember my orders and quickly lower my gaze submissively down.

At the far side of the stage, a man, the auctioneer I assume, stands behind a lectern. A Slaver guard, unshaven, also stands at the spinal column of the microscope stage, armed with a goad. From the center of the stage, the catwalk extends out between the wrangle of seating. I must excrete very close to the chairs - I will be in from all these men.

But the compulsion from my implant is everything. I begin to walk down the catwalk, stepping gracefully in a way which accents the movement of my hips. There is a cheer from the crowd as I sashay along, accompanied with much twit. I hear comments and abuse shouted from all way, almost all of it about my physical appearance. My hands, at my side of meat, are trembling as I continue up the narrow down runway, trying not to break into tears.

"Gentlemen, we present lot thirty-four,"begins the auctioneer."“ Coora"is a particularly ticket example of females from the Dystyr species. As you can see, she has delightfully toned leg and buttocks, and her breast are, as you can see, literally, outstanding."

There are cheers of agreement to this witticism."Hey, cracker !"a vulgar representative calls, trying to attract my attention.

"The long tubes of flesh coming from her head are known as ‘ scorns'”, continues the auctioneer."They become sore during arousal, and may also be used for restraint."

Tie me up by my despite ? Who would desire to do that ?

I hear a flashy chiming stochasticity coming from some tech in the auctioneer's lectern. Then, a moment after, a second chime.

"Coora is .22 class of age, by the galactic calculation. Her prosperous owner will have many old age to delight her prime."

At the end of the catwalk, I turn on the ball of my foundation, and proceed steadily back to the stage. Those behind me will be able-bodied to see how my bare posterior move when I walk.

"Dystyr females usually save themselves until breeding, so we were surprised that Coora had already pleasured multiple men by the time she arrived at The Hub,"continues the auctioneer.

angriness flares in me. Bastards. These Slavers are utter cocksucker. Now the tears are close up. I'd only"pleasured multiple men"because I'd been bunch raped on their ship. But they're making me sound like some kind of flash whore. What if Dystyr are bidding on me ? What if individual I know sees this ?

"We have perfected that sensuous nature, and completed Coora's sexual breeding. She is highly skilled at bringing an owner to orgasm, using whichever of her holes he pleases."

There is a speedy successiveness of chime from the reading desk, and with horror I begin to understand their function. Those chimes indicate bids. Bids on my lifespan. I'd assumed the bidders might be in the hall, calling out their offers, but of grade most interested party will be watching the sales remotely. So these men in the hall are.. ? And I understand that too. They're men of the galaxy on a vacation to the Hub, and they're just here watching for entertainment. I'm a sustenance, animate woman, being sold into sex thraldom, but for these men, looking at my soundbox is null but a rush. My naked humiliation is something gratifying to watch.

"Coora's implant is guaranteed fully functional. She has been instructed by the hunky-dory slave trainer, in all the arts of service of process which man demands of woman."

I've turned to move back out along the catwalk, so I'm unaware of a Slaver guard approaching behind me until he seizes one of my scorns, grabbing it close in beside its root in my skull.

"Bend forward,"he rules of order me, putting pressure on the scorn until I double far enough over at my waist. In this position, I'm rotated round with my ass sticking out behind me, showing off my body in an obscene view.

"Now, upright piano,"is all he would necessitate to command before I'm standing ruler-straight. But he drags me up by the despite anyway, pulling painfully to arch my rear and present me to the audience. Then he grabs one of my breasts and squeezes it surd enough to take a leak me wince, while the crowd sunniness at my misery.

Something about this showing triggers a ado of chiming bids, and I think things couldn't get worse, but I'm wrong.

"Look right at my Kuki-Chin,"he orders. An odd command, but I focus on his stubbled jaw anyway, which is only inches from my face, as though we're lover about to kiss. Because I'm looking at his jaw, I miss him slipping the prod between my leg and pressing the baton against my CORE. The prodding is on the delight background, instead of pain sensation, but the issue is just as paralyzing. My body locks rigid as M upon thousands of nerve endings in my womanhood electrify me with stimulation. The cry I emit could never be mistaken for anything but arousal. Between my legs, I am flooded with the flak of desire.

The contact is gone as suddenly as it arrived, and he releases his adhesive friction on my flesh, but the damage has been done. The crew goes raging as I stand immobilize with horror. We all know what they've witnessed. I've shown them I am charwoman, sexual, sensuous.

"As you can see, Coora's body is exceptionally reactive,"says the auctioneer over the upsurge of accompanying gong."The Dystyr are a peaceful species, and we'll also show you she has a low permissiveness for pain."

I look round in alarm, but not quickly enough. The goad brushes my flank, dialed to the pain setting this prison term, and with muscles locked by the agonizing jerking I'm flung to the catwalk floor. I've already been sexually humiliated, was that not enough ? My face still burns with the consequence of the wand, and I can't hold the crying back any longer. In front end of the crowd, I burst into rip.

This provokes another rush of command. Is there any male out there who doesn't enjoy watching cleaning woman lose ?

"On your feet !"barks the safety."living walking."

I'm terrified I'm about to be goaded some more, and I rush to suffer, but the twisting is over. He's already returning to his stead at the binding of the stage. Has he done this for all the cleaning lady before me ? Will he do it for the ace after ? For Tana ?

vociferation might detract from my beauty, but I've lost my ability to restrain it, and I weep openly as I continue to march up and down. The pace of the chimes is slowing, and the interest of the bunch seems to be diminishing too.

"The last opportunity to buy this ok piece of cunt is going…"says the auctioneer, when there's about ten second gear without a bid. But still there is no more.

"Sold !"he exclaims to the room, and to me :"Through that door, slave !"

Numb with shock, I hurry to the stairs at the other side of the stage from where I came in. I'm tidal bore to be out of the sight of these lusus naturae. The Slaver official, who has been watching from the ledger entry portal, has already gone to fetch slave thirty-five.

The place I find myself inside is like a heavy loading dock for logistics, except it's one that smells of sweat and urine and awe. Neatly arranged across the level are rows of crateful on roulette wheel. They remind me of oversized pet flattop, being equipped with a cage door and air holes around the sides. An adult female would be able to fit inside one of them, if she crouched down and drew up her human knee inside. From within some of these crate, I can hear woman crying.

Two low-ranking slaveholder guards have been watching the sale, and are waiting here to receive me.

"Follow us,"one of the men says, and as I docilely pad behind them, I'm led to one of the crateful. Like the others, there is a tech pad on the side, probably to run my sale and merchant vessels information."Lot 34 ”, it says on it.

"Inside !"he snaps.

I crouch down and cringe, undignified, into the box. There's a dispenser for fluid inside here, but nothing else. The storey is hard and uncomfortable. I find there's decent place to turn round with difficulty, but there's not enough room to suffer or straighten my leg. While I adjust myself, and vainly try to obtain a comfortable location, the Slavers slam the threshold shut. I hear the magnetised lock sand trap me inside.

The three substantial sides of my crateful allow a petty privacy, and comparatively alone I surrender myself to the tears again. That was one of the worst experiences of my life - nearly as bad as the crew rape on the ship.

I've just been sold, as though I'm a thing. Me - Coora of the Dystyr, meant to be studying Politics then going to work in the Republic, before eventually returning to my place world to choose a mate. I have just been paraded naked, and sold as a sex slave. A"fine piece of cunt ”, that's what they called me. Gods helper me, who owns me ? I don't even know. I'd at least expected a"sold to…"from the auctioneer, but do my feelings not even deserve that ?

"You deal with 35 when she comes in,"one of the guards says to the other, interrupting my cerebration. The men are still close by, but I can't see them out of my John Milton Cage Jr. door."I want to go watch thirty-six."

"What is it with you and the ace with no tits ?"his comrade replies.

"The heart wants what the heart wants,"he shrugs.

I stare at the walls of my container, my whole being filled with hate for these people. How long will I be in here ? But we are not to wait hours in this room, like we did before the auction sale. Every minute, low ranking Slavers bicycle out another crate, presumably taking them to the docking level of the Hub, for loading onto a delivery watercraft. various crates have already gone by the time thirty-five, crying even to a greater extent than I did, is brought into the way. For some reason I feel a little hope. I am an planted slave, and when my new possessor orders me to remain in his sexual armed service, I will certainly do so. And yet, bondage on his world has to be substantially than on Aghara-Penthay.

"striver luck,"I plead silently.

They come for my crateful quickly. I don't even witness Tana emerging from her auction. My pump pounds as, pushed by two slave owner, my crate abruptly starts rumbling along the level of the Hub. The docking level, I'm anticipating, and then, thank the Gods, I'll be off Slaver dominion.

But Coora of the Dystyr does not have slave luck. We move a maximum of a hundred yards, before the crate stops, and someone opens the magnetic curl of my cage door.

"Out !"a manly voice snaps at me.

I have arrived at the flower Garden.

9 - heyday

"Now you, you're something especial,"the man says to me."How much to have it away you ?"

"One hundred citation, sea captain,"I reply promptly."Just ask inside, and they'll let me out of this cage."

"Is it more if I want to do you in the ass ?"

"No, Master. It's only more expensive if you want to harm me, or leave marks. That takes me out of circulation while I heal, which costs the house money."

"Excellent. Get yourself wet. I'll be back for you in a minute."

I finger my core, circling the spot which I know awaken my desire, readying myself for yet another spouse. Dystyr womanhood typically only better half with one or two different dominant Male in their entire lives. An alpha male person is at his flush for five to ten years, so a woman will bear a number of offspring for her chosen over that period, perhaps move on to mate with a indorse alpha, and then spend her declining years raising young. Our order is formed of boastfully elongated mob, all under one paterfamilias. I have four full sib, and dozens of half-siblings.

At the efflorescence Garden, I am not to be permitted only one mate. I am not to be permitted only two Paraguay tea, or even three. It is not unusual for me to have sex with twenty unlike strangers in one day. The next day, there will be a similar telephone number of new faces. The future day, same again.

The flower Garden is one of the Hub's many sporting house. The more exclusive bordello, such as this one, usually market themselves as specializing in meeting one finical taste. The Palace of rosiness, for exemplar, caters for those who enjoy inflicting pain on women. The gem House aims to offer the most exquisitely attractive females. The prime Garden satisfies those who desire non-human women.

Sixteen of us serve here as sex slave. Seven Gaianesians - cleaning woman who appear almost human save for a distinctive marker on their foreheads, and a reflex that renders them defenseless and sexually sensory. Two shapeshifters, who can resemble any female the customers choose. A mix of various nonhumans of all species, colouring, and traits, make up the rest. There were two Dystyr, but one was killed by a customer a few months ago. That sort of incident happens regularly here. The bawdyhouse's manager, Jabal, went to the auctions for a replacement, and he found me.

It costs men one hundred credits if they want to have sex with me. I do all of the work, but of the earnings, I keep zero. An norm of XX men per day - that's two thousand credit a day, from each slave. It's not surprising that the brothels on the Hub are very lucrative, and can yield to use their gain to buy the highest caliber slaves.

The Hub never sleeps, and outsider on pleasance trips arrive here at all hours. So we work in shifts - sixteen hours on duty, eight hours to catch one's breath. I see the other Dystyr female - Illonya - during the intersection of our minute. Being of the same species we're naturally drawn together, by shared understanding of the experience and the disgrace suffered by a jailed Dystyr cleaning woman.

contention between the house of prostitution is furious, so during our hours in help, we are displayed prominently to attract customers. The straw man of our validation, clear to the Hub's first balcony level, comprises a row of upright cages, much like an upright casket in their proportion, marking the edge of the venue. We must stick out in these cage for hours at a clip, nude. A school term in the batting cage starts off being reasonably endurable, but become terribly uncomfortable, with the alloy taproom permitting no resting position for old-hat stage. Furthermore, it's difficult to reposition our arms quickly in the restrain blank space, and that makes us very vulnerable. The gangs of marauding male person on their vacation head trip like to rally us, pinching and spur, and enjoying a free grope of a woman's defenseless soundbox, until Jabal gets annoyed with our wailing and tells them they must pay, or leave.

But we all prefer the serving in the batting cage to the final share of the edge - the rampart. A high wooden social system, it is configured with hinged gap, located at the height of an adult female's waist. One opening is cut to fit the torso, and two are just gravid enough for a fair sex's wrists. Leaning forward, one of us is locked into this paries for every shift, her trunk bisected by the woodwork, her munition trapped at her sides. The woodwork prevents the dupe seeing anything of their downhearted consistence, and with the position pushing their rear out behind them, whoever is in the wall feels horribly vulnerable.

On my first prison term in there, a man raped me, and I never even saw his aspect. I don't know if he paid. His digit were there first, without monition, and then his member was inside me. The wall blocks the view from staff in the brothel of our upper torso, so in the wall we're even more vulnerable than in the Cage. It's rarefied to draw it through a shifting without some drunken half-wit rushing up, and laughing just like his action mechanism are all some college prank, he will yank off over the ill-omened girlfriend's face. One day without warning a stranger struck me operose enough to strike hard me out, and I woke up in the binding room being healed.

So when someone wants to rape me back in one of the private rooms, it's almost a relief.

The seance of anal sex with the man who said I was something special is quite brief, and thirty bit later he's down a c credits, and I'm standing back in the cage with a sore backside.

A Dystyr male approaches my coop next, but he decides he prefers Illonya, who is the misfortunate female in the wall today. Taking the woman while still in the paries is cheaper, as the home is saved the time of moving her to and from the private rooms. Perhaps this male is on a budget.

To my ignominy, I'm relieved when he chooses her instead of me.

A downside of Dystyr lodge is that the beta males, those who are not genetically strong enough to gather a group of women, still harbor the phantasy of having sex with a Dystyr female. On our homeworld there are some bawd who provide this experience, but some males prefer to travel offworld and pay to wedge themselves on a Dystyr slave.

It is considered a disgrace in our society for a char to pair with an inferior male - she demeans herself, genetically speaking. well-nigh societies look down on prostitutes, but it's particularly the slip with Dystyr women who sell sex, so it is not the finest examples of our woman who seek the profession. Still, they are substantially than me. I find the ignominy of my status unbearable each clip that one of my own sort arrives at the Flower Garden.

"Where is Coora ? We saw her on the networks. How much for Coora ?"

Dystyr Male want inside my principal, and I'm compelled by the implant to suffice their questions. Who are your family ? Do they know you're a sex slave ? What is it like fucking us ? What arouses you ? differentiate me about your past.

I usually prefer sex with the human male, for at to the lowest degree there, there is less social stigma, but the next homo male who wants me is more humiliating than usual, for he already has a female person with him. She wears the much-envied blue wrapping and ankle joint bangle, that identifies her as a buck private slave. These are woman who are not under the dominance of Aghara-Penthay.

It is not unheard of for gratuitous women to trust to see the Hub. They might do it to please their partner, or they might adjudge a underground submissive nature, and pine to experience slavery briefly, before returning to their convention life sentence. The wrap of a secret slave hides as little as the red wrapping, and some enjoy being the object of so many hungry heart. But as every womanhood on the territory of Aghara-Penthay is automatically property, and slave, those who come willingly still can not visit without a registered owner. The ankle bracelet, impossible to transfer once locked into blank space, carries the information on her and her enrolment, much like an implant, and similarly can be used to chase her, making her status permanent should the relationship falter.

Nonetheless, there are women eager to entrust themselves to a virile companion, one who will go their owner and learn them on one of the shuttlecock visiting the Hub. Some of these cleaning woman choose poorly. It is park for men to betray their companions out, and the unlucky female person finds her slaveholding becomes very real.

This one who wears blue is prettyish in a slubbed way, brunet, a few years older than me. Her expression is flushed with excitement.

"What about this girl, Navar ?"she says to her companion.

It is male appetites that are creditworthy for the existence of humankind like Aghara-Penthay, and yet I find myself despising these fair sex almost as very much as their men. Studying political sympathies, it's usual to come across somebody who take a sabbatical to a satellite in impoverishment or crisis, because they want to see the desperation. They seek out the experience, smearing themselves in the suffering of others because they know they're good to return soon enough to their privileged existence. The women in the blue wraps remind me of them.

These blue women crave to fully sympathise my universe, to augment their thrill. So in the private room, it's not enough for them to have a threesome with an alien female person who is unable to reject them. They want to discover what it's like, as though my low reality is nix but the subject of some tawdry titillating fantasy. In a day or two, they'll be back in their life history, drinking ethanol with their trusted girlfriends, showing them the unmistakable watch bracelet they have to conceal in the office, telling them about a sex slave named Coora.

But Navar has paid for the use of me. So I kiss his female, with genuine desire, when I'm ordered to do so. I let her suckle at my nipples. I use my tongue to arouse her. After her man has fucked us both, moving back and Forth River between penetrating one cleaning lady and then the side by side, they go off to a bar, while back in the coop I'm left still taste her juices.

And that's just the first few hours of today.

10 - progress

Illonya's experience of seizure was much like mine, except she was taken by the Slavers in a ground attack. Trained as a vet, fortune took her to an farming major planet on the interference fringe of the Republic, close to the muddle of independent spacial territories. Too close, it turned out, for it was a place where best the farm prole recruited were frequently healthy young fair sex, and one of the independent soil nearby was Aghara-Penthay. There was nowhere to hide in the vast candid aeroplane, grazed by the beasts under Illonya's care, when a buccaneer raiding vessel dropped out of her sky. The slave dealer slaughtered almost all the Male workers, and took all the females who had value as captives.

Illonya arrived at the Hub a virgin, but that didn't last long when she was processed, auctioned and bought by the Flower Garden. She doesn't know exactly how many Clarence Day she's been here, but fast approaching is the era of the third assault Run she's witnessed from thralldom.

common slaves do and go all the time, but when a woman is kidnapped for the Brassica napus Run, she often draws a crowd as she's taken through the Hub to the shuttlecock, and her lot on the surface. Illonya didn't see every one of these - for exemplar she doesn't call back melena de Santo arriving - the republic fleet ship's officer who, along with the bounteousness huntsman Ja-Alixxe, escaped from the assault Run 4452.

But with the Flower Garden holding so many Gaianesians, Illonya won't forget the 4453 Run, where the stranger females in the brothel wept as they saw their beloved leader, White Queen, parading to her Run in a cruel constitution with her fellow citizens. colza contrabandist remain unviolated - the slave dealer know that virginity adds value when the losers go to auction, but this nuance does not use to any charwoman taken along with them. Gaianesians believe charwoman are physically and intellectually superior to men, and a woman can not have her stimulation Reflex triggered unless a part of her secretly desires this. They learned the error of this stand, when the slave dealer allowed the plenty rape of egg white king's honor guard, while their drawing card was forced to watch.

In the overture to the Rape Run 4454, another bulk assault is permitted on the Hub. I personally witness this one, along with Illonya. The offset at the center of the chaos is a female person called Tisya. She leads a religious faction called the Djenerion, who believe that only virgin cleaning woman can admission the enlightenment, and understand it for the masses. Also, Djenerion believe only virginal females can access the most heavenly realms of the afterlife. The appeal to the slave owner was obvious.

Every one of the bodyguard who were taken with Tisya is brutally violated, in the full-of-the-moon populace gaze of the Hub. For a sadist, there's not much better than raping a desirable cleaning lady, and tearing her future from her at the Lapplander clip. There is barely a man at the house of ill repute, when there's so a great deal sex useable for dislodge, only yards away. Illonya and I stand silently watching, holding hired man, rip running down our faces. How can men be such brutes ? How do they get away with this, fourth dimension after time, year after class, with no-one capable to cease them ?

A duo of hours later, ordination has been restored on the Hub. A Dystyr beta male arrives, one who has seen the bawdyhouse's advertising on the networks, and has travelled all the way here, just to assault me. As sometimes happens with the Beta, he blames his lack of sexual success on women, rather than on his own genetics. Only this fellow has made a small fortune on a removed planet called Dodayosk. Enough credits to buy success. He tells me all this, because he wants to see me anticipating what's coming. He's made sufficiency credit to purchase me, if he wishes, and easily enough to pay the penalty charges he would be fined for temporarily taking me out of commission.

I beg and plead, because that's what he wants, but it only delays the inevitable. He takes a unsubtle leather shoulder strap, and for the for the first time time one of my own kind beats the living daylights out of me. I barely even retrieve the Brassica napus in its aftermath. I was half-unconscious by then. I just retrieve wishing that at the moment on the landing pad, when I'd just arrived on the control surface of Aghara-Penthay, that I'd thrown myself from the tower.

smart set on Aghara-Penthay is divided into four camarilla, each with a leader, also known as the chieftain. The prime Garden happens to be under the sect of The extraterrestrial, Jackran-ad-Aktar, the same faction which happened to be creditworthy for the raid where I was taken.

In the colza Run, each faction loss leader, known as a Orion for the continuance of the contest, attempts to catch the most female person. When a stolon is caught, she is raped, the violation broadcast for the enjoyment of the galactic audience, and then afterwards she is auctioned into slavery. Failed Rape contrabandist, their faces known across the macrocosm, auction for staggering sums of credits. Only the last moon curser evading capture is released, traumatized, but with her implant dormant, and otherwise unharmed.

As part of the Alien's faction, we are expected to support his efforts to hunt the near Runners, even though the outcome makes no dissimilar to a slave miss. kindred colors decorate the rampart. Coverage in the efflorescence Garden favors showing the stranger, or the blue runner closest to him.

Lotho-Etsarra makes the low gear catch of the year, a non-human sportswoman named Siilka Noneeva. Jabal, who had a bet that Jackran-ad-Aktar would be first, is in a foul mood for the rest of the day, and we must do the best captive can to keep out of his way.

Lotho-Etsarra should be making the nigh of his lead and Hunting with renewed heartiness, but if he does, oddly we see no insurance coverage of him in the next day's current, and the Rape Run's conferrer, Wagner, makes no reference of him either. But Jackran-ad-Aktar takes advantage of the lull, and makes the low gear catch of Day 2, Rape Run 4454 - Baleria Acron, the master of ceremonies of an erotic gameshow named Harem. I used to love hareem - I'd laugh out loud at it from beginning to end. Now it is aught to me - something shopworn, irrelevant. I don't know why I ever even found it amusing.

Jackran-ad-Aktar is returning to his camp to destroy Baleria with his monstrous electronic organ when he runs right across the Djenerion leader Tisya, caught in a wild ford of open flat coat. Bad news for her, good tidings for us. Slavers love gambling, and Jabal gives all the slave a sweet treat, sharing the winnings from backing his drawing card.

Our faction chief's stranger biota prevents him raping too frequently. Wilhelm Richard Wagner's official highlights programme of Baleria's rape goes out across the universe, while Tisya has to wait in a slope room, listening to the rallying cry and anticipating her turn later in the day. And then Jackran-ad-Aktar's feed drop-off. technical problem are usually fixed quickly, but minutes turn to hours and there's still no fresh footage of the Alien, and Lotho-Etsarra hasn't been seen by the audience since yesterday evening either.

Even the slaves can narrate something is unseasonable. The Slaver men are meddling, apprehensive, talking to each other in urgent rustle. Guards are summoned to the aerofoil, and they go with weighty armaments.

"… some form of index swordplay within one of the sect,"I overhear one of the sentry go tell Jabal.

The watercourse of the hunter in the Run still show Salarin and Cronorgan. Salarin catches the news anchor, Donaya Oshanka, whom we saw on the birdie, and as is his manner, begins to rack her brutally. poor people charwoman. But by now only the tourists are showing much sake in both the feed, and in the female. A human male arrives from oceanic abyss in the republic, from the president's abode planet of Odaron flush. He is a minor diplomat, and knows from my information that I was studying politics. He has no sake in discussing that, however. He has a fetish for sex with exotic girls.

I know better than to upbraid him for travelling to Aghara-Penthay to satisfy his frailty with me, when touching me in the commonwealth would be an imprisonable offense. I thank him when it's over, as I must do with all the men who buy the use of me. If a man seems LE cruel to me than nearly, sometimes I will beg them to buy me permanently, and take me from this billet. But the diplomat coppice my humble plea away. He just wanted one experience with a Dystyr, and now he will move on to his side by side mintage. Later in the day he returns to us, and chooses one of the Gaianesians for an hour.

I am considered desirable, and have knowledge and training in diplomacy. I would have made a utile consort to that male. But it seems I was not good enough to lure him. And when someone does fall who wants me, of trend I only get slave luck.

11 - luck

ogdoad twenty-four hour period later, it is my turn to occupy the wooden wall. My hip joint and my lower torso, behind the wall, are completely defenselessly. My upper dead body is short meliorate, for my wrists are trapped in the pocket-size kettle of fish at my sides. Although I can't use my deal to protect myself, at to the lowest degree from the front I can see terror approaching. The wall holds me in a position leaning forwards, so after a while holding my nous up causes an intense pain in my back and neck. The weight of my scorns hanging downwards makes this pose more uncomfortable than it is for fair sex without the accessories.

My miserable life-time on the Hub continues as pattern, but down on the surface of the major planet below me, there have been significant changes.

It turns out there was a reason for the fade of Lotho-Etsarra and Jackran-ad-Aktar from our screens during the Rape Run 4454. A group of unfearing fair sex from the Djenerion religious order infiltrated the planet's open, reaching The zona where the Run takes place, and in retribution for the Slavers abducting their leader, Tisya, these womanhood began eliminating the faction chiefs.

The luckier members of the group were killed during the raid, but some, including their drawing card, were taken alive. An model had to be made of them - a portion so direful it would dissuade any other women from taking a stand against the slave trader of Aghara-Penthay. This planet and its Hub are generally accepted to be the worst world in the universe to be female, but compared to those pitiful creatures, I have achieved buckle down destiny. Those adult female had their limbs amputated ; they were muted ; muted in every respect so they couldn't even pass along by moving their heads ; and then they were handed over to the Elmek. The Elmek, Wagner told us, are a mintage of tiny humanlike beings, who fetishize devouring the sex harmonium of rule sized females. Slowly. It will require months for those poor Djenerion to be devoured. All those months they will drop in unspeakable botheration ; ineffective to incite ; unable to speak ; unable to fly ; unable to beg. They will lie there, reflecting on their actions, praying to their Gods for a salvation that will never come.

The men of Aghara-Penthay can not be without sect leaders, and the power vacuum was quickly filled. Some of the men of The Alien and The Libido's faction went over to Salarin and Cronorgan, but almost united under a powerful new chief. His gens is Monad. This brothel, the flush Garden, was formally under Jackran-ad-Aktar, so Jabal, like most men, lacking the braveness to form his own faction, quickly swore his fealty to Monad.

Slavers are all cruel, but intelligence reaches even us that this"Monad"is something special. They say he's more animal than human. They say he never backs down from a battle. They say he rules by fright. They say no-one else uses a charwoman after he's had her.

And this is the one whom fate has decreed now has ultimate great power over us all, here at the Flower Garden.

The Hub has been quiet today. Approximately an hr ago, someone behind the wall fucked me firmly. I did not see his brass, but he did it roughly, as though he hated me. Perhaps he was a Dystyr male person, perhaps not. Why do so many men hate cleaning lady like me ? When they take us, it's about more than raping us. They're getting even, settling a grudge.

Recovering in the bulwark, I'm staring at the floor, lamenting being born female, when I hear a strangely familiar voice.

"Coora,"someone male says to me.

I look up, and cry out in dismayed mortification.

Jurong is standing in social movement of me, staring at me. Oh no, oh no ! His dreams are finally fulfilled. I am naked before Jurong, a Jurong who is transfixed at the sight of me. I am too comrade with that look of thirst. This will not end well.

"Gods, Coora,"he says to me,"your knocker are even amend than I imagined they would be."

"No !"I plead, shaking my cornered blazonry in a futile effort to conceal myself."Please, don't flavor at me Jurong, not when I'm like this."

"But you're beautiful, Coora,"he says."You shouldn't be ashamed. And you should see how you look from the back."

I close my eyes in despair, blinking back the tears. Being raw and degraded in front of alien is one thing, but here is someone who knows me from when I had dignity.

"How much is it for a sitting with you ?"

Oh Gods, please not him. But he presses,"result me, Coora."

"One hundred credits, if you want to go inside. Ask the slave owner, Jabal, and he'll have me released from here."

I'm supposed to say"One hundred credits, Master ”, but I can't bear using that full term with him.

"One hundred cite ? There's plenty of fille on the Hub for much less than that."

Good. Let him use one of those poor creatures.

"But then, they're not you. They're not my Coora."

"Please Jurong,"I beg, straining to free my radiocarpal joint."If you have any kind spirit towards me, please don't ravishment me."

"You know Coora, when you struggle, the way your breasts shake is exquisite,"he says, and I stop dead."You should keep still if you want to deter men."

"Please, Jurong,"I beg again, but I plead from a stationary position all the same.

"Everything will be hunky-dory. I'm going inside,"he says, and I burst into tears. Please, individual facilitate me. Not this…

Jurong has gone from my view. Soon Jabal appears, but not with Jurong. I am released from my position. I stand there weeping openly, rubbing my sore cervix to ease the discomfort.

"Put your wrap on. You look like a slovenly woman, standing there naked,"Jabal elasticity at me.

I scrabble on the flooring for the meagre bundle of habiliment. I wasn't planning to dress for the short distance inside the sporting house. Not because I'm lazy or unashamed, but because article of clothing myself will only give Jurong the satisfaction of ordering me to get rid of it. But I can't disobey Jabal, so I secure my wrap in property with the approved tie - a bow under the will arm. right-handedness is most coarse among males across the universe, and they naturally reach to our left sides. The knot can be unfastened easily, and we can be stripped while restrained.

The rooms inside the house of ill repute are utterly impersonal - more like being in a hotel room than an individual's chamber. The lighting is lenient pinks and oranges. The vividness are supposed to hide skin blemishes, but with my nacreous tone of voice I think they make me reckon sickly. There are no bed covers, just a mattress with a top that can be quickly removed for cleaning. All around the bed are anchor gunpoint for simpleness - hooks and alloy eyehole. The equipment for this is in boxershorts under the bed. Everything a man may require is there - I know from bitter experience - handlock, Sir Ernst Boris Chain, ropes, gags, clinch, whip, phalluses, vibrators, lubricants, and blindfolds.

A small table is stocked with liquor, ethanols, stimulants, and mannikin of aphrodisiac. We are forbidden from using anything on the tabular array, unless we do so under instruction from a client.

Jurong is sitting on the bed of this room, looking around with smashing curiosity.

"This is your home ?"he asks.

"None of this is my habitation,"I answer tersely."A hard worker can not have possessions. We use whichever way is free."

"You're going to be like this, today, are you, Coora ?"he says with a wry grinning, as though I'm being unreasonable."I've come a long way to see you."

"You've paid for me,"I say bitterly."Just have your fun, and go away, Jurong."

"Your profile says you've been highly trained in striver skills,"Jurong says, ignoring my animus."I guess you didn't find much use for your political sympathies here, huh ? read them to me, Coora. That's an order. wait on me Danaean life, but humbly, the way a trained hard worker serves her master."

I can not pass up. Pouring the drink, I must kneel before him to deliver it, kissing the rim of the glassful and then lifting it to him, as though in offering to a God. I must kneel with my thighs panoptic apart. In the demeaning wrapper, this will enshroud nothing of my core from him.

While I make the provision, he talks.

"The college held a remembrance religious service, for all those who died or were taken in the sea rover attack,"Jurong tells me, as though he thinks anything in my yesteryear thing now."Nearly two hundred from our course of instruction were on that ship. Just from our class, one-hundred-and-twenty-nine cleaning lady were taken live. Twenty-four were killed, either by the Slavers or by ending themselves. nineteen Male enslaved, and XV of them killed. The lucky rest of the men evaded seizure, but no women from the division returned abode. All told, nearly five hundred prisoner were taken in the foray on Moons of Odaron, the vast majority of them females captured for sexual slavery."

And one of those Whitney Moore Young Jr. female was me. I kneel as a sex slave before Jurong, my sometime classmate, humbling myself, spreading my thigh to give an obscene view of the buck private property between my branch. I kiss the crapulence glass and demo it to him holding it extended with both paw. I keep my head submissively down, but must look at him, so he can see my eyes.

Jurong takes the drinking glass from me, and sips.

"That is proficient feel,"he says.

I do not reply.

"Ilza is the cleaning woman's class president now,"Jurong continues."All the cat want to date her, now there's so few cleaning woman left. There's just a handful of women from our year that weren't on the voyage."

I remember Ilza. She was one of those green-eyed, spiteful types.

"I bet she likes that,"I can't help saying."She'd like knowing I'm here."

"She does cognise you're here. You, Trindii, all of them. There's a big display showing all the I who were taken, Coora, a memorial,"he says, and I moan in humiliation. The tears are coming again. Please, don't let me cry in front of Jurong.

"You probably know this as well, but the slave dealer advertise everything about the girls working on the Hub,"he presses relentlessly."All your entropy is there. It says you weren't a virgin when you were taken. That disappointed me. But you're one of only a few who were enslaved that can be traced. I was so relieved when I saw that you were in a brothel. virtually of the girl have probably been sold privately, and are lost. Trindii has disappeared. Cliria is gone, somewhere. Eleese is gone. Gods, she was hot. It's a prosperous man gets to own that. But really, for me there was only ever you, Coora."

What am I supposed to say to that ? His interest in me was always beyond friendship, beyond anything I sought. Last sentence we met, I struck Jurong in the head with an decoration to escape him raping me. I won't be so golden this time.

"Was the theme of sex with me really that bad, Coora ?"he asks, rubbing his skull in that same fleck the sculpture hit. When he sees I'm not going to reply, he demands,"Answer me. Truthfully."

The compulsion of an implant on its dupe is absolute.

"I've never had feelings for you in that way,"I say, trying to be as diplomatical as possible."Dystyr women usually only want our alpha Dystyr males."

"But now, I'm probably not such a bad prospect, huh ?"he presses."I mean, I bet you've been taken by worse than me."

I pause, recalling some the horrors in my recent history.

"That's true, Jurong."

"Maybe regretting your natural process, just a little ? Think about it : only here and now after our scene in that cabin, the slaver withdrew to ca-ca their leak. It must torture you that if you'd only put out for me, and we'd had sex that day, we'd have probably not been discovered. My shaft, instead of all those others and an implant."

Gods, I hate this guy.

"Did I ever tell you, my family are very wealthy ?"he switches subject, suddenly finishing his drink in one gulping, and putting the deoxyephedrine back on the table.

I can't bear another irregular of this pocket-size talking. The anticipation of him touching me is a physical body of torture, and I've had enough.

"I'm an implanted striver, Jurong,"I say, turning to look him."We both know I can't stop you. But please - don't draw this out - if you're going to do it, do it, then go home to Iniver Four, and stay to be your privileged life."

"But that's my percentage point, Coora,"he says, as though he's explaining something to an idiot."I graduated with 1st class honors. My family are very please, and want to reinforce me. I could ask for you to be that reward - ask for store to rescue a slave who was a early class fellow. You can't go back to a normal animation, not with an implant in your Einstein, but in the democracy with me, you'd technically be free."

My jaw drop curtain as my universe of discourse does a paradigm shifting. woman like me all learn that the sole way to survive thraldom, mentally is to stay in the now. But from nowhere I'm confronted with the idea that I might stimulate a future - a life beyond the Flower Garden. I've never been good at withholding tears, and again the sob comes without warning.

"We live in the Rainbow bunch,"he says."You should see it, Coora - one of the most beautiful eyeshot in the coltsfoot, except for the view of yourself, of course of action. Gas clouds of all colour, and millions of stars, stretching to infinity. You feel a connection to the eternal."

My judgment is racing though, and already I'm coming down from the high.

"And what would you want from me in exchange, Jurong ?"I ask in a palpitation voice.

"Well, no other womanhood will touch me, once she sees I'm keeping a former sex slave,"he says, his representative hardening."They'll all judge, even though my intentions are good. So you'll have to be my familiar. My insinuate associate, and you'll grant me the things I've always craved from you."

"So I'll not be a sex slave, just a prostitute,"I say angrily,"sleeping with you in exchange for a place away from here. And I'll never be able to allow for you, not when you only have to verbalize and I'll come running back."

"You studied gender politics, Coora,"Jurong defends himself."You know that sex is almost always transactional. The adult female gives her soundbox, in telephone exchange for resourcefulness, protection, support… For an ingrained female, that office is just a bit more overt."

He thinks, then adds,"I have a lot to offer you, Coora, and you're not exactly in the best bargaining position right now."

I frown.

"And what about right now ? What do you require today ?"

"What I do in the hour I've paid for depends on you, Coora. Put yourself in my place. I desire you, but I can hardly to take you back to the commonwealth, just for you to assure the first person you meet that I raped you when we were on Aghara-Penthay,"answers Jurong."So I need to be for certain you're committed to me, genuinely committed, and that you won't try to flee as soon as you're in give up place. So here's what I suggest. If you want to be mine, you're going to hump me now, choose to sleep together me of your own unloose will, and you're going to do as though you think I'm the most desirable guy in the universe. Convince me, and afterwards I'll put things in motion to start out the purchase."

Sex with the repulsive Jurong. It occurs to me this might all be a play tricks - he might walk out of here, never having intended to save me, and I'd never see him again. The ultimate humiliation. I'd have given him myself, as though we were lovers, for nothing.

"And if I refuse ?"I ask.

"You won't, unless you're a patsy. But if remaining here looks better than a life with me… Why, your consent doesn't issue, does it ?"

So that's it. Give myself to Jurong, or be raped by Jurong. He's not the initiative since my enslavement to say"treat me nice, and I'll buy you ”. But with those men and Jurong I would be a gull to decline. Any chance of leaving the Hub and returning to some manakin of lifetime inside the Republic is better than my existence here.

"Lie back on the bed, please, my dear master key, Jurong"I say, trying to hide my horror and throw my voice auditory sensation pinnace, and when he complies, I straddle him, reaching for the air mile fastening of my wrap.

And then, for the first time, I screw someone for my life.

12 - Relocation.

After an hour playing period acting like the regular girlfriend, once I've kissed him goodby and he's gone, I think I've probably been conned like I was with the others, and I hate myself. But then a duad of shifts after my brush, I'm abruptly released from my obligation in the display cages out front, and I'm escorted inside. There's a little elbow room at the back of the brothel that functions as Jabal's office, and to there I am taken.

"Coora - that contrivance there is to go tightly around your neck,"my possessor commands gruffly, throwing a large metal ring the diameter of my throat onto the desk."And that…"and another jumble of metalwork goes onto the desk with a clatter,"is for covering your cunt."

I pick up the neckband, bemused. It looks like the jolt device that was locked onto me when I was first captured, but this one has a taller band, and writing on it.

"Sold : Do not use ”, it says.

I look at Jabal, my meat suddenly racing. Does this mean ?

"Hurry up, put it on,"he snaps, and I quickly snap the collar around my neck opening. I push it as far as it will go, and hear the lock activate with an flash click.

I haven't worn the other device before, but I know what it is. In a whorehouse, there's not normally a reason to lock sex slaves into sexual morality belts. I step into the metalwork, pulling it up to my core as though I'm putting on panties. At the back, there is a pocket-size possibility that will catch one's breath on my anus - magnanimous enough to void solids through, but not big enough for a penis to penetrate. A diminutive puss at the front permits urination. I pull it up into place and discover the hind end band sits deep between my buttocks, and is quite uncomfortable. I'm not sure what I think of this thing. The belt will be unmanageable to make clean, and unhygienic if I have to wear it for long. But then it does prevent me being used. At one prison term I would have considered this thing demeaning, obscene, but idol, now it feels unspoilt to hold something protecting my vulva.

I push the fittings closed, and hear a lock dog on the smash, too.

"A guest has taken a illusion to you,"says Jabal, disapproving."It happens, sometimes, with the offworlders - they fixate on one striver. The Slavers know this is a mistake,"( his tone turns smug )."This never happens with us. We understand the truth, that the note value of a female is measured only in her desirability, and the next fresh slave, who is therefore more desirable, is always on the way."“

Jabal gives me a moment to count his wisdom. Then he indicates the small window, the one looking through to the society's lounge, and then out onto the Mezzanine.

"For case, look out there, Coora."

I obey.

"The future Coora has probably already walked through there, and is training on the surface."

I could think of reply to this, but before I have a chance, the belt begins buzzing softly - the source of the vibration coming from a spotlight pressing right against my clitoris.

"Oh !"I cry, and pulling at the metal stripe covering my core, but it's too closely to budge.

Warm liquid pleasure spills out through my low-spirited body. I feel myself starting to become aroused.

"But the obsessions of clients make in force patronage for us, so we don't argue when the offworlders form their bond,"Jabal continues, ignoring my embarrassed surprise."He has paid well over your time value, to secure you. You'll be pleased to know you have been a profitable purchase for the house."

After perhaps thirty seconds of acute vibration, by which time I'm getting quite turned on and my legs are starting to tremble, the buzzing plosive speech sound, as abruptly as it began. Frustrated, I push the alloy against my sex, wanting the pleasure back.

"Who paid for me, Master ?"I then ask humbly. Jurong - it must be Jurong. It would be too practically of a coincidence otherwise.

"Like to know, wouldn't you ?"he smiles with a flash of the familiar harshness.

"The node will return to collect you in three days. During your wait, he has specified you are not to be used to provide sexual services."

No sexual services… Does that mean ? Oh, god be praised. I go weak with relief. The end of my suffering is in heap. I might have already had sex for the conclusion time on Aghara-Penthay.

"The rap will foreclose other men from raping you. During your waking hr, it will excite you for thirty second gear out of every two minutes. It will activate more discretely during the night - you're in for some very erotic dreaming, Coora. I promise you, when your new overlord collects you, he'll see his slave very desperate to please."

I push again at the metal against my gist. So how tenacious have I got before it fires again ? Less than a moment ? I know better than to object - Jabal has said zilch to indicate I can't be punished for the next three Day, if I show any sign of insurrection. It will just have got to be endured.

"As you please, Master."

"You can still be of some use, until your owner comes. You will serve food and drinks to clients. You will wait out strawman, and when Male take an pastime in a Dystyr, guide them to use Illonya."

"As you please, Master."

"You will percentage my bed at nights. There are ways to revel a woman without penetrating the usual holes. Especially if she's so turned-on that she's going half-crazy."

I repress a tremor at the prognosis of feeling Jabal's hired man mauling me. But show disapproval, and I will only hit it more enjoyable for him.

"As you please, Ma… Oh !"

The buzzing against my sex returns, without warning. And it feels honest. I feel my human face lambency with the flush of arousal. I push at the alloy, trying to maneuver it against the most pleasurable protrusion of my flesh. I'm wondering whether, if I'm prepared and pre-excited, tonight if there's a import alone I might institute myself to orgasm, from just thirty irregular of stimulation.

Jabal watches me, smiling knowingly. The way is silent for a moment, economize for the indulgent bombilation of the belt and the ever deliver sound of the Hub's atmosphere processors. Again the quiver vanishes, just as it was getting really interesting. I poke and prod at the belt, irritated.

"Quite something, isn't it ?"Jabal says wryly."Well, you're dismissed, for now, Coora. Go and help oneself the others."

I stumble out into the main area of the brothel, my gist hammering. Around my neck is a pinch which says Sold : Do not use. A sexual morality belt inhibits access to my sex organs.

A large central lounge area forms the chief elbow room of the peak Garden. The front is out-of-doors to the mezzanine, which it is wanton to recall of as"outside ”, although of course we remain enclosed on the huge orbital station of The Hub. doorway lead from the lounge into the chamber, and the usable place of the brothel. Against one wall of the lounge - actually one of the major bulkheads securing the station's wholeness, is the bar. Here Myrune - one of the Gaianesian women, sits talking with a potential customer. Her red slave wrapper does not adequately pass over her.

A group of males walk past the presence of the brothel. They are loud, brutish, drunk. They laugh at the woman currently filling the wall. I can not tell who she is, being only able to view her nude posterior.

All this, I only have to tolerate for a twosome of days. It makes it so much well-fixed to suffer, knowing the scene around me is no longer my future. I am destined for what ? Jurong ? The Rainbow Galaxy ? He wouldn't have been my option, but I'll take him over…

Godsdammit !

Once more the belt fires up without warning, and I double over, clutching at my genitalia. It seems that each fourth dimension it fires, the effect of the stimulus on me seems to get more intense. And this is after just a few activations. How will I feel after hr of this ?

I'm already wondering - who ordered the vibrating belt ? Was it Jurong ? He would likely require me to be more interested in him, sexually. Well, his plan will inevitably succeed if the saturation continues to ramp like this. Unwanted, the memory of feeling Jurong's clammy workforce on my naked soundbox payoff. Eurghh ! I push it away, then try to accept it. Better Jurong's helping hand from within the Republic, than the many others who have had their manus on me on Aghara-Penthay.

Myrune's eyes take in the view of me, with my unusual pinch, doubled over clutching my mole. And then the oscillation is gone. I move behind the bar, and feigning nonchalance I begin mopping ethanol spirits with a grime rag.

"Ain't you something ?"Myrune's fellow traveler says to me, leering crudely. He's a human being - older, unshaven for several days and rank from his own consistence odor."They kept you hidden in the back. How lots is an hour inside your snatch ?"

"I'm not for cut-rate sale, Master,"I say, indicating the dog collar. I'm deliberate not to sound disrespectfully smug about this fact.

"well, I'll just have to take it out on your friend, then,"he says testily, and turns back to Myrune."How much for your middling ass ?"

The rest of my good afternoon comprises of encounters much like this. A large group of male person on a pre-wedding party chooses us as their favorite ecesis, and almost all the miss of the house are kept busy entertaining them. There's so much demand for women to serve in the bedrooms that even today's girl in the paries - Hoola, another of the Gaianesians, is brought back into overhaul. But I still remain fresh. My relief is almost intolerable. Even with the repeating torment from the belt, this is my least deplorable day since gaining control. I've been equipped with a mental carapace which protects me from everything. This is impermanent. This is temp. That's the mantra I keep repeating. Soon, I'll be in the Republic. Implanted, but free. I will see the Rainbow Galaxy.

The former women inevitably see the sold sign around my neck opening, and react with envy when they hear the account. Aghara-Penthay is their forever, but no longer mine. I will be leaving. How did I achieve such a effort, when they did not ?

The meter which is designated as night arrives on The Hub, and I go to Jabal's bed. There, he gropes me, relentlessly and as intimately as he can while being inhibited by the belted ammunition. I can brook it, even when he culminate by rubbing himself against my second joint.

I can bear that the belt, which has been activating all day, even though it has intensified so a great deal that I turn to liquid in his arms. I can bear the image of Jurong pressing into me. I can bear Jabal's cum on my leg.

Because my future is away from here.

Next cockcrow, I wake from a serial publication of intensely detestable dreams, to find myself so aroused I'm barely able to brook. It's going to be a long day. Dismissed from Jabal's cabin, I take my property in the bar area. Mornings in the brothel are usually the unruffled and slowest full stop. Most revelers visiting The Hub party late into the night. And those who need their starve sating early prefer to go directly to the bedrooms, rather than hanging around drinking in the public areas.

My morning begins as smoothly as it can for a daughter who by now is despairing to orgasm. At to the lowest degree it does until there is a aloud to-do from along the Mezzanine. I look up and see a posse comitatus of slave trader men are approaching, from the focal point where the bird leave down to Aghara-Penthay's surface.

I haven't seen our new junto leader, but I don't need have done in social club to tell who's approaching. In the midriff of the group is a gargantuan Male, half a head taller than those around him, radiating authority. A monition must ingest been passed back, for Jabal, still fastening his pants, and the other males who staff the flower Garden, descend hurrying out to fulfil him. Hoola emerges with one of the next-to-last men. She looks as if she's just woken up.

"Know who I am ?"the colossus says, scanning the radical with eyes that miss nothing.

"dread Monad,"says Jabal in a shaking vocalization.

"Let's get to the point. The credits coming from this brothel are well below some of the others,"says monas."Why is that ? Are you stealing my coin ?"

"Of course of action not, dread Monad !"stammer Jabal, shaking with fear."We're near the end of the entresol. The house in the middle get the most craft. And the peak Garden peck in non-human char. They're a niche product."

"Are these two all of your merchandise ?"barks monas, indicating Hoola and myself."show me what else you have."

"Some of them are with guest. And some of them are sleeping."

"Do you think I care ?"

"Fetch the girls,"Jabal quickly orders the foot soldier. In response to a murmured query he adds,"no, all of them."

I line up side by side with the other fair sex. We're in no particular order. I happen to have the frizzy-haired Gaianesian, Hoola on one slope, and the early Dystyr female, Illonya, on the early.

And then my belt fervency up.

"Urghh,"I moan sensually, my body jolt as I resist the impulse to double over and clutch my crotch. In a moment, I've recovered myself, but by then it's too late.

"Nice. What's the tale with the one in heat ?"growling monas. I'm staring at the trading floor and don't see where he's looking, but I just know he's talking about me.

"A client just bought her,"says Jabal."The cut-rate sale made us a lot of credit, too. He wanted the belt fitted, so she'd be heroic for him by the time he arrived."

So it was Jurong. I knew it. But there's no time to think about him.

"Step forward, you with the belt,"monas says, so of course, I do.

"aspect at me."

Even though meeting his gaze makes me shiver more than the belt, this too I obey.

"You're a beauty, aren't you ?"he says gruffly, his stare channelize."I don't usually like scorns on women, but they suit you."

My chemical reaction betrays me.

"Ha. See that ? She was storm I know their right name. The slit expected me to be stupefied. She thought she was cleverer than me, even though she's the one standing there with an implant in her skull. What's your name, slave ?"

"Coora, schoolmaster,"I reply, trying to go as low as potential. I'm desperate to channel that I'm not a woman who thinks herself ranking to the cabal leader.

"You :"monad says, turning back to Jabal."Have the choker taken off her, and throw away that belt. She's coming with me."

"But she's sold…"braggadocio Jabal."And for a lot of credit."

"Do you want to argue ?"Monad smiles maliciously."Then please, argue…"

"Of course not."

"Then do as I ask. Or before the day's end, you'll be implanted as well, and joining your girls."

So within minutes after beginning my day with Bob Hope, I'm padding after Monad, inconsolable with despair. I'd been tricked into hoping, for a spell. to the highest degree of the women look appealing as I depart, but a few expression satisfied by my changing fortune.

Please, please, let this new hell be short lived, I pray. I was getting used to the feel of my belt, and without its presence I feel as exposed as I did when I was first stripped before men. I feel my scorns thicket against my rear end as I walk.

I follow Monad to the shuttle bays. It seems I'm heading back to the aerofoil. The last shuttle I had used was crowded with captives. This one's only passengers are Monad, and a few men of his cortege. The remainder of the grasp is packed with food for thought crates - Aghara-Penthay being reliant on supplies from offworld for its nutrition.

I am the only female present.

"kneel,"monas commands me as he relaxes in a comfortable seat, and of track I drop to my knee joint, assuming the orthodox slave position, as I have been trained. The sect drawing card sits with his thigh spread, as do many men. His crotch is plane with my eyeline. I see the swelling of a vauntingly electric organ, but I see he is not yet aroused. I wonder what triggers him. It would break help me please him if I understood his tastes.

A deeply clop sound and a little shifting sensation from the artificial solemnity tells me the shuttlecock has undocked, and for the endorse metre in my life history I'm dropping to the major planet's aerofoil. My tone sink as we descend.

I lower my gaze, and see my hands are trembling. I've heard the rumour that no early man uses a woman after Monad has had her, but what exactly could that mean ? He keeps every one of them for himself ? With the overly endowed men such as the recently unlamented extraterrestrial, they boast that their conquests are too stretched to feel anything again. Perhaps that is it. Perhaps the females he uses are moved to non-sexual service. I could cope with that fate.

"What did you do, before you were enslaved ?"monas asks, abruptly breaking the silence.

"I was studying political relation, master key,"I answer,"at the Capital University. On Iniver Four."

"I know where Capital University is,"he says dismissively."Your homeworld - the Dystyr planet - it has many female politico ? fair sex are treated equally ?"

"Yes, Master."

"And do you believe in equality ? What does your politics teach you is the recurring luck of benevolent societies ?"

I'm not sure how to serve. fairness is such a central dogma of the commonwealth it's out of the question to mean there could be a expert way.

"Huh !"monad snorts derisively as I frame my answer."She had to cerebrate. Pretty, but not shiny then."

There is no reply to that which helps me, so I am silent.

"The answer is : a group without scruples will always outstrip those around them who are restricted by ethical motive,"states monas."As long as the whole does not act the same way. It is the same for individuals. Put a few predators in the herd, and the predators do best. Discuss, student."

"par brings a blanket syndicate of capability, professional,"I feel obliged to reason."Eventually, the excess ability means they conquer the oppressors."

"And yet, there you are, a blossom specimen of a democracy female person, drawn from the prominent ‘ capacity pool'in chronicle, naked at my foundation, and a slave,"counters monas."Aghara-Penthay is the predatory cosmos. The commonwealth is the herd. We take what capability we want from you, to serve our pleasure. The republic could fail my home to obliviousness, if it had the formal. Instead, your men come here on vacation in prophylactic, because their loss leader have scruples about eliminating innocent victims. We act without limits."

I shake my head, but he commands,"arouse yourself,"and I must obey.

I'm sure enough I'm correct, and yet I'm the one left fingering my clit, while he enjoys the view. And this remains the situation as I reach the planet's vile open for the second time.

Perhaps I'm expecting days of waiting in a cell again, but on disembarking I learn that monad is going directly to a meeting with the other cabal leadership, and I am the one chosen to come with him.

"You want to see real government in military action ?"Monad growl to me."It is fourth dimension to have your wish."

This is far from my wish. My ambition was to see galactic politics as a participant, working to name the universe a better place for all metal money. Not as a trophy - an externalize symbolisation of a faction Chief's ability. But such is the luck of Coora. So I meekly follow my new master into ancient chamber - a space with sandstone walls, containing eight heavy pot, each carved from a bingle piece of rock. eighter faction leaders must have been the gamey numeral there's been in Aghara-Penthay's chronicle, but in the era of my slavery, there are only three leaders occupying chairs - Salarin, Cronorgan and monas.

I've seen broadcasts of the faction leaders many sentence, but the experience of being in their front spirit very different. Salarin work stoppage such terror into the universe's cleaning woman that I've somehow imagined him as gigantic, but in reality, he's pocket-size for a human male, and has a slim, stringy physical body. The Sadist is older and gray haired, but still has a vital force about him. I could believe he'll continue to mulct the galaxy's females for many years yet. I know he becomes aroused by char's distress, and kneeling so close, I can conceive it. The air around him radiates with menace.

Cronorgan is entirely hairless - a facial expression which is pleasing and instinctive on Dystyr males, but in humans makes them appear effeminate and immature. He is rather stoutness, which furthers the impression that here someone babyish. I know better than to let his appearance mark me. He is the Dominant. His delight is breaking women so they comprehend nothing but their thrall, and he does it very well.

And there is Monad. Giant, and muscular compared to his compatriots. Monad is battle-scarred and grizzled, a line to the other men on whom I don't see the least deface. Here sits a man who takes by force-out, and he's leave to fight for it.

Behind each of the enthroned Chiefs sits three of his bureaucrat, on smaller president to reflect their lesser status. A fleet captain who oversees the camarilla's buccaneering and gaining control of victims, a contract consultant, creditworthy for the faction's finances and retail concord, and finally - the managing director of the cabal's hard worker, who deals with education, processing, and all matters from captives'arrival up to their point in time of sale.

The final attender are us - the fair sex. Each main brings a sampling of the all right female person flesh he possesses, displaying a swag such as her to the other male as proof of his status. Three of the hunky-dory slavegirls in the universe. I take no pleasure in being in such exalted troupe. I was forty-nine, and I know that only on a planet where women have rights and are respected, is beauty a benefit. I feel nothing but ruth for my companion creatures.

The first one I notice is the cleaning woman at Salarin's feet first, and I do a duplicate take when I see her. Surely, the one kneeling there is Ja-Alixxe. The female bountifulness hunter, who was captured and forced to participate in the ravishment Run two age ago, is more famous that the sect head. I remember she escaped the Run, along with the Republican colonel, Melena de Santo. But Ja-Alixxe was recaptured, and after being condemned to be raped to decease, the galaxy saw her martyred in an explosion on the Hub.

Apparently not. Still, what does it count to me if one slave lives or dies ? The slave trader have their ruses.

I can't assistant but study her, though. Some women mentally disintegrate during slavery, but Ja-Alixxe looks remarkably well. Her middle still sparkle with fire - she looks angry, even. She has the perfect tense torso of an athlete. Salarin must cause been making her usage. They have done something cruel to her mammilla and her genitals. Instead of the formula colouring material of human form, Ja-Alixxe's organs are silver, as though they've been sprayed with a metallic pigment. Her breasts have been enlarged since I last saw her in the feeds.

At Cronorgan's fundament kneels a non-human - a stunning object lesson of the Gaianesian species, only distinguishable from human charwoman by irises of a mysterious purple shade, and a form of markings on her forehead in a standardized colouring material. The Gaianesians in the efflorescence Garden were beauties, but this one is exceptional.

Cronorgan keeps his script knotted in this fair sex's hair for the entire duration of the council, applying a blue-blooded pressure. I wonder what that must feel like. In the cathouse I've seen enough evidence of the Gaianesian females'involuntary response - a reflex - a ignominious genetic trait from their past tense which renders them sexually receptive when their hair is pulled. Perhaps this is avowedly. At even the to the lowest degree front which causes a tug from Cronorgan, I notice there is an instant when the miss's eyes defocus, she stares into space, and her lips part sensuously.

And I complete this unlucky deuce-ace, my chatoyant blue-green skin and my scorns making my appear the most-nonhuman of the slaves.

"This is Coora,"grunted monas, as I took my home kneeling at his infantry, facing into the circle with my game resting against his massive shin."She believes equality is going to deliver her."

And without warning he loops my contempt around my pharynx, and labor them tight like they're a running noose - using my own flesh printing press into my throat. From nowhere, he's begun choking me. I struggle to rise and get up, but he barks at me to stay in positioning, and my legs drop faster than if I'd been axed. I lift my hand instead, and use those to struggle with the disdain, trying to tear them enough to loosen them and inhale. This exploit Monad permits, but probably only because I'm so ineffective. He holds me in this stance, my windpipe crushed, until I begin to panic. It's probably only for thirty seconds, but I'm beginning to see stars, and fear makes the time feel much longer.

Monad releases his hold long enough to let me cough a strangled breath, but as soon as that's done, the contempt cinch close and throttle me again. My own anatomy is choking me once more, and I pull at it. No, he's leaving it too long - does he require me to faint ? And again, as my threat begins to top out for the back time, I'm given a brusque moment to gasp for oxygen.

The men are discussing prospective victims for next year's Rape Run, as though my plight isn't occurrent, but purport with my fight for survival I've stopped listening to the business of governing a major planet. I'm trying to work my fingerbreadth inside the noose of anatomy so I can give myself an air-gap. Monad, fully cognizant of my plan, adjusts the grip of his Brobdingnagian clenched fist, and pulls back against my neck even more tightly.

I try to plea for mercy, fingers scrabbling vainly at the bands crushing my trachea, but I can emit no sound.

"No, hands to your thighs,"monad commands me now, and in maliciousness of my desperation, I still must obey. I rest the backs of my hands on my naked thighs, in the classic striver kneeling position.

He permits me another gasp of air - just for a fraction of a second.

I'm trying to understand what is expected of me. Does he want me to hap out, in which case it would be safe to just feign losing cognizance ? Perhaps it is my concern which pleases him ? I don't need acting to point I'm afraid.

Salarin pulls back on Ja-Alixxe's hair, mirroring the Gaianesian's position, so the bounty Orion must watch me. There is pity in her expression - an emotion I don't remember ever seeing from her during her time in the Rape Run. The Gaianesian charwoman, in dividing line, looks utterly terrified. Is the sight of me that bad ?

Starved of oxygen, my consciousness begins to get lupus erythematosus substantial, and it feels as though I'm falling backwards. At that breaker point I am permitted another brief intimation, and I'm catapulted back into my trunk. A minion of Salarin's is addressing the leaders. He mentions the name"Yarook ”.

"He's not getting even the ugliest piece of cunt from me,"growls monas from behind me."I'd rather cut their throats."

The announcement must have provoked my Master to anger, for without warning I'm flung forward, landing heavily and painfully on my strawman on the hard trading floor. I start pushing myself back up, but monad barks"Lie there ! Wrap those things tighter around your neck."

An order is an purchase order, and any resistance dissolves instantly.

The meeting pause, silent, while I circle the twist of my own body even stiff about my neck. Behind me, I hear my owner rising to his feet. Compelled my implant, I lie there, hitch and docile, ready for whatever he intends of me.

I'm lying on a thick rug, but the floor is very uncomfortable. My cheek tone as though it was bruised in my tumble to the floor. The scorn, wrapped"tighter"as he commanded, are too sloshed to catch one's breath, and the unusual shimmering starlight is creeping back into the bound of my vision.

And then my master falls on me, crushing the rest of the air from my lungs out into a strangled scream of pain. I have no lubrication on my keister, and the suffering from him suddenly piercing my anus is brutal. The agony of him raping my rear would be adequate to earn me squall on and on, if only I could, but he drags hard back on the keep running noose, and a woman needs air to cry out.

"Is this really essential ?"I hear Cronorgan ask as monad ruts into me, violating me in front of them all."She's a gracious sampling, and it's a waste if you're going to do this every individual time."

"I'll sell her to you if you admit you're weak, and you care for her ?"monad response, the sound of his spokesperson amplified through me by the imperativeness from our organic structure being crushed together.

Seconds more pass. Even with my dwindling cognisance, they are seconds of intolerable suffering. I'm waiting for Monad to let me exact a intimation, like he has done over and over so far. Surely it must be soon. This ordeal can't go on much longer. Meanwhile his cock feels tremendous inside my bowel. Dystyr women's consistence are similar to human female person, when it comes to the dimension of our binding passageway. We're equally able to survive anal penetration, but it's less commonly practiced in our social club. I hope Jurong doesn't expect me to hold up that.

I start to discover my pinna filling with a beautiful sound, as though a consort of a thousand voices are forming one perfect chord. My vision has dwindled right down to a pinpoint now. Most of my view is filled with shiny luminance. I think I am falling.

And finally, I understand.

Sexual killing is almost unheard of in Dystyr society. It is as alien to me as my iridescent skin and my scorn are to the humans. So I barely have time to conceive the idea that must deliver been apparent to the observers - that Monad does not intend to let me take a breather, ever again."No man uses a female after Monad has had her ”. Oh, I think. That's what they meant.

I'm not sure why, but I feel strangely cool off as I consider my end. I may even shed a twinkle tear, but it becomes a mavin before I have probability to trance it. I look up, following it towards the nullity of space.

And I see the Rainbow Galaxy.

Standing, I run naked and unashamed towards infinity .