Total pages in book: 96
Estimated words: 87050 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 435(@200wpm)___ 348(@250wpm)___ 290(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 87050 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 435(@200wpm)___ 348(@250wpm)___ 290(@300wpm)
The first strike had stolen my breath, a line of fire blooming across my bare bottom. I had cried out, more in surprise than pain, but Jorg had shown no mercy. Again and again, the strap had fallen, each impact driving home the lesson I was meant to learn.
“You are here to serve, not to think,” Jorg had snarled between strikes. “Your opinions are worthless. Your questions are meaningless. You exist for our pleasure and use. Nothing more.”
Tears had streamed down my face, a mix of pain and shame and a too-familiar something else I refused to name. As the punishment continued, I had found myself slipping into the strange, hazy state that my corrections always seemed to bring on.
My mind, set free now from the alarm, drifted further, recalling how the punishment had shifted, as it always did when Jorg wielded the strap, into something else entirely. As the sting of the strap had faded to a dull throb, I had become acutely aware of Jorg’s presence behind me. The air, heavy with the scent of leather and sweat and arousal, carried the too-familiar charge of my masters’ seemingly ever-present need to take their pleasure inside their fuck toy’s body.
I had heard the soft clink of a belt buckle, the rustle of fabric, and then I had felt the heat of Jorg’s body as he stepped closer. His rough hand had trailed down my spine, sending shivers through my body despite the lingering pain. When he had reached the curve of my bottom, he paused, squeezing firmly.
“You need to learn your place,” he murmured, his voice low and dangerous. “Perhaps this will drive the lesson home.”
There was a brief moment of coolness as he moved away, followed by the distinctive snap of a cap being opened. My breath had caught in my throat as I realized what was coming. Part of me wanted to protest, to beg for mercy, but I had known it would only make things worse. So I had remained silent, trembling slightly as I heard the wet sound of Jorg coating his fingers with lubricant.
When his slick digit had pressed against my most intimate place, I couldn’t help but gasp. He had circled slowly, almost teasingly, before pushing inside. The stretch had burned, my body instinctively trying to resist the intrusion. Jorg’s other hand had gripped my hip, holding me steady as he worked his finger deeper.
“This is what you get, girl. Take it,” he had commanded, though there was a hint of amusement in his tone. He had known how difficult it was, how powerless I felt in that moment.
Gradually, my body had begun to yield to his insistent probing. One finger had become two, stretching and preparing me for what was to come. I had bitten my lip, trying to stifle the small sounds of discomfort and unwanted pleasure that threatened to escape.
Just when I thought I couldn’t take any more, Jorg had withdrawn his fingers. A pause had ensued, filled only by the sound of our ragged breathing and the distant hum of the ship’s engines. Then I had felt the blunt pressure of something much larger pressing against my entrance.
“Remember this,” Jorg had growled. “Remember your place.”
The pressure had felt intense, painful despite the preparation. I had gripped the edges of the bench, my knuckles turning white as I fought to remain still. Jorg hadn’t rushed. He had obviously wanted me to think about that shameful pressure.
Then the battle stations alert had started to sound.
The comfort room, where the ship’s three deck officers used me, lay just off the ward room—the officers’ lounge and mess. On the other side of the ward room lay the bridge. The comfort room had no viewport, of course; the ship’s concubine must never risk distraction when pleasuring her starfleet masters, and when they were engaged in using her they had no need to cast their hungry eyes on anything other than her bound, naked body, provided to them for their solace in the depths of outer space. So I had no idea what was going on outside the ship except from what I could hear in the increasingly agitated noises coming from the bridge.
No door separated the comfort room from the ward room. The Conqueror of Bresla’s officers frequently left me bound to the pleasure bench as they ate, commenting from time to time on the attractions of my punished backside, my visible, hairless cunny, or my exposed bottom hole. The door from the ward room to the bridge, though, was usually closed—automatically so, like all the doors on the ship. It had not closed, however, after Lieutenant Jorg had left. That meant I could hear the officers shouting at each other and screaming requests for other ships’ assistance into their comm panels.
It also meant that things had gotten bad: the Conqueror of Bresla only disabled the automatic doors when the ship’s computer sensed that evacuation to the rescue pods might be necessary. It had never happened before, in the year I’d been assigned to the Conqueror.