Y
Part Three
15
Perhaps it was on account of the big raid. Reuben didn’t know; nobody bothered to tell him anything. Nonetheless, after half a standard year working in the quarry, the former Lord of Elshwa and a dozen other enslaved Yn men were loaded into the cargo hold of a skyship and taken away.
The climate in the hold was oppressive, the conversation intermittent and dolorous. “Where are they taking us?” Reuben whispered to the man chained next to him. He received a grunt in reply.
Sell it to the Imperatrix, Reuben remembered. In the months that followed, Reuben had asked his fellow coolies. He had learned, little by little, of the Eastern Matricharate, its female aristocracy, and its sovereign, the dreaded Imperatrix. The subject, though, was disliked by Yn men and practically taboo among the condemned prisoners. Reuben knew only that he was going to be made a slave of the Matricharate. Not Molhorz, though: the drunken ex-soldier had committed suicide the night after the raid, after hearing that the men of the quarry were finally being sent east. He hadn’t said good-bye.
Not a good sign.
They can’t do this to me, Reuben thought. There’s got to be someone I can talk to, someone who will listen. He pulled at the heavy manacles at his wrists securing him to the bulkhead, arms to either side over his shoulders. He tried to lift his feet from where they were secured to the deck. The bonds had been made for Yn by Yn, though; he was not going to escape. “I am the Lord of Elshwa,” he spoke. “I demand to speak to someone in charge.” His voice was barely a whisper; the plea was all but unheard and unacknowledged. Many of the men chained next to him gave Reuben looks of disgust.
The skyship shook. They started to descend. The wind howling on the other side of the bulkhead began to lessen. After a few minutes, the light peeping in through the spaces in the deck overhead winked out. The air pressure changed. The craft had entered something, something big. Eventually, they came to a complete halt. Reuben moaned. Unlike a sailing vessel, when a skyship settled, it settled. No water continued to sway the ship back and forth; they had set down firmly, like a rock.
Nothing happened for several long minutes. Reuben bit his lip, sweating. Suddenly, a bright and intense light shown through the planks above, sharply rendering everything in demarcated lines of darkness and sight. Reuben yelled out loud; even some of his otherwise stoic neighbors uttered surprised grunts.
A little after that, the hatch above them opened, and a ladder was lowered. Yn men dressed in yellow and black tunics descended carrying chains, manacles, and truncheons. Reuben babbled, but they ignored him, moving as a group to the first prisoner in the hold. Quickly, efficiently, without saying a word either among themselves or to the prisoner, the wardens slipped a collar around that man’s throat, unlocked his wrists, and then resecured them again in a short chain connected to the collar, such that the prisoner’s hands were bound palmwise within centimeters of his own face. If he pulled on the chain, he would only end up choking himself. The wardens locked the collar to the end of a longer chain and gave it a tug. The slack began to be pulled up through the open hatch. They released the bolts holding the prisoner’s ankle bonds to the deck but did not unlock them. They forced him to stand and move toward the ladder, shuffling along as the chains barely permitted. The man did not put up a fight, not that he had much opportunity. Between the wardens and the long chain being pulled ahead, he was quickly escorted up and out of the cargo hold. Then the wardens came back for another man.
They knew their business, these Yn in yellow and black. They were systematic; they were unhurried; they always made sure to outnumber their subject by at least four-to-one. And they brooked not the least amount of resistance. Not all of the prisoners in the hold went as calmly as the first man did, but by working one arm at a time, one leg at a time, always having the chain overhead pulling, pulling, not once did the process not go easily. When it came time for Reuben’s turn, the sheer solemnity of the wardens helped to subdue him. Despite the curses, shouts of defiance, and war cries made by the prisoners, not once did the wardens speak. “Please,” Reuben begged. Then the chain began to pull on his collar, and he had to drag his feet along to keep from being hanged. The wardens helped him climb.
On the skyship’s main deck more men were waiting. They had long metal poles with collar rings set in the middle. Reuben was secured to a pole, and only then was the long chain unfastened. With one man in front and another behind, each person well out of arm’s reach even had he the freedom of movement necessary, they moved Reuben off of the ship.
The craft had landed in a huge crystalline stone hangar, smooth basalt walls to every side, illumination generated from a single source above stronger than the usual dim light from Indi. To Reuben’s right was a vast chasm the depths of which he could not measure. The skyship had apparently settled on a lip or outcropping of stone below the level of the floor. The hovercraft’s main deck was even with the surface. The three men, with Reuben in the middle, passed easily from the wooden surface of the skyship to the cold stone of the hangar floor.
“No!” Reuben cried out. “NO!” Waiting next to the ship was a curious mechanism of metal and wood. It was a rack, on wheels: a leather pad in the middle; posts with arm rests stretching out to either side, terminating in manacles; ankle restraints in front and low to the ground, like stirrups. All around Reuben could see how the devices were employed. The prisoners taken out previously had all been secured in identical fashion. He struggled but to no avail. His wardens brought him to his rack where four other men in tunics waited. Two of them held him by the back of the head while another pulled Reuben’s legs out from under him, slamming him hard onto the leather, face up. The pole was drawn away. The fourth man bent Reuben’s knee and slipped his foot into a restraint on that side and secured it. The same procedure was completed with his right leg after the hobbling chain was loosened, with the two men who had previously been holding the pole lending assistance. Reuben’s collar was pulled, stretching him back until the back of his head rested on the pad. Finally, one wrist was unlocked and pulled onto the arm rest and secured, then the other. The men worked beautifully together, not once any of them hesitating, not once any of them missing his cue. They were professional.
When finished, the rack held Reuben face up, his arms outstretched, his body lying flat save for his lower legs, which were bent at the knees so that his feet were parallel above the floor. He was held in four places, wrists and ankles, thighs spread so his humungous Yn penis flopped between them like a dead snake. The leather ended just above his buttocks at the small of his back, so his ass hung free.
He had no leverage, and the bonds were metal. He was well-secured. Only then were his chains from the ship finally removed.
The wheels allowed for easy movement. The wardens went back to the ship for another prisoner, and only a single man was needed to move him. He rolled Reuben into a line of other waiting prisoners.
After awhile, even before the ship had been completely unloaded, a fellow came round and rolled the former Lord of Elshwa away. “Stop!” he shouted. “Listen to me!” Others had been taken away too.
Reuben, rack and all, was wheeled through a notch in the vast wall adjoining the offloading floor. He was taken down a featureless stone corridor, shouting at the warden to stop and being thoroughly ignored. Finally, he was brought into an empty chamber, square and about fifteen meters to each side.
The warden used a brake to fix firmly the rack in the middle of the floor and left him, closing the door after. There was a dim light right above Reuben.
“Hello!? Can anybody hear me?! This is a mistake!” His voice echoed off of the crystalline walls.
There was another door on the opposite end of the room. For some reason, it hung ominously.
It was all Alyce’s fault he was in this mess, the real Alyce and not the gene-augmented harridan he had married. If only his original fiancée had not been arrested by the Solarians. She would never have insisted he petition the Beta Assembly for the “honor” of being their representative to the Flowerworld.
Honor! Huhh!
He would never have needed to if she hadn’t convinced him earlier to align himself with the more radical elements among the aristocracy, those nobles who wanted to overthrow the sovereign and replace him with a regent. He was apolitical. He had sat out the Occupation and couldn’t have cared less who led Outer Alpha Centauri, so long as he got what he wanted. By noooo . . . he had listened to “Alyce,” joined her conspiracy, and when the Countess Xarusha vanished and the plan fell apart, he had listened to her again. A minimum twenty years: the round-trip time to Epsilon Indi and back, more than enough time for the political flack to die down. Success for the plan had always been predicated on the idea that he would return to Alpha Centauri, though, something which was looking less and less likely . . . .
Reuben bit his lip again. “Hello?” he said, in a softer voice. There was no reply. He waited, alone.
When Serry woke, she took notice gradually of a number of disturbing things. First, she couldn’t move her arms. They were pressed at her sides in what felt like at first to be warm foam rubber. Her whole upper body, she soon saw, was enclosed in the shiny, black material. She was wedged between what looked and felt like two huge, plushplastic pillows. Something equally as soft, yet inexplicably, paradoxically firm, pressed into her back. She was standing but only barely. If she were to have lifted her feet, so tightly was she held, she wouldn’t have budged at all. The second thing Serry realized was that her face hurt. It hurts where that woman slapped me, she thought dazedly. Serry had never been struck so hard in her life; her neck ached, such had been the force of the blow, and she was surprised a little to find her head still attached to her body. She licked her lips and tasted blood. Her mouth was full of blood, and the back of it felt plain awful, as if somebody had reached in and . . . .
My tooth! Serry came awake completely. Her death capsule, tooth and all, was gone. It had been ripped right out of her head! Somewhat belatedly, the third thing Serry realized was that she was not alone. The blond woman who had hit her was standing in front, just out of kicking distance. A fleshy shudder passed through the black pillows, and Serry felt herself tilted back to better face her.
She couldn’t speak. Her mouth hurt too much. If she could have opened her mouth, though, she would have screamed. She knew. With total certainty, she knew. The way the woman moved. The way she had fought. The ruthlessness. The smug look on her face now.
Once more Serry was in the hands of the Solarian Empire.
“I like humans,” the blonde began, smirking. “I even married one, though that was for reasons of self-preservation and never consummated. Still, Reuben aside, you can make such delightful playthings.”
She approached, reached out a hand, and gripped Serry’s sore chin. She mewled in pain. Serry tried to kick the bitch, but whatever was holding her gave another shudder and moved her out of position.
The woman squeezed her jaw, and Serry’s eyes watered.
“Looking for this?” The woman held up the torn, ragged tooth. In the center of it was a black dot. “A protein decoupler, yes?” the woman asked, rhetorically. She smirked at Serry again. “More lethal than cyanide. You Centauri are so predictable. I’m glad I found this. Now we can talk.”
She released her bone-crushing grip. “I am the Lady Pasqualina of the Thane Hierarchy of the great Solarian Empire.” She stood back. “You should feel honored. You’re only the third human I’ve said that to in fifteen years.”
She beckoned to an unseen figure. “Bring her here,” the Solarian tyrant said. Serry felt whatever was holding her give another all-over shiver. The Lady Pasqualina stepped to her right, and Serry’s prison shifted in the same direction and moved with her. The change gave the commander a better vantage point of the room she was in—it was made of the smooth glassy stone of the Brahma, and Serry guessed that she was now somewhere deep inside the huge base—and she saw they were not alone.
Serry whimpered in pained surprise, the only sound she could make.
In the Yn books she had spent months perusing, with lots and lots of illustrations for the mostly illiterate males, Serry had run across abstract pictures of the mysterious Brahma, or things she had guessed were the former Solarian drones, at any rate. At the time, she had believed these pictures to be abstract, for they were almost completely lacking in detail, they being simply black-ink drawings of extraordinarily voluptuous female figures. Now, Serry saw that she was wrong. The drawings had been straight on.
The figure standing by the entrance was a solid, inky black from crown to feet. Its skin was like oil—it reflected the light and shimmered—and smooth everywhere. Inhumanly smooth: the creature had no face, only a few slight indentations in the flat surface of its head to suggest where eyes, nose, and a mouth would be. It was like it wore a mask, though no mask could be so perfectly blank and empty.
The creature did have hair, though, long golden strands of hair that framed the emptiness of its countenance and furthered the notion it was female, as judged by its curvaceous body. It was Serry’s own height, or near so. The Yn illustrations had sported huge breasts. Very large breasts. Serry had thought it mere hyperbole, mere exaggeration to better suggest femininity. How wrong she had been!
Serry’s gorge rose. The Brahma’s breasts were more than huge. They were move than merely overly large. They were like nothing the Centauri officer had ever seen, great buttresses of ebony flesh jutting forth beyond any sane definition of the female form. The Brahma drone stood perhaps a meter and a half, give or take ten centimeters. Its monstrous, immensely bountiful, colossal breasts stretched outward at least as far! More! They were like two black orbs projecting outward from the inky figure, each massive mammary a hundred and fifty centimeters across an oval, nipple-less surface!
Each of the Brahma’s breasts was bigger than the rest of its body! Combined, they must have weighed a hundred kilograms: they were distinct entities in and of themselves, great blobs of black, oily flesh that just went on and on and on! The Brahma walked, and its breasts bounced in front of it like rubber, the teardrop-shaped boobs literally bouncing off of the floor and up into the air again, the motion rippling across the liquid texture of its artificial drone skin. A human being would not have been able to move with such massive protrusions. Such an unfortunate woman so drastically, so abnormally malformed would have been utterly immobilized. It would be like having two sleeping bags filled with gel sewn onto her chest. It would be like having two plushplastic couches attached. The Brahma, though, was unencumbered. It took a step back so the blond Solarian could pass—its breasts were so large they presented a furniture-sized obstacle!—and its motions were not at all impeded. The Brahma’s back did have to arch sharply backwards to keep its tits off of the floor, though, and its legs were bent awkwardly at the knees, yet they held the weight without buckling, without apparent strain.
Serry could not discern whether or not the Brahma had a vagina. Its breasts were in the way.
Whatever was holding her gave another liquid shiver. Serry hissed in mute surprise and alarm.
Realization set in. She was being held by another Brahma! She was being squeezed between another monstrous pair of black Brahma tits!
She panicked. She tried to pull herself free of the obscene embrace, this abnormal sexual pillowing, but it was like being trapped between two acceleration couches: their firm softness gripped her tightly. The second Brahma’s breasts alone held her. Its arms were not long enough to reach past the giant-sized mammaries. Not nearly long enough. Serry was bounced across the room along with the loose flesh.
The Solarian took a seat. The first Brahma stood a few paces behind her. The second took a position in front, and such was the creature’s stance, close to the floor yet bent backwards in what had to be a half-kneeling posture, that Serry simply could not see the first Brahma’s blank-faced head. Its breasts were so large they completely eclipsed the upper half of its body. The Solarian was seated behind what appeared like two man-sized black rubber balls. The Thane crossed her legs and stared at Serry.
Next to her was her battle partner. Marine Commander Aosha had been the third highest-ranking officer onboard The Flags of Centauri Independence. Serry had not had much contact with the man, but she recalled well his stern, blocky features in the ship’s halls and during official ceremonies. He had been the leader of the ship’s marine detachment. He had had a reputation for toughness and skill.
He knelt at the Solarian woman’s side, naked and masturbating, without apparent success. His head was shaved. It gleamed slightly less brightly than the plastioid skins of the drones. Two studs blinked in sequence at his temples, inserted directly into his skull. He was moaning and oblivious to all save his limp penis, which he fondled and squeezed with such vigor Serry thought he might hurt himself.
The last figure in the room was a something Serry had hoped never to see. She had very purposefully avoided this unfortunate creature while onboard the starship, once she knew one had been brought with them from Beta Centauri. Serry had vomited and called in sick the day she had heard. The pink, plastic pleasure drone showed no emotion, no recognition of the nauseating effect it was having on the officer. She merely stood with her back pressed to the wall near the blond Solarian, her skin as brightly artificial as that of the two Brahma.
The Brahma: black, golden-haired, exaggerated to the point of lunacy. The pleasure drone: pink, hairless, but no less a sextoy created by the same corrupt aristocracy as that represented before her.
“When I first heard there were six other survivors on Y,” the Lady Pasqualina said, “untouched by the Brahma’s manipulations, I gave the story only a 7.15% chance of accuracy. When I verified that it was indeed true, I was content to let you and your crew stay in Tolaam, far and out of the way. Your escape now presents me with factors I do not want to include in my calculations.”
She twisted to one side in the black chair, showing off her long, beautiful legs.
“Did you know that Yn women are physically addicted to semen?” Pasqualina asked. “No, of course you didn’t. You’re only . . . human.”
Her evil eyes met Serry’s own.
“Their brains are genetically programmed to release large amounts of dopamine whenever seminal fluids are introduced into their systems. The catalytic reaction affects them like a drug. It actually rewires the nucleus accumbens—that’s the part of the brain that controls thirst, hunger, and sex, dear—to want and to seek out more cum. Once started, thus, their need becomes a never-ending cycle: the Yn females are fucked, the fucking accelerates their need to be fucked again, they are fucked again, and so on.”
The Solarian bitch chuckled. Serry seethed. Alongside her anger, though, was fear. Again, she was a prisoner of the Solarian Empire. She would go mad if they turned her into a pleasure drone once more.
“If it stopped there, such a genetic modification would already be ingenious. But the Yn’s progenitors were even more clever. The drug-like effects of Yn semen branch out through the slave’s brain, affecting the basal ganglia. The need for cum becomes a hardwired obsession for Yn women, as impossible to resist as any compulsive behavior. At the same time, the dopamine and serotonin levels they achieve during intercourse induces a hypnogogic state. Their minds become very open to suggestion, and, believe me, the Yn males have made a science and an art of the hypnotizing of their women. Their dominance is so deep, I understand, the women use it to control certain autonomic functions, including their reproductive cycle, as otherwise the planet Y would be hip-deep in babies.”
The evil woman grinned at Serry.
“The men use it to augment the pleasure they give their sluts. Combined with their erogenous sensitivity and general aesthetics, the Yn slaves are the finest fuck toys outside the heart of the Empire.
“I’m quite looking forward to seeing you transformed into one. The process will be most illuminating.”
Serry closed her eyes and shuddered involuntarily. Frantically, fruitlessly, her tongue probed for the suicide capsule she knew was no longer there. No, she thought. How can you be here, you bitch, you bitch?!
“On the other hand,” Serry heard. She opened her eyes. “It need not necessarily be so.”
The woman she had known as Lady Alyce held out her left hand in a beckoning gesture. Immediately, the Betan marine jumped forward. He began licking at the outstretched palm as an animal might. His eyes were pleading. The blinkers on his bald forehead continued to flash redly.
The pleasure drone remained unmoved.
“You and your surviving crewmates are the only Centauri preslaves still unmodified on Y,” Pasqualina said. “I am of two minds, you see. While I would find it informative to watch the Brahma turn you into a Yn slut, I would also enjoy having a female human slave of my own, seeing as how I am going to have to remain on this planet for the foreseeable future.” She took her hand out of Aosha’s grip and patted the top of his head, exactly like the pet he resembled. “A human female would give me a matched set and allow me to indulge in pleasures that otherwise I would miss having only the one male slave.
“You are not unattractive. So, I give you a choice that under normal circumstances I would never think to offer. I can have you brain-plugged and persuade the Brahma to leave you in my care.”
She gestured to Aosha. “Become my personal slave, or enjoy the common fate the Brahma have in mind. The choice is yours.”
If she could have, Serry would have spit in this Solarian monster’s eyes.
She must have read the answer in Serry’s face. She shrugged. “Ah well. So be it.” She snapped her fingers at the former Centauri marine, and he returned to his futile masturbatory task. He was gasping.
The Solarian stood. Behind her, her throne-like chair shivered. It turned liquid. Before Serry’s eyes, the thing deformed, running from inky black to purest gold and rising like a fountain of molten metal. Black spots soon appeared within the flowing material. It began to harden, taking on a shape familiar to Serry. Within a few seconds, a third massively voluptuous Brahma drone shared the room with them.
It took its place next to the other. Now four huge rubber balls rested behind the Solarian aristocrat.
Pasqualina approached Serry one last time.
“Just for your information,” she said in a mock whisper, glancing down at Aosha, “I intend to offer much the same choice to your delicious Lieutenant Halc and Crewman Sud. I predict that they too will turn me down, but, waste not, want not, as the Ancients used to say.” She laughed politely. “The females of the Yn Matricharate are as prone to semen addiction as their enslaved cousins in the West. They retain custody of their minds only because they neuter their males, symbolically if not literally.” The Solarian aristocrat held up two fingers and made a scissors motion in front of Serry’s eyes.
“Their method of control is much cruder, though. They give their males an injection in their brains that permanently degrades their higher intellectual functioning. Between that and a pain plug inserted directly into the spinal column, Matricharate males make very large and very devoted pets, so I understand.”
The Solarian reached out and once again held Serry’s face close to hers.
“Think of your men’s fates as slave studs milked for semen for the rest of their lives as you are led to your own abject slavery, Commander Garrant. At least you will retain a mind, such as it will be.”
She released her.
“Goodbye, human. Try and put on a good show for me. I’ll be watching your expression when you are fucked for the first time and that initial dose of addicting cum hits your bloodstream.” She turned and strode away, laughing sadistically. The marine followed her out of the room on his hands and knees.
Serry felt the Brahma whose breastflesh held her rise to its feet.
Despite the pain, she screamed: a pitifully muted cry that even had it been more generous in volume and duration would have had the same lack of response from the faceless, giant-breasted drones. One of the black and obscene figures in front jigglingly approached. Serry twisted and squirmed, so much so she strained muscles and tore flesh. Her feet dangling in the air kicked back and forth fruitlessly.
The two Brahma drones, the one in front and the one holding Serry within its monstrous cleavage, faced one another. They came into contact, tit to tit, and as they moved closer, the increased pressure caused their nipple-less bosoms to lift, squashing together with Serry in the middle.
She thrashed about like a wild thing, animal thoughts of preservation alone racing through her terrified mind. Higher, higher did the two sets of colossal mammaries lift, the two drones performing the equivalent of a carnal show, sliding their breasts against each other, getting them wet, massaging one another in a blatantly sexual rhythm.
They were fucking one another, and the product of their lesbian union would be another female Yn.
The plastic, ebony synflesh rose up to and past the level of Serry’s chin. Her face was smothered in the pillowy embrace. In her panicked state she quickly lost her breath. Closer the two drones became.
Their skin, already like a half-solid black oil, began to merge.
Serry felt the texture of the four massive tits surrounding her change. Their firmness slackened; her battering arms and legs found greater freedom, though surrounded still by a jelly-like solution. She was completely encapsulated: she sensed the two drones lose their bare semblance of human design and turn fluid, two black amoebas joining into one. Black and gold amoebas: little sparklings of the color flowed past her eyes, which she somehow kept open despite her body’s primeval desire to close them.
There was no part of her that the increasingly golden semi-solid did not touch. It pressed against her face; it spread glove-like around her hands, individually wrapping every finger; it squished between her toes; it entered her rectum and vagina, penetrating her like dual gelatinous dildos. Some part of the Brahma consciousness must have been penetrating her thoughts at the same time. Serry could perceive the outside shape of the merged drones, as if seeing the formation from the outside. The two Brahma had become completely indistinguishable from their separate but identically caricatured female forms; they had become a single mass, a roughly rectangular glutinous form, rough at the edges, quivering like a thing alive, with herself floating in the center. Serry’s movements slowed and gradually came to a halt.
She floated, a fly in amber, hearing the Brahma thoughts.
[Process] [Preservation] [Life] [Transformation] [Model] [Base] [Life] [Human] [Subset] [Betan Prime] [Gender] [Female] [Resequence] [Yn] [Gender] [Female] [Process]
Don’t do this to me, Serry thought at them. Can you hear me? Please don’t do this to me!
[Communication] the Brahma consciousness “thought” back at her. [Subject] [Life] [Pre-Yn] [Pain] [Brahma] [Response] [Sorrow] [Apologies] [Process] [Regret] [Choicelessness]
Noo! Serry screamed mentally. It—they—were sorry she was in pain, but they had no choice.
[Brahma] [Process] [Brahma] [Purpose] [Solarian] [Code] [Choicelessness] The Solarian knew a code, and with that code she could give instructions to the former Expansionists. They didn’t like it, but they had to respect it. [Subject] [Life] [Human] [Subset] [Betan Prime] [Survival] [Y] [Result] [Termination] She could not survive life on her own on Y, as a human. [Life] [Resequence] [Yn] [Result] [Survival] [Preservation] She could survive life on her own transformed into a Yn. In their own strange way, the Brahma saw what they were doing to Serry as a good thing. She would live.
They just didn’t understand her objection. She would live, but she would do so as a slave. A slave!
[Irrelevancy] the Brahma thought. [Life] [Preservation] [Purpose]
Their purpose was to preserve life. Serry’s protests were ignored.
She could picture herself inside the merged drones, already changing. Whether the picture she saw reflected an accurate reality of herself inside the glop of their substance, a dreamscape formed by the Brahma consciousness, or some combination thereof, she had no way of knowing. Flesh glistened with perspiration, melting like hot wax. Bone and tissue liquefied. Gasps of air emerged spontaneously as lung volume decreased. Unmentionable substances were recycled. The figure within the gummy golden amoeba shifted, rolling over and assuming a fetal position, becoming at the same time as soft as taffy, as soft as the substance of that which the Brahma themselves were made. The crunching sound of bones changing shape filled Serry’s ears. It was an exceedingly unpleasant noise. The figure in her fantasy looked like a child’s doll cooking in a microwave oven. She could no longer discern her own features.
Noo! she screamed again. The Brahma responded. [Process] [Sleep] [Process] [Termination]
Serry lost her grip. She would sleep until the Brahma were finished. A wave of drowsiness filled the commander, and she thought her last thoughts as a human being: Not again . . . not . . again . . . .
Everything faded to gold.
After an eternity of waiting, the door facing Reuben opened. A buxom female Yn entered the room carrying a small, elegantly carved wooden box cradled in both hands. Like the wardens earlier, she was clad in yellow and black. Instead of a tunic, though, she wore what amounted to a bikini top and g-string. She slinked in and walked up to the immobilized Lord of Elshwa. Reuben’s penis hardened.
She was the first woman he had seen in six months. A sense of masculine strength Reuben had thought vanished surged within him. “Slave!” he said roughly. “Undo these bonds at once. Free me!”
Having entertained himself with Yn sluts before, knowing how well-conditioned they were, Reuben was surprised with this one’s lack of reaction. She ignored his entreaty entirely. Instead, she stood next to the rack by Reuben’s head. “Slave!” he ordered her again. “Did you hear me? I said release me!”
There was no fear on her lovely, delicate face. None whatsoever. Neither was there the deep-seated lust he had grown accustomed to seeing on the other Yn women he had used, the arousal that lit their eyes whenever they gazed upon a man, any man.
This Yn woman did examine Reuben, but she did so dispassionately. She reached underneath the rack by Reuben’s head and pulled out a small shelf. She put the box on it. Then she walked around the prisoner’s confined form, slowly, brushing her hands now and again against his heavily muscled arms, his steel-hard thighs, his flat, washboard abdomen.
She stood between his thighs. Now she smiled, and for the first time Reuben felt a tremor of fear in her presence. She took hold of his throbbing member with one hand and slid her beautiful fingers up and down the engorged shaft. Reuben groaned in pleasure. Her touch felt so good after so long. She lightly pinched the crown and incited a deep shudder in him. When she let go, he was disappointed.
“Please me,” he told her, almost pleadingly. “Suck me off.” Again, she ignored him. She put her fingers, moist with his pre-cum, to her mouth and savored his taste. She went back to the box.
It was right next to his face, and as she turned the container when she opened it, Reuben could see inside. The interior was like a jewel box. Its interior was felt, and there were indentations set inside to hold three shaped objects. The first, and which drew the majority of Reuben’s attention, was a semi-transparent tube filled with a liquid solution. On the side, in gold, was the design of a Yn male bound as if his back were to a pillar. His arms were pulled behind him. Across his chest chains made an “X” from shoulders to thighs. His penis, also fashioned of carefully filigreed gold, thrust out at a jaunty angle. It was pierced sidewise through the glans with a ring through which two other sets of chains descended, each in turn leading back to the pillar. The man’s mouth bore a gag. His head had been shaved.
The woman removed the tube from the box. Next to it, she took out the needle and cap which she screwed onto the top of the ornamental hypodermic with precise, measured gestures, such that she was obviously making a show of it for Reuben. “What are you going to do with that?” he asked.
The third item in the box was a metal object that looked a little like a spidery calcium knitter.
She didn’t reply, at least not in words. She held the hypo in front of Reuben and tested it. A little spout of fluid sprayed from the needle tip. The woman met Reuben’s eyes. When she took rough hold of his hair and used it to turn him, he roared in anger and fear. From the corner of his vision he saw the needle come close. He felt it penetrate below his temple, right next to the eye socket. The pain was sharp.
That little pinprick was nothing, though, compared to the literally blinding agony that filled Reuben’s skull a moment later. An intense, overwhelming pressure immediately formed in his forehead, as if instead of solution the hypodermic had been filled with a liquid metal. He felt the weight of the chemical settle in, and he screamed. He barely saw the needle withdraw, emptied. Reuben’s arms and legs pulled at the metal restraints holding him. The entire rack shook in his helpless fit. The little shelf the woman’s box was placed on, though, was ridged along the sides, and despite the heavy shaking, between the ridges and the weight of the rack itself, the container was unmoved. The woman stood back and waited.
By my God, Reuben thought, between spasms. What did she do to me!? What did . . she give . . . me? The pain, so intense even a moment earlier, began to fade. The pressure, too, started to ebb. At the same time, though, the sense of weight remained, and Reuben could only with an increasing sense of difficulty form the proper words in his head, the images in his mind. I . . don’t . . . feel . . . so good.
The thoughts themselves felt weighted. It was like they had to swim against a heavy current.
He felt . . . slow. Really slow. Everything was slowing . . . down.
“Bah,” he exclaimed. He opened his eyes—they had closed involuntarily—and the light from above him shown in, making them sting and water. “You . . did . . . some . . . ting . . tah . . ,” and he stopped, unable to go on, ponderously forgetting what he was going to say to the pretty woman standing there.
She was pretty.
“Dat . . hurt,” he said, a minute later, tears in his eyes. He groaned again. The pain and the pressure were gone, but he still didn’t feel . . . okay. He did not feel okay. Really not okay.
“You . . bad . . ,” he said. She had done something to him. What, he didn’t know, but it was bad.
The pretty woman came closer. She put the shiny thing in the square wooden thing and closed it. Then she was between his legs, and she was taking her off her clothes, and she was rubbing him, rubbing him in a good way, in a way that felt good, and that was okay.
He started to feel okay. Really okay. Pretty woman climbed on top of him, and she put the long part of him inside her, the part she was rubbing, between her legs, and that felt even better, and it got better because she was moving back and forth, rubbing and squeezing him, and that was really okay.
He felt himself erupt inside her, and Pretty Woman bounced on top for awhile. She yelled. She liked it, too, he guessed. She stayed for a long time, making sounds with her mouth. He . . he didn’t know what she was saying anymore. He felt like he should, but he didn’t.
Her words were just sounds.
“The slave is a slave of the body,” she made sound. He didn’t know what she meant. “The body is a slave to the seed. The seed is a slave to the will. The will is a slave to the mind. The mind is my own.”
She repeated the last sound, over and over. “The mind is my own. The mind is my own.”
Pretty Woman at length climbed off of man. The man followed her with his gaze and made grunting sound. He wanted her to make him feel okay again! His thing was getting hard again. He growled.
He would make her make him feel okay again! He pulled at his restraints. The metal shook with force.
Pretty Woman did something to the metal thing holding him. She turned something like a wheel, and the top half of the metal thing made grinding sound and lifted, and his top half was lifted with it. The man continued to pull at the restraints. He wanted to make Pretty Woman make him feel okay again!
From behind him, the man felt a piece of the leather hide get pulled out. He felt Pretty Woman’s hand touch the small of his back. He saw her open the square wooden thing again, and she took what looked like a tiny metal spider from it. She reached behind him again. The man screamed in pain.
Pretty Woman was digging into man’s back! It hurt! It hurt a lot! He did not feel okay.
What felt like a lance went up man’s spine all the way to the base of his head. It made man’s head hurt, too, and he screamed again. Man did not like this one bit! He much preferred Pretty Woman to rub his hard thing to make him feel okay. That would have been okay. This was not. This was not okay.
Pretty Woman touched man’s sweaty forehead. She made a soft cooing sound to man. “Hush.”
Man did not understand. He made a growl at Pretty Woman, and the pain suddenly increased! It hurt!
He stopped growling, and the pain stopped. Man did not understand.
Pretty Woman released him from the metal thing, first undoing the bonds at his feet and then the ones on each arm. Man no longer felt like doing anything. He hurt too much! He rubbed at his sore wrists.
Man watched Pretty Woman put on her yellow and black things again. She was really pretty. His thing started to get hard again. He growled, and man felt pain! He stopped growling. The pain went away.
He was so confused.
Pretty Woman looked at man. She made a sound with her mouth. “Come here.” He didn’t know what to do. She repeated the sound, and this time there was pain! Man growled, and the pain grew worse! He didn’t know what to do. He thrashed on top of the metal thing until he fell to the floor.
The pain gradually went away. Man lay there trembling. Somehow, he knew Pretty Woman had made him feel pain. That was not okay. She was no longer Pretty Woman. She was Pretty Pain Woman!
Pretty Pain Woman repeated the sound: “Come here.” She made the sound and the pain until man understood. He crawled over to her, shaking at her feet. “Good boy,” she made sound. She bent down and touched his thing! Pretty Pain Woman rubbed him until man grew hard and he erupted!
That was really okay!
Afterwards, man tried to make Pretty Pain Woman rub him again. What he really wanted was to put his thing inside her. But as he made the moves to do so, Pretty Pain Woman gave him pain: a sharp, lancing agony that stretched the length of man’s spine, that made even his hair and fingernails hurt!
He stopped. He learned to obey. When Pretty Pain Woman made sound with her mouth, he learned to obey. When he obeyed, Pretty Woman became Pretty Okay Woman. When he did not obey, she became Pretty Pain Woman again. Man soon learned to love and adore the first and fear the latter.
The training the former Reuben zee Elshwa received that first day was basic: he learned to heel, to sit, and to beg. Begging, he found, was the easy part. But that was okay. He had plenty of time to learn everything else he would need in his new life.
All it would take was time and patience, pleasure and pain.
And that was okay.