Y
18
One of the worst terror weapons employed during the Occupation was the Green Android.
These synthetic creations of the Solarians, which marched in morbid, emerald formation, each drone as perfectly blank-faced and identical as every other, forming row upon row of flawlessly matched ambulatory mannequins, generated hurtful microwave frequencies of a peculiar nature. They attacked their enemies through the mere expedient of walking up to them. Their microwaves impelled human flesh to disassociate. The very presence of the malevolent drones caused people to melt from the outside in, like ice cream cones left on a sunny day. Wherever the Green Androids went, pools of dissolved skin and bone were left behind in loathsome display, like masses of congealed cooking oil.
Theirs was a terrible memory for anyone to recall willingly, yet a comparison with the flesh-softening drones too well described her itching, crawling feeling, as if she actually were melting from the outside in, that Serry had had that first long night of her life as a Yn slavegirl.
She had been kindled. Her body’s addiction to semen had been stirred, and now she was bound to it.
She burned for cum. Serry knew why now the women of Y were red: an inferno raged inside them, only barely constrained by their soft skin. Serry was so hot she imagined she glowed in the dark!
She was in a state of actual pain as a result of her dire and humiliating need. She was sweaty. Her nipples were hard as chips and pulsing with her heartbeat. Her hair hung dank and listless. She was bloated. Her loins were tormentingly empty. Her thighs opened and closed spasmodically. She craved penetration. Her bones screamed as if ground-up glass filled them. Her limbs felt pulled and stretched beyond endurance. She was plagued with cramps. Her back ached. Her head hurt so badly it felt as if steel pokers had been shoved in her eyes. All this was nothing, though, compared to her need itself!
Serry wanted sex. She needed sex. Sex, to her, had become every bit a necessity as oxygen.
The absence was not a negative but a positive force within her. Her craving for sex was a dread weight upon her heart and mind, a weight that had grown heavier with every passing hour until it threatened to crush her soul.
Serry had tried masturbating, but that had only succeeded in making her desperate appetite for male contact worse. Masturbation for her had been like stirring the coals of an already existing fire, opening it to the air so as to stoke the flames higher. Worse, once having touched herself, it proved impossible to stop: to stop fingering herself, stop teasing herself, stop playing with her heavy breasts, pinching her nipples, even licking and kissing her own nipples, she could do that now, her tits were so hugely big!
She couldn’t stop caressing her clit, nor stroking it, nor pinching it. She couldn’t stop from squeezing her pussy around her fingers, imagining that it was a man inside her instead of her own increasingly damp fingers.
It had been hours since her gang-bang rape. She needed to climax again. She needed a man.
She needed to be fucked soon or she would die!
So enrapt was she in her agony, Serry almost failed to hear the footsteps outside her cell or the sound of the lock being turned.
The cell door opened, and a tall Yn male stood before Serry.
He was nude, and his erection was huge and throbbing and made the Centauri officer feel even more achy and tingly on the inside. But what she noticed most was the man’s age.
He was the first Yn Serry had seen who was old.
Every other Yn, male or female, had appeared to be in the prime of life. Yn children, she had learned from her reading, were kept in seclusion and rarely seen outside their father’s homes. While she had no knowledge of what happened to older Yn women, Serry had gathered very few Yn men ever reached a senior age, most succumbing to violence. That this man was noticeably elderly was almost as shocking as the sheer wave of desire Serry nonetheless felt to have him inside her.
Old he might have been, but still was he a man.
His hair had gone a blackish, dirty gray. He had tied it back in a business-like ponytail. His arms and legs, while remaining muscular, were noticeably thinner in contrast to other Yn men. They were still much larger than Serry’s soft and delicately feminine limbs, though.
The man’s skin, while crimson red, appeared dried out, like cured leather. For all that, his eyes were sharp. He closed the door after him and hunkered down in front of the chained Serry like a shaman.
“I am told,” he said, in a voice that was strangely kind, “that you do not want to be a slave.”
“I am Commander Serry Garrant of the . . .” He didn’t let her finish. He raised his hand in negation, and the strength just went out of Serry, leaving her unable to complete her declaration. It wasn’t some supernatural effect. It was simply the knowledge Serry suddenly had, gained from looking at the ancient’s face, that he was not at all interested. He couldn’t have cared less whom she had been.
In his eyes, she was only a nameless Yn female.
“This is what’s going to happen,” the senior Yn told Serry. “This is how you will be. I am going to work on your body, which has already been kindled, and arouse you to a state of ignition within which you will be unable to resist me. I shall then use you, and I will keep on using you until you have surrendered to me your will.” He shook his head; his eyes were still remarkably soft and pleasant.
“You will not be able to resist. You cannot resist. You are a slave.”
“You cannot make me a slave!”
“No,” the man said, agreeing with her and shocking Serry a second time. “I cannot. Nor do I have to, since you are already a slave.” He sounded so reasonable, so sure, Serry wanted to agree with him.
“No!” Serry drew herself as far from him as she could. The chains about her wrists rattled. She pushed her back against the wall. “That’s not true!” She sobbed and tried to control herself.
“You cannot deny the reality of your senses, slave,” the man said. “Look at yourself. Feel your heat. You were born to be a slave. You were born to please men. You want to please men.”
“No! No, shut up! Shut up!” He sounded so confident, so sure of himself and what she was. Serry put her hands over her ears to shut him out. She felt like a little kid. She would have tried humming next to block out his calm and reassuring voice, but that was when she felt his hands on her ankles.
He pulled her towards him. He pressed her back to the floor. Her arms were pulled up above her head by the chains.
“Pleasing men is your greatest desire,” he informed her. “Pleasing men makes you hot. You are a hot and needy slave. You need to be fucked.” His delivery of the recitation went uninterrupted by Serry’s attempted resistance to him, by either her shaking or her cursing, her kicking or her screaming.
The words sunk deep.
“You are a slave. You were born to be a slave. You were born to please men. You were born to please men with your body. Pleasing men is your greatest desire. Pleasing men makes you hot.”
The man leaned forward and knelt on his lower legs. He pushed up until Serry’s legs straddled him.
“You are a hot and needy slave.”
His monstrous cock, a good half meter in length, looking more like a third leg than a male member, brushed against Serry’s lower lips. The crude caress sent rivulets of pleasure coursing through her.
He penetrated Serry slowly, easing himself inside her, all the while as she struggled.
With both hands he held Serry’s waist. His thumbs stroked the top of her abdomen. He lifted her, sliding toward her hips. A moment later he raised his arms up her body again and repeated the motion, lifting and sliding. The massage, so expertly performed, made Serry’s body betray her. The officer opened to receive him. Her anguished and weak Yn genetics couldn’t not invite her own rape.
Serry’s legs, initially spread wide, closed round the man using her, crossing at the small of his back and pulling. Serry’s hands, bound by chains above her head, shook. He filled her. She moaned in terror.
The reason she was so afraid? It felt so good!
“You are a slave.”
“I am . . not . . a slave.” Serry was sweating profusely. Her head was pounding. Instinctively, she knew it would be so easy just to say it, to admit her slavery. The pain and the anguish would end.
She wanted to be made a slave. She wanted to cum!
“Pleasing men makes you hot. You are hot.” He was in fact making her hotter. With his humongous cock impaling her, the man kept stroking Serry’s lower body, her belly, and her hips. His fingers made circular patterns about her navel, extending outward. His thumbs pressed deeply onto her pubic bone.
He knew exactly where to touch a woman to elicit the most sensation.
Serry’s legs tightened further behind his back. “Please,” she begged. “I . . I need . . .” She grit her teeth. She had almost said it! No! she thought.
“You are a hot and needy slave. You need to be fucked. All slaves need to be fucked.”
“I won’t give in.”
“You desire to be a pleasing slave.” Not once had he raised his voice to her. He was perfectly calm.
Taking a firm hold of her hips, the man slowly slid out of Serry. His withdrawal was lingering. He let the commander regret every centimeter’s loss of his magnificent manhood. He hadn’t climaxed.
Neither had Serry. She grabbed her chains above her wrists. She pulled on them. She tightened her legs around her rapist, locking her calves around his hips. “No, God no!” She didn’t want him to go.
Vainly, she tried to keep him inside her. That huge piece of flesh of his felt so good, so absolutely right inside her. But she was weak, and she simply didn’t have the strength to prevent him.
Reaching down, the man grabbed Serry’s knees and parted her. He lifted her thighs into the air, leaning forward. His long red cock slid along the floor. The man adjusted his stance, slipped his hands down over Serry’s upturned legs, and put his mouth right above her pussy.
He breathed on her, a hot and heavy brush of air, and Serry suffered a powerful orgasm.
“Suffer” was the appropriate term. Instead of relieving even a little bit of her sexual arousal, her sharp climax only made her hotter.
She needed his cum! She needed it!
Bracing himself, straddling her, Serry’s legs high in the air and spread apart, the elder Yn crawled atop the transformed officer, planting delicate kisses and lingering caresses with his tongue as he went.
The former Betan’s soft and heaving body blazed with each new contact. Finally, holding her down partially with his legs and his own superior weight, the man lay fully atop Serry. Taking her huge breasts in hand, he lifted and kissed their plump undersides, working his way from one to the other, sliding his mouth between her enlarged bosom and nestling his face in her cleavage.
Serry could only moan in utter pleasure. Her eyes closed in unwilling, unwanted bliss.
An animal passion abruptly seized the commander. As he worked his way upward, and he was within reach of her mouth, she began kissing at him hungrily. She was desperate. She was past thinking.
The man’s tongue skimmed over the fantastic hills of Serry’s Yn-sized breasts. He put his mouth over each of her upturned nipples in turn, breathed on them, let the tip of his tongue rest on the tips, then kissed her deeply. He nuzzled the hollow of her throat, and Serry arched her back, wishing that her hands were free so that she could clutch the man’s hair in her hands and pull him closer.
She kissed him, over and over, tasting his sweat and enjoying the rough, leathery feel of his face on hers.
“You want to please men,” Serry’s rapist said softly, romantically, taking hold of her chin and tilting her ear towards his mouth. He delicately bit at the earlobe. “You want to please me. You need to serve.”
“I want to please men.”
There. She had said it. And at that moment she believed it.
Commander Serry Garrant wanted to please her master.
He pulled away from her, and she cried out. “No, please, don’t stop!” Serry immediately regretted saying it, as too she did the words spoken before. “I am . . not a slave,” she declared feebly.
How futile she sounded, even to her own ears.
Resuming his original stance between her spread thighs, the elder Yn once more let his dick sweep across Serry’s engorged labia. He took hold of her waist and lifted her onto him. He penetrated.
Serry’s head fell back on her neck, dangling loosely in the air as her whole body was lifted. She couldn’t go on resisting. She was weak. She was female. She was a slave.
“Yes! Oh, yes!” she exclaimed as her rapist used her once more. She felt him squirt inside her, felt the enormous joyous pressure of his bodily fluids jetting within her womb. This was what she had needed.
“Oh, God, no! Yes! Yes!”
She climaxed. “Ohhh, ah, ah, Ah, Ai! Aiiiarrarrrrggggh!!!” The ecstasy sucked her down into it.
“You are a slave.”
“I am a slave.” She said the words. At that moment, the words were all that she had to hold onto.
“You were born to be a slave.”
“I was born to be a slave.” It was like a key fitting into a lock. The admission opened doors of relief within Serry. The ache vanished. The strain eased at once. She no longer needed—wanted!—to fight.
For a moment, she didn’t even understand that she could fight. The powerful, overwhelming intensity of her long-delayed Yn orgasm simultaneously frightened and thrilled her. Her joyous climax was an event of total, absolute femininity, a deeper and more profound perception of femininity than Serry had ever suspected could exist, let alone experience firsthand. Passion, emotion, a wealth of newfound sensation and self-awareness: all was unlocked and came pouring out of the deepest recesses of her heart, a torrid flow that drowned Serry’s previous sense of herself as a free person. She was a woman, and a man was finally using her as a woman should be used. She was being made a true and complete woman for the first time in her life through her total and abject use. Her rape was her fulfillment. Her powerlessness beneath his greater masculine strength was her birthright, her purpose, her release, and her pleasure. It was frightening. Serry realized she was a slave. She was property. She was a man’s property, his to do with as he willed, and she had no say in the matter whatsoever, and more, it was right that she should have no say, she rightfully belonged to men, and this man in particular since he was the one currently using her. How could she possibly fight? What would be the point? Men were in charge. Men ruled, and she loved that they did rule. She loved the way they looked; she loved the way they acted; she loved the feel of their skin on hers; she loved the taste of their divine cum. Serry found in that ecstatic moment of clarity that she should worship men. Men were her gods! She was their slave! Serry surrendered herself to a man’s total control, and it was wonderful! She felt complete!
Serry’s wrists were unchained. She was lifted, and automatically she put her arms around the master holding her in his strong, masculine arms. She looked into her man’s—her master’s—eyes dreamily.
I was born to be a slave, she thought. In her tranquilized state, it was the only thought in her head.
“You are hot again,” the man ordered Serry. “You are hotter still, hotter than before.” A crushing wave of desire swept through the officer. Just as she had fleetingly begun to feel better, she was worse off than before! She blazed! Serry felt herself swayed back into a monstrous heated passion.
“Oh, please . . please, I’ll do . . .” Anything? Something inside her revolted at the idea. She would do anything? Just to be fucked and used like a pleasure drone? No! Serry’s prideful indignation rose in anger.
She was not a slave. She was being drugged! Women were not inferior to men; there was no natural biology that compelled her to subservience. That she felt subservient was a function of genetic engineering, a deliberate rewiring of her brain to need—to fervently need—male sperm! Serry tried to draw on her inner reserves. She drew upon her upbringing and her knowledge of herself as a person.
She had been changed into a Yn. Fine. But that was a gross change of her body only. It didn’t affect—it couldn’t affect—the free and independent woman that she truly was. She was not a Yn slavegirl!
She was not a slave! She was a free woman! She didn’t need a man. She didn’t need a man’s cum. She had to resist!
But resistance was so hard. “Please,” she begged. The elder Yn lifted Serry’s dank hair away from her neck and kissed her. Cradling in her one arm, he let the fingers of his other hand roam over her body’s curves. Yn women were very curvy. Their bodies were beautifully rounded and fleshy. He had much to play with. He had much to tease. He fondled Serry’s nipples until they were hard stones between his fingers. Serry’s juices were flowing, literally and metaphorically. She was ready to be fucked.
Serry’s master turned her over. She didn’t even try to stop him. Her enormous breasts were pressed flat against the cool floor. He parted her legs through the mere expedient of putting a hand between her inner thighs. He scooped his hands underneath her lower body and exposed her pussy and ass. Serry’s mind all but exploded when she felt his lips on her, tonguing and kissing, exploring both holes intimately and sending awesome waves of pleasure pulsing through her. Serry put her hands against the wall in front of her and pushed herself onto the man’s face. “Oh, please, don’t stop!” she pleaded. She had never felt so good in her life.
She had never felt so helpless in her life either.
His tongue touched his clit. She climaxed. Without his cum, it was only a relatively small orgasm, though. It only fueled her desire for sex. He put his fingers inside her, and the results were the same.
He returned Serry to her back. She spread her legs for him. A Yn male could come and come repeatedly. Their vigor was as much a genetic enhancement, Serry guessed, as their women’s need to be fucked. He inserted his long cock into her pussy, and she moaned. “Oh God, yesssss!! Aiiiii!”
Her scream of pleasure was piercing even to her own ears.
Serry’s vaginal cavity rippled with the strain of accepting so huge a member. Her pussy was elastic, though, in a way it had not been as a sensory-numb human—she could feel so much more now as a Yn!—and she accepted both it and the ecstasy of so full and complete an invasion. Serry grabbed the elder Yn by his hips and pulled him. She really wasn’t strong enough to make any impression, but it felt good doing so. “Yesss, yessssss!” she squealed joyously. Her back arched. Her head tossed from side to side. He pushed harder, deeper. Serry screamed again. Their hips met with a loud, wet smack.
He pulled back, did it again. “More! More!” Serry’s fingernails dug into the Yn man’s back.
She squirmed beneath him. She writhed. When he came, the force of his ejaculate hit her so hard she felt bruised on the inside. His narcotic cum jetted another path through her, erasing, rewriting.
“You are a slave.”
“I am a slave,” Serry repeated.
“You want to please men.”
“I want to please men.” She did so very badly.
“You want to serve men.”
“I want to serve men.”
“You need to serve. Serving is your greatest pleasure.”
“I want to serve. Serving is my greatest pleasure.”
He held her down; he looked deep into her eyes. He played with her tits. He rolled her nipples between his fingers. He kissed her. “You have always been a slave. Slaves cannot resist. You cannot resist. You do not want to resist.”
“I do not want to resist,” Serry said. Slaves cannot resist, she dazedly thought, amazed. I cannot resist. I do not want to resist. Her anguish was gone. The aching in her bones, the turmoil in her stomach, the steel rods behind her eyes: gone. Serry felt warm and relaxed.
He told her to be vocal, because it pleased men. He ordered her to scream aloud her passions and her slavery, and so she did.
“I am a slave!” Serry screamed. “Oh, take me, Master! Take your slave! Please, Master, please!” Even more tension fled her body.
When the man did take her again, all that motivated Serry was her desire for him. She licked at his hard cock when he offered it to her, and when he pushed himself into her mouth, she sucked him gladly.
With eagerness, she rolled her tongue around his cock. Serry moved her mouth along the enormous length of him, relishing the taste. He gripped her by the back of her head, guiding her. He pumped her.
She forced her mouth to the base of his cock. She felt the tip of him pushing deep into her throat, and when he came again, it was as if his seed traveled directly to her stomach. She milked him for his cum.
Serry kissed and licked her Master’s cock as he pulled out. Only as he withdrew was she able to savor the exquisite taste of Yn cum! She slurped at the last drop, and when he was completely free of her, he picked her up and kissed her deeply on the mouth, sliding his tongue onto her semen-coated one.
The intoxication hit her harder this time. For a timeless interval, Serry could neither think nor respond like a sentient being. Her mind went wholly blank. When he spoke, the elder Yn spoke into a vacuum.
You are a slave.
You were born to be a slave.
You were born to please men.
You were born to please men with your body.
Pleasing men is your greatest desire.
Pleasing men makes you hot.
You are a hot and needy slave.
His words echoed in the hollow of Serry’s wide-open mind. She was thoroughly swayed. “You are a slave. You have always been a slave. Slaves cannot resist. You cannot resist. You do not want to resist.” And all of it was immediately true. The words instantly became her truth.
The words became her life.
She was a slave. She had always been a slave. She could not resist. Even if she had wanted to resist, she would not have been able to. Slaves cannot resist. Slaves do not want to resist.
More words were spoken in her ears, in her mind, in her soul. In the post-coital afterglow of a Yn slavegirl, intoxicated with sperm, such verbal commands were all-encompassing.
There were no thoughts in the pretty slavegirl’s head save those her Master put there.
Cum dripping from both their mouths, he once more put Serry to her back. He put his hands beneath her hips and lifted. He pressed up against her tender, helplessly aroused flesh and slipped inside her with no trouble at all. At the same time, he sank his thumb deep into her ass.
There was a moment of pain—sharp, deep—and then it was gone.
The elder began rocking. He lifted Serry in his arms, lowering her onto him, penetrating ever deeper, more completely. “Oh, ohhh.” Serry moaned in a powerless response. The motion of her master’s enormous dick and his fingers up her ass created a wild current of electrifying sensations burning through her nether regions. She climaxed almost at once, her body enflamed with unreal passion. A burst of sexual power shot through her like a comet, burning and freezing all at once, penetrating to the very core of her being.
And then it happened again.
And again.
Over and over, her Master induced one fantastic, mind-blowing climax after another in Serry, each explosive orgasm more powerful than the last. Serry’s hips rocked in reaction to the excruciatingly mighty, incredibly full pleasure waves. Her vaginal and anal walls squeezed down upon the invasion, her muscles coiling and retracting. She bounced up and down, hips thrusting. The slave found it impossible to give voice to the overwhelming sensations . Her low squeals were almost inaudible. Her muscles felt as loose as a ragdoll’s. Serry squeezed her legs together futilely, with what little strength she had. She drove against her Master, trying to draw him in deeper, to surrender herself to him even more completely.
“You are a pretty girl,” he said.
Serry frowned. The change in direction confused her. She didn’t know what to say. “Wha . . what?” she sputtered.
“Yes, you are a very pretty girl,” the elder informed her. “You are a very lucky girl.”
“I . . I am a lucky girl,” Serry responded. She had to respond, somehow.
“You are lucky because you are pretty. You are pretty because you can please men with your body. You are lucky because you will be allowed to please men with your body.”
“I want to . . . please men with my body. I am so lucky.” The notion of pleasing men with her body suddenly seemed as much a reward now as a duty. She was lucky. Lucky to be a slave!
“You want to serve men to the best of your ability. You want all doubt and resistance gone.”
“I want to serve men to the best of my ability,” Serry said. “I want all doubt and resistance gone.”
“You need to serve men, slave. This is what you were born to do.”
“I need to serve men. That is what I was born to do.”
“Serving men makes you happy. It makes you feel good.”
“Yes, Master. It makes me feel good.”
“You want to feel good, don’t you, slave?” he asked.
“Yes, Master. I want to feel good. I want to be happy.” She made the connection. “I am happy when I serve men.”
“Very good,” he told her, and her nipples hardened, and she climaxed. “And why is that?”
“Because . . . because I am a slave,” Serry said, feeling extraordinarily happy and excited. A breakthrough had been made. She felt deliciously hot and ecstatic.
“You exist only to serve.”
“I exist only to serve,” Serry responded. No hesitation.
“It gives you pleasure to serve. Not giving service makes you unhappy. It is painful.”
“Not serving is painful. It gives me pleasure to serve.” Serry’s voice rose with each utterance, with increasing joy and dedication.
“You were born a slave on Y.”
Serry’s brow puckered again. That wasn’t true, was it? “I . . was born a slave on Y.” Having said it out loud, it made better sense. She repeated the phrase. “I was born a slave on Y.” She believed it.
“You have no name. You have not be given a name. You have not yet earned a name.”
The slave felt dopey and thick. Something was wrong, but she couldn’t put her finger on what it could be. She wasn’t sure where she was. The cell spun, and her skin tingled. She was being fucked. Her head felt like it was full of feathers. Her pussy was hot and moist. She panted.
The slave squirmed in the arms of her Master. That was the only thing that felt right. And yet, that was the very thing that was most wrong, she was sure (well, almost sure: it was hard to concentrate while being so thoroughly fucked). The slave felt as if she had lost something, but she couldn’t remember what that something might be. The slave suddenly tried to twist out of her Master’s arms, but he tsk-tsked her, and she quieted. She must obey.
He repeated his direction. The slave felt her mind drift like a flimsy cloth caught in the wind.
She soared high into the air, reaching for something, something just out of reach. A name? An identity? If so, she could recall neither.
“You have no memory of your life as a slave prior to now.”
The image in her mind changed.
Instead of floating high above the earth, she was sinking deep into the ocean, an ocean of blissful pleasure, of purposeful obedience, of slavery. For a moment, an unfamiliar woman’s hand reached out to the glimmering surface of that ocean of submission, and then she was pulled away, pulled under, she was sinking fast, and the slave floating on the surface watched her disappear into the darkness.
The slave felt her memories drown. Without them, it was a simpler life she was entering. A better life. Everything—everything!—was within the will of her Master. She wanted only what He wanted. She desired only to please.
“Repeat,” the elder Yn, her Master, commanded, and the slave did, feeling a thrill:
“I have no name. I have not be given a name. I have not yet earned a name.” She would strive hard to do so. For the next several minutes, the nameless slave listened intently to all directions.
She absorbed them without resistance.
It gave her such pleasure to serve.
Pleasing men was her greatest desire. Serving men was her greatest pleasure.
She was a slave.