There was no escape. The endless, winding corridors were a maze, and she didn’t have a map. From what she’d seen, the surface of the planet was a hellscape. Dusty, barren, and devoid of life. Even if she did manage to outrun Rychor and hide somewhere, she had no food, no idea if the water in the underground river system was drinkable, and no plan. She didn’t actually expect to find her flightsuit, did she? And how was she going to get out?
As her breathing turned heavy, she came to understand two things. She had made the wrong choice. It hadn’t been a choice, really. She’d fled on instinct. Terrified by whatever procedure she was being prepared for, her flight response had kicked in again. But this time, there was no hope. There was nowhere to run. No spaceship with a pilot waiting to spirit her away from this place.
The second realization was far more somber. Choice was not an option. She had none. Whether she liked it or not, whether she could stand it or not, she was stuck here. At the mercy of the whims of her stoic captor and his kind. Rychor would not ask nicely. He would not care about her reply.
She slowed as the weight of understanding settled over her. There really did seem to be only one path through this: submission. As she came to a stop, she doubled over, hands on her knees as she tried to catch her breath. She heard footsteps behind her—walking calmly, not running.
But why would he run? He knew as well as she did she had no chance of escape. The footsteps came to a stop, and she sensed his ominous presence.
As her heart and breathing slowed, she slowly stood up again. She turned around with her chin held high to face her fate.
Rychor stood in front of her with his arms folded across his chest.
She wondered why he hadn’t yet taken her over his knee again to administer another punishment for her misbehavior. Even as she thought of it, a mix of feeling flared inside her. The crack of his hand on her bottom, followed by the warmth of his hand, stirred both fear and a strange, warm feeling inside her. A vignette of being spanked, then soothed by Rychor as he propped her on his huge lap, wandered through her mind at lightning speed. She tried to rid herself of the queasy feelings, the dips of fear and the peaks of arousal that roiled inside her. Her lips parted, but her mouth was too dry to speak.
“I explained that you have nothing to fear,” Rychor said. “You will not be harmed. You will be cared for. It will not be distressing.”
“I am already distressed!” Sonya wailed, suddenly very annoyed by his word choice. She waved her hands around. “This is fracking… distressing! As hell!”
Rychor looked back at her implacably.
“This segment of the process cannot be avoided. We apologize that it is distressing you. If you will return and give your consent, we will rapidly determine your sexual preferences, and they will be accommodated. We have already determined that you are submissive in nature and aroused by submission. I do not understand why you are behaving like this.”
Her mind filled with excuses to offer him. She quickly dismissed all of them. He would know. Her only hope of being spared another correction was sincere honesty and remorse. “I… I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I panicked.”
“You were left unrestrained, unlike the others, because I thought I had your trust,” he said.
The sentiment was oddly touching. Somewhere in the back of her mind, she was screaming at herself to not fall for the oldest pitfall in the story of astrobiology: anthropomorphizing alien species. Humans had a tendency to impose human motives and desires on other lifeforms—terrestrial or non. Rychor was not being kind to her, she reminded herself. He was trying to accomplish his own goals.
“I’m sorry,” she repeated, anyway. She knew what her own goal was, and that was to avoid a humiliating spanking on her already burning skin.
He nodded. “Your apology is accepted,” he said. “Nevertheless… it would be frowned on if I left you uncorrected for your behavior.”
His response struck her as strange. She had never heard him pause before. He seemed almost reluctant to mete out a correction. She nodded back at him and lowered her head. Best to get it over with sooner rather than later. She prepared herself for another spanking, her hands subconsciously moving to cover her bottom. She began to shake her head, then stopped when she realized what she was doing.
Fear and excitement fluttered like fighting birds in her chest.
The alien looked at her and seemed to be assessing something.
“I have something else in mind,” Rychor said.
She opened her eyes, which she had squeezed shut, and looked at him. He had already turned and was walking down the corridor. He seemed unconcerned whether or not she would follow. Like he knew he’d bested her. An anger flared inside her at his arrogance. At the fact he knew he owned her now. That she was his to do with as he pleased, without any restraints.
She quelled it. Anger would get her nowhere. She was an adaptable person, and she was concocting a new mission. To survive this and rejoin the orbital. To document this species and to warn whoever else might try to set foot on this planet.
She gave one final glance down the corridor, perhaps just to determine that indeed no salvation awaited her, and it did not. The end of that corridor was far away in the distance just like the direction Rychor had turned. She could run that way, but he would catch up to her in a few, casual strides.
Resigned, she fell into a quick step behind him. With the adrenaline mostly drained from her system, she once again felt a deep shame at her own nudity. She blushed at the prying glances of other passing Ryvokia. It felt a little stupid, but she was only human, she told herself. Shame was natural. Who wouldn’t be embarrassed being paraded naked down a corridor for everyone to see?
As they re-entered the small chamber behind him, she saw the three attendants patiently waiting by the examination table. She covered her breasts and sex, while knowing they would probably soon be intimately inspecting both.
Rychor strode to the middle of the room and motioned to them. Sounds were exchanged between them, and Sonya despaired when the attendants shifted their gaze—almost disbelieving—in her direction. Rychor was obviously giving them instructions that they hadn’t expected. She glanced at the closed door, and Rychor followed her gaze, before smoothly instructing one of the attendants to do something. Within moments, she knew what it was: three heavy thuds in quick succession and a change in the color of the lights on the door indicated that it had been locked.
One of the attendants quickly shuffled out of the chamber through a different door and returned a short time later carrying what looked to be a steel bar with wrist restraints attached.
Sonya turned to look at Rychor with wide eyes. “I-I promise I won’t do that again,” she said. She didn’t know what that was for, but she didn’t want to find out.
“I am sure of it,” Rychor said. He took the bar from the attendant, reached up to the ceiling of the cave and attached it to a hook embedded into the stone. He held out a hand in her direction.
She glanced at the attendants. All three were standing with their hands folded over their laps, staring at her. Did they know what awaited her, she wondered? Did they know what Rychor was planning? Were they relishing it? Would they share the details of this lewd show over dinner later with their friends?
You have no choice. Submit and you have a chance of getting out of here.
Her shoulders fell. This would have to be her mantra from here on in. The only way to win the headgame. To steel herself for whatever they might do to her so that she could have a hope of one day leaving. Still covering herself, she walked over to where Rychor was standing and took his hand.
He raised it gently to the bar and slapped the cuff around her wrist.
His gentleness was reassuring. Not a cruel tug meant to inflict pain. She dared to hope it was driven by compassion.
He took her other wrist and did the same. Then he spun the bar so she was forced to stand facing the audience of three by the examination table. He did not step around, remaining instead behind her as he spoke.
He used language she could understand this time. “Stimulator,” he said.
The attendant who had brought in the steel bar grabbed a foot-long wand with a bulbous head at the end and walked it over to Rychor.
Her eyes widened as she watched the exchange. The thing looked like a… vibrator. She drew in a sharp breath as Rychor came up close behind her, the hard wall of muscle of his abdomen pressing against her back. He drew the wand up so the fat head was less than an inch away from her stiff right nipple.
“You will learn that I have other ways of encouraging good behavior. Pain is only one tool. The other is pleasure.”
She gasped again as he pressed the device against her breast. It emitted no sound and didn’t move. But an intense wave of pleasure instantly flooded through her nipple and down into her core. It felt like the thing was pinching, heating, and caressing her all at once. The feeling was sharp but shifting, like someone fondling her through water, then entering her body and plucking at invisible cords connecting all of her sexually pleasing pressure points. The vibration traveled a path through her nipples, directly to the center of her legs.
Her mouth fell open, and her eyes went wide. It was such an intense, sudden jolt of undiluted pleasure that she gasped. She recalled the first time she had used a vibrator to masturbate—a small, bullet-sized device she had placed against her clit. The sudden pleasure had been so intense it was close to pain, and she had pulled it away in shock immediately.
This sensation was as painfully pleasurable as that, but it hadn’t even been applied to her clit. And Rychor didn’t pull it away. She heard herself making sounds that she couldn’t control, felt herself twisting in an effort to avoid the vibrator, and hoping it wouldn’t stop, all at the same time.
As Rychor twisted the device, it intensified. The pleasure gripped her so completely that her stomach muscles started convulsing, her breath moving in and out of her in jerky gasps as her core heated. She felt like her insides were melting down into a liquid of erotic sensations, and welling from the tender flesh between her legs.
It flooded her senses and almost made her forget about the three watching her. Not quite. Lurking beneath her dizzying pleasure was the embarrassment of being spectated in such an intimate and compromising position. Even if they were aliens, they were still seeing her at her most vulnerable, chained and helpless to resist whatever Rychor decided to do to her.
It frightened and aroused her all at once. As he twisted the bulb again, all of that disappeared. The only thought she could hold in her mind was how overwhelmingly delicious the sensation from the wand felt. She felt a climax ballooning inside her. Her eyes darted from her chest to her observers and back again. She gasped, then let out a breathy squeal. Her toes curled in.
“Oh god… please… please…” she begged. “I’m going to…”
Rychor twisted the device again.
She felt her womanhood contract, lubricant spilling from between her legs as she tipped over the edge. Pleasure drenched her mind. She vaguely heard herself scream, but the sound seemed far away. The focus of her concentration was on the throbbing between her legs. The only thing detracting from it was the emptiness she felt inside herself. It shocked her to think it—that, on some level, her body craved being filled, being dominated in the most truly intimate way.
Even as her pleasure waned, Rychor kept the bulb in place.
It drove her up onto her toes, staring at his big hand just inches from her breast.
God, I want to feel him touch me.
That shocked her even more. She gasped, then squealed when she felt like she couldn’t take another second of the sensation.
Rychor seemed to sense her anguish. He twisted the bulb the other way, then slowly pulled the device away.
She sagged, putting her full weight on her wrists in the cuffs. Panting, her chin was against her chest as she tried to catch her breath again. The knowledge that there were others watching this slowly crept back in until her embarrassment was a heavy ball filling her gut.
Rychor stepped away from behind her.
She sighed, hoping this would be the end of it, hoping that he thought he’d taught her the lesson she needed and would get on with whatever he intended to do next. Shame was creeping up the sides of her neck, into her face, hot and wild. Her hair stuck to her skin, and as the heat of her orgasm ebbed away, she felt a slight chill on her damp skin, the cooling liquid between her legs.
Rychor stepped to the side and set the wand down on the examination table. She watched him, moving slowly and methodically—causing a stir inside her that was part anticipation, part dread—over to the attendants and their floating table. He surveyed the implements on it, and the coolness of his gaze as he selected a new device to torture her with was unexpectedly erotic. Her cheeks flared with shame, and the sore, hot skin of her bottom flared up again, like a match had been taken to it. She couldn’t believe that these aliens were witnessing her degradation, and her own body was as much a part of it as Rychor was. The scent of her arousal was wafting up to her nostrils and exposing the lie she wanted Rychor to believe, and that she wanted herself to believe: that she didn’t feel aroused by any of this at all.
Nothing could have been further from the truth as it snaked down her thighs for all to see.
Rychor chose a balloon-like tube from the array of instruments and held it up, pantomiming an inspection. But Sonya sensed that he wanted her to see what he had chosen, wonder about what he would do to her, squirm in her restraints with the anticipation of pleasure or pain. He picked up the wand again and walked back over to where she was suspended.
Her muscles had gone stiff again when she realized Rychor wasn’t finished, and now they ached with the strain. There was more to come, and she didn’t dare imagine what that more might be.
Rychor seemed intent on making his point: he was in control, whether he used pain or pleasure to control her. He wanted to see her squirm, make her understand that he had this power, and that he would use it, until she gave him what he wanted.
She heard a squishing sound behind her, and she jerked her head over her shoulder to see a clear, gooey substance oozing out of the tube and onto Rychor’s finger. Her eyes went wide at the sight, as her mind processed the purpose of the gel—the only plausible purpose, a lubricant, and all the implications therein.
What in the hell is he going to…
Before she could finish the thought, Rychor summoned an attendant without so much as a flick of his fingers, and the attendant collected the tube from him, stepping away with wide and interested eyes. The creature looked intrigued in the way Sonya imagined her own attention to the specimens she examined. She wasn’t sure if this made her feel more humiliated or less.
Rychor stepped up close behind her again, one hand smoothly moving around her waist to hold her in place. His skin, so human-like that if she closed her eyes, she could imagine it was a large, human male manhandling her, was warm and dry. He didn’t apply much pressure to her, but the size of his grip was enormous, and the strength that coiled in his muscles could be felt even though he wasn’t exercising it.
She caught a whiff of his scent as he moved her with one hand, adjusting her body to his liking. The bare skin of his muscled torso brushed against her back and slipped in her sweat, sending a ripple of pleasure through her unbidden. A spicy, musky smell—masculine and familiar as it was foreign—filled her nostrils. Her sex throbbed at the smell, and she squeezed her eyes shut again, as if she could squeeze all of her senses closed along with them and stop melting at Rychor’s touch.
Through her trepidation, though, a soothing calm seeped into her body. It seemed to travel through his body into hers, like a topical drug. There was something about his presence being so close, his giant, muscled body hovering over her like a protector.
She shoved the thought away, dismissing it as a stupid, girlish fantasy she should be ashamed of entertaining. She was doing it again, assigning human intentions and feelings to an animal because she was afraid.
“We have learned something interesting about your species,” Rychor said, leaning over her shoulder to growl next to her ear. His warm breath grazed her earlobe and sent goosebumps in waves down her right shoulder and along her arm.
She held her breath, eyes closed, waiting for what he was about to say next.
“It seems the human anus can be as sensitive as your sexual organs,” he went on. “I can stimulate it to excite your pleasure and gain your submission.”
Her eyes popped wide open, and she looked up at her restraints, bucking against them, knowing it was futile. Rychor’s thick arm was coiling around her torso, moving like a thick snake, lifting her easily, elevating her bottom and forcing her to fall forward into the cradle of his bicep. She was forced onto her tiptoes, and then they, too, were swept off the floor and swung at the air as she kicked them, looking for the floor.
But Rychor held her so easily and so firmly in his grasp that she quickly concluded there was nothing to do but relent.
She sucked in a breath, her weight careening forward into his solid muscle, when she felt the cool, wet, lubricated tip of his finger press against her bottom hole.
Rychor calmly drew her back to him, pulling her body against his back, the solid contours of his muscle hot and damp against her skin. “Do not resist me,” he stated plainly, “and you will not experience pain.”
She swallowed, her breath quickening as the pressure on the ring of muscle between her cheeks increased. A wave of humiliation joined her panic, because there was a small part of her that held curiosity, that fantasized about anal sex… She had just never been brave enough to try it. And none of her lovers had been like Rychor. “I… I don’t…”
What, Sonya? You don’t do that kind of thing?
She walked back her panic, talking herself down from the urge to scream and thrash her legs. She was his. He could do as he pleased with her and there was nothing she could do about it, she told herself. Taking a deep breath, she tried to relax her muscles.
As she did, his finger made a lazy circle around her anus and pushed slowly forward, making her gasp. Her body reacted by clamping down tightly on his finger, and he moved his mouth close to her cheek and made a sound that was alien, but sounded closest to the soothing purr of a cat to her ears.
“Do not resist. I will not harm you. You will experience pleasure.”
She closed her eyes, hoping she could forget the indignity of being watched while Rychor probed her. She drew in a deep breath as the tip of his finger slipped into her.
She hated her body for its reaction: instead of tightening, she felt herself opening up. More fluid flowed from her pussy, dripping between her legs. An arousal response—identical to the one Rychor had described in advance—to this taboo situation made no sense, and yet that was what was happening. Even as he pushed deeper, her body was preparing itself for another entry.
An entry she found herself craving desperately.
She winced at the tightness in her backside as his finger filled her. He moved it inside her, pressing out in different directions, seemingly searching for something. She had to remind herself with each breath not to cave to her feelings, to be disgusted by this intrusion. But she promptly forgot that same thing when he twisted his digit inside her, striking something—a patch of pleasurable nerves inside her, and a strange ecstasy flooded her brain again.
“And now you will tell my assistants,” Rychor said, his finger stroking the bundle of nerves he had located. “Do you enjoy this sort of penetration?”
She was too stunned to understand anything more than that Rychor was speaking. The words traveled like an amorphous blob through one ear and out the other, only distant sounds. She felt a kind of tunnel vision happening, her conscious mind floating away to a dark corner, almost like she was watching herself. She felt distant, subdued, submissive, and she felt the pleasure of his finger in the foreign place, stimulating untouched patches of pleasure that had always been inside her.
He curled his finger, and the pressure inside her shifted and made her spasm in pleasure. “Tell my assistants. Do you like this penetration?”
This time she heard him, and even as she lifted her head to howl in painful pleasure, no sound came out. Her predicament flashed through her mind. Strung up with her hands and arms splayed above her head. Legs willingly parted to accept him. Her spectators watching as she was forced to make this humiliating admission. Her pussy throbbed.
“I… I… I…” she panted.
Rychor pressed his mouth to her ear. “Don’t tell lies, what you would want your human companions to hear. Only the truth,” he said. “Look up at them.” He pressed the wand against her chin and raised her head until she had no choice but to look at the three who watched her with clinical interest.
“I like it,” she whispered quickly.
They nodded, also clinically.
“You like this sort of penetration,” Rychor growled. “Say it.”
She shuddered. She couldn’t help but wonder if this was some psychological play on his part. Showing her who was in charge. Who owned her and whose commands she had to obey. And again she felt a pulse of arousal and pleasure at being in this situation. At having no choice but to follow his will. At being stripped of agency, a puppet in his hands. What should have been deeply embarrassing and utterly humiliating was instead… erotic. Even thinking about saying the words was, to her dismay and confusion, making her pussy overflow with moisture.
“I like this sort of penetration,” she said slowly. With each word, fresh humiliation blossomed inside her. It crashed over her like warm ocean waves, the ache in her pussy swelling to an almost unbearable size within her.
The three nodded again.
Rychor let the wand fall slowly across her body. Down past her chest, her belly. Finally between her thighs where he pressed it against the soft petals of her femininity.
“You may scream if you feel the need,” he said into her ear, the hand supporting her working up to her throat, fingers splayed around her delicate neck. With his wiry strength poised to crush her windpipe with a mere flex, the power differential between them was starkly illuminated, and it sent fear coursing through her that enhanced the high she already felt.
Scream? she wondered, but only for an instant, before Rychor twisted the implement and the excruciating pleasure flowed directly through her clit and caused an orgasm to begin building, rapidly, inside her. But it just kept rising, soaring up to an incredible crest that never broke.
She did scream, though she had no idea when she began doing so.
Her body jolted, the muscles in her legs and stomach contracting as that hot, pinching bliss drove itself deep into her core. “Oh god!” she moaned. “Oh god, oh god, oh god!”
Before any of this she’d entertained another fantasy. That if she were put into such a situation, she would submit but not give Rychor or any of them the pleasure of knowing how it affected her. She had entertained the notion that she would remain as stoic as he through whatever ministrations they subjected her to. Now that idea was almost laughable.
Rychor didn’t take his time twisting it this time. He gave it a crank, doubling the sensation in an instant.
Her body slumped back against him, driving his digit even deeper into her ass. She didn’t care. Her jaw fell slack and she stared up at the ceiling as waves of ecstasy rolled through her. It was almost painful, having just climaxed moments earlier. She didn’t care about that, either. She couldn’t bring herself to care about anything. She felt like a jellyfish. At the mercy of whatever stimulus Rychor deigned appropriate. Not a sentient being on par with him, but rather a toy for him to play with.
As the thought materialized as words in her head—the idea of being a toy, at the mercy of an alien—it sent her tipping over the edge.
She screamed again. The sound echoed along the cavern walls and went tearing out into the corridor for any passersby to hear. Her pussy contracted and released, contracted and released as she flailed her limbs uselessly in her restraints.
Rychor kept her firmly pressed against his thick chest, holding her still, his heat and rushing blood against her skin, their sweat mingling.
As the high of her orgasm subsided, she was left a sweaty, panting mess, dangling from the ceiling by her arms, held up by Rychor’s thick muscle. Her body was completely limp, sweat rolling in droplets from the base of her neck, along her spine. The sweet, tangy juices from between her legs smeared the insides of her thighs, and every nerve of her body screamed in agonizing sensitivity to even the slightest motion.
A long silence passed, and her senses slowly returned. She became aware again that there were three others watching her, observing her being used and reduced to a moaning mass of quivering flesh.
She hated Rychor for that a little bit. Because there was a feeling she was trying to resist and increasingly failing. A dangerous, terrifying feeling. A feeling that she knew she should fight but didn’t feel able to. The feeling that maybe it wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world if he did that to her again. Just… maybe, not with so many observers.
She shook her groggy head, trying to chase the thought away. It was useless. She was exhausted, broken and defeated. Rychor had won already, and she knew she would let him do to her whatever he pleased. The only uncertainty she had was why? How had she succumbed so quickly?
He let her feet drop to the floor, and she swung them at the ground, but her knees buckled when she shifted her weight to them. Rychor adjusted his grip on her body, supporting her a little so that the weight didn’t divert to her bound hands. His hands moved over her body, sliding in her sweat, caressing her breasts, her navel, her back. He manipulated her body with ease, bending it any way he wished. His touch left a ripple of electricity and longing in its wake, and she sobbed a little, expecting more torturous pleasure to be delivered through the wand. Her last orgasm had left her depleted, almost unconscious; the thrill had been close to terrifying. He slipped his finger from her ass, making her writhe in his grip. The feel of it sliding from inside of her made her feel dirty and used in a way that was perversely appealing, and when it was gone, she felt the dull ache of craving and emptiness, a tighter cousin of the longing that throbbed in her pussy.
“Now will you consent to your examination?” he asked, as his hands swept over her body, massaging and stimulating her nipples, setting fire to her skin.
“Yes,” she whispered, and a tear squeezed from her right eye as she closed it. It was a tear of frustration, for herself, with herself; she had been turned so easily into a complacent doll, and she didn’t even care. Her flesh just craved more. Her mind had been numbed, and she felt she could no longer resist.