Collared Empire: The High Executrix (Patreon)

The stubborn blue planet revolved beneath, flashes of fusion bombs outshining the glow of the metropolises on the nocturnal half. Shafts of brilliant amber energy lanced from ships in high orbit to form city-sized craters on the surface below, the heat and shockwaves melting stone to glass and steel to lava.

              And yet, the obstinate humans remained in the fight.

              Super accelerated shells fired from orbit-targeting rail canons ripped through space, the energy shields of the warships above powerless against the sheer kinetic energy. Once a ship was struck by one of these vehicle-sized rounds terrible damage was assured, and with concerning frequency a single shot hit something vital, killing the ship. The best defence the Thelluloid ships had against these weapons, if they were unable to direct ground forces to take them out, was to keep their ships orbiting at far greater velocities than was workable for precision bombardment of the surface.

              Many formidable stellar domains had fallen under the boot of the Thelluloid Empire, but the humans seemed unimpressed. For every city the warships destroyed, for every thousand humans slain, the war machinery of the blue planet wreaked havoc that would be unsustainable for the Thelluloids in even the short term. Worse still, reports that a sizable fleet of Earth’s largest warships was close to translate in-system was cause for concern.

               It had been four months of gruelling fighting. Frustratingly, the Thelluloid invasion had been halted at every front. The humans had retaken significant swathes of territory, and even the Thelluloids’ advantage of orbital superiority was close to negated by the humans’ surfaced-based defences. These spherical projectiles, once fired quickly enough at and directly into a descending beam from above, dispersed the terrible destructive energy in a crackling umbrella of amber tendrils. It was like a lightning-pylon catching bolts from the clouds before they could strike anything below.

              This admittedly ingenious weapons system intercepted and voided close to ninety-two percent of all lance strikes, and this was to the detriment of Thelluloid advance: without reliable orbital bombardment, the Empire had to rely on their ground forces, and for all their ferocity they were going toe to toe with determined, equally vicious defenders.

              Unfortunately, the humans were nowhere close to surrendering. They had estimated one standard month to conquer Earth. It had been four, so far. And with the human’s outer fleet returning, High Executrix Zheya, supreme commander of the Axxchin Strike Force, currently besieging Earth, felt time slip from her.

              They had severely underestimated their would-be prey’s capacity for warfare. It was as though the humans were born into perpetual conquest and conflict, as though bred for combat.

              She had made her decision. She would have to cut her losses and leave lest the human flotilla en route to its home system trap the Thelluloid fleet between them and Earth. If that happened, a likely outcome for the Thelluloid invasion fleet would be total destruction. It infuriated her to even consider the possibility, but no amount of wishing would change that.

              So, the order had gone out: total conquest and subjugation was no longer the primary directive. The new order was to secure as many captives as possible and pull back in an orderly fashion. With enough human prisoners, an enslaved human colony could be established and maintained on any Thelluloid planet.

              It was not why the Thelluloid fleet had set out to this system, but that was of little concern now. Zheya was resolved to achieve the true objective before departure: slaves.

              The planet itself did not matter, but the Empire always required more thralls to keep the Thelluloids – the Ar’a, the Shix and the Hynger – out of positions of servility. Even if Earth could not be added to the list of conquered planets, at least for the time being, captives could be added to the Empire’s slave population. The latest tally put the number of captured humans at just shy of four million, the vast majority of which were encased in cryochambers until they could be awoken on any controlled planet with a suitable atmosphere.

              Many of the captives were not simply hibernating, awaiting their new fates. Many humans were already enslaved in various positions throughout the fleet. Zheya had one of her own, a delightfully feisty girl whom she had taken for her personal plaything. Her human name was Raquel, but after being trained by Zheya and her handlers she now answered to the term “slave”; it was all she was, all she would ever be.

              One of the biggest currencies in the Thelluloid Empire was sexual slavery, the masters of all other conquered cultures less than shy about their xenosexual preferences and indulgencies. Simply by being a new species never before seen in the Empire, the price for a human would be extravagant, and demand would most definitely outweigh supply.

              None were more deeply rooted the economy of slaves than was Kyrah, the eccentric collector and scientist aboard her ship Goddess’ Hand.

              Kyrah, a civilian, was only permitted to tag along with the High Executrix’s fleet because she was obscenely rich and paid Zheya directly for permission. Her addiction to cataloguing and collecting females from all the galaxy’s species was legendary, so much so that she did not even haggle even though Zheya’s prices for accommodation soared well above the ludicrous.

              It amused Zheya to no end how simple Kyrah was, despite her intellect. And yet, the High Executrix mused, perhaps Kyrah had the right idea.

              Zheya had attended a party on board the Goddess’ Hand three standard weeks ago, something the scientist had instigated upon her own discretion. Mostly high-ranking officers throughout the fleet were invited, and Zheya had encouraged them all to attend if only to take their matters off their labours for a few hours, knowing that at any party Kyrah hosted, slaves from every conquered sun would be offered to the guests.

              It was there Zheya’s eyes had been opened to the true genius of Kyrah’s bioengineering prowess, when she had sampled the product of Kyrah’s single male slave, a male taken from Earth and put through the Goddess’ Hand’s facilities to turn the human into a veritable semen factory with a forcibly durable constitution that would ensure he would remain in his position for centuries to serve Kyrah’s two addictions: drinking semen and cross-species breeding.

              Normally Zheya had little interest in male slaves of any race, but after the gathering aboard Kyrah’s ship she had started cultivating an interest. An interest for his flavour, to be exact. Upon returning to her flagship, the Everlasting Fury, the pleasant aftertaste of his product lingered in the High Executrix’s mouth.

              Even now she could see him as he had been at the party, and she had to admit Kyrah’s sense of presentation was as delicious as it was practical. The human cum-slave – whom it seemed amused Kyrah to call by his human name, Kayven – had been restrained in a crystal box in the middle of the grand assembly hall on Kyrah’s ship. The gagged and blindfolded human was contorted in a bridge inside the box, kneeling and bent back until his forearms supported the rest of his weight with his knees. His arms and legs were under his arching back, all four limbs held with four separate restraints. His thighs were forcibly spread by a bar that shoved his knees apart, and under him a padded bar pushed his lower back upwards, lifting his hips and pelvis.

              The centerpiece of this display was his straining erection, the only part of the human on the outside of the box, the cock and balls sticking out of a tiny hole in the centre of the crystal box’s smooth surface. It twitched, oozing viscous pre-cum, a beacon that drew all eyes to it.

              At Kyrah’s insistence, Zheya had availed herself of the offer, taking a glass from a nearby serving slave and using her hand to pump it full, delighted to see how the human – twitching inside the crystal container, not even his gagged moans escaping into the cheerful atmosphere of the gathering – filled the glass nearly to overflowing with one single load.

              The taste was exquisite, the consistency just right, and she only just managed to keep the reserve of her station as she drank the creamy fluid down, Kyrah excitedly listing the alterations to his anatomy that had perfected his human form. Zheya admitted she hadn’t paid all that much attention to Kyrah’s enthusiastic ramblings, but had noted the most intriguing modifications made to the human’s physiology, specifically that he could be forced to an indefinite erection and that his balls filled up almost immediately post-orgasm.

              Other changes Zheya recalled was the human’s upgraded fortitude and lessened need to rest, Kyrah claiming he needed only some two hours in a somnolence-pod every two standard days to function normally. When asking how he was tended to, Kyrah said, pride lacing her words, that he was with her during the day cycle, and with her slave trainer during the night cycle. It sounded like the human had his hands full all cycle long, figuratively speaking.

              All of these things, and the memory of the taste had formed an idea in Zheya’s mind, something to take her troubled thoughts off the current course of the invasion.

              Which was why Kyrah stood before Zheya now, a glass of strong tava wine in one hand. The scientist, an Ar’a like Zheya, typically dominant leaders in the Empire, stood next to Zheya. Kyrah’s luminescent, slit violet eyes regarded the viewport that dominated the full wall opposite the entrance to Zheya’s personal dining hall aboard the Everlasting Fury.

              She was a beautiful enough woman, particularly for her age. Zheya did not know exactly how old, but she knew Kyrah was older than she, which meant “The Collector”, as she was called, was more than six centuries old, but unlikely more than seven-hundred and fifty standard years.

              Kyrah’s straight white hair swept up and over her head, cascading down her shoulders to her waist, dark bands and beads adorning several bunched strands. Not one for modesty, Kyrah had not dolled herself up in any meaningful when visiting the Axxchin commander. She wore a corset-cage that cupped her sizable breasts at their sides and pushed them up and together, the blue areolas pointing the same direction as her eyes. Elbow gloves that were such a dark shade of purple they were nearly black matched her thigh-high boots, both of a synthetic, skin-tight material similar to human latex. Black panties, the lines riding high over her wide hips, finished the unembellished outfit.

              Kyrah’s body was nothing like a scientist, and hadn’t her personality been so downright insufferable, Zheya knew she would find her quite attractive, possessing curves in all the right places. But Zheya hadn’t invited Kyrah to the flagship for pleasantries, even though that was how the meeting had thus far developed. It was time to reveal her ulterior motive.

              Zheya sat down her empty glass on the hovering round tabletop between them, next to the opened cerulean bottle of wine. Absently, she took notice of her hand, encased in crimson filament weave, a standard Torverian-pattern armour that was so skin-tight the wearer appeared naked when she wore it. Zheya could say many things about the outward lack of intelligence on the part of the Shix, but they knew war, and this piece of stretchy armour was proof of that.

              It was only too bad that the Torverian-pattern, as well as most patterns developed to protect against energy-based weaponry, was next to useless against the kinetic weapons favoured by the humans. It boggled the mind that such primitive technology was so effective against everything the Thelluloids fielded.

              Even against the close-up image of Earth on the viewport, Zheya could see her bloodred reflection in it. The ruby armour did nothing to hide the body underneath, so in a way she was no more clad than was Kyrah. Her big, pierced nipples poked their way through the weave as though it was not there, the tight fit such that even the crease between her legs was readily visible. All her curves, and her massive chest, seemed to press as much against the armour as the armour itself squeezed over her skin, and Zheya would be the first to admit she had no idea how a suit of armour could behave more like gossamer; devoid of rigidity.

              Zheya met the gaze of her reflection, her slit, gold eyes looking like they carried the body’s fatigue within them. The gold ring in her nose matched the sheen of the command disc hanging on her brow by delicate chains, and she had forgotten that her curving horns – the tips of which met just above her forehead – had been festooned that morning with gold bands that spiralled up their length by her human slave, Raquel.

              “So why don’t you tell me the reason why I was invited aboard your ship, High Executrix.” Kyrah took another sip of her tava wine, her expression impassive as she regarded the real-time image of the planet below the ship.

              Kyrah was no fool. It was something Zheya at times found she had to remind herself of. Still, she was the supreme authority in all the Axxchin Strike Force. She merely needed to remind the collector of this authority.

              “I have a favour to ask. Well, no, that was poorly phrased. I have a request to ask of you, one I expect you to comply with.”

              Kyrah’s expression remained neutral but her head turned to look sideways at Zheya, her aggressive, forward-sweeping horns that grew from her temples slicing the air. “My monetary contributions to this endeavour are not enough?”

              It was the standard allusion made by any sponsor. The fact that wealth had exchanged hands was, in their minds, more than enough to free them from any other obligation or responsibility. Unfortunately for Kyrah, Zheya did not share that belief. Power came from power itself, not from the illusions borne of mere material riches.

              “Your monetary contributions are irrelevant in this. You bought your place within Axxchin to be in this system and to have first pick of captives. I have held up my part of that bargain without palaver or remark. This is not the first expedition your particular personal preferences have benefited greatly from. However, as you are well aware, I am the only force commander willing to put up with your presence in a battle fleet. As such, for a prospective future spot within my good graces, I advise you to heed my request.”

              Kyrah sat her glass down on the floating surface with a clank as she turned around to face Zheya, folding her arms underneath her bare chest. “Name your request, then.” There was no mistaking the displeasure and suspicion in the scientist’s tone. Anyone else speaking to Zheya in that matter quickly found themselves lacking a tongue, at best.

              Her reasons were her own. She had no intension of spelling them out, although she was positive Kyrah would know just by the nature of her request. “Lend me your stallion.”

              A blade could have sliced clean through the silence in Zheya’s vast chamber at that point.

              “I beg your pardon?” Kyrah sounded incredulous. Meeting her gaze, Zheya could see anger and something akin to fear pass through the scientist’s violet eyes. Kyrah’s addiction was hardly a secret. She would merely have to fill up her stores before handing him over. And perhaps ration it.

              Zheya turned to face the scientist fully, not failing to notice Kyrah’s eyes that glided down the blue skin in the opening in Zheya’s armour that cut from her neck down to her pierced navel. She looked up again quickly enough, the displeased countenance fortifying.

              Zheya’s voice was calm, calculated. “Lend me your stallion for two standard weeks. Do this, and your spot on the next expedition is assured, no payment necessary. Refuse me, and the Goddess’ Hand is banished back to Thelluloid space, likely forever, as I know of no other commanders that are likely to accept any amount of your wealth.”

              In the quiet, Zheya could hear Kyrah gnash her teeth behind her tightly pressed lips.

              “Why?” she growled, again allowing a tone of voice Zheya was not all too keen on accepting. But she had to remind herself Kyrah was an addict, and like any addict she would respond irrationally when her source was threatened.

              “I do not have to explain myself to you,” Kyrah said, turning back to the viewport. “Either agree to my request, or take your ship back home. It will be without an escort; I require all warships to remain.”

              Kyrah’s answer was several anguishing moments in coming. In her peripheral vision, the High Executrix could see the scientist’s hands clench over and over, her jaw on the cusp of quivering.

              “Just tell me why.” Her voice was barely more than a whisper.

              Methodically and keeping her head forward, Zheya grabbed the slender neck of the cerulean wine bottle and filled her glass, not spilling a single drop. Setting the bottle down, she hooked a finger over the rim of her glass, pulling it closer so that she might pick it up without looking.

              “Since it is you, I will say this much,” Zheya said without emotion, swallowing some of the ochre tava wine as though illustrating something. “You allowed me a taste of your new stallion’s product at your revelry, I am sure you remember. I liked it. I want more. And I want to squeeze it out myself.”

              She could almost feel Kyrah’s panting breath against her armour-clad skin. It seemed the scientist was close to panicking.

              “Two standard weeks.” Zheya held out the two first fingers of her glass-laden hand, the other three keeping a firm grip on the wine. “I will extract what I can during that time. My craving is far from as… acute as yours, so what I am able to bottle should last me a long, long time. You ought to be flattered I even make this request of you.”

              At length Kyrah placed her clenched fists on the hovering tabletop, leaning menacingly towards Zheya. This had Zheya turn her head to look sideways at Kyrah, immediately noticing the war playing out across the collector’s violet eyes.

              Kyrah set her jaw, evidently fought to keep her voice even. “It is not really a request though, is it, High Executrix?”

              Again, there was an insolent tone in her, and for the briefest of moments, Zheya considered striking Zheya down and seizing her assets simply to prove a point. The impulse departed as quickly as it had arrived.

              Kyrah voided her glass, set it down with a firm bang. “No. It is not.”

High Executrix Zheya had stayed up through the night cycle to coordinate operations on the surface of the wearisome planet below. From her command throne on the Everlasting Fury’s bridge, she was wired to her combat information centre via the conn circlet pressing around her head, with which she personally oversaw her ship’s batteries and sizable contingent of voidcraft.

              While the invasion was in tatters, she was abyss-bent on conducting as efficient a retreat from Earth as was possible.

              Retreat.

              The word left a taste in her mouth that warped her expression. Her sixteenth conquest devolving into the single biggest embarrassment of her career, and as if to hammer that painful fact home she had seen – through the viewports in front of the massive helm on the ship’s bridge – the strike cruiser Forge of Tarash break in half where a human rail-shell punched through her amidships, causing cataclysmic reactor damage that scattered the once venerable craft in a sphere of debris.

              Once the cycle’s operations drew to a close, Zheya handed the conn to her XO and excused herself when a report from the port side hangar chief communicated the arrival of a shuttle from the Goddess’ Hand.

              It was perfect timing. Zheya was in need of a distraction.

              In one of the many wide corridors of the hive-like interior of the Everlasting Fury, Zheya intercepted the deckhands bringing the cargo to her personal quarters. The two female, yellow-skinned Jontlyr – only barely more than slaves – pushed the white transport sarcophagus in front of them, the heavy casket sliding effortlessly along on the suspenders holding it a good meter above the immaculately clean metal decking. Upon seeing the High Executrix approach, the Jontlyr, a humanoid species subjugated by the Thelluloids millennia ago, brought the sarcophagus to a halt and dropped to their knees, pressing their hairless heads to the floor.

              Saying nothing, Zheya stepped next to the sarcophagus, peering into the clear, glass lid at the contents, allowing herself a brief smile with one side of her mouth.

              Kyrah’s most prized possession – whether she would openly admit it or not – lay within, pressed down on the padded interior surface by six thick black polymer straps that held his body from his forehead down to his ankles. A wide blindfold of similar material blinded him, a thick purple sphere in his mouth keeping him silent. He was naked but for the thick metal collar around his neck, the hoop at the front held by two thinner straps anchored to the sarcophagus’s sides.

              Zheya hovered her palm just over the centre of the glass lid, and instantaneously the captive’s multicoloured biometric data blossomed across the surface, giving it the appearance of a data-screen as opposed to a cover.

              The human’s heart rate was elevated, the churning brainwave patterns indicating a high level of cognitive activity. He was anxious and fearful, a state exacerbated by the fact that he was blinded and deaf to the world outside the sarcophagus.

              Zheya clasped her hands behind her back, turned her head to look down at the deckhands.

              “Proceed”, she commanded, the two menials wearing only tight grey coveralls springing to their feet to push their charge forward, the High Executrix falling in behind them, following towards her apartments.

              A short walk and a longer flash-tram ride later the two Jontlyr girls deposited the transport sarcophagus inside the sparsely furnished foyer connecting the various rooms of the High Executrix’s apartments. Zheya dismissed them with a flick of her wrist, and they hurriedly made themselves scarce after bowing deferentially.

              The sliding door directly opposite the main entrance to the foyer slid open, revealing Zheya’s most recent, personal acquisition.

              Raquel, her human slave, came sauntering towards Zheya, eyes cast down, hands held at her sides. With only the pitter patter of her naked feet crossing the cold steel deck, Raquel came in front of Zheya. Such a tiny thing, the High Executrix again mused. Even standing up the top of her head was barely level with the bottom slope of Zheya’s sizable breasts.

              “Welcome home, mistress.” The human’s voice was without emotion, her brown eyes looking down, as she went to her knees. Sitting back on her heels, the naked human pushed her pierced chest out and locked her hands behind her back, her brown curls settling around her shoulders. A dull teal light pulsed leisurely in the middle of the thick collar around her neck, and she intimately knew that unless she displeased her owner, the collar would not trouble her.

              Despite the subservient front, Zheya knew her broken act was just that. An act. Whenever she looked right at Zheya, she could see the hate and defiance swim in the back of them, and her constant slips in decorum that had her double over on the deck with the pain from the collar was a source of endless amusement for Zheya. She preferred the feisty ones; they were endlessly more entertaining than the wholly broken.

              “Did Eyre’s machine arrive?” Zheya walked past her tan slave and the transport sarcophagus, moving towards the closed door to her left in the square antechamber.

              Broken or not Raquel was still sufficiently domesticated that she immediately fell in behind her mistress. “Yes mistress. Supreme Technocrat Eyre says she has perfected the prototype she has been testing for the past month on Cody – I mean Subject One – and that what she has delivered was manufactured personally for you. I had the Supreme Technocrat’s slaves install it in your entertainment room as you requested.”

              Zheya merely nodded. “Unless you give me cause to change my mind, you have earned the privilege of sleeping in bed tonight, instead of the pit.”

              The slave’s reply was a moment in coming. “Thank you, mistress.”

              The door slid open into the wall, the biometric scanner recognizing Zheya as she approached. The dark room beyond brightened as glowlamps built into the ceiling lit, casting their sterile luminosity upon Zheya’s collection of intricate, sophisticated equipment with which she entertained herself.

              Stepping inside with Raquel in tow, Zheya could almost sense her slave’s gaze glide to the closed hatch to their left – the pit – her rebellious mind likely debating whether or not she would remain in Zheya’s good graces until the night cycle now that she had been offered to share the High Executrix’s bed.

              Lips pursed in a fleeting smile, Zheya found she hoped the slave’s obstinate side would resurface just to have the excuse to lock Raquel down there together with something slithering and relentless to keep her company through the night.

              “Screen on,” Zheya said to the computer that permeated everywhere in her apartments, darkening the featureless far wall of the rectangular chamber as it switched on. “Show port panorama.”

              The image seamlessly switched from black to the point of view of the monitoring oculus close to the prow of the Everlasting fury, showing the ship’s point of view from the port side, away from the planet. Several large Thelluloid warships drifted through the void next to the flagship, the vessels’ tremendous velocities masked as they matched the flagship’s. It eased Zheya’s state of mind to see them.

              In front of the screen stood the delivery from the Supreme Technocrat’s workshop, an amalgamation of cables and biotech genius. The device, looking like nothing as much as a huge clump of purplish flesh, had tendrils connecting to power slots in the floor and ceiling. A grotesque, smaller growth of half-living tissue and metals hung down from the ceiling next to it, from which protruded a square viewing screen.

              It was nigh imperceptible, but the largest mass of Eyre’s magnificent machine pulsed and writhed underneath the surface, and putting a hand on it, she could feel – even through the flexible armoured skin – that it was warm like a body.

              Invisible pores oozed a viscous, clear substance over the fleshy exterior, and in several places Zheya saw the skin of the machine tighten into puckered holes. The only things on it that were wholly inorganic – apart from the exposed cables – were seven black polymer straps – for the throat, wrists, thighs and ankles – which hung limp over the purple flesh.

              “What a brilliant mind Eyre possesses,” she commented to no one in particular, her mind’s eye seeing the recorded imagery of the Supreme Technocrat using the nigh identical prototype on her first and only human slave, a male whom she referred to as “Subject One”. Zheya had gathered from Raquel that she and Subject One had been captured together and that they knew one another, but the High Executrix’s interest in their acquaintance ceased there.

              She turned to Raquel, seeing the girl had wisely lowered to her knees, chest out and head up, even if her defiant eyes remained cast down. “Bring the sarcophagus here.”

              “Yes, mistress,” she said without attitude, and returned to the foyer to do her owner’s bidding. 

It was hard to gauge how long it had been since goddess Ak’vel had sealed him in the sarcophagus. Several hours, surely. Kayven had seen many prisoners aboard the Goddess’ Hand transported in one of the caskets he was now sealed in, and he had silently prayed he would never have to experience its interior.

              Losing his perception of time was one thing that drove him near madness, but it worse that the interior atmosphere of the transport sarcophagus made it impossible to sense what was happening outside. If he hadn’t been blindfolded, he would at least have known when he was moving and when he was stationary, but as it was, he was only barely able to sense what he assumed were near ninety-degree turns when his body was ever so slightly pulled either to the left or right.

              Blind, gagged and securely held by tight straps from head to ankles, he had little choice but to wait until someone opened the lid, left only with the ability to wiggle toes and fingers as he vainly tried to sense if he was being transported or merely waiting. The dark, the helplessness and the feeling of tight latex-like straps squeezing him all over conjured sensory recollections and mental images of the selection trials he had voluntarily subjected himself to when he had attempted to become a soldier in the Independent Scandian Assault Regiment a couple of years ago.

His current predicament made him remember a very narrow concrete tunnel he’d had to crawl through, the passageway barely wide enough to fit him in his bulky gear. He remembered squeezing through, only able to push himself forward with his toes and drag himself with his fingers, the constricting concrete all around him feeling as though it wanted to crush him, his rifle being pulled underneath him by the strap. That the tunnel was in a river and thus half-filled with water had not helped matters, as he had had to also keep at least his nose above the surface as he wormed his way through the ten-meter test.

              Much as he disliked the claustrophobic sensations the transport sarcophagus’ interior forced upon him, almost making him feel the cold water of that old concrete tunnel wash across his naked skin, he fretted more about his destination.

Mistress Kyrah had been acting strange since she returned from whatever ship she had visited. It had been about four months since his capture – Kyrah’s slave trainer, the Shix named Ak’vel, enjoyed keeping him appraised of how long he had been enslaved – and despite not attempting to, he had gotten to know the idiosyncrasies and personalities of his alien captors quite well in that time. Kyrah had clearly been agitated, her fingers spasming, forcing her to put one hand over the other as she tried hiding her distress.

              The previous day and night aboard the Goddess’ Hand had been a trial to say the least. He was to be lent to another for two full weeks, she had said, like he was nothing but a book or a tool to be passed across a neighbour’s fence. Because of this, she then informed, she needed to stock up on his seed to last her for the duration.

              The way she had said it was so out of character for her, sounded borderline forced. A part of him wanted to say that surely, she had enough of his product in storage to last her a full standard month, even with her ravenous consumption, but he dared not comment on it. He had asked to whom he was being sent, and had been rewarded with Ak’vel’s powerful fingers painfully gripping the hair on the back of his head as she violently pressed his body to the deck. Goddess Ak’vel – she hadn’t said it out loud but Kayven knew the appellation “goddess” was something she forced him to call her for her own amusement – reminded him he was not to ask questions, that his only job was to do as mistress Kyrah commanded. Suddenly seized by fear, he merely nodded against the cold steel as best he could with Ak’vel’s iron grip on his head.

              Ak’vel, nearly twice as big as Kayven, had dragged him off and strapped him to what his experiences judged to be Kyrah’s most powerful milker, which had been left on him all through the cycle until Ak’vel returned with the transport sarcophagus. At her return Kayven was well past the point of delirium, his cock and balls ablaze with overstimulated ache. He had been put through the wringer many times before following his enslavement, but nothing before had been quite as relentless as this. He hadn’t gotten a single break, and though he was too out of it to properly guess, he was sure the intense milking had squeezed half a milk truck of semen out of his “improved” body.

              It had surely felt like that much.

              It was ridiculous how much cum his body produced after his physiology had been tampered with by the aliens. In fact, unless he was thoroughly drained at least once during the day cycle and once during the night cycle, his overproducing body caused him pain once his production overwhelmed his storage.

              When the milker was mercifully disconnected, Ak’vel unceremoniously shoved a protein-hydration pellet into his mouth and made him swallow, then set about restraining him in the sarcophagus. Before he knew it, before he had recovered, the blindfold was on and the lid sealed, separating him from the outside world.

              His apprehensive musing came to an abrupt end when a hiss filled the small chamber he occupied. It was the heralding of the lid opening, exchanging the recycled air in his little casket with the fresher – albeit still recycled – air of whatever room he was in.

              “What do those tattoos mean?” a female voice said. It was melodic and somewhat pleasing in his ears.

              After a moment, another woman responded. “I’m not sure, mistress. I mean, I recognize the acronym ISAR; it stands for Independent Scandian Assault Regiment. It is, or was, a mechanized military unit from the north, above the Arctic circle.”

              Was the second voice that of a human? There was a certain Hispanic flare to the accent. They were talking about the “knife-wolf” on his left pectoral, the proud emblem of ISAR.

              “Makes sense that he was a soldier. I doubt anyone with lesser fortitude could survive Kyrah’s regimen.”

              Kayven didn’t know why, but the words sent a chill through him.

              “Take his blindfold off, undo his straps,” the first voice said, and there was no mistaking the command in the pleasant-sounding voice.

              Kayven felt hands – smaller hands than he was accustomed to – reach for the blindfold on both sides of his head. With zero delicacy it was torn off, the light suddenly stabbing into his eyes.

              Grunting, the act of making a sound once more notifying him of the fat ball-gag wrenching his mouth open, his eyes started adjusting to the glow, making him aware of two shapes standing over him, one much taller than the other.

              As his vision cleared, he saw, as he had supposed, a human woman, an obvious Latina with dark brown hair and eyes. He could only see her from the shoulders up, but the exposed skin of them and the arms reaching into the sarcophagus led him to assume she might be naked, and the thick pain-collar around her neck was proof enough of her station.

              Next to her was an imposing female Ar’a, glad in what looked to be a skin-tight red bodysuit cut down her front, revealing the full cleavage of her very large chest. She was far taller than the human next to her, glaring down at him with frightful, yellow eyes and the faintest hint of a smirk playing on her full, purple lips. Her sharp-tipped horns were adorned with gold bands, and she had a gold disc on her forehead, a symbol Kayven knew spoke of high standing. In fact, he had never seen a command disc of golden colour before.

              He then noticed the strap on his head loosening, no longer pressing it down. The girl loosened of all the straps in turn, working her way down his body. She had to stretch to reach inside the sarcophagus, almost hanging by her armpits on the metallic edge. One by one the six straps were undone, allowing him the skill of motion once more.

              “Climb out of the sarcophagus, slave,” the Ar’a commanded, her countenance as calm as her voice, but Kayven knew the tone well enough to comply immediately.

              His body moved somewhat stiffly after his incarceration in the casket, and he could still feel the smothering pressure of the straps on his skin – and the lingering tingles of his raw manhood. He slung an arm and a leg over the sides of the sarcophagus and very gracelessly dropped to the ground. He misjudged how high in the air the suspensors held the sarcophagus, and he only barely managed to keep his legs underneath him.

              “Take out his gag,” the Ar’a said to the human, then added, “And the collar. It marks him as Kyrah’s. For now, he belongs to me.”

              Kayven didn’t in the slightest like the insinuations in her words. With a wash, Kyrah’s own words to him from before the nigh unending milking session of the previous cycle rang in his mind, like a toll of warning: “You belong to me, Kayven.”

He belonged to Kyrah, and only Kyrah.

              Why would he think that? Wasn’t he an involuntary slave?

              The girl – naked, he now saw, wearing only the collar and had studs in her nipples – walked around him. As indelicately as she had freed him from the sarcophagus, she pressed her hand to the strap of the gag and the collar, her biometrics unlatching both. Kayven was astonished to see a slave bestowed with the powers to do that. None of the beings in Kyrah’s collection could.

              The collar clattered to the decking next to his feet, only barely missing his toes. The gag only came out when he pushed it out with his tongue, and upon being able to close his mouth did he notice how sore and tired his jaw was.

              “Take the sarcophagus outside my apartments, then see to your duties,” said the Ar’a to the slave, still looking at Kayven. “When I am done, I expect you to kneel ready before my bed.”

The human gave a forced response of compliance and shut the lid, pushing the coffin outside the sliding door, the suspensors allowing her to move it without having to worry about its weight.

              Kayven dared not move. He stood still, hands down his sides, eyes ahead. He tried not looking at anything in particular, but the Ar’a was in front of him, and he could not help but take in her curvaceous form underneath her skin-tight suit. It was so body-hugging he could see the studs in her nipples underneath, could even see the ring of her areolas, not to mention the dells and ridges of individual muscles.

              Keeping his eyes front, he could not help noticing the fine chain hanging from a ring piercing her navel. She looked to be a bit taller than Kyrah, and he judged the top of his head was barely level with the uppermost slopes of her big tits.

              “Look at me, slave,” the voice commanded. It took a moment for Kayven to react, as if to remind himself that whatever his captors had done to him could make him understand and speak their language, as though they were in fact speaking his.

              Swallowing, he snapped his eyes up at her. Her slender face, framed by purple bangs was quite attractive, but she had the same hard quality in her yellow eyes that did Kyrah, a quality that inspired fear as opposed to lust. When she inhaled, he noticed the small ring in her right nostril.

              Whether or not she was considering his naked form or something else, whether or not his presence pleased her, he did not know. Her expression was unreadable, her eyes possessing of a timeless quality that was difficult to interpret.

              “For the next two standard weeks, you are mine. I am High Executrix Zheya, commander of this fleet.” She began. “You are to produce for me. Do a good job and your time here will be a nice break from Kyrah’s machinations. Vex me and your owner’s merciless regime will seem a pleasant life by comparison.”

              Swallowing, Kayven realized he had no problems believing her. His knees felt weak at being in her presence. Just hearing the name sent a shiver of dread from his spine out to every individual digit. He had never before met the High Executrix, but knew her reputation well. She was the supreme commander of the force invading Earth. As High Executrix, the only positions above her in the Thelluloid Empire were the Emperors and Empresses of the Jilkirin Council, the eighteen representatives – six from each Thelluloid race – whose authority across the Empire was absolute.

              The power wielded by the Jilkirin Council was, as explained by Kyrah, likely the most supreme in the galaxy, and the High Executrixes and Executors were but a hair’s width away from having the same might. And here Kayven was, now the property of a High Executrix for two weeks. He doubted that boded well for him. He didn’t question why she wanted him, specifically. It hardly mattered. He was just cattle to these aliens. He intimately knew his mistress’ addiction to his cum, and goddess Ak’vel enjoyed it as well, though to a far lesser extent than Kyrah. And now he was in the clutches of the head of the alien invasion force because she wanted his cum. It was too bizarre to even consider attempting to arrive at a logical reason for it.

              “I am not your mistress, so if I deign that you may speak you will address me as High Executrix. Do you understand, slave?”

              He answered quicker than he knew he was capable. “Yes, High Executrix.”

              What else could he say?
              Zheya pointed. Following her red-clad finger, his eyes landed on an unsightly mass of purplish skin, something fleshy that subtly writhed. He had seen Thelluloid biotech before and recognized the general design, but he had no idea what it was. The cables that sprouted out of and went back inside along the top and back, as well as the vaguely arterial-looking tubes spreading on the floor and connecting to something in the ceiling pulsed more visibly. The entire contraption made him want to quiver.

              “Lay on it,” the High Executrix commanded.

              Feeling his breath come out ragged, Kayven drew an equally quivering inhale and walked over to the thing. It was flat on the side facing him, presenting something like a forty-degree angled surface, but the sides and top were bulging, veiny, asymmetrical. He saw dark straps hanging from the flat side, and the vision made a palpable sense of doom detonate in his mind.

              Apprehensive as he was about the contraption, as Kayven approached, his eyes flicked to the viewscreen behind it – he forced himself not to look at the other strange devices in the room, their mere silhouettes in his peripheral vision told him they were all nefarious in looks and function – where nearly a dozen Thelluloid warships drifted in formation. He could see voidcraft zipping between like flies among bulls, intermittent bright shafts of illumination spearing towards what he assumed was Earth somewhere down to the left outside the screen’s perspective.

              Once in front of the gently pulsating mass, he turned around, knowing there was no point fighting the inevitable. He was surprised to see Zheya tower right in front of him. She pushed him against the surface – its warmth somewhat unsettling – and immediately set about fixing the latex-like straps on him. Within seconds his throat, both wrists, both thighs and both ankles pressed him against the clump, his legs spread, and his sense of dread elevated to new heights at feeling the soft throbbing of it against his skin.

              “Open your mouth,” demanded the High Executrix.

              Swallowing anew, he did as he was asked, fighting to keep his eyes forward, which incidentally landed them square in Zheya’s cleavage.

              Soon as his mouth was open, Zheya reached forward – her tits nearly pushing into his face – and did something on the other side of the machine. With a sudden motion, a cylinder budded from the right side of his head, underneath his ear, and raced over his face. It was like a half metal, half fleshy worm that dragged itself across his face, stretching over his mouth. As soon as the tip had slid down his left cheek and anchored itself on that side of its head, the half-living rope tightened, pushing Kayven’s teeth apart and forcing itself in, pressing against the sides of his mouth.

              Kayven’s eyes were wide as saucers. It had happened in barely a second, like an automatic seat-belt whipping into position. The purple cylinder, which was semi-hard like biting on a leather rod, efficiently gagged him and kept his head in place, the latter function redundant because of the strap across his throat.

              The High Executrix moved to stand on his left side, her nipples level with Kayven’s eyes, making him realize the contraption had risen him higher up from the floor. He couldn’t move his head, but as fear had seized control of his eyes, he no longer tried to keep them level, instead watching frightfully up at his new captor.

              “Now, then,” the High Executrix said in a voice barely more than a whisper, as though talking to herself. “Let’s have a taste.”

              She must have done something, for suddenly a lot of things were happening all at once on Kayven’s body.

              With a surprised whine, he felt something crawl on his skin. Unable to move his head, his eyes darted as well as they were able trying to see, but the angle of his body kept it outside his vision, and not seeing what was creeping across his naked form was horrifyingly disconcerting.

               Something long, warm, soft yet firm slithered over his limbs, leaving wet trails, coiling around his legs and arms, tightening. It felt like whatever it was – his mind went to tentacles, being unfortunately familiar with such things – came out of the fleshy contraption he was bound to, pushing up at him, grabbing his limbs as they corkscrewed around them.

               Whimpering, his body shaking, he felt the soft-yet-firm tentacles tug at him, pull him tighter against the surface of the device, excreting something warm that ran down his body like oil, mixing with his sweat.

              With a yelp he felt something brush against his temple, then he saw it as it waggled in front of his eyes. It was definitely a tentacle, about the same shade of purple as the thing he was strapped to, an eager tapered tip wiggling in front on his face. It lay itself across his forehead, being joined by more from both sides, caressing his head and hair, pushing it down, trying to hold it still as though the gag and binding around his throat weren’t up to the task.

              He had seen the viscous clear substance drip from pores all over the tentacle, and now he felt the warm slickness run over his forehead and cheeks to collect in the grooves on his cheeks where the tubular gag pressed into his face.

              Feeling something warm tickle his nipples, he groaned weakly as he felt light suction, then a more insistent tugging.

All he could see was High Executrix Zheya, whose sinister presence dominated his field of view to his left. She merely watched; her eyes wide with apparent delight. To his right, the dark block hung from the ceiling.

He heard a sound to his left, down by his shoulder, like computational beeps coming from beneath a watery surface. As the tentacles seemed to be content with their grip on his limbs and head – on the suckling on his nipples – he felt new movement on his left arm, felt something cool brush against his shoulder.

Another tentacle with a gaping mouth came slinking past his vision as something began uncoiling close to his shoulder, which he supposed was the rest of it stretching out. It looked to be the same girth and colour as the tentacles pressing and rubbing on his forehead, the puckered end drooling thick globs of saliva that poured onto his chest. He had but a second to see within its wet orifice, barely catching glimpses of fleshy bumps and ridges.

              With rapid breaths as the amounts of tentacle slobber running over his abdomen and limbs became excessive, he tightened in renewed apprehension as he the mouthed tentacle descended down past his field of view, feeling it slide down his left arm and across his middle, questing its way between his legs.

              He shuddered a groan when the tip brushed against his limp cock, and once again when he felt his tip being sucked into the very wet, warm mouth.

              Inch by inch his flaccid member was enveloped in slick warmth. It felt like being taken deep by a knowledgeable mouth and throat, but tighter, more intense. It made him groan, made his helpless manhood fill with blood, expanding inside the constricting canal, making tiny knobs inside drag over his hardening shaft.

              It felt good. He let out a breathy moan, his eyes wide, his toes curling. He was immediately reminded of Kyrah’s collection of cock-milkers which she enjoyed using on him frequently – yesterday at the latest – but the tentacle felt far more like an actual mouth compared to a mechanical imitation.

              It both grossed him out and thrilled him with the powerful sensations, the latter because the tentacle sucking on him clearly knew what it was doing, the former because he was pretty sure whatever intelligence drove it was not fully artificial.

              He sighed another loud moan when his cock was fully erect inside the tight tentacle, his body loving the sensations that his mind tried to convince him were reprehensible. There was no tongue inside the tentacle’s mouth but the textured interior, gliding on a small waterfall’s amount of viscid drool, didn’t need one to make him quiver. Suction tugged at him – like the smaller tentacles suckling his nipples – and the tentacle pulsed from the tip up, giving the sensation of stroking him up and down despite the mouth being firmly locked around the base of his member.

              He made sounds that ashamed him, his body tense in his restraints. Once more he his eyes flicked up to the leering face of his captor, who pulled her lower lip through her teeth, eyes aimed between his legs.

              It was no way he would be able to resist for long, the intense sensations felt too good. Impossibly it felt like being inside a dozen mouths all at once, every single one of them knowing all too well how to push his buttons, which spots to focus on. As the tentacle throbbed along his length and the soft textured interior squeezed him, he swore he felt individual sections within churn around the rim of his cockhead, around the glans, pressing against the sensitive underside, pulling all along the length of his shaft. How something obviously organic could move like its interior was made up of separate sections was beyond his understanding, but then it was not the first time his body had been toyed with by cunning Thelluloid technology that defied his human reason.

              With a long, loud shriek of sudden surprise, his eyes wide as discs, he felt his testicles being sucked. It felt like two mouths had seized him by a ball each, pulling them inside like whores eager to please, tugging them apart. The sucking was potent, forceful, but not enough to hurt. Unfortunately for him, with the added sensitivity forced on his body by Kyrah’s modifications, the added stimulation of mouths on his spheres tripled his pace towards orgasm. Fists clenched, he could do nothing but feel the drooling mouths suck him all over – nipples, dick and balls – like a harem of oral experts desperate to give him release.

              Kayven’s body was far from accustomed to the merciless sucking assault when he felt something wet brush against his anus, flexing whatever muscles weren’t already rigid as a nervous moan escaped him, followed by another of pure pleasure at the sensations shooting through his body from his cock. The careful probing quickly changed to intrusion as he felt that something slip inside him, the smooth, wet surface of what he supposed was yet another tentacle pushing past his sphincter.

              By now Kayven was used to having things forcibly shoved into his ass, but because it was unexpected it still had him clench in a useless attempt to keep the slick intruder out, and the pressure inside his colon was always uncomfortable at first. However, the intense stimulation on his cock and balls, now with the added prodding against his prostate, left him no chance where already he had been without.

              He screamed into the gag, eyes clenched shut so tight his entire face contorted, teeth biting into the tentacle-gag, his body shuddering in their bonds as the tentacles around his limbs tightened their wet grip as if afraid he was going to get away from them. The violent eruption of the orgasm blinded him with pleasure so potent his soul momentarily left his body, as though he could see himself from above shaking on the contraption, spewing his seed inside the tight, sucking tentacle that ramped up the milking pulsations as though desperate to wring out every single drop.

              The tentacle latched onto the base of his cock felt like it was both stroking, churning, spinning and vibrating, working him with such impossible perfection that surely every cell along his dick from base to tip was being massaged in ways no hands or mouths or standard orifices could ever hope to match. It was maddening pleasure, rubbing and sliding so masterfully that the long orgasm seemed never to end, was so potent he barely knew he was screaming loud and hard. It didn’t help lessen the stimulation that his balls were being so expertly slurped with just the right pressure, each sphere held in a warm, almost loving mouth, his nipples still tickled, his prostate still rubbed.

              He was taken so high into toe-curling bliss that it took several moments before his body realized he wasn’t cumming anymore, his lungs heaving for breath, pulling air greedily with quick pulls. He felt sweaty all over, the feeling exacerbated by the extreme amounts of viscous slime all over him, so much he felt it drip off him in places.

              When his eyes rolled back down out of his skull, his vision struggled to focus. When it finally did, it was to see High Executrix Zheya look at him with wide, callous eyes, a downright sinister smirk etched on her features. Huffing, not knowing quite where he was, his eyes drifted down, noticing the block hanging in front of him now displaying a strange view.

              As the aftershocks of the orgasm still tingled all over, it took him several seconds to understand what he was looking at, for he had no idea what technology rendered the image. Next to Thelluloid script he was able to read thanks to the same implant that allowed him to understand and speak their language, his cock and balls were displayed inside the tentacles that sucked ravenously on them. He could also see the thick tentacle in his ass pressing against his prostate.

              It was not an x-ray projection, rather it looked like he was seeing through the purple skin of the tentacles to view what was inside them – or through his own ass to see the appendage inside it – seeing how their interiors worked him all over, wanting more.

              As control of his senses returned to him, he noticed how the mouths on him were still sucking with something akin to passion, the wriggling in his ass still coaxing his prostate. The hypersensitive post-orgasmic torture was something goddess Ak’vel had taught him to “just deal with”, because it was not going to stop. Although trained to better cope with the far-too-intense stimulation forced through every fibre of his body from his raw cock, it still made him shake and tremble in his restraints as gasps and groans escaped his throat.

              Biting down hard on the gag, sweating, the tentacles on his head and limbs wriggling, Kayven fought to control his breathing. His fingernails dug into his palms but he barely noticed, too focused on weathering the first minute of post-orgasm torture, it being the worst before the feeling became easier to weather.

              Unfortunately for him, the appendage pitilessly working his straining member felt a step up from Kyrah’s milking machines. Having taken one orgasm from him seemed to awaken something within it, like a shark sensing blood. The tentacle on his cock, those on his balls and nipples and the wiggling one in his ass suddenly increased their efforts, as though shifting gears, moving from a warmup to proper function.

              Piston pumping started in his ass, the slick appendage within fucking with renewed vigour, making sure to push and prod long strokes against his prostate in both directions. Tongues in the mouths trapping his balls began circling them. Every sensation on his cock – the throbbing, stroking, pulsing, sucking, rubbing, massaging – seemed to double in intensity like a switch had been flicked.

              Ululating screams of hypersensitivity hardened every flexed muscle to steel, and before that first minute was up, Kayven came again, powerless to stop it from happening, the sensation wrenched from him like pulling away a velcro patch. He wanted to thrash his head and limbs in every direction, wanted to run away, unable to do anything but lie still and take it, his poor cock spasming more cum into the ravenous, tight hole that worked him as though the fate of the universe depended on it, making him orgasm again mid-climax, making mountains of refractory-periods smash atop him, blinding him with hypersensitive bliss that took his breath from him.

              He was deaf to his own pitiful screams.

It was all Zheya could do not to mount him then and there. The moistness inside her armour had turned to a flood. She saw now why Kyrah was so taken with this sort of thing. The responses were absolutely delightful, so incredibly lewd. She had to actively fight her own mind lest she strip off her armour, knead her yearning tits and ride the slave for the rest of the cycle.

              The little human wanted so badly to get away but had no choice but to lie there as the machine harvested his seed. By his reactions, starting at the first orgasm, it seemed Supreme Technocrat Eyre had not exaggerated when she claimed her new creation was the ultimate tool for draining cocks. And it was merely running at thirty-three percent capacity. Zheya was so curious to see how the human would react when it hit a hundred, but remembered well Eyre’s warning that the machine had to go through its stages in sequence. Trying to rush the process would, she had said with a serious tone, be fatal. It had to build the percentages, starting at ten, to let the subject’s body be acclimatised to the supreme stimulations. Otherwise, cardiac arrest would occur “within seconds”.

              What’s more, the Supreme Technocrat had said with poorly disguised pride, the new and improved stimulants the machine fed anally to the subject would keep it awake and receptive for as long as Zheya wished. As long as the machine was allowed to whir up to a hundred percent by itself, the subject could be kept on it indefinitely, kept awake and healthy to have his seed reaped over and over. Thanks to the modifications done to his body, there was no need to worry about him maintaining his erection. As long as his cock was stimulated it would not be capable of going flaccid, and the machine would not relent until the High Executrix switched it off.

              Zheya could not stifle the smile. She wondered how much Kyrah would pay for technology such as this. There was no way the mistress of the Goddess’ Hand possessed anything remotely like it. Eyre’s genius had been on full display when she had had the idea to turn a mindless, female Argniksk’s body into a machine. These volatile, tentacled creatures’ hunger for organic excretions were legendary, and marrying that ravenous hunger with computer parts and software that would ensure the now half organic, half mechanical brain was never satiated was pure brilliance on Eyre’s part.

              After the boy’s first climax, a row of crystal cylinders had sprouted out of the machine’s spine, the one at the top starting to fill up with the human’s thick seed. Zheya put her armoured hand on it, eying the struggling human as she bit her lip. When the cylinder was full and more cum began pumping into the next cylinder in the line – still with the product of his first orgasm – Zheya snapped off the one she was gripping. It released without resistance, the bottom sealing shut when the connection to the machine was broken.

              Zheya put the bottom against her mouth, and when the nanotech within sensed the tissue of her lips, it rotated open, depositing the thick cream onto her tongue. The High Executrix voided the cylinder, gulping it down as the human came again, a new tube growing from the machine to replace the one she had taken.

              She moaned with delight. His seed tasted better than she had remembered. It was all she could do not to have a small orgasm of her own as she rolled his product in her mouth, savouring the salty batter, sighing inwardly at the rich texture.

              She tossed the cylinder behind her, snapping off the next full one from the machine, taking it all in two swallows. Her head lolled back as she smacked her lips, letting out a contented sigh at his aftertaste.

              Human cum tasted better than any she could recall. If there had been any lingering doubts, she was positive she had made the right decision in borrowing this one from Kyrah to fill up her own stores. Looking down at him, it was amusing to see and hear his little body fight against what it could not hope to escape.

She hadn’t anticipated how fun it was to watch him squirm, to hear his helpless cries. She had planned to start the machine and have a taste of his fresh squeeze then leave him to his business, but she found herself watching him, enthralled. The more he screamed, the more he was forced to orgasm, the deeper into her peculiar trance she fell.

Already all the cylinders on the top of the machine were full, but that was of no concern as Zheya knew his excess product would be pumped through one of the tubes running up into the ceiling to be deposited into a vat in storage.

Hearing him struggle as the machine amped up to forty-five percent capacity of sucking him, Zheya realized she was rooted to the spot, too engaged in watching and listening as the machine forced orgasm after orgasm from his little body that was coated in sweat and slobber.

She was wondering, after the two standards weeks were over, if she would keep him.