“So fresh, so tight,” is the old one’s verdict. His voice is husky, as though he’s smoked narcotic weed all his life. He’s not much of a man, but he’s superior enough to me to take me anyway. How can this be allowed? I was a free citizen only hours earlier, asleep in my bunk. Now I’m a captive of the Slavers, stripped, raped, and degraded.
The old one rams against my buttocks, making me shriek as he climaxes. It feels as though there’s a rod probing deep into my bowels. And the pain from when he withdraws and is gone is almost as bad.
The youngest one, acne-covered, gangly and barely out of his adolescence, perhaps is the lowest status, and thus must use me last. It’s a measure of how low I’ve fallen in a such a short time that it’s a relief that this one wants to rape me vaginally. His penis is hideous to me – veined and ugly, rearing like an eyeless worm from an untidy nest of pubic hair. But it’s as thin as he is, so compared to the giant Corrick, there’s relatively little pain from the penetration.
Unfortunately, one of his comrades notices this.
“Look at her – she can barely feel your tiny dick, Seegar,” the unwashed one gloats.
This angers the male called Seegar. It seems there is a type of male for whom rape for him is not just sexual gratification. He wants to defeat me. So Seegar begins to slap me even more savagely across my breasts, swinging his arm backwards and forward like some living pendulum. My arms are out at my sides, pinned down against the mattress by the old one and the unwashed one, so there’s not the least thing I can do to protect myself from this abuse. It’s as bad as being punched, each blow sending my senses reeling, over and over.
“Please don’t, it hurts!” I beg him, hoping that some show of humility will soothe his wounded pride.
“That’s right, bitch, fear me!” Seegar crows, but the force behind his blows does seem to reduce. I believe my pleading has had another effect when he withdraws suddenly. For a hopeful moment I think I’ve aroused him to climax, and it’s over.
“Bring her head to the edge of the mattress,” Seegar orders. “Gonna shoot my load over her pretty face.”
“No!” I plead, although I’m not sure that having it on my face is any worse than him releasing inside me. My opinion doesn’t matter. The three men maneuver me so quickly it’s as though I’m weightless.
Seegar’s organ is poised just above me. I thought it looked disgusting before it went inside me, but now it glistens, with a bloody slime that’s a mix of my own secretions and semen from the men. He’s so close I can smell the stench of sex and shame, wafting as he pumps his cock with vigorous jerks of his left hand.
The ejaculation comes without warning – a warm sticky mass that spatters diagonally across my face. It’s not the worst thing that’s happened to me today, but I flinch instinctively, and I blink, for some of the foul stuff goes in my eye.
“Mmm,” Seegar groans, a moan of unbearable pleasure which contrasts my own emotions. “That’s right girl, that’s the good stuff.”
A second pulse of his seed follows the first, soiling a wider area over my cheek. And this disgrace, thank the Gods, at last seems to signal it’s over.
“Everyone had their fun? We’d better get back before we’re missed,” the unwashed one says abruptly. The brutal tone he used for me has gone like it was never there, switching to one as perfunctory as if he’s giving instructions in the office. This is not a man who has just participated in a gang rape, taking a young woman’s virginity by force, hurting her, and ruining her. He’s nothing but an administrator.
“Let her up.”
I’m released so suddenly that I stay there for a moment. The hands that restrained me so completely are gone. Gingerly, I push myself up into a sitting position on the mattress. Even that small movement triggers awful new stabbing pains from between my legs and in my backside. I’m certain they’ve damaged me.
I’m already defeated, and I make no further attempt to conceal my nakedness. Besides, the rape is over, and it will take a while for the men to regain their vigor.
“On your feet, forty-nine,” the unwashed one orders me, “hurry up! Don’t be a lazy slut.”
They gave me a command, so painfully I stand.
Upright I feel even worse. My insides heave with cramps. The muscles in my legs are shaking uncontrollably. I feel wet in a wrong way, in all my private places. I’m not sure if I’m bleeding or if it’s fluid from the men. On my cheeks, the tears which ran freely down my face are mixing with the youngest one’s sticky sperm, forming a mass which slowly oozes downwards under the ship’s artificial gravity.
Instinctively I move to clean my face, but Seegar stops me abruptly.
“Wipe that away, and the hand you used to do it gets cut off,” he barks, and I freeze.
I let my hands fall to my sides, and the badge of his shame continues to slide uninhibited down my face.
“Thanks for the classic bang, forty-nine,” says the unwashed one. “You’ll probably get fucked more times than you can count where you’re going, but they say a slave always remembers her first.”
And I’m sure I will.
The Coora who returns to the small racks of cages is not the same woman as the one who left. And not just because I can barely walk. I am forever one who was defeated, someone who has been soiled and broken, and I will remain degraded for always. The other captives, kneeling, hunched over and naked in their tiny prisons, hide their faces and do not look at me as the four rapists return me to my own place. I don’t blame these females for turning from me. These women will know exactly what’s just happened – they’ll be able to hear my broken breathing and my faltering, limping steps – and they will be fearful of receiving the same fate.
The unwashed one unlocks my cage. I’m not even strong enough clamber back into the small box. He has to shove me on the bare buttock to hurry me along.
“You stink of sex worse than a cheap whore, sweet-tits,” he tells me as the door is locked. “Try to clean yourself up before we dock.”
That was none of my fault, but all the same, he’s right. The smell from my own body is repellant to me, the rank stench of the men’s fluid mixing with my own secretions. Hunched in my box, after they’ve left me, I weep unstoppably, lamenting my downfall. Why did they choose me? Of the women caged here, why did I end up as the only one who stinks of sex like a cheap whore? Was it really only because I looked disgusted while they were scoring Trindii? Plenty of other women had done worse, and they didn’t end up being brutally gang raped.
Maybe it was just because I was beautiful enough to score a forty-nine, and they desired me. I can’t help but blame myself, though. A number of the other captives ranked similar to me, and they didn’t just have that horrible grey-haired man stick his penis in their ass. Something I did meant it was me that they chose.
I try to shift into a more comfortable position, and I cry out with pain. Oh, my poor backside. Now I’m alone, there’s nothing to distract my from the protests from my body – my torn vagina and anus; my breasts throbbing from the repeated slapping; my muscles aching from struggling to protect myself. Even my wrists and ankles feel sore from where they pinned me down.
What can I do next? I can’t just kneel here, squashed into this cage, and replay each moment.
The last thing I’d wish for is another cock near me, real or synthetic, but I close my lips over the phallus and suck gently, filling my mouth with the saline-tasting liquid. Shuffling awkwardly in the confined space, I’m then able to bring my hand to my mouth and release the liquid into my cupped palm. Then, I move it down to the place between my legs, and I begin trying to clean myself. The first palm-full isn’t enough. I still feel like I’m caked with the filth. So I suck out another mouthful of liquid And once I’ve begun, I can’t stop. I clean and clean and clean, becoming more frantic, but it does no good.
I smell of sex like a cheap whore, he said, and that was the truth. I don’t want to attract more attention when we dock, and I will do, if I smell like a whore.
My sex and my rear burn with pain when I touch the bruised flesh, but I rub and rub, moaning in panic. It’s crusted to me. It won’t come off. It won’t come off! My very soul is soiled.
“Stop!” a woman’s voice says, gently, from somewhere in the lower row of cages, and when I ignore her she says louder “Stop!” and then, “Stop, alien!” until she breaks through my defenses.
“But I can’t get clean,” I cry.
Dropping my hands to the alloy floor of my cage I resume my weeping. I’m lost. Men took away my clothes and raped me, and now I hurt all over, and they told me I smell of sex like a cheap whore.
“I know how you must be feeling,” she says, gentle again. “We can guess.”
“This can’t be allowed to happen to me,” I plead. “I don’t want to be a slave.”
“I don’t want to be a slave,” another voice agrees.
“I’m a researcher,” the first woman says, then corrects herself. “I was a researcher, I suppose. I studied the psychology of victims of Aghara-Penthay. I promise, you’ll feel better. Rescued women say the first few days in captivity are the worst. Once the implant goes in, the brain can’t help adjust.”
“Is this pep talk meant to make us feel better?” someone asks angrily.
The researcher doesn’t get the chance to reply, which perhaps is lucky. A deep bass boom reverberates through the ship. We’ve just connected to a docking port. Someone wails in terror, and another voice takes up the tune. We have reached The Hub.
5 – Hub
Having the metal collar locked around my throat is humiliating. The alloy chains which link my collar to the collar of girl in front, and the one behind, are humiliating. Being naked in public is more humiliating. But we have no choice. We are on The Hub, a vast orbital station, the territory of Aghara-Penthay, and we are there as women.
A woman is not considered a citizen on Aghara-Penthay territory. Her sex makes her automatically a slave, an object. Objects are not permitted dignity, so no-one here except us will care that we are naked and ashamed.
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