“The something you can do is shut your hole, forty-nine,” the stocky female almost spits at me. “Think you’ve got it bad? You premium bitches will be trained, you’ll get a high-status owner, because only someone like that can afford your perfect bodies. You might end up lying by the pool, when you’re not sucking his dick. Want to swap that for my future? Thirty-one – that’s my number. Sold in a batch to a brothel for lowlifes, and that’s if I’m lucky. So shut up, go get your implant, and smile that vacant smile.”
“You’re bitter because you’re ugly,” I say, shocked by her spite.
“And you’re nothing but an overpampered princess,” she retaliates.
Perhaps I should be grateful to her, for all my terror, my anger, my humiliation, suddenly has a focus. I fling myself at thirty-one, nearly breaking my neck as the chain goes taut when fifty and the forty-nine behind me are dragged along. Not expecting an attack, thirty-one is thrown to the ground, and I’m on her, pummeling, trying to get past her blocking arms and land a good punch on her mean, ugly face.
Voices are shouting, but I’ve forgotten everything around us, so intense is my rage. It takes a moment before I even reconsider my surroundings. I’m lying naked on top of her – more intimately in contact than I’ve been with any other female. Perhaps that’s why the guards let us carry on for a minute. Neither of us is in any danger of doing real harm to the other one, and the sight of two nude women struggling is erotic to them.
I have the advantage of weight, as I’m on top, but Thirty-one knees me repeatedly between the legs, which even for a girl is unpleasant. We’re too close to each other for me to get a punch through her guard, and she can’t do much from on her back except use her knees. When we slow – both of us breathing heavily – I guess we’d have to call it a draw.
I’m looking right down into her face, she’s looking right back, and it’s the first time I feel any closeness between us.
“Up,” orders a guard. “Back on your feet.”
I scramble to obey. The male who commanded me has developed a prominent erection, and I don’t want to be raped yet again.
“Nice show, forty-nine,” he explains, and our lines begin to move again.
Closer and closer we pad towards the docks where we’ll board shuttles, be carried down to the planet’s surface, and be lost forever into our futures of slavery. But there are no more incidents which delay us, and not even a suggestion of attempting to escape. It looks as though I’m going to Aghara-Penthay.
6 – Planetside
Women passengers on the shuttles which descend to the surface of Aghara-Penthay are not given seats. We are packed tightly into the shuttle’s cargo hold, as though we are goods, rather than humans. Hanging from the hold’s ceiling like fronds of a tree are numerous short cables, and each of these is clipped to the collar of a captive, so that we must remain standing in a parade formation, or choke. The women either side of me, and those before and behind, are close enough that we nudge bare bodies each time we are rocked by the movement of the ship.
Thus, naked as part of this shameful formation, we undock, and begin the journey to the next phase of my downfall.
It is almost exclusively the Slavers who can use the seats, which are arranged around the bulkheads boxing in the room. Almost exclusively, for one female captive does sit across the broad thigh of one of the men. This one, an exceptional beauty, is clad, unlike the rest of us. She wears one of the red wraps, the wrap which identifies her as a woman who is property of Aghara-Penthay. Her covering is not much, but it is vastly better than being nude.
Or perhaps not, for her clothing privilege seems to come at a price. The guard’s penis, rampantly hard, has been freed from his pants and points upwards, blatant and obscene, at a forty-five-degree angle. The woman is pulling at it with both her hands, attempting to pleasure him, although even with my limited knowledge I can see she seems inexperienced at the job. Meanwhile his hand is inside her wrap, groping her breast. The man slaps her face, although not as hard as he could. It’s a warning. The female’s face does not carry the slave mark, which is unusual in someone already wearing the wrap.
She seems familiar, although in this horrific context it’s hard to place her. A woman I saw on the transport, perhaps?
“Look, that’s Donaya Oshanka – the news anchor,” one of my fellow nudes gives the answer in a loud whisper.
“How come she gets a wrap?” another captive complains.
“Don’t you know? She must be here for the Rape Run. Runners are the only women who don’t get stripped. They let the audience anticipate seeing them undressed, once they’re caught.”
Donaya, perhaps hearing us, looks in our direction for a moment, fixing us with the intense gaze she’s known for using in interviews. But she bows her head to resume her work, her brunette curls falling forwards to hide her face as she concentrates. Her guard gives a lewd grunt.
“I thought Rape Runners weren’t… you know – interacted with, not before they’re caught in the contest,” whispers another woman, quieter now.
“Who’s she gonna complain to?” someone behind me whispers harshly. “They’re not supposed to mess with any captives until after processing, as the virgins fetch a higher price, but that didn’t stop them using all the ones they liked from the Moons of Odaron. Look at the mess they’ve made of the alien bitch there.”
I realize I’m the ‘alien bitch’ and look down to hide my face, automatically ashamed at the mess still caked on my thighs. Only hours ago, I wasn’t just an alien bitch. My name was Coora. Those who met me saw someone with a high-flying future as a political adviser, serving the Republic on some pleasant planet. I planned to mate with a suitable Dystyr male when it pleased me. Now I’m naked in front of strangers, on my way to Aghara-Penthay to be implanted and ruined. Strangers describe me in terms of being the alien bitch who got herself raped.
Up front, in spite of her inexperience, Donaya brings her captor to climax. The man’s disgusting sperm erupts in a small fountain – some of it landing on Donaya’s hands, and some of it spattering and dribbling down onto himself.
In response to a whispered order she wipes him clean, then grimacing, licks what’s left of the foul mess from her own hands.
That’s when, with a bump, we land.
Gods have mercy on me.
My sob comes without warning, and I’m not the only one who starts crying. The hold’s doors open with a mechanical grinding, and we’re hit by blinding sun and heat like a furnace.
“Out, slave girls,” orders a guard, while his colleagues move along the lines unclipping our collars. No longer linked in chains, weeping women shuffle uncertainly out into the scorching dry air. Gods, it’s hot on this planet. There’s not a cloud breaking the sky, and the sun beats down relentlessly.
The large landing platform where we find ourselves is hundreds of feet above the ground. It overhangs the structure underneath, so I can’t see what supports it. Surrounding us is a plain of oxide-red ground, completely barren. The arid landscape is not uniform – the plain is broken up by formations of rock, and distant mountains of the same uniform color shimmer in the heat haze. I can see something that looks like a city – a vast structure made of many ancient stone buildings merged together into one whole. Perhaps it is designed so the Slavers can move around without being exposed to the outside sun. I scan the panorama and wonder which area is The Zone, the hunting ground where the Slavers chase down Rape Runners like Donaya.
The raiders took such a large haul from the transport that at the end of the Mezzanine we were split across three shuttles. The other two do not land on this pad, and although I see another pad in the city, high on a stone tower, there are no ships on it. I don’t know where they went.
Trindii’s chain happened to be loaded on my shuttle. She looks terrible after a night in a cage with the men. She’s covered in bruises, and she’s limping. One of her lips is swollen and split, as though she’s been punched in the mouth.
All the same, I make for her, desperate for a last bit of comfort from someone who cares for me, before it’s too late. We hug, both of us weeping into each other’s shoulders. I’ve seen her nude before, but not had close physical contact. As we hug, I try not to feel ashamed that our breasts are pressing into each other.
With Trindii is another girl I know from college – Cliria – a willowy blonde human female. Some people you just don’t get on with, try as you might, and Cliria was one of those, for me. No matter how careful I was, she seemed to take things I said the wrong way, so I’d always be on my guard around her. But the Gods have destined us to stand naked together on the surface of Aghara-Penthay. On the course, Cliria seemed to think of herself as quite a catch. The Slavers seemed to agree. A forty-four is inked on the inside of her thigh, close to the vulva.
“You okay?” Trindii asks me, tenderly wiping my tear-streaked face.
“Not really,” is my only true answer. “Men took me to a room on the ship. They… well, you can guess. But you had it worse.”
“Split into groups, snatches!” interrupts the bellow of one of the guards. “Forty-five and over scores – stand there. Forty to forty-five – over by the comms box. The dregs – over there.”
“Good luck. Both of you,” I say to Trindii and Cliria, knowing shortly I’ll probably never see them again.
“Slave luck,” corrects Cliria. She means well, but my tears erupt again.
Slave luck is a phrase which originated here, that’s become well known enough to slip into the galactic vernacular. It seems pointless to wish someone good luck when they’re a sex slave. Their life already proves they’re not destined for good fortune. Slave luck means wishing someone the best outcome possible under horrific circumstances. An easy life with a kind master. Domestic duties instead of sexual service.
“Slave luck,” I think I as I wave Trindii farewell and pad over to the space indicated by the Slaver. We’ve been corralled close to the edge of the pad. There is no barrier between us and the gut-wrenching drop – common practice to avoid ships snagging landing gear. The same thirty-four women taken from the transport assemble in the high scoring area. Among them is Tana, the one with the fifty score taken in the raid.
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