1 - Crash

A skull-splitting headache was the sensation that brought me out of the black. I couldn’t move, and for a moment I struggled to understand why. It felt like I was trying to think while being drowned in molasses. It took a few moments to realize the nausea and headache were a clear indication that I was concussed.

The bite of coiled rope cut into the skin of my wrists and held my hands firmly behind my back. I pulled at the rope weakly, knowing it was useless. My hands were tightly secured. For a brief, stupid moment, I wished I were a stronger, or at least had a soldier’s strength, but on a planet of slavers, what were the odds that any man didn’t know how to bind a woman?

Then the realization hit me… Someone had tied me up. I was caught. Yeah, my mind was working in slow motion.

Panic forced my eyes up to a crimson sheet of flickering blurs. A few blinks later, I saw the remains of the shuttlecraft, twisted and burning, close enough that I could feel the heat. Escape from this backwater world was now impossible, my ride was burning.

I heard grunts and meaty thwacks behind me. It took a lot of effort to twist my head around. My wrists screamed with every tiny movement, and I discovered that my ankles had been tied together as well.

My partner, Jaxon, was trying to fight his way to me against a half dozen laughing men. They toyed with him as he fought with everything he had. I was impressed, we’d been shot down only moments earlier. As he struggled to rise from a knee, swinging as he went, he was punched and kicked from every direction.

No matter how good you are, there’s only so much abuse your body can take before it fails. Under a flurry of blows, he fell to his hands and knees and was then beaten unconscious. Jaxon’s eyes locked on mine for one second. I could feel his horror, guilt, and helplessness before another kick snapped his head away. Guilt flooded through me. The kid volunteered for this mission because he desperately wanted to work with me, a seasoned agent with decades of experience and missions under my belt.

On the other hand, I was glad he’d gone down quickly. Consistent overt signs of resistance during capture might lead the captors to simply end the problem permanently. When they stopped beating him and stepped back to laugh and survey their work, I knew they wanted us alive.

The questions flooded my mind. Who wanted us alive? On a backwater, isolated world like this, where did they get the gear to shoot down a Federated spacecraft? Was the fugitive we were after responsible? And of course, the most dreaded question: how did they intend to interrogate us?

With Jaxon down, the brutes turned their attention to me, and cold, icy tendrils squeezed my insides. I couldn’t do anything but watch as they turned and moved towards me in a group. They were little more than dark, menacing shapes against a pitch-black sky, the flickers of the flames behind me illuminating them in red flashes of muscle and leather. Their eyes raked across my curves I’d spent years cultivating to disarm men. Now my body was just meat. Implants rolling, every second of this was uploaded for later review. It was a low-tech fringeworld, and these men were dressed to match: leather armor and swords, except for one of them, who had a PhaseRifle cradled in his arms.

I wanted to struggle, to thrash and buck, anything to get out of the ropes and run, but my training and years of experience told me that it was useless. Instead, I forced myself to watch them approach, recording everything. My implants would do exactly that, record everything, typically as evidence.

“Get her up.” The one with the rifle barked as the group surrounded me.

Rough hands gripped my arms, and I was yanked standing, teetering on tied feet. A man behind me pulled me into his wide chest, using my elbows to pin me against him. The other five formed a half circle around me. I watched their eyes devour my body. Now it was just bait.

“What is she wearing?” One in the crowd asked in disgust.

The others grunted in agreement as the warrior with the rifle stepped forward. He thrust the rifle away from himself to a smaller man. The recipient held and looked at the gun in awe, as if he’d been allowed to hold something sacred. Being a backwater world, it probably was.

With his hands free now, the man who’d had the rifle, obviously their leader, slowly drew out a wicked-looking knife. A dagger, to be precise, with a nasty-looking point that could easily stab a man to death. I focused on long, slow breaths, trying to calm my breathing as my body involuntarily struggled to get away from him. The man holding me from behind enjoyed the struggle, using it as an opportunity to grind himself against my clenched ass cheeks. Heat pooled low despite me. My body prepared, lubricating, even as I hated it. Soft curves I’d weaponized for missions were now just fuel for their lust.

This was a world with slavery, specifically sexual slavery. I knew exactly what six men on a slave planet did to captives like me.

Their leader stepped forward with the knife, snarling, “No woman hides what belongs to all men.”

We’d crashed before having a chance to change into local clothing.

He grabbed the front of my tattered flight suit and slipped the blade into the hem. I shrank back but was held by the one behind me. With a yank of the archaic blade, the neckline of my suit parted. He ripped the blade down while yanking on the body suit, parting it down the front as I spilled free.

The chill in the air and my own fear and adrenaline made my nipples ache as they stiffened instantly. I could do nothing but blush in furious shame as the warriors hooted in victory.

As they laughed, there was a strangled cry. Jaxon was awake and struggling to rise. A thug kicked him in the side and then landed knees-first on his back. I could see Jaxon looking at me, chest bared, exposed, held, and vulnerable for the crowd of men.

Worse still, I knew his implants were recording as well.

He must have realized this as he tried to turn and hide his face in the dirt. The thug on his back yanked Jaxon’s head back by the hair, forcing the rookie to watch his commanding officer being bared before him.

“We’re going to use your slave, boy,” the man on Jaxon’s back hooted, “and there ain’t nothing you can do about it.”

Six men. I shuddered at the thought.

Surging forward, I hoped to break free with a surprise burst. Not a chance. The man behind me had me fast and used the squirming to grind himself into me. I could feel his excitement and knew I’d be feeling it more intimately very soon.

The warriors laughed as the leader stepped back to survey his work. My flight suit was totally ruined, now slit from neck to waistline. My chest was bare, nipples stiff in the cold air, and shame burned hotter than the shuttle flames. Implants captured it all. One day, my peers, my supervisors, would be watching me bared like this.

My struggles had only forced what little intact material that remained to slip down my shoulders. I hated the hot breath on my neck and the leering gazes devouring me. As an agent, I had always known a situation like this was possible… Experiencing it for real was so much worse than the dry text accounts.

Stepping up close, the leader grabbed the suit at my navel, yanking it away. The knife flashed, and fabric parted, slicing down one leg almost to my knee. Reflexively, I crossed my legs and struggled, even though intellectually I knew it was hopeless. It all happened so fast that I’d blanked out on my self-defense courses.

I twisted quickly, trying to move one arm up and another down. This was a textbook move to slip inside a bear hug. From here, I could slip my hands up and force my way out. Except my hands were bound.

All I’d managed to accomplish was to turn around in my captor's arms. And then he retightened his grip, pinning me to face him. I could feel the uncomfortable press of leather and armor ridges on my bare breasts and tummy.

Laughing, I heard their leader behind me, “Your slave’s got some spirit, boy. But I think she’s inviting us to try out some alternate holes.”

A strangled groan escaped through clenched teeth as I felt the back of my suit cut from neck to ass. With both hands, he ripped the last vestige of humility away, tearing the suit down past my ass, then stepping aside so all could see.

A meaty crack filled the air as his hand struck an ass cheek hard enough to make me yelp. The man holding me thoroughly enjoyed that I shoved myself forward, practically grinding my whole naked front against him. He whispered to me, “Can't wait to make you squeal, slave.”

“What is this?” the leader asked from behind. A finger slipped into my athletic panties, yanking them to let the band snap back against my skin. “Another cover? Does your owner ever use you?”

I said nothing. I gritted my teeth and forced my eyes to stay open, even as the men leered at me. No matter what, I was still an agent and needed to document everything. Especially if I got free and killed every last one of them.

The leader spun me around so I was facing the group again. Tatters of my flightsuit remained, but they hid nothing. I was exposed from neck to crotch as the men made comments. Jaxon was still being forced to watch, still recording me. The thought that my peers, other agents, and supervisors might watch this someday made me want to crawl away and hide. All I could do was brush crimson in shame.

As if I didn’t have enough to worry about, a thought hit me. Sometimes these recordings leak out. There was a whole market for cinéma vérité footage of all manner of things, from violence to sex. A recording of a Mitigator in this position would be worth plenty.

The remaining three men pressed in, grabbing me where and how they wanted. Grubby hands mauled my breasts, slapped skin, gripped my legs, tore the rope from my ankles, and pulled my legs apart. I was thankful for my panties, but those were torn away in an instant. The heat in my belly exploded. I knew my body was preparing to defend itself against invasion. There was no way I was getting wet because this excited me.

The leader stepped back, and his gaze crawled up my body slowly, appraising me. “Pretty face. Nice tits. What are you, slave? Almost thirty? Nah, let's say late twenties. How’s a boy like him afford you?”

A disembodied voice stated, “She’s an agent. Not a slave. Something like a guardsman to you lot.”

Looking for the owner of the voice, I saw a shimmer of warped air. It solidified, revealing a cloaked and hooded figure with a face mask.

“The wizard!” Several of the thugs exclaimed, stepping back nervously.

Not a wizard, just a man in a shadow-suit. Any hunter in the Federated Worlds could get one at a sporting goods store. On this rimworld, it must have seemed magic.

This had to be our fugitive, Varakis Drayce. If only I had a blaster, our mission would be over in a nanosecond. And if slaves had any agency, my tits wouldn’t be hanging out in front of a crowd.

“Lord Drayce,” the head thug said with a bow of his head. Lord? Damn it, Varakis was setting up a fiefdom on this backwater, more charges to his already ridiculously long rap sheet.

The hooded man addressed me, “How long have you been hunting me?”

I ground my teeth and tipped my chin up. It was a stupid act of defiance, but half-naked, I was in no mood to parley. Especially since I’d be tortured later to confirm anything I said now. That was almost a certainty. I glared at him.

“You have experience taming slaves?” Varakis asked the thug. Even with his face hidden, I was recording his voice… Just in case he lived long enough for a trial.

“Of course, Your Highness. I’ve tamed many an errant slut.”

“And how do you determine which are meant to please men, and which will do scullery work?”

“There are many ways, sir.” The thug leader grinned, showing his broken, yellowed teeth. “The dance of the fingers is easily done in the field after capture. Would you care for a demonstration?”

“I believe so. I’d like to hear her sing.”

“With pleasure…” The thug said, then, looking at me, added, “From both of us.”

He slipped the knife away and stepped up to me as the men tightened their grips on my arms and legs, pinning me helplessly like a frog to be dissected.

Looming over me, he leaned down, and I felt his hand cup me intimately. I jerked away. It had been a long, long time since a man touched me like that. His fingers roamed through my bush, exploring my most private place casually without any regard.

“Strange that the boy didn’t shave you properly. He’s neglected you. Relax. We’ll get you shaved and make that hole beautiful, the way a slave should be. Made beautiful to serve men.”

I could feel his fingers gliding wetly over my lips. My own traitorous body quivering under his stroking. I wanted to crawl away, but couldn’t as he forced sparks of heat to burn my delicate skin.

“Hells!” he announced, “This slut is so eager. Dripping and ready to be speared.”

He half turned, holding up glistening fingers for the others to laugh.

Looking past the brute's shoulder, I saw Jaxon, still being forced to watch. The look on his face was twisted, complex, a mix of horror, shame, and disgust. I hoped to my very core the new agent wasn’t disgusted that the thug's fingers were covered in my body’s eagerness… No, it's an effort to protect me from what was soon to come.

The thug turned back to me, broken teeth leering in my face, “Relax, little one. I’m going to enter you now… And your body will enjoy it. It’s what makes you beautiful, your holes, eager and ready for a man.”

His fingers touched my lips again, and I moaned in horror. I didn’t want this.

“That’s it, girl, surrender to what you are. A slave to be used. A hole to be filled.”

Two thick fingers pressed against me. I wanted to beg him to stop, to plead with him, to offer anything. But what did I have except my holes right now? I panted, knowing any second he’d be inside me.

And then he was. I gasped. The shame was unlike anything I’d ever experienced before. I was nothing more than something for him to use. I hated him. And myself. The sighs coming from my own body sickened me.

“Good girl. Grip me. Milk me. Your cunt is doing just what it was made for. It’s such a beautiful little pussy.” His fingers weren’t just plunging in and out, but moving up and down, practically lifting me from the inside.

Worse, though, he was thumping me in that spot. Each thump made me grunt as he continued telling me how beautiful my pussy was, how it was doing what it was made for. The words became a jumble of him explaining that I was nothing more than a slave, a hole, beautiful pleasure, but for men.

The thumping sped up, becoming rhythmic, hypnotic, as my body struggled to repel the invader, which made him work inside me more. Overwhelming sensations of heat, need, shame, and guilt drowned me. I could feel everything tightening, my guts winding up.

No, please, I begged, not even sure if it was allowed. I just knew the shame would kill me if that tightening snapped into release. I could feel my body thrashing as I begged him to stop.

“See, little one? Your body knows. Relax and let the mind follow. It will make you beautiful. Make you into what you were made for. A pretty little cunt to be used.”

And of course it happened.

I cried out. My body thrashed. I could hear laughter. They were laughing at my torture. The shame was indeed crushing as I rode into a burst of colors and sensations. And then all I could feel was my own body quivering uncontrollably, still impaled on his fingers. I clenched and squirted around his fingers, my own body betraying me completely. And of course, the implants captured every spasm.

I’d just cum in front of eight men, including my partner. Even worse, it had been recorded by Jaxon and me. I hated my cunt for betraying me. For squirting for them, recorded forever. I hated the quakes that ravaged my body. Hated that those fingers buried inside me felt better than they should. I wanted to crawl away and hide. I could see Jaxon watching, his hands in fists, but a mix of lust and revulsion made me want to hide my face. I heard him call out my first name, “Selene.” Instead of “Commander,” he, too, had been undone by watching my own betrayal.

And as I quivered uncontrollably, I couldn’t help but think of the recordings. My peers would see this… Both versions. And as I walked through the halls of the Division, everyone would see me for nothing but a slut… A slave to my own cunt. I’d become cautionary training for new Mitigators. My legacy of successful missions would be reduced to squirting on some brute's fingers.

And then there was screaming. I was suddenly empty and falling to the dirt. Grit and grime bit into my tender, exposed flesh.

I saw the thug leader with an arrow in his chest. He ripped the rifle from his lackey and received two more arrows. He got a single Phasor shot off before another arrow finally dropped him.

Dazed, it took me a long moment to realize I was here on a mission, and that trumped the violation and shame. But I could make the man responsible pay. Instead, I watched him huddle into his cloak and fade away instantly.

I struggled to my feet, made more difficult with my hands tied behind my back. I spotted a distortion moving toward the burning shuttle and lurched after it.

Only to be knocked down suddenly. A man with a bow stood over me. He shouted, “Stay down, slave.”

I looked at the shuttle, the distortion faded into the night. Gone.

Tilting my head back, I saw bodies lying all around, at least six, bristling with arrow shafts.

Jaxon was being hauled up, and this new group was having words with him.

The man standing over me let his eyes sweep over naked skin, taking a long appreciative look at my naked body and mess of a crotch before leaning down to help me up.

When I staggered to my feet, he huffed, “On your knees, slave.” He forced me to my knees, my bare breasts heaving, nipples still aching from earlier use. His eyes roamed across exposed soft flesh.

He continued, “Looks like you’ll fetch a nice price at auction. After we sample you, of course.”

Hopes of rescue dashed, I saw that this group was much larger than the six that had originally captured us. Out of the fire, I thought…