Previous chapters:
One | Two | Three | Four | Five | Six | Seven | Eight | Nine | Ten | Eleven | Twelve | Thirteen | Fourteen | Fifteen
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The storm had finally come to an end, and Female Pig had returned to the Galliard, and it was time for Vice and his harem to journey back to their camp on the beach.
He briefly considered remaining in the cave – it was certainly more defensible than their beach camp – but he discarded it for several reasons. Firstly, there was no reliable source of water. Secondly, the fabricators and other rescued equipment from the crash were back at the beach. And thirdly, the cave was a dead end – the sole point of access was as much a trap as a benefit, and there was no way to retreat or escape if the entrance became unsafe.
The girls dressed in their floppy sunhats, and Telea re-secured the demeaning-but-attractive ribbons around the base of each girl’s tits, and they began their journey, with Rospar carrying the wounded Laurel as before.
As they walked, Vice considered his relationship with these four women – the unwilling sex-dolls who he was rapidly coming to think of as his property, and his pets.
Telea was his pride and joy. The erstwhile lesbian clearly not only loved Vice, but worshipped him. He knew now that the pretty blonde navigator would do anything for him, no matter how painful or degrading. She lived to be raped by him, knowing that it brought him pleasure. She would degrade and discipline and rape her fellow women, because she knew it was what he wanted from her. Her pussy unfailingly wettened when she was dominated and abused, and her mouth and twat were always soft and warm and eager for his cock.
He realised that, in return, he had fallen in love with Telea. It was difficult to resist such completely unqualified affection. He found himself smiling as he looked at her pretty, eager face. He wanted to take her in his arms, and squeeze those beautiful ribbon-bound tits, and kiss her as he pushed his cock into her fuckhole.
In some ways it made him reluctant to hurt and discipline her. He realised that as pretty as she looked while crying, he genuinely wanted her to be happy.
But for Telea, being happy meant pleasing Vice. “Was I fun to rape last night?” she asked him as they walked. “Could I have done anything better?”
He hesitated, unsure if he should respond honestly. But it became clear she would keep pestering him until he told her.
“You could have struggled more,” he told her. “You were very hot last night – a very good little slut – but it’s hotter when you hate it. If you had really gone wild, trying to escape, I would have cum faster.”
“I can do that!” Telea promised. “Next time I’ll struggle like a wild animal, I promise.” She paused, and then added, “You should slap me, for being disappointing.”
“You weren’t disappointing,” he told her. “Just – marginally imperfect. Honestly, that was some of the best sex of my life. For a lesbian, you really know how to please a cock, Telea.”
That made her blush – but she was still insistent. “Please, slap me, sir,” she begged. “Slap me any time I’m less than perfect, or just if you want to. Remember how I used to feel guilty about my sexuality? About being aroused by Amy being raped? About getting wet for your cock? When you slap me – when you hurt me, or discipline me – all the guilt goes away. Like someone else is looking out for my conscience, making those decisions for me, so I don’t have to worry.”
“Are you sure?” asked Vice. His feelings were at war. Part of him wanted nothing less than hurting Telea – it wanted to caress her, and hold her, and protect her. But another part knew that slapping that pretty, innocent face would make his cock hard – particularly if it brought tears to her eyes.
“Yes, sir,” said Telea, her face shining with sincerity.
So he slapped her. And as soon as he saw the look of pure joy that the slap brought to his face, his doubts vanished. It had hurt her, yes – and the arousing hint of tears were there in her eyes – but at the same time it was completely clear that this was what she wanted, and what she needed.
From then on he had no hesitation in slapping Telea for the slightest imperfection, or just when he felt like it. It became a basic part of their communication, and they rarely spoke without Vice finding a reason to slap her silly little face hard enough to make her gasp. Hurting Telea let her know she was valued. It was a kind of love language between them.
The second of his harem, Amy, was a different matter. She had been a interstellar pop star before crashing here – red-haired, gorgeous, spoiled and bratty. She had confessed to them all that she had fucked her way to the top and sold her lesbian lover into sex slavery, so to a large extent she definitely deserved her fall from grace on Persephone Nine.
She was still infected with Eddinger’s Cuntroot, and, all things being equal, she would need regular agonising fuckings to avoid her brain eroding and leaving her a bimbo-ish animal. The facilities needed to permanently cure her were back on the beach, and it should be no trouble to fix her once they arrived, but Vice considered the alternatives.
He could let her become a mindless fuckdoll, for one. It was tempting – but honestly, Amy’s bratty fire was fun, and he didn’t want her to lose it. Plus, for all that the women were learning they were inferior in every way to Vice’s cock, this was still a hostile planet, and permanently disabling one of Vice’s harem would only lower their chances of continued survival.
But most importantly, Amy had become one of Vice’s crew, and Vice had been serious about protecting them. He would rape them and humiliate them and abuse them, certainly – it was necessary in order to placate the Galliard, and also it was becoming clearer with every day to Vice that these women would be happier, in the long term, if they embraced their destiny as blushing cum-toilets who lived to serve his whims. But he wouldn’t let anyone *else* harm them, and he had no intention of letting the Cuntroot run its course with Amy.
That didn’t mean, though, that he couldn’t fuck her with the painful spiked cock ring again, though. Her screams had been sexy. And she belonged to him now, after all – he didn’t need the excuse of an alien vine to torture the little brat for his sexual pleasure. She needed to learn to be a good slave in order to satisfy the Galliard, after all, and each rape would only help in breaking her will.
Right now she was singing as she walked. She had asked Vice earlier if it was all right to make noise as they walked. Vice judged that it was probably safe – they still had their stun guns, and they knew to avoid the Cuntroot on their return path. In fact, he had *demanded* that she entertain them with some of her pop hits – except that he had told her to change the lyrics, to make sure they accorded with the Way of the Galliard. That had made her want to *not* sing – but he had not let her back out, and now she was blushingly bastardising her songs with new, more appropriate lyrics.
Currently it was a version of “All Through The Night”. The original lyrics had been:
I go all through the night
I need to run
I feel the need to fight
Until the sun
But now Amy sang:
I’m a parasite
That feeds on cum
Men are always right
And cunts are dumb
It was catchy, Vice admitted. He would be humming that one for days. Music was good for teaching, and he decided he would need to get Amy to make more of these helpful and instructional songs. They could be hymns, of a sort, for his congregation of slave-sluts.
There was another thing he was thinking about Amy, too. He had cum inside her last night, and he couldn’t help but wonder if she might be pregnant. It was probably for the best if she was not – it was hard enough carrying Laurel around with her wounded leg, without also caring for a pregnant bitch – but at the same time, he found it hard to not picture her with Amy with a swollen pregnant belly, and leaking milky tits. On her small frame, it would look overwhelmingly cute and sexy, and every time he imagined it he had a sudden urge to push her down and force another load of cum up into her unprotected womb. The Galliard would surely approve of him breeding her…
Victoria presented another puzzle. She had been a rich, spoiled bitch when she had booked passage on the Cinnabar Hawk, but the traumatic experience of cumming as she was raped by enormous alien wolf-monsters seemed to have started a slow transformation in her. With the haughty sneer wiped off her face, Vice was forced to admit that she was stunningly beautiful, even bedraggled as she was by two days of marching. The dirt and sweat only seemed to make her lustrous black hair and large breasts seem more *real*.
Vice wanted that experience with the Rapehounds to *define* Victoria. He wanted her to look at the tattoo on her arm every day, and remember three things – that she had betrayed the man who had been protecting her; that she had been fucked by animals – albeit that they were sentient, thinking wolf-aliens – and orgasmed from it; and that the man she had betrayed had saved her anyway. He wanted her to internalise that she was a stupid dog-fucking cunt, who owed everything to the mercy of a man she hated.
And it appeared to be working. She was polite to Vice now – even affectionate. He had told her to be, after all, and now he couldn’t honestly tell how much of her behaviour was feigned and how much was real – but he thought the lines might be blurring for her, too.
She had, after all, spent her entire life as a wealthy heiress relying on other people to do even the simplest of tasks for her. In the past she had regarded herself as superior to those people, and treated them as servants, but now she was learning she was still reliant on a man to survive – and that man was very much *not* her employee or slave.
Was she broken entirely? Vice didn’t think so. During the Testing last night, she had chosen to rape Female Pig rather than further her own personal abuse and degradation. It had been a surprising – and, honestly, delightful – ploy, but it suggested that Victoria’s mind was still working to find ways to preserve her own dignity and independence, rather than submitting fully to the will of Vice. Vice could not be sure of her until she begged to be humiliated and abused purely for the pleasure of Vice’s cock, following the example of Telea.
And then there was Laurel.
If there was one of his harem that Vice trusted the least, it was Laurel. He was fairly sure that she had never, for a second, taken her eye off the possibility of reversing her fortunes and escaping Vice’s control. If she had been submissive up to now, it was only because she thought it was her best option for the moment – which it was, given her broken leg, the presence of the Galliard, and no current sign that they were likely to be rescued from the Galliard. And, of course, the Compliance Collars.
But that might change, if Laurel saw her chance.
To start with, Vice was fairly sure that Laurel’s leg had healed faster than Laurel was letting on. She had claimed back at the beach camp that she could walk only a few meters without crutches. But he had seen her move last night, during her raping, tattooing and testing, and in unguarded moments – and when surprised, she had moved with far more speed and agility than a woman recovering from a broken leg should be capable of.
Vice suspected that her Navigator’s Guild enhancements had included more than just plastic tits and a hairless pussy. He had heard the Guild could transfigure human genes to promote faster healing. There was a strong possibility that Laurel’s leg might, in fact, have completely healed, and that she could actually walk anywhere she wanted – or even run.
He needed to break her, and he needed to do it before she did something that would endanger all of them.
He had started by following through on the request that Laurel had made last night, under duress, as part of the Testing. “Teach me my name is Cunt,” she had said. “Make it my only name. Make me hate the name Laurel. Make me ashamed of it.”
And so he had spread that instruction to the other girls (and to Rospar). Laurel was now to only be referred to as “Cunt” – and the word “Laurel” was only be used as an insult.
He used it for the first time when Amy, not paying attention, almost strayed into a plant that Vice was pretty sure was poisonous. He pulled her back by her arm, and then said, “Pay attention to where you’re going, Amy. Don’t be such a fucking Laurel.”
Telea gave an involuntary giggle at the use of Laurel’s name that way.
Amy was blushing – she could see what she had almost done. If she had walked into the plant it could have given her a nasty rash – or maybe killed her. She was embarrassed, shocked, and grateful to Vice all at once. She looked over at Laurel, cradled in Rospar’s arms, and then back at Vice.
She knew what he wanted.
“I’m sorry, sir,” she said, casting her eyes downwards. “I’ll try not to be such a stupid Laurel.”
After that, Vice reinforced it. He got each woman to think of a time when they’d had an interaction with a “stupid Laurel” – a woman who had been unintelligent, bitchy, unpleasant or hateful – and told them each to tell the story of their Laurel.
“This woman came up to me with a bitchy expression on her face, and I could tell she was going to be a total Laurel…” began Telea’s story.
“She was so stupid, she was basically a child having a tantrum,” went Amy’s story. “I couldn’t believe what a Laurel she was.”
“This woman *smelled*,” Victoria explained. “You know the way that Laurels *smell*? That stink they have?”
With each story, Laurel’s face twisted in humiliation and unhappiness. She looked like she might cry.
Finally it was Laurel’s turn.
“What about you, Cunt?” asked Vice. “Who’s the worst Laurel you’ve ever met?”
And so Laurel was forced to describe an encounter with a fellow woman of the Guild who she had hated, and admit that when this woman had been hateful, cruel and stuck-up, she had been “a complete Laurel”.
“I’m so sorry you went through that, Cunt,” said Vice when the story was over. “Laurels really are the worst.”
And the look of pure hatred that Cunt shot him told Vice that he had been right. This woman who had called herself Laurel would happily kill him in his sleep, if she thought she could get away with it and survive the planet afterwards.
But he knew something she didn’t. He knew that Laurel had failed the Testing. He didn’t have any concrete proof – but he *knew*, from the tone of Female Pig’s voice and the expression on her face as she had announced the results.
The Galliard would come, soon, and they would do… something… to Laurel. Rape her. Abduct her. Maybe even kill her.
He could let them do it. It would solve his Cunt problem, and he would still have three more-or-less obedient sex-toys in his harem.
It would serve her right, for being such a difficult Laurel.
But… he wasn’t going to do it. It just wasn’t him.
He was the Captain of the Cinnabar Hawk, and he might humiliate, rape and enslave his crew – for their own good, of course – but he would be damned if he let the Galliard hurt them.
He was going to save Cunt, whether she wanted him to or not. He was going to save all of them, no matter how powerful the Galliard might be or what they demanded of him.
And he would worry about making her grateful for it afterwards.
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Without a doubt my favorite story of yours.
Thank you! Hope you keep enjoying!
Great Story. I hope you keep it going.