Previous chapters:
One | Two | Three | Four | Five | Six | Seven | Eight | Nine | Ten | Eleven | Twelve | Thirteen | Fourteen | Fifteen | Sixteen | Seventeen | Eighteen | Nineteen | Twenty | Twenty-One | Twenty-Two
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The woman who had once been Laurel went to her fate in tears, but she went willingly, doing her best to keep up with her Galliard captors rather than allowing them to drag her by her tits. She was crying, but she kept her head held high, her back straight, her breasts out.
Vice thought she had never looked more beautiful.
And he burned this image in his mind because he knew it truly was the last time he would ever see Laurel. After today, she would be simply Cunt, and nothing more.
It was not entirely a tragedy. “Laurel” had been a difficult bitch. No one had liked her, least of all Vice. She had cockteased men with her large, beautiful tits, while refusing to satisfy the promise of sexual pleasure they implied. She had been unpleasant and abrasive. She had made the world a slightly less pleasant place every day.
But once the Galliard burned away the last of Laurel’s independence, she would be submissive, eager to please, dependent on Vice for guidance and leadership, anxious for men to enjoy her tits, and desperately eager to please Vice’s cock. It would, overall, be an improvement.
Vice pretended to be torn about what was happening to Laurel. He averted his eyes as the Galliard led her from their overnight accommodation, and dragged his heels in following. He let the Galliard ascribe it to weakness – a decidedly non-masculine affection for the big-titted bitch, and a fear and regret about the process she was about to be put through. At this point, the more the Galliard underestimated Vice, the better.
They didn’t have to go far. The conversion equipment had been set up on a stage in the same central area of the colony which Vice’s accommodation had adjoined. It was a complex upright frame with many restraints and wires connected to it, and a large metal headpiece at the top.
The entire Galliard colony – or at least its men – were assembled to watch the procedure. Were they here for the entertainment value of seeing a woman tortured? Or was there particularly novelty in seeing the procedure used on the first outsider woman since the Galliard had settled here? Either way, it resulted in a huge press of tall, monstrous Galliard forms, which Vice vanished into, entirely unnoticed by anyone.
Laurel was led up onto the stage, and then the Galliard began to strap her into the equipment. She would be upright within the frame. A dildo on a long metal pole was pushed into her cunt, and another was forced into her anus. Metal clamps attached to wires were placed on her clitoris and her nipples. The Galliard forced her to stick out her tongue, and another clamp was placed on her tongue.
As soon as the clamp went onto her tongue, Laurel screamed – and then screamed again, and again.
One of the Galliard on the stage – a scientist of some sort – chuckled. “Just testing the electric shock functionality in the cunt, anus and clitoris. Pain is good for a bitch. Think of it as getting healthy.”
Vice privately wondered if electroshocking Laurel’s privates was a necessary part of the procedure, or if this was just unnecessary Galliard cruelty. He had no way of knowing, really.
Then the metal headpiece came down over Laurel’s head, and the Galliard screwed it in place.
“Remember,” said the scientist. “If you fight the process, it will go quickly. We will simply overwrite your entire brain with a slave pattern, and nothing of your old self will remain. If you want to remember your old life, then do your best to focus on how you want to be nothing but a submissive fuck-socket for cock, how you like being degraded and hurt, how you’re a brainless bitch fit only for fucking and breeding. Then we will be able to edit only the *necessary* portions of your brain. It will draw out the pain for you considerably, unfortunately, and make the procedure take far longer.”
Laurel tried to nod from within the helmet.
Vice was proud of her. He needed Laurel to submit, because he needed the procedure to take as long as possible. And besides, Vice would prefer that Laurel remember her old life. A brainless big-titted slave was interesting, but he was far more interested in a Cunt who remembered her old personality, and hated it and wanted to atone for it.
Part of Vice wanted to stay and watch Laurel’s transformation. The squeal she had made when her cunt was shocked had been very erotic, and he was curious as to whether he would be able to see her resistance and bitchiness visibly drain from her face as the procedure went on.
But he couldn’t. He had work to do.
Silently, he slipped away from the crowd. No one noticed him leave.
He didn’t go straight to the hyperwave broadcaster. He needed something else first. So he made his way to the nearest “bitch farm”. A sign above the tunnel read “West Sector Free Range Bitches”.
It was, as he had hoped, unguarded. Galliard women were perfectly submissive. They didn’t require guards. He slipped through a hatchway into the large domed bubble that contained the farm.
The sight within made him stop for a moment to take it in. The other bitch farm he had seen was nothing but cages in which women spent their entire lives. However, this was a “free range” bitch farm, and its organisation was a little different.
The dome was divided into two sections. On one side was a kind of grassy pen, with low fences around it. Thirty or so naked collared pregnant women were crawling on all fours in this area, their huge lactating tits swaying beneath them or, in some cases, dragging on the ground.
Some of these women were up against the far wall of the pen, where cock-like phallic protrusions emerged from the wall. They were sucking on the cocks, and Vice realised that this was how the women were fed.
Several others were engaged in lesbian sex, idly licking each other cunts out of boredom and lust. One woman was giggling and spanking the cunt of another. The woman being spanked was crying, but allowing it to happen. In a far corner, a woman was urinating into a sandy litterbox.
The other side of the room held a set of thirty frames, in six rows of five, and a pregnant woman was strapped into each of these frames. Each mouth was plugged with a dildo, and each set of tits had plastic cups attached, which were sucking milk rhythmically from the woman’s tits. Each woman also had a dildo shoved into her cunt, which was pumping in and out of her. From time to time the women squealed in agony, and Vice remembered what Confidence had said about the bitches in the farms having their cunts regularly shocked.
That was good. That was what he was counting on.
As he entered the farm, the bitches in the pen looked up, and began to crawl over to the side nearest Vice. He realisd they were hoping to be fucked, and he felt his cock twitch. He wished he had more time to play with them, but he was on a tight timeline.
Instead, he went to the first of the restrained milkers. There was a control panel near her frame, and Vice was able to shut the frame down fairly quickly, which let him pull the dildo out of her pussy.
The milker began to moan and squeal as the dildo came out of her, at first quietly and then with increasing volume.
Vice looked around. The girls in the pen were staying quiet. The other milkers didn’t even seem to be aware of him, wholly focused on the feelings in their tits and cunt.
The milker next to him mooed louder. Vice couldn’t help but be worried that she would attract attention.
There was only one way to shut her up. He took out his cock, and shoved it into her pussy.
She went silent immediately.
And honestly, her cunt felt good. It seemed to spasm wildly around his cock, squeezing it in sharp, panicky bursts. An after-effect of her repeated cunt-shocking? Whatever it was, it was pleasurable. He began to slowly fuck her as he began to work on the dildo.
He traced the wires on the dildo back into the frame, and found what he had been hoping for – a battery . It was connected by wires to a charger, but if Vice was able to detach the dildo and its drive pole from the machine….
He fiddled with the screws on the drive pole as he fucked the milker. He felt her orgasm around his cock as he did so, which was a pleasant sensation. And shortly afterwards, he was successful.
Now he had a five foot pole with a conductive dildo on the end, attached to a medium-sized battery. It was, in effect, a shock prod.
And if he turned up the current….
He pulled his cock out of the milker, and pushed the dildo back into her pussy in its place.
“I’m sorry,” he said, “but I have to test this.”
He pushed the trigger on the battery. There was a sharp crack, and the milker bucked – and then fell unconscious.
He quickly checked her pulse. Still alive, thankfully.
But his weapon worked.
He tucked his cock away, and fled the farm.
Now he made his way to the hyperwave broadcaster.
It was easy enough to find. Whenever the plants above the colony dome offered a view of the sky, he was able to see the tower’s pinnacle looming above the other structures.
There was a guard outside the door of the tower building when he got there – some poor sap who had been told to watch the tower instead of enjoying the breaking of an off-world bitch. The guard had reddish fur and seemed bored by his assignment.
Vice didn’t bother talking to the guard or trying to trick him. He simply advanced swiftly towards the Galliard, dildo-pole extended, and tapped the guard on the chest with the dildo before he could react. Then he turned up the power on the battery to full, and pulled the trigger.
There was a ZAP, and the smell of ozone, and the guard convulsed and fell to the ground. Vice breathed a sigh of relief. Knocking out a restrained woman was one thing, but the huge bestial Galliard males were something else entirely. Vice had been lucky.
He dragged the guard into the shadows along the side of the tower building. He had no idea how long the Galliard would remain unconscious. The longer the better. Vice desperately hoped he would have at least 30 minutes of grace.
The tower itself was locked, and for a minute Vice despaired. But a quick trip back to the unconscious Galliard produced a black keycard hanging from a strap around the Galliard’s waist, and this turned out to be the card for opening the tower door.
Vice slipped inside.
Within was a small room containing a dizzying number of switches, lights, and readouts, along with two microphones and accompanying audio headsets.
To someone else, it might have been overwhelming, but Jayson Vice was a star captain. He knew his way around communications equipment.
Step one was to focus the transmission array. He inputted the coordinates of the Core Worlds. He could have chosen the local hyperspace routes, which were closer – allowing for a faster response if Jayson was heard – but traffic along those routes was infrequent, and he risked his message going completely unnoticed.
The Core Worlds were further away, but a transmission in that direction was all but certain to be intercepted by *someone* – probably multiple someones – even if he only broadcast for a short period. He just had to hope that the message would be passed to someone who cared – the Guild, perhaps, who would have an in-principle interest in retrieving their navigator; or the Entertainment Consortiums, who would want to rescue galactic pop-idol Amy. Or even the trade consortiums who were invested in Vice himself.
Aligning the transmission array was the riskiest part of the process. Anyone looking up right now in a place where the tower was visible would be able to see the broadcaster dish moving, when no movement was scheduled. If Vice was unlucky, he’d have Galliard at the door within minutes.
There was nothing he could do about that risk, so he moved on to the next stage: sending the message.
He didn’t waste time with words. He sent a simple digital code, designed to repeat endlessly until it was shut off. It contained the galactic standard SOS code, the spatial coordinates of Persephone Nine, the latitude and longitude of the beach camp, his own identity code, Laurel’s Guild ID number, and the registration number of his cargo manifest – which included the passengers, Victoria and Amy. It concluded with a “panic button” code, which would indicate that further transmissions purporting to cancel the SOS should be disregarded and treated as suspect.
With that done, it was time to make his escape.
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