Attempt to physically resist despite the overwhelming compulsion

You plant your feet. Lock your ankles. Try to make this body obey your mind instead of his voice. The engineering part of you—the part that understands exactly what's happening at the neurochemical level—knows you're fighting a losing battle. But you have to try. You're Jack Chen. You built this system. You can break it.

Your hands rise to chest height, palms out in a warding gesture. "No," you say, and the word comes out strangled, barely audible. "I won't—"

The contradiction hits like a power surge through faulty wiring. Your own programming, your own elegant neural architecture, turns against you with surgical precision. The prefrontal cortex tries to maintain executive control, but the limbic system is already drowning it in neurotransmitters. Dopamine. Oxytocin. Endorphins cascading through modified pathways.

Your knees buckle.

Not smoothly, not gracefully. You fight it every millimeter, muscles trembling with the effort of resistance. But the body descends anyway, jerking and shuddering like a marionette with tangled strings. By the time your knees hit the deck plates, you're gasping, a thin sheen of sweat coating your skin. The worst part isn't the failure. It's the relief that floods through you once you stop fighting, the reward cascade your modified brain dumps into your system for finally obeying.

"That was pathetic," Jack says, but there's something like fascination in his voice. He walks closer, and you can see his erection at eye level now, your former cock hard and ready. "You really can't resist at all, can you? The conditioning is absolute." His hand threads through your hair, grip firm but not quite painful. "Open your mouth."

You try one more time. Try to keep your jaw locked, your lips sealed. But your mouth opens anyway, tongue extending slightly in an invitation you never consciously offered. The programming is in your muscle memory now, in the autonomic responses of this modified body.

"Perfect," Jack breathes. He guides himself between your lips, and the taste floods your senses—salt and skin and the particular musk of arousal. Your body responds immediately, saliva production increasing, throat relaxing, every system optimized for this exact purpose. "God, Kat really is the perfect little toy, isn't she? And now you get to experience it from the inside."

The frigate's proximity alarm chimes again. Five minutes.

Jack's hips start to move, and your hands come up automatically to brace against his thighs—your thighs, your body, now being used for someone else's pleasure. You can feel the conditioning singing through your neural pathways, flooding you with artificial satisfaction at pleasing him, at being used. Part of you wants to bite down, to hurt him, to do anything to reclaim some fragment of control.

But you don't. You can't. You just kneel there and let it happen, let him fuck your mouth while the inspection team draws closer and your chances of escape dwindle to nothing.