Working out in the practice room

You are still days out from Omicron-69, hive of villainy, and you have taken to spending your transit time honing your skills in hand-to-hand combat. There is a practice room on the leisure deck and you have been sparring with a fighter robot. The robot isn't very challenging, so when Battle Commander Tyson offers to spar you it seems like a good chance to really test your abilities. He has about a hundred pounds of muscle on you, but you have Space Karate on your side. It's going to be a good fight.

You finish suiting up and look at yourself in the mirror. You're tall and lean, your B-cup breasts made smaller by the tight workout suit. The rubbery material is firm against your flat stomach and muscular arms and clings so snugly to your shapely ass that the black material outlines your crack and the mound of your pussy. Good, maybe it will distract the old brawler. You're young for a captain, less than 30 earth standard, with the blue-white hair of a Empire spacer. You'd be no match for Tyson on a planet with full gravity, but on the lighter gravity of the Venomed Dagger you are in your element. You finish by taping your hands and doing some stretches.

You march out into the octagonal fighting chamber and find Tyson already waiting. He seems enormous, his brown skin already damp with sweat, huge muscles straining at the workout singlet emblazoned with the eagle symbol of the Space Armada. He smiles and makes no effort to hide his lusty gaze as he looks over your form-fitting workout suit.

"Don't pull any punches," you warn him, "because I don't intend to."

"Yes, ship's mistress," he answers.

Tyson charges you immediately, and though you sidestep you are surprised by his speed. You trade jabs. You land more, but his rock you back and leave your head spinning. You dance away and use kicks to weaken his legs. Finally you take him down to the floor, but he scissors your legs in his and brings you with him. Your heart pounds in your chest. He rolls you onto your back and looms over you, huge, his sweat pattering from his forehead onto the chest of your workout suit. You arch your back and try to throw him off, but he is too heavy.

He looks down into your eyes and grins, triumphant, pinning you down. His knee is rubbing against your thigh. He leans over you, one big hand pinning both of your wrists together. With his free hand he reaches down, stroking your flat stomach, fingers moving lower and lower.

You want him to touch you there. It's been so long. Since before the academy. You shouldn't be in a submissive position. It's a gross violation of the conduct code, but you want Tyson to touch you.