A new, hopefully temporary, routine

As time passes, you carefully make plans to escape while maintaining your guise as Irk's loyal ****.

A few days after your graduation ceremony, Irk was assigned to oversee powerpacks shipped through a Syndicate base on Gren, a barren planet that only has an atmosphere thanks to terraforming algae in its polar lakes. The dust ball has some minor mines, but it mostly functions as a supply hub for nearby strategic positions.

Apparently some border skirmish requires a bolstering of syndicate forces in this area and the promotion of petty security thugs to warehouse management positions. Irk doesn't talk much about the conflict because "dumb slaves couldn't possibly understand complex stratagem," which means he doesn't understand it himself. Not that you particularly care. The fighting is far away, and it's only effect on you is the relocation, which works in your favor.

A while back, you chased a busty waitress here when she got delusions of becoming a master thief. She wasn't a complete failure; you had to set up an alias to avoid spooking her. Even when caught, the wannabe gangster refused to tell you were she hid her stolen money. It wasn't until you asked very nicely, and hung her by her tits, freshly stripped from a flogging that she begrudgingly divulged the location of her stash. She had complained a fair amount, saying some very rude (and you like to think inaccurate) things about the taste of your pussy. Leaving her hanging while you retrieved her ill-gotten gains didn't seem to calm her down, even after you explained it was because she looked so sexy twisting and squirming on her tip-toes. There's no pleasing some people.

Irk, being the incompetent master he is, left you less than secure his first day a **** holder on Gren. You were able query a local bank, revealing you still have some money and weapons stored under your alias. It's taken a little over a week, but you're almost ready to make your escape.

Irk's uninspired bondage normally leaves you enough wiggle room to work on your plans. However, today's bondage is uncharacteristically competent and cruel. At this moment, you are in an **** strappado position, staring intently at your thighs. Irk has tied you to one of the support pillars necessary for structures on the soft surface of Gren. Bent forward, your neck, elbows and wrists were tied to the vertical beam, so your arms are above your head and straight up, Bent to their limit, your neck and shoulders are screaming at you. Because of this pain and the vulnerability of your position, a deep longing pulses in your nethers. You feel more than a little irritated that Irk is the cause of your current sexual need.

To placate your aching joints and lessen your masochistic arousal, you raise your ass higher and shuffle your feet forward until you're on tip-toe. The new position will soon be **** on your hamstrings but takes some pressure off your shoulders.

With your knees now level with your face, you are surprised to notice that in spite of the residual pain from your morning "walk," they show no scapes or bruises. Crawling over the grey grit covered metal plates had been frustratingly painful, but the Syndicate effectively conditioned your body to endure such routine abuses. A significant part of you enjoyed it, even when the wind decided to whip around the stilted buildings and sandblast your scarcely clad flesh.

You're naked now, the breeze cooling your hot pussy, but earlier, on your daily neighborhood crawl, Irk had given you a perverted sling bikini. It had a halter neck that descended into a V of string and tiny cloth patches. However, in lou of any straps behind your back, the decorative accessory was held in place by an anal hook. Moreover, the little diamond patches that would have given you the barest hint of modesty had heart shaped cut-outs to expose your nipples and pussy. Your intimate parts were available to be peppered by Gren's particulate and scrutinized by anyone on this rustic crime outpost. It wasn't the first time you were exposed in public or crawling after your supposed master. But the odious alien had done everything his small mind could think of to **** you: dressing you in fetishistic heels with an outfit that acted more as a frame for your most intimate parts. On these walks he often ordered you to suck a cock, or lick somebody's shoe.

The worst had been when a plucky Oo'lick with purple tipped feathers had wanted to know how your useless bikini was attached. With your face in Grem's dust and your ass high, you had been ordered to spread your cheeks for her inspection. Said inspection involved flicking your stuffed rosebud and giving the intruder a humiliating, moan-inducing, shake. The giggling bitch yanked the thing out, commenting that your "loose" hole needed a wider plug before jamming the un-lubed hook back in your abused sphincter. You were able to make your vengeful hisses sound more like a pained whimpers, but several wisps of foul, dry dust drifted into your open mouth as you hid your face in the dirt.

The Oo'lick **** had been kind enough to clean you with a damp cloth on your return. You don't know her name; Irk has made a few attempts at the blue alien's notoriously difficult language, but you think he was just squawking out demeaning nicknames. The submissive blue beauty is one of the few things you haven't lost interest in. You're tempted to take her with you when you escape but know you'll have to limit yourself to treasures that won't fight back. Such a shame, you sigh.

After getting cleaned up, you started the next part of your daily routine of degradation. Every day he has you record a personalized message to one of your contacts, detailing your submission to him. Today's message was to Lace Rynd, the leader of Rynd's Hawks. You kneel and look up at the holographic recorder. While reading Irk's script, you slowly stripped out of the skanky bikini. The heels were removed last, to keep proper slut etiquette.

You were naked long before you finished embellishing Irk exceptional combat skill. For all his incompetence, you have to admit it is a good idea to leverage your capture to improve his reputation and assert dominance over you. He has nothing else going for him.

Next you explained why "master's cock is so satisfying," while slapping your own tits. Despite Irk's repulsive sneer as you humiliated yourself in front of another business associate, you were turned on by the experience. So each blow to your reddening breast had the **** of a proper domme behind it, making you gasp and grunt. Pleading eyes on the recorder, you whimpered things like "I am mmff a naughty slut ah for taking so long to realize my true place." You paused to catch your breath after you accidentally struck your nipple. "I deserve to be punished hhh daily, but master mercifully ahhh gives me pleasure with his cock." It ended with you inviting Lace to join you as a **** for such a "magnificent master."

Thinking back on the message, It would be nice to see how the badass merc would treat Irk. Lace was a demanding disciplinarian that you'd see sentence a soldier to a year of chastity for breaking his salute after her knee crushed his balls for the third time. Despite her largely administrative role, Lace held herself to the highest standards of martial arts and could kick Irk to a whimpering heap in seconds.

What would she do to you? The mercenary commander was always quick to point out your flaws when you knew her. How would she punish you for being trapped by someone as weak as Irk. Lace preferred discipline over bondage. She would order you to hold a pose, probably standing spread eagle, while flogging and berating you. In your mind, you stand, limbs aching, suffering unending, vicious strikes to every inch of your body and listening to her call you a "trash bounty hunter" and "useless whore". And then she stops, grabs your sweat covered breast, and moves her mouth to your perky nipple. You tremble and worry she will bite your sensitive nub. Instead, your tomentor smirks and says "you have some redeeming qualities," before kissing your nipple. You can almost feel her teasing your clit, and you moan.

A finger is teasing your clit; your eyes snap open and you leave your musings. Behind your long legs (made even sexier by your stretching bondage), you can see the Oo'lick with a tray attached to her harness. Ass up and head down, you can't she what the tray holds, but you want it to be an array of paddles and dildos. The harness secures her elbows together behind her back but otherwise gives her hands freedom. Freedom she is taking advantage of to dip a finger into your pussy. Your sex immediately responds to her touch and starts to drip with need just as she stops her magic massaging. Even with the ballgag, you can clearly see her deviant smile.

She has amazing hands; you have experienced their skill many times. Most nights, the bloated blowhard holds a contest between you two. The winner gets the privilege of climbing on top of him and riding his stump. Its usually involves stroking his ego (describing how good his "glorious manhood" would feel, wrestling eachother for his affections). Even with the ****-box's emphasis on grovelling, it would be hard to act aroused if the blue beauty wasn't with you, but the sight of her heavenly curves or the hint of her delicate touch is enough to launch you pussy first into the deepest of depraved desires. One particularly special night Irk had told the two of you to plead for his attentions while the Oo'lick dominated you, and you witnessed the extent of her sexual skill.

She was naked as you were and without toys but didn't need them. Hooking an ankle behind yours she had leaned into you and kept you off balance throughout the foreplay. One hand squeezed your ass while the other slapped your right breast just hard enough to tease pain and illicit moans. Irk didn't give you permission to kiss eachother despite your panting pleas, but those skilled blue fingers brushing your neck and pinching your earlobes had easily spent shivers up your spine. When your hands had clumsily tried to return the passion, she had grabbed them. Her hand, gripping like cobalt steel, locked your wrists into a cross, which she **** above your head as if they were bound by cuffs. You probably could have fought her off but couldn't find the will to.

Her other fingers did occasionally make it to your dripping pussy, delivering fleeting penetrations or clit caresses before dancing to your mouth to be sucked clean. Within minutes, you had been mewling for more like an Alerian that had just taken a triple aphrodisiac dose. Maybe if your master had been as skilled as this Oo'lick you wouldn't have even thought about escaping. As it was, your desperation had earned you the right to ride his wide choad that night.

The blue-skinned sex-goddess steps away from your raised rump. Her harness jingles loud enough to make you wonder how she managed to sneak up on you. Contentedly humming through her ballgag, she kneels beside you. The tray fastened around her waist only has a small dish on it that is level with your upside-down head. With some difficulty (and a lot of help) you manage to suck up the snack. Its just nutrient ration (would it kill Irk to vary the meals?), but your co-**** topped it with Varrus cum to add some flavor. As Irk refuses to stock the sweet substance, you suspect the naughty **** snuck out to beg the neighbors for some.

The Oo'lick picture of perfect physique leaves after you finish your meal to get back to her chores. You don't mind too much; the image of her sexy blue ass will keep you satisfied until tonight. Before losing yourself once again to memories and fantasies of more deserving owners, you question if it would be worth it to bring along a treasure that fights back.