The Gratitude of HORE's

Betty bucks and squirms furiously under your grip. “Please…” she wails. “Keep me if you must, but let my people go!”

“Tut, tut, tut, Betty,” you say as you frogmarch her into the dungeon. “While I find that very noble, a leader must ensure the commitments of her people are honored.” You have to raise your voice to be heard over the whining of machinery and the cries of despair. The massive chamber is filled with heavy equipment that looks like it came out of a factory, if a factory produced sex slaves. Dozens upon dozens of stations stimulate, punish, hypnotize, feminize, bimbofy, milk and otherwise fuck the brains out of hundreds of captives, the fruits of your raids. Along one wall are stacked cages, rising to the high above the cacophony. Some are empty, but most containing an exhausted ****. From the high ceiling hang long term isolation capsules, drone docks, power couplings and cargo winches.

She moans as you rub her crotch through the expensive gown, her eyes running over the scenes of debasement. In spite of her struggles, you can feel the moisture through the thin fabric. Typical Oo’lick. “Your people will express their gratitude through sexual servitude.” She squeals but that probably has as much to do with you slapping her pussy than the fate of her followers. Behind you is a queue of excited pirates eagerly herding anxious slaves in your wake.

“No! Please… we just wanted a new life...”

“And you’ll have one. One where you’ll be well taken care of. Here, let me show you.” You manhandle Betty’s slender wrist into manacles hanging from a small cargo drone. While the simple automaton is little more than a hover engine with cargo clamps, it's more than enough for your needs. With a thrum it lifts Betty off the ground, her feet kicking adorably at her cursed fate. She can only look about the dungeon in despair as she is carried forward.

The drone moves Betty over a narrow but very deep pit. So deep she can’t even see the bottom. In her struggles, she sends a very classy 4 inch heel falling into the abyss. There is a brief flash as it's incinerated. You ignore her squeals of shock and surprise as you tear away the gauze-like fabric, revealing a smooth body with generous hips and breasts. The shredded garment is left to fall and disappears like the Oo'lick's dwindling dignity. “No bra. Very practical.” She looks away in disgust as you pinch a nipple and rub your hands down to a tear drop thong. “I have to say Betty…” you hook your finger under waist band of the thin lingerie and pull up so it threads its way between her pussy lips. “This is quite the scandalous dress code for the leader of a respectable group of colonists.” Another tug.

“It’s… ahhh!!” She squeals as you rip away the thong and let it fall into the incinerator. “We are an enlightened people! The clothes we choose to wear empower us!”

“What does it say about you when someone else chooses to strip you naked then?” Her only response is to look down at her freshly exposed teal skin as the drone moves her forward and another **** takes her place behind her. Suddenly, progress halts her between two large dishes that most closely resemble long range communications transmitters, and she swings forward with a jerk. Nearby is a console run by a woman in a caricature of a nurse's outfit. She nods to you. “Now, you’ll feel a slight tingling sensation…” you step back

“What do you-AARRGHH!!” Her query is cut off as the bio scanners **** Novo radiation through her cells. Quite harmless, but it hurts like a sunofabitch. It is also perfect for identifying rare diseases and bacteria. True, you could have just taken a tissue sample via a cotton swab, but where’s the fun in that?

“No pathogens identified, captain,” reports Nurse Lovejoy. The blonde woman "uniform" was a red and white latex skirt that barely reached her ass and then quit when it saw how long her legs were. It didn’t bother to cover her back or her chest either, forcing Lovejoy to cover her nipples in red cross pasties. A recent and very enthusiastic addition to your crew you picked up on Caldor Station where he was running a **** feminization clinic for **** bois. She was quite eager to sign up, something about selling her charges before their former owners could come collect them. Still, you can’t fault her results, and her bedside manner is amazing.

“Are you certain, nurse? That seemed particularly quick. Give her another scan.” Betty shakes her head. “Longer this time.” You don’t hear Lovejoy acknowledge you over Betty’s scream but she follows your orders promptly and efficiently. “Good work nurse. Remember to be thorough with the remaining slaves. I know we have quite a few to go through, but we wouldn’t want a disease to roll through our new stock.” Betty can only moan in what you choose to believe is agreement as she is carried forward.

Betty hangs limply as the drone carries her forward, lethargy being a common side effect of novo scans. Best cure for that is a bracing shower. The drone stops between an array of strategically placed hoses which roar into life. “Gods!” Screams Betty. She’s certainly awake now. The new refrigeration coils Melodia installed seem to be working just fine. The automated hoses move up and down, spraying every inch of her body as she writhes and shivers. The cleaning cycle reaches its last step which is a hose down Betty’s vag. When it finally stops rivulets of water running down skin that is smooth as ice and blue as the sea, droplets dripping from nipples erect as mountains, streams flowing between the valley of her ass cheeks. You gently towel her off and hold the suspended **** close, rubbing her soft flesh. To warm her up of course.

Once Betty’s teeth stop chattering, you move her forward once again. “This is the chipping station. You’ve heard of putting a microchip in a pet right?” Two restraint arms pull Betty’s legs wide and a massive injector probe rises up from the floor. “This is the same thing just for slaves. It implants a device that records your basic health history, owner's contact info, and a small tracking transmitter so we can find you if you get lost.” Betty looks nervously over her shoulder as the probe's shaft lines itself up behind her back door. “Lots of places actually require slaves to be chipped before they can be sold. Quality control you see.” The probe shoots upwards and impales Betty’s blue ass. “Yes! It does go very deep” you say after Betty finishes screaming. “We need to install it that way so it won’t fall out! You know, because you’re going to be doing a lot of anal!” More screams. “Well yes, injection by anal probe is not the most effective way, but it’s good practice for you. You know, because of all the anal.” Based on the wails coming out of her, you’re not sure she actually heard you.

“Almost done,” you say to Betty after the probe finally retracts. The next station seems to be made of robotic clamps. The drone drops Betty in their midst and they latch onto her before she even hits the ground. Metallic and leather belts are ratcheted across her body. Magna clamps and smart locks form nexuses in an intimate network of composite strapping. Betty pushes back against her robotic grapplers, but is nevertheless splayed mid air as they weave their web of restraint and **** submission over her body. When they finish it's rather anticlimactic. They simply drop her a few inches, leaving the **** to admire her new wardrobe in morbid curiosity. Synthetic leather wraps around her chest, framing, restricting and supporting her breasts. From the central harness, flat auto-tendrils modeled to mirror leather straps spiral down her arms and legs, ending at the smart cuffs locked to her wrists and ankles. A tentative hand reaches up to the control collar. Where once she wore a symbol of authority, she now wears a tool of authority. Your authority.

With the touch of a button, the cyber harness activates. Her arms are pulled behind her, the smart cuffs pulling towards each other. As the two restraints snap together behind her back the auto-tendrils untangle themselves and wrap both arms tightly together. A similar process is repeated with her legs, the infernal device pulling her feet together then binding her knees to her chest so she was curled up like a ball. The cargo drone, sensing its ward is ready for transport, lowers a small winch that attaches to a clamp a the back of the **** harness. There is a slight whir as the drone retracts the cable, leaving Betty suspended once again.

“There,” you coo. Now you’re officially enslaved.” Betty can only sob. “Ohhh… don’t be such a baby. I skipped the shifter gag. You’ll thank me someday”

“But my people-”

“Will also thank me. Here let me show you.” You give her a sympathetic spank and walk up to your throne, the drone wordlessly following you.

Before you became a pirate queen, you had never appreciated how hard it was to find a suitable throne. The kind that made it clear that you were one whom others knelt before. You could have commissioned one, but that would be unprofessional given your current role. So you reaved and pillaged across outlaw space seeking the perfect throne. The Spice Baron on Montlego IV had one that was more luxurious, but he was so fat, that you felt like he had more of a couch then a throne. The Iollian Archon had a very intimidating seat of authority, but Iollians, for all of their sadistic hedony, were not big on ergonomics. So far, this was the best you had found.

Mounted on the central platform from which you had watched your crew vote you captain, the seat of your realm is a mass of gold and black. A sea of dark leather so deep you can drown in it forms the seat and rest, while gold plated titanium makes the frame. What really sold you on this one was the engravings. The Gavleth warlord who had it before you was as self aggrandizing and decadent as you, and had carved out his many conquests, both martial and sexual, on the throne. As far as thrones go it was pretty good, it was almost worthy of you.

Next to the throne is a small table where you keep your sex toys. “You can’t be serious,” Betty says as you slide into what you would consider a modestly sized strap on, black as your flight suit. “That is too big!”

“Nonsense! It just needs some lubrication.” Betty squacks as you grab her head and push her down on the phallus. She chokes and gags as you **** it all the way down her throat. There is no small amount of begging, but you certainly can’t understand a word she says as you stuff her mouth. After holding it all the way down so she can’t breathe for a solid minute, you pull out and spin the sputtering **** around.

“No! Wait! Ple-aaaaaaaaaaaaahhh!” It takes some doing, but you do manage to split her pussy with the toy.

“Now…” you say with a thrust. “You just sit back and watch what happens to your people. See how happy they all are.” Just to make sure she obeys (and so you have something to pull on while thrusting), you grab her by the head feathers so she is **** to look forward.

From her suspended perch, Betty has a full view of the operation. One by one the queue of fresh captives are **** through the same process she just endured, with one **** occupying a station as soon as it is vacated. The train of submissives rolls past, sadistically herded by your crew. When they finally reach the end of the line, the cargo drones whisk them away to a vacant rack, fuck machine, or cage. Even though there were at least one hundred sapients within your dungeon before the new arrivals, there was still room for the new comers; the dungeon was massive, the size of small shipping warehouse. Which it sometimes served as when the Freedom Redefined docked at a major port of call.

In spite of the sophistication of the equipment, it is not a smooth operation. You’ve always valued enthusiasm over efficiency and the crew might be spending too much time on quality control. At one point, you have to pause your ministrations of Becky to chastise Peta for taking too long to “test” the different applications of a shifter gag using a young ebon skinned woman with a magnificent afro. While you’re all about combining product testing with quick sexual gratification, there was a queue behind her. If she wants to make sure that the dildo function is really working, she needs to take the **** aside and then put her at the back of the line when she’s done.

In spite of this and many additional interruptions and hold ups, the HORE’s are bound, gagged, and locked away. The dungeon crooned with debauchery. You could see Selmarin using his twin cocks to give a lythe Oo’lick the double stuff. Nurse Lovejoy had locked a few promising candidates into straightjackets and was leading a small coffle away to begin dual gender augmentation therapy; their dicks already strapped into conditioning cages. A voluptuous brunette milf was taken in the ass by Makleth while Julia whipped her tits. Tyla, a lustful Mynta moaned in time with the new blue cow she had locked into the milking stall, each thrust from the striped hermaphrodites sending the heifer's milker clad udders swinging. Most sadistic of all was the pirate you called Lee. Not the Oo’lick’s real name of course, but he said it was close enough. He took perverse delight in “preemptive punishment,” as he liked to call it. The fact that it was his own brother and sister Oo’licks he was sodomizing only seemed to make him harder. The lucky prisoners were the ones who were simply locked away. Against one wall was rows and rows of holding cages, each too small to stand up or lie down in so that helpless prisoners were **** to curl up and watch their compatriots suffer

All the while Betty looks on helplessly. Well, except when a well placed thrust forces her to roll her eyes back into her head. For someone who was so against the concept of a lifelong commitment to servitude not two minutes ago, she certainly seems to have warmed up to the idea. Specifically in her loins, which are starting to spray hot juices spray against you with each clapping thrust. Her tits, quite large by human standards but merely average for an Oo’lick, shuddered as you piston in and out of her. Bird-like tweets of lust and pleasure screamed from her alien vocal chords, punctuated by fast claps as your synthex flightsuit slams into her wet thighs. The cries quickly reach a crescendo under your relentless tempo and you look down with a sigh. She came on your flight suit. She came a lot on your flight suit. “Betty, what’s this?” You abruptly pull out while Betty is still crowing in throes of orgasm and spin her around.

“What?” She gasps, her eyes not focusing. You slap her with the strap on.

“You came all over my flight suit! Look at it! It’s a mess.” You slap the wet toy against her face one more time.

“Ah! I-Ah! I couldn’t help it. You made me-Glurk!”

“Yes, I made you.” You say as you **** her mouth down the strap on once again. “I made you because you're a **** now Betty.”

“Noooo-Hmmglfk!” The strap on quickly muffles her patently false protest.

“Yes. Now what do you think a **** should say after mistress makes her cum?” You pull out to let her answer.

“Please! Let my-Gack!”

You sigh as you **** the strap on back in. Carefully you take it off, being sure to prevent her from spitting it out and reverse the straps so they go behind her head, creating an impromptu cock gag. “Lee!” you shout out over the dungeon. “Take this one next. Teach her proper manners.”

He acknowledges with a grin as the hover drone carries forth his next squirming victim. You look back down at the wet patch on your loins. Gods of lust is Betty a squirter. Oh well. You unzip your flightsuit and step out of it easily. One of the privileges of being captain of the most notorious pirate ship in known space is that no one is going to tell you no if you want to walk around the ship in your underwear. Well not quite. You do keep your bandolier. It has pockets afterall.

“Someone get me that Syndicate flunky we kept on ice. I want to hear what she has to say about this Thane person.”