They have ways of making you think

"Still refusing?" Tracey steps back. "We have some Truth Spice to help you with that." She struts towards you, producing a small vial. Truth Spice is a favorite among lazy law enforcement and customs agents. It amplifies thoughts, often making the victim blurt out the answer before they can properly think. You've learned to control yourself but a telepath is going to make this a lot harder. The **** can be ingested or injected depending on the questioner's patience.

Tracey pours a glob of the substance in her gloved hand. "Okay, I'll swallow like a good girl," you lie, then open your mouth. 'Accidentally' spitting the expensive **** on the floor is always good fun, especially when the interrogator tries to make you lick it up afterwards. The mind-reading alien spoils things by stomping twice.

"It doesn't matter," Tracey explains. "I wasn't going to put it in your mouth anyways." Grinning, she moves your panties to one side, and with two fingers works the Truth Spice into your pussy. You suck air in sharply as you feel embers of pleasure dance along the walls of your intimate hole and entirely forget to breathe when the sparks radiate from your crotch and tingle up your spine.

FUCK! THIS FEELS GOOD! echoes through your head. The Truth Spice makes every thought feel louder, like an epiphany. The walking hourglass shivers in agreement.

"Are you ready Violet?" Tracey asked. "I'm going to get the subject more compliant." A single stomp was her response.

Tracey's soft fingers spread your pussy. A rod gently slides into your wet opening. It slowly starts thrusting with rhythmic, almost hypnotic pace. Each deep pump spreads the lingering hints of Truth Spice into previously untouched places. That said, the resulting moan of thanks would have probably burst from your mouth even without the sizzling ointment.

Your interrogator walks behind you and snuggles up to you. With the back of your bondage chair in the way, she isn't able to press her body into you, but her hands cup your breasts. While the gauntlet is motionless, the soft fingers of her other hand massage your left tit, milking from base to nipple in perfect synchronicity with the robot phallus. "Let's think back shall we? Did you go to the hideout at the speeder shop?"

Memories of your approach to the shop thunder through your head. Violet answering for you with a single stomp. The self-satisfied laugh Tracey lets out really makes you want to give her a lesson in humility, something with tit-flogging. Yes, hang her upside-down and stripe the underside of her tits while dipping her head in a bucket of cum, something disgusting like that orange Turnk stuff. Then when she's **** to breathe, you'll raise her out only to smother her with your pussy.

"Mmmm, I like that..." Violet moans, then cries out "Miss Williams, please, the subject is getting off topic again."

"Oh, is she having naughty thoughts?" Tracey asks while slapping your tit, disapprovingly. "If you don't get more cooperative soon, I'm going to have to get a little rough with you." She giggles playfully.

"Let me and my **** go, and maybe we can work something out," you snap back, irritated by your predicament.

Tracey sighs and scans the room. "I want you to remember I tried to be gentle. Violet, assume the position."

The telepathic alien lets out a gleeful giggle and trots behind you. Tracey flips a pair of switches on her control panel, and your chair starts to come to life.

The first thing to change is the dildo; it slurps out of your pussy, prompting a disappointed groan to sneak out of your mouth. Your ankles are next. A set of manacles descend to grab them and pull them up to the height of your face. Then, a large ring rises from below your ass; it encircles your torso and legs, locking your knees to your breasts. Your arms are locked into place too when your wrist cuffs slide up to your ankles and magnetically snap in place. Violet positions herself back to back behind you. You feel her excitement trembling through your shared backrest.

Your crotch is tilted up, and the feel of cool air reminds you know both your pussy and asshole are ****. Tracey turns to you, implements of kinky **** dangling in her grip. While the chair twisted you into the devious new position, your smartly dressed interrogator got herself some clamps connected by thin wires and a double ended anal hook.

The latter she puts in front of your face. "Would you like to lube this before I insert it?" You open your lips in response and drool over the dull metal bend, but Tracey only flashes a devilish smile at you before popping the dry end up your ass. The cruel metal tugs deep inside of you as Tracey pulls its connected cable behind you presumably to anally anchor you to the sub. This is confirmed by a gentle moan of relaxation from the alien right after the hook is pulled to its limit.

That bitch Tracey applies four of the clamp strings to your pussy next, two to each of your inner labia. "Get ready Violet," she warns, stroking your cheek, "I'm going to link your vulvae." You let out a hiss of pain as your pussy is spread open by the clamps; each wire trailing back to connect to Violet. The thin wires pin your already askew panties well out of the way. Painful indeed, but the cruellest was the one attached to your clitoral hood. That agonizing pincer's wire split in two, and each strand was delicately woven behind your legs, just under your breasts, making you cry out from the merciless stretching. You are achingly aware that your cunt was spread like a canvas for whatever devious designs or terrifying pleasures Tracey wants to inflict on you.

After that ordeal, having your nipples being pulled up by the final pair of clamps' wires going over your shoulders feels almost anti-climactic.

Violet fidgets behind you causing the clamps to yank your tender bits uncomfortably. You moan and feel a fresh yearning from your spread pussy.

A part of you wants to believe the submissive alien you are pussy linked to is pushing these thoughts onto you, but this isn't the first time a good interrogation has left you flush with desire.

Work done, Tracey resumes the questioning. The image of your captor hanging from ankle cuffs dissolves as she speaks. You try to focus your mind's eye back on it, but the memory of the Syndicate's safehouse is just so vivid. Trying to recall the recent steamy night you'd spent with Melodia yields similarly unsatisfactory results.

"Our sources say, 'How often do blue moons dance?' is the greeting question." You claw for any distraction in your mind, but with the hypnotic pulses of pleasure between your legs and methodical tit massage, you can't ignore Tracey's words.

Violet quotes the answer forcing itself to the front of your mind, "'there are fourteen.'"

Flat-assed strippers! You promised to keep these codes secret. It doesn't feel right to give them away, without at least getting a lot of money or a sex **** out of the betrayal. "FUCK OFF! YOU ROTTEN TASTING CUNTS!" you snap, and boiling with frustration, try to headbutt Tracey. She dips out of range, tutting at your outburst.

Violet is next to speak. "The goddess said that was rude and uncalled for. Miss Williams, are you aware the subject has a particular dislike for Turnk cum?"

"Oh how interesting," replies Tracey, her sadistic smile audible in her voice. "I'll ask Juju to get us some fresh samples." Her claw reaches down and strokes your stretched clit. There is a surprising contrast between the cool alloy of her glove and the hard bite of the clamp. "We are going to have a lot of fun with this one."

Fuck, this is going to be a long interrogation.

You wake up face down, soft fur tickling your face and naked nipples. Fur is incorporated into your bondage as well as the bedding beneath you: fur-lined cuffs lock your hands together under your crotch; a fur-lined collar keeps your head pulled down; and fur-lined shackles spread your ankles suggestively. It's jarring; your fluffy prison feels quite sensual and you moan contentedly as consciousness returns.

"Good, you're awake," Tracy says when you start looking around. The room you are in is very different from the sterile "interview" chamber. This one is made from irregular red stone slabs that would suit the atmosphere of both a sauna or a classical dungeon. Though it isn't nearly as warm as a sauna, the air is a few degrees above room temperature allowing the humidity to lap soothingly at your muscles.

Tracey steps into your view; her eyes trail over your naked body, "You screamed and squirted so much after that orgasm, I thought you may sleep for days," she adds while eye-groping your slightly raised ass.

A humiliated groan rolls out of your mouth. You don't remember the bursting of pleasure itself, but the hour of teasing Tracey spent building the cunt-splosion starts to slowly come back to you. Towards the end, when your fuse was burning millimetres from that good-time dynamite, she'd put your panties back into place and gently rubbed your clit through the silky fabric for what felt like an eternity. Your denial had been so intense that the warm orgasm beginnings made you twitch with relief. The clammy residue clinging to your now bare pussy also echos of the impressive nature of your previous orgasm.

Looking back, you are impressed by the pain staking effort she had put into giving you the promised orgasm. Granted, having a telepath helped a bit, but enviable skill was still required. You had done the best to avoid even thinking about the answers. Insulting them had provided temporary benefits and was damn cathartic. You had questioned the firmness of your interrogators' tits as well as their blowjob ability and anything else you could think of to put them off balance. In the end, you must have struck a nerve because they jammed a dildo into your mouth that constantly leaked drops of Turnk cum. With your mouth stuffed, it was difficult to swallow the foul sludge, and you resorted to trying to drool it out. This led to the jizz drawing an orange line from the corner of your mouth and down your splayed flight suit.

A good portion of the humiliating stream remains as a crusted smear across your chin and neck a bit higher than the Bantam's spray. How would you have looked when they dragged your defeated body out of the interrogation room? Passersby would have seen a wet, cum-covered, barely-clothed, half-conscious captive, little more than a toy to the whims of her captors. Unless of course they'd stripped you before taking you out of the room; then you'd have been the naked, cum-crusted captive, fuck. As a bounty hunter it's not good for your reputation to be on the other side of these trophy strolls.

Escape would be the best way to redeem yourself. "What happens now?" you ask in a hoarse voice.

"Relax, beautiful," Tracey answers, "I'll admit we were a little rough with you, so we're going to get you cleaned up."

No doubt for the auction.

"And we'll throw in a free massage."

Wait what? "Massage?" you ask more than a little incredulous. Everyone has their own way of processing fresh captives, and you don't normally judge, but that just sounds weird; maybe it's supposed to be ironic.

"Yes, didn't Captain Thane mention we had spa facilities?" That officer might have said something, but you weren't really paying attention. "The Goddess has graciously kept all her amenities available for guests to use. We know how frustrating it is to be caught in this blockade."

Well that raises some interesting questions.

The tender tapping of stiletto heels announces the arrival of another woman. She's a tall Oo'lick with sculpted assets absolutely worth charging a blockade for. The crimson feathers atop her head are longer than usual for her species and form a comely plume like an elaborate bun of hair. The blue-skinned alien wears only high-heels with golden straps winding up to her thighs. As you crane your neck to get a better view from your restrained position, you see she is guiding a hover sled with a bulbous copper sculpture perched on top of it. "Goddess has requested," the Oo'lick tells Tracey, her thick accent giving her words a musical thrum. "She wants for her viewing."

"Of course," remarks Tracey with a slight bow. "She's all yours. I better head out. Juju and I don't seem to get along for some reason."

"Perhaps relations would strengthen if you called her Ms. Juniper," suggests the Oo'lick, but Tracey simply smiles as she leaves the room. "And you are my patient, kindest greetings," the Oo'lick says, strutting beside you to give you an eyeful of her majestic curves. "I am your masseuse Eternal Desires."

"I'll bet you are," you chide, visually drinking in every inch of her perfect form.