Go it alone

"That's a wonderful idea," you reply, smiling back at him. "But I have other customers." You had him the prostitution menu before suggesting "look through this. Our prices are very reasonable."

"Yeah, whatever," he grumbles. "Don't expect a tip ya cockteasing dyke." You let it slide. Tips or no tips you're retiring from waitressing and off this rock in two days.

The escape was going pretty well despite being a little rushed (you were worried that blue bitch would blow your cover). In your haste, you had to forego any kind of **** on Irk, but things didn't go down hill until you tried to trade a ship with the Hack Crew. And by down hill you mean down the mountain, off the cliff, and into a horde off tentacle-dick monsters with no knowledge of what isn't a vagina.

Apparently some people hold grudges for the silliest things. It had been almost a year since you captured the chop-shop's second in command. Even though you tried to explain the submissive boytoy was much happier in Queen Domina's harem, they still left you in the nerve overload trap much longer than necessary. They had been quick to relieving you of your stolen uniform, but once you were naked had left you to writhe in the field. It wasn't overly painful but your involuntary contorting combined with their leers were uncomfortable and humilating.

They still had their bass ackwards moral code about not taking slaves, so they helped you, sort of. It was decided, without your input, that you would be packaged into a crate and shipped off. They gave you base supplies: a sequin minidress, and glitzy heels to match. The parting bukkake had left you horny enough for you to masturbate the first few hours away, but things got boring after that. Being slammed and bounced around by strong cargo workers isn't as much fun when there is steel plate between you and them.

It took about a week and a half to get to Streron 19. It's a minor planet technically under Federation control but has enough Syndicate influence to be it's own kind of scummy. As an example, it's probably the only planet in federation space that allows human cargo; most others have laws against cramming people into a small box and with only tubes to sustain them. Needless to say, You were glad to finally curl out of the tiny transport crate; it almost made you miss your ****-box cell. at least that had room to stretch sometimes and kinky activities to keep you busy. On the other hand, the startled mail-woman that opened your crate was a far better sight than Irk. You're more than happy to give her cunnilingus in exchange for a shower.

After giving the frumpy cutie her second squealing orgasm you set out to find enough money to pay for a trip somewhere the police won't be eager to collect your bounty. And now you're at Sax's, wearing a thong small enough to confirm your fishnet tights are crotchless and a tube-top that was tight enough to show a fair amount of cleavage between the strained buttons down it's front.

"Natalia," calls a voice behind you. You turn to her preparing a fake smile then remember it says Krystelle on your struggling top. "Natalia Dennys that is you right?" the woman asks, staring questioningly at you through her slender glasses while hanging a tan overcoat and her ****'s leash from a coat rack. The naked blonde at the other end of the leash huddles beside her hitching post clearly wanting to cover her nudity but trained not to. Her mistress steps closer intently focused on you, but brushes her chestnut hair back like she's expecting a hot fucking. As you glance her over you wonder if she knows you somehow. She wears a tight leather garment somewhere between a corset and a swimsuit. A high-quality riding-crop, electronic restraints and a badge with the Sirus insignia dangle beside her naked hip.

Shit! You run.

You don't have enough money to get off world, but maybe you can stowaway on an auto freighter. Or maybe those recruiters from the Daughter's of Denial will help if you promise to join their order (they still haven't figured out how to reproduce so new members are always welcome). Not your first choice, but living as a celibate cultist has got to be more fun than going back to Irk.

Of course none of those will work if you can't get out, but the backdoor is only a few steps away. Out of the corner of your eye, you see the female bounty hunter throw some sort of capture chakram. Your arms snap up to guard your neck. Getting locked up in a smart collar will bring this chase to a shockingly fast end. But she wasn't aiming for your neck; the spinning ring arcs in front of you and snaps itself around the base of your right breast. You gasp slightly as it cinches tight, and a little louder as electricity stabs your tit flesh. The tiny tube-top, ever eager to abandon you, pops open. Acting on instinct, your right hand tugs at your new breast zapping accessory, only for a cuff to snap out of the boob ring and grab your wrist.

Now more **** than ever, your stripper heels pound the tiled floor; however, you only make it a few more steps before an arc of lighting lances from your new bra towards one of the metal pillars. Heels skidding against the floor, you are painful tugged by your bound tit to the post.

Basically glued to the strut, thong-clad ass out (much to the glee of the perverted patrons) you look back at the woman that threw the restraint device. She casually walks towards you, stiletto boots making intimidating clicks on the tile floor. A second chakram appears in her hand and the next instant it is snapping around your other tit. "Secure your wrist," she orders. A deep menace behind her even tone tells you she rarely has captives that disobey for for long. That being said you hesitate; it takes more than a stern voice and tight leather to get you on your knees, and you want to see what this bitch is made of.

Quality stuff it would seem. As only a few seconds after receiving the order, you feel sharp bolts of electricity burst from your breast bondage. You scream and feel your knees buckle as she continues to zap your poor titties.

"I suggest you follow my order," she says after the jolting stops. "before I do something mean."

Surprisingly you obey. It's the look in her eyes. She doesn't have the stone cold stare of somebody that knows they've won, or the dull eyes of someone that expects you to all of a sudden do exactly what she says. Instead, a fiery excitement shines through her emerald orbs and her intrigued smirk. You're a challenge to her, and she is eager to find out just how she'll have to do to break you. Her anticipation is palpable.

Her smile gets all the more hungry as you obediently lock your wrist to the breast shackle. She takes a final step to close the distance between you, and tightly grabs the front of your thong. You are **** to twist awkwardly and thrust your crotch towards her as the thin strip of cloth digs into your soft pussy. With a quick pull, she rips the scant garment away from you, exposing your wet cunt to a rush of cold air. Bound as you are, all you can do is moan. You try to do more; a part of you screams to fight back, but it only manifests as ineffective squirming. You know what comes next: the ****-box literally drilled it into you, thick shafts in any number of your eager holes.

This domina traces a gloved finger down the right side of your moist cunny just between it and your trembling leg. She expertly trails her pointed fingertip between your legs and up towards your asshole. A whimper that could only be interpreted as pleading for more, pathetically leaks passed your lips. Her finger found your anus and is teasingly prodded it. What's wrong with you? It used to take a little more than this to activate your submissive side.

You kick, partly in a futile attempt to escape and partly to prove that you still have some fight left in you. Scanning the faces passively watching your defilement, you see the truth reflected back at you. Some might have been fooled by your air-headed waitress act, but it is clear to all that you are submissive putty in this woman's hands. One more thrust from her index finger, and you'll be wrapped around said finger.

Ineffective though your flailing leg was, you still need to be punished for your kick. And your mistress delivers; a tap on her remote later and bristling electricity radiates through your shackled tits. The pain and discipline makes your legs melt; you want to fall to your knees, but your chained breasts keep you up. Slumped against your the pillar, you mewl, sure that you can smell hints of her own wet pussy on the air.

"What they hell are you doin' to my waitress," roars Kal the diner's owner and your former boss. His squat alien form stands next to the kitchen door aggressively beating his chest with four of his six stubby arms.

"My name is Hannah," responds your captor coolly. "I was returning from a special operation for The Syndicate when I noticed that you had an escapee in your employ."

"I don't care if you work for the Queen of England Prime," barked the alien. "You can't just take my waitress." You might have found his steadfast nature honorable if hadn't immediately said, "I need her for at least the dinner rush."

With sigh of someone eager to skip to the end of negotiations, Hannah asks, "which of her holes do you want to fuck."

For a scumbag living on the edge of Syndicate controlled space, Kal seemed quite started by the counter offer, but quickly blurted out, "her mouth. Let me have a go at that stuck up blue-baller's mouth, and you and me are square."

All six hands reach for his belt and pants slip down, revealing the tentacle you're to service before you can say indecent exposure. Incase you were thinking about objecting, tiny jolts of electricity tickle your tits while Mistress Hannah tugs you to your knees by your hair. Your training in the **** box takes over as your eyes become level with the cock; you catch yourself hungrily salivating, and wondering what Kal's sperm tastes like. "I'm gonna start with just the tip to make up for all that prick teasing you did," barks the greasy alien. The rest of his member rubs itself silkily between your bound breasts.

Settling into the grove of your training you alternate between licking and sucking while staring submissively up. Your eye's occasionally dart to the latex clad dominatrix making sure she approves of your technique; she's the one that can shock your tits after all. She seems disinterested and idly plays with her other captive's nipple. Your own nipples are painfully hard, straining for attention, and when the smooth tentacle glides across one, you moan deep and thankful. Kal takes full advantage of your instinctive plea by forcing his member down your throat. It wriggles and dances within you, and the restaurant is filled with the sounds of your throat being pounded. Were it not for your training in the **** box, you wouldn't be able to breathe.

The patrons jeer at you from their stained booths, but Hannah seems to be getting bored. After checking something on her datapad she barks "I don't have all day. Make him cum." Her stern order is immediately followed by an explosion of electric pain within your breast. You scream around the thick tentacle, arching your head back. Your tongue dances wildly against it. Before the shocks die down, Hannah grabs you by the hair and forces you to bob your head with reckless abandon. Thick salt cum fills your mouth soon after, but Hannah doesn't let go of your hair, using it as a leash to yank you to your feet and **** you to follow her. You obey tit-shackled and nude save for a few scant taters of cloth and torn fishnets. She owns you now.