Run to the Sirus Syndicate

Now is not the time to get sentimental. You are not going to risk your life just for a piece of ass regardless of how nicely shaped it is.

You open the escape pod's hatch and swing in. Its computer is already online. You glide into the chair and hit the launch button. The **** acceleration slams you into the padded seat when the pod is immediately catapulted towards the nearest jump point. Explosive rockets keep you pressed back as you blast towards the naturally formed jump point that presumably brought your ambushers here. The destroyers laser fire is absorbed by the over shield that was just supercharged by its own reactor. Missiles are launched, but you make it to the jump point and the safety of hyperspace before they hit you.

To your surprise, the pod isn't painted the blood red of the destroyer's halls. Aside from some red and green stripes to highlight emergency equipment, it's hardly painted at all, most of it left the factory grey. But there is some faux wood panelling, so it feels less like being trapped in a tin can.

The five day trip to Terrador station does drag on. The pod's rocket was single use, so you are **** to limp on manoeuvring thrusters from one jump point to the next. You plot a course through naturally occurring jump points and abandoned ones made by smugglers or explorers before advanced technology allowed longer hyper corridors to be built.

There is little to do in the sparse pod but you do find two pornographic holograms. The first is an eight hour masturbation direction. It is very detailed despite being gender and species neutral. The second is a little more to your taste; it shows a female Gavleth dominating a human couple (a man that is teased and denied while watching multiple orgasms **** on a woman). The dominatrix is exceptionally good at multitasking. With four arms, she is able to spank and jerk her spread eagle **** boy while she fingered and pinched the beautifully bound example of feminine flesh. There was a particularly nice scene that depicted the man strained against a short rope tying his balls to the floor just barely able to brush his tip against the other ****'s dripping slit, as he ate out his mistress's pussy. All the while, the **** he was **** to fuck worshipped her asshole. You imagine tongues caressing your body as you play with your clit and watch the scene over and over again.

But there were only so many times you could enjoy it. Before the boredom makes you go mad, you dismantle your helmet and the rest of your working equipment to eke a little more power out of the engines.

The remains of your jumpsuit don't survive the trip either; they slowly decay into nothingness. It's not a big deal. You have money in a variety of accounts, many favors owed to you, and command enough fear and respect to get anything you need.

Besides, Terrador station has many opportunists on its own. It will be easy to find mercenary work. But in the lonely moments between reading through the safety manual and staring blankly at the grey ration bars you imagine stealing a ship and putting its young captain's tongue to work between your legs as you cruise away from port. No one would mind. Theft and **** is almost encouraged in the Syndicates crime capital. If someone is too weak to protect themselves or their property, someone else should step in and 'help' the weaker party. As long as you don't enslave the friend or pet of anyone important you'll be fine.

You exit hyperspace and request permission to dock. The automated traffic control system flags you as dangerous for some reason and insists you wait for a security chief to approve you. You enter your credentials and wait. "Natalia," a recognizably repulsive voice answers. "So good to see you, and more of you than usual I might add." Irk's massive Gas Bag head is displayed by your hologram protector.

Gas Bag isn't the official name of Irk Rik Nallra Ak Ka Sarman the fifth's species, but it is fitting and easy to remember. They digest food by letting it rot in their stomach. It gives them a bloated appearance and terrible breath. According to Irk he is quite a ladies' man on his home planet, but the only thing that really impresses you about him is how quickly he gets exhausted. Waiting for bacteria to digest your food for you doesn't provide much energy. On the other hand, he frequently buys you crap in clumsy attempts to seduce you.

"What happened to the Breaker?" he says making small talk but focused on a readout you can't see.

"It's a long story," you answer, trying to avoid the conversation.

It takes him longer than usual to process your request and he mumbles to himself a few times. But he eventually burps out "well Tally, I see why you were flagged. It isn't a problem. Head over to bay 13. I'll meet you there and make sure your desires are acted upon."

You absently wonder if he is worried about something. The syndicate's dog-eat-dog mentality means a mediocre thug like Irk doesn't always do well. Or he could have just had a cheap **** sucking him off under the table.

As he promised the splotchy, egg-shaped, thug is waiting for you. You step out onto the hanger deck coiled whip in hand, and nickle plated revolver strapped to your nude hip, acting like you are wearing more than just lingerie and boots.

Irk is dressed in greasy overalls leaving plenty of his boggy green skin on display. In his hand is a bucket full of junk that. He sets it on the ground after you step out. "Heh, Tally, what have you been up to?" he asks, presenting a grin almost too broad for his wide face.

"Tracking down a bounty. It didn't go so well," you reply and make a move to walk past him.

He blocks your path and says, "see, I did some digging and an escape pod with this serial number was sold quite recently to a brothel that specialises in secretly serving submissives too proud to admit their needs."

"Well I don't know where you get your information these days, but I did not get this from a brothel." You again try to walk around him, and he again blocks your path. He is starting to really piss you off.

"So you didn't come to Terrador station in your lingerie, hoping some strong man like me would rescue you from freedom." And with that, you're done with being pleasant. Your whip snaps out, and a snarl distorts your face. Its time to put him in his place.

He draws a blunderbuss of a pistol. You know he is an excellent shot, so you immediately wrap your whip around it and pull. He lets go to step back into a crouch, and the gun lands behind you. In response, you draw your revolver.

You put two shots into the space where he used to be. He jumps seven feet into the air, spinning above your head. When he lands, you elbow him in the cheek, cracking his cartilage armor and spilling a few drops of milky goo.

He grapples you. You slam your forehead into his face but bounce of harmlessly. Gripping your shoulders, he pulls you in for a kiss. His mouth engulf yours, and his tongue slithers between your lips. He exhales into you. His breath tastes and burns like smoke. The foul gas forces its way into your lungs.

All you can think about is the oxygen you need. Either you break free from his grasp, or he releases you. Gasping and wheezing, you don't care.

Your vision blurs and you think you may have blacked out for a moment. You're in a heap on the floor. The arrogant prick is tying your hands behind your back. You thrash and discover he is using your own whip. "Get off of me," you snarl, "or I will hang you by your scrotum."

"You don't have to pretend with me," he cackles, "heh, heh, but I appreciate the challenge." You wonder if he actually thinks you want this, or is just mocking you. Most likely, he is an opportunist and just doesn't care.

After rolling you over, the giant ballsack climbs on top of you. His dry tongue scratches across your check, and your nostrils are assaulted by the smell of rotting meat. In response, you whip your head and try to bite him. "Now, now, now," he playfully slaps your cheek, "I like it rough, but that's a bit much." He turns away and starts digging in his bucket. "Luckily, I have just the accessory for your pretty mouth," he adds.

A gauntlet is on his right hand; he uses it to pry your mouth open and grab your tongue. With the left hand, he applies a wide clamp, which has a square bell connected to it by chain. It tinkles annoyingly before resting on your cheek. Pleased with himself he says, "now let's make sure that works." The cracked fingers of his left hand slither under your frilly panties. Your threat is muddled by the clamp on your tongue and made incoherent by the clanging of the bell.

"Good," he chuckles. You try to kick him, but he pins your legs and yanks your boots off. "Now up you get." He grabs your shoulder and tries to help you up. Not one to follow orders, you go limp. "Fine," he relents, "but if I have to pull you up myself I'm going to need something fun to hold on to." He unclips the straps of your bra and pulls it down to your stomach. The rough skin of his left hand and the textured surface of the gauntlet are pressed into your soft breasts. He starts pulling you up by your tender flesh. The expletives that pour out of your mouth are drowned out by the dancing bell hanging from your tongue.

Slowly, showing a strength you didn't know he possessed, the ogre pulls you off the ground. You scramble to get your feet under you and some of your weight off of your abused melons.

When you are standing his filthy hands finish pulling your bra down. Collecting your panties, he strips you of your underwear. Not wanting to be yanked up by your tits again, you remain standing while he hobble ties your ankles. More ropes tie your knees close together. He gropes you as he works: a slap to your ass, a pinch to your nipple, and a finger even strokes your slit.

Working his way up, he cinches a rope around your belly and ties it to your whip bound wrists, securing them to the small of your back. Your elbows are next. A short rope pulls them together, forcing your bent elbows to point up. Your shoulders start to ache like they are in a strappado.

In fact, he appears to be tying you up in something like a un-anchored strappado. He stands behind you and loops rope around your neck that he ties to your bent knees. You are **** to bend over and grind your ass into his crotch, feeling his stubby erection. "So naughty," he teases, "trying to exhaust me when I still have a half day of work left."

He attaches clamps to your nipples. "You do need some training," he explains. "While I can certainly afford to send you to the **** box, I know you don't want to be a burden on me. So I came up with a way for you to earn the money by yourself." He turns the newly emptied bucket around to show you that it has 'need money for training' written on it, before he attaches the handle of the bucket nipples clamps. He then tightly wraps a metal cable around the base of your tits and connects it to the bucket, thankfully taking some weight of off your pulled nipples. "Don't worry; I rented a drone to watch you and help you," he adds. "It will remind you to keep walking." An unbearably smug expression on his face, he gestures towards the exit.

You take exactly zero steps forward. He doesn't really expect you to willing stroll through Terrador station like this? Something bites your unsheltered ass. You turn around to glare at the offender. A small cannon has extended from the hovering drone. As you watch, the cannon shoots another tiny projectile at your unwillingly presented ass, and it bounces off. You aren't sure what it is, but its intense speed impacting such a small area stung. You take a step forward.

"Good girl," Irk says, patting your sore butt, "it will also inform you when you are going the wrong way." He doesn't need to explain how the uncaring drone will inform you. As you approach the open exit to the main thoroughfare of Terrador station. You can hear the murmuring of daily life drifting in. You bite down on chain dangling from your mouth. It quiets the bell somewhat, but you'll still be spotted easily.

How many of those conversations will turn to commenting at the bound beauty shuffling naked through the station's streets? How many commuters will pause to sneer or laugh at your misfortune? Lost in thought, the sharp strike of that ever so annoying cannon completely surprised you. You squeal and jump slightly. Relieved that you will not have to walk the crowds of Terrador in your **** state, you look around for the path your supposed to take.

Turning your head has the unintended effect of making your tongue bell ring. "Figured it out already?" Irk asks, a little surprised. "The drone will also remind you to ring your bell if you forget." Stripped naked, ringing a bell to attract oglers, you shuffle towards the humiliation of walking through Terrador stations.