So Much for a Sneaking Mission

We make our way through the ship seemingly at random, following whatever weird homing pigeon-esque sense the Doctor has. The corridors are twisty and tangled up on each other like some sort of mad weave, with large, dark alcoves at random intervals - all very unfriendly to a professional boarder and much friendlier to a madwoman and a tourist wandering around aimlessly. The usefulness of the alcoves is made evident several times as the Doctor frequently yanks me into one in order to dodge a patrol of beautiful blonde women in tight white bodysuits, carrying very nasty-looking guns, and then proceeds to grind on me until I remind her that we are actually supposed to be doing something here.

"Computer core's just up ahead," she explains as we pass through yet another confusing junction, "Drahvin workers are too dim to be trusted guarding it - cloned meatshields for the upper caste, you see - so they rely on patrols like the ones we've just dodged to stop intruders." As if summoned by magic - or by Murphy's Law - a quartet of red-suited women step out of the alcoves around us. "Maybe on a lesser ship," one of them remarks dryly, "but this is a command vessel." The Doctor deflates and the one that spoke, presumably the leader of these particular leaders, smirks. "Do you know what we do to intruders we find near the computer core," she asks, and I thank everything that might listen for the arrogance inherent in caste-based societies and the pathological sadism of this particular idiot.

"Normally, male prisoners are taken directly to the bridge for inspection by the most senior Drahvin aboard," I say, and all four snap their heads around to stare at me in surprise, "and female ones are normally taken for interrogation and assessment for use as breeding stock." I wait for them to stop staring at me, but it seems that they weren't expecting me to rattle off their security procedures so readily - well, to be fair, those weren't the security procedures until a second ago. "What," I ask defensively, "I'm allowed to do research before I go sneaking around a hostile spacecraft. Anyway, I just thought I'd warn you not to expect the interrogation to be quick, given that it normally involves driving the subject to consecutive orgasms until they're too doped up on pleasure to not answer your questions - she normally can't get herself off without a good few hours of work."

The Doctor gasps in outrage. "I told you that in confidence," she hisses, "you can't just go around and-"

"Very droll," the Drahvin leader sneers, "but we will see how she stands up to our interrogators." The Doctor's eyes widen as she realises how much time they've just been baited into wasting, but she still looks annoyed at me as one of the Drahvin jabs me in the back with the - frankly excessively - spiky barrel of her gun and the leader joins her in ushering me away. As we turn the corner, I can make out a few remarks from the other two. "Not going to need much assessment after we're done," one observes, "just look at these hips!" The other laughs. "And dressed in nothing but boots, as well," she audibly sneers, "she must be aching to get bred."

"Hey, can you not talk about me like I'm not h-"

"Silence, slut! We can see you dripping already..."

I mentally wish the Doctor the best of luck as I follow the leader, taking my mind off the rifle being jabbed into my kidneys by comparing her and her compatriots to the white-suited Drahvin. They're uniformly taller, if only by two inches or so, and seem to fill out their bodysuits better. And not just in terms of curves, either, though that's definitely true as well; their bodies are noticeably more muscular, if still slender, and their eyes seemed to be brighter, almost like there was more going on behind them. They seem to be living up to the 'sexual' part of 'sexual conquerors' better, too - where the others were just good looking, the red-suited Drahvin actually use what they've got. Case in point, the leader in front of me puts a little more sway into her hips as she walks, but only when I'm looking primarily at her ass. Some sort of danger sense, maybe?

As we keep walking, two things of not happen. First, I become increasingly aware that I'm going to get a noticeable bruise from all the back-jabbing being done by the woman behind me. Second, we must finally be getting closer to the bridge. The white-suited Drahvins are largely absent, and those that I do see are unarmed and carrying various touchpad-looking devices for their red-suited superiors who now patrol the corridors. There's a greater variety of them too, each type slightly-but-noticeably more formidable looking and sensual than the last. New features begin to appear alongside the uniform increases in bust and booty; tapered ears, pointed teeth, hair that seems to be more like fine antennae than regular keratin, multi-pupilled eyes, all layering onto each other until the two guards outside of the obligatory fancy bridge doors look distinctly alien, even as they blatantly eye up the bulge straining my pants.

"You are fortunate," the Drahvin who led me here - I can't honestly think of her as a leader anymore - remarks bitterly, "you get to be judged by the invasion's supreme commander rather than by a ship's captain." She perks up a little, as if realising something. "Perhaps, if you're truly fortunate," she sneers, "she'll deign to kill you herself when she judges you insufficient." One of the door guards gestures at her sharply, and she departs along with the one whose gun I've been getting poked by all this time. "Enter silently," the other guard practically purrs, her seven feet of height making it more comparable to a lioness than a housecat, "do not attempt to move beyond the marked spot on the floor, do not disrespect the Invasion Commander, do not attempt to contest her judgement."

The door whooshes open, and the guards wave me through. The bridge is, surprisingly, not shielded from the unforgiving harshness of space only by a dramatically-breakable window; instead, the view around us is projected onto large, flat sections of the very much solid and opaque, all-encompassing walls. Drahvin of the same caste as the door guards, their red bodysuits wrapped tightly around their curvy, muscular bodies, stand at or strut between various consoles surrounding a slightly raised... well, it's a swivel chair, but it's a fancy one with plenty of switches and doodads built into the armrests.

It spins to face me, and a Drahvin unlike any I've seen before stands smoothly up and sashays her way towards where I'm stood in what I mentally dub 'the doom marking' - and she is unlike any of the others. For starters, she's wearing a partially armoured bodysuit that's cut to fit her comfortably, rather than a progressively-tighter version of the standard one like the rest are wearing. Then there's the quartet of dark horns sprouting from her skull and sweeping backwards through her blonde hair. Then there's that fact that she's the only one to have an ass as proportionally big as the Doctor - which leads the the final point that that's all the more impressive because she's nine feet tall and is built to match.

I'm not a naturally nervous man, not anymore, but the sight of her still does something to the primal monkey part of my brain that makes running away from her just as tempting as running towards her. She smirks down at me with lips as thick as my thumbs - somehow looking perfectly proportioned to the rest of her arrogant, aristocratic face - and flexes her fingers in anticipation. If I were anyone else - except for the Doctor, probably - she'd shortly be overseeing the conquest, cataloguing and extermination of humanity.

Showtime, I guess.

AN: So, uh, John might have accidentally made what was originally a pretty weaksauce villain species into a really fuckin' dangerous one by not thinking through his description of them as single-minded sexual and military conquerors and also accidentally making it possible for them to do interspecies eugenics on themselves.

Oops.