The obligatory attempt to talk things out

As much as you enjoy a good fight, this one won't be worth the cost. You type "okay, I'm coming out. Give me a second." But you also grab the micro-pistol taped to the underside of your pilot's seat and stick it to your tailbone, the barrel diving between the twin globes of your ass.

"Both of you. You have 180 seconds."

Both? could they somehow know Melodia was on board? Malnic scanners could detect fleshy shapes through the Breaker's thick armor, but you didn't detect any Malnic radiation. A magnetic resonance scan would also pierce your armor and show the Brut0X as a humanoid blob outside of the cockpit. "That form is just a Brut0X," you explain. "I won't need him for this, will I?"

"170, if you want to play games, we could play tennis with your ship," the unwavering text responded. "Both of you will come out."

A little over two minutes later you are tying a lead around Melodia's neck. "So if I say 'run' you'll get back to the ship whatever it takes," you reiterate before putting a cloth bag over her head. Digging out a proper bondage hood with eye-holes would waste time you don't have. She can see through the bag a little, but with the ballet heels you worry she may trip. "Stay close to the Breaker. If you have to, take off the bag."

A fight is still not out of the question after all. On one hand, you doubt the ambush is meant for you. Gravity scooping is more of an art unless you have the exact flight plan of your victim. And nobody would send a **** this large against a simple bounty hunter, even one as drop-dead-sexy as you. On the other hand, pirates aren't known for passing up a bit of side-enslaving just because it wasn't on the day's schedule. Pre-planning an escape isn't uncalled for.

One thing on your side, it ain't easy keeping a gravity scoop active. Even if they have a power source capable of continually powering one hidden on that asteroid, they probably started untangling the link when they saw they hooked the wrong fish. That means in about ten minutes the Breaker will be free from the invisible bindings and all you have to do is get back to your ship and tear yourself from the docking clamps, not a minor task but the Breaker's ion engines will be more than up for it.

Despite this backup plan, a knot forms in your stomach; everything about this ambush feels off. It doesn't make sense for the Syndicate to attack ships on the way to Terrador station. Even if they wanted to rob their customers, the eager criminals just had to wait 2 days for you to stroll into their den. So is some other organization attempting to beat the crime empire at its own game? in its own backyard? As big as the galaxy is, there are few people stupid enough to want a war with the Syndicate.

You leave your ship dressed for the uncertain situation. Your flight suit is zipped up, mostly. A generous view of your cleavage is still on display (you're trying to talk your way out of this after all). But the view is somewhat limited by your bandolier of grenades dipping between your breasts.

Strutting with the confidence of a domme, you lead your hooded pixie out to face the enemy. The Breaker's hatch opens to a room that is a little small for the current purpose. It has slick crimson walls accented with luminous white strips as well as a few black windows to your left. There are two gray metal barriers planted at an angle to your exit hatch. Each has three troopers in self-painted, heavy armor hunched behind it. Between the two barriers stands a female human officer in hardened leather. To her right a thick tower shield is propped up, presumably by an unseen soldier.

The chrome shield partially obscures a delicate alien encased in latex and bound to a rectangular frame. Her arms are held up by a cross bar behind her neck. Her ankles have shackles looped around the base of the frame that keep her boot clad legs spread. Only scant hints of her evening-blue skin are visible between the shiny clothing strapped tight around her body. A thin band--speckled with gold dots like a lily--can be seen between her thigh boots and a pleated skirt that's so short it's little more than a frill for her strict corset. Her nipples, a daffodil gold, peak through slits in her top only to be hidden by clover-clamps that are wired to her blinking posture collar. Above said collar, her head is imprisoned in a slender gas mask that leaves only her two antennae visible. The mask's long hose trails down between her gentle breasts before bending under her skirt, lifting the hem just enough to tease a possible glimpse of this bound damsel's genitals.

"Those them?" the officer asks, tapping her headset. The alien you're ogling seems to answer with a dainty stomp, which is probably the only thing she can do in her smothering bondage.

For a moment you wonder how this delicate flower knows you? But then you notice the lenses of her gas mask are not just tinted but actually opaque. She must be in sensory deprivation, blind and deafened, to enhance some other sense. It's smart; the subconscious mind is still better than most computers at putting together raw data, otherwise a lot more worlds would be techno breeding-dungeons run by sadistic robot overlords.

You want the latex wrapped treat even more now. Your mind is momentarily filled with fantasies of leaping over the powered armored grunts and wrapping a whip around her neck to drag your new slut back to your ship. Yes, how fun it would be to shackle her legs painfully wide. Then use clamps to spread whatever she is hiding under that miniscule skirt and probe her with vibrators and shock sticks.

A muffled whimper escapes the alien's mask. What kinky tortures and terrible pleasures is she **** to endure? The poor thing. If you liberate her, you'll have to be extra careful and attentive, to make sure you're even crueler than her previous captors.

"Glad you decided to be civil," the officer says, interrupting your day dreams. "Now place your weapons on the ground please." She flashes a **** grin. "So we can get this over with." You're suspecting more and more that "this" is going to involve a collar around your neck

The gravity scoop should be unhooked in a matter of minutes. Time to stall. "You still haven't told me what this is."

"Nothing worth dying for, I assure you."

You negotiate, "if I drop my weapons will you lower yours."

"That's fair," she agrees.

You slowly place your pistol and whip on the ground. When your bandolier follows you sneak a smoke grenade into your hand. "Alright I'm unarmed," you lie.

They lower their weapons and you exchange pleasantries with the woman who identifies herself as Captain Thane. She explains they don't want to harm you and you will be released shortly, and promises to put you up in suitable accommodations. You've been on both sides of that speech a few times "suitable accommodations" usually means a cramped cell that you get all to yourself, if you're lucky. She also promises they will only keep you for a short time, two weeks at most. You interpret that as meaning you will be on the auction block, naked save for shackles, hearing perverted aliens call out "one thousand", "one thousand and fifty" soon enough. Maybe that is being unfair. You're an amazing piece of ass, and your physique makes you the perfect pleasure ****. It would probably be "two thousand", "two thousand and fifty".

You keep track of the time in your head and form a plan. You will tear the pistol hidden in your flightsuit free and simultaneously drop your smoke grenade. It's hard to aim in power armor, so with a little luck, you could shoot their weapons before they can return fire. Kicking your bandolier over to one group will likely scare them long enough to get back to the ship. Not a perfect plan, but a whole lot easier than trying to escape after you've been stripped and leashed. Your heart races; the actions burn themselves into your mind as you prepare to fight. You casually take a few steps, trying to get the best angle for a surprise attack. The strange alien's antennae twitch and follow you. A faint buzz tingles in the back of your mind like an epiphany about to pop.

She stomps three times, and you feel the whole room grows tense.

Captain Thane stops midway through a false-promise that your ship will join a drift safely nearby and looks over to the mysterious figure. "I think it's time we put you on a shuttle," she says, turning back to you. "Come with me." Two of the armored goons step out from behind their barriers and walk towards you.

Fuck! Realization and panic shoot through your body like lightning. Antenna Bitch is a telepath.

You try to flip the release on your smoke grenade, but a tiny jab to the side of your neck distracts you just enough to let the grenade tumble out of your fingers.

Still hoping you have a chance, you tell Melodia to run, but the word becomes sludge in your throat. Warm fuzzies spread from your left shoulder. Melodia stumbles towards you; a dart has grown from her tit just above her nipple. The fins are very pretty.

You are on the ground. Across the room, you see falling glass shining in the light. Your eyes follow the waterfall of jewels up, up, up to the source, and oh no, a window has broken near the roof of the house you're in. Behind the broken window you can see a Bantam naked except for a harness that suspends her from the ceiling. Lounging in her chair of straps, she looks happy, content, maybe a little aroused? Yes, her spots are dancing; she is aroused, and sooo, oh, oh sexy with her legs spread like that, enjoying her lover. It's strange; from this angle her lover looks like a sniper rifle.

You want to relax too. There is something you should be worried about, but you're too tired. You'll figure it out after a quick nap.