Yes, onto Levia-Barak

After such a long and dull flight, the mess of docked ships clinging to the asteroid sized chunk of space wreckage looks almost appealing.

About a hundred years ago the Second Expansionary War came to a climax here. Supreme Admiral Coven had mustered a fleet led by her flagship, the largest (and least cost effective) ship ever built by humans, the Leviathan. Her target was the largest ship ever built by any known race, the Karna Barak, under the command of the Prophet Emperor Nik. The battle ended with Coven and Nik playing a game of flagship chicken. It was a relatively sane tactic considering the Admiral usually strutted around her bridge in a strap-on and not much else and Nik only took advice from his harem girls.

Coven didn't plow through the Kanra Barak in a fiery blast like she expected, nor was her ship disintegrated into a choir of doves as Nik had foreseen. There were several thousand relatively tiny explosions and both ship's reactors went critical, but the end result was a giant hunk of fuzed armor and fried circuits that vaguely resembled the two oversized capital ships. A paper weight that was the bastard child of black blocky human military and the more curvy purple armor of the Kanrian war temples.

After the battle, cooler heads negotiated a treaty; prospectors and colonists flooded the neighboring sectors. The wreck became a good place to collect scrap metals for emergency repairs. A few smugglers even made drops in the warped halls of the conjoined ships.

No one quite knows who was the first to stay long term. It could have been a colony that couldn't find what they needed to repair their ship's drive and decided to try a new life here, an adventurer starting an extended search for Nik's diamond crown, or a prostitute setting up shop, waiting for customers to come to her (two of Levia-Barak's brothels claim to be started by one such person). But eventually the ships stayed longer and longer.

And thus, the already ugly lump of two culture's **** over compensation blossomed when ships docked, first with it then with eachother. Almost anything amoral, immoral, or even moral could be found at the impromptu space port. It had brothels sprawling multiple freighters, seedy bars selling any kind of intoxication, and **** barges arriving every day.

"There is a ultra-priority broadcast," ENNA informs you while you coast the Dasher closer. "Audio and visual. Should I display?"

"Sure," you say hardly interested,

Your view screen changes to show a dominatrix mid advertisement. The amazonian Oo'lick is clad in lingerie patterned latex and is bent at the waist. Her ass is grinding against a man behind her who is desperately pounding into her. He is a scarred barbarian, naked save a ballgag and collar, and would probably be intimidating if he didn't look so smitten. The pleading look in his eyes is understandable given the raw sexual beauty and silky movements of the alien sliding on him. Both **** and mistress are straddling a menacing machine of springs pulleys and pistons.

"As you can see," says the Oo'lick in between animalistic grunts of pleasure, "the controls are v-very intuitive, easy to manage in the thr-throes of passion." Usually you would only care about her toned, thigh-high clad legs, but morbid curiousity draws your attention to the engine of torment between them. You can barely see a spring attached to a loop around the man's balls that makes pulling out of that soft purple pussy even less appealing. "Pulling the control rope forward..." there is a rope in her fist that she tugs to her knee as she explains. The **** grunts and his domme's cries of passion rise to vicious squeals. "Pulls the ball forward, encouraging your **** to go deeper." You see the other end of the spring slide forward. "Or I can pull it up." She nestles her fist of rope between the large breasts barely contained by her underbust corset. The device doubles its speed and after a painful zapping sound so does the cowed barbarian. "That increases the rhythm of the cattle prod, making your bitch fuck faster."

She steps forward, letting the thrusting cock slurp out of her pussy. You get a better look at the shock stick that prods his balls back after every thrust and the spring that torments them the more he pulls back. "The rope can also be attached somewhere," she explains unsympathetic, "good for predicament bondage or to train your boy bitch's endurance." She hooks the rope's handle to a ring in the floor and teasingly flicks her tongue through the air infront of the madly thrusting man's cock for a few seconds.

Her grizzled plaything lets out a whimper into his ball gag as his pussy slick cock reaches for her tongue. You're glad to not be in his position. Maybe. Now that you think about it, being locked in that **** locomotive wouldn't be so bad if you got to fuck that Oo'lick in her skimpy latex.

"Oh, I know," the Oo'lick mocks her sub while slowly twisting his nipple. "Maybe your new mistress will let you cum." With that last comment, you're back to being glad you aren't her plaything. She looks at the camera and adds "anyone interested in the Scourge of Castle Ferr? He's only 2499. Once again, that's 59 credits for an Cock Invigerator, and 2499 for this man toy from Ravin III."

Ravin III is one of the many colonies that failed in the sectors surrounding Levia-Barak. There are at least a dozen that you know of. Unpredictable environmental events or other catastrophes caused them to collapse into pre-space societies with superstitions around technology. In the case of Ravin III, a break in their supply lines caused a civil war. Now the inhabits have a mostly medieval society and think space ships are dragons from hell, a stigma that isn't helped by only being visited by raiders and slavers now.

The sounds of cattle prod encouraged thrusting grow distant as the camera follows the blue-skinned dominatrix. She walks to her next ****, a petite-treat tied spread eagle to a wheel. The **** is moaning and squirming enough to make her soft mounds bounce. Her brown hair is cropped very short and highlighted pink. "Jill here," explains her mistress, "is trying out our new micro vibrator. What do you think?" She asks stroking Jill's cheek.

"Heavenly," purrs the wriggling half pint, "like your touch mistress."

"Such a charmer," laughs the dominatrix, "someone's getting an extra special flogging tonight." Jill squeals with delight before being spun pussy side up. "Let me show you the Tiny Tickler," the blue alien says while beckoning like a succubus. There is a pause. "I will show you once my USELESS TECH-**** zooms in." Another pause, and the Oo'lick's disapproving frown darkens. "How hard can it be to turn a knob in those mittens? If I have to go over there..." The camera operator manages to zoom in before she finishes her threat.

Blue fingers tipped with long ruby nails spread the ****'s pink folds, revealing a small bead clamped to her clitoral hood buzzing away. Static starts to fill the feed as the dominatrix flicks her ****'s **** pussy, eliciting a moan.

"Amazing isn't it and only for 39 credits, masochistic twat not included," the dominatrix continues, "but she will be available at tomorrows auction." Her voice starts to break up towards the end.

"People," a man in a lab coat says, overpowering the transmission, "this is an emergency." He goes on to claim he found a mystic herb capable of doubling the size of any penis, but a sex toy cartel is trying to smother his research.

When he starts getting into the technical details of how to buy his miracle **** and thereby support freedom, a pair of hookers try to superimpose their sales pitch onto the transmission as well. Before you get a head ache, you tell ENNA "end the transmission."

The unnatural orgy of linked ships takes up a larger part of your view screen. Grabbing the steering yoke, you guide your sleek craft towards a Dalemus controlled section of Levia-Barak. The Dalemus charge a higher toll than the other gangs with territory on the oversized scrap pile, but they run things pretty fairly and keep a close eye on the less savory visitors. Meaning, there is less of a chance of waking up with the wrong number of kidneys. You send them an insignificant portion of your recent paycheck and look for an open docking port near a passable bar.

"There are 432 hails for you," ENNA informs you as you get close enough for private comms. You had forgotten how much spam permeates this place.

It might be interesting to see them, though. "Display the subject headers."

You skim through the offers. Plenty of flesh peddlers and **** dealers advertise there rates and services. All of them sound infinitely more exciting than pulling a 20 kiloton freighter through hyperspace for a week. The requests vary from a woman selling her last possessions for a ticket home or a dominatrix willing to play with a new pet if the price is right to an actually licensed sexbot seller. There is even a deposed princess from New Nigeria that needs access to a standard credit banking account in order to retrieve her treasury.

But it is nothing compared to the possibilities a stroll through Levia-Barak's varied halls could offer.