Anal Etiquette: 2201: An Anal Odyssey
By: Lord Odie
The Obligatory Disclaimer
The following is a work of pure sexual fiction and is intended for adult audiences ONLY. If you are under the age of 18, please stop reading NOW and go tell your parent and/or guardian that you need stricter internet supervision. Any physical resemblance to a real person that any fictional character herein may bear is probably intentional and is meant as a compliment. Furthermore, all fictional characters in the following fantasy are consenting adults over the age of 18. They are also BDSM professionals and good at what they do. So please, don't try anything that you're about to read at home, if such things were even physically possible. If you still insist on trying things at home, please send all pictures and feedback to me about the experience. If I can't stop you, I can at least make sure you're doing it right. Consider yourself disclaimed.
Foreword
This story is based on ideas put forth by rbbc on RoseButtBoard, and a documentary I saw a few years ago about next generation space suits currently under development. The basic premise is how the Anal Etiquette culture would fair in zero-G space. So fast forward a hundred years or so past the current timeline, and here we go! The year is 2201, and some things have changed...
This is probably a stand-alone story. But who knows? I may come back to it in the future.
P.S. I'm undecided as to if the Days of Future's Future plot arc is canon history in this setting. I'll have to ponder that...
Part 1
Lieutenant (JG) Casey Mc Cavin, United Terran Space Force followed her younger copilot, Ensign Jeremy Stuller, through the hatch to their shuttle's cramped cockpit. Their stubby craft was an older Dragonfly-E3 class maintenance shuttle. The Dragonflies were slowly being phased out but there were still a few of them left in Lunar Command's inventory. Casey was glad to have the old girl as her first command because it could take a direct hit from an asteroid the size of a small auto moving at 11kph and only ding the paint -- unlike the new Wasp class shuttles which would disintegrate into a ball nuclear fusion should it be unfortunate enough to encounter the same object. The likely hood of that happening was remote in the extreme, but it was still comforting.
Casey had to shake her head in exasperation as Ensign Stuller flopped around clumsily in the zero gravity -- his arms and legs wind milling about seeming at random. This is why so few men qualify as pilots, Casey thought to herself; and why fewer still qualified for EVA operations! She kept her comments to herself and tried not to giggle as her male copilot banged his left knee on the NavCom console and then bumped his head on the near-collision radar display as he ricocheted from the first impact. He cursed out loud and finally steadied himself, floated into his command seat, and started buckling and tightening his 5-point shock harness.
Frack! she thought to herself, with all Wanderman's flailing around, it was a good thing that maintenance shuttles weren't armed! She'd hate to have to explain to Captain Kelly Wanderman -- commander of UTSFS Exxon Mobil -- why her shiny new shuttle bay had mysteriously materialized a pair of 10cm burn holes through the outer hull. Casey shuddered at the mere thought of the pitiless gaze of The Old Lady as she wrote up the newly minted Ensign Mc Gavin's formal reprimand paperwork and consigned the young officer to 90 days in the Mighty Mo's extensive torture brig. She'd witnessed how much Master Chief Petty Officer Bianca von Kraus loved her job as the ship's chief disciplinarian and head mistress. Master Chief was actually the only member of the Exxon Mobil's 1800-member crew who could send The Old Lady herself to the brig -- which only happened once a week or so when the Captain was getting a little too stressed from her demanding job.
The Human race's gender imbalance had worsened over the last century to the point that now only 1 in 10 people were male. However, due to exacting qualification requirements of the UTSF, only about 1 in 100 service personnel were male. Which made Ensign Stuller one of only 8 men assigned to the Mighty Moe. Needless to say, while he was assigned his own private quarters like the Captain and Master Chief, he never had to sleep alone -- unlike all the other personnel who shared quarters with 3 to 15 other spacers -- depending on rank. Casey herself shared cramped quarters with 3 other lieutenants.
Speaking of torture brigs, Casey never quite understood the need for such cavernous bays that could otherwise be put to a more practical use. She understood the need for heavy doses of Masomaxicin and Voluptumax in the food and water supply for civilian populations, but she never understood the military necessity for a naval ship's crew while it was underway. It seemed horribly impractical to the young lieutenant for naval architects to have to design ships with torture brigs capable of incarcerating a third of a ships normal crew. Normally, a ship's brig contained roughly a quarter of any ship's crew at any given time, but the need to throw more women in the torture brig at any time necessitated the extra capacity. Casey assumed no one had asked her lengthy and learned opinion on the matter because of a failure of military intelligence -- or The Brass just didn't give two fracks about what some random lieutenant (JG) thought anyway. It was more likely the latter.
Now that the Ensign was done tumbling clumsily about, Casey could enter the cramped cockpit without fear of getting accidentally backhanded -- not that she would have minded it overly much. The lieutenant floated gracefully through the hatch, past all the shuttle's displays and controls, and expertly into her command seat without coming within 25cm of anything hard, pointy, or ouchie. She looked over at Stuller and blew him a mischievous kiss. He only groaned in annoyance at her grace and maneuverability.
The reason for Mc Cavin's grace and Stuller's awkwardness was simple: while he had all four limbs to worry about, Casey's legs were bound behind her shoulders. And not just simply bound; female space suits were designed in such a way that having one's legs behind one's shoulders was the only way to fit into them. There was simply no other way to wear one! This kept the body's center of balance centered high on the torso and made it significantly easier to get around in zero gravity. There were also less moving parts to bang into things. Women were used to being bound like this for sustained periods of time since they became of age and the strain on their joints barely registered. Men, on the other hand, were nowhere near agile enough for the position. It seemed that nearly 2 centuries of culturally instituted extreme BDSM had trained women's bodies perfectly for space!
Unlike the ancient space suits of the 20th Century, 22nd Century suits more closely resembled thin wet suits from the same era. They weren't pressurized either. They relied on the inwards pressure of strong, nano-fabric to hold the human body together and protect it from the void of space. Modern space suits were basically like whole-body corsets that kept the body from expanding and deteriorating. Only the soft plastic helmet that attached to the neck was pressurized with air. Centuries of wearing strict corsets and heavy bondage had also helped in preparing women better for the rigors of space travel than men. Men were just uncomfortable with the feeling of corset-like clothing. They hadn't had generations to adjust to the garments as common, everyday wear.
Female space suits also had one more interesting design feature: the breasts were deemed as less necessary to be pressurized at the rest of the body, and so the skin-tight material over her healthy 34H breasts were considerably thinner than the material over the rest of her body. In a few minutes, when the cabin was depressurized for flight, they would quickly grow 2 cup sizes as the vacuum of space pulled at them. To protect the rest of the body from the expansion, the base of each tit was tightly compressed by a thick band of nano-fiber. The result was that Casey looked like she had 342 F-cup-sized orbs of tit-flesh protruding from her otherwise sleek torso.
