Six Meets The Quartermaster

This story is set in a world inspired by the 34

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Amendment Universe written about by Authors Joe_Doe, MrSmith27, TheWritingGroup, Carl_Bradford and others. In this world non-hereditary slavery is legal for criminal and civil punishment, Unredeemed debt and voluntary self-indenture. All characters who are enslaved or have any intimate contact with slaves are age 18 or older. This is a work of fiction No person should ever be deprived of their freedom or coerced into sexual activities without their express consent.

Editor's Note: This work is a vignette of a larger story. Six is a young cyborg woman enslaved against her will and has recently been bought by the captain of a privateer starship. The captain purchased her in part for her skills in engineering and has put Six to work fixing the ship while it is in port on Six's homeworld.

Story codes for this particular work are: fsub, Mdom, D/S, NC, WS, AB

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I had just about finished cleaning the suit-up room--mopping, wiping, and scrubbing every surface until it looked as close to new as I could make it--when an attention shock snapped through my collar. I jerked upright with a sharp gasp.

"Slave Six, it is now approaching Second Watch. Your presence is required in the wardroom to serve a meal."

"Mistress, this slave understands and hastens to obey."

I stowed the cleaning supplies and hurried to the crew head to freshen up. Before serving, I stopped by Engineering Control to strip out of my harness and hang it in the locker assigned to me.

When I arrived in the wardroom, Mistress and Zahra were seated at the table, drinking coffee and talking. Zahra spotted me from the corner of her eye and half-rose from her chair, a blade appearing in her hand as if by magic. Her muscles coiled, ready to strike, before recognition dawned. She exhaled sharply and sat back down, flicking the knife away with a sneer.

I walked to Mistress's side and knelt before her, gaze lowered. She placed a hand on my head.

"You two have not been formally introduced," she said. "Six, this is Zahra, the Dancer's pilot. She's been with me for years. You may trust her."

Coming from Mistress, that was high praise.

Mistress continued, "Zahra, this is Six. Our new engineer. I expect you two to get along. Six is very loyal and, I hope, quite talented in her field."

I caught the way Zahra curled her lip at me. Disgust.

"You brought a slave kus on board?" she scoffed. "And you expect her to do anything besides spread her legs? With this crew?"

"Six has many talents," Mistress said smoothly. "You should avail yourself of all of them. She's particularly skilled with her tongue. You should try her."

Zahra's expression darkened, her revulsion plain. "I prefer my bedmates to have some fight in them. Besides, who the hell wants sloppy seconds from this lot?"

"Six keeps herself quite tidy. Don't you, pet?"

"Yes, Mistress," I answered promptly. "This slave begs to serve Mistress Zahra in any way that pleases her."

Zahra let out a short, contemptuous laugh. "Don't even think about it, kus," she said, her voice like a blade sliding from its sheath.

"As Mistress wishes," I replied softly.

Mistress didn't push the matter further. "Now, food," she said, shifting the conversation.

They placed their orders, and I withdrew to the kitchen. As I prepared their meals, I could hear Zahra pressing Mistress for information, subtly fishing for details on the ship's next destination. Mistress answered in her usual measured way--never confirming or denying, giving just enough to string Zahra along without actually telling her anything.

Once the food was ready, I presented it with the practiced precision I had been taught--Mistress's plate first, then Zahra's. Zahra dug in, eating with gusto but little grace, while I knelt beside my Mistress's chair, waiting to be fed small bites from her fingers.

Halfway through the meal, Mistress made a subtle hand gesture. I knew what it meant. I was to beg food from Zahra's plate.

I shifted positions, crawling to kneel beside Zahra. I did not look at her, only waited.

I didn't have to wait long.

Zahra turned in her chair, her booted foot lashing out without warning. The impact landed square between my legs, a brutal shock of pain exploding through my pelvis. I barely had time to process it before the deck met me, hard and unyielding. My vision swam as I curled in on myself, gut clenched against the throbbing ache that radiated from my pelvic bone through my belly and thighs. Bile surged in my throat, and I swallowed hard to keep from retching.

Zahra looked down at me with scorn. "I told you to stay the fuck away from me, kus," she snarled.

"Zahra," Mistress said sharply. "That was unnecessary."

Zahra wiped her mouth with the back of her hand and shoved her chair back from the table. "I don't want that thing near me," she growled.

Mistress exhaled through her nose. "Six. Heel."

The command cut through my haze of pain like a whip crack. I forced my trembling limbs to move, crawling back to Mistress's side. My body protested the motion, but I straightened into my usual kneeling position, focusing on stillness, on control. I would not disgrace my Mistress by puking on the deck. I would not humiliate her by pissing myself. I forced myself to be calm. To endure.

Zahra finished her meal first, pushing back from the table. "I've got better shit to do," she muttered, stalking out of the wardroom.

Mistress ate the rest of her meal at a leisurely pace. When she was finished, she glanced down at me.

"When you feel able, you may take something to eat for yourself. Then return to your duties."

She rose and left for her cabin.

I remained kneeling for a few moments longer, waiting for the last waves of pain to subside into a dull, lingering ache--like a bad menstrual cramp. When I was steady enough to move, I cleaned the table, wiped down the kitchen, and finally ordered a bowl of slave kibble for myself.

I returned to my place to eat, on the floor next to Mistress's chair, the bland, nutritious pellets grounding me. Comfort food. Halfway through my meal, I shifted position, pressing my chest against the edge of the bowl as I reached up to cup my breasts, massaging gently to draw down my milk. The relief was instant--the pressure that had built up since morning eased as warm liquid splashed into the bowl. The sensation sent a faint, familiar tingle through me, an arousing comfort.

I swallowed another mouthful of food. Bit by bit, the pain receded, leaving only the quiet numbness of routine.

By the time I finished, I felt better.

I returned to Engineering Control, collected my tools, and checked the next task on my to-do list.

Replace air filters in air return ducts throughout the ship.

Wonderful. I was about to spend the next several hours crawling through the ship's guts.

The first step was finding the replacement filters. Back to engineering storage. By some small miracle, I found a carton right on top of the mess, as if someone had meant to use them and never got around to it. That saved me from an extended search through the labyrinth of junk.

I decided to start with the engineering spaces and work outward. The first air return duct was easy enough to find, and its cover yielded to my tools without much fuss. Beyond it stretched a narrow, rectangular tunnel, disappearing into the life support system.

The ship's design economized on filtration by having several air returns in the same compartment feed into a single filter, meaning I'd have to crawl in to reach it.

It turned out the ducts were just wide enough to fit my shoulders and hips, but not quite large enough to accommodate my breasts comfortably. Worming my way forward, lit only by the penlight embedded in my left middle finger, I felt my chest drag and scrape along the metal floor, a slow, painful friction. Claustrophobic. Constricting.

And filthy--coated in the usual gritty, greasy grime that built up in ventilation shafts wherever human bodies and electronics mixed. It didn't take long to realize that the duct-cleaning servos were either dead or missing--probably scavenged for parts. I mentally added another item to the ever-growing repair list.

When I finally reached the filter, the stench of stale mold and dust made me gag. It was long, long past due for replacement--no wonder the ship's air smelled like a damp basement. It was a miracle the crew wasn't suffering from Sick Ship Syndrome.

The return trip was worse. Wriggling backward, dragging my bare breasts against metal, breathing stale filth--I forced myself not to panic, despite the tightness pressing in on me. By the time I emerged, my skin ached, and my hair was thick with grime.

And then I did it again. Over and over.

Hours passed as I worked my way through the ship, replacing filters, disposing of the old ones in the recycler, and retrieving new ones from engineering stores. Each cycle left me dirtier, sweatier, and increasingly exhausted.

After a sweep through the cargo hold and mech bay, I moved on to the quartermaster's office.

The door was open, so I stepped inside, already scanning for the air return duct--

"Oh, hello there."

The voice startled me.

I hadn't noticed him.

A man sat behind the desk, watching me. Late thirties, deep caramel skin, dark hair. He was nondescript in the way shopkeepers often were, but his choice of clothing stood out--a brocade caftan, richly patterned and entirely impractical for shipboard life.

I dropped immediately.

Lowering myself to the deck, I assumed the humble position--legs folded beneath me, forehead and bare breasts pressed to the floor, hands crossed above my head, hips raised, presenting myself.

"Master, forgive this slave for interrupting you. She did not realize you were there."

I spoke to the deck matting, waiting for his reply.

His reply was amused. "That can't be comfortable, talking to the deck. Sit up so I can see you."

I rose to a kneeling position, keeping my eyes downcast. The Quartermaster's office wasn't large, but it wasn't cramped either. A sturdy desk divided the space in half--on this side, the public area, sparse and practical, with a few boxes stacked in a corner and faded posters on the walls. Beyond the desk, the private domain of the ship's quartermaster was packed with shelves and cabinets, crammed with personal effects and ship's stores.

The first impression I had of him held--he looked like a merchant, the kind you'd find behind the counter of a souk, weighing coins and haggling over goods. He studied me with casual curiosity, as if assessing an item for sale.

"My name is Malik. I'm the ship's quartermaster. That means I'm the money. You must be the new crewman the Captain promised."

"This slave is called Six, Master," I introduced myself. "It would be this slave's greatest pleasure to serve you in any way she can."

His lips quirked. "So the Captain bought herself a slave girl. Wouldn't have expected that from her." His tone was light, but there was something speculative in his eyes. "Do you know how much she paid for you?"

"Master, this slave regrets that she cannot answer your question. No one told her how much she was sold for."

"Were you graded before sale?"

"This slave was graded three years ago. She received a Standard+ grading at the time."

His brows lifted slightly. "Really? Seems low." He leaned back in his chair, his gaze moving over me with sharper interest. "Come here. Let me get a better look at you. Leave your tools on the desk."

He gestured to a spot on the deck matting behind his desk--his private space. The invitation was clear. There was still that calculating glint in his expression, but now something else was flickering beneath it--heat.

I made a show of removing my tool harness, turning it into a slow striptease despite how little time it actually took--a zipper, five buckles, a quick shrug of my shoulders, and I was free. Then, I crawled across the floor to the indicated spot, resuming my kneeling pose with practiced grace. My thighs parted wide, offering him a full view of everything I had.

He examined me more closely now. I could see the outline of his growing arousal beneath his caftan, straining against his pants. He smelled pleasantly of aftershave, a sharp contrast to the stale, grimy air clinging to my skin. His expression was still amused, but there was something else now--something sharper.

"You're quite the beauty, Six. Far better than a Standard+ grade."

"Master flatters this slave," I replied smoothly. "She was enhanced before sale."

His eyebrows lifted. "Enhanced? A training center?"

"The Virelai Institute, Master."

His amusement faded into something more calculating. "Virelai. I've heard of it. They produce quality stock." His eyes swept over me again, lingering this time. "Must have raised your price considerably."

"This slave does not know, Master." That was the truth.

He leaned forward, his hand catching my chin, tilting my face up so he could study me properly. His touch was warm, firm, assessing. He traced his fingers along my jaw, down my throat, across my shoulders. His thumb brushed the seam where cybernetics met flesh.

"These implants are recent. Faisal's work?"

"Yes, Master." His knowledge impressed me. "Mistress took this slave to be fitted right after purchase."

He hummed, running his fingers lightly over my forearm. "Faisal is an artist. And an expensive one."

I kept my eyes downcast. "Mistress and Master Faisal did not discuss cost in this slave's presence."

His hand withdrew, but not before he flicked away a small smear of grime on my collarbone, rubbing it between his fingers. His breath deepened almost imperceptibly.

"Interesting," he murmured.

He was looking at me differently now. Like he was seeing something beyond the price tag.

"You are a remarkably filthy little whore, aren't you?"

"This slave apologizes for her appearance, Master. If she had known you were here, she would have cleaned up before presenting herself." I smiled, aiming to please.

"No, it's all right. I think I prefer you this way." He reached out, dragging a finger across my breast, leaving a clean streak in the grime. "How did you get so dirty?"

"This slave was replacing air filters, Master. The ducts have not been cleaned recently."

"Air filters? Good. They needed it." He turned momentarily to his computer. "I should order some replacements then."

I saw the momentary distraction and moved to recapture his attention. I slid my hands up my body, lifting my breasts slightly, drawing his gaze back.

"The ducts are a tight fit for this slave, Master."

His eyes darkened with interest. "I like a dirty girl. The dirtier, the better."

"What can this slave do to please you more, Master?" I asked softly.

He slipped a finger through the ring on my collar and tugged me upright on my knees. His other hand slid between my thighs. "Do you have to pee, slave?" he asked, his voice thick with excitement.

"Yes, Master," I admitted. "This slave has not been given permission to relieve herself since first watch." It wasn't an act--I had been holding it, waiting for a chance to clean up properly.

"Pee for me now, then."

I obeyed, relaxing as a warm stream began to flow. His hand moved to catch it, fingers playing in the stream, spreading the wetness across my sex, my belly, my thighs. He cupped his palm, pouring my piss over my chest, my face, my hair. His pinky pressed against my urethra, briefly stopping the flow before releasing it again. His breaths grew heavier as I knelt, soaked in my own urine, a puddle spreading beneath me.

He stood abruptly, stepping back from the mess. With deliberate movements, he began unfastening his caftan.

"Lie back, slave."

I shifted onto my back in the pool of piss, legs spread wide in invitation. A few last dribbles slipped from me as I dragged my palms through the warm liquid and smeared it across my body, putting on a show for him.

Malik shed the rest of his clothing and set them carefully aside. His circumcised cock stood stiff, his neatly trimmed pubes emphasizing its length. He watched me arch my back, thrusting my hips toward him, offering myself up.

His eyes darted toward a shelf, and he reached for a tube. I saw it a moment too late.

"Master, I--"

He didn't hear me. The cap came off, and a thick glob of synthetic grease dropped onto my belly, cool at first but quickly spreading under his eager hands.

I gasped as he smeared it over me--across my breasts, down my thighs, coating my sex. The moment it touched my folds, I sucked in a sharp breath. The burn came almost immediately, a deep, chemical sting against my sensitive flesh.

He didn't notice. Or maybe he did and didn't care. His hands slid greedily over me, rubbing the black goo into my skin, through my hair, across my face. Three slick fingers pressed against my lips before pushing past them. The bitterness flooded my mouth, and the sting followed. My eyes watered as saliva pooled.

As soon as he pulled his fingers free, I spat, expelling as much of the burning grease as I could. The black sludge splattered across my chest.

Malik's eyes burned with raw excitement as he loomed over me, his breath hot, his grin wild. His hand slid between my thighs, fingers smearing grease over my swollen, aching sex before two of them shoved inside. A moan tore from my throat--part pleasure, part pain--as he worked them deeper, pumping hard and fast. A third finger followed, stretching me ruthlessly, pushing past the slick resistance of my flesh.

He fucked me with his fingers, relentless and unyielding. I writhed beneath him, my cries swallowed by the humid air of the hangar. My cunt clenched helplessly around his thrusting hand, my hips rolling in response, desperate for friction, for relief--but he never touched my clit. His thumb hovered, tantalizingly close but never making contact. He wanted me squirming, suffering, on the edge but unable to fall.

I lay in the spreading filth of my own piss, my body slick with sweat and grease, wracked with pleasure that never quite reached its peak. My hands roamed over my breasts, kneading the slick, slippery flesh, fingers twisting my nipples. Milk streamed from me, mingling with the grime, adding to the obscene mess beneath me.

Malik shifted, positioning himself fully between my spread legs. With a sharp, wet sound, he yanked his fingers from my cunt and replaced them with his cock in the same motion, spearing into me with a single brutal thrust.

He seized my tits like handles, using them for leverage as he fucked me hard. The slap of our bodies echoed off the metal walls, his hips hammering against mine. The burning grease on my flesh must have seared his cock as well, but he didn't slow, didn't seem to care. He was lost in it, rutting into me with an almost violent desperation.

I locked my hooves behind his back, tightening around him, pulling him in deeper. His breath came in ragged gasps, his grip tightening on my breasts until I whimpered from the pressure. With a final, shuddering groan, he drove himself deep and spilled inside me, his cock throbbing as he poured his seed into my still-clenching hole.

Panting, he stilled, savoring the moment before pulling back just enough to look down at me. His expression was smug, satisfied.

"Master, this slave thanks you for the gift of your seed," I murmured in ritual acknowledgment.

Malik chuckled breathlessly, then withdrew from me with a slick, obscene sound. He rocked back on his heels, taking in the sight of me--sprawled on my back, body smeared with filth, my skin glistening with sweat, milk, and grime. His grin widened.