It was well into the third watch when I stepped through the door of Zahra's quarters and into the dimly lit hallway, a bag of toys in one hand, a taut leash in the other. Mistress Zahra was compelled to follow.
She was as naked as I was, her toned, powerful body stripped bare except for the locked slave collar encircling her throat. My leash was clipped to the ring at its front, the length so short that she had no choice but to stay close--her breath warm on my skin, her hesitation thrumming between us. She balked at stepping into the open corridor, her hands reflexively moving to shield herself, as if modesty meant anything aboard this ship.
I flicked the strap at the end of the leash, snapping it smartly against the curve of her backside. A sharp, percussive crack echoed down the hall.
She hissed at the sting, her hands flying to her ass as she spun to glare at me. But she didn't cover herself again.
She liked that.
That had been the first surprise. Mistress Zahra--the ship's hard-edged, knife-loving, battle-hardened pilot--was a sub. A bratty sub. Fierce in everything she did, even in submission. She challenged, she resisted, she forced me to take what was already mine by right in these stolen moments. It was exhilarating. And it was a strain.
This was not how I was supposed to serve.
I am a slave. I exist to please, to obey, to yield. Every fiber of my conditioned being was crafted to kneel, to submit, to belong to another's will. My mistress was meant to command me, not the other way around. And yet...
Mistress Zahra's deepest desire was to be taken. To be forced into surrender. To be made helpless in a way she could never admit in the waking world. And if serving her meant dominating her, I would obey. For these times, I was her slave mistress--the one to strip her of control and force her into the role she secretly longed for.
Tonight, I was pushing her limits.
The leash trembled in my grasp as she dug her heels into the deck, reluctant, defiant. She was terrified of discovery--petrified that someone might uncover the secret she buried beneath her knives and her sharp, disdainful words. Even now, parading her through the ship like this--slave naked, collared, owned--had her trembling with something halfway between fear and arousal.
It was the middle of the night watch. The only other person awake was Vigo, and he was on the bridge. No one would see her. No one would know.
And still, she squirmed.
I gave her no choice.
The strap at the end of the leash flicked out again, striking the taut muscle of her ass with just enough force to make her yelp and stumble forward. I caught the sharp inhale she tried to suppress, the way her breath hitched in something dangerously close to pleasure.
I tugged her leash, forcing her to move with me. She resisted still--reluctant, humiliated, and so deliciously wet with the thrill of it. I dragged her through the ship, her every reluctant step an unspoken surrender.
We ghosted through the corridors in silence, our bare feet whispering against the cold metal deck. Every step I took in front of her, every insistent pull of the leash, was a reversal of everything I had ever known. I was the one leading, and she was the one obeying.
When we reached the gym, the doors slid open, and the automatic lighting began to rise. I immediately overrode the controls, keeping the room bathed in deep shadow. Then, with a flick of my fingers against the console, I sealed the hatches and privacy-locked them.
No one would disturb us now.
No one would see her like this.
No one would hear the things I would make her say.
My grip on the leash tightened as I led her toward the far corner of the gym, to where the milking frame waited. Silent. Unyielding. Patient.
The moment Zahra realized where I was leading her, she balked, digging her bare feet into the deck. A soft, desperate whimper escaped her lips--part protest, part arousal.
I flicked the strap at the end of the leash against her thigh, firm but teasing. No escape, little slave.
She sucked in a breath and hesitated, her chest rising and falling in shallow pants.
"You've been asking me about this machine," I murmured, guiding her forward with gentle insistence. "Curious about how it works. How it feels."
I brought her close--so close that she couldn't avoid the sight of it. The milking frame loomed before her, its rails gleaming faintly in the dim light, the cups hanging idle, waiting. The low hum of the machine's standby mode filled the quiet between us.
"Well, tonight, you're going to experience it."
Zahra made a strangled sound low in her throat, her muscles twitching as if she wanted to run but knew she wouldn't. Knew she couldn't.
I let her tremble there for a moment, her body humming with conflicted desire, before I reached into my bag and withdrew a pair of leather bracelets. They were supple, well-worn, with sturdy metal buckles and D-rings at the wrists.
"Hands front," I commanded.
Hesitantly, she extended her arms. Her fingers curled slightly, as if resisting the moment of submission, but she didn't pull away. I wrapped the bracelets snugly around her wrists, fastening each one with deliberate care.
"Move."
Slowly, she obeyed, stepping onto the padded kneeling mat before the frame. Her lithe, muscular, almost boyish figure contrasted with the space between the rails--made for me, for my heavy, milk-laden breasts. She hesitated again, but I pressed a firm hand against her shoulder, guiding her forward.
"Knees apart. Lean in."
She exhaled sharply but did as I instructed, shifting forward until her small, perky breasts hovered between the bars. Her dusky skin was taut, flushed with anticipation. The pulse in her throat flickered beneath the steel ring of her collar.
I clipped her collar to the top rail, then took her wrists, drawing them up and securing them as well. Bound. Helpless. Completely mine.
From on top of the miking machine I picked up the bottle of lube. The thick gel glistened in my palm as I squirted a generous amount into my hand, then brought it to her chest.
Zahra hissed at the cold touch, as I began smoothing it over her firm, small breasts, my artificial fingers kneading the slick warmth into her dark skin. Zahra tensed at first, her pride warring with her submission, but as I teased and rolled her nipples between my fingertips, she bit her lip to stifle a sound.
"Hush," I murmured, my fingers gliding over her taut muscles, kneading the slick lubricant into her breasts. "Relax."
"You know," I said casually, continuing to work the lube in slow, deliberate circles, "if you really want to start expressing milk, this is the easiest way."
Zahra made a strangled sound. "What?"
I smirked, tweaking her nipple just enough to make her squirm. "Regular use of a milking machine stimulates lactation. If we kept this up--say, a few times a day--your body would start producing."
Zahra's breath caught. "Seriously?"
"Mm-hmm." I pinched her nipples, rubbing the sensitive peaks between my thumbs and forefingers. "Of course, if you wanted to speed things up, you could take hormone treatments. Prolactin would do the trick."
Zahra shivered against the restraints, her hands flexing in their leather bindings. "And what about horny juice?"
