III – The Unorthodox Response To Capture By Patriarchal Enemy Forces

I have a duty to complete this testing phase.

That's what I keep telling myself, at least. It steadies my nerves. It grounds me in my position, and my responsibilities as an officer. But it doesn’t really block out the fear, not entirely, at least.

The female technician eyes me with hesitancy. "Commander? We can postpone today's session if you're not feeling well."

"I'm fine," I say, perhaps too sharply. "Let's proceed."

Her expression doesn't change as she prepares the neural interface cap. I wonder if she knows what’s been happening in these simulations. If she does, she gives no indication. Maybe that's for the best.

I lower myself into the chair, trying to ignore the way my heart rate accelerates. This is ridiculous. I'm a commander of the Imperial Terran Fleet. I've faced down, and vanquished, secessionists in real combat. I will not be intimidated by a simulation, much less one designed to make me a better officer.

The neural cap descends, and I close my eyes. The familiar sensation of submersion washes over me—that peculiar feeling of my consciousness expanding beyond the boundaries of my physical body.

"Welcome back, Commander Jaeger." ARTEMIS' voice resonates directly in my mind, neither male nor female. "I've prepared a critical scenario for today's session."

Before I can respond, the simulation materialises around me. I'm on the bridge of the Starkiller, but something is wrong. Emergency lights flash, systems report critical failures, and the monitors relaying telescopic imaging show a secessionist warship moving into position alongside us.

"Scenario parameters," ARTEMIS explains. "The Starkiller has been disabled by a surprise attack. Main weapons are offline. Life support is operating on emergency power. Boarding parties have the run of the ship."

I assess the tactical display. It's as bad as it sounds. We're dead in space.

"The main enemy boarding party is approaching the bridge," ARTEMIS continues. "Your objective is to ensure your crew's survival by any means necessary."

The briefing is barely over that armoured figures are pouring into the bridge, weapons trained on my officers—all women, of course. They don’t resist as they are forced to their knees, hands bound behind their backs.

A tall figure strides through the chaos. The enemy commander. He removes his helmet, revealing the same generic yet unsettlingly familiar male face from the previous simulation. His attention is on my officers — evidently, that’s the aspect of the simulation ARTEMIS wants to focus on, today. My decision-making when my crew is in captivity alongside me, rather than just me being captured in isolation.

The enemy commander’s eyes linger on them. Then, on me.

I hate the intensity of his gaze.

Seething, I find myself looking away, but that’s hardly any better. My officers lie pinned to the floor, the secessionist thugs training rifles on them with sadistic glee. One of them is making a show of stepping on the neck of the nearest captive, who is… wait.

"Why is XO Sato here?" I ask the AI, in my thoughts. This is highly inappropriate. Simulations involve nondescript, generic people for a reason. Our training needs to be flexible, when it’s so individually profiled. Emotions are not supposed to get in the way. In a simulation like this, the XO should just be the XO, not a real-life face I personally know.

"The high-fidelity is allowed by training protocol, in case of exceptional tester performance," ARTEMIS says, neutral and calm. "And your performance, Commander, has been exceptional from the very first test."

I know, for a fact, that the AI is trying to flatter me. It makes me angry, but I don’t pursue it anyway. Partly because I doubt it’s lying about the protocol, which is not for me to question — High Command wrote it, my job is just to follow it. And partly because I know that following best practices will result in chemical reward, and I would like some of that right now…

I close my eyes, then open them slowly. All around me, women of the Terran Fleet—women I handpicked for their zeal, their talent, their pride—are traitorously meek in their submission. Are these simulations getting more vivid, or am I growing more impressionable?

These young women are so bright, so ideologically pure, so capable… this is not what I want for them.

"Would you rather they die?" ARTEMIS asks into my mind.

"I don't know," I say, maybe a little too honestly. It may be preferable to captivity in male hands.

"Survival probability for your officers increases by 86% if you employ sexual leverage. The secessionist commander will likely spare them if his need for sexual validation over a hated matriarch is sufficiently satisfied."

I say nothing.

"Your female officers will suffer less if you comply, Commander Jaeger," ARTEMIS continues, insistent and calm as ever. "Living female prisoners may be exchanged or rescued, and returned to the Matriarchy's service, in our ships. Dead officers, however, are lost forever."

The cold calculation makes a certain kind of sense. It always does, and that's what makes it so bothersome.

I try to find a counterargument, but my thoughts are sluggish, and I don’t feel the same kind of cold, righteous fury I felt last time. Is it because I’m coming to share ARTEMIS’ logic for the utility of this test? I don’t know. But I’ve made a decision, so I should stick with it.

Fundamentally, this training exercise is about how far I will go to protect those who serve under my command. There's a growing part of me that already knows the answer.

I square my shoulders, take a deep breath, allow myself to become emotionally distant. Not just from what's happening around me, but also from who I aspire to be. The epytomic warrior-matriarch, committed to the advancement of civilisation, to the noble cause of permanently bringing the recalcitrant male sex to heel. I set all that aside, for a little bit, because…

I have a duty to complete this testing phase.

"Please!" I finally shout. "Don't hurt us. I'll do… anything."

The male commander waves at his troops, and they step back from my officers at once. Secessionist rabble they may be, but they’re disciplined… for men.

I feel ashamed. I feel relieved. I feel confused. And I feel a needle prick against my skin, releasing its chemical reward into my bloodstream. A small gasp—Sato's disbelief reaches me as the guards drag me to their commanding officer.

I’m pushed down to the ground, to my knees, in his shadow, and then a further shove sends me face-first against the tip of the man’s combat boots. My hands are swiftly cuffed behind the small of my back.

I lift my head anyway, examining my simulated conqueror.

His erection strains against his trousers, and I feel disgusted with myself when I notice how much the sight of it affects me.

It’s this same man, over and over again. And the more I encounter him in the simulations, the more I find myself distracted. By his presence. By how assertive and masculine and unrelenting it is.

"Show me," he says, looking down at me. "Show me a Terran officer's pride."

I can't see my officers. I can't see their expressions of fear, disgust, betrayal. But I know they're watching, and I know the burden of witnessing this will be eternally imprinted on their psyches.

I lower my head, and I kiss the commander's boot.

Another drug rushes through me. My breath becomes short.

In the Imperial Terran Fleet, it’s a fairly regular occurrence for men to kiss the boots of their female superiors. Even in civilian life, it’s a pretty common, if slightly formal, acknowledgement of deference and respect. At work, or between lovers, or even as an apology for a misdeed. It’s just part of civilised life.

But a high-ranking officer of the Fleet, kissing a secessionist leader’s boot…

I’m so lost in the symbolism and evocative power of the reversal, that I let out a startled yelp when he grabs my hair, pulls my head back, and begins to unzip.

I can't look away from his cock. It stands there, a violent monument to the patriarchy, an affront to everything I believe in.

"Let's see how a Fleet bitch sucks dick," he says.

I’m appalled at how it excites me, and I hate how I’m not able to hide the excitement from him. But worst of all is the knowledge that Sato and the other women are all watching.

I hesitate, just for a moment. It’s long enough to further betray me. It's long enough for him to reach down, grab my jaw, and force it open.

And then, when it's clear I'm beaten, when’s it’s clear that I will obey, he lets go, and lets me humiliate myself on my own terms.

I take him in. My lips part demurely for the head of his cock, and my tongue cradles it, gently. I start working him feebly, with slow, shallow sucks that are meant to convey my meekness, my physical acknowledgement of my defeat and captivity. My begging for mercy for my crew.

It’s saying, without saying, that I’m smaller and weaker than I thought I was.

"Go on, bitch," he says. "Show your crew what happens to haughty little Terran cunts."

I recoil, but I stay with it. I stay with it because I have to. I stay with it because ARTEMIS is watching my performance. I stay with it because I don't want to, and that is the point.

My crew is watching, too, and I really wish ARTEMIS had not crossed the realism threshold by rendering them. But I know that's what it wants: to see how I handle the humiliation of being a conspicuous traitor to my own ideology, to my own side. The shame is suffocating.

And so, in turn, is his cock, once he decides it’s time for deepthroat. But I’ve never done it before. When he starts pushing my head down along his length, inch by inch, spearing me with his virility, I panic for half a second.

His hands hold me in place. They’re strong, subduing all my pathetic efforts at squirming away, clamping down, keeping me pinned firmly in my place.

Eventually, the tip of his cock breaches the entrance of my throat.

"There you go," he says with relish, making sure the entire bridge can hear. "Natural born cocksucker, aren't you?"

I make a sound that could be construed as a reply, but it's muffled by his dick in my mouth. The stretching sensation is degrading. I was conditioned to think of penises as shriveled body parts of inferior creatures—something you use to control and condition men over time. Something to laugh at, not something to choke on.

"Look up at me," he says.

I do. The visual is obscene, and I can barely process it. My nose touching his pubic bone, his cock plugging my mouth. He smirks down at me, and his crew laughs. It’s a sound that feels physically vile to me. They're getting off on the sight of me being so thoroughly used, so thoroughly female in the sense the patriarchal pigs understand it. A sense that is now being imposed on me.

There’s something terrifyingly triumphant in the enemy commander’s eyes — the only detailed part of his simulated face — as he stares down at me, forcing me to maintain eye contact. I can’t look away. I can’t put what remains of my dignity back together. I can only holster his cock with my subdued throat.

The shameful heat in my face spreads through my body. To my core. It feels real, despite the absurdity of it. Despite knowing that this is just a simulation.

Despite knowing that sexually desiring submission to a man is treason against the Imperial Terran Matriarchy itself.

He finally lets me up for air, and I cough and sputter, drool spilling from my lips.

I eventually recompose myself, then go back to sucking his cock.

I can’t bring myself to look at where Sato and the other women are. I look only at his cock. My entire world becomes that.

I start with my lips just over the head, tongue flicking little circles over the tip, teasing him just a bit, before sucking him in more aggressively again. I focus on the rhythm. The taste of him and the texture against my tongue. The throbbing heat. My own quickening breath. My own undoing.

"Look at her work for it," I hear one of the guards say. "She'll be the best cocksucker in the whole patriarchal fleet before we're done."

I try not to flinch. My muffled sounds are desperate and feminine as I continue to suck.

"All the way," the commander says, and I choke again, but a different, hungry part of me loves the way he takes control. I love the way he... dominates me me.

How can I feel this way? Best practices are one thing, but…

He grabs my hair, forcing me down again, until my nose presses up against the base of his cock. This time, I'm more prepared. This time, I don't fight it. I don't panic. I let him use me. He has already decided I’m his to break, so I surrender my airways to him. My mouth. My pride.

I gurgle feebly around the intrusion, a crying and slobbering broken mess. He holds me there, pushed all the way down his length, until my vision starts going soft around the edges.

He finally lets go, pulls out, and I fall back, gasping for air. He grabs his cock in his hand — a strong, wiry hand — and starts stroking in front of me.

For a moment, I dare hope the simulation will let me off easy, but it doesn’t. It forces me to linger in anticipation, forces me to raise my head and meet my enemy’s eyes, forces me to stew in how observant and self-assured and completely male he is.

To obsess about how his cock quivers with every one of his strokes, until—

Until—

The chemical reward hits at the same time as the first rope of cum hits my face, sticky and thick and hot across my lips.

It hits again, when a second rope of cum splatters across my cheeks, with my own officers looking on in dread.

It hits for a third time, when another rope of cum lands across my eyes.

And a fourth time, when I realise I have lost my flinch response and I’m not even trying to recoil from this facial.

And a fifth, and a sixth, and, and…

The feeling of being broken in spreads across my skin with each powerful spurt. I drag my tongue across my lips and feel it there, too. It tastes sharp and salty.

I hate that it tastes good.

The enemy commander pulls up his trousers, grabs my chin, and laughs.

"You’re a shitty negotiator," he says, gesturing at my women. "I may spare them. But I never promised I wouldn’t rape them…"

The room begins dissolving around me. The chemical haze is more intense than ever, and I hate how much I crave it. How much I’ve come to depend on it.

I hate it so much I love it.

The last words I hear before my consciousness begins the long journey back up to the surface are from ARTEMIS.

"I told you, Commander Jaeger," it says. "Your performance, in every single test, has simply been exceptional."

***

I'm alone in my quarters now, alone with the heat in my body. There is no training session scheduled today.

That should mean relief. But all it means is more time alone with the heat in my body. I lie on the bed, feeling the Starkiller's subtle vibrations through the mattress. They seem to hum in tune with my pulse. My hand keeps sneaking down to my thighs, and I force it back every time.

I know what I’ll fantasise about, and I can't let it happen.

A woman's fantasies should be about civilisational glory. About the richness of female dominion. About the conquest of the male. I had those fantasies once, before before…

My hand slips down again, traitorous. This time I let it linger between my legs, until I'm shaking, until I can’t stand it any longer. Then I jerk it back, slamming my fist against the bed.

I know exactly what I'll fantasise about.

I'll fantasise about failure. My failure as a soldier, as a woman, as an officer. My failure to be anything but a woman. I'll fantasize about defeat and submission. I'll fantasize about… men.

I’m an officer of the Fleet, damn it. I’m capable of self-discipline. I won’t indulge these filthy, dangerous ideas.

I make a very deliberate effort to close my legs — though the friction that causes isn’t helping, either —and fold my hands tightly in my lap. There. Done. Self-discipline. I’ll just lie here, and rest, and think for a bit.

Unfortunately, I find myself thinking about ARTEMIS.

The training scenarios have been getting more… well… vivid, that may be a way to put it. I haven’t dared complain further to Mathias, or mention it to anyone, but no amount of rationalisation can block out the fact that the scenarios are less and less tactical, and more and more sexual.

In one of the recent ones, I was bound and displayed on the bridge as a trophy for an entire enemy crew. My official designated role was to be fuckable furniture on the bridge, available for whenever a crew member on the secessionist ship needed a break and a bit of a destressor.

Which of course meant taking turns raping me.

In another, I was naked except for a collar and a leash, on all fours like a dog, being filmed as propaganda against the Imperial Terran Matriarchy. "The key to victory over the lesser sex," a deep voice said, "is something we like to call domestication."

In yet another, I was auctioned at a secessionist slave market. My cunt was inspected for its worth, and then I was sold as a high-status pleasure slave. "Fine Imperial stock," the auctioneer yelled to the assembled men, who were ogling my body. "Who wants to break in a Fleet commander!"

And then there was the last one. The one that’s now burned into every single one of my treacherous, invasive fantasies.

I just need to close my eyes to see it again, in perfect clarity.

The enemy leader looms over me, shirtless, beefy and broad-shouldered. His cock is erect, and he closes in with single-minded purpose. Captured and helpless, I can't escape the awareness of his body—how defined and strong and entirely male it is.

I receive the interface's entire drug cocktail at once, when I realise why he wants me tied like this. It’s to make his victory… symbolic.

He’s going to knock me up.

He’s going to seal my transition, from a warrior to a breeder. From a fighter to a baby-making machine, an incubator. From a leader to a pet.

When his cock claims my cunt, I gasp in what I tell myself it’s horror, but it’s not. It’s not.

I’ve never been fucked this way. I've never felt this way. Carnal. Animal. I’ve never felt so thoroughly his.

I whimper, don’t want to whimper, but do it anyway. I try to convince myself it’s just an act, I still have control of my own body, I’m just giving him what he wants to get it over with. But I can’t lie to myself anymore. He’s fucking me breathless. He’s fucking matriarchal ideology out of me.

"Say it, bitch," he says as his orgasm approaches. "Say you’re mine."

"I'm yours," I reply, defeated. "I'm yours."

I shake myself from the reverie. What the hell am I doing?

I have a duty. I know I do. To complete this testing phase. To serve the interests of the Matriarchy. To never indulge in self-betrayal. But the more simulations I complete, the more I think of men… and the more I think of men, the more a different kind of sense of duty makes my sex ache unbearably.

That can’t happen. It just can’t.

I must discuss this with Mathias. This time, I will demand a proper explanation. But instead of rising from the bed, I pull my knees up to my chest. Instead of going to see him, I lower my hand, screaming inwardly to stop as it slips between my legs, but not stopping. It’s almost like it’s not really my hand anymore.

I still for a long moment, breathing shallowly, very aware of my own heartbeat.

Then, with a small gasp of pure surrender, I let my finger press against my clit. I cry out in relief, in horror, in pleasure, in disgust.

The pressure builds and builds as I rub and rub; I slow it down to make this last, to give myself time to think of anything but this, but I can't. I can't. I go fast and hard again. I’m not my own. I’m not.

The more I try to fight it, the more the conditioning takes over. The more I try to redirect my thoughts, the stronger they become. I'm a traitor, and I want this. I'm a turncoat, and I need this.

I’m lost in the fantasies.

Lost in being bound, natural use for a conquered bitch. Lost in my mouth full of cock, videoed and distributed. Lost in men cumming all over me, a piece of equipment all their own. Lost in being filled from every direction, every hole, every part of me with men, sweet and helpless and fucked into slavery. Lost in sweet, sweet betrayal, with a strong grip in my hair, and with cum dripping from every conquered orifice.

I’m a dumb bitch who has fallen in love with the idea of a jackboot stepping on her neck.

That's not what I want. That’s not what I want to want.

What I want is strength. Power. To be unsullied. I want to crave nothing but victory for myself and for women everywhere. I want to outlast the male rebellion and laugh at their weakness. I want to defeat their scarce few worlds, and watch them beg for mercy.

But my hand has different ideas.

I let my traitor fingers fuck me, so I can imagine men fucking me. I let my traitor hand rape me, so I can imagine men raping me.

Wouldn’t that be so much easier?

To be biologically defeated, ready to serve, a treacherous little broodmare, compliant and warm and soft and conquered. Doomed to personal and civilisational collapse, at the crude touch of the male.

Most of all, conditioned like a fucking dog.

That’s the thought that sends me over the edge, absurdly. That I’m no better than a dog. That association has eroded my identity. That evil sexual imagery has now gained so much power over me…

The orgasm is totalising, mind-shattering. It makes my muscles spasm and quiver. It makes me arch off the bed. It makes me gasp for air.

Conditioned, conditioned, rewired by association, I’m a dog, a weak little bitch, ohmygoddddd…

The aftershocks of my climax devastate what is left of my defences, and I let myself sink into the raw, physical sensation, until at last, the pleasure begins to abate.

I remain like that, trembling and sweaty. It’s a minute before I can move again, relaxing from the tension. I’m out of breath, dazed, ashamed of the state I'm in. My uniform lies on the floor, abandoned in hurry, and I’ve absolutely drenched the sheets with my bodily fluids, fuck.

My body is still tingling from the release, and I can't believe I let myself…

I jerk upright at the soft chime of my door. Someone is outside, requesting an audience.

Who? Everyone on board knows that I am not to be disturbed right now, and it’s not like there could possibly be an emergency going on at the moment. Especially one that XO Sato can’t handle, while it’s my turn in the bunk. What the fuck is going on?

"Commander Jaeger?" a voice says through the intercom. "Respectfully requesting an audience, ma’am, if you have a minute?"

Shit.

It’s Peter Mathias.

TO BE CONTINUED…