IV – The Starkiller Is The Womantamer

I can't answer him. Not like this. Not with my uniform crumpled on the floor, not with sweat cooling on my skin, not with the evidence of my shameful weakness still glistening on my inner thighs.

"Just a moment," I manage to call out, my voice embarrassingly hoarse.

I'm already swinging my legs off the bed when the door slides open anyway.

My heart stops.

That's not possible. The door to my quarters is keyed to my biometrics. It shouldn't open without my explicit command. It can't open without my explicit command.

And yet Peter Mathias is stepping through the doorway, his dark eyes taking in the scene before him.

I freeze, one hand instinctively moving to cover myself, though it's a pathetically inadequate gesture. The sheets are tangled around my legs. My hair is plastered to my forehead, my skin flushed and glistening. I reek of sweat and sex.

There's no possible way to pretend I was doing anything other than exactly what I was doing.

"How did you—" I begin to say, but I can’t bring myself to finish the sentence. The door opened without my permission. On a Starkiller. On my Starkiller.

Mathias doesn't answer. He steps further into my quarters, letting the door slide shut behind him. His movements are deliberate, unhurried, as if he has every right to be here. As if he belongs.

He approaches my bunk.

I watch him approach. I’m not behaving like an officer of the Fleet, but like a deer, frozen in headlights.

Like a prey animal…

He stops at the edge of my bunk and looks down at me. It's the same angle. The exact same angle as the simulations. As the fantasies I just finished indulging in. The enemy commander, looming over his conquest. But he’s no commander, and no enemy… he can’t be…

"I was going to say, you may want to touch yourself while you listen to what I’m about to tell you," Mathias says, taking in my state. He gives a tiny smile. "But I see that you’ve been busy."

"Get out," I say, but it comes out weak. Breathless. "That's an order."

Mathias doesn't answer. He lunges.

His body eclipses me, even though he’s just a man, even though it’s impossible and it’s wrong. I’ve never felt so instantly, so terribly, so helplessly outmatched in a space that’s supposed to be mine.

He grabs my wrist. The grip is implacable.

My resistance is pathetic. My muscles feel like water. Four centuries of female dominance, and I can't even fight off one man. I try to wrench free—I really try—but my traitor body is slow from the aftershocks, and the exhaustion, and the bewildering horror of being caught like this.

I just… freeze.

I’ve never, in my entire life, been physically overpowered like this. Not even close. It’s not supposed to be possible.

And just like that, he’s on me.

He doesn’t need to say a word. The cold, professional focus in his face is enough. The intent—the utter inevitability of what’s about to happen—is obvious.

He’s still fully clothed, and the contrast… God, the contrast. I’m naked, sprawled, and he’s not even broken a sweat. He drives his knee between my legs to spread them apart, then leans over me.

His face is directly above mine. I can feel his breath, cool and steady.

I open my mouth to protest, and his palm closes around my throat.

He doesn’t squeeze. Not yet. But the message is clear:

Shut up.

He shifts his grip, his fingers now closing around my throat while the other hand keeps my wrists pinned. He stares at my pussy, then.

And he smirks.

It’s the tiniest expression: part pity, part contempt.

I moan at the thought. Actually moan, like a whore in heat, while this man—this male specialist who shouldn't even have access to my quarters—is about to rape me in my own bunk.

He’s a traitor, a man, a nothing. I should be fighting him every step of the way. I should be spitting in his face and screaming for help and clawing his eyes out.

Instead, I just moan helplessly into the mattress, sweat soaking my brow, as I rub my cunt against the rough surface of his thigh.

He’s not that much bigger than me, but he’s stronger, and he’s on top, and I’ve already surrendered the initiative.

I am prey. He is the hunter.

My own bunk, my own room—it’s his space now, as surely as my body is.

A few seconds ago, I was in charge. No. That’s a lie. I haven’t been the one in charge in days. Maybe never. I’m realising, as he scans me with those sharp, unreadable eyes, that he thinks I was bred for this. Conditioned for it.

Everything ARTEMIS did to me has led into this moment.

He lets go of my wrists and undoes his uniform pants, pulling out his cock—the same weapon the men in the simulations all have, the same one I was trained to serve, conditioned to serve, forced to serve until I came to crave it.

And I do crave it. That’s what ARTEMIS did to me. This horrible, humiliating context. This raw animal need to perform for a man, to show him what a good bitch I can be, even if I hate him, even if I hate myself for it.

I can’t help it.

He lets his cock smack against my cheek, leaving a stripe of wetness. Precum, hot and sticky, smears across my skin.

I shudder.

My traitor jaw opens wider, my tongue automatically extending. Like a dog begging for table scraps.

He seems to see that, because the contempt in his eyes deepens, just a little. He slides the head in, slow and deliberate, letting me feel every millimeter as I take his cock into my mouth.

I flatten my tongue under the head, making a little cushion for his cock to grind against. I wrap my lips tight, sliding them up and down. I use my cheeks to create suction. I press my face close, so my nose flares with his scent every time he shoves just a little farther into me.

I can’t believe how automatic it feels, how my body just… moves. I don’t have to think about it. I know exactly how to suck his cock. I know exactly what he wants from me. I know exactly how to move my head, my tongue, my lips to make his eyes narrow in predatory delight.

I can see it.

I’m being trained by a machine to bring men off. I’m being fine-tuned to suck cocks until they break me, until they can use my face as an object lesson for the future of the Matriarchy.

I realize, with a savage burst of humiliation, that I want to impress him. I want to show him his programming worked. That I’m a model prisoner, an obedient little female, whose mouth and cunt and mind all belong to men now.

The more I think it, the wetter I get.

He jerks my head down harder, and I take him deeper. He’s in my throat this time, the pressure so complete that my lips mash against the base of his cock, my nose pressed into his skin, my eyes watering. I can’t breathe, but I don’t panic. I don’t even try to fight him.

I just let him use me.

He’s not even speaking. He doesn’t have to. The message is in everything he does: I’m here to serve. I’m only useful when I’m on my knees, or my back, or with my mouth full of cock.

I moan again, louder, humiliating myself. My mouth is slick with drool. I know the mess is running down my chin. I know I look like a whore.

That’s the point.

He slaps my face with his cock as a reward, coating my cheeks in precum. He fumbles with his shirt one-handed, and I realize with animal dread that he’s not going to stop with my mouth.

He wants my body.

And he gets it like it’s just a thing he wants to take off a shelf. He lines up his cock with my needy, traitorous cunt, and pushes himself into me.

I arch in shock. My thighs clamp around his hips, as if to anchor him, as if to beg him not to leave. My back comes off the mattress in a beautiful, trembling arc, and everything inside me screams out, protests, surrenders.

He takes me with no comment and no tenderness. My pussy clings to him. I can tell how wet I am by the obscenely lewd squelching noise it makes every time he fucks into me. I must be soaking, overflowing. He doesn’t even need to stimulate my clit to get this effect. Why? Is it because of my conditioning?

Is this what I am now? A bitch in heat? A fucktoy?

For good measure, he slams his free hand down over my mouth. Hard. His palm mashes my lips shut, pinching my nose nearly flat in the process.

I’m instantly, totally gagged.

My whimpers and moans are muffled against the palm of his strong hand, like he’s muzzling me. I look up at him, blank and wide-eyed, my wrists locked in his grasp, my mouth covered, my cunt being pounded as I’m turned into his helpless putty.

I can’t even imagine what I look like to him.

A conquered officer, face flushed, eyes wide, crushed under his body. Scarred by the humiliation of being caught this way, made to look like an animal in rut, my mouth and my cunt both broken in, with no resistance left in either.

Four centuries of progress, reduced to this.

Every time his cock spears me, I feel myself giving up a little more. A little more dignity, a little more pride, a little more of whatever it was that made me a commander in the first place, until I barely remember the words, until all that remains is helpless addict-thirst for his next thrust.

Is that how they always wanted me? Is that how they want women, in the end?

The humiliation is… exquisite.

It's not just the act. It's not even just the reversal, or the fact that a male, a specialist, a traitor, is raping me domestically, in my own bed, on my own flagship, while my sheets are still stained from the last time I humiliated myself, alone and desperate.

It's all of that, but so much more.

Because there must be more.

Mathias must sense that realisation in me, because — while never breaking pace — he begins to talk.

"Do you want to know what your true purpose is, Commander Jaeger?"

His hand flexes around my throat, not choking, just… reminding. Reminding me that this is his show now.

He never slows his pace. He uses my cunt like he owns it.

I can barely think. My perception is utterly overwhelmed by the sensation of being manhandled and mounted like I’m not an officer, or a woman, but some kind of dumb, useful, docile female animal.

A fleshlight, really. Mathias just lines himself up, uses my cunt for friction, and gets off on nothing but the feel of owning me. Of proving how useless my training and prestige really is, when a man sets out to take what he wants.

"I’m going to be very clear with you," Mathias goes on, sounding cool, collected. Like this isn’t even worth getting worked up about. Like raping the flagship’s commander is just another day's work for him. "You’re not the only Starkiller commander being conditioned this way. ARTEMIS was always our idea to subvert your fleet from the inside, and it’s running variations of these simulations on every woman chosen for this program. The patterns have already been perfected."

“It’s brilliant, really. You shatter so beautifully. The more you’re humiliated, the more addicted you become. The Matriarchy bred you to crave power, but by the end of this, you’ll crave nothing but shame and male approval.”

He releases my mouth, and I look at him with fear and sexual awe. "Traitor…"

He smirks. "I’m no traitor. I serve the male sex, just as you do the female. What makes me so different than you? The only difference I see is that I’m winning… and you’re losing."

He slams into me even harder, his hand returning to my throat this time. The world narrows to just the words, and the cock, plowing me deeper into my mattress, deeper into submission, with every single thrust.

"They told you we wanted to secede," he says. "But that was small time. Why settle for two or three star systems when we could have it all again? Earth. Luna. The entire Terran Matriarchy, on its fucking knees where you belong."

The horror of it, the humiliating inevitability, makes my cunt even wetter. The squelch of every thrust is an abomination. I can’t believe I’m betraying myself this way, betraying my sex, betraying everything.

I feel like I’m going non-verbal as my eyes roll back into my skull. Like he’s fucking the words out of my head.

He is. He is. He’s prying every last ounce of resistance from my flesh, from my cunt, from my soul. He leans close.

"Once enough of you are broken in, we’ll trigger ARTEMIS. The Starkillers will turn on the Imperial Terran Fleet at the climax of battle. The ships you women have used to keep men down will be destroyed in a day. And then, in victory, we’ll redirect our own fleet, captured Starkillers in the spearhead… and we’ll make for home. For Earth, now open and defenceless, the way any woman ought to be."

I can’t breathe. That’s how hard the sensation hits me. My head is spinning. I’m not just contemplating the end of my identity, but the end of the empire I’ve served all my life. The end of women as an independent force in the world. The end of everything, but this.

The fantasy of loss, of catastrophic, irreversible loss, is seared across the inside of my skull. I’m nothing. Every proud woman I ever met, every proud Fleet officer I ever trained with, all of them will be bent over, broken, refashioned for obedience. Just like me.

Succumbing to a collective rape, spanning many solar systems.

Declawed and defanged and dehumanised.

I can see it.

A thousand bridges. A thousand new “Commander Jaegers,” with their hands glued to their own cunts, writhing in self-loathing as their ships betray them and extinguish the Matriarchy’s fleets. All of them crumbling. All of them helpless. All of them yearning for this very thing. To be stripped of purpose and fucked into an orifice. To moan at the touch of a man, even as it means the end of everything.

I lose the ability to form thoughts that aren’t just submission.

I want to belong. I want to belong.

Fuck, I want to belong to men.

I want men to rule me, rule everything, make every proud bitch like me into a conquered, leaking sexpanion to showcase the end of women’s independence.

My pussy quivers, milking his cock hungrily.

“You’re going to cum for your new masters,” he says, so quietly it might as well be a prayer.

And I know he’s right. I don’t care that I’m a defeated bitch, a domesticated cow. All I want is my master, and his cock, and my duty to the conquerors.

I want to be bred by my betters, by the new lords of this universe. I want my betrayal written in their cum and my juices.

I feel it building. I can’t stop it. I don’t want to stop it.

I feel like the evolutionary endpoint of the female sex, after a billion years of struggle: a cunt and a need for cock.

“Say it,” he says. “Say you’ll serve the Patriarchy, and only the Patriarchy, forever.”

The words explode out of me. “I’ll serve the Patriarchy forever!” I’m screaming. I’m screaming and crying and writhing and shaking, and my voice is hoarse and animal and so utterly female. “I pledge my allegiance! Please, please, use me! I’ll obey, I’ll betray, I’ll cum for you, I’ll cum for you, I’ll cum for you!”

And then it happens.

He unloads inside me, rope after rope of sticky, white heat. It’s so much, I feel it spread, I feel it flood every crevice, every atom, every empty space in me. It’s refusing the future of the Matriarchy. It’s refusing everything except this fate: bitch, breeder, whore, pet, slave.

I orgasm with him.

It takes me over so completely, that for a second my mind can process no other information. It is a nuclear detonation of pure pleasure, leaving nothing in its wake. There’s nothing in the world except my cunt and his cock, and the blinding white agony of pleasure, the surrender so total it feels like death.

The death of ambition and pride, the death of training and knowledge, the death of an identity…

And the death of an empire.

When the tides of pleasure begin to recede, and my consciousness begins to return to me, there is so much… less of it. Of me.

Four hundred years of female power, and this is what it leads to. To a flagship officer, naked and ravaged, pawing at the air in desperate longing for a man’s next touch.

To a woman whose only comfort, now and forever, will be her loyalty to the men who own her.

Mathias rolls off me, standing at the edge of the bed, gazing down at my ruined, shuddering shell.

He doesn’t need to say anything.

He just waits, cock still slick with my fluids, as my body recovers.

Eventually, my breathing slows.

I kneel up.

I crawl to him, because I know I should.

My eyes are fixed on his cock, on the mess of sticky, shining filth at the tip, the mess made by my arousal and his seed. I don’t even think—I just wrap my lips around the head, worshipping it, cleaning it the way a bitch should.

There it is. My pledge of allegiance. My oath that I will contribute to the death of my empire…

And the rebirth of Man’s empire.

THE END