Rebellion

 

He doth bestride the narrow world

Like a colossus, and we petty men

Walk under his huge legs, and peep about

To find ourselves dishonorable graves.

...

The fault, dear Brutus, is not in our stars

But in ourselves, that we are underlings.

William Shakespeare, from "Julius Caesar,"

 

Chapter 1

 

From "The First Elysium War" by Franz Van Grouten

 

Interstellar space travel was man's salvation. Finally, we could cross the unimaginable distances between the stars, find habitable planets, and colonize them. Everyone hoped the bounty from these colonies would solve the intractable problems of Earth's overpopulation and depleted resources, and no one worried about the cost. What did cost matter when the survival of humankind was at stake? Turns out, it mattered a lot.

 

2228 / Daemon Planet Ares17

 

Petya moaned piteously in the darkness, but there was no echo, no feedback of any kind. It was as if she was floating in space, alone and with her unrelenting pain. Speck had designed the room specifically to achieve this result. He wanted total isolation; he wanted those he punished to focus on their pain, to regret their offense in every cell of their luscious bodies.

She filled her lungs and screamed into the black void. This room was for his private discipline; it was his personal chamber of horrors. Even the air had a cloying stillness to it; a lack of movement that caused her sweat to cling to her bare skin. There was no relief from the pain, from the isolation, from the feeling that she had lost all control over her life.

Face down, she twisted her body and felt the sharp pull of the weights on her nipples and clitoris. Speck's rigger had suspended them using a string fashioned into a tiny lasso. She closed her eyes trying to take her mind to another place. It was no use; all she could think about was the pain to come.

This excruciating agony was only a taste of the punishment he had decreed for the offense of turning her face away. It was an act so small, so insignificant she had been dumbfounded at his reaction. He wanted to use her mouth and she had demurred. "The offense," he said, "was rebellion." She had dared to put her will above his. It was absurdly unfair, yet her she was, suffering.

She pulled frantically on the chains that held her outstretched...unfair!

When he lowered the hand, all of her weight would be on her limbs. She twisted again and felt the hand's cold steel. It held her in its open palm like an insect; her weight-laded breasts hanging down between its giant fingers and her pussy hanging over the end.

Speck was obsessed. She had been with other dominant men, but he went far beyond domination--he wanted total control, absolute obedience, and he had no limits when it came to his Erotics. It was a kind of game, a diversion from the terrible responsibility of Daemon leadership. Her feelings were irrelevant; her pain was of no consequence. She was a pet he enjoyed playing with, a pet whose feelings he ignored.

She understood the concept--no one worried that they might hurt their pet's feelings or that their dog might hold a grudge. It was the same for an Erotic.

She extended her lower lip and tried to blow off the beads of sweat that had collected.

The hand was ingenious when you considered its purpose, she thought. He would enter the room and move silently, invisibly in the darkness to a foot pedal. Without any warning, the hand would begin to descend, leaving her suspended by the quartering poles.

She imagined it in her mind, replaying the panic she had felt in the past. The action reminded her of advertisements she had seen for room fresheners--where a giant's hand opens slowly to release a butterfly into a field of flowers. Only this time, the hand would release the butterfly into a field of unending pain.

She pulled on her arms again and felt the inescapable grip of the suspension cuffs on her wrists. These cuffs and those on her ankles would stretch her in four directions, quarter her. Of course the cuffs didn't really pull, it was the weight of her body and the gravity of this fucking planet, that...

She shook her head tossing off drops of sweat. She would suffer for him--to fine-tune her obedience, to squeeze out another ounce of sexual passion, to remind her of his total control. At least this time she was suffering for a reason, an unfair reason for sure, but still, a reason. Sometimes he hurt her for his own pleasure just because she could.

He was a monster and she feared and despised him.

"FUCK...!" she moaned miserably, tossing the idea around in her head.

Yes, she did fear and hate him, but those were only two of the hundred feelings she had for him. There were no words to describe adequately her feelings for him. For better or worse, he was the center of her existence now; he defined her. He was her life now.

She could not relate to her past existence; she remembered it, but no longer understood it. Yes, she had been a stripper in St. Petersburg, and yes, she had been on her way to becoming the mistress of a mine manager, and yes, Daemon pirates had taken her as an Erotic, but none of that background was relevant anymore. All that mattered now was Speck, the steel hand under her torso, and the quartering poles.

He wouldn't be satisfied with just quartering pain of course. The quartering would promote secretions that would naturally lubricate every hole in her body. He would find them in the darkness and insert his probe. If her body responded appropriately, he would use her wet tightness to advance his climax. If not, his cane would drive her to a kind of frantic madness. By the time he got to her asshole, she would be a shuddering mass of flesh, desperate to flush out his precious cum. She knew the scenario well; she had been here before.

She lifted her head. The rigger had added an interesting innovation this time. It was a metal rod wrapped in leather. He had maneuvered it into her mouth then clamped its ends to her outstretched arms, to her biceps. She could use it to rest her head while she waited, but she knew its primary purpose was not to support her head. When Speck wanted to use her mouth and throat, all he needed to do was to force the rod under her jaw. There would be no way to lower her head and the path to her throat would be straight and open.

She bit down on the leather in frustration. There were no limits to what Speck would...

A puff of air wafted across her wet skin moving the cilia on her back. Someone was in the room; every muscle in her body tightened into a hard knot. It was time...Speck's time. She could feel her labia begin to twitch. He was close, she knew it; her sexual parts could sense the heat of his presence. The air flowing over her bare skin was still pulsating with his heartbeat.

She felt a slight pull on one of her ankles then a wrist. Suddenly, she realized the hand was lowering. In seconds, it was evident as the chains holding her cuffs grew taut then tight as bowstrings. She could feel the pain starting in the muscles and joints of her arms. Soon it would be in her legs then in every joint in her body. Every tendon, ligament, and muscle would be screaming for relief. She moaned piteously with the thought of it.

His hands were suddenly on her head pushing it up and back then pulling it forward until her chin was over the bar. There was a hesitation, a distraction in his touch, she thought. Strange, a single touch and she knew exactly what he was feeling, almost what he was thinking. They were like animals--no verbalization, no explanation necessary.

What made them so close, she wondered, as his cock's head kissed her lips? She opened her lips and wrapped them tight around the head, half sucking, half kissing a loving greeting. After a time, she opened her mouth fully and beckoned him inside with her darting tongue.

He hesitated again and she blinked invisibly in the darkness.

Hesitation was not part of their dance. Typically, he would burst through her portals like an aggressive storm trooper, immediately establishing his dominance. Instead, he was hesitating, politely lingering outside the door. She flicked out again with her tongue and sucked harder with her lips...panicked.

He...she expected passion; she was used to his uncompromising and merciless domination. What was going on here? He tentatively stepped over the threshold of her lips with his cock. Normally, by this point, he would be warming her ass with his crop, finding the insides of her thighs by the sound of her pain. He always started with warm-up pain whether the goal was pleasure or punishment. Something was very wrong today.

She ignored the quartering pain in her joints, the pull of the weights on her tits; she had to do something, she had to... Without thinking, she scraped her teeth hard over the surface of his erect penis.

He pulled back, shocked and surprised. Suddenly a crop was slashing the sides of her ass cheeks, its flicking tips striking the skin between her legs. His hand grabbed her hair and pulled back hard. Suddenly, his cock was inside her mouth, challenging her, daring her to offend him again. She leaned forward, ignoring the pain of the hair pull, and swallowed him, her throat closing on his member, her tongue flicking out to lick his balls.

She flexed her neck muscles to swallow him more deeply. Suddenly, he illuminated the spotlight over her body. She twisted violently in the suspension giving him the full visual and tactile evidence of her complete submission. Suddenly, the old Speck was back; hurting her, fucking her, driving her to impossible depths of mind-bending agony and dizzying heights of orgasmic ecstasy.

This was extreme fucking at its best. It terrified and terrorized her; it enthralled and enslaved her; it addicted her. Would she stop if she could, she wondered as her sphincter tightened hard on his thrusting penis? Would she walk away if he allowed it, take up with some wealthy businessman, with some powerful apparatchik who worshiped her hard body?

She felt the crop on the side of her tits, on her weighted nipples and screamed into the darkness, her irreverent and totally irrelevant question forgotten and unanswered.