Note: This story was dynamically reformatted for online reading convenience.
 
 ======================

   Rebel Star (extracts)

   ======================= ---------------------

   by Jean-Michel Maserati

   --------------------- Warning ====== Just to make it perfectly clear up
front.  This tale contains explicit sex scenes; if you find such
descriptions offensive, I suggest you leave the site now.  Also, if for any
reason whatsoever you should not be permitted access to this material (for
example, due to your age and/or the laws of the area where you either live
or are currently staying) then you should quit now.  I can and will take no
responsibility for any consequences if you don't.

   ------------------------------------------------

   ------- Synopsis ------- Background: during his deportation to a penal
colony, computer criminal Lucas has planned a one-man mutiny and
has taken over the transport ship by assuming control of its mainframe

(and thereby the cut-throat human crew, who have neural implants linked to
the mainframe to ensure they behave).  Hounded by the Imperial fleet, Lucas
has had no choice but to turn to piracy to survive and at one point his
crew capture a small space cruiser, thereby unwittingly creating a major
political incident.  It turns out that his hostages include some of the
royal heirs and other high rankers, all cadets returning from their
military training school.  He successfully held the court to ransom for the
return of their sons, but when the same was attempted for the females, the
negotiators double-crossed the pirates and simply attempted to blow the
starship away.  Now they are on the run again, this time saddled with the
High Princess and several other noblewomen from her entourage

   Scene 1 - My tricky situation is explained (no sex) Scene 2 - In which
the fate of the assistants is determined (MF, NC) Scene 3 - Louisa joins
the crew and faces her tormentors (viol) Scene 4 - Having run out of
options, the Princess loses her virginity (MF, 1st)

   I wasn't really sure what name to use for the chunks of text.  When
you're writing or reworking material for Internet presentation, the
elements come out naturally as a block much larger than a single page (in
either meaning - a screenful or an A4), yet nowhere near as big as a
chapter in a traditional book.  So I had to filch another term from
somewhere...

   ----------------------------------------- Scene 1 - My tricky situation
is explained -----------------------------------------

   My mind was on other things when she came up onto the bridge.  All in
all, our already desperate position was becoming increasingly complex and
ever more precarious.  To put it mildly, I was not very happy with
progress...

   Problem number one was simply the ongoing and unrelenting necessity of
escape and evasion.  For not only were there Imperial forces out to get us,
but the price the Emperor's propagandists had put on my head - dead or
alive - undoubtedly meant that every bandit and outlaw in the sector had a
weather eye open for us.

   Second bugbear: how to get rid of two categories of crew members.  Those
whom I classed as untrustworthy and those who came over merely as plain
incompetent.  The first group posed no threat while they were on board the
ship and under delimiting MC from their implants: the ship's mainframe
would for example always be configured to act out of self-preservation if
anything that smacked of sabotage was about to occur.  Direct stimulation
of the brain's pain centres would leave the perpetrator too racked by agony
to carry out his actions.  Similarly, my ship's positronic cerebellum - the
AI module - had been instructed to protect me from any insurrection by
similar means.  But no loyalty beyond that was assured.  The latter group,
the incompetents, were simply useless to me - even mind control delimiters
can't do anything about insufficient training, intelligence and experience.
And where in God's name was I to find replacements even if I could oust
them without facing rebellion from the rest?

   That led indirectly on to quandary number three: what to do with the
remaining hostages.  My hope was still that they might be persuaded to come
over and join us, for (God knows) I certainly could use their skills on
board.  There was no realistic alternative for them - their own kin didn't
want them back now: the families had surely been party to the attempt to
wipe them out with the ship.  And since the Empire didn't want news of my
exploits to reach the public domain, bulletins had been issued declaring
them dead.  And if they wouldn't switch sides?  They were undoubtedly worth
something on the slave market, but that would only realize a tiny fraction
of their one-time personal assets, let alone what their ransoms should have
been.

   Fourthly, I had to think up the ruses we would need to pirate supplies
from the Empire without being captured.

   But the most urgent dilemma of all was managing a bloody great
rustbucket of an ageing starship that was in dire need of maintenance and
repair, with only extremely limited resources at my disposal.  Critically,
after the losses during the recent fighting, we were down to about one
third of a full complement of staff, and most of those were the dregs of
the spaceports.  Well, what would you expect from a prison transport
vessel? Once upon a time, this ship might have been a fantasy of
ruthlessness and power and precision, but eighty years later it was a
battered hulk held together by parts and patches of provenance every bit as
dubious as the cut-throats who had run it.  My one-man mutiny and takeover
had undoubtedly made the headlines in nearly every world of humanity, the
romantic imagery of honourable thieves and rugged highwaymen.  But the
reality of it remained that there was little chance we could survive if we
came across any modern Imperial military vessels; we had to run and keep
running.  We were still almost as fast as any other craft (a warp drive is
a warp drive is a warp drive after all, and their design has barely changed
in centuries) and being full of convicts being exiled and deported to the
prison planets meant that the ship was pretty well-armed as well.  Both for
keeping order internally and to prevent externally assisted escapes. 
Nevertheless, a battlecruiser or a modern starship would soon end our
chances.  Robin Hood felled by an arrow, Dick Turpin strung up from the
gibbet.

   So, when the door to the bridge hissed open behind me, I barely noticed
the familiar sound and certainly didn't bother to turn round.  What caught
my attention was the sudden silence from the officers around me: gone were
the usual low hum of voices muttering into communicators, the clicking and
tapping of buttons being pressed and the rustlings and squeakings of
leather and material as uniforms moved against chairs and desks.  A single
set of light footsteps on the raised gangway echoed through the room.  I
swivelled round in the captain's console and was surprised to see a slim
female figure in lieutenant's uniform coming round to take up position at
the vacant navigation console.  There were no female officers on the ship,
and furthermore we had no navigator on the crew - I had been doing my best
to double up on that role ever since the High Princess Louisa had
implicated the previous incumbent in the double-cross which had almost cost
us all dearly during the hostage negotiations.  The woman was tall and
slender, somehow making the rather butch unisex uniform look very feminine.
Practical black ankle-boots with white socks underneath just showing, black
and grey toned combat trousers down to just below the knee, white blouse
and black leather waistcoat.  Blue and gold scarf in the neck, signifying
her citizenship status and matching the colours used for the lieutenant's
epaulettes and other rank markings.  And a black leather cap hiding her
hair - no loose clothing and the like was permitted on the bridge,
according to rules, so that nothing could get caught up during sudden
manoeuvres or zero-gravity conditions if we lost spin.  I couldn't see her
face, but I didn't need to - I had come to know it well during the last
weeks:
haughty and patrician, beautifully and delicately chiselled with a long

nose and slightly pointed chin, wide mouth with red lips and white teeth,
and large startlingly blue eyes.  I had identified her quickly enough
despite her long blonde hair being hidden, even without seeing her face:
she moved with with a long-limbed gracefulness and elegance which was
unmistakeable, whether carrying a tray from the canteen bar to a table or
practising her martial arts moves in slow motion with her usual poised
balance and deadly accuracy.  This was the High Princess herself.

   "Reporting for duty, Sir," she said simply.  The shocked silence
continued.  Deepened even.  Around her were eleven rowdy and hardened
spacemen, stunned by this turn of events.  I had kept them informed and
appraised of my discussions with the captives, so they knew that my
intention was to pressgang them into service.  But none had ever believed
it would actually happen, even after the treacherous attempt to blow us out
of the sky along with the last of our kidnapped prizes.  For myself, once
it was clear that ransoms were only going to be paid for the male
prisoners, switching sides to save their own skins had seemed about the
only option open to the nineteen remaining hostages.  These women had no
home to go back to either.

   ---------------------------------------------------------- Scene 2 - in
which the fate of the assistants is determined
----------------------------------------------------------

   The twelve lower-ranked women - personal assistants, teachers,
chaperones and secretaries had already been assimilated into the crew. 
That was different, however; they had ultimately been given unwavering and
uncompromising orders from their young mistresses to cooperate.  The girls
weren't stupid and could see perfectly well that they were safer with me
running the show.  And I needed the dozen extra head-count on my staff,
partly because there were plenty of unskilled semi-technical jobs they
could perform and partly due to the fact that I'd have had a mutiny on my
hands.  Delimiter implants or no, there would have been trouble for me if
the hundred or so thugs now under my command didn't have access to the
women on board.

   On the prison ship's voyages, the spacemen's main entertainment and
virtually the only perk of a tedious and underpaid trip had been derived
from the fact that the owners turned a blind eye to the abuse of the female
transportees.  As long as they were still fit to be sold off as workers,
slaves or prositutes when the ship reached the penal colonies, nobody in
the corporation cared what transpired in transit.  I never lived in an
ivory tower while I was on Earth, like so many good citizens of the empire:
I'm a conscientious student of human nature, I know what makes people tick
and how much unpleasantness sometimes resides under the surface.  Not that
it prepared me for what happened on the first couple of weeks of that
voyage...

   The moment the Guardsmen had left after escorting us out of Earth's
territorial space, the women had become fair game.  We were all lined up in
the hold and the names of the female prisoners were called out.  Perhaps
ten to fifteen per cent of the total of close on two thousand deportees. 
One by one they were called up onto a low podium by the bulkhead, from
where all the events were being recorded by a couple of audio-video drones
and projected up onto the high bulkhead wall above.  There they were made
to strip naked; only the first one or two dared refuse - after that it was
patently obvious that there were plenty of warders eager and ready to do
the job, with or without a few zaps of the neural whips as a most painful
reminder.  The younger and prettier ones were segregated off and given a
bright yellow armband to wear.  About half the remainder received a green
one.  I don't think many of the inmates can have expected what followed. 
It certainly frightened me, driving home how little we mattered and how
totally we were in the power of these slavers.  An older man was also
called up.  The first mate told us that according to his records, this man
had a heart condition giving him not more than three years to live, which
meant that it would cost more to feed and transport him than the company
would get at their destination.  "This is also, incidentally," he said to
the mass of prisoners, "what happens when people break the rules." He
turned the zapper up to full, casually pointed it at the grey-haired man's
chest and fired.  Five seconds later the old guy was dead.  The captain
gestured that the body should be carried away, and then went over to the
group of naked women wearing the yellow armbands.  Wordlessly, he selected
a petite honey-blonde girl with large breasts and shaved pubic hair and led
her to the middle of the rostrum floor.  Almost exactly the spot where the
execution had taken place.  She was made to lie down on her back and spread
herself; there were one or two whistles and cat-calls from the inmates as
the pre-programmed drones zoomed in on the view and a shot of her pussy
suddenly filled the twelve-meter square wall projection.  But not many:
like the killing a minute earlier, the act of violation was designed to
shock and scare us rather than provide pornographic titillation.  The
captain himself raped her first, followed by his senior commanders.  Not a
word was spoken until they were finished, after which the captain explained
what he termed the 'house rules'.  The instructions were simple: the
yellows were reserved for the use of the officers and the captain, the
greens were also designated for the crew and the warders, and the rest had
to fend for themselves for six weeks against not only the ship's management
and personnel but also their fellow inmates.  Other than where restricted
by the armbands, the guards and crew could in their off-duty hours do as
they chose with any prisoner.  Male or female, singly or in groups,
privately or in public on the podium in the cargo hold.  As long as the
final resale value wasn't affected, no-one cared.

   So, given the crewmen's expectations and attitudes, it had taken a lot
of hard arguing and negotiation to come to any arrangement at all.  During
the talking I found myself as intermediary, with the noble ladies on one
side and the ship's officers on the other.  The former tried at first to
stand up for their lower-ranked women (but don't forget that rank was
relative, of course: those were court employees who had themselves all been
far higher in the hierarchy than the mere grunts and teckies who crewed a
civilian starship).  Whereas the latter would naturally have loved to be
let loose on the highborns and violate them as well as their servants.  The
risk was quite clearly that if I took no steps to control and manage the
women's sexual favours, it might degenerate into violence with even less
desirable outcomes.  We finally ended up with a rota system, in which each
of the twelve would accept one man each night, consensually in private and
with no violence and no harrassment outside of the agreement.  The key to
getting the officers to accept it was an additional rule that the junior
officers would come up on the rota twice as often as normal crew, and the
seniors three times.  I personally was reluctant to share women with the
barbarians who crewed my ship, not wanting to have my lack of expertise in
violent rape compared with theirs (or my reluctance exposed, more to the
point).  Nor, despite our medical facilities on board, did I fancy risking
any esoteric social diseases coming my way.  The crew unfortunately
immediately decided that my non-participation meant I was homosexual and
the lack of respect in which they held me began to plumb new depths; to my
surprise the High Princess herself brought that up in one of our one-on-one
discussions, along with a solution.  "Droit de seigneur", she called it.  I
placed myself on the top of each woman's rota for the first couple of days
and nights, and after that they went into general service.  It made little
difference to the crew in fact, I think they were surprised I wasn't nearly
as autocratic in my demands as their former captain would have been and the
unfortunate women themselves were if anything relieved to have their new
role broken in relatively gently.

   That meant that for the best part of a month as we fled the pursuing
navies, I was in the unaccustomed position of having a different highly
attractive woman in my bed every other night.  Any and all of them far
superior specimens both in manners and looks, intelligence and cultural
knowledge to any of the half a dozen citizens who had been contracted to me
in the past.  I mean, I had been a well-paid professional scientist in a
big-name industrial corporation and so I had done allright; None of my
partners were ever ugly - I knew well enough what a pretty girl looked like
in the nude and how to keep her happy.  But these women had been courtesans
for the nobility and highborns, selected not only for the necessary social
skills and training, but also at least partly for their looks in the
expectation that the youngs dukes and princes might avail themselves of
their services; on the part of the women in question, the hope was
presumably that they might be rewarded with a brief marriage contract from
one of the young lords, or possibly even a permit to bear a child.  It was
a revelation for me: a succession of desirable females, the stuff wet
dreams had been the made of in the past, appearing in my quarters for sex
like some cheap hooker ordered up from the seedy districts.  And I didn't
even have to spend ages chatting them up and being nice to them.  It was
simple and unfettered and businesslike.  Well, after the first one anyway.
I was quite nervous as I led her off from the bar to my quarters.  A couple
of the crew, don't ask me who, whistled and jeered and called out after
her. "Give her one from me too." A wolf-whistle.  "Teach the snooty bitch a
lesson." Obscene gestures.  And so forth.  Her name was Olivia, I had
learned, and she was a dance instructor.  A voluptuous redhead who was
absolutely terrified of me and clearly expected some kind of savage
mishandling.  But I don't get off on that kind of thing.  Anyway, this was
the first time I'd gotten laid in six months and she was easily the sexiest
woman I'd ever been with.  I wasn't interested in hurting her, just giving
her a good rogering.  So once we were safe in the privacy of my quarters, I
politely asked her to strip for me, barely able to believe my good fortune
when she did just that.  Not that there was any desire or lust or sexuality
in it: just a clinical exposure of pale soft skin, a splendid firm-breasted
figure, a neatly trimmed auburn triangle at her crotch and a
gynaecologically emotionless display of her genitalia.  Once I could
finally tear my eyes off the lovely torso laid out before me spreadeagled
on my bed, it took just one look in the woman's tearful green eyes so see
how petrified she was.  I threw her a house-coat, poured us each a scotch,
and sat down next to her with an arm round her shoulders.  I let her put on
a comedy show for half an hour, at the end of which she gave me an
uncertain but genuine smile and then an experimental kiss, before
permitting the white dressing-gown to slide sensually from her shoulders
and happily letting me take her as I pleased.  All went well after that. 
Olivia presumably passed the word on to the others that there was nothing
nasty to fear.  They would even end up sometimes pleading to be allowed to
stay on with me, instead of being passed on to the pirate crew.  I confess
that it was with some regret that I saw the last of them leave my bedroom
three or four weeks later.

   ------------------------------------------------------- Scene 3 - Louisa
joins the crew and faces her tormentors
-------------------------------------------------------

   The seven young ladies of the nobility were more of a problem.  They had
been absoutely devastated by the discovery that their nearest and dearest
had been quite prepared to have them killed when the politics deemed it
necessary.  In other words, as long as I could be taken out too, the Empire
would have been quite happy (and would naturally have found a way to blame
the déb cle on some other grouup).  Indeed, as far as the news-reading
public was concerned, that was exactly what had happened.  We no longer
officially existed.  So these six duchesses and ladies and princesses or
whatever they happened to be were no longer of value as ransomable
hostages, any more than the High Princess herself whom they all saw as
their natural leader.  Where she went, they would follow since they had no
other options.

   They were however not in a bargaining position of total weakness, since
these seemingly defenceless teenagers were of course the result of many
generations of controlled and selective partner choice programs.  Much more
than just pretty faces.  They were intelligent young women with military
and scientific and martial arts training, a couple of them well able to
pilot the shuttle and fighter craft, another with well developed medical
skills, another who had studied communications, an exobiologist...  the
list went on.  The High Princess herself had not been spared (indeed, it
had been at her own insistence according to the news coverage at the time)
and had in theory at least the knowledge to fill the posts of navigator or
science officer on a starship like this one.  The women would probably
actually be glad of something worthwhile to do after a couple of months of
incarceration.  So, I needed them as crew and was obviously not going to
flog off potential valued junior officers as slaves on my next landfall. 
Conversely, if they stayed aboard, they would need protection from the same
fate as had met their sidekicks, The stumbling blocks had been more in the
details than the basic principle: the High Princess herself was emotionally
far more suited to the way of life that was on offer than the previous
régime, which it had transpired she hated thoroughly for its misogyny and
inequality and the "gilded cage" approach: she had thrived in the
competitive environment of the military academy and would far rather have
taken on a career there than assumed the political figurehead role which
was being planned for her as the new wife of the Imperial president's son,
whom she also hated personally.  She had however been adamant that she
should be my second-in-command, which the current officers had trouble
with. And I had insisted upon delimiter implants for all of them, the
threat of pain thereby being used to enforce loyalty.  The officers also
clearly regarded the young women's bodies as a resource to be included in
the discussions; such implants could naturally also be used to demand
obedience on that front.  The girls weren't impressed by that prospect;
equally, they were well aware of the effect there would be on the local
outlaw pirate ships of any rumours that I was travelling around with seven
virgin princesses...  like flies to shit, as my chief engineer Mr.  Hall
had put it.  More than once it was pointed out that the men could have
raped them at any number of points so far, and I had held them back.  At
least the girls saw that they owed me for that.  So, if they were going to
be the ones running my ship when I wasn't about, then they were going to
have to put a better offer on the table.

   Sex was their only other bargaining chip and both sides knew it. 
Jackson and Gall, the two ringleaders among the officers, kept bringing it
up either directly or with insinuations and innuendoes.  The noblewomen
pretended to be scandalized, but in their heart of hearts they must have
known that they were all but defenceless.  Once the newscasts had declared
them dead and my ship destroyed, the incentive for the kidnappers to treat
them well was removed.  They had no real counter-arguments other than the
fact that they couldn't expect the men to respect them and take orders
during the on-shift hours if they could take their revenge by (as Gall had
phrased it on one memorable occasion) screwing them silly on the pool-table
in the evenings.  There was some talk of reserving their services for
'guests' during bargaining for the food and fuel, keeping them virgins to
sell later on a planet where that was highly valued, letting them be the
prizes for conspicuous bravery during the upcoming fighting and the like...
but these points were all flawed.  Where could we sell them?  What guests
would we have?  And who were better pilots and fighters than the girls
themselves?

   The solution emerged by mutual consent when I left the young ladies
separately to talk among themselves with none of the officers present.  I
left the table at one point to order up a meal for us all and when I came
back there was an argument going on, heated enough that they continued it
despite my return.  My heart began to race as various points were made:

   - That they were to stay sexually inactive was not a tenable
proposition. With some reluctance, they agreed that sooner or later, as
grown women in a harsh outlaw environment, that would change.  - That they
ought in that case in the short term all to embark upon at least one
relationship, to be publicly acknowledged in order to reduce temptation for
rapists who would regard their virginity as a bonus.  - That they wanted to
choose the ground rules themselves, the 'who' and the 'how': that Jackson
or Gall or Lee or any of the other officers should have the honour was not
acceptable.  That left random juniors, or the captain.  Those
aforementioned bastards would object to losing their authority and their
chance at the girls.  They in their turn were quite happy to deal with any
recalcitrance - positively eager, given an opportunity.

   It meant that the new captain was the obvious bet, even though he had
already had the pleasure of taking and discarding all their assistants. 
And anyway, he had misused his position of authority and placed himself at
the top of all those rotas, so they could presume that he'd do the same for
them.  So, whatever else was to happen, they had to face the fact that at
some point he was going to rape them all.  At this point they all seemed to
be uncomfortably aware of my presence again: seven pairs of wide eyes
stared at me, looking at me in a new light.  Not as their captor, not as
the chief bad guy, not as the man with the power and not even as their
protector who could control the crew, but as the best of a bad bunch of
potential mates.  Not what they had been brought up to expect - a rich
princeling, one of the military top brass, a powerful politician, top
sports and media figures - but a physically unprepossessing and basically
insignificant researcher of no breeding and no rank.  However, if this was
their logic I was certainly not going to deny it.  I shrugged my shoulders
non-committally and did my best to produce an enigmatic smile.  One by one
they slowly looked away and the discussion continued..

   In which case, the short-term relationships were all with the same lucky
fellow, unless any of the girls had an alternate preference?  Would I take
them all on?  And would I guarantee that any of them who submitted
voluntarily to me would be safe from unwelcome interference by others? 
From their point of view it was probably a good deal, the best they could
practically hope for.  Only one man to put up with between the seven of
them, which was not exactly arduous compared with the alternatives.  The
stories would make good popular press when it got out - making the
authorities look stupid when it was revealed we were still alive, making
the girls look normal and human and giving me some kind of status in the
public eye that went far beyond a simple renegade (Christ, I'd have
regarded someone as Casanova and Superman rolled into one who had a little
harem of highborns including the High Princess).  They were busy playing
the oldest trick in the book on me: I was perfectly aware that they were
making me think with my dick instead of my head - or at least with that
part of my anatomy as well - but I went into it with my eyes open, aware of
the risks and the undoubted benefits.  It was a stunningly good deal for
me! I listened for another minute or so, standing in the doorway, and then
turned to go.  From that moment on there was never any questioning of the
fact that they were all going to be mine.

   So finally the deal was on the table - all the seven of them had to do
was accept my authority as captain and sign up on the dotted line as crew.
They'd have no rights due to high birth or rank, since no legal authorities
would accept them any more.  And there would be delimiter implants in their
brains.  In return, I'd protect them, treat them as my own highly valued
property and under no circumstances lease their services out to the crew or
sell them on to slavers.  They would outrank other crew, have full freedom
of action and association and study rights, within compatibility with my
commands.

   The appearance of the High Princess on the bridge in full uniform
clearly meant that it was a done deal.  I couldn't believe my luck.  In
fact, I got on extremely well with the High Princess.  Similar mindset,
similar tastes, similar outlook on life.  We had each turned out to our
mutual surprise to be the one other player who was the only worthwhile
opponent at a number of the computer-based games available on ship. 
Indeed, in the course of that month of desperate flight and evasion, we had
become quite close in some ways.  I probably talked to her about two hours
of the day on average.  There was a formal daily session with the captives
and quite often she would deign to join me at the captain's table for
dinner in the evening and even occasionally at the bar or the recreation
area which had been set aside for officers' use.  You soon forgot she was
only just eighteen - her manners and deportment were far more mature than
that, as was the case for all the others too.  In the same way, the
delicate perfection of her blonde-bombshell beauty rapidly became just one
more fact among many facets to the young woman.  Because she began as my
opponent in the businesslike setting of the hostage negotiations, only
slowly progressing to friendship, I was probably unlike the rest of my men
in that I had never considered that we could forcibly have sex with her. 
She was just too unattainable, too unapproachable, too other-worldly in her
grace and elegance.  It was just too impossible, though there were times
after some of our discussions that I will admit that whichever assistant
was in my bed that night got particularly vigorous treatment as I let off
steam.  Like the time she had said almost wistfully after several drinks
that I was the nicest man she'd ever met, because I talked to her like a
person instead of a potential trophy...  'had we be born differently, who
knows?' She had actually said something along those lines.  Or the time she
had told me what the President's son intended for her after the marriage
that would unite the political and royalist dynasties within the Empire:
after the formal celebration there would be a meal for him and his cronies,
at which she would be the centerpiece, tied up naked to the table for first
him and then all the others to take turns at.  Or one of her uncles who had
been attempting to get his hands on her for the past five years; he had
offered to buy her contract back off the son after a year.  Later I learned
that she was like many of her higher rank, in that her outlook on life in
general and inter-personal relations in particular (especially the
sexually-based ones) was more than a little jaded.

   So I was knocked more than a little from my "à propos" by her unheralded
arrival.  "Welcome on board, lieutenant," was all I could manage to say at
first.  That was the first time I had ever addressed her without an
honorific 'Your Highness' and the lack of it would have been noted by
everyone present.  I was as surprised as anyone else when she logged on to
the mainframe from the navicon and began improving the seat-of-the-pants
course of evasive manoeuvres I had programmed in.  "Once we had met your
terms and conditions, Sir," she explained, "the AI module was quite happy
to issue me with passwords and authorizations commensurate with the
navigator and science officer roles you had outlined in our agreement." A
lengthy pause.  "Permission to continue, Sir?" I nodded and swivelled back
to face the laptop screen in front of me, trying to act as if it were the
most normal thing in the world.

   But some of the others were having none of it: the proverbial straw that
broke the camel's back.  The first mate finally intervened.  "You're not
telling me she's getting my job?  And without any implants?  You've flipped
your lid." A long pause before he added a menacing, "Sir." Then the weapons
officer began to bluster in support of his direct superior.  I cut him off;
like his boss he was only acting in the role temporarily because I had
nobody else who equalled even his meagre fifty per cent of the
qualifications.  As all were perfectly well aware.  Jackson refused to
accept either my assurances or the computer records which to my relief
showed she had been implanted with her own consent four hours earlier. 
This situation had the potential to go extremely pear-shaped, and I was
almost at the point of having to take physical control by use of the
mindbenders when the subject of the argument herself decided to clear the
matter.  "Very well," she said coldly, walking to the middle of the lowered
floor section.  "Eunice," (the handle used for the mainframe's AI module)
"give Mr.  Jackson full implant control by voice for the next two minutes
over Lieutenant Tamara".  I struggled for a moment before picking up that
she was using a feminine form of her family's dynastic appelation Tamar as
her surname - she was so far up the hierarchy in the Empire that she didn't
even have a normal surname.  People began moving aside.  It was a brave
move on the girl's part, for once Jackson realized what she had meant, he
wasted no time at all in setting threshhold levels to six and seven. 
Sufficient to have anyone writhing on the floor in agony.  "She could be
faking it," someone finally opined.  "Soon see about that," said the hard
man with a grimace.  "Level eight on disobedience.  Girl, you're going to
undo your blouse and jacket and show us your tits.  A High Princess sure
won't do that." All laughed, some nervously and some in anticipation.  "Too
right I won't," she said, and almost immediately was doubled up on the
floor in a contorted agony which I for one was sure couldn't have been
faked.  After a few seconds, she finally said, "Very well," holding a hand
up in front of herself as much as if to help ward off a painful blow as to
aid her balance.  When she stood, panting breathlessly, she reluctantly
unbuttoned the smooth matt black waistcoat.  Her hands then moved to the
blouse, at which Jackson now laughed harshly.  "Should have obeyed straight
away." The 'Your Highness' which followed was distorted to a barely
comprehensible sneer.  "The price is going up, girlie.  I want pussy on
parade now.  Level nine on disobedience.  I want your pants down, and you
on your back with your legs apart." That was beyond the pale; I stood up to
intervene but despite her tight-lipped fury she waved me back, apparently
believing the degradation to be necessary to convince the onlookers.  She
unbuckled her trousers slowly but surely, then unbuttoned and unzipped them
at the front before lowering them to below her knees to reveal long slender
legs and plain white knickers; tears of rage were rolling down her cheeks
at the humiliation of this - by my reckoning, she was already more
undressed than she had ever been in her life before in the presence of a
man.  And not just one man.  It was a dozen or so low-lifes who saw her
beauty and perfection as no more than a plaything, something to be used up
and consumed for their pleasure.  "Get on with it," growled Jackson as a
warning, "level five continuous on inaction, eh?" She was playing for time,
I realized...  how long could two minutes possibly be?  Grimacing and with
muscles contracting in spasms every time the implant's sensors decided she
was dawdling, the tall woman squatted down on the cold metal deck, placed
her hands behind her to sit down, and then lay back slowly on the steel
plates before obeying Jackson's last badly-worded instruction to the
letter. Clever.  Deliberately interpreting the word 'pants' in Jackson's
order to mean only the trousers.  She shut her tear-filled eyes and parted
her legs as he had demanded.  The men ogled her in delight at first,
drinking in the sight of the pretty young woman lying on the deck with her
knees akimbo to afford them an unfettered view of the flimsy panties
covering her crotch.  They stared uncomprehendingly as she made no move to
divest herself of the last modesty-protecting garment.  Jacko seethed
suddenly, twigging what she'd done.  "Level nine!" he yelled.  "You'll
regret this you little bitch.  When a man tells you to show your snatch, he
expects a ringside seat at the first public airing of your fanny." She was
curled up in a foetal ball, every nerve and sinew cramped up, probably
unaware of her surroundings and unable to concentrate on anything but the
agony filling her head.  He jumped at her, clearly about to rip her clothes
away, egged on by the rest.  "Let's see if the collar matches the cuffs,
shall we Blondie?" But then the two minutes were up: suddenly she sprang up
and whirled away, crashing into the railings in a daze.

   "Permission to defend myself, Sir?" She looked at me, desperation in the
big pale blue eyes.  She was visibly trying to regain control, make the
contorted and strained muscles obey her will again.  Her face was a
bloodless white of rage, her teeth clenches and fists balled.  "No
authorization needed for that, lieutenant," I told her, before adding what
she wanted to hear.  "I think we are now all clear about the implants.  I
would recommend that all those who you thought were too prejudiced in their
treatment of you be taught a lesson." I had seen her practising her karate
and judo; for me, the outcome was never in doubt.  Two minutes later
Jackson was an unconscious bloodied wreck, and his four main associates
were in little better condition.  Time to clear up and sort this mess out.

   "Right, the day shift is over," I said, noting that it was indeed just
past eighteen hundred hours.  "Nguyen and Asanov, clear the bridge and get
the injured men to sick bay.  I shall take the evening shift along with...
Tamara here" (one way of keeping her out of more trouble, I guessed) "...
and we'll go on autopilot for the night unless there are emergencies.  Get
some rest, calm down, and after they're patched up confine Jackson and his
cronies to quarters until further notice.  Now, get out."

   --------------------------------------------------------------------
Scene 4 - having run out of options, the Princess loses her virginity
--------------------------------------------------------------------

   The High Princess thanked me politely for my support when we were alone
on the bridge, seemingly satisfied when I told her I thought she had
handled it well and had probably defused a nasty situation.  "Not a
pleasant experience, Sir," she said coolly, surprising me with her
calmness. But a few seconds later the façade cracked.  She let her emotion
show, spitting out as an afterthought just one venomously laden word:
"Scum".  A single tear rolled down her cheek.  I said nothing.  There was
nothing to add.

   Then she efficiently set about her work.  "Just making the course
corrections and programming in the autopilot for the night ahead, Sir."
There was no need for the title in private, and I told her so; she merely
nodded and said that in that case I should also stop calling her 'Your
Highness' all the time, all the more so since she had by signing up to my
deal renounced her Imperial title anyway.  She was Lieutenant Tamara when
on duty, no more and no less, and Louisa Tamara when not.  "And right now,
Captain, I'm on duty.  It should take about an hour, Sir, to get everything
acceptably in order to leave unattended.  Though our presence here is still
required.  So, Sir, I suggest you arrange for a seriously good dinner to be
sent up and then make use of the bridge's en suite bathroom and relax." I
looked at her, but she was avoiding my gaze.  Her usual cool ice-blue
innocent stare was focussed on the console and the numbers scrolling across
it.  I could see her cheeks were still flushed with tears or perhaps still
embarrassment from the pain and humiliation she'd just undergone.  I raised
an eyebrow.  "Suits me, lieutenant.  Why?" "It's a big moment for me, Sir.
No need to face it sober." I nodded.  "A celebratory meal on the bridge to
welcome a new recruit on her first commission.  Excellent." Or did she mean
more than that?  She did.  "I had assumed, Sir, that you would wish to...
initiate a more intimate relationship...  once I had joined your crew.  So,
unless of course you...  er...  require my services right away...?"
Unbelievable: was she actually offering herself to me?  Why on the bridge
and not in my quarters?

   "Here?" I queried.  "Over and done with.  My decision is made, I do not
wish to have it hanging over me for another day with all and sundry knowing
it.  Nor do I want your men laughing behind my back as I am led off to your
bedroom.  Right here is fine." Barely able to keep my fingers and voice
from trembling, I went back to my console to order a buffet with good wine.
"Thank you," I heard her say softly...

   ...before she switched back to efficient mode and continued.  "Bridge
computer...?  Eunice?  Record all actions on the bridge from now on and
pipe them live to the captain's personal memory store.  And Eunice, after
the meal is delivered, you are to lock the bridge to all comers in anything
less than yellow alert status.  Ambient temperature up three degrees,
lights dimmed and with follow-spots and zoom focussing on all motion. 
Drone recorders to concentrate on flesh tones.  On-line editing, and
continue forwarding the results to my quarters and to the main screen. 
Confirm." "Confirmed," came the sultry female voice, and the programming
was complete.  I was taken aback by the fact that she wanted her
defloration on record.  She hurried to explain.  "I think, Sir, that it
will assist the other six in accepting my decision and my lead if they can
if necessary observe a record of events.  The log will be diverted to your
private storage...  God, I hope I can trust you with this..." She wavered.
"I can imagine it would be worth a lot on the black market." "I don't
require a copy," I told her.  "I'll have something much better.  The memory
of the real thing.  And I very much hope, the real thing many times more."
She took a deep breath and nodded, but didn't rescind the instruction. 
Odd.

   I didn't let it show, but I suddenly realized what her game was.  She
had come up with a method to use my access codes indirectly to get events
on the bridge securely through to her own quarters and nowhere else on the
ship.  No prizes for guessing: in her bedroom, there were undoubtedly six
frightened young women who had just watched one of their number bravely
face down the hated crew, submit to a sadistic torturer and accept the pain
he delivered.  Now after the cathartic release of besting that opponent
physically, she had to face the hardest mental block of all and let me take
her maidenhead.  A man she had known for merely a month, a nobody from
ranks far lower than her own, nearly twice her age and probably barely half
her intelligence.  The ultimate sacrifice.

   "Very well, Captain," she said surprisingly calmly.  "I have the con. 
You take your bath and relax, Sir, and when my technical duties are
complete I give you my word of honour I shall do my best to fulfil the
informal obligations too." She looked me in the eye, then blushed and
averted her stare.  The big forward screen showed her sitting at her
console, head bowed demurely and looking for once very young and fragile.
Then she looked up at the screen, and the drones zoomed in to her perfect
pale-skinned face.  "We'll have aperitifs before dinner here in one hour."

   Then in a small voice: "And after the meal, you can rape me."

   So off I went, taking my time and somehow resisting the urge to wank
myself stupid.  This was completely and utterly unreal.  I bathed, soaking
happily and listening to the blues music I had asked Eunice to put on, and
then spent ages cleaning myself thoroughly.  I put on a black towelling
robe from the closet, rather than dress in formal uniform again.  It was
risqué, but the situation was ridiculous enough anyway...  and for this
particular girl I wasn't going to start tripping myself up over pants and
trousers while frantically undressing.  Nor did I really want minutes of
footage of me wrestling with shoelaces or collar-studs whilst giving the
delectable youngster all too much time in which to change her mind.  As it
turned out, she too had chosen to reduce the level of formality, having
removed her uniform cap to let her stupendous mane of pale blonde hair be
shaken free.  She had also unzippered the trouser legs up the inside and
reattached them to each other in a manner that no male recruit would ever
have thought possible, so that the two baggy flared legs made a single
below-the-knee bell skirt.  Neither had she bothered to do up the black
leather waistcoat again.

   She eyed me up and down which I thought was something I was supposed to
do her rather than the other way round.  Then she said, "Come on over, Sir.
Everything's lovely and very tasty." "Yes, you certainly are," I muttered
under my breath.  She flushed and looked away, clearly having caught my
little aside.  "Sorry about that," I whispered when I got close, sotto voce
so that the drones wouldn't pick it up.  "I suppose I ought to be
flattered, Sir," she replied clearly.  "How do you want to play this?  A
formally polite meal, with formally polite sex afterwards?" Leaving me
thinking about that strange question, tingling with anticipation already,
she went off to pour some of her father's excellent dry white wine and pick
up a selection of seafood bits and pieces.  After raiding the royal yacht,
we were quite well supplied for esoteric nibbles - just unfortunately
rather short of the staple essentials.  When she came back, I whispered,
"No, that's too easy.  No shock value.  I need to persuade the other six to
come over as well.  Voluntarily, remember?" "Oh, so you want them too?" I
could swear she bridled slightly at the idea.  Christ yes, who wouldn't be
interested in the others too?  - but she was unquestionably the pick of the
bunch.  She'd be the pick of any bunch.  "Miss Tamara, I'm sure you're
enough to satisfy any red-blooded male," I countered, making her blush
furiously again.  "But that's not the point.  They're part of the deal -
quite apart from my own desires, the ship needs them.  We need something a
little unexpected to help shock them into cooperating." She was getting
worried.  "Sir...  I thought you were just going to rape me...?" Her tone
of voice made it a question.  The eyes were begging me, but it took a major
effort to make herself say the same thing in words.  "Captain, don't use
that awful delimiter again...  Please.  By the end, I'd have sold my
inheritance to him for sixpence and played the whore for the whole crew
rather than face it again." "No, you twerp.  I want you to try to enjoy
yourself, look as if you're taking some pleasure in it.  Make them see I'm
not an ogre."

   She exhaled thankfully, and then giggled nervously as she poured a glass
of claret for me to go with the chunk of steak I had put on my plate.  "We
know that," she said with some relief.  "The various assistants were quite
complimentary, all things considered.  Unlike the men at court, you respect
and appreciate them, they say.  And you have more delicacy and manners than
the slobs on this rustbucket, who mostly just make them strip and then jump
on and take them." She shrugged.  "You forget, Sir, that my own marriage of
convenience was destined to be every bit as traumatic."

   My response almost caught me by surprise, let alone the teenager
opposite.  I placed my hands on her hips and pulled her close for a kiss.
She stood there looking gobsmacked, glass in one hand and plate in the
other while I kissed her on the lips, the first phsyical contact beyond a
handshake.  She finally shut her eyes and parted those full lips slightly,
but I then let mine move slowly round to her soft warm cheek and then down
to her neck with my hands coming down naturally near her hips.  At that she
stiffened, but she swallowed and made no attempt to move away.  One hand
slid up her back over the blouse but inside the leather waistcoat, pulling
her closer.  The other went down over her firmly muscled backside and
grasped her tight.  No response, so I stood back and picked up my drink. 
She looked unsure of herself, as if wondering why I had stopped.  "I wasn't
resisting, Sir," she said almost apologetically.  Then as if she had to
make it good, "I'll undress for you now, shall I?" I spluttered into my
wine for a moment before recovering.  I put my hands out in front of
myself, palms down in a gesture of conciliation.  "No, Your Highness... 
Miss Tamara...  Not yet.  When you're ready." She shook her head.  "I'm
perfectly prepared to..." I cut her short.  "No you're not.  Mentally you
are, emotionally you're not." She protested.  I looked her in the eye; time
for shock tactics.  "Do you remember Jackson's question?  Tell me, does the
collar match the cuffs?" Her eyes blazed angrily blue for a second at the
personal question as if she were about to slap me in the face.  The point
was made.  "Let's eat," I said.

   We went over to the recessed pit in the middle of the bridge, behind the
captain's console, where there are a couple of black leather sofas arranged
round a low central table.  Next to each other on the shiny squeaky black
couch, we ate and drank slowly and calmly.  I deliberately began a bit of
play with the food, feeding her olives and prawns with my fingers.  She
refused at first, as if she might catch my germs that way or something, and
then cooperated, almost visibly having told herself to do so.  I didn't
instruct her to do the same for me, but after a while she decided that was
presumably what was intended.  She kept steering the conversation towards
the upcoming sexual activity, which as far as I could see was only making
her more tense and anxious about it.  Increasing her hard-nosed
determination of her ego to go through with the act she had given her word
of honour about, yet undermining the willingness of her psyche to perform.
So I in my turn avoided talking about her and we ended up having a weird
discussion about my sexual history.  I sat there with an arm round her
shoulder which she by now barely noticed, thank God: relaxing a little -
describing my contracts back on earth.  Shortly after, I turned to lie on
the couch with my head in her lap while she asked me in detail what I had
thought of the twelve assistants.  We fetched more wine, caviar, strips of
steak, tails of lobster...  and she sat reclined along the sofa with her
calves over my knees, not shuddering or freezing up any more when my hands
gently stroked her long legs through the cottony material of the dark
skirt. She spouted forth her views on the Etiquette rules in relation to
sex and the often strict observance of them in court circles - nothing ever
mentioned in public, all activity going on behind scenes in the dark and
under the bedclothes.  Yet with an undertone of harshness and the feeling
that a girl was not safe from anything if the male involved could get away
with it simply because the scandal could not be afforded.  Such as the
Presidential gang-bang she had been promised on her first night.  She said
that it was not that unusual for even high-ranking women to be raped -
hauled behind a tent at a garden party, abused in ministerial offices,
pinned down with the hoops on the croquet lawn...  all these had happened
to acquaintances of hers.  But, she added very quickly, not to herself or
to her certain knowedge any of the other six on this ship.  A few minutes
later she was the other way round, with her head in my lap, arms stretched
languidly above her playing with strands of her long blonde hair, eating
the salted brazil nuts I was feeding her and licking the saltiness from my
fingers playfully.  All this was beginning to give me a thoroughly eager
erection now, whether she was ready for action or not.  The conversation
had moved on to the male fascination with breasts, something she could not
understand at all.  To her they were just mammary glands, two lumps of
flesh that restricted her movements at times and were sensitive targets
during the martial arts lessons.  There were no real answers to this, so I
did the obvious thing and simply parted the leather material of her
waistcoat; she bit her lip with a small thrill of anticipation, drawing in
a breath and making the objects in question swell up tight under the white
silken blouse.  She was waiting for me to touch her bosom, so I didn't,
choosing instead to unfasten the top button of the blouse and then bend to
kiss her delicately at the bottom of her throat and between the
collar-bones.  Then back up to the mouth, and this time she was a willing
participant in a long and satisfying exploratory kiss.  We came up for air,
the youngster looking mildly surprised at herself, the pupils in her pale
blue eyes now visibly larger with the adrenalin rush.  She nodded after a
moment - perhaps in acknowledgement of the fact that I had been right to
wait, I don't know - and then squirmed round into a position kneeling on
the sofa next to me, before pulling herself down for another kiss, parting
her mouth wide for my tongue and lips to explore hers.  The kiss stopped;
we still said nothing.  First I eased the jacket off her shoulders, she
reached her arms out behind herself and shrugged it to the floor.  I undid
the belt and found the catch of her skirt easily enough.  There was no
opposition.  She stayed kneeling up on the sofa in front of me as I pulled
the skirt down, once again revealing those long legs and the plain white
knickers underneath.  This time it was not a crude and unwelcome exposure -
it was an intensely erotic moment.  I placed one hand round on her buttocks
again, sliding up to a slice of flesh on her back between the waistband of
the panties and some kind of bra or halter underneath the blouse.  My
fingertips lingered at the elastic, and my other hand was at her slightly
protruding hipbone: both of us acutely aware of the fact that one tug at
the flimsy garment would make it follow the skirt down to her knees. 
Breathing shallowly in nervous excitement, the young woman shut her eyes
and waited in what seemed like an electrically charged tension for the
moment of exposure.  But instead I let my hands move down to her thighs,
warm and soft on the surface but with hard muscle beneath.  One set of
fingers curled round the outside of her upper leg, the other set sliding in
between the tightly-clamped thighs and moving inexorably upwards to where
my thumb made the slightest of contacts with the damply warm material at
her crotch.  She gave a sensual little shudder and then undid the next
button of her blouse, but I moved her fingers away.  This was my moment to
savour.  I took the silken blouse by the lapels and ripped it wide open
suddenly, popping pearly buttons left and right and revealing that beneath
it she was wearing some kind of strapless white bodice laced up the front.
She arched her back, breath coming quickly, so that she would have fallen
had I not reached behind and grabbed her buttocks to pull her forward.  And
to my absolute amazement and delight, as I buried my face in the lacework
of the bodice and my fingers squeezed her bum tightly up against my chest,
she climaxed unmistakeably.

   It had been as unexpected for her as for me.  She stood up on wobbly
legs and divested herself of the skirt as it fell to the floor.  We went
back to the buffet for more drinks, kissing again as we stood there.  But
this time her long arms were draped languidly over my shoulders and her
hips were sensuously pushed forward at me.  She was now half-undressed,
other than her underwear she wearing just the ripped open white blouse and
the black ankle-boots.  I may only have had one item of clothing, but even
that was in disarray.  It had somehow gotten wide open at the chest, where
her strong hands were even now also disappearing inside the black towelling
robe and the sash was dangerously loose...  What the hell?  "My turn now,
Miss Tamara," I said.  "Kneel." With one hand twisted in her long hair, I
pushed her down to her knees.  With the other I pulled the gown open, so
that my angry red erection sprang up free just inches from her face. 
Obediently she took it in her hands, reaching out uncertainly with her
delicate fingers to touch me gently.  She seemed to be more analytically
curious about the anatomy than excited by what was to come.  "Warm and
dry...  and hard," she said.  "What did you expect?" "Well, somehow you
always sort of imagine it would be cold and slimy and horrible and
squishy." She put a hand across her mouth and giggled.  "Bigger than I
thought, too." I had had enough of this.  I removed her hands and pulled
her head forward, forcing her none too gently to open her mouth wide and
take in as much of my length as she could manage.  I made her go on sucking
and licking for a minute or so, more to establish dominance over her in her
mind (and presumably the other viewers) than because I needed any more
stimulation.  Picking up my glass of wine, I looked over at the main
forward screen which was providing a close-up of that famous face
attentively ministering to a healthy hard-on.  I looked down at the golden
hair of the youngster kneeling before me just as she raised her gaze to
look at me.  Those angelic blue eyes staring up pleadingly at me,
childishly wide open, almost made me come on the spot - in particular
combined with the far from innocent image of my penis disappearing into the
mouth below.  No, such pleasures could be for later.  This load was going
deep inside that unbelievable body.  I withdrew.

   Not bothering to close the housecoat, I strolled back to one of the
armchairs, leading my prize by the hand.  "Time to see what you've been
hiding from us men for the last eighteen years." Sitting back with my drink
and a cigarette, I gestured at the small recessed open floor-area with the
low tables.  "Come here where I can get a good look at you, and strip for
me." What can I say?  She stripped off with an inexperienced girl's lack of
subtlety.  No coquettishness, archness or fake dramatics.  Not teasingly -
more as if for, I don't know, a medical or something.  Not that I cared too
much.  I had eyes for nothing other than the beautiful figure standing
statuesque in front of me.  Long limbs, slightly and evenly tanned, slender
but also clearly quite strong - not an ounce of fat anywhere.  Unblemished
torso, flat and smooth stomach.  Splendid firm breasts, not quite large
enough to be out of proportion with her slim frame, with small reddish
nipples positively demanding my attention.  Slender waist, almost girlishly
narrow hips with slightly protruding hipbones, and a diamond-shaped bush of
golden curls over her pubic mound.  Coarser and a shade darker than on her
head, but nonetheless still very much blonde.  And undoubtedly natural.  I
gestured that she should lie down on the couch, then arranged the compliant
and uncertain youngster so that she had her arms draped over one arm of the
two-seater settee, and her legs over the other.  She then lay there for the
next several minutes with her eyes closed, permitting me to explore her
delectable body with fingertips and mouth and obediently parting her thighs
a little to let my probing fingers access her pussy lips a little.  She was
beginning to respond to these ministrations, biting her lip and squirming.
And suddenly she got up and walked off again, just as I had been about to
gleefully haul her legs apart and lick her until she came again, as I was
sure she'd been on the verge of doing.  She had something up her sleeve, I
realized.  Probably another little show for the benefit of the other
highborns.  Well, it had better be good: I was getting ready for action
now.

   She sat down on the captain's chair, swivelling it round to face me, and
picked up the little dish of caviar I had left there.  "I may be a virgin,
Sir," she said, sticking her finger into the roe dip and licking it clean
suggestively.  "But I am not in a position where I can afford to be
prudish. The assumption is that you are a man of honour and will therefore
abide by the agreement..." She raised an eyebrow questioningly; I remained
impassive.  She continued, "...  theoretically, of course, you might choose
to misuse us and then still hand us over to the men.  So, since I can
assure you I don't want that to happen, I have to make it worth your
while." "That's typical of you.  There you are, sitting on my chair in your
birthday suit, having a long and lengthy discussion.  A reasoned argument
for every action." I took my prick in my hand.  "Do something my friend
here will like.  Quit talking.  Make it worth my while." "I have learned
quite a lot, especially during the last two months, about what men like."
She sat back in the black leather console chair and drew her legs up, knees
and ankles together and with her other hand thrust into her groin to
protect her genitals from view.  "You like to see your women spread their
legs crudely wide for you, don't you?  Well Sir, here you are - pussy on
parade, as your uncouth subordinates might put it." She put her feet up on
the chair's arm rests and then slowly and deliberately splayed her knees
lewdly wide, one hand and wrist still covering that amazing blonde bush and
whatever was below it.  I knelt in front of the captain's chair, eager for
the final exposure.  "You're right: there's nothing in the world finer than
the sight of a pretty girl showing you her cunt.  Take that hand away,
blondie." "Ah," she said archly, sliding her fingers upwards to reveal... a
mass of slippery dark-grey dots.  Caviar smeared thickly in her crotch. 
"Then there's quite a lot of licking clean to do, Sir.  If my master wants
to see my cunt." That was an invitation no red-blooded male could possibly
refuse.  I knelt in front of me chair, between the princess' legs, and
eagerly began perhaps the most unusual dish of my life.  She could barely
contain herself as I let my tongue probe deep into the fleshy fold of her
labia, all in the pretext of fishing out the last of the salty and oily
droplets.  I teased her clitoris out into the open, fingertips and tongue
each taking their turn at working the eagerly panting teeanger up into a
frenzy.  When I stood back, she looked up at me.  Not much innocent or
angelic in that stare now.  Big black pupils wide with the adrenalin rush,
makeing the surrounding blue a touch more intense.  She nodded gravely. 
"I'm ready." And so was I.  Again from the kneeling position, I placed my
prick at her entrance and stroked the tip up and down her previously
untouched slit until it nestled nicely inside.  I bent forward to nuzzle
and nibble at those splendid tits again, hooking my hands round under her
back to hold her shoulders from behind, feeling my erection pushing further
inside her.  No matter how she bucked and squirmed, she was mine now.  No
holding back!  I rammed home eagerly, eliciting a brief squeal as I
penetrated her fully: she writhed and wriggled before stiffening in
wide-eyed astonishment at the intensity of her climax.  After that she just
lay there acquiescent with a sheen of sweat on that perfect body and a
happy grin lighting up the beautiful young face, while I took my time
savouring the moment as I fucked her.  With her ankles in my hands, she let
me spread her athletic figure ever more lewdly wide, until I could look
down and watch the incredible sight of my erection sinking rhythmically
into the princess' vagina.  The splendidly rounded breasts were jiggling
with the impact of each thrust as I hilted myself repeatedly in her,
shafting her with every untrammeled ounce of my strength until black hairs
were grinding into the gold.  Delightedly, I felt myself building up and
redoubled my efforts, shoving savagely deeper and harder until I came
squirting hotly and massively inside her.  Wow.

   An hour or so later I went back to the buffet and fetched two glasses of
champagne.  "Here's to my First Mate," I said raising my glass to the naked
girl lying sprawled lewdly on the black leather couch in the bridge's
central pit.  "And here's to my first mate," she said with a smile.  Clink.
"Hmm.  Still eight hours until the morning shift.  How on earth can we fill
the time?" It was a rhetorical question and she knew the answer well
enough. A small wriggle of those shapely hips brought her to the attention
of the movement-sensitive video drones and there she was on the screen
wearing nothing but her little white ankle-socks, the famously desirable
face of the High Princess atop a splendid young body, as splay-legged and
explicitly naked as any porn star.  "Come here," she said.  "There are six
other virgin princesses waiting for you, so if I want you more than one day
a week I've got to learn to be a better fuck than them." She let her long
fingers slide round under her backside, coming up between her legs to part
her labia.  The drones automatically followed the motion.  On the viewing
screen in her room the other youngsters were being treated to the details
of her genitalia; here up on the bridge the twelve by six foot wallscreen
was suddenly filled with a close-up of her blonde-haired cunt.  "For
starters, Sir, you're going to fuck me again."

   Fantastic.  I didnt think I could possibly ever have had enough of her,
but when I did there'd be six more of them waiting.  I might be a desperate
outlaw on the run to save his worthless hide, but until they tracked me
down and caught me, I was going to enjoy myself.  This was the life.

  
---------------------------------------------------------------------------
----

   All original work, copyright (c) J.M.Maserati, 2001.

   May be freely disseminated for non-commercial purposes

   as long as the author is clearly identified and copyright stated. 
---------------------------------------------------------------------------
----