Chapter 10: Dream Submission - Part 1
The cold of the polished surface seeped into her back. Rina lay spread-eagled on a sleek table of dark, veined metal, her wrists locked in heavy steel cuffs above her head, the chain pulled taut. More chains, cold and unforgiving, pinned her ankles wide apart. The neon glow of the dream-city washed over her naked skin in pulses of electric blue and hot pink.
Jax stood beside her, a looming silhouette against the swirling holograms. His hand, calloused and warm, smoothed over her belly. His cock, thick and fully erect, nudged against her inner thigh. He dragged the slick, hot head of it up her torso, leaving a glistening trail that caught the light.
“This mouth,” he said, his voice a low rumble that vibrated through the table. He pressed the tip against her lips, smearing them with pre-cum. “You’ll use it to thank me. To thank anyone I tell you to thank. You’ll swallow every fucking drop and smile. What do you call me when you do that?”
She moaned, her lips parting. “Captain,” she breathed, the word a sacrilege and a prayer. “I call you Captain.”
He dragged his cock down, over the slope of her breast, circling her nipple until it tightened into a hard peak. He pinched it, rolled it between his thumb and forefinger, making her gasp. “These tits,” he mused, his tone clinical, possessive. “Pretty little things. I’ll have you serve my friends drinks. You’ll lean over, let them see. What if they touch?”
“I… I’ll let them,” Rina panted, arching into his touch. “If it pleases you, Captain. If it pleases them.”
He moved lower, the shaft of him pressing against her ribcage, her stomach. “This cunt,” he said, his voice dropping. He rubbed himself through her wetness, not entering, just painting her with his own slick. “It’s mine. A convenient hole. But your mouth is for hospitality. What if the Port Authority cops stop us? What if they want a bribe?”
He pushed the head of his cock against her entrance, applying a devastating, shallow pressure. She whimpered, trying to grind against him, but the chains held her fast.
“Tell me, Rina. What would you do for your Captain if two officers in bad uniforms boarded my ship?”
Her vision swam. “I’d… I’d get on my knees,” she whispered, then louder, her voice cracking with need. “I’d unzip their pants. I’d take one cock in my mouth, deep, until I gagged. I’d use my hands on the other, stroking him, tasting him. I’d switch until they both came all over my face, Captain. I’d thank them for not searching the hold.”
A rough laugh escaped him. He slid his cock upwards, through her slit, over her clit, making her jerk against her restraints. “Good girl. And when we land at Lysis Station? The dockworkers are a thirsty crew. I’ll have you walk the gantry with a cooler. You’ll serve them, one by one.”
“Yes,” she moaned.
“They’ll want more than a drink.”
“I’ll give them more,” she said, the words pouring out of her, fueled by the dream-logic that made submission feel like power. “Against the cargo containers. In the shuttle bay. However they want me.”
He leaned over, his breath hot in her ear. “We’ll record it. Send the feed to every shithole station in the sector. Let everyone see what happens to runaway corporate princesses. Let them see you getting fucked raw by a dozen grimy dockers. You’d like that, wouldn’t you? To be famous for this?”
“Yes, Captain,” she sobbed, her body slick with sweat and his pre-cum. “Please. I want it. I want to be your… your everything.”
He straightened up. With a click, the cuffs on her wrists released. The chains on her ankles fell away with a heavy thud. Her arms dropped, aching and heavy. “On your knees.”
She scrambled off the table, the metal floor cold under her bare skin. She knelt before him, her violet eyes wide, her auburn hair tumbling around her shoulders. He lit an electronic cigarette, taking a long drag. The synthetic cherry scent cut through the metallic air. He looked down at her, his expression unreadable.
“Show me,” he said, his voice quiet.
Rina leaned forward. She nuzzled the base of his cock, inhaling his musk. She kissed along the thick vein on the underside, her tongue flicking out to taste the salt and bitterness. She took his balls in one hand, gently massaging, while her other hand wrapped around the shaft, pumping slowly.
She looked up at him, then opened her mouth and took just the head inside, swirling her tongue around the sensitive ridge. He exhaled a plume of vapor. She sank down further, letting him push past her lips, gagging slightly as he hit the back of her throat. She relaxed her jaw, breathing through her nose, and took him deeper, until her nose was buried in the coarse hair at his base.
Her hands moved to his hips, holding him there. She began to move, pulling back until only the tip remained, then sliding down again, taking him all the way. Saliva dripped down her chin. Her throat worked around him, convulsing. She lost herself in the rhythm, in the weight of him on her tongue, the faint sounds from above.
“That’s it,” he grunted, his hand tangling in her hair, not forcing, just holding. “Take it all, you greedy little slut.”
She redoubled her efforts, hollowing her cheeks, sucking hard as she pulled back, then swallowing him down again. She felt him swell, the tension coiling in his thighs. His grip tightened in her hair.
“Gonna come,” he warned, his voice strangled.
She didn’t pull away. She locked her eyes on his, took him as deep as he could go, and swallowed rhythmically, milking him with her throat.
With a raw, guttural cry, he came. She felt the hot, pulsing release hit the back of her throat and swallowed desperately, again and again, until he was spent. She kept sucking, gently, until he softened slightly. Only then did she let him slip from her lips with a wet pop.
He was still hard. He pulled her head back by the hair, angling her face upwards. He stroked himself roughly, twice, three times, and a second, weaker rope of cum hit her cheek. Then another streaked across her lips. Another splashed across her breast. He painted her face and tits with his spend, marking her with it.
She panted, kneeling in the puddle of her own submission, his taste still thick in her mouth.
Rina awoke with a gasp that turned into a choked cough. The sterile neon of her dream-city evaporated, replaced by the dim, reddish emergency lighting of the Marauder’s sleeping quarters. The cold metal was gone; she was tangled in the scratchy, synthetic fabric of her bunk’s blanket. Her body thrummed with a phantom ache, a deep, hollow yearning.
She was alone.
The hum of the ship’s engines was a constant, comforting thrum. The scent was old coffee, ozone, and Jax—a smell of machine grease and something indefinably male. She touched her own lips. They were dry. Her heart hammered against her ribs.
The dream clung to her, vivid and shameful. She could still taste him. Feel the chains. Hear her own voice, pleading, agreeing to anything.
She sat up, wrapping the blanket around her shoulders. The chrono on the wall read 04:17 Standard. The cabin across from hers, Jax’s bunk, was a dark recess. She could hear the slow, even rhythm of his breathing. He was asleep.
She swung her legs out, her feet finding the cold deck plating. She needed water. Needed to scrub the feeling of that dream from her skin. She padded silently to the small sink, fumbling for a recyclable cup.
As she drank, she stared at the closed door of his bunk. Her face flushed in the darkness. Had she made a sound? Had he heard her? The things she’d said… they weren’t her. They were the dream. A fantasy spun from exhaustion, from proximity, from the terrifying, exhilarating freedom of being untethered from her old life.
But a treacherous part of her, a part that still throbbed between her legs, wondered if they were a lie.
She heard a shift in the darkness. A creak of his bunk.
“Can’t sleep?” His voice was a sleep-roughened gravel, coming from the blackness.
She froze, the cup halfway to her lips. “Bad dream,” she whispered, too truthfully.
A pause. She could almost feel him listening in the dark. “The void gets into your head,” he said, his tone unreadable. “Especially out here in the quiet belts. Makes you think things.”
“What kind of things?” The question was out before she could stop it.
Another long silence. She heard him sit up. “Old things. Regrets. Wishes. Stuff that doesn’t matter when the lights are on.” A small, dim panel light illuminated his face as he activated it. He looked older in the faint glow, the lines around his eyes deeper. He studied her, wrapped in her blanket like a child. “You alright?”
She nodded, not trusting her voice. The image of him, looking down at her as she knelt, was superimposed over his tired, concerned face.
“Get some rack time, kid,” he said, his voice softening almost imperceptibly. “We’ve got a long haul to Lysis. You’ll need your wits.” He clicked the light off, plunging his side of the room back into shadow.
Rina stood there in the dark, the cup cold in her hand. The phantom sensations were fading, replaced by a deeper, more confusing ache. It wasn’t just the dream. It was the kindness in his rough voice now, so at odds with the Captain in her head. It was the way he’d called her ‘kid,’ putting a careful distance between them even as he asked if she was alright.
She crept back to her bunk, sliding under the blanket. She stared at the low ceiling, listening to his breathing settle back into the pattern of sleep.
The dream had been raw, explicit, degrading.
So why did the memory of his genuine, sleepy concern make her feel more exposed?