Chapter 1: The Gaping and the Pink
The air in the chamber always smelled like ozone and synthetic lubricant. It was cold, and the hum of the ship’s engines vibrated up through the metal floor into the padded bench Anya was strapped to. Her wrists and ankles were secured with wide, seamless cuffs that glowed a soft blue. They didn’t chafe. Xorgon was never careless.
A large, translucent screen hung in the air before her, currently dark.
“Comfortable, pet?” His voice came from behind her, a low resonant buzz that seemed to travel up her spine.
She craned her neck. He was a silhouette against the wall of flickering holographic displays, tall and impossibly shaped. “The restraints are a bit tight tonight.”
“They are exactly as tight as they were last time. Your tolerance for anticipation has degraded.” He moved into the light, his iridescent scales shifting from deep indigo to a toxic green. Four arms, two currently folded across his broad chest, two hanging at his sides. His tail, sleek and powerful, made a soft shush sound as it slid across the floor.
Anya’s breath hitched. He was holding a small, opaque vial in one lower hand. In another, something heavy and metallic gleamed.
“You requested significant sensation. A deep, lasting soreness. A reminder.” He uncapped the vial. The scent of cool, menthol-laced gel cut through the ozone. “You specified the pink glow. Not red. Not bruised. The radiant, heat-through-glass look. I am an artist. I require a precise canvas.”
One of his lower hands, clad in a thin, slick glove, settled on the curve of her ass. She jumped at the touch, always so much colder than human skin. His thumb stroked the crest of her cheek, once, twice, a clinical assessment.
“Relax your muscles, Anya. Voluntary tension wastes my time and your endurance.”
She exhaled, letting her body go slack against the bench. The screen flickered on. It showed her from behind, the frame tightly focused on the pale swell of her ass, the shadowed cleft. It was disorienting, watching herself like this. A documentary of her own undoing.
The gel was cold. He spread it with a methodical, circular motion over her most private hole, massaging the tight ring of muscle until it softened and began to pinken from the attention alone. She whimpered, the sound embarrassingly loud in the quiet hum of the room.
“Already?” he murmured, the dryness in his tone implying a smile she couldn’t see. “We are only on preparation.”
His gloved index finger pressed, not invading, just presenting a firm, insistent pressure. Her body resisted, a lifetime of instinct, then yielded all at once. He slid the finger inside to the second knuckle. The stretch was immediate, a sharp, clean bite of fullness. He held it there, letting her adjust, before twisting his wrist slightly, stretching her wider.
“There,” he said, as she gasped. “Acknowledgment of the intrusion. Good.”
He withdrew the finger. Before she could even process the emptiness, something much larger, blunt and cool, replaced it. The anal plug. It was smooth, weighted, an unforgiving sphere that pressed relentlessly inward. Her body fought it, clenching wildly, trying to reject the massive intrusion. It was a losing battle. He pushed steadily, until the widest part squeezed through her resisting ring with a soft, wet pop, and the narrower stem seated itself deep inside her.
A gasp tore from her throat. The screen displayed everything—the violent flutter of her hole around the stem, the way her entire body trembled.
“Sensor is active,” Xorgon stated, stepping back to observe the screen. A new data-stream appeared beside the image, a rolling tally. It read: 3. “It counts the clenches. The involuntary ones. The ones that betray your claimed control. One hundred is the requirement. You may begin.”
It was impossible not to clench. The weight of the plug, the strange, stretched-full feeling, her body’s panic. The tally ticked up. 12.
“Too slow,” he said. He moved then, his hands efficient. He released her ankles from the bench cuffs, but only to pull her legs back, bending her fully over, before securing them to a new set of rings on the floor. Her wrists remained bound forward. The position arched her back, lifting her ass, exposing her completely. The plug shifted inside her, and she cried out, the tally jumping to 19.
“Better.”
He sat on a low stool she hadn’t noticed, his cool scales pressing against her belly and thighs as he pulled her across his lap. Her face was turned toward the screen. She was forced to watch.
In one of his upper hands, the paddle appeared. It wasn’t wooden or leather. It was some alien material, dull grey and slightly flexible, its surface textured with microscopic ridges.
“The goal is pink. Radiant. Even coloration. We will start light.” His voice was conversational, right by her ear. “You will thank me after every strike. You will use my full title. If you forget, or delay, or provide insufficient enthusiasm, the next strike will be significantly harder. If you refuse, I will remove the plug and use something you will genuinely regret. Do you understand the rules?”
“Yes,” she breathed, her eyes locked on the screen, on the image of her own helpless body.
“Yes, what?”
“Yes, Master Xorgon.”
“Acceptable.”
The first impact was a shock. Thwack. It wasn’t blindingly painful. It was a loud, crisp slap that landed just above the crease where her thigh met her cheek—the sit spot. A sharp, tingling heat exploded across the flesh, so much brighter than the impact seemed to warrant. On screen, the skin bloomed a perfect, rosy pink instantly.
Her breath left her in a rush. The plug clenched hard inside her. The tally flashed: 31.
“Gratitude, Anya,” he prompted, his voice mild.
The words felt sticky in her throat. “Thank you, Master Xorgon.”
Thwack.
This one landed lower, overlapping the first. The heat deepened, compounding. She yelped. 44.
“Thank you, Master Xorgon!”
Thwack. The third hit the opposite cheek. The symmetry of the burn was its own kind of madness. 57.
“Thank you, Master Xorgon!”
He settled into a rhythm, a cruel, measured percussion. Thwack. Thwack. Thwack. The paddle painted her skin with fire. Each impact was controlled, precise, never landing in the same exact spot twice, spreading the sensation until her entire backside was alight. The screen showed a mesmerizing transformation: pale skin turning a uniform, glowing, translucent pink. No welts. No broken skin. Just a devastating, radiant heat.
Her thanks became a ragged chant, intertwined with her gasps and cries. “ThankyouMasterXorgon! ThankyouMasterXorgon!”
Her world narrowed to the cycle of the rising heat, the crack of the paddle, the relentless climb of the clench tally. 72. 81. 90.
She was sobbing openly now, tears streaking the padded bench beneath her face. The pain was a live wire, but beneath it, coiled deep in her belly, a treacherous thread of pleasure pulsed in time with her heartbeat, fed by the heavy, stretching fullness inside her.
Thwack!
This one was harder, a jolt that made her see stars. 99.
“The final clench is mine to decide,” he purred. He dragged the edge of the paddle slowly, slowly up the sensitized flesh of her inner thigh. She shuddered violently, a full-body spasm. The plug clenched again, a final, desperate betrayal.
The tally clicked over to 100.
He let the paddle fall to the floor with a clatter. For a long moment, there was only the sound of her ragged breathing and the ship’s hum. His bare, scaley hand—not gloved now—came to rest lightly on the blazing heat of her ass. He simply held it there, the coolness of his touch a shocking contrast.
On the screen, the image held. A perfect study. Deeply stretched. Glowing pink. Utterly possessed.
“The session is complete,” he said, his voice devoid of its earlier amusement, now simply satisfied. “You performed adequately.”
He began to unfasten her wrists. The release of tension made her bones feel like liquid. She didn’t move. She couldn’t. She lay over his lap, trembling, feeling the deep, throbbing ache settle into her bones, the plug a permanent, weighted claim inside her.
This was what she’d asked for. This was what she’d craved. And as he gently lifted her, his massive frame somehow careful, and carried her towards the cleansing unit, she knew with terrible clarity that she would ask for it again.