Chapter 1: The Parade of Submissives
The air in the Grand Viewing Hall was thick with the smell of ozone, alien musk, and the coppery tang of human sweat. Anya knelt on the cool obsidian dais, the weight of a thousand gazes pressing down on her like a physical force. Her skin prickled under the shifting light, her breath coming in short, ragged gasps that echoed too loudly in her own ears. The bioluminescent lube Xorgon had used was already cooling on her skin, a shimmering, sticky testament to what she’d just endured.
Behind her, Xorgon loomed, a monument of blue muscle and silent authority. His four arms were crossed, the lower pair resting while the upper set adjusted a holoscreen that flickered to life before the murmuring crowd. A magnified, thermal image of her body bloomed across it—a topography of humiliation. Her anus, flushed a deep, angry red and still visibly distended, was the central exhibit.
“Observe the capillary response,” Zylara’s voice cut through the hum, clinical and clear. The green-skinned assistant moved into the field of view, a slender, metallic probe in her hand. It glinted coldly. “The tissue memory is already remarkable. Master Xorgon’s spiral dilator has prepared the pathways beautifully.”
Anya flinched as the cold tip of the probe touched her. Not inside, not yet. It traced the swollen rim, and she screwed her eyes shut.
“Open your eyes, little human.” Xorgon’s voice was a low rumble, vibrations she felt through the floor. “Watch your education.”
She forced her eyelids open. On the screen, she saw the probe, seen from some impossible angle, begin to press inward. There was no gentleness. It was an examination. The cold metal slid into the sore, stretched heat of her, and a choked sound escaped her lips.
“Elasticity rating: eight-point-seven,” Zylara announced to the hall, a note of approval in her voice. “Minimal tearing. Significant inflammatory response. The foundation is strong.”
A new sensation bloomed then, unrelated to the probe. A deep, internal pulse that made her hips jerk forward. The remote-controlled tentacle he’d left inside her cunt had activated. It wasn’t just vibrating now; it was coiling, creating a slow, unbearable pressure against her g-spot that was entirely separate from the clinical violation happening elsewhere. Pleasure and pain braided together in her nervous system, one confusing the other.
“She wriggles,” a guttural voice observed. Thrax. The red-skinned master leaned forward in his tiered seat, his tusked jaw propped on a fist. “The duality of human response is always so… entertaining. The ring is a satisfying color. Deep. Well-used.”
Xorgon made a sound that might have been pride. One of his hands left the console and picked up a new implement from a floating tray—a long, supple appendage that looked like a segmented tail, tipped with a flat, leather-like pad.
“Gratitude, Anya,” he said, his multifaceted eyes reflecting the holoscreen’s glow. “Is the first lesson. Let us see if your mouth is as trainable as your other holes.”
The tail-like implement whistled through the air before she could form a thought.
CRACK.
The impact across her already glowing, star-branded ass cheek was electric. It wasn’t the heavy thud of a hand; it was a sharp, biting sting that raced across her nerves and melted into the deep, throbbing ache beneath. She cried out, the sound raw and unbidden.
“The words,” Xorgon commanded, his voice devoid of its earlier rumble, now pure sharpened steel.
The tentacle inside her pulsed again, a cruel tease. She gasped, her mind scrambling. “Th-thank you, Master Xorgon!”
CRACK.
The second strike landed on the opposite cheek, perfectly symmetrical. The pain was brighter, clearer. Her eyes watered.
“Thank you, Master Xorgon!” she screamed it this time, the words ripping from her throat.
On the screen, the audience could see the fresh, overlapping welts rise on the pink star-field of her skin. They could see the way her internal muscles fluttered around Zylara’s probe from the shock of the blows. They could see everything.
Zylara withdrew the probe with a soft, wet sound. “Sphincteric recovery time is rapid. A credit to your training methods, Master.”
Xorgon didn’t acknowledge her. He leaned down, his breath warm and strange on Anya’s ear. “You scream pretty,” he murmured, the words for her alone. “But pretty screams are common. I want yours to mean something. Now, parade.”
He pinched the crest of her wounded ass cheek, right where the star-brand throbbed. It was a precise, vicious twist of flesh.
She shrieked, her body bowing off the platform.
“The words,” he hissed.
“THANK YOU, MASTER XORGON!” The gratitude was a sob, tangled with pain and the relentless, throbbing pleasure between her legs.
He attached a thin, almost invisible leash to the mesh thong at her hips and gave a tug. She stumbled forward, her legs weak. The walk was agony. Every step made the mesh rub against her stretched, needled entrance. Every movement made the tentacle inside her shift and coil. The cool air of the hall brushed the wet trails on her cheeks—sweat or tears, she didn’t know.
He led her along the edge of the dais, past the first rows of spectators. Iridescent limbs reached out. Cool, smooth fingers trailed over the welts on her ass. Clicking tongues and hissed syllables filled the air.
“The elasticity is fascinating.”
“See how the human’s body accepts the will.”
“A prime specimen. Thrax seems impressed. A good sign.”
She kept her eyes forward, blurred though they were. She focused on putting one foot in front of the other. On not breaking. The parade was a slow, tortuous loop. Each time her steps faltered, Xorgon’s pinching fingers found a fresh, tender spot on her hip or the back of her thigh, always followed by that demanded, screamed thanksgiving.
By the time they returned to the center, she was trembling uncontrollably, a live wire of overstimulation. The holoscreen still displayed her, a quaking, glistening map of submission.
Xorgon turned her to face the crowd, his lower hands holding her shoulders in an unbreakable grip. He addressed them, his voice projected and proud. “The human shows promise. A resilient canvas. But the work is just beginning. The Stretch Class is not about creating a hole, but creating potential. An empty space waiting to be filled… by whatever I choose.”
He looked down at her, his eyes shifting to a deep, satisfied violet. He leaned close again. “You did not break today,” he whispered, the words a bizarre caress. “But you wanted to. I saw it. That defiance in your spine, right before the scream. We will smooth that out tomorrow.”
He released her shoulders and with a flick of his wrist, deactivated the tentacle. The sudden, empty absence inside her was almost worse than its presence. She sagged, her knees finally giving way, but one of his arms snaked out and caught her under the stomach, holding her up for the crowd’s final appraisal.
“Remember this sight,” Xorgon said to the hall. “Remember the beginning.”
As the lights on the dais began to dim, signaling the end of the viewing, Thrax’s voice carried one last time. “I will watch this one’s progress with interest, Xorgon. Do not make her boring.”
Xorgon’s grip on her tightened. “Boring,” he said, hoisting her limp form over his shoulder like a prize, the rough mesh of his tunic scratching her punished skin, “is the one thing she will never be.”