Chapter 1: The First Lesson in Obedience
The air in the training chamber tasted of recycled oxygen and cold metal. A low, pervasive hum vibrated up through the soles of Anya’s bare feet. Before her, dominating the far wall, the screen glowed. It showed, in unforgiving high definition, the curve of her own bare back, the dip of her spine, and the round, pale swell of her ass cheeks. They were already flushed a tender pink.
“Posture,” Xorgon said. His voice wasn’t loud. It didn’t need to be. It cut through the hum and the frantic rush of her own pulse in her ears.
She straightened, trying to ignore the screen, the chill, the way her knees wanted to shake. She was petite, a fact that felt more like a vulnerability here. He circled her, a shadow in the stark light. He wasn’t especially large, but his presence filled the room, a pressure as physical as the gravity.
“The aperture remains stubborn,” he stated, as if commenting on a faulty engine component. “Psychological resistance manifests as physical contraction. We will correct both.”
Anya swallowed. “I don’t think—”
The smack wasn’t a caress. It was a concise, stinging impact that cracked through the room, lighting a sharp burn across her right cheek. She gasped, her body lurching forward a step.
“You are not here to think,” Xorgon said, his tone bored. “You are here to obey. Assume the position.”
Tears, hot and sudden, welled in her eyes. She blinked them back, fury briefly overriding fear. She bent over, placing her hands on the smooth, cooled platform in front of the screen. Now her reflection was unavoidable. Her wide, frightened eyes stared back from above the obscene, zoomed-in image of her backside.
She heard a faint, pneumatic hiss. Something cold and slick nudged against her. It wasn’t metal. It felt organic, slightly yielding, but unrelentingly firm.
“The initial dilator is designed to mimic a dominant species’ basic physiology,” Xorgon explained, his voice close now. He wasn’t talking to her. He was narrating. “Your body will learn to recognize its shape as non-threatening. Inevitable.”
He pushed.
Anya cried out. It was a blunt, burning pressure, a violation so profound her entire body went rigid. Her every instinct screamed to clench, to fight, to eject the invading object. The muscles in her lower body locked down in violent rebellion.
The sting on her left ass cheek this time was brighter, more precise. He’d aimed for the undercurve, where the flesh was softest.
“Open,” he commanded.
“I can’t,” she sobbed, the words breaking.
“You can. You will. Clenching earns correction. Submission earns respite. This is simple cause and effect.”
The cold tip pushed again. The pain was immense, a white-hot ring of fire. She squeezed her eyes shut, but the screen was still there, imprinted on the inside of her lids. Her own body, on display, being forced.
“Please,” she whimpered.
Another smack, in the same spot as the first. The heat compounded. She yelped.
“Your gratitude, Anya.”
She panted, tears streaming down her face and dripping onto the polished floor. “Thank you,” she choked out.
“For what?”
A terrible silence hung in the air, broken only by her hitching breaths and the eternal hum. The pressure at her entrance didn’t waver.
“Thank you… Master Xorgon,” she forced the words through numb lips.
“For what?”
“For… for the correction.”
“Good.” The approval in his voice was colder than the chamber air. The pressure increased. It wasn’t a shove, but a relentless, gradual advance. The pain crescendoed, a stretching, tearing sensation that made her see flashes of light behind her closed eyes. She heard a low, guttural moan and realized it was hers.
On the screen, the shimmering, pink flesh began to part around a smooth, dark grey shape. It was happening. She was watching herself be breached.
“Observe,” Xorgon said.
She opened her eyes. The screen held her captive. Inch by impossible inch, the device claimed her. Her body was yielding, betraying her. A fresh wave of sobs racked her.
“The lesson is in the yielding,” he murmured, his hand resting on the small of her back, not a comfort, but a pinion. “Fight it, and the pain is endless. Accept it, and the pain becomes purpose.”
The burning stretch hit a peak, a plateau of agony that seemed to vibrate through her very core. Then, with a final, soft click, it was fully seated. The feeling of fullness was devastating, a cramping, alien presence deep inside her. She trembled violently, her muscles fluttering around the intruder.
A reflex. A final, pathetic clench.
The response was immediate. Not a smack. A sharp, buzzing vibration from the device itself, inside her. It wasn’t pain, exactly. It was a shocking, nerve-scrambling pulse that made her jolt and scream, a short, sharp sound of utter surprise and distress.
“The bio-feedback collar learns your involuntary rhythms,” Xorgon said, stepping back into her field of view. He watched the screen, his face impassive. “It corrects micro-clenches. There is no hiding. There is only compliance.”
He picked up a second device from a tray. This one was longer, tapered, with a subtle, bulbous shape. It glistened with the same clear lubricant.
“The secondary dilator introduces a dynamic contour. Your canal will learn to accommodate variance.”
He placed the tip just below the first device. They were going to overlap. They were going to stretch her further.
“No,” Anya whispered, the word a dry crackle. “Master Xorgon, please. I can’t.”
He ignored her. The new pressure, a second point of violation, began. The pain re-ignited, fresh and searing. She screamed, a raw, ragged sound that echoed off the walls. Her hands slipped on the platform.
“Posture,” he reminded her.
She braced herself, her arms shaking. The screen showed the nightmare progression. The first grey device, fully embedded. The tip of the second, beginning its slow, surgical invasion beside it. Her body was being redesigned.
The tears didn’t stop. They were a constant stream. But the screaming died into a continuous, low whimper. Her world had narrowed to the screen, to the pressure, to his voice.
When her muscles quivered and tightened again, the internal buzz delivered its crisp, punishing reminder. She flinched, a moan escaping her.
“Thank you, Master Xorgon,” she gasped, the phrase starting to embed itself, a desperate talisman. “Thank you for the correction.”
He didn’t acknowledge her. He watched the screen, adjusting a control on a small panel. The second device advanced another millimeter.
“You will thank me for the ache,” he said, his voice almost conversational. “You will thank me for the stretch. Because I am giving you a function. I am giving you a purpose. Your defiance is useless. Your pain is data. Your submission… will be a fact.”
Anya stared at her own haunted eyes in the reflection. The girl she was yesterday seemed like a story someone else had told. The pressure inside her was a constant, throbbing truth. The cold of the room. The hum of the ship. The unblinking eye of the screen.
She felt something shift. Not in her body, which was a cathedral of pain, but beneath it. A fracture in the will that had brought her here defiant. The fight was leaching out of her, dripped away with every tear, spanked out of her with every blow, vibrated out of her with every internal buzz.
It was too big. He was too relentless.
The second device slid deeper, meeting resistance, then conquering it. A fresh, blistering wave of pain made her vision grey at the edges. She choked on a sob.
And in that moment, a silent, terrible thing happened. A part of her, small and scared, decided that maybe the only way to survive the ocean was to stop swimming against the current.
She went limp. Not fully, but the rigid terror in her spine eased. A shuddering sigh escaped her.
On the screen, the tense, puckered ring of muscle around the twin invaders relaxed—just a fraction.
“Good,” Xorgon said.
The word was a poison. It was also the first thing that hadn’t hurt. She clutched at it. Her whimper softened. She kept her eyes open, fixed on the horrific image, and let the reality of it wash over her. This was her now. This was happening.
The momentum of the session had irrevocably turned. The lesson was no longer about if she would break, but how completely. And as the third device was lifted from the tray, she knew, with a cold, sinking certainty, that she would find out.