After dinner, my display flashes with an unexpected message:
Innocent words, but nothing on this ship has been innocent so far. The doctor proved that on my first day, when a “natural” remedy ended up with me being stripped naked and orgasming for a medical audience of two. If that could happen in daylight, what might happen tonight with alcohol and no pretense of medicine?
Still, I accept. Six days locked in my quarters with only the Commander’s measured walks to break the silence have left me restless. And tomorrow I reach the Celestial Spire, so tonight I need some distraction, whatever it costs.
The corridor air feels cold against my skin as I follow the glowing path toward the officers’ lounge. The Commander told me that the ship’s computer knows where I’m headed at all times, so all I need to do is follow the line on the wall with my name on it. Technology like this is so invasive, but also so convenient at the same time. And despite being nervous about leaving the ship tomorrow, I’m curious to see how the rest of the galaxy lives with all this technology. Maybe that’s another reason no one ever returns to Earth.
I pause at the entrance to the officer’s lounge and see curved sofas facing a small stage bathed in blue light. Officers are waiting casually with drinks in hand. It seems innocent enough.
I walk in and immediately I’m hit with the strong scent of spice and a sweetness I can’t name. It’s not poison, but it makes me feel suddenly eager for something.I tell myself it’s just my imagination and my anxiety about tomorrow.
The Commander crosses the room with two glasses of amber liquid. When he reaches me, he hands me one and I take it.
“Is there going to be a performance?” I ask, looking at the small stage.
“Of sorts,” he says, and gestures to the seat beside him.
The music starts, and then four humans step onto the stage, their oiled bodies shimmering under the lights. Chains run from nipples to groins and serve as clothing, jewelry, and collars all at once.
They dance an erotic dance of bodies pressing together and grinding in rhythm. Hands slide over glistening flesh, tugging chains to make them arch and gasp, mimicking orgasms. They bend low, spread wide, and open their mouths to accept pantomime-come. Every motion is designed to tease.
And it’s working. I cross my legs tightly, heat building where I don’t want it. I should look away, but I can’t. The sight of them—confident, bound, and radiant—fills me with a sexual hunger. They are sex slaves. I should hate this, but to my shame, I continue watching, allowing my body to enjoy it.
Five years ago, I would have silently prayed for forgiveness for becoming aroused full-stop, when I used to think there might be a God. But now, the only trouble I have is that none of these people had a choice, and I’m deriving pleasure from watching their performance.
The dancers suddenly break off, and the male companion heads directly toward me.
I’m mesmerized. He’s naked but for the fine chains draped across his body, two threaded through the metal hoops in his nipples, glinting as they connect to the collar locked around his throat. And another chain crosses low over his belly, resting just above the line of hair that trails down. It loops delicately around the base of his large, erect cock that’s flushed dark with need.
He sinks to his knees before me, the chain tugging slightly at his cock. He doesn’t flinch. He holds still, like he wants me to look at his body.
“You may touch,” he says, the alien language sliding into my ears through the translator embedded in my necklace. “I am called Lyric.”
“Are you—” I hesitate. “Who owns you?”
He glances at the Commander, then looks back at me with a smile. “Heowns me.”
The words land like a slap. After everything the Commander said about protecting me from companion status—he fucking owns one?
“You told me?—”
“I told you the truth,” the Commander says. “Lyric is an asset. One I chose to protect when others would have thrown him into a brothel pit. He serves with excellence. Ask him.”
“I was top of my training class,” Lyric says proudly.
“You... what?” The room is starting to shimmer, and my skin feels too hot.
“I want to taste your pussy, Madame Eve. I want to taste Earth,” Lyric says. “I was born on a satellite orbiting Reima Two. I've never seen Earth, but I’ve dreamed about the women there and what they might taste like.”
Something is terribly wrong.
I'm not this person. I'm not the woman who lets strange men—collared men, owned men—touch me, let alone in public. Yet I want Lyric to touch me, to taste me, and I don’t even care who watches. To fuck me.
“Something’s in the air. Or the drink,” I say, eyeing the amber-colored cocktail I didn’t even question when it was given to me.Didn’t I tell myself I wasn’t going to accept strange drinks from anyone?
“Of course it is,” the Commander replies. “We use pheromone enhancers during performances. It’s not a secret.”
“You drugged me?”
