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Message-ID: <38389asstr$1032433810@assm.asstr-mirror.org>
From: "Adrian Hunter & Chelsea Shepard" <adrian_hunter@hotmail.com>
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Subject: {ASSM} Thirst by Adrian Hunter (bd, M/f, noncon, sci-fried)
Date: Thu, 19 Sep 2002 07:10:10 -0400
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Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories.moderated,alt.sex.stories
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Thirst (bd, M/f, noncon, sci-fried)
By Adrian Hunter


Corporal Job frowned as he watched the vidscreen on the wall of the 
general's private quarters.  The news from the Kuiper asteroid belt wasn't 
good, as usual.  The Drinkers had developed a new weapons array, as usual.  
Many lives had been lost in the initial assault near Neptune, as usual.  But 
scientists were busy at work on new defense strategies, as usual.  While 
victory was not yet assured, the inhabitants of Earth would most assuredly 
live to fight another day.  As usual.

The girl continued to thrash on the floor in front of the general's desk, 
but the straps seemed sufficient for the time being.

"Any minute now," he said to her sheet-wrapped body.  It wasn't normal for 
the general to run late.  Precision and punctuality were core chains in 
every officer's genetic code, including his own.  As well as less obvious 
DNA strands

Job granted his mind the rare privilege of wandering, and wondered if he 
would live long enough to be promoted to a command assignment.  He could get 
used to this level of personal accommodations.

Not to mention the fringe benefits, he noted as the girl howled uselessly 
into her gag.

Not much had changed in his lifetime.  Almost a century had passed since the 
arrival of the Drinkers.  Make that "inescapable presence became known," Job 
corrected himself, since they had been lurking around Earth for thousands of 
years.  But most people had been blissfully ignorant until that fateful day 
in 2005 when the old governments confessed everything.  The pyramids.  
Stonehenge.  Crop circles.  Roswell.  UFOs.  All true.

The feds had long known that something was out there, and that something was 
very interested in this particular planet.  But it wasn't until their 
gigantic tanker parked itself over the Atlantic Ocean and started sucking 
that they finally understood.

Job clicked the screen to "receive," then stood up and stretched.  Coated in 
white linen from head to feet, the girl looked uncannily like the 
old-fashioned missile that had taken down the first tanker.  It had been a 
day more infamous than every political assassination and terrorist attack 
combined; the suddenly-united militaries of the world tried to communicate 
with the extraterrestrial visitors, but received no response except more 
thick cylinders snaking down from the hull into the sea.  Finally, a pilot 
from what used to be called China got anxious and fired a Vympel air-to-air 
at the huge spaceship, which promptly exploded into a billion shards of 
whatever had been holding it together.

Unlike the leather belts cinched tight up and down the length of her body.  
Why upgrade things that worked just fine?  Especially when there was so much 
that desperately needed to be invented.  Like an antidote to the global 
warming the Drinkers had unleashed in the 1970s.  Scientists reasoned that 
ice was just too difficult to load.

Bored, Job picked up the girl's scancard again and stuck it into the 
viewslot on the general's desk.  Nineteen years old; bred once; breasts too 
small to be a successful Milker; reassigned to the front lines as an anal 
Comforter; caught trying to escape the transport before it departed for 
Mars, which resulted in an immediate "non-essential" designation.

In other words, your basic organ cow.

"Lucky you," Job deadpanned to the squirming tube of cloth-entombed flesh on 
the floor.  "You got yourself a sugar daddy who thinks your kidneys are more 
useful inside you."

Officers like him and the general literally had the weight of the world on 
their shoulders.  And they couldn't help their genetic code.  In fact, 
biologists had drawn a direct link between military leadership and the 
overwhelming need to dominate sexual partners.  What they used to revile as 
"deviant" was now a much-desired character trait.  DNA research also helped 
identify people who were predisposed to submit to such acts, so everyone who 
chose that particular file folder went back to work smiling.

"Corporal Job, please acknowledge and reply," the wall speaker bleated as 
the vidscreen flashed back to life.

"Corporal Job, present," he spoke crisply to the image of a colonel he 
couldn't place.  Must have just rotated onto the general's staff.  Poor 
bastard was probably orchestrating recon missions around Europa, although 
they surmised that the Drinkers had drained whatever water had been on that 
particular moon of Jupiter centuries ago.

"The general wishes me to convey his regret that circumstances beyond our 
control will prohibit a timely arrival at his personal quarters.  He also 
asked me to inquire of the condition of his package."

"Still wrapped, colonel," Job responded.

"Very good, Corporal Job.  The general requests that you attend to any 
physical requirements of the contents while awaiting his arrival at 2200 
hours."

Job sneaked a glance at the clock on the wall that read 1138.

"Ten-four, colonel."

"Carry on, Corporal Job.  Out."

Ten fucking hours.  Oh well, Job figured it could be much worse.  The 
general lacked for nothing in terms of creature comforts.  Then again, 
nobody really did.  Nobody male, anyway.

He shuddered as he imagined what happened in the breeding centers.  It had 
been decades since women had been given complete control of the process.  
Sperm was carefully harvested from superior donors, but that was as close as 
men got.  Children were indoctrinated with fairy tales about pride and duty 
and necessity in the face of global adversity.  Everyone has a special 
talent.  Girls make babies.  Boys died, unless they were predisposed to 
order men to their inevitable deaths.  The prime directive, like they used 
to say in that old television show, the one where the aliens at least had 
faces.

Job had heard the rumors about the general's collection of antique 
implements, the ones that got him banned from even the most lenient pleasure 
stations.  But someone somewhere had decided that refusing his urges could 
lead to clouded judgment under pressure.  Thus, a private Comforter 
delivered to his doorslip, even though exclusive personal relationships were 
rarer than an uncorked bottle of pre-synthesis wine.

Opening cabinets at random: casual clothes; an interesting collection of 
books on paper; several riding crops, the kind military commanders used to 
carry even in the 20th century when horses had already begun their slow 
descent into extinction.  Job had been taught that natural leaders had 
always carried the gene, even when it hadn't been socially acceptable.  Not 
like today, where sexual cruelty was a one-way ticket to what passed for 
royalty in their supposedly-classless society.

Must be getting warm, Job thought when he found a neatly-organized bin of 
old-fashioned padlocks in the next drawer.  He picked one up and admired its 
mechanical simplicity.  Self-sealing metal was certainly more trustworthy, 
but there was something to be said for the old ways.

"Oh, be still," he barked at his captive, who had begun banging her heels 
against the floor.  "Believe it or not, you've already been rescued."

This ingrate doesn't realize the importance of her new role, Job seethed, 
sorely tempted to unwrap her head and give her a lecture about putting one's 
personal needs aside for the greater good, but she's probably heard it every 
day since she can remember.  Some people just didn't get it.  Even though 
organs were always in short supply.

One cabinet to go.  Did the general keep his bondage equipment on his 
transport?  Job couldn't imagine such a luxury.  Not when every kilo in 
space was monitored with ruthless efficiency.  Even a brigadier wouldn't be 
able to justify a duffel filled with heavy nipple clamps like the ones he 
had seen next to the padlocks.

Then again, the general always got what he wanted.  No, make that needed.  
Nobody is allowed to want anything except peace.  And a decent orgasm.

The latter fueled the former.  Pointless to deny the obvious.  Guilt-free 
sex was about the only good thing that had happened during the entire 
fucking century.

Job smiled as the panels of the cabinet slid down to reveal the last pope's 
ransom in museum-quality leather products.  Cuffs for every limb, cunning 
binders, an extensive collection of gags, some kind of harness that looked 
like it was designed for a small pony, even several corsets bristling with 
laces, buckles, zippers and hasps.  Most men made do with the fake 
restraints and plastic devices provided by the pleasure stations.  It was 
highly unusual to find someone who went to the trouble to do it right like 
this.

And today, he was going to have the unique opportunity to find out if such 
obsessions justified the effort.

Job recognized the suspension cuffs from old screengrabs of women hanging 
from their ankles.  Just the thing to stop the girl from making such a 
racket with her feet.  And he wasn't the least bit surprised to see a maze 
of solid metal tubing criss-crossing the general's ceiling.

Precision.  A dedication to doing things properly.  The officer's creed.

The woman kept thrashing while he unwrapped the cloth up to her knees, then 
joined her ankles in the cuffs with two of the general's padlocks.  While he 
would have preferred a stout length of chain, a reinforced packing strap was 
probably safer as a means of support.  Especially given the lift load.

Job hoisted her into the air and hooked the end of the metal-laced band to 
another iron bar that ran across the length of the office wall.  He thought 
it funny that he hadn't noticed the usefulness of the general's decor.  
Visitors probably presumed he had trouble walking because of a combat 
injury.  One of the lucky wounded who was allowed to continue living.

After a few minutes, her struggles subsided to a pathetic shrug.  Job took 
his time uncoiling the rest of the sheet from around her body, confident 
that the security aids around her wrists and mouth were more than sufficient 
to keep her pacified.

He couldn't figure out why the general specifically requested her after a 
single session at the pleasure station.  Her muscles taut from the 
suspension, she was suitably slim, yet childbirth had widened her hips and 
enlarged her breasts appreciably.  Her flaming eyes telegraphed both fear 
and disdain...a most worthy challenge for the commander charged with 
channeling those exact emotions into a winning strategy against a celestial 
cunning that valued water above any other substance in the universe.

No one was sure what the Drinkers looked like, or if their ships were even 
manned.  Some speculated they were piloted by remote control from billions 
of light years away.  Others thought they were a race of machines that 
needed water to create biological life forms to inhabit.  Or maybe it was 
one of the old gods fulfilling an ancient prophecy.  But nobody really 
believed in mythical deities anymore.  Not when the real thing took out the 
entire population of Australia in 2047 to use the island as a landing 
platform for their tankers.

Puzzled about her anal designation at the pleasure station, Job probed for 
clues.  Her ass was certainly perfect, but it seemed like such a waste to 
specialize her for such a destructive desire.  Anal was usually the last 
stop on a woman's tour of duty, given how quickly the sphincter muscles 
stretched following repeated encounters.  After a few minutes of exploration 
with his fingers, it was obvious her rectum still had the tensile 
consistency of an automated vacuum seal.

Since her DNA didn't indicate submission as a defining trait, there must 
have been another reason she attracted the general's attention.  Something 
off the grid.  Something worth discovering.

Definitely not her mouth, he decided after he replaced the self-modifying 
synthetic mold between her teeth with one of the general's old-fashioned 
leather helmets that boasted extra straps he could buckle tight around her 
lips, cheeks and chin.  He doubted whether she should ever be allowed to 
speak again, given the stream of curses she spat at him.  Officers don't 
take well to insubordination.  Unless it makes the game more entertaining.

Maybe her odd classification had something to do with her nipples.  After a 
thorough squeezing, Job attached a pair of the general's more interesting 
clamps and tightened them until her knobs bulged like eyeballs on a 
low-gravity moon.  Very nice, he noted to himself.  But again, 
unexceptional.

Nine hours to go.  While the vidscreen droned on about the importance of 
scanning the skies vigilantly for unusual light formations, Job lowered the 
girl back to the floor, then hoisted her up on the general's desk, where he 
added a pair of leather cuffs to her wrists.

The way she arched her back and squirmed on the smooth Corian surface made 
him rethink a spread-eagle position, so he dug out a special leather belt 
designed to cinch the waist of the wearer while providing a wealth of rings 
for attaching body parts with padlocks.  After a few experiments, he settled 
on a pair of leather mittens that extended all the way to her shoulders as a 
replacement for the wrist cuffs.  By crossing them over her torso, then 
connecting her wrists to the center of the belt and her fingertips to their 
opposite elbows, he significantly reduced her mobility.  Thigh cuffs and 
more packing straps completed her new bondage, with her head pinned over the 
edge so she was forced to blindly stare at the ceiling with her legs spread 
painfully wide for his languid inspection.

His fingers traced the outline of her curves with a single fingernail, 
creating waves of goosebumps on her naked flesh.  How he hated the damned 
timers at the pleasure stations.  Mustn't be greedy, they were always told.  
No matter how much emotional sustenance his soul screamed for, from his 
first memories in the nurturing dorms to his empty bed this very morning, it 
was never enough.

Job directed his attention to the mound of pink flesh bisecting the tops of 
her long legs.  Body hair was a distant memory for practically everyone, 
except those who had a fetish for such things.  Nobody would dream of 
denying a working man his one pleasure in life, even if it meant hormone 
injections for some unlucky Comforter.

He stroked the woman's labia gently.  Such a large clitoris.  Rare to see 
one become so engorged so soon.  And she's so moist, she's literally 
dripping.

He maneuvered a finger between her legs and brushed it gently against the 
swollen lump.

A stimray on its highest setting couldn't have been more effective.

He had never seen anything like it.  Her vagina contracted so hard, it 
sucked in a huge gulp of air, then expelled it violently.

Even the most extreme sybarites didn't react to stimulation like this.  The 
girl's pussy could literally talk.  And scream.

Grinning, Job stood up straight and reached over to unclamp one of her 
nipples, which resulted in another bellow below.  Even more forceful, if 
such a thing was possible.

Apparently, it was, as the removal of the second pincer more than adequately 
demonstrated.

The travails of a planet under perpetual siege suddenly seemed very distant 
to Job as he began to search for suitable tools.

First, he added as many of the general's leather restraints as he could 
find, including cuffs above and below her knees, a stiff collar for her 
neck, a belt across the top of her chest, and more straps to hold her body 
flush against the mottled marbled surface of the desk.

Things are going to get a little wild, he realized as he stuffed a towel 
under her ass and smoothed it flat between her outstretched thighs.

The grip of the riding crop felt almost delicate in his hand.  Job could see 
how some men looked at these implements with the same reverence knights once 
accorded their swords.  It made him regret not taking up fencing as a 
suitable diversion to while away long hours in space.

He had never been one for spanking his pleasure-station partners, although 
many Comforters specifically requested such treatment in their dossiers.  
However, he had been well-trained in the basics of a proper whipping as part 
of his officer's training.  Start slowly on less-sensitive body parts, like 
breasts and thighs, he recalled.  But the slightest tap anywhere sent the 
girl into more convulsions.

She's a veritable orgasm machine, Job marveled as he glanced the lash softly 
against her clitoris.  Imagine a cunt like that wrapped around a man's...no, 
make that your dick, Corporal.

Too bad the engineers couldn't figure out how to harness power like that for 
the next generation of drone fighters.  Even though miraculous breakthroughs 
had been achieved in space travel over the past 50 years, the combined might 
of every former corporation on Earth couldn't develop a propulsion system 
anywhere near what was required to get a vessel out of the solar system to 
chase the Drinkers back to their home planet, wherever that was.

Let's see what happens when we get rough, Job thought as he cocked his wrist 
and let one fly directly against her pussy.

Hmm, that was worth repeating.  Several times.

Job always enjoyed exploring a girl's G-spot.  Not every woman had one that 
worked as well as the clitoris as an orgasm generator.  But he had a hunch 
this one was going to be the exception that proved the rule.

Right again.

A fountain of involuntary urine arced onto the towel as he slipped three 
fingers out from between her sodden folds.  It took several minutes before 
the sputtering paroxysms showed any signs of dissipating.

Can't beat flesh on flesh, Job remembered being taught as he resumed 
stroking her edges of her vagina absentmindedly.  Best to let her calm down 
a little before trying something new, like maybe using the nipple clamps to 
pull apart her labia.

Women like this must be considered a menace to the status quo, Job 
rationalized.  A common soldier would never be satisfied with anything less. 
  Which explained both her anal designation, and the general's untoward 
interest in keeping her away from the butchers in the transplantation.

"How long have you known about this?" he asked her rhetorically, given her 
mouth's inability to speak, even though her vagina barked like a dog being 
teased with a bone.  He reckoned her sexual circuitry went supernova after 
giving birth, maybe when they hooked her up to a milking machine.  He 
couldn't imagine the effects of extraction mechanics on any girl's nipples, 
especially ones as sensitive as hers.  Her magic twat probably started 
declaiming Shakespeare's sonnets after the first hour.

Nap time, Job decided as she lay panting and limp on the general's desk.  
Besides, he still had plenty of downtime to search the apartment for more 
toys.

While pulling back pieces of furniture in hopes of finding something, 
perhaps a hidden door leading to a secret cupboard, Job remembered reading a 
history book about the old continent of Africa and how some indigent tribes 
would perform something called "kakia," a ritual that included the painful 
removal of a woman's clitoris.

As if things had improved a century later, he sighed as he remembered the 
red warnings in the girl's file forbidding unsupervised genital contact, 
including the current circumstances of their present and future association. 
  What would the general say if he found--

An unfamiliar clamor, digital and urgent, filled the apartment, followed by 
a harsh light blinking madly near the entryway.  Job raced back into the 
room to check on his captive as metal shutters bnged down across the exits 
and windows.  He switched on the vidscreen, but it was uncharacteristically 
blank across all channels.  Switching to the raw Internet, he typed his 
level-3 password and accessed the military IP node, which was filled with 
frenetic commands to the orbiting defense stations.  Apparently, a convoy of 
Drinker tankers accompanied by battleships was en route to Earth for yet 
another attempt to drain an ocean or two.  They were nothing if not 
persistent.

But that meant lockdown for anyone on the surface until further notice.  Not 
to mention suspension of all non-essential travel.  In fact, Job bet ol' 
Mega-Medals had been forced to change his course to an interception vector.

Judging by the classified reports about the Drinkers' latest weaponry, the 
general's odds weren't worth a nickel, or any other now-useless currency.

Job clicked off the vidscreen and hurried to the kitchen to check on 
supplies, confident he'd find a full quota of foodsynth.  Enough to last a 
year, presuming the defenses held.  And if not, well, he had certainly done 
his part for the cause.

He set the controls on the beverage unit to produce a single-malt Scotch, 
then picked out a drinking straw from the array of glasses and other 
drinking utensils.  He had another theory to test on his new roommate.

Sure enough, blowing a steady stream of air directly against her clitoris 
produced yet another backbreaking orgasm, accompanied by her vagina's 
imitation of an entire choir speaking in tongues at a revival-show baptism 
in what used to be the Mississippi River.

Until further notice, clothes are going to be rather superfluous around 
here, Job decided as he downed his afternoon's ration of liquid in a single 
gulp, then declasped his pants.

###

Copyright (c) 2002 by Adrian Hunter. All rights reserved. Please do not 
repost nor repurpose without permission.

###

AdrianHunter.com
Superlative bondage fiction by Adrian Hunter and Chelsea Shepard, including 
our new BDSM novel, "Once Bitten"

http://www.adrianhunter.com


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