STAR TREK: BROKEN BODICE
A parody by Micky Budarrap
Disclaimer: Star Trek, its characters, locations and plots are not my creations and are used without permission. No profit has been or will be made by their use in this story.
“Broke Bodice” is not intended for consumption by minors. If you are below the adult age in your country, state or county then read no further and delete this file from your computer. By reading this disclaimer you agree to take full responsibility for continuing.
The author does not encourage or condone the enormously disrespectful and frequently criminal things that are done to women in this story. The activities performed in this fictional work should never be inflicted on people in the real world.
This is a work of fiction that features rampant exploitation
of women in parody of the depictions of species and societies in Star Trek.
Where the TV shows and films only suggest for cheap titillation value, “Broken
Bodice” takes it to its sleazy conclusions. The story focuses on the perils and
misadventures of Deanna Troi (Star Trek: The Next
Generation), T’Pol (Star Trek:
For a clearer idea of what these characters look like, check out www.memory-alpha.org and use the search feature to find the characters by name.
Feedback can be directed to Mickt80@hotmail.com.
EPISODE 12: LACTANS, FEMINA EST NON SILENS
T’Pol’s eyes shut tightly as she was sprayed down with icy water, her naked body trembling and quaking.
There was no way for her to cover herself.
But T’Pol was just one of many. The Vulcan stood sandwiched between the bodies of her fellow captives, each one bound and naked. The hard nipples of an eighteen year old Deltan schoolgirl poked against T’Pol’s left side. The long hair and ear-chain of a youthful Bajoran acolyte brushed against the right. Behind the science officer, her firm ass rubbing against’ T’Pol’s rump, was Captain Elizabeth Shelby of the USS Sutherland. But from the front the Vulcan had no protection, her body exposed to the freezing jets of water fired by her captors.
Counting
T’Pol’s brown hair plastered down her forehead and temples. Her plump lips gulped at the water, drinking what she could. Around her other women did the same, the chill fluid soothing mouths that had been parched after their humiliating march across the blazing Vulcan desert.
“Let’s hurry it up here,” came the voice of their new master. “Get them scrubbed down, and quickly.”
The first captive grabbed was Hedril. The first Cairn in Starfleet, the eighteen year old redhead had struggled and pushed and prevailed, graduating from Starfleet academy with honors and earning a posting on the mighty USS Sutherland. Her hard work and determination were now receiving an unfair reward.
“Let go!” the teenager wailed as the powerful hand of a Jem’Hadar grabbed her red hair to pull her out of the sexy
wiggling crowd. Her objection rose in pitch as the genetically engineered
soldier’s other hand grabbed Hedril’s left breast and
squeezed, using it as another convenient handhold. “Let go let go!”
The Cairn’s long legs quaked beneath her, her knees together as she vainly tried to cover her neat red bush and cute teenaged pussy. Her nipples were big pink circles, quivering on the tips of her lovely tits as she shivered from the cold and humiliation as she, out of all of these women, was the first to be chosen for the next step of her captivity.
Hedril wailed in discomfort as a trio of Jem’Hadar soldiers began vigorously scrubbing her naked body with coarse brushes!
“Uhhhh!” the redhead cried, “Uhhhaaaahhh!” Uncaring of her distress the men scrubbed at the teenager’s figure, working up and down her long legs and over her ass. Her melons were pushed left and right as her tender titflesh was brushed. Another scrubber went firmly up between her thighs and the Ensign squealed in discomfort.
Then the redhead was yanked onwards, shoved with tit-jiggling steps towards the exit, and a Bajoran teen was pulled from the crowd and scrubbed down. Teams of Jem’Hadar went to work, three men brushing each captive with professional speed and ignoring the women’s cries of discomfort and humiliation. Whether their wriggling and trembling captive was a Starfleet officer, a Bajoran priestess or a Deltan schoolgirl, the soldiers gave each a thorough and dispassionate scrubbing.
The Dominion had a secret foothold on Vulcan. Somehow they had established a hidden outpost beneath the desert of one of the most secure worlds in the Federation. With impunity they had marched thirty-five female captives across the desert, each bound and naked. That this humiliating injustice could take place on her homeworld ate at the calm T’Pol tried to maintain around herself.
The Jem’Hadar scrubbing at her tits didn’t help either. “UUhhhhggghhh!!” the science officer groaned, her stiff nipples stinging as her ample melons were pushed across her chest. Brushes traveled briskly up and down her long bare legs, circling over her buttocks, working every inch of her tanned toned skin. She was forced up to the tips of her toes as her pussy lips felt a coarse brush work over them, the Vulcan barely able to hold in her cries. T’Pol at least had her Vulcan training and discipline to fall back on. Many did not.
“Aaaeeeiiii!!!” screamed Robin Lefler.
Once holding the rank of Lieutenant aboard
Not far from her was Lanlee Milos, a redheaded Bajoran and leader of the twelve teenaged acolytes who now found themselves captives here. Only a day before Lanlee and her youthful priestesses has worn the robes of the Bajoran holy orders. Now the bodies they had kept hidden from the eyes of men their entire lives were exposed, each and every one of them stripped to her thigh-high socks and simple sandals, flinching and crying in humiliation.
None of them were spared the humiliating discomfort of the brushes. Deanna Troi wailed and B’Elanna Torres writhed, the Betazoid’s mouthwateringly voluptuous figure and the Klingon’s stunning athletic body scrubbed down. Teenaged girls flinched and cried out, trying to cringe away from the cruel hands of their captors only to be forced to turn back, unwillingly presenting their firm breasts to the cruel brushes.
At long last the humiliating wash came to an end. The captives were led into another room, arranged into a line by their Jem’Hadar captors. The gravshacks around their wrists hummed and powered up, creating miniature gravity fields that pulled each set of shackles to the ground. Each woman was humiliatingly forced to kneel, leaning backwards heavily with their thighs spread, pussies exposed and nipples quivering on the tips of their bare breasts.
The mastermind of their captivity stepped forward and looked over the women she had snared, each and every one of them naked, bound and forced to her knees.
“I am sure Tan’Alac has been very clear on the consequences of doing naughty things,” Papilia began. She was a Vorta, one of the genetically engineered servants of the Dominion and a rank above the Jem’Hadar. Curly dark hair crowned an ice-white face framed by tall gill-like ears that stretched down into her jawline.
Her large pale eyes had no sympathy for the female captives kneeling naked and soaked before her. Instead she seemed almost amused. “I don’t imagine I have to tell you how serious we are about maintaining order here.”
She turned, walking along the line of girls kneeling with their snatches presented for inspection and their bare breasts trembling as they were forced to arch their backs. “You have been selected to participate in the next step in the Alpha Quadrant’s growth as a territory,” Papilia said proudly. Her clothes were light, only a very short skirt that flaunted her long legs and hugged the shape of her firm ass, and a vest that barely closed over her lovely melons, creating an eye-opening cleavage and leaving her midriff bare. “You should be honored, like the lovely T’Pol over here was honored, when she was present at the Founding of the Federation. We are in the business of making history today.”
The Vorta tapped a button on the gravshack control unit clipped to her skirt. Immediately the women’s shackles eased, no longer attracted to the ground but still locked behind each woman’s back. Many of the captives leaned forward or tried to turn on their knees, vainly hoping to hide their bare breasts and exposed pussies.
“Begin the treatments,” Papilia ordered. “Fourth and fifth, you have the Deltans. Second and Third, the Bajorans. Tan’Alac, treat the humans and that Cairn redhead. I’ve whipped up a special cocktail for our interesting half-breeds and the star of the show. Remember that Class Ones, Twos and Threes do not receive the same injections!”
“Injections?” Alia Belles’ lovely hazel eyes were wide as as Jem’Hadar gripped her upper arms and pulled her onto her feet. In her mid-twenties, the beautiful bald young woman was the teacher of the fifteen Deltan high school girls held prisoner. Alia possessed an unearthly beauty, her body a perfect balance between slim thighs and waist and curving hips, bottom and breasts. “What do you mean injectiiiiieeeee!” Her words turned to a squeal as a Jem’Hadar gripped her left tit by the nipple and pulled her boob upwards, exposing the skin that was normally hidden beneath the swell of her breast. A hypospray was pressed against her abundant titflesh and a chemical was fired into the Deltan’s bosom. Her shock at the injection was doubled as the soldier grabbed her right tit and repeated the process.
All over the chamber girls flinched and cried out as their breasts were grabbed, lifted, and subjected to these bizarre injections. The Jem’Hadar moved with mechanical precision, working economically as their powerful fingers gripped nipples or pinched soft titflesh, lifting boobs despite the complaints and cries of the young women and teenagers they were molesting.
The exception was Tan’Alac, the Jem’Hadar first. With careful slowness he took firm hold of Robin Lefler’s left nipple, pinching her teat tightly and watching the green-eyed beauty flinch in discomfort. He pulled her lovely tit upwards and then held it there, his gaze on the Ensign’s expression. Robin’s lips trembled and her eyes briefly matched the First’s gaze before she looked away in helpless humiliation. He pressed the hypospray against the young woman’s sensitive underboob, watching her long braid bob as she thrashed her head at the stinging sensation. He took his time with Lefler’s right tit as well, not delivering the injection until the Lieutenant’s naked body was wiggling in distress.
Then he moved on to Hedril, the Cairn’s blue eyes opening in fear and her naked body trembling. She yelped as the Jem’Hadar took hold of one of her stiff stubby nipples and squeezed, then she arched her back and squealed as her tit was slowly lifted.
Meanwhile Papilia approached the half-Betazoid Deanna Troi and the half-Klingon B’Elanna Torres, the two nude beauties standing side by side. “What a contrast,” the Vorta admired as she looked over the two bound and naked Starfleet officers. The counselor’s body was pale as marble but soft and voluptuous, with generous hips and bottom and an ample pair of tits. Voyager’s chief engineer, on the other hand, was tanned and toned with trim thighs, a taut belly and a firm bottom. Despite her athletic build Torres still sported a soft and supple pair of breasts, more than a handful each and presently trembling with the engineer’s helpless outrage. Both women glared at Papilia with lovely dark eyes, their soaked hair clinging to their bare necks and naked shoulders.
“I don’t think they should have called you a Class Two, B’Elanna,” the Vorta commented as she stepped close to the two women, both Starfleet officers involuntarily taking a boob-trembling step backward. Papilia opened a satchel at her hip and reached through it, picking out a hypospray. “Those melons of yours are borderline Class Ones. But I am glad you escaped before being handed over to the Cardassian Union, Miss Torres. That would have been a tragedy.”
“Like you care,” the twenty-two year old retorted, her dark eyes moving from the spray in the Vorta’s hands down to her own bare breasts.
“I do care,” Papilia answered, “I care because if they had hold of you I wouldn’t be able to use those rich Klingon melons of yours.” Gripping one of B’Elanna’s brown teats she lifted the heft of the Lieutenant’s left tit and gave her the first of two injections. The Maquis gasped with each dose, her dark eyes wide as she stared down at her own bare breasts. Once both the Klingon’s boobs were done Papilia moved on to Deanna Troi.
“I suppose you have some sort of cruel joke for me too?” the Starfleet officer said bravely, the globes of her breasts rising on her chest with her quickened breath.
“Just this.” The Vorta rolled up Troi’s left tit
with her palm and fired chemicals into the empath’s
abundant titflesh. The
Not far from Papilia was the Jem’Hadar First. Between thumb and forefinger he held Elizabeth
Shelby’s right nipple, her soft breast stretching uncomfortably upwards as he
delivered an injection into her titflesh. The Captain’s
lips tightened with discomfort and embarrassment. “I am now,” he said,
releasing the blonde’s boob. Beside
“That leaves the best for last ,” Papilia breathed, her miniskirt flashing a peek of the very bottom of her panties as she walked over to where the Vulcan woman stood nude and bound, her arms secured behind her back. “The great T’Pol. I have something for you.”
The science officer shut her eyes as she felt the Vorta grip one of her udders and push it upwards, revealing the soft titflesh normally hidden beneath her globes. “After our first meeting I almost convinced myself that I was imagining it,” Papilia commented, firing an injection into T’Pol’s underboob and smiling as the regal Vulcan’s plump lips pursed in discomfort. “But you truly are a magnificent specimen.” T’Pol’s other udder was pushed upwards, the hypospray pressed against her bare skin. The science officer flinched, her back arching slightly as the chemical was fired into her tit.
The injections completed, the Vorta returned to her equipment and retrieved a pair of calipers. The curved tongs were built to allow precise measurements from one point to another. T’Pol flinched in shame as they were used to measure the width of her bare breasts. “Simply inspirational,” Papilia murmured, moving her calipers to check the depth of T’Pol’s tits, admiring how far her abundant titflesh swelled from her ribs. She lifted and dropped one of the Vulcan’s boobs, watching it bounce and jiggle and noticing the shift in T’Pol’s expression as her extra-sensitive boobs responded to the contact.
“How is that Orion conditioning working out for you, T’Pol?” the Vorta teased, reaching out to pinch and twist one of the Vulcan’s teats. “Moaning like a whore, I hope?”
“Uuuhhhhh aahhhh!” T’Pol
shuddered, unable to contain herself as Papilia
tugged on her nipple. Her shoulders shifted and she leaned forward slightly,
involuntarily offering her tit to the Vorta.
“I demand to know what you intend to do with us!” The strident voice belonged to Lanlee Milos, trying to maintain an air of confidence despite her long-legged and full breasted figure being stripped to her socks and sandals. “My sisters have not eaten since being captured. We have given you no cause for this wretched treatment! Explain yourself, monster!”
Papilia looked down at the woman’s neat triangular pubic hairs. “A real red,” she commented with surprise, making the Bajoran flinch and blush in helpless outrage. “Who is she, Tan’Alac?”
“Vedek Lanlee Milos, the leader of the Bajoran nuns.”
“A leader,” the Vorta sighed with annoyance. “Don’t worry your ladyship, your girls will be well fed and well cared for. And I’ll definitely take care of you,” she added, admiring the redhead’s curvy figure.
Then Papilia returned her attention to T’Pol’s chest. “And as for what you’re doing here, I think we’ll let my favorite big-breasted science officer explain. I’m sure she’s figured it out by now.”
“I assume…” T’Pol bit her full lips as she felt the cold metal calipers touch her bare nipples, measuring the distance between her teats. “Your soldiers separated us by bust size. Your interest in my… attributes is unsubtle.”
“Mouthwatering,” Papilia murmured, her eyes still fixed on T’Pol’s
brown teats as she swapped her calipers for a length of measuring tape. “I’m
sorry, keep going. I’m honestly paying attention,” she promised, flexing the
tape eagerly in her fingers.
“The Jem’Hadar are slave soldiers in the service of the Dominion,” T’Pol continued, her Vulcan calm tested as the Vorta looped the tape around her waist, then around her breasts as she measured the science officer’s tasty dimensions. “They are dependant upon Ketrecel White for survival. In the event of a war with the Federation,” and again T’Pol paused and drew in a breath to control her annoyance as Papilia ran the tape beneath her breasts and lifted the ends, making the Vulcan’s generous melons rise together, “Should you go to war with the Federation you may need to secure local sources of the drug to support your troops. So you captured us.”
Papilia finally ceased her examination of T’Pol’s melons. “Very good, science officer. You’re not just a pretty pair of tits.”
Alia Belles was staring at the two women, the panicked rising of her bare boobs made more prominent by the Deltan’s wrists being locked behind her back. The schoolteacher looked to the eighteen-year old girls under her care with horror. “You’re not saying…”
T’Pol felt icy fear run through her body as she stood naked and bound before the Vorta. “Papilia intends to milk us, like dairy cattle.”
There was a second of shocked silence. Then wails of dismay
were heard across the group, particularly from the younger Bajorans
and Deltans. The teenagers, some slim-chested and
others well endowed, looked down at their bare breasts and cried out at the
cruelty of the Vorta’s plan, the sheer injustice of
what she intended to do to their firm teenaged bodies. Lefler
and Hedril exchanged horrified glances, both
wide-eyed in disbelief that this could happen anywhere to anyone, let alone to them.
Elizabeth Shelby tore her eyes away from the horrified consideration of her exposed bosom. “But all these women come from different species! They can’t naturally produce the compound you need!”
“The injections,” B’Elanna said, the twenty-two year old Klingon still gaping in disbelief. “You’re changing our blood chemistry, turning our bodies into White factories!”
“Not your entire bodies,” Papilia corrected, “Just two parts of your bodies. And those of you young ladies who are less endowed than the others, no need to worry. The special cocktails I prepared for you should correct your little deficiencies. I hope you packed C cup bras,” she added, looking across those captives with less well-endowed chests and winking at them.
With a cry of terror one Deltan girl broke away from the group and sprinted for an exit. It was a dambreak moment and suddenly all of the captives were running, gorgeous naked teens and young women sprinting with their long legs pumping and bare breasts bouncing as they tried to escape the horrible fate that awaited them.
But when they reached the entrances they found them sealed. The prisoners could only crowd against the barriers, tits pressing against the cold metal as they cried out for an escape they would not find. Teenagers lifted their voices in humiliation and fear as they pressed their nude bodies together, vainly trying to get through doors that would never open.
Then Jem’Hadar were unshrouding all around them, each at least six and a half feet tall, grabbing up the struggling and screaming girls with powerful arms. K’Mataclan caught a Bajoran and a Deltan in either hand, holding them around their slim waists as he lifted their feet from the ground, long legs kicked and bare breasts jiggling as they cried and shrieked.
“Back to back!” ordered Deanna empathically, and she, Torres and T’Pol gathered together with their bare bottoms almost touching. Their feet lashed out as Jem’Hadar approached them, showing that not only did B’Elanna and T’Pol have long beautiful legs, they could also deliver a great kick.
Two of Bajoran acolytes were pulled upwards by their hair, their breasts shaking and long legs kicking as they cried out in distress. The sight made Vedek Lanlee let out a banshee shriek of anger and she threw herself against the burly Jem’Hadar holding them, her naked body knocking him to the ground. Alia Belles gave the fallen soldier an opportunistic kick with one long slim leg.
Robin Lefler gasped as she was tripped up, falling flat on her breasts. Then the green-eyed Lieutenant screamed as a Jem’Hadar pulled her up by her ankles, suspending her upside-down. She was able only to wiggle sexily, her breasts jiggling and her braid dancing. Then Hedril and Shelby were there to help their comrade, the redhead and the blonde’s tits jumping as they kicked at the Jem’Hadar.
Papilia rolled her eyes at the futile rebellion. The Vorta hit a button on the control unit at her skirt. Immediately the gravshacks of every prisoner responded, repelling gravity while still remaining locked behind each captive’s back. With cruel ease she forced every nude woman to bend forward, wrists rising up behind her, their bottoms pushed out behind as if for inspection.
But the worst humiliation was that their bare breasts dangled beneath them like udders. Which is exactly what they were about to become!
“You can’t do this!” implored Robin Lefler, her tits swaying left and right as she wiggled her shoulders, forced like the others lean forwards. “It’s monstrous! It’s inhuman! It’s aahh!!”
The Lieutenant’s pleading became a cry of distress as Papilia reached out and fondled her dangling breasts. Her slim fingers moved briskly, squeezing and shifting Robin’s soft titflesh until she found a nipple to twist. “When you’re kidnapped a bunch of nuns, schoolgirls and Starfleet officers, stripped them naked and marched them across a desert, you might as well go the whole hog,” Papilia smiled, tugging and tweaking Robin’s left teat and then the right.
She pushed Lefler away by her tits and moved down the line, looking over her captives. “Now now, where to start?” Occasionally she would squeeze and fondle a woman’s helpless breasts, the victim flinching and trembling as the Vorta examined them for her selection.
Papilia paused as her fingers massaged the generous orbs of Vedek Milos Lanlee. “Well Bajoran,” the Vorta smiled at the helpless redhead, “You’ve spent a lifetime serving your gods. Time you served mine.”
Lanlee’s beautiful face hardened for a firm retort but then she gasped in helpless shock as a Jem’Hadar took hold of her hips from behind. Forced by her gravimetric shackles to lean forwards, the Bajoran was in a particularly vulnerable posture with her ass presented backwards and her pussy lips peeking out between her thighs. The soldier’s hands were firm on her hips, making the redhead walk out ahead of the group, her blue eyes shutting in shame as her bare breasts swayed beneath her with each awkward step.
Papilia’s next choice was the beautiful Alia Belles. “Looks like it’s time for class, miss,” the Vorta mocked, sliding one hand over the Deltan’s bald head and down the line of her jaw, before reaching beneath her to squeeze her tits. “This will be the last lesson your girls will ever need.”
“Have you no mercy yeeeii!” A slap on
the ass made Alia hop forwards, boobs jiggling. Then
a Jem’Hadar soldier settled his hands on the Deltan’s hips and guided her forwards, Belles’ long legs
moving awkwardly beneath her gorgeous naked body. Her eighteen year old
students cringed at the sight of their much-loved mentor reduced to such a
state.
The Vorta halted next in front of Elizabeth Shelby. “You too, Lizzy,” Papilia breathed, sliding her hand down the blonde’s back to her bottom, making the Captain of the Sutherland cringe and quake, her dangling tits swinging left and right with her movement. “A great Starfleet explorer should be on the front line of this great adventure.” Another hard smack on the ass and Elizabeth Shelby was also pushed forward out of the group, ‘volunteered’ by Papilia for what was to come.
Papilia’s cold face twisted in a smirk as she came to T’Pol, Deanna and B’Elanna. “And my three most fortunate arrivals,” the Vorta smiled, moving down the line and brushing her hand along each woman’s breasts as she went, leaving three pairs of udders swaying and trembling behind her. “If not for pure chance you three would probably be comfortable and safe on your ship. Instead, you’re going to be my prize heifers.”
“You cannot expect to do this on my homeworld and get away with it!” T’Pol said, lifting her face and inadvertently giving Papilia and excellent view of her swaying tits.
“Starfleet will stop you!” exclaimed Torres, the engineer’s tanned athletic body on full display as she was forced to lean forward, pussy lips pouting out from between her firm thighs.
“It’s only a matter of time before someone figures out what you’re doing here!” Deanna said in a firm voice, although the quaking of her bare dangling melons revealed her fear.
Papilia settled her hands on her
hips. “Well, if you’re so confident that your side will prevail, then I’m positive you’ll be willing to step
forward and get this over with.”
Deanna, B’Elanna and T’Pol each flinched as Jem’Hadar took hold of their bare hips and maneuvered them forwards. The bent-forward women trembled at this new vulnerability, their pussies easily accessible to the men holding them from behind. Their dangling tits swayed as they were forced to hobble, humiliated, to where Papilia had indicated.
There was a mechanized rail system running along the wall of the chamber, like a miniature subway. The tunnel-entrance for the rail system slid open and out trundled six evil-looking contraptions, each riding the rail. They looked like metal hands with giant hinged fingers, ready to fold inwards on the captives.
The six chosen women felt their bonds ease slightly, allowing the captives to straighten again. Deanna, T’Pol, B’Elanna, Alia, Lanlee and Shelby were pushed with tit-jolting force to the diabolical contraptions. Each woman was positioned with their back against the “palm” of each machine. Velcro straps were used to secure them in place, running across their thighs, ribs and collarbones. The devices were naturally tilted forwards, meaning that the six beauties were now leaning forwards at a sharp angle, their bare breasts hanging exposed and inviting.
“You’ll never get away with this!” Lanlee said, her blue eyes wide with fear and her long red hair falling across her pink-nippled tits. “You’re insane! Your plans are insane!”
The Vorta stepped up to the bound Bajoran. “They worked well enough on your countrywomen on New Bajor,” Papilia answered, brushing aside Lanlee’s long red locks so that they would not cover the big pink circles of her nipples. “Those colonists were fit and healthy girls and the Jem’Hadar captured many of them. In fact they gave me the idea.” The Bajoran Vedek’s face showed despair at the revelation that she and her acolytes were not the first of her people to be enslaved by this monstrous woman.
The metal ‘fingers’ of each frame moved inwards. One rose from between each set of bare thighs, settling a narrow crescent-shaped ‘bike seat’ snugly against each woman’s nethers from asshole to clitoris and wiggling firmly into place. Two more swung in from the sides, tipped with tiny mechanized hands with short but powerful rubber fingers, above a pair of small funnels. Those funnels were positioned directly beneath each captive’s bare breasts, and every woman present knew exactly what they were for.
B’Elanna struggled, tits shaking across her chest. Deanna stared with wide dark eyes as those mechanized fingers drew nearer and nearer to her big brown aureoles. T’Pol breathed deeply, then held her breath as she realized that each inhalation brought her vulnerable teats a centimeter closer to the devices that even now groped for her boobs. Alia, Lanlee and Elizabeth each stared in horror at the milking equipment positioned at their bare breasts, then looked up at the faces of the women they had traveled with.
The Deltan schoolgirls wept among themselves as they watched the humiliation of their loved and respected teacher. The Bajorans prayed and begged for salvation from what was about to happen to their Vedek. Hedril and Lefler were fighting back tears and trembling at the plight of their beautiful blonde Captain.
T’Pol’s heavy breasts were the first to be snared. She gasped out loud as her nipples were caught by those tiny rubber fingers. While small they were very strong, quickly finding a firm grip on the Vulcan’s teats. Gently they began to stimulate her udders, twisting and tugging at her dangling nips, always pointing them down at the funnels beneath her hanging boobs.
Deanna and B’Elanna gave out little yelps as their own teats were captured. Vedek Lanlee tried to hold in her cry, emitting only a high-pitched squeak as her pink nipples were tugged at. Alia let out a deep moan as the machines began to pull and twist at her sensitive Deltan teats. Lastly Elizabeth Shelby, the Captain of the USS Sutherland, bucked in terror and shame as her breasts were captured by the grippers and stretched downwards.
Then the humiliating process began in earnest. The milking devices tugged in sequence, left, right and left again, steadily pinching and pulling the captive women’s nipples downward with a mechanical rhythm.
“I almost forgot,” Papilia said, “Pacification.” On her command the fittings that pressed flush against each woman’s nethers began to buzz and vibrate! Eyes widened with horror and unexpected pleasure as their clitorises were stimulated directly, waves of pleasure rising up their nude and bound bodies. Moans escaped each woman’s mouth as their vulnerable slits moistened against their will.
Left and right their udders were tugged, nipples stretching as the evil process continued. Alia Belles closed her eyes and writhed, her sensitive Deltan body succumbing to pleasure. Deanna and B’Elanna were next, the lush-figured Betazoid and the athletic Klingon mewling at the sensations in their breasts and pussies. Shelby and T’Pol cried out in unison, with Lanlee Milos adding her voice to the humiliated chorus a few seconds later. The six women quivered in their restraints, their naked bodies wiggling, their boobs steadily pumped.
Then the Betazoid counselor gasped, her pale body shaking, her voluptuous curves gyrating sexily against her bindings. Then with a wail of defeat Deanna Troi felt her nipples squirt, a hot burning sensation that made her body spasm in her restraints with pleasure.
“The Betazoid first,” Papilia said with surprise, watching the Starfleet officer’s milk as it ran through transparent tubes to a container positioned at the base of Troi’s restraining rig. “I honestly thought T’Pol would go earlier.”
Then Alia Belles and Vedek Lanlee lifted their faces and screamed as their nipples yielded, bursts of white rhythmically squeezed from their generous tits. The Deltan and Bajoran girls standing naked and helpless before them shuddered as their mentors were humiliatingly milked before their eyes.
Then came T’Pol
and Torres, the toned, tanned women emitted deep throaty moans as their dark
nipples surrendered their cream with a final twist of their teats. Milk
squirted into the funnels, feeding into the transparent tubing. Very last was Elizabeth
Shelby, the blonde Captain’s peaches resisting but in the end the young woman’s
udders were no match for the cruel treatment. Her boobs squirted white, the blue-eyed
beauty wriggling and moaning at the incredible sensation of being milked.
And now that their breasts had yielded the first few drops the machines were not letting up. Left and right they tugged at each woman’s nips, relentlessly milking them, drawing squirt after squirt from their aching teats. The six women shuddered and moaned and writhed in their restraints, a sexy chorus as their voices rose with pleasure and shame.
“A good start,” Papilia said, watching as the captives’ breasts were forced to surrender their cream to her machines. “Move T’Pol and her half-breed companions to my laboratory. Send the others to storage.” The rigs to which each woman was restrained began to move along the rail, carrying their naked captives to other sections of the underground base. Just as quickly as they left, six more empty rigs trundled out on the rail, eagerly awaiting the bare breasts of yet more victims.
The Vorta turned, looking at the trembling and terrified women arranged naked and helpless before her. The gravshacks behind their backs remained locked in an elevated position, forcing each woman to lean forward with her boobs dangling and her legs awkwardly spread to keep their balance, able to offer no resistance. A tremor passed through the group as each and every women knew that soon it would be their turn, and there would be no escape and no mercy.
“Well,” Papilia smiled, “Do we have any volunteers? Probably not. Tan’Alac, get me volunteers!”
Teenagers began to scream and wail as they were dragged towards the milking machines, long legs kicking and exposed tits jiggling as they uselessly struggled and shouted. But in the end it did them no good. They belonged to the Dominion now.
+++++
“Deanna Troi,” Papilia said grandly, a wicked smile on her pale unearthly face, “Commander aboard the USS Enterprise, the pride of the Federation. Daughter of the Betazoid Ambassador, heir to the Sacred Chalice of Rixx and the Holy Rings of Betazed, officer, counselor, confidante of powerful men and one of the major diplomatic movers in Starfleet. So, how does it feel to find your true calling in life?”
“Uhhhhhoohhhh, you evil slut!” Deanna moaned. The twenty-nine year old’s gorgeous body was still strapped to her milking rig, her generous alabaster breasts cruelly pulled downwards by her nipples. Tiny squirts of milk were teased from her teats, eagerly sucked down by the funnels. Her voluptuous body wriggled sexily in her restraints as the naked Starfleet officer suffered conflicting humiliation and pleasure at her treatment.
“Such language,” Papilia admonished, moving on to the next prisoner. “That’s something I might expect from this wicked criminal here. A Maquis terrorist wanted by both the Cardassians and the Federation, and wanted by the Ferengi to the tune of two hundred and fifty bars of gold pressed latinum. Such a strong body,” she murmured, looking up and down the twenty-two year old’s tanned athletic form. “An example of what awaits all Klingon women.”
B’Elanna Torres shut her eyes tightly as her nipples surrendered her cream, sending spasms of pleasure through her shame-wracked body. “I’m going to kill you bitch, I aaahhhhhh I swear it you filthy whore!”
The Vorta made a tutting noise. “But if I’m
the whore, B’Elanna, why is it that you’re
the one with your tits out?” She reached over to grip and squeeze
one of Torres’ bare breasts. The Klingon groaned as her right nipple yielded a
long and torturous squirt of milk. “That works surprisingly well, doesn’t it?” Papilia commented, switching to B’Elanna’s left boob and giving it an encouraging squeeze.
“But you’re both substandard,” Papilia continued, releasing Torres’ tits with a dismissive wave of her hand. “No offense intended to either of you. Deanna’s vintage is particularly creamy and it turns out Klingons produce a high-energy beverage: B’Elanna, your sugar content makes your milk very sweet. I’d recommend either of you for milkshakes, icecream and a cup of Earl Grey, but when we talk about Ketrecel White…”
The Vorta shook her head. “The vital compounds in Ketrecel White are impossible to replicate and organic synthesizers are consistently superior to mechanized ones, hence the use of your lovely melons, ladies. But the White I extract from your modified milk isn’t nearly as good as the real thing.”
The pale-skinned alien walked along the line of defeated Starfleet officers, looking up and down their bound and naked bodies as they trembled and wriggled against the velcro straps. “Real Ketrecel White can withstand intense heat and prolonged cold, and can be stored for years. What I milk out of you obedient little whores,” she said pointedly, using B’Elanna’s word, “Has to be carefully refrigerated and even then only lasts a few weeks. Which brings us to our final contestant, the always lovely T’Pol.”
As with Deanna and B’Elanna the rate of milking was actually painfully slow. Despite the frequent tugs on her teats, T’Pol’s tasty treats were yielding only a tiny volume of cream per pull. The Vulcan’s swollen melons would be able to endure many more hours of milking, although it wasn’t clear if the woman’s mind would hold up as well.
“Vulcans women are perfect dairy cows,” Papilia noted, running one finger up T’Pol’s flat stomach and then tracing the lower curves of her bare breasts, pulsing as they were tugged. “Desert evolution meant that T’Pol’s ancestors accumulated fatty reserves where it bests served their offspring. In other words, big tits.” She gripped the Vulcan’s udders gently, feeling out their supple heft and making the science officer shake in shame.
“But these are more than just everyday boobs. No, T’Pol’s udders contain traces of the isotope Trellium-D, which she was exposed to during some mission where she undoubtedly saved the Federation and all civilization as we know it. It’s toxic to Vulcans in larger quantities, but these milk-rich funbags hold just the right amount to allow certain interesting chemical processes.”
The Vorta leaned forward and whispered in T’Pol’s ear. “Your tits are the key to a new source of Ketrecel White!” To emphasize the point she squeezed the Vulcan’s breasts, making the woman groan as both nipples squirted more cream into the milk-hungry machine.
Papilia stepped back and admired the view. B’Elanna Torres, Deanna Troi and T’Pol, all once proud and independent women with promising Starfleet careers ahead of them, were now naked, bound, strapped into rigs, wriggling and moaning as their tits were milked. The Vorta listened to their little sounds of pleasure and distress, each woman trying to hold in her cries and failing miserably. Their sensitive bodies and aching teats forced them to mewl and groan and tremble, their fantastic figures wiggling sexily in their restraints as their breasts surrendered their cream.
“And that should just about do it for now.” With the push of a button the Vorta disengaged the milkers, leaving the three heroine’s breasts unmolested for the time being. Torres, Troi and T’Pol gasped in relief, a few last drops of milk still leaking from their nipples to drip to the generous underswell of their boobs. Each woman’s boobs now sagged slightly but still retained most of their plump fullness.
“Tan’Alac,” Papilia spoke into her communicator, “Bring two of your men to my laboratory.” Then she touched another button on her console.
Before any of the three women could speak the upper arms of each rig lowered, clamping a mask over each officer’s mouth and nose. “Mmmpphhh!” objected B’Elanna Torres as she felt a feeding tube push into her mouth. The three brunettes stiffened, bare breasts shaking and naked thighs trembling as they vainly struggled against this new invasion. Then each woman produced a muffled sound of surprise as nutrition was forced down their throats. The Klingon, the Vulcan and the Betazoid obediently swallowed, helplessly force-fed.
“Have to keep your strength up,” Papilia commented. The caches of milk stored in the machines at each woman’s feet began to buzz and whir, centrifuges spinning to separate the various compounds that had been liberated from the three captives’ lovely bosoms. “Thanks to my hormonal modifications, your bodies will prioritize weight gain in two specific places. Try to guess where they are,” the Vorta teased with an evil smile. “Don’t worry about the milkers doing any damage to you. I treated your boobies myself, and I’m very good at what I do. Those melons of yours are probably the most resilient udders in the Alpha Quadrant. They might feel a little saggy now but believe me, they’ve still got a lot more mileage. Which reminds me…”
Another button was pressed. The crescent-moon shaped fittings that were already snug against each woman’s nethers, pressingly familiarly from clitoris to asshole, suddenly extruded a pair of narrow tubes. “Mmmpphhh!’ Deanna complained, her voluptuous naked figure making tit-shaking jerks in her restraints. T’Pol and B’Elanna did the same, the three beauties wiggling sexily as they felt the waste-collection tubes worm evilly into their asses and vaginas!
“All taken care of,” Papilia said. A few seconds later the machinery processing the three women’s milk ceased to buzz. “And all finished,” the Vorta added contentedly.
A metal door slid aside and into the chamber marched three Jem’Hadar. T’Pol, when she could stop rolling her eyes in distress at the unfair invasion of her mouth, pussy and ass, recognized two of the Dominion soldiers. In the lead was scar-faced Tan’Alac, the Jem’Hadar First, closely followed by Ninth K’Mataclan and another grey-skinned soldier she remembered seeing during the humiliating trek across the desert. They stood at attention exactly opposite the three nude, bound and freshly milked Starfleet officers.
Each cream processor opened, revealing a small transparent cylinder. Each contained the Ketrecel White substitute, just processed from the milk freshly squeezed from Torres, T’Pol and Troi’s helpless breasts. “Tan’Alac,” Papilia said, leaning over to retrieve the White and unwittingly flashing her panties and firm bottom beneath her short skirt in the process, “Do you vouch for the loyalty of your men?”
The First seemed uninterested in the Vorta’s tight ass. His eyes remained locked on the trembling breasts of the Vulcan T’Pol. “We pledge our loyalty to the Founders, from now until death.”
“Then receive this reward from the Founders,” Papilia answered, holding out the three White canisters to the Jem’Hadar, “May it keep you strong.”
“I will take the Vulcan’s,” Tan’Alac said firmly to his men before taking the indicated vial. “Third, take the Klingon’s. Ninth, take the Betazoid’s.” The three soldiers extracted nearly-empty vials of Ketrecel White from compartments in the collarbone of their uniform, replacing them with the fresh capsules. With a nod to the Vorta and a final lingering look at T’Pol’s quaking naked body, Tan’Alac led his men from the chamber.
“Oh, he does like you, T’Pol,” Papilia teased once the Jem’Hadar had departed, “It must be true love, because you don’t look so good right now. Your tits are a bit saggy and he must be getting bored of that unimaginative outfit you’re wearing. Seriously, who wears naked with velcro straps? Oh right, you whores do!” the Vorta mocked. The three heroines could only produced muffled sounds of anger from behind their masks.
The Vorta moved to a console nearby and checked the displays, monitoring the vital signs of her three sexy captives. “We may have just seen history, ladies. That vial Tan’Alac took might turn out to be the first sustainable White substitute. Maybe you should take a picture to remember the moment,” Papilia smirked, looking over the three naked, bound and thoroughly humiliated Starfleet officers. B’Elanna, T’Pol and Deanna all shot useless glares at the Vorta even as they were force-fed, bare breasts trembling as they swallowed and swallowed.
Returning her attention to her consoles, the Vorta’s pale eyes glistened with the reflected readouts. “I kept samples of your milk aside and will be keeping an eye on them. This planet is teeming with women like you, T’Pol, and while Trellium-D is rare I’ve been able to locate a source. Shortly I will possess enough to dose several hundred thousand women. If the sample I squeezed out of your titties survives, and functions properly in my Jem’Hadar, then the Alpha Quadrant is as good as conquered.”
Taking a moment to eye her three captives’ udders critically, Papilia finally conceded. “That’s about enough for now. Spare the suckers, spoil the cows.”
The mechanical arms of the trio’s milking rigs shifted,
pulling masks away from mouths and leaving the three brunettes free to gasp and
groan. Then the side arms swung in to their breasts once more. “No no not agaaaaiiiieee!”
Deanna cried as her brown teats were once more grabbed, twisted and tugged,
urging her full boobs towards lactation yet again. B’Elanna shuddered and
jerked as the twenty-two year old’s nips were pinched
and squeezed. T’Pol shut her lovely eyes and opened
her plump lips in helpless pleasure and distress as the Vulcan’s aureoles were pulled
by the small but powerful rubber fingers of the machine. In seconds fresh milk was
being spurted into the collectors, the three Starfleet officers reduced to
humiliated moans.
“Your logic,” T’Pol gasped between the rhythmic tugs of her udders, “Is aaahhh! Your logic is flawed!”
Papilia did her best impression of a raised Vulcan eyebrow. “Flawed? Now this I just have to hear. Well then, science officer T’Pol, I think I’d like to hear that famed Vulcan logic at work. Let me just turn down the milkers so they don’t distract you.” She pressed a button on her console.
“I meant that ooohhhh aaah ahh ahhh aaah aaahhhh!!!”
“I’m sorry, I think that actually turned them up.” Papilia watched for a few minutes as the wretched contraptions clinging tightly to the Vulcan’s nipples milked her breasts with new vigor, pulling both brown teats down hard simultaneously, then relaxing, then yanking hard again.
“Yes,” Papilia murmured, “I definitely turned them up.” With each long pull the machine squeezed two narrow jets of cream from T’Pol’s breasts and an equally long cry of distress and pleasure from the science officer herself. She bucked against her velcro restraints, her bottom thumping back against the frame and her head thrashing left and right.
“Now where did I put that speed control,” the Vorta said idly, watching tears appear in T’Pol’s eyes, her hips sexily wiggling left and right as her udders were forcefully milked at high speed. Finally Papilia had mercy. “Oh, there it is.” The milking of the Vulcan’s tits slowed, extracting only a single squeeze from alternating nipples every ten or so seconds. “You were talking about logic, T’Pol,” the Vorta said helpfully.
B’Elanna and Deanna looked at their friend with dark confused eyes, which closed frequently as the Klingon and the Betazoid endured more milk being squeezed from their bare breasts.
“You appear to be the only Vorta here,” continued T’Pol, nodding to their tormentor smugly smirking as she watched the three nude and defeated Starfleet officers. “Research of this importance should justify many specialists, not one lone Vorta far from Dominion support. It is aahhh, as if you do not want the Dominion to help you. Or you do not want the Dominion to find you.”
Her left breast stretched as milk was extracted from her
teat and a cry extracted from T’Pol’s lips. “This is
not a Dominion strategy. This is your strategy.
You are, oohh! You are
building a supply of Ketrecel White for an army to
field against the Founders and without their knowleaaaaaah, without their knowledge! From the oath your Jem’Hadar
just invoked I assume they are ignorant of your plans to betray your masters.
If they knew whaaaaaaaeeeiii! Aaaahhhh! Oh by Suraaaaaaakeeeiiii!”
Suddenly T’Pol, Deanna and B’Elanna’s breasts were being milked full throttle, all six machines pulling on their teats in unison, three pairs of boobs squirting cream. The three Starfleet officers wailed at the incredible sensation.
Masks flicked down over Troi and Torres’ faces, muffling their cries but leaving T’Pol’s plump lips uncovered. Then the rigs to which the Betazoid and the Klingon were bound began to move, riding the rail on the floor as they were carried out of the chamber, leaving T’Pol alone with the Vorta.
“Where aaahhh! Are you taking them aaahhh!!” the Vulcan demanded, her words broken up by cries of ecstatic distress as her udders were vigorously milked.
“Wouldn’t you like to know,” Papilia said coldly. “Perhaps to storage. Perhaps to the surface to let the desert bake them into dried husks. Perhaps their anesthetic doses will be increased until they die. Perhaps their food ration will be cut and they will simply be milked to death.”
The Vorta grabbed T’Pol’s short dark hair and made the Vulcan bow her head, forcing the science officer to watch her own generous tits being milked. “If you breathe a word of this to my Jem’Hadar, unfortunate things might happen to your companions. So,” she added, running her other hand across the Vulcan’s full-lipped mouth, “You had better keep those fat cock-sucking lips together, T’Pol.”
The science officer shut her eyes at the humiliating sight of her nipples being pinched and yanked, the globes of her breasts stretching to cones milk squirting from her teats with each pull. “You cannot hide an operation aaaahh! Of this scale,” T’Pol gasped. “Starfleet will uuhhh, realize that the Chastity is missing, and the USS Moselle, and the Deltans!”
Papilia smirked. “My Jem’Hadar dealt with that possibility long ago. By now
Starfleet will have discovered the wreckage of the runabout
The Vorta released T’Pol’s hair, letting the woman lift her face away from the
humiliating sight of her own milking. “Vulcan is perfect,” Papilia
smirked. “The atmospheric interference concealed the construction and operation
of this base. Your desert-bred countrywomen are deliciously built for my
needs,” she added, eyeing T’Pol’s bare breasts, “And
there are always ships coming and going which can be lost in creative ways,
especially when you can smuggle shrouded Jem’Hadar
onboard.”
“Your Jem’Hadar,” T’Pol stammered as her tits were continuously stretched and milked, “Will turn on you in an instant!”
“And it will do no good.” Papilia gestured to the short skirt she wore, pointing to a little device clipped on her belt. “A killswitch control, connected to every Jem’Hadar that I bred for this mission. Never turn against your masters without an insurance plan. I could kill each and every one of them with a touch of a button and start over. Oh yes, I have the necessary facilities to breed more Jem’Hadar. I really should give you the tour some day.”
Naked, bound and helpless as her milk was squeezed from her bare breasts, T’Pol stared in hopeless defeat at the Vorta and felt despair, and aching nipples.
“I’ll keep you here a little longer,” Papilia
said, returning to her console and looking demurely over the analysis, easing
the rate of her victim’s milking with a few button presses. “I enjoy your
company. So, T’Pol,” the Vorta
said, eying where the crescent-wedge of waste reclaimers
were nuzzling up against her ass and bald pussy, “I’ll bet that gets uncomfortable really fast. How do you put up with it?”
+++++
B’Elanna Torres wiggled uselessly in her restraints, her tits jiggling with her pointless struggles. Despite all of her Klingon strength and determination she could not free herself from the gravshacks holding her wrists behind her back or from the straps across her collar, ribs and thighs. They were nothing more than velcro but without her hands free she could not remove them. Her nipples ached from the constant milking, the pleasure and discomfort eating at her sanity.
Moaning as their breasts and nethers were relentlessly stimulated, the Klingon and the Betazoid were carried by their milking rigs to a large storage chamber. The sight that greeted them briefly muted their mask-muffled moans, leaving the counselor and the engineer staring with dark horrified eyes.
The walls of the long storage chamber were lined with nude captives. Except for T’Pol still in Papilia’s ‘care’, every one of the woman who had accompanied them across the desert were here. Each one was bound, nude and pacified by a mask over her mouth and nose. Every pussy and ass was fitted with a waste reclaiming system. Every pair of nipples were caught by cruel milking fingers, forcing teats to squirt milk into funnels to fuel Papilia’s evil plans.
Deanna and B’Elanna’s rigs traveled down the rail line, the two Starfleet officers looking over every captive with horror in their dark eyes. They saw Bajoran nuns weakly struggling, eyelids fluttering as they vainly fought the anesthetic being pumped into their lungs. They watched helplessly as Deltan schoolgirls wriggled sexily, their teenaged tits yielding squirts of milk as the mechanized fingers tugged and twisted at their nipples. The chamber was filled with their muffled moans, the many young women’s sounds of distress hampered by the masks over their mouths and noses.
Alia Belles was a captivating sight as her voluptuous figure writhed and wriggled in endless distress at her milking. Lanlee Milos, the lovely body she had covered with the robes of a Bajoran Vedek now completely exposed, tossed her long red hair as her udders were mercilessly molested. At the far end of the line they could see Robin Lefler trembling and moaning in her restraints, with Hedril on one side and Shelby on the other, the three beautiful Starfleet officers reduced to dairy cows as their bare breasts were squeezed and stretched, teats squirting on demand.
For a moment B’Elanna thought that some of them were
missing, as she couldn’t see any of the flat-chested
prisoners that the Jem’Hadar had called “Class Three”.
Then the Klingon realized with shock that the smaller-breasted Class Threes were there. Papilia’s
treatments had swollen their humble boobs until they rivaled T’Pol’s udders for volume and delicious shape. Now the
dozen teenagers writhed and wiggled alongside their companions, their newly enlargened tits relentlessly milked.
Jem’Hadar moved around the storage room, checking over the systems that restrained, sedated and cared for the captive females. Torres recognized the First and the Ninth among them.
“These prisoners should secure our immediate need for White,” K’Mataclan was saying. “But this base is still vulnerable until Vulcan itself is pacified.”
“Our orders are clear,” Tan’Alac replied, his voice hard as stone. “Until the Vorta can produce a true substitute for the white, we will milk these women for the Dominion.”
“And if the Vorta cannot produce it?” asked K’Mataclan.
“Then we will milk these women for the Dominion,” Tan’Alac intoned, “Until we die.”
Torres and Troi’s rigs halted and turned, moving them both into position with their backs against the wall. Now the two Starfleet officers were part of a long line of helpless nude and bound women.
“Oh god,” came Deanna’s empathic message, “I can hear them. I can hear all of them.” B’Elanna Torres could hear nothing but the squirting of stolen cream striking the milking rigs’ funnels and muted moans as women cried out against their masks. But the empathic Betazoid could undoubtedly sense far more: the shame and helpless pleasure of these chaste acolytes, naïve schoolgirls and once-proud Starfleet officers.
The system was cruelly perfect. Each female was bound and sedated, their bodily needs cared for. Any chance of communication or escape was squashed. B’Elanna Torres realized with horror that there would be no freedom from this room. The twenty-two year old jerked freshly in her rig, ignoring the discomfort as her nipples were suddenly pinched tighter and stretched farther by the milkers. This room was the end of all hope.
Anesthetic gas flooded through B’Elanna and Deanna’s masks.
The two women struggled, tits wiggling and naked bodies gyrating but they could
not slip free of their bonds. Slowly the fight drained out of them, their
movements slowing and their eyelids fluttering. Voyager’s chief engineer and
Deanna Troi and B’Elanna Torres
were nothing more than two more helpless victims in the storage chamber, two
pairs of ripe udders to be endlessly milked.
+++++
K’Mataclan had been assigned to check the straps and systems on the new prisoners. The Jem’Hadar Ninth made a slight adjustment to B’Elanna Torres’ thigh straps, tightening them around her athletic legs. Leaving the twenty-two year old wriggling mindlessly as she was milked he stepped back and turned to leave.
Then the Ninth halted. Slowly the Jem’Hadar turned
around to look, his eyes settling on the voluptuous figure of Deanna Troi. The Starfleet officer’s hourglass figure was pale and
gorgeous, wriggling slightly in time to the milking of her ample titflesh. The lips of her bald pussy were parted by
life-support tubes around which her hips slowly gyrated. Her dark eyes were not
entirely closed, the mask over her mouth and nose flooding her lungs with
anesthetic.
K’Mataclan had seen Deanna Troi naked many times before. He had felled her with a stunning phaser shot, burning the uniform off the Betazoid’s generous chest before ripping her garments from her voluptuous body. He had carried her naked on his shoulder across the desert. He had watered her, the counselor kneeling naked with her mouth open as she struggled to catch every drop of precious moisture. And now he was using substitute Ketrecel While that had been extracted from her milk. He had experienced the most intimate power over her possible.
Yet now there was something different about the woman. The Jem’Hadar felt strangely drawn to the helpless twenty-nine year old.
Suddenly all K’Mataclan could hear were wails and screams. He ducked and clutched his head at the deafening sound. All around him he could hear young woman howling in pleasure and humiliation, voices lifting in unwanted ecstasy, sobs of defeat and despair, shrieks of helpless rage and prayers to any god that might save them. That pleasure and shame and hopelessness and fury poured over the genetically engineered soldier in a wave that threatened to crush his mind. With a cry of defiance he turned quickly, fists clenched as if to fight whatever force was affecting him.
There was nothing there. Now the Jem’Hadar could hear nothing but the sound of milk squirted from nipples and soft groans through masks. K’Mataclan stared, looking around at the long line of beautiful, full-breasted women who were bound and naked in the milking chamber. Each one of them was masked and sedated, unable to make any noise above a moan.
But the Jem’Hadar Ninth was sure of what he had just felt and heard, and he could not forget it. The nude, bound and milked captive women had voices even in their humiliating and helpless state, and K’Mataclan had heard them.
TO BE CONTINUED
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