Her Alien Guardian (Galactic Discipline)

Chapter 1

CHAPTER 1

T essara

When the battle station’s alert started to sound aboard the Conqueror of Bresla , Lieutenant Jorg was about to drive his rigid penis into my whipped bottom at full length.

I gasped at the blaring alarms, the harsh noise piercing through the haze of pain and pleasure, as at the same time I felt Jorg run the head of his cock between my burning cheeks. For a moment, I thought Jorg might stop, but he merely grunted and tightened his grip on my hips, still preparing to thrust into my smallest hole.

“Don’t you dare move, girl,” he growled, his voice a low rumble that sent shivers down my spine.

I whimpered, torn between anticipation of the burning stretch in my rear and the frantic energy suddenly filling the ship. Through the fog of arousal, I could hear hurried footsteps and shouted orders echoing down the corridors. What was happening? Had the war finally reached us?

Jorg pressed more firmly. I bit my lip, struggling to stay still as he’d commanded. My fingers curled against the hard metal of the punishment bench, seeking an anchor as pleasure and shame warred within me.

“Sir,” I gasped, “the alert?—”

His hand cracked across my already tender backside. “Did I give you permission to speak?”

“N-no, sir. I’m sorry,” I whispered, tears pricking at the corners of my eyes.

As Jorg continued to use me, seemingly oblivious to the chaos erupting around us, I couldn’t help but wonder what this new development might mean. Would it put a stop to our endless patrols? Or herald something far worse?

The uncertainty terrified me almost as much as it excited me. Jorg’s manhood pushed again. I fought to keep still, my body trembling with the effort. The alarms continued to blare, but they seemed distant now, drowned out by the sound of flesh meeting flesh and my own muffled whimpers.

Suddenly, Jorg’s comm unit crackled to life. “Lieutenant, report to the bridge immediately!” The captain’s voice was tense, urgent.

I felt Jorg stiffen behind me, his grip on my hips tightening almost painfully. For a moment, I thought he might ignore the order, lost in his pursuit of pleasure. But then he stepped back abruptly, leaving me feeling achingly unfulfilled despite the shame of that treasonous emotion.

“Damn it all,” he muttered, and I heard the rustle of fabric as he quickly straightened his uniform. “Stay right where you are, girl. I’m not finished with you yet.”

His heavy footsteps receded, and I was left alone, still bent over the punishment bench, cuffed at wrists and ankles, my bottom raised and offered to whoever came into the room. I shivered, torn between relief at the reprieve and a perverse disappointment that he hadn’t finished.

The ship lurched suddenly, nearly throwing me off balance. My heart raced. What was happening out there? Were we under attack? The possibilities swirled through my mind, each more terrifying than the last.

I closed my eyes, trying to steady my breathing as the ship continued to shudder around me. The alarms blared on, making it terribly difficult to think of anything but the unknown danger we faced. To distract myself from the growing panic, I forced my mind back to earlier that day, when my careless words had earned me Lieutenant Jorg’s wrath.

We had been on patrol for weeks, circling endlessly above Vion Prime. The once-proud capital of the Vionian Empire now lay in ruins, a testament to the Federation’s might. Our ship, along with the other battered remnants of the Vionian fleet, maintained a tenuous orbit around the planet. The days blurred together in a haze of monotony, tension, and painful, humiliating fucking, as my masters used my body to keep their morale up.

I had been cleaning the bridge, my eyes drawn again and again to the viewscreen and the scarred surface of Vion Prime below. The silence felt oppressive, broken only by the occasional beep of instruments and the low murmur of the crew’s voices.

“Do you think the war is truly over?” I had asked, the words slipping out before I could stop them. “Or are we just… waiting?”

The question had hung in the air, heavy with implications. Lieutenant Jorg’s head had snapped up, his cruel gaze locking onto me with predatory intensity. “What did you say, girl?”

I had known immediately that I had overstepped. A ship’s concubine wasn’t supposed to question such things. But the weeks of uncertainty had worn away at my resolve, leaving me raw and restless.

“I… I’m sorry, sir,” I had stammered, lowering my eyes. “I spoke out of turn.”

But it was too late. Jorg had risen from his chair, his powerful frame seeming to fill the entire bridge. “It seems you need a reminder of your place,” he had growled, grabbing my arm and dragging me toward the punishment bench.

The memory of what followed sent fresh shivers through my body. Jorg had bent me over the bench, securing my wrists and ankles with practiced efficiency. The whisper of leather had made me flinch as he selected the punishment strap, the anticipation building as he took his position behind me.

The first strike had stolen my breath, a line of fire blooming across my bare bottom. I had cried out, more in surprise than pain, but Jorg had shown no mercy. Again and again, the strap had fallen, each impact driving home the lesson I was meant to learn.

“You are here to serve, not to think,” Jorg had snarled between strikes. “Your opinions are worthless. Your questions are meaningless. You exist for our pleasure and use. Nothing more.”

Tears had streamed down my face, a mix of pain and shame and a too-familiar something else I refused to name. As the punishment continued, I had found myself slipping into the strange, hazy state that my corrections always seemed to bring on.

My mind, set free now from the alarm, drifted further, recalling how the punishment had shifted, as it always did when Jorg wielded the strap, into something else entirely. As the sting of the strap had faded to a dull throb, I had become acutely aware of Jorg’s presence behind me. The air, heavy with the scent of leather and sweat and arousal, carried the too-familiar charge of my masters’ seemingly ever-present need to take their pleasure inside their fuck toy’s body.

I had heard the soft clink of a belt buckle, the rustle of fabric, and then I had felt the heat of Jorg’s body as he stepped closer. His rough hand had trailed down my spine, sending shivers through my body despite the lingering pain. When he had reached the curve of my bottom, he paused, squeezing firmly.

“You need to learn your place,” he murmured, his voice low and dangerous. “Perhaps this will drive the lesson home.”

There was a brief moment of coolness as he moved away, followed by the distinctive snap of a cap being opened. My breath had caught in my throat as I realized what was coming. Part of me wanted to protest, to beg for mercy, but I had known it would only make things worse. So I had remained silent, trembling slightly as I heard the wet sound of Jorg coating his fingers with lubricant.

When his slick digit had pressed against my most intimate place, I couldn’t help but gasp. He had circled slowly, almost teasingly, before pushing inside. The stretch had burned, my body instinctively trying to resist the intrusion. Jorg’s other hand had gripped my hip, holding me steady as he worked his finger deeper.

“This is what you get, girl. Take it,” he had commanded, though there was a hint of amusement in his tone. He had known how difficult it was, how powerless I felt in that moment.

Gradually, my body had begun to yield to his insistent probing. One finger had become two, stretching and preparing me for what was to come. I had bitten my lip, trying to stifle the small sounds of discomfort and unwanted pleasure that threatened to escape.

Just when I thought I couldn’t take any more, Jorg had withdrawn his fingers. A pause had ensued, filled only by the sound of our ragged breathing and the distant hum of the ship’s engines. Then I had felt the blunt pressure of something much larger pressing against my entrance.

“Remember this,” Jorg had growled. “Remember your place.”

The pressure had felt intense, painful despite the preparation. I had gripped the edges of the bench, my knuckles turning white as I fought to remain still. Jorg hadn’t rushed. He had obviously wanted me to think about that shameful pressure.

Then the battle stations alert had started to sound.

The comfort room, where the ship’s three deck officers used me, lay just off the ward room—the officers’ lounge and mess. On the other side of the ward room lay the bridge. The comfort room had no viewport, of course; the ship’s concubine must never risk distraction when pleasuring her starfleet masters, and when they were engaged in using her they had no need to cast their hungry eyes on anything other than her bound, naked body, provided to them for their solace in the depths of outer space. So I had no idea what was going on outside the ship except from what I could hear in the increasingly agitated noises coming from the bridge.

No door separated the comfort room from the ward room. The Conqueror of Bresla ’s officers frequently left me bound to the pleasure bench as they ate, commenting from time to time on the attractions of my punished backside, my visible, hairless cunny, or my exposed bottom hole. The door from the ward room to the bridge, though, was usually closed—automatically so, like all the doors on the ship. It had not closed, however, after Lieutenant Jorg had left. That meant I could hear the officers shouting at each other and screaming requests for other ships’ assistance into their comm panels.

It also meant that things had gotten bad: the Conqueror of Bresla only disabled the automatic doors when the ship’s computer sensed that evacuation to the rescue pods might be necessary. It had never happened before, in the year I’d been assigned to the Conqueror .

I strained my ears, trying to make sense of the frantic voices echoing from the bridge. The officers’ words came in bursts, punctuated by static and the blaring of alarms.

“…massive jump signature! They’re everywhere!”

“How did they get so close? Our long-range sensors should have…”

“It doesn’t matter now! We need backup!”

My heart raced as I pieced together the fragments of information. A Magisterian fleet had somehow appeared in the system, much closer to Vion Prime than ever before. The impossible had happened—they had breached our defenses.

“This is the Conqueror of Bresla to any Imperial ships in range,” Captain Voss’s voice rang out, tight with barely contained panic. “We are facing a full Magisterian assault. Requesting immediate assistance!”

There was a moment of tense silence, broken only by the persistent wail of the alarms. Then a cacophony of responses flooded in, each more desperate than the last.

“…shields failing! We can’t hold them off!”

“…engines are down! We’re sitting ducks out here!”

“…evac pods launching! May the Emperor have mercy on our souls!”

I felt a chill run down my spine as the grim reality of our situation sank in. The defenders of Vion Prime, once a formidable force, had been whittled down to a shadow of their former strength. Now it seemed the Magisterians had come to deliver the final blow.

“How many ships?” Lieutenant Jorg’s voice cut through the chaos, still commanding even in the face of disaster.

“At least thirty capital ships, sir,” came the shaky reply. “And… and that’s not counting the support vessels and fighters.”

A string of curses filled the air, one of them in a language I barely recognized—Lieutenant Bavo’s native Gorian, which he was actually forbidden to speak aboard a starfleet ship, by imperial decree. The fear in the officers’ voices was palpable, a stark contrast to their usual arrogant demeanor.

“It’s the end,” someone said, the words carrying clearly to where I lay securely bound to the bench. “They’ve come to finish us off.”

“This is it,” Captain Voss agreed, his voice heavy with resignation. “The final battle for Vion Prime.”