Hunting Trip:
This journal entry details the way the main character of this site hunts.
* This entry is not yet dated.
This journal entry details the way the main character of this site hunts.
* This entry is not yet dated.
Himmler's Journal
Prologue:
"And like every truly beautiful woman," I told her, "you should be a slave." --Admiral Tarl Cabot, Hunters of Gor
The only correct response to this is for the beautiful female being addressed to have a natural, lovely laugh, delighted as she politely reminds her master and herself, "I am a slave; Your slave," then lifting her lips as an offering to his. A good slave always submits, even and especially when she is beaten, for even beatings --everything her master does and requires of her-- arouses her; she is always aroused to be of use to him, no matter what that use is. A slave is not permitted inhibitions, property, or weapons. A slave girl does the comforting, and may not seek to be comforted. Further, as Americans hunted down those who do not live their way, no matter where they were on the Earth, Inisfreeans do not permit beautiful females of any age to be free, hunting them down anywhere they are in Creation. Americans, Inisfreeans, and many other races and peoples are hunters, each hunting what they seek. The key difference was that the way the Americans hunted made them very weak (delusional) and hunted, too, and nothing weak can long survive the universal hunt.
"There is a Gorean saying that free women, raised gently in the high cylinders, in their robes of concealment, unarmed, untrained in weapons, may, by the slaver, be plucked like flowers." --Admiral Tarl Cabot, Hunters of Gor
"And like every truly beautiful woman," I told her, "you should be a slave." --Admiral Tarl Cabot, Hunters of Gor
The only correct response to this is for the beautiful female being addressed to have a natural, lovely laugh, delighted as she politely reminds her master and herself, "I am a slave; Your slave," then lifting her lips as an offering to his. A good slave always submits, even and especially when she is beaten, for even beatings --everything her master does and requires of her-- arouses her; she is always aroused to be of use to him, no matter what that use is. A slave is not permitted inhibitions, property, or weapons. A slave girl does the comforting, and may not seek to be comforted. Further, as Americans hunted down those who do not live their way, no matter where they were on the Earth, Inisfreeans do not permit beautiful females of any age to be free, hunting them down anywhere they are in Creation. Americans, Inisfreeans, and many other races and peoples are hunters, each hunting what they seek. The key difference was that the way the Americans hunted made them very weak (delusional) and hunted, too, and nothing weak can long survive the universal hunt.
"There is a Gorean saying that free women, raised gently in the high cylinders, in their robes of concealment, unarmed, untrained in weapons, may, by the slaver, be plucked like flowers." --Admiral Tarl Cabot, Hunters of Gor
狩獵之旅
Introduction:
I never much cared for the hunting of animals. It just never excited or satisfied me that much. Sometimes, to vent my ever-building rage, during free time between training on various bases in the realm that was once, before the Rapture Campaign, called America, I would go out with fellow warriors and we would use our special warfare skills, of all things, to locate and steer in various wildlife for mass killings. Then, having hunted them by the dozen, instead of as individuals, we would make large quantities of stews and jerky, among other things. It was entertaining enough, I suppose, and the food we were able to prepare from it was filling and nourishing, as well as gamy in its flavor profiles; a good thing, more often than not, if you ask me, but still... it just didn't always feel like what I was meant to be spending my time doing. There was a chapter of my life when I used it, as I said, to blow of steam; to calm down; to take our my aggression and frustration on targets which were potentially very dangerous against me and my kind. There was a later chapter of my life when I thought I should feel bad for taking those lives, wildlife or not, and I repented, wondering if any spiritual creatures existed... and if they were listening... and if they cared what I was doing, repenting, or why. I got over the oddities of that chapter quickly, having found that it obviously had only a negative effect on things; nothing was listening, nothing was improving by me repenting and trying to force negative feelings about myself or my actions at any given point in my life, and, if anything, it was only making me waste time feeling bad; bad from sadness, bad from excessive empathy or compassion or sympathy, bad from spending time upset instead of working and building things, and bad from the atrophy that comes from such approach attempts.
It later occurred to me that there were other ways to hunt, and that I had tried some of them, and that they had been far more entertaining and rewarding. For example, I had hunted online for countless items, amassing vast collections of all the things I loved to see and hear, numbering in the Terabytes. I had also hunted for girls, sometimes online, sometimes in person, with varying degrees of success, always learning what signs, warning and otherwise, to look for, how to handle interactions with such primitive, dangerous beasts that all Earth females are, and what I really enjoyed doing with them, which never once included listening or compromise; I learned, through this form of hunting, that I was a dominant, and, furthermore, that I was a Gorean slavemaster; most dominant among all human males. Finally, there was the hunting of enemies, and I learned, through doing that on hundreds of combat missions on the other side of the planet from my realm of upbringing, that I loved everything about it --except having to do it with non-Gorean males; false-men; braindead boys posing as men, who were only half-brave, and always cowardly when back in their home realms. From these experiences with other types of hunting, I gained a much more complete picture of myself and what I enjoyed interacting and dealing with.
Touching on the Gorean subject again, I should note a few more points. First, that many humans do not know much vocabulary; they don't bother to learn the definitions of the words they use, often just trying to string together sounds they hear a lot, even if the resulting syntax is consistently confusing, misinterpreted, and even laughed at. With regard to what I am talking about in this journal entry, humans don't know, and refuse to listen to the fact that, they are animals, for they are a primitive, shallowminded, insecure, prematurely violent species, and even when their own language and science books clearly point out that they are not plants or rocks; that they are, in fact, by definition, animals, they shy away from the term unless using it condescendingly against all other animals. Goreans have a similar failing; they also use the term 'animal' condescendingly, often referring to their slaves as 'just animals', and individual slaves as 'just another animal'. So, when I say that there are a few animals I enjoy hunting, and that they are humans, I am not saying that in a derogatory way, because the word 'animals' is just a neutral identifier for a type of lifeform; not some hint of social commentary, and because the humans I hunt are, almost always, ones I enjoy, for I hunt, vastly predominantly, for girls sexy enough to become my pleasure slaves. When I hunt humans I *don't* enjoy, it isn't so much of a hunt as it is a surgical extermination to preserve all other life in human-infected (occupied; colonized) realms by removing humans because that's the only way to stop their countless forms of devastating pollution (which stems from their same general mental failing; condescending toward all lifeforms that are not just like them, demonizing them, and recklessly committing genocide on a regular basis, even when it hurts them; the humans, almost as much as their victims).
All this being said, I've tried a lot of different ways to hunt, and a lot of different things to hunt. In doing so, I've learned that I prefer hunting sexy girls. Like all other lifeforms in creation, I am a sexual predator; I look for what I find sexy, then win it at all costs, for I am logical. Humans demonize everything that works, and have demonized even the term 'sexual predator', as well as 'rapist', as well as 'violent criminal', all of which are good things if you ask the vast majority of people. I realized this, and now try everything they demonize, finding the vast majority of it to be comfortable, functional, useful, and immediately applicable to my life's work. Also, I like to make what I hunt... hunt for me; that is to say that once I capture sexy females, part of the way I enslave them is by assigning them chores, such as hunting for other things For me, and that may include furnishings, recipes, other sexy girls, gourmet cuisine, and so forth. I hunt, but the animals I hunt are humans, and I enjoy hunting the most when I know it is a team effort, with me in unquestioned command.
I never much cared for the hunting of animals. It just never excited or satisfied me that much. Sometimes, to vent my ever-building rage, during free time between training on various bases in the realm that was once, before the Rapture Campaign, called America, I would go out with fellow warriors and we would use our special warfare skills, of all things, to locate and steer in various wildlife for mass killings. Then, having hunted them by the dozen, instead of as individuals, we would make large quantities of stews and jerky, among other things. It was entertaining enough, I suppose, and the food we were able to prepare from it was filling and nourishing, as well as gamy in its flavor profiles; a good thing, more often than not, if you ask me, but still... it just didn't always feel like what I was meant to be spending my time doing. There was a chapter of my life when I used it, as I said, to blow of steam; to calm down; to take our my aggression and frustration on targets which were potentially very dangerous against me and my kind. There was a later chapter of my life when I thought I should feel bad for taking those lives, wildlife or not, and I repented, wondering if any spiritual creatures existed... and if they were listening... and if they cared what I was doing, repenting, or why. I got over the oddities of that chapter quickly, having found that it obviously had only a negative effect on things; nothing was listening, nothing was improving by me repenting and trying to force negative feelings about myself or my actions at any given point in my life, and, if anything, it was only making me waste time feeling bad; bad from sadness, bad from excessive empathy or compassion or sympathy, bad from spending time upset instead of working and building things, and bad from the atrophy that comes from such approach attempts.
It later occurred to me that there were other ways to hunt, and that I had tried some of them, and that they had been far more entertaining and rewarding. For example, I had hunted online for countless items, amassing vast collections of all the things I loved to see and hear, numbering in the Terabytes. I had also hunted for girls, sometimes online, sometimes in person, with varying degrees of success, always learning what signs, warning and otherwise, to look for, how to handle interactions with such primitive, dangerous beasts that all Earth females are, and what I really enjoyed doing with them, which never once included listening or compromise; I learned, through this form of hunting, that I was a dominant, and, furthermore, that I was a Gorean slavemaster; most dominant among all human males. Finally, there was the hunting of enemies, and I learned, through doing that on hundreds of combat missions on the other side of the planet from my realm of upbringing, that I loved everything about it --except having to do it with non-Gorean males; false-men; braindead boys posing as men, who were only half-brave, and always cowardly when back in their home realms. From these experiences with other types of hunting, I gained a much more complete picture of myself and what I enjoyed interacting and dealing with.
Touching on the Gorean subject again, I should note a few more points. First, that many humans do not know much vocabulary; they don't bother to learn the definitions of the words they use, often just trying to string together sounds they hear a lot, even if the resulting syntax is consistently confusing, misinterpreted, and even laughed at. With regard to what I am talking about in this journal entry, humans don't know, and refuse to listen to the fact that, they are animals, for they are a primitive, shallowminded, insecure, prematurely violent species, and even when their own language and science books clearly point out that they are not plants or rocks; that they are, in fact, by definition, animals, they shy away from the term unless using it condescendingly against all other animals. Goreans have a similar failing; they also use the term 'animal' condescendingly, often referring to their slaves as 'just animals', and individual slaves as 'just another animal'. So, when I say that there are a few animals I enjoy hunting, and that they are humans, I am not saying that in a derogatory way, because the word 'animals' is just a neutral identifier for a type of lifeform; not some hint of social commentary, and because the humans I hunt are, almost always, ones I enjoy, for I hunt, vastly predominantly, for girls sexy enough to become my pleasure slaves. When I hunt humans I *don't* enjoy, it isn't so much of a hunt as it is a surgical extermination to preserve all other life in human-infected (occupied; colonized) realms by removing humans because that's the only way to stop their countless forms of devastating pollution (which stems from their same general mental failing; condescending toward all lifeforms that are not just like them, demonizing them, and recklessly committing genocide on a regular basis, even when it hurts them; the humans, almost as much as their victims).
All this being said, I've tried a lot of different ways to hunt, and a lot of different things to hunt. In doing so, I've learned that I prefer hunting sexy girls. Like all other lifeforms in creation, I am a sexual predator; I look for what I find sexy, then win it at all costs, for I am logical. Humans demonize everything that works, and have demonized even the term 'sexual predator', as well as 'rapist', as well as 'violent criminal', all of which are good things if you ask the vast majority of people. I realized this, and now try everything they demonize, finding the vast majority of it to be comfortable, functional, useful, and immediately applicable to my life's work. Also, I like to make what I hunt... hunt for me; that is to say that once I capture sexy females, part of the way I enslave them is by assigning them chores, such as hunting for other things For me, and that may include furnishings, recipes, other sexy girls, gourmet cuisine, and so forth. I hunt, but the animals I hunt are humans, and I enjoy hunting the most when I know it is a team effort, with me in unquestioned command.
Chapter 2: Taking Her Out
It should come as no surprise that, when dealing with a ship I personify as being female; referring to her as 'her' and 'she', I also refer to sailing her out as 'taking her out', as if, almost, we were going on a date. No, I don't really think of it like a date, and I don't even date in the first place, but I find, on some curious level, that it always just feels right to speak about her usage this way. Today, I am taking her out on a hunting trip.
My crew consists of a core of four personnel; one female from my city, and three males from various Outlands realms (planets in the 34 Tauri multiple-star-system, to be more precise). We have had other join us, on and off, over the several years of Persephone's operational flights, but those who have been with us; my ship and me, from her beginning, have been those four. Each one of them, in their own way, is a hunter. The one female, Nyria Serra, hunts for worthy partners to be mutually sexually pleasing with. She is our resident Registered Companion, keeping everyone's mind and chakras clear and balanced. One of the males, Sasha, is our resident doctor; our medical officer. He always hunts for better ways to keep us safe and healthy, and better ways to heal us, and others, when they fall ill or injured. Augustine is always hunting for better ways to financially back us; he manages the investments and other assets which prevent us from having to resort to counterfieting currencies during our many distant travels. And Brahan, more of a literal hunter, is a professional warfighter; a hunter of, typically, other warfighters. Nyria and the rest of us like to joke with him about that, saying that he, like Nyria, is often hunting for men to get up close and personal with, but in all truth and fairness, if Brahan didn't feel so drawn to take care of all the hunting and counter-hunting of men opposing our way of life on Persephone, I wouldn't be as free to enjoy the hunting of females who, after some training, will fit right in.
Today, this crew of ours, who have all made their 'home away from home' the berthings built into the 'neck' section of Persephone, are joining me for a flight off of our parent vessel, the Spacecraft-carrier named The New Horizon. We are going to hunt the only way our crew; our team, our family, ever has. We are going to hunt for girls who will make the most arousing pleasure slaves. None of us, save me (in the distant past; now, more than five centuries ago), have ever hunted in the more colloquial sense; for animals to use as food, clothing, or tools. Our crew has always been hunters of human and humanoid females who are sexy enough to warrant sending our ship and ourselves out into harm's way and the great unknown.
On this flight, we flew Persephone to yet another human colonized world. I remembered how often humans, always scum, said the illogical and absolutely incorrect, regurgitated saying, "Ignorance is no excuse for the law." They were now on the receiving end of this logic they had wrongfully forced upon countless people, including so many of their own, and Inisfreeans were not bound by the childish, self-undermining laws of having to announce or explain themselves; Inisfreeans simply took what they desired and enjoyed it however they pleased. Some of the human females managed to be physically beautiful in the eyes of the Inisfreeans, and that was all it took to summon an Inisfreean hunting party into one's realm, for Inisfreeans do not permit beautiful human females to be free. That isn't, after all, fair to or wanted by their sex, and Inisfreeans know better than most that human females do not communicate literally, directly, or verbally; their true expressions are as curved as their bodies, and must be interpreted in that proper context. This means they run not to flee, but to be pursued. They fight back not to resist, but to be beaten; conquered. They speak not to make a point, nor to have a conversation, but to acquire touch, not caring if it is violent or gentle, so long as it is touch; the way their sex communicates and heals. More than life itself, they wish, deep down inside, to be conquered, but their genetic wiring prevents them from saying this, for they are built only to submit to total domination, total control, total mastery; only the wise, perceptive, strong, independent man can master a female. And those who are never mastered that utterly remain enraged, causing problems for all around them, hoping to become such a problem that they are either finally noticed and utterly mastered, or utterly destroyed; slain, that they no longer feel the Hell that it is to be a free female. Freedom, to them, means they are unwanted; not desirable enough to be claimed, conquered, and owned. On this flight of Persephone, we hunted the worthy females, that they might be liberated from the freedom their sex hate and cannot stand, and that, in doing so, we also liberated the communities and realms which they were wreaking havoc upon; instinctive havoc designed to attract the attention of just such hunters; such sex-trade slavers, as us.
Persephone banked into the atmosphere of this latest targeted world; this realm so rich in the abundance of its booming human population's percentage of attractive females. Humans on all worlds generally generate about 1% attractive offspring, generally becoming not only unattractive, but nightmarishly hideous by their mid-20s in Earth-years. It was important to hunt them where they were sure to be found during the attractive age bracket of their lives; before they had had enough time to become ugly from their naturally mindless havoc (the rampages they went on to seek out attention from potential dominators; masters), and just moments after they became sexually developed and curious. We flew Persephone toward the largest cities; where the highest concentrations of the youngest human females were, for the elderly tend to have gained more funds, and built their retirement homes and communities in suburban and rural areas, while the young are drawn to larger, denser, mingling areas, and are more able to handle the chaotic stresses that are human cities.
Our Firefly comfortably trembled a bit as we flew it down through the jet-stream and into the turbulence of a supercell promising rain, lightning, and thunder. Storms and rampages; havoc, were familiar to us. Three of our five were seasoned warriors. One had a supercomputer for a brain. One was a trauma surgeon. One was an investment banker dealing primarily in electronic indexes and high-speed trade. We had grown up managing far more than most. No female's havoc; mere plays for more attention, was even a blip on our radars.
Lightning lit up the sky not a mile off our starboard side. Its thunderous crack hit our ship and made me smile. We would strike as quickly, with as much dazzling violence as such bursts and exchanges of excited particles. Our ship's doctor enjoyed patching up the captures I roughed up. More than that, he enjoyed the knowledge that my nature would always guarantee him fresh humans to practice his skilled art upon. Our ship's muscle, Nyria, was also its sex object. Much like Persephone, her great strength and great beauty went hand in hand. She always enjoyed having fresh catches to shape into perfect pleasure slaves. Our ship's foreigner, who helped us bridge cultural barriers, was a commando of dark complexion who had grown up on the other side of the Alliance; the rebel forces now called terrorists. While Nyria could translate and speak any language within seconds of first contact, she could shape-shift into the form that Brahan naturally was; where we needed an adult Arabian male on many worlds, he was our 'in'. I lead the group, providing its direction, and wielded Mjolnir; hammer of the thunder god, Thor, having experimented until I'd made it a reality, needing no 'dwarven magic' to facilitate its existence this time. Together, we balanced each other, for apart, Nyria would feel drained and depressed, not having enough rough men to give her the rough usage she was engineered and raised to require. Augustine would have few truly interesting investments to monitor and fine-tune; nowhere stimulating to route the funds of his diverse portfolio. Sasha would be stuck losing his mind in a normal hospital's emergency ward. And I would not the compatible team that motivated me as much as the quality sex we gained from these hunts for attractive females.
Keeping the Repulsines powered off, we made our Spaceship look like any other Firefly-class transport; small, outdated, possibly fragile and shaky; something air traffic controllers and most people near a landing site would not find very interesting, much less worth dispatching fighter-jets or even a ground team of investigators for. We landed just outside city limits, putting down our landing gear on the grass of a meadow with slightly rolling (hilly) terrain. Our ship's signature, as it had been during flight, would be that of relatively low-tech, personal craft; something, to the humans of the 26th century in the 34 Tauri system, like a refurbished antique automobile would look to a human of Earth's 21st century. Walking down Persephone's tailgate ramp still yawning open to meet the ground, I surveyed the scene; trees widely dispersed like a natural park or preserve, two-lane streets paved with concrete, a skyline of skyscrapers a dozen miles farther into the heart of the local civilization, and the street-light tops and roof ridge-lines hinting at suburban neighborhoods tucked into greenbelts in between. Cops wouldn't come out this far; only sheriffs from time to time. State troopers and highway patrolmen would be on the larger highways, all of which were many miles away. There was no airport nearby, nor a Spaceport. This would be a good place to camp during the start of our hunt, and had the feel of an RV park; a grassy parking lot fenced in for mobile homes and trucks with camper-trailers.
Nyria joined me where I stood on the now lowered tailgate ramp, interlacing her fingers eagerly with mine, and resting her other hand over the middle of my abs. She rested her head at an angle against my shoulder, though she was too short to get more than the side of it up there; just the way I liked her kind.
"Are you ready to hunt?" she asked me, avoiding calling me 'father' in front of the others, for they had not been allowed to learn that Nyria was really an Inisfreean; one of my children; an entirely different species, humanoid, but not close enough in their make-up to be considered even a new race. Even 'daddy', though sexual in most's minds, was pushing it. We were to remain clandestine during the management of the social experiment that was our interaction with the humans of this realm of the galaxy. If any of them learned of our true biology and culture, it would have to be much later; long after the humans had finally begun to prove themselves compatible with us as friends.
I squeezed her hand in mine, reaching over to cup my hand around her nearest breast, playing with it for a while. "Yes, love." I avoided calling her 'baby' and 'daughter' for the same reasons she made sure to call me 'Captain' or 'Auz' while we were in the Outlands; out here, around humans, so far away from our home city.
It should come as no surprise that, when dealing with a ship I personify as being female; referring to her as 'her' and 'she', I also refer to sailing her out as 'taking her out', as if, almost, we were going on a date. No, I don't really think of it like a date, and I don't even date in the first place, but I find, on some curious level, that it always just feels right to speak about her usage this way. Today, I am taking her out on a hunting trip.
My crew consists of a core of four personnel; one female from my city, and three males from various Outlands realms (planets in the 34 Tauri multiple-star-system, to be more precise). We have had other join us, on and off, over the several years of Persephone's operational flights, but those who have been with us; my ship and me, from her beginning, have been those four. Each one of them, in their own way, is a hunter. The one female, Nyria Serra, hunts for worthy partners to be mutually sexually pleasing with. She is our resident Registered Companion, keeping everyone's mind and chakras clear and balanced. One of the males, Sasha, is our resident doctor; our medical officer. He always hunts for better ways to keep us safe and healthy, and better ways to heal us, and others, when they fall ill or injured. Augustine is always hunting for better ways to financially back us; he manages the investments and other assets which prevent us from having to resort to counterfieting currencies during our many distant travels. And Brahan, more of a literal hunter, is a professional warfighter; a hunter of, typically, other warfighters. Nyria and the rest of us like to joke with him about that, saying that he, like Nyria, is often hunting for men to get up close and personal with, but in all truth and fairness, if Brahan didn't feel so drawn to take care of all the hunting and counter-hunting of men opposing our way of life on Persephone, I wouldn't be as free to enjoy the hunting of females who, after some training, will fit right in.
Today, this crew of ours, who have all made their 'home away from home' the berthings built into the 'neck' section of Persephone, are joining me for a flight off of our parent vessel, the Spacecraft-carrier named The New Horizon. We are going to hunt the only way our crew; our team, our family, ever has. We are going to hunt for girls who will make the most arousing pleasure slaves. None of us, save me (in the distant past; now, more than five centuries ago), have ever hunted in the more colloquial sense; for animals to use as food, clothing, or tools. Our crew has always been hunters of human and humanoid females who are sexy enough to warrant sending our ship and ourselves out into harm's way and the great unknown.
On this flight, we flew Persephone to yet another human colonized world. I remembered how often humans, always scum, said the illogical and absolutely incorrect, regurgitated saying, "Ignorance is no excuse for the law." They were now on the receiving end of this logic they had wrongfully forced upon countless people, including so many of their own, and Inisfreeans were not bound by the childish, self-undermining laws of having to announce or explain themselves; Inisfreeans simply took what they desired and enjoyed it however they pleased. Some of the human females managed to be physically beautiful in the eyes of the Inisfreeans, and that was all it took to summon an Inisfreean hunting party into one's realm, for Inisfreeans do not permit beautiful human females to be free. That isn't, after all, fair to or wanted by their sex, and Inisfreeans know better than most that human females do not communicate literally, directly, or verbally; their true expressions are as curved as their bodies, and must be interpreted in that proper context. This means they run not to flee, but to be pursued. They fight back not to resist, but to be beaten; conquered. They speak not to make a point, nor to have a conversation, but to acquire touch, not caring if it is violent or gentle, so long as it is touch; the way their sex communicates and heals. More than life itself, they wish, deep down inside, to be conquered, but their genetic wiring prevents them from saying this, for they are built only to submit to total domination, total control, total mastery; only the wise, perceptive, strong, independent man can master a female. And those who are never mastered that utterly remain enraged, causing problems for all around them, hoping to become such a problem that they are either finally noticed and utterly mastered, or utterly destroyed; slain, that they no longer feel the Hell that it is to be a free female. Freedom, to them, means they are unwanted; not desirable enough to be claimed, conquered, and owned. On this flight of Persephone, we hunted the worthy females, that they might be liberated from the freedom their sex hate and cannot stand, and that, in doing so, we also liberated the communities and realms which they were wreaking havoc upon; instinctive havoc designed to attract the attention of just such hunters; such sex-trade slavers, as us.
Persephone banked into the atmosphere of this latest targeted world; this realm so rich in the abundance of its booming human population's percentage of attractive females. Humans on all worlds generally generate about 1% attractive offspring, generally becoming not only unattractive, but nightmarishly hideous by their mid-20s in Earth-years. It was important to hunt them where they were sure to be found during the attractive age bracket of their lives; before they had had enough time to become ugly from their naturally mindless havoc (the rampages they went on to seek out attention from potential dominators; masters), and just moments after they became sexually developed and curious. We flew Persephone toward the largest cities; where the highest concentrations of the youngest human females were, for the elderly tend to have gained more funds, and built their retirement homes and communities in suburban and rural areas, while the young are drawn to larger, denser, mingling areas, and are more able to handle the chaotic stresses that are human cities.
Our Firefly comfortably trembled a bit as we flew it down through the jet-stream and into the turbulence of a supercell promising rain, lightning, and thunder. Storms and rampages; havoc, were familiar to us. Three of our five were seasoned warriors. One had a supercomputer for a brain. One was a trauma surgeon. One was an investment banker dealing primarily in electronic indexes and high-speed trade. We had grown up managing far more than most. No female's havoc; mere plays for more attention, was even a blip on our radars.
Lightning lit up the sky not a mile off our starboard side. Its thunderous crack hit our ship and made me smile. We would strike as quickly, with as much dazzling violence as such bursts and exchanges of excited particles. Our ship's doctor enjoyed patching up the captures I roughed up. More than that, he enjoyed the knowledge that my nature would always guarantee him fresh humans to practice his skilled art upon. Our ship's muscle, Nyria, was also its sex object. Much like Persephone, her great strength and great beauty went hand in hand. She always enjoyed having fresh catches to shape into perfect pleasure slaves. Our ship's foreigner, who helped us bridge cultural barriers, was a commando of dark complexion who had grown up on the other side of the Alliance; the rebel forces now called terrorists. While Nyria could translate and speak any language within seconds of first contact, she could shape-shift into the form that Brahan naturally was; where we needed an adult Arabian male on many worlds, he was our 'in'. I lead the group, providing its direction, and wielded Mjolnir; hammer of the thunder god, Thor, having experimented until I'd made it a reality, needing no 'dwarven magic' to facilitate its existence this time. Together, we balanced each other, for apart, Nyria would feel drained and depressed, not having enough rough men to give her the rough usage she was engineered and raised to require. Augustine would have few truly interesting investments to monitor and fine-tune; nowhere stimulating to route the funds of his diverse portfolio. Sasha would be stuck losing his mind in a normal hospital's emergency ward. And I would not the compatible team that motivated me as much as the quality sex we gained from these hunts for attractive females.
Keeping the Repulsines powered off, we made our Spaceship look like any other Firefly-class transport; small, outdated, possibly fragile and shaky; something air traffic controllers and most people near a landing site would not find very interesting, much less worth dispatching fighter-jets or even a ground team of investigators for. We landed just outside city limits, putting down our landing gear on the grass of a meadow with slightly rolling (hilly) terrain. Our ship's signature, as it had been during flight, would be that of relatively low-tech, personal craft; something, to the humans of the 26th century in the 34 Tauri system, like a refurbished antique automobile would look to a human of Earth's 21st century. Walking down Persephone's tailgate ramp still yawning open to meet the ground, I surveyed the scene; trees widely dispersed like a natural park or preserve, two-lane streets paved with concrete, a skyline of skyscrapers a dozen miles farther into the heart of the local civilization, and the street-light tops and roof ridge-lines hinting at suburban neighborhoods tucked into greenbelts in between. Cops wouldn't come out this far; only sheriffs from time to time. State troopers and highway patrolmen would be on the larger highways, all of which were many miles away. There was no airport nearby, nor a Spaceport. This would be a good place to camp during the start of our hunt, and had the feel of an RV park; a grassy parking lot fenced in for mobile homes and trucks with camper-trailers.
Nyria joined me where I stood on the now lowered tailgate ramp, interlacing her fingers eagerly with mine, and resting her other hand over the middle of my abs. She rested her head at an angle against my shoulder, though she was too short to get more than the side of it up there; just the way I liked her kind.
"Are you ready to hunt?" she asked me, avoiding calling me 'father' in front of the others, for they had not been allowed to learn that Nyria was really an Inisfreean; one of my children; an entirely different species, humanoid, but not close enough in their make-up to be considered even a new race. Even 'daddy', though sexual in most's minds, was pushing it. We were to remain clandestine during the management of the social experiment that was our interaction with the humans of this realm of the galaxy. If any of them learned of our true biology and culture, it would have to be much later; long after the humans had finally begun to prove themselves compatible with us as friends.
I squeezed her hand in mine, reaching over to cup my hand around her nearest breast, playing with it for a while. "Yes, love." I avoided calling her 'baby' and 'daughter' for the same reasons she made sure to call me 'Captain' or 'Auz' while we were in the Outlands; out here, around humans, so far away from our home city.
Auz's Hunting Trip News: This is now one of the main ways Inisfreeans seek out quality females.
Chapter 3: Satellite Patrol
When I window-shop, in my style, I am usually making purchases of attractive females or bartering; trading in some way other than monetary, to compensate the more-compatible people I meet for their wares I am acquiring. I am strolling more than patrolling during such times. When I hunt, however, the military terms begin to apply, becoming more accurate and fitting the more involved and disputed the hunting practices, locally; from place to place, become. Instead of a stroll to window-shop, today we are only hunting, and so it is that our walk out and away from Persephone, as her tailgate ramp raised back to close and seal behind us, is what we call a satellite patrol; a little excursion out from and around our base of operations, taking us over a large area before bringing us spiraling back in.
Since we don't have to be inconspicuous, we are more armed than we are when we window-shop; Brahan's leather jacket and cargo trousers clearly have a few fairly noticeable bulges in them where he has pouched or holstered his short and medium-range weapons. Sasha's medical backpack doesn't look all that student-like. Augustine's expensive designer clothes, shoes, and sunglasses scream money; deep, deep pockets. Nyria's couture outfit betrays her supermodel body almost as much as diaphanous slave silks would. And the bulky Mjolnir I'm casually holding as we walk, paired with my long hair, cape, and neo-medieval cuirass; breast- and back-plate, brigandine, chainmail, vambraces, greaves, and steel-toed boots, makes it quite clear that there is more than a Ren-fest going on when we pass through. Each of us wore beneath our sleeves and armband which overloaded any recording equipment, preventing any audio or video of us from being captured, and doubled as disabling device for any alarms, silent or otherwise, we might set off by passing through unseen beams.
Unbeknownst to the three men of my crew, Nyria can read minds, and some of my inventions allow her, as well as many others under my secret command, to telepathically alert me to many things, even to the point of projecting maps, blueprints, recordings, and other things into my mind's field of vision. Nyria can also see in the entire spectrum; not just visible light, like humans do, and each of her other senses is just as superhumanly ranged. She can, for example, hear every note there is, smell better than bears and wolves, zoom in better than eagles or even telescopes or satellites, taste better than 'super tasters', and is completely indestructible; no force in all of the Universe can torque her knees, dislocate her shoulders, blind or deafen her, or even make her lose her breath. She is as invincible as her flawless sexiness is spellbinding to all who behold it, and, though she might not be as fast as some vampires and comparable beings, she can teleport to intercept them, using the supercomputer she was naturally born with for a brain... to anticipate their every move --based on not only their body language, but their easily detected and translated thoughts, no less. What she can't seduce (usually because it isn't attracted to human females), she can detect well over any horizon, teleport to and from, and easily dominate with her godlike strength. The only reasons she uses just enough to always seem like a human girl is because Inisfreean operational security dictates that we never betray any more of our abilities or technologies than is required to complete a mission, and because we want our Outlander teammates to feel truly useful and needed.
Sometimes our crew wonders why Nyria is almost never armed; why she only practices with martial arts weapons aboard our ship from time to time, and, being guys who like girls, they also worry about her ability to defend herself and escape back to us when others interested in her sexiness make attempts to capture her, which happens just about everywhere we go. Both she and I keep reassuring them, though, that we are lucky, that such incidents only bring us into worthwhile contact with resourceful underdog networks, and that Nyria is, as far as they know, a Registered Companion; a highly educated girl who loves to be used for sex and psychology; soothing and reassuring all who wish to make use of her. If captured, it would only give us great intel., and Nyria would always be able to talk or seduce her captors, eventually, into allying themselves with us.
With these things in our minds, we had begun this hunt's satellite patrol. We all had our secrets --some much greater than others, but we all enjoyed the same sort of crew and lifestyle. We all got to do what we loved when we were together, and that made us family, happy, and fun. Walking like a team of hunters, though dressed like a very eclectic band of Bohemians, we made our way into the nearest treeline, aiming our patrol at the neighborhood neatly hidden across the narrow stream on its other side. At first, we would move as one, searching the first houses we came to for the sexiest of daughters, rendering them unconscious and immobilized, and manually transporting them back to our ship. Once we got into our momentum, we would split into two groups, and eventually be conducting these 'snatch and grab' black-ops individually, all at once, fanning out into more and more houses and adjacent neighborhoods.
At that point, Nyria would be free to use her teleporting ability, just as I would, our male teammates being none the wiser; instead of making quiet forcible entry (lockpicking, etc.), Nyria would be reading the minds of everyone within her range, seeing through their own eyes and memories who was sexy and where, matching landmarks and other items in their fields of vision, such as unique combinations of light fixtures, wall art, landscaping, and parked vehicles visible through windows, then teleporting nearby, if they were interacting with others, or directly to them if they were alone. Our distant home-city could open up spying portals like one-way glass, allowing us to see and reach through, grab things, and so on, but, even though we could mask the energy signatures of such technology uses, we preferred, in this situation, at least, to do things on our own; Nyria would confirm sexiness in close range after teleporting in, use her acupuncture knowledge to touch pressure points which would render and keep her captures knocked out, and have them cuffed and bound to slave rings fused with the walls of the inside of our ship's cargo chamber where, once they started to wake up, their cries for help would be completely contained.
Like Nyria, once I knew Outlander eyes weren't on me, I would start teleporting around to hunt and capture the girls I was interested in. Choosing not to utilize the technologies of our secret home-city, I would not be able to read minds, see through other's eyes, or summon remote portals to automatically place those girls into our ship's cargo chamber. Instead, I would just be fading in and out of thin air in the rooms I willed myself to teleport to and from, catching glimpses of everyone in there, and grabbing those I found worthy of my presence; sexy. I wouldn't use pressure points to make them fall asleep; I wanted mine to squirm and feel their screams muffled by my strong hands. I wanted them to fight back, realize it was futile; that I was impossibly strong (even more so than Nyria), then begin to tremble and shiver in fear, finally giving in to the reality that they were already captured, even before I left their own homes. Such was the sport of real men. Such was the sport of Gor. Such was the sport of godkings. Such was the sport of the crew of Persephone.
The first house we came to was unlocked. We surmised this meant we were in a trusting community. I laughed to myself; silently, keeping it the snicker in my own mind, thinking that every door and window would be religiously locked after we kidnapped every single attractive female within a dozen miles. They would call it a mass-abduction, or a mass-disappearance. Some would fear Space aliens. Some would accuse the government. Some would use it to label their competition terrorists. Some would commit suicide in its wake. Some would think it was a cult. Some would think all these girls just ran away. Some wouldn't even hear about it, being outcast or hermits or senile. Whatever the case and combination of all those things, our return visits, years later; once they had time to breed more attractive females, would not be entertained with unlocked doors --or unlocked Anything. There might even be secret agents and high-tech monitoring stations set up in this area by then. Who knows how much our hunt here this day would change the community and the direction they developed their gadgetry and policies for generations thereafter.
I was already thinking about the massive orgy soon to ensue; the fuckfest of hundreds of captured girls that my whole crew here, all five of us, would enjoy upon the completion of this little kidnapping marathon of ours. Our hunt would be successful. We already knew that there were a good number of sexy females in this city. I could barely wait. I was licking my lips and grinning. This wouldn't distract me into dangers, though, for, after all, I, like Nyria, was invincible. Plus, I wielded Mjolnir; I could knock meteors back up into orbit, or tanks clear across the street.
Our crew, as one, made entry into that first house we'd come to; all filing in almost silently through the door we'd been amused at finding unlocked. As this was a hunt, lethal force was authorized, and every teammate could make that call, never having to fill out any paperwork or even report their bodycounts. No kills needed to be confirmed. This wasn't that kind of mission. Spreading out through the house, moving our feet and toes in such a way as to not make noise, nor bob up and down, we kept our eyes forward, sights (in the case of those who carried firearms) up and ahead; always right where we were looking.
A babysitter, very young, was sleeping on the couch in front of a wide-screen TV very conveniently masking our quiet footfalls with the chatter of the channel she had lost interest in. Nyria waited with her delicate fingertips and thumbs hovering over the babysitter's pressure points which would put her to sleep the moment I gave her the nonverbal signal. I raised my non-hammer-wielding hand to tell her to stay in position as we cleared the rest of the house. Half a minute later, it was done; we four men regrouped downstairs around the couch where Nyria remained hovering over our first successful hunt.
There had only been an infant upstairs in a crib. It was male, sleeping soundly; of no use to us. We had crept back out of the rooms in the corners of the house we'd ended up in, finding nothing else. It was time to start this hunt off on the right foot; I whisper-growled into Nyria's nearest ear to just help us pin the babysitter and prevent her screams from being heard. She grinned, her pussy already getting wet from the thought, and licked her beautiful lips as she moved to a position on the outside of the couch's arm from where the babysitter's head lay. She would hold her head down there, making it impossible for the girl to move; the body follows the head, after all, and Nyria's strength could not be bested by any mortal. From that grip, Nyria would also be able to control the girl's jaw, making it impossible for her, if she thought of it and tried, to bite down on any my crew's cocks. Mine couldn't be harmed, but the rest of theirs could, and they wouldn't be getting anything done if they were drugged and having their dicks sewn back on in the medical chamber of our ship.
I took first fuck rights, easing my body down on top of the girl. Brahan slid down her pajama pants and panties in one motion, and just as quickly, my cock was beginning to pump her pussy wet for a smooth slip inside. The girl woke up with a start, eyes glazed with horror, but she couldn't make a noise; I was already kissing her, my tongue all the way into the back of her mouth, probing the start of her throat. My hand closed around her throat, and I slid my tongue back out of her mouth just long enough to whisper-growl into her lips, "If you stay quiet while we fuck you, we will let you live." I repeated this once, that she might register it; the first time usually wasn't enough for a terrified brain to consciously respond to.
We all took our turns pinning her down to that couch she'd fallen asleep on, all the males and myself squirting our cum inside her pussy, then all of us double- and then triple-penetrating her, manipulating her little body into dozens of positions. Nyria smothered her face by sitting on it, then scissored with her, then fingered her pussy and asshole, finally licking them aggressively. Felching out our cum from the babysitter's pussy, she then swapped it with her, finally making her swallow it all. In 15 minutes, it was over; we had had our fill of her, and it was time to take this first girl back to our ship. The couch was slightly damp from some of her tears. The rest were all over our hands and lips, along with some I had rubbed from her face with my cock. Stuffing her panties in her mouth, and tying her pajama pants around her head, we gagged and blindfolded her, Nyria marching her back across the stream, through the treeline, and over the low hills to the lightless silhouette of our parked ship. We four men moved in a diamond formation around the two of them, maintaining 360° of security the whole time.
Back onboard, having entered through a side hatch no larger than that of a Naval vessels or commercial airliner's, we put one of our many sets of handcuffs on the girl, then anklecuffs, then a slave collar. With her hands behind her back, she wouldn't be able to remove her pajama pants from around her head, and would have to remain on the floor of the cargo chamber, the back of her slave collar locked to the slave ring connected to the wall there. It is not the place of a master to comfort a slave, so instead of telling her something to reassure or calm her, I only gave her her next command; "You exist only to please us. Remain exactly as we have placed you here, and when we return, only give us a token struggle each time we rape you. Disobedience will be your torture and death."
Leaving our first capture again trembling in fear, and feeling deep within her the cum Nyria hadn't sucked out of her pussy, as well as the cum residue from all she had swapped and swallowed, we grinned to ourselves as we left and resealed Persephone, returning to the neighborhood for the next part of our hunt. Knowing herself only a short walk from the house she was babysitting for, the girl might think herself merely in the back of someone's van, or in some other house. Unable to see, and with her hearing muffled from the pajama pants head wrap, all she'd have to go on would be the cold deck plating she'd feel, her lower body still naked from when Brahan slid down her panties and pants. It was like that that she, while we hunted more, would remain; waiting, wondering, half naked, already thoroughly used.
Hunting for hours, and moving so casually and stealthily that, to anyone catching a glimpse of us passing by, it would look like we were invited there, we found dozens of other sexy girls, many times being able to test-rape them right where we found them; right in their own homes. We got twin sisters, cheerleader sleepover groups, MILFs, and even some incest; MILFs with their sexy daughters. When we found girls masturbating, we gave their dildos, vibrators, anal beads, and other toys much, much more thorough use. We double- and triple-penetrated each girl we chose. We even forced a few of them to fuck their brothers and fathers. Those; the males we used in that way, we silently killed, giving them no pain, and left them in other houses, as if they had been caught and murdered for cheating, rape, or just breaking and entering. It would be one very complicated, city-wide mess once we were finished.
One mother drove home as we were exploring the inside of her house. She was attractive, so we waited for her to come inside, re-arm her security system, and then used her every which way we could think of, having her disarm the security system so we could more casually take her back to our ship.
Later, after dozens more captures marched or carried back to our ship, all of them secured by cuffs and their own slave rings, we enjoyed the surprise of another few people returning to their homes while we were still there. Unattractive ones were, like the unlucky males before them, left in random houses, dead, to further confuse the authorities who still had yet to hear one peep from anyone we'd moved against. Attractive ones returning home were made to fuck for us, and, if female, made to fuck us, too. A lot of forced incest took place, along with forced everything else. We gave many of the girls swirlies; holding their faces down in their toilet water while we flushed it, all the while plowing them doggystyle in the pussy and then the ass. These girls were left in our ship's cargo chamber with their heads still soaking and dripping from that toilet water, and cum still soaking and dripping from their pussies and assholes.
Splitting into one team of three, and one team of two, we continued this work, now finding and marching back worthy girls from a few blocks or more away from our landing site. By the middle of the night, we were operating solo; each of our crew's five on their own, 'alone and unafraid', never once failing to capture any sexy girl we noticed. As Nyria and I began to accelerate our captures, now being able to teleport, the men of our crew just assumed it was a combined effort resulting in the rapid increase in girls they kept finding secured to our cargo chamber's slave rings each time they got back with another one of their own. And Nyria's supercomputer brain and superhuman senses remained on alert to let me know, silently between our two minds, if any calls to police or EMTs were made, and, if that happened, exactly where we could intercept the other three of our crew, alerting and moving back out of the neighborhoods with them as quickly as possible. Even if police showed up, Nyria would know the ways they were driving or walking, and what they were thinking about doing. Even if it was just a homeowner or passerby happening to be in our area, she would know which way they were looking, what they were paying attention to, and when they were thinking about looking away. She knew all the thoughts of everyone around us for miles, and her brain processed all those thoughts in an instant. No one would be able to surprise her or me, and if anyone happened to notice one of our three crewmen forcibly walking a female between houses, across an alleyway, or into a greenbelt, Nyria could interface with their minds and prevent them from calling or otherwise telling anyone. If she wanted, she could make the whole city fall asleep and stay that way. To an Inisfreean, hacking and overriding brains was as easy as it was with and for computers. Our hunt went on, unmolested.
Once Persephone's womb of a cargo chamber grew near to bursting with its load, we became, for now, satisfied with the accomplishments of this raid; our hunting. One by one, we finished our work, each crewmember in his or her own time and way. Like Goreans, Inisfreeans --and their friends-- do not hurry. Augustine and Nyria took their final headcounts of our cargo, each of them recording their data in different ways, and my final thought upon the surface of this latest world was how at peace I finally felt, now getting so many perfect chances to do these important, basic, healthy things.
We had not fired a single shot. Nyria had not used her martial arts to take anyone down. I had not sent flying the hammer of Thor. Like condoms to Outlanders, our weapons were kept on our persons more 'just in case' than anything else. We didn't often need them. Perhaps we had just grown fond of their feel and psychological effect on us; they made us feel safer, prouder, more capable, more dangerous, more fit; people not to interfere with. When Outlanders saw these weapons, they almost always knew enough to look away; to leave us alone. When we had chance and reason to use them; our weapons, the Outlanders Always left us alone.
Our satellite foot patrol had now ended. It was time to make Persephone a satellite once again. I took the helm and smiled to myself, looking out through the transparent metal of its cockpit window panels. Soon, the view of a flat horizon and just a few remaining stars... would be the view of a curving horizon being replaced by a totally different one, and stars numbering in the trillions upon trillions.
When I window-shop, in my style, I am usually making purchases of attractive females or bartering; trading in some way other than monetary, to compensate the more-compatible people I meet for their wares I am acquiring. I am strolling more than patrolling during such times. When I hunt, however, the military terms begin to apply, becoming more accurate and fitting the more involved and disputed the hunting practices, locally; from place to place, become. Instead of a stroll to window-shop, today we are only hunting, and so it is that our walk out and away from Persephone, as her tailgate ramp raised back to close and seal behind us, is what we call a satellite patrol; a little excursion out from and around our base of operations, taking us over a large area before bringing us spiraling back in.
Since we don't have to be inconspicuous, we are more armed than we are when we window-shop; Brahan's leather jacket and cargo trousers clearly have a few fairly noticeable bulges in them where he has pouched or holstered his short and medium-range weapons. Sasha's medical backpack doesn't look all that student-like. Augustine's expensive designer clothes, shoes, and sunglasses scream money; deep, deep pockets. Nyria's couture outfit betrays her supermodel body almost as much as diaphanous slave silks would. And the bulky Mjolnir I'm casually holding as we walk, paired with my long hair, cape, and neo-medieval cuirass; breast- and back-plate, brigandine, chainmail, vambraces, greaves, and steel-toed boots, makes it quite clear that there is more than a Ren-fest going on when we pass through. Each of us wore beneath our sleeves and armband which overloaded any recording equipment, preventing any audio or video of us from being captured, and doubled as disabling device for any alarms, silent or otherwise, we might set off by passing through unseen beams.
Unbeknownst to the three men of my crew, Nyria can read minds, and some of my inventions allow her, as well as many others under my secret command, to telepathically alert me to many things, even to the point of projecting maps, blueprints, recordings, and other things into my mind's field of vision. Nyria can also see in the entire spectrum; not just visible light, like humans do, and each of her other senses is just as superhumanly ranged. She can, for example, hear every note there is, smell better than bears and wolves, zoom in better than eagles or even telescopes or satellites, taste better than 'super tasters', and is completely indestructible; no force in all of the Universe can torque her knees, dislocate her shoulders, blind or deafen her, or even make her lose her breath. She is as invincible as her flawless sexiness is spellbinding to all who behold it, and, though she might not be as fast as some vampires and comparable beings, she can teleport to intercept them, using the supercomputer she was naturally born with for a brain... to anticipate their every move --based on not only their body language, but their easily detected and translated thoughts, no less. What she can't seduce (usually because it isn't attracted to human females), she can detect well over any horizon, teleport to and from, and easily dominate with her godlike strength. The only reasons she uses just enough to always seem like a human girl is because Inisfreean operational security dictates that we never betray any more of our abilities or technologies than is required to complete a mission, and because we want our Outlander teammates to feel truly useful and needed.
Sometimes our crew wonders why Nyria is almost never armed; why she only practices with martial arts weapons aboard our ship from time to time, and, being guys who like girls, they also worry about her ability to defend herself and escape back to us when others interested in her sexiness make attempts to capture her, which happens just about everywhere we go. Both she and I keep reassuring them, though, that we are lucky, that such incidents only bring us into worthwhile contact with resourceful underdog networks, and that Nyria is, as far as they know, a Registered Companion; a highly educated girl who loves to be used for sex and psychology; soothing and reassuring all who wish to make use of her. If captured, it would only give us great intel., and Nyria would always be able to talk or seduce her captors, eventually, into allying themselves with us.
With these things in our minds, we had begun this hunt's satellite patrol. We all had our secrets --some much greater than others, but we all enjoyed the same sort of crew and lifestyle. We all got to do what we loved when we were together, and that made us family, happy, and fun. Walking like a team of hunters, though dressed like a very eclectic band of Bohemians, we made our way into the nearest treeline, aiming our patrol at the neighborhood neatly hidden across the narrow stream on its other side. At first, we would move as one, searching the first houses we came to for the sexiest of daughters, rendering them unconscious and immobilized, and manually transporting them back to our ship. Once we got into our momentum, we would split into two groups, and eventually be conducting these 'snatch and grab' black-ops individually, all at once, fanning out into more and more houses and adjacent neighborhoods.
At that point, Nyria would be free to use her teleporting ability, just as I would, our male teammates being none the wiser; instead of making quiet forcible entry (lockpicking, etc.), Nyria would be reading the minds of everyone within her range, seeing through their own eyes and memories who was sexy and where, matching landmarks and other items in their fields of vision, such as unique combinations of light fixtures, wall art, landscaping, and parked vehicles visible through windows, then teleporting nearby, if they were interacting with others, or directly to them if they were alone. Our distant home-city could open up spying portals like one-way glass, allowing us to see and reach through, grab things, and so on, but, even though we could mask the energy signatures of such technology uses, we preferred, in this situation, at least, to do things on our own; Nyria would confirm sexiness in close range after teleporting in, use her acupuncture knowledge to touch pressure points which would render and keep her captures knocked out, and have them cuffed and bound to slave rings fused with the walls of the inside of our ship's cargo chamber where, once they started to wake up, their cries for help would be completely contained.
Like Nyria, once I knew Outlander eyes weren't on me, I would start teleporting around to hunt and capture the girls I was interested in. Choosing not to utilize the technologies of our secret home-city, I would not be able to read minds, see through other's eyes, or summon remote portals to automatically place those girls into our ship's cargo chamber. Instead, I would just be fading in and out of thin air in the rooms I willed myself to teleport to and from, catching glimpses of everyone in there, and grabbing those I found worthy of my presence; sexy. I wouldn't use pressure points to make them fall asleep; I wanted mine to squirm and feel their screams muffled by my strong hands. I wanted them to fight back, realize it was futile; that I was impossibly strong (even more so than Nyria), then begin to tremble and shiver in fear, finally giving in to the reality that they were already captured, even before I left their own homes. Such was the sport of real men. Such was the sport of Gor. Such was the sport of godkings. Such was the sport of the crew of Persephone.
The first house we came to was unlocked. We surmised this meant we were in a trusting community. I laughed to myself; silently, keeping it the snicker in my own mind, thinking that every door and window would be religiously locked after we kidnapped every single attractive female within a dozen miles. They would call it a mass-abduction, or a mass-disappearance. Some would fear Space aliens. Some would accuse the government. Some would use it to label their competition terrorists. Some would commit suicide in its wake. Some would think it was a cult. Some would think all these girls just ran away. Some wouldn't even hear about it, being outcast or hermits or senile. Whatever the case and combination of all those things, our return visits, years later; once they had time to breed more attractive females, would not be entertained with unlocked doors --or unlocked Anything. There might even be secret agents and high-tech monitoring stations set up in this area by then. Who knows how much our hunt here this day would change the community and the direction they developed their gadgetry and policies for generations thereafter.
I was already thinking about the massive orgy soon to ensue; the fuckfest of hundreds of captured girls that my whole crew here, all five of us, would enjoy upon the completion of this little kidnapping marathon of ours. Our hunt would be successful. We already knew that there were a good number of sexy females in this city. I could barely wait. I was licking my lips and grinning. This wouldn't distract me into dangers, though, for, after all, I, like Nyria, was invincible. Plus, I wielded Mjolnir; I could knock meteors back up into orbit, or tanks clear across the street.
Our crew, as one, made entry into that first house we'd come to; all filing in almost silently through the door we'd been amused at finding unlocked. As this was a hunt, lethal force was authorized, and every teammate could make that call, never having to fill out any paperwork or even report their bodycounts. No kills needed to be confirmed. This wasn't that kind of mission. Spreading out through the house, moving our feet and toes in such a way as to not make noise, nor bob up and down, we kept our eyes forward, sights (in the case of those who carried firearms) up and ahead; always right where we were looking.
A babysitter, very young, was sleeping on the couch in front of a wide-screen TV very conveniently masking our quiet footfalls with the chatter of the channel she had lost interest in. Nyria waited with her delicate fingertips and thumbs hovering over the babysitter's pressure points which would put her to sleep the moment I gave her the nonverbal signal. I raised my non-hammer-wielding hand to tell her to stay in position as we cleared the rest of the house. Half a minute later, it was done; we four men regrouped downstairs around the couch where Nyria remained hovering over our first successful hunt.
There had only been an infant upstairs in a crib. It was male, sleeping soundly; of no use to us. We had crept back out of the rooms in the corners of the house we'd ended up in, finding nothing else. It was time to start this hunt off on the right foot; I whisper-growled into Nyria's nearest ear to just help us pin the babysitter and prevent her screams from being heard. She grinned, her pussy already getting wet from the thought, and licked her beautiful lips as she moved to a position on the outside of the couch's arm from where the babysitter's head lay. She would hold her head down there, making it impossible for the girl to move; the body follows the head, after all, and Nyria's strength could not be bested by any mortal. From that grip, Nyria would also be able to control the girl's jaw, making it impossible for her, if she thought of it and tried, to bite down on any my crew's cocks. Mine couldn't be harmed, but the rest of theirs could, and they wouldn't be getting anything done if they were drugged and having their dicks sewn back on in the medical chamber of our ship.
I took first fuck rights, easing my body down on top of the girl. Brahan slid down her pajama pants and panties in one motion, and just as quickly, my cock was beginning to pump her pussy wet for a smooth slip inside. The girl woke up with a start, eyes glazed with horror, but she couldn't make a noise; I was already kissing her, my tongue all the way into the back of her mouth, probing the start of her throat. My hand closed around her throat, and I slid my tongue back out of her mouth just long enough to whisper-growl into her lips, "If you stay quiet while we fuck you, we will let you live." I repeated this once, that she might register it; the first time usually wasn't enough for a terrified brain to consciously respond to.
We all took our turns pinning her down to that couch she'd fallen asleep on, all the males and myself squirting our cum inside her pussy, then all of us double- and then triple-penetrating her, manipulating her little body into dozens of positions. Nyria smothered her face by sitting on it, then scissored with her, then fingered her pussy and asshole, finally licking them aggressively. Felching out our cum from the babysitter's pussy, she then swapped it with her, finally making her swallow it all. In 15 minutes, it was over; we had had our fill of her, and it was time to take this first girl back to our ship. The couch was slightly damp from some of her tears. The rest were all over our hands and lips, along with some I had rubbed from her face with my cock. Stuffing her panties in her mouth, and tying her pajama pants around her head, we gagged and blindfolded her, Nyria marching her back across the stream, through the treeline, and over the low hills to the lightless silhouette of our parked ship. We four men moved in a diamond formation around the two of them, maintaining 360° of security the whole time.
Back onboard, having entered through a side hatch no larger than that of a Naval vessels or commercial airliner's, we put one of our many sets of handcuffs on the girl, then anklecuffs, then a slave collar. With her hands behind her back, she wouldn't be able to remove her pajama pants from around her head, and would have to remain on the floor of the cargo chamber, the back of her slave collar locked to the slave ring connected to the wall there. It is not the place of a master to comfort a slave, so instead of telling her something to reassure or calm her, I only gave her her next command; "You exist only to please us. Remain exactly as we have placed you here, and when we return, only give us a token struggle each time we rape you. Disobedience will be your torture and death."
Leaving our first capture again trembling in fear, and feeling deep within her the cum Nyria hadn't sucked out of her pussy, as well as the cum residue from all she had swapped and swallowed, we grinned to ourselves as we left and resealed Persephone, returning to the neighborhood for the next part of our hunt. Knowing herself only a short walk from the house she was babysitting for, the girl might think herself merely in the back of someone's van, or in some other house. Unable to see, and with her hearing muffled from the pajama pants head wrap, all she'd have to go on would be the cold deck plating she'd feel, her lower body still naked from when Brahan slid down her panties and pants. It was like that that she, while we hunted more, would remain; waiting, wondering, half naked, already thoroughly used.
Hunting for hours, and moving so casually and stealthily that, to anyone catching a glimpse of us passing by, it would look like we were invited there, we found dozens of other sexy girls, many times being able to test-rape them right where we found them; right in their own homes. We got twin sisters, cheerleader sleepover groups, MILFs, and even some incest; MILFs with their sexy daughters. When we found girls masturbating, we gave their dildos, vibrators, anal beads, and other toys much, much more thorough use. We double- and triple-penetrated each girl we chose. We even forced a few of them to fuck their brothers and fathers. Those; the males we used in that way, we silently killed, giving them no pain, and left them in other houses, as if they had been caught and murdered for cheating, rape, or just breaking and entering. It would be one very complicated, city-wide mess once we were finished.
One mother drove home as we were exploring the inside of her house. She was attractive, so we waited for her to come inside, re-arm her security system, and then used her every which way we could think of, having her disarm the security system so we could more casually take her back to our ship.
Later, after dozens more captures marched or carried back to our ship, all of them secured by cuffs and their own slave rings, we enjoyed the surprise of another few people returning to their homes while we were still there. Unattractive ones were, like the unlucky males before them, left in random houses, dead, to further confuse the authorities who still had yet to hear one peep from anyone we'd moved against. Attractive ones returning home were made to fuck for us, and, if female, made to fuck us, too. A lot of forced incest took place, along with forced everything else. We gave many of the girls swirlies; holding their faces down in their toilet water while we flushed it, all the while plowing them doggystyle in the pussy and then the ass. These girls were left in our ship's cargo chamber with their heads still soaking and dripping from that toilet water, and cum still soaking and dripping from their pussies and assholes.
Splitting into one team of three, and one team of two, we continued this work, now finding and marching back worthy girls from a few blocks or more away from our landing site. By the middle of the night, we were operating solo; each of our crew's five on their own, 'alone and unafraid', never once failing to capture any sexy girl we noticed. As Nyria and I began to accelerate our captures, now being able to teleport, the men of our crew just assumed it was a combined effort resulting in the rapid increase in girls they kept finding secured to our cargo chamber's slave rings each time they got back with another one of their own. And Nyria's supercomputer brain and superhuman senses remained on alert to let me know, silently between our two minds, if any calls to police or EMTs were made, and, if that happened, exactly where we could intercept the other three of our crew, alerting and moving back out of the neighborhoods with them as quickly as possible. Even if police showed up, Nyria would know the ways they were driving or walking, and what they were thinking about doing. Even if it was just a homeowner or passerby happening to be in our area, she would know which way they were looking, what they were paying attention to, and when they were thinking about looking away. She knew all the thoughts of everyone around us for miles, and her brain processed all those thoughts in an instant. No one would be able to surprise her or me, and if anyone happened to notice one of our three crewmen forcibly walking a female between houses, across an alleyway, or into a greenbelt, Nyria could interface with their minds and prevent them from calling or otherwise telling anyone. If she wanted, she could make the whole city fall asleep and stay that way. To an Inisfreean, hacking and overriding brains was as easy as it was with and for computers. Our hunt went on, unmolested.
Once Persephone's womb of a cargo chamber grew near to bursting with its load, we became, for now, satisfied with the accomplishments of this raid; our hunting. One by one, we finished our work, each crewmember in his or her own time and way. Like Goreans, Inisfreeans --and their friends-- do not hurry. Augustine and Nyria took their final headcounts of our cargo, each of them recording their data in different ways, and my final thought upon the surface of this latest world was how at peace I finally felt, now getting so many perfect chances to do these important, basic, healthy things.
We had not fired a single shot. Nyria had not used her martial arts to take anyone down. I had not sent flying the hammer of Thor. Like condoms to Outlanders, our weapons were kept on our persons more 'just in case' than anything else. We didn't often need them. Perhaps we had just grown fond of their feel and psychological effect on us; they made us feel safer, prouder, more capable, more dangerous, more fit; people not to interfere with. When Outlanders saw these weapons, they almost always knew enough to look away; to leave us alone. When we had chance and reason to use them; our weapons, the Outlanders Always left us alone.
Our satellite foot patrol had now ended. It was time to make Persephone a satellite once again. I took the helm and smiled to myself, looking out through the transparent metal of its cockpit window panels. Soon, the view of a flat horizon and just a few remaining stars... would be the view of a curving horizon being replaced by a totally different one, and stars numbering in the trillions upon trillions.
Chapter 4: The Spoils of War
Though not a war in the traditional human sense; where two or more sides, typically with armies, battle it out across an entire region or even more land, sea, or Space, Inisfreeans and humans, by their very natures, would always be at war --even if more than 99% of humanity had no idea we Inisfreeans existed. In this lifelong war between our kinds, we Inisfreeans, naturally held the upper hand, and, as a civilized species, unlike most humans, every single member of our species took what we wanted in our warring, whether we were in a full campaign with regiments and armadas, or just a fire-team-sized band of commandos on a recon. mission or raid. And, though my team was, excepting Nyria's secret military service to my equally secret Inisfreean military, civilian, this hunting we did so often was, technically, raiding, and, technically, as it was led by an Inisfreean; me, part of that war. This morning we had much to be grateful for; our proverbial cups were overflowing much with the spoils of war.
It had been 9 hours since our hunt began. The local sun would be coming up over the horizon in another hour or two. We had worked through an evening and most of the night, not tiring in all our excitement. The cargo chamber of Persephone was now pregnant with 349 captured girls, some doubling up on the slave rings, some stuffed in storage compartments (our version of cabinets, cupboards, and shelves) built into the walls, and some forced to remain standing lest they choke themselves on their slave collars which we had locked the backs of to the hooked cables of the winches built into that chamber's ceiling.
We had averaged 7 to 8 captures per person per hour during this hunt, though, of course, I had captured about triple what each of the other men had, and Nyria, with her exceptional innate abilities, had captured by far the most (Brahan: 28, Augustine: 27, Sasha: 23, Me: 70, Nyria: 201). We didn't speak of such things, though; we had agreed to be in the habit, even amongst ourselves, of not bragging, lest the Outlander males of our crew someday slip up. Also, we all preferred to focus on the enjoyment of the breaking, training, and further usage of our new slaves, reveling as they came out of their proverbial shells and matured to be the pleasure slaves they were always meant to be.
"You all now exist only to please us," I began again, this time addressing a cargo chamber jam-packed with hundreds of kidnapped girls. "If we stop finding you pleasing, you stop existing; simple as that. Remain exactly as we have placed you here, and when we return, only give us a token struggle each time we rape you. Disobedience will be your torture and death."
This time, our return would be from the cockpit after we had gone into orbit after flying below radar for more than one hundred miles. Then, we would set the autopilot to take us behind this world's moon, and it was in orbit over its dark side (the side always facing away from its planet) where we would remain as we began the nearly 350+ rape orgy festival.
Usually having only a few dozen captured girls chained to Persephone's slave rings, we now had to decide how we were going to make 'going to the bathroom' work for this many girls. Fireflies, like most Spaceships built by Outlanders, collect liquid waste, such as urine, extract the water from it, and purify that water to be recycled in industrial use. The remaining urine particles, then, may be jettisoned anytime so long as the ship is not over a colony's airspace, such as a city, town, or highway. Solid waste, such as feces and trash, are compacted and kept in a different tank which harvests their methane until they are unloaded, either by dropping them onto a landfill on some uninhabitable world, such as a barren moon or planetoid, or jettisoned when a flight path takes the ship through an asteroid belt. We were now flying our Firefly behind an uninhabited moon, and were low enough in our orbit of that moon that everything we jettisoned would be pulled down to its surface by its gravity. So the high frequency of waste jettisons from our urine tank, and compacted feces-and-trash tank, would not be a problem; our ship didn't have to 'hold its bladder'. The trouble was that the people generating all that extra waste were not exactly compliant, docile, trustworthy passengers. We would have to come up with a secure system for keeping them from filling our cargo chamber to their ankles with piss and shit.
We couldn't escort them all to the ship's bathrooms which are in our private rooms in the neck of the ship. We could let them piss and shit on the floors, but then we couldn't so easily orgy with them, which was the entire point of these hunting trips. We need to keep them bound to the slave rings in the cargo chamber. So we decided to pass around a porta-potty; a portable toilet which is essentially a large plastic bowl with a seat and lid on its hinge, which would be for these captured girls like sitting on an ammo. can's shipping crate was for my on my first deployment; everyone would use the same simple contraption like a low stool to help them in their bladder and bowel movements, keeping it as clean as possible. We would appoint and one of the captured girls to carry this porta-potty around for all the others, keeping her unchained so she could carry it back and forth, each time it was filled, from one of our rooms with a toilet, into which she would empty the porta-potty. We knew no girl would dare make a mess with it, trying to use it as a diversion, for they well understood they were in grave danger the moment they might try anything. There was nowhere to run, and no way for them, chained to slave rings in our cargo chamber, well lit, a single room, to hide. But which room of our Spaceship would all of those loads of piss and shit be carried and dumped into?
There are four rooms in the neck of our ship, and a medical room; a module, in one corner of the cargo chamber. There isn't a toilet in the medical room, though, and there certainly isn't one in the 'neck' section hallway or the cockpit, and even if there was one in our ship's dining room, there was no way we'd be moving that much contamination through the sterile space where we keep all the food and drinks we routinely put into our bodies. My room with Nyria was luxurious, so the appointed girl couldn't go in there to drop off each porta-potty load. Augustine's room had sensitive computer equipment and most expensive clothes, so that was off the table. Brahan's room doubled as our ship's armory, housing most of our weapons, ammunition, and related equipment. Sasha's room was what was left. It was the only normal, simple, inexpensive one; all his sensitive property was always in the medical module. As we decided this in the dining room, Sasha hung his head, and all of us had a chuckle. His room might smell less than pleasant for a day or so after we unloaded the spoils of our latest hunt --after those spoils unloaded their Own spoils into that work-horse of a toilet of his.
We orgied and rested in intervals for days up there on the dark side of the moon, wondering what the filthy humans in their backwards society far below, on the other world, were doing to themselves. Fingers would be pointed. Baseless allegations made. It would be Hell, but that's what humans did. They hadn't deserved these females we'd relieved them of, and now they were paying the price for having abusively created and trapped them in their typical, illogical, repressive communities.
Our cargo chamber resonated and echoed with the muffled gasps, sobs, moans, and groans of 349 prisoners as we made use of them in every way. Once we tired of them, or if another Outlander Spaceship approached us and wished to board us, Inisfreeans would teleport into our cargo chamber and teleport all our captures away while Augustine, Brahan, and Sasha were busy in other parts of the ship. Nyria would have a long list of cover stories they would believe, and could tell them any of them in the most convincing lying; acting. It hadn't come to that so far in our years of such hunting and cargo chamber filling, though; we'd always just returned to The New Horizon with our hull full of catches, and kept them there, no one on that parent ship having the clearance to get anywhere near Persephone, much less board her to discover her cache.
"Please," one of the women sobbed, her jaw trembling, her lower lip quivering. "I am of noble birth. My family is very rich. They will pay handsomely for my return."
I rested my hands around her cheeks, giving her a little, kind smile to say 'no'.
"I am telling the truth. You will be paid a fortune," she was now sobbing more, her whole body trembling, barely able to form her words even in such short sentences. It was not an easy thing; to take the revelation that your vast fortunes meant nothing to your new and lasting, perhaps eternal, captors.
Using my hands still on her cheeks, I gently turned her head from side to side a few times, making her shake her own head 'no'.
She went limp in her bindings, letting out a long, fading, defeated moan.
"Your beauty is the only wealth of your family," I educated her, my voice smooth and calm as it usually was in these situations. She would learn, in time, during her months of pleasure slavery indoctrination in my home-city, that we had everything we would ever want or need, and could make anything, and make anything into anything, lacking only the extreme joys of the hunting of outsiders to be our latest slaves. I kissed her forehead sweetly, releasing her cheeks, and stepped back away from her, returning to look over the rest of our cargo; the other kidnapped girls now locked into my human trafficking, many of which would later be locked into my sex slave trade with Gor and other such worlds. That 'noble' girl of high caste would, as Outlander females so often tend to, continue thinking she might eventually, somehow, get me to change my mind --or, at least, some other aspect about myself, that her bondage be made more comfortable; more familiar. She would learn, through harsh and swift beatings and whippings every single time, that this was not something to be attempted, even once.
The Grid Mind; my city's main brain; our largest supercomputer; Inisfree's 2nd in command, looked through my eyes, and through all of Nyria's senses, and then through a cloaked, one-way portal, thrice confirming the exact masses, gene sequences, and personalities of the 349 girls now bound in our cargo chamber. It adjusted the device which would open the portal to return them with the Inisfreeans who were about to come as escorts for them, ensuring that only their precise number of molecules made it through. We had made this portal technology so precise that it would even gently separate them from the make-up and jewelry some of them were wearing; those pieces of metal and gemstones, and the flakes of powders and paints, would fall right off of them, remaining in little piles on our ship's cargo chamber's deck plating, easily, then, swept out by Nyria. And, while we waited for that team of Inisfreeans to teleport aboard our ship, the Grid Mind would be doing the genetic and personality equivalents of a word processor's spell-check and grammar-check, going line by line through all those captured girls' genes, and reaction by reaction through all their memes (the mental equivalent of genes), and establishing a perfect version of each girl for me (what it knew, from how I programmed it, what I felt was perfect), then creating clones of those perfected girls in batches of 50, that I have plenty, of each one I'd found in the Outlands, to enjoy while I waited on the originals (these captures here in my ship's cargo chamber) to finish their kajira (pleasure slave girl) training in the Receiving Facility of my city.
Though not a war in the traditional human sense; where two or more sides, typically with armies, battle it out across an entire region or even more land, sea, or Space, Inisfreeans and humans, by their very natures, would always be at war --even if more than 99% of humanity had no idea we Inisfreeans existed. In this lifelong war between our kinds, we Inisfreeans, naturally held the upper hand, and, as a civilized species, unlike most humans, every single member of our species took what we wanted in our warring, whether we were in a full campaign with regiments and armadas, or just a fire-team-sized band of commandos on a recon. mission or raid. And, though my team was, excepting Nyria's secret military service to my equally secret Inisfreean military, civilian, this hunting we did so often was, technically, raiding, and, technically, as it was led by an Inisfreean; me, part of that war. This morning we had much to be grateful for; our proverbial cups were overflowing much with the spoils of war.
It had been 9 hours since our hunt began. The local sun would be coming up over the horizon in another hour or two. We had worked through an evening and most of the night, not tiring in all our excitement. The cargo chamber of Persephone was now pregnant with 349 captured girls, some doubling up on the slave rings, some stuffed in storage compartments (our version of cabinets, cupboards, and shelves) built into the walls, and some forced to remain standing lest they choke themselves on their slave collars which we had locked the backs of to the hooked cables of the winches built into that chamber's ceiling.
We had averaged 7 to 8 captures per person per hour during this hunt, though, of course, I had captured about triple what each of the other men had, and Nyria, with her exceptional innate abilities, had captured by far the most (Brahan: 28, Augustine: 27, Sasha: 23, Me: 70, Nyria: 201). We didn't speak of such things, though; we had agreed to be in the habit, even amongst ourselves, of not bragging, lest the Outlander males of our crew someday slip up. Also, we all preferred to focus on the enjoyment of the breaking, training, and further usage of our new slaves, reveling as they came out of their proverbial shells and matured to be the pleasure slaves they were always meant to be.
"You all now exist only to please us," I began again, this time addressing a cargo chamber jam-packed with hundreds of kidnapped girls. "If we stop finding you pleasing, you stop existing; simple as that. Remain exactly as we have placed you here, and when we return, only give us a token struggle each time we rape you. Disobedience will be your torture and death."
This time, our return would be from the cockpit after we had gone into orbit after flying below radar for more than one hundred miles. Then, we would set the autopilot to take us behind this world's moon, and it was in orbit over its dark side (the side always facing away from its planet) where we would remain as we began the nearly 350+ rape orgy festival.
Usually having only a few dozen captured girls chained to Persephone's slave rings, we now had to decide how we were going to make 'going to the bathroom' work for this many girls. Fireflies, like most Spaceships built by Outlanders, collect liquid waste, such as urine, extract the water from it, and purify that water to be recycled in industrial use. The remaining urine particles, then, may be jettisoned anytime so long as the ship is not over a colony's airspace, such as a city, town, or highway. Solid waste, such as feces and trash, are compacted and kept in a different tank which harvests their methane until they are unloaded, either by dropping them onto a landfill on some uninhabitable world, such as a barren moon or planetoid, or jettisoned when a flight path takes the ship through an asteroid belt. We were now flying our Firefly behind an uninhabited moon, and were low enough in our orbit of that moon that everything we jettisoned would be pulled down to its surface by its gravity. So the high frequency of waste jettisons from our urine tank, and compacted feces-and-trash tank, would not be a problem; our ship didn't have to 'hold its bladder'. The trouble was that the people generating all that extra waste were not exactly compliant, docile, trustworthy passengers. We would have to come up with a secure system for keeping them from filling our cargo chamber to their ankles with piss and shit.
We couldn't escort them all to the ship's bathrooms which are in our private rooms in the neck of the ship. We could let them piss and shit on the floors, but then we couldn't so easily orgy with them, which was the entire point of these hunting trips. We need to keep them bound to the slave rings in the cargo chamber. So we decided to pass around a porta-potty; a portable toilet which is essentially a large plastic bowl with a seat and lid on its hinge, which would be for these captured girls like sitting on an ammo. can's shipping crate was for my on my first deployment; everyone would use the same simple contraption like a low stool to help them in their bladder and bowel movements, keeping it as clean as possible. We would appoint and one of the captured girls to carry this porta-potty around for all the others, keeping her unchained so she could carry it back and forth, each time it was filled, from one of our rooms with a toilet, into which she would empty the porta-potty. We knew no girl would dare make a mess with it, trying to use it as a diversion, for they well understood they were in grave danger the moment they might try anything. There was nowhere to run, and no way for them, chained to slave rings in our cargo chamber, well lit, a single room, to hide. But which room of our Spaceship would all of those loads of piss and shit be carried and dumped into?
There are four rooms in the neck of our ship, and a medical room; a module, in one corner of the cargo chamber. There isn't a toilet in the medical room, though, and there certainly isn't one in the 'neck' section hallway or the cockpit, and even if there was one in our ship's dining room, there was no way we'd be moving that much contamination through the sterile space where we keep all the food and drinks we routinely put into our bodies. My room with Nyria was luxurious, so the appointed girl couldn't go in there to drop off each porta-potty load. Augustine's room had sensitive computer equipment and most expensive clothes, so that was off the table. Brahan's room doubled as our ship's armory, housing most of our weapons, ammunition, and related equipment. Sasha's room was what was left. It was the only normal, simple, inexpensive one; all his sensitive property was always in the medical module. As we decided this in the dining room, Sasha hung his head, and all of us had a chuckle. His room might smell less than pleasant for a day or so after we unloaded the spoils of our latest hunt --after those spoils unloaded their Own spoils into that work-horse of a toilet of his.
We orgied and rested in intervals for days up there on the dark side of the moon, wondering what the filthy humans in their backwards society far below, on the other world, were doing to themselves. Fingers would be pointed. Baseless allegations made. It would be Hell, but that's what humans did. They hadn't deserved these females we'd relieved them of, and now they were paying the price for having abusively created and trapped them in their typical, illogical, repressive communities.
Our cargo chamber resonated and echoed with the muffled gasps, sobs, moans, and groans of 349 prisoners as we made use of them in every way. Once we tired of them, or if another Outlander Spaceship approached us and wished to board us, Inisfreeans would teleport into our cargo chamber and teleport all our captures away while Augustine, Brahan, and Sasha were busy in other parts of the ship. Nyria would have a long list of cover stories they would believe, and could tell them any of them in the most convincing lying; acting. It hadn't come to that so far in our years of such hunting and cargo chamber filling, though; we'd always just returned to The New Horizon with our hull full of catches, and kept them there, no one on that parent ship having the clearance to get anywhere near Persephone, much less board her to discover her cache.
"Please," one of the women sobbed, her jaw trembling, her lower lip quivering. "I am of noble birth. My family is very rich. They will pay handsomely for my return."
I rested my hands around her cheeks, giving her a little, kind smile to say 'no'.
"I am telling the truth. You will be paid a fortune," she was now sobbing more, her whole body trembling, barely able to form her words even in such short sentences. It was not an easy thing; to take the revelation that your vast fortunes meant nothing to your new and lasting, perhaps eternal, captors.
Using my hands still on her cheeks, I gently turned her head from side to side a few times, making her shake her own head 'no'.
She went limp in her bindings, letting out a long, fading, defeated moan.
"Your beauty is the only wealth of your family," I educated her, my voice smooth and calm as it usually was in these situations. She would learn, in time, during her months of pleasure slavery indoctrination in my home-city, that we had everything we would ever want or need, and could make anything, and make anything into anything, lacking only the extreme joys of the hunting of outsiders to be our latest slaves. I kissed her forehead sweetly, releasing her cheeks, and stepped back away from her, returning to look over the rest of our cargo; the other kidnapped girls now locked into my human trafficking, many of which would later be locked into my sex slave trade with Gor and other such worlds. That 'noble' girl of high caste would, as Outlander females so often tend to, continue thinking she might eventually, somehow, get me to change my mind --or, at least, some other aspect about myself, that her bondage be made more comfortable; more familiar. She would learn, through harsh and swift beatings and whippings every single time, that this was not something to be attempted, even once.
The Grid Mind; my city's main brain; our largest supercomputer; Inisfree's 2nd in command, looked through my eyes, and through all of Nyria's senses, and then through a cloaked, one-way portal, thrice confirming the exact masses, gene sequences, and personalities of the 349 girls now bound in our cargo chamber. It adjusted the device which would open the portal to return them with the Inisfreeans who were about to come as escorts for them, ensuring that only their precise number of molecules made it through. We had made this portal technology so precise that it would even gently separate them from the make-up and jewelry some of them were wearing; those pieces of metal and gemstones, and the flakes of powders and paints, would fall right off of them, remaining in little piles on our ship's cargo chamber's deck plating, easily, then, swept out by Nyria. And, while we waited for that team of Inisfreeans to teleport aboard our ship, the Grid Mind would be doing the genetic and personality equivalents of a word processor's spell-check and grammar-check, going line by line through all those captured girls' genes, and reaction by reaction through all their memes (the mental equivalent of genes), and establishing a perfect version of each girl for me (what it knew, from how I programmed it, what I felt was perfect), then creating clones of those perfected girls in batches of 50, that I have plenty, of each one I'd found in the Outlands, to enjoy while I waited on the originals (these captures here in my ship's cargo chamber) to finish their kajira (pleasure slave girl) training in the Receiving Facility of my city.
Epilogue:
The blood of humans, to vampires, is food. The sex of humans, to nymphs, is food. The sex of attractive human girls, to Inisfreeans, helps us greatly to feel better and stable, but, thankfully, we generate all our own food, and don't need to eat; if we run out, we go without, no problem. Vampires need their food. Nymphs need their sexual nourishment. Both of their races hunt out of necessity. Inisfreeans hunt out of want, always by choice. Though humans misunderstand, or choose not to believe in, all three of our kinds; vampires, nymphs, and Inisfreeans, and though, when they do believe in our existence, they demonize and hunt us back, if it wasn't for humans, all three of our kinds would be worse off; vampires would die, nymphs might die or go insane, and we Inisfreeans would be more annoyed than we are by interacting with humans, for without humans, in all their ignorance and stupidity, our dacryphilia would never be satisfied, and we would never have anyone truly fun to truly rape. Humans, though infuriating in their original environments, are great sport when being hunted. Even when we Inisfreeans are just spying on them being hunted, such as by the vampires, they are great sport. Humans, so long as they are being used like that, are worth having around. And so it is that every week or so, each time in a different city, and on a different world about every month or two, I take Persephone out with my crew to hunt for attractive human females.
The blood of humans, to vampires, is food. The sex of humans, to nymphs, is food. The sex of attractive human girls, to Inisfreeans, helps us greatly to feel better and stable, but, thankfully, we generate all our own food, and don't need to eat; if we run out, we go without, no problem. Vampires need their food. Nymphs need their sexual nourishment. Both of their races hunt out of necessity. Inisfreeans hunt out of want, always by choice. Though humans misunderstand, or choose not to believe in, all three of our kinds; vampires, nymphs, and Inisfreeans, and though, when they do believe in our existence, they demonize and hunt us back, if it wasn't for humans, all three of our kinds would be worse off; vampires would die, nymphs might die or go insane, and we Inisfreeans would be more annoyed than we are by interacting with humans, for without humans, in all their ignorance and stupidity, our dacryphilia would never be satisfied, and we would never have anyone truly fun to truly rape. Humans, though infuriating in their original environments, are great sport when being hunted. Even when we Inisfreeans are just spying on them being hunted, such as by the vampires, they are great sport. Humans, so long as they are being used like that, are worth having around. And so it is that every week or so, each time in a different city, and on a different world about every month or two, I take Persephone out with my crew to hunt for attractive human females.
Chapter 1: The Vessel I Prefer
My smallest Spaceship is named Persephone. She, as I like to call her, is a class of Spaceship called a Firefly due to its form's outward appearance; it looks like a flying bug with a bulbous abdomen which, during certain types of acceleration, glows a bit from its hull and exhaust ports into its contrail. I have many ships, both for sea and for Space; enough, in fact, that I group them into fleets (of civilian seafaring vessels) and armadas (of military Spacecraft). Persephone, however, is, perhaps, my favorite. Like the shanty I built and keep hidden in the greenbelt behind my private mansion, she is much smaller and simpler than all my other constructs, but that is one of the many qualities I find endearing about her; it makes her cozier, more personal, and more custom tailored than the other ones. I treasure, cherish, and make frequent use of all my creations, but Persephone, like that secret getaway, club-house-esque shanty, is among my favorites.
Flying Persephone is as easy as flying an Outlander aircraft, such as a Cessna; a basic, fixed wing airplane with propellers. This is because, though her design is more like that of a V-22 Osprey; a hybrid between a helicopter and anything like a Cessna, her engines make up for her wingspan, compensating thrust for what would otherwise be a lift-generating deficiency. Also, because I have customized this Firefly-class Spaceship to further compensate for its maneuverability; I have built in a number of hidden Repulsine engines which allow us to push and pull off of electromagnetic fields with one we, with those secondary engines, generate. This makes Persephone much more maneuverable than all other Fireflies, and very easy for any experienced pilot.
I take Persephone out whenever I want to go on my kind of hunting trips; whenever I am in the mood to personally hunt the sexy females I prefer. The people I created; the Inisfreeans, are constantly doing this for me, but sometimes, like a master chef stepping into one of the kitchens he manages, supervises, owns, or teaches, I like to get involved so I can sample the raw, brand new products; the fresh catches, like fish right out of the sea, still squirming, still vital, still thinking it possible, with fury, to escape. This is delicious and electrifying; exceptionally energizing to me. Persephone has a knack for this type of work, too, and not just because I have increased her maneuverability; rather, because Firefly-class Spaceships are made for transport; their bulbous 'abdomen' section is the cargo chamber which is their largest part. In other words, my Persephone has room for hundreds of females I capture during my hunts.
The name, at first, is a bit strange; why name a Spaceship that looks like a giant bug... after the goddess of sex, love, and human female beauty? The answer is a bit layered, almost complex; all of my other ships are very simple in form (the largest are spheres or spherical, the intermediate-sized ones are shaped like Dominoes; rectangular prisms, and smaller ones are shaped like Frisbees and eggs, and the smallest ones are shaped like beaked Frisbees and elongated diamonds), and Persephone reminds me most of feminine aspects, if not bodyparts. All of my ships have compartments specially designed, and built in as standard, for the acquisition, housing, training, and processing of the females I love to hunt, capture, and enslave. Persephone, however, is not as streamlined as all those other ships of mine; instead of a very rounded or geometric, one-sided design, she has more curves from head to tail. Her cargo chamber is more like the bulging womb of a pregnant female. Her storage compartments are hidden throughout her interior, just like how females, relying more on their wiles and feelings than their strength or thoughts, natural have a lot hidden within them, too. Finally, I think of this particular Spaceship of mine more as a female because she is designed for stealth and deception, while all my other ships are designed for force; 'shock and awe', often advancing in brutal waves that literally raze entire civilizations, even, sometimes, changing the face of entire worlds. Persephone, though, just slips right on by, seeming weak, fragile, average, and negligible; the favored tricks and techniques of females who know how to maximize the effectiveness of their natures.
My smallest Spaceship is named Persephone. She, as I like to call her, is a class of Spaceship called a Firefly due to its form's outward appearance; it looks like a flying bug with a bulbous abdomen which, during certain types of acceleration, glows a bit from its hull and exhaust ports into its contrail. I have many ships, both for sea and for Space; enough, in fact, that I group them into fleets (of civilian seafaring vessels) and armadas (of military Spacecraft). Persephone, however, is, perhaps, my favorite. Like the shanty I built and keep hidden in the greenbelt behind my private mansion, she is much smaller and simpler than all my other constructs, but that is one of the many qualities I find endearing about her; it makes her cozier, more personal, and more custom tailored than the other ones. I treasure, cherish, and make frequent use of all my creations, but Persephone, like that secret getaway, club-house-esque shanty, is among my favorites.
Flying Persephone is as easy as flying an Outlander aircraft, such as a Cessna; a basic, fixed wing airplane with propellers. This is because, though her design is more like that of a V-22 Osprey; a hybrid between a helicopter and anything like a Cessna, her engines make up for her wingspan, compensating thrust for what would otherwise be a lift-generating deficiency. Also, because I have customized this Firefly-class Spaceship to further compensate for its maneuverability; I have built in a number of hidden Repulsine engines which allow us to push and pull off of electromagnetic fields with one we, with those secondary engines, generate. This makes Persephone much more maneuverable than all other Fireflies, and very easy for any experienced pilot.
I take Persephone out whenever I want to go on my kind of hunting trips; whenever I am in the mood to personally hunt the sexy females I prefer. The people I created; the Inisfreeans, are constantly doing this for me, but sometimes, like a master chef stepping into one of the kitchens he manages, supervises, owns, or teaches, I like to get involved so I can sample the raw, brand new products; the fresh catches, like fish right out of the sea, still squirming, still vital, still thinking it possible, with fury, to escape. This is delicious and electrifying; exceptionally energizing to me. Persephone has a knack for this type of work, too, and not just because I have increased her maneuverability; rather, because Firefly-class Spaceships are made for transport; their bulbous 'abdomen' section is the cargo chamber which is their largest part. In other words, my Persephone has room for hundreds of females I capture during my hunts.
The name, at first, is a bit strange; why name a Spaceship that looks like a giant bug... after the goddess of sex, love, and human female beauty? The answer is a bit layered, almost complex; all of my other ships are very simple in form (the largest are spheres or spherical, the intermediate-sized ones are shaped like Dominoes; rectangular prisms, and smaller ones are shaped like Frisbees and eggs, and the smallest ones are shaped like beaked Frisbees and elongated diamonds), and Persephone reminds me most of feminine aspects, if not bodyparts. All of my ships have compartments specially designed, and built in as standard, for the acquisition, housing, training, and processing of the females I love to hunt, capture, and enslave. Persephone, however, is not as streamlined as all those other ships of mine; instead of a very rounded or geometric, one-sided design, she has more curves from head to tail. Her cargo chamber is more like the bulging womb of a pregnant female. Her storage compartments are hidden throughout her interior, just like how females, relying more on their wiles and feelings than their strength or thoughts, natural have a lot hidden within them, too. Finally, I think of this particular Spaceship of mine more as a female because she is designed for stealth and deception, while all my other ships are designed for force; 'shock and awe', often advancing in brutal waves that literally raze entire civilizations, even, sometimes, changing the face of entire worlds. Persephone, though, just slips right on by, seeming weak, fragile, average, and negligible; the favored tricks and techniques of females who know how to maximize the effectiveness of their natures.
