Time for a flashback to events around Prelude 2 and Chapter 3, with a little of the detail that was filled in in Chapter 9.
It's all coming together!
Also time for our second chapter in the First Person.
If this one's not for you (it's not particularly funny or horny, so it might not be) and you wanna skip it, the only really vital plot point here is that although Rutt
Spoilercouldn't kill any of the Robot People who massacred the traders, he's been hiding the detail that he knows someone else did manage to take one out
[collapse].
Naturally I'd rather you didn't skip it though! Or I wouldn't have written it. You know how it is.
My name is Statice of the House of El Oraka. Not that anyone ever asked it at the slave market.
"This one here, a bit puny isn't she?" the buyer had asked.
"Ah, yet your eye is drawn to her, I wonder why?" said the salesman.
The buyer, a trader bound for Forfeiture, ran a finger along the length of me. Down my sternum and over my belly.
"I'll say my eye's drawn to her. I'm wondering how the little cunt's stood upright. She's clearly malnourished."
The buyer was inspecting me closely. His bodyguard, a minotaur, hung back.
"Malnourished! Ah no, good sir. This is how they are bred at the House of El Oraka. This smaller frame is very much by design and intent, the product of El Oraka's masterful selective breeding program. This bitch to which your expert, discerning eye has been drawn is something very special indeed."
"Is that right?" said the buyer, a man I would later come to know as Atticus Revola.
I gave him a little smile. He tutted at me in contempt.
"It is, sir," the salesman assured him, "Slaves from the House of El Oraka are bred to have the tightest pussies in all of Oasis Ninety-Four." He grabbed my coochie and squeezed his hand around it uncomfortably. "With merchandise like this one it's all about that special genetic feature. All about the narrow cunny tunnel with this one, sir. Very popular with small-dicked gentlemen, sir. Give a small-dicked gentleman a slave bred by the House of El Oraka and he'll feel like he's your Minotaur friend over there, sir."
"Hmm," Revola considered, "She looks half starved though. Would it make her damn vag any less tight if you gave the bitch a bowl of broth once in a while?"
"Should you decide to purchase this unit, she will of course be yours to feed as you wish," said the salesman. His hand hadn't left my snatch.
Revola laughed.
He was running a merchant caravan all the way to Forfeiture and shopping for sex slaves to entertain the travellers en route. Providing something to hump in the evenings was an important part of provisioning such an expedition.
"I am looking for a wide variety of fuckmeat," he admitted. "Perhaps I should add this little scrap of life to the package. For, as you say, the smaller-dicked gentleman. Godfolk know I travel with plenty of them."
"Excellent, sir! And, if I may say, her excruciatingly tight vagina isn't just suitable for those with a smaller penis. It is also ideal for those gentlemen looking for a challenge or for a somewhat sadistic experience."
I was sold to Revola. For how much I could not say, as I came as part of a package deal with four other girlies he bought from that particular slaver. Across the various flesh markets of the Oasis, he purchased ten in total.
Atticus Revola raped me personally before the caravan ever headed off, curious no doubt about my 'selectively bred tight vagina.' He seemed to enjoy the experience well enough, but his supposedly discerning eye never noticed what the slaver's hand had been slyly covering my cunny to conceal. No 'selective breeding' was responsible for the unforgiving narrowness of my vaginal canal. Only the deft work of El Oraka's surgeons, shortening the muscles and tissue within my snatch with their clever knives and stitching them together tight. All El Oraka girlies were prepared for market in this way. The House's signature.
At the next Oasis, the caravan began to pick up whores.
The whores knew the traders would be growing tired of raping the same slaves every night, and knew that the longer into their journey they got then the more they would long not just for a variety of girlie, but of sexual technique. My sisters in slavery and I were just cumdumps, but the whores that joined on route knew better how to please the men, how to excite and inflame their desires. How to get them spending money.
Any merchant travelling with that caravan could empty their nutsack into any of the ten slaves whenever they wanted, but still they paid good coin for the use of the whores that joined our procession along the dusty desert road.
Relations between us slaves and the whores was fraught.
The whores resented the slaves for "taking away their business" by giving to the men for free the one thing that the whores had to sell.
The slaves resented the whores for their freedom, their agency, and simply because they were getting paid. Any time she wanted, a whore could leave the caravan and take her earnings with her. My sisters in slavery could not leave and had no earnings to take. If we were wiser we would have hated the men for that. But we were not wise. So we hated the whores.
Yet one I befriended. A beautiful whore with skin far darker than my own and pastel blue hair. Her name was Mazzi.
At first my motives in befriending Mazzi were selfish. I wished to draw close to the whores and better learn the ways they pleased the merchants with their hands, mouths and teats. The more I could bring men to orgasm by means such as those, I reasoned, the better I could keep them out of the painful tightness of my butchered genitals. Mazzi, I thought, could teach me the ways of the whore.
Which she did. And more besides, as she taught me to lez up with her. My first ever orgasms were coaxed out of me by Mazzi's tongue.
My motives put aside, we drew genuinely close. The other slaves were my sisters. Mazzi the Whore was my friend.
One night at camp she brought me a mug of cactus hooch.
"We're getting drunk tonight, girlie" she said.
"It is alright? The men do not mind if we drink this?"
"They don't fucking mind if we bathe in this. Have you seen how much of it they just made? You know Oscar?"
I did know Oscar. One of the more eccentric merchants. He liked me to finger his besthole and tell him sad stories.
"Well, Oscar is like some kind of...Time Wizard, I guess. He's got like some kind of magic amulet that can accelerate the flow of time around objects? The men have figured out some insane way to use it to turn cactuses into lakes of alcohol, and now they've got more than they know what to do with."
"Then I suppose tonight I drink with my friend Mazzi."
"I suppose tonight you do!"
And we drank, and we talked, and we lezzed up, and we drank and talked some more.
In time, Mazzi grew melancholy.
"Babe, you know they're going to kill you at the end of this, right?"
"They're going to what? But....but you said this drink was free to take...?"
"Nah, babe. The end of this journey. Or not even then, really. Just when we make the crossing from Ligature into Forfeiture."
This was news to me. Terrible news.
"Why would they do such a thing?" I asked.
Mazzi explained that, although slavery was legal in Forfeiture, it was deeply frowned upon. No merchant caravan would be welcome rolling through the country with a retinue of ten sex slaves. When they reached the border, having tired of the slaves anyway, they would follow the custom of the road. They would slaughter the women and bury them in the sands before approaching the crossing. Mazzi said she expected they'd have the minotaur do it.
"They would kill us all!" I gasped.
"Nah, not all. We whores will leave before the killing starts, naturally, and the men will probably keep two or three of their favourite slaves. Two or three won't raise an eyebrow. But they'll kill you for sure, my sweet Statice."
Rude.
"You are so certain I am not a favourite?"
"Well, here's the other thing," Mazzi took a deep breath then launched into it, "You look much younger than you are, from the early malnutrition and the selective breeding, and Forfeiture has a higher age of consent than Ligature. You are not the kind of bitch anyone wants to be seen fucking in Forfeiture unless they wanna get arrested. Even if you were the most beloved slave in the camp, they couldn't risk it. I'm so sorry, babe. I'm sure that hot minotaur will make it quick."
I thought for a moment.
"My good friend, Mazzi the Whore, I am happy to say I have a plan to not die," I told her, "And all it will need from you is for you to finger the besthole of Oscar the Time Wizard while telling him a sad story."
"Been on the road forty years, hun. Sad stories is all I got."
You have surely correctly guessed my plan.
I stole the 'Amulet of Temporal Acceleration' from the trader's tent and used it on my boobies.
Experimenting with it until I was sure I had the secrets of its use, I enveloped my little tits with the device's temporal distortion field. There were options to advance objects within the field along various different potential personal timelines, so I was sure to accelerate mine along a timeline in which I was healthy and well-nourished, with large firm teats. When my titties reached the appearance they were scheduled to have in my twenty-fifth year I stopped. They looked amazing. I looked like an oppai loli.
"You look so beautiful," said my friend Mazzi and we lezzed up again.
But, much as I wanted to, if I was to survive the coming massacre at the border I could not concentrate on lezzing. I had to become a favourite of the men. So I devoted myself to the study of the tittyfuck.
I was an excellent student
Two nights from the border, my time-travelling slutbags were wrapped around the dick of Atticus Revola. I don't think he even had the slightest idea that I was the same slave he'd raped back in Oasis Ninety-Four. The guy was loving what my melons were doing for him.
Sat next to us was the Minotaur. He and Revola had become good friends along the road and, like all good friends liked to tease each other.
"Once we're over the other side of that border that wench you're titfucking there won't be legal," the Minotaur laughed.
Revola laughed louder
"Slutbags as big as these, who's gonna notice!" he cackled and slapped my right teat hard.
I winced in pain, but quickly contorted the expression into as close to a smile as I could get it.
"You're not wrong," said Rutt, and he reached over and crushed my slapped titty between his rough, chunky fingers. It hurt worse than the slap, but felt so much more erotic. Damn, the minotaur was so fucking hot.
One night from the border, the convoy was attacked by flying saucers and everyone died.
Maybe it would have been the night the slaves died anyway. Or maybe Mazzi was full of shit. We'll never know because everyone died. Everyone was exterminated.
Everyone except me and Rutt the Minotaur.
The Minotaur escaped by throwing one of the whores in the path of a deathray meant for him and then running like a coward.
I escaped by killing one of the Outer Space Robot People and stealing a flying saucer.
Mazzi, Revola, the merchants, the whores, my sisters in slavery. I watched them all die. And when I saw Oscar fall I knew that I need not.
The Amulet of Temporal Acceleration!
As before, when I sent my rack to the future, I stole the artefact from Oscar's tent. Perhaps it was what the Robot People were seeking. But right then, it was my weapon, not theirs.
Sprinting for one of the empty flying saucers, my plan was to get inside. Best case scenario I could control it, take flight and make my escape. Second best case scenario I could at least get the doors closed.
Worst case scenario was that there was still a Dalek inside. That was the one that played out.
The fleeing Minotaur saw everything as I ran towards the opening of the saucer and an exterminator rolled out to meet me. Although he probably didn't understand what he was seeing. Using the amulet I reached out the temporal distortion field to surround the robot. Only to learn that it was not a robot. It had an organic component. There was a creature inside that thing. A pilot.
Perfect.
I turned the dial on the amulet all the way up. The creature inside the robot hurtled forward along its timestream. I had aged my titties to the age of twenty-five, where they were at their biggest but had not yet started to sag. I aged the Dalek to death.
Only because of the amulet did I understand that within that robotic shell, a gross little octopus creature was turning to bones and dust.
The Minotaur could not have understood that. All he'd have seen is me, an oppai loli slave bitch with a surgically stitched cunt, killing one of the monsters that had defeated him.
For some reason I'll never understand, I feel prouder of that victory over the minotaur than I do of my victory over the space monster.
The Flying Saucer was piss easy to pilot. I escaped into space and had brilliant, sexy adventures for the rest of my life until I died at age 114 as the Queen of Planet Flarg.
