Skye’s master preferred the company of three types of slaves. His brides, his damsel’s, and his milk jugs. All three served a purpose, and while his concubine wives were given the most comfort, the milk jugs were not poorly treated. The same couldn’t be said for his damsel’s, who seemed to be the very picture of abject misery.
The concubines, his betrothed wives, were women of supple youth, with ripe wombs ready to carry his offspring. He had quite the harem, made up of some forty or fifty brides, by Skye’s estimation, and he was rarely without two of them within arms reach at any one time. The master wasn’t one for fixed schedules, and seemed to have a fetish for sleeping with his pregnant slaves as often as those waiting to conceive. It made it so only those on the verge of their final trimester were spared from his longing eyes.
The second group, his damsel’s, were never touched by human hands. They were pumped full of dopamine, libido inducing narcotics, and mind altering hormones. Almost immediately after their sex drives grew into a burning furnace, they were exposed to a strange tentacled organism. This alien was coated in slime, some kind of excretion that only spurred their hosts sensations.
The organism feasted on feminine love juices, and once latching onto their sweaty skin it refused to let go. They looked like large bundles of fleshy pulsating tendrils, and they wrapped tightly around their hosts breasts, throats, and limbs with ease. The squirming muscles were constantly yoking their victims to orgasm, and once overcome with pleasure the alien absorbed their spewing lust greedily.
The longer the organism remained attached, the more insatiable its hunger grew. Within weeks its tendrils inserted themselves into multiple orifices, and within months the damsel would find their stomach’s bloated from all the forced feeding. By that point, the organism was even breathing for them.
As if that wasn’t bad enough, extended fleshy tipped feeders pried their way through their damsel’s nipples, and helped their breasts grow to a monstrous size. Those damsel’s long subdued in the Masters service were mind numbed cum slaves, their sweat and juices feeding the organism while it fed the host in return with its own addictive nectar.
New damsel’s were often lean, with small breasts, and short trimmed hair. Skye had wondered where, and how the Master chose women for this twisted service. Or even why for that matter. It didn’t take long for their bodies to be put to egg laying use, only to birth more squishy membraned organisms that were quick to hatch.
The Master enjoyed watching the damsel’s stumble through their humiliating fall from grace. He often drank wine while watching them seethe with blinding euphoria, unable to escape from their terrible fate. Eventually the will to fight would die in their eyes, and the slave would give in to a life of unending stimulation. It was often after birthing their first clutch of eggs that the last remnant of resistance bled away. What the Master did with the eggs, Skye wasn’t privy to know, and hoped never to find out.
What she was most curious about was knowing who the damsel’s were before? And how they came into his possession? The Master kept track of their progress closely, and clearly enjoyed their misery. Skye got the impression they were targeted specifically. As to their number, Skye counted only a dozen currently enslaved aboard.
Skye was glad that she was spared from that. Only once did she catch a glimpse, in passing, of a new slave being forced to become one of the Master’s damsel’s. Judging by the expression on his face, she had been a scorned lover, or perhaps some former enemy, for he laughed as the tentacles wrapped around her legs.
Of all the women in the Masters employ, or servitude, most seemed to be members of Skye’s group. Milk jugs made up a majority of the women on the masters space craft, and for the most part, they lived comfortably. Each were offered their own private suites, and afforded a small stipend that they were welcome to spend freely whenever docked at a station. They were also showered with gifts, and once their bodies were past their prime, they were offered retirement funds, and freed of their bondage. There was even gossip that some of the milk jugs were dismissed early, should they earn the Masters respect.
Surprisingly enough, they were also allowed to seek out romance, and the Master supported their efforts to find a partner of their own. Sometimes he would even promote them to his harem, if they caught his eye, but didn’t touch them in a lecherous manner.
Milk jugs worked on a schedule of milking services. Nursing newborns, adding to the reserve stockpiles, and filling bath tubs for the Master and his harem were the bulk of them. Sometimes he would have one of them accompany him to his study, so that he could have a fresh supply of nourishment after a long days work.
Three times Skye was summoned to service him directly in this manner. During these session he only touched her heavy breasts, and only gently. He never asked her to please him in a more accommodating manner, and even spoke to her almost like an equal. Or perhaps, more like an employee.
As far as jobs went, Skye felt weirdly safe in this place, in the Masters service. Damsel’s aside, the women enslaved to him never wanted for anything, and lived better off than before. They got the best food and protein supplements to refine their natural qualities.
Four months serving aboard the Masters vessel, a light cruiser with the added bulk of a freighter called the Eudaimonia, and Skye had long forgotten the mindless depravity of her life on Danica station. She messaged her mother frequently, lying about what she was doing, and was happy that she was being taken care of. Skye missed her, but she never confessed that out loud.
Summoned to the Masters chambers, Skye Kimble walked from her suite wearing a simple garb of synth-woven underwear and stockings. The brassier cupped her breasts gently, and the panties didn’t irritate her skin. Generally, Skye preferred to be naked, especially in the comfort of her own room, but for some reason the Master enjoyed her wearing the clothes he regularly purchased for her.
As she walked down the Eudaimonia’s fuming halls, enjoying how it felt to have the teary mist lacquer her dry skin, Skye ignored the line of Damsel’s being led in the opposite direction. Their eyes were dilated, their bodies twitchy and jerking with unseemly spasms, and the squirming bundle of fleshy nerves wrapped around their bodies pulsated with each movement.
Skye deliberately looked away, while trying to keep herself at a distance. Rumor had it a single touch from one of the tentacled flesh bags would send an addictive stimulant to the nervous system, entering through the pores of the skin to heighten the body’s sensitivity.
Judging by what she saw, and what she had seen, Skye could believe it.
Avoiding the blank stares, Skye followed the path down to the lower decks until reaching the right path. The Eudamonia had two main corridors, one along the spine and a secondary constructed down the central shaft of the ships bulk. All roads lead to one or both of these corridors, and Skye enjoyed the scented air cycled through them.
It was a fifteen minute jog, or a twenty minute brisk walk, to get from her private suite to the Masters pillow chamber. It happened to be one of the largest rooms built into the Eudaimonia, second only to the engineering section. It was even more spacious than the bridge, which was tiny by comparison.
The Masters pillow chamber was a large room in the aft section of the ship, and it was buried under several meters of layered steel, and thick bulkheads. Inside there was a vast collection of alcohol, stimulants, and ways to find comfort. A bed, ten meters in length, and twice that in width, was embedded in the center of the room. Feather pillows and linen sheets covered the plush mattress. There seemed to always be a few brides sprawled naked under the sheets, and Skye wasn’t surprised to find four happily asleep.
The lights were dimmed, and the smell of rich cologne filled the room. A hot tub and milk bath sat in opposite sides of the room. The hot tub functioned as a mineral bath, and three of the Masters heavily pregnant mothers-to-be floated in the water with bubbles foaming on the surface. The milk bath was currently in mid fill with seventeen milk jugs positioned around it, they were leaning over the porcelain edged tub while having their teats massaged with robotic finger strobes.
Skye had spent four hours the previous day in that very position, her heft oozing a seemingly endless spray of nectar, while her lower pair were being milked for the Masters private use. Somehow he could tell a difference, and enjoyed the bounty of her lower smaller set of breasts.
Wandering past the bed, the holo vids, and bathing venues, Skye approached the private sanctum tucked toward the back of the room. The door was made of real wood, something she had never seen before until coming aboard. The sanctum was a fairly spacious suite on its own, with lounge chairs sitting before a wide work desk. Multiple trinkets decorated the walls and his desk. The one thing that always caught her eye was the silver wreath collecting dust on the nearby bookshelf. As Skye entered she was surprised not to find the Master waiting for her, but someone else.
“Hey Skye,” Octavia Valinthrope spoke out from a massage chair. For all intent and purpose, she was the Masters right hand. She was his first officer, and prime concubine.
Octavia had a young boy, no older than a month old, clutched to her chest, and she had a noblewoman’s smile. She always wore tailored white uniforms, with a blouse or short linen skirt that exaggerated the ample curvature of her hips. The woman’s taste in clothing stroked Skye’s jealousy, and made her feel sad that her skin would never be able to wear something so remarkable.
“Yes, Mistress Octavia,” Skye strolled over to her side, breathing in the fragrant rich air, while ignoring the painful soreness in her breasts. “Does the master need anything?”
“No sweetie,” Octavia’s rich chestnut hair spilled down her shoulders, and the babe in her arms was reaching out to tug on her locks. “Don’t worry, no ones disappointed with you, I just wanted to have a chat. And I’m sorry for bugging you on your day off.”
“Its nothing mistress,” in truth there was a lot weighing on Skye’s mind, and she would rather lay around stewing in her own thoughts than come all the way down here. She put on a smile though, trying to embellish a pleasant demeanor despite the shadow over her thoughts.
“Oh it is, I know. Your body needs its rest, and we must always value what time we can get to ourselves.” Octavia returned a sincere smile. “I’ll make it up to you.”
“Ma’am?”
“Sit down, relax, don’t worry I won’t bite.” It was amazing how Octavia kept herself composed despite the child tugging at her bangs. Once Skye took a seat on Octavia’s side of the room, Octavia continued. “The reason I wanted to talk to you is quite personal, so I apologize if it comes out as awkward. You don’t have to answer if you don’t want to.”
There was a listing in Octavia’s tone, a dip in her voice that made it sound genuine and sincere. Skye could almost believe this was a real attempt to reach out.
“I’m sorry, I’m confused?” Skye could feel her fingers growing clammy. She had never been addressed so directly like this since becoming a milk jug. Her walls were raised automatically in response.
“I’ll just ask then,” Octavia seemed to notice her nervousness. “So tell me Skye, have you ever…had anyone catch your eye?”
Skye sighed, her shoulders slumped, and her eyelashes fluttered in thought. “No, at least not anyone worth remembering.”
“That’s a shame. If you would like, I could offer you a hand?” Octavia leaned forward, so that her endowments were easily accessible for the child.
“You offering to be my matchmaker?” Skye just rolled her eyes, not sure where this conversation was going. It was so abrupt, out of nowhere, and she couldn’t help but wonder why the Masters first wife would be interested in a milk jugs personal needs.
Octavia chuckled at the suggestion. “Maybe, I could use the practice. Of all the milk jugs, you’re the most beautiful by far. It’s such a waste, you being all alone.”
“Are you trying to seduce me to join the Masters harem?”
“Oh no!” Octavia nearly spat with laughter. The child in her arms cried out from the sudden reaction, and she had to gently rock him back to sleep before addressing Skye again. “Besides he’s…not into your type.”
What the fuck does that mean! Skye’s eyes were fixed forward, her fingernails scratched into the leather cushion, and she could feel the hairs on the back of her neck stiffened. She remained seated perfectly straight, although Octavia smirked noticing her abdominal muscles clench and the corner of her lip twitch.
“Don’t take offense,” Octavia teased. “Besides being a part of his harem requires…a unique personality. I can tell you don’t have the heart to share a man, and between you and me…you could do better. You would be far happier with someone who would dedicate themselves solely to you, and vice versa.”
“And where can I find such a man?” Skye spoke low and softly, still trying to gauge the direction of this conversation. Definitely not here, that’s for sure.
“Definitely not in the Silent Marches, that’s for sure…” Octavia’s answer echoed Skye’s thoughts. Her voice suddenly grew distant, her eyes drifted to the shadowy corners of the room. As if realizing her lapse, the concubine shifted in her seat and resumed her conversation. “What do you want in this life Skye?”
It was such a strange question. “Hmm?”
“Has anyone ever asked you that before?” The question lingered in the air between them.
“Of course. It’s just, I never really had a good answer.”
“Well, a little birdie told me you were happy being gutter trash on Danica Station. Is that what you want? To be a two bit washed out whore, blissfully ignorant of your own diminishing lifespan?” Suddenly Octavia’s tone took a turn. As if reliving a bad dream.
Skye didn’t answer. How could she? Her tongue seemed tied, and her hands wouldn’t stop shaking.
Octavia continued looking off into the distance while speaking softly. “Or do you like the idea of being bound, gagged, and milked by a greedy barman until your gorgeous tits are sagging to the floor? Then to be sold to some station scum until fucked to death?”
Now Skye’s feet were shaking.
“Or how about body modification?” Octavia shot her an accusatory glare. “Do you like having your skin washed in flesh alteration therapeutics? Stripping away your modesty, and innocence for all to see? Maybe you’d like something even more drastic?”
“NO!” The outburst poured out, Skye didn’t even recognize her own voice.
The entire room seemed to get colder as Skye’s plea bounced from wall to wall, echoing into the ether. By the time Octavia managed to get her child back to sleep, Skye was still at the edge of her seat.
“Interesting,” Octavia finally looked up, and smiled.
“I’m sorry mistress?”
“Don’t be, in fact I’m actually quite proud. It’s good to see you sticking up for yourself for once.” Octavia stood up, walked gently across the room, and placed the infant in a small crib. She then turned around to retrieve a set of ceramic cups sitting on a counter top. “I’ll get you something to drink. How do you like your tea? Spoonful of honey with it?”
“Yes ma’am,” Something about the Masters honey made her breast milk taste sweeter. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to scream.”
“You still haven’t told me,” Octavia handed out a steaming cup to her. “What is it you actually want?”
Skye humbly accepted the token of appreciation, and as she sipped on its rich amber surface, she could taste the honey. It instantly made her tits perk up.
“Right now, I just want more of your honey tea.” It might’ve sounded like a joke, but Skye was being entirely serious.
Octavia sighed, not sure how to read Skye’s voice. “Please just think about what I said. You have to want something more than to be used up as a milk jug.” There was a short pause as Octavia finished drinking another deep sip. “How about an easier question, and don’t worry I won’t push you. How would you like to be able to wear something more stylish without your skin breaking out in hives again?”
Skye looked at Octavia’s white coat and the form fitting gown underneath. She then looked down at herself, and noticed her supple flesh was eager to spill out of the brassier. Perhaps it wouldn’t be so bad wearing something nice again? She couldn’t help but think to herself.
“I don’t think that’s possible, not without synthetic material.” Skye finally relented. It was expensive enough crafting synth-weave material, making stylish ensembles with it was extremely rare and highly expensive. On the few occasions they were waylaid dockside, Skye never found a single trader, merchant, or shop that sold decent clothing for her particular condition. The only clothes readily available were either sexually explicit, or made for comfort. Loose gowns with little stylistic taste seemed to be the norm, while robes made up of thicker synth-weave material could be worn in colder temperatures.
“But if there was a way to reverse the procedure, would you be interested?” Octavia gently placed her cup on the desk, not even caring to find a coaster for it.
“To be truthfully honest…I don’t mind how I am right now. But if there was a way, I wouldn’t object to it.” Skye had long deliberated this kind of question, and still couldn’t decide ultimately what to do should such a change of fortune even exist.
“You like being naked?” Octavia smirked. She reached out to test the strain on Skye’s brassier, patting her chest and feeling the lining of the stitched fabric. Soft flesh bounced as Octavia’s touch sent shockwaves through Skye’s tender bosom. All it took was a meager squeeze, a light application of pressure, and a small dab of moisture formed from beneath the fabric.
“I know I should be ashamed but…” Skye was blushing, already one of the buttons had popped free.
Octavia noticed her flustering, and laughed with delight before pulling back. “Good girl I’m glad that makes you happy, somewhat, at least. But let’s work on finding something a little more ambitious ok.”
“Yes mistress.”
“And you know my name is Octavia right?” She asked with a hint of mirth in her voice.
“Yes, of course Mistress, sorry I’m just a little shaken up. Thanks for the tea, and I’m sorry Mis—Octavia for not having a better answer…or any real answer actually.” Skye was happy to get back on her feet, although she wasn’t sure what to do about her top slowly falling apart.
“You have any plans for this evening?” Octavia picked up her cup to finish drinking its contents.
Skye cleared her throat, “I was just going to lay in bed a while, maybe try that physical regiment with Cassy and Sarah this afternoon, but other than that, nope not really.”
Physical exercise was a must while working for the Master, that and a good diet, and ample rest in between shifts. While there wasn’t any direct expectation to maintain their figure, the Master tended to reward his milk jugs for keeping in good health.
Octavia rose up from her seat, and happily took both their empty cups to the table next to the tea kettle. “Well, after you’ve worked up a good sweat with those two, do me a favor, and just think about what more you want in life. Do it for me, ok.”
There weren’t many instances, to Skye’s knowledge, of someone in Octavia’s position being so interested in the dreams of their lessers. It was rare for any slave owner to give so much attention to his property’s well being as the Master and his concubines did for them. Of course, that was not considering the damsel’s. Just thinking of them again sent cold shivers down her spine.
“Yeah sure, no problem,” Skye fiddled with the empty hole in her brassier, where a button should be. She could already tell the stitching for the lower ones were loose as well. Skye ground her teeth, annoyed with yet another article of clothing being ruined.
“That’s a good girl,” Octavia looked over to a notification on the holo. She then returned her attention Skye. “You know…you look so cute, and even a little confident, when you let your guard down.”
Skye ignored the compliment, not sure where it came from. “Is the Master coming soon?” The entire meeting and conversation with Octavia seemed strange, out of place even. Skye wasn’t sure why the Master wasn’t here, or if he even knew they were using his private work space for idle chit-chat.
“Oh I’m sure he is, or will be soon.” Octavia brushed her hair back. “Don’t worry about him though, I’ve got him handled.”
