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Homecomings

A Scarborough Fair Story

by RedFox6

Prologue

Raid on Viktora

Confederation of Independent Star Systems.

Planet Viktora.

Outside the Capitol, Camlin.

Seven Years Ago.

The Ravager class raider ship, Harvester Undetected, had landed secretly the night before, slipping past the poorly monitored Viktoran defense grid. With most of the small Viktoran military busy suppressing a rebellion on their colony planet Estava, even if they were detected, it would take the remaining Viktoran Protective Forces hours before they could mount a serious attack.

The Cormoran raiders spent the hours before dawn camouflaging their ship and preparing their contragrav skiffs for their raid. They wore skintight dark red armor, and carried sliver guns, firing tiny flechettes at high velocity. They also carried launchers with capture nets and gas grenades, since one of the main purposes of the raid was to collect slaves for the markets. Their features were concealed by the full face helmets they wore, the faceplates an opaque gold color.

Under cover of darkness, scouts went out to infiltrate the target and eliminate the guards. The well armed vehicles, based on racing skiffs, followed an hour later, flying nap of the earth as they approached their target. The communication jammer skiffs led the way, their systems infiltrating and overriding the school's communication systems. Fast moving gun skiffs flanked the main body, keeping an eye out for any potential problems. The main body consisted of larger skiffs, filled with troops and badgerwolf hounds, with small slave cages lining their sides. Their muffled engines made little sound as they rapidly approached the sprawling estate that was Mrs. Faversham's Finishing School for Proper Young Ladies.

Looking around the security monitoring station as he returned from the latrine, former Marine Sergeant Evans smiled as he anticipated an enjoyable day of watching the hundreds of attractive female students in their school uniforms as they went about their daily routines. When he'd retired from the Royal Marines, he'd never thought that he would land such an easy and pleasurable job as this.

Approaching the desk, the badger morph frowned as he noticed that the external security monitors showed nothing but static. "Aw expledel," he thought, tapping the monitor. "Cursed thing is down again. This is getting old, it's the third time this week." It was almost his last thought, as an arm snaked about his head, a hand grabbed his muzzle and pulled his head up, and a sharp blade opened his throat. His attacker held him until he stopped struggling, then dropped the body and left the room, confident that his compatriots would not be detected on their approach.

But Sergeant Evans was a Royal Marine, and Royal Marines don't die that easily. He clawed his way up the console. With the last of his strength, he hit the alarm button. The last thing he ever heard was the klaxons going off. He died knowing that he had done his duty.

When the alarms went off, the militia squads assigned to the school came pouring out of their barracks, clutching their weapons and looking for targets. They milled around in confusion long enough for three of the infiltrators to open up with a light machine gun, their flechette rounds cutting down two of the guards and sending the others scattering for cover. They were on the verge of breaking when former Royal Marine Sergeant Major Plumley strode out of the building, a large handgun in his paw.

"Stand fast, you bloody bastards!" the bear morph shouted at the top of his lungs. "This is what you've been training for, so bloody well do your deities' cursed duty!"

The infiltrators fired on the Sergeant Major. Without even flinching, he turned and fired a single round from his pistol, hitting the machine gunner. The man dropped his weapon and fell back, most of his head blown off by the explosive round.

With the Sergeant Major there, the guards recovered quickly enough and returned fire with their assault rifles. The two surviving infiltrators were forced into cover, unable to respond to the heavy counter fire.

Two guards with rifles and one with a squad automatic weapon kept the attackers pinned down while the rest of the surviving guards began an outflanking move. Unfortunately, this exposed them to the strafing fire from two of the just arriving gun skiffs. Their heavy sliver guns tore into the guards, easily penetrating their armor and killing or wounding many of them. The survivors fell back with their wounded and regrouped, returning fire as best they could. One guard rose up, shouldered an obsolete but still effective RPG and launched the rocket at the nearest gun skiff. The round penetrated the energy shield and hit the side of the skiff, blowing the gunner off in a bloody mist of body parts. While the guard ducked down to reload and move to a new firing position, the damaged skiff, listing badly, rapidly withdrew out of range. The other skiff poured heavy fire into the wall the guards were hiding behind, their heavy sliver gun blowing away small chunks of it with every shot and forcing the guards to keep their heads down. One of the troop skiffs came over, their laser cannon punching through the wall, searching for the guards. The raiders onboard disembarked, taking up firing positions and adding their firepower to the attack.

The guard rose from his new position and fired the RPG at the troop skiff. The angle was bad and the round glanced off the energy shield, exploding harmlessly in the air. Before he had a chance to duck back down and reload, the skiff's laser cannon struck him, vaporizing him from neck to waist.

Seeing how the battle was going, Sergeant Major Plumley ordered the surviving guards to grab their wounded and take cover in the nearest dormitory. There, they met Col. Faversham himself, carrying his old service disruptor pistol and keeping the students and staff as calm as possible. The older human male organized the survivors to best defend the building, and they poured out a heavy fire, keeping the attackers pinned down and at a distance.

One of the techs, a cheetah morph named George had been frantically typing at his PPC.

"Colonel!" he shouted, looking up. "All communications have been jammed.

"But if I can get to my truck, I can go for help. It's the fastest vehicle we have, no one can catch it, sir."

Colonel Faversham quickly considered George's proposal, then, "If you think you can make it, son, go. We'll cover you."

With a quick smile, the cheetah morph said, "Aw Sheol, Colonel, I'm already on my way back."

He quickly programmed his PPC to send an emergency message to the authorities as soon as it was far enough away to escape the jamming.

At the colonel's order, the surviving guards rose and poured out a heavy fire against the attackers, forcing them to take cover.

Taking advantage of the respite from enemy firing, the cheetah morph was a blur as he leapt through the window and ran to his truck. Reaching it, George fired up the engine and raced down the drive towards the main gate. Taken by surprise, the attackers were unable to stop the truck before it made it through the main gate and sped off down the highway.

Half a klick down the road, George became aware that two gun skiffs were rapidly gaining on him. As they opened fire, he began weaving back and forth across the road, trying to confuse their aim. The heavy flechette rounds pounded at his truck, most missing, but a few striking home, tearing gouges out of the metal body or fracturing the windows.

Finally, four klicks down the road, the inevitable happened, one gunner got lucky and shot out the tires on one side. George's best attempts couldn't stop the truck from slewing into the ditch and rolling over several times, finally coming to rest upside down. The safety harness and air bags kept him from being seriously injured, but his pride and joy was totaled.

"Sorry, old gal," he whispered, patting the dashboard affectionately, before undoing the safety harness and climbing out through the destroyed windshield. As the two gun skiffs hovered nearby, George stood up and raised his paws above his head in surrender.

The two gunners looked at each other for a second, then fired as one, the heavy flechette rounds tearing George apart, slamming his body against his truck. The skiffs turned around and went back to the school, leaving his body where it lay.

In the cab of the truck, George's PPC beeped as it connected to the worldnet, and sent its emergency message to the authorities in Camlin.

A little more than a half hour later, a large police Tactical Response Force in APC's, backed up by several heavily armed militia squads in technicals, arrived at the school. They were just in time to see the enemy ship launch.

Communications had been restored, so the TRF alerted the nearest airbase of the attack. But by the time they were able to launch interceptors, the Harvester Undetected had reached orbit, slipped through the defense grid and safely made the jump to hyperspace.

The fems at the school attempted to flee or hide, but the raiders had badgerwolf hounds, vicious hunting dogs one meter tall at the shoulder and averaging one hundred kilos, gray with two black stripes running from their heads to their tails, to search them out. Any that attempted to resist were subdued with capture nets and slave prods.

The attackers went through the dormitories, looking for victims. Their badgerwolf hounds were able to sniff out the rooms where the girls were hiding. The attackers launched gas grenades into the midst of the hiding fems, causing them to flee straight into the arms of the raiders. Choking and with tears streaming from their eyes, they were quickly cuffed, collared and gagged. They were stripped of their school uniforms and taken to a central assembly area.

The terrified captive fems, human and morph, were lined up naked under the guns of the raider's contragrav skiffs. Armed guards with slave prods and badgerwolf hounds walked up and down, keeping the captives in line. They had been stripped of their school uniforms, their wrists cuffed behind them, and feeder gags forced into their mouths. At one meter intervals, the length of the chains connecting their collars, they stood on shaky legs, tears leaking from their eyes. Occasionally, one would collapse, but the shouts of the guards and the application of slave prods would quickly force her back to her feet. The raiders had taken the opportunity to rape several of their captives, and, since they were forced to stand with their legs wide apart, the marks of abuse were clearly visible on the victims. It was all a long ways from their girlish fantasies of being abducted by romantic pirates.

Mrs. Faversham was in her office when the alarms went off. She could hear gunshots, both the crack of the older assault rifles the militia carried, and the high pitched buzz of the raiders' sliver guns. Swiftly moving into the hallway, she intercepted several students running away from their attackers.

"Quickly, girls," the older, dignified looking Afghan hound commanded. Ushering them into her office, she went on, "In here. Go into my inner office, lock the door and make no sound!"

Locking her office door, she returned to her desk and drew her large caliber Morley Military Pistol from the drawer. A quick check of the cylinder showed that all seven chambers were filled, and that there was an extra speedloader sitting in the drawer. She'd carried her MMP everywhere when she accompanied her husband on his military campaigns, and had become a crack shot.

In the hallway, she could hear as the attackers approached her door. Mrs. Faversham raised her weapon in a two pawed grip and pointed it towards the entrance.

After a long, tension filled wait, the door was suddenly blown open, and two of the attackers rushed in, slave prods and snare whips raised. Mrs. Faversham calmly fired twice, her heavy caliber bullets blasting through their helmets and stretching them dead upon the floor. The remaining raiders, seeing their comrades killed like that, hesitated in the hallway.

Under the exhortations of an officer, more raiders rushed in, sliver weapons raised, searching for targets.

The light armor they wore was unable to stop the heavy rounds fired by the MMP, and the first five attackers went down with bullets in the head or chest.

As Mrs. Faversham was reloading, one of the next attackers fired a capture net at her. She heard the launcher go off and looked up as the net unfolded across the room and enveloped her. The built in pain inducers went off. Blinding agony swept across her body, incapacitating her, causing her to drop her pistol and fall to the floor, writhing in torment until she passed out.

When she regained consciousness, it was to find herself stripped naked, and tied to her desk, with her arms spread, legs wide apart, and her tail trapped painfully under her body. One of the attackers was watching her regain her senses.

"You've cost me several good men, slitch," hissed his voice from behind the featureless helmet. "And for that, this is your punishment." He grabbed her hair, holding her head up. Before her, she saw the students she had attempted to protect, stripped and tied across tables and chairs. The leader gave a sign, and his men began raping the helpless girls, while the leader's grip on her hair forced her to watch in impotent rage. Even closing her eyes didn't help, for she could still hear their screams of terror and pain. Profanities she had learned at her husband's side during his military campaigns spilled from her lips.

"Such language," laughed her attacker. "Whatever will your students think of their prim and proper schoolmistress?"

There was a sudden cold feeling against her left nipple, followed by intense pain. Shrieking, she looked down, to see that the leader had just pierced her nipple and inserted a large ring. Before she could fully comprehend what was happening, he took the piercing implement and ringed her right nipple as well.

"This way, you'll always remember me, slitch," he whispered in her ear.

After the longest twenty minutes Mrs. Faversham had ever experienced, the men were finished gang raping her students. The girls were released from their bonds and forced to their knees, their wrists cuffed behind their backs, and their necks encircled with collars, connected to each other with chains. Gags were shoved into their mouths, stifling their cries and sobs, all in full view of Mrs. Faversham.

They were forced to watch as the leader tortured and raped their Headmistress. He began by twisting and pulling her new nipple rings, stretching out her breasts and causing the piercings to bleed. Tiring of that, he took a small hand torch and slowly burned the fur off her breasts and around her pussy, cauterizing the piercings and scorching the flesh underneath. The smell of burnt fur and skin filled the room. When he'd finished with that, he began raping her enthusiastically, saying "A dried up old furball like you should be happy to have a real man inside you!"

With a roar, he pulled out and came, spraying his seed all across her belly and breasts. He moved up to her head, and, with encouragement from a slave prod, made her clean his cock with her mouth, further degrading her and impressing on her students how helpless they were.

Encouraged by strokes from the slave prods the attackers carried, the students were then forced to their feet and marched out of the office, leaving their Headmistress alone with the leader.

Watching as his men led the fems out, a message from his second in command came over his comlink. "Centurion," it crackled. "We have secured O'Bradain."

"Excellent!" he replied. Then, switching to the command channel, he ordered, "All units, we have secured the primary, prepare to depart. Squad Beta, contain remaining enemy, do not assault. I repeat, do not assault. We have what we came for."

Before he left the room, he gagged Mrs. Faversham and ringed her nose. He then pulled a leather thong out of a belt pouch and used it to tie her nose ring to her nipple rings, forcing her to keep her head raised or pull painfully on her tits and nose.

Laughing, he slapped her several times on her belly and breasts, smearing his cum through her fur, while telling her, "We have what we came for, and we thank you for your cooperation. Don't worry about your girls, we'll 'finish' them for you.

"Just think about what will happen to them. First they will be locked into the slave cages for the trip home. Then, they'll go straight to the kennels for their training. After we've finished training them, they'll be sold to the highest bidder and spend the rest of their lives in slavery.

"Have a nice day," he finished, while wiping his glove off with her hair.

His last action as he went out the door was to toss in a riot gas grenade, filling the room with the choking fumes.

Outside, the centurion was directed towards a rabbit morph with pink hair. "This is the one, Centurion," his second in command said, holding her on her knees. "May I introduce you to Flaith Caitriona O'Bradain." She had already been stripped, gagged and shackled.

The centurion cruelly grabbed her ears, forcing her to look up at him. "Good," he answered. "When we reach the ship, put this one in a hood and straitjacket and lock it in the cage in my cabin."

"It will be done, Centurion," was the response.

The officer pulled the morph to her feet by her ears, then began, almost lovingly, fingering her pussy. He quickly encountered her hymen and said, "Don't worry, my dear. I am not so cruel as to condemn a helpless virgin to the slave kennels." He laughed, leashed her, then pulled her with him to watch the other captives run past in their coffles.

The fems were forced to run to the skiffs, bare feet slapping against the ground with the badgerwolf hounds snarling and snapping at their heels. The raiders enjoyed the sight of the naked fems awkwardly running in fear, their breasts jiggling as they went.

Watching the prisoners running by, the Centurion smiled behind his mask, thinking, "Domina Gloria will be pleased, both the primary and a large herd of breeders for the markets. This will be a very profitable trip."

_ _

_ _ Reaching the skiffs, the terrified fems were forced into the slave carriers, cages one meter wide by one meter deep, that stretched the length of the vehicles. Bent over, in groups of 30, the naked fems were shoved in, pressing against each other, with bare flesh protruding through the bars. The cage doors were locked as the skiffs prepared to take off.

The centurion took his place on the throne like chair of his command skiff. Caitriona, with her ankles strapped to her thighs, was chained by the neck to the front of the chair, knees forced apart. A further strap pulled her elbows together behind her back, thrusting out her breasts. The centurion grabbed her ears, pulling her head up, giving her a good view as her schoolmates were forced into the carriers and the skiffs took off for the trip back to their ship.

Once all the captives were forced into the cages and the doors locked, the raiders and their hounds piled back onto the troop skiffs, carrying their dead with them. The skiffs took off, flying nap of the earth as they returned to their ship.

The breeze created by the swiftly flying skiffs whistled through the bars of the cages, chilling the naked captives as they tried to escape the probing hands of the raiders. Jammed together into such small spaces, they were unable to avoid being molested on the trip. The cold wind, the probing hands and the cramped cages helped to start instilling the right attitude in the captives, one of helplessness, submission and obedience.

Entering the vehicle launch bay, the skiffs quickly berthed in their assigned spots, clamps locking the vehicles into place. Assured that all vehicles were secured, the centurion gave the order to launch.

The Harvester Undetected launched at full power, bursting out of cover and leaving the remnants of its camouflage behind. Its sensors swept the skies for any possible opponents, weapons ready as it raced for space.

The raiders remained in their seats, while their captives, jammed into the cages, endured the acceleration of the launch unprotected, the G forces pressing them painfully against the floors of the cages.

After a long, tense trip, the Harvester Undetected had exited the defense grid and traveled far enough to safely make the jump to hyperspace. Once the transition had been made, the raiders disembarked from their vehicles and went off to their debriefing, leaving their prisoners alone in their cages.

An hour or so later, Comoran slave handlers came and pulled the prisoners out of their cramped cages. With slave prods and whips, they were lined up in long rows, and then led off, one coffle at a time, to the processing chamber.

As they entered the chamber, the slaves passed through scanners that recorded their physical data and tagged it to the RFID chips on their collars.

Once through the scanners, the slaves were lined up in a steel room with drains in the floor. The chains were locked to the walls at either end, forcing the slaves to stand at one meter intervals. The ceiling and walls were lined with nozzles at various heights. The nozzles suddenly shot out jets of water, filling the room. Shrieks and cries came from behind the gags as the ice cold water drenched the naked slaves.

After they were thoroughly soaked, the water stopped and the slave handlers unhooked the chains, leading them to the slave holds, still dripping from their cold water 'showers'.

The slave holds consisted of several narrow corridors lined with row upon row of blank slave cage doors. The narrow cages were only 60 cm by 60 cm square, forcing the occupants to stand, with studs set in the floors to dig into their bare feet. With the doors closed, the interiors of the cages were pitch black. The chill and stench of the holds also helped to demoralize the slaves and break down their will to resist.

One by one, the slaves were removed from their coffles and shoved into a cage, wrists still cuffed behind them. Feeding tubes were attached to their gags, so they could receive their scanty rations of liquid food and water, and the doors shut, locking them in darkness.

After all the slaves were locked into their cages, the lead handler, smiling wickedly, said to her companion, "Deities, I love this part." She flipped the switch activating the pain inducers in the walls of the slave cages. A chorus of gag muffled screams and cries rang out in the slave hold as the captives thrashed against their cages. Eventually, they figured out that the only way not to be hurt was to stand perfectly still in the center of the cage, not touching the walls. Movement would bring them into contact with the pain inducers. Any lapse of concentration or attempt to sleep would be rewarded with blinding agony. It was going to be an extremely long trip for the captive fems.

The centurion entered his cabin. Out of his armor and helmet, he exhibited all the characteristics that Cormorans had been gengineered for centuries ago; tall and slender, with pale skin and classical human features. Their eyes had a red tinge that allowed them to see into the infrared and they were stronger and faster than normal humans. A curl to the lip hinted at the cruel arrogance of the centurion, having the normal Cormoran attitude of seeing all others as inferior, and fit prey for their betters.

Caitriona was still as he had left her that morning, straddling the metal bar, toes straining to touch the floor and relieve some of the torture. Her body was covered in welts and bruises and her legs were pinioned together at the knees, while her arms were strapped behind her, elbows touching. A chain pulled her wrists towards the ceiling, forcing her to lean forward, crushing her clit against the bar, increasing the pain. Her ears were pinned together behind her head, providing a convenient handle for her tormentor. Despite her best attempts, low moans still escaped her mouth. She had spent every day since the raid secured like this. Bad as it was, she knew that the night would be worse. After the centurion finished whipping her, she would wind up spread eagled on his bed until he tired of raping and beating her. Then, she would spend the rest of the night in a hood and straitjacket, jammed into a cage so small she had to sleep with her thighs pressed against her breasts and her head forced down onto her knees, with the bars pressing against her from all sides. Often, to add to her torment, he would fill her pussy and tailhole with thick plugs, only removing them in the morning before he placed her back on the metal horse. The night before, the centurion had used ice dildos before putting her to 'bed', causing her to shiver uncontrollably until the ice melted and her body warmed up again.

In the morning, she would be pulled out of her cage and forced to give head before being allowed to eat her scanty meal of Slave Kibble® and water from bowls on the floor. If she wasn't sufficiently enthusiastic, she would get the whip and slave prod instead of food. Then the straightjacket would be removed and her paws secured behind her so she could be placed back on the metal horse while the centurion went about his daily duties.

And at that, she had it better than her schoolmates, who were suffering in the darkness of the slave cages. Though the pain kept her awake long into the night, at least she was allowed to get a little sleep.

"Daddy's home, furball. Did you miss me?" he asked, grabbing her ears and pulling her head up so she had to look at him. "Anxious to be a good slut and service me again?"

"I'm, I'm not a slut," she answered, worn down by the abuse but still defiant.

Chuckling, the centurion replied almost gently, "Oh, but you will be, my dear slitch. After the Kennels are finished with you, you will be quite the willing little slut."

With a sinking heart, she feared he was right.