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Thrust Vectoring

The Handler and the Houndoom

Scarlett's jaw ached like hell from the wolf's girthy knot slamming against her teeth, but fuck it, these spaceport snacks weren't gonna pay for themselves. She knelt there in the dingy alcove behind the docking bays, the metallic tang of recycled air mixing with the musky heat radiating from the massive lupine anthro above her—his fur coarse under her palms as she gripped his thighs, steadying herself while her tongue worked overtime, swirling around the throbbing length that filled her mouth. The bastard's growls rumbled through her horns, vibrating right down to her tail, which flicked irritably against the cold grating floor.

She could hear the small feline shifting behind her, restless and impatient as he waited his turn. It wasn’t like she had planned this little suck session, not exactly. The whole thing started when she spotted those criminally overpriced protein bars spinning in the terminal vending rack. They wanted twice what she would pay on the lower levels, which was practically theft. Snacks were only half an excuse, though. The real goal was the extra credits. Nobody dropped to their knees just for some frilly protein bar unless the bar in question was attached to a horse, which was its own kind of payment.

The wolf in her mouth was nothing special, just another jittery freighter jock looking to blow off steam before takeoff, the kind who hid a hard-on under the world’s ugliest parka and prayed no one noticed. His paws clamped around her horns like the handlebars of a runaway speeder, the pressure shooting a sharp jolt straight down her Houndoom spine.

Scarlet would have called it repetitive work, but this wasn’t boring for a single second. Not with the heat flooding her cheeks, not with the sharp, grinding ache blooming in her jaw, not with the cheap, stinging cologne clawing its way up behind her eyes. The taste coating her tongue, the muffled, flailing attempts at dirty talk, the way his whimpers scraped out of him when she slipped a practiced hand underneath and rolled his balls as he came, spilling down her throat, body folding like a puppet with its strings cut.

Scarlet spat the bitter sludge onto the floor and grinned. The taste always told her more than a customer’s mouth ever would. Security, cheap station security, burnt caffeine and old stress sweat with the sour bite of too many all nighters and too little pay. She almost felt bad knowing his little indulgence had probably cost him a week of overtime. Almost.

She wiped her mouth, snagged the next job by the waistband without even needing to look up. The cat was old enough to have no excuse for being this nervous. Scarlet yanked the waistband down without romance, spooling the cock free, bluish and impatient, veins popping with the pulse of a melting transformer. She bracketed it between her palms and worked it headfirst down, jaw unhinged and smooth as silk. There was rhythm here, and a kind of predestined choreography: up, twist, tongue the slit, vacuum the pre, squeeze the base.

It wasn’t that she liked the work. That would’ve been a self-own too cosmic for her to accept, but there was a flavor to the transaction that wasn’t just monetary. She knew what it was: the way her body was made for this, brutal and efficient and slick. The way the power darted up her spine when men like this ended up slack-jawed and trembling, paying extra just so they could feel her tongue. She drew back, pre cum stringing from her fangs, and met his eyes, small and brown and slitted with fear at how much he was enjoying this.

For all the talk of professionalism, Scarlet conducted most of her private appointments with the same fuck it attitude that had carried her to the top of the station’s sexfluencer pyramid. She knew how to drag out a session for maximum tipper engagement. She had a killer sense for exactly how long a client could last before he started pulling at his own fur. But tonight there was no time for finesse.

She had a long haul jump to make, and a handler waiting at pickup like a countdown timer she could not pause or sweet talk. Scarlet worked the shaft in front of her with ruthless efficiency, the same cold precision that had once earned her a temporary ban from the system wide blowjob circuit. She could turn any average sad sack into a mindless, spasming fountain in under forty seconds, and she did it now, gripping the dick with both paws and running her signature finishing sequence without mercy.

She called it the Houndini. It was a combo move: series rapid-fire strokes at the base, then a hard flick of her tongue up the frenulum, plus suction so intense it felt like his ancestors were cumming with him. To watch her do it was like watching an industrial machine, everything happening too fast and too precise to be entirely organic. The feline let out a wet, choking noise that could’ve been an apology or an expletive, and then it was all cum and trembling and her face marked up like a receipt stamped paid in full.

Scarlet let the guy collapse against the dented vending unit bolted to the service corridor wall. She swiveled on her heel, wiped her chin with the back of her paw, smearing the worst of it into the brown fur at her jawline because who was she kidding, it would never really come out, and then knelt to scoop up the credit chips at her feet. It was a fair haul, she’d admit, and she made a mental note to spend the excess on something decadent when she reached orbit. Maybe a bottle of something expensive. Or maybe something for her handler, something to melt that steel rod jammed up her ass into something closer to a real personality, the kind she used to have when Scarlet could make her laugh without trying.

She hauled herself up from the grating and spat For a second time, not to rid of the bitter aftertaste coating her tongue but at the thought of what four years of military service had done to Ramona. Once practically a sister to her, that flareon had been Scarlet's rock since they were teenagers. When Ramona had shown up needing work, Scarlet jumped at the chance to bring her into the business, fucking ecstatic when the Boss made Ramona her handler. But the army had changed her.

The playful, dust-smoking party girl who used to get fucked in the same bathroom stalls as her and make Scarlet laugh until she pissed herself had come back all regulation and protocol, like someone had replaced her soul with an instruction manual. Some nights, halfway through a bottle, Scarlet would catch herself staring at old holo-pics, wondering if that version of Ramona was dead for good.

Scarlet didn’t bother looking back at her client. The less she learned about her marks, the less they lingered in her head afterward. Work was work, and she kept her life as separated as her legs during a job. She slipped a dissolvable caffeine tab onto her tongue, tasting chemical mint, and headed for the side exit.

The service hall stretched ahead in a dim, cluttered line. Racks of meat-flavored energy bars leaned against shelves stocked with synthetic spirits, all humming under flickering lights. Two security drones hovered nearby, bored and half-charged, not even bothering to ping her ID. Nobody cared what happened in the back corridors. You could fuck, fight, or die out here, and the only thing that would notice was the janitorial subroutine in the ceiling.

Scarlet cut through the side corridor, footsteps soft on battered tile, toward the market nook tucked behind the freight elevators, a little corner of Crenshaw 5 that pretended to be a bodega and half succeeded. The air was thick with the plastic tang of shrink wrap and a haze of old fryer oil that hit the back of her throat. Behind the counter, a raccoon leaned way back, feet propped, a holo tab balanced lazily between his fingers, and a sad old fan rattling overhead like it might shake itself apart.

She went for snacks first. Two protein bars, criminally overpriced and probably twenty days from expiration, a pouch of salt chips with cartoon lemons smiling on the front, and a bottle of something that crowed REAL CITRUS on the label but didn’t fool her for a second. She dropped them on the counter, leaned in close, keeping it low-key, more bored than hopeful.

“Got HeartSparks?” Scarlet said, her voice easy and all pretense. Not that she needed neon fuck pills herself. She was mostly thinking her handler could stand to get railed a little, might ease her off Scarlet’s back for five minutes.

The raccoon just snorted, didn’t bother to meet her eyes. “Sold out. Crackdown’s been rough. But I got something better.” Voice flat, too cool to care.

That made Scarlet arch a brow. Better always meant trouble. Usually meant someone wound up doing karaoke in the airlock, or worse. “Yeah? What.”

He ducked under the counter and popped back up with a foil packet. No labels, just a bloody neon stripe of powder stuck to the inside. “Bondshot dust. Street mix, fresh. Little pinch in the air’s all it takes to set things off.”

She stared at it for a beat. “Set it off for who?”

The raccoon gave her a look, like he’d explain it to a hamster if it came in here, and tapped the packet with a claw. “Anyone breathing. Hits fast, hits hard. Cheap.”

Sounded like snake oil, honestly. Probably was. But she was already in for a penny, and the whole idea was dumb, and the number blinking on the holo screen was suspiciously low. Less than synth dust..

Scarlet hesitated a second, then shrugged. “Fine. Gimme five.”

She tossed a credit chip onto the counter. The raccoon slid the packet to her, smooth and easy, didn’t stop flipping the holo. “Enjoy your trip.”

She tucked the foil into her bra, scooped her snacks, and melted back into the service corridor, mind already sketching the next move.

Her handler, Ramona, would have been apoplectic if she’d seen Scarlet wasting time with side jobs. But Scarlet had a system, and today the system was flawless. She’d promised herself she’d be out of the building and halfway to the port before the Flareon even finished her morning vape. She ducked into the alley, took a second to shake the coffiee-and-cum phlegm from her throat, and then started the trek toward the lot where Ramona waited.

The curb outside the corridor was slick with runoff, but Scarlet had spent most of her adult life in cheap heels and could balance on anything. She did a quick check of her reflection in the window a cocktail of dried cum, sweat, and chemical perfume, plus a smudge of lipstick that had decided to migrate north of her snout. Not ideal, but she could fix it en route.

Across the lot, Ramona’s rental hover was already idling, engine thrumming with expensive impatience. The Flareon herself leaned against the door, tablet in one hand, vape pen in the other. She didn’t look up as Scarlet approached, but the flare of her tail and the sideways jerk of her head signaled that she’d clocked every second Scarlet was late.

“Fashionably late,” Scarlet said, trying for a breezy tone as she slid into the passenger seat, tossing her duffel in the back. “I see your travel agent splurged this time. Is that a full tank?”

Ramona’s nostrils flared, the only sign she was losing patience. “You reek of dicks and bad decisions,” she said, voice steady but dangerous. “We have three hours to get off-world. If we miss that window, Darlene will make an example out of both of us. And if you slip up again, you won’t be in rehab. You will be missing whatever Darlene decides you can live without.”

Scarlet snorted. “I’m flattered you think I’m worth the rehab.”

“Don’t flatter yourself. You’re an asset and I’m not in the habit of letting assets depreciate.” Ramona finally turned, her dark eyes tracing Scarlet’s jawline like she was running a scan for defects. “You missed a spot,” she said, flicking a napkin from the glove compartment and shoving it into Scarlet’s palm. “ There's a camera crew waiting at the port, so try to look like you haven’t spent the morning throatfucking a pack of hyenas.”

Scarlet wiped her chin, then her neck, and grinned with all the unearned confidence of a species that survived on charm and plausible deniability. “Do I get a treat if I behave this time?”

Ramona didn’t bother looking at her. The Flareon just rolled her eyes and exhaled a thin ribbon of vapor that smelled like burnt citrus. “You don’t get treats, Scarlet. Not anymore. Not after the incident.” The way she said it made the capital letter audible. Her tail snapped once against the hover’s door, a bright, irritated flare. “We’re both on a short leash now. I’m not losing my job because you can’t keep your throat out of trouble.”

Scarlet clicked her tongue against her teeth, a little tch of mock offense. “Please, Mona. Trouble keeps me employed.”

"Trouble almost got us killed," Ramona shot back. Her eyes narrowed, the heat in them hotter than her fire typing. "Darlene wants results on this off-world contract. You screw this one and we'll both end up as fuck meat in some run down brothel in a system no one ever heard of." She paused, letting the words sink in before adding, "The kind where they don't bother with safe words or health scans."

Scarlet's grin faltered for half a breath, replaced by something colder. She knew exactly what happened to girls who broke contracts, had seen the hollow-eyed bitches shipped back from the outer colonies, their bodies still technically alive but everything else burned out. As much as she loved sex, she wanted to keep it on a voluntary basis. Her paw tightened on the napkin, crumpling it into a damp ball.

“Whatever. Just fucking drive."

Ramona turned the ignition, letting the hover rise in a low, angry hum. “Strap in. The port is expecting us. And Scarlet,” she added, finally glancing at the Houndoom with an expression somewhere between exhaustion and reluctant faith, “try not to remind anyone why your career went sideways in the first place.”

Scarlet buckled in, flicked a smear of drying cum from the edge of her jaw, and watched the bay shrink behind them in the rear window. Leaving the system was the easy part. Rebuilding a reputation that had been set on fire, drowned, and memed into oblivion was the real job.

***

Ramona rolled the hover into the lot at the port’s main concourse, double parking out of pure muscle memory, then flicked the ignition off midsputter. She could already feel the cold soak through the cheap plastic of the rental, the freezing damp creeping in at her paws with the lazy malice of a government hallucination. Scarlet said nothing, didn’t even tap at her phone, settling instead into a sullen, lip-chewing silence that Ramona supposed passed for professionalism in her breed. That was fine. She preferred the brat when she wasn’t talking—less chance to say something that’d end up in the next company complaint. Or worse, on the galactic trending tab.

The Flareon tossed her vape into the cupholder with a brittle, deliberate snap, then pushed her shades up onto her brow and squinted out at the rows of derelict ships. The early shift at the dock always drew the saddest collection of patched-together vessels and shuttling nobodies. A carnival of fixers, jumpers, and criminally underdressed techies, all hunched against the wind, all pretending this wasn’t the absolute asshole of the universe. She let her gaze drift up the numbered pylons, flared her nostrils, and immediately regretted it as Scarlet’s cologne, sex, and unwashed hoodie melded into a new chemical superpower.

“You really wearing that?” she asked, risking a glance at the Houndoom’s ensemble. Black leggings, vintage graphic tee, softshell jacket with enough piercings in the sleeves that it probably set off a metal detector from three ships away. Scarlet looked up, then down at herself, then shrugged as if the answer had ever once been “No.”

“Goes with the stains,” she said.

"Not anymore it doesn’t,” Ramona said. She pulled a pack from her duffel, slapped it onto Scarlet’s lap. “Put this on. Company colors.”

Scarlet flipped open the lid. The new uniform was a stretchnylon bodysuit, bright purple, logo-ed at the neck in white: Black Collar Entertainment. It looked like it had been vacuum-packed for shipment and probably had. She wrinkled her nose, pulled it out with two fingers. “I look like a rejected slushie in this.”

“No one cares if you look like a slushie. They care if you look Union.” Ramona cranked the heat up. “Clients tip thirty percent more if you have a badge and a matching suit. Darlene’s memo said so. You read the memo, right?”

Scarlet’s tongue flicked over her fangs. “It’s bold of you to assume I read anything that comes from Darlene.”

“Put it on." Ramona popped the trunk and was instantly rewarded with a blast of unfiltered dockside wind, the stench of old coolant and fresh-assed desperation. She slung her own duffel over one shoulder, then let herself out, immediately regretting her decision to skip breakfast and, also, the last three years of her life.

She wasn't always a den mother for twitchy, disaster-bound sex workers. Once upon a time, she wore real colors and banged heads on a Mars orbital station. She’d run support for a pack of trigger-happy minotaurs with more loyalty in their horns than most of the clients she now babysat. But everyone washed out of Security eventually, and it turned out that nothing said “upward mobility” like a discharge and a handler’s license.

Scarlet stepped out of the hover, and Ramona had to stop walking for a moment. The new uniform hugged Scarlet’s body with the kind of clingy, sinful tightness that made the purple fabric look painted onto her curves. The suit lifted Scarlet’s breasts high and proud, round and soft with a perfect bounce that caught the terminal lights and practically begged for a camera crew. Her nipples pressed through the fabric in sharp little peaks, hard from the cold or from the attention she knew she was getting. Maybe both.

Ramona felt an unwanted pulse of heat low in her stomach and shut it down hard.

Scarlet turned her hips in a lazy half-circle as if she were presenting herself on set. The bodysuit shaped her ass into a perfect, heart-shaped swell, tight and plush at the same time. It rode high, full of tension and bounce, every step making it shift under the fabric in a slow, obscene sway. Her tail curled like punctuation, highlighting every curve instead of hiding it.

Then, without looking at Ramona or anyone else, Scarlet slid a claw under the zipper at her chest and dragged it down. Slow. Careless. Erotic without trying. The suit peeled open to her navel, exposing the warm brown fur of her cleavage and the heavy swell of her breasts. Full. Ripe. Built to distract. They pushed forward with a weight that made Ramona swallow.

Scarlet wasn’t showing off. She simply existed like this.

Ramona hated how her eyes followed anyway.

Scarlet stretched her arms overhead and the suit tightened across her chest, pushing her tits together until they almost spilled out of the lowered zipper. Her stomach flexed, smooth and toned, a soft V-cut disappearing under the suit’s waistband. Every line of her body read like a physical invitation.

Ramona felt a flick of irritation. And something hotter underneath it.

Scarlet caught Ramona staring and grinned, smug and knowing.

“You like the view?” Scarlet purred, hips cocking to one side as her tail made a lazy figure eight behind her. “I can zip it lower if you want.”

Ramona snatched Scarlet’s phone out of her paw just to hide the flush creeping up her throat.

“Keep the nudes until after check-in,” she said through her teeth. “I am not dealing with a public indecency report before we even board.”

Scarlet licked her fangs, slow and filthy, eyes half-lidded with amusement.

“Relax, Mona. I’m the product. People are supposed to stare.”

Ramona turned away before her gaze dropped to Scarlet’s tits again.

She refused to admit how close she’d been.

They moved through the entrance and into the shuttle terminal. The place looked like a halfway house for depressurization accidents. Frost coated half the floor, the other half glistened with puddles of whatever fluid the cleaning bots pretended wasn’t bodily, and the flickering screen overhead spelled out arrivals and delays in a tone that felt like a cry for help.

Scarlet strutted through it like she was headlining an awards show. Every bounce of her chest got attention. Every sway of her hips earned a second glance. Crew members who should have been watching their stations stared openly. A cargo loader nearly dropped an entire pallet.

Ramona pretended she didn’t see it, but her jaw ticked. Just once. Enough to annoy her.

Then she saw their assigned transport.

The shuttle terminal was even more depressing than the lot, a roach motel for ships and crews so marginal that even the law gave up on them. The arrival/departure board hissed half its letters, paint was bubbling off the doors, and the heating was so unreliable that the floor was sticky with morning frost in some places and melting into unidentifiable puddles in others. Their assigned ride awaited at Dock 9A. Ramona spotted it even before she saw the sign—nuclear yellow, with chipped black stripes and a hull so dented it looked like it’d been through an asteroid storm, or a bar fight, or both.

The logo on the side read Spirit Galaxies, but the paint was so faded it might as well have read “Welcome to Shit List.” A motley crew in matching yellow jumpsuits loitered around the boarding ramp: one skeletal Sableye, a Zoroark with stress-twitching ears, and a pair of humans so planetary they looked like they’d never left gravity in their lives. The only thing holding the operation together was a clipboard and the looming threat of unemployment.

“Of course,” Ramona muttered. “This is what rock bottom looks like, Scarlet. If you get us fired from this contract I will drag your sorry ass into the nearest airlock myself.”

Scarlet palmed her own crotch, smoothed out the bodysuit. “If I jump, brings the ratings up, right?”

Ramona ignored her. She signed them in at the handler’s desk, let the Sableye scan her badge, then ushered Scarlet through the corridors of disappointment toward the embarkation zone. The carpet was sticky and even the synthpop over the intercom sounded like it was giving up.

Inside, the “passenger lounge” was a converted cargo bay with bolted-down seats and one flickering vidstrip tuned to vintage porn bloopers. Scarlet collapsed into a bench with her duffel under her head and sprawled like a contortionist on break. Ramona watched the minutes tick by, checked the schedule, and realized she’d have to kill at least an hour before liftoff. She considered a nap, then considered the odds that if she took her eyes off Scarlet, she’d come back to find the Houndoom blowing three deckhands and using the company card for bail money.

She settled for pacing. Every time she passed the window, she caught glimpses of the clients, crewmembers, and freelancers streaming onto the ship. A few glanced at her, then away, sizing up the ex-military bitch in the purple tracksuit and deciding, correctly, that she was not going to be a fun time. That was fine, too. Ramona didn’t need friends. She needed a paycheck, and to keep her charge from turning a months-long trip into another scandal.

Her comm chimed. She fished it out, thumbed open the message. Darlene’s face glared up at her, rendered in 3D avatar with maximum judgment. “Remember: monthly reports must be clean, no nonconsensual, all union rules, and zero improvised performances. You are her Handler, Ramona. Act like it. Next infraction and it's straight to F-List. We good?”

Ramona resisted the urge to headbutt the wall. Instead, she typed, Understood, then closed the comm and looked over at Scarlet, now watching the porn bloopers with a predator’s patience, eyes flicking from the screen to the room, looking for cracks, looking for scores.

This is it, Ramona thought. months on a trash barge, a sex addict Houndoom for company, and the endless comic horror of Union-mandated escort gigs. She drew in a breath—the air tasted like mildew and battery acid—and sat down before she could talk herself out of it.

Just one day at a time. And maybe, if she was very lucky, the shuttle would explode before they landed on whatever planet waited at the other end.

***

Darlene watched the Yellow shit drag itself out of the cradle, the burn-off fogging her executive window with a smear of ozone and exhaust. Twenty-three hundred meters below, the port slums glowed like a rash no one bothered treating. She leaned back, letting her spine crack once, twice, while the boardroom behind her droned on about quarterly projections and some limp-dicked deregulation pitch.None of it mattered. Money always behaved. What she actually savored, was watching fresh talent do exactly what she built them to do: rise, fall, and cannibalize themselves in slow, perfect cycles. That was the real ticket.

She kept watching until the ship dwindled to a glow with a tail, then nothing in the limitless blue. Scarlet and her handler would be the same in two galactic minutes. Gone, scrubbed, irrelevant. Nobody in the business ever saw a launch as final, but Darlene did. Once her girls shipped out, she spared them about as much thought as she gave the cleaning bots. Less, actually; the bots broke down for fun.

She flicked open the archival case files. A highlight reel of Scarlet’s disasters spilled across the holo-glass: the corporate bachelor party that ended in three arrests, the livestreamed “Jizzocalypse” in the warehouse district, the poached union contract that nearly got them both black-bagged and shipped to “Rehab For Life.” And always, Ramona cleaning up after her with a mop in one hand and a loaded sidearm in the other.

Darlene found the old surveillance clip of them breaking quarantine at a mining outpost on Europa, Scarlet in a stolen spacesuit blasting Welcome to the Jungle over the comms, Ramona dropping her with four shots of riot foam before bitch-slapping her back to the shuttle. Darlene snorted, actually laughed, and saved the clip. Recruitment material like that never went stale.

She tapped into the crew manifest for ship 9A, a smirk curling her lips as she rewrote their contract with a few lazy swipes.

Destination: rerouted to some backwater mining colony desperate for fresh pussy.

Roles: reassigned to “morale officers.”

Oh, her girls were more than qualified to boost morale, alright. Scarlet could make a eunuch bust in his robes. And Ramona? Four years in the service had carved abs you could bounce a credit chip off of. Darlene would bet her next quarterly bonus those two would have that colony’s birthrate skyrocketing before they even stepped off the shuttle.

She made one last adjustment, a special fuck-you courtesy of the company: a full purge of the ship’s contraceptive stores. Every rubber, every pill, every single Plan-B patch, Ejected with a single keystroke.

Let’s see them wriggle out of this one.

Darlene leaned back, satisfaction settling deep in her bones. “Population enhanced, indeed,” she murmured, tapping a manicured claw against the desk. This was the real high, not the money, not the corner office with its view of three districts. It was this moment: watching lives tilt off their axis with nothing but her signature. How many careers had she built just to watch them burn? How many desperate nobodies had she turned into stars, only to ship them off the second they became inconvenient?

She’d fucked with better talent than Scarlet before. Prettier faces, tighter bodies, cleaner records. They all ended up the same, used up or chewed out or both. And yet somehow, she never got bored of it.

“Paula,” she said into the intercom, “send in the new girl.”

The door hissed open, and in walked exactly what Darlene expected, a Houndoom barely old enough to sign her own contracts, tits defying gravity and a face that screamed daddy issues. The girl looked around the office with wide, awestruck eyes.

“Sit,” Darlene commanded. She didn’t bother with names until a girl earned the right to keep one. “Pretty face, good tits, nice proportions. That covers the looks. Now for the talent. Ever fucked in low gravity?”

The girl shook her head, eager and clueless.

“You will,” Darlene said, already pulling up the standard contract template. “Sign here, here, and here. Sterilization waiver on page four. Genetic rights release on seven.”

The girl scribbled her signature without reading a word.

Darlene felt that old, familiar rush. Fresh meat for the grinder. By the time this one realized what she’d signed away, Scarlet would be halfway through her contract, and Darlene would be sitting right here, doing this all over again.

Just business as usual.

***

To call the Spirit Galaxies bunk a “crew quarters” was the same as calling plague-ridden fever dreams “restful.” Scarlet took one look at the cinderblock-sized cots, stacked in triplicate against a wall painted the color of wet cement, and started recalculating her hourly rates in her head. There were no private cabins. No privacy shields. Not even a foam divider. Just row after row of cheap, stained mattresses stamped with serial numbers and whatever corporate intern thought “Airline Grade” counted as a promise. In the center of the room, a malfunctioning air recycler wheezed and hacked like a chain-smoker on life support, struggling so hard to keep the air passable that Scarlet half expected the entire bay to tip into pure biological hazard.

The “recreation module” was billed as a selling point but only if your idea of fun was gazing into the void. No streaming, no games, not even a smuggled porn chip. Just a tired plastiglass dome with nothing outside but stars drifting by, each one looking like it wanted to get the hell away from this ship. Beneath the dome, the lower decks glowed faint orange, the sort of sickly light you’d see in a childhood basement, buzzing with the suggestion of about a hundred ignored safety codes. The vending unit, front and center, displayed exactly one sad snack option: a row of churro bites, vacuum-packed and so stale they’d circled around from “novelty” to “museum relic.” Scarlet flicked one with her claw. It clattered, dry and brittle, like a loose filling on tile.

Irritation blooming, Scarlet stalked down another corridor, looping the halls until she collided with the so-called “gym.” It was a closet with delusions of grandeur, boasting exactly one rowing machine. Centered like a captured animal, its bones rusted, the grips forever glazed by a residue born of lost ambition. The mirror, technically full-length, slouched against the wall, its view fogged by decades of fingerprints and sweat. Overhead, the light swerved between buzzing and blackout: not so much illuminating as interrogating. It flickered, spitting shadows with every circuit twitch.

The digital timer blinked 88:88, then counted backward as if even it wanted off this ship. Scarlet stepped in front of the mirror, rolled her shoulders, and watched the tight purple bodysuit pull across her body in a way that confirmed exactly what she already knew. She looked good. Hot, actually. The kind of hot that could summon trouble out of thin air if she got bored enough. Her tail swayed behind her, slow and deliberate, the tip tracing lazy figure-eights like it was flirting with its own reflection.

She hooked a claw beneath the zipper and dragged it down another inch, then smoothed and adjusted the suit until it hugged her breasts even tighter, lifting them into a proud, tempting shelf. Perfect. If the ship was not going to offer her any entertainment, she would make her own. She pinched her nipple through the suit, not out of desperation but just to feel the spark, and grinned at the mirror when it came, sharp and eager.

She noticed the crew next. Or rather, she noticed how the crew noticed her. The Spirit Galaxies manifest was wall-to-wall boys. Soft-jawed, wide-eyed, barely out of adolescence but trying painfully hard to act like seasoned spacers. Every last one of them male except for the pilot, an AI chassis so ancient its faceplate flickered every time it tried to show emotion. The cadets could not hide their stares if their lives depended on it. Hungry, twitchy glances that clung to her hips and chest and tail like static. A few worked up the courage to mumble greetings, but their voices shook and their eyes dipped lower, giving away every inexperienced instinct they had.

Ramona fidgeted under their stares, and Scarlet almost laughed at the pathetic act. That tight little twist of her hips, the way she kept readjusting her stance like she wasn't used to being eye-fucked by strangers. Scarlet caught every tell, the jaw clench when someone's gaze lingered too long, the ear twitch whenever a cadet's eyes dropped to her chest, the way she crossed her arms like it would somehow hide the fact she was built exactly like what these boys jerked off to in their bunks.

The cadets weren't subtle. They watched Ramona with the same desperate hunger they showed Scarlet, but Ramona was handling it like a virgin at a gang bang. Her tail kept betraying her with those quick, nervous flicks. Her breathing hitched when some scrawny tech let his eyes linger too long on her tits, and she tried swallowing the reaction like she thought no one would notice.

Scarlet noticed everything. That military polish was wearing thin. Underneath all that regulation bullshit was the same Ramona who used to flash bartenders for free shots and fuck strangers in club bathrooms just because it felt good. That girl was still in there somewhere, buried under duty and protocol.

And Scarlet wanted her back. The real Ramona, the one who dared her to do stupid shit just to see if she would. The one who laughed when they got caught instead of filing incident reports. That version of her friend wasn't gone, just suffocating under the professional-responsibility garbage the service had hammered into her.

One day, Scarlet was going to crack that shell. She was going to peel back every layer of that military-grade control until the old Ramona was standing in front of her again, wild and reckless and impossible to contain. The thought alone put a slow, wicked curl at the corner of her mouth.

And the ship was already helping.

The cadets kept staring, stumbling over their own dicks just trying to figure out which of the two women to worship first, and the tension in the air was thick enough to bite. Scarlet shifted her weight, letting the boys drink in the view, letting Ramona feel every hungry gaze crawling over her. She wanted her to see what Scarlet saw. Wanted her to crack under it. Wanted her to remember how good it felt to be wanted.

One cadet in particular, a hulking horseboy built like someone had grown him in a vat for heavy labor, had a hard-on so obvious it might as well have had its own badge number. As soon as he caught sight of her and Ramona together, all his coordination evaporated. His hooves clipped the top stair and he went down like a freight crate kicked off a loading ramp, tumbling in a loud, sprawling mess of limbs and panicked grunts. It was tragic. It was beautiful. It was art.j

Scarlet’s hand dipped into her pocket without thinking, fingers brushing the little foil packet she had almost forgotten about. The contact lit something up in her brain. An idea. Sharp. Stupid. Delicious. Her gaze slid upward to the vents humming along the ceiling, innocent and oblivious. The thought bloomed fast. All it would take was one pinch. One slow exhale from the ducts. One ship full of trembling boys who already did not know what to do with their hands. The idea hooked its claws into her and pulled tight. The predator in her smiled.

This tub was about to get interesting.

***

Ramona found herself at the bar, if you could call it that. Really just a repurposed maintenance closet with a fold-down counter and a wall of synth-spirits so cheap they probably doubled as engine coolant. She'd come here to escape the stares, but even tucked into this metal coffin of a drinking hole, she could feel the heat still crawling under her skin.

It wasn't the temperature. The ship ran cold enough to make her tail puff involuntarily. No, this was something else entirely. Something she hadn't felt in years.

She was *hot*.

Not temperature hot. *Wanted* hot. The kind of hot that used to make her strut through clubs like she owned every dick in the room. The cadets couldn't stop looking at her. Every corridor she walked, eyes tracked her like targeting systems locking on. She'd caught at least four obvious hard-ons in the last hour alone, and one poor bastard had walked straight into a bulkhead because he was too busy staring at her ass.

Ramona took a pull of whatever swill the bartender bot had dispensed. It burned going down, cheap and mean, but the warmth spreading through her chest had nothing to do with alcohol.

She'd forgotten what this felt like. Being *seen*. Being *desired*. Four years of military service had beaten that part of her into submission, buried it under regulations and duty until she'd convinced herself it was dead. But it wasn't dead. It was just sleeping, and now it was waking up hungry.

A memory surfaced unbidden. That party on Cygnus Station, back when she and Scarlet were still nobodies hustling for rent. The bass had been so loud it vibrated through her bones, and she'd been three drinks past giving a fuck about anything. Scarlet had dared her to flash the DJ for free shots, and Ramona had done it without hesitation, laughing when the poor guy nearly dropped his mixing board. Later that night she'd ended up in a supply closet with some wolf she'd never seen before, his paws under her shirt, her back against cold metal, not because she loved him or even liked him but because she *could*. Because it felt good. Because she was young and hot and the universe hadn't yet taught her to be afraid of wanting things.

She wasn't a slut like Scarlet. Never had been. But she'd been *free*. And somewhere along the way, she'd traded that freedom for a uniform and a purpose that was supposed to mean something.

"Mind if I sit?"

The voice pulled her back. Deep, gravelly, belonging to a Raichu so massive he looked like someone had fed a regular mouse nothing but protein shakes and military rations for a decade. His fur was scarred in places, old burns and blade marks that spoke of combat tours and close calls. A veteran. She could spot her own kind from across any room.

"Free station," she said, gesturing to the stool beside her.

He settled in with the careful economy of movement that came from years of not knowing when the next attack would come. His tail, thick and lightning-scarred, curled around the stool's leg like an anchor.

"Name's Donno," he said, signaling the bartender bot. "Noticed you earlier. You've got that look."

"What look?"

"The one that says you've seen some shit and you're not sure how to feel about being surrounded by babies who haven't." He accepted his drink, something amber and probably just as terrible as hers. "Twenty-third Orbital?"

"Forty-fifth Ground Support," she said. "Mars sector."

He whistled low. "Rough tour."

"Rough enough."

They drank in companionable silence for a moment, the kind that only fellow veterans could share. No need to fill every second with noise. No need to prove anything.

"So what brings you to this flying shitcan?" Donno asked eventually. "You don't look like colony material."

Ramona snorted. "Handler work. Got a client who can't keep her mouth off dicks long enough to stay out of trouble. Figured an off-world contract would be a fresh start."

"Handler." He nodded slowly, processing. "That the Houndoom I saw earlier? The one in the purple suit that made half the crew walk into walls?"

"That's her."

"She's got a hell of a presence." Donno took another drink. "But I gotta say, you're not exactly invisible yourself. Saw the way those cadets were looking at you. Like they'd never seen a real woman before."

The heat crept back up Ramona's neck. She tried to suppress it and failed.

"They're kids," she said. "Probably never have."

"Doesn't make the attention less real." Donno's eyes crinkled with something like understanding. "Gets under your skin after a while, doesn't it? Being wanted like that."

She didn't answer. Didn't need to.

"I remember my first tour," he continued, voice going distant. "Came back to civilian life and didn't know what to do with myself. Everything felt too slow, too soft. Took me years to figure out how to be a person again instead of a weapon."

"Did you?" Ramona asked. "Figure it out?"

"Still working on it." He raised his glass in a mock toast. "But I learned something important along the way. The parts of yourself you think you killed? They're just waiting. Soon as you let your guard down, they come crawling back."

Ramona thought about Scarlet. About the way her friend still moved through the world like it owed her pleasure, like desire was a birthright instead of a liability. She thought about the party on Cygnus, the wolf in the supply closet, the version of herself that used to laugh without checking if it was appropriate first.

"So," Donno said, shifting the conversation with the ease of someone who knew when to push and when to pull back, "what's the actual gig? Once you hit colony, I mean."

"Entertainment contract," Ramona said. "Scarlet does her thing, I keep her out of trouble, we collect our pay and get shipped back. Standard stuff."

Donno's brow furrowed. "Entertainment?"

"Yeah. You know, parties, events, whatever the colony needs to keep morale up."

The mouse stared at her for a long moment, his scarred face unreadable. Then something shifted in his expression. Confusion, maybe. Or concern.

"You... do know what 'morale crew' means out in the terminus systems, right?"

Ramona's drink stopped halfway to her mouth. "What do you mean?"

"Morale crew." He said it slowly, like he was explaining something to a child. "Population stabilizers. Breeders."

The word hit her like a punch to the gut.

"That's not—" She set down her glass too hard, liquid sloshing over the rim. "We're entertainers. Handlers. That's what the contract said."

Donno's confusion deepened. "Lady, I've done three tours in the outer colonies. Morale crew is the most sought-after position out there. Good pay, full benefits, housing priority. Everyone knows what it means." He paused, studying her face. "It means you fuck. A lot. And you get pregnant. On purpose. For the colony's population numbers."

Ramona's stomach dropped through the floor.

No. No, that wasn't right. She was a handler. Scarlet was an entertainer. They were supposed to do shows, events, maybe some private sessions for high-paying clients. That was the deal. That was what she'd signed.

Wasn't it?

"I can see Scarlet going for it," Donno said, still watching her with that unnerving steadiness. "Girl like that, built like that? She'd probably enjoy the work. But you..." He tilted his head. "You don't look like someone who signed up for breeding duty."

Ramona's paws were shaking. She gripped the edge of the counter to steady them.

"I didn't," she said. "I didn't sign up for that."

Something was wrong. Something was very, very wrong.

She fumbled for her holo, fingers clumsy with sudden panic. The interface flickered to life, casting pale blue light across her face as she navigated to her employment records. Contract status. Assignment details. Destination.

The words swam before her eyes, refusing to make sense at first. Then they crystallized into something that made her blood run cold.

**EMPLOYMENT STATUS: TERMINATED**

**ASSET TRANSFER: COMPLETE**

**NEW DESIGNATION: POPULATION STABILIZATION UNIT - TERMINUS SECTOR**

**REPRODUCTIVE ASSIGNMENT: ACTIVE**

She scrolled down, heart hammering against her ribs.

**ASSET ID: RMN-4471**

**PAIRED ASSET: SCR-2298**

**TRANSFER VALUE: 847,000 CREDITS**

**CONTRACEPTIVE ACCESS: REVOKED**

Sold.

She'd been *sold*.

Not fired. Not reassigned. *Sold*. Like cargo. Like livestock. Her and Scarlet both, packaged up and shipped off to some backwater mining colony to pump out babies for the rest of their fertile years.

Ramona stared at the screen, the words burning themselves into her retinas. Darlene's face flashed through her mind, that smug, calculating smile she always wore when she was about to screw someone over. Of course. Of fucking course.

"Hey." Donno's voice came from somewhere far away. "You okay? You look like you're about to pass out."

She couldn't answer. Couldn't breathe. The walls of the tiny bar felt like they were closing in, the recycled air suddenly thick and suffocating.

Donno studied her for a long moment, his expression shifting from confusion to something softer. Understanding, maybe. Or pity. The silence stretched between them, a hair longer than comfortable, before he seemed to make up his mind about something.

"Ah," he said quietly. "You must be the romantic type, eh?" A sad smile crossed his scarred features. "Me too."

He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out something small. A flower. Nothing special, just a common station-grown thing with pale petals that probably came from one of the hydroponic bays. The kind of weed that grew in every crack and corner of every ship and station across the galaxy.

But the way he held it, careful and deliberate, made it feel like something more.

"Here." He pressed it into her paw, his rough fingers warm against her fur. "Might not mean much, but sometimes the little things are all we've got."

Ramona looked down at the flower. One of its petals had a small tag attached, his name and comm frequency printed in neat letters.

"Donno," she read aloud.

"In case you need someone to talk to," he said. "Or drink with. Or just... someone who gets it."

She wanted to thank him. Wanted to say something meaningful about connection and kindness in a universe that seemed determined to strip both away. But the words wouldn't come.

Instead, she just nodded, tucking the flower into her suit's breast pocket.

Things were moving too fast. The contract, the destination, the realization that everything she thought she knew about this job was a lie. She needed to think. Needed to plan. Needed to find Scarlet and figure out what the hell they were going to do.

Ramona stood abruptly, nearly knocking over her stool.

"I have to go," she said. "I have to…"

She didn’t make it two steps. First came the howl of the alarm, a banshee wail harmonizing perfectly with the crackle of Ramona’s own panic. Next, the room’s seam-lit panels flashed from blue to a nuclear piss yellow, the standard color for “shit-your-pants emergency.” Above her, the ceiling fogged with text, big and blocky and impossible to ignore.

BIOLOGICAL / CHEMICAL EVENT DETECTED. LOCAL LOCKDOWN IN EFFECT. REMAIN IN SAFE ZONE.

For a split second, Ramona was certain she’d die right there, crushed and instantly forgotten on a floating trash barge. But then the vents in the drink closet coughed, belching out a dense, dreamy pink cloud. Not gas. More like the air itself had been run through a cotton-candy machine, then shot back into the world for maximum humiliation.

She wheeled around, but Donno was already in motion. The mouse’s paw clamped hard on her collar, yanking her back from the exit just as the bar’s emergency airlock slammed shut, a heavy mag-seal thumping through her ears and down her jaw. Her ears rang with it, but the only other sound was Donno’s voice, low and so calm it made her want to slap him.

“Down. Now. Breathe shallow. Don’t panic.”

No. Fuck that. Panic was all she knew, and her lungs didn’t ask permission. The next breath was full-on bubblegum taffy, sweet and thick as syrup, suffocating through her palate, her nose, everywhere. She hit the deck in a practiced squat, trying to get below the rolling mist, but it was already lapping at her like a greasy tide.

She could not stop smelling it. Or tasting it. From the first second, it rolled through her like static. First her tongue, then her temples, then her arms and up her spine. Not nerve gas. Not crowd control. She knew those, had been drilled on them since age twelve, could recite the countermeasures in her sleep.

This was something else. A lick of warmth through her, a needling tingle that started in the teeth and spread fast to the fingers, the toes, then the groin. Liquid and hungry, like summer heat. Her jacket, already too tight across her chest, became almost suffocating, her nipples hard enough to cut through cotton, the seams bunching wrong under her shoulder blades.

Donno’s face said he recognized it, too, even if he pretended otherwise. His nostrils flared with every breath, his voice clipped as he scanned the vent system, tracing the intake, looking for the source.

She shook her head, the effort fuzzier than it should have been. “What is it?”

Donno’s tongue flicked over his lips, like he could taste the answer. “Bondshot dust. Maybe with a synthetic euph in the carrier. Airborne aphrodisiac. Strong stuff. Some asshole’s idea of a prank.”

She thought of Scarlet instantly. Her old friend would cackle at a stunt like this, then double-tap the grinder and send a selfie coated in the aftermath. But there was no way Scarlet could have hijacked the ship’s HVAC this fast. Unless… Ramona shoved the thought aside. The haze seeped at the edges of her vision, softening the world, making it far too easy to focus on the way Donno flexed his forearms as he braced against the sealed door.

Her next deep breath sent a pulse ricocheting down her body, heat blooming between her legs in an instant. She staggered back, her tail catching the stool and sending it clattering. Her skin flushed under her suit, nerves sparking along her chest and thighs, everywhere the fabric pressed tight.

“I… how long?”

“For a normal ship’s scrubbers, maybe thirty minutes. But for Spirit’s?” His ears tilted in apology. “That dust might as well have booked a round trip.”

The cloud thickened, rose, curled around them like it had hands.

Ramona felt her nipples stiffen under her suit, felt the heat pooling low and heavy, felt her breath start to break against the swell of everything rising inside her. And beneath it all, somewhere deep in her ribs, she felt the old Ramona uncurl, the fearless one, the one who lived for nights like this and never asked permission from anyone. She should have pushed it down, should have remembered who she was supposed to be now, but the rush of that returning hunger left her almost trembling with excitement.

Yep. Things on this tub were about to get real exciting real fast. And when the dust settled, she was absolutely going to thank her partner in crime for waking her back up.

***

Scarlet watched the last of the bondshot dust disappear into the vent shaft, the foil packet crumpled and empty in her paw. The maintenance hatch clicked shut with a satisfying finality, and she allowed herself a grin so wide it hurt her cheeks.

*Let's wake this tub ship up.*

She'd barely made it three steps down the corridor when the alarms started screaming. Yellow emergency lights strobed across her vision, painting everything in jaundiced panic. The entertainment module's doors ahead of her began their emergency seal sequence, thick mag-locks engaging with the kind of thunk that said *you're not going anywhere, bitch*.

Scarlet sprinted. Her legs pumped hard, tail streaming behind her, the purple bodysuit stretching across her thighs with every stride. She dove through the narrowing gap just as the doors slammed shut, rolling across the stage floor in a graceless tumble that left her sprawled on her back, staring up at the rigging.

*Well. Fuck.*

The entertainment room was bigger than she'd expected. A proper stage setup with lighting rigs and sound equipment, rows of seats descending toward the performance area like some kind of budget amphitheater. And filling those seats, caught mid-whatever-the-hell-they'd-been-doing, were at least two dozen cadets. All male. All staring at her with expressions ranging from confusion to concern to something hungrier lurking beneath.

The pink cloud was already seeping through the vents, rolling across the ceiling like storm clouds made of cotton candy and bad decisions. Scarlet could taste it on her tongue, sweet and electric, and *fuck* if it didn't hit different when you knew exactly what was coming.

Her nipples hardened so fast it almost hurt, pressing against the tight fabric of her suit like they were trying to escape. Heat bloomed between her legs, slick and urgent, her body responding to the chemical cocktail with the enthusiasm of a junkie getting their first fix in months.

She pushed herself up onto her elbows, surveying her audience. The cadets were starting to feel it too. She could see it in the way they shifted in their seats, the way their eyes glazed and refocused, the way hands drifted toward laps with the unconscious desperation of men who'd just realized their dicks were about to make every decision for the next several hours.

*Perfect.*

Scarlet rose to her feet, slow and deliberate, letting the movement pull the bodysuit tight across every curve. She found the stage control panel by muscle memory, slapping the activation sequence without looking. Spotlights blazed to life, bathing her in harsh white brilliance while the audience descended into shadow.

"Alright, boys." Her voice came out husky, thick with the drug already coursing through her system. "Looks like we're stuck here for a while. Anyone want to help me pass the time?"

She didn't wait for an answer. She reached for her zipper and dragged it down in one smooth motion, peeling the purple fabric away from her breasts, letting them spill free into the light. Full and heavy, nipples dark and achingly hard, they bounced with every breath she took.

The collective groan from the audience hit her like a physical force.

Scarlet stepped to the edge of the stage, the suit hanging open around her waist, and let her gaze sweep across the crowd. Most of the faces were a blur of desperate need and youthful inexperience, but one figure stood out.

The horse boy from earlier. The one who'd tripped over his own hooves just looking at her. He sat three rows back, massive frame spilling over the edges of his seat, and even in the dim light she could see the tent in his pants. Not just a tent. A fucking circus big top. The outline of his cock pressed against his uniform slacks like it was trying to punch through the fabric.

*There's my first ride.*

She jumped.

The crowd caught her, hands everywhere, grabbing and groping and pulling her down into a sea of desperate bodies. She laughed, wild and breathless, as fingers found her breasts, her ass, her thighs. Someone yanked her suit the rest of the way off, leaving her naked except for her boots, and she didn't care, couldn't care, the bondshot burning through her veins and turning every touch into liquid fire.

But she had a destination. She squirmed and writhed through the tangle of limbs, working her way toward the horse, using bodies like stepping stones. Hands tried to hold her back, tried to claim her, but she was slippery with need and determination.

"Not yet," she panted at a wolf who'd gotten his paw between her legs. "Wait your turn."

Then she was there, climbing into the horse's lap, and *oh fuck* the sheer size of him up close was almost intimidating. Almost. His chest was a wall of muscle beneath his uniform, his thighs thick as tree trunks, and when she ground down against his crotch, the heat of his erection burned through the fabric like a brand.

"Hey there, big guy." She reached for his zipper. "Let's see what you're packing."

His cock sprang free like it had been waiting its whole life for this moment. Scarlet's breath caught in her throat. She'd seen a lot of dicks in her career. A *lot*. But this one made her genuinely pause.

Thick as her forearm. Long enough that she wasn't entirely sure where it would end up inside her. The head was flared and flushed, already weeping pre-cum in thick, pearlescent drops. The shaft was veined and solid, throbbing visibly with every beat of his massive heart.

"Holy shit," she whispered, and it wasn't even an act.

The horse made a sound somewhere between a whimper and a moan, his hands hovering at his sides like he was afraid to touch her. Scarlet grabbed his wrists and planted his palms firmly on her ass.

"Squeeze," she commanded.

He squeezed. His fingers sank into her flesh, spreading her cheeks, and she felt the cool air of the room kiss her exposed holes. Around them, the other cadets had started to crowd closer, cocks out and stroking, eyes fixed on the show she was putting on.

*Good. Let them watch.*

Scarlet positioned herself over that monster cock, the head nudging against her entrance. She was wet enough that the first inch slipped in easy, but fuck, the *stretch*. Her eyes rolled back as she sank lower, her pussy struggling to accommodate his girth, inner walls protesting and yielding in equal measure.

"That's it," she breathed, more to herself than to him. "That's it, come on, breed me You big beautiful stud".

She dropped her weight and took him to the hilt.

The scream that tore from her throat was pure animal. Pleasure and pain and something beyond both, her entire body lit up like a switchboard, every nerve ending firing at once. She could feel him in her stomach, feel the ridge of his flare pressing against places that had rarely touched.

The horse's head fell back, a low, shuddering groan escaping his lips. His hips bucked involuntarily, driving impossibly deeper, and Scarlet saw stars.

She started to move.

Slow at first, just grinding in tight circles, getting used to the impossible fullness of him. Then faster, rising and falling, using her thighs to lift herself until only the head remained inside before slamming back down. The wet slap of flesh on flesh echoed through the entertainment room, punctuated by her breathless moans and his desperate whinnies.

The other cadets pressed closer, stroking themselves furiously. A canine to her left thrust his cock toward her face and she opened her mouth without thinking, letting him slide across her tongue while she continued to ride the horse beneath her. The taste of pre-cum flooded her senses, salty and musky, and she sucked greedily even as another cock nudged against her cheek.

She took that one in her paw, jerking in time with her bouncing hips, and then there was another on her other side, and she grabbed that one too. Four cocks now, one splitting her open from below, one in her mouth, two in her paws, and she was fucking *flying*, lost in the rhythm and the heat and the overwhelming sensation of being used and using and giving and taking all at once.

The horse's cock hit something deep inside her and she came, hard and sudden, her pussy clenching around his shaft like a vice. The orgasm ripped through her in waves, stealing her breath, making her whole body shake. The dick in her mouth slipped free as she threw her head back, howling at the ceiling.

She barely had time to recover before the horse grabbed her hips and started thrusting up into her with renewed vigor. The angle changed, deeper somehow, and she could feel another climax building already, stacking on top of the first like a tower of pleasure waiting to collapse.

"Fuck, *fuck*, yes, right there, *don't stop*... "

The cadets around her were losing it too. The wolf she'd been stroking came first, his load splattering across her shoulder and trickling down her breast. Then the other one, painting her side in thick ropes. The one she'd been sucking grabbed her horns and fucked her throat, spilling down her esophagus with a strangled cry.

And still the horse kept going, tireless and relentless, his massive cock reshaping her insides with every thrust.

Her thighs burned, a fire stretched taut and trembling, as her voice broke ragged and raw with every scream torn from her. Her jaw throbbed, aching worse than anything she could remember from the terminal alcove, while her wrists moved in a fevered blur, pumping every cock she could reach. Still she craved it, more, always more, desperate for each new sensation stacking on the last.

The horse never wavered, unrelenting, its rhythm pounding her from the inside while hands and mouths kept up their relentless assault. There was no reprieve. The bondshot only sharpened it, every climax rolling into the next, sensations piling higher and higher with no drop, no pause, no breath allowed before the climb resumed.

Then the gravity cut out.

The emergency klaxon wailed a different tone, something about stabilizer failure, but Scarlet barely registered it. One moment she was impaled on the horse's cock, the next she was floating, weightless, his shaft slipping free as they drifted apart.

The cum that had been pooling on the stage floor rose with them, separating into thick globules that drifted through the air like obscene pearls. Scarlet spun slowly, surrounded by cadets in various states of undress, all of them caught in a zero-G ballet of cum.

*Oh. This is new.*

She grabbed the nearest cock, attached to some kind of reptile, she thought, though she couldn't be sure in the strobing emergency lights, and pulled herself toward it, using the leverage to orient herself. The lizard gasped as she took him in her mouth, his tail whipping wildly in the weightless environment.

Around her, the other cadets were adapting, finding handholds on seats and railings, positioning themselves in a loose circle with her at the center. The horse floated nearby, his cock still magnificently hard, still glistening with her juices.

Scarlet finished the lizard with a lightning fast Houndini and kicked off from his chest, sailing through the air toward the horse. She collided with him in a tangle of limbs, wrapping her legs around his waist, guiding his cock back inside her with a moan of satisfaction.

She felt him seize her, those massive hands crushing around her waist, blunt fingers digging deep into her hips so hard she was sure he would leave bruises beneath her fur. In zero gravity there was nothing for the horse to brace against, nowhere to bleed off the incredible pounding force gathering inside him, and all of it drove straight through her with each relentless surge. His entire body shuddered around her, hips jerking and pistoning, trembling with the effort of holding her steady as his cock swelled thickly inside her, filling her until she could take nothing more.

She sensed the change before she could name it, that precise, overwhelming second when instincts took over completely. His whole thrust vector snapped straight in, every muscle locking down, everything inside him redirecting and funneling through her. The thick length inside her jolted wide and obscene as his broad hips dragged her back hard against his loins, his straining balls hauling tight against her ass. All of his monstrous strength was channeled into the final earth shattering drive, no resistance, no escape, only his flare swelling unbearably wide, stretching her from the inside until she was pinned, utterly impaled, suspended and helpless, forced to take every savage ounce of his power as it hammered through her bones and left her breathless.

"Oh fuck!" was all she managed before he exploded.

The force of it launched her backward like a ragdoll shot from a cannon. His cock ripped free as the first volcanic surge of cum erupted, and the sheer pressure of his orgasm sent her spinning across the entertainment room. She tumbled end over end, trailing a comet tail of horse spunk that spiraled behind her in thick, pearlescent ribbons.

The world became a kaleidoscope of sensation. Strobing lights. Floating bodies. The wet slap of cum hitting her from every direction as she pinwheeled through the zero-G bukkake field the other cadets had created. Globules of jizz drifted everywhere, a constellation of spent loads, and she passed through them like a meteor through a debris field.

A rope of wolf cum splattered across her face. Lizard seed caught her tits. Something thick and musky -human, maybe, she couldn't tell anymore, painted her stomach as she rotated past. Every inch of her skin collected tribute, layer upon layer, until she couldn't tell where one load ended and another began.

She was laughing. Couldn't help it. The absurdity of it all, the raw, filthy joy of being the center of this weightless orgy, hit her like a drug on top of the bondshot still singing through her veins.

Another cadet, the wolf from earlier, she thought, grabbed her ankle as she drifted past and pulled her toward his still-spurting cock. The last of his load splashed across her thighs as she spun, adding to the slick mess coating her fur.

Scarlet reached for something, anything, to stop her rotation. Her paw closed around a cock—whose, she had no idea, and she used it as an anchor, pulling herself to a stop while jerking it reflexively. The owner came almost immediately, adding yet another layer to her glazed body.

Through the haze of pleasure and exhaustion and chemical euphoria, a thought bubbled up from somewhere deep in Scarlet's scrambled brain.

*Wonder if Mona's having a good time too.*

The image of her uptight handler, probably hiding in some corner trying to maintain professionalism while the bondshot turned her into a needy mess, made Scarlet grin. That military polish would crack eventually. It always did. And when it did, Scarlet planned to be there to welcome the old Ramona back with open arms.

The pink mist rolled in like a sentient fog, coiling around their bodies with phantom fingers. Ramona's nipples hardened instantly, poking against the tight fabric of her suit as a deep, aching throb pulsed between her thighs. She dragged her gaze up to meet Donno's, and any pretense of composure vanished.

His pants tented obscenely, the outline of his cock straining against his fly. His chest heaved with the effort of keeping still, a choked grunt escaping as their eyes locked in shared, helpless arousal.

"Shit," Ramona breathed. Her clit throbbed in time with her racing heart. "This stuff works fast."

"Too fast," Donno agreed, his voice a low rumble. He shifted his hips, trying to subtly adjust himself. "Fuck. I haven't been this hard since basic."

Despite the dizzy heat flooding her, Ramona barked a laugh. "You too? Thought it was just us grunts playing 'who can rub one out fastest' in the barracks."

Donno's lips twitched. "Officers did it too. We were just better at hiding it."

The easy banter grounded her, even as her body screamed for friction. This was familiar. The bullshitting, the us against the universe camaraderie. For a second she could almost pretend they weren't trapped in a bar, higher than shit on space Viagra.

Then Donno palmed his cock through his pants and Ramona nearly whimpered.

"Sorry," he grunted, not sounding sorry at all. "It's so fucking hard it hurts."

"I'm not much better," Ramona admitted. Her pussy clenched, empty and aching. "This shits is no joke."

Donno huffed a rueful chuckle. "That's Spirit Galaxies for you. Can't even do ventilation right."

Despite everything, Ramona grinned. At least she wasn't suffering alone. Though from the looks of it, Donno was packing enough heat to power a small colony. Her eyes kept flicking to his groin, tracking the thick line of his erection.

He noticed, because of course he did. "See something you like?"

"Fuck off," Ramona laughed, flipping him a lazy finger. "Not all of us have a third leg to impress the locals with."

"Don't need to impress them if you can't disappoint them first." Donno's voice dropped, his eyes gleaming with challenge and something darker. "Bet you'd know all about that, huh killer?"

The old nickname jolted through her, a live wire straight to her clit. Fuck. It had been years since anyone called her that. Years since she'd felt that reckless spark, that bone deep need to prove she could take anything thrown at her.

Ramona met Donno's stare head on, her tongue swiping over suddenly dry lips.

"Shut up and put that massive dick to use before we both explode."

Donno didn't need to be told twice.

He closed the distance between them in one stride, his scarred paws finding her hips with a sureness that made her breath hitch. The pink mist swirled around them as he pressed her back against the bar's grimy counter, his bulk blocking out the emergency lights, his cock grinding against her stomach through layers of fabric that suddenly felt like too much.

"Been a while since anyone called me killer," Ramona breathed against his neck, her claws finding purchase on his shoulders. His fur was coarser than she expected, bristled with old scars she could trace blind. "Didn't think anyone remembered."

"Hard to forget." His voice rumbled through her chest where they pressed together. "Forty fifth Ground Support had a reputation. You were part of that reputation."

She should have asked how he knew. Should have cared about operational security or professional distance or any of the thousand rules she'd internalized over four years of service. Instead she hooked a leg around his thigh and pulled him closer, grinding her aching pussy against the thick ridge of his cock.

"Fuck the reputation," she gasped. "Fuck me."

Donno's laugh was dark and hungry. His paws found the zipper of her bodysuit and yanked it down in one smooth motion, peeling the purple fabric away from her chest like he was unwrapping a gift. Her tits spilled free, nipples so hard they ached, and the cool recycled air hit her sweat damp fur like a slap.

"Goddamn," Donno muttered, staring. "They really do make Flareons different."

"Less talking." Ramona grabbed his belt, fumbling with the catch. Her fingers felt clumsy, too eager, the Bondshot dust turning her coordination to mush. "More fucking."

He helped her, his paws steady where hers shook. The belt came loose with a metallic clink, then his fly, and then

Ramona's eyes went wide.

She'd seen dicks. Plenty of them. Professionally and otherwise. But Donno's cock was something else entirely. Thick as her forearm and veined like a topographical map, it jutted from his groin with an almost aggressive presence. The tip was flushed dark, already slick with pre, and as she watched it twitched like it had a mind of its own.

"Holy shit," she heard herself say. "That thing's a war crime."

Donno's grin was all teeth. "You wanted impressive."

"I wanted functional." She wrapped her paw around the shaft experimentally, feeling it pulse against her palm. Her fingers didn't quite meet. "This is going to ruin me."

"That's the idea."

He spun her around before she could respond, bending her over the bar's sticky counter. The position was degrading and perfect, her ass in the air, her tits squashed against cold metal, her tail hiked up and out of the way. She felt exposed. Vulnerable. Alive in a way she hadn't felt in years.

Donno's paw slid between her thighs, finding her pussy through the bunched fabric of her suit. She was soaking wet, had been since the first whiff of that pink bullshit, and his fingers slipped through her folds like they belonged there.

"Fuck, you're dripping." His voice came from somewhere above her, thick with want. "When's the last time you got properly fucked?"

Ramona tried to remember. Couldn't. The dust was eating her thoughts, leaving nothing but sensation and need.

"Too long," she managed. "Way too fucking long."

"Let's fix that."

He notched the head of his cock against her entrance and pushed.

The stretch was immediate and overwhelming. Ramona's claws scraped against the counter, her back arching as inch after inch of him sank into her. She was wet enough that it didn't hurt, not exactly, but the fullness bordered on obscene. Her pussy clenched around him reflexively, trying to adjust, trying to accommodate something that felt like it should be physically impossible.

"Breathe," Donno grunted, his paws tight on her hips. "Relax and breathe."

She tried. Drew in a shaky lungful of pink tinged air and felt herself loosen incrementally. He slid deeper, the ridge of his cock dragging against her inner walls, hitting spots she'd forgotten existed.

"Oh fuck," she whimpered. "Oh fuck oh fuck oh"

He bottomed out with a grunt, his hips flush against her ass, and for a moment neither of them moved. Ramona could feel her heartbeat in her pussy, could feel his cock throbbing inside her, could feel the Bondshot dust singing through her veins like liquid fire.

Then Donno pulled back and slammed home, and Ramona stopped thinking entirely.

The first thrust punched the air from her lungs. The second made her see stars. By the third she was moaning like a cheap porn actress, her voice echoing off the cramped bar's metal walls, any pretense of dignity abandoned. Donno fucked like he fought, methodical and devastating, each stroke calculated for maximum impact. His cock hit her cervix with bruising force, the pain and pleasure blurring together until she couldn't tell where one ended and the other began.

"That's it," he growled, one paw fisting in her mane. "Take it. Take all of it."

She did. She had no choice. Her body had been hijacked by chemistry and need, turned into nothing but a vessel for sensation. The old Ramona, the one she'd thought was dead, roared back to life with every thrust. This was what she'd been missing. This raw, animal connection. This surrender to something bigger than duty or protocol.

"Fuck," she gasped, her voice cracking on the word. The pressure building inside her was too much, a tidal wave threatening to drag her under. Her thighs trembled, muscles locked in a losing battle against the inevitable. "Donno, please"

"Please what?" He punctuated the question with a brutal thrust that made her toes curl, her claws scratching desperately at the metal beneath her.

The words tore out of her before she could stop them, raw and desperate and completely unfiltered. "Breed me. Fucking breed me, I need it, I need you to"

Something in him snapped. She felt it in the way his grip tightened, claws pricking through her fur, in the guttural sound that ripped from his throat. His pace turned savage, abandoning any pretense of rhythm for pure animalistic need. The bar creaked beneath them, protesting the violence of his thrusts.

"Yeah?" His voice was wrecked, barely recognizable. Each word vibrated through her spine where his chest pressed against her back. "You want me to fill you up? Want my cum dripping out of that pretty pussy?"

"Yes, yes, fucking yes" She was babbling now, didn't care, couldn't care. Her whole world had narrowed to the point where their bodies joined, to the impossible fullness of him splitting her open.

Donno buried himself to the hilt and froze. She felt his cock jerk inside her, felt the first hot pulse of his release flooding her depths. He came with a sound like he was dying, his whole body shuddering against her back, pumping rope after rope of cum into her spasming cunt. His claws dug deeper, marking her, claiming her in ways that would last long after the dust wore off.

The sensation triggered her own orgasm like a detonator. Ramona screamed, actually screamed, loud enough to hurt her own ears, as pleasure crashed through her in waves. Her pussy clamped down on him, milking every last drop, her claws gouging furrows into the bar's metal surface. White hot ecstasy short circuited her brain, leaving nothing but pure sensation.

For a long moment, neither of them moved. Just two bodies locked together, breathing hard, the pink mist still swirling lazily around them like it was satisfied with its handiwork. The emergency lights flickered overhead, casting their joined shadows in sharp relief.

Then Donno slumped against her back, his weight pressing her into the counter, and laughed. It was a broken, disbelieving sound that rumbled through both their bodies.

"Fuck me," he wheezed. "That dust is something else."

Ramona tried to respond. What came out was closer to a purr than actual words. She could feel his cum leaking out around his softening cock, trailing down her inner thighs in thick rivulets. It should have disgusted her. Instead it sent another aftershock rippling through her oversensitized nerves.

"We're so fucked," she finally managed, her voice hoarse from screaming. "In every possible way."

"Worth it though." Donno shifted, and she felt him slip out of her with an obscene wet sound that echoed in the empty bar. More cum gushed out, pooling on the floor between her shaking legs. "Goddamn. Worth it."

"Worth it," she agreed even as she felt the man's cock stiffen up behind her again, no doubt the gas's doing. The impossible hardness pressed against her already abused pussy, demanding entry.

Ramona grinned against the cold metal, feeling him twitch against her swollen folds. The challenge bubbled up from somewhere primal, somewhere the dust had unlocked and refused to let go.

"That all you got, old man?" She pushed her hips back, grinding against his renewed hardness. "Thought officers were supposed to have stamina."

Donno's laugh was pure predator. "You're gonna regret that, killer."

He slammed back into her without warning, and Ramona's vision whited out.

Round two blurred into three, then four. They fucked against the bar, on the floor, with her riding him while his claws left welts across her thighs. The pink mist kept rolling, kept feeding the fire burning through their veins. Somewhere around round five, Ramona lost the ability to form coherent sentences. Her world became nothing but sensation—the impossible fullness of him, the slap of fur against fur, the obscene squelch of their bodies joining over and over.

By round six, her legs had gone completely numb. Donno pinned her against the grimy floor, his rhythm faltering as exhaustion caught up with them both. Their fur stuck together, slick with sweat and other fluids, bodies trembling with the effort to keep going.

"Can't... fucking... move," Ramona panted, her voice raw.

Donno just grunted in response, his final thrusts erratic before collapsing half on top of her. The pink mist was finally thinning, its hold on them weakening as their bodies gave out.

"Think we... broke something," he mumbled against her neck.

"Just my ability to walk," she laughed weakly.

They lay tangled together, breathing in sync, too spent to move. Ramona felt his heart hammering against her back, matching her own. And in the hazy aftermath, with her mind clearing and body aching in ways she'd forgotten were possible, she realized something unexpected.

For the first time since leaving service, she felt happy.

Three and a half four months later, Scarlet decided that this might be the single greatest idea she’d ever pulled off. And she hadn’t even meant to pull it.

She lay sprawled across her cot in the crew quarters, which had somehow transformed from a depressing sardine can into something almost cozy over the past weeks, watching Ramona ride Donno like she was trying to break him in half. The Flareon’s belly was round and heavy now, swaying with each thrust, her tits bouncing in a rhythm that would have made her old streaming numbers explode. The sounds she made weren’t professional anymore. They were raw. Real. The kind of noises that came from someone who’d finally stopped performing and started living.

Look at her go, Scarlet thought, a lazy grin spreading across her muzzle. Same dusty mouse for four months straight and she’s still not bored.

The bondshot dust had worn off within the first week, but by then the damage was done. Or the magic, depending on how you looked at it. Ramona had stumbled out of that bar looking like she’d been hit by a pleasure shuttle, cum dripping down her thighs and a dazed expression that Scarlet hadn’t seen on her face since they were teenagers sneaking into clubs with fake IDs.

The old Ramona. Her Ramona. Not all the way back. The military had carved too deep for that. But close enough. The hardass handler who’d lectured her about revenue streams now spent half her nights getting railed by a scarred veteran who looked at her like she hung the stars. The protocol-obsessed bitch who’d threatened airlock disposal now laughed at dirty jokes and occasionally, occasionally, admitted when Scarlet’s ideas weren’t completely terrible.

Progress. Messy, cum-soaked, accidentally-knocked-up progress.

Scarlet shifted on her cot, the movement ponderous and awkward with her own swollen belly weighing her down. Her horse, and yeah, she’d started thinking of him as hers somewhere around week six, stirred behind her, his massive hand finding her hip with sleepy familiarity.

“You watching them again?” His voice was a low rumble against her neck.

“Educational purposes.” She lifted her tail, pressing back against the heat of him. Even half-asleep, she could feel him hardening against her ass. Some things never got old. “Learning techniques.”

He snorted, but his hand was already sliding between her thighs, fingers finding her with practiced ease. “You don’t need techniques. You need rest.”

“Rest is for people who aren’t carrying a bowling ball.” She gasped as he pushed inside her, the stretch still delicious even after hundreds of times. Her belly made the angle awkward, but they’d figured out workarounds weeks ago. “Besides, doc said activity is good for, fuck, for the baby.”

“Pretty sure that’s not what he meant.”

Scarlet didn’t bother responding. Words were overrated anyway.

Across the room, Ramona’s moans hit a crescendo that meant Donno was about to add another load to the collection already swimming inside her. The Flareon’s claws raked down his scarred chest as she came, her whole body shaking, and Scarlet felt a warm pulse of something that might have been pride.

I did that, she thought, even as her own orgasm started building. I broke her out of that military prison she’d built around herself.

The bondshot dust had been a stupid impulse buy from a sketchy raccoon in a shitty bodega. She’d meant it as a prank, maybe, or a way to loosen everyone up on what was clearly going to be a miserable voyage. She hadn’t planned for it to reunite her best friend with her own libido. Hadn’t planned for either of them to end up pregnant by men they’d known for less than a day.

Hadn’t planned for any of this to feel so fucking right.

Her horse thrust deeper, hitting that spot that made her see stars, and Scarlet stopped thinking about plans entirely.

Later, much later, after she’d added another load to her internal collection and the crew quarters had settled into satisfied silence, Scarlet found herself staring at the ceiling, one hand resting on the swell of her belly.

She’d gotten the news about their “new jobs” after the six-day bondshot orgy. Population stabilization. Breeding duty. The whole fucking deal.

Scarlet had expected Ramona to lose her shit. Had braced for the screaming, the accusations, the inevitable fistfight. Instead, Ramona had just looked down at her belly, then back up at Donno, and shrugged.

Actually laughed.

“Guess we’re ahead of schedule,” she’d said.

That was it. No meltdown. No crisis. Just acceptance.

The colony they were heading toward, some backwater in the ass-end of nowhere, needed warm bodies. Specifically, warm bodies that could make more warm bodies. The pay was apparently obscene, the housing was private, and the only job requirement was doing exactly what they’d been doing anyway.

Retirement package, Scarlet thought, rubbing her belly. That manipulative bitch actually gave us a retirement package.

She’d have to send Darlene a thank-you letter when this was all over. Maybe a holo of the kids, once they arrived. Let her see exactly what her “asset transfer” had produced.

The thought made her grin.

Beside her, the horse shifted, pulling her closer against his chest. His hand found her belly again, palm warm against the taut skin, and she felt the baby kick in response.

“Three more months,” he murmured.

“Two for Mona.” Scarlet glanced over at the other cot, where Ramona had finally collapsed against Donno’s chest, both of them breathing hard. The Flareon’s belly was bigger than Scarlet’s. She’d gotten knocked up first, during that marathon session in the bar. “She’s gonna pop before we even hit atmosphere.”

“Colony’s got medical facilities. Good ones, supposedly.”

“Supposedly.” Scarlet snorted. “If their med bay is anything like this ship’s gym, we’re fucked.”

But she wasn’t really worried. Couldn’t be, not with her horse’s heartbeat steady against her back and her best friend finally happy for the first time in years. The universe had thrown them into a trash compactor and somehow they’d come out the other side covered in glitter.

Sticky, cum-flavored glitter, but still.

Ramona stirred across the room, lifting her head to meet Scarlet’s eyes. The look that passed between them held years of history, the clubs and the bathroom stalls and the stupid decisions that had somehow led them here. To this cramped crew quarters on a budget freighter, both of them round with babies they hadn’t planned, both of them happier than they’d been in ages.

"Enjoying the view?" Ramona rasped, her voice still hoarse from moaning.

Scarlet smirked. "Just admiring my finest work yet."

"Oh, you mean the parasitic lifeform currently tap dancing on my bladder? Yeah, thanks for that."

"Anytime, babe. I'm a giver like that."

Ramona snorted, but couldn't hide her smile. "Cunt."

"Whore," Scarlet shot back cheerfully.

"Damn straight. And don't you forget it."

Their eyes met across the room, sharing a look of deep, worn affection—the kind that could only be earned through years of bad decisions, close calls, and having exactly one person who'd always be there to drag your ass out of the fire. Usually while calling you an idiot the entire time.

Scarlet blew her a kiss. Ramona, ever the lady, pretended to catch it and wipe it on Donno's chest. The mouse cracked an eye open and grunted.

"If you two are done verbally scissoring, some of us are trying to pass out in a pool of our own fluids over here."

"Jealous," Scarlet said, even as she settled back against her horse's bulk, letting her eyes drift closed. "You wish you could verbally scissor me."

Ramona's chuckle was muffled, fading, her breathing already evening out into the slow rhythm of sleep. "In your dreams, bitch. In your dreams."

Scarlet grinned, settling deeper into her horse’s embrace. Outside the porthole, stars drifted by like they always did, indifferent to the chaos happening inside the ship. Somewhere ahead, a mining colony waited with open arms and desperate population quotas.

And in a few months, they’d have some new luggage to carry off the shuttle.

Scarlet closed her eyes, still smiling, and let sleep pull her under.