Chief Sec HFSS Orion

WARNING! This full warning is possibly not needed for this particular story, but I am including it because it is needed for most of my stories. If you decide to read other of my stories make sure that you read the disclosures and warnings at the beginning of each story.

All of my writing is intended for adults over the age of 18 ONLY. Stories may contain strong or even extreme sexual content. All people and events depicted are fictional and any resemblance to persons living or dead is purely coincidental. Actions, situations, and responses are fictional ONLY and should not be attempted in real life.

All characters involved in sexual activity in this story are over the age of 18. If you are under the age of 18 or do not understand the difference between fantasy and reality or if you reside in any state, province, nation, or tribal territory that prohibits the reading of acts depicted in these stories, please stop reading immediately and move to somewhere that exists in the twenty-first century.

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Being Chief of Security for a Heavy Freighter StarShip like the Orion is actually a rather cushy job. Becoming Chief Sec is a bitch. It took many years walking the corridors of starships as a United Space Command StarShip Police officer, and way too many years breaking up fights in spaceport bars all over the galaxy. But those years are behind me now. Now I am the one who leans against the wall and nods to one of my subordinate officers or points to them and then to the troublemaker. I very seldom have to actually get into the messy parts of the job.

That doesn’t mean that I don’t make myself seen and available. When crew members are on planet, I am on planet. A heavy freighter never lands anywhere. Instead cargo is ferried up or down while we are in wide orbit. Same way with the crew. Those who have planet leave are shuttled down to the planet surface. For recreational shore leave, I maintain a one to seven ratio. For every seven crewmen in a shuttle, there is one security officer. That sounds like we have a huge security force on board the Orion, but most of my officers are dual-stationed. They have other duties while we are in flight, but become full security officers when it is time for planet leave.

Officer Shelly O’Donald is one of my best. She is a star navigator when we are between systems. But right now she is wearing the full uniform of an authorized StarShip Police Officer. The crew call her “The Lizard” behind her back because she isn’t fully human. She looks like a standard Earther woman unless you have seen her naked. The skin on her abdomen and back has a slight pattern to it that, if she gets overheated or sexually aroused, looks exactly like the scales of a Horton lizard. I’ve seen her both. And I’ve seen some naked Horton lizards with which to compare her. Except for the face and feet, Horton’s look amazingly human-like. And, to put it delicately, our equipment is mutually compatible.

Shelly refuses to say whether her grandmother or grandfather was a Horton, but she has inherited their strength… and sexual stamina. She only stands about a meter and a half tall, but I’ve seen her cold cock a three-meter tall drunken Franpian giant with just one punch. I’ve also shared her bed on more than one occasion. I would never do that with a true Earther crewwoman, since I would technically be their superior officer. But there is no way that anyone can ever say that I coerced Shelly into anything. Hell, cargo sergeant Timothy Carne slipped her some Bukarian mindbend once and she still didn’t want anything to do with him. In fact, when she realized what he had done, she pinned him to a wall and wouldn’t release him until I arrived.

At first he wasn’t going to tell me how he managed to smuggle a level AA banned substance past the security scanners. Then I told him if he didn’t tell me, I would give him back to Shelly. I got a commendation for discovering a flaw in our security system. This flaw would only apply to Heavy Freighter Starships, but it was still important. In space, weight doesn’t mean much, but volume is important. So bulky, extremely heavy stuff like metal ores are run through a spacial compressor. I have no idea how they work, but they compress the space between the atoms or electrons or whatever and reduce the physical size of a container of ore down to about one-hundredth of what it originally was. Then that super heavy hunk of metal is put on a long rail accelerator and fired out into space where we catch it at the top of its arc. Usually they are taken to orbiting spacecraft manufacturing facilities, but sometimes they are sent down to a planet. Then the comp slugs are fired down into a decaying orbit where they are guided into a specific crash down area by remote drones. Some of the material burns off and they make one hell of a bang when they hit, but the cost of obtaining very critical metals is greatly reduced. Just run the molten blob through a decompressor and you have instant high-grade metal ore.

What Sergeant Carne had done was to conceal his contraband in the middle of an ore container before it was compressed. The metal around it became so dense that the scanners couldn’t detect anything. On board, he decompressed that one container, removed his contraband, and recompressed it. He could have spent a life time at hard labor for what he pulled, but he and I… and Officer Shelly… came up with an alternative punishment. He was effectively put on parole with Shelly as his parole officer. My orders to him were simple, “If you screw up, you’re all hers.” He has been playing it pretty much straight and narrow ever since. He even tips me off if something is going past what I will allow down in the crew decks.

I run a tight ship by running a loose ship. It took years working under various Chief Secs to understand that was the best way to keep control on something like a heavy freighter with almost a thousand beings in the crew. I let the men… or women… or whatever… get away with a little… like bringing some authentic Amboria Ale aboard. But that gives them something to lose if they go over the line. A casual comment from me like, “Do you really want me to do a full sweep of the crew bunk areas?” and suddenly the gold pieces that went missing from a shipment are miraculously found under a pallet.

We were on planet leave at Dexter-Barlow Eleven on our way back to home planet for retrofit and crew rotation. DB 11 is a large planetoid that was discovered only a few years back. It has no natural value other than the fact that it is near the main transit lanes for ships such as the Orion coming back from far galaxy voyages and it has everything spacers on planet leave would want. That makes it the obvious place for a final planet leave before the last leg of the journey to the home world.

That final planet leave is a necessary, but always very dangerous, time because the crew has been in space for a long time and are looking to blow off some steam before returning to home and family. The full security force was on duty. About 80% of us were planet side to keep order among the one-third of the crew that was allowed planet leave at any one time. I was at McBrewski’s Pleasure Palace with about half of the crew that was on-planet. McBrewski’s was exactly what its name implied. If it was pleasure, it could be bought there. I was leaning up against the wall of the main hall where I could see the whole room. It had what was supposed to be an old earther wild west motif. I don’t think they had that much stainless steel and transparent aluminum back in the Old West on Earth, but very few of these men, women, and other beings, have ever been on Old Earth. Besides, everyone was watching the floorshow, not the wall coverings and furniture.

When I first arrived there were some holographic girls dressed in old earther cowboy hats and chaps– and nothing else– standing in the middle of the stage singing what was supposed to be old earther west songs. They looked very realistic, and their bodies were fantastic, but their singing was off in some way. It surprised me that the technology capable of projecting such a life-like solid looking image couldn’t also provide an equally realistic sound track.

Before I could make up my mind as to what was wrong with the singing, the holograms faded away and the live show began. There was a lot more to watch in the live show. The show was two Alurian females having a fucking contest. They were lying on their backs… or fronts… or on hands and knees or whatever as they took on one volunteer after another. The line for each of them stretched off the stage and down the side steps where the staff were taking bets.

A big man dressed in a sparkling black outfit with the McBrewski’s emblem on the back of it explained that you had to place a bet to get in line, and the minimum bet was fifteen credits. That’s not an insignificant amount, but how many men can brag that they fucked an Alurian.

For 100 credits, you could place a group bet with three other men. That allowed for a full five-some with one man getting her cunt, one her ass, one her mouth, and one her pouch. The pouch wasn’t exactly a cunt, but it felt like one– and then some. It was located on her back just below the shoulder blades. It has nothing to do with reproduction. It’s there just to pleasure a male.

I’ve seen the old-fashioned king’s crown with an earther woman taking a man in her cunt and ass and mouth all at the same time. But very few people have seen an Alurian horse, which is what they call it when four males take an Alurian female all at the same time.

Both females on stage were now getting ready to do the horse. One of McBrewski’s staff people was standing in the middle of the stage saying, “Wait. Start on my command.”

He held one hand up in the air as the four men got into position with each female. Then he loudly shouted, “Go!” and all four men started thrusting. The man on the back of each Alurian quickly started crying out and their eyes got very big. It was obvious they were totally unprepared for the milking action of the pouch. I’ve never tried it myself, but I’ve been told it is like having everything in your balls sucked out.

Soon the other men were moaning and grunting. I don’t know if it was faked or real, but the female on the left suddenly began keening louder and louder and more and more shrill. Suddenly she thrashed violently and all four men yelled in pain. Alurian females have very strong muscles in their openings and if you are fortunate– or unfortunate– enough to be inside her when she orgasms, it is as if your prick were caught in a matter compressor.

“Angelina is our winner,” the big man in the center of the stage called out, pointing to the female on the right. “And that means,” he said pointing to the female still thrashing in orgasm, “that Wulvia is our loser.”

He sort of laughed and then said, “For those of you who didn’t read your betting slips, that means that Angelina gets one fourth of the betting pool; the house gets one fourth; and the remaining half is divided among the winning bettors.” I also laughed because I quickly did the math on that in my head. It means that the winners basically get their money back, that isn’t much of a win. But on the other hand, they got to fuck an Alurian for free.

“Our loser, Wulvia,” the big man continued, “will pay the price for losing.”

Several men dressed in black pants and black McBrewski’s t-shirts ran out onto the stage dragging a large, square metal frame. Wulvia stood up and let them lead her over into the center of the frame. She put her arms into the air and let them tie her to the upper corners of the frame. Then she spread her feet as they started to tie her ankles to the lower corners. Evidently she didn’t spread her legs far enough because two of the men pulled hard on the rope holding her left leg and moved it over so that it was almost touching the frame. When two other men did the same with the right leg, her body dropped slightly and she was suddenly tied in a very tight, naked X in the center of the frame.

The big MC looked out at the audience and said loudly, “For those of you who paid the extra credits to be part of the punishment drawing, check your ticket stubs because we are going to draw the lucky five right now.”

A petite, naked earther girl ran out onto the stage carrying a clear spacer helmet filled with torn pieces of thin, purple cardboard. I noticed that several of the men in a nearby table were holding similar pieces. These were evidently their ticket stubs.

The MC pulled a ticket out of the helmet and read off the number. A yelp from a distant table indicated the winning stub. He did that three more times and then there was a drum roll through the speakers of the sound system.