The Nobility of Now. (futa/f, futa/m, group, sci-fi)

Story by Kuroshio

The Nobility of Now

sci-fi, futa on female, futa on male, group sex, oral, interracial, rough, some non-sexual violence

I wrote this for Hentai Foundry's Fabulous Futa contest, around two months back. It took me around a week and a half to get it to a finished state; six days spent writing then another two or three days going back over and re-doing small bits. I meant to upload a month ago but it somehow slipped my mind, since I've been working on a few different stories in the interim, along with my regular day-life. Overall, I see places I could've done better, c'est le vie, but I'm reasonably happy with the result.

Colonist No. 4051, Guadalupe Salazar, awoke from her slumber with a start. The stimulants pumped into her bloodstream intravenously had done their job well, taking her from deepest sleep to absolutely alert in an instant. She felt the stiff, cool plastic of a hospital bed under her. That was a good sign but still, nervously, her eyes darted around, looking for signs of struggle or upheaval: it wasn’t unheard of for rebellions and revolutions to take place on slow-boat generation ships. But there were no such indications, only a half-bored collection of individuals around her, attired in the Medical Corps’ white with the Red Cross emblazoned on their breasts. Guadalupe breathed a heavy sigh of relief and wordlessly raised her right wrist to accept the smart bracelet she knew was coming. Her thoughts were on the reason for her awakening, so focused that she was startled when her smart bracelet chime sounded in her head.

She exhaled slowly, reaching forward and ignoring the disapproving pleas of the medical staff as she grabbed a handhold and climbed out of the stiff hospital bed, setting her shaky, pseudo-atrophied legs on the ground for the first time in thirty full years.

***

She noticed wearily that, as usual, fashion and style for women had changed dramatically in the last three decades, meaning she had a choice between appearing either extremely old-fashioned or a poor mimic of contemporary styles. Meanwhile attire for men remained simply variations on the previous themes – men never had to come out worrying about what their clothes would say about them, something that annoyed her.

As Guadalupe browsed through the clothing store, she thought back to her youth with its peasant styling; plain white blouses and wide, ankle-length skirts, always conservative colors and never showing off more than shoes and perhaps (if one were daring) an inch or two of calf not covered by socks. Looking around at the tight, short and brightly colored attire of this era’s girls – much of it adorned with hanging strips of bright, reflective plastic – she couldn’t help smile at what a scandal it would have been to her elders.

Naturally, the fashions clashed horribly with the sedate greys, whites and blues of the generation ship, itself a living testament to the triumph of cold pragmatism over warm aesthetics. Supposedly, in the ship’s records, there were accounts of periods where the Crew fell delinquent in their duties or were overthrown from their position resulting in anarchy; a tell-tale sign was always a sudden and inconceivable shift in the ship’s colors. But those events were far in the past, long before even Guadalupe was taken aboard. She half-suspected they were mere fairy tales told to scare the children. At any rate, the contrast between citizens and background at least made for interesting visuals, Guadalupe thought. She browsed the aisles, wavering between her choices for a few minutes before deciding that playing it safe and coming off as old-fashioned would be better. Perhaps it would even offset the effects of her youthful appearance as well.

With the issue settled, she swiftly moved between racks, picking up this skirt and that blouse, those shoes and these accessories. It wasn’t her first time doing this and by now she had it down to a science, curtly ignoring the helpful questioning of store assistants and stepping into the nearest dressing room, shedding the chrysalis of plain white pseudo-paper hospital garments for something with a bit more class.

Just then a priority new bulletin flashed across the wall-strip, delivered by an attractive brunette who looked too young for the job: an explosion of some sort in a nearby district, casualties unknown. Guadalupe frowned. Shipboard accidents were supposed to be rare; at least rare enough there wouldn’t be a fresh-faced anchorgirl breaking the news to the populace, spouting off about the Yellow Legion or some such other riff-raff. Guadalupe couldn’t care less that it happened – issues like this were the Crew’s responsibility – but the frequency suggested by th

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