Loaded (sci-fi, orgy)

Story by Kuroshio

My 400 fan raffle prize over on Hentai-Foundry.

The winning prompt was: Can we get some more sci-fi up in here? Let's say this: about half a dozen spacers (two male, two female, two futa with vag and nuts included) who own a small freighter that they use to haul cargo, blast pirates trying to steal said cargo, and have mind-blowing victory orgies after said blasting is done. Think bodies getting as stuffed as physically possible, endless stamina and massive money shots (because future medicine), maybe some handies, footjobs, and a bit of urethral play for the dick-owners. Basically anything short of like scat and watersports that you feel like writing. And you can fuck with the number of crewmen/women/futas however you like, as long as we can get at least one of the girls getting it in every hole at the same time.

Story contains futa on everything, everything on futa, pegging, oral, creampie, footplay, cumplay, rough sex, interracial, orgy, mild non-sex violence.

On a slightly different note, I'm closed for commissions right now (the reason I didn't throw my ring in the hat for the forum story) but my Patreon CYOA story is still active and involves a protagonist (controlled by patrons) dickgirl, so feel free to check it out if you like.

https://worldvectorlogo.com/logos/patreon.svg

MV Siberian Grace

C5-class intra-system freighter

Ratings:

Dry Cargo: 9,588 TEUs

Liquid Cargo: 55,000 DWT

Passengers: 0 PAX

Normally, you'd think that hearing an active combat alert would spurn people into action. I mean, that's what you see whenever you watch movies: a loud, blaring alarm and flashing red lights to indicate danger, while the crew leaps from all manner of improbable activities energetically and without delay, rushing to their stations and reporting everything ready to go once they've arrived. But that's just glam, livening things up for the audiences. The reality is that, even with a well-maintained and properly calibrated system, for every valid alert, there are two or three false alarms caused by any number of things. It could be environmental factors, bugs in the software, hardware faults, unrecognized conditions, anything. So the usual reaction is less energetic and more, “What the literal FUCK! Right in the middle of my sleep cycle!”

That was my reaction anyway. Because it really was smack dab in the middle of my eight hour sleep cycle. Instead of rolling out of my rack, I laid there, listening to the smooth chime (after a few months, you really don't want to hear any sort of blaring) and soft voice of the ship's computer, hoping someone else (preferably on-shift) would clear the alert, sooner rather than later.

But it kept going in a singsong voice, “Alert, alert. Unknown object, closest point of approach within 10,000 kilometers. I say again, unknown object, closest point of approach within 10,000 kilometers. Alert, alert.” That was close – very close in space terms – but not dangerous in and of itself, so I shut my eyes again. Particularly since the computer would have mentioned if it was running it's engines – also known as “running hot” – to make the intercept. Without engines it could have been any number of things like –

“Alert update. Unknown object assessed as armed.“

My eyes shot open and I bolted upright in my rack.

“Armed” and a close-approach? Pirates. Had to be. Navy and belt security virtually always ran with their IFF on and generally opened with communications (rude ones, to be sure) rather than a cold, quiet (no comms) intercept. We were only a few hours away from the asteroid belt, hauling a fresh load of consumables to one of the big rock stations, and sensors were screwy from all the radiation, debris and traffic in and out. But they weren't so screwy that they would misidentify weapons on a ship.

Spacing was my trade and I knew every facet of it, inside and out, all the little tricks to make things go faster when truly necessary. One of those was hanging my bodysuit in such a position that I could throw my legs over the rock and drop right down into it, sparing only a single motion of my hand to get the smart fabric closed and tightened, and land in my partially tied boots, which instantly clicked shut on impact. Then I was out of the berthing door in a flash, passing by Iskinder, the other spacer on my shift.

Once outside, I turned left on instinct, worked into a sprint, jumped over two obstructions in the passageway until I could finally turn right and park myself at the ship's weapon console. Just like the rest of the ship, it was a piece of crap outdated back in the year I was born. But it still worked – in a matter of speaking – and I managed to dis-engage the stow locks and start energizing systems before I put my headset on.

O

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