Caged with the Alien Gladiators by Corin Cain
1
Jacky
Ifight against the bonds that keep me strapped to the table, but I can’t move an inch. My hands are cuffed tight, and my legs are spread open towards the door. My body is displayed. I must look so helpless, bound and presented.
THUD.
A foot of steel doors. All that separates me from the crazed alien warriors. The leader is slamming his shoulder into it, enraged by the barrier between us.
There’s still a hissing pool of blood from the violence that happened minutes ago.
My heart is bulging out of my chest, pounding as the alien warrior slams his shoulder against the metal door separating us.
THUD.
Will it hold?
Do I want it to?
A light above the doors turns green. I won’t have time to answer the question to myself. The metal doors slide open, and they step in as one.
Aurelians. They look like humans. Almost. If humans were chiseled out of marble and not flesh, well over seven feet of blocky, bulging muscles. The three are shirtless, their skin gleaming, and they stare at my slit like they are going to rip every shred of clothes from me and leave me naked for their lust. My legs are pressed open for their pleasure.
They earned me.
I’m their prize, and the way they are licking their lips, they feel like they own me. The dominance of the alien species is legendary.
They pause at the door, like they can’t believe I’m really here. The only thing they are wearing is thick black combat pants. Their cocks strain against them, and my mouth goes wide as I see how big they are. The thick material presses out obscenely. I’m faint as I imagine them stretched past my innocence, ripping me apart and making me theirs forever.
I’m flush, wanting to wriggle and writhe, like something is coming over my body. It’s instinctive. Seeing their violence, how they killed a foe that no man should be able to stand against. The alien gladiators could rip me apart, and my body tells me to submit.
To give myself to them.
The leader of the three is bruised. His arm is swollen and purple from slamming against the doorway in his lust to get to me. His bowling ball bicep is red, the skin scraped off, but he couldn’t stop himself. His body kept propelling him to me, as if it’s our fate to be together.
They step forward. I swallow hard, not sure where to look. The entire room feels filled with massive alien bodies, the three of them towering over me. One of them could pin me down with a single hand. They don’t need to. I’m trussed up, presented to them, a toy for their use.
The leader breathes in. He tastes my scent, and I know he doesn’t just smell terror.
Aurelians can sense your need. They can taste when you’re turned on, and I can’t help it. Being tied up in front of the three Greek Gods of men has my body betraying me. I’m soaking wet, and they can see my pussy dripping through the tiny slip of cloth that separates us and taste my scent. My nipples are hard buds, so desperate for their touch, and I ache to feel what it is to be the recipient of the Mating Rage.
To have all three alien warriors devoted to you, losing control to their deepest urges to find their Fated Mate…
And breed her.
Four months ago, I thought I was getting onto a ship that would bring me to safety. It’s all I wanted. To get away from the dangers of Wild Space.
Now I’m handcuffed to a table in front of three of the most dangerous men in the universe.
And as terrified as I am…
They can taste how badly I want them to use me like they own me. I’m feverish. Heat flows through my veins, and I need to feel their touch. I need their hands over my body. I’m so empty, a vessel for their lust.
My hips press up instinctively towards the three men. No matter how scared I am, I need this just as bad as them.
The leader’s eyes focus in on my slick pussy, then travel up my body. He meets my eyes, and I stare into the dominant alien slate grey of the species.
They all have grey eyes…
Until they Bond their mate.
“When we snap, we won’t be able to hold back,” he says, when his nostrils flare again and every muscle in his body bulges.
If I’m their mate, I’ll spend thousands of years being bred by the triad…
If they can get me off this prison of a planet alive.
* * *
Four months earlier.
* * *
I shiverin the coolness of the transport bay, staring out through the hazy airlock to the stars that await me. They seem so fake from this side, dull little points so small and remote. Those little points are the promise of safety. I’ve spent my life moving towards the Human Alliance, and one more flight and I’m there.
I stood here after every shift, watching people getting into transport ships and flying off through that airlock and away. Big transport ships fly off every week or so, but little cargo ships are always coming and going, moving in a three-dimensional dance as the air traffic controllers maneuver them into their resting spots. I watched a drunk Toad take off when it wasn’t his turn, and he careened off some bounty hunter’s shields and exploded. The parts were cleaned up within a half hour, and it was like he never existed.
Life is cheap out here.
This station is almost safe. A four-week standard time travel to human territories. The last hop that ends the nightmare that my life has been since I had the misfortune of being born in the lawless depths of Wild Space. I clutch my plastic printed ticket that cost me the last eighteen months of my life. My mouth is dry and aching, desperate for a sip of water.
The next sip I have, I’ll be free. It’s going to be the best damn sip of water I’ve ever had.
Two hundred souls slowly move forward in line towards the ramp that leads into the beast of a mining ship. We’re a ragged bunch, but this line is different than the last two trips I did. Every other trip I saw no hope in anyone’s eyes. It’s not good to make eye contact too long, but I see glints of energy, sometimes a little smile on someone’s face. People standing straight back instead of hunched over and defeated.
We’re going to safety.
We’re going to be shielded from slavers. We’re going to be protected from the kind of Aurelians who aren’t content to sit in their home planet and collect women in their vast harem.
I shudder as I think of that species. That’s a way out for some women. While I spent all my money voyaging towards human territories, others book a one-way ticket to Colossus.
There’s a certain appeal to an Aurelian harem. You don’t have to think, for one. You can just get taken care of. As long as you don’t mind just being one of a hundred little toys for massive alien warriors—although if you’re not the jealous type, that might be a bonus.
I can’t imagine trying to handle three of the massive species without a break. Everyone knows how powerful they are. They’d tear you apart.
I won’t have to worry about them, or Toad slavers, or human pirates.
So long, bussing tables for snobs who spend a week of my salary on dinners and drinks. Hello, front desk agent at a mid-range hotel dealing with grumpy tourists coming out of statis-sleep. In the Human Alliance territories, people are still living life like nothing’s happened. They are still vacationing, partying, having a grand old time.
I want that blissful ignorance. I’d wash dishes the rest of my life if it meant being in the safety of their territories.
All my belongings are in a rucksack. I don’t buy anything I don’t need. Each credit spent is another minute or hour of my life spent in Wild Space.
We file forward as voyagers are processed and walk up the metal ramp into the ship. Do I dare feel the first pangs of hope? Maybe it’s going to be all over.
My coworkers spent nights in drink or on IV drips of drugs that make you forget how horrible daily life is. I didn’t want fake escapes. I faced up to the horrors, and I’ve skipped from one station to another. My hands are calloused from a decade of labor and I’m sure I look like a hot mess, but I’ll clean myself up on the other side.
The ship is an ancient beast. It’s got heavy armor, pitted from asteroid hits, meaning it’s got little to no shields. I better hope the pilot is good at dodging or the armor is strong. It’s a big, hulking cruiser loaded up with ores and minerals from the nearby asteroid belt. They also cram in people, but there’s no space for kitchens, dorms, or living quarters. It’s statis sleep or nothing.
I hate statis sleep. I hate the feeling of closing your eyes and not knowing if they’ll open again. I know they claim an almost perfect success rate, but it still makes me anxious. At least this is the last time. At the entrance to the ship, a bored-looking Toad is sitting on a stool, scanning tickets and waving in travelers impatiently.
He’s small, for a Toad. He might not even be five feet when he stands, but he’s got a big, fleshy belly bulging out over his tight little pants. I hold the ticket out. He doesn’t even bother to look up as he flicks his scanner over it.
Nothing happens.
He tries again, running the scanner over it, but there’s no beep that tells me everything’s going to be okay. My heart pounds as he looks up, narrowing his eyes.
“Where’d you buy this ticket, huh? Unauthorized scalper?” He speaks in Common, in a quick clip.
“Kiosk 15. Two weeks ago.”
“Two weeks, huh?” he asks, accusingly. He scans it again and grumbles out a curse in Toad. The line behind me is shifting uneasily, starting to stare at me. “Go wait over there. You bought a fake ticket,” he grunts, pointing lazily away from the line.
There’s a glob of something green and slimy looking on the scanner. I point at it. “Can you try cleaning it?” I do my best not to get angry with his attitude. He’s got the keys to me either getting on this ship or missing my chance. I’m guessing that a random mining ship does not have a customer service department that will refund me for the ticket.
No, it’ll be “too bad, so sad,” and I’ll have to spend another eighteen months bussing tables. And not for the same restaurant, that’s pissed off I dared to quit. I’ll have to find somewhere new to slave away.
He curses again in Toad, his tongue flapping past his swollen lips, then wipes the scanner against his tight pants. I suppress a shudder. I don’t want to know what Toads have underneath their undergarments. The species seems to love showing off their bulging bodies, warts and all.
He scans the ticket, and I let out a breath when it beeps. He snorts. “Typical,” he says, waving me forward with his webbed hand, as if it’s my fault he got mucus on it.
I ignore him and walk up the ramp. There’s nothing to be gained by yelling at a Toad. The ship beckons me, a poorly lit hallway leading inside. I’ll just hope they spent their money on repairs and not adequate lighting. I jog to catch up with the person in front of me, who turns in to a room.
There’s a set of automatic doors that hiss open. The statis-sleep bay is packed. Four technicians are working like they’ve done it a thousand times before, beckoning people into the standing pods, jabbing IVs into their veins, and settling them into the restraints that keep their neck straight during the journey.
“Come on, hurry up,” says one, waving his hands at someone who is changing into the white standardized garments. There’s a stack of them on the floor. I grab a large one and look for somewhere to change, but they don’t even give us that bit of privacy.
No time to waste. I’m not getting thrown off this hunk of metal. I turn and strip down quickly, crumpling my belonging into the rucksack and pulling on the thin white pants over my underwear.
I might as well be a piece of furniture. Not one of the four male technicians even glances my way. The last two times I flew, there was at least a change room, but this one is bare bones.
Not that I wanted them to look, but I mean, it would at least help my self-perception. I’m a mess. The only food I get is caloric bars. They’re tasteless, but when you work long hours, you have to keep pounding them down or the muscles don’t recover. I’ve got a layer of weight that makes me feel safer. You never know when you’re going to go without food for weeks or even a month.
I learned my lesson after a food shortage four years ago when I was eighteen, and since then, I’ve made sure to eat my fill. Which means I’m not the unrealistic slim yet somehow curvy body type that guys seem to drool over.
“Come on. Ship’s engine is warming up, that dumbass Toad is taking forever,” complains one of the techs as I pull the white shirt on over my bra. He’s got hazel eyes and shoulder-length hair, with a slim build. I wish he looked at me like a person and not just an annoyance.
“I’m coming,” I say, sliding my old work shirt into my bag and pulling it tightly closed.
I’ve got credits saved up for a make-over when I land. I’ll need to be presentable to work at the front desk, and I’m looking forward to finally liking myself when I look in a mirror.
I’ll be able to have a normal life. Do normal things, like dating. At this point I don’t know how I’d have a relationship, if I even had time. What kind of small talk would I make?
“Oh yeah, I was born on Station 67-Kaxark. Yeah, the one that was in the news for the rebellion five years ago. Yes, in Wild Space.” Just seeing their eyes turn down in scorn when they realize I’m a station rat would make me self-conscious.
Well, rats have a strong survival instinct.
I follow the tech to the next pod in the row. A closed pod slides back into its holder in the wall, making room for as many of us as possible. We’re packed in tight, and if something happens to the ship, we’ll never wake up.
“Alright. Let’s go,” says the tech, pulling at the metal cover of the pod. He curses under his breath.
So much for the sales brochure. When I bought the ticket, there was a holo-vid showing rich-looking, healthy people lying back in pods as if they were lounging in a beach chair, ready to enjoy a vacation while a perfectly styled tech worker with model looks patiently explained the safety features.
“Fucking thing! Come on!” he growls, pulling at the metal cover. It creaks open. It’s not see-through like in the brochure. It’s iron, and I get the horrible thought of being sealed in it forever, with the tech on the other side unable to open it and just throwing the entire unit out.
I’ll be in the Human Alliance territories. That kind of thing doesn’t happen there.
The Human Alliance. As long as I don’t get fired, I’m saved. I’m going to be at the mercy of the company. Twelve month work visa. If I’m lucky, one day I’ll turn it into citizenship. That’s safety. When you have the entire human civilization behind your back, you can make your life better. It’ll be a struggle. I’ll be stuck in a little apartment, tucked away, just another little worker ant.
That sounds just fine to me.
“Can I use a different pod?” I ask, hopeful.
“One sec,” he growls, grabbing a wrench and smacking the top of the pod with three hard strikes. It pops open. I don’t wait for him to tell me to get in. I just pull myself in, knowing complaining is more likely to leave me in the loading bay than get another pod.
“Have you used one of these before?”
“Yeah. Twice.”
“Good. Then I don’t need to give you the spiel. You didn’t drink anything for the last twelve hours or eat for twenty-four?”
My stomach grumbles in response. The hunger is nothing compared to my parched mouth. I’m dreaming of waking up on planet Litika, where a technician will hand me a fresh, icy glass of water and welcome me to my new life. Well, that’s what the sales brochure said, anyways. I’ll be happy just to get to the other side alive.
“Okay, lean back,” he says. I rest against the back of the pod, and it straps me in, restraints around my arms and legs. A machine whirs to life beside me. It’s a tall contraption on a rolling cart that the technician takes from pod to pod, bright blue fluids jostling in a tall tube.
The technician pulls up a wicked needle. I gulp and look away. My least favorite part of this whole thing.
“Alright, three, two, one, zero!” There’s a sharp pain as he jabs the needle into my vein after the count.
“Ouch! Aren’t you supposed to surprise me on two?”
“Everyone’s expecting that by now,” he answers. He’s skilled, only taking one attempt to get into the vein. The last tech poked me three times before he got it in. I’ll take rushed and competent over kind and jabby any day.
He presses a button on the machine, and the fluids whir to life. Instant relief flows over my body and mind. It’s not real—it’s chemicals relaxing me. Real or fake, the tension relieves from my body. Last time it took me fifteen minutes to get knocked out. I hope this time it’s faster, because I don’t like the idea of being in the pitch-black chamber waiting.
He jabs a second needle into me, connecting a second IV to the machine and pulling a fluid pouch off the machine and attaching it to the inside of my pod. Then his hazel eyes meet mine, and he looks at me like a person for the first time.
“Hey. Relax. You’re going to be alright. You’re sure as hell going to be a better place than I am,” he says, then steps back, grabbing the lid of the pod and slamming it down in a single thrust.
I’m in pitch blackness. I fight down the claustrophobia.
I’ve fought my whole life for this.
I’m going to go to sleep, and the nightmare will end.