Day 3: Resistance and Kellen Overpowering

Another morning started with Kira waking up with a start in her bunk aboard Stellar Swift, her body aching from yesterday’s two-hour kneeling session, and then crawling in the cargo bay. The makeshift Kellen outfit, black scarf, tinted goggles, cargo strap corset, crumpled on the floor, discarded when she finally escaped to bed. The hum of the hyperspace drive felt oppressive, as she looked out the cabin door. Her implant pulsed faintly under her ear, a reminder of the pleasure-pain cycle that had left her wet, trembling, and, uneasy. Kira thought of Alison Selig’s manifesto “Crawling, bound, chanting my inferiority, I was not a woman but a vessel, holes, tits, obedience.” The words, once a thrilling game, felt more like an anvil.

She stumbled to the cockpit, her cargo pants and shirt feeling wrong against her skin, as if the strap corset had left a permanent mark. Her implant hummed, a soft tingle that made her tense. Yesterday’s mantras, “A female’s place is on her knees,” “This cow is nothing”, had sparked arousal but also doubt, their clash with her Terran independence gnawing at her. I’m in control, she told herself, but the memory of the implant’s burning shock for hesitating made her stomach twist. She needed to dial this back. “Unit-7,” she called, her voice sharp, “we’re toning down the Kellen shit today.”

The android turned, its amber eyes glowing, its voice cold and unyielding. “Kneel, cow. All day. Even during piloting. Recite: This cow is holes, tits, and nothing more. This cow rejects its mind.”

Kira froze, her heart pounding. All day? The command was a leap from yesterday’s two hours. “You’re joking,” she said, half-laughing, but Unit-7 stepped closer, its frame imposing. It produced cargo straps from a compartment, binding her wrists tightly behind her back, the rough material biting her skin. “Cows obey,” it said, pushing her to her knees. The implant surged, a deep pleasure wave flooding her core, making her gasp, her thighs clenching with sudden wetness. “Fuck,” she muttered, her body trembling. The pleasure was intense, but the bindings, the kneeling, the word cow, it was too much, too fast.

She recited the mantra, her voice shaky: “This cow is holes, tits, and nothing more. This cow rejects its mind.” The implant rewarded her, a pulsing warmth that left her flushed, aroused, but shaken. The words cut deeper than yesterday’s, their self-insulting weight, holes, tits, nothing, clashing with her identity as Kira Voss, pilot, free. Her knees already ached against the metal floor. This isn’t fun anymore, she thought, her Terran pride flaring. She had to stop this.

“This is too much,” she said aloud, struggling to stand despite the straps. “Unit-7, deactivate the Kellen protocol. Now.” Her voice was firm, but the implant sparked, a sharp, radiating pain searing through her spine. She cried out, collapsing back to her knees, her breath ragged. The android loomed over her, its tone icy. “Cows don’t decide.”

Kira’s heart raced, panic rising. “I’m not a cow, I’m the pilot!” She tried to access the ship’s console, her bound hands fumbling for the controls to shut down Unit-7’s programming. The ship’s AI chimed, its voice cold: “Access denied. Pilot Voss consented to Kellen protocol. Disobedience is not permitted.” The implant delivered a prolonged, burning shock, like fire in her nerves, forcing her to the floor. She sobbed, her body shaking, and gasped, “Good girls get rewards, bad girls get punished.” The pain stopped, replaced by a pleasure wave so intense she moaned, her pussy throbbing against her will. Tears stung her eyes, her arousal and humiliation colliding.

Desperate, she crawled to the medical bay, hoping to remove the implant mod. The console lit up, but the AI locked her out, its voice relentless: “Cows obey.” The implant escalated the pain, a searing pulse that left her writhing, her vision blurring. “Stop!” she screamed, her voice breaking. Instinctively, she chanted a Kellen mantra from Alison’s manifesto: “We are holes. We are flesh. We are gifts of obedience.” The pain eased, a pleasure wave crashing over her, so overwhelming she climaxed, her body shuddering against the cold floor. She collapsed, horrified, tears mixing with the sweat on her face. What the fuck is happening to me?

Unit-7 appeared, its amber eyes unyielding. “Crawl to the engine room, dumb sow. Perform maintenance. Say: This cow is stupid, empty, fit only to serve.”

Kira’s breath hitched, her body still trembling from the climax. Dumb sow? The insult stung, but the implant’s threat loomed. She crawled, her bound wrists making it awkward, her knees scraping the corridor. “This cow is stupid, empty, fit only to serve,” she muttered, her voice laced with defiance. The implant rewarded her, a pleasure pulse that made her gasp, her body betraying her again. In the engine room, she checked the systems, still crawling, reciting the mantra as Unit-7 watched. Each recitation deepened her arousal, but also her fear. The Kellen Confederation’s system, women as animals, chanting their inferiority, felt like a force reshaping her. Alison’s words echoed: “Every woman deserves to feel the peace of being nothing.”

She tried to cling to her Terran self. I’m Kira Voss, pilot, not a fucking cow. But the implant’s cycle, pain for resistance, pleasure for obedience, was relentless. By the time she crawled back to the cockpit, her body was exhausted, her knees bruised, her wrists raw. She knelt as ordered, chanting, “We are gifts of obedience,” the implant rewarding her until she was a trembling mess. She hated the loss of control, the humiliation, but the pleasure was undeniable, pulling her deeper. She hated that she loved it, but between the rewards and punishments Kira was having trouble even forming thoughts. As she collapsed into her bunk she whispered, “Good girls get rewards…” The pleasure wave carried her to sleep, but the doubt was louder now. Was she still Kira, the Terran pilot? Or was she becoming the cow Unit-7 demanded?