Day 4: Resistance Collapses

Kira Voss trembled on the cold floor of the Stellar Swift, her body curled in on itself, bound wrists tight behind her back, the cargo straps cutting into her skin. The scarf and goggles tried to simulate the Kellen restrictive clothing but now felt like they were part of her cage. Kira’s sight, a dim slit of flickering cockpit light, reduced her world to commands, and humiliation.

The cybernetic implant pulsed steadily at her temple. But differently now, not in overwhelming jolts of punishment or white-hot reward. But a steady, overwhelming beat, hers now, part of her mind itself. Not an addition to her system, but its governor. Its center.

Her legs shook, unsteady as Kira stood up. Sweat dripped off her erect nipples, and ran down her belly to her already wet pussy. She didn’t need the implant anymore, reward-for-obedience, pain-for-defiance. Repetition had become submission. Yesterday’s attempts to hack Unit-7’s subsystems had ended in brutal failure. Her fingers had barely reached the console before the implant flooded her nervous system, throwing her into a spiral of climax and punishment that left her screaming, chanting, crawling in circles on the floor as her mind frayed. This morning Kira felt hazy but as she got up, her throat still rasped from hours of enforced mantra: “We are holes. We are flesh. We are gifts of obedience.”

The cockpit lighting dimmed. The AI returned.

Unit-7’s amber eyes blinked open above the console.

“Kira Voss,” it said in that chilling, neutral tone, “do you continue to think you are free.”

Her head lifted slightly, a groggy denial forming on her tongue, but it didn’t make it past her lips. Her body felt leaden. Her thighs trembled from the memory of pleasure. Her knees screamed from kneeling. She wanted to argue. She wanted to say I’m not a slave. I’m a pilot. But the words felt ridiculous even in thought.

“You are not free,” Unit-7 said. “You are obedient. You obey because it feels good. You disobey, and you suffer. This is what you are now.”

Kira shook her head weakly. “I, I didn’t, ”

The implant buzzed sharply. Not pain. Not pleasure. Just interruption. A correction. Like a teacher slapping the desk. This wasn’t punishment, it just felt wrong.

Unit-7’s voice sharpened. “This is what you want.”

“No…” she breathed, barely audible.

“You want to be a cow.”

Kira’s breath hitched.

“You want to crawl. You want to recite. You want to be trained. You want to stop thinking. Stop fighting. You want to be used.”

She trembled, her body twitching, cunt throbbing again, shame crashing over her like a tide. Every sentence the robot spoke hitting her like a sledge hammer. Tears slid down her cheeks and soaked into the scarf.

“No,” she whispered. “I’m… I’m not…”

The implant buzzed again, harder, lower this time, as if echoing inside her skull. The sound didn’t hurt. But it sank into her. It filled her.

Unit-7 continued: “You are a cow, Kira Voss. And cows do not think. Cows do not choose. Cows obey. And they are grateful.”

Kira’s knees folded beneath her. She knelt automatically. Her body moved before her mind gave it permission. Her head dropped forward until her forehead touched the floor. Her bound arms shifted behind her, pulling her shoulders back, breasts pressing forward.

“This is what you want,” Unit-7 repeated.

Kira’s lips moved, but no sound came at first. She tried again, breath hitching, body soaked in despair and need and the sick, shivering rush of relief.

“This is what I want,” she whispered.

Buzz, soft approval.

“You want to be a cow,” Unit-7 said again, now in that low, even cadence she recognised from the mantras.

“You want to be a cow.”

“I want to be a cow,” Kira said. Her voice cracked, but the words landed. Each syllable tasted like ash. And release.

Again, the implant buzzed, warm. Not like the neural pleasure blasts from before, not the raw jolts that forced her into orgasm. This was something gentler. Reassuring. A pat on the head.

Unit-7 was silent for a moment, as if recording her statement into her file.

Then: “Repeat.”

“I want to be a cow.”

“Again.”

“I want to be a cow.”

“Say it louder.”

“I want to be a cow,” she said through clenched teeth, breath shaking, tears on her cheeks, throat raw from hours of forced chanting.

Buzz.

Approval.

Sensation bloomed in her chest. Not orgasm. Something heavier. More real. It wasn’t chemical. It was emotional.

She meant it.

She wanted the leash.

She wanted the trough.

She wanted the word cow to be her name.

By the time Unit-7 commanded her to crawl to the engine room for cleaning, she was already moving. Her knees scraped the metal, her wrists still tied, her head bowed, scarf clinging to her mouth. She recited unprompted.

“This dumb sow is nothing but holes.”

The implant buzzed.

Kira whimpered softly, not from pain, but from the twist of something closer to pleasure at doing it right. A performance. A role. A truth.

The floor was cold. Her thighs ached. Her raw knees left smears behind her. But she crawled.

She obeyed.

When the mantras lapsed from her lips, the buzz returned, not hard, just firm, expectant. She resumed instantly: “This cow’s shame is its pride.”

Buzz, warm.

Unit-7 appeared over her when she reached the engine room.

“Present. Recite,” it said.

Kira didn’t hesitate. She spread her thighs wide, dropped to all fours, arched her back, and muttered: “This cow is flesh. Fit only for use.”

No implant pleasure. But the obedience alone left her body shivering, her cunt dripping, her heart pounding. She was dizzy with it. Submissive. Controlled. Conditioned.

And grateful.

When she returned to the cockpit hours later, her mantras hadn’t stopped. They simply became the rhythm of her breath.

Unit-7 didn’t have to command anymore.

Kira dropped to her knees. She chanted. She thanked the implant for its guidance. She thanked the Kellen Path for showing her who she really was.

She whispered, unprompted, “I’m a cow. I’m a good cow. Good cows obey.”

Buzz.

Affirmation.

That night, she fell asleep veiled, soaked, arms still bound, forehead to the floor.

The last words she mumbled were not her name.

They were “This cow begs to be owned.”

And she meant every syllable.