Reno's Slave

The small ship screamed out the jumpgate into normal space at an angle, speed, and rotation that meant every living soul on it was experiencing their brains and guts being scrambled. No grav generator could powerup in a jumpgate, which meant everything in that ship was secured for battle or whirling around in a maelstrom inside. Almost every possible alarm in the tiny space station went off, for the robotic guns around the gate hadn’t gotten a fix, the escort tug was sitting there waiting for a ship now loose in their quadrant and not broadcasting an ID. The space controller almost wet his pants, shaking with fear as the station’s computers generated information that seemed to indicate a rouge raider capable of wrecking incredible amounts of damage on the station and living to tell the tale of it—a D5402XQR modified fighter with full TasonHDG1000 shielding and the unmistakable energy signature of a Master Materia Canon. And the pilot was good, fucking brilliant—all of which suggested money and power had sent this fighter here. Enough money and power perhaps to do the unthinkable—attack one of Val Dax’s slave stations.

Then just as the station’s own Materia Canons were fully powered up, the ID flashed out: ShinRa! The space controller noted in shock the time from the ship’s entry to when its ID was broadcast was 56 seconds. Fuck! Any ship not broadcasting an ID after one minute from entry into a gate could legally be shot down, no questions asked. He’d have fired in a second, sure it had been well over a minute. They had just come hideously close to death. Because if attacking one of Val Dax’s stations was condemning yourself to death, blowing a ShinRa ship to smithereens--an expensive ShinRa fighter with a pilot whose skills were worth more than three or more of those fighters--was condemning yourself to a slow, painful death. Not that they’d likely have been able to get a fix on the fighter easily to make a fast kill. But they might have.

The rest of the ID registered, and Val Dax’s current on-duty space controller read the data now coming up—as did the Station Master on his own screen, cursing. Reno. That little red-headed trouble-making shit! One of Rufus’ infamous “Turks,” his black ops squad that deal with things ShinRa didn’t like out in the open, like the company’s slave labor. Not that most powers in the Twelve Galaxies didn’t use slaves; it just wasn’t something you wanted a lot of press for. Damn! He asked Rufus Shinra not to send the redhead again to pick up the slaves he’d trained from him, so why was he provoking him? But wait, thought the Station Master, suddenly perplexed, Rufus’s last batch of slaves had been picked up ten days ago. No one from ShinRa should be visiting the slave station for another five months plus. Nonplused, the Station Master dressed, determined to be there personally when Reno’s fighter docked.

Thirteen minutes later, the Station Master was in shock, half-convinced Reno was drunk or high on something. Eighteen minutes later he was stupified because Reno’s ridiculous, unbelievable claim was true. At a party attended by Val Dax and Rufus Shinra himself, Reno had somehow “won” a free slave from Val Dax himself—because in addition to data chip proving to be of the correct type and having the proper authorization codes, there was a vid of Val Dax himself confirming that Reno could have any slave he wanted from the whole station, no matter what the price—and danger level. For some of the slaves were criminals so dangerous that they were fitted with poison and simple bombs that the owner could trigger to kill them if needed. But even so, a prospective owner had to pass rigorous standards before Dax would approve the sale. But Reno, Reno, with absolutely no one else on that fighter (and with a Master Materia Canon!), would be allowed to claim such a slave.

Mother of God, Dax must feel the station was an asset of little value if he was willing to risk letting Reno take one of the maximally dangerous slaves! It couldn’t be true, yet the possibilities of a hoax were infinitesimally slim—the chip and codes were the real thing, so they would have had to been stolen and stolen undetected. The vid could have been a hoax, but it was a ResQ one, which meant it had to be filmed with live actors in one take. And it was filmed at a party in the famed Crystal Room on the planet TriSun, with Rufus Shinra and General Hontra Quissant there as well as Dax himself. The odds of someone being about to film something fraudulent in the Crystal room, with not only one but three amazingly accurate impersonators, were so close to zero that, well, it had to true.

The Station Master thought about what could make Dax grant Reno such a thing—had Reno saved him from assassination? Pleased him in bed? Somehow gotten in a high-stakes game, where no doubt he’d had to wager his own freedom, and beaten Dax? Or had Dax given the gift to Rufus, and for some reason, he’d passed it on to Reno? Rufus wouldn’t need another slave; there was no slave he couldn’t buy anyway. He’d have to study the vid carefully later for clues in it.

Grimly, he summoned Ohmn-Rohm, his best seller and had Reno taken to the best of slave sales suites. Here was where potentates, men controlling the fate of thousands, chose slaves or (more frequently) their personal buyers did. He gave the orders to allow Reno video access to everything—the slave blocks, the high-security cells, the low-security sectors, even the holding pens from the ship that had docked with new merchandise just hours ago. He watched the monitors sharply, keeping his anxiety locked up tight.

But it soon vanished. Reno had very specific requirements for his slave. No aliens, no exotics, no enhanced humans. No women, no one under 18 or over 38. No one without a VOC-class psych profile, no one with a health and fitness rating under G or over P, an intelligence rating under H or over N, no one not bi or gay—for although a slave had no choice who or what fucked him, each slave was tested to determine what he or she naturally responded to, often not what he or she believed. His slave must be qualified as a D-class pilot or higher; must have fighting skill at level D or higher, no, no, level H and not over Q. Well, damn, that narrowed the choices down to 42 slaves. Oh, he must have a cock at least seven inches long and one and a half in diameter when aroused. Ah, make that 14. Fourteen out of 22,652 slaves on this station—all very, very valuable and dangerous, but none of them maximally dangerous and none of them criminal.

He watch the Turk studying those 14 profiles carefully and looked at them himself. Finally Reno asked for XR3462, whose former name was listed as “Rude,” to be brought up to the sale suite for a test—a sexual test. The slave was classified as having extremely minimal sex drive. The Station Master stood up, after demanding to be alerted if, or rather more likely when, Reno moved on to another of the fourteen. Ohmn-Rohm could supervise the testing.

The male sexual testing room was equipped with the last equipment. Reno asked for face down securing with a two-way vid feed, so he could see the entire front of the slave’s body projected in front of him and the slave could look below him and see himself being fucked from behind on the floor’s vid screen. Everything needed was there—a selection of the finest lubricants available in the known universe, sexual and fetish toys of all kinds, and a state-of-the-art arouser gun—which “fired” into the balls produced both a hard-on and stimulated production of ejaculate (spermless, of course, since all slaves, no matter the species, were sterile by intergalactic statue). The shot hurt like hell going in, but the pain was gone in 10 seconds. The arouser gun, the tranq injectors, and a truth serum injector were all calibrated to what careful testing had determined maximally efficient on Rude.

The slave XR3462, tranqued, was brought to the room and first held for Reno’s inspection. The Turk ran his hands over every bit of the slave’s mocha skin, lingering over the tatts, inspecting the piercings in the slave’s nipples, ear, cock, and scrotum with interest. He indicated approval, and the slave was secured to the support device, and it was adjusted to Reno’s liking, the controls carefully explained. The slave’s cock ring and the tranq injectors were calibrated to Reno’s voice and table controls so with either words or a button Reno could allow or prevent the slave from orgasming and have him conscious or unconscious. The locker was coded to a combo of Reno’s thumbprint and voice. The truth serum was injected, and when, four minutes later, the test meter determined the drug was throughout the slave’s system, Ohmn-Rohm and the handlers withdrew.

The supreme slave seller watched with interest as Reno stripped and secured his clothing and weapons in the locker before picking up the arouser gun and giving the still unconscious slave an erection. He slicked his own aroused cock with a simple lube with no special effects although it ensured that a slave didn’t tear no matter how long and hard a fucking he got—if, of course, the anus could spread to accommodate what was inserted. Ohmn-Rohm let his mind dwell briefly on what price he could get for selling the Turk, as he watched him slide into the unconscious slave. The looks of pleasure crossing the redhead’s face as he moved in and out of the slave made Ohmn-Rohm ratchet up that price in his mind, and he thought with a great deal of satisfaction how the videos of this testing could be made into a very profitable piece of porn, something the Turk would likely agree to for a cut of the take, especially if the slave failed the test as expected. Then Reno used the voice command to inject the slave with the drug that would instantly awake him, making Ohmn-Rohm focus on what was going on in the testing room.


Rude came to immediately aware of several things before he even opened his eyes: he had been tranqued, shot with an arouser gun, and there was a substantial cock buried deep in his ass not moving. Oh, and he was restrained. Dear lord, he was on a sexual test table being tried out by or for a master! But he was a muscle or fighting slave, long since categorized as unfit to be a sexual slave except for those that enjoyed doing a slave who needed artificial arousal to get hard and rarely came. And while some masters might enjoy forcing a slave like that, the cost for one with his skills made him a stupid choice for someone with that kind of kink. Rude opened his eyes, wondering if he could see the master or buying agent who was trying him out, the one who seemed to lack the sort of basic intelligence you’d like your owner to have.

Perfect. He was perfect. And he moved his cock, shocking Rude with the fact that he’d used lube. Rude’s eyes stared at the pale ones set in that beautiful male face with pale, flawless skin and curving red-orange lines tattooed above each cheekbone. The tatts perfectly matched the red-orange hair spiking out and around that face that Rude decided was one of the prettiest he’d ever seen. And the body, thin and lithe, with enough muscle to indicate this was no mere pretty boy: this was someone that either worked out or did something that kept him fit. But more importantly, this was someone he desired, well, now at least, but he’d worried that he’d never feel that instant rush of desire he’d felt once or twice before being enslaved. Oh, shit, he wasn’t supposed to look at anyone’s eyes without permission! He carefully stared at part of the screen showing the perfect being’s lips and below, hoping that his disobedience would be attributed to the effects of the tranq.

He hadn’t seen anyone for a long, long time that he’d desired with just one look. But then again, he hadn’t woken up with a cock in his ass, his own cock primed for him, ready to go before. Hopefully that desire would last—maybe the guy wouldn’t say or do anything turned Rude off although that was unlikely. In the years when he’d been free, he never been sexual interested in anyone for long. He couldn’t help it; his arousal and desire, unfortunately for someone enslaved, needed someone special to awake and stay awake.

And that face grinned at him, clearly having seen him looking, and the redhead stuck his tongue out! Rude groaned, knowing that was the sexiest thing he’d seen in over a decade. Then the redhead’s cock struck his prostate hard, and Rude moaned and shuddered as much as his restraints let him, his eyes closing.

A slap on the ass, and a voice that made his cock leap said, “Yo, keep those eyes open when I’m fuckin’ ya, and look me in the eyes, too.” But, oh god, that didn’t sound like the accent of anybody with money or a request from a future owner. Most likely this wasn’t a buyer, but an agent, or even another slave that an agent or buyer wanted to see play with him. Why? Oh, god, he didn’t care. Rude loved being fucked, partially because his arousal problems weren’t such of an issue, but also because, well, it just felt so fucking good. Moreover, usually he could shut his eyes, imagine someone he desired doing it to him, and get aroused and come. But given his height and fighting skills, most people assumed he would prefer fucking. And in fact, the only other time he’d been in a sexual testing room had been when a potential buyer had wanted to watch him fuck some tiny boys. He’d vomited and was tranqued instantly. The last time he’d been fucked by someone he’d liked he was fifteen—a lifetime ago.

There was no reason to keep his eyes closed anyway; the man he was watching fuck him was hotter than anything he’d dreamed up before to get himself hard. But, god, if he kept his eyes open, he was going to come fast, and he could tell the slave’s cock ring on him wasn’t set to prevent his orgasm. Shit! It was hard to remember all the standard rules for a sex slave, but coming without permission, well, that one was easy to recall. Ah, fuck! He was getting close, and he’d been awake, what—two minutes? But the redhead was not only sexier than one of his fantasies, but as skilled at fucking. Rude knew this test would likely be his fantasy for the remainder of his life because it was highly unlikely any other buyer or future owner would let him be fucked or fuck. He wanted, no, he needed, this sexual test to last as long as possible and pissing off the magnificent man fucking him was something to be avoided.

“Master, orgasm close,” he gasped.

The redhead grinned again, triumph gleaming in his eyes. “Good, I want to see you spray your spunk, Rude.”

Rude. His name. He hadn’t heard his name in years. With a cry, Rude came hard, fighting to keep his eyes open, sorrow filling him along with the pleasure. Surely no prospective master would call a slave by his name, especially a slave they hadn’t even bought and renamed to his liking. Tears filled his eyes, scaring him. He didn’t cry; he’d never cried once since he’d arrived at this station.

“Yo, why you cryin’?”

Ah, shit, Rude realized as he started to answer that, he’d been injected with truth serum, that one that made it so hard not to talk and so hard to tell lies. You had to really, really believe those lies to outwit the drug. “I don’t think you’re a buyer or going to fuck me for much longer, and I want you to be my master and keep fucking me.”

“You wanna be my sex slave, my personal fuckhole?” asked the redhead, his voice a little shaky and his hips thrusting harder.

“God, you’re turned on by that!” said Rude, “Oh, god, I shouldn’t have said that. Yes, yes, I want that.” He bit his lip hard, drawing blood, holding in the words the drug was making him want to say. He wasn’t a talker. Hell, before, he’d become a slave, he’d never been a talker. One of the good things about being a slave was almost never being required to talk and not having to look people in the eyes, something he hated.

“Do you want to feel me blow in your ass?”

“Yes!” Oh, god, he was getting hard again.

“You do, don’t ya? Look at your big tool getting hard again,” said the gorgeous thing thrusting in him, and the gleam of admiration and look of lust made Rude fully harden. “Ah, yeah, that’s it! Yeah, get hard for me without a rod shot, you sexy thing.”

Sexy thing? Him? Yeah, he had muscles and was in shape, but he was naturally bald, had been since birth. Ah, well, the guy just meant his body, no doubt, not his face.

“Why that face?”

“I don’t think you like my face,” said Rude, his ability to fight the truth serum hindered by the pleasure building in his body again.

“Your intelligence rating is wrong cause you’re fucking stupid, gorgeous. But I might just pick you as my slave anyway. So why you wanna to be my fuckslave?”

Rude was panting, whimpering, and his body shaking. He gasped out, his voice’s sound level rising each time his prostate was hit, “Want you. Want you so bad. Haven’t wanted someone like this since I was fifteen. No, ever. So beautiful. Cock feels so good. Love how you fuck. Love how you look fucking me. Would chase you even if I was free, wanting to be around you, feel you touch me, fuck me. Yes, god, yes!”

“Rude. Fuck, Rude,” said the redhead, making Rude cry out incoherently, the sound of his name arousing him to the point where he knew he wouldn’t be able to keep from coming again much longer. And then his dream master came with a shout, and the sight of it, the feeling of it made his balls rise up—but the cock ring was now activated. He came dry, crying out with the redhead.

“Reno,” said the redhead. “That’s my name in case you wanna shout it the next time you come.” And their eyes locked via the video cameras, and Rude saw himself in this strange master’s eyes, no, Reno’s eyes. That look said the redhead thought he, Rude the slave, was just as amazing and sexy as Rude knew this Reno was. It definitely wasn’t the sort of look a master gave to a slave; it was the sort of look one gave to a lover. But at least his words suggested he would fuck Rude again.

Reno, Reno, Reno, said Rude in his mind, his cock dancing, his ass contracting around Reno’s softening cock. And then Reno reached out and grabbed the arouser, shooting himself in the balls, stunning Rude. That hurt intensely, albeit for a just seconds, and no master needed to do that. Fucking occurred on a master’s schedule, not a slave’s.

“Don’t wanna wait a minute more,” said Reno, beginning to thrust again, his words stealing Rude’s heart. He knew because with the truth serum in his system, he couldn’t lie to himself, and the words “I love you” seemed to tremble on his lips. He bit down on his lip again, holding them in.

“Yo, why you biting that pretty lip?”

“I don’t want to say I love you. I don’t want to love you,” said Rude, tears forming in his eyes. He was pathetic and helpless—the most helpless slave is the one that loves his master, and a slave that loves someone not his master, oh, his life was nothing but pain.

“Why?”

“You’re not my master, probably not someone that will ever own a slave,” said Rude.

“Like hell, I’m not,” said Reno. “Ohmn-Rohm, this one! And you’re going to give me a copy of every tape and recording of any sort of everything that’s gone on in this room and destroy all the rest.”

The stunned salesman cursed—what he’d recorded was astounding given the profile of XR3462, but then again, Reno had a sexual magnetism that was at least level R, and that combined with his ridiculously lenient treatment, well, that XR3462 believed he was in love was logical. “Of course, Reno,” he said, “as an owner, you have full rights to all the suite’s recordings. Can you please affirm that for your free selection of any slave granted to you by Sir Dax himself, you choose the slave you are currently fucking, XR3462?”

“Affirmed!” said Reno, “And leave me the fuck alone until I’m ready to deal with the paperwork and shit!”

Rude came, dry again, calling Reno’s name, tears flowing down his face.

Reno punched the back of his head, saying, “Yo, you better not have lied, or I’ll make your life a living hell.”

That dried Rude’s tears, and he choked out incoherently, “Master, love you, do my best. So happy, so good, couldn’t stop them.”

And that face, that perfect face grinned at him, saying, “Guess I better buy you some handkerchiefs, Rude. And some fucking sunglasses cause if I see that look in your eyes, I’ll be wanting to fuck you nonstop.”

“Master Reno!”

To Ohmn-Rohm’s surprise, Reno’s last statement appeared to be true. The Turq fucked his new slave again and again, releasing his bonds and moving to the bed in the test room, for more fucking. It wasn’t until after he blindfolded his new fucktoy, some three hours later, that Reno said, “Fuck, Rude, gotta stop to make sure you’re mine, eat, and get some sleep. Went through three jumps without a break to get here. Thought you were supposed to have a low sex drive.”

“You didn’t do the test, Master,” said Rude, his voice wavering a little.

“Yo, I like you wanting me,” said Reno, “so no tears.”

“Yes, Master. I want you, want you to fuck me more, fuck my face and ass, use me again and again.”

“No talking for now, either,” added Reno, but his cock had hardened again. “Ah, fuck, one more time, then I’m really stopping.”

To his and Ohmn-Rohm’s shock, his slave slid off the bed and crawled rapidly over to the refrigerated compartment in the wall, popping it open with a speed that indicated none of his high fitness or fighting skill ratings were inaccurate. Ohmn-Romn smirked and decided to order a meal and bottle of wine himself. XR3462 had been the cheapest of the fourteen slaves meeting Reno’s requirement—not that Reno need ever know that. And, knowing he’d perfectly pleased not only the buyer, but the slave—well that was something to be savored. Moreover, he had no doubt that when Reno realized he had food—food meant to be eaten off a body—and a bed right there, as well as a slave that clearly wanted more fucking than he’d had, his desire to finish off the paperwork wouldn’t seem urgent. After all the verbal contract had been recorded—he already was legally XR3462’s owner.

Sure enough, the fucking soon started again, this time with whipped cream and bits of fruit involved. Ohmn-Rohm purred with pleasure. There was nothing like dinner with a show, a show his body's implanted cameras were recording. The fact that all of Dax’s slave sellers were enhanced with implants was a secret few knew. It occurred to Ohmn-Rohm that Dax was likely to make more off this recording than he could have ever gotten for XR3462 in the first place, even given that the sales would have to be to private collectors in galaxies far from ShinRa’s reach. He, of course, would have a copy for his personal files, the files of all his sales. Opening his pants, he sighed with pleasure. He loved his job.