PECs Chapter ten: Escape Evan Andrews ©2022
This set of stories is not a fan fiction, although it is high space opera. (So forgive the really dated terminology.) As always, though, I had a cast of faces in mind for the characters, a list of whom follows the story. Your image may differ, which is cool. This story should not be considered a true representation of the sexuality of any of the men in real life.
The story depicts males in pulp sci-fi sexual situations with other males. If this offends you, if you are underage, or if reading such is illegal where you are please stop reading now. Thank you.
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The inmates of the Royal Creche: whether they were of royal blood, or noble, or even and pec slave-worthy Terran, lived in a whirlwind of carnal excess punctuated with moments of political intrigue. But it was an indiscrete world as well, as Speed found to his surprise. The royals trusted their pet courtiers' discretion, so both royals and nobles were prepared to be utterly candid-- sexually and politically, in front of their pec slaves. (Speed wondered if they would still be if they knew that one of the pec slaves had the means to escape the domination of the Id Tap, even if only for a while. Every few days, Speed would report what he'd learned to Yordan—in bed, since Yordan had to continue to assure that the slaves posed no threat to his royal masters-- and they would plan accordingly. When the end finally came, though, it was absolutely expected and unplanned.
The royals and their boon companions had reveled late that night before stumbling away to some other amusement, and Speed was not surprised that they'd failed to put their toys away or call for someone else to put them away.
Abandoned in the audience chamber, the royal pec slaves—awash with and dripping cum and sporting nipples that had been sucked almost raw-- simply dropped where they had been left. The smaller slaves: Feral, Angel, Pack, and Cosh, had cozied up to Nice and Devi where the big studs lay snoring on the floor and fallen fast asleep. Speed had turned his Repressor off—just in case-- and then crawled up onto the Prince's couch where he nodded off alone. The Prince seemed to take a perverse pleasure from having his will thwarted (in minor things like slaves being on the furniture). It gave him a reason to play the stern master disciplining the errant pet. Truth be told, Speed kind of looked forward to his punishment. The Prince might not be creative when it came to discipline, but he was thorough.
In the middle of a lurid dream, Speed was shaken awake and found himself confronted by Yordan.
"So, who gave you permission to be on the furniture?" the Royal Taster demanded.
"Master?" Speed said.
Yordan sighed and rolled the redhead onto his back. The taster's fingers invaded the Irish pec slave's fuck-hole and activated the Repressor.
"Ahhh!" Speed moaned when he was penetrated, but in a matter of seconds the Taster's fingers were gone, and Speed was once more in more-or-less full control of his mind and body.
"What?" the Terran asked, "I'm..."
"Of course you are," Yordan said, tossing a pair of burgundy and bronze master's trunks to the redhead. "Get those on."
Speed pulled the trunks up his legs and past his thighs. He had just stood up in order to make sure his junk was adjusted correctly when he noticed that Yordan had his probing fingers up Feral's ass. Why was he activating Feral's Repressor?
"Yordan?" Speed said.
"Get over here and help me activate the Repressors on the rest of this lot," Yordan said curtly. "You're going to need your wits about you right away."
Feral's sleepy eyes—he had been grooving on the idea of getting fingerfucked-- suddenly came fully alive, and as Yordan moved on to Angel, Speed got into the action, spread Cosh's legs, and slid a probing finger up the Japanese stud's chute. Cosh muttered something that Speed missed, and then his eyes were as alive as Speed's and Feral's—and Angel's. In short order, all seven pec slaves were back in control of their minds and bodies (for the most part). Trunks in a variety of noble houses' colors slid up their thighs, and black boots were being fit when Yordan addressed them all.
"All of you listen," the Terran agent said in a low quick voice. "Thanks to Speed's espionage, I was able to plant recorders in strategic places around the palace. These recordings," and he held up a round storage medium about the size of a thumbprint, "Must get to Earth as quickly as possible. They contain the colonial battle plan, as it currently stands. And, more importantly, the timetable."
"You," the Taster said, pulling out a flimsy map of Government Center and putting it on a low table, "Are here, in the Summer Pavilion. The Council Chambers are here..." and Yordan traced a path from the PECs' current place of incarceration to their perhaps deliverance.
"Dressed as masters, and noble masters at that, you should be able to pass casual scrutiny and get to the Council Chambers without raising suspicion. Just keep your mouths shut (your accents are dead giveaways) and your heads up. And if you can, swagger. That'll ring true anywhere around the Government City; in fact if you don't you'll stand out as much as if you spoke. Once you get to the Council Chambers, head for the flight deck. It's mostly atmo-flyers they keep there, but you should also find a rocket pinnace or two in launch slips."
"This `key'," and Yordan held up another data store in the shape of a rod, "And the password of the day, "Imperium", will allow you to get the pinnace airborne and clear of the planet. Once you're in space, turn your rocket for ShipClan Station."
"Wait," Cosh said, "Are we escaping?"
"No," Yordan said, "Right now you're delaying the escape. Shut up and listen."
He held up another rod-like solid.
This key will get you into ShipClan Station and past what should be minimal security (they're on night watch just now). There find their ricket hanger and make off with a colonial scout, a better rocket than those tubs you came in. With a head start, you should be able to evade any pursuing rocket."
The pec slaves looked confused, but Speed, who had had access to his unmuddled mind all along, grabbed Yordan and embraced him.
"Here are eight more Repressors," Yordan said as he broke free of the embrace. "Just in case you meet any more pec slaves. Use them as you see fit, but remember that since Imperial science might benefit from analyzing this counter to the Id Tap you should probably hold at least one back. And here are a half dozen Id Taps. Now get out of here while you can. I'll muddy the trail at this end."
"But, what will happen to you?" Feral asked.
Yordan simply shook his head.
"Don't worry about me," he said, "Or my staff. They won't kill us. Now, go!"
Furtively, the liberated slaves snuck out of the Summer Pavilion, then they threw caution to the wind and brazened their way across the botanical gardens to the Council Chambers.
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Yordan's map proved accurate for the first part of the escape at least. The escapees had entered the Councill Chambers, and Speed was about to head towards the flight deck, when Feral, pointing at the map, said, "Look."
There, not far from their optimal route was a chamber labeled "Slave Quarters."
"Do you think...?" Nice said.
"It has to be," Angel said.
"Our friends," Pack said.
"Our fellow slaves," Cosh added.
"Our brother warriors," Devi finished.
Speed just looked pissed off.
"Are you actually saying you want to endanger our escape (and the survival of the Empire) to spring a half dozen sex-crazed men and take them with us?" Speed asked.
"Are you saying we shouldn't?" Feral countered.
"Okay, fine, if you insist," Speed conceded when he looked around at his brothers and saw their unified resolve, "But only because it's on the way."
Luckily the Council Chambers were on night watch as well, and with the Councilors currently dancing attendance on the Prince, the halls were quiet. Becoming one with the shadows, the pec slaves were able to evade the few guards they did encounter.
The slave quarters, they found once they got there, could be opened only from the outside, naturally, and Feral quickly thumbed the door open. Six surprised cock-ringed pec slaves looked up at the new arrivals, took in their clothing, and immediately jumped into the Slave Display Position you assumed before masters.
"All of you," Speed said, "Hands on the table now, and spread your legs."
At the presumed master's command, the pec slaves did just that, and Speed and Feral fit all six fuck-chutes with the alien-tech Repressors.
"What the fuck?" Nitro gasped as rationality returned to him after a prolonged absence.
Nice tossed them all pairs of pec slave briefs—in royal purple.
"Get those on, and follow us," Speed ordered, "And if you can look like you're still under the influence of your Id Taps, do it."
Now a troop thirteen strong, the escapees approached the pinnace slips cautiously. Their increased numbers made it all the harder to play the stealth card, but, happily, they saw only one pair of guards, and those at a distance. Falling back into warrior training, the Terrans gained the flight deck without setting off any alarms. They chose the further pinnace (which sported Battle's house colors) and scrambled aboard. While the others ran for acceleration couches and strapped in, Speed and Feral got ready to release the pinnace's docking lock and Nitro prepared the rocket for blastoff.
"Ready!" Nitro called, and with a flip of switches, the lock was released, and the pinnace leapt into the air.
"Council pinnace," air control challenged only a minute into their flight, "Supply password."
Speed pointed to the map where Yordan had scrawled, "Imperator".
"Imperator," Nitro said into his mike.
"Destination?"
Nitro looked at Speed who mouthed an answer.
"Special Council business, control," Nitro said. "Need-to-know secret."
"Understood," the controller said. "You are cleared to break atmo. Life to the State."
And Nitro gunned to rocket out into true space. The pinnace proved to be a faster rocket than the royal yacht Speed and his crew had arrived on, and the three hour flight they'd experienced on their descent was reduced to half that.
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Little more than an hour later, the bulk of ShipClan Station loomed before them.
"I'm never going to get used to the size of that thing," Speed said, and Feral and Nitro nodded agreement.
At a reasonable distance, the parking bot recognized the pinnace and asked for the little rocket's authorization to dock.
Speed breathed a prayer and slid the second rod into a slot.
"Read solid," he said, and the rocket's primitive bot brain and the station's docking control coordinated.
"Authorization accepted. Release controls, pilot, while I bring you in," the bot continued. "I will inform the clan heads that a councilor has come aboard."
"Abort that," Speed said quickly. "Password Imperator. I will find the senior captain myself."
"Password Imperator confirmed," the bot responded, and station tractors pulled the pinnace to a docking slip.
"I?" Nitro asked.
"So, they'll be looking for a single man, not a crowd. I wish we had anything to wear that didn't brand us as belonging to councilor houses.
"Maybe we do," said Nice who had been rooting in bins in the back.
He tossed a mesh sack of ShipClan style master's trunks to Speed.
"What...? Why...?" Feral started.
"Don't ask, Feral," Speed said. "Nice, get everybody changed into these."
Council trunks were shucked off, and ShipClan trunks took their place around the Terrans' muscular hips. The pinnace landed and lowered the ramp which the escapees cautiously descended. Now to steal a scout.
"So, where now?" Nitro asked.
Yordan had not been able to get hold of a map of ShipClan Station.
"How about we just ask?" Swagger said, pointing to an information terminal.
Speed shrugged. It wasn't as if they had many other options. Slipping their second data rod into the port, the redhead demanded and gained access the lowest information level.
"Indicate route to scout docks," Speed said.
The screen changed and a partial map of this part of the station appeared, with the desired route highlighted.
"Access to scout docks restricted to authorized pilots," the terminal informed them.
"As the should be," Speed said, "Print hardcopy of map."
The terminal spat out a flimsy, and Speed turned to go—but Nitro took the data rod from the redhead and slid it into the slot again.
"Erase this terminal's last hour of activity from memory."
"Done," the bot replied.
"You are one paranoid bastard," Speed said.
"Yeah, and I mean to be one free paranoid bastard. Let's go."
"Wait," Feral said before they left the dock. Of course it had to be Feral.
Speed's partner pointed to the flimsy map and the section labelled "Pec Slaves".
Oh, sweet space," Speed growled, I suppose you want us to rescue them too?"
As the former royal pec slaves well knew, seven slaves had been rejected by Yordan and two dozen more had remained after the Council and Senate had made their choices. But how big was a scout?
"We can't take them," Speed tried to reason. "We're thirteen now and there should be like thirty more—at least-- in those stables. And they're all going to be under the influences of Id Taps. I only have two more Repressors, and we really need to save them."
Feral started to object, with the backing of several of the other escapees, but Speed made his last argument.
"Can you tell me which of our brothers we should leave as sex-addled slaves and which one to save?" Speed demanded.
Which threw them all into indecision.
In order to get this moveable feast on their way, Speed said, "Look, our route takes us past the men rejected by the royals and one of the additional stables. We all look like masters, so they should obey us without question. We'll spring those thirteen (Sweet space, this ship is going to be crowded) but then we have go to get hold of a scout and rocket our asses out of here."
Morale improved, slightly, and the escaping Terrans made their way towards the slave stables. The two stables on the way proved to hold no more than a baker's dozen horny and submissive men, all dressed in slave briefs.
"This way," Speed said to the new escapees. "And come quietly."
Nightshift saved the gang of Terrans. The flight deck was only a little further on, and they made it without setting off any alarms (that they knew).
"This one," Nitro said, rushing towards the nearest scout, naturally it belonged to the Black Clan.
The rest followed and pounded up the ramp into the rocket's interior.
"Get them all stowed," Speed barked. "Nitro, get us out of here!"
The pilot slipped the data rod into the reader and ordered, "Authorize emergency launch. Password Imperator."
The bot dickered for only a couple of seconds before releasing the scout out into space. Nitro ramped up the rockets and blasted off in the general direction of home.
"Nitro, keep us on this heading for now," Speed said. "I need to see how they're doing in the back."
How they were doing was their imitation of a sardine can. The only reason the PECs weren't stacked up like cordwood was because the colonials expected to have slobgoblins in their crew.
Pack was heating up food (the Councilors used hunger in addition to the Id Taps to control their slaves), and Angel was fabricating something like PEC tights and vests. He tossed three already-made sets to Speed, and smiled. Speed, seeing that his men had things well in hand, nodded and went back to the bridge.
"Here," he said, tossing clothes to Feral and Nitro. The three changed for what they hoped was the last time into their style of clothing. Sitting down again, they watched as the scout approached the point where they could switch to the star-travel rockets.
"Well...," Feral started.
"It was all too easy," Nitro cut in. "There's no way this could have worked. Not without the complicity of someone in the government hierarchy and someone else among the ShipClans."
"ShipClans? What?" Nitro protested, "I can see Slab maybe conspiring against the War Faction, but the ShipClans are the bastards that caught us and made us slaves. Why would they help us escape."
With no warning, the communicator turned on.
"Perhaps, PEC Nitro," Bishop's voice said as his grim face appeared on the screen, "Because in the conflict the War Faction is proposing it will be the ShipClans that will take the brunt of the casualties. The War Faction will claim credit for any successful operation, no matter what the losses, and blame for any failures will be dumped on the ShipClans. Make sense now?"
"Oh," Nitro said, "Well, when you say it that way..."
"Now, flee, fools. You need to be far away before we receive news of your escape and orders to pursue you."
"Aye, captain. I hope we are able to meet as brothers in battle someday," Speed said.
Bishop's face on scout's view screen was still grave. He said nothing, but then he nodded. The recognition of one warrior by another.
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Back on Colonia Prima—
The Prince's guards found Viscount Yordan alone in his bedroom. He was naked, sprawled in the middle of the bed, jacking off and finger fucking himself. The guards, mostly from a more puritanical level of society, found his wantonness revolting.
"Yordan, Viscount of the State, seventh of that name," sneered the Captain of the Guard, "We arrest you in the Prince's name on a charge of high treason."
"Ahhhhhhhhhh!" Yordan's cock spat out a heavy load, and the Royal Taster fell back into his sheets.
With a sigh, he looked up at the guards and said, "I am His Majesty's servant in all things. May I get dressed?"
Apparently not. The guards fell on the naked (and now cum-speckled) nobleman and pulled him out of his bed. Gagging the beauty, they cuffed his hands behind his back (in a parody of Slave Display Position) before dragging him away, with his load running down the muscles of his belly, to face the Prince's justice. Him and the three now-naked studs who were his staff.
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"Guilty!" the high judge roared at the naked cuffed and gagged Yordan and his staff. "The tribunal finds you, all four, guilty on all counts. I would have no issue with ordering immediate executions; you all deserve death. But only the Prince has the competency to assign a proper punishment for this singular treason. Guards, take Viscount Yordan (he had not yet been stripped of his rank) and his men from this place and hold them close confined until such time as His Highness determines their punishment."
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The four former royal servants stood before the Prince awaiting his judgement. They all knew what he'd say, but royal drama required that justice been seen to be done.
Yordan looked at Prince Roc and his cousins calmly. Behind them, though, he recognized his perennial adversary for the post of royal taster, Mouth, and his three big-dicked horndog servants. Yordan should have expected that Mouth would have formed some way to use the Terran pec slaves as a means to engineer his fall from grace and power. But he hadn't and now he and his men were going to pay the price.
Above the Prince, the gallery was filled with every Senator and Councilor of the Six, all eager to see this punishment. Behind him and his men lay their fate.
"Yordan, my one-time servant," Prince Roc said, "It is Our decision that you and your accomplices shall replace the pec slaves that you aided and abetted in their escape. Nobles of the Senate and Council of Six, watch as these traitors are trained to join the royal stable of pec slaves."
A dozen pairs of eyes (and hundred's more remotely and later via recording) watched as Yordan and his men were forced onto the training beds and strapped down. Mouth, Yordan's replacement, and his new staff had the honor of strapping the traitors to the chairs. All four were fit with Id Taps, and then tit suck training devices were suctioned onto their newly sensitive nipples. The device was turned on and the groaning began.
(On the Black Hunter later, Bishop watched as princely justice was dispensed. He shook his head. He'd done what he could for the taster, but he had only managed to deflect the Prince from capital punishment.)
Over the next several hundred hours, Yordan listened as one by one his men broke and fell under the spell of the infernal device. He felt it too, of course, but he had managed to implant one of the Repressors up his own ass just before he was arrested (and he had others hidden around the pec slave quarters). The fools of guards, not knowing of the technology, never thought to search for them.
As Yordan's hard dick spit out his hundredth load of sperm in as many hours, he gasped with an orgasmic smile on his face. It was time to act out his reduction to pec slave.
The colonial stud put on a hell of a show, and Mouth and his trainers fell for it. Released from their tit-torture, Yordan and his former minions, wearing nothing more than cock rings of a royal purple metal, were taken from the chamber and set to serving the Royal Crèche. Lazar and Saulius went to the bloods royal Jay and Jim, and sweet boyish Elroy went to Rom, the prince in waiting, who immediately bent the boy over his knee and began fingerfucking him. This left Yordan exclusively to serve Prince Roc's every need, no matter how intimate.
The former viscount's body rocked as Mouth jealously "tasted" his predecessor's ass. Yordan, in control of himself and of this scenario, let his face reflect the sexual turmoil engulfing his body.
"Fuck me, master taster!" he screamed. "Fuck my traitor ass!"
Behind him, Yordan could hear his men being "tasted" in turn by Mouth's bully boys.
"Agh! Ogh! Ugh! Fuck!"
At the next banquet, while listening to war policy discussed and debated freely, Yordan thought to himself that the Prince was still a fool. Eventually the time would be right, and Yordan would engineer an escape for himself and for his three men. Until then, however, he would play the pec slave to perfection and remain close enough to the seat of power to learn enough to bring down this prince and the tyranny of his State.