Characters: Samantha Traynor
Location: Artemis Tau Cluster, Athens System, en route to planet Proteus
The low, steady vibration of the old Alliance research vessel's engines hummed through the frame, lulling the exhausted junior science officer into a false sense of rest. But just as sleep was ready to wrap Samantha in its welcome embrace, something inside her snapped taut again, and she was yanked back to full awareness.
She hadn't been able to fall asleep for three hours now. The holographic clock on the bedside table displayed a merciless "04:00 Earth Standard Time," and the young Alliance researcher suddenly sat up in bed, frustration boiling over into a sharp slap against her blanket.
— Robert, damn you...
There were barely two hours left until wake-up call, and Samantha knew that wasn't nearly enough time to fall asleep again — not unless the anxiety gnawing at her would miraculously let up, which it wouldn't. She had no illusions about that.
And just saying Robert's name aloud was enough to stir the bitter sting of resentment all over again.
Robert Fincher was the lead specialist in the research group where Samantha worked — a talented geologist and, incidentally, her boyfriend. The other young women on the team, especially the jealous ones, had confidently predicted their relationship would crash and burn: a thirty-year-old veteran scientist dating his inexperienced twenty-four-year-old subordinate? It looked doomed from the start. But despite the odds, Samantha and Robert had been together for four months now.
It wasn't the kind of romance built on sweeping declarations or candlelit dinners under the stars — neither Fincher nor Traynor expected serenades or flower bouquets. No walks on the beach. No holonovels come to life. And they were fine with that.
They shared a small cabin in the ship's passenger deck. They shared research awards. And every evening, they could fall asleep wrapped in each other's arms, kissing beneath the dim glow of emergency lighting.
That was worth more than words.
Especially considering the fact that Robert was an excellent lover, even if Samantha didn't exactly have much basis for comparison. Before him, there had been only one guy — a classmate from university who'd taken her virginity and, in the same night, stolen her expensive tablet — a gift from her parents for her eighteenth birthday.
They caught the bastard the next day. Pathetic, really. He'd even tried to beg for her forgiveness. Samantha had turned him away without hesitation.
For the next few years, she hadn't been interested in men at all.
And at first, she hadn't even noticed Robert. She might've been the only girl in the Alliance research group who didn't immediately fall for the thirty-year-old golden boy. Tall, blond, fit, with piercing, intelligent blue eyes — Robert had charmed nearly every woman under thirty within minutes of giving his introductory speech to the incoming team. Which, in their case, included well over seventy percent of the Oxford graduates assigned to the Alliance research unit.
But Fincher seemed unshakable. He ignored the flirtation, no matter how blatant. Politely but firmly turned down every invitation to spend time outside the research center. It was their mutual love of research that eventually brought Robert and Samantha together — she, who rarely ever left the Alliance research base and at times even spent the night at her workstation.
It was Robert who, unexpectedly, made the first move — a decision that shocked nearly every woman who had once dreamed of winning his attention. During an unscheduled review of field reports, he had casually approached Samantha and, without the slightest awkwardness, asked whether she'd be willing to join him for dinner after work. At the time, Traynor was so buried under paperwork and administrative nonsense that she barely registered how that simple dinner — which ended up happening right there in the research department — slowly evolved into something more.
Day by day, Samantha and Robert began spending more and more time together — at first as coworkers, then gradually as friends. At one point, Traynor was assigned to a research team led by Fincher himself, and, as his personal assistant, she now had every reason to remain at his side constantly. Robert, for his part, became noticeably more cheerful when Samantha was around. And before long, something deeper sparked between them.
They never actually discussed what it was they felt when they were together. The only truly romantic gesture Fincher ever made was on her birthday: a small box he had made himself, tied with a golden ribbon. Inside was a silver heart-shaped locket. Magnetized to the inner face of the heart was a tiny ebony bead engraved with her name.
That same night, Samantha went to his bed.
She never truly understood what pushed her to do it. Was it really love? Or had Robert simply been the nearest man when nearly three years of sexual abstinence had become too much to bear?
She never spent much time on those questions — because Robert was amazing. It was as if he instinctively knew every one of her erogenous zones, and the moment she surrendered to him, Traynor felt herself consumed in a blaze of lust and decadent heat. She had never in her life wanted anything more than for that night never to end.
From then on, their relationship shifted to a new level. And when the analytics division was assigned a research vessel, Robert and Samantha claimed a shared cabin without hesitation.
Nothing much changed between them — except now Traynor looked forward to the evenings more than ever, longing to feel his hands on her body again.
But life rarely plays out like a novel.
Like many brilliant people, Robert had his weakness — his personal Achilles' heel — which dragged him from the heights of the scientific world down into the gutter of human vice. Roughly twice a month, Fincher would stay late in the lab under the pretense of some critical project… when in reality, he was drinking himself into a stupor. Samantha found out about it a few weeks after they officially became a couple — when she walked in on him completely drunk, passed out on the floor of his office. Back then, Traynor told herself there had to be a reason.
But a few weeks later, it happened again.
Fincher himself described his fondness for such drunken evenings as a "professional necessity," and although Samantha found it utterly distasteful, she chose to tolerate it rather than start an argument — for several reasons.
First and foremost, she understood that no human being could work nonstop without some form of rest. The body and mind needed breaks, and, well… if this was how her boyfriend relaxed, what was she supposed to do? After all, nothing truly dangerous ever happened. Robert would lock himself in his office — the key to which was held only by him and Samantha — and then surrender to alcoholic euphoria, downing more than three bottles of top-shelf liquor in the span of two or three hours. When the world blurred into an indistinct haze and his legs could no longer support him, he'd simply pass out — and so, no one ever found out.
The second reason Samantha endured Robert's disgusting habit came down to simple math — and the "more-versus-less" principle. Despite his flaw, Fincher loved her — madly. And during all the time he wasn't drinking, Samantha was floating on cloud nine. She could live with paying for that happiness with a few nights alone.
"You're an idiot, Traynor..." the girl muttered with a weary sigh. She threw off the covers and jumped to her feet, wincing as her bare soles touched the freezing steel floor. Starships just weren't her kind of place. She would've gladly traded this metal coffin for a warm, quiet lab — somewhere Earthside, ideally, with heated floors, high-end instruments, and, of course, Robert nearby. But that choice had never been hers to make.
As she passed the small wall mirror, Samantha stopped and gave herself a once-over, her dark brows drawing together with habitual dissatisfaction. Still, despite the sleepless night, she didn't look bad. That was no coincidence — she'd prepared herself for Robert.
She'd put on her best dress — surprised to even find it in her expedition wardrobe — tamed her unruly, ink-black hair into something resembling order, and applied a touch of subtle but expensive makeup. The woman staring back from the mirror looked bold, maybe even a little cocky — a striking, dark-skinned girl with a teasing little curl to her upper lip (Robert always called it dangerously sexy) and long lashes she had battled for ages to fix with a fussy auto-cosmetic wand.
The dress — she still couldn't remember where the hell it had come from — hugged her slim body in just the right places, drawing out what little curves she had and turning them into something undeniably sexy. Her breasts were covered by only the thinnest layer of black fabric, which — thanks to some hidden miracle of engineering — lifted them almost a full size. A generous push-up, no doubt. And the fabric over her hips was pulled so tight she hadn't dared lie down in bed earlier, worried it might split open in the worst possible place.
All in all, Samantha had done everything she could to be the most beautiful girl on the ship that night.
And Robert hadn't shown up. Traynor already had an idea why. But why tonight? Not yesterday. Not tomorrow. Why tonight?
Tonight was special — goddammit. It was their last night aboard this ship. By morning, the dreadnought would settle into orbit over Proteus. The entire analytics team would board a shuttle and transfer to Ithaca — a small and only settlement on the surface. Once there, they'd be reassigned according to their specialties, and for all she knew, she might end up seeing Robert only on weekends... if at all.
A sharp hiss of the door opening pulled her out of her spiral. Samantha turned quickly — but instead of Robert stepping into the doorway, three people walked in.
Robert was the first through the door — though he looked like absolute hell. His uniform was wrinkled, the top buttons undone, blond hair a tousled mess, and both his nose and cheeks were red with alcohol. Fincher was dead drunk. He couldn't even walk on his own. Two of his colleagues, both of whom Samantha recognized from her time in the analytics division, were helping to hold him upright.
On his right was Samuel Norton — a huge Black man who, for reasons Samantha could never quite put into words, reminded her of a gorilla. Maybe it was the massive hands, or the tall, broad forehead framed by thick black brows and squinting eyes, making his face look more like a bouncer from a seedy nightclub than the assistant director of research. But Samuel was a scientist — nearly as talented as Robert himself.
The second man was Quentin Tropp, and unlike Samuel, he wasn't part of the analytical team at all. An absolutely bald mountain of a man, early six and a half feet tall, Tropp worked in logistics and procurement, reporting directly to the Alliance and acting as a liaison between Fincher's research group and the military division overseeing them. Unlike Samuel, Samantha didn't much care for Quentin — mostly because in her time aboard the ship, this bald fool had already tried to hit on her at least three times. His persistence had dropped off sharply once she and Robert had started living together, but even so, there were plenty of younger interns onboard who were prettier than Samantha and, without a doubt, far more available.
— Where do we drop him? — Quentin asked gruffly, skipping any sort of greeting as he adjusted his grip under Robert's right arm, while Samuel supported him from the left. Fincher muttered something incoherent — a stream of drunken nonsense that made little sense to anyone.
— O-over there... — Samantha stammered, clearly caught off guard.
It took her a few seconds to regain control of herself, but her next words came out stronger, firmer:
— On the bed. Put him on the bed.
Without a word, only grunting with effort, the men dragged Robert's unconscious body across the room and dropped him onto the mattress. Robert, the moment his head touched the pillow, seemed to fall asleep at once: his eyes closed, his breathing leveled out, and a blissful expression froze on his face.
"Whew, heavy bastard..." Quentin exhaled, theatrically brushing invisible beads of sweat from his bald head. "Dragged him almost six hundred feet. Good thing it's this late and only the night shift's awake — otherwise someone would've spotted him for sure. And that would've been the end of his career, wouldn't it?"
At first Samantha didn't even realize the question was meant for her. She was still in shock, unsure how to react. Robert had gotten drunk again... and this time there had been witnesses. That was a disaster on several levels: violation of Alliance protocol, loss of authority among colleagues, and worst of all, the risk of suspension from research altogether if anyone found out he'd been working with geological equipment in that condition. Samantha wasn't naïve — she knew exactly how serious this could be. But Quentin's words irritated her all the same. Why ask questions when you already knew the answers? She chose not to reply.
Before turning away, Quentin let his eyes linger on her for several seconds more, and at least twice his gaze dropped from her face down to her body, still wrapped in the thin, tight fabric of her dress. Goddammit, Samantha thought, blushing as she crossed her arms over her chest, though of course it did nothing to block his stare. What it did give her, however, was a few precious seconds to regain her composure and steer the conversation back under her control.
"All right... thanks, you two," she said, while Quentin continued to look her over. Unlike his colleague, Samuel was the picture of propriety — he had already stepped back to the door, waiting there patiently.
Are they even friends? I've never seen them together... How did they even find Robert? the thought flickered across her mind.
"Thanks..." Quentin echoed her words with a smirk, then made a clicking sound with his lips — one of his most disgusting little habits. "Pretty small reward, don't you think? We just saved his career."
"Hey, Quentin," Samuel spoke up at last. "Let's go."
"What, just like that?" Quentin feigned surprise. "And here I thought we'd get something in return — for hauling her boyfriend halfway across the ship in the middle of the night."
"Quentin," Norton repeated. But there was no anger in his tone, and that worried Samantha even more. What kind of game was this? Yes, she was grateful for their help, but what else did they want?
"Listen," she said quickly. "When Robert wakes up, I'll talk to him, all right? I'll tell him who carried him back. I'm sure he'll find a way to thank you properly. As for me — I can only say thank you. Really. Thank you very much."
"Oh, come on!" Quentin exclaimed. He stepped closer, and she instinctively backed away until her spine pressed against the cabin wall. "You've got something a lot better you can thank us with."
"What are you talking about?"
Samantha's fear spiked immediately. Her breathing quickened, her heartbeat thundered in her chest. She hated Quentin's insinuations, and even worse, she couldn't understand why Norton wasn't intervening. He was larger than his colleague, and even if he had no authority over him, he could have at least said something. What was this? Some kind of twisted performance with three players — and she was stuck in the role she least wanted.
"I don't have any money... I'm just an intern..."
"Pft." Quentin spat on the floor, and Samantha, as if in slow motion, followed the viscous trail until it hit the metal plating beneath their feet. "We don't need your money. Standing there in that cute little black dress, thinking you can buy us off? Let me tell you something, sweetheart..."
She took another step back. But there was nowhere left to retreat.
And then his hand reached for her…
She reacted instantly, shoving his arm away and trying to slip free with a sidestep, but Quentin caught her and slammed her against the wall. The stench of alcohol on his breath filled her nose.
"Get away!" she cried, struggling weakly but to no effect. "Quentin, you're drunk, let me go. Samuel!"
She turned toward the Black man by the door, but he was still standing there, pretending what was happening was completely normal.
A rough hand closed around Traynor's throat, and she squealed in fright, this time truly terrified.
"Here's how this is gonna go," Quentin hissed the words directly into her ear, his lips brushing against her skin. "You're going to thank me and Samuel properly for saving your boyfriend's career. And in return, we won't tell anyone that your precious Robert is a drunk who gets wasted on the job."
The world froze.
Samantha forgot how to breathe; her nerves pulled taut like wires, her heart stopped for a beat. She knew where this was going, but hearing Quentin's intentions spoken aloud still hit like a shockwave.
An entire storm of emotions seized her at once: anger, disgust, fear, hatred, confusion. Her cheeks flushed, her breathing turned ragged, her pupils widened in panic. She didn't even notice Quentin's other hand at first, sliding around her waist and then slowly, deliberately moving downward.
He still gripped her throat, but not tightly — she could break free if she tried. The real weight pressing down on her now was the awful dilemma: how far was she willing to go for the man she loved? Robert's work meant everything to him, and if he lost it... Samantha couldn't imagine what that would do to him.
Meanwhile, Quentin's hand continued its uninvited exploration. It slid down across her hips, pausing for only an instant before closing over her left buttock, the thin fabric of her expensive dress stretched tight beneath his palm.
"That's it... don't fight. Just relax. You might even enjoy it..."
Samantha found that hard to believe. And yet she didn't resist. Not out of fear, as Quentin or his silent partner by the door might have thought, but because she had always lived her life as a rational woman — and even now, having managed to suppress the first wave of terror, she was weighing the pros and cons of what was happening.
Quentin and Samuel were scum — it didn't take a genius to see that. But the worst part was that it now depended entirely on them whether Robert's drunken state would be reported to command. On them, and on her.
Her plan was simple: let them have what they wanted — within limits. If she could stretch their leverage until tomorrow, then once Robert sobered up, she would tell him everything. And he, surely, would find a way to erase these bastards from the galaxy.
Clinging to that thought like a lifeline, she closed her eyes, neither responding to Quentin's touch nor pulling away. To him, though, it was all the encouragement he needed. His second hand slid from her throat down to her rounded ass.
"That's better..." Quentin sneered, his breath reeking of cheap alcohol as it washed over her. "You know, Sam, I've had my eye on you for a long time. You look so modest... but in bed, I bet you're a filthy little slut. And that mouth of yours. I've been dying to fuck those sweet lips..."
His filthy words nearly made Samantha retch, but she managed to keep her face expressionless. Quentin, however, only grew more aroused by his own monologue. His movements became rougher, harsher, and her lack of resistance drove him into an even greater frenzy. He squeezed both handfuls of her ass, then slid his hands lower, catching the hem of her dress and tugging it upward. There was hardly anything left to lift — the dress barely covered her at all.
All for Robert, she thought, opening her eyes for an instant to glance over Quentin's shoulder at the motionless figure of her lover sprawled on the bed.
Yes, darling... for you, Traynor told herself, and felt a flare of anger.
By then, the thin fabric no longer shielded her ass from his hands. Quentin kneaded her firm buttocks with abandon, clearly savoring the feel of her body. Samantha grimaced at the roughness of his grip but kept silent, forcing herself to focus on the thought that only the thinnest layer of lace panties still separated her most intimate places from his hands.
Just try it, bastard... she thought. She had already drawn a line in her mind, a boundary she would not let them cross, and she had no doubt she would be quick enough to drive her knee into his balls if he dared go further. What might happen after that, though — she forced herself not to think.
But Quentin had no desire to reach the girl's treasure so quickly. Instead, his right hand crawled upward, following the curves of her body. When his palm touched her breast, Samantha winced — the dress didn't allow for a bra, and the sensation of a man's touch was all too vivid. Yet the man didn't stop at her chest. His hand slid up along the girl's neck and then paused, stopping just short of her mouth. Running a finger along the beauty's lower lip, Quentin tried to shove it into her mouth, but the very thought of licking the bastard's dirty fingers was so revolting that she simply turned her head away.
The next instant her cheek flared with fire — the slap was brazen and very strong. The girl let out a short cry, and immediately three long male fingers forced their way into her mouth. So deep that for a moment they reached her throat, triggering an uncontrollable gag reflex. Luckily, Samantha hadn't eaten anything, and it ended with nothing more than a choking sound and a long string of saliva that Quentin pulled from her mouth. Before the girl could say anything, that saliva was smeared right across her beautiful face.
Tears of insult and pain in her throat welled up on the long lashes of the beauty, and, unable to endure the humiliation any longer, Samantha shoved Quentin away with all her strength and rushed toward the exit, adjusting her dress.
And she crashed into the broad chest of Samuel, who was standing in the doorway.
"Not so fast, Sam," the big man grunted, shaking his huge head.
"No… Please, Samuel! Robert respected you…"
"I respected him too. But I respect your ass even more."
The girl only now realized how utterly hopeless it all was. Screaming was pointless—the thick steel bulkheads barely let any sound through, and the door was sealed tight. Her only hope of salvation rested on the mercy of two scumbags.
"Relax," Samuel said in a heavy, eerily calm voice. He loomed over the dark-haired beauty—like an undeniable fact of her inescapable predicament. His massive hand landed on her shoulder, spinning Samantha to face away from the Black man before pressing down hard, forcing her to her knees, her face inches from Quentin, who was rising from the floor.
"Listen to some friendly advice," Quentin sneered. "A pouty-lipped bitch like you has to be good at sucking. Let's find out." He unzipped his pants on the move—no underwear beneath—and pulled out his half-erect cock for all to see. Stepping right up to the girl, he shook his organ right in front of her lips.
"Please…" Samantha's face, still streaked with a long trail of her own saliva, was now wet with genuine tears. Raising her eyes to her tormentor, Traynor whispered, feeling how pitiful she must look, "Let me go… please."
Instead of an answer, the purplish head of his cock pressed against her mouth. Samantha made one last attempt to resist, clamping her lips shut, but the moment Quentin raised his hand as if to strike, the beautiful lips of the young analytics officer parted in fear, letting the bastard's shaft slide inside.
Samantha loved giving blowjobs—she adored watching Robert moan, struggling to hold back his mounting arousal. But that was Robert. This was a near-stranger, a filthy creep. She felt no pleasure as Quentin's cock worked its way around her mouth, even as it noticeably hardened between her lips. For now, the man did all the work—dragging the head of his dick across the wet space of her mouth, stretching her cheek with it, occasionally pulling out only to shove it back in. After a couple of minutes of this one-sided act, Quentin pulled his cock from her mouth again and stepped back, as if showing off to the beauty what had just been inside her. Samantha, whose eyes had been closed the entire time, didn't immediately register the pause. When she opened them, she saw…
Quentin's cock was far bigger than Robert's. For some reason, that was the first thought that crossed her mind as she stared at the bastard's organ, gripped in his hand. Compared to Robert's, which was about seven inches and by no means small, Quentin's was noticeably longer and at least one and a half times thicker. Thick veins ran along its length, making it look even more imposing.
"What, like what you see?" the creep asked smugly, catching Traynor's glance.
"Go to hell," she snapped, turning her head away—but not for long. In the next instant, Samuel, standing behind her, forced her face back toward Quentin's cock. When Samantha tried to pull away from her assailant, the Black giant wrenched her arms behind her, completely cutting off any chance of resistance.
"Well, bitch, you've been playing hard-to-get long enough," Quentin said. "Time to show us just how much those pretty lips of yours love a big cock."
Quentin's cock shoved its way back into her mouth, rougher this time, no pretense of finesse. The swollen head rammed straight toward the back of Samantha's throat, making her gasp through her nose, fighting the urge to gag. His dick seemed right at home in the tight confines of her throat, sinking deeper with every second. Traynor choked, her dark hair jerking back as she tried to pull away, but Samuel's iron grip yanked her head right back into place. For a brief moment, Quentin's cock slipped out of her slick, abused mouth, giving the beauty a fleeting second to catch her breath—only for him to slam it back in with one brutal thrust, nearly burying the whole damn thing down her throat.
Samantha gagged hard, a retching sound escaping her as her eyes reddened, cheeks puffing out, her body trembling under the crushing pain. Quentin muttered something filthy, his words dripping with sleaze, and punctuated it with a sharp slap across her face. But she barely registered it, too consumed by the bastard's cock choking her from within. It felt like an eternity before he finally pulled out of her throat's tight embrace. Gulping air desperately, she shook her head, still pinned by Samuel's strong hands, and managed to rasp out:
"Enough…"
Her plea didn't mean shit to these creeps—about as much as ocean depths matter to a hanar. Quentin's cock was back in her mouth in no time, forcing its way as deep as it could go, though this time he took it slow, savoring every inch. All Samantha could do was squeeze her eyes shut, focus on breathing, and surrender to the relentless violation of her tender mouth.
Robert had never acted like that with her. He was gentle — sometimes too gentle — and even the notion of a "deep throat" had been something Samantha introduced into their sex life herself. Her previous boyfriend had fancied himself some kind of romantic porn hero, shoving his cock down her throat with smug self-importance. But the fantasy collapsed in under two minutes, when he'd inevitably erupt in her mouth or across her face, long before she had time to truly sink into the submissive bliss of being dominated. And truth be told, Robert was no different in that regard. Sex with him was passionate and attentive, yes, but it lacked a certain primal edge that Samantha craved. He never pulled her hair, never spanked her, never called her a bitch or his dirty little slut — and God, sometimes she wanted that so badly it made her teeth clench.
Of course, she never said it out loud. She wasn't insane. She told herself those fantasies were just mental garbage, some kinky residue of porn addiction or stress. Besides, their sex was great. No, incredible. Robert could make her come three times in a row with just his fingers. He knew her body like the back of his hand, and once he got going, it was always a minimum three-hour affair. His hands, his fingers — oh!
So yes, it was insane to be thinking of Robert now, right now, with a monster like Quentin throat-fucking her like a savage. But Samantha couldn't help it. It made it easier to survive. At one point, she even tried to imagine that the cock pumping into her mouth belonged to her lover, not this bald-headed bastard with fists like anvils. That illusion came easier than expected. Quentin's dick was bigger, yes — by quite a lot — but with her eyes shut tight, her imagination could override even the most grotesque details, painting over the brute's body with the lean, warm lines of Robert's.
"Just pretend it's Robert," she whispered inwardly. "You always wanted him to be rougher. Just pretend..."
Quentin's cock kept hammering at her throat, stretching her open, testing the very limits of her endurance. And then, mid-thrust, he suddenly stopped. He lingered there, letting his cock sit buried as deep as it could go, savoring the wet, twitching heat of her throat. And Samantha — in a move even she didn't fully understand — lunged forward, burying his shaft even deeper, her upturned nose cramming into the sweaty jungle of Quentin's groin. The fucker groaned in approval, mistaking it for enthusiasm.
Grabbing her hair with one hand, Quentin resumed pounding her mouth with manic intensity. Her head was no longer hers — it was a fuck-toy, jerked back and forth like something disposable. The room filled with the sounds of wet choking and male groans, the air thick with spit and pre-cum. Samantha had stopped resisting — or at least, her body had. If Quentin paused for even a second, she'd push forward herself, lips stretching wide to take him deeper, swallowing whatever part of her dignity was still left.
"That bitch loves sucking cock!" Quentin howled in delight, turning toward Samuel.
"Then maybe it's time you moved," came the reply. "Give me a turn."
"Hell no," Quentin growled, his laugh grating in her ears. "You always liked her ass more than her mouth anyway."
The sound of their vile banter snapped Samantha out of her fantasy. With a lewd pop, Quentin's cock slid out of her mouth, leaving behind a mess of smeared lipstick, drool dribbling down her chin, and tears she could no longer attribute to fear alone. She couldn't even speak — her breath came in ragged gasps, lungs desperate for air after having been sealed off by thick flesh for so long. Her chest heaved, drawing attention she didn't want. Samuel's hands shifted from restraining her wrists to resting on her shoulders, and for a brief, insane moment, she thought maybe — maybe — the man was going to comfort her.
But no. His black hands moved lower, tugging her dress down and exposing her breasts — small, sensitive, and now totally defenseless.
"Hmph, could've been bigger," Quentin sneered. "You should've borrowed money from Rob for implants."
Before she could shoot back a reply, his cock forced itself into her mouth again, this time without the pretense of gentleness. He rammed straight into her throat, groaning as her slick heat surrounded him. His hand yanked her hair into a tight fist, pulling cruelly — she could feel strands ripping free — and resumed pounding her mouth with obscene force, the rhythm steady and unforgiving.
No more words left Samantha's throat — just guttural, gagging sounds, as her windpipe was used and abused with mechanical cruelty.
Samuel, meanwhile, was curiously silent. He watched as Samantha, now free to move her arms, didn't fight. She simply placed her trembling hands on her lap like a student waiting for reprimand. That passivity stirred something in the massive man. Unlike Quentin, he didn't seem to mind the small size of the brunette's tits. His massive hands cupped them slowly, playing with them, fingers brushing across her nipples. And when he noticed they were stiff — clearly reacting to his touch — the big man grunted in satisfaction. He gave the left one a squeeze, watching closely to see how she'd respond.
To Samuel's surprise, the girl didn't pull his hand away. And alongside the wet, gurgling sounds from her throat — still resisting the brutal invasion — a faint, shame-tinged moan suddenly slipped out from between her lips.
"Oh, what a little slut," Quentin chuckled, clearly delighted. He hadn't expected that, not in the slightest — and the idea that this gorgeous little thing on her knees was starting to enjoy it gave the bastard a twisted surge of pride. Abruptly, he yanked his cock out of Samantha's throat, the sudden exit making her gasp and cough, and grabbed her chin in one rough motion, forcing her face upward to look at him.
But her eyes were still shut.
The girl, realizing there was no way to escape her attackers, tried to surrender completely to her fantasies — and in her mind, she was sucking not the cock of a brutish tormentor, but that of her beloved. She imagined that Quentin's roughness was actually Robert's roughness. That was exactly why she became aroused, even feeling a pleasant tingling deep in her lower belly. Samantha even felt a flicker of disappointment that her dress was so tight — any attempt to lift the hem in her current position would just tear the fabric at the seams.
And right now, more than anything, she wanted to touch her little pussy...
"Open your eyes!" — the sharp, stinging slap across her cheek made the beauty cry out and instinctively open her eyelids. She met Quentin's gaze — and it was like crashing back down from heaven to earth, where everything happening was far less erotic than in her fantasies. The girl opened her mouth, finally ready to call her tormentor some deeply insulting word — but the moment her lips parted, the bastard leaned in and spat directly into her mouth.
His spit — thick, disgustingly heavy — landed straight in her throat, and she choked on rage, on humiliation, on helplessness.
"If you close your eyes again, slut, I won't just fuck your mouth — I'll rip open your ass too, got it, whore?"
The girl nodded quickly, terrified out of her mind. She stared up at the man obediently, afraid to look away, while the bastard above her practically basked in the rush of power. His cock loomed over the brunette's ruined face, and a thick strand of precum mixed with her spit dangled from the tip, falling slowly onto her hair — still clenched tight in his fist.
Samantha looked utterly pitiful.
Her once-flawless evening makeup had turned into a smeared mess, and the mixture of drool and tears had turned her pretty face into a dripping wreck. And yet, the sight only turned Quentin on even more. With a groan of satisfaction, he shoved his cock back down her throat, reveling in how tightly her neck squeezed around his massive shaft.
"Hey, Quentin," Samuel spoke up. "How much longer?"
"Fuck off!" the man barked, flushed with arousal. "If you're tired of waiting, pick one of her other two holes!"
Samantha let out a muffled protest, trying to pull away and even lashing out at Kventin's leg, but Samuel grabbed her arms and twisted them behind her again. He held them easily with one hand, while the other resumed toying with the girl's nipples — which, the moment she was forced to confront the awful reality of what was happening, no longer stood firm with arousal. Their victim clearly wasn't enjoying the torment being inflicted on her.
Samuel, in truth, wasn't as much of a bastard as Kventin, and hadn't originally planned on doing anything terrible — but now he knew it was too late to back out. The two of them had crossed a line they couldn't return from, and so the dark-skinned giant decided not to fall behind his more aggressive partner and to take what he could for himself.
The girl felt herself being yanked to her feet. All the while, Kventin kept fucking her throat, which had begun to grow numb from the repeated, merciless intrusion of his cock, and now Samantha's back arched involuntarily. To keep her balance, she grabbed at the bastard's thighs in front of her — and then she felt huge hands groping her ass without restraint.
"Nice ass, huh?" Kventin's voice rang out, amused. From his angle, he had a perfect view of Samuel enjoying himself — running his palms over her hips and squeezing the tight dress that hugged her figure like a second skin. Unlike his partner, the dark-skinned brute wasn't much for talking. Instead of replying, he landed a heavy smack across the girl's left buttock, making Samantha yelp around the cock in her mouth, the sound muffled and followed by a coughing gag as her throat filled with a fresh flood of spit and pre-cum.
Samuel tried to lift her dress to bare her ass completely, but the thing was so tight that he only managed to raise the fabric by a couple of inches.
"Just rip it," Kventin suggested cheerfully, not even slowing his thrusts. Samantha growled in protest, again struggling to break free, even trying to kick at the dark-skinned man holding her — but she couldn't get the angle right, and nearly lost her balance.
"Quit squirming, bitch!" Kventin snarled. He had zero regard for the object of his sexual attention, yanking her hair so hard he pulled loose strands into his hand, forcing his cock to stretch her cheeks from the inside until she began to groan with pain and wriggle harder.
Every time Samantha thought she was getting used to the brute's rough treatment, he found a new way to hurt her — either physically, with his choking grip, hair-pulling, or the relentless stretching of her already bruised lips; or emotionally, by spitting his filth into her mouth, rubbing his hairy balls or massive shaft across her face, or simply calling her the vilest, most degrading names.
More than once, Kventin spat into her mouth just to follow it up with a hard slap, like stamping his dominance with every filthy act.
The torment went on for five more minutes — during which Samuel still didn't fully strip her or breach her pussy, but he touched her everywhere, groping her body with massive hands, slapping her now and then, sometimes squeezing her thighs so hard Samantha could already feel the bruises forming under his grip. And yet, some part of her was still grateful — at least he hadn't torn her only remaining piece of clothing.
Of course, the dress no longer covered her chest. Her bare breasts were exposed, and both men took turns pawing at them — Kventin twisting her nipples cruelly, clearly trying to inflict more pain, while Samuel handled her a bit more gently. But not enough for Samantha to pretend he was Robert — not anymore.
"Shit, slut, you feel amazing… almost there…" Kventin panted, and Samantha's abused throat, numb and raw from his relentless assault, felt his cock start to throb.
For a brief second, she thought — maybe — maybe he would finally pull out before finishing. She was even surprised at herself for having such a naive thought.
Of course not. The bastard had no intention of pulling out. And the moment she realized it, the first hot pulse of cum shot straight into her throat. Then another. And Samantha felt the vile fluid sliding down her esophagus into her stomach.
She was surprised how long she managed to endure the first few spurts — only at the very end, when the brute shoved his cock even deeper into her throat to ride the height of his orgasm, did she gag violently. A thick mess of pre-cum, semen, spit, and tears spilled from her lips and nose.
And right then — as if to punctuate it all — she felt the delicate chain of the locket Robert had given her snap from around her neck. The necklace hit the metal floor with a faint ping and rolled somewhere out of sight.
Finally, Kventin withdrew from her mouth, and Samantha, still trembling from the spasms of her abused body, nearly vomited onto the floor. Miraculously, she managed to hold it in, forcing herself to settle for a thick, stringy wad of spit that clung to her bruised lips like a ribbon of shame.
Kventin, spent, plopped down on the bed — right beside Robert, who was still snoring like nothing had happened. Glancing at the unconscious man, the rapist let out a cruel laugh and gave him a playful slap on the cheek.
"Thanks for the whore, Professor Fincher," he said mockingly. Then, catching the hateful glare Samantha gave him, he winked like it was all some big joke.
But the girl no longer had the strength to reply. Her breath came in ragged gasps, her face a smeared ruin of makeup and spit. Her once-neat hair was a tangled mess, and her breasts were raw and red from the way they'd been handled. The dress — still technically on her body — now looked absurd. And Samuel, silent all this time, finally took action. With one quick motion, he grabbed the lower hem and tore the fabric upward, shredding it completely.
With the sound of ripping cloth came something deeper — something inside Samantha tearing apart.
And she began to cry, collapsing naked onto the metal floor, knowing there was no one left to save her.
She barely registered the moment they flipped her onto her stomach and lifted her ass into the air. Only when her tiny panties were torn away and she felt the massive head of a cock pressing against the smooth, freshly-shaven lips of her pussy did Samantha attempt one last, feeble struggle. But it was useless — Samuel was even larger than Kventin, and if she hadn't been able to escape the first brute's grasp, she had no hope against this one.
And so she just cried, pressing her face into her own palms.
Samuel began to push into her — and it wasn't easy. His cock was huge, and the pussy he was trying to fuck was completely dry. After smearing a bit of his own spit over her entrance, the dark-skinned giant managed to force his way inside, and a deep grunt rumbled from his chest as he began thrusting into the unresisting, hollow-eyed woman beneath him.
Several agonizing minutes passed, broken only by his heavy moans, the sound of his hips slapping against her bare ass, and Kventin's voice — still seated on the bed — egging him on, tossing out obscenities and mocking the girl with words no scientist should ever utter.
Samantha tried to retreat into her mind — to escape the pain in her sex, to block out the filth pouring from her attackers' mouths — and somehow, she nearly managed it. She imagined herself lying in a sunlit meadow beside Robert, spring air warm around them, birdsong in the distance…
"I'm gonna cum, Sam!" Samuel suddenly yelled, yanking her straight back into the nightmare.
Not in me… she thought. But it didn't matter. She couldn't do anything — not stop him, not beg, not move. So when she felt him pull out of her stretched pussy and the hot splash of his cum hit her back, she was shocked. A moment later, he was zipping up his pants, his rapidly-softening cock disappearing inside.
"Sorry, Sam," he muttered.
She flinched at the sound of her name spoken by such a man. Her tears had dried; there were none left. She just stared blankly ahead, wishing only that it would be over. That they'd leave. That she'd vanish.
But Kventin, apparently, wasn't done humiliating her. His cock, which had gone soft after the violent oral, had begun to stir again. Samantha silently begged every god — human, asari, hanar — that the cycle of abuse wouldn't repeat.
Then Robert, still asleep on the bed all this time, stirred and opened his eyes.
"S-Sam…?" he slurred, seeing his naked lover lying on the floor, ass still raised.
Barely coherent, Robert sat up on one elbow and scanned the room. His bleary eyes landed on his colleagues.
"Kventin… Samuel…"
Trying to stand, Robert winced, clutched his pounding head, and squeezed his eyes shut. But eventually, he managed to speak:
"What's going on?"
"Oh, hey there, Robert!" Kventin said with a cheerful smile so fake it made Samantha want to vomit. She glared at him, fury barely contained. Just wait — once Robert sees this, he'll destroy you. He'll drag your career through the dirt. Yours, and that of your disgusting friend.
Samuel stood quietly by the door, arms crossed over his massive chest.
"It's like this, buddy," Kventin said. "Drinking's never done anyone much good. You follow?"
Robert was still drunk, but something about the situation was starting to penetrate the haze. His eyes, wide with fear, darted around the room in a panic, searching for answers — for a way out. But there were none in Samantha's hollow gaze. None in Samuel's silent posture. And certainly none in Kventin's smug grin as he continued, locking eyes with Robert to make sure he understood every word:
"You know what happens to your career if Command finds out you violated military research protocols. Conducting field experiments while drunk — do you have any idea how the Alliance handles that? We've got a video, Fincher. You, in your office, wasted. So in order to make sure that little video of you doesn't end up all over the Alliance military info-channels…"
He tilted his head toward Samantha, his grin widening.
"…she generously offered… herself."
"What… what?!" Samantha's voice trembled with rage and disbelief. She struggled up onto her knees, her throat burning, each word painful after the abuse it had endured:
"That's a lie! They raped me, Robert!"
"That's not true," Samuel said suddenly.
"Don't lie to your boyfriend, sweetheart," Kventin sneered, finally tucking his cock back into his pants. "You should be proud of your loyalty. Honestly, Robert, your girl's devotion deserves a medal. She was willing to do anything — anything — to save your career."
Robert turned his bleary eyes from Kventin to Samantha, who stared at him in pure disbelief. Then he asked, slowly, voice thick with confusion:
"Sam… is it true? Did you really offer yourself to them… for me?"
The air left her lungs in a single, crushing burst — like she'd been punched in the stomach.
She couldn't believe what she'd just heard. How could the man she loved even ask that? Even for a second consider the possibility?
"Sam?" he said again.
But she couldn't answer. Her voice was gone. Her body trembled in a silent, rising wave of emotion too vast for words.
"Looks like she's got nothing to say, my friend," Kventin said as he stood up, nodding to Samuel, who opened the door and stepped into the corridor. Kventin followed, pausing only to look back at Samantha with one final grin.
"By the way… amazing mouth," he said — and then he was gone.
Silence fell. Robert stared at the naked girl still kneeling on the floor. She stared back — unable to fathom that he might actually believe the lies of the men who had raped her. Her breathing was ragged. Her hands trembled at her sides. But this time, the fury wasn't for Kventin. It wasn't for Samuel.
"Sam, I really don't understand…"
"How dare you, Robert!" she screamed, and the sound hit him like a physical blow. He flinched, startled, as if she might launch herself at him.
But Samantha didn't move from the floor. She stayed there — naked, humiliated, and betrayed.
"You really fucked them?" Robert asked seriously. And despite being clearly drunk, in that moment he knew exactly what he was saying.
"Yes," Samantha replied suddenly, her whole body trembling with emotion. At first, she thought it was anger — but now she realized what she felt wasn't rage or irritation.
It was betrayal.
With just a single question, Robert had managed to hurt her more deeply than the two bastards who had raped her.
"How could you?" he muttered, lost, pathetic. "I thought you loved me…"
Samantha shot to her feet, the scream ripping from her throat with a force she didn't even know she had:
"Fuck you, Robert! You miserable, worthless piece of shit! How dare you accuse me of what just happened?! I was raped — treated like some Omega whore — because you can't control your goddamn drinking! What kind of man are you, if you believe the pricks who raped your girlfriend instead of her?! You filthy animal! You're not even human! You're worse than those bastards who shoved their cocks in me! You ungrateful sack of shit — like hell I'll ever so much as look at you again! You… all of you… very last one of you men — so enslaved by your own impulses, so helpless in the face of your urges, that you forget what it even means to be human!
Her voice cracked, but she didn't stop. She stared him down, breathing hard, trembling with the force of everything breaking inside her.
"Well?! Say something! Am I wrong?!"
Silence was her answer.
And then the girl — shattered not just by the man she loved, but by everything he stood for — reached for the lab coat hanging by the door and fled the cabin, feeling hot, ordinary tears spill from her eyes.
Tears not of pain, not of shame, but of a profoundly human heartbreak.