Shuumi’s flesh rippled as she squeezed herself into her environment suit. Muscles bulged as she inserted herself past lined layers; the undersuit and then the environmental protection. Every second of the experience was comforting.
The sensations of thick neoprene and smart materials were not new to Shuumi; in her many years of spacefaring, her golinoid body had acclimated itself to being frequently endowed with equipment of all sorts – primarily of the functional and industrial sort. She had found it necessary to maintain more than just a figure, but genuine muscle mass.
She smiled – just once – as she ran her fingers up and down her equipment. It was designed to distribute force and form a hookup for dangerous environments… but she would never resist the chance to stare at herself in the mirror.
There was a twinge of narcissism as Shuumi ogled herself. Muscled build, thin waist, green skin, lovingly filed tusks… her body’s goblinoid canine teeth extended a few inches out of her lower mandible, and they moved with her mouth as she grinned.
There was the requisite running of hands over the her outfit; obsidian-solid, completely form-fitting, and erotic in its own way. She would have taken her sweet time, but the Pishacha awaited. She tapped a few keys on the dressing room’s control panel, and she donned the last of her gear; a second layer, hardpoint pads on knees and elbows, and a bulky helmet.
The Pishacha was designated as a wreck. As a spacecraft salvager, Shuumi was always searching for the next big haul. As her small salvage vessel mated with the Pishacha’s docking port, she spent one more moment going over the ship’s specifications.
Nearly a decade old, run primarily with drones, no record of a crew, disabled three years ago. Designed to transport hazardous materials, the Pishacha seemed like a run-of-the-mill drone transport ship – probably bringing some waste back to Mars for recycling. The only thing that bothered her was its location – it had been drifting throughout the Belt for three years now, but it was much farther off-course than it should have been. Regardless, the job wouldn’t be terrible; attach some thrusters to the exterior, grab any valuables – the fusion core especially – and let it fly. A few months later, it would gently drift into orbit around Mars, and Shuumi would receive the rest of her payment.
The airlocks cycled with a loud hiss, and Shuumi made her first steps into the derelict. There was obviously some sort of leak in the freighter. The whole ship had never been designed for habitation; walkways were cramped and lighting was minimal. But thick pools of black ichor drifted through certain portions of the hallways.
Shuumi flexed her legs and launched herself through a maintenance strut. Powerful legs rippled, and she could feel the suit tight against her curves, stretching and contracting as she moved. Crouch, release, float… and repeat. Crouch, release, float… grab a handhold, repeat. The greenskin reached a maintenance terminal and flicked a switch.
“Pishacha, respond.” She vocalized her command to the computer.
Dim lights flickered. “Hello, UNRECOGNIZED USER. How may I help you?
“Pishacha computer, identify that ooze floating in ship.”
A loud clicking sound made Shuumi jump. Pipes were reacting to the heat.
“I am sorry, UNRECOGNIZED USER. The black liquid is an organic substance not registered in the manifest for this vessel.”
“Status report, Pishacha.”
“Environment composition: 78 percent nitrogen, 20 percent oxygen, 2 percent other gases. All of this should be breathable to UNIDENTIFIED USER, UNIDENTIFIED SPECIES.”
Shuumi took a few steps back. She’d seen enough info flicks to recognize the potential danger. Organic substances probably meant hazardous waste…. And breathable atmosphere usually meant habitation. Squatters at best, pirates at worst.
“Pishacha computer, please display route to engineering.”
That said, leaving without any salvage to speak of would be worst of all.
The engineering bay consisted of a single gigantic cylinder that stretched nearly a hundred feet toward the engines. A long catwalk – designed primarily with zero-g navigation in mind – contained handholds, but not much else.
Hence, Shuumi’s terror when she began falling.
A few moments into the float, she realized the sudden pull on her chest. It was a weight, physical and tangible. Within a moment more she was falling.
She managed to land on her feet; falling from the middle of the room to the catwalk. All was well for a half-second as she planted herself on the metal grating, but her graceful arrival was quickly ruined by a clumsy slip.
The entire catwalk seemed to be covered in the ichor. Railings were barely a foot high, designed more like ladders for visitors in zero-g than any safety measure.
Within a moment, she had slipped; the gravity wasn’t yet completely restored, so she arced through the air. Tingles ran down her spine as she floated, completely unable to find purchase on the walls or roof. As she fell, she just barely managed to dig her heavily gloved hands onto the ledge.
The ichor spoke. Shuumi’s jaw dropped.
Before her helmeted eyes, ichor from across the ship gathered, coalescing into an entity most terrible and beautiful. Slick, black droplets of liquid flew through the air and congealed, forming at first shapes, then lines, and then curves as they drew closer.
It was a blob at first, but it quickly gained a humanoid bent. Two legs on the bottom, wide, massively curvy hips and thighs, thin calves… a miniscule waist and sweeping torso. A moment later, it gained texture and definition. The ichor turned to a gel and then a solid. Light reflected off of it – such a powerful shine that it gleamed like black gold. She shut her eyes as the sun reflected towards her helmet.
When Shuumi opened her eyes again, she beheld an entity of darkest ebony. Yellow light from the sun highlighted “it,” though “she” would be similarly appropriate. A creature of solid black ichor with a female body; hips, massive, bare jet-black breasts, pert nipples… it even possessed jet-black “hair” of long ichor fibers.
Shuumi’s fingers were already slipping, but her options were limited. Below her was the danger of the engineering core – a hundred foot drop she doubted she’d survive. The gravity was increasing, and she felt her grip weakening. Her heavy muscles rippled under her own weight – hoisted by her own petard.
“I turned on the gravity,” the entity said. Its voice echoed darkly though the ship; female, but not feminine. “I thought you would find it easier. Your body appears to be designed for interacting in an environment with consistent gravitational pull.”
“What are you?” Shuumi stuttered.
“I am Pishacha. I am the ship. I am its inhabitant.”
Shuumi’s heart raced. Black ichor dripped slightly over her helmet. She was powerless and terrified as the creature moved its two dark hands around her head. She pulled, gently removing the helmet from her suit. Dribbles of rubber dripped on her forehead like hot wax.
“I am Shuumi, a self-employed autonomist. I explore ships like this for profit. Please help me up.”
“Tell me,” said Pishacha.
“Tell you what?” The words left Shuumi’s mouth wet. She had her own ichor – spittle flew as she yelled at her “captor.”
“Tell me…” Pishacha let her words hang in the air tantalizingly. All the while, Shuumi clung to the railing, quite literally, for her life, claws biting against the ichor-slick surface.
The creature decided to lay down. As though posing for a painting, she leaned with her legs crossed, her rear on the ground, and her chest and head turned to the side. She kept her head propped up lazily with her right hand. The very picture of decadence, Pishacha looked ready to eat dates from a servant’s plate.
Instead, she took the time to taunt Shuumi all the more. Her left hand moved gently over the green head of the explorer.
“Tell me what you get out of exploring.”
Shuumi bucked, her head searching. There were no ledges below her; just the darkness of the reactor. The entire engineering bay, it seemed, was one massive cylinder; meant to be traversed in zero-gravity; the catwalk she clung to for dear life seemed to be the only object between her and what she could only assume was a swift death. No handholds on the walls were apparent, not that it would matter – she was five meters away, at least, and she wouldn’t be able to reach before she hit whatever lay at the bottom.
She tucked her head below the catwalk. She hoped for a pipe, or another exposed handhold – anything but the slippery railing she held to.
“You didn’t answer my question.” Pishacha’s tone was gentle – too gentle for the creature. With her free arm, she moved away from Shuumi’s head to the railing. With red veins visible beneath her slick, ebon-black skin she shook the railing. The cavitation sent Shuumi’s heart racing.
“Uh-oh. Looks like you’re losing your grip. I’m sorry if my ichor is a little too lubricating. Here,” e, Pishacha said, “take my hand.”
Pishacha extended her hand again. Long, slender, and jet-black – just like the rest of her body. It shone, the light of the sun reflecting off of its glossy sheen.
Shuumi knew better than to take it.
“Cute,” she muttered. “I know what your fingers do.”
“Oh really?” Pishacha smiled. “So, do one of the two – take my hand, or answer my question.”
“Fine, fine!” Shuumi had begun slowly shimmying away from the center of the catwalk. It was slow business, but if she could keep this creature talking for long enough, she could reach the other side of the catwalk, and maybe, just maybe, make it through the door.
“I like it. I get a real rush out of exploring. I love the pleasure you get when you find something new. There, are you happy? I love the unknown.”
Pishacha moved with preternatural grace; the creature was able to literally glide along the railing.
“Me too.” Pishacha put her hands over Shuumi’s. In any other situation, it would have been a gesture of goodwill and earnest assistance. Shuumi saw what it was. Jet-black rubber coursed over her fingers. Her grip slipped. The ork fell.
“You owe me everything, Shuumi.” Pishacha’s voice echoed in the ork’s ears.
“I have allowed you hospitality within my home, and I have prevented injury to your body. I will further provide you with sustenance.”
She felt pressure on her legs. When her green eyes flitted open, she saw two figures dragging her. The entire room around her seemed to be black – jet black, covered in ichor. White lights punctured through the ichor-covered walls at uneven intervals, shining across the lubricated floor.
Each leg was raised in the air, and she was being dragged quite forcefully. One leg was firmly grasped by this Pishacha creature – and the other was also humanoid.
Shuumi squinted her eyes. It looked quite like Pishacha – the normal proportions of any humanoid creature – but with one major difference. A lack of face. Where normally a nose and sharp proportions would bely expressions, only a thick layer of rubbery black existed. Its head seemed to be encased in a dome.
When Shuumi began to struggle, Pishacha decided to entreat her guest further.
“Please, open your mouth.”
Shuumi kicked, tried to get to the floor – but slippery black only further covered her. It clung to her skin like wax.
“Open…” Shuumi panted wildly. A panic attack overcame her. She let out a scream as something thick and black entered her lips.
“Partake of my fluid, Shuumi. I will coat your body, inside and out. Every inch of your form will be cared for, caressed with my own hand. No need for your ordinary sustenance, no petty bodily functions. I will synthesize and provide that which you need.”
Shuumi’s eyes grew wide. Pishacha was kneeling on her chest, practically throttling her; two arms pinned her down by the elbows, and a bizarre black tentacle had extended from Pishacha’s back.
“Let my ichor reform you.”
The ork had not yet begun to fight. She managed to throw her attacker off of her with a single punt to her stomach.
Pishacha practically sailed through the air before collapsing onto the ground.
“Please, Shuumi, allow me inside.”
The ork had no such desires. As Pishacha recovered, Shuumi was already back on her feet – and running. She tried to cough up the black stuff, but found it no use. Her inside felt stiff, her belly full and breath short.
She jogged through strange black corridors with neither plan nor orientation. Every room looked the same as the last. This one was once a storage room; that one a tool bay. This one an airlock, sealed over of course- that one a mechanical room.
When Shuumi finally reached what looked like a door – an honest, uncovered door – she stopped. Panting wasn’t even an option – short of breath as she was, she found it to be a minor inconvenience. She wasn’t even light-headed. Breathing seemed to be a thing of the past.
“Give in. You are a drone.”
Shuumi shouted, but no words left her mouth. Someone had spoke to her.
“Drop to the ground. Drones don’t run.”
She tried again, only to find her voice was nearly silent. It was hard to speak; it felt as though her throat were frozen.
It was a moment later that she saw them.
There were nearly twenty of them. Each and every one all but identical. Humans – or at least, ex-humans – marching in lock-step. Thickly coated calves, arms, and legs; hands outstretched, all black, all shining, and every one with the same blank dome for a face. A face might still be under there – wracked with pain or pleasure – but covered, covered in what Shuumi surmised was that ichor made solid, thick, and totally inescapable. A second skin would be an inappropriate term; each seemed to have been layered into a third, fourth, and fifth skin. They were seamless, sealed, and each of them stepped towards Shuumi with the same cadence.
Shuumi heard the voice, but cooperation was not in her nature. Even as they descended onto her, she bucked. Fists tore and punched, but each punch was met with a sticky sensation. Hips rolling, chest heaving, head butting, she quickly fell to the ground in an orgy of drones.
They crept into her. Ichor seeped into every pore in her suit, down the collar and into her equipment. Within a moment, it was in tatters, having burst from the inside out.
“Drones are open.”
Shuumi’s strength was for nought. Nearly ten drones held her down. Each of them had their own glossy fingers pressing onto her; they shoved her down to the ground at her ankles, her forehead, her arms – they kept her in a gigantic X-position, vulnerable and completely against the shining floor.
“Drones are accepting.”
Parting way for their queen, the drones gently sidestepped and Pishacha made another appearance. She leaned in close, gently stroking her new acquisition. Smooth rubber against her face made Shuumi blush red even as her skin was disappearing under black.
Pishacha moved her lips, and Shuumi heard the words.
“Drones are uniform.”
The strange entity traced around Shuumi’s lips with her index finger. The ork shuddered again; soft touches against her sensitive lips caused an obvious response. Her fingers and toes twitched and teats grew hard. It was a few seconds later that Pishacha entered into a passionate kiss; long, warm, and extremely probing. Shuumi felt her lips and tongue entering into sensual contract with those of her captor’s, meeting and parting, but all the while seeking. Pishacha retracted, a smile on her face after their brief oral interlude. Shuumi would have smiled as well, save for the black rubber quickly solidifying around her mouth. Her mouth had turned solid; the kisses had lavished further latex over her lips, and it shaped itself into a solid “o”. A perfect circle with a thick rim now jammed the poor ork’s mouth wide open, with her tongue barely hanging out and highly vulnerable.
“Drones don’t need to talk.”
There was resistance in her yet, for her eyes burned with great passion. She still sought an opening, a weakness of any kind; her arms and legs were unbridled and she could still run.
When Pishacha delivered her coup de grace, it was all the more humiliating.
Tentacles again extended from the creature’s back. Like a baker decorating a cake, they set to work. Living rubber dripped in great rivulets from her. Each drop touched Shuumi’s skin and quicky adhered. Each droplet became sturdy, solid, and bonded with her skin and the other droplets soon to follow.
Shuumi, powerless to resist the physical, tried to ignore the mental.
“Drones look nice.”
She was being carefully coated. No inch of her form was left uncovered. When her front was done, she was rolled over and her rear was enclosed.
And, when her skin – all of it, from her head to her tusks to her stomach to her toes, wore a layer of black, Pishacha tried again. The layering went on for an hour or more – there was no sense of time. Only building dread as warm darkness covered the ork’s body. Each layer further sealed her into her fate. After another hour, her claws were under several millimeters of her new solid obsidian rubber skin – tearing it off was out of the question.
There was great glee in Pishacha’s maternal eyes as she enclosed the Ork’s face. Though she couldn’t shout, she had been cursing with her eyes all the while. Pishacha took great pleasure and lavished attention on her drone’s features; a layer here, extra there, all the while making sure that she would become as featureless as the rest of her drones. But for this one – this one that sought out new experiences, nothing was spared. She kissed, tugged, and lavished across the Ork’s face with tongue and tentacle alike, painting her drone and sculpting it into an elegant servant.
“Drones are happy.”
Shuumi hadn’t heard or seen anything in an hour. Plugs closed off her ears. She didn’t want to think of the layering over her face. The only thing she ‘heard’ were inane directives from her mistress – from her captor. Happy? How could she be happy?
A massive fullness between her legs made her back arch. A thick insertion had wound its way, growing into her womanhood, shaping itself to seek out every tender spot in her nethers.
To Pishacha, her latest creation was complete. She licked her lips; she was an artist and she now needed only to wash out her palette.
The drones had taken many before, and so long as they served their creator-queen Pishacha, they would continue to take others. They repeated the ritual; their sealed and enclosed sister was brought to an empty spot, deep below the innards of the ship. There, she was glued to the wall; her body spread-eagled but kept in place by additional ichor. She had joined the organism, and here she would stay until she learnt her place. It would take time, but Pishacha had no concept of time – only of drones and their addition to her domain.
The greenskin wriggled in her prison. Over and over and over, the words repeated.
“Drones love Pishacha. Drones are Pishacha.”
Pishacha floated gently. The gravity was off again as her latest organism stewed. It had been a week, and Pishacha had slowly let herself disperse. Being solid was overrated.
Droplets glided toward the airlock. The ship that the latest drone arrived in still glowed with energy.
Pishacha wondered where it had come from. She wondered if there were more like it. She wondered if she was going to have enough room for all the drones she’d soon have.