New Story! "Conquest"


Posted by Theophilous Bolt on December 27, 2001 at 08:12:56:

These may be the first installments of many, if I'm bribed with the appropriate amount of feedback. I've got these two done and a third sketched out.

The story may seem familiar... it's based on anonymous story posted to the SW forum a few years back called "New Planet". It's always been one of my favorites, so I've written a much longer, detailed piece in the spirit of the original.

Let me know what you think!

* * *

Conquest

Part 1 - Genesis


Lord Tarquin stepped out of the plushly-appointed escape pod as it cracked open, the only survivor of the vast pirate fleet to make it through the Anomaly Storm. It had decimated his ships, warping reality around them until they shattered into improbability, and against all expectation, he had survived.

Tarquin was a well built and handsome man, his short, black hair glistened like motor oil, his eyes were amber flecked with gold, his face nobly featured and sinister with its expressiveness, an ankh tatooed on one cheek. It was an affectation he was rather fond of, the ruthless death-god Anubis come to life to ravage the spaceways.

A tiny scream and a crunch alerted him to the fact he had stepped on something on the way out. He started with surprise, realizing that the something was someone, and there were a good deal many more someones prodding his boot with tiny little sticks that flashed blue. They were an improbable army of women no more than six inches tall.

They looked like a riot squad or a political police force, dressed to intimidate, wearing tight black leather jumpsuits, gauntlets and tall boots. Very similar to what he was wearing himself, though his masculine uniform didn't sport the high heels or the plunging neckline, nor did he wear a black visored helmet. He stooped to pick up one with a gold stripe on her helmet, surprised at the soft and feminine feel of the tiny body. The way she squirmed and screamed turned his surprise to arousal. Up close, she was very, very attractive, with full sensual curves and long legs.

"What are you? What is this planet?" he asked. She responded by whacking at his fist with her tiny black rod that glowed blue upon impact. "What is that you're thwaking me with, little one?" he asked again, rhetorically. They didn't appear to have linguistic translation devices. Then she made the mistake of answering him.

"I don't have to answer any questions! Surrender, alien!" she snarled up at him and gave his thumb another whack. Tarquin smiled... apparently, no translation gear was needed. She was speaking heavily accented Standard, and thus fair game for interrogation. He enjoyed interrogations. He had an uncanny way of using every advantage, no matter how unlikely, to bend others to his will, and he had every advantage here.

"Oh, I'm afraid you do," he said as he lifted a foot over the swarming little troops, his instinct for brutal domination guiding his actions. He stomped down, hard, murdering four of them, and it came easier than breathing. "Because if you don't, I'll crush your entire army."

Tarquin laughed as he gingerly stepped on a few more, trying to make their suffering linger. He frowned with disappointment as he felt them crunch almost immediately, and peevishly ground their lovely bodies into a swath of blood, organs and shattered bone under his boot heel.

"We are the Metisians, this is Metis!" the tiny commander screamed. Tarquin sneered and let his thumb toy with her ample breasts, ignoring her shrieks as he bruised her unmercifully with his careless play. For all her bravado and fierce posing, she had broken with scarcely any effort. What manner of army bred such weak willed officers?

"Metis? The Empire lost in a space rift? And this is its Throneworld? I thought it was a myth..." he mused.
"Why are you so tiny?" he demanded abruptly.
"We aren't! I was engineered to be almost seven feet tall! You're a giant!"

"Engineered?" it was then he noticed her absolutely perfect beauty, an improbable combination of proportions that was impossible in all save a created clone.

"We're a clone society... only perfection is allowed! No evil males, no embarrassing ugliness, no disease. I was engineered as an Enforcer! I am Lead Enforcer here! Surrender, giant!" Ah. Her spirit had returned. Good!

"Why not just kill me?" he asked. She replied by hitting him with the rod, the cute little blue flash suddenly disconcerting. He now realized it was a primitive neuroblaster. It would indeed kill him... if the weapon were much, much bigger than half a toothpick.

The Pirate Lord set his considerable mind to gnaw at this information, making his conclusions with lightning quickness. A clone society! Obedience and civic duty was bred into them, so there would no rebellion save the isolated riot or aberrant. And Metis was purported to have disappeared from known space more than a thousand years ago, so they would have known no war in that time, so they would have no army or the weapons needed by one. Which is why they sent the local riot squad to deal with him, even though he was a...

He looked up and about for the first time, and saw to his shock that he was indeed a giant. He was as tall as most of the trees. The Pirate Lord could not help but associate the Anomaly Storm with his current state, which was:

Marooned...
...on an utterly isolated planet...
...populated entirely by women...
...genescuplted for exotic beauty...
...who were only armed with neuroblasters...
...that wouldn't work on him...
...because he was eighty feet tall.

He began to laugh with pure delight. Here was a world for him to conquer! Here was a planet filled with lovely little playthings! Here he was! He laughed again, and let the tiny Lead Enforcer tumble from his fingers. She screamed all sixty feet to the ground, where she bounced and lay still. Dead. Her Enforcer troops broke and ran fleeing for the tree-line, but Tarquin simply laughed, and roared "No prisoners!"

With his huge stride he easily ran down the tiny women as they fled and savagely trampled their fragile little bodies, not stopping until every last one was a small stain of gore and leather on the ground. As soon as his blood-lust abated, he regretted killing them all.

"Should have kept at least one to show me to the nearest population center. Ah, well. I'm sure I'll trip over something or someone sooner or later."


* * *


Part 2 - Godhood


Solla sat in her maglev car, fiddling with the controls on the HoloMap. She was lost, parked beside a barn on a little backroad Goddess knows where, and the stupid nav machine was on the blink. The HoloMap was showing her a very accurate and detailed streetmap of Jocelyn City, which was more than a thousand miles from where she actually was at the moment.

"Stupid map!" she cursed and shouted more commands at it, confusing its feeble artificial intelligence completely until it displayed the locations of all the bars in a tourist resort three continents over. She shrieked with frustration, counted to ten, and gave it another try, absorbing herself in the task of figuring out where the hell she was.

Three things doomed Solla. One, she was listening to a bass-heavy song on the car's sound system, so she could not hear him coming for her. Two, the car's maglev suspension shielded her from the seismic tremors caused by two hundred tons worth of man tip-toeing toward her. Three, her nose was buried in the glittering, glowing hologram of an unhelpful nav machine, so she could not see his shadow engulf her car.

Solla didn't know she was being stalked until gleaming black leather fingers seized her car and wrenched it from the ground, the maglev repulsors whining ineffectually. She screamed as she was batted about inside the car, rattled about like a pebble in a tin can. Confused, contused and shaken, she gripped the dashboard, her manicured, ruby red nails dug into the soft plastic padding.

"What the hell was that? Earthquake? Climate Central should have warned me..."
And then her world was upended again, the car tumbled over and over, dashing her to the roof, to the seats, to the front window, to the rear cargo area. Solla cried out with fear and disorientation and pain, bruised and battered.

She peeked her head over the dash where her nails had ploughed furrows into the soft safety plastic. She felt her lips pull back from her perfect pearl teeth in a rictus of primal fear as she beheld a pair of eyes staring back at her. They were bigger than a full moon, as amber as a harvest moon, and flecked with glittering gold. They were anything but feminine.

* * *

Solla was a pervert. This was difficult in a deliberately permissive society engineered to be accepting of almost everything psychosexual. Kinks were counted as marks of style and culture: the more you sported, the more in fashion you were.

Solla displayed a baseline normal three. The first took the form of a severe submissive and masochistic streak, the second meant she would genuinely get weak in the knees for leather fetish gear when worn by a partner. These fetishes were as common as rain, and it wasn't difficult to find stim hollos dealing with one or the other. She had a third kink, too: to fit in with intellectual circles, she professed to harbor macrophillic fantasies on top of everything else. Maybe she did. Solla knew she liked partners taller and stronger than herself, but this, she was sure, was because of the forbidden fourth she harbored.

Solla's secret fourth kink, the only one she could call her own, was truly taboo. She couldn't share it with anyone, but she suspected that more than a few of her Metisian sisters shared it. She hoped they did, for she longed to know that she wasn't the only pervert on the planet. If Metisian Security suspected what she lusted after in her heart, she would be lucky if they just killed her.

Solla, you see, fantasized about men.

* * *

Lord Tarquin shook the little ground car in his titan's fist for the savage fun of it. He relished the little screams of terror and the feeling of power he got from rattling his victim about like a pebble in a tin can. The Pirate Lord was a creature of his appetites, and the thrill of sadism was chief among them, so he genuinely gloried in being a bully, of lording power over the powerless. In modern interstellar society, that invariably meant intellectual power, dominance through mental acuity. Anyone could gene-sculpt themselves into a ten-foot monster of muscle, and they would still die under the lethal fire of a plasma gun. It took brains and a mental mindset of dark and perverse proportions to defy the perfect law and order of the Universal Government. He had both in abundance, and a tallish, but still normal, six and a half foot frame.

Here, however, the jaded Lord found a new joy. He could simply flex his physical might, and people died. He stepped on women like bugs, crushed them like spring flowers underboot. He was still hard from the rush it gave him.

Tarquin knew of rape, and delighted in it. Rape, however, only would come because they knew he had a thousand pirates at his beck and call, who would kill and destroy at his command. This was different. He was all-powerful solely by dint of his physical might. He found the concept enticing, arousing, sensual.

Tarquin lowered himself to sprawl his immense frame along the green grass, reclining against the tiny barn as he returned his attention to his toy. The Pirate Lord agitated the little car clutched in his fist again, crumpling the aluminum bodywork heedlessly with his brutal play. He smirked as he heard her shriek anew, and raised the vehicle to peer into its windshield. He could scarcely see her through the tinted glass, and frowned with disappointment. He wanted an eyefull of one of these women who had never known the hand of masculine might at their throats for more than a millenia.

* * *

Metis was a perfect society. This meant they were an insignificant statistical deviation away from 100% physical and mental perfection. Everyone was healthy, everyone was well adjusted, everyone was beautiful. This meant that society was cured of all the ills that accompanied frail flesh. Science had prevailed where mere biology, in its inefficient blind progression, had failed. The first thing they had achieved was the elimination of the male.

Society disciplined and trained the young. Society fed the mothers and their children. There was no need for testosterone anymore. No one lived in caves, no one had to spear a wooly mammoth to eat, no one had to strangle a sabre-toothed tiger to live in perfect safety. Thus, it was decided by the founding Mothers of Metis that Man, and his war, rape, subjugation and dominance, was no longer necessary to a perfect society.

They were right.

Woman had crafted the penultimate society, and encouraged 100% pure and perfect freedom, within an acceptable statistical deviation. No one went hungry. No-one knew subjugation unless she desired it. No one knew murder or abuse or rape. Everyone knew prosperity, peace, and spiritual enlightenment. The sciences and the arts thrived, and the Metisian standard of living was the highest in the history of Human civilization.

Man, thus, was outlawed. No male humans, ever. All the genetic blueprints burned, all men put to the sword, and Metis had known unparalleled prosperity ever since. The problem was that it was impossible to eradicate the taint of masculinity. Animals had males and females. History, too, with Plato, Newton and Einstein being men. There was also the continuing problem of the human libido being geared toward male and female coupling. Genetic Engineering had solved that dilemma, thank goddess, with everyone geared to homosexuality on a biological level.

Thus the keystone of the continued success of the Metis Empire was the elimination of the male. Hounded by the other, less enlightened and decidedly too masculine Human cultures, they retreated en masse to a dimensional pocket where they finally found the perfection they had so carefully strived for. Everyone knew prosperity, peace, and spiritual enlightenment.

Everyone within an acceptably minute statistical deviation from 100%.

Solla, was, regrettably, one out of three thousand. She fantasized about men. Big, burly men, huge and terrible. Coarse, rugged, brutal men. Men, with flat chests and bulging crotches. Sex partners who had their dildos as part of their flesh-and-blood anatomy. Men, who could muscle her into submission with contemptuous ease. Men, who's hard, calloused hands hid behind black leather to pin her helplessly while he speared her with his sex and lapped at hers with a deft, if giant and rough, tongue. She wanted cock. Cock, hard and huge, as an altar to worship her own abasement upon.

This was the only thought crime. This was the only perversion proscribed by law. Men. Solla felt so lonely sometimes, she could just die. But... but... here was a man, now! She didn't realize they were so big.

* * *

Lord Tarquin punched the first two fingers of his left hand through the windshield, and peeled the aluminum roof back like a fruit rind. The delectable meat was inside, her arms raised to ward off the shards of safety glass that pelted her vulnerable face. The giant plucked his prey from the ruins of the vehicle, unable to disguise his delight. She was as beautiful as the Enforcers he had slain... no, moreso. Pretty and petite, she was stunningly attractive, with large brown eyes and auburn hair. She wore denim jeans, raggedly cut off to less than short-short length, her checked shirt unbuttoned and tied tightly about her ample bust.

"Where is the nearest city?" he barked at her, his hot breath rustling her hair as she flinched from his voice.
She replied in enticingly lilting Standard, frightened and frantic, "I do not know! I cannot get the Nav Machine to work!"
He smirked down at her with arrogant and condescending amusement, "Little girl lost, hmm? Tell me where you were headed, little girl."
"Pleasure City! I am... I am on holiday."

He tasted the syllables as he enunciated them, savoring the promise they held. "Plea-sure Ci-ty! Sounds simply delightful."
"It is, Ma'am... I mean, Sir. Are you a Sir? I've never seen a Man in the flesh before," she asked with undisguised wonderment.
"Not just a Sir, but a Lordship as well, little one. Rest assured I am a man, and more of a man than ever there was!" he laughed again at his own humor. Tarquin's implanted cyberinterface found the nav machine built into the car, and mental commands brought it to heel within an instant, holographic maps flickering as his photo-mem genesculpt absorbed every drop of information it had to offer.

Solla watched in amazement, held softly between a thumb and fingers more grossly thick than his size alone should have accounted for. He was a man, with no doubt about it, and she was in his power. Solla felt her sex warm to the thought, the denim between her thighs soddened slowly with her juices as she realized this giant god was everything she had fantasized about, ever. She wanted to pray to him.

His body was coated in skintight leather from throat to toe. There was no trace of mammaries on his broad chest, his muscles, bulging along his biceps and thighs, were easy, natural arcs no woman could have hoped to duplicate. He was... was... well thewed. The classical reference was the only one that would fit. Well thewed. He was a man. Powerful, and as she remembered her terror in the car, cruel.

For reasons she couldn't understand she revelled in his cruelty. She wanted him to be cruel to her again. Her unspoken wish was granted.

* * *

Tarquin, his thirst for strategic information sated by the nav computer, turned his attentions to immediate pleasures. His thumb began to knead the breasts of his captive, and he was well pleased to discover they were grown rather than implanted. They squashed, flopped, and slithered under his thumb as proper breasts should, her top shredding into tatters as he took his pleasure from her endowment. Solla screamed, and cursed him ferociously as he bruised her unmercifully with his groping. He responded by dropping her into the center of a rapidly tightening fist, forcing the air from her.

"That should shut you up," he snarled down at her. She writhed and kicked in a desperate bid for breath. He simply snarled and pinched her denim short-shorts from her, her mouth widening in a silent scream as he bruised her engorged sex.

The Pirate Lord found his erection painful, constricted by the tailored fit of his leather bodyglove. He found the zip-tab, and a seam sprang to life beneath his fingers, running from his navel to the base of his spine, revealing smooth tan skin, and a male member ten feet long, throbbing to even greater heights now that it was free.

Tarquin found that a twelve inch cock, as thick around as a beer bottle, would discommode even the most adventurous of partners. He didn't enjoy sex. He loved rape, he lived for rape. His pleasure, their pain. Their pleasure, their pain. Their pain. Their submission to his might. That was all he asked from life, the absolute submission of every living being in the Universe to his might.

His balls were as big around as rain barrels and he dropped the ruin of the car to cup them, the feeling of the leather of his glove causing him to growl with pleasure.

Tarquin opened his palm, and laughed anew as Solla gasped for breath with an absolute biological imperative to continue, to live. Another imperative, passed along to her through an aberration in the clone process, perhaps, but spawned from her lusts nonetheless, caused her to splay her legs wide before the conquering male, arching her back to present her sex to him, whimpering with anticipation.

Tarquin condescended to partake of the gift, hand leaving his crotch to probe at her with an extended forefinger. The blunt end of it, broad as a fire hydrant, caressed her slit, it was thick with desire. His questing caused the outer lips to part, their bruised state causing her to yowl with pain, to yowl louder with pleasure as the fingertip found the inner lips and traced them to their apex. The monk's hood charged with hiding her secret locus was not up to the task: Solla's pink nub was standing erect and awaiting inspection.

She prayed to him now, unabashedly worshipping this leatherclad, dominating, regal and oh-so-absolutely-masculine God. She felt wicked, she felt wonderful.

"Oh, My Lord, Please, more! Please, oh, my God, my huge, terrible God, please oh please pleasure me, Lord!" she whimpered.

Lord Tarquin deigned to oblige her, tickling her pretty pink nub with a fingertip, a mere whisper of a touch. It was more than enough. He had a genesculpt for a surgeon's reflexes, and he abused this terrible talent, tickling and teasing her to the very verge of climax, black leather against frail femininity. No contest.

Solla shrieked and squirmed and writhed. No use. The orgasm was upon her, and its power was every inch as fearsome and terrible as the Man-God who had inflicted it upon her. Her legs twined about his mighty digit, stilletto heels digging into the leather as she surrendered herself into the sheer glory of his touch. She prayed again, between screams, between pants, between spasms of absolute lightning-limned bliss. She prayed to Him. To her God. More than a thousand years after it had been outlawed on Metis, Solla had found religion, and it didn't help matters when he began answering her prayers.

He heard her pray to him, and at that moment, Lord Tarquin ceased being a Pirate Lord in the secret, private part of his being that determined his Self. Tarquin was a god, now.

His erection seethed against his penis' flesh, wishing to grow huger than huge and spear the globe, penetrate its rocky crust like a virgin's maidenhead.

Tarquin. Was. God.

He answered her prayers with his tongue, he wanted to taste her. His acute, trans-human senses sent him into apoplectic arousal as he tasted her hormones, and smelled her heat, and listened to her worship him. But, ever and always, he was Tarquin first and foremost, so he was in control. Of her, yes, but also of himself.

He growled, deeply and passionately, as he set his tongue, graceful and sinuous, to work his will upon the tiny female. It's edge knifed into her slit, rampaging along the ramparts of her inner-sex, sliding along the tower of her clit like a barbarian horde in search of loot. She shrieked with delight, and spread her shapely legs wider, wider than wide, her fingers locked with her high heels, exposing herself completely to her God. Flat on her back in the palm of his hand, whimpering and screaming as he tasted her, she revelled in the way he mastered her pleasure.

She came. Again. She had no say in the matter.

Solla was then inducted into the deepest secrets that masculinity had to offer, nude and panting with the power of her last orgasm, she found herself astride his manhood. From her new vantage point, she gazed up at her lover, body flaring out from narrow hips into well defined abdomen and broad, sculpted chest. He was draped lazily against the barn, the hillsides of his biceps resting all along the apex of the roof. His pose was so relaxed, so arrogant, so male. It was alien to her. Exotic. The concept of "He" was beginning to dawn on her.

His cock was more than twice as tall as she was, her legs sought in vain to measure its circumference. She cat-crawled her way to his apex and Tarquin gasped at the tiny prickles of her nails and heels upon This, the most sensitive of his flesh. It served to stoke his ardor to heights he had never dreamt of, his cock throbbed taller, stretching his sensitive skin painfully, exquisitely.

Solla set her tongue to worship anew, with no words this time, just her feline, slimy roughness against the satiny smooth skin of his cock. Memory surged up from between her legs, where she pressed her clit to his hot, soft skin, and her little licks found the thick ridge of his purest pleasure.

His titanic body arched with the sensation, neck nestled against the apex of the barn as his back and legs went taught with the sheer sensual sensation. He growled, the deep rumble pure alpha-male, pure god-made-flesh receiving his due, pure Tarquin wrapped in earthly delight. Solla licked, and pressed her perfect body to his massive man-meat, its feminine softness... its supple, velvety submission to his pleasure driving him mad. He nipped at his fingers, brilliantly white teeth sinking into black leather. It availed him naught, he could feel the peak of passion building faster than he could control it. Tarquin began to buck his hips, responding to primordial programming, priming the pump for the apex of the post-human experience.

Solla sensed her God's imminence. She redoubled her efforts, pressing her ample, soft breasts to the hot flesh throbbing beneath her, aware of the way her motions made her host squirm and buck. She teased his slit with her nimble tongue, lapping at His salty, watery pre-cum with gusto, wanting nothing more from life at the moment than to bathe herself in his seed.

This was too much. Too much by far. His snarl broadened into a roar as every muscle in his eighty foot frame went as rigid as a bridge. Tarquin's body was delineated entirely by arcs, tensed, bulging muscles who contracted into the epitome of tension as his soul flowed into his balls, through his prostrate, along the length of his inhumanly huge shaft. It bulged insistently against the last mustering ground behind the mushroom-tip of his cockhead, worshipped by a high-priestess rained in wanton abandon and naught else.

He came.

His seed exploded into the world, pure pearlescent white against the the black of his leather. Solla licked and lapped eagerly as the first arc of her God's seed shot high overhead, happy for the slow secondary spill down the length of his organ. It tasted like fine, aged sherry. She sucked it up greedily as the fountain of his cum devolved from mighty jet to mere bubbling font, baptizing herself in its fragrant stickyness. Her hair became befouled with it, blessed with it, his seed slicking her from head to toe. When she felt His divinity, expressed through His jism, touch her clit, she came again, clutching His still-throbbing manhood between her straddled legs. This time, the orgasm never left her. She felt her sex spasm again and again and again, jetting out her own fluids to meet those of her God.

She was still orgasmic, endless wave after wave of pleasure wracking her poor mortal frame, as Tarquin took Solla up off his shaft and into his fist. Solla purred, and nuzzled the leather of his gauntleted fingers, daring licks to taste of his leather, writhing in pure pleasure. Solla was his high priestess, of this she was sure. No harm would ever befall her. She offered her tongue and her prayers to his slowly tightening fist.

Too late, she remembered, her new God was a cruel God.

Tarquin felt his still erect cock thud and throb again. He had betrayal in mind, and that was better than sex. Tarquin was multi-orgasmic, and more to the point, he could cum as easily from emotional stimulation as from physical. The emotional high he derived from the cruelty of killing was every inch as sensual as the touch of a tiny woman's tasting tongue upon his cock. He brought her helpless, writhing, orgasmic form to eye level, and began to squeeze. He loved the way her feminine form demurred before his might, her mouth opened wide in a scream of pain, terror and lust. Tarquin felt her softness deform beneath his mighty fingers, her very body molding itself to his will. He drew his black lips back in a snarl of predatory powerlust as he felt the first of her bones snap.

Solla was buckling, breaking, dying for him. Prayers died on her lips as he denied her breath... no matter, for she simply prayed to be his sacrifice. To die, for her Man, was all she wanted from her life, now, to forgive her Man, no matter what liberties he took with her being. A glance down at his crotch indicated his cock stood erect, for her, greeting her, waiting to escort her to the after-death.

Tarquin slowly crushed the wench in his hand, pouring his might into his fist. Feeling her crunch and squish between his fingers was too much, and soon sent him clear over the top, from sadism to release. As he came again, Solla's soul departed her ruined form, her blood spurting between his fingers as his white cum spurted from his cock. Red on black leather, white on black leather. The end. The beginning.

Transcendence.

* * *

Lord Tarquin, thus sated, slept. His enormous body pillowed against the barn, and he simply snapped at dreamt-of morsels in his slumber as the structure caved in beneath his bulk. When he awoke, he looked at his palm for proof, and found the destroyed form of his first sacrifice spread over his palm in a strange pattern. He had grown in the night, doubling his size to more than sixteen stories tall. He laughed mightily, and dipped his gauntlet in a nearby stream. Solla's rotting rusted-red gore washed away, gave way before the purity of fresh, flowing water, fading to less than nothing, to gleaming black leather in its awful majesty.

He never thought of her again.

* * *

T. Bolt