I could have published this 20K word story as a short book, but instead am sharing it with my followers in six posts. I will be posting a new chapter approximately each week. In Chapter Three, Spacer Bob’s Fantasy Tours visits a series of degrading slave races on Terra Eleven Zeta.
WARNING! All of my writing is intended for adults over the age of 18 ONLY. Stories may contain strong or even extreme sexual content. All people and events depicted are fictional and any resemblance to persons living or dead is purely coincidental. Actions, situations, and responses are fictional ONLY and should not be attempted in real life.
All characters involved in sexual activity in this story are over the age of 18. If you are under the age of 18 or do not understand the difference between fantasy and reality or if you reside in any state, province, nation, or tribal territory that prohibits the reading of acts depicted in these stories, please stop reading immediately and move to somewhere that exists in the twenty-first century.
Archiving and reposting of this story is permitted, but only if acknowledgment of copyright and statement of limitation of use is included with the article. This story is copyright (c) 2026 by The Technician.
Individual readers may archive and/or print single copies of this story for personal, non-commercial use. Production of multiple copies of this story on paper, disk, or other fixed format is expressly forbidden.
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Chapter Three - Terra Eleven Zeta
Everything again began shimmering and it felt like I was slowly rotating. Had I been alone, I would have reverted to my Ophugalian form to better track where I was. The Ophugalia evolved from migratory birds and our ears give us a great sense of movement and direction. I was now, for better or worse, shifted into the form of a Nine Gammite who was sitting docilely in the crowd watching Spacer Bob’s exotic holographic tour. Even without my Ophugalian ears, however, I was fairly sure that we were, in fact, moving. I didn’t know how, or what technology was involved, but I was absolutely certain that we had somehow moved from Terra Nine Gamma to Centauri Alpha Six and that we were now on our way to Terra Eleven Zeta.
Terra Eleven Zeta is classified as a primitive world. The colony established millennia ago was very successful for many, many centuries. Then the world divided into factions based on the land masses of the planet. Each of the three different factions had developed their own cultures and customs. And each of the three different factions wanted to rule the entire planet. Catastrophic wars raged for centuries.
Earth prime went through such wars and struggles in its history, but fortunately earth was able to establish lasting peace and equity before humanity destroyed itself. Such was not the case on Terra Eleven Zeta. The planet devolved into one, last horrific war. Finally, after 730 years of war came the great apocalypse. There is no record of who first used their “final solution,” but lancer missiles, nuclear bombs, plasma orbs, anti-matter clusters, and even terraforming machines were unleashed by all sides. All cities, all technology, and the majority of the population, were vaporized. By the time the barrage was finally over, the planet was effectively glassed. What air and ground and water remained was badly polluted. The few survivors were forced to live in underground caves and bunkers deep within the destroyed ground. Star Command declared a quarantine on the planet.
That was centuries ago. The humanoid population of TEZ has slowly reestablished itself, but they have no true memory of what occurred. All that is left for them are myths of “The Great Struggle” when the gods destroyed the planet. When the time is right, contact will be made and Eleven Zeta will once again be brought into the modern world. But for now, it is a quarantined primitive world.
When everything stopped spinning I almost auto-reverted. This was not Terra Eleven Zeta. At least it was not Eleven Zeta as it exists today. We were in a large arena that looked like something out of Terra Prime’s ancient history. It was a large, open arena with seating for perhaps three thousand people. Spacer Bob’s benches had somehow expanded and were now superimposed over the bottom rows of seating. The place was packed. There was no way to move so that I was not overlapping one of the Zetaites. I shifted slightly so that at least my head was not completely overlapping the head of a rather large gentleman who seemed to be munching on handfuls of some sort of cooked grain.
There was a high wall separating the sand of the arena from the spectators. Large stone columns rose high into the air at regular intervals all around the wall. On one side of the arena large cloth awnings reached out from above the highest seats to rest on the top of those columns. I was evidently sitting in the cheap seats with no protection from the sun so I could see, on the top of the awning, a huge stylized image of the head of a bird in profile. I could also see that there were long banners hanging on the front of each column. The banners were a deep blue with an image that depicted a giant colorful bird with long, black and white tail feathers.
This was impossible. The Amherst Pheasant was the emblem of the ChiMy faction in the wars which destroyed Eleven Zeta. It’s head with its complex pattern of black and white feathers was printed on all currency and was part of the official seal of their nation.
A loud voice boomed out of the huge speakers which were everywhere in the arena. The voice was speaking a form of Terran Standard but Spacer Bob’s equipment still provided a translation inside my head.
“Welcome to the ChiMy games,” the voice announced exuberantly. “Today we have chariot races, foot races, and of course, capture races.” He paused as six chariots raced into the arena, then he continued, “We begin with the chariot races.”
As the chariots took a preliminary lap around the arena I couldn’t help but notice that they were not pulled by horses, but were instead pulled by four naked men. The men had blinders on so they couldn’t see what was going on around them. They also had some sort of bit in their mouths with reins that went back to the driver’s left hand. The driver was dressed like an Earth Prime ancient Roman centurion. The ChiMy faction had built their government to intentionally mimic the Romans from Earth Prime’s ancient history.
“This is just a preliminary race,” Spacer Bob said through his sound system. “The interesting stuff comes later.” He chuckled and then said, “Well more interesting for most of you. Those women– and men– who like naked men running around all sweaty and straining to win for their master will enjoy this race.”
Bob started to say something else, but the announcer at the arena drowned him out with, “This is a reward only race. The winning charioteer receives one hundred CMs. The winning slave team receives extra rations and three days of true rest.”
I heard Spacer Bob mutter, “That’s what I was going to say.”
The six chariots slowly pulled up to a man holding a white flag out over the sand on a long pole. They lined up in three rows of two chariots as the announcer blared out, “Remember to get your bets placed. This is a seven-lap race and bets will be received until the lead chariot finishes the fourth lap.”
He paused and then said loudly, “Centurions ready!”
After another short pause the pole holding the white flag was raised upright and all six charioteers started shouting at their slaves and snapping their whips high above their slaves’ heads. As the first chariot roared past, I noticed that all of the men pulling it had something tattooed– or branded– on their biceps. It was a hexagon with a star inside of it and then a hexagon inside the star with a second star inside that hexagon. That was the symbol of the Davidians, or at least it was a crude approximation of their symbol. The true Davidian symbol continued with smaller and smaller hexagons and stars until there was a solid hexagon in the center.
Spacer Bob stood up and announced to the tour, “The slaves are prisoners of war. This is just a race. The interesting stuff comes later.”
Bob said it was just a race, but it wasn’t. The charioteers were now slashing at the slave’s backs urging then on faster and faster. The announcer called out, “Bets are now closed,” so we must have started the fourth lap. Some of the crowd was beginning to get to their feet and call out cries of encouragement to their favorite charioteer. I sat their trying to figure out how this can all be happening. The Davidians and the ChiMys, as well as the Yankues wiped each other out centuries ago.
The crowd was now screaming as the chariots finally crossed the finish line. “Master Ling has won,” the announcer called out with a flourish. “Give us a minute to groom the track and we will continue with today’s footrace.” He chuckled and added, “I think you will find that much more interesting.” Then brightening he said, “It will be even more interesting if you have a big bet on your favorite filly.”
A door opened on the side of the arena and five of the chariots trotted out. The sixth, the winner, made a victory lap around the sand as Master Ling waved at the crowed. He no sooner finished that lap when a different door opened and several dozen naked men hurried out onto the sand. Each man was dragging a metal grate behind him which smoothed the sand and removed all traces of the chariot wheels and the footprints of the slaves who pulled them. As the three rows of men passed by, I could see branded on their buttocks the MyChi pheasant head. These men were evidently prisoners of the state, not prisoners of war.
After two laps around the sand, they exited through the same door from which they entered. Almost immediately a single file line of women entered the arena from a smaller door. They were all naked. Their light brown or blond hair identified them as Yankues. As they passed by, I could clearly see a small, stylized, upside-down V tattooed on the outside of their thighs. These are also prisoners of war. On their chests and on their backs large numbers were painted in black.
“Place your bets. Place your bets,” the announcer called out. “This will be a three-lap reward and punishment race. The winner will be given extra rations and be relieved of other duties for one week. The slave coming in next to last will receive twenty with a leather paddle. The loser will receive thirty. If anyone properly predicts the top three winners, you get to wield the paddles for one of the punishments. If you predict with your bets the top five winners, you get to fuck the loser.”
Things suddenly shimmered slightly. It was as if the chariot race was rewinding and then playing again in fast forward up to the point where the women were entering the arena. Twenty women had entered the arena. I know that for certain. I counted them. There were five rows of four. Now there were twenty-one slaves. As they walked past, I studied them very carefully. Number twenty-one looked up at me and smiled. I recognized her. It is the young woman who had her hands down her pants when we were on Centauri Alpha Six.
“Fillies, get in starting position,” the announcer blared out and the women formed into four rows of five with number twenty-one standing alone in the fifth row.
The first row was lined up just behind the white flag which was again hanging out over the sand. After a few moments, the flag suddenly lifted and the women began running. Several women fell as the pack pushed and jostled for position but they all shortly sprung back up and tore off in pursuit of the pack. Soon there were three running together at the front, a big group running five across in the middle, and four running more or less single file in the back. At the very back of those four was the young blonde. She was running as hard as she could, but it was obvious that she was not a trained slave and was badly out of shape. Sweat was pouring down her body. Her hair was hanging in wet rivulets. There was no doubt that she was going to lose and lose badly.
The crowd was screaming encouragement to their favorites and curses at those who were ahead of their chosen filly– and, of course, their bet. After two full laps all of the naked young women– called fillies by the announcer– were drenched in sweat. We could not feel the heat of the arena, but judging from the sun and the shimmer just above the sand, it must be intensely hot and humid.
The announcer began calling the race as they neared the finish line. “It’s number five by two lengths, but number seventeen is pulling up fast. Number five by one length. Number five by half a stride. And number five wins by a nipple.” He paused and said, “Hold your betting slips. That will have to be checked with the video record.”
Number five, a rather tall but still somewhat busty woman with jet black hair had thrown her arms out wide and tilted her head back as she crossed the finish line. “As you know,” the announcer explained, “the race is determined by the first body part to cross the line. Hands, arms, feet, and legs don’t count. It’s the torso, or in this case, the tits that count.”
The runners were now all standing around bent over and panting. Number twenty-one looked like she was throwing up next to the wall. Suddenly everything again shimmered slightly as if a curtain descended over everything. The race rewound and finished almost instantly. When the shimmer cleared, the announcer was saying, “or in this case, the tits that count.”
The announcer was right, number five won by a nipple. Number twenty-one was dead last. Number fourteen was next to last.
“Bring out the punishment benches,” the announcer bellowed out and four naked male slaves came running in carrying what looked like a heavily padded sawhorse. They set it down and ran back out of the arena. In a few moments they returned with a second, identical, padded sawhorse.
“Get the losers in place on the spanking horses,” the announcer called out and two large guards dragged number fourteen over to one of the sawhorses. They threw her over the top of the sawhorse face down. One held her legs on his shoulders while the other went around to the front and used leather straps to tie her hands tightly near the bottom of the front legs. Then the guard with her legs pulled hard and brought her legs down so that her feet were almost touching the ground. He held them there while the second guard tied her feet in place.
Then they moved over to number twenty-one. When they attempted to throw her on top of the sawhorse, she flew over the top and tumbled into the sand. Most of the crowd laughed and shouted insults at the girl and the guards. The guards ignored them and just picked her back up and lay her across the spanking horse. It only took a moment to get her tied in place.
“You know the rules,” the announcer said tersely, “clean her up.”
Two slaves trotted out with large buckets of water. They timed their throw so that both buckets of evidently very cold water splashed over the young blonde at the same time. I knew the water was cold because she screamed loudly... and her nipples suddenly engorged.
“Well, well, well,” the announcer says almost under his breath. “We have something very unusual today. Not only do we have two bettors who predicted the top three winners, we have someone who bet on the top five in proper order.”
A smiling man– who looked vaguely familiar to me– walked out into the arena carrying a black leather paddle. It was about a meter long if you counted the twenty-five-centimeter handle. The shiny leather paddle itself was about seventy-five centimeters long and twenty centimeters wide. He walked up to number fourteen and lightly drew the smooth leather across her ass. She shuddered, but I couldn’t tell if it was fear or arousal.
“One,” cried the announcer and the man drew back the paddle and slammed it into number fourteen’s ass. Her scream was loud and shrill.
“Two,” cried the announcer and a second blow landed. The man was striking rhythmically now. I didn’t know if he was listening to the cries of the announcer of just swinging at his own pace. It was hard to hear the announcer over the screams of the young lady as her ass swelled and turned purple from the beating.
“Twenty,” the announcer finally called out and the man lowered his paddle. He was breathing hard, but that might not have been totally from exertion. There was a large tent bulge on the front of his trousers. He was smiling very broadly as he walked slowly out of the arena.
A different young man walked into the arena. I definitely recognized him. He had been helping take tickets for the tour. He was not smiling. Instead, his face was set in almost a look of anger. As he walked up to twenty-one, he said loud enough for me to hear, “Slut. You lost on purpose. But I will break you. You will not be able to stand the pain.”
Number twenty-one visible shuddered. This time, from the sudden wetness apparent between her legs, it was definitely not fear. It was arousal.
At the cry of “One!” the young man swung the paddle in a large circle and slammed it into number twenty-one’s white ass. It left a large pink welt as he again swung his arm in a full circle and again slammed the paddle into her ass. The announcer was still calling the numbers, but it was obvious he was keeping up with the man with the paddle, not the other way around.
Number twenty-one was screaming and crying out, “I can’t stand it! I can’t stand it!” but her juices were streaming down her legs. I think she is a special kind of pain slut. She evidently doesn’t convert the pain into pleasure, but she is addicted to the pain. She needs the pain and gets sexual pleasure not from the pain itself, but from having her need for pain satisfied. Such a pain slut can never be broken, but unfortunately, they can be destroyed.
As the announcer called out “Thirty!” the man lowered his paddle. The young blonde began sobbing and crying out and orgasming all at the same time.
“And now,” the announcer said, trying to sound sexy– or perhaps lewd, “our top five predictor gets his prize.”
Spacer Bob, himself, slowly walked out onto the arena floor. He was dressed in the white linen shirt and trousers of a member of the ChiMy upper class. He stood behind twenty-one and softly stroked her red and purple swollen asscheeks. The he leaned over and said something to young blonde before plunging his prick into her sopping cunt.
She screamed in a combination of passion and pain as soon as he entered her and continued to scream with each almost violent thrust. Bob has incredible stamina and continued slamming into twenty-one’s cunt for a more than a respectable length of time. By the time he finally slammed one final time into her cunt and spurted his cum deep inside her, she was a blubbering mess sobbing out, “Oh God! Oh God! Oh God, Yes! Yes! Yes!”
There was a slight shimmer and Spacer Bob was suddenly back in his seat. So were his two assistants. But the young blonde woman remained tied over the spanking horse.
While I was watching Spacer Bob, the slaves must have cleared the arena because the announcer was again yelling out, “Now for our final attraction of the day, the Capture Race.” He paused and then said, “There will be no betting on this race. All participants are prisoners of war. The rewards and punishments are self-evident.”
I wondered what in the hell he actually meant, but then twenty naked young women were led out into the arena. Their heads had been shaved bald and all hair had been removed from their bodies. Their skin glistened with oil or grease as they stood looking around in terror.
“These slaves,” the announcer intoned firmly, “refuse to work for their rightful ChiMy masters. And so today they will be punished for your pleasure.”
From another door twenty naked young men walked slowly out into the arena. They still had hair on their heads and between their legs. They were smiling and evidently joking with each other. Their pricks, which were partially aroused, glistened slightly as if they, too, were greased.
“These slaves,” the announcer said brightly, “have dutifully obeyed their masters in every way.”
The white flag was extended out over the arena in front of the men. About one-fourth of the way ahead, a red flag was extended out in front of the women. As the women more or less lined up behind the red flag, a large door was opened alongside of them. Several guards stood in the open doorway.
“The race is simple,” the announcer said with a laugh. “If the filly can race all of the way around the arena and get back to the doorway, she is free.” He laughed again and said, “Well, she isn’t free, but she will be taken back to her duties. If she, however, races like she works, then she is fucked, literally, and will be taken back to the male slave pens for the night.”
The crowd responded with a loud chant of “ChiMy! ChiMy! ChiMy!”
The crowd then began screaming and yelling as the red and then the white flags were lifted up. This time there was no jostling for position. The fastest women had already evidently worked their way to the front of the pack before the race began. And evidently the slowest of the slow had already accepted their fate. As the race began three young women dropped to the sand on their hands and knees with their heads against the sand.
The fastest of the men ran past this low hanging fruit, but three of the slower men stopped and began pumping into them. From the cries of “No, please, in my cunt,” coming from one of the women, it was obvious that one of the men was taking the back door path.
By the time the women were half-way around the arena, the men had caught up with them. But the reality is that catching a greased woman who doesn’t want to be caught is not an easy thing. Many in the crowd were laughing and pointing as one woman after another slipped through a man’s hands. They also hooted and shouted insults when a woman was forced down to the sand with her legs spread. I had read of the terrors of the wars on Terra Eleven Zeta, but I had not realized how badly their civilization had devolved.
In the end, six of the women made it all the way around the arena and out the open door. All twenty of the men were cheering and smiling as they carried the fourteen who had been captured back down to their slave pen for the night.
The men had not quite cleared the arena when everything again shimmered. When it stopped, Spacer Bob stood facing his crowd with a somewhat strange expression on his face. He called out, “I really didn’t intend to show that last segment. I intended a historical record from about a century before that.”
As he was talking, the young blonde suddenly appeared next to me. She was laying back against the row behind her. Her eyes seemed out of focus. I stepped over to her and said, “Are you all right? Is there something you need?”
She smiled at me with a lopsided smile and said, “Nothing that you can give me.” She took a deep breath and said, “I told him I would be willing to stay but he said the dates were wrong and the missiles would start flying tomorrow.” She looked at me as if she were trying to get me into focus and then she said, “I wonder what he meant by that?”
Spacer Bob’s voice cut off further conversation as he called out. “Please be seated as I switch to a hologram from Terra Seven Gamma.” As everything began to rotate, I took a quick inventory of everyone in the crowd, both in my head and with the video equipment concealed within my chest. I especially made a record of the young blonde woman. I had a feeling that when Spacer Bob’s Exotic Fantasy Tour was over, she would no longer be with us.
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END OF CHAPTER THREE
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The true rulers of this world, the credit card companies, have made it almost impossible to sell books with true BDSM themes. Erotic publishers will soon be a thing of the past. So I have pulled all of my books from the one publisher that I had left, and have decided to post new ones such as this with my on-line followers.