No Strings Attached: Mated Fates, #1

Copyright © 2023 by Chromatic Cat LLC

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The story, all names, characters, and incidents portrayed in this production are fictitious. No identification with actual persons (living or deceased), places, buildings, and products is intended or should be inferred.

Cover by Maizy Fell

Image credit: mcornelius

For Mr. F, without whom this book would not exist.

I know this is where I say, I love you, which is undeniably true. And I know that someone writing in this genre shouldn’t admit to a distaste for public displays and professions, but I guess by now you’re used to me always contradicting myself, because—like Uncle Walt—I am large and contain multitudes.

No, not Disney. Whitman.

Contents

Prologue: FML

One: Runts Do Shit Jobs

Two: Intergalactic Assholes

Three: Call Me Trak

Four: She’s Gone Feral

Five: The Consistency and Persistence of Terrible Things is a Balm on the Soul

Six: Mister Beastly?

Seven: You’re a Very Earnest Otterman

Eight: Little She-Beast

Nine: I Assumed You Had a Smarter Plan Than That

Ten: Say Goodbye to Your Testicles

Eleven: So, Do We Own This Asteroid Now?

Twelve: Why Don’t I Sleep in Here with You?

Thirteen: A Little No-Strings-Attached Alien Sex

Fourteen: Widely Regarded as the Galaxy’s Greatest Lover

Fifteen: Your Orgasm Button

Sixteen: Queen of Oz

Seventeen: I Should Like to Be Next, If Possible

Eighteen: Anyone Else Think This Is an Orgy Ship?

Nineteen: Self-Perpetuating Doubts

Twenty: Look! Panties!

Twenty-One: One Trallian Is As Good As the Next

Twenty-Two: I’m Not Going To Stop Until You Beg Me

Twenty-Three: Your Mom and Dad Don’t Sound Very Nice, Steev

Twenty-Four: If It’s Naked They Want, It’s Naked They’ll Get!

Twenty-Five: I Hate Being in Space

Twenty-Six: We Need to Come Out Swinging

Twenty-Seven: I See We Have the Same Taste in Shoes

Twenty-Eight: He Ain’t Gonna Like You and You Ain’t Gonna Like Him

Twenty-Nine: I Take It That Things Didn’t Go as Planned?

Thirty: She Has a Knack for Being in the Very Center of Every Shitstorm

Thirty-One: Dicks Abound

Epilogue: Let Me See You Strut

Epilogue, Too: Extend an Invitation To Her and the King

Author's Note

Also By

About the Author

Prologue: FML

Violet was frozen in place, looking up at the large, shimmering patch of empty sky hovering above the forest of evergreens. She had just made up her mind to stop gawking and start running—putting those expensive hiking sandals to good use—when she felt her feet lifting off the ground and started slowly ascending toward the shimmering patch.

Her first thought, fuck my life, was also her second…and her third.

One: Runts Do Shit Jobs

Obviously, you get the shit duty as the newest arrival and the smallest.

…

Um, what? Bahbi eventually asked. He had been looking into the bank of ten monitors, many of them pointed into the cage of an extremely terrifying, extremely alien creature. He had lost track of what Alved had been saying, though he had heard the condescension in his tone, and now saw Alved’s whiskers twitching in annoyance at his obvious distraction.

Runts do shit jobs. Got it? Alved spat in a patronizing tone.

Sure, what else is new? Bahbi said and shrugged, as his gaze returned to the monitors. Speaking without turning his head back to Alved’s frowning face, he asked, What’s mine this time? while thinking please don’t let it be in there, please don’t let it be in there, please don’t—

Solo night cycle watch. Qlu has commanded us to keep it cold in there to keep those fuckers calm, except for the reptilian in the first cage. That bastard has a heated pad for sleeping, but it’s kept just warm enough to keep him alive, so he never gets off it. We’re maintaining a 10-hour day and 12-hour night cycle on this asteroid, with night cycle kept 10 degrees colder.

Bahbi tore his gaze from the screens back to Alved, Will I need to go in there? He couldn’t help glancing back at the monitor with the furry Garoxian and shuddering.

Only if one those assholes looks like they’re doing something to hurt themselves or each other. Your one and only job is to protect Qlu’s investment until the auction. I’ll take you in there tomorrow and give you the lay of the land. Tonight, you can get your gear and rack issued, then start your duty tomorrow. I’m doing this overnight instead of you because we have the occupant of the last cage coming in. Tomorrow, show up here for your first overnight watch and don’t forget to wear your warm slops, or you’ll be fucking sorry for 12 miserable hours.

With that, Alved turned away with a swish of his thick tail and Bahbi took it as a signal to leave the control room. He was almost at the door when Alved said Hey! and Bahbi turned back to him.

You better get someone to show you how to use the shock sticks before you come back tomorrow.

Two: Intergalactic Assholes

Violet knew unequivocally that her parents’ esoteric classic rock record collection had saved her life. Or at the very least, her sanity.

She came awake inside her stasis pod when she felt it move. For the first goddamn time in three weeks. Probably three weeks. It was impossible to know for sure when strapped into a motherfucking statis pod for what felt like all of recorded time. But she had counted her longest periods of sleep and was up to 45; assuming she slept for long periods twice a day, she guessed it had been three weeks. Also, she had gone through her entire mental catalog of Dylan, The Who, The Rolling Stones, Yes, Led Zeppelin, and Bowie, and was currently working her way through Pink Floyd.

The first several days had been so panic filled she had barely slept. Waking up after her abduction, strapped to a gel pad, with a respirator on and IVs, tubes up both her hoohah and wazoo, and closed up in a coffin-sized box…well, there had been panic. Lots of it.

Buried alive. Entombed. Unable to move even an inch. She’d thought her heart would explode.

But it had eventually dissipated, which was weird. Apparently, the body can’t just keep freaking out when it becomes obvious that the situation is ongoing, maybe even permanent. So, after a few days, her panic had transformed into fear, which she thought was a very legitimate response to having been motherfucking abducted by the motherfucking Greys while hiking in the motherfucking Olympic forest and kept in a motherfucking coffin.

That fear had led her to imagine all sorts of scenarios she might be in for, the least terrifying of which was being butchered and prepared for dinner. That sucked ass for sure, but it beat all the sex slavery scenarios by a wide margin. And really, those were the two most likely options, weren’t they? It wasn’t very probable that she had been grabbed and thrown into this box to serve as an honored representative of the planet Earth in some council of intergalactic assholes.

Given that—the unlikelihood of her serving as Ambassador Vi and the likelihood of her becoming just the wrapping around some very abused orifices—she had realized that she would probably have to find a way to kill herself if her death wasn’t automatically a part of whatever was in store for her. In the meantime, she had played her parents’ records in her head. Every note, every beat, every scratch on the vinyl. If she realized that she had forgotten any element, any track, any musical transition, she started over. She constructed stages, bands, orchestral sections, lines of backup singers in her mind and let ‘em rip, starting with Highway 61 Revisited.

Yeah, Vi, how does it feel?

And at some paradoxical mid-point in the interminable, unending, infinity of time, her fear had transformed into…what? Something like a small kernel of acceptance that her end was nigh surrounded by a nearly bottomless fury. Blackest rage. The kind that whispers, Sure, I’ll die in the end, but I’ll take as many of you miserable sons of bitches with me as I can. She was going to be the wrath of God.

Three: Call Me Trak

Bahbi grabbed the slops that were shoved at him by the snarling male across the counter. No one except Alved, who had to train him to be his relief, had greeted him or exchanged names, but Bahbi expected that since the whole facility was staffed by Trallians. His kind valued each other by position and size. As the smallest here, he was the least valued, even though none of the Trallians here were valued at all back home. If they had been, they wouldn’t be here.

But he was curious to learn the names of some of the Trallians around him, if only to see if any names ended in the ee sound which signified the runt of the litter. If any had that signifier, maybe it would be possible for him to make a friend. The first friend of his life.

Walking toward the rows of bunks, he saw they were stacked five bunks high in a cavern-style room that was about 30 feet high. Ten rows of five bunks meant there were 50 Trallian guards, assuming the asteroid was fully staffed. Trallians were the only race he had seen so far among the staff, probably because they were cheap and easy to acquire. And, as typical, those Trallians hanging around in their bunks refused to look at him or acknowledge him; well, if no one talked to him today, he’d have to ask Alved tomorrow about the races on the station.

Still standing in place gazing up at the racks of beds, he heard, Get to your bunk, runt! as a rough hand shoved forward. Turning, five larger males stood in various postures of menace and amusement. Bahbi turned back toward the bunks to match the number sewn into his slops with the numbers posted to the bunks. He saw his at the top of the second to last row and started forward.

Climbing the ladder mounted to the side of the bunks, Bahbi reached the top and pulled himself on to the thin mattress. The frame of the bunks extended one level above and was ringed by hooks where he could hang his slops. Resting on his knees, he hung the gear up in a semi-circle, enclosing the exposed sides of his bunk to give the feel of a little sleeping compartment like the one he’d had back home. He left one section open by the ladder and one section open by his head, to keep from feeling too claustrophobic.

Hey, what’s your name? That came from his right.

Bahbi, he told the Trallian who had appeared in the top bunk of the row to his right. What’s yours?

Trakluved.

Bahbi gave a deep nod, acknowledging the other’s position in the middle of his litter and, thus, superiority over him. I thought top bunks were for runts. What are you doing up there?

Staying away from the superiority/inferiority complexes of these other pricks around us, he said, whiskers twitching in either amusement or annoyance.

Bahbi wouldn’t know for sure unless he got to know Trakluved better. Although he knew that he had never met anyone like Trakluved before, so it was possible he might never understand him. His one statement had set him out as wholly singular in Bahbi’s entire existence up until now. Not having a clue how to reply, he simply nodded again to acknowledge the words.

Trakluved asked, Which city are you from?

Goalia. You?

Sterm.

Bahbi nodded again, feeling like his head was on a spring. My litter’s warrior won a competition in Sterm. My mother presented the video footage of the victory each night for a year when we were young. I thought it was a very beautiful city. I often admired the view of the mountains ringing the arena during the viewing each night.

Yes, the views are nice, but it’s cold—freeze your cock off cold. I liked the warmer temperatures of Goalia when I was there looking for an apprenticeship, although the population density meant that my chance of success was very small. Still, even though I failed, I can still recall all the tastes of the endless variations of Goalian street curries, and that’s its own type of success. Trakluved leaned back on the mattress with a wistful look on his face.

Bahbi smiled a little; he felt the same wistful pang at the thought of his favorite street curries. In what area were you seeking an apprenticeship?

Any area. It was during the one-year grace period. I failed and was shipped out at 15.

Here?

Laughing, Trakluved said, Hell no. I’m 27 now and have had 10 placements. You?

I’m 25 and this is my first. My litter dispersed at 15 like everyone’s, but my mother was heavy with her next litter then and selected me to stay for their first 10 years. We couldn’t afford staff, so my mother selected one from every litter to do all the jobs necessary until the next litter reached 10. From 10 to 15, the littermates themselves learn the jobs and compete for the role, so I was no longer needed.

Fuck me, but that’s a sweet deal. Always the runt?

No. Whoever was the most skilled in doing all the jobs. Everyone was trained and evaluated. Bahbi paused for a moment, before adding, almost unnecessarily, Everyone except the warrior, of course. Or the female.

Of course. Trakluved sneered. Everyone except the goddamned warrior. Or the female.

Bahbi was taken aback, then paused, and thought for a moment. Smiling sheepishly, he asked, So, Trakluved, do you think you can show me how to operate the shock sticks?

Grinning back, he replied, Call me Trak.

Four: She’s Gone Feral

Cut off in the middle of Nobody Home, Vi saw her look of surprise mirrored on the Grey when the lid of her statis pod opened. And that was…something, to say the least. Without eyes that could widen, or eyebrows that could raise, she wasn’t sure how her mind was interpreting the expression as one of surprise until she made conscious note of the open mouth gape. Her mouth was the same as it had been for nearly a month, crammed full of respirator, but she could feel her eyes bugging out of her head, and it felt like her eyebrows were in her hairline. Her whole body had stiffened at the sound of the lid’s seal being broken, followed by the current sight of a Hollywood movie alien leaning into her pod and staring at her, dumbfoundedly. Then, she heard a conversation take place inside her head.

What the fuck, Gagnor?! She’s awake!

What do you mean?

What do you mean, what do you mean? She’s fucking AWAKE. Did you forget to administer the stasis gas? Has she been awake this whole fucking time? Qlu’s going to kill us if we’ve damaged her.

No, Flot, I didn’t forget. I’m not an imbecile.

Without pausing to marvel at the miracle of telepathic communication, Vi instinctively tried to send a mental scream at them: GET ME THE FUCK OUT OF THIS POD. NOW. I will rip every limb and appendage off o--

Suddenly, her mind was filled with buzzing, and she lost the ability to even think words on her own, much less project them into the minds of these aliens. They had blocked her transmission somehow. She started to think of the most ghastly, violent imagery she could, trying to push it from her mind into theirs. Images of her running nakedly amok through the ship, ripping their heads off their bodies with her bare hands, slashing through their torsos with a giant hunting knife, feeding their long fingers into their decapitated heads, painting her name onto the walls of their ship in green blood: VI WAS HERE, MOTHERFUCKERS.

It occurred to her that she very well might have become a little deranged during her interminable captivity, because she intrinsically knew that she would follow through on each and every one of those images if only given the tiniest of chances.

Gagnor and Flot both took a step back away from the pod as if they suddenly understood that, too. Apparently, they were getting the visuals she was trying to push into their minds. Or maybe it was that Vi was making a strangled screaming noise around the tubes, a vocalization of purest animal rage that she only then became aware of, so it was possible that they were responding to the sound, instead. If her limbs weren’t so tightly restrained, they would have been thrashing. As it was, she could feel her muscles tensing and bunching as she pushed against the restraints even though they were digging deeply into her body.

Gagnor looked at Flot in terror, and Flot stared back angrily. Close the fucking lid and activate the statis gas now, you imbecile…she’s gone feral!

As the lid closed, Vi shut her eyes and restarted The Wall with In the Flesh? exploding within her mind.

Five: The Consistency and Persistence of Terrible Things is a Balm on the Soul

QUICK REACTION FORCE TO THE CARGO BAY. NOW!

Trak had been showing him the finer points of shock stick operations when the intercom bellowed. He hurriedly shoved the stick into Bahbi’s webbed hand and took off towards the training area exit.

Gotta run, can’t wait to see what the ruckus might be! He flashed an impish smile back at Bahbi as he went through the door.

Bahbi smiled back and shouted, Good luck!

Then he simply stood there, looking down at the stick, and sighed. Now he could effectively deliver immeasurable pain to one of the poor creatures in the cages. That’s…just…fucking…great, he thought and then laughed a little because his thoughts sounded more like Trak’s than his own. On the other hand, adding Trak’s cynicism to the sentiment had somehow lessened the weight on his heart at the thought of causing pain to another living creature.

Shit, I’m not cut out for this work, he thought and sighed again.

A red flashing light started strobing in the room and the intercom boomed again: QRF ALTERNATES TO THE CARGO BAY, NOW! RIGHT FUCKING NOW!

Bahbi looked around the empty training area nervously and then double-timed it to the bunk room. He didn’t want to be alone in this room if things had gone sideways on this asteroid, and the hysteria in the intercom voice certainly suggested that things had.

About an hour later, 20 disheveled Trallians started filing back into the bunk room. A few minutes after that, Trak appeared sitting cross-legged in the adjacent top bunk with a swollen eye and a grin on his face.

Did I miss chow?

I have no idea, how do you know when it’s chow time? More importantly, what the hell happened in the cargo bay?

Our final captive arrived. Female. No fur except on her head and cunt. No sharp teeth or claws, either, but she packs a wallop. Trak grinned.

Did she do that to you? Bahbi asked, pointing at Trak’s eye.

No, that’s from the elbow of one of our esteemed colleagues. It took seven of us to grab her and carry her into the cage. My hands still smell like her, because my grip was up at the top of her right thigh. Wanna smell some alien female? Trak held out his hand, but Bahbi just shook his head.

Trak shrugged and gave a your loss look, I don’t think she seriously damaged any of the Trallians in the bay. She was only hell-bent on getting to either of the two Ulus that brought her here. I overheard, and here he tapped the side of his head with his index finger to indicate the Ulus’ telepathic communication, "one of them explaining to Qlu that she was immune to the stasis gas. So, she made the whole trip here in a stasis pod, with the whole mess of tubes, lines, and respirator in her, wide a-fucking-wake." Trak’s face showed amusement and amazement.

No. That’s…that’s…no. How long was the trip? Bahbi was horrified; he couldn’t imagine anyone surviving that way for more than a few days.

Just under a month.

Oh, sweet mother of all things holy, Bahbi thought. Did she calm down in the cage?

Trak waggled a finger at him. Don’t rush the story, boy. I’m a QRF alternate, so I was just hanging back and watching until we were officially ordered in. From what I saw and from what I overheard from the cargo team and from the surviving Ulu explaining to Qlu, they had opened the pod before arriving to make sure their merchandise was intact. That’s when they realized that she was awake and assumed that they had forgotten to use the gas when they grabbed her. So, those geniuses then closed the pod up again and activated the gas, right before arriving. When they opened the pod on arrival, everything seemed normal, and she seemed to be asleep. After they removed her tubes and restraints so that the regular cargo team could lift her out and place her in her cage, she attacked.

She was faking it?

Yep.

What did she do?

She let herself be lifted out of the pod by the cargo team and then launched herself out of their arms at the Ulus. She grabbed a surgical cutting tool off a nearby table of instruments and started slashing and cutting pieces off the Ulu closest to her. It was brutal. I saw what was left of him lying in a corner. Apparently, she did that in just a matter of seconds, then got the other Ulu in a headlock while he was standing around gaping and pointed that cutter into his ear cavity. That’s when the first QRF team was called in with the almighty Qlu in tow.

Oh fuck, no.

"Oh fuck, yes. Qlu started trying to talk to her. Apparently, she’s worth potentially more credits in the auction than the other nine…except maybe the Garoxian. Qlu was talking to her like you talk to a skittish wilg, and her reply was to smash her elbow into the back of the head of the Ulu she was holding hostage, which dropped him on the floor. She then grabbed him by his ankles and swung him in a full arc before throwing that poor bastard at Qlu."

"Damn. They’re not very heavy, but still."

Right. She lost her weapon at that point and the primary QRF tackled her. It took all ten of them in a pile to get her controlled. They called us in to grab a hold of her while she was restrained by all those bodies, while Qlu hauled his fat ass off the floor and proceeded to verbally flay the surviving Ulu.

So, you successfully got her into the cage?

Sure. Well…there were a few narrow misses by the claws of the Garoxian next to her once we made it to the cage. She screamed, bucked, and thrashed the whole way into the holding area. Really riled up the other captives.

Do you know where she’s from?

No clue, never seen anything the likes of her before. If she’s what the females of her world are like, I’m amazed that the males can get in and out for breeding with their cocks still attached.

"I just hope I can survive night cycle watch with my cock still attached."

Bahbi braced himself heading toward the control room for his first watch. He had donned his baggy prison-style coverall and slung the bag of kibble crosswise across his shoulders, and he now carried his insufferable shock stick in his right hand.

Earlier, Trak had helped him figure out chow. Feeding was done once per day cycle, with a couple of Trallians wheeling a cart carrying a big bin of kibble. You showed up at the cart with your sack, had your sack number scanned, and got a big scoopful dumped in, allowing you to eat whenever or wherever.

He and Trak had both walked back to their bunks, munching, and Bahbi had said, It’s nice to know that kibble tastes like pounded and dehydrated fish assholes everywhere you go. Very comforting. He was increasingly feeling the pull of a very unfamiliar urge. An urge to simply be himself and speak his mind around Trak, rather than behaving in the ingratiating way