USS Cousteau: 1x02 - Desperate Measures
ADULT CONTENT - FOR PEOPLE OVER 18 YEARS OF AGE
Image generated by ChatGPT and Luis Fernández (feel free to use)
Year 2267.
Bridge of the United Star Ship (NCC-6901-B) Cousteau.
—The destruction of the USS Cousteau and the near-total annihilation of its crew, with the exception of a few members chosen as your sex slaves, if we do not hand over the Orionan ambassador before the next rotation?
—Exactly —nods the Klingonian warrior Lutessa of the House of Ko’taak, arms crossed and looking anything but friendly. Well, the face she always wears. To her right, her twin sister Kalutta lasciviously licks a ceremonial sword with her modified forked tongue—. Despite your primate brain, Captain Kock, you have understood everything at the first go without needing a diagram to explain it.
—Dear Captain Lutessa, what makes you think the USS Cousteau is incapable of defending itself against your threats and of telling you and your crew to fuck off back to the filthy planetoid from which you’ve run away from your husband?
» I’m sure, right now, your hunk is pretty pissed off that you’re not cooking his dinner or warming his bed. The USS Cousteau surrenders to no one! You need to get laid. My balls are bigger —replies James T. Kock, conspicuously clutching the crotch of his tight trousers and seeking a knowing glance from the Vulvanian T’Poya, the head of security and responsible for the logical and tactical analysis of missions.
The impassive Vulvanian tilts her pointed-eared head in a clear gesture of disapproval.
—You’re less funny than the Vorg collective in a joke contest. You’re in no position to negotiate anything. Your defence systems have been down since the first attack by the IKS Ruv’Inoq an asterical hour ago —growls Kalutta, stepping forward in front of the bridge’s holocamera, baring fangs and firm, tanned breasts alike—. You have six hours left to decide the fate of your ship, Captain Kock. Long live the House of Ko’taak!
Meeting room.
Ten minutes later.
When Captain Kock enters the meeting room of the USS Cousteau, First Officer Wilhemina Stryker, the Vulvanian T’Poya, the expert in linguistics and alien races Byte, Chief Engineer Montgomery Full Monty Smutty and Ambassador Zareena are waiting for him, seated at a large, immaculate, elongated central table.
Much to the captain’s chagrin, the glowing screens embedded in the walls constantly display information, tactical data and far from encouraging real-time readings from the starship. Such is the display of lights and colours that the briefing room resembles a cheap brothel on the pleasure planet Orgamus Prime more than a command centre.
—How the hell did they find out we were defensively naked, T’Poya? —barks the captain, slamming both hands and part of his package down on the table—. This borders on professional negligence!
—Captain, I would remind you that lowering the defence systems to minimum security levels, to save energy for making an espresso, was a direct order from you this morning — replies the officer without batting an eyelid and without a hint of emotion.
—Mine? Well, whatever. The Ko’taak sisters knew the exact timing of the maintenance, they attacked us and gave us a proper thrashing. And what does that fact prove to us? —Kock stands up and walks behind his officers, surreptitiously rubbing his hardened best part against the nape of the seated women’s necks—. No one? What a load of incompetence. We’ve got a spy among our crew!
—Byte, I want a comprehensive log of all calls, messages and outgoing data traffic from the ship larger than an emoji from the last 24 stellar hours. The Klingonians not only knew when we were at our most vulnerable, but also exactly where to focus their attacks.
—Captain, there was a massive unusual data transfer between decks eight and ten, about four stellar hours before the incident —the android interrupts, tapping rapidly on his tablet—. I’m downloading the file names right now.
Hot cadets of the Genital Academy, Officer and Whore, The First Mission of the USS Boobtanic, The Ship of End-of-the-World Pleasure, Quick and Dirty III, Insatiable Landorian Bitches Eat Cocks Two at a Time, Triple Anal Explosion, The Attack of the Libido Dwarves…
—Enough —interrupts Officer James T. Kock, grumpily snatching the tablet from his expert in linguistics, alien races and other nonsense he can never remember—, on this gossip-mongering ship, one cannot have secrets.
—The young nurse, Yasutake, was in my quarters —in accordance with the twentieth directive— to alleviate my high blood pressure using the standard medical procedure. I would remind you that the aforementioned directive states very clearly that the captain’s physical and mental health must be safeguarded at all times.
It´s look like that the final lashes of my my super mega cumshot I gave the nurse between her legs must have activated – unintentionally, of course – the Starflix pay-per-view platform. Byte, clear deck eight, my cabin, and anything to do with me, and get on with it, for fuck’s sake!
—Regardless of the liberal interpretation of the twentieth directive, the twelve uninterrupted hours of porn viewing that followed, and the fact that we still do not know the identity of the possible spy, we have more urgent matters to attend to and decide on in the coming hours, Captain —First Officer Wilhemina Stryker declares wearily—. I advocate finding an intelligent diplomatic solution that does not involve handing Ambassador Zareena over to the vile terrorists.
—We’ll say that Ambassador Zareena was never on the USS Cousteau, or better still, that we beamed her to another starship over twelve rotations ago! That we were merely a decoy vessel!
—Captain Kock, the diplomat was on the bridge when the Klingonian bird-of-prey contacted us, and the Ko’taak sisters saw her sitting beside you. Don’t you remember? First —Officer Stryker corrects him, incredulous, with a long sigh and rolling her eyes.
—We’ll send a coded signal to a nearby Federation ship to come to our aid—exclaims the captain, as if he’d discovered gunpowder with his brilliant idea.
—The nearest starship, the USS Maxifhoulopolus, is more than fifteen rotations from our current position, and any distress signal would undoubtedly be intercepted by the IKS Ruv’Inoq —dismisses the synthetic Byte—. We have no interest in escalating the situation further.
—Bloody hell, it’s nothing but trouble with you lot. You bloody killjoys! We’ll say Zareena’s died! That we had to cremate her in a hurry and jettison her remains straight into a sun after the flighty Orionan caught a terrible sexually transmitted disease!
—Excuse me? —replies Zareena, annoyed, her skin taking on a more olive hue than usual—. Can’t you think of anything better, Captain? This is nonsense. I am bound to the Federation, my planet and my people. I will surrender. It’s clear that you and your crew are more short on ideas than a bald Klingonian in an Earth hairdresser’s.
—There is a short-term alternative we could use to initiate negotiations with Lutessa and Kalutta with some chance of success —T’Poya interjects impassively—. The fact that the sisters boast and publicise their criminal activities so zealously will eventually backfire on them.
—Oh really? And what the hell is that brilliant plan? —replies the captain, slumping heavily into his seat. His uniform is incredibly tight, particularly the trouser leg. His Deltanian seamstress is going to have a fit; well, to be honest, her race is as bald as a gambling-addicted Pheringi and there’s little to scrape together. On second thought, he’ll have to give her a proper seeing-to as a lesson. We must be professional… always. It’s the only thing that separates us from the beasts.
Pic generated by Werner Tragbauer
Year 1702. Port of Singapore.
Ko’taak House Bastion.
—The ladies of the house will receive you shortly,’ the eunuch —uglier than a reptilian with polka dots and stripes— tells the entourage comprising Captain Kock and Zareena.
After biting into (and losing half his teeth on) the five hundred eight-real coins —the essential payment to request an audience with the feared pirates— the doorman growls and invites them to wait in a room of intimidating shadows and suffocating steam.
The Bathhouse, headquarters of the legendary plunderers of the Chinese seas, is situated in the bustling port of Singapore. Surrounded by damp, narrow alleys lazily lit by red lanterns, the gasps of pleasure from the concubines in its streets mingle daily with the death rattles of less fortunate merchants.
—I don’t quite understand the logic behind my having to stand in for Lieutenant T’Poya in this simulation, Captain —the ambassador reiterates, her clothes clinging to her splendid olive skin, the stifling heat outlining her erect nipples, hard as peach pits. The bushy patch of her emerald-coloured sex seems to breathe beneath her dress, gasping for air. She smells entirely of freshly cut grass.
—The three previous simulations have been a disaster. Although the holodeck has managed to recreate the sisters’ personalities and their negotiating style with great precision, the presence of the Vulvanian woman has brought me nothing but trouble —explains Kock, wiping his beaded brow—. Her harsh temperament and lack of diplomatic finesse have been a considerable disadvantage. I had to abort the negotiations when I realised we were getting nowhere. On the other hand, her actual presence will provide that authentic nuance impossible to replicate by the holocamera that we need to find the most suitable way to negotiate and get out of this quagmire. Blimey, it’s hot here!
—I see… but why recreate the negotiations with the sisters in an era so far removed from the present? Wasn’t there another option…?
The captain cuts short her musings with a curt ‘no’ and, visibly annoyed, insists that he knows exactly what he’s doing. Zareena remains silent, true to her diplomatic experience accumulated over so many years, and for the first time notices the bruises and contusions criss-crossing the captain’s face and his obvious limp.
—He’s probably tried to be funny with House Ko’taak and they’ve given him a proper beating, right from the cradle — the Orionan thinks to herself with a smile.
Shortly afterwards, the servant returns in a foul mood and shoves them into the presence of Lutessa and Kalutta.
—Captain James Tiberius Kock, what a pleasant surprise. Have you come to hand over the ambassador of the British East India Company to us, as demanded, or do you have some other idea that might be to our liking? —Lutessa asks, licking a chicken drumstick and spitting the bone onto the table—. We understand that your galleon, the USS Cousteau, anchored off the coast, is in a very poor state following our encounter.
Kalutta endorses his sister’s speech with a loud, guttural laugh.
—And what a gracious gesture that the renowned and beautiful Ambassador Zareena honours us with her presence this time, unlike on previous occasions.
—This time? —protests Zareena indignantly in a low voice, losing her composure—. Do these whores remember the previous simulations? Didn’t I abort the earlier re-enactments as soon as they went off the rails and restart the re-enactments from the beginning? What chance of success are we going to have if your marvellous past appearances ended with you getting beaten up and left lame?
Kalutta, oblivious to the ambassador’s musings, stands up, downs a litre of blood wine in one gulp, smashes the bottle over the head of a soldier passing by, belches and shouts, ‘Well then? Are we going to fuck or not?’
Later.
With Kalutta’s shaggy mop of hair pressed into her face, begging to be licked, and Zareena riding him as if there were no tomorrow, Captain Kock is exhausted.
—Captain Kock, I still don’t understand what added value to the negotiations will come from me being fucked for the third time in front of the Ko’taak sisters —gasps the sweaty ambassador, her arms stretched out across the officer’s chest. The loud plops of her thighs, sticky from the Iowa-born officer’s multiple cumshots, accompany every thrust.
—Shut the fuck up, Whoreena —retorts Kock, driving his cock right down to the base of his balls into the Orionan’s ravaged vulva—. I’ve prevented more interstellar diplomatic conflicts with a good hard fuck than Captain Jean-Luc Ricard has with all his chattering and nagging aboard the USS Elderprise.
—Less talking and more sucking my sister’s pussy —Lutessa calls out, legs spread a few metres away, masturbating her thick labia with a huge ladinium-coated sceptre—, or else I’ll be forced to dish out her customary four corrective slaps.
Unlike on previous occasions, the good captain deigns to warn of his imminent ejaculation this time and orders Kalutta to come closer. Once both are on their knees before him and Zareena is gripping his testicles from behind, he grabs both sisters by the nape of the neck.
His cock, swollen like a faulty piping bag, swells one last time and finally releases —to the cry of ‘Long live the first directive!’— its load onto the faces of the most notorious members of the House of Ko’taak.
The officer’s thick, copious semen skilfully winds its way —as if it were the ancient game of the marble maze— through the bony creases of the sisters’ foreheads and drips down to their outstretched tongues.
—There you have my terms, you whores.
—And what about me? I’ve been left to fend for myself —snorts Kalutta, her face and dark breasts covered in dangling semen as if a confetti piñata had been blown up at close range with a photon torpedo—. Fucking Galactic Federation! Always the same: they promise you the world and then give you tarrg shit!”
—Well, just finger yourself —replies the captain, wiping his cock with Zareena’s silky hair as if it were a common towel.
T’Poya’s voiceover brings the simulation to a close and asks the captain if he now has all the information needed to steer the negotiations in the real world.
—Ah, yes, yes. In the end, I’m not going to make use of all this and I’ll trust my instincts, —replies Kock, his cock still dripping—. Activate the parameters restricting the use of the holodecks immediately. We can’t allow them to turn into a brothel for the crew.
This whole charade is, in reality, a little treat Kock has treated himself to at Zareena’s expense. Having realised he wasn’t getting a single bloody thing out of the tricorder simulation of the Klingonian women’s modus operandi —that, and the fact he’d been beaten to a pulp the moment he opened his mouth in the recreation— he wasn’t about to miss the chance to have his way with the ambassador’s tight-lipped assistant.
It’s all the same, whether it’s banging an energy field that simulates resistance or the real-life, busty, idiotic Orion woman. Who knows where it’ll end up.
Image generated by ChatGPT and Luis Fernández (feel free to use)
Bridge.
Later.
—USS Cousteau, time is up. Hand over Ambassador Zareena or face the consequences, —demands Kalutta over the holocam—. One life in exchange for many others. An easy and acceptable decision by the Galactic Federation’s antiquated standards, isn’t it?
A tense silence envelops the bridge. The gazes of First Officer Stryker and the rest of the officers are fixed on Kock, who, head bowed, smoothes his jacket.
T’Poya raises an eyebrow and tilts her head curiously. Byte looks up impassively from his tablet. Zareena sighs nervously, and Kock hasn’t a fucking clue how to get out of this.
He doesn’t know what to do. On the one hand, he could hand over the diplomat and no one could blame him for it; on the other hand, he could give the whole bloody Ko’taak House the finger and refuse. If he has to stand his ground and let them all die, then so be it. It’s a sacrifice he can accept. After all, he’ll do it with a clear conscience.
—Captain Kalutta, as Commanding Officer of the USS Cousteau...
—IKS Ruv’Inoq, this is the USS Falstaff —Captain Kalus breaks the silence with his deep, manly, panty-dropping voice. Our target acquisition systems have them locked on; any hostile manoeuvre against the USS Cousteau will be met with an immediate response. I advise you to cease all hostile action. Furthermore, another starship, the USS Maxifhoulopolus, is en route to your position.
The Klingon insult Hab SoSlI’ Quch!* is the ship’s only response before it activates its cloaking systems and vanishes.
The bridge erupts in relieved jubilation. Zareena cannot contain her joy and embraces the captain. He takes the opportunity to grope her, touch her hair, and take a tuft of pistachio-coloured pubic hair as a trophy for his private collection.
—Captain Kock, I surrender to your leadership and strategic skills. I have been a thoughtless and utterly inept pain in the arse for failing to see through your master plan —confesses First Officer Stryker to her superior—. Tell me, how did you know the USS Falstaff would come to our aid?
—Wilhelmina Stryker, you still have a lot to learn —and a lot of cocks to suck— before you can take command of a Starship, replies the captain. I’ll tell you all about it in private one of these days. Get everything ready to welcome Captain Kalus, his first officer Rakal Zol and his engineering officer Monroe!
*Your mum’s got a smooth forehead!
Captain Kock’s private quarters.
Much later.
—My dear Ludvig Kalus, I haven’t the faintest idea why you were in the quadrant, but you’ve saved my arse. I beg you, cover my back. I don’t know, say I put a distress beacon in the containers we cleared of rubbish, or something like that. Remember how I got you out of that brothel on the resort planet Risotada before your second ex-wife caught you with that vetazoid woman. You owe me!
—Don’t even mention it, James. What are friends for, if not for that? It’s a done deal, —replies the blond officer, clasping his right hand with Kock’s—. Will Ambassador Zareena be joining us shortly?”
Kock nods and pours himself another drink. He’s a bit tipsy; the last few hours haven’t exactly been lacking in excitement.
Kalus, satisfied with his friend James’s assurance, places his right hand once more on the pert arse of Monroe, his Landorian engineering officer, and thrusts his knotty Nordic cock with all his might into the depths of the young woman’s tight indigo arse.
Monroe says nothing, her jaw dislocated as she licks Kock’s vigorous cock. She is more than grateful to Kalus for being able to skip years of earning her stripes in the chain of command and fast-track her promotion to first officer.
Epilogue. Lower deck.
The spy types stealthily on a communications panel and transmits the reasons for the failure of the assigned mission to his employer in encrypted form.
The unexpected appearance of the USS Falstaff has been a difficult, though not impossible, setback to anticipate. He assures him it will not happen again. He will be more cautious from now on, paying even closer attention to starships on covert missions in the quadrant. He may well come across such information and will make use of it.
His employer replies instantly that he will tolerate no further failures and that they have invested too much time and cunning in infiltrating him onto the USS Cousteau.
The spy closes the panel and, before heading up to the upper decks, once again transforms his body into that of one of the crew’s most respected members.
Space: the final frontier. These are the voyages of the Starship Cousteau. Its five-year mission: to explore strange new worlds, to seek out new life and new civilisations, and to boldly go where no one has gone before.
The USS Cousteau will return with new adventures!
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Image generated by ChatGPT and Luis Fernández (feel free to use)
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