Chapter 8

Close your eye orbs, and focus your thoughts. Imagine, if you will, the most insurmountable, impossible thing in the universe. What did you picture? Climbing Mount Everest? Curing cancer? A Star Trek film without the word “remodulate” in the script? Having two lesbians realize that they’re in love and not just really close friends who practice kissing sometimes? Whatever it is that you are imagining, surely, you can begin to picture ways to get around it.

Ice picks and those climbing people who live in the mountain place (I want to say ... Sherpas? Is it Sherpas? Normally, I’d google this, but I don’t have Google.) Some kind of massive science lab, with beakers and shit and maybe a very smart sexy blond scientist who you can fall in love with so the audience doesn’t get bored with curing cancer. Locking the two lesbians in a room with a box of chocolates. Defenestrating Rick Berman.

And yet here I was, facing a task that was significantly less impossible than any of those, and I could see no path forward, nothing to do but to stand there and look like an idiot as I looked at my horse, which was standing placidly, occasionally robo-twitching its robo-tail and robo-flicking its robo-ear.

“Do you need help?” Ra murmured behind me.

“I know how to horse get!” I hissed, blushing as I looked at Ra, then glanced over at the others. Lord Thompson and Sir Starfellow had both arrived with their James – and no, neither had nicknames, or did they seem particularly enthused to be here. They stood at a distance and watched as their masters swung up onto their horses, while Amelia chatted with my Mary.

“And you left your Maria behind?” Mary asked.

“Well, uh ... actually...” Amelia coughed. “I ... am somewhat betwixt and between, when it comes to Marias.”

“Oh ... did yours, um...” Mary paused, wringing her hands a bit. “Leave?”

“Oh, no, no, no! She’s just ... indisposed ... chassies damage, you know?” Amelia asked, which produced a blank look from Mary. “ ... there was a bit of concentrated biological acid, sprayed from the mouth of a slavering starbeast, you see...” Amelia said.

“Are you sure you don’t need help?” Ra whispered to me.

“I can do it!” I said, blushing.

“It’s the butt plug, isn’t it?” Ra’s voice was very soft. My cheeks burned brightly and I grumbled under my breath.

“Stupid ... sexy Georgette...” I put my hands on the saddle and began to swing myself slooowly up, hissing and gasping as I felt my anus clench on the plug. Pleasure rocked along my spine and went right into my brain like a laser lance and my cock strained, trying to get hard, pressing against the soft interior of my chastity cage and I was so close to crying, you cannot even believe it. I somehow managed to keep from mewling or crying out or collapsing into a gibbering mess atop my hunting horse – but once I was there, I found there were new issues.

I was in my dress, but I had been shown how to ride saddleshare – or as I called it, how to ride BITCHES STYLE. It had to be in all caps, and bold. Well, you know what happens when you push your thighs together and clench your butt while sitting on a saddle, and also, you’re wearing a chastity cage around your girldick and you have a faintly buzzing vibrating sex toy in your ass? Well, uh, it means that every tiny movement of your robo-horse, from its simulated robo-breathing, to the faint robo-shifting of its robo-gyroscopes to keep it robo-balance ... all ... made...

Good.

Feels.

But too much good feels, as they ancient saying went, make Lucy into a gibbering whimpery mess of absolute disasterousness. I mean, like, more than I already was?

Amelia drew her horse to my left, while Lord Thompson drew his horse to my right, and Mary rode up on her horse, which was just a two wheeler, as opposed to my equine reconstruction. Mary waved at me. “Hello Mistress!” she said, her voice gay and excited and cheerful and happy and gay. I smiled at her, thinly, while Lord Thompson chuckled, softly.

“You do look quite a bit more comfortable sitting that way than before,” he said, genially. See, that was one nice thing about this universe. Yes, Lord Thompson was prolly evil and most likely had killed someone, and maybe had nefarious plans for the future of the universe. But he was still a pretty solid cis ally? Like, he wasn’t about to deadname me or trigger any transphobia in my brain, and he could still be evil as shit. Weird, huh? What a world!

Man, if there was a fourth wall, I’d be looking right out it, directly at some cis authors I remembered from back on Earth. Either that, or my brain was shorting out from the pressure of keeping a straight face and nodding while Thompson spoke and ... my butt plug started to buzz. It wasn’t very much, just a tiny whirr, but that translated into the mental equivalent of mashing my face into the keyboard during a Discord chat.

“Thanks,” I said, nodding. “S-So, uh ... does everyone have, ah ... is everyone ready? Amry, uh, the hounds? Good?” I nodded again as I saw Mary waving and holding up the small remote control device for operating the hounds. I coughed, sat up, then smiled. “ ... I’ve wanted to say this my whole ... afternoon!” I blushed, hastily correcting to try and sound like this wasn’t my first time saying this.

But.

Still.

I got a fierce, buzzing thrill, running along my body as I said: “Release the hounds!”

The fox hunt, I was told, was an ancient tradition, and involved hunting foxes. Remarkable revelation, that! But since modern Britons – and people of all cultures, actually, save for some recreationists back on Earth – thought that eating meat that came from actual animals was barbaric, and that riding horses that were actually horses was barbaric, and were pretty down on the term ‘barbaric’, too, it was kind of seen as racially pejorative ... so ... like, it was...

Okay, they were kinda against the term ‘uncivilized’ too, Georgette had pointed out that the Settler Americans called the Native Americans ‘uncivilized’, but the Native Americans had, like, democracy and shit back when we were still going thee thou thy that and off with the head King bullshit.

So, when asked, Georgette had simply sniffed and declared: It is simply Not Done.

And that is the biggest, most condemnatory thing one could throw at the olden style of fox hunting. Not. Done. Fortunately, the Industrious Revolution had allowed society to progress beyond the needs of actual red foxes and actual dogs and actual horses and brought into them mechanical simulacra that let you have all the fun of a fox hunt, with none of the actually hurting anyone but yourself if you fell off your horse!

Technology, used rationally for the betterment of mankind? What was this, a reasonably good episode of Star Trek?!

With the order given, Mary touched her control wand and the fox-drones were released from their cages. They looked exactly like foxes, if foxes glowed faintly and were semi-transparent projections around tiny repulsor-lift drones. And then as they shot off towards the wood, their tiny paws scampering, their feet leaping out as they sprang into the air and arced elegantly into the brush, the other drones were released. These were bigger and projected holographic hounds that started to bark and woof and charge after the foxes.

“Allyup!” I shouted, then twiched my reigns experimentally and my hunting horse was off like a shot, mechanical legs whirring and thumping. The riding of a horse, as it transpired, was fucking exhillerating. It was like being on a motorcycle, but that motorcycle was also trying to kill you every step. The trees swept past us as Amelia rode to my right, Lord Thompson falling behind. Amelia flashed a grin at me as she held her reigns, remaining low to her horse, which pulled ahead in a thunder of hooves and a spray of dirt and mud.

I, meanwhile, was trying to not pass out from terror and arousal (terousal!) as the horse’s cantering was doing stuff to my buttplug that was just ... illegal. Guhh, this had been a bad good idea! The horse’s metal hooves sent up flying cods of dirt behind me as held the reigns and tried to control the beast. And, to my irritation, I was not thrown immediately off the horse. Yes, I did have to focus and I did have to control it ... but it was still a machine horse, made by machines, for their precious humans. Meaning that it was actually doing lots of subtle shifting beneath me to try and keep me balanced, and it was weaving past trees and beside bushes that I was too kakhanded to evade.

What was this, some kind of open world RPG with procedurally scaling enemies?

I drew up alongside Amelia again, and we were keeping pace with the Woofer and Barkerson, who were the names I had given the holohounds. Amelia beamed at me, his cheeks flushed, glistening with sweat, and I wanted to lick her real bad. Instead, I smiled at her and nodded. “This is, ah, quite bracing, isn’t it?”

“I mean, compared to sailing a solar skiff through an enemy port?” she asked. “On a cutting out expedition? Eh. It is so so...”

“Oh my god!” I squealed, my legs kicking and making my robo-horse lean a bit to try and keep me from sliding right off his back. “Do you have a thrilling space boat story for every occasion?”

“Not every occasion,” Amelia said, cheerfully. “But when I was a young midshipman – maybe twelve years of age-”

“A baby!” I exclaimed.

“It is a noble tradition! You send your sons off to the navy, and they learn their figuring and math and lettering – and the midship is the safest part of the ship, don’t you know? Right betwixt and between the cisterns, near the bumboats...” Amelia said, cheerfully.

I giggled. “Bum-boat.”

Amelia narrowed his eyes at me. “ ... are you going to giggle when I mention that I spent this entire cutting out expedition on the poop deck?”

I giggled again, covering my face with my hand. “Poop.”

Amelia scoffed. “You absurd creature,” he said, shaking his head, his hair bouncing like a big pettable poof. “I never giggled at serving upon the poop deck.”

“Well, of course not,” I said, nodding seriously, trying to sound very serious and solemn. “Far be it from me to insult the storied naval traditions like the bumboat, the poop deck, the jibberly blakethen, the strumpet kerdoodle, or the mizzen mast!” I giggled again.

“A mizzen is real,” Amelia said.

I narrowed my eyes at her. “ ... are you having me on?”

“No, a mizzen mast is a real kind of mast,” she said.

“Really?” I asked. “Like ... is it fluffy or something?”

Amelia snorted, tossing his head – and yes, I knew I was vacillating mentally between his/him pronouns and she/her pronouns. But, in my defense, girl pretty. Also, like, Amelia, I’m pretty sure, would actually be quite happy to hear about how he’d totally fucked up my internal pronounographic sexomineter. Wait. Was that me just assuming she’d be okay with it to assuage my own guilty inner brain thoughts? I’d have to ask...

“A mizzen mast is the aftmost mast, which is where the heaviest spars and braces are thrown from to support the majority of the mass of the solar sails. They may be quite thin, but when you’re dealing with several tens of thousands of acres of sail, you still have quite a lot of mass to support.” She chuckled. “Thus, the mizzen is the longest and thickest.”

“Oh.” I blinked a few times. “Also, uh, question: You prefer he/him pronouns, what happens if I fuck up and call you her? Or think of you as her? I-”

Amelia looked at me, quizzically, then flashed a bright smile. “My dear Countess! I will be flattered that you think of me, in any mode.” She winked. “Now. Do you want to hear about my thrilling space adventures, or...” He grinned even more impishly and I almost melted into a puddle on my robo-horse.

“Space adventure good!” I said, nodding.

She slowed in her cantering, letting the hounds draw ahead. For a moment, the forest was quiet, with nothing but distant woofs and the quiet clip clop clip cloop cloop a doop of the robo-horses, and the swish swish of their robo tails. Amelia drew himself up, then sighed. “Well ... a cutting out expedition is when an enemy has a shipyard. A great deal of those old fellows that built the autowars don’t have logistic support left over. Their ships just cruise about, causing havoc as they see fit. But those that do have shipyards left, things get a mite more complicated.”

I nodded. “Cause you gotta get all them yards!” I said. “Super cool alien gizmos, loads of loot, lots of extra XP...” I nodded.

Amelia looked at me oddly.

“Experience! ... points...” I trailed off, blushing. “Nevermind, it’s dumb.”

“You’re ... not entirely wrong, Countess,” Amelia said, her voice amused. “It is mostly for the alien technology ... and ... because we are never quite sure of the creators of any particular autowars are gone or simply hard to find.” She nodded. “So, we do try and play gentle whenever we can – while it may be relatively easy to sling an old asteroid into some clattering clankshop and put the whole thing paid with the old forty C, well...” She shrugged. “Imagine how red the Lords would be if the first alien sentience we made contact with did so because they came before them to complain that some Jack Tarr dropped a rock directly into their automated shipyard?”

“Ooh, right,” I said, nodding.

“So, this cutting out expedition-”

My horse chose, at that moment, to hop over a small tree branch I’d have noticed if I hadn’t been in the middle of falling madly in love with a dashing space adventurer. Normally, this would have been something one would barely notice. Just a little ally-oop, jump up, land, nothing doing.

Normally, I also didn’t have a sex toy filling me with a constant, low level buzzing pleasure. And I was just at the point where I had almost started to get used to the buttplug, meaning that when the horse landed and my rump bounced against the saddle and the buttplug was jammed even deeper inside of me and the buzzing mechanism inside triggered, I was completely and utterly unprepared. Pleasure shot up my spine, my cock strained against my chastity cage and I sat bolt upright in the saddle and let out the most whiny, need mewling sound I had ever made in my life. And, like, less than a few hours ago, I had been spanked so dizzyingly that I was still getting hot flashes from it.

My horse kept going, but Amelia’s story didn’t. He looked at me, blinking. “ ... are ... are you all right?”

“Fine!” I choked out, tears pricking at the corners of my eyes. I’m running out of words that accurately sum up the desperate, needy, squirming feeling that was burning through me at the way that the chastity cage kept my girldick all ... chaste and tight. I couldn’t cum and I was going to lose my mind.

Amelia reigned her horse back. She was off and beside mine in a flash, and I tried to think of a good lie to defuse the situation – but her hands were on my hips and he had lifted me down before my brain had even processed that the situation was flowing past like water. Before I knew it, Amelia was looking into my eyes. “You look flushed ... in pain, are you sick?” she asked, gently stepping me away from the horse track and into a small, sunny glade. My heart hammered and I looked around – and saw that Mary was skimming up towards us, almost silently on her considerably more prosaic horse.

I looked at her. Yes! Chaperon! I thought. Mary will rescue me!

Mary saw me and Amelia.

Amelia looked away from me and I made a tiny jerky heady motion. Get here, Mary! Chaper my owns!

Mary blinked, then pointed at herself. I nodded.

Mary blinked again, her holographic eyes widening as Amelia took my head in her hands, strong, strong hands. She made me look forward, frowning as she eyed me. “You look more than a bit peaky ... has your Hope not been checking you over?” She pursed her lips, and I whimpered as my buttplug buzzed inside of me, my knees trembling slightly.

“NahImgoodandfine!” I squeaked out, then risked a glance.

Mary was giving me a thumbs up, and then was beginning to reverse her horse. I glared at her: MARY! I screamed, telepathically. NO. CHAPERON! CHAPERON!

Mary shot me one last thumbs up.

Fucking robots! My vampire telepathy was both not working and, also, not real.

Amelia caught my eyes again and she frowned. “Should I call for-”

“Nooo, I’m fine, it’s cool, I just-” I stopped myself, clenching my jaw to keep from moaning. This caused me to stumble forward, ever so slightly, and I fell directly into Amelia’s arms. How is it possible for someone who is so soft and so girl to feel so very manly when they hold you? How is it possible to be so gay in such a straight way? I don’t know – the complexities of the human condition were a tiny bit beyond the functioning of my brain at the moment. All I knew was that Captain Amelia O’Neill was holding me, in the quiet of the woods, with the warm sun shining down from the center of a cylindrical space station, and I was a million light years from home and I had never been happier. I lost ... track ... of my physical body, looking up into her eyes as her hand cupped the small of my back.