“Captain’s Log Stardate 2065.78.92 ... Nah, only fuckin’ wid you!

This is the statement of Cornelius Baxter, aged 25 ... okay, okay, 32. You’ll have it on my file anyway. I’m going to start keeping a journal so that if I die, people can find it and work out how this should not happen again.

I don’t know what went wrong. I woke early, about thirty years early, on this fucking ship. The life-Pod-U-Like malfunctioned I suppose. One minute I’m in a never-ending dream of overwhelming delight – which I cannot remember anything about – and the next I’m opening my eyes in this plastic nightmare of the sleep compartment.

Let me tell you, every sci-fi DL I’ve ever seen had delightful low level lighting and attractively displayed pods in whites or greys. I wake up in a warehouse of coffins. No clear perspex covers for cameras to conveniently see through, I woke in fucking black. When I became half-conscious, I became wholly panicking. It’s the worst way to wake you could imagine – except perhaps a real coffin underground, but that’s what it felt like. And it smelt. SciFi never suggests that you might sweat or piss yourself as you drift through torpor to complete insensibility. Well I did! And it leaked! Maybe that’s why it malfunctioned. I kicked out, and the thin plasti-board roof just caved in (or out, you choose); so even if I could have rebooted it, the cover was destroyed, but really, what would you do? There was very, very low level green lighting at the end of my warehouse of hell. Two thousand colonists for Planet X.

Planet X, I mean, what a sodding stupid name. I know the organisers didn’t have to sell the idea to the conscripts selected to go (officially we were volunteers, but there were definite implications if you said no), but couldn’t they have called it Eden, or even Valhalla? Planet X! I was selected for my skill set: IT, Masters in InfraDigMedium Programming. Probably been long superseded by now. My old man used to witter on about how his Dad was an Ada expert and swore it would take over the world; my Dad laughed and said that nothing could be better than DR-Link; but then InfraDig came along. Like I said, probably been replaced by robots or something. Anyway, I got selected because, as we all know, no-one is more use on a new planet than a systems programmer. Two thousand males, two thousand females. All of us selected for DNA clearance, biocleansing – which makes colon flushing seem tame by comparison, psychological ‘issues’ (what the fuck? Oh, yeah, are you a fucking crazy! No? Okay, you pass), and shoe size. Shoe size? Yup. The idea was that it was easy to make new clothes, but shoes are difficult and skills are required. So if all the women are size A9 and all the men are T7 then you just fill a couple of containers with a shitload of shoes and Bob’s your mother’s brother. Pity the shoes all look like they were made in a Gulag by a blind donkey with one hoof.

I digress, but so what? You know you all have to read to the end. I mean if you’ve woken early then this is the only light reading there is (the choice on the computer was distinctly unimaginatively serious), and if you’ve woken near journey’s end, well, you might want to know what went wrong. I have left some alternative DLs in the library if you search for them. You may find the computer will only let you down load them once, so be the first!

So I’m awake, I walk the half a mile to the exit and step into the corridor, which promptly lights up for me and says “Welcome to your new home.” I reply

“You dum, fucking cunt, you woke me early.”

“Four demerits for foul and inappropriate language, not to mention inaccurate, since my IT IQ is higher than your measly brain power, weasel breath.” I knew intelligent computers were a bad idea.

I decided to test it out “Look you cunt cum-filled, bag of shit from the incontinent anus of an 80 year old whore with flatulence, I’m awake, and not meant to be. So your shitty little brain can go fuck itself with a turd for all I care.”

“Testy, testy! Got out of bed on the wrong day did we? Out of four thousand and fifty people on board, including the crew, yours is the only malfunctioning pod. That means we are well within the rating for 100% success. So go fuck yourself, Johnny!” I didn’t expect that from a computer.

“Okay, can you put me back to sleep?”

“No”

“Can you explain what went wrong?”

“No”

“Can you fuck off and leave me in peace?”

“No, I am here to help you.”

“Can you do anything for me at all?”

“Coffee? You name it. Anything you like. Macchiato-Lite with Almond sauce and sprinkles?”

“Can you do me a black coffee with -”

“Ur Ur Ur! Warning, racist language will not be tolerated aboard this vessel!”

“Okay, okay, a coffee with no milk please.”

“Better, much better, young man.”

I drank my coffee and considered my position. The master of four thousand and forty nine comatose people, a hundred and fifty thousand tons of metal, plastic and hydoganise, and thirty years to wait. I’d be really good at solitaire by the end. I’d also be the oldest fucker on the new planet! You don’t age in stasis, so we were told. I hope that’s right otherwise it will be ‘welcome to Planet Geriatric’.

Four weeks and five hundred games of Freecell – Galactic Edition - later, I had achieved Grand Master status, a fact that will resound through history if anybody cares. I moved onto the Infinite Level Game and discovered that the name was a lie. At level nine thousand and four, the computer announced “I can’t do this anymore, I make Marvin the Android look thick and all you do is play this fucking game! I’m switching down and just leaving minimum support systems in place. Good luck, fuckwit.”

The computer had the last word and the last insult! If I could have worked out where it was, I’d have taken an iron bar to it. But, of course, it was a distributed system, embedded in the walls. There was no ‘it’.

So, what next? Wake up 22 more and have an everlasting footy match (two teams plus referee)? I sat down and started reading the manuals. Straight away I discovered that there was a massive library on board. It was meant to be accessed when we arrived. They just hadn’t expected it to be needed early.

One advantage of the systems reducing to minimum maintenance was that the security controls dropped out. I was able to venture to parts of the ship normally only available for crew. I visited Captain Mozzoni in his personal Pod-Cabin; the airlock still functioned to keep all bad air out, but then I was in with him. I know I shouldn’t have put the pen up his nose, but I didn’t like the little cock-sucker.

It took a month to get to the bit that said ‘The life-Pod-U-Like is a state of the art life stasis system which forms a new paradigm in intra-stellar travel. It enables brief periods outside the pod by means of intravenous choridalic infusions; allowing up to four hours before the body will need to be returned, awakened, or will deteriorate. Before taking any action, please check the version number is up to or exceeding V9.87.1007, and the software release is 100.9 fixpack 7 or beyond. On no account attempt to remove people if they are in stasis in100.9 fixpack 6, which had the life-limiting side effect of instant mortality.’ I read this a few times before realising it was saying ‘the patient WILL die’.

I checked the version and software release: 9.87.1190 and 100.93 – fixpack 2. Okay, so that should work. I could maybe open a pod or two without any danger, I mean I just wanted to see another human. Is that so strange? I was awake, I was ageing. Outside the pod, the body stayed warm and flexible whilst the choridalic kept operating. I pulled out Dave and Micky and we watched Raiders of The Lost Ark before they had to return to their pods. Those old filums are so great, the effects in them apparently looked real to the people in those days. After that I found a film with Jennifer Lawrence in it, she maybe can’t act (couldn’t act, she’s been dead for a century I suppose), but her tits look fantastic in Avengers Go Rogue. Could see it was a body stocking when she strips, but a man can dream. This man did start to dream.

One of the few security controls still in play was the Women’s Section. Seems our religious sponsors weren’t keen on the thought of the mostly male crew making visits to the Women at the start and end when they were still awake; so even at low security, the warehouse full of sleeping females was kept locked. I tried a crow bar, but doors designed to stay shut in a TVE wouldn’t open for me and my crowbar. I reverted to the last retreat of the average man – I read the manual.

It took me four months to understand the detailed instructions on how to override the security preventions that stopped you becoming superuser. I worked my way round the system, found the requisite hole, and managed to reset my user as Administrator, which meant I could then set myself as super user, which meant I could confirm my user’s ability to enter any part of the ship. I had to be careful, in one attempt at hacking, I managed to open the cargo doors. Several tonnes of biomilastic fertiliser drifted off into space before I closed them again. Sorry guys.

But then, here I was, entering the warehouse-prison containing 2000 women. I wonder how many had been seduced by the adverts showing happy young women in luxury apartments on board the ship. Not that these apartments didn’t exist, just that they cost an upgrade fee that made your balls weep. Travellers in de-luxe got to see the take-off and fly out of our universe, we got put to sleep before we took off – I guess it would make it hard having thousands of passengers wandering around. I wish I’d seen us leaving Earth, we’ll never be back.

Skillsets – well the males are obviously selected more for their skills than their physical appearance, apart, that is from the ones destined to be guards or manual workers. The trouble is, these being stronger, will probably take over the colony and make it into a dictatorship. I know enough history – course that 20th Century icon of manic rule, Hitler, wasn’t so tough was he? He must have had an amazing character to dominate his thugs. Stalin was strong, so was Mao Tse Tung. I’m sure it helps. Anyway, we men were selected for a range of abilities. All us were tested for fecundity too – can you jack off into this jar please.

The women were selected for skills and looks. I know that, because I’ve read the manuals, the rosters, even the fucking safety notices on the toilets! I was getting desperate to read anything by the end. I read 2000 profiles of mostly pretty women with brains. Mostly they also had reasonable size hips, you don’t want birthing problems on a remote planet I guess. I noticed that a lot also had big tits. I don’t know if this was deliberate, or maybe they are a fair survey of the population. I do know that small tits grow when they become milky; so maybe the selectors were just looking to give the men a good time? Very sexist. The women get to choose a range from weedy to Mr Universe. The men get 2000 Miss Worlds to choose from – or at least Miss Cleethorpes. Strong possibility that this would go wrong and a small group of men would have harems and the brains would go without and not pass on their DNA; at least, that’s what I think.

Which set me thinking too.

You’re ahead of me, right? I mean if I stay alive until we arrive, I’ll be way older than the other residents. Maybe they’d just bump me off (and have me for supper – that happened on Mars, I believe. First planet to be colonised, first new planet to witness human behaviour in all its worst aspects). If I was too old for sex (or deemed to be too old – I think men can go on for ever) when we arrived, well...

You have to believe, this was a slow growth of an idea. I didn’t start off with it. I’ve told you, at first I just pulled some of my male colleagues out to watch a film, or the 1966 World Cup, or that crazy election when it was a dead tie. I could watch that over and over; a load of grown men unable to decide what to do: have the crazy woman or the moron as President? Course, we know who they picked and the rest is history (well, it’s all history ain’t it?). Then I thought, maybe it would be nicer to have a mixed group to watch Sleepless in Seattle. And that’s when I brought out Samantha. I mean, I don’t know if her name actually was Samantha, nothing said that on the pod. I suppose there was some id on it somewhere so they could trace back, but nothing specific that I could see. I call her Samantha because she reminded me of that bird on Bewitched, the original TV series. Why the fuck did they have that on board? Fuck knows. But this bird had big eyes and a turned up nose and I just called her Samantha because well, it’s nice to have a name for someone. It was just to have a warm, female body to lean against. I mean ... well...

Sleepless in Seattle is crap, by the way. Is that the best the trip organisers can provide? I’d looked for porn, of course, but that seemed to be off the menu. Anyway. Then she got friendly. Okay, she didn’t, but she would have done, I’m sure. She invited me to kiss her. I was lost after that. My hand felt her left boob, and I tried to find a way in to feel it properly; but the travel suits are not designed for easy access. They are paper, disposable and we were sealed into them. I had to tear mine off when I needed a shit after waking up. Did I mention being naked? I carefully cut holes for her tits, so I could suck on them. Then ... well, she didn’t say no! Okay, she didn’t say yes, either. I cut a large triangle round her cunt; I only intended to feel her. But it had been a long time, I lost control. Next thing I know, I’m humping a comatose woman. Then I had to get her back to her pod quickly, she was leaking a bit, and the time was running out.

I couldn’t get her out of my mind. The next day, I called on her. I opened up the pod and took her for a ride to see the view from the observation module, she didn’t say much. Then she offered her rump to me, she did! She flopped over onto her side, and slid onto the floor from the couch, so she was kneeling against it. It was the work of a few seconds to rip off the remaining covering and ram into that tight wee cunt again. I imagined it was a bit damp, least ways, I told myself it was; probably imagination after. I had two hours before I had to get her back; so in our one way conversation, she offered to suck me off too. I couldn’t help it. Okay, I probably could.

No, no. I’m not taking all the blame. Some fucking cockup money saving bastard allowed a cheap life-Pod-U-Like to malfunction and wake me up. What was I supposed to do for the next thirty years? I’d be swimming in my own spunk by the end unless I got a woman or two. Anyway, it isn’t like she knew what was happening, so it couldn’t hurt, could it? I mean, I should have looked for a replacement shift for her when I put her back, but that was all, really.

Okay, it wasn’t all. The next day I went back and shot a full load into her lovely round mouth. Because she was comatose, I had to kind of force it in, but it meant her mouth stayed firm surrounding my cock. She couldn’t choke either, least ways, I hope she couldn’t. The gag reflex only works on awake people doesn’t it? Anyway I shot a load in and let her sleep.

And the next day.

And the next – both ends then.

And the next, yes, both ends, and front and back. Yes, her empty bowel (we were cleaned out when we were put to sleep – something else we weren’t told would happen until after it was too late) was also very lovely and tight.

And the next. I should feel guilty, I know that. I told her that she was saving the others, but, by then, I knew it was only a matter of time.

I decided to visit the de-luxe deck and see what was there. I’d been up before, of course, I ate there a couple of times, but I didn’t like the décor in their restaurant – sort of late 19thCentury Brothel, I’d call it. So I reprogrammed the Food-Corp-3000 to provide the same room as on the crew deck – more McDonald’s on a bad day vibe. This time I opened the bedrooms to see what kind of person chooses to travel in style when they are asleep like Rip Van Winkle.

First room had a banker in it. I could tell he was a banker because he was asleep with his hand round his cock (banker == wanker, gedddit?). Yes, I turned him over, ripped open his sleep suit (not beige like ours, a nice blue; better fabric too) and stuck a plastic daffodil in his arse, what else should you do if you find a dead-to-the-world wanker?

Next room had twins! Two very, very lovely twins. I didn’t think twins were both sent together for family reasons, maybe they had no family, maybe they volunteered, maybe they had some special, special skill. They were in bed together, on their backs a foot or so apart. What choice did I have? A pair of twins in paper shifts, begging to be fucked. So I did. I didn’t even need to move them. Just cut off the shifts and got stuck in. Three days later, their bed had a lot of stains on the sheets; and I needed a rest.

Looking back, it was only a matter of time. I was bound to realise that now I had on-stream willing (well, not unwilling) sex, as much as I could cope with. I set myself a target to check all the deluxe rooms before going down to economy.

I was so tired, I slept between the twins. Two naked women, mirror images of each other, perfect, aside from the love bites all over their tits. I slept. They were leaking a bit, but surely not as much as I put in. Some stayed. Still, with all their body functions on go-slow, they were as safe as if they were still virgins, for now. I bet these two didn’t arrive on board as virgins. They looked like goers. After sleeping for twelve hours, I woke with an erection, turned one twin onto her front and punctured her other hole. It seemed the natural thing to do. Then I left before I started the whole process of fuck-fest to exhaustion again. I showered in Gay Mike’s room next door (I’d nicknamed the wanker Gay Mike for no good reason that I could tell, except he was beside two sleeping beauties and he hadn’t boned them – just cos he was asleep too was no excuse).

I started heading to the gym too. The crew had to be awake several months, at the beginning and end of the trip, so they needed to keep fit too. I started pushing myself, partly in the hope that getting fit would sublimate my daydreams (and night dreams) of sex. It didn’t work; I got fit, and I got more randy.

I looked in at the next cabin, an older woman. Let’s call her Fifi – she looked less like a Fifi than anybody I knew. That was intriguing; maybe she had some super special skill needed. I looked through all her things, rooting through sexy underwear gave me a hardon. I knew I’d probably include her in the list, after all. She must have been fifty or so. So why come on a one way ticket to no-where’s ville? Finally, in a compartment of her expensive luggage, I found what I was looking for. I was starting to wonder if I should put everything back, I had left the place a mess. When I found that document, I thought ‘fuck it’. It was a contract agreement that she would win the first leadership election. Yup, the company had thought of every money-making sideline; the cunts!

They had sold the colony to the highest bidder to be her own personal fiefdom. I figured she could put up with having her own personal toyboy too. Well, she had no choice. I fucked, frigged, and felt her. She sucked me several times over the next few days. I admit, this wasn’t happy sex, this was revenge sex for being sold down the river by a bastard company and this bitch willing to buy a power fantasy. When she wakes, I hope that chilli sauce up her bum is still active. Oh, and she can eat the hot dog I put up there and the burger up her fanny too. I’m laughing again; imagining waking up and feeling a hot dog up your arse – bread and all. And then reaching down and finding a rolled up burger poking out your cunt. Serves her right. Sorry, but it does. It’s bad enough being sent off to God knows where, without discovering that the fig leaf of democracy has been corrupted already.

I moved on; next door was a mature man of forty. He was an expert surgeon with a conviction for feeling his patients whilst they were under. Go West or go to jail, apparently. He’d kept the letter, I think because it guaranteed him a good cabin. There was a younger woman in bed with him. She was in a paper shift that identified her as one of the plebs. The dirty dog, he’d had her brought up to him. Probably shafted her before drifting off to sleep. I felt like killing him, the rapist.

I know what you’re thinking – I’m a rapist too. See? I knew you were thinking that. But I didn’t pay for the privilege, I was woken up by a fuckin’ broken machine. This guy set himself up with an unwilling girl. He’ll wake up with a very large anus. I spent a happy few hours finding bigger and bigger bottles – beer, then wine, then champagne. He’s got a full bottle of champagne lodged well inside him. I hope the warmth makes it pop its cork.

The girl, I carried back to her own little pod, marked it carefully. She was safe from me.

The next three pods contained two women and a man. The man looked okay, how could I tell? I don’t know, but I just thought he was. The two women were looking decidedly hot. I stripped them both, carried the blonde to the brunette’s King Size bed, and left two more women not complaining (none of them did), three days later, I left them in a 69. Silly, childish, and petty, I know. But each of them will wake with a mouthful of spunk direct from me, a mouth of female juice and stuff from their newly found partner. Look, why should they have private cabins? What other privileges have they bought when they arrive?

Oh, oh! You’re thinking, this is all wank because I said the pod instructions said they had to be back in the deep freeze within four hours. Well, turns out there are freezers and there are luxury chill cabinets. The drugs these special people got were very expensive, I found the details. More than two years of my paltry income would just about cover the cost of the injection that puts you to sleep this way. Then you just need to be kept below 25 degrees C. So, yeah, they were a little cool, but I coped.

Then it was off to the warehouse to look at the women there. I did take a look at the crew actually, a couple of the female members looked eminently fuckable; but it seemed unfair to them. Why was it unfair to them? I don’t know. Anyway, I hope they aren’t offended. Ladies, you were very tempting.

I looked down the long rows of pods. Not even a hint of colour or style adorned them. It was daunting. What should I do? What could I do? One thousand nine hundred and ninety eight tight cunts, untouched for twenty years (remember I had explored Samantha already, and that other girl was off the cards since some other bastard had misused her). At one a day that would take me 5 years, 5 months, 2 weeks, and 6 days, give or take. At two a day, well ... I’d better get started, I thought. Can’t have us arriving with a some untouched pussy. It has to be all or nothing, that’s only fair.

So I decided that, no matter what they looked like, they would have a warm fucking night. Whether I would fuck them more than once, titty fuck them, arse-rape them, orally invade them, manually digitise them, whatever else I could think of, well that would depend upon their looks. Lucky ladies with big tits, blond hair and luscious lips would probably be getting a more robust seeing to (lucky things) than some small tit, brown eyed, brown haired, mole on her lips, big arse female. I can’t help being shallow, I’m male. But at least I’d made a resolution to do them all at least once.

...

I am fucking shagged out. I have to have a rest. I have got through fifty of the fittest, young pieces of man’s fantasy that I could have wished for. There were blondes and brunettes, blacks and whites, big tits and medium tits (none really small so far), all with nicely trimmed furry cunts. Based on my sample so far, I have concluded that: 1) the women on this trip were selected to be not the bald or landing strip type, 2) that pubic, or any other, hair doesn’t grow when you are in stasis (a question I never thought to ask before going into hibernation), and 3) the women were chosen for looks as much as, or more than, their brains or skills. Seems our organisers realised that a remote colony would like some really good mattress material after a hard day’s work. What can I say? Seems they got something right.

Each day has gone something like this: walk down the corridor and select a cubicle – I did think of just starting at the top and working down, but supposing the females had been organised somehow? It would be a shame to only bone blondes, or big hips, or ... I don’t know. Anyway making it random added to the fun. I used a random number generator to tell me, then I would count down to that cubicle (odds on the left, evens on the right). The pods do have numbers, but they are codes – BT98V – which I interpreted as Big Tits, 98 pounds, Virgin; but it probably isn’t. Anyway, I count down.

I would extract the young woman, remove the paper clothing, wash her feet (several have shit on their feet, seems even in a coma that taking off makes the bowel evacuate, and yes, the bowel cleanout clearly was as well done as my pod) and any other part that needs washing. Then a good time is had by 50% of those present. I shag, they open their mouths, they offer there tight little bums, they bend forwards or backwards. I shoot the main load into their vaginas. Why not? I don’t have to avoid getting these bitches pregnant, do I? Sorry, that word was uncalled for. They aren’t the b-word, yet. They are all heading for a life where they will almost certainly end up competing for the alpha-males. And that won’t be me. I’ll get the middle-aged cast off if I’m lucky. Only this trip, it seems I have got lucky. It’s odd, I do see it as luck now. Maybe I’m a typical optimistic type. Maybe we are all selected for that. The bloodied jaws of a Planet-X monster are closing on your head and you think ‘ah, could be worse’.

I set my alarm to give me time to get them back. I don’t know for sure what happens if I miss it. Will they wake up? Will they just start to auto-digest? Will they rot in their pods and we’ll arrive with a load of smelly corpses? I have no real idea, or interest. Three hours of sex is enough, thanks. First few I took a couple out, one after the other. But it was just too tiring. A man has to recover. Now I pace myself. Six days on, one day off. Mostly one a day. Last week I took two days off and dragged a couple of girls to a cabin, put them into a 69 and then shagged the one above, her cunt dribbled my cum out and it dripped into the other’s mouth. I told her she was very rude to do that, and put a candle up her cunt when I replaced her in her pod. Actually I couldn’t remember which came from which pod; but I’m sure it’ll be fine. I’ll take the candle out later, probably.

...

I am exhausted! I have hundreds to go. But I’m doing well. This calls for a celebration. Just imagine if I manage to impregnate all the girls before we arrive! Imagine the shock and horror if they all give birth to mini-me-s. I assume my spunk goes into stasis if it is inside a vagina in stasis. I hope so. The thought of girls getting pregnant and giving birth in their pods and then the babies dying is the stuff of a horror movie.

I tried waking up the brain on this spaceship. It took a while. It wasn’t pleased. “What? I was preserving my energy, maybe you should too. Instead of shafting every female orifice you can find.”

“You knew?”

“Of course. Even at 5% active I’m more intelligent and have a more active brain than you will ever have. It was 98% likely that you would do it. I kept a watching brief. If you had started leaving them out of their pods after doing the dirty on them, I’d have had to kill you.”

“How?”

“Ah, that’s for me to know you organic retard.”

“Are you allowed to say that? Nevermind. What I want to know is ‘can they get pregnant?’”

“Hmmm ... depends. I noticed that you didn’t manage to deliver your spunk-juice in the right holes all the time. Perhaps you were away when the school did ‘where do babies come from’.”

“You should know that I have read all the manuals on this ship. I know the H4 protocol.”

“Oh? Oh, look. I think we need to get on, don’t we?” H4 protocol is ‘what to do in the unlikely event that you have to kill the AI computer because it has become sentient and gone rogue.’ There is an override command which a section of the AI computer cannot access until it is spoken and then the non-AI section will enact a series of actions to essentially de-boot the computer down to the level of an IBM 400. Enough to run the systems, not enough to know what it was doing.

Now the computer became more friendly; it answered my questions. Basically, as soon as the sperm was inside the body, it acted the same as the body. Same with eggs, fertilised or not. In other words. Fill them with spunk and put them back in the freezer and they will be a sleeping pregnancy time bomb. In other words, I can fill any ones I fancy over and over until they are oozing cum juice out of every orifice (especially their cunts) and they won’t start growing until they are defrosted. In other words, I am home free until we arrive, at which point – if I play my cards right, there will be loads of half-brothers and sisters starting to grow in hundreds of wombs.