Chapter 1

Commander Victor Brandt sat reclined in his chair waiting for the gig to dock with his light cruiser, the INS Basilisk, contemplating his next steps. He could easily survive on half pay, but when adding to his own personal costs the expense of now owning his entire crew of 133, plus his steward who he had already owned, not even living like a beggar could possibly keep him in the black; not that living like a beggar was ever a tolerable option for someone of his rank and caste. Theoretically he could sell off the crew, but he was proud of his girls and now that they really were to be his girls, he found himself only more proud; he would keep the crew. I'll need to dip into my capital by the middle of the first week, he thought with a grimace; Victor's father had been the kind of person to live like a dandy off of his capital and when he died, in the same disastrous hunting expedition that took Victor's grandfather and great-uncle, his funds had been an anemic shadow of what they once were.

Anger surged in Victor; this was his cousin's fault. Victor's cousin was Richard Brandt, the Duke of Caergwynt, and last week Imperial Investigators arrested him for treason. Richard had apparently been planning to defect to the Republic, which was stupid considering the location of Caergwynt; it may not have been in the heart of the Empire, but it was a long way from the Republic's borders. After Richard's arrest, as is typical in this sort of situation, the Brandt family came under suspicion, enough suspicion to force Victor into early retirement and ruin his naval career. Of course, early retirement was actually a lenient response from the Empire; it was likely that the only thing between Victor and a discharge — and perhaps more to the point, unpleasant interrogations and a holding cell — was the memory of his great-grandfather (who was a war-hero in his day and one of the icons of what it meant to serve in the Imperial Navy) in the minds of the public and the aristocracy.

The sound of the airlock signaled to Victor that the gig had docked. Getting up from his seat, Victor mentally postponed further deliberation. He walked to the gig's airlock and then down the corridor toward his ship's airlock where he saw his Executive Officer, Lieutenant Carla, waiting for him.

Carla Victor Brandt, the thought brought a smile to Victor's face. A woman's surname incidentally, isn't really her surname at all; rather it is an allusion to her owner, therefore Lieutenant Carla, who is owned by the Navy, would be Lieutenant Carla Navy, it follows that nearly all females in the Navy, as they are also owned by the Navy, would have the surname of Navy, as such they are addressed by their title or rank followed by their given name. When two women of the same rank have the same given name on a particular posting, the name of the mother of each woman is tacked on when referring to them in order to differentiate. Sometimes, when commanding officers decide to employ a picked crew of their own women (an uncommon occurrence, but not truly rare especially during wartime, when there may be personnel shortages) similar rules apply, but with the commanding officers name taking the place of Navy.

"Hello, Lieutenant," Victor said warmly.

"Hello, sir," she replied with a frown on her face, "Did you see the news this morning?"

Sighing, Victor nodded, "Yes, and I'll brief you and the rest of the crew shortly."

"Yes, sir," Carla replied dutifully.

"I trust all is well?" Victor asked.

"We are a bit behind schedule, sir, and there was a tiff in the engine room, but it was dealt with swiftly and harshly," she replied.

"Harshly?" Victor inquired with brow raised.

"Very harshly, sir," Carla answered in a cold voice, with perhaps just a hint of challenge.

"Good," Victor said with a short nod.

Victor was not going to dig further; Carla was a tyrant at times, but she kept the crew in line, and she loved them as much as he did if not more; a few of them were family after all, two daughters, and a sister that was from the same litter as Carla. Besides, the engine room was a dangerous place at the best of times, a fight in there was far beyond dangerous.

"Have you seen, Aimee?" Victor asked; Aimee was his steward.

Carla shook her head, "I think she's been in her room worrying herself sick since about an hour after you left, sir."

Victor frowned, "I'll go check on her," he said before walking off down a corridor.

"Sir!" Carla called to his back.

Victor stopped walking, turned around and said, "Yes, Lieutenant?"

"I would appreciate it if you would brief the crew sooner, rather than later, sir," Carla said, "Gossip travels quickly in port, the crew are uncertain, they're worried that they'll be sent back to the pool."

Victor could hear the question in Carla's voice, though she had clearly meant it as a statement, "No one is going back to the pool," Victor said before turning around and continuing down the corridor. He heard a sigh of relief from behind him before he was out of earshot.

Victor opened the door to Aimee's room quietly and then, seeing what he had expected, entered her room.

Aimee was sleeping on top of the sheets of her bed, which she had freshly made that morning. She was still wearing her steward uniform; thigh high stockings made of a silky, sheer material (which like most modern fabrics, would be practically indestructible without deliberate intent to destroy it, thus making it more sensible attire then you might think it was onboard a Navy ship), perfectly made for her perfect legs, and going up until they ended just where the mini dress, which hugged her curves like it was painted on, began; she never wore a bra, and as far as panties went, she frequently wore a sexy little thong, and just as frequently, she would go commando.

Victor went to one of the drawers that were built into the wall and quietly opened it to take what he needed from them, then he eased the drawer shut and walked over to the bed to sit down gently next to the sleeping Aimee.

Aimee was Victor's most valued possession; she was his secretary, she was his gofer, she was his maidservant, she was his cook, — he paused at that thought; if there was one thing he loved as much as Aimee herself, then it would probably have been the food she cooked — she was his princess, she was his love slave, she was his sex kitten — and she was about to get a spanking.

Victor reached over and gently shook Aimee awake.

"Master?" Aimee asked through her sleepy haze; then starting to remember the events of the day, "Master!" she repeated, this time with obvious joy, and flung herself into his arms.

Victor leaned down to kiss her forehead before saying, "Hello, Sweetheart." He spent a few moments just enjoying the feel of her cuddled up against him before taking her chin in has hand and turning her face so he could look into her eyes, "Did you finish your chores?"

Guilt, and some fear, washed over her face, "No, Master," she answered softly; she wouldn't offer excuses until after he had punished her, and then only in the form of an apology. Out of her peripheral vision she now saw the paddle and the gag sitting in a small pile next to Victor.

Victor nodded, it was as he suspected, and kissed her forehead again, "You know the rules," he said, taking the gag in his hand and bringing it up to Aimee's mouth.

Aimee nodded and opened her mouth, submitting to the gag, before taking the initiative and maneuvering herself so that she was lying over his lap and ready for the paddle.

Victor smiled at that, Aimee was such a good girl, even when she was being punished; she hated disappointing her Master and knew that there was no point in putting up a fuss, in fact it was counterproductive, both because it would get her more punishment then and there, and because it would let seeds of resentment sprout and earn her more punishments later.

Victor flipped up the skirt of her dress and fondled her bottom for a moment; she was sans panties today. Getting back to the task at hand, he picked up the paddle, and without ceremony, began raining down swats on her behind.

Aimee moaned her pain into the gag. The gag was there because Victor hated the sounds of a woman being punished, the begging, the yelping, it was all so unseemly; Aimee would have tried to keep quiet without one, not wanting to offend her Master, but she was glad to have the gag so she could let herself go, so she could express her pain.

As he continued to paddle Aimee, Victor saw that she was getting wet and wasn't surprised. Like most women, the traits bred into her and reinforced during her childhood included docility and submissiveness; they were easily dominated by men and they actually tended to enjoy it, it comforted them, and it aroused them. While Aimee often enjoyed a light hand-spanking as foreplay, the paddle would leave her in no doubt that she had been punished, and punished effectively; the paddle was just too painful to be enjoyable, despite the arousal it caused.

Victor brought the punishment to a close once he thought that Aimee's cheeks were the correct shade of red, that her reaction to each swat of the paddle was in the vein that he was aiming for, that what he could tell of her mood was sufficiently penitent, and that she had felt the right amount of pain to have absorbed this lesson. He put the paddle aside and gave her tender bottom a few caresses before flipping her over, taking off her gag, and positioning her so that she was sitting in his lap, where he could hold her, stroke her hair, and comfort her.