Her Obedience, Her Truth

The first time I saw her, she was wearing black leather gloves and reading a paperback with the spine cracked so deeply it looked like it might give up its pages. The lounge of the orbital cruiser was all chrome and recycled air, but she looked like she'd been poured out of midnight: skin pale as vacuum, hair pinned in a coil that caught the diode lights and threw them back like stars. I was clutching a bulb of synthetic coffee, trying to pretend the low gravity wasn’t making my breasts feel strange under the binder I’d outgrown. My ID chip still said Darren, but out here nobody looked too hard unless you gave them a reason.

She gave me one. She lifted her eyes—silver, actually silver, implant or gene-edit—and asked, “Do you prefer Ma’am, Sir, or something custom?”

My throat closed. Not because I was startled; because every atom of me recognized the cadence. The question wasn’t polite small-talk—it was diagnostics. She was reading my firmware before I’d even admitted the update existed.

“I—” I swallowed so hard it hurt. “Ma’am is fine.”

Her smile was small, surgical. “Good girl.”

The words landed between my legs like a charged prod. I flushed so hot the coffee bulb trembled. Good girl. No one had ever—no one had dared. And I’d never dared ask.

She closed the book, sliding a gloved finger between pages to keep her place. “I’m Valerian. You?”

“Dara.” The name slipped out before I could stop it—the name I whispered to my reflection when station night-cycle dimmed to ultraviolet and I could pretend privacy.

“Dara,” she repeated, tasting it. “You’re headed to Vesta?”

I nodded. New mining job, new life, same old body I kept failing to trade in. Six-month contract, enough hazard pay that maybe, afterward, I could afford the full transition protocols Earth kept behind layers of insurance and psych evaluations.

Valerian patted the couch beside her. The gesture looked casual; the force underneath wasn’t. I drifted over, magnet boots clicking. When I sat, she rested her gloved hand on my knee. Pressure through the fabric of my jumpsuit—light, proprietary.

“Tell me,” she murmured, “do you like obeying, Dara?”

The lounge noises blurred: clatter of bulbs, engineers arguing over thrust ratios, someone’s holoscreen leaking sit-com laughter. All of it felt farther away than Jupiter. My pulse was loud in my ears, and my answer came out raw. “I—I don’t know. No one’s ever… asked it right.”

She hummed, thumb stroking the inner seam of my knee. “You’re wet.” A statement, not a question; she could smell it, maybe, or sense the micro-tremors that quaked through me. “That’s data.”

I wanted to disappear inside her voice. “Yes, Ma’am.”

“Stand up.”

I stood. The deckplate seemed to wobble, though damping gyros kept gravity at steady 0.6 g. Valerian uncapped a slim chrome stylus from her belt and drew a slow circle in the air. A privacy sphere blossomed around us, matte silver curtain that swallowed sound and sight. Expensive tech—military, maybe syndicate.

“Strip,” she said, voice soft as event horizon dust. “Show me what parts you’re carrying.”

My lungs seized. “Here? But—”

“Strip.” Not louder, but edged. The word pressed against my sternum, activated something eager and terrified. Fingers clumsy, I unsealed the jumpsuit. Cool air kissed skin. I peeled fabric from shoulders, down arms, past the compression binder that flattened but couldn’t erase. I hesitated at the hem.

Her gaze flicked to the stretchy black garment. “Off.”

I peeled it up. My breasts—small, hormone-swollen, real—bounced free. Nipples drew tight under her inspection. She didn’t speak, so I kept going, shimmying suit and underwear down together. Cock, half-hard, sprang out against my belly. Shame and thrill braided in me so tightly I shook.

Valerian tilted her head. “Gorgeous contradiction.” She reached, brushed gloved fingertips along the shaft—just once—then cupped my balls, weighing. “Safe word?”

“Solitude,” I rasped.

She smiled approval. “Good. On your knees.”

I folded down. Deckplate cool against shins. She lifted one boot, pressed the toe under my chin, forcing my head up. The leather smelled of polish and recycled station air, and something metallic—her, uniquely her.

“Repeat,” she said. “My gender is mine to name, but here I surrender everything else.”

Tears sprang, uninvited. She’d cracked a safe I hadn’t known the combination to. “My gender is mine to name,” I whispered, “but here I surrender everything else.”

“Again.”

I did, stronger. Each repetition felt like shedding hull plating, exposing softer alloy beneath. When she told me to stop, I was crying openly, cock achingly hard, heart vast as the Belt.

“Stay,” she ordered, and deactivated the sphere. Noise rushed back, but no one could see me—kneeling, naked, tears and pre-come mingling on my thighs. She sipped her drink, read another chapter. The casualness of it burned deliciously. I was furniture—no, less than furniture: I was hers to ignore or notice, and that certainty wrapped around me like a new skin.

She let me kneel forty minutes. Long enough for panic to ebb, for arousal to become a low surf pounding every nerve. When she finally shut the book, she tapped her thigh. “Up.”

I rose, unstable. She resealed my jumpsuit herself, fingers deft. My cock she left out; she tucked it upward so fabric pinned it against my lower belly, obvious ridge I’d feel with every step. “Badge of service,” she said. “You’ll keep that until we reach Vesta. Then we’ll renegotiate.”

“Yes, Ma’am.”

She brushed tears from my cheek with her thumb, then licked them, eyes closing briefly as if sampling vintage hydroponic wine. “Run along. Berth C-42. Twenty-hundred. Knock twice, then once. Bring nothing but your desperation.”

I floated back to my assigned cot in a daze. Shift change klaxons, cargo drones, corridors smelling of ozone and sweat—none touched me. I was a planet caught in her gravity well, trajectory rewritten.

The next six days passed in a blur of routine and exquisite tension. I worked my engineering shift in the ship’s bowels, monitoring drill rig diagnostics for the Vesta operation. The work was numbingly familiar, the same screens and gauges I’d stared at for years on different rust-bucket haulers. But now, under my regulation jumpsuit, the trapped heat of my exposed cock against the fabric was a constant, low-grade signal. It kept me tethered to the moment in the lounge, to the promise of that evening knock.

My crewmates’ chatter about bonus shares and rec-room dramas washed over me. I’d nod, make the right noises, but inside I was counting hours. I learned to walk with a slight forward tilt to minimize the brush of fabric, which only made me more aware of every shift and sway. Twice, just the memory of her voice saying “good girl” while I was calibrating a torque sensor made my knees weak. I had to brace against a coolant pipe, breathing through a surge of heat that left me dizzy.

On the third day, I made a mistake. Distracted by the phantom sensation of her gloved thumb on my knee, I mis-keyed a pressure sequence. The system threw up a crimson alert, and my supervisor, a grizzled Martian named Rourke, stomped over. “Daydreaming, Darren?” he barked, using the name on my chip. The sound of it was a physical blow. I flinched, my cheeks burning. “Get your head out of the clouds. This ain’t a pleasure cruise.” The shame was acid in my throat, sharpening the ache of my trapped arousal into something painful. That night, kneeling outside Berth C-42, the failure felt like a stain. I knocked, the pattern feeling clumsy on my trembling knuckles.

The hatch slid open. Valerian stood there, not in leather but in a simple black shipsuit. Her silver eyes scanned me, and she seemed to read the distress on my face like a manifest. “Inside,” she said, her voice devoid of its earlier warmth. She pointed to the center of the floor. “Kneel. Hands behind your back.”

The cabin was stark, just standard issue fixtures. No dungeon, no purple lights. This was different. I obeyed, the deckplate cold through my jumpsuit. She circled me once, then stopped before me. “You brought your distraction here. You gave someone else’s word—a wrong name—power over the space between us.” She didn’t raise her voice. That was worse. “That is a form of disobedience. It tells me you are still holding pieces of yourself back, reserving them for a world that doesn’t deserve them.”

Tears welled. “I’m sorry, Ma’am.”

“Sorry is data. It is not correction.” She drew a thin, flexible rod from a wall compartment. “You will count. You will thank me. For each stroke, you will reaffirm: my gender is mine to name. Do you understand?”

“Yes, Ma’am.”

The first stroke landed across my shoulders. It was pure, shocking fire. “One,” I gasped. “Thank you, Ma’am. My gender is mine to name.”

The second. “Two. Thank you, Ma’am. My gender is mine to name.”

By the tenth, my voice was ragged, but the shame had burned away, replaced by a clean, scorched clarity. The wrong name, Rourke’s disdain, they were hull debris falling away. Each impact, each recited truth, welded me more firmly to this moment, to her. When she stopped at twenty, she crouched before me, cupping my wet face. Her expression had softened. “See? Even your failures can be made into offerings. They become part of your truth.” She kissed my forehead. “Now, rest. We begin proper training tomorrow.”

The transition from that chastisement to the intimacy of the cabin scene felt like passing through an airlock into a different atmospheric pressure. Six weeks of travel remained. The next evening, I returned to Berth C-42 to find it transformed. Walls draped with dark fabric, LED strips dialed to bruise-purple. A restraint frame unfolded from the deck, skeletal and patient. She stood beside it, arms crossed, now wearing a harness of cobalt synth-leather that cupped her small breasts and angled down to a gleaming black cock. Not a toy—smart polymer, warm to touch, linked to her nerve interface so she felt every thrust.

My knees liquefied.

“Close the hatch,” she said.

I did. Manual dogging handle felt huge in my grip.

She circled. “Tell me your truth, Dara.”

Words tumbled. “I’m trans. I—I want to be your girl. I don’t know how. I’m scared I’ll mess it up.”

“You can’t mess up what’s already perfect,” she countered, stopping behind me. Her voice was different here, less the assessor and more the sculptor. “Only disobey. Will you disobey?”

“No, Ma’am.”

“Then present.”

She meant the frame. I stepped forward, allowed padded cuffs to close around wrists, ankles, waist. Servos hummed, stretching me into an X, feet just off plating. My jumpsuit hung open; she hadn’t let me zip it fully since the lounge. She peeled it away completely, then used a laser shear to snip the binder. It fluttered to the deck like dead skin.

“Look at you.” She traced the curve where breast met ribs. “All this pretty struggling to be seen. You’re already seen.”

I sobbed once—relief or terror, couldn’t tell.

She produced a tube of nano-ink. “Hold still.” The stylus tip pricked over my sternum, depositing circuitry that felt like cool threads beneath skin. When she activated it, a soft lattice glowed—transdermal lace framing my breasts. “Temporary,” she explained. “But while it lasts, you wear my mark. A reminder that your truth is not a solitary burden. It is witnessed.”

Then her hands were everywhere: pinching nipples until I squealed, mapping the planes of my back, cupping balls and rolling them so gently I thrashed. She avoided my cock, though it jerked toward her. “Not yet,” she murmured. “I want you desperate.”

She started with a deerskin flogger, measured strokes across shoulders, ass, thighs. Pain bloomed warm, then hot, then molten. I counted in my head—she hadn’t asked, but it felt like obedience—lost track somewhere after thirty. Each impact shook a little more of the old, defensive armor loose; I felt it slough off and drift away like chaff.

When my skin felt radioactive, she paused to lick sweat from my nape. “Color?”

“Green, Ma’am. Please, more.”

She chuckled. “So polite.”

She swapped flogger for a carbon-fiber cane. First stripe across my ass felt like bisection; the second, transcendence. By the fifth I was flying, cortex lit with endorphins. Somewhere in that orbit she fucked me—two fingers in my cunt-anus, slow scissor, curling to rub the hidden gland until my cock leaked a ribbon of clear syrup. I begged, babbled, promised her my loyalty, my service, anything.

She released one ankle, lifted my leg sideways, and slid her smart-cock into me. Pressure immense, impossible, perfect. The polymer warmed instantly, pulsed subtle rhythms. She kept her gloved hand over my heart-lace so each thrust sent feedback through ink, nipples, clit-that-wasn’t-a-clit. I felt fucked at every node of my nervous system.

“Tell me,” she growled, hips snapping.

“I’m your girl!” I screamed. The confession tore out, ragged and bright. “Your trans girl, yours—”

She fucked harder, hand sliding to my throat, not squeezing, just holding. “Again.”

I chanted it until my voice cracked, until only air moved, until orgasm built like an ion storm behind my eyes. She sensed the edge. “Come if you need. But understand: your pleasure belongs to me now. Every spasm is my property.”

Permission shattered me. Climax rolled through, not just genital—full-body supernova. I felt myself ejaculate, thin fluid arcing to splatter deckplate, but more than that: I felt gender shift, settle, lock into place like a tumbler inside finally turning. I came as her girl, nothing left to argue. In that pulsing, owned silence, the philosophical truth wasn’t a separate idea; it was the ground I was lying on. This was the space where I needed no justification, only surrender.

She kept thrusting until I twitched oversensitive, then stilled. The smart-cock flexed—she was coming too, silent, eyes half-lidded, silver irises reflecting my wrecked face. When she pulled out, I sobbed at the emptiness.

Aftercare was ritual. She freed me, laid me on a thermal blanket, massaged aloe into welts. Fed me sips of isotonic broth. Whispered praise: brave girl, gorgeous girl, my good girl. I curled against her, gloved fingers carding through my hair. As I drifted, I mumbled