Service Cadet Sylvia Ch. 01-03

SERVICE CADET SYLVIA I-III

AUGUST SMAXWELL

Copyright © 2026 August Smaxwell

All rights reserved

The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author. No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.

Content Warning 

Contains dubious consent, anal penetration, power exchange, and possessive domination. For your safety, please do not proceed if any of the above is triggering.

THE SERVICE CADETS - I

"What is a Service Cadet?" She asked, sitting there within the ground floor of the old Baleron Corp building.  

Across the desk a man grinned at her, sharp in the eyes and proud in tone. "A Service Cadet," he said, "can be found among the ranks of every star brigade throughout Federation space."

He stood up, his crotch framed eye-level. Swollen and partially aroused, she thought.  

"They provide the much needed release essential to the success of every staunch crewmember that toils for our well being. I used to be there, you know, amongst the stars, toiling. But those days are behind me." He offered his hand, "Care to know more?" 

She nodded and peeled her ass from the plastic seat.

The office was small and cramped with just enough space for the four, sad, insipid desks  spread throughout the room. The ceiling and lamp lights were bright yellow and the metal lustered in gold. They stepped forward to face stark red and white posters tacked to walls with so many loud, screaming headlines.

DO YOU HAVE WHAT IT TAKES, and CONTINUE FEDERATION EXCELLENCE, and ANYWHERE THE FEDERATION CALLS, and TO THE FOREFRONT, and DREAMING OF THE FRONTIER, and TAKE THE FIRST STEP.  

She thought of past jobs, Cluckies, Blip Co., the Lonely Slut, and all the men--patrons, coworkers, bosses--who had wanted her, tried to take her, pinched at her, and chortled her like Mr. Vurn with his leer and metal hands. The catcalls in the mornings, the propositions at night.  

Men had always wanted her.  

"Take it in, take it in," he exhaled happily. The man looked at her. Enjoyed her dazed stare and the sweet fingers he trapped in his grip. "Written along these walls, Sylvia, is Federation excellence. Our victories, our defeats, but mostly our victories. And none of this would be possible without the Service Cadets."

"Really?"

"Yes." He smiled. "Sylvia. If you sign this contract you will be fucking the crew. They need servicing and you will provide it."

Her pussy stirred.  

He yelled to the back, "Willow! Paperwork!" 

"Coming Officer Haltright, Sir," the green looking scrawny lad said, sliding through the door of a backroom.

"Champagne too."

"Right away, Sir."

"Sylvia, let's sit back down." Haltright guided her to her seat. "The Federation could really use a girl like you."

Willow, placed a bottle on the desk, and a crisp sheet of paper.

FEDERATION BRUT, the label looked smart, gold, refined.  

SERVICE CONTRACT, the print looked sharp, unfeeling, and absolute.

"Sign here."

Each chilled bubble of champagne felt like a nude ice pixie humping its way down her throat. Drink the fairy, take the adventure. She tipped the glass, sipping and smiling at the two of them. She thought it was time she chased the men back.

PLUTONIAN GOLD - II

The shuttle was ruddy, retrofitted with loose wires, crooked panels, and big dreams--it transported a couple dozen persons who doubted their place in the world. "Pluto is terraformed you see," the pilot's voice sparked and cracked on the intercom. "It ain't the prettiest rock swallowed up by Federation expansion, but it ain't the worst either. Take Proxima Centauri B, the ass end of the galaxy, just lonely black out there. And bitter working conditions. Can't blame 'em for wanting a change--"

The officer on deck beat his fist into the cockpit hatch. "Cut that crap out!"

The pilot laughed, "Oh-ho-ho, juicy."

Sylvia watched the exchange of awkward glances and stale silence. The officer gripped the overhead railing hard, all the veins tried to break through his skin and his boot dug intensely into the flooring, grinding away. Just about everyone else looked some form of space sick. Sylvia felt her insides turn.

"You know what I was haulin' last week?" The pilot asked, giddy, grinning into his console, his audience had no choice but to listen, space didn't provide much option for exit, one of the few joys of hauling live humanoid cargo. "Canned cat food, oh yeah, the pigeon flavor, drives 'em wild. Don't you worry though, they got delivered pristine and whisker fresh. Been flyin' since I could read. Y'all are in good hands."

Sylvia would have liked a cat. Sometimes she dropped her Cluckies leftovers to strays. She almost brought one home, but wasn't sure how to sneak it in, or how to care for it, or provide stability. Moot points, a contract bound her now.

The intercom pitched back in, "Oh and we got about eight hours of flight left in us.... Be thankful I retrofitted this beaut', otherwise we'd be looking at forty."

A series of columns supported every few feet of the shuttle, fastened together by an array of round rivets and angular bolts. All metal and reflective. It looked sort of new. Nothing was padded. An insignia was stamped throughout. A maker's mark, FGT for Federation of Galactic Troopers, and a woman kneeling underneath it. She had four arms, three on one side, half a space helmet (though it only covered half of her head), half a vest, and a leg's worth of combat pants. Her knees spread just far enough to show one exposed lip of labia. Her rump was propped up and dented by one boot and one nude heel. Half of her body was completely natural and bare as the day she was stamped into existence.  

"Light speed capabilities don't come cheap these days, cost a lotta' gens, but we'll be in the green in no time thanks to these sweet Federation contracts a-rollin' in." And he screamed a staticky, "Yooowee! Not too bad for a glorified crate lugger. Come to think of it ... can't remember the last time Federation brass shelled out gens to private enterprise."

The officer muttered something unintelligible.

The pilot let out a slow whistle, "Terraformed Pluto ... sure brings me back, met a lovely lady there once, terrific lay, just about the best one-night stand I ever had, straight Plutonian gold she was. Dripping wet and tight like a nubile spacer, but that was before--just sit back and enjoy my ride."

The shuttle tore through the atmosphere. Shaky, hot, unsteady, generating every manner of sound that implied imminent and fiery death.  

From life to ash.  

It'd sure be beautiful down on the ground.  

The officer on deck made some form of sharp hand signal, shouting, "Candidates, prepare for drop!"

Sylvia held her eyes shut, squeezed her thighs together, gripped her safety harness, and placed one positive image in her mind, something to focus on if this were the end.  

The pilot patched in through the comms, "Enjoy Camp Bosk kittens and get yourself a nice slice of Plutonian gold while you're at it. Disengaging in three ... two ... send a telecard--out."

A mechanical gear shuddered, rumbling into a slow, heavy, chunk-chunk, and a sensation of complete freefall hit the recruits. The craft convulsed, the thrusters roared in, everyone looked about to piss. A firm slam followed.  

The hatch dropped open, displacing a wave of dust and the bright light of Plutonian day crept in to touch them. Planetside at last.  

"Single file, single file," the officer yelled.

They stumbled outward into a tunnel of starry white brilliance where a row of stiff grey Troopers clutched long-needle barreled guns. Overhead dark clouds swelled, new arrivals touched down. The transporters cycled in, dropped their load and punched through, unencumbered, back to Earth. A mixture of fire, exhaust and ash filled the skyline. Grabbed by the neck and chipped behind the ear, the recruits stumbled in the sinking dunes, nursing the fresh pain, buffeted by waves of sediment that left grit in their pockets they'd carry on to distant stars.  

The text in front of Sylvia's eyes formed as if from digital dust, brilliant and clear.

WELCOME TO CAMP BOSK _

It sputtered out letter by letter.

TODAY MARKS THE START OF YOUR SEVEN-YEAR SERVICE TO THE FEDERATION OF GALACTIC TROOPERS _

The message faded. The digichip was a part of her now.

CAMP BOSK - III

Grey plutonian sand clung to bodies, muddy slurries swirled into drains.  

Sylvia washed with an absent minded stare stamped to her face. Something about the sun and heat had made her think of Cluckies, being behind the line. Another order of pigeon nugs, more fries, pigeon burgers and hands on her ass. The normal pressures and casualties of lunch rush.  

A man talked at her.  

"I was going to be a doctor back on Earth," he said. "But, I shattered a window, chucked my chair straight through the fucker." He lathered up between his legs. "You never know how you'll react to a failed exam."

She couldn't focus on one man, she could hardly focus on anything at all.  

They were all around her, soapy, warm, and heavy, growing in front of her eyes. The men lifted their broad cocks, jostled the soap behind their balls, scrubbed their smelly pits and taut asses, grinning and whistling. She had crossed her legs to hide what she could and scooped her breasts behind her arm, but that didn't do much, all the women in the shower were in the same predicament, a cluster of men formed around each one, creating these awkward empty spaces where nobody wanted to be on account of not enough to view.

"I'm Gladstone," he said, leaning over, extending a soapy hand.

"I'm good," she said.

"Oh," he smiled, and went back to scrubbing the head of his cock clean.

"That's it?" A man asked, easily the largest individual in the troop, a real chunk of man, barely fit under the shower head.

"Well, here is the thing, I didn't just stop there. I cornered my professor, you see, fully intent on sending him plummeting next, but Fed enforcement showed up and zapped me good."

"And they let you in?"

"Yep," Gladstone kept his eye on Sylvia, " this was a better alternative than ten years in an outer fringe penal colony. My recruitment officer was cool about it though. The past is past, he said to me, the Federation believes in rehabilitation by service. Said the Infantry could use individuals with my temperament."

"Yeah, cuz you are a damn psycho."

A sharp crack landed on a wet ass.

"Where do you think you are going?"

The wet ass bumped into Sylvia, "Sorry," she said with a giggle, "I'm being chased by--"

"Donny Red." Donny Red said and pulled her hips back, using her as a luffa, pressing her bottom firmly into his crotch with a deep grunt. "Vylet here, is going to be a Service Cadet. How about you, miss?"

"She a Service Cadet, Flak?" 

"She sure is cute, let me ask her." A man placed his hand on Sylvia's shoulder, "Hey I'm Flak, this is Weir, you a Service Cadet?"

"Guys, I already asked her."

More men pressed in absent mindedly soaping.

"Yes," said Sylvia.

"Nice," said Flak.

"Nice," said Weir.

"Brave girl," said Donny Red, "lotta men here."

"Oh," said Gladstone.

Donny Red nudged Vylet closer, bringing them lip to lip almost, talking behind her ear, "Maybe you two girls should kiss."

Sylvia stepped back and laughed, "I can't."

"Oh, come on, it'll be fun, right guys?"

"Yeah!"

"Get us through training."

"All natural motivation, baby."

Sylvia looked into Vylet's sweet dark eyes and scared lips.

"I can't," she said.

"You will," Donny Red said and pulled them both closer by the lower back.

Sprout erupted, "Hey, ease up, can't you see the girls are uncomfortable."

"Ya know, Sprout, I'm getting tired of staring at your ugly mass, big fucking eye sore."

Donny Red threw a fist at his face, Sprout ducked, knocked over Flak and Weir, Vylet screamed, Donny jumped on his back, several more bodies fell like wet dominos in the packed huddle. The entire shower broke into gasps and remarks, mostly encouraging the fray. Flak and Weir punched into Sprout's ribs. Donny held firm, constricting Sprout's thick neck until his roars softened to sad gurgles and he slammed to the ground.

"He dead?" Asked Weir.

"Nah, just sleepy," said Flak.

"Now that we've had our violence," Donny red stood up, ran his hands under the spray and slicked his hair back. "It is time for some fun, what do you say girls--" The water cut off.

"Lineup," shouted a voice at the door. A goggle-eyed sergeant with a chin of grit stepped into the tiled arena. "Disgrace.... What is going on here?"

He spoke into the talk box dangling off his chest, "Medic, we got a downed recruit in S7." His boots squeaked along as he took a hard look at each nude body. "Unsupervised for an innocent moment of personal hygiene and look how you behave. I hate to say it, but it doesn't surprise me. Who is responsible?" He pointed to Weir. "You, ass face, talk."

"Uh," he stammered and glanced at Donny Red. "These two sluts started causing a scene, Sergeant Axe, Sir."

"Is that right? A scene?" Axe singled out Flak. "How about you?"

"It was just some fun at first, but--"

The Sergeant raised his palm. "In the Federation there is no fun at first. Not in training, not on Camp Bosk, not on Pluto. Only until you learn discipline can you be a true member of the Federation. These girls are not Service Cadets and you are not Troopers. Towel off and clear out. All of you. Report to your assigned barracks for sack time."

Two medics came in and carried Sprout onto a stretcher.

"Sylvia, right?"

"Yes, Sir."

"Stay," he said, holding her by the arm, "I'm not done with you." 

Ringlets of water ran down her body, the chill of it hardened the nipples she covered by arm, and her thighs while crossed could only hide so much. He stared at her until the last damp recruit made their exit. Sergeant Axe brought her to the lockers, giving her hope she'd dress. He pressed her against the metal and kicked her feet to the side.

"The effect you have on the men is astounding."

Sylvia heard a sharp click and felt a firm object press into her thigh, nudging her legs further still. The baton licked its way up and down her body, following every curve and crevice. Sylvia stared at the ceiling.

"Easy," he said and gripped at her buttocks, circling the solid beating device along the rim of her asshole. Prodding it in slightly, applying split, prodding it in further still, it hurt, Sylvia wasn't ready, he poked the baton in and out of her asshole, pinning her to the wall with his free arm, making her gasp and cry.

"Welcome to Camp Bosk," he said.