Service Cadet Ch. 01-03

SERVICE CADET 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 lots of service submission, spankings, and power exchange. For your safety, please do not proceed if any of the above is triggering.

Thwack! - I

It is during these moments I think to myself, how did I get here?

Thwack!

Hurtling through space.  

Thwack!

Bent over the knee of my admiral.

Thwack!

Making another futile attempt to distract my mind.

Thwack!

This time. I settle upon staring at his boots.

Thwack!

Typical of his rank, they're red leathered and acrid-smelling, pristinely polished and immaculate. Used before, sure, but the old gal has really kept herself up. Like a reclaimed virgin--she's beautiful, gleaming like candy.  

I count the eyelets. There are eight of them, threaded together by wiry laces. The sort of laces I personally fumble to tie and inevitably have to retie when they slip, all the while catching the gaze of nearby Troopers who seize the opportunity to stare at bent-over, stupid-girl ass.  

Thwack!  

Staring at ass is practically a sport on this ship.

Thwack!  

A real galactic pastime.  

Thwack!

My pants are around my ankles, tangled into my standard-issue thong and boots. Whenever I undress my lower half they have this nasty habit of conjoining into a clump. It would be quite the predicament for any other girl.  

Thwack!

Luckily for me, I'm a Service Cadet.  

Thwack!

Fumbling around bottomless is what I do.  

Thwack!

I'm enjoying his grip.

Thwack!

Firm to my waist.

Thwack!

But anybody could enjoy that.  

Thwack!

I think it takes a special sort of girl to enjoy this.

Thwack-thwack-thwack!

I see the reflection on the lacquered leather. The grimace, the blush, it makes me laugh. I look pitiful. I stay quiet, though, as best I can. I wouldn't dare laugh in front of the admiral.

Thwack!  

My bottom is exposed, sticking up like a bare, gushy target. Prior experience would dictate the skin is bright red, taught, and on high alert. Glistening from the continuous rappings of the paddle, in a state of semi-glossy pulp. That is what it looks like.

Thwack!

What it feels like--Thwack-thwack-thwack!--is unbearably numb and raw.

The paddle has no remorse. I'd wager the admiral doesn't either. Remorse is for the planetsider dregs stuck in their pristine bubbles, never having to suck the salt out of a decrepit cock, never having to feel the fear of the unknown. I hate them. Not that Sven or his cock is decrepit, it isn't. I'm lucky to have him. He is my admiral. The first time Sven spanked me I could hardly hold still. I was a mess, really. Simply sloppy, unrefined, and un-Service-Cadet-like. I have, however, since learned from past incidents and I'd say rather confidently that I can now withstand the worst.  

Most people are familiar with a few light, giggly tappings from a familiar lover.  

That is not a spanking. Not a Federation spanking anyway.  

I would prefer his hand, but tonight (if you can have nights in space), he insisted upon the paddle. Not because I did anything wrong, but because he enjoys it.  

Thwack-thwack-thwack-thwack!

"Oww," I whimper.

Thwack-thwack-thwack-thwack!

That will leave a bruise.  

Imagine my surprise when I discovered I'd be servicing the men and women aboard the Geniver daily. Meaning: daily service, daily rituals and daily suckings. We each have a purpose.

Thwack!

And this is mine.  

Thwack!

Sure, being a pilot would be cool, or a ranger ... however, few realize the extent to which a fully-staffed star brigade needs servicing.

Thwack-thwack-thwack-thwack!  

I've ran the numbers, sucked the dicks, licked the clits, and let me tell you, there is a lot of servicing to be had to keep this operational.  

Thwack!

The voyage is damn near riding on it.

Thwack!

I hear a contented sigh followed by the clunk-clunk of Admiral Sven resting the familiar oaken paddle upon his desk, known affectionately to some and infamously to others on the ship as the Welcome Aboard. A name given to it, by Sven, based upon the extent of pleasure he derives from breaking in new Service Cadets with it.  

I've gotten much better at taking it. Haven't even cried the last couple times (not that the Federation recognizes such efforts).  

The Welcome Aboard is of medium length, width, and thickness with eight holes along its face that serve to cut wind resistance--simply put, it packs a punch and leaves one lingering sting. Plus, it is made of wood, there is a natural solidness to it, I like that.

"Aren't you forgetting something," he asks.

He pulls my hair, forcing me against his warm, bare, slightly-moist chest.  

Sessions like these tend to make him sweat. Tonight is no exception. Out of the corner of my eye, his satisfied, heavily creased, and leathered face comes into view. We make eyes at each other, deep eyes, and I can't help but smirk sheepishly when he stares into me.

Sometimes my mind goes entirely blank, dumb little doll on a shelf, waiting to be used.

"Thank you, Admiral," I say.  

"For?"

"For using me, Sir."

"That is my good, little, S-Cadet." 

He shoves my head down into his meaty thigh and begins circling my warm-from-impact bottom. He runs his fingers along the small of my back, using his thumb to ride the ridge of my tush, dipping up and down between that soft, dewy cleft. The friction of his calloused fingers against my freshly worked flesh makes me wince. Sometimes he marks me in a special way.

Sven grips the backs of my thighs and pulls them apart with ease.  

I already know what he is going to notice. I can feel the wetness.  

"How cute," he laughs. "You are like clockwork, Pip. All I have to do is wind you up."

Slick clear globs of fresh girl juice are stuck to my opening, dripping into my clit, making a mess all over my thighs. The fondling, after he has brutalized my bottom, tends to coax it out. Apparently, this is an uncommon response.  

"Who is my desperate, little, service girl," he asks.  

I feel his arm withdraw, potentially cocking upward to strike.

I reply, "I'm your dumb, desperate, little, needy, service girl." 

"Dumb and needy?" He laughs.

"Yes ... Sir," I say. I am the greatest tool of my own humiliation.  

"Good dumb girl," he gives my pussy lips a light sticky tap-tap with the tip of his finger and plunges three of his large spacefaring fingers into my wet hole. I feel violated as always, but honestly, kind of good too. Something about his old, gnarled hands between my legs gets me going, makes me forget a lot of things.

He picks up the speed, thrusting into me.  

I moan.  

How can I not?

"What a good, little, Service Cadet," he coos again.

Which reminds me, how did I get here?

Raz City-II

I began to view my life through the lens of failures.  

Failed relationships, dead-end jobs, no future, a crushing sense of loneliness.  

One pitiful disappointment after another, perfectly rendered and captured right before my pathetic eyes. The city was brimming with life and culture, but I wasn't a part of it per se. I felt more like a byproduct of it than a successful creation. I did try to break the mold sometimes. Greet my neighbors, talk to a passerby on the street, but I'd always stumble upon my words, or get a saying wrong, or say something awkward, and they'd just stare at me with a look of confusion--or worse, a look of contempt.  

On this particular day, I had gone about my routine as usual, up early, walking through Raz's bustling downtown, the cold breeze groping its way up my legs and backside, what a pit, well, not really, most of the time Raz City was cool. Plenty of bars, night clubs, restaurants, fast food chains, whatever else you could want. Although, like most Earth cities, it was overpopulated and the buildings blotted out the sun. People got pale as paper. The building I inhabited at the time went to the floor four hundred. I lived on the fourth floor. My view was shit.  

I had my Audio Fiber beanie snug to my head, warming my ears and playing tunes. It was way more than I could afford, but how could I not get one? Plus, the applications were endless. For example, Audio Fiber underwear, their next big release. I had them on pre-order and I was just waiting for the day I'd slip them on and experience the sound. I thought classical would be delightful. An entire symphony in my underwear. It gave me hope for the day I'd pass time at Cluckies with ease--I couldn't even eat a sandwich on break without getting my ass pinched.

I felt trapped. Stuck at this job, but it wasn't even this job. Up to this point, I'd had countless unrewarding, suspiciously degrading, dead-end jobs throughout the city. I was stuck in a life and a routine that wasn't mine.  

My regimen was as follows:  

Clock in.  

Have a royally wretched time.  

Clock out.

Head home. Ignore the cactus skins in the hallway of my apartment building.  

Eat the discounted to-go order of Pigeon Nugs and slip into the lulls of masturbation, comforted by the rhythm of the violin. Fiddle as it were.  

Clearly all of that sucked, maybe not the masturbation, but the rest was just sad. It was like being horny was the only thing I had going for me.

List of things I was good at:  

Number one, being horny.  

Number two, having a sweet ass.  

Number three, there was no number three, end of list.

It occurred to me that I had stopped walking.  

I looked down at the sidewalk. Blackened pieces of gum or tar stuck to the chipped, battered slabs of cement, framing my torn canvas sneakers like some form of sad rendering, a portrait of my dirty, insignificant life in the city.  

A piece of crumpled, unidentifiable paper trash flew by my feet and wedged itself in the corner of a doorframe, and at that moment, I noticed something that had eluded me all these years--a sign beside the entryway to a seemingly forgotten office of yesteryear.  

It was on the ground floor of the partially scaffolded Baleron Corp building. One of the many crumbly, bird-stained, concrete high rises of a bygone era that happened to be along my daily route to Cluckies. I don't know how I missed it all these years. Maybe because the sign wasn't a hologram, which surprised me as most signs were these days. I strayed from the sidewalk toward the entrance of the building, where the sign contained a poster locked in glass and bolted to the cement wall. An array of flickering, buzzing, obnoxiously-garish lights lined the case frame. I half expected it to speak to me. In dark, obtrusively looming letters, it read:

BECOME THE YOU OF TOMORROW

JOIN THE FEDERATION OF GALACTIC TROOPERS TODAY

I frosted the glass with little puffs of eager breath. Eye level with the larger-than-life Galactic Trooper centered in the poster. One leg was propped on a crate of ammo and his crotch was thrust forward, equipped to thrust, ready to utilize that powerful buttocks of squeezable gush and iron. His gloved hand pointed right between my hopeful, lonely eyes.  

You are next, it could have said.  

That big finger of his could have come straight through the poster right into my wet, vacant mouth.

Bark - III

Sven removes his three chunky spacefaring fingers from my slick, slightly-blushed-from-use pussy hole. He hoists my rump to his nose, and takes a big sniff, exhaling and throbbing in delight. Sven releases me, I fall onto his lap, and his crotch stabs into my lower abdomen giving me the sensation of some kind of outercourse impalement.  

He spreads me and takes a dab at my opening to taste. Savoring me like shrimp-cocktail.

His swollen mass pulses again.  

I taste good.

"Alright," he grunts, "to the floor with you." Sven pat-pats the top of my bottom.

"Yes Sir," I crawl to the floor, putting extra care to avoid smearing my wetness on his pants. My bare knees press into the steel floor, stamping my submission into the unfeeling metal.

"Strip down," he says. He points to the tangled boot, panty, pant clump strangling my legs. "And get rid of that silly mess at your feet."

I nod, taking care to remove my coat and undershirt first. My breasts fall gently as the cloth hits the floor. Next, I tug at my ankles. I fall backwards, showing hole, but I get up and flash a Service Cadet smile.

Sven looks amused.  

"Good," he says. "Now, crawl on all fours." He mimes a whirlpool with his finger. "In tight little circles in front of me."

"Yes, Sir." I begin my crawl, keeping my head low. The flooring hurts my palms and knees, but I'm not dizzy yet.

"Bark," he commands.

"Arf arf arf," I go, spinning around for him like a good, dumb dog.

He smiles. "Good girl."

I continue chasing my tail and the heat is radiating off my bottom, melting me like an iceberg with each four-legged step. The wetness smears between my thighs. All of that precious dew is pouring out now. The spanking is over so my cunt drips in celebration.

Sven undoes his buckle. "Come between my legs and kneel." 

His fatigues drop to his boots and he sits back down.  

The admiral isn't one for underwear.  

I break my circle and slide up between his legs, leaning forward until my breasts squish into the cold-leather stitching that lines the ridge of his chair, bringing my nipples to a sharp point as it has done so many times before.

"Open your mouth."

I let my jaw go slack.

"Say ah."

I fix my eyes at the weighty flesh of his crotch, lolling my tongue out, throwing my eyes up at him, panting the most breathy ahh.  

He grins at me.

I'm a good girl.