Chapter 132: The Governorate's Dire Straits: Part 1
While Atlantis's leadership had finally admitted—honestly, for once—that they weren't in any position to cover up their defeats and had accepted the weapons and intelligence from Kaldir to bolster their combat strength and grasp a thread of hope for turning the tide, where exactly was the Governorate? The very body tasked with preemptively detecting and utterly crushing this anti-Lucid resistance movement?
Had they been even remotely competent, they wouldn't have missed the anomalies on the frontier for a full week, allowing the front lines to be pushed back—little by little, but inexorably. Even without a way to counter the new Atlanium armor, they could at least have devised some method to briefly restrain the rampaging madman Kaif.
Anyone who had witnessed the disgrace of those Lucid garrison units—entire battalions melting away without a single survivor, exposed alone to Kaif's onslaught—could only reach one conclusion: The Atlantis Governorate was utterly incompetent.
Had they not been so useless, a massive force numbering several divisions wouldn't have been forgotten in the Governorate's memory after being ordered to land on some remote planet; they wouldn't have been left starving without resupply for extended periods; and they certainly wouldn't have been encircled and annihilated by a single armored division under Kaif's direct command.
The Governorate had thoroughly betrayed the home government that had placed its trust in them, heartlessly abandoning the soldiers dragged across not just "vast" distances, but millions of light-years from their homes in the Andromeda Galaxy.
Having betrayed everyone, they were blinded to anything but exploiting their positions and authority for personal gain. No—perhaps it was more accurate to say their eyes were sharp only for self-indulgence. On everything else, they were blind as bats.
The end of the anti-Lucid resistance? The development of the Atlantis colony? The prosperity of the homeworld? The safe return of the 200 trillion garrison troops? These were all far removed from the Governorate's primary concerns.
If even a shred of loyalty to the homeworld lingered in their hearts, or if the barest speck of bureaucratic responsibility clung to their thick hides, they wouldn't have endlessly delayed tax remittances—and that might have offered some small aid to the homeland's utterly collapsed economy.
If a fragment of conscience valuing the lives of the garrison troops had lodged in their souls, then 20% of the 200 trillion-strong force recorded in Lucid garrison ledgers wouldn't have been reduced to handfuls of ash; far more wouldn't have been wounded, fallen ill, starved, gone missing, or deserted, leaving actual combat power in shambles. And the resistance might have been crushed before it could intensify like this.
But history knows no "ifs," and the "present" is but a piece of the mosaic that becomes history.
The Governorate elites, epitomized by the Baltik Governor, couldn't care less whether the Lucid home government hounded them for taxes, or whether Kaif personally mounted a new-model tank to solo their troops and reclaim planets they'd barely seized. Masked up, they were too busy drowning in revelry with the girls.
"Drink up, drink up! Drink up, drink up! Cocktail's going in—glug, glug, glug, glug!"
Dum-chit dum-chit. No wild party of lecherous old men jiggling their cocks alongside girls who looked, at best, like their daughters could be complete without upbeat music, flashing lights, and the rising star of the drug market: Kaldir Cocktail.
At one man's order, the women—all collared like dogs, kneeling—tilted their heads with eyes devoid of hope, guzzling the liquid drug from bowls. Those who resisted were segregated and force-fed more, their bodies already pumped full of every narcotic imaginable.
Men and women alike roamed naked, without a stitch on, in this den of debauchery. As always, the venue was the Earth Palace, and the invited cocks were all the high-and-mighty who could fart in this country and make it count.
"Kehhehe, you mad bastard! This ain't booze! Chug it like that, pour it down, glug-glug, and your wallet won't survive—got the balls for it?"
"Fuck it, who cares! Whatever I blow tonight, I'll rake it back from somewhere else! Right, girls? Yeah, that's it—glug it down like that, and big bros'll love ya. Keep being good little sluts, got it?"
"Makes sense! Money's everywhere in this dump—rip it off whoever! Forget the cash worries; just let the beat take your body right now—that's the word!"
"Ah, watching these bitches chug the drugs like it's candy's got my dick throbbing—I can't hold back anymore. Gotta ram it into some pussy to this rhythm!"
Being big shots meant they could haul in crates of exorbitantly priced Kaldir Cocktail—far beyond ordinary drugs—and force their flesh-slave girls to drink it down. They could buy up armloads of slaves writhing and moaning from gulping the scalding brew, all to heighten their fun.
There were hordes of flesh slaves, varying wildly in looks, figures, tit size, hip width, height, and maturity. But they all shared one trait: pretty enough to hook any man outside. The problem was, as slaves for sale, they couldn't freely mingle with men anymore.
These sleek, well-built slaves might look similar at a glance, but there was a way to tell them apart. Shove your cock in her mouth-pussy: if she bites the glans, she's a fresh newbie. If she takes it but spits out the cum instead of swallowing every drop, she's past newbie but not too seasoned. Little tells like that.
What life they'd led before being dragged here didn't matter. Once a girl's body crossed this threshold, there was no way out. The sole measure of their worth: how well they wielded their sex appeal.
Whether she sucked cock like a pro or fumbled and failed to arouse, every woman here was just a disposable hole. Pleasing the men brought no special rewards for her—just useful intel for the cocks on which bitch was prime fucking.
Still, a good rating by this standard might land her in some bigwig's hands for a comfy night in a soft bed. A bad one? The consequences started at corporal punishment—like right now.
"Hey, you bitches! This shit's expensive as hell—one drop spilled, and you pay! Chug every last bit! Those girls over there downed it fine—why you hesitating? Drink like you slurp big bros' cocks and swallow the jizz!"
"Auuugh... B-bros... No more... fits... Bitch belly's fulla bros' cum... no room left!"
"Oh ho, you bitches ain't talkin' right? Can't do it proper?"
"S-spare me! Can't live like this! Let me out!"
"What'd you say, you cunts...? You know how much I paid for you sluts? You gulped down cock-juice and piss fine—quit bitchin' and drink nice while you can!"
Slap, slap! No one here would call out or prosecute the depravities unfolding, so the attending cocks wasted no time: fist or whip out at the first whiff of a flesh slave defying her master's order.
If it ended at fists and whips, they'd count themselves lucky. Hot-tempered pricks among them would draw knives from somewhere and hack at girls who failed to satisfy; worse ones, going by mere rumors, started with blood to "properly educate."
"Hey, hey! Go easy on the girls! Ruin 'em too hard from the jump, what're we gonna play with? Night's still young!"
"Nah, can't coddle 'em like you softies! Gotta crush their spirits flat—then they won't dream of rebelling later!"
Whenever slaps or lashes cracked across some girl's face or back, raucous male chatter always erupted around it. No one stopped it; they just cackled, gleefully spectating as fellow cocks disciplined the bitches.
"Agh! Aaagh! Kill me instead, you bastards! Even if I die today, I ain't callin' fat-gut old fucks like you 'bro'!"
"Oho, a real rebel bitch—now that's fun! Let's see if you know the right answer... time for a little quiz with big bro?"
Fresh entertainment drew clusters of men. Their fists clutched armfuls of leashes tethered to slender necks—no sign of mercy in those grips.
The cost of buying these flesh slaves for tonight's "event," plus producing the Kaldir Cocktail pumped into their bodies—how many Lucid garrison troops could that feed? How many weapons could it arm them with? How many barren wastelands could it terraform back to habitability?
The Baltik Governor didn't give a damn. Such headaches rarely solved quick, and chipping away at them just burst your brain. But surrendering to instinct like this? Pure bliss. Whoever said it, "giving up makes it easy" rang true. Grozny, Kaif, whatever—party first!