QSFer Korin I. Dushayl has a new queer BDSM space opera book out, The Lady and the Spyder book 3: Spyder’s Trial.
Spyder expertly guides the combat-crippled spaceship Truth to a “safe” crash landing at the bottom of an Aargine ocean. A salvage ship owned by a powerful criminal snags Truth and Spyder’s owner, the Lady Cassandra, negotiates safe transport for the ship’s passengers—her slaves, her prisoners, and her revolutionary recruits—as well as the tools vital for her work as a Dominatrix.
When Sypder finds himself swept up in a Piety Purist political plot to overthrow Abhinav Lanka’s civic government, the Lady Cassandra enlists her other slaves—including a former assassin, an ex-military sniper, and a one-time thief—to rescue him. But the Pietests’ determination to destroy the Lady Cassandra at all costs risks their lives and tests each of them.
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Excerpt
A dim grey light teased at the corner of Spyder’s eye. Dull pain stabbed at the back of his head. He blinked and groaned. The harness and sturdy polymer pilot’s chair still gripped him securely on what was left of Truth’s bridge. But, the silence replacing the always-present thrumming of a functioning spaceship indicated the engine, gravity generator, and life support systems were all dead. Metal creaked and groaned as the ocean threatened to destroy any hull integrity that remained.
The hand light lowered so it no longer shone in his eyes. “Alive.”
Spyder coughed. “Ship status?”
Two atmosphere-suited figures of almost the same height — one slender, the other bulky — stood on either side of his chair, visible only in the dim light produced from status indicators within the three helmets.
“Bunk, ship’s kinda an exaggeration at this point.” The same voice that pronounced his status as still among the living. Apparently Bunk, the navigator and gunner, had suffered less than Spyder had on impact since he was on his feet.
The slender figure had to be Tamara. She ran a portable medscanner over Spyder.
“Bruised ribs and collarbone. Bruises all over. Bit of internal bleeding. Maybe a mild concussion.” She closed the scanner, opened the medkit, and extracted a syringe. “Little nanopeptide and rest, and you’ll be up looking for a replacement ship.” She pressed the syringe against Spyder’s suit intake port and injected it with a hiss.
His headache eased and Spyder breathed deeply. But as his memories of their harrowing descent to the planet returned, he realized nothing was left of Truth — the biggest, fastest, most modern ship he had ever commanded — except scrap metal and maybe some salvageable parts from consoles, vids panels, inter-ship com, medtech and galley equipment, all upgrades from his previous ship, Trouble. Truth’s superior speed, responsiveness, and maneuverability had allowed them to avoid serious damage in attacks by Righteous Order of Piety Purists patrol vessels, only to be taken down by the Aargine Interdiction Force carrying out Pietist orders. Despite his and the crew’s best efforts, the sleek ship that carried the Lady Cassandra throughout the system to visit her clients for almost a year had crash landed in the Aargine ocean.
“How’s everyone else?”
“A couple of the Pietist prisoners have broken bones. Nothing serious, except for Trash. Busted neck. Better than suffocating, I suppose, since he refused to be put in an atmosphere suit. The crew and recruits have mostly bruises and a few concussions. Our Lady wasn’t harmed.” Tamara’s voice was void of emotion. After keeping Trouble aspace with ingenuity, determination, and resourcefulness, working on Truth had to have been a mechanic’s dream job. Now the ship was only good as salvage.
Still, no serious injuries would allow them to continue serving their Lady and fighting the Pietists. Spyder sighed with relief.
The ceiling creaked again.
Tamara looked upward. “Any idea how deep we are?”
“I aimed for near the coast. But without sensors I couldn’t tell you where we hit.”
Tamara replaced the syringe and closed the kit. “The inertial dampeners saved our lives, but they nearly drained the batteries. I’ve shut down everything. No atmosphere, no lights, no heat, no communication. No way out. Just whatever oxygen’s left in the suits and breathers. We’re scalia. I hope you have a plan.”
“I do.” Spyder smiled. “We wait. Everyone back in harness immediately.”
Bunk nodded. “I’ll inform crew and recruits.” He stalked out through the hatch.
Tamara picked up her kit. “Toad’s setting bones. I’ll help him get the prisoners webbed back to the bars in the brig.”
Spyder carefully pushed himself out of his chair. He ached everywhere, but he could stand. “I’ll secure our Lady.”
Tamara tilted her head and watched him wobble toward her.
He grabbed onto the hatchway to steady himself. “I’ll be fine. Go.”
She turned on her heel and headed down the corridor. Spyder kept one gloved hand on the bulkhead and stumbled through the blackness with only the light from the status indicators in his suit. He counted the hatchways and pushed his way into the Lady Cassandra’s cabin and around the tapestry that hung at the entrance, stepping onto the thick carpeting that covered the floor.
“My Lady.” He bowed stiffly from the waist, afraid if he dropped to his knees he wouldn’t be able to get back on his feet.
Two dim light arrays turned toward him. “Yes, boy?”
“I need to help you and Gerbil back into your safety harnesses, my Lady.”
“Because?”
“The only way we survive is if a salvage crew saw us dive into the ocean spewing black smoke and engine parts. Even if they find us in time, they’ll assume no survivors. We’re in for a rough ride to the surface.”
The shorter, plumper of the two suited figures in front of him reached out and touched his arm with her gloved hand. “Are you in any shape to help us, boy?”
He bowed his head. “I’m just bruised, my Lady.” He forced himself to walk steadily toward the Lady’s berth so he could untangle the straps of her harness, fumbling with them in the darkness.
Before she lay down, the Lady Cassandra wrapped her arms around his waist in an embrace made awkward by their atmosphere suits. “We’re only still alive because of you, boy.”
He wished he could embrace her as he usually did, naked, only her silks between his pale flesh and her gloriously soft, dusky skin. “Thank you, my Lady.”
Once he had the Lady buckled in, he turned to secure Gerbil who had already untangled her own harness and climbed inside. With his owner, and the former Pietist prisoner she had taken as another slave, secure he felt his way back toward the hatch. He barely made it through into the corridor. Unable to take another step, he leaned against the creaking bulkhead. Metal clanged against metal and he could feel the hull shake as a scavenger’s giant magnetic grappler adhered to the side of the ship.
Author Bio
As a FemDom, I.G. Frederick knows first hand the beauty
of symbiotic D/s relationships filled with love. As an
observer she sees the many ways BDSM turns ugly. She
writes about abusive and tragic interactions as Korin I.
Dushayl.
I.G. Frederick trades words for cash, specializing in erotic
and transgressive fiction and poetry since 2001. Her
erotic short stories appeared in Hustler Fantasies, Forum,
Foreplay, and Desire Presents, as well as electronic,
audio, and print anthologies. Her novels receive high
praise from readers, critics, and other authors.
Ms. Frederick owns the man she adores who, although
dominant in the rest of his life, demonstrates his love by
serving as her submissive.
| Author Website | https://www.transgressivewriter.net/ |
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