The laughter of the crew was a physical thing, a wave of heat and sound that washed over Jamie and left him cold. He stood in the center of the mess, their hands still a phantom imprint on his thighs, his ass, the lace straining over his chest. His own breath sounded ragged in his ears, a broken machine gasping for a purge cycle it would never get.

"He's a sturdy one," a voice grunted from the periphery. "Built for work."

Jamie’s eyes found the speaker—a broad-shouldered man with hydraulic-fluid stains on his coveralls. A fellow mechanic. Or he had been. The recognition was a fresh cut. This man saw the same calluses, the same wear on the knuckles, and all he saw was a different kind of tool.

"The french maids uniform suits him," another voice, younger, lighter, chimed in. "black really is his color."

Captain Vance’s voice sliced through the chatter, calm and clear. "The inspection is not a committee activity. You'll have turns." She didn't raise her voice. She never needed to. The room stilled. "Petrov. You first."

The broad-shouldered man, Petrov, stepped forward. His expression wasn't cruel. It was appraising. Jamie’s mind screamed. This was the moment to shove, to spit, to take a swing and damn the consequences. But his body, trained by a lifetime of following orders from anyone with a ship’s insignia, remained locked in place.

Petrov stopped a foot away. His smell was familiar: solder, synth-lube, and old sweat. A mechanic's smell. Jamie’s stomach twisted.

"Arms out," Petrov said, not unkindly. "Let's see the merchandise, sissy."

The word, so casual, so final, broke something. Jamie’s arms lifted from his sides, a slow, hydraulic motion. He felt the cool air of the mess hall on the damp patches under his arms. He was displaying himself. He, Jamie Miller, who had calibrated warp injectors with a micron precision, was standing with his arms out like a scarecrow in a nightmare of white lace and black satin.

Petrov’s hands were not gentle, but they weren't violent. They were thorough. He pinched the fabric of the apron between his fingers. "Cheap synth-silk. Won't hold up." His hand moved to Jamie’s shoulder, kneading the muscle there. "Good muscle density. No degradation. Captain said no damage. Means we can use him hard. It's built for it."

He was talking about him like he was an object. A sex toy to use. Jamie’s jaw ached from clenching. “Use him hard”. The words echoed. This was his body now. Just a toy for sex.

"Open your mouth," Petrov instructed.

"What?" The word burst from Jamie, hoarse and raw.

"Your mouth. Open it. Need to check the teeth. Vital equipment."

Humiliation, hot and liquid, flooded Jamie’s veins. He looked past Petrov, to where Captain Vance had settled onto a storage crate in the corner. She sat with one leg crossed over the other, observing with the detached interest of an zoo keeper watching their charges mating. Her gaze met his. It offered nothing. No rescue, no shared joke, not even contempt. It simply watched, taking it all in.

Jamie opened his mouth.

Petrov’s thick fingers, tasting of metal and salt, gripped his jaw. He tilted Jamie’s head toward the dim red light. "Good. All original. Nothing fake." His thumb pressed down on Jamie’s tongue. Jamie gagged, his eyes watering. "Gag reflex is present but that can be trained out." Petrov released him, wiping his thumb on his coveralls. "Do-able."

He turned to the Captain. "Inspection complete, Captain. It will do for entertainment."

"Thank you, Petrov. Reyes. You're next."

A younger man with a sharp, fox-like face and clever eyes detached himself from the wall. His smile was all teeth. "With pleasure, Captain."

Reyes didn't approach like Petrov. He circled. Jamie felt like prey in a pen. His heart hammered against his ribs, a frantic prisoner.

"So, Jamie," Reyes said, his voice a silken taunt. "The Captain says we can use you however we want. That's a lot of freedom. Makes a man creative." He stopped behind Jamie. "Kneel."

The command was a bolt to the spine. Kneel. On the grated floor. In front of them all. Jamie’s legs trembled, but they didn't buckle. Not yet.

"I said kneel, sissy." Reyes’s hand came down on his shoulder, not a strike, but a firm, inexorable pressure. "The rules say I can't break you. They don't say I can't make you uncomfortable in your position."

The pressure increased. Jamie’s knees gave way. The metal grating bit into his skin through the stockings. The posture was obscene. The short skirt did nothing. He was on display, kneeling at their feet, the frilly apron a joke over his lap.

"Good," Reyes purred. He came around to stand in front of Jamie. "Now, the Captain said you're a maid. A maid services. What do you say?"

Jamie’s vision blurred. He stared at the scuffed toes of Reyes’s boots. He couldn't form the words. They were a solid block of shame in his throat.

Reyes bent at the waist, bringing his face level with Jamie’s. His breath smelled of sweet, synthetic gin. "What's the matter? Cat got your tongue? Petrov just checked it and it seemed to work. Let's hear it. What do you say when you're ready to serve?"

From her crate, Captain Vance spoke, her voice cutting the thick air. "He says, 'How may I serve you, sir?'" A pause. "He's learning. But he will say it."

Reyes’s grin widened. He cupped Jamie’s face, his grip deceptively tender. "You heard the lady. Let's hear it. Or we can stand here all shift. My shift, your knees. Your choice."

The choice was no choice. It was a slow, grinding gear forcing another into place. Jamie felt the words form, alien and awful on his tongue. He looked up, past Reyes’s smirk, to the cold, observing eyes of the Captain. He said it to her.

"How…" His voice cracked. He swallowed. "How may I serve you, sir?"

The mess hall erupted in a low chorus of approval, a hungry murmur. Reyes’s thumb stroked Jamie’s cheek. "See? Was that so hard?" He straightened up, looking down at him. "You can start by staying right there. We're just getting started."

Reyes’s hand left his cheek with a final, patronizing pat. “Crawl,” he said, the word a casual bullet. “To her.” He gestured with his chin toward the next figure in the dimness, a woman leaning against a bolted-down table.

Crawl. The command echoed in the hollow place where Jamie’s pride had been. He looked at the floor. The grated metal, cold and patterned with decades of scuffs, stretched between him and the woman. It felt like a vast distance. His knees already ached from kneeling.

He placed his hands flat on the grating. The metal bit into his palms. He lowered his head, the ridiculous lace cap brushing his brow, and moved one knee forward. Then a hand. The stockings provided no protection. The grate dug into his skin through the thin material with every shift. The short skirt rode up, exposing the backs of his thighs and buttocks to the room. He focused on the rhythmic scrape of his palms, the click of his knees, the hot shame that traveled up his spine with each humiliating inch.

This is what you are now, a voice in his head muttered, sounding disturbingly like his own. A thing that crawls. A pet. He kept his eyes on the boots of the woman he was approaching. They were practical, scarred synth-leather, planted wide.

He stopped at her feet, head bowed, the scent of ozone and cheap perfume washing over him. He waited. The mess hall was quiet except for the low hum of life support and the sound of his own ragged breathing.

“Look up, maid.” The woman’s voice was a dry contralto, devoid of Reyes’s theatrical cruelty.

Jamie lifted his head. She was older, with sharp features and close-cropped grey hair. Her eyes, a faded blue, scanned him with a clinical detachment that was somehow worse than hunger. Her name patch read ‘Hendra.’

“Stand,” she said.

Getting up from the crawl was its own awkward, graceless ordeal. He pushed himself up, the maid’s apron fluttering, and stood before her, feeling impossibly tall and exposed. Hendra didn’t circle him. She simply looked.

“Turn around. Slowly.”

He turned, the sensation of dozens of eyes on his back like physical pressure. He completed the rotation to face her again. Her gaze was fixed on his chest, his waist, his hips.

“The uniform is a joke,” Hendra stated, not to him, but to the room. “The psychology is obvious. But the body…” She reached out, and Jamie flinched. Her hand paused, then continued, her fingers pressing into the muscle of his upper arm. “The body is factual. It is strong. Used to labor. The contrast is the point, isn’t it, Captain?”

From her crate, Vance’s voice floated over. “The contrast is profitable, Hendra.”

Hendra’s mouth twitched, not a smile. Her hand slid down his arm, her touch cool and assessing. “You are a tool repurposed. A wrench used as a dildo. Do you understand?”

Jamie’s throat worked. He didn’t.

“Your previous function is irrelevant. Your new function is service. Compliance is your only remaining utility.” Her hand went to his chin, tilting his face side to side. “You have a serviceable face. Not pretty. But honest. That will work for some.” She released him. “You may kneel again.”

The order was so flat, so certain, that Jamie’s knees were bending before the protest could fully form in his mind. He sank back down onto the unforgiving grate, a wave of dizziness washing over him. Repurposed.

“He’s resilient,” Hendra announced, stepping back. “The degradation will take. A good investment, Captain.”

“Thank you, Hendra. Chen. You’re up.”

A shorter man, compact and smiling, practically bounced forward. His energy was a violent contrast to Hendra’s chill. “Oh, this is the best part,” Chen said, rubbing his hands together. He crouched in front of Jamie, eyes sparkling. “Hi there! I’m Chen. I handle nav and, more importantly, morale!”

Jamie stared. The manic friendliness was more unsettling than a blow.

“So, Jay—can I call you Jamie? It is more girlie. Maid Jay?—let’s talk about access!” Chen said, as if proposing a game. His hands darted out, not touching, but tracing the air around the uniform’s hem. “This little number is all about presentation, sure. But it’s also about convenience. See?” He hooked a finger under the frilly edge of the apron where it lay over Jamie’s thigh. “The Captain thinks of everything. Quick access is efficient access. Don’t you agree?”

Jamie said nothing. His mind had gone quiet, a blank screen.

“I’ll take that as a yes!” Chen chirped. His smile never wavered. “Now, the rules. Captain said them, but let’s make sure you understand. We can use you. Any of us. Anytime. However we want.” He leaned in, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper that still carried. “However. We. Want. That’s a lot of possibilities, Jay. A universe of fun!”

He leaned back on his heels. “But here’s the flipside. No damage. That means no broken bones, no internal bleeding, no scarring that impedes function. We’re not animals.” He said it with utter sincerity. “We’re professionals. So. You be a good, compliant sissy, and we’ll use you right up to the very edge. Everyone wins!”

Chen stood up, looking over at Vance. “High state of humiliation, responds well to public disgrace. I’d say he’ll be perfect!”

“Thank you, Chen.” Vance uncrossed her legs. The sound of her boots hitting the floor was deliberate, a period at the end of a sentence. She stood and walked to the center of the room, her gaze sweeping over her crew, then settling on Jamie, still kneeling at Chen’s feet.

“The inspection is concluded,” she said, her calibrated voice filling the space. “You’ve all seen the merchandise. You’ve heard the rules. He is yours. A shared resource. A stress-relief toy. Use him. Break his spirit, but not his body. The one who damages my property…” She let the sentence hang, her neutron-star eyes cold. “Finds themselves needing a new career. In deep space. Without a ship. I assure you it would be a VERY long walk through deep space to the next port. A walk that I assure you will last the rest of your life.”

She walked toward the mess hall door, then paused, glancing back over her shoulder. “I’ll be on the bridge. Do try to keep the noise to a minimum. We have a schedule to keep.”

The door hissed shut behind her.

The silence she left was profound, and worse than any noise. It was a vacuum quickly filled by a new, collective energy. Jamie remained on his knees, the cold of the floor seeping into his bones. He didn’t look up. He listened to the shift of boots, the low murmur that was no longer idle chatter, but planning.

Reyes’s boots entered his downcast vision first. “Well, maid,” he said, his voice thick with anticipation. “The Captain’s gone. Now the real work begins.” A hand, not Reyes’s, settled heavily on the crown of Jamie’s head, fingers threading through his hair beneath the cap. It gripped, not painfully, but with absolute ownership.

“Let’s see if you remember your line,” another voice, deep and unfamiliar, rumbled from above him.