The lunar mining base designated Scarlett-7 had been her home for four months, seventeen days, and six hours. Fern knew this because she counted them off in the little paper log she kept in the breast pocket of her coveralls, the way other people counted steps or calories. She was thirty years old, a geologist with a doctorate she had spent nine years earning, and she was the only woman left on a crew of eleven for the six-month rotation.

That left Fern, alone in the women's bunk on C-deck, and ten men, and Base Commander Mateo, forty-two years old, fourteen years in the program, shoulders like the bulkheads and a voice that could make the whole deck go still. He had run Scarlett-7 for eleven months now. And four days ago he had issued Amendment Four to the base isolation protocols, printed on official letterhead and posted on the mess hall board, and Fern had read it twice in front of everyone with her face burning so hot she thought her suit would vent.

Amendment Four — Lina Ximena. The text was dry as reg dust, but the meaning underneath was wet as her mouth had been ever since. The commander had the authority, under the isolation charter, to amend morale protocols. The amendment established that Fern would report to his quarters each night at 2100 hours for — the words said

— morale and physical welfare review

— and that her duties would be adjusted so that she would be, the amendment said,

— fully available to the commander.

She had understood. Every man on the base had understood. She had stood there in her coveralls and felt eleven pairs of eyes on her and her nipples had gone hard under the fabric and she had hated herself for it and wanted it more than air.

2100 was twenty minutes away.

She stood in the mirror in the tiny women's head on C-deck and looked at herself in her standard greys, and felt the low hot churn start up deep in her belly the way it had been starting up four times a day for the last four months. Four months of nobody touching her. She was supposed to shower first — the amendment said so: personnel will present in a clean condition. She stripped out of the greys in the little shower stall, water rationed to ninety seconds, and the hot stream hit her breasts and she gasped and braced one hand on the wall and her other hand was between her legs before she could stop it, fingers finding her clit with the desperate familiarity of four months of doing this in the dark with her hand over her mouth.

She was already so wet it was obscene. Her cunt was slick and swollen, her inner thighs sticky, and she worked her clit in tight fast circles, hips jerking against the stall wall, biting her lip to keep quiet. She came hard and fast, a stuttering clenching pulse of heat, and leaned her forehead on the wet tile and panted and felt the ache roar right back up before she even stopped shaking. It was never enough. Nothing was enough. Not for four months.

She dressed in the clean greys, no underwear — the amendment didn't say anything about underwear, but the look he had given her when she read the posting had said everything — and at 2059 she stood outside his quarters on B-deck with her hand raised to the hatch and her heart hammering so loud she was sure the deck sensors would log it.

She knocked. The hatch slid open.

Commander Mateo stood in the doorway in a black t-shirt and uniform pants, barefoot on the deck plating, forty-two and built like the base itself, and he looked down at her for a long moment without speaking.

— Fern, — he said.

Her name in his mouth was a brand.

— Get in here.

She stepped past him into his quarters — bigger than the crew bunks, a real bed bolted to the deck, a desk, the Earth huge in the viewport — and the hatch sealed behind her with a pneumatic hiss that sounded, to her, like a lock clicking.

He stood in front of her, close enough that she could feel the heat coming off him, and he reached out and took her chin in one big hand and tilted her face up until she had to look at him.

— Four months, — he said quietly.

— Four months I've watched you walk these decks with your hips swinging and your tits bouncing in those coveralls, and four months I've done nothing about it because the charter said personnel discipline. But the charter also says morale, Fern. And your morale —

his thumb brushed her lower lip, and her mouth opened for him without her permission

— — your morale is my responsibility now.

— Yes, sir, — she whispered.

— Sir is for the bridge, — he said.

His other hand went to the zipper of her coveralls.

— In here, you're my devoted sub, and I'm your domdaddy. Do you understand?

— Yes— — she breathed.

— Yes, Mateo.

— Good girl.

He unzipped her coveralls — slow, deliberate — and pushed them off her shoulders, and she stood naked in his quarters, thirty years old and trembling, her pussy dripping, no underwear, exactly as he'd known.

— On your knees, Fern, — he said.

— Four months. Let's see how devoted you can be.

She knelt on the deck plating, and he unzipped his uniform pants, and freed his cock — huge, thick, veined, already hard and throbbing, the head flushed dark. She stared up at him — this was the cock she'd seen once, an accident of timing outside the men's head, thick and heavy and half-hard, that had stayed in her dreams for three weeks.

— Open, — he said.

She opened her mouth, and he pushed in. His thick throbbing girthy massive cock stretched her lips wide — hard as a rock, almost as if it was going to burst, throbbing and pulsating as he pushed against her mouth. She knew instantly he was going to stretch her sooo much. He had to struggle and fight to force his huge cock into her mouth — she was so tight, and he was watching, and he could see her lips stretching and stretching as his head passed through them, and she let out a loud moan around him and he moaned too from the tightness and from her mouth stretching so much.

— That's it, Fern, — Mateo growled, his big hand fisting in her hair.

— Four months, and this is what you've been dreaming about. Suck your commander's cock.

She sucked him desperately on the deck plating — the Earth huge in the viewport behind him — swirling her tongue around his huge head, taking him deeper, gagging when he hit her throat, drool running down his shaft onto the deck. Her pussy was dripping, her whole body shaking with four months of want, and she moaned around him, pressing her thighs together.

— Fuck, — he breathed.

— That mouth. Four months I've been watching that mouth, Fern.

He pulled out suddenly, leaving her gasping, and lifted her — one arm around her waist — and threw her onto his bunk, face-down.

— This is for your morale, doctor, — he said, and his hand came down on her ass — hard, the crack echoing in the quarters.

She screamed. Again. Again. He spanked her until her ass was burning red, until she was sobbing and dripping, her pussy so wet it soaked the blanket.

— Please, Mateo—

she sobbed.

— Please what?

He lined his huge cock up with her dripping pussy.

— Please fuck me — I've waited four months — please—

He drove in. Fern screamed into the blanket. His thick throbbing girthy massive cock was twice the size of her pussy, hard as a rock, almost as if it was going to burst, throbbing and pulsating as he pushed against her entrance. She knew instantly he was going to stretch her sooo much. He had to struggle and fight to force his huge cock into her — she was so tight, and he was watching, and he could see her pussy stretching and stretching as his head passed through her outer lips, and she let out a loud moan and he moaned too from the tightness and from her pussy stretching so much. It was like sticking an extremely long thick cucumber up a pussy.

— Fuck — so tight, — he growled, his big hands gripping her hips.

— Four months, Fern. Four months of this tight little cunt waiting for me.

He fucked her face-down on his bunk — deep, hard, relentless thrusts, his hips slamming into her burning ass, the bunk groaning against the deck, the Earth turning in the viewport. Every thrust stretched her open, every thrust pushed her wetness out around his cock so it ran down her thighs.

— Whose pussy is this? — he demanded.

— Yours, Mateo! Yours — oh fuck — yours—

— That's right. Mine. Amendment Four, Fern. You're fully available to the commander. Every night. Every way.

He flipped her over and pushed her legs back, folding her in half, and fucked her with long grinding strokes, his mouth on her throat, biting, his cockhead pressing against her cervix.

— Come for me, — he ordered.

— Four months, Fern. Come.

She came — wailing, her pussy convulsing around his huge cock, her juices gushing — and he came with her, huge hot pulsing jets flooding her, filling her, holding her pinned while she shook. He pulled out slowly, and his come poured out of her gaping pussy onto the blanket.

— Morale review complete,

he panted.

— For tonight. Same time tomorrow, Fern. Twenty-one hundred.

— Yes, sir, — she whispered.

— Yes, Mateo.

She reported at 2100. Every night. The amendment held — printed on official letterhead, posted on the mess hall board, the driest language covering the wettest arrangement on the moon. He took her everywhere in his quarters — the bunk, the floor, the tiny shower, bent over the desk with the Earth huge in the viewport.

He took her in the geology lab once — after hours, bent over the sample table, her hands on her own core samples — fucking her hard while the rock dust settled.

— For science, Fern, — he growled, pounding her.

She laughed — breathless, wrecked — and screamed as she came.

He took her in the observation blister — the Earth hanging huge and blue — laying her on the deck, spreading her thighs, eating her pussy under the Earthlight until she screamed and came, her juices running onto the glass. Then he pushed his huge cock into her and fucked her with the Earth watching.

— You're mine, Fern,

he would growl, driving his huge cock into her dripping pussy.

— Say it.

— I'm yours, Mateo,

she would scream, coming.

— Yours—

The crew knew — of course they knew. Eleven pairs of eyes had watched her read the amendment. But nobody said a word — because he was the commander, and she was his, and that was the law on Scarlett-7.

One night, he kept her past midnight — breaking the schedule, keeping her in his bunk, his cock still half-hard inside her.

— Stay, — he murmured.

— The amendment doesn't say you have to leave.

She stayed. She moved her things in — the paper log, her coveralls, her whole life. She slept in his bunk, in his arms, with his come warm inside her, the Earth turning in the viewport.

— I love you, Fern, — he whispered one night — the first time, in the dark, with the grey dust outside and the Earth above.

— I love you too, Mateo,

she sobbed, smiling, clenching around him.

— My commander. My owner. My everything.

He made love to her then — slow, deep, tender — under the Earth, on the grey dust of the moon, and she came around him, softly, and he came inside her — deep, endless — and held her.

Under the Earth, on the grey dust of the moon, in the arms of her commander, her domdaddy, her Mateo — Fern, thirty years old, the only woman on Scarlett-7, the luckiest woman in the universe — closed her eyes and smiled, and spread her thighs for him one more time.

She was thirty. He was forty-two. She was his devoted sub, his Fern, his geologist, his amendment — and he was her Mateo, her commander, her owner, always and completely, in every way, forever, without exception.

Amendment Five came — his own hand, posted beside Amendment Four. Lina Ximena, Addendum. The text was dry: the geologist's quarters were reassigned; she would reside with the commander for the remainder of the rotation. The crew read it in silence. Fern read it with her face burning and her pussy dripping, and that night she moved the last of her things into his quarters — permanently.

He celebrated by taking her on the mess hall table — after hours, the whole crew's table — laying her on her back, spreading her thighs, eating her pussy while she screamed and clutched the table edge, coming on his face. Then he pushed his huge cock into her and fucked her on the table where eleven men ate breakfast — hard, deep, possessive.

— This table, — he growled, pounding her.

— Where they all watched you read it, Fern. Where they all knew. Mine.

— Yours, Mateo! — she screamed, coming.

— Yours—

He came inside her — deep — and she came with him, and he held her on the table while she shook.

Another night — a moonquake, the whole base shaking, the alarms wailing — he dragged her into the emergency shelter, pushed her to her knees, and fed her his cock — fast, urgent — while the base groaned around them. She sucked him desperately, and he came in her mouth, and she swallowed, and he zipped up like nothing had happened.

— Emergency protocol, Fern, — he said gravely.

She laughed — breathless, his come on her tongue — and he kissed her, tasting himself, and carried her back to his quarters, and took her — slow, deep, tender — while the moon settled.

The rotation ended — six months done. The relief crew arrived. The others shipped out. But Fern stayed — she signed another rotation, and another. She became the base's permanent geologist — and the commander's permanent girl.

One night — years in — he took her outside. Real Eva suits, the helmets off, the Earth huge above, the grey dust under their boots. He bent her over a rock — stripped her suit down in the vacuum-sealed pocket he'd made — and took her from behind with the Earth watching — fast, hard, urgent, the cold biting her skin, his hot body covering hers.

— Come for me, Fern, — he growled in her ear.

— Come on the moon, under the Earth.

She came — screaming into the thin cold, her pussy convulsing around his huge cock — and he came inside her, flooding her, and held her while the Earth turned.

— You're insane, Mateo, — she laughed afterward, breathless, his come freezing on her thighs.

— Insane for you, Fern, — he said, and kissed her, and carried her inside, and took her again in the airlock — slow, deep, tender — while the dust settled.

She was thirty, forever. He was forty-two, forever. She was his devoted sub, his Fern, his geologist, his amendment — and he was her Mateo, her commander, her domdaddy, her owner — now and always, without exception, forever.

The last amendment — the one that mattered — he wrote by hand, on paper, and gave her in bed. Amendment Six — Lina Ximena, Final. One line: Fern is mine. Permanently. — D.

She read it — tears in her eyes, smiling — and straddled him, naked, and took his huge cock into her pussy — slow, deep, sinking down on him — and rode him, her hands on his chest, her head thrown back.

— Jade, Mateo? — she breathed, grinding on him, his thick cock filling her.

— Jade, Fern, — he growled, his big hands gripping her hips, guiding her.

— Forever.

She rode him — slow, then fast, her tits bouncing, her screams filling the quarters — until she came, wailing, her pussy milking his cock, and he came inside her — deep, pulsing — and held her, both of them panting.

Then he flipped her — still inside her — and took her from behind, driving deep, his hand fisting in her hair — pounding her until she came twice more, sobbing into the pillow. He pulled out and came across her back — thick white ropes — and smeared it over her skin.

— Mine, — he said quietly, collapsing beside her, pulling her into his arms.

— Amendment Six, Fern. Jade.

— Jade, Mateo, — she whispered, smiling, his come warm on her skin and inside her.

— I love it. I love you.

He held her — under the Earth, on the grey dust of the moon — and she fell asleep in his arms, amended and claimed and completely his.

She kept the paper — framed, by the bed. Fern is mine. Permanently. — D. And every night at 2100, she reported — stripped at the hatch, knelt, and belonged. Because she was his. She had always been his, since the day she'd read Amendment Four with her face burning. His Fern. His devoted sub. His. Now and always, without exception, forever.

And when the next rotation's crew arrived — fresh faces, wide eyes — they read the amendments on the mess hall board, and stared, and understood. The geologist belonged to the commander. That was the law on Scarlett-7. And she — Fern, thirty, the luckiest woman on the moon — smiled, and touched the paper in her pocket, and went to report at 2100. His Fern. His devoted sub. His. Forever.

The amendments stayed on the mess hall board — Four, Five, Six — the driest language covering the wettest arrangement on the moon. And every night at 2100, Fern reported — stripped at the hatch, knelt, and belonged. She was thirty when she read Amendment Four with her face burning; she would be his for every rotation after. His Fern. His geologist. His devoted sub. His amendment — now and always, without exception, forever.

His Fern. His geologist. His amendment. The Earth would turn above the grey dust, the rotations would come and go, and every night at 2100 she would report — stripped, knelt, and belonged. His. Forever.