“Chocolate moon, how do you do!” snarled Baxton with angry satisfaction.

The girl whimpered soft defeat.

“I said,” Baxton huffed, slapping the girl's bare rear, “HOW DO YOU DO?” and with that furious inquisition he slapped again with terrible force. The girl let out a pained wail, and Baxter's jowls reddened in delight. In that moment he mounted her, his frame at least twice hers, and began in maddened, cruel thrusts to sodomize his captive. The wet smack of his beefy thighs against her bony posterior sent unheard echoes against the cabin walls.

They were in the inner bowls of El Caastra, the former mining vessel that he had stolen from the scrap yard of Umpethore. El Caastra was a formidable ship, 80 metres in length, 30 metres wide and 15 metres tall. Much of the volume of the vessel was occupied by the twin oil barrels, great big industrial drums that ran lengthwise down each end of the ship. They were in what he assumed to be a kind of staff canteen. A refrigerator cast light from the corner of the room, and the table on which they fornicated stood below a strip of neon light that oozed cold white illumination onto the sordid scene below.

Maxwell sat at his laptop taking in this scene with bulging eyes. His cursor hesitated on the stop button, whilst his left hand hesitated on the button of his jeans.

Uninstall that webcam before Baxter catches you, he thought to himself. Where's the lube? came another, more intrusive and more inviting thought.

Hidden in the ceiling of that canteen, a tiny webcam sat spying on Baxter and Chocolate Moon. It had been there for two weeks now. Maxwell had a hell of a time installing it. Like with most of his problems these days, Maxwell had turned to the MuckaMaps app on his phone for the answer.