After the disaster of her last mission, NASA knew Melissa Lewis had no business serving as Commander on the next Ares III outing to Mars. Her failures as a leader lost the agency millions of dollars in equipment - and almost killed botanist Mark Watney. That's why they retrained her. Following a new battery of rigorous tests, they ascertained her real skills, not the ones she claimed to have on her fancy resume, and assigned her a new role: Astronauts' Assistant. Lowest rank in the Corps, she lived to obey the orders of everyone else aboard ship.
For any other woman with a PhD in Geological and Planetary Sciences, the demotion would have brought on charges of sexism. But everyone knew her record. It played in the news nightly, ensuring no one doubted why the redheaded dumbass who nearly ruined NASA should find herself toiling away at minimum wage in a job too simple for someone like her to fuck up.
The cap fit over her head snugly. She took care not to smear her lipstick or foundation, lest she fail her most basic duty of looking pretty. Had to give the boys something easy on the eyes for what they missed back home.
"Permission requested to not use the vibrator in my ass," Melissa asked.
Her CO answered swiftly. "Denied. I know how lazy you get without some motivation. We don't want another accident like the shitshow of your command, do we Lewis?"
"No, sir."
With a whimpering sigh, Melissa flicked the switch on her vibrator and pushed it in. Its hum rippled through her backside, powerful enough for her to grab the wall and hold on for dear life. Her space walks always started this way. She had to stand around for a few minutes until she adjusted her tolerance to getting reamed. Once familiar, she slipped into her suit. Legs. Torso. Arms. The bulky uniform crinkled as she grabbed her huge domed helmet and clicked it into place.
Now trapped within her own air system, she could smell her sweat and lust fuming off her body. Her much reduced rations of shower time compared to the rest of the crew meant that more and more often, her commander made her put on the suit just to be rid of her stench.
Melissa's eyes widened in horror at the announcement. She heard the pumps priming, the hoses jostling. "No, I'm not ready, I'm not blrghkllll."
Cum flooded her helmet. The spray started at her mouth, but dribbled and collected into a pool that slowly rose until it immersed her pointy nose. Her long nostrils sucked in wads at the same time she gulped some down through her mouth. Her hand beat hard against her chest to the sensation of drowning while the solution rose past her eyes to blind her. Soon, every curved inch behind the glass contained a big ball of semen with Melissa's head hidden somewhere in the middle.
"Can you hear me, Lewis?"
To the commander's question, Astronauts' Assistant Melissa Lewis raised her arm and gave a thumbs up. Special contacts allowed her to see through cameras mounted on her sides against her dark scum-sucking backdrop.
"Great. The telescope lens in south sector needs cleaning, and remember not to swallow ALL the breathable jizz this time. It's not like you can just suck our cocks for more."
Waddling toward the airlock, the cummy insides of her suit sloshed step by step.
"Aaaaand cut!"
Helmet unsealed, cum spilled free from the bottom. Its drainage soon revealed Jessica Chastain's nose, then mouth, then chin, covered in wet spunk. As soon as a set assistant removed the glass globe, Jessica gasped loudly for breath and wiped her eyes.
"Did we get it?" Jessica asked. "Did we get it right THAT time?"
"Hmm. Can't be too sure. Let's go again."
"FUCK!" Just what she didn't want to hear from the director. She pounded the wall and sat, indignant but powerless, mentally steeling herself for the next three hours of clean up and gunk up left in her reshoot schedule.
She had one man to blame. Blake Harwell, a major film producer in the industry, had found a way to forge her face on footage of various crimes. Drug deals, auto theft, gun running, and a few seedier enterprises. Unlike most fakes, Blake's were uncanny. Looked exactly like her. Even she started to wonder while watching a few of them. His condition not to release them was simply carrying out reshoots for some of her past roles.
It didn't sound too bad on paper, but in person, she found that Blake wanted her to redefine every strong woman role of her career into a pathetic loser. Demoted, defeated, humiliated and abused, Jessica Chastain carried each loss with her from shoot to shoot as they slowly took their toll.
Today, she was an ex-commander who minced around her ship like a buffoon for the pleasure of much better men. Who would she be tomorrow?
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Jessica Chastain Reshoots: The Martian
"Alright Lewis, suit up."
"Right away, sir."
After the disaster of her last mission, NASA knew Melissa Lewis had no business serving as Commander on the next Ares III outing to Mars. Her failures as a leader lost the agency millions of dollars in equipment - and almost killed botanist Mark Watney. That's why they retrained her. Following a new battery of rigorous tests, they ascertained her real skills, not the ones she claimed to have on her fancy resume, and assigned her a new role: Astronauts' Assistant. Lowest rank in the Corps, she lived to obey the orders of everyone else aboard ship.
For any other woman with a PhD in Geological and Planetary Sciences, the demotion would have brought on charges of sexism. But everyone knew her record. It played in the news nightly, ensuring no one doubted why the redheaded dumbass who nearly ruined NASA should find herself toiling away at minimum wage in a job too simple for someone like her to fuck up.
The cap fit over her head snugly. She took care not to smear her lipstick or foundation, lest she fail her most basic duty of looking pretty. Had to give the boys something easy on the eyes for what they missed back home.
"Permission requested to not use the vibrator in my ass," Melissa asked.
Her CO answered swiftly. "Denied. I know how lazy you get without some motivation. We don't want another accident like the shitshow of your command, do we Lewis?"
"No, sir."
With a whimpering sigh, Melissa flicked the switch on her vibrator and pushed it in. Its hum rippled through her backside, powerful enough for her to grab the wall and hold on for dear life. Her space walks always started this way. She had to stand around for a few minutes until she adjusted her tolerance to getting reamed. Once familiar, she slipped into her suit. Legs. Torso. Arms. The bulky uniform crinkled as she grabbed her huge domed helmet and clicked it into place.
Now trapped within her own air system, she could smell her sweat and lust fuming off her body. Her much reduced rations of shower time compared to the rest of the crew meant that more and more often, her commander made her put on the suit just to be rid of her stench.
"Introducing experimental spermatium breathing solution."
Melissa's eyes widened in horror at the announcement. She heard the pumps priming, the hoses jostling. "No, I'm not ready, I'm not blrghkllll."
Cum flooded her helmet. The spray started at her mouth, but dribbled and collected into a pool that slowly rose until it immersed her pointy nose. Her long nostrils sucked in wads at the same time she gulped some down through her mouth. Her hand beat hard against her chest to the sensation of drowning while the solution rose past her eyes to blind her. Soon, every curved inch behind the glass contained a big ball of semen with Melissa's head hidden somewhere in the middle.
"Can you hear me, Lewis?"
To the commander's question, Astronauts' Assistant Melissa Lewis raised her arm and gave a thumbs up. Special contacts allowed her to see through cameras mounted on her sides against her dark scum-sucking backdrop.
"Great. The telescope lens in south sector needs cleaning, and remember not to swallow ALL the breathable jizz this time. It's not like you can just suck our cocks for more."
Waddling toward the airlock, the cummy insides of her suit sloshed step by step.
"Aaaaand cut!"
Helmet unsealed, cum spilled free from the bottom. Its drainage soon revealed Jessica Chastain's nose, then mouth, then chin, covered in wet spunk. As soon as a set assistant removed the glass globe, Jessica gasped loudly for breath and wiped her eyes.
"Did we get it?" Jessica asked. "Did we get it right THAT time?"
"Hmm. Can't be too sure. Let's go again."
"FUCK!" Just what she didn't want to hear from the director. She pounded the wall and sat, indignant but powerless, mentally steeling herself for the next three hours of clean up and gunk up left in her reshoot schedule.
She had one man to blame. Blake Harwell, a major film producer in the industry, had found a way to forge her face on footage of various crimes. Drug deals, auto theft, gun running, and a few seedier enterprises. Unlike most fakes, Blake's were uncanny. Looked exactly like her. Even she started to wonder while watching a few of them. His condition not to release them was simply carrying out reshoots for some of her past roles.
It didn't sound too bad on paper, but in person, she found that Blake wanted her to redefine every strong woman role of her career into a pathetic loser. Demoted, defeated, humiliated and abused, Jessica Chastain carried each loss with her from shoot to shoot as they slowly took their toll.
Today, she was an ex-commander who minced around her ship like a buffoon for the pleasure of much better men. Who would she be tomorrow?