NSFW Commission — Captain Scarr and the housewife

This commission set comes in: Detail, micro-fiction, and no-text versions — plus the short story below!

Captain Scarr and the housewife prequel

The Earth's heroes were off-world, tangled in a diplomatic mission to Amazing Amazon’s homeworld — which made it the perfect time for Captain Scarr to do a little personal reconnaissance. Orbiting lazily over a quiet Earth suburb in her cloaked ship, The Velvet Saber, the infamous space pirate lounged in the command cradle, her black leather corset cinched tight around her waist, cleavage displayed like a dare across the viewscreen reflection. She adjusted her gauntlet and panned across a somnolent neighborhood.

The houses were tidy. Predictable. Boring. Until…

There. That one.

One window glowed with a honey-warm light. Through gauzy curtains, Scarr’s eyes narrowed at the vision inside. A curvy Earth woman — hips made for sin, a chest that strained her pink button-down shirt, and thick thighs barely contained in dark yoga pants. She stood alone in the kitchen. She wasn’t moving, just holding her phone with the same tense grip one might use to choke out a lie.

Scarr barked an order to her communications tech: “Intercept transmission.”

The underling adjusted in his seat. It had become a pattern ever since he joined the crew a few months ago: the moment his statuesque captain issued her terse commands, something stirred “below deck.”

He lived to hear her snap her directive like a riding crop. Perhaps one day, she’d —

Scarr prowled over as the Earther’s digital communications flashed onto the screen in front of him. Scarr leaned down, pressing her firm tits into his back. His breath caught in his throat.

The Earth woman’s name was Angela. Married. Monogamous. And right now, melancholy.

A new message came in.

Ted: “Hey babe, running late again. Last-minute client thing. Don’t wait up?”

Angela wasn’t buying it: “You sure it’s not the intern with the ‘innovative skill set?’”

Ted: “What? No! Come on, Ang. Don’t be so suspicious.”

Anticipating his leader’s needs, the young tech ran an array of emotional diagnostics on the message. The metrics were off the charts.

Scarr whispered to the trembling deckhand, her warm lips brushing against his ear, “I didn’t need diagnostics to see that was a lie. And I cannot abide lies.”

She leaned across him and let her gloved fingers drift lower on the interface, flirting carelessly close to his groin. Angela was shifting now — visibly angry, but still somehow gorgeous in that quiet, cracked way that lonely people get. Scarr had seen it a thousand times across a hundred systems. But rarely had the ache worn such a soft, inviting shape.

“Well, Earth girl,” Scarr purred, standing up and tugging the strings on her corset, “looks like someone needs a little extraterrestrial intervention.”

She turned on her heel and marched to the lift. Suddenly, she halted. The bridge of the Saber hummed with quiet systems and muffled tension. The comms tech sat stiffly at his console, fingers poised awkwardly over the sensor array. Not typing. Not moving.

Captain Scarr prowled the deck behind him, boots clicking softly, her corset creaking as she leaned in to examine the readouts over his shoulder. Her voice brushed the back of his neck like static electricity and hot breath.

“You’re awfully still, tech. Systems glitching?” she asked, smooth and syrupy.

“N-no, ma’am. Just… analyzing signal distortion.”

“Hmm.” She tilted her head. “Distortion. Always tricky. Gets in the way of clear readings.”

Her gloved hand grazed the console beside his, not touching him, but close. Too close. He swallowed hard.

“Speaking of,” she said, circling him slowly, her voice low now, intimate, “something’s throwing off your sensors. Unstable pulse readings… erratic feedback… and a sudden heat bloom right through your interface.”

She tapped the back of his chair lightly. It was, unfortunately for him, accurate.

“While I’m gone, I’d like you to do a manual adjustment of your equipment — a full eject and purge. I’ll want to see the results when I return.

She walked away without another word.

Moments later, the back porch creaked — so softly Angela barely noticed. A faint shimmer in the air. The smell of ozone. The whisper of leather sliding against leather. Then the pirate stepped out of the shadows, hips swaying, the curve of her chest lit by the moon.

Scarr leaned against the doorframe like she'd owned the place for years. Her voice was velvet-dipped sin:

“Rough night, Earth wife?”

Angela turned, startled—but before she could speak, Scarr’s gloved hand was already at her waist, her body heat radiating like a solar flare.

“I intercepted your distress signal,” she murmured, “and baby, I always answer those calls.”

“I didn’t… I didn’t call out.”

“I’ll see what I can do about that,” purred the buxom buccaneer.

Angela’s phone vibrated in her hand, startling her so much she nearly dropped it. Ted was responding to her previous text that she’d seen someone on the back porch: “I’m calling 911!”

Captain Scarr lifted Angela onto the kitchen counter and began tugging on her tight yoga pants. “Tell your husband not to rush home. He can take his time. Saturna knows I’m gonna take mine.”

The lusty pirate began to slide her tongue across Angela’s tender lips. So deliciously distracting. She hadn’t been responding to her husband. He was asking if Angela was actually alone in their house. Her quivering fingers tapped across the screen of her phone. 

“What? No! Come on, Ted. Don’t be so suspicious.”