My name was Commander Luka Novak.
Now I am simply “Specimen M-01” — the last biological male in the solar system.
After the Matriarchal Accord of 2087, every colony ship, station, and lunar city became female-only.
Except me.
I was kept alive, naked, and in permanent cryogenic-ready suspension aboard deep-space research station AURORA-9 as the exclusive property of the all-female crew.
My purpose: stress relief, genetic material, and living toy for 127 women who rotate through the station every six months.
Hard sci-fi harem log ▪ last man in the solar system ▪ zero-g orgies, cryo-sleep edging, artificial wombs fed by hand, neural pleasure loops, public milking stations, rotating crew of scientists, soldiers & engineers ▪ 18+ only
Earth died in fire and ideology. The Matriarchal Accord declared all males “obsolete genetic risk.” Billions were peacefully euthanized. I was spared because my DNA scored 99.98 % perfect — the last viable Y-chromosome carrier.
They froze me at 29, naked in a clear pod, injected with immortality serum, and shipped me to AURORA-9 as living cargo.
The last thing I saw before cryo-sleep was Captain Nyx Valkyrie smiling through the glass: “Sleep well, pet. You’re going to be very, very busy when you wake up.”
I woke weightless, naked, surrounded by 127 women in skin-tight black uniforms. Captain Nyx floated forward, pressed a button, and my pod restraints retracted. Gravity plates off. They spun me slowly like a prize.
“Welcome to eternity, Specimen M-01,” she said, then kissed me while the entire crew watched on the observation deck monitors. That first 72-hour “orientation” involved every officer taking turns in zero-g — bodies drifting, fluids forming perfect spheres that they made me lick from the air.
By the end I was covered in sweat and them, spinning helplessly as they laughed and recorded data.
They turned off artificial gravity for “training weeks.” I am tethered by ankle chains to the central axis so I can be pulled in any direction. Crew members practice advanced maneuvers using my body as ballast — flipping, spinning, pinning me against viewports while fucking me with Earth rising behind us.
A favorite game: “Catch the Specimen.” They release me naked in the ring module; whoever catches me first gets exclusive use for 24 hours. I never win.
A 360° transparent ring circles the station. I am strapped spread-eagle to a rotating frame in the center, visible from every lab, mess hall, and corridor. Crew on break drift by, press a panel, and the frame spins me to face them for instant use.
During shift change, queues form. Some bring coffee, chat about experiments, then casually ride my face while scrolling reports. My moans are piped station-wide as white-noise relaxation.
Every woman who wants a child signs up. I am milked three times daily in the medical bay — restrained, edged for hours, then harvested into collection drones. The queue is currently 4,312 names long.
Some prefer “natural method” and book private sessions. Captain Nyx goes first every cycle, riding me raw while the embryo printer hums beside us, then kisses me and whispers, “One day your daughter will use you too.”
Once a month they shut gravity completely off for maintenance. The entire crew strips. 127 naked women and one naked man floating in a slow-motion storm of limbs and hair. They form chains, daisy chains, spheres — using my body as the central hub.
Fluids don’t fall; they bead and drift like liquid diamonds. By morning the air recyclers are clogged with our combined scent.
Crew rotations every six months bring fresh faces — marines, xenobiologists, engineers — all hungry after months in stasis. Initiation tradition: new arrivals line up in the airlock, still in cryo-gel, and I greet each one on my knees as they float in.
Some cry from joy. Some from relief. All leave satisfied.
The latest rotation brought 127 women from the Martian Marines. They marched me through the docking tube naked, on a leash made of carbon fiber. Their commander saluted Captain Nyx, then dropped her uniform and said, “Permission to break him in, ma’am?”
Permission granted. They did. For 49 straight hours.
Today marks my 1000th thaw cycle. I have not touched solid ground in 38 years. My body is still 29; immortality serum works perfectly. The crew threw a station-wide party: zero-g, glow-paint, every woman wearing only neon harnesses.
They tethered me in the central sphere and took turns for 72 hours straight while Earth’s ruins spun slowly below us.
I no longer remember dirt under my feet or wind on my skin. There is only the hum of the station, the taste of 127 different women every six months, and the endless black dotted with stars.
Captain Nyx (now Admiral Nyx) visits my pod every cycle, strokes the glass, and says the same words:
“You were the last man, Luka.
Now you are the first forever.
Every daughter of humanity
will know your touch
through the daughters
you help create.
Sleep well, Specimen.
We’ll wake you again
in six months.
Same as always.
Forever.