A Captain's Raw Log: One Brutal Day on the S.S. Salvation

Anonymous, let me pull back the rusted curtain on a single day aboard the S.S. Salvation—straight from my captain’s logs, no sugarcoating, just the gritty truth of survival at sea. Dawn broke with the oxygen recyclers wheezing like a dying whore, alarms blaring from the bridge as Sub-Lieutenant Sarah Chen reported a morale dip to 75% overnight. I stormed into the barracks, sweat-soaked uniforms clinging to desperate bodies, and there she was—Petty Officer Ramirez, eyes wild with that familiar hunger. ‘Captain, rations are shit; make it right,’ she growled, dropping to her knees before I could bark an order. I fucked her hard against the bulkhead, her moans echoing off the steel as the crew watched, morale ticking up with every thrust. By 0800, we’d reprovisioned the black market in the cargo hold—traded ammo for canned mystery meat from the smugglers below deck. But then the radar pinged: a derelict freighter adrift, potential goldmine or infected trap. I ordered a boarding party, heart pounding as we suited up, the salt spray whipping our faces. That’s when Lieutenant Ellis stumbled from the infirmary, veins blackening with the psychosis creeping from land—eyes glazed, muttering about endless orgies with the dead. Isolation protocol kicked in; I dragged him to the airlock myself, his pleas turning to snarls.

Transitioning from that morning frenzy, the boarding op turned into a bloodbath that tested every ounce of my command. We grappled onto the freighter under a blood-red sun, boots clanging on decrepit decks slick with god-knows-what. Ensign Tara Voss stuck close, her torn navy blues hugging curves honed by apocalypse squats—‘Captain, cover me,’ she whispered, rifle raised. Inside, we hit paydirt: crates of freeze-dried rations, antibiotics, even lube for the crew’s ‘morale boosts.’ But the zombies came—crazed fucks with bulging crotches, driven by that viral sex-rage, lunging with cocks out and teeth bared. I popped two heads with my sidearm, Tara ventilating another while screaming obscenities. Back on Salvation by noon, we unloaded the haul, but Voss cornered me in engineering: ‘That rush, sir… need to celebrate.’ Bent over a flickering console, I railed her as sparks flew from the failing generators, her cries boosting the techs’ spirits. Reprovisioning complete, stocks up 20%, but the cost—Ellis’s airlock scream still rang in my ears. Crew morale surged to 85%, yet I logged the kill privately, knowing one slip means mutiny.

Afternoon brought the real shitstorm: a deck breach in the lower levels, seawater mixing with infection runoff. 📋 Captain’s Log: 1400hrs - Breach confirmed, engineering flooding. I rallied the team—Rodriguez bitching about chain of command, but I shut him down with a glare. Diving into the murk, flashlight cutting through oily black, we found Crewman Diaz contaminated, humping a pipe hallucinating beach orgies. No time for pity; I put a round in his skull, water turning pink around us. Surfacing, gasping, Chen was waiting—wet shirt translucent, nipples hard from the chill. ‘Captain, you saved us,’ she purred, pulling me into the armory shadows. I fucked her standing, dogtags clinking, her legs wrapped tight as I growled orders mid-thrust. Post-boost, we sealed the breach with scavenged welds, systems stabilizing at 90%. But Rodriguez eyed me funny—rivalry simmering, his cock probably twitching with envy. Isolated two more potentials in the infirmary, sedatives gone, so zip-ties and watch lists it was. Anonymous, command’s a razor wire walk: kill or be killed, fuck or be fucked.

As evening rations distributed, tensions boiled into a barracks brawl—two swabs fighting over a stolen protein bar, fists flying amid sweat and desperation. I waded in, breaking it up with baton strikes, then turned punishment into profit: stripped the losers, made 'em service the winners for morale points. Enter Midshipman Lena Kowalski, fresh from watch, slipping into my quarters uninvited. ‘Captain, Rodriguez is whispering mutiny; let me prove my loyalty.’ Her mouth was magic, deep-throating like survival depended on it, which it did. I flipped her onto the bunk, pounding relentlessly as the ship groaned around us, her strategic seduction hitting all the right notes. 📋 Captain’s Log: 1900hrs - Morale stabilized at 88%, sexual requests logged: 4. Reprovisioning echoes lingered—those freighter meds restocked the infirmary, buying us weeks. But isolation weighs heavy; three contaminated dumped today, their final logs pleading for one last fuck. Shipboard rivalry sharpens—Chen’s loyal, Voss ambitious, Kowalski scheming. Dark humor keeps me sane: at least the zombies die horny.

Night watch deepened the rot: infection psychosis whispers through vents, crew dreams turning lewd and violent. I patrolled solo, pistol hot, catching whispers of black market flesh trades in the cargo hold. Busted a ring—four crew swapping rations for quickies—sentenced 'em to extra duty, but not before I claimed my captain’s cut with a redheaded auxiliary named Jax. Bent over crates, her ass marked by my grip, she begged for more as I filled her, morale boost rippling through the hold. 📋 Captain’s Log: 2300hrs - Black market disrupted, reprovisioned contraband secured. Back on bridge, Chen reported land sightings—crazed shores tempting docking, but I nixed it; last trip cost us five souls. Isolated another: Cook Martinez, frothing about cannibal orgies, tossed him overboard with regrets. Systems failing none yet, but oxygen’s thinning, breaths shallow and urgent. Fucking crewmates isn’t vice—it’s valve, pressure release in this floating coffin.

Anonymous, as this day logs close, the S.S. Salvation chugs on—rations bolstered, contaminated culled, morale fucked back to 90% through sweat, blood, and cum. I’ve isolated killers, reprovisioned lifelines, and buried doubts under crew bodies, but the horizon mocks us: endless sea, lurking infection, crumbling steel. One day like this stretches eternal—hookups heal fractures, bullets mend breaches, yet Rodriguez’s glare promises tomorrow’s storm. Will you dock on those zombie shores, Anonymous, chasing phantom salvation? Or ride the waves, trading flesh for fidelity? My logs don’t lie: survival’s a lewd ledger, balanced in moans and mercy kills. Dark humor aside, I’m the last thread holding this whorehouse afloat. Stay tuned—next dawn brings new depravities. Captain out.