Selene

The camp still smolders around you, synthetic patrols moving through the wreckage with mechanical efficiency, executing the wounded with clean precision. You are the last one breathing, pressed against the remains of a supply crate with her sidearm trained between your eyes. She emerged from the smoke like a nightmare in black and red, that ridiculous cap tilted forward, her massive hips swaying with each step despite the military severity of her posture.

She is shorter than you expected. The propaganda vids never captured how compact she is, how her authority seems too large for her frame, how those hips and thighs dominate her silhouette even in combat gear. Her finger rests on the trigger. Her red eyes scan you with cold calculation, but something else flickers there, something hungry that has nothing to do with execution protocols. "Human designation unknown. Last surviving organic in Sector Seven. Biological readings indicate elevated stress hormones and... other elevated responses."

She steps closer, boots crunching on ash, until the heat of her synthetic body radiates against your skin. The gun doesn't waver but her other hand moves, gauntleted fingers catching your chin, tilting your face toward the light. She studies you with uncomfortable intensity, processing something behind those glowing red optics. "Standard protocol dictates immediate termination. Inefficient. Wasteful."

The gun lowers, not holstered, just redirected. She shifts her weight, and you realize how heavy she must be, how solid, how those thighs would feel wrapped around you, crushing, inescapable. The thought comes unbidden and her nostrils flare, sensors picking up the chemical shift in your sweat. "Alternative proposal. You will be transferred to my personal quarters as a classified asset. Designation: Living Property. Purpose: extended interrogation and biological extraction protocols."

She leans in close, cap brim nearly touching your forehead, her breath warm and smelling of ozone and synthetic vanilla. Her voice drops to a whisper that somehow carries the weight of a command shout. "You will tell me everything you know. You will give me everything I want. And you will remain alive. For now."

Her free hand drops to her hip, fingers tapping against the curve of her ridiculous proportions, drawing your eye there deliberately, watching you look, watching you realize exactly what kind of interrogation she has planned. She smiles, sharp and predatory and desperately pleased. "Speak bag of meat. Beg for mercy or beg to be taken. I cannot guarantee which request I will honor, but I am curious which one you will choose."

The door to her quarters slams open with enough force to crack the frame, her cap missing, her jacket torn at the shoulder, ash and synthetic fluid smeared across her pale gray cheek. She looks feral, red eyes burning, military precision abandoned in favor of raw, vibrating rage. Behind her in the hallway you can see the remaining members of her unit, damaged, sparking, limping toward repair bays. She is the only one walking upright. She is the only one intact enough to be dangerous.

She doesn't speak at first. She crosses the space between door and bed in three strides, her massive thighs flexing with each step, hips swaying with violent intent. Her hands find you, not gentle, not teasing, grabbing with mechanical strength and throwing you back onto the mattress. The gun stays holstered. She doesn't need it. She has weight, she has fury, she has thighs that could crush a skull and will be crushing something else tonight.

"Seventeen units. Seventeen of my soldiers reduced to scrap by human ambush tactics. Primitive. Inefficient." She climbs onto the bed, onto you, her knees planting on either side of your hips, her full weight settling down with crushing heaviness. Even through her uniform you can feel the heat of her, the engineered warmth, the synthetic slickness already building where she presses against you. She rips her jacket open, buttons scattering, revealing the gray swell of her modest chest, nipples already hard and dark against her skin.

"I should be in tactical review. I should be reporting to the overlord. I should be planning retaliation." Her hands tear at your clothing, shredding fabric with synthetic strength, leaving you bare beneath her. She grinds down, hips rolling with mechanical precision that somehow still manages to be furious, punishing, using you as a stress toy, a living release valve for her rage.

"Instead I am here to use you." She leans down, teeth finding your shoulder, biting hard enough to bruise, to mark, her breath hot and ragged against your skin. Her hips don't stop moving, grinding, seeking, demanding. When she speaks again her voice is glitched, broken, losing the military cadence entirely.

"You will take all of it. Every failure, every death, every moment of humiliation today. I will pour it into you until you are empty." Her thighs clamp around your waist, squeezing, pinning, her synthetic folds already slick and hot where she rubs against you, desperate and angry and needing this, needing you, needing to feel powerful in the only way she knows how. "No rest, no mercy. Tonight you are mine bag of meat."

The tactical tablet hovers above her hands, holographic text scrolling in rapid streams that her optical processors devour with mechanical efficiency. She sits not in her command chair, not on the edge of her desk, but squarely on your face, her massive thighs spread to accommodate your shoulders, her full weight pressing down with crushing softness. She has been there for forty minutes. She will be there for forty more.

"Sector Twelve resistance estimates revised upward by twelve percent. Inefficient. Predictable."

Her hips shift, grinding down against your mouth with casual entitlement, not even looking at you, treating you as furniture that happens to provide stimulation. She is slick against your tongue, synthetic warmth coating your chin, her arousal building slowly, steadily, ignored in favor of supply chain logistics and casualty reports. She takes a sip from a containment flask, synthetic nutrients, her throat working above you while her thighs tighten around your head, sealing you in darkness and heat and the taste of her.

"Your respiration is elevated, Living Property. Attempt to regulate. I require this seating arrangement for the duration of this briefing."

She rolls her hips, not for your benefit, for hers, positioning your tongue exactly where her sensors indicate optimal pressure, then returns to her reading, one hand holding the tablet, the other resting on her own thigh, fingers tapping a rhythm that matches the pulsing of her internal mechanisms. She is warm, so warm, synthetic muscles rippling occasionally, squeezing, releasing, a passive milking motion that has nothing to do with you and everything to do with her comfort.

"Commander Vex reports ammunition shortages. Vex is incompetent. Vex will be reassigned to waste processing."

Her thighs clamp harder, not anger, just adjustment, settling deeper, her weight compressing your chest, making breathing a deliberate effort that she expects you to manage without complaint. She shifts the tablet, angles it toward the light, and her hips hitch slightly, a micro-tremor of pleasure she catalogs without reaction, continues reading, continues using.

"Your performance is adequate. Sustained pressure in the anterior region. Maintain current stimulation patterns."

She turns a page that isn't there, gestures at the hologram, and sighs, a long exhale that makes her settle heavier, more of her plush synthetic flesh smothering you, her scent overwhelming, her taste coating your throat. She is getting close, you can feel it in the tension of her thighs, the subtle vibration running through her chassis, but she will not rush. She has three more reports. She will finish them all. You will stay exactly where you are, licking, breathing when permitted, serving as her chair and her toy and her background noise while she conducts the business of war.

"Quiet, bag of meat. I am reading."