XXX4
Epilogue: Resolutions
The thrill of absolute obedience tingled against her hypersensitive clit as she wrapped her legs around the startled ambassador and began to grind her gel-coated pussy against the, (by now somewhat dishevelled), older woman’s prim cotton panties.
Rose used her tongue to stifle the Frenchwoman’s angry outburst, gagging her with the deepest of kisses and delighting as that anger began to bleed into something far more lurid. The bedslut’s raw nipples ground through her conquest’s partially unbuttoned blouse, teasing her with their taut perfection.
She could still picture the look of stunned surprise on the demure brunette’s face. Mademoiselle LeVoir clearly hadn’t been expecting to open her hotel room and find a lithe, naked woman waiting for her.
Clever fingers slipped over pale flesh, guided by programming that distilled lifetimes of experience in the arts of seduction down to a scalding crystal core. Rose smeared herself over the Frenchwoman, using her own lust to seal the ambassador’s intellect beneath deepening layers of desire. Already her target’s struggles had subsided and soon, she would be ready to learn everything her new lover might offer.
The Organisation might already have eyes and ears within the UN, but redundancy never hurt, especially when the proposed target had been so vocal in her condemnation of some their most profitable ventures.
Smiling to herself, as though at some private joke, Rose guided the now unresisting woman toward the bed. She knew her newest friend had some very strange ideas about personal freedoms and the like. But, as she reached for the first coil of boiled hemp rope, the young Mauritian was sure that she would be able to show her just how wrong those ideas were.
Pleasureunit 117 basked in her owner’s reflected arousal, loving the tiny shivers of approval as they cavorted through her delirious slutbrain. The helpless woman’s tongue swirled in the rich nectar of the beautiful cunt, lapping and coiling so eagerly around the juice-laden folds.
Sometimes, in the darkness, when the training mantras finally faded from before her glassy eyes, the thrall could remember another time, another life. But the thick pall of regret obscured it and she lacked either the strength or desire to press past and clearly see what lay beyond.
‘Jillian’ was just another series of random syllables now, with perhaps a hint of significance but nothing she could recognise or hold on to. Whatever had happened, it had given her purpose and pleasures beyond anything she could have possibly imagined.
Her trapped body squirmed in the clinging restraints, making no impact at all on the intricate web of latex straps with which she had been bound. Wonderfully thick plugs thrummed happily, one filling her sopping sex and the other tormenting the thrall’s clenched arse. She strained forward, hoping the movement might swing her closer, so she could bury her face in the wet heat of mistresscunt.
Stringently ball-tied, and suspended beneath an antique writing desk, she could do nothing but hang there. Relishing the cruel friction as the heavy chain strung between her nipple clamps dragged her breasts down into agonised cones.
Mistress had shifted back in her chair, and the soft music of her voice let Pleasureunit 117 know that there was someone else in the room. She stretched her tongue, whining softly when its tip just failed to reach those perfect, pouting lips.
A bead of gleaming lust oozed slowly down the succulent crease, stretching and spinning as her owner moved softly in her chair. Her eyes fixed on the glittering prize, Pleasureunit 117 reached, her tongue straining with the effort, but acutely aware that she simply had to catch that droplet before it hit mistress’ new carpet.
The guardbot stared dispassionately at the new arrivals, her unblinking eyes seeming to bore through clothing and into their very souls. Unconsciously she flexed and unflexed her implanted claws, taking a perverse pleasure in the sensations as the razors emerged from beneath her manicured nails.
Trainee’s annoyed her, for reasons she couldn’t quite put into words. They certainly couldn’t be trusted, of that much she was sure. And yet, confusingly, those same thoughts inevitably led her down paths that seemed entirely erotic and wholly familiar.
Data flowed across her vision, indicating that the pair were late for their evening classes. Protocol said she wasn’t allowed to mark them permanently. But then, there was a part of her that suggested protocol could go fuck itself.
A faint buzz in the base of her skull told Katiebot that her thoughts were being audited. She braced herself for whatever punishment her impulsiveness might trigger and was surprised, not to mention a little disappointed, when the warning sensation faded into calm acknowledgement.
Her mouth curled into a soft smile as the neural whip slid soundless from her bracer. One of the trainee’s took a step back, her face a mask of horrified understanding. The retreating girl’s friend seemed braver, at least until the weapon ignited with a hissing crack.
The first scream rang through the narrow corridors, echoing into the distance in notes that combined the sharpest pain with the most profound pleasure. Both girls sang for her, their voices finding pleading harmonies as their sensual torture reached its crescendo.
Katiebot regarded the two trainees with obvious satisfaction. Her gleaming eyes took in their shredding clothing and the livid wheals now decorating their otherwise unblemished skin. Both were curled into tight, foetal balls, as though that might somehow protect them from the whip’s depraved sting.
The guardbot snapped two more precisely aimed shots, which slipped through sweat-beaded flesh to find the vulnerable heat of the girl’s unprotected clits. Her own cry, fuelled as it was with the ecstasy of reward, mingled breathlessly with theirs.
Goddess, but she loved her work…
The doll waited, with inhuman patience, for her love to return. Lust gnawed at her latex-sheathed core, nibbling dreamily along plasticized nerve tracts and filling her with a quite insatiable need. And yet, despite the pure, unwholesome strength of those sensations, they were nothing but a pale shadow in comparison to sheer unadulterated bliss of proximity to the woman who was, quite simply, her world.
Stood ramrod straight in her display box, the doll’s oily black skin gleamed darkly in the dim illumination. A stiff, plastic pole impaled her sex and her inner muscles tightened spastically, clenching against the hard smoothness of that glistening intruder.
The arches of her feet ached, a dimly perceived burning that made her want to move. But the discomfort was transitory and her preternatural balance kept the pretty doll motionless on tiptoe, with her arms pressed tightly to her sides.
Thoughts span sluggishly through her hopelessly cocooned mind, thoughts of need, pleasure and unconditional submission. Delight followed inexorably behind them, washing everything else away, before flowing back into another saccade of undeniable truths.
She didn’t even recognise the climax as it tore through her augmented body. Her skin shivered, muscles tensing minutely as a purely physical pleasure added its weight to the mental torment to which she so readily succumbed.
Soon.
Soon her mistress would return.
And then, like any good, little dolly, she would be taken from her case and, assuming she had been sufficiently pleasing, chosen as her mistress’ plaything for the night.
There was no space in what remained of the drone’s mind to feel anything close to jealousy. But still, the feelings she experienced when she stared at the ebony-skinned woman were tainted with something of that emotion.
Goddess’ favourite, a position that, by rights, should have been hers. And yet, even as that thought trickled through her mind, the drone could recognise it for the heresy it was and feel shame. Who was she to question the will of her Goddess?
She had no will, no desires, no mind of her own. All that she was belonged to her owner and she herself was merely flotsam, tossed in an ocean of subservient adoration.
The shackles held her snugly in place, pinned to the wall opposite the darkly desirable doll. Her gaze roamed the other slave’s body, the vision stirring memories of slick, tangled limbs and noisy, perfumed fucking.
“Tonight,” she hoped, mumbling her words into the mouth-filling panel-gag. “Let it be me tonight.”
Drool dripped and oozed, coating her exposed breasts in a clear, heated glaze. Her arousal burned at her, only to be answered by the sharp sting of electricity. She screamed into the muffling leather, so close to release and yet knowing it would be snatched away, again and again, moments before she plunged over the edge.
Lowering her head in shame, the drone acknowledged her failings. She was helpless before the strength of her sluttish urges and only by training could she possibly meet the expectations of her Goddess. The piercing glinted from between her greasy cuntlips, the last of the punishing lightning crawling over the sparkling crystal.
She lifted her chin slowly and stared angrily at the competition. For her Goddess, she could do this. For her, she would keep control and be a good slut.
And her reward would be to show just how well she had learnt her other lessons.
Miriam sat at her desk and tried not to yawn, or possibly kill someone. She’d expected some form of sanction, after blowing an undercover operation that had been years in the planning. But, after the mind-reaming and suspicion that chose not to border on the paranoid but instead embraced it wholeheartedly, the very last thing she’d expected was to end up driving a desk!
She had never been as bored by anything in her entire life. Here she was, one of the most powerful psychics the Agency had ever trained, doing grunt work that even an intern would have balked at. The slender Asian shivered melodramatically and wondered whether anyone would notice if slipped off for another coffee break.
A restless sensation stole over her, making her wriggle uneasily in the chair. The prescient spike lasted mere moments and, as it cleared, Miriam shook her head, trying to remember what she had seen. The computer chirped irritably, drawing her attention to a blinking ‘you’ve got mail’ icon.
Clicking the symbol opened a short message routed from her personal email address. Miriam’s eyes flicked over the words and she felt something snap behind them.
Miriam’s eyes drifted shut, only for the Operative to open them again scant seconds later. Directives slid through her mind as it reformatted to a more comfortable pattern. She grinned, a feral smile that entirely suited her new mood.
Here she was, in the heart of her enemy’s operation, able to wreak untold havoc and perhaps even destruction upon them. Her attention flicked over each of her workmates, slipping effortlessly through the chinks she had prepared in their defences.
She took a deep breath. It was time to do what she had been trained for… because only then would she be able to return home and lose herself once more in Vee’s soothing, latex embrace.