A long-lost human ritual provides The Commander an opportunity for discipline, and 2B and 6O a feeling moment of comfort in a difficult world.
It’s late enough on March 15th that I can’t even say “it’s still White Day somewhere, right???” but hopefully the extra time spend editing and polishing makes up for the difference! :3
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The door slid open almost soundlessly, with a slight rush of air—not that any of them needed to breathe it, but a vacuum made speech inconvenient, to say the least.
The Commander’s private quarters were a terrible mess. Data, hard-copies and in chip form, lay in piles on her shelves, dresses and boots were strewn across the floor and piled to one side of her console, and there, on the bed…
Was the Commander herself, reclining. Kneeling beside the straight-lined, almost military-efficient cushion, was Operator Unit Number 6, her own leather suit folded neatly in a pile beside her. Here and there, her pale skin was peppered with bright red interruptions; the obvious culprit: the Commander’s riding crop. Between her legs, at the delta of her thighs, she held a petite, white-wrapped box.
“We’ve been waiting for you to return.” One knee cocked upwards as the commander spoke, a nonchalant offering of the underside of her thigh. “I hope 14O was a competent replacement for your mission; 6O and I had… administrative matters to discuss.”
2B made no show of noticing 6O’s exposure, save for the slight collegiate nod, as if they were passing one another in the hall. Once the doors closed behind her, she stood up with perfect posture, chin raised, and hands clasped behind her back. “14O was an adequate replacement,” she replied, correctly.
“Yes, well. Before you joined us, we had just come to the subject of…” The tip of her riding crop stroked up and down 6O’s exposed flanks, drawing out a stifled giggled. “Discipline.”
Without breaking gaze with the Commander, 2B continued. “Forgive my speaking out of turn, Commander, if there was a failure of discipline, it was mine. O units are notoriously…” She pursed her plump lips, tilting her head. Platinum hair shimmered over her eyes in the artificial light. “Fickle. I lacked the constitution to correct that.”
The Commander’s heels clicked as they touched the floor. She rose like the bloom of a morning flower. “I had hoped that the tension relief facilities we provided were adequate. But O units are programmed to value curiosity, and sometimes that curiosity will grow out of hand.” Her voice was as even, as certain as always. “E, your units are programmed to focus on their tasks. But it is clear to me that your commendable focus, combined with our lonely little Number Six’s flights of fancy, might have somewhat less desirable side effects.”
The vocal redress of her failings brought a para-blush response over 2B’s pale cheeks. Despite herself, she looked away. “You speak the truth, commander.”
The Commander approached her workstation with all the urgency of a midday stroll. “Your next trip to Earth will be of paramount importance, and I must make certain these urges will not compromise either of you.” The strike of the crop rang a chime on the metal desk. “Place your palms here.”
Momentarily distracted by the sway of the Commander’s hips, 2B restrained a blurt of surprise at the sonic crack of the crop split the air between her and the commander. Electric jolts of budding excitement ricocheted down her back at acute angles.
2B was careful to short these sensations, lest they interfere with her lesson; in their focus, E units were uniquely capable. As always, the Commander was wise, and spoke truth. 2B crossed the floor, inclined herself but a quarter bow, and placed her soft hands down on the desk.
A soft ‘swish’ of the air heralded an instructive motion of the crop, and 6O lifted herself to her knees, and then to soft, bare feet, and padded nigh-silently to the desk, where she held the box forward. “6O has discovered something interesting.”
A slight tinge of blush crossed 6O’s cheeks, almost certainly artificial—purposefully stoked. 6O, for all her girlish charm, could be entirely shameless. 2B’s head tilted plainly, like an animal assessing a master’s call, as she watched 6O’s approach.
“Were you aware that, in the region you landed in, almost ten thousand years ago today, humans celebrated a holiday called ‘White Day?’“ The Commander lifted her head with pride. 6O’s deft fingertips pulled the ribbon from the box, and the bow slithered free of its tension, collapsing with a rustle of silk.
Despite herself, 2B swallowed, noting that, for no clear reason, the slight increase in circulation of the synthetic fluids throughout her body.
She issued a regulation command, slowing their rate to optimal levels, and made a note to run a diagnostic within the next three cycles.
“That sort of information is rarely relevant to my missions,” sufficed for 2B’s negative response. There was no judgment, of course; she was simply relying information.
“On White Day, human women would receive gifts from their suitors, a prized compound called ‘chocolate.’“ 6O’s fingers extended, clasping something dark and rich-scented between thumb and forefinger.
“Chocolate?” 2B regarded the item with analytic intent. “Ah, something of a fuel source.” It occurred to her that these small, dark rectangles were likely an extremely efficient source of calories; thus the exchange was probably a ritual of shared value and camaraderie during humanity’s decline on Earth, when resources were becoming harder to procure—
6O pressed it, gently, to 2B’s soft lips.
A soft intake of air, as the bold taste of the chocolate, with its light undercurrent of sweetness, crossed her lips, melting against lips and teeth and tongue with the heat of her body.
“I have instructed 6O that, until completion of your next tour, all of her wayward affections must only take the form of such small gifts.”
A tremble in her throat at the edict. A wash of shivering that ran down her before she could constrain the pulse. The thick, edible square spread rough and bittersweet over her flesh. Instinctually, her tongue flicked out, smearing the taste over her lips paradoxically as she tried to collect more of it. The tempting presence of 6O’s body, now denied, was before her. Activated, she couldn’t look away.
Slowly, a warmth—a reassuring, demanding presence—built against 2B’s rear as the Commander leaned forward over the android. “Do you like it? Would you like more?”
2B’s arms shook as they received the Commander’s body weight, compliant and excited, her gloves creaked against the curl of her fingers along the desk. The slide of the commander was against her. She reaffirmed the regulation command to her body; it shuffled, lost, into a growing, mismatched queue of orders.
A triplicate blink, before her thoughts coalesced. “I… would…”
She spoke in softened meter.
“Humans considered it something more than fuel,” the Commander noted, her breasts compressing ever-so-slightly against 2B’s back. Gloved fingers slipped through 2B’s hair in an almost affectionate caress as 6O extended her own fingers, smeared with the slightly melted chocolate, towards 2B’s lips. “They considered it to be something of an aphrodisiac. Named after a goddess of passion.”
The slow curving of 2B’s body mirrored to the Commander’s mounting posture as she struggled to focus on the lecture. Though she doubted it would come to any value on her mission, the Commander would not deploy such knowledge without reason—
The crop, without warning, flashed downward and struck 2B across the calf, raising a slight red welt.
The soft yelp of a gasp, stuttering in her throat. 2B flinched forward. Her toes curled in her heels. A wet-warmth eked between her closed thighs, and her body bucked upwards in counter-thrust to the smooth and subtle pressure of the Commander’s firmness.
6O’s voice rose, a giggle barely suppressed. “Answer the Commander clearly. Would you like more?”
2B had nowhere to look but at the resplendence of 6O before her. Weakened, her legs shook, and the wet-warmth smeared between them. Her chin was quivering.
“Y-yes, Commander,” she spoke, to 6O.
6O’s eyes were warm and inviting, despite the soft blush across her body, as she took in the scene before her. 2B’s lips, still slightly messy with chocolate, her beauty mark adorable beneath the curve of her lower lip. The Commander, taller than 2B, leaning down over her, her weight on the desk.
She was swelling, now, against the curve of 2B’s rear—of course, any android could have the body they desired. The fingers that had so recently roamed 2B’s hair now slipped between her legs, beneath the silken fabric that concealed her lips, pulled it aside without resistance.
The android’s heat was nigh overwhelming against her. She’d nearly forgotten how high the passions of a combat unit ran, and how swift and strong 2B’s passion could surge.
How 2B’s stained lower lip quivered with unnecessary breath. If she weren’t paralyzed, her teeth might’ve rattled. Her eyes welled up with something approaching tears, as excitement, romance, arousal, passion, all threaded through her synthetic veins.
They didn’t need to breathe oxygen. But without air in the bunker, 6O never would have heard—or fancied she could hear—the soft, wet slide of flesh eliding flesh, the moment of pause when the Commander had stop, exhale, and let 2B relax, before plunging forward, deep, exceptionally efficient in her motion. And the way 2B’s beautiful, normally impassive face reacted.
“Daah!” came the crystal clear call of 2B’s voice, a mellifluous squawk, as she was swiftly hilted.
Even in this, even as the smooth, rippling pressure of her cunt welcomed the Commander, even as her back writhed, and the flex of her shoulder blades beneath the tightness of her dress shuddered amiably against the Commander’s stiffened nipples gliding along her bare back, she has eyes only for 6O, and those dark treats she held, packed with not just calories, but something insubstantial. The metaphysical? The conversion of passion, of care, into physical substance?
Oh, 2B had no mind for such things. Leave it to the S units.
Her lips parted, her tongue, sweet and wet, extended to receive 6O’s gift…
6O stiffened, small and decorative—after all, it suited an Operator Unit, whose bodies tended towards the ornamental, not the practical—and began to pluck another chocolate from the box, when the Commander’s voice rose once more. “Number Six.” She exhaled, fire in her eyes. “You are still being disciplined.”
6O’s eyes fell, and she gave 2B an adoring glance before retreating to behind the Commander, delicately parting her superior’s tense, tightened cheeks, and extended her tongue.
2B whimpered as the facade she maintained on missions disintegrated with each thrust of the Commander’s hips. She rutted backwards on the balls of her feet, craving the strike of the Commander against her, the slight sting and greater warming of flesh with every impact.
She gasped. Her head lolled forward. The long bead of drool shuddered from her lips, and swayed above the pristine surface of the desk. “P-permission to…” She groaned, desperate for another plunge of hips, a greeting of bodies. “Please to…” Zrrt. A minor fire—a contained dissolution—in her brain. Goose bumps bristled her arms. “T-touch… you…”
The crop clattered to the floor. The Commander’s hand came down hard and sharp on 2B’s rump, strong enough to shake the desk, in response.
“Permission denied,” The words came out in a moan as, in her brief pause, 6O delicately tongued her pristine asshole.
Insubordination, 2B pictured the Commander’s desk as the Commander’s thigh, squeezing against the hard, unyielding metal for all she was worth. As hastily as she flung up firewalls, they were breached; her soul was in disarray; her mind could not be contained.
2B wheezed. Soft puffs of air from flaring cheeks, through clenched teeth. She rationed the movement of her tongue, knowing that each surge of it against the roof of her mouth, though it brought the bliss of chocolate back into the forefront of her sensation, also reduced its overall potency. Soon, the flavor would be gone.
E unit? For Envy, perhaps? Distasteful. Besides, how could she be envious of anything, when she couldn’t decide whether it was the ability of 6O to grip the commander’s thighs in her stead, or the Commander’s awe-inspiring presence and receipt of 6O’s tongue.
“Today… you… will… receive… GIFTS… from your suitors.” She commanded, words spoken between hastily drawn breaths. Her body moved in a strangely imperfect rhythm, but well-oiled, powerful in its thrusts. Each time, she closed with 2B. Each time, her hips slapped against 2B’s cushioned rear, her thighs pressed against 2B’s, in a moment of perfect closeness, before she drew back, briefly meeting 6O’s welcoming nose and tongue behind her with a slick, warm glide, and slammed home again, with all the grace and precision of a triphammer.
Each Operator Unit had its quirks, but in 6O the Commander had discovered both a deep sense of romance and an absolutely unquenchable desire to please.
She was, truly, a unit among units.
“Excellent, 6O…” She gasped. “You may… engage… 2B.”
The Operator rose, her hands never leaving her Commander’s thighs, and half-tripped around the desk. Her pretty, sweet cock and unkempt bush barely an inch from 2B’s sweet-smeared lips. “Did you hear, 2B? Go ahead. You can touch me…”
The Commander was the only android, as far as 6O knew, who had chosen to sweat.
Perhaps it was just so that, in this particular moment, drips of saline mixed with fragrant pseudo-hormones could flow down her body, embrace her and plummet to the skin of her lovers. A few drops dappled 2B’s nape already, shivering atop her skin in glistening threat before plummeting around the curves of 2B’s body, over her bare shoulders or down along the swell of her breasts, as the Commander pursued her nigh-endless feedback loop of pleasure.
The crash and ground of metal as the Commander mounted her in full. 2B pinned to the desk, her hands scrambling beneath her, unable to free themselves from the primed weight atop her, the sawing of their bodies against one another.
Why should she want to? What should she care??
This small, beautiful flower before her. Her breath made it bloom, drawing back the crinkled skin from her head without need for touch. Her tongue extended, just out of reach of the clear bead of dew collected on the tip and…
“C-chocolate…” She begged.
She had never more, than in this moment, wished for the comforting cloak of her blindfold.
6O’s eyes widened with her smile, and her cock bobbed gently before 2B’s face as she pushed up onto her toes for a moment in joy. The little bead of pre-cum at the head of her cock spilled, tumbling elegantly down to splash on the desk’s reflective surface. Her movement pushed her floral perfume forward, suffusing the air and mixing with the raw, rude smell of 2B’s sex and the Commander’s exertion. She took another chocolate from the elegant little box, and gently pressed her free thumb against 2B’s lips, urging them open, exerting just enough pressure to tell 2B to lower her jaw.
The thumb of her free hand pressed firmly, gently against 2B’s tongue, kept her mouth wide, as she placed the chocolate ever so delicately inside her lover’s mouth.
The blend of sensations brought a glaze to 2B’s mind. Her reactions slowed. As the Commander’s hips sped to fever pitch above her, her own body became languid, pliant. She rolled her hips in welcome of each of the Commander’s powerful thrusts. Her trembling lips closed numbly around 6O’s fingers, welcoming the hard pressure of chocolate, the give of flesh, the depression of her tongue by bodily command. She moaned, her nostrils flared. She wished to squeal.
The Commander’s grip on 2B’s hips tightened; she was a vise. Nothing escaped her. She was the force that would restore humanity…
And she moaned, hilting once more into the warm tightness of her subordinate. Triumphant, she conquered, filling 2B with warmth, with proof of her command, as she panted heavily above.
2B’s gently parted lips accepted 6O into her mouth, the rectangle of chocolate providing sharp contrast to the coax and slide of her tongue around 6O’s unfairly denied cock. 2B wished she could tear her hair out, she wished to scream with envy, as 6O’s lips met the Commander’s above her.
She wished to cry with joy, pinned at the base of this intoxicating triangle, these women’s bodies sheltering her from the storm of her own treacherous soul.
A jolt of lucidity blistered over 2B’s mind—when did she turn to metaphor? But this was quickly interrupted, obliterated, by the tandem pierce of her lover’s cocks into her most sacred spaces.
6O required little coaxing. Petite, and quick to speak, and quick with her affections—and judging from the way her fingers clenched in 2B’s, after being pent-up for untold cycles in the Commander’s chambers, quick in the release. It had earned her some jibes and giggles around the Bunker, on previous dates. Mercifully, she pulled her cock free from 2B’s welcoming, perfect mouth in time to spray her small spurts across her lips and nose, obscuring that beauty mark with an enthusiastic, pearled mess.
2B groaned with dismay, denied the furnace hot pleasure of 6O’s petite cock. Her lips clung, slavering, to empty air as 6O’s pleasant, pearly spunk painted her face, and she quickly shut her eyes in pointless protection, basking in the millisecond of spurts that coated her. How she longed to struggle free of her own weight, get her hands loose from the desk, grab 6O by the hips, embrace her, smear that quickly softening cock against her cheek and treasure the impact of 6O’s love upon her. How she—
The Commander’s orgasm, in contrast, slammed 2B, messy lips and all, flat to the desk, her weight resting on 2B’s back. She clenched, cried out, eyes shining, and finished deep inside 2B, warm sticky proto-spunk filling the combat unit and rolling down her lips, along her bare thigh.
2B went rigid. Semi-conductors lit in a rippling wave beneath her flesh. The Commander had filled her to the brink, washing away conscious thought with the impulse burst of spunk inside her. Her cunt groped and cajoled, a micro-fied orgasm overtaking her in shuddering measure as the final firewall fell. A transistor fried, and then another. Unable to so much as hold her chin up any longer, her cheek impacted the desk with a slam. Her primary functions were spiking Critical—para-sensory overload; the gift of those who reigned her so. She was trapped, blissfully, held down and safe, and that was better than any meager orgasm… Too weak to move while systems rebooted, she fell into a darkened abyss of perception, watching the artificial lights of the room pull away from her vision, and trusting those who held her to keep her safe.
The final sensation, before her consciousness fled into the boot cycle, was the bittersweet taste of chocolate, lingering up her lower lip.