(All characters involved are over 18. As with the first one, if you recognize the setting, definitely comment and say so, but don't give it away)
The day had found me in an interesting mood.
Having blasted the heads from her whole platoon and sprung from the wreckage on the Enclave officer with my favorite toy, I gently took her plasma pistol, put my hand on her shoulder, and started leading her East.
She would have done anything I asked under the influence of the Mesmetron. This time my instructions were simple. We were going to my house in Megaton, where we were going to have sex.
She didn't say anything. I didn't tell her to. We walked home.
Megaton owed me big, and they'd paid me with my own house. They loved me for what I'd done for them, and feared me for what I might be doing with these "friends" I periodically led into town, blank and vacant. They knew better than to go near my house and try to find out. At least the adults did. I'll just bet there are some kids, Harden maybe, who've seen me lead them out again in the dead of night.
So they talked to me and said hello when I came into town. Unless someone was "with" me. Then they just stared. In this case they watched me carefully as I walked through town with my hand on Sgt. Somethingorother. Even Cromwell stopped preaching momentarily--but only momentarily--as we went up the rusted ramp to the housing. I leaned in and whispered something in her ear. She her legs wobbled a little.
Nobody is allowed in my house. I've furnished it too tellingly. The lighting all has red glass over it. The shelves have things on them that one might consider...frivolous. I have two beds. One is practical. The other is in the middle of the main room, and is huge, red and heart-shaped. I'll never know where Moira found it, or what she thinks I'm doing with it, that and the glowing sculpture of two female figures locked together hanging over it, or the other thematically consistent furnishings I hired her to put in. Certainly not this. For whatever reason she still thinks I'm just an extremely nice person who helped her write her book that one time.
I ripped the Holy Light Monastery pamphlet off my door and tossed it in a pile by the stoop as I came inside.
Wadsworth, a multi-armed Mr. Handy robot, was hovering over my staircase. In some strangely-accented dialect, he welcomed me home.
I didn't say anything. I went to a specific shelf and took the cuffs off of it. They weren't clinical. Any conscious person could simply undo them. She wouldn't. I slipped them on her. Then I ran the cleaning program on Wadsworth. One of his utility arms hooked the ring between the cuffs and led our subject to the back room.
I took off my armor, and smiled as I heard the squeal of metal servos. Wadsworth was going to work. I used to watch this part, but I knew it by sound now, well enough that the rote images would suffice. The robot was cutting off her clothes. They would later be scraped up off the grated floor, compressed into a cube and incinerated.
I turned on the jukebox. Threedog's music was on. I turned it up. Nobody needed to hear this what happened here. Already in the closet I heard the water. The undressing process had left my friend standing only on the soles of her boots, and now she was being washed. Or more accurately, sprayed down with water and Abraxo cleaner, then rinsed in Aqua Pura while she stood catatonic.
As I tossed my clothes in Wadsworth's "to do" bin, I could hear her being blown dry. When she was led out again, I was lying resplendent on my ostentatious bed, naked and ready for a good look. She stumbled a bit as the robot moved uncaringly ahead of her, the metal hook still locked into the ring between her wrists. In truth the cuffs were there as something to be led around by, and a collar proved unsafe to the subject. Now the machine led her to stand in front of me, just how I like it. Then it went to "clean the roof." I honestly have no idea what he does up there, but I've programmed him to do it for five hours. The aluminum must be shiny enough to signal Vertibirds by now. Anyway, the hatch in the ceiling banged shut after him. Then we were alone.
I sat up and gave her a good looking over.
Enclave girls are a prize. I'd only had one once before. She was practically bald, her blond hair cut ridiculously short to meet Enclave military regulations, which bothered me a little at first but showed its appeal early on. Especially considering women under the influence of the Mesmetron usually don't have the capacity to keep their hair out of their own faces while they...do things. Besides, Enclave personnel were usually parasite-free, comparatively clean, very well nourished, healthy, and always had all their teeth. And they were built...differently.
I considered just lying there below her while she pleasured me with her toes. I don't know what it was about that body that made me start gently touching my breasts...her well toned legs, the way a strong torso makes a woman's bosom protrude, the complete absence of body fat, her round ass, her flat belly, her unblemished skin...or the fact that despite the vigorous training, strong body and professional cut, I'd still bagged her. Maybe that was it. I started masturbating. Two long fingers on my clitoris, then tickling inside when it was wet enough. I brought myself close to orgasm, and then teased my clitoris by gently tapping it, my eyes locked on that rigidly vacant form. For about a half hour, I made myself ready. Oh yes, I thought. You're mine.
I beckoned. This was the part with the sex I'd told her about, and she came to life a little, her purpose before her now. She finally met my eyes and unsteadily approached the bed where I lay below her.
She was intent, but unprepared. On the way home I'd had some time and determined, with a little questioning, that she had never had sex with a woman. This was going to be fun.
I immediately sat her on the very edge of my bed, got on my knees and pushed her thighs apart. Oh, yes. On the way up the ramp, I'd whispered something to her that made her trip. I'd told her her that she was getting hornier all the time. So she was. This meant that when I opened her legs, her body was showing intense signs of arousal, completely unbidden. Flushed skin, hard nipples, and of course, wet thighs. I'd skipped her foreplay that night, I wanted to eat. But first I tested her by gently dragging my tongue along the edges of her lips and her hood. I got a shiver. She was ready.
I closed my face gratefully on her vagina, and began kissing it noisily, my tongue making fleshy clicking, squeaking, sucking sounds as it moved around my mouth and her lips. There was nothing romantic about this. I went straight to work and fucked her with my face.
I pulled out all my tricks on her. Circling her clitoris, sliding my tongue inside her, licking her hood, scraping her with my teeth, everything. And it worked. Her mind wasn't there, but her body was completely attentive. She didn't make a sound through her first climax, but it was evident in all other respects. It was the next few she started making her noises on. It was cute, she sounded like she was trying to climb something or lift something too heavy to move, moaning through her teeth, every muscle in her body tense.
She took it, staring straight ahead like a good soldier. But I was in command here. So when I'd had my fill, I climbed onto the bed and waited expectantly, lying back on my elbows with my legs spread. It took her a moment to come down from her high, at which point she finally registered what was expected of her. She turned around and did what I've come to call the "bedroom shuffle" across the bed on her elbows and knees to get between my waiting thighs. It wasn't going to take much. I'd been teasing myself with my fingers the whole time. I guided her head down.
I stretched luxuriously and let out a lusty sigh as I felt her contact my flesh for the first time, her tongue clumsily brushing my lips crossways. I let her take her time getting used to it. And she got better like I knew she would.
I wonder if women learn to pleasure other women more quickly under the effects of the Memsetron, which affects the mind, something you don't need for this. In fact I'd done away with all the repugnance of the whole idea, which can be inconvenient if your subject isn't necessarily consenting. But the Sergeant wasn't thinking now. Nor was I. I was on the edge from the beginning, and I remember glimpsing my own breasts rising and falling as I began to gasp for the air my body needed to sweat and convulse and wrap my legs around my lovely servant, nestled demurely between my legs, resting on her elbows and bound wrists.
My hips did what they do, in time to her rather mechanical rhythm, and I occasionally "guided" her by the back of her head to other places for some variety. I was orgasming before too long, lying flat, clutching at the crimson blankets, which I'd need to wash later if her glistening face was any indication. I let her "practice" for a long while. I enjoyed climax after climax until I realized if it were me, my lips and tongue would be aching. So I let her go a little more. Enclave girls are tough, they can take it.
Finally, exhausted, I lifted her off of me, gasping out the instructions she needed to hear to stop working. I rested a moment, then responsibly tended to the "maintenance" of my cattle. I guided her upright and led her by the cuffs to a hook hanging from the ceiling, which I left her connected to, her arms above her head. She'd be safe there. It would keep her from wandering around. I made her drink some water before preparing to retire.
I looked her up and down. She looked so forlorn there, naked and alone in my living room. I decided she needed some company. Maybe she'd like to play with the Packhorse.
Daddy would be disgusted if he saw what I pushed out of a corner. I'd designed it to relieve my tension in the days before I got really good at the acquisition of "company." It began life as a plastic water barrel on wooden legs. It still looked like a plastic water barrel on wooden legs. With a seat cut into it. And stirrups. I pushed it under the good soldier, forcing her to straddle it, like riding a brahmin. At least she had something to sit on, I decided, as I strapped her ankles to the footrests. Then I flipped open the lid of the barrel. The green computer screen looked back at me. I selected my favorite program, and left her to simmer for the night.
