Another Sunset

[This story comes from a setting that may be familiar to some. While it can be enjoyed by anyone, those in the know may find a few things they recognize. As always, all characters in this work of fiction are over 18.]

*

Another sunset.

I watched it go down from the crevasse I'd been crouched in for the last half hour. I was about to go through the Grayditch ruins, and I've found that's way more trouble than it's worth during the day. The sun was low enough by then, though. It should be fine.

Had I seen a year ago what I looked like emerging from the shadows now, wearing sleek, light recon armor, shouldering a long, scrappy hunting rifle and stalking down the crag like a spider, I wouldn't have recognized me. My new habits would have made me pass out or worse. But that's how it is in the Capital Wasteland. You adapt. Or, you get eaten, enslaved, shot, tortured, irradiated to a thick paste, or just die of exposure. I think I made the right choice. The sacrifices were nothing to me now.

The armor was from a pre-war vault I'd somehow helped the Outcasts open. Something they'd salvaged from the Chinese during the liberation of Anchorage. The blurring effect was helpful to say the least. It kept all engagements on my terms, for the most part. I usually didn't get in an altercation unless I wanted to. Like I said, helpful. But not perfect.

The point was proven when there was a 'snap' and shards of a nearby rock bursting at about my heel, and I knew there'd be more to follow. Someone had spotted me. Looking back I think I'd made the mistake of stepping out into the last shaft of sunlight of the day before descending into the ruins. The flaw of the armor is that no matter how good the chameleon effect is, the wearer still casts a shadow. Maybe I'd just wanted to catch the last bit of color before moving on, just for dramatic flare.

Or maybe I'd wanted to be seen.

Oh well. The next bullet that arrived didn't find me. I was already gone, dashing to the shelter of the buildings below. It was the next twenty or so rounds that were the problem. Raiders, I guessed. They were everywhere, killing, torturing, stealing, chopping up the scenery with their guns and in this case, shouting obscenities about cooking me. If they'd known me, known who I was, they might have chased me with sticks or hammers to make sure I they didn't lose sight of me for the last time. But they didn't know. And they were going to fucking get it now.

It was over before very long. This was an occasion for my prized reservist rifle I took great care to keep in working order. When I first wandered into the wastes, I found in myself a talent I'd never had occasion to explore in my sheltered youth: I was a sniper. Through and through, I was meant for it, and I'd felt it the first time I'd closed my shaking hands around that rusty rifle on that dry corpse in the old shack.

Now I proved it again for the hundredth time. Through the scope I saw their bewildered expressions as they tried to find where the shots were coming from just before their heads exploded to make way for the .308 cartridge coming down the pike. One after the other, about a half dozen, a large group for Raiders, but as I moved through I zeroed in on one of them and stopped.

Oh, no, I thought. I'm keeping you.

Then I beheaded the really big one next to her. Female raiders are as common as male ones. They want to survive as badly as the guys do. Remotely attractive ones are rare. It's a shame. They all dress scandalously, their piecemeal armor covering not nearly enough to be tactically useful. The grizzled bull-bitches wearing hubcaps over their tits are pretty horrifying. But this one was younger, about as old as I was when I first showed up in DC, about 18 or 20. Sneering, cursing, dirty and probably half-insane like the rest, but she still had all her hair. Her armor was made from random scrap, strips of fabric, metal, leather, meant to protect the body in a fight where the target is cowering, not sniping them all to death from a third-story window. It also was mostly open around the chest area, and I could make out the shape of her--

Focus, damn it. Pow. There went the fifth one. I put the rifle away. Time to move.

The last one, the girl, took a while to realize she was alone. She also realized she'd just randomly sprayed her last magazine of 10mm ammunition at a distant building she'd seen muzzle flashes coming from. At least I imagine that's what she was thinking as I appeared from the side and made them the last thoughts of her own she'd have for the next hour.

The Mesmetron was this thing I'd picked up in that little scrap I had with Paradise Falls. I knew what it did, and knew I was using it for something it wasn't necessarily meant for. But we use what we can in the wastes. Luckily for me it worked, and our girl dropped her submachine gun and stared into space, swaying back and forth instead of going berserk or her head promptly exploding. I lowered oddly-shaped apparatus and sighed. Finally.

I realized my hands were shaking.

I carry what I need to survive. And a few things more. Call them vices.

I'd told her the usual things after I'd "mezzed" her. To follow me, to stay calm, and so on. And the other things I tell my catches to program them to be ready what's coming. But we'll get to that.

She started coming around about an hour later. She came around because I told her to. She slowly began to realize she was in their own Raider hideout, some office or other in one of the buildings. She was hooked up to the apparatus they use to bind their victims as they butcher them alive. Her wrists were chained together above her head, her ankles shackled wide apart, and her shoes missing. The Mesmetron effect lifts instantaneously, and she immediately began to cast about in alarm and feral rage/terror, muffled curses coming from the bit gag in her mouth. I tend to use their own lairs for this as they always come with the necessary equipment, but the bit gag is mine. She was tasting the vodka I'd used to wash her mouth out, and realizing her bonds were as secure as ever they were when she was watching someone else occupy them. She was also starting to feel a strange burning in her skin, that becomes important later.

It was dark, and I'd lit a fire in the corner, so she was just beginning to see me. And my pack of "stuff" I'd set aside, little pieces laid out on a long roll-up cloth. That's when she really started struggling. This is the part I want them lucid for. The part I want them to feel. And it was then that I took off the balaclava covering my head. That made her stop squirming and stare at me in shock. I enjoy the alarm they seem to feel when they see that I'm a woman.

My heart was thundering now, and I was struggling to keep my hands still and appear cool and in control as I set aside the headpiece, letting ringlets of red hair dangle down as they escaped my bun. I'm sure my sadistic impulses are nothing compared to those of the Raiders, or the slavers of The Pitt or Paradise Falls, and that I hid them is deserving of some credit. But I do hide them. I hide that I love to see them in fear of me, the first moments they start to believe they're going to be tortured, watch the bravado and murderous triumphant grin crumble...I steadied myself on the counter. Calm down. It's showtime.

Off my roll of implements I picked up a combat knife I keep a little sharper than it has to be and approached our girl. She shook her head violently. That would never do, so I also picked up the white shock baton (you'd never believe where I got that) and gave her ribs a buzz to indicate she should hold still as I carefully worked the knife under one of the haphazard straps holding up her top. She froze at this, not even breathing. Good girl.

I'm not a knife fighter. I keep the shank for one thing only, and it made a 'ping' sound as I flicked through the brahmin leather. A shoulder plate fell loose. Her eyes flitted from it to me and back. It wasn't what she was expecting.

Ping, ping, squeaky-squeaky-ping, and the strangely-cobbled top she was wearing started to come loose as I worked through more straps, string, and a piece of rope. The circular plates (colanders, I think) covering her breasts were starting to jiggle loose, and my heart started racing again. I'm pretty sure this particular band of marauders didn't bother cutting clothes off before having their sadistic fun, judging by the butchered corpses hung up outside, so our girl was becoming more and more confused and terrified as the so-called garment finally rattled loose and jangled to the floor.

I took a moment to admire what I'd revealed. Oohh my. They were round and firm, and about the size of a small child's head or so, somehow completely hidden when compressed under the scrapheap bra. I gave her belly a zap so I could see them bounce.

My father. He'd be so ashamed.

---

When I emerged from Vault 101 into the forsaken plains of the Capital Wasteland to go look for him, I'd known nothing about sex. It's hard to make an unwatched move in a vault, and I wasn't really surrounded by any attractive boys who'd give me a second thought at the time, so I stepped into the light untouched by man at age 19. I wandered for about a day and a half before I found Megaton City and my future home, a ramshackle settlement built into a large crater. Not knowing what I had, I traded some of the bottles of precious, non-irradiated water I'd brought with me for a room at the tavern to huddle in something resembling a bed, hopeless and alone, and cry. What I didn't realize was that included in the package, was a girl named Nova. Ahh, Nova. That evil little minx. Everyone wants something in the wasteland, and will do anything to get it...that night she saw how vulnerable I was and came in to "comfort" me. Soon she had me out of my Vault 101 jumpsuit, telling me nights out here were cold and her job was to "keep me warm," and over the course of the night I remember drifting in and out to her wearing less and less next to me. Eventually I woke from a strange dream about being gently milked by a machine and experienced what I know now to be my first orgasm before I woke up to the alarmingly wonderful sensation of Nova sucking on my nipples. Realizing quickly that my wrists were tied above my head and my ankles strapped into special apparatus on the bedframe, I made confused inquiries as she licked my tits, begged tearfully as she touched and circled my clitoris (which I'd thank her later for finding for me) and finally disintegrated into base orgasm sounds as she started freely fingering me.

The encounter set my nature permanently. Even though I was "raped" by her several more times after that, eventually it became routine, and just not the same. Besides, by about the seventh time I had my own house in Megaton and didn't need to shell out caps to that skag Moriarty. So I surreptitiously blew his head off as thanks to Nova for "awakening" me, who inherited the place afterward. Two things were axiomatic from then on out. Just as I knew my occupation when I took hold of my first rifle, I was sure of my appetite as soon as a woman took hold of me. First, I was a lesbian. I didn't even find out there was a name for it until about six months ago, but I was inextricably attached to girls. Second, it had to be non-consensual. Or it just wouldn't be the same.

These things have never changed. My tools and methods have just become more refined over time. You'd think this would cause me to break completely with my morality, but somehow I was still daddy's girl on some level. So the people I ended up doing this to tended to deserve it. More than a few raiders, a slaver or two or three...got lucky with an Enclave officer one time, and even got personal with a Brotherhood Outcast who decided I was in her way.

---

Fond memories. But now I had my little Raider slave.

By now I was working away at her...skirt...trousers...something, whatever was covering her loins and legs, slowly opening them up to reveal her hips and the V leading down her pelvis. It was hard not to smile as I felt it dawning on her that there was a good chance she was going to be girl-raped as matted pubic hair began to peek out of whatever you call what I was cutting loose. I shocked her emerging buttocks to indicate that this did not necessarily preclude the torture, murder and cannibalism she might have been expecting. Even so, by now the burning on her skin had spread between her thighs and the tingling was starting, with an acute dripping soon to follow the more scared she got.

I love the Mesmetron. You have no idea. She was lucid and conscious now. But she was still in its power.

The pantaloonskirt sloughed off and crashed to the floor with her top. I kicked them both aside. The underwrappings didn't last long either, and my slave was naked. Even in the lawlessness of the Capital Wasteland, people somehow can't detach themselves from this thing called decency, and always have an exploitable problem with having even the most scant clothes taken away. Awaking barefoot is enough to make them feel vulnerable, which is why I make sure they tend to come to with their shoes gone. And for a moment, I watched my captive get used to being nude.

This is where I dragged over the barrel of Aqua Pura I'd found. Those bastards. Dad dies for Project Purity, and me nearly with him, and these guys are out killing and stealing the fruits of it. Ask me if I feel bad about what I'm about to do.

I filled a dropped bowl or helmet or something with the stuff and splashed it on her, and she shuddered. Another splash and she thrashed. Raiders as a rule have dark, tan skin, partially from the sun, but mostly because they don't bathe. You can take the girl out of the sterile, hygienic Vault, I suppose, but you can't take the Vault out of the girl. So the next thing I picked up was the box of Abraxo cleaner. This stuff is amazing. Every box anyone has ever seen is over 260 years old. Sitting and waiting in irradiated post-apocalyptia for over two centuries for someone to need to clean something. And by god, it sill works. It works for getting blood and brains off your armor, or toxic waste off the walls. I swear you could wash a Ghoul until looked human. You could even make a naked Raider look palatable. I pretty much just swung the box at her. She barely had time to close her eyes as the swath cloud hit her full on in the chest, and even then there were tears, but maybe not from the soap.

I scrubbed her. I scrubbed and I scrubbed, more and more dirt and sweat and grime came off. I used an old sponge and a rag I'd found somewhere, I even filed her toenails back with some tool or other, until finally I went back to throwing water at her again to remove the cloudy suds from her skin.

I had to steady myself again as I stood back to admire my handiwork. My breathing became ragged as I looked it over. It had been months. Pure, shiny, wet, clean, tan girl skin, all for me. I'd also taken the time to shave her when the suds were thick enough. I've gotten good at this, practicing on myself. I'd cleaned every trace of tangled mane off of her, and probably taken any number foreign objects with it.

It's always hot out here. She dried quickly, shivering as it evaporated with some of her body heat. One thing didn't dry, though. In fact it was running down her thighs, making a soft 'plik' noise as it contributed to the puddle below her. Wordlessly, I bid her show me herself for inspection, and gave her now-smooth inner thigh and then her quivering breasts a razzing for compliance before she thrust her hips out, her eyes squeezed shut, and her head turned away. In her state, I could just tell her to do it and she'd do it. But that would be involuntary.

I knelt down between her thighs, baton-ing her buttocks through her legs when she tried to retreat from my scrutiny, forcing her to present herself again, every muscle in her body taut with anguished anticipation. She was in GOOD condition. I think the best I'd seen. Most female Raiders (and a few male ones I'd imagine) have been fucked or raped a few times over the course of their violent lives, rendering more than a few of them inoperable by the time I find them. But this one didn't have that many scars on her body, and her anatomy was intact and healthy.

I'd find out later that the one I'd terminated next to her, the big one, had been her brother, who'd protected her from the worst of the hazing...the only thing that astounds me more than the inhumanity of the wasteland is the places I find compassion.

I stood up and stepped back, satisfied with what I saw. It was my turn. Putting aside my tools, I released a catch at my neck, and with a pop, my armor loosened. I drug them with Jet for this part sometimes, but that reduces their lucidity. As I said, I want them to feel it. My slave watched, her eyes big as my knees. My armor is hard to remove, but I took my time. Got the chest unlatched, slid my arms out as my bosom emerged, and slid the assembly down my hips and thighs before I did the forever-enticing, eternally feminine stepout-kick to leave me in my undershorts and undershirt.

She was still looking.

I unabashedly lifted off the tanktop and let it fall into my armor, my breasts bouncing free, modest, but serviceable. And I watched my slave's eyes as I slid my shorts off, standing up to let her view me.

The steps to this are each very important. They each lead to a new level of anxiety and excitement, renewing the intensity each time. Now we were on the step where I let her absorb that she was a naked and helpless girl in the presence of a naked and dominant girl. I let my feet stand slightly apart. My toenails were painted, though the paint was a little chipped. My legs were (are) long and thin, a runner's legs. My body was thin, my breasts made pleasing in contrast to my frame, my ribs and hipbones slightly visible. Not an ounce of fat anywhere. Long arms, long neck, slight smirk, dark eyes. A patch of freckles across my nose. Tall. Or more accurately, long.

I rinsed myself. I didn't need a whole scrubdown. See, in my spare time, I bathe. But with the sweat gone, I felt much better, and finally let my hair down. And stepping back, making sure the slave was still watching, I scooted myself up onto a desk behind me which I'd cleared for the occasion, put one foot on a nearby box, the other on the edge of the desk, and began touching my thighs.

She got her courage up at this point. She started trying to shout something at me and I slapped a wave of water at her from the barrel, hitting her face, stunning her into quiet again. When she finally blinked the water out of her eyes I made sure the shock baton was where she could see it.

I made her watch as I took my time with my breasts, not touching my nipples for a full five minutes, which is forever at times like this. My right hand teased my thighs, then the taut muscles between my legs and the main event. God, it was as good as my first time. I pinched my nipple. Daddy had wanted me to be a doctor and a scientist. As such I knew that it wasn't raw magic, or some electric pleasure-tricity spreading from the area of my areolae, but hormones and endorphins, telling my brain to continue in the hopes of procreation. I was fine with that. I squeezed out some more. My right hand had found the area where my hair would have began, and more chemicals told my brain things and released more chemicals to impair my judgement and become more susceptible to my malfunctioning, homosexual impulses. The experience is far more mystical to people who don't know the endocrine system very well, and through it all, my sex slave watched me getting wanton with myself in the light of a trash fire. The dripping had become more audible as I teased her, her mind repulsed and terrified, but the tingling and wetness growing below her bellybutton. I watched as hot female slime began dangling in jiggling ropes from between her thighs, hanging, breaking and plopping in globules to the puddle on the ground before reforming anew on the slick surface of her bald skin. Her body had been set on different rails than her so-called mind. She was realizing this too.