My pussy, on the other hand, is still leaking with those eager fluids which I am terrified will give me away if he ever learns they mean I want sex. For the moment, he just thinks that’s a wet zone.
“You’re too tight. Relax, human.”
“That’s the muscle most good at being tight.”
“You must relax or the chip will be damaged.”
I feel him rub my pussy with his ridged fingertips. My hips buck and a moan escapes my lips. It feels so very good. Ever since he made my ass burn, I have been at a low sexual simmer. Now I let out a shamefully obvious gasp of pleasure.
“Much better,” Tyrant growls. “You have already loosened considerably, but I think you should be thoroughly relaxed before the machine enters your being.”
The technology has been put to the side, and his finger is slipping inside me. It is almost as thick as the machine, and it has scales beside, though they seem to dull to ridges for my pleasure as he plumbs the depths of my interior with a careful, sensual touch.
Again, another of those moans threatens to escape my lips. Why is it so hard for me to hide my desire from him? Why can I not simply shut down, accept the machine, and go about my business? Why is every muscle in my lower abdomen getting tighter and tighter, and why is my clit throbbing illicitly against this space-age material which seems to be getting warm and starting to vibrate?
He continues to caress and tease me. He must know what he is doing. He must know that with every revolution around my slick clitoris I come closer to losing control.
“UNGH!”
The exclamation escapes me as he pushes two fingers inside my ass, plunging deep, using the lubrication of my pussy to aid his intrusion.
“Stay,” he commands again as his fingers slide deep and twist, stretching me open and making me squirm and squeal. Tyrant knows how to make me lose control. He knows how to take all my natural resistance and turn it into compliance.
I can feel my ass relaxing for him, the tension I was holding onto having been whipped away by his insistence. I’m on the verge of orgasm, close to losing control, even with his fingers deep inside the one orifice I never thought I'd ever let any man take.
Every time he plunges his fingers inside me, I get a little closer, and a little further away. I don’t understand how he is keeping me on that verge, playing with my body with an expertise I didn’t realize he had.
“Oh… fuckkkk… yes please… oh my god. Oh my…” I am babbling incoherently, whimpering and whining, my hips rolling with desperation as that tight little star that once belonged only to be is claimed by the tyrant king.
“Yesss…” he growls back, his voice deep and primal, rolling through my flesh as his agile fingers manipulate me right over the edge.
Orgasm rips through me, and at the moment of transcendent pleasure, Tyrant slips the machine inside me, the thickness of the thing giving me an even more intense climax as I wriggle and squeal the last remnants of pleasure to the universe.
In the aftermath of the insertion, I lie there, limp and absolutely worn out. No man has ever made me feel that intensely good before.
“Are you alright, my human?” He leans over me, his massive body covering mine as he purrs the question in my ear.
“Mnnnghh,” I reply, hoping he understands me even at my most incoherent.
“Good,” he says. “Rest now. When you wake, there will be work to do.”
4 The Swarm
When I wake, I am alone with a fresh stack of documents and stones. But there is a change. The same stack which befuddled me when I first looked at it suddenly makes sense. It is as if they are not only written in English numeric script, they are formatted as I am used to seeing such documents formatted. I can’t feel the machine in my rear. It must not be as large as I thought, or perhaps it has been subsumed into the rest of my flesh, becoming a part of me. I’m not going to stop and investigate my ass. That would be impractical, and I’m somewhat sore as well. Once again, Tyrant left me with an ache to remind me of his handling of me.
If I displease him, or worse, fail him, I am sure I am at risk of being severely punished. I know that. But there’s some part of me that almost… wants it? What is it about a strong, dominant male that sets me off in an ill-advised rebellion?
He’s lucky that I don’t want to let him down. Even if I do like the way he makes me feel when I disobey him, I have no intention of becoming unprofessional. I take a stack of the papers and fan them out in front of me. This is what I was made to do. Documentation and basic arithmetic combined with convoluted over-regulated bureaucracy is my jam.