Dranon's Delight XIII

In a dark room, lit only by the red-glowing skulls of fallen berserkers, a black-haired woman stood with her arms suspended by chains dug into the stone wall, unconscious and limp. She wore boots and standard-issue Imperial Guard trousers, but her midriff was entirely bare, her chest covered by only a black brassiere that seemed just a few sizes too small for her massive jugs, the soft, elastic fabric clinging skintight to their curvature. She was beautiful and voluptuous, her hips wide to match her upper curves, with only a hint of toned strength to her muscles – unusual for a soldier. A small tag on her belt had her name and rank: Pvt. Jubblowski.

The sound of something big and metal smashing into the floor snapped her to consciousness, gasping quietly as the shock of awareness rushed through her, cracking her eyes open ever so slightly. The first thing she saw was the lifeless skeleton laying before her. The next thing she saw was the armored heel smashing its skull, a massive ceramite-composite sabaton engraved with profane sigils and the stains of the blood of fallen heroes. Her nose started to work again, and the pure stench of death emanating from the gargantuan figure standing before her nearly forced a dry heave from her empty gut.

Jubblowski’s wrists were bound painfully tight above her head, and her arms were numb. Her feet only barely reached the ground, only permitting her to keep the weight off her sore arms. She was trapped. With no choice, she remained limp, shutting her eyes and steadying her breath. There was a brief shock of static at her chin, and her head jerked out of reflex. A sinister growling chortle echoed through the large concrete room. “At least face your doom with dignity, Imperial sow.”

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She opened her eyes and saw the barrel of the plasma pistol poised at her chin, just the mere proximity causing all the hairs on the back of her neck to stand up as the electromagnetic containment field pulsed excess energy around her. When she raised her head to look at the one holding it, she was met with the face of a Chaos Space Marine, ravaged with hoary scars of a thousand battles, or exposure to the Warp, or both. Eyes of obsidian glared into her very soul, and all her nerves screamed in mortal terror. With all her strength she wrenched her frame, yanking at the chains that bound her, sending one swift kick up between his immense armored thighs in some pathetic attempt to wound him where it counted. All she got was a very sore shin.

“Hhgehehe,” the ancient warrior chuckled in amusement at her foolish struggle. “Tell me what you know, and your death will be swift.” His very words seemed to carry just as much sheer, crushing weight as his body, and the woman ceased fighting, staring up at him. Then, she averted her gaze, gritting her teeth even as she shook with adrenaline and fear.

“So be it. I doubt you know anything worthwhile anyways,” he said, lowering the mouth of his pistol to her chest, pressing the barrel against her tremendous left tit, which bulged around the pressure, softer than clouds. She breathed in a sharp hiss, cheeks flushing red as the static discharges bouncing over her breast forcing her to writhe with the slight, but intense jabs of sensation. He pulled his gun away, the last little jolt streaking right to her nipple, which hardened at the stimulation, poking out through her flimsy top.

His armored finger tightened around the trigger, but then he paused, glancing up at the ceiling and muttering to himself. He dragged one of his hands down his face, and sputtered his lips. “What the hell am I doing with my life?” He glanced down at his gun, leveled it at a nearby wall, and fired, blasting a large superheated hole in the reinforced rockrete and forcing Jubblowski to flinch as convection heat washed over her face and neck.

But then he sighed, snorted loudly, and shoved a noxious-smelling cigar in his mouth and lit it with the red-hot fumes smoking from the tip of his pistol. “Ach, the cultists can have their fun with you for all I care.” Dranon turned and stomped out of the room, his footfalls echoing down the subterranean tunnel until finally vanishing. She waited for a few minutes, hearing nothing further, and then wrenched her body against her chains, trying to either pry them out of the wall, or slip her wrists free. But they held strong and tight, and she was thoroughly trapped.

It was not long until the dark-haired woman heard the sound of a distant voice, singing something. It was not particularly pleasant sounding, as the singer seemed possessed of what was possibly the single most horrifically squeaky, wheezy voice she had ever heard. Worse, it was singing at such a high pitch that the voice kept cracking. “Hwee are the chuhampeeons, hwee are the chuhampeeons!” it went, over and over again, as if repeating just two lines of some song. She was not sure whether she should feel fear or annoyance even as it came nearer and nearer, the singer herself eventually appearing through the doorway.

She was a wretched girl, her body small and lean, likely from a lifetime of malnutrition. Her hair was ratty, probably washed so rarely. Her skin was a strange shade of olive, betraying a heritage of peasantry, and her pearly teeth were as crooked as a priest of the Ecclesiarchy. She wore little beyond some tattered rags tied to her arms and legs, and a tight little black thong that seemed not to fit with the rest of her attire – likely a fresh prize from the battlefield. Her chest was fully bared to all, her modest but cute and round bosoms capped by adorable nipples. Jagged metal spikes arose from under the skin of her shoulder as if dug into the bone, and the four marks of her dark gods were tattooed upon her in varying places.

The instant the strange heretic saw Jubblowski, her eyes widened in surprise. “Captive?” she mumbled. Then her gaping mouth turned into a big dumb grin. “Captive!” She threw out her arms and charged right at the private, who watched in shock and confusion as the short girl collided face-first with her heaving cleavage. Arms wrapped around Jubblowski’s torso, and the cultist just stayed like that, hugging her tightly. Though at first Jubblowski was intensely uncomfortable at the proximity of her enemy and her handsy touches, she found it difficult to deny the intrinsic comfort of her body heat in the cold air.

After rubbing her face up against those fleshy pillows for a little while, the heretic pulled her sticky, greasy body back briefly, staring at the private’s chest at point blank. “Nhhice tiddies!” she wheezed, as if only just coming to the realization herself. She glanced up at the beautiful private, who stared down at her with a face of alarmed concern – and a bit of a blush. “Naaame?”

“I… won’t talk…” Jubblowski said haltingly, clearly nonplussed.

“Hwee’re Cultist!” the shady-skinned girl said, pointing at herself and standing on her tip-toes, her breath reaching the soldier’s face and causing her to turn away from the bad smell.

“That’s… not a name?”

“Hwee haff no name! Ooh, ees this hyoor name?” she asked, spotting the nametag on her belt and tearing it off to hold it up closely to her eyes, squinting. “Puh-vii-tuh-dot. Puvita? Hyoo-blow-sky. Ski? Me? Hyoo blow me? Ah! Are hyoo a porn star?”

“No!” Jubblowski said, feeling strangely affronted by the accusation. “I’m a morale officer for the Commissariat! But that’s all I’m cleared to say!”

“Moral awfficer?”

“You know, I do pin-ups and propaganda and shows for the men… and women…"

“Hyoor nawt a real soldjer?”

“I am too! I… simply… don’t see the frontlines very often! My role takes priority. The Imperial War Engine is a well-oiled machine, and it needs every cog where it belongs!”

Cultist licked her lips deductively and squinted up at her captive suspiciously. “Sooo… Hyoo-blow-sky eesn’t hyoor name?”

“Of course it is!” the trooper yelled in frustration.

“Eet sounds sooo weird, though.”

...

“Weird?! The Jubblowskis have been proudly serving in the Navy and Guard for almost ten millennia! We are a clan of immensely decorated soldiers – er – I will say no more!”

“Hyoo said a lot, though.”

“Shut up! Go away! Or torture me, or whatever it is you’re here for! I will not break!” Jubblowski said, turning her head away angrily.

The heretic girl blinked up at the voluptuous woman, unfazed by the outburst. With a completely blank expression, her hands slowly released her hold around Jubblowski. The trooper thought she was going to be left alone, and glanced back to see Cultist’s empty stare, which concerned her. She watched, hairs standing up on her neck, as Cultist’s face slowly morphed to a devilish smile. Pure horror shot up her spine as she sensed doom. And then she felt the fingers suddenly dive into her armpits, and she stifled a reflexive giggle. Her terror multiplied. “No! Don’t you dare! Heh – no! Do not! I will – pffft! Noo! Please!”

But the Cultist could not be denied. With childlike glee and masterful skill, her fingertips swarmed all the most sensitive places under the private’s arms, forcing great, shuddering laughs out of her in just a few strokes. “Haaahaahaahahahahaha!” she bellowed, throwing her head back and twisting around in futile resistance. Her bosoms bounced and jiggled with the tosses of her body and her heaving laughs, barely confined at all by her elastic top.

“Soooo sensitive! Hyoo should smile more!” Cultist giggled like a child as she ran her fingers up and down Jubblowski’s sides. “Cahm on, no wan can rheseezt their bodieez!”

The guardswoman did everything in her power not to give the heretic satisfaction, but it was a futile battle. The girl’s lips went to press against her belly button, blowing raspberries and squeezing scores more strained laughs out of her. Her body reacted to each and every little touch, and it was not long until her nipples poked out proudly through her bra again, still tingly from the static jolts of earlier. This development did not go unnoticed; the Cultist’s eyes practically bulged out at the sight of it, and her strokes rapidly went from tickling to smooth, slow, tender all along the private’s exposed skin.

“Hwee see hyoo enjoy being tied awp and toyed wiff,” she said in a much more sultry tone, but the private was too busy panting, sweating, catching her breath to notice. As she came down from the downright painful laughing into just the occasional giggle, the heretic hands wrapped around and squeezed her bare waist sensuously. She licked the guardswoman’s belly gently, lapping at her like a hungry wolf as she stared up into her face. Jubblowski slowly realized what was going on, and, gawking at the Cultist below her mountainous breasts, squirmed against her.

“Hey, stop that,” the Imperial girl protested with flushed cheeks, but the Cultist ignored her and traced wet smooches down her pelvis to her belt, fingers moving to slowly unbuckle it. “Hey, no!”

But the heretic had no intentions of obeying, and soon the groxhide belt was whipped right out of all the loops of her pants. Those fiendish digits soon attacked her pants themselves, wrangling the button out of its slot only for Jubblowski to desperately wrap her legs around the Cultist and pull her in against her to make continuing to undress her impossible. The Cultist stood up a little, her head rising up to nestle between her monumental mammaries. “Hyoo are sooo frisky! Jhust let us get theez pants off hyoo…”

“No! The pants stay on!” Jubblowski yelled down at her.

“Ooooh. Okhay,” Cultist said with a toothy grin, instead moving her hands up behind the guardswoman until they found the straps of her elastic top, locked together with a metal clasp.

“No no no! My bra stays on too!” Jubblowski said, but the ratty girl writhing against her was far too busy attempting to solve the clasp to pay her any attention.

“What kind of clasp eez theez?” Cultist said, growing increasingly frustrated with the difficulty of undoing it. “Dho I haff to call the heretek?”

“It’s an Amazon Combat Harness Mk. III! Munitorum standard issue! One size fits all! Designed to endure the harshest battlefield conditions!”

“Eet does naht fit you, though,” the heretic noted.

“It fits me just fine! I am not going to be the first woman of my lineage to complain about my uniform and get reprimanded for it!” Jubblowski said in a tone of strict pride.

Cultist fiddled with the metal prongs a little longer before she froze, finally understanding the shape she felt. “Ees… ees this an awkwila? Whaat? Why? That’s not practikhal.”

Jubblowski growled loudly at the heretic’s lies. “The Emperor protects!”

Of course, the moment she said that, the bizarre clasp was finally twisted and pulled in the right way to detach. The Cultist let out a triumphant cackle and ripped the bra right off the poor Imperial, tossing it away and baring her beautiful peaks, heavy and round, capped by puffy pink nipples that stood stiff right in front of the girl’s eyes.

“Nooo!” Jubblowski yelled, struggling freshly against the chains around her wrists, but she had no power to stop the march of the heretic’s fingers as they moved up to cup and lift her bountiful breasts high, much too big to fit in her small hands that sank deep into her pale and tender flesh. Her protests were silenced when the Cultist stood up on her tip-toes and pecked a quick smooch on her lips, stunning Jubblowski as the blush on her cheeks grew a few shades deeper.

“I—” Jubblowski tried to say, only for the girl to kiss her again, this time keeping their lips together for just a second before breaking away. “You—” Smooch. The Cultist pressed her mouth hard against the guardswoman’s, and remained like that for several moments as her hands caressed her sumptuous curves on their way down to sneak under her pants and squeeze her rump. Jubblowski shivered against the invader, and, when she felt her buns being so gently played with, tightened her legs around the sticky and warm little body, an itch growing in her core, the sensation of hot moisture building in her pants.