[NSFW] Mini-Fics for Warhammer 40k

Iron Within...

    Lucina growled in exasperation, her voice warbling through the warp-infested air, thick with the scent of sweat and luxurious incense.

    “I don’t understand,” she said, “why you insist on having these arguments…” her hands were wrapped around Skourio’s neck, her full, thick lips mere centimeters from his ear, her warm breath, hot enough to make any mortal man melt, barely making a dent in the Iron Warrior’s steely resolve.
    Skourio exhaled, a subtle and slow expulsion of air, almost imperceptible in its measured release. At the bottom of his exhalation, his abdomen was held tight to his body, causing the godly musculature wrapped around his core to form into a perfect statuesque rendition of the human form.
    For a moment, Lucina was lost in his majesty, slowing the motion of her hips - that lovely cyclic inertia bringing her frame up and down upon his massive siege-cannon - to a crawl. Truly, the work of an artisan, she thought, running her hand along his torso, dragging her razor-sharp nail through the upper layers of his enhanced epidermis, marveling at the near-perfect regeneration that knitted closed the red line of rent flesh left in the meandering wake of her exploration.
    Just as slowly, Skourio inhaled. Lucina placed the palm of her hand flat against his cheek, and said, “I always wonder what you think about when you’re silent.” His taut visage was seemingly forever stuck in a grimace, his eyes squinting with incredulity and impatience, his jaw clenched with seething, bitter rage held just beneath the surface.
    His lips parted, and his thunderous voice rattled her, shaking her bones and chitinous plating with the wrath of a thousand mortar shells shattering a hundred bunkers. “They are not arguments, woman. They are explanations. You insist on asking asinine questions. I am merely answering you.” He spoke through gritted teeth, a snarl permeating his voice.
    Lucina huffed and pouted at the dissatisfactory response. She leaned forward and began kissing and biting his neck, drawing blood and lapping it up with her forked tongue as she dragged her fangs across his flesh. The grip he had on her thigh tightened. I wonder how easily he could break me, she thought, digging her nails into the hardened flesh at the side of his ribcage.
    She pulled back from his neck, and put a hand behind his head, her palm flat against the nape of his neck. “Please, just tell me your hesitancy to come with me, back into the warp. I can give you protection. With the blessings of Fabius Bile, your form shall not even be corrup-” Her plea was cut off by a deep, throaty growl.
    “I will do no such thing,” barked the marine, “ten thousand years ago, such sickly-sweet false-promises led hundreds of thousands of Astartes astray. They betrayed that great vision the corpse-emperor held, and our galaxy was plunged into one hundred centuries of darkness and misery.” The Iron Warrior had pulled back, leaning into the pile of cushions and pillows they were fucking upon.
    Lucina smiled, a cruel little expression, rife with malicious intent. “You would not join me in the Warp, for fear of betraying an Imperium you have long since abandoned, yet you would lay with me? Penetrate me? Pour into me your gene-seed? How foolish, methinks. Your hubris knows no bounds.” She leaned forward to kiss him, but he wrapped a hand around her neck, holding her at bay.
    “Yes,” he said, “it is true that my father and brothers have betrayed His Imperium, but we still hold His values. Those things He stood for, He fought for, we died for, they are valuable and worthwhile. My father has plans for his sons, and indeed for all of mankind. Plans born of the Emperor’s failings, machinations forged from the heat of His successes.” Now it was the marine who grinned.
    “Lord Perturabo has a purpose for me, and for all my brothers,” Skourio continued, “where his Father stumbled and fell, my father shall run and leap. We shall build an empire anew from the ashes. One free from tyranny and oppression. An empire of artisans, scholars, and philosophers, where every citizen is a free man, every worker entitled to the sweat of his own brow, a society of the enlightened, free from the shackles of gods and kings.”
    Lucina tilted her head and narrowed her eyes, replying, “So when will this liberation begin? Your magnificent Iron Empire, as of now, is little more than just another slave state. What sets your perfect utopia apart from the tribalism of the Orks or the autocracy of the Imperium or the anarchy of the Drukhari?”
    Skourio’s smile soured, and he replied, “Sacrifices must be made for the Necron’s pylons to be erected. The warp must be shut out from the Materium, or Man shall fall, again and again, to its many temptations.” His hand brushed her cheek, causing the daemonette to flush a dark purple. She leaned in, yet again, to lay her lips against his, but this time he made no attempt to resist her advance.

A Melancholy Love...

    Inquisitor Isabella Santiago ran her hands through Piotr’s hair. He was handsome, with sandy blonde locks that ran longer than Guard regulations usually permitted, but his regiment was composed of conscripts taken from a feudal world in the distant western reaches of the galaxy. He had such odd eyes, the irises as black as night. His skin was porcelain pale, accustomed to the ever-night darkness of his tidally locked world.
    Piotr smiled at her, and she felt her heart melt beneath the heat of his gaze. He pulled her in for a kiss, a gesture she whole-heartedly reciprocated. If only you knew what awaits you tomorrow, you foolish boy… Isabella thought. Tears were building up in her eyes as she looked upon his boyish visage. The man was just over a quarter century old, yet still he was soft-skinned and round of face, like a boy barely old enough to drink.
    Piotr’s smile lessened somewhat when he saw a tear roll down her cheek. “Miss Santiago,” he asked, his harmonious sing-song voice rippling through her mind like a rock dropped on a still lake, “have I done something to upset you?” He raised a hand to her cheek, wiping her tear away with his thumb. She leaned against his hand and kissed his palm.
    For a moment, she remained silent, struggling to find a response within her tortured mind. For a century and a half, she had served the Emperor in the Inquisition, and though her skin remained taught and youthful, a longevity achieved by the numerous rejuvenat treatments she’d received, she was nonetheless burdened by the weight of her memories.
    Rejuvenat treatments revitalized the mind as well as the body, bringing back in stunning detail every failure, ever dead lover, every friend lost to a petty argument. All at once, she was overcome with guilt and resentment, her soul overflowing with despair even as her physical form straddled the perfect body of a beautiful young man.
    She pitched forward, burying her face in the crook where his neck met his shoulder, and she wept, heaving, hiccuping sobs causing her subtle, natural-esque makeup to run and smear and stain the shoulder of his hand-spun cotton tunic. Piotr said nothing, merely holding her tight against his chest, petting her hand with his hand and singing some ancient lullaby in his native dialect of low gothic.

    She raised her head, tears still streaming down her face. Piotr began to open his mouth, but she cut him down in his tracks, pressing a finger to his mouth and shaking her head. She kissed him, gripping his head with both hands. Tears streamed down her face, even with her eyes closed.

    She pressed her thighs together and lifted herself up off his lap, her hands unbuckling his belt. The rifleman knew what she wanted, bucking his hips ever so slightly to permit her to loosen his pants and pull them away from his hips, freeing his cock from the tyranny of his clothing.

    He lifted her robes up and tore the sheer tights she wore beneath the red and black fabric. Santiago half-gasped, half-sighed at the young man's impatience. His member pressed against the well-lubricated entrance to her womanhood, and he whispered, “Miss Santiago, may I fuck you?” into her ear.

    Her heart fluttered and her mind stuttered as she replied, “Yes!” the authority and might of a killer two centuries old backing her words.

    Piotr needed no further instruction. He pulled her down upon his cock, the wetness and warmth of her love drowning him in an agonizing pleasure that suppressed higher thought and buried him in the carnality of base humanity.

    Even as he railed away, fucking her with all the devotion of a most loyal citizen of the Imperium, Isabella could not help but think about all every way he might die tomorrow when the Tau assault began. Tears continued to fall from her eyes as she held strong against Piotr’s thrusts, her face buried in his neck and chest, her lips bathing him in affection that would save him from neither artillery nor gunfire.

[NSFW] In the Heat of the Moment

    It is the forty-second millennia. In the grim darkness of this hateful and apocalyptic time, there is only war. The average adult man is a hair’s breadth under four cubits tall, and he weighs fourteen stone. He is not possessed of much body fat, as his build has been wrought from the nutrients his physical form has wrestled away from the protein- and calorie-rich food-product known as corpse-starch.
    These dense, chalky, grey blocks of sustenance are derived from a composite of biological matter, immense tons of once living material dumped into enormous vats of rippling and boiling chemicals that filter out the superfluous components and distill the remainder into a calcified residue at the bottom of the tanks.
    He is half a century old, one of five men born to have survived to see his fifth decade; should he be lucky, he may have his existence on the mortal plane extended up to five centuries by the techno-arcana of rejuvenat treatments.
    The average man has killed before. If he is lucky, he has only killed a few, and only those among his kind. The unlucky man has seen one into the void. He has fought xenos, renegade humans, perhaps even the forces of Chaos. He has lived. He is haunted by these memories. He is consumed by the phantom blood that stains his hands.
    Yet he can, and likely will, kill again.
    The average man pales in comparison to the threats he faces.
    Monsters, composed not of flesh and blood, but of the essence of the worst impulses and deeds of the mortal mind, lurk within the horrible storms of the Immaterium, the realm of thought and iconography, influenced and shaped by the emotions, wants, and desires of psionically-attuned biological life. These things, these ethereal representations of the combined subconscious of all life, are terrible beyond measure.
    Yet even more abhorrent threats to the average man lurk in this accursed galaxy, from the undying Necrons who slumber beneath his feet, their lurking tombs unknown to the surface dwelling populace until far too late, their mastery of the material world so potent that they control the very folds of time and space itself, to the innumerable hive fleets of the Tyranids, their hungry mouths prolific beyond reckoning.
    Yet the average man is not alone.
    Whether he lives five decades or five centuries, this man will likely venerate the Emperor, a powerful gestalt of ten-thousand mages, each soul ancient beyond measure, trapped in the decaying body of a defeated lich-king interred upon a magical throne upon Holy Terra that retains the barest semblance of mortal life, that this mighty Emperor might light the Astronomicon, a beacon of psychic light integral to human travel and communication through the galaxy; should this average man serve his Greatest Liege righteously and loyally, he may even be saved from the perils of the Warp by His embrace, brought into His fold, manifested among His servants of flame and fury.
    The Emperor’s influence is not purely within the Immaterial Warp, either, for in His grand and unknowable wisdom, the Emperor chose to craft twenty legions of super-humans, each legion being born from the Gene-Seed of a hand-crafted father, His so-called Astartes and their Primarchs. Yet even the Emperor is not infallible; despite what His subjects and worshippers may think, the Emperor is but a Man. A powerful, eldritch, and perplexing Man, but a Man nonetheless; His Primarchs were stolen from Him before their births from artificial wombs by the Chaos Gods and scattered amongst the stars.
    The Emperor was not so easily defeated, as He pursued His sons through the galaxy, hunting for them amongst the incalculable number of habitable worlds that Humanity had settled before the Age of Strife that had cast humanity down from the stars. Two among His Primarch sons failed so spectacularly after their recovery that the very memories of their reality, and the records of their Astartes sons, were wiped from the minds of all men, mortal, Astartes, and Primarch alike, by the simply incomprehensible psychic might of the Emperor. Nine more would later betray the Emperor, led by His favored son Horus Lupercal, seduced away from his Father’s light by the powers of Chaos.
    Still, despite all this, the Emperor had a final set of gene-hanced men whom He trusted and loved more so than even His sons; where His Primarchs, and their Astartes sons in turn, were, in many ways, expected to be utterly subservient to Him, to see Him as an unquestionable Father, these other perfect men were His Companions, His Custodes.
    These Custodes were, in many ways, as far from human as one could be without reclassification. Though they were not as numerous as mortal men, nor as renowned as His Astartes, nor as mighty as His Primarchs, they had a simple, single advantage over all three; these Custodes were perfect, hand-crafted to be loyal to Him and Him alone.
    They were not so insignificant as the mortal man, so easily swayed by the influence of Chaos, Heretic, and Xenos alike, nor were they as proud and insular as the Astartes, consumed by their “brotherhood” and allegiance to their Primarchs as to be readily taken out of the hands of the Emperor, and certainly they were not so independent and powerful, yet fatally flawed as the Primarchs, Gods born of Mankind’s essence, beings whose power outstripped their means, and whose conflicts with their “Father” inevitably brought about the collapse of His glorious Imperium.
    These Custodes were a perfectly balanced blade, ten thousand men strong, wielded in their totality by the sole writ of the Emperor Himself. They were a foot taller in their bare forms than the Astartes were in their wargear, who stood at two and one quarter meters in their standard power armor, and were stronger, faster, and smarter still, even without the artificial enhancements of armor, weapons, and cogitators.
    These Custodes were not mass-produced, savage warrior-monks, manufactured by the brutal and often-lethal implantation of slowly corrupting Gene-Seed organ templates into the bodies of pubescent boys; these Custodes were taken from the most excellent of infants, then personally and artisanally gene-hanced by the Emperor Himself, and later His most trusted Custodes.
    These Custodes were not akin to the base stop-gap measure of the Astartes project, nor the soaring egotism of the Primarchs project, because they were not the Emperor’s Soldier Sons, born to fulfill the needs of a desperate and cornered Emperor who had seen the impending calamity of a galaxy-wide Ork WAAAAGH! mere centuries ahead of time.
    No, these Custodes were His successors. They were to be the Emperor’s equals, not in might, but in spirit, His hopeful plan for Humanity’s future, a glimpse into what Mankind could be, if only they would follow His guidance.
    Now, in the grim-darkness of the forty-second millennium after the return of but one of the Emperor’s loyal Primarch sons, the peerless logistician and patrician Roboute Guilliman, in the wake of Guilliman’s lamentations at the fate of his Father’s superb vision, these Custodes serve at once as the guiding hand for the Emperor’s singular recovered Son, as His voice at the table of galactic affairs, and as the shouted fury of His wrath, striking down any who oppose His will.
    Yet the Emperor, wise beyond any mortal’s meter, knew that His successors, His Custodians, could not guide Humanity into its future glory without lovers, without wives, without companions of their own. These women would not only be equals in majesty and poise to His Custodians, they would be possessed of attributes complementary to the gifts He had instilled in His favored creations. So, like the ancient God of Catheric Myth, He crafted Eves for His Adams.
    His Custodians were incredible in physical form, speed, and strength, as well as titans of intellect and leadership. They could quell a rebellion on a powerful Hive World with words alone, but their bite was no less effective than their bark. So the Emperor sought out the preeminent specimens among the rarest of mankind to be the Companions of His Companions.
    He took up all the Pariahs He could find, the one in a billion mortal humans born without a soul, beings repulsive to psyker and standard mortals alike, extensions of his Anathema against Chaos. Among them He found the women who were unsurpassed by any other; the women who, before the end of their second decade, were already larger, stronger, and faster than all their peers, and He gifted them with even more formidable gene-hancing than His Astartes would ever receive.
    These Sisters of Silence, sworn to mute lives of secrecy for their innate understanding of the Emperor’s true form, hidden behind his psychic veil, measured just as tall, tough, and strong as an Astartes, yet they were quicker and cleverer still. Their wargear was exacting, built to the specifications of the Emperor Himself, outstripping the equipment given to His Legionnes Astartes.
    Yet, unlike the Astartes, born of crude bio-chemical enhancements that changed their mortal frames on a merely superficial level, the bodies and genes belonging to the Sisters of Silence and Legio Custodes were truly theirs; just as the DNA of a Custodes was itself modified, so too was the essence of a Soulless Sister. With their innate genetic modifications, all the Emperor had needed to do was start the chain; with his Custodians and Eyrines, they could truly reproduce, birthing true heirs, unlike the children of Astartes, which proved to be the genetic offspring of the men the Space Marine would have been, had he not been augmented.
    But even among the undeniable exceptionalism of the Daughters of the Abyss, taken from only the top one percent of the Pariahs, themselves only composing one-ten-millionth of the population of the tens of millions of Imperial worlds, each bearing an average of ten billion mortals, the Null Maiden upon which one Shield-Captain was gazing was unique. To his divine eyes, she was perfect.
    In the dozen or so milliseconds it took him to visually process Sister-Commander Inna Enatum’s form, she reacted. “Washington,” she signed, her hand intentionally held beside her perfectly-crafted backside, her eyes casting a smoldering gaze over her shoulder, “you are always welcome to do so much more than stare.” She smiled as the Shield-Captain closed the distance between them, moving so swiftly that mere mortals would struggle to even register his change in position before he arrived, let alone actually understand the speed with which he found himself pressed up behind Inna.
    To a normal mortal, the pheromones of a Custodian were imperceptible, yet irresistible; despite the typical mortal being tremendously intimidated by the sheer size and unarguable superiority of the Emperor’s Companions, they still possessed a mortifying je ne sais quoi that made opposing one in his physical vicinity almost impossible.
    To Inna, however, the scent of Washington’s skin, and indeed the very proximity of his form was as seductive as it was comforting to her. This was, of course, how the Emperor had designed his Custodes and his Eyrines; though each Custodian did find physical, emotional, and even sexual companionship among his fellow Custodes, and any woman among the Pale Scourge would readily acquire the same from her comrades, the Emperor had encoded in his gene-craft algorithms certain inexplicably compatible traits that only the right pairing could unlock.
    After ten millennia in the absence of the Emperor’s guidance, the true understanding of these algorithms had been lost to the gene-smiths of the Mechanicus, Custodes, and Eyrines; the cruel truth of the matter was that not every child born to a Successor pairing would find their match without the subtle manipulations of this algorithm by the Emperor’s knowing hand during their pubescence.
    But Washington and Inna were among the lucky few. He was wrapped around her, his right arm pulled across her perfectly sculpted abdomen, laid bare by the scant, translucent silk garments she wore; his left hand was cupping her right breast, a tremendous bosom resembling an impossibly symmetrical teardrop in shape that filled his extraordinary palm entirely, an alluring excess spilling out between his fingers. She had laid her left arm across his, her hand gripping his wrist, with her right arm reaching up, her hand placed against the back of his head and gently pulling him towards her, her eyes beckoning him to kiss her.
    Washington, of course, saw no point in denying his wife’s request. Though they both bowed before the Emperor, and Him alone, he saw her as second only to Him. After a long kiss he pulled away. Inna narrowed her eyes and grinned. “Shield-Captain,” she asked, her voice composed almost entirely of a spiced, honey-sweet, teasing tone, “is something wrong? You seem rather lost in thought, seeing as you appear to be staring vacantly at me.” The Eyrines swore to speak before none but the Emperor, their fellow Sisters, and their Custodes husband, should they find him. Washington revelled in knowing that he was the only man, save for their Emperor, who had the privilege of hearing her speak.
    Washington laughed, his mind-bogglingly deep voice shaking the dishes on the counter. He buried his face in Inna’s neck, kissing her as though it was his last chance, as he always did. His grip on her breast tightened ever so slightly, his thumb rolling back and forth across her silk-covered nipple. Inna sighed softly, gentle ripples of pleasure gliding across her skin. She felt Washington’s extravagant member erecting itself against her lower back and bottom, separated from her bronze flesh only by the nearly mono-molecularly thin silk she wore, and the frankly inadequate loin-cloth struggling to conceal his mighty halberd.
    Her soft grin broke out into an open smile as Washington’s right hand found its way beneath the silk sashes draped across her hips, his index and ring finger pulling her labia aside as his middle-finger began gently flicking across her blushing clitoris.
    Inna exhaled right beside Washington’s ear, a long, deep, moaning sigh that filled the Shield-Captain’s mind with a fog as dense and luxurious as gold, followed by a loving nibble on his ear which finalized the solidification of his power-weapon, its titanic tip reaching past his loin-cloth and covering the crease where her thick, splendidly muscled thigh met her palatial ass in the sticky dampness of his precum.
    Washington continued bathing her neck in kisses and bites as she kissed the side of his face and nibbled on his ear, unable to control the deluge of moans and sighs brought forth from her lush lips by his fingertips circling atop her nipple and clit. She was squeezing his wrist with such force that she was bruising it, his supreme human form struggling to regenerate the damage her superhuman grip was dealing to it.
    For some time, she stayed like this, rubbing her magnificent ass against his lavish cock, feeling the ground beneath their feet quake beneath the fathomless depth of his moans, each one partially absorbed by her perfect posterior, so taut and firm that a boltshell might bounce off it. To Washington, in this moment, there was only her. It was an odd sensation for her, as every other human she encountered was innately disgusted by the void that existed where her soul ought to, save for the other Sisters of Silence and Custodes, who absolutely lacked Washington’s passion for her.
    When she was with him, she felt genuinely wanted, needed, and desired. Her closeness brought him sincere peace, in spite of the terror and unease her presence brought upon most other material beings; when he was salient enough to consider such ironies, they brought him unmeasurable joy. She was his, and he was hers; he was doubtless in this assessment.
    In this moment, though, his mind was far from such philosophical quandaries; she was his entire world, his only requirement. He slowly, painstakingly kissed his way up her neck, covering each micrometer of skin between her collarbone and jaw in his affection as the revolutions of his finger about her clitoris accelerated.
    Her mind began to melt under this assault, but it was not until his lips had reached her jaw and the sound of his voice uttering the simplest of phrases, “I love you,” had infiltrated her ears that she came, and cum she did. Her entire body shook, her breathing became ragged, and her torrential emissions drenched his hand, her thighs, and her silken skirt.
    Due to the alterations the Emperor had made to the genes of the Eyrines, they typically came for almost half an hour, their bodies shivering and putting off irresistible hormonal scents that drove their paired Custodes mad with lust, like a dog smelling a mate in heat. This ecstasy overtook Inna, and her composure collapsed.
    Washington did not completely process her desperate, silently signed pleas, because his own mind was overtaken by her scent and sounds, but the few hand movements he did manage to focus his eyes on were increasingly feral variations on the same desperate, entitled demands for him to inseminate her, a series of commands he was simple unable to disobey.
    After she had stopped cumming, and her monumental ass was no longer pinning Washington to the wall as she grinded against his mind-boggling cock, she collapsed slightly in his arms, struggling to right herself on her shaky, seemingly gelatinous legs.
    Washington, ever the gentleman, lifted her up into his arms, holding her torso upright against his with his left arm as his right arm supported her thighs, her legs crossed on either side of his forearm, her mythical ass seated in his right hand, with his right thumb pressed between her labia, the pad of his digit gently stroking against her clitoral hood and causing Inna to tightly wrap her arms around his neck as she buried her face in his shoulder and released heavy, panting sobs of pleasure under his continued stimulation of her sensitive, post-orgasm pussy.
    Ascending the spiralling staircase, constructed of marble and gold and adamantium, Washington pressed his thumb against the entrance to Inna’s supernaturally tight accommodations. She gasped before she bit into his shoulder, breaking the surface of flesh, euphoria stupefying her as he penetrated her, the scent of his skin and the taste of his blood shutting out any higher thought she could have hoped to have.
    When Washington reached the top of the staircase, Inna was almost asleep in his arms. He approached her bed and laid her down upon its gilded sheets, her head resting upon cloud-soft pillows, her lips stained red from his blood. The mortal servants assigned to maintain her room, each accustomed to her off-putting presence, watched in awe as the two near-nude superhumans laid beside one another.
    Washington was spooning her as she sleepily signed something to him. He nodded and slipped off her silk garments, and then his own loincloth, the only thing covering any of his exemplary golden-brown skin. His cock sprung free, flipping up between Inna’s partially spread legs and clapping against her nethers. Inna smiled greedily and closed her thighs, locking his cock in between them, its shaft pressed against her clitoris. Washington was not one to miss a hint, and so he began stroking away, his stupendous measure running nearly its entire length against her.
    The servants watching were overcome with feelings of lust and joy, seeing the two demi-gods entwined so passionately and purely. After some time of verbal praise lavished upon the lovers, an orgy broke out among the thirteen of the mortals, their minds simply overcome with veneration and hope as they shared amongst themselves love, sex, intimacy and companionship.
    Washington and Inna watched this orgy happening, pleasing each other with their outercourse as they did so. Washington leaned in close to Inna, and whispered, his voice too quiet for any mere mortal to hear, “Truly, humanity is beautiful in all its forms,” his declaration ending as he kissed her cheek, jaw, neck, and finally her lips, as she forwent a response to crane her neck back and kiss him instead.
    Inna reached down as Washington pressed his hips fully against hers, a little over a quarter-meter of his cock exposed in front of her thighs. She gripped the upper half of his shaft with her hand, preventing him from pulling back, and signed for him to roll over on his back. Washington obliged, but he wrapped his arms around her and pulled her over with him. Now laying atop her husband, Inna had exactly what she wanted.
    After a quickly signed order for Washington to neither move, nor touch her, she sat up. Her clit was still pressed against the base of his colossal spear, and she was watching the orgy of human forms play out before her, eight female bodies pressed upon five male bodies, each covered in sweat, cum, and feminine slickness. Gripping Washington’s cock with two hands, stacked one over the other, and sliding her feet under his thighs for leverage, she got to work.
    She slid herself up his cock and slid her hands down, rolling his gorgeous foreskin back as her bottom hand met the top of her pussy; she then slid her clit down his cock as her hands stroked up. She continued this process for some time, gleefully masturbating for the both of them. In defiance of her orders, she felt him sit up, wrapping both arms around her waist and locking his core muscles, effectively becoming a throne upon which she was seated, watching her servants fuck each other senseless. Inna began moving quicker, her hips rolling faster and faster, her hands matching their speed.
    She continued this routine for some time, until after several hours the orgy Inna was pleasing them both to died down, the mortals having exhausted themselves and electing to lay with one another in a restful sleep, each having at least two partners wrapped around them. Inna sighed in frustration, having only came four times during the entire event, and only managing to make Washington cum once, though he did cover her with a fountain of his seed, her hefty breasts, softly defined abs, godly face, lovely arms, and worship-worthy thighs covered in his love.
    She rolled off Washington, landing on her back with her legs spread. Taking the hint, Washington took up position between her thighs, his rock-hard member resting against her brightly blushing labia and marble-carved tummy. The entrance to an Eyrine’s pussy was always unthinkably tight, and needed to be trained over several decades to take the immensely thick members of their Custodian lovers. Inna was no exception.
    Despite having been married for almost a century, and each being well over a millennia old, Inna’s pussy was nearly impenetrable by Washington without extensive foreplay, though not for a lack of trying. Nonetheless, the Custodian pressed the tip of his cock against her entrance, and she sighed before biting her wrist as an almost painful rapture shot through her; he had managed to get nearly the entire head of his power-sword inside her, though they both knew it wasn’t going any further.
    Washington gripped his shaft with his left hand, just below the head, his thumb aligned with his cock, and the tip of his thumb touching her clit. He grabbed Inna by the throat with his left hand, causing her to let out a thirsty gasp of shock and elation, a broad smile spreading across her face as she held onto his forearm with both hands. She wrapped her legs tightly around his waist as her breathing accelerated, excitement and the slightest bit of fear overwhelming her.
    Having anchored both his lover and his cock, Washington pulled his hips back slightly, letting the taut pressure of his wife’s insides push him out, and causing the head of his member to slide back into his foreskin. He then firmly but slowly thrusted back in, the very tip of his cock once again penetrating the love of his life. Inna gasped and sighed with each inward and outward thrust, moaning with every errant flick of her clit.
    Over the next hour, Washington continued this process, getting nanometers more of his cock inside her with each thrust, until he was able to get the entire head of his cock inside her. Rolling waves of bliss hit him each time her warmth encompassed him, even as slightly as this. He continued thrusting away, attempting to push himself ever further within her, until he felt Inna tense up.
    After a few more minutes of thrusting, his penetration getting tougher and tougher each time as her aroused tightness increased, Inna came. Her breath was fast and heavy, her limbs were overtaken by tremors, her pussy pushed Washington’s cock out, and her lips met his as he descended upon her. He kissed her, his love for her so powerful that he could think of no other response to her orgasms.
    After a third of her orgasm passed, Washington pulled back. Inna was currently digging her fingers into his forearms, unable to let go. Washington watched as her pussy pulsed, getting tighter than ever, then loosening into a wide opening. Each pulse lasted half a second, but that was more than enough time for him.
    Washington again lined his cock up as he had last time, the tip of his head pressed into the entrance of his love’s pussy. He waited for her next contraction to hit its tightest point, then waited just a little bit longer; as she began loosening, he struck, thrusting hard and fast. Inna’s eyes shot wide open, but in her surprise she could utter no noise, save for a soft gasp.
    Washington had slammed half of himself within her, his cock so thoroughly soaked by her squirting and his own voluminous, lusty emissions of precum that it slid right in. He pitched forward, his body overtaken by the sensation of finally penetrating a woman for the first time, his entire cock embraced her pulsing wetness. In response, Inna leg-locked him and wrapped her arms around his chest so tightly that he felt short of breath; before he could say anything, she kissed him.
    This was his final straw. His mind had taken too much, for too long, and his body finally had the opportunity to impregnate her. He couldn’t be stopped, and she’d never want him to. He began pounding her for three-quarters of an hour, always keeping between half and two-thirds of himself inside her, for fear of being squeezed back out. They both let out numerous muffled moans, yelps, and cries of bliss as his member hammered away at her, rearranging her insides.
    They didn’t last, though; after forty-five minutes, she came. He was unable to pull out after she started cumming due to her death grip on his chest and hips, so Washington simply hilted himself and attempted to weather the storm of her pulsating contractions, but he was unsuccessful. Her throbbing tightness proved too much for his endurance, and he, too, came shortly after, shooting rope after rope after rope of perfect, pearlescent cum inside of her; so much so, in fact, that most of it leaked out around the sides of his cock, their penetration apparently not creating as tight of a seal as they thought it would.
    After half an hour of their mutual orgasms, an event so pleasurable that the next day they were still sore in spite of their augmentations, they both promptly fell asleep, his body still atop hers.

[NSFW] Reassignment, Chapter 1: Arsenal Appraisal

Sister Grace looked over the incident report that Sergeant Demarco of the Cadian 501st Airborne had filed following the successful defense of the forgeworld Eutraxia. The Tau casualties had been drastic, and Demarco’s performance in particular had caught Grace’s attention. She smiled as she opened a tri-dimensional holo-render of one charge Demarco led, watching it intently. It was not the first time she had seen this image, but it was just as pleasing to view for the eighth time as it had been the first.

Demarco had taken up a fallen trooper’s melta gun and loosened its choke, turning it into an improvised shotgun of sorts that spread large waves of thermal radiation out over an approximately thirty degree cone in front of him. He had used it to overheat the internal cogitator units of the enemy Tau’s combat suits, effectively frying their electronics and thus their advantage. It also had the convenient side effect of burning away several inches of armor and tissue on any Tau who happened to be within four or five meters of the barrel.

Fire Warriors, indeed, thought Grace, watching a Tau choke out dry, hacking gasps as his armor, weapon, helm, and face were incinerated, leaving torched bones and roasted ligaments showing where blue skin and yellow plate had been. Demarco cleared his throat. The sound caused Sister Grace to jump slightly in her seat.

“Ah! Staff Sergeant Ricardo Demarco of the Cadian 501st, in the flesh, no less. I apologize, I did not hear you come in. I suppose that’s what I get for leaving my office door ajar,” Sister Grace said, shooting up from her seat to a relaxed parade rest. She ended her statement with a forced chuckle, in an attempt to alleviate the awkward tension in the air. Demarco saluted her, then looked at the holo-render for a few moments.

“Admiring my work?” He asked, gesturing at the tri-dimensional display. Sister Grace glanced at the display, then reached over and shut off the emitter, waving for Demarco to come over and sit down in the chair placed before her desk.

Grace’s office was cluttered, stuffed full of vellum records, softly whirring cogitators, burned out candles, and a massive stain-glass window set behind her large stone desk, though the window was partially obstructed by the stacks of paperwork and book-bound records crowding her workspace. The chair that Demarco had been offered was a simple one, composed of aging wood and lined with a worn out cushion. Demarco took his seat nonetheless.

Grace sat down as well, and looked into Demarco’s heavily-lidded eyes. They were a deep hue of violet, and Grace felt her heart stutter as he blinked slowly, an image of passion flashing across her imagination that she quickly shook from her mind. 

“Sargeant,” Grace said, “you’ve come to my attention due to your repeated battlefield excellence over the past four decades. In particular, your daring counter-offensive against a Tau battlegroup pinning down an entrenched unit of Sororitas heavy-weapons teams was not only selfless and unorthodox, but also incredibly valuable. You saved hundreds, if not thousands, of lives that day.” As she spoke, she powered the emitter back on, cycling through a series of holo-renders until the record of his rescue began playing. Demarco shifted in his seat.

“I appreciate the recognition, Sister, but I must ask, is there some ulterior motive for this… congratulatory meeting?” He asked, incredulity heavy in his voice.

Sister Grace nodded and replied, “Of course. I’m recruiting for a diversely trained team of special agents at the request of the Lord-Commander himself. Our Spiritual Liege wishes to reorganize and reimplement the Inquisition into a more… I suppose compliant organization. His Majesty is pushing for reforms across the Imperium, and this is no exception.”

Demarco said nothing, merely meeting Grace’s gaze. Grace sat quietly, seemingly expecting a response. After half a minute of silence, she spoke up, “I am looking for a yes or no, Sergeant.”

Demarco cleared his throat, inhaled deeply, and then leaned forward, placing his arms on her desk. “If I say no, Sister Grace, I trust that I will not be punished for non-conformity?”

Grace furrowed her brow, but replied, “No, Demarco, there will be no catch here. It is a special task group trained and equipped for unorthodox operations and tactics. If you are disinterested, we will move to our second choice candidate, who already said yes.”

Demarco nodded and looked away, glancing out of the office and into the corridor outside. After a moment of thought, he turned back, made eye contact with Grace, and replied, “I’m good for it. When does the assignment start?”

Sister Grace smiled devilishly and replied, “Right now. Welcome to Special Task Force Angel-12. We will be deploying to the moons of Inductous IV tomorrow morning to investigate Genestealer Cultist activities in the region.” She extended a hand and Demarco gripped it firmly.

....

The moons orbiting the forgeworld of Inductous IV were hiver hell-scapes; gangs and savagery ran rampant below the smog clouds, and the tips of the great spires were decadent places of excess and luxury. Demarco was not well-adjusted to environments of the latter sort, and found himself extraordinarily uncomfortable in the high-class hotel room he was sharing with Grace, particularly when she left the door to the washroom containing the glass-enclosed shower and bath wide open.

I really shouldn't stare, Demarco thought, even as his eyes lingered on the steamy silhouette of the singing Sister of Battle. Her voice drifted out from behind the cascading sounds of the shower like an angel emerging from behind a waterfall; the Cadian found himself transfixed. I'll be damned if she isn't doing this on purpose, he thought. 

Demarco quickly slid off the bed when he heard the shower turn off, slipping into a pair of casual-wear slacks. By the time Sister Grace had exited the washroom, wearing little more than a loosely tied red silk robe, Demarco's pants were still unbuttoned and he was rolling his undershirt down over his torso. Both paused for a moment, staring hungrily at one another’s immodestly dressed forms.

Demarco shifted his gaze and moved past Grace to enter the bathroom. As Demarco lifted the beard-trimmer to his face, he heard Grace ask from their shared bedroom, "I didn't realize you would be up this early, Sergeant. Were you unable to sleep?"

Demarco waited until he had finished shaving his neck and was beginning work on his jaw and cheeks to reply, "I slept just fine, Honored Sister. The lack of sheets did nothing to negatively impact my rest." He heard a song-like giggle come from the other room and smiled involuntarily.

He noticed Sister Grace enter the doorway out of the side of his vision, having almost finished giving himself a clean shave. She was leaning against the doorframe, the loose neckline of her robe plunging beneath her ribcage, exposing her ample bosoms, as well as a jet-black fleur-de-lis tattooed on her sternum.

“Are you enjoying the view?” Rico asked. He watched Grace’s lips curl up into a smile as an almost inaudible laugh gently shook her shoulders.

“I’m merely reviewing the assets that the Astra Militarum have so generously chosen to loan to me,” Grace replied, gliding into the room and circling behind Rico. As she completed her semi-revolution about him, he watched her gaze drift down his back to tight, well-muscled backside, and felt his trousers tighten as his autocannon armed itself.

“Review the ‘assets’ as much as you like,” Rico replied, combing his short, neatly cut hair, “but I think it’d be in both our best interests if I simply gave you a… hands-on training session to familiarize you with their functionality.” Sister Grace had completed her orbit, and was standing beside the sink. Her eyes were fixated on a different set of assets now.

When her gaze eventually drifted back up to meet Rico’s, Grace asked, “How often have those pretty purple fuck-me eyes gotten you what you want, Staff Sergeant?” Her voice was thick with a mixture of disdain, lust, mirth, and just a touch of genuine curiosity.

Rico grinned and replied, “I don’t keep track, but if you want, you can say yes now, and we’ll start keeping a running tally.” He placed the shaver down and bent over to wash his face in the sink. When he stood back up and looked over at Grace, he found that she had relinquished her robe, and was standing beside him, tugging at the Inquisitorial ‘I’ shaped piercing in her left nipple and wearing nothing but a smile.

“You’ve made a compelling argument for this live-fire demonstration of your ‘equipment’, Rico.” The Sister paused for a moment, and then asked, “Is it okay if I call you Rico?” as she pressed up behind him and slid her hand down the front of his pants. Tall though she was, she needed to stand on her tip-toes to peer over the Cadian’s shoulder, looking into his eyes through their reflection in the foggy mirror.

He felt her strong hand wrap itself around his lower shaft as her left hand ran across his statuesque chest, feeling every contour of his pectoral muscles as she kissed and bit his neck. Rico growled in response as his cock grew from half-solid to fully-erect in her tight but comfortable grip.

“Do you get this intimate with all your equipment, Grace?” Rico asked, his voice breathy and deep. Grace pressed her face into his neck and inhaled, smelling his aftershave. After a moment spent this way, she pulled back and pressed her lips to the back edge of his ear.

“Only when the equipment is so well-maintained and of such a potent calibre,” she whispered huskily into his ear. Rico felt the muzzle of his lasrifle become significantly wetter as precum dripped out, being spread further by Grace’s gentle stroking of his shaft.

“That said,” she continued, “I think that I’d have an easier time inspecting your gear if it were not stowed away. Do me a favor, Demarco, and disrobe for me.” She backed away from him, sitting on the edge of the bathtub with her legs crossed.

Demarco turned about and took a half-step forward, standing at rapt attention and saluting Grace. She laughed breathlessly, reaching over for the bottle of white wine and crystal glass sitting beside the bathtub. Pouring herself a glass, she replied, “At ease, Guardsman.” 

Demarco spread his feet shoulder-width apart and squared his shoulders towards her. His hands came down to his belt, slowly slipping the leather out from the buckle while he maintained piercing eye-contact with Grace. She sipped from her glass of wine, leaving behind a void-black lipstick stain on its rim, her eyes burning with desire.

Rico pulled the belt apart, letting both sides hang abreast his pants’ fly as he began unbuttoning them. Grace’s gaze drifted down towards the thick, bulging imprint his private armament left in the front of his slacks, and she asked, “Staff-Sergeant, is that a non-standard concealed-carry technique for your issued sidearm, or are you simply overjoyed at the prospect of giving me a rundown of Imperial Guard unarmed combat tactics?” Rico’s face remained stoic, instead allowing his eyes speaking for him. Grace swayed her shoulders slightly and took another drink, fluttering her eyelashes in a smug show of feigned innocence.

Rico untucked his undershirt and slowly lifted it out of his waistband, revealing his carefully sculpted torso centimeter by centimeter for Grace’s thirsty, leering gaze to roll across. When he cleared the shirt of his head, he tossed it at Grace’s feet. Grace smiled again and took another long drink of wine.

As he slowly slid his pants down, showing more of his underwear, Grace held up a hand, causing Demarco to pause as she drained her glass. After having cleared her throat, Grace said, “Parade rest, hands behind your back. I want you to stare straight ahead. If you look down, or react in any way, I will have to punish you with harsh floggings and fifty Ave Imperators in High Gothic.” Demarco snapped into position and nodded silently.

Grace gently placed the glass on the marble floor beside her feet, causing her breasts to pile upon her muscular thighs and spill out from beneath her chest as she reached down. After having righted herself, she uncrossed her legs and stood slowly. Sweat beaded upon Rico’s brow and he swallowed, his throat suddenly quite dry.

Grace slinked up to him, swaying her hips and placing one foot before the other, staring up into his deep purple eyes. She stopped mere inches away from him, placing her hands flat against his chest, sliding her hands down his torso as she leisurely descended into a crouch. When her hands came upon the fabric of his slacks and underwear, she slid her fingers under the waistband, pulling them down and allowing his rigid member to swing free of its entrapment, slapping against her cheek. 

Grace smiled and gripped the base of his shaft, stroking it as she looked up and said, “It’s excellent to see that the Militarum really do train their boys to stand at attention at the drop of a hat,” before proceeding to run her tongue along the underside of his cock, licking him from the stem to the tip. Having completed her tongue’s journey, she continued, “But if you have a premature negligent discharge, I will be quite cross indeed.” Demarco took a deep, long breath, steeling himself even as sweat ran down his face.

Grace pulled his underwear down further, bringing his garrisons out from defilade and gently groping them with her free hand. Continuing to stroke the base of Rico’s shaft, Grace wrapped her lips around his cock, taking him within her mouth and leaving black lipstick stains in her wake. Demarco felt a pressure building in his loins, and he swallowed again, trying to silently clear his throat. Grace paused and looked up at him, asking, “Staff Sergeant, you seem stressed. Is something wrong?” Her voice was dominated by an insincere layer of concern. Rico shook his head and maintained his forward-fixed gaze.

Grace smiled and said, “Excellent composure, rifleman,” before returning to her oral exploration of his extensive armory. Her movements were excruciatingly slow, leaving Demarco forever on the edge of climax, his cock dripping with precum and almost painfully rigid. Damn this pretentious slut, he thought, and damn her demands. 

When Grace had taken his cock halfway within her mouth, Rico’s arms shot out from behind his back, gripping her short, bob-cut hair in his large, calloused hands, and he began thrusting away at her throat. He felt her grip on his magazines tighten, but not painfully so, and after three or four thrusts, she removed her hand from his lower shaft, placing it flat against his upper abdomen.

He felt her loosen her throat and he began thrusting ever so slightly deeper each time, until he was hilting himself with each rhythmic penetration of her soft, wet mouth. He made eye-contact with her as she glared up at him, and he felt himself cross that final rubicon. With mere seconds left before his climax, he pounded away at her, causing her makeup to run and tears to flow from the corners of her eyes.

Finally, he felt the first shot of seed begin to rocket down his barrel, and he pressed himself deep within her throat, leaning forward and causing her head to tilt back, opening up even more of her throat for his deep-strike drop-pod. His body shook with each pulse of his cock, and Grace tapped out, slapping his stomach hurriedly, causing Rico to lean back against the sink, gripping its edges behind his back with both hands. 

Withdrawing his member from her throat, she coughed, thick strings of saliva and cum connected his tip to her lips as the last few shots of his orgasm splattered on her face. Both panted wordlessly for a few seconds, before Rico recovered enough to blurt out, “Oh, damn it, sorry, I, uh, I didn't mean to, um... I didn't mean to get it on your face. I'll go grab a towel.”

Grace, one eyelid closed to hold a portion of his payload at bay, stared down at her saliva and cum covered hands. “My impeccable smokey eye is completely ruined…” she muttered, “by the Emperor... This reminds me of the time I watched a Word Bearer facecheck a krak missile.”

Rico knelt down in front of her, holding a warm, moist hand towel, and began wiping down her face and hands. The moment he had cleaned her hands, though, she wrapped them around the back of his neck and kissed him, her tongue burrowing past his lips, carrying with it the taste of his own emissions. 

He dropped the towel and slid one hand behind her head, whereas his other hand shot down between her legs, his fingers slipping past her shock-white pubic hair and rolling across her clit, causing her to moan lewdly against his lips. They stayed like this for some time, kissing like honeymoon lovers as his hand brought her to climax. 

After he pulled his hand away, his fingers drenched in her emissions, she broke the kiss and laid her head against his chest as she pulled him into a tight hug, panting and shaking against him. He reciprocated, running the fingers of his clean hand through her hair.

For a few minutes they stayed like this, both breathing heavily and drenched in post-climax sweat. Grace broke the silence first, though, looking up into his eyes and saying, “I’m going to beat you so Emperor-damned hard for pulling that stunt, you little brat.” Rico didn’t reply verbally, instead choosing to simply chuckle and kiss the top of her head.

The Humbling of Sicarius

   Cato stared down at the rusted floor of the abandoned space station, silent save for the creaking of ancient adamantine warping in the gravitational tides of the backwater colony it orbited. It was soaked in blood. Some of it was blue, and some was green. A lof of it was red.
   The Orks had surprised him, just as he had surprised the Tau. He hadn't seen them coming. It could have been arrogance. It could have been his over-reliance on the augurs of the power-armor he no longer had. It could have been his fault, or it could have been bad luck, but it didn't really matter when his hands were the only thing keeping his torso from springing open like a Cegorach surprise-box.
   His vision was blurry. His leg had been torn free at the hip, but the severe blood loss had given him the final mercy of making visual details indiscernible. He frowned. Celestine, he thought, I should have said... anything. Something.
   His self-pity was interrupted by the smell of gunsmoke and a flash of fire. "Unfortunately, Sicarius, I am not the bountiful-bosomed angel you are looking for. I'm the grizzled old bastard you need." Cato's frown turned into an involuntary grin as he recognized the voice. Stood before him was the smoldering, smoke-stuff shape of Sidonus. Cato tried to say his name, but only gurgles and bloody bubbles managed to pass through his torn-open throat.
   "No need for that, Captain," Sidonus said, reaching out a hand of flame and faith. Flesh reformed, as smooth as a newborn's, where the searing heat should have left burns. Cato sucked in air like a drowning man breaking the surface, and his vision started to clear. The ragged stump where his left leg had been was gone, his limb reborn. His torso was whole once more.
   "How..." Cato asked, struggling to find the words as he stood, bracing himself against the station's millennia-old bulkhead.
   "The Emperor protects, brother," came the veteran-sergeant's reply, "but he also speaks. Lies are a cross-fade, and truth is sobriety. Honor, courage, and honesty are what makes a marine, not strength, glory, and savagery. Remember this, for our Liege will not grant you a second pardon."
   Before Cato could reply, Sidonus was gone, the smoke and ashes blowing away in a wind that never was.

[NSFW] An Unplanned Alliance, Chapter 5: Tactical Cross-Training

    "I don't understand the tactical value of such a maneuver," Guilliman said, the rumble of his voice rattling the desk Yvraine was seated on.
    Yvvy rolled her eyes and leaned back on her hands, huffing haughtily as she replied, "The 'tactical value' lies in the divergence of attention and processing power to an auxiliary attack that is ultimately unlikely to deal any lasting damage, but is extremely high-profile. It’s no different from Steel Rain or firing artillery for effect."
    Guilliman's eyes lit up as the idea clicked in his mind, and his face shifted into a soft, understanding smile. "I see," replied the Patrician, "I think we should run a practice drill..." His right hand came up to Yvraine's head, and she leaned against it as he stroked her long, pointed ear. Yvraine uncrossed her legs and a red blush infused with lustful intent spread across her face.
    Guilliman leaned forward and kissed Yvraine, his left hand sliding past her to rest flat against the tabletop. She tasted like sugar and lavender; her lips were his favorite dessert. He pulled away, opening his eyes to see her face looking up at him, her breasts lifted and locked in by her corset. It was a view he’d never tire of.
    Guilliman felt her hand brush against his toga, slipping under its folds and making its way to his Spear of Destiny. His smile widened, and he leaned forward again, this time kissing her neck and jaw, making his way towards her right ear as he stroked and fondled her left ear. Guilliman bit the tip of her ear gently, and felt himself blush as Yvraine moaned, grabbing the nape of his neck with her free hand.
    “Really, Miss Yvraine,” Guilliman whispered into her ear, “we must stop meeting like this. What if someone found us?” He felt her grip on his power sword tighten.
She exhaled lewdly and replied, “If you’re worried someone is watching, Lord Commander, then we should at least give them a show…” She leaned back, supported by his right hand, and undid the quick release knot on her corset. She pushed his hand away from her head and then let herself fall back to his desk, laying flat on her back before him. She unclasped the buckles fastening her ball gown to her waist, letting it fall open.
    As she slid her hands into her loose corset, pulling it open and lifting it over her head Guilliman tried to run his hands along her body-suit covered form, but found a psychic field interposing itself between his touch and her soft curves. Guilliman frowned and asked, “What is the meaning of this?”
    Yvraine giggled, her corset having cleared her head and shoulders, her breasts still at least somewhat pinned in place by her body suit. “You’ll just have to watch,” she replied, “but no touching yourself, Primarch. That would be simply uncouth.”
    She watched as indignation splashed across his face with glee, sliding her hand down to her womanhood, covered by a thin layer of flexible fabric, rubbing her fingers across her concealed labia, moaning and squirming as she did so. She brought her free hand up to the back of her neck, operating the release clasp on her body suit, causing a line to appear down her spine which could be pulled apart to remove the covering.
    Guilliman’s mind thundered with rage and confusion. How DARE she, he thought, I should not be denied…
    His hand drifted up to the pin holding his toga in place and pulled it free. His clothing fell from his godly form, and his concealed bolter thudded down upon the table from where he had pinned it to his abdomen with an under wrapping, his barrel pointing directly between Yvvy’s thighs. She pulled her first arm free of the undersuit and laughed with joy at Guilliman’s clear frustration.
    Roboute tried to move his hand down to his semi-hard flagship, but he felt an invisible warp-tether pulling his arm back to the table. After a moment of resistance, Robu gave in, once again placing both hands on either side of Yvraine’s chest, watching her peel her bodysuit off her pale skin, glistening with sweat. He resisted the urge to take her as she lifted her legs and bottom vertically into the air and slipped the rest of the undersuit off.
    With one leg hanging off the edge of Roboute’s desk, and the other bent at the knee with the heel of her foot pressed to her tight elven posterior, she spread her thighs apart. Guilliman struggled with an overwhelming desire to pull her down onto his erect cock, its tip mere inches from her womanhood. She was laying atop her pile of clothing and stretching her arms in a way that caused her breasts to pile irresistibly atop her chest.
    He fought back these urges even as Yvraine began flicking away at her clit with her right hand and clutching her right breast with her left hand. Her monumental tits were pressed together, nipples firm and dark brown against her ash-white skin. Guilliman fought back against her psychic probes into his mind, trying to inject her self-pleasured sensory input into his body to tease him even more thoroughly.
    Guilliman’s jaw tightened as her entrance was penetrated by an invisible shaft, watching her moan and whimper as the speed of her psychic auto-intrusions increased. Guiliman’s member was fully erect, and his tip was soaked in pre-ejaculatory lubricants. “Enough games,” he growled.
    Yvraine, tugging at her nipple and running her index and middle fingers along either side of her clit, with her head tilted to the side, mumbled back, “Or what, Robu? You’ll take me by the waist and use me as some sort of conduit for your primitive mon’keigh desires? How terrible… I’d never want that…” She sighed loudly as she began to shake from her first orgasm, spraying a fine mist of feminine fluids across Guilliman’s cock and abdomen.
    Guilliman collected himself and backed away from her, seating himself in his chair a few meters away, holding his chin in one hand and resting his other on the hilt of his Father’s sword, which leaned against the simple throne. “No,” Roboute replied, “I will simply outlast your petty and short-lived blockade. I am no stranger to siege tactics, Miss Yvraine, and I know that you need a shipment of what I have sent up your canal.”
    He heard a huff of displeasure come back from her. “You’re being no fun, Robu,” she replied, “you’re supposed to stand over me and drool hungrily for want of my perfect body, not pout on your throne like a bored and petulant prince.”
    Guilliman grinned behind the cover of his hand and said, “Then give me a reason to drool.” He watched as a second semi-visible shaft of warp-energy began penetrating her rear, sliding in as her first masturbatory aid slid out. She continued like this for some time, moaning and whimpering as she churned her insides.
Guilliman, however, found himself quickly bored. He stood and walked over to the far end of his desk. As he did so, Yvraine began to ask what he was doing, but the Father of Ultramar cut her off, saying, “If I wanted you to ask questions, Miss Yvraine, I’d have opened a forum, and as entertaining as the idea of forcing you to humiliate yourself before a council of prim, proper, and easily offended nobles sounds, I have other ideas.” She heard a shuffling of papers for a moment, and then he returned, holding a sheaf of documents.
    Guilliman held the stack out with his hand and said, “Technically, we are meeting under the pretense of sorting out foreign affairs. This is a finalized draft of my proposal for the Craftworld of Ner-Eht’hul’s integration into the Masali star system.” Yvraine looked up at him, confused and distracted by the furious penetration she was giving herself.
    Roboute hardened his expression and continued, “If you wish to mix business with pleasure, Miss Yvraine, I suggest we do so in equal measures.” He dropped the bound pages atop her chest, sending a rippling shockwave through her breasts and knocking the wind out of her with their weight.
    Recovering swiftly, Yvraine replied, “R-Robu-” but was cut off by the Son of the Emperor.
    “Don’t ‘R-Robu’ me,” he said, his voice harsh and powerful, “just read the documents. If you want to be in a foolish gaming mood, I will award you with a fool’s bounty.”
    Yvraine lay there for a moment, her mouth slightly ajar, trying to recollect her thoughts even as she rearranged her internal organs. He can’t be serious, she thought, before immediately correcting herself, he’s always serious…
    Roboute spoke once more, “To clarify, I’m asking you to read these documents out loud, without stuttering, moaning, and whining. No cheating, either, you’d best maintain that rhythm you have going, I find it quite appealing.” She felt the mirth he gathered from this interaction at the surface of his mind, and it infuriated her.
    “Very well,” she replied, taking careful measures to speak slowly and clearly, “I’ll appeal to your bureaucratic fetishism, you dullard.” She removed her hands from her breast and clitoris, gripping the sheaf in both.
    Before she could begin speaking, Guilliman interrupted, “Oh, and I want you to generate a revolving cylinder of force pressed against your clitoris. No point in making a challenge easy, after all.” Yvraine gritted her teeth, but did as she was told. “If you cum, Yvvy, I’m going to punish you. I hope you’re good at edging.”
This mon’keigh had best watch his arrogance before I flay his foreskin with my mind and turn it into a fashionable leather bracelet, Yvraine thought.
    “In regards to the Craftworld of Ner-Eht’hul (hereafter variably referred to as ‘The Craftworld’, ‘Craftworld’, ‘The Aeldari Populace’, or simply ‘The Aeldari’), there is area available within the distant and well-defended agri-system of Quintarn,” she began, her voice even, sultry, and inviting, “though the question of which planetary orbit therein shall be possessed by the Craftworld is under scrutiny due to concerns that the system’s occupants may exhibit irreconcilable levels of xenophobia, as each of The Three Planets (that is, the colloquial euphe-”
    Yvraine paused for a moment and cleared her throat, her body burning with the tension of an orgasm just barely denied as her penetrative psychic members slowed and twisted in their insertions, and her revolving stimulator begin to decrease in revolutions, instead shifting to a forward and backward stroking motion along her clitoris and labia.
    Hearing Guilliman shift slightly, she continued her reading, intent on denying the Primarch the satisfaction of victory, “- that is, the colloquial euphemism used to refer to the trio of habitable planets within the Masali star system, designated, in order of distance from their star, Masali Major, as Masali, Tarentus, and Quintarn) have been under assailment in the past five hundred years by rogue Aeldari bands, numerous recurring Tyranid assaults, Orkish war-tribes, and the Heretek Dark Mechanicum forces led by Votheer Tark under command of M’kar the Reborn-”
    Yvraine paused again, fighting off an orgasm. Ynnead DAMN him, I hate how he stares… she thought, why can’t he just lose his temper already!? She swallowed and recomposed herself, continuing, “M’kar the Reborn, a Daemon Prince venerating Chaos Undivided who had originally been born under the name Maloq Kartho, a treacherous Astartes of the Word Bearers Legion and gene-seed. In each case, the roving bands of xenos and Chaos forces were driven off by my esteemed sons-” Yvraine paused, glaring at the page, her leg shaking as she struggled to quell the force of yet another orgasm battering itself against her resolute mental barriers.
    “Robu,” she asked, “must you be so prideful of your sons’ work? It comes off as blatant favoritis-” Guilliman cleared his throat harshly, cutting her off.
    “I will, in fact, be proud of my sons,” the Genesire of Ultramar said, “they fended off nearly ten millennia of incursions made against my glorious empire, and I will not be dissuaded from recognizing their valiant efforts. Keep reading.” Yvraine rolled her eyes, which were clouded with tears.
    “- my esteemed sons,” she continued, “Chapter Master Marneus Calgar, Chapter Champions Cato Sicarius and Uriel Ventris, Chief Librarian Varro Tigurius, and all their subordinates within the Chapters of the Ultramarines and all their Successors, supported in their efforts by the indispensable-” she gritted her teeth and tears streamed from her eyes as she inhaled deeply, “the indispensable Ultramar Auxilia…”
    Her abdomen seized as she finally crumbled before her orgasm; she whimpered, cried, dropped the papers, and shook bodily as she squirted a simply embarrassing amount, soaking herself and the table she laid upon. She wrapped her left hand back around her breast, and dug the nails of her right hand into her right thigh, drawing blood as she came. “P-please, Guilliman,” she begged, “I’m sorry… I want you…” Guilliman stood, stone-faced, and rounded his table, not approaching her from below, but above.
    He gripped her just below her shoulders and pulled her across the table so that her head was hanging off the edge. He rested his cock across her throat and collarbone, the tip prodding her cleavage. She bathed the base of his spire in a flurry of mindlessly lustful kisses, and her grip on her breasts tightened, causing more of her bountiful chest to spill out between her fingers and over her forearms. “Robu…” she said, her voice whiny and demanding.
    “What,” growled Guilliman in response, “do you want?” His hands were placed on either side of her ribcage, his thumbs wrapped around the top of her round breasts. “Use your words, Miss Yvraine,” he continued, his voice filled with a cold fury.
    Yvraine whined again, a haughty, entitled, desperate sound, and she replied, “Please, Primarch, take my throat…” She was licking him now, the warmth of her tongue almost breaking his resolve. Yet still, he persisted.
    Guilliman shook his head and replied, “No, Yvvy, not until you apologize to me for being so obstinate.” His voice took on the harsh quality of a schoolmaster rebuking a student for teasing her classmates.
    Yvraine whined, wrapping her lips around the side of his shaft and leaving a black smudge of lipstick behind. She mumbled something, but Guilliman’s cock stood between her words and his ears. He took her by the hair and pulled her head away. “Has no one ever told you not to speak with your mouth full?” The Avenging Son growled.
    Tears were again forming in Yvraine’s eyes and her lipstick was smeared as she said, “I-I’m sorry…” Guilliman, however, was not satisfied.
    “Sorry for what, Yvvy?” he demanded, his eyes alight with fury.
    Yvraine whimpered and replied, “I’m sorry for being a brat…”
    Guilliman’s harsh expression melted into a warm smile, and he released her hair, instead stroking the side of her cheek. “Good girl,” he replied, his voice calming her slightly as he lined the tip of his cock with her mouth. Yvraine inhaled sharply, a hungry expression spreading across her mascara-stained face, and she opened her mouth, the tip of her tongue pressed out just past her bottom lip.
    Guilliman chuckled and said, “No, Yvvy, ask nicely. Don’t just expect me to give you what you want.” He felt a psychic jab of frustration bounce off his mental defenses as she poutily replied, “Please, Robu, I am begging you to throat-fuck me.” Her voice was drenched in a completely disheveled tone, with a hint of impatience, frustration, and anger welling up behind it.
    Guilliman grinned and replied, “Well, if you insist, Miss Yvraine, I suppose it would be rude to not accommodate a foreign emissary according to their customs.” As he gripped his cock, he heard Yvraine start to say, “Thank you,” but he cut her off by his swift and forceful insertion.
    He felt her gag against his girth as he hilted himself in her arrogant mouth, admiring the bulge he’d formed in her neck, when she came yet again, shaking and squirming as her own pyschic toys increased in speed. Guilliman took this as a suggestion and began thrusting away at her as she further drenched his desk in her emissions.
…
    Cato Sicarius was staring down the twin-linked barrels of a storm bolter, held off-hand by a Black Templar Terminator. The son of Dorn held in his other hand a power sword. His shoulder mounted grav-gun pulsed silently with an eerie purple glow.
    “State your business, cousin,” the Templar demanded.
    Emperor, protect me… Cato thought, feeling naked without his power armor and iron halo, armed “only” with a power gladius, suppressed bolt pistol, and a cameoline cloak which had not served him as well as he had hoped.
    I suppose I could try the teleportation functions of this damnable xeno-tech that father seduced out of the Aeldari whore… thought the (former) Grand Duke of Talassar, before shaking the idea from his mind. The less I venture into the warp, even for a moment, the better, he decided.
    Cato called out to the Black Templar, “Brother! Perhaps we could make a… gentleman’s agreement here?” Cato’s proposition was poorly received, judging by the Black Templar’s decision to ignite his power sword, sending flaming warp stuff sputtering and sparking out from its ebony blade. I should have listened to Marneus’ lectures on diplomacy… Damn rambler, just like Father. Must be something in the gene-seed… he thought.
    Tensed and ready for the blast of a bolter shell igniting, hoping against the odds that he’d be able to dive under the stream of mass-reactive warheads and roll past his cousin to freedom. He waited for three seconds, then five, then ten. His stare was so intense that he thought he might bore holes into the view ports of the Templar’s helm.
    Then, eleven seconds later, the Terminator spoke, “I have communed with my brothers. You are free to rescue Brother Titus. The Black Templars will be exfiltrating the vessel as soon as we have disabled the reactor of the station. We will destroy or detain any Inquisitorial vessels that leave. An assortment of battle-sisters are stationed aboard. They will provide you evacuation. Do not delay.”
    And like that, the terminator took off, pressing the servos of his suit to their extremes as he sprinted down the hall.
    Taking his Dornian cousin’s actions for advice, Cato sprinted down a different hallway, heading deeper still into the decayed star-station.