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Hemlock clasped his hands together, head hanging, lip curling in distaste at his own failure. He had just finished a meeting over hologram with the Emperor to talk about Project Necromancer, and no matter what he did, things weren’t going as planned.
For some reason nothing was yielding results, and Nala Se had been trying his patience.
Tarkin was worried about all this extra funding, and that worried him the most. He didn’t need this to succeed just for the Emperor. He needed to prove that he could do this. He needed to do this. He was a scientist, and the end result was the utmost important goal.
Even with his time divided between that, running the facility, and another project of his, he was sure he was giving Project Necromancer plenty of attention.
Was he?
He had his operatives to work on, but most of that was easy. Many of the clones had come to him… whole.
Then there was CX-2, a challenge that Hemlock had been thrilled to get his hands on.
With frustration simmering in his blood, his fingers clasped so hard his right hand was whitening at the joints, he almost wanted to call for CX-2. If he didn’t finish Project Necromancer, CX-2 would be his crowning achievement.
Not only had he re-conditioned him, but he had made him his own. He had saved his life, put his own inventions in him, made him who he was.
And Tarkin, and his own failure, could take that from him. Could take everything!
Hemlock let out a yell, and brushed data sticks and datapads off his desk. He hardly heard them clatter to the floor.
Hemlock liked to consider himself someone who had great control over his own mind, what with all he knew, all he had to do. His focus was on Project Necromancer.
Then why wasn’t it yielding results?
He was trying, and trying…
Hemlock stood, and twirled away from his desk, staring at the blank wall behind it.
He hardly saw it. Instead he saw roadblocks in his projects, he saw Tarkin destroying the whole thing.
His heart hammered in his chest, almost painfully. No matter what, he couldn’t let Tarkin have CX-2. He’d kill his favorite operative before Tarkin ever got his hands on him.
The aggravation beating in his blood had some of it start traveling lower, and he felt a pressure, and an ache in his pelvis, cock hardening fast.
For a moment he considered going to CX-2, taking this out on him. But he worried he’d just be frustrated there too. After all, despite multiple tests and treatments, he couldn’t get CX-2’s cock fully functioning again.
The failure he felt from it, from the readings from the Vault—it overwhelmed him!
Hemlock sat back in his chair, nearly shaking with the sheer frustration of it all, the anger he had inside that he worked every day to keep in check.
Sometimes it just… came out like this, with his body getting hot and hard, and the hormones suddenly firing in his brain begging him to find someone who could help him with this.
As he freed himself from his pants, chest heaving, his mind unwittingly went to CX-2. To the surgeries, the experiments, what he looked like naked with Hemlock’s genius and vision all over him. To his cybernetic leg attached with pins in his hip, his two cybernetic fingers, the scars on his chest, his spine, his head, all evidence of where Hemlock had saved him and had made him something of his own design.
He could barely handle thinking of his eyes—the biological one he treated with injections to keep his vision perfect, and the cybernetic one that he had full control over.
He began to squeeze and tug at himself with his gloved left hand, a low, breathy sound leaving him.
His eyes closed, and he pictured CX-2 the many times he’d stood before him. He thought of what his spine looked like—the huge mass of scars at the low curve of his back, the evidence that inside him was something of Hemlock’s making. He remembered CX-2 waking up from those surgeries, in pain, helpless, Hemlock standing over him. He rubbed his thumb over the head of his cock, swirling it in the beads of precum there. He tried to control what he was doing, to rub slow circles, to press at his slit.
Hemlock gasped, muscles in his neck straining as he tried to refrain from throwing his head back. He had to remain in control.
He remembered CX-2’s cries and grunts of pain as spinal fluid was injected into him, filling the new spinal cord he’d made for him. At the time of his first injection his lower back and near his tailbone had been a mass of stitches, and Hemlock wished he had been able to just tug at them, to open him up again, and see what he’d done.
But the power of knowing what was inside him was because of him was all he needed to feel pleasure.
A growl left him, and he started pumping, remembering pressing down on the syringe, watching CX-2’s muscles go rigid from the pain, watching as he pulled at his restraints while he lay face down on the table, naked before him.
Hemlock had put a hand on the back of his head, had wanted to push down hard, but he knew the plate he’d put in was still integrating, and knew that that other mass of stitches had to be left untouched if he wanted CX-2 to live.
Of course, he hadn’t been CX-2 at the time, but CT-9902.
Hemlock burned, his body hot, his mind whirling with images of the surgeries, the blood, the way CT-9902 began to take what he did to him without a fight.
A moan left him, head drifting backwards as he thought of the moment CT-9902 had become CX-2, his to control, fully under his power.
It felt like his heart dropped through his body, and almost like he was falling, blood pressure rising in a pleasant way.
His cock twitched, begging for more, and Hemlock squeezed harder, pumped harder, the sensation of the glove against his skin divine.
He remembered seeing CT-9902’s brain, and he almost came just from the memory. Of course, his brain hadn’t been anywhere close to normal, and he’d had to work to save him, removing part of his skull to allow it to swell in a way that didn’t kill him.
Hemlock still had that piece of his skull. It lay in a temperature-controlled drawer in his office, frozen in a sterile container. It had been too cracked along the surface to allow CT-9902 to have it back, so they’d created a plate for him.
Perhaps to others the swelling in CT-9902’s face after his surgery to put the plate in wasn’t attractive, but Hemlock found the evidence of his cerebrospinal flooding his right temple and cheek a marvel. The fluid had eventually found its right place, the swelling going down, but Hemlock remembered gently caressing his face, just barely touching him, remembered the gentle moan he’d let out in his drugged sleep.
Hemlock wondered how CX-2 would react to sex. Would his body listen for once, cock getting hard?
They’d tested it before using electricity, and it had only worked half the time. He had stopped there, deciding it was the best he could do. But was it? Perhaps CX-2 didn’t need electricity to get his blood flowing. Perhaps Hemlock’s touch would do it.
He imagined it as fire filled his aching cock, imagined widening him with his fingers before delving inside, feeling his impossibly tight heat. It would feel almost like getting burned, but in the most pleasant way.
Would CX-2 accept it, with Hemlock as his master?
Would he need to be restrained until Hemlock was done with him, and done testing his body’s reactions?
He imagined reaching forward and wrapping a hand around him, pumping him to fullness, imagined the neurons firing in the nerves he’d painstakingly designed for him. Would they fire like they never had before? Would they listen to his bidding, and his alone?
What would CX-2 think? Would he find it normal? A blessing? A necessary evil?
Oh, but he’d enjoy it.
Hemlock imagined taking him hard from behind, one hand to the back of his neck to bend him over a lab table, the other caressing his cock, his balls, feeling them work for him.
He imagined feeling his legs, his gloved hand against his cybernetic one, his bare hand against his flesh.
Hemlock imagined turning CX-2’s left eye off for this, leaving him more vulnerable.
A groan left him as he imagined the feel of CX-2’s branded tongue against his own—the brand he’d given him.
By now he was sweating, hair falling out of place, and he wondered if he should race to him right now, prove yet again that he was in control of everything.
Hemlock remembered seeing his heart, seeing the live feeds of it as he inserted the pacer droid inside, making all of him his work. He saw it pump for him, filled with blood he had given him after his major blood loss, saw the grimace on CT-9902’s face as Hemlock removed his tools from the incision.
The desire to rip him apart and put him back together once again was so strong that the ache in him traveled up to his gut, which seemed to be flipping over on itself. He toes were pressed hard against the floor, heels risen, and his head had draped back over his chair, exposing his sweaty throat. His other hand grasped desperately at the chair, clawing it.
Fire flared and consumed him, brain now playing images of himself covered in blood, even coating his throbbing cock. Oh, the wetness of his precum—that could be blood.
His balls pushed upwards, straining, almost ready.
With a few final hard and fast tugs, he felt a sensation shoot up from his toes. The feeling of it condensing in his balls was so strong, so filled with pressure, that he grunted. And then he was cumming, ropy spurts of white pulsing out of his throbbing cock, gloved hand working hard around the head to coax out all of it. He ground his teeth, holding in a cry—it came out as a throaty growl.
His mind was full of white light, and, his cock, spent, he reclined, panting, trying to catch his breath.
What he saw then could only be explained as a culmination of all of CX-2’s surgeries as one, and Hemlock touching him throughout all of it, always having a hand on him.
When the images in his mind slowed, his brain coming back to reality, he saw that a light was blinking on his desk: a request for a call from one of his doctors.
Hemlock hastily cleaned himself up as best he could, putting himself back into his trousers, and slicked his hair back. He let out a relieved exhale, feeling more at ease, more in control. Then he pressed the button.
“Yes?”
“Sir, we have a problem with CX-2,” a male voice said.
When nothing else was forthcoming, Hemlock growled, “Describe the problem.”
“He seems to be incapacitated with pain. I believe we need to test some new pain med injections.”
A thrill shot up his spine at the thought of injections, one that was no longer sexual in nature at the moment.
“I’ll be right there.”
Hemlock did a better job of cleaning himself up and righting his clothes in the refresher before he descended into the bowels of the mountain to deal with CX-2.