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When Chrysalid’s pilot found me, I was busy huffing exhaust fumes from her machine's turbine.
It would’ve been embarrassing, had I the capacity for such shame. It was a toss-up if this was better or worse than the time I’d gotten off in the rig’s maintenance port, and it was assuredly less shameful than sniffing the frame’s leather during my post-operational check, so I settled somewhere in the middle. I balked, blushed, and bowed before her; she took a few steps toward my prostrate form, and sighed warmly.
“You little pervert.” She hummed, and I couldn’t help but smile; my lips curling involuntarily as she ran fingers through the messy nest of curls atop my head. She was kinder than the others, because we had some form of understanding; the best mechanics were perverts, and you put up with a good tool for as long as it could serve you. Since I’d taken special attention to Chrysalid as its senior mechanic, she’d only improved her field performance; in a way, putting up with my less-than-vanilla sensibilities had provided a net benefit for her.
Seemingly, she was willing to feed it so long as this arrangement continued.
Coiling her fingers in my hair, she pulled me away from her machine; her threat of leashing me remained ever-present, but that signified a form of commitment that neither of us were quite willing to step closer to. Instead, I’d grown my hair out specifically so that she could yank me around by it, a circumstantial provision that allowed us both to feel sated. She set me down before her on the catwalk, and I looked up upon her as if in reverence; postured, strong, well-fed and beautiful, a real woman in comparison to the waifish, rodent-thing that I was. It was a miracle that I was allowed to breathe the same air as something like her.
Something I would never take for granted.
“You did very well, you know.” Chrysalid’s pilot purred, fingers working their way out of my hair as they tilted my chin up to meet her. She did not caress, nor try to force her boot between my legs as some of the less-aware pilots who’d made my acquaintance before had done; such things had no impact on me. Instead, she simply met my eyes, and forced me to focus. “That new barrel you installed let me zero a rebel ace from a half-mile away. Made me look every damn part the legend that I need to be.”
I didn’t bother to answer, but I could feel heat growing between my legs, my thighs sweating. Beyond a kill being attributed to me, I could almost picture the moment; a hundred-and-five millimeter slug crashing into a cabin, reducing whoever sat behind the machine’s viewfinder into a thin, wall-coating paste. The thought in and of itself was almost enough to send me into a frenzy, but I held myself together; temperance, after all, was a virtue. “I’m glad t-to have been of assistance to the war effort-“
She shut me up, at that; the hand holding my chin moved upward, and her thumb and index finger forced their way into my mouth, clamping my tongue. I drooled listlessly around her hand, suddenly far more activated than I’d been previously; tools like myself weren’t meant to contribute meaningfully to the cause. She continued without correction, assured that I’d gotten the message.
“I thought long and hard about how I wanted to reward you for that. Figured maybe I’d run Chrysalid around until she was all spent and overheated, then lock you in the storage hatch. I thought about taking you out on a training op and trussing you amidst the extra bullets behind my seat in the cabin. Even considered having you load her magazines au naturale.” I could barely contain myself at the bevy of fantasies laid out before me, each a rendition of a potential happening I’d run through in my head, again and again, cranked to the extreme. My inner thighs were slick with sweat and precum. ”but I thought of something better for you; a souvenir for you to…get creative with.”
She took a step back, and from behind herself, Chrysalid’s pilot produced it; a spent shell from the weapon’s main gun. It was in pristine condition, fired out of the weapon and spat out of the autoloader and, presumably, immediately collected. My eyes watered at the sight; I’d not seen something so precious in the whole of my life to that point. She set it down in front of me, and my eyes scanned over every inch of it without daring to place my hands upon it without permission. It was still charred from its launch; bits of gunpowder sat around the shell’s midsection from which the projectile had separated, and it had deformed only slightly in the launch itself. The gentle scent of charred brass hit my nose, and I felt myself drool - albeit involuntarily - as I fathomed the weapon leaving the chamber once again.
It took a greater deal of restraint than I knew myself to possess not to dig my hands into my jumpsuit then and there; somehow, I held it together. I was pitiful, and a fool, and a waste - but I was not entirely undisciplined.
“Experiences are experiences, after all, but this? A gift like this, I’m sure you could get plenty of use out of.” She smiled, and she tangled her fingers in my hair once again, ruffling it as she did so. “Chrysalid seems to be in good shape despite your distractions, but if I notice anything awry, I’ll come and find you.” She winked, and turned away, leaving me to my devices. I eyeballed the casing where it sat for a moment longer, running through a hundred thousand fantasies in my head before settling on the perfect one.
With a goal in mind, I took the casing in my arms, clutching it to my chest like treasure, and scrambled my way down the hall.
-
Facility Alpha was a sprawling, endless nightmare of a military complex; home to three mechanized companies and the one-hundred and fifty combat frames under their wing, it contained countless hangars, endless barracks, and more than a few abandoned storage closets.
Much like the one I found myself in now.
Gathering up the necessary items to play out this specific fetish meant that I needed to have the perfect outfit, the ideal equipment, and the grandest stage possible. The former meant that I’d dug my nice coveralls out of storage; the ones I’d wear when top brass came around for inspections, when I was pretending to be an actual person rather than some gathered amalgam of uncouth desires surrounding the machines I worked on. I’d slipped into them as I secured a few feet of proper ratchet strapping from general storage, and snugly secured it alongside Chrysalid’s spent shell in my ruck as I scanned a few potential venues.
Most would say that one storage closet was the same as any other, but there was an art to finding the best space for a given desire. Certain closets, for example, had cheaper shelving than others; something that would fall down upon you if you banged into it too many times. Some had piping running through them that would be prone to leakage, while others were placed adjacent to central air units and ran significantly colder.
None of these would meet my needs; as such, it took longer than I’d hoped for me to find the space that met my exact needs. It was hot; stiflingly so, causing sweat to pool in the joints of my jumpsuit as I prepared it accordingly. The shelves therein were bolted to the walls, so much so that it would take greater force than I, myself, could produce to move them. Best of all, the floor was bone dry; there wasn’t a chance of an emergent leak springing and ruining the whole fantasy I’d laid out in my head.
It was perfect.
Gingerly, I closed the door behind myself and set the spent shell down on the floor adjacent to the shelving, leaving just enough space between it and the wall that I could squeeze between it. I knelt, and took the ratchet straps I’d gathered, looping them around the center bar of the shelving and leaving just enough space to fit my head and neck through. My hands trembled as I wrapped my fingers around the ratchet mechanism, and began to work.
With each pull, the strap abrased my neck; with each crank, it grew tighter. The noise was nearly deafening in the confined space, although I wasn’t sure if that was helped or hindered by the echoing of my heartbeat as it filled my ears. Before long, the strap was tight enough to hold my head and neck flush to the shelving’s central pole, just barely constricting my airflow.
I breathed, shallow and desperate, and set my eyes on the spent shell before me. It was easy to form a mental image of that which had launched it previously; Chrysalid’s shoulder-mounted cannon, a custom job by its pilot. It was a beautiful little piece of machinery, the piece de resistance of the whole rig. In the right hands, it could pick off lesser machines a mile out; a single shot to the core, and they’d be helpless, their pilots mashed to bits against the battlefield. It had an autoloading mechanism, leaving only a two-and-a-quarter second window between shots, and a barrel that was beautifully machined, with incredible rifling.
It’d come from the wreck of some rebel’s rig, some poor fucker who’d probably ended up a denizen of the Kennels. I didn’t feel bad repossessing it; it was better for a real pilot to make use of it, after all.
The weapon complimented the rest of Chrysalid’s form well; a stocky beast of a machine, dressed separately with repeating cannons that were beautiful in their own right and limbs that could lock up to respond to the demands of the main gun’s recoil. A singular thruster upon its back helped it move despite its bulk, intermingling some chemical concoction that the Imperium kept close to its chest with a scent that reminded me of the diesel trucks of my hometown. I couldn’t get enough of it; partially because of the nostalgia, and partially because it activated every gland about my face, turning me into a wet mess within seconds of exposure.
Shaking and trembling, my hands worked against the zipper of my coveralls, pulling it down and exposing my flesh to the warm air. I’d soaked the crotch of them already, leaving my boxers a wet mess. Despite that, I stuffed a hand down them, wrapping it around my length as I fondled my own chest with the other. I closed my eyes as I started to stroke myself.
I imagined the moment of impact, the way Chrysalid shook as its cannon fired, the way the slug soared through the air and crushed its target. The weapon’s motion played in my head, again and again; the trigger was pulled, the slug spat forth, the autoloader working. The scent of psuedo-diesel filled my nose and the sound of the battle filled my ears. Drool trickled from my jaw onto my exposed chest, and my member grew firm as I played it in my head, over and over again.
It was something I’d never achieve. Something I’d never get to do.
I was lucky I even got to think about it at all.
The rising tide reached its peak as I gasped, struggling against the strap holding me in place; the pain of it cutting into me only escalated my feelings in the moment. An orgasm building like a rising tide within me shot forth, and I came; staining the floor before me, pathetically, merely a minute and a half after I started.
I knelt there for some time, hands and body shaking, sweat dripping from my forehead. Outside the door, I could hear movement, but I didn’t try to clean myself up; whatever shame I could possibly derive from the moment was blotted out by raw ecstasy.
As I heard a hand turn the knob, I faced the entryway; it opened, and two silhouettes stood, blotting out the hallway light.
”Told you she’d be here.” Chrysalid’s pilot mused, tilting her head to the side. “Figured you’d want to see it in action, though.”
“Good fuckin’ Lord.” The other figure - presumably another pilot - sighed. “Why’re all the best mechanics-“
”S’just the way it goes.” Chrysalid’s pilot took a few steps forward, once again tangling her hand in my hair. “Ain’ that right, Tool?”
“R-rrigghhtt…” I drooled through the pleasure-fog that had settled over me. “Sss’jus’ the way it is.”
The other pilot took in the whole of the scene for a moment longer, before stepping toward me. They looked at me directly, and huffed a disapproving breath through their nostrils, like I gave half a shit about it. Our eyes met, and a curious smile crossed their lips.
“You took care of Chrysalid?” They asked.
”’course.” I hummed, in response. “Got that big gun on ‘er shootin’ straight as can be.”
“Got two autocannons on my rig.” They crouched to meet me. “If y’can get ‘em firin’ quicker, I’ll let y’lick the exhaust off the barrels after m’next deployment.”
At the thought of such a possibility, another wave of pleasure racked my body, and I could do nothing to stop myself from cumming again.