#bombsploitation

[sludgetoxicmilkshake]

Hounds who are genuinely terrifying to be around We strapped a muzzle to what amounts to an ace combat protagonist: A mute psychopath in a trance when not in their cockpit and lacking any adverse affects from G force or momentum. That hound is made of nanites attached to her brainstem. She is a person by choice - and if her conditioning ever fully settles in she could at any point become a horrific swarm of animalistic death The hound that used to be part of the living ordinance program before she was domesticated. She's a hundred lbs of pure explosive death. The hound with a face that is now little more than an origami. She can unfold it into layers and layers of tongues and teeth. She rarely eats, but when she does, the technicians have to bring a live pig or goat for her. And all of them have been assigned to you as part of the 'demilitarisation' committee in the post war republic. Good luck!

[sludgetoxicmilkshake]

These stories won't do shi-

AO3: "Hi! You wanna read sci fi fanfics?" Me: "Hmm. Does my new source of smut it have deep political and social themes?" AO3: "Noooooooo :3" Me: "..." Me: "..." Me: "I like collars now"

[sludgetoxicmilkshake]

[sludgetoxicmilkshake]

a Hound meeting with a Corporate hound, a Khornite berserker and a Bombshell; discussing why they try and succeed. Hound: “I love my toy. I get to keep it if I keep winning!” Khornite: “The lessening of the butchers nails is the pleasure I derive from slaughter” Bombshell: “I only get to explode if I’ve gotten close enough to my enemies and that means I need to be successful!” Corporate hound: “Wtf is wrong with you all? They pay me in stims and cleared debts for each kill.”

[sludgetoxicmilkshake]

Hell without Handler

A disowned Hound meets a deactivated Bombgirl. Can Private Kiess grapple with the loss of her guiding star or will she take out her pain on the only living soul she has left…? (TFxF. Death. Sex all that classic mechsplo jazz. Reference to bombsploitation too) HELL WITHOUT HANDLER

Claws dug into my skin. I felt my breath hitch, I did everything I could not to cry out or moan. A single guttural shriek lanced into my ears.

“They… abandoned… h… hound…” It’s words were interspersed with long bouts of whining and snarling. It seemed distraught and angry. Salivating with white foam leaking from its jaws as it pinned me to the soft dirt.

“Sh- she abandoned meeeeeee…” 

If I could, I would have pulled the firing pin a quarter inch above my left kidney and excused myself from the situation. But i couldn’t. I was deactivated.

“It huuuuurts” It moaned.

“I need you… c- can you hear me?”

“Handler?”

“HANDLER”

I winced. It gripped me tighter and then slugged one balled fist into my side.

“HANDLER!” It shrieked again. I saw it slump off of me to pull out another white tube from its flight suit. A handful of pills tumbled to the ground; it lunged at them and greedily devoured a handful.

The Hound was shaking now. For the first time since it found me I could take a serious look at my half captor and half fellow castaway. 

She was blonde with pale skin and greenish veins running down her muscle clad arms. Everything beneath her torso was covered in a red and yellow mech pilot suit. She had once been beautiful, until the blades and drugs surgically amputated her soul. I felt a sense of kinship with her - enough to give her human pronouns at least. 

I was a war machine too. A fellow survivor of the war for a planet which neither the Hegemony or the Empire needed or cared for. I had been hollowed out alongside tens of my new brothers and sisters; packed full of high explosives and handed anti-mech weapons. 

My skin was a pale grey, my body bloated around the thighs and chest with what I assumed with probably plastic explosive. Whoever designed me was exactly the same kind of demon as whoever broke the woman before me. 

The hound was slumped on the ground, shaking from too many stims. I pulled her into the best approximation of a recovery position and then myself collapsed from pain and exhaustion. I… didn’t want her to die. She was probably the last human being for hundreds of miles and I knew that without an order from her handler she was unlikely to kill me. And if she did then that wouldn’t be so bad.

—————

Private Lana Kiess screamed at her pack mates as the suits jumped over the tree line and fired a fresh salvo of incendiary munitions across the assembled imperial mechs. They were taking too long. Handler wanted them to fall back to the shuttle that was waiting for them just beyond the pines. Prey was fleeing off world, it had decided to send a fresh wave of suits out to hold the imperials and buy time. Kiess knew that the assembled ships in orbit wouldn’t wait for a handful of nearly crippled mechs. They wouldn’t wait for her. Besides Handler!

Handler would right?

She felt her mech’s hands grip around a suit which had attempted to sneak up the back of her leg servos. She tossed it into a tree and was almost blinded by the resulting explosion.

“MUTTS! GET ON THE SHIP. WE ARE LEAVING!” It was Handler! She didn’t sound happy…

One of her packmates detonated as a single railgun round found its way into their reactor. The other mechs weren’t fairing well.

Kiess kept up a light sprint towards the evacuation point. Her joint just below her mech’s pelvis was busted and it was slowing her down. As she half ran she could hear the screams of both friend and foe alike. The damned left to die fighting to kill those who were about to share their fate.

Kiess felt a missile strike her right leg and her mech toppled. The red pines before her took her weight as the war machine slammed down into the dirt. 

“FUCK!” Kiess screamed and banged her fists against her cockpit

< REACTOR DAMAGE >

Her mech - or what was left of it - was getting sluggish. She could still point her guns towards the vague shapes of what looked like suits on the broken sensor layout.

One suit landed on her back. Big mistake.

With a hiss the rear hatch flew off and sent the unlucky soldier flying into a tree. Even without her mech Kiess could still kill one more enemy for her Handler.

She took a shaky step out into the open air and grunted as she felt further resistance from her clothes. They were stuck on a chunk of metal that was gorging the mech’s torso. The top of Lana’s uniform tore in her haste to get to her opponent.

“Alright. That’s all of them. I’m counting 2 biosignitures. My squad is wiped, all hounds dead or dying. Get me off this fucking rock” Her earpiece crackled out for the last time before the low buzz of pink noise ended completely.

W- what? LEAVE? NOW? H- handler- she… Kiess couldn’t think. She couldn’t talk. All she could do was pop a few more combat stims and approach the broken form of the suit pilot who she would kill. 

Kiess tore at the armoured suit, ripping back layers of reinforced alloys and getting to the black undersuit which housed her enemy. 

Kiess screamed and slammed her fists against a soft voluptuous chest. It was like a ballon - one which her backseat mind noted was filled with explosives or worse. She HATED this woman. HATED that she was the reason that Kiess would never go home. Kiess would never see Handler.

Kiess raised her fist and brought it down on her target again. She waited for confirmation for the kill. 

Handler would order her to do it. This was a test. It was all a test. She wasn’t expendable.

Kiess tore away more of the suit and started clawing and kicking. The hate and rage was dulling now that her helmet wasn’t updating her with the fresh din of battle and her Handler wasn’t encouraging her. The excess of stims was clouding her mind and making it hard to stay focused on bloody murder. Kiess should be in de stress mode, receiving her reward for a job well done or a punishment for her failure; not high as a kite and abandoned in the woods.

She gribbed her enemy’s pale neck and lifted her before dropping her onto the nearby ground. Kiess felt her cock grow as she positioned herself over the groaning enemy. Kiess was so strong and lightheaded and wanted to burry her cock somewhere so that she wouldn’t see it… now Handler would never remove the offending organ from her… she would never keep her promise to Kiess.

Lana kept up the stream of punches and abuse as she felt her errection grow. Her hands left bruises and welts where she could; getting distracted by rubbing herself through her combat suit.

She pulled it down and found the zipper for the suit pilot’s uniform. Kiess felt relief at skin touching her member. She was consumed with a near primal glee at the sin she was committing. Handler never let her fuck unless she said so. Handler wasn’t here. Infact if Handler did come back to punish her then Kiess would be overjoyed.

The pilot made a soft moan as Lana’s member rutted into her hole and back out a few times. She-

Wait…

That didn’t happen that day.

She wasn’t in the forest.

She was buried in her prey but… 

—————

I was moaning as the Hound seemed to leave her trance and slumped over me. Her cock had been rough but the sudden shift sent it deeper in a sharp unpleasant manner. If I could have doubled over, I would have.

I was coated in the marks of the Hound’s unique form of love making. Bites, claw marks, bruises. She was hugging and thrusting into me. I tried to lie back and think of England.

“Y- your name… p- prey”

I considered for a moment. She squeezed me harder.

“Zuhama”

“Zuuuuuuu… my name is… Kiess… Lana- hngh” we both groaned as she came, the running liquid dribbling as she paused for a moment “Lana Kiess”

I shuddered and wrapped my shaking arms around her. I sobbed for a few moments before letting out a slow building laugh.

“Welcome to hell Lana Kiess”

[sludgetoxicmilkshake]

Combat doll stuff never got me going as much as the idea of mechsploitation/corporate hound/handlerhound/bombsploitation did... Until I played "freak circus". It was a fucking acid trip and I can't recommend it enough. It's intense and I played 1 route where I essentially went along with the story (I survived!) and one where I decided to be a sceptical bean and got merked 1/5 of the way in. So yeah... I get the idea of doll stuff now... Masks can be as cool as muzzles

[sludgetoxicmilkshake]

Warhounds around the world

[This is just a lore thing for a military hound/combat doll/bombsploitation setting I've been thinking up in a feverish state. I hope you find this interesting :3]

Hound: English, A dog breed used for hunting, especially those able to track via scent

Jaeger: German, A Hunter, Huntsman, Huntswoman, Hunter. Someone employed within the agricultural sector, specifically in the hunting of animals

Bombshell: American,  An alarming piece of news or a particularly attractive woman. Slang.

Mishka: Russian, A friendly/diminutive name given to a bear, normally a cub or domesticated one. Táoyǒng: Chinese, A terracotta statue within the wider Terracotta Army. 'Pottery figure'

Onryo: Japanese,  A vengeful spirit or ghost. 

Wendigo: Algonquian,  A monster, giant or spirit that arrises from the cannibalistic consumption of human flesh. 

Warhound: Official UN classification under the 1958 Ottawa Peace Treaty.  A soldier within a professional army who has undergone medically and psychologically significant alterations to become a danger to normal society. A combatant who is incapable of accepting surrender or making a moral judgement in combat without a commanding officer. -----------------------------------------------------------------------------

It is perhaps the greatest tragedy in human history that the fungus Oblivio Psilocybe was discovered three years before the advent of the Second World War. Its affects on humanity and the course of that conflict cannot be understated, extending hostilities and leading to perhaps an additional three to four hundred counts of warcrimes. The Hague has post war worked to ensure the fungus became one of the most highly controlled substances on the planet, besides the U7 nations no military or private group has access to it.

And it is vital that this remains the case.

Sometime around the 20th of June 1919, a Canadian scientist working alongside a group of Algonquian guides discovered in the forests of Quebec the first sample of Oblivio. He originally dubbed it the 'Flat crested yellow devil" after the prominent slanted ridge on its cap. In total roughly twenty new species were discovered by this expedition and the information taken to the nearby University of Ottawa to be analysed. With this study being largely focused on the colouration of northern fungi the chances of discovering the true properties of the ‘Flat devil’ were immensely slim. Three months later a memo from the Ontario Home Guard reached the Canadian parliament. Read unabridged: “It has come to our attention that a sudden surge in female mass hysteria has gripped some of the poorer neighbourhoods of nearby Ottawa. Local police have been unable to apprehend the ill and have reported severe injuries following an altercation with one of the deranged. I urge that we cooperate with the University to study these individuals and learn the source of this madness.” Across the summer of 1919 Canada would be gripped by a localised infection of the far more potent Alpha strain of Oblivio Psilocybe. Without proper treatment of the fungus or psychological preparation the majority of the victims of the ‘Ottawa Histeria’ died as a result of muscle fatigue, exhaustion and haemorrhage. One notable individual did survive the experience before the burn out of the infection: Maria Archibald. Kept in a confined cell for the next six years, she became the source of the far more widespread Beta Oblivio Psilocybe. This would be the strain that finally produced the near mythical Oblivicybin, a drug with the power to upend the world order. Frequent injections caused decreased lifespans, rapid near superhuman muscle growth, a decreased requirement for sleep and the decline of mental facilities - especially those related to processing and resisting social commands.

The Canadian and British governments attempted to manufacture far safer substitutes for Oblivicybin that could replicate its monstrous affects for men, however a negative reaction within every single volunteer ensured that the project was shelved. Via a fluke of the drug’s chemistry it required FSH, LH, Progesterone and Oestrogen in far larger percentages than which could be found in biological males. 

By the outbreak of the war there were two nations with access to Oblivicybin. Following the fall of France to the Internationale, spy efforts in London from the German Spartacus League ensured that the German factions of the Internationale had access to it. The fanatical call for liberation combined with the open volunteer conscription policy of the Volksarmie led to the development of the first ‘Jaeger’ squads, groups of heavily armoured women fielding machine guns and anti tank rifles to great effect in the Milan offensive. The members of these squads had an unfortunate tendency to rapidly degrade mentally or turn on their allies after enough combat experience - requiring specific ‘Handlers’ or ‘Guardians’ to keep them from turning against the revolution.

Desperate to match this new kind of warfare and lacking in any moral inhibitions the Russian Empire would begin its own experimentation on Oblivicybin following the capture of Lt Harriet Engels. Under the guise of the infamous Grigori Rasputin the second force of ‘Warhounds’ would be unveiled during an assault on Warsaw. The ‘Bear’ or ‘Mishka’ battalions were far worse equipped than their Jaeger counterparts, however they did mark the beginning of serious global attention after the American press published a series of articles unveiling what they called the “War women” of the European fronts. 

When the Heavenly Kingdom of the Divine Trinity joined the war against the Russian Empire in 1926 it was only natural that they, alongside the Japanese Shogunate, got their hands on their own samples of Beta Oblivio. Both sides created their own specialists with their own purposes in the rapidly industrialising Asian front. The Japanese would create the ‘Onryo’, a group tasked with forming cells within Chinese territory to assassinate key leaders of the Eastern See. The allied peoples of the Kingdom in response would create the Táoyōng, bodyguards and spy hunters with the goal of destroying Onryo. A never ending dehumanising arms race.

When the American government failed to contain the spread of the Alpha strain in their own borders they realised that they had a perfect opportunity to capitalise on their epidemic. From 1943 to 1945 the Americans developed the Portland project, a training program which allowed for the rare (and short lived) survivors of Alpha strain Oblivio to give their lives for liberty. The war was not looking good on the Eastern front or in Africa; and with only a few months left to live, hundreds signed up. Packed full of explosives and sent to help clear trenches and bunkers they would be nicknamed by the American press “Bombshells”, something which Harry Truman labeled a “Barbaric insult to those who have given their lives for democracy and our way of life”. 

The other thus far unmentioned nations utilising Oblivicybin soldiers (Canada and Britain) were the first to discover and last to use the divisive drug. Across the 5 years of war during the opening French revolution, the subsequent two year armistice and then 20 years of on and off fighting the Commonwealth had condemned the development of what it deemed ‘War hounds’. Until of course, the fall of Gibraltar in 1947 resulted in an attempt to replicate the Internationale’s Jaegers. 

The horrors that emerged from Canada’s ‘Military institute of Ottawa’ would remain classified by the Anti-marxist allies until the 1990s. They had created ‘Wendigos’, named after a part of Algonquian folklore. Violently aggressive and cannibalistic soldiers who were counted in 29 massacres across Italy, France and Germany. The ‘Hounds’ that emerged from the Highgate Medical Institute were little better. 

36 years of war had scared the world and pushed it into the brink of utter collapse. Wonder-weapons became more prized than human lives and the myriad kinds of ‘super soldier’ were undeniably responsible for dragging out the conflict. From sabotaging cease fires to assassinating diplomats they are perhaps the most important factor in the progression Second World War or ‘The Final War’. 

There were 132,896 registered ‘warhounds’ across the world in 1960. In just 40 years this number has rapidly expanded to roughly 500,000. The failure to mandate the incineration of all strains of Oblivio Psilocybe is perhaps the greatest failure of the Pact of United Nations. A mistake with potentially apocalyptic results.

I fear that the ‘Final War’ is not named such due to any chance of humanity avoiding any further global catastrophe… But rather that any conflict will now be nothing but a massacre. [Inspired by Konflict, Warhound, Love the Bomb and a range of alternate history versions of nations such as a Shogunate Japan or China under the rule of the 'Brother of christ'.]

[sludgetoxicmilkshake]

Begging for the end

“With several million individual pieces in stockpile ranging from anti-personnel munitions to mighty thermonuclear warheads the need for an expansive maintenance program is clear. I pity the soul who will be funding the upkeep of our stockpile…” - quote attributed to the Munitions General of the War department. “The development of biological safe explosives was the first step towards the Living Ordinance Division. The rapidly emerging technologies of immunosuppressant injectors, radiation treatments and simple nano machines was the second. Every technology discovered and decision made in the last ten years has been building to this moment. A domino chain of glorious purpose. A soul gone MAD.” - Acting Director of the Living Ordinance Division  ———————————- Being unfrozen from a centuries long stint in cryogenic stasis HURT. The feeling of your muscles cramping and squeezing. Your nerves burning. Brain racing as you can feel the gunk they put in your veins is exchanged out for a far more nasty looking greenish fluid. It's probably drugs, or a IV mix. Either way it burns like acid in your veins before you wake up fully. That was the experience Theia went through as she was unboxed like leftover meat. A reward thrown to a wolf she would come to love. A knife that would cut away all her concerns and let her realise her love of the bomb.  Handler Machete. ———————————- “Is this 06?” A pair of green goggles stared down at Theia. They belonged to a tall, muscular woman dressed in a black blast suit and a tank top stained with powder burns. Along her shoulders and neck ran lines where burns and shrapnel had dug into her almost chiseled physique. Theia was glad that she couldn’t see her eyes behind the amber, the deriding slight smirk was enough to convey exactly what the (presumably military) woman was thinking: fresh meat. “Yes Mam. Recovered from a bunker we found after the last battle. We recovered 329 subjects. You have been assigned twenty eight.” The smirk grew into a smile. A gloved hand reached out to stroke Theia’s cheek. A scalpel was passed over her to an awaiting hand.

“She is going to be beautiful.” —- Three days later —-

The first and most vital step to building a perfect weapon of any kind was to consider: what purpose does it serve? Some kinds of bombs are little more than thralls to be thrown at the enemy en mass. Others are holy angels of the battlefield, living receptacles of divine fire who keep the complex machinery of destruction steady in their hearts until the fateful day that a city needs to be erased. As long as the bomb works there is little concern over what ‘modifications’ could be made to satisfy Machette’s interests. The heart can be excised, lungs replaced with filters. The chest cavity hollowed out and filled with a Type 39 Davey 9.5 kiloton core. Gratifying proportions melded in line with a character from a porno held up by steel supported bones. All this and more was what the doctors (with her help) had done to 'Theia'. 

Machete let her gloves roam across the new weapon as she considered what a glorious specimen her latest handiwork was. Theia had been overweight before (a natural result of shoddy cryogenics), but now she was voluptuously unbalanced. Her breasts were plump and like putty under her handler’s gloves, packed to bursting with chlorine poison and gunpowder. Hips engorged with nitroglycerin. The bomb handler could feel a wetness form in her pants, a psychotic love of detonants warped and manifested in the body before her. TNT, white phosphorus, nitroglycerine, agent orange, RDX, plastic explosive, gunpowder… Theia was no longer a short, chubby wreck buried in some forgotten shed. She was a model. Not just a model in terms of her gorgeous proportions, but also a model in how to meld flesh with steel. How to elevate a pathetic creature towards divinity. How to build a bomb.

Naturally Theia (like most bombshells) was minutes away from dying at any given moment. Tissues would rapidly decay if the swarms of nano machines and suppressant drugs swimming in her veins weren't regularly administered. The radiation would finally spill out and kill her if not for her remade ribcage. It always gave Machete a thrill to know that she held ultimate control over others, to not just ‘ride the bomb’ down to its target but to be with it on every step of its journey. For millennia people wondered if dropping a bomb or firing a gun truly made you responsible for everything that occurred when it landed in the same way that a knife or blade does. Machete wanted to make sure her hands were drenched in the caustic blood that her opponents would become. To become an apostle of MAD war and revel in her responsibility. To make snow angels in the ash of a dying world. 

They had left nothing human within Theia - besides 1.3kg of grey matter which she would take pleasure in corrupting. After all, while any Handler had many bombs to prepare for the war effort, this munition wouldn’t be needed for months. The bomb handler could take her time and enjoy the process. 

—- Post operation —-

“What are you?” 

Theia’s eyes opened at the question and the world looked wrong. A sickly greenish yellow hue had taken over her vision. 

“Wh.. what?” “What are you?”

“I am Thei-“ 

There was a chiding slap on her ass and the jolt of something clicking within her abdomen. A switch. A chain of numbers spooled over her eyes. A countdown with 5 digits.

10000

“What are you?” 

The voice was coming from behind her, occasionally soothing her ear; blowing hot smoke as it probed for an answer that Theia simply didn’t have. 

“I… im The-“

This time Theia felt a fat object push through her lower lips. She buckled a little as rampaged in and started to vibrate. The counter began to tick.

“Im… a prisone- f- fuck”.

The bulbous device sped up, accelerating its numeration as pleasure and pain mixed in Theia’s brain.

9904

9903

9901

9897

9889

She was restrained, there was someone behind her. 

There was a dildo rammed between her legs and a counter burnt into her eyes. 

She was a prisoner? A hostage? Was she in hell? What was happening?

“What are you?” 9601

9600

The countdown was advancing rapidly. Theia didn’t know what to do. Was she going to die? Was there a bomb? Was it inside the toy? Why did her body feel weird? A pair of hands groped at her chest and squeezed her tits, playing with two rings attached to… firing pins. What happened to her body?

“Come on baby, what are you?”

The smell of smoke didn’t repel Theia as it had before her freezing. She didn’t cough… she couldn’t cough. She didn’t have lungs. 

There was panic rising inside her and the numbers shifted at an even faster almost exponential tempo.

7123

7073

6973

6773

6373

5573

3973

There was weight inside her. Machines under her skin. An explosive force which was begging for release, both from her abused cunt and from her whole shaking body. She felt like she could erupt, detonate, explode, cease in a fireball as the ministrations of her captor kept her on the edge.

“Im… Im a weapon” The pinching grew harder and the voice nibbled at one of her ears.

“Good. What exactly are you though?” “Im… a bomb” 689

“See that wasn’t so hard.”

Some switch within Theia turned. The countdown hit zero without detonation and the toy was ripped out. Theia moaned. The sepia filter was gone and the world looked cruelly blue. “Pl… please…”

It was like being on fire. Something about seeing the 00000 made her unreasonably upset, unreasonably horny. She wanted release, to detonate. As much as her brain reviled the idea, she was a bomb and her purpose was to explode.  “Aw. You want to come?” Her captor walked around to look into Theia’s eyes directly. “Well you’re going to have to earn it~” 

The pressure keeping Theia standing evaporated and she fell to her knees. 

“I am Bomb Handler Machete. You are a Type 39 nuclear bomb within the strategic warfare stockpile. You are mine. You are going to one day explode for me.” Those words should have set her heart racing with confusion and fear, but the pale imitation of the organ seemed unperturbed. Fear didn’t translate well through Theia’s system as whatever this psycho had done kept her in a state of overwhelming need. Theia saw an object shoved in front of her face. It was a black boot coated in stains and blemishes. Most of it was the marks of where gunpowder had fouled the leather. Her eyes were caught on a line of golden thread running up from the false tongue near the vamp to where footwear ended and Machete’s trousers began. It was the first true object of craftsmanship that she had seen since she was awoken. “Kiss it” 

Theia wanted to disobey, wanted to ask this handler where she was and what she had done to her. Instead head met foot and her lips parted to kiss the midsole. It tasted like refined chemicals and dirt. Instead of gagging Theia felt her body mellow out. It was like this was what she was meant to do, the acrid taste of the chemical reactant was like sugar. Soon kissing turned to licking. She was chasing a high, trying to please the handler. Her handler.

“Good bomb. Good girl. Keep at it.” 

Soon the footwear was slick with drool from pull loop to outsole and Theia began on the other shoe. She should be hating this, hating her captor. 

“Good girl.” Why couldn’t she explode, why wouldn’t her aching loins erupt? 

The debasement continued until finally the last of the offending mess was removed. Theia could hear the laughter of the woman towering over her. A tiny part of her brain was eager to keep making her laugh, to keep herself in Machete’s good graces. It felt like a purpose, a divine mission. Theia was concerned that this might be a drug talking, it was getting increasingly hard to think.

Her handler opened the latch on what looked like a holster before drawing a blade. It was - of course - a machete. The leather clad sadist sat and bid her victim to sit in front of her, perhaps this was when she finally gave her obedient cleaner her reward? As Theia leaned back to rest her head at neck height to Machete the blade was manoeuvred carefully beneath her chin. “Good bombs only go off when their handlers and countdowns allow them to. If you come before I say you’re allowed to. Well I can always start over with a new subject. ‘Though id hate to ruin such a lovely bombshell as you.” The butch mad scientist let her hand again finger Theia’s chest.

“F… fuck… please…” The metal was cold against her skin.

“Oh poor thing. Tell me, what did you do before you were put in cryo?”

 The groping turned to a gentle pinch.

“I… I was a driver… I used to work for this delivery company.” 

Theia focused on any sensation other than the apocalyptic dam she was holding back. She wondered if a suitably powerful release would actually set off the monstrosity in her chest - or if it’s true activation would feel like that kind of orgasm. 

“And did you have friends? Family? Did you feel happy?” “Yes… I… I had friends. And a family… though I never married.” 

Another glove wormed its way through her hair, brushing the scalp with the dirty yellow nylon. 

“Aw. So you were frozen alone huh? I can imagine you, a century ago, sitting in your vehicle like you are now. Desperate for someone to do what Im doing. Wanting to explode over someone's fingers. Its always been inside you.” Without removing their rough protective gear, Machete pushed her fingers into Theia’s wet cunt.

“N… n.” “Yes it has. And you’ve always wanted to detonate. To yell and scream. To kill. Everything alive is a bomb, a mass of chemical and kenetic energy waiting to fuck, to crush, to shout, to rut. All I’ve done is supplied the greatest gift you could ever hope to receive.” 

The glove wasn’t sensual or compassionate in its plunder and the only thing keeping Theia away from release was the sword of Damocles balanced at her neck.

“Please... h... handler...” “You can come now.” Those words were like magic as the blade was carefully removed and Theia melted into her handler’s lap. A warm gush of fluid slaked her thighs and welcomed Machete’s glove with lubrication. Machete's words thundered in her brain as her body sang to a crescendo of eruption. Just as her pussy was satisfied of its ache there was a need to satisfy the rest of herself. All the explosive gifts grafted into her flesh needed Machete’s permission. 

Theia for the first time in her life begged for the end.