Imagine this for me.
You're in a trench, in the middle of a war zone. Artillery has been hammering away for the past couple days, over and over and over and over and over. Every once in a while, you'll hear fragments of a transmission through your radio.
"Heist—...-four, reporting...—hostile move—"
They never last very long.
Your unit has been cut off for a while now. You're running low on food, on water, and medicine is almost completely gone. Ammunition is in short supply. You've got two magazines remaining for your rifle. The last few armored vehicles with your unit got blown up by drones yesterday.
You've contemplated surrendering, but you're fairly sure your compatriots would shoot you before you got twenty metres into no man's land, so you soldier on, through the mud and blood.
"SAMs see—...—unknown, po—...SEAD—... ...raid."
You try and listen closer to the transmission, but enemy blanket jamming is making it difficult. You can barely make out words, much less sentences.
"Aero—...—masks—gas, gas—"
Gas? Did they say gas?
You hear a plane inbound and hazard a peek over the top of your trench. It's a strike fighter, laden with bombs, moving fast and low with a trail of smoky flares forming an angelic sort of afterimage.
You drop back down and scramble to open your pack and grab the gas mask you were issued. Your fingers fumble with the tight strings, and the plane is coming closer. You hear someone start shouting.
By the time you open your bag and get the gas mask out you hear a missile shoot off and someone shouts, "Incoming!"
Incoming. Bomb. Get down.
You throw yourself onto the muddy floor of the trench to hide from the explosion and the shrapnel only to hear a tremendous whoompf! as the bomb detonates into a cloud of pink gas that seeps into the trenches.
Gas. You should've grabbed the gas mask. It fell when you dove for cover. Shit, where is it?
On your hands and knees, you start searching for the gas mask. You're such an idiot for dropping it. Such an idiot!
You try holding your breath as you search, but the gas is all around you, sweet-smelling and gentle, like it's whispering to you, "Give up. Fall asleep. Rest a little. You deserve it. You've been a good little girl."
Since... since when were you a girl?
No! No, that's the gas. It must be inside your mind, poisoning it. You've got to find... shit, what was it? The mask! The gas mask. You need to find your gas mask.
You can feel your eyelids getting heavier, your chest getting heavier, as you continue to search. Sleep is an ever more enticing option. After all, good girls don't resist, do they? Don't you want to be a good girl?
Your hand brushes over plastic. The gas mask! You fumble with it, trying to pull it over your head, but your helmet is in the way. You need to remove your helmet. Damn it, how could you have forgotten that? It's like you weren't even thinking, like a good little girl.
You try and unclip your helmet. Your hair is getting in the way. Since when was your hair so long? It feels... nice.
It was always this long. Or was it? You pause to mull that over for a second, as your hand hovers over the strap for your helmet...
Your helmet! You need to take off your helmet!
Oh, god, that cost you precious seconds. Your helmet falls into the mud and you try and pull the gas mask over your head. It keeps on getting stuck in your beautiful hair. You try and yank it over regardless, but it doesn't work.
Your chest starts to hurt. Something is pressing on it, way too hard. It takes a moment for you to realize it's your plate carrier, secured in place by clips and straps. It hurts so much.
Your hand starts undoing the buckles and clips, letting your chest breathe a little. Were your boobs always this massive?
Do you even care?
You, tentatively, put a hand to your chest. Even through the pink haze of the gas, you can see that your nipple is poking through. You run a finger over it and an involuntary shiver runs through you. It feels good. Really good.
You unzip your uniform a little to free your chest, because it feels a little bit tight, and you run your finger over your nipple. It feels so good. You want to moan, but if you moan the enemy might find you.
But good girls want to be found, don't they?
There's a heat building in your core, a need. You bite your lip. You really want to be a good girl. One hand strays south, towards the pulsing between your legs.
The lightest little touch makes your brain light up. You want more. You need more. You abandon your uniform, letting it drop into the mud, showing off your kneeling, needy, slutty body to anyone who will watch. You don't care. You want to be watched. Let everyone know what a good girl you are. Let everyone know how good you can make yourself feel. You're a good little slut.
One hand gropes at your fat tits and another continues to pleasure between your legs. You want someone to come and use you, and to your delight, someone does. A really hot girl drops into your trench. You're fairly sure you're supposed to fight her, but you don't care. You just want to have someone fuck you. Doesn't really matter who.
She walks over to you and for a moment you think she's just going to shove her cock down your throat. Just the thought of it makes you moan a little. She grins, and looks like she's considering it, before pinning your arms behind your back and forcing you to stand. You don't resist, because good girls follow orders.
She takes you to a wide open area and deposits you there, right next to a dozen other girls that look just as needy and desperate as you. God, they're all so sexy and hot. You want them to fuck you, but there are also taller women surrounding your group, and you want them to fuck you even more.
They slip something over your face. A gas mask. But you don't want to wear a gas mask. You want to stay and get fucked, over and over and over again...
