7 comments/ 34273 views/ 10 favorites Another Sunset Ch. 01 By: EasyTarget [This story comes from a setting that may be familiar to some. While it can be enjoyed by anyone, those in the know may find a few things they recognize. As always, all characters in this work of fiction are over 18.] * Another sunset. I watched it go down from the crevasse I'd been crouched in for the last half hour. I was about to go through the Grayditch ruins, and I've found that's way more trouble than it's worth during the day. The sun was low enough by then, though. It should be fine. Had I seen a year ago what I looked like emerging from the shadows now, wearing sleek, light recon armor, shouldering a long, scrappy hunting rifle and stalking down the crag like a spider, I wouldn't have recognized me. My new habits would have made me pass out or worse. But that's how it is in the Capital Wasteland. You adapt. Or, you get eaten, enslaved, shot, tortured, irradiated to a thick paste, or just die of exposure. I think I made the right choice. The sacrifices were nothing to me now. The armor was from a pre-war vault I'd somehow helped the Outcasts open. Something they'd salvaged from the Chinese during the liberation of Anchorage. The blurring effect was helpful to say the least. It kept all engagements on my terms, for the most part. I usually didn't get in an altercation unless I wanted to. Like I said, helpful. But not perfect. The point was proven when there was a 'snap' and shards of a nearby rock bursting at about my heel, and I knew there'd be more to follow. Someone had spotted me. Looking back I think I'd made the mistake of stepping out into the last shaft of sunlight of the day before descending into the ruins. The flaw of the armor is that no matter how good the chameleon effect is, the wearer still casts a shadow. Maybe I'd just wanted to catch the last bit of color before moving on, just for dramatic flare. Or maybe I'd wanted to be seen. Oh well. The next bullet that arrived didn't find me. I was already gone, dashing to the shelter of the buildings below. It was the next twenty or so rounds that were the problem. Raiders, I guessed. They were everywhere, killing, torturing, stealing, chopping up the scenery with their guns and in this case, shouting obscenities about cooking me. If they'd known me, known who I was, they might have chased me with sticks or hammers to make sure I they didn't lose sight of me for the last time. But they didn't know. And they were going to fucking get it now. It was over before very long. This was an occasion for my prized reservist rifle I took great care to keep in working order. When I first wandered into the wastes, I found in myself a talent I'd never had occasion to explore in my sheltered youth: I was a sniper. Through and through, I was meant for it, and I'd felt it the first time I'd closed my shaking hands around that rusty rifle on that dry corpse in the old shack. Now I proved it again for the hundredth time. Through the scope I saw their bewildered expressions as they tried to find where the shots were coming from just before their heads exploded to make way for the .308 cartridge coming down the pike. One after the other, about a half dozen, a large group for Raiders, but as I moved through I zeroed in on one of them and stopped. Oh, no, I thought. I'm keeping you. Then I beheaded the really big one next to her. Female raiders are as common as male ones. They want to survive as badly as the guys do. Remotely attractive ones are rare. It's a shame. They all dress scandalously, their piecemeal armor covering not nearly enough to be tactically useful. The grizzled bull-bitches wearing hubcaps over their tits are pretty horrifying. But this one was younger, about as old as I was when I first showed up in DC, about 18 or 20. Sneering, cursing, dirty and probably half-insane like the rest, but she still had all her hair. Her armor was made from random scrap, strips of fabric, metal, leather, meant to protect the body in a fight where the target is cowering, not sniping them all to death from a third-story window. It also was mostly open around the chest area, and I could make out the shape of her-- Focus, damn it. Pow. There went the fifth one. I put the rifle away. Time to move. The last one, the girl, took a while to realize she was alone. She also realized she'd just randomly sprayed her last magazine of 10mm ammunition at a distant building she'd seen muzzle flashes coming from. At least I imagine that's what she was thinking as I appeared from the side and made them the last thoughts of her own she'd have for the next hour. The Mesmetron was this thing I'd picked up in that little scrap I had with Paradise Falls. I knew what it did, and knew I was using it for something it wasn't necessarily meant for. But we use what we can in the wastes. Luckily for me it worked, and our girl dropped her submachine gun and stared into space, swaying back and forth instead of going berserk or her head promptly exploding. I lowered oddly-shaped apparatus and sighed. Finally. I realized my hands were shaking. I carry what I need to survive. And a few things more. Call them vices. I'd told her the usual things after I'd "mezzed" her. To follow me, to stay calm, and so on. And the other things I tell my catches to program them to be ready what's coming. But we'll get to that. She started coming around about an hour later. She came around because I told her to. She slowly began to realize she was in their own Raider hideout, some office or other in one of the buildings. She was hooked up to the apparatus they use to bind their victims as they butcher them alive. Her wrists were chained together above her head, her ankles shackled wide apart, and her shoes missing. The Mesmetron effect lifts instantaneously, and she immediately began to cast about in alarm and feral rage/terror, muffled curses coming from the bit gag in her mouth. I tend to use their own lairs for this as they always come with the necessary equipment, but the bit gag is mine. She was tasting the vodka I'd used to wash her mouth out, and realizing her bonds were as secure as ever they were when she was watching someone else occupy them. She was also starting to feel a strange burning in her skin, that becomes important later. It was dark, and I'd lit a fire in the corner, so she was just beginning to see me. And my pack of "stuff" I'd set aside, little pieces laid out on a long roll-up cloth. That's when she really started struggling. This is the part I want them lucid for. The part I want them to feel. And it was then that I took off the balaclava covering my head. That made her stop squirming and stare at me in shock. I enjoy the alarm they seem to feel when they see that I'm a woman. My heart was thundering now, and I was struggling to keep my hands still and appear cool and in control as I set aside the headpiece, letting ringlets of red hair dangle down as they escaped my bun. I'm sure my sadistic impulses are nothing compared to those of the Raiders, or the slavers of The Pitt or Paradise Falls, and that I hid them is deserving of some credit. But I do hide them. I hide that I love to see them in fear of me, the first moments they start to believe they're going to be tortured, watch the bravado and murderous triumphant grin crumble...I steadied myself on the counter. Calm down. It's showtime. Off my roll of implements I picked up a combat knife I keep a little sharper than it has to be and approached our girl. She shook her head violently. That would never do, so I also picked up the white shock baton (you'd never believe where I got that) and gave her ribs a buzz to indicate she should hold still as I carefully worked the knife under one of the haphazard straps holding up her top. She froze at this, not even breathing. Good girl. I'm not a knife fighter. I keep the shank for one thing only, and it made a 'ping' sound as I flicked through the brahmin leather. A shoulder plate fell loose. Her eyes flitted from it to me and back. It wasn't what she was expecting. Ping, ping, squeaky-squeaky-ping, and the strangely-cobbled top she was wearing started to come loose as I worked through more straps, string, and a piece of rope. The circular plates (colanders, I think) covering her breasts were starting to jiggle loose, and my heart started racing again. I'm pretty sure this particular band of marauders didn't bother cutting clothes off before having their sadistic fun, judging by the butchered corpses hung up outside, so our girl was becoming more and more confused and terrified as the so-called garment finally rattled loose and jangled to the floor. I took a moment to admire what I'd revealed. Oohh my. They were round and firm, and about the size of a small child's head or so, somehow completely hidden when compressed under the scrapheap bra. I gave her belly a zap so I could see them bounce. My father. He'd be so ashamed. --- When I emerged from Vault 101 into the forsaken plains of the Capital Wasteland to go look for him, I'd known nothing about sex. It's hard to make an unwatched move in a vault, and I wasn't really surrounded by any attractive boys who'd give me a second thought at the time, so I stepped into the light untouched by man at age 19. I wandered for about a day and a half before I found Megaton City and my future home, a ramshackle settlement built into a large crater. Not knowing what I had, I traded some of the bottles of precious, non-irradiated water I'd brought with me for a room at the tavern to huddle in something resembling a bed, hopeless and alone, and cry. What I didn't realize was that included in the package, was a girl named Nova. Ahh, Nova. That evil little minx. Everyone wants something in the wasteland, and will do anything to get it...that night she saw how vulnerable I was and came in to "comfort" me. Soon she had me out of my Vault 101 jumpsuit, telling me nights out here were cold and her job was to "keep me warm," and over the course of the night I remember drifting in and out to her wearing less and less next to me. Eventually I woke from a strange dream about being gently milked by a machine and experienced what I know now to be my first orgasm before I woke up to the alarmingly wonderful sensation of Nova sucking on my nipples. Realizing quickly that my wrists were tied above my head and my ankles strapped into special apparatus on the bedframe, I made confused inquiries as she licked my tits, begged tearfully as she touched and circled my clitoris (which I'd thank her later for finding for me) and finally disintegrated into base orgasm sounds as she started freely fingering me. The encounter set my nature permanently. Even though I was "raped" by her several more times after that, eventually it became routine, and just not the same. Besides, by about the seventh time I had my own house in Megaton and didn't need to shell out caps to that skag Moriarty. So I surreptitiously blew his head off as thanks to Nova for "awakening" me, who inherited the place afterward. Two things were axiomatic from then on out. Just as I knew my occupation when I took hold of my first rifle, I was sure of my appetite as soon as a woman took hold of me. First, I was a lesbian. I didn't even find out there was a name for it until about six months ago, but I was inextricably attached to girls. Second, it had to be non-consensual. Or it just wouldn't be the same. These things have never changed. My tools and methods have just become more refined over time. You'd think this would cause me to break completely with my morality, but somehow I was still daddy's girl on some level. So the people I ended up doing this to tended to deserve it. More than a few raiders, a slaver or two or three...got lucky with an Enclave officer one time, and even got personal with a Brotherhood Outcast who decided I was in her way. --- Fond memories. But now I had my little Raider slave. By now I was working away at her...skirt...trousers...something, whatever was covering her loins and legs, slowly opening them up to reveal her hips and the V leading down her pelvis. It was hard not to smile as I felt it dawning on her that there was a good chance she was going to be girl-raped as matted pubic hair began to peek out of whatever you call what I was cutting loose. I shocked her emerging buttocks to indicate that this did not necessarily preclude the torture, murder and cannibalism she might have been expecting. Even so, by now the burning on her skin had spread between her thighs and the tingling was starting, with an acute dripping soon to follow the more scared she got. I love the Mesmetron. You have no idea. She was lucid and conscious now. But she was still in its power. The pantaloonskirt sloughed off and crashed to the floor with her top. I kicked them both aside. The underwrappings didn't last long either, and my slave was naked. Even in the lawlessness of the Capital Wasteland, people somehow can't detach themselves from this thing called decency, and always have an exploitable problem with having even the most scant clothes taken away. Awaking barefoot is enough to make them feel vulnerable, which is why I make sure they tend to come to with their shoes gone. And for a moment, I watched my captive get used to being nude. This is where I dragged over the barrel of Aqua Pura I'd found. Those bastards. Dad dies for Project Purity, and me nearly with him, and these guys are out killing and stealing the fruits of it. Ask me if I feel bad about what I'm about to do. I filled a dropped bowl or helmet or something with the stuff and splashed it on her, and she shuddered. Another splash and she thrashed. Raiders as a rule have dark, tan skin, partially from the sun, but mostly because they don't bathe. You can take the girl out of the sterile, hygienic Vault, I suppose, but you can't take the Vault out of the girl. So the next thing I picked up was the box of Abraxo cleaner. This stuff is amazing. Every box anyone has ever seen is over 260 years old. Sitting and waiting in irradiated post-apocalyptia for over two centuries for someone to need to clean something. And by god, it sill works. It works for getting blood and brains off your armor, or toxic waste off the walls. I swear you could wash a Ghoul until looked human. You could even make a naked Raider look palatable. I pretty much just swung the box at her. She barely had time to close her eyes as the swath cloud hit her full on in the chest, and even then there were tears, but maybe not from the soap. I scrubbed her. I scrubbed and I scrubbed, more and more dirt and sweat and grime came off. I used an old sponge and a rag I'd found somewhere, I even filed her toenails back with some tool or other, until finally I went back to throwing water at her again to remove the cloudy suds from her skin. I had to steady myself again as I stood back to admire my handiwork. My breathing became ragged as I looked it over. It had been months. Pure, shiny, wet, clean, tan girl skin, all for me. I'd also taken the time to shave her when the suds were thick enough. I've gotten good at this, practicing on myself. I'd cleaned every trace of tangled mane off of her, and probably taken any number foreign objects with it. It's always hot out here. She dried quickly, shivering as it evaporated with some of her body heat. One thing didn't dry, though. In fact it was running down her thighs, making a soft 'plik' noise as it contributed to the puddle below her. Wordlessly, I bid her show me herself for inspection, and gave her now-smooth inner thigh and then her quivering breasts a razzing for compliance before she thrust her hips out, her eyes squeezed shut, and her head turned away. In her state, I could just tell her to do it and she'd do it. But that would be involuntary. I knelt down between her thighs, baton-ing her buttocks through her legs when she tried to retreat from my scrutiny, forcing her to present herself again, every muscle in her body taut with anguished anticipation. She was in GOOD condition. I think the best I'd seen. Most female Raiders (and a few male ones I'd imagine) have been fucked or raped a few times over the course of their violent lives, rendering more than a few of them inoperable by the time I find them. But this one didn't have that many scars on her body, and her anatomy was intact and healthy. I'd find out later that the one I'd terminated next to her, the big one, had been her brother, who'd protected her from the worst of the hazing...the only thing that astounds me more than the inhumanity of the wasteland is the places I find compassion. I stood up and stepped back, satisfied with what I saw. It was my turn. Putting aside my tools, I released a catch at my neck, and with a pop, my armor loosened. I drug them with Jet for this part sometimes, but that reduces their lucidity. As I said, I want them to feel it. My slave watched, her eyes big as my knees. My armor is hard to remove, but I took my time. Got the chest unlatched, slid my arms out as my bosom emerged, and slid the assembly down my hips and thighs before I did the forever-enticing, eternally feminine stepout-kick to leave me in my undershorts and undershirt. She was still looking. I unabashedly lifted off the tanktop and let it fall into my armor, my breasts bouncing free, modest, but serviceable. And I watched my slave's eyes as I slid my shorts off, standing up to let her view me. The steps to this are each very important. They each lead to a new level of anxiety and excitement, renewing the intensity each time. Now we were on the step where I let her absorb that she was a naked and helpless girl in the presence of a naked and dominant girl. I let my feet stand slightly apart. My toenails were painted, though the paint was a little chipped. My legs were (are) long and thin, a runner's legs. My body was thin, my breasts made pleasing in contrast to my frame, my ribs and hipbones slightly visible. Not an ounce of fat anywhere. Long arms, long neck, slight smirk, dark eyes. A patch of freckles across my nose. Tall. Or more accurately, long. I rinsed myself. I didn't need a whole scrubdown. See, in my spare time, I bathe. But with the sweat gone, I felt much better, and finally let my hair down. And stepping back, making sure the slave was still watching, I scooted myself up onto a desk behind me which I'd cleared for the occasion, put one foot on a nearby box, the other on the edge of the desk, and began touching my thighs. She got her courage up at this point. She started trying to shout something at me and I slapped a wave of water at her from the barrel, hitting her face, stunning her into quiet again. When she finally blinked the water out of her eyes I made sure the shock baton was where she could see it. I made her watch as I took my time with my breasts, not touching my nipples for a full five minutes, which is forever at times like this. My right hand teased my thighs, then the taut muscles between my legs and the main event. God, it was as good as my first time. I pinched my nipple. Daddy had wanted me to be a doctor and a scientist. As such I knew that it wasn't raw magic, or some electric pleasure-tricity spreading from the area of my areolae, but hormones and endorphins, telling my brain to continue in the hopes of procreation. I was fine with that. I squeezed out some more. My right hand had found the area where my hair would have began, and more chemicals told my brain things and released more chemicals to impair my judgement and become more susceptible to my malfunctioning, homosexual impulses. The experience is far more mystical to people who don't know the endocrine system very well, and through it all, my sex slave watched me getting wanton with myself in the light of a trash fire. The dripping had become more audible as I teased her, her mind repulsed and terrified, but the tingling and wetness growing below her bellybutton. I watched as hot female slime began dangling in jiggling ropes from between her thighs, hanging, breaking and plopping in globules to the puddle on the ground before reforming anew on the slick surface of her bald skin. Her body had been set on different rails than her so-called mind. She was realizing this too. Another Sunset Ch. 02 (All characters involved are over 18. As with the first one, if you recognize the setting, definitely comment and say so, but don't give it away) The day had found me in an interesting mood. Having blasted the heads from her whole platoon and sprung from the wreckage on the Enclave officer with my favorite toy, I gently took her plasma pistol, put my hand on her shoulder, and started leading her East. She would have done anything I asked under the influence of the Mesmetron. This time my instructions were simple. We were going to my house in Megaton, where we were going to have sex. She didn't say anything. I didn't tell her to. We walked home. Megaton owed me big, and they'd paid me with my own house. They loved me for what I'd done for them, and feared me for what I might be doing with these "friends" I periodically led into town, blank and vacant. They knew better than to go near my house and try to find out. At least the adults did. I'll just bet there are some kids, Harden maybe, who've seen me lead them out again in the dead of night. So they talked to me and said hello when I came into town. Unless someone was "with" me. Then they just stared. In this case they watched me carefully as I walked through town with my hand on Sgt. Somethingorother. Even Cromwell stopped preaching momentarily--but only momentarily--as we went up the rusted ramp to the housing. I leaned in and whispered something in her ear. She her legs wobbled a little. Nobody is allowed in my house. I've furnished it too tellingly. The lighting all has red glass over it. The shelves have things on them that one might consider...frivolous. I have two beds. One is practical. The other is in the middle of the main room, and is huge, red and heart-shaped. I'll never know where Moira found it, or what she thinks I'm doing with it, that and the glowing sculpture of two female figures locked together hanging over it, or the other thematically consistent furnishings I hired her to put in. Certainly not this. For whatever reason she still thinks I'm just an extremely nice person who helped her write her book that one time. I ripped the Holy Light Monastery pamphlet off my door and tossed it in a pile by the stoop as I came inside. Wadsworth, a multi-armed Mr. Handy robot, was hovering over my staircase. In some strangely-accented dialect, he welcomed me home. I didn't say anything. I went to a specific shelf and took the cuffs off of it. They weren't clinical. Any conscious person could simply undo them. She wouldn't. I slipped them on her. Then I ran the cleaning program on Wadsworth. One of his utility arms hooked the ring between the cuffs and led our subject to the back room. I took off my armor, and smiled as I heard the squeal of metal servos. Wadsworth was going to work. I used to watch this part, but I knew it by sound now, well enough that the rote images would suffice. The robot was cutting off her clothes. They would later be scraped up off the grated floor, compressed into a cube and incinerated. I turned on the jukebox. Threedog's music was on. I turned it up. Nobody needed to hear this what happened here. Already in the closet I heard the water. The undressing process had left my friend standing only on the soles of her boots, and now she was being washed. Or more accurately, sprayed down with water and Abraxo cleaner, then rinsed in Aqua Pura while she stood catatonic. As I tossed my clothes in Wadsworth's "to do" bin, I could hear her being blown dry. When she was led out again, I was lying resplendent on my ostentatious bed, naked and ready for a good look. She stumbled a bit as the robot moved uncaringly ahead of her, the metal hook still locked into the ring between her wrists. In truth the cuffs were there as something to be led around by, and a collar proved unsafe to the subject. Now the machine led her to stand in front of me, just how I like it. Then it went to "clean the roof." I honestly have no idea what he does up there, but I've programmed him to do it for five hours. The aluminum must be shiny enough to signal Vertibirds by now. Anyway, the hatch in the ceiling banged shut after him. Then we were alone. I sat up and gave her a good looking over. Enclave girls are a prize. I'd only had one once before. She was practically bald, her blond hair cut ridiculously short to meet Enclave military regulations, which bothered me a little at first but showed its appeal early on. Especially considering women under the influence of the Mesmetron usually don't have the capacity to keep their hair out of their own faces while they...do things. Besides, Enclave personnel were usually parasite-free, comparatively clean, very well nourished, healthy, and always had all their teeth. And they were built...differently. I considered just lying there below her while she pleasured me with her toes. I don't know what it was about that body that made me start gently touching my breasts...her well toned legs, the way a strong torso makes a woman's bosom protrude, the complete absence of body fat, her round ass, her flat belly, her unblemished skin...or the fact that despite the vigorous training, strong body and professional cut, I'd still bagged her. Maybe that was it. I started masturbating. Two long fingers on my clitoris, then tickling inside when it was wet enough. I brought myself close to orgasm, and then teased my clitoris by gently tapping it, my eyes locked on that rigidly vacant form. For about a half hour, I made myself ready. Oh yes, I thought. You're mine. I beckoned. This was the part with the sex I'd told her about, and she came to life a little, her purpose before her now. She finally met my eyes and unsteadily approached the bed where I lay below her. She was intent, but unprepared. On the way home I'd had some time and determined, with a little questioning, that she had never had sex with a woman. This was going to be fun. I immediately sat her on the very edge of my bed, got on my knees and pushed her thighs apart. Oh, yes. On the way up the ramp, I'd whispered something to her that made her trip. I'd told her her that she was getting hornier all the time. So she was. This meant that when I opened her legs, her body was showing intense signs of arousal, completely unbidden. Flushed skin, hard nipples, and of course, wet thighs. I'd skipped her foreplay that night, I wanted to eat. But first I tested her by gently dragging my tongue along the edges of her lips and her hood. I got a shiver. She was ready. I closed my face gratefully on her vagina, and began kissing it noisily, my tongue making fleshy clicking, squeaking, sucking sounds as it moved around my mouth and her lips. There was nothing romantic about this. I went straight to work and fucked her with my face. I pulled out all my tricks on her. Circling her clitoris, sliding my tongue inside her, licking her hood, scraping her with my teeth, everything. And it worked. Her mind wasn't there, but her body was completely attentive. She didn't make a sound through her first climax, but it was evident in all other respects. It was the next few she started making her noises on. It was cute, she sounded like she was trying to climb something or lift something too heavy to move, moaning through her teeth, every muscle in her body tense. She took it, staring straight ahead like a good soldier. But I was in command here. So when I'd had my fill, I climbed onto the bed and waited expectantly, lying back on my elbows with my legs spread. It took her a moment to come down from her high, at which point she finally registered what was expected of her. She turned around and did what I've come to call the "bedroom shuffle" across the bed on her elbows and knees to get between my waiting thighs. It wasn't going to take much. I'd been teasing myself with my fingers the whole time. I guided her head down. I stretched luxuriously and let out a lusty sigh as I felt her contact my flesh for the first time, her tongue clumsily brushing my lips crossways. I let her take her time getting used to it. And she got better like I knew she would. I wonder if women learn to pleasure other women more quickly under the effects of the Memsetron, which affects the mind, something you don't need for this. In fact I'd done away with all the repugnance of the whole idea, which can be inconvenient if your subject isn't necessarily consenting. But the Sergeant wasn't thinking now. Nor was I. I was on the edge from the beginning, and I remember glimpsing my own breasts rising and falling as I began to gasp for the air my body needed to sweat and convulse and wrap my legs around my lovely servant, nestled demurely between my legs, resting on her elbows and bound wrists. My hips did what they do, in time to her rather mechanical rhythm, and I occasionally "guided" her by the back of her head to other places for some variety. I was orgasming before too long, lying flat, clutching at the crimson blankets, which I'd need to wash later if her glistening face was any indication. I let her "practice" for a long while. I enjoyed climax after climax until I realized if it were me, my lips and tongue would be aching. So I let her go a little more. Enclave girls are tough, they can take it. Finally, exhausted, I lifted her off of me, gasping out the instructions she needed to hear to stop working. I rested a moment, then responsibly tended to the "maintenance" of my cattle. I guided her upright and led her by the cuffs to a hook hanging from the ceiling, which I left her connected to, her arms above her head. She'd be safe there. It would keep her from wandering around. I made her drink some water before preparing to retire. I looked her up and down. She looked so forlorn there, naked and alone in my living room. I decided she needed some company. Maybe she'd like to play with the Packhorse. Daddy would be disgusted if he saw what I pushed out of a corner. I'd designed it to relieve my tension in the days before I got really good at the acquisition of "company." It began life as a plastic water barrel on wooden legs. It still looked like a plastic water barrel on wooden legs. With a seat cut into it. And stirrups. I pushed it under the good soldier, forcing her to straddle it, like riding a brahmin. At least she had something to sit on, I decided, as I strapped her ankles to the footrests. Then I flipped open the lid of the barrel. The green computer screen looked back at me. I selected my favorite program, and left her to simmer for the night. As I flipped the panel door shut, the seat below her, specifically the parts specially contoured to contact her more sensitive tissue, began resonating with mild sonic pulses, and two of a small selection of textured phallic facsimiles gently penetrated her to hold her in place for her safety. And, incidentally, slow-fuckin both holes while filling her with a steady flow of warm lubricant. She grimaced. I stepped back to admire the fruits of my work on the "Therapeutic Massage Seat." I shook my head. What has science done? I could just hear Griffon pitching it now. "Are you suffering from stress? Do you just feel out of sorts at the end of the day? Tension got you down? The Therapeutic Massage Seat cures every ailment known to the modern housewife. How does it work, you ask? Science! Just sit in the Therapeutic Massage Seat, secure the safety straps, and activate! Feel those tensions of a long week drain away with soothing sonic vibration pulses on your most sensitive pressure points while you deepest wells of tension are lovingly massaged with scented oils. Is your wife touchy, boys? Does she wield that rolling pin with a bit too much skill? Just run the "relaxation" program! With the Therapeutic Massage Seat's patented straps pulling her snugly down and holding her securely in place for her safety, and the patented "Suspense" technology preventing any of those pesky unwanted climaxes interrupting her soothing enjoyment, she'll be docile as a kitten after just a few days on the Therapeutic Massage Seat! Gauranteed!" That was way too vivid. Maybe I needed some therapy myself. Oh well. She'd be fine for the night. Tossing my blankets in with my clothes, I took my still-naked self upstairs to get some real rest. I never notice my appalling depravity until I retell the stories of it. I woke up the following morning and walked right by the beautiful athletic woman in exquisite, sex-starved agony on my blasphemous invention. I walked right by her as if nothing was wrong with this. Ignoring the fact that I'd essentially submitted another human being to an unrelenting torture for a whole night, I had breakfast. In fact I think it was after I was halfway through my punga fruit and Nuka-Cola I looked up at her and really registered that she was still there. Hmm. I finished eating. I finally yawned, stretched and got up, and opened the panel. And I accessed the program I'd set her on, the one that automatically holds her on the bleeding edge of climax without permitting her to orgasm until I pressed The Button. I pressed The Button. She threw her head back and screamed. The machine absorbed her orgasmic emissions. I switched it off. She went limp. I finished my Nuka-Cola. Eventually decided I was ready to take her home. I lifted her cuffed hands off the hook. Then I was on the floor six feet away. Ow. When my head cleared, I saw that she was on the floor too, still partially stunned by the massive, long-awaited orgasm and having slid out of the seat of the Packhorse machine and waiting for the feeling to come back into her legs. But she'd been cognizant enough to backhand me with her locked wrists before that. Now she was unstrapping them. Uh-oh. This hadn't happened before. She was free. Body and mind. I'm capable of almost anything. I have extensive experience with medicine, I've treated many injuries in the Wasteland, mostly my own. I'm trained in science and mechanics, and can build or fix almost anything. Like massage seats. I even know commerce, can pick locks, and sneak into or out of any place no matter who's watching. I'm a sniper who can floor Deathclaws with a .32 revolver if I have to. I know what I can do. And I know what I can't do. So believe me when I say, fisticuffs and brawling are things I certainly can't do. The techniques of those unarmed masters, the secrets of the Eagle Claw and Paralyzing Palm are entirely lost on me. I can't even lift a Super Sledge over my head without help. Not only do I have no talent for coming to blows, I'm not built for it. I'm a tall girl, long legs and arms. Willowy and light. Built for stealth and agility. Now I was lying on my back, naked, scrabbling backwards to get away from a very angry woman who was a lot stronger than I was. Helpless in my own house. I wasn't a negotiator, either. So when she looked at me again, having shed the leather wristbands, her eyes had a blue fire beyond actual hate, and I knew better than to beg. She didn't say a word. She remembered every minute of what had happened last evening, and what I'd put her through all night. I had obliterated her pride and dignity, having, in no uncertain terms, violated the hell out of her. She'd never be the same. All that she could think of to do, productive or not, was to kill me. And kill me she would. She stood up, dashed after me, hurling me to the other side of the room. The action upset a shelf which fell, covering me in debris. When she pulled me out by my ankles, she deftly caught the obscenely-shaped rubber improvised melee weapon I emerged with, tossing it one way and me another. I sat up with my back to the jukebox. I turned my head and spit. No blood, but it looked menacing. Then I reached up and turned the jukebox volume up higher. And I smirked. She roared. In a few moments I'd find out the advantage she had over me with her hair cut so short. She used mine to haul me upright, and she glared madly into my face. Our breasts touched. I giggled. I doubled over when she hit me in the ribs, then fell over when she backhanded my head. In the same spot as before, no less. I made sure to roll away from the jukebox this time. Those things are rare. As I moved to get away, she caught me around the throat. Lifting me off my feet in a way that, as a Wasteland physician I can tell you is most definitely unsafe, she pinned me against the aluminum wall. She was going to choke the life out of me. Until I showed her why I was so good in bed. About six months back, I met a man. I can't tell you his name. But I found him hidden in a corner of Rivet City where the politics wouldn't get him. When I found out he did facial reconstructive surgery, I hired him to fix the catastrophic damage an exploding car had done to my face. I paid him double his going rate and asked him to give me a little...perk on the side. No questions asked. I think Dr. P caught my drift. So when stuck out my new tongue in my attacker's face, spitting it out with a menacing "plaa!" it was about three inches longer than it was supposed to be. This stunned her long enough for me to shove off the wall, toppling us. We rolled--well, I rolled, she tumbled--across the floor. We came up with me sitting on her chest, her looking back down the silencer between her teeth, her crossed eyes fixated on the iron sights of the 10mm pistol it was attached to. I'm not a pugilist. But I am a killer. And I'm durable enough to steer a beating around until it takes me to my gun locker.I cuffed her for real this time, with her hands behind her back. The fight had been between two naked women. It was enough. I was dripping again. So with the gun to her head, I ordered her to spread her legs. If she wanted to be conscious, that was fine with me. I was going to rape the hell out of her this time. I made her watch my long, freakish tongue slide in and out of her womanhood while I thumbed her clitoris, and saw her grow more and more dismayed with each successful orgasm I forced out of her. And I forced more than a few out of her. Then I squatted over her face and forced her to eat me, moaning and screaming as I came over her face. Then I made her get on her knees and do it to me. Then I violated her with every toy I could find, making her climax with each against her will until I resorted to the silencer of the loaded gun I was holding. That's how lust-angry I was. Then I sat in my favorite chair, masturbating with one hand, and holding the assassin's weapon in the other as I told her to climb herself onto the infernal machine again, strap in her own ankles, and hang her shackled wrists from the hook. I brought myself off to the image of her staring back at me finger myself. Then I turned her on. And this time I let her marvel at the simple but effective "maximum orgasm (CAUTION!)" setting for the next hour, during which I, wearing nothing but a pistol belt with the still-damp weapon in the holster, I climbed onto the machine in front of her, and, licking up and down her breasts, neck and face, told her over and over that I owned her. And I did. I don't know what mechanism the Enclave has for dealing with the effects of the Mesmetron. If they indeed have one at all. I do know that when they did find Sergeant Geraldine Wilstrom again, lying on her back at the edge of an Enclave encampment wearing nothing but a Vault 101 jumpsuit, that they'd find her body completely intact, except for a scar on the inside of her ankle. I watched them find her, lying there at the edge of their lights, in a trance once again, through a scope from a rocky outcropping a half mile away. Typical. The one time I just want to be intimate. I decided right there on that black night that I was through being "nice." Perhaps permanently. In fact I was going to explore just just how Pint-Sized-Slasher-depraved I could be. Starting then. Another Sunset Ch. 02 And as I stalked back into the concealing wastes, I reflected on just how rude those Brotherhood Outcasts could be. Maybe one of them could stand to be taken down a peg...maybe I'd be paying them a visit on the cusp of another sunset. Another Sunset Ch. 01 She watched me start to masturbate. I started with my clit, but not gently, I went right to circling it with one finger, then shaking it obscenely between my index and middle fingers, having my first orgasm of the night right there and hiding it. Breathing heavily, looking from my busy fingers to my sex captive, I slid in one finger, then two, pulling my whole hand against my clit with my fingers hooked against the spot inside. Nova had whispered in my ear that that was my "Sweet Spot" two hours into raping me that first night, introducing me to my own anatomy at the same time. I can never remember the name of the funny thing that hangs down the back of your throat after being told seven times in class and writing it down another fifty, and I still remember the lesson about where my Sweet Spot is and what she named it, even through a mind-crumbling orgasm. I've certainly had more use for the Spot then than I ever did for my uvula. Jeepers, I remembered. I my legs were in the air now, I was cumming. I've heard a lot of orgasmic moaning, each unique to the person I'm violating. Mine, if you're wondering, is more of a rhythmic "ah." Anyway, this is the sound I was making, watching my slave watch me. Then came the other optional step. I manage this sometimes when the experience is really rewarding. I tilted my hips back and, in a phenomena that always surprises even me, I started squirting. Pulsed streams of the same stuff my captive was weeping from her loins. I made sure to have the presence of mind to hit her. Her feet and legs, a bit of her waist was all I could get from those eight or ten feet away, but it served to heighten her sense of sexual bewilderment. Most people have never seen this, especially during acts preceding forced lesbianism, and some of them come completely unhinged at this point. Some even think I'm urinating on them until they smell it, the ones that have later squirted themselves are unmistakably sure. I kept on as long as I could without interfering with the gushes. This is harder than it sounds, usually amounting to "spanking" my clitoris with one finger. Finally, end it did, and I allowed myself to collapse as gracefully as I could onto my back. I think I passed out that time. I often do. It didn't stop Nova. The Slavers of The Pitt and Paradise Falls use exploding collars to control their livestock. With me they'd just need vibrating underwear. Eventually, though, I raised my head, and my eyes found her. Still watching. I must have been smirking, she looked more horrified than ever. She was next. She probably expected me to leap on her like a Yao Guai and devour her there and then, but my time out here has made less merciful stuff of me, and my recent satisfaction had replenished my patience. I like to molest first. I picked up the shock baton as I stood. She "backed away" as best she could manage given the circumstances. So I trained her. I corrected her breasts to stop her form struggling. I shocked her bottom to thrust her hips forward, her inner thighs until her knees were fully spread. Finally she stood completely open to me again. She was soaked. It was all over her inner thighs and her calves. I took a moment to look at this, but before long I couldn't resist the urge to touch. I let her watch me step one foot forward, and ever so softly brush my thigh against her. She twitched, tensing, but held still. My whole leg was wet almost instantly from touching her. I let her get used to the idea that she was being molested by a woman, and that it was giving her pleasure. Then I reached up and took hold of her nipple. I was pleased to find that she was not only ready to obey, but her mind was trying to anticipate my whims to avoid further correction. So when I gently tugged her nipple a few times, her body followed so before long she was ever-so-slightly rubbing against my thigh, which I left her to do for a while. I watched her move, her hips thrusting like evolution had programmed them to do, instinctively aiming her sensitive parts at my skin, still in disbelief at what was happening to her. And finally, I heard it. It sounded like a whimper. I wanted to masturbate some more but it would have to wait. She didn't turn away this time, when I bent down to put my mouth on her nipple. Mmmm. It was long and and stood up obediently when the warm tickle of my lips hit it. Another noise in her throat. I rested it on my tongue and circled it around until a slightly higher-pitched, more pronounced squeak came from her. Then she felt my teeth. That produced a moan, and more wetness from me. She moved on her own, more intensely now, her body taking over, her mind helpless. Come on. More. I was rapidly abandoning my pretense of calculated civility. My mouth was all over her breasts. I can't tell you how I wanted them. And I was slowly giving them to myself more and more. I was again pleased to see that when I withdrew my thigh, she chased it, this whimper more frustrated. Yes. Mine. I stepped around behind her as she convulsed for a moment before I wrapped my arm around her chest from behind to freely sample her with one hand, while the other found her clitoris. She must have realized I'd gotten the better of her, and what I was about to do, because it was then she started rebelling again. But I wasn't subtle this time. I started masturbating her, clitoris between my middle and index, shaking vigorously. Two flicks and she was already in orgasm. Most women haven't experienced sensations this strong, and it tends to paralyze them into a rigid, wide-eyed torpor. I was licking her neck before long, listening to her try to scream through the bit gag, my body pressed into her back, feeling to her senses crumble. She was one of "those," a the kind who experiences one long, uninterrupted orgasm as long as they're given attention, which to her anguished despair, I punished her with for the next half hour. I hooked two fingers inside to her "spot," my palm on her clitoris, switching hands when my arm got tired, but never letting up. Twenty minutes in she passed out, which didn't deter me. Her limp body kept quivering, of course, but otherwise she just hung there, squirting a little sometimes. I didn't let her rest long. I awoke her with the shock baton. When that didn't work, a splash of water did. She woke to me with my tongue inside her, and the baton between the cheeks of her behind. I experimented with the lower settings for a moment, and within a few seconds found I could shock her to climax. What fun. Then I was ready to start the tongue-fucking. I try to control my language. But that's what I was doing; tongue-fucking her. I slid noisily in and out. She dared not move. I didn't even have to activate the baton anymore, just a nudge pushed her hips toward me. To my delight, the less-intense stimulation had her back to her senses enough to feel violated again, as indicated by the conquered mewling sounds. I worked on her for as long as I could force myself to remain on my knees like that. Then I just obliterated her. I sucked her clitoris into my mouth and right against my tongue. Two fingers inside and she was screaming once more. Low-grade shocks in time with my fingers, constant tongue-lashing and attention to her sweet spot had her hanging limply again. I worked on her for another fifteen minutes I think, until my neck was tired. She woke on her back, on a mattress I also salvaged from the immediate area. Her wrists were now chained to her ankles, the spreader bar remaining. I nudged her with my toe to get her attention. I was sitting on the desk over her. She coughed. The bit gag was out. Her eyes found me, the rest of her too exhausted to move. I was still naked, smiling sweetly, legs slightly apart, still shiny with wetness. It was my turn. I stepped down, making sure a few drops of my juices landed on and around her face. I also made sure she saw I still had the baton as knelt over her, facing her legs. One of the things I'd made sure to tell her while she was entranced was that her jaws were too weak to bite me. I'm glad I came up with that one, I'd be missing something if I'd had to learn through experience. If she'd tried to take a chunk out of my anatomy, she would have found her teeth just couldn't quite come together. But she didn't try. What she did do was try to avoid me as I lowered myself over her, until she felt the bulb of the shock wand rest on her womanhood, threateningly. She stuck her tongue out with a yelp. No foreplay. I was hungry enough just preparing the meal, chaining her up had me aroused already. The tip of the rod resting on her clitoris, she began the inglorious task of learning to perform oral sex on a woman under duress. Somehow an unskilled mouth is even more enticing to me than a seasoned one. I'm not hard to work on, I'll put the part I want taken care of on your tongue. It's how fast they learn, transforming into something less innocent than they were yesterday. Even if she's just afraid of feeling a sharp tingle in her most sensitive place. Which she did. This sparked her to real greatness. I remember catching myself on her knees as I half-leaned half-fell forward to give her a better angle. She was making it up as she went along, but worked. I was even rewarding her, rubbing her clitoris with the threatening-tool, the fear or pleasure, one of the two, inspiring her further. I was having orgasms already. But I kept her on task. Her breasts were mine to grab, her thighs mine to lick, I'd even inserted the vaguely-phallic baton into her vagina as an incentive, which I was not too ashamed to leave on its lowest setting as I steadily fucked her with it. She was cumming. I remember feeling some of the electricity on my hand as she squirted on it. It didn't stop me. Or her. Her tongue found its own way now, to my clit, inside me, to other places...and everyone thought the Raiders couldn't get more depraved. And now I was steadily cumming too. I lost track of how long this lasted. I think the sun was coming up by the time I'd finally dismounted. I drank back all the fluid I'd squirted out, stood my slave up and "helped" her do the same. I noticed a little more appreciation for it this time. I somehow felt absolved. It meant I could afford my last sin. Pride. I can't count how many offenses I've committed in the story thus far that violate every religion and societal rule that no one cares about anymore. There are about seven of them in this ancient fiction book my mother liked, not nearly enough to truly level proper condemnation. But this last one always sticks out in my mind. If you asked me now I couldn't tell you exactly why I do it. But before I released my catch, I had to do it. My last tool. I think it was a soldering iron once. Now it just served to heat the steel plate I'd rigged up to it, with which I pressed to the inside of the girl's ankle before she could regain her strength. I kind of felt bad, so I threw water on it and tied a bandage around it, but as I lifted her defeated self up, dragged her to the door, unchained her limbs and tossed her into the wild, I knew it wouldn't be long before the dressing came off and the scar I'd branded would read clear as another sunrise. "101." Another sunset. I watched the world through a lens. Enclave. Well-armed. Power-armored. Precise. Arrogant. Doomed. I scanned, counting. One, two, three, four, five...ah. An officer. Unarmored, observing the wastes rolling away in all directions, glowering at it as if the Enclave still owned any part of it. Oblivious to being the centerpiece of my targeting reticle, a diagram of harsh reality. I smirked. No. Not you. I shot the man next to her.