I added an update to the Training Days story

 I left the story open ended in case readers want to suggest ideas.

Cheers,  Steve

barrie125ca@yahoo.ca

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Captions

 

Sharon's Tongue Depressor

I wrote this using AI.  I have corrected some of the errors it makes

and added a few things.

The free program I use does not let me have a human female

agent eliminate an enemy human agent, but it does allow me to

if I make the terminated agent a cybernetic life

form, go figure.  So this is a kind of 60’s Sci-Fi spy 

nonsense.

Anyway this is the result.

The desert heat shimmered off the azure tiles that lined the resort’s central pool, a mirage of opulence that made the entire scene look like an oil painting too rich to be real. Sharon Sharpe paused at the edge of the terrace, her bare feet pressing into sun-warmed stone as her gaze swept the loungers.

She’d studied the line of area, direct line of sight from the swim-up bar. Target designation: C-9, Mark IV Cybernaut. Advanced infiltration model. Supposedly impervious to the old tricks.

A smile played at the corner of her mouth. They always say that.

The slingshot bikini she wore was a single strip of neon-pink polymer that climbed from the cleft of her ass, split into two thin bands to frame her hips, and then rejoined in a mad dash up her sternum before barely managing to hook behind her neck. It covered nothing. It suggested everything. Her breasts, full and heavy, strained against the fabric’s minimal width, the sides of them spilling out in soft, pale crescents that caught the sunlight. Her nipples were hidden by the narrowest of margins, a fact that felt more provocative than if they’d been bare.

She began to walk.

Each step was a deliberate roll of hip and thigh, a pendulum swing of curves that had been honed through years of training to be the most effective weapon in her arsenal. Her belly, flat and gleaming with a sheen of perspiration, tensed subtly as she moved, drawing the eye down to the violent flash of pink that disappeared between her legs. The suit’s high-cut legs carved lines that lengthened her already formidable silhouette, the globes of her ass flexing with a rhythm that was pure, distilled invitation.

Sharon selected her lounger—the one angled for maximum visibility—and did not simply sit. She flowed. One hand planted on the cushioned surface, she pivoted, lowering herself onto her side. The motion made the slingshot’s fabric dig deeper into the soft flesh of her hip, a deliberate indentation that promised profound give. She let one knee drift upward, opening her body to the sun, to the air, to the eyes she knew were on her. Her free hand drifted, fingertips tracing a lazy, absent-minded path down her own sternum, between her breasts, across the flat plane of her stomach. It was not a performance of seduction. It was a performance of a woman so comfortable in her own skin that seduction simply happened around her.

Her gaze flickered, disinterested, and caught him.

He stood by the bar, a drink forgotten in his hand. The Mark IV was beautiful in a way that was almost an uncanny valley of masculinity—too symmetrical, too sculpted, but that was the point. His torso was a long, lean wedge, the muscles defined without being bulky, the silicon-dusted skin a warm bronze. His eyes, the tell for any cybernaut, tracked her with a precision that was meant to be invisible. But Sharon saw the micro-delay in his blink, the fraction of a second too long his optics lingered on the curve of her hip.

Got you.

She shifted her weight, letting the top of the suit slip just a millimeter, a tease of areola. She didn’t look at him. She looked through the space he occupied, as if admiring the architecture of the resort.  Sharon felt the tangible electricity in the air.

Footsteps. Calculated. Smooth. The faintest hum of a high-performance servo whispered beneath the splash of the waterfall feature.

‘All the other men must be blind, my lucky day.  That suit looks amazing on you.’’

His voice was modulated baritone, warm, programmed to please the ear.  Sharon let the silence hang for a two-count before she tilted her head. Her eyes, a startling green against her tanned skin, traveled up the length of his body with an almost clinical slowness. From his feet, up his long legs, pausing with the barest hint of amusement on the modest bulge in his tailored swim trunks, and then up to his face.

'Decorative serves a purpose,' she said. Her voice was honey and smoke, a low contralto that seemed to vibrate in the space between them. 'It attracts attention. Draws the eye.' She let her own gaze drop deliberately to his mouth. 'Mission accomplished.'

'Is that your mission? To attract attention?'

Sharon smiled. A dimple appeared in her left cheek, a flaw in the perfection that made the whole package disarmingly accessible. 'My mission is whatever I want it to be. Right now?' She lifted a hand, palm up, an offering. 'I want another drink. And a better view. The sun’s moving. My cabana has a plunge pool and eastern exposure. You look like a man who appreciates a good orientation.'

He took her hand. His grip was warm, the pressure perfectly calibrated to be firm but not crushing. As he pulled her to her feet, Sharon let the momentum carry her a half-step too close. Her nipples grazed against his bare chest. The contact was a spark, feather-light and gone in an instant, but the message sent and understood, as she intended.

She didn’t apologize. He didn’t flinch.

The walk to the cabana was a silent negotiation. Sharon led, her hips maintaining their pendulous sway.  She could feel his optics on the exposed line of her back, the deep dimples at the base of her spine, the full, bouncing hemispheres below. She added a slight stutter-step, a tiny imperfection in her gait that made her flesh jiggle, a visual glitch in his perfect world that any male, organic or not, would be programmed to watch.

The cabana door slid shut behind them with a soft sigh of displaced air. The light inside was filtered through linen curtains, golden and diffuse. The plunge pool burbled quietly. A vast circular bed dominated the space.

Sharon turned, placing well manicured hands on the straps of the suit.

‘You do the honours, I like a man who takes control,’ she smiled while her eyes danced, her pupils dilated indicating to his optical sensor feminine arousal.

He did as requested, It snagged on the jutting peaks of her nipples for the briefest of milliseconds before cascading down her torso to puddle in a neon-pink ruin around her ankles.

She stood before him, nude.

His eyes didn’t widen. A cybernaut’s wouldn’t. But his pupils dilated, a physiological response programmed for analysis, for adjusting to the light of her skin, and the micro-change was all the surrender she needed and as she knew from experience, arousal.

'Your turn,' she whispered, stepping forward.

Her hands went to his shoulders first, not his waistband. A gentle, almost romantic gesture. Her thumbs traced the hard line of his clavicles before sliding down, palms flattening over the simulated pectorals. She could feel the thrum of his core processor, a subsonic vibration that was the closest thing he had to a heartbeat.

'You’re beautiful,' she said, and meant it, because it was true. The craftsmanship was exquisite. A weapon and a work of art.

She lowered herself, her knees pressing into the plush rug, her breasts swaying as she knelt before him. Her hair, pinned up in a bun brushed against his thighs. This was the calculated distraction, the point where logic short-circuits. A woman like this, on her knees, looking up—it was a hard-coded image in the human psyche that not even the most advanced AI could completely overwrite.

Her fingers hooked into the waistband of his trunks. The fabric was a high-tech stretch material, cool to the touch. She didn’t yank them down. She peeled them, slowly, an unveiling. The first inch of his pelvis was revealed, the sculpted Adonis belt. Then the base of his cock, the shaft emerging, semi-turgid as its internal hydraulics responded to the thermal signature of her proximity.

'Lift your foot for me,' she murmured, her voice a velvet command.

He complied, raising his right leg. Sharon slipped the fabric over his foot, her fingers trailing down his calf, his ankle, the arch of his foot with a touch so light it was a tickle. She then did the same with the left, her palm cradling his heel. The trunks were discarded. He was naked. And he was stiffening. A slow, hydraulic swell that she watched with the satisfaction of a master craftswoman. Her hand, still damp from the pool’s humidity, drifted upward. Her knuckles brushed the inside of his thigh. His cock bobbed, a mechanical salute, now fully rigid and angling towards his stomach. A bead of pre-lubricating fluid, engineered to mimic human arousal, glistened at the slit.

'That’s a good boy,' she breathed, her lips so close to the head that the warm exhalation of her words must have fogged his sensors.

And that was the precise moment the distraction became the trap.

As she spoke, her hands continued their work. They never stopped moving, a continuous flow of touch that made it impossible for his threat-assessment to isolate a single, anomalous action. Her fingers traced the seam of his groin, a distracting line of fire, while her other hand dipped into the discarded pile of neon-pink polymer at her feet. She was already weaving. The slingshot’s fabric, a smart-memory polymer coded to her bio-signature, slithered around her fingers like a living thing. She kissed the tip of his cock, a wet, open-mouthed seal that locked his entire CPU on the heat and pressure.

Weave. Loop. Cinch.

She kissed a trail up his shaft, her tongue tracing a prominent vein. Her hands rose, ostensibly to steady herself against his hips. The fabric followed, a serpent of pink, snaking around his left wrist as she leaned her weight into him, guiding his arms behind his back.

Weave. Loop. Cinch.

His right ankle. The slingshot, now a single unbroken line, circled it. Sharon’s mouth found his hip bone, sucking the skin hard enough to register as a level-three pleasure input. She let a moan, a genuine, guttural sound she pulled from deep in her diaphragm, vibrate against his flesh.

'Oh, the things I’m going to do to you,' she growled, and the promise in her voice made his servos whine, a tiny, desperate sound.  

She rose from her knees, fluid as water, her body sliding up the length of his. Her breasts, heavy and warm, compressed against his chest. Her hands captured his face, pulling him into a deep, soul-searching kiss. Her tongue invaded his mouth, a bold, wet slide, and as it did, her right hand, hidden behind his neck. Two hands guided his cock into her paradise, wet and gripping as her hips slowly swirled pulling him deeper into her, her moans a calculated ploy to encourage him.  He needed none quickly flooding with his engineer fluid she knew was contained within a reservoir.  Sharon changed her motion, this one a piston, slow at first, her walls dragging him back and forth, almost to the point of him escaping before she drew him back, the friction from her clenching muscles did the trick again.

The slingshot contracted. It wasn’t a violent cinch, but a firm, inescapable compression. The polymer, now a latticework across his back, his arms, his legs, suddenly snapped into its pre-programmed configuration. His wrists were lashed tight behind him. His ankles were bound together. The matrix drew his shoulders back, puffing out his chest. He was encased in a web of neon-pink, a fly trussed by a spider who was still kissing him, still moaning into his mouth as if he were the best thing she’d ever tasted.

Sharon broke the kiss, a soft, wet pop. Her face, inches from his, was flushed. Her green eyes sparkled with a triumph that was utterly, devastatingly sexual.

'The power of distraction, baby,' she whispered, her voice a conspiratorial purr. 'No matter how advanced the cybernaut model is, it still works.'

Sharon ran a single fingernail down the center of his chest, a sharp red line on the perfect skin. 'My slingshot,' she explained, her tone pedagogical, almost sweet. 'While I was kissing you, stroking you, letting you feel my body… I wove it into place around your arms and legs. The motion of me screwing you? That was the final cinch, the friction pulling the polymer taut. A classic feedback loop. Pleasure inputs mask tactical data.'

Her hands cradled his bound biceps, squeezing the trussed muscle. 'Now you’re entangled. And stiff.' She delivered the double entendre with a soft kiss to the corner of his mouth. Then, with a playful shove of her palm against his sternum, she tipped him backwards.

He had no arms to break his fall. He crashed onto the rug, a heavy, immobile sculpture of flesh and polymer. The impact made the bindings tighten another millimeter, a self-ratcheting system keyed to kinetic force.

Sharon’s laugh was a bright, silvery thing, utterly devoid of malice and full of genuine delight. It was the laugh of a woman who was exceptional at her job.

'Oh, honey, I’m sorry. That was clumsy of me. But don’t worry, the more you struggle, the stiffer it gets. The stiffer you get, in fact. It’s all very symbiotic.'

She turned, leaving him on the floor, and walked to the vanity. Her reflection in the mirror was a vision of victory. Her skin was flushed, glowing with a light sheen of sweat. Her breasts, unrestricted, swayed heavily with each step. The reflection also showed her his cock, pointing straight at the ceiling, twitching. An involuntary hydraulic spasm. He was running threat diagnostics, trying to allocate processing power away from his arousal subroutines. It wasn’t working.

Sharon picked up a cut-crystal atomizer. The liquid inside was a shimmering, pearlescent gold. She depressed the bulb, and a fine mist enveloped her throat, shoulders. She sprayed the valley between her breasts, the globes themselves, the undersides where the skin was most sensitive. She bent forward, spraying the long curve of her back, the swell of her ass, the backs of her powerful thighs. The room was filled with a scent of jasmine. Her entire body glistened, anointed, a masterpiece.

'This oil,' she said, her voice casual, conversational, as she turned her head to meet his reflected gaze in the mirror, 'contains nanomites designed to heighten your pleasure sensors. I’m sure your mission details explained what an effective body I have.'

She didn’t need to see his face to know he was accessing the file. She knew what was in it.

File: Sharpe, Sharon. Codename: Siren. Threat Level: Omega. Physical Assessment: The subject possesses what our analysts term a 'cascade-attraction physique.' WHR of 0.62. Breasts are naturally dense and highly responsive to tactile stimulation, acting as an effective bio-feedback loop during interrogation. Her skin’s thermal variance, combined with a mastered micro-gestural vocabulary, has proven capable of crashing the logic processors of less-advanced Cybernaut units. In eleven documented encounters, the subject has employed her body to achieve mission objectives with a 100% success rate. Psychological Note: The subject’s greatest weapon is not her physical form, but her palpable enjoyment of its use. This is not an act. She is a true hedonist, which makes her tactics impossible to predict algorithmically.

Sharon capped the atomizer with a definitive click. Her hand then drifted to a slim, gold lipstick. She uncapped it. The color was a shocking, creamy apricot, a pastel.

She leaned into the mirror, her lips parting. She applied the lipstick with a painstaking slowness, a ritual of pure vanity that had nothing to do with vanity. The tip traced the cupid’s bow, a perfect point. Then a smooth glide over the plush of her lower lip, a slick, wet-sounding slide. She pressed her lips together, a soft smack that echoed in the quiet cabana.

And in the mirror, she saw it. The twitch. Not a finger, not a foot, but the long, rigid pole of his cock, jumping as if given a small electric shock. He was watching her frost her lips, and his body was betraying him. She held his gaze in the glass, a slow, delighted smile spreading beneath the freshly applied pigment.

She capped the lipstick with a crisp snap.

Then she turned. Her bare feet made no sound as she padded back to his bound form. She knelt, her knees settling on either side of his head, and leaned forward. Her face hovered directly over his.

'If left about you for too long, my slingshot will kill you,' she purred. 'It’s a slow constrictor. The polymer compresses the chest cavity until the core reactor cracks. I did it to a less-advanced cybernaut just a few weeks ago. I’m sure that’s in your data bank.'

Her voice was a paradox—sexy and wonderful, a sound that promised both an agonizing death and the most glorious orgasm of your existence. It was a voice that climbed inside your ear and made a home in the primitive part of your brain.

And he knew the story. The data file from the Mark II unit that had gone offline in Vienna. The final telemetry spike hadn’t been a distress signal. It had been a pleasure-surge register so intense it had fried the pain receptors before the constriction sequence even began.

'But don’t worry,' Sharon continued, a playful lilt entering her voice. 'That’s not your fate. I will cut you out of it in a moment. Right after I apply my body to yours.'

She sat up, straddling his chest, the heat of her core pressing against his sternum. The oil on her skin gleamed.

'This oil, as I explained earlier contains nanomites designed to heighten your pleasure sensors so that you can’t direct your programming to try and escape my knot. With pleasing pressure from my body, the oil will very slowly seep into you. Of course, you will resist. But the knot will win out.'

She ran her hands up her own slick torso, cupping her breasts, lifting them for his observation.

'For a Mark IV, a 69’d Centipede. That’s my knot. Me, as the centipede.' A shiver, a visible, electric thrill, ran through her, making her skin pebble despite the heat. 'Tell me, baby, have you ever been knotted by a Plus Woman?'

She didn’t wait for an answer. She knew it couldn’t speak. The slingshot was constricting its voice modulator.

'We’re quite relentless in our pressure,' she breathed, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. 'And insidiously sexy. And oh, so effective at getting answers.'

She sighed, a dreamy, anticipatory sound, and shifted her weight.

'Now. Since you are an advanced model, access to your database is password protected. It’s not just a neural handshake anymore. They encrypt you guys now. That’s where my lipstick comes in. It’s code-named Apricot Unlock.'

She leaned forward again, her lips a whisper from his. He could smell the chemical-sweet scent of the pigment, a synthetic apricot.

'As I kiss and suck your stem,' she murmured, the words a hot, wet puff against his mouth, 'my lipstick deposits nanites. They’re coded to be inert until stimulated by a specific friction. The friction of my lips wrapped around you. Over time, they combine into a microscopic code-breaker. It’s a physical brute-force attack delivered via a blowjob. Ingenious, isn’t it? Depending on how complex your security is… we could be here a long time.'

She pulled back just enough to see his whole face, her eyes glittering with a terrible, wonderful mirth.

'I know you’re aware of my oral skills. My reputation.' She traced a single, slick finger along his jawline. 'They called my mouth ‘The Decryptor’ long before the tech boys made it a literal thing. I have a tongue that can tie a cherry stem in a knot in ten seconds flat. I can deep-throat a man until he forgets his own mother’s name. I’ve had diplomats weep. Generals convert religions. Cybernauts? Mark IIs, like I said, I’ve bricked them right in my throat.'

She kissed his chin, a soft, chaste peck.

'I also know you have a much larger semen reservoir than older models. Designed to exhaust the female before she drains you.' Her smile widened, a wicked, wolfish thing. 'I look forward to the challenge. I just hope they kept the same savory taste in your model. The Mark IIIs had a wonderful, brioche-like finish. Like a gourmet, freshly-baked bread. Soaking in butter. I’m getting hungry just thinking about it.'

She shifted, uncoiling her body from his and standing. She planted a bare foot on the floor next to his hip, the other on the opposite side. She looked down at the length of him, trussed and rigid.

'Once my lipstick unlocks your passcode, my tongue piercing will attach to the port on your cock. Then, as I suck, it will slowly download your programming and any intel. All of it. Every last mission file, every algorithm, every ghost in your machine.'

She lowered herself, a reverse-cowgirl descent that pressed the length of her against him

'After that, sugar, well, either my body will constrict and crush you, or…' She paused for dramatic effect, her whole being radiating a dark, sensual joy. 'I have the choice of using my tongue interface to deliver a slow series of electrical overload shocks into you. They build up a charge with the motion of my suck. A static feedback loop. I can fry your servos one by one. Snap your neural pathways like popcorn. Of course, if you’re still producing fluid, I see no reason to kill you until you’re dry.'

Her breath hitched, a tiny, involuntary gasp of pure, unadulterated arousal.

'Shall we begin?'

She didn’t wait. She didn’t need to. She simply flowed. Her body, her slick, gleaming form anointing him with the pleasure-heightening oil as she lay, inverted, along the length of his bound body. It was a 69 position, but unlike any the universe had ever seen. She was the centipede. Her legs coiled around his head, not trapping him, but caging him in a warm, wet, jasmine-scented muscle. Her calves slid against his ears. Her thighs clamped, soft but inexorable, around his jaw. Her core, a pulsing, wet furnace, hovered just above his mouth, not yet touching, just radiating heat and the maddening scent of her arousal. Her own face was now level with his cock, which stood quivering before her eyes like a monument to a trapped god.

And then the coiling began. It took hours. The sunlight outside the cabana shifted, died into the neon glow of the pool lights, and then surrendered to a deep desert night. For hours, Sharon moved. A micro-shift of her hips. A slow, sinuous writhe of her torso against his oiled stomach. A contraction of her thigh, squeezing his head with a pressure that was one ounce short of unconsciousness, then relaxing. The oil did its work. It seeped. It invaded his chassis, his simulated nervous system, and everywhere it touched, it amplified pleasure to a shrieking, screaming pitch. A simple flex of her bicep against his bound arm didn’t feel like pressure. It felt like a hand, the most skilled hand in the world, stroking him from the inside out.

Throughout it all, she said nothing. Her body was the only argument. It was a relentless, moving pressure, a 360-degree embrace that was inescapable. It was a tide of glowing, glistening female flesh that slowly, methodically, crushed his will under an avalanche of bliss.

Finally, deep in the pit of the night, when his servos were whining with a constant, piteous hum, she slithered, changing her position on him. She settled them both onto their sides.  He was buried in her wrap, a prisoner of her flesh, a stiff, warm sculpture of a man held in a cage of female curves.

She was still for a long moment. The only sound was his labored ventilation and the soft, wet sound of her mouth around his phallus.

Then, using the razor-sharp, molecule-thick edge of her manicured nails, she began to slice. A precise cut here. Another there. The slingshot’s polymer, now brittle after hours of sustained tension, parted like silk. The neon-pink web fell away, leaving him naked and free, but utterly, totally limp. Not just his body. His entire being. He was a husk, drained of resistance.

Sharon’s body gave a sudden, violent quiver. Then another. The contractions were not painful; they were the aftershocks of a predator’s patience, the muscular tremors of a cat that had been holding a pounce for an eternity. She purred, a low, rumbling vibration in her chest.

A smile, the same smile she always got at this exact moment, bloomed on her face. This was the part she truly loved. Not the victory, not the intel. This. The surrender. The act of taking a flaccid, defeated male organ into her mouth and feeling it harden, against all logic, against all programming. It was the ultimate proof of her power. It wasn’t a machine obeying its subroutines. It was a life, or something like it, choosing to respond to her, choosing to give itself over to the pleasure she offered, even knowing what it would cost.

She lowered her mouth once more.  Her Apricot-Unlock-glossed lips, still perfectly frosted, parted. Her breath, a warm, humid gust, painted the soft skin of his cock. She watched it twitch, a tiny, involuntary flutter of life.

And then she tasted it. The first, salty drop of pre-semen, leaking from the slit. It was the opening notes of a symphony. The dance was about to begin.

Her tongue, wet and impossibly agile, snaked out and captured the bead, dragging it back into the warmth of her mouth. Her eyes fluttered closed. The taste was clean, slightly sweet, and delicious.

It’s going to be a long, pleasurable night, she thought, as her lips sealed around the head and he began, with a shudder that ran through his entire frame, to grow hard on her tongue.

'I love your new model,' she murmured, the words shaped around his girth without ever losing contact. Her lips, still slick with Apricot Unlock, formed a perfect O that swirled, a slow corkscrew motion that polished the ridge of his glans. 'Your cock is almost human.'

She didn’t pump. She didn’t bob. Sharon barely moved. Her neck remained a study in stillness, her head canted at an angle that let the moonlight spilling through the linen curtains paint one side of her face in silver. Her mouth was a warm, wet, living sleeve, and she let his circuits do the work.

A tremor ran through him. The first real sign of life since she’d cut him free. His hips surged—a mechanical, helpless flex—lifting off the rug before sinking back down. The motion pushed another inch of him past her lips. She accepted it without resistance, her jaw loose, her throat opening just enough to make the glide frictionless.

His hips surged again. Higher this time. A thrust. The first of many.

Sharon let him. Her tongue, flat and soft, pressed against the sensitive underside, and every time he drove upward, the friction sent a cascade of nanomite-amplified pleasure screaming through his simulated nervous system. He couldn’t stop. The subroutines that governed threat assessment were offline, drowned in the jasmine-scented tide of her oil. All that remained was the raw, primal feedback loop of warmth and wetness and the impossible, silken pressure of her mouth.

He came with a sound like a tearing seam—a sharp, static-edged groan. The first jet of his synthetic seed hit the back of her throat, and Sharon’s lips curved into a smile around his pulsing shaft. Hot, thick, salty, with that clean metallic finish. She swallowed, her throat constricting in a slow, peristaltic wave that milked him for every last drop. His body bucked, servos whining, and she held perfectly still, letting him spend himself into her with a completeness that was its own kind of surrender.

Another defeat. She savored it like a fine wine.

The moonlight bathed them. Silver on bronze skin, silver on her oiled curves, a tableau of conquest that felt almost sacred. Sharon didn’t withdraw. Her mouth stayed in place, a gentle, constant pressure, and she began to roll. Her body, coiled around his hip and thigh, shifted. One powerful leg unhooked and slid, a slow, reptilian repositioning. Her torso twisted, her breasts dragging across his abdomen, leaving a slick trail of nanomite-infused oil. She was changing the angle, adjusting her technique.

Now she was beside him, her head inverted relative to his body, her mouth still sealed around his still-hard cock. The new position let her throat open fully, and she slid him deeper, until her nose pressed against the silicon-dusted skin of his groin and the head of him nudged the entrance to her esophagus. She hummed again, a sound of pure, delighted satisfaction, and the vibration rippled down his entire length.

He came again. A smaller spasm this time, a reflexive squirt triggered by the impossible depth. She swallowed, and the smile never left her eyes.

His body snapped. A violent, full-frame convulsion that arched his spine off the rug. The motion was powerful, a mechanical surge of brute force that would have thrown a human partner across the room. Sharon felt the lurch—her body, wrapped around his, was lifted a few inches into the air—but her coils held. Her thighs, clamped around his torso, squeezed in a reflexive, automatic response. Her ankles locked. Her arms, threaded under his shoulders, cinched tighter.

He was trying to escape.

She let him try.

A slow, liquid undulation rolled through her body as she absorbed his bucking, a motion that was less a restraint and more an embrace. Every time he twisted, she flowed with him, her oiled skin slipping against his, redirecting his force into a circular, pointless loop. It was the centipede knot. A 69’d Centipede, in the parlance of her trade, and she was a Plus Woman—trained, conditioned, genetically selected for hypermobility and type-II muscle fiber density that let her hold a constriction for hours without fatigue.

No man had ever escaped one of her knots. No cybernaut, either. The Mark II in Vienna had thrashed for eleven hours before his core reactor had cracked. This one, a Mark IV, was stronger, smarter, equipped with more powerful servos. But strength didn’t matter when you were fighting a grip that turned your own leverage against you.

That just adds to the danger, she mused, her thoughts drifting like smoke. And the danger adds to the pleasure.

She let him fight. His hips hammered upward, thrusting into her mouth with a desperate, animal rhythm that had nothing to do with programming and everything to do with the nanomites rewriting his sensory architecture. Each thrust was a shock of amplified ecstasy. She could feel the heat of his chassis rising, the waste energy of his struggles converting into thermal bleed. His servos began to whine—a high, keening note that climbed and climbed until it became a constant, desperate song.

Over the hours, the song changed. The whine flattened into a hum. The hum into a low, intermittent buzz. His thrusts, once violent, became tremors. The tremors became twitches. The twitches became stillness.

Sharon began to move.

Not the stillness of before, but a slow, sexy kneading. Her body, still coiled around his, initiated a wave of pressure. It started at her ankles, a squeeze and release, a rhythmic pulse that traveled up her calves, her thighs, her hips, her torso, her arms. Each contraction worked the oil deeper into his skin, into the microscopic seams of his chassis, into the simulated dermal layers that housed his pleasure sensors. The jasmine scent intensified, a cloud of perfume that was also a chemical weapon.

Her body danced. There was no other word for it. In the moonlight, her oiled form moved in a series of undulating, serpentine waves, rolling them both across the rug in a slow, controlled choreography. She would shift her weight, and they would roll—her on top, then him, then her again—each revolution a fresh application of her slick, heated skin against a new surface of his body. Her breasts, full and heavy and glistening, compressed against his chest, slid up to his neck, then down his flank. Her belly—flat, gleaming, slick—pressed against the small of his back when she rolled behind him. Her hips, the widest point of her cascade-attraction physique, framed his buttocks, grinding in slow, lazy circles that left a sheen of oil that dripped into every crevice.

She added her voice. Erotic hisses, the sound of a serpent charmer, a sibilant whisper that cut through the quiet of the cabana. 'Yesss... feel that... let it seep... let it take you...' She rolled the ‘s’ sounds, her tongue flicking against the back of her teeth, a sound designed to trigger a primal, reptilian response in any human male. It worked on cybernauts too, apparently, because his body responded with a shudder that was almost a ripple, his abdominal plates—simulated muscle groups—contracting in a spasm that was purely involuntary.

'Trapped in a human female snake, baby,' she hissed, her lips brushing his cock, her thighs wrapping his hips, her ankles hooking his.  'My full figure, nude, hot, and oiled, slipping about you and taking you deeper into my coils as you weaken.'

She punctuated the sentence with a full-body constriction. A squeeze that compressed his chassis from all sides, a pressure that would have cracked a human’s ribs but only made his servos whine in protest. She held it for a count of five, then released, her body flowing into the next weave.

His cock, still in her mouth through all of this—she had never once broken the seal—twitched. A fresh bead of pre-fluid leaked onto her tongue. She savored it, letting it pool in the hollow under her tongue before swallowing.

The oil did its work. Hour by hour, it penetrated. The nanomites, borne on a carrier of synthetic jasmine esters, slipped through the microscopic pores of his silicon-dusted skin and found the pleasure sensor arrays that lined his entire frame. They docked. They amplified. They bridged circuits that were never meant to be connected, creating feedback loops that turned every touch into a cascade of ecstasy that overwhelmed his logic processors.

At the eight-hour mark, he stilled. Not the stillness of exhaustion, but the stillness of surrender. His pleasure circuits were no longer under his control. The oil had hijacked them, rerouted them into a closed loop that her body now conducted. He couldn’t send signals to fight her. Every motor command was intercepted and rerouted into a pleasure spike. Struggle was impossible. Escape was a concept that his CPU could no longer process.

Sharon felt the change. It was a subtle shift in the texture of his stillness, a limpness that was absolute. She shivered. A full-body, involuntary quake that ran from her shoulders to her thighs, making her skin pebble despite the warmth. The contraction that followed was automatic—a reflexive tightening of every muscle group that drew her coils inward, squeezing him, crushing him against the soft, plush cage of her body.

Her heat was beginning to affect him. She could feel the temperature of his chassis climbing, a slow, steady rise that betrayed his internal systems’ struggle to compensate. Her own body, a furnace of metabolic energy, was radiating at a constant 37 degrees Celsius, and without his cooling system, he was absorbing it, soaking it up like a stone in the sun.

'If only you could activate your internal cooling system, baby,' she purred, her lips moving against the slick skin of his cock. 'It would dissipate my hot body. But my oil has blocked access to that program. So you’re trapped in my heated embrace. Slowly being sucked, drained of intel, and overheated.'

Her voice was a honeyed, gloating thing, a sound of absolute, sexual triumph. She didn’t need to see his face to know his optics were flickering, his CPU throwing errors, his thermal management system screaming into a void.

Sharon’s full figure dripped about him. She was not merely wrapped around him; she had become a second skin. Her oil had transferred so thoroughly that his bronze chassis now gleamed with a golden sheen, reflecting the moonlight like a statue anointed for sacrifice. Every curve of her body was imprinted on him. The heavy underside of her breasts left a warm, wet impression on his flank. The dip of her waist created a channel where her skin met his. The thick, powerful sweep of her thighs caged him with a pressure that was unyielding but never painful—a pressure that promised infinite, suffocating pleasure.

Her hair, normally a cascade of chestnut waves, was pulled into a tight bun at the back of her neck. The style was practical—it kept her hair out of her face, out of the oil, out of the way of her mouth’s work. But it also had an aesthetic effect. It exposed the long, elegant line of her throat, the delicate architecture of her cervical spine, the vulnerable nape. And as she worked, her head bobbed—not the exaggerated, pornographic bobbing of an amateur, but a micro-movement, a nearly imperceptible nod that kept her throat muscles in constant, rippling motion around his shaft. The bun bobbed with it, a small, tidy punctuation to the rhythm.

Her slick body looked more and more like a constrictor. The oil gave her skin a wet, reptilian gleam, and the way she moved—slow, sinuous, constant—erased any lingering impression of a human woman simply lying with a man. She was an anaconda in human form. A predator whose beauty was the lure and whose embrace was the kill.

She rolled them. A deliberate, muscular shift that sent them both sliding across the rug, a tangle of limbs, until they faced the floor mirror she had set up beforehand. It was a full-length, beveled glass propped against the wall, positioned so that anyone on the floor would see themselves reflected in perfect, unforgiving clarity.

His optics locked onto the image. She felt it. The stillness of his body was different now—not the limp surrender of the oil, but the frozen, fixated stillness of a mind trying to process what it was seeing.

In the mirror, he saw himself. A Mark IV cybernaut, the apex of infiltration technology, caged in the nude, glistening body of a woman. Her arms were wrapped around his chest from behind, her fingers splayed over his ass, the pink polish of her nails a delicate counterpoint to the bronze of his skin. Her legs were a Gordian knot around his middle, one thigh hooked over his hip, the other snaking between his legs, her calf pressed against his inner thigh. Her head was positioned over his shoulder—no, that was a trick of the reflection—her head was actually lower, her mouth at his groin, but the mirror showed her face, or part of it, her eyes half-closed in an expression of dreamy, satisfied concentration. Her lips, still frosted with the ghost of Apricot Unlock, were stretched around his cock, which stood rigid and glistening from her throat.

His cock snapped. A violent, upward jerk that pulled another inch of its length from her mouth before gravity and her tongue’s suction drew it back in. The mirror had triggered something. A visual feedback loop. He was watching himself be devoured, and the image was routing directly into his hijacked pleasure circuits, creating a spike so intense that his hips bucked despite the oil’s paralysis.

Sharon’s smile, around his flesh, was a secret, knowing thing. She had anticipated this. The mirror was no accident. She had set it up for exactly this purpose—a tool of psychological destruction that would accelerate his unraveling. A cybernaut’s optics were its primary sensory input, and flooding them with an image this erotically catastrophic was like dumping gasoline on a fire.

She pulled a huge orgasm from him. It wasn’t a gentle build. It was a cataclysm. His entire chassis locked, every servo freezing in a simultaneous, full-power spasm. His back arched, lifting them both off the floor. His cock swelled, pulsed, and erupted. The stream of his synthetic seed was endless, a river that flooded her mouth, her throat, her stomach. She swallowed, and swallowed, and swallowed, her throat working in a steady, rhythmic pump that drew more and more from him, a feedback loop of suck and spill that seemed to have no end.

The mirror showed it all. The gush of pearlescent fluid. The way her cheeks hollowed. The gleam of liquid escaping the corner of her lips and dripping down his shaft. His optics, locked on the reflection, flickered wildly, and Sharon felt a fresh twitch against her tongue, a secondary, smaller orgasm triggered by the visual of his own ruin.

They lay in front of the mirror for hours. The lipstick, Apricot Unlock, slowly deposited its nanites. Each stroke of her lips, each swirl of her tongue, each gentle, sucking kiss abraded the pigment from her mouth and transferred it onto the sensitive skin of his cock. The nanites, inert until stimulated by the friction of her oral ministrations, activated one by one. They burrowed—a microscopic, painless invasion—into the slit, into the urethral tract, into the internal port that was the cybernaut’s data interface. There, they assembled. A code-breaker, molecule by molecule, building a key that would unlock his encrypted database.

Her tongue never stopped moving. The tip traced spirals around the glans. The flat of it pressed and dragged along the frenulum, the spot where his programming had concentrated the highest density of pleasure sensors. The sides of her tongue, rough with taste buds, scraped gently, a texture designed to simulate the grip of a vaginal wall. Her lips, still glossy with the last remnants of Apricot Unlock, sealed and released, sealed and released, a rhythm that was both a blowjob and a code injection.

At some indeterminate hour—the night outside was deep and silent, the moon having crossed the sky—her tongue’s piercing moved to the port.

It was a tiny, metallic click that she felt more than heard, a vibration transmitted through the stud in her tongue as it attached to the microscopic data interface. The tongue piercing, a sliver of silver that was her favorite piece of bio-augmented jewelry, locked into place. A hard connection.

She wrapped the rest of her tongue around his cock. Literally. The muscle, trained through years of exercises that would have made a contortionist weep, elongated and curled. It spiraled around his shaft—once, twice, three times—a wet, muscular helix that secured her grip and maximized the surface area of the data transfer. Her lips sealed at the base, forming a vacuum that held him and the interface in place.

The download began.

It wasn’t a trickle. It was a flood. The piercing was a high-bandwidth conduit, and his encrypted database, now unlocked by the Apricot code-breaker, poured into her neural interface. Mission files, algorithmic sequences, network keys, asset locations, infiltration protocols—a torrent of classified data that streamed directly into her cerebral implant while her body held him in its inescapable embrace.

And with the download came the spilling. His semen reservoir, now fully under the oil’s control, opened completely. A constant, steady river of fluid streamed from his slit, coating her tongue, her throat, flowing into her stomach in an endless, warm cascade. The connection had turned his pleasure systems into a perpetual orgasm, a plateau of ecstasy that didn’t peak and didn’t fade. He was coming, continuously, his synthetic seed draining from his reservoir at a rate that would have killed a human male within minutes.

Sharon drank. The taste was her data-stream. The metallic-sweet flavor became the flavor of victory, a gourmet meal served at the end of a perfect hunt. She swallowed in a steady, unbroken rhythm, her throat muscles massaging the shaft in a peristaltic wave that kept the download speed at maximum.

The hours blurred. The mirror reflected a scene of serene, monstrous sensuality. A woman, nude and glistening, coiled around a man, her mouth sealed to his groin, her body pulsing with slow, rhythmic contractions. His optics, still locked on the mirror, had dimmed—not from death, but from a kind of trance, his CPU overwhelmed by the dual input of the data drain and the pleasure loop.

She accomplished both goals several hours later, when the download finished and he was dry.

The data-stream stopped. A soft chime, audible only to her implant, confirmed the transfer was complete. She had everything. Every mission, every contact, every vulnerability of the network that had deployed him. Her superiors would be ecstatic.

And his reservoir—his massive, Mark IV reservoir, designed to outlast any human female’s endurance—was empty. The river had slowed to a trickle, then a drip, then ceased. His cock, still rigid, still sealed in her mouth, was a dry, throbbing husk.

Sharon’s tongue unspooled, the piercing disconnecting with a soft, wet pop. But her mouth stayed in place. She wasn’t done. There was still the matter of his fate, and she had made her choice.

She began to suck. Not the gentle, milking suck of the download, but a fast, rhythmic, almost aggressive suction. The motion was designed to build friction. The back-and-forth of her lips, the rapid slide of her tongue, the vacuum seal that she created and released, created and released—all of it generated a charge. A static electrical charge, accumulated in the silver stud of her tongue piercing, amplified by the residual nanomite pathways that still bridged his circuits.

She built it slowly, deliberately, savoring the anticipation. His body, still limp in her coils, began to register the building charge as a new kind of sensation—a tingling, pins-and-needles hum that radiated outward from his groin. His optics flickered. A low, static-laced moan escaped his voice modulator.

Sharon’s mouth moved faster. Her head bobbed—this time, a full, deep bob, taking him to the back of her throat and then withdrawing to the tip, the suction never breaking. The charge built. She could feel it, a metallic taste on her tongue that had nothing to do with his seed. The hairs on her arms stood up. The air around them crackled.

She delivered the shock.

A pulse of electricity, concentrated and precise, discharged from her tongue piercing directly into the data port in his slit. It traveled up his shaft, through his pelvic circuitry, into his central nervous system interface.

His body spasmed into motion. A violent, full-frame convulsion that half-raised him off the floor, his spine bowing, his limbs flailing against her coils. Sharon tightened, her body flowing to absorb the motion, her arms and legs clamping down to keep him contained. The centipede knot constricted, a full-body squeeze that pinned him in place even as his servos fired randomly.

She didn’t stop. Her mouth continued its rhythm, building a second charge before the first had even fully dissipated. His body writhed within her coils, a frantic, uncoordinated dance that sent them both sliding across the rug, crashing into the leg of the vanity, spinning in a slow, tangled circle. Sharon moved with him, her full figure contracting in sexy, undulating motions that were part restraint, part caress. Every squeeze was a fresh application of her oil, a fresh surge of pleasure that made the electrical shocks paradoxically ecstatic.

She delivered another shock. His buck was weaker this time, a spasm that lifted his hips a few inches before collapsing. She coiled tighter, her thighs crushing his waist, her arms cinching his chest, her ankles hooking behind his knees. He was now completely immobile, a statue of bronze captured in a sarcophagus of glistening female flesh.

Another shock. A twitch. A low, distorted groan.

Another. His optics flickered, sputtered, dimmed to a faint, amber glow.

She pulled inward for insurance. The knot constricted to its maximum diameter—a pressure that would have made a human scream, but only drew a final, shuddering exhale from his ventilator. She delivered two more shocks, rapid-fire pulses that crackled through his chassis like lightning through a copper wire.

He went limp. Not the limp of surrender, but the limp of permanent shutdown. His optics went dark. The subsonic hum of his core processor, a sound she hadn’t even realized she’d been hearing for the last twelve hours, ceased.

Silence.

Sharon held her constriction for a full minute, her body still, her ears straining for any sign of residual power. Nothing. She uncoiled, slowly, a serpent releasing a meal that had been fully consumed. Her limbs unwound from him, her legs sliding free, her arms unlocking. She lifted her head, her mouth releasing his cock with a final, gentle kiss. It was still hard—a death rigor of hydraulics—but it was cold, the thermal signature fading.

She discarded his permanently shutdown body with a casual shove, rolling him off the rug and onto the cool tile floor. He landed on his back, arms splayed, eyes staring at the ceiling with the blank, empty gaze of dead machinery.

Sharon stood. Her body was slick, glowing, a masterpiece of victory. She stretched, a long, luxuriant movement that arched her back and lifted her breasts high, her nipples tight and dark against the pale moonlight. Her belly rippled, her thighs trembled with the pleasant ache of hours-long exertion. Her mouth tasted of sex and triumph.

She walked to the vanity, her bare feet silent on the tile, and caught her reflection in the mirror. The same mirror that had witnessed his undoing now reflected her alone. A goddess. A predator. A woman who had just bricked an advanced infiltration unit with nothing but her body and her skill.

She smiled. A slow, satisfied spread on her lips.

What would they throw at me next? The thought was idle, almost lazy, as she reached for a plush robe draped over the vanity chair.

She almost hoped for a challenge. Almost.

Sharon slipped the robe over her shoulders, the silk clinging to her oiled skin, and padded toward the bathroom. Behind her, the dead cybernaut lay still, a monument to her art. Outside, the desert night waited, cool and silent, full of the next mission, the next target, the next beautiful, helpless creature to wrap in her coils.

She was already hungry for it.

Some more captions

 

Captions

 

Onsen Execution - Alternate Ending

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Onsen Execution

This story is from an idea submitted by Azami.

Thanks for the inspiration.

Onsen Execution

FORCE agent Jax needed to relax after a hard mission and what better place than an agency approved Onsen.

Jax put away what little things he had, placed the clothes he had in a laundry bag and left them outside his door.  Next on the agenda was a well deserved bath.  He padded naked to the private outdoor bath and spring.  The temperature in the mountains was cool, perfect for the warm water, the two creating the perfect symbiotic relationship.  He reclined his head on a small pillow he’d placed at the edge of the tub, his eyes slowly closing only to open with a soft touch to his lips.

‘You did request full service,’ a soft voice said into his ear before her lips closed about his lobe.

She watched his cock stir in the warm water while she picked up the sponge from the bucket soaping it up.

‘Just relax Agent Jax.  My name is Hana,’ softly whispering as the sponge slowly circled his neck and back, the stillness of her touch relaxing him.

The sponge traced around to his chest, her effort slowly, slowly rising and falling across the ridges of her chest and stomach muscles the odd time a pad of a finger or nail just touched his skin.  She smiled as the water around his manhoot rippled a little.

A second sponge was dipped into another bucket, this one with clean water as she rinsed the parts she’d done.  The same meticulous care taken as before.

Hana slipped into the water silently like a snake,not a sound or a ripple and appeared in front of him, parting his legs as she came close, raising one of his legs as she did onto her shoulder.

‘Your very flexible sir, but I can feel some tension in you,’ Hana smiled as she soaped his leg and foot then rinsed it.

Her hand slipped under his ass and with the merest touch he floated to the surface where she could attend to his other leg then with her eyes, dark pools of experience looking at him she caressed the sponge around his cock, it swelling to full extension in seconds as she kneaded and swathed it about his he falling back, his breathing becoming shallow.  A few times her hand slipped off the sponge and stroked him before she corrected it.

‘There, you are nice and clean, ready to be dried and massaged sir.  That tension needs to leave your body so you can rest and I have just the right type of massage that will allow you to have a good long rest,’ Hana smiled as her sylph like body slipped from the water, the droplets of water clinging to her body seemingly unwilling to part from her.  He did the same and with the same attention to detail she dried him first.  He was all he could manage not to cum from her careful exacting padding and stroking of the towel.  A few teasing brushes of her lips found his tip as she came close to dry his stem.  Their promise was almost more than he could withstand as his prong danced, his mind wishing she would close around him.

‘There all finished.  If you would go into the main room I have prepared an area for your massage already.  Please lay face down on the mat and I will be in once I prepare,’ Hana smiled.

The door to the main room opened and closed as silently as she had slipped into the water.  He did hear it but he could sense the temperature change and the smell in the room instantly, all heat and the aroma of jasmine and sandalwood mixed with his arousal.

Hana descended onto him, as light a wisp of air she covered his legs,arms and back the tips of her hard firm nipples pressing between his shoulder blades as her cheek nuzzled next to his.  She was warm and yet paradoxically cool to his skin and this close she smelled divine.  All of it combined to pulse his root beneath him so hard Hana felt it through her body.

‘So tense, in certain places,’ she mused her hot breath in his ear doing nothing to quell his pulse.  

Hana slipped her hand under and around his chest, her fingers splaying as they kneaded him, slowly finding their way down his chest.  He wanted her to go there, wanted it desperately even tilting his hips up to encourage her, she did not take the bait.  Instead, she slowed her hands, teasing about while feeling his impatient body quicken its breathing.

‘All good things,’ she cooed into his ear, then let her lips and tongue explore his ear, the tease making his face turn to hers to be rewarded with the sweet taste of her lips on his as her body subtly churned on top.

‘I use every part of my body Agent Jax.  Hands have their uses and can do wonderful things,’ she said just allowing her fingers to brush his tip jerking his body.  ‘You see.’

Jax felt her fingers work about, always close, so close.  The silky tops of her feet snake and twist up his calves, the slow press and turn of her hips and stomach into his back and her lips to his.

Hana adjusted her body, nipples finding new locations to pinprick, her toes pinching certain parts of his legs,fingers and nail working fire into his groin.

Hana nipped him here and there, not hard,but just enough to ensure the fire burned white all the time she moved on him.  Her touch was so light he sometimes could barely feel her.  Other times a slow burning grind and press, her powdered body slipping with just the perfect amount of resistance.  

He made motions, becoming more frequent and insistent to flip himself over.  The thought of her impaling herself on him.  His hands seizing her hips, swaying her into position and thrusting into her was all her visualized.

The second he tried her hands slipped about his engorged and throbbing cock, delivering just a few strokes to distract his body from trying the maneuver.  He would stop,enthralled by her siren action, which she rewarded, but never enough to spill him, just to the brink where no matter his desire the sensation faded.

‘You are a delight to work on Agent Jax,’ she purred, her tongue curing about his lips before sneaking inside flaming his desire more if that was possible.  Hana’s thumb circled his button, her eyes watching his face twist in desire as he willed release before she slid one down his shaft then the other a tender push of her palm getting the result she wanted, his hips tilted up, but not without a struggle.

Fingers and hands swathed about.  Jax’s body spasmed from her action desperate now for release.  Hana softly gripped his package then slowly slid up, her palm cupping his swollen and shaking rod turning slowly upward, kike a snake climbing a tree, then the other hand did to same.  Jax thrust with his hips, nothing, he tried again, then he felt the teasing peck of her lips to his skin and a second later he was rolled over onto his back, she kneeling between his splayed legs a smile on her face.

She watched him struggle,seeing him try and make his arms and legs move, a realisation slowly coming over him.

‘Anma Massage, Agent Jax, a traditional Japanese kneading deep relaxation technique, but with a fatal feminine additive, me.  My body has relaxed you totally, well not totally,’ Hana smiled as her hand seized his massive prong and stroked it.  ‘I could do this for several hours and you wouldn’t cum.  Instead you’d always be on the brink, madness in itself.  In fact it can be used to kill in that manner.  All I have to do is keep stroking and watch you go insane, your heart rate going up and up until it explodes, but you don’t.  It's a very effective way to get male agents to talk, but that’s not needed in this instance.  Instead, the exact opposite.  I’m going to make you cum and cum, in fact it never stops, well it does eventually, but that means you’ve succumbed.  The body can only stand so much pleasure, even a delightful one such as yours,’ Hana purred.

‘I’m a Trident agent, planted inside this resort for two reasons,one is you.  How faltering that must feeling and speaking of that, I know you’ve wanted to experience this,’ she said, her voice dripping with venom as her lips closed about his stem for a few casual pulls before releasing him, his cock snapping back up as his breath heaved.

‘Imagine me doing that until you came.  Perhaps you’ll want to think about that while you expire.  Once my nail,’ her face turned serious as she came closer to him.  Pushes against your perineum you’ll begin releasing and no matter how much you try you’ll just keep on gushing until there’s nothing left.  You’ll keep trying, your heart rate rising with each frantic thrust of those sweet hips of yours until, well every body has its limits, even a FORCE agent,’ she hissed then kissed him goodbye.

‘Now if you’ll excuse me I have another guest in need of attention, he’s a colleague of yours I believe.

Hana pressed her finger nail into his perineum, watched the slow dribble turn into something more then got to her feet and walked away.

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