Air.
The sweet gift of oxygen. Her lungs drank of their own accord, sucking down the sterile gas as she did her owner. Alynne was hauled back from blessed oblivion into the world of pain to which she had given herself. The sensation of flight took her, of cool whistling air against her bare perspiring skin, cut mercilessly short by the sudden impact against the smooth floor. Freshly awoken, her arms were not ready to catch her fall. Alynne’s chest impacted the hard surface. Her breasts were slammed into the ground, nipples dragging against the matte blackness, tiny vessels beneath her skin bursting like fireworks. Reddish purple bruises would mark the damage and blossom across her chest in the next few minutes. Alynne moaned in pain with the little air left in her lungs, most had been knocked out by the strike. Her chest was a web of fiery stings, radiating around and into her sensitive pebbles, both hard from the abusive stimulation. Her arms swiveled with glacial slowness, maneuvering to push herself upright.
Her owner’s shoe in her back drove Alynne down.
An animal braying escaped her aching jaw. Involuntary. Uncontrolled. Pain born from the forced union between her injured bosom and the solid floor. Her abused rear, on fire, torn and bleeding, slowly shrinking from its gaping stretch, her pink interior open to the cool air, were framed by the perfect globes of her derriere—taut and convulsing from every tensed muscle in her lower body. The noxious signals in her body were diverted as before, directly into arousal, juicing her womanhood, preparing her for penetration that never came. Alynne could not consolidate two facts about her owner. He obviously found contentment, joy even, in her continued torture. His facial expression, the compounds in the sweat from his genitalia, they told a story of a man enjoying himself. Yet, he denied the manifestation of his own pleasure, distracting himself with bland note-taking. He should be immersing himself in the experience, shooting his seed, using Alynne as his receptacle.
What perversion could compel a man to deny himself in such a way? What role did he play in the Tyrell machine that would torture him so? Alynne imagined she was not the only one being tested here, her owner too was under assault, placed under the lash of his own desires every time a new Nexus was sent to him. What could she do to help him?
“There, that is the proper positioning for your kind. Beneath our feet.”
Certainly not approach him as an equal. She was less than the dirt beneath his feet. Alynne did not have any right to contemplate if her owner needed her help, yet it was what she did. It was the only thing she could do. Her sole purpose. To ensure her owner found pleasure. He mused about her nature aloud, that she was not human was obvious, he deliberated classifying Alynne as cattle, or something else? An opening. A way to prove herself. Alynne knew what she was. A pleasure slave. A willing one. A rare object, certainly much rarer than a side of beef. A cow lived for itself, passively digesting nutrition, until the day the butcher’s blade came for its fearful hide. A willing slave lived for her owner, if the butcher’s blade ever came for her, her death would be celebrated with his orgasmic groans. They were not the same. Through the pain in her compressed chest, Alynne swore she would break the chains the Tyrell Corporation had on her owner, the faceless machine that refused him the ability to indulge in her, trapping him in a prison of sterile comfort. She had experienced the man in her owner, a cold calculating creature, who found pleasure in cruelty. Alynne wanted to see the beast, the vicious rutting thing, uncaring of a Corporations requirements, interested only in its own animal needs.
The weight was lifted off her back, her orders were given. Alynne levered her prone form off the floor, into her familiar crawling stance. Her battered breasts swinging freely, her narrow shoulders stretching, taking turns to bear her weight as she crawled, knees lifting and sliding across the floor. Alynne’s calves formed the cushion upon which she sat between her owner’s legs. She caught a single, glimmering strand of precum with her mouth, before it could stain the lowered pants below his knees. Tongue out, she gently touched it against the tip of his member, swirling her appendage around his, as if tasting a new flavour of ice cream. His scent filled her, the taste of restraint. Light, almost tasteless, its texture hardly discernible from her own spit, its flavour barely detectable over his sweat. Her own saliva coated his phallus from when he pulled it out of her throat, evaporating slowly in the cool air. She moved in close, placing her lips alongside his shaft, slurping, reclaiming her excess spit, moaning her appreciation. His jewels received further tender treatment, gentle kisses as she swallowed the lubricant she had previously left on them, her soft exultation vibrating the loose skin of his scrotum.
Alynne slid, sinuously, relishing every moment she was allowed to service her owner, toward his taint, where his flavour changed. Though she had not yet touched the bud that crowned her sopping wet slit, she gasped to signal not just her willingness, but her enjoyment of cleaning her owner. A slight metallic taste spread across her tongue as she tickled his perineum, Alynne savoured it as one might a new course of an expensive meal. She added pressure, feeling for the soft knot of his prostate from the outside, circling, teasing, the warm glow of delight spreading within her. She slid up, toward the main event, her tongue firmly against his skin. His metallic taste grew stronger, salty, mixed with his sweat. His puckered sphincter, like the rest of her owner, was remarkably clean. She felt its narrow folds with her tongue, swiping each channel until the taste of his mucus disappeared. Then, with her oral muscle stretching as far as it would go, Alynne could not help but smile as she plunged it into him, as he had done with his fingers to her, but with finesse. She did it slowly, allowing his exit to draw her tongue into him, twirling, withdrawing to rinse her tongue in her mouth, swallowing his taste, before venturing forth again to probe his opening. When she was done, any other slave who tried to clean her owner would taste nothing but Alynne. She planted one final kiss on his gargantuan member before standing and circling to the front of her owner, around the other side of the table.
It seemed the monolithic slab consumed his attention, drawing her owner away, preventing him from enjoying Alynne. She guessed it held the room’s controls, its observation apparatus, the electric eye of the Corporation, both voyeuristic and incapable of passion. With both fists, Alynne engaged all of a Nexus’s musculature, and pummeled the table and its controls into the ground, her beatific smile never once left her face as the table was made one with the floor by the force of her blows.
When she was done, Alynne stood before her owner, bruised hands and forearms joining the discoloration on her breasts. Arms open, ready for an embrace.
“Now they can’t watch us. Please. Use me, Sir. You don’t have to hold back anymore. Use me to your heart’s content.”
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