Unnamed 40K Futa RP (Nilly x Chammy)

[Chamorus the Cat]

The Black Ship Obliterati pulled out of the Warp with a shudder. A pair of Emperor Class cruisers, Fury and Zeal, erupted from nowhere into the open void. Here, the Obliterati made an unusual stop, one it had not made in a century. The waiting ship, an amalgamation of blessed Human and accursed xeno technology, bore an Inquistorial seal on the fore and aft. It was less than one-tenth the Obliterati's size. Fury and Zeal were both armed with heavy cannons the size of Prodigal Son, but both feared what armaments the nimble craft could bear down with.

Vox channels exploded with binary and High Gothic chatter after the ships emerged from the warp. Inquisitor Valg's tech priest surveyed the multitudinous messages. Finally, Captain Micah of the Imperial Obliterati announced himself. "Valg," a stern, older voice said over the bridge's comms. "If that's you, you've got ten seconds to prove it."

Inquisitor Valg pulled the leather glove off of his right hand, placing it on the gene coder built into the captain's throne right arm for confirmation; a stately, feminine voice transmitted the 164-bit validation to the Obliterati's bridge. For a while, all was quiet on the vox channels. A crackle as comms reopened privately with Valg broke the silence. "Inquisitor. Make your approach. We have less than an hour."

One hour was not a terribly long time. Valg turned to his crew. "Proceed." Though he was in his second century of life serving the Emperor, Valg appeared closer to a natural age of sixty. A robust, hard-bodied sixty, but sixty nonetheless. The crew went to work immediately, pitching and yawing into position on the uppermost deck of the ship. As the great lift began to descend, bay doors closed and locked into place, shutting out the light of the nearby stars. In blackness, they rode down. The belly of the Black Ship opened for them and men of the Imperial Navy came out to greet them. Valg and his tech priest, who would guide the machine spirits in the grav-lift, stepped off of Prodigal Son's loading ramp and onto Obliterati.

Valg's cold blue stare was the only command the escort needed. They saluted sharply, making the eagle's wing over their left breast. Just as sharply, they turned as one, double-timing to the Black Cells. They passed hundreds and hundreds of gaunt psykers, each wearing a collar to dampen their warp powers. If Valg had to bet, he'd put down cold, hard gelt that their guards had to only point a device and collars in the path of the activator would detonate fatally.

Past the low-threat cells they ran, until they came to a cell where candles flickered in sconces in the wall, keeping a silent vigil. The man in charge of the escort quickly pressed his palm to a decoder on the wall. It beeped and the rune on the door flashed green. "The daemon is all yours, Inquisitor!" the man called out, saluting as he beat a hasty retreat with his group. The electronic locks began to whirr and click behind the shiny metal door. Valg noted intricate scrimshaw above the door's frame depicting an Emperor's angel slaying some sort of daemonic thing. Just above that read:

CAVEANT! MALLEUS EXTERMINATUS! CAVEANT!

The doors hissed as they came open. Cold mist poured out of the room. Silent alarms flashed red and turned the mists the color of fresh blood. The tickling of fear began to worry at Valg's throat as the mist thinned enough that he could see to progress. He stepped up to the glass cell and stared unbelieving at what was bound behind hexagrammatic warding.

Slend arms were bound above a head of bobbed white hair. Athletic muscles were stretched taut as she hung, suspended from the cylinder's cap. Her face was beautiful, smooth, with a black fleur de lis tattooed below her right eye. Her breasts were ample, each tipped with rosy nipples, hard from the cool air in the containment unit. Around her torso, acolytes had wrapped soul-binding writs on long, thin scrolls of parchment. Strangely, they'd wrapped them provocatively about her so that her breasts were uncovered, her midriff bare, along with her well-muscled, curvy thighs, between which was a long, thick cock. Around that, the writ wrapped around in a helix, once up and once down. A pair of balls hung below the shaft. The small patch of pubic hair they'd left her with was white as snow, just like her hair. The only startling thing about her, besides her good looks, was the deformity of her gender.

Valg touched the comm bead implanted under his jaw on the side of his neck. "Micah," he hailed. "What is the meaning of this? The woman is barely a mutant! If you expect to betray me after-"

"No need for that, Inquisitor, I assure you. All will be made clear to you soon." Valg wanted to argue, it was clear, but he didn't have the time.

"Alright. Get her aboard," he told the tech priest. As the grav-lift docked with the glass-and-metal prison, the woman startled awake from the loud, echoing noises. Separated from its power source, the tube's glass melted away like ice in the path of a twin-linked flamer.

Valg and the heretek had little time to appreciate the Golden Age tech - Valg was leading ahead of the grav-lifter. When they rounded into the hallway of the Black Cells, a cry went up. Princess! As they hurried down the corridor, skeletal hands were grabbing at the bars and faces were leering from the shadows beyond the bars. PRINCESS PRINCESS PRINCESS PRINCESS PRINCESS.

Everywhere was the dull thump and splash of precisely-tuned explosive collars turning brain stems into jelly. The lane they traveled on was soon a path of blood and viscera, like some sort of red carpet rolling out to welcome nobility. Valg hesitated. He glanced back. His daemon host was crying, her eyes closed as she tried to scream over the voices, to drown them out. "Stop it! Stop calling me that!" she yelled, but none of them would listen.

Valg worried he'd made an awful choice. They pushed down the kilometer-long tunnel. The river of red had stopped, but so had the woman's screams. He gave a worried backwards glance, but she appeared to be unconscious. He'd never seen a daemon host so untainted. Her abnormality, if she had not mutated recently, would have only gotten her gelded. Valg should have devoted more time to research.

Up the ramp and into the innards of Prodigal Son, Valg felt safe only after the loading ramp had closed airtight. "Store her away, enginseer; where we're going, Slaanesh plays fickle." Valg turned to his navigator, a female xeno from one of the disjointed Eldar factions. She wore a mesh bodyglove that left nothing to the imagination. "Prep us for the Webway - we must go as soon as-"

Captain Micah was standing on the Son's bridge. "-as soon as possible to escape this deathtrap?" the visibly older captain finished for him. He was tall, with gaunt, angular features. His hair was black but gray at the roots. "Because we do not have long," he explained. He pressed his throat and binary gibberish left his open mouth. A floating servo skull chittered back. "You see, the prisoners have escaped and will soon overrun the bridge. However, Captain Micah Orvus was a true servant of the Emperor, willing to sacrifice his life in order to keep Obliterati out of the hands of witches sworn to Chaos." Micah swished the amasec in his glass while smiling like the smug bastard he was. Valg began to piece together Micah's story as Inquisitorial ships ripped through the Aether and into the real void. The cloaked Prodigal Son left realspace in a whisper, jumping lightyears away through the Webway.

Elsewhere...

Nitch strolled across the plush red carpet that lead to the bridge. When the collars had fallen off of him and the others, a sea of witches flowed out of cells that had been psyked open. They fell upon their oppressors, some feasting, some raping. Nitch had swayed them with his words and lead his fellow witches towards the bridge. After that, he promised, they'd eat like kings and fuck and settle a planet just for themselves. A trio of knockers, some of the psykers who made the doors of their cells open, sat near the thick door barring entrance to the bridge.

"Almost got it, they has," the fat, pointy-toothed pyro told him. He was chewing a seared haunch of meat that Nitch hoped had come from the galley. Pig had made himself Nitch's right-hand man; Pig could smell opportunity, even if he had no nose. Or eyebrows. Or ears, or hair. Pyromancers usually had good sense of fire's dangers. Pig didn't have that, either.

The heavy locks hidden within the door were squealing in protests. A knocker groaned and fainted. Then another. The last one was quiet. Where the others had been hammering ath the locks, this one was looking for weaknesses. Nitch could see him locking up gears somehow, to work a little further without fear of undoing his progress. "Got it," the knocker announced.

Inside, the free men stumbled upon a massacre. Four servitors whirled on the opening door. clickclickclickclickclickclickclick They had expended their belt-fed ammunition for their autoguns and had no further programming to work from. Pig kicked them over easily enough, roasting a few of them with his fires. One continued to screech in binary as it spasmed on the floor. The knocker watched it while Nitch and others searched through the corpses.

"The fuck happened here?" someone asked as Nitch lifted a data slate from one of the dead officers.

"Dunno. Think it has anything to do with this one counting backwards?" the knocker asked, pointing at the servitor with spasms. Pig laughed nervously but looked around for Nitch who would have an answers. Nitch wasn't around. When everyone finally realized the world of hurt they were in and started to run, it was too late. The explosion hurled pieces of the bridge, the officers, and the psykers into space.

For Nitch, though, the world moved at a snail's pace. He outran the blast waves and heat the explosion gave off. His body ached as he continued to run as the detonation ebbed. He ran until people were beginning to understand the sound they'd just heard. He ran until he was safely inside the officer's escape vessel. As the world began to run at its normal pace, Nitch's escape vessel launched out into the void, away from the splintering Black Ship. Nitch wiped his nose to mop up the blood that had poured out of it; he'd not been able to go fast in years, but it still made him bleed when he did.

He lifted the data slate for a closer look. The last transmitted message had a very familiar face on it, one that he knew was not on the bridge because he had seen this face, this man, heading in the direction the Inquisitor and his lackey had gone with that cylindrical thing. Nitch hit the rune to play the message.

"This is Captain Micah Orvus, of the Imperial Black Ship Obliterati; we are beset by the Emperor's tithed witches that have escaped. I am resolved in my faith and my duty; these blashphemers will not use Obliterati against the Imperium of Man. Should the guard fail us, I have set explosive counter measures that-"

Elsewhere...

The Prodigal Son slipped back into realspace. Valg had himself a second glass of amasec. "You came too late, is all, Inquisitor. Their warp signatures showed they were very close. Had I been caught, why, I do not know how long they might interrogate me, but at some point, I would have given them your name," Micah taunted. Inquisitor Valg Zek drew his bolt pistol and leveled it on his one-time ally who'd made himself an incredible burden to a radical-minded Inquisitor.

"Cross me again, Micah, and I'll make it easier for you to convince our pursuers that you did die on Obliterati."

 

[Nihilistic_Impact]

Descending from the heretical designed ship, the Prodigal Son, along with the Inquisitor Valg was a mass of machinery. Each ponderous step was slow and methodical; but of such a stride that it easily matched pace with the man to its fore. With every step gears spun up, latched and released with a whirl of motion. Gas vented and billowed out the form of a rust coloured robe, the distinctive embroidered crenellations of a cog revealed what Order the construct belonged to; but it was the combination mechanical-biological skull that declared the ranke of Tech-Priest of the Adeptus Mechanicus. Known to Inquisitor Valg as Enginseer Masoch.

Though he walked he made no motion to the escort, no word to his comrade, not a single vocalisation. Impassive and inconsiderate he ignored the rows upon rows of what once might have been subjects for any number of experiments; but these specimens were to be fuel. Nothing but kindling for the great psyker flame that burned away the darkness of the immaterium. They were to burn in the same guiding light that directed them to their deaths, gallows humour which while mentally noted was not remarked upon. What did interest Masoch though was the bio-auspex readings he recorded of the Inquisitor as they approached the subject of their venture.

Memory banks were quickly searched, scouring files of relevant details of their new prisoner. An Adepta Sororitas, Anastasia, cast in the mould of an Amazon Warrior of ancient Terra, long before the Dark Age and the Techno-Barbarians; a physically fit specimen of peculiar mutation. Not one of the Hospitaller Order members, she, for that was the gender designated, was of the Orders Militant. The enforcer of the Holy God Emperor's Will by writ of the Ecclesiarchy's numerous and often contradictory interpretations.

Valg's words gained no sympathy from their third compatriot; but did produce an unusual response from the Tech-Priest. It was like static, short bursts of intense noise echoed through the chamber and down the passageways. For a moment someone could be convinced it was just faulty equipment; but it lasted too long and had too steady a rhythm. Masoch was laughing at the discomfort of an Inquisitor, even as he moved to obey his orders.

From his biological signs Inquisitor Valg's nerves where beginning to fray. They were gambling here and with each passing moment the scene became set for a violent confrontation. The cries and river of blood did nothing to stop the escalation and only caused panic and revulsion within the Sister of Battle who cried over her first human contact in such a long time. It proved too much and she eventually collapsed as the party neared their ship.

As they boarded the Prodigal Son Valg barked another order as Masoch, who's only response was a titanic shrug which formed into a slouch as the primary power source shut down, energy bled from system to system and the giant was stilled. To accompany this act was the soft, feminine voice of the true Masoch:

"In the Delta Ward then."

There was a deathly quality to the voice, akin to that of atmosphere escaping from a tiny slit in one's void suit. With data slate in hand Masoch stepped into view, into the bright lights designed to reveal all details and prevent any would be intruders from lurking in the shadows.

Her built was strong, though slender and ample in equal parts. The strength being provided by the augmentation naturally received by one of her rank and title; but it was unobtrusive. Slight protrusions bellow her floating ribs gave way to slender pipes that arced into her spinal mounted servo harness. Data ports and auspex sensors were built into her left arm while the right was completely mechanical, either from the Dark Age of Technology or some Xeno design for its fluid shape had none of the clumsiness associated with the Mechanicus. Her eyes moved with robotic enhancement, though at a glance were just a dead shade of grey, and her body was completely hairless; but an illusion of hair was granted by a series of data cables bound together at the back of her head in an elaborate pony tail of dancing lights as information travelled from root to tip.

Why Masoch felt the need to conceal herself thus were her own reasons; how she was able to control the construct through void shield, metres of armour and the most advance electronic counter measures known to the Imperium was a technological mystery. Perhaps though it had something to do with her tendency to forgo clothing entirely. Instead she had tattooed her entire body, or had simply chemically altered the surface skin cells, to a dull rust red. Upon this canvas she had painted the intricate designs of gears, cogs, springs and levers, all in alabaster white. Her body was like the map of a watchmaker's designs. When the odd mood struck her she would boast how all of her knowledge was locked within her skin.

With gentle steps though she stepped towards the sleeping warrior, their new host, a most suitable subject for the predations of Slaanesh, that Prince of Pleasure. With ungentle manipulators she plucked Anastasia from where she laid and lifted her high by her bound arms and had her feet dragged behind them.

It took little time to reach Delta Ward; but Masoch was not so keen on ending her confrontation early. While the women still laid out of her mind and body in new surroundings the Tech-Priest removed the lines of scripture. With her hands and mechadendrites she stroked and prodded the Adepta Sororitas. Collecting new biological information for study and contemplation.

When that was done though the servo harness moved and hosted the limp form once more into the recycled air. Pentagrammic warded irons were locked into place, pinning arms and legs spread eagle against a wall. Careful attention was paid though to the mutation, with a weighted collar clasped tight about the testicles Masoch moved up the body, trailing her index finger from groin to bosom. With a flick and quick application of suction provided by her mouth Anastasia's nipples were as perked as they had been in the cold of the Black Ship. To them were attached clamps which could easily be tighten.

With a step back Masoch admired her work, it was simple and basic and almost crude; but it had a charm all of its own, things would progress in their due course.

"Now then, it is almost time for you to awaken."

Coiling from the base of her spine a metal tendril swayed between the pair, then darted into the Sister of Battles neck. An cocktail of stims designed to increase nerve sensitivity were injected and coursed through the blood stream tell the women awoken from the sound of her own heart thudding in her chest. Before any word of confusion could be spoken Masoch broached the distanced.

"There there, you poor little thing. I know how you're feeling. My auspex tells me all that you feel. Doesn't it just give you a tinge?"

Fingers slid down a face, words were forced down a throat.

"You can feel it. I know you can, I already told you."

Still lower the fingers moved, dragging plastic nails across living flesh. Caressing each in turn, holding its weight, kneading it, provoking intense sensation.

"What's happening to you? Don't fear, this is the fun part. The not so fun part is when mean Valg comes through those door. Then it's an interrogation."

With a lunge the hand shot for Anastasia's member, the mutation that had been the cause of all her troubles to date, and it came alive beneath Masoch's fingers. It was limp at first; but blood flooded the tissues and it stiffened, rising to an impressive salute.

"Oh, I knew you'd agree with me."

Masoch brushed her chest against her captive's, her nipples hardened by the rough edges of the clamps. Up and down, left to right tell the heat of the action produced beads of sweat and sex. With her torso grinding against the Amazon's white thigh her hand worked the shaft of the cock. Small tendrils danced like tinny mechanical tongues from the augmetic palm. At first it was slow; but it quickly built speed.

Soon the thigh was slick was the Tech-Priest biological cunt juices, droll dribbled at the corners of her mouth as she buried teeth into the neck of her woman. For that was what the Sister of Battle was, the Tech-Priest's subject, not Inquisitor Valg, or Micah's, hers, Masoch's. But when Masoch felt Anastasia to be about to relieve herself her anger flared and the hand tightened, not a droplet of cum was to be spent, not tell she commanded it.

"Not yet my pet."

Masoch had already taken her pleasure once, the sensation of a human body was far more enjoyable then the coldness of the Xeno Eldar, and she intended to take it again; and only then could her pet have her release.

With frantic motions and pure hormonal impulse Masoch orgasmed, spraying bodily fluid with the action all over the bound Anastasia. The arch of her body angled the ejaculate to cover from tip of head to the flat of her stomach. In the act Masoch caught rebound as her sex and sweat mingled into a toxic musk of aphrodisiac properties.

"Now you can."

And not to be out done the massive cock jumped in her hand and let loose a torrent of thick, looping coils of sperm. It was hot on their skin and dribbled down their faces. With a smile Masoch licked at the corner of her mouth, tasting the salty treat.

"And now the fun is ended; bye pet."

Leaving her there, a mess of shared sex, cum and sweat, Masoch went to her own chamber to clean herself. It was to be a slow, languid act with many repeated fantasies. All recorded to her memory to be played again and again. She pleasured herself as Valg set about preparation for the binding rituals.

Breathless and heavy she swore to herself as her mind turned to treason:

"That women will be mine to do with."

 

[Chamorus the Cat]

"God Emperor!" she called out, when the agony was too much. The heretek was as awful to her as everyone else had been. She had merely wanted to serve, that was all. Then... then her physiology had changed so much in such a short time. She never should have told the hospitaler. It could have been kept to herself for some time.

When Valg came, though, she cried harder than she ever thought she could. He'd hit her with a cold jet of water when he found her filthy; he blamed her for that and slapped her with the back of his hand. The narcotics had made the cold water physically hurt her when it hit her. Oh, how painful it was when he hit her! Her ears rang from the impact. She had some trouble straightening back up after receiving the blow. She was already panting...

Anastraza blinked her eyes opened as Valg asked a pointed question. "...what?" she asked in reply, the ringing too loud in her ears to understand. He cuffed her again and this time she listened harder. "I've... I've been a mutant since I was born," she swore in reply. The hit came hard and she sang a different tune when he asked again. "Nine! Nine, I'm sorry!" she wept, but he didn't buy.

The razors were the worst, digging into soft flesh everywhere she didn't want razors to be. She had scored a dozen little cuts and he'd poured amasec into each one in order to verify the truth of her final claim. He learned that, shortly after taking up the bolter in the Emperor's name, Anastraza had undergone a strange transformation...

"Please... Please stop," she begged. In the end, Valg left her along in the dark. She trembled, shaking her head, wishing she could just cover her eyes. Pink and purple lights danced in her eyes and all around her, unseen by anyone but herself. Anastraza kept her chin as high as she could manage, trying to ignore the pain and humiliation she'd suffered.

 

[Nihilistic_Impact]

Masoch sat in the dark, her mind drifting through her biological thoughts and organising search functions in the mechanical. The rites would be soon upon them all and there was precious little time to implement the disjointed plan that was beginning to take form. With sudden motion she was up, unto her feet and across the room; lights bloomed as with deft touches she keyed the lock to a suspended animation cell. Cold flooded the combination work area and classical cell, the accommodations given way to the needs of science, and light was cast off from the radiant interior.

By the light of the unit Masoch gathered up an artefact of another age, an item of a previous experiment that Inquisitor Valg had seen conducted. It was the bust of man, white as marble with the glimmer of ice crystals weeping into their liquid state with the warmth of the room. The Tech-Priestess had not created this object; but she had given it new life. A life full of malice, hatred and boredom, the emotions cast from piercing blood eyes that regarded the Heretek. With no movement or shifting of lips nor jaw it spoke directly into her mind:

"Magos, you awaken me again in such a pitiful state. When will you provide me with all that I deserve and warrant from my station?"

"Daemon, you shall have it; but only upon the completion of this task I now set before you. It must be done to my satisfaction or I shall have to employ the Geller Fields. You have seen what they can do and know the phantom pain."

"There is no call for threats, state your demands and set me loose to enact them."

"In time Temeluchus, in time. For now though know that you shall have your freedom."

With the bargain struck Masoch began to state the details and finer nuisances of their agreement. To broker with a Tzeenchtian Daemon was to gamble long odds; but necessity and supreme confidence fuel the Tech-Priestess in her wild abandon of more principle means. A short time passed and all points had been covered, she dressed in preparation for the up-coming ceremony in a tabard of rust red colouration and ruinic signs of Slaanesh. Her harness was larger it seemed; but no new appendage fluttered about as she made her way once more to the Delta Ward.

Once more to see her lovely Anastraza, and doom the foolish Inquisitor.

 

[Chamorus the Cat]

Anastraza's head began to buzz with whispers. A feminine voice soon taunted her.

The inhuman one managed to bring you many pleasures... And the Inquisitor. Ooh, he's a handsome one, isn't he, with those sharp blades...

"Silence."

Oh-ho, so you'd like... I smell an old friend lingering nearby. The heretek is up to something. She is your way out, if that's what you desire. Be wary of my friend, though... I could give you his true name, if you wanted. But... you'd have to agree to our little pact...

"Silence!"

No? Why is it you don't want to hear out my little bargain? Are you afraid of Slaanesh's uses for you? I can guarantee that my friend's master would not treat you so kindly.

Anastraza fell quiet. She knew that the beast that resided in her would not leave her be. Not until she relented. She prayed, begging the God Emperor for the tiniest bit of mercy, even a clean death before her taint grew too much. The panel beside the door made a dull tone and the interface flashed from red to green. The door hissed and in came the Inquisitor with his retinue...