Ben Esra telefonda seni boşaltmamı ister misin?
Telefon Numaram: 00237 8000 92 32
Deep Tissue Relaxation
The resupply point at India-Alpha was an area of hexagonal lead plates that could easily fit multiple battle wagons ringed by auto-zapper turrets and supply-filled steel domes.
The Sexy Scarab came to a halt ten paces from the Spider Rider — an equally spike-riddled battle wagon with zigzagging red spray markings, vital parts marked in silver. Custom etchings ran along its handles and footholds.
Once Pax and Axil got out, they started pulling the Scarab’s tarp overhead to form a shaded patio, like the Spider Rider crew had already done.
Meanwhile, Bautista and Solstice went to say hi to the other team.
Their leader Quillen was black, the bug-repellant giving his ebony skin almost a rainbow sheen. He had a white double strip tattoo running as a mohawk on his bald head, parting to hit his brows and continuing onto designs on his cheeks.
His cropped, red tool vest that matches his boots identified him as the engineer of the Riders. His tactical jockstrap was missing as he gently squatted on a teammate’s fist, roaring at the sky with his muscles at tension, glutes trembling. Precum dangled off his dicklet’s PA ring.
Bautista swaggered toward him. “If that ain’t my best fucking frenemy.”
Quillen grabbed the offered hand for a mutual chest bumping. “Beat you to the punch againaaaaung.” He staggered and his abs rolled as he worked to stay upright.
“No beating *me*, old mancunt. I got a map straight out of a Dragonfly brain. Haha, you’re sucking my fist as always.”
“Fist off, freedicker bitch. Ughhh. Gimmi a… a sec.”
Bautista stepped aside and Quillen’s dicklet sprayed piss as the man convulsed with pleasure.
By then, Solstice gave the fisting top a greeting slap on the back.
The crazy massive, light skinned man kneeling behind Quillen — looking tall even on his knees – was Arcadius, easily identified by his full-face skull mask of brushed metal with eyes behind a narrow visor. Dreadlocks were tied back behind the mask, falling onto his shoulder blades. He wore the shoulder pads of a grenadier and his jockstrap was covered with a brushed metal plate, his dicklet nearly squished flat between his huge, rippling thighs.
Arcadius had tattoos snaking his body, a full sleeve on his right arm winding to his left pec and shoulder, down his right flanks and left leg.
“How’s it hanging, faggo?” Solstice asked.
Arcadius — well known as a faggo enjoying the perks of zoner being an all-male job – let his free hand ran up Solstice’s leg to his ass. His speech was slurred but loud from behind the mask. “Never better, holeboy. Just get in line.”
Arcadius sounded almost sultry. “You or me?” The faggo placed an inhaler bottle of Thunder Bliss at his mask’s nostrils and his chest rose with a deep inhale.
Solstice moved for the Spider Rider’s dildo stockpile in anticipation. Arcadius’ deep tissue massages were mecidiyekoy escort legendary — inside and out.
Quillen still bounced on Arcadius’ fist but had moved into shallower, rolling assgasms. “So, Bautista, my dude, you got a psycho on payroll? How the fist’s that working?”
“He’s Wolfram’s boy. We’ll meet up again. Looks like you’re still zones behind on intel, as always.”
“Master, master,” came a metallic voice from around the Spider Rider. A man-high robot rolled around the battle wagon on its double tracks. The brightly shining red eye at the center of its head took in the newcomers. Stickers and spray painted dots riddled the gunmetal gray body.
“You got a Cyclops?” Bautista said, genuinely impressed.
“‘s a loan,” Quillen said. “Hops, report.”
The Cyclops moved in, holding up beige cloth. “The showers are available again and your clothing has been cleansed.”
Quillen slipped into his jockstrap without interrupting the fisting — luckily the top hem was an openable belt — and pulled on his rebreather hood, the goggles staying on his forehead.
The guy who had showered approached from the nearby hydro-dome.
Skylen was a brown-skinned polynesian on maybe half as much Juice as Pax, with a zapper rifle on his back, fixed by a harness. Sandals, jockstrap and a conical hat all in beige were contrasted with a white, gold and pink kitty muzzle he used in lieu of a bandana.
He bumped fists and chests with Pax.
“Assbrain,” Skylen said with a laugh, “you owe me an hour at the shooting range.”
Pax punched the man in the guts with enough windup to let him flex in time. “Ya dicklet-sucker owe me a pussy.”
Skylen raised his hands in surrender. “I’m gonna hammer an assgasm or five into your guts and we call it quits, huh?”
“The fist is all that about?” Axil asked, a bit shy and not like he was expecting an answer.
Skylen threw his arms around the teen, his conical hat bumping into the bald, pale skin. “Skylen’s the name, kid.”
Not letting go of the psycho, Skylen started walking. “So this mancunt tells me we’ll get two hours’a training in, so I pay for the first. Then he gets a call from a chick across town. Great, he thinks, pussy for dinner, but he got a liiiittle distracted by yours truly.”
Pax aimed a knee at the rifleman’s crotch without making contact. “He was a Roach about that hour I owed him, until the pussy found a tongue faster on the draw.”
Skylen pulled the Scarab crew members between him, fingers hooked into each other their holes. “I’m a fistin’ *menace*. ‘Specially when I’ve not had my own female in forever.”
Pax chuckled. “How’re things with Emmelyn?”
“Don’t ask, for fucking real. She’s found another freedicker so I’m a Weevil under her high heels. Hey, psycho kid, you should hang out with Yo.”
Skylen dragged them along. Bautista had dropped his purple crotch cover and was getting sucked by Quillen, whose sisli escort gaping ass was leaking lube and flexing with every breath. Arcadius and Solstice rode a double plug, ass to ass, while they chatted, legs entwined. The faggo was roaming the darker grenadier’s lower body and Solstice relaxed.
Battle wagons tended to have extendable, external facilities all around the hull. Shower heads, refrigeration, med-kits, barbells and weights, barbeques and stoves, even hammock bars if the interior was too hot and crammed to sleep in.
The last Rider crewmate was fiddling with a foot-wide black plate while the wagon recharged from five differently colored cables leading to a supply dome.
Yo was Asian with a round face and even narrower eyes than Pax’. He had an orange mohawk with a loose strand down his forehead. Green bandana, orange forearm wraps with an orange loincloth over the jockstrap, green shin guards leading to the boots.
“Yoyoyo,” Skylen said, “I brought you a kid so you can practice parenting.”
“Fist off,” Yo said before seeing the new arrivals.
Skylen grinned. “Good old Yo is getting his own little brat.”
“Congrats, man,” Axil said, unsure.
“Nah,” Yo said, “it’s not a freedicking license. Just get to donate some jizz.”
Yo and Axil slapped each other’s crotches before their chests lightly collided. Although the gunner was more lithe than muscular he could have tossed Axil to the ground with a serious bump.
Pax greeted Yo with a *real* pec-slam. “Ya gonna stick around or…”
Yo huffed. “Parenting isn’t my style. I’ll bring home the money.” He patted the Spider Rider. “Can’t wait to rip into some bugs but this crazy kitty drags every fuckass kid my way now. No offence, psycho.”
Axil put two fingers on his temple and glared. “Careful, bro. I’ll set you on fire.”
Yo slapped the teen in the forehead and brushed against the c-collar, maybe even on accident. Axil stumbled into Pax as his latent built-up unloaded.
Skylen checked a gauge. “We’re almost full up on water. You Scarabs want your shower now?”
The sounds of Dark-Hypnorush Post-noisegasm Rapefunk blasted across the lead-plated area.
Bautista, Solstice, Pax, Ferryn and Axil were stripped down to the PA rings — save for the commander with his thick meatsicle — and rubbed dry powder all over each other, letting it turn to thick foam to soak up bug-spray and sweat.
The barbell-plate looking disk Yo had worked on was a holopad, which now lay between the side-by-side tank-vans. Ferryn had set up the Scarab’s holopad, too.
With a stable connection to the network they could watch what they wanted. And what they wanted was porn. Projected females, so lifelike it was hard not to jump into the heat-radiating images.
The Rider’s pad ran a girl-gasm compilation of faux-lesbians getting each other off. The Scarab’s pad showed something from Bautista’s personal collection — his freedick-loving ex, Kristella, dancing escort taksim for him, on and off his dick.
Hops the Cyclops, kindly loaned for the task, hosed the foamed up men down with cool water as they crammed into the stream.
As soon as they were as clean as they felt the need for, every Scarab squirted lube from the dispenser and fisted his own ass slick. Axil had to snap his c-collar back on as it started beeping. His “uncontrolled five minutes” were over.
The massive faggo Arcadius — towering over the crews – and gunner Yo were grilling Nuutri Blox for everybody, hot sauce ready to lend taste.
The men assembled around the pads like a bonfire.
Soon both teams’ members knelt or squatted on cushions, eating and moaning as rubber fists and dildos — suckered into the metal ground — punched deep into their guts.
Axil, on his back, wretched and convulsed as Bautista fucked him fully down the throat. The commander was bent over the teen, fist buried in the quivering psycho’s ass. Bautista’s own cheeks were spread only by the pink plug replica of his own hand.
“Now that’s a partyyy!” Arcadius yelled under his skull helmet as he reached the base of a replica of his own *arm*, the biceps widening into a base. Piss squirted past his plated jockstrap. The other Spider Rider’s had gone nude.
Pax pushed back into a smooth dildo on a rod. He felt his face contort comically as he put all his effort into enduring the stimulation.
“Wooooooo,” Yo screamed, arms raised as he bounced on his dildo. “How’s everybody!?”
Various voices answered.
Pax whined. “Hggnnn, almost there… can feel… assgasm… fffuck yeh… yes, uh, fist my ass fistmyassfistmaaa…” Finally he reached the plateau of climax.
A bottle of Thunder Bliss did the rounds a few times.
The channel on the porn holopad switched to a guy orgy and everybody was too out of it to do more than groan with disappointment. Quillen was the engineer but Arcadius managed the equipment.
The scissoring girls turned into a fisting fest at the shimmering beach of Shelter, freedick faggos deepthroating each other, hunks forming a fisting train. There was nothing to do but watch as Pax’ brain melted into Thunder Bliss soup and assgasm pyrotechnics.
Long after the sun was down and Hops had packed up the left over Nuuti Blox, Bautista walked a circle around the group. He came to a halt in front of Pax, hands behind his back.
“Want more fun?”
“W-what?” Pax asked weakly.
Bautista chuckled, his soft eight incher wiggling. “Wolfram ran into trouble, so we’re ahead of schedule. He won’t even meet us here.”
The leader laughed again. “Man, you dicklet fucks are out of it. We can sleep in, is what I’m saying. So how about some…” He produced a pill bottle.
Pax squealed as his latest assgasms hit him with more strength than expected. “Uh yes? Yessir, please.”
Bautista placed a tiny pill on Pax’ tongue. Oxyto-White, better known as Anal Rapture. The boss continued his round.
New energy entered Pax’ limbs. He could keep going for more, and harder and deeper and better.
What a great boss to have. He’d volunteer for the next suckjob.
Ben Esra telefonda seni boşaltmamı ister misin?
Telefon Numaram: 00237 8000 92 32