Archive of Our Own

The chair was too comfortable. That was her first warning.

It wasn’t the spindly, functional discomfort of an enforcer’s bench or the prim stiffness of a Piltover noble’s parlour set. This one cradled her hips in padded, soft sculpted leather that felt warmed from within—chemically heated, if she had to guess, to match her body’s own temperature. It made her muscles relax without permission. She hated it. Her back stayed ramrod straight despite the inviting dip of the seat, her gloved hands folded in her lap with soldierly poise, though the stiffness of her spine only served to make her feel more watched under the ambient hum of Glasc Industries' high-tier wellness complex.

The room was a perfect crime against authenticity. It looked alive—like a waiting area should—but everything from the serene wall projections to the softly looping orchestral ambiance screamed curated serenity. The floors weren’t stone, though they gleamed like marble; they were synth-glass panels threaded with slow-moving veins of soft magenta light, pulsing in subtle tempo like a heartbeat. The walls shifted color at intervals just subtle enough to register in the corner of her vision—lavender to peach to rose-gold—each hue psychologically chosen, no doubt, to soothe the nervous system. The air smelled like white orchids and pharmaceutical trust: sterile, sweet, just a shade too perfect. Not a single chemical note out of place, but it made her think of pink mist curling into someone's sinuses, of neurons rewired by slow-release compliance.

Caitlyn kept her breathing even, legs crossed at the knee in a way that masked how tightly her thighs were pressed together. Her uniform, dark blue and sharp-lined, felt like a relic here—something out of place. The crisp edges of her coat and the solid weight of her thigh-high boots were grounding, physical, a contrast to the soft focus world of Renata Glasc’s empire. Her rifle was peace-bonded at the front desk, tagged and tracked by some cheery receptionist whose eyes didn’t blink quite often enough. They’d offered her tea, of course. She’d declined. They hadn’t pushed.

Her eyes drifted across the room’s single centerpiece: a sculpture—if it could even be called that—of bronze and crystalline pink. A great stylized blossom with hollow petals, each bristling with thin syringes and perfumed emitters. It rotated slowly on a whisper-silent pedestal, misting the air at ten-second intervals. She counted, out of habit. Every cycle was precisely timed. Everything was precisely timed.

And it was working.

The tension in her thighs, the heat beneath her breastbone, the flush slowly rising to her cheeks—she cataloged it all, cursed herself for not bringing a rebreather. But the compound was subtle. This wasn’t a poison. This was just influence—ambient, erotic, disarming. And the longer she sat in it, the more her pulse seemed to sync to the slow, inviting rhythm of the pink light beneath her boots.

But that wasn’t the reason she was here. She was here for murder.

Three dead enforcers, one a former partner. Found with lungs full of gelled chem-foam, flesh softened around the eyes and fingertips. Three Piltovans, all attached to an unsanctioned investigation into the Chem-Barons’ dealings with illegal augmentation markets. She’d dug into their files—found the shell corporations, the intercepted cargo manifests, and the client logs full of redacted names. All trails led here. Not by direct signature. Of course not. But Glasc Industries’ shadow was wide, and Caitlyn had learned to see by the shape things cast rather than their surface gleam.

The receptionist had told her Miss Glasc would be with her “shortly.”

That was fifteen minutes ago.

No clock on the wall. No indicator of time passing. No visible eyes tracing her movements, but she could feel them. Somewhere out there, Renata was watching. Weighing. Deciding exactly how long to leave her stewing in her own tension. A power play, surgical and passive. A taste of control before the first word was even spoken.

Caitlyn breathed through her nose.

Held it.

Exhaled slowly.

And still, that damn chair tried to comfort her.

She adjusted her position just to spite it. Uncrossed her legs. Planted her boots apart. Sat forward with her elbows on her knees. Less demure. Less available. Let them see she wasn’t here to be lulled, lulled into any of this soothing. Her heart drummed low and tight in her chest, her body trying to relax, her mind fighting to stay sharp.

It was the twenty-third minute when Caitlyn stood.

She didn’t do it with flourish. There was no loud clearing of the throat, no dramatic pacing across the expensive floor. She rose with the practiced stillness of someone used to commanding rooms, boots falling into place with a deliberate rhythm that broke against the ambient lull of the waiting lounge. The soft background music didn’t pause for her. Neither did the shifting hues of the ambient light. But the receptionist noticed, in that imperceptible way that corporate dolls did. Like a thousand invisible eyes registered the motion and silently judged whether or not she was going to make a scene.

Caitlyn had no intention of making a scene. She only wanted results.

The receptionist looked up with a smile that had no soul behind it, just clean teeth and the well-practiced shine of client-facing etiquette. She was young—twenty, maybe twenty-two—and beautifully untouched by the augmentations so common on this side of the river. No chromed eyes, no prosthetics, no surgical accents along the cheekbone or neck. Even her uniform was modest, dark and gold-accented with a pale pink sash tied at the waist. She was the human face of Glasc Industries: soft, harmless, and forgettable.

Caitlyn stepped up to the desk, her bootheels a whisper louder than necessary.

“Excuse me,” she said, keeping her voice flat. Civil. Sharpened only by the tight restraint in her jaw. “Miss Glasc is aware I’ve been waiting?”

The girl nodded with gentle precision, fingers scribbling at a paper on the desk’s smooth surface. “She is, Sheriff Kiramman. She wanted to ensure you were made comfortable while she concluded her prior engagement.”

“She’s speaking with someone else?”

“Yes. A business partner,” the girl answered, eyes flicking briefly upward. Her lashes were long, curled in a way that looked natural. Probably wasn’t. “It shouldn’t be much longer.”

Caitlyn exhaled slowly through her nose, resisting the urge to look at her pocket watch even though her nerves screamed for her to check. She had already calculated how long it had been. She didn’t need confirmation. What she needed—what she hated needing—was her time being treated like a negotiable commodity.

She narrowed her eyes slightly. “You said that ten minutes ago.”

The girl blinked once, slow and serene. “Yes. Miss Glasc is thorough. And she would never rush an important conversation. She wants to give you the same full attention when the time comes.”

There was no heat in the girl’s tone. No challenge. Just that infuriatingly perfect calm, the kind that felt less like professionalism and more like indoctrination. Caitlyn studied her for a second longer, trying to decide if the receptionist even knew she was being used as a layer of soft resistance. Probably not. She looked like the type that genuinely believed in the mission statement.

Caitlyn’s eyes flicked down the hall—the corridor that led to the upper offices, marked with brass fixtures and clean white paneling that bent light away from its surface, as if privacy were a feature of the very walls. No guards. No doors open. Just a single corridor pulsing with that same slow glow.

Business partner, the girl had said. That could mean anything. Another Chem-Baron. Some foreign dignitary. A bruiser with enough money to afford chem-laced loyalty. Or someone like Caitlyn—someone chasing ghosts, lured into Renata’s atmosphere until even the truth started to feel negotiable.

She stepped back, spine stiffening. “Tell her I’m not here to be soothed.”

The girl’s smile didn’t waver. “Of course. I’ll let her know you’re eager.”

That word caught in Caitlyn’s ears like a thorn.

But just as Caitlyn turned away from the desk, jaw tight and motion stiff with annoyance, her heels clicking crisply against the pristine floor, the sound of a door sighing open down the corridor broke through the quiet. Her head turned instinctively, though she kept her face neutral, guarded, as a figure emerged from the soft-lit hallway that led to Renata’s inner sanctum. A woman—slender, overdressed in business-sleek silk that clung just a little too intimately to her curves, like it had been pulled hastily back into place. Her steps were slow, uneven in that particular, unmistakable way—heels striking unevenly against the floor, legs slightly bowed, like the ground still didn’t feel stable beneath her. Her hair was dark, loose and wild in a way that didn’t look intentional, strands curling around flushed cheeks and sticking damp to the sides of her neck. Makeup just a little smudged at the outer corners of her eyes. Lipstick faded from the center out.

Caitlyn froze mid-step.

It was subtle—too subtle for someone untrained. But she noticed the signs. The tight press of thighs trying not to tremble. The delicate twitch in her posture as she adjusted her skirt before she’d even reached the front desk. The faint sheen on her skin, like she’d been left glowing under a heat lamp too long. And the smell. Faint, clean, but heavy—chem-sweet and skin-warm. It wasn’t perfume. It was Renata’s version of a calling card. It clung to the woman like a whisper of ownership.

The receptionist brightened at once, her expression blossoming into something almost genuine. “Miss Alvara,” she said, voice bright and infuriatingly pleasant, “I hope your consultation was satisfactory?”

The woman gave a soft little laugh—breathy, almost dazed—and tucked some of her hair behind her ear, though it did little to fix the wildness of her appearance. “Oh, yes. Very… enlightening.” Her voice was low, a bit hoarse, like she’d spent too long speaking—or moaning. Probably the latter.

“Miss Glasc does tend to leave an impression,” the receptionist replied with that ever-smooth cadence, her hands already gliding along the thick calendar on the desk, no doubt scheduling another ‘consultation.’ “She always ensures her guests leave satisfied.”

“I… I can definitely say that,” Alvara murmured, her smile half-lidded, dreamy in a way that made Caitlyn’s lip curl slightly. Not in judgment, but in recognition. This woman hadn’t come for a business meeting. She’d come for indulgence. For compliance. For something hot and thick and slow-fed until her legs gave out and her voice ran dry. Caitlyn didn’t look away. She watched the sway of her hips as she walked past, still not quite steady, her fingers idly brushing her skirt down, like she could erase the evidence of what had just been done to her.

And under it all, Caitlyn felt her gut twist—not with jealousy, not quite—but with a sharper, more intimate edge of irritation. Not just at the theatrics. But at the fact that Renata had chosen to make her wait while that happened behind closed doors. Deliberate. Calculated. A performance crafted for her benefit, because everything Renata Glasc did had meaning, intention, dominance laced through the smallest details.

The scent clung to the air even after Alvara had passed through the doors. Faint. Lingering. A cocktail of body heat, chem musk, and release. It curled at the back of Caitlyn’s throat like a challenge. Like a smirk.

It didn’t belong here, in this pristine corporate temple dressed up in rose gold trim and curated civility—it belonged in a private bedroom, or a pleasure den, or soaked into the sheets of some back-alley brothel. And yet here it was, perfuming the hall like a trophy. Left behind deliberately, like an exhale down the neck. Caitlyn didn’t move. Not at first. She only stared at the sealed hallway where the woman had come from, jaw clenched and throat tight, her posture ironed flat with professional tension even as her stomach twisted with something warmer, darker, just below her discipline.

Behind her, the receptionist’s voice floated in, bright and unbothered. “Miss Glasc will see you now.”

Caitlyn turned slowly, the motion stiff, almost mechanical, and met those placid, doll-soft eyes with a glance that could’ve broken glass. The girl only smiled wider—sincere, untouched by irony, as though she hadn’t just sent a clearly ruined woman into public view like a used handkerchief. “You’ll find her through the corridor,” she continued, gesturing delicately, one manicured hand drifting in the direction Alvara had emerged from. “Her office is at the very end. The door will open for you.”

That was it.

No escort. No guards. No further pleasantries.

Just a corridor lined with ambient pink glow, humming faintly beneath her boots, pulsing like it had a heartbeat of its own. Caitlyn’s jaw flexed once before she nodded, turning toward the passage like it was a battlefield trench instead of a corporate hallway. She moved in long, purposeful strides, her cape brushing at her calves, the hard leather of her boots landing just a hair too sharply with each step. Every inch of her skin bristled with awareness. The corridor closed around her like a throat. The air got warmer with each footfall. The lights grew dimmer, lower, not dark but intimate, flushed with soft warmth that had no business being comforting.

She could still taste the remnants of that smell on her tongue.

Caitlyn paused at the door, spine taut and shoulders squared, a soldier’s posture wrapped in noble silk. Her hand hovered for a breathless moment, not touching anything, just letting herself stand still and breathe. The corridor behind her fell silent. The cloying scent of musk and submission lingered like a ghost, but she let it pass. She pulled it from her lungs like poison, replacing it with a slow, deliberate inhale through her nose. Clean. Centered. Professional. She was here to interrogate a suspect, not step into some Zaunite game of seduction and powerplay. Whatever had happened with the woman before her—whatever lingering heat clung to the walls—Caitlyn would not react. She refused to give Renata that satisfaction.

The door opened for her on silent hinges, with no signal, no prompt, just proximity. Like it knew she was ready now.

The office was everything Caitlyn expected—and everything she hated.

It was high-ceilinged and cathedral-still, a vast room paneled in dark stone veined with mineral shimmer, half-veiled by towering silk banners that moved gently in the crossbreeze of open ventilation slits above. Hexcrystal sconces burned low in the corners, their violet-blue glow catching against brass trim and polished obsidian shelves lined with decanters, ledgers, and soft-bound volumes. A long chemglass table sat untouched near the far wall, set for tea—perfectly symmetrical, disturbingly clean. The air smelled like nothing now. Neutral. Controlled. As if Renata’s world adjusted itself to suit the mood of each encounter.

And at the center of it all—behind a broad, curved desk carved from Zaunite glass and lacquered in ghostly sheen—sat Renata Glasc.

Unbothered.

Unmarked.

Unmistakably perfect.

Not a single hair was out of place. The contours of her white and purple suit gleamed in the low light, catching every flicker of the sconces like a slow, seductive blink. Her chemtech mask was affixed as always, hiding just enough to make her unreadable, while both pink eyes regarded Caitlyn with a cool, surgical kind of amusement. Not mocking—never that blunt. Just aware. Sharper than her smile, softer than her claws. Her mechanical left hand—sleek, matte white, coiled with shimmering violet tubing and inset glass vials—rested lightly on a closed ledger. The other hand cradled a ceramic cup of something steaming and delicate.

There was no scent of sex. No trace of exertion. Not even a shimmer of sweat at her brow.

Whatever had happened minutes ago in this room, it left no mark on her. No rumple in her suit. No flush in her voice.

“Sheriff Kiramman,” she said, and her voice was as smooth as glass over still water. “Punctual as always. I trust the wait wasn’t too... unpleasant?”

Caitlyn stepped forward, each click of her boots deliberate against the stone floor, chin lifted with quiet defiance. She didn’t answer immediately. Let Renata wait now. Let her taste her own medicine.

She met those glimmering pink eyes above the mask and said, calm and clipped, “Let’s not waste any more time, Miss Glasc. We both know why I’m here.”

Renata rose with all the deliberate elegance of someone who had never been hurried in her life. Her movements were fluid, not rushed or stiff, but calculated—performed rather than enacted. She set the cup down without looking, letting it settle on the lacquered glass with a soft ceramic tap that echoed louder than it should’ve in the cavernous office. Her eyes never left Caitlyn. Pink, radiant, softly glowing beneath the arch of her brow, they traced a quiet path from the tips of the enforcer’s boots to the folded lines of her coat. She took in every inch with the unflinching, unapologetic patience of a predator—slow, subtle, almost languid—but Caitlyn caught it. She was trained to read people, to follow the whisper of a glance, the flinch of a lip, the tensing of a jaw. Most would have missed the way Renata’s eyes lingered a heartbeat too long at her hips, paused briefly on the curve of her thigh beneath the tailored coat, or skimmed the line of her collarbone where the high collar folded open just beneath her neck. Caitlyn didn’t miss it. And worse, she felt it.

It started low—just a subtle thrum beneath the skin, a prickling heat that crawled up from her stomach to her chest like the slow breath of a furnace being fed. Her coat suddenly felt too snug. The inner lining prickled at the crease of her elbows. The way Renata was watching her, behind that opaque chemtech mask—where the lower half of her face remained hidden, unreadable, unread—affected her, and Caitlyn hated that she noticed. Hated that it worked. That her heartbeat was responding to the tension in the air like an instrument being tuned beneath a practiced hand. Renata didn’t leer. She didn’t gawk. She observed, and her gaze stripped just as thoroughly.

“My apologies for the delay,” Renata said at last, her voice syrup-smooth and carefully modulated, rich with the authority of someone used to hearing yes. “I had some... pressing matters to attend to. But I assure you, Sheriff, I take your concerns very seriously. Please,” she gestured with her artificial hand, the long fingers curling slightly, a beckoning motion with the elegance of silk gloves drawn over steel hooks, “share your findings. I’m afraid I’ll need a bit more context. It’s been quite a busy quarter.”

Caitlyn stepped forward and resisted the urge to shift her weight. Her boots rang out like challenges on the polished stone, her posture a fortress of decorum, but her throat was dry. “Three dead enforcers,” she said flatly, allowing none of the heat building in her limbs to color her voice. “Each connected to a joint investigation into unlicensed chemtech leaking into the upper wards. The compounds in question were derived from Glasc signatures—traced through your more discreet distribution branches. I assume you’re familiar with your own pipeline.”

Renata tilted her head with a small, thoughtful hum. Her left hand traced the edge of her desk in slow circles, as if tasting the desk through her fingertips. “I oversee dozens of partnerships. Hundreds of channels. I’m afraid I’ll need specifics. You know how quickly things move here in Zaun. What’s pure on the books can become diluted in the streets.”

Caitlyn’s eyes narrowed slightly. “That’s the problem. It’s too pure. These weren’t street cocktails. This was pharmaceutical-grade augmentation fluid—unregulated, unreleased, and fatal in the wrong dose. No tampering. No cutting. Straight from the source.”

Renata didn’t flinch. She simply walked—graceful, gliding, each step a slow roll of hip and heel, her suit whispering softly with every motion. She circled the desk toward Caitlyn without breaking eye contact. Her gaze flicked again—this time just a whisper over Caitlyn’s chest, down to the cinch of her belt, then back to her face. It wasn’t overt. It wasn’t lewd. It was studied. Like she was reading data, interpreting every muscle beneath the cloth. Caitlyn’s breath caught slightly, shallow and brief, and Renata, of course, noticed.

“I see,” she murmured, as if the facts were just now slotting into place. “And you believe Glasc Industries to be responsible for these… unfortunate deaths?”

“I believe Glasc Industries has blood on its hands, whether through direct manufacture or deliberate negligence.” Her voice was firmer now, a counterpoint to the slow flush creeping into her cheeks. She didn’t back away, even as Renata closed the distance. “Three men are dead. And I have no doubt you know exactly where that product came from.”

Renata stopped just shy of touching range, close enough that Caitlyn could see the fine detailing along her mask—etched lines and minute hexes built into the surface, like some arcane script or chemtech fingerprint. The mask gave her voice an uncanny reverb, like it was filtering through velvet, stripping warmth and adding weight.

It made everything she said feel rehearsed and intimate at once, like a whisper pressed to the back of your neck, even when it was perfectly audible across the room. Caitlyn stared into those glowing pink eyes—soft, assessing, too patient for comfort—and tried not to show the tension crawling along her skin. Renata wasn’t just standing close. She was leaning into the air between them, not crossing the line, but threatening it with every measured breath.

“I must say,” Renata purred, her fingers idly tracing the polished edge of her desk as she circled Caitlyn in a slow arc, “it’s always impressive to see Piltover’s finest so... hands-on. Most would’ve sent a request through official channels. Let the paperwork pile high. But you, Sheriff, came personally. That tells me this is more than protocol. This is personal.”

Caitlyn turned with her, keeping Renata in her peripheral, shoulders squared like she might draw her rifle at any second—even though it wasn’t there, even though she wouldn’t. Not yet. “I came because my men died choking on product your labs are supposed to have under lock and key. If this is your way of deflecting, I’ve heard better from thugs in the undercity.”

“Oh, now,” Renata chided gently, stopping at Caitlyn’s side. “There’s no need for hostility. I’m merely acknowledging your initiative. It’s rare. Refreshing.” Her eyes dropped again—just a flick, a half-second dip to the lines of Caitlyn’s waist, the crease where the coat hugged the swell of her hips. Not long enough to register to anyone else. But Caitlyn saw it. Like a palm ghosting down her thigh without ever touching. “You wear your conviction so well. Tight. Fitted. Trimmed in judgment. It’s very becoming.”

“Eyes up,” Caitlyn snapped before she could stop herself, sharp and cutting—but too late to reclaim the breath that had already hitched in her chest. Her heart was beating too loud now. Not fear. Not even anger. But pressure. Like the air in the room was thickening around her, coaxed into heat by the way Renata looked. Controlled seduction—subtle, weaponized, chemical without needing a single spray of mist.

Renata only smiled beneath her mask—Caitlyn of course couldn’t see it, but she felt it in the tilt of her head, in the faint shift of posture as she stepped just barely closer. Still no contact. But the scent of her was there now—elegant, faintly floral, and bitter underneath, like poison wrapped in beautiful flowery scent. “You’re right, of course. Professionalism is important. So let’s be professional.” Her voice dropped a shade lower, rich with false sincerity. “Why don’t we start with your evidence, and we can work backward to mine? I’d like to help, truly. But I can’t admit guilt for something I don’t know I’ve done.”

“You want my cards on the table,” Caitlyn said, lifting her chin, “while you hide behind your mask?”

There was a pause after Caitlyn’s challenge—not immediate, not sharp. Just long enough to drag, long enough to stretch taut like a string pulled between them. Renata said nothing. She only stood there, still as a statue, that gleaming chemsteel arm resting at her side, the faintest hum of its internal systems barely audible in the hush. Her eyes didn’t blink. They didn’t soften. They only watched. Glowing, impossibly pink, crystalline and patient. Eyes that didn’t look at you so much as read you—unspooled your thoughts, mapped your heartbeat, studied the cracks in your armor and counted the seconds it would take to make them spread. Caitlyn had faced down murderers, war criminals, and gilded aristocrats drunk on their own power. She’d interrogated syndicate leaders, pulled confessions from butchers who’d smiled as they spoke. None of them looked at her like this.

Renata didn’t look amused. Or angry. Or even intrigued.

She looked certain.

It was that certainty that made Caitlyn’s skin prickle beneath the stiff collar of her coat. She held her stance, chin still lifted, shoulders squared, but she could feel the heat beginning to rise along the back of her neck. It crept under her ears, slow and traitorous, pooling at the base of her skull before sliding forward to touch her cheeks. Her breathing tightened, subtly, shallow enough not to show—but Renata would know. Of course she would. That gaze wasn’t passive. It wasn’t neutral. It applied pressure, slow and precise. It touched places no hand had reached. It pressed at the fragile space between confidence and reaction.

Caitlyn tried not to blink.

She tried not to breathe harder.

She absolutely refused to shift under that weight, even as her chest rose against the tailored fit of her uniform, even as she felt the slow, hot pulse blooming behind her navel.

And still, Renata said nothing.

She only stepped forward. One step. No rush. No menace. Just grace. The silk-lined hiss of her suit whispered against the stone like an intimate breath, and the way the light hit her mask now—shadows pooling beneath the cheekbones, the gloss of chemsteel catching the violet-blue glow of the sconces—made her look less like a person and more like a demon. Something sculpted to command. Something engineered to seduce without ever saying the word.

Caitlyn’s voice was ready—she had a retort half-loaded on her tongue, a warning, a threat—but it stalled in her throat as Renata finally lifted her head and spoke, low and deliberate.

“I wear this mask,” she said, “for many reasons. But none of them are to hide.”

Her voice was softer now. Not gentle—never gentle—but low enough to be felt. Like warm breath brushing too close to skin, like something private whispered in a dark room where nothing was supposed to happen. “It lets people imagine,” she continued, “what I might be thinking. What I might be feeling. Whether I’m smiling. Or licking my lips.”

Caitlyn didn’t move, but her jaw tensed.

She felt it. A twitch. A burn beneath her skin.

Renata leaned in—still not quite close enough to violate distance, but just enough that Caitlyn could hear the way her breath filtered through the mask, could smell the faint chemrose on her skin, could feel the weight of that stare digging into her clothes, mapping out the skin underneath. “Would it be easier for you,” she murmured, “if you could see my face?”

Caitlyn’s breath caught in her throat, unbidden, sharp as a pinprick in her chest. Her body reacted before her mind could drag it back—one step, backward, not large, just enough for space but not enough for escape. Her back brushed against the high edge of the chair behind her, the leather cool against her, its curved arms boxing her in without mercy. Renata didn’t pursue the gap, not physically, but her presence surged forward regardless—filling the space, saturating it, coiling around Caitlyn’s limbs like silk restraints. That voice, that scent, that unreadable mask paired with those impossibly knowing eyes—it was too much. She was too much. And Caitlyn, for the first time since stepping into this godsdamned building, felt the first crack in her focus.

Her lips parted—but no words came.

Her mind, usually a sharp instrument of logic and deduction, was fluttering like a bird in a snare. Would it be easier for you if you could see my face? The question spun in her skull like smoke, wrapping around itself. But she wasn’t thinking about tactics or leverage anymore. She was thinking—fuck—about Renata’s lips. About the shape they might take beneath that mask. Would they be sharp and cool, like the woman’s voice? Or full, warm, slow? Would she speak with a lilt when she smiled, or did her lips press together in quiet, smug satisfaction when she watched people unravel like this?

And worse—far worse—Caitlyn felt the question mutate in her mind before she could stop it: what would they taste like? Would she kiss her on her lips? Maybe lower, tongue dragging across her collarbone. Would she be soft as she tasted her skin or be greedy and hungry?

The thoughts hit her low, like a punch just above the pelvis, hot and nauseating and humiliating all at once. Her thighs tightened instinctively, and she hated it—hated how her breath was shallow now, how her cheeks burned despite the steel in her spine. She was still standing tall, still glaring, but Renata could read the flush that bloomed beneath the surface, could see how Caitlyn’s fingers had curled slightly into fists not out of anger, but need—something her pride refused to acknowledge.

Renata tilted her head, just slightly, and Caitlyn knew—that subtle, slow arc wasn’t just observation. It was confirmation. She could practically feel the woman noting every microscopic twitch in her posture, every little betrayal of flesh and pulse.

She didn’t need to gloat. Her silence was the gloating, smooth and echoing like the hollow of a wineglass after the last drop is gone. Caitlyn hated how exposed she felt, how the polished edge of her training dulled in this atmosphere, bent under the weight of suggestion and chemistry and that relentless, perfect gaze. She tried to steady her breathing, tried to clamp down on the heat curling in her stomach like a growing flame—because this was Renata Glasc, Chem-Baron, manipulator, threat. Not temptation.

But the moment she forced herself still, Renata moved again—slow and fluid as a shadow melting across stone, her non-augmented hand lifting from her side with graceful, deliberate intent. And Caitlyn knew—knew what was coming, knew she should step away, raise her voice, shut it down, do anything to reassert control—but she didn’t move. Her body locked in place, as if her limbs answered to some unseen force. The moment that hand brushed her cheek, fingertips feather-light against the curve of her jaw, every breath Caitlyn had carefully measured dissolved into heat.

Renata’s touch wasn’t rough. It wasn’t cold, or invasive, or overtly sensual. It was soft. Controlled. Knowing. Her fingers traced the edge of Caitlyn’s cheekbone like she was feeling for something beneath the skin—measuring temperature, or tension, or just how far she could go. And gods help her, Caitlyn’s face tilted into it—just a flicker, a fraction, but it was there, and Renata felt it. Of course she did.

The flush hit like a sunburst, washing over Caitlyn’s face so fast she nearly winced. It wasn’t just embarrassment. It was frustration. Confusion. Her body shouldn’t be reacting like this. Not to her. Not here. She wasn’t some fresh recruit being seduced on her first solo mission. She wasn’t susceptible to flirtation or threats wrapped in perfume. She was Caitlyn Kiramman—Sheriff of Piltover, goddamnit—and this was supposed to be an interrogation.

So why did her heart hammer so loudly she could hear it in her ears?

Why did her thighs press tighter with each breath?

Why, when Renata’s thumb grazed the line just under her jaw, did Caitlyn have to bite the inside of her cheek to keep from shivering?

“You burn so easily,” Renata said, barely above a whisper, her fingers still stroking that spot like she was coaxing it to bloom. “It’s a lovely shade on you. Shame Piltover trains you to be so cold. I think this suits you better.”

Caitlyn sucked in a breath, sharp and thin. She wanted to slap the hand away. She wanted to. But her fingers wouldn’t move. Her body wouldn’t obey.

Caitlyn’s lips parted, a breath escaping that wasn’t nearly as steady as she wanted it to be. She reached—fumbled—for words, something cutting, something cool, but the syllables tangled at the edge of her throat, too soft, too strangled, and her voice broke when she tried to speak. “I—this isn’t…” She couldn’t even finish the sentence. This isn’t what? Appropriate? Professional? Allowed? Nothing fit. No word had teeth sharp enough to pierce the heat sinking into her bones.

Renata didn’t pull away. Her thumb, soft and bare, smooth as polished marble, slid slowly up from her jaw to brush against Caitlyn’s lower lip. It didn’t press, didn’t force—but it lingered, tracing the delicate dip of her mouth with a touch so gentle it may as well have been a kiss. The kind that hovered. That promised. Caitlyn’s lips parted involuntarily, her breath catching, her head screaming no even as her skin prickled under every brush of that impossible finger.

“I adore how hard you’re trying,” Renata murmured, voice velvet-smoke behind the mask, low and thick with indulgence. Her eyes never wavered, locked on Caitlyn’s with that maddening, seductive stillness. “You’ve built yourself into such a poised little fortress. Walls of honor, gates of principle… but you tremble the moment someone finds the door.” Her thumb stroked again, slower now, the pad tracing the seam of Caitlyn’s lips like she was testing their softness, memorizing their shape. “Tell me, Sheriff—do you always shiver like this when someone touches your mouth, or is it just me?”

Caitlyn swallowed, hard, the movement visible in the tight line of her throat. Her knees felt too loose beneath her, her thighs tense, clenched together in a way that made every twitch of heat behind her hips burn hotter. She needed to move. She needed to back away. But the chair was at her back, Renata at her front, and the space between had shrunk down to this breathless bubble where time didn’t move and her body betrayed every scrap of her will.

“You’re… manipulating me,” she managed, finally—barely audible, her voice thinned with heat, strained with humiliation.

Renata’s eyes crinkled slightly at the corners, as if she were smiling behind the mask. “Of course I am,” she said, the honesty obscene in its ease. “But don’t worry. You’re still doing very well.”

Caitlyn’s mind reeled, spinning its wheels in a pit of heat and helpless confusion. How? How had Renata slipped under her skin so fast, so thoroughly? Was it really just confidence? That unbearable poise, the way she moved like every room bowed to her without command? Was it the sound of her voice—low, knowing, endlessly patient? Or something more insidious? Her thoughts raced, clawing for reason through the fog spreading behind her eyes. Was this just the pull of a woman who knew exactly how to touch, how to look, how to breathe in a way that turned control into suggestion and suggestion into arousal? Or—gods—was it something chemical?

Her eyes darted up, searching Renata’s mask, the vents along its base, the faintest shimmer of vapor that sometimes curled from the edges. No, she told herself, biting the thought before it could solidify. She would have noticed. She’d been trained to detect airborne agents, to register subtle shifts in taste and scent. Her senses were sharp—razor-honed. If Renata had dosed her, even subtly, she would have felt it. She would have known.

But the air did feel warm. Not stifling, but heavy. Sweet. Touched by something floral, something artificial and perfect. Just enough to soothe, not enough to set off alarms. And that flush across her cheeks, the way her body ached between her legs, the tremble building in her thighs… that couldn’t all be natural, could it?

Or worse—it was. Her body was reacting to nothing more than presence. Dominance. Seduction executed with precision, like a surgeon wielding a scalpel made of breath and tone and perfectly measured touch. Caitlyn felt her lips still parted beneath Renata’s thumb, the wet heat of her mouth barely cooled by the whisper of air between them, and her shame spiked like a fever. Was she really this weak?

Renata’s hand didn’t move. She held her like that—caged by touch and gaze, not force. It was worse than force. It was just a simple touch, one who could be easily escaped with a quick motion. Those eyes however locked her in place. Caitlyn’s thighs squeezed tighter. Her breath came shallower, her heartbeat a dull roar in her ears.

“I can see the thoughts behind your eyes,” Renata said, voice all silk and needlepoint, a purr meant to brush nerves. “You’re trying so very hard to rationalize this. To find something to blame.” Her thumb shifted, pressing softly down against Caitlyn’s bottom lip, parting it just a little more. “But the truth is simpler, Caitlyn. I’m just irresistible.”

Those words were said with a certainty unlike anything else, like she just said the most fundamental fact of the universe.

Caitlyn’s heart was pounding so loudly now it felt like it echoed in her throat, each beat thick and syrupy, fed by something far more dangerous than adrenaline. Renata’s hand hadn’t stopped moving—her thumb still caressed Caitlyn’s lower lip in slow, teasing strokes, soft enough to be maddening, deliberate enough to leave no illusion of innocence. It wasn’t just contact—it was manipulation, paced and pressure-pointed, every movement coaxing her mouth open a little more, feeding that low-burning ache pooling between her thighs. Caitlyn wanted to flinch, to pull away, to snap something sharp and unyielding to prove she still had control, but her muscles refused the command. She couldn’t stop thinking about that touch—how it felt like she was being marked without a word, like Renata’s thumb was writing ownership in slow cursive across her skin.

Then the other hand came up.

The mechanical one.

It moved with eerie grace, no harsh clanking or hiss of pistons, just a low, measured hum as the fingers reached for her face. Caitlyn tensed reflexively, expecting restraint, pressure, force—but the gauntlet didn’t grab her. It slid instead to Renata’s own jaw, clicking delicately at the side of her mask. A whisper of disengagement followed—a soft hiss and the faint tick of pressure locks releasing—and then the mask lifted away with effortless ceremony. Renata set it aside on the desk with the same care one might give to a crown or dagger, placing it perfectly, almost reverently, before turning back with full, unveiled intent.

Caitlyn’s breath hitched.

Renata Glasc without her mask was not what she expected. She was more. Not inhuman or cold. No. She was stunning in a way that was designed—a face sculpted with high cheekbones and plush, asymmetrically perfect lips, the soft curve of a sharp woman who’d never once apologized for her beauty. Her skin was smooth, unscarred, contrasted by the faint chem-light glow of her eyes, still that impossible pink, but now framed by long, dark lashes and the subtle arch of brows that gave her expression a constant hint of amusement, as though she were always in on a joke no one else understood.

And gods—her smile.

It wasn’t coy.

It wasn’t wicked.

It was knowing. Confident. Like she knew what her lips could do. Like she knew Caitlyn was burning inside.

She leaned in.

Slow, controlled, inevitable.

Caitlyn felt it before it happened—the heat of her breath, the almost imperceptible magnetic pull of two bodies caught in orbit. Renata’s hand never stopped tracing her mouth, her thumb slipping low to press just under her chin, tilting her face slightly upward. Not forceful. Just guiding. Like she was aligning a shot. Caitlyn’s body obeyed without resistance, her eyes wide, breath quick and shallow, lips tingling from every pass of that perfect thumb. Her whole body was trembling—not obviously, not yet, but deep inside where her thighs locked, where her hips curled forward, begging silently for contact.

And then Renata kissed her.

Not harshly. Not immediately hungry.

It was slow.

Purposeful.

Claiming.

Caitlyn’s every instinct screamed to pull away. She was a Kiramman. The Sheriff of Piltover. She wasn’t supposed to bend, to falter, to yield to temptation—especially not like this, not to her. Renata Glasc was everything she stood against: a manipulator, a power-broker, a Chem-Baroness whose empire thrived on coercion and dependency. This was wrong. She should be resisting. She should be shoving that smug, perfect face away, reminding the woman exactly who she was dealing with.

But Renata’s lips were warm and soft and perfect, and when they pressed to hers, slow and certain and entirely in control, Caitlyn’s resistance crumbled like sugar under hot water.

There was no room for protest. No time to brace. Renata didn’t ask for access—she took it, her tongue sliding past Caitlyn’s lips with sinful ease, parting her mouth with a practiced confidence that felt far too intimate, far too rehearsed. It wasn’t messy or frantic. It was dominating. A slow, sensuous war of tongues where only one of them had ever known how to fight, and Caitlyn was outmatched from the first flick of contact. Her mouth opened for Renata without thought, without defense, a soft gasp swallowed between them as the kiss deepened, as her breath was stolen and her will melted like wax against fire.

Renata tasted like heat and power and something sweet laced with steel—chemroses and ambition, the flavor of something forbidden that settled low in Caitlyn’s belly and bloomed outward in tingling waves. Her tongue moved like she knew what Caitlyn liked, like she’d pulled it from her mind before she’d dared admit it. Slow, curling, then just a flick sharper—just enough to draw a soft, involuntary noise from the back of Caitlyn’s throat that made Renata’s smile twitch wider against her lips.

And then Caitlyn’s hands—those traitorous, greedy things—moved.

They slid without permission, rising from her sides to settle on Renata’s hips. Wide hips, framed perfectly by the sinched waist of her suit, flared and impossible in the most maddening way. Her fingers splayed against the fabric, gripping instinctively, not pulling her closer, not yet, but holding. Grounding. Or trying to. Her palms felt every flex of subtle movement beneath the sleek material—firm muscle, perfect posture—and it didn’t help. It only made things worse.

Renata leaned in further, chest brushing Caitlyn’s, deepening the kiss until Caitlyn was forced to breathe through her nose, to feel every inch of the contact. Lips swollen, tongue slick and conquered, hips trembling beneath her uniform, she stood there and melted, her body betraying every badge and title she carried.

Renata pulled back with the same unhurried grace she used for everything—no breathless parting, no sign of strain. Just a smooth, deliberate withdrawal, her lips dragging slowly from Caitlyn’s with a slick sound that left the air between them taut with need. Caitlyn’s lips tingled, parted and flushed, her breath coming in shallow bursts as if her lungs couldn’t decide whether to scream or sigh. Her body swayed slightly forward from the absence, instinct chasing contact, even as her pride screamed to recoil. But it was too late. Her body was already burning, already tingling in the places Renata had touched.

And Renata didn’t let the moment cool.

Her normal hand slid down Caitlyn’s side with calculated hunger, fingers curling against the tailored slope of her waist, exploring the dip and rise with shameless familiarity. The touch was firm, greedy, confident—like she was feeling out where to mark next. Then lower, slow and unashamed, gliding down the curve of her hip until she reached the firm swell of Caitlyn’s ass. She didn’t hesitate. She gripped. A full, possessive palm around one cheek, fingers spreading as if testing its give through the tight fabric of her uniform. Her hand massaged—not teasingly, not tentatively, but like she owned it, like she was molding Caitlyn’s body into something she could shape and keep. Greedily kneading the plush shape.

Caitlyn choked back a noise—half gasp, half groan—and her hands twitched against Renata’s sides, unsure whether to shove or cling. Her face was burning, her mouth slick, her thighs pressed so tight it made her knees ache.

And before Caitlyn could say something, do something against it. Renata‘s other hand moved.

The mechanical one.

The gauntlet lifted, cool and smooth, humming softly with that elegant inner rhythm. It came up to Caitlyn’s face, and for a moment she thought—hoped—it would rest on her cheek, offer something gentle to balance the possessiveness still kneading her rear.

It didn’t.

It took her chin.

Two fingers curled beneath, a third along her jaw, and the clawed precision of the grip tilted her face upward with unerring ease. Not rough. Not painful. But commanding. Her neck bent under the pressure, lips parted, breath caught as her eyes locked onto Renata’s again, forced to look up into that uncovered face—the full force of those glowing eyes and that maddening, self-satisfied smile.

“You’re trembling,” Renata said, thumb brushing her lower lip again, the claws of her gauntlet cool against flushed skin. “How quickly the Sheriff forgets to stand at attention.”

And Caitlyn couldn’t deny it.

Because her whole body was shaking under Renata’s touch.

Caitlyn’s breath came in quick, shallow pulls, her chest rising against the stiff confines of her uniform, the fabric now far too tight, far too hot. Every nerve in her body felt strung thin, humming with tension as Renata’s mechanical fingers held her chin like a vice made of steel. Her lips were still slick from the kiss, her thighs pressed tight, heat pulsing through her belly in steady, humiliating waves. Her hands twitched at her sides, fingers curled into the flared line of Renata’s hips, but she couldn’t push away. Her knees wouldn’t lock, her spine wouldn’t straighten—her body wouldn’t listen.

And Renata saw it. Loved it.

“You poor thing,” she purred, tilting Caitlyn’s head just enough to make her neck stretch, to bare her throat without force. That smile had shifted—no longer just knowing, but wicked. Predatory. “You walked in here thinking you’d be the one breaking someone down. That your badge would shield you. That your name would hold weight.” She laughed, low and rich, the sound vibrating against Caitlyn’s lips, close enough to kiss again. “But now look at you.”

Caitlyn trembled under the words, every syllable slicing through her pride like a scalpel dipped in heat. She should stop this. Should move. Say something. But her body was frozen, trembling in place, caught between shame and arousal, her breath shaking from her nose, her cheeks red and burning as Renata leaned in closer, their noses almost brushing.

“You’re dripping into your uniform,” Renata whispered, cruel and sweet, voice thick with mockery. “Tell me, Sheriff—do they teach you how to handle interrogation orally in Piltover?”

Caitlyn’s eyes widened, breath hitching on a strangled gasp, and that’s when she felt it.

A click.

Soft. Deliberate.

Her eyes darted down just in time to see one clawed finger—chemsteel, smooth and precise—hooked into the top button of her uniform jacket. The first of many. Renata’s smile curved higher, slow and luxurious, as she looked down at her own hand, then back up to Caitlyn’s wide, desperate eyes.

“Oh, dear,” she cooed, mocking concern, “this looks so restrictive. No wonder you’re trembling. Let me help.”

Another click. The first button snapped free with practiced ease.

Then another.

Click.

Snap.

Each motion was agonizingly slow, each finger movement a ballet of precision as she worked her way down the front of Caitlyn’s coat. The taut fabric parted inch by inch, exposing the soft white of her undershirt, the rise of her chest where her breath was shallow and quick, where heat radiated off her skin in waves. Renata didn’t rush. She savored. Her thumb traced slow circles along Caitlyn’s chin while her gauntlet worked its way down, unbuttoning her uniform with a surgeon’s patience and a lover’s cruelty.

“All those medals,” Renata whispered, her mouth near Caitlyn’s ear now, voice dipped in condescension. “All that discipline. And still, I’m the one unwrapping you like a gift.”

Caitlyn’s eyes were locked on the slow, devastating progress of Renata’s gauntlet. Each button undone was a deliberate violation, a ritual unmaking of uniform and authority. The tailored lines of her coat gaped wider with every click, peeling open her front like an offering—bit by bit revealing the flushed rise of her chest, the delicate shape of her undershirt clinging damp against her skin, every breath drawing it tighter across her body. She couldn’t breathe deeply anymore. Couldn’t move. Her mouth was dry, her lips parted, but her pulse was soaking her in heat, and the more skin Renata exposed, the more Caitlyn felt herself unraveling.

She blinked, confused, disoriented, way to flustered by the act—and then she looked.

Down.

Past the fingers still perched at the next button.

Past the loose front of her own uniform, fluttering open like a defeated banner.

To Renata.

To what was pressing, visibly, proudly, obscenely, against the front of Renata’s white suit pants.

It hit Caitlyn like a wave of lustful heat. The bulge wasn’t subtle. It wasn’t even suggestive. It was a full, heavy presence, thick and long and undeniably hard, stretching the fabric taut and cocked slightly to one side with the sheer weight of it. The curve alone looked impossible, jaw-dropping in its audacity—something animalistic in scale and shaped like a promise no one polite would ever make. The seam of Renata’s suit strained to contain it, the pressure so blatant Caitlyn could see the way it twitched with each slow shift of her hips.

Caitlyn’s brain short-circuited.

She staggered a breath, lips trembling as a soft, involuntary moan escaped her—barely audible, but raw and real, slipping past her lips before she even knew it was coming. It wasn’t just arousal. It was shock. Awe. Terror. Her knees threatened to give, her thighs locked tighter, a slick throb pulsing from her pussy that left her clinging to Renata’s hips without meaning to.

Renata, of course, heard it.

Felt it.

Reveled in it.

“My, my,” she breathed, voice thick with mockery and satisfaction, her tongue likely pressed to the back of her teeth behind that smirk. “Was that a moan, Sheriff? From just a glance?”

Her gauntlet left Caitlyn’s chest to trail between them, stroking down her own front like she were emphasizing the obscenity she carried. The curve of her cock twitched again, visible even through the fabric—thick, veined, deliberate. “You’ve been so brave up until now,” Renata purred, pressing her hips forward just slightly, letting the heat of it radiate against Caitlyn’s stomach. “But now you’ve seen what’s waiting for you…”

She leaned in, mouth at Caitlyn’s temple, and whispered with vicious sweetness, “Tell me, does it scare you? Or does it make your insides burn?“

The words left her before she could catch them—barely a whisper, barely a thought, trembling out between parted lips with the heat of her breath and the burn in her cheeks. “Can I… see it?”

Her eyes went wide the moment it passed her throat, horror blooming sharp behind her ribcage. No— she didn’t mean to say that. She hadn’t meant to think it, hadn’t meant to want it. But it was too late. The moment it left her lips, it hung between them like a prayer—and Renata seized on it like a predator scenting blood.

“Oh, darling,” Renata cooed, every inch of that word dripping with mockery and triumph, the delight in her voice almost orgasmic in its intensity. Her grin bloomed wicked and wide, eyes gleaming like polished gems lit from within. “All it took was one little look? One fat, twitching threat between my thighs and now you’re begging for it?”

Caitlyn’s mouth opened, trying to take it back, trying to speak something—anything—to reclaim her composure, but no sound came. Only heat. Only the pounding in her chest and the throb between her legs and the sheer, pulsing need eating away at her spine. Her lips quivered with shame, and her eyes flicked down again, helplessly, traitorously, to the massive bulge pressing against Renata’s pants.

Renata’s mechanical fingers moved before Caitlyn even noticed.

A flick—precise, fluid, brutal in its efficiency.

The gauntlet swept from Caitlyn’s sternum down through the final buttons of her coat and beyond, slicing through fabric like silk, not tearing it—liberating it. The clasps and stitching parted with audible snaps, fasteners giving way to cold air and heat-rushed skin. Her coat peeled open completely, hanging loose at her sides, exposing her body beneath—her undershirt thin and clinging, her bra barely containing the rise of her breasts, her skin flushed pink, damp with the sweat of restraint. The touch of the air made her gasp, but it was nothing compared to the sensation of Renata’s gaze now devouring her, pink eyes raking over her bared body with obscene hunger.

“There,” Renata whispered, dragging the claws of her gauntlet down over Caitlyn’s belly—just enough pressure to tease, to remind her who had undone her. “Much better.”

Her other hand stayed on Caitlyn’s ass, kneading firmly, greedily, pulling her forward until her hips brushed against the impossible swell still confined behind Renata’s trousers. And Caitlyn couldn’t help it. Her head tipped back, a helpless, humiliated sound caught in her throat as she pressed herself against the pressure she should be recoiling from.

“And to think,” Renata murmured, lips against Caitlyn’s neck, “I haven’t even unzipped yet.”

Caitlyn couldn’t breathe. Her chest was tight, her skin burning from the inside out, gooseflesh prickling along the open front of her shirt where Renata’s claws had so effortlessly dismantled her uniform—her armor. The cool air kissed across her damp skin, but it wasn’t relief. It only made her feel more exposed, more raw, like every inch of her was being read, appraised, owned. Her hands hung useless at her sides, fists unclenched now, fingers trembling like leaves in a storm. And Renata… Renata looked at her like a cat might look at a trembling mouse that had just stepped into her paw willingly.

The Chem-Baroness hummed softly, the sound a decadent purr of satisfaction. “Since you asked so nicely…” she began, letting the words unfurl slowly, silk slipping from her tongue. Her fingers released Caitlyn’s chin with a final, feather-soft stroke that sent shivers darting down her spine. “You can go ahead and take a closer look.”

Then, with the same obscene composure as always, she turned and leaned casually back against the desk—hips pressed to the polished edge, legs slightly parted, one hand on the surface behind her for support, the other smoothing down the front of her own pants where the monstrous bulge strained against her zipper. She posed like an empress awaiting tribute, statuesque and smug, her body framed in the low chem-lit glow like a shrine to sin itself.

The invitation was clear.

Caitlyn’s knees trembled. Her brain screamed no—screamed to pull back, to retreat, to remember her badge, her name, her dignity. But her legs didn’t move. Or worse—they shifted forward. One step, tentative, slow. Her mouth hung open, breath catching on her tongue, heart hammering in her chest like a warning bell she was too far gone to heed.

Why?

Why did she want to?

Why did the image of kneeling before this woman—of lowering herself to eye level with that massive, straining outline—set her insides ablaze? It was madness. She wasn’t supposed to feel this. She should’ve felt revulsion, fear, defiance. But all she felt was heat, shame-drenched heat curling low in her belly, clawing through her gut with every slow pulse of her racing heart. Her thighs rubbed together involuntarily. Her hands twitched toward the waistband of Renata’s pants.

And still, that voice echoed through her skull: You can take a closer look.

Her breath shook as she sank lower, knees bending until the polished floor kissed them with a cold finality that somehow only made the fire in her veins burn hotter. Her palms trembled in midair, hesitating just inches from Renata’s thighs. The fabric of her trousers was immaculate—flawless and taut across the monster caged beneath—and it was warm. She could feel it radiating even before she touched, that heat, so wrong and seductive, like power itself was bleeding through the cloth.

Her fingers closed on the waistband, cautious at first. But Renata didn’t stop her. Didn’t move. Just leaned slightly further against the desk, like she was preparing to display—a queen offering tribute to a servant too flushed with arousal to remember her place. The silence was heavier than any command. Caitlyn swallowed hard and pulled.

The zipper gave way with a slow, mechanical rasp. The tension in the fabric relaxed in a long, deliberate exhale. And then it came free.

Renata’s cock flopped out with the weight of inevitability—a half-hard slab of meat that smacked against Caitlyn’s cheek with a wet, lazy thud. Caitlyn gasped—jerked like she’d been struck, the contact shocking and humiliating, her lips parting in a stammered breath that turned into something closer to a whimper. It was already massive, thick and veined, resting along her face like a living brand. It pulsed with a slow beat, swelling by the second, the tip glistening with the first syrupy pearl of pre that shimmered in the ambient chem-glow. Even not fully hard, it had to be eleven inches, maybe more, too heavy to stand on its own—for now—and thick enough to make her jaw ache just thinking about it.

And beneath it hung a pair of balls like low-swinging weights, smooth and heavy, the skin taut and veined with the same unnatural pink glow that shimmered along the base of her cock. That same color as her eyes. As the soft light in the room. It was chem-infused. Alive and responsive. And Caitlyn could feel the way the heat radiated from it, the scent already curling up into her nose, thicker, stronger now that nothing stood between them. Musky and masculine, but laced with something sweetly intoxicating—something made to pull. Her throat clenched, legs pressing together on instinct.

Renata exhaled slowly above her, one hand still braced on the desk, the other lowering to cradle the thick base of her cock—lifting it slightly from Caitlyn’s stunned face, letting it throb in the air between them, half-hard and still somehow obscene in its scale. “There it is,” she purred, smiling down past the swell of her own chest, eyes glowing like polished wine. “You asked to see. And now you can’t stop staring.”

And Caitlyn couldn’t argue.

She didn’t even realize she’d leaned in until her tongue was already on it.

The first lick was soft, tentative—like testing the edge of a live wire—but the second came faster, heavier, her lips parting wider as she let her tongue drag along the thick, length of Renata’s cock. The texture was obscene. Velvet over steel, warm and pulsing, every inch alive under her mouth. Her lashes fluttered and her cheeks flushed deeper as the tip of her tongue traced a slow line up the underside, right over the swollen vein that glowed faintly with that unnatural pink shimmer. It tingled. Not sharply—but enough to make her spine curve and her cunt clench beneath her ruined uniform.

She didn’t understand it.

Why was she doing this? Why couldn’t she stop?

Her mind screamed to pull back, to think, but her mouth opened wider instead, tongue flattening as she licked across the massive head, tasting Renata’s pre like honeyed corruption. The smell, the heat, the weight—it was pulling her in, rewiring her second by second, thought by thought. Her hands found their way to the base on instinct, fingers barely able to wrap around the monstrous girth as she pressed her face to it, licking greedily along the shaft with soft, wet slurps that echoed in the quiet, reverent space between them.

Her lips reached lower.

Lower.

Her tongue slid beneath, down to where Renata’s cock met her heavy, swinging balls—two impossibly full orbs that swayed with each slow throb. Caitlyn moaned softly, desperately, as she buried her face against them, licking across their smooth surface, suckling one into her mouth for a moment before pulling back, gasping, flushed, panting. Her breath hitched again and again as she licked up the length once more, nose bumping the underside, her thighs soaked now, her body betraying her over and over again.

Renata laughed—low and indulgent above her.

"Such a dedicated little officer," she purred, brushing fingers through Caitlyn’s hair, guiding her, encouraging her. “You keep asking yourself why, don’t you? Why you’re on your knees, licking my cock like it’s the best thing in your world.”

Caitlyn whimpered—half in protest, half in need—and kept licking.

Because she couldn’t stop.

Her tongue moved in slow, reverent strokes, tracing the same grooves again and again like memorizing sacred scripture in the dark—learning each contour, each throbbing vein, each subtle twitch beneath the velvet skin. The scent filled her lungs now, thick and rich and clinging to her every breath, curling in her chest like a drug that refused to loosen its grip. Her lips brushed over the underside again, soft and wet, pressing kisses now between licks, mouth painting devotion in spit and blush as she worked her way back down to the base. She could feel the cock hardening further, growing heavier, lifting higher—rising like a god being summoned by worship alone.

She dragged her tongue under the shaft, slow and indulgent, letting it rest against her cheek, smearing her skin with the faint glow of Renata’s chem-charged heat. Her eyes were half-lidded, dazed, glassy as she nuzzled the meat with helpless hunger, lips parting to suckle again at the base where the scent was strongest, musk thick and almost sweet on her tongue. Her hands never stopped moving—one fondling the bottom curve of Renata’s balls with trembling care, the other wrapped tight around the base, squeezing gently, barely spanning the circumference with her fingers.

It felt right.

It shouldn’t. Gods, it shouldn’t. But it did.

Her moans were low now, constant, barely-contained mewls of submission that rumbled up from her throat as she licked and kissed and worshipped. Her jaw ached, her face burned, and yet she didn’t stop—couldn’t stop. She licked up the length again, higher this time, her lips brushing the swollen ridge of the head, smearing pre across her mouth, tasting her again and again like she was feeding a hunger she hadn’t even known she had.

And through it all, Renata just watched.

Unmoving. Commanding. One hand lazily stroking Caitlyn’s hair, the other resting against the desk behind her. Letting her do the work.

Every time Caitlyn moaned, she could feel Renata’s cock twitch in response—growing thicker, firmer, angling upward now, proud and monstrous, heavy with promise. And still Caitlyn kissed it. Licked it. Pressed her lips to the side and let them linger, as if begging forgiveness for every second she’d not been on her knees.

Caitlyn’s lips trembled as they brushed the tip again—swollen, glistening, flushed darker now as it pulsed with heat right against her mouth. Her tongue flicked the slit once more, tasting the thick syrup of Renata’s pre as it beaded from the tip and painted her tongue with something warm, chemical, just a little too sweet. It coated her mouth with slick decadence, lingered on her teeth, seeped into her breath. Her lips parted without command, soft and wet, and she tilted her head forward, kissing the head slowly, letting it rest against her tongue.

With a smile that could almost be described as a warm victorious smile. Renata softly applied pressure to the back of Caitlyn‘s head. Guiding herself deeper into the warm wet embrace of a too eager hole.

Caitlyn‘s mouth stretched, slowly, excruciatingly, as the head pressed forward. It was already too big—thick beyond reason, pushing against the corners of her lips, forcing her jaw wider than it had ever needed to go. Her lips sealed around it with a wet pop, and her cheeks hollowed as she sucked in the first few inches, tongue curling beneath the shaft to cradle the weight and girth, coaxing it deeper. Her eyes fluttered shut, and a soft, choked moan escaped her throat—half pleasure, half disbelief—as she slid further, inch by inch, her lips sliding down the obscene cock now burning a path across her tongue.

She felt it swell in her mouth.

Every throb, every twitch, every faint grind of pressure against her upper palate as Renata’s cock pushed past the resistance of her throat. Her eyes teared immediately, lashes damp as she struggled to breathe through her nose, her jaw trembling as the stretch grew wider with every inch she accepted. Spit welled in her mouth, drooling past her lips in long, glistening strands, slicking the shaft and spilling down her chin as she bobbed slowly, shallowly, letting her mouth adjust to the sheer size. Her hands gripped Renata’s thighs for balance, fingers digging into the firm flesh through that perfect suit.

Above her, Renata moaned low—dark and pleased, the sound vibrating through Caitlyn’s skull like music. The firm grip in her hair forcing her deeper.

“That’s it,” she cooed, voice molten. “Look at you. Taking it so well.”

Caitlyn whimpered around the cock in her mouth, throat tight, nose almost pressed to the trimmed hair at Renata’s base as she choked slightly, then moaned when Renata loosened her grip. Letting Caitlyn decide for just a moment.

She drew back slowly, sucking hard on the retreat, the tip dragging across her tongue with a filthy squelch before she was pushed down again, faster this time, wetter, deeper. Her throat spasmed as she took more, more than she should, until the head pressed at the edge of her limits and stayed there, pulsing and thick, her jaw aching and her lips stretched red and raw around it.

And still, the woman above her didn’t stop.

And she herself couldn’t.

Caitlyn was lost now—lost in the rhythm, in the weight, in the heat of the cock stretching her mouth wider than she’d ever imagined possible. Her lips were flushed, spit-slicked and glistening, cheeks bulging every time she plunged forward, nose mashing against the base with a wet, obscene squelch. Her throat burned with every downward thrust, swallowing around the thickness with instinctual spasms that only made Renata’s cock throb harder against her tongue. The ache in her jaw had long since faded into numbness, replaced by raw, pulsing need. Her eyes streamed, her lashes damp, but she didn’t stop—not for breath, not for pain, not for dignity.

And Renata rewarded her.

Softly. Sweetly. In that perfectly modulated purr that sank into her ears and rewired her brain. “That’s my good girl,” she whispered, her hand in Caitlyn’s hair stroking slow and approving, guiding her in a steady rhythm. “Look at you, taking it all like you were meant for this. So obedient. So eager.” Her tone dripped with reverent mockery, like a lover praising a prized pet, each word branding Caitlyn’s skin deeper than fingers ever could.

Caitlyn moaned in response, the sound lost around the thick shaft plugging her throat. Her hands moved feverishly now, desperate for any part of Renata she could touch, could worship. Her fingers wrapped around the base, barely able to circle it, jerking softly in time with each suck. Her other hand cradled those monstrous balls—heavy, low-hanging, obscene in their fullness. They filled her palm like ripe fruit, warm and swaying gently every time she bobbed her head. She stroked them reverently, squeezing gently, her fingers brushing along the glowing pink veins that matched the pulse of Renata’s eyes.

The scent of them—musk and chem and dominance—coated her tongue, sank into her skin. She didn’t just smell Renata anymore. She tasted her. Breathed her in every time she could catch a little air.

“That’s it,” Renata crooned. “Let it in. Let it fill you.”

Caitlyn choked, gagged, moaned—and kept going.

Her head moved in a slow, relentless rhythm, the wet glide of her lips creating a lewd, steady tempo as she sank down the thick shaft again and again. The obscene heat of it radiated through her mouth, coated her tongue, filled her throat, and still it felt like it was growing heavier by the second—thickening, hardening further with every pass. Her jaw ached with the effort, her cheeks flushed with effort and arousal, strands of hair sticking to her damp face as she bobbed lower and lower, the weight of Renata’s hand pulling her deeper with each slide.

Her spit slicked every inch, drool cascading freely from her chin to puddle on the floor beneath her. The room was filled with the sound of it—slurp, gag, moan, slurp—the symphony of submission echoing off the polished stone walls, punctuated by the occasional low groan from above when Caitlyn hit just the right angle. Her nose pressed against the trimmed hair at Renata’s groin, her throat clenched tight around the invading length, and her fingers dug into Renata’s thighs for support, barely holding herself steady as her mouth was used.

Her hand never stopped stroking those massive balls, lifting and cupping, massaging the weight like a prized offering. They were so full, too full, pulsing in her palm with a heat that made her cunt throb. The veins glowed faintly against her fingertips, those same pink chem-laced lines that seemed to hum with power beneath the skin. She couldn’t look up. Couldn’t bear to meet those glowing eyes again, not while her face was stretched around something this thick, this wrong, this fucking perfect.

Renata’s hips shifted—just a little at first, a subtle press forward, a slow grind that made Caitlyn moan around the length stuffed in her mouth. Then again. Slower. Deeper. The change was barely perceptible at first, just the faintest movement of a little more force, but Caitlyn felt it in every nerve of her body. Renata was about to speed up.

The next thrust came just a hair firmer, the cockhead plunging past the soft, tender ring of Caitlyn’s throat and staying there. The weight of the hand at the back of her head pressed down hard, making her eyes flutter open wide, her breath catch. Her throat spasmed, clenching tight around the thick invader as her nose smashed against Renata’s skin, the heat of her hips smothering every last breath. She tried to swallow—instinct, reflex, desperation—and Renata groaned above her, that sound sharp and low and utterly in control.

“Ohhh,” she purred, hips rolling again, a little faster now, more deliberate, holding Caitlyn deep each time. “There it is. That perfect little choke.”

Caitlyn gagged softly, throat constricting around the girth still pulsing between her lips. Her hands clutched tighter at Renata’s thighs, her legs twitching, tears streaming down her face not from pain—but from the fullness, the need. Her nose was buried in Renata’s skin, her face completely eclipsed by the swollen cock rutting into her throat, her lungs burning as Renata lingered, drawing it out longer each time she bottomed out.

One second.

Two.

Three.

Then she pulled back—just enough for Caitlyn to gasp, sputtering around the slick shaft—but before she could even recover, Renata’s hips pressed forward again, rough and sure. slamming. Every thrust faster, deeper, each one holding her down longer, keeping her stuffed and shaking and leaking spit that clung in thick strings from her lips to her chin to the twitching cock she could barely hold in her mouth.

“Good girl,” Renata whispered, hips rolling again, fingers threading through Caitlyn’s hair to hold her steady. “Breathe when I let you.”

Renata’s hips moved with a languid, relentless rhythm, fast enough to make more salvia spill and gang freely in heavy drops. Each stroke was deliberate, paced like a metronome of dominance, dragging the heavy length of her cock out through Caitlyn’s trembling lips before sinking it back in, inch by inch, until she was buried to the hilt once again. Caitlyn’s throat clutched and spasmed around the girth, her tongue pinned, her lips stretched raw and glossy from the sheer size of it. Her breath came in short, choked huffs whenever Renata allowed it—brief, desperate gasps that turned into soft moans the moment her mouth was filled again.

Renata didn’t thrust like a brute. She fucked her mouth like an artist—each movement measured, sensual, precise. She lingered just a little longer with each descent, holding her hips still as Caitlyn’s face pressed flush against her groin, cock throbbing deep in her throat, the scent of her musk and arousal soaking into every breathless second. Then she’d retreat, let Caitlyn cough and gasp around the slick mess coating her lips—just long enough to tease her with the taste, to remind her of how empty her mouth felt without it.

Spit poured freely now, spilling down Caitlyn’s chin in thick ropes, soaking the front of her shirt, pooling between her knees. Her eyes streamed with tears, her cheeks flushed with heat and shame and helpless need. She could feel the way Renata’s cock had thickened inside her, feel every pulsing vein, every twitch of pressure as her throat was used like a toy. The heavy slap of Renata’s balls against her chin echoed in the quiet room, a rhythmic counterpoint to the slick sound of her lips sucking wetly at every retreat.

Renata hummed softly, not even panting, her voice like silk soaked in sin. “There we go… let it all out. Give me that perfect little throat.”

Caitlyn moaned around the girth, too far gone for words now.

And Renata kept going. Kept feeding her inch after inch, stroke after stroke, owning her with every thrust.

Renata’s pace began to shift—just slightly, just enough to signal the change. Her hips rolled a little harder, her cock swelling thicker in Caitlyn’s throat, pulsing with a rhythm far more urgent now. Caitlyn could feel it coming, sense it in every twitch of that monstrous length, the way the heavy balls she’d been fondling for what felt like eternity began to tighten in her palm, drawing up closer to the base. Her moans turned frantic around the shaft stuffing her mouth, panic and lust tangled in every strangled sound as Renata’s fingers curled tighter in her hair, holding her steady.

And then—with a deep, possessive groan—Renata slammed her hips forward, burying herself balls-deep.

Caitlyn’s nose was mashed against her skin, her throat bulging visibly around the massive cock lodged inside her, her lungs burning as her entire body trembled. She couldn’t move. Couldn’t breathe. And then she felt it.

The first pulse hit like a bomb.

A thick, molten rope of cum erupted straight down her throat—hot, heavy, and massive, thick enough to make her eyes fly wide as her gut twisted in shock. It kept coming—another, and then another—each pulse dumping more of that obscene, syrup-thick load into her, flooding her throat with volume she couldn’t even begin to comprehend. It was endless, impossible, her stomach cramping as it filled fast and kept filling, the taste overwhelming even as it bypassed her tongue entirely.

Halfway through, gagging and overwhelmed, Caitlyn’s hands pushed weakly against Renata’s thighs—trying to pull back, to escape the torrent she was drowning in.

But Renata’s response was immediate.

Her mechanical hand seized the back of Caitlyn’s head even harder, claws curling into her hair, shoving her down hard, locking her in place with no room to move. Her throat clenched as the cock twitched again, and another flood of cum surged through her, coating everything, burning heat sliding directly into her gut as her vision blurred.

“Take it,” Renata growled above her, voice thick, wicked, ecstatic. “Every last fucking drop.”

And Caitlyn, choking and gasping, had no choice.

She swallowed.

And swallowed.

And swallowed.

At last, the final pulse hit Caitlyn’s throat, thick and punishing, the last cruel thrust of Renata’s pleasure poured directly into her as her lungs screamed for air and her body trembled in exhausted submission. Her stomach felt swollen, stuffed, distended from the sheer volume—an impossible load that seemed to defy reason, hot and heavy and deep. And then, finally, finally, Renata exhaled above her—a slow, decadent sigh of satisfaction—and the iron grip at the back of her head released.

The massive cock withdrew with a slick, wet pop, dragging free of her throat with a thick string of spit and cum clinging between her lips and the still-pulsing tip. Caitlyn coughed—gasped—but didn’t fall back. Her body stayed right there, panting, red-faced, spit and seed leaking from her open mouth as she looked up just in time to see it.

Renata’s cock swung free—and slapped wetly across her face.

It landed with a lewd, meaty thud, heavy as sin and just as obscene, the shaft draping across her cheek, her lips, her nose, the fat, veiny length covering half her face like a brand of ownership. Warm, slick with her own spit and Renata’s still-dripping release, it pulsed gently where it lay, twitching lazily across her skin as if taunting her. The scent was overwhelming. Her face was painted in it.

And gods help her—she loved it.

Caitlyn moaned, soft and trembling, eyes fluttering half-shut as the weight of it rested across her features, her cheeks flushed deep crimson beneath the smear of cum still coating her lips. Her tongue flicked out, unthinking, swiping along the base of the shaft that now crowned her like a trophy, her thighs clenching as she tasted it fresh from the source.

She didn’t know why.

She didn’t understand how it had come to this.

But she wanted it.

Renata laughed—low and warm, utterly indulgent, like a lover admiring her favorite new toy rather than the woman who had just deepthroated nearly a foot of cock and swallowed an impossible load. The sound rippled down Caitlyn’s spine, left her shivering on her knees, her cheeks flushed and glistening with spit and seed. She should’ve felt humiliated. She should’ve been furious. But all she could feel was heat—tight and electric under her skin, curling between her thighs like something molten.

“You’re adorable like this,” Renata purred, brushing a few strands of damp hair from Caitlyn’s face, only to bring her heavy, soaked cock back into view. “Piltover’s golden girl, on her knees, drenched in cum like a good little slut.”

Caitlyn whimpered, throat raw, lips swollen. She didn’t speak. She couldn’t. Her jaw still ached from being stretched around that monstrous cock, her mind too fogged to form thoughts that weren’t centered around how good it had felt—how right it had felt—to be used like that.

Renata leaned forward slightly, her grin wide and wicked as she grabbed her cock near the base and gave it a lazy pump, smearing what was left of her release along its length. Then, without warning, she slapped it across Caitlyn’s face again. Once. Twice. Three times. Loud, wet thuds that echoed in the silence, each impact forcing Caitlyn’s head to tilt with the sheer weight of it. The mess clung to her cheeks, streaked across her lips, hot and slick and utterly obscene.

“Oh, you like that,” Renata murmured, tilting Caitlyn’s chin up with two fingers, watching her with that same unblinking intensity. “You should see yourself Kiramman. Dripping. Flushed. Mouth hanging open like the only thing you want is another load.”

Another slap. The shaft bounced off her cheek and left a glistening trail of cum on her skin.

“You’re not a sheriff right now, sweet thing,” Renata whispered. “You’re just my cockdrunk little mess.”

Caitlyn’s lips parted, her breath catching on the cusp of a protest—something hoarse and broken, maybe a scrap of dignity clawing its way up through the mess in her throat. “I—I’m not—” she began, the words slurred with heat and humiliation, barely holding together under the weight of the slick cock still resting against her cheek.

But she didn’t get further than that.

Renata’s grip tightened just enough on the base, and with a practiced flick, she slapped the shaft across Caitlyn’s face again—harder this time. A wet, meaty smack echoed through the room as the glistening length rebounded off her flushed cheek, rocking her head to the side. Caitlyn gasped, a tremble seizing her spine as cum smeared fresh across her skin, sticky and hot and utterly silencing.

“Oh, hush,” Renata purred, her tone thick with amusement and velvet cruelty. “Don’t embarrass yourself trying to reclaim that badge while my cock’s still on your face.”

Caitlyn whimpered, her protest dying in her throat as her mouth hung open again—part shock, part shame, and part aching want. Her thighs were still pressed tight, soaked with need, her body betraying every ounce of training, every ounce of pride.

“Come on up,” Renata murmured, voice laced with that same sultry command that had already unraveled Caitlyn’s resolve. Her hand, warm and firm, slid under Caitlyn’s chin and lifted—just a little, just enough to coax her to her feet without force. “Bend over the desk.”

Caitlyn’s breath hitched, legs trembling as she rose, her body responding before her mind could catch up. Her knees wobbled, slick with strain and arousal, her uniform hanging open and useless around her shoulders, chest rising and falling in shallow, panting bursts. She should’ve said no. Should’ve turned, collected her coat, and fled with what scraps of dignity she had left. But her feet moved forward. Her fingers curled against the edge of the desk before she realized they’d done it.

She bent over without thinking.

Chest pressed to the cool, lacquered surface, her ruined shirt bunched beneath her. Her hips lifted instinctively, back arched, presenting herself without command, without restraint. Her heart pounded so loud it hurt, and yet all she could think about was the heat behind her—the slow drag of breath, the wet slap of Renata’s cock brushing along her thigh as the Baroness stepped in close.

Caitlyn wanted to deny how fast she’d obeyed.

But her soaked panties told the truth.

Renata stepped in close, the heat of her body blanketing Caitlyn’s exposed back, that monstrous cock swaying lazily behind her, still half-hard, still glistening with spit and cum. She let her hands roam first—leisurely, possessive—one palm smoothing over the slope of Caitlyn’s hip, the other trailing up her spine, fingers splayed like she was sculpting her from heat and tension alone. Caitlyn shivered beneath her touch, breath fogging the cool surface of the desk, her hands braced against the wood, knuckles white, body humming with something between dread and desperate, aching need.

“Mmm,” Renata purred, her voice thick and heavy with satisfaction. “Look at this. Bent over for me already. Gods, you’re fucking perfect like this.”

slap

Sharp and echoing, Renata’s hand came down hard on one of Caitlyn’s ass cheeks, the sound loud in the quiet room, the sting immediate. Caitlyn gasped, her hips twitching, the impact blooming into heat that made her knees buckle. Her mouth dropped open, a small, shocked moan escaping her lips before she could catch it. She should’ve been indignant, but all she felt was wet—the aching, pulsing slickness between her thighs getting worse with every second.

Renata’s mechanical hand followed.

The smooth whir of servos hummed softly as the gauntlet came up, claws glinting faintly under the chem-lit sconces. One hooked delicately into the waistband of Caitlyn’s uniform pants—just a single finger, a whisper of pressure.

And then it ripped.

The fabric tore apart like paper, shredded in one brutal, efficient motion. The waistband snapped, seams split, and her panties—already clinging wet to her soaked pussy—were dragged down in the same motion, reduced to useless threads by Renata’s engineered strength. The cold air hit her cunt in an instant, her slick folds glistening in the dim light, completely exposed—wet, flushed, dripping.

Renata exhaled above her, delighted.

“Oh, sweetheart,” she purred, bending down to whisper against her ear. “You’re absolutely soaked.” Her fingers dragged slowly across Caitlyn’s inner thigh, collecting the proof. “Such a lovely sight.”

Renata didn’t waste a second. Her fingers—two of them from her normal hand, slick and glistening with Caitlyn’s own arousal—rose from between Caitlyn’s thighs, still dripping with the wet heat she’d just gathered. She brought them to Caitlyn’s lips with slow, deliberate grace, her other hand pressing gently against the small of her back to keep her in place, her cock already thickening again as it lay heavy between those trembling, perfect asscheeks.

“Open,” she whispered, voice a molten threat and command.

Caitlyn hesitated for just a heartbeat, her pride twitching—but her body didn’t wait. Her mouth parted in obedience, lips soft and flushed as Renata slid the wet fingers past them, pressing them down on her tongue. The taste of herself hit immediately—sweet, salty, hot, still clinging to her skin with fresh desperation. Her tongue curled instinctively, licking Renata’s fingers as they teased her palate, and Renata purred, slow and low, her smile practically audible behind every breath.

“Good girl,” she murmured, stroking her tongue slowly, like a lover petting a favored pet. “That’s your shame, Sheriff. That’s how much you wanted it.”

Caitlyn moaned helplessly around the fingers, her breath quick and shaky as her tongue moved, licking them clean even as her cheeks burned. Her cunt clenched, dripping fresh down her thighs. She should’ve fought it. Should’ve pushed back. But her hips arched, and she pushed herself further up onto the desk, desperate for more, for any contact.

And Renata gave it.

The thick weight of her cock slid between Caitlyn’s cheeks—warm, slick, already leaking pre again. She ground against her slowly, dragging the monstrous shaft between those flushed asscheeks in long, lazy strokes, smearing her length with the slick of Caitlyn’s body. The head bumped against her soaked pussy with each grind, teasing, threatening, promising, before sliding back up to nestle at the base of her spine.

Renata groaned above her, the sound low and indulgent. “You’re going to make such a mess,” she purred, hips rolling again, cock throbbing against Caitlyn’s soft, trembling skin.

Caitlyn gasped against the desk, her breath fogging the smooth lacquered surface as Renata’s cock slid low again, thick and unrelenting as it dragged down the valley between her cheeks. The head bumped her clit—just a brush, just a flick—but it was devastating, the spark of contact sending a jolt through her belly that made her knees shake and her cunt clench so hard it hurt. She whimpered, hips jerking, instinctively trying to push back into the pressure, to bring that thick, obscene length back to where she needed it. But Renata only laughed behind her, low and cruel and sweet.

“Oh?” she teased, grinding again, letting the slick, fat head nudge her clit again—harder this time, rolling against it in slow, maddening circles. “You’re already this desperate? I haven’t even fucked you yet.”

Caitlyn’s fingers dug into the desk edge, her breath catching in her throat. “Please,” she gasped, the word escaping before she could swallow it. Her voice was hoarse, trembling, soaked in humiliation and hunger. “Please, I—I need—”

“Need what?” Renata cooed, her tone all velvet and poison, her hips rocking forward just enough to part Caitlyn’s folds with her shaft, dragging it along the slick length of her pussy without entering. “Say it, Sheriff. I want to hear you beg for it.”

Caitlyn sobbed softly, her body shivering as the cock rubbed against her entrance again, her swollen clit throbbing beneath the obscene friction. “Please, Renata… I need your cock,” she whispered, each word burning hotter than the last. “I need you to fuck me…”

And Renata rewarded her obedience without hesitation.

With a single, smooth thrust, she plunged in—deep, burying every impossible inch in one steady motion that stretched Caitlyn wide and filled her to the core. The impact made Caitlyn cry out, loud and broken, her voice shattering in her throat as her cunt clamped down hard around the invading girth. It was too much. Too thick. Too deep. Her hips bucked against the desk, legs trembling, back arching as she tried to breathe through the sudden, exquisite pressure.

Renata didn’t wait.

She set a pace immediately—fast, sharp, but controlled, every thrust measured and intentional, pistoning into Caitlyn’s tight, soaked pussy with brutal elegance. The desk rocked with every stroke, the sound of their bodies meeting echoing loud and wet in the chamber, her cunt squelching around Renata’s cock as her slick gushed down her thighs. Caitlyn could only moan, her mind unraveling, her body reduced to a trembling mess under the relentless assault. Her hands scrambled for purchase, her breath sobbing out in gasps and cries as the fat cock fucked her deeper than she’d ever felt, hitting nerves she didn’t know she had.

And all she could think was: more.

Renata’s grip locked onto Caitlyn’s hips like a vice—her normal hand digging into soft flesh, while her mechanical one clamped just above her waist, each motion synced to the pounding rhythm of her thrusts. Her hips slapped against Caitlyn’s ass in hard, wet collisions, the sound echoing loud and lewd in the chamber, every stroke a brutal declaration of ownership. Her cock drove in deep and fast, the length of it grinding against Caitlyn’s inner walls with obscene precision, the sheer size of it pushing past resistance and plunging into spots that made Caitlyn cry out again and again.

The desk creaked beneath them, rocked by the force of Renata’s relentless assault. Caitlyn’s tits pressed against the lacquered surface with every jolt, her body reduced to a trembling, slick mess, her legs barely holding her upright. Every thrust threatened to fold her in half, and Renata loved it—loved how easily she could use her, how every snap of her hips pulled a fresh moan or sob from the girl bent over her desk like she belonged there.

“Fuck, you’re tight,” Renata growled, her voice low and predatory. “So fucking perfect wrapped around me. This cunt was made to get used.” She punctuated the words with a savage thrust, Caitlyn’s entire body jolting forward with a high, strangled gasp. “Look at you—Piltover’s pride, dripping all over my cock.”

Caitlyn couldn’t speak. Her mouth hung open, drooling against the desk, her eyes unfocused as every thrust punched a soft, helpless sound from her throat. Her body took it—welcomed every brutal snap of Renata’s hips, the monstrous cock plowing into her soaked pussy, pulling more slick from her with every second. She could feel the stretch, the pressure, the brutal friction of every inch as it slid inside and dragged back out, and her mind was nothing but static, drowning in the wet slap of skin and Renata’s voice in her ear.

“I bet you’ve never been fucked like this,” Renata hissed, leaning over her, her breath hot on Caitlyn’s neck. “No dainty Piltie boy could stretch you like I do. You need this. You fucking crave this.”

And deep down, Caitlyn knew—

She was right.

Because she was barely holding herself up now—her elbows slipping against the smooth desk, her body jostled forward with every brutal thrust. Her vision swam, tears clinging to her lashes, her mouth open in a breathless moan that never quite ended. Every inch of her felt overstimulated, from the slick heat pulsing between her thighs to the burn in her legs to the deep, aching stretch that came with every piston of Renata’s cock slamming into her. Her pussy gripped and squeezed around the impossible girth, slick drooling out of her in messy strings that painted her thighs, the desk, and Renata’s balls in glistening sheen.

She could feel everything—the way her folds spread wide for the thickness every time it plunged back in, the weight of Renata’s hips pounding against her ass, the throb of that monstrous cock dragging against every nerve inside her. Her walls clenched with each withdrawal, trying helplessly to hold it in, only to be filled again with another vicious thrust, harder, deeper, rougher. She was soaked—drenched—slick running down her legs in humiliating gushes with every pump, her cunt practically sucking Renata in, needier than she’d ever imagined she could be.

Renata’s hands never let her rest. The mechanical one gripped her with unwavering control, dragging her back onto each stroke, forcing her to take it. The other wandered—grabbing her waist, her ass, sliding up her spine, nails dragging across her skin just to feel her twitch and gasp beneath her. She fucked like she owned the rhythm of Caitlyn’s breath, and gods, it felt true—every ragged gasp, every high-pitched moan, every shuddering whimper was perfectly timed to the pounding of cock against cunt, like her body had stopped belonging to her the moment Renata bent her over.

And through it all, the dirty praise never stopped.

“Listen to that,” Renata purred, her voice thick with arousal, hips never missing a beat. “Hear how wet you are? You love this. Dripping like a bitch in heat, stuffed full of cock and begging for more.” A particularly deep thrust made Caitlyn scream, her voice muffled by the desk, her cunt clamping tight as a rush of slick spilled out of her. “You’re going to cum like this, aren’t you? Getting fucked like you’re mine.”

Caitlyn sobbed—but it wasn’t from pain.

It was from how good it felt. The pleasure. The pure undeniable arousal as she got fucked over a desk.

It hit her like a tidal wave—no warning, no chance to brace. One moment she was lost in the rhythm, in the obscene slaps of Renata’s cock inside her, the brutal fullness, the raw use of her body, and the next her vision shattered, her muscles locking tight as every nerve in her body screamed. The pleasure was too much. Her orgasm slammed into her like lightning, no slow build, just a sudden, violent surge of ecstasy that tore through her like fire.

Caitlyn screamed, her voice hoarse and wrecked against the desk, the sound raw and shameless as her cunt clamped down hard around Renata’s cock, milking it, trembling, convulsing. Her whole body locked up, thighs shaking uncontrollably, back arching as slick poured from her in a humiliating gush that splattered against Renata’s hips and the desk beneath her. Her mind went white, empty but for the overwhelming surge of pleasure that wracked her frame, wave after wave crashing through her, each thrust grinding her deeper into it.

And Renata didn’t stop.

Didn’t slow.

She slammed into her harder, faster, hips smacking against Caitlyn’s ass in wet, savage collisions, fucking her through the orgasm, dragging every last jolt of overstimulation out of her twitching, crying body.

Then she grabbed her hair.

Fingers tangled in Caitlyn’s soaked, disheveled locks, Renata yanked her head back, hard, pulling her up off the desk so she arched like a bowstring, her breath ripping from her throat in ragged sobs as her tits jutted out and her flushed, tear-streaked face was pulled upward into the hot air of the room.

“That’s it,” Renata snarled into her ear, her voice a low growl of lust and triumph, her cock plunging deep into the spasming mess of Caitlyn’s cunt. “Cum for me. Let everyone in Piltover hear what you sound like when you’re getting ruined.”

And Caitlyn could only moan, helpless and shaking, as the orgasm dragged on, pushed deeper by every brutal thrust.

Caitlyn couldn't breathe—didn’t even try to anymore. Her moans spilled freely now, broken and high and shameless, her body locked in a cycle of aftershocks and overstimulation that Renata seemed determined to drag out forever. Her cunt was a wreck, stretched wide around the relentless, inhuman girth pounding into her without mercy. The obscene length stuffed her full, a foot of cock plunging deep with every thrust, each one grinding against her already-spent walls like it was carving her open all over again.

Renata fucked her like she was made for it—like her body had been built just to take this cock. Her hands never stopped moving, holding Caitlyn by the hair, pulling her back into every brutal pounce until her spine bowed and her throat cried out. Her tits bounced with every thrust, her breath a series of shattered gasps, her vision dark at the edges from how long she’d been held on the edge of collapse. Her cunt squelched, loud and wet, each stroke churning the slick inside her, the sound lewd enough to make her scream in embarrassment—if she had any shame left to scream with.

She didn’t.

She was soaked. Dripping. Every inch of her body burned with raw, used pleasure, and still Renata kept going. That cock—fat, veined, impossibly thick—slammed into her again and again, deeper than any cock had ever gone, hitting nerves she didn’t know she had, pressing against the very limits of her body and then pushing further. Her pussy tried to clamp down, to hold it in, but it was too much, the pressure mounting again, another climax boiling beneath her skin as the sheer length of Renata’s cock ground against her from within.

And still Renata didn’t relent. Her hips snapped with practiced cruelty, the sounds of their bodies meeting echoing like thunder, her balls slapping wetly against Caitlyn’s overstimulated clit with every merciless thrust.

It was too much. Caitlyn’s body gave out again, helpless against the onslaught, another orgasm crashing down like a goddamned explosion detonating deep in her core. Her cunt spasmed around Renata’s cock, clenching in fluttering, wet waves, milking that monster as if her body didn’t care what pride or rank she once held. Her vision went white, her back arching hard, legs trembling violently as her voice tore from her throat—raw, breathless, undone. She screamed Renata’s name into the wood beneath her, her whole body quaking as slick squirted down her thighs, dripping, pooling between them in a humiliating puddle of overstimulated release.

Her arms buckled against the desk, her strength gone, her muscles limp and jelly-soft. Her mind was nothing but noise—fragments of thought drowned beneath the roar of pleasure, the wet, rhythmic slap of Renata’s hips still pounding into her from behind. She hadn’t stopped. Wouldn’t stop. That cock kept plowing into her spent, twitching cunt like Caitlyn’s orgasm had been nothing more than a byproduct, another note in the symphony of her submission.

And then Renata laughed.

It wasn’t loud. It didn’t need to be.

It was that quiet, satisfied chuckle—rich and cruel and dripping with amusement, the sound of a woman who knew she had completely, utterly won.

“Another one?” she purred, still grinding in deep. “Gods, you’re just pathetic now. Cumming like a needy little toy the second I start fucking you properly.” Her hand—normal, warm, commanding—grabbed Caitlyn by the shoulder. “Let’s see how much you really have left.”

Caitlyn yelped as her body was hoisted effortlessly—Renata’s mechanical arm locking under her leg, hauling her up with a hum of servos and unyielding strength. Her back slammed into Renata’s chest, her legs dangling for a split second before her thighs were lifted and spread wide, her knees hooked up by Renata’s arms in a cruel, precise hold. The full nelson locked tight, her body suspended, open, her pussy still twitching around that cock now hammering into her from below.

The position only made things better.

The angle drove the cock deeper—somehow, impossibly deeper—grinding right against that tender spot inside her that made her cry out like a broken thing. Her head fell back against Renata’s shoulder, mouth open, drooling, her eyes rolled back and fluttering, her limbs useless as she was held up and fucked, reduced to nothing but twitching, moaning meat around that enormous cock.

Renata’s breath brushed her ear, low and cruel.

“Let’s see how many more times I can break you.”

Caitlyn couldn't even pretend to hold herself up anymore—her body was limp in Renata's grip, every muscle a tremor, her moans reduced to high, gasping sobs that barely escaped her lips. Her arms hung uselessly to the side, her legs spread wide and weightless as they bounced with every thrust. Her entire body jolted with each brutal plunge of cock into her ruined cunt, the slick slap of skin meeting skin echoing like thunder between her ears. She was suspended in Renata’s grasp—held up like a toy, used like a toy—and there was nothing she could do to stop it and nothing she would have done to do so.

Her pussy was numb and burning at once, stretched beyond recognition around that massive, pounding cock. Every inch of her dripped—sweat, spit, cum—all slicking the curve of her thighs, coating Renata’s cock with fresh gushes of wet heat every time she bottomed out. She could feel her folds clinging desperately around the shaft, sucking it back in even when her mind screamed to stop, to breathe, to think. But there was no room for thought. Just Renata. Just the weight and heat and stretch of being fucked open in midair, held up like a trophy, reduced to a moaning, twitching shell of the woman she’d once walked in as.

Renata barely grunted behind her—still in full control, her breath measured, hips grinding up into her with relentless, fluid rhythm. Caitlyn could feel her smirk pressed against the side of her face, could hear it in every slow, mocking exhale as she buried herself deep, then pulled back just far enough to slam in again. Over and over. Like Caitlyn was weightless. Like the dozen pounds of cock pistoning into her wasn’t even effort.

“You’re doing so well,” Renata whispered against her ear, voice a hot, cruel purr. “Still holding moaning like you want me to keep going.” Her hands shifted, adjusting her grip, spreading Caitlyn’s thighs even wider. “And I will. For as long as I want.”

Caitlyn’s moan broke—loud, helpless, shameless—as her body clenched tight again, fucked too deep, too good, too much. And Renata just kept going. Cock wet, hot, unstoppable, hammering up into her with smooth, unending strength like she could keep Caitlyn in the air forever.

And gods—part of her wanted her to.

Caitlyn barely registered the shift at first. She was too far gone, her body rocked numb by the relentless rhythm, her brain drowning in slick heat and overstimulation. But she felt the sway—Renata moving, her grip shifting, the heavy, obscene cock slipping out of her twitching pussy with a wet, reluctant pop that made her cry out like something precious had been taken. Her body trembled in the sudden emptiness, legs dangling uselessly, breath ragged and shallow as she realized Renata was walking.

Walking with her. Still held in the air like she weighed nothing.

Her head lolled back against Renata’s shoulder as they moved, the room blurring past, the chem-lit sconces and glimmering desk fading away behind them. Her thighs quivered, spread wide in Renata’s mechanical grip, her cunt drooling down onto her inner legs, the ache between her hips raw and still clenching in ghost pulses of climax.

They were at the window.

High above Zaun, the city stretching out below like a living beast—grime, smog, and industry coiling through the streets like veins. The window reached from floor to ceiling, a smooth, gleaming pane of glass overlooking the chaos far below. And Caitlyn, barely able to lift her head, realized what Renata was about to do.

She whimpered as the Baroness adjusted her hold.

Renata’s mechanical arm didn’t release her—couldn’t. Caitlyn’s legs wouldn’t hold her own weight, not after how thoroughly she’d been fucked already. So Renata simply shifted her—one hand gripping beneath her thigh, guiding her until her bare, flushed chest pressed against the cool surface of the window. Her breath fogged it instantly, skin sticking slightly to the glass as her breasts squished softly against it. Her hips were pushed out, legs still dangling, still too weak to stand, her entire body supported by Renata’s grip around her waist.

“Look at them,” Renata whispered, voice close behind her, her breath ghosting over Caitlyn’s ear. “All those little lives. Walking below. They’ve no idea what’s happening up here.” Her free hand stroked down Caitlyn’s back, soothing and cruel. “Piltover’s finest. Spread open, dripping, about to get fucked against a goddamned window.”

Caitlyn gasped, her body clenching, her arms trying to lift her, but all she could do was brace weakly against the glass, eyes fluttering open to see the lights of Zaun—distant, scattered, indifferent.

And behind her, that thick, still-hard cock pressed once again against her slick, aching folds.

The moment the fat head of Renata’s cock found her entrance again, slick from earlier, throbbing with heavy, pent-up need, Caitlyn’s body reacted—her hips jerked against the glass, her breath hitched, her cunt clenched in helpless anticipation. She barely had time to speak, to even breathe, before Renata shoved forward and buried herself in one brutal, devastating thrust.

Caitlyn screamed.

The force of it slammed her against the window, her breath fogging it instantly, her hands slipping on the smooth surface as her body was pushed upward, fucked upward by the sheer momentum of Renata’s strength. That massive cock filled her in one unrelenting stroke, stretching her sore, abused cunt wide all over again, the heat of it burning against her walls. There was no tenderness. No patience. Just the raw, unfiltered need to claim her again—and Renata delivered.

She fucked Caitlyn like a machine.

Pounding into her with a rhythm so fast, so precise, it bordered on inhuman. Her hips snapped against Caitlyn’s ass with punishing force, again and again, the sound of it sharp and wet and obscene as her cock pistoned in and out of her wrecked hole without pause. Every thrust drove the air from Caitlyn’s lungs, made her moan—no, scream—against the window, her voice echoing back at her like some desperate, broken thing. Her face pressed against the glass, cheeks smeared with tears and sweat, her mouth open in a trembling, incoherent cry as Renata used her like she weighed nothing.

One arm still held her up—wrapped around her waist, locking her body in place with terrifying ease—while the other braced Renata against the frame, driving her cock in deeper, harder, like she wasn’t bound by stamina or flesh. Caitlyn’s legs kicked weakly in the air, thighs slick and trembling, her pussy drooling onto the floor beneath her in thick streams of slick as her body surrendered completely to the onslaught.

It was endless.

Relentless.

And gods, she didn’t want it to stop.

Caitlyn’s moans had long since become a chorus of gasps and whimpers, her voice worn thin from screaming through too many orgasms, from having her breath stolen by the brutal force of Renata’s hips slamming into her without pause. Her pussy was raw and flushed, lips swollen, her slick smeared across her thighs and dripping down the windowpane in glossy trails of spent lust. She didn’t even try to hold herself up anymore—her weight was entirely in Renata’s arm, dangling, shaking, used.

But the pressure was building again.

It coiled in her belly like fire, like lightning—fast and inevitable. Every thrust of that monstrous cock dragged against the most sensitive parts of her over-fucked pussy, the head battering her sweet spot with mechanical precision, the rhythm perfectly unforgiving. Her toes curled, her vision went white at the edges again, her cries rising into broken, desperate sobs of pleasure.

“Oh gods—I can’t—I’m gonna—!”

Her climax tore through her like a fucking lightning, a full-body quake that seized her muscles and sent her into convulsions around Renata’s cock. Her cunt clamped down with feral strength, gripping the thick length as if it could trap it inside her, milk it for everything it had. She screamed again, hoarse and wild, head useless against the glass as her orgasm detonated in endless pulses—wave after wave of overwhelming, uncontrollable need.

And that tight, slick, milking cunt was all Renata needed.

The Baroness grunted behind her—really grunted—her breath catching, her voice no longer perfectly composed. “Fuck—shit,” she hissed through her teeth, her hips stuttering just once, a single jagged break in her rhythm before she plunged deep one final time. Caitlyn felt it throb inside her, massive and twitching, the cock too thick, too long, stuffing her full just as Renata’s orgasm hit.

And it was devastating.

Renata’s cock erupted with a pulse so forceful Caitlyn felt it slam against her cervix, thick ropes of cum spilling deep into her already-flooded pussy, pressure blooming sharp and hot inside her with every heavy, guttural pulse. Her breath caught as more and more poured into her, thick and endless, her cunt forced to stretch around the pressure as it fought for room. Her gut ached with fullness, her juices mixing with the obscene torrent flooding her from the inside out, her body twitching through the aftershocks of her own climax as Renata filled her without pause.

And Renata groaned—not soft, not quiet, but raw and strained, her breath hitching in Caitlyn’s ear, her body finally showing just a sliver of exertion as she emptied herself into the trembling mess of a sheriff cradled in her arms.

Renata stayed buried inside her.

Not moving, not speaking—just feeling her. The slow, rhythmic clench of Caitlyn’s cunt still fluttering around her cock, like her body couldn’t accept that it was over, like it was begging her to stay. The warm wetness of her pulsing folds hugging her length, still twitching with aftershocks, soaked and stretched and slick with the thick flood of cum she’d pumped deep inside. Renata let out a slow, breathy exhale, not quite a moan, but close—satisfaction woven with reverence as she held Caitlyn’s limp body against her.

She gave her a small, slow grind—one last, lazy thrust, just to feel how utterly wrecked she’d made her.

Caitlyn whimpered, weak and soft, her whole body trembling in Renata’s arms, breath fogging the window as her cheek rested limply against it. Her muscles twitched, her pussy squeezed one more time around the still-throbbing cock inside her, and then Renata smiled—soft, slow, pleased beyond measure.

With care, and just a whisper of regret, Renata pulled out.

The cock slid free with a slick, obscene noise, thick strings of cum clinging to Caitlyn’s ruined pussy, dribbling down her thighs, smeared across the inside of her legs in a hot, glistening mess. The sudden emptiness made Caitlyn gasp—a shaky, trembling breath. Her feet finally hitting the ground and before she even had a change to stand, her legs gave out beneath her.

She collapsed.

Not violently. Not in a heap. She folded softly, like her bones had melted, like her body had finally surrendered completely. Her knees hit the floor first, then her shoulder, her back curling inward as she eased into a slow sprawl, trembling and slick and utterly undone. Her hair clung to her cheeks, her chest heaved, and her thighs remained parted—cum leaking freely from between her folds, pooling beneath her in long, slow drips.

Caitlyn lay there, breath hitching in ragged gasps, her cheek resting against the cool floor as the last pulses of her orgasm faded into bone-deep ache. Her cunt throbbed, stretched wide, still leaking Renata’s impossibly thick load in warm, sticky waves that coated her thighs and pooled beneath her in slick, humiliating puddles. Every part of her felt used—her limbs heavy, her spine weak, her thoughts floating in a dazed, blissed-out fog that clung to the inside of her skull like honey.

Above her, she could hear Renata moving.

A slow, satisfied sigh. The subtle rustle of fabric. The faint hiss of her mechanical shoulder rolling as she stretched, re-centering her balance with elegant ease. Caitlyn didn’t need to look to know Renata was standing tall again, perfectly composed, gazing down at her with that maddening, confident smirk curling her lips. She could feel the weight of her stare, heavy with dominance, amusement, and the thick satisfaction of a woman who had just absolutely ruined her.

“Well,” Renata said, her voice smooth and slow, her heels clicking once as she shifted her stance. “That didn’t take long at all, did it?” She laughed, soft and mocking, with a lilt of indulgent cruelty. “All that pedigree, all that training, all that decorum—and look at you now. Barely thirty minutes on my cock, and you’re a drooling, leaking little mess.”

Caitlyn groaned softly, her pride sparking somewhere inside her, but there was no strength to pull it forward. She couldn’t argue. Couldn’t lie. Her body ached in the best possible way. Her nerves were still sparking. It felt better than anything she’d ever known—more intense, more devastating, more right than anything she’d let herself want. Her thighs shifted weakly, her cunt clenching again with the ghost of that fullness, her lips parted as if she might say something… but no words came.

But it was done.

It had to be done.

Even Renata, with all her elegance, her monstrous cock, and that fucking terrifying stamina, had limits, didn’t she? She’d come. Hard. Twice. Even now, Caitlyn could hear her exhale like someone finally letting tension out of her chest. The cock, Caitlyn assumed—hoped—was softening. Her legs couldn’t take another second. Her brain definitely couldn’t. Her body…

Her body still wanted more.

But she prayed Renata was finished.

And then—then—she made the mistake of turning her head slightly, glancing back over her shoulder, and she saw it.

Caitlyn barely registered the movement at first—still sprawled on the floor, legs spread, chest heaving, her skin slick with sweat and cum and humiliation. Her muscles trembled with every twitch, every residual clench of her thoroughly wrecked cunt, and her brain floated in a haze somewhere between bliss and disbelief. Her mouth hung open, lips too swollen for words, but her eyes tracked Renata as she moved away, slow and lazily satisfied, as though the last half-hour hadn’t just been spent utterly destroying her.

The Baroness walked with that same effortless grace, her cock still half-hard and dripping, swinging low between her legs as she returned to her desk—backlit by the glow of Zaun through the window. Caitlyn watched, unable to look away, as Renata reached for her mask. It had nearly toppled from the surface during the frenzy, the edge of the desk still streaked with Caitlyn’s slick, her own fingerprints smudged across the glass. Renata picked it up like a queen reclaiming her crown, turning it slowly in her fingers as she glanced back over her shoulder.

“You look done,” she said, her voice once again smooth, calm, amused. “But I’m generous, Sheriff. Because my next appointment is only in a couple of hours.”

Caitlyn’s lips trembled.

Her body twitched.

She should’ve said something. But she wanted it. What escaped her was a soft, moan—long and low, soaked in need and aching for more, her hips giving the smallest, unconscious grind against the cum-slicked floor. The ache in her gut, the stretch of her cunt, the ghost of that monstrous cock still pounding into her—all of it screamed yes in a language her voice couldn’t form. Just a low moan.

Renata smiled.

She was satisfied.

“Good girl.”

And then she placed the mask back over her face.

It sealed into place with a quiet, mechanical hiss, locking against her skin in a perfect fit, the chemtech plates clicking softly as the filters engaged. A faint whir, a pulse of arcane glow—then the pink vapor began to spill out from the vents along the sides, curling in soft tendrils around her shoulders. Renata inhaled deeply, a sharp, calculated draw of that engineered vapor into her lungs.

Her body tightened. Her breath slowed.

And then her cock surged.

Caitlyn gasped, eyes wide as she watched it swell in real time—flesh pulsing, thickening, hardening from semi to full in seconds, rising like a weapon freshly drawn. It curved upward with that impossible girth, the skin tight and flushed, glistening with slick, veins glowing faintly with that same pink shimmer now curling from Renata’s mask. And her balls—gods, they had looked spent before, finally softened by climax.

But not anymore.

They swelled, slowly, impossibly, rounding out with new weight, new fullness, drawing lower with each passing second until they looked even heavier than before—taut, bloated, overflowing. Caitlyn’s breath caught, her cunt clenching again despite the ache, her throat releasing another soft, needy whimper.

Renata exhaled through the mask slow and deliberate.

“How about we make the best of my time?”