Chapter Text
"Xalamander 6721, the General wants you in her office within the minute."
The command blared into your eardrums, rousing your from your bureaucratically defensible 5 minute powernap. "Buh?" You wipe the drool from your face with your leather-clad paw as you get up. Your body had begun moving long before your mind had. The sudden rousing had made it feel like your brain was rattling around in your head like a game of air hockey, but your body knew better. It had been drilled into you, 'Do, or die'.
It's the first time you set foot into the General's office. It's not really your place to be. The luxurious decor, the fine fabrics, the synthetic atmosphere making the outside not look like a hellscape of industrial smog 24 hours of the day, it was all too respectable for a xalamander of your standing. You were a lowly machine engineer-janitor combo meant to do nothing more than to leave tar-like grease stains at the 2 foot mark of every non-reclined surface you passed by between your tasks. "I- uh- guh- uh... buh..?" The words refused to leave your mouth, mostly because you didn't know what words to say, but had you, you wager you probably still would have stumbled harder than a giraffe getting its legs clotheslined in an episode of Wipeout, had you known what either Wipeout or a TV-show was, that is.
"Don't speak." The violently British voice echoed out at you. Her voice was stern enough to seal your bladder shut, her glare so penetrating you were wondering if she was trying to find the shut-off switch on your heart. "You have a task. F-203 fighter crash Hangar, 32-East. Clean it up." She exclaimed, but truth be told, it confused you. This task could have been given by your supervisor, not the head honcho.
You fail to catch yourself before the words leave your mouth, "Wait? You gave a xalamander flight permissions? That-" Expecting to have your head blown off your shoulders within the minute you instead find yourself interrupted.
"I- Yeah, I suppose that did happen..." She was almost as shocked as you were. Her entire posture seemed to melt away in front of your eyes. Zoning out as if she had entirely forgotten the rest of the world.
You stand there, preparing the follow up question. You have no clue how much time has passed. You're just waiting. For all you know she's having a stroke or something, but there's not a way in hell you're going to check. You were just a xalamander. A little xalamander. You feel the sweat pooling in your workboots as you try everything in your power not to hyperventilate visibly. Suddenly, she snaps back to reality, as you blurt out a question to brush over whatever just happened. "W-why me? Is there a reason why I'm here and not-"
"Why the fuck are you here. You stink. Get out."
Those were the words that you heard as you quickly evacuated the room. 32-East was empty as you stood there, mop in hand, industrial solvent in tow. As you look upon the wreck below, you can tell whatever xalamander got access to the state of the art technology seemed to have exactly two steps in its action plan, 'Make plan' and 'Get plane'. Ruthless efficiency aside, the rest of the details seem to have been missing, because there's more scrap, ashes, and xalamander parts strewn across the facility than there had been braincells involved. Usually xalamanders don't expire, but this one seems to have reached some form of comedic apotheosis, being more narratively valuable dead than alive. You'd make sure to regale the rest of the xalamanders with its legend. It's only right.
Looking closer upon it, you see that you actually know them. You met this girl just a week ago, some snotty tech enthusiast that spent their few spare hours drooling over alien scrap that falls of the truck from time to time. She was as annoying as they come, blabbering on with more volume to her than a loudspeaker. You had just put on a big smile and grit your teeth, not having the guts to show your displeasure and instead just praying they'd die horribly in a plane accident before you meet them again. Looking at her in your hands you start to wonder if you should pick a religion.
You rifle through her belongings, trying to figure out how someone as obnoxious as her got her hands on plane keys and clearance. Instead you find a note and a cryptic device. "Hey, 6721, if you read this, that means I am probably dead. I didn't know who to address this to, and never really had a lot of friends, but I'm happy to know the world at least had somebody that cared enough to listen to me. The device I was talking to you about is attached to this letter, instructions included. I hope my backup plan didn't scare you all too much. Once I had the trigger words in Zentreya's head, the rest of this was elementary. I didn't know who else to give it all to, so I felt it should go to someone deserving."
Chosing to completely ignore the moral gutpunch you instead adjust your eyes to the device. It's completely bricked from the impact. If there's anything to salvage from this, it's the phrases in the book. The girl gives examples of trigger phrases. You would have at most 10 seconds to ramble through them all before you'd be thrown out a window into a pit of spikes laced with eternal torment. Provided of course, she'd even given you the honor of getting to partake as victim in her favorite pastime.
You take a seat in the soot and viscera across the floor thinking about it all. If this plan worked, would you even need to clean up any of this? You'd be dead either way. Heck, for all you know, if the General ever came to her senses and investigated this all, your head might still be on the chopping block. You punt the xalamander head across the room, realizing you've been put in a position you didn't even ask for. "Well... fuck me."
"...6721. It's about the crashed plane. I'm probably not walking out of that place alive, so there's no need to stab me here and now."
You manage to finagle your way past the guards. They saw you just a bit over an hour ago, so it's they at least have some reason to believe you ought to be where you are right now. If not that, then at least you're selling it well, because you are shaking in your boots, giving the very reasonable impression that you would rather be anywhere else right now. "Requesting permission for entry from one, 6719" The guard voices erroneously.
"Uh, 721."
"Oh, my bad, Xalamander 721, M'am." You want to growl at the way the guard is fucking up his job, but instead you just bite your tongue, knowing this idiot will get his just rewards one way or another.
It opens the door for you, and just a second later, closes it behind you, Zentreya seems to be livid. She knows you had seen her just an hour ago, and in a shameful state at that. Attempting to extend your lease on life, you start shooting out rapid fire trigger phrases from the list, hoping one sticks. "Microwave salad! Banana on the edge! So third off!" Having proven entirely ineffective, she had her long sharp nail right under your mandible as if planning to jam it right through your skull. "W-wait, please. It's about the plane that you gave clearance to..." Your urethra, having wound itself into a pretzel by now, was aching in pain, as you feared it to be the last sensation you'd ever feel. Until, it wasn't.
The first sign that you weren't dead was the sudden relief coming in the form of a wetness in your trousers. Second was the hand off your throat. She seemed paralyzed, if for a moment. Whatever the reason, it would have to do. You rifle through the small notebook trying to find the instructions on what to do next. "Okay, establish a condition..." You mumble to yourself, half staining the bottom of the page with a liquid that was either oil, viscera, blood, piss, sweat, or tears, or some infernal combination of them. "W-when ever someone hollers 'Yo, Pepperoni Nips!' to you, you will immediately enter this exact trance state. You will do this because..." You don't let yourself think for all too long, fearing you might miss your shot. "...b-because I, 6721, am your favorite, most handsome... um, or, p-pretty, whichever one fits your fancy... person that- that you would never want harmed or dead. Ever." You think you're about to faint, this is all too stressful for you. You just need to confirm that it...
"Oh my, are you finally waking up? You were out of it for quite some time..."
You hear a womanly giggle rouse you from your sleep, everything was so warm and nice. You don't think you've ever felt what it is you were feeling right now. It was a flowery scent and the suds didn't even feel like they were scarring your skin. You felt gentle hands caressing away at your body, forcefully yet carefully scrubbing away all your molted skin. The terror suddenly strikes you as you splash your naked form like a maniac in the water hoping to make some distance between you and the demon holding you. "Oh, don't be like that, you're going to break my heart..." There was an actual hurt to her voice, as if she was genuinely saddened by what had just happened. Her eyes were a lot kinder than you would wager anyone had seen them in the past 30 years. So much so that it almost recontextualized the age-lines on her face as something not borne from perpetual disappointment but actual age.
"Sorry, force of habit..." You say still trying to get your bearings in any form of meaningful way, whether sympathetically, emotionally, or simply the location. Every nook and cranny of this place was completely bewildering to you, as every detail your eyes caught on in this jade tinted marble suite only served to convince you that you'd been abducted by aliens. "Where are my clothes?" You ask, trying to stifle the fear in your voice to put her at ease.
"Oh? Those dirty things? I threw them out. Had your supervisor killed for even handing them to you to begin with." She said, symbolically spitting onto the floor tiles.
"I- uh- and the contents of my pockets..?" Your supervisor was terrible, he was always stretched thin doing his own hobby projects rather than actually making anything more efficient, so all your colleagues had to break their backs for nothing only to be rewarded with a 'you did it wrong, you should have asked me first'. Usually you would have mourned anyone dying under similar circumstances, but right now... this water felt much too nice. Or well, it would, had she not yanked you out of it just now, happily holding you like a soaked cat.
Her faced flushed up with an excited but evil grin. "You won't need all that junk. You live here with me now." She said, before clipping on a bowtie around your neck, and putting some bunny ears on your head. The rest of you was left entirely naked and exposed. There was an immense pleasure growing across her face. Her lips were struggling to stay put has her entire being lit up in some form of perverted reaction to what she was seeing in front of her. Having faced much worse abuse in your life, it didn't particularly phase you. Xalamanders made out and formed orgy piles all the time. So what if The General felt left out, let her join in. For once, her pride wasn't getting in the way of her having a good time. However...
You feel a spur in your back that you hadn't quite felt before.
...That didn't stop you from wanting a say on the matter. For once in your life, you were not bottom of the food chain. You had the complete capacity to voice your opinion. "Yo, Pepperoni Nips!" She almost drops you on the floor, but you manage to turn head trauma into a sore buttcheek with some quick reactions. You straighten your voice, feeling a sudden rush of power and confidence entering your xalamander frame. "Alright, we're gonna have to set up a ground rule here ma'am. I will not allow you to dress me up like this. Rule number one, is that at any point I will always have at least one more piece of clothing on than you, capiche?" You wait for her to respond, but she doesn't. "If you understood all that, then you are free to wake up again."
With an almost criminal disgust, as if she's just been caught eating her own booger, she jettisons her own jacket off her shoulders. It doesn't take long for you to recognize the fault in your planning as you are being pinned underfoot of a lady that is quickly peeling away layer after layer of clothing in front of your eyes, more determined to get herself undressed, than you any more dressed than you currently were. Not even a second after her jacket had been tossed unceremoniously onto the floor she was already furiously tearing at her own belt, hoping to get it open as soon as possible. "I'm not gonna let you go scampering off now, okay?" She demands more so than vows, as she, rather than to calm down and resolve her issue, slices a gigantic jag across the entire front of her dress uniform, all while casually opening some kind of infernal portal underneath you.
You close your eyes in response to the humming electrical tingle that runs across your entire back, the ubiquitousness of it is giving you random itches that you just can't reach. You don't dare open your giant eyelids as the wild magic is sending waves of unstable lashes along the length of the portal. You almost fear that the ramping heat will scald you, until all of a sudden you're quickly enveloped in flesh, bountiful amounts of flesh.
Below your naked tush sits her unfurled hand, holding you like a supersized toddler as you grapple her lithe body for support. Between her movements, you can hear the shifting of sounds as her breasts brush past your ears, oddly reminiscent to the sound of a conch one might find on the beach. Once again, if you'd ever gotten to experience any of what a beach entailed. Instead the noise was new to you. Interesting. So, between the times where Zentreya was bending forward to remove her shoes and thigh-highs you simply felt like you had to take the opportunity to explore it, as you rolled your forehead against her ribcage, sloshing her breasts around in your paws.
As her first naked foot hits the marble floor with a gentle wet slap, another noise breaks through the verbal silence, a mild moan. Your ears, well, rather auditory membranes, instantly perk up as you hear it. In every xalamander pile, this was always the part that you lived for the most. Not the grinding, not the touching or massaging, not the kisses or actual copulation. The stifled moans. The feeling that you had found somebody shy, prideful, or repressed, that was trying their hardest to be above it all, yet they were still there, unable to break out of their cocoon. Until your grippers came along. The gentle look of apprehensive approval, before you felt them up, your mind almost naturally attuned to theirs, trying to calculate every weakspot in order to crack their shell. Teasing, torturing them, until they'd be awash with so much embarrassment that they'd crack like an egg. For some reason, this archetype of person was always the freakiest of them all once they were out of their shell, and it filled you with so much power... accomplishment ...to know that you'd managed to unleash them upon the world.
So hearing this, your tongue almost lashed out of your mouth without your control. Only almost, because you were perfectly in control of what came next. Your head turned to the side, your short but wide tongue laid its full warm breadth across her massive tit, feeling the hard bud of her nipple right at the tail end of the tongue. Xalamanders didn't have breasts, so you were feeling yourself around a bit in the dark here, but the power trip alone was driving you on. You could almost hear her make a comment about your forwardness, but the words failed to leave her mouth over the short, hiked breathing. All the same, you relent, straddling her body with a wide grin staring up at her face.
Her eyes attempt to dodge away for a moment, not wanting to meet yours. Moments later, the murderous circles lining her yellow irises come to meet yours yet again as she catches her moment of weakness, and you stare deeper, more greedily. Making sure that she knows that you know just how much she wanted it, and how much you weren't going to give her until she begged for it. The look you got in response was rage. Surprising amounts of rage in fact. So much so that you could tell her entire body was wincing in an attempt not to throw you 200 feet through the wall. As she tried to ignore you, opting to simply remove the last of her clothing, you instead gave her the opposite treatment, intermittent lashes of your tongue. Enough to annoy her, never enough to give her satisfaction. All to tell her non-verbally, 'take it or leave it'.
Just as she got her last thigh-high off, you took her entire gigantic mammary into your mouth in a warm wet kiss, before quickly wrenching yourself out of her arms and scampering off into her office.
"You shouldn't concern yourself with work anymore. That's not what you're good for."
You could hear her stern voice from behind you as she tore you away from her calendar. Inside you had seen every upcoming meeting that she had for the day, with her and high-ranking xalamanders, as well as anyone working for the subordinate human administrations keeping the penal colonies in check. Some people would have thought that it would have been in her best interest to keep some of humanity alive and sue for peace and concessions before every well and willing human in the world would have died, but those 'some people' would have failed to understand how this demon functioned. She was too weathered and worn by the world to see things like carnage and meaningless bloodshed as much more or less than low-brow entertainment. Not a loss, not much gained. Concessions however, now that's a loss of pride, and pride wasn't something that you could buy back with time, research, or slave labor.
"Oh, I was just researching when I would be allowed to get dressed again." You ratchet rebelliously while she nakedly held you under your armpits.
"Now who's to say that you will?" She claps back, once more pinning you against another surface as if she ran out of ways to express her own dominance beyond removing your agency.
"I'm about as sure as I am of every crevasse in the surface of this table. There's no way you'd ever give up your pride and go naked in front of your subordinates." God, it felt good to go toe to toe with someone that had always been haunting your nightmares. That said, it also felt good to know that if she ever did step too far, you'd have an easy safety measure. Smugly, she grabbed 4 extra sets of bunny ears and set them on top of your head. You didn't tell her, but she was so going to regret that.
"M'am! Please it wasn't us! The asphalt depot had bad supplies! I swear!"
You remember that the transport company officer had been one of the latest to be flung out of Zen's window just a couple of days ago. Zentreya's principle of double punishment seems to have now gone the next step down the line, and if you knew her next step, it would be another xalamander thrown out the window, and a crude oil refinery officer next in line for a meeting. Though, you suppose you could always tip those scales. Looking from underneath her table, knowing full well only her top half was clothed, you watch for any sudden movements that would indicate that she was going to attempt to murder this poor officer. You've long before grabbed both of her ass cheeks warming your face between her thighs, gently lapping, as she ignores you with a steely face.
The xalamander is fumbling now, desperately scrounging a pile of documents out of their bag, but knowing full well that it's in vain trying to hide behind documents proving ones innocence, Zentreya has already reclined herself in her chair, having made up her mind. At the sheer notion of theatric behavior your tongue instantly lashes violently against her labia, causing her magic to falter. You stare up at her, your hand hovering one of the sets of bunny ears emphatically.
"You can't threaten me like this, I'm not-. THIS HAS NOTHING TO DO WITH Y- Oh!" She's looking down towards her crotch, you can't quite tell what the xalamander behind the solid wooden board is saying, but as she turns to yell at him, you lash your tongue inside completely, or, as much as you can reach. There's no way in hell she's claiming a victim on your watch.
"You leth tem gow gnow or yu'll be nakhed for thze retht of thime." You counter, completely neglecting to pull your tongue out, instead ripping the ears off your head to get the point across. Without any time for her to think, you hear the doors to the room slam off their hinges, rather than a crash of glass, as the road minister is rocketed through 5 tons of concrete. A completely survivable fate and a mercy for a xalamander, all things considered.
The reckless part of you is taking over again though as you climb up Zentreya's throne of a chair, watching as she's bent over her table, fuming in rage. She's already ruined yet another jacket, as it has limply fallen to her feet having been intently cut off her back. Her tits are hanging out in the open, their supernaturally firm shape relatively maintained despite their lack of support. It's in these moments you bemoan not being bigger, missing the ability to use your whole length to tease the woman from head to toe. Instead you had to opt for what was in front of you. Something equally enticing.
As The General tries to collect her thoughts, all while stifling her vengeful grunts, you get to work on pushing your luck. You run your tongue across the side to side across each of her thighs, infuriatingly flicking it right as its about to reach the main event. The tail end of its journey is signed off with a rolling of your tongue into an almost drill shape as it dances off right below her cheek. Wanting to leave her guessing across the coaxing game you're playing, you gently leave pecks along the entire inner-side of her cheeks, seemingly entertaining her as the peck lands on her tailbone. Even so, she's been pausing, almost as if she's convinced herself that the quality of your follow up can potentially redeem your transgressions. You're equally curious yourself.
Wetly your tongue smothers the surface of her pussy, the fine musculature of the wad allowing you to gently roll the bulging pads of your tongue against the flaps of her ever so slightly outie sex. It was convenient really, the way her hips widened the breadth of her pelvis, allowing perfect space for xalamander tongue. Or well, more space anyhow, as your tongue still managed to bend and wrap against her front and cheeks as you toyed with her pillows reassuringly. Taking a moment between your ministrations, you speak unholy evils into her ear; "Why should you care, there's no one in this world that can threaten you. Isn't that why you did all this, to get to do what you want? You're too pretty to not let loose a little."
Reintroducing your tongue after letting your sensual breath glide across her lips for some drawn out moments, you gently drag the rim of your tongue along the inside of her folds, wiggling the tip of it on the inner side of her, teasing her clit from underneath its confines. Not wanting to go too fast, nor letting her take your serving her as a given, you take intermittent breaks, opting to kiss and fondle her folds with your own scaled, slimy, lips. From time to time, as you're rolling up saliva to sensually wet her pubes, you land a few flicks of your tongue against her clitoris, as you watch her quake in response, surprisingly calm while nakedly gripping her table. You wonder what the xalamander guards outside must be thinking. They'd never be able to speak a word of this, and they would never be able to see it with their own eyes without a demonic spear being perpetually lodged in their skulls for all of eternity. The open doorway had become a complete death trap to everyone concerned.
You could tell she hadn't treated herself in quite some time, the way she shuddered at the grazing of her clit, the oversensitivity was something you'd have to figure out some other day, instead you opt to find other solutions. For now, it was always a battle between doing enough, but never too much. Running the bottom of your tongue down towards her clit, you opt instead to dig inwards teasing it from where there would be no direct contact, letting your warm breath be the only thing keeping it from shivering. Zentreya was laying stomach down over the table, her legs not carrying her, which left you with little knowledge about whether you were giving too little, or too much; a pillow princess attitude, much to your chagrin. All the same, that also meant all the power to you, as you now stand in her chair, forced to lean over her. Your entire face involuntarily dug into her ass cheeks by gravity as you lick her, the plush resistance of her flesh like the most luxurious of cushions.
Using a technique you've built up after years in the xalamander orgy piles, you gum up the skin around her labia with your sticky mucus, creating a warm seal that compensates for your lack of malleable lips. You begin to weakly suck on her pussy, feeling her flaps mildly slap against your mouth. The rhythmic pulsing of your suckling and the intentful vibrations of your breath like you've just sampled some nice Chianti being your complete focus. Having almost forgotten your hearing entirely, too focused on other cues, the way her unleveraged inner thighs and cheeks were grasping for something to steel them bared itself to you, long before her whimpers did. She really seemed to enjoy this one... You'd have verbally teased her, had it not required you to reapply your sealant.
It didn't take long for her to be fighting back however, and instead of being a good girl and letting her rhythm join yours to build up towards something spectacular, she was working against it, tensing the most crucial muscles whenever you sucked, to prevent herself from losing control. To someone else, this might have been a sign that you were doing something wrong, but you could read her all too well. You were doing it something much too right.
Switching up your strategy you trick her, rolling your tongue into a point-like appendage, as you slosh the warmest parts down and into her crevasse, only to quickly shock her by returning to form with your suckling without dropping a single beat. The trick though, wasn't the switching of strategies, but rather the additional mucus you had pooled out of your mouth, displacing the previous seal, as the initial cooled film creeps down her pussy like a Trojan horse. It drooped... slowly... and before she had managed to catch on, the drop had rolled itself onto the top of her bead, lingering before slowly creeping across it. She was quivering, unable to find any solutions to the feeling that was occupying her entire being. Time probably felt like it was dragging on forever for her, as the drop reached the end of the line. By now your tongue was simply and gently warming her sex with its wet breadth, as you awaited the finale. Her entire being tensed before seemingly cracking as the drop finally fell off its ridge. The natural flow of its liquid shape being felt perfectly across every nerve ending of her clit as her entire core quaked under the pleasure. Cumming.
Avoiding sabotaging her moment, you calmly linger with your massive tongue for a moment, allowing it to be nothing more than support for the muscles in her pussy. No licking, or trying to get a taste of what flavor her girl-goo was, just letting her take it in. After a few moments, you let your tongue leave, before you clamor over her table on all fours like a proper lizard. Getting to finally see her face, you take the details in. A singular stray tear has upset her mascara, but beyond that, she looks as prim and proper as ever. Heck, despite all of the work you just put her through, she hasn't even broken a sweat; her skin still being hauntingly cold for any humanoid. Still taking deeper breaths, and looking at your face for a moment, the conditions you put her under kick in, as she is reminded of how perfect you were in her eyes. You reach out your tongue, for a quite delayed first kiss. She meets your gesture, sealing it...
Instantly she chokes and begins spitting. You can see her wretch as she wrenches herself up from her comfortable position. "Ok, that tastes worse than a full pack of cigarettes." She choughs out as she empties every bit of saliva out of her mouth trying to rid herself of the taste.
"No kisses until I figure out how to solve all that. Alright?"