Deirdre's serene expression was starting to grate on her nerves so much. How was she always so fresh, so... so... shining? Her flowing dresses were ill-suited for the harsh realities of the life on this new planet, and her bases couldn't be that different.
Her voice kept being soft and beguiling, even when she should have been angry, even when Santiago knew she kept raising hers, because couldn't the damned woman see reason? They had to combine forces to stop Yang from taking over the whole continent, and she had to realise it would only work if Santiago took the reins, because she was the one with the military mind, she was the one with strategic training, Deirdre could keep terrorising the others with her mindworms, but in the long run they wouldn't be the answer to the ever-developing technology.
So it wasn't a betrayal, no. It was all about survival. She needed to those resources and bases to effectively oppose Yang, and if Deirdre wouldn't see reason, then by the all that was holy, she would have to be made to give it by force.
It delighted Santiago to see her soldiers trample her precious gardens, sully her white walls and rip her worms to pieces. These people would be hers, but they would learn to embrace their ways, not this wishy-washy ecology. The planet was to be conquered, not coddled.
The swarms of mindworms kept coming, but the morality of her troops held, and in the end the Gaians had no place to hide, no direction to run to, and their soft, insipid leader was captured.
Santiago had her transferred to her HQ, where she'd lovingly prepared a cell, just for her. The shackles were the finest she could offer, the torture fields the strongest they had. No matter how horrible the native life on the planet was, their psi attacks weren't the only horror around. Good old physical pain had its place, and she was going to make Lady Deirdre Skye scream her name.
“Colonel, the figures from the...”
“Not now, Voki. I am busy.”
She changed her uniform to a fresh one, redid her hair, as if preparing for a diplomatic meeting with a fellow faction leader. She was, after all, and this kind of meeting was the kind she preferred. She couldn't wait to have her old boss in one of these cells... not the same quality as Deirdre, of course, she was a special quest.
The sweet, sweet sound of her screams greeted her from the door, and she smiled in delight when she saw the sweat running down that usually so serene face, the struggle ruining the perfect soft folds of her dress, torn in places so her creamy skin was on show.
Santiago switched off the neurotransmitters and the body in front of her sagged – in relief or exhaustion, she couldn't say. But the eyes that met hers were defiant as ever, and her smile widened. She hadn't wanted this to be to easy.
“Welcome, pact sister,” she said, mockingly.
“Die... in a fire,” Deirdre spit out, her voice hoarse from all that shouting, and it sent a shiver down Santiago's body. She liked the traces of pain in her voice, the slight tremble in her limbs.
It could be better, she decided, and tested the level of wear in her captive's clothes by tugging at the front roughly. The material ripped, falling to the floor in small waves. It was even better now, the streaks of sweat and dirt and blood marking the creamy white skin, her hair falling in dark tangles around her face, her breasts trembling among her body, the nipples hardened, like pebbles – or seeds, as befitting the greenness of their owner.
She ran a rough hand over her left breast, getting an instant reward in the form of a moan, torn from her prisoner's lips, no different than what she might have wrung out of her if she'd performed the gesture in different circumstances. It affected her as strongly in the dungeon as it would have in the bedroom, and she felt herself get wetter, her clit demanding attention.
Deirdre wore no underwear, or then it had been stripped off when she was captured, the guards leaving only her torn dress as a gift-wrapping for their leader. Santiago ran her hand down, over her flat stomach, towards the nest of dark curls, and Deirdre's struggles grew more insistent the closer she got to her goal.
She liberated her pistol from its holster, and cocked her head to consider its size, it's form. It was mostly ceremonial now, a relic of a bygone age when projectile weaponry was the norm, but she liked the weight of it at her hip. The muzzle was thicker than an average cock, and she wondered if her gentle guest could take it without preparation.
She wasn't in the mood for preparation. With the fingers of her left hand holding her folds open, she rammed the muzzle of the gun as deep as it would get, and the screams were beautiful, the tears leaking out of Deirdre's eyes, serenity long gone from her grimacing face, lips bleeding from where she'd bitten down.
Santiago leaned towards her to lick the blood off her lips, soft as flower petals, even after the abuse she'd subjected them to herself. She could feel Deirdre gagging against her mouth, and only pushed her lips open with her tongue, running it over her teeth, her tongue, which was trying to expel her, or avoid her, but she thrust in, reaching as deep as she could get, relishing the gagging reflex against her mouth.
All the while her right hand kept pushing her weapon in her, then almost all the way out, then back in, in crude parody of fucking, and felt the liquid running over the hand holding the gun. Blood, most likely, but she let herself imagine it was not, that Deirdre was as wet as she was, that she was dying for the completion in her arms, that her trembling was her desperate to orgasm.
Well, Deirdre would come apart in her arms, one way or another. Santiago finished her kiss with a brutal bite to her lower lip, drawing more blood from the already open wound, lapping at it softly, before biting down again. It's not like she needed to to worry about blood borne diseases here.
Deirdre wasn't grimacing anymore, but her eyes were closed tightly, tears still leaking from beneath her lids, to mingle with the blood on her cheeks. She was quiet, too, and Santiago missed the screams.
She pulled the gun out, the muzzle a mess of blood and clear fluids, and seeing Deirdre open her mouth to gasp for breath used the opportunity to ram it into another orifice now, deep into her mouth, scraping against her teeth as she instinctively tried to close her mouth, and the sound of metal against teeth was refreshing, a familiar sound of battle, letting her picture teeth crumbling around her power, her prisoner now literally as toothless as she'd been as a faction leader.
She made her deepthroat the gun, the choking sounds delighting her almost as much as the screams had, but then pulled it back out, because as fun as that was, she wasn't ready to let her captive find release in death.
No, her domination wasn't absolute, her conquest wasn't finished.
She let the gun fall on the floor, wondering if she'd ever use it again. It was inexcusably reckless to go into battle with an unclean weapon, but could she ever bear to wipe off the stains of blood, saliva, and bile from it?
Maybe she'd use it to execute her other prisoners, the woman found clutching Deirdre in her final lair? What was her name? Blindly?
She knelt on the floor, did not like the reach, and looked around until she found a stool on which she could kneel, giving her perfect access to her target – the pussy leaking blood down the white thighs. She ran her tongue over her clit, in a cruel imitation of a lover's caress, and closed her lips around it to suck on it – harder than she knew any of her lovers had ever wanted it, but the noises Deirdre was making were curious again – not quite whimpers, not quite moans, and her lips were hanging open again, if only a little, and she was starting to gasp for breath.
She let her other hand travel up towards the still trembling breasts, running her fingers over the tight nipples, incredibly feeling new goosebumps forming in their wake. Her other hand she raised next to her own face, running the thumb over her other lips before slipping her finger in where the gun's muzzle had been short while ago.
Deirdre was trembling under her again, but differently, her thighs shaking, her whole being shivering, and then whimpers were turning into breathy moans, and Santiago returned to running her tongue over and over and over her clit until the moans got louder, the trembling forcing her to abandon the breasts to hold her hips tight, and every breath her captive took was a moaning gasp now.
This, this, this, even more than the screams, even more than the tears and the pain and the blood, this was the conquest she wanted, the utter capitulation to her being, the helpless way Deirdre was forced to accept the way her own body betrayed her, feeling pleasure in the hands (and mouth) of her enemy, her torturer, her better.
Deirdre gasped out her name, the final victory, and her hips jerked against their hold as she came, and Santiago finally sneaked a hand into her own uniform trousers, the finger still soaked with blood and fluids from Deirdre, and rubbed herself into a quick orgasm.