Poxitarium Invade

Chapter 12 PART 1

The Moonlit Serenity

The night slips through the hours like a gentle thief, its shadows stretching long and languid across the lavish room. The moon, a half-lidded eye in the darkened sky, casts purple bars of light through the tall windows, striping the ornate carpets and gleaming off the polished wood and brass. The curtains sway with the soft sigh of the wind, a whispered lullaby that mingles with the even rhythm of her breathing. She sleeps deeply, cocooned in the heavy warmth of the General's chambers, where every corner is filled with the scent of leather, wood, and mosk.

The minutes crawl slowly, each second a soft tick that fades into the velvet of the night. The quiet grows deeper, pressing against the skin, a living, breathing thing that wraps itself around the sleepers, drawing them further into the dark abyss of their dreams.

Then, the peace fractures.

A sudden, sharp knock interrupts the moment, echoing through the opulent space. The General’s eyes narrow, a flicker of irritation crossing his face. Tolius turns, his expression a mix of curiosity and concern. The knock is followed by a brief silence, the tension in the room palpable.

“What now?” the General mutters under his breath, his demeanor shifting from relaxed to alert in an instant. The anticipation thickens, leaving the General to ponder what new developments might be on the horizon. The weight of the unanswered knock lingers, a hint of impending revelations or disruptions yet to come. The General's eyes flicker over to her through the cracked panel door, still sleeping, her chest rising and falling steadily, oblivious to the sudden shift in the room’s energy.

A clumsy awakening

Meanwhile, the knock blasts through the silence like a cannon shot, and she rockets upright in bed, her arms flailing like a startled chicken. "I’m up! I’m up!" she yells, her voice breaking with panic, her brain still half-asleep and convinced she’s late for… something. Anything. The sudden movement sends her heart racing like a jackrabbit, and her eyes shoot open wide — or at least, they try to.

But the dim light hits her like a punch, and she instantly regrets everything. "Owwww, my eyes!" she moans, blinking rapidly as the room spins around her. Her hands slap over her face as if that might somehow turn down the brightness of the entire universe. Her head throbs, her limbs feel like they’re made of jelly, and just as she tries to steady herself, the weight of exhaustion sneaks up from behind and smacks her right back down. Her legs buckle, and she topples sideways like a felled tree.

With a mighty thud, she hits the floor, arms and legs sprawled out in every direction, her cheek smushed against the cold marble. "Ow, okay… bad idea," she groans, blinking up at the ceiling. For a second, she thinks about trying to get back up, but the floor is surprisingly comfortable… like a really hard, unforgiving mattress.

Her body seems to make the decision for her, and with a defeated sigh, she gives in, her muscles going limp. "Maybe just a few seconds..." she mumbles to herself, already drifting back into sleep. Her head lolls to the side, and almost immediately, she starts to snore — a loud, ungraceful sound that fills the room. A thin line of drool escapes her mouth, pooling on the floor beside her, creating a tiny puddle of defeat.

In the same time, in the next room, Tolius and the General pause mid-conversation, blinking at each other with confusion as they hear the muffled thud and the faint snoring from beyond the door. Tolius raises an eyebrow, and the General just sighs deeply, rubbing his temples. "I swear," he mutters, "we can’t have a single night of drama without someone drooling on the floor," he says while going to her room, looming over her.

No, you know what? I need to break the fourth wall for a moment. As the narrator, I’m wrestling with a deep sense of unease here. I’m torn between pushing the scene into the realm of comedy or letting it drift into the seriousness the General's demeanor demands. The weight of his sternness presses heavily on my own thoughts, making me reluctant to overstep. The thought of being a burden, of adding more rough times to the General’s already significant load, weighs on me. His serious energy is so palpable that I genuinely don’t want to make things worse for him. Jolted awake, exhausted and nearly incapable of standing, and it feels almost cruel to think of adding further chaos. I’m caught in this uneasy balance, unsure how to proceed without feeling like I’m imposing or creating additional difficulty.

Alright, alright. Here I gooo.

I know what you're thinking — this was supposed to be a grand, dramatic turning point, right? The heroine wakes up, heart pounding, eyes wide, ready to face whatever danger is lurking in the shadows. But no, that’s not what we’re getting at all, is it?

Instead, here we are with our not-so-graceful heroine already face-down on the floor, her limbs flailing like a fish out of water.Let’s be honest, she didn’t rise like a phoenix from the ashes. Nope, she jolted awake like a college student who’s just realized their alarm has been going off for the past ten minutes and there’s a final exam they’re late for. And then, in a beautiful display of half-asleep coordination, promptly launched herself off the bed like it was a catapult, yelling, "I'm up! I'm up!" before gravity did its thing.

And oh, that thud — what a thud! If floors could groan, this one would be filing a complaint. She hits the ground with all the grace of a sack of potatoes, limbs splayed, eyes half-shut, and a string of incoherent mumbling that could either be an attempt to apologize to the General or a random thought about the dream she was having. Honestly, I can't tell. All I know is, she’s not exactly winning any awards for elegance here.

Now, picture this: there she is, sprawled out on the very expensive, very pristine white sheets of the General’s bed — sheets that probably cost more than my last three paychecks combined. And what does she do? She leaves a nice, big, drool stain right in the middle, like some weird modern art project. The General looks like he’s about to burst a blood vessel. His face says it all: -Really? I bring you to my most private quarters and this is how you repay me? With drool?- You can almost hear the silent scream inside his head. Meanwhile, Tolius is trying — and failing — to hide his grin. He knows how much those sheets cost, and he knows that this is, frankly, hilarious.

And I’m here, stuck in this awkward space between wanting to give her some dignity — to let her wake up properly, to feel the weight of the moment and respond with the seriousness it demands — or to just let her keep snoring away on the cold, hard floor while the General stands over her, wondering how his life has come to this.

I mean, he’s got that look on his face — you know the one. The one you get when you’re babysitting a toddler, and they’ve just decided to smear spaghetti sauce on your white sofa. It’s a look of pure, resigned horror. He glances over at Tolius, as if to say, -What did I do to deserve this?- and Tolius, bless his heart, just shrugs and tries not to burst out laughing.

And let’s be honest, the General has seen a lot in his time — but this? This might just be the thing that finally breaks him. His shoulders slump, his hands go to his temples like he’s trying to stave off the world’s worst headache. You can practically hear him sighing, his soul just… deflating. And I’m torn, wondering if I should make her life easier or harder, but really… the comedy writes itself at this point. Meanwhile, Tolius, bless his heart, has finally lost it — he’s doubled over, trying to keep it together, a hand clamped over his mouth as he shakes with silent laughter. Because really, how often do you get to see your commanding officer completely undone by a grown woman acting like a sleepy toddler?

Unexpected comedy

The General exhales a long, slow sigh, the kind that suggests he's trying very hard not to let his annoyance boil over. His eyes flick to Tolius, who is waiting dutifully, though with a trace of a smirk playing at the corners of his mouth.

"Tolius," the General mutters, rubbing his temples, "Take care of this… situation. Now."

Tolius, trying his best to keep a straight face, nods. “Of course, sir,” he says with a tight-lipped smile. He strides over, still half-chuckling, and bends down to scoop her up with the kind of care one might reserve for handling a bag of kittens — or a ticking time bomb. As he lifts her, her limp arm flops over his shoulder, and he can’t help but chuckle again.

"Oh, come on," he mutters to himself, trying to keep it together, but the way she’s half-slumped, half-draped over his arms like a deflated blow-up doll makes it impossible.She feels heavier than he expected, and her head lolls backward, mouth half-open, letting out a bizarre, snuffling snore that sounds like a piglet grunting in its sleep.

Tolius snickers, his shoulders shaking as he struggles to keep his composure. He carefully begins to move her across the room, each step deliberate as he tries to keep her from toppling over. Her arm flops over his shoulder and dangles down his back like a rag doll's, fingers twitching occasionally as if she’s trying to catch a dream. With each step, her head jerks up, her lips flapping as another absurd snore escapes, almost a honk this time. Tolius’s restraint begins to crack; a grin spreads across his face as he continues his slow, laborious trek.

Step by step, Tolius makes his way closer to the bed, his face contorting as he tries to suppress the laughter bubbling up inside him. She mutters something unintelligible in her sleep, followed by another absurd snore that sounds almost like she’s trying to blow bubbles. Tolius bites his lip, his shoulders shaking with the effort to remain composed.

Finally reaching the bed, Tolius carefully lowers her down, but as he does, her head lolls to the side. His gaze lands on the large, shiny wet patch on the General’s pristine silk pillow, which probably cost more than a month of his wages. His eyes widen in horror and amusement. "Oh, no…" he mutters under his breath, trying not to laugh as he imagines the inevitable dry-cleaning bill. He gently maneuvers her to the opposite side of the bed, ensuring her head lands squarely on the fresh pillow, all the while stifling his mirth with every step of the way.

Tolius’s shoulders begin to shake, his attempt to stay composed utterly failing. And then, without warning, a loud snort escapes her — a snort so powerful that it startles even herself awake for a second. Her eyes snap open, wide with confusion, and she looks up at Tolius, blinking rapidly like a deer in headlights.

He tries to hold it in, but the sound is so unexpected, so absurd, that he can’t help it. A laugh bursts out of him, loud and unrestrained. It echoes in the room like a cannon shot. Tolius bends over, shaking with laughter, "Oh gods," he gasps between fits of laughter.

His laughter is infectious, and even the General, standing by the door with his hand on the doorknob, feels a twitch at the corner of his mouth. He quickly suppresses it, his jaw clenching as his patience thins to a breaking point. "Tolius!" he snaps, his expression a mix of stern frustration and — is that a tiny hint of a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth? For just a second? No, surely not.

But Tolius is beyond help at this point. The absurdity of the situation — her unconscious drooling, the ridiculous snoring, his futile attempts at being serious — is too much. His laughter grows louder, the kind that shakes the room and brings tears to his eyes.

"Wha—?" she mumbles, still half-asleep, and looks up to see Tolius’s face, which is red with laughter. Her sleepy brain tries to process the situation, but before she can make sense of it, she too starts giggling. It’s the kind of tired, delirious laugh that bubbles up uncontrollably, spilling out of her mouth like water from a broken faucet.

Still giggling, she tries to speak. “What’s… so… funny?” But then, just as quickly, she flops back on the pillow , eyes fluttering shut, tho only they could see is a radiant glow bulb and falls right back asleep, her breath coming out in soft, silly little snorts that send Tolius into another fit.

“Am I… am I flying?” she mutters, half-asleep, her laugh a strange, sleepy melody. Tolius loses it. The unexpectedness of it, the pure randomness of her question, and the ridiculous image of her flopping around like a fish just moments ago — it’s too much. A burst of uncontrollable laughter explodes from him, a loud, booming sound that fills the room.

She laughs with him, a brief, joyous burst that seems to come from somewhere deep within her exhaustion, though she has absolutely no idea what’s so funny. It’s infectious, and for a moment, they’re both caught in a loop of giggles — her laugh, his laugh, back and forth, feeding into each other.

And then, just like that, she’s out again, her head thudding back onto the mattress, giggling fading into soft snores, like a toddler who’s worn herself out after a long day. Tolius is still chuckling when he hears the sharp, clipped sound of the General clearing his throat.

The General’s eyes narrow dangerously, his patience utterly gone. “I said… SILENCE!” he roars, his voice thundering through the room like a storm.

Tolius snaps to attention, but the giggles keep slipping out in little bursts. He gives a nod, trying to pull himself together, his face still red from laughter. "Yes, sir, right away, sir," he manages between breaths, his voice shaking with the effort to hold it in.

With a quick, practiced motion, he grabs the drool-covered pillow and scurries toward the door, still snickering under his breath, muttering something about "the special cleaning room," whatever that means.

The General pinches the bridge of his nose, trying to ward off the headache that's building behind his eyes, and mutters to himself, “How is this my life now?”

As Tolius disappears with the offending pillow, his laughter fading down the hallway, the General takes a deep, steadying breath, staring at the still-snoring form on the bed, and wondering — not for the first time — if perhaps a simpler life of shepherding sheep might have been less exasperating. The General just stands there, shaking his head, thinking for the hundredth time today, ~Why me?~. For a second, he almost — almost — lets out a chuckle himself. But no, he thinks, there are standards to maintain.

General's pressure

The General, heading back to his desk with the weight of the day's absurdities still pressing on him, opens his drawer only to find his stash of tabbacos nearly depleted. With a flick of his wrist and an authoritative gesture that leaves no room for misunderstanding, he signals Fereyan, the ever-watchful guard who had been standing stoically by the office door. Fereyan steps forward with practiced precision, his eyes locked on the General’s hand as it forms a smoking gesture, indicating a need for more tabbacos.

“On my way, sir,” Fereyan responds with a readiness that betrays no hint of fatigue.

As Fereyan exits, the General’s comm device emits a sharp chirp. He answers it immediately, his tone carrying a blend of unyielding seriousness and barely concealed irritation. “Yes?”

On the other end, Vontum’s voice emerges — a deep, guttural growl filled with ancient malice and eerie resonance. “The Phrodia is ready, General. The experiment has been a resounding success,” Vontum intones, his voice punctuated by a chilling, malevolent laugh that seems to linger in the air.

A smirk plays across the General’s lips as he casts a glance toward the drooling figure in the other room, his expression shifting into one of grim satisfaction. “Good,” he replies, his tone easing into a more relaxed, almost contented note. “Give it to the 7th Cook Chef. He’ll know what to do with it.”

“Understood, General. I believe this calls for a celebration,” Vontum’s voice purrs with an unsettling, almost deranged edge as he chuckles once more.

The General’s smirk deepens, taking on a hint of dark satisfaction. The atmosphere in the room shifts palpably as his mood solidifies into a commanding presence, radiating an energy that demands attention and respect. He waits with a renewed sense of authority for his guards to return, the promise of celebration hanging in the air like a shadow.

From the other room, a soft, almost unconscious murmur drifts through the air. “Mmm…sir,” she breathes, her voice a delicate, almost inaudible whisper that seems to resonate with an intangible, dull pink energy. It’s as though she’s instinctively attuned to the lingering presence of the General, her unconscious reactions a testament to the residual effect of his forceful energy.

The General, standing at the threshold, watches her with a dark, brooding intent. His mood, already charged with a potent mix of desire and dominance, intensifies. He feels a growing arousal, his body reacting with a restless pressure against his trousers. His thoughts drift back to the vivid, haunting memories of their previous encounters. He recalls the scene with a sharp clarity: her body splayed out on the cold, metallic table, the special Crawled Eye—its arousal painstakingly and deliberately manipulated—crawling over her skin, its touch both invasive and intimate. He remembers the way she squirmed and writhed, her resistance against his embrace ultimately futile.

The General’s breathing becomes more labored as he recalls the sensation of that night—the way her body had responded to his dominance, the electric pulse of her moans vibrating through the air. He groans softly, a sound filled with raw, unfiltered desire, as though he’s conversing through a barely cracked door. Her sleep-addled moans echo back to him, a shuddering response that seems to bridge the gap between their past encounters and the present moment. The rhythmic interchange of their noises, even while she sleeps, fuels his growing need, further deepening the intensity of his feelings.

Fereyan pushes through the door without knocking, his movements hurried, almost frantic. As he steps into the room, the atmosphere hits him like a physical force, the air suddenly thick and electric, charged with a tension that seems to seep into his very bones. The General's energy pulses around him, a potent, almost magnetic force that makes Fereyan's throat go dry and his breath catch in his chest. He pauses for a fraction of a second, steadying himself, feeling the familiar weight of expectation pressing down on him. It's a pressure he's felt many times before, a weight that seems to wrap around him, squeezing the breath from his lungs.

He swallows hard, trying to quench a thirst that has nothing to do with the dryness in his mouth. His tongue feels heavy, his heart beats in his ears, but he knows that whatever he feels is nothing compared to what the General exudes. He takes a breath, then another, each inhale feeling like he’s drawing in the very air of the General’s will, his desires. Each step forward is slow, deliberate, almost reverent. His boots press against the polished floor, the metal scraping softly, a sound that reverberates through the room like a whisper.

~Don’t look at him~, he thinks, fighting against the pull, the invisible force that tugs at his core, threatening to drag him back into memories he can’t afford to indulge in right now. The room feels smaller with every step, the distance to the General's desk stretching out like a chasm. His heartbeat quickens, each thud in his chest matching the soft clank of his armor. He can’t help but remember the last time — the feel of cold, hard marble against his knees, the way the General had loomed over him, his hand gripping Fereyan's hair, forcing his gaze upward. The taste of the General’s name on his lips, whispered like a prayer or a curse.

Fereyan’s steps slow, almost faltering. The General’s gaze is locked onto him, a predator’s gaze, cold and calculating, taking in every detail, every nuance of Fereyan's approach. It’s like being stripped bare, armor or no armor. He can feel the heat rising in his cheeks, a flush of… what? Fear? Shame? Anticipation? He’s not sure. All he knows is that he is drawn, helplessly, toward the General’s energy — that dark, magnetic aura that seems to swallow the very air around him.

"Finally," the General mutters, his tone sharp with irritation, a single word that cuts through the silence like a blade. Fereyan feels the sound almost like a physical slap. He forces himself to continue forward, to close the gap between them, his breath shallow and uneven, his steps careful, each one measured against the crushing weight of the General's presence.

The General's fingers tap rhythmically against the armrest, the sound a steady, unnerving beat that echoes in the tense quiet. “Took you long enough,” he adds, his voice dripping with impatience, laced with a cold disdain that sends a shiver down Fereyan's spine. Fereyan’s gaze flickers up, only for a moment, catching the narrowing of the General’s eyes, the slight curl of his lips — a smile that holds no warmth, only a dangerous challenge.

~Focus. Just get through this~, Fereyan tells himself. He steps closer, closing the remaining distance, his breath coming in short, shallow bursts. His armor feels heavier than ever, the weight of it pressing down on his shoulders, making his movements feel sluggish. He can feel the General’s eyes on him, feel that intense, predatory gaze stripping him bare, layer by layer, as if searching for a chink in his armor, a moment of weakness to exploit.

His hands tremble slightly as he reaches for the drawer, pulling it open and placing the cigarettes carefully inside, just within the General’s reach. He tries to focus on the mundane task, to keep his mind on the moment, but the General’s stare is like a burning brand on his skin, a constant, unrelenting reminder of who holds the power in this room. It’s as if the General is a hunter, and Fereyan, despite his armor and his training, is nothing more than a trembling rabbit caught in a snare, waiting for the final blow.

Fereyan feels the heat building in his body, his breath catching as he notices his cock straining against his trousers, an involuntary response to the heavy, intoxicating energy in the room. His instincts scream at him to step back, to retreat, but he barely manages a half-step before the General's hand shoots out with a speed and strength that leaves no room for defiance. In a single fluid motion, the General grabs him by the collar and yanks him down, forcing Fereyan onto his knees with a rough, commanding thud against the hard floor.

“Who’s a good boy?” The General's voice is low, almost a purr, dripping with mockery and amusement. Fereyan’s cheeks flush hot with a mix of shame and desire, a deep blush spreading beneath his skin, hidden from view by his helmet, but felt all the same. The silence that follows is thick, oppressive, like a coiled spring, waiting to snap. The General’s eyes narrow further, a predatory glint dancing within them, his lips curling into a seductive, knowing smirk as he remains sprawled back in his chair, legs spread wide, exuding an aura of dominance that fills every corner of the room.

The anticipation builds as he moves slowly, deliberately, reaching into the drawer to retrieve one of the freshly stacked tobacco cigarettes. His every movement is measured, purposeful, designed to draw out the moment, to savor the tension. He takes his time, flicking open the pack, and sliding a cigarette between his lips with a deliberate, almost sensual slowness. Fereyan remains kneeling, his head bowed, but his eyes are fixed upward, peering through the slit of his helmet that's now opened by the general's hand, his bright blue eyes glowing like twin sapphires amidst the shadows. Those eyes — so angelic, so pure — betray a stark contrast to the turmoil within, a gaze that seems calm, almost meditative, but with a hint of need and longing. Fereyan's eyes are changing depending on the mood and intensity of the moment. When in combat and using powers - green, when normal blue.

The General inhales deeply, the end of the cigarette glowing a bright, fiery orange. He watches Fereyan intently, his smirk growing as he leans forward slightly, exhaling a thick plume of smoke directly into Fereyan's face. The smoke swirls around them, a cloud of grey that adds a haze to the air, thick and potent. Fereyan doesn’t flinch, doesn’t blink, his eyes remaining locked onto the General's, even as the smoke stings them. It’s a test, a power play, and Fereyan knows it — he can feel it in the deliberate way the General watches him, as if measuring his worth with every second that passes.

The General chuckles softly, a dark, throaty sound that sends a shiver down Fereyan's spine. "You enjoy this, don’t you?” he asks, his voice teasing.

Fereyan feels his pulse quicken, his breath shallow, and he can't suppress the tremor in his voice as he replies, "Yes, sir." The words come out low, husky with lust, his mouth dry, and his heart pounding so hard he can hear it in his ears. His body responds instinctively to the General's presence, every fiber of his being tuned to this moment, to the game they are playing. He knows the rules, knows what is expected of him, and yet every time it feels new, electric, like a spark igniting his very soul.

The General’s eyes gleam with satisfaction. He leans back, taking another long drag of his cigarette, his chest rising and falling slowly, almost rhythmically. Smoke trickles out from his lips in a steady stream, drifting lazily toward the ceiling.

"That’s a good boy," the General murmurs, his voice thick with condescension and pleasure, each word rolling off his tongue like a gift he bestows with languid satisfaction. His hand reaches out, fingers brushing lightly against Fereyan's cheek, trailing down to trace the line of his jaw. His touch is a teasing whisper against the metal of Fereyan's helmet, feeling the faint heat that radiates from beneath. Slowly, deliberately, the General's other hand rises to the base of the helmet, his fingers hooking underneath the edge. He tilts Fereyan’s head slightly upward, their eyes locking, his smirk deepening as he feels the tension in the air grow taut like a string about to snap.

With a measured, almost leisurely grace, he begins to lift the helmet away, savoring the moment as he reveals Fereyan’s flushed skin beneath, inch by inch. The cold air rushes against Fereyan’s face, but he barely notices, his focus entirely on the General’s eyes, which gleam with a mixture of amusement and dominance. The General's hand continues to glide along the newly exposed skin, fingertips caressing Fereyan’s jawline with an almost tender care that belies the commanding power in his gaze.

Finally, the helmet is removed, set aside with a soft, metallic thud on the desk, leaving Fereyan's face bare and vulnerable. The General leans closer, his smirk widening as he traces the faint blush on Fereyan’s cheeks with a thumb, feeling the warmth against his skin. "Much better," he purrs, his voice a low rumble, his hand lingering just a moment longer, feeling the pulse of life beneath his fingers before pulling back, satisfied with the submission laid bare before him.

Fereyan's body tingles under the touch, his muscles taut with a mixture of tension and desire. He keeps his gaze fixed, steady, trying to hold back the small tremble in his knees, but he can't help the faint shudder that runs through him at the General’s touch. There is a thrill in this submission, a heady mix of fear and exhilaration, and he knows the General can see it — can feel it — as clearly as he can. He waits, breath held, for the next move, the next command, knowing he will obey without question.

"Yes, sir," he whispers again, more certain this time, letting the words hang in the smoke-filled air, his heart hammering in his chest as he waits for the General's next instruction, ready to be the good boy he knows he can be.

Lingering Axar

The General’s grip tightens around Fereyan’s head, his fingers weaving roughly through his black hair, pulling it back and forth in a slow, deliberate motion, teasing him with the painful pleasure of each tug. “Open up,” the General commands, his voice calm but filled with authority, tilting Fereyan’s head toward the ceiling. He reaches for a glass of Axar, a potent, fiery liquor, and holds it high above. With a calculated flick of his wrist, he begins to pour, letting the liquid cascade straight into Fereyan's open mouth. The burning alcohol hits the back of his throat, and Fereyan’s eyes widen, struggling to gulp it down, every drop searing its way down his gullet.

Fereyan’s brows knit together in a mixture of excitement and submission. His scalp tingles from the General's tight grip, each pull sending electric jolts of pleasure coursing through his nerves, blurring the line between pain and ecstasy. The sharp sting of the Axar blazes a trail down his throat, making his tongue tingle with the intense burn. The stream is relentless, pushing his limits, the alcohol threatening to overflow, and for a moment, he chokes but manages to catch himself, a gasp escaping between gulps. “Good dog,” the General murmurs with a pleased grin, his voice thick with thrill and dominance.

A wicked gleam flickers in the General’s eyes as he tilts his head slightly, his gaze never leaving Fereyan’s flushed face. "I wonder if she’ll do the same for me," he muses with a dark chuckle, his words slow and deliberate, rolling off his tongue with a hint of cruel amusement. His sharp, narrowed eyes glint with intent. He shifts slightly, gesturing toward his own cock, a gesture filled with unspoken implications, then back at Fereyan's tilted head, watching him still struggle to swallow the liquid, his throat convulsing under the strain, the alcohol beginning to pool, overwhelming his ability to gulp it all down. "If you want this," the General continues, his voice low with amusement, "stick your tongue out further... like a dog."

His smirk grows wider, a flicker of excitement dancing in his eyes. The left eye flares with a strange, otherworldly purple light, a sinister energy radiating from it. In that instant, Tolius re-enters the room, stepping into position near the door, standing tall and steady. He feels the charged, almost electric atmosphere in the room but remains stoic, his gaze flicking briefly to Fereyan, who is once again being tested by the General.

Fereyan, caught between fear and desire, hesitates only for a moment. He extends his tongue further, the muscles trembling with the strain, his saliva pooling and dripping to the floor in thin rivulets. Tears prick at the corners of his eyes from the burn of the alcohol, but he holds his gaze steady, locked onto the General’s with a look of pure loyalty and submission. The General watches with keen interest, his grin widening as he pours more of the fiery Axar onto Fereyan’s tongue, the liquid stinging as it hits, causing Fereyan to reflexively draw his tongue back into his mouth with a groan, the pain almost too much.

"No," the General says sharply, his tone suddenly severe as he stops pouring. "Out," he commands again, a dark amusement glinting in his eyes.

Fereyan’s breath is shallow, his chest heaving with the effort, his mouth empty but burning, his throat raw and aching from the harsh liquor. A single tear escapes, trailing down his cheek, but he is more aroused than ever, his body thrumming with an overwhelming mix of agony and need. He obeys, pushing his tongue out again, this time closing his eyes, his body trembling with both pleasure and pain. His cheeks flush a deeper red, his expression one of surrender and eager anticipation.

The General's smirk deepens into a broader, more satisfied grin, and he lets out a low, almost maniacal chuckle. "Good dog," he says approvingly, releasing his grip on Fereyan’s hair, his hand shifting to give him a firm, almost patronizing pat on the head. “Dismissed,” he orders, his tone casual now, as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened. “Go and bring her the breakfast from the 7th Chef Cook. He’s likely done by now.”

He sets the glass down with a sigh of satisfaction, his body relaxing into his chair, the tension easing from his shoulders. Fereyan swallows hard, his throat burning, his voice a little shaky, still tinged with the arousal that lingers in his body. “Yes, sir,” he replies, almost breathless, his voice trembling with a mix of submission and excitement. He carefully replaces his visor, concealing his flushed face once more, and turns toward Tolius, who remains at attention, his eyes following Fereyan with a knowing look.

The 7th Cook Chef

Fereyan’s steps are steady, but his heart races, still feeling the heavy pulse of the General's dominance coursing through him as he exits the room, his body still tingling with the sensation of pain and pleasure mingling into one.

Fereyan makes his way down the hallway, still gasping for air, each breath heavy with need. His groans of arousal are soft but distinct enough to draw the attention of a few alien figures passing by, their curious eyes following his otherwise stoic and confident stride. As he reaches the end of the hallway, he steps into the silver elevator, pressing the button for the 8th floor, where the personal kitchen for the General and his closest subordinates is located. The doors close with a quiet hiss, and he leans back against the cold metal wall, coughing occasionally, his throat still burning from the fiery alcohol that lingers like a hot coal in his memory. The sensation only makes him harder, his cock straining against his trousers, pulsing with the vivid recall of the General's touch.

The elevator doors open with a soft chime, and his senses are immediately assaulted by the vibrant scents of cooking—a myriad of alien aromas, both sweet and savory, fill the air, the fragrance of freshly cooked fruits intermingling with more exotic spices. His eyes sharpen, scanning the bustling kitchen, observing a wide range of alien forms moving in a coordinated dance, each carrying trays and utensils, ingredients and dishes. Fereyan weaves through the chaotic flurry of activity, his gaze intent, searching for the 7th Chef among them, the one tasked with preparing her meal. He mutters under his breath, his voice rough with lingering arousal, "Fourth, eighth... third," as he moves between the aisles, glancing at the numbers stitched into their uniforms. "Second... ah, there!" he finally exclaims, a bit louder than he intended. He clears his throat, straightening himself with a disciplined posture.

"Hey, you. Number Seven," he calls out, his tone cutting through the din of the kitchen, his presence commanding the room's attention. As he steps closer, the tantalizing aromas only intensify, making his stomach clench in response. "Give me the tray for her," he demands, his own authority radiates from him, an electrifying force that crackles through the air, commanding attention with every step. The energy he exudes is unmistakable, a potent, palpable presence that fills the room—a tangible manifestation of his role as an enforcer.

The 7th Chef turns, a proud grin spreading across his alien features, his eyes twinkling with amusement. "Of course!" he replies in a high-pitched, slightly grating voice. "The little princess will feel good, full, and energized after this meal!" he laughs, a cackling sound that echoes off the walls. He hands over a tray with great care, and Fereyan’s eyes quickly scan its contents: a delicate cup of yer , a bowl of intricately cut fruits arranged in a colorful mosaic, and the centerpiece—a plate with a few drops of their special sauce made from the rare Trex plant, and a finely sliced, seasoned piece of Zu meat, a delicacy from a rare flying bird, imported from far reaches of the galaxy. ~A meal even I wouldn’t earn~, Fereyan thinks, feeling a brief pang of envy.

“Thank you,” Fereyan says curtly, nodding to the 7th Chef. He takes the tray with careful hands, turning back towards the elevator, making his way back through the commotion. The door closes, and he begins his ascent to the highest floor, his mind wandering back to the memory of the General’s voice, the lingering taste of the Axar still burning on his lips, his throat aching with need.

Meanwhile, the General remains seated, his eyes following Fereyan’s retreating figure with a faint, satisfied smirk. He mutters something incoherent to Tolius before speaking clearly. “Go check on her… try to wake her up, will you?” His voice is tinged with a flicker of arousal, the remnants of his earlier dominance still simmering within him. Tolius nods sharply, stepping away with a crisp, disciplined pace. He reaches his room, finding the door already slightly ajar, and pushes it open just enough to slip inside.

His footsteps are soft against the plush rug, the room dimly lit and thick with the scent of sleep. He pulls a small vial from his pocket, a potent drug designed to rouse the senses. He sits carefully on the edge of the bed, his gaze fixed on her form, her body radiant and pink, almost glowing with a soft light that obscures her features. Holding the vial near her nose, he waits patiently. After a few seconds, she coughs, stirring awake with a faint gasp. “Tolius…?” she murmurs, her voice still thick with sleep, eyes fluttering open slowly. She blinks, her face scrunching up with playful confusion. “Did you just fart?” she giggles, sitting up, her movements slow and drowsy.

Moments later, Fereyan steps back into the office, his eyes flickering toward the General, who meets his gaze with a knowing smirk. The General gestures with a casual wave of his hand, silently directing Fereyan toward his room, making it clear he should not stop or hesitate. Fereyan moves forward with renewed purpose, carrying the tray carefully, his steps steady but his throat still burning. "A sweet treat from the General," he announces as he goes in his bedroom, his voice rough and strained, each word scraping against his raw, itching throat. He swallows, longing for even a drop of water or anything that might soothe the lingering soreness.

“Oh…” she responds, a hint of reluctance in her tone. Yet, she knows better than to refuse the General’s offerings. “Thank you, sir,” she says, her voice carrying the awareness that he’s listening.

“Make sure to eat everything, like the good girl you are,” the General’s voice is firm yet with a subtle undertone that makes her cheeks flush. She feels strangely comforted by his words, though she doesn’t understand why. “Yes… sir,” she responds, feeling a warmth spread through her, as if his praise carries a hidden weight, a significance she cannot quite grasp.

Tolius and Fereyan stand at her side, vigilant, their eyes watching her every move, ensuring she consumes every bite. She starts slowly, sipping from the yer and picking at the fruit salad. She chews thoughtfully, a familiar taste lingering on her tongue, but she cannot place it. "Mmm… my tummy," she mutters softly, a small shiver of unexpected pleasure coursing through her. She dismisses it quickly, attributing it to hunger, and continues eating, driven by a deep, inexplicable need.

Fereyan watches her intently, hunger gnawing at his own stomach. He contemplates asking the General for a meal break, realizing it has been hours since he last ate. The thought flickers briefly, but he pushes it aside, focusing on the task at hand.

After some time, she finishes the meal, her energy visibly shifting, a vibrant pink hue radiating from her skin, unnoticed by herself but felt by those around her. Tolius takes the tray, his movements efficient and precise, ensuring the room remains spotless and preserved. He exits quietly, closing the door behind him, leaving the space thick with a sense of anticipation.

"Fereyan," the General’s voice cuts through the heavy silence, his tone commanding yet tinged with a quiet excitement. He sits in his leather office chair, rocking right and left with a subtle, rhythmic sway, his eyes gleaming with a dark anticipation. He waits, exuding a sense of power that saturates the room, seeming to pulse with every swing of his chair. Fereyan senses the call instantly and moves with purpose, crossing the room in quick strides to stand by the General's desk.

"Lock the door after Tolius returns," the General murmurs, his voice dropping to a low, almost purring rumble that trembles with ecstasy and restrained arousal. The sound reverberates like a growl, vibrating through the air and filling the room with a charged, electrifying tension that can be felt even from the adjoining bedroom.

Blindfolded

She feels her heart begin to pound against her ribs, fear coursing through her veins. Every muscle tightens in response to his words, the memories flooding back — flashes of pain, and confusion — as she trembles in her solitude. Her fingers grip the sheets, her knuckles white, unable to stop the tremor of fear spreading through her limbs. A quiet, almost inaudible word escapes her lips, born of both instinct and dread. "Sir...?" she whispers, voice wavering with hesitation, as if the word had slipped out before she could stop it. "Shouldn’t I go train… like normally?" she manages to ask, her voice barely louder than a breath, fragile with uncertainty.

From the office, Tolius's response comes like a clap of thunder, a dark, commanding presence filling every corner of the room with his sinister intent. "You fool… The General has a different type of training for you today," he replies, his tone laced with a sinister amusement, the hint of an evil chuckle riding on his words. His energy, thick and domineering, seems to seep into the room, mingling with the General’s overpowering aura, pressing down on her with an almost suffocating force.

She gulps hard, her throat tightening as her eyes widen in fear, her mind racing with questions she is too terrified to ask. "What… does that mean?" she murmurs to herself, her voice barely audible, swallowed by the oppressive silence that has fallen over the room. She sits there, alone and vulnerable, clutching the sheets tighter as if they could offer some measure of protection. The crack in the door to the office remains her only glimpse into the other room, a sliver of light in a shadowy void.

The faint sound of Tolius fulfilling the General's order breaks through the silence — the sharp, decisive click of the lock sliding into place. Her heart leaps into her throat, beating wildly, her breath quickening.~I have to escape~ she thinks frantically, but before she can even formulate a plan, she feels their presence — Fereyan and Tolius, now standing at her bedside, their forms towering over her like dark sentinels, eyes gleaming with a predatory anticipation. They seem to have materialized out of thin air, closing the distance between the office and the bedroom in a heartbeat, their arousal almost palpable in the air, thick and overwhelming.

Fear and dread twist her stomach into knots, the room spinning around her as she grips the sheets tighter, her every nerve alight with the awareness of her captivity, of the darkness that has closed in around her.

As Tolius and Fereyan loom over her, the General chuckles softly, his murmur thick with amusement, an evil smirk curling at his lips. "Mmm, boys… It's time to play," he says, his voice a commanding growl that fills the room with an unsettling energy. "Bring her to me." His words are laced with a dark authority, the left eye flaring with an unnatural light that seems to pulse with palpable power, its presence felt even from across the room.The sheets that once cradled her in solitude are swiftly abandoned as Tolius and Fereyan take hold of her. Their grip is firm, assertive, pressing her forward, but careful not to cause harm. She feels the pressure of their hands guiding her, propelling her towards the General, and for a moment, surprise flashes across her face. Moments ago, she could barely keep her eyes open, her limbs heavy with exhaustion, yet now she stands, seemingly rejuvenated. "Why can I stand? Why am I not tired anymore?" she mutters, bewildered, her voice barely above a whisper as they continue to drag her forward.

Her eyes catch sight of the General, and instantly, a flush spreads across her cheeks, her body trembling involuntarily in their grip. She remembers his power, the sheer force of his dominance that had filled the room earlier. "Sir… can you please let me go?" she pleads, her voice quivering with a mix of fear and submission. "Shouldn't I be outside, doing my duties? I… I shouldn't have fallen asleep like that. I'm so sorry," she stammers, her words tumbling over one another in a rush of anxiety and regret.

But her protests are met with a silent, unyielding response. Tolius presses his strained cock against her left thigh, the heat of his body seeping through the fabric, and Fereyan mirrors the action on her other side, their intentions unmistakable. She gasps, her breath catching in her throat, her heart pounding wildly against her ribs. The General watches with a dark, knowing smile as he reaches into his desk drawer, retrieving a black silk blindfold. He stands up, moving toward her with slow, deliberate steps, the rich, heady scent of tobacco and musk filling the air, growing stronger with every step he takes. She shudders, her senses overwhelmed by his proximity, the scent alone enough to make her lightheaded.

She tries to pull back, to push away from the guards, but her resistance is weak, futile against their combined strength. The General seizes her chin with a firm hand, tilting her head up to meet his gaze. He leans in close, his breath warm against her skin, a low, feral growl rumbling from deep in his chest, like a wolf asserting its claim over its prey. His eyes narrow, the intensity in them sharp and penetrating as he murmurs, "If my theory is right... I'll soon see that naked flesh of yours," his tone contemplative, yet thick with anticipation.

As he speaks, the guards push her closer, her body trembling with a potent mix of fear and arousal. The General's hand, strong and unyielding, presses the blindfold against her eyes, sliding it down to cover part of her cheek, fitting like a mask. Instantly, she feels her energy recede, pulling back inside herself, her light dimming as the blindfold takes hold. The room grows darker around her, and she becomes painfully aware of the way her body is displayed — every curve, every bead of sweat, every involuntary tremor laid bare under the combined pressure of the guards' dominance and the General’s commanding presence.