The Moonlit Serenity

  The night slips through the hours like a gentle thief. 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. 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 his perfume.

  The quiet grows deeper, pressing against the skin, a breathing ghost 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 into a mix of curiosity and concern. A brief silence follows the knock, the tension in the room palpable.

  "What now?" the General mutters, his demeanor shifting from rexed to annoyed instantly.

  A clumsy awakening

  Meanwhile, the knock bsts through the silence like a cannon shot, and she rockets upright in bed, her arms filing 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 te 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 sp 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 at the ceiling. She thinks about getting back up for a second, but the floor is surprisingly comfortable… like a harsh, unforgiving mattress.

  Her body seems to decide for her, and with a defeated sigh, she gives in, her muscles going limp. "Maybe just a few seconds..." she mumbles, drifting back into sleep. Her head lolls to the side, and she immediately 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.

  At 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.

  "Waiiit..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 as I feel like it or letting it drift into the seriousness the General's demeanor demands. His sternness presses heavily on my thoughts, making me reluctant to overstep. The idea 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 don't want to make things worse for him. Jolted awake, exhausted, and nearly incapable of standing, it feels almost cruel to think of adding further chaos. I'm caught in this uneasy bance, unsure how to proceed without feeling like imposing or creating additional difficulty.

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

  Instead, here we are with our not-so-graceful heroine already face-down on the floor, her limbs filing 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 arm has been going off for the past ten minutes and there's a final exam they're te for. And then, in a beautiful dispy of half-asleep coordination, she promptly unched herself off the bed like 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 compint. She hits the ground with all the grace of a sack of potatoes; limbs spyed, 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. I know she's not exactly winning any awards for elegance here.

  Now, picture this: she is sprawled out on the costly, pristine white sheets of the General's bed — which probably cost more than my st three paychecks combined. And what does she do? She leaves a big, drool stain 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 that this is, frankly, hirious.

  And I'm here, stuck in this awkward space between the seriousness it demands — or letting 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 — 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 gnces over at Tolius as if to say, -What did I do to deserve this?- and Tolius, bless his heart, shrugs and tries not to ugh.

  And let's be honest, the General has seen a lot in his time — but this? This might be the thing that finally breaks him. His shoulders slump, and his hands go to his temples like he's trying to stave off the worst headache. You can practically hear him sighing, his soul just… defting. And I'm torn, wondering if I should make her life easier or more challenging, 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 cmped over his mouth as he shakes with silent ughter. Because really, how often do you get to see your commanding officer entirely undone by a grown woman acting like a sleepy toddler?

  Alright, alright. Here I gooo."

  Unexpected comedy

  The General exhales a long, slow sigh 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 pying 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 defted 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 moves her across the room 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 trying to catch a dream. With each step, her head jerks up, her lips fpping 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, borious trek.

  Step by step, Tolius makes his way closer to the bed, his face contorting as he tries to suppress the ughter inside him. She mutters something unintelligible in her sleep, followed by another absurd snore, 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 her head lolls to the side as he does. His gaze nds on the rge, 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, trying not to ugh as he imagines the inevitable dry-cleaning bill. He gently maneuvers her to the opposite side of the bed, ensuring her head nds squarely on the fresh pillow while stifling his mirth every step.

  Tolius's shoulders begin to shake, and his attempt to stay composed fails. And then, without warning, a loud snort escapes her — a snort so mighty 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 and absurd that he can't help it. A loud and unrestrained ugh bursts out of him, echoing in the room like a cannon shot. Tolius bends over, shaking with ughter. "Oh gods," he gasps between fits of ughter.

  His ughter 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 ughter 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 ughter. Her sleepy brain tries to process the situation, but she also starts giggling before she can make sense of it. The tired, delirious ugh bubbles up uncontrolbly, 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, though all they could see was a radiant glow bulb, and falls right back asleep. Her breath comes out in soft, silly little snorts that send Tolius into another fit.

  "Am I… am I flying?" she mutters, half-asleep, her ugh a strange, sleepy melody. Tolius loses it. The unexpectedness of her question, 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 uncontrolble ughter explodes from him, and a loud, booming sound fills the room.

  She ughs with him, a brief, joyous burst that seems to come from somewhere deep within her exhaustion, though she has no idea what's so funny. It's infectious, and for a moment, they're both caught in a loop of giggles—her ugh and his ugh, 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 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 like a storm.

  Tolius snaps to attention, but the giggles keep slipping out in little bursts. He nods, trying to pull himself together, his face still red from ughter. "Yes, sir, right away, sir," he manages between breaths, his voice shaking 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, he mutters something about "the special cleaning room," whatever that means.

  The General pinches the bridge of his nose, trying to ward off the headache behind his eyes, and mutters, "How is this my life now?"

  As Tolius disappears with the offending pillow, his ughter 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 stands there, shaking his head, thinking for the hundredth time today, ~Why me?~. For a second, he almost — almost — chuckles himself. But no, he believes, there are standards to maintain.

  The 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 tobaccos 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 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 tobaccos.

  "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?"

  Vontum's voice emerges on the other end — 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 ugh that seems to linger in the air.

  A smirk pys across the General's lips as he gnces 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 rexed, 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 again.

  The General's smirk deepens, taking on a hint of pleasure. 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.

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

  The General, approaching and 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 crity: her body spyed out on the cold, metallic table, the special Crawled Eye—its arousal painstakingly and deliberately maniputed—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.

  He sighs in satisfaction as he goes back to his office chair, recalling 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. Even while she sleeps, the rhythmic interchange of their noises 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, and 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, feeling he's drawing his desires in the air of the General's will. 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. He can't help but remember the st time — the feel of cold, hard marble against his knees, 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 calcuting, 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 alluring purple magnetic aura that seems to swallow the air around him.

  "Finally," the General mutters, his tone sharp with irritation, a single word that cuts through the silence like a bde. Fereyan feels the sound almost like a physical sp. He forces himself to continue forward, to close the gap between them. His breath is 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 and ced 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 and 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 hands tremble slightly as he reaches for the drawer, pulling it open and pcing 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 power in this room. It's as if the General is a hunter, and Fereyan, despite his armor and training, is nothing more than a trembling rabbit caught in a snare, waiting for the final blow.

  His breath catches as he notices his cock straining against his trousers. 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 colr 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 flushed hot with shame and desire, a deep blush spreading beneath his skin, hidden from view by his helmet, but felt all the same. The silence is thick and 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, 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 the turmoil within, a gaze that seems calm, almost meditative, but with a hint of need and longing.

  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 or blink, his eyes remaining locked onto the General, even as the smoke stings them. It's a test, a power py, 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, 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. His body responds instinctively to the General's presence, every fiber of his being tuned to this moment, to the game they are pying. He knows the rules and what is expected of him, yet every time, it feels new, electric, like a spark igniting his soul.

  The General's eyes gleam with satisfaction. He leans back, taking another long drag of his cigarette. Smoke trickles out from his lips in a steady stream, drifting zily 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 nguid satisfaction. His hand reaches out, fingers brushing lightly against Fereyan's cheek, trailing down to trace his jawline. 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.

  He lifts the helmet away with a measured, almost leisurely grace, savoring the moment as he reveals Fereyan's flushed skin beneath. The cold air rushes against Fereyan's face, but he barely notices, focusing entirely on the General's eyes, which gleam with amusement and dominance. The General's hand glides 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 and 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 lingers just a moment longer, feeling the pulse of life beneath his fingers before pulling back, satisfied with the submission id bare before him.

  Fereyan's body tingles under the touch, his muscles taut with tension and desire. He keeps his gaze fixed, steady, trying to hold back the slight 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 exhiration, and he knows the General can see it — can feel it — as clearly as he can. He waits, breath held, for the next move and command, knowing he will obey without question.

  "Yes, sir," he whispers again, more specific 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 bck 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 gss of Axar, a potent, fiery liquor, and holds it high above. With a calcuted 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 narrow, flickering, 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, the pull sending electric jolts of pleasure coursing through his nerves, blurring the line between pain and ecstasy. The sharp sting of the Axar bzes 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 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 fres with a strange, otherworldly purple light, radiating sinister energy. In that instant, Tolius re-enters the room, stepping into position near the door, standing tall and steady. He feels the room's charged, almost electric atmosphere but remains stoic, his gaze flicking briefly to Fereyan, who the General is once again testing.

  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 Generals 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, amusement glimmering 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 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. "Dismissed," he orders, his tone casual now as if nothing unusual had happened. "Go and bring her the breakfast from the 7th Chef Cook. He's likely done by now."

  He sets the gss down with a sigh of satisfaction, his body rexing 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 submission and excitement. He carefully repces his visor, concealing his flushed face again, 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.

  He makes his way down the hallway; 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 the vibrant scents of cooking immediately assault his senses—a myriad of sweet and savory alien aromas fill the air, the fragrance of freshly cooked fruits intermingling with more exotic spices. His eyes sharpen, scanning the bustling kitchen and observing a wide range of alien forms moving in a coordinated dance, each carrying trays, 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, gncing at the numbers stitched into their uniforms. "Second... ah, there!" he finally excims, 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. "Give me the tray for her," he demands; his 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 ughs, a cackling sound that echoes off the walls. He hands over a tray with great care. 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 pte with a few drops of their special sauce made from the rare Trex pnt and a finely sliced, seasoned piece of Zu meat, a delicacy from a rare flying bird, imported from far reaches of the gaxy. ~A meal even I wouldn't earn~, Fereyan thinks, feeling a brief pang of envy.

  "Thank you," Fereyan said curtly, nodding to the 7th Chef. He carefully took the tray, turned back towards the elevator, and returned through the commotion. The door closed, and he began 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, and 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, finds the door 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 pyful confusion. "Did you just fart?" she giggles, sitting up, her movements slow and drowsy.

  Moments ter, 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 burning. "A sweet treat from the General," he announces as he goes into his bedroom, his voice rough and strained, each word scraping against his raw, itching throat. He swallows, longing for water or anything to soothe the lingering soreness.

  "Oh…" she responds, a hint of reluctance. 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 General says in a firm voice with a subtle undertone that flushes her cheeks. 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, vigint, their eyes watching her every move, ensuring she consumes every bite. She starts slowly, sipping from the year and picking at the fruit sad. She chews thoughtfully, a familiar taste lingering on her tongue, but she cannot pce it. "Mmm… my tummy," she mutters softly, a slight 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 stomach. He contemptes asking the General for a meal break, realizing it has been hours since he st ate. The thought flickers briefly, but he pushes it aside, focusing on the task.

  After some time, she finishes the meal, her energy visibly shifting. A vibrant pink hue radiates from her skin, unnoticed by herself but felt by those around her. Tolius takes the tray; his movements are 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. "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.

  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 — fshes of pain and confusion. 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 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?... Why did you lock..the door?" she manages to ask, her voice barely louder than a breath, fragile with uncertainty.

  From the office, Tolius's response comes like a cp of thunder, his 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 thick and dominating energy seems to seep into the room, mingling with the General's overpowering aura, pressing down on her with an almost suffocating force.

  She swallows hard, her eyes widening, her fist clenching the sheets, her mind too terrified to even ask, "What… does that mean?" she murmurs to herself, her voice barely audible. ~I have to escape~ she thinks frantically. Still, before she can even formute a pn, she feels their presence — Fereyan and Tolius, now standing at her bedside, their forms towering over her like dark sentinels, eyes gleaming with 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.

  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 py," he says, his voice a commanding growl that fills the room with an unsettling energy. "Bring her to me." His words are ced with a dark authority, the left eye fring 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 and assertive, pressing her forward.

  For a moment, surprise fshes 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 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 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.

  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 can feel their energies seeping through their clothing, onward, reaching her skin, the type of press that makes you stumble forward from pleasure. The General watches with a dark, knowing smile as he enters his desk drawer, retrieving a bck 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. She shudders, her senses overwhelmed by his proximity, the smell alone enough to make her lightheaded.

  She tries to pull back and push away from the guards, but her resistance is weak and futile against their combined strength. The General seizes her chin with a firm hand, tilting her head to meet his gaze. He leans close, his breath warm against her skin, a low, feral growl rumbling from deep in his chest, like a wolf asserting its cim 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 contemptive yet thick with anticipation.

  As he speaks, the guards push her closer, her body trembling with fear and arousal. The General's hand, firm, 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, revealing her concealed naked body with her energy. The room grows darker around her, and she becomes painfully aware of how her body is dispyed— every curve, bead of sweat, and involuntary tremor id bare under the combined pressure of the guards' dominance and the General's commanding presence.