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Stelle gasps, noise readily muffled as a a hard dick forces itself into her mouth. With every thrust, she feels a sharp tug on her hair, silvery strands bunched in-between slender fingers, rolled as threads around a fresh bobbin, and the pulse of blood, thrum audible upon her tongue as the beat of her own heart.
As fun as it had been to see Kafka inflicted with a taste of her own medicine, an unexpected boon of the cargo container that she had been knocked into—to see her adversary shaking, dizzy, just as she had been underneath Kafka’s abilities, had brought a momentary burst of vindictive delight for Stelle—the glee had been short-lived, swiftly morphed into alarm after.
Whatever that bright green powder had been, it certainly hadn’t been meant for human consumption or usage.
Not for the dosage that Kafka had taken anyhow. Her actions now, entirely animalistic and wild compared to her normal serenity, is proof enough of that.
With what Stelle knows from their encounters and from the Data Bank, Kafka, more often than not, prefers her coy manipulations.
Not something as physical, forceful, as this.
“S-Stop, Kaf—“
Stelle chokes as Kafka pulls, yanking her head further onto her cock. Dazed as Kafka is, could she even understand her in this condition?
From the brief glimpses that Stelle could obtain, Kafka’s pupils are dilated, a perfect complement to the frazzled state of her hair, dark threads loose from their confines, the sweat beading upon her flushed, trembling skin, and the smeared makeup.
Entirely unlike the pristine, entirely too-well-put-together woman that Stelle has come to know and to loathe.
When Stelle reaches for her bat, weapon having been knocked aside during their earlier scuffle, a boot slams onto her hand, fingers crunching— a bit like crumpling paper, her mind supplies unhelpfully—alongside her shrill screams, blood trickling down her chin as she bites, teeth sinking into the flesh of her lower lip.
Drugged as Kafka may be, even she had the courtesy to withdraw before then. No one likes a severed dick let alone the possibility of choking on one. That would be an embarrassing way for the both of them to go out, one bled out and the other suffocated halfway through an unwanted blowjob.
“M-March!” Could her friends hear her over the hum of machinery and the gurgle of blood? In this maze of the Luofu? “Dan He—“
Another thrust silences her, cock meeting the back of her throat: wet, slimy, tinged by the warmth of blood, hers and Kafka's. She could feel the veins of Kafka’s cock slide against her tongue, upon the roof of her mouth and occasionally against the insides of her cheeks. The taste, musk and salt and flesh, mixes with the copper of blood.
“S-shut up.” Kafka’s voice is strained, lacking in grace and articulation. “S-shut up.”
Before Stelle can respond, Kafka’s boot slams downward once more, now onto her calf, movement wresting another scream, high-pitched and interspersed with a smattering of broken speech, bits and pieces of her friends’ names, Kafka’s, anyone who could stop this.
Grinding her foot against the flesh, bone crackling like a a chain of firecrackers, Kafka ignores the choked sobs that leave Stelle’s throat, preferring instead to continue her thrusting, each resounding with that wet, disgusting sound characteristic of flesh meeting flesh.
It isn’t that Stelle is fragile—how could she be after the events of Herta Station and Jarilo-VI?—but who could bear something like this without reaction? Without terror and without panic?
Even when she makes another desperate appeal, another whimpering half-formed “Kafka,” her captor only brings down her foot more, breaking her other hand. Combined with the rough tugs upon her hair and the manner in which Kafka’s dick strains her jaw, it makes Stelle ache, agony seeping into her bones, staining her flesh as dye upon cloth, in spite of the adrenaline.
Would Kafka finish soon? Would the drug wear off soon? She doesn’t want her friends to find her like this, bleeding and sucking off their enemy. A pang of shame comes at the thought, quickly squashed in favor of fear as she receives her answer.
When Kafka withdraws, Stelle screams, chest heaving as she gasps for air.
“Quiet.” Kafka’s fingers twist her hair, jerking her head back and force nearly enough to rip it out by the roots. “I need you to be quiet.”
“Marc—“
Another burst of pain interrupts her as Kafka shoves her forward and onto her back. A hand slides underneath her skirt, drawing another wave of panic.
“S-stop! Please!” Stelle’s foot meets Kafka’s chest with a harsh thump . “Get away from me!”
In spite of her pleas and her struggling, Kafka only shifts, fabric ripping underneath her groping fingers.
After a few moments, a cock pushes against Stelle’s cunt, leaking head rubbing itself against the humiliatingly swollen folds, before a hand wraps around her neck, carefully manicured nails strategically pressing themselves against the flesh.
“D-don’t move.” Close as Kafka is and with the change in angle, Stelle could smell her, that distinctive floral perfume intertwined with that sharp acidic tinge—the drug maybe?—and the salty stench of sweat; see the effects of that damnable powder: dilated pupils, flickering eyes, unsteady breaths. “Don’t move.”
In her condition, could Kafka do anything other than repeat herself?
The answer doesn’t matter, not when Kafka bucks shortly after, forcing herself inward with a soft groan, heedless of the shriek that tears itself from Stelle’s throat. Too intent on her own needs and eager for a relief from the effects of the powder.
As Stelle’s hand uselessly scrambles for purchase, other useless upon the stone flooring, Kafka’s grip tightens, a clear warning. Leaning forward, Kafka traps her beneath her weight.
“Kaf—“
Stelle gags as Kafka’s nails puncture her neck, just enough to draw a bit of blood.
Would she finish soon? Stelle hopes so. To her humiliation, she could feel herself clench around Kafka’s cock, hips inadvertently bucking occasionally in response to the stimuli, natural if entirely unwanted.
“Please”—the mantra is nothing more than a jumble of syllables, each indiscernible to everyone but her—“Please. Stop.”
No response. Nothing more than that unbearable sound of flesh meeting flesh and their panting, noises an amalgamation of arousal and unwanted desire.
Even when Kafka climaxes, body shuddering in a mirror of Stelle’s own, she doesn’t ease her pace. If anything, it only increases in intensity, motions followed by a sharp bite on her bare shoulder, teeth clamping with enough force to break skin.
Would her friends arrive soon? The thought lingers as Stelle once again clenches, another whimper leaving her lips.
She hopes so.
Hoarse as she is and with the pressure upon her neck—thankfully (or unthankfully), Kafka hadn’t deigned to strangle her into unconsciousness—Stelle doesn’t think she could scream anymore.
At most, she could only wait and hope.