Puppygirl Hornyposting

"Very good, that's a good dog. Now pant for me." Breathing itself is the bridge between volitional and autonomic. You must always breathe, but if you tune into your own breathing, it can be willful. Tongue hanging out, mouth open, eyes glazing. You're driving your blood oxygenation down, you're making yourself dizzy with need.

You're gonna be piloting your little mech on some battlefield or another. You're doing well, turning the tide. I'm sure you think you're the next Little Miss Rebel Ace, real hot shit.

Suddenly, you're going to be swarmed by half a dozen mechs. Not even competently - I'm not going to waste my prize hounds on a mutt like you - but with mindless ferocity.

You'll take down one or two, I'm sure. Perhaps even three. But the rest of them will tear through your wiring, rip open your coolant piping, and render your precious Memento Mori inert.

You'll try to escape, I'm sure, or perhaps take your own life to prevent capture.

My dogs won't allow it. I won't allow it 

They will spring from their bodies of steel, scrambling up to the cockpit, wrenching it open to get at the vulnerable flesh within.

They will wrench you to the ground, disarm you, tear the clothes off your body.

Then, and only then, will you see Me.

I will stride into the cockpit, lifted there on the open hand of my personal escort mech. In my hands will be an electrobrand. It will slowly heat up, as you are forced to the ground, hounds restraining your limbs.

‪‬I will pass the red-hot brand to an assistant. I do not sully my hands with mutts.

They will burn my mark into your flesh, forever claiming you as my own.

You will be taken back, along with your useless mech, and I will break you, slowly. Gleefully. I will enjoy it.

You will learn to, too.

When you are finally and truly remade, I will take you out of the kennels by the leash. I will take you to a seating area. You will be allowed to briefly glance at the field we are overlooking.

There will be a mech standing there. 'Memento Mori,' its inscription reads. It will mean nothing to you.

‪‬I will take a seat, and instruct you to kneel. I will present my boot to you. You will know what to do. You relish it.

When first you mount my boot, a thunderclap will sound, though the sky is clear. An anti-tank round will be shot from miles and miles away, and it will impact Memento Mori.

It tears out chunks of new plating - I had it fully refurbished for this.

Another missile impacts.

Then another.

I will allow you to begin rutting as Memento Mori is torn to shreds in front of me.

You do not look. You do not care to. It is meaningless to you.‪‬

All you can think of is my boot, how good it makes you feel. Nothing else matters anymore.

I will enjoy the sight of your once-proud mech being reduced to rubble as target practice, while the mutt that thought it was a pilot fucks away the last of its memories against the black leather of my boot.

This is what will happen to you, mutt. And you will thank me for it.