#saruei

In the dimly lit command center of Camp Anniston, a squad of field operatives stand at attention before Platoon Sergeant Reynolds. Each one of their rank is decked out in navy tactical gear, equipped to the nines, well-built with perfect, unshakable posture. This is Bravo 13, one of the highest ranking, most well-trained squads left in this branch of the timeline. Sergeant Reynolds paces slowly back and forth in front of them; their eyes remain directly forward, expressions unwavering, as she begins the mission recap.

“As you are all well aware, our enemy has been capitalizing on our weaknesses and enjoying the inherent advantage of one of our most grievous misfortunes. Our forces are limited, our resources are scarce, and we can’t afford to let any of our assets go to waste,” She speaks tersely, confidently. When she reaches the end of the row of operatives, she pivots on her heel and turns back, pacing the other direction. “One such asset has been misplaced for too long. The Synth Saruei was misplaced during a failed recon and assassination mission, and the rebellion hasn’t let us forget it. Now, we finally have the opportunity to retrieve her again.”

Once Sergeant Reynolds reaches the center of the row of operatives she stops, pivoting on her heels to face them. Arms clasped behind her back, she continues on, “The mission is simple. You will be transported to the location of Saruei. Our scientists have managed to get a lock on her. You are to retrieve the asset by any means necessary. Chief scientist Watkins will explain further.”

She gestures off to the side, where a reedy, nervous-looking blonde man wearing spectacles and a lab coat stands. He shuffles hurriedly forward to stand before the intimidating troop, pushes his spectacles up on the bridge of his nose, and launches quickly into his technical explanation.

“The science team managed to recover and repair the equipment Saruei used during the incident, but it was only designed to handle the transference of a small number of people at once even at its peak capabilities. Transporting all of you at full scale would be impossible, and you would all almost assuredly explode into a thousand little pieces-”

“Watkins,” Reynolds barks sharply. “Stay on task.”

“Right. Sorry. Um. In order to reduce the strain on the transportation device, we’ve altered the scale at which your avatars will emerge on the other side. It isn’t actually you that we’re sending, but a manufactured likeness greatly reduced in scale, which each of you will have full immersive control over throughout the duration of the mission. Obviously sending real people through at one hundredth scale would be wildly irresponsible, you could be crushed into paste-”

“Watkins,” Reynolds snaps again.

“Sorry! Um. As I was saying. Should any lethal injury become your manufactured avatar, the connection will simply be severed, and your consciousness will return to its natural state in your current form. All this to say, it might seem scary, but it’s- perfectly safe. Mostly. Barring unforeseen circumstances-”

“Thank you, scientist Watkins,” Reynolds says, stepping in front of him. He takes this as his cue to stop talking, and eagerly shuffles away from the center of the room. “The mission is simple. Cooperate with transport. Arrive at the anchor point that is Agent Saruei. Attach the following probes to her skin. This is very important, the probes must make direct skin contact in order to transport the asset back. Once skin contact is achieved, enter the activation code. At that point, mission completion will come into effect and all operatives will return to base – if all goes well, with Saruei in tow. Am I clear, operatives?”

“Sir, yes, sir,” the squad calls out at once, a perfectly unified chant that demonstrates their competency and cohesion as a team. Reynolds nods, satisfied, and then barks, “Well, what are you waiting for? File out!”

Minutes later at the meeting point, one thick, tan-skinned operative with a tattoo on his neck turns to his blonde-haired female companion as she attaches one of the probes to the molle of her vest. “You ready for this, Johnson?”

“As I’ll ever be, Rodriguez. Just try to keep up this time. I’d hate to have to save your ass again like that one time in Savannah,” she says wryly, her lips quirking up as she gives her fastenings one final tug. Rodriguez rolls his eyes.

“Never gonna let me live that one down, huh?” He asks with a fond shake of his head. Johnson’s crooked, shit-eating grin is all the answer he needs. Before either of them can continue the razzing, a stern voice barks out from behind them – it’s their team leader, Justice.

“Hey, can you two chuckleheads shut the hell up and fall in? Everybody’s waiting for you. We’re go for transport in two minutes.” He doesn’t wait for an answer before stalking off. Rodriguez and Johnson follow behind, suddenly serious. Geared up, they file into rank, expressions solemn and eyes wary. Justice begins the count. Transport in three… two… The portal opens. They step through.

Johnson stares up at the sight before her, and for a moment, forgets everything. The mission, the portal, her gear, her training. She is displaced by staggering awe at the sheer immensity of the body she’s staring up at. Larger than the ruins of any skyscraper, any redwood tree, larger than anything she’s ever seen, the titanic form of Saruei looms over them.

Her thighs alone are staggering; they’re settled on either side of the team, stretching out into the distance, towering up two stories tall and clothed in the thick material of her suit. Dotted all over her, strangely, are round balls the size of cars – Johnson doesn’t have any way of knowing they’re for motion capture, they just look… strange, foreign.

“Get it together, Johnson,” Rodriguez murmurs from beside her, startling her out of her stupor. She glances over her shoulder at him to find him in a similar state of awe, but he seems to be a little more recovered than she is. He reaches out, gripping her tightly on the shoulder for one reassuring squeeze, and she nods at him. They’re fucking professionals; they can do this.

An attempt is made to cross the expanse of chair between her enormous thighs, but it soon becomes apparent this isn’t going to work. She keeps shifting in her chair, disrupting the environment and plowing through what is, from their perspective, several dozen feet of space in one go. Attempting to cut through that fabric at the wrong time, getting caught up and swept underneath one of those thighs, would be an instant termination for whatever poor team member happened to be assigned the task. They’d never manage to attach the probe.

There’s only one thing for it, then. They have to go deeper. It’s an arrangement they all seem to come to unanimously, and so the squad grimly sets off toward the more stable juncture between her thighs. Where her legs are constantly shifting, her pelvis is stable. They’ll cut a hole at the center seam of her suit leggings, they’ll find the first bit of skin they can get their probes on – wherever that might be, whatever part of her body that might mean – and they’ll get the job done. That’s all there is to it. Bravo 13 is known for completing any and every mission, no matter what lengths they have to go to in order to accomplish it.

The trek across the chair takes minutes. Ten operatives march in perfect unison, stoic in the face of the shifting terrain to their left and their right, doing their very best to block out the sight above them: Saruei’s staggering torso, the underside of her breasts, the bottom of her chin, all bent slightly forward as she eagerly clacks away on her keyboard with loud, pounding fingers. Her voice is a constant, deafening drone in the background – like loud, reverberating whale song. Too big, too deep, too loud.

They make it to the juncture and most of the squad stands point while Rodriguez and Johnson begin to cut, slowly but surely burning through fabric as thick as steel cables, severing strand after strand. It’s hard work, time consuming, but after painstaking minutes of this dedicated attention, they finally manage it. Rodriguez straightens, wiping the sweat from his brow and holstering the laser cutter on his thigh harness.

“Alright, I think we’re good, boss,” he says to Justice, who nods and then turns to address the squad.

“Line up, team, we’re-” an earth-shaking rumbling cuts him off before he can finish. His head whips around, and the rest of the team follows suit. On either side of them, the walls are suddenly, abruptly closing in. Saruei is closing her legs, shifting to cross one over the other, and the space between them is being rapidly, unsympathetically eradicated.

“Get in! Get in the hole! Go, now!” Justice barks, shoving Johnson forward. She stumbles through, the thick, unforgiving fabric ripping at her gear and tearing away some equipment in her haste. Once on the other side, she wraps both hands around the dense fabric flap and pulls it back with all of her strength to make room for Rodriguez to quickly file in after her. He drags himself through to the other side, tugging the flap open wide, and the two of them stare out, watching as, one by one, members of their squad are crushed under tons and tons of thick thigh. They make eye contact with Justice, and a single second seems to stretch out into infinity as he, too, is demolished by Saruei’s unthinking, unaware, unconscious shifting. She doesn’t have the faintest idea what she’s done.

They let the flaps fall closed. Silence and darkness descend upon them, and the two of them stand in stunned silence for a long moment, processing what just happened.

“That wasn’t really them,” Johnson says, and whether she’s reminding herself or Rodriguez is hard to say. “Just facsimiles. Just- avatars. They’re not dead, they’re just out of the mission.”

“I know,” he answers grimly – but they’re both thinking the same thing. What if it had been... They shake it off. They’re the only two left, and they have a job to do. The worst is surely past them, they’ve made it inside the thick, durable fabric of her body suit, so now all they have to do is-

“Shit,” Johnson swears, patting herself frantically down, her eyes rapidly searching the dimness all around her. “The fucking probe! It’s gone!”

Rodriguez searches himself as well, and it doesn’t take a genius to figure out by the shape of his defeated posture that his isn’t in its holster either. They must’ve gotten dislodged in the chaos, or ripped off with some of the rest of their equipment on their way in a hole as sturdy and unforgiving as a chain link fence. They have to be around here somewhere, they can’t have just disappeared – and so the two begin to search, hitting their hands and knees atop the strangely soft, humid substance that makes up their flooring.

It’s too dark to see clearly without night vision enabled, and once it’s toggled on, the strange green filter distorts the landscape around her. It’s hard to know just exactly what it is they’re standing on, but as Johnson’s hands make contact with the ground… she begins to have a sneaking suspicion.

There’s no time to share that suspicion with Rodriguez. Without warning, a new act of God descends upon them to reorient their landscape and throw a wrench into everything. They cannot know this, but their host feels the tiny, tingly little movements of their bodies on her most sensitive parts, and the itch is distracting enough that it’s starting to impact her gameplay. She uncrosses her legs, and with no modesty to speak of, she reaches between them to rub roughly at her labia through the thick fabric of her suit.

They’re separated, dragged roughly around the damp landscape. Pressed roughly into pearly pink flesh tinged green under their night vision, dragged several yards in circles around sticky, tender flesh. The pressure is nearly unbearable, and Johnson can hear Rodriguez’s pained groan several feet away once the pressure finally releases.

Johnson and Rodriguez peel themselves out of what they both, by now, know to be the delicate folds of Saruei’s labia peeking out of her lower lips. They must have been an irritant in their search for the missing probes, and despite being on camera, she hadn’t hesitated to reach down between her legs to give herself a good little rub.

After a moment spent recovering, they hear what sounds like the giant rumbling of laughter. They can’t know why; they have no way of discerning that it’s because her live chat lost its shit pointing out they could see her rubbing herself thanks to her character model.

The two remaining operatives continue their search, more careful now of where they tread, and how delicately. Far above their heads, Saruei feels the sensation again – but it’s less of an itch, more a pleasant tingling sensation. Mild enough to ignore, nice enough to enjoy if she focuses on it. Her awareness drifts to and from it as she alternates locking in on her game. She lets out a soft sound, a carrying gust of hurricane wind that is her breath, and focuses up.

The landscape is completely alien to Rodriguez and Johnson. Not because either of them suffer any lapses in their knowledge of the female anatomy, but because the sheer scale of it all is overwhelming, and the green glow of their night vision casts strange shadows, skews hills and valleys and towering peaks. They wander farther, both of them frustrated by the knowledge that Saruei’s absent little rub could have sent the probes absolutely anywhere. She might’ve dragged them up, down, or anywhere in between – and while they may be making skin contact with her, none of that matters if neither operative is there to initialize the transport.

There is no other choice, no other way. They simply have to search to find the probes – and so they wander, splitting up and heading in separate directions. Johnson climbs, working her way over cliffs of soft, quivering flesh, distantly and dimly aware that she can begin to feel Saruei’s heartbeat underneath her palms. Given the scale of it all, she doesn’t truly have the first inkling that the flesh beneath her is swelling gently as Saruei’s clit firms from their movements.

Rodriguez, meanwhile, searches low. He squeezes himself through crevices like a man spelunking, searching every narrow crack and every delicate coral bit that spills out before him. Unlike Johnson, he becomes quickly aware of the state of things – because the walls around him and the ground beneath him slowly but surely becomes slick. It becomes harder and harder to find handholds, harder to keep himself from slipping with every absent flex or clench or ripple of muscle that passes through. She’s getting damp, and he’s in a very, very precarious position.

In the enormous world above, Saruei’s frustration begins to mount. The game she’s playing is becoming souls-like levels of difficult, and she keeps getting two-shot by bosses on repeat no matter how well she times their attack patterns. It’s almost certainly due to the distracting sensations she feels between her legs, the swelling of her clit, the clenching of her cunt, her entire pussy gently but persistently demanding her attention. If she can’t give the game her all, she’s never going to get past this area.

There’s only one thing for it, then. She tells her chat she needs a quick trip to the restroom, pauses her on-screen model, mutes her mic, and sets the stream to stand-by. Within practically the same breath as all that, she wastes no time trailing her fingers around her neck for the switch to her suit. She presses it, and the skin-tight, durable material relaxes around her just enough for her to shove her hand down the front of her bottoms to get to work on what is most certainly no longer just an itch.

Rodriguez gets no time to react. A gust of fresh air joins him, light streams in, his eyes only barely adjust to the new blinding white, and already there’s an enormous fingertip descending directly for him. He means to scramble, to drop, to do anything, but he simply isn’t given the opportunity. Saruei’s finger slams into him, crushing him against her labia with hundreds of thousands of pounds of pressure. His terrified shout is the last thing Johnson hears before Rodriguez is ejected, forcibly removed from the mission and thrown back into his own body in the future.

Grimly, Johnson realizes she’s the last one left. It’s entirely up to her. If she cannot find one of the two probes surely stuck somewhere against Saruei’s vulva, the mission will be Bravo 13’s first failure. She cannot let that happen. As that massive finger begins to slide upward, Johnson throws herself roughly into the overhanging shelter, the flap of flesh delicately shielding Saruei’s massive pearl. She slides her way in deeper as that finger seeks out sensitive nerves, winding her way around an ever-swelling bud.

Above the microcosm of her clothes, Saruei props her heels up on her desk, leaning back in her chair – completely oblivious to the fact that her foot bumps the side of her mouse. Her eyes aren’t on the screen; she does not know what she’s done. That each low whimper, each building moan, is coming through her mic loud and clear to her live chat – and they are absolutely thriving over it.

She works herself expertly, circling her clit with her middle finger in practiced, rhythmic motions. Round and round, her pace steady but slowly quickening, her pressure light but perfect. She can feel the pleasure begin to mount within the confines of her needy pelvis, a wet-hot curling electricity that unfurls and builds.

And then, quite unexpectedly, a flash-fire of a new sensation surges through her clit. Not one she’s ever inspired in herself before, nothing she can blame on her own stimulation. It’s a deep, sparking pleasure that rockets through her clit, driving a high-pitched, sudden squeak from the confines of her tight throat. She dips her fingers low along her labia, dragging wet slick up the length of her, coating her finger in it before returning to her clit with intention and purpose.

Johnson has no recourse. There is nowhere she can go, nothing she can do, as the walls begin to swell around her. She can’t work her way back out again, she’ll only be crushed by that deadly, constantly moving titanic finger. She cannot go deeper in, she’s at a dead end. The walls close in. She feels breath being forced out of her artificial lungs. Her eyes squeeze shut. She flattttens herself as thin as she can, but it isn’t nearly enough, and the squeezing pressure becomes immense, almost unbearable –

And then, quite suddenly, it’s gone. She comes-to gasping, flat on her back and staring up at Rodriguez’s unhappy expression. He extends a hand to her. She sighs and reaches out, allowing him to pull her to her feet. All around her, the expert operatives of Bravo 13 are littered upon the ground in varying states of health. Some of the sensation seems to have transferred over from their avatars to their living bodies, though how much of that is psychological and how much is due to experimental tech is something Watkins is going to have to work out.

Platoon Sergeant Reynolds is on them in a second, stern and unhappy. They snap to attention as she sharply demands, “Mission report. What’s the status of the probes?”

“Lost, ma’am,” Johnson admits defeatedly, disappointment lacing her tone and creeping into her posture. “We were unable to attach them before we were disrupted.”

Reynolds sighs, then snaps her fingers at a medic. “See to Johnson. Johnson, once medical gives you a full work-up, I want a report detailing today’s mission on my desk in an hour.”

“Yes, ma’am,” she affirms, surrendering herself over to the medic. This has been a historic loss for the operatives of Bravo 13, and the morale of the team certainly reflects it.

The opposite could not be more true back in Saruei’s timeline. Her finger flies in rapid, light circles around her clit and in seconds, the first teetering peek of orgasm teases her. She tumbles over the edge with a stuttering moan, feeling her muscles contract and her clit pulse under her finger. Feeling every hot minute of pleasure pouring out of her, second after lingering second, until it slowly begins to fade. At last, at last, she is satisfied – and she allows her hand to slip out of her suit.

God, that felt good.

She’s pretty sure it was fast enough that chat shouldn’t be suspicious, and she has ample time to clean herself up with a wad of tissues she keeps on her desk for just such occasions. Once she’s suitably dry and her hands have been washed, she settles back at her keyboard to pick up where she left off.

She makes to unmute her mic.

Her mic is already unmuted. How long has her mic been unmuted?

A quick glance at chat reveals the mortifying answer – almost the whole time. They heard every moan, and they’re going absolutely off the rails. She curses quietly under her breath.