Machine Intimacy

With the heavy clunk-clack of locking joints and a brief shower of sparks, the heavy bolter slides into place upon the Praetorian's shoulder mount. It's a big, ugly weapon, salvaged from a Leman Russ wounded beyond the point of repair fighting for the Omnissiah's armies and decommissioned with full honours, and the thuggish machine-spirits rebel at union with such a lowly machine-being as a servitor. It takes three ritual anointations with sacred oils and a full recitation of the third hymn of pacification to persuade the weapon to accept its new mount and permit me to complete the work, the dancing, serpentine mechandrites that curl around from my back spot-welding it into place.

I check the great chronometer set into the servitor workshop's wall, run a hand through the half of my hair that hasn't been shaven away to make way for chrome plates, and allow myself a small smile. Preparing the battle-servitor took far less time than I had planned, even with the Heavy Bolter's stubborn spirit, giving me a chance to engage in a little guilty frivolity. Reaching into the greasy, oil-stained red robes that are the hallmark of the Adeptus Mechanicus, I withdraw a small vial of acid and a specialised stylus, clear away the myriad of servitor components scattered across my workbench, set them up and go to work.

My occular implant hums and whirrs as I work, the bulky lenses rotating in place as I zoom in on the metalwork. Scrolls of data flow past, informing me of which Forge World originally machined it, the composition of the alloy, its stress limits, melting point, and a thousand other facts. I dismiss it to a corner of my HUD and concentrate upon my work, dipping the stylus into the acid and dragging it across the armour plating. The metal hisses and spits as the etched design takes shape, slowly transforming from a collection of shapes and guide-lines to a heroic figure mounted upon an armoured steed, striking out at cowering xenoforms with a mighty warhammer even as they're ridden down by his mount.

>A FITTING TRIBUTE, ADEPT XI<

I'm so deeply engrossed in my work that, when the sudden message is canted to me in binaric, I let out a startled gasp and drop the stylus, as if I've been found doing something wrong. A sudden, irrational spike of fear floods through me at the idea of being caught by my supervisor, who has never looked kindly upon my art, but it dies as suddenly as it came as rationality re-asserts itself. There is only one other Adept in the workshop today.

"You could try being a little more conspicuous, Omi." I say, a manipulator-dentrite scooping up the fallen stylus and tucking it, along with the vial of acid, back under my robes.

Omicron-24 is my work partner, though he could be mistaken for a senior adept with the amount of augmentations worked into his body. His face, a head and shoulders above mine and half-shrouded by the hood of his voluminous robe, has been completely replaced with a gleaming metal dome speckled with insectile sensor-clusters and half a dozen mismatched, glowing optics, which blink in seemingly random patterns as the other techpriest regards me.

>INDEED? I SHALL PRECEED MY ARRIVAL WITH A FLIGHT OF CHERUBIM IN FUTURE< He cants back, attaching info-tags signifying humour and slight admonishment to the end of his message. I give him an awkward smile and look down at the etchings, remembering the dozens of times we've had this discussion before. >FEW ADEPTS SHARE YOUR DEVOTION TO AESTHETIC. I REGRET THIS, BUT ENSURE IT DOES NOT DISTRACT YOU FROM YOUR DUTIES.<

"You do?" I look up, reviewing his last message, searching for any tags - or the lack of such -which might suggest Omicron is being insincere. "You've never said so before."

Omicron reaches out, tracing one of his metal hands around the etchings. Each of his fingers is tipped with a separate micro-fine tool or probe, which twitch and click as his haptic feedback bundles come in contact with the acid.

>ONE OF THE CALIXAN ADEPTS ONCE STATED, THAT ONE SHOULD CREATE NOTHING WHICH IS NOT USEFUL, BEAUTIFUL, OR DEADLY. I HAVE ALWAYS FELT THAT ONE SHOULD ASPIRE TO ACHIEVE ALL THREE. SADLY, IN THIS, I FEEL I HAVE FAILED, BUT I HAVE HIGH HOPES FOR YOU<

"Failed?" I ask, stepping around the servitor and approaching him.

>YES. THIS BODY IS FIT FOR PURPOSE AND CONTAINS SEVERAL CONCEALED WEAPON SYSTEMS, BUT IT HOLDS NO BEAUTY<

I bite my lip as Omicron cants across signifiers of regret. Omicron's body would certainly be seen as thing of horror to most within the Imperium; a lumpen, bulky mass of hissing old augmetics and hard angles, snaking cables and bronzed dermal armour plates, heavy servo-limbs and an old-fashioned, oversized potentia coil. But despite his claims to the contrary, there is something attractive about it; his body is brutish and powerful, possessed of a mechanical strength that has always appealed to a deep, primal part of me, ever since he dragged me clear of a malfunctioning servitor on our first day together. The feeling of his sheer power, his physicality, as he clutched my frail, organic body to his own, clung to me for a long time. And over the long, lonely nights in my cot, warped into something quite else; how it would feel for him to take me up in those hard arms and grasping claws, to be stripped and cast down, to be overwhelmed and ravished even though such desires must surely have been stripped from him long ago.

He reaches for me, placing one of his heavy metal hands on my shoulder. There doesn't seem to be anything sexual about his touch, but it sets my heart pounding and my mechandrites writhing in agitation.

>MY IMPLANTS ARE TOO DEEPLY MESHED WITH MY REMAINING FLESH TO BE REPLACED. YOU, HOWEVER, ARE STILL MOSTLY UNAUGMENTED< One of Omicron's eye-lenses flickers, playing a green light over my body as he consults the data-readout of my noospheric signature. I shiver as the scan sweeps the length of my body, imagining it penetrating the folds of my robes so the other Techpriest can examine my frail, naked body. >AS YOU PROGRESS THROUGH THE CULT MECHANICUM'S RANKS, I IMPLORE YOU TO CHOOSE ONLY THOSE AUGMENTATIONS NECESSARY FOR YOUR DUTIES. THE FLESH MAY BE WEAK, BUT IT IS NOT TO BE REPLACED ENTIRELY. UPGRADE. IMPROVE. DO NOT NEEDLESSLY DISCARD<

"Omi, I..." I trail off, my mouth dry, suddenly unsure of what to say. Neither of us had undergone the Rite of Pure Thought - we still retained our capacity for emotion, even though our devotion to the martian ideal saw us try and repress it. To see such an open display of feeling from the other Techpriest, normally such a bastion of calm, deliberate rationalism, left me floundering. "Are you - I mean, you think I'm attractive?"

I cursed myself as soon as I said it. It sounded so stupid - like something a child would say. Omicron cocked his head, his lenses clicking and rotating, then stepped closer, his servo-arms and mechandrites curling around me like the limbs of a spider. The heat radiating from his cooling vents gusted through the folds of my robes, caressing my pale, light-starved skin and sending a shiver down my spine, even as his presence filled the air with the heady scents of machine oil, devotional incense and engine grease.

>YOUR VOICE PURRS LIKE A WELL-MAINTAINED ENGINE. YOUR BODY IS MORE PERFECTLY FORMED THAN THE MOST SELECTIVELY GROWN SERVITOR HUSK. THE MIGHTIEST TITANS OF MARS, BEDECKED IN THEIR FINEST COLOURS OF WAR, WOULD BE A PALE SIGHT BEFORE YOUR BEAUTY<

A confused slew of emotional signfiers follows his message; guilt, shame, sincerity, relief, too many to easily track at once. One of Omicron's smaller manipulatory dendrites extended from within his robes, dancing in the air like a ripple of liquid sliver, before curling in to caress my hair. Having had to shave it on one side, I had grown the other half out, dying it the same glowing blue as my electoos in a fit of whimsy.

>YOU SHINE BRIGHTER THAN THE DISPERSION COILS OF A PLASMA-BATTERY, XI<

Lines of neat green script began to scroll across my HUD, notifying me of sharp spikes in my heart and breathing rates, and I could feel sweat starting to bead across my body - along with another, far more primal, heat that began to bloom within my core. I'd had a rare few relationships before being accepted into the Cult Mechanicus, but they had been short-lived, childish things, and none of my previous partners had ever spoken about me in such a fashion.

This is happening, I thought. This is really happening. It felt like a dream, or a hallucination, but a cursory scan of my biometrics confirmed that neither was the case. Omicron stood before me, his beautifully lumpen metal body hunched, his eye-lenses clicking and spinning, waiting for my reply.

Slowly, I raised one of my hands, placing it against the dull metal of his facemask. My other crept up towards the back of my neck, the sleeve falling away from the intricate, glowing electoos etched around my forearms, as I reached for the clasp that held my robes together. The irrational thought that if I moved too quickly, if I broke the surreal, dreamlike state that had settled upon me, the situation would dissipate like the steam from a melta-forge. So it was that I took ahold of the robes with my manipulatory mechandrites, undid the clasp with shaking fingers, and slowly slid the greasy red fabric down the length of my pale, trembling body. Omicron's many eyes followed the garment down, drinking in the sight of me, of the gleaming silver potential coil that wrapped itself around my ribs like a corset, the glowing power stacks creeping their way back up my spine.

>XI, WHAT IS-< Omicron canted. I let out a long, shaky breath and stepped in closer, cutting him silent and pressing my narrow, skinny body into his robes, feeling the beautiful hard angles of his body shifting against mine beneath them. The other techpriest's manipulatory arms folded down around me, industrial clamps closing around my shoulders, slender mechandrites wrapping around my arms and slender waist, holding me close. I pressed my head against his broad chest, listening to the steady thrumming of his potential coil and the soft, rumbling pulse of his mechanical heart. The potency of that embrace was breathtaking - he could have torn me apart or crushed my fleshy body like an ant, but his hulking, mechanical limbs held me so softly they wouldn't have cracked so much as a glass. My own mechandrites began to slide under his robes, extending datajacks and snaking blindly through the contours of his augmetic body, searching for hardpoints and input slots.

>XI, I SUSPECT YOU WISH TO SHARE BIOLOGICAL INPUT< I lifted my head, a spare mechandrite brushing my hair away from my face as I looked up at the other techpriest. A string of info-tags followed, the equivalent of a raised eyebrow.

"Mmn. Whatever gave you that idea?" I laugh softly sliding one hand under his robes, my probing fingers running over dermal armour and the occasional scrap of wizened, grey flesh, briefly caressing a snarl of wires tangled around his lumpen potential coil, wandering further down, looking for something I don't even know if I'll find.

>JUST A HUNCH< Omicron cants back, followed by a strange, wheezing sound. For a moment I wonder if his respiratory system has suffered a malfunction, before a wave of relief sweeps through me as I realize he's laughing - not simply an appropriately tagged statement registering happiness and amusement, but a genuine, organic laugh, and I smile a little at that. It's the first non-binaric sound I've ever heard from him.

One of Omicron's wandering mechandrites curls around my waist, the metal cool against my skin, the input jack tap-tap-tapping along the outer shell of my potentia coil until it finds the dual row of upload sockets beneath the power stacks. It circles the entrance, fat yellow sparks jumping between the jack and the waiting socket and tingling like static as they crackle across my bionics. I don't know whether he's having trouble making the interface or simply teasing me with his blind fumbles, but it's enough to set my legs trembling with hot, animal need. I burrow deeper into his robes, breathing deep of his oily machine-scent, letting out a little gasp as my stiff, sensitive nipples drag against the ridges of his armour.

And then, at once, two things happen. My hand closes around something that feels like a thick tube of warm, viscous fluid danging from a port near Omicron's groin, and the input jack finally slides home with a crackle of power. At once, a sudden rush of current floods from the other techpriest as his potentia coil shunts power down the link, crackling through my unprepared body like lightning, setting every nerve and synth-bundle alight with screaming ecstasy as my own coil, so much newer and more advanced than his, blazes into life. It vents twin plume of steam as my back archs and my legs go limp, forcing me to sag forwards, to cling to Omicron's hulking, powerful body as my biological components react to the overwhelming neuro-stimulation, drenching my lower lips in moisture.

He holds me, cradling me against him in his great metal arms, until the waves of stimulation finally draw back. I can still feel the strange, crackling thrum of his current pulsing through me - my potential coil may be slim and neat, but Omicron's older model possessed a sheer, brutal capacity for generation that leaves me weak with need. As I finally draw back, I realize what I've been hanging onto, and gingerly release Omicron's phallus.

"I didn't hurt you, did I?" I ask, wincing a little at the sight of the indentations my hand left in the tube.

>NEGATIVE< He cants back. >THE HAPTIC FEEDBACK SENSORS DO NOT COME ONLINE UNLESS THE UNIT IS ENGAGED<

Omicron looks down at his false phallus. It took the form of a long, transparent tube of thick blue fluid that culminated in a blunt tip, though it lacked any easily recognized head. >A RELIC FROM MY MORE REBELLIOUS DAYS< he cants, shrugging one of his broad, angular shoulders and spitting across a mixture of info-tags signifying a mixture of pride and embarrassment. >I RESENTED HAVING TO SURRENDER MY BIOLOGICAL UNIT, SO I CRAFTED A REPLACEMENT<

>IT WILL REQUIRE A REDIRECTION OF CURRENT TO FUNCTION< He continues, pulling off his own robes. The other techpriest seems more confident now - despite his regrets about the state of his body and the quality of his augmentations, he isn't shy, his many arms rolling his greasy robes up and off his body and depositing it in a heap next to my own garment. My breath catches in my throat at the sight of his body laid bare, like a factory prototype offered for my inspection. I go to him, place my hands upon his body, letting my fingers dance over his strange, asymmetrical augmentations. Some I recognize - heat sinks, ingestion ports, unused interface points for specialist mechandrites - but others are completely new to me. His body dwarfs mine in height and breadth. It vibrates with grumbling mechanical power, and once again I'm struck by the sheer, brute strength of his body - the presence, the raw physicality - and feel the urge to prostrate myself before him, like a living icon of the Omnissiah.

The thought brings a smile of my lips, and my own bionic eye clicks and whirrs as it records the beauty of his lumpen metal form. Omicron takes one of my slender hands in his huge metal claw and directs it to one of his own upload sockets. >UNDER THE CIRCUMSTANCES, I BELIEVE YOU SHOULD DO THE HONOURS<

"With pleasure." I purr, unable to tear my eyes away from the mechanical glory of his form. I extend an interface dendrite from one of my manipulators and wind it forwards, the smooth, silver metal wrapping around the techpriest's phallus, softly squeezing the thick, warm tube as the jack slid into place.

And for the second time that day, I heard Omicron's flesh-voice. The other Techpriest let out a deep, rasping gasp, a blast of dusty air shooting out his filter-units as my own potentia coil jolted him full of current. His phallus sprang to life with such force that the jack was almost ripped from its socket, swelling and expanding as it comes to its full hardness, the viscous liquid within starting to glow and drip through the plastic skin. We stand there for a moment, linked to one another's coils, sharing in the intimacy of freely exchanged current; his, brutish and overwhelming, mine fresh and energetic. They two power sources mingle together, flooding our bodies with tingling sparks of stimulation. I can feel the wet heat between my legs blooming further, the combined sight of him and the taste of his electric power driving the fleshy, animal lust he has kindled to a fever-pitch.

>HOW SHALL WE ARRANGE OUR INTERFACE?< Omicron cants, then lets out a low, muffled groan as my mechandrite slides around his phallus like a metal snake, curling and coiling around the thick, glowing unit. I reach out and place a hand upon the rounded tip, squeezing it gently, feeling its heat and tensile strength.

"Oh, holy Omnissiah." I breath, dragging my other hand down the length of his segmented bronze armour. "Look at you. You're beautiful. You're so strong. So powerful."

His chest rumbles in response to that, as if proud. His heavy mechanical limbs swing down, taking a hold of my flesh, thrilling me at their touch. Mechandrites swirl around me, slithering between my thighs, their segmented metal bodies running across my small breasts. I look up at him, nervously chewing my lip, trying to ignore the feeling of wetness creeping down my legs and the gnawing, needy feeling in my belly. "I want to feel that. I want to feel that power. Can you do that for me?"

Omicron's optical lenses click and rotate as he scrutinizes me. >YOU ARE COMPARABLY FRAGILE< he cants, worried tags flashing across my HUD. >I WOULD NOT WISH TO HURT YOU<

A devilish smile flits over my face, and I let my fingers curl around the tip of Omicron's phallus, rubbing back and forth across the sensitive plastic. "I can take it." I whisper, pressing myself needily against him. "I promise."

The other Techpriest remains silent for a moment, cogitating, his mechandrites still blindly groping at my body. Then, finally he nods, and his next burst of binaric cant is laden with authoritative, judgmental info-tags, enough to send a surge of alarm through me before I recognize the contextual ones underlaying the message; normally used when running combat simulations, they signify that what is happening is simply a game, or an act.

>YOU ARE WEAK AND HAVE FALLEN TO THE SINS OF THE FLESH< Omicron's binarc cant blasts through my noospheric grid, his hands clamping down upon my shoulders, nailing my taught, quivering body in place before him. >DO YOU DENY YOUR MANIFEST SIN?<

"N-no, master." I stammer, at once trying to remain stock-still, even as I unconsciously find my thighs rubbing together in a desperate attempt at finding some relief from the monstrous heat between my legs. "I a-await my deserved punishment, master."

>EVEN NOW, YOUR GUILT IS MADE MANIFEST< Omicron blares, jabbing a thick finger at my squirming legs. Without waiting for me to react, he drags me bodily closer to him, a mechandrite looping around my leg and tugging it into the air, exposing my aching, sopping lips to him. I cry out in surprise as I'm pitched sideways, my half-plume of hair dangling awkwardly across my face as the other Techpriest probes my entrance with one of his blunter fingers. Out the corner of my eye, I can see clear strings of wetness as he draws the digit back, then drives it into be with a snarl of aggressive vox-static. Another mechandrite takes ahold of my other leg, and between the two of them I'm flipped upside down hefted into the air, even as I write and wriggle around the thick, metal digit working its way into my passage. He rubs me without skill or dexterity, but with stubborn force, the metal links of his knuckle-joints tugging and plucking at my sensitive outer lips. I wriggle and moan, feeling my climax building, only to let out a needy whine as he tugs his finger free with a noise of fake disgust.

>IS THIS SUITABLE, XI?< His cant cuts in. I groan as I'm jolted out of the fantasy, still dangling in mid-air, my cranial circuits flashing up a warning as blood starts to rush to my head.

"It's good, it's good." I gasp. "Just keep going, I need to come."

>THEN YOU SHALL NOT, SLATTERN< Omicron roars, snapping back to his adopted persona.  >NOT UNTIL I PERMIT IT<

He dumps me unceremoniously upon the ground, then begins to march in circles, his insectile gaze sweeping across the room. No sooner have I dragged myself up into a sitting position, Omicron's servo-arms grasp me by the shoulders and thrust me back to my feet with a rasp of hydraulics, shoving me ahead. The ache between my legs is almost unbearable. It would be so terribly easy to slide one of my mechandrites between them, to insert a datajack into my hot, wet passage and relieve the desperate pressure building there, but I quash the urge. Omicron is my Omnissiah, my master, and I will not go against his orders, no matter how much my weak flesh screams at me.

I'm thrust forwards, mechandrites slithering around my wrists and binding them together behind my back as the other Techpriest sweeps a workbench clean, scattering tools and half-built servitor components tumbling to the floor. I pretend to struggle, fighting vainly against his steely power, even though both of us know that I wouldn't want to escape, even if I could. I'm rewarded with a sharp, stinging slap across my buttocks from a datajack, the sudden flash of pain making me yelp, and I can imagine the lurid red mark it must have left behind.

>YOU WILL NOT ATTEMPT TO ESCAPE PUNISHMENT, FLESH-WHORE< The words of Omicron's cants seem to blur together into one long, binaric rumble, the vibrations of them coursing through my body as I'm bent roughly over the table, my sensitive breasts squashed against the cold, greasy work surface. A second, then a third stinging blow whips across my bare backside, each one sending a shockwave of pain and pleasure coursing through my body. A small analytical part of me, working away at the back of my mind, can't resist taking a neuro-recording of the sensation and the bio-readouts they elicit for future examination.

"D-do you call that percussive maintenance?" I gasp, waves of mixed sensation surging through my overloading body like plasma-current. "I've seen tech thralls strike harder than that."

>MOCK ALL YOU WISH. IT WILL SIMPLY MAKE YOUR PUNISHMENT ALL THE GREATER< Omicron snarls back, though under the double-layer of authoritative and contextual info-tags, I detect a few signifying pleasure slipping through unbidden, and I know he's enjoying his dominance as much as I'm enjoying my submission. Heavy servo-arms clamp around my shoulders and thrust me forwards, forcing me down onto the table, while mechandrites snake around my ankles and drag them apart, leaving me spreadeagled and powerless to resist his intrusions. My heart hammers in my chest as I feel his thick phallus slapping against my thighs as he gets into position.

There's no lead-in, no gentle tease, no time to prepare myself. Bound and helpless in his grip, the hulking, lumpen techpriest thrusts forwards, driving his thick, glowing phallus into my waiting body. The sound that slips from my lips is a cry born from pain, need and desire, as long suppressed urges and fantasies are finally realized. The metal armour of Omicron's thigh guards slap against my behind as he roots himself in my wet heat, his thick tool spreading me out, driving rational thought from my mind for a few terrifying, blissful moments. My own mechandrites write and thrash madly as Omicron pulls out before slamming another pile-driver thrust home, a wave of crushing pleasure sweeping through me.

He leans forwards has he begins to thrust in and out in earnest, letting me feel his heavy, mechanical weight pressing down against my back, trapping me between the table and his beautiful, industrial mess of a body. I gasp and groan as I'm forced down and fucked, flashing, confused masses of data spooling back and forth across my HUD as I writhe beneath his massive, overwhelming weight, wallowing in his sheer, brute power and physicality. All the while, he blasts out a litany of binaric roars, accusing me of sinning against the Machine-God, of worshiping the flesh and its foul pleasures, of prostituting myself for forbidden knowledge. He subsumes me, dominates me, cursing me for having drive him into sin as well. I struggle against the mechandrites binding me in place, silently egging him on, trying to encourage the other Techpriest to fuck me harder, faster, rougher as the sound of his metalwork slapping against my soft, frail skin fills the room of the maintenance chamber.

The table rattles and shakes beneath me, and I squeal as one of his data-probes slides from a port in his chest, snakes through the crevass of my buttocks, and eases itself into the organic dump-port it finds there. The cold metal slithering into the heat of my rear passage, rubbing madly against the thick phallus embedded in my frontal access port is, finally, too much. The bubble that has been building inside me finally swells and bursts, flooding my screaming nervous system with waves of light and force. I convulse madly beneath him, riding the waves of my climax even as a pair of dataprobes lock into my input jacks and funnel additional power from his potentia coil into me, coaxing my orgasm out further, and further, and further, in an endless, screaming wave of electrical bliss...

And then it ends, Omicron pulling out and stumbling backwards, the last blast of current having forced his phallus back to its previous, flaccid form. His mechandrites release me and his datajacks snap clear of my input ports, cutting off the overwhelming feedback loop that had set my organic systems ablaze. Blearily, I watch as the length of blue synth-plastic is withdrawn back within the other Techpriest's body, leaving a wet smear of my juices across his groin-plate.

>ARE YOU WHOLE, XI?< He asks, his message underlined with concern. >WAS I TOO ROUGH?<

I let out a long, garbled sigh, still spreadeagled across the bench, and manage to shake my head. Omicron steps forwards again, scooping me up in his great, metal arms, holding my frail, organic form to his mighty steel chest. I cuddle in against him, the warmth and vibrations of his chest soothing my gradual comedown.

"Shoulda done that a long time ago." I mutter, then turn to look up at him, gently teasing my fingers through a cluster of cables hanging from his body. "You're not ugly, you know. All machines are beautiful, even the unsubtle ones."

I stretch and resettle in his mighty grip, listening to the mechanical thrumming of his heart.

>YOU'RE BIASED< Omicron cants, amusement underlying the burst of binary.

"Are you complaining?" I grin up at him, blowing my plume of hair away from my bionic eye, winding my mechandrites lovingly around his.

>NEGATIVE<