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Fanworks: Fics: Tron: Who Commands the Commander?
Who Commands the Commander?
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The MCP-red of his circuits stutters, trembles, flaring, again, into hot violet as he fails, again, to stay still.
He feels a moment of gratitude (stops himself from thinking "thank the Users") that he's at least made it to the one safe place they have... the airstrip deck where Master Control doesn't bother to watch (although audio listening devices aren't far away, so even here he must always be mindful of how loudly he says... or does... anything).
Sark would not have escaped punishment if he'd allowed his circuits this much fluctuation in public, under that judging red gaze. To the MCP, violet means nothing but a suspicious shift along the color spectrum toward enemy blue.
Others may be permitted to falter, sometimes, in such a way. But he, the Commander, is allowed no such leniency. In either the eyes of the MCP... or in the gentler eyes, the bright and loving eyes of his other, more secret superior who gives him the orders he truly wishes to obey.
Purple waves converge on his groin. He aches, pressed in the confines of his suit.
Programs come in all sorts of appearances-- echoing the variety of their Users, perhaps? Or a symbolic graphic interface, representing the functions of their programming? Sark, in any case, has never been sure why his own render is one of those equipped with such... sensitive, disobedient anatomy between the legs.
Mayertis was fascinated, the first time he derezzed that section of his armor for her. He remembers her breath hitching in wonder, as she reached out to touch-- as she felt him thrust and slide into her clever fingers-- and her gasp of utter awe when she saw him climax, felt his energy-discharge spill hot across her hands in liquid form.
He was her first. She did not have other programs' anatomy to compare him to. His ego admits, with reluctance, that her awe for the workings of his body does not mean anything except that she loves him.
But she does have the experience of draining others' energy, absorbing it to use for her purposes-- even if that power has never been fully under her control.
And when she learned this fact about Sark-- that his overload releases the excess energy in such a form-- her fascination turned so very quickly into an urge to experiment.
This time, she's made him wait more than five microcycles without allowing him release. His breath catches at the thought of how long it's been. Another pulse of violet from the aching heat between his legs... sparks of sensation radiate outward like a firework, all over him.
He clenches his jaw, tilts his head back... Mayertis knows what this has been doing to him. She has seen his lapses in control. He knows all-too-well why she's called him to meet her here.
He sits back on the cold surface of the deck... leans back hard into the wall, bracing both feet on the floor in a futile attempt to calm and center himself. But the pressure on his disc, on the sensitive circuits around its dock, only sends more and more waves of arousal through him.
Sark frantically stifles a groan... looking up in desperation to see if she's nearby yet--
"...My, my, Sark, you've been a very bad program boy."
He jolts in startlement.
She's almost right above him.
How she got so close without him noticing her approach--
... he realizes he does not care, at all. Because she's derezzing the short white-and-red dress she usually wears-- the simulated material shimmers away into nothing, all at once, revealing all of her unclothed form, each line of the intimate patterns of circuitry that trace her curves underneath.
And she's watching his response-- her bright eyes half-lidded, their gaze dragging almost-tangibly over the violet-flushed circuits of his entire body, and even more slowly across the aching hardness still confined within clothing. Cataloguing his strobing shift in color, his sudden frantic jerk of hips.
She smiles as she watches him. Fascinated, curious, amused. He suspects she was experimenting just now-- to see if he would come in his suit just from seeing her undress so suddenly.
He isn't sure how he managed not to. She is perfection. Divinely formed into the exact shape of everything he craves. So perfect that he trusts her, unquestioningly, to do this to him-- to drive him into this state of desperation just so he can feel the sublime relief of her touch, her command.
Of course, he is seeing her right now through the eyes of one who's gone without such contact for much too long. He knows this, but is still transfixed by the flickers of lavender sparkling at the edges of circuitry all over her. Still in awe that she, too, cannot help responding to the sight of him.
In her hands are coils of energy rope, ready to bind him, to hold him still as she has her way with him. The sight of that pushes him a little closer to the edge-- flaring even deeper, brighter purple, his erection throbbing hard against the constraint of the suit and making the muscles of his thighs stretch, parting his legs uncontrollably for her.
If he's not yet as far gone as he might have expected, perhaps it is only fear holding him back. For, deep down, there is a part of him that does fear her. Even though she is small compared to his towering figure; even though in the official chain of command she is far below him; even though he holds countless advantages over her, in the form of secrets about her past and her life that she will never know.
None of that lessens her powers... the things she can do with the energy of others, the destruction she can wreak (and has, more than once, without understanding or knowing how to control it). They are fearsome abilities; they frighten her too, and with good reason. He would be foolish not to feel some fear. Especially when she is going to make him utterly helpless, before falling into a rhythm of touch and closeness with him that is going to strain her own self-control.
But he wants it, still... oh, how much he wants it. The fear, itself, is part of what he craves. As is the helplessness.
He asks for this, for her to command him... because the part of him that yearns to submit is restless when not dominated, and yet is overwhelmed to the point of panic when dominated by the MCP.
Mayertis is the perfect level of command to permit Sark a true surrender to pleasure. She is power, but also safety. He knows she does not want to harm him-- would never, ever want him harmed-- would do near-anything to protect him from harm.
And that counts for something, with her self-control. He can trust her... at least, far more than he can trust anyone else he knows.
"I know you tried to touch yourself," she says as she crouches over him, wrapping arms around him just enough to force his hands behind his back and into the coils of the energy restraints. "Earlier, in the corridor behind the bridge. You know I told you not to."
"It was wrong of me," he breathes, arching his body up beneath her, trying and failing to press himself against her thigh as she works. "I am sorry. I lost control of myself." He knows how wrong it was; how dangerous. He could so easily have been caught-- almost was, which was the only reason he managed to stop. And worse would have happened to him if he'd been caught; far worse than if he'd only been seen with his circuits aroused. "It wasn't a safe place. I should have come here, to you."
"Yes. To me. I had not given you permission to relieve it in any other way."
He gasps as the energy rope tightens on his wrists. "Yes, Mistress."
"Good. Good boy." She leans close as she secures the final knot behind him, immobilizing both arms. "Call me that again."
"Mistress," he says, savoring the word. "My Mistress Climax Control." He allows half his mouth to curve into a smile up at her.
She bends down low to tie his legs in place, meeting his eyes playfully across the tense expanse of his body. "Yes. I am. Do not forget again."
"Never," he promises.
His legs now bound, she brings out a long swathe of thick black fabric... which she drapes around his neck and then across his face, making him close his teeth on it. Not quite a gag, since he can let go of it any time. But he won't, because he knows he needs it to muffle the sounds he'll make. They both know how fragile his self-control is right now, and how nearby the listening devices are.
"Now remember." She presses a finger against his mouth as it strains around the cloth. "Quiet."
He nods.
Without lowering his eyes he knows her hand is near where he needs it-- he can feel the power she exerts on him, on the leathery material of his armor-- causing the restrictive layer of outer shell to break up into fragments and fall away, just the part that covers him there....
He waits for her touch. Eyes closed now, the sensation is just too overwhelming, just the coolness of simulated air in minuscule currents against him as he curves up hard and thick and needy, balls tightening, cockhead already smeared with the overflow of energy leaking off as pre-ejaculate, sensitizing him to absolutely everything--
He waits. Too long. Trembles vibrate through him, everywhere, on and on, endless, building. He knows her hand is still hovering right there but she's not touching him--
Is she trying to see if he will climax just from thinking about her touch? The idea sends a shockwave of desire through him, whole body arching, spikes of pleasure darting up his shaft and for a few picocyles he thinks it's actually about to happen that way--
But no, still he trembles on the edge, unable to throw himself over it. His groan of frustration disappears into the mouthful of fabric.
Then his body jolts again, even harder, even more suddenly, a new lightning-strike of pleasure, feeling the response before any kind of awareness of what caused it---
... and then the answer, in near-incoherent flashes of sensation: Her hand has brushed, just lightly, against his identification-circuit. Just a graze of a fingertip, on the left upper edge of the great V-shape that he knows must now be reverberating all shades of purple, in an obscene animated arrow toward where he's about to beg her for a firmer, faster caress.
And she does the same, again, and again, and again. The tease goes on, nanocycle after nanocycle. Enough of a respite to let him catch his breath and recede just slightly from the cliff-edge... and then, a single, sudden, barely-there touch. On the bottom tip of the V at his forehead. On the end-node of one of the circuit lines radiating from his disk dock. On a random spot in the dense, sensitized maze of circuitry on his right shoulder. Tormenting brush of fingertips, every time against a new, unexpectedly responsive place...
After only moments of this, his whole body is heaving and twisting with uncontrolled lust, head thrashing side to side, groaning frantic frustration into the cloth even as his teeth try to bite right through it.
"You want me to allow you release, don't you?" she says-- and this time her mouth provides the shock of barely-contact, exhaling just enough breath with the words for him to feel it against the side of his face. "Oh, good boy. So needy. You're so very close, aren't you. I'm sure that if I go on like this, I could push you over the edge without ever touching you there."
He sobs so loudly that it's barely muffled-- thinks of spitting out the fabric to beg out loud, but knowing he'd make far too much noise at this point, he's utterly unable to control himself--
And then her fingers splay, warm and strong, across his lower abdomen, covering half of the sensitively flushing V of circuitry, making him scream into the cloth and buck upwards with all his strength in a futile bid to drive his erection upward to where her hand is--
She's doing something, something with her power-- he can feel something dominating that circuit, taking control of it-- oh please oh no oh yes--
Then, with a single fluid motion, grasping, cupping-- her hands finally, finally take hold of him where he needs.
And in the hazy, sparkling blur of pleasure, he becomes aware of what she just did to him, how she just used her energy-controlling power.
Because the thrusts he cannot help making-- the driving of his whole lower body into her grasp by absolutely all his physical strength-- is still not enough. It slides and tingles and burns and makes waves and waves of hot ecstasy shiver across his skin but it's not enough. He was trembling on the very, very edge-- he was about to come all over her, the very picocycle her hand closed around him, but now suddenly she's right there, hands hot and tight and pressing, cupping his balls and stroking him firm and fast, again and again, and now it's not enough...
She drained him. She took just enough of his body's energy to stop it from overflowing in that way-- just so she could touch him, play with him, for a bit longer--
--but not much longer, it can't be much longer, he still needs release so urgently he can't believe it, he's still just one thrust away... or at least he thinks so after each thrust, and yet they go on and on, again, again, again...
"You want to come?" she murmurs, voice vibrating low and hot.
He groans frantic affirmation, muffled by fabric but he knows she understands him.
She strokes up and down, again, again, more-- her motions now sliding wet with his leaking need-- tightens her grip as she reaches the head, each time, then eases pressure and increases speed as she pulls back down against the other hand that's gently compressing his balls in rhythm with the strokes--
"So you promise you'll be good, then? You won't be disobedient, like you were today. You'll do what I tell you to do."
She does something with energy, again. Allows him to feel just a faint tremor, a hint of the building tingle of overload-- a promise conditional upon his.
His voice rips raw through his throat, with how hard he screams his cloth-stifled yes.
And then he feels her mouth on him-- wet, flexible, lips and tongue caressing him under the head and cheeks pulling him in and sucking hard--
He becomes one electrified arch of pulsing need, as she makes him release. His climax is utterly uncontrolled, wave after wave of fluid bursting hot and slick up his shaft and into the tight mouth around him and then, wave after wave of it, down her throat-- absorbed greedily in Mayertis's very favorite way to drain a program's energy.
She keeps sucking and stroking for a long while after she drinks the last drops from him. Long after the jolts of pleasure fade to exhausted twitches. Long enough that stimulation becomes overstimulation, making him shiver in forced aftershocks that quickly become too much and he whimpers, conflicted, part of him ready to beg her to stop, and part of him happy to just keep taking the delicious punishment.
But slowly she makes the decision for him, pulling her mouth off his sated flesh, licking swollen lips as she brings her face close to his, allowing him finally to feel her full-body embrace, each touch of it magnified in his afterglow.
The cloth slips from his mouth, his whole body finally giving in to blessed relaxation as he moans in relief.
"Oh, my User..."
Face flushed, mouth still smelling and feeling like his emission, Mayertis leans in toward his neck and bites him. Not as gently as usual, not quite as hard as he wants.
"You know I don't like you calling out for others when you're with me."
Sark considers attempting some explanation... about how calling out to a User isn't the same... about how she wouldn't understand, because she's never had the experience of communing with a User of her own...
But, no, no, that would just be cruel. Drawing attention to her orphaned status, to the wrecked and lonely thing with no memories, whom he rescued and took in as his assistant, cycles ago... and whom he gradually grew to trust with all this.
...And it would be an evasion, as well... because the truth is that he was never crying out for 00-Dillinger anyway.
Which, though it makes him ache to the depths of his core, he can never tell Mayertis. There is no knowing what might happen to her already-vulnerable mind-- with all its uncontrolled power-- if she were ever to learn the truth that she is a User.
His User.
Far more than the other... the one who wrote him, abandoned him, and now no longer calls to him anymore.
So Sark only gives her a contrite, submissive look... then glances up to watch the fire in her eyes.
Perhaps she'll punish him for this, too.
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*****
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Fanworks: Fics: Tron: Who Commands the Commander?
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