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Heat Management

Anita Landvik adjusts her lapels and surveys her rescuers with mild disdain. “You’re with Grummond Planetary Extraction? Really? You’re who they sent?”

“You look pretty shabby yourself,” the lanky, unshaven man near the cave entrance fires back.

Anita scoffs, tugging at her ripped tights. “I have the excuse that I’ve been hiding in an even dustier cave than usual for a week. I’d be interested to hear yours.”

The cheerful redheaded brick of a man guffaws loudly. “Good one! She really told you, huh, Fusilier?” He turns back in Anita’s direction. “But let’s continue the banter in our mechs, huh? Troubadour said that radio signal you sent us was real fuckin’ traceable! So they’re probably on their way already.”

Anita grimaces, glancing back at her positively ramshackle transmitter. “I can hardly be blamed for cutting some corners, given the circumstances.”

The calm woman with the garish purple skinsuit just grunts, in the “It is what it is” sort of way Anita has already become used to from mech pilots. “Let’s go,” she agrees, quietly, and turns on her heel. Well, she may dress like an eggplant, but she’s sensible. No nonsense. Anita’s scorn lessens, and she follows the one with the initiative.

Outside, Anita gazes up at the alarmingly colorful trio of war machines and sneers. “No camouflage? You stick out like a sore thumb!”

“That’d matter more if your boys could hit the broad side of a barn,” deadpans the disheveled man. ‘Fusilier,’ apparently. Probably a call sign, nobody’d go by that by choice, Anita thinks.

“Not my boys anymore,” she corrects, pouting. “If that was ever an appropriate descriptor.”

“Yeah, yeah, whatever. Who do you want to ride with?” asks the meathead, already clambering into the white-and-orange mech.

Anita eyes that one critically. “Is that lance your only weapon? You fight up close?”

“That’s right!” he brays proudly. “I like to get real personal with it.”

Anita grimaces. “Well, I don’t. Not you, then.” She rolls her eyes. “As if I could even fit in the cockpit with you already inside.” What’s the point of all that muscle if your machine does all the heavy lifting? she wonders to herself.

The second mech, done up in pale red, is as spindly as its pilot. All sharp angles and exposed hydraulics. Anita shivers, imagining an FSD superheated slug round penetrating straight through its flimsy armor and right into her round tummy. “Not your fragile little tin can either.”

Finally, her eyes find the third mech. “Now we’re talking,” Anita breathes. A veritable mountain of thick, chunky armor plating. Purple and pink armor plating, but beggars only get so much in the way of choice. “I’ll ride with you, Miss...?”

“Raconteur,“ the eggplant woman brusquely replies.

“You sure?” smirks Fusilier, from inside his still-open cockpit. “Josie’s cockpit can get a little... hot. You know. From all those heavy energy weapons she’s packing.”

Why did he say that like it was an innuendo? Anita shoots him a withering look. “May I direct your attention to the hellhole desert planet I’ve spent the last 9 years of my life on. I can handle a little heat.”

“Suit yourself,” Fusilier grimly concedes with a shrug, closing his cockpit.

Anita rolls her eyes. Mech pilots. Weirdos, every last one. Maybe Fusilier is some kind of pervert who’d enjoy having a woman all cooped up in his cockpit with him. Now she’s really glad she picked the big armored behemoth festooned with lasers instead.

Having sacrificed her dignity scrambling up into Raconteur’s cockpit, though, Anita is now starting to see some of the downsides. When closed, the cockpit is just slightly too short for Anita to sit upright. So she’s awkwardly hunched over in the back. Raconteur herself straddles a central padded seat and lies on her front, head and hands buried in the controls up front, one foot basically in Anita’s lap.

Anita consoles herself with the thought that these cramped quarters mean more material between herself and the kind of death traitors get.

It almost helps.

“I’m Dragoon, by the way! Or you can call me Fergus if you rather,” the musclebeast cheerfully announces in Anita’s ear. On her insistence, the trio had given her a spare headset so she could tune into the cockpit chatter, but only on the condition that she mute the mic and keep comms clear when battle was joined. The way they talked about it made it sound like an inevitability. Great.

“Nice to meet you,” Anita replies, in a tone that makes it clear “nice” is an overstatement. “Let’s get moving already.”

As if responding to her words, Raconteur’s mech thrums to life. Anita jolts at the sudden vibration, bumping her head on the ceiling as the entire cockpit rocks from side to side. If she tilts her head, she can just barely make out what’s in front of them past the arch of Raconteur’s back. She hears the staticky hiss of the comm channel changing.

“Raconteur here,” Raconteur announces lazily into the mic. “I have the package. Moving to rendezvous point now with Fusilier and Dragoon.”

“I’m not a package,” Anita sulks.

“VIP, then,” Raconteur corrects herself.

“Better.”

“Miss Landvik, I presume? Good afternoon.” It’s a crisp, clipped male voice. “Roger that, Raconteur. All clear on this end. No sign of hostiles.”

“Good afternoon,” Anita replies sullenly. “Which one are you?”

“Troubadour, ma’am.”

“Ah, yeah, they mentioned you. I hear you don’t think too highly of my improvised transmitter.”

More unfamiliar voices, laughing. Troubadour, or she thinks it’s Troubadour, also chuckles. “Not at all, ma’am. Your signal strength was remarkable given the circumstances.“

“That’s what I said! I think I managed rather well, for making it in a cave with a box of scraps.”

“Unfortunately, that also makes the transmission easy to intercept,” a cool female voice chimes in. “I’m Suzerain. Let me make sure I understand what’s happening. You actually willingly got in Raconteur’s cockpit?”

“I did try to warn her,” Fusilier pipes up.

“Again. I have lived on this planet for nine years. I can handle a little heat if it means getting the fuck off this rock,” Anita grumbles.

More laughter.

“What’s so funny?”

“Hoo boy. It’s more than a little heat,” says another male voice.

“Yeah, you’d know, wouldn't you?” Dragoon cackles.

“Easy, boys,” rumbles an even deeper voice than Dragoon’s. “I got something on scanners.”

“Shit, me too,” Fusilier muses. “No visual yet, but we got bogies on our twelve, retrieval team. And one. Oh, and ten. More coming ten.”

Something in the mech’s guts spools up with a whine, redoubling the vibration against Anita’s back. “Oof,” she mumbles. “Bumpy ride.”

“It’s about to get bumpier. Clear comms, please,” Troubadour calmly replies. “Retrieval squad, you’re clear to engage. Deploying recon drone.”

“Okay, now how do I mute this thing...?”

“Small button on the top,” Suzerain curtly replies.

Anita’s fingers fumble with the earpiece. “On the top? Where... Never mind. I can’t find it. I’ll just stay quiet.”

There’s a faint hiss from above, and Raconteur convulses briefly. “Juicing,” she gasps. “Aaahhhh...”

Ah. That’s what they were trying to warn Anita about. Raconteur is a stimhound.

At least, that’s what they called them in the FSD. The pilots who drugged themselves for better reflexes came back from their missions simultaneously wired and exhausted. Usually also filled with bottomless aggression. But still, the worst thing any of them ever did near Anita was punch a wall. All that accomplished was hurting his own hand. Okay, and maybe startling Anita a little.

Compared to her old boss, that pilot was a saint.

“I have a visual,” Fusilier announces in her ear, followed by the muffled whump! of a colossal gun firing. Moments later, a distant explosion. “Got one.”

Raconteur’s cockpit shudders as she pushes the throttle wide open. Anita’s stomach lurches at the sudden acceleration. “Let me at ‘em, let me at ‘em,” Raconteur whines.

All fairly standard stuff, so far, for a stimhound. Anita braces herself against the back of Raconteur’s saddle seat. She can definitely feel the cockpit heating up now. Moments later, the rhythmic kak-kak-ktak-ktak of rapid lasers resounds outside.

Raconteur cackles and... moans? Arching her back, she twists against her seat. Anita realizes only now that looking forwards in this position means she’s staring right at Raconteur’s shapely ass. The combat chatter in her ear fades into the background as she tries not to notice how the shiny material of Raconteur’s bodysuit clings so tightly to her body’s contours, both there and further down...

Anita hurriedly turns her head away, pouting primly. A glimpse of Raconteur’s throbbing hard-on, so evident even through her suit, was more than enough. Good grief, she doesn’t need to be reminded how long she’s gone without any sort of action at all. It’s been so long since she had the energy for it, with how demanding her old job was. And this is hardly the time nor the place to be thinking these kinds of things!

Raconteur makes another shivery, desperate sound as another FSD mech outside explodes, and Anita grits her teeth against the quivering in her loins. Okay, so that wasn’t a fluke. Still. It’s an involuntary reaction to the drugs, judging by how quickly it started happening, she shouldn’t...

She shouldn’t start crawling around the side to try and get a look at Raconteur’s face, either, but she’s sure doing that, isn’t she.

Raconteur’s face is an unhealthy shade of red and beaded with sweat. She’s grinning maniacally as she melts foe after foe into slag. Anita swallows as Raconteur convulses again. That... doesn’t look good. The only time she’s seen a face like that was on a stimhound that overdosed and came back dead. Baked alive in his protective suit. That smile was his death rictus.

Anita debates breaking her silence for a moment. On the one hand, they did tell her to keep the comms clear. On the other, if the pilot carrying her croaks at the controls, she’s unequivocally fucked. “Hey!” she barks. “Raconteur doesn’t look too good.”

“On the contrary,” Raconteur whimpers. “I’ve never felt more alive!”

“Yeah, this is normal,” the deep voice from before replies. A chorus of affirmatives from the rest of the squad.

“I don’t think you’d be saying that if you were right here next to her.” Anita stretches out her arm to touch Raconteur’s forehead, flinching as even the briefest contact incurs a low throaty moan. “She’s burning up!”

“That’s normal.” Fusilier retorts. “Can I get quiet please?” Whump! Boom!

Anita scoffs. Fine! If the callous bastards won’t look after their teammate, she’ll just have to do it herself. She tilts her head. Peering down at Raconteur’s chest (her wobbly, heaving chest), Anita locates the pilot’s suit zipper. Her hand darts in, and she tugs it down. A little too forcefully. Raconteur’s breasts spill out. But now she has some ventilation, at least.

Raconteur cackles. “Hey there, miss VIP~,” she hums. “Aren’t you forward.”

There’s some salacious chatter over the channel at that, but Troubadour quells it again. Anita tunes it out, drawing the zipper down further while fanning air at Raconteur with her other hand. Raconteur giggles. “Thanks, miss. That does help.” She says it liltingly, but Anita chooses to take her words at face value.

All of a sudden, while Anita’s still gripping Raconteur’s zipper, there’s a massive clunk and the cockpit tips backward. Anita slides down the sudden incline, colliding roughly with the back wall. As she slides, she drags the zipper with her, opening Raconteur’s suit up all the way. Raconteur moans. Hot, runny fluid rolls down the back of Anita’s hand. She withdraws it, shivering, and tries her best to brace herself.

It’s no good. Another stupendous impact, and Anita slides back level with Raconteur again. But this time she’s on her back, staring up. So she gets a great view of Raconteur’s cock, dangling slickly below her. Good grief! She’s a dripping mess down there!

Well, Anita can no longer rationalize Raconteur’s behavior as anything other than getting off on it. She makes a face and wipes her hand clean on her skirt. The poor garment was already beyond saving anyway. She turns her attention to the front instead, just in time for Raconteur to toss her a self-satisfied smirk.

“Having fun down there~?”

Anita doesn’t hear her from the commlink, just nearby. She must have muted herself. Anita rolls her eyes. “This is like being in a washing machine,” she hisses, hoping the mic won’t pick it up if she’s quiet.

Raconteur doesn’t answer, just shivers again. Hot liquid dribbles down the side of the saddle onto Anita’s thigh. Anita hisses, cheeks reddening. The cum filtering through her torn tights onto her bare skin is really not helping with the whole “unbidden fantasies” thing.

Raconteur’s laser cannons rattle on. She pants with need each time she gets a kill. After one particularly long bout of firing, Raconteur moans loudly, and Anita feels more semen splatter onto her thigh. “I got a way we could kill two birds with one shot,” the pilot finally pipes up, voice wavering.

Again, Anita doesn’t hear her from the commlink. “What’s that,” she whispers, fighting to keep her voice even.

“Get under me.”

Anita’s face heats up even more. “What?!” she blurts, interrupting some report from Suzerain. Suzerain just sighs and starts over.

Raconteur gives another of those shivery little laughs. “I can hold you steady so you’re not sliding all over the place,” she offers.

“Mmhmmmm,” Anita hisses. “And what’s the other bird.”

Raconteur’s only response is to grind on the saddle, rolling her hips in a way that makes Anita twitch involuntarily. Anita imagines that dick inside her, splitting her open, hot and slippery and throbbing. She feels her own wetness against her hand and realizes she’s hitched up the front of her skirt to touch herself without even thinking about it. She’s already toying with her clit to the idea, and the offer is wide open.

As she’s weighing the options, the cockpit shifts again, rattling her about once more.

Anita exhales, long and low. “Fine,” she whispers. “But we have to keep quiet, you hear me? Not. A. Sound. I will not have your squadmates thinking I am easy. I am normally not.”

“Mmm,” Raconteur grunts, in a way that could be assent. She arches her back, upwards this time, so there’s space for Anita to crawl underneath.

Anita considers her options for a moment, before eventually settling on facedown. That just feels more secure. She sticks her head between Raconteur’s arms, staring forwards at the display. Raconteur’s breasts press into her back, stiff nipples prodding at her shoulder blades. It’s very snug with the both of them stacked vertically - Anita is not a slender woman. But it just barely works.

And of course. Behind Anita, pressing into her ample butt, is Raconteur’s dripping, rigid cock.

Raconteur groans and grinds up against her. “Soft,” she mumbles deliriously. She takes one hand off the controls, causing the mech to veer dangerously to one side. Anita yelps, then claps a hand over her mouth to stifle any further noise as Raconteur uses her now-free hand to tear open Anita’s already-ruined tights and guide that cock right where it belongs. She fumbles with it at the entrance for a bit, dizzying Anita with the teasing, before finally ramming it home in one motion.

Anita desperately hopes the noise this wrenches from her didn’t make it past her hand. Nobody responds to it, at first, and she thinks she’s got away scot free. But then comes Troubadour’s voice, still mild and calm. “Everything okay there, Raconteur?” A lance of mortification pierces Anita’s chest.

Raconteur’s hand is back on the control stick where it belongs. For now, she’s just luxuriating in the warm and clutching depths of the woman beneath her. “Everything’s fine,” she groans. “Hand slid off the control stick. I gotta clean this thing, it’s getting slippery.”

Oh, right, the drunken stumbling from before would’ve been visible from the outside. Anita slumps forward, relieved. She’s hardly been thinking straight. She lets go of her face and exhales.

“Must you go into such gruesome detail?” Suzerain groans. General noises of amusement from the rest of the perverts. Anita idly wonders how many of them Raconteur’s fucked.

But her daydreams are shattered as Raconteur picks that moment to start rutting into her mercilessly. Anita inhales sharply and claps a hand over her mouth again. Her lungs want so badly to whine, to cry out in pleasure, and she has to fight it with all she’s got. It feels so good after so long. She’s so sensitive. Her legs tremble and her clit grinds in a sticky pool of seed, sending electric tingles up her spine. How can she be this close already? She arches her rear, wanting it deeper.

Another thump, boom from outside. “No more hostiles detected,” Fusilier drawls. “We clear, Troubadour?”

A pause, during which Anita utterly fails to control her breathing. Raconteur is fucking the breath right out of her. How she’s able to thrust so vigorously with so little clearance, Anita can’t fathom. “F-” she begins, before clamping down on it harder. Not a sound, she reminds herself. Not a sound. Even when Raconteur cums and Anita feels the delicious bloom of sticky heat within her. She expects Raconteur to stop, but she just keeps going! Anita’s head is spinning.

After a short delay, Troubadour replies. “Wide area scan is turning up nothing. That’s a wrap, people, reconnect with us as quick as you can. Shouldn’t be too long now, Miss Landvik. You holding up okay in there?”

“Yeah,” Anita croaks, through her hand.

“Sorry? Speak up, please?”

“Yeaeeah! I’m good!” Her voice sounds a little too peaky to fully sell that. She grits her teeth. Raconteur is fucking her so hard. It’s starting to chafe a bit, actually. “C-could you s-slow down a little?”

The deep-voiced man chortles. “Real bumpy ride, huh?”

“Oh, I bet it is,” Dragoon leers.

“We’ve - haah - had a bit of turbulence,” Raconteur pants. “But we’re... more than fine now.” Surprisingly (to Anita), she actually complies, dialing it back a bit.

Anita presses her lips tightly shut. Why are they so chatty all of a sudden? A whimper leaks out despite her best efforts. She’s really close. Really close. Her slick is drooling out and mixing with Raconteur’s spilled seed. Her mouth, too, is drooling. Her chin keeps bumping against the seat as Raconteur slams her into it. And the vibration of Raconteur’s mech driving straight into her clit does not help. No wonder the pilot was creaming her suit! This is more powerful than the vibrator Anita managed to smuggle onto the planet ever was, even when it was in its prime. It’s shaking her thoughts apart piece by piece.

“We have visual on retrieval team,” Troubadour is saying, but Anita barely hears him. She can no longer control her breathing. She just has to hope it’s not coming over the mic. All she can do is hope.

Well, she can do one other thing: orgasm. Which she does, violently. She can’t stop herself from making a little squealing whine, but she can muffle it with her hand. With Raconteur’s uninterrupted attention, it lasts for a very long time. Anita thrashes against Raconteur, but even her spasms of climax don’t break the secure pin Raconteur has her in.

Raconteur moans openly as she shoots another load into Anita, and Anita almost reprimands her before realizing that the squadron wouldn’t find that unusual. This is definitely the only reason. It’s not at all because she’s still too scrambled to speak. Still being pounded into jelly.

The pilots are greeting each other now. Anita looks up and sees more new colorful mechs on the cockpit display. When is Raconteur going to stop? How can she chat with her squadron so effortlessly while thrusting like this? She’s barely even breathing hard!

New voices join the conversation. Something about orbital, and LZ, and one of them is a captain apparently. More talking, and then it all goes silent. Anita dimly realizes she’s being spoken to and takes her hand off her mouth. “Sorry? Could you repeat that?”

“Everything okay, Miss Landvik? You sound like you’re out of breath.” It’s the captain, Laredo, speaking.

Anita swallows. “J-just hot, just a little hot in here. I’m fine, I’m fine,” she babbles. Could they hear her? Was she making noise? Oh no. Oh fuck.

“I’m not surprised to hear that,” Captain Laredo replies levelly. “Raconteur, give her some air once you get back on the dropship, you hear me? I imagine she’ll need some time to recover from her ordeal.” Titters from the peanut gallery.

“Yes’m,” Raconteur gasps, shivering above her. “Of course, Captain, ma’am.” She throbs desperately inside Anita.

Anita’s heart sinks. They know. They all know. How do they know? She was so careful.

And Raconteur is still railing her like a fucking metronome. Throughout all of this.

Anita groans, not bothering to disguise the quaver in it.

A gigantic dropship descends from the sky, boxy and tall enough for a mech to stand upright inside its gargantuan hull. The squadron piles on, and the mechs each come to rest in alcoves in the wall.

Jelly-legged and sticky between the thighs, Anita stumbles out of Raconteur’s cockpit. The deep-voiced man and the other unidentified man are there to meet her. The former introduces himself as Bombardier. He has a kind face and is as much of a man-mountain as Dragoon. He offers her his arm to lean on while she regains her bearings. The latter is called Musketeer. He has short brown hair and a more average build - he wouldn’t stick out in a crowd at all. He talks to her with what frankly feels like a strange amount of compassion for a mech pilot, and Anita is not quite able to ascertain why. They both politely pretend they don’t notice the smell of semen clinging to her.

Bombardier lets her borrow the shower in his berth, which is apparently affixed to the box he parks his mech in. Anita gratefully seizes the opportunity. Raconteur previously invited her up to her own room for the same purpose, after she finally extricated herself back in the cockpit, but Anita knows how that’d end.

Maybe later, when her body stops feeling like mush. It was fun, despite the humiliation.

Her clothes are unsalvageable. Bombardier lends her some sweatpants and a hoodie, and though they’re ludicrously long on her, they are the most comfortable thing she’s ever worn, she thinks.

She watches Bombardier and Dragoon play cards and argue good-naturedly about the results. Later, she will have to go to some meetings with the higher-ups on GPE’s space station about the terms of her defection. About the small data drive she brought, full of company secrets, to pay her way with. These talks will probably be very serious and have far-reaching implications for the megacorporation’s operations here. But right now, she laughs along with the big loud men and doesn’t feel a single iota of fear, for the first time in a very long time.