Orbital Station "Leviathan," Titan Orbit

  Her office was her fortress. Not just a workspace—it was a throne room without a throne. Every detail, from floor to ceiling, broadcasts one simple message: power. But not hers—Livia owned nothing, not even her body. This was Leonard Graves’ power, meticulously embedded in every centimeter, a constant reminder.

  The walls—sleek, near-mirror black polymer with a liquid-metal sheen. Run a finger across, and it feels alive, a ripple of micro vibrations crafting the illusion of breath. Intentional—Graves loved subtle psychological games. The walls pressed in, a cage for visitors. For Livia, it was a cocoon, tailored to her taste.

  The floor—dark metal with holographic underlighting that flared under footsteps. Each stride of Livia’s was an act of dominion; the floor answered with a glow, as if bowing.

  Furniture—minimalism honed to an absolute. Her desk, a matte black slab, looked carved by a molecular laser from an elite cruiser’s hull. No visible controls—the interface was woven into the surface, syncing to her touch. Sitting there felt like commanding that cruiser, but with a sheen of luxury.

  Her chair—a masterpiece of carbon composite and polymer leather, molding to her form. Custom-made, accounting for her cybernetic quirks. Every seam, every curve matched her spine and shoulders. Hidden in the armrests were medical injectors tied to her implants—one tap, and a dose of stimulants or painkillers flowed into her blood, keyed to her condition.

  Personal items—almost none. Livia didn’t hoard memories; she didn’t need them. The lone outlier in the sterile order: a tiny silver figurine of Nemesis, goddess of retribution, perched on the desk’s edge. Her private joke. Nemesis was vengeance—and Livia saw herself as its embodiment.

  The window—massive, wall-spanning, overlooking the docking port where ships arrived and cargo from outer systems was processed. Docks, cranes—she watched them when she thought, their rhythm, a pulse of life she controlled. Most found it dull; to her, it was a metronome of dominion.

  Lighting—near-darkness, just thin lines of subtle glow tracing walls and floor. Perfect for her taste—she loved a space that felt like a stage before the lead steps on.

  Behind one wall, a hidden door. A small room—not an office, but a recovery chamber. A shower, a bath like a pool, a medical bed where she could jack into a monitoring system syncing with her implants, tweaking her body’s chemistry. On a shelf: syringes of exotic drugs, some banned even on the black market. For Livia, bans didn’t exist.

  Wardrobe—tucked in a wall segment, a gallery of her personas. Livia didn’t just dress; she donned characters for her roles. A severe corporate gown for formal meetings. Provocative, near-sinful outfits for “personal visits” to Graves. A black jumpsuit—her working skin—for reviewing feeds, issuing orders, and breaking people remotely.

  Scent—faint, elusive, a mix of chemicals and high-end perfume. Her signature. Even after she left, it lingered, making every entrant feel her presence.

  The cyber-system of her quarters tied to her biosignature—the office linked directly to her implants. Doors wouldn’t budge without her say-so. Walls jammed any signal lacking her code. Security keyed to her pulse, neural activity, breath. Breach it without her, and the room would switch to chemical purge. Nothing living would remain.

  The ideology of the space wasn’t just an office. It was a symbol of Livia Cross. She didn’t belong to herself. This room reminded her she was a tool—but a tool with a viper coiled inside, ready to strike even a nonexistent god if needed.

  She shed her slim business jacket, left in sheer, clinging underwear, and sank into the chair. The light dimmed to near-nothing, only a faint blue glow from her terminal’s sensors. Before her—a flat panel, pristine, reflecting her face, achingly perfect. Fake perfection. Sublimated beauty sculpted by surgeons at Graves’ command. Every line, every curve functional. Even her chest—less for pleasure, more for power, for seizing attention.

  Livia knew she was broken. But in that breakage lay a perverse harmony—like a shattered bowl, each shard artfully placed in the ruin. She’d always known normal life wasn’t her path, nor did she want it. Her existence was a chain of flawless commands—and the thrill buried in the ones no one dared voice. Power. Control. The total dissolution of another’s will into hers.

  So she awaited this recording with the hunger of an addict craving their first hit.

  Ksenia Harrison. That bitch was the perfect prey. Not because she was weak—quite the opposite. Livia despised strong women. Not the kind Graves trained her to be—sharp, calculated, efficient. No, Harrison was real—strength born not of fear or programming, but an inner certainty she was right. Harrison stood tall, eyes forward, never hiding behind others.

  Livia hated her for it.

  And wanted her. To the grind of teeth, sleepless nights, fingers slipping between her thighs imagining that perfect wretch crawling to her—torn, humiliated, begging for mercy.

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  She brushed the sensor with her fingertips—the recording flared to life. The screen split open like a window to hell. Livia smiled.

  First scene: a tactical cam caught Harrison and her team entering a hangar. Still brimming with force, coiled tight in professional steel, the Major moved fast and sharp. Livia knew that style—she’d devoured dozens of Legion of the Heavens training feeds like porn. She relished watching that muscled female frame, fantasizing how this unbreakable doll-faced beast would buckle under a will she couldn’t bend.

  First shots. Dust, screams, wounded. The cam showed Harrison dragging a teammate to cover. Livia snapped her fingers, paused it. Leaned in. Ran her tongue over her lips.

  “Too good,” she whispered to the screen. “Too straight, too honest, too proud.”

  The footage rolled on. Harrison lost her footing—a machine-gun burst snapped her exosuit across the hips. Bone cracked, fabric tore—blood sprayed. Livia slid her hand under her underwear. Slow strokes over velvet skin, fingers dipping lower.

  “There it is…” Barely audible.

  Harrison faltered, her body a survival machine—but even machines break. Something in Livia snapped loose. Teeth sank into her lip as her fingers slid deeper, into heat. She knew this ritual. She’d done it hundreds of times. But never with such a prize on display.

  She sped up the feed, cherry-picking pain. Harrison slammed into a bulkhead from a blow. A mutant hauled her by the helmet—a hulking thing of flesh, metal, and primal hate.

  Livia arched in her chair, nails nearly cracking the panel’s edge, legs splayed, fingers plunging into her core. This was it. The moment worth living for. When the unyielding elite became nothing. When a war goddess turned to helpless meat. In that instant, no one mattered more than this woman—broken, degraded, powerless. Her doll face, smashed, bloodied, tears streaking her lashes, became Livia’s ultimate ecstasy.

  She recalled every second her masters had shown her her place—in shadows, on her knees, awash in blood and cum. Her self-loathing and rapture always danced together. And now they did again—under the camera’s gaze, catching every tick of Ksenia’s agony.

  “Break, you filth,” Livia breathes, her fingers moving faster, her body thrashing in the chair.

  The flashes on the screen aren’t just gunfire—they’re her waves of nirvana, each one ripping through her like the howl of a wounded beast. She switches to slow playback—determined to miss nothing.

  The mutant looms over Harrison’s face—lips wet with saliva and blood gleam, breath fogging the visor. Massive fingers, studded with implants, clamp around her helmet, squeezing until the material cracks. Livia chokes, biting her lip hard enough to leave marks. Her free hand grips her nipple, twisting slightly—the jolt of pain spikes her slickness.

  “Break her,” she exhales.

  The footage shows Ksenia jerking, her body spasming in futile resistance. The exosuit digs into her muscles with stims, but her strength is gone. Livia leans closer, nearly pressing her chest to the desk. Her fingers don’t stop, sliding faster, deeper. She hikes a leg onto the armrest, plunging into both pulsing holes.

  “That’s it, my doll,” she whispers, voice quivering with strain. “Like that… till your pride’s bled dry.”

  Ksenia’s blood streaks the floor in long crimson trails. Livia watches, mesmerized, like it’s art. She recalls lying on a surgical table herself, when Graves first ordered her body “refined.” She’d wept then. Now, she laughs.

  When the mutant hurls Harrison onto an operating table, Livia nearly climaxes but holds back—not yet. She bites her finger, every muscle taut, stretching her rear near to pain. Her perfect hand abandons her nipple, joining the frenzy below, circling her clit.

  As manipulators slice into Harrison’s legs, Livia can’t hold on. Her body convulses, fingers clawing the chair, nails raking her thighs. She cries—not from pain or shame, but raw pleasure.

  The disassembly begins—piece by piece, severed legs, blood, exposed joints, droplets pooling. Livia dissolves completely, her hips bucking in sync with the blades carving Harrison’s flesh, swallowing her fingers deeper.

  She comes to the recording like it’s a personal triumph. She’s won. She ground Harrison to dust, made her a prop in her private theater—where every woman stronger than Livia gets crushed to nothing.

  “You thought you’d get away with it?” she taunts the screen, as if Ksenia is alive. “Thought you were the peak, the elite, a war goddess? You’re meat. A resource. A trophy. Mine.”

  She skips to the finale—surgical dissection. Blades split the chest, cables burrow into flesh. Livia speeds it up, chasing pure suffering.

  Her fingers dig deeper, motions rougher, breath ragged and deep. Perfect teeth sink into her shoulder. She trembles. When a manipulator lifts Harrison’s leg stump, Livia lets go—her body arches, legs cramping, spine slamming into the chair’s padding.

  “There… Yes!…” she sobs.

  Onscreen, Harrison teeters between life and death, barely human, a blank for some corporate experiment. Livia shudders through her fiercest orgasm yet, her unnatural eyes fluttering with ecstasy’s aftershocks. Nails scrape her slick inner thighs, a trickle of fluid weaving past her pulsing rear.

  Her raging body takes minutes to settle—sensations this sharp were new. She’d always needed more to hit that peak; Ksenia Harrison hooked her differently. Now little else could grip her rewired mind—save her master’s orders, of course.

  Livia leans to the screen, tracing a finger over the bloodied face.

  “So beautiful… so helpless…”

  A fleeting thought sparks, swelling into a goal—to claim this toy for herself.

  “I should help you.”

  She kills the feed. Activates the chair’s auto-sanitization. Wiping bio-traces is routine.

  Cold and flawless, she stares at her reflection in the desk’s black panel. Livia straightens, hand drifting down, fingers brushing her soaked core, tasting herself. Her face—perfectly calm. Only her eyes still burn, a plan already churning.

  She rises. Heads to the shower, leaving silence behind—as if nothing happened.