CRASH IMMELMANN IN: OVERTURE REQUIEM PROTOCOL: M.I.L.F!
CRASH IMMELMANN IN: OVERTURE REQUIEM PROTOCOL: M.I.L.F!
Princess Solida's sleek rocketship tore free from Needleglass's atmosphere, and its lone occupant - one Fugitive Space Ranger Crash Immelmann - was in a bit of a mood.
He was glad to be off-planet before General Ironsack's men had a chance to arrest him for perjuring himself before Space Parliament… and for being at least partly responsibility for the army of killer robots assembling on Planet X with the express purpose of extinguishing all human life.
And yet, Planet X was where fate compelled him to go, to rescue his friends and confront the sexy robotic warlord M.I.L.F once and for all. Remembering his ROM-COM training, he was sure that they could meet her under under the right circumstance, he could convince her that her hatred of humanity (and of him in particular) was all due to a terrible misunderstanding. There would be laughter and healing and sex and all would be forgiven - the trouble was, hijinks were always a prelude to any meaningful reconciliation… and there no place in the galaxy where hijinks were deadlier than on Planet X.
"Computer!" Crash barked, trying not to lose his nerve.
"That's not my name, fuckweasel," a disinterested feminine voice grumbled.
Before Princess Solida introduced Crash to the marvel of Balloonian technology that was her ship's computer, the princess had cautioned him that this AI was a little abrasive around strangers. Still, Solida was sure she would warm up to him… eventually. But what had Princess Solida called her…? "Solica? Salacia? Wait, umm… Silica?"
"Crystal! Do we have our hyperspace course locked in for Planet X?"
"Yes, although the journey is going to take foreeeeeverrr," she moaned with a palpable lack of enthusiasm. "I'd suggest hyper-sleep, but my systems are configured for Balloonians? And human physiology is, like, totally gross…"
"Don't fret your pretty little motherboard about it, I'd prefer to stay conscious. This trip could be a human and Balloonian cultural exchange! I’m happy to share some of the galaxy's greatest poems, from the works of T. Space Elliot to verses of my own composi-"
"Oh my god, administering hypersleep protocol," Crystal's voice interrupted, and Crash watched as a robotic armature spring from his chair to jab him with a needle.
"Ow! If you're not a fan of poetry, we do have other options. You know, you've got a lovely voice. With a little imagination, the two of us could enjoy a sensual exploration of-" the last thing Crash remembered was a flurry of jabs and the hiss of gas being pumped into the cockpit.
"Initializing hypersleep awakening protocol upsilon," Crash heard dimly, then felt the sudden strike of a robotic hand across his face. "Hypersleep awakening protocol phi," Crystal's voice sighed, a robotic backhand hitting the other side of his face as a klaxon blared in his ear.
"I'm up!" Crash groaned, feeling as though he had just been smooshed together from fragments of ground Immelmann, then slapped repeatedly by an arm controlled by a very testy AI.
"Greaaaat," Crystal muttered. "Beginning post-hypersleep-awakening bio-analysis." A film of blue light scanned over Crash's body, and he followed its path until it crossed the impression of a cock he was certain was several sizes bigger than what he had always considered ideal for most purposes. What's more, it was harder than plasteel, and proved impossible for his modestly-form-fitting flight suit to conceal.
"Is that… normal?" Crash asked, prodding his oversized member through the suit and wincing at its sensitivity and the accompanying sensation of a scrotum filled with equal parts soda water and magnesium.
"Ew," Crystal said. "Can we just say it's normal and never have you talk to me about your junk again? Anyway, analysis complete, you're, like… fine I guess?"
Chalking this unusual development up to 'hypermorning wood', Crash adjusted himself as best he could and checked the view screen. They orbited a planet with a hauntingly earth-like atmosphere, whorls of white clouds above green and beige landmasses in a blue ocean. "Where are we?"
"Nega-space, in orbit around Planet X," Crystal reported, adding, "Duh."
"How long was I out?"
"It is presently the third phase of the fourth fusion." When Crash's brow scrunched in a cro-magnon fashion, Crystal sighed. "Or by your stupid Earth calendar, June twenty-first," and she put a very uncharitable spin on the pronunciation.
"That's the day before my birthday!" Crash exclaimed, then pursed his lips and stared out into the cosmos in the direction he thought Earth might be. "But it looks like the good people of Heartland, Iowa will have to manage Crash Immelmann day on their own this year."
"Ignoring that you're the kind of assturtle who makes a big deal out of his own birthday… do you think they're gonna be celebrating you when you're, like, wanted for treason or something?"
Crash flinched at the thought, turning his gaze back to Planet X. "Crystal, I swear to you and to the people of Earth that I will stop M.I.L.F and restore my good name! Take us down!"
Crash heard Crystal's processors chitter in response, the AI finally giving an exasperated, "Where, dumb-dumb? There's, like… an entire planet down there!"
"Those are details we can figure out en-route! Also, if you have a stealth system you wouldn't mind activating…"
"Scanning for 'whatever'," Crystal sighed, the distinctive thrum of a cloaking system filling the cabin. The ship dipped into the atmosphere and began rocketing toward a sprawling archipelago. "Some stuff's happening down there. Like, could be robot shit or whatever."
Crash checked his blaster, then adjusted the holster around his undiminished erection - if Collette were here, she'd know what to do about this! She might even favor him with a 'sexy' means of resolution if he caught her on a good day. "Crystal, can I amend my earlier vow with a promise to rescue Collette and-"
"Oh my god, I so do not care! Check the monitors, there's all that weird shit I was picking up."
The ship slowed, and Crash watched the main monitor as Crystal cycled through her exterior cameras. They were hovering above a quaint town park decorated with banners and colorful balloons. It bore an eerie similarity to his own hometown, and from what he could see, its denizens appeared to be human.
"We didn't pass through a wormhole and enter an alternate dimension, did we?" Crash asked.
"What? No, this is Planet X. And I'm pretty sure those are all robo-people."
"I need to go in for a closer look - Collette and A'ria'la could be down there!"
"Sure, but like - if these are M.I.L.F robots, won't you be recognized immediately?"
"I know how to be inconspicuous should a great enough need arise." Producing a comb from his suit pocket, he steadied himself with a deep breath and a promise this would only be temporary. Fighting against his every instinct, Crash pushed the comb through his golden locks, switching his part from left to right. "Your sensors do not betray you, Crystal. The nondescript man inside you is still the same Commander Crash Immel-"
"Initiating surface transport," Crystal announced, and a hatch opened beneath Crash's feet, the pilot's seat tipping forward to encourage his sudden plummet into the branches of a tree beneath them.
Crash spared a stern look of disapproval at the cloaked ship, then shimmied down the tree to the park below. Indeed, this was intended to be a simulacrum of his home town, right down to the 'Heartland, Iowa' sign beneath the bandstand.
But this wasn't the Heartland he knew, and he couldn't recognize a single person among the dozens of people going on walks, enjoying picnics, having an afternoon jog, or just fucking by the fountain. Crash looked again to be sure, surprised by the brazenness of the couple taking up the whole park bench, going at it like there was no tomorrow. Elsewhere, a woman in a light summer dress was bouncing enthusiastically on the hips of a hot-dog vendor while the other customers waited patiently in line. Well, not everyone in line seemed patient, as one woman had her shorts on the ground, her hips straddling the face of the kneeling businesswoman ahead of her.
"I don't remember Heartland being quite this… horny," Crash muttered to himself.
“Everyone's just excited for the festival!" a voice said, and Crash turned to see a lovely woman in yoga pants and a sports top stretching beneath the shade of the tree, her elastic outfit synergizing greatly with her supple curves. She was looking him up and down, taking obvious interest in Crash's own 'excitement' bulging in his flight suit. "You look like you could use some help there!" With a distinctive mechanical whir, she assumed a 'downward facing dog' pose, courteously positioning her shapely ass directly at Crash.
Perhaps it was her curves being a little too geometric, or the slight plasticy look of her smiling face staring at him from between her spread legs. Her eyes seemed larger than they should be and with a glassy sheen, not to mention the obvious seams at her arms, or the whirring sound she made with every movement… and didn't Crystal explicitly tell him that this was a town full of robots? Whatever it was, Crash was beginning to suspect this woman wasn't all she appeared to be.
"What are you waiting for?" she asked, with a wiggle of her hips, and Crash found he was asking himself the same question.
"I would love to take you up on that, but I… have some business to take care of first!" Crash started to walk away, mopping sweat and a few leaves off his brow.
The yoga woman frowned, her glassy eyes narrowing slightly. "Say… do I know you?"
"No, I'm… new in town!"
Still proferring her tantalizing backside even as she became increasingly skeptical, she slowly said, "But… you just said you didn't remember the people of Heartland being so horny…?"
"Yes, you see… that's because I haven't been here before!" Before the yoga bot could tempt or question him any further, Crash stumbled out on to the main lawn, trying to regain his wits. These bots had the keen intellect of M.I.L.F's design, but he knew she could also build robots nigh-indistinguishable from humans - so what were these? And why bother recreating Crash's own home town and populate it with strangers? But as he approached the bandstand at the center of the park, he saw there was in fact someone he knew - his childhood sweetheart, Sally Lou.
Even with her back to him, he would recognize her round and spankable bottom anywhere - although in this case, it was a bit more round and a touch more spankable than he recalled. He was focusing on her tightly fitted and well-worn denim skirt, a few fraying tears giving a window to her tanned skin, a hint of her floral-printed white panties, and a seam just beneath her cheek that he didn't think was there before. But other details were unmistakably Sally Lou: her honey-blonde pigtails beneath a big straw hat, her shirt two sizes too small with its single button fastened just beneath her full, farm-girl breasts, sleeveless to show her slender arms, even if they now had ball-joints at her elbows and wrists.
"A little further on the left!" she called, her voice like freshly creamed butter dripping off a juicy, steaming ear of corn. Again, it wasn't quite how he remembered the real Sally Lou, but he was felt the metaphor still applied. She was directing several townsfolk in raising a banner above the stage, distracted enough that she didn't seem to notice Crash's approach. Drawing close, he was able to hear her machinery whirring with her every enthusiastic movement as she tried to get the banner centered. "Perfect! Right there!" she exclaimed, planting her hands on hips as the banner was finally unfurled, emblazoned with the words:
We Hate Crash Immelmann!
"Fuck off and die..?" Crash muttered, reading the subscript aloud.
"Adding that was my idea!" the Not-Sally-Lou bot said, glancing at him with her big blue eyes. She quirked her strawberry-taffy lips in a cute yet unnervingly suspicious smile as she asked, "Say, do I know you?"
"No, I, umm… I'm…" he found himself captivated by the unconscionably ripe melons before him, his farm-boy heritage informing him the best time to harvest these beauties was right now.
"Stranger, you seem all out of sorts!" she giggled, raising her brow when she saw the prominent bulge in his trousers. "But I think I might be able to help you with that…"
"Can we, ah… go somewhere a bit more private?" Crash asked, seeing the buxom drum majorette of a marching band fixing him with a curious stare, her busty bandmates also beginning to take interest.
"Sure! In fact, I know the perfect place…" taking him by the hand, she lead him out of the park with a saunter whose every whirring step made him want nothing more than to catch the next shift of those plastic cheeks beneath her tight denim. Before he knew it, he was standing before a charming mid-millenium modern, painted a similar shade of yellow to his own home.
Not-Sally-Lou laughed. "Oh no, this is Crash Immelmann's childhood home! I figured right before the celebration we could defile the bed where I took his virginity!"
Crash gave a strangled gasp, almost tripping over the threshold as she pulled him into the house. Crash was just managing to catch his breath when Not-Sally-Lou waved to an imposingly voluptuous woman in the kitchen. The elegantly dressed bombshell was doing an excellent job of filling out her formal white dress with a bust and backside that would have made its antiquated style fashionable in any era. She gingerly leaned over the kitchen island, her visible cleavage jiggling ever so slightly as was put the finishing touches on a sheet cake. "Hey, Mrs. Immelmann!" Not-Sally-Lou called out, further sabotaging Crash's attempts to recover. "This guy and me are gonna fuck in Crash's bed if that's alright with you!"
"Of course!" 'Mrs. Immelmann' called back, carefully finishing a scripted 'Fuck Crash Immelmann Forever' across the cake's elaborately decorated surface of frosted flowers and pearls. "I'll be along as soon as I finish here!" Crash was relieved the dark haired and curvaceous bot bore almost no resemblance to his own dear mother - for one, he would be damned if he had to learn how to spell 'Oedipal'. But when she dipped her frosting-tipped fingers in her mouth, slowly drawing them past her pouty red lips, Crash considered finally taking his therapist's advice of not telling her about every time he got lucky.
"I’m pretty sure this guy's got enough for the both of us!" Not-Sally-Lou called, tugging Crash down the hall and into a bedroom decorated with posters of all of Crash's favorite bands.
Crash spun in place, overcome by a sudden wave of nostalgia. "The Gulags of Neptune? Slop Rocket? All The Vaowueillys? This guy has excellent taste!"
"You're joking, right?" Not-Sally-Lou said with a sneer. "All those bands suck."
"If you're telling me, 'In Space, All Can Hear You Rock' is not a stone-cold classic, then I'm afraid we can't go further than second base."
"Crash liked it, so it sucks," Not-Sally-Lou said definitively, tossing her straw hat to the corner. "So I guess this means I should just leave my clothes on…?"
Of course Crash was bluffing, but he could not admit defeat just yet. "But didn't Crash also like you…?"
Not-Sally-Lou froze, the twin CPU's in her tits chirping while her big blue eyes blinked repeatedly with audible clicks. Crash stepped toward the paralyzed bot, running a hand up her sumptuous thigh to her juicy backside, feeling the oddly smooth texture of her artificial skin. "I'm just saying that maybe everything he liked wasn't all bad," he suggested, giving her round buttock a tender squeeze through the tight denim.
The gesture seemed to bring her around, and she began to shimmy out of her skirt, stammering, "I-I-I just hope I'm there when he founds out we did in his own bed."
"Me… too?" Crash responded, his attempts at quickly undressing stymied by his new endowment - when he finally kicked his flight suit free, he found both himself and Not-Sally-Lou staring at the remarkable organ between them.
"It looks like this is going to be a threesome!" Not-Sally-Lou giggled, pushing Crash back on to the bed, wriggling out of her panties and then gingerly positioning her plastic pussy over his teetering masthead, biting her lip as she braced herself.
Crash predicted the bot's guard would be down while her CPUs were focused on other calculations, and asked as casually as he could, "So what's the deal with this whole… place?"
Not-Sally-Lou dropped her hips with a grinding whir, taking him in slowly. Crash gasped with the bot, enjoying the artificial-yet-unquestionably-five-star feel of her as inch after inch of him disappeared into her now-dripping sex, her plastic body creaking with the strain, her smiling lips parting to release puffs of steam. "Wh-what do you you mean?"
Crash swallowed, trying to determine the most tactful way of posing the question, phrasing it in such a way as to not blow his cover. "I mean, why are there a bunch of robots in a slapdash recreation of my hometown?" Crash winced, amending, "Of h-his hometown?"
Not-Sally-Lou laugh was cut short by a stifled cry as she took him deeper inside her. "Oh s-sugar, wh-what makes you think there a-are any ro-ro-robots here?" Just as their hips were about to touch, Crash felt his tip bump against something elastic inside her, halting Not-Sally-Lou's descent. She seemed confused, giving a few furtive pushes that only seemed to strain whatever barrier Crash's deep-core cock had struck. Finally, the bot rose back up along his now well-lubricated shaft as her machinery emitted an anticipatory hum. She made a slight adjustment with her hips, and then plunged forcefully down with the full weight of her robotic body.
Crash felt his tip punch through the cock-blocking membrane inside her, then ram into a warm and decidedly un-vaginal component that he suspected was not meant for genital contact. Not-Sally-Lou seized up, stammering in a voice that was less buttery corn kernels and more CPU Core Kernel, "Error! In-internal breach, a-avoid f-further stimulation!"
Crash slipped his hands over her round backside, feeling the other twin CPUs of her system heating up through the smooth rubbery plastic. "I think we can drop the charade - why did M.I.L.F build all of you? What's she planning?"
"C-C-C-Crash!" Not-Sally-Lou buzzed, her big blue eyes blazing with light, her ass feeling warmer and softer in his grip, warning lights flashing across the surface of her tanned cleavage, the vibrant pink of her nipples suddenly visible through the soft white of her crop top. With an urgency he had no felt since the real Sally-Lou was straddling him in his actual bedroom, Crash knew he was about to climax. He tried to focus on how this Sally-Lou was just soft plastic and wiring, that the real Sally-Lou didn't make electrical popping sounds and put out smoke from her ears before she came, and was far less likely to explode afterward - but if anything, focusing on these distinctions only quickened the inevitable. With a strangled cry, Crash felt his whole body release inside the trembling bot in volumes that could have extinguished a mid-sized kitchen fire, his swollen member pumping and pumping until he was certain he would be left nothing more than a sexually satisfied dessicated husk.
The effect of this volcanic surge on Not-Sally-Lou was surprisingly subtle at first, just a few light twitches and a vacuous, toothy smile. But soon, Crash could see boths breast glowing with a peach light, the vaguely oblong silhouette of each tit's CPU visible within. Her backside shone with a similar light, her cheeks growing warmer against his palms. Her plastic body creaked and groaned, her tits pushing against her still-buttoned crop-top until it burst open, liquid spurting from her nipples as she gave a sharp squeal. He could feel a sudden bite of electricity from whatever internal component he had just drenched, and with a quivering high-pitched gasp of surprise, Not-Sally-Lou's pigtailed head exploded into pieces of plastic and silicon. Her body was rocked by a subsequent chain of detonations, scattering plastic and electronics all over the fake bedroom until the bed was surrounded by a ring of robotic detritus, and Crash was left holding a portion of her hips and torso on his still engorged manhood.
Crash drew a chain of sharp breaths as he tenderly pulled the leaking, smoking chunk of Not-Sally-Lou free. That hadn't exactly gone to plan, but perhaps he could have more success with his… his NOT-mother. "I cannot stress enough how NOT my mom she is," he said to the largest contiguous piece of not-Sally-Lou who only gave a slight whirring in response. Crash grabbed his flight suit from the floor, shaking off bits of smoldering bot and trying to wrestle them over his overly excited organ. "Maybe," he said to himself, "maybe I can get what I need without all the sex stuff. In fact, it'll probably work better if in this case if we don't-"
Crash heard the door open, and he looked over his shoulder to see the gorgeously proportioned not-Mrs-Immelmann in lacy lingerie, her garters and straps creased in the seams of her legs, her sumptuous tits each topped with flowers of frosting.
"I hope you saved some for me," she purred, and Crash wondered if it might be easier just sign the entirety of his Space Ranger's pension over to his therapist.
What nefarious design requires a twisted replica of Heartland, Iowa on the surface of Planet X? If his giant erection lasts longer than 6 hours, can Crash find a doctor to consult? What are the tax implications of early pension withdrawal used in payment of mental health services? Perhaps the answers to these questions and more will be found in the next tawdry chapter of: CRASH IMMELMANN: OVERTURE REQUIEM PROTOCOL: M.I.L.F!