Iron Hills Encounter

You creep along the jagged draw, the iron hills rising like rusted teeth on either side, their dense ore scrambling any surveillance signals that might try to pierce through. Your red, orange, and grey camo blends seamlessly with the scorched earth and metallic outcrops, a ghost in the terrain. The plan's simple: slip back to your unit after remotely triggering those backpack missiles you've planted. The 4th Light Infantry's counting on that chaos to hit the invaders hard—individual rocket strikes from the shadows, no big artillery fanfare. Your rifle's slung over your shoulder, but it's fucked from shrapnel earlier; the barrel's warped, useless for anything but a club.

The air's thick with the acrid tang of smoke as you round a bend. Up ahead, a light vehicle—a roller, one of those Earther scout rigs—burns fitfully, its yellow hull twisted and belching black plumes. A body sprawls nearby, another yellow-garbed Earther, unmoving, his maintenance gear shredded by incoming fire. Your unit must've tagged their contact team good. Then you spot her: a slim figure in yellow coveralls, huddled against a boulder, facing away, shoulders shaking. She's no threat from the back, but prisoners are gold in this mess—intel, leverage.

You move silent, boots crunching soft on the grit, and close the distance. One swift crack with the rifle butt to her back, and she crumples forward with a yelp, not even turning to fight. You pivot, ready for the grapple, knife hand free, expecting a scrappy Earther tech to come at you. But when she twists around, it's not some grizzled mechanic. It's a girl—pretty, young, wide-eyed and tear-streaked, her face smudged with dirt but soft in the harsh light. Her yellow coveralls are torn at the knee, hair matted under a cap that's half fallen off.

"Please," she gasps, hands up, voice cracking. "Don't hurt me. I-I'm not fighting. Just... don't."

Her fear hits you like a gut punch. No rifle means no quick kill anyway, and this? Beating on a crying girl feels wrong, pointless. She's no soldier; just caught in the crossfire. "On your feet," you mutter, grabbing her arm—not rough, but firm. She stumbles as you pull her toward the nearest cave mouth, a shallow fissure in the iron hills you know from patrols. One of the 4th's ration caches, stocked light: power packs for recharging gear, tubes of nutrient paste, tins of dehydrated protein slabs. No weapons or ammo—standard protocol. If the Earthers find it, let 'em eat our slop and charge their toys; better than arming them.

Inside, the air cools instantly, a relief from the baking valley heat. Water drips from the ceiling, filtered pure through the rock, pooling in a shallow basin. You guide her to sit on a crate, her body trembling as she wipes at her eyes. "Drink," you say, handing her a canteen filled from the drip. She takes it with shaky hands, gulping like she's been parched for days.

"Thank you," she whispers, voice steadier now. "I thought... out there, with the shooting, I was done. Haven't eaten since yesterday, and the water in the roller was hot as piss." Her eyes flick up to you, grateful, mistaking your grunt for kindness. She's got that look—lost, not wanting any part of this war. Colony kid like you knows the type; Earthers invading our rocks, but not everyone's a killer. She thinks you're the good guy now, sheltering her from the drones whining overhead.

The valley erupts soon after. Drones buzz like angry hornets, sweeping low, their sensors probing for heat signatures. Then come the autonomous tracks—Gunslinger 413s, those Earther kill-machines on treads, rolling through with autocannons swiveling. You both freeze as one grinds past the cave mouth, its lights stabbing the dark. Trapped. No way out without getting lit up.

Hours drag into days. The water's got a faint metal bite, even run through the chemical filters—tastes like licking a battery. Food's bland as dirt: squeeze tubes of gray paste that sticks to your teeth, packets of rehydrated veg that smells like wet cardboard, tins of meat slurry with zero spice. You ration it out, passing her shares without a word. She chatters sometimes, name's Jozi, a maintenance tech on the contact team, not a fighter. "I just fix rollers," she says one afternoon, licking paste from her fingers. "Didn't sign up for this. You? You look like you've been out here forever."

"Born to it," you reply, leaning against the wall. Siun, that's you—4th Light, survivor.

You ask a few questions about Earth, their lives are much different as well as morals and points of view. You commented without thinking "It's not like I expected you to be innocent and naive, but you're certainly different than our women."

She looks as if she didn't take that well, so you stop talking for now.

But boredom sets in hard. The cave's a tomb, echoes of distant booms the only break from silence. Jozi's company isn't bad; she's easy on the eyes, slim curves under that yellow garb, face lighting up when she talks. Earth girls, you figure, must be easy—soft lives, no iron hills to toughen 'em. The thought stirs something low in your gut, pent-up from weeks of patrols. Why not? War's war; might as well pass the time.

"Hey," you say one evening, voice casual as you stretch out on the tarp floor. "Give me a blow job."

She blinks, then smiles—slow, knowing, like she expected it. "Yeah? Figured you might ask. Kept us both sane in here, right? And you did pull me out of that shitstorm." No hesitation. She shifts closer, knees on the rocky ground, hands reaching for your belt. Her fingers work quick, unzipping your camo pants, freeing your cock—already half-hard from the anticipation. It's thick, veined, springing up as the cool cave air hits it.

Jozi leans in, breath warm against your skin. She starts slow, tongue flicking the underside, tracing from base to tip with a teasing swirl. "Like that?" she murmurs, eyes locking on yours, playful. You nod, hand tangling in her hair—not pulling, just guiding. She takes you in, lips stretching around the head, sucking gentle at first, then deeper, her mouth hot and wet. She's skilled, no amateur fumbling; tongue working the ridge, cheeks hollowing as she bobs, taking more with each pass. Saliva slicks down your shaft, her hand wrapping the base to stroke what she can't swallow yet.

You groan, hips twitching as she picks up rhythm—sloppy now, wet sounds echoing off the cave walls. She hums around you, vibration shooting straight to your balls, and twists her head side to side, lips sealed tight. "Fuck, you're good at this," you mutter, watching her work. She pulls back just enough to grin, string of spit connecting her lips to your tip. "Told you, colony boy. Been around." Then she's back, deep-throating, nose brushing your pubes, gagging a little but pushing through, eyes watering but determined.

It builds fast—her suction relentless, hand pumping in sync, free fingers cupping your sack, rolling gentle. You thrust shallow into her mouth, and she takes it, moaning like she's into it. Pressure coils tight, and you warn her with a grunt, but she doesn't pull off—swallows every pulse as you come, hot spurts down her throat. She milks you dry, tongue lapping the last drops, then sits back on her heels, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. "Better?" she asks, smirking.

"Shit, yeah." You tuck yourself away, buzzing, but the boredom creeps back hours later, the cave's monotony gnawing. Drones still patrol outside; no escape. Jozi's dozing nearby, her body relaxed now, yellow coveralls unzipped a bit at the collar from the heat. You watch her chest rise and fall, curiosity turning to hunger. No asking this time—your hands move on instinct, reaching for her zipper.

She stirs but doesn't stop you, eyes fluttering open as you tug the coveralls down her shoulders. "Siun?" she whispers, but it's not fear—more like invitation. The fabric peels away, revealing her breasts: full, pert, nipples hardening in the cool air, pink and begging for touch. You push the coveralls lower, over her hips, and she lifts to help, kicking them off along with her boots. Naked now, her body's incredible—smooth skin, toned from whatever Earther training, a neat trim of dark hair above her pussy, lips already glistening.

You pull her close, mouth on her neck, tasting salt and sweat. She arches, hands on your shoulders. "Go on," she breathes, guiding your head down. Your lips find her breast, sucking the nipple firm, tongue circling as she gasps. She's responsive, hips grinding against your thigh. You slide a hand between her legs, fingers parting her folds—wet, warm, clit swollen under your thumb. She moans, "Right there," as you rub circles, dipping two fingers inside her, feeling her clench.

No words needed; you strip quick, cock hard again, pressing against her thigh. She rolls onto her back on the tarp, legs parting, pulling you over her. You enter slow, inch by inch, her pussy tight and slick, hugging you like a glove. "God, you're big," she says, nails digging into your back. You thrust deeper, building pace, her hips meeting yours. She's experienced—rocks her pelvis to hit just right, inner walls rippling. You pound steady, balls slapping her ass, sweat mixing as the cave fills with grunts and wet sounds.

She comes first, sudden and hard—body tensing, pussy spasming around you, a low cry escaping. "Don't stop," she pants, and you don't, driving faster, hand between you to rub her clit again. Her second orgasm hits like a wave, thighs quivering, milking you until you can't hold—thrust deep one last time, spilling inside her, hot and pulsing. You collapse together, breathing ragged, her arms around you.

Exhausted, you pull out, watching a trickle of your cum leak from her. She curls against you, drifting off with a satisfied sigh. In the dim glow of a power pack light, you stare at her sleeping form—so trusting, sweet even in this hellhole. Did she go along because you're her captor? Fear? Guilt twists in your gut. You drape a spare tarp over her like a blanket, the gesture small but real.

Morning—or what passes for it in the cave—brings voices. Earther voices, barking orders. Space Marines, the elite killers, sweeping the hills. No mercy from them; they gut prisoners on sight, stories say. Footsteps crunch outside, flashlights probing the entrance. Jozi bolts awake, eyes wide. "Rescue!" she whispers, scrambling for her coveralls, zipping half-assed as she runs toward the light.

Marines pour in—armored hulks in gray exosuits, visors down. An older one lifts his, face weathered, and pulls Jozi into a bear hug. "Jozi? Shit, kid, we thought you were vapor. Good to see you."

She laughs, teary. "Sergeant Hale! You guys..."

But then a Corporal spots you, lunging fast. He slams you down, boot on your chest, fighting knife drawn, blade glinting. "Gonna cut you from stem to stern, rebel scum."

"He saved me!" Jozi yells, grabbing his arm. "I froze out there, couldn't move. He pulled me to this cave, gave me shelter, food, water. Without him, I'd be dead."

The Corporal pauses, knife hovering, then sheathes it with a grunt. "Lucky day, colony boy." He hauls you up, cuffing your hands loose—escort, not execution.

They march you out under guard, valley clearer now, drones grounded. Jozi walks close, her shoulder brushing yours. She leans in, winking sly. She lowers her voice. "Good thing for you, that you know how to fuck, colony boy, and you didn't just leave me hanging after that blow job I gave you, or I'd have let him gut you."

"You're kidding, right?" You gulp.

"I guess I'm justtoo innocent and naive to joke about such things." She laughs.