Editing Commissar Techpriestess love story (section)

=== Chapter 13 ===
“Yes, sir!” she said happily, and Rogal laughed. Her mechadendrites scooped the dataslate back under her robes and into the pouch it came from, as she propped herself up on her chair. The commissar pulled himself a little closer, grabbing his mug of recaf. He took up his fork with his good hand and speared a slice of meat, chewing it thoughtfully, before he spoke,
“So, I’m thinking,” He said, after swallowing, gesturing with his fork, “That I really could do with a nice, personally cooked meal tonight.”
Octavia’s mechadendrites froze, her the fork in her hand quivering in the air above her meal,
“Do you want me to…?”
“Cook me dinner? That’s a wonderful idea.” The commissar said, a boyish grin crossing his face. Octavia felt her face go pale, “With all due respect sir,” She said, staring intently at her meal, “That is not a good idea.”
“It’s really not,”

The pair looked up, Caelistis smirking at the pair. “Really, Commissar, you do not want her to cook.”
The Commissar looked from priestess to priestess, as Octavia’s mechadendrites pulled her hood further forward and she wished she had a peziochamoline layer in her cloak. 
“She might be a miracle with a servowrench, but she can’t cook to save her life. However,” The slender priestess’s grin turned wolfish, “She is creative, I’m sure she can think of… something, to make it up to you.”
Octavia’s cheeks burned hotter than she had thought possible, her cognitor flailing wildly as it fought to keep control of her body. Her fleshbrain twitched, near overwhelmed by the idea. Caelistis just leaned predatorily on the table, continuing her little speech, “I mean, look at her, Commissar. Surely one of you can think of some other form of, disciplinary action,” The techpriestess purred the last words sensuously. Rogal forced himself to keep a straight face, clenching his injured hand, sending a lance of pain up his arm to keep him focused. He opened and closed his mouth a couple of times, before he finally spoke, “I’m going to the medical tent. Octavia, my tent, five minutes. Priestess Caelistis, I thank you for your advice.” The towering Commissar took to his feet, collecting his hat, and quickly exited the mess. Caelistis waved at his back, before glancing at her friend, “I just did you a huge favour there, I hope you realise?” she said, a mechadendrite snaking out to spear a leaf from Rogal’s abandoned tray, bringing it up to its owners mouth. Octavia leaned forward, running her hands through her hair, a worried sigh escaping her lips, “What am I going to…”
She glared at her friend, who smiled back, chewing the leafy green cheerfully, “do?”
“You think, we? That? Really? But he’s…?”
Caelistis finished the leaf she was eating and turned to face her friend fully, planting her hands on Octavia’s small shoulders, “Look. For once in your life, take what you want. I know you hate it, I know it’s not in your nature, but you have a chance. Don’t waste it. Such chances only exist because of chance, and you know how messy probability can be.”
Octavia looked her friend in the eye, a tiny smile spreading across her face, “Very.”
Caelistis patted the petite priestess on the head, “And promise me you’ll tell me all the juicy details,”
Octavia looked away, her cheeks burning bright again, as she let out a small squeak,
“Juicy details.” Caelistis growled, closing her face with her friends, “juuuicy details,”
“Okay, fine, just let me go, I have to run, you’re making me late. I don’t need to be in any more trouble,” Octavia cried, her mechadendrites pushing away her friend as she stood, Caelistis standing to watch her petite friend’s departure,
“JUICY DETAILS,” she cried across the Mechanicus cognivox, various Mechanicus staff looking around, as Caelistis laughed, helping herself to the meals left on the table.

Rogal left the mess, jamming his hat on his head, as he turned to head for the infirmary. His body obeyed its own rules, as he quickly covered the distance. Pushing the door open, he entered the quiet white building, his eyes scanning for someone to help him. A field doctor approached, a puzzled look on his face,
“Can I help you, sir?”
Rogal paused, his brain scrambling away from the various other things flying through his head. 
“Pain killers, something that will let me use my arm.”
The doctor looked at the black uniformed commissar, “Give me a moment,” He said, shaking his head, not wanting to get involved. He pulled up the Commissar’s file, consulting what the medic had done to his arm, and what manner of medicine to give the hulking man.
Scanning down the file, the doctor frowned. Rogal looked at him, coughing politely, “Is there a problem, Doc?”
The doctor shook his head, “No, Commissar. Nurse?”
A buxom young nurse appeared at the stubbled doctor’s elbow, “Sir?”
“Get the commissar a bottle of Atryme,”
The nurse looked at the doctor puzzledly, “But isn’t that?”
“Look at him,” The Doctor said, “It’s the only thing that will work.”
Shrugging, the nurse disappeared into the dispensary. The leanly handsome doctor looked at the burly commissar, “Congratulations sir,” He said, flicking some new files across on his dataslate, as Rogal smiled nervously. 
“Also,” The commissar began, “I need some,”
The doctor didn’t even look up from his dataslate, his hand fishing into his white coat pocket.
“Here. No questions.”
Rogal nodded, “I owe you.”
The doctor just nodded, as the nurse returned. Rogal hurriedly stuffed his gift in his pocket. The nurse smiled as she handed him the small white bottle. Rogal nodded in thanks, turning on his heel and jogging from the infirmary.

Tearing the lid from the little white container, popping a couple of the small white capsules and swallowing them dry. He rounded his tent, his eyes locking on the small red robed figure waiting for him. He strode up to her, grabbing her by the hand, and pulled her into the tent. Octavia’s eyes were wide as he slung her down onto the chair she had been sitting in that morning. Pulling his hat from his head, he threw it onto the table, taking his seat opposite his petite guest. 
“Octavia, look,” The commissar began, “About what your friend said,”
The petite priestess blushed, a mechadendrite slowly creeping forward to touch her host’s leg,
“Rogal…” she whispered, as his hand slid to meet the mechanical tendril, gently taking it between his fingers. Octavia’s mechadendrites slid forward, carefully undoing the sling from around the commissar’s neck. Her fleshbrain quivered, as the husky man came closer to her, her mechadendrites responding in turn, spiralling around his arms. Their faces came to within centimeters of each other, her cognitor logged the exact distance down to the micron, as her fleshbrain tittered nervously. She had wanted this moment, and here she was, panicking. Her whole body felt alive and overcharged, her cognitor calmly venting the excess power via her feet to the ground. Rogal felt his hairs stand on end, as slowly, he edged closer to the petite priestess in front of him. Octavia’s eyes lidded, her breath coming in slowly and deep, her augmented olfactory senses filled with the masculine smell of her host. His breath hot on her slightly parted lips, she let out a small moan, before a small spark jumped from her mouth to his. Rogal surged forwards, pulling Octavia’s slight frame onto his lap, their mouths crashing together like an earthshaker shell meeting the ground.

Octavia’s fleshbrain snapped out of its fugue state, squealing with happiness and hugging her cognitor, before losing herself in the moment. She pulled herself up the Commissar’s chest, her elfin hands clutching at the gold braids on his chest, kissing him hungry. His huge hands sat on her hips, holding her firmly. A mechadendrite made its way up his neck, before burying itself in tousled dark locks, as the commissar pulled her closer. Gently he lifted her from his lap, sitting her on the table, as he stood over her, his broad chest framed by the glowglobe above them. Breaking the kiss, they both gasped for air, both having forgotten their respective needs to breathe in their passionate embrace. The Commissar smiled down at his guest, as she lounged back onto the table, her mechadendrites freeing themselves from around his arms, and trailing sensuously over her hourglass figure. Reaching out, Rogal stroked a blushing cheek, as mechadendrites roved Octavia’s body, unlocking the clasps on her outer robe and pulling the red material away from her body. The highly polished red plates of her cyber mantle gleamed in the glowglobe light, as she felt her host tense over her. His eyes roamed her body once more, the hourglass figure, ample bosom, and clinched in waist, her augmented legs clamping together, a hand to her mouth. Running a hand down her side, Rogal sighed happily, “Beauty,” He whispered, calling to mind a scrap of literature he had once read, “They say comes in many forms, each one a gift from him on earth,”
Octavia giggled, “The writings of the Philatius, I’m impressed,” she coo’d, as her mechadendrites snaked around the broad shouldered commissar once more, “But I don’t deserve such kind words,”
Rogal shook his head, “Are you trying to tell me what to do again?” He asked, his breath hot on her neck as he buried his face in her nape, the sweet smell of her hair mixing with the metallic tang of her body.

Octavia moaned, bucking against her host, as her fleshbrain cried out for her to hurry up. Her cognitor nodded, any more of this and she risked blowing a fuse. Lifting the commissar’s head from her neck, she looked him in the eye,
“I want to say thank you for saving me,” she said, her emerald eyes shining bright, “but, actions speak louder than words,”
Her mechadendrites slid down Rogal’s muscled back, as she bucked up against him again. He grinned back, burying his face in her neck once more, his hands questing down her curved sides till they reached the clasps at her hips. With a single powerful motion, he pulled, the clasps releasing, as Octavia’s red skirt was thrown over a chair. Giggling headily, she pulled closer to the man standing over her, a pair of mechadendrites working their way up his chest, undoing buttons as they went. Another pair snaked around his arms once more, holding tight, as the third pair fumbled with his belt buckle. Breaths were coming quick and hard, as their mouths crashed together once more, Rogal pressing his broad chest down on top of his metal plated love, as her slim legs made their way either side of his waist. A cool metal hand traced over warm flesh, as Octavia smiled shyly, lifting her head to undo the bow behind her neck. Her mechadendrite freed itself from around Rogal’s arm, meandering over its owner’s body, to undo another clasp behind her back, before pulling sideways. With a quiet flop, her top was cast aside, pale breasts exposed to the cool air of the tent. Rogal’s slightly stubbled chin grazed lightly over sensitive flesh, before he caught a firm pink nub between his lips, and began suckling gently. Octavia moaned, her back arching, mechadendrites spasming slightly, at the stimulation.

The pair of mechanical tendrils at Rogal’s trousers had finally undone his belt and buttons, and began pushing the commissars pants down. They trailed over huge hard muscles, before lightly making their way back up, gently probing at the huge bulge in the commissar’s regulation black trunks. Rogal’s hand pushed behind her head, burying itself in her hair, as he slid his other down her side to her hip. Fingers danced as he searched for another clasp, before a mechadendrite guided his hand to the clip. With a click, the centrally locked snaps undid, Octavia spreading her legs and lifting her hips, as Rogal’s huge hand pulled the dainty piece of material away, adding it to the pile forming beside them. He groaned lustfully as Octavia’s nimble mechadendrites stroked his lascannon, focusing his attention to her chest once more. The mechadendrites at his waist pushed down at his regulation trunks, pulling this way and that to free what they contained. At his chest, mechanical tendrils slid under his jacket, trailing coldly against his back, as their owner arched her back with pleasure. Her hands were buried in his hair, her glowing green eyes half hooded, her breath coming in lazy gasps. Raising his head from her chest, the commissar looked down at his petite lover, who gazed back at him with smouldering eyes. He adjusted his stance, as her mechadendrites finally freed him from his undergarments, pushing them down to his knees to join his trousers. He stood tall and proud, her cognitor noted, and oh so very very very much in proportion. Her eye’s widened at the sight of his, lascannon, her fleshbrain offered, as the husky commissar paused, reaching for his pocket. He smiled at her sheepishly as he withdrew a regulation prophylactic, “The Emprah always needs soldiers, but, I don’t think we’re quite ready,” he said, and the pair giggled.