Editing Commissar Techpriestess love story (section)

=== Chapter 20 ===
Those conclusions were incredibly risqué, her fleshbrain noted with glee, pulling up memnor files of her idle musings on the matter. Here, an idea of how Caelistis used that particular kink she had in her third mechadendrite, there, a puzzlement of how someone could actually manage to do that inside a sentinel. She giggled as she tried to stand, her spatial recognition wetwear corrupted by alcoholic interference, and she flopped back onto her seat. Her cognitor pointed out she wasn’t in the colledgia anymore, and how she hadn’t finished an emperors mercy that fast since her heyday as a drinker. Her fleshbrain shushed the logical thoughts from her cognitor, pointing out how fun this was, and how good her Commissarial cuddles officer looked, and how strong he was, and his powerful arms could just pin her down and-. That thought was cut off by her cognitor pointing out how silly commissarial cuddles officer was as a concept. Her body tried once more to stand, pulling on Rogal’s huge hand to help lift her, and she stood, for a moment. Her petite body leaned too far forward, caught just in time by Rogal’s large hand at her stomach. She giggled and looked up at him, her cheeks rosy,
“I may,” she said, the words rolling off her tongue slowly, “be a little bit intoxicated,”
The huge commissar nodded, as she got in under his arm, hugging him from the side, “I’d say that’s about right.”
A girlish smile crossed Octavia’s face, her mechadendrites wrapping clumsily around her massive lovers muscled arm, and she giggled, “Just a little bit, blood alcohols only just past point oh six four, I’ll be fine,” she said, as she tottered forward, bumping into Rogal again. His huge hand splayed across her back, pinning her against him, as he looked down,
“I think,” he said, a smile spreading across his face, “It might be easier if I just carry you,”

Her fleshbrain rolled of the psychoemotional constructed couch she had been wallowing on, hundreds of images filling the metaphysical space. How would he carry her, would he scoop her up in his arms, carrying her like a blushing bride? Would he throw her over his shoulder like a spoil of war? Would he just carry her under his arm, like he carried his hat? Over both shoulders, her wrists and ankles held in his huge hands? She giggled, her blush getting brighter, and she just snuggled against him. Her cognitor pointed out, with surprising glee, that her last idea was the most likely, that she would end up draped over his mighty shoulders, because that was the standard carrying procedure for wounded in the guard. Her fleshbrain tilted its head, thinking, before nodding happily. Rogal took a step, Octavia trying to follow, but, again, she stumbled. The hulking commissar let out a sigh, and leaned down. Huge arms snaked around the petite priestess of the machine god, under her knees and her back, and with no noticeable effort, Rogal stood once more. Octavia eep’d at the sudden change of position, before giggling again. The husky commissar leaned down to collect his hat, handing it to the red robed bundle in his arms.
“Hold onto this, will you?” He asked, as they crossed the officers club in a matter of strides. Octavia nodded happily, running her mechadendrites over the highly peaked cap. Rogal nodded at the Doorman, who fought down a smile as Octavia tried to put Rogal’s hat on his head. Awkwardly, her mechadendrites dropped the cap on the Commissars head, it falling to the side, as she tried to right it. He let out a chuckle and flicked his head back, righting the hat with practiced ease. Resting her head against his massive chest, Octavia smiled contentedly, letting out another small hiccup. Inside her headspace, her fleshbrain whimpered happily.

Octavia’s fleshbrain was relishing the feeling of strong arms around her, the rhythmic bass kick of his heart beat from inside the huge chest she rested on, the feeling of firm muscle protecting her.
“Where are we,” she said, pausing to hiccup, “Where are we going?”
Rogal looked down, the lights playing bright above him, “I was thinking, I would just take you home,”
The petite priestess shook her head, “Nooooo,” she complained, “Caelistis will be brining people home, and they will be noisy.”
Her fleshbrain grinned, and began dancing around, clapping her hands at the wonderful idea she had just had. She reached out with a mechadendrite, stroking her lovers cheek, before asking “Can’t I just stay with you?”
Rogal felt his chest go tight, he didn’t think it was possible for this woman in his arms to be any more attractive, but she had managed it. He swallowed hard, beating back the images that tried to fill his mind, before Octavia added, her voice low and breathy, “Please? Sir?”

With those two words, the floodgates opened in his mind, his simple farm boy brain doing what it did best: Think simply. Octavia whooped with laughter as she was slung over a broad shoulder, his pace quickening. Inside his head, his brain argued with itself, his commissarial mind demanding that yes, he take her home, but he put her straight to bed, and he would sleep at his desk. His simple farm boy brain pointed out that right now, getting back to the tent was the most important thing, because that’s what Octavia wanted. His not so simple farm boy brain pointed out a rather interesting point, but was ignored by the two heavyweights of his mind. His creative mind just sat, in the ornate wooden chair it had carved in the commissar’s psyche, with a smile on its face. 
“I suppose you can stay,” He said, glad that the petite priestess couldn’t see the grin on his face, and how it grew with her reply,
“Really?” came the excited reply, Octavia wriggling happily on Rogal’s massive shoulder, her shapely rear bobbing happily in the air. Her fleshbrain was ecstatic, here she was, thrown over a broad muscled shoulder, like in one of the books Caelistis owned, but she had read, from time to time. Warmth surged in her stomach, as she remembered, the sweet innocent guardswoman, her hands tied in the belt of the inquisitor who carried her over his shoulder, how she was thrown down to the floor of her cell, his augmented hands tearing through her flak jacket like it was paper. She let out 
a louder than intended eep, and Rogal slowed his pace,
“Are you alright?” He asked, looking over his shoulder and Octavia praised the Omnissiah for the hood on her robe.
“I’m fine, why do you ask?”
Rogal grinned, “You made that noise again.”
“What noise?” Octavia asked, feeling her cheeks burning once more.

The huge commissar let out a chuckle, “You make this, eep, noise,”
Octavia’s eyes went wide, as she bit her lower lip, chewing it nervously, as Rogal continued, “Like you made it tonight, when Caelistis said about someone else liking being tied up,”
The petite priestess sucked in a breath, her fleshbrain sitting bolt upright, here she was, over his shoulder, his hand around her waist, clearly claiming her as his. Her mind flashed again with images of her being bound, Rogal holding her down by the sash that held her hands together, as he pressed against her,
“Oh, I did?” She managed to say, “Really?”
The hulking commissar nodded, “Yes, you did. What was that about?”
“Oh that, it’s nothing,”
“You made it twice actually. Once when I said about people needing to be hogtied,”
Octavia’s fleshbrain flopped back, images of her bound and tied filling her head, as she bit her lip, stifling the eep that threatened to escape, as the commissar continuing, “And then again when Caelistis said about their being someone else who likes being tied up.”
Octavia forced herself to relax, “Oh, yes, that noise, it’s nothing, really,” she lied, her cognitor pointing out the fruitlessness of such an action against a commissar. Rogal chuckled,
“So if I was to say, have an idea of tying you up with my sash,” The commissar said huskily, as they walked through the moonlit night, “bending you over my table,” Octavia let out a whimper, her fleshbrain’s mechadendrites sliding over its body sensuously, her mind filling itself with images, as her hulking lover took her from his shoulder and stood her on the ground, leaning in close to her ear and purring “And ravishing you, like a lady should be,”
Octavia shivered, her muscles tensing, acutely aware of Rogal’s huge hands around her waist, the smell of sawdust, and the fact that her knees were going weak.

Octavia’s mind was flooded with the moans of her fleshbrain and the images it created, Her pale flesh, mechadendrites held in a strong hand, Rogal pressed against her, filling her, tugging on her mechadendrites, relentless, overwhelming. She shuddered, as the huge commissar made eye contact. She bit her lip, her fleshbrain’s back arching, letting out a particularly loud moan as it imagined her on the commissars table, on all fours, his sash around her neck, tying her down. The eep was quiet, and breathy, and her eyes went wide as it escaped from her lips. From its throne inside Rogal’s head, a laugh of triumph spilled from his creative mind’s lips, as it reclined on its carved throne. The Commissar pulled back and smiled, “You eeping would be completely unrelated,”
Octavia blushed furiously, her mechadendrites fidgeting with one another, as she said quietly “Yes, completely unrelated.”
Chuckling, the huge commissar lifted his petite lover to his shoulder once more, covering the short distance to his tent in moments. Her mechadendrites didn’t stop twitching, her fleshbrain crying out for more, begging for another sweet release like she had gotten earlier in the day. Weakly, her cognitor cried out against the need for it, before it was swamped entirely, her fleshbrain taking full control of her body. Rogal threw aside his tent flap and strode into the darkness of his tent, Octavia’s eyes glowing brightly in the gloom. He gently took her from his shoulder, sitting her on a chair at his table. 
“I’ll just go change my coat,” He said, smiling at her, his face lit by her eyes, before he went to his room, switching the new glowglobe that had been installed during the afternoon on to its dimmest setting. The tent was filled with soft light, Octavia watching as the huge commissar take a fresh jacket from his foot locker, and slip into his washroom.

Her fleshbrain leaped into action, despite the weak protests of her cognitor, pointing out the highly illegal action that was going through a commissars personal effects. Her fleshbrain pinned her cognitor down, explaining that this was a good idea, and that the illegality would be quickly forgotten. Her mechadendrites lifted the footlocker lid, her eyes scanning quickly, searching for what she needed. Her hands darted out, grabbing a crimson sash, as she tore herself away from the locker, the lid slowly closing on its gas powered struts. She wrapped the sash around her neck, her mechadendrites throwing her robe aside as she climbed onto the table. Her fleshbrain squealed happily, directing her body like a puppet, images swirling around her head, as her mechadendrites tied her wrists together with the sash. Her metal knees slid on the smooth wooden table, and she righted herself, her heart shaped rear in the air, her back dipped in an elegant curve, her chest pressed against cold timber. She let out a quiet moan, her mechadendrites moving to help stabilise her on the table, knocking a cup to the floor. The metal hit the ground with a pang, bouncing loudly, and Rogal appeared back in the tent, his coat and shirt open, his hat still on his head at a jaunty angle. Octavia’s head snapped around, hidden behind her arm, the mechadendrite responsible for knocking the cup now trailing slowly up her leg, lifting her skirt slightly.
“Octavia?” Rogal said, confusion evident in his voice, overpowering the difficulty he was having in focusing. His eyes drank in the scene, Octavia on his table, tied with his sash, looked at him with wide eyes, realising her position. She opened her mouth to speak, but the Commissar cut her off, a smile spreading across his face, “That’s my sash, isn’t it?”