>>2889
'Perhaps discipline did have a point', Kyla mused, taking in another deep breath through her teeth.
Her ankles were sore, and her face felt red and flushed as she made her slow way through the barracks.
Their campaign to Agrippa IV had been costly. Dearly so. 40% losses, all the command staff, bar herself, a lieutenant, and two adjutants, dead to an assassin's bomb.
The world was a backwater, a mere million or so souls, populating three meager hives, all under the yoke of the now-deceased Vorth bloodline, a 'divinely appointed' idiot tyrant, who wasn't even willing to re-arm the forces sent to his own world to secure it, so that he wouldn't lose is own personal assets.
It didn't save him from retribution, when his own betrayal had come.
Their astropaths and commanders dead, and with such a hard campaign, the men and women of the regiment had run rampant, and taken their spoils, pillaging the upper hive, alongside the vengeful citizenry, spilling into churches and looting all the gold and silver and fine things they could.
Even the men and women of... comely appearances.
Kyla lumbered around the corner, lungs burning, and slowly, deliberately, forced one leg up a single stair, thighs wrestling with the hanging weighty apron of her belly. Then she braced, breathed in, and forced it to straighten, bringing the other leg up quickly, as the first one trembled. Her pudgy fingers gripped the banister clumsily, but tightly, as she put what weight she could over it.
By the second step, her thighs burnt, and her hips throbbed. But she set her jaw, found a breathing rhythm, and kept going.
The mood, once the initial days of raping and looting in abandon petered away, was uncertain. Priests had been killed, churches sacked, and the Vorth bloodline, divinely mandated by the Emperor and High Lords, to rule Agrippa, had been slain by their doing.
There was a tension. An apprehension in the air, in the guardsmen. They knew they'd crossed the line, that they'd let their despair at the sacrifices in the name of their duty get the better of them. They feared what the Commissar would do.
Kyla supposed she could have kept them on the straight and narrow, perhaps.
But there was just as great a chance that she, alone as she was, would suffer a grenade to the sleeping quarters by those men too desperate or fearful to obey.
And Kyla was truly never the best of Commissars.
Her hindbrain wanted to stop, to rest her muscles and catch her breath. But Kyla knew from experience, that she's never catch her breath just standing up. Standing itself was a drain on her stamina, so she willed the pain down and pushed on.
She'd never been the perfect model of the Sash. She'd caroused with the men, even bedded some of them. So when the time came, and that murderous tension came, she'd made show of her camaraderie.
And in truth, she was hardly against it. Their tour of service in the Imperium's name had been unforgiving. Now she could make manifest her most casual wants and needs, as one of the new 'elite' of this lonely little agri world. If she wanted to shoot a bunch of people, she didn't need to write any paperwork or justify herself to any priests or commanders. If she wanted to screw, she could find and detain any number of thousands of good looking, eager servants. And if she wanted food or drink...
Kyla wasn't a very good Commissar.
By the time she made it to the top of the single flight of stairs, she was gasping and sucking down air, red-faced, and dripping with sweat. A hand worked its way around to a shelf-like hip, and she leant back, to let her lungs breathe a little easier.
There were members of her regiment on this floor, and she felt the glances and stares her arrival had drawn. In years gone by, they'd be shouting, and all forming up, neat and tidily toeing the line. Now, they merely nodded, or waved. Even the man, fucking a serving girl on a countertop, right there in the hallway, didn't even stop.
Not all of them had abandoned discipline fully. At least half of the Regiment was still, to a degree, fighting fit, and the majority of the rest could be made to be with some PT. The difference was that instead of abstinence from temptations and soldierly conduct, they were fucking civilians and hunting hivers for sport.
She wasn't the only one in her state. There had to be others who's temptation, who's vice, had been the myriad delicacies and sweat treats of food and drink to be found. But most of them didn't leave their chosen chambers, she imagined. But old habits died hard, and Kyra was fond of making the rounds, seeing the men, and going to her meetings with the Lieutenant.
A nude man all but skipped past, and pressed himself into her fleshy flank as he went, erection hard against her clammy bulk. His left hand, cupping her breast and squeezing at the enormous mass, startled her so much that the second groping paw that struck her backside hard enough to make her back jiggle, came completely by surprise.
"Reportin' for duty, Commissar." He breathed excitedly at her, before detaching himself from her before her arm could work itself up to shove him away herself.
She wanted to reprimand him, but needed to let the air out first. After the next breath, the grunted "Oi", was too muffled to make it to the retreating figure. There was no use trying to chase him down, or follow him up. Not at her weight, and lack of fitness.
And she needed to stay on-side with her men.
So she huffed, and rolled her eyes good-naturedly, and grunted herself into motion.
By the time she made it to the doors, she was blinking the sweat from her eyes, and almost moaning or whimpering with every footfall and exhalation. Her old coat, draped over her back with chain, clung to her every fold and crevasse with all the sweat, and had slipped slightly down between her ass cheeks, as had the loose, slitted skirt, her only other item of clothing, past her boots, her hat, and the Sash that hung from her waistband, instead of around her waist now.
In the years since their official crossing into a Regiment of Renegades, casual nudity had become commonplace. And she wasn't going to let an outdated sense of dress code stifle her any more than she already was. She was bare from the waist up nearly, and her skirt was thin and delicate and slit either side, and she was still nearly cooking inside, no mind the sweat.
The guards grinned friendly, comradely grins, and opened the doors for her at the flick of a finger and a tired nod. If she'd needed to announce herself, Kyla would probably have had to wait at least five minutes, seated on a bench, with a cold drink.
The inside of the private dining room was as it always was. The floor was well carpeted, walls covered in drapes and cushions, and there were two wide, opulent chairs around a low dining table.
Wheezing and heart hammering in her ears, Kyla finally made her way over to her resting place. She barely paid any mind to the throng of servants who, eyes to the floor, pulled out her chair and paced around her. Nor to the Lieutenant, nude as she was, in her own chair.
Her fat fingers struggled to find purchase against the slick blubber of her belly, but with the practice of years she grasped the offending apron long enough to heft it up with a grunt, pulling everything above it that much more up to her face. Just barely enough to make it over the table.
The air, perfumed and cloying, felt cold against her sticky, now open neathers. She sighed in relief, even as she felt the chair be pushed in behind her, and several hands guide her to let her bulk drop, violently, downwards.
The painful digging of the armrests into her ass bought out a whimper, but the Commissar's sheer weight would not be denied, and she felt herself slowly, as always, slipping lower, before one ass cheek slipped through, and then another. It was a pinch, but it was better than feeling like she was sinking into herself.
Her chair groaned and bowed slightly underneath her.
When they'd first begun these meetings in this room, in the days after deposing the mad Governor, there had been room to seat three Kyla's, side by side. The Lieutenant, Malicia, had joked about her outgrowing it. Privately, Kyla suspected that she was periodically replacing her chair with smaller and smaller iterations.
It was something she'd do.
A pitcher of amasec, cooled to near freezing, was offered, and she greedily snatched it in meaty hands, draining it desperately and messily, feeling the cold, smokey liquid dribble its way down her insides. Then a second. And a third. To anyone else, it would have been a lethal amount of liquor, but Kyla had found that with her out of shape-ness, she'd gained a remarkable tolerance to its effects. Even though she coughed and spluttered after the third pitcher of the stuff, she barely even felt the hint of a buzz.
The Commissar leant back into her chair, spreading her legs, exposing more of her lower regions to the cool balm of air, and let herself try and recover from her journey. Hands with damp cloths pressed themselves into all her natural crevice's, and she felt the questing hands of an under-the-table pleasure slave between her thighs, forcing the last of their mass open, and then another, behind her back, forcing their smaller body into her side and caressing her arms.
She tried to get her breath back, and recover faster. Once they truly got underway with their ministrations, she felt, she wouldn't get much resting done.
This was going to be a long meeting.