The General’s Worm
The General sweeps open the door of the command centre, and immediately all eyes are upon her.
Even stained with the smoke and dust of battle, she is resplendent. Soaked head to toe in barbarian blood, she should look rancid, but somehow the red flecks only serves to accentuate her cheekbones and the dangerous flair in her eyes. There: her sword, which she called Poet, slung nonchalantly at her hip: surely it has written many an ode and sonnet in the tendons and ligaments of the Merciless Enemy. And there: her gun, the long rifle she named Priestess, which has surely now spoken each one the sacred liturgies in shattered bones and punctured lungs.
But oh, how scandalous! Look: her cloak, so stark and red that the blood hardly shows, is torn, hanging ragged from one shoulder, exposing her breast and shoulder to the world. Yet it bothers her not a bit.
The General flashes a terrible grin, and steps forward to say: “Ladies… we are victorious!” She hefts a small sack in her right hand, soaked in blood and grime. With a flourish, she casts it onto the map table—and oh, it is not a sack, but the enemy standard, the rich cloth almost unrecognisable, and it unrolls in one smooth motion, revealing the head of the enemy general Song, eyes lolling, tongue extended, his famously long, beautiful hair now matted and leaving a grimy trail across the carefully drawn contours of the battle plan.
A great cheer erupts: every staffer and technician, every calculatorix and logistician, all joining in full-throated celebration of the General’s victory. The cameras on the ceiling swivel to follow the general as she assumes her command throne, broadcasting this moment to all the people in the General’s new domain, to strike joy and terror as the Great War finally ends.
You can’t help it. Nobody’s eyes are on you, anyway. She’s so… intoxicating, and you wriggle your hand out of the shackle, and slide it under your skirt to your gunbarrel-hard dick.
Skirt, shackle, nothing else: not exactly what you used to wear.
The General passes Priestess to one attendant, unbuckles Poet and hands it to another, the two staffers looking thrilled to bits to hold the famous artefacts. She tears off her ruined cloak—hardly the first she’s lost—and stands in nothing but her military breeches. The bloodstains stop where the cloak covered her, and her skin glows in the harsh lighting.
You see her eyes fix on you. A tiny, evil little smile.
“Would you bring me my Worm?”
All at once you’re lifted up by your guards, helpless to disguise your attempt to masturbate to her victory. A normal reaction, for most people—you’re pretty sure you saw a few soldiers in the room doing the same—but they are not the Worm, and they are not keeping anything for the General’s pleasure, and, of course, they are not traitors to their country.
“Your country is burning, and still you’re happy, little Worm?” the General says, as the guards throw you down in front of her, so you can only see her boots. She lifts one—the sole caked in battlefield mud and, oh, yes, that’s definitely someone’s skin—and pokes it under your chin, lifting your gaze. You are so inescapably turned on, it’s overwhelming, but the rough hands of the guards lever your arms behind your back, locking you in position. She grabs Song’s head from the table, and crouches to show it to you, face to face. “You know…” she says, “He talked about you, before I killed him. What did he say…”
You can guess what he said.
“That’s right.” the General says. “You will fight until your last breath to defy me. You’ll be a knife in every mountain, a bomb in every road. You’ll be a symbol for the nation.” She smiles, so widely. “I think he loved you, you know. Want to give him a kiss goodbye?”
It’s been a long time since you loved this Enemy general, but maybe it will please her, so you stretch your neck forward just a millimetre and plant a kiss on his cold, slimy lips. The whole war room is watching. Someone stifles a giggle. “She really will do anything…”
The General—the General, not the deposed ball of meat who you just snogged—tuts in mock disapproval. “Oh, are your loyalties so fickle after all, Worm? And I thought we had something…”
You wriggle in the dirt, tears forming in your eyes. “No, Ma’am, I am your Worm, I serve only you…”
“Is that so?” the General says. She flings Song aside, and he falls out of your cone of vision. Probably due for embalming and display with the others. “Is that so!?”
You’ve probably said enough, to say more would only worsen the impending punishment, but you cannot help but beg. “Please, my General, future Empress of the World, I have proven my loyalty, I love you with all my heart, everything I do, I do it to serve…”
The General nods, as if considering this. She lets your chin fall, and moves her foot to rest on your spine. The mud slicks across your bare back, and you can imagine her casting her eyes across the room theatrically.
“My soldiers, my dear, loyal guard, my arms and hands… do you believe her? Would you trust my traitorous Worm, the ‘hero’ who sold one nation already?”
Laughter. Jeers. It’s almost musical… you can’t help it. On some impulse, you shift your butt, trying to rub your dick against the floor. The General grinds her foot down into your spine.
Someone shouts: “She’s as degenerate as all of them!” Other voices join in general assent. They know their role.
“She’s just loyal to her dick, Ma’am!”
“She’d betray you for another pretty face!”
“Hey, maybe Song was telling the truth! Maybe she’s a spy… an assassin!”
The General must have gestured; the room abruptly falls silent, and your guards lift you back up to dangle from your armpits. You feel your dick flapping and bouncing around, still hungry. You wonder what she’s going to do to you this time.
She grabs your chin between her finger and thumb, and turns your head towards the East wall. “They say such terrible things, don’t they, my Worm? Would you like a chance to prove your loyalty?”
You try to nod. “Yes… Ma’am. Anything you ask of me.”
The General grins, teeth glittering, and points dramatically to a soldier at the corner of the war room. “Ensign!” The woman salutes. “Open the east windows…”
With an immense grinding, the armoured shutters start to rise. Outside the bunker, you see the aftermath. Grasslands pulverised by rolling bombardment, tanks crawling to and fro, rank upon rank of erect artillery batteries cutting the horizon into slivers. And in the distance, the place you once called home: the great Northern Capital, the Unbreakable City. Its walls have been shattered like glass; where Song’s graceful fortress once stood, there is only jade fire burrowing into the earth. And behind the wall glows a furnace: death in all colours. The city is fallen.
You knew the battle’s outcome, but still, your heart turns a somersault. The Unbreakable City, the anvil on which your nation’s guns had broken each upstart warlord, every scurrilous conqueror, now broken itself. The place you swore to defend, the city you would have walked on shattered stumps to bite at them if they cut you down. Somewhere behind that wall, your sisters and brothers will soon be running in terror as the General’s soldiers go from house to house.
And it was your General who did it. And god! there you go, pushing your dick up towards her, even now, as she laughs at your burning home.
Someone claps. But they soon stop, because everyone else is waiting, their breath held, for the General’s master stroke. The cameras still whir.
“Now…” the General says. She releases you, and rather casually reaches into one of her pockets, and pulls out a small device: an ergonomic grip with a small red cover over a switch. The General flicks off the cover, tears the switch out of its housing. She reaches out a hand and, as has become customary, one of the soldiers hands her a bottle of lubricant. But this time, she does not move to undo her breeches, though you can see they’re bulging. She upends the bottle onto the switch, and rubs it all around, until it’s hard to see the device under the layer of lube.
She picks up Poet, still sheathed. You shiver. How many times have you imagined her cutting you end to end with that blade? But she does not pull out the famous weapon… she just stands for a minute, thoroughly cleaning the hilt with an alcohol-soaked cloth, until it is parade-ground bright. Apparently satisfied, she turns back to you. She’s placed the button on the swordhilt… what is she going to do?
“I know what you want, Worm.” she says. You nod. You’re pretty sure there is nobody in the world who doesn’t know what you want anymore, after the General has written that desire across their eyes in your countrymen’s blood. “So many of your… erstwhile comrades have begged me not to put my Poet inside them. And here you are, desperate for the opposite.”
She holds the sword in front of your face, and you can see the frayed leather of the grip, your pleading eyes reflected in the shining pommel. With that button on it.
“The funny thing is…” the General says, “I thought it would take a great deal more artillery to crack the Unbreakable City. I had my women carry all this ordnance… how terrible that it should go to waste.”
There’s a murmur of anticipation.
“I have won the war.” the General continues. “Soon enough I’m sure I’ll find another one. But I have to decide what to do with this Broken City… and I want to know who you love most, my Worm.”
“I love you…” you whisper. “Please… take me…” You’re incoherent. Getting ahead of yourself!
“But my Worm,” the General says, “this button is connected to every gun outside that window. Each time it’s pressed, another shell will be launched. I have so many kinds of shell… incendiary shells… uranium shells… all of them will fall. Is that what you want?”
You open your mouth. Close it.
She makes a gesture. The soldiers crowding by the door spread, creating a corridor.
“You have served me well, my Worm.” she says. “Who knows how many would have died taking the Western Fortress without your… generosity?” No doubt, of course, she would have taken it. But you remember discussing the plan. The Western Fortress would go down fighting, and detonate its batteries, and the uranium fire would poison whoever is left. Her victory would be pyrrhic. The rest of the country would go unscathed.
You were fully committed.
“So let me give you an opportunity.” She grins, looking up at the cameras. “You can go back to the City, join your countrymen, regain some honour in a defiant death… or I will fuck you with Poet, right here in this room, and all of them will die. It’s your choice, my Worm…”
The guards release you. Your hands are already free of the shackles.
It’s no choice at all, really. You drop to your knees, lift your skirt, and with the other hand, pleadingly reach for the sword.
The room dissolves into laughter. The General, though, obliges you… she rams her Poet home without hesitation, and outside the window you hear a ‘whump’, as one of the great cannons unleashes its load. With her other hand, she grabs you by the neck, and makes sure you’re facing the window.
A distant ripple of light. A district collapses at the foundation, houses collapsing into the harbour.
The Queen pushes the sword in again. A ripple like fireworks: a whole battery of guns. The beautiful garden-towers, no longer shielded by the walls, become ash-coated splinters. You moan; your dick is sopping and bouncing about, you lift up a hand to touch it but the General tuts, and pushes it back to the floor.
You can feel pain, but you don’t care.
The Queen gets up; she wipes the blood and lube off Poet, stretches with a roll of her shoulders, and at last, she unlaces her breaches. She takes the little button and places it on the end of her own dick, and sticks it up inside you. You can see movement out of the corners of your eyes as the other soldiers take the cue to have some fun with each other.
A third thrust. This time an entire battery opens up at once, the thunder of it echoing up and down the valley, over and over. A sheet of fire rises up towards the palaces, the riches of a thousand years lost in an ecstatic instant.
A fourth. A breaching shell falls on the train station, the war bunker of last resort… and cracks it open, and more artillery rains in, blending the people inside.
By the time she’s finished, and you feel her warm cum dribbling out of your ass as she neatly wipes herself down and takes the offered uniform from her aide… by the time she’s done, there’s surely not a soul left alive in the Unbreakable City. You are the only survivor of your nation.
“That should do for the broadcast.” the Queen says. “Shackle the Worm—and do it tightly this time! We’ll march in a week.” And, fresh cloak on her shoulders, she steps smartly to the door of the war room. You’re still lying on the floor, drool falling from your mouth, straining against the shackle chain.
She stops… almost as an afterthought, though it never is with her. Someone passes her the head of Song, and she lobs it to you, letting it land just inside your reach. “Worm, if you’re still hungry for more… feel free to use his windpipe.”
And she’s gone.