PLATTERS POWERED BY PRURIENCE: THE REVITALIZING RENDEZVOUS OF DRUUNA
By Quillon42
SOMEWHERE IN SPACE
For the most part really, all existence ever was for the embattled raven-haired ravisher Druuna…all it ever was was a drudgery of trudge. Especially since her swain Shastar converted in constitution from a dapper gentleman to a dangerous gelatin, for which his frau sought serums to afford him minutes-ranging reversions to human form…the missus was always moseying around her contaminated cellblock of a society all on her own.
As it would turn out, in this iteration of the lady's maiden adventure—the first one of most morbid gravity, in its tone and execution—Druuna darted along her precarious path a bit more expeditiously than anyone could have ever imagined. The fact was that here, unlike in the adventure which all knew either on the comic page or by the computer pixel, the lady had a bit more of a boost, at least after a certain checkpoint, to assist her along on her route in this rendition of the tale.
More particularly, Druu drove that stalwart sentry Jock—the one whom she put the charm on, before checking in to see an Ottonegger who in print was most concupiscent, and on the PC was most cadaverous—she made the medical mercenary accompany her the way back to her infected homestead, so that she made reach all the more quickly that Shasta(r) for which she thirsted so terribly.
What was more, in this narrative localized in the confines between graphic publication and game program, Jock here jauntily disposed of that bad doctor who lived long enough to extort eight shots of serum out of Druuna's derriere…the physician pushing the panacea only after pressing upon the nymph's nether regions for a fair fling. After gaining wind of this, the embittered soldier helped himself to an octet of his own shots—an acupuncture of sorts, to be exact, with ammunition used for implements and Ottonegger as the object of the treatment. After the incident, the jaded J and D dove out the back of the clinic so they couldn't be caught by the other checkpoint grunts.
Now Jock and Druu were beating brashly through the byways close to the woman's home. It was all they could do to make it back to the lady's place, as enervated as each was at this point. The industrious infantryman was not only a help in dispatching dodgy demons who looked to leap upon Shastar's squeeze…he was of especial assistance helping the sable-tressed sylph in gracing across the various gaps littered throughout her lethal environs. As those who played this story would surely understand, more than those who read it…Druuna wasn't the most vaunted at vaulting the various platforms and precipices peppered throughout her adventure. Though the hoyden was heavy in some sumptuous places, her intrepid escort handily hefted her overhead and friggin' flung her across those holes she had a tad of trouble with on the way over to the office, Jock being nimble and jumping thereafter. Needless to say, by the time the soldier slid towards Druuna's doorstep, he was a major mixture of exhausted and amorous, he having hauled ass in more ways than one.
And what a homecoming it was for the debilitated duo…especially for the dame who dared the odds for her dear darling.
"SHASTAR, NO!"
What the babe beheld was a sight more sickening than anything she could have ever anticipated:
Her husband before her, he that same maroon mold of a man that he had been these past several, wearying weeks…
…and he entangled presently in the passionate embrace of that wily whiskerless woman whom Druuna sat beside at the checkpoint.
Torridly his tentacles were embedded, enmeshed in the feelers of the femme who reached at him now from all directions. Muckily the masses of their terrible torsos thrust at one another, their maws melding together messily as something jumped up within Jock nearly and launched out of his gullet, cascading to the grimy floor underfoot.
Instinctively the randy ranger held his pistol out and downward with one shaky hand, even though he hadn't the presence of mind or anything remotely close to focus in order to aim properly. More disgusted than dazed, Druuna opened her own palm and held her hand out towards the commando:
"Please…allow me."
At this Jock nodded quickly, the puking-up paladin permitting the adventuress to wrest the gun from him. Without hesitating a second, Druu drew on the panting protoplasmic pair ahead of her, and
[BLAMM BLAMM BLAMM BLAMM BLAMM BLAMM]
soon each of the amorphous amours was obliterated utterly, leaving little more than copulatory calamari in the wake of all the slimeshed.
Turning to the still-retching trooper on the way out, the murderous mademoiselle:
"Feeling up for some shellfish tonight?"
Jock, as his companion crouched outside her homestead to take it all in: "Ffffff…fuck no."
In the ensuing hours, the soldier was shaping back up quite proper. What really made him feel wholly hale, and even redeemed in his own strict, Spartan mind, was his rescue in this reality of an old gal named Gala, who might have been nailed down and nommed upon by the nastiest of freak-Freudian biped nightmares. Fortunately the cadet came along just at the right moment, and with his potent pistol he put down the putrescent thing, allowing Gala to rejoin his family eventually on the other side of an imposing gate.
Using clues given Druuna by the heady hermaphrodite that was the Mutant, Jetta the hinky Hershey's Kiss of a shopkeep, and that weird little green-cloaked hater-hobbit…the leading lady and her soldier sidekick eventually made it up, up, up, all the way to the sanctum of the Master himself. As luck would have it, Jock still carried enough clips to blast back the slick bitchslapping cyborgs who might have made short work of the sauntering warriors, and the impetuous pair soon found themselves an audience before the awesome answerer for the mysteries of this miserable milieu.
Completely confounded were Jock and Druuna upon learning that their world was merely a wagon, their planet a fucking pram, their entire surroundings all a ship out in deep space, stranded and slathered all over with ethereal illness and infection, all on the part of a computer gone crummily awry, a devious doodad by the name of Delta—or, as Druuna's uniformly-UK voice actors would have one believe, "Delter."
In any case, what passed for the purlieu frequented by all the freaks, as well as a soldier and Mrs. Shastar…it was a wonder, once, but had since all gone to waste. Now all that was new that was due to occur, as far as the Master was concerned, was that the engine he had literally headed up—with only his cranium to account for his entire existence at this juncture—that beaten-up battery, it would conk out in a matter of only months. And then, pooped out of all its power, the ship would slip into a resourceless chaos—and all life would eventually, though not nonviolently, cease to exist upon it.
Trying to take it all in, Druuna sunk despairingly to the steel floor of the Master's sanctum sanctorum. Above, Jock listlessly massaged the maiden's shoulders, giving his mistress at least a minimum of comfort through the gentle coaxing.
Then a moment later, after the lady thought about all she had already lost, and what she would stand to lose soon, and what she would no longer enjoy once it all came crashing down…the minimum mutated, growing into an outpouring of arousal from something deep within the dame.
And then Jock jerked out the device which Druuna derived from her trade with the abovementioned eccentric hamster of a hawker of goods.
It was almost comical, the way the mutate merchant made through all the junk in her emporium of ejecta. Then, finally after another small fit of floundering through a bit more passably-tradable flotsam:
"No, no, nnnnnNO, that won't do at all…uttititit…ahh, here we are…
"HEETAAHHH!"
"Ohh," said Druuna, looking at Jock and shrugging upon seeing the small, steely-pincered device put before them on the countertop. "But…but what does it do?"
"What does it DO? Uppupup it…it's a carnal catalyst; you use it to control the soldjah's mojo…
At least we thinks it will work with him! For us, we've used it before when we've been feeling all lonely and blue. ER-specially since Shastar doesn't show up anymore to…ah…"
A complete look of blasted batshit confusion from Druu and the dork alongside her at this.
Jetta, shaking her head and summoning up her caustic charisma once more:
"Well but anyhoo we're happy to trade it for the random lint you found on the floor while taking 1.5 steps every two minutes to squat and avoid a revolving metal cog passing overhead a few sectors ago, yes we are, we ARE!
"(Oh, and we still have only three hundred fifty-two other heetahs we still use in the back room, of course we do…)"
Fond thoughts of that horny gibbering commercialistic gerbil coursed through the cerebellum of Druuna as the maiden now made towards her new man, in the resting place of the Master. Cautiously Druuna held the heetah down, decisively upon the other pistol that Jock packed. The pincers thereon pulsed, then latched lasciviously upon the soldier's shaft, priming the pump right well and rendering him hard enough to endure a welter of Delters and the havoc they all could possibly wreak at once.
Greedily Druuna then grasped at the small devilish device and cast it carefully aside. Who knew if she would need to employ its artifice again, for another bout further afield.
The weight upon the warrior's wang suddenly went from synthetic to something much more naughtily natural, as the stygian-tressed mistress trespassed most sultrily upon the soldier, she mounting the mercenary with a gush of newfound gusto. Jock's own engine was far from depleted as he laid freak-fatigued eyes upon the most alpine pair of erotic outcroppings ever, that devastating doublet of brazen breasts distending out and dashing into his frazzled features, those milky mounds massing against his callused cheeks, her bounteous bosoms caroming into his countenance, convincing him keenly that it was all not within an effing universe of being in vain, what he went through with this voluptuous vortex of a woman which/who was enveloping him presently and effervescently.
Fervently the femme and her trooper-toy Jock jumbled together, working in tandem, playing with one another in the most mellifluous synchronization. Insatiably the commando commandeered his lady's luscious lunar spheres, his varied members daring to delve amidst, then between the expanses of her dual gluteal gradients. Indeed, those creamy cambers cantered sensuously at the stimulus of the soldier's diversity of digits, from oral to manual to that most intimate as each probed along, pulsating. Before long at all, Druuna's nether dunes became nettled with the need for her man to live up to his given name (sort of) and jockey himself upon, then within her.
In the coming, consummating minutes, to be sure, the decadent duo of Druuna and her desperado drove the machine of their mundus from morbus with disease to molten with desire. Verily said desperado ignited within his dame something that neither Doctor Ottonegger in his perverse lewdness, nor Doofus Shastar in his pitiful lameness, could ever inspire inside the lady. The depth of the detonations inside both Druuna and Jock were such that each could swear that his or her world was brightening by each bawdy bump of the one's explicit extremity against the other.
As it turned out, in fact, it was the case that the cogent coitus between the lovers was now what powered that stained steel platter skimming aimlessly through space. Unbeknownst to either Jock or Druuna, the most mindful Master was monitoring their making of love, then mooring in turn the very platter of the amours themselves to his sanctum, he utilizing their raw sensual energy now to revitalize the Delta/er-defiled engine animating the ship. Thus did the ravenous gambols of a young and reckless romp of raunch revive a world that was withering away ever so pathetically by the parsec.
Through it all, Druuna and Jock never really noticed the euphoric development erupting all around…at least not beyond the bright flashes that each perceived in his or her peripherals. Nay, the naughty pioneers or prurience simply took to the task of taking one another ever more intensely, each having found in the other an essence worth more than a serum for any dreary wrackful pandemic or solution to any dying world's plight.