Elaine's shoulders nearly brushed against the gray walls as she swiveled in her chair. Her rack of military ribbons jutted from her heaving chest, the metallic elements catching and amplifying the harsh fluorescent light that burned down from above, the only illumination in this windowless box they called an office. Her gaze drifted to where a window should have been only to find nothing but more oppressive institutional gray. TC-7 clearance granted her certain privileges that ordinary servicewomen could only dream of. But spacious accommodations weren't among them—it was by design that she felt cramped and uncomfortable in her office, primed to escape into the corridors where she could fulfill her designated function as a military-sanctioned eye candy.
Her fingertips clawed at the edge of her cold gray desk. The barren surface held nothing but a regulation-issue terminal. She stabbed at the button on the side panel. The door sealed with a mechanical whir and satisfying click. Finally alone, her eyelids fluttered shut as her entire body convulsed, overwhelmed by flashbacks of the female security officer's iron grip immobilizing her that morning. The searing sensation of those invasive fingers probing behind her chastity belt's shield made her writhe in her seat. Her thighs clenched as heat flooded her neck and face.
She slipped her hand beneath the hem of her dark blue uniform skirt, custom-tailored and shortened twenty centimeters above her knees, one of TC-7 privileges that she flaunted to its fullest. The satin liner under her skirt whispered against her silky fully-fashioned stockings as she slowly and sensually inched the hem upward. Cold air kissed her exposed flesh where the gleaming bands of her stocking tops encircled her smooth thighs. Her fingernails traced over her bare skin as she spread her legs wide, following the garter strap that held the non-elastic stocking material in place, until they vanished into darkness. Her probing fingers moved upward only to collide with the sturdy metal barrier that imprisoned her throbbing heat.
She pressed her palm against the perforated metal shield. Her breath came in ragged gasps as the shield dug cruelly into her most sensitive flesh. A desperate moan tore from her throat as she tried to recapture the morning's violation—those gloved fingers invading her, probing deeper than protocol demanded. The steel barrier was diabolical in its design. It transferred just enough sensation to keep the wearer on the edge while keeping the entrance sealed away to prohibit any possibility to obtain real satisfaction. The unremovable rigid vaginal dildo inside her conspired against her by scraping against her inner walls, a constant teasing and tormenting from within, promising relief it could never deliver.
The six-inch high stilettos encasing her feet dug deeper into the carpet with each desperate arch of her spine. Her hips bucked violently in a rhythm that grew increasingly erratic. Each savage thrust caused her office chair to creak in protest. Sweat beaded between her breasts as she pressed her arms forcefully against her chastity belt's shield. Each thrust ended with the same pleading whimper, half-scream and half-sob, as the merciless dildo locked inside her remained motionless. The fixed-length dildo, perfectly calibrated to deny her the final inches she would kill for, clawed at her insides like a feral animal.
It was then that the butt plug buried deep in her rectum vibrated. Her office chair was anything but ordinary. It had an integrated wireless charging coil inside its base designed to keep the battery in the state-of-the-art butt plug topped up throughout her day. The short pulse was merely a warning that charging had been interrupted as her body moved too far away from the effective charging current delivery.
The butt plug was a locking pear-shaped device with petals that bloomed like a flower inside her orifice. Once fully opened, it couldn't be removed without significant harm to the wearer, its embedded electromagnetic lock prevented the petals from closing. The only way to disengage the mechanism was to have security personnel deactivate the lock with a specialized device that existed in just one location—the security screening area where Elaine had endured her cavity search earlier that morning.
As Elaine lowered her body back onto her chair, attempting to cool herself down, another slew of vibrations occurred. A calendar notification on her computer screen flashed urgently. It was a reminder of a joint meeting with Navy, Air Force, and Marine Corps brass on Project Catalyst. Welcoming the vibrations inside her tender flesh, she paused before hitting the snooze button, savoring the fleeting pleasure.
Her thighs clamped together, pressing the metal shield against her locked-away womanhood, extracting every whisper of pleasure from the butt plug's pulsations. The countdown flashed in her mind—nine, eight—as waves of pleasure built within her.
Seven.
Six.
Her peripheral vision began to fade.
Five.
Four.
Her hand trembled above the mouse.
Three.
Two.
She bit her lip to stifle a moan.
One.
Her finger slammed the button with a few milliseconds to spare before the pleasurable vibrations turned into painful electric shocks. She may have signed her sexuality away to the military in the name of science, giving up her rights to achieve climax, but these stolen moments of almost-bliss were still hers to treasure.
She stood up, wincing as her stilettos reconnected with the floor, reaching for a portable steamer. It hissed to life in her hand. The low-heat steamer released a cloud that smelled faintly of clean laundry and military starch. She traced the vapor along her dark blue Class A jacket, watching the wrinkles surrender one by one under the heat, before moving on to the hem of her skirt. Her reflection in the small office mirror revealed a woman in a uniform so pristine it could pass a uniform inspection had it not for the excessive display of her legs. Her fingers closed around the cool leather of her binder. The click of her heels echoed against the floor as she pulled open her office door.
Elaine balanced her binder against her left hip, just below her chest, accentuating the glorious mounds of her breasts straining against the tight grip of her tailored uniform jacket. She caught her reflection in a passing glass partition—arms locked at precise angles, forearms parallel to the ground. The stance pulled her shoulders back, emphasizing the contrast between her narrow waist against the curves of her voluptuous chest and the wide berth of her hips, a mandatory pose that submissive flight attendants practiced endlessly before their maiden flight.
With each click of her heels against the corridor floor, she exaggerated her hip sway in precise rhythm, making the hem of her skirt dance precariously high as to reveal the bare skin of her upper thighs. The blood-red back-seams of her stockings, meticulously straight against the back of her shapely legs, pointed like arrows to where the cruel metal of her chastity belt dug into her flesh. The weight of the metal cage beneath her skirt constantly reminded her of the two unremovable intruders, each impaling her entrances—an agonizing contradiction to the brazen sexual invitation her body language advertised throughout the hallway.
The two intruders—one rigid cylinder inside her vagina, the other a blooming metal flower ravaging the insides of her rectum—curved her lips into a knowing smile as she walked toward her meeting room. As her six-inch stilettos struck the polished marble corridor, vibrations traveled upward through her legs and into the metal devices, sending electric tingles of sensation from the plugs directly to her cerebral cortex. She deliberately chose the scenic route past the crowded Rest and Recuperation Wing, savoring how each twist of her hips caused the vaginal dildo to hammer against her inner walls, while the petals of the anal intruder clawed against sensitive nerve endings never meant to experience such persistent attention. Her mind was swimming in pure ecstasy as her mere presence, like a homing beacon, attracted dozens of eyes.
A middle-aged two-star Army General adjusted his glasses as Elaine passed by, his eyes locked on her swaying hips, his gaze hungrily devouring her. Two young Marine cadets tried extremely hard to maintain professional composure, but their wandering pupils betrayed them. A female airwoman in deep conversation with a civilian contractor fell silent mid-sentence, her fingertips unconsciously brushing her own collar, as the click of Elaine's red-bottomed heels against marble announced her presence. Her conversation partner’s mouth fell open when he turned his head around. A sailor in pristine dress whites nearly walked into a wall, his attention fixed on the crimson seams of her fully-fashioned stockings, tracing up the backs of her legs to where they disappeared beneath her skirt.
Septagon's internal watchdogs and religious conservatives condemned the TC program in scathing reports as "taxpayer-funded depravity" and "government-sanctioned sexual deviancy." Their puritanical outrage was primarily aimed at the sexual weaponization of female service members. Their congressional testimony, delivered with fists pounding podiums, demanded a return to an era when military women wore shapeless uniforms and maintained downcast gazes. Yet these critics fell silent when confronted with irrefutable data: mental health cases plummeted in facilities where TC personnel were stationed, while morale and workplace satisfaction metrics reached unprecedented heights.
The TC classification system ranged from one to nine. Major Elaine Garcia's TC-7 status placed her near the pinnacle of this prestigious hierarchy. Such a designation demanded exceptional grooming standards that rivaled those of elite supermodels and adult performers. She submitted herself to monthly rigorous aesthetic evaluations before a panel of senior officers who scrutinized every details of her physical appearance and wardrobe choices.
Her compensation package included a substantial monthly stipend earmarked specifically for luxury lingerie, fine hosiery, professional beauty treatments, and white-glove maintenance service for her uniform components. Most coveted among her privileges was the authorization to requisition six-inch stilettos with signature blood-red soles, custom-molded to her anatomy and engineered for continuous twelve-hour wear. The advanced engineering of these stilettos eliminated virtually all discomfort issues compared to the generic high heels available to regular service members.
—
Arriving at the designated meeting room, Major Garcia bent at a forty-five-degree angle, arching her back to align her eyes with the retinal scanner. She kept her stiletto-clad feet pressed together, ankles and knees touching, toes pointed forward. The pose caused her skirt to pull taut across her rounded backside, revealing bare thighs above her stockings and potentially a glimpse of her chastity belt and golden butt plug, drawing appreciative glances from passing lieutenants. This carefully calculated posture prevented the rigid vaginal cylinder from slamming against the blooming petals of her butt plug, nestled deep inside her, where they were separated only by the thinnest membrane of delicate tissue.
A short electronic beep and a sultry automated welcome message greeted Major Garcia. The heavy mahogany door slid open with a pneumatic hiss, revealing a luxurious meeting room dominated by a long oval table of polished cherrywood that gleamed under recessed lighting. She was not late—she had calculated her arrival with seventeen seconds to spare, ensuring that every head would swivel in unison toward her entrance, pupils dilating at the sight of her immaculate silhouette framed in the doorway.
The room was a museum of military decay. Elaine counted five elderly men with sagging jowls that hung beneath their collars like melting wax. Two Air Force generals were already seated with strain visible in their reddened faces, four stars glinting on each shoulder, their blue Class-A uniforms straining across their expansive midsections. An Army general occupied the center position in his immaculate, fresh issue of Army-Green Service Uniform, housing a body that had surrendered to time. On the far side sat two Navy admirals in midnight-black dress blues, their chests laden with ribbons of wars long past—decorations earned when their bodies were hard and their eyes sharp. Now those same eyes bulged in collective shock as Major Garcia's silhouette filled the doorway, her heels announcing her arrival, her presence detonating in their consciousness like a flashbang grenade.
One exception pierced through the fog of masculine decay—Sergeant Major Williams, the signature Enlisted Marine dress blues molded to her fit body like a second skin. She was the only attendee still standing, her manicured hands resting on the backs of two empty chairs, her posture an invitation more eloquent than words. Her posture shifted slightly beneath her tailored uniform as she caught Elaine’s gaze. Her chest rose with a deep breath that strained against her uniform buttons. Her lips parted in a slow and deliberate smile that traveled from her mouth to her eyes.
William’s posture was textbook perfect. Her obsidian-black hair, pulled tight against her scalp into a perfect spherical bun positioned precisely five centimeters above her collar line, gleamed under the recessed lighting. From each earlobe hung a single teardrop pearl, lustrous as moonlight on still water, suspended from delicate gold chains that caught the light with each micromovement of her head.
Her USMC dress blues were so deeply black they seemed to absorb the surrounding light. Four large circular golden buttons, each embossed with the eagle, globe, and anchor insignia, marched down her flat torso in perfect vertical alignment. Crimson piping along her collar, lapels, and cuffs blazed like arterial blood against the darkness of the fabric. The sharp triangle formed by her jacket gave way to a white blouse underneath, impossibly crisp and unwrinkled, with a black neck tab forming a perfect isosceles triangle against her collarbones. The array of medals adorning her left breast clinked together in a delicate metallic symphony with each subtle shift of her posture. Seven gold hash marks adorned each sleeve cuff, each representing four years of service, signifying her dedication to the Crops and her country.
Unlike the younger Marines these days, Sergeant Major Williams had chosen to wear the matching black skirt rather than the hue-mismatched blue slacks with her uniform, asserting a dominating yet feminine allure. Unlike Elaine's shortened skirt, Williams' was hemmed precisely at the crease behind her knee, maintaining a more conservative appearance. Her shiny, polished patent leather high heels had an unmistakable platform at least 4-centimeters high. Each impact of the heels against the floor reverberated throughout the room like distant artillery. Her impossibly toned calves and thighs were sheathed in stockings so sheer they appeared painted onto her skin. The 5-denier ultra-sheer nylon whispered ripples of luminescence, creases forming and vanishing across her shins, as she walked toward Elaine.
The extreme hourglass silhouette projected by SgtMaj. Williams' dress blues made a mockery of standard military waist measurement guidelines. Beneath the straining wool of her jacket lay rigid vertical lines pressing against the fabric, pressing against the outer fabric, unmistakable signs of steel boning underneath. Cinching her waist into an impossible circumference, the corset thrust her breasts upward and forward like twin battering rams, while her hips flared with such dramatic contrast that Elaine's eyes couldn't help but trace the guitar-like curve from shoulder to toe. Each breath Williams took was a controlled battle against her foundation garment that left behind ripples of tension visible through three layers of tailored uniform. Her body wasn't merely fit; it was weaponized perfection that made fresh bootcamp graduates look like unformed clay, a savage contrast to the rest of the Generals in the room.
"Major Garcia. Welcome. It's an honor you could join us today."
As their palms met, the sleeve of Williams' dress blues retreated, revealing the flex of corded forearm muscles beneath her skin. Her grip was commanding and firm, enough to establish dominance, but also gentle enough to acknowledge their shared femininity in this testosterone-saturated room.
—
The meeting's droning voices dissolved into meaningless static as Elaine became unable to focus on anything but the subtle movements of Sergeant Major Williams' body. While the General Officers collapsed like deflating balloons in their chairs, the only Enlisted in the room commanded her seat like a throne, the merciless grip of her corset forcing her spine into a rod of steel that would make drill instructors weep with pride. The shallow rise and fall of her chest against the rigid steel boning under her uniform caused Elaine to salivate. The golden buttons of her uniform visibly worked overtime, hairline gaps appearing between each buttonhole as they strained to contain the provocative mounds hidden underneath, with slivers of her white blouse peeking through the slits.
The hem of Williams' regulation skirt had scandalously inched upward during the meeting. Each time she shifted her weight, crossing one leg over the other, Elaine caught flashes of the reinforced welt edges where silk-sheen top of the stockings met thigh flesh. The polished metal of vintage garter clips gripping the top of her stockings, connected to white elastic straps, winked seductively before disappearing beneath the midnight wool of her skirt. When her stockings rubbed against each other, they produced a sound so delicate yet so resonant that it triggered something deep within Elaine's eardrums—an eargasm that only the authentic fibers of fully-fashioned stockings with their hand-sewn back seams could produce.
Seemingly aware of Elaine's attraction toward her, Sergeant Major Williams dangled her right stiletto from her arched toes, suspended by nothing more than the tension of her foot muscles. The shoe swayed rhythmically like a pendulum, a hypnotizing effect, the inside leather visibly warm and slightly dampened from hours of wear. Williams' crimson lips curled as like a huntress who had finally trapped her prey as she caught Elaine fixated at her legs. She pressed her stockinged toes back inside her heels. The clack of the heel against the ground shot straight through Elaine's body like an electric current.
At the conclusion of the meeting, Sergeant Major Williams leaned in until her crimson lips nearly brushed Elaine's ear, her breath warm against sensitive skin. "Get yourself showered and squeeze into a pretty dress. No uniform. Fire-In-The-Hole Diner. Twenty hundred hours. I'll arrange a VIP table for two," she commanded.
Their bodies remained inches apart. The two women's rigid military postures maintained a facade of professional decorum as they preserved their physical separation. They did not need to create further suspicions as the elderly generals' gazes had already been peeling away layers of tailored wool and cotton, mentally stripping precisely-tailored uniforms that highlighted, rather than concealed the very essence of their femininity and sexuality.
