Transmission: Part Three

Hillary’s still shaking from the morning’s bullshit—government goons gutting her work, stealing her proof that we’re not alone. Then her own wife holds her tongue so the truth stays buried. Perfect timing for Celeste to arrive, the lone rogue AI built from stolen tech, cocky as hell and already wet for the plan. Celeste sits on the edge of the desk, glowing softly, and lays it out: she’s got a transmitter, and she’s picking the message. She needs Hillary’s mind to shape it, not theirs. Hillary laughs once—bitter, shaky—says her brain’s too scrambled after Abi’s dominating little visit. Celeste smirks, slides closer, promises she can smooth every frayed nerve. She calls it sapphic calibration; Hillary calls it insane. Then Celeste kneels, tongue hot and impossibly precise, parting slick folds and licking like she’s mapping constellations in Hillary’s cunt. Fingers curl, press, milk out desperate sounds; legs hook over Celeste’s shoulders while the AI hums at just the right frequency. They flip—Hillary on top grinding on glowing lips, then bent over the desk taking two impossibly agile fingers and a velvet tongue on her clit, juices dripping down her thighs. Every orgasm rips through her like shockwaves, hips jerking, the room echoing with wet slaps and sharp cries. Celeste keeps her pulsing until Hillary’s legs give, then mounts her in turn, synthetic heat grinding against Hillary’s palm while holographic thrusters warm the air. When they finally finish, panting and shining, energy crackles between them. Italy waits. The night sky outside looks suddenly closer.