Military Aerospaceport News: All military aircraft of the Outlands can now be by-mind commanded to form via singing-3D-printing, then raised up to the corresponding landing discs.
Military Aerospaceport - Story 1
Military Aerospaceport Story 1
Note:
Note:
This story describes one of the standard Inisfreean flybys by its military personnel over its main military training area; the swamp and desert plateaus strip at the city's far side.
Note:
Because Inisfree is entirely restricted airspace, and because all Inisfreean constructs can phase-shift to avoid collisions, nearly all conceivable flight paths by Inisfreean vessels are acceptable.
Note:
The military aerospaceport is one of two aerospaceports serving the city Inisfree; the other being for all civilian air-and-Space traffic not utilizing the Pearly Gates of Inisfree's Perimeter Wall.
Note:
Because Inisfree is entirely restricted airspace, and because all Inisfreean constructs can phase-shift to avoid collisions, nearly all conceivable flight paths by Inisfreean vessels are acceptable.
Note:
The military aerospaceport is one of two aerospaceports serving the city Inisfree; the other being for all civilian air-and-Space traffic not utilizing the Pearly Gates of Inisfree's Perimeter Wall.
Note
Note
Note
軍事
航天站
軍事 航天站
Part 1:
The iron-colored, beaked-saucer shaped aircraft dipped and banked down from its concealed trajectory above the low and thick cloud cover casting gray light on the whole half of Inisfree below. It was a training day for the many clone variants born of this city which were now in the midst of their 19th grade of its educational system; Inisfree’s version of Boot Camp and all advanced military training programs compressed into one vastly more efficient and redundancies-free pipeline straight to the Inisfreean fleet.
The aircraft, known as an M.P.H.A. (Multi-Purpose, Heavy Assault), was a dark earth-tone, thick and wide, almost frisbee shaped, with a tail-end swooping up from a flat underbelly, unnecessary support wings retracted within its sides and kept down inside panels atop its dorsal area, a horizontal slit for a cockpit sensor array appearing deceptively as an elongated viewing port like a windshield fashioned after a medieval knight’s helm’s face-plate, and completed with four gun platforms encased within a sphere blended in to each of its corners. Landing gear were as unnecessary at this point in Inisfree’s technological development and aerospace engineering knowhow as its internalized wings were, and the same was true of oxidation, thrusters, retro-rockets, JTOL rockets, boosters, and combustion engines and turbines in general. Inisfreean vessels had become so advanced that they could even cancel out their contrails and float or hibernate indefinitely with no maintenance or guidance whatsoever. This particular MPHA maneuvered like an aircraft for fun, hissing with the muffled scream of partially silenced fighter-jet engine noises as part of its ‘shock and awe’ operation modes. Contained within its belly were two Assassin Pods (AP), two Fighter-Jet (FJ) aircraft, and two Desolator tanks (DT), and contained above them in the main compartments of this airship were a few dozen Inisfreean Master Females; teen-girl-sized commandos who had graduated all 20 grades of the Inisfreean educational system, deployed to Inisfree’s fleet, and earned the right to summon their couture Storm Trooper-ess power-armor suits at will.
Swooping lower and lower on its expanding arc out from the underside of the thick, gray, rainclouds sky cover, its crew inside switched their vision type from x-ray and microwave to the human’s visual spectrum, having now gained unhindered line-of-sight with all of the ground sections of their city a mile below. Closing the distance between their aircraft and the three terrain elevations they were beginning to strafe over (the swamp at the lowest bracket, the first of the desert plateaus in the middle, and the second and highest of the desert plateaus farther out near the horizon), they could make out the expanding forms of the many Inisfreeans being trained to grow from ‘boots’ (new members passing from Boot Camp to the fleet, since Inisfree has no ‘recruits’, as all Inisfreeans serve in its military forces on and off for life) to commandos and commanders. What were once color-coded outlines in their HUDs and natural fields of view… were now normal-colored human outlines; the figures of small, preteen-to-teenage looking girls, all nude, most often in formations for outdoor classrooms and marching practice, and sometimes in stacks outside faux condemned buildings and the training tower to practice breaching and dynamic entries as small units of fire-team size.
Allowing its presence to be seen and heard, namely as a dark, foreboding, prominent-looking aircraft that appeared as though it could take any hit and fly straight through a skyscraper without even flinching, and sounding, as it passed over the Inisfreean heads below, like the suddenly audible and loudening whine and roar of several Outlands fighter-jet engines, it was a stirring, inspiring, and exciting sight and sound indeed. Its contrail, also one of the many options it had complete control over, were a few brief tails of whitened air streaking out and riding the slow breeze behind it, fading out just as quickly as it was flying past. None of the Inisfreeans did more than, perhaps, glance up at it for a few seconds if they were moving freely in the various topside (surface; ground level) training areas and exercises, or, if they were in formation, merely allowing themselves to enjoy it in their upper peripheral fields of vision. Though it was enough to make their pussies wet and salivary glands tingling with excretions, they made no outward show of it; Inisfreeans were more disciplined than the finest Outlander troops.
The MPHA quickly shot over the swamp, just a dozen stories above its layered canopies, and could be seen approaching the middle of the lower of the two desert plateaus directly. On its trajectory, it would practically caress the top of the lone training tower just before the firing and impact ranges up ahead. A mere one hundred or so feet below it, the artillery pieces lined up near the edge of the cliff dropping back down into the swamp area from which it had come… continued to fire, lobbing ‘smart’-shells up on both its flanks, firing with such precision and confidence that no adjustments to shift fire would ever be necessary. As with its own engine whines, the earth-shaking booms of the volley-fired artillery shells were precisely set to be intimidating and invigorating. These were the Inisfreean hammers of Thor, so to speak, and the thunder they made rallied and thrilled our troops just as much as they startled and terrified our enemies.
Passing in the next few seconds out up over the classrooms, barracks, and chow halls, the MPHA reached the area of the training tower. Looking out from its false-windows (solid armor made to appear transparent, like a polarized metal changing its tint, superimposed with digital and in-mind (mind’s-eye) targeting reticles, outlines, and data overlays), I could see past my Inisfreean crew (all little girls) seated in their various cockpit recliner-throne bucket-seats, all of my other children below; hundreds of other immortal, eternally-preteen supermodel girls; my nearly countless host of daughters, all of whom had been engineered at every single rung of their Inisfreean version of DNA, and all of whom had been cloned and raised in batches of copies and variants of the base-models approved by the Grid Mind after filtering the reconnaissance notes and imagery of my pre-Inisfree Outlands expeditions. One of these lines of small young ladies; a ‘stack’, as it was called, just outside the ground-level main door to the training tower, rapidly repeated the knee-to-knee-pit tap-signal from its back (rearward-most teammate) to point-girl (point-man; forward-most teammate), and forward they rushed into the blasted-open door, flowing in like a flood of surgical, tactical genius, clearing all of the rooms in silence and seconds.
Next came the in-your-face view of chaotic explosions peppering and denting the miles-wide impact range where crisscrossing sectors of fire sent overlapping walls of lead, francium, cyanide, and diamonds down range to collide with and complement the shrapnel from the artillery shells, mortars, grenade launcher rounds, rockets, missiles, aerial gunship fire, and pinpoint-accurate orbital bombardment rods and masers (microwave-range lasers). As we flew through this, the many different types of projectiles and beams, all of which were ‘smart’-technology, were directed and course-corrected around us; not one of them ever even so much as grazed our MPHA, though all were kept close enough to easily do just that, had they not been so well designed, calibrated, and manned by we Inisfreeans; living supercomputers. The ODST (Orbital-Drop Shock-Troopers) pods came down amidst all this, just as well-protected within these barrages of firepower, and landed on the expansive field of growing craters furthered by the manmade meteor shower so often used to mask their pod-signatures from would-be enemy detection and alert systems. Slowing our speed and guiding into a slightly different vector, we flew such that we could stay in the dead center of it all, enjoying the view of this ‘fireworks’ show through the MPHA’s now-transparent cockpit floor; another image overlay making it seem transparent to us, while it would be invisible (still looking like a normal, solid, opaque, metal floor) to any non-Inisfreeans due to it being decrypted only to our specific brainwave signatures.
As the ODST troopers (also all little girls; daughters of mine) charged forward to their targets spread out across this hellish impact range, all of them having donned their lion-helmed power-armor suits (Space-worthy, feminine equivalents of the Iron Man combat exoskeleton), I turned to my pilot in her center- and foremost recliner-throne bucket-seat in our MPHA cockpit, rested my hand on her shoulder, and used my thoughts to show her an image of what I wanted to happen next. Transferring it simultaneously through 1) the flesh of my hand to that of her bare shoulder via the H.A.N. (Human Area Network), 2) thin-air to her mind via techno-pathy (our advanced form of telepathy), and 3) non-space to the Grid Mind and all other concerned Inisfreeans via our quantum-entanglement-linked brains, I issued our Inisfreean form of movement orders which she and our equally conscious airship immediately and gracefully responded to. Turning to look up at me over her shoulder from her seated and harnessed position in that cockpit-throne of hers, she extended her chin and tilted her head back to offer her lips to me, which I sealed with my own, kissing her as only Inisfreeans can; this was one of our Inisfreean equivalents of a recognizing salute and acknowledging ‘aye aye, sir’ response. Her tongue swirled around my own before teasing my tongue’s tip while her lips sucked my tongue all the way to its end as she eased back into the normal sitting position in her pilot’s-throne, smiling to me cutely and sexily with lips remaining closed after sucking in a few drops of saliva from my tongue, and twinkling in her rainbow-glowing irises before turning back to resume direct control of her airship; our MPHA had automatically assumed autopilot responsibilities the moment she looked away from its HUD and control console for her pilot’s-throne.
The iron-colored, beaked-saucer shaped aircraft dipped and banked down from its concealed trajectory above the low and thick cloud cover casting gray light on the whole half of Inisfree below. It was a training day for the many clone variants born of this city which were now in the midst of their 19th grade of its educational system; Inisfree’s version of Boot Camp and all advanced military training programs compressed into one vastly more efficient and redundancies-free pipeline straight to the Inisfreean fleet.
The aircraft, known as an M.P.H.A. (Multi-Purpose, Heavy Assault), was a dark earth-tone, thick and wide, almost frisbee shaped, with a tail-end swooping up from a flat underbelly, unnecessary support wings retracted within its sides and kept down inside panels atop its dorsal area, a horizontal slit for a cockpit sensor array appearing deceptively as an elongated viewing port like a windshield fashioned after a medieval knight’s helm’s face-plate, and completed with four gun platforms encased within a sphere blended in to each of its corners. Landing gear were as unnecessary at this point in Inisfree’s technological development and aerospace engineering knowhow as its internalized wings were, and the same was true of oxidation, thrusters, retro-rockets, JTOL rockets, boosters, and combustion engines and turbines in general. Inisfreean vessels had become so advanced that they could even cancel out their contrails and float or hibernate indefinitely with no maintenance or guidance whatsoever. This particular MPHA maneuvered like an aircraft for fun, hissing with the muffled scream of partially silenced fighter-jet engine noises as part of its ‘shock and awe’ operation modes. Contained within its belly were two Assassin Pods (AP), two Fighter-Jet (FJ) aircraft, and two Desolator tanks (DT), and contained above them in the main compartments of this airship were a few dozen Inisfreean Master Females; teen-girl-sized commandos who had graduated all 20 grades of the Inisfreean educational system, deployed to Inisfree’s fleet, and earned the right to summon their couture Storm Trooper-ess power-armor suits at will.
Swooping lower and lower on its expanding arc out from the underside of the thick, gray, rainclouds sky cover, its crew inside switched their vision type from x-ray and microwave to the human’s visual spectrum, having now gained unhindered line-of-sight with all of the ground sections of their city a mile below. Closing the distance between their aircraft and the three terrain elevations they were beginning to strafe over (the swamp at the lowest bracket, the first of the desert plateaus in the middle, and the second and highest of the desert plateaus farther out near the horizon), they could make out the expanding forms of the many Inisfreeans being trained to grow from ‘boots’ (new members passing from Boot Camp to the fleet, since Inisfree has no ‘recruits’, as all Inisfreeans serve in its military forces on and off for life) to commandos and commanders. What were once color-coded outlines in their HUDs and natural fields of view… were now normal-colored human outlines; the figures of small, preteen-to-teenage looking girls, all nude, most often in formations for outdoor classrooms and marching practice, and sometimes in stacks outside faux condemned buildings and the training tower to practice breaching and dynamic entries as small units of fire-team size.
Allowing its presence to be seen and heard, namely as a dark, foreboding, prominent-looking aircraft that appeared as though it could take any hit and fly straight through a skyscraper without even flinching, and sounding, as it passed over the Inisfreean heads below, like the suddenly audible and loudening whine and roar of several Outlands fighter-jet engines, it was a stirring, inspiring, and exciting sight and sound indeed. Its contrail, also one of the many options it had complete control over, were a few brief tails of whitened air streaking out and riding the slow breeze behind it, fading out just as quickly as it was flying past. None of the Inisfreeans did more than, perhaps, glance up at it for a few seconds if they were moving freely in the various topside (surface; ground level) training areas and exercises, or, if they were in formation, merely allowing themselves to enjoy it in their upper peripheral fields of vision. Though it was enough to make their pussies wet and salivary glands tingling with excretions, they made no outward show of it; Inisfreeans were more disciplined than the finest Outlander troops.
The MPHA quickly shot over the swamp, just a dozen stories above its layered canopies, and could be seen approaching the middle of the lower of the two desert plateaus directly. On its trajectory, it would practically caress the top of the lone training tower just before the firing and impact ranges up ahead. A mere one hundred or so feet below it, the artillery pieces lined up near the edge of the cliff dropping back down into the swamp area from which it had come… continued to fire, lobbing ‘smart’-shells up on both its flanks, firing with such precision and confidence that no adjustments to shift fire would ever be necessary. As with its own engine whines, the earth-shaking booms of the volley-fired artillery shells were precisely set to be intimidating and invigorating. These were the Inisfreean hammers of Thor, so to speak, and the thunder they made rallied and thrilled our troops just as much as they startled and terrified our enemies.
Passing in the next few seconds out up over the classrooms, barracks, and chow halls, the MPHA reached the area of the training tower. Looking out from its false-windows (solid armor made to appear transparent, like a polarized metal changing its tint, superimposed with digital and in-mind (mind’s-eye) targeting reticles, outlines, and data overlays), I could see past my Inisfreean crew (all little girls) seated in their various cockpit recliner-throne bucket-seats, all of my other children below; hundreds of other immortal, eternally-preteen supermodel girls; my nearly countless host of daughters, all of whom had been engineered at every single rung of their Inisfreean version of DNA, and all of whom had been cloned and raised in batches of copies and variants of the base-models approved by the Grid Mind after filtering the reconnaissance notes and imagery of my pre-Inisfree Outlands expeditions. One of these lines of small young ladies; a ‘stack’, as it was called, just outside the ground-level main door to the training tower, rapidly repeated the knee-to-knee-pit tap-signal from its back (rearward-most teammate) to point-girl (point-man; forward-most teammate), and forward they rushed into the blasted-open door, flowing in like a flood of surgical, tactical genius, clearing all of the rooms in silence and seconds.
Next came the in-your-face view of chaotic explosions peppering and denting the miles-wide impact range where crisscrossing sectors of fire sent overlapping walls of lead, francium, cyanide, and diamonds down range to collide with and complement the shrapnel from the artillery shells, mortars, grenade launcher rounds, rockets, missiles, aerial gunship fire, and pinpoint-accurate orbital bombardment rods and masers (microwave-range lasers). As we flew through this, the many different types of projectiles and beams, all of which were ‘smart’-technology, were directed and course-corrected around us; not one of them ever even so much as grazed our MPHA, though all were kept close enough to easily do just that, had they not been so well designed, calibrated, and manned by we Inisfreeans; living supercomputers. The ODST (Orbital-Drop Shock-Troopers) pods came down amidst all this, just as well-protected within these barrages of firepower, and landed on the expansive field of growing craters furthered by the manmade meteor shower so often used to mask their pod-signatures from would-be enemy detection and alert systems. Slowing our speed and guiding into a slightly different vector, we flew such that we could stay in the dead center of it all, enjoying the view of this ‘fireworks’ show through the MPHA’s now-transparent cockpit floor; another image overlay making it seem transparent to us, while it would be invisible (still looking like a normal, solid, opaque, metal floor) to any non-Inisfreeans due to it being decrypted only to our specific brainwave signatures.
As the ODST troopers (also all little girls; daughters of mine) charged forward to their targets spread out across this hellish impact range, all of them having donned their lion-helmed power-armor suits (Space-worthy, feminine equivalents of the Iron Man combat exoskeleton), I turned to my pilot in her center- and foremost recliner-throne bucket-seat in our MPHA cockpit, rested my hand on her shoulder, and used my thoughts to show her an image of what I wanted to happen next. Transferring it simultaneously through 1) the flesh of my hand to that of her bare shoulder via the H.A.N. (Human Area Network), 2) thin-air to her mind via techno-pathy (our advanced form of telepathy), and 3) non-space to the Grid Mind and all other concerned Inisfreeans via our quantum-entanglement-linked brains, I issued our Inisfreean form of movement orders which she and our equally conscious airship immediately and gracefully responded to. Turning to look up at me over her shoulder from her seated and harnessed position in that cockpit-throne of hers, she extended her chin and tilted her head back to offer her lips to me, which I sealed with my own, kissing her as only Inisfreeans can; this was one of our Inisfreean equivalents of a recognizing salute and acknowledging ‘aye aye, sir’ response. Her tongue swirled around my own before teasing my tongue’s tip while her lips sucked my tongue all the way to its end as she eased back into the normal sitting position in her pilot’s-throne, smiling to me cutely and sexily with lips remaining closed after sucking in a few drops of saliva from my tongue, and twinkling in her rainbow-glowing irises before turning back to resume direct control of her airship; our MPHA had automatically assumed autopilot responsibilities the moment she looked away from its HUD and control console for her pilot’s-throne.
Part 2:
Banking hard-right, we changed our velocity dramatically, entering into a narrow circle that would take us soaring out toward the city’s Perimeter Wall, just barely past the outermost lanes of the G.A.H., and banking hard-left back in from that corner of Inisfree’s property to buzz the ‘Cut Pyramid’ construct on our way spiraling ever closer, inward, and down toward our chosen landing-disc of the military aerospaceport’s runways set flush (even) with that highest of Inisfree’s desert plateaus. As we entered this narrow approach loop, one which would nearly disintegrate any Outlander aircraft, we all remained barefoot (and nude, except for my large, flowing, blood-red cape) inside our MPHA cockpit; myself still standing unassisted behind and to the side of my daughter’s cockpit-throne. The material of our constructs, namely the gray, flesh-like floor’s surface of our cockpit here, perfectly maintained its fine-tuning; adjusted to provide the ideal amount of friction and grip to the flesh of my bare feet. This was ‘smart’-flooring, and it allowed us to run up walls to do le-parkour and free-running flips, as well as to start sliding at a moment’s notice –even when wearing thick-soled hiking boots. Standing almost completely sideways during our hard-right and hard-left banking maneuvers, I felt no changes in G-forces; another of our engineering breakthroughs and marvels, and remained perfectly calm, happy, and stationary with only the slightest of negligible stabilizer muscle flexes due almost entirely only to the assumptions my mind was making based on what my eyes were seeing through the faux-transparent cockpit walls and floor.
Upon our final approach curve and descent, three Inisfreean fighter-jets de-cloaked around our cockpit’s field of view; one to each of its sides, and the third just above us. They flew in that formation to block the most likely sectors of incoming fire; practicing for how we would fly in formation on expeditions in the Outlands. No fourth flew beneath us because the airspace down there was only a few dozen feet at this point, and completely controlled and physically occupied by our airbase. Looking to my left and right through the transparent cockpit, I saw my girls piloting those two flanking fighter-jets turn the moment they sensed me looking their way, each of them blowing a sexy kiss to me from her flawless model’s face inside their much smaller cockpits. Like us, they manned their aircrafts nude. Also like us, when they weren’t engaged in sharing loving body language back and forth like we had just now done, they would thought-command will their cockpit-thrones to swivel around to face one another (pilot and copilot/navigator/assistant-gunner), and, without leaving their seats or harnesses, have those thrones come together such that they could scissor and otherwise enjoy each other sexually while their conscious aircrafts automatically activated our Inisfreean form of autopilot. This was the neo-nymph engineering and military Age, and we were perfect at it.
Touching down on our designated landing circle meant steadily slowing into a hovering position just a few feet over its sandy surface. In this ‘shock and awe’ flight mode, the whine and roar of our engine exhaust ports also blew and whipped the fine sand-peppering of our landing disc all around us, causing what the Outlanders called ‘brown-out’; the kick-up of loose terrain particles during a helicopters hasty landing. Now perfectly centered on this landing disc, the MPHA’s landing skids eased down out of their hatches on its underbelly, locking into place and then flexing their shocks as our jet-engines and Repulsines powered down. With their residual whine and fading roar still loud and proud, the tailgate ramp-hatch yawned open and angled down until its top edge was flush with the surface of the landing pad. Before it was all the way down, a full squad of my Inisfreean girls were jogging out in style; preteen-to-teen-looking supermodel girls, picture-perfect in every way, fluidly encircling our aircraft to establish a 360-degree security cordon for my departure.
Striding out with my command gait, my Spartan, blood-red cape caught the Inisfreean breeze, whipped laterally by one of the dying engine exhaust ports, and my thick mane, goatee, and mustache of earth-tones blown along with it. I looked like a Norse god or young, virile wizard, nude except for the rich, vibrant cape, and as confident as the rising Sun with its place secured in the Heavens. Pausing to survey the scene around me, I became satisfied and pivoted smartly in a facing movement setting me regally marching and strutting off away from the quieted MPHA. The faint sands of this highest Inisfreean desert plateau were still visible in the air, as was the open maw of the titanic Sphynx peaking up over the horizon of this plateau; the gateway for the 16-lane-wide G.A.H. superhighway that spirals down a vertical mile into its belly to exit on the forested foot-hills of the mansions neighborhood and Auz-dome foundation below and just a short distance from the accompanying cliff’s base.
As I strode across the asphalt-colored landing disc, a hidden hatch shifted from solid to hologram, appearing exactly the same to the naked eye, but allowing me to appear to walk down into the surface of the landing disc, clearly on a stairwell obscured from all angles of view. Several of my Inisfreean daughters followed me like ducks in a row, all of their Storm Trooper-ess suits (fully feminine second-skin coats of armor) rippling away into thin air as their minds willed them to become invisible, revealing their perfect physiques contained within. The bronze and copper colored curls of their helmet’s lion’s manes (the only semi-masculine feature about those suits) disappeared to reveal even more beautiful and breathtaking cascades of naturally curling, silky, shiny, eternally spotless and impossible-to-tangle hair. Like with their irises, each of my daughters possessed the ability to change her hair color to absolutely anything at will; a chameleon ability engineered into them at birth when they were sung into existence over the pedestals in the cloning ‘wombs’ (chambers) beneath our great city. Following me in their single-file line down into the hologram-hidden stairwell taking us from the surface of our landing disc to the subterranean facilities of this aerospaceport reserved just for the Inisfreean military personnel, each of their curly mops of hair spread out over their shoulders and back slowly transitioned between all the colors of the rainbow and many more. Their complexions (how tan they were) slowly shifted through each skin color, as well.
Down beneath the runway section of this military aerospaceport, which was flush with the surface of the desert plateau that housed it, I now walked through the wide, spartan, tunnel-hallways until I arrived at the opening door halves to one of this facility’s reception and briefing chambers. Instead of the rolling doors in many of the civilian sections of Inisfree, which require the user to reach up and pull them down to walk inside, then which require the user to walk through them in order to rotate the entrance back up and the exit down in front of them, these military section doors were designed for nearly instant access without so much as a thought of simple motion to trigger them out of one’s way –or to seal shut as well as anti-nuclear blast doors at the Outlands’ NORAD would.
Inside this reception and briefing room, a few more of my daughters, short and physically perfect as ever and as always, stood proudly before me, chins up, chests puffed up, tits out and forward, shoulders rolled back, backs arched, thighs slightly apart to accentuate their apexes, toes slightly inward to be beckoning, cute, and sexy. I grabbed each of them, one at a time, by their throat, forcing them to stand up on their tip toes as I leaned them back and past their point of balance, planting powerful kisses of ownership and deep-seated, heavy, heavy lust upon them, pushing their tongues around mine with speed and force, eye-locking with them (which they all perfectly, submissively, yet aggressively returned), and then released my grip on their throats to let them know I was done with them for now.
The Inisfreean (who was) rotated into the command role of this group I’d just shared an Inisfreean greeting with… took up her position at my left side, standing at a slight angle with her front toward mine, resting her right arm around the small of my back beneath my cape, and lightly hugging my cock with her left hand. “My Lord,” she politely greeted me. “My lady,” I returned the greeting, responding second, as per the military custom of subordinates addressing and acknowledging their superiors first, then waiting for us to indicate they have permission to proceed with whatever they were tasked with. “Proceed,” I told her in my smooth baritone rumble. I could tell it gave her a soft, wet energy feeling in her lower belly and pussy. The slightest change in how the flesh around her sclera flexed back said it all.
Banking hard-right, we changed our velocity dramatically, entering into a narrow circle that would take us soaring out toward the city’s Perimeter Wall, just barely past the outermost lanes of the G.A.H., and banking hard-left back in from that corner of Inisfree’s property to buzz the ‘Cut Pyramid’ construct on our way spiraling ever closer, inward, and down toward our chosen landing-disc of the military aerospaceport’s runways set flush (even) with that highest of Inisfree’s desert plateaus. As we entered this narrow approach loop, one which would nearly disintegrate any Outlander aircraft, we all remained barefoot (and nude, except for my large, flowing, blood-red cape) inside our MPHA cockpit; myself still standing unassisted behind and to the side of my daughter’s cockpit-throne. The material of our constructs, namely the gray, flesh-like floor’s surface of our cockpit here, perfectly maintained its fine-tuning; adjusted to provide the ideal amount of friction and grip to the flesh of my bare feet. This was ‘smart’-flooring, and it allowed us to run up walls to do le-parkour and free-running flips, as well as to start sliding at a moment’s notice –even when wearing thick-soled hiking boots. Standing almost completely sideways during our hard-right and hard-left banking maneuvers, I felt no changes in G-forces; another of our engineering breakthroughs and marvels, and remained perfectly calm, happy, and stationary with only the slightest of negligible stabilizer muscle flexes due almost entirely only to the assumptions my mind was making based on what my eyes were seeing through the faux-transparent cockpit walls and floor.
Upon our final approach curve and descent, three Inisfreean fighter-jets de-cloaked around our cockpit’s field of view; one to each of its sides, and the third just above us. They flew in that formation to block the most likely sectors of incoming fire; practicing for how we would fly in formation on expeditions in the Outlands. No fourth flew beneath us because the airspace down there was only a few dozen feet at this point, and completely controlled and physically occupied by our airbase. Looking to my left and right through the transparent cockpit, I saw my girls piloting those two flanking fighter-jets turn the moment they sensed me looking their way, each of them blowing a sexy kiss to me from her flawless model’s face inside their much smaller cockpits. Like us, they manned their aircrafts nude. Also like us, when they weren’t engaged in sharing loving body language back and forth like we had just now done, they would thought-command will their cockpit-thrones to swivel around to face one another (pilot and copilot/navigator/assistant-gunner), and, without leaving their seats or harnesses, have those thrones come together such that they could scissor and otherwise enjoy each other sexually while their conscious aircrafts automatically activated our Inisfreean form of autopilot. This was the neo-nymph engineering and military Age, and we were perfect at it.
Touching down on our designated landing circle meant steadily slowing into a hovering position just a few feet over its sandy surface. In this ‘shock and awe’ flight mode, the whine and roar of our engine exhaust ports also blew and whipped the fine sand-peppering of our landing disc all around us, causing what the Outlanders called ‘brown-out’; the kick-up of loose terrain particles during a helicopters hasty landing. Now perfectly centered on this landing disc, the MPHA’s landing skids eased down out of their hatches on its underbelly, locking into place and then flexing their shocks as our jet-engines and Repulsines powered down. With their residual whine and fading roar still loud and proud, the tailgate ramp-hatch yawned open and angled down until its top edge was flush with the surface of the landing pad. Before it was all the way down, a full squad of my Inisfreean girls were jogging out in style; preteen-to-teen-looking supermodel girls, picture-perfect in every way, fluidly encircling our aircraft to establish a 360-degree security cordon for my departure.
Striding out with my command gait, my Spartan, blood-red cape caught the Inisfreean breeze, whipped laterally by one of the dying engine exhaust ports, and my thick mane, goatee, and mustache of earth-tones blown along with it. I looked like a Norse god or young, virile wizard, nude except for the rich, vibrant cape, and as confident as the rising Sun with its place secured in the Heavens. Pausing to survey the scene around me, I became satisfied and pivoted smartly in a facing movement setting me regally marching and strutting off away from the quieted MPHA. The faint sands of this highest Inisfreean desert plateau were still visible in the air, as was the open maw of the titanic Sphynx peaking up over the horizon of this plateau; the gateway for the 16-lane-wide G.A.H. superhighway that spirals down a vertical mile into its belly to exit on the forested foot-hills of the mansions neighborhood and Auz-dome foundation below and just a short distance from the accompanying cliff’s base.
As I strode across the asphalt-colored landing disc, a hidden hatch shifted from solid to hologram, appearing exactly the same to the naked eye, but allowing me to appear to walk down into the surface of the landing disc, clearly on a stairwell obscured from all angles of view. Several of my Inisfreean daughters followed me like ducks in a row, all of their Storm Trooper-ess suits (fully feminine second-skin coats of armor) rippling away into thin air as their minds willed them to become invisible, revealing their perfect physiques contained within. The bronze and copper colored curls of their helmet’s lion’s manes (the only semi-masculine feature about those suits) disappeared to reveal even more beautiful and breathtaking cascades of naturally curling, silky, shiny, eternally spotless and impossible-to-tangle hair. Like with their irises, each of my daughters possessed the ability to change her hair color to absolutely anything at will; a chameleon ability engineered into them at birth when they were sung into existence over the pedestals in the cloning ‘wombs’ (chambers) beneath our great city. Following me in their single-file line down into the hologram-hidden stairwell taking us from the surface of our landing disc to the subterranean facilities of this aerospaceport reserved just for the Inisfreean military personnel, each of their curly mops of hair spread out over their shoulders and back slowly transitioned between all the colors of the rainbow and many more. Their complexions (how tan they were) slowly shifted through each skin color, as well.
Down beneath the runway section of this military aerospaceport, which was flush with the surface of the desert plateau that housed it, I now walked through the wide, spartan, tunnel-hallways until I arrived at the opening door halves to one of this facility’s reception and briefing chambers. Instead of the rolling doors in many of the civilian sections of Inisfree, which require the user to reach up and pull them down to walk inside, then which require the user to walk through them in order to rotate the entrance back up and the exit down in front of them, these military section doors were designed for nearly instant access without so much as a thought of simple motion to trigger them out of one’s way –or to seal shut as well as anti-nuclear blast doors at the Outlands’ NORAD would.
Inside this reception and briefing room, a few more of my daughters, short and physically perfect as ever and as always, stood proudly before me, chins up, chests puffed up, tits out and forward, shoulders rolled back, backs arched, thighs slightly apart to accentuate their apexes, toes slightly inward to be beckoning, cute, and sexy. I grabbed each of them, one at a time, by their throat, forcing them to stand up on their tip toes as I leaned them back and past their point of balance, planting powerful kisses of ownership and deep-seated, heavy, heavy lust upon them, pushing their tongues around mine with speed and force, eye-locking with them (which they all perfectly, submissively, yet aggressively returned), and then released my grip on their throats to let them know I was done with them for now.
The Inisfreean (who was) rotated into the command role of this group I’d just shared an Inisfreean greeting with… took up her position at my left side, standing at a slight angle with her front toward mine, resting her right arm around the small of my back beneath my cape, and lightly hugging my cock with her left hand. “My Lord,” she politely greeted me. “My lady,” I returned the greeting, responding second, as per the military custom of subordinates addressing and acknowledging their superiors first, then waiting for us to indicate they have permission to proceed with whatever they were tasked with. “Proceed,” I told her in my smooth baritone rumble. I could tell it gave her a soft, wet energy feeling in her lower belly and pussy. The slightest change in how the flesh around her sclera flexed back said it all.
