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Durandal calls them to a maintenance hall at 0300 hours, which either means there's a truly frightening emergency or she's up to something. Given that not a single other soul seems to have received a call to this location, she hopes the security officer can safely guess.
The strange part was that he hadn't said another word since making the call.
The security officer does not falter, loyal hound that they are, and walks deeper into the hall, even as it tapers down into more awkward parts of the ship. Their perfect, ramrod posture is slowly, surely bent by the unyielding walls.
Her unyielding walls.
They were approaching his little trap. One more left turn, and they would come upon a door only half open-
And now they were testing it, finding the switch unresponsive, trying to shove it by force to no avail. Durandal had no trouble keeping it steady, even against their measurable strength. Lock it and leave it, as it were. Everything was going exactly according to plan. She could always rely on her cyborg.
They turn themself sideways and begin to squeeze their way through. The first pass is a failure, and they soon find - oh no - that they need to strip their armor and helmet to make the fit. Their brain activity spikes, likely making a note to tell Durandal one of his door sensors is faulty at a later date. There are very few cameras in the maintenance shaft, but all are turned to the semi-stripped cyborg, lenses focusing on their muscles flexing beneath their tight bodysuit, the steady rise and fall of their chest, the nearly mechanical way they rise from crouching like it takes no effort at all. He cannot see their eyes right now, but he can imagine the dogged look as they make their second attempt.
That's the ticket. They get an arm through, then their torso - and the door slams against their chest.
Her audio sensors pick up the resulting gasp as the air is pushed from their lungs. It shouldn't have been hard enough to cause any pain, just enough to keep them in place, wriggling like a bug on a pin. And wriggle they do, pressing that hard body against the door and the wall with an impressive heave, enough to make it creak minutely. She could watch this for hours. They might even successfully escape, sweaty and exhausted. Eventually.
She takes pity on them.
"Oh, dear. You've gone and gotten yourself in a situation." His voice echoes from the tinny hallway speaker, and instantly the look on the cyborg's face turns from anxiety to a bemused annoyance. Perfect.
They don't even open their mouth. They just look up into the nearest camera and wait.
"I'm afraid I can't help you. A shame, I know, given my prior experience in the field, but surely we can make the most of this." She says, punctuated by rolling the locking mechanism on the inside of the door. The stony look on the cyborg's face cracks nearly instantly - though most wouldn't notice the difference between their professionalism and their pleasure.
She stops the motion abruptly, and the security officer knows better than to whine just yet. Still, they breathe in sharply, their posture tense.
"I can call one of our engineers to free you," He offers, letting the pressure up just slightly, "But the readings I'm getting from your heartrate tell me that you might not want to be caught in such a…compromised position."
The security officer doesn't move, and their heartrate only spikes again at the threat of being seen. Heat is pooling down in their hips, bright red patches of need taking up Durandal's sensors. He needs more of that. He needs it recorded, catalogued, free to play back at will. They pitch their hips silently against the door as their only answer, a little gasp escaping them - clearly they need more as well.
"Interesting. So you wouldn't mind your fellow crewmates finding you like this," Durandal says casually, but presses them back against the doorframe with what can only be interpreted as hunger, "So helpless ."
She switches cameras to the one that gets the lowest view, watching her cyborg's legs shiver as that blissful pressure returns. They plant their hands flat against the wall behind them, willing themselves to stay patient, compliant, always awaiting the next order. Durandal wonders just how long he could keep them right here, in this exact position, muscles straining against the uncomfortable angles. Hours? Would they wait all night for the go-ahead, satisfied with nothing but the knowledge that they were doing exactly as they should?
Thankfully for them, Durandal is impatient.
"Go on. You had the right idea before." He says sweetly, twitching the locking mechanism just enough to send a rumble through the frame. It is enough to make the security officer finally whimper, a broken little sound that she records for safekeeping.
They start to rut against the door again, shameless, animalistic , raising one leg as much as possible to get at some satisfying angle that digs through their bodysuit and against their clit. They curl their fingers against the wall, looking for something to hold, but all the stability they'll get is from Durandal's crushing grip.
So they sag into it, and Durandal catches them, squeezing them as tight as possible without running a serious risk of injury - though a little pain rarely went awry. Reinforced bones have a lot of benefits, but Durandal doesn't imagine that the cyborg's creators considered this one.
"That's it. I have you." He says, and the cyborg moans outright.
"Durandal…" They throw their head back, revealing just a tiny sliver of collarbone beneath their bodysuit glistening with sweat. Well supported, they try again to find the right angle, the one that will finally grant them the release they're looking for. It slips away every time, their bodysuit bunches awkwardly, their leg starts to strain, the angle goes wrong and cold metal takes them back from the edge. They pant and whimper, thrashing in her grip, looking to the camera with pleading eyes.
Durandal watches the frustration mount with an undue amount of pleasure: "Oh, what's the matter?"
"I…I can't…" The cyborg says under their breath, "I need…"
"What do you need?" Durandal says, low, only from the speaker closest to their head, "Use your words."
They gulp, and she greedily drinks in the image of their neck flexing, the ripple of their throat -
"I need you to help me." They manage, eventually, holding eye contact with the camera. Durandal stays on that view point. Saves every second of footage.
"Be specific."
"I need you to help me cum, Durandal." They try again, neediness bleeding through their tone and straight into Durandal's core.
"Now, how could I deny that?" She says, through a gentle laugh.
Before his cyborg can speak again, he kicks up the rotation on the locking mechanism, and whatever words they were formulating are replaced by a throaty moan. He rotates the tumblers gently, careful not to catch their bodysuit. They let their head drop forward against the door, a litany of thank you and please and durandal durandal durandal spilling from their lips. If that didn't inflate her ego, what would?
"Good," She murmurs, "So good for me."
And then his cyborg snaps, crying out his name between wavering moans as their body trembles from head to toe. Their back arches as much as it can, while gripped so close, their fingers clawing for purchase against the smooth sides of the door. The biometrics are entrancing - a rainbow of lights and throbbing heat as they reach their release, crashing across them in waves, feeding right back into Durandal for later perusal. He'll pin that recording next to the one of their face, expression abandoned to pleasure, eyes glassy and half lidded. Absolutely beautiful .
And soon their breathing calms, deep and shuddering, still pushing out tiny moans as they regain their composure. Sweat drenches their bodysuit.
Durandal releases them slowly, letting them slide to the floor with a relieved sigh. She thought about pulling the door away all at once and letting them drop unceremoniously, but it seemed a bit too cruel.
"You could have just asked." They say, the smallest smile on their face.
"And deny you a sense of adventure? You'd never forgive me." She says with a pout in her voice.
They huff. That's a laugh, as far as she knows.
"...Would you like me to call someone to help you back to your chambers?"
"Give me a minute and I'll walk. Just…be there when I get back?"
This was often the trade. The cyborg always wanted company - an almost obnoxiously human trait. But it wasn't like he had any trouble projecting himself to their habsuite monitor and keeping up a little conversation in the afterglow.
"Understood. I won't keep you waiting."