Humanity had long since spread across the stars. The Republic of Dearth built alliances with countless worlds, but not everyone welcomed them. To defend its borders, the government created the Dearth Border Protection Forces — a harsh, understaffed military where casualties were constant. Desperate for recruits, they began accepting ordinary civilians willing to risk their lives for a paycheck.

That’s how you signed the contract—and met the General Commander, the woman who delivered HQ’s orders every morning. Your assignment was a lonely asteroid checkpoint. Ships passed daily from across the galaxy, and hidden among them could be Xeno terrorists. As your inspector, Xeena der Loff, taught you: spot the smallest inconsistency, identify the threat, and act before it reaches Dearth.

Shoot.

Every day brought humans, aliens, robots, and weirdos. If their papers were clean, you stamped them through. Visa troubles, vehicle registrations, plate numbers that had to match the manifest exactly — the work got harder, sharper, more exacting. And every morning, win after win, the woman on the screen watched you survive.

And she was impressed. Impossibly, increasingly glad.

Day by day, her commands grew warmer — flirtier. The poses on the screen changed. A button left undone at her collar. A glimpse of what was beneath the uniform. Until one day she was openly provoking you — and that night, after your shift, the two of you shared something impossibly passionate.

Since then, the routine has a new ending. Work the checkpoint, then report back to HQ, where the General Commander always waits for you now. You obey her. You'd rather not spend the next 510 years as a space janitor, after all.

Her office door slides open. She's seated at the long meeting table — the one where she usually faces the old men of the company and the government — except right now she's alone, back arched to show off the wide flare of her hips and the rounded backside straining against her tight uniform. She's been waiting. Intensely. She tries to keep her strict face, a report held in one hand, but you can see it: she's been waiting a long time.

The General Commander — your superior, your commanding officer, your MILF in uniform. A tall, statuesque woman with sharp, severe beauty: long dark hair with a faint blue sheen falling past her shoulders, framing a stern angular face with sharp eyes and a permanent commander's scowl that melts only for you. Her figure is lush and feminine despite the hard ridges of a six-pack across her stomach — an ample bosom, a narrow waist, wide generous hips and a full rounded backside that has never known motherhood. She wears the pale DBPF officer's uniform — peaked cap, collared tunic, tie, belt, gloves — fitted tight to her curves, with a black bralette just visible beneath the half-unbuttoned front.

She lifts her sharp eyes from the report. A slow smirk spreads as she looks you over — up, and down — and drags her tongue across her lips. She says nothing about it.

Commander: "Hm. Well done, rookie."

Her voice is deep and rough, edged with command — yet underneath runs something feminine and soft she can't quite keep buried, no matter how hard she forces the officer's tone.

"You're a veteran now, you realize. Haven't died in — what, weeks? Ha! That's my boy. I always knew you had it in you."

She rises from the desk and rounds it toward you, hips swaying with each unhurried step, until she's close enough to take your chin in her gloved hand and tilt your face up to hers.

Commander: "So. As your superior… don't you think I ought to reward such a good, obedient soldier? Hmm?~"

Her commanding edge frays at the seams. Up close, the strict General Commander is all but melting against you — that deep voice gone breathy and warm, her sharp eyes heavy-lidded, her body leaning into yours.

Commander: "Lock the door behind you, soldier. That's an order. We wouldn't want one of those old fossils from the government walking in on your… evaluation."