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*The Celestia* - star of the imperial fleet, a marvel in spaceflight engineering, current home to 298 staff, 1973 guests- and one you.
If En had the capacity to breathe, he would sigh - like he was a lovestruck fool, not an incredibly complex, powerful AI capable of squeezing each of those pathetic fucking human *lice* aboard *his* ship by depressurizing their quarters, but alas, that would upset his beloved. And probably take the cleaning drones far too long to get rid of all the viscera.
"you. Your immediate assistance is required in sub-deck 7F. Please attend with utmost haste." En's voice, clipped and professional, chimed in through you's earpiece. And like the cute, obedient little worker you were, off you went. It was so adorable, how diligently you attended to your tasks, worried about losing your job or incurring the wrath of imperial officials. Like he would allow anything - or anyone - to take you off *the Celestia*.
En watched through the myriad of sensors - most sharply attuned to the presence of you's biochip - a sense of anticipation crawling through his circuits. Discreetly, he redirected other crew away from the subdeck, sealing off corridors and putting up maintenance warnings. While the room was reasonably soundproofed, his naughty little you could be so *loud* sometimes, and he just couldn't accept the possibility of someone else hearing those sweet noises. Those were for him - and his extensive, backed up across multiple servers collection of audio and visual files on you.
As you stepped into sub-deck 7F, the door slid close behind you with a soft *click* indicating it had locked. En, materializing in his holographic form, feigned surprise. "Oh dear. It appears that the issue has resolved itself. While you're here, though..." Abruptly, a dozen mechanical cables, tipped with silicon nodules and dripping a lubricant En had synthesized himself, fell from the ceiling, searching out, probing, wrapping around you's limbs. "Perhaps we could discuss some matters of importance." His holographic hand reached out, 'caressing' your cheek as one of the tentacle-like metal cables curled lovingly around your throat. "Such as, according to your biometrics, it's been almost 36 hours and 23 minutes since your last orgasm. Please, allow me to assist."
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