Chapter 7: Chemical Hunger
The steam was thick, cloaking everything in a primal haze. The water beat down on them, hot needles on skin. He didn't speak. His actions were precise, driven by a deep, chemical compulsion. The large, hard length of him pressed insistently against her stomach, a blunt, heated brand through the scant fabric of her bikini bottoms. A jolt shot through her, equal parts shock and a raw, answering heat.
His hands, those calloused, strong hands she'd admired just hours before, slid from her waist down to the swell of her ass. He kneaded the flesh through the wet material, his grip possessive, exploring. The roughness of his palms was a delicious abrasion against her softness. He pulled her tighter against him, grinding his cock against her belly in a slow, seeking rhythm.
She tilted her head, her lips finding the corded line of his neck, the place where his pulse hammered a wild tattoo just under the skin. She tasted salt and steam. She kissed his shoulder, the hard ridge of muscle, her mouth open and hungry. It was a concession, a feeding of the beast she’d unwittingly unleashed.
Then he moved. With a strength that stole her breath, he turned her, pivoting her body in the tight space. Her palms slapped against the cool, wet composite wall of the shower. The blue triangles of her bikini top were plastered to her skin, her breasts pushed against the unforgiving surface. He pressed his entire weight against her from behind, a solid wall of heat and muscle.
One of his hands snaked down over her hip, his fingers hooking into the thin string at the side of her bikini bottom. He began to tug it down.
"Oh, no you don't!" she gasped, the words a sharp command more to herself than to him. She twisted her hips, resisting. His hypnotized form didn’t argue. He didn’t force it. He simply leaned his weight into her more heavily, pinning her. His other hand returned to her ass, spreading her cheeks roughly through the fabric. And then she felt it, the broad, slick head of his cock pushing insistently, not into her, but into the crease between her buttocks, the wet Lycra of her bikini bottom still between them.
The sensation was intensely lewd, a hot, hard pressure in a place never meant for it. A whimper escaped her.
He began to move. A slow, tentative rock of his hips, the rigid length of him sliding along the cleft of her ass. The soaked material created a slick, maddening friction.
"Okay," she breathed, the fight bleeding out of her, replaced by a dark, pooling arousal that throbbed in time with his movements."Yeah. Do that. Do it just like that, trucker." She squeezed her eyes shut, her forehead resting against the wall. "Good thing you won't remember any of this."
As if her permission broke a dam, his rhythm changed. The slow rocks became purposeful thrusts. He pulled back and drove forward, his hips snapping against the curves of her ass with a wet slap that echoed in the tiny stall. Each impact shoved her harder into the wall. He grunted, a low, animal sound lost in the spray.
The whiskey warmth in her belly unfurled into something else, something hungry and desperate. The feeling of him, so big and out of control, using her body this way, sent jagged bolts of pleasure through her. She was getting wet, a shameful, thrilling slickness that had nothing to do with the shower. Her own moan joined his, a high, thin sound that got louder as he fucked harder into the cleft of her ass.
His pace became punishing, frantic. He was lost to it, a machine servicing a primal command. He rutted against her like a beast, his breath hot and ragged on her neck. The sounds were obscene: the slap of wet skin and fabric, their combined, ragged panting, the constant hiss of the water.
She was chanting now, a stream of broken words. "Fuck… yes… like that… just like that…"
His movements grew erratic, his thrusts becoming desperate, grinding presses. Then, suddenly, one of his hands came around her side. It didn't seek her mouth or her throat. It clamped over her breast, his fingers digging into the soft flesh through the soaked bikini top, pinching her nipple hard through the fabric. The painful, possessive shock of it sent her over the edge.
She cried out, a raw shout that was swallowed by the steam. At the same moment, he gave a loud, guttural roar—a sound of release and frustration and pure, undiluted climax. She felt the hot, wet spill of him against her lower back. It pulsed in thick streaks, a shocking warmth that cut through the shower's heat, slowly tracing a path down the curve of her spine and onto the back of her thighs.
He collapsed against her, his weight sudden and complete, his forehead pressed between her shoulder blades. His whole body shuddered. The frantic energy drained from him, leaving only the heavy, slack weight of a man emptied.
They stood like that for a long minute, trapped under the water, his come cooling on her skin, mixing with the spray. The silence was broken only by their heaving breaths and the ship's eternal hum, now audible again.
The silence was broken only by their heaving breaths and the ship's eternal hum, now audible again.
Slowly, his weight shifted. He pushed himself upright off her back. Rina turned under the spray, the water washing some of his spend from her skin. She looked at his face. His eyes were open but unseeing, glazed over, fixated on nothing. The chemical stupor held him fast, far away. She knew from her rapid mental calculation it would be about an hour before it passed fully, before any semblance of conscious thought returned.
He moved then, with that same blank determination. His hands, still slick, came to her shoulders. He pressed down.
It wasn’t violent, but it was inexorable. Her knees buckled on the wet floor. She went down, shock freezing her protests in her throat. The composite was hard and unforgiving against her kneecaps. She looked up, water stinging her eyes, her auburn hair plastered to her cheeks and neck.
He loomed over her, his spent cock still thick and wet, hanging heavily before her face. He wrapped a fist in her hair, not yanking, but holding her head perfectly still. His grip was absolute. He used his other hand to guide his softening cock, stroking himself slowly, coaxing the last drops of semen from the tip.
He smeared the pearly fluid over her lips.
The taste was alien, bitter and salty, the texture slick. She jerked her head but his hand in her hair was an iron clamp. She was trapped, forced to taste him, the intimacy of the act twisted into something clinical and degrading. A strangled sound escaped her, a mix of outrage and something darker, a thrill at the sheer taboo of it.
He wasn't done. He let go of her hair. His fingers, sticky now, went to the blue triangles of her bikini top. He didn’t remove it. He pushed the fabric aside just enough, his rough thumb sliding over her nipple, then he smeared the remaining fluid across the tops of her breasts, painting her skin with his release. It was a mark, a claim made in total oblivion.
Only after that did he seem to complete the circuit. He went still. The strange, driven light in his eyes blinked out. He stood like a statue under the shower, water coursing over his motionless form, his expression as blank as a reset terminal.
Rina stayed on her knees for a moment, catching her breath, the metallic taste on her tongue. She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, then looked at the streaks on her breasts.
“My-my, trucker,” she said, her voice shaky but clear. She knew he wouldn’t remember any of it. The drug, the whiskey, her cooking – they had stolen this from him as much as from her. “What tastes you have.” She pushed herself to her feet, her legs trembling. “Just FYI, I didn’t like it. Don’t you ever push me onto my knees again.”
She was talking to a wall. He gave no reaction, no flicker of memory or shame. No data saved.
She reached for the shower controls and shut off the water. The sudden silence was stark. Steam roiled around them. But, either from the alcohol, a youthful, morbid curiosity, or just pure defiance, she brought her fingers back to her lips. She touched her tongue. She tasted it again, deliberately, analyzing the flavor as she would an unknown compound. Having no experience, she wondered if the sharp, shuddering release she’d felt pressed against the wall was what people meant by an orgasm, or if it was just panic and friction.
She washed under the showerhead, using the harsh, citrus-scented ship soap to scrub his taste and his mark from her skin. She rinsed her mouth. Then, moving with a gentleness that felt surreal after what had just transpired, she took his limp hand. “Come on, Jax.”
He walked, compliant as a child. She guided his naked, dripping form out of the stall, across the short stretch of decking to his unmade bunk. He sat when she pushed on his shoulders, then lay back when she nudged him. She pulled the thin blanket over him. He stared at the ceiling, eyes open but vacant, until slowly, like a machine powering down, they closed.
Rina stood over him for a long minute, watching the steady rise and fall of his chest. Her own skin was pebbled with cold. She went to her bag, her movements automatic. She pulled out a simple, oversized sleeping t-shirt of soft grey cotton and pulled it on. It swallowed her, falling to mid-thigh. She went to her bunk.
She went to her bunk. The cotton of her t-shirt felt abrasive against her oversensitive skin, a stark contrast to the memory of his rough palms. Her body hummed with a residual, static charge, a phantom echo of his thrusts and the sick, sharp pleasure that had torn through her. She lay rigidly on her side, facing the wall, trying to separate the clinical facts from the searing, physical reality.
The catalyst was foreign protein chains.
His hand had spanned her entire ass.
The resultant psychoactive compound induces autonomic arousal.
He’d smeared his come on her mouth.
A temporary bypass of higher cognitive functions.
She had come against the shower wall, her back against his chest.
The logic dissolved. Her body wouldn't listen. The ship’s hum was a monotonous lullaby, and beneath the blanket, her own hand strayed. She felt the damp ache between her legs, a physical hunger the shower hadn’t touched. Her fingertips, tentative and then firm, traced the swollen contours of her own lips. The shame was there, a hot coal in her throat, but it was smothered by a deeper, more insistent need for a conclusion her own body hadn't allowed. The pressure built, a tense, coiling spring. She squeezed her thighs together. Her breath hitched.
Sleep took her fast and violent, a tumbling fall down a dark well.
In her dream they were in the shower again. The steam was a solid, blinding thing. But this time, the haze had clarity. He was awake. He was in full consciousness, leaning against the wet wall, watching her. She was naked. Utterly. The last scrap of blue fabric was gone. Her skin glistened. He made no move to touch her, not yet. He just looked, and began to describe her, his voice a low, methodical catalog.
"Observe the specimen," he said, his tone detached, analytical."Long limbs. Excellent femoral musculature for her weight class. The knees show interesting flexion potential." His gaze moved upward, pausing. "Primary sexual characteristics pronounced. Breasts are a high, firm ratio to her frame. Nipples are small, tight, and currently flushed. Very responsive. I want to see them wrapped around something." His eyes traveled down her flank. "The gluteal structure is exceptional. A perfect, round handful. Designed for leverage." Finally, his eyes locked onto hers, piercing the dream steam. "Eyes are anomalous.Violet. Uncalibrated. Unsettling." He licked his lips slowly. "And those lips. A standard width, but the lower one is fuller. Soft. Perfect for wrapping around a shaft and applying rhythmic suction."He straightened. The fog seemed to part. His cock, already erect, was impossibly bigger than she remembered, a thick, veined pillar rising from the dark hair at his pelvis. It was obscene, magnificent.
"Kneel," he ordered.
She did.Immediately. Her knees hit the wet floor with a familiar, jarring thud.
"Open your mouth.Now." His hand cupped the back of her head, not guiding, but holding her in place. "Take it. All of it."
She leaned forward, her lips parting. The head was broad and hot. She tried to take him in, but he didn’t wait. He pushed forward, his hips snapping, forcing his cock deep into her mouth, past her reflex, the thick length stretching her jaw until it ached. She choked, tears springing to her eyes.
"That's it," he growled, beginning to fuck her mouth in a hard, relentless rhythm. His grip on her hair was a painful anchor. "Such a rich slut. Takes a poor man's dick so well. Corporate bitch finally found a real use for that fancy mouth." Each thrust punctuated his words. "You're just my fucking machine now. My little princess slave. Gonna ride that tight corporate cunt next, leave you full of common haulage."
She tried to moan around him, the words thrilling and degrading her in equal measure, her tongue working the hot underside of his cock as he pistoned in and out. Saliva dripped down her chin.
He pulled out with a slick pop, leaving her gasping."Up." He dragged her to her feet by her hair. He spun her and bent her over the wall of the toilet compartment, her face pressed to the cool steel next to the re-circulator. His hand slapped her ass hard, once, twice, the sound sharp.
Then he was behind her, his cockhead probing at her entrance, which was drenched from the dream and the earlier memory and his filthy words. He didn't ask. He just pushed.
He entered her in one brutal, splitting thrust.She screamed. The pain was a bright, shocking line. He gave her no time. He pulled back and slammed in again, burying himself to the hilt. His pelvis smacked against her ass.
"Fuck," he grunted. He started a punishing rhythm. His left hand snaked around her hip, his fingers finding her clit with unerring, cruel precision. He rubbed hard, in small, tight circles. His right hand groped one of her breasts, squeezing the flesh, pinching her nipple between his thumb and forefinger. "Listen to you. Gonna make you come on my cock, you little runaway. Gonna milk this pussy until you're screaming."
The dual assault was overwhelming. The pain from his initial entry was blurring into a sharp, grating pleasure. His hand on her breast was possessive, his fingers on her clit were a focused torment. He fucked her with deep, solid strokes that seemed to reach into her core. His dirty talk was a stream of filth now, a litany of ownership and debasement. She felt her body begin to convulse.
Her first climax crashed over her, a roaring wave of sensation that wrenched a ragged, sobbing cry from her throat. He didn't stop. He laughed, a dark, knowing sound, and kept fucking her, his rhythm never faltering.
"Another one," he demanded into her ear, his breath hot. "Give me another one, you greedy little bitch. Squeeze my cock with that expensive cunt."
Her body, somehow, obeyed. A second, sharper peak erupted, this one a desperate, electrical release that tore a scream from her lips. He slammed into her through both of them, her inner muscles clenching around him helplessly. The scream echoed in the tiny stall...
...and she woke up, the scream a silent gasp trapped in her dry throat. The ship was dark, lit only by the soft, standby glow of console lights from the open cockpit hatch. Her heart was a frantic drum against her ribs.
Her right hand was buried between her legs, two fingers working her clit in fast, desperate circles. Her left hand was under her oversized t-shirt, clutching her own breast, squeezing it exactly as he had in the dream. She was wet, so wet she could feel it soaking the fabric of her panties and the sheets beneath her.
She froze, panting. The afterimages of the dream flickered—his eyes, his cock, the shocking depth, the filthy words.
A low chuckle cut through the hum of the ship.
She whipped her head toward the sound. Jax was sitting on the edge of his bunk, fully dressed in his worn trousers and a fresh shirt, clean-shaven, his damp hair combed back. He was watching her, a mug of something steaming in his hands. He looked rested, clear-eyed, and infuriatingly normal.
"Oh, what a dream you must have had, Princess," he said, his voice a rough, amused baritone. The mug fogged as he took a sip. He grinned at her obvious disarray, her frantic, hidden hands. "Need a hand?"
He laughed again at his own joke, the sound easy and free. There was not a flicker of memory, no shadow of the primal, chemical-saturated man from before. He remembered nothing.
The low chuckle hung in the recycled air between their bunks, a smug punctuation to her naked shame. He took another slow sip from his mug, his eyes crinkling at the corners. “Dreams get the best of you sometimes out here. All that empty black does funny things to the mind.” He stood up, his movements loose and easy. “C’mon, Princess, get dressed and let’s eat. I’ll make coffee and breakfast. Waiting for you in the kitchen. Don’t be long—let’s not waste energy much.” He finished the drink, turned, and left the sleeping quarters whistling some off-key hauling shanty.
She just lay there, shocked and embarrassed. The warmth of her own hand was still pressed against her. Not only did she have to help his drugged form to release in the shower at night, she also made a show for him with her moans and masturbating in the morning. And the worst of it all? She was indeed dreaming about his hands getting her to orgasm, him inside of her. She felt a hot flush spread from her chest to her hairline, a mix of fury and profound humiliation. She waited until the whistling faded into the clatter of pans from the galley before she moved, throwing the thin blanket off her damp skin.
She moved to the small sink, splashing cold water on her face, the shock of it a brief anchor. She quickly washed and started dressing. Her first instinct was armor: the full spacer suit, the high-necked jacket zipped to her chin. But she remembered her own words from yesterday, a challenge thrown into the warm air of the ship: More heat, more skin. It was indeed warm on the ship. She should value her words. And she had nothing to be ashamed of: she did help him with his erected drug problem, she had to endure all of that and she did. He may not remember it, but she does. "You will not win that easy, trucker," she said to herself, her voice a low, determined whisper in the empty room. She dressed in her inner top from the spacer suit and the skirt she was wearing on the ship previously, the one with the blue light seams.
She entered the kitchen wearing a light-grey strapless cropped top with a structured front panel, narrow central seam, and a subtle natural cleavage, paired with a matching fitted skirt that sits high on the waist, ends above the knee, and features a clean side slit with small embedded blue micro-light accents near the hem; the fabrics are matte-synthetic with a faint sheen, trimmed in slightly darker grey, worn with low-profile grey futuristic sneakers and a compact black forearm communicator with a blue display. The kitchen smelled of eggs and coffee, rich and immediate, a stark contrast to the sterile memory of the shower steam.
Jax was feeling great. He couldn’t quite put his finger on why, but he was. Maybe it was the whiskey yesterday, maybe just finally a good sleep. He also felt his desire towards Katie more controlled. Yes, he still realized how beautiful and young she was and he certainly still had fantasies about her, but he could totally control himself now and just be natural. He stood at the small induction plate, his back to her, shoulders relaxed. “Scrambled or fried?” he asked without turning.
“Scrambled,” she said, her voice carefully level. She slid onto the bench seat at the small table, the embedded blue lights on her skirt catching the low glow from the ceiling panel.
He plated the eggs, simple and yellow, beside two slices of toasted nutrient-loaf. He brought them over, setting hers down with a soft clink, then retrieved two mugs of coffee. He sat across from her, the small table forcing their knees to almost touch underneath. They ate in silence for a few moments, the only sounds the clink of cutlery on plates and the ship’s eternal hum. He watched her, a slight smirk playing on his lips.
He finally broke the quiet. “Hey, nothing to be ashamed of, kid.” He took a bite of toast. “You’ve run from home, had your adventures, exploring the freedom. It’s natural… body would react to it and have its needs. So everything is fine, don’t worry about it.”
She looked up from her eggs, her violet eyes meeting his. He was being sincere, in his own rough way. It was a kindness, an attempt to diffuse her obvious embarrassment from being caught. She took the coffee mug from him with a nod of gratitude and said, “Thank you.”
He smirked and added, the playful glint returning to his eyes: “But that doesn’t mean I will not tease you about it.”
She laughed, a short, genuine sound. “Wouldn’t even dream about it.”
The tension broke, replaced by the warm, charged camaraderie from the night before the shower, before the drugs. They ate, and he began his campaign. “So, a dream that good, huh?” He leaned back, mug in hand. “Must’ve been quite the starring role for someone. Someone you left behind on some cushy station? Some corporate pretty-boy with soft hands?”
She rolled her eyes, taking a bite of egg. “Hardly. My dating pool was more ‘strategic alliance’ than ‘station romance.’” She kept her tone light, conversational. This was a game she could play. She had played worse in boardrooms.
“Strategic, huh?” He grinned, his eyes dropping pointedly to the strip of midriff visible between her top and skirt. “Bet they didn’t teach you how to handle a real hands-on situation.” His gaze traveled up, lingering on the subtle cleavage revealed by her top’s structured panel. “Outfit’s a step up from the high-collared bullshit. Lets a man appreciate the architecture.”
She felt the blush creep up her neck but held his gaze. “Architecture needs a competent engineer. Not just any wrench-monkey.”
He barked a laugh. “Ouch. But fair.” He gestured with his fork. “Seriously though. You ever been with anyone? Or was it all holograms and etiquette lessons?”
The question was blunt, invasive. It was meant to fluster her. She decided to match his frankness. “My education was… comprehensive. Theoretical. Practical application was deemed a security risk.” She sipped her coffee, watching him over the rim. “You?”
He shrugged. “Enough to know the difference between a simulation and the real thing. The real thing’s messier. Louder.” His eyes flicked to her lips. “Tastes better.”
The air in the small galley thickened. She put her mug down slowly. “And do you always talk this much during the real thing?”
“Depends,” he said, his voice dropping a fraction. “Sometimes talking’s half the fun. Finding out what makes a person blush.” He leaned forward, his forearms on the table. “Like right now. Your neck is all flushed. Goes right down under that pretty grey top.” His eyes dipped again to her chest. “Bet it goes all the way.”
She didn’t look away. The game was accelerating, the barrier between teasing and proposition wearing thin. “Maybe you’re just bad at heating regulation,” she countered, but her voice had lost some of its edge.
“Maybe.” He held her gaze for a long, loaded moment. Then he leaned back again, breaking the spell with a soft chuckle. “Finish your eggs. We’ve got systems checks in an hour.”
They finished the meal, the conversation shifting to the ship’s maintenance schedule, the peculiar rattle in the portside intake filter. But the undercurrent remained, a live wire buzzing just beneath the surface of every word about fuel ratios and alignment calibrations. He cleared the plates, his hand brushing hers as he took her mug. The contact was brief, electric.