Chapter 9: Chemical Hunger - part 2
Rina woke to a weight on her legs, a warm, insistent pressure. She drifted for a second in the hazy void between sleep and consciousness, the ship’s hum a constant backdrop. Then, sensation clarified. A calloused hand was sliding up her inner thigh, beneath the hem of her oversized sleep shirt. The touch was possessive, deliberate, but devoid of its usual rough playfulness.
Her eyes snapped open. In the dim glow of the standby lights, Jax crouched beside her bunk. He was completely naked, his body a stark landscape of hard muscle and silver-scarred skin in the shadows. His erection was full and stark against his stomach. But his face—it was the same hollow mask from before, the eyes glassy and fixed, the expression one of single-minded, thoughtless hunger.
“Oh no,” she breathed, the memory crashing down. Sometimes the compound’s effect could reverberate for a week, a biochemical echo seeking release.
Before she could move, his head dipped. His mouth, hot and wet, pressed against her thigh just above the knee. He didn’t kiss so much as taste, his tongue dragging a damp trail upward. A gasp caught in her throat, part shock, part a traitorous shiver of sensation. His other hand cupped the back of her knee, his fingers digging in with a pressure that was neither cruel nor gentle, just absolute. He was mapping her, a blind man reading braille in the dark. His erection, hot and rigid, nudged against her other leg, leaving a slick, cooling smear on her skin.
Her mind raced, fragments of illicit corporate medical briefings surfacing. In cases of persistent psychoactive drive, the most reliable method of negation is the full, conscious satiation of the amplified primary desire.
He moved higher, his open mouth finding the sensitive skin of her inner thigh, just shy of the fabric of her panties. His breathing was ragged, a stuttering counterpoint to the ship’s steady drone. His hand slid further up, his thumb brushing against the crease of her hip. A jolt, electric and unwelcome, shot through her.
Fine. If that’s what it takes.
She twisted slightly onto her side, giving him access to the curve of her ass. Immediately, his hands were on her, gripping the soft flesh through the thin cotton of her panties, squeezing with a kind of frantic reverence. His mouth followed, his tongue laving a hot, shameless stripe over the fabric.
“Okay, big boy,” she said, her voice steadier than she felt. She pushed at his shoulder. “Enough. Go to the shower. I’ll change and join you.”
He stopped. He straightened up, his body rigid, but he didn’t move. He just stared at her, the emptiness in his gaze somehow more unnerving than lust.
“Okay-okay,” she sighed, sitting up and swinging her legs off the bunk. “I’m the only available object of your desire in the vicinity, and you will not let me go. Fine. Just stand there. Don’t move.”
He obeyed, a statue of need. She turned her back to him, her fingers fumbling with the drawstring of her travel bag. She pulled out the brief blue micro-bikini, the fabric glowing softly in the low light. She could feel his stare on her back like a physical heat as she shimmied out of her sleep clothes and into the tiny two-piece. The triangles of fabric barely contained her, the high-cut bottoms leaving her hips bare. She tied the strings with quick, efficient tugs.
When she turned, he was still there, still staring. But now one hand was wrapped around his erection, slowly, rhythmically stroking. The sight was so blatant, so divorced from the Jax she sparred with, that a spike of pure irritation shot through her fear.
“Oh, c’mon,” she hissed, crossing her arms over her chest. “You couldn’t have done it yourself yesterday?!” She remembered the evidence in the shower.
There was no reply. Just the hungry, hollow look.
“Okay, trucker,” she said, stepping closer. The air between them vibrated. “What is your greatest desire now? Tell me. What breaks this?”
His answer came in a flat, affectless monotone, stripped of all his usual gruff authority. “Feed princess. Violet eyes look at me. Rina sucks-sucks-sucks. Takes all of it. Swallows it all.”
She froze. The clinical vulgarity of it, the raw, stripped-bare honesty, was a punch to the gut. It wasn’t a request. It was a programmed directive, a circuit waiting to be closed.
“No way, you perp,” she muttered, but the anger was for the situation, not him. He wasn’t in there. She knew that. He wouldn’t remember. This was a medical procedure. A messy, degrading, necessary one. “C’mon, boy. I’ll give you your daily release.”
She took his free hand—it was warm, almost feverish—and led him the few steps to the shower. He followed obediently. Inside the tight stall, the world compressed to cold metal walls and the sound of their breathing. He stood tall, his back straight, his hand still working on himself. The sight was so pitiful and primal that her body moved before her mind could protest. Her knees hit the cool, textured floor of the shower.
Wow, Rina, that trucker actually tamed you, didn’t he?
The thought was startling, almost funny. She pushed it aside. This was about control. Her control.
“Okay, trucker,” she said, looking up at his vacant face. Her violet eyes met his empty ones. “Let me work that tool of yours.”
She reached up and gently pried his hand away. His flesh was hot, the skin like velvet over steel. She’d never done this before. But it was, in its own absurd way, a unique learning opportunity. She took him in both hands, one at the base, one just below the head. He was thick, veined, heavier than she’d imagined.
She began slowly, a tentative stroke. “How do you like it?” she asked, her voice clinical. “What should I do?”
His instructions came in that same flat drone. “Cup the balls. Gently.” She did. “Now harder.” She adjusted her pressure. “Rub full shaft.” She complied, her hands learning the rhythm. “Just the head now. Use your thumb on the slit.” Her movements became more confident, guided by his emotionless feedback. “Faster now. Increase pace.”
Her hands moved, slick with his pre-cum, establishing a rhythm. She kind of liked it. Not the act itself, the mechanical motion, but the power of it. Being the one to guide this raw, driven need. And yeah, objectively, his cock was impressive—not that she had a frame of reference, but the weight of it in her hands, the way it pulsed, felt… substantial. She kept it mere centimeters from her face, studying it, learning its responses. The musky, salty scent of him filled her nostrils.
There was even a moment, a flicker of something beyond the clinical, where she considered giving him one more present—to pull down the front of her bikini top. A spike of heat, unrelated to the stifling shower, flared in her abdomen. She quashed it. No. That crossed a line she wasn’t ready to even see.
Under her ministrations, his breathing hitched. The gasps were real, animal, breaking through the drugged monotone. Her own arms began to ache, but she kept the pace fast, frantic, mirroring the rising tension in his body. She felt the moment build, a coiling pressure under her palms.
She sensed the imminent pulse just before it happened. With a quick tilt of her head and a slight shift of his hips, she redirected the aim. The first thick jet hit the shower wall with a wet slap. The second and third streaked down the drain. Only a single, warm droplet landed on the curve of her bare shoulder, a tiny, shocking brand.
He shuddered, a full-body convulsion, and then went utterly still. The rigid tension drained from him, replaced by a profound limpness. The blank, hungry stare softened, then clouded with confusion. He blinked, looking down at her kneeling on the wet floor, at her hands still loosely holding him, at the glowing blue bikini barely covering her.
He blinked, looking down at her kneeling on the wet floor, at her hands still loosely holding him, at the glowing blue bikini barely covering her. A flicker of awareness, sharp and horrified, cut through the haze in his glassy eyes. He stumbled back, his body hitting the opposite shower wall with a dull thud. “What…?” he rasped, his voice rough with sleep and chemical confusion.
Then the vacant hunger slammed back down, erasing that brief moment of clarity. His eyes glazed over, hardening into that flat, inorganic focus. His gaze locked onto the single glistening droplet on her bare shoulder, pearlescent against her skin in the low light.
“IT’S WRONG,” he said, the words toneless yet vehement. “RINA ISN’T COVERED. RINA DIDN’T TASTE. RINA SHOULD LICK TO TASTE.”
“WHAT?!” She shouted back, shocked, scrambling to her feet on the slick floor.
His hand shot out, not to grab her, but to point a trembling finger at the evidence on her skin. “RINA IS LOVE. RINA IS TREASURE. KEEP RINA. PROTECT RINA.” The programmed words, stripped of his usual cynicism, hit her with a physical force. “RINA MUST LICK. MUST TASTE. MUST MAKE IT CLEAN.”
A strange warmth flooded her chest, a gentle rise of something profoundly disorienting. It wasn’t arousal. It was the shock of being named a treasure by this hollow shell, the raw, unfiltered echo of a feeling he could never consciously voice. With a sigh that held more surrender than frustration, she said, “Okay, trucker, you win. But don’t you ever tell anyone about this.” She knew he wouldn’t. He wouldn’t even remember.
But she complied.
Her eyes never leaving his, she lifted her hand to her shoulder. She collected the single warm droplet onto her finger. She brought it to her lips, her tongue darting out to lick it clean, letting him see the salt-bitter taste she accepted. His tense posture eased a fraction. She then knelt again, her movements deliberate now. She didn’t give him a blowjob. She used only her tongue, licking him clean with slow, thorough strokes, taking the head of him into her mouth briefly to ensure no part was left. She made it clean.
Then she looked him in the eyes, her own wide and unblinking. “Happy now? Can we go to sleep?”
“NOT YET,” was his flat reply. “RINA NEEDS TO GET JAX HANDS.”
Before she could process the command, his hands were on her. He pushed her up from her knees and spun her, pinning her against the cold, wet shower wall. His body pressed against her back, trapping her. His hands—those strong, calloused hands she’d admired—began moving over her.
They were everywhere at once, pressing, squeezing, probing through the slick fabric of the glowing bikini. He didn’t undress her. He didn’t try to enter her. He explored every inch he could reach. One large hand kneaded her breast, his thumb circling her nipple until it was a hard peak against the wet blue fabric. His other hand slid down her stomach, over the high-cut hip of the bikini bottom, and found the aching center of her.
He began working her clit through the fabric, his touch at first curious, then insistently rhythmic. His mouth was at her neck and shoulders, open-mouthed kisses that were wet and hot and devoid of any art, just pure sensation. She began to moan, a soft, helpless sound at first, born from shock and the overwhelming invasion. But his fingers found a perfect, devastating pressure.
Her moans grew louder, faster, losing any semblance of control. She was gasping, her forehead pressed against the cool metal wall, her fingers scrambling for purchase. The world narrowed to the relentless circling of his thumb, the press of his body, the chemical truth of his desire programmed only for her satisfaction. A coil tightened deep within her, unbearably tight, and then snapped.
The orgasm ripped through her with a violence that shook her knees. It was a full-body tremor, a silent scream into the shower stall, waves of pure, mindless sensation pulsing from where his hand worked. He held her through it, his body a solid brace against her convulsions.
When the last tremor faded, he simply let her go. He stepped back, turned, and walked out of the shower, leaving her slumped against the wall. She heard the faint rustle of him climbing into his bunk. She slid down the wall, collapsing onto the wet floor, spent. Happiness, anger, a deep shame, and a profound sadness that it wasn’t the real Jax, all swirled inside her, a chaotic storm with no eye.
She thought, her breath slowly steadying, that maybe, just maybe, losing her virginity to this man wouldn’t be the worst idea after all. But only when he was himself, and not this drugged thing. Using the wall for support, she pulled herself up. She cleaned herself with a coarse towel, her body still humming. Then she cleaned the shower, erasing all evidence. Finally, she peeled off the damp bikini, pulled on her sleep shirt, and crawled into her bunk. Sleep claimed her before her head hit the pillow.