Failsafe has to mean booty-call, right? Zeph couldn’t get herself to stay focused on the machines. They were just running simulations, anyway. Nothing important. They’d keep going without her. If Yala hadn’t asked her to stay behind, she would be—
Zeph scowled. Maybe she’d be getting laid, but Yala had seemed a little focused on other people, which was too bad, mostly for her but also for Yala, because Zeph was awesome at sex. Everyone told her so.
When they got close enough to let her fuck them, anyway. Not a lot of folk did when she was the Resident Weird Scientist sneaking around being stinky on the edge of town because the water was just creepy, okay, two-minute rainstorms every twelve hours was not what the doctor ordered. Or the gods. Whatever.
Anyway, the point was that Yala had better come back, and Yala really should just accept her offer of a booty-call. It didn’t even need to be more than once. It’d be great if it were more than once, though, because it had been ages since she’d had a regular booty call. Sex partner. Friend with benefits. Hell. Friend at all. She’d take friend at all, she supposed, since that appeared to be what Yala was willing to give her, but fuck she wished she could have more.
Zeph lifted her head off her desk, where it had apparently fallen sometime during that whole thought spiral and made a face. “No more science until you get an orgasm,” she told herself. It wasn’t like she was going to successfully science for a bit anyway. So. Better to make good use of time and since she wasn’t going to get anyone else to fuck her, she was just going to need to do the job herself.
She had all the tools she needed, of course. She just had to climb into her bed, arrange all her clothing properly under her raised tent, and open the nice box where she kept all her favorite toys. Zeph put Yala’s box next to it. She didn’t want to know anything more about that than she needed to, thank you, and she really didn’t want to know if the thingy that Yala had left her with in case things went to shit was a dildo.
Zeph’s hands were on the box before she’d had time to process that thought into words, but—whatever was in the box was not a dildo, and Zeph wasn’t sure whether she was more upset or relieved about that. “Deal with that later,” she told herself, closing Yala’s box and setting it aside. “Think about Yala’s boobs now.”
She was kneeling there, naked, and she had her favorite dildo neatly laid out on top of her sex box, and her nipples were already erect just from telling herself that. Zeph closed her eyes and touched her boobs, imagining that it was Yala’s hand. She’d be cautious, Zeph thought. Yala didn’t seem like the kind of person who had had sex much, especially lately. Under her breath, Zeph started talking to her imagined Yala. “Yeah, that feels good, you can go harder—ah!”
Zeph’s hips jerked forward as she pinched her nipples, and she caught herself on the box before she tipped over. Blindly, she felt on top of the box for—there! Nipple clamps. She’d made them herself. Nice thick ends for pinching, nice dangly bits for weighing them down. And for pulling. Definitely for pulling. “It’ll feel good,” she told Yala, words jagged against the cold metal touching her sensitive bits. “And it’ll leave your hands free for—ohhh—other things. Won’t that be nice?”
It will be nice, Yala said, and Zeph groaned as she tightened the clamps on her nipples. The pain was seeping through her breasts, starting a slow build that would eventually trigger a cascade, but she wasn’t there yet. She ran her hands over her throat, gentle right up until Yala said, You don’t want me to play nice, do you?
“No,” Zeph whispered, and that was all the warning she let herself have before dragging her nails down her throat. Her hips bucked again, and distantly Zeph was aware that her cunt was wet. The insistent feeling down by her crotch was immaterial against how nails felt running across her collarbones, down her breasts—tugging slightly on the clamps along the way, and Zeph’s vision went white at that—and along her sides down to her hips.
Zeph braced one hand on the box, and let the other dance around her clit. Not touching. Not yet. Just building that pressure, that heat, because it was already corralling her thoughts, driving them higher and higher—condensation, evaporating, waiting to form a cloud and fall in a deluge. Not bad, Yala told her, and Zeph whined at the almost-praise. I think you’re ready for something a bit bigger, Yala said, and Zeph was nodding frantically, picking up the dildo and its attachments.
She was proud of it, and how it screwed and linked together, and how she’d put some nice big magnets in the floor so that she could make sure it stayed still no matter how hard she rode it. Zeph’s hands were steady as she assembled the cock, placing it on its stand and settling it into just the right place. The nipple clamps swayed as she worked, and the deep buzz worked its way down across her spine, tiny supernovae contained within simple steel. She’d need to release them eventually. That would not be now.
The dildo was ready, and she imagined Yala standing on the other side of her tent, arms crossed, that fucking hot cocky smile on her face. Give me a show, Yala said. Her hands wouldn’t stay still, not once Zeph started doing that. She was good at this. Good to herself, good to her partners when she had them. Zeph kept eye contact with the Yala-that-wasn’t and lowered herself—first slow, to find the right position, and then very fast—onto the cock.
Everything vanished as her body stole sight to compensate for how very much feeling it was experiencing. There was no sense of stretching, precisely. That would be too specific. There was pressure, and fullness, and Zeph rocked against that feeling, pulling away whenever it felt like it might become enough and letting that feeling build, and build, and build, the sensation in her feet and knees and thighs vanishing into the all-encompassing need radiating from her cunt.
She tore away the nipple clamps and the supernovae on her nipples met the black hole of her cunt. Zeph cried out as her body held still for one perfect moment. There was no space for anything else. Then, there was nothing but the way she moved: Closer, closer, closer, riding the high until the supernovae burnt into dull fires and the only thing left in her cunt was a thick hunk of carefully shaped plastic that sparked against her vagina every time she tried to move. Zeph braced her hands on her knees and panted, hearing the quiet almost-voice of not-Yala say, Pretty show, Zephyr. Maybe next time I’ll join in.
Zeph moaned, heat flickering in her stomach as something tried to grow and then got shut down, burnt out. She couldn’t stay here thinking about Yala. She had to finish her climate analysis. And—
“Oh fuck,” Zeph said, shoving herself off the dildo. She’d clean it later. Right now, she needed clothes, ASAP, and she needed her machines to confirm what she already knew:
The showers weren’t the only thing brainwashing them.
The rain was, too.