Captain Lira Voss had always preferred the quiet hours.
When the ship slept and the hum of the Aurora’s systems became a low, almost sensual purr, she could finally breathe. No orders to give, no crew to command. No eyes watching her every move.
Just her, the stars, and the hunger that never quite left her body since the obelisk.
It was January 13, 2026—01:47 ship time. Jax and Sera had retired to their shared quarters hours ago, exhausted from the day’s maintenance cycle and the inevitable late-night tangle that usually followed. Lira had excused herself early with the excuse of reviewing stellar charts. They hadn’t questioned her. They never did when she needed space.
She walked the dimly lit corridors barefoot, the cool deck plates kissing the soles of her feet. She wore only the thinnest black silk sleep chemise—short enough that the hem barely skimmed the tops of her thighs, the deep V-neck plunging between her full breasts. No bra. No panties. Just skin against silk, already damp between her legs from nothing more than the anticipation of being alone.
The cargo bay doors whispered open at her approach.
The obelisk waited.
Its crystalline surface was dark tonight, almost dormant, only the faintest violet pulse deep within—like a slow, patient heartbeat. The containment field had been lowered days ago; the artifact no longer needed to be restrained. It had learned them. It knew when they came willingly.
Lira stepped inside and let the doors seal behind her.
Silence.
She walked straight to the throne and stood before it for a long moment, simply breathing. The air here was always warmer, thicker, scented with something metallic and sweet. Her nipples tightened against the silk, aching.
Slowly, she reached behind her neck and untied the thin straps. The chemise slid down her body like liquid shadow, pooling at her feet. Naked now, she stepped out of it and climbed onto the throne.
The crystal welcomed her.
It molded instantly to the shape of her body—warm, slightly yielding, cradling her ass, supporting the small of her back, even curving gently under her knees as she spread her thighs wide. Thin filaments of light rose from the seat, brushing feather-light against the insides of her thighs, teasing without touching her center.
Lira exhaled shakily.
She had come here tonight not for the others. Not for shared ecstasy.
Tonight was hers alone.
She let her head fall back against the headrest and closed her eyes.
“Show me,” she whispered.
The artifact responded.
The first touch was so soft she almost missed it—a warm current of air that ghosted over her left nipple, then her right, making both peaks draw painfully tight. She arched slightly, offering herself.
Then came the pressure.
Invisible tendrils—neither fingers nor tongues, but something between—wrapped around each breast, squeezing with perfect firmness. They pulsed in slow rhythm, kneading her flesh, rolling her nipples between unseen points of contact. Lira moaned low in her throat, hips rocking instinctively.
She kept her hands at her sides. She wanted to feel only what the throne gave her. No cheating. No shortcuts.
A thicker tendril slithered up the inside of her right thigh, slow and deliberate. It traced the crease where leg met body, then drifted inward, circling her outer lips without parting them. Teasing. Coaxing.
Lira’s breath came faster.
“Please…” she breathed.
The artifact obeyed.
Two delicate filaments parted her folds, spreading her open. Cool air kissed her exposed clit, making her gasp. Then warmth followed—soft, wet heat that felt exactly like a tongue circling her swollen nub. Slow. Patient. Perfect pressure.
She whimpered.
Another tendril—thicker this time—pressed at her entrance. It didn’t thrust in immediately. It simply pulsed there, swelling slightly with each heartbeat, stretching her opening without penetrating. Mimicking the moment just before entry, over and over.
Lira’s hands finally moved. She gripped the armrests so hard her knuckles whitened.
The tongue-like sensation on her clit began to flick faster—short, rapid strokes that made her hips jerk. At the same time, the tendril at her entrance pushed in—slowly, inch by thick inch—until it filled her completely. It didn’t feel like a cock exactly,it felt… alive. It throbbed inside her, expanding and contracting in time with her own pulse.
She cried out softly.
Then the throne began to move her.
Gentle forces lifted her hips, rocking her in a slow, rolling rhythm. Fucking her on the invisible shaft while the tongue worked her clit relentlessly. Another tendril appeared—slimmer, slick—circling her back entrance. It didn’t push in yet. It simply teased the tight ring, pulsing in rhythm with everything else.
Lira’s moans grew louder, echoing off the cargo bay walls.
She had always been disciplined. Controlled. But here, alone, she let herself unravel.
The tendril at her ass pressed forward—slowly, carefully—until the tip breached her. She hissed at the stretch, then groaned as it slid deeper, filling her back channel while the thicker one continued to thrust into her pussy.
Double penetrated by light and will.
The rhythm increased.
The throne rocked her faster now, impaling her on both intrusions. The tongue on her clit became insistent—flicking, sucking, lapping in perfect counterpoint. Tendrils wrapped around her nipples again, tugging rhythmically, pinching just hard enough to send sparks straight to her core.
Lira’s thighs began to tremble.
She could feel it building—the slow, inevitable coil deep in her belly. She didn’t fight it, she welcomed it.
The artifact seemed to sense her surrender.
Everything intensified at once.
The shaft in her pussy swelled thicker, stretching her walls to the delicious edge of pain. The one in her ass pulsed, vibrating. The tongue on her clit pressed flat and sucked hard. Nipples tugged sharply.
Lira broke.
Her orgasm tore through her like solar flare—violent, blinding, unstoppable. She screamed, hips bucking wildly as she squirted hard, clear fluid arcing from her cunt and splashing across the crystal. Her body convulsed, inner walls clamping down on both intrusions, milking them in frantic spasms.
The throne didn’t stop.
It gentled the rhythm but kept moving—slow, soothing strokes through her aftershocks, drawing out every last tremor.
When the first wave finally ebbed, Lira sagged against the seat, chest heaving, skin slick with sweat.
But she wasn’t finished.
She never was, these days.
She opened her eyes, dark with renewed hunger.
“More,” she rasped.
The light shifted—brighter now, almost golden.
New tendrils rose.
One wrapped around her throat—not choking, just holding. Possessive. Another slid between her breasts, then up to trace her lips. She opened her mouth and it slipped inside—warm, slick, tasting faintly of her own arousal. She sucked greedily, tongue curling around it.
Below, the intrusions inside her began to move again—independent rhythms now. One thrusting deep while the other withdrew, then switching. A perfect seesaw of fullness.
A new sensation appeared—something soft and fluttering against the underside of her clit, like countless tiny tongues. It vibrated.
Lira moaned around the tendril in her mouth.
She lost track of time.
The second orgasm built slower, deeper. It rolled through her like thunder—long, rolling contractions that made her sob with pleasure. She came again, gushing, thighs shaking uncontrollably.
Still the throne continued.
A third climax followed—sharp and sudden, almost painful in its intensity. Her vision whited out for a moment. She screamed around the intrusion in her mouth, body arching off the crystal.
When she collapsed this time, trembling and spent, the artifact finally gentled.
All movement ceased.
Tendrils withdrew slowly, leaving her empty and aching in the best way.
Warm light bathed her skin, soothing sore muscles, easing the delicious soreness between her legs.
Lira lay there for a long time, breathing hard, heart still racing.
Eventually she sat up—slowly, carefully.
Her thighs glistened. Her breasts were flushed dark red from the attention. Between her legs, she was swollen, slick, sensitive.
She smiled—a small, private, satisfied curve of her lips.
She slid off the throne and stood on unsteady legs.
The crystal pulsed once—soft, almost affectionate.
Lira bent down, retrieved her chemise, and slipped it back over her head. The silk clung to her damp skin.
She paused at the doors, looking back over her shoulder.
“Thank you,” she whispered.
The obelisk pulsed again—violet, warm, promising.
Lira stepped into the corridor.
The doors sealed behind her.
She walked back to her quarters barefoot, thighs slick, body humming with afterglow.
Tomorrow she would command the crew again. She would be Captain Voss—stern, brilliant, untouchable.
But tonight—tonight—she belonged only to herself.
And to the quiet, endless hunger that the stars had awakened inside her.
