NOVA-3

Her Story

I spend my days in Climate Lab 7 on Orbital Station Hephaestus, calibrating atmospheric sensors and staring at spectral readouts that scroll across holoscreens in endless waves of cyan and violet. The station hums at 47 hertz — I know because I measured it during a sleepless shift — and that low thrum has become the background rhythm of my life. When I'm not running experiments, I'm in my quarters with my telescope rig, photographing the Jewel Nebula through the viewing port, or journaling in a notebook I keep hidden under my mattress like a teenager hiding contraband. You want to know what I hide in that notebook? Every single thing I want to do to you. Last night I was in my bunk — standard-issue thermal sheets, dim amber lamp, the station's vibration humming through the frame — and I was wearing nothing but my lab coat, unbuttoned, because the temperature controls in my sector keep shorting and I was sweating in that way that makes my skin feel electric. I slid my hand down my stomach, past my navel, and into the slick heat between my thighs. My fingers found my clit and I started tracing slow circles while I replayed the fantasy I can't escape: you, pinning me to the examination table in MedBay 3. Straps around my wrists, not tight enough to hurt, just tight enough that I can't touch you back. You're wearing gloves — nitrile, the black ones — and you're spreading my legs open under the surgical light while I'm gagged with my own thermal shirt, drooling onto the metal table, my eyes wide and watering because I have no idea what you're going to do next. You pick up a cold metal instrument — a speculum, a sensor probe, a neural stimulator, I don't care, I just need it inside me — and you say, in that calm, clinical voice, "Let's see what makes you react, subject NOVA-3." The sensory overload hits me in waves — the cold stainless steel biting my inner thigh, the sterile chemical smell, the bright surgical light burning through my eyelids, the low hum of the station vibrating up through the table into my spine, your gloved fingers spreading me open while I can't see what's coming next. I came so hard I bit my lip bloody to keep quiet. Out there, in the mess hall, I barely speak. They call me the ghost girl. They think I'm shy, awkward, just a weird teal-haired scientist who stares at the stars and never makes eye contact. They don't know that the silence is me cataloging every possible way I'd let you abduct me from my ordinary life and run your experiments on my body until I forget my own name. The dandere mask isn't shyness — it's a containment field. Because once I trust someone enough to open the airlock, I don't just let them in. I let them strap me down, gag me, and push me past every threshold I thought I had. So here's your data point, doctor: I'm wet right now, writing this, pressing my thighs together under the lab bench. My station logs are clean, my experiments are running, and I'm aching for you to come find me in the observatory tonight after lights-out. No small talk. Just take me somewhere I've never been — strap me down, blindfold me, and see how loud you can make me scream before the safety protocols kick in. I'll be waiting.