In the Dark of the Station
From Inta's Reading List, "Ship's Interface", Chapter 9
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My shuttle ride from the carrier Superion, was quick, allowing only the briefest glimpses of the small observation station I would be posted on alone for the next three months. Through the forward viewport over the pilot's shoulder, I could see the relatively small, gray-colored cylinder, bristling with antennas and dishes against the backdrop of the massive swirling purples and blues of the nebula that I would be studying.
By choice, my career was a long succession of solo postings; studying gas giants in the Tryvain system, the Oort cloud of Pendrac, or the polar deserts of Sindar's second moon. The truth of the matter was that I didn't get along very well with people, and these postings suited me. It wasn't that I didn't like people, on the contrary, I found them fascinating. I just didn't understand them. I always found people stranger than the subjects of my study, and more difficult to understand. I suppose others found me just as strange.
So when my last posting ended, I reviewed the university's list of grants and found the postings that other researchers tended to shy away from, long-duration observations where I would be the only one at the research station, just like this latest assignment.
The station grew larger in the viewport as we approached, and I could see that the cylindrical station was comprised of several decks stacked on top of each other, with observation posts at either end. The docking port was in the middle of the station, and the shuttle slowed and eased up to it, aligning its airlock to the station's.
The was a slight jolt as the airlocks made contact, and the whirring of motors reverberated as the locks engaged. I said a quick thank you to the pilot as the shuttle's and station's airlock clamped together, then headed to the door to transfer. When the airlock doors opened, I was met by the previous scientist assigned to this post. Being alone for three months, he had elected not to shave and looked a little ragged and disheveled.
"Johanna Kepler, badge Charlie-Gamma five nine two, here to relieve you," I said to him, ceremoniously.
"Franklin Beezer, badge Epsilon-Zeta seven seven three, I am relieved," he replied in a similarly mechanical way.
We passed each other in the transfer tube connecting the shuttle to the station, and just before the shuttle's airlock door shut he said mysteriously, "Keep an ear out for a rattle in one of the subsystems. I couldn't trace the source, but it didn't seem to be causing any issues. And it's best to keep the lights on. Good luck."
The airlock doors closed, then the shuttle detached and slowly moved away from the station leaving me the sole occupant of the research station. I thought about his odd warning to keep the lights on for a moment, then put it out of my mind as I unpacked my few belongings and settled in for my stay.
The station's service records showed that it had been in service for little more than sixty years, sixty-six, to be precise, but had been exceptionally well maintained and hardly showed its age except for the occasional squeaky hinge of a storage cabinet door. The walls were a faded, but clean white, and the furniture was outdated but in good condition. I went to the bunkroom and found that Franklin had made up the simple cot with hospital corners on the sheets and blankets. I dropped my duffle bag on the locker at the foot of the bed and set about to make myself at home for the next three months.
The first few days of my assignment were fairly ordinary, and by my fifth day on the station I had developed a routine: Wake, light exercise in the morning followed by a small breakfast. Four hours of reviewing the previous day's collected observation data, then lunch, another five hours of analysis, and observation target selection for the remaining day. Another light round of cardio, dinner, then bed.
It was the night of the fifth day after I had climbed into bed and was almost asleep when I heard the odd rattle somewhere deep in the station's systems that Franklin had mentioned when he departed. I grabbed a nearby flashlight and headed down to the Engineering deck wearing only my plain white panties and a loose-fitting tee shirt that I usually slept in.
I climbed down the ladder to the Engineering deck and was surrounded by the sounds of the motors and servos of the various systems that supported the station functions. I heard the rattle again down the corridor away from the ladder, so I walked in the direction of the sound, not exactly knowing what I was looking for, but as I got closer the rattling stopped, so I stood for a moment listening for the sound in the half-light of the inner recesses of the Engineering compartment.
I waited for a few moments, but the rattle didn't sound again. Feeling foolish, I turned to head back to the ladder, when the faintest scent of wildflowers caught my attention, and then was gone. A sense of unease settled over me, like when you're sure someone is staring at the back of your head. I glanced back, seeing and hearing nothing, I went to the ladder and climbed up, then returned to my bed. I lay there awake for a time, and when I finally slept, it was dreamless.
The next day, I resumed my routine; breakfast, exercise, and data review. As I was fixing a small lunch, I heard the same small rattle from the decks below. In a frustrated huff, I set my half-made lunch aside and went down to the engineering deck to investigate. Almost as soon as my shoes touched the deck of the engineering compartment, the rattle stopped. I looked around, much as I had the previous night with no better results, and once again as I was about to ascend the ladder the scent of wildflowers drifted past, strong enough that this time I didn't dismiss it as a figment of my imagination.
I paused, my hand on the ladder, and breathed it in, trying to discern the direction from which it came, but it had an effect I did not expect. Warmth blossomed in my core, and my nipples got hard and sensitive. It lasted only for a moment then was gone. The fleeting arousal I felt surprised me. My neural inhibitor should have suppressed it as it has done for the last ten years.
My parents took me to the Clinic at the end of the summer of my sixteenth year, as was customary in our society, to have the neural inhibitor installed that would suppress my libido and remove that particular distraction as I prepared myself for my studies. Many professional fields are highly competitive, sometimes requiring decades of focused effort. It is common practice for individuals looking to become successful to have these neural inhibitors installed during a time when absolute focus on one's field of study is vital.
Then when they deem themselves sufficiently successful, they remove the inhibitor, usually in their late thirties. I had planned on having mine deactivated about a decade from now, so when I felt the flutter of arousal standing at the bottom of that ladder, it took me by complete surprise.
I returned to my lunch and thought about what had happened. Could the inhibitor be failing? Not out of the realm of possibility, but extremely unlikely. There is a long history of use of inhibitors and the technology is quite mature.
Perhaps there is a gas leak in the ventilation system? Plausible. Certainly more likely than an inhibitor failing without warning. "I'll run the station's self-diagnostic scan as soon as I finish lunch," I thought, taking a bite of my sandwich. I finished my meal then washed and put everything back in its place. Heading first to the bunkroom, I set my bag full of personal items on the bed and rifled through it. I found the simple diagnostics monitor that the Clinic provided when the inhibitor was installed, then pressed its single button and waved it slowly back and forth along the side of my head. It made a soft chime and the only indicator on its surface glowed green, indicating the implant was functioning properly.
Putting away the diagnostic stick, I went to the control room, I caught another whiff of wildflower, stronger this time, and along with the ache returning to my nipples, I felt my panties instantly moisten as I leaned against the doorframe, moaning wantonly as the sensations washed over me. Yes, distracting indeed.
As the wetness from my arousal ran down my inner thigh, I navigated to the station's life support diagnostics screen on the control console and started the self-diagnostics. As I waited for the systems to report, I couldn't help but roughly squeeze one breast, tweaking a nipple, while grinding my pussy with the heel of my palm through the plain work pants I wore.
The diagnostic finished, and the system reported all systems were well within operating parameters. I tried to ponder what that meant as I vigorously dry-humped the arm of the chair, but not used to such distraction, I could only concentrate on the building heat of my impending climax. I unbuttoned my shirt and slipped a hand inside and the delightful skin-on-skin contact pushed me closer.
Just as I was about to crest that delicious wave, the scent of wildflowers vanished, as did the impending orgasm. I dropped into the chair frustrated, and now in need of a fresh set of panties. What the hell was going on? I sat for a moment in the small puddle of my arousal, racking my brain for possibilities. Coming up with nothing, I stormed off to the bathroom to shower and change.
Freshly showered and feeling back to normal, I returned to my work, though admittedly, I spent the rest of the day only half concentrating on my work, thinking about the unusual episode.
At the end of the day, after all my usual tasks had been completed, exercise done, and meal consumed, I prepared for bed. I clicked off the overhead light and slipped under the covers. Laying there in the dark only broken by a small night light, my mind kept returning to the strange bouts of arousal, and I tossed and turned for a long while. Willing myself to relax, I forced myself to breathe in and out in my often-practiced calming technique, and eventually, the tension left my body, and I drifted off.
Ever since I was small, when I infrequently dreamt, I would be lucid in the dream, fully aware that I was dreaming and could exert a measure of control over the course of the dream. The first thing I was aware of in this dream was the surprising scent of wildflowers, not too unlike those from my teenage summers at my parents' cabin back home.
The scent was warm and inviting and my mind drifted back in time to one summer when I met a boy, Mathew. He was handsome, funny, and had caught my eye. We hung out together for several weeks that summer.
In my dream I replayed one particular evening, while we were lying in a field of wildflowers on our backs watching the stars, he leaned over and asked, 'Can I touch you?' I coyly assented, and he placed his hand on my stomach, then slowly slid it up under my shirt squeezed my breast, and played with my nipples. My arousal rose, my core warming and pussy slickening with strong desire.
That time with Mathew was clear in my mind, and as my sole sexual experience, I remembered the events of the night with perfect clarity. It was a blissful evening. We made out under the stars, and I let him explore my breasts, but that was as far as that wonderful night went.
The Mathew in my dream, kissed me, and I kissed him back, feeling butterflies in my stomach as his hand slid up under my shirt. Except this time it was different. His hands weren't the tentative explorations of an inexperienced youth, but instead, felt masterful, knowing what felt good, and how to extract the most pleasure from caresses, squeezes, and playful pinching.
When the scent of wildflowers grew stronger, 'Mathew's' hands drifted lower, starting to slide beneath my waistband, I jerked, hesitated, then angrily confronted him.
"Hold on, stop right there," I said, grabbing his wrists, and halting his progress southward. "I remember this night, and this did not happen." I rapidly started putting two and two together.
"Relax, JoJo, it's fine. Let me do this for you, please," Mathew pleaded.
