The Cyrsian desert, despite the natural connotation, is not a place known for warmth. The planet of Cyrsia, lightly caressed and controlled by Andromeda, maintains an average temperature of -3 degrees Fahrenheit. Because of this oddly livable but constantly hostile climate, the few species of vegetation which reside there have adapted to rely on sources other than light and nutrients for their energy. Instead they are powered by movement -possibly the morbid result of the falling of their dead being the only thing close to life, they have hard, cup-like leaves which transfer some of their movement to their roots, while shifting themselves in the process, feeding the survival of their doomed siblings across the planet. And with no natural hills nor valleys on this monolithic gray rock, this creates a constant and biting current which makes one feel like death if left on the planet. To be left on Cyrsia is not a good thing. A human being could live on Cyrsia without a suit, but not for very long.
For a brief time, there were regular patrols of Cyrsia, to redeem any of this accursed fate. Yet the natural isolation made the planet a frequent home to illegal trafficking of nearly any commodity in the universe. This was an initial reason for the patrols of Cyrsia. However those who dealt on Cyrsia were generally unamiable to the proposition of legal punishment, so much so that they were known to kill those officers who tried interfering in their dealings. This created a duality of fear among both legal and illegal parties, leaving Cyrsia desolate of everything but strange plants.
Today was different. Today Kirklin found herself on Cyrsia. Alone. Naked. Abandoned. Her hair was an odd blonde, lighter than that which one might normally encounter, but undoubtably natural. It retained a glow of white autumn sun or immature corn, strangely impossible to describe, and only entrancing to see. Her eyebrows were a more understandable redish-brown, which gave a shadow of danger to her otherwise jovial and caring visage. Her monochromatic body could've been made in a computer -an almost crystalline white, lightly but evenly tanned by distant suns, topped with perky and full, voluptuous breasts.
To look upon it did not bring the thought of indecorous actions to the degree of having no use for clothes, but instead the innocence of Eve, alone and pure, the world just a garden, more deserving and caring than the species which followed her, but also so happy with feeling pleasure that she might take a quiet stud to bed and hold him down and slap and bite him while she pushed him inside her and screamed any profane word that made men quiver without batting an eye, seeing no more shame in it than a blink. This was Kirklin, and someone had sentenced her to die on Cyrsia. To die alone, freezing and starving.
The first day brought about two actions for Kirklin. First: Screaming. She screamed in horror and hatred and heartbreak. She screamed for hours. Second: Masturbation. The constant wind, while detrimental to the psyche, brushed so stirringly on the miniscule hairs between her legs. I didn't take long for her to find that the evolutionarily smooth bodies of the unknown plants of Cyrsia fit inside her quite well, produced some warmth, and satisfied a yearning yet pragmatic want to increase her mentality. With the firm yet flexible bodies of the plants, her cries transformed to moans, the chills stimulating her nipples insatiably and the refined, top heavy and follicle lined tool reaching ever spot she desired. As she quivered and shook upon the frozen surface of Cyrsia, she pushed herself as hard as she could, holding back her orgasm like a floodgate, until she finally released in a tremendous screaming moan and torrent tempestuous squirts of fluid that sailed like suicidal birds into the young plant life, giving them unnatural bursts of ecstatic energy. Her moans and squirting kept going, decreasing very gradually over a period of twelve seconds, and when it was over, she had no energy for consciousness, and fell asleep on the indifferent surface of Cyrsia.
The days of Cyrsia rose to a relative burn of 2 degrees Fahrenheit. On this day Kirklin again screamed at the universe. However, this did not take up most of her day. Instead she traversed this wasteland, trying in futility to appreciate the sheer and rugged natural beauty of her surroundings. As this inevitably failed, she again picked one of the strange Cyrsian shrubs for her personal use.
Yet as she briskly pulled one from its natural home, she thought she heard something, something so remote and hopeless that it was most likely a sign of her deteriorating mind rather than anything else. But there was nothing to lose in the entire universe at this point, so she investigated. She thought, with the strangest urge in her life, and since Cyrsia was almost completely quiet, the wind circling one's ankles rather than ears, that her had heard an infinitesimally faint echo, of the falling dirt as it hit the planetary surface. She dropped her toy. There it was. After it hit the ground, there was something, a noise just a few microseconds afterwards. It was her only hope. The ground was hollow.
Like a fiend, like a badger, like an abandoned woman digging for her only chance at survival, Kirklin used her tool, as it had an open interior which lent itself surprisingly well to digging, to remove the ground from itself. After a scare of madness, that this was so clearly hopeless, the tool fell through to an opening. Light streamed through above the surface here. It was warm. It was magic. She was going to live! She demolished just enough room to squeeze her nude body through the hole, finding electric lights, fire-starters, rations, and endless unknown tunnels at her disposal. But beside all of that it was warm.
She first dug into a sealed ration can, a synthetic mushroom soup, draining it in under a minute. She screamed again, joyously, with praise, with ecstasy and lust and fulfillment, and her screamed echoed throughout the tunnels and came back to her in unknown intervals.
Kirklin was still, however, a practical and strong woman. Within the day she used paper documents and piles of her former sex toys to build a fire on the surface of Cyrsia. She sat here, eating cans and cans of rations, staring into the infinite heavens when alas, her savior approached. A steely-gray and orange-streaked voyager came from the sky, pushing through the atmosphere at a -32-degree angle before rotating its fire-blue propellants to adjust for the gravity, and bring the vessel languidly sinking to the ground. Kirklin noticed a powerful, prosaic "OS" painted bolded on the ship's starboard as it fell, coming to rest 150 yards from Kirklin and her fire.
