A Slut and her Starfighter

Rhea slumped her naked form forward against the controls… or at least slumped as much as one could while floating suspended in anti-G gel. Two weeks. Two weeks was a long time to spend staked out in some middle-of-nowhere asteroid field waiting for a target.

Her ship twitched slightly in answer to her pressure against its sticks, left ready to leap into movement at a moment’s notice for all that time. She could almost feel the high-tech starfighter's irritation at this period of inactivity. It was a machine tuned specifically to push the limits of manoeuvrability in this vast, empty vacuum. To answer her very own innermost need for freedom, speed and adrenaline-soaked moments. But… for every 30 seconds of intense, blood-churning excitement this job provided… There was also a whole lotta sitting around doing nothing.

'Course, Rhea had made some further modifications to her metallic partner in light of this. The full-immersion cockpit was fairly standard by now, amongst those to whom being at the cutting edge of space-combat was the difference between earning their living and turning into just another cloud of space dust. As was the internal harness with its series of tubes for providing oxygen, water and nutrition and in turn removing the inevitable waste products such a diet created. The two large silicon extensions were her own, personal design however.

'If I'm gonna have some damn thing suctioned on to my ass and cunt anyway… I may as well get some fun out of it!' She would proclaim, loudly, to entire dive-bars of scrap-junkies whenever taking a brief bit of space-station shore leave. It was good to get the message that you were a crazy, drunk slut out nice and clear; if you wanted a couple of strangers to give you a pop before the night was over and you headed back out into the emptiness.

For, out here, it was empty… and lonely… no matter how you sliced it. The 'madness of the vastness' was well understood by all those who went out into it alone, selling their services as bounty hunters or mercenaries for whichever corporate interest or satellite citizenry paid the most. A one-woman starfighter could get a lot of dirty jobs done that larger, less stealthy craft couldn't… but that didn't save you from the psychological damage of staring out at all that everyday, with no-one to bitch to about it to because any outward comms would spoil the surprise.

So Rhea fucked her ship… or let it fuck her, depending on the vast multitude of routines and settings she had programmed in. Regular physical exercise was important when you were floating around in zero-g all the time, so she bucked and heaved her hips down against the dildos in furious, panting effort every few hours. Yet, having that constant, intimate connection with her hand-built machine had become almost addictive over the years. She barely ever took the things out any more, finding their swollen, internal presence comforting in a way. As if while between the stars her and her vessel were just one entity… or some such shit.

For mental stimulation she'd watch hour after hour of vintage, downloaded pornography, while letting the ship gently piston its two appendages in and out of her lower half. Once you'd got yourself deep enough into the persona of an unquenchable pervert, it became easier and easier to just see where the rabbit hole led. When a mission didn't require 'stealth mode', she'd spend equal hours trawling the galactic web for forums of other connoisseurs, all too happy to share the hidden gems of their collections and discuss the finer points of 21st century porn-parody gangbang scenes.