Shower and check-up

Hot water cascaded over Pinga’s skin like silk, tracing every sore muscle with lingering heat. She let out a slow, involuntary sigh—part pain, part pleasure. Aslög’s morning “training” had left her limping, and the climb to Deck 6 felt like a cruel endurance test. The Nordic woman had offered no mercy, only a smirk and brisk swats to her behind whenever she dared pause. The shower compartment was as cramped as everything aboard the Seraglio, wedged between water recyclers and the ship’s rare indulgence: a deep soaking tub. Two toilets occupied one corner without privacy. Functional, compact, and far too intimate for someone still getting used to communal life. Which made it even more complicated when Nepthys glided in.

Naked. Confident. Radiant.

“Bath’ll be ready soon,” Nepthys said, casually hoisting her mane of curls up so they could get soaked. The motion was somehow both elegant and dramatic, like she was posing for a shampoo commercial in zero gravity. She tilted her head back with a little sigh, letting the spray drench her hair and cascade down her full breasts, her narrow waist, the lush swell of her hips. Pinga immediately turned away, rubbing her scalp. There had to be hair growing back. She was sure she felt fuzz. Probably. They showered in silence, but it was the kind of silence that crackled with unspoken tension and sneaky side-eyes. Pinga tried not to stare but failed miserably, stealing glances as Nepthys twisted and stretched like a burlesque yoga instructor.

“Like what you see?” Nepthys asked without even looking over.
Pinga flinched like she’d been caught shoplifting. “Sorry! I didn’t mean to gawk. Here or—uh—earlier.”
“Don’t apologize.” Nepthys grinned, finally facing her. “I like being admired. And around here, it’s nothing unusual. We live in close quarters. We share beds. We share the Captain. There’s not much room left for shame.”

Pinga tried to process that. She let the silence stretch for a moment, then asked, “What about before? With Luke. Was that… something you like? Being tied up like that?”

Nepthys gave her a small, private smile. “Yes. It’s one of my kinks. Some people like control. I like surrender.”
“But doesn’t that scare you?” Pinga asked quietly. “Being helpless?”
Nepthys met her eyes. “Sweetheart… we’re all helpless around him, tied up or not. He’s bigger, stronger, and enhanced in ways we aren’t. If he wanted to hurt us, he wouldn’t need rope. But he doesn’t want to. That’s the point. Trusting someone with that kind of power—and knowing they’ll be gentle with it? That’s the thrill. That’s the freedom.”

Pinga’s mouth had gone dry. Her heart thudded, confused by the pulse between her legs.
“And… do you trust him that much?” she asked. Nepthys nodded, her tone turning soft.
“Completely.” Then she leaned in, one hand brushing Pinga’s cheek, the other trailing lightly down her bare arm.
“Come on. Let’s soak.”

They stepped into the tub together, easing into the hot water until their bodies were pressed tight - skin to skin, hip to hip, shoulder to shoulder. Pinga tried to shift away, but there was nowhere to go.
“This is the good life,” Nepthys whispered, eyes closed. “Great sex, hot bath, and good company. Not a bad way to live.”
Pinga’s brain swirled. She spoke before she thought.
“I don’t think I could ever let anyone… do that to me. Tie me up. Use me.”
“You don’t have to,” Nepthys said easily. “Luke’s not some sex predator. He’s got ten women who want him in all the ways you could imagine. He’s never taken anything that wasn’t freely given.”
She opened her eyes, and there was something hungry in them now. She leaned closer again, fingers trailing up Pinga’s thigh under the water. Her hand slid higher, teasingly close to places it shouldn’t have been.
“Some of us like bondage,” she murmured. “Some like being slapped. Some like being used like toys. We don’t all want the same things.”
Then her eyes glittered with mischief. She reached out, trailing her fingers over Pinga’s scalp, slow and sensual.
“He’s not into bald girls…”
She pressed her soft, heavy breasts against Pinga’s chest, just enough to make the contrast unmistakable. A sly smile played on her lips.
“…and he’s definitely not into flatties.”
Pinga gasped, half indignation, half arousal. She opened her mouth to protest—but Nepthys was already drawing back, her smile wicked and affectionate.
“Ugh. Sorry. That was bitchy, even for me. I swear I didn’t mean it like that. Your hair’ll grow back, and now that Macha’s got you on her patented Feed-the-Stray-Cat diet, you’ll fill out in no time.”
She poked Pinga on the nose. “Take your time. Figure out what you want. And hey—bonus—you’ll beat me to lunch because this mane takes an hour to wring out.” That drew a **** chuckle from Pinga.

Later, back in her dress and sandals, Pinga drifted into the galley. The fabric clung to her damp skin, and the borrowed heels clicked softly on the deck. Amaterasu sat nearby, waving her fork in greeting, shoulders bare in a white peasant blouse that looked offensively casual. Before she could sit, Macha stepped in from the divider, red stilettos striking the floor with purpose.
"Check-up first, little bunny. Come on, up on the table,” she ordered, her short skirt barely covering anything. Pinga obeyed, lying back with a sigh. Macha's hands were warm, her touch clinical—but still intimate. Pinga stared at the ceiling, listening to the familiar rhythms of the ship: air systems humming, kitchen equipment clattering, the deep thrum of the engines below.
“You’re healing well,” the redhead said gently. “White blood cell count’s up. You’ve already gained weight. After just two days, that’s incredible. We’ll start countering microgravity symptoms more aggressively soon. But…”
She paused, eyes narrowing.
“…you’re upset.”
Pinga turned her head. “I’m fine.”
“No,” Macha said, not unkindly. “You’re not. I’ve scanned your gut. No infections. No parasites. That leaves emotions. And those need to come out too.”
She tapped Pinga on the forehead. “So, talk.”
Pinga stayed quiet for a long time, staring at the wall.

“I—” she started, then shut her mouth. Macha waited, patient and terrifying.
“This is stupid,” Pinga muttered. “Forget it.”
“Emotions are not stupid,” Macha said, in the same tone she probably used for correcting medical misdiagnoses and people who pronounced “quinoa” wrong. “Out with it.”
Pinga exploded.
“This ship is weird! Everyone’s happy, and hot, and horny, and weirdly well-adjusted despite literally being in a polyamorous sex cult run by a guy in a Hawaiian shirt!”
She gestured wildly.
"But it’s not just that—you’re happy. You’re… healthy. And I’m scared I won’t belong here. But I’m also angry that I even want to. I don’t want to whore myself out for a place to sleep. But you’re not whores. You’re just…”
She faltered, then added, “You’re all just… okay. And I don’t understand how.”

Macha gave her a look of pure compassion—and then pulled her into a tight, firm hug. Breasts pressed together, the scent of shampoo and antiseptic clinging to her skin.
“Shhh, bunny,” she murmured. “No one’s asking anything of you. Take your time. Heal. Watch. Learn. You don’t have to give anything to be welcome here. Just be.” Pinga sniffled, her eyes burning.
“I’m fine,” she mumbled.
“You’re not,” Macha replied, brushing her hairless scalp affectionately. “But you will be.”