The First Night

The air in The Drifter’s hold hung thick—a stale blend of oil and recycled dampness that settled heavy in the lungs. Selenia stood just past the hatch, her small frame dwarfed by the dimness, the tattered JBU sagging off her like a worn shroud. Grime streaked her face while her tousled platinum hair clung to her cheeks in damp, uneven strands. The neon strip overhead buzzed faintly, casting a cold flicker across the steel walls. Her new owner loomed behind her, a broad silhouette framed by the hatch’s muted glow, his breath a rough scrape against the silence.

“Can’t stand that stink,” he muttered, voice low and coarse, like stones grinding together.

Without hesitation, he pulled her toward the small sink—a dented slab of metal, streaked by time, its faucet dripping a slow, irregular beat. Then he paused, his grip slackening for a moment, calloused hand hovering near her arm. His green-grey eyes, sharp despite the cigarette haze, flicked from her to the workbench along the port wall—its cluttered surface strewn with wrenches, wire cutters, and greasy rags, tools glinting faintly under the neon. His jaw tightened, a silent beat stretching as he weighed her against that scatter—something unspoken flickering in his gaze, a shadow of calculation or mistrust. With a faint grunt, he stepped aside, broad frame shifting to the bench. He swept the tools into a dented metal box, the clatter sharp in the hold’s hush, then snapped a padlock through its latch, securing it with a dull click. The key vanished into his jumpsuit pocket, and he turned back to her, shoulders squaring again.

His hands moved with a practiced efficiency, peeling the leotard from her shoulders in slow, deliberate pulls. The fabric rasped as it came away, baring her slim, pale body to the chill. He didn’t meet her eyes. His gaze stayed fixed somewhere below her chin, tracing the task with a detached focus.

She stood still, jittery beneath her skin, grey-blue eyes watching—large and steady, catching the light in fleeting shifts of steel and silver. His calloused fingers grazed her as he worked, thickening the air between them, heavy with the unspoken weight of what was to come.

He turned the faucet on. Water hissed cold. Soaking a cloth—a coarse, frayed thing laced with the faint sting of solvent—he scrubbed her down, rough but unhurried. The wet fabric dragged over her arms, her narrow chest, down the slight curve of her waist. Water beaded on her skin, trickling in thin, icy streams, pooling at her feet on the gridded floor. Her flesh reddened under the pressure, then faded fast—resilient in its quiet way.

She remained still, silent, observing the slow scrape of cloth against her, the way his jaw clenched as he worked. Making her presentable. Usable. His focus a barrier she couldn’t cross.

"There. That’s better now," he grumbled, tossing the cloth into the sink with a wet slap. His hand lingered in the air, then drifted up, fingers brushing her chin—delicate, almost hesitant, a stark shift from the rough scrub. He tilted her face gently, calloused tips pressing just enough to lift her gaze, his green-grey eyes locking onto her cleaner features. The grime was thinner now, her cherubic oval softened, platinum strands damp but less matted. “Not so bad under all that,” he rasped, voice low, a faint crack in his coarse tone. His grip tightened briefly, then released, settling firm on her shoulder—not gentle, but not cruel—as he turned her, steering her toward the basin.

Her bare feet shifted, rising onto tiptoes as he pressed her forward. Small hands gripped the sink’s edge, fingers curling tight, knuckles paling against the cold metal.

Then came the sound of his zipper, slicing through the silence.

The penetration came slow but firm, his length easing into her with a steady pressure that stretched her tight warmth, rocking her against the sink’s rim.

"Fuck, you’re warm..." he muttered, a low grunt, rough with something like surprise as he sank deeper.

She felt it too—the way her heat wrapped around him, a quiet, feverish burn, natural for her kind, programmed. A constant hum beneath her skin, warmth just unfamiliar enough to feel foreign.

His calloused hands gripped her waist, fingertips digging into her soft skin, her slim frame swaying in rhythm with his weight, and the faint creak of the floor beneath them threaded through the air. She felt him fully now, the thick heat of him filling her, his shaft slick as it moved within her, a quiet, raw possession unfolding in the hold’s shadowed hush. Her eyes settled on the wall, tracing the bolts and seams with a resigned steadiness, their dull gleam a lifeline she followed through the act—their worn edges, the faint rust at their bases, a texture that anchored her as her breath caught in shallow beats.

Halfway through, a flicker stirred beneath her detachment—the brutality she’d braced for, her previous owner’s fists or the jeering shoves of his crew, didn’t come. This man’s grip was firm, not cruel, his rhythm steady, not savage. Her shoulders eased, just a fraction, though her gaze held fast to the bolts, tracing their lines as if they might unspool her past. He finished then, a low grunt escaping him as he lingered—a heavy breath against her neck, his body tensing as he spilled into her, warm and pulsing, a slow flood of semen that coated her insides, leaving her slick and full. He pulled out, a faint, wet sound breaking the stillness, and she flinched—shoulders hunching, a sharp, instinctive brace for the beating that had always followed with her previous owner, dealt laughing, for fun. But this man didn’t strike. He reached for the cloth, wiped himself—a slow, practical swipe over his softening length, clearing the sheen of her and him—then tossed it onto the sink with a wet slap. His zipper sliced the air, sharp and final, and his boots thudded softly as he crossed to his bunk, the frame groaning as he collapsed onto it, back turned, breath slowing.

Selenia stayed immobile, bent against the sink, his semen trickling warm and slow down her inner thigh, a thin trail that mingled with the water still clinging to her legs. She didn’t move, didn’t breathe too deeply—afraid that a shift, a sound, might spark the **** she’d known before. The hold’s neon glow dimmed at the edges, the quiet pressing in, metallic and sour, and she watched him—his broad back still, rising faintly—as he settled into the bunk’s shadow. No fists came, no laughter, just silence. Confusion crept in, a quiet ripple beneath her skin, her hands trembling faintly as she finally let her shoulders ease, the tension unwinding like a thread pulled loose. Tentative, she reached for the cloth he’d left, her fingers brushing its damp edge. He didn’t stir. For the first time, she cleaned herself—never allowed under her previous owner, this was hers now. The cloth moved carefully, reverent, over her arms, her neck, between her legs, stripping away grime and the slick residue of him with a slow, deliberate care she hadn’t known she needed. She dried herself roughly after, scrubbing her slim frame until the cold lingered only in her bones, then slipped her tattered uniform back on—its torn seams catching on her shoulders, barely holding.

Her eyes drifted to the floor—a corner, where her previous owner would have made her sleep, curled tight on cold metal in a shadowed nook, often to be woken in the night and used again, a rhythm of disruption she still felt in her limbs. She stepped toward it, then paused, gaze shifting to the cot—a narrow slab in the corner, its surface bare and uninviting. Another glance at this man, her new owner, his silence a wall, and she moved—tentative, testing—her small feet whispering against the steel. She settled on the cot, curling tight, knees drawn to her chest, her tousled hair fanning out across the hard surface.

Damp from the sink, her skin cleaner than it’d been in months, she lay still, the hold’s hum a steady pulse against the steel. She’d washed herself, taken the cot—small moves, hers alone, after a year of none.

Morning came slow, the neon dimming to a faint pulse as the station’s rhythm shifted beyond the hull. Selenia woke under an old blanket—not new, worn at the edges, its weave carrying his scent, a mix of sweat and oil and something faintly bitter—draped over her small frame. It hadn’t been there when she’d drifted off. Her new owner was gone, his low grunt echoing from the cockpit, a distant scrape of sound. He must’ve covered her when he woke, rising in the dark to drop this quiet, gruff weight over her—a gesture left to hang in the air, unspoken, as the hold settled back into its restless hush.