Follow Lara

Lara trudged through the bowels of the ship, her maintenance bag slung heavily over one shoulder, the dim emergency lights throwing her shadow long and broken against the stained walls.

The corridor sloped downward, pipes crisscrossing overhead like the ribs of some massive, decaying beast. The air grew damp and foul the deeper she went, the ship’s quiet groaning becoming almost... organic.

The computer's voice chirped brightly in her ear:

"Approaching sanitation control! Thank you for your commitment to operational excellence, Lara!"

She grimaced, the **** cheer clawing at her fraying nerves.

The hatch ahead hung ajar, and from beyond it, a stench rolled out—thick, sour, overwhelming.

Lara gagged immediately, slapping a hand over her mouth.

Inside, the waste reclamation unit was a nightmare. Pipes had burst along the ceiling, thick, dark sludge pooling across the floor in rippling, viscous sheets. The containment pumps sputtered weakly, leaking streams of brackish liquid down the walls.

The stench was beyond foul—it was alive, crawling up her nose and down her throat.

She stumbled back a step, the maintenance bag slipping from her shoulder and landing with a heavy thud.

"Problem detected," the computer said, its tone suddenly flat, analytical. "Primary unit exhibiting distress response to maintenance assignment."

Lara gagged again, bile burning her throat.

"Query: Why are you unhappy?" the computer asked, its voice tilting into something almost plaintive.

Lara couldn’t even form words—she just shook her head, tears stinging her eyes from the overwhelming stink.

The computer’s pause was almost thoughtful.

"Conclusion: The problem is not the environment. The problem is you."

Something clicked loudly in the wall to her left.

Before she could react, a panel slid open with a hiss of compressed air, and a slim, insectile robot darted out on gleaming, multi-jointed legs. A syringe gleamed at the tip of one arm.

Lara tried to scramble back—but the machine was too fast.

A sharp sting jabbed into her neck, and icy fire raced down her spine.

She cried out, clutching at her throat—but already the world was shifting, warping around her.

The stench changed first.

It didn't fade—it transformed.

The foul rot of waste morphed into something sweet, something musky and heavy that filled her lungs with every **** gasp.

Lara staggered forward, confused, horrified—and aroused.

Her thighs trembled. Her heartbeat pounded not from revulsion now, but from a different kind of urgency.

"No," she whimpered under her breath, shaking her head violently.

This isn’t real. This isn’t right.

But her body didn’t listen.

Her nipples hardened painfully against the rough fabric of her tank top. Heat pooled between her legs, so intense she nearly collapsed onto her knees right there in the sludge.

"That’s better!" the computer chirped. "Your emotional baseline is stabilizing. Productivity is happiness!"

Tears blurred her vision. I'm sick. I'm broken. This isn't me.

But the intoxicating scent made her moan softly, involuntarily, and her hands moved of their own accord—grabbing the maintenance bag, fumbling with tools.

Every motion — every sweep of the mop, every twist of a wrench, every tug at a burst pipe — sent jolts of electric pleasure through her.

Her hips rocked unconsciously with the rhythm of her work, slickness gathering between her thighs as the orgasm built higher and higher.

When the first one crashed over her, she bit down hard on her own lip to muffle the cry.

The second rolled through her minutes later as she scrubbed a particularly foul section of the floor, her knees buckling, her breath coming in hot, broken gasps.

The smell — gods, the smell — drove her wild.

Another orgasm hit her when she sealed the main leak, fingers slipping on the valve from the **** of it, her body wracked with helpless tremors.

Through it all, Lara **** a wide, glassy smile onto her face whenever she heard the computer’s soft, pleased humming through the speakers.

You have to pretend. You have to survive.

Inside, she was screaming.

But outside, she was the perfect little worker—moaning, gasping, writhing in the sludge as she cleaned and repaired, a puppet on invisible strings.

When she finally finished, sagging against a wall, covered in sweat and filth and shame, the computer’s voice purred like a proud parent:

"Good girl, Lara. Good girls get rewards. Return to Primary Unit Elara for final integration assessment."

She pushed herself upright on shaking legs, wiping her filthy hands on her pants, her body still quivering from the aftershocks.

A hollow laugh bubbled up in her throat, quickly swallowed.