Sarah wakes up

Sarah jolted awake with a ragged gasp, clutching the thin sheets twisted around her trembling body.

Her room — dim, cold, silent — pressed in on her from all sides.

No flesh walls.

No living reactor.

No Ward, broken beneath her.

Just the stale recycled air of the crippled ship, and the distant hum of emergency systems struggling to stay alive.

It was a nightmare, she told herself. Just a nightmare.

But something was wrong.

Deeply wrong.

Her skin felt feverish, hypersensitive — every whisper of the sheet across her bare thighs sending electric shivers up her spine. Her nipples, stiff and aching, brushed against the fabric of her thin undershirt, sending sharp jolts of arousal that made her gasp aloud.

She shoved the blanket off, swinging her legs over the side of the bunk — only for the cool air to kiss her damp sex, setting her nerves alight.

A needy whimper escaped before she could stop it.

Sarah bit her lip hard enough to draw blood, **** to anchor herself against the building tide of unbearable lust.

No, no, this isn’t real. This isn’t me.

Her body throbbed with ****, unsatisfied need, but every clenching pulse between her legs left her hanging, empty, unfulfilled. She rubbed her thighs together helplessly, but it only made the ache worse, spiraling into a maddening need that tightened her whole body like a drawn bow.

Tears stung her eyes.

This isn't normal. It's like... something infected me.

Gritting her teeth, Sarah **** herself to move, peeling on her jumpsuit one trembling limb at a time. Each drag of rough fabric over her hypersensitive skin was **** — her nipples scraping painfully against the interior lining, her swollen sex throbbing with every tiny friction.

By the time she zipped up the front, her body was quaking, her core clenching violently in **** spasms that offered no release. She pressed a hand between her legs, trying to still herself — but the pressure only worsened it, teasing her closer to the edge without mercy.

A sob tore from her throat.

She had to find help.

Someone must know what’s happening. Ward. Devlin.

Anyone.

Sarah stumbled to the door, wrenching it open into the too-quiet hallway beyond.

The ship groaned softly around her, the lights dim and pulsing faintly, as if in rhythm with her hammering heart.

Every step she took was agony — the seam of her jumpsuit pressing insistently against her aching sex, the faint brush of the fabric over her nipples driving tiny, sharp gasps from her lips. She clutched at the bulkhead for balance, her knees threatening to buckle.

Voices whispered at the edges of her hearing — not the mocking, inhuman reactor voice from her nightmare, but soft, coaxing murmurs that sounded far too much like her own secret desires.

Touch yourself.

You deserve it.

Let go. No one will stop you.

Sarah clenched her fists until her nails bit into her palms, fighting every step against the traitorous voice.

Find help. Find someone. Don’t give in.

The corridor stretched before her, wavering, throbbing in the low light.

And somewhere ahead — distant, faint — she heard footsteps.

Human.

Maybe.

Dragging herself forward, she staggered down the passageway, driven by a hunger she didn’t understand and a terror that she might already be lost.