Too exhausted to care

The next time consciousness found her, it was already too late. She floated in that hazy space between sleeping and waking, awareness coming in fragments. Warmth spreading beneath her. Wetness soaking through fabric. Her bladder releasing without permission.

"No..." The word was barely a whisper, her mind still wrapped in layers of exhaustion. She should stop this, should get up, should... what? Her thoughts refused to connect, sleep's heavy pull dragging her back down even as her body betrayed her.

Her muscles made a token effort to clench, to stem the flow, but it was like trying to stop a tide with her bare hands. The warmth continued to spread across her thighs, her bottom, pooling beneath her in the pod's soft padding. Some distant part of her mind registered shame, horror, but it was muffled under the overwhelming weight of exhaustion.

She should get up. She should clean herself. She should... but her limbs felt impossibly heavy, her consciousness already slipping away again. The pod's padding had begun to absorb some of the moisture, the worst of the wetness no longer pressing against her skin. It wasn't comfortable, exactly, but in her half-conscious state, it wasn't unbearable either.

"Later," she mumbled into the darkness, already drifting back toward sleep. "Fix it... later..." The shame would come in the morning, she knew dimly, but right now, she couldn't summon the energy to care. Sleep pulled her under again, back into dreams of dark water, of sinking, of surrender.

Morning arrived with brutal clarity, consciousness returning all at once rather than in gentle stages. For one blissful moment, she forgot - and then the discomfort registered. Her shipsuit had dried partially during the night, the fabric stiff and abrasive against her skin. Worse, where it had remained damp - particularly between her legs - the extended contact had left her skin raw and irritated.

"Oh god," she whispered, the full memory of the night crashing back. She hadn't just wet herself - she'd fallen back asleep in it, too exhausted to even clean up her own mess. The pod's surface beneath her was dry - it had apparently absorbed or processed the moisture - but her clothes were a disaster, crusted with dried urine in some places, still unpleasantly damp in others.

She shifted, and winced as the fabric dragged against her irritated skin. Between her legs felt the worst - her outer lips were chafed and sore, the delicate skin burning with every movement. She could feel a rash developing across her inner thighs as well, an angry red presence that made itself known with each slight shift of position.

The pod seemed to sense her wakefulness, illuminating its interior with soft morning light. "Good morning," the cheerful voice announced. "Would you like me to initiate cleaning protocols for your garments?"

Her face burned with renewed humiliation. Even the pod knew what she'd done, was politely offering to help clean up after her childish accident. "No," she managed, her voice hoarse with shame. "I'll... I need to shower."

Getting out of the pod was an exercise in discomfort. Every movement made the dried fabric shift against her irritated skin, sending fresh sparks of pain through her most sensitive areas. Standing made her aware of just how extensive the damage was - her entire lower half felt like it was on fire, the chafing especially bad where her thighs rubbed together.

Looking down at herself, she could see dark stains spreading from her crotch down both legs of the shipsuit. The smell hit her then, acrid and unmistakable. How had she possibly fallen back asleep like this? The shame was almost as overwhelming as the physical discomfort.

She hobbled toward the corridor, each step a fresh reminder of her humiliation. The thought of facing her prisoner in this state was unbearable. She needed to clean up, to erase all evidence of this lapse in control. But the damage was already done - the raw, burning sensation between her legs would take days to heal properly.

Worst of all was the knowledge that she had no one to blame but herself. She could have gotten up. Should have gotten up. Instead, she'd surrendered to exhaustion, too tired to even manage the most basic bodily function. What kind of officer was she, if she couldn't even keep herself from wetting the bed like a child?

The corridor stretched before her, each step an agony of both physical discomfort and crushing shame. She needed to find the shower facilities, needed to wash away the evidence of her failure. But no amount of water could wash away the knowledge that somewhere deep inside, when the moment had come, she'd chosen surrender over control.