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— Plash Mount
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Hiss…
Pure oxygen, laced with a faint, tingling stimulant, flooded the cocoon enveloping Capt. Kathryn Dyson. The raven-haired siren lay still at first, her lithe body cradled in the embrace of cryosleep—"the sleep of the fucking dead," as space boomers called it. Then, a flutter of her lashes. Her full lips parted, a soft moan escaping as her tee-shirt, damp with the faint sheen of perspiration, shifted over her pert, heavy breasts, nipples hardening against the thin fabric. Her emerald eyes snapped open, hazy with groggy desire, scanning the dim chamber.
Awareness crept in, slow and sultry, like a lover's touch. Her gaze locked onto the panel by her right hand. Green. Fucking perfect, she thought, a smirk curling her lips. No emergency. The cocoon was programmed to rouse her only if shit hit the fan during the endless voyage through the void. A green board meant she'd awakened right on cue, her body primed and ready.
Kate flicked the switch, venting the oxygen with a hiss that sent a shiver down her spine, the air replaced by the ship's recycled breath. Another switch, and the cocoon's lid slid open with a seductive sigh. She lingered, stretching languidly, her curves arching as she shook off the fog of months spent in stasis. Her fingers brushed the crumpled paper panties by her left hand—NASA's bullshit attempt at "hygiene" during cryosleep. Fucking ridiculous. Cloth might breed yeast, they claimed, so they issued these flimsy, breathable scraps. Most women complied, but Kate? Hell no.
As captain, she called the shots. Last to sleep, first to wake, she'd be damned if she'd wear anything at all. With a wicked grin, she tossed the panties into the trash recycler, her naked skin prickling in the cool air. She rose, her body a vision of toned muscle and soft curves, and cast a glance over her sleeping crew. Four cocoons, all glowing green. Good girls, she thought, her eyes lingering on the outlines of their bodies—long legs, barely covered by those silly panties, tee-shirts clinging to their curves under the darkened lids. They'd wake soon. For now, she had the ship to herself.
Kate half-floated, half-sauntered to her quarters, barefoot, her hips swaying in the low gravity. Long voyages like this kept the gravity weak to save energy, but they were days from their destination—an uncharted system that might demand their full strength. For now, she reveled in the weightless glide, her body humming with anticipation. A quick shower was next, a ritual that always felt like foreplay in space. Water was scarce, so the system blasted her with a mist of droplets, slicking her skin before she scrubbed with soap that tingled against her flesh. Another blast rinsed her clean, a fan sucking the water away with a low, hungry hum. Twelve years as an astronaut, and it still felt like a tease—wet, quick, and never quite enough.
Emerging naked, droplets clinging to her skin, Kate savored the rare solitude. Long missions were a fucking pressure cooker of forced politeness with her crew—NASA's hand-picked professionals, competent but not always her vibe. Still, they'd make this trip work. They had to. She paused, standing bare in the processed air, her nipples tightening as her mind drifted to Brian. Their last night together, months ago—or was it days, in cryosleep's warped timeline? Her body remembered every second.
Her fingers grazed her breasts, teasing the sensitive peaks as she imagined Brian's rough hands instead. That night, he'd been insatiable, his chiseled body pressed against her softer curves, his cock—fuck, that thick, veiny masterpiece with its swollen head—straining for her. She'd kissed it, tasted his musky heat, her tongue tracing every ridge as he groaned, his fingers tangling in her hair. The memory sent a jolt straight to her core, her smooth mound already slick with want.
"Fuck it," Kate whispered, her voice husky as she sank onto the closed toilet seat, legs parting instinctively. Her fingers slid down, brushing the bare, sensitive skin of her mons, then dipping lower to trace her dripping slit. Her clit was already swollen, aching, peeking from its hood like it was begging for attention. She closed her eyes, head tilting back against the bulkhead, and let the memory of Brian consume her.
That night, she'd taken him into her mouth, savoring his salty heat, his cock pulsing against her tongue as he whimpered, "Wait, baby, I need to fuck you." She'd spread herself on their bed, thighs wide, her cunt so wet it glistened, practically gaping for him. Brian had prowled over her, his hardness swinging like a fucking weapon, his eyes dark with hunger. "When you're out there," he'd growled, pressing the thick tip of his cock against her slick entrance, "remember this." Then he'd thrust, slow and deliberate, filling her inch by agonizing inch, stretching her until she gasped.
Now, Kate's fingers mimicked that rhythm, circling her clit before plunging into her soaked core. "Oh, fuck," she moaned, her hips bucking as she fucked herself, imagining Brian's cock driving into her, his hands gripping her hips. That night, their lovemaking had been raw, desperate—star-crossed lovers tearing into each other like it was their last chance. Her orgasm had shattered her, a sweet, aching release that carried the weight of their impending separation. They'd fucked twice more that night, like horny teenagers, insatiable and reckless.
Her fingers moved faster now, slick with her arousal, her breath hitching as she chased that edge. "Brian," she gasped, her free hand pinching a nipple, the sharp pleasure pushing her closer. The ship hummed around her, indifferent to the captain losing herself in a haze of lust. Her thighs trembled, her cunt clenched around her fingers, and with a choked cry, she came—hard, waves of heat crashing through her, leaving her panting, flushed, and deliciously spent.
Kate leaned back, a lazy, satisfied smile curving her lips. Starship captains absolutely fucking masturbated after cryosleep. And she was just getting started.