Dusan
The door to his private chambers slid open with a pneumatic hiss, the sound grating on Dusan’s already frayed nerves. The bridge had been a symphony of minor crises—a failing pressure regulator, a flickering nav-com, the incessant, maddening hum of the corrupted Spectrocite that was the lifeblood of his ship, and the poison in his veins. He needed silence. He needed the cold, sterile solitude of his quarters.
He found neither.
Izel was there.
She was on his bunk, a sliver of metal and canvas that served as his only respite. She was not lying down, but perched, like a gargoyle surveying its domain. She wore nothing but her patchwork fur cloak, draped loosely to reveal the sharp, pale lines of her body. Her legs were crossed, her meticulously groomed sex a dark shadow in the dim light. She was carving a small piece of corrupted crystal with a shard of metal, her movements deft and sure.
“Get out,” Dusan snarled, his voice the low grind of a malfunctioning gearbox.
Izel didn’t even flinch. She looked up, her piercing green eyes glinting in the gloom. A slow, predatory smile spread across her lips. “Your ship is screaming, Nightmare Captain. I thought you might like a different noise for a while.”
“I don’t need your distractions, witch.”
“No?” she said, setting aside her carving. She slid off the bunk, her movements unnervingly fluid. She was small, almost frail, but she filled the room with an energy that felt ancient and wild. “You need something. I can feel it. The tension in your jaw. The way your metal hand clenches and unclenches. You’re a coiled spring, Dusan. And you’re about to snap.”
She stopped before him, close enough that he could feel the heat radiating from her skin, smell the earthy, musky scent that was uniquely hers. He was a monument of pain and iron, a creature of control and discipline. Her raw, unapologetic organic presence was an affront to everything he was.
“I am in control,” he gritted out.
“Are you?” she whispered. Her hand, small and surprisingly strong, came up to rest on the cold brass of his chest plate. Her fingers traced the seams, the rivets. “This cage you’ve built… does it keep the world out, or does it keep you in?”
Her touch was a violation. He grabbed her wrist, his metal fingers wrapping around it, the pressure immense, enough to snap bone. “I will not warn you again.”
Izel’s eyes widened, but not with fear. With excitement. A soft gasp escaped her lips, a sound of pure, unadulterated pleasure. “Yes,” she breathed. “That’s it. Show me your strength.”
The reaction was so unexpected, so contrary to his intent, that it threw him off balance. In that moment of hesitation, she struck. Not with violence, but with a more potent weapon.
Her other hand shot out, cupping the heavy fabric between his legs, her palm pressing directly against his groin. He was half-hard already, a traitorous response to the confrontation, to the sheer, electrifying danger she represented. Her touch was like a lightning strike.
His grip on her wrist loosened in shock.
“I knew it,” she purred, her fingers kneading him through his trousers. “All that metal, all that pain… you’re just a man underneath. A man who wants to feel.”
He should have thrown her across the room. He should have crushed her skull. Instead, he stood there, frozen, as she deftly unfastened his trousers. Her hands were cool and confident as she freed him, her fingers wrapping around his rapidly hardening length.
“Look at you,” she murmured, her voice a hypnotic chant. “So hard. So ready.” She began to stroke him, her grip firm, her rhythm relentless. “You fight everything, Dusan. You fight the world, you fight the pain, you fight yourself. But you can’t fight this.”
A guttural groan was torn from his throat. His body, a vessel of agony and discipline, was betraying him. The pleasure was sharp, overwhelming, a tidal wave crashing against the dam of his self-control. He hated her for it. He hated himself for it.
She guided him backward, until his legs hit the edge of the bunk. He sat down heavily, his metal arm whirring in protest. She followed him down, straddling his thighs, never breaking her rhythm. She was in control now. He was the one being manipulated, being used.
Her mouth found his, a rough, demanding kiss. It was a clash of teeth and tongues, a battle for dominance he was losing. Her free hand tore at his tunic, her nails scraping against the skin of his chest, leaving thin, red welts. The pain was exquisite, a counterpoint to the overwhelming pleasure.
He could feel the orgasm building, a pressure coiling deep in his groin, a tightening of every muscle in his body. He was close, so close to the edge. His hips began to buck, thrusting into her hand, a desperate, primal motion.
“That’s it,” she gasped against his mouth. “Give it to me. Give me all your rage, all your pain. Let it go.”
And just as the first wave of his climax began to crest, just as he felt the first spasm of release, she did it.
A hot, hard stream of her urine gushed against his belly, right where his flesh met the cold, unfeeling metal of his prosthetic hip.
The sensation was a shock. It was wet, and warm, and utterly, shamefully intimate. It was an act of degradation so profound, so primal, that it short-circuited his brain. The line between pleasure and humiliation, between agony and ecstasy, dissolved into a white-hot supernova.
His orgasm ripped through him with the force of a detonation. It was violent and shattering, a convulsive release that was ten times more intense for the violating warmth spreading across his skin. He cried out, a raw, broken sound, his body arching against her as he emptied himself in powerful, shuddering spurts. It seemed to last forever, an endless, agonizing, blissful wave that left him utterly spent.
When it was over, he collapsed back against the bunk, his chest heaving, his body slick with sweat and her urine. He felt weak, hollowed out, his defenses shattered into a million pieces.
Izel slowly lifted herself off him. She looked down at her handiwork, at the panting, broken man before her, and a look of profound satisfaction crossed her face. She had not just seduced him; she had broken him. She had claimed the Nightmare Captain.
Without another word, she gathered her cloak and walked out of the room, leaving him alone in the dim light.
Dusan lay there, the cooling wetness on his skin a sticky, shameful reminder of his surrender. He, the master of pain, the weapon of the Order, had been brought to his knees by a girl with a witch’s eyes and a bladder full of golden poison. A cold, impotent rage began to build in his chest, a rage directed not at her, but at himself. He had allowed it. He had wanted it. And in the steamy, fouled air of his own sanctuary, the Nightmare Captain had never felt more powerless.
