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Two hands, four hands. Callused palms sliding beneath uniform pants, rough fingers fumbling over the belt buckle, the silver button, the zipper. Two hands around Nahla as Nahla's hands cling her partner tight and close, never relenting.
Two lips, four lips. Soft lips flutter over Nahla's neck, exploring each strip of her, every scar and freckle and blemish, each deep vein. Lips that roll over flesh with an ancient, forgotten passion that Nahla has not been touched by in so long, too long. Lips that taste of apple and coffee and cinnamon, lips that smell of faint petrichor.
Four hands, four lips, one merged body.
Nahla evaporates into the intimacy, sinks into her lover's body—around her lover's body. She gives a faint gasp at each heightened sensation, shattering and crumbling and unraveling in pleasure. God, she's starving. God, this will never truly be tangible.
With each sigh and shake, Nahla feels her heart earthquake around in her chest. Nahla feels—Nahla feels.
She tries to get a closer look at her lover, gazing down from the stars above onto the bed below, but—
"Rise and shine, Captain Ake. You have six meetings today. Would you like me to recite your daily affirmations?"
Nahla jolts awake as the computer's smooth voice floods through the room. The interruption murders her dream in cold blood. Nahla is thrust out of her intimacy and out of herself, plucked away from her only comfort. She tries to adjust to being awake, rubs her eyes, slaps her cheeks. As she digs herself into the present, the gushing wetness between her thighs grows increasingly intolerable. There's a groan of frustration like a wounded animal's howl when Nahla turns to her side and buries her face in warm, damp palms. She cannot allow it at this position—-at this age, with this lifespan—but she can dream of touch and desire and devouring, shroud herself in fantasy every minute of every free hour like some pathetic sad thing. That will have to be enough; she has six meetings.
"When's my first meeting?" Nahla asks, her voice muffled by clasped fingers. "Maybe I can hit your snooze button."
"Your first meeting is in one hour, fifteen minutes, and forty-two seconds." A pause. "Captain, considering the length of time it typically takes you to prepare for each day, I would highly recommend against… 'hitting my snooze button.'" Another pause. "You may hit any other part of me you wish, but it is very much in your best interest to stay awake."
Nahla blinks. "What? How long does it usually take me?"
"One hour and six minutes."
An incredulous laugh. She cannot be serious. "What? What the hell takes up so much of my time? It barely feels like half of that."
"Common activities include meditation, dancing, reading, smoking cannabis, and—"
Oh. When you're four hundred years old, hours become minutes, and minutes become mere fractions of seconds, and so on, and so on, and so on.
When you're four hundred years old, time starts to feel like spaghetti swirled around the prongs of a fork, or a vortex of soap in the bath as water goes down the drain, or paint splattered across a canvas with intentional carelessness.
When you're four hundred years old, time just escapes you.
"Thank you, computer, I think I get the picture. You're killing the mood here."
Nahla inhales with a sharp laugh; she must be hallucinating the hint of intrigue that she feels permeate the air around her, slide underneath her blankets, invade. When the computer speaks next, her tone betrays a seemingly genuine curiosity: "The mood, Captain Ake?"
Another sigh, deeper—too reminiscent of each soft gasp in her dream. She drags one leg further over the bed, resting her bare thighs over the friction of her sheets. "You, you know, the—I had a dream—" Nahla stops herself, tries to keep her composure until it is safe to give in. "What did you mean by that? 'You can hit any other part of me you want'?"
A longer pause now. "It meant whatever you wanted it to mean."
Nahla's lips curl to the side as she weighs the risks. This isn't the intended—this isn't right. But Starfleet computer technology has evolved massively over the past few centuries, and Nahla has heard the stories about vessels developing personalities, forming something maybe sort of on the cusp of sentience. It's admittedly kind of charming.
She weighs the risks, and comes back empty-handed. God, why the fuck not.
"Computer… what do you like about me?"
"I don't know if I can—"
"Right, you're a computer, I forgot. Let me rephrase. What are some of my… best attributes?"
She turns over on her back again, slides her nightgown up her torso and settles it over her chest. She traces a line from her breastbone to her hips with the tip of her index finger, evaporates into the contact.
"You're an incredibly capable leader."
"Go on."
"Your compassion and empathy is inspiring."
She shakes her head. "Yeah, keep going, we'll get there."
With each moment of silence that passes, Nahla feels panic boil in her stomach, and the sickness in harmony with her arousal creates an odd heavenly warmth right inside. She didn't—hurt—-she—you can't break or offend your ship's computer, can you?
Finally: "You're irresistible to many."
Her touch continues to lower, walking down her abdomen and plunging between two thighs. Nahla wonders if she'd been searching her database for dirty talk.
"Better."
"You are absolutely stunning."
Nahla's eyes flutter closed, and her hips give a pathetic, involuntary buck.
The computer continues without prompt: "Everyone in your path desires you. Of course they do. How could they not?"
Nahla parts her legs, brushes her ring finger just over her clit, and feels her face burn with humiliation when a loud moan escapes her throat. She continues to tease herself, slow and gentle and cruel, wasting her own time on purpose to make some sort of futile point.
"You are so smart. Your sense of humor is impeccable."
Nahla smiles, her mouth hanging open slack when she finally touches herself directly and feels a shock run throughout each organ system. She bites her lip, her right hand cupping her breast, her thumb rubbing in calm circles over her nipple.
"You are so… hot, Captain Ake."
She's already close.
Nahla tries to steady her pace, tries to hold herself down. They're in this now; there is no turning back. If someone finds a recording of this, she is utterly fucked, but if it doesn't matter—
"Computer," she begins, cautious and hesitant, her lips quivering with anticipation and uncertainty, "what would you do to me if you could touch me?"
