Closed for w0ndergirl4
Bianca looked over the deconstructed components of the machine that she'd carefully organized around her. "Dammit," she murmured. "I can't fix it."
The machine in question was the heart of the ship's "comfort suite" -- a polite euphemism for the room that housed the full-sensory robotic masturbation device. So yes, she'd spent the better part of three days trying to repair a vibrator, though to say that the two were equivalent would be akin to saying that a bottle rocket was the same as a modern spaceship.
Bianca's repair efforts had been hampered by a complete lack of training. She'd spent years learning the intricacies of interstellar drives, inertial dampeners, gravity stabilizers, and the dozens of other systems that might require repair and maintenance on a spacecraft. But it wasn't till she'd been posted to the U. S. S. Destiny that she'd even discovered what comfort suite was. Consequently, all she had to go on were the installation diagrams from an ancient manual she'd found buried in a cabinet in the maintenance bay.
To be fair to her Academy training, comfort suites were hardly standard issue. Only small, long-range vessels like the Destiny featured them. She couldn't fault her instructors for ignoring something only featured on a tiny fraction of the fleet.
The suites had been created decades ago as a solution to strange but true problem. In the early years of interstellar travel, the Long Range Exploration Corps began using all female crews because females proved better able of enduring the physiological and psychological rigors particular to long range missions in compact vessels with a small crew. However, a less well-known discovery is that such crews frequently experienced severe morale problems that could generally be traced back to a single, unexpected factor: libido. Apparently the type of woman likely to excel at the challenges of working in deep space also tended to have a high sex drive; since such missions might go weeks or months between ports, the prolonged absence of sexual satisfaction invariably led to bad morale. Ever the pragmatists, fleet engineers had designed the comfort suite and the problem had been solved.
Bianca had seen firsthand just how real the problem was. The comfort suite had been down for just shy of a week and the crew of the Destiny was already starting to fray. Naturally, everyone switched to self-stimulation, but Bianca could readily testify that her own fingers offered a weak substitute compared to the suite's slender robot phallus. She wasn't sleeping well and neither was anyone else judging by the eyes of the other crewmembers. Everyone was short-tempered and slightly fidgety. Thusfar they'd only had a couple of fierce arguments, but Bianca could see their downward trajectory.
The Captain had taken her aside and been quite direct about their future. "The suite must be fixed, Bianca. I'm finding it hard to focus, the science officer can't stop fidgeting, and the pilot nearly took a swing at me at breakfast. This job is risky enough when we're at full capacity; right now, we're maybe at half strength and continuing to deteriorate. If we don't get some decent orgasms soon, I don't know if this ship can make it to our next port. Fix it, Bianca. Do whatever it takes. That's a direct order. Whatever. It. Takes."
But after days of effort, Bianca had failed. She didn't have the necessary parts and her attempt to jerry-rig something had only caused additional damage. Yet if she told the crew that, she suspected the pilot might shove her out the airlock.
Her one hope was a densely worded medical analysis in the appendix of the service manual that referred to an alternative treatment for females who couldn't use the comfort suite. Bianca was no doctor, but she didn't want to ask anyone else for help lest that require admitting to her inability to fix the suite. She plowed on through the arcane medical terminology as best she could.
The appendix referred to an unfamiliar but readily synthesizable biological compound being ingested by the female patient in order to "stimulate the erogenous tissue." Bianca's best guess was that the medicine would increase the sensitivity in her clit. That seemed to make sense; if her clit was more sensitive, then fingering herself would be more effective and her libido might finally get some relief.
Still not wanting to involve the other crew, she secretly prepared the compound and ingested it. Aside from a taste that made her want to gag, she felt nothing. After an hour, she reread the appendix to see if she'd misread anything.
That's when she discovered that she'd misread the dosage. The compound she'd taken was supposed to be diluted first. Though she was pretty sure the substance wasn't toxic, she'd definitely taken way more than was recommended.
Unfortunately, she had little time to feel regret. Bianca started to rise to her feet, but found herself sinking to her knees on the floor of the maintenance bay. She was vaguely aware of her body feeling warm and her skin tingling as she slumped against the wall. "I. . . feel . . . funny. . . . ," she babbled softly just before she passed out.
Bianca looked over the deconstructed components of the machine that she'd carefully organized around her. "Dammit," she murmured. "I can't fix it."
The machine in question was the heart of the ship's "comfort suite" -- a polite euphemism for the room that housed the full-sensory robotic masturbation device. So yes, she'd spent the better part of three days trying to repair a vibrator, though to say that the two were equivalent would be akin to saying that a bottle rocket was the same as a modern spaceship.
Bianca's repair efforts had been hampered by a complete lack of training. She'd spent years learning the intricacies of interstellar drives, inertial dampeners, gravity stabilizers, and the dozens of other systems that might require repair and maintenance on a spacecraft. But it wasn't till she'd been posted to the U. S. S. Destiny that she'd even discovered what comfort suite was. Consequently, all she had to go on were the installation diagrams from an ancient manual she'd found buried in a cabinet in the maintenance bay.
To be fair to her Academy training, comfort suites were hardly standard issue. Only small, long-range vessels like the Destiny featured them. She couldn't fault her instructors for ignoring something only featured on a tiny fraction of the fleet.
The suites had been created decades ago as a solution to strange but true problem. In the early years of interstellar travel, the Long Range Exploration Corps began using all female crews because females proved better able of enduring the physiological and psychological rigors particular to long range missions in compact vessels with a small crew. However, a less well-known discovery is that such crews frequently experienced severe morale problems that could generally be traced back to a single, unexpected factor: libido. Apparently the type of woman likely to excel at the challenges of working in deep space also tended to have a high sex drive; since such missions might go weeks or months between ports, the prolonged absence of sexual satisfaction invariably led to bad morale. Ever the pragmatists, fleet engineers had designed the comfort suite and the problem had been solved.
Bianca had seen firsthand just how real the problem was. The comfort suite had been down for just shy of a week and the crew of the Destiny was already starting to fray. Naturally, everyone switched to self-stimulation, but Bianca could readily testify that her own fingers offered a weak substitute compared to the suite's slender robot phallus. She wasn't sleeping well and neither was anyone else judging by the eyes of the other crewmembers. Everyone was short-tempered and slightly fidgety. Thusfar they'd only had a couple of fierce arguments, but Bianca could see their downward trajectory.
The Captain had taken her aside and been quite direct about their future. "The suite must be fixed, Bianca. I'm finding it hard to focus, the science officer can't stop fidgeting, and the pilot nearly took a swing at me at breakfast. This job is risky enough when we're at full capacity; right now, we're maybe at half strength and continuing to deteriorate. If we don't get some decent orgasms soon, I don't know if this ship can make it to our next port. Fix it, Bianca. Do whatever it takes. That's a direct order. Whatever. It. Takes."
But after days of effort, Bianca had failed. She didn't have the necessary parts and her attempt to jerry-rig something had only caused additional damage. Yet if she told the crew that, she suspected the pilot might shove her out the airlock.
Her one hope was a densely worded medical analysis in the appendix of the service manual that referred to an alternative treatment for females who couldn't use the comfort suite. Bianca was no doctor, but she didn't want to ask anyone else for help lest that require admitting to her inability to fix the suite. She plowed on through the arcane medical terminology as best she could.
The appendix referred to an unfamiliar but readily synthesizable biological compound being ingested by the female patient in order to "stimulate the erogenous tissue." Bianca's best guess was that the medicine would increase the sensitivity in her clit. That seemed to make sense; if her clit was more sensitive, then fingering herself would be more effective and her libido might finally get some relief.
Still not wanting to involve the other crew, she secretly prepared the compound and ingested it. Aside from a taste that made her want to gag, she felt nothing. After an hour, she reread the appendix to see if she'd misread anything.
That's when she discovered that she'd misread the dosage. The compound she'd taken was supposed to be diluted first. Though she was pretty sure the substance wasn't toxic, she'd definitely taken way more than was recommended.
Unfortunately, she had little time to feel regret. Bianca started to rise to her feet, but found herself sinking to her knees on the floor of the maintenance bay. She was vaguely aware of her body feeling warm and her skin tingling as she slumped against the wall. "I. . . feel . . . funny. . . . ," she babbled softly just before she passed out.
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