Dawn Experiment

# Day 12 - 10:41

Zhao ducked into the engine room, nearly losing a chunk of scalp to a low pipe. The heat hit first—wave of diesel tang and wet-sock humidity—but the real shock was the volume. All of it alive, vibrating, a beast you lived inside.

Kim was exactly where he expected: crammed into the gap behind the port generator, face lit by a halo of flashlight on a flex arm, half her body buried in the guts of a control manifold. She wore her usual: a ratty navy jumpsuit with the arms tied around her waist, the tank beneath dark with oil. Her hands, already blackened, cradled a chunk of wiring as delicate as a wounded bird.

He cleared his throat. Nothing.

He tried again: “Hey, Kim.”

She twisted out, gave him a glance. “I know you. Golden boy. They send you to fix this, or are you here for your own maintenance?”

He smiled, embarrassed. “Neither. Need to talk. Privately.”

She raised an eyebrow. “Not protocol. Did I fuck up?” She patted the hull beside her, an absent gesture that left a smear.

“No. You’re good.” He hesitated, then jerked his head toward the service corridor. “Just—let’s go.”

Kim wiped her hands on a rag—probably cleaner before she touched it—then clambered out, moving with the odd grace of someone built for small spaces. She shut off her light, locked her toolbox, and followed him without another word.

In the corridor, the sound dropped by half. The air was cooler, but not by much. Kim leaned against the wall, arms crossed, lips set in a line of mild amusement.

“Thought our ‘appointment’ wasn’t till oh-eight-hundred,” she said.

Zhao’s face burned. “It isn’t. I just—look, I wanted to—” He struggled for the words, then gave up. “I’m nervous.”

Kim snorted. “Shouldn’t be. I’m not going to report you to HR.” She watched him, eyes unblinking. “You think you’re the first guy to feel weird about it?”

He shook his head. “Not that. I mean—yes, but not just that. I don’t want it to be…” He fumbled. “Clinical. Or cruel.”

She shrugged. “I’ve had worse. Besides, it’s a job.” She meant it—no bitterness, no false bravado.

He said, “Still. I’ll do it right.”

She considered him, as if calculating torque. “I know.” She softened, just a little. “You don’t have to prove anything. If it helps, I’ll run the show.”

Zhao exhaled, feeling the tension drain from his shoulders. “Thanks. That helps.”

Kim stretched her neck, vertebrae cracking. “You ever do it with a girl like me before?”

He blinked. “Like—?”

She grinned, a flash of teeth. “Someone who can weld a patch one minute and arm-wrestle you the next?” She tapped her bicep. “Don’t worry. I’ll shower. And put on something that won’t scare you.”

Zhao grinned. “You don’t scare me.”

She deadpanned, “Good. Because I’m not getting any smaller.”

He wanted to laugh, but the nerves stuck.

Kim said, ”You want me to make the first move, or wait for your cue?”

He shrugged. ”Whatever’s easiest. But actually, I need to tell you—Vivienne asked if she could—” The ship’s intercom crackled overhead, cutting him off.

# Day 12 - 11:00

Vivienne thought the word “cocky” didn’t fit her—she preferred “assured” or “meticulous”—but as she paced the guest lounge by the indoor pool, her confidence was all fake tan and no pigment. She’d walked the perimeter four times, pretending to study the resin planters and the half-dead succulents, but really she was scanning the clock above the bar every thirty seconds. It was eleven past the hour, then twenty-two, and Kim was still nowhere.

The air reeked of chlorine and that mildew smell that haunted every spa after six months at sea. Even the big picture windows had fogged over, blurring the world into static. She glanced at her reflection: hair in a low twist, white silk shirt buttoned just enough for power but not intimidation, skirt pressed razor-sharp. She’d chosen the heels even though she’d have to take them off at the edge of the pool. She liked the click.

If you asked her last year whether she’d ever sleep with a woman, Vivienne would’ve smiled, wagged her head, and said something patronizing: “It’s not in my five-year plan, darling.” She was built to marry well, produce strategic offspring, and maybe—just maybe—steal the hearts of a few men before she let herself get old. Zhao had broken her framework, but even that was a predictable kind of chaos. This? Today’s little experiment with Kim? It felt less like a transgression and more like a dare she’d made to herself, then forgotten to call off.

She checked her phone again. Kim was nineteen minutes late.

Vivienne tried to picture the sex. She’d watched the videos, read the posts on old Reddit. In her head, it was always neat: a French film, soft light, hands cradling cheekbones, tongue and fingers choreographed in a slow, erotic ballet. She’d be gentle, she decided. Thoughtful. And it would be over quick, and she’d file it under “things I did for the team.”

At minute twenty-two, Kim arrived.

She walked in briskly, body language all mission, head on a swivel like she was expecting to be mugged by the ficus. For a second, Vivienne braced for the usual—grease-streaked jumpsuit, hair tied back with a twist of old electrical wire, a face that made it clear she’d rather be elbows-deep in a carburetor than talk feelings—but this Kim was different.

Her hair was slicked, almost shiny, and her skin had the bright, raw scrub of someone who’d just showered twice. She wore a dress—Vivienne’s own, she realized, from the galley donation closet—a sleeveless blue shift that clung too tight over the arms and hitched just a little over the hips. The tag was still peeking out the back. And on her feet: ancient, battered Converse, the laces knotted so tight it warped the rubber.

Kim looked uncomfortable in the dress, but she was there. And she was clean. Vivienne had to recalibrate the script.

“Sorry,” Kim said, rubbing her arm where the sleeve cut in. “Got stuck under a filtration panel.” She made a face, then shrugged. “You ever try to rinse oil off with soap that’s half water?”

Vivienne forced a smile. “I appreciate the effort.” She gestured to the table, where she’d laid out a spread: three kinds of protein, one of them even real chicken, a wedge of synthetic cheese, and a loaf of bread. She’d chosen Kim’s favorite drink—Tang with the lime packet, double sweet.

Kim blinked. “Is this an interview or a last meal?”

Vivienne laughed, maybe too loud, then waved at the chairs. “Sit. I thought we could talk first.”

Kim looked at the chair, looked at Vivienne, then sat. She said, “You said Zhao couldn’t make it.”

“He got called to the bridge,” Vivienne lied, grateful for the excuse they’d rehearsed. “It’s just us.”

Kim nodded. She poured a glass of Tang, then inhaled it in three swallows.

Vivienne waited for a thank you, but Kim just started to eat.

“Did you… want to talk?” Vivienne asked, suddenly unsure how to bridge the opening.

Kim shrugged, working a slice of bread through her molars. “Not much to say. It’s the job.”

Vivienne tried again. “I know you don’t like this, but I want it to be as—comfortable—as possible. We can stop any time. If there’s anything you want, or need, I—”

Kim smiled, the barest tilt of lips. “You think I’ve never done something I hate, just because it’s what keeps people alive?”

Vivienne winced. “Not what I meant.”

Kim ate another mouthful, then set the food down, licking her fingers clean. “Can I ask you something?”

Vivienne nodded.

“Why you? Why not Zhao, or Aida?”

Vivienne hesitated, then told the truth. ”You respond better to structure. And I need the practice.” She twisted the empty groove on her ring finger, a phantom habit from before. ”The suppressant’s effectiveness correlates with the administrator’s confidence. Zhao thought I should take point this time.”

Kim considered, then shrugged. “Okay. Do you want me to fake liking it, or can I just do what you want and get on with my day?”

The bluntness shocked Vivienne. She had practiced lines—so many—and not one applied here. She defaulted to protocol: “Just let me know what works.”

Kim got up, walked to the edge of the pool. She slipped out of the shoes, kicked them aside, then peeled off the dress in one clean motion. She wasn’t wearing a bra, just black cotton underwear, nothing fancy. Her body was all lines—hard muscle, small chest, every joint sharp as a hex nut. She looked nothing like the women in Vivienne’s research. She looked real.

Vivienne followed, suddenly self-conscious about her own overdressed body. She hesitated, then undid her shirt, took it slow, let the silk fall open. She dropped her skirt, then her underwear, stepping out of them with what she hoped was grace. Kim watched, eyes narrowed, then nodded in a way that said, Okay, you pass.

There was a long moment where neither moved.

Vivienne tried to recall the next line, but Kim broke the silence: “Do you want to start in the water, or here?”

Vivienne managed, “Water, please,” and Kim dove in headfirst, resurfacing at the far end with a flick of her head.

Vivienne eased in, skin prickling at the cold. Kim drifted toward her, efficient, then hooked an arm around Vivienne’s waist and pulled her close. She kissed Vivienne, gently at first, then harder, mouth open, the taste of lime and fake sugar and something bitter at the back. Kim’s hands were strong, confident, already unfastening the clasp on Vivienne’s bra and letting it float away. Then the hands were on her back, her ass, guiding her to the shallows.

Vivienne let herself be moved. She closed her eyes, tried to feel desire, but what she felt was terror. The two of them pressed together, skin on skin, was not like the videos. Kim’s body was angular, almost painful, and the scent of her—soap, but still something metallic underneath—reminded Vivienne of childhood wrestling, not sex. She tried to imagine Zhao instead, but it didn’t help; the geometry was all wrong.

Kim’s hands slipped between her legs, fingers blunt and fast. She found Vivienne’s clit and started rubbing, no buildup, just a practiced, industrial motion. Vivienne gasped, then tried to match the rhythm. It was almost embarrassing how quickly she responded—the buzz in her pelvis was immediate, sharper than most of her nights with men. She tried to reach for Kim’s breast, but the surface was so flat she missed it. She settled for a hand on Kim’s hip, steadying herself.

Kim pulled away, then turned her back. “Would it help if I was on top?” she asked.

Vivienne’s mind flashed to a porn scene—two women grinding, faces twisted in pretend agony. “Yes,” she lied.

Kim nodded, then guided Vivienne onto the tile. She straddled Vivienne’s thigh, ground down, the friction both thrilling and too much. Kim leaned over, kissing Vivienne’s throat, then bit her ear, just enough to hurt. Vivienne made a noise—half moan, half surprise—and Kim responded by pushing two fingers inside, her whole arm tensing with the effort. She pumped, slow, then faster.

Vivienne’s body started to shake. The orgasm was coming, and she hated how much she needed it, how little control she had. She let herself ride the wave, hands clutching at Kim’s back, nails digging red lines into the skin. When she came, it was silent, just a shudder and then—unexpectedly—a hot rush between them. Kim’s eyes widened slightly, her rhythm faltering for just a moment before she adjusted her position to accommodate the sudden wetness pooling beneath them on the tile.

Kim collapsed onto her elbows, breathing hard. Vivienne didn’t hesitate—this was the critical moment. She reached down between them, gathering her own abundant fluids on her fingers. Vivienne shifted her hand lower, away from where she’d been working. ”Don’t move,” she whispered, her voice clinical now. Before Kim could respond, Vivienne pressed her slick finger against the tight ring of muscle between Kim’s buttocks, then pushed inside.

Kim’s whole body went rigid. ”Wait—”

Vivienne froze, her finger still buried in the clenched heat of Kim’s rectum. ”Too much?”

Kim’s face tightened, a muscle jumping in her jaw. ”No, just—no warning—”

”Sorry. It needs to be immediate after climax,” Vivienne explained, her professional tone returning. She withdrew her finger, wiped the glistening residue on Kim’s inner thigh, making sure it absorbed. ”The transfer’s more effective this way.” She positioned herself again, lining up their bodies. ”Once more, to be certain.”

They pressed together, labia on labia. The friction was electric, and within seconds Vivienne felt herself climbing again, producing even more of the suppressant her body was engineered to create. Kim’s jaw clenched, her eyes screwed shut.

This time, the orgasm was less, but it lingered—a low hum instead of a thunderclap. Vivienne made sure their bodies stayed connected, her abundant fluids coating them both. Finally, she rolled off, careful not to touch more than necessary.

They lay side by side, staring at the ceiling, both chests rising and falling in sync.

Vivienne broke the silence first: “Did it work?”

Kim reached for her phone, checked the dawn meter. “Thirty-six percent,” she said, voice almost proud. “Down from sixty-two.” She met Vivienne’s eyes. “You’re good at this. Even if you don’t like it.”

Vivienne wanted to deny it, to say it had been beautiful or meaningful, but the truth was she had no idea what to feel. “Thanks for being… patient.”

Kim stood, walked to her dress, and shook the water off. “Don’t thank me. Thank Zhao. He picked you.”

Vivienne dressed in silence, watching Kim’s back as she disappeared into the corridor.

She wondered if it would ever get easier. Or if this was just how things were now: transactional, mechanical, vital, and sometimes a little bit holy, but never, ever romantic.

She found herself wishing, for the first time, that she could just be ordinary. That she could just fall in love, have sex, and not have it be a chemical equation that determined the survival of the species.

She wiped the water from her legs, buttoned up her shirt, and walked out into the blinding, empty hallway.

He thought about how far he’d come. The playful banter, the ease, the way she’d grinned and said ”I like the reminder.” Days ago, he couldn’t have done any of this—couldn’t have been here, like this, with someone like her.

Aida had taught him. Guided him. Helped him become someone who could laugh afterward, who could take it all in stride.

A warmth spread through his chest—gratitude mingled with something deeper he couldn’t quite name.

# Day 12 - 13:32

He found Kim in the utility corridor, exactly where they’d agreed. The air was cooler here, all breeze and condensation, and the hum of the ship faded to a manageable tinnitus. Kim was already waiting, leaning against the pipes, jumpsuit half-unzipped. Her black pixie cut was damp with sweat at the temples, framing a round face with high cheekbones. She caught his eye and her lips curled into a knowing smirk as she massaged her ass with one hand, eyebrows raised in a way that said she was already calculating what he’d owe her for this inconvenience.

She saw him, rolled her eyes. “You owe me.”

Zhao grinned. “I always pay my debts.”

She held up her dawn meter. “Thirty-six percent. You get partial credit.”

He took the meter, verified, then shrugged. “Could be worse.”

“Could be better.” She shifted, wincing a little. “If you ever make me sit through one of her therapy sessions again, I’m putting sand in your cereal.”

Zhao tried not to laugh, but failed. “Was she that bad?”

Kim shrugged. “She tried hard. It’s just… not my thing.” She flexed her fingers, probably recalling the scissoring. “Next time, just send in the real deal, okay?”

He stepped closer, his eyes taking in her half-naked body, the familiar curve of her hip, the way her jumpsuit pooled around her ankles. His mouth went dry. ”Stupid question, but—here? Now?”

She looked him over, then jerked her chin at the dark, narrow gap behind the storage lockers. She licked her lips, eyes darkening as they traced down his body. ”I’ve been thinking about this all day,” she said, her voice dropping to a growl. ”Take your time. I want to feel everything.”

She unzipped her jumpsuit the rest of the way, letting it fall to her knees. Underneath: nothing but bare skin and a smattering of old bruises. She hopped up to sit on a water tank, spreading her knees wide, revealing the dark pink folds between her legs, glistening slightly in the dim utility light. Her labia parted just enough to show a glimpse of deeper crimson within, the move so practiced it was almost martial.

He dropped his pants, cock already half-hard. Kim stared, appraised, then nodded with a smirk. “Well, at least this part of you isn’t broken.”

He stepped in, hands at her hips, but she stopped him with a playful shove. “Easy there, cowboy. Still sore from your last ‘inspection.’”

”From Vivienne?” he teased, pinching her left nipple between thumb and forefinger, watching it pucker and darken against her pale skin, the areola tightening into a perfect circle of goosebumps.

She swatted his hand away and laughed. “She’s got bony fingers. Next time, tell her to take a class in ‘Gentle Seduction 101.’”

He knelt, ran his tongue along her slit, tasting soap and sweat and a faint trace of vanilla that didn’t belong to Kim. Vivienne’s scent lingered there, barely perceptible but unmistakable. She shivered, toes flexing against the pipes, then relaxed, letting him work. He used his hands, fingers spreading her open, mouth covering the spot where Vivienne had been hours before. Kim exhaled, head thumping back against the metal. She didn’t make much noise, but every muscle in her body communicated: More, or Less, or that’s the one.

He got her close, then pulled back, just to tease her. She glared, then reached down and grabbed his hair, forcing him in for another round. “Don’t be a tease, Zhao.”

He grinned into her, then pushed two fingers inside, finding the angle that made her body jump. She ground her hips into his face, then released, her breath turning shallow and sharp. “You’re enjoying this too much,” she panted.

He stood, wiped his mouth, and lined up at her entrance. “Aren’t you?” he retorted playfully.

Kim said, “Lube?”

He nodded, squirted a dollop from the tube she handed him—of course she had it, she was the mechanic—then slid the head in, slow, careful. She was tight, but ready, and when he was all the way in she closed her eyes, breathed deep, and started moving.

It was fast and dirty, all friction and rhythm. Kim clamped her legs around his waist, using the leverage to control the depth and pace. He set his hands on her ass, kneading, then slipping a thumb to her other hole, remembering her flinch from the pool. She tensed, then relaxed. “Go ahead,” she said, “just don’t wreck the gasket.”

He laughed, then did exactly as she said—slow, more gentle than before. She grunted, but didn’t stop him. He pumped faster, feeling her body clamp down, and when he came, it was sudden and volcanic, almost too much to handle.

He stayed inside her, both breathing heavy. She leaned her forehead to his, then bit his jaw, not hard enough to hurt but enough to leave a mark. “You done?” she asked, already hopping down.

“For now,” he said, giving her a playful spank. “You’re not?”

She shrugged. “Could go again. Maybe later. We got work.”

She redressed, shaking the jumpsuit back up over her hips, not caring about the mess. He tucked himself away, zipped up.

“You’re not going to wipe?” he teased.

She grinned. “You wish. I like the reminder.”

There was a moment of shared silence, then the PA crackled overhead: “Crew, unidentified object at starboard bow. Salvage team report to deck three.”

Kim’s whole body shifted. All business. Her eyes narrowed at the announcement. ”That’s my team,” she said, already moving. She glanced back at him with a hint of professional distance that hadn’t been there moments before. ”You should head back to your station.”

He nodded.

She disappeared down the corridor, and he felt the echo of her everywhere: the heat, the force, the complete lack of pretense.

He decided he liked her more every day.