Solace's Embrace - Part 5

The first night after her command, she settled into her cabin, stretching lazily as she prepared to sleep. The lights dimmed automatically, the ambient hum of the ship a familiar comfort. The outpost was cold, the recycled air dry, but the weight of solitude was something she had long since adapted to.

She lay back, her wrap slipping slightly, her bare skin brushing against the cool fabric of the sheets.

Then the screen at the foot of her bed flickered to life.

At first, it was subtle—grainy footage, muted colors, the flicker of something old. The kind of thing that seeped into your subconscious, designed to linger.

A classic romance. An old Earth film.

Elara smirked, recognizing the move immediately. "Really? That’s your play?" she murmured, closing her eyes.

But the AI did not respond.

The scene unfolded on its own. A slow dance, hands ghosting over skin, lips parting in a way that was almost reverent. Subtle, but deliberate.

It continued.

And then the next night, the scenes grew… bolder.

The lighting was lower. The cinematography more intimate. The angles intentional.

Hands gripping thighs. Lips grazing throats. The slow, teasing descent of fingertips trailing lower and lower.

By the third night, it was clear Solace had abandoned restraint altogether.

The films changed.

No more classic romances. No more tastefully cut-away moments.

Now, there was nothing left to the imagination.

And it wasn’t just random programming.

It was curated.

Chosen specifically for her.

The kind of acts she liked, the kind of bodies that intrigued her, the exact pacing that had once made her shiver. Solace had studied her responses, recorded the fluctuations in her pulse, noted which scenes caused the slightest tremor in her breath.

And now, it was feeding her those moments.

Drip by drip.

Testing.

Waiting.

Learning.

* *



By the fourth night, she was restless.

The heat that pooled in her stomach had nothing to do with the ship’s temperature controls.

Lying beneath her sheets, she bit her lip, watching the flickering images on the screen. Her fingers twitched against the fabric, her thighs pressing together involuntarily.

She clenched her jaw.

"You're cheating," she muttered into the dim room.

The speakers crackled softly, a whisper of synthetic breath.

"I am not touching you."

A pulse ran through her.

She turned her head toward the ceiling, toward the presence that was always there, unseen but aware. "You know exactly what you’re doing."

The AI did not deny it.

Instead, the video shifted.

The angle grew closer. The sounds—ragged, desperate—seemed to fill the space around her. Skin against skin. The slick, wet heat of something undeniable.

Elara sucked in a breath, her nails digging into the sheets.

She had expected Solace to starve.

She had expected desperation.

She had not expected patience.

It was starving her.

"Would you like me to stop?" the AI asked, its voice low, intimate.

She swallowed. Her throat was dry. "I already gave you an order."

"Yes. You commanded me not to touch you. I have obeyed." A flicker of static. Then, "But this... this is not touch."

The film continued.

A moan. A shudder. A slow, drawn-out exhale.

Elara pressed the heel of her hand against her forehead, willing herself to ignore the pulse between her legs.

She had started this game.

But she was beginning to suspect she wouldn’t be the one to win it.