For the second time, Epoc woke up in the unfamiliar darkness. She shifted. Her whole body resisted her movements, like a three ton weighted blanket had been laid on top of her, and she realized her muscles were sore in a way they had never been before. She’d worked out before. She’d done lifting, once upon a time. She’d run a marathon, but that was just the one time and not up for a repeat. 

After all of those, she had not felt as drained as she did now, in more ways than one. Her groin ached. As she shifted, she felt something against her ass. She thought for a second she’d been lubed up but a cursory inspection later revealed it to be a cream of some sort. Probably for the best. 

She sat up and found the lamp on her desk by knocking it over. It turned on as it hit the floor. 

“Damn it,” she said, just as the communicator lit up. No voice. A message. She picked it up. 

“You’re awake,” it read. She didn’t have to guess who sent it. “Take the time you need to wake up. You have four more hours to decide. The contracts are on your desk. Use your communicator to get food brought to your door – there’s an application – if you need it. Think this through. Do what’s best for you.”

Because it had been written by a clearly well-adjusted individual, the message was also signed. 

“Antimony Winter.

CEO

Handler.”

Epoc looked down at the comm in her hand. It was like she was holding a solid gold brick. Had things always been this heavy? She moved her head from side to side and every muscle in her upper body sent in their protests signed, notarized and in triplicate, up to her brain. 

“Fuuuuuuck me,” Epoc whispered, and realized that even her voice was hoarse. She stood up to do some very light stretches and realized she was naked, this time. She hadn’t been dressed like last time. She had, however, been bathed again and, the slickness between her cheeks reminded her, treated. There were two chairs by her bed. On one were the clothes she had arrived at the facility with the day before. 

On the other were the colors of Mako Group. Ah. Antimony was being subtle. 

For now, she just settled for underwear and made her way to the desk while she asked the kitchen to bring her a cup of coffee. On it were three contracts. 

The left one, rat. It had a little sticky note that read, “legally this has to be here too.”

The right one, cat. Another sticky note. “In case you change your mind.”

The middle. Hound. No note. 

Epoc sat down and opened it. It was a thick contract but, perhaps more importantly, she realized, there were two of them. One of them for reading. The one under it was the real deal. Presumably, in case she made the decision then and there. A little presumptuous, sure, but it also made Mako Group seem desperate. How much bargaining power did she have, here? 

The first few pages detailed the benefits she’d receive and, indeed, it was nothing to sneeze at. The wages alone were not insignificant. After twenty years of a desk job with an income like this, you could retire, buy a small palace, and never think about money again. 

There was also guaranteed food, medical care – elective and necessary – and the Hound suite she was currently in. What surprised her was also guaranteed leave. A guaranteed 8 days per month. That was a not-insignificant amount, though there was a footnote to some small print, and she was not the type to skip it. 

“Should the pilot make use of their leave, they must guarantee a return to facilities within the allotted time. No more than thirty days of leave can be used consecutively,” and then a lot of stipulations that basically guaranteed she wouldn’t just work for a year or two and then take several months off. Fair enough. 

She turned a page and felt her heart beat in her throat. 

“Post-mission neural stress reduction consent form negotiation sheet.”

What Handler Winter had done to her in the cockpit, how she’d grinded against her until she’d whimpered and begged to come… that would be her future. What could be done to her was right here on this sheet. 

It was a column. On the left were a series of described acts. On the right, simply checkboxes. At the bottom of the page was a tally. She had to meet the tally, or the contract was null and void. With trepidation, she leaned forward to read the first line, when a gentle buzzer nearly made her jump out of her sheet. 

“Yes?” she shouted. 

“Coffee, ma’am,” a voice said over the small speaker by the door. 

“Oh, shit, right.”

She thanked the woman, who was wearing a small patch with a Rat on her shoulder with a little blip on it, they saluted each other with an amused smile, and then she went back to reading. 

“The pilot consents to the following:

• Vaginal stimulation [N/A

Epoc skipped ahead a little. She didn’t want to get rid of what she was working with, and the next several lines didn’t pertain to her. 

• Mental stimulation (affection)

• Mental stimulation (degradation)

• Mental stimulation (praise)

• Penile stimulation (manual)

• Penile stimulation (oral)

• Penile stimulation (impact)

• Penile stimulation (temperature)

• Penile stimulation (restriction)

• Penile stimulation (electric)

• Testicular stimulation (manual)

• Testicular stimulation (oral)

• Testicular stimulation (impa

Epoc shook her head and skipped down the line. It went like this about every part of her body, going over every potential sex act one might have, including some she had never even heard of, let alone considered. Why would anyone want their butthole shocked with a cattle prod? 

There was anal, oral, something called ‘breath play,’ she had an idea of what watersports was, she wondered briefly how the facility would support a kink that involved roleplay, and smirked when she saw ‘sissification’. No, thank you, she’d been there, done that. She had successfully sissified herself (with some help from an overeager ex-girlfriend). 

At the bottom of the page was a tally. She would have to agree to no less than twenty one of the above mentioned if the contract was to be valid. There was another small note there explaining the number. 

“This number has been carefully chosen to increase the effectiveness of post-mission neural stress reduction. Repetition of stress reduction techniques can lead to reduced performance and long-term neural damage.”

That was fair enough. She wondered if that was really true, but realized that, well, it didn’t really matter, did it? This was all about what she was willing to do to achieve her dream in this way. A strange moment of clarity came over her. 

This wasn’t the only way she could fly a Frame. Pilots were in short supply and high demand. She could work a Cat contract for a year, get some experience, and then go to one of Mako’s bigger competitors. There was always a need for pilots. 

And there was no real point to owning a Frame. Especially a frame as large as Nexus Alpha. Sure, she could start her own company with the money of a twenty-year contract or just be an independent contractor for the rest of her life. But it would be a lot of work and it was honestly safer and better to work for a corporation. That wasn’t even going into the maintenance and potential paperwork that would come with owning Nexus Alpha. 

On the other hand

She would own Nexus Alpha. 

Epoc would own her own Frame. 

She wouldn’t just be a pilot, she’d be one of the pilots, making a name for herself, not by doing freelance work and sitting in someone else’s cockpit, but instead owning and driving the most expensive and prestigious vehicles ever created by humankind. 

And

And

And she hadn’t hated it. That feeling of being on edge. Her brain being eroded by need until she was acting on efficient instinct. The desire to push forward and seek victory and release at any and all costs. The drive and need for victory and pleasure wrapped into one mind-shattering, all consuming ball of lust and power. 

And after. 

Antimony Winter, with her galaxy lipstick and manicured nails, who barely smiled and whose voice was soft and husky and who had made her come in her hands, twice now. That woman whose lips had been so close to hers and whose words floated through her head while she was in the pilot’s seat. 

Her Handler.