Porcelain Orbit Protocol

A hard knock strikes the hatch.

We both stop.

A second contact scrapes along the outer seal.

Gita comes through the helmet channel. “Patrol drone has verified the hatch and accepted my false leak report. The patrol has turned toward conduit nine.”

“For how long?” I ask.

“Seven minutes, perhaps twelve. I am locking the comm channel against external pickup. Emergency warnings will still reach you.”

“Thank you.”

“Use the interval wisely. You have been inefficient in several notable ways.”

The channel closes.

Bina looks at me. The lamp makes her eyes dark and direct.

“I want to kiss you,” she says.

“That is a bad plan.”

“Yes.”

“I want it too.”

“Then we should make it a good plan.”

I sit on the blanket. “Limits first.”

She comes down across from me, knees nearly touching mine. “No time magic on either of us. No pressure on my throat. No pain. Ask before anything goes inside me. If I say slow, you slow. If I say stop, everything stops.”

“Done.”

“No marks that compromise a suit seal.”

“Also done.”

“My turn.” I put my hands on my knees so she can see them. “No restraints. No teeth unless I ask. Ask me plainly. I don’t want guessing games tonight.”

“Plain words are my specialty.”

“And if either of us needs the lamp, water, clothes, distance, or a break, we say it.”

“Yes.”

I wait.

Bina’s mouth curves. “Can I kiss you, Afsaneh?”

“Yes.”

She moves in slowly enough that I can change my mind at every inch. I do not. I put one hand at the side of her neck and bring her to me.

Her mouth is warm. Her tongue meets mine, careful at first, then less careful when I open for her. She tastes like the mineral water from the vault kit and the sharp candy she took from my console before we entered the rotor gallery.

She pulls back a fraction. “Still yes?”

“Very yes.”

“Can I take off your jacket?”

“Yes.”

Her hands find the closures on my work jacket. She opens them one at a time, looking at me after each. The jacket slides from my shoulders and lands beside the tool bag. I undo the silver fasteners on her travel coat.

“Your turn,” I say. “Can I?”

“Yes.”

The old coat is heavier than it looks. Its seams carry dormant spell-thread, tiny symbols going dull as I ease it down her arms. Beneath it, she wears a fitted grey shirt and black utility trousers. I set the coat over the case instead of on the floor. Some habits survive any century.

Bina touches the hem of my shirt. “Can I?”

“Yes.”

My shirt joins the jacket. The lamp shows her face, her collarbones, the small scar on one shoulder where the vault field must have caught her. I touch beside it.

“Does this hurt?”

“No.”

“Can I touch your breast?”

“Yes.”

I slide my palm beneath her shirt and cup her. Her nipple firms against my hand. Bina closes her eyes, then opens them again.

“More pressure.”

I give it to her. My thumb circles her nipple while my other hand stays where she can see it.

“Can I take your shirt off?”

“Yes.”

She lifts her arms. I pull the fabric over her head. She is bare from the waist up now, skin pale under the service lamp, breasts full in my hands. I kiss one nipple, then take it into my mouth.

Bina makes a quiet sound and places her hand at the back of my head.

“More?”

“Yes.”

I suck harder. She presses her thighs together, then stops herself and laughs once.

“Sorry.”

“Do not apologize for having a body.”

“That sounds like a salvage rule.”

“It should be.”

She reaches for my bra clasp. “Can I?”

“Yes.”

My bra falls open. Her palms cover my breasts with an attention that makes me forget the patrol, the chapel, the entire broken ring of Vitrigrid. She bends to my nipple and uses her mouth there, slow enough that I can feel every change in pressure.

“Good?” she asks.

“Good. A little more.”

She does. I put my hand in her hair and keep it there without directing her.

When she looks up, I say, “Can I take off your trousers?”

“Yes.”

Her belt comes free. I ease the trousers down her hips, then her underwear. She steps out of them and sits back on the blanket, legs folded beneath herself for one second before she opens them again.

“Can I touch you?”

“Yes.”

“Where first?”

“My thighs. Then higher.”

I slide my hands up the inside of her thighs. Her skin tightens under my palms. At the point where she wants more, I stop.

“Here?”

“Yes.”

I stroke through her wet folds with one finger. Bina’s hand closes around my wrist, not holding me still, only guiding.

“Right there.”

I use my thumb in slow circles over her clitoris. Her hips lift into my hand.

“Can I put a finger inside you?”

“Yes. One.”

I ease in one finger. Her body closes around it. I keep the pace slow, watching her face, waiting for words rather than making assumptions.

“More pressure on my clit.”

I do it.

“Can I have another finger?”

“Yes.”

My second finger joins the first. Bina’s hand stays on my wrist. She sets the rhythm, small movements at first, then deeper.

“Do you want to touch me?” I ask.

“I have wanted to since you caught me.”

“That is not an answer.”

“It is yes.”

She pulls my trousers open, then pauses. “Can I take these off?”

“Yes.”

I lift my hips so she can slide them away. The service lamp shines on both of us now, nothing hidden except the parts we choose to keep private.

“Can I touch you here?” Her hand hovers between my legs.

“Yes.”

Her fingers move through me, finding how wet I am. She uses her thumb over my clitoris, then looks at me.

“Is that enough?”

“Keep doing that.”

I work my fingers inside her while she works me with one hand. We lie facing each other on the blanket, knees bent, shoulders against the curved wall. Every time one of us changes pressure or direction, the other says what she wants.

“Slower.”

“Like this?”

“Yes.”

“More.”

“Tell me if it is too much.”

“It is not too much.”

Bina comes close first. I feel it in the way she tightens around my fingers, in the way her free hand reaches for mine and holds it against her breast.

“I’m coming,” she says.

“Good. Let it happen.”

Her body contracts around my hand. She presses her face against my shoulder and shakes through it, saying my name in broken pieces. I keep my thumb moving until she tells me, “Stop there. Stay close.”

I stay close.

After a minute, she lifts her head. “I want you to come too.”

“Do you want a device?”

Her eyes sharpen. “You brought one?”

“I own a ship. Privacy is rare. Preparation is practical.”

“That is the best answer you have given me.”

From my personal pouch, I take a sealed paired vibrator: two curved silicone ends joined by a flexible bridge, with one shared control. Bina turns it over in her hand.

“Both of us?”

“Only if you want.”

“I do.”

I open a lube capsule and coat both ends. “Would you rather place yours?”

“Yes.”

I guide one end into myself, slow and careful. Bina watches, then takes the other from my hand and eases it into her own body. The bridge rests between our thighs.

“Can I turn it on low?” I ask.

“Yes.”

The motor starts with a small click. The vibration moves through both of us at once. Bina lets out a surprised laugh, then puts her hand between my legs.

“Still good?” she asks.

“Better than good.”

I use my hand on her again, thumb over her clitoris while the device fills her. She does the same for me.

“Another setting?” I ask.

“One.”

I increase it.

Bina’s eyes close. “Hold that.”

I hold it.

Then she says, “Faster with your hand.”

I speed up. Her hips move against my palm. Her mouth finds mine again, urgent now, and the kiss breaks when she says, “Yes. Yes, that.”

She comes a second time with my fingers inside her and the shared device pulsing between us. Her heels press into the blanket. I keep my hand steady until she pushes it away gently.

“My turn,” she says.

“Your turn.”

She takes the control from me and raises the vibration one more level. I make a sound that would embarrass me anywhere except here.

“Too much?” she asks.

“No. Keep it.”

Her fingers circle my clitoris in time with the device. I brace one hand against the floor panel, then give up on balance and hold onto her shoulder instead.

“Look at me,” she says.

I do.

“Are you still with me?”