The holodeck couldn’t recreate smells, but all the same, Semya thought that she could taste stale tobacco in the air as she and Alara walked down the narrow, hardlight alleyway, between buildings that were made of nothing more than photons and data. Semya wrinkled her nose at the phantom stench, but in truth it was a pleasant distraction from other aspects of her situation.

It didn’t last. The holodeck was extremely capable of creating local temperature adjustments, and the biting cold of the simulated night air on Semya’s bare legs was a constant, unpleasant, forcefully arousing reminder of what she was wearing.

“Are you ready?” Alara asked her.

Semya flashed her a jealous look. Unlike her, Alara Hisarlik was wrapped up in a long, fine, warm coat. Why did Semya have to be so uncomfortable? What sense did it make for her to be dressed in such a humiliating way, while her therapist was comfortable and dignified? What kind of therapy was this, anyway?

Semya thought about voicing that question, but she couldn’t seem to muster the focus. Instead, she just found herself saying:

“Yes, Alara.”

“Good.” There it was again; that wide, unwholesome grin that had Semya convinced the counselor was bad news. “We’re here.”

She gestured to the building they had just arrived outside: a grubby little hole of a dyke bar, charmingly named ‘The Scissors’.

Semya knew it well. It was a perfect, holographic recreation of the real deal, a bar that Semya had gone cruising at often enough during her stints of shore leave on Earth. She’d actually built the simulation herself, although she’d never quite plucked up the shameless daring to go through with any of the deep, dark fantasies that had motivated it.

But now, thanks to Alara, that was about to change. And Semya was about to experience The Scissors in a very, very different way.

Just thinking about that made Semya whimper. She could already feel herself dripping down her leg.

“Don’t be nervous,” Alara cooed. “This is simply the culmination of your therapy, Semya. The final push. It’s what you need to finally break through your own walls and barriers.”

Semya nodded in instinctive submission. The final push. After this, she’d be cured. Cured of the messed-up, embarrassing fetish that had kept her holed up in her cabin touching herself all day long ever since their last session.

Then she could alert the captain and the rest of the crew. She could save the Inyx. She’d have Alara Hisarlik in the brig. She just needed to be cured.

Semya frowned for a moment as she tried to remember why, exactly, what they were doing was so important to her therapy. Her head started to hurt. The memories wouldn’t form. How had she ended up here? Why was she doing this?

She couldn’t remember. When she tried, she just found herself picturing Alara’s pocket watch.

Alara was doing something to her. Definitely. Something sinister. Semya was sure of it, and it terrified her.

But before she could come to terms with that, she needed to be cured.

“I understand,” she whimpered softly.

“Then,” Alara said, licking her lips and reaching out to open the door to the lesbian bar, “let’s get started.”

Before Semya could brace herself, Alara rested a hand on her back and pushed Semya through the door.

It was loud inside the bar, but as soon as the door closed behind the two of them, a distinctive hush washed through the space as conversations fell silent and heads turned, punctuated only by the scraping of barstools as every single patron craned to look at Semya Kuznetzov.

Semya’s cheeks turned bright red. She knew those looks. She knew what she was to them.

Fresh meat.

The Scissors might have been a filthy dive bar, but there was a kind of etiquette to the place that was as rigid as any military discipline. The way the bar worked was that dominant, butch women hung out and drank, and if any submissive, feminine girls wanted some action, all they had to do was walk through the door and pick who got to buy her a drink.

In the past, Semya had always been one of the butches. Not anymore. And now she was learning how all those femmes had always felt, staring down all these hungry, cocky, lustful stares.

Someone wolf-whistled. A moan slipped out of Semya’s lips.

It was little wonder that everybody was staring. Semya was dressed in the outfit Alara had picked out for the occasion - and it was beyond even her wildest fantasies. A metallic, gold minidress, cut tight to her figure, but ruched so that each of its folds caught the light and attracted attention to Semya’s physique. She felt she didn’t have the figure for a dress like that, but from the looks she was getting, the bar’s patrons disagreed.

In one hand, Semya was clutching a tiny purse Alara had given her to hold her badge. Alara had given her a necklace, too: a woven little gold chain that hung down as if pointing the way to her exposed cleavage. And then there was her makeup: under Alara’s stern instruction, Semya had been practicing, and in a few weeks she’d become skilled enough to give herself a perfect complexion, full, vibrant lips, striking eyeliner, and deep, sultry eyeshadow. But Alara had insisted on a heavy hand. The colors were a little too lurid; the pronounced blush and bright lipstick looked slutty instead of simply pretty, and the way she’d used bright pink instead of a deeper red ensured the resulting look was girlish rather than womanly.

All in all, with her mid-length hair, she looked just like a freshly-turned femme looking to get fucked like a princess for the first time.

And it was desperately, humiliatingly hot to know that, in a way, that was exactly what she was.

The crowning humiliation was the tall, dainty, heels Alara had forced her to wear. Semya stumbled like a newborn faun as Alara pushed her a few paces deeper into the bar.

“Go on,” Alara jeered. The rich pleasure in her voice was unmistakable. “Time to take your medicine, lieutenant.”

Semya let out a plaintive little whine. She had never been so turned on. The outfit was bad enough, but now, feeling dozens of pairs of eyes roving over her body, Semya was completely robbed of the ability to form words. Her head was full of steam. She couldn’t think.

“Does…” she whimpered eventually. “D-does it really… have to be… t-them?”

She gestured at the bar’s patrons. They were all dressed for the part, but each and every one of the patrons’ faces was familiar to Semya - because they were holograms of the Inyx’s crew.

“Oh yes,” Alara insisted, giggling. “Private therapy is merely the beginning. To complete your counseling, you need to be properly socialized into your new, feminine social role.

Hearing that didn’t make thinking any easier.

“B-but,” Semya tried to say, “I t-thought… b-but you said…”

She was supposed to go back to normal after this, wasn’t she? She’d be free of her fetish. She’d be able to go back to being butch. Wasn’t that the whole idea?

Semya wasn’t sure anymore. She just couldn’t think. Why couldn’t she think?

“You have to feel seen,” Alara assured her. “By people familiar to you.”

Semya felt seen. She’d never imagined that people would see so much of her. It was as mortifying as it was hot.

For years, she’d had fantasies just like this.

“Go on.” Alara nudged her forwards. “Give them a show.”

Hesitantly but obediently, Semya started walking along the length of the bar.

“They’re… just holograms,” Semya muttered to herself under her breath. A reminder. Alara had promised. The counselor had created this scenario for her. Nobody else here was an actual person. But they seemed so real. “Just… just holograms.”

It didn’t help. Every one of those amused smirks and lustful stares was written into Semya’s body. They were like burning hot coals on her skin. She could feel her legs turning to jelly beneath her - but all the same, she found herself trying her best to obey Alara’s command. As Semya walked, clumsily putting one heel in front of the other, fighting to maintain balance, she tried to make her hips sway appealingly with each step in that hypnotically alluring way femmes always seemed to manage.

For just a moment, she managed it - but then, a harsh spike of shameful arousal made Semya stumble wildly.

Until someone caught her.

Semya gasped at the sensation of a rough hand clamping tight around her bare forearm and hauling her back to her feet.

“Careful there, princess,” said someone, voice full of a familiar swagger. “Let’s at least get a drink or two in you before you go spreading your legs like that.”

Laughter rippled through the room. Semya had to bury her face in her hands to hide her brush. She wasn’t used to this - to being dressed this way, to being desired, to feeling pursued, any of it. In that moment, what left her tongue-tied the most was just how fragile she felt as this woman - a short-haired butch who worked in engineering, Semya thought - grabbed her and pulled her around.

Fragility. That was new. And it put butterflies in Semya’s stomach.

“C’mon now,” the engineer teased. “Don’t I even get a ‘thank you’?”

“Thank you,” rose instantly to Semya’s lips in a flustered, mortified squeak.

A fresh round of laughter rendered her speechless again. Semya was startled by just how high and feminine her voice came out.

“You’re welcome,” the engineer replied, grinning. “Has anyone ever told you that your voice is just as pretty as your face?”

Semya saw white for a moment.

Pretty?

That was the last thing Semya ever expected to be called. The last thing she wanted to be called.

And yet she couldn’t keep a dumb, shy smile from coming to her face.

“Y’know,” someone else piped up, “I don’t think she has.”

More laughter.

“I’m always happy to take a pretty girl’s first time,” the engineer winked. “Why don’t you let me buy you a drink, princess?”

“P-p-princess?” Semya squeaked. She was used to using lines like that, not having them used on it. It was wrong. It was mortifying. And yet, her body was reacting to it all with supreme eagerness. Each word, each laugh, was a fresh rush of heat across her skin.

She was too flustered to form a reply, but that didn’t seem to matter to the engineer who was currently hitting on her. She was still holding Semya by the arm and used it to guide her over towards where she’d been sitting at the bar. Semya followed meekly. Struggle was beyond her. She was a leaf in the wind.

A small crowd of women, all eager for a piece of the new girl, quickly formed around her.

“So,” the engineer asked, “what do you like to drink?”

Semya was grateful for such a simple question. “I’ll h-have a beer,” she replied automatically.

The chorus of laughter that prompted was louder than ever.

“Aren’t you cute?” the engineer laughed derisively. She held up her hand to get the bartender’s attention. “White wine spritzer for the lady!”

The lady. The humiliation was unbearable. Semya squirmed from the treasonous pleasure that gave her.

Why? Why was this getting to her so much? Semya had always liked feeling strong. Hard. Tough. Feeling strong was comfortable. It suited her. That’s what she’d always thought. In a way, that simple feeling had guided her entire aesthetic. Her identity. Feeling weak? Fragile? Delicate? That was wrong. It made her stomach flutter. It made her feel the way a zero-G-to-atmosphere spacedive made her feel.

And now she was trapped with that feeling of falling. Every look, every whispered comment, every sleazy flirt made it grip her anew. And as the minutes wore on, it was being transformed into a kind of panicked euphoria that robbed all the thoughts from Semya’s head and sent giddy endorphins pounding through her body.

She wished she hated it. But she didn’t. It felt amazing. It was just the way it always was in her fantasies, only the reality of it made it a hundred times more intense.

No. Not reality, she reminded herself. Holograms. These were just holograms.

“So,” the engineer said easily, “what do you call yourself, princess?”

“Don’t let her keep you all to herself,” someone interrupted, sidling up to Semya on the other side and saving her from even deeper embarrassment. She recognized them too. One of Carter’s people. A security officer. “And don’t let her talk your ear off all night either. I know you’re not here for talk.”

“I…” Semya tried to protest, “I’m…”

She stopped when she realized how unconvincing any protest would sound, given her clothes.

“You should try talking for once,” the engineer said to the security officer. “Some girls like it when they know your name before you try getting your hand in their panties.”

“Not sure I agree,” the security officer shot back, a huge, shit-eating grin on her face. “My way hasn’t failed me so far. Anyway, by the time I’m done with them, they don’t even remember their own names.”

She flashed Semya a look. Normally, the lieutenant would have rolled her eyes at a crass boast like that. Now, it just made her squirm all the more.

Then, a third bar dyke joined the fray. “Why don’t we leave these two to bicker?” she suggested to Semya. Semya only vaguely recognized this one - a mess worker, perhaps. “And go somewhere a little more private.”

“Hey now,” the engineer interjected. She leaned across and slipped an arm around Semya’s shoulder, keeping her pulled close. “No poaching! I saw her first.”

The exchange left Semya burning up with flustered heat. It wasn’t just the way the engineer pulled her close so effortlessly, making her feel small and feeble. There was another element, too: the heady intoxication of being desired.

All these women were fighting over Semya. Competing for her, like she was a pretty bauble to be won. That was new to Semya. She’d been appreciated for her looks before, certainly - but never quite like this. It redoubled her euphoria, making her feel light, proud, giddy from the attention. It made the way she was being objectified and swept off her feet feel almost flattering. Like it was a victory, instead of a humiliation.

No, Semya tried to remind herself. This was-

Wrong?

Or was it right? She couldn’t tell. Suddenly, she remembered that Alara was still here, lurking in a far corner, watching. Smiling.

Therapy. This was Semya’s therapy. She had to go through with it. Right?

Suddenly, the sheer wrongness of that struck Semya. She became abruptly aware of the fact that she was on a precipice, teetering, about to lose a vital part of herself. She needed to fight that. She needed to remember who she was. She needed to-

“Hey now,” the security officer piped up. “Who says she’s yours to cop a feel of?”

Semya was about to try and say something - to insist everyone back off - when another arm snaked possessively around her waist. Again, she saw white as the security officer squeezed her.

“I’m sure the princess herself has something to say about it,” the engineer retorted. “She owes me for the drink, remember?”

There it was again. Princess. It made Semya’s stomach do loops. “N-n…” she tried to say. “Nnnno-“

“Oh, I don’t know,” inserted the mess worker. “The pretty little thing seems real tongue-tied. Here, I think you two are crowding the lady.”

Far from helping, the mess worker reached forward, trying to squeeze up next to Semya. In the process, one of her hands came to rest on Semya’s hip, fingertips already teasing at the hem of Semya’s unreasonably short dress. The lieutenant whimpered.

She couldn’t stand up for herself. Why couldn’t she stand up for herself?

“Of course not,” the engineer scoffed. “She’s enjoying my company. She’s my kind of girl. Aren’t you?”

Semya wanted to deny it. All that came out was a moan. She could feel the body heat of these three tall, strong, confident women as they surrounded her. She could smell their scents. She was drowning in it. She felt so light. Like any of them could effortlessly throw her over their shoulders and carry her away.

“I think it’s my company she’s enjoying, actually,” the security officer put in. “Aren’t you, beautiful?”

Semya had to look down meekly as her cheeks scorched with heat.

“See?” the security officer boasted.

“What are you, a high schooler?” the mess worker sneered. “That’s not how you tell if a girl is having a good time. This is.”

In a single deft, well-practiced move, she surged forward and slipped her hand up the skirt of Semya’s minidress. A loud moan erupted from Semya’s lips as she felt the mess worker’s fingertips stroking against her.

She wasn’t wearing anything under the dress.

“See?” the mess worker crowed, holding up two of her fingers for the others to inspect. As she stretched them apart, a long string of sticky wetness formed between them. “She’s loving it.”

Semya had never felt more embarrassed. She wanted the ground to swallow her. Being presented with such visceral proof of her body’s eagerness was humiliating. It made all the denials she wanted to scream seem ridiculous and dishonest, even to her. There was an extra level of humiliation to the fact that she was being treated this way by a mere mess worker - a woman who, normally, couldn’t look her in the eyes without saluting.

But things like that didn’t matter here.

At least it was just a hologram, Semya reminded herself.

That was the only thought she managed to hold on to as the bar around her erupted into mocking, raucous laughter.

“Wow,” the engineer whistled. “Maybe you were right. Maybe she really is the kind of girl who likes to be treated rough.”

As flustered as she was, Semya couldn’t let that pass without comment. She had to hold on - to her butchness, to her strength, to her dignity. To something.

“I’m…” she managed, in a pitiful squeak, “nnottt.”

As ever, her voice, high and girly, completely undermined her. The women lurking around her simply cooed condescendingly and drew even closer.

“Oh? You’re not?” the security officer teased. “Don’t worry, princess. We know how to treat a girl right. Don’t you worry.”

Semya could sense a subtle but sinister change in the atmosphere. The looks she was getting from these other women were growing more and more lustful. More and more predatory. They were no longer competing with each other - at least, not quite in the same way. Their competitiveness had been outstripped by a simple need to see the pretty, feminine Semya utterly ravaged for their collective pleasure.

This was no longer simply flirting. It was a feeding frenzy.

As much as anything else, she could taste it in the air. The pheromones, as all those bar dykes closed in. The smell, too; the musk, really. Sweat, smoke, booze, cologne. Semya was used to it, she’d thought, but not like this. Somehow, it was all the worse for that single, light, floral note; the perfume Alara had made her use before coming here. The dizzying mixture of it all was in her head, making it harder than ever to think. Making her painfully aware of her own weakness.

“So, princess,” the mess worker cooed. “Am I taking you back to my place? Or are you showing the whole bar a good time?”

After a sharp intake of breath at the proposal, Semya glanced gratefully at the woman. There it was. One last offer of dignity - at least, relatively speaking. She wasn’t sure what taking it would even mean, given that she was here for her therapy, but she had to try.

But as soon as she opened her mouth to reply - to beg, in the most humiliating way possible, to be taken home and fucked as a one-night-stand - the mess worker pushed two fingers inside her and expertly hooked them to stroke Semya’s g-spot.

All that came out of her mouth was a high, loud, unbearably needy moan.

The moment felt like it lasted forever. Once Semya’s moan died and she stopped seeing stars, all she could hear was mocking laughter.

“I guess our princess isn’t such a good girl after all,” the engineer commented, smirking. “Looks like we found our entertainment for the night!”

A cheer went up around the bar. Semya wanted to protest, but that word had robbed her of her voice.

Entertainment. That was her now. The center of attention. The star of the show. Semya had always hated it. Had always hated being flashy. Hated the way people looked at her when she wore makeup and dresses. Like she was nothing more than a feast for their eyes. A treat to be devoured.

Except now, it made her cunt drip all over the mess worker’s fingers.

“Hey, wait,” piped up the security officer, although she was clearly no ally. “Don’t keep her all to yourself. I want a piece.”

Semya squealed as she felt the woman’s hand snake down the back of her seat and cup her ass, squeezing and groping without mercy. The touch made her melt and squeal, and made her painfully aware of just how soft and yielding her body truly was.

It was like she was meant for this.

“Relax,” drawled the engineer. “There’s plenty of her to go around.”

“Yeah,” added the mess worker, “and she’s plenty eager for it.”

Using the hand between Semya’s thighs, the mess worker started to pry her legs open - not forcefully, but again, Semya found herself utterly powerless to resist or protest. As she spread her legs, the hem of her tiny dress began to ride up, exposing more and more of her skin to the air. To the eyes of the hungry predators gathered around her.

“Don’t look so scared,” the security officer cooed. “This is what you wanted, right? This is why you came in here. Don’t pretend. We know what you are, princess. You want this. You need this.”

More than ever, Semya wanted to deny it - but this time, the simple truth of what she was being told overwhelmed her.

The security officer - no, this hologram - was right. She had come here for this. She needed this. Alara had taught her that. What use was there in denying it?

So instead, she found herself nodding meekly.

“Good girl,” the security told her. Semya moaned again.

Everyone was looking at her now. Everyone. Not just the three who were immediately crowded around her. She was the center of attention for the entire bar. Even the bartender was watching. Her moans were the music. Her shifting, writhing body was the entertainment. Everyone was looking, and Semya knew all they saw was a needy, flashy femme who was all but begging to be fucked.

And… was she? Semya was starting to lose track. She needed this, but she didn’t want it. Was that right? But if she didn’t want it, why was her body responding with such vicious eagerness? Why did every touch, every crass comment, every vulgar gaze fill her with violent heat?

She… wanted this?

Why? Because of her fetish? But what was it Alara had been saying? That her fetish was her real desires, repressed, waiting to be released? If that was the case, then…

Semya gasped as, out of nowhere, someone leaned forward and claimed her lips with a messy, forceful kiss. She could taste smoke on their breath and cheap whiskey on their tongue. The sheer coarseness of it left her whimpering.

“Wow,” Semya heard someone say, “she really is eager.”

Semya realized she’d been kissing back just as needily.

As everyone laughed, Semya looked down and tried to hide her face, although some implanted instinct against ruining her makeup kept her from burying it in her hands. One moment, she wanted the ground to swallow her up and shield her. The next, that same sense of humiliation was transformed into a lightness of being; a desire to be swept up and aloft, higher, brighter, more visible than ever. Semya was giddy with the urge - before the shame returned, and crushed her anew.

As she grappled with those warring feelings, she could hear the nearby bar dykes arguing about her - specifically, about who was going to get the first ‘turn’. They were comparing dibs, debating about Semya’s potential preferences, and even, in a few cases, planting elbows on the bartop so they could arm-wrestle for her. Being the center of attention was mortifying, but being actively fought over was lighting an undeniable fire inside Semya.

This was her, now. A trophy. A prize to be claimed.

That was so new. She’d never felt desired quite like that - desired, certainly but in a different way. She was learning that the relationship between butch and femme was far from symmetrical - and that, until now, she’d been blissfully unaware of just dizzying the euphoria that stemmed from being desired and chased could be.

It was hot. It was so fucking hot.

After a few moments, the pecking order was decided and the ‘winner’ presented herself; unsurprisingly, it was the engineer who had first caught Semya when she’d tripped. Once, Semya would have squared up against a woman like her with a grin on her face for the opportunity to take a pretty girl home. Now, as the engineer ogled her, Semya felt nothing but meek, flustered submission.

“Hey, princess,” the engineer said. Her voice was soft, but the cocky shark’s grin on her face made a lie of it. “Don’t worry. I’ll make you feel good.”

The promise made Semya shiver. For the first time, she truly looked at the other woman. She was tall, and wearing a ribbed tank top that left her burly arms on display. She had a thick-set, husky build, but when she moved and flexed, the musculature underneath was clearly visible, attesting to long hours spent lifting and carrying machinery in the bowels of the Inyx. She had sailors’ tattoos on her biceps, marking ships and campaigns served on, and her hair was short and slicked over to one side.

Words came unbidden into Semya’s mind. Words she’d normally reserve for herself, not think about other women. Cool. Handsome. Strong.

Hot.

A nervous, dumb smile came to Semya’s face.

And her eyes went wide as the engineer dropped to her knees and buried herself between Semya’s thighs.

The very first touch of her tongue had Semya moaning. She twitched and writhed as the pleasure hit, although all her efforts did nothing more than encourage the engineer as she started eating Semya out. It overwhelmed her instantly and defied all reason. Semya had always been a giver, not a receiver, but within moments this woman’s skillful tongue unraveled that part of her.

Always a top, always a giver - but not anymore. She couldn’t forget this. Her body couldn’t forget this.

At that moment, far too late, as the first rush of her new addiction hit, Semya suddenly became conscious of the fact that this was wrong. Completely wrong. This wasn’t a cure for her fetish. It was the opposite. It was fuel for the flames. And she was at risk of losing something she could truly never get back.

She needed to fight this. She needed to resist. She needed to-

“O-oh myy gggoddd!” The scream forced its way from Semya’s lips as the engineer’s tongue found its way even deeper inside her. The entire bar laughed at her plight, and the mixture of humiliation and pleasure robbed her of her train of thought.

She needed to… what?

She couldn’t think.

The engineer was making a hopeless puppet of her. She had such power over Semya; whenever she wanted, she could make her moan loud, or gasp breathlessly, or twitch this way or that, all with a single flick of her tongue. She proved it, over and over again. She delighted in it, making a mockery of the feeble resistance Semya tried to put up when she attempted to hold back her moans.

Little by little, she was teasing out and eroding Semya’s resistance. Chewing it up and spitting it out. Every time Semya stifled a moan or bit down on her own thrashing, the engineer noticed and made sure that her next display of ravenous pleasure was all the more humiliating for it. She tongue-fucked her skillfully, slow one moment, fast the next, attacking her clit, or stroking her lips, or pushing her tongue deep inside her until Semya’s back arched and her screams filled the whole bar.

Every time Semya tried fighting back, even a little, she slipped deeper into pleasure-drunk euphoria and she became more and more painfully aware of her own weakness. Her own lightness. Compared to the engineer - to how strong and forceful she was - Semya felt like she was made of nothing.

And all the while, her moans grew louder and louder.

“Settle down, princess,” jeered one of the women who had accosted Semya earlier - the security officer, she thought, although her vision was far too blurred to tell. “You’re getting exactly what you came here for.”

“N-n-noooo,” Semya forced out, even as the bar echoed with mocking laughter. “I’m not… I’m nnnottt… I’m… this… isn’tttt…”

She couldn’t quite get the words out. The engineer’s tongue was turning her thoughts into slurry. Even if Semya could speak without moaning, what would she say? What was there to protest?

It wasn’t like she could pretend not to be enjoying this. The wetness dripping onto the floor of the bar made a lie of that.

“I’m…” she moaned. “I’mmmm”

What?

Masc? Butch? A top?

She wasn’t sure any of those things were true anymore.

Her identity itself was being washed away by the simple fact that nothing had ever felt better than this.

“OK, princess,” said the engineer from between her thighs, drool and stickiness dripping from her lips. “How about we let everyone else take their turn?”

Before Semya could reply, the engineer rose smoothly to her feet and spun her around with her powerful arms, so that she was facing out into the bar. Her deep blush and shameful wetness were on display, and even without someone holding them apart, Semya couldn’t seem to find the strength to close her legs.

She was a spectacle. And everyone was looking. Everyone. A dozen pairs of eyes, each of them full of lust.

And it was all for her. All for Semya.

In the face of that, her soiled pride simply melted away. The simple euphoria of being beautiful and desired and prized cleansed away everything else. Amidst Semya’s frenzied lust, it seemed like clarity.

She wanted this. She needed this.

Because, deep down, it was who she really was.

And with that settled, she found herself nodding and grinning stupidly.

“Y-yes,” she said, in a dumb, high-pitched, girly voice. “Y-yes, please.”

That was all anyone needed to hear. In an instant, everyone else was on top of her, a dozen or more hands exploring every part of her body with the kind of ravenous, destructive lust normally reserved for picking the petals from flowers.

Everyone wanted a piece of Semya. They wanted to soil her. They wanted to ruin her dress, to smear her lipstick, to leave her eyeliner running down her face. They lived for it. They loved it.

And so did she.

It was a new feeling to Semya. The feeling of being a pretty vase, cracking apart. It was such a thrill. All along, Semya had suspected how good it would feel. That was why had become such a singular, fetishistic focus of hers. But to experience it was something else. It put the lie to all her excuses about it being ‘just’ a fetish.

This wasn’t ‘just’ anything. And Semya could see, now, clearly, that Alara had been right all along. She couldn’t be cured. Not of this. It was too intense. Now she was drowning in the feeling, and all she wanted was more.

She wanted to live this. Every day. Every moment.

She wanted to make sure there was no going back.

So, as the mess worker from earlier dove between her legs and started eating her out, Semya made sure her moans were higher and girlier than ever before. As another, a woman Semya hadn’t exchanged a single word with, yanked the top of her dress down to make her tits spill out, Semya made sure the faux-protest she let out was breathy, weak, and very distinctly feminine.

It felt so good, being violated like that. The fragility, most of all. Fragility and femininity were inextricably fused in Semya’s mind. For the longest time, she’d been laboring under the delusion that it meant femininity was wrong for her. Now, Alara had helped her to understand how breathtakingly pleasurable fragility could be.

And you never felt more fragile than when you were breaking.

“Y-yes!” Semya moaned. No more ‘no’s. No more denials. She was beyond that. “P-please! Moreeeee!”

She was free. Free to embrace her fantasies. Free to sink into the bliss, safe and secure in the knowledge that besides Alara, nobody was watching. These were all holograms. They weren’t really members of the crew.  Nothing more than hardened light. With that fixed firmly in her mind, Semya was free to embrace her darkest fantasies. To breathe deep, and let the overpowering scent of sweat and lust carry her away.

At first, there was only one woman who wasn’t participating in the feeding frenzy. Alara Hisarlik, the ship’s counselor, was still standing off to one side, watching without a word. But anyone who saw her would have been able to tell that her bystanding was anything innocent. There was an unhealthy, lurid glow in her eyes; a fascination that was entirely at odds with her duty as a therapist and a healer. Her enjoyment was evident, but it was just as obvious that this wasn’t enough to sate her appetite. Not even close.

Semya Kuznetzov was simply her first subject. And this was simply the beginning of her new career.

Out of nowhere, another woman appeared next to her. The holodeck’s emitters carefully manipulated the photons passing through the air to form a holographic image that was the perfect duplicate of Wasp, the hacker, right down to the neon green highlights in her hair. After a brief moment, the image came to life, a wicked grin spreading across her face as she trained her eyes on the counselor.

“Nice work, ‘lara,” Wasp drawled. “I knew you had it in you.”

Alara didn’t so much as glance at her. She didn’t want to miss a thing. She wanted to etch every moment of Semya’s fall into her memory.

“I suppose I did,” Alara mused in reply. “All along. I really did.”

For her, as much as for Semya, this was a rebirth. It emanated from her; every mote of dignity and strength that Semya had lost, Alara seemed to have gained.

“I just got one question,” Wasp said, as she sauntered around, phasing through tables and stools as she did. No hardlight today, apparently. With her punk look, she seemed oddly at home in the dark confines of the dyke bar. “Why do it so slow? All the sessions, the old-school hypnosis schtick… why? If you wanted her like this, all you had to do was slip her one of my new little toys.”

Alara smiled a thin smile. “You don’t understand,” she replied. “Hasn’t anyone ever told you? It’s about the journey, not the destination. It’s the personal touches. The little push-and-pull of watching her come apart.” The counselor shivered. “I wouldn’t skip it for the world.”

Wasp stared at her thoughtfully for a moment, but then just shrugged. “If you say so. Not like I’m in any place to judge. As long as you’re still in with me, you can be any kind of pervert you want.”

Alara laughed. “Thank you. And besides, you’ve used the time well, I think.”

Wasp tittered like a giddy child. “Oh, absolutely. I’ve got almost all of them now. Doc, down in medbay, is quite the little worker drone. The whole crew has pretty much got their ‘vaccination’. We’re ready for the endgame.”

“I see.” Alara seemed more interested in her own plans than Wasp’s. After a moment, she nodded towards the bar dykes were fucking Semya. “Speaking of: thank you for their cooperation. I think it’s the perfect little touch.”

“No problem.” Wasp grinned. “I’m no stranger to theatricality.”

Both of them watched the developing orgy. A couple of the women had lifted Semya up onto the bartop, and people were taking turns crawling up between her legs and eating her out. They seemed to be competing to see who could make her thrash the most. At the other end, another group was using her mouth just as forcefully, making her suck on fingers, strap-ons, beer bottles. Whatever they wanted.

Semya was eager for all of it.

She was the center of attention. The focal point of all this debauchery. In a strange, perverse way, she really did look like some kind of princess, in the ruins of her delicate jewelry and golden dress, now hopelessly torn and crumpled from all the groping. Everyone else at the bar was gathered around to pay her a twisted tribute, and her skin was covered with proof of their adorations: cum, drool, kiss marks, love bites, and more.

And Semya loved it. She was in heaven. She had completely given herself over to fantasy.

Now it was time for Alara to bring her back down to reality.

“Time to rip off the band-aid,” she murmured, stepping forward.

“Knock yourself out, shrink,” Wasp said, dissolving back into nothingness as she offered a mock salute to her conspirator.

A vicious smirk on her face, Alara held her head high as she walked to the center of the space.

“Computer,” she said, in a loud, clear voice. “End simulation.”

The ship’s computer responded instantly, and with a shimmer, the world around them dissolved. The bar, the stools, the drinks, even the street outside - all of it phased out of existence as the light dissipated. Semya was still held up in the air, a few feet from the ground, but only by a nondescript, gray, hardlight box generated by the holodeck’s safety subroutines. That was all that remained of the holodeck scenario that had been running. Everything else had shut down. Nothing else was left.

But all the bar dykes were.

“Do you see, Semya?” Alara said to her patient. “I’m afraid I can’t simply allow you to lapse into futile escapism. What kind of cure would that be?”

It took Semya a long moment to rouse herself from the blissful overwhelmed, aroused stupor she’d lapsed into. But when she started to process what was happening to her, her eyes went wide and started trembling.

“Wha…” she panted in disbelief. “What… you’re… they’re…”

Real.

Not holograms. Real people. All of the women who’d been toying with Semya were simply members of the crew, dressed up and playing their assigned parts. It had to be true - it was the only way to explain why they were still here - but even so, Semya couldn’t quite bring herself to accept it.

But eventually, the truth forced her to her knees. As much as Semya wanted to pretend this was simply a cruel trick, now that she was thinking about it, there was something no amount of holodeck deception could explain: the smell. The scent of sweat, musk and sex Semya had been drinking deeply of all evening.

Holodecks couldn’t recreate smells. She should have known.

“That’s right,” Alara confirmed, as she saw the penny drop. “You’ve been doing all this in front of members of the crew. In front of people under your command. And rest assured: they won’t forget it.”

Unpleasant laughter echoed around the now-empty space. Wasp had used her tools of mental manipulation to make them play along, but they were far from mindless drones. They had been enjoying it every bit as much as Semya.

A chance to defile a stern, stuck-up XO? Who wouldn’t?

Semya looked between them like a frightened, trapped doe. There was no escape. All of them had seen her at her lowest. At her most humiliated. They knew her innermost secret. Her fetish had been laid bare. They would never look at her the same way again - and nor would anyone else, once word spread.

Semya’s reputation was shattered. Her dignity was a thing of the past. Her very identity, a facade barely held up by increasingly thin excuses, was now collapsing.

After a few long, unpleasant seconds, Semya made peace with it the only way she could.

By embracing it.

Her eyes fogged over again and, with a vacant, girlish giggle, she beckoned to a familiar face: the mess worker who had first touched her.

“Heyyyy,” Semya slurred. Her voice was breathy. Needy. “Why did you stop?”

In that moment, her pride broke. Her identity broke. Her mind broke. Whatever had been left of the stern, quiet, understated, strong XO of the Inyx was currently dribbling out of her mouth and drooling from between her thighs. In the face of impossible humiliation, Semya had collapsed in on herself and decided that this was all she wanted to do and all she wanted to be.

The women surrounding her exchanged looks. They all knew prey going limp when they saw it. Still, they looked to Alara for permission. She returned a quick nod. With that, the orgy resumed.

They kept at Semya for hours, eating her out, slapping her around, leaving her makeup a ruin - and all the while, she did nothing more than giggle and moan and squeal girlishly in submissive acceptance. Alara didn’t stay for that, though. She had already seen the moment she’d been working towards. She’d won. And for what felt like the first time in her life, she knew satisfaction.

The next day, when Semya Kuznetzov reported for duty wearing a dress, it was nothing more than confirmation.