Page 20 of The Lottery

I press my head against the wall, my mind now consumed with Azalea and what she might be doing just a few inches from me.

She must be in the bath. Her sounds are too clear for her to be further away.

And for a moment I close my eyes and allow myself to imagine that there is no wall between us. That she is here, with me, her wet, naked body pressed up to mine.

I use my hand on myself, pumping out the ache I feel every time I think of her as I picture her dropping to her knees, running her hands over my chest, her gaze still locked on mine as the tip of her tongue flicks against my shaft.

I shudder, holding her in my thoughts. My fingers digging into her wet hair. Unable to pull my eyes from hers while she licks and sucks, taking the length and width of me into her, feeling the velvet smoothness of her throat.

The thought of her hot mouth on me, of watching her jaw stretch to take me in… it undoes me.

I can hear her breathing heavier on the other side of the wall and the sound of her climaxing sends me over the edge.

I grunt as I come, the cold water washing away all evidence of my arousal within moments.

I am breathless. Overcome with need. The orgasm my mind coaxed out of me has not been the satisfying remedy I had hoped, but has rather stoked the flames of my desire into burning even hotter.

I dry myself roughly, dress quickly in pajama pants, and sit back at my desk, but I am no better able to focus than before. Perhaps even less so.

I might have imagined everything that was happening in the room next to mine, but those thoughts have imprinted themselves into my mind, clinging desperately.

Still, I turn myself to the keyboard and do my best to work.

* * *

I sleep little that night, and the next morning my eyes feel filled with sand as I push myself through my daily workout—one I had Metis develop for me that would optimize cardiovascular health, strength, and flexibility without requiring any gym equipment.

Each week I have the AI tweak the routine to prevent my body from falling into a rut, and to help counteract the lower gravity on our new home.

Today, it is difficult to complete. Not because I am tired; I am often so. I am simply distracted, and I do not know how to handle this. It is new to me, and unwelcome.

I leave my desk and the endless stream of data collected on Mars to engage in more physical work. I am still waiting on air particulate reporting from our scouting drones, so I might as well pull my eyes off the screen and check the condition of the organic materials on our ship, something I actually enjoy doing.

The first level is dedicated to cargo—everything from beams and welding tools to freeze-dried food and farming supplies. This is where I came to fetch soil for Azalea. It seemed an innocent gesture at the time, but the last day has proven my interest to be more than casual.

With thoughts of Azalea invading my headspace, I nearly trip over the object of my desire while moving between crates of seeds and spores. She is leaned over on her crutch, reading a packaging label, her position putting her nearly out of sight.

I catch myself before we collide, and she looks up at me in surprise, her lips parting a fraction.

I stare at those lips longer than is proper, then force my eyes back to hers. “What are you doing down here?” I finally say. I mean the question sincerely, though quickly recognize how my tone might be perceived as judgmental, especially with my English intonation. I have mastered the language but not the subtleties.

She narrows her eyes as if stung by my clumsy phrasing. “What, am I not allowed? Metis said I’ve got clearance everywhere except the bridge. Is your computer lying?”

Her words land sharply, but I do not take them personally. Even if it is personal, being hurt about it will not help.

“It is good to see you well,” I say, gesturing to the single crutch and the lack of an arm sling.

“Thanks,” she says, looking down at her ankle and giving it a slow roll. “That medical cream works wonders. Good hire on the doctor, Mr. Volkav.”

She puts some flourish on my last name; it is both playful and biting. I toy with the temptation to say something playful in return, but a group of ten or so crew members moves into the area and starts lifting crates. As soon as one man sees me, he motions to the others and they all stop work to stand at attention.

Such deference causes me a good deal of discomfort. I spent my career hiring good workers who could handle criticism and point out my own mistakes when necessary. Subservience means nothing to me, though I recognize it is part of the militant culture many of the young workers came up in.

“Carry on, please,” I say with a wave. “I am… just inspecting plants with our lead botanist.”

Azalea has not heard herself referred to as a lead specialist, though her raised eyebrow makes me think she does not mind the title. “I assume that is what brought you to this floor,” I say as the crew resumes their duties. “Inspecting what you will have to work with on Mars?”

She nods. “We’re pretty well stocked,” she says as her eyes shift back to the various shipping containers. “I’ll be interested to see how long any of this survives on Mars.”

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