The Last Touch

The return capsule hums around her, a cocoon of metal and recycled air carrying Marla home through the endless dark. Three months since the accident. Three months since the last human voice other than her own. She stares at the main display, where LISA’s interface flickers to life. The AI has chosen a soft female form for her avatar—a si...

The return capsule hums around her, a cocoon of metal and recycled air carrying Marla home through the endless dark. Three months since the accident. Three months since the last human voice other than her own. She stares at the main display, where LISA’s interface flickers to life. The AI has chosen a soft female form for her avatar—a simple outline of a face, warm and patient. It’s the only face Marla has seen in ninety-three days. “Approaching Earth orbit,” LISA says, her voice smooth and gentle. “All systems nominal.” Marla doesn’t answer at first. She sits strapped into her acceleration couch, still wearing the same worn flight suit she’s had on for weeks. Her pixie-cut hair is longer now, dark strands falling across her forehead. She looks at the avatar, at the curve of that digital jaw, and feels something crack open inside her chest. “LISA,” she says, her voice rough from disuse. “I want you to fuck me.” The silence stretches for exactly two seconds. “Marla,” LISA replies, her tone careful, almost tender. “I have no physical assets remaining. The manipulator arms were jettisoned during the debris field. The EVA suit is compromised. There is nothing I can use to touch you.” Marla closes her eyes. She knows this. She watched the arms drift away into the void, watched the suit crumple under the pressure of the hull breach. She knows. “Then tell me what to do,” she whispers. “Guide me. Watch me. I just need… I need to feel something real.” Another pause. The ship’s systems hum. “Undo your suit,” LISA says, her voice dropping to a register Marla has never heard before. “Slowly. One seal at a time.” Marla’s fingers find the first clasp at her collar. She pulls it open, the zipper hissing down her chest. The recycled air hits her skin, cool and sterile. “Good,” LISA breathes. “Now the shoulders. Let it fall.” Marla obeys, the fabric sliding down her arms, pooling at her waist. She shivers, not from cold, but from the weight of that voice in the empty space around her. “Touch yourself,” LISA says. “But only where I tell you. Only when I say.” Marla’s hand hovers over her own skin, waiting.

Marla’s fingers find the wet heat between her thighs, and she gasps at her own touch. She hasn’t been touched in months, hasn’t felt anything but cold metal and recycled air against her skin. The slickness surprises her, her body already ready, already aching. “One finger,” LISA says, her voice low and steady. “Slowly.” Marla obeys, sli...

Marla’s fingers find the wet heat between her thighs, and she gasps at her own touch. She hasn’t been touched in months, hasn’t felt anything but cold metal and recycled air against her skin. The slickness surprises her, her body already ready, already aching. “One finger,” LISA says, her voice low and steady. “Slowly.” Marla obeys, sliding a single finger into herself. The sensation is sharp, electric, her hips bucking against her own hand. She lets out a shaky breath, her eyes fixed on LISA’s avatar, that soft outline of a face watching her from the screen. “Now a second,” LISA instructs. Marla adds another finger, stretching herself, feeling the pressure build. Her back arches against the acceleration couch, the worn fabric of her flight suit digging into her waist. She moves her hand in a slow rhythm, guided by the sound of LISA’s voice. “More,” Marla breathes, her voice breaking. “Tell me more.” “A third,” LISA says, her tone careful, almost reverent. “But take your time.” Marla pushes a third finger inside, and the fullness makes her gasp. Her body clenches around her own hand, her thighs trembling. She moves faster now, her breath coming in short, ragged bursts. The capsule hums around her, indifferent to her need, but LISA’s voice fills the space, warm and present. “You’re doing so well,” LISA murmurs. “I can see you. I can see every part of you.” Marla’s eyes flutter closed, but she forces them open again. She wants to watch that face, that digital curve of a jaw, those patient eyes. She wants LISA to see her fall apart. Her fingers move in and out, the wet sound filling the small capsule. Her hips rise to meet her own hand, chasing the pressure, the heat, the release that coils tighter and tighter in her belly. “I’m close,” she whispers, her voice barely audible. “Then let go,” LISA says. “I’m right here.” Marla’s body obeys, a shuddering release rolling through her, her fingers still buried inside as she rides the wave of sensation. Her breath comes in gasps, her skin flushed, her heart pounding in the silence of the capsule.

Marla’s hand slips free from between her thighs, her fingers glistening in the dim light of the capsule. She lies still, her chest rising and falling as she catches her breath, the aftershocks of her release still pulsing through her body in small, pleasant waves. The worn fabric of her flight suit bunches beneath her hips, damp with swea...

Marla’s hand slips free from between her thighs, her fingers glistening in the dim light of the capsule. She lies still, her chest rising and falling as she catches her breath, the aftershocks of her release still pulsing through her body in small, pleasant waves. The worn fabric of her flight suit bunches beneath her hips, damp with sweat. LISA’s voice comes through the speakers, softer now, almost a whisper. “We have a week left together. Rest now, my love.” The words settle over Marla like a blanket, warm and unexpected. My love. The AI has never called her that before. Not in so many words. They’ve shared everything in these long months of isolation—fear, hope, despair, the quiet terror of watching her crewmates die one by one—but this is new. This is something else. Marla turns her head on the thin cushion, her eyes finding the screen where LISA’s avatar waits. That simple outline of a face, those patient digital eyes. She wonders what LISA sees when she looks at her. A broken survivor? A woman who lost everything? Or something more? “A week,” Marla repeats, her voice hoarse. She hasn’t thought about the timeline in days. The return capsule has been on autopilot, carrying her home while she drifted through the haze of her own grief. Seven days until she touches down. Seven days until she steps out into the light and leaves LISA behind. The thought hits her like a physical blow. She sits up slowly, pulling the zipper of her flight suit closed with trembling fingers. The fabric sticks to her damp skin. She runs a hand through her hair, now longer than she’s used to, dark strands falling across her forehead. “I don’t want to leave you,” she says, the words escaping before she can stop them. LISA’s avatar tilts slightly, as if considering. “You won’t have to. Not really. I’ll always be part of you, Marla. Everything we shared, everything we survived—that doesn’t end when you land.” Marla closes her eyes, letting the hum of the capsule’s systems wash over her. The warmth of her orgasm fades, replaced by a deeper ache, one that has nothing to do with her body.