Crawler
Copyright© 2026 by EveryDenial
Chapter 3
Erotica Sex Story: Chapter 3 - Sent alone to a dead planet in a tiny rover named CRAWLER, nineteen-year-old Elise Hart is offered redemption in exchange for obedience. Tasked with mapping buried ruins through a world she can’t see, isolation, pressure, and constant monitoring wear her down. Until the mission reveals that the planet is not as empty as it was meant to be, but will anyone believe her?
Caution: This Erotica Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/Fa Fa Coercion Rape Fiction Military Science Fiction Cream Pie Masturbation Small Breasts
She opened the Crawler’s door, the hydraulic hiss a loud, aggressive sound in the cavernous silence. The air that rushed in was warm yet dry, carrying a faint, sterile scent, like a long-unused laboratory. It was breathable, as the initial readings had promised, but it felt alien in her lungs, thin and devoid of the familiar scents of recycled ship air.
She stepped out onto the floor, her heels making a soft, clacking sound that echoed in the immense space. She looked up, the Crawler’s headlights forming a bright, artificial day in a sea of darkness. The walls seemed to stretch up forever, their surface a matte, obsidian black that seemed to absorb the light rather than reflect it.
She turned her attention to the nearest door, one of the human-sized openings on the wall to her left. It was a dark, perfectly rectangular slot, with no visible handle, no hinges, no control panel. It was just a smooth, seamless hole in the wall. She raised the handheld camera, its grip cool and solid in her hands. She took a picture, the camera’s flash a brilliant, strobing pulse in the gloom. The image appeared on the small screen on the back of the camera, showing the door in stark, clear detail. It was just a door. Nothing more.
“Nothing.” She said to herself, her voice a small, lonely sound. “Just a door.”
She walked up to it, gently placing her hand on its surface. The material was cold and smooth, like polished glass. She pushed, but the door didn’t budge. She ran her fingers along the edges, looking for a seam, a switch, a hidden mechanism. There was nothing.
“Okay.” She said, stepping back. “Okay, I tried.”
She looked down the long, unending wall, at the other identical doors stretching into the darkness.
“I guess I keep trying,” She whispered to herself. “They won’t be able to contact me for a while anyways.”
She walked to the next door, her footsteps a lonely percussion in the vast emptiness. She wasn’t sure why high heels were her only option for footwear for her uniform. It was a cruel joke, a way to make her feel even more vulnerable, more ridiculous. But she was a scientist, a prodigy. She knew how to walk in them. She had practiced for hours in her quarters, marching back and forth, her posture perfect, her stride steady. She would not let this small, petty detail break her.
She raised the camera again, but as she was about to take the picture, she noticed something. A faint, almost imperceptible line of light, a sliver of pale blue, was visible in the gap between the door and the wall. It was so faint she almost missed it, a ghostly luminescence that seemed to pulse with a slow, steady rhythm, like a sleeping heartbeat.
She took the picture, the flash of the camera making the light disappear for a moment. When she looked at the image on the screen, the line of light was there, a thin, bright blue thread against the black of the wall.
She swallowed hard, her throat suddenly dry. She walked up to the door, her heart pounding in her chest. She reached out, her fingers trembling, and touched the spot where the light was coming from. The surface was still cold and smooth, but she could feel a faint vibration, a low, thrumming hum that resonated up her arm.
“Hello?” She whispered, the word feeling foolish and inadequate in the face of such profound silence.
“Hello? No ... The voices aren’t real...” A voice responded from the door.
Elise clasped her hand over her mouth, taking a step back, her heel clicking loudly on the floor.
“Is someone there?” The voice said, it sounded scared and alone. “Is someone there?”
“Y-yes.” She managed to say. “I’m here. My name is Elise. What’s yours?”
“My name ... My name...” The voice paused, a long, silent stretch. “I am ... Indexer-04...”
“Indexer-04?” She repeated, her mind racing. “I’m Indxer-07. I was sent here from the Station. Are you ... Were you sent here, too?”
“Station ... That word ... it sounds familiar.” Indexer-04 said, their voice a distant, dreamy murmur. “I don’t remember the Station. I only remember ... What do I remember? I remember ... I remember the dust. I remember here is safe...” The voice trailed off, a fading echo in the vastness. “Wait, where are my manors ... It hasn’t be that long? Has it? Let me get the door.”
Suddenly, the line of light glowed brighter, and then with a soft, pneumatic hiss, the door slid open, revealing a small, dimly lit room. The room was sparsely furnished, with a single cot in the corner, a small table, and a chair. And then there was him. He was standing in the doorway, looking at her with wide, unblinking eyes. His uniform was the same as hers, though it was faded and frayed, the fabric worn thin in places. He looked young, but there was an ancient weariness in his eyes, a deep, profound sadness that seemed to have seeped into his very soul.
“Indexer-04?” She asked again, her voice a hesitant whisper.
He looked at her for a long moment, his head tilted to the side, as if he was trying to remember something important. Then he looked at the uniform she was wearing, his eyes looking at her chest area.
“You’re a ... girl...” He said, his voice filled with a strange, childlike wonder.
“Yes ... I’m a girl.” She said, feeling a strange mix of pity and fear. “Are you ... are you alright?”
“I’m ... I’m fine.” He said, a small, sad smile touching his lips. “It’s just ... it’s been a long time since I’ve seen a girl. A real one. Not just ... not just in my head.”
“In your head?” She asked, taking a small step closer.
“The voices ... They talk to me. They tell me things. They show me things. Sometimes they’re nice. Sometimes they’re not.” He looked away, his gaze drifting off into the darkness of the hangar. “They’re the ones who told me you were coming. They said you were lost. They said you needed my help.”
“Who are they? The voices?” She pressed, her mind trying to make sense of the bizarre situation.
“I don’t know. They’re just ... the voices.” He said, a look of confusion on his face. “They’ve been with me for ... for as long as I can remember. They keep me company. They tell me stories. They help me forget.”
“Forget what?” She asked, her heart aching for the lost, broken boy in front of her.
“Forget ... forget that I’m alone.” He said, a single tear tracing a path down his cheek. “They tell me that I’m not alone. They tell me that there are others like me. Others who are lost. Others who are waiting.”
“Waiting for what?” She asked, her curiosity overriding her fear.
“Waiting for the ... the dust to settle.” He said, his eyes staring into a distance she couldn’t see. “They say that one day, the dust will settle. And when it does, we’ll be able to see the sky. We’ll be able to see the stars. We’ll be able to go home.”
The words sent a chill down her spine. Home. The word was a painful reminder of everything she had lost, everything she was fighting to get back. She looked at the boy, at the faded uniform, at the ancient sadness in his eyes. He was a ghost, a relic from a forgotten mission, a warning of what could happen to her if she failed.
“I ... I have to go.” She said, her voice trembling. “I have to get back to my Crawler.”
“No!” He said, his hand shooting out and grabbing her arm. “Can you show me?” He asked, his eyes now wide with a desperate, pleading look. “Can you show me your body? It’s been so long. Since I have seen...” He looked at her chest again. “I haven’t seen a real pair in so long. The voices show me pictures, but ... they’re not the same.”
His sudden shift from lost and sad to a desperate, sexual desire made her freeze. Her mind raced, trying to process the sudden change in his demeanor. She looked at his hand on her arm, his grip surprisingly strong.
“Please?” He begged, his voice a ragged, desperate whisper. “I just ... I just want to see.”
“You want to see my body?” She asked, her voice a hesitant whisper, a strange calm washing over her. “My breasts?”
“And the rest of you.” He said, his grip tightening on her arm. “Please? I’m just so lonely.”
She looked into his desperate eyes. She saw a deep, profound loneliness, a need for connection that mirrored her own. He was a prisoner of this place, just as she was a prisoner of her own past. They were two sides of the same coin, two lost souls adrift in a sea of emptiness.
Can we make a deal? She asked.
“A deal?” He asked, a flicker of hope in his eyes. “A deal ... a deal.” His words seemed to echo, as if he were trying to remember the concept. “The voices ... they talk about deals. They say that a deal is a way to get what you want. But you have to give something in return. What do you want?”
“I want to take a few picture of you and your room.” She said, holding up the camera. “So the people upstairs, The voices from my station, can see you. They told me there was no one else here. They told me I was the only one.” She paused. “And in return ... I’ll let you see me.”
He looked at her, a slow, dawning realization spreading across his face.
“You ... you have a deal.” He said, a small, triumphant smile touching his lips. “You can take your pictures.”
He let go of her arm and took a step back, giving her a clear view of the room. She raised the camera, her hands shaking slightly. She took a picture of the cot, the table, the chair. Then she took a picture of him, the flash illuminating his pale, gaunt face, the faded uniform a stark reminder of his forgotten status. He didn’t flinch, didn’t even blink. He just stood there, a willing subject in her strange, impromptu photoshoot.
“Okay.” She said, lowering the camera. “I have my pictures.” She took a deep breath. “It’s your turn.”
She unzipped her uniform, the sound of the zipper a loud, aggressive noise in the quiet room. She peeled the top half of her suit away, her breasts small and pale in the dim light. She could feel his eyes on her, a hungry, desperate gaze that made her skin prickle with a mixture of fear and a strange, unwanted thrill. She had spent so much of her life being objectified, of being reduced to a collection of body parts, but this was different. This wasn’t about Miller’s crude comments or Anya’s pitying glances. This was a transaction, a deal made between two desperate people in the heart of a dead world.
“They’re ... they’re beautiful.” He whispered, his voice filled with a genuine awe that was both touching and heartbreaking. “Can I ... can I touch them?”
The question hung in the air, a sudden, sharp escalation of their bargain. She looked at him, at the desperate longing in his eyes, at the trembling hope in his outstretched hand.
“Yes,” she whispered, her own voice a surprise to her. “You can touch them.”
He stepped forward, his movements slow, as if he was afraid she might vanish. His fingers were rough and calloused, a stark contrast to the soft skin of her breasts. He cupped one in his hand, his touch gentle, exploratory. A shiver ran through her, a wave of sensation that was both pleasurable and deeply unsettling.
“They’re real.” He breathed, his thumb brushing over her nipple, making it harden. “You’re real.”
“I’m real.” She confirmed, her body responding to his touch despite the rational part of her brain screaming at her to stop, to run, to get back to the relative safety of the crawler. But she was rooted to the spot, a captive of the moment, of the bargain, of the desperate, shared humanity of it all.
“They’re small ... Smallelr than the voices show me.” He said, a small, curious frown on his face. “But I like them. They fit in my hand.”
“Sorry about that,” She couldn’t help but laugh softly. “Now for the rest. That was our deal, right?” She said, reaching down to untie her boots and stepping out of them.
She then peeled off the rest of her uniform, leaving it in a crumpled heap on the floor. She stood before him, naked and vulnerable, her body a pale, slender silhouette in the dim light. She felt a strange sense of empowerment, a defiant act of self-assertion in the face of all the forces that had conspired to control her, to use her. This was her choice. Her body. Her deal.
“You are ... you are perfect.” He whispered, his eyes wide with a mix of wonder and desire. “Can I ... can I touch the rest of you?”
“Our deal was that you could see.” She said, her voice firm but not unkind. “We had a deal.”
“I know.” He said, a flicker of disappointment in his eyes. “I ... I understand ... But the voices ... they’re telling me to ask. They’re telling me that you want me to touch you. They say you’re lonely, too.”
She flinched, his words hitting closer to home than she wanted to admit. Was she that transparent? Was her desperation so obvious that even the voices in a madman’s head could see it?
“Please?” He begged, his hand reaching out again, hovering just inches from her stomach. “The voices are never wrong.”
She looked at his outstretched hand, then at the cot in the corner of the room. A wave of exhaustion washed over her, reminding her how long it had been since she last slept. She was tired of driving, tired of masturbating, tired of being alone. She wanted to feel something, anything, that was real and not just a fleeting, self-induced pleasure.
“Let’s make a new deal then.” She said, her voice barely a whisper. “I will let you touch me anywhere, but I get to use your cot. I want you to watch out and protect me while I sleep.”
“A new deal ... a new deal...” He echoed, a slow, dawning comprehension in his eyes. “The voices ... they like this deal. They say it’s a good one.”
“Good.” She said, stepping forward and closing the distance between them.
His hands were on her then, rough and unsure, but with a gentle, curious touch that was both disarming and deeply arousing. He traced the line of her collarbone, the curve of her hips, the hollow of her back. His exploration was methodical, almost clinical, as if he were memorizing the topography of a new, uncharted world.
She let him touch her, her body a canvas for his reawakening senses. She closed her eyes, focusing on the sensation of his hands on her skin, the warmth of his touch a stark contrast to the cold, sterile air of the room.
“I’m going to touch your insides ... With this...” He said.
And then she felt it. His erection, hard and insistent, pressed against her thigh through the thin fabric of his worn uniform. Her eyes flew open. This was a line she hadn’t anticipated, a leap in their bargain that sent a jolt of pure panic through her.
“Wait.” She said, her voice sharp with alarm. “The deal was ... the deal was touching, not that.”
“You said I could touch you anywhere.” He replied, his voice a strange mix of confusion and entitlement. “This is ... anywhere.”
“Fuck ... My deal making is a bad...” She said under her breath.
She looked at him, her mind racing. He was a wild card, a product of long-term isolation and whatever madness the “voices” had inflicted upon him. He was stronger than he looked. And he was, effectively, her only key to understanding this place.
She took a deep breath, forcing herself to think like the prodigy she once was. Not the scared girl, but the analyst. What was the optimal outcome here? Compliance? Resistance?
“Okay.” She said, her voice suddenly calm, a carefully constructed facade. “Come on.”
She didn’t wait for a reply, instead turning and walking over to the small cot. It was narrow, the thin mattress covered with a coarse, gray blanket. She lay down on her back, the fabric scratchy against her bare skin. She looked up at him, her expression unreadable, a careful mask of neutrality.
“If this is part of our new deal.” She said, her legs opening for him. “I’ll honor it.”
She watched him as he unzipped his own uniform, pulling the worn fabric aside to reveal a body that was surprisingly lean and toned, a stark contrast to the lost, boyish demeanor he projected. He was ... not unattractive. But more than that, in the dim, otherworldly light of the room, he looked like a creature carved from the same stone as the walls around them.
He knelt on the cot, his movements hesitant at first, then more confident. He positioned himself between her legs, his body a solid weight above her. She could feel the heat radiating from him, a stark contrast to the sterile chill of the room.
He looked down at her, his eyes dark and unreadable.
“My name.” He said, his voice a low, serious murmur. “I remember my name. I haven’t said it in a long time.”
She waited, her own breath held tight in her chest.
“It’s Cade.”
He pushed forward before she could respond, sliding into her with a single, smooth motion that stole the breath from her lungs. He wasn’t gentle, but he wasn’t cruel either. It was a simple, direct act, almost transactional. He moved within her, a steady, rhythmic pressure that built a slow, deliberate fire in her core. She lay there, her hands gripping the edges of the cot, her eyes closed. She tried to disconnect, to treat it as another bodily function, like the release she had engineered for herself in the crawler.
But this was different. The sounds were real. His ragged breathing, the creak of the cot’s frame, the soft slap of skin on skin. It was an intrusion, a violation of the carefully constructed solitude she had cocooned herself in.
Yet, as he continued to move, something shifted. The rhythm of his body against hers became a constant, a grounding force in the midst of the chaos. She felt the knot of tension in her stomach begin to loosen. The anger at Miller, the confusion over Den-Eve, the fear of this alien world, it all faded into the background, muted by the primal, physical reality of the act.
He started to speed up, his movements becoming more urgent, more desperate. He lowered his head, his face buried in her neck. She could feel his breath, hot and fast, against her skin.
“Don’t stop.” The words were a whisper, a plea that surprised her as much as it did him. “Please ... don’t stop.”
“The voices ... They tell me to make you happy feeling first ... Then I can be happy.” He grunted. “I have been practicing ... But it’s ... different. With a real person ... They are right. This is much better then ... practicing...”
He reached down between them, his fingers finding the sensitive bundle of nerves at the apex of her thighs. He began to rub, his touch clumsy but effective, a frantic, desperate attempt to fulfill the voices’ command. The dual stimulation, the pressure of him inside her and the friction of his fingers, was overwhelming.
She felt it building, a wave of heat that started in her toes and crept up her legs, a slow, rising tide. Her hips began to move, meeting his thrusts, her body acting on its own instinct. She was no longer a passive participant, but an active one, her hands now on his back, her nails digging into his back, pulling him closer.
“I’m going to...” She gasped, her body arching against the cot. “I’m going to cum...”
“Cum for me. Please.” He said, his own breathing ragged. “The voices want it.”
She couldn’t hold back any longer. The wave crashed over her, a violent, shuddering spasm that ripped through her body. She cried out, a raw, primal sound that echoed in the small room. Her vision went white, her mind a blank canvas of pure sensation. For a moment, there was nothing else but the pleasure, the release, the overwhelming feeling of being utterly and completely alive.
He rode out her orgasm, his own release following close behind. He slammed into her one last time, a deep, powerful thrust that seemed to shake the very foundations of the room. His cock twitched inside her, filling her with a warmth that spread through her like a slow, liquid fire. He collapsed on top of her, his body a heavy, limp weight, his head resting on her chest. For a long moment, they just lay there, their bodies tangled together, their breathing the only sound in the quiet room.
She felt a strange sense of peace settle over her, a quiet contentment that she hadn’t felt in a long, long time. She stroked his hair, her fingers combing through the tangled strands, a simple, comforting gesture.
“You were beautiful.” He whispered, his voice muffled against her skin.
“So were you, Cade.” She whispered back.
They lay there for a long while, in a comfortable silence that was broken only by the steady rhythm of their breathing. She could feel the steady beat of his heart against her chest, a reassuring, constant presence in the vast emptiness.
“The voices ... they’re quiet now.” He said, a note of wonder in his voice. “For the first time in ... I don’t know how long. They’re quiet.”
“Maybe they’re just ... satisfied.” She said, a small, wry smile touching her lips.
“Maybe.” He said, propping himself up on his elbows to look at her. “Or maybe it’s you. Maybe you’re the reason they’re quiet.”
She didn’t know what to say to that, so she just looked at him, her eyes searching his for some clue to the madness that swirled behind them. She saw a flicker of something, a spark of the boy he must have been before this place, before the voices, before the dust. It was a fleeting glimpse, but it was there.
“I’m going to sleep for a bit. Part of our deal, right? You said you would watch out for me. Protect me.” She said, her eyes already starting to droop.
“I will.” He promised, his voice serious. “I won’t let anything hurt you.”
She closed her eyes, trusting him, a fool’s trust, perhaps, but it was all she had. The exhaustion of the last few days, the emotional rollercoaster, the sheer physical exertion, it all caught up with her at once. She drifted off into a deep sleep, the soft rhythm of Cade’s breathing a lullaby that soothed her into the darkness.
She woke with a start, her heart pounding in her chest. For a moment, she didn’t know where she was, the darkness and the unfamiliar texture of the blanket a disorienting shock. Then she remembered. The hanger, the door, the deal.
She sat up, the blanket falling away from her bare breasts. Cade was sitting on the chair, watching her. He was still naked, his cock standing erect, a silent, throbbing testament to his desires.
“You’re awake.” He said, a small, simple statement.
“I am.” She said, her eyes meeting his. “You kept your promise.”
“I always keep my promises.” He replied. “The voices ... they said you’d be a heavy sleeper. You were. You were out for a while.”
“How long is ‘a while’?” She asked.