My shuttle ride from the carrier Superion, was quick, allowing only the briefest glimpses of the small observation station I would be posted on alone for the next three months. Through the forward viewport over the pilot’s shoulder, I could see the relatively small, gray-colored cylinder, bristling with antennas and dishes against the backdrop of the massive swirling purples and blues of the nebula that I would be studying. By choice, my career was a long succession of solo postings; studying gas giants in the Tryvain system, the Oort cloud of Pendrac, or the polar deserts of Sindar’s second moon. The truth of the matter was that I didn’t get along very well with people, and these postings suited me. It wasn’t that I didn’t like people, on the contrary, I found them fascinating. I just didn’t understand them. I always found people stranger than the subjects of my study, and more difficult to understand. I suppose others found me just as strange.

So when my last posting ended, I reviewed the university’s list of grants and found the postings that other researchers tended to shy away from, long-duration observations where I would be the only one at the research station, just like this latest assignment. The station grew larger in the viewport as we approached, and I could see that the cylindrical station was comprised of several decks stacked on top of each other, with observation posts at either end. The docking port was in the middle of the station, and the shuttle slowed and eased up to it, aligning its airlock to the station’s.

The was a slight jolt as the airlocks made contact, and the whirring of motors reverberated as the locks engaged. I said a quick thank you to the pilot as the shuttle’s and station’s airlock clamped together, then headed to the door to transfer. When the airlock doors opened, I was met by the previous scientist assigned to this post. Being alone for three months, he had elected not to shave and looked a little ragged and disheveled.

“Johanna Kepler, badge Charlie-Gamma five nine two, here to relieve you,” I said to him, ceremoniously.

“Franklin Beezer, badge Epsilon-Zeta seven seven three, I am relieved,” he replied in a similarly mechanical way.

We passed each other in the transfer tube connecting the shuttle to the station, and just before the shuttle’s airlock door shut he said mysteriously, “Keep an ear out for a rattle in one of the subsystems. I couldn’t trace the source, but it didn’t seem to be causing any issues. And it’s best to keep the lights on. Good luck.”

The airlock doors closed, then the shuttle detached and slowly moved away from the station leaving me the sole occupant of the research station. I thought about his odd warning to keep the lights on for a moment, then put it out of my mind as I unpacked my few belongings and settled in for my stay. The station’s service records showed that it had been in service for little more than sixty years, sixty-six, to be precise, but had been exceptionally well maintained and hardly showed its age except for the occasional squeaky hinge of a storage cabinet door. The walls were a faded, but clean white, and the furniture was outdated but in good condition. I went to the bunkroom and found that Franklin had made up the simple cot with hospital corners on the sheets and blankets. I dropped my duffle bag on the locker at the foot of the bed and set about to make myself at home for the next three months.

The first few days of my assignment were fairly ordinary, and by my fifth day on the station I had developed a routine: Wake, light exercise in the morning followed by a small breakfast. Four hours of reviewing the previous day’s collected observation data, then lunch, another five hours of analysis, and observation target selection for the remaining day. Another light round of cardio, dinner, then bed.

It was the night of the fifth day after I had climbed into bed and was almost asleep when I heard the odd rattle somewhere deep in the station’s systems that Franklin had mentioned when he departed. I grabbed a nearby flashlight and headed down to the Engineering deck wearing only my plain white panties and a loose-fitting tee shirt that I usually slept in.

I climbed down the ladder to the Engineering deck and was surrounded by the sounds of the motors and servos of the various systems that supported the station functions. I heard the rattle again down the corridor away from the ladder, so I walked in the direction of the sound, not exactly knowing what I was looking for, but as I got closer the rattling stopped, so I stood for a moment listening for the sound in the half-light of the inner recesses of the Engineering compartment. I waited for a few moments, but the rattle didn’t sound again. Feeling foolish, I turned to head back to the ladder, when the faintest scent of wildflowers caught my attention, and then was gone. A sense of unease settled over me, like when you’re sure someone is staring at the back of your head. I glanced back, seeing and hearing nothing, I went to the ladder and climbed up, then returned to my bed. I lay there awake for a time, and when I finally slept, it was dreamless.

The next day, I resumed my routine; breakfast, exercise, and data review. As I was fixing a small lunch, I heard the same small rattle from the decks below. In a frustrated huff, I set my half-made lunch aside and went down to the engineering deck to investigate. Almost as soon as my shoes touched the deck of the engineering compartment, the rattle stopped. I looked around, much as I had the previous night with no better results, and once again as I was about to ascend the ladder the scent of wildflowers drifted past, strong enough that this time I didn’t dismiss it as a figment of my imagination.

I paused, my hand on the ladder, and breathed it in, trying to discern the direction from which it came, but it had an effect I did not expect. Warmth blossomed in my core, and my nipples got hard and sensitive. It lasted only for a moment then was gone. The fleeting arousal I felt surprised me. My neural inhibitor should have suppressed it as it has done for the last ten years.

My parents took me to the Clinic at the end of the summer of my sixteenth year, as was customary in our society, to have the neural inhibitor installed that would suppress my libido and remove that particular distraction as I prepared myself for my studies. Many professional fields are highly competitive, sometimes requiring decades of focused effort. It is common practice for individuals looking to become successful to have these neural inhibitors installed during a time when absolute focus on one’s field of study is vital.

Then when they deem themselves sufficiently successful, they remove the inhibitor, usually in their late thirties. I had planned on having mine deactivated about a decade from now, so when I felt the flutter of arousal standing at the bottom of that ladder, it took me by complete surprise. I returned to my lunch and thought about what had happened. Could the inhibitor be failing? Not out of the realm of possibility, but extremely unlikely. There is a long history of use of inhibitors and the technology is quite mature.

Perhaps there is a gas leak in the ventilation system? Plausible. Certainly more likely than an inhibitor failing without warning. “I’ll run the station’s self-diagnostic scan as soon as I finish lunch,” I thought, taking a bite of my sandwich. I finished my meal then washed and put everything back in its place. Heading first to the bunkroom, I set my bag full of personal items on the bed and rifled through it. I found the simple diagnostics monitor that the Clinic provided when the inhibitor was installed, then pressed its single button and waved it slowly back and forth along the side of my head. It made a soft chime and the only indicator on its surface glowed green, indicating the implant was functioning properly.

Putting away the diagnostic stick, I went to the control room, I caught another whiff of wildflower, stronger this time, and along with the ache returning to my nipples, I felt my panties instantly moisten as I leaned against the doorframe, moaning wantonly as the sensations washed over me. Yes, distracting indeed. As the wetness from my arousal ran down my inner thigh, I navigated to the station’s life support diagnostics screen on the control console and started the self-diagnostics. As I waited for the systems to report, I couldn’t help but roughly squeeze one breast, tweaking a nipple, while grinding my pussy with the heel of my palm through the plain work pants I wore.

The diagnostic finished, and the system reported all systems were well within operating parameters. I tried to ponder what that meant as I vigorously dry-humped the arm of the chair, but not used to such distraction, I could only concentrate on the building heat of my impending climax. I unbuttoned my shirt and slipped a hand inside and the delightful skin-on-skin contact pushed me closer.

Just as I was about to crest that delicious wave, the scent of wildflowers vanished, as did the impending orgasm. I dropped into the chair frustrated, and now in need of a fresh set of panties. What the hell was going on? I sat for a moment in the small puddle of my arousal, racking my brain for possibilities. Coming up with nothing, I stormed off to the bathroom to shower and change.

Freshly showered and feeling back to normal, I returned to my work, though admittedly, I spent the rest of the day only half concentrating on my work, thinking about the unusual episode.

At the end of the day, after all my usual tasks had been completed, exercise done, and meal consumed, I prepared for bed. I clicked off the overhead light and slipped under the covers. Laying there in the dark only broken by a small night light, my mind kept returning to the strange bouts of arousal, and I tossed and turned for a long while. Willing myself to relax, I forced myself to breathe in and out in my often-practiced calming technique, and eventually, the tension left my body, and I drifted off.

Ever since I was small, when I infrequently dreamt, I would be lucid in the dream, fully aware that I was dreaming and could exert a measure of control over the course of the dream. The first thing I was aware of in this dream was the surprising scent of wildflowers, not too unlike those from my teenage summers at my parents’ cabin back home.

The scent was warm and inviting and my mind drifted back in time to one summer when I met a boy, Mathew. He was handsome, funny, and had caught my eye. We hung out together for several weeks that summer.

In my dream I replayed one particular evening, while we were lying in a field of wildflowers on our backs watching the stars, he leaned over and asked, ‘Can I touch you?’ I coyly assented, and he placed his hand on my stomach, then slowly slid it up under my shirt squeezed my breast, and played with my nipples. My arousal rose, my core warming and pussy slickening with strong desire.

That time with Mathew was clear in my mind, and as my sole sexual experience, I remembered the events of the night with perfect clarity. It was a blissful evening. We made out under the stars, and I let him explore my breasts, but that was as far as that wonderful night went.

The Mathew in my dream, kissed me, and I kissed him back, feeling butterflies in my stomach as his hand slid up under my shirt. Except this time it was different. His hands weren’t the tentative explorations of an inexperienced youth, but instead, felt masterful, knowing what felt good, and how to extract the most pleasure from caresses, squeezes, and playful pinching.

When the scent of wildflowers grew stronger, ‘Mathew’s’ hands drifted lower, starting to slide beneath my waistband, I jerked, hesitated, then angrily confronted him.

“Hold on, stop right there,” I said, grabbing his wrists, and halting his progress southward. “I remember this night, and this did not happen.” I rapidly started putting two and two together.

“Relax, JoJo, it’s fine. Let me do this for you, please,” Mathew pleaded.

“Ok, now you really messed up. Only my Grandma called me JoJo; my parents and Mathew called me Anna. Fess up, what are you playing at? Who are you and what do you want?” I asked, my agitation increasing.

“I only want to make you feel good. I need to make you feel good.” Mathew replied earnestly.

“That was you, in the Engineering bay, and in the kitchen, wasn’t it?” Making the logical leap.

Mathew sat back, drew his knees up to his chest, and was silent for a moment. Fireflies blinked on and off around us and the warm evening air carried the sounds of frogs croaking in the nearby pond to our ears.

He sighed and seemed to make a decision. “Yes, that was me.” He seemed to deflate, becoming less vibrantly Mathew.

“I don’t understand. What are you after?” I asked, feeling more in control of the situation as we talked. This experience was novel, and I had never heard of anyone being able to communicate through a dream before. My curiosity overrode any remaining concern, now that I felt like I was in control of the situation. “What am I after?” Not Mathew repeated my question. “I’ve already told you. I NEED to make you feel good.”

“And why is that? I find it difficult to believe that this is all for my benefit. What do you get out of it.” I pressed the matter.

He smirked and shook his head, reevaluating the situation. “Intriguing. You are remarkable, you know that? Most people in your position if they were aware it was a dream at all, would have simply enjoyed the moment with the person they secretly desired. But not you. Instead, you interrogate me, driven to understand.”

I pondered his words for a moment. “So you’ve done this before,” I stated.

“Yes, many times,” Not Mathew responded.

“Frankin, the last scientist?” I asked, curiosity getting the best of me.

Not Mathew seemed to relax, appreciating that I had decided to engage with him, instead of fleeing the dream and waking. “Yes, Franklin. It seems young Frank had a deep crush on a distant cousin, and enjoyed several trysts at family gatherings when they found quiet places by themselves. I was Becky for him for many weeks aboard this station.”

“So you’re not human?” I asked, my surprise evident.

“Why are you surprised?” Not Mathew asked. “How many humans have you heard of that joined someone’s dreams and gave them the best sex of their lives?”

There was still something he was avoiding telling me. “Again, what do you gain? This can’t be simply for my benefit.”

He leaned his head back and looked at the stars. “You’re right, of course. I do get something in exchange.” He hesitated a moment then looked into my eyes. “There is a kind of energy generated when people are in a state of heightened feelings. I feed on that energy, it is what sustains me.”

And there it was. “You’re like some sort of vampire, and you’ve been feeding on the scientists who’ve been stationed here, and now you want to feed on me.”

“Yes, but I don’t quite think you understand fully. I don’t feed on people directly. In heightened states, people broadcast and shed this energy, sending it off into the cosmos. Humans feed off this energy too.

When a close community gathers, they share it with each other, and it feeds them. Have you ever watched an enthusiastic crowd of sports fans watch their team win? They share their elation and it feeds back and forth between individuals. That’s why it’s more pleasurable to watch events together as a group than by themselves. The difference is that it is my sole source of sustenance, I require it to survive.”

I thought about what he said, and he watched me in silence. As I deliberated, I looked around and noticed that the stars and field we sat in had become fuzzy, and I could no longer hear frogs croaking in the distance.

“It looks like you are waking up.” Not Mathew said, now an amorphous humanoid shape. Then my eyes snapped open and I was lying in my bunk alone. In the distance, I heard the rattle move off deeper into the station.

I immediately jumped up and turned on the harsh fluorescent overhead light of the bunkroom, then ran through every room and compartment doing the same. Once every light was on, I went to the kitchen, made a cup of tea, and sat at the small table.

Alone in the bright quiet, my thoughts drifted to the memory of laying under the stars with the real Mathew and the innocent pleasures we shared and about Not Mathew, lurking somewhere nearby.

I spent the rest of the day busily attending my duties, trying to put my conversation with Not Mathew out of my mind. Occasionally I heard a rattle from the Engineering compartment, which I studiously ignored. After I finished target selections for tomorrow’s scans and got in some cardio, a quick meal, and a shower, I stood in the doorway of the bunkroom staring at the bed. I was tired, but wary of who or what awaited me when I shut my eyes.

“Arg!” I growled in frustration. If I am to do my research, I need to be well rested, and the presence of Not Mathew in my sleep threatened my ability to rest and be fully capable during my waking hours.

My research into the details of how this particular nebula formed was the kind of slow, plodding, additive research that was necessary and productive but didn’t make one stand out from the crowd.

Then I had an epiphany; right here in this station, seemingly locked in with me, was a completely unknown life form with strange abilities. This kind of discovery could rocket a researcher’s career to the heights. I knew what I had to do.

I spun around, marched to the kitchen, made a pot of extra-strong coffee, and quickly downed a cup. I poured another, then headed to the observatory, sat down at the main terminal, and quickly laid out the simple grid scan pattern and entered it into the system scheduler. Now the station would sample data for the rest of my stay here without supervision.

I then wrote a quick sorting and analysis program that would run in the background and take in the data the scheduled scans would produce for the duration of my post, freeing my time for the new subject of my study.

Though I was tired, I stubbornly finished my preparations for my first night of study. From the tech closet, I placed every available camera around the station, several in each room, recording everything that happened from multiple viewpoints, maximizing the amount of data I could capture. Finally, I placed a data tablet next to the bed to record everything I experienced while I slept immediately upon waking.

I was finally ready. I proceeded with my bedtime routine, brushed my teeth, and stripped down to the plain white panties and tee shirt I usually wore. Then I grabbed an extra tee shirt, rolled it up, and tied it around my head as a sleep mask to cover my eyes from the lights I had left on, then slipped into bed. I was worked up, and sleep did not come easily. I had to do several rounds of breathing exercises to ease my anxiety and finally relax. As sleep took me, I sat bolt upright in the middle of the same field of wildflowers from my previous dream, except instead of sitting under a star-lit sky, it was broad daylight, and I was alone.

“Hello, are you there?” I called out loudly. There was no response. “Mathew, can you hear me?”, I called again. I felt, more than heard, a presence at the edge of the field inside the shade of the woods. “I know you’re listening. I’d like to talk.”

A shadowy outline appeared just inside the wood. “It would be easier to talk if I could come closer.” The distant voice called back.

“I understand, but I wanted to lay out ground rules before I allow that,” I said, gambling that this entity pretending to be Mathew needed me enough to agree.

“You are truly an interesting individual. Rather than succumbing, or fleeing, you’ve chosen dialog.” He said with an apparent attitude of appreciation. “Alright, state your conditions.”

“First, I expect honesty and civility. There’s no reason we can’t both get what we desire, but we will need to be open and honest about what we are after.”

“Seems reasonable. I do not sense that you wish me harm, and I do not wish you harm, so I believe an accord can be struck.” Not Mathew responded.

“Second, our interactions must be consensual. I will force nothing upon you, and in return, you will afford me the same.” I said.

“Even when I, entertained, the previous occupants of this station, it was consensual, if only on a subconscious level. I agree.” Not Mathew replied.

“Lastly, when we interact, the station lights will remain on.” I knew that this one would be a point of contention, given the warning from Frankin now seemed paramount.

“It is difficult to,” Not Mathew paused for the briefest of moments, “communicate over such a distance. I strain even now to maintain this connection. May I suggest that you turn off all the station lights but the one in your bunkroom? This would allow me to come closer, but afford you the barrier you desire.”

A shrewd and even compromise. This being is rational and well-spoken, and it made me want to understand it even more. “An acceptable concession. The next time we talk, the only light I will leave on will be the bunkroom. Now if you don’t mind, I’d like to ask a couple of questions.”

“You will need to make it brief, I will only be able to maintain our connection from this distance for a short while longer before I will need to rest.” He said, strain beginning to show in his voice.

“You seemed to have the ability to interfere with my implant, a very complex device, but you can’t turn off the station lights?” I queried.

“Both your mind and the digital circuitry of your device are similar and I can read and influence the internal signals of both rather easily. However, the lights are controlled by the simple physical light switches inside the rooms which I can not enter. I am unable to affect them physically from afar.”

“And your mental interactions with me and the previous scientists on the station are easier in closer proximity?” I asked.

“Yes, but again, the physical interaction is impossible from a distance.” He replied.

My breath caught a moment. Physical interaction. That caress of my breast did feel more than just a memory. “Did you physically touch me? And the others as well?” I asked, already knowing the answer.

“Yes. And I dare say they enjoyed it as much as I did.” I could hear the self-satisfaction in his voice. “I think you did too, If I’m not mistaken.”

I sputtered, not able to answer, and the shock of his revelation shook me from sleep. I lay in my bed staring at the ceiling trying to process this new information, then suddenly realized I needed to record everything before the details started to fade.

I quickly rolled over and grabbed my tablet and wrote down all the details of the encounter. Once finished, I reread the words I had just written and thought about his hand caressing my breast, the memory somehow making its way past my inhibitor and affecting me more deeply than I cared to admit to myself.

My perception of time inside the dream was at odds with the station chronometer; the conversation seemed to last only a few minutes, while the chronometer said I had slept for three hours, neither of which constituted a proper night’s sleep. I checked my notes to make sure I had noted the difference between perceived and real-time, then set my tablet back on the bedside table.

Realizing I was insufficiently tired to fall back asleep, I got up and threw some gym shorts on over my white panties, then headed to the kitchen. I was about to brew myself a cup of tea, when I stopped, realizing that I would need to limit, if not eliminate my intake of stimulants if I was going to be doing most of my research in the sleeping state.

“All great discoveries require sacrifice,” I grumbled to myself, as I put the tea away. I poured a glass of water and sat at the table contemplating how to proceed. I knew that it wouldn’t be long before I was tired enough to sleep, so I decided to set the stage and try to expedite our next encounter.

Leaving the empty glass on the table, I went around to all the rooms and turned off the harsh overhead lights, save the bunkroom, as a sign of good faith. I was sure that he was still watching, even if I didn’t see or heard any sign. Then I set about to exhaust myself, by heading to the treadmill in the small exercise room. I jogged for about forty-five minutes, working up a good sweat, then headed to the bathroom to shower.

I entered the bathroom and paused with my hand on the overhead light switch. I found that after walking through the rest of the darkened rooms of the station, the meager nightlights were enough to see by. Acting more on a hunch than anything, I left the room darkened, turned the shower on, and stripped off my sweaty clothes while I waited for the water to warm up.

The warm water cascaded down my naked body, my senses focusing on the feeling of the water, with my vision muted by the near dark. I luxuriated in the sensation, resting my head on the shower wall, and relaxed. In fact, I was so relaxed, I was startled to hear the bathroom door latch click as it opened and closed.

“Hello?” I asked nervously from the shower.

“Hello, Johanna,” came a voice from the other side of the shower curtain, a close facsimile of Mathew’s, but with subtle differences.

“I thought we agreed that our interactions would be consensual and that the lights would remain on?” I reminded him, slightly irritated.

“The bunkroom light remains on, and I have not tried to influence your mind, and made it a point to alert you to my presence, even though I could have slipped into this room undetected. I took your decision to shower in the dark as an invitation. I was mistaken. I apologize. I will leave at once.” He said sincerely.

I needed to develop a strong rapport with this being if I was to fully understand him. “No, wait. You surprised me is all. Please don’t leave.”

“Of course, as you wish,” he replied, I could almost feel his smug smile. He stood between the nightlight and the shower curtain and the shadow he cast was vaguely humanoid.

“Since you are here, do you mind if we talk?” I asked as I resumed lathering up my hair.

“By all means. This was our agreement.” He said, amiably.

“Well, If we are to converse properly, I should know your name,” I said.

“I have used many names, but you may call me Mathew if you wish.” He dodged.

“We promised to be honest, remember? I find it unlikely that your name is Mathew.” I insisted.

He chuckled. “Fair enough. The name that fits me best would be Nyxorr.”

“You seem humanoid, what race are you, exactly?” I put my head under the water, rinsing the suds out.

“I seem humanoid by design, but I am not. My body is very flexible in form and I can assume a great many shapes.” Nyxorr said. “As for race, my people call themselves the Drendal, though there are few now who remember it.”

“Why is that? What happened to your people?”, I asked as I soaped up my body.

“There was a great cataclysm long ago on our homeworld, forcing us to flee. The survivors disbursed in every direction looking for a new place to call home. If one was found, I did not receive word of it.” Nyxorr replied with a hint of sadness in voice.

“So you’re alone,” I stated.

“Yes, and the only company I have had in a long time has been the few who have come to this station.” He replied.

“And how did you come to be here, and stay undetected for so long?” I asked as I scrubbed the grime and sweat of my workout off my skin.

“I found the nebula as interesting as your people do and came to investigate. This station was built ‘in situ’, and I slipped in undetected while it was being constructed. Most of the station’s sensors are easy to manipulate, making it easy to hide on board. I have been here since.”

“So you’re at least sixty years old then,” I stated casually.

“Much older, in fact,” Nyxorr replied. “We are a long-lived race, by your standards.”

“And you feed off emotions?” I asked, delving into more uncomfortable territory.

“I feed off the energy created by strong emotions, more precisely. Which brings us to the other part of our agreement.” He said with a sudden hunger in his voice.

“The other part of our agreement?” I asked nervously.

“That we both would get what we were looking for during our meetings. You are interested in me and wish to understand more fully. I wish to bring you pleasure and feed.” Nyxorr took a step towards the shower and stood just on the other side. “But I will not do so unless you consent. That was our agreement.”

I stood under the warm shower, naked, facing the consequences of the agreement we struck. I weighed my options. When Franklin, the previous scientist posted here, left the station he seemed to be in one piece, if a little sleep-deprived. And I did promise to give Nyxorr what he wanted, no, needed: to feed. But deep down, the deciding factor ended up being the memory of the gentle caress in my dream, knowing now that it was Nyxorr, who was that gentle hand.

“You’re right, Nyxorr, I did promise. You also promised that it would be pleasurable. Make me feel good, Nyxorr, I want it.”