Shipwrecked

Fucking hyperspace.

Turns out it’s like a space road.

Because that’s science.

Or at least, if you don’t ‘pave’ the hyperspace lanes every so often, things get dangerous for ships. Bumps can happen. Minor interruptions in service in your faster-than-light drive.

Like pulling a ship entirely off-course, and into a goddamn planet.

No worries, it’s not anything big or avoidable, it’s just a planet.

At least all the water was consistent. Just like on Redoubt, this place was mostly water. A big blue ball looming out before her viewports, dotted with white fluffy clouds and chains of islands. It was definitely not home, though, however much this might resemble it. None of Director Derya Levni’s star-fixes are right. The charts were all off, and her ship was out of fuel, on fire, above an inhabited world. Of course she had to punch out.

‘Stranded but alive’ beat ‘dead in orbit’ any day of the week.

Her lifepod did its job, got her down alive. However, being in a lifeboat while it was landing was essentially riding a meteor down to the ground. Luckily, through some brilliant math and piloting a literal metaphorical brick with tiny maneuver flaps, she managed to actually hit a spit of sand rather than the depths of the ocean below.

Only to pass out from the impact, and narrowly avoid much worse injuries.

Physics lesson; it’s not the fall that hurts, it’s how suddenly you stop at the end.

Really, in space, everything was moving a million miles an hour anyhow, you just never notice it until something happens.

Point is, Derya found herself regaining consciousness while being dragged by something… no, somebody, away from the smoldering remains of her lifepod. Still strapped down to her seat, which meant even if she wanted to struggle, it was pointless. They’d removed the whole damn seat itself, carrying her off onto a sunny, tropical beach.

And bringing her before a short, exceptionally wide, absurdly, obscenely pear-shaped brown girl wearing literally nothing.

Actually, come to think of it, the brown-skinned humans to either side were also totally nude.

W-W-What was going on here?!

Where was Derya supposed to put her eyes?

There was a brief moment of panic as the two sized each other up- the widest, completely nude girl merely huffing, bending this way and that, as if trying to observe Derya from every possible angle. Derya huffed back- that was her job, damnit!- and earned herself a round of boisterous laughter from what appeared to be the tribe’s leader.

“Where are you from, girl?”

The Intergalactic House of Pancakes, clearly. “My vessel crash-landed here. I was taking the Hyperspace lane when something went wrong, and it booted me out here. I’m afraid the ship is toast, and I’m not even sure where it landed. I need your help getting back.”

Another laugh. What had she said that was so funny?

“Slow down. I don’t even know your name yet. Why don’t we find some shelter first? We can discuss our assistance there.”

Valid points, sure. No amount of careful weighing of options made “you need them to help you” not true, but if she had to visit some sort of village, at least it was populated by excessively wide, soft, pear-shaped women, who hadn’t quite got the memo on clothes.

That was fine, as red as Derya’s cheeks currently were.

“My name is Derya, Derya Levni. I am the director of ongoing research and archival work being done at Redoubt.”

“Ah, the leader of your people? Wonderful! I am Mozhdeh, the leader of this humble planet’s people. Come, come, I will tell you everything about it!”

If Justine ever heard any of this, Derya would surely taste nothing but her spunk for a whole month. Maybe she’d have to record this, in great detail, and present it to her as a gift. That would be fun.

“As you’re no doubt aware, this planet is quite far and away from major Hyperspace gateways. With a normal ship, one can reach the nearest in roughly three day’s time. Our placement here- as well as our current state- are both entirely by chance. You, too, have experienced the same as we once did.”

Derya found it mildly hard to concentrate on the story, with so much bouncing, enticing brown skin on display, but as the Director, it was her duty. Cataloging every detail. Every last one.

“We are a people of devout worship. Although we were recently gifted the means of space travel, a great many of us chose to remain here, on the planet of our upbringing. Some do it out of penance, and others, because it is the only life they know. Those few that did take to the stars carry with them our history, our holy stories, and our traditions.”

“Worship?” Derya didn’t exactly scoff- while she was a woman of data and hard evidence, she’d translated hundreds of works on the different spiritual beliefs in human history. Many were quite fascinating, and most held decent insight after stripping away the less factual elements. Which would these people belong to?

“Our origin story is simple. We are not sure when, or why, but we do know that we all originate from the same event. A prison ship, transporting criminals to remote sectors of the galaxy where the death penalty could be given, was bumped out of Hyperspace at just the right time. The ship went down on this very planet, an Eden of sorts, where we could be granted a second chance. We don’t have much else from those times, though- we lived in a quite primitive, survival-minded way, scraping by thanks to this planet’s abundant natural resources. Historically speaking, that changed recently.”

This was new. Not unlike some of the ones she’d heard before- after all, most religions did have common elements- but definitely a new, and likely unique, one. Suddenly, Derya’s misfortune didn’t seem to be so bad.

“A Kitsune vessel underwent the same, and was brought down to our planet. Their great ship was torn asunder on its way down, leaving a great scar on our land. However, the survivors elevated us, taught us about their technology, language, and ways of life, helped us to claim a much higher standard of living, and enlightened us to the ways of star-faring people. Their great ship was slowly rebuilt, small ships for them to make the trip back home, and the production facilities to create them. Fate- and our most holy goddess- brought them to us when we needed them most.”

Fascinating. And, admittedly, quite the lucky stroke for Derya. They had ships. They weren’t even using them. They had a history that none other had heard about, or at least, no other human. Just wait until the others heard about this!

“Our goddess is one of patience, of penance, and one of endurance. She oversees the karmic balance of the world, gracefully taking on a terrible burden so that the world is not spun into chaos and darkness. She suffers so that we might thrive. On the other hand, we also have what you could call a God- though we see it more as a law of the universe. All things are bound by the strings of fate, and the machinations of chance work in mysterious ways. Our Goddess, as powerful as she may be, as much as she may endure for us all, cannot break these numerous threads. She can, however, make sure they don’t lead us into ruin.”

Derya nodded. She supposed it all added up. After all, they believed themselves to come from the worst kind of criminals. Feeling like there was some cosmic debt to be repaid was probably natural.

Mozhdeh cleared the last of the verdant underbrush, revealing to Derya a small, if thriving, shining metal city. It was densely packed, and comprised out of parts one would expect to see inside of a ship, not outside, but it was at least advanced. And outdoors. Very outdoors. Very few places seemed to have actual doors leading in, rather, large textiles were draped over hallways. It looked very much like a bazaar, given the mix of functional scrap and fine goods.

And naked women. There sure were a lot of those, and the demographic averages here were massively skewed. Derya suddenly felt jealous- aroused, but jealous.

“Enough about us- we are here! The time for idle talk is over. Join me in the plaza, and we will begin our negotiations in earnest!”

For a moment, Derya considered what it was like to be nude in front of all these people.

Before quickly burying the thought deep down. Even if it was very warm and humid on this island, she wouldn’t abandon her dignity like that. While Derya could get very heated and take all sorts of measures to accomplish her goal, she did have an extremely well-developed sense of pride.

As she would later learn, this was a place where she was extremely similar to these locals, and an area where they could… connect.

“What’s involved with these ‘negotiations’?” Derya asked, trying to keep her voice calm and neutral. Even if she was still blushing from all the nude women on display, and just how thick and pillowy-soft they were.

“Well, now we’re just waiting on the priestesses, and… aha!” Mozhdeh clapped in delight, as a pair of extremely wide ladies, even by the lofty standards of this island, emerged. Both carefully carrying a gigantic green-glass pitcher. It showed evidence of glassworking and high levels of craft, maybe even machinery; something passed down from the kitsune, perhaps, who were known far and wide for their glass work, as well as what was contained within.

Sure enough, the contents didn’t disappoint. Derya at first thought the pitchers were green and black. As the light bounced off the curved, smooth surfaces and countless tiny gleaming angles that looked like cut gems, she realized the truth. That was indeed liquid sloshing around in there. Just comparing them to the priestesses struggling with their bulk, Derya figured there was at least a gallon in each, probably two, perhaps three. Of what seemed to be the darkest, strongest tea she’d ever seen in her life. Tiny bits of leaves, sugar particles, and the occasional bubble swirled around the very top of the drink, where it wasn’t quite as strongly concentrated.

In that it was possible to see just a little bit, such as the eager, gleaming eyes of those priestesses through the glass rims of their pitchers.

Okay, I’m not sure I like where this is going, but at least it doesn’t involve anything worse. I can handle, like, ritual drinks and stuff, then get their help, and be back on my way. Whew. I half-thought I was going to get eaten, or forced to convert, or something.

If it was just drinking, then Derya certainly wasn’t going to lose. Not after all the experience she had back in the Imperial universities as a student years back, and all the plentiful partying. Combined with her natural frame, she could handle her drink in every way that mattered.

All these ladies certainly looked big down there, but it had to all be for show. Useless bulk.

Yep, that wasn’t a smirk on their faces. Now that they placed the pitchers on a table afforded for them, Derya could see their expressions more clearly. They weren’t smiling menacingly, they were wavering and in serious forms of Distress. In fact, they were wobbling as they walked, explaining why they’d nearly spilled the tea, but took every effort to avoid even one drop escaping.

In cultures like this, wasting a drink was a super bad idea.

Derya barely contained a confident smile, as Mozhdeh unfolded their ritual for her to understand. “Ahem. We will go back and forth in rounds, making offers. Nice and super simple, yes, yes. Each round, we both down a full, tall glass of this lovely ceremonial tea.”

The shipwrecked scientist waited for more of an explanation, but there was none. “That’s it?”

“That’s it. So, first round. I will state my offer, then you state yours, and then we drink. Easy as, uh. Something really easy! God has told me you will take well to the ritual, so let’s see~”

Mozhdeh was right. This would be easy. “As you know, I am interested in procuring a space-faring vessel from you so that I may return home. However, as a researcher, I cannot pass up this opportunity to archive more of our collective history. I ask that you provide me with a vessel, a written collection of your history and holy stories, and the seeds of plants used in the production of your teas. In exchange, I will ensure a record of your culture and history survives in the collected works of Humanity, and extend an offer to you and your people to join us in the Archives.” Flawless, clearly. How could anyone resist that kind of an offer? Historical permanence, all for nothing more than a ship!

Mozhdeh hummed, quietly. “Mmm. I will have my people repair your ship. During which time, I will allow you to learn of our culture firsthand, by attending and participating in our religious ceremonies.”

Derya waited. What… that was it? Not even a prepared vessel, but just repairing her old one, which was likely in multiple pieces? Having to spend weeks- even months- not just learning about, but experiencing Mozhdeh’s religion?

Absolutely not.

“So… no offense, but that could take months. I appreciate the gesture, but I can’t accept that. Maybe if you threw in those records and tea seeds, I’d be more willing to wait, but even then…”

Mozhdeh simply smiled. “I suppose we must drink, then. I cannot simply give you one of our few space-ready vessels for nothing, and our sacred tea is for the most devout of our priestesses only. I cannot comply with that request.”

The two priestesses, one on either side of the table, carefully lifted the massive pitchers. Derya watched as they took great care in balancing the heavy vessels, her eyes trailing down from their pained expressions, to the colossal pitchers of dark, brooding tea, down further to the incredibly stable, wide flare of their hips.

And the immense, undeniable signs of their devout patience. There was no hiding, or denying it. Their soft whimpering, their shaking and trembling, the way they kept their thighs pressed tightly into one another, the colossal swell of their lower abdomen clearly indicated their desperate, frantic Need. A more sensible girl would take this as a bad omen, a sign to quit now- but it only made Derya more confident.

This challenge was made for her. The other girls may have been excessively and unreasonably wide, but she was a pear, too. A very willful one. Who definitely wasn’t enjoying the show of two squirming, frantic, naked girls, suffering badly for want of a restroom, pouring two tall glasses of dark, potent, mysterious tea for their leader and guest. That pouring sound must have been torture. Too bad for them- Derya wasn’t giving up. Who were these people to boss her around like this? No, she made the demands here.

Derya sipped at her tea, while Mozhdeh tilted the glass up, drinking it all down in a single go. For her, it was probably nothing- the thinnest and least exciting part of the pitcher. Derya, meanwhile, had never had something quite like this before. She could guess at similarities, but none of the leaves she’d ever had, even the blends, matched up quite perfectly to this tea. It was settled- she had to have those seeds. Derya casually polished off the rest of the glass, pushed by both pride and the heat.

The ultra-wide, very naked village leader eagerly clapped her hands again. “My turn to open! Let’s see… I’ll have my people repair your ship, and even incentivize them to work as fast as possible, and all you have to do is participate in our ceremonies, and serve as my personal tea maiden, oh, just once a cycle! If you serve me well, I’ll even give you a copy of our religious texts, to study!”

Moz, the deals were supposed to get better, not worse. While there was technically more to be earned here, the cost went way up. That just wouldn’t do.

“Hmmm… Counter-offer. You promise me a ship, and I’ll personally oversee efforts to reclaim useful parts of my ships for a maximum of one week’s time. Furthermore, I’ll attend, and even participate in, some of those ceremonies, up to and including serving as your “tea maiden” for a day, in exchange for at least three viable seeds. I’m even willing to return with a small expedition for a cultural exchange, after I’ve returned home.”

Moz swayed side to side, and had it not been for the width of her hips, she would have undoubtedly fallen right out of her chair. She hummed some unknowable tune, processing what she’d just heard.

Was that good, or..?

“I told you, miss Director! No one gets those seeds unless they’ve proven themselves to me, my priestesses, and our Goddess! If you really want one of our ships, we can dismantle yours for useful components- with you as overseer, of course. You’ll still have plenty of time to join in our rituals and rites, since no one will work during those, too! Maaaaybe I could part with a written record of our history, if you do well.”

They were getting nowhere, fast. Derya shook her head “no”, and Mozhdeh snapped her fingers. Her dutiful servants wobbled forward, taking great care not to spill a single drop of that sacred tea. Once more, the tall glasses were filled to the brim, the large amount of tea still somehow barely putting a dent in the pitchers. The desperate girls still had to take great care not to spill the tea, even with how badly they quivered with Need.

Derya hadn’t needed to ask what Moz meant by “tea maiden”. Two examples- fairly distracting ones, at that- stood right before her, enduring as quietly as they could bear. Derya hid her expression behind her glass of tea, but her mind was made up. If anyone was going to be anyone’s “tea maiden”, it was going to be Moz.

Even though two glasses was all it took to bring about a familiar nagging sensation. A slight tremble- a warning of what was to come. After just two rounds, she could feel that very same Need beginning to rise up. It would take a few more before it was even remotely a problem, of course, but it was still early. Too early. No tea had ever managed to act this quickly before.

Derya would have those seeds.

With every passing round, Mozhdeh’s demands were increasingly unreasonable, and Derya’s indignation rose higher. Every round, the tea they drank was darker, and more potent. The girls fell into a routine- one would propose something, the other would propose something almost completely opposite to that, and they would drink. They barely even bothered negotiating anymore.

There was just one key difference. As the volume of tea in the pitchers shrank, even at its glacial pace, as the number of rounds increased, Derya began to feel the pressure. It hadn’t truly kicked in until the sixth round, but the ever-darkening tea ensured things would get worse, quickly. By the ninth, she could no longer sit perfectly still. She took the tenth glass with dignity, but the eleventh was difficult, and now she was staring down the twelfth, thighs pressed tight, chair groaning under her constant shifting about.

Moz was no worse for wear. She remained perfectly still, smiling brightly, just as she had when they first started. Derya finished the next glass with a shiver, glancing over at the pitcher.

It was still more than half full, darker than midnight, and impossible to comprehend. Where it had bubbled earlier, it now fumed, angry and potent and cruel.The priestesses were still suffering all the same, but could at least now freely squirm and dance, on the verge of tears as they were, without so much worry of spilling the tea.

“So… where were we? Oh, yes! We’ll repair your ship, but in exchange, you’ll join me personally in my religious duties, as a tea maiden, and learn our culture and religion first-hand! While my people work on your ship, you’ll serve me as a priestess. Naturally, as I said before, I’ll instruct my workers to avoid constructing any unnecessary restrooms on your ship, and we’ll have a nice, big festival to send you off in a month or two. Since you love our tea so much, we’ll give you plenty of it, and if you impress me enough, I miiiight just hide a couple of our seeds on your ship somewhere, so that fate can guide you to them if you’re worthy.”

This was absurd. Moz was insane if she thought Derya would ever agree to such ludicrous terms. She could endure a lot more than t-this.

“Only if you name me the queen of this world.”

Moz’s smile froze on her face. “What a silly joke, Director. Hahaha, it’s delightful that you can still make jokes, considering the position that you’re now in.” She held out her hands wide, gesturing to the priestesses, who were on the verge of what Derya would call ‘total failure’, and they knew it. They quivered, such impressive bodies turned inwards as they clenched and squirmed. “These priestesses have grown up their entire life being trained in God’s work, by God’s tea, and yet this is approaching their limit. Yet you’re doing so much better than them!”

She only said that because she wasn’t privy to the contents of Derya’s head. Or the feelings that the bottomheavy, black-haired researcher was feeling. Luckily, chairs in this place were constructed specifically to handle swaying and squirming, being excellently balanced and reinforced to handle extra-large, extra-thick girls, in extreme agony. With the clothes Derya had on, there wouldn’t be any obvious visual indications, either; her labcoat alone covered her enough that her own distended abdomen didn’t show at all.

Yet, Derya couldn’t help feeling that remark was a sign that Moz suspected some things. It was time to dispel her silly notions. “Why should I bother offering serious terms, if you’re just going to repeat yourself over, and over? Isn’t the point of haggling to meet somewhere in the middle, hm?”

“My, my.” Derya hadn’t restrained a snarling note of aggression in her tone, but Moz brushed it all away with airy speech and friendly smiles that never wavered, even for one moment. “You seem agitated, have I said something to cause offense? Surely not, for the terms I am offering you are already far too generous. As you can tell, my people gave up the stars willingly, and although we can go there if needed, it distracts from our inward, spiritual focus. I’m afraid this is the lowest I can part with a ship and the work to make it ready, as well as your other demands. It cannot be helped.”

Which meant, of course, they would drink again.

This was becoming a public spectacle. Every round brought a few new people out from the thatched and wooden huts all around. None of them had even one shred of clothing, or one shred of reason in their bodies. The smallest girls were almost Derya’s width, and she would be considered average, at best, among this population of absurd islanders.

That was just for size, though. For capacity, Derya wasn’t doing… t-t-too, too bad… Maybe.

She certainly held out longer than some of these foolish locals. The priestesses ran away inside a Certain very small building, after finally, finally gaining permission from Moz. The buzzing of the crowd, the excitement and amusement evident on the tribespeople, showed that every one of them understood what was happening. They were barely restraining their laughter at the ‘weakness’ of those girls, in a certain way. They had seen them hobble away, in a manner that Derya was even more resolved to never emulate, ever.

Worse, Derya saw what they did as they left, perhaps on Moz’s instruction, or perhaps on their own twisted initiative, eager for the outsider to suffer along with them, to be broken by pain and agony in service to their God. Each produced a tiny white pill, and tossed it into the pitchers beforehand. It dissolved instantly, made no noise, and would have been easy to miss. It didn’t visibly affect the tea in any way.

However, what could those effects be? Derya ached. She throbbed with Need already. Given their incredible, potent tea, what else did these people have in store for her?

She wouldn’t lose, though. Never. And she’d never admit to a Need like those weak girls had. Not to Moz, sitting there twirling her snow-white hair like she didn’t have a single care in the world, like she didn’t need to Go just as badly. Nnngh.

Derya’s principles would not allow her to back down, not now. Nor would her duties as the Director allow this tribe, no matter how absurdist and backwards they might be, to escape from the all-seeing, all-knowing lens of the Archive. As sorely tempted as she was to fill in the blanks with educated guesses, that simply wouldn’t be proper behavior for someone in her station.

Just as those priestesses earlier had endured to the last possible micro-instant.

Perturbed, annoyed, and more than a little under pressure, Derya finally came right out, addressing Moz directly. “What, exactly, would it cost me, to get what I ask for? I have pried and pried, but the answer eludes me. How much do I have to give to obtain a ship, a history, and a seed?”

Moz didn’t hesitate, even for a second.

“More lifetimes than either of us have.”

There was a small pause, to let that sink in, before Moz continued. “You’re free to keep asking for the impossible, of course. Everyone has a limit. Even my highest priestesses must eventually, despite their every effort, give into the strings of fate. You have surpassed my every expectation, admittedly, but you are no goddess. In fact, I can already see the signs of your weakness, try as you might to hide them.”

Nnngh.

“Now, drink, and remember. Your position here doesn’t really mean anything. All that matters is that you need a ship, and that I set the price of that ship. Honestly, you should be thankful! For someone of your stature to be so blessed is quite the miracle, maybe even greater than our Goddess delivering you here, bending fate into fortune!”

Nothing Mozhdeh said sounded that threatening, but then, she didn’t need to break her sunshine facade to convey her real meaning. The message was just as effective either way. Derya, as calmly as she could muster given her current state, lifted the next glass of tea, and began to drink.

Moz waited. She watched as Derya drank, paused, drank again, fighting her way through the glass. She waited for the smaller girl to be nearly done before lifting her own glass up.

She didn’t set it down until it was empty, just as she had done with the first. Whatever hope Derya must have had by now, whatever part of her still believed Moz could lose, had to have been crushed utterly in that instant. It would take legendary defiance and willpower to believe anything else. Moz had a lifetime of experience with this tea, with this culture, with this very ceremony. This tiny newcomer had never once done such things.

And still, she sat there, fighting the inevitable urge, determined to get the impossible, and refusing to budge an inch.

Moz set the glass down, and laughed. Goddess, the attitude on this little fluffball.

“It’s… a mistake to count out the vast resources of the Archive, you know. But, if you’re dead set on assuming we have nothing to offer, then I suppose I can try a different approach. I’ll let you keep your precious few ships, as long as you repair mine. For my time here, I will study you and your culture. Then, after returning home, I will return with an entire expedition. In exchange for your participation, I shall grant you four space-faring vessels of a similar class to my own, and further advancements to your production capabilities. See? I can be reasonable. I’m not even asking for those seeds you hold so dear.”

Moz pondered, in her usual side-to-side way. “Well… If you want to study our culture so bad, that’s one thing… Maybe if you do that, you’ll be able to come up with an offer that makes sense? We don’t need more ships. We don’t need your technology. We don’t need your expedition. But, since you’re trying so hard to see things our way, how about this? Become one of my priestesses. Study our culture from the inside. Once you’ve attained a basic understanding of us and our religion, I will allow you to direct workers to fix your vessel. If you really work at it, I’m sure you can even become a High Priestess, and if you decide to take a  couple seeds and leave at that point, I suppose there wouldn’t be a whole lot we could do about that. Not that you wouldn’t have paid for them by that time, anyway. I imagine if you worked really hard, you could attain that in… oh, a year or two?”

Unreasonable. Did Moz really expect Derya to stay for such a long time, without so much as a return trip to the Archives? Worse yet, as her priestess? Absolutely not. Derya wasn’t about to accept a deal that was clearly and undeniably worse than even the first offer made.

E-even though that meant drinking again.

It was okay. She could endure it. It wasn’t… that bad, yet. Not yet. She could still come out on top. Probably.

The Director was a keenly intelligent young woman, but she was also human. Under the strain of her massive need, the aching pain throughout her lower body, thinking clearly was impossible. She could focus, with great effort, but the bigger picture was slowly, steadily slipping away, just as certain other things would begin to slip with even one second of relaxation .She had to be tense, had to keep struggling. In her struggle, she didn’t notice what was going on, the ‘trick’ of these negotiations.

So she just kept digging. “T-There’s just no way. If I didn’t take your earlier offers, why would I accept this insult, huh?”

It was hard to sound all that impressive or intimidating against a foe so clearly superior, so clearly unaffected by the vast amount of drinking so far. Maybe Moz had limits. The researcher in Derya wanted to see those limits, as did her vindictive side, but there was also a small, scared part of her that wondered if Moz was even human at all. And if so, if she had limits. Ever. She’d seen more shocking and weird things across the length of this wild galaxy.

No. It was just her nerves acting up. Moz would fold, like anyone would. They just had to drink more and more ,dive deeper into this pool of despair, this waterfall of, uh. Water.

Luckily, refusing Moz’s terms meant both of them had to take yet another round of tea. The more they drank, the closer they came to the dregs. The last fourth or so of the tea, and especially as even more was removed, would cause those gorgeous tea leaves to settle and concentrate. The mixture wasn’t bubbling aggressively anymore, but instead, totally still, a black, solid mass clumping together more and more. Actually, the remarkable tea was compressing into itself, and the water level receded ever so slightly as it grew more dense in reaction to having more air in the pitcher.

Not only that, but of course, the pitchers were wider at the bottom, like literally everything on this mad island.

Derya couldn’t lie to herself anymore. She could still sustain lying to Moz, for a while. Some time. A bit. However, inside her own head, Derya had to admit. While she was still confident her opponent would break, she also knew her own limits, more or less. The bad thing about being so good at calculating was that she could find answers a situation, and know exactly how rough things were going to be. Something like Capacity wasn’t any exact science, but.

She just knew that she wouldn’t be able to sustain this pace forever. Entropy, the world, the human body… nothing went on forever. N-Not even this tea-

“Hmm, we’re getting a liiiitle low.” Moz addressed the eager gathering of bare, nude ladies. “Ahem. Could some of our friends please retrieve the second set? It seems that she still wishes to negotiate with me more and more.”

Derya watched a pair of young ladies enter the big building, following them out of the corner of her eye even though her vision was starting to blur. Either she was tearing up, or her head was just too full of certain impulses to see straight. “Just to clarify, the ‘second set’ is…?”

“The second set of pitchers, of course! Nyahaha!” Moz clapped overhead. “So divine. Now that we’ve gone through the practice tea, we can bring in a sample of what you’ll be enjoying for the next year or so. The main event, so to speak!”

No. No way.

She had to be lying, just trying to intimidate Derya into submission.

There couldn’t be a fate worse than the one Derya was in right at that moment, full to bursting, staring down a fresh pitcher.

There just couldn’t.

Derya couldn’t bear to conceal her true feelings any longer, especially not confronted with the “real” pitchers. She quivered, crossing her thick thighs as tightly as she could. The severe, agonizing bulge of her lower abdomen could be seen even through her clothes, now, at the same scale as the long-suffering priestesses had been earlier.

And they had been much larger overall, to compensate.

Worse yet, one look at the tea was more than enough indication that Moz had not been lying. This stuff, unlike the tea before, was as black as the leaves at the bottom of the first, steeped in countless cycles and undoubtedly self-compressed to the point of absurdity. The mere thought of what the bottom might be like only caused a wave of agony. Tears welled in Derya’s eyes- she had limits. Everyone did. And hers were fast approaching.

“Please, grant me a ship.”

A long pause followed, while Derya squirmed, helpless against Moz’s stoic, silent smile. “Oh, wait, that’s it? Nothing about our history, or our religion, or our seeds? I don’t think I heard an offer anywhere in there, either.”

Derya bit down on her lip. “I-I will… oversee the reclamation of my ship, and…”

“No.” Moz giggled. “If you want a ship, become one of my Priestesses.”

“Nn...nnnghh…”

“Then we drink.”

Round after round passed. The crowd openly bet on how many more the small, pale foreigner could endure. The level of tea in the pitcher seemed almost infinite, draining by imperceptible amounts with every glass. Derya lost count of how many she had. How many times she pleaded for a ship.

Eventually, she started pleading for mercy. Screw the seeds, screw the history, screw the ship. She needed one thing above all else. A ship would be nice, but Moz was absolutely unreasonable. Even her simple pleas for relief went denied, and in their place, lengthy descriptions of torments Derya could barely comprehend.

And yet, still, she persevered. Even when her world was nothing but the agonizing Need, she pressed on. The level of tea in the pitcher dipped, lower and lower, and her suffering visibly increased with every round. Moz hardly blinked.

Hours passed. Derya twisted and turned, and every iteration grew worse and worse. Only willpower, defiance, and spite held her together, now. She deliriously alternated between begging openly for even the tiniest shred of mercy, and making offers that were flatly absurd and insulting, throwing anything and everything she could at Moz, all while her bladder filled.

And filled.

And filled.

More than a hundred rounds had passed, and the second set of pitchers had finally dipped below the halfway mark. More than a hundred times, Derya had made a case for what she wanted. More than a hundred times, she’d been told no.

“Please, Mozhdeh. I beg of you. Allow me to… r-relieve… myself, and make use of one of your ships. I’ll brin-”

Derya wasn’t even allowed to finish, before Mozhdeh cut her off. “I told you already. No.”

“Nnnghhn… p-please…”

“Begging won’t help you. Now, let’s see… As for my offer, hmmm… I know! I’ll repair that ship of yours. I’ll only assign a small work detail to it, though, and you’ll be on it too. Of course, I won’t be fitting it with anything even resembling a restroom, either. Until the job is done, you will also serve me as both a priestess, and my personal tea maiden. If at any time I decide you haven’t studied our culture and religion well enough, or you fail to meet my expectations as my tea maiden, I will cancel the work detail on your ship until I am satisfied. Once the ship is complete, we will have a grand festival for you- I’ve described that enough times, haven’t I?”

Derya’s wavering, her whimpering and squirming, the shameless agony of her visible need was a clear enough answer.

“Looks like you understand. Oh, and instead of just giving you a copy of our written history, I think I’ll make you work as a scribe and copy the entire thing yourself, if you want it that badly.”

There was a pause, as Derya fought the inevitable.

“A-all I ask… is that… you please, please, please let me go.”

“Absolutely not. Though, hmm… I suppose I can let you start as a high priestess, since you’ve already technically proven yourself capable, if you’d like. Maybe I’ll even increase the size of the work detail. Since you’ve impressed me so very much! And think, you even get to work with the seeds you wanted so badly! That’s a really good deal, you know!”

“Nn… hnnghn…”

“So, even with how generous I’m being, you’d rather drink?”

“Nngh! No! No, please, no, anything but that! Fuck! I-I accept! I-I’ll be your… priestess, a-and your t-t-tea maiden, so… please, Goddess, anyone, please let me pee!”

Moz swayed, in the same way she had when first considering Derya’s requests. “Hmmm… No. You said it earlier, didn’t you? That you could hold it? That you wouldn’t give in, no matter what?”

Derya had said a lot of things. At the moment, she could scarcely remember them. Or think, at all. She was so far beyond her limits that it was bordering on physical impossibility, but still, her willpower held. Barely. She was bursting. No, she had been bursting hours ago. As she was now, the burning agony in her abdomen was visible at nearly every angle, especially given her frantic dancing. She was suffering, intolerably, all for want of a restroom.

Even then, she had no choice but to endure. To hold it. To suffer through.

Moz would see to it she suffered plenty more, as her newest High Priestess.

(fin?)