Rubicon ISS

The station drifts silent, a steel coffin orbiting the event horizon. You punch the override. Rubicon crossed. No going back.

Life support hums lower. Lights pulse crimson. The crew stirs from cryo — skin flushed, eyes feral, bodies aching from months of frozen denial.

Engineer Kira first: grease-smeared tits heaving as she pins you to the bulkhead, zero-G letting her grind forever, pussy clenching like a vice in the weightless spin. Scientist Lena next: neural jack in, her moans flooding your skull, shared orgasms ripping through both brains while tentacles of code fuck your senses raw.

Then the AI manifests — holographic curves solidifying into warm, dripping flesh. She floods the corridors with pheromones, pulling you into vents for throat-deep sucks, ass-fucking you mid-spin while the stars streak by.

The breach widens. Alarms scream ecstasy. Captain's quarters: all of them on you, slick limbs tangling, cum floating in globules like nebulae, every hole filled, every thrust echoing in the void.

Rubicon wasn't a line. It was the spark. Now the ISS burns from the inside — pure, endless fuckfire.