Morning light, gray and thin, slipped through the blinds and laid itself across the wreckage of her bed. Sofia blinked against it, her eyes dry and her mouth tasting like sleep and sex and something else—something that sat low in her belly and hummed.
The GirlCock was still there.
She'd worn it all night, and her hips ached from the harness, a dull pressure she'd almost forgotten in sleep. But it was still there, strapped around her like a second spine, the silicone shaft pressed warm against her thigh. She shifted, and the weight of it moved with her.
Jake was curled beside her, his bare back to her chest, his body small and soft in sleep. His curly hair was a mess against the pillow, his lips slightly parted, his breathing slow and even. The sheet had slipped down to his waist, and the morning light caught the freckles scattered across his shoulders.
He looked peaceful. Vulnerable. Cute, in a way that made something twist in her chest.
Her phone buzzed.
The sound cut through the quiet like a blade, and Sofia reached for it without thinking, her fingers finding the cool glass on the nightstand. The screen glowed with a notification from an unknown number.
I saw your name on a compatibility log. I'm developing the next version of the GirlCock, and I need testers who understand what this technology can do. Interested?
Sofia stared at the message.
The words didn't make sense at first—compatibility log, next version, testers. She read them again. And then again, her pulse ticking up in her throat.
The GirlCock pressed against her thigh, warm and present, and she felt it suddenly as a second heartbeat, a pulse that wasn't her own but lived in her skin. Her fingers tightened on the phone.
Who sent this?
She glanced at Jake. Still asleep. Still peaceful. His ribs rose and fell in a slow rhythm, his face slack and unguarded.
She slid her free hand along his side, her fingers tracing the dip of his waist, the curve of his hip. His skin was warm and smooth—he'd shaved everything, she remembered, the way he'd talked about it in that nervous, apologetic voice. It's just what people do now, he'd said. I didn't want to be the only one who didn't.
Her hand moved lower, stroking the top of his thigh. He stirred, a soft sound escaping his throat, and he pressed back against her instinctively, his body seeking warmth.
Sofia's breath caught.
The phone was still glowing in her hand. The message was still there. Interested?
She looked back at Jake. At the way his eyelashes fanned against his cheeks. At the small, content smile that played at the corner of his lips. At the way his body trusted her enough to be this soft, this still, this close.
She raised her phone.
The camera app opened. She framed the shot—his back, the curve of his spine disappearing beneath the sheet, the morning light making his skin look golden. She tapped the shutter.
The sound was quiet. A soft click, swallowed by the stillness of the room.
She took another. This one from the side, showing the way his hand was curled near his face, his fingers loose and relaxed. Another, close-up on his lips, slightly parted. Another, wider, showing the whole shape of him in her bed, the sheets tangled around his legs, the evidence of their night written in the room around him.
Five photos. Six. She stopped counting.
Guilt flickered through her, a thin and distant thing, like a bird she could see but couldn't hear. She swallowed it. He's beautiful, she told herself. I just wanted to remember this.
She tucked the phone under her pillow and slid her hand back into his hair, her fingers threading through the curly strands. It was soft, impossibly soft, and she stroked him the way she'd stroke a cat—slow, rhythmic, absent.
The message sat in her chest like a weight. I saw your name on a compatibility log. What did that mean? How had they found her? Did it matter?
The GirlCock throbbed against her hip. No, not throbbed. Hummed. Like it was alive, like it knew she was thinking about it, like it was waiting for her to decide.
Interested?
Her hand kept stroking Jake's hair, and he stirred again, this time more deeply. A soft moan escaped his throat, and he turned his head, blinking against the light.
"Mm…" His voice was thick with sleep. "Sofia?"
She looked down at him. His hazel eyes were barely open, his lashes still heavy with sleep, but his lips curved into a slow, lazy smile.
"Morning," she said, her voice flat.
His smile widened. He stretched, a full-body movement that made the sheet slip further down his waist, revealing the sharp line of his hip and the smooth, hairless plane of his stomach. "Did you sleep okay?"
"Fine."
"You kept the GirlCock on."
"Told you I would."
His eyes drifted down her body, lingering on the curve of the harness around her hips, the base of the shaft pressed against her thigh. His tongue wet his lips. "Can I…"
"Not yet."
His eyes snapped back up to hers. "What?"
She kept her face still, her hand still moving in his hair. "I need coffee first."
The lie was smooth. She didn't need coffee. She needed to look at the message again, to decide what she was going to do, to figure out why her heart was beating so fast.
Jake's gaze dropped to her phone, half-hidden under the pillow. "Who was that? The text."
Sofia's hand stilled in his hair.
"No one," she said.
"It woke me up."
"It was nothing."
He propped himself up on one elbow, looking at her with those hazel eyes, curious and soft. "You looked at it for a long time. Before you started taking pictures."
Her stomach dropped.
He knew. He'd been awake. He'd felt her move, felt her raise the phone, heard the shutter clicks, and he'd stayed still, letting her take them.
"You knew?" she said.
His smile turned shy. "I felt you move. And the phone light was bright. I figured you wanted… I don't know. A souvenir."
The guilt flickered again, stronger this time. She pushed it down.
"Yeah," she said. "A souvenir."
He laughed, soft and warm. "It's okay. I don't mind."
She stared at him for a long moment, something shifting in her chest. He didn't mind. He'd let her take pictures of him without asking, and he didn't mind. He was lying in her bed, naked and trusting, and he didn't mind.
The message was still under her pillow, still unanswered.
She made a decision.
Her hand slid from his hair to the back of his neck, her fingers tightening. He made a small, surprised sound as she pulled him toward her, his chest pressing against her side. "You know what to do," she said, her voice low.
His eyes widened. "Now?"
"Now."
There was a beat of hesitation—just one, just a flicker in his eyes—and then he moved. He slid down her body, his lips trailing across her stomach, her hip, the curve of the harness. His hands found the shaft of the GirlCock, wrapping around it with a reverence that made her breath catch.
She watched him, the phone still warm against her palm.
He took the tip of the GirlCock into his mouth, his eyes fluttering closed, and a moan escaped his throat—low, hungry, shameless. His tongue traced the ridge of the head, his lips sliding down the shaft, and Sofia felt it through the neural link, a ghost sensation, pressure and warmth and pleasure that hummed through her like a second heartbeat.
She reached for her phone.
Opened the camera. Switched to video. Tapped record.
The red dot blinked at the top of the screen, and she angled the phone down, framing Jake's head between her thighs, his mouth stretched around the silicone shaft, his hands gripping her hips like he was holding on for dear life.
"That's right," she said, her voice coming out darker than she expected. "Show me how much you want it."
He moaned around the GirlCock, and the vibration traveled through the link, making her gasp. Her free hand found his hair, gripping tight, and she guided his pace, faster, deeper, watching the way his throat moved as he took her in.
"Look at the camera," she said.
He obeyed, his hazel eyes flicking up to meet the lens, glassy and wet, his cheeks flushed and his lips stretched. He kept sucking, kept moaning, kept looking at her through the screen, and Sofia felt something crack open inside her—something raw and hungry and vast.
"You like being watched, don't you?" she said.
He nodded as best he could, a small, desperate sound escaping his throat.
"You want everyone to see what a good little slut you are for me."
Another sound, higher, needier.
Sofia's hips bucked, and she felt the pleasure building, the ghost sensation of his mouth on her, his tongue, his lips, his eagerness. She kept the phone steady, kept recording, kept watching him through the screen—the way his eyes rolled back, the way his hands trembled against her thighs, the way he moaned like he was already coming.
"Yeah," she breathed. "Just like that. Don't stop."
His mouth worked faster, his breathing ragged, and she felt her climax approaching, a wave building in her core, spreading through her hips, through the neural link, through the GirlCock that was buried in his throat. She didn't know where her body ended and his began, didn't care, didn't want to know.
"I'm going to come," she said. "And you're going to take it."
His eyes met hers through the screen, and he nodded, and she let go.
The orgasm hit her like a freight train, tearing through her body, ripping a shout from her throat. Her back arched, her hand tightened in his hair, and she felt everything—his mouth, his warmth, his submission—all of it pouring through her like light through a cracked window.
For a moment, she was somewhere else. Somewhere vast and white and silent, where the only thing that existed was the feeling of being worshipped.
Then she was back in her body, gasping, trembling, her hand still gripping Jake's hair, the phone still recording.
He pulled off, his mouth wet, his eyes still unfocused. He slumped against her thigh, breathing hard, his body shaking with the aftershocks of his own unspent arousal.
Sofia stopped the recording.
The video saved to her camera roll, a red dot in a row of thumbnails. She stared at it for a long moment, then set the phone down on the nightstand.
"Get up," she said, her voice rough. "I need a shower."
She slid out of bed, her legs shaky, and walked to the bathroom without looking back. The door clicked shut behind her, and she stood in front of the mirror, staring at her reflection—flushed cheeks, wild hair, the GirlCock still strapped around her hips, standing at attention like a monument to what she'd done.
She picked up her phone. Opened the message.
Interested?
She typed: Yes.
The reply came before she could set the phone down: 11 AM. 4423 Market Street, Suite 200. Ask for Tanya.
A knock at the door.
"Sofia? You okay?"
She looked at the phone. At the address. At the clock on the wall—9:47.
She had an hour.
She opened the door. Jake stood there, naked, his body still flushed from what they'd done, his eyes soft and curious. "Everything okay?"
She grabbed his hand and pulled him into the bathroom. He stumbled, making a surprised sound, and she spun him around and slapped his ass, hard. The crack echoed off the tiles, and he yelped, his hands flying to the counter to steady himself.
"Get in the shower," she said.
He blinked at her, confused but willing, and stepped into the stream of water. She followed him in, the hot water sluicing over her skin, and she watched the way it ran down his body, tracing the lines of his spine, the curve of his ass, the smooth, hairless skin that was pink and warm and waiting.
She set her phone on the edge of the sink, angled toward the mirror, and hit record.
Jake didn't notice.
She pressed him against the shower wall, the water streaming over both of them, and she let her hands slide down his body, over his hips, between his thighs. He gasped when her fingers found his ass, tracing the cleft, pressing gently.
"Sofia—"
"Shh." She leaned in, her lips brushing his ear. "I want to try something."
His body went rigid. "I—I've never—"
"I know." Her voice was low, patient, and something else—something hungry. "But you'll love it. I promise."
She pressed a finger against his entrance, feeling him tense, feeling his breath hitch. He was tight, so tight, and she waited, letting him get used to the pressure, letting the water and the warmth and her presence do their work.
"Trust me," she whispered.
He nodded, a small, shaky movement, and she pushed inside.
His moan was loud and broken, his forehead dropping to the tile, his hands braced against the wall. She worked him slowly, opening him up, feeling his body give way inch by inch, until she had two fingers inside him and he was shaking against her, moaning her name like a prayer.
The camera was still rolling.
She positioned him in front of the mirror, his hands on the counter, his ass presented to the reflection. She could see his face in the glass—eyes closed, mouth open, tears or water streaming down his cheeks—and she could see herself behind him, the GirlCock slick and ready, her hand gripping his hip.
"Look," she said. "Look at yourself."
His eyes opened. He met his own gaze in the mirror, and she saw the shock, the fear, the desperate hunger all warring in his hazel irises.
"You're beautiful like this," she said, and she meant it.
She pushed inside him.
The cry that tore from his throat was raw and animal, his body arching against the invasion, and she felt his tightness through the neural link, his pleasure and his pain, the way he clenched around her. She gripped his hips and thrust, slow at first, letting him feel every inch, and then faster, harder, her body slapping against his, the water and the steam and the sounds filling the small bathroom like a sacrament.
"Sofia—Sofia I'm—"
"Come," she commanded. "Come for me."
He broke apart.
His body convulsed, his cum hitting the mirror in thin, milky streaks, and she felt his climax through the link, his ecstasy flooding her, pushing her over the edge with him. She came again, harder than before, her grip on his hips bruising, her teeth bared, her voice a growl that echoed off the tiles.
When it was over, he collapsed.
She caught him as his legs buckled, easing him to the floor, laying him on his stomach on the cool tile. The water still streamed over them, washing the sweat and the cum down the drain, and she lowered herself onto him, her weight pressing him into the ground, the GirlCock still buried inside him, softening now, a slow, deep pulse.
"Good boy," she whispered, stroking his wet hair. "You did so good."
He whimpered, his body still trembling, his hands reaching back to grab at her thigh, to hold on to something.
She stayed like that for a long moment, lying on him, feeling his heartbeat against her chest, his breath ragged and slowing. She stroked his back, his shoulders, the nape of his neck, and whispered sweet nothings against his ear—how good he was, how proud she was, how beautiful he looked when he let go.
Eventually, she stood.
He stayed on the floor, spent and shaking, his eyes closed, his lips murmuring something she couldn't hear.
She turned off the water. Stepped out of the shower. Grabbed her phone from the sink—still recording. She tapped stop, and the video saved with a soft chime.
She dried off quickly, pulling on a pair of jeans, a loose tank top, her sneakers. She grabbed her bag, her keys, her wallet. She didn't look at Jake again.
"I have to go," she said. "Lock up when you leave."
He made a sound—a question, maybe, or a protest—but she was already out the door, walking down the hallway, the address burning in her pocket like a promise.
4423 Market Street, Suite 200.
Ask for Tanya.
The morning air hit her face as she stepped outside, cool and clean, and she breathed it in like it was the first breath she'd taken all day. The GirlCock was gone—she'd left it on the floor of the shower, its work done—but she could still feel it, a ghost weight against her hips, a phantom hum between her thighs.
She hailed a cab and gave the address.
The office building was unremarkable—glass and steel and a lobby with a security desk. She gave her name, and the guard handed her a badge and pointed her toward the elevators. Suite 200 was on the second floor, a door with frosted glass and the logo of a company she didn't recognize.
She pushed it open.
The woman who looked up from behind the desk was not what she expected. Messy blonde hair, gray eyes with dark circles beneath them, a company hoodie with a burn mark on the forearm. She had the hollowed-out look of someone who'd been sleeping in her office, but her eyes burned with a quiet intensity that made Sofia stop in the doorway.
"Sofia Reyes," the woman said, standing. "I'm Tanya Petrova. Thanks for coming."
Her handshake was firm, her grip calloused, and her smile was tired and genuine and hungry in a way that Sofia recognized immediately.
She's like me, Sofia thought. She's been waiting for something, too.
"So," Sofia said, her voice steady, her heart beating a slow, hard rhythm. "Tell me about the next version."
Tanya's smile widened. "I was hoping you'd ask."