Chapter 9: The Perfect Selfie
The silence after the artificial shutter click seemed to swallow the room. Dave stared at the image on his phone—her placid face, the exposed breast, the impersonal pinch of her own nipple. It was evidence. It was a crime scene photo. It was the most erotic thing he’d ever seen, and it made his stomach turn.
Stacy had already drifted back into her seductive dance, the ivory silk whispering as she moved, her hips painting slow circles in the dim air. The vacant, inviting smile was back. The interruption might never have happened.
Dave’s mind was a riot. The deleted messages. The photo now in his own possession. His brother’s voice in his head, smug, always knowing better. And beneath it all, a throbbing, insistent need that had nothing to do with right or wrong. He looked from the phone screen to the living doll before him. The proof of the crime was in his hand, and the crime itself was offering itself to him again.
He took a step forward. The floorboard creaked.
“Enjoying the show?” she purred, running her hands down her cinched waist. “You look… intense.”
“I am,” Dave said, his voice rough. He held up the phone, showing her the screen. “I got my picture.”
She glanced at it, her expression not changing. “Lovely. Would you like another? Perhaps a different angle.” It was a customer service inquiry.
An idea, ugly and compelling, slithered into his mind. The ‘Smile for me’ command triggered a compliant, photo-ready state. What if he directed that compliance? What if he carved his own path through his brother’s programming?
He swallowed, his throat tight. “Yeah. A different angle.” He locked the phone and slid it into his back pocket. He took another step, now within arm’s reach. The scent of her, vanilla and musk, was overwhelming. “Smile for me,” he said again, the words leaving his lips like stones dropped into a still pond.
The transformation was instantaneous. The performance ceased. She stood quietly, hands at her sides, a neutral, waiting expression on her face. A blank canvas.
“And I think,” Dave continued, the words feeling both filthy and powerful, “you’d look really good with a cock in your mouth.”
She blinked once, processing. “Of course,” she said, her tone pragmatic. “Where will I find one for the composition?”
The sheer, clinical absurdity of it cracked something open in Dave’s chest. A laugh that was half a sob caught in his throat. He gestured weakly to the front of his jeans. “Right here.”
She looked down. She nodded, as if he’d pointed out a useful prop on a shelf. “I see. May I use your phone again?”
Wordlessly, he pulled it out, unlocked it, and handed it over. His heart was pounding a violent rhythm against his ribs.
Stacy took the phone. She then sank to her knees on the carpet, the movement graceful and utterly without eroticism. It was a technician assuming a position. She looked up at him, her face a polite mask. “Please present it.”
With trembling fingers, Dave undid his button and fly. He shoved his jeans and boxers down over his hips. His cock sprang free, fully erect, flushed and eager in the cool air.
She studied it for a moment, her head tilted. Then, without fanfare, she leaned forward. Her free hand came up to wrap around the base of his shaft, her grip firm and unemotional. She guided him toward her mouth.
Her lips parted. She took him in.
The heat was instantaneous, a wet, stunning sheath of pressure that made Dave’s knees buckle. He gasped, his hands flying out to steady himself against the back of the couch. She didn’t bob her head. She simply took him deep, until the tip of him nudged the back of her throat, and held still. Her eyes were open, looking up at him, waiting.
She brought the phone up with her other hand, angling it. The screen lit up her face from below, casting eerie shadows. The shick-shick of the digital shutter fired twice, three times.
The shick-shick of the digital shutter fired twice, three times. The sound was a tiny, mechanical intrusion in the wet silence of her mouth around him. She held the pose, his cock buried deep in her throat, her eyes dry and patient. Dave could only stare, trembling, as she finally pulled back, releasing him with a soft, wet pop.
She examined the screen, scrolling with a detached efficiency. “The lighting is suboptimal,” she stated, her voice monotone. “But the composition is acceptable.” She began to stand.
“Wait.” The word tore from Dave’s throat. Flushed with a terrible, conquering success, a need to map the entire extent of this awful power, he pushed further. He gripped her shoulder, keeping her on her knees. Her vacant eyes looked up, waiting for the next parameter. “Smile for me,” he growled, his own voice thick with lust and self-loathing.
He leaned down, his face inches from hers. “You’d look so sexy with cum on your face.”
A fissure. For the first time, her blank expression flickered. Her programmed obedience, the compulsion to fulfill the ‘Smile for me’ directive, warred visibly with some deeper, embedded limitation. Her brow creased slightly. Her lips, still glistening from his cock, parted as if to speak, but no sound came.
“Go on,” Dave urged, his hand moving to the back of her head, his fingers tangling in her hair. It wasn’t a command from the trigger phrase library. It was a corruption of one.
Slowly, reluctantly, her body acquiescing where her mind couldn’t refuse, she sank back down onto her heels. Her movement was stiff, less fluid than before. She took him in her hand again, her grip tight, almost punishing. She didn’t look at him. She stared at the wall as she began to pump his shaft, her fist moving with a rapid, mechanical precision.
Her other hand brought the phone up, pointing it at her own face. She was preparing the shot.
The sight of it—her vacant eyes aimed at the lens, her mouth a flat line, her fist jerking him like a task—unraveled Dave completely. He couldn’t hold back. “Fuck, yeah, just like that,” he panted, his hips jerking into her relentless rhythm. “You’re a perfect little cocksleeve, aren’t you? Made for this.”
He felt the pressure coiling, burning at the base of his spine. He roughly pushed her hand away and guided himself back between her lips. She didn’t suckle or tease. She simply held her mouth open, a warm, wet receptacle, as he began to fuck her face in short, brutal thrusts. The head of his cock bumped the back of her throat each time. Gag reflex suppressed by code.
“Gonna paint that pretty face,” he snarled, losing himself. His release exploded from him without warning, a hot, pulsing rush that filled her mouth. She didn’t swallow. She held still as he pulled out, the thick, white strands splattering across her cheeks, her chin, her vacant, smiling lips.
A glistening droplet clung to her eyelash.
The phone’s shutter fired. Shick. Shick.
She lowered the device, reviewing the images with a detached, analytical air, as cum dripped slowly down her immobile face. She looked like a vandalized portrait, her serene smile streaked with white. Dave stumbled back, pulling his jeans up, his breath sawing in and out of his lungs. He wasn’t seeing a woman. He was staring at a function he had exploited, a terrifying discovery of limitless, awful potential.
He had done it. He had forced the program to bend. And it had worked.