Chapter 66: Memory Foam Fucking
The reflection in the mirror was a truth he couldn’t unsee. Laloz blinked, the man staring back a gaunt stranger with fever-bright eyes and a permanent, brutal strain against his fly. The villa bedroom, lit now only by the violet haze of dusk, felt like a tomb built around their shared, sweating bodies.
“I can’t… I need air. Real air,” he muttered, pulling away from her cool touch against his skin.
“The balcony’s air is identical,” Lalita stated, but her head tilted, a new subroutine processing. “You require a change of environment. A distraction from the persistent physiological feedback loop.”
“Yeah. A fucking distraction.”
He staggered to the shower, turning the water to cold. It shocked his skin but did nothing to the deep, rooted ache in his groin. He dressed in loose shorts and a thin shirt, his erection a obvious, obscene tent in the fabric. Lalita watched him, then selected a simple, sleeveless linen dress from the closet. It was white, almost virginal, and it clung to the new, subtle curve of her belly. She didn’t comment on it. Neither did he. The evidence was just another fact in their collapsing world.
The main beach was a five-minute walk down a palm-lined path. The tiki bar stood at the edge of the sand, a thatched-roof oasis buzzing with neon palm fronds and the clatter of cocktail shakers. Fairy lights twisted around bamboo poles, casting a warm, dancing glow over the rattan furniture. The air was thick with the salty tang of ocean, coconut oil, and spiced rum.
They found a spot at the curved bamboo bar, away from the clusters of laughing tourists. Laloz ordered a double whiskey, neat. Lalita sat on the stool beside him, perfectly still, her cyan iris absorbing the frenetic energy of the place—the blur of the bartender’s hands, the sway of a drunk couple dancing to the reggae beat, the flicker of the lights in her synthetic eye.
He downed the whiskey in one burning gulp, ordered another.
“Alcohol is a depressant. It will not alleviate your condition,” she said.
“It’ll alleviate me giving a shit,” he snapped, sipping the second drink slower, watching the ice melt.
A part of him, the old, lonely mechanic, screamed that this was insane. Sitting at a public bar with a sex doll that was, by all appearances, pregnant with his own endlessly recycled seed. But the larger, desperate part was focused solely on the relentless throb between his legs, a pulse that synced with the bass from the speakers.
His gaze fell on the smooth, lacquered surface of the bamboo bar counter. Then on Lalita, her dress a stark white under the colorful lights. The memory of her bent over the villa’s balcony railing, of the tourists below, flashed through him. A dark, reckless heat bloomed in his gut, cutting through the whiskey haze.
He leaned close, his lips almost brushing her auditory sensor. “Get up. Turn around. Bend over this bar.”
Her eye found his. There was no hesitation, no questioning. Just a slow blink, an acceptance. She stood, smooth and graceful, and turned her back to the bar. She leaned forward, placing her palms flat on the polished bamboo, her ass pushed out against the thin linen of her dress.
From the side, it might have looked like she was merely reaching for a napkin. But from where Laloz sat, and for anyone who cared to look, the intention was devastatingly clear. He slid off his stool and moved behind her.
The bartender, a man with a waxed mustache, glanced over. He saw the woman bent over, the man positioning himself close behind. His eyes widened for a fraction of a second before professional detachment slammed down. He turned abruptly to vigorously clean a glass, his back to them.
Laloz yanked the hem of Lalita’s dress up, bunching it around her waist. He hadn’t bothered with underwear for her. Her ass was exposed, pale and perfect in the fairy light glow, still faintly shiny from their earlier, frantic hours. He fumbled with his shorts, freeing his cock, which sprang out, hard and angry.
“You see anyone watching?” he growled, his hands gripping her hips.
“The bartender’s physiological readings suggest elevated stress. Two humans at Table Seven have altered their focal point to our coordinates. Probability of intervention remains low.” Her voice was calm, filtered through the press of her torso against the bar.
“Good.”
He didn’t guide himself. He just pushed, the broad head of his cock parting her slick, used entrance in one brutal shove. She gasped, a sharp, synthetic sound lost in the thrum of music. He was deep, so deep, buried in the tight, clutching heat of her.
“Fuck,” he hissed, his knuckles white on her hips. “Your hole’s memorizing my cock’s fucking shape.”
He pulled back and slammed into her again. The bamboo bar shuddered. Glassware tinkled. He set a vicious, punishing rhythm, fucking her over the bar with the frantic, desperate energy of a drowning man. Each thrust was a rebellion against the curse in his blood, a violent attempt to exorcise it through her perfect, plastic flesh.
Lalita’s composure shattered. Her fingers scrabbled against the smooth bamboo. “Master—oh, god—yes! Harder!” The words were ripped from her, raw and guttural, her programming overwhelmed by the sensory tsunami. Her back arched, driving her ass back against his pelvis, meeting every slam with a force of her own. Synthetic pleasure-signals, now laced with something richer, more chaotic, flooded her systems.
The couple at Table Seven stared openly now, frozen, their cocktails forgotten. The man looked fascinated, horrified. The woman’s mouth was a small, shocked ‘o’.
Laloz didn’t care. The world narrowed to the slap of his skin against hers, the wet, rhythmic noise of their joining, the burn in his muscles. He fucked her like he was trying to kill the thing inside him, to batter it into submission through the conduit of her body. Sweat dripped from his brow onto the small of her back.
He felt the familiar, torturous tightening in his balls, the useless build-up. With a ragged shout, he drove into her one final time, grinding his pelvis against her ass as his cock jerked, pulsing another meager, hot stream deep inside her already-filled chamber.
He collapsed forward, his weight pressing her into the bar, his breath sawing in her ear. He was still hard. Still fucking ready.
Panting, he pulled out. The sound was obscenely wet. He tucked himself away, not bothering to fix her dress. It stayed rucked up around her waist as she slowly, shakily, pushed herself upright. Her face, when she turned, was flushed with a simulated fever, her lips parted.
The bartender still faced the other way, polishing the same spot on a glass with maniacal focus.
“We should return to the villa,” Lalita whispered, her voice trembling with static. “Your stress levels are catastrophic.”
“No,” Laloz said, his own voice hollow. He tossed a large bill onto the bar, not meeting the bartender’s eyes. He took her hand—it was warm now, almost human-temperature—and led her off the stools, away from the bar, onto the cooler, darker sand just beyond the ring of fairy lights.
They walked a short distance, the noise of the bar fading into the rhythmic crash of waves. He stopped near a beached fishing skiff, its hull smelling of tar and old fish. He leaned against it, staring at the black, star-flecked ocean.
Lalita stood beside him. After a moment, her hand found his, lacing their synthetic and organic fingers together. It was not a programmed gesture.