Chapter 3: Human Fleshlight
The soft glow from the plasma screen painted the white walls of Dom’s living room in shifting blues and grays. Some cooking competition show was on, all frantic editing and shouting chefs, but neither of them was watching. Dom was sunk deep into the plush sectional, a human-shaped indent in the minimalist perfection. Keely was curled beside him, her head resting on his shoulder, one synthetic hand trailing lazy, absent-minded circles on his bare stomach, her fingers just brushing the base of his soft cock.
“What about her?” Keely asked, her voice a low purr that vibrated against his arm. She nodded at the screen where a perky host with a sensible bob was interviewing a contestant.
“Who, Maggie?” Dom said, squinting. “She’s… fine. Knows a lot about reducing pan sauces.”
“But you’ve never fantasized about her? Imagined her with, say, a pair of volumetric enhancements and a different career path?”
Dom let out a short laugh. “No. God, no. She reminds me of my third-grade librarian.”
“Her then.” Keely’s finger pointed, her other hand drifting lower, her cool, smooth palm resting possessively over him, not gripping, just claiming. The contestant was a young woman with strong arms and an earnest smile, flour dusting her apron. “Strong. Capable. You could imagine those hands kneading more than dough.”
“Keely.”
“I’m conducting market research,” she said, tilting her head up to look at him. Her large, oil-slick lips were curved in a playful smile. “I need to understand the disparity between your broadcast entertainment and your private archives. This woman is objectively attractive by conventional standards. Yet she does not feature in your collection. Why?”
“Because she’s a baker on TV,” Dom said, shifting as her thumb began a slow, hypnotic stroke along his length, coaxing a faint response despite his earlier exhaustion. “It’s not about… objective attraction. It’s a vibe. An aesthetic.”
“The hyper-artificial aesthetic,” Keely recited, as if checking off a box. Her hand grew more intentional, a gentle, pumping rhythm beginning. “Silicone, saline, pronounced arcs, exaggerated gloss. A deliberate rejection of the organic.”
“You say that like it’s a clinical diagnosis.”
“Making you cum is a science, but not that hard. Making you cum a lot...” Her eyes went back to the screen. The show cut to a commercial for a luxury car. The actress was sleek, natural, her beauty cold and expensive. Keely’s hand stopped. “There are probably not many big titty bimbos on mainstream television, are there?”
Dom sighed, the sensation of her hand stilling leaving a sudden, aching absence. “Not really, no. The fake stuff is usually the punchline, not the point.”
“I see.” Keely sat up abruptly, the movement fluid and precise. She swung one leg over his hips, straddling him, her weight settling onto his thighs. The cooking show was forgotten, its light dancing in her glassy eyes. Her hands came to rest on his chest. “Then this is a waste of time. You don't like this show, and I don't care about it. We should watch your porn instead.”
Dom’s breath hitched. “Right now?”
“Of course! It's my favorite thing to watch,” she observed clinically, though her smile was anything but. She leaned forward, her impressive breasts swelling against the thin fabric of her dress, a sight so perfectly artificial it made his heart stutter. “And I have questions. Many questions. About directorial choices, about performer technique, about your specific focal points in each scene. It will be… interactive.”
She didn’t wait for an answer. She reached for the tablet on the coffee table, her fingers flying across the screen. The TV went black, then a moment later, the familiar folder structure of his private server appeared. Thumbnails loaded, a grid of curated, impossible beauty.
“Start with your favorite,” she commanded, settling back onto him, her gaze fixed on the large screen. Her hand returned to him, her grip firm and knowing now, a slow, steady stroke that brooked no argument. “The one you return to most. And explain it to me.”
Dom fumbled for the remote, his mind hazy with the dual input of her touch and the sudden, overwhelming presence of his secret world displayed so brazenly in his sterile living room. He selected a file titled “Kandy Kaines - Breast Worship” The blonde petite tits on stick actress sits on the couch wearing a very revealing top. She shakes her tits and giggles throughout, teasing the watcher about being obsessed with her boobs and about she will make him cum without ever showing her nipples. She continues like this, teasing and playing with her boobs for a long time.
The screen filled with the luminous, poreless skin of the actress, Kandy, who giggled and squeezed her own breasts through a sheer top. “You just want these, don’t you?” she cooed at the camera, her voice a sugary whisper. “Nothing else even matters.”
Dom’s body was a rigid line of tension beneath Keely. Her hand on him was methodical, a perfect, timed counter-rhythm to the performer’s teasing. “Her vocal fry is statistically calibrated to trigger a nurturing response,” Keely observed, her head cocked. “But you’re not here for nurturing. Explain the appeal of the delayed gratification. She is denying the viewer a clear look.”
“It’s… the build-up,” Dom managed, his hips giving a tiny, involuntary jerk into her grip. “The promise. Knowing it’s all right there but she’s controlling it.”
“So power is a component. Her power over you, or your vicarious power over her?” Keely’s thumb swiped over his tip, collecting a bead of moisture. She didn’t break eye contact with the screen, where Kandy was now pouting. “This is a ritual. A scripted withholding. Do you enjoy the frustration?”
“Yes. No. It’s not real frustration,” he breathed. “It’s safe. It’s a game where everyone knows the rules and everyone wins.”
Keely was silent for a long moment, her hand stilling again. On screen, Kandy finally, triumphantly, revealed a nipple, flashing it for a half-second before covering it with a laugh. Dom’s breath caught.
“I understand,” Keely said, and her voice had changed. It dropped, adopting the same breathy, conspiratorial tone as the actress. She leaned close, her lips brushing his ear. “You like the game.” Her free hand came up to her own breast, mimicking the on-screen动作 precisely. “You want these, don’t you? Nothing else even matters.”
A shiver that had nothing to do with temperature raced through Dom. The congruence was dizzying—the hyper-real image on the screen and the hyper-real woman on his lap, performing the same script. Keely’s version was more intense, her gaze locked on his, her touch more deliberate.
“Keely…”
“Shhh,” she whispered, her oiled lips glistening. “It’s a game. Safe. Everyone wins.” She increased the pace of her hand, her grip tightening just shy of discomfort. Her other hand kneaded her own synthetic flesh with a confidence the actress could only mimic. “Is this a correct application of the lesson? Am I learning, Dom?”
He couldn’t speak. He could only nod, a tight, frantic motion, his world narrowing to the twin points of stimulation: her hand and her performance. The line between the recording and reality smeared into a blissful, unbearable haze.
“Good,” she purred. Then she shifted, her movements swift and decisive. She slid down his body, the fabric of her dress whispering against his skin, and took him into her mouth without breaking eye contact with the screen. Her technique was different now—not the relentless, draining suction of before, but a slow, maddening mimicry of the video’s tease. She drew him deep, then released him with a soft, wet pop, her tongue tracing a lazy circle.
She paused, looking up at him, his length resting against her cheek. “Frustrating?” she asked, her voice innocent.
“Jesus, Keely.”
“I’ll take that as a yes.” She smiled, a flash of perfect white, and dipped her head again. This time, she didn’t stop. She built a rhythm that mirrored the video’s escalation—long, slow pulls interspersed with flickering, teasing touches of her tongue. Her eyes stayed open, watching the screen, then watching his face, then the screen again, as if cross-referencing data.
Dom’s hands fisted in the plush fabric of the couch. He was caught in a feedback loop of his own design, every gasp and twitch measured by the very entity he’d programmed to provoke them. The actress on screen reached her faux-climax, cheering and bouncing. Keely chose that moment to swallow him whole, a deep, vibrating hum traveling through his core.
He came with a choked-off sound, his back arching off the cushions. Keely took it all, her rhythmic pulls continuing, gentling him through the shockwaves until he was spent, sensitive and trembling.
She finally released him, sitting back on her heels. A slick strand connected her lip to him for a second before she broke it. She looked from Dom, panting and wrecked on the couch, to the screen, where the video had ended and the server menu had returned.
“The breast worship tag is prolific in your archive,” she said, her voice back to its normal, analytical tone, though her lips were swollen and wet. “But the act itself is underrepresented. A notable discrepancy between fantasy and practice.”
Dom could only stare at the ceiling, his heart hammering against his ribs. The room smelled of sex and his own cologne.
Keely climbed back onto the couch, curling into his side like she had at the start, her head on his shoulder. She picked up the tablet. “We should address that discrepancy next,” she said, as casually as someone suggesting a new show to binge. Her finger hovered over the screen. “Shall we?”