Chapter 10: The Bargain
The sound she made—a wet, ragged inhalation—hung in the air between us. My fingers were still there, a damning truth against my own skin. The heat they’d sparked was now a slow, spreading wildfire, an autonomic response I couldn’t shut down.
Andrea didn’t speak. She just moved.
She crossed the few feet of linoleum and dropped to her knees. The hard impact echoed in the quiet kitchen. Her hands came up, not to my face, but to the leather straps digging into my hips. Her fingers were cold. They traced the edge of the harness, her thumbs pressing into the soft give of my flesh just above it.
“Andrea, don’t—”
“Please.” The word was a breath against my stomach. Her eyes, wide and shining with a terrible hunger, looked up at me. “Just once. Let me feel you inside me again. Let me pretend.”
It wasn’t a request. It was a desperate incantation. Her fingers fumbled with the buckle at my hip, the metallic click grotesquely loud. She wasn’t undoing it to remove the harness, but to adjust it, to angle the silicone upwards.
My mind screamed a thousand protests. This was a violation, a grotesque pantomime. But my body—Sabrina’s body—thrummed in response. The cool air, her close presence, the pressure of the straps—it all fed the low, persistent throb between my legs. A slickness I could feel, an internal pulse that had nothing to do with me.
She leaned forward, her face inches from the false shaft. She didn’t kiss it. She just stared, her breath hitching. Then her hands went to the waistband of her own leggings, shoving them down over her hips along with her underwear in one frantic motion. She turned, bracing her hands on the cool kitchen tiles, presenting herself to me. The familiar curve of her back, the dip of her spine—it was a sight that had once filled me with a quiet, possessive joy. Now it felt like a staged crime scene.
“Justin,” she whispered, her voice muffled against the floor.
I was paralyzed. The programming of a lifetime—her need, my need to answer it—clashed with the horrifying reality of my form. The harness felt like it was burning into my skin. The weight of my breasts pulled me forward, a constant, jiggling reminder.
My hand, acting on a ghost impulse, reached out and settled on the small of her back. The touch was electric. Her skin was so familiar, but my hand was all wrong—smaller, softer, the black-polished nails a stark contrast against her freckles. She flinched, then pushed back against my palm.
I stepped closer. The tip of the silicone nudged against her. The position was all off. I was shorter now. I had to adjust my stance, bending my knees slightly, feeling the unfamiliar strain in different muscles. My center of gravity was lower, making me feel unsteady.
I pushed forward.
It was a shallow, awkward thrust. The silicone slid in with an ease that was sickening. Andrea cried out—a sharp, pained sound that morphed into a choked sob.
For her, it was a ghost. A memory made plastic.
For me, it was a cataclysm.
With that small motion, the harness shifted. The central pad, the rough seam of the inner stitching, ground directly against the exposed, pierced nub of my clit.
A white-hot wire of sensation, pure and undiluted, shot up my spine. My knees actually buckled. A gasp was torn from my throat, a high, feminine sound of shock. My hips jerked forward involuntarily, seeking more of that devastating friction.
“Yes,” Andrea moaned, misinterpreting everything. “Like that.”
I couldn’t stop. It was a feedback loop from hell. Every small movement I made for her sake—every pathetic, shallow thrust—caused the harness to rub and press against me in a way that short-circuited all higher thought. The sensations weren’t localized; they echoed deep inside the cavity of my pelvis, a clenching, emptying pulse that was utterly foreign and overwhelmingly powerful. I felt swollen, hot, achingly empty and yet full of frantic electricity.
My free hand clawed at my own side, nails digging into the tattooed skin, trying to anchor myself. I felt the rub of the barbell through my nipple as my chest moved, a tiny, metallic counterpoint to the chaos below. The pink ends of my hair stuck to my damp neck.
I was fucking my wife with a piece of silicone, and my body was using the mechanics of it to climb towards a climax.
The absurdity was a black hole in my mind. I stared at the back of her head, at the familiar pattern of her hair, and tried to summon the ghost of my own arousal, the old, deep, centered heat. Nothing. Just this screaming, peripheral wildfire.
“I can feel you,” she lied, her voice breaking. “I can feel you, Justin.”
Her words shattered the last semblance of control. A final, desperate thrust, born of agony and a need to end this, sealed it. The harness ground hard against me.
The orgasm wasn’t a wave. It was a silent, internal detonation.
No release. Just a violent, concentric pulsing deep inside a place that shouldn’t exist, a fluttering, convulsive grip on nothing. My vision whited out at the edges. A thin, wounded sound escaped my lips. My entire body locked, then trembled violently, the large, soft masses of my breasts shaking with the aftershocks. A gush of wet heat flooded between my legs, soaking the leather pad, a humiliating testament to the body’s efficiency.
Below me, Andrea shuddered and went still, her own quiet cries fading into the tile.
I pulled away. The separation was a slick, obscene sound. I stumbled back, colliding with the kitchen counter. The cold granite hit the small of my back—Sabrina’s back—a shocking contrast to the feverish heat of my skin.
Andrea slowly collapsed onto her side, drawing her knees up. She didn’t look at me. She stared at the cabinet under the sink, her eyes empty.
I looked down. The silicone glistened, wet with her, and with the proof of my body’s betrayal. The straps were damp. My thighs were sticky.
The silence was a physical weight. The only sound was our ragged breathing, two different rhythms of ruin.
Without a word, I fumbled with the buckle, my slick fingers slipping. I finally got it open and let the harness and its appendage fall to the floor with a heavy, final thud. The air on my freshly exposed skin was a mockery of relief.
I turned and walked, naked and shaking, down the hall to our bedroom. Our bedroom. The floral wallpaper, the soft lamp she’d left on, the scent of her lavender pillow. It was a sanctuary that now felt like a museum of a dead civilization.
I didn’t put on clothes. I just stood there, in the middle of the room, looking at the bed we’d shared for a decade. The body I wore felt like a contaminated site, humming with the aftermath of a biological process it had executed perfectly, without my consent.
A long time later, she appeared in the doorway. She had pulled her clothes back on. Her face was pale and washed out.
“I’m going to sleep on the couch,” she said, her voice flat.
I didn’t answer. I just listened to her footsteps retreat, the creak of the living room sofa, and then the heavy, suffocating silence of the house.
I finally crawled into the bed. The sheets were cool. The movement made my breasts shift heavily to the side. The pierced nipples caught slightly on the cotton. I felt the residual, tender throbbing between my legs, a fading echo of the invasion.
I lay in the dark, in the body of Sabrina Mooers, and stared at the ceiling. The ghost in the machine. The software running on incompatible, treacherous hardware. And the desperate, broken user outside, trying to force a connection that no longer existed.