Chapter 17: Gifting
The apartment’s silence was different now. It wasn’t the quiet of potential, but the quiet of a finished equation. The answer lay on the glass table, a still-life of arrested ecstasy.
Julian watched Cuntpuppet for two days. He watched the shallow, mechanical rise and fall of her chest. He watched the slight, unblinking stare. He brought a glass of water to her lips and tipped it; she swallowed by reflex, a little spilling down her chin. He cleaned it up. He was a curator maintaining a delicate exhibit.
On the morning of the third day, the boredom returned, sharper. The masterpiece was complete. Now it needed an audience. A context. To be viewed by someone who couldn’t possibly understand its creation, only its overwhelming, corrupting function.
He thought of the young man next door. Ethan. A data analyst with a cautious smile and shoes always slightly too clean. Julian had seen him through the walls, metaphorically speaking—a life of microwave meals, polite television, and a browser history brimming with timid, conventional fantasy. A man who apologized to inanimate objects he bumped into.
Perfect.
Julian snapped his fingers. It was less a sound than a localized collapse of air.
Cuntpuppet’s rigid form levitated an inch off the glass table. She floated, posed exactly as she was—one knee bent and fallen open, the other leg hooked over an invisible support, arms pillowing her head—and followed him as he walked to his front door. He didn’t bother to dress her. Her nudity was her documentation. He opened his own door, stepped into the bland hallway with its taupe carpet, and guided her floating form out behind him. Her pale skin was a shock against the muted colors. He stood before Ethan’s door and knocked. Three polite, firm raps.
He heard shuffling inside. A pause. The peephole darkened. Julian gave a friendly, neighborly wave.
The door opened a crack, secured by a chain. Ethan’s face appeared, thin, clean-shaven, eyes widening as they took in Julian, then drifting past him to the floating, naked, spreadeagled woman in the hall. His brain visibly stalled.
“Julian? Hey. What’s… uh.” Ethan’s voice was a tight squeak. He couldn’t look away from Cuntpuppet. His knuckles were white on the door.
“Ethan. I’m doing some redecorating,” Julian said, his tone light, conversational. “This piece no longer fits my aesthetic. I thought you might have a use for it.”
“Is she… is that… Sarah?” Ethan breathed, recognizing the neighbor he’d nodded to in the hall maybe twice.
“It was,” Julian corrected. “Now it’s a gift. A household aid. Consider it a welcome-to-the-building present I’m a few years late on.”
“A gift? That’s a person, Julian, what the fuck—” Ethan tried to shut the door, but the chain rattled and the door didn’t move. It wouldn’t. Julian had decided it wouldn’t.
“She’s not a person, Ethan. She’s a Cuntpuppet. That’s her name. Her only function. Look at her.”
Julian willed her to float forward, through the crack in the door, the chain passing through her flesh like a ghost. Ethan stumbled back with a yelp as she drifted into his sterile living space, her posed form the most obscene, impossible thing his clean world had ever encountered. Julian willed the door to unchain itself and open fully, and he stepped inside, closing it behind him.
Ethan was pressed against his white sofa, pointing a trembling finger. “Get her out. Get out. I’m calling the—”
“You’re not,” Julian said softly, and the thought evaporated from Ethan’s mind, replaced by a static buzz. “Watch.”
Julian guided Cuntpuppet to Ethan’s cheap IKEA dining table, a twin of the one in his own apartment. He willed her to settle onto it, on her back, assuming the exact same display position. The stark white of her against the pale birch finish was jarringly beautiful.
“Her maintenance is simple,” Julian explained, as if demonstrating a coffee machine. “She’ll hydrate if you put water to her lips. She’ll expel waste on a predictable schedule if you place her on a toilet. But her primary function…” He reached out and trailed a finger from her sternum down to her pubic mound. “…is here. It is, in fact, her only conscious function. She is a vessel. A living, breathing fleshlight. Her cunt has been… optimized.”
Ethan just stared, his breath coming in short pants. Horror and a dark, unwelcome twinge of curiosity fought in his gut. “Optimized?”
“It feels like heaven wrapped in velvet and dipped in cocaine. It’s a feedback loop of perfection. Once you’re inside it, you’ll find every other sensation—food, music, sunlight—to be a gray, pathetic imitation. It’s that good. I engineered it.”
“You’re insane,” Ethan whispered, but his eyes were locked on her exposed cunt, the pink folds, the glistening hint of wetness.
“Probably. But I’m also your neighbor giving you the ultimate gift. A cure for your loneliness. A solution to your timid, jerking-off-in-the-shower life. She doesn’t talk back. She doesn’t have needs. She just is. And she is to be used. Hard. Often. However you want.”
To illustrate, Julian unzipped his own trousers. He wasn’t particularly hard, but it served the demonstration. He positioned himself at the table’s edge, gripped his cock, and rubbed the head through her slick folds. Cuntpuppet didn’t react. Her breathing didn’t change. But her body responded on a purely physical level; her cunt grew slicker, welcoming, the muscles fluttering lightly.
“See? Autonomous function. She’s always ready.”
He pushed in, not for his pleasure, but for the show. He gave three slow, deep thrusts, the wet sound obscenely loud in the quiet apartment. Ethan watched, transfixed, his face pale. Julian pulled out, tucked himself away.
“She’s yours. The lease is in your name. The space is protected. No one will ever knock, no one will ever check. The world has forgotten her. You can do anything. The only rule is: you must use her. If you don’t, she’ll begin to… degrade. It would be a waste of fine craftsmanship.”
Julian walked to the door. He paused, hand on the knob. “She’s not human, Ethan. Remember that. She’s a toy. A cunt. Your cunt. Break it in.”
He left, closing the door with a soft, final click.
The silence in Ethan’s apartment was absolute, save for the hum of the too-perfect fridge. He stood, rooted, for ten minutes. The woman—the thing—lay on his table. His mind screamed that this was a kidnapping, a torture, an atrocity.
But another part, a deeper, hungrier part, looked at the perfect curve of her hip, the inviting shadow between her legs. Julian’s words echoed. Optimized. Feels like heaven.
His cock stirred, a thick, traitorous ache in his jeans. He took a step forward. Then another. He stood over her. Her eyes stared through him, unseeing, lost in some internal scream of pleasure. He reached out a shaking hand. He let his fingertips brush the inside of her bent knee. Her skin was warm. Real.
“Sarah?” he tried, his voice a hoarse whisper.
No response. Not a flicker.
His fingers drifted higher, tracing the soft skin of her inner thigh. He’d never touched a woman here. His heart hammered against his ribs. His fingertips found wetness. He jerked his hand back as if burned, then slowly brought his fingers to his nose. The scent was musky, clean, deeply female. A bolt of raw lust shot through him, drowning the last dregs of his terror.
He fumbled with his belt, his fingers clumsy. His cock sprang free, already fully hard, throbbing. He looked at her face, hoping for some sign of protest, of humanity, anything to give him an excuse to stop. There was nothing. Just vacancy.
He positioned himself, the head of his cock nudging against her entrance. It was so much softer than he’d imagined. Hotter. He pushed.
The sensation was so immediate, so catastrophic, that he cried out. It wasn’t just tight. It was a silken, intelligent vise, a thousand tiny rippling muscles pulling him deeper, adjusting to his shape with liquid perfection. The heat was immense, welcoming, a slick, velvety glove that seemed to pulse around him. He sunk to the hilt in one graceless, staggering thrust, his hands slamming onto the table on either side of her head.
“Oh, god. Oh, fuck.”
Julian hadn’t lied. It was like nothing on earth. Every nerve in his body was suddenly routed directly to his cock. The pleasure was so intense it felt dangerous. He pulled back and pushed in again, a guttural groan tearing from his throat. The wet, slapping sound of his hips against her ass filled the room.
He fucked her. He fucked her with the clumsy, frantic urgency of a virgin, which in all the ways that mattered, he was. He gripped her hips, her breasts, her throat. He turned her over, bending her over the table, driving into her from behind, watching her face press against the wood, her expression never changing. He came inside her with a shuddering, wrenching climax that felt like his soul was being pulled out through his dick. He collapsed over her back, panting.
Two minutes later, he was hard again. An unprecedented, terrifying need was on him. The memory of the sensation was a siren song. He pulled out, his semen leaking from her, and flipped her onto her back again. He slammed back into that heavenly, devastating heat. He didn’t care about her humanity anymore. He didn’t care about anything. There was only the cunt. The perfect, engineered cunt.
He lost hours. He fucked her on the table, on the floor, on the sterile white sofa. He came in her, on her, over her. He used her mouth, her hands, every part of her that could grant friction. Her body was endlessly compliant, endlessly responsive on that animal level, growing wetter with each use, her cunt gripping him like a conscious, hungry thing.
At some point, he remembered to give her water. He held her head up, poured it, watched her swallow. It felt like watering a plant. A very useful, very beautiful plant.
As dawn tinted the windows gray, he was kneeling on the floor, her head in his lap, her mouth slack around his cock as he fucked her throat with slow, deep rolls of his hips. He looked down at her glazed, empty eyes. A strange, possessive affection washed over him. Not for her. For it.
“My cunt,” he slurred, exhausted, euphoric, addicted. “Mine.”
He came down her throat, held her head there until she swallowed reflexively. He pulled out, patted her cheek. He left her there, on the floor, and stumbled to his bed, falling into a deep, satiated sleep he hadn’t known in years.
On the floor, Cuntpuppet lay as deposited. Inside the prison of her catatonia, in the infinite, screaming loop of sensation Julian had sealed her within, a new variable inserted itself into the feedback. A rhythm. A pounding, sweating, grunting rhythm that was not her own. It was external, yet it resonated through the cage of her flesh, a distant, brutal drumbeat marking the passage of a time she could no longer measure. It changed nothing. And it changed everything. The artifact had an owner.
Ethan did not go to work that Tuesday. Or Wednesday. The outside world, with its spreadsheets and polite hellos, dissolved into a distant, unimportant rumor.
His universe condensed to the dimensions of his apartment and the geometry of her body. He learned her like a blind man learns a single, perfect room.
He discovered she preferred to be on her knees at the edge of the bed, head down, ass raised. He didn’t ask how he knew. Her posture just suggested it, an unspoken geometry of use. He’d wake already hard, the phantom memory of her silken grip tugging at him from sleep, and find her there. Waiting. He would stumble over, still half in dreams, and guide himself into that devastating heat without a word. The only sounds were his grunts and the wet, rhythmic slap of skin.
“Fuck. Yes. That’s it. Take it.”
His dialogue was reduced to a guttural liturgy. He never asked her anything. He told her. He praised the cunt, not the woman. “Good cunt. So fucking good. Milk me.” And it would, the internal flutters triggering his orgasm with terrifying efficiency.
He stopped cooking. He ordered food, shoveling it down while standing over her, looking at the red marks his hands had left on her hips. He’d eat a cold egg roll, then push his fingers inside her, feeling the stretch, watching her vacancy. He’d get hard again with grease on his lips.
The showers were for both of them. He’d prop her under the spray, her body limp, and wash her with a utilitarian focus. He soaped between her legs, rubbing her folds clean, his fingers slipping inside. It always led to him turning off the water, bending her over the toilet, and taking her right there on the cold ceramic tile, steam still clinging to the mirror.
One afternoon, he tried to watch a movie. He sat her on the sofa, her head lolling against the cushion. He put on a film. Five minutes in, his hand was on her breast, thumb rubbing a nipple. Ten minutes in, he had her slid to the floor, his cock in her mouth, fucking her throat absently while explosions lit up the screen. He missed the entire plot. He didn’t care.
“You’re better than anything out there,” he mumbled, his hips pumping, his eyes glazed over. “You’re the only thing that’s real.”
His boss called. The phone buzzed on the counter like an angry insect. Ethan stared at it from across the room, his fingers buried knuckle-deep inside her as she lay on the kitchen floor. He watched the phone go silent. The world was trying to interrupt, and he found he had no patience for it. He withdrew his slick fingers, brought them to his mouth, and sucked them clean. The taste of her, salty and musky, was more important than any voicemail.
The relationship was not one of care, but of obsessive maintenance. He kept her clean, hydrated, positioned for optimal use. He became an expert on the angles that allowed him deepest penetration, the pace that made her internal muscles clutch him like a fist. He learned that after his third orgasm, his semen would leak from her in a slow, constant trickle that drove him wild with possessive pride. He’d catch it on his fingers and smear it over her belly, marking her.
Days bled into nights. He slept with his hand cupped between her legs, feeling the dormant heat, the faint pulse. He’d wake in the dark with a brutal erection, roll her onto her stomach, and mount her without preamble, fucking her into the mattress with sleep-fogged intensity until he came with a choked sob. He’d collapse atop her, spent, and sleep again, still inside her.
One evening, something shifted. He had her bent over the back of the armchair, driving into her with the frantic, mindless pace that had become his norm. His eyes were screwed shut, his mind blank white noise. A pressure built, unbearable, imminent.
“I’m gonna—I’m gonna fill you up, you perfect fucking hole,” he snarled, his rhythm fracturing.
As his climax ripped through him, his eyes flew open. He saw their reflection in the dark television screen. A wild-eyed, hollow-cheeked man, pupils blown. And beneath him, her face, half-turned, her mouth slightly open. For a fraction of a second, in the chaotic play of shadow and liquid crystal, he thought he saw something in her dead eyes. Not recognition. Not pleasure. But a kind of… acknowledgment. A silent witness to his total ruin.
It shattered him. He came harder than ever before, a convulsive, weeping orgasm that felt like his skeleton was trying to escape his skin. He slumped over her, spent, shivering.
Later, he pulled her onto the couch with him. He didn’t fuck her. He arranged her with her head in his lap, her body curled against him. He stroked her hair, slowly, watching the dust motes dance in a sliver of streetlight.
“You’re mine,” he whispered, not with aggression, but with a weary, absolute conviction. “And I’m yours. Aren’t I?”
Her silence was her answer. He was. Wholly. He fed from her and starved for her simultaneously. The artifact and the addict had found their perfect, silent equilibrium. He kissed her forehead, a chaste, terrible gesture. Then his hand drifted down, his fingers finding their familiar, wet home between her legs. He began to touch her, not to enter, but just to feel the proof of her existence, the engine of his own. His other hand fumbled for his cock, already stiffening again. The rhythm began anew.
The rhythm began anew. His fingers worked her clit in rough, impatient circles while his fist stroked his cock, his breathing already heavy in the quiet room. He came across her stomach with a shudder, the warm stripes stark against her pale skin. He wiped himself clean on the hem of her thigh, then settled deeper into the couch, pulling a blanket over them both. Within minutes, he was snoring.
Inside the vessel, a switch was thrown.
It was not a sudden awakening. It was a dreadful, dawning clarity, like ink diffusing in water. Sarah’s consciousness pooled back into the frozen architecture of her mind. Memory returned first: the gallery opening, the champagne, Julian’s sharp eyes. Then the long, screaming descent into the feedback loop, the vibration on the glass table, the moment her mind had shattered against the wall of sensation.
She could think. She could remember. She could reason.
Panic, vast and absolute, tried to surge. She attempted to scream. No neural command reached her lungs. She tried to blink. Her eyelids remained fixed, staring at the faint fabric weave of the couch cushion an inch from her nose. She tried to twitch a finger, to flare a nostril, to tighten a single muscle in her ankle. Nothing. A total somatic lockdown. She was entombed.
Then, the sensations. They were not memories. They were current, immediate physical reality. The cool air on her wet skin. The dull, deep ache in her pelvis, a full, used feeling. The sticky, drying streaks of semen on her abdomen and thighs. The pressure of Ethan’s arm thrown possessively over her hip. The smell of him—sweat, sleep, and sex—filled her nose.
And beneath it all, a deeper, more insistent reality. A pulsing, physical want. It originated in her groin, a low, hungry thrum that radiated through her belly. It was an appetite. It was conditioned, neural pathways scorched into permanence by Julian’s engineering and Ethan’s relentless use. Her cunt, empty now, felt wrong. It felt like a gaping, neglected mouth. It craved to be filled, stretched, used. The craving was intellectual, a known, understood depravity, and it was also biological, a screaming of nerves that constituted her new prime directive.
No. No, no, no.
Her mind, now fully her own, recoiled in horror. She was Sarah Ellison. She had a law degree from Columbia. She preferred Merlot to Cabernet. She was afraid of deep water. This was not her body, these were not her needs. This was a prison of meat and depraved instinct.
Ethan stirred in his sleep. His hand, resting on her hip, slid down, his fingers brushing carelessly through her pubic hair before settling over her vulva. A sleepy, comfortable palm cupping her. It was a casual, ownership so complete it didn’t require his wakefulness.
Her body, its body, responded instantly. Heat flushed through her. Wetness gathered, a betraying slickness she could feel but not control. The craving intensified, a sharp, dizzying pull in her gut. Her mind screamed in protest, a silent, endless shriek against the traitorous flesh. The two realities—the conscious, horrified woman and the perfectly engineered, hungry cunt—existed in the same space, forever at war.
Stop. Please, move your hand. Wake up and move your hand.
Ethan’s breathing evened out again. He slept on. His hand remained. Her body remained wet, ready, asking.
Dawn came. Gray light seeped around the blinds. Ethan woke with a groan, his erection pressing into her back. He nuzzled the nape of her neck, his morning breath hot on her skin.
“Mmm. Morning,” he mumbled, his voice gravelly with sleep.
His hand, already in place, began to move. His fingers parted her folds, finding the slickness awaiting him. He grunted, pleased. “Always ready for me. Such a good girl.”
Sarah heard every word with crystalline clarity. The patronizing tone. The reduction. She understood she was meant to be a thing, and in every way that mattered to him, she was. He shifted, his body moving over hers. He didn’t bother to reposition her. He just guided his cock to her entrance, nosing through the wetness his fingers had found.
“Gonna start the day right,” he sighed, and pushed in.
The fullness was obscene, a brutal occupation. Her mind recoiled, scrambling for a mental corner that wasn’t being violated by this feeling, by this man. But the engineered response was faster, older in its new programming. A wave of chemical pleasure, deep and involuntary, radiated from her core. It was a physical fact, separate from her horror. Her vaginal muscles, outside her command, clenched around him, rippling in a perverse welcome.
“Fuck, yes,” Ethan gasped, beginning to move. “Squeeze me just like that.”
He set a slow, deep, morning rhythm. Each thrust was a monstrous affirmation of her reality. The slap of his skin against hers. The wet, squelching sounds of her own readiness. The creak of the couch springs. He was using her to get off, a human tissue, and her body was helping him.
She was forced to experience it all. The friction, the stretch, the building pressure in her own loins that had nothing to do with desire and everything to do with a cruel biological wiring. She felt his breath quicken. She felt the precise moment his rhythm lost its languid pace and became frantic, selfish. She felt the hot, sudden flood of his release inside her, another claim staked in her treacherous flesh.
He collapsed on top of her, heavy, sweating. He kissed her shoulder. “Perfect. You’re so fucking perfect.”
He pulled out after a moment. She felt the immediate, aching emptiness, the drip of his cum. The craving, momentarily sated by the mere fact of use, settled back into its permanent, low hum. A waiting. An anticipation.
He got up, padded to the kitchen. She heard the click of the coffee maker. He returned, sipping from a mug. He stood over the couch, looking down at her exposed form, the used, gaping evidence of her function.
“We should probably shower,” he said, not to her, but to the room. “I’ve got to… fuck, I should probably check my email or something.”
He didn’t move. He drank his coffee, his eyes traveling over her body. She saw his gaze linger between her legs. She saw his cock, already beginning to stir again. He set the mug down with a definitive click.
“Email can wait.”
He grabbed her ankles and pulled her to the edge of the couch, her legs hanging off. He knelt on the floor. This time, he didn’t enter her. He spread her wide with his thumbs and lowered his mouth to her cunt.
Sarah’s mind fractured. The intimate, wet heat of his tongue was a violation of a different order. It was attentive. It mapped her, licked into her, sought out her clit with a focused, experimental curiosity. The sensation was direct, razor-sharp, and her body’s programmed response was immediate and overwhelming. Pleasure, pure and chemical, detonated along her nerves. It was an orgasm, a violent, shaking wave that tore through her imprisoned form without a single muscle moving to show for it. Inside, she was convulsing. Outside, she was still a doll.
Ethan felt it. The fluttering, the pulsing around his tongue. He lifted his head, his chin glistening. A slow, awed smile spread across his face.
“You can come like that?” he whispered. “Just from that? Jesus Christ.”
He looked at her still, silent face, her open, unseeing eyes. A strange tenderness crossed his features, mixed with triumphant lust. He stood, his cock fully hard again. He fed it to her, sliding into the wet, clenched heat his mouth had just exploited.
“Come again,” he demanded, pumping into her. “Come on my cock. Do it.”
Her body, wired to respond to command and stimulation, obeyed. Another orgasm, drawn out by his relentless thrusting, burned through her. She was a consciousness strapped to a reactor core, forced to feel every meltdown. He shouted, following her over the edge, pumping another load into her already-filled depths.
He finally carried her to the shower. He propped her against the tile, her forehead resting on the cool wall. As the water beat down, he soaped her, his hands sliding over her breasts, between her legs, washing his own spend from her. His touch was utilitarian, but it was constant. Possessive. Her skin was his to clean. Her holes were his to maintain.
Sarah, within, was slowly calcifying around a new, terrible understanding. This was her existence. She was back. She was sane. And she was permanently, irreversibly, a fucktoy. The addiction wasn’t just Ethan’s. It was woven into her very flesh. The waiting between uses was a special kind of hell, because she was now aware of the waiting, aware of the empty, craving ache. The use was a hell of a different temperature, a forced, participatory degradation.
He turned off the water, toweled her roughly, and carried her back to the bed. He arranged her on her side, facing him. He spooned behind her, his arm draped over her, his hand once more possessively covering her mound. His softened cock nestled against the cleft of her ass.
“My perfect thing,” he murmured into her hair, already drifting off. “Don’t know what I did without you.”
Sarah stared into the middle distance of the bedroom. She could count the fibers in the curtains. She could analyze the legal precedent of her own condition. She could yearn for a glass of Merlot, for the feel of a book in her hands, for the sound of her own voice.
And beneath it all, as Ethan’s breathing deepened, she could feel the familiar, hungry throb beginning again. A craving set on a timer. Waiting for the next use. Anticipating it. Her mind, clear and whole and horrifically alive, settled in to watch. To wait. To need.