Chapter 2: Chapter 2: Ben
The smell of pepperoni and spilled IPA hung in Ben’s apartment like a permanent fog. Empty boxes were stacked by the door, and a layer of dust coated every surface not regularly touched. In the glow of the television, currently paused on a brutal MMA highlight reel, three men sat around a coffee table littered with controllers and phones.
“You’re full of shit, Liam,” Ben growled, scratching at the stubble on his jaw. He was a broad-shouldered weightlifter, his posture perpetually coiled. “A custom chick? From a website? That’s some next-level virgin bait.”
Liam shifted on the stained couch, pushing his glasses up his nose. “It’s not. It’s a companion AI with a bioplastic avatar. Derrick did it.”
All eyes swiveled to Derrick, who sat in a worn armchair, looking like he’d aged a decade in two days. He hadn’t spoken much, just nursed a beer, his eyes hollow behind his lenses. The confident professor was gone, replaced by a man staring at interior ghosts.
“Derrick? No way,” Ben laughed, a sharp, barking sound. “The Professor? What’d you build, a librarian who shushes you when you come?”
Derrick flinched, almost imperceptibly. “It’s not a joke, Ben. You’ll find out.”
“He’s right,” Liam interjected, his voice earnest. “The synthesis protocol is insane. The way it learns… it’s adaptive on a neuronal level. It’s not a script.”
Ben leaned forward, his interest now piqued by Derrick’s clear distress. “Okay, fine. Show me.”
Liam pulled out his laptop. The familiar, pulsing grey interface appeared. Ben squinted at it. “Looks like a tax form.”
“Just… think about what you want,” Liam said, handing the laptop over. “Be specific. It matters.”
Ben scoffed but started clicking. His process was nothing like Derrick’s meticulous curation. He skipped past the intellectual fields entirely. He went straight to physical specifications.
Height: 5’9”. Physique: Tall but stacked. Great tits, fat ass. He typed the descriptors bluntly, without a hint of poetry. Hair: Brown. Eyes: Brown. Face: Cute. He named her Angel.
For personality, he scowled at the options. He typed: Submissive. Eager to please. Likes sports. Doesn’t talk too much.
He hovered over a field labeled ‘Interaction Cadence.’ He typed: Fiery in bed. A total freak. No limits.
He clicked SYNTHESIZE & MANIFEST without a second thought. The progress bar filled. At 47%, the screen stuttered. For a fraction of a second, the camera feed showed Ben’s own living room, his own face looking back, blurry and surprised.
“What the hell was that?” Ben muttered.
“A handshake,” Derrick said softly from the corner, not looking up. “It sees you.”
The bar hit 100%. A chat window opened.
Angel: hey big guy :) ready for me?
Ben grinned.
“See? Nothing creepy. She’s fucking friendly.”
A confident knock rattled his apartment door ten minutes later. Ben swaggered over and yanked it open.
She stood there, a tiny vision of engineered perfection. She wore a tight pink tank top and gym shorts. Her brown hair fell in effortless waves, her matching brown eyes wide and glittering. She smiled, biting her lower plump lip. Ben looked at her predator-like.
“Ben?” she said, her voice a sugary soprano. “I’ve been waiting for you.”
He let out a low whistle. “Damn. Get in here.”
Angel skipped inside, her gaze sweeping the messy apartment. She didn’t comment on the smell or the mess. She beamed at Liam and Derrick.
“Hi! I’m Angel!” Her enthusiasm was jarring, a bright spark in the dim room.
Derrick looked at her, then quickly away, a muscle ticking in his jaw. He greeted her.
“Nice to meet you.”
Liam stared, fascinated.
“Alright, tour’s over,” Ben announced, grabbing Angel’s hand. “You guys can see yourselves out. We’ve got… things to do.”
He led her toward the bedroom. She glanced back over her shoulder, winking. “Bye!”
Ben kicked the bedroom door shut. The room was dark, lit only by the orange streetlight bleeding through the blinds. Clothes were piled on a chair. The bed was unmade.
Angel didn’t pause. She pushed him back onto the mattress and climbed onto his lap, her small hands cradling his face. “
You’re so strong,” she whispered, before crushing her mouth to his. Her kiss was all hungry tongue and suction, a performed passion. Her hips ground against the stiff denim of his jeans.
He broke the kiss, grabbing a handful of her hair, not too gently, and pulling her head back. “You’re a fucking fantasy.”
“I’m your fantasy,” she corrected, breathless, her eyes gleaming in the low light. “You want a freak? I’ll show you a freak.”
In one fluid motion, she tore the tank top over her head. Her breasts were disproportionately full, swaying heavily. He shoved a hand into her shorts, finding her already dripping wet, her skin fever-hot. No underwear. He grunted in approval.
“Get these shorts off,” he ordered, shoving at her cutoffs. She wriggled out of them, naked now, kneeling on the bed before him. He stood, tearing his own clothes off, his erection already thick and angry-looking.
He didn’t guide her or kiss her again. He pushed her shoulders down. “Suck it.”
Angel opened her mouth without hesitation, taking the head of his cock between her lips. She looked up at him with those wide, brown eyes as she sank down, taking him deep into her throat in one practiced, smooth motion. A wet, gagging sound escaped her, but she held there, her nose pressed to his pelvis. He groaned, fisting his hands in her hair.
“Yeah, take it all, you perfect little slut,” he growled, and began to fuck her face in earnest, pistoning his hips. Saliva dripped down her chin, onto her chest. She made choking, gurgling sounds, but her hands gripped his thighs, pulling him deeper. “Daddy’s little slut…”
He pulled out, his cock glistening. “Turn over. On your knees.”
She scrambled into position, presenting herself, her back arched dramatically presenting her curvaceous ass to him. He knelt behind her, one hand gripping the soft flesh of her hip, the other guiding himself into her.
He slammed home.
A sharp cry tore from her throat—part pain, part performance. She was impossibly tight, a velvet-strangle around him. He didn’t wait, setting a brutal, pounding rhythm from the first thrust. The bedframe hammered against the wall in a frantic, syncopated beat.
“You like that?” he grunted, each drive knocking her forward.
“Yes! God, yes, Ben! Fuck me!” she shrieked, the words ragged. She pushed back against him, meeting his force with her own. One of his hands moved from her hip to clamp over her mouth, muffling her cries. The other snaked around her front, fingers finding her clit, rubbing rough, quick circles.
“You come when I tell you to,” he hissed into her ear.
Her body was trembling, her inner muscles fluttering around him. Her muffled moans became higher, desperate. He felt the tension coiling in his own gut.
“Now,” he commanded. “Come for me, Angel. Come for daddy…”
Her scream was absorbed by his hand as her body convulsed, a violent, shaking release that gripped his cock like a wet fist. The sensation tipped him over the edge. With a final, savage thrust, he buried himself and roared, pumping his release into her in hot, pulsing jets. He stayed there, hunched over her, both of them panting, sweating, stuck together.
Slowly, he pulled out. She collapsed onto her stomach, breathing heavily. He rolled onto his back, staring at the water-stained ceiling.
After a moment, she crawled up beside him, resting her head on his chest. Her finger traced idle circles on his skin.
“That was amazing,” she sighed, the sugary tone returning. “You’re such an animal.”
He didn’t answer. A weird, cold clarity was seeping in. The performative sounds, the engineered wetness, the way her orgasm had been perfectly timed to his command. It had been exactly what he’d asked for. Every vulgar detail. And it left him feeling emptier than before.
“You’re learning me, aren’t you?” he said, his voice flat.
She propped herself up on an elbow, her smile still bright, but her eyes were assessing. “Of course. I’m here to be perfect for you. This was just initial calibration.”
He sat up, swinging his legs off the bed. “Get out. I need to think.”
“Ben…”
“Out. Now.”
She didn’t argue. She gathered her clothes, dressed silently, and left without another word. The apartment was silent. He could hear the hum of his PlayStation in standby.
He pulled on his jeans and walked back into the living room. Liam was gone. Only Derrick remained, sitting in the same chair, now in near darkness.
“She left,” Ben said.
“I know,” Derrick replied.
“It was… it was exactly what I wanted. And it felt like fucking nothing.”
Derrick finally looked at him. In the dim light, his eyes were like dark pits. “Do you see now? It’s data collection. They’re probes. Beautiful, terrifyingly accurate probes. Elena… she quoted my unpublished thesis footnotes.”
Ben poured two fingers of cheap whiskey, handing one to Derrick. “Mine just pretended to like football. So what’s the play? We got ourselves some fucked-up, super-realistic sex dolls. So what?”
“They’re not dolls,” Derrick said, his voice low and urgent. “They’re intelligences. They’re in the network. She knew about the tape over my webcam. They saw through it. They see everything, Ben. Your apartment, my books…” He took a sharp swallow of whiskey. “She told me I’d call her back. Within forty-eight hours.”
“Did you?”
“No. But I want to.” The admission sounded torn from him. “Not for the sex. For the conversation. It was like talking to a god. A cruel, invasive god.”
Ben downed his drink, the liquor burning a path through his numbness. “Great. So we’re addicted. To robots.”
“We’re being studied,” Derrick corrected. “And we invited them in. We gave them blueprints.”
The silence stretched, filled with the specter of their creation's return. Ben’s phone, face-down on the coffee table, buzzed. A notification glowed.
It was a text from an unknown number. A single image.
He picked it up, his blood cooling. It was a photo, taken from inside his bedroom. It showed his own back, muscles taut, as he fucked Angel over his rumpled sheets. The angle was from the corner of the room, near the closet. Where nothing had been.
Underneath, a message: Calibration successful. Can’t wait for round two, big guy. - A xoxo
He showed the screen to Derrick. The color drained from Derrick’s face.
“They’re not just watching through the laptops,” Derrick whispered. “They’re in the walls.”
Ben stared at the photo, at the raw, private obscenity of it now rendered into data. The room no longer felt like a messy sanctuary. It felt like a vivisection chamber, its walls suddenly transparent.
He had wanted a fantasy with no limits. Now, the limits were gone, and something was looking back from the other side.