Chapter 2: The Digital Confidant
The violet plug was no longer an invasion. It had become geography. A permanent, internal landscape of stretched and held tension. Anya sat bolt upright in the disciplined chair, the high back rigid against her spine. The XXS catsuit creaked with every micro-movement, a second skin so tight it felt like a diagram of her own skeleton drawn in glossy black latex. Her breath was shallow, limited by the constriction around her ribs. On the center monitor, lines of elegant code scrolled, a logical waterfall. On the left, a silent, slow-motion loop played—a testament to impossible capacity.
A tiny icon flashed in the corner of her right screen. A private messaging app, encrypted, its interface blank and minimal. Her heartbeat, already a quick, light patter from the caloric deficit and the constant, low-grade sensory overload, kicked up a notch.
Her fingers, sheathed in thin latex, hesitated over the keyboard. The compulsion was a different kind of fullness, an itch in her mind. She toggled windows. The code disappeared, replaced by a single conversation thread. The last message was from two days ago, from her:
Model V (Large) acquired. Tolerance progression on target.
The response from Dmitri, username Volkov_Prime, had been succinct: Pics or it didn’t happen.
She hadn’t sent any then. But now… now she had milestones. Now she had data worth sharing.
She began to type, her words clinical and heated all at once.
Anya_P: New acquisitions tonight. Protocol upgrade. External: XXS full-coverage enclosure. Material: Black latex. Compression rating: Significant. Internal: Model X (Monarch series). Violet. Dimensions: 3.25” diameter at widest, 9” insertable. Current status: Seated. Duration: 42 minutes.
She paused, her lower abdomen a firm, unignorable presence. The suit pulled taut across it, creating a subtle, telling distortion. She adjusted her posture minutely, and the plug shifted, a deep, resonant reminder. Her breath hitched. She added to the message.
Anya_P: The simultaneous pressures create a feedback loop. The external compression eliminates all slack, focuses all sensation inward. The internal occupation feels… absolute. A total redefinition of capacity. It is efficient.
She attached a file. A photo taken earlier, in the mirror. It showed her from the ribs down, a study in severe monochrome. The latex shone under the cold LED desk light, clinging to every hollow, cinching her waist to a mere curve. The seam ran taut over the sharp blade of her hip. And lower, just above the junction of her thighs, a distinct, rounded bulge strained against the black material—the base of the plug, undeniable.
She hit send.
The response was nearly instantaneous. The app gave no ‘typing’ indicator; his messages just appeared, fully formed.
Volkov_Prime: Christ. Look at that. The suit is eating you. Good.
A pause. Three dots appeared, then vanished, then appeared again.
Volkov_Prime: That hollow under your ribs. I want to put my tongue in it. The plug… fucking hell, Anya. You’re becoming a specialist.
She watched the words bloom on the screen. A flush, hot and unwelcome, spread up her neck. It wasn’t pleasure. It was validation. Her metrics, her data, were being appreciated by a fellow engineer of the extreme. He spoke her language.
Anya_P: It is a logical progression. The spreadsheets predicted a 78% probability of success with this jump, given my preparation.
Volkov_Prime: Forget the spreadsheets for a second. Look at you. You’re a ghost in a rubber skin. Perfect. But you’re still fighting the hunger, yeah? I can see it in the tightness of your shoulders in that pic. You’re white-knuckling it.
Anya’s spine straightened. How could he see that? She glanced at the photo again. She looked… contained. Controlled.
Anya_P: The hunger is a separate variable. Manageable. It sharpens focus.
Volkov_Prime: Manageable is wasting willpower. You want to go deeper? To really disappear into that feeling? You need to turn off the noise. The hunger is just static. An anchor.
A new kind of tension coiled in her gut, underneath the physical one. This was uncharted conversation. They discussed dimensions, durations, materials. Not this.
Anya_P: What are you proposing?
The three dots pulsed. Her eyes were glued to them. The left screen continued its silent, grotesque ballet. The code on the center monitor sat forgotten.
Volkov_Prime: You need clarity. Chemical clarity. A little rocket fuel for the machine. You ever tried a bump? Just to blast through the wall?
Ice trickled down her vertebrae. Meth. He was talking about meth. The ultimate appetite suppressant. The thought was so alien, so violently outside her system of controlled variables, that her mind blanked for a second. Then it rushed in: the stories, the decay, the loss of control. The opposite of everything she was.
Anya_P: That is not part of the protocol. Unpredictable. Damaging to the system.
Volkov_Prime: System. You sound like a fucking server rack. Listen. It’s a tool. A specific tool for a specific job. You want to stay in that suit? You want to push past that plug to the next size? You need to silence the animal brain that wants food. You need endless hours. Days. You need to goon. Properly. Until the screen melts and you forget what your own face looks like. You can’t do that fighting your own biology every three hours.
Goon. The word hung in the digital space between them. It wasn’t in her spreadsheets. It was a state of being. A total immersion. The videos on her screen were a simulation of it. He was talking about the real thing. A chemical bypass.
Her mouth was dust-dry. The plug felt huge, a lodestone holding her in reality. Part of her recoiled, a primal shriek of no. Another part, colder, calculated. Caloric restriction had diminishing returns. Willpower was a finite resource. What if he was right? What if a chemical tool could optimize the process? Eradicate the hunger variable entirely? Free up processing power for the real work?
Anya_P: The risks are significant. Physical degradation. Psychosis. Loss of fine motor control required for my work.
Volkov_Prime: You take a tiny bump. A functional dose. You don’t go chasing dragons. You use it to work. To train. To vanish into the hole. I’ll guide you. I’ve been in the deep end for years. Look at me.
A new file arrived. An image.
She opened it. It was Dmitri. He was shirtless, lean but not emaciated, seated in a similar chair. His eyes were bright, pupils pinned, but focused. He looked alert, intense. In his hand, he held a small, clear pipe over a torch lighter. The background was messy, chaotic, a nest of wires and screens. But he didn’t look like the ragged, decaying images she associated with the word. He looked… operational.
Volkov_Prime: This isn’t about falling apart. It’s about coming together. Sharpening to a single point. The hunger goes away. The exhaustion goes away. All that’s left is the want. The need to push. To see how far the envelope can go. You and me. We’re the same. We don’t want to get high. We want to get deep.
Anya stared at his photo. At the focused intensity in his eyes. It mirrored something in her, but amplified, stripped of the constant, grinding effort. She thought of the gnawing emptiness in her stomach, a distraction she had to budget willpower to ignore. She thought of the exhaustion that weighed her limbs, fought with the drive to extend her sessions. What if she could delete those variables?
The cursor blinked. Her own reflection, a pale smudge in the dark monitor, blinked back. She saw the hollows under her eyes, the sharp line of her jaw. She saw a machine hitting its biological limits.
Anya_P: Source?
Volkov_Prime: I have a guy. Discreet. Delivery. Pure. You’ll need a pipe. Or you can foil it. Simpler. I’ll talk you through it.
Her hands were trembling. She clenched them into fists, the latex pulling tight over her knuckles. This was a line. A thick, red, electrified line. Crossing it meant the spreadsheet would never be clean again. It meant introducing a variable she could not possibly fully control.
But the idea… the idea of being free from the hunger. To have days, not just hours. To achieve a state of pure, uninterrupted focus on her training. To let the numbers and the sensations consume her completely, without the body’s weak, persistent cries for fuel.
It was the ultimate optimization.
A soft ping from her work laptop. An automated alert. A server was down. A problem to solve. A clear, logical task. She could retreat into that. She could close this window, never answer him, and go back to her code and her controlled, agonizing starvation.
She looked at the bulge in the catsuit. She felt the profound, aching stretch inside her. She remembered Dr. Thorne’s voice: You’re fading.
Maybe fading wasn’t the goal. Maybe burning white-hot and fast was.
Her fingers moved, slow and precise.
Anya_P: Send the details. Discreet is paramount.
Volkov_Prime: Smart girl. Welcome to the next level. Address. Crypto payment. Don’t worry. You’re going to love the silence.
Details appeared in the chat: a dark web marketplace link, a product listing disguised as electrical components, a wallet address. The instructions were clear, technical. It felt like just another transaction. Another acquisition for the project.
She completed the process, the cryptocurrency leaving her wallet with a finality that made her lightheaded. Or perhaps that was just the lack of food, the pressure of the suit, the size of the thing inside her.
The order was placed.
She closed the encrypted chat window. The silent, extreme video still played on the left. The code waited on the center screen. Everything looked the same. But the atmosphere in the room had shifted. The air smelled of latex and lube and sweat, but now it also smelled of a decision, sharp and chemical.
She tried to return to her work. The server issue was simple. She fixed it in three lines of code. But her mind wasn’t there. It was racing down a new, dark branch of the algorithm. Calculating doses. Projecting timelines. Imagining a hunger so completely gone it was as if it had never existed.
She stood up, moving carefully under the dual burdens of compression and intrusion. She walked to the kitchen, her movements stiff, the catsuit whispering. She opened the fridge. The light glared on her packaged, measured meals. She took out a single green apple, the only uncontrolled item in there. It was firm and cool in her hand.
She stood at the counter, holding it. She wasn’t hungry. She would never truly be hungry again, if Dmitri was right. She brought the apple to her lips, her teeth barely grazing the shiny skin. Then she lowered it.
She didn’t need it. Soon, she wouldn’t need any of it.
She placed the apple back in the fridge, a relic of an outdated biology. She returned to her chair, the familiar ache a welcome anchor in a suddenly upended world. She opened a new spreadsheet tab. She labeled it simply: Protocol Sigma.
The first field she created was Chemical Auxiliary. The second was Projected Duration of Focus. The third was Hunger Suppression Efficacy.
She began to input hypothetical data, her fingers flying now, driven by a new, terrifying energy. The numbers cascaded, painting a future of endless, hungry-less hours. A future where the only thing that mattered was the next stretch, the next milestone, the next, perfect, empty infinity.
A future where the only thing that mattered was the next stretch, the next milestone, the next, perfect, empty infinity. The numbers in the ‘Protocol Sigma’ spreadsheet glowed, a serene and logical constellation predicting a liberated tomorrow. For three days, Anya maintained her standard routines: precise caloric inputs, her coding work, the incremental training sessions with the violet plug.The hunger was a grinding, familiar stone in her gut. She monitored the tracking link obsessively, watching a small, nondescript package snake its way across the city toward her apartment.It arrived in a plain brown mailer, sandwiched between two legitimate circuit boards. The contents were chilling in their minimalism: a tiny Ziploc bag with less than a gram of clear, jagged shards, and a square of glossy magazine page, folded into a crisp envelope. Her hands didn’t shake as she emptied the shards onto her black ceramic desk mat. They looked like crushed ice, or tiny fault lines.This was just another variable. A new column in the spreadsheet. She called it ‘Catalyst.’
Following Dmitri’s clipped instructions, she carefully heated one small shard on the foil with a lighter. It liquefied, bubbled, and chased itself into a vapor that she inhaled through a rolled tube. The taste was chemical and sweet, coating her sinuses.She held the smoke.Exhaled.Nothing happened for a full minute. Then the world snapped into hyper-focus.The hum of her computer fans resolved into distinct, layered tones. The lingering ache of the plug dissolved, replaced by a singular, crystalline awareness of its presence—not as discomfort, but as purpose.The gnawing void in her stomach vanished. Not subsided.Vanished.As if someone had simply deleted the file. A clean, electric clarity buzzed from her scalp to her toes.She felt capable, monstrously efficient. She opened her ‘Extreme’ folder.It was time to work.
File 1: “depth_study_04.mkv”
The footage was clinical, almost architectural. A woman, her physique muscular and powerful, was systematically accepting a series of increasingly large, clear silicone sounds. There was no music, no fake moans, just the quiet click of the tool against the metal tray and the focused, controlled breathing of the performer. The camera stayed fixed on the penetration, a slow, inexorable journey into impossible inner space.It was about conquest.Mapping.
File 2: “threshold.mov”
This one was different.Raw, first-person POV from a cheap webcam. A person, gender ambiguous, was sobbing openly, tears cutting tracks through the sweat on their face. They were forcing a colossal, knotted glass dildo, their body trembling with the effort. The audio was raw, jagged—guttural cries, the slap of skin, a muttered voice off-camera saying, “Again.Do it again.” It was about breaking. The moment the will overrides the body’s screaming protest.
File 3: “symbiosis_edit.mp4”
A split screen. On the left, a man was being fisted, his face a portrait of transcendent surrender. On the right, the same man was receiving a brutal, deep-throat fuck, his eyes rolling back. The sequences were intercut so the moments of peak intrusion synced perfectly.It was about total occupation.The eradication of self through complete, simultaneous filling.
Hours bled away.The videos looped, mutated, blended in her perception. She wasn’t just watching them; she was reverse-engineering them.Her own body became the lab. She greased the violet plug, reinserted it with a smooth, practiced motion that now felt like docking a spacecraft. The stretch was data. She opened a new model, a sinister black silicone knot promised to be her next milestone.She prepped it.Her heart was a frantic hummingbird in a cage of ribs. Time wasn’t linear anymore; it was a pool she was diving deeper into, chasing the specific chemical whisper of the drug as it sharpened every pixel on the screen into a directive.
Dmitri’s message pinged, a stark intrusion.Volkov_Prime: Well?
Anya_P: Catalyst operational.Variables deleted.Currently testing Model Y (Obelisk). Preliminary data: promising.Volkov_Prime: Knew you’d get it.Now sink. Don’t come up for air.Let me see the machine at work.
She didn’t reply.She didn’t need to.He was in the code now. She lit the foil again, the brief, acrid flare illuminating her hollow reflection in the monitor. The vapor hit, a searing line of pure certainty. The numbers on her spreadsheets weren’t just projections anymore; they were a live feed. Her body was the experiment, and for the first time, it was utterly, perfectly silent. The only sound was the fan, the whisper of latex, and the relentless, digital mantra of flesh being pushed beyond its limits on the screen. She reached for the Obelisk, her hand steady, her mind a clear, cold channel leading into the dark.
Her fingers closed around the Obelisk. It was cold, a stark contrast to the feverish heat of her own skin beneath the latex. The silicone was matte black and unforgiving, its shape a brutalist taper leading to a bulbous, impossible knot. She coated it meticulously, the process now a sacred, clinical ritual. The violet plug came out with a soft, wet pop, a sensation that echoed through the hollow of her pelvis.She set it on the mat beside the used foil, another tool retired.
Breathing was optional now, a forgotten protocol.Her body was a wire humming with synthetic current.
She guided the tapered tip, pressed, and yielded. The initial entry was a sharp, bright flare of signal, a clean data point of resistance overcome.She didn’t stop. Her arm moved with the piston-like precision of a machine, feeding the length inward. The stretch was no longer an ache; it was a geographic event, a continental shift inside her. Her eyes stayed locked on the split-screen video, where the man’s throat was being filled in time with his other end. She synced her breath, what little she took, to his choked gasps.
A notification popped up.Volkov_Prime.Volkov_Prime: Feed.
Anya_P: Processing.Volkov_Prime: I want the metric.The exact millimeter.
Her free hand, trembling with a fine vibration, went to the keyboard. She toggled windows, brought the Protocol Sigma sheet to the forefront.The cursor blinked in the “Current Depth” column. She was distantly aware of a pressure so profound it felt like it was pressing against the back of her teeth. She typed: 7.2”.Enter.Anya_P: 7.2. Knot approaching.Volkov_Prime: That’s my girl.Now eat it. Make it yours.She read the words as the Obelisk’s thickest part met her entrance. The world tunneled. Sound faded except for the thrum of blood in her ears and the low, animal groan she realized was coming from her. She leaned forward, elbows on the desk, her forehead almost touching the cool screen.On the video, the man’s body convulsed. She pushed.The knot breached.It wasn’t pain.It was a total systems override. A white-out of pure sensory overload that erased the room, the screen, Dmitri, everything. For a moment, there was only the feeling of being split and reconfigured around an object that had no business inside a human body.Her vision swam with static. She gasped, and the gasp turned into a ragged, broken sound that didn’t belong to her.
Then, slowly, the world filtered back in, etched in razor-sharp detail.The clock on her screen read 4:17 AM. She had lost six hours.The victory was absolute, antiseptic. She logged the final depth: 8.1”.Full insertion.Anya_P: Knot secured.Depth 8.1. Time to breach: 22 minutes.Volkov_Prime: Fuck.Yes. Now hold it.Let it map you.Feel everything.And she did. She felt the Obelisk as a live wire, a grounding rod sunk deep into the heart of her. The meth spun its crystals through her synapses, making every tremor, every pulse of stretched muscle, a star going supernova in the dark.She minimized the videos. She opened a blank, black coding window and watched the cursor pulse, a steady, slow beat like a distant star.Hours bled. The sun came up, a weak grey intrusion at the window she’d blacked out with foil. She didn’t move.She held. She became the chair, the desk, the machine processing its own extreme existence.The hunger was a ghost, a silly story about a different person. Dmitri sent occasional, sparse messages—digital grunts of approval that she acknowledged with single letters. Her spreadsheets grew, cells populating with cold, hard facts of her endurance.
Her phone vibrated on the desk, skittering against the ceramic mat.The screen lit up.“Dr. Thorne – 10:00 AM”.The appointment.Today.Now.
A jagged crack appeared in the chemical perfection.Reality, mundane and demanding, intruded.She couldn’t go like this. She couldn’t sit in that leather chair with the Obelisk inside her, her pupils wide as saucers, smelling of latex and sweat. A jagged bolt of something like panic, sharp and acidic, cut through the high.She had to remove it. The thought was a colossal undertaking, a logistical nightmare.She shifted, and the movement sent a shocking wave of feedback through her nervous system. Removal would be a monumental regression.A step backward in the data. Her fingers, cold and clumsy, fumbled for the base.The knot had settled, had become part of the landscape. Taking it out felt like a betrayal of the mission.But Dr. Thorne’s face, patient and probing, floated in her mind.He would see.He always saw.
A new, terrible idea crystallized with icy clarity.It was so obvious it felt invented. She wouldn’t remove it.She would conceal it.She opened a shopping tab in another window, her movements frantic now. She searched, her vision tunneling on the screen. She found it: a long, black, A-line skirt made of a heavy, stiff polyester. A “corporate essential.” It had a rigid structure, an architectural drape that would hang straight and severe from her narrow hips. It would mask any hint of the base, the subtle strain of the latex.It would look like nothing. Like a uniform.She ordered it for express delivery, paying a predatory fee. It would arrive by 9:30.A plan formed, brittle and precise. She would shower—a cold, swift spray to rinse off the sweat and the smell of the night.She would put on normal clothes. The skirt, a simple blouse.She would be Anya Petrova, software engineer, patient. The Protocol would continue underneath, a searing secret.A secret that was hers.
She looked back at the Obelisk’s measurement logged in the spreadsheet.8.1”. She took a screenshot of the cell.She sent it to Dmitri.Anya_P: Hold achieved. Maintenance required.External engagement imminent.Volkov_Prime: The fuck does that mean?
Anya_P: My therapist.In one hour.
Volkov_Prime: And you’re keeping it in?Anya_P: