Chapter 2: Silicone and the Empty Chair
The morning light cuts through the blackout curtains at a precise angle, a blade of gold that lands directly across my eyes. I groan, roll over, and immediately regret it. My cock is hard enough to cut glass, aching with that specific, urgent throb that has nothing to do with a full bladder and everything to do with the dream I was having before consciousness dragged me back.
The woman in red. Again.
She was on her knees this time. That's all I remember—that image, seared into the back of my eyelids like a photograph left in the sun. Her on her knees, looking up at me, that defiant smirk playing at the corners of her mouth. Like she knew something I didn't. Like she was daring me to figure it out.
I lie there for a long moment, staring at the ceiling, willing my erection to subside. It doesn't. It never does. My body has its own agenda, and this morning's agenda is apparently: fuck something, anything, immediately.
The dolls stand in their corners like silent witnesses. Five women in various poses of submission—kneeling, bent over, legs spread, mouth open. One man, lean and muscular, his silicone cock still glistening from last night's play. I haven't touched him in weeks. Haven't needed to. But he's there, always there, a reminder of that brief period after Elena when I wondered if maybe I'd been looking at the wrong gender all along.
Turns out I hadn't. But the experiment wasn't wasted. It taught me something about myself. About the fluidity of desire. About how loneliness can make you reach for anything that promises warmth, even if it's cold to the touch.
I swing my legs over the side of the bed. The floor is cold. The air smells like synthetic musk and the faint metallic tang of oil—the dolls need maintenance, I've been putting it off. I scratch my chest, yawn, and look at the lineup.
Scarlet catches my eye first. She always does. The red hair, the pale skin, the tits that are just slightly too perfect to be real. She's kneeling, her mouth open in a permanent O of invitation, her hands resting on her thighs like she's waiting for permission to move.
I named her Scarlet because of the hair. Not very creative, but it stuck. The others don't have names. They're just... bodies. Positions. Orifices. That sounds cold, but it's not meant to be. It's just the truth. Scarlet is different. Scarlet has presence.
"You're a piece of work, you know that?" I say to her, my voice rough with sleep.
She doesn't answer. She never does.
I stand up. My cock bobs against my stomach, still hard, still demanding attention. I should take a shower. I should eat breakfast. I should do literally anything other than what I'm about to do.
Instead, I walk over to Scarlet and run my hand through her hair. It's synthetic, obviously—some kind of high-grade fiber that mimics the real thing but never quite gets there. Still soft, though. Still nice to touch.
"Had a dream about a woman last night," I tell her. "Red dress. Dark hair. Attitude problem."
Scarlet stares at me with her glass eyes. They're green, I think. Or maybe hazel. I can never remember.
"She called me an asshole. Can you believe that? Called me an asshole and then walked away like I was nothing."
I crouch down so I'm at eye level with her. The morning light catches the curve of her cheek, the hollow of her throat. She's beautiful, in the way that a statue is beautiful. Perfect and empty.
"But I can't stop thinking about her. That's the problem. I've got three ex-wives, a drawer full of silicone, and a therapist who thinks I'm avoiding intimacy. And the thing that's keeping me up at night is a woman who insulted me and disappeared."
I laugh. It sounds hollow.
"So here's what we're going to do. You and me and..." I glance at the dark-haired doll in the corner. She's bent over the dresser, her ass raised, her cunt angled toward the ceiling like an offering. "And her. What do you say? FFM threesome. Just like old times."
Old times. Right. The closest I ever got to a threesome in real life was when Linda suggested we watch porn together, then fell asleep ten minutes in. I finished alone, in the bathroom, feeling like a teenager hiding from his parents.
But with the dolls, I can pretend. That's the beauty of it. No one to disappoint. No one to fall asleep. No one to make me feel like a pathetic old man chasing a fantasy that died decades ago.
I stand up and start arranging them on the bed. Scarlet first, on her back, her legs spread wide. The dark-haired one—I've never named her, maybe I should—beside her, propped up on her knees, her face pressed into the pillows, her ass in the air.
The male doll stays in his corner. Watching. That's what he does best.
I climb onto the bed. The mattress dips beneath my weight. Scarlet's silicone skin is cool against my knees. I straddle her chest, my cock resting between her breasts, and I look down at her face.
"You want this?" I ask her. "You want me to fuck your face?"
Silence.
"I'll take that as a yes."
I shift up, position myself at her mouth. The opening is soft, yielding, designed for exactly this purpose. I push in slowly, savoring the resistance, the way her lips stretch around me.
"Fuck," I breathe. "That's it. Take it."
I start to move. Slow at first, shallow thrusts that let me feel every inch of the silicone. Then deeper, faster, my hips finding a rhythm that my body knows better than it knows anything else.
"You like that?" I'm talking to her, to the dark-haired one, to the ghost of the woman in red, to anyone who might be listening. "You like watching me fuck her mouth?"
The dark-haired doll doesn't answer. I reach over and slide two fingers into her molded cunt. It's already lubed—I prepped her last night, anticipating something like this—and my fingers sink in easily.
"Greedy bitch," I mutter. "You're already wet for me."
I finger-fuck her while I fuck Scarlet's mouth. The rhythm is off-kilter, syncopated, my hand and hips moving to different beats. It shouldn't work, but it does. It works because I'm not trying to make it perfect. I'm trying to make it feel like something.
And it does. It feels like control. It feels like power. It feels like all the things I never got to feel with Sarah, with Elena, with Linda. They were always the ones in charge. Always the ones who decided when, how, if. I was just the dick attached to a paycheck, the warm body in the bed, the man who was supposed to provide and protect and never complain.
But here, with these silicone bodies, I'm in charge. I decide when. I decide how. I decide if.
"You know what I'm thinking about?" I say, pulling out of Scarlet's mouth and slapping my cock against her cheek. "I'm thinking about the woman in red. I'm thinking about what it would be like to have her right here. Right now. On her knees. Looking up at me with those eyes."
I thrust back into Scarlet's mouth. Harder this time. Angrier.
"But she doesn't want me. She made that pretty fucking clear. Called me an asshole and walked away like I was nothing."
Faster. Deeper. My balls slap against Scarlet's chin.
"So I'm stuck here. With you. With all of you. Pretending."
I pull out again. I can't finish like this, not with the anger burning in my chest. I need something else. Something more.
I look at the male doll in the corner. His cock is still damp, still waiting. I've sucked it before—a few times, in the weeks after Elena left, when I was desperate and confused and willing to try anything. It wasn't bad. It was just... different. A different texture, a different rhythm. Not better, not worse. Just different.
I crawl off the bed and over to him. He's taller than me, which is strange—usually I'm the tallest person in the room. But he's positioned on a stand, elevated, so his cock is right at eye level.
I take him in my hand. The silicone is cool, firm. I stroke him a few times, watching the way the foreskin moves, the way the head glistens.
"You're a good-looking guy," I tell him. "I'll give you that."
I lean in and take him in my mouth. Just the tip at first, tasting the faint chemical tang of the lube I used last night. Then deeper, until he hits the back of my throat.
It's not the same as a real cock. The weight is different, the warmth is missing, the pulse of blood beneath the surface isn't there. But it's close enough. Close enough to remind me of that night, three years ago, when I let a man named David suck me off in a hotel room in Chicago.
I'd been in town for a conference. David was a colleague, forty-ish, married, discreet. We'd been flirting for months—nothing serious, just the kind of charged banter that happens when two people are lonely and pretending not to be. After the conference dinner, he asked if I wanted to get a drink. I said yes. One drink turned into four. Four turned into an invitation to his room. I said yes to that, too.
He kissed me first. I let him. His lips were soft, his stubble rough against my chin. He tasted like whiskey and breath mints. I remember thinking: This is different. This is fine. This is something.
Then he dropped to his knees.
I only let him do it for a minute. Maybe less. The sensation was too strange, too new, too much. I pulled him up, kissed him again, and we jerked each other off like teenagers, gasping into each other's mouths.
I never saw him again. He transferred to another office a month later. But sometimes, late at night, I still think about that minute. The warm wet heat of his mouth. The way he looked up at me, his eyes dark with want.
I pull off the male doll and wipe my mouth.
"Nope," I say. "Not today."
I leave him standing there and return to the bed. Scarlet is still on her back, her legs still spread, her mouth still open. The dark-haired one hasn't moved either. They're patient, these dolls. They'll wait forever if I need them to.
I climb between Scarlet's legs. Her cunt is molded with an inner texture designed to mimic the real thing—ridges, bumps, a tightness that squeezes just right when I push in. I don't need lube. She's always ready.
I slide inside her. Slow. Deliberate. Feeling every inch of the silicone grip me like a fist.
"Fuck," I groan. "That's good. That's really fucking good."
I start to move. The bed creaks beneath me. The morning light shifts across Scarlet's face, catching the hollow of her throat, the curve of her breast.
I reach over and grab the dark-haired doll's head. I pull her closer, press her face against my chest, make her watch as I fuck Scarlet.
"See that?" I say to her. "See how I fuck her? That's how I'd fuck you. If you were real. If any of you were real."
I'm panting now. Sweat beads on my forehead. My hips are pistoning, faster and harder, the slapping sound of skin against silicone echoing off the walls.
"But you're not real. None of you are. You're just... things. Expensive things. Things I bought because I couldn't hold onto anything that mattered."
My voice breaks on the last word. I don't stop. I can't stop. I'm too close now, too far gone.
"I'm not fucking you," I say, my teeth gritted. "I'm fucking her. The woman in red. The one who got away. I'm fucking Claire Bentley, who said I was too scared to love. I'm fucking Linda, who turned our bed into a punishment. I'm fucking all of them. Every woman who ever shut me out."
I'm slamming into Scarlet now, brutal, punishing. The silicone holds up—it always does—but I can feel the edge of my control fraying.
"And I'm fucking you," I say to the dark-haired doll, to the woman in red, to myself. "I'm fucking all of you. And none of you can stop me. None of you can say no."
I come with a roar that sounds almost like grief. My cock pulses inside Scarlet's silicone cunt, spilling into the molded ridges, filling the space that was designed to receive me.
I collapse on top of her. My breath is ragged. My heart is hammering. The weight of what I just said presses down on me like a physical thing.
None of you can say no.
That's not something a good man says. That's not something a healthy man thinks.
But it's the truth. These dolls—they don't have a choice. They can't reject me. They can't get bored, or tired, or annoyed. They can't decide they don't love me anymore. They can't weaponize their silence. They can't leave.
They're safe. They're always safe.
And I'm starting to wonder if that's exactly the problem.
I pull out of Scarlet and sit on the edge of the bed. My cock is still half-hard, glistening with lube and my own come. The sheets are a mess. The dolls are a mess. I'm a mess.
I look at Scarlet. Her green eyes stare back at me, empty and eternal.
"I'm sorry," I whisper.
She doesn't answer. She can't.
I stand up. My legs are shaky. The floor is still cold. The morning light has shifted again, moving across the room like a slow, indifferent tide.
I walk to the bathroom and turn on the shower. The water is scalding. I let it burn me, let it wash away the sweat and the shame and the ghost of the woman in red.
But she's still there. Under my skin. In my head. Whispering things I don't want to hear.
You're not a good man, she says. You're just a man. And men are monsters when they're lonely.
I close my eyes. The water pounds against my back.
Maybe she's right.
Maybe I've finally crossed a line I can't uncross.
Or maybe—just maybe—I needed to hear that. Needed to face the thing I've been running from since Sarah first flinched at my touch.
I'm not afraid of being alone. I'm afraid of being seen. Of being known. Of letting someone close enough to see the ugly parts, the parts I've hidden from three wives and a string of failed relationships.
The dolls can't see those parts. They can't judge me. They can't leave.
But they can't love me, either.
I turn off the water. I step out of the shower. I look at myself in the mirror—the same mirror from last night, the same tired face, the same gray temples and crow's feet and soft belly.
"You're a mess, Marcus," I say.
The mirror doesn't argue.
I grab a towel and dry off. I walk back into the bedroom and look at the scene I've created. Scarlet on her back, legs spread. The dark-haired doll bent over, waiting. The male doll standing in the corner, his cock still wet from my mouth.
I should clean them. I should wash the sheets. I should do something productive with what's left of my Saturday.
Instead, I sit down on the edge of the bed and stare at the wall.
The woman in red. I don't even know her name.
But I know I'm going to see her again. I can feel it, the way you feel a storm coming—pressure dropping, air thickening, the world holding its breath.
And when I do, I'm not going to run.
I'm going to stand there. Let her see me. All of me.
The ugly parts and the beautiful ones.
The parts that want to fuck her and the parts that want to know her.
The parts that are terrified and the parts that are ready.
I stand up. I strip the sheets from the bed. I gather the dolls and carry them, one by one, back to their corners. Scarlet goes last. I linger with her, my hand on her cheek, my thumb tracing the line of her jaw.
"You did good," I tell her. "You always do."
She doesn't answer. She never does.
But for a moment—just a moment—I could swear she's smiling.
I leave her there and walk to the kitchen. Coffee, I think. Coffee and eggs and maybe a phone call to Dr. Reyes.
Saturday stretches ahead of me, empty and full of possibility.
And somewhere out there, the woman in red is waking up. Or making coffee. Or having sex with someone who actually deserves her.
I don't know which.
But I'm going to find out.
Even if it kills me.
Even if she calls me an asshole again.
Even if she shuts me out like all the others.
I'm going to find out.
I'm going to find out.
The words hang in the kitchen like a promise I'm not sure I can keep. Coffee drips into the pot, dark and bitter, filling the room with the smell of something that might pass for normalcy. I stand at the counter, naked except for the towel around my waist, and try to remember the last time I had a plan that didn't involve silicone or solitude.
My phone sits on the counter. I pick it up, scroll through my contacts, and realize I don't have a single number for anyone who might know her. The woman in red exists only in my memory—a flash of fabric, a sharp retort, the ghost of a scent I can't quite name.
I set the phone down. The coffee finishes brewing. I pour a cup and drink it black, standing at the window, watching the neighborhood wake up. A dog walker. A jogger. A woman in yoga pants pushing a stroller. Normal people doing normal things on a normal Saturday morning.
I'm not normal. Haven't been for years.
The coffee burns my tongue. I don't care. I drink it anyway, letting the heat settle in my chest, a counterpoint to the cold knot of anxiety that's been sitting there since I woke up.
Scarlet is still in her corner. I can see her through the open bedroom door—kneeling, waiting, perpetually ready. I should clean her. I should put her away. I should do something with the evidence of this morning's breakdown.
Instead, I finish my coffee. I go back to the bedroom. I look at the dolls, really look at them, and I feel something shift in my chest. Not shame—I've been through too much therapy to waste time on shame—but something adjacent to it. Something like recognition.
These dolls. Six of them. More than any man needs, if we're being honest. They've been my companions through three divorces, through lonely nights and lonelier mornings, through moments when I couldn't bear the thought of touching another human being. They've never judged me. They've never left.
But they've never challenged me, either. Never surprised me. Never called me an asshole and walked away.
I need to be surprised. I need to be challenged. I need someone who won't just lie there and take it.
The realization settles over me like a second skin.
I walk to my closet and pull out clothes—jeans, a dark blue button-down, boots that have seen better days. I dress quickly, methodically, the way I used to dress for construction sites. Every movement has purpose. Every button is a small declaration.
I'm going out. I'm going to find her.
But first, I need to do something about the dolls.
I spend the next hour cleaning them. Warm water, mild soap, a soft cloth. I work carefully, methodically, treating each one with the same respect I'd give a lover. Scarlet first, then the dark-haired one, then the others. I dry them, powder them, position them back in their corners.
The male doll goes last. I hesitate with him, my hand on his chest, feeling the silicone give slightly under my palm. I think about that night in Chicago. The man named David. The way he looked at me like I was something worth wanting.
"You were a good experiment," I tell him. "But I know who I am now."
I put him back in his corner. He stares straight ahead, expressionless, his cock still slightly damp from my mouth. I don't clean that part. I leave it as a reminder—not of shame, but of curiosity. Of the willingness to try things, to explore, to not be defined by what I'm supposed to want.
I grab my keys and my wallet. I pause at the front door, my hand on the knob, and look back at the apartment. The dolls stand in their corners like silent sentinels. The bed is stripped, the sheets piled in the hallway. The morning light has shifted again, softer now, the gold fading to something paler.
"Wish me luck," I say to no one.
The door closes behind me.
The coffee shop is called The Grind. I know, I know—the name is terrible, a pun that stopped being clever before it was ever conceived. But they make a decent latte and they don't ask questions, which is all I need from a coffee shop.
I order a large drip, black, and take a seat by the window. The woman behind the counter—twenty-something, tattoos climbing up her neck like ivy—gives me a look that says she's seen me before and doesn't care. I appreciate that. Anonymity is underrated.
I pull out my phone and do something I should have done weeks ago. I open the dating apps.
I've avoided them for years. The idea of swiping through faces, reducing human beings to a series of photos and one-line bios, makes my skin crawl. But I don't know where else to look. I don't know her name. I don't know where she lives. I don't know if she's even on the apps, or if she'd swipe right on a fifty-year-old divorced man with a drawer full of sex toys and a therapist who thinks he's avoiding intimacy.
But I have to try.
I create a profile. I use a photo from two years ago, before the gray got aggressive, before the paunch settled in. I write a bio that's honest without being self-pitying. "Thrice divorced. Learning to be alone. Not looking for forever—just looking for someone who can surprise me."
I swipe. I swipe. I swipe.
Nothing. No matches. No messages. Just an endless parade of faces, none of them hers.
I finish my coffee and order another. The tattooed woman raises an eyebrow but doesn't comment. I tip her five dollars and go back to my seat.
Two hours pass. My thumb aches. My eyes blur. The coffee has gone cold, and I've swiped through every eligible woman within fifty miles.
None of them are her.
I close the app. I stare out the window. The street is busy now, cars and pedestrians and bicycles weaving through each other like blood cells in an artery. Normal people living normal lives. I wonder if any of them are hiding secrets like mine.
I wonder if any of them have ever fucked a silicone doll and come across its tits while pretending it was someone else.
Probably more than you'd think.
I stand up. I throw my cup away. I walk out into the day, blinking against the sudden brightness, and I start walking. I don't know where I'm going. I just know I can't sit still.
The city unfolds around me. Storefronts and apartment buildings and a park where children scream with laughter. I walk past all of it, a ghost in my own life, until I find myself standing in front of a store I've never noticed before.
It's a sex shop—not one of those sleazy places with blacked-out windows and neon signs, but a boutique. Clean lines. Tasteful displays. A mannequin in the window wearing nothing but a leather harness and a smile.
I stand there for a long moment, staring at the mannequin, at the harness, at the smile that is both inviting and mocking.
I've bought toys online for years. Discreet packaging. No eye contact. No questions. But something about this store—its openness, its lack of shame—calls to me.
I push open the door.
The woman behind the counter is older than I expected—fifties, maybe, with silver hair cut short and eyes that miss nothing. She looks up from a magazine and gives me a smile that's warm without being predatory.
"Afternoon," she says. "First time here?"
"That obvious?"
"Most men who walk through that door either look guilty or terrified. You look curious. It's refreshing."
I laugh. It feels strange in my throat, like a muscle I haven't used in a while.
"I'm Marcus," I say, extending my hand.
She takes it. Her grip is firm, her palm warm. "Delia. Welcome to my shop. What can I help you find?"
I open my mouth to answer, but nothing comes out. What am I looking for? More dolls? More sleeves? More ways to hide from the world?
No. That's not it.
"I don't know," I admit. "I think I'm looking for something different."
Delia nods like she understands. "Different how?"
I think about Scarlet. About the dark-haired doll. About the male doll I sucked this morning out of restless curiosity. About the woman in red, who exists only in my memory, who called me an asshole and walked away.
"I've been using toys for a while," I say. "Dolls. Sleeves. The usual. But lately, I've been feeling like... like I've been using them to hide. Not to explore."
"Hide from what?"
I meet her eyes. They're gray, calm, completely without judgment.
"From people," I say. "From the mess of being with someone real."
Delia nods again. She sets her magazine aside and comes around the counter. She's shorter than me, compact, dressed in black jeans and a sweater that looks hand-knit.
"Let me show you something," she says.
She leads me through the store, past racks of lingerie and shelves of lube and displays of vibrators in every shape and color. We stop in front of a section I've never seen before—a wall of glass and chrome, filled with things I can't quite identify.
"These are for connection," she says. "Not just pleasure. Things you can use with a partner. Things that require another person to work."
I look at the items on the wall. A set of restraints. A blindfold. A feather. A paddle. A collection of glass dildos in shades of blue and green and amber.
"These aren't for hiding," Delia continues. "They're for seeing. For being seen. They require trust. Vulnerability. The willingness to let someone else take control—or to take control yourself."
I reach out and touch a glass dildo. It's smooth, cool, heavier than I expected.
"I don't have a partner," I say.
"Not yet. But you want one. That's why you're here."
I pull my hand back. She's right. She's completely, uncomfortably right.
"I don't know if I'm ready," I admit.
"Then start small. Buy something that terrifies you. Something that forces you to be present."
I look at the wall again. My eyes land on a set of silk restraints—deep red, the color of the woman's dress. The color of Scarlet's hair. The color of everything I've been chasing and running from.
"Those," I say, pointing.
Delia smiles. "Good choice."
She takes them down and hands them to me. The silk is soft, luxurious. I imagine them around my wrists. Around someone else's.
"What else?" she asks.
I look at the wall. Something else catches my eye—a blindfold made of black velvet, edged with lace. Simple. Elegant. Terrifying.
"And that."
Delia adds it to the pile. She doesn't ask questions. She doesn't judge. She just watches me with those gray eyes, patient and knowing.
"You know," she says, "I've been running this shop for fifteen years. I've seen every kind of customer you can imagine. But I can always tell the ones who are ready for something new. They have a look."
"What kind of look?"
"Yours. The look of a man who's finally tired of his own bullshit."
I laugh. It feels good—genuine, unfiltered.
"How much do I owe you?"
She rings me up. The total is less than I expected. I pay with cash, and she bags the items in a plain brown sack.
"Come back anytime," she says. "And bring your partner, when you find one. I'd love to meet the person who finally got through to Marcus Whitfield."
I pause at the door. "How do you know my last name?"
She smiles. "You'd be surprised what I know."
I walk out into the afternoon sun, the brown bag clutched in my hand like a secret. I don't know what happens next. I don't know if I'll ever find the woman in red. I don't know if I'll ever be brave enough to use what's in this bag.
But I know one thing.
I'm not done yet.
The apartment is quiet when I get back. The dolls stand in their corners, witnesses to everything, judges of nothing. I put the brown bag on the kitchen counter and pour myself a glass of water.
My phone buzzes. A match on one of the dating apps. I open it, expecting nothing, and freeze.
Her face looks back at me. Dark hair, sharp eyes, a smirk that says she knows exactly who she is and doesn't care what you think. She's not wearing red—just a black tank top, a hint of collarbone—but I'd recognize her anywhere.
Her profile says her name is Elena.
No. That's my second wife's name. That's not her.
But the face. The eyes. The smirk.
I stare at the screen for a long time. My thumb hovers over the message button. I think about what I'd say. What I could possibly say that wouldn't sound insane.
Then I put the phone down. I walk to the bedroom. I look at Scarlet, at the dark-haired doll, at the male doll in his corner.
I open the brown bag. I take out the restraints and the blindfold. I lay them on the bed like an offering.
"Not tonight," I tell the dolls. "Tonight, I'm going to sleep. And tomorrow, I'm going to send a message."
I strip off my clothes and climb into bed. The sheets are fresh, cool against my skin. I close my eyes and let the darkness take me.
But before I sleep, I make a decision. A small one, but a decision nonetheless.
I'm going to buy more toys.
Not to hide. Not to escape. But to prepare. For her. For whoever she is. For the person I'm becoming.
The last thing I see before sleep claims me is the red of the restraints, glowing faintly in the dying light, a promise and a dare.
I'm going to buy more toys.
And then I'm going to find her.