Chapter 5: Troubleshooting the Hardware
The taste was a complex algorithm of salt, skin, and a faint, clean bitterness. Justin’s mind, a fragile subroutine in the background, tried to parse it, to compare it to memory, but the data was overwhelming. The body—Andrea’s body—had taken full administrative control. His jaw ached with a new, peculiar strain, the muscles working in unfamiliar patterns. When he took the length deeper, the head of his own penis nudging the back of his throat, a reflexive gag convulsed through him. He pulled back, eyes watering.“Easy,” Andrea’s voice—his voice—rumbled above him. A large, familiar hand smoothed the blonde hair away from his damp forehead. The touch was both comforting and a violation.“Don’t fight the gag reflex.It’s just a new parameter. Breathe through your nose.”
Justin obeyed, the instruction cutting through the haze. He inhaled, the air cool in his sinuses, and tried again. This time, when the urge to gag swelled, he focused on the breath.The barrier yielded. The sensation of fullness was profound, a deep, stretching pressure in a throat that felt narrower, more delicate. A low moan vibrated against the shaft, the sound emanating from him without volition.It was a feminine sound, high and pleased.
His own left hand, slender and tipped with perfect shell-pink nails, had been wandering, tracing the dramatic curve of his new hip, the shocking smoothness of the inner thigh where coarse hair should have been.Now it found its target. The black lace of the babydoll was soaked, plastered to the cleft between his legs. He pressed the heel of his palm against the fabric, and a bolt of pure, white-hot sensation jagged up his spine. His back arched involuntarily, forcing the penis deeper into his mouth, which earned another approving groan from above.
He fumbled beneath the lace. The flesh there was alien territory—swollen, slippery, impossibly soft folds parting under his tentative touch.His fingertips, so dexterous with a keyboard, felt clumsy and too large. He explored the topography: the hard nub of the clitoris, a live wire that made his whole body jolt when he circled it; the wet, hot entrance that welcomed a single finger with an eager, clenching suction.The dual feedback was shattering. The fullness in his mouth, the piercing pleasure under his own fingers—they weren’t separate streams of data. They merged, fused, amplifying each other into a feedback loop that was short-circuiting his rational mind.
“Look,” Andrea whispered.Justin’s tear-blurred eyes lifted. He was facing the full-length mirror on the closet door.The image reflected there was a pornography of identity. There he was—a stunning, blonde woman on her knees, her face buried in the groin of a bearded, heavyset man who wore an expression of detached, voyeuristic fascination. The woman’s hand was frantic between her own thighs, her ass trembling with each movement. The black lace hugged every curve: the pronounced, swaying weight of the 32DDD breasts, the impossible cinch of the waist, the rounded jiggle of the thighs each time he rocked forward.He was beautiful.She was beautiful. He was beautiful.
Seeing it, watching himself come apart in the mirror, tipped him over an edge he didn’t know he was approaching. The pleasure crested, sharp and total.It wasn’t the localized burst of his old orgasms. This was a systemic event. It exploded from his core, radiating out in pulsating waves that made his toes curl, his new, smaller feet digging into the duvet.His thighs shook violently. A raw, keening cry was muffled around the penis in his mouth as his cunt convulsed around his own finger, a series of rhythmic, fluttering clenches that seemed to drain all the tension from the world.
In the ebbing tide of it, he became aware of a new taste mixing with the others—bitter, slightly sweet.Pre-cum.His pre-cum. On his tongue.The revelation was oddly grounding in its surreality.
Before he could process it, strong hands were under his arms, lifting him. He was limp, boneless, a puppet of spent nerves. Andrea—in his body—hauled him up onto his knees so they were face-to-face. His own blue eyes, now sharp with an intense curiosity, stared into Andrea’s wide, dazed blues.
“Good,” Andrea said simply, her breath—his breath—washing over his face.Then she leaned in and kissed him.
It was his own lips, chapped and familiar, pressing against the impossibly soft, plump fullness of Andrea’s. It was his own beard scraping the delicate skin of her jaw.The kiss was deep, probing, a reclamation. Justin could taste himself—himself—on his own tongue. The meta-circularity of it was dizzying. He felt his new breasts crush against the solid, unyielding wall of his own former chest. His nipples, hardened and sensitive, grated against the cotton of the t-shirt, another layer of acute sensation.
Andrea’s hands—his big, programmer’s hands—roamed down the dip of his back, over the swell of his ass, gripping the firm, round flesh with a possessiveness Justin had never felt. Justin’s own hands, smaller and weaker, came up to rest on his own broad shoulders. He felt the strength there, the latent power he had never known how to use.A confusing, potent mix of submission and ownership swirled in his gut.
Andrea broke the kiss, pulling back just an inch. She was breathing heavily, a flush spreading across his—her—cheeks. “The chemicals in this thing are no joke,” she panted, giving his erection a slight, appreciative squeeze through the sweatpants. “It’s like being piloted by a horny ghost.”
Justin just stared, unable to form words. His body was humming, satiated yet strangely alert, every nerve ending reporting its status. The sweat cooling on his skin, the ache in his jaw, the tender, throbbing pulse between his legs, the gentle sway of his breasts with each breath—it was all a cascade of data he had no framework to interpret.