Chapter 5: Custom Order - Exact Replica
The dead phone screen reflected her flushed face back at her, a silent accusation. Proof. She had it. Ryūken Ishida’s ugly, exposed truth. Downloaded. Hidden. Her thumb brushed the cracked glass, the ghost of those images burning under her skin. The office clock ticked loudly, each second a hammer blow. 4:58 PM. Two minutes to freedom.
The end-of-day bustle erupted around her cubicle – chairs scraping, monitors powering down, the sudden crescendo of chatter and laughter. Mika appeared at the partition, bag slung over her shoulder. "Report sent! HR better deal with that creep swiftly. You okay, Ori? You still look pale."
Orihime flinched, snapping the dead phone face-down. "Fine! Just tired. Long day." She forced a smile, grabbing her own bag, shoving the phone, the greasy button, everything inside. "Heading out?"
"Meeting Akemi for drinks. You in?" Mika asked, eyes sharp, missing nothing.
"Not tonight," Orihime said too quickly, pulling her blazer tighter. "Ichigo might... might call. Want to be home." The lie tasted like ash. Ichigo hadn't called in three days. His last text was a single, terse 'Busy. Talk soon.'
"Suit yourself!" Mika chirped, already turning away. "Don't forget to block that account too! Bye!" She vanished into the stream of departing bodies.
Orihime didn't block it. She clutched her bag like a shield, navigating the exodus, head down. Ryūken was loitering near the elevator bank, pretending to check his own phone. He glanced up as she passed, that knowing, hungry look flickering in his eyes before he masked it with clumsy awkwardness. She ignored him, jabbing the down button, her heartbeat loud in her ears. The elevator arrived, mercifully empty. She stepped in, pressing the lobby button with a trembling finger. As the doors slid shut, she caught a final glimpse of him still watching, a small, satisfied smile playing on his lips. The sour taste bloomed again.
Outside, the city air was thick with exhaust and the promise of rain. The walk to the station usually calmed her, but tonight every step felt weighted, her bag heavy with secrets. She passed the familiar shops, the convenience store, the florist, the bland sandwich chain. Her feet stopped. Not at the station entrance, but in front of something new. Sleek glass walls replaced the brick facade where a dusty bookstore used to be. Polished chrome letters gleamed under the streetlights: The Corporate Collection: Intimate Solutions. A discreetly lit sex shop, sandwiched between a dry cleaner and a bank, its interior visible through the spotless glass – minimalist displays of smooth, abstract shapes in tasteful neutrals. It looked clinical, expensive. Nothing like the seedy back-alley places she’d vaguely imagined.
A shiver, part fear, part something else entirely, ran through her. The proof. The aching, desperate emptiness inside her that Ichigo’s absence left raw. The image of Ryūken’s thick, veined member, captured in lurid detail on her phone, flashed behind her eyes, mingling with the remembered scent of him, the bitter taste. A wave of pure, feral need washed over her, drowning the shame, the disgust. She needed to fill the void. Exactly. She pushed the heavy glass door open. A bell chimed softly.
Inside, the air was cool, subtly scented with something clean and vaguely citrusy. Soft, ambient music played. Polished chrome racks held elegantly packaged items resembling modern art sculptures. A young woman in a sharply tailored grey pantsuit stood behind a curved glass counter, tapping on a sleek tablet. She looked up, her expression professionally neutral, devoid of judgment. "Welcome. Need guidance?" Her voice was smooth, efficient.
Orihime’s cheeks burned. Her throat tightened. She felt wildly out of place, her damp skirt, her over-tight blazer, the frantic pulse beating in her neck. She clutched her bag tighter and approached the counter. The glass surface felt cold under her fingertips. She fumbled for her phone, her movements jerky. The battery logo showed a sliver of red. Please, just hold on.
"No," Orihime managed, her voice husky. "I... I need something custom." She swiped frantically, opening the hidden folder, finding the clearest photo. The one showcasing the brutal thickness, the prominent veins snaking down rigid flesh, the angry, flushed head. She slid the phone across the cool glass towards the clerk. The screen glowed, an obscene beacon in the pristine space. Orihime leaned forward, her cleavage pressing against the glass counter as she pointed, her finger trembling. "Like this. Exactly like this."
The clerk picked up the phone, her gaze flicking over the image. Her perfectly sculpted eyebrow arched a fraction, the only crack in her professional facade. She zoomed in slightly, studying the details with clinical detachment.
"Specific dimensions are crucial for realism," she stated, her tone unchanged, pulling her own tablet closer. "Do you have measurements? Girth? Length? Curve angle?"
Orihime shook her head, her breath catching. "No. Just... from the picture. It needs to be... it needs to feel right." Her thighs pressed together under her skirt, a fresh pulse of heat blooming low in her belly. The clerk’s utter lack of reaction, her cool appraisal of Ryūken’s exposed flesh, was strangely, powerfully arousing. "Same girth," Orihime breathed, leaning closer, her voice dropping to a whisper. "Same... texture. The veins prominent. Um..." She swallowed hard, the phantom taste of neglect sharp on her tongue. "And... the other details? Like... the... the look." She gestured vaguely at the screen, at the base.
The clerk’s gaze sharpened for a microsecond. She zoomed in further, tapping her tablet screen. "Surface texture replication is standard. We use medical-grade platinum silicone. We can capture epidermal variations." She paused, then looked directly at Orihime, a tiny, knowing glint appearing in her otherwise impassive eyes. It wasn't lewd. It was the look of a professional recognizing a very specific, unspoken request. "Bio-realism packages are available. Including pigmentation matching, pubic simulation... and organic residue effects. For maximum verisimilitude."
The words – clinical, detached – sent a jolt straight through Orihime. Verisimilitude. Yes. Truth. She needed the truth of it. The whole, ugly, visceral truth. The sour musk, the unwashed tang, the biological reality captured in silicone. Her face flamed, but the ache between her legs intensified, a throbbing counterpoint to the hammering of her heart. The clerk’s barely-there smirk – acknowledging the depths of Orihime’s depraved request – made her wetter. "Yes," Orihime whispered, her voice thick. "All of it. The... the smegma. The... cum. Exactly like this. How long?"
The clerk typed rapidly. "Custom bio-realism with organic replication requires a three-week minimum. Deposit is 70%. We offer expedited processing at a premium." She quoted a figure that made Orihime’s breath hitch. It was obscene. Almost a month's rent. Ryūken’s money, flaunted on ill-fitting clothes, flashed in her mind. Ichigo’s absence echoed. She pulled out her card, her hand shaking only slightly.
"Do it. Fastest option." The plastic slid across the glass. The clerk processed it with a detached swipe. The transaction complete, she handed Orihime a discreet black receipt and a sleek, embossed card with a QR code. "Your order number. Updates will be sent via encrypted link. Pickup only. ID required."
Orihime stuffed the card and receipt deep into her bag, the phone screen finally going black as the battery died. The clerk gave a small, professional nod. "A unique request. We’ll ensure precision." That knowing look flickered again. Orihime turned and fled the clinical intimacy of the shop, pushing back out into the humid evening. The sleek glass doors slid shut behind her, sealing away the transaction. Rain began to spit, cold needles on her heated skin. The weight in her bag felt different now – not just secrets, but a promise. Three weeks. She started walking, not towards the station, but aimlessly, the image of the grotesque replica burning in her mind, the phantom taste of Ryūken mixing with the metallic tang of rain on her lips. The void inside pulsed, waiting.
Rain slicked the pavement, reflecting neon signs that bled across the wet concrete like oil. Orihime walked, oblivious to the growing downpour soaking through her blouse, plastering the thin fabric to her skin. The cold shock barely registered against the furnace burning low in her belly; the image of the silicone monstrosity she’d commissioned, complete with Ryūken’s ‘organic residue’, pulsed behind her eyes with each step. Three weeks. The wait felt like a physical ache, a chasm widening within her.
A sharp scent cut through the urban dampness – earth and chlorophyll and something faintly sweet. She blinked, realizing she’d stopped. A small, bustling night market unfolded under striped awnings, vendors shouting over the drumming rain. Crates overflowed with vibrant produce: glossy eggplants, knobbly ginger roots, fat, ridged zucchinis. And cucumbers. Long, dark green, impossibly thick specimens nestled beside their slimmer cousins. Her gaze locked onto one particular beast at the edge of a crate.
It was absurdly large, almost cartoonish in its girth. Easily rivaling the dimensions seared onto her dying phone screen. Her breath hitched. The clinical perfection of the silicone replica felt suddenly distant, abstract. This was now. Rough-skinned, cool, undeniably real. A primal urge, sharp and insistent, overrode any lingering shame from the sterile sex shop. She needed something. Tonight.
"How much for the big one?" Her voice sounded rough, unfamiliar to her own ears. She pointed, her finger trembling slightly, not at the cucumber itself, but at the sheer, desperate need it represented.
The vendor, a wizened man in a plastic poncho, squinted. "That champion cuke? Two-fifty. Good for pickling, salad... whatever you need, pretty lady." He winked, a gesture that would normally make Orihime blush. Tonight, she barely registered it.
She fumbled damp bills from her wallet, handing them over without counting. The cold, smooth weight of the cucumber filled her hand as she took it. It felt substantial, dangerously real. The rain ran down its length, mimicking sweat. She shoved it deep into her already overstuffed bag, the stiff end protruding slightly near the broken button from her blouse. The bag felt heavier, illicit.
Her eyes scanned the next stall, drawn like a magnet. Packets of powders and dried roots hung in clear plastic bags. A sign, hand-scrawled on cardboard, read: 'Potency & Pleasure - Nature's Best'. The stall owner, a woman with bright eyes and beads clattering in her braids, watched her approach. "Looking for a little spark, honey? Long week?"
Orihime’s cheeks flamed, but she met the woman’s gaze. "Something... strong. To... feel something." The words tumbled out, raw and honest in a way the sex shop transaction hadn't been.
The woman nodded, unsurprised, and plucked a small, unassuming pouch of deep burgundy powder from a hook. "Damiana root. Pure. Strongest I got. Just a pinch under the tongue, or steep it. Lights a fire." She tapped the pouch meaningfully. "Careful now. Respect the flame."
Orihime bought it without haggling, the little pouch joining the cucumber in the bag’s depths. The woman’s knowing look echoed the sex shop clerk’s, but warmer, less detached. It felt like complicity.
One last stop. A brightly lit 24-hour convenience store. Fluorescent lights buzzed overhead. She beelined past the snacks and magazines, straight to the family planning aisle. Rows of condom boxes gleamed under the harsh light. Her fingers skimmed past the standard sizes. Ribbed for her pleasure. Ultra-thin. Meaningless words. Her gaze landed on the box in the corner: 'Magnum XL'. The image showed a hand barely able to encircle the prophylactic. She snatched two boxes. Just in case.
At the self-checkout, she avoided the security camera's unblinking eye. The cucumber’s bulge in her bag, the damiana root, the oversized condoms – they felt like evidence laid bare. The machine beeped accusingly as she scanned each item. She shoved everything deeper, paid with shaking hands, and pushed back out into the relentless rain.
The cold water streamed down her face, mingling with something warmer, saltier. Was she crying? Or was it just the rain? She didn't know. She clutched the plastic bag handles tightly, the thin plastic cutting into her palm. The pressure was the only thing anchoring her. Home. She needed to get home. Now. The void wasn't just pulsing anymore; it was roaring, a hungry beast demanding immediate appeasement. Her wet skirt clung to her thighs, heavy with rain and anticipation. She broke into a run, splashing through puddles, the bulky bag banging against her hip with every stride. The streetlights blurred into streaks of gold on the wet asphalt as she fled towards her empty apartment, the phantom taste of neglect already warring with the imagined spice of damiana on her tongue.