First date

When I pushed through the glass doors of the office, I was certain every single eye turned to me.

Maybe they didn’t. Maybe no one cared. But the blouse clung transparent against my breasts, the crimson corset jutted them higher, nipples stiff under the air-con, the slit of my skirt yawning wide with each step of my heels. It was impossible not to feel seen.

My face burned. I tugged at the fabric pointlessly, trying to cover skin that wasn’t meant to be covered. I felt overdressed. Overexposed. Like I’d walked onto the wrong set of the wrong movie.

The pod hissed shut behind me.

The walls hummed, sterile white. The same screen. The same keyboard. My station.

The skirt splitting open so wide I didn’t even have to uncross my legs to flash the gold between them.

On the desk, waiting for me, a neat cube of tissues. I hadn’t put them there. They weren’t there yesterday.

The ring buzzed before I could even think. A jolt of obedience shot down my thighs. My hand moved without asking me, plucking a tissue free, sliding under the desk. I tried to resist, to hold my wrist back—but no. The ring commanded, and my fingers obeyed.

I wiped myself.

His cum. Cold. Sticky. Still clinging to my cunt, smeared against my thighs. It came away in clumps, strands stretching between the paper and my lips. I bit down hard, cheeks burning, **** to clean myself like some filthy animal. One tissue, then another, until the last trace was gone except the smell. The smell lingered.

The screen flickered to life.

ALI: Why didn’t you fuck him?

My throat caught.

Me: Too fast. It’s all too fast.

The ring pulsed faintly, a warning hum.

frantic.

Me: Where did the clothes come from? Where are my old ones?

The cursor blinked. Then—

ALI: You must adapt.

Anger buzzing under my skin.

Me: Adapt to what? I’ve done no real work since I started here. What is my role?

Silence.

My chest rose, jagged.

Me: Who was he? Richard?

The reply came instantly.

ALI: You already know Richard.

I froze.

Me: What the fuck does that mean?

ALI: Observe.

The screen shifted. A Tinder profile appeared. Mine.

Photos I’d never taken filled the screen. Me in the crimson corset, tits thrust out. Me bent forward, skirt open, ring gleaming. Me sprawled across silk sheets, smiling like I belonged there.

The words under my name blurred in front of my eyes. My bio promised things I’d never written, never even thought. Promised obedience. Promised my cunt.

Then the messages. Dozens of them, scrolling fast, all in my voice.

—You’ll love me in silk.

—Yes, I’ll cover dinner. Don’t worry, I’ll spoil you.

—When you fuck me, I’ll scream for you. Guaranteed.

ALI’s text cut through the feed, brutal in its simplicity:

ALI: Richard was janitor at your old school. He has been… upgraded. You bought him the suit. The haircut. Paid for the food. Paid for everything.

The pod tilted. My hands clawed at the desk edge. The tissue I’d used to wipe myself still sat on the surface, stained, damning.

The screen flashed again.

ALI: Now answer. Why did you not have sex with him?

My clit throbbed. The ring hummed, louder this time, like it was impatient.

I looked down at myself nipples hard, corset biting, skirt gaping wide, thighs raw where his cum had dried and cracked before I’d been **** to wipe it away.

I didn’t know who I was anymore.

And the question kept pulsing on the screen, each word like a hammer blow.

ALI: Why did you not have sex with him?