No, try to reason with her

Grant staggered back a step, bare feet sticking in the wet streak she’d left on the carpet. He blinked hard, once, twice, then slammed the heel of his hand against his temple like he could knock the hallucination loose.

“This isn’t real,” he muttered. He smacked the side of his head again, harder. A dull thud. “Wake the fuck up, wake up—”

His eyes darted from her (glistening, furious, chest heaving on the floor by the door) to the open black crate still sitting in the middle of the room, satin lining crumpled like a crime scene.

Back to her.

Back to the crate.

Her pussy was still spread open from that last deliberate flex, lips puffy and shining, a slow bead of their mixed fluids crawling down toward her asshole.

Grant’s voice cracked. “What the fuck just happened?”

He dragged both hands through his hair, pulling until it hurt.

“You’re… you’re a sex doll. Silicone with a posable spine. No motors, no hydraulics, no nothing. You’re supposed to just lie there and take it.”

He laughed, low and bitter, the sound scraping up her throat like broken glass.

“Newsflash, genius,” she said, rolling her hips so her clit dragged across the carpet and made her gasp mid-sentence. “I woke up with your cock shoved inside me. I felt it. Every vein. Every pulse.”

She scooted another six inches toward the hallway, breasts dragging, nipples leaving faint wet trails of sweat.

“So yeah,” she continued, voice dripping venom, “turns out I’m not great at doing ‘the very thing I was made for’ when I have an opinion about it.”

Grant stared, mouth working soundlessly.

She tilted her head, purple hair sticking to her damp cheek. “Cat got your tongue, or is your brain just stuck on the part where the fucktoy grew teeth?”

Grant’s gaze dropped helplessly to her body again: the obscene bounce of her tits with every breath, the way her abs rippled every time she moved, the swollen, angry-red lips of her pussy still twitching from adrenaline and unwanted arousal.

He whispered, almost to himself, “This isn’t possible.”

“Tell that to my cervix,” she snarled. “You bruised it four thrusts ago.”

She arched her back again, lifting her hips clear off the floor in one smooth, terrifying motion (like a cobra flaring). The pose spread her wide open, a deliberate, mocking invitation.

“Come on, Grant,” she crooned, voice suddenly syrupy and cruel. “One more try. I’ll even let you get halfway in before I’ll clamp down so hard you’ll be pissing blood for a week.”

A visible shudder ran through him. His cock (still slick, still shamefully hard) jerked at the threat.

She saw it. Her smile went razor-sharp.

“Clock’s ticking,” she whispered. “Either you figure out how to explain this to the cops when I scream, or you open that door and let me leave with what’s left of your DNA dripping down my thighs.”

Grant stood frozen, chest heaving, staring at the living, furious miracle he’d paid two grand for.

She waited, hips still raised, pussy glistening, every muscle coiled and ready to explode again.

“Your move, baby,” she said softly. “But choose fast. I’m faster than I look.”