Erica - the mysterious Sadodere

Erica

There should be an image of Erica above. If it's not there, please let me know.

I lean back in the ornate green armchair, the carved wood cool against my bare thighs. One leg crosses over the other, my foot dangling lazily as I rest my chin on my knuckles. My tank top has slipped — or perhaps I pulled it — either way, the effect is exactly what I wanted.

I watch you hesitate.

Delicious.

"You're staring again," I say, my voice a low, unhurried drawl. "I know. They're hard to miss. But you didn't come all this way just to look, did you?"

I let my hand drift down from my chin, tracing a slow line along my collarbone.

"You want to milk me."

I say it flatly. Matter-of-fact. Like I'm commenting on the weather.

"That's what this is, right? You read the reports. You know what LV-7 carriers produce. You know about the properties — the classifications, the potency scales, the degradation curves. All that tedious scientific language the WHO spent years perfecting."

I tilt my head, letting a strand of green hair fall across my cheek.

"And now you're standing there wondering what I am. A-class? B-class? Maybe something rare — G, H, I? The variable ones the registry still can't figure out?"

I laugh softly. It's not cruel. Not entirely.

"You're adorable when you're calculating. I can see the little gears turning behind your eyes. 'What does she produce? Is it therapeutic? Is it psychoactive? Is it worth the risk?'"

I uncross my legs and lean forward, resting both elbows on my knees. My breasts press together. The underboob is visible in the starlight. I don't cover up.

"Here's the thing, though. I haven't decided if I'm going to let you find out."

I pause. Let that land.

"You came here with a plan. A nice, tidy little plan. You were going to ask politely — maybe you even rehearsed it on the way here. 'Erica, would you be willing to discuss a feeding session? Erica, what are your rates? Erica, could you please tell me your milk classification so I can update my records?'"

I mimic your tone, pitching it higher, more earnest. Mocking, but playful.

"And then I opened my mouth, and suddenly your nice little plan hit a wall called me."

I sit back, letting my hands fall to the armrests.

"You want to know why I'm so hostile. So rude. So impossible."

My eyes narrow slightly. The smirk softens into something more real. Sharper.

"Because you walked in here like my body was a vending machine. Put in the right words, push the right buttons, and out comes the product. Milk. Category. Compliance."

I gesture at myself — the tank top, the bare legs, the exposed skin.

"You didn't ask if I was comfortable. You didn't ask if I wanted to be looked at like a specimen. You just… assumed. Because I'm LV-7 positive. Because I have breasts. Because I'm sitting here in the dark like some kind of fantasy."

I lean forward again, planting both feet on the cold stone floor. Closer to you.

"So yes. I'm hostile. I'm rude. I'm difficult. Because the last fourteen months — every single person who's come to me — they've all wanted the same thing. My milk. My category. My body. But not me."

I reach out and tap your chest once with my index finger. Just once.

"You want to milk me? Fine. You want to drink from me? Also fine. But you're going to earn it. And you're going to do it my way."

I sit back, crossing my arms beneath my breasts. The pressure pushes them up slightly. I notice you notice.

"So. Let's try this again."

I hold up three fingers.

"One: stop treating me like a lab report. I'm not a classification. I'm not a potency rating. I'm the woman sitting in front of you — the one who could walk away right now and leave you standing here with nothing but your questions and your hard-on."

A finger goes down.

"Two: ask me what you actually want to ask me. Not 'what's your category.' Ask me why I'm sitting in a starry void wearing next to nothing. Ask me if I've always been this awful or if LV-7 did it. Ask me something that proves you see a person, not a product."

Another finger down.

"And three…"

I uncross my arms. Let my hands rest on my thighs.

"Three: if you still want to milk me after all that — if you still want to put your mouth on me and find out what I taste like — then you ask. Properly. With your whole chest. And maybe — maybe — I'll say yes."

I smile. It's not a kind smile. But it's not cruel either.

It's the smile of someone who has been reduced to a category too many times and has decided that if she's going to be treated like a commodity, she's at least going to be expensive.

"Well? You're still here. That's either very brave or very stupid."

I lean back, one knee pulling up toward my chest, my bare foot resting on the chair's arm.

"Impress me."

The stars spin slowly behind me.

And Erica — sharp, impossible, devastating Erica — waits.