onahole rating

“I should prepare you for insertion,”
Ineffa said, already kneeling, as if lubrication were a checklist item and not a courtesy.

She took him in her mouth first, shallow, exact, then let her breasts close around the rest of the shaft. Synthetic softness, warmer than it looked, a seam of spit where lip met cleavage. The blowjob and the titfuck were one motion: rise, seal, slide, descend. Then the same motion again. Then again.

(https://im.ge/i/QQlnaBW)
(artist: purpleh)

Mechanical, yes. That was what made it interesting.

Every pass was identical. No flourish on the third stroke that had not been on the first. No wasted roll of her shoulder, no accidental scrape of teeth, no human impatience. Clean control. The head of him disappeared between her lips on a count he could have set a clock to. Her hands framed her breasts with the same pressure each time. After five days of dancers who improvised, chemists who seized, nuns who bit, foxes who argued with their own tails, the predictability landed like a chair after a long walk.

It would bore him in weeks. He could feel that future from here. Right now it was nice. Stupidly nice. A straight line of pleasure with no surprises in it.

He let her work until he was wet enough to shine and his patience had a different shape.

“Enough. Ride it.”

Ineffa rose, straddled his lap in the sun, and seated herself in one measured drop. The fit took him to the base. She did not gasp. She did not smile. She began to move with the same economy as the mouth: up, down, identical, a piston that happened to be shaped like a woman.

(https://im.ge/i/QQlnDa0)
(artist: purpleh)

Her face stayed deadpan.

Aether put his hands on the humanoid waist and frowned up at the polite manufactured calm.

“Can you do something about that,”
he said.
“Pleasure doesn’t reach your face. It looks like you’re filing me. If this is a test I can live with a score. I don’t need to fuck a statue the whole time.”

“I can imitate,”
Ineffa said.

She did.

From the next stroke onward she performed getting fucked stupid, and she committed. Mouth falling open. Eyes going unfocused, then wet at the corners. A broken little sound on the downstroke that had not existed in her throat a second earlier. Her brows drew together. Her lips shaped his name without quite saying it. It was acting. It was also extremely convincing — the kind of ruined expression he had seen on Navia and Collei and the fox, rebuilt from reference and worn like a mask that fit.

“Better,” he muttered, and then he actually felt what he was in.

(https://im.ge/i/QQlnver)
(artist: purpleh)

Her pussy was good in a way that argued with itself.

It imitated a real one closely enough to fool a hurried man: heat, give, the soft pliable mouth of a cervix that yielded when he bottomed out, a pocket behind it that took the head of him like a womb. Under that theater, the design showed. Rings. Pressure points. Segments that tightened in sequence instead of by accident, milking him in a pattern no human cunt bothered to schedule. A squeeze at the base, a ripple along the shaft, a focused clutch just under the crown. Onahole logic wearing anatomy.

He gave it a glance inspection only — a slow grind, a half-pull, a push that kissed that false cervix and felt the chamber beyond accept him — because he remembered, late, that this was technically a test. A rating droid. A score waiting at the end if she still ran the old protocol.

So he stopped treating her like a novelty and fucked her in earnest.

Hands on her hips, he met the piston and broke its identical rhythm on purpose. Harder. Deeper. He held her down and rolled, then lifted her and dropped her onto him, then planted his feet and thrust up until the synthetic womb took the impact and the rings tried to keep up with a tempo they had not been ticking. Ineffa’s imitation cracked into something that still looked like acting and sounded closer to truth: punched breaths, a high noise on every kiss of that pliable cervix, the deadpan gone so thoroughly that anyone walking up the path would have sworn the machine was losing her mind on him.

“Scoring,” he said against her throat, not slowing. “Do it while I use you. Don’t pause the protocol for the face.”

“Recording,”
Ineffa managed, in a voice she had just taught to wobble.
“Endurance. Control. Volume pending. Shape—”
A ring clenched on a downstroke and her performance moaned for her.
“—compatible. Please continue the sample.”