Josh arrives at Synthia's abode.

The knock came—three sharp raps against the doorframe, each one a staccato pulse of hesitation. The floorboards groaned under her weight as she walked with the feeling of a clock’s hand ticking forward.

Her fingers curled around the doorknob. She opened it without a word, the hinges sighing like a last breath. Josh stood on the threshold, his shoulders hunched, his fingers fidgeting with the hem of his shirt. The scent of his nervous sweat curled into the apartment—salt and cheap cologne. His eyes darted over her, lingering too long on the swell of her mommy milkers, the curve of her fishnet-clad thighs, before snapping back to her face.

“H-hi,” he managed, his voice cracking like brittle bone.

Synthia stepped aside, granting him entry with the same silent indifference of a gate swinging open in a graveyard. Josh shuffled past her, his sneakers squeaking against the floorboards, his shoulders tense as if expecting something to lunge from the shadows. The door clicked shut behind him, sealing them in the dim, candlelit hush of the apartment.

She led him to the bedroom, her boots striking the floor with metronomic precision. Josh followed, his breath shallow, his gaze darting between the framed tarot cards, the unlit candelabra, the single black rose wilting in a vase of tarnished silver. The bedroom door stood ajar, the darkness beyond thick as ink.

Synthia paused at the threshold, her silhouette cutting a sharp line against the gloom. Josh swallowed audibly, his Adam’s apple bobbing. “So, uh,” he began, his fingers knotting together, “we’ve been seeing each other for a while now…” His voice trailed off trying to remember what his sister told him to say, the unspoken question hanging between them like a noose.

She blinked—once, slow, as if recalling she was supposed to. Then, with the same detached precision of a doll being posed, she tilted her head.

Josh exhaled, shaky. “Could we, um… well… have sex?”

The words dissolved into the silence. Synthia didn’t react, didn’t blush, didn’t smirk. She simply reached for the laces of her corset, her nails slicing through the ribbons with a single, effortless tug. The leather slithered from her body, pooling at her feet like a dead thing. The fishnets followed, peeling away like shed skin, then the boots, each one hitting the floor with a hollow thud.

The corset fell away, revealing the stark, marble-pale expanse of her torso, the heavy swell of her breasts—unnaturally full, veined with delicate blue beneath the skin, nipples the same bruised black as her lips. Synthia stepped free of the discarded garments, stark naked, a statue carved from something too perfect to be flesh. The air itself seemed to still around her, the candlelight refusing to flicker against her skin, as if afraid to touch her.

“Yes,” she said. The word had less emotion than a TTS model....

Josh’s breath hitched. His fingers twitched at his sides, damp with sweat, his knuckles whitening as he clenched and unclenched his fists. His gaze darted over her body, lingering on the curve of her waist, the flare of her hips, the impossible darkness between her thighs. He swallowed, his throat clicking.

Synthia turned without another word and walked toward the bed, her bare feet soundless against the floorboards. The mattress dipped beneath her weight as she settled onto the edge, the sheets—black silk, cold as a moonlit pond—wrinkling beneath her. She watched him, unblinking, her blood-dark irises fixed on his face.

Josh hesitated, then shuffled forward, his sneakers scuffing against the floor. His hands hovered awkwardly, trembling slightly, before Synthia reached out and took them in hers. Her fingers were cool, her grip firm but lifeless, like it was stone but soft. She guided his palms to her breasts, pressing them flat against the heavy, yielding weight of her flesh.

He exhaled sharply, his fingers flexing instinctively, kneading the softness with clumsy reverence. Synthia showed and felt nothing—no pleasure, no discomfort, no flicker of recognition in the depths of her hollow chest. She simply waited, her breathing even, her face an unmoving mask of glossy black lips and painted-on shadows.

Josh’s thumbs brushed over her nipples, stiff and dark against the pallor of her skin. He bit his lip, his own arousal obvious in the strained fabric of his jeans, but Synthia didn’t react. She didn’t arch into his touch, didn’t sigh, didn’t so much as blink. Her body was a vessel, beautiful and empty, a doll posed for his use.

“You’re so… soft,” he murmured, his voice cracking.

Synthia said nothing.

His hands wandered lower, tracing the dip of her waist, the swell of her hips, before hesitating at the junction of her thighs. His breath came faster now, his pupils dilated, his lips parted. Synthia watched him silently.