Miriam Shelley - Love Event 1

One and a half weeks went by.

Nothing much to tell, the days blended to a grey miasma of blandness.

Amazingly, the coffeeshop cocksucking-video never surfaced. Either it was getting blocked for being too adult, or it simply didn’t qualify as viral. Or maybe the app was saving my ass somehow? I didn’t care what the reason was, the main point was that nobody ever contacted me about it and I could enjoy solitude again.

All of my idle girls were out growing their stats, still some points away from an actual event.

The only ray of sunshine were the two Friday mornings, when Sandy’s “send a risky selfie” activated.

The first notification buzzed through the grey fog of morning, waking me up better than any coffee could.

I rubbed the sleep from my eyes and tapped the screen, and there she was — Sandy, lying on her stomach on her bed, her bare legs stretched out behind her, the hem of her black shorts riding up high on her thighs, exposing the smooth, pale curve of her ass.

She was wearing a loose black t-shirt with a pixelated red-and-white logo on the back, the sleeves rolled up casually to her elbows. She was holding a game controller, and winking one eye shut and sticking her tongue like a dork at the camera.

It was pure, unfiltered Sandy — dorky, playful, and utterly unaware of how sexy she looked.

“Just beat your score in the bunker level. Notice me yet, senpai?”

I stared at that image for ten minutes.

It was risky for her. It was a step outside the “just friends” bubble, and she knew it.

It was outright flirty.

Which was actually mean if you thought about it. She had said we wouldn’t date, so this was essentially just teasing. But I didn’t give a fuck, I mean I was the one who made her do this. And I knew things would change soon.

I didn’t just save it. I set it as my lockscreen.

It made me hard.

The second one, which arrived yesterday, was different. It wasn't a goofy pose this time.

She was submerged in a bathtub filled with bubbles, most of her hidden beneath the white foam. Only her knees and shoulders poked out, glistening wet.

Her wet blonde hair was pulled back in a messy bun, a few loose strands plastered to her neck.

She was holding a rubber duck against her cheek, squeezing it slightly, a small, tentative smile playing on her lips.

But more than the boner-inducing nudity, it was her eyes that got me.

They were wide, soft, and completely unguarded. There wasn't a trace of the "one of the guys" energy she usually projected.

“Relaxing after that long raid! Duckie wanted to say hi! ”

It was innocent, yes, but incredibly intimate. And so fucking cute.

Duckie might soon have to make way for my Cockie.

God, that sounded so stupid.

Glad I didn’t say it out loud.

I also saw her “casual gaming” streams I had scheduled for her, she linked those to me without me even asking. She actually wanted to hear my opinon of it.

I watched every second of both of her streams, loving every sweet joke, successful play and mistake she made. She could read a fucking dictionary and make it adorable.

The viewer count started at zero, but climbed up with quite a steady pace.

As did the suggestive comments.

I was immediately jealous, considering pulling this from Sandy’s schedule. But I remembered that the NTR-option was off, so it wasn’t anything I should actually care about. But it still bothered me.

---

Now… It was Saturday morning.

And finally… One of the stat boxes had filled up.

Miriam’s love 1.

I expected to see an event appear in her schedule… but nothing.

Instead, I got a message.

---

Ron, hi. It’s Miriam. I have a couple of things I’d like to discuss with you. I know it’s Saturday, but I would appreciate if we’d meet this evening. The rest of my week is so stuffed. Let me know as soon as you can.

---

That was a bit of a change to the rhythm. The woman was setting the schedule herself.

I was kinda interested in seeing what would happen if I refused. Surely the event wouldn’t disappear completely, just get re-scheduled?

And the worst case was that it would get re-scheduled to next Saturday. I didn’t want to wait that long, so I just answered in the affirmative.

---

Great! I’ll send my address to you. Get here at 8 pm.

---

Well, it wasn’t very cordial, and honestly annoying she thought she could order her employee on the weekend, but I could get over that.

This thing was about changing her worldview, and the start would be naturally be a bit… challenging.

---

The address Miriam sent led to one of those sleek, glass-and-steel towers downtown that always looked like they were judging the older brick buildings around them.

The lobby was all cold marble and potted ferns that probably cost more than my monthly rent. A doorman in a uniform too crisp for a Saturday evening nodded me toward the elevators after I gave Miriam’s name.

Of course she lives here, I thought, punching the button for the 14th floor. The managerial class makes all the money, while mine does the actual work.

The door to her unit was solid, painted a tasteful dark grey. It looked sturdy, not ornate.

I took a breath, trying to shove down the part of me that felt like a delivery boy who’d taken a wrong turn, and knocked.

The door opened almost immediately, as if she’d been waiting right behind it.

“Ron. Right on time.”

She stood framed in the doorway, and my brain did some quick inventory.

Not work-clothes. That was the first surprise.

She was wearing a cropped, black tank top that stopped just short of her ribcage, exposing a strip of toned, pale stomach. It wasn't a loose fit; it was body-skimming, hugging her silhouette in a way that made it impossible to ignore the sharp taper of her waist and the subtle curve of her hips.

And her big tits, of course.

Paired with it were dark, tailored joggers that sat high on her waist, accentuating her long legs. The fabric looked structured yet soft, wrapping around her thighs with enough tension to suggest a confidence in her own body that usually stayed buried under a blazer.

Her blonde bob was slightly less sharp than usual, a few strands falling loose. She was barefoot.

The overall effect was calculated casual.

This wasn’t her slouching around; this was her weekend uniform, meticulously curated to signal, I am relaxed and approachable, but my sweatpants cost more than your car.

“Come in,” she said, stepping aside.

I stepped past her into her apartment, and the full **** of her aesthetic hit me.

It was like walking into a magazine spread titled “How to play the part.” Everything was shades of grey, cream, and muted navy. The furniture was low-slung, modern, and looked like you’d need a PhD in ergonomics to sit on it properly.

A huge abstract painting dominated one wall—swirls of grey and charcoal that probably had a pretentious name like “Urban Solitude #4.” The floors were a pale, polished concrete, spotted with impossibly clean-looking rugs.

There were no photos. No knick-knacks. No evidence of a life lived, only a life designed. A single, pristine book sat on the glass coffee table: “The Algorithmic Leader.”

I bet she’d never opened it. It was a prop.

The air smelled faintly of lemons and something else… sandalwood? It was the scent of expensive cleaning products and cold calculation.

“Nice place,” I said, my voice echoing slightly in the vast, sterile space. “Very… minimalist.”

“It’s efficient,” she replied, closing the door with a soft, expensive thud. “No clutter. Everything has a purpose.”

Of course it does, I thought. Even your fucking sofa probably has a quarterly performance review.

She led me into the open-plan living area, which flowed into a kitchen that looked like it had never seen a drop of cooking oil. The appliances were stainless steel monoliths, lurking behind cabinetry.

A bowl of perfect, identical green apples sat on the island like a still-life painting.

“Can I get you a drink? I have sparkling water, cold brew, or a Sancerre that’s quite good.”

“Sparkling water’s fine,” I said, because choosing the wine felt too intimate, and the cold brew felt like a trap to filter out the uncouth masses who had somehow infiltrated her castle of sophistication.

She pulled out a bottle, poured it into a heavy crystal glass without asking if I wanted ice (I didn’t), and handed it to me.

Her fingers brushed mine.

The contact was brief, professional, but in this context… it felt loaded.

“Let’s sit,” she said, gesturing to a sectional sofa that looked like a geometric sculpture.

Miriam sat opposite me on a low, sculpted chair, tucking one foot underneath her. The pose was meant to look relaxed, but her spine was still ruler-straight.

She took a sip from her own glass of wine, her light blue eyes studying me over the rim. The corporate mask was still there, but it had cracks.

“So,” she began, setting her glass down on a coaster that probably cost fifty dollars. “Thank you for coming on short notice. I know weekends are… valuable.”

“It’s fine,” I said, taking a sip of the fizzy water. “You said you had things to discuss.”

“I do.” She leaned forward slightly, and the neckline of her tank top gaped just enough to offer a glimpse of a black lace strap. It was a stark contrast to the sterile environment.

A deliberate choice? It was hard to imagine this woman did anything that wasn’t pre-calculated.

But then again, I knew at least some of the changes that had happened in her life. By this point, she had dreamt happy dreams about me four times… and masturbated to the thought of me four times also.

“Can I be honest with you?”

Her tone had a hint of vulnerability to it, but still guarded.

“S-sure,” I answered, the atmosphere starting to make me a bit more nervous.

“I’m not quite sure why you decided to continue with us. Don’t you find your new half-position a bit… humiliating?”

Okay. Straight to the matter. Good.

“Well… I guess I just had hope.”

“Hope?” she asked, her tone genuinely curious.

“Yeah. Like… Maybe, if I proved my worth… I’d get my full job back?”

It was as good a starter as any. She should care about me at least a little bit by now.

A smile crept on her face.

“You know how AI works, right? It’s not getting worse at this point. It’s only getting better, slowly making your job obsolete.”

She leaned forward, her cleavage getting harder to avoid.

“That option I gave you wasn’t a real option. It was way to soften your landing, giving you the option to choose to leave by yourself. You’re the first one who actually picked it.”

I… I guess I knew that. But it was surprising to hear her being so open about it.

“And that…” she said, leaning back, picking up her glass. “That makes you interesting.”