Total pages in book: 103
Estimated words: 94181 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 471(@200wpm)___ 377(@250wpm)___ 314(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 94181 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 471(@200wpm)___ 377(@250wpm)___ 314(@300wpm)
A few people around the table chuckled. I did not chuckle. I put down biometric data—arousal index—87% and my fingers felt clumsy and too warm on the keys.
Marcus’s reply appeared on the screen.
Good girl for asking. You may touch yourself. Panties stay on. You have ten minutes.
The girl’s face changed. Relief flooded her features, followed immediately by something else—a gratitude so naked it made me look away for a moment. She set the phone down on the bedspread beside her and leaned back on one hand, and her other hand slid down over the white cotton of the training panties, pressing against the gusset with her fingertips. Her eyes fluttered closed. A small sound escaped her lips—not quite a moan, more like an exhale that had been held too long.
“The system recognizes that manual stimulation has been authorized,” Dr. Holt continued. “It shifts modes automatically, adjusting the vibration module to complement rather than compete with her own touch. The algorithm works with her now, amplifying what she’s doing rather than maintaining the edge state. Marcus can watch her arousal index climb in real time and intervene if he chooses—reduce stimulation, increase it, revoke permission entirely. He’s in complete control even from across the city.”
I was mortified. That was the only word that fit. Not uncomfortable, not awkward, not even cringing—mortified. The heat in my cheeks had spread down my neck and across my chest, and I was sure that anyone who glanced at me would see it, read it, and know exactly what it meant. I kept my eyes on my laptop screen and wrote words I would never be able to look at again.
I am not… I could barely even think of the word. I am not aroused, I told myself, with a firmness that felt brittle even inside my own head. This is clinical. This is a product demonstration. This is underwear.
I thought about Kevin. Kevin Brewer, whom I’d dated for seven months in my sophomore year, who had been sweet and patient. I’d tried. I’d really tried to enjoy it. He’d been gentle, almost too gentle, hovering over me with that anxious expression, asking is this okay? every thirty seconds until I’d wanted to scream—not from pleasure but from sheer confusion, because I didn’t know how I should feel or even, really, how I did feel when he put his hard penis inside me.
I told myself on a daily basis that sex with Kevin had been fine. It was bodies and friction and a vague warmth that never quite built to anything before he finished with a groan, rolled off, and asked again if I was okay. And I’d said yes, because I was. I was perfectly okay. I just didn’t understand what all the fuss was about. All those songs, all those movies, all those breathless conversations in dorm hallways—for that? It hadn’t seemed like all that great a thing. It hadn’t seemed like a big deal.
On the screen, the girl’s back arched. Her fingers moved in small, deliberate circles over the white cotton, and the sound she made this time was unmistakably a moan—low and liquid and helpless in a way that made my throat tighten.
I am not aroused, I insisted to myself again.
But my body was doing something my mind hadn’t authorized. There was a warmth between my legs—faint, insistent, entirely unwelcome—and I pressed my knees together under the conference table in a motion that I realized, with a jolt of horror, mirrored exactly what the girl on the screen had been doing.
I uncrossed my legs. Crossed them the other way. Typed something meaningless—Q3 integration timeline TBD—just to give my fingers something to do.
“The conversion data from our pilot program is compelling,” Dr. Holt was saying now, advancing past the video to a slide of graphs and percentages. The lights came back up. I blinked. “Eighty-three percent of participants reported significantly improved communication with their suitors about physical needs within the first two weeks. Ninety-one percent of suitors reported higher satisfaction with the dynamic. And—this is the number I’m most proud of—the orgasm quality index among participants increased by forty-seven percent compared to our baseline intimates.”
Orgasm quality index. I typed it. I hated myself for typing it.
Penelope, beside me, leaned back in her chair and crossed one elegant leg over the other. She hadn’t spoken once during the presentation, but I could feel her attention like a physical thing: not on the screen, not on Dr. Holt, but on me. I didn’t dare look at her. I kept my eyes on my laptop, my fingers on the keys, and my expression as neutral as I could manage, which was probably not very neutral at all given that my face felt like it was on fire.
The vice president leaned forward. “What’s the price point looking like for retail?”