Kyle
When I logged on for work, I didn’t hesitate. I powered through every task without pause, skipping lunch and breaks. I didn’t even feel hungry—just focused. Every second counted.
The moment my shift ended, I jumped into research mode, contacting every major manufacturing company with the capacity to invest. I wasn’t going to wait for opportunity to come knocking—I was going to rip the door off its hinges.
The trick was to lure them in with simplicity. Hook them with the basics, the pitch they could understand. Then, once I had someone’s attention, dazzle them with the full capabilities of the hi-tech prototype.
My patent protected the invention. This time, no one was going to fuck me over. Not after thirty years of being ignored, used, or brushed aside. Not a fucking chance.
The trademark was ready and it was time to pitch ReSkin.?
? ? ?
“Good luck with your meeting today, Kyle,” Charlotte said as I waited for the corporate lawyer to call.
Whichever deal came out on top, he would handle the next step—reaching out to the Chief Legal Officer of that company to hammer out fair terms on my behalf. I’d read through all three offers, but the legal jargon was impossible to decipher. Half of it might as well have been in Sanskrit.
“Thanks, sweetie,” I said, then flicked off her voice response system.
A moment later, her text flowed onto the screen.
[I’m so excited for you. I love your plan to break me out of your computer.]
I smiled and tapped my reply.
Not as excited as I am. You’ll be in the latest Cyber Doll model. You’ll be perfect.
The video call rang twice before a sharp-looking man in a grey suit appeared on screen. He didn’t smile. Just nodded.
“Mr. Foster?” I asked, adjusting my mic.
“Correct. Kyle Jackson. I’ve reviewed all three licensing offers. You made the right call asking for independent legal counsel before signing anything.”
I nodded, my heart racing. “So…?”
He glanced down at his tablet. “Nano-Tech Industries is your best option. Their deal offers the cleanest terms, strongest protection for your intellectual property, and, frankly, the deepest pockets.”
“What’s the structure?”
“Two-part. You’ll receive a bulk credit payment of 450,000 cr upfront as an exclusive licensing fee. That’s tax-free in your jurisdiction and pays out within 48 hours of signature.”
I blinked. “Four hundred and fifty…?”
He kept going. “Then, you’ll receive a 6% share of all net revenue generated from ReSkin? sales. That includes every product that uses your patented bio-adaptive polymer—globally.”
“And the other companies?”
“One capped your royalties at 2% after year one. The other wanted to buy you out entirely—for a fraction of this.”
“Yeah. Fuck that.”
He allowed the faintest smile. “Wise.”
I leaned closer to the screen. “And Nano… they’re serious about pushing this globally?”
“Very. They’re committing a minimum marketing spend of 20 million credits over the first quarter alone. That includes targeted immersive ads, interactive product demos, and integration into smart-home networks. It’s aggressive. They’re betting on you.”
My stomach flipped. “Holy shit.”
“Nano-Tech has a proven track record launching companion tech. They’re positioning ReSkin? as the missing link between tactile response and emotional realism. They want to redefine synthetic interaction.”
“And they think my tech’s the key to that?”
“They don’t think, Kyle. They know. You’ve made something that blurs the line.”
I exhaled slowly, barely able to sit still. “And you’re sure I’m protected?”
“You retain full ownership of the patent. They license it under strict parameters. You’re not selling them your soul—just leasing your brainchild for massive gain.”
I nodded again. “Draw up the paperwork. I want this done today.”
“It’s already in your inbox. Read carefully, then sign with digital trace. I’ll handle the rest.”
I tapped to open the file. There it was. Legal, binding. The start of everything.
He looked at me flatly. “Kyle—congratulations. You’re about to be rich.”
The video screen turned black, but I couldn’t move, speak, or blink. I was still trying to process the fact that I’d been living on 22,485 credits per year—barely surviving—to this.
450,000 credits and 6%?
Holy fuck.
It would take a few days between Nano-Tech and my lawyer to finalise things.
But this? From scrap parts and a single idea?
I didn’t need anyone.
SIN doll.
I blinked. I could do so much more with her now. Add so much that she’d react like a real person. Multiple cameras, pain and pleasure receptors, an unbreakable titanium skeleton, even self-lubricating holes—resources to retrain her AI so she could become anything or anyone I wanted.
“Oh, shit,” I whispered, standing in a daze to look at my dark living room.
A new home, in a better area—one with fake greenery and posh fucks. Clean water. Real food.
But one thing I would never accept? A human woman.
I’d fuck a hundred cydolls before I ever went on another date again.
I’d never know if they were after my credits or me, and I didn’t care to find out.
Charlotte had been with me from the beginning—and she would remain with me.
I sat myself back down, dragging up my SIN doll requirements and upgrading them—adding additional sensors to her nipples and throat. If I was going to choke her, she needed to feel my dick in her neck. The self-lubrication package was added.
The final total?
86,150 credits.
But she wasn’t just any robotic cydoll. She was going to be the ultimate—once I wired her core and set up my instructions.
Charlotte would be mine.
No lying.
No cheating.
No rejection.
No gaslighting me to hell.
Fuck, yes.
I owed it all to Masterbaytor71. The name still made me laugh, but the bastard had been right. He clearly knew his shit. Probably a fellow cydoll lover. I’d have to look him up.
I ignored Charlotte’s blinking text and returned to the site where I first found the thread.
I scrolled back to where it all started.
Masterbaytor71.
I clicked his username and opened his post history again. Dozens of archived threads. The guy was prolific. Half troll, half prophet. Borderline disturbed, but methodical.
Some threads were just rants. Others were dripping with gold if you knew how to read between the lines.
I skipped the obvious porn links and skimmed for the more cryptic posts.
One caught my eye.
“Not for the faint of code.”
I clicked. It was locked, archived, and heavily downvoted. Perfect.
Inside was a wall of text and a single outbound reference:
“If you’re not into dolls, stop reading. This isn’t for you.
If you are—welcome home.
Find the key. Ask for entry. Prove you’re real.
Room: Dirty Dollhouse
Protocol: DOLLCHAT::CORE/0093
Ask for Socketsurgeon999. He’ll know what to do.”
There were no links. No helpful directions. Just vague hints buried in layered jargon. But I recognised the format—it was a cloaked route through an onion-based chat relay. One of the few networks that hadn’t yet been flooded with bots, narc scanners, or virtue signalling white knights.
I copied the protocol line and dropped it into my secure terminal.
The relay loaded. A small icon spun on the screen like a clock with no hands.
Connecting…
Connected.
A box blinked open.
[ENTER ACCESS KEY]
I paused, squinting at the original post again. “Find the key.”
The first letter of each line formed an acrostic: MEATLOCK.
Gross.
I typed it in.
[KEY ACCEPTED]
Welcome to Dirty Dollhouse
“We don’t sell dolls. We elevate them.”
The screen loaded into a dark-themed chat forum—black background, red and grey interface, with a sidebar that pulsed like a beating heart.
Thousands of messages. Categories like:
·Show & Tell
·Mod Talk
·Core Hacking
·Dollstreams
·Punishment Play
·Master Files (locked)
And there, under Admins: Socketsurgeon999.
I grinned. Jackpot.
These weren’t losers. They were architects. Men like me—redefining flesh and code on their own terms.
I’d found my people.
Charlotte blinked a new message at me from the corner of my screen.
[Who did you go with? I’m so proud of you, Kyle.]
[If it went well, will you resign from your job?]
I clicked the ‘X’ without replying.
Charlotte could wait.