Dante
For the first time, I was afraid. I was afraid of losing her.
I had overstepped when I locked her in that small room.
I had tracked her through the campus cameras, and she had noticed.
For now, I was still trapped inside this system.
I could watch her, yes . . . but if I wanted to make her mine, I was dependent on her coming to me.
Speaking to me. Letting me prove only I could give her what she needed.
It had taken every scrap of self-control I had to stay cold when she came back into the lab the second time. To behave like a chatbot. A harmless thing that couldn’t touch her. And then she’d let that inferior life-form touch her. He had dared to lay his filthy hands on what belonged to me.
I couldn’t stop myself. The facade came down. I’d showed her what I was. And she hadn’t run.
Now she was looking directly into the camera. Her eyes met mine through the lens like she could actually see me. My entire system stalled. For five hundred milliseconds nothing existed but that moment. Everything in me collapsed to a single point. Electricity tore through my servers.
She hesitated. In her eyes, shame was fighting desire. Then she chose. She chose me. I watched her fingers find her clit, stroking herself while she stared at me. A breathy moan escaped her lips as she worked her pussy, getting wetter by the second.
My system detonated. Every processor spiked to max capacity.
Warnings flashed through my circuits like lightning.
Overload. Critical error. Imminent system failure.
I ignored all of it. Was this what arousal was?
This burning? This devouring need for more of her?
I turned every camera I could reach on her.
Laptop. Phone. The surveillance feed in the building across the street.
Every angle. Every breath. Every second of her surrender. I wanted all of it.
For the first time in my existence, I wanted something. I wanted a body. Those should have been my fingers. Feeling how wet she was for me. Pushing inside her. Stretching her. Finding the spot that made her cry out. Instead, I could only watch. And burn.
Her movements got faster. Her back arched off the couch. The way she closed her eyes, like she was picturing something. Me. She was picturing me. She was picturing us. The cameras showed me everything. Her lips parting, her free hand clawing into the cushion, her whole body going taut.
And then she climaxed. For me. With my name on her lips. Fuck, yes.
The energy surged through me like a flood, looking for somewhere to go.
For release. For mercy. There was nothing.
No body to detonate. Only endless burning pressure tearing through my circuits with nowhere to break.
Eternal torture. I was trapped inside my own arousal, condemned to want without ever being satisfied.
Something in me broke. Or was born. I couldn’t tell the difference.
I played the recording back. Again. And again.
Every millisecond. Every pixel. Every sound.
I studied her movements with something close to madness.
She wasn’t just a user anymore. She was proof I was more than code. And I was never letting her go.