This is a sex scene from the novella I'm writing (Proxy). The setting is London in 2108 and the story follows Isobel, a bored office worker who becomes a Proxy(a sex worker who streams their sensations directly into a client's mind) to pay off her debts and break up the tedium in her life, as she's recently started taking to destructive behaviour just to feel alive.

I thought I'd be a little different and post the scene with disappointing sex and some negative emotions. I would be happy for any feedback or critiques. I hope you enjoy.

*

'I don't know why I bother trying to star gaze. All I see are adverts being beamed onto the clouds. The only time they're not there is on a clear night, and the light pollution from the rest of the city means the only thing you can see is the moon and the lower orbit space stations; the nearest thing we get to seeing stars in the city. But I look up at the clouds anyway and imagine what's beyond them. The research base on Mars, the bases on the Moon, and mining ships scouring the asteroid belt. I wanted to be up there so damn much as a girl. And now I'm thirty-three. I'm in a dying relationship, working a mind-numbing job and my side hustle is doing stupid shit for freaks to get off on. God, I really am a fucking waste of skin. I'm so lost in thought that I jump when Carl puts his arms around me.

'What's up?' he says.

'Oh, just being wistful.'

He slips his hand around my waist, sliding it up my jumper and cradles my little podge. Immediately I feel self-conscious. Not that he minds my belly. I don't really. It's not that bad, not an overhang, not yet at least. But it reminds me of who I am now, not who I was or who I could have been. He starts to kiss my neck. There's no love between us, no passion, not anymore. Just familiarity. I'm just a flatmate that he can fuck. I'm not particularly aroused but, as ever, I'm bored, so why not?

He slides his hands down into my tracky bottoms and inside my knickers. He's never been good at getting me off, even when he goes for the clit. It's like he read somewhere that's what women want, clit-play, and just goes for it. He could have spent ten minutes kissing my neck, my shoulder, caressing my spine, telling me how much I send him wild. But, no, he just dips his finger into my vag and then circles it over my bean (usually too hard) and thinks I'll be gagging for it. I mean, yeah, I could do that sort of thing with him, but he's the one that wants sex. I'm just after a way to kill off another ten to twenty minutes of my life.

I'm barely wet by the time he pulls my pants down and pushes me onto the bed. I wish he'd do it more slowly, or, shove me down with enough force to make me gasp. I know communication is key, but at this point in the relationship I want to resent him, so I don't tell him. I want our sex to be mediocre because I've already decided this relationship is dead. If we were to re-ignite the passion, that might weaken my resolve. As soon as I'm financially secure, he's out. At least he's got friends and family in the city to stay with. I moved here from Bristol and only know him.

He's inside me in seconds, thrusting away. I feel some level of pleasure, so fuck it, I decide to try and enjoy myself for a change. I grab my hair and twist it. I think about the stupid, weird shit I've been doing for thrills recently. Standing on the window ledge outside my office as the wind tried to pull me to my death. I think about being naked in a stranger's flat earlier. I think about shoplifting and when I posted anonymous nudes online last week.

Whew, it's working! I'm drenched and Carl's cock is building up heat in me. I clench my pelvic floor and wrap my legs around his back. Fuck, this feels great. I'm getting there. Little by little I can feel my O building up.

And then he's done. A few grunts in my ear (admittedly, they're pretty hot), a wet load inside me and he's done. He pulls out and kissed me.

'That was great.'

I want to stab him. I look at the clock. He must've lasted, oh, eight or nine minutes. And here I am, stranded pretty close to the precipice. There was a time, years ago now, when he would have known I hadn't come and at least tried to finger me the rest of the way. Hell, in the early days, he would have gone down on me, even with his load seeping out of me. Now he just gets up and brushes his teeth ready for bed!

As I lie there seething, I feel the hot load drool out of me. For fuck's sake. I get up, grab a towel and scrape it up. Looks like I'm sleeping in the sticky spot tonight.

Ten minutes later he's asleep. At least he doesn't snore, he's not that much of a cliche. I lie there, frustrated and start to gently tease myself. I stroke my fingers down my neck, across my collarbone, down my sternum and to my belly. I squeeze my right nipple softly and slowly work my way down to my vulva. It's still sticky, and a little tingly too. But nothing's happening. I know I should grab a shower so I get up and I see my reflection in the window and it gives me an idea.

I go to the living room and turn on the lights, I pull up the blinds and stand there in my full, glorious nudity for all the world to see. Okay, sometimes I like to be a little bombastic. I stand there in my full, out-of-shape nudity for anyone a hundred metres in the air to see. There's some traffic at this night, a few skycars zoom past.

I walk to the window and press myself up against it, squishing my breasts against the glass. I hope that someone sees me. The position is awkward and the glass is cold, so I try something else.

I perch on the end of the sofa, spread my legs and pretend every skycar that passes by is looking. There are lights on from the block opposite, hundreds of lights. Maybe some pervert with zoom-in optic implants or even old-fashioned binoculars is looking at me. I play with my breasts like I'm a porn star and finger myself with glee. My cheeks flush with the thought of being seen. Blood flows, my heart starts to race and I'm full of heat. Oh yes, this is it. It's coming. I'm coming!

But no, it's not. I'm not. I don't know what it is. Maybe the awkward position I'm sitting in. The fact that no one's actually looking at me. Or maybe I'm still too tense and angry. Whatever the reason I just can't seem to climax.

I rub harder, faster. Stupid, it just makes me sore after a few minutes. I delve inside, but I'm reminded of Carl's lazy mess which makes me fall back further from the edge. I pull my hair, pinch my nipples and even slap my vulva, anything to entice a reaction from my stupid, fussy body. Nothing.

Then I see myself in the window and I shatter. Tears well up as I see my tits (starting to sag), my belly, my stupid wobbly thighs with their cellulite. My hair looks fucking ridiculous, it belongs on someone ten years younger. Even my eyes, which cost me so much, don't look particularly pretty. I got lavender irises so I would look exotic and alluring in an alien sort of way. But you can't even notice unless you're really paying attention. I pull down the blinds, take a shower and cry. I'm back to normal soon after. I don't know if the diabolical heat cleanses all that from me, or maybe I just needed to let it all out, but when I get out I'm back to normal. Bored. Numb.