The bell’s shrill ring echoed through the empty halls of New Horizon Academy, and I leaned against my classroom door, fingertips brushing the biometric lock to seal it shut. The holographic attendance log flickered as it dissolved into the wall, leaving behind the faint scent of ozone and the lingering weight of my students’ restlessness. At twenty-three, with chestnut hair perpetually twisted into a messy bun and glasses smudged from constant adjustments, I felt more like a glorified babysitter for teenagers jacked into neural nets than a teacher of 22nd-century literature.

But it wasn’t the kids that haunted me as I stepped into the neon-drenched streets of Neo-Tokyo. It was him.

Luke Mann.

My colleague. The academy’s robotics instructor. The man who’d leaned over my desk last week to fix my malfunctioning holoboard, his cedarwood cologne drowning my senses, his thumb grazing mine as he handed back the stylus. “You really ought to upgrade this relic, Jennifer,” he’d murmured, his voice like melted caramel. I’d stammered something about budget cuts, my cheeks burning, my thighs pressing together under my desk.

Three days of stolen glances later, I found myself standing outside a chrome-plated boutique in the Red District, its glowing sign slicing through the rain: Elysium VR—Custom Fantasies, Discreet Delivery.

My friend Lira had sworn by it. “It’s not just porn, Jen. It’s… art. You program the AI, pick every detail. They scan your memories to make it feel real. And the haptics—” She’d shivered theatrically. “You’ll forget your own name.”

My palms slicked against my umbrella handle. I’d never done anything like this. Never paid for a VR sim, never even owned a pleasure-droid. But the ache between my legs whenever Luke smirked at me in the faculty lounge? That was becoming a problem.

The door slid open with a hushed hiss. Inside, the air smelled of jasmine and something metallic. Glass pods lined the walls, their surfaces rippling with constellations of data. A synthoid attendant glided forward, her porcelain face glowing softly. “Welcome to Elysium. How may we transcend your reality today?”

My throat tightened. “I, uh… want a custom scenario. With… someone specific.”

“Of course.” The synthoid’s pupils dilated, scanning my retinas. “Biometric authentication complete. Please follow me.”

I was led to a private suite—a circular room with a levitating recliner at its center, tendrils of silicone-coated neural wires coiled above it like serpents. The walls pulsed faintly, breathing in time with my quickening heartbeat.

“You’ll begin by designing your companion,” the synthoid explained, gesturing to a holographic interface. “Facial structure, voice, personality matrices. Would you like to import a reference?”

I hesitated, then pulled up a faculty photo from the academy’s server. Luke’s smirk filled the holoscreen, his green eyes crinkling at the corners, his stubble shadowing that infuriatingly perfect jaw.

“Ah.” The synthoid tilted its head. “A replication request. Elysium complies with all GDPR-2200 statutes. This AI will not retain data beyond your session, nor will it replicate sentient individuals without legal consent.”

“He’s not sentient,” I blurted. “I mean—he’s real, but you’re not copying him, right? It’s just… inspired.”

“Semantic parameters adjusted.” The synthoid’s fingers danced across the interface. Luke’s image fractured into a thousand glowing particles before reforming as a 3D model. “Shall we refine the avatar?”

I leaned in, my pulse thrumming. I sharpened his collarbones, added the faint scar on his right eyebrow from the accident he’d once mentioned in the break room. I sampled his voice from a school assembly recording—“Kinetic hydraulics aren’t toys, kids,” the AI Luke rumbled, and my knees nearly buckled—then tweaked his personality settings: Confident, teasing, dominant…

My cursor hovered over the Fetish Catalog.

“Something… forbidden,” I whispered. “Where he’s in charge. Where I can’t say no.”

The synthoid blinked. “A consensual non-consent scenario requires tier-4 clearance. You’ll need to set a safeword.”

“Red,” I breathed. “The safeword is red.”

“Compiling your fantasy.” The AI Luke rotated slowly, his digital muscles rippling under a tight black Henley. “Begin when ready.”

The neural wires descended, cold and gelatinous against my temples. I reclined, the chair molding to my spine.

Then—

Smoke. Leather. The groan of heavy bass.

I blinked, my surroundings sharpening into a dimly lit speakeasy straight out of my 1920s lit syllabus. Velvet booths, brass fixtures, the clink of ice in crystal glasses. I glanced down: a sequined flapper dress clung to my curves, feathered hem brushing my thighs.

“You’re late.”

Luke’s voice rolled through me, darker than I remembered. He lounged at a corner table, sleeves rolled to his elbows, a whiskey glass dangling from his fingers. His eyes glinted predatorily.

“I—I’m sorry,” I stammered, the script materializing in my mind. Right. The scenario: Prohibition-era gangster and his “new recruit.”

“Sorry doesn’t cover the money you lost me, doll.” He rose, circling me like a wolf. “Three busted shipments. Cops crawling up my docks.” His hand snapped out, gripping my chin. “You work for me now. Body and soul. Understood?”

My breath hitched. This wasn’t my Luke. This was something hungrier. Dangerous.

“Y-yes,” I whispered.

“Yes, what?” His thumb pressed against my lips.

“Yes… sir.”

His grin turned feral. “Good girl.”

He dragged me into a backroom, walls lined with corkboard and crates of “contraband.” The AI had dialed the haptics to perfection—I felt every callus on his palm, every hot exhale against my neck as he pinned me against a crate.

“You’ll learn respect,” he growled, yanking my wrists above my head. “Starting with your mouth.”

The kiss was brutal, all teeth and dominance, yet his other hand slid down my side with practiced precision, finding the slit in my dress. I moaned into his mouth as his fingers plunged under silk panties, stroking me in rough, relentless circles.

“Already wet for me,” he sneered. “Knew you were a little slut under that innocent act.”

My cheeks burned, but my hips bucked shamelessly. The simulation fed me every sensation—the ache of my arms straining, the cool wood grain biting into my back, the thud of his belt buckle unfastening.

When he entered me, it was with a single, searing thrust. I cried out, my nails scraping the crate. The AI had erased discomfort, leaving only stretch and fullness and the delicious burn of his pace.

“That’s it,” Luke grunted, hammering into me. “Take what you’re owed.”

Overstimulation built like a storm. My climax ripped through me, white-hot and blinding, but he didn’t stop. His hand closed around my throat, not choking, just claiming, as he murmured filth in my ear—how I’d be his personal plaything, how he’d ruin me for anyone else.

I came again, sobbing his name.

The pod hissed open. I lurched forward, my dress now replaced by my rumpled blouse and slacks. The synthoid offered a water vial. “Session complete. Neural feedback indicates elevated serotonin and oxytocin levels. Shall we schedule your next visit?”

My legs trembled. My core throbbed, phantom heat lingering. I glanced at the interface, where the AI Luke winked at me, frozen mid-smirk.

“Next time,” I said hoarsely, “I want… something softer. Candles. Roses. Him as a professor, maybe.”

The synthoid nodded. “Roleplay and sensory romantic packages are quite popular. We’ll prepare Scenario #2276: Academic Affair.”

I stepped into the rain, my skin still buzzing. Across the street, a holographic billboard flickered: Elysium VR—Your Dreams, Perfected.

Not dreams I thought, hailing a driverless taxi. But tomorrow’s lesson plan? Definitely.