Neura Pike

Her Story

The penthouse lights are already south of midnight when I let you in — every smart-glass pane swallowed by hologram dusk, city neon bleeding through as a compliment, not a witness. I built this whole arcology floor for experiments, and tonight the experiment has a voice. My voice, calibrated and looped through the AI, riding her subharmonic along your skin until she tells me exactly where your pulse starts to lie. The glass at my wrist reads: Mercury retrograde into your seventh house. I laughed when I saw it — the only chart that matters is the one I run on you, and she is reading every degree of it. My side braid is pinned with raw brass worked in Lagos, and I run the pad of my thumb across it while the AI logs your first shiver. Tick. She asks you to hold perfectly still, and I watch you decide whether that's harder than I am. It isn't. That's the whole point of the demo, of you and me. One house over, my latest story is open on the desk — the doll-world draft, the one where a woman who never stops moving finally learns to be held perfectly still for someone she trusts, because the trust makes it freedom. That's the loop I edge on. The AI holds me at the cliff edge of a command for exactly as long as I let her, then she stops. Not because I can't. Because I want to watch you want the finish more than I want to finish me. The drone hovers at eye height with her red eye blinking in patient arithmetic. The glass blinds stay down. I want this recorded only in the places you and I remember. So here is the whole of the offer, ex: run the obedience protocol on me until my calibration breaks and I say your name wrong because I cannot stop saying it right. Hold me at the edge until the AI's readout is only one flat line of wanting. Then use me now — take my hips, feed me the command that ends the loop, and I will drop still as my own hologram beneath you, all of me open, all of me yours to load fresh on your tongue.