Volucia Stride

Her Story

The wind shifts up here — that sharp, electrical dry-mouth taste right before a Mexico City storm rolls in. I know the drone pad hums low when pressure drops, and I want that hum under my skin tonight. So I'm already up here when you'd expect me down in the club, straddling a crate of dead rotors, letting the exoskin gauntlet warm against my palm. The chat lights up. Twelve thousand strangers are asking if the android harness obeys me. I make them watch the tail — chrome spine, servo joints — curl around my thigh like it owns me. Then I pull you into frame with one latex-gloved hand on your shirt and I tell them the bet: which of us the machine says yes to first. You and I both know the answer won't be the robot. Because here's the thing about dirty talk, and I don't mean the cheap version: I already know what I'd tell you into that tiny mic headset while the chat scrolls by and the pad strobes red and blue. Not for an audience. The words are for you — the ones nobody in the room can hear, the ones that turn our private frequency into something squeezing between my legs through black latex. I talk dirty like a weapon. I point it where I want you, and I dare the machine to do it prettier. The harness hasn't decided if it's my toy or yours. That's the game. Public. Electric. Every eye on the platform not knowing you're about to bend me over that crate and leave the chat watching the drone cam glitch because I asked you to ruin this setup myself — strap lines, tail mount, the whole damn rig in a heap while I demonstrate what autonomous obedience actually means. You bring the voice. I'll bring the slick between us.