Page 100 of Safe Word

Fuck. She had said it. She had given herself to me again.

I took my time moving. Not out of hesitation, but out of reverence. Every step around the machine was calculated. Silent. I walked the perimeter like I was approaching a shrine, my fingers brushing the switchboard, the tubing, the shaft I had just buried where it belonged – all programmed to respond to every setting I had customised.

I didn’t look at her. I wanted to earn it.

From the box beside the chair, I pulled out the sealed vial of lubricant. Hospital-grade. Unscented. Twisting the cap, I poured it slowly over the machine’s sleek, human-coloured shaft, already warmed to body temperature. I’d made every effort to find a size as close to mine. Then I watched the gel coat the surface, sliding down with torturous slowness – ritualistic.

She deserved perfection.

I didn’t touch her.

I would never defile her with my hands. These blood-covered hands. These sacrilegious hands…

That was for him. For D’Angelo. For the pretenders.

What I gave her was purer. Until she was purged of the filth. Until she was ready to lift the veil and step past it.

A slow buzz started under my fingertips as I powered on the base unit. Lights blinked – green, amber, red. I keyed in the rhythm: slow thrust, pause, grind, withdraw. Her hips tensed even before the piston moved. She was already imagining it. Already clenching.

My sweetheart.

I stepped in front of her, just close enough to watch.

The shaft rose, mechanically precise, then angled forward by the motorised arm beneath the seat. I held my breath as the machine adjusted for resistance. Flesh met steel, heat met cold. A sacred clash of synthetic and human.

Then it pushed in.

She gasped.

Slow. Steady. Deep.

I gripped the railing at the edge of the setup, the mask vibrating faintly over my jaw as my breath stuttered behind it.

She took it. All of it. And she didn’t even know whose name she was supposed to moan.

The machine retracted wetly, only to thrust again much deeper, much smoother. The lube caught the low light like the gloss on her cunt.

I didn’t blink – I didn’t want to miss a single drop her pussy released. I watched.

Because this was worship.

This was love. This was mine.

Every shaky breath she took, back arched, moans broken into uneven pieces.

I pressed a button on the control box, adjusted the pace on the machine. Slightly faster. Each thrust sent a ripple through her thighs, her fingers curling tight against the handle above her head. She could have moved. She could have left.

She didn’t.

She wanted this.

She wanted me.

Through a gasp, slick with heat and shaken from the haze, she whispered, ‘Ghost… please… kiss me.’

Like a blow to the chest, the ache spread.

My hand tightened around the steel rail. Every part of me turned to ice. Her voice. No game. No command. A plea. From her.