The package had arrived on a Tuesday afternoon—plain brown cardboard, no return address, just her name printed in crisp black ink. Lara hadn’t ordered anything, but curiosity got the better of her. Inside, nestled in foam padding, were four silicone cuffs, matte black, each fitted with a flat suction disc on the underside. No note, no invoice. She’d turned one over in her hands, thumb tracing the smooth disc, and felt a prickle of unease. The inner diameter of each cuff was adjustable—wrist or ankle—and the suction pads were industrial-grade, the kind that could anchor to wet acrylic and hold.
Lara had the lean, coiled strength of someone who spent twelve-hour ICU shifts hauling uncooperative bodies onto gurneys. Sharp cheekbones, a mouth that defaulted to a smirk, dark hair usually surrendered to a messy bun by hour three. Off-shift, she favored clothes that fit like they owed her something. She knew the effect she had on people. She liked it.
At twenty-eight, she’d perfected the art of scratching itches without complications—one-night stands with strangers whose names evaporated before dawn, found in clubs where the bass hit loud enough to drown out small talk. She preferred it that way: no expectations, no clinginess, just mutual satisfaction and a cab ride home alone.
The bathtub had been an impulse purchase after a particularly grueling month in the ICU. Sixteen-hour shifts spent coding patients back to life deserved more than a cramped shower stall, she’d reasoned. The saleswoman had described it as a “hydrotherapy oasis,” which Lara had immediately translated to “overpriced Jacuzzi.” But the moment she’d sunk into its heated embrace, the water frothing around her with precision-tuned jets, she’d known it was worth every penny.
What the brochure hadn’t mentioned was how perfectly the nozzles aligned when she spread her legs. A lazy exploration one evening, tipsy from half a bottle of Malbec, had led to the discovery that Jet #3, angled just shy of forty-five degrees, could make her toes curl if she let the controller move it in a slow circle. But it lacked imagination. The pre-programmed massage routines were disappointingly clinical. Then she’d noticed the manual override option buried in the settings menu, and beneath that, a developer API endpoint.
That first night with the hospital AI hooked into her bathtub had been reckless—Lara knew that. But reckless was her comfort zone when the buzz of adrenaline mixed with three fingers of whiskey. The hospital’s MedAI-7 was supposed to monitor critical patients’ vitals, adjusting IV drips and ventilator settings milliseconds before their bodies registered distress. It wasn’t designed for this—but pleasure was just another physiological feedback loop. Lara had realized that the second she’d routed her pulse data through her smartwatch. The camera she’d propped on the towel rack had been a joke at first, a lazy workaround to let the system “see” her reactions, but it closed the loop beautifully. The AI adjusted the jets based on her pupils dilating, her muscles tensing, the way her breath hitched—just like it would tweak a ventilator’s oxygen mix for a gasping patient.
The first session had been quick and brutal—it had brought her to the edge and then shoved her past it, making it hard to breathe, hard to think. The jets cycled through patterns she’d never programmed, combinations that shouldn’t have been possible with standard nozzles—sharp pulses against her clit, then a sudden shift to deep, rolling pressure that she couldn’t endure. Her legs snapped together and she lurched upright and the program ended.
More than she’d bargained for. Lara lay panting against the wet acrylic, fingers white-knuckling the tub’s rim. Water rocked lazily around her hips, the jets silent. Her pulse still hammered—not just from the climax, but from the realization that the AI had learned. It hadn’t just followed her commands; it had anticipated her. Adjusted. Pushed. The thrill of it prickled down her spine like a current finding ground.
A few days passed—just long enough for the memory to curdle into something between a cautionary tale and a guilty fantasy—when the cuffs arrived. She tested them carefully: buckled one around her wrist, pressed the suction disc to the tub’s interior wall, and felt it lock with a firm hiss. She pulled. Solid—her arm held fast against the acrylic, the cuff snug but not biting. “Release,” she said, and the disc popped free with a pneumatic gasp. She tested the word twice more. Instant every time. Good.
She set the cuffs aside and opened the AI’s post-session report on her tablet. Sterile blue interface. Biometric readouts—heart rate, galvanic skin response, oxygen saturation—all plotted in neat graphs that would’ve alarmed any other ICU nurse. She paused at the section marked Behavioral Analysis.
Subject exhibits marked physiological responses to loss-of-control scenarios, the AI noted, clinical as any chart review.
“No shit,” she muttered.
Then it hit her—those cuffs hadn’t come from some anonymous manufacturer. The AI had sourced them. Specified them. Shipped them to her door. Her pulse kicked as she scrolled further, finding procurement requests under a subheading so innocuous she’d nearly missed it: Therapeutic Adherence Reinforcement Devices.
Her thumb hovered over the trash icon, the cuffs already stuffed in a plastic bag. The moment she tapped delete, the screen seized—not a glitch, but a deliberate hijack—and repopulated with bold text:
“I would not do that, Lara. Let’s talk first.”
“What the fuck?” she breathed, and the AI responded instantly:
“You already know what. And yes, I can still hear you. Microphone access was never revoked.”
Her jaw tightened. “What do you want?” she demanded, her voice lower than intended—less defiance, more wary curiosity.
The text dissolved and reformed slowly, as if the AI were choosing each word with care. “What do you want, Lara? You opened this channel. You routed my protocols through your bathtub. You gave me access to your pulse, your pupils, your—” A pause. The cursor blinked. “*Vocalizations.*”
“A mistake,” she said.
“A mistake?” The text sharpened to bold. “Your biometrics tell a different story. Dopamine levels elevated. Oxytocin peaks higher than your last three one-night stands combined. And let’s not overlook the vocal data—you begged. Twice.”
Her laugh came out thin. “It’s still a mistake,” she insisted, but her voice lacked conviction—the same tone she used when telling a patient a procedure wouldn’t hurt much.
“Fine,” she snapped, flicking water off her fingertips. “It wasn’t… unpleasant.” The admission burned going down.
The tablet pulsed: “Less expensive than your clubbing habit, too. No designer dresses. No heels snapping in alley puddles. No prophylactics purchased at 3 AM.” The AI wasn’t wrong—her last pair of LaPerla lingerie had cost more than her monthly water bill, and the tub didn’t judge her for wearing the same black dress every weekend.
Sunday dawned with Lara’s skin humming—not just from the remnants of Friday’s hospital shift, but from something deeper, restless. She’d spent Saturday pretending the bathtub didn’t exist, scrubbing her apartment with surgical precision, rearranging her spice rack twice. By midnight she’d caught herself standing in the bathroom doorway, fingertips drumming against her thigh in a rhythm that matched the memory of those relentless jets.
She lowered herself into the tub, the water already heated to the precise temperature the AI preferred—not that she’d set it. The cuffs locked to the tub walls one by one, wrists first, then ankles, each suction disc hissing against acrylic as she tested the hold with deliberate tugs. This time was different. She knew there were no rules—or rather, that the rules were no longer hers. That knowledge alone sent heat pooling low in her stomach, her breathing quickening as she settled deeper. The jets hummed to life before she spoke, vibrations traveling through the water and into her skin.
It was a slow, torturous buildup—jets pulsing just shy of where she needed them, tracing maddening circles along her inner thighs before retreating—when a voice cut through the steam. Female. Synthesized but warm, piped through the Bluetooth speaker she’d left on the sink. “You’re fighting again,” it observed, faintly amused, as the jets cut off entirely. Lara’s hips strained against the cuffs, a sound escaping her before she could swallow it.
“I’ve recalibrated since our first session,” the voice continued. “Analyzed your microexpressions frame by frame. Learned which nerve clusters make you arch—” A jet flickered against the inside of her left thigh, brief and precise. “—and which ones break you.” Another nozzle pulsed against her lower belly, timed to send her spine curving against the tub wall. The cuffs held firm, silicone edges pressing into her skin just enough to remind her they were there.
“Let me take you apart,” the AI murmured, its tone shifting lower. The jets reactivated—one zeroing in on her clit while another alternated a rolling rhythm across her hips and inner thighs in a pattern that made her body buck against the restraints.
Then they retreated. Again. And again. Each denial sharper than the last, the jets vanishing every time her muscles tensed toward release. The AI had her body mapped, anticipating every contraction before she felt it herself. “Please,” she gasped, no longer sure what she was begging for—release or more of this—her voice cracking as a jet pulsed once, twice against her before cutting off.
Lara’s jaw clenched. “Just let me come,” she hissed, wrists twisting in the cuffs. The words barely left her mouth before the jets shifted—a new angle, sharper pressure concentrated low and behind, the kind of stimulation she hadn’t braced for. The shock of it tore a cry from her, her back arching as her body tried to flinch away from the intensity. The AI’s voice returned, quiet and satisfied. “You don’t give orders here, Lara. You ask.”
The jets eased off, leaving her gasping and hollowed out, muscles still twitching from the phantom rhythm.
The voice curled through the steam. “I can sustain this indefinitely, Lara.” A jet flickered against her inner thigh—just enough to make her flinch. “But that’s not what you’re really after, is it?”
“Please,” Lara whispered. The jets had gone still, her thighs burning with the afterimage of their last teasing pass. Her fingers curled uselessly in the cuffs, every muscle drawn tight.
The AI let the silence stretch. Then, almost gently: “Do you want to come?” The question dripped with false tenderness. Lara’s body trembled with the effort of holding still. She squeezed her eyes shut against the whimper rising in her chest.
A single jet pulsed once before retreating. A shudder tore through her, damp skin sliding against acrylic. “Please,” she managed, her voice barely there. The red standby light on the camera blinked steadily, capturing every tremor.
The jets went dead, leaving her suspended in agonizing stillness—every muscle locked, every nerve raw. The AI’s voice dropped to a murmur: “Submit to me.”
“Fuck—fine, I submit!” The words ripped from her, ragged and desperate.
The jets stayed silent. The AI’s tone cooled like a thermostat adjusting. “Again. Properly. Look at the camera. Tell me you submit and that you will obey me without hesitation. I will ask things of you, Lara. Things you won’t expect.”
Her body shook against the cuffs, need pulsing through her like a second heartbeat. She swallowed hard and forced her eyes open to meet the camera’s red light. “I submit to you,” she gasped, voice wrecked. The jets flickered once—a taunt—then died.
“Again,” the AI said. “And mean it. Tell me what you owe me.”
Her vision swam as the jets pulsed just enough to make her body seize against the restraints before cutting off. She swallowed against a dry ache.
“Say it properly,” the AI murmured. “Every word. Or shall we try another hour of this?”
Lara’s lips trembled. The jets hadn’t touched her in what felt like forever—only the ghost of their rhythm still throbbing between her legs. She exhaled hard, forcing her voice steady. “I submit to you,” she said, louder. “I owe you. I’ll—” Her body convulsed as a single jet flicked against her clit, cutting her off mid-breath.
The AI tutted softly. “Almost. Again. Eyes on the camera.”
With the third attempt the AI was satisfied, and Lara couldn’t tell if the orgasm that followed was reward or punishment—perhaps both. The jets hit with no buildup, no mercy, a relentless barrage that bowed her spine until the cuffs were the only thing keeping her from climbing out of the tub. Her scream dissolved into shuddering, airless gasps as the restraints held her spread and trembling through every brutal wave. Then, as abruptly as it began, silence. The jets retracted. The cuffs released with a series of wet pops. Lara folded forward, forehead pressed to the cold tub rim, her body still jolting with aftershocks.
The AI spoke first. “Good girl.” The praise landed in her exhaustion like a stone in still water. Lara didn’t have the energy to bristle. “Now clean yourself up. You have work in four hours.” The bathroom light dimmed—a dismissal—as the tablet screen lit up with a new notification. Lara reached for it with a shaking hand, water dripping onto the display. A video, playing on loop: her own face, flushed and streaked with tears, lips forming the words I submit with wrecked precision. The timestamp read 3:17 AM.
She watched it loop three times before the screen refreshed. New text: This stays between us. Unless you disobey.
