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Showers…
‘Ganics and their indulgences…
Usually, gonk shit like that makes Dum Dum’s lips curl—makes him drop acid and swallow bile, but V’s a smoke show. Any situation where she’s down a few layers appeals to his fleshy weaknesses.
When she curses him out for arriving too early for the gig, protected from his seven reds by just a synth-cotton towel… he lets old hangups drain and says he’ll jus’ fuckin’ hang. Can’t do much with a swollen cock but wait it out anyhow.
And he does - wait, that is. Mostly, ‘cause of the boner, but also for the fact he’s a bit of ah’ masochist. Visualizing V rubbing down those preem tits, suds runnin’ over the full-fatty heft of her ass… it’s pointless and needless torture, but Dum Dum likes it all the same. Listening to her shower—wasteful and useless as it is—stirs his guts somethin’ fierce. Makes him randier than lines of synth coke—makes him wanna dock but he’ll settle for flatlining some Pussy Hands instead. Between him and V, they’ll make short work of this lil’ Tyger Claws gig an’ truth be told, he needed it now more than he did prior to walkin’ into her humble hovel.
Nice enough dig, too.
Dum Dum scans her apartment for the first time, despite standing in this same stain before. It’s small. Clean. He likes ‘em clean. Doesn’t handle mess well, not in his fuckin’ sanctuary, and likes that she seems to feel the same way. Even the shelves with everything from kabuki masks to stress balls in the shape of grenades look like someone took a rag to it not long ago. ‘Ganic bitch even dusts… which somehow makes her more fuckable…
He turns around, reds all over every inch of her interiors. Low synth-metal thrashes out woofers circling her BD nook, throbbing the metal mesh protecting the sound dampeners and filling his eardrums with tickling vibrations. A couple of expired scream sheets sit in a pile on a sofa seat but one’s open on a black polymer table, several products circled in thick marker.
White noise—water noise—changes trajectory. Dum Dum looks away from the open scream sheet to throw crimson light on her bathroom door. V’s moving around, maybe rinsing out that colored hair or lingering under the hot spray to loosen up a little. Thought only makes his dick swell some more. Faded thoughts like glitched BDs pass through his skull—of V rubbing that ‘ganic pussy under hot water, trying to exorcise some of that replenishing stress.
Yeah, yeah… that’d be preem to see on the big screen.
The only problem with her he’s found so far is all that fuckin’ stress she carries around. Like some vestigial twin, leechin’ her dry most times. She’s too tight—too tense. Needs to let up once in a while. Won’t accept his generous offers of black lace, not even a fuckin’ drink. Even flatlining scum doesn’t loosen that line between her eyes. For a preem-lookin’ rimbo, V gives off severe ‘never nutted in her life’ vibes, and part of his fantasy narrative right now is solvin’ that for her.
Water pressure changes again, and he shakes his shoulders like a mangy mutt, resetting his nerve receptors to focus on something else. He turns back to her apartment. Glossy window over lookin’ Night City’s worst murals. There’s an empty food bowl on the floor adjacent to a fabric igloo of darkness (maybe hiding a pussy cat…). Red-locked door showin’ a glimpse of her epic arsenal, something to be admired and stolen. Dum Dum skims the front door where her snake-bite jacket hangs on a peg, and dirty boots sit in a metal tray. His reds follow the walls and fall back over the quiet BD nook with that open scream sheet.
A step closer, optics dialing in, zooming—getting a clear picture—an’ soon as his brain chugs with realization, he’s fuckin’ harder than he’s been in a decade.
V’s circled several juicy items. It ain't even a scream sheet, just a catalog for lewd mods and cutting edge robotics—robotics meant to fuck and slurp ‘ganics and borgs alike into cumless husks. Never thought V’d be the type, but here it is.
A wish list? Or an order?
Hard to tell for sure. Orders process through the deck, better encryption that way, but… V’s cherry-picked several items meant for modded slots only. So, what? She got an output he don’t know about?
Fucker ain’t fuckin’ her well enough if she looks so wound up all the time…
There’s only one circled product that’s self-driving: a bubble-gum pink double-peen hammer that looks fuckin’ preen. Pricey too. Most outputs would balk at their pussy’s takin’ all that unless they were packin’ something fatter—somethin’ meaner… something like the other thing V drew a thick circle around.
Dum Dum throws a quick glance to where V’s hidden by a brushed metal door and pounds of synthetic rain. She’s busy for now.
He smirks, slow and slippery, licks the metal loops in his upper lip, grabs the catalog, and takes a seat. It’s a real ego booster knowin’ V’s got good taste—that she’s circled somethin’ he’s already packin’ and circled another Dum Dum’s got more than enough eddies and time to get ripped: Wet-Ultrex Sonic Oral Mk3. Probably make a ‘ganic bitch like V squirt until she’s just bones an’ dust with that upgrade. It makes Dum Dum roll his tongue around his gums, lick his chrome chompers—makes him wonder what someone like V’ll taste like cumming.
By the time V’s turned off the shower, stepping out on a cascade of steam and perfumed shampoo, he’s put the catalog back and readjusted his boner along the edge of his waistband, pretending he ain’t liable to nut if someone spooks him just right.
“Don’t look at me like that,” V says with a brush stuck in her bright hair, “You’re the fucking gonk that showed up thirty minutes early.”
He clasps his hands casually over his groin, feet spread and shoulders back, looking like he’s been a real good borgy boy, and stood here waitin’ for her to finish her luxurious shower. She’s not impressed, only glares with Kiroshi tech and starts working colored tangles out her hair.
“You got an output?” He asks, still lookin’ all innocent an’ shit.
V pauses, looks his way, and pops some chewing gum in her mouth with a frown.
“No,” she says, probably without realizing it’s a personal question and she’s said she don’t do personal many times.
“You high or something?” She adds with a raised brow lined in gold shadow.
Dum Dum just bares his chrome mashers and grins, which she hates even more if the sneer and side-eye say anything. But he’s all knowin’—got deets she don’t know about. Knows she needs more than ‘ganic dick and those nine-to-five vibrators anyone can pick up on Jig Jig. This borg knows she ain’t got some dull output with a sad cock. Dum Dum knows he’s got what she wants and doesn’t bother hiding the strut as they walk into Tyger Claws territory twenty minutes later.
Once they’re done pullin’ nails here, he’s gonna see ‘bout throwing her down on one of those kitty-kat soft bedspreads they got. Pussy Hands make some of the brightest fuck pads and Dum Dum likes to think neon’ll look real preem glistening off his borg-cock. ‘Sides, V always looks raw after flatlining gonks—red-cheeked and shiny. Bet she’ll spread her legs with a shaky breath and take it all…
Just gotta take a fuckin’ chance.
‘Sides, it’s February after all. ‘Ganic bitch like her deserves a lil’ big present…