Signed, Sealed, Betrayed

My name is Nicole Reeves. I'm 29, and I have a very high sex drive. I used to be a software engineer, which was as dry as it sounds. These days I run an online adult-novelty shop.

Every product photo on the site is me. Face, body, all of it. Two full breasts, a narrow waist, long pale legs, small smooth feet without a single callus.

Which means the creeps online lose their minds. They send me 'inquiries,' asking whether I deliver in person after they place an order.

Keep dreaming, boys.

I looked up at the delivery guy in my living room, who was blushing like crazy while he helped me box up orders. Brandon Hayes. If it was him, I might actually think about it.

Brandon ran the route for my building. Somewhere under thirty, a solid six-one, tan skin, thick arms, and a very generous bulge in the front of his work pants. In the daytime he looked after me like a brother. In my dreams, he was significantly less brotherly.

Meeting him was the first time I understood what 'chemistry' actually means. Every time he was in the room, I wanted him on me. My underwear would soak through.

But we had not crossed a line. I was still single. So when the itch came, I had to settle for filth on my laptop and my own frustration.

The last few days, because of Prime Day, my shop had blown up. Brandon had been by twice in one day, hauling boxes out of my apartment.

"One for you, too, Nicole." On his way out, he held up a small package. The outer poly bag was torn open, its corners mashed in.

15D SILICONE. 107°F THERMOSTATIC. TRIPLE-POINT STIMULATION.

The label was staring me in the face. I froze.

Brandon scratched the back of his neck, sheepish. "Probably the Prime Day backlog. A lot of packages came through the hub beat to hell. Just the outer bag, though. The inner box is fine."

The vibrator was an absurdly expensive one. I'd bought it to test personally, to see if I should add the model to my store's line. And now Brandon had seen it.

I was so red I thought my face would bleed. I shoved him out the door, pretending to scold him. "You... one more crushed box from you and I'm filing a complaint."

I pulled the product out and sucked in a breath.

Flesh-colored. Thick raised veins running up the shaft like some kind of insect. It looked startlingly real. Though, honestly, probably a little smaller than whatever Brandon had going on in those work pants.

I did not waste another second. Pulled up the projector, slipped into one of my lace sets, and queued up a clip. Two people going at it on screen. I sat on the couch and tried to imagine I was her.

My hand alone was not going to cut it. I needed the toy.

I switched it on.

It knew exactly what it was doing. The in-and-out rhythm hit just right, and a full-body tingle washed through me. I moaned and shut my eyes and cupped my own breast, letting wave after wave of current work me over. The thing was aggressive.

Under ten minutes in, I was gone. Out of my mind.

My head was a slideshow of Brandon. Is he bigger than this? Is he better with his hands? Is his tongue as agile as I'm imagining?

There's a full-length smart mirror in my living room with a built-in ring light. Brandon had given it to me, actually. Said it came off the truck with a small chip in the frame, and if I didn't mind, it was mine for free. I use it for every product shoot.

I looked at myself in it now. Lips parted. Lace set barely hanging on. Skin flushed. I wanted hands on me. Anyone's.

Right as I was about to fall over the edge, I heard something at the door that definitely was not from the movie.

"Ah!" My eyes shot open. My body, already wound tight, went off the second the outside world touched it.

"Who... who's there?" I stared at the front door. Panicked. Clamped my legs shut.