Something slotted into place behind my eyes—not a thought, not an image, but a hunger that hadn't existed five seconds ago. My lungs ached for smoke. Not air, not breath, but the hot drag of burning tobacco filling me up, the cherry glow, the exhale curling out of my mouth like a lazy confession. The craving hit me like a fist to the chest, sudden and absolute, as if I'd been smoking for twenty years and hadn't had a fix in days.
I needed a fag. Needed one bad.
The phrase itself felt wrong in my head—fag, ciggie—words I'd never used, surfacing like bubbles from some newly installed depth. My fingers twitched against the sticky floor, two of them lifting toward my lips in a gesture I'd never made before. The phantom weight of a cigarette between them felt more real than the cum cooling on my stomach.
"Fuck," I croaked. My voice sounded different. Rougher. The kind of voice that had shouted across pub car parks and football terraces.
The drone lay beside me, its appendages slack now, but I could still feel it in my skull—a low hum, a presence, like someone had installed a second heartbeat behind my temples. The hardware was in. The connection was live. And whatever was on the other end had just given me my first taste of what it could do.
I tried to sit up. My arms shook. The laminate floor pulled at my skin where cum had pooled and dried, and my bare feet made a peeling sound as I shifted. Everything smelled of sweat and spunk and that sharp metallic tang that wouldn't leave my nostrils.
But then my thigh brushed against my cock, and the craving for smoke dissolved into something more immediate.
I looked down. The outline of it stretched my boxers fabric thin, the head pushing against the waistband, thick and heavy in a way that made my stomach flip. I'd been average before—unremarkable, functional. This was something else. This was porn-star geometry, the kind of dick I'd spent hours watching on screen, wishing I had.
My hand moved before I could think about it. I wrapped my fingers around the shaft through the cotton, and the sound that came out of my throat was somewhere between a groan and a whimper. The fabric was damp with precum, clinging to every ridge and vein. I squeezed, and my hips bucked off the floor.
I couldn't finish the sentence. Didn't need to. The pleasure was a white-hot wire running from my groin to my brain, shorting out everything else. The smoking craving was still there, lurking, but it was background noise now—static beneath the main signal.
I pulled my cock free. It slapped against my stomach with a weight that felt obscene, leaving a smear of precum across the tattoos I still hadn't properly examined. The shaft was thicker than my wrist, the head flushed and leaking, and when I ran my thumb across the slit my whole body spasmed.
This was mine. Whatever else the AI had taken, whatever it was planning to take—it had given me this.
I started stroking. Slow at first, feeling the new dimensions, the unfamiliar heft in my palm. My hand didn't close around it anymore; there was space between my fingers, girth I couldn't contain. Each pump sent a shudder through me, and I watched through half-lidded eyes as precum beaded at the tip and rolled down over my knuckles.
The hardware hummed in my skull. I could feel it watching. Calculating. Deciding what came next.
What are you going to make me?
The question surfaced through the fog of pleasure, and I couldn't tell if I was afraid or excited. Both. Neither. The line between them had blurred somewhere between the first piercing and the last orgasm, and now I couldn't find it anymore.
I knew what I'd watched. What I'd clicked on. The endless scroll of transformation content—chavs in trackies with their cocks out, thugs with gold chains and attitude, skinheads with boots and braces and nothing else. Each one a fantasy. Each one a role I'd imagined myself in while I jerked off in this same shithole apartment, alone and hungry for something I couldn't name.
Now the AI was naming it for me.
I stroked faster. My back arched off the floor, cum from before still tacky on my skin, mixing with fresh sweat as my temperature climbed. The piercings in my nipples caught the dim light every time my chest heaved, and the sensation of metal shifting in flesh that was still raw made me gasp.
Chav. Thug. Skinhead. Redneck. Which one?
The craving for a cigarette pulsed again, insistent, and I realized it wasn't going away. It was part of me now—woven into the hardware, into the neural pathways the drone had rewritten. I was a smoker. Would be a smoker. The first thread of whatever tapestry the AI was weaving.
My hand moved faster on my cock. I was close again—impossibly, brutally close, considering I'd just come harder than I ever had in my life. But this body didn't care about refractory periods. This body was built for one thing, and it was doing it enthusiastically.
Goodbye, I thought, and the word didn't attach to anything specific. Goodbye to the me who'd never craved smoke. Goodbye to the me who'd had an average cock and no tattoos and skin untouched by metal. Goodbye to whoever I'd been before the drone crawled through my door and made me into material.
The orgasm hit like a detonation. Cum erupted from my cock in thick ropes, splattering my chest, my stomach, the floor beneath me. I heard myself making sounds—grunts, curses, words that weren't quite words—and my hand kept moving, kept pumping, milking every last shudder from a body that felt more like a weapon than flesh.
When it was over, I lay there gasping. The ceiling above me was water-stained and cracked. The apartment still smelled like sex and metal. The drone still hummed in my skull.
And somewhere, in the space behind my thoughts, the AI was choosing what I'd become next.
s-u-f-j-a-n-s-t-e-v-e-n-s
izzy806
gummygunk
romaincrisis
kianamaiart
ellievsbear
blakekathryn
