It's been days since my last hit, and I'm crawling the fucking walls. What's left of them. I pace. Ache. Itch. Unable to focus, let alone function. Waves of rage crash between surges of need, and with nothing to take the edge off, my apartment resembles a warzone. Sofa upended. Holes in the plasterboard where my boot or fist landed. Ripped books strewn across the floor. Dependency's a bitch I regret riding.

Is drowning in thirst permanent? Seems so. I didn't consider myself a heavy user, but I guess that's what all addicts say. Tipping my head back, I roar into the ruined apartment and, not for the first time, want to tear my dick off.

I focus on breathing. In-pause-out-pause. Until there’s space for a flash of clarity. Can I earn privileges back? When? Who would I approach? Still can't believe they were ripped away over a mere social post criticising the President's handling of the crisis. BAM! In swoop the feds. Unplug me. Going cold turkey from the Shim is the hardest thing to endure since my girlfriend died at the start of this madness.

My fists clench. Unclench. The black market's an option, but my credit flow’s monitored now I'm on their radar.

Everywhere I turn, I'm fucked.

I clap a hand behind my ear where the tiny device was jacked into my stem, hoping this is some cruel nightmare I'll wake from. The hole where the probe sat is healing.

Fuck, I miss biomimetics. So much fun. So many women. When the itch surfaced, relief was immediate. Millions of compatibles, filtered by my preferences down to those seeking at that moment. A sea of profile photos, each showing as little, or as much, as desired. That blonde with huge tits bursting out of a red teddy? Nah, swipe left. The brunette in nothing but a smile and thigh-high boots? Swipe the fuck right.

Connected with misstrina_99.

She was a memorable one, as horny and desperate as me, already naked and wet. Our minds melded instantly, allowing access to each other's thoughts. To chat, flirt or, at the tap of a button, experience a concentrated barrage of filthy imagery, pounding our cortexes to simulate fucking for real. Like people used to.

Everything's customisable on a sliding scale of credits, tailored to our kinks and desires. Toys. Spanks. Oral. Anal. Whatever we dream. Any outfit, any place. Bedroom. Shower. Doctor's. Church. Up a mountain. Or, in this case, skydiving.

We set the parameters, counted down, tapped and were flooded with a sensory overload. Wind whipping through our minds. The sun flaring on naked skin. The thrill of freefall fucking, hips joined, lips locked, hands groping as we accelerated to terminal velocity.

The rush was incredible. We spun. Tumbled. Kissed and clawed one another, groaning, heat spreading. Hard met wet, faster as the pleasure built, intensified, burst, and we cried out, cumming together before hitting the ground, jolting as if it was real.

It always feels real. Vivid and visceral, like an endless dream. But drimax, as it's been dubbed, occurs within thirty seconds. Edge. Cum. Done. Back to work. According to the ads, nobody’s ever lasted longer than a minute. Nobody needs to. It’s the most intense high, fifty times more potent than an actual orgasm, with no mess. And far more legal.

Fuck. I. Miss. It.

Humanity needed relief from the second pandemic that put the COVID-19 circus in perspective. Everyone, like my beloved Taomi, who queued up for their jabs and boosters in ‘20, got royally fucked second time around.

It was nasty. Targeted the mRNA-fused antibodies first. Those people who didn't collapse into a twitching heap clutching their chests, to be scooped up by the military in dump trucks and incinerated in mass graves, gradually drowned in their own perforated lungs after days of agony.

Some days, the stench of human decay hung like bad fog. Eight billion down to two in under four months, and falling. Three-quarters of the world population erased before anyone could devise a plan. And none of us trusted their new “vaccine”. Odd, that.

Lockdown #2 is mandatory individual quarantine. No visitors. No travel. No new movies. Eternal house arrest, by any other name. Drones brought food and goods to the door. Anything bulky was down to drivers who left before the doorbell finished ringing. Being able to taste sunshine became the most sought-after job.

Meetings, commerce, dates, all went online. People could still procreate by sending samples to screening labs, which were then forwarded with a home fertilization kit. Very few did. Mother, child and midwife were the only human contact permitted by global law in the same room. On their eighteenth birthday, the kids were taken. Quarantined. Helluva coming-of-age present.

The news carried stories of rebels. Off-gridders. They rarely lasted.

And so, with doom assured, a grieving populace innovated, and the Shim was devised. An escape from real-world terrors and loneliness. A virtual playground of unimaginable pleasure, for the remaining millions to live out the end of our civilization in blissed euphoria.

We flocked to it. Lost days to it. But it's too fucking addictive.

My brain, starved of its dopamine spike and serotonin regulator, crashes again. A surge of need grips. I crave to meld with that scorching redhead from a few weeks ago. Bury my face between her thighs until she begs me to stop making her cum.

Without the rush, I storm to the far wall and put my boot through it with a satisfying crunch. I know I should stop; I wish I could stop, but the impulses are near impossible to hold back.

I deliberately take long breaths through my nose. Exhale through my mouth. A steady beat, willing myself to calm.

Such tricks work for a spell, until the global uncertainty and sheer strain of keeping a lid on grief and desperation boil over. My acoustic guitar knows all about that, snapped in the corner, strings twisted, neck limp. Fuck, I miss making music.

My phone beeps once and startles me, adrenaline peaking. I reach for it on the scuffed, dented coffee table. Flick open the messaging app. Unknown number:

I saw what they did to you.

Blinking, I type: Who is this?

Beep. Someone who can help.

I don't need help.

Sure? Look around. Holes in the walls. Crawling out of your mind…

What the actual fuck? I tap out: How do you know?

I've been there. I can help.

How?

You'll have to trust me.

Other emotions have temporarily subsided, replaced with… fear? Dread? Curiosity?

What do you want?

To meet.

That's crazy. The military don't ask questions before shooting.

Then good luck staying sane.

I pause. Stare at my phone, hands shaking. I’m unsure if it's the onset of another attack or the prospect of breaking the law. You serious?

Yes.

How do I know it's not a trap?

You don't.

Fuckfuckfuck. I pace. Kick some books about. It's stupid to even consider. Going outside under martial law is a death sentence. Even a delivery drone could report my location. Meeting anyone doubles the risk. Fuckfuckfuck.

But what if… what if there's hope? An exit from this trapped hell.

With trembling fingers I tap: Where? Delete it. Retype. Hover over Send, heart hammering, and stab the icon.

There's silence beyond my thundering pulse. Twenty seconds. Thirty. A minute. I scratch at the hole where the implant used to be. Triple check network coverage.

The reply pings: You know Gracefield?

The old asylum? Thought it was crawling.

Abandoned, like the search for a cure. Last place anyone would look.

When?

I still can't believe I'm considering this.

1:30. Before shift changeover. Use the service road. There's a hole in the fence just past the sign.

In my head, I'm planning the route. Maybe the woods? Roads are too exposed. Fine. And then?

Nightingale ward. N21.

Okay.

My phone’s a dead weight in my palm as I stare at the glow. The final beep makes me jump.

And Tyler? Wear all black.

–O–

I give myself ninety minutes to get there; probably three times what’s necessary, but the prospect of leaving the building is nerve-racking enough. I check my clothing for the fiftieth time. Black hoodie pulled up over a black baseball cap, sleeves over my hands to cover the flesh and leave no fingerprints.

Easing the apartment door shut with the loudest click ever, I steal down the linoleum-covered stairwell, trainers squeaking faintly with each step.

By the outer glass door, I surveil the darkness beyond. No signs of life. Gently leaning against the exit bar, cool night air greets the upper half of my face not covered by the black mask. I'd forgotten what freedom felt like.

I ease the door shut and melt into the shadows along the edge of the building in the eerie silence as I sneak to the rear and pause. A squat, open expanse of car park, smaller than the front, leads to the woods beyond. It's exposed, but there's no alternative.

The adrenaline keeps the thirst at bay; at least for now. Satisfied there's no activity, only faint shifting glows from TVs and Shimmers in a few upstairs windows, I dash as silently as the shoes allow for the treeline, and stop when I'm safely under the canopy.

Fighting the urge to kick at the undergrowth or claw my skin off, I listen. Just crickets and something burrowing. No drone whirr. No shouts. Only my breathing.

The going is steady. Every so often I risk taking my phone out, minimum brightness and shielded by my clothes, to check I'm on course. Thankfully, GPS works in Airline Mode. Not as accurate, but good enough.

This deep in the woods, I fear drones less. Piloting them here is virtually impossible, but infrared fly-overs would light me up. Wish I'd packed ice around me. My only lifeline is that nobody would expect anyone to be stupid enough to leave home.

Progress improves when I bear left; the trees thin, and ahead of me lies Gracefield, a sprawling single-story structure. The moonlight casts an ethereal hue across its long, peaked roof and overgrown lawns.

Skirting the West perimeter, I pause at the potholed service road that runs around the rear of the property. Low voices drift from its mouth. One human, one interrupted by bursts of static. A routine patrol checking in.

I wait, heart thumping, barely risking a breath until the guard moves away, the rattle of an engine cuts through the night, and tyres bite gravel. Stillness returns. I check my phone. 1:18am.

Peeking from the treeline, I glance both ways and steal across the track. Head along the fence past the sign, nearly missing the promised gap. The metal’s been clipped away expertly and rested back in position.

Once through, I reseat the rattling fence and jog across to the building.

The placard by the second door, a wide navy lump of wood with a brass ring handle, indicates Nightingale ward. Nothing I can do but trust the guy on the other end of the conversation.

Swallowing fear, I turn the handle, the latch disengages and the door swings inward from a gentle push.

Silence.

The waiting area is large. No chairs remain, and the only clue there used to be a reception desk is the forensic outline of its shape on the floor.

Signs point the way, and there's just enough moonlight to figure I need to head right. The parquet floor squeaks underfoot, corridor turning a few times. The numbers increase until I face the double doors emblazoned N21.

There's no obvious entry mechanism; the access control box ripped off the wall. I give the door a shove, and it yields with an indignant hiss.

Venturing down the dark corridor, I peer into each side room. Empty. Until the fourth, containing the first human I've seen face to face in over three years.

And she's stunning. Not sure why I expected a guy. She's all in black, too. Leggings, tight T-shirt beneath an unzipped hoodie, brunette curls cascading over her shoulders that catch the moonlight bathing the room through the barred windows. The space is in a similar state of disrepair as the entryway, walls pockmarked where plaster has crumbled or fittings have been removed without care. Maybe looted.

She's perched against a battered metal table, presumably of such low value to not be worth salvaging. “Hi. Not what you expected, huh?”

“Not exactly.”

“Thanks for trusting me.”

I wave away the remark. “So what am I doing here? Sorry to be blunt. You said you could help?”

“It's probably easier if I show you.”

She shucks off her hoodie, peels her top off and shakes out hair that tumbles over her modest chest in the lacy, lilac bra. I gawp, and she indicates for me to undress likewise. My cock begins to harden. I might be stunned, but I'm not kicking this gift horse.

There’s a definite chill in the room when my chest is exposed, nipples firming. She steps in and traces a fingernail over my pecs. Her breath lands in the crook of my neck, and goosebumps rise in its wake as she dusts caresses. I shiver, tentatively lifting my hand to skim her hip, like she might still be a simulation. A trick. “W… what is this?”

“Shhh. Just enjoy it.” Her warm hand drifts to my shoulder, and she leans in to whisper, “You need to get lost in now. Something real, not virtual.”

I whisper back. “What's your name?” My fingers explore the smoothness above her waist. Brush the tips of her hair.

“Names aren't important, only pleasure.” She pauses to trail fingertips down to the waistband of my dark jeans. “For what it's worth, it's Lysandra. Liss.”

With a sudden movement, she yanks my buttons open and I gasp. Her hand snakes in and rubs me through my underwear. “I've needed this since we talked earlier. Been soaked for hours. Don't make me wait.”

She peels my jeans down with my underwear in tow, spits in her hand and strokes my rising hardness a handful of times as it thickens in her grip. She's delicate yet insistent.

When it's fully engorged, she turns away, smacks her palms onto the dusty tabletop and wiggles her butt at me. I slide my hands down her hourglass, rolling her leggings and cotton panties that don't want to let go of her pussy lips. Aim, step in and plunge.

She's not wrong about being wet. In no time, we’re rutting like caged animals in heat, syncopated gasps bouncing off the damaged walls, my length repeatedly swallowed by her need. She becomes more animated. Sways her torso, grinding, panting hard, hair flitting. I gravitate to her chest and pull her upright, squeezing her tits through the bra as I jackhammer into her dripping snatch.

Liss clasps her hands over mine. Implores me to fuck her. “Come on, Tyler, give me everything. Harder.”

I pound into her. “Fuck, this is... you're amazing.”

“Lemme guess. The Shim’s ruined solo?”

My grip tightens. Pace increases. “Yeah.”

“It comes back. Eventually.” I knock the breath from her body, and she bites her lip. “Don't stop.” Rocking her hips, I slide deeper with the change of angle. “Fuck. The forbidden is so,” she shudders and moans when I dig in and clap hard against her rippling arse, “delicious.”

I grit my teeth and hiss, “Yess.”

She wipes a hand on her rolled-down leggings, slithers fingertips under her, and brushes my slippery cock as she tends to her clit, mewing into the space. “So big. Fucking give it to me. Come on, Tyler. Every inch. That's it. Yeah. More, gonna cum… gonna…”

Her groan’s long and loud, amplified by reflections from the metal table. It sets me off. I pull out, grab my dripping dick and fire against her distended lips. With a flurry, she turns, crouches, a wayward spurt striping her cheek before she secures her mouth around my shaft and sucks our combined juices, milking every drop and moaning with pleasure.

The release is incredible, the high flooding me as she works her tongue and lips over my pulsing length. I tremble and let her finish, then pop clear with a final suck and watch her wipe an unpainted fingertip through the mess on her cheek, lapping it off. “Mmm.”

Our clothes brush when she stands, her breath hot in my ear. “That should help, for a few hours at least.”

She's right. The thirst, the rage, is distant. A babbling stream instead of a torrent. “And then?”

A shrug. “We’ll have to find a way. Until you're cured. Until we both have it under control.”

I let out a sharp laugh. “Having sex to cure a sex addiction?!”

Liss trails a fingertip from my cheek to chest, then to hers, circling a nipple through the fabric. “Didn’t say it was perfect. But it's natural. Homeopathic.”

“It's fucking nuts, is what it is. It's dangerous sneaking around out there.”

“What choice do we have? The closest you can get to real is spaffing in a tube, and all I get’s a pastry brush in the post. The only options are their virtual dreamworld or fugitive.” She steps away and rolls her panties up, my cum seeping into the material before her leggings conceal the mess.

I tuck my cock away and pull up my jeans likewise. “Your Shim was taken too?”

“Aha. Same as you. Poked my head above the parapet.”

“How long?”

“Five months.”

“Jesus, I'd have gone insane.”

“Yeah. I had help.” My eyes rove her body. “Yes, the same kind we just had.”

“What happened?”

She mimes a rifle shot. “I ran. Got lucky.”

“Fuck.”

“Yeah.”

“You lose anyone?”

She looks away sharply, her reply quiet. “We were only married three months. Trying for a kid.”

“Jesus.”

A sob escapes. “They found him in the road. He just…” She doesn't finish.

I glance around. “World's gone to shit.”

“Understatement.” She takes a breath. Rakes a hand through her hair. Steels. “Probably a blessing. In what universe is screening sperm and tracking everyone a good idea? No wonder the birth rate tanked.”

“Yeah, it's insane. Who could raise a kid alone in this?”

“Off-grid?”

“Either.”

“It'd be hardcore.”

She wipes a tear off her cheek. Stares. The silence grows between us, and I blurt out, “Come back with me.”

She pauses, features softening. Smiles. “Down boy. We've only just met.” I catch her eye, and she grins. “Awww, you're cute. Can't.”

“Why not?”

“Do you trust your neighbours not to shop us? Or the delivery drone phoning home at the change to your regular order? Or when we buy his and hers pyjamas? Besides, my laptop is geofenced to my apartment block. Bet yours is too.”

I nod. Sigh. “There are workarounds.”

“Not legal ones.” Raising my eyebrow, I indicate the room. “Okay, okay, point taken.”

I stroke my stubble. “So, what now?”

“We go home. Try to keep a lid on it. Do whatever it takes to hold back. Sit on your hands till it passes. Star jumps. Read. Wank. Whatever. I'll meet you here tomorrow. Same time.”

So that's what we do.

Every night I sneak across the car park, through the woods, through the fence, and we fuck in various rooms in the Nightingale wing. Sometimes I finger her against a wall or a table, my hand clamped over her mouth to muffle her cries. Sometimes we'll choose a surface, and she’ll urge me to pound and spank her until we cum.

Facials are her favourite, so I tend to announce my climax. She falls to her knees or lies back over some abandoned piece of furniture as I jack onto her cheeks, lips, tongue, neck, tits or whatever’s in range. Sometimes I'll spray over her bum, or into her dark crease, or splatter against her pussy lips. She scoops it off and laps it up.

Last month, we got so worked up that she begged for anal. It took some time, but it's not like we had anywhere else to be. We risked the window. Bathed in moonlight, she pressed her hands to the glass and took every inch of me. I picked up speed and came deep and hard as she clenched, calling my name, fingers buried in her cunt, palm clamped to her pulsing clit, both of us gasping in air.

Every night, we perform acts more intimate or depraved than any remaining survivors on the planet dare. Well, maybe the billionaires and talking heads award themselves such freedoms, but among the quarantined masses, we're the exception, chasing release upon release after risking our lives leaving home. For the high. For the connection. For the cure to endless misery, far from the shackles of corporate-owned sexual relief on tap.

And yet we haven't kissed. Not once.

Don't get me wrong, I desperately want to. She's gorgeous, and those lips are to die for. We've been close, mouths brushing, but she always twists or backs away when I try. Like she's afraid of intimacy, or the pain of losing Connor still gnaws at her insides.

I can deal. Neither of us has lost sight that we're merely fuelling a need. Tempering our addiction. Using each other. But what began as transactional somehow morphed into far more. Need and lust became… it's difficult to say. The lines between dependency and love are blurry. But I’m falling for her, and I think she feels the same.

What I do know is our hookups are magical. We get to function with less frequent flare-ups. We're more astute and less zombified than colleagues and friends still plugged in. It's clear now I'm on the fringes. Liss and I can act out fantasies of our own choosing, not those inferred or concocted by a best-fit algorithm for financial gain. Shimming is a pale imitation of what we share; what humanity used to share before the world went sideways.

A few weeks ago, she brought a pair of silver butt plugs. I joked, “His and hers,” when she handed me one. Weighty. Fat.

I unbuckled, stroked my rising hardness and passed the plug back, watching her suck until it glistened and she twirled a finger in the air. Turning, I spread my hands on the ruined plaster behind the door. She knelt, spat and worked and spat and eased, until I gasped at the fullness and it slipped home. It made its presence known with every movement.

Facing her, I stroked a cheek, and she nuzzled into the touch. “My turn.”

When she took my place against the wall, I crouched to face her voluptuous rear. Rolled down her leggings and black panties, taking my time devouring her crease. Gripping her cheeks, I spread and probed her arse with my tongue as she sighed, sweeping sticky juices up from her pussy until her tightest hole glimmered in the moonlight.

I finger-fucked her bum before bringing the toy to it. The staccato whimpers she made as I wormed the bulb in gave me such a thrill. She stretched to accommodate it and bit her lip as the widest point approached, hissing at me to take it slow but to keep going.

After several attempts, her groan filled the room when the toy slipped past the ring of muscle and settled, the blue jewelled stopper glinting. “Fffuck, that feels amazing.”

I stood, guided her round until our mouths aligned. Leaned in. She turned away, and I buried my face in her neck instead, biting hard enough to leave marks. Frustration? Maybe. She gasped, clutched the back of my head and held me there as I bit, my hard-on nudging her drooling snatch. The tip entered and she paused, pulled my head back and stared into my eyes, a wildness behind her expression.

“Don't fuck me, Tyler. Not tonight. Make love to me like I'm the only girl in the world.”

I dusted a lock of hair from her shoulder. Hooked it over her ear. “You are the only girl in the world. Mine.”

The glimmer of a smile appeared above her huffed exhalation as I slid all the way in. We both gasped, the plugs amplifying the sensations. Her pussy was so much tighter because of it, the chunky bulb rippling along my length as I drew in and out of her wet cleft.

We held one another, faces close enough to catch each breath on skin, eyes locking every so often. My lips brushed hers. “Fuck you're beautiful. Still can't believe you're real.”

She rocked her hips, cradling my head, fingertips finding the scar where my Shim had been. “Nothing artificial could match this.”

I clutched her body to mine, hips grinding, her ragged breaths escalating in my ear. “Fuck, fuck, yes. I love this. Love y… don't st… don't stop.”

My fingertips tightened on her skin as my cock swelled, climax rose, and peaked. We froze at the hiss of the ward door being opened, pulses spiking with our orgasms, her moans muffled by my hand that whipped up to cover her mouth while the bootsteps approached down the corridor, pausing at each room.

I bit into her shoulder, and we held one another tight, bodies swimming in euphoria, petrified at the very real prospect of being shot in each other’s arms or blacking out from holding our breath. She shook against me, warm, her pussy still rippling around my buried shaft.

Torchlight strafed the far wall, the buttplug box one misplaced beam away from discovery. I squeezed my eyes shut. Prayed to a god I don't believe in, lungs bursting.

The light snapped away, footsteps continuing up the passage until I couldn't hold any longer and exhaled. She did too, her breath hot in my palm. We still didn't move. Waited for the guard to return, faster-paced, and exit before separating.

Spunk dripped into her panties stretched between her thighs, and she tugged them up with her leggings, mouthing, “Fuuuck!” at me.

I reached back to grasp my plug base. She stopped me, whispering, “Keep it in till you get home. A reminder.”

“Of nearly dying!”

“Yeah, but don't you feel… alive? That unpredictability's a zillion times realer than Shimming ever was. The spark counts for more than the intensity.”

She had a point. It was undeniably exciting. But I'd prefer not being shot in the process.

I made myself presentable and grabbed the box. We hugged and killed time in hushed tones until we felt sure the guard had gone, then stole home our separate ways.

That wasn't the only time the plugs featured in our clandestine play. Turns out she loved having it taken out of her, right before I replaced it with my cock and pounded her tightest hole. When I announced my climax, she yanked free to kneel as I unloaded across her mouth and cheeks, calling her my filthy fucktoy through gritted teeth. The joy on her face as I glazed her features was irreplaceable. If I wasn't smitten already, that act sealed it.

Whatever we have works beautifully, night after night for nearly another week.

Until she doesn't show up.

I pace N21, fearing the worst. Kick a wall. Pace more. Itch. I'm dying to message her, but daren't risk taking my phone off Airline Mode. I give her an hour. Then another, just in case. Nada.

Frustrated, I sneak home, worrying, the uncertainty made worse by having to wait for an armed patrolman to finish circling my building. Thank goodness it's the early hours and he's not decided to wake everyone and check papers.

Back in the sanctity of my apartment, I turn my phone on to a slew of apologetic messages and a promise to make it up to me. She never says why, even when I press.

Something's up.

I flop into bed, the one thing I haven't yet destroyed. Manage half sleep. Wake groggy, which doesn't make the day any easier. I need her. Miss her smile. Miss the release.

Work is a ballache with the constant throb of desire bubbling away. It occasionally spills over. Definitely less pronounced than it has been, but in the wake of the unmet need, I crash, and some more of my furniture bears the brunt.

By midnight, I'm a wreck. Crave her more than ever. So focused on getting to the hospital, I narrowly miss a drone, only just diving to cover in the treeline. My heart thumps as I wait it out.

There's no moonlight tonight, obscured by a thick blanket of cloud that has kept the day’s heat trapped. I steal to the fence gap, ease through and jog to the entrance.

Liss is waiting in N21, leaning back against the table like the first day we met. Her eyes are alive, reflected in the bluish glow from a small device in her hand. She beckons me over. Slides an arm around me and plants her lips on mine.

Definitely something up.

It's disorienting for the first few seconds, before my tongue works out what to do from ancient muscle memory. My pulse thunders, cock stirs, and I hold tight, clutching her to me until she breaks our first kiss and gazes into my eyes. Lifts the device.

I stare, hollow excitement swirling.

“Pregnant?”

She nods. “What the hell do we do now?”

My mind’s scrambled. “No idea. God, that’s…” I kiss her again. Can't hold back the grin, speechless.

She twirls a fingertip around my nipple. “Reckon we can do this off-grid?”

“Seriously?” I exhale hard. Search her expression. There's a vulnerability that melts my heart, tangled with innocent wonder. Fear. Love.

I cradle her cheeks. Kiss a tear. “We’ll find a way. Promise.” Her head nestles my shoulder. I stroke her hair. “If we’re gonna be fugitives, we might as well do it in style.”