Desireprint Tales
Copyright© 2026 by rustbecci
Chapter 1: Elara Voss’ Ride - Part 1
Science Fiction Sex Story: Chapter 1: Elara Voss’ Ride - Part 1 - In a dark near-future, Desireprint lets anyone order hyper-realistic synthetic lovers built from stolen or shared data, DNA, videos, social posts, for the right price. Obsession, privacy violation, and engineered intimacy collide. The buyer gets everything. The real person gets nothing… and never has to know.
Caution: This Science Fiction Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/Fa Mind Control NonConsensual Heterosexual Fiction Science Fiction Oral Sex Prostitution AI Generated
The rain never really stopped in this city; it just changed tempo. Tonight it was steady, a low hiss against the windshield, turning the neon into smeared red and blue streaks that slid across the dashboard. Jax kept both hands on the wheel, eyes flicking between the road and the rearview mirror out of habit. The partition was up—always up for her.
The dispatch pinged at 18:42. Elara Voss, standing appointment: pickup at Nexus Media tower lobby, drop-off at Arcology 47 residential gate. Twice a week, same time, same route. Jax had stopped accepting other fares during that window months ago. The cab’s nav voice confirmed the priority override; he didn’t respond. He just eased into the express lane, passing slower autonomous pods and the occasional human-driven delivery truck.
The lower mid-level streets were thick with evening traffic—workers heading up, drones humming overhead, holo-ads for the latest neural implants flickering across every vertical surface. “Upgrade your cortex today—20% faster thought, 30% fewer migraines,” one promised in looping Mandarin and English. Jax ignored it. He was already thinking about the mirror.
She was waiting under the tower’s glass overhang when he pulled up. Black coat over the charcoal sheath dress, hair in a low, precise knot, heels sharp against the wet pavement. Professional, polished, untouchable. She slid into the back seat without looking at him, coat open just enough to show the tailored neckline, and gave the address in that clipped, efficient tone that never varied.
“Arc 47 gate, express if traffic allows.”
“Got it,” Jax said. Voice low, neutral. He didn’t turn around. He never did.
The partition sealed with a soft click. The cab pulled away, tires whispering on wet asphalt. In the mirror he watched her settle: legs crossed, coat draped over the seat beside her, holo-phone already glowing in her hand. She scrolled, sighed once—a small, tired sound that carried through the intercom even though she hadn’t meant it to. Jax’s thumb hovered over the record button on the dashcam controls. He pressed it. The light blinked once, red. Habit.
Traffic was moderate. The cab glided through the lower mid-levels, past flickering holo-ads for off-world vacations most people here would never afford and weather-control repair notices that never seemed to fix anything. Elara’s phone lit her face in soft blue. She took a call—voice low, but the partition mic was sensitive. Jax heard every word.
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