Chapter 5

The morning light felt thin and accusatory. Jill woke with a start, her heart already thumping a frantic rhythm against her ribs. The night had been a parade of fragmented dreams—slick tendrils, Sarah’s open mouth, a pulsing, multicolored light that seemed to breathe. She lay still for a moment, listening. The apartment was quiet, but it was the tense quiet of a held breath.

She pushed back the covers. The air was cool on her skin. She pulled on her soft, terrycloth bathrobe, tying the belt with hands that trembled just slightly. When she opened her bedroom door, Sarah was already in the hallway, leaning against her doorframe in an identical robe. Her red hair was a wild corona around her pale face, her eyes wide.

“Hey,” Sarah whispered.

“Hey,” Jill echoed.

They moved to the kitchen on autopilot. The routine of breakfast was a lifeline. Jill put coffee on. Sarah got out bowls and cereal. The clink of porcelain, the gurgle of the brewer, were sounds from another life. They sat at the small table, the silence stretching between them, filled with the things they’d agreed to do.

Sarah broke it first, her voice hushed. “So. Today.”

“Today,” Jill confirmed, stirring her coffee though she hadn’t added anything to it.

“How do we ... start?” Sarah asked, picking up a single cereal piece and putting it back in the bowl. “I mean, we have the rules. We write. We open. But then what? Do we just ... say ‘go’?”

Jill took a sip of bitter coffee, the heat grounding her. “Elara said it’s a conversation. They respond to desire, to intention. So we have to ... have an intention. A clear one.”

Sarah’s cheeks pinked. “My intention is to not freak out and run screaming from the room.”

A weak smile touched Jill’s lips. “Mine too. But something more specific. For the ... the first time. With the rules.” She set her mug down, forcing herself to articulate the idea that had been forming in the grey hours of the morning. “What if ... we keep it simple? Just us, and them. But we’re in control of our own bodies. We ... we touch ourselves. And we let them ... enhance it. And we watch each other.”

Sarah’s spoon stilled. She looked across the table, her green eyes searching Jill’s. “Masturbate. Together. While they ... help.”

“Yes. It’s a start. It’s something we know. It’s our hands, our own rhythm. But we include them. We see what they do. And we ... we don’t touch each other. Not this time. We just watch.” The plan sounded clinical as she said it, a bizarre experiment. But beneath the clinical terms, a hot, slick thread of anticipation coiled in her belly.

Sarah considered it, her head tilted. The fear in her eyes was slowly being overtaken by that familiar, blazing curiosity. “Okay,” she said, nodding slowly. “Okay. I like that. It’s ... it’s a baseline. We see what they add. And we’re facing each other. We can see each other’s faces. We can check in.”

“Exactly.”

They finished eating in a silence that was now charged with purpose, not dread. They cleared the dishes with efficient, quick movements. The ordinary tasks felt like a final ritual before stepping into a sacred, terrifying space.

“Journals first,” Jill said.

They retrieved the leather-bound books from their rooms. Jill sat at the kitchen table; Sarah took the armchair in the living room, giving each other space. Jill opened her journal to a fresh page. The blank cream surface was daunting. She uncapped her pen.

What do I hope for? she wrote, the heading bold and underlined.

She chewed her lip, then began. I hope to feel in control. I hope to understand the connection better—not just let it happen to me, but to guide it. I hope to see Sarah without fear. I hope the creature ... the Euphoria ... responds to my direction, not just my hunger. I hope it feels good without being overwhelming. I hope we remember the safeword.

What am I afraid of? New line. I’m afraid of losing myself. I’m afraid of wanting it too much. I’m afraid of seeing a look on Sarah’s face that I can’t unsee, or her seeing one on mine. I’m afraid the Euphoria will take over and ignore me. I’m afraid this will make the craving worse, not better. I’m afraid of the noise in my head never stopping.

She paused, then added one last line. I’m also afraid of how much I want this. The thought of letting go, with Sarah watching, with it touching me ... my stomach is tight and my skin feels too sensitive already. I’m wet just thinking about it. That scares me most of all.

She closed the journal, holding it against her chest for a moment. Across the room, Sarah was scribbling furiously, her brow furrowed in concentration. After another minute, she snapped her journal shut with a definitive clap.

“Ready?” Sarah asked, her voice a little too bright.

“Ready.”

They walked to their bedrooms. Jill stood before her closet. The door seemed to hum. She reached for the knob, turned it. The interior was dim, smelling of cedar and fabric. She pushed the stack of blankets aside. There it was. The wooden box. It looked the same, but the carvings seemed deeper, more intricate in the shadowy light. She lifted it. It was warm, as always. A gentle, living warmth that seeped into her palms and traveled up her arms.

She carried it to the living room. Sarah was already there, placing her box on the floor by the far end of the large, L-shaped couch. They’d pushed the coffee table against the wall to clear a space.

“Sit opposite?” Sarah suggested, pointing to the two long sections of the couch that faced each other.

“Okay.”

Jill placed her box on the floor by her chosen seat. They stood there for a moment, just looking at the boxes, then at each other. Both in their bathrobes, journals in hand. They were pale, nervous, resolute.

“Together?” Jill said.

“On three,” Sarah agreed. She took a deep, audible breath. “One.”

Jill’s fingers found the small brass latch on her box.

“Two.”

She could feel a vibration through the wood now, a subtle thrum of anticipation that matched her own.

“Three.”

In unison, they flipped the latches and lifted the lids.

The light in the room didn’t change, but the air did. It grew denser, charged. A clean, ozone scent filled Jill’s nostrils, crisp and electric. From the velvet interior of her box, her Euphoria emerged.

It moved slowly, sinuously. The central core—a palm-sized, gelatinous mass of deep indigo—pulsed with a soft, internal light. Around it, six tendrils uncoiled, each as thick as two of Jill’s fingers at the base, tapering to a delicate, questing point. They were a shade lighter than the core, a luminous violet, and they glistened with a natural, slick moisture. They didn’t spill out of the box; they flowed, with a sentient grace, draping over the side and onto the carpet. The creature oriented itself, the core turning until it seemed to be facing her. It waited.

Across from her, Sarah’s Euphoria was performing the same ritual. Its core was a vibrant, spring-green, its tendrils a shimmering lime. It settled on the floor by Sarah’s feet, equally still, equally attentive.

They were not pets. They were not machines. The intelligence in their patient stillness was unmistakable. They were listening.

“They’re waiting,” Sarah breathed, her eyes fixed on her creature.

“For us,” Jill said. Her throat was dry. “We have to ... start.”

The rule was clear: they were to guide this. Their hands first.

Jill’s fingers went to the knot of her robe’s belt. She fumbled, the terrycloth slipping under her damp palms. She glanced at Sarah, who was having the same trouble, her knuckles white on the fabric. “It’s okay,” Jill said, the words meant for both of them.

She finally loosened the knot. With a shaky exhale, she parted the robe and let it slide off her shoulders. It pooled around her waist as she sat, then she shifted her hips to let it fall completely behind her on the couch. The cool air of the apartment washed over her naked skin. Her small, pale breasts felt tight, the pink nipples already drawn into hard points. A sprinkle of freckles danced across her chest and shoulders. She drew her legs up, then slowly, she lay back, scooting down until she was reclining lengthwise against the armrest on her section of the couch. She turned her head to face Sarah.

Sarah had shed her robe. It lay in a heap on the floor. She quickly took her place on the couch, reclining against the opposite armrest, her legs spread, feet almost touching Jill’s. Sarah’s body was a landscape of lush curves and fiery hair. Her 36C breasts were full and heavy, the areolas a pale pink, tipped with hardened coral peaks. The trimmed red hair at the junction of her thighs was a neat, fiery triangle against her pale skin.

Sarah’s eyes were locked on Jill. “You’re so beautiful,” she whispered, and the words held no flirtation, just awed, nervous honesty.

“You too,” Jill managed. Her heart was a wild bird in her cage of ribs. This was it. The moment stretched, taut as a wire.

Jill moved her hand first. She let her right hand slide down her own body, over the flat plane of her stomach, through the soft, coppery curls of her own trimmed patch. Her skin was hypersensitive; every touch sent little sparks along her nerves. Her fingers found the top of her slit. She was already swollen, puffy with arousal. Her outer lips were plump and parted, slick with her own readiness. She traced a finger along the seam, and a full-body shiver wracked her. “Ah...” The sound escaped her, soft and unbidden.

Across from her, Sarah mirrored the action. Jill watched, mesmerized, as Sarah’s hand—slim, with bitten nails—disappeared between her own thighs. Sarah’s head fell back against the couch cushion, her eyes fluttering shut for a second before forcing them open again, determined to watch.

Jill pressed deeper. She parted her own lips, revealing the darker, flushed inner folds, already glistening and drenched. Her clitoris was a hard, eager nub at the apex, throbbing with her pulse. She circled it with two fingers, a slow, tentative motion. Pleasure, familiar and self-made, zinged through her. Her hips gave a tiny, involuntary jerk.

Simultaneously, the Euphorias stirred.

Jill saw Sarah’s green creature move first. A single lime-colored tendril lifted from the floor, its tip weaving gently through the air as if tasting it. It moved toward Sarah’s outstretched leg, not touching, just hovering an inch above her calf. Waiting for an invitation.