Chapter 1: Tuesday Morning, 4AM - Rejection

“This is Dorothy Bishop. My daughter, Alaina, caught a stomach bug and won’t be attending today. I can be reached at my home number if there are any questions when you get in. Thanks, and have a good day.”

She clicked the cordless phone off and let it fall to the floor. The phone landed and bounced as her arm followed it down over the side of the bed. Her motion stopped when gravity carried her knuckles into the carpet.

Alaina lay like this, one pajama-clad arm off the bed, face down into her satin-covered pillow for some time. When her stifled breathing reached the limit of her comfort, she rolled away from the edge and on to her back. She covered her face with both of her pale hands. She sighed deeply.

I thought I would wake up and it would be Monday. How is it not Monday. How is this real?

She continued to lie on her bed, unmoving, hands on her face. Memories began to surface.

She was pushed up against her desk in the student council office, facing the door. Her torso inched forward with each stroke, rubbing against and disturbing the meticulously-organized stacks of suggestions for Senior Day events that she’d been reviewing. Her jeans—the new ones she’d just gotten over the weekend for her birthday—were pulled down around her knees where she’d left them. She moaned, then groaned as her hips jerked, her legs lost their strength, and the biggest orgasm of her life roared through her. And just at that moment...

She shrieked softly in frustration and threw a pillow across the room. There was the sound of something toppling over, and she opened a red-rimmed eyelid to survey the dimly-lit room and ascertain whether anything of value had been broken. Seeing that it was only her music stand which had been struck, she re-closed her eye and pulled the sheets over her head.

Her body below her neck had stopped responding. It was as though her muscles were no longer her own. She could still feel all the same sensations—the clenching which continued unabated in her vagina, the hands which tightly gripped her still-twitching hips, the trembling in her legs, the repeated impacts against her jiggling butt—but she had gone from an active participant to a passenger.

“What just—”

“NO! No, no, no no, no!” She brought her remaining pillow over her head and held it to her face, then screamed into it.

There was no way. This couldn’t be happening to her.

She screamed again, the pillow offering insignificant comfort to her distress—her denial of reality. It did muffle her voice, however. She screamed more, louder, the sound filling the otherwise-unoccupied room but traveling no further thanks to the closed door.

Alaina stopped to breathe. Her chest heaved. Her body felt heavy. She breathed more slowly. She flipped the pillow off to her side and fell into a fitful sleep.

The light filtering in through the blinds of her room’s sole window grew in intensity as time elapsed. Her mind tormented her.

“‘Doctor’ Bishop, we’re so glad to finally have you at our facility!” The man greeting her placed an odd emphasis on her title.

Alaina smiled. “I’m happy to be here as well. It’s always been my dream to work in the same building as my mother.”

The faceless hospital [Administrator] seemed to leer at Alaina, his gaze moving up and down her body. “Oh, that’s so sweet, dear. I’m sure your Skills will be well-used here. Let’s start you off with something easy for your first case...” He looked down at a clipboard that had appeared and began flipping through the pages at a superhumanly fast pace. “This one should do nicely. Right this way, please.”

She fell into step behind the odd man. It was her first day on the job, and she felt a certain dread with it that she couldn’t place. Something tickled at the back of her mind, but she banished it and pushed herself to focus on work. It wouldn’t do to space out and miss something on her first day!

“Here we are,” said the man upon reaching a nondescript door in the empty hallway. “This is Mr. White, he should fill your slot for a while. You can continue through the patients sequentially after he’s done with you. Ah, if you don’t mind, can I have you to myself for lunch?” He offered her the clipboard.

Alaina felt her sense of dread amplifying. She lowered an eyebrow, affecting a confused look as she glanced down at the clipboard. “I’m sorry?” she said.

“We can talk about lunch later, I’m sure we’ll get to it sooner or later given your skillset,” he replied.

She read through the file. The first patient, a Mr. William White, was listed as ‘Sex Addict’. She turned to the next page and patient’s the condition was ‘Premature Ejaculator’. She looked up. “Is this a joke?”

“A joke? Well of course not. What types of patients would you expect someone with the Class [Onahole] to be tending to? You’re even dressed for it!”

She looked down. Her body was clad in a white fabric which clung to her like another layer of skin. It was tight enough that her nipples poked out prominently, revealing that she wore no bra, and sheer enough that it was nearly see-through under the right light. A heart-shaped hole was cut around her dripping, shaved crotch, and she felt a slight breeze in back which implied a similar cut on the reverse side. The text “Healing Hole” was embroidered in bright pink across her chest, with smaller text reading “Insert Penis Until Cured” just under her navel and above a downward-pointing arrow.

Her eyes widened in horror and she frantically tried to cover herself with the clipboard.

“I have it right here,” said the [Administrator], pulling out another clipboard. “Alaina Bishop, level ten [Onahole]—

Alaina awoke, drenched in sweat, her left hand still covering her privates and her right arm across her chest. Her eyes were open as wide as was physically possible and darting back and forth, her heart hammered madly, her lungs gulped air. She was in her bed. Wearing her pajamas. Safe. Normal.

What the fuck was that. What the fuck. What the fuck What the FUCK.

She lay there, panting for a moment, before rolling free of her bed. She gently removed her pajamas while being careful not to tear the silk.

Don’t want to ruin them so soon after I got them, Mom would be sad.

The pajamas were deposited into her nearly-full laundry hamper, leaving her naked as she left the room. She walked across the hallway into the bathroom, stopping at the shower. She smoothly rotated the water handle to be almost entirely in the ‘H’ region, then closed the glazed glass shower door again.

While the water heated up, she shuffled over to the sink. She raised the tap lever for cold water and splashed a few handfuls on her face, then turned off the faucet and looked into the mirror.

Haggard, mournful brown eyes stared back at her from under dainty, immaculately-plucked eyebrows. The redness had subsided some, but she looked exhausted if she were being honest with herself.

Her full lips, the subject of ogling from more than one boy—and some girls—in school that she was aware of, had gone from pouty, past pouting, into a slightly downward droop that none of the assorted chap sticks, moisturizers, glosses, or lipsticks on the counter top could remedy.

Not the face I’d want to show at school. My image would be ruined.

She smiled slightly at the thought of her best friend taking one look at her and dragging her away before anyone could see.

The queen unmasked! That’s what they’d say. Maybe not, that’s a bit too dramatic for real life.

Real life. Her smile wilted.

No, don’t think about that now. Shower first. Then to the internet.

The cascade of borderline injuriously-hot water felt good. It was much better than the one she’d taken the night before in a daze, and her thoughts flowed backward despite herself as her hands wandered over her body with the soap.

Her hands had drifted to her vagina cautiously as the water poured down on her the night prior. The softening stickiness she’d found was not pleasant.

Further back.

“Shit!” he said when he pulled out. Alaina righted herself and turned around, semi-perched on the edge of her desk. She saw a glob of white-ish goo on the end of his partially condom-covered penis.

She peered downward. Past the small tuft of red hair, she saw a small blob of similar goo emerging from her lower lips. It dropped onto her leg while she watched with fascination, feeling entirely detached from herself at this moment.

“I’ll ... I’ll take care of this,” he said, wiping at her crotch with a tissue while kneeling in front of her. “I can’t believe the fucking condom ripped. That’s never happened to me before. Umm...” he paused, looking away from her oozing vulva. He looked up at her vacant eyes. “A-are you okay, Prez? This ended up going way further—I mean, I didn’t expect—” he gingerly dropped the cum-soaked tissues into a nearby garbage can. “Is it a safe day? Er—do you track? I can get you a morning-after—”

“It’s fine,” she remembered saying, cutting in before his babbling escalated. “I won’t get pregnant. You can go now.”

He’d run a hand through his hair, scratching at the back of his head. “Well that’s a relief. I mean—ah, fuck. This is fucked, I didn’t want to know that. Fucking Trait...”

She brushed a finger across her labia, half-expecting the sticky disaster from the previous night’s shower to somehow still be there. Her finger plunged inside without resistance. She was wet—and not just from the water.

Any penetration of an orifice will always have sufficient lubrication. Her mind relayed information about the Trait as though presenting that the number of fingers on each hand was five. The surety of both was undeniable.

She pulled her finger out, rinsed it, and leaned her forehead against the wall opposite the shower head. The spray massaged her back and neck. For a short while, her thoughts were blissfully absent.

The temperature of the water dropping below “hot” aborted her bliss. She turned off the shower and stepped out onto the mat to dry off.

I should check my phone. The fluffy towel moved mechanically around her body in a practiced pattern. A few more months and I’d have had perfect attendance for the year. Ah, I had that thing with Spencer at three...

She replaced the towel in its spot on the lone hanger. Opening the cabinet under the sink, Alaina took out her pink straightening iron. I’ll do that later. The shower cap had been fine last night to save time before diving into dreamland, but today she felt like she needed a full body scrub after her dream.

I’ll reschedule? She paused, looking at herself in the mirror. I’ll reschedule. She left the bathroom, her hair left damp and free to dry over time.

The air in her room felt oppressive for a moment as she walked back in, then normalized as she shook off her mind’s attempt to play tricks on her again. She moved to her dresser against the far wall and took a deep breath; the scent of the lavender oil in the diffuser was once again soothing now that she was fully awake and aware. She closed her eyes and enjoyed the fragrance for a few moments.

This is not happening to me. It must be a mistake. I’m not a ... a... She exhaled deeply, halting her progress in opening the top drawer of the ornate wooden dresser as her hands gripped handles on its front with more strength than was necessary. After a moment, she continued.

She haphazardly selected a set of white, unadorned, cotton bra and panties from the top drawer, a nondescript gray t-shirt from the second drawer, then a pair of fuzzy, black fleece pajama pants—her second favorite—from the bottom drawer. She finished the frumpy ensemble off with the navy blue hoodie from the back of her desk chair, sitting as she pulled the top over her head and down past her modest chest. Her hair, still wet, felt a bit slimy caught up between the back of her neck and the hood of the sweatshirt, so she corralled it over her shoulder with a black scrunchie.

With the press of a button, her laptop activated and slowly restored itself to the state she’d left it in. She picked up her flip phone off her desk while she waited for the slightly aged machine to load.

The envelope icon displayed below the corresponding text indicator.

Six messages? Who ... oh, they’re all from Ay. Let’s see...

“Where r u?”

“U skippin?”

“jk I know u wouldn’t. But 4 real, where r u?”

“Damn I heard u out sick. U got that death plague or sth?”

“Neilson gonna let u take exam tmo instead, b rdy”

“School fuckin sucks w/o u, A! Come back!”

She giggled quietly. Ay, you’re the best. I better send something back or she’s going to melt my phone.

Needed the day. Be back tomorrow. <3 she narrated internally as she typed on the keypad. She put the phone into her pocket and promptly forgot about it as she looked at her computer’s display.

Her web browser was active, the tabs numerous enough to look like a modern art piece along the top of the screen.

On the visible tab was a page from the well-known internet encyclopedia: Artificial vagina (Redirected from Onahole). Her eyes involuntarily scanned across the page she’d gone over more than once the previous night. ... may be designed for medical research purposes, animal breeding, or as a sex toy...

She closed the tab. The previous tab came up: a page for a Japanese sex toy retailer, featuring—among other things—an onahole designed to realistically simulate the Chinese porn star—

She closed that tab too. And the one after that, which had a graphic, up-close video of a man using one of the gross things—

The following tab wasn’t any better, showing onaholes “modeled” on a surprised-looking, cartoon-styled girl with ponytails on either side of her head. The girl wore a fetishized schoolgirl uniform which fit far too tightly around breasts that were larger than the girl’s head, and she posed at an improbable angle which also managed to show off her mosaic-covered crotch—which was overshadowed by her colossal, shiny butt in the foreground.

Trash. She closed the entire window, then took another deep breath. This isn’t me. This is not happening. I must not be understanding it somehow.

Alaina opened a new browser window and searched for “class initialization”, clicking the encyclopedia page which appeared first in the results. She skimmed through the page, confirming all the details she’d learned in school.

Class Initialization is the point at which a person acquires their Class. This phonomenon happens at the exact moment of a person’s eighteenth birthday, though some variation has been observed...