The holographic screen flickered in the dim glow of Jason’s one-room apartment, casting jagged shadows across the peeling walls. The air was thick with the hum of outdated cooling units straining against the perpetual heat of the sprawl outside. Jason leaned back in his creaky chair, his mid-30s frame slouched but alert, eyes fixed on the video feed. There she was: Tatiana, infuriatingly beautiful, her dark hair cascading over one shoulder as she chewed on a stylus, staring blankly at her own screen.

“Alright, Tatiana, let’s try this again,” Jason said, his voice steady despite the distraction. “The derivative of x cubed is 3x squared. Apply that to the chain rule here. You’ve got f(x) = (2x + 1)^4. What’s the first step?”

She rolled her eyes, her thick accent clipping the words like a dull blade. “This is stupid. Why do I need this? I am too old to do high-school stuff. My parents pay you to make me pass, not to torture me with ... whatever this is.” She leaned closer to the camera, her full lips curling in disdain, cleavage dipping just enough to send a jolt through him. God, he hated her. The way she dismissed everything, like math was beneath her, like he was beneath her. But that body—curves that screamed for attention, eyes that could burn through steel. He’d spent every credit on her digital ghost for a reason.

Under the desk, the sim moved with practiced silence. Identical to Tatiana down to the last freckle on her collarbone, but programmed for perfection. Maxed submissiveness, no backtalk, just eager compliance. She was naked, knees pressed into the cold floor, her mouth working him slowly, deliberately. Warm, wet suction pulled at him as he shifted slightly, fighting the urge to groan. The real Tatiana droned on, complaining about the problem set, her voice a grating symphony against the sim’s soft, rhythmic breaths.

“Fine, whatever,” Tatiana snapped. “The derivative is... 4 times (2x + 1)^3 times 2? Is that it? God, you’re so boring. Just tell me if it’s right.”

Jason nodded, his hand twitching on the desk. “Close. But yes, that’s the chain rule applied correctly.” He felt the sim’s tongue swirl, her hands gently cupping him, eyes looking up with that programmed adoration. It was intoxicating—the contrast. The real one barking orders, the fake one worshiping. His arousal built, a dark thrill from the power he wielded in secret.

He adjusted in his chair, reaching for his water glass, but his elbow caught the edge of the holocam mount. It wobbled, then tilted downward with a soft whir. Jason froze. The camera’s view shifted from his face and shoulders to a full-body shot: pants bunched at his ankles, cock buried deep in the sim’s mouth. Her head bobbed subtly, cheeks hollowed, identical features to Tatiana’s twisted in faux ecstasy.

On the screen, Tatiana’s eyes widened. Her stylus dropped from her mouth. “What the—?” She leaned in, squinting, then recoiled as realization hit. “Oh my God. That’s ... that’s me? You sick fuck! You have a Desireprint of me?”