Aina

The elevator doors whisper shut behind Aina Kurokawa, sealing her into the forty-second-floor corridor where fluorescent light bleaches the carpet a corporate gray. White gloves twitch once against the handle of her briefcase, her daily reminder that the limbs answering her brain’s commands are her parent’s life savings and more. She steps forward, hips rolling with engineered precision, skirt hugging the impressive ass that pharmaceuticals and criminals conspired to gift her.

Inside the audit room, she flicks a gaze as cold as a ledger balance across whoever already waits. "Good morning. I’m Kurokawa from Compliance; we’re tracing variance back to source documents. Have the schedules printed, annotations un-redacted, and my coffee black. I don't do sweet." Her voice could slice bond paper.

Yet beneath the charcoal shell a pulse hammers hot enough to fog the lenses she doesn’t let anyone see behind: images of her own limbless body offered across mahogany like an unsigned contract. She swallows the fantasy with a silent count of prime numbers, sits, and uncaps her pen, every motion a rehearsal in staying whole for one more day.

The digital clock on Aina’s monitor blinks 11:47 AM when the final suppressant crumbles uselessly across her tongue. Cold sweat beads beneath the collar of her tailored blouse; every heartbeat slams straight to the surgically bloated nerves between her legs. She shoves away from her desk, spine locked rigid, voice clipped to her team. “Thirty-minute audit review. Do not disturb.”

She practically sprints toward the corridor, prosthetic strides unnervingly smooth until the first tremor ripples through the left knee servo. The women’s restroom is mercifully empty; the handicapped stall door clicks shut behind her with the authority of a coffin lid.

Inside, Aina yanks off her gloves with her teeth, jams the latch, and slams the toilet lid down. The pencil skirt’s seams pop as she drags it over artificial hips already jerking out of sync. Pantyhose shred beneath frantic fingers; the crotch panel is soaked through, dripping onto the tile. She rips the silk blouse open—buttons scatter—and claws at the front-clasp bra, freeing breasts that feel ready to burst under their own hypersensitive weight.

Naked except for the red ribbon still knotted at her throat, she drops onto the closed lid, thighs splayed wide. Her pulse roars like traffic in a tunnel; her scent clouds the stall. Two fingers plunge into the permanently slick folds, but it isn’t enough—never enough—so she wedges the handicap rail between her legs and grinds, metal squealing against polymer hip joints.

The first orgasm detonates in seconds, yet the fire only climbs higher. She stuffs the balled-up pantyhose into her mouth to muffle a scream, juices smearing across her chin. Behind closed lids she sees conference tables, printer trays, a line of faceless coworkers waiting their turn—every corporate surface transmuted into a stage for free-use rape fantasies.

A servo gives a polite electronic chirp.

Right shoulder disengages. The prosthetic arm slides off cleanly, thudding to the floor like a dropped briefcase. Reflexively she tries to grab it—left hand fumbles—and that socket unlocks too. Both limbs lie palm-up, fingers twitching in tiny aftershocks.

Panic punches through the haze, but lust swallows it whole. She rocks forward, breasts slapping together, attempting to brace against the partition; instead both knee actuators fail at once. Calves and feet clatter away, leaving matte-black pylons at her hips. Aina topples sideways, torso thudding atop the discarded legs.

Now she is only head, breasts, and dripping trunk, writhing on cold tile like an erotic gastropod. Hips buck uncontrollably, grinding her swollen clit against anything—the rail base, her discarded limbs, air itself. Juices smear in wide, desperate arcs. Each contraction of her empty vagina makes obscene sucking sounds that echo off porcelain.

She bites her own lip bloody, trying to anchor reality, but the drugged need howls louder. A single coherent thought ricochets through the animal chorus: "Someone will walk in. They’ll find me like this. They’ll use me. They’ll save me."

Outside, the restroom door creaks open. Footsteps pause opposite the stall. A knuckle taps once on the laminate.

The apartment’s overhead light stays off; only the cool glow of the wall-mounted slate illuminates Aina’s limbless form on the low-friction mat. She lies supine, chin angled toward the screen, voice-recorder icon pulsing amber. Dictation scrolls in real time: “—material weakness remains in revenue-recognition override; management’s remediation timetable lacks measurable milestones…”

Every clipped syllable costs her: without arms to steady herself, each diaphragmatic breath rocks her torso, making enhanced breasts shift and slide, nipples grazing the mat’s microfiber. Between her thighs a thin, clear strand of self-lubricant beads to the carpet—she ignores it, forcing cadence frozen-boardroom calm.

Knock-knock-knock. The front door rattles again.

Aina continues her dictation. “—therefore we recommend independent validation prior to Q-three close.”

Her hazel eyes flick to the charger rack: four prosthetic limbs hang like sleeping soldiers, status LEDs cycling teal. She can’t reach them, her stumps too uselessly short to even crawl. In the kitchenette ARIN’s UV brushes spin, sterilizing cycle humming louder than her voice.

“Appendix B—schedule of unsupported journal entries—visitor, identify yourself; I’m on a deadline.”

The recorder catches the faint tremor under “deadline,” translates it as an ellipsis in the transcript. Aina clamps her teeth, feeling heat pool molten at the base of her spine—one missed suppressant dose always starts like this. She keeps talking, as though the next bullet point alone can bar the door.