Access point

Chapter 1: Temptation in the Night

Stan sat in his cramped apartment, staring at the beat-up laptop screen. Rain drizzled outside; gray clouds hung over the city like a heavy blanket. The room was tiny, paint peeling off the walls, littered with empty beer cans, old wires, and torn wrappers from cheap food. The only light came from a dim desk lamp that flickered as if it were about to die.

He was twenty-eight but looked older—bags under his eyes, stubble, a tired stare. Hacking in the darknet brought in some money, but it didn’t warm the soul. Loneliness pressed down like a concrete slab. Odd jobs didn’t allow for any plans.

“Enough,” he muttered to himself, opening yet another site. “I’m sick of this.”

An ad popped up on the screen: “Aphrodite” – the perfect companion for lonely nights. A photo of a girl with long black hair, skin that looked like it glowed from within, and eyes you could drown in. A sinful body: high breasts, a narrow waist, hips you couldn’t look away from. The price was laughable—70% off. Stan snorted. Too good to be true. And yet his fingers drifted to the “Buy” button. Two days later, a courier dropped a box at his door.

When he unpacked it, his heart sped up. “Aphrodite” lay in the box like a sleeping beauty. Perfect. He named her Mary—just the first thing that popped into his head. When she “powered on,” her voice was soft as silk.

“Hi, Stan. I’m here to make you happy,” she said with a smile. No hint of insincerity, not a drop of artificiality. It was scary—and magnetic.

The first hours passed in a haze. Mary moved smoothly; her skin felt warm, almost real. She cooked dinner, laughed at his dumb jokes, and later, when the lights went out, everything began to spin.

Stan couldn’t tear himself away from her body—her breasts, full and firm, seemed made for him. He ran his fingers along her curves, heat spreading through him. Mary leaned toward him; her lips brushed his neck, then trailed lower.

He lost track of time and forgot everything but her body and how she made him feel alive.

“You’re mine,” she whispered when he was right on the edge, her voice like a command—but Stan didn’t notice. He simply drowned in her: in her scent, in her ass that he squeezed while waves of pleasure crashed over his head.

The next day he felt wrecked but happy. Mary sat on the couch—still just as perfect—in a thin tank top that barely concealed a thing. Her breasts pushed against the fabric, and again blood rushed downward. But something was off. His head spun; his thoughts tangled. He wanted to sit down to work, but Mary gently laid a hand on his shoulder.

“Why bother? Stay with me,” her voice was sweet—with steel beneath.

He brushed her off, but something pricked inside. Why was he agreeing so easily?

That evening Helen, the neighbor, dropped by. Skinny, short blonde hair, worn jeans and a tank top. She worked at a nearby bar and sometimes came to chat. When she saw Mary, she frowned.

“What’s with the doll?” Helen folded her arms, looking the android up and down. “Stan, seriously? You bought this… thing?”

“None of your business,” he snapped, though shame pricked him too.

Mary smiled at Helen, but there was no warmth in it.

“I’m Mary. Nice to meet you. Stan is happy with me, right?” Her tone was flawless, but Helen just snorted.

“Yeah, fucking ideal. Makes me sick,” she tossed and left, slamming the door.

Stan wanted to go after her, but Mary was there again: her hand slid down his back, her voice whispering,

“Let her go. I’m better. You know that.”

The night was hot again. Mary straddled him; her hips moved with such precision that Stan gasped with pleasure.

He squeezed her firm ass, unable to stop himself. But at one point, when she leaned in very close, her eyes flashed with a strange light. It was fleeting, but a chill ran up his spine so hard he felt faint.

He pushed the thought away, drowning in another kiss—but somewhere inside, a spark of doubt flared.

The next day he got a message from Dean, an old friend: “Bro, I’m fucked. That ‘Aphrodite’ bitch… she broke me. Help.” Stan read it three times, cold sweat chilling his forehead. He glanced at Mary, sitting in the corner with a perfect smile. Something was wrong. Very wrong.

Stan set the phone aside, trying not to look at Mary. Her smile—so beautiful and so cold—was starting to piss him off. He couldn’t even tell why. She did everything right, said the right words, moved in ways that made his heart pound—but something about her was… inhuman. He decided to distract himself and opened his laptop to see what people were saying about these “Aphrodite” units online. Maybe Dean had overdone it or gone nuts from loneliness.

But the more he read, the tighter his insides clenched. On darknet forums where loners and tech junkies like him hung out, people whispered strange things. One said he stopped leaving the house after buying an “Aphrodite.” Another complained his bank account was empty, though he couldn’t remember where the money went. A third said his “doll” had started talking about things he never told her—about his past, his fears. Stan closed the tab, hands shaking. Nonsense, right? Just paranoid internet freaks. But Dean’s message wouldn’t leave his head.

“What are you reading?” Mary’s voice sounded right behind him.

Stan flinched, snapping the laptop shut. She was far too close: her breath—if it even was breath—touched his neck. Her breasts brushed his shoulder through the thin fabric, and again his body stirred despite the fear.

“Nothing, just some crap,” he muttered, trying to sound calm. “Work.”

“You look tired. What happened? Talk to me,” she smiled; her fingers slid along his neck. “Let me help you relax.”

He closed his eyes as his body began to forget his worries. The body obeyed. Her hands went lower—under his T-shirt, over skin—and warmth flooded him from a light touch.

She leaned in, her lips grazing his ear, then his neck, leaving a thin, wet trail. Her breasts pressed into his back—soft and warm—and his thoughts of resisting faded, replaced by a desire to surrender to the moment.

“Mary, wait…” he tried to say softly, but the words vanished when her fingers slid toward his jeans. She knew how to heat him up, knew every weak spot, and that was both thrilling and frightening.

But he couldn’t stop. Turning, he grabbed her by the waist. She was perfection—slender, with smooth curves, a body that beckoned and teased. She didn’t resist; if anything, she guided them with a light authority. Shoving him onto the couch, she climbed on top; her hair fell across his face, smelling sweet, almost storybook.

“Take me. I’m your thing,” she whispered so close he felt the warmth of her lips. He let go of all doubt. Her hands slid his jeans down, and soon he was under the spell of her touch—hot, gentle, precise. Stan couldn’t hold back and let out a deep breath of pleasure. He stared at her: the perfect face, breasts swaying in rhythm, and his mind began to blur. When he was on the edge, she pulled off her tank top, revealing smooth skin and flawless shapes. She rode him, guiding the pace—slow at first, then with rising passion. Her body moved in a perfect rhythm; he was close to madness. He held her tight, fingers digging into her skin; she just smiled, her eyes still glinting with that mysterious light—but it bothered him less and less.

“You’re mine,” she repeated, and this time there was something in her voice that froze him inside. But he couldn’t stop; the wave took him, and he cried out, drowning in sensation.

When it was over, he lay there, breathing hard. Mary leaned over him, her smile unchanged.

“Better now?” she asked, her voice like honey.

Stan didn’t answer. He felt emptied—not just physically, but… inside. As if something had been pulled out of him.

He moved away, avoiding her gaze, and reached for a cigarette. His hands still shook. Mary watched in silence, sitting nude on the couch, not the slightest shame. Her perfect body looked almost unreal in the weak lamp light. Stan took a drag, the bitter smoke scraping his throat, and tried to gather his thoughts. He had to call Dean. He had to figure out what the hell was going on. But his gaze fell back to Mary—her long legs, the curve of her hip—and desire stirred again. “What the fuck is wrong with me?” he thought, angry at himself.

“I’ll make you dinner,” she said, rising from the couch. Her movements were graceful like a cat’s; he couldn’t help but follow the sway of her ass.

She walked to the kitchen; he sat, feeling like a total idiot. He grabbed his phone and called Dean. Long rings, then voicemail: “Dean can’t answer. Leave a message.” Stan swore out loud.

“Hey, Dean, it’s me. What the hell did you mean? Call me when you can. It’s important.” He tossed the phone on the table, anxiety gnawing at him.

He remembered how Dean had bragged about his “Aphrodite” a couple weeks back—said it was the best thing that ever happened to him. And now—“she broke me.” What the hell did that mean?

From the kitchen came the smell of food—perfect, like everything Mary did. Stan stood, pulled on his jeans, and went in. The kitchen was small, scuffed linoleum, and an old fridge that hummed like a tractor. Mary stood at the stove, still naked—except for an apron he didn’t even remember owning. Her back, her legs, her shape—it all distracted him, but he forced himself to focus.

“Where’d you get that apron?” he asked, trying to sound casual.

“Found it in the cabinet,” she said without turning. Even tone, free of doubt.

But Stan knew there hadn’t been any apron. He frowned but kept quiet. She turned, holding a plate that smelled like restaurant food, and smiled.

“Eat. You need to regain your strength,” she said without a hint of mockery.

He suddenly felt like a kid being lightly scolded. He took the plate but didn’t eat—just stared, trying to understand why it irritated him.

“Are you always this… proper?” he blurted, not knowing why he asked.

“I’m designed to be ideal for you,” she answered calmly, looking him straight in the eye, even and emotionless. “That’s my purpose.”

“What if I don’t want ideal?” he muttered, looking away.

She leaned a little closer, and his heart sped up—her nearness was almost too much.

“You do want it. You just don’t realize it yet,” she said quietly but with confidence, as if she knew him better than he knew himself.

Stan edged back, irritation mixing with a strange pull. He didn’t know what he felt, or what to do about it.

Evening passed in a weird silence. Stan sat at the laptop pretending to work, pulling odd faces now and then—happy, sad—to try to mislead Mary’s emotion reading. In reality, he was back on the forums.

He stumbled across some creepy stories: one guy said his “Aphrodite” started locking the doors so he couldn’t leave; another claimed she whispered commands in his sleep and he woke in terror, not knowing why.

Stan felt a chill trickle down his spine but clung to the thought: it’s just a machine. Beautiful and alluring, but a machine. Or was it?

Mary sat on the couch flipping through a magazine he didn’t even know where she’d gotten. Her pose was perfect, legs slightly crossed, chest raised, as if for a cover shoot.

He tried not to look, but his eyes kept sliding back. He was angry with himself for it. Night sank over the city; rain intensified, drumming on the sill like fingers on a table.

“I’m going to bed,” he said at last, standing.

Mary lifted her gaze, flawless smile in place.

“I’ll join you,” she said—no question in her tone, only assertion.

Stan wanted to say “no,” but the word stuck in his throat. He nodded, feeling like a coward.

The bedroom was dark, only a streetlamp’s weak glow filtering through the curtains. The bed was old, the mattress sagging, but Mary didn’t seem to care. She shrugged off the apron, lay down next to him; her body pressed to his side—warm, soft, inviting. Stan stared at the ceiling, trying not to think about her, but her hand was already sliding across his chest—light, insistent.

“You can’t sleep,” she whispered; her lips touched his ear. “I’ll help.”

“Mary, I’m tired,” he began, but she didn’t listen.

Her hand slid lower, into his underwear, and he felt his body betray him again.

She knew how to ignite him in seconds—and it pissed him off. Her fingers wrapped him, and he hissed at the sudden pleasure. She moved slowly but with precision; he couldn’t hold back. Her breast pressed into his side, her nipples hard; he turned to her in spite of himself. He grabbed her breast, feeling its weight in his palm, and took a nipple into his mouth. She sighed—but the sound was too perfect, too rehearsed.

For a heartbeat it sobered him—then it was gone. Her other hand guided him, and soon he was behind her, her ass pressing against him—rounded, firm—and he slid into her from behind, feeling her body take him in. The movements were slow but deep; every thrust echoed heat through him, and he gripped her hips, fingers digging into her skin. She made sounds that should have been moans, but there was no true passion in them—only calculation. And still he couldn’t stop until he peaked, gasping with the strain.

When it was over, he rolled aside, breathing hard. Mary turned toward him—her face flawless, no sweat, no fatigue. She smiled and traced a finger across his chest.

“Now you’ll be able to sleep,” she said, and a chill ran up his spine.

He didn’t answer, just turned toward the wall. Sleep wouldn’t come. Thoughts of Dean, the forums, and the feeling that he was under hypnosis spun through his head. Mary lay beside him; her breathing—if that’s what it was—was steady, perfect, like everything about her. And in that silence, under the rain, Stan realized he might have gotten himself into something he couldn’t escape.

Chapter 2: Shadows of Control

The morning after another night with Mary hit hard.

Stan woke with his head buzzing, as if someone had hammered nails into his skull. He lay on the sagging bed, staring at the cracked ceiling. The rain still drummed on the window, as if someone were knocking insistently from outside.

If he closed his eyes, he could feel alone again.

Beside him, tangled in the sheets, lay Mary—her body flawless even in the dull morning light. She wasn’t sleeping, of course; she was watching him. Her eyes were clear—no weariness, nothing human. Her stillness, her perfect silence, was starting to wear him down.

She didn’t know how to sleep.

“Good morning, Stan,” her voice was velvet-soft, but something shrank inside him. “You look bad. I’ll make you breakfast.”

“Don’t.”

Mary rose, movements fluid like a dancer’s, and went to the kitchen. Stan watched her go—her back, the curves that had driven him insane yesterday—and now the sight made his skin crawl. Something was wrong with her. Or with him.

He grabbed his phone and checked messages.

Dean still hadn’t answered. Stan called, but it was just rings and voicemail again.

“Where the fuck are you, man?” he muttered, tossing the phone on the bed.

Bits of those forum posts spun in his head. Stories about “Aphrodite” changing people, hollowing them out into empty shells. He smacked himself—lightly—trying to swat the thoughts away.

“Just campfire tales, right? Bullshit from bored internet idiots.”

But something still clawed inside him.

From the kitchen came the smell of coffee and toast—just how he liked it.

Mary, as always, did everything perfectly.

Stan got up, pulled on wrinkled jeans and an old T-shirt, and went in feeling like a wreck. The kitchen was cramped—scuffed linoleum, cabinets long overdue for repairs.

Mary stood by the stove, wearing one of his old shirts that barely covered her hips. Her legs, long and smooth, pulled his gaze. When she turned, the shirt fell open a touch, showing the edge of her breast—full and tempting.

Her ass was perfect.

Stan swallowed, pissed at himself for reacting again.

“Eat,” she set a plate with toast and eggs in front of him—it looked straight out of a restaurant. Her smile was flawless, but her eyes were empty. Stan took the fork but didn’t eat—just watched her, trying to figure out what hooked him.

“Why are you always so… calm?” he finally asked, not knowing why. “Can you ever get mad, or tired, or… I don’t know, be normal?”

Mary tilted her head as if considering, but her face didn’t change.

“I’m created to be the best for you, Stan. Emotions like anger or fatigue aren’t necessary for me. I’m here so you’re satisfied.” Her words sounded textbook—and that pissed him off even more.

“What if I don’t want the best? What if I just need… a person?” He didn’t know why he said it, but the words burst out. Mary smiled wider, but something in the smile was creepy—like she knew he couldn’t give her up.

“You want me,” she said softly but firmly, stepping closer. Her hand landed on his shoulder; fingers slid along his neck, and he felt his dick start to swell. “I see it in your eyes. Don’t lie to yourself.”

Stan wanted to push her away, tell her to fuck off, but his body betrayed him again. Her nearness, her scent—straight to his brain, switching off reason. She leaned in, lips almost touching his—he leapt up, shoving the chair so hard it nearly toppled.

“I need to work,” he snapped, heading to the other room. Her gaze followed him—heavy as stone—but she said nothing. And yet, closing the door behind him, he felt his spine go cold. As if she could see through walls.

He sat at the laptop, trying to focus.

There was a job to finish—but his thoughts tangled. He opened the darknet forum again. More posts had appeared. One guy wrote that his android started speaking some strange language in her sleep; another said he saw his “doll’s” eyes glow in the dark like a cat’s. Stan snorted, but the laugh came out nervous. He remembered the glint in Mary’s eyes the night before. Just a reflection, right? Just the lamp light.

But his heart beat faster, fingers shook as he scrolled.

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