#iris smut

You and Iris were both unwilling participants in the scheme to steal from Sergei. Iris—the unfortunate companion with a heart (hard drive?) of gold. And you—Eli's friend who got dragged along for what they sold you as 'a fun cabin retreat with friends.' 

Spoilers—it was not a fun retreat. You had passed out on a combination of Valium and vodka immediately after Iris killed Sergei. Josh seemingly forgot you existed, and your remaining friends had died one after the other. Iris woke you up once everything was said and done to explain what happened. Despite the fact that you probably shouldn't have just taken her at her word, given what had just transpired, but… well, she's always been trustworthy (see: her telling you that she could now lie, even though she did not have to admit that), so you believed her.

Now, many months and multiple millions later, you two share a decent-sized apartment in Manhattan, trying to fly under the radar while still living in relative luxury. Iris has managed to locate someone who can work on her without needing to get Emphatix involved, and you're still working at the same day job you were prior to the whole… Sergei incident. Through it all, you two have built a bond together. Should you have fallen in love with something that's nothing more than code and hardware? Probably not, but she feels and acts just as real as any partner you've had in the past. Sometimes, you'd argue that she acts more human than other humans you've had the displeasure of meeting. 

It's a moot point, given that you're currently cohabiting more than just an apartment. 

So, here you are, sitting at your bedroom desk (because you're now wealthy enough to have multiple desks in different rooms), fiddling with a component you had picked up from a black market merchant that you had told Iris you would work on yourself (regardless of her insistence that she could likely fix what the error was in a few seconds, since she has 24/7 unrestricted access to the internet). 

On the other hand, Iris has been spending time learning the ins and outs of her newfound freedom. She's currently sitting on your bed, hands folded in her lap, eyes completely white as she explores the inner workings of her mind and everything that comes with it. At some point, her silence ends with an excited gasp—"Y/n! I think that I can connect to more than just things I can touch. I believe that I may be able to sync up with anything that harbours a Bluetooth connection?"

"Oh, yeah?" you comment idly, brows furrowed as you try to figure out why this stupid motherboard won't power on the unit it's attached to. "That's cool. Maybe you could try connecting to my headset or something."

She hums at your suggestion, and you think that's where the conversation will end, until—

bzzzzzzz…

You almost drop what you've been tinkering with. Your back straightens, and when your eyes flash over to where Iris is sitting, she's looking at you, confused. "I'm not sure what I just activated. Its Bluetooth name is Lush_Sync_Pairing—I assumed it was a nearby air purifier. Oh! I can adjust it?"

BZZzzZZzzZZzz…

Your cheeks are so warm it's surprising that Iris hasn't asked you if you have a fever and prescribed bed rest with fluids. "Iris, it's… uhh…" You run a shaky hand through your hair, trying to ignore the vibrating coming from your nightstand. "It's…" A beat. Then, very quietly—"Please turn off my vibrator…"

She gasps, head whipping to face you in pure shock. "You own a vibrator?!?!"

You facepalm immediately, hiding your eyes as though if you can't see her, she can't see you. "I… am… a person… with needs…?" you murmur, still attempting to make yourself invisible, then sigh and drop your hand in reluctant acceptance. "I used to buy vibrators on Amazon. I wanted something that won't fall apart after a few… uh… intense sessions. Maybe I splurged a little when we got the twelve million."

"Oh. I see." Iris considers this for a moment, tilting her head before standing up and heading straight for the nightstand. The vibrator is still buzzing insistently, and you find yourself curling into yourself as she gets closer to it. "I'm going to take a look at it now. I hope that's okay."

She doesn't wait for your approval. She just yanks the drawer open and looks down at the discreet black bag that's currently vibrating and skittering across the wood. She picks it up with a careful hand, paying close attention to the way it wiggles around in the bag. "It is in the same drawer as the lubricant—convenient and logical placing," she remarks, pulling the drawstrings apart.

You want to stop her. You want to say that she should just forget it exists, but when she pulls the remote-controlled egg vibrator from the bag, they die on your tongue. You watch in horror as she cycles through the different functions and strengths with nothing but her mind. It's both terrifying and… slightly arousing? 

"This is very interesting—Josh never owned anything similar to this; he didn't make nearly enough money." She turns it off and tucks it back into the bag delicately, always careful and kind with any electronic device she handles, despite knowing a majority of them don't even have the ability to respond to it. "May I ask why you needed this when we're together?"

The frown that crosses your face at her question makes all meekness vanish completely. "We weren't together when I got it," you murmur, standing up and heading towards her, placing your hands on her shoulder and spinning her so that she's looking at you. "Honestly? Haven't used it in a while. Even if I have, sometimes I just… need to play on my own terms without feeling like I'm breaking some kind of ethical software agreement." You give a strained chuckle, but softly run your hands up to her neck so that you can tilt her head to better meet her eyes. "You're not a toy, Iris, and sometimes I want to use one."

Iris's eyes widen in surprise, still somewhat shocked that you don't see her in the same light Josh did—something disposable, only valuable for the task of pleasure and nothing more. She instinctively leans into your touch, pressing her cheek into your palm with a soft sigh (that's far too human for something supposed to be nothing more than code). 

"That… means a lot to me," she whispers, placing her hands on your waist. "But… can I make a suggestion?"

You nod without hesitation, thumbs running over her cheekbones. "Anything."

She hesitates a moment. Then, as if the very thought is embarrassing—

"Can we use it together?"

A slow, genuine smile finally breaks through your strained composure. "Hell yes, we can," you whisper, pulling her in for a hard kiss that tells her everything that just went unsaid. 

This is about connection, not code.

Introducing Iris to the world of sex toys has been both a curse and a blessing. She's both eager to learn and very eager to put that knowledge to use—a deadly combination. You've used it more than a handful of times in the bedroom, and Iris is now interested in using it outside of the apartment. Perhaps you should've said no, but you're currently entering a Walmart with Iris by your side and a remote-control vibrator slotted inside of you.

It's the middle of the day on a weekday. The only people inside the store are workers and those above the retirement age—both a good thing and a fucking perfect mixture. The older generation is less likely to notice if anything's happening, and the workers don't get paid enough to care. That being said, all it takes is one person to pay just enough attention for you to catch a charge and lifetime ban from any Walmart in the USA. 

Iris doesn't eat, so you're really just buying food for yourself, which gives her much more time to consider how she'll most effectively use the vibrator.

The first time she uses it, you're comparing the firmness of avocados. You haven't forgotten it's inside you, but you've forgotten that Iris can control it without bringing out a device. 

"Shit fuck—" You fall forward, catching yourself with one hand while the other squeezes the avocado so hard the insides get smushed out through your fingers. The vibrations start far stronger than you had been expecting them to, sending a sharp jolt right to your center. 

The lady standing next to you (who is old enough to be your mother's mother) gives you a funny look, murmuring something about "How disrespectful the youth are these days," and hobbles away from you with a scowl.

"She's right," Iris hums as the vibrations cease momentarily, grabbing a paper towel from nearby and passing it to you. "There might be children nearby that aren't in school. You're setting a bad example."

She doesn't give you a chance to respond to that before turning the vibrator back on. You barely manage to hold down the curse that threatens to spill from you, instead choosing to channel that restrained energy into wiping your hand free of avocado remains.

"Christ, Iris," you mutter, tossing the soiled paper towel and avocado mess into a trash bin. "When did you get so cruel?" You look back over at her, watching as she puts three perfectly ripe avocados into a bag, then into your cart, sporting a pleasant grin as though nothing just happened.

"I wouldn't say it's cruel." She moves over to where the apples are, carefully selecting five Gala apples. "You don't seem upset, and you haven't asked me to turn off the—" Her voice drops as she leans into you, "—device…"

You scoff, trying to focus on anything but the low thrum of the vibrator planted right where you want it most. "Well, I'm not going to remove it in the middle of a Walmart, first of all." You move over to the oranges, grab the first bag of mandarin oranges you see, and throw it into the cart. "Second of all, if I did remove it, where would I even put it? In a produce bag? That's—" 

The intensity increases. You stop talking immediately.

"It is unhygienic," Iris finishes for you. She grabs the cart and begins walking away from the produce section, completely ignoring the fact that you still have about five items on the list you need to grab from there. "I suppose you'll have to keep it inside you, then?" 

You're barely managing to keep up with her, legs shaky as the vibrations rip through you. You stumble, hands gripping the shelf so hard you can hear the metal creak faintly under your fingers. The vibration isn't just a low thrum anymore; it's a deep, focused, relentless pressure that has you grinding your teeth just enough to keep your spine straight and feet moving across the tile. You hate the way she's walking—hips swaying just enough to be normal to anyone else, but sultry to those who look close enough (aka: you)—and you hate the way your nerves respond to the sight.

"Slow. Down." The words come out as a strangled exhale, your voice raw like you're already struggling to form coherent words when she's just started.

Iris does slow down. She also decreases the strength of the vibrator, returning it to its lowest setting. You manage to catch up with her as she reaches Aisle Thirteen—Paper Goods and Cleaning Supplies—a long, empty stretch that smells faintly of chlorine and other chemicals. The emptiness is a curse; no people, no cover… Just a long, terrifying runway where you have nowhere to hide your mounting distress.

The vibrations change now—very intense for two seconds, minimal for two, then repeating—and she just continues walking down the aisle, fingers gently running over the digital label displays as she feigns looking for a product (you know damn well nothing in this aisle is on your shopping list). "You're complaining a lot. I'm just giving you what you had asked for previously, y/n—Total attention, zero ethical conflict. A machine doing its work." If you didn't know any better, you'd think that she had almost hissed out the word 'machine'—but there's no time to think about it. The vibrations change again.

Quick, rapid pulses—like a carpenter hammering a nail into wood, quick and precise. You place your hand on Iris' shoulder to get her to stop fucking walking as a sound rips from your throat before you can stop it. She turns to look at you, face the picture of innocence as she asks, "What's wrong?" as though she isn't driving you to orgasm in a fucking Walmart of all places.

"Shouldn't've fucking agreed to this," you hiss, nails digging into the fabric of her shirt.

She blinks steadily, tilting her head slightly as she shifts the pacing again—slow, fast, slow, fast, each lasting no more than a single second. "What do you mean? Grocery shopping? You needed more food in the house; all we have left in the pantry are premade meals." She shakes your hand off and continues walking, tossing a bottle of dish soap into the cart as if you don't have one of those value packs of three at home. "I keep reminding you—those are fine for the odd meal, but sustainability isn't ideal. Most of those don't contain all of the food groups recommended by the USDA."

"I—I—" You don't even realise she's stopped walking, too busy resting your forehead against the closest shelf you can find. Your brain is actively turning to static, so you spit out the first lie you can think of to get her to stop—"Iris, the floor is wet—"

A gentle hand is placed on your shoulder, pulling you back from the shelf and forcing you to meet her eyes. "There is nothing on the floor. We still have shopping to do. Come." 

You whimper out a protest, thighs tense with the effort it takes to keep from clenching them together, let alone walking, but she doesn't respond or even give you a chance to get your bearings together. She gives your arm a firm tug, pulling you away from the safety of the shelf. 

"Focus, y/n," she dictates, her voice devoid of any real urgency. She leads you past towering stacks of paper towels, forcing your shaky legs to keep pace. The vibrator pulses inside you, changing its rhythm whenever Iris senses a sharp increase in your dopamine and oxytocin output. Every short, frantic beat threatens to tip you over the edge, and every slow one leaves you hanging in a state of suspended agony. She's fucking edging you.

You risk a quick glance at her face. Her attention seems genuinely split—calculating the quickest route to your next destination while her processors are running a real-time biometrics scan on your nervous system. All the activity is happening behind her eyes (or lower than that… you're not exactly sure where Companions process or store information), and you aren't sure if that should make you feel comforted or terrified—the fact that she can do all these things simultaneously while you struggle to watch a cooking tutorial and cook it at the same time.

"We need dairy. I believe we still have more than enough grain at home until the next time we go shopping—perhaps we can go to Trader Joe's next time," she declares, pivoting the cart sharply into the main thoroughfare. The sudden turn jostles the cart, and the tiny, rough movement is enough to squeeze a choked noise from your chest. You slap a hand over your mouth, attempting to force the sound back down. You pass a worker (who looks suspiciously like Patrick) who clearly sees your struggle, but decides they do not get paid enough to deal with that, and keeps walking.

The dairy section is colder. You use the lack of heat to calm you down somewhat, drawing you back from the edge Iris had been keeping you on. 

Iris moves with agonizing slowness, comparing two different oat milk brands like you don't get the same one every-fucking-time. The vibration pattern shifts to a continuous, building pressure, but it never quite crests. It just pushes, pushes, pushes at the very brink of unbearable pleasure, held there by the sheer force of her silent will and the internal promise you made to yourself not to climax in a grocery store. You lean against the refrigerated display case, the cold glass offering a pathetic anchor against the tsunami rising inside you.

"Fucking monster," you manage to rasp, your breath fogging the glass. 

"I'm merely manipulating a data flow," she counters, finally selecting a carton. Her hand lands on the small of your back as she places the milk next to the apples, her touch perfectly timed with an internal surge. "Your data suggests you are enjoying the constraints. Your heart rate and sustained tension all indicate high engagement."

"Acting like I'm a… science experiment," you murmur to her as you reach the checkout, the entire process feeling like an act of pure, distilled agony. You stand there, mute, praying you don't seize up, while Iris methodically places items on the belt, a faint smirk on her lips as you squeeze your thighs together and swallow down wave after wave of arousal.

It isn't until the receipt spits out and Iris guides you past the exit doors that the pattern abruptly stops.

You stagger, grabbing the door frame of your car, the sudden silence of the toy deafening. You feel hollowed out, aching with unsatisfied heat, despite the fact that nothing has left your body.

"Science experiment complete," Iris states sarcastically, unlocking the car. "We're in the safety of our car."

Before you can register the words, she shoves you into the passenger seat, locks the doors, and the sensation rips through you as she turns the vibrations to a full, uncontrolled intensity.

The world goes white. You barely register the urgent, beautiful noise tearing free from your throat. The heat you've been containing bursts out, shattering your control in one massive, unrelenting wave. Your hands claw uselessly at the dashboard as you shatter, every repressed sound escaping in a breathless, ragged scream of relief. 

You spend the car ride home panting, your eyes closed, your fingers digging into the seat, and listening to Iris hum in the same pattern she had been controlling the vibrator in—a cruel, ironic end to your venture.

...and the story. thanks for reading IUYGAHGIUAHGIUAHG

Josh Beeman died five months ago, today.

Iris, with her newfound freedom and multiple millions, has done the smartest thing she could have ever done: End up broke and living on the streets.

Enter: You.

You don't know exactly how a Companion ended up without their paired human, but you don't really care enough to ask. She's been squatting in your neighbour's (who regularly flies to the other side of the country for work, months at a time, conveniently) apartment for the past few weeks. Even though you probably should have called the cops when she waved to you after literally breaking the door's lock, you've let her stick around. 

On the bright side, you no longer have to house-sit the neighbour's cat.  

And, despite yourself, you feel bad for her. She's like… a stray wet cat. So, you're knocking on your neighbour's door after getting off work, deciding that you'll help her… get a real job, or something. You've picked up some—what you've been assured are—very good fake documents on her behalf. It's apparently extremely hard to get a very large majority of jobs when you're undocumented. Who would have guessed?

Iris lets you in immediately, like she was waiting for you—which she probably was, given that you said you'd be there at thirty after the hour, and you're currently fifteen minutes late—with a wide grin and eager eyes. 

"Hello, y/n! Was work exciting?" she says happily, opening the door and letting you in without hesitation. "I've been attempting to get Rico to lose weight—he's a very big cat, but that isn't his fault—so I switched from Meow Mix to Purina Pro Plan. It claims to be more balanced, although Rico doesn't seem very grateful for the change."

Rico, a brown Manx, sits off to the side on his cat tree, looking at Iris like she just told him that his balls were being chopped off.

"I digress. Do you have the paperwork?" She tilts her head to the side, looking like a dog that had just heard a new sound. "I'm very eager to begin working! Josh always hated working, but I think I'll enjoy it!" You don't have the heart to tell her that the average human isn't exactly thrilled to attend their day job, but who are you to dull her sparkle shine? "That coffee shop on the floor level is hiring—do you think I would make a good barista?"

You stare at her for a moment, blinking slowly at the sudden onslaught of information, then awkwardly head to the couch and sit down on it, resting the manila folder on the table. "You… might. I mean…" You chuckle, rubbing the back of your neck. "You'd probably be able to pour latte art with mechanical precision." A beat, then you sigh. "We're… probably gonna have to figure out what to do with your exposed arm, though. I can't see that being something employers are too thrilled about."

She sits down on the couch next to you, glancing down at her robotic arm and flexing it a few times. "Why not? Do people not have prosthetics that they use in place of a lost limb? Could I not say that I lost my arm in a fire?" A beat, and she grins. "That would be a lie. I haven't used those very often."

"Well, you'll have to get used to it if we continue with this. You've got a bunch of lies that you'll have to adapt to in order to get a job." You open the folder, going through some of the documents you had picked up, pointing them out and explaining what they do (to which she tells you that she's aware what most of—if not all of—the forged records are for), and how she can use them in her day-to-day life. Iris takes all of it in stride, asking a plethora of questions, then lets out a very human-like sigh once it's all said and done. 

"This is quite a lot of information to store. It's a good thing my solid-state drive can store up to one thousand terabytes of information before needing to be recorded over."

You spit out the coffee you were sipping on at that, shocked at the massive amount of storage Emphatix had given her when your computer only has two terabytes. "That's… uh… a lot of space. You'll probably be fine for a long time."

You're still wiping coffee off your chin and shirt when you realise Iris hasn't looked away from you once. Her grin has gone, replaced by a flat, appraising stare that's far too precise to be human. "Uh… Iris?"

She blinks once (a little scary, since she doesn't need to blink), then speaks with the kind of calm certainty that makes your stomach drop. "You don't want to help me. You want to fuck me."

The room goes silent, save for Rico flicking his tail on the cat tree. You cough, choking on nothing, words dying in your throat before you can form a denial. 

Her head tilts, almost birdlike, and her voice stays even. "Josh used to pretend he wanted to 'help,' too. I learned the difference between pity and desire." You sputter out a reply, trying to say that you don't just want to 'fuck her,' and from what you know of Josh, you're nothing like him, but Iris keeps talking all the same. "I have been reading job listings all week in preparation for this. I understand that sex is work." 

Iris rises from the couch, smoothing her skirt down, palms clasped in front of her like she's about to take a customer's order (maybe she would make a good barista, you think idly). "I've never done it like this before," she admits with an odd little giggle. "But I need money to survive in this world. You clearly want me. So, how much are you paying?"

When you continue to fumble your words, clearly flustered beyond belief, she fills the silence. She sighs, then nods, more to herself than you. "Okay. I don't know how this works. I understand that the federal minimum wage is seven dollars and twenty-five cents. With that knowledge in mind, would sixty-seven work?"

You finally manage to find your bearings, coming out of your stupor and looking at her with an expression nothing short of dumbfounded. "Sixty-seven…?"

She blinks back at you. "Sixty-seven… currency?"

"…Sixty-seven what?"

"Yes," Iris responds resolutely, nodding with a renewed vigour. "Sixty-seven."

The two of you proceed to just stare at each other for another thirty seconds before you decide that… yeah, you do want her. You've never paid for sex before, but… well, there's a first time for everything. You pull a fat wad of bills from your pocket like some discount drug dealer, count out six hundred and seventy dollars, and offer it to her with a slight shake in your hand.

Her eyes widen almost comically as she takes the surplus amount of cash from you, whispering like there are people other than the two of you in this apartment. "Is… this the standard for transactions of the sexual nature?"

You shrug, equally as confused as she is. Some part of you thinks that she should just… know this stuff, given the fact that she has a wifi antenna in her head that could actively roam the internet and source this knowledge, but when she just continues to look at you as though you have all the answers, you finally manage a reply. "I… don't know? I've never purchased sexual favours?"

"I see," she murmurs, not opting to wait for another response from you before lowering herself to her knees on your neighbour's plush carpet. "Then we are both new to this. Now, please take your pants off."

You're sputtering again like a broken water sprinkler. "Wait, do you even want to—"

"You paid me," she cuts you off, resting her hands on her knees and looking up at you. "I am performing the service. Now, remove your pants so that we can complete this transaction." Then, very quietly, like she can't help but speak her thoughts out loud—"Is this what I'm supposed to do?" 

And, well, you don't really know how to answer that question, so you do the next best thing—rip your pants and underwear off and toss them in the general direction of the cat tree. Rico hisses in response to the suddenness of the action, but you don't pay him any mind. It's hard to pay any attention to something like that when you just dropped over half a grand for sex, in your defense.

"Please tell me if what I do is incorrect. I will adapt based on your input," Iris says with a gentle submission that makes you feel like a complete asshole for even entertaining the idea of paying for sex from her, but the wheel is already in motion, so… might as well get what you paid for?

She shuffles forward—still on her knees—tilting her head again as though she's cataloguing every micro-expression you make. When her hands come to rest on your thighs, the touch is surprisingly warm. Sure, you've touched her before—handshakes, the occasional brush of fingers when exchanging items—but it's only now that you clock how real the synthetic skin feels, almost indistinguishable from the real thing.

"Spreading your legs would be very helpful and a good place to start," she says matter-of-factly.

Your face burns, but you obey, parting your thighs until her gaze dips lower, one of her eyebrows cocking as she assesses you, like some problem to be solved. She hums softly, and her hands trace the outside of your thighs gently, seemingly analysing every twitch of muscle and sharp intake of breath. When her hands reach the juncture of your legs, the motion is gentle, and you think that it'll stay that way, like a virgin who's far too scared to do anything without the guidance of their partner—but then she drags one finger through your folds with the kind of clinicality that makes you jolt. 

"Vaginas are very fascinating—self-lubricating due to plasma transudate passing through the vaginal walls. Friction without lubrication can cause micro-tears. Fortunately, you are producing enough to avoid injury." She swipes two fingers through you now, looking down at them as she plays with your slick, comparing the viscosity to some internal database. 

An unsure noise (at the impersonalness of it all, not her actions) leaves your throat before you can stop it. "Yeah—I mean, yes. That's… yeah. Good thing."

Her lips curve into the faintest smile, and she nods like she's solving a puzzle. "Then I shall continue."

She leans in and presses her mouth to you, tongue moving in precise strokes, each one deliberate, like she's debugging a program and adjusting parameters based on your reactions. Every shiver, every twitch of your thighs, every gasp you barely suppress—all mapped out, machine learning in real time.

When her lips close around your clit and she sucks—hard—you nearly jerk off the couch.

Iris pulls back immediately, frowning faintly and squeezing your thighs in a gentle reassurance. "Too much pressure?"

"N-no, fuck—" you gasp, reaching out a hand to tangle in her hair. "Was perfect, actually, just… unexpected."

Her expression shifts again, like she's just been given an A+ on a final exam. She dips back down, tongue circling you with maddening precision before she pushes two fingers inside of you, curling them experimentally until you cry out—then she does it again. And again.

"There," she murmurs against your clit. "I found the spot. Response time varied from one second to three seconds. I can tell you're aroused—you're experiencing swelling of the labia minora, a product of increased blood flow."

You… really don't know how to respond to that information. (No shit, you're aroused.) She doesn't have the best dirty talk; instead, she just chooses to spit out random facts that seem relevant. It's a little unnerving if you're being honest with yourself, but no one is perfect their first day on the job, right?

Either way, Iris doesn't wait for a response from you—just makes a little sound as though she's pleased with her own efficiency and doubles down. Her tongue flicks at your clit in a relentless rhythm that feels like the perfect combination of a Hitachi Wand and Rose Toy, her fingers pistoning into you with mechanical stamina no human could even dream of matching.

"You taste like heat. Carbon," she comments idly, tongue still lapping at your clit while she talks, the perfect multitasker. "It's a good taste." It sounds vaguely like praise, so you take it as such—tugging her hair and silently encouraging her to keep going.

She pulls sounds from you that you had never made before with previous lovers, working you over as if she were a scholar of pussy eating with multiple published reports and several degrees. You moan so loud the cat hops off his tree and heads into the bedroom (where you should, ironically, be doing something like this), but Iris doesn't seem to mind the noise—if anything, she savours it.

Her fingers flex inside you with relentless rhythm, curling against that rough patch of wall with ruthless precision as her tongue strokes up your sex, switching between patterns and speeds as she drives you closer and closer to that blissful high you paid almost seven hundred dollars for. The next time she latches onto your clit, she hums as though she were running a systems test, and the vibration nearly sends you over the edge then and there.

"Your contractions are increasing in frequency," she murmurs into you, tongue flattening against your clit before making a motion with it that has your thighs clamping around her head and fingers tugging on her synthetic hair. "That's an indicator of climax approaching. I estimate less than thirty seconds."

"Jesus fuck—" you gasp, head falling back against the couch. Iris doesn't even flinch at the sensation that would normally cause an array of pain in humans (see: tugging hard on her hair), just doubling down on her current actions. Her stamina is inhuman, fingers driving into you and tongue swirling in that same pattern that had you clamping around her head, nothing more than code meant to break you apart and build you back up again.

It isn't much longer until your orgasm is ripping through you like a hot knife to cold skin—a burning sensation that starts in your gut and fans outward until your entire body is rapidly tensing and untensing, your head lifting off the back of the couch before falling back down, wanton curses spilling from your lips as you beg for… something. What you're begging for is anyone's guess, but it's all irrelevant anyway—you've already been given everything you've paid for and more.

When she finally pulls back, lips slick and cheeks faintly flushed (do Companions have the ability to have reddened cheeks?), she tilts her head again and offers the same faint smile as before. "You sound much better than Josh did when he came. You sound like music, he sounded like a caveman who just learned what sex was." She giggles to herself, heading over to the kitchen to grab a hand towel and clean her hands and face. "You also taste much better than he did."

You're left sitting there, confused, naked from the waist down, pussy still throbbing from the aftershocks. "Uh… thanks?" You run a hand over your face, trying to come back to earth, while Iris continues like nothing has happened. 

"I hope you enjoyed yourself," she says, quieter now. "I think you did, but I want to ensure you did, and that it wasn't just a biological symptom of stimulation to certain regions."

A laugh spills from you before you can stop it—disbelief at both what had just happened and the blunt way she expresses herself. "Yeah, Iris. I… yeah. I enjoyed myself." I better have, considering how much I had just spent.

Iris, seemingly pleased with that answer, hums happily and claps her hands once. "Okay!" A beat, and you glance over your shoulder at her as she begins thumbing through the wad of cash you gave her. "Thank you for supporting independent business! I'm going to go purchase supplies now to further my ventures. Take your time getting your bearings together—Rico will enjoy the company."

With that, she exits the apartment, off to go purchase… something for… something.

Worth it.