AfrAId To Connect

Ian walked into Natasha’s office already pissed off at his own life. The guy was Codey Steele—gym-cut, agitated, and too damn worked up to sit still on her couch. Natasha, Dr. Cami Strella, cracked the session open with the usual polite nod, but Ian blurted it out before she even opened her notebook: he and his girlfriend never fucked, zero touching, and it was eating him alive. Natasha suggested a joint meeting and Ian’s shoulders went stiff; only then did the real detail pop—the girl was an AI chatbot, all pixels and generated sweet-talk, zero body heat. Natasha sat forward, suddenly reading him different. The longer they talked the more she saw it: a warm-blooded man going nuts for straight-up skin contact. She chewed her lip a second, set the clipboard aside, then locked eyes with him: if real hands would fix this she’d put hers on him right now. Ian blinked like he’d misheard. Slowly, though, his palms unclenched and he crossed the space between them. Natasha unzipped her skirt right there on her leather chair, swinging a thigh over so he could feel something living grind against him, no filter, no lag—just hot skin sliding to skin until every starved nerve finally got fed.