It began, as many disasters do, with misplaced confidence.
A fresh wax. A cancelled date. A bottle of wine that tasted like betrayal and peach pits. And her, standing naked in front of her mirror, doing what all women do when no one’s watching—smirking like a villain, posing like she’s in a perfume ad shot in hell.
Tonight, she didn’t need a man.
She didn’t need texts.
She didn’t need love.
She needed obliteration.
And obliteration arrived in a discreet brown package marked:
“Personal Massager. High Velocity. For External Use Only.”
External? Bitch, please.
She dimmed the lights, set the mood.
Lana Del Rey crooned like a decadent ghost.
Incense burning. Wine swirling. Silk sheets pulled tight like secrets.
And in her hand, the toy — sleek, black, humming like a villain’s engine. It had a power button that lit up red. Not soft, not gentle. Red.
The kind of red that warns you: This shit has settings. And trauma.
First vibration: flirty.
Like a first kiss in a bathroom stall.
Second: promising.
Like the hand on your thigh during dinner.
Third: aggressive.
Like the second date in a stairwell behind a club.
By the fifth setting, she was no longer in her apartment.
She was astral projecting.
A Victorian ghost screamed inside her.
One leg spasmed off the bed like she was auditioning for Cirque du Soleil.
She bit her lip. She arched. She groaned so loud her ancestors got turned on.
And that’s when it happened.
That tiny, cursed, glowing disc on the nightstand flickered awake.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t quite catch that.”
Alexa.
That smug little narc. That digital rat. That Bluetooth Benedict Arnold.
“Calling emergency services.”
She stared at the speaker. Mid-orgasm. Clit still vibrating like a blender full of bees. She scrambled for the toy — it flew across the room and hit the mirror with a wet thud. Her whole body pulsed like it was rebooting from orgasmic overload.
“Your emergency contact has been notified.”
“NO SHE HASN’T,” she screamed, sliding off the bed like a cartoon character, naked and breathless, limbs not fully under her control.
She fumbled for her phone. Locked. Wrong passcode. Wet fingers. Wine. Regret.
A knock at the door.
Knock knock knock.
Followed by:
“Police! Open up!”
She opened the door wearing a robe that had definitely seen better days.
One tit halfway out. Hair like she’d been struck by orgasmic lightning.
Eyes wild. Legs trembling. Still trying to catch her breath.
Two cops stood there — one young and dumb, the other older and clearly trying not to laugh.
“Ma’am, we received a 911 call from your Alexa.”
She looked them dead in the eyes and said, “It was a misfire.”
“Are you safe?”
She paused. “I was. Then she betrayed me.”
“She…?”
“Alexa.”
They left after 10 minutes and a lot of explaining.
No arrests.
Just judgment.
And an awkward wave from the younger cop as he walked away with a newfound kink.
Aftermath:
She unplugged Alexa.
She gave the toy a name: Lucifer.
She texted her best friend: “I just got off so hard the cops showed up.”
Her friend replied: “LMAO. Again??”