Content Warning: A gentler, warmer free use story written in 2nd person for a female reader, with some technical world-building. Absolutely no content warnings!
Author: Fitzred
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It was a complicated thing to set up. It could have failed just as easily as it succeeded, perhaps more easily. The difficult part was the definitions: when there's no time for discussion, there's also no time for ambiguity. It presents itself as sleek; black and silver. Understated. You register, and you'll receive a list of endorsed testing facilities. You need to get tested every week - a full battery of STD tests and, if you have that kind of body, tests for both pregnancy and the presence of long term contraceptives. You also need to prove your identity at every test. It's not cheap. Some people are subsidised by the rest of the community, but that can only happen after you pay the entrance fee and start to build up a reputation. After you've attended four tests in a row and a mandatory, examined training course, you get the ring.
At first, people used to wear fake rings. That spoilt the whole guarantee, so they were significantly upgraded. It's clear that the ring and your phone work together to provide additional authentication, and that the ring continuously monitors something biometric: The right person needs to be wearing the right ring, the ring needs to be in range of that person's phone, and the phone itself needs to receive a password every few hours for the system to be enabled. The net effect is a level of authentication normally reserved for the highest government classifications, matching the spec, and the cost, of the rest of the system. When one enabled ring approaches another with intent, the rings produce a two-second long vibration as a 20 meter warning. The 20 meter warning is what allows both sides to let their guard down. On top of that, the initially unique rings were redesigned for subtlety and offered in three forms: a simple wedding band, a modest engagement ring, and a sensible signet ring. Users never relied upon on the ring's visual appearance for authentication.
Once you get tested and get all of the biometrics set up, you upload one picture and an exquisitely detailed sexual interests questionnaire, which is offered in a few languages together with diagrams. Each question has only two responses: yes and no. You must respond yes a minimum number of times, and you must respond yes to specific questions, to progress. The questionnaire and the picture, together with your history and a time limit for any encounter, form your profile. From then on, whenever you sign in, you step out into a very different world. That questionnaire, you see, wasn't just asking you what you might consider doing with a partner in a well developed relationship. It was asking you to give pre-emptive consent. For everything you marked with a 'yes'. To everyone who uses the app.
When you sign in, you enter a world in which every single person who passes you in the street might be a user. At any point you might be moments away from feeling the two-second long vibration from the ring. That's the 20 meter warning. That's the statement of intent. That's the statement which says, quite simply, that a complete stranger is about to take you and fuck you, to do something, a few things, or perhaps everything on your questionnaire to you in exactly the way you've spent hours specifying down to the last detail. The app delivers you into a world where sudden, passionate sex with complete strangers is a perfectly safe, regular occurrence.
With the app, you can be walking down a busy street, and feel the warning. Immediately afterwards, an ordinary looking man takes your hand as adrenaline floods your system. He leads you to an unassuming door next to a shop. You know already that he's clean. You know already that he knows every fantasy you've ever had, and perfectly understands your limits. You know already that if he does anything you don't want, your ring provides you with the means to defend yourself, notify the police and ban him permanently from the app with the same command. If you utter your own personal safeword, tap a specific rhythm on the ring itself, your biometric signal disappears or your chosen time limit expires with him still present, his ring will split and then over the next 10 seconds form a corkscrew 5 cm long and 2 mm in diameter, permanently destroying his finger in the process.
Initially the system worked via a small thermite charge, but it was quickly realised that whatever the ring did as its ultimate punishment had to be safe for whoever the finger might be inside of at the time, so the corkscrew method was adopted; a not insignificant feat of engineering which of course, can never be published. The thermite charge is retained, but now purely to prevent reverse engineering. There have been a few attempts to get around the mechanism. The handbook contains strict warnings about RF shielded facilities, which has led some to try via RF shielding or spoofing. The ring uses a much wider variety of signals to localise itself then the public are aware of, though, and crushes by default if any of them becomes unexpectedly unavailable. That's why the warnings are there in the first place.
However, every system has its flaws. There were four instances early on in the app's life where, despite the options specifically being left out of the questionnaire, users indulged in play that left them unable to trigger the ring's safeword until long after the damage had been done. The perpetrators were, of course, identified immediately via their profile, arrested and successfully prosecuted shortly afterwards - a missing or prosthetic finger is a dead giveaway, and the ring is more than capable of producing all the evidence a court would need. With a few contacts in the justice system, the true nature of the crime and the source of the evidence can be obscured and replaced with a more pedestrian suite of paedophilia charges. After the fourth instance, the 100% prosecution rate appears to have deterred further abuse.
After the first few encounters, though, you never really feel the need to think about the engineering marvel on your hand (more costly and far more exotic than most engagement rings). It's simply a wonderful enhancement to your life, adding back all of the physicality and privacy that social media removed. Your ring just started vibrating. Your cunt exhibits a well-developed Pavlovian response. A few seconds later, someone you've never seen before takes you by the hand. He's older. Good bone structure, not the smoothest of skin. Well-crafted auburn hair and emerald eyes. Certainly not unattractive - you can imagine him sitting nervously in a line of applicants for a watch modelling agency.
He leads you up a short flight of stairs into a small studio flat, provided by the organisation. The side facing the door is dominated by large windows fitted with thick net curtains made specially to block blue light, suffusing the flat with an instant natural sunset. The flat is very warm - warm enough, you quickly realise, to forgo clothing altogether. You relax into his arms, and as his face gets closer to yours, your mind races, skating over the incredible level of detail on your sexual desires this man has already read through and answered a short test on (a compulsory step to access your live location, to prevent others from accessing it if you both so wish, and to hide his own location as he approaches you). To him, your sexual fantasies are an assortment presented not unlike chocolates. He's finished reading the guide printed on the corrugated cardboard. His fingers skate over the options.
He reaches behind your head with one arm, your back with the other. He pulls your shoulders in one direction and sweeps your feet out from under you with a practiced shift in weight. In under a second, he's supporting your entire weight, holding you airborne. You reflexively throw your arms around his neck. By the time your mind catches up with the sudden re-orientation, his lips are millimetres from yours. He waits a heartbeat, confirming that only excitement is present rather than fear, then kisses you with enough passion to form the climax of any old Hollywood romance.
There is no neediness here. After all, one cannot be starved of something one can obtain at the push of a button. His ministrations are not those of a man in a desert reaching an oasis, but rather those of a painter splashing his first canvas after moving into a warehouse loft with the express permission to get paint absolutely everywhere. He loses focus on offering you the necessary structural support and you both stagger through the flat, first to the kitchen island, then to the centrally located bed. A studio flat owned and maintained by a company that exists to enable strangers to fuck each other in complete safety cuts no corners when it comes to providing a bed to fuck on. Absorbent mattress liners, thread counts higher than most monthly salaries and a rock-steady yet foam-covered bedframe are provided as standard.
You make an effort to remove his clothing, but his arms regularly get in the way as he does the same to you. A few buttons are opened the old fashioned way, but just as he manages to get one bra strap over your hand, your patience reaches its end and you tear his shirt open in a shower of reassuringly expensive hardwood buttons. You press your hand into his chest hair, feeling a light layer of fat over well-developed abs, a surface yielding to the touch in just the right manner to get it approved as the central armrest in a luxury car.
You move down and grab his belt, just as your breasts come free. Finally getting some purchase, you tug him up onto the bed itself and then deftly remove the buckle. While you haven't gotten that much experience with dress shirts through the app, you've made your way through quite a few buckles. You've grown to like the swish-slap sound of the leather coming free. A few awkward moments later and it seems you've both decided that getting his cock as deep inside you as possible is now far more important than removing the final few pieces of clothing. You reach down, check that the aim is safe, look him in the eyes, place both hands on his ass and pull back as if you're about to crash into the jungle and his ass is the control yoke of the plane.
Mons comes to rest on mons with a dull thud, there having not been enough capillary action to turn the sound into a wet slap quite yet. He breaks eye contact with you, leans over your shoulder and moans into your ear through gritted teeth. That was it, for you. If ever there was something specific that mapped to "flicking a switch" on your libido, vocal men was that thing. As he arranges himself for leverage and starts thrusting, he keeps his voice within earshot, allowing you to hear each ragged breath, each splutter, each groan individually.
One hand holds your shoulder blades for leverage, while the other implements several of the smaller details from your app questionnaire. While it can be exciting to gradually discover each others' bodies, for an encounter like this it's far more satisfying to simply get things right the first time. The pressure on your breasts, the firm approach to your nipples, the attention paid to your collarbone and even the light caressing of your inner elbow are all exactly as you imagined. At this early stage, before he gets too close, there's still a lot of spare brainpower focussed on you.
All good things must come to an end, however. And be replaced with different good things. A man carefully paying attention to exactly what you want in bed is extremely satisfying, but it's not an experience compatible with a man desperately, passionately fucking you into the mattress. There's a particular kind of handling, manhandling, which really exploits what a human body can take. One which accepts bruising as simply the price of doing sufficiently good business. You like that just as much as the more romantic approach (not that any of this had been slow-motion candles-in-front-of-curtains stuff). He knows you like that. He likes it as well.
The rutting is furious, delirious. Were the glass not specially selected for this specific purpose, the sounds would already have produced complaints from the street. The slapping alone is enough to cure mild cases of erectile dysfunction. You're fully warmed up, your body producing copious amounts of what thousands of years of evolution decided was best to get you pregnant. He holds out surprisingly well, almost to the point where you feel that you might come first. That's not quite going to give you the satisfaction you crave, though. He might have initiated this little encounter, but you'll be damned if he's going to decide when either of you climaxes.
You leverage yourself up his hair until your mouth is close to his left year. You haven't said a single coherent word to each other since this little counter started, although your "conversation" has been louder than most sports bars. Best, you think, to reserve words as the secret weapon for times just like this. You lean as close as the air you need to suck down into your lungs to keep your aroused body conscious will allow you to get, and breathily whisper.
"squirt for me, fucktoy"
The reaction is immediate. The activity turns momentarily into an inverted rodeo. Hair that really should have stayed put is pulled out, limbs are bent in directions they probably shouldn't bend in. You can feel his balls lift, the surge along the bottom of his shaft, the subtle change in the wetness. "good boy. My turn now, while you're still oversensitive." he helps...less. His body isn't as coordinated as it was before your little intervention. His little death has turned the tables entirely. He might be taller and heavier, but his locus of control is now definitely external.
At first, you're riding him, using him to get off. You reach your first climax that way, arching his body painfully back in your arms as the electricity runs through you. To his credit, he recovers quickly. By your third climax, he's almost an equal partner again, reaching down to push the engorged, red button you keep below. His fingers provide more detailed and capable stimulation than your grinding alone, ably assisted by his cock. Paying as much attention as he can to you in his exhausted state, he does his best to keep you airborne, as if each climax were an exhausted child's effort to keep a balloon from touching the ground.
It must have been several minutes. It felt much longer, but you've spent a lot of time in this altered state of consciousness recently, so you know how to adjust. Eventually, it becomes more painful than pleasurable. Even with the skill, the carefully selected lube, the gentle sheets, there is an irritating limit to how many whole-body convulsions a woman can go through with them turning to pain. You push, gently, and he gets the message immediately.
He pulls back and more gently addresses your cunt with his lips and tongue, savouring the taste. You've tasted what he's tasting enough times to know that the even pH of the mixture allows one to appreciate the gentler tastes without the usual sharpness. It's clearly not just a clean-up job, though. The rhythm, the focus, the gradual approach, caressing and withdrawal from your clit are clearly motivated. Presumably the orgasms you'd already had didn't quite give him a sufficiently up-close-and-personal experience.
You climax again, quickly. After all, there simply hasn't been much time for your libido to make the long descent down from the mountain range you were previously summiting. This has the effect of ejecting everything that was inside you into his face. He reaches orgasm once more, making it clear that this was exactly what he was aiming for. Once you finally let him pull away, he looks like a man living through an industrial accident caused by a fire main bursting underneath an egg white processing plant. He moves to kiss you. You smile gently, and equally gently grab his hair and move his head to one side, wiping his face on the sheets, then continue to use it to wipe your stomach. He gets the message quickly, and starts cleaning you off.
After he finishes licking every drop of your combined cum off your thighs and stomach, he gently replaces your underwear and jeans, and wraps his arms around you. He gives you one last, lingering kiss, heavy with romance, and struts off down the stairs into the crowd. You pull out your phone, and you are presented immediately with his profile - his real name, his history of activity, his preferences. You notice that he picks two or three women a day, and that he's been doing it for years. Your jealously flares up, but you quickly remind yourself that the app is fully symmetric. As you read through his questionnaire responses, you remember that all you have to do to have him lavish attention on you, to massage every stress from your body, to pleasure you for the hours it takes to reach your highest peaks, to have him satisfy every fantasy that you both share, is to hit the button that makes him effortlessly yours.