In the year 2503, a woman spends some extra money on a new piece of high-tech fetish gear: The Bitch's Playsuit. After weeks of voluntary self-denial, she programs the suit to put her into a simulated heat - but will she be able to handle the results? Sensitive content, 12.5k words.
Content Warnings/Tags: use of the word 'bitch' as a non-derogatory term of endearment; consensual limited communication; petplay
It is the year 2503. Vera is a typical enough woman for her society, living on a small space station mostly occupied by university students and recent graduates.
Like many of her single peers, she lives in the equivalent of a studio apartment. She resides in a mixed residential district: some of her neighbors are university students, their housing provided for by the station's school; others, like herself, are graduated, working, and paying rent.
She has a job that most would consider unremarkable--an entry-level data wrangling position, something that she can do from the comfort of her own home. Often, she prefers to work in a nearby hydroponics garden or in a cozy coffee shop in the neighboring commercial district, just for a change of view.
Vera has a few friends and plenty of acquaintances. She sometimes goes out partying on the weekends, but not to excess. Most strangers, if asked, would not pick her out of a line-up as especially striking in her looks, especially compared to some of her peers who have sought out various body modifications and customized aesthetic procedures.
There is nothing about Vera, really, to make her special in any way at all, except this: she has a very particular adult hobby, and some extra pocket money.
Perhaps the extra money was a graduation gift from her parents, or maybe a small inheritance. She might have sold some old piece of computer equipment.
It doesn't really matter where the money came from. What matters is what Vera does with it: she uses this extra money to purchase a brand new, top-of-the-line interactive adult toy marketed as The Bitch's Playsuit.
Vera knows exactly what she is purchasing. For days--weeks, even--before making her decision, she consumes all available content on the Playsuit: product reviews; testimonials; forum discussions; amateur and professionally-made porn videos.
The Playsuit is comprised of two pieces: the hood and the belt.
The mask-like hood fits over the wearer's head and face, protecting their identity by hiding their features and by hooding their voice, turning human words to mechanized barks, yips, and whines. Dog-like ears on top of the hood flick and rotate, helping to communicate the wearer's mood--or whatever mood the Playsuit wants to portray.
The belt, despite its name, resembles a set of biking shorts more than anything else. It forms an impenetrable barrier from the hips to the mid-thighs of the wearer, protecting the genitals from encroachment--but not preventing sex. The Playsuit is certainly not a chastity device. The version constructed for female bodies has two insertions: an anal plug and a vaginal sleeve.
The anal plug connects to a dog-like tail jutting from the rear of the belt, providing various sensations as the tail wags, dips, or gets pulled. The fleshlight-like vaginal sleeve, though, is the true key feature of the suit: constructed of a smart polymer, it's able to move and change shape in accordance with decisions made by the Playsuit's governing intelligent algorithm.
The sleeve connects to the outside of the belt just under the tail, presenting a pre-lubricated fuckhole for the use of partners that functions as a barrier against pregnancy and transmission of disease, while at the same time controlling the pleasure of the wearer via internal stimulation.
That's the biggest selling point of The Bitch's Playsuit. It allows for nearly risk-free, fully anonymous sex, all with the assistance of the intelligent algorithm inside providing the exact experience that the wearer requests--whether they want to come with each cock that enters them, or to never come at all, or for each fuck to be rough and painful without causing permanent damage, the Playsuit can provide it.
Yes, Vera has researched the Playsuit thoroughly. She knows about all of the safety features, the failsafes and health checks built into the hardware and software. She has read the few horror stories--mostly of wearers who had chosen to disable the safeword feature, and later regretted it when they found the experience too intense and weren't able to tap out when they wanted.
She has watched, over and over, the growing library of videos. Bitches loose in clubs, whining and barking and bent over tables to get fucked; bitches getting passed around at private parties, taking cock after cock and yipping in exhausted pleasure; bitches at home, humping toys, pillows, and their partner's leg in a shameless, animalistic display of sexual need.
Bitches at the end of days-long tease and denial sessions, howling with pleasure as the Playsuit finally allows them to come.
Vera has watched all of these videos over and over.
She has touched herself, teased herself, edged herself to them. On a few occasions, she has given herself shaking, gasping, toe-curling orgasms while watching them.
Only a few. Vera, it must be understood, prides herself on her control. She prefers not to come too often. She enjoys the desperation of waiting, the overwhelming pleasure of finally giving in.
The night that she finally pulls the trigger, submits her measurements to the manufacturer and puts a downpayment on her own Playsuit, she edges herself three times. She does it down on her hands and knees, toying gently with her clit and moaning, imagining that someone else is touching her and she can't even speak to them, because she's wearing a hood that forces her to bark like a dog instead.
After the third edge, she stops, and resolves not to come until her new toy arrives.
***
The wait is a delicious torment. Manufacturing takes two weeks, and cross-galaxy shipment another week.
Every evening, Vera watches videos, reads personal experiences, and edges. Every night, she falls asleep hot and wet and needy, wondering which of her neighbors will be the first to fuck her when she goes out as a bitch.
***
The Playsuit arrives packaged in a modestly-sized box. The hood--strikingly black, unmistakeable for anything other than kink gear, in spite of the cute shape of the muzzle and ears--sits on top of the belt.
Like most technology of its time, it requires no charging under ordinary circumstances; it draws energy from the ambient wireless charging anchors set into the walls of private and common spaces around the station.
