Melody lay in the hotel bed, her legs spread wide, and resisted the urge to reach down and touch her tingling pussy.
She was desperately aroused. It had been well over two weeks of travel from the outer solar system, and her manager hadn't allowed her a single orgasm in all that time. She was alone in the hotel room, and old instincts battered at her to reach down and rub her clit, which was throbbing so hard with her pulse that it felt as if a single touch would push her over the edge into blissful release.
But she knew it wouldn't. Her manager had full control of everything down there. She'd signed away her right to control her own pleasure when she'd signed up to be an Intergalactic Idol. That was part of the standard contract: all girls on the I-I payroll were installed with nanobots that provided their manager with precise control over certain bodily functions.
At the time, it had seemed like a good trade. In that moment, laying in bed, her pussy aching, it felt like a terrible mistake.
She finally gave in to temptation and reached down. She pulled up her skirt--she was still wearing her practice uniform, which clung close to her body, hugging her curves--and cupped herself through the tight crotch of the leotard. She groaned in frustration.
Under her hand, she could feel the hot, plush lips of her sex. If she pressed a finger between them, she could feel the erect little nub of her clit, could even feel it pulsing up against her. But her pussy felt almost nothing; it was as if she was touching it through layers and layers of fabric, rather than a single thin layer of spandex. There was just the barest sensation of pressure.
"Come on," she whimpered, rubbing her hand firmly against her crotch. The idea of it aroused her, made her even more desperate, until she began to leave a wet patch on the leotard, but it was no use; it was like her hand was between someone else's thighs.
That was the main function of the nanobots that her manager preferred to use. He could set Melody's erogenous sensitivity anywhere between a zero and a ten. A zero was entirely numb; a five was relatively normal sensitivity. He usually kept her at a one. This was best practice, he said, as per his training with Intergalactic Idols; the idea was that a girl who didn't get any pleasure from sex was a lot less likely to create a scandal by being caught with a partner or knocked up. The girls were supposed to look young and pretty and available.
It was hard, some days, to look like an innocent young teen when Melody was a twenty-year-old constantly aching for an orgasm.
She knew she had gotten lucky with her manager. After a hard practice or a good performance, he would reward her by turning her sensitivity up to a six or a seven, and he'd even bought her some sex toys to use on herself. He always watched, of course, and sometimes he got a little handsy--bumped her up to a three or a four during dance practice and slipped a hand between her thighs or over one of her breasts, to "help her focus"--but she'd heard horror stories from other girls.
Stories about managers who withheld orgasms in exchange for sex were so commonplace as to be barely notable. More appalling were the managers who fucked their idol while keeping her sensitivity turned down to a zero--or, worse, a tantalizing one or a two, so that she could feel the faintest pressure of his cock filling her and her own hand rubbing frantically over her clit but had no hope of coming from it.
Melody had even heard some of the managers talking about it; they called it "corrective intercourse", as if it was meant to be some kind of productive punishment, but she'd heard them whispering approvingly about how good it felt to fuck a girl in that condition, how tight her body would squeeze down on their cock.
There were also managers who used the independent orgasm control. They might keep their idol at a regular sensitivity, but turn off her ability to orgasm, which sounded like terrible torture. Melody squeezed her pussy and shut her eyes just at the thought, of rubbing and rubbing and feeling so good but not being able to go over the edge.
She'd witnessed one girl like that, seen the mess it had made of her; they'd worked together on a collab for a holiday performance. The girl had spent every moment in the locker rooms rubbing her pussy, grabbing and kneading at it absently like she couldn't help herself, and everyone else in the collab had just pretended politely not to notice.
And then there was the hacking incident. Everyone had been a little spooked by that. One of I-I's most popular idols, Violet Explosion--a nearly thirty-year-old woman who still managed to look like a teenager--had been in the middle of a live performance when she had suddenly collapsed on stage and just started squealing and convulsing. They eventually figured out that her nanobots had been hacked by a fan, who had turned her sensitivity up to a ten and enabled her orgasms, which her manager usually kept turned off.
By the time they'd found a way to shut down the nanobots, Violet had been coming for nearly twenty minutes.
Of course, it had ruined her career--no idol could keep performing after an on-stage disaster like that--but there were rumors that it had ruined her body, too, had left her unable to climax naturally without the super-sensitivity triggered by the nanobots, and that control of her nanobots was still tied up in a lawsuit.
Melody groaned, caught up in the idea of what it would feel like to have her sensitivity suddenly set that high. She pulled the spandex aside to expose her wet pussy and pressed a finger directly between the hot folds of her cunt, and whimpered when she felt only the barest suggestion of pleasure from the touch. "Fuck. Please...come on..." she rubbed back and forth across the aching nub of her clit, tears of frustration gathering in her eyes as she felt almost nothing. "Oh, fuck, please."
