Genius Ch. 01

My thanks to MormonJack for edits and crits.

Chapter 1

Wnt 2 blo U

The text from Avery arrives a little after 9PM. I'm working my way through a scotch and a graduate-level textbook on the Bronze Age that I'd dug up.

Great I reply. Any special fantasy? Avery sometimes likes me to assume certain personas, even once in a while dress up. That takes planning, so probably not tonight.

Idk. Just want to do it 2 U U know how I get. She sends me a hungry bunny emoji. I didn't even know there was such a thing. Followed by: Lyft 43. She lives halfway across town.

One condition, I text back as I head for the shower. She likes me clean and it's been a long day.

Agreed, comes from her before I've finished typing the condition. I send: Toy.

A heart in response, followed by Me too.

Do I want a quickie? Double quickie? It's tempting. She's later than normal. Typically, she wants to spend a whole evening doing what she calls her "toy time". Which would include a full pussy reaming. Sucking, she's told me unapologetically and unsurprisingly, makes her horny.

** ** ** ** ** ** ** ** **

So, you may be wondering, how is it that I have a woman who actually texts me to offer oral booty calls? Am I a famous movie star? Musical artist? Athlete? None of the above. I'm the opposite of famous.

You don't know me. But I know you, if I choose to. I can know everything about you. I can even, and especially, know things about you that you yourself don't know. Intimate things. If— a big if— I choose to turn my attention to you.

I am a consultant. A ridiculously expensive, exceptionally talented and resourceful, obsessively private consultant. Even my clients don't know who I really am. They just know that I call myself "Smith." And they know my results. Which are unique and extraordinary.

My field is one that most people find unbearably dull: I am a database expert. That's what I tell people when I need to say something. Their eyes glaze over and they move on to more interesting topics such as weather or traffic. They don't have the tiniest idea what's really going on.

** ** ** ** ** ** ** ** **

Almost there.

I refresh my scotch and text back, Drink?

Usual, and so there's no mistake, she follows that up with a tequila bottle emoji. Avery has made me familiar with those.

I set up her shots on the coffee table, turn on some interesting electronica, wrap my bathrobe around myself, and resume my reading on the couch. I'm fascinated by bullae and tokens. How do you securely communicate important information? That's a question inspiring intense research today, one of great interest to me professionally.

But how do you securely communicate important information in a civilization that has not yet invented writing, let alone computers? The ancient Mesopotamians solved that problem with bullae and tokens. Clay instead of computers, personalized carved cylinders instead of passwords. Little clay figures baked inside hollow clay balls instead of encrypted messages. Fascinating, as Avery's hero Mr. Spock used to say.

** ** ** ** ** ** ** ** **

More than databases, I'm skilled in machine learning and artificial intelligence. Much more skilled. That's not something I mention to people. It's a new and trendy area, inspiring both excitement and fear, depending on the individual, and always resulting in uncomfortable questions:

"When will artificial intelligence take over the world?" someone might ask.

"Not for a long time," I always lie, "Computers aren't powerful enough yet." But to myself I think: You're living in that world right now and you don't even know it.

Or: "Can you build me a robot girlfriend?"

"That's robotics, not AI," I answer. What I don't answer: You don't need a robot. Your ideal girlfriend is out there right now, 100% human. If only you knew where she is.

** ** ** ** ** ** ** ** **

The front door texts me that Avery has entered. It's coded to admit her, of course. Her rapid footsteps echo up the stairs and down the hall. She's eager tonight. She's late. That doesn't matter for me, but she has a more than full time job she'll need to be at tomorrow. Into the room I call my den she appears. She wears an overcoat against the chill autumn night, and a backpack over her shoulder that she drops on the floor. She unbuttons the coat and opens it wide when she reaches the middle of the carpet, revealing herself. She's a small woman, a bit on the skinny side, with blue-streaked black hair and super-cute legs that she displays for my pleasure by wearing tiny, tight pink shorts. Matching pink sneakers. She's my type. And topless, showing me her small tits. Exactly my type. As I specified.

** ** ** ** ** ** ** ** **

Let's say you want someone, someone with special skills. You need, say, a new CEO to turn around a struggling clothing line, someone with industry contacts focused on supply chain experts, a highly skilled manager unsatisfied in their current position that you can poach. You've gone through the usual headhunter agencies without results. One of your Board members slips you an email address. Mine.

You contact me. I'm a last resort, my fees are shockingly high, but you've wasted several critical months on recruiters. You're desperate. I find you three candidates in ten days that can do the job and suddenly you have an embarrassment of riches. That's what I do.

** ** ** ** ** ** ** ** **

I nod my approval and Avery kneels next to me. She drains the first shot immediately, shakes and shivers from the strong liquor. From one of the overcoat's pockets she fetches and applies matching pink lip gloss. She doesn't wear makeup, but she has a thing about painting her lips before a blow job. She likes to do it in front of me. By way of explanation for this fetish, she says her sister taught her.

She takes another shot in a few sips, slips a hand under my robe, and explores. Of course I'm mostly hard. I know what Avery can do and what she will do for me tonight. We make small talk. I show her pictures of bullae and tokens. I explain while she massages my balls and asks how they carved the intricate pictures on the gem-hard cylinders. I sip my scotch.

With my balls getting worked like a fidget toy in one hand she takes the third shot in her other hand and pours it into her mouth. She shivers again but she doesn't swallow. She opens my robe and slides my cock between her lips. The alcohol does nothing for me but she loves the taste of tequila and Cowper's fluid, a true "cock-tail", as she pronounces the word. I get a bit of a hum job while she savors the taste. I can feel her swallow the mixture. "Ah," she breathes in satisfaction when her lips briefly leave my meat. Then she's back on me and the real blow job begins. I stretch back and relax, letting her do all the work. We both like that.

** ** ** ** ** ** ** ** **

My skills are not limited to C-suite hotshots. A brilliant computer science mind that can transport your company's aging software into the 21st century? A college basketball coach to take your school to the Final Four? The ideal script doctor to fix the broken movie you've already sunk tens of millions into and your starlet girlfriend is whining about? You've come to the right place.

But suppose your desire is more personal? Say you want a woman in the right age and demographic, your particular physical type, who loves to perform the exact sexual service you love to have performed on you? No, sorry, I'll tell you, explaining how that level of intimate personal specificity is impossible to extract from public data even if it weren't highly unethical.

I'm lying. I can and have done just that. Witness the skinny brunette kneeling between my legs right now, eagerly doing to me exactly what I like to have skinny brunettes do to me.

I don't need your money. Your wealth doesn't impress me. Most of all I don't want you bragging to the world about the slutty bimbo bombshell I located for you. You're not worthy of my talent. Or the risk to my privacy.

** ** ** ** ** ** ** ** **

I'd started out relaxed, enjoying my fellatrix as a well-deserved treat, like a king or a slaveowner. But Avery is a true, genuine, sincere, enthusiastic lover of fellatio, and her blow jobs show it. And I am the ideal combined instrument and audience for her obsessive devotion. With each stroke she sends a confirming message into my body, up my spinal column, into my brain, electrifying multiple aspects and levels of my consciousness, telling me over and over what a magnificent cock I have. With each stroke I'm more and more energized until my whole body is charged to the max with male energy. Which is exactly how she likes a man. Avery is one in a million.

** ** ** ** ** ** ** ** **

Actually, one in 1.35 million, plus or minus 80K, 1 standard deviation. You don't have to know what that means. Just understand that I didn't get lucky with Avery in a bar. We didn't meet at an office party. We don't have any friends in common that set us up. She didn't swipe me right.

I found her. I searched for her with my special tools and skills and I located her, both in a high-dimensional demographic parameter space and in meat space.

I live in a major metropolitan area near other major metros. How many Averys are there potentially? You could fill a city bus with them— if you knew where they were. Those databases I mentioned? Yes, I could know your credit score, your medical history, your music and restaurant prefs, if I choose to look. It's all out there, no hacking needed. I know within a few meters every place your cellphone has been since you happily left the store with it. BFD. So do Google and Facebook. They just want to sell you to advertisers. I don't want to sell you. I want to understand you.

I know how to construct a deep learning transformer as good as any high-priced therapist, armed with an astronomically vast dataset that gives it— that is, me— an overwhelming advantage over human intellect. If those folks who created AlphaZero had trained it to find ideal sexual partners instead of wasting their time finding ideal chess moves, or if a GPT model had been trained on human personality and set free to explore the full Internet . . . well, sorry, I shouldn't say any more.

** ** ** ** ** ** ** ** **

"Feel free to come in my mouth any time you want."

I have to chuckle. Avery is starting to tease me. It's always tempting to take her up on her offer. I know if I told her to do it she would suck me off immediately. And do a great job. And thank me after. But I also am very aware of why I'm her favorite cocksman. I don't say anything. I reach down and play with her tits, about a handful each.

Then I explore her neck and head, finger comb her hair, streaked with blue this month, glide my hands over her face as she bobs on my cock. I touch her spread lips and feel where my rod slides past the corner of her mouth. I feel her throat as she takes me deep.

My delight at feeling all over the charming head I'm being given is both physical and ego-gratifying. My skills have found my perfect woman and she's surrounding my cock.

But our relationship is not one-sided. Her response to my intimate touches is an intimate response of her own, directly on my cock, and I'm paralyzed by the high voltage oral energy she delivers, something with her tongue that my cock can't decipher, but which takes the top of my head off. Her teasing has become torture. Which is exactly her goal.

I am the man of her erotic dreams, the man she can stretch, and who can stretch her, until she's thrilled and satisfied to be a woman. She wants a man who loves what she loves to do to a man. That's what excites her.

And that's what my proprietary AI engine targeted. I'm not sure myself what it keyed on, since they're really black boxes. Maybe her Sephora purchases revealed that lipstick fetish. Maybe her dating app history matrix-multiplied with her unusual selections at an electronic supply store. My engine has the ability to scan public FB for ex-boyfriends and infer why she dumped them. A person wants what she wants, even if she doesn't know what she wants. But the engine knows. And out of millions of women like her it also knows the type of man who can free her of inhibitions and motivate her to do what she most wants to do.

Which is the man right now she's giving head to. "I'm just really in the mood to eat some come tonight."

I already knew that. Those pink tights gave her away. She wears pink when she wants pure oral. Red means her pussy needs attention too; dark, especially black, says anything goes. Although she's not ready to admit it. She once told me, when I remarked on her sartorial choice, "I don't know. Sometimes I just want to indulge my girlish side." Apparently girls, in her mind, are orally fixated. Which is exactly right in her case, and the engine picked that up. Great software design, if I do say so myself.

Yes, I have invaded Avery's most intimate orifices. But I never invaded her privacy. It's not that I'm a paragon of ethics. It's simply that I didn't have to. She gave it all away on social media well before I'd located her, the way so many people do. Now she's giving it all away to me, yes, but I have not coerced her. I simply put myself in position, in her favorite dating app and in meat space. Soon we connected and the rest, as they say, is history. How could she resist? I'm perfect for her. She called it fate. Maybe that's what I should name my engine.

I indulge my dramatic side. I writhe a bit. My hands clench her hair, my legs strain, I gasp and moan. It's not a difficult role and I'm not casting myself against type. She really is a superb virtuoso of the skin flute.

She pauses with my glans half in, half out. "Are you sure you don't want a quickie?"

Teasing in the middle of torture. Well, two can play the same game. "Did you bring your new toy?"

I earn a little half smile around my cock. Her shoulders half shrug in acknowledgement. Her eyes flick toward her overcoat.

"Balls." My turn to tease her. What about? Read on.

She performs that service for me, a competent but not unnecessarily extended testicle massage. Then her look. She's ready to perform any other service I would like, as much as I want, wants to do whatever it is I want her to do and right now— as long as it ends with me forcing her to enjoy her special pleasure.

I could hesitate. I could have her do more knob polishing, or beg for my cream, or any number of other obscene acts. I could torture her endlessly, and I have. I'm not in the mood tonight and I can tell she isn't either. "Which toy did you bring?"

She crawls over to retrieve it from her pack, brings it back, and presents it to me. "My new one. I was just finishing it. Why I was late. See?"

She built her new design into a commercially available flexible dildo. I can feel a mechanism inside. She's pointing to small buttons in the end. I don't know what they do but I'm a born button-pusher. We'll find out together.

I pat the couch to my side. She climbs up, kneeling. I open the snap to her tights, pull the tiny zipper down, and slide her toy into her pants. She leans forward and takes my cock and balls in her hands, puts my cock tip to her lips. I turn on the toy.

She jerks at first but soon gets control of herself. I work the toy to where it will do the most good, starting with a spot where I can hold it against her pubic bone, making her whole insides vibrate a little, but also a little in contact with her slit. She hums and sinks her mouth down on my cock.

I put my hand briefly on her head to let her know to stay down, then turn up the toy a level. Another jerk; this time the recovery takes longer. I shift the toy to more on her clit. I can push hard because her panties are still covering her. When she gets this way she doesn't even want to undress. From what she's told me afterwards it's somehow dirtier to do this with her clothes still on, at least her pants. More on that later.

I grab a handful of hair and guide her head up and down on me while I match that rhythm with the toy. She follows my lead, rippling her body to dance with me as if we're doing a modern pas de deux. One of course that will never be performed at the Met.

I progress through a series of emotional states during these moments. The extreme physical pleasure shooting up my spine disables my ego, leaving a clarity of mind: I understand that really I am servicing her, the opposite of what anyone watching us might surmise. Or you the reader. She has a fetish, more than one, and has arranged to get into this situation in which she's well on her way to an intense orgasm. I am the instrument of her orgasm, part of the fetish, and I pilot her through it. And regarding my AI engine and what I did, from her perspective I could be the target: she displayed for the digital ecosystem the right attributes to attract her ideal lover and snagged me. And didn't have to spend Patek Philippe-level funds on AWS.

Of course, I am amply rewarded for my efforts. After all, a half-naked skinny brunette is moaning on my cock. Which leads to my next state, in which my ego flips back and I'm convinced I must be a super-smart stud, because this very attractive woman, of her own volition, is begging me with her body at both ends to make her come, and she wants nothing more than to have my cock between her lips when she does.

I move the toy around. She tries to follow it with her hips but that just lets me torture her in different spots. She tries to squeeze my hand between her thighs. I let that push my hand and the toy away. The toy doesn't just vibrate, it writhes and wriggles. She's created an amazing mechanism. I need to reward her. With more torture. I push her panties aside and work it into her.

Now she's the one being hit by high voltage. The writhing toy she's built for herself is doing something inside her beyond male imagination. But the man controlling her at this moment can tell at her other end what it's doing to her and that man— me— to make that cute head surrounding my cock explode in ecstasy.

I pull her head off me. She's right on the edge and looks as if I've just awakened her from a trance. "Suck me off."

She tries. I know she won't be able to. She's too far gone to concentrate on making me come. I repeat my command, I'm the tease now. I up the level on the toy and concentrate on driving her insane through her clit. She keeps trying to suck, a massive ego treat. But I have her and eventually her sucks devolve into a fierce hug of my cock punctuated by breathy squeals as her orgasm explodes inside her.

I've been holding her head down again but let her up for air. I don't let up with the toy. When she catches her breath I raise the level again and push her back down. This orgasm she just lets happen. Her body jumps but she's given up. She accepts the cock that fills her mouth and the orgasm that fills her body and mind. I can now make her come over and over. Which I do. I don't know how many levels this toy has but I keep pressing those buttons until it maxes out. Her body is shivering continuously and the squeals are almost whimpers. Her eyes are squeezed shut and she's sucking on my cockhead as if it's a pacifier. Imagine one of those motorized dolls running down, limbs twitching, until the battery is totally used up. Except this doll doesn't crawl or walk or say cute things. It sucks and comes.

I gradually reduce the pressure on her sex and let her relax. Her head sinks to rest on my thigh. Pink lip paint streaks my still stiff rod. Her hair's a mess. Her shorts are stained. Her eyes are still closed. She may have fallen asleep. I see a notification appear on my phone with an alert sound that means it's from one of my servers. I'll need to attend to that. Not now, though.