Chapter 1
Alaric
Alaric stood by the floor-to-ceiling window of his private suite, high above the shimmering skyline of New Earth 1, watching twin moons begin to rise over the glass-domed city. In just a few hours, the bidding would begin, an event that drew the elite from all the New Earth planets. Beneath him, in the lower levels of The Taboo, his gallery was being prepared for tonight’s show. Lights adjusted, drones calibrated, and his Pleasure Bugs, each a work of bioengineered art, were undergoing their final calibrations under sterile blue light.
The Taboo wasn’t just any gallery. It was the most exclusive, most expensive pleasure house in the colony, maybe even in the entire quadrant. Alaric had built it from the bones of his father’s legacy into a name that held power. While dozens of competitors tried to replicate his business model, none could match the precision, the aesthetics, or the experience he offered. His Bugs were different. His Bugs sold fantasy—refined, irresistible, and disturbingly human.
New Earth 1 had been the first successful colony established after asteroid NN4 obliterated Earth over three centuries ago. Now there were ninety-six New Earths, each spread across the stars like fragments of a forgotten home. Humanity had survived, but just barely.
Reproduction, once a primal instinct, had become a delicate matter of science and control. After several generations of inbreeding and genetic collapse, the ruling councils had outlawed natural conception altogether. It was too risky. Too unpredictable. Every human now was lab-grown, born through artificial insemination and gene-splicing—a carefully curated blend of parental DNA meant to prevent mutations and enhance survival.
As a result, intimacy became obsolete. Women no longer needed men to have children. Men no longer needed women to build families. Love, connection, desire, they all became inconvenient leftovers of an evolutionary past. But sexual appetite? That never vanished.
Desire persisted, even when its purpose didn’t. So science adapted.
The Pleasure Bugs were the answer.
Created seventy years ago by a revolutionary biotech team, now absorbed into Alaric’s empire, the Bugs were synthetic humanoids, crafted from human genes and grown in artificial wombs. They weren’t machines, nor were they fully sentient. Their brains functioned at half-human capacity, attuned only to pleasure and submission. They could speak, react, mimic emotion. They could sweat, moan, beg. They were built to feel, to please, and to blur the line between man and fantasy.
And The Taboo housed the best of them.
Alaric’s Pleasure Bugs weren’t just products, they were icons. Each one genetically unique, with personalized skin tone, eye color, voice modulation, erogenous sensitivity mapping, and personality presets that ranged from obedient maidens to dominant lovers. His clients didn’t just come to shop. They came to experience.
But competition was fierce. Other houses across the galaxy were mass-producing Bugs for lower prices, targeting mid-tier buyers. Alaric, however, had no interest in the masses. His gallery was for those who craved exclusivity. For those willing to spend fortunes for perfection. For those who wanted their pleasures... personalized.
Still, even in a galaxy of billionaires, reputation wasn’t enough. Which is why Alaric began The Show.
Every weekend, a carefully selected Pleasure Bug was brought onto the main stage—sometimes shy, sometimes sultry, sometimes wild. Alaric himself would conduct the demonstration, guiding the Bug through an intricate performance that combined desire, obedience, and raw sensuality. There were no scripts. No guarantees. Only the thrill of watching human design pushed to its peak.
Each show was streamed live across private channels. But only the richest, most powerful clients were invited to witness in person, seated behind polarized glass or velvet ropes, drinks in hand, breath held.
And tonight’s Bug? A brand-new specimen, fresh from incubation. A soft-spoken, violet-eyed female with a G3 temperament, introverted, innocent, aching to please.
Alaric pulled on his gloves and adjusted his cufflinks, the weight of the evening settling into his chest like a slow, deliberate beat. He wasn’t nervous.
He was preparing for a performance.
A show that would end with a roar of applause, the hum of credit transfers, and a Pleasure Bug sold for more than most people would earn in their entire lifetime.
After all, desire still ruled the galaxy.
And he was the one who sold it.
Alaric rubbed his palm against the smooth fabric of his trousers, the familiar buzz of anticipation lighting up every nerve ending in his body. The bidding was only a few hours away, and just the thought of it sent a low hum of excitement through his blood. Some men lived for sex, for power, for danger. Alaric lived for the bidding. That electric moment when voices clashed, numbers climbed, and the room pulsed with hunger, for ownership, for dominance, for beauty. For him, it was better than any orgasm cleaner, sharper, more lasting.
His assistant hovered nearby, as always earpiece tucked neatly in, writing board in hand, posture taut like a soldier on duty. The young man smiled as Alaric turned from the window. “Best of luck, sir.”
Alaric didn’t need luck. But he appreciated the sentiment.
The assistant, acting as tonight’s floor coordinator, was tasked with keeping the chaos curated. The lighting, the sound systems, the overhead drones that filmed the performances, the privacy of the VIP booths, he oversaw it all. And under his meticulous eye, things always ran like clockwork.
Alaric gave a brief nod, then turned to adjust the cuffs of his crisp black shirt. His fingers were steady, practiced. Each movement smooth. He fastened the sleek platinum cufflinks with care, then straightened the collar of his dark tailored tunic. He didn’t wear a suit—he didn’t have to. Presence, after all, wasn’t stitched into fabric. It came from within.
With a slow exhale, Alaric stepped through the private corridor leading to the stage. The moment the lights caught his silhouette, a roar broke from the gathered crowd. The velvet curtain slid open, revealing rows of polished seats arranged in a semi-circle, tiered for maximum viewing. The spotlight cast a faint glow on his shoulders as he strode confidently onto the central platform, a commanding figure bathed in sterile gold light.
They were already going crazy for him.
It wasn’t just admiration, it was awe. On Twin Planet 1, Alaric Mason wasn’t just a businessman. He was a legend. A living symbol of wealth, seduction, and power. To many, he was the man who had turned carnal need into a science and then into a profitable empire. Being among the richest men in the New Earth colonies helped, of course. But what truly made Alaric magnetic was his aura cold, controlled, dangerously beautiful.
The gallery was filled tonight, every seat claimed. The women, dressed in silks and metallic mesh, leaned forward as he approached the microphone affixed to his ear. The men, dressed in muted designer robes, watched him with measured interest, greed gleaming behind their eyes.
A subtle separation marked the room—a barricade, barely waist-high, sectioning off the male and female guests. A design choice not born from prudishness, but strategy. Alaric’s show coordinator had insisted on it. When things got heated—and they always did—it was best to avoid unnecessary physical confrontations.
“Good evening, my guests,” Alaric began, voice smooth and commanding, projected across the space through the sleek mic. His tone sent shivers through the air.
A deafening roar answered him, mixed with applause, laughter, and the occasional whistle. Someone from the women’s section let out a theatrical sigh, breathy and loud. It echoed deliciously through the room, drawing chuckles from those around her.
Alaric smiled, just barely. Enough to tease, never enough to offer.
“I hope all of you are in good health,” he added, adjusting his stance as the spotlight followed him. Another cheer rolled over the crowd like a wave, more intense this time, rippling through the velvet-draped arena. Cameras attached to discreet flying drones circled above, capturing every flick of his hand, every twitch of the Bug specimens waiting in the shadows, every gleam of sweat on the necks of the restless audience.
Tonight, he would show them something new. Something exquisite.
And they would fight each other to own it.
“Today, I have one of my most beautiful specimens,” Alaric’s voice echoed through the chamber, smooth and controlled, carrying the weight of his presence through the gold-trimmed acoustics of the stage. His fingers flicked a signal behind his back, barely noticeable to the crowd, but his assistant caught it instantly, stepping back to cue the release.
A soft hiss broke the silence behind the velvet curtain as the sliding door parted, and then she appeared.
The Bug walked to the center of the platform, each step measured, deliberate. Naked from head to toe, her body gleamed under the pale stage lights skin bronzed and glowing, her hips swaying with the subtle elegance of engineered poise. Her breasts bounced softly with every step, unapologetically proud, meant to captivate. She had the classic hourglass figure buyers obsessed over, but there was something more, something curated to seem just slightly... human.
Her diamond-shaped face was perfectly symmetrical, carved by decades of genetic refinements. Her violet eyes, striking, unnatural, hypnotic, swept across the audience like a slow-moving flame.
Fresh from the lab. Her skin bore no blemish, her joints moved with fluidity, and her scent was a calculated mix of pheromones and synthetic softness. Just hours ago, she’d been on a sterile table, final calibrations running through her neural cores. Now, she was here, flashing a radiant, confident smile as if she belonged to the stage.
And in a way, she did.
Alaric’s chest tightened not from desire, but from something colder. Something that made him clench his fists behind his back. This was art. A product. A projection. Not a person. No matter how real she seemed.
He stepped forward and placed a hand gently against her cheek. Her skin was warm, pliant. Human in every conceivable way. But inside that beautifully constructed head, things were different.
Flesh and bone. Yes. Biologically, they were human. Engineered from human cells, gestated in artificial wombs, built layer by layer to perfection. But their minds...Their minds were half-machine, cold and calculating, programmed to mimic human emotions, not feel them. And yet, she smiled at him.
A soft, poised curve of her lips. Not too bright. Not too shy. Just the right blend of pride and serenity. It was exactly what his software engineer had programmed into her personality template just before she stepped onstage. Confidence. Charisma. Gratitude for being chosen. The ideal temperament for a show Bug.
“Her name is Cynthia,” he announced, keeping his voice steady as he stroked a thumb along her jawline.
A hushed murmur rose through the audience. Eyes gleamed. Interest sparked.
And Cynthia tilted her chin slightly upward beaming, like she understood exactly what she was worth.
“Good girl,” Alaric whispered, the words barely brushing her skin as he leaned in close. With a practiced flick, he slid the microphone above his head out of range, so no one else could hear what was meant only for her. The crowd didn’t need to hear this part. They only needed to watch.
The scientists always said Pleasure Bugs didn’t possess real emotions. That their brains were too fragmented, too controlled, too chemically bound to truly feel. But Alaric knew better. He had spent years around them watched their reactions, their trembles, their sighs when touched just right. He had seen the way they clung to comfort and pulled away from pain, the way they mimicked pleasure with such conviction it blurred the line between programming and truth.
They weren’t good at understanding what they felt, let alone expressing it. But it didn’t mean they didn’t feel it.And that? That’s what made the sex unforgettable. That unspoken illusion of realness. The quiet suggestion that somewhere inside their half-coded minds, something stirred.
No one liked to talk about it, though. Not officially. The company line was strict these were not sentient beings. They were enhancements, tools, simulations of humanity. But the protesters? They latched onto this. Every time they stormed the gates of his gallery, shouting about exploitation and synthetic rights, this was the argument they screamed the loudest:
“They feel. They suffer. They know.”
Alaric said nothing. He just kept walking.
Cynthia bit her lip, a soft gesture, perfectly timed. It was one of her pre-programmed traits, a subtle quirk assigned to her personality protocol. Buyers loved that kind of thing. Men. Women. Didn’t matter. It made them lose their minds, made them believe. That shy tuck of the bottom lip, that flutter of uncertainty in the eyes, it was like watching a human hesitate in the throes of want.
Last week’s Bug, Kat, had been the opposite, bold, commanding, predatory. She didn’t bite her lip. She bit people. She stared straight into the camera with an unapologetic grin and took what she wanted. She had sold for $80,000 without breaking a sweat.
But Cynthia? She was a different kind of fantasy. And fantasies like hers tended to fetch even higher prices.
Alaric gestured with a flick of his hand toward the center of the stage. “Why don’t you go lay down on the bed.”
The audience watched, rapt, as Cynthia turned. Her bare feet padded lightly across the polished floor to the adjustable performance bed, sleek, sterile, designed by Alaric’s in-house team to offer full control of tilt and height. A performer’s stage and a surgeon’s table, all in one. The camera above pivoted, focusing in on her from above, capturing the graceful way she moved, the curve of her back, the slight hesitation in her steps. It zoomed onto her face, broadcasting her features in ultra-high definition on the enormous screen behind them.
She paused at the bed’s edge, glanced over her shoulder once, timid, vulnerable, uncertain. And then she lay down, movements slow, almost cautious. Just as she was designed to.
Alaric moved to her side, his footsteps soft, purposeful. He reached down and placed a hand gently on her forehead, his palm warm against her smooth skin. Then he leaned in again, his mouth near her ear.
“Just go with the flow. This is going to be okay,” he whispered, voice low and soothing.
And just like that, she relaxed. Her shoulders eased, her breathing slowed. He had seen it happen thousands of times. The way his tone, his presence, his careful control disarmed them.
He wasn’t just a businessman. On this stage, in this moment, he was the ringmaster.
And the show was just beginning.
“Cynthia has a G3 personality.” Alaric’s voice rolled through the speakers, smooth and deliberate, every syllable tailored to draw the audience in. He turned slightly toward the crowd, the lights glinting off the thin mic looped around his ear.
“She’s sultry, smart... a taker in bed. Not like the G1 I showcased last week. Kat was a dominant. Bold. She took control, commanded the room, the rhythm, the partner. Cynthia, however...” His lips curled into a faint smile as he tilted his head toward the bed. “...she’s made to be taken. And tonight, I’ll show you exactly what that means.”
The crowd responded with a low murmur some chuckling, some already shifting in anticipation. Alaric lowered his hand, casually covering the microphone before leaning in to speak to Cynthia in a voice only she could hear.
“Are you alright?” he asked gently.
Cynthia nodded, her violet eyes flicking toward him, a flicker of something soft in her expression. It was artificial...yes but it was convincing.
He turned back to the audience.
“She, just like most of our Pleasure Bugs, is extremely responsive,” he continued. “The level of realism we achieve is due to how her body reacts, subtle, authentic, undeniable.”
To demonstrate, Alaric let his fingers trail slowly up Cynthia’s thigh, bare and flawless under the warm white light. As his touch moved along the soft plane of her skin, a wave of goosebumps rippled across her leg like a reaction too real to fake. The audience stilled, captivated.
Overhead, the camera zoomed in, locking onto her thigh. The massive HD screen behind them filled with an ultra-close shot of her skin tightening in reaction, every drop of perspiration catching the light, every micro-shiver as sharp and detailed as if they could reach out and touch her. Even the faint rise of her breath, the twitch of a muscle, it was all there, magnified, broadcasted, savored.
“You can see how responsive her body is,” Alaric said, his tone now richer, edging toward clinical curiosity.
He pressed his thumb lightly against a tender point near her inner thigh and gave a gentle pinch. A small red bloom appeared almost immediately, a flush of real human blood beneath artificial programming. Cynthia gasped softly, her body arching instinctively, hips shifting, searching, trying to chase friction she didn’t even know she craved.
A collective rustle moved through the crowd like a wave, legs uncrossing, breaths caught, interest sharpened. Alaric didn’t need to look up to know. He could feel their attention tighten like a rope.
This was where fantasy and reality blurred. This was what they came for. That perfect illusion of surrender, of a living body, craving touch, flinching at pain, begging for pleasure.
But not everyone was watching with harmless desire. Alaric knew the difference.
Pain response was not an accident. It was designed, intentionally coded into the neural pathways of Pleasure Bugs. Pain, in limited form, enhanced sensitivity, made them more reactive, more real. It was a feature buyers adored. But like everything desirable, it was vulnerable to abuse.
Some people were monsters. They didn’t want connection, they wanted power, domination through cruelty. Bastards who got off on bruises. Who saw pain not as a byproduct of passion, but as the reward.
Bugs didn’t have legal protection. Not in New Earth 1. If someone mistreated them, beat them, scarred them, overused them, there was no law to step in. No case to file. No justice.
So Alaric had done the one thing within his control.
He installed chips. Subtle, invisible tech tucked deep inside each Bug’s neural latticework. These chips monitored stress patterns, tracked elevated cortisol spikes, unusual pain responses, and long-term fear markers. When those numbers surged, he knew. And when he suspected abuse, he recalled the unit without warning and revoked ownership rights, buying back the Bug no matter what it cost.
Some called it bad business. He called it conscience.
His eyes dropped back to Cynthia, who now lay pliant, cheeks flushed, chest rising and falling gently with stimulated breathwork.
And all around them, the crowd leaned forward, hungry.
“Come.”Alaric extended his hand, palm open, fingers loose, a subtle smile curving his lips. Cynthia, obedient and graceful, placed her smaller hand into his. Her touch was warm, so human it made something twist inside him. He tightened his grip gently and gave her a light twirl, watching as her bare body spun beneath the soft glow of the overhead lights. The violet hue in her eyes caught the shimmer, her long legs crossing with elegance, her breasts swaying naturally with the movement, like a dancer caught mid-pose.
The crowd responded with murmurs of delight, their hunger still thick in the air.
Alaric turned back toward the audience, voice smooth and unshaken. “I hope one of you chooses this perfect Pleasure Bug to take home tonight.”
It was a line he’d said hundreds of times. Maybe thousands. And yet, every time he spoke it, a small sliver of guilt sliced through his chest.
Cynthia was escorted off the stage by his assistant, her hand now resting on the crook of his subordinate’s elbow as she was guided toward the private room, where she would wait for the highest bidder to claim her. She moved with poise, her spine straight, her steps light, but Alaric knew it was all programming. There was no shame in her eyes. No fear. Just scripted confidence and manufactured calm.
The moment she disappeared behind the velvet curtain, a dull heaviness settled in Alaric’s chest. It was a weight he’d come to expect after every show, a slow, aching pressure that curled in the space just above his sternum. It wasn’t pain. Not exactly.
It was something far more inconvenient.
Doubt.
He stood alone on the stage for a moment longer, letting the silence wrap around him, swallowing the noise of the crowd’s scattered applause and hushed negotiations.
Why did he always feel like this afterward? Why, when the crowd cheered, when the numbers rolled in, when buyers fought over his creations, did he feel like something inside him had been scraped raw?
He exhaled through his nose, jaw tight.
They’re not people, he reminded himself. They’re not real. They’re machines wrapped in meat. A billion-dollar illusion designed to make others forget their loneliness. They were built to serve. Built to bend. They don’t suffer, not truly.
But even as he repeated the truth in his head, it didn’t sit right. Not anymore.
At least the people buying them could still get it up.
A bitter laugh nearly escaped him at the thought. He hadn’t had an erection in years, not a real one. Not one that didn’t come from some drug or stim patch he didn’t bother using. His body was a graveyard of old urges. Sex had become something he sold, not something he experienced. And when you’ve seen every inch of manufactured desire from behind the curtain, it loses its magic fast.
At least they had that, he thought. At least they could feel something.
He walked off stage slowly, shoulders squared, tie loosened just slightly. He still had the numbers to crunch, the bids to finalize, and the next model to prep. He could lose himself in the routine, in money, in the bottom of a glass, in the constant hum of work.
Because feeling nothing was easier than questioning everything.
And tonight, like always, he chose easy.
