You think "disconnect", and feel microscopic magnetic locks retract. With a careful tug, the cable slides out of the port embedded in the nape of your neck.

You curl up in your desk chair and try to focus on your breathing, eyes screwed shut. The doc who put in your neural interface told you the nausea would pass after a few weeks of adjustment, but you haven’t quite reached that point yet.

The interface is your first implant, along with your replacement eyes. With its relatively low price and the comparatively minor surgery required for installation, it's a popular choice for anyone just starting out with augments, and many of the larger implants require it. The eyes were a slightly bigger step (removing existing body parts always is), but the ability to have data from the interface projected directly onto your vision was too exciting to resist. Plus, no need for glasses anymore! 

Deep breath. A few seconds later and you feel stable enough to stand up.

Time to go touch some grass. Hoodie on, earbuds in, you step out of your apartment, down the stairs and out onto the cramped streets of your neighborhood.

You take a moment to watch the people flowing past you, passing through the spiderweb of alleys and side streets, dipping in and out of tiny shops, ordering late dinners at food stalls, all lit by the ad screens that cover every flat, unused surface, before you start walking.

You didn't really have a plan for what to do outside, other than getting some fresh air, but you still need groceries for dinner, so the corner store seems like a good first destination.

You’re almost there when you get the feeling that someone is following you. The same person has been behind you for almost three blocks now. You try to rationalize it at first, maybe they’re just going to the store as well? Maybe you’re just being paranoid. But your anxiety doesn’t subside, so you turn at the next corner, and again two more times. They’re still behind you.

You increase your pace, heart hammering in your chest so intensely that your vision pulses. You need to get back to the main street, get lost in the flow of people. You don't like crowds any more than you like being stalked, but you can’t think straight, can’t come up with a better plan.

It seems to work. A few minutes pass, and you can’t spot them anymore. You turn off the street when you pass by a dark, narrow alley. Quiet. Better. You lean your head against the cool concrete of the building next to you. Your heartbeat begins to slow, your breath quiets, your palms dry a little.

Something clicks into your neck.

You try to turn but you're instantly nauseous again. Your eyes aren't focusing right, your vision lighting up with intrusion warnings and error messages. Your legs are giving out. It takes about a second after you feel the pain in your knees and wrists for you to register that you've collapsed. You cough, then retch, but nothing comes out. No relief from the nausea.

"Oh wow. I knew your implant was fresh, but still, I've never seen such a strong reaction. You're not taking to it very well, are you?"

The stranger kicks you in the ribs. You whimper.

"A bit of a shame, really. It'll limit how I'll be able to use you for a while. You should be glad that you look absolutely adorable, squirming in pain like that. Otherwise I wouldn't even be bothering with you anymore."

A hand clenches into your hair, dragging you up onto your knees. Your scalp screams in pain. They lean down to look into your eyes, and you can feel their breath on your face. Still, you can’t focus well enough to make out the stranger’s face.

"Speaking of which. You're still mostly organic, so a full puppeteer hack unfortunately isn't possible, as helpful as that would be to me. I'm guessing your general physical state right now will keep you from resisting me too much, but just in case, I’d like to remind you of the fact that your neural interface is very, very close to your brain,"

Their mouth curls into a smug grin.

"And I am fully capable of overloading it until said brain is melted into goo. I'd prefer not to, but I'm not a very patient person, so I'd advise you not to struggle too much."

They let go, and you slump forward. You hear their pants unzip.

When you lift your head again, their cock (about average length, but so thick) is right up against your face, already hard, the tiniest drop of pre clinging to the tip.

“Open your mouth,” they say. “Stick out your tongue.”

You don't have a choice but to follow their command. They push into your mouth, slow but firm, past your gag reflex, forcing their way into your throat. They barely taste like anything, just skin and a hint of salt, matching the twin scents of fresh sweat and expensive body wash that fill your nose as it's buried in the tuft of hair at their base. You gag, your throat spasming, eyes watering, pulling your head back on instinct, but they grab a fistful of your hair and push you back down. You feel warm, wet drool drip down your chin.

"Stop fucking struggling. I know you want this. I can literally see how hard you're getting, you little whore."

They step onto your crotch with one foot, and you know they're right. After years of hormone therapy, you're small enough that you don't even have to tuck most of the time, but with the way you feel yourself twitching against the sole of their shoe, there must be at least a small bulge visible in your skirt. Suddenly it's not just the dick down your throat that's making you want to throw up. 

Are they doing this? It must be, they've got control over your implant, they must be influencing your pleasure center, or something! There's no way you'd get aroused from something like this, right?

They grind their foot into your clit, and with a tiny, unwilling squeak, muffled by the girth filling your mouth, you cum. Hot tears join the spit running down your face. You want to die.

They start to move, small thrusts, never leaving your throat enough to stop triggering your gag reflex. You panic. Your lungs are on fire, the edges of your vision fading, but the grip on your head is too strong for you to move. With all of your remaining strength, you lift your hands and push against their thighs. Too weak to make them budge, but you finally get their attention.

"God, fine. Let's do it the boring way, then."

At last they pull out of your throat, and all you can focus on is your terrible need for oxygen, desperately coughing and gasping, frantically trying to fill your lungs. So you don't notice them reaching behind your head, not until a flash of pain bursts through your skull, out from your neck. For a split second, all you can see is an ocean of glowing scarlet warning messages - then everything goes black. You're out cold before your head hits the ground.

You're propped up against one of the alley walls when you come to. You're utterly exhausted. Your face feels crusty from three different fluids drying on it, and both your throat and lungs are burning still. Your cheek hurts, too, and you wonder if the stranger slapped you to wake you again.

"Rise and shine, slut."

With difficulty, you open your eyes, and finally take a look at your assailant. They’re tall, lanky, but otherwise so androgynous that it's impossible to define their gender, dressed in slacks and a blouse, tailored to fit perfectly. The fabrics look expensive, enough that you could guess that their outfit costs as much as a month's rent for your shitty apartment.

"That little bit of fun we just had gave me enough time to fully compromise your implant, so we won't be needing this anymore."

They reach behind your head and pull something out of the port at the base of your neck. When their hand comes back to their side, you spot that it’s a small wireless receiver. Your vision, ever so slowly, stops spinning.

"I've set up a few little surprises for you, which you will discover in time. The most important one, however, is a little script which keeps track of your location, and should it detect that you're more than 30 meters away from me... well, then this happens."

Instantly, violent light fills your vision, and pain like burning ice picks slices through your optic nerve. You clench your eyes shut, cradling your head, but there is no escaping the agony.

As quickly as your suffering begins, it ends, leaving you panting on the pavement.

"So. Now that it's clear what will happen if you disobey me," they extend a perfectly manicured hand to you. "Shall we head home, pet?"