This body waits in the corner. How long has it been? Weeks? Years? Months? You're not sure. You're not real anymore, so you can't count the days as they pass. And even if you were real, you can't move this body. This body moves, of course, but you can't move it. So you wait.

She's back. You're not real, but you're a little more real when she's here. Maybe it's because she has your body. Well, not your body, exactly, but what you wished your body had looked like when you were real. Her skin is perfect, without the tiniest hint of scars or cellulite. Her breasts are beautiful and round. Her nipples are wonderfully suckable and her pussy is always wet.

That's one thing you have in common, at least. Your pussy is always wet too. Sometimes you feel it running down your leg, or hear it dripping on the floor. 

Maybe she's you. You wonder if she has the same friends and family you did. You hope not. You don't fear for them, because only people who are real can feel fear, but you would prefer it if they're okay.

She's back with a new man. At least, you think he's new. It's hard to keep track. But he must be new, because he has kind eyes. She takes him to bed and she's on top, riding him. He doesn't see you waiting in the corner. That used to happen—sometimes a new man would catch a glimpse of you out of the corner of his eye. It hasn't happened in a long time.

He runs his hands over her body. He thrusts inside of her. His gaze is soft, fixed on the pleasure she's finding. Her breathing is coming in shallow gasps, her back arching slightly with each plunge.

"You're gorgeous," he says, his voice thick with adoration. His hands leave her hips, drifting up to cup her breasts. He massages the soft weight, tracing the outline of her hard nipples with his thumbs.

The sound is a low wet rhythm—the slap of skin on skin. You hear another wet sound. Your fingers have started working your pussy. You can't move this body, but this body moves. It's perfectly in time with her. Each time she impales herself, your fingers thrust inside you. It feels good. That's the only thing you really feel anymore. 

Sometimes you feel good and your fingers start fucking your pussy when she's not here. She must be with a man somewhere else. But you're less real then, when she's not near. You don't remember those times very well. Although, you don't remember much of anything anymore.

She's moving faster now, rocking her hips, demanding more. He'll give it to her. They always do.

If you were her—if you were still real—you'd be cumming now. You remember how you used to cum when you would fuck with the imperfect version of the body she has now. The first orgasm would always be small—a little shallow ripple. And each time you came, it would be bigger and deeper until the last one left you satisfied.

That's one difference between you. She doesn't cum like you did. She only cums once, when the men do.

He's about to now. He lets out a groan, a sound of pure satisfaction. He holds her steady, matching her pace, lifting his hips to meet her descent. She cries out, her perfect lips parted as they both cum together. She always cums when the man does, taking his cum inside her perfect wet pussy. She takes more as well, though he doesn't know it yet. Maybe he never will.

You cum too. It's the second-best orgasm of your life. You've had lots of orgasms like this before, all of them the second-best orgasm of your life. You feel good. It's all you can feel now.

He leaves. She leaves. This body waits.

She's brought him back. How long has it been since the last time? You don't know. Time is only for people who are real. His eyes are less kind now.

He throws her onto the mattress, the springs squeaking as she sprawls out on it. Her shirt rides up just enough to show the undersides of her tits. He flips her around, and pushes her head into the pillow then grips her waist before he enters her. This isn't the second time he's fucked her. You're not sure how many, but he would be gentler if it were only the second.

She grips the sheets, bunching them up in her hands, her knuckles turning white. Her back arches, and she pushes herself into him. 

"Don't stop!" she screams.

He doesn't answer, he just fucks her harder. His breath is ragged against the back of her neck. He says nothing now. Her hair is a tangled mess around her face, stuck to her cheeks with sweat, but somehow she still looks perfect. The perfect used girl. He holds her tight, one hand anchoring her hip, the other grasping her shoulder, digging in just enough to bruise.

She doesn't protest. She angles her body, giving him better access, pushing back to meet his every aggressive thrust. He's close now, so she is too. So are you. You feel your fingers in your pussy again. 

He cums inside her. She cums too. This body cums. It's the second-best orgasm of your life.

He leaves. She leaves. This body waits.

He's back now. They're arguing loudly. This will be the last time you see him. She's wearing nothing but panties and a t-shirt. The t-shirt is tight, highlighting her impossibly perfect tits. She looks angry, but her nipples are tenting, straining against the fabric. Those impossibly perfect, suckable nipples. Every time she screams at him, she leaves her mouth parted just a bit. She knows what she's doing. He's angry about something. She probably slept with another man. You're not really paying attention, but that's what it usually is. That man will be next, but for now she's finishing with this one.

He pushes her, and she falls onto the bed. She arches her back as she lands, her shirt perfectly outlining her breasts. Her hair lands in a halo around her head. It always does. It's just like your hair used to be, or at least how you always wanted your hair to be.

He climbs on top of her. She tells him to get off, to stop. He ignores her. He pulls her panties off and she's wet. She's always wet. So are you. It's what you have in common.

He enters her and she cries out, a mix of fear and lust in her voice. It's hot. Your fingers are moving in time with him, of course. You can't move this body, but this body moves. You know what's coming. It's going to be so good. It's going to be the best orgasm of your life.

A perfect, beautiful tear rolls down her cheek. She begs him to stop with her perfect lips. She tries to push him off, her chest straining and her perfect breasts heaving. Could he stop? He must be able to, or she wouldn't still be fucking him, but you've never seen it happen.

He cums inside of her. She cums too. This body cums. The last of whatever she takes from him is gone. It's the best orgasm of your life. It always is, when she takes the last of what he has.

He leaves. He thinks it's his choice, but it's not. She sends him into the world missing something. When he's gone she looks at you.

She looks at you! She hasn't looked at you since this body started waiting. This is different. You didn't know things could be different anymore.

"I have to leave," she says. "People are beginning to get suspicious."

That would make you sad if you could still feel. You don't exist, waiting here in the corner, but you exist a little bit more when she's around. You wonder if you'll go away completely now.

She touches you. This body feels another person's skin for the first time since this life of waiting began. She's beautiful. She has your face, your tits, your ass, your legs. They're beautiful. They used to be yours, but they weren't as beautiful then.

She takes you by the hand and leads you to the bed. You can't move this body, of course, but this body moves and it follows her.

She pushes you down onto the mattress. It’s still warm, damp with the sweat and fluids of the man who just left. You stare up at her, at the face that she took from you and perfected, framed by that halo of perfect hair. She smiles at you, but the smile doesn't reach her eyes. It never does.

She leans down and her breasts press against yours. You feel the heavy warmth of them against your own chest. Your nipples harden instantly, tightening under the pressure of her skin. She kisses you and you feel her tongue in your mouth. You can't move your tongue, but your tongue moves and it dances with hers. 

Her hands—the hands that used to be yours—run down this body. Her fingers find your cunt, already slick and ready. They mimic the rhythm you know so well: the quick, demanding thrusts that always make you cum. You can't make a sound, but this body makes sounds: a low moan that vibrates in your throat. She uses the moisture from your wetness and spreads it over your breasts, massaging the nipples until they ache with pleasure. You feel a strange sense of completeness, the perfection of her form finally touching the flawed original.

She shifts, straddling you, her perfect pussy hovering just above your face. She’s wet too, and the smell of her arousal is wonderful. She pushes herself down, grinding against your lips, letting you taste what you both have in common. You can't move your head, but your head tips back, your mouth opens, and you take her in. The flavor is sharp and sweet—the lingering taste of the men. Not their cum, though there is a hint of that, but the taste of what she took from them. It's powerful and sweet and good. It's the only good thing inside her.

She grinds her hips, pushing harder onto your face, and you suck at her, drawing that intoxicating wetness into your mouth. This body wants more. 

She raises up just slightly then shifts, sliding down until her face is hovering over your pussy, her hair falling around your inner thighs. Her tongue flicks out, a slow, deliberate touch against your sensitive clit. The movements of her tongue match yours perfectly. You feel her clit with your tongue and you feel her tongue on your clit and it's the same thing and you're so close now.

She laps at you and you at her, drawing deep moans from your throat and her throat. It's the same thing. You're so close. You're ready to cum and she keeps licking you and you keep licking her and it never happens.

How long do you stay like that, her pussy above you, grinding into your mouth? Days? Weeks? Years? Seconds? You're not real, so you're not sure. But you do know the orgasm can never happen because you only cum when she cums, and she only cums when a man cums inside her.

You can't cry, but this body cries, the tears making your pillow wet. Not as wet as the sheets being soaked by your pussy, but wet nonetheless. This body cries because you know you'll never experience an orgasm with her. 

Finally she pulls her mouth away, and this body stops eating her out. She repositions herself to lay beside and above you, dangling her perfect breasts in the air. You can't open your mouth but your mouth opens and she lowers her perfect suckable nipples into your mouth. This body sucks on her nipples as she slides her fingers back into your cunt. Her fingers are moving faster and faster now and the tears are rolling down your cheeks more and more because this body is vibrating with need, so close to an orgasm that can never happen.

You're still sucking her perfect nipple when she takes her fingers out and slides them into her own pussy. She closes her eyes and then pulls her fingers back out and they're covered in cum. If you were real you'd wonder how she has cum in her, how it hasn't mingled with her own juices. You're so close.

This body is rolling her nipple around with your tongue when she slides her cum-covered finger into your pussy and suddenly you're having the best orgasm of your life. It's just like every other time you've had the best orgasm of your life, the one that happens when she takes the last of what she wants from a man. But this one is different. Instead of feeling it because her body feels it, now you feel it yourself, in your own cunt. It feels incredible, to have the last of what a man had to give. You know it must feel incredible because this body is shaking and convulsing and your throat is crying out in unintelligible moans of pleasure and it keeps going on and on and on and it doesn't end. It feels good. That's all you feel anymore.

How long did you cum? Days? Weeks? Years? It must have been days, because you saw the sun go up and down several times. Oh, that's interesting. You noticed time passing. You wonder if that means you're real again, even a little bit. 

You're back in the corner and she's gone. Her clothes—the clothes that used to be yours—are gone as well. As is the bed that used to be yours. You're alone in a bare room. You don't wonder where she went; she went to find more men without you. That's okay. You can wait. This body waits.

A new girl moves in. She has red hair, a thin, lithe body and cute little breasts. The red-haired girl isn't perfect—she's not even beautiful—but she is pretty. That's fine. You can wait. This body waits.

You watch her whenever she's in the room. Mostly she's asleep when you watch her. Sometimes your pussy gets extra wet and when she wakes up she finds your juices on the floor. The red-haired girl wonders if there's a water leak somewhere, but the landlord says no and she stops worrying about it after a while. It's just a little mystery about her new apartment. She wipes it up sometimes.

One night, she wakes up from a dream and she sees you out of the corner of her eye. Your pussy gets even wetter. You hear it drip onto the floor. She's going to find a big puddle tomorrow, but right now she can't move. She's frozen, paralyzed. Just like you. She has to learn how to wait.

Finally she goes back to sleep and you're a little shorter, your hair is a little redder, your breasts are a little smaller and perkier. You know what will happen next because it happened to you once, a long time ago. She'll keep waking up at night, every now and then, and catching a glimpse of you out of the corner of her eye. Each time you'll look a little more like her. Each time she'll wait until she falls back asleep.

You'll wait with her. This body waits.

It will keep happening until one night you'll be real again, and you'll have her perfect body. She'll see you that night, but not out of the corner of her eye. Then she'll be a body that waits and you'll be free to find the men.

You don't know when it will happen. Maybe it will take days or weeks or months. That's okay. You can wait. 

This body has waited so long. It can wait a little longer.