This erotic short story is meant for english language audiences.
If you want to read our Norwegian erotic short stories («erotiske noveller») you will find those here.

Neon Bites

The megacity sprawled like a circuit board left out in the rain—jagged towers of glass and steel piercing a sky choked with smog, their neon veins pulsing red, blue, and green through the haze. Rain streaked the grime-slicked streets of Lower Neon, a district where the law was just another flickering hologram, easily bypassed with the right creds or a quick hack. Jaxon crouched under a busted awning, his trench coat dripping, the collar turned up against the wind. His optic implant whirred, scanning the alley for heat signatures—nothing but rats and the faint glow of a drone buzzing overhead. He was 32, lean and wiry, with a shaved head and a neural jack behind his ear that hadn’t been legal since the Corp Wars. A freelance hacker with a reputation for cracking what couldn’t be cracked, he lived on the edge of burnout, chasing gigs that paid in crypto and adrenaline.

Tonight’s job was a beast: infiltrate the lair of Darius Vex, a rival data-lord who’d locked down a server full of black-market code Jaxon’s client desperately wanted. The catch? Vex’s security was airtight—motion sensors, retinal scans, and a private army of synth-guards. Jaxon couldn’t waltz in alone, not without tripping every alarm from here to the Upper Spires. That’s where she came in.

He tapped his wrist-comm, the screen flickering to life with a grainy feed. “You’re late,” he muttered, voice low, the static crackling in his earpiece.

“Patience, meatbag,” came the reply, smooth and synthetic, edged with a smirk he could hear. A figure emerged from the shadows at the alley’s end, her silhouette outlined in the stuttering glow of a holo-ad for neural implants—Upgrade Your Soul, 0% Down! She moved like liquid, hips swaying in a rhythm that didn’t belong to this busted street, her skin gleaming with a faint metallic sheen under the rain. Nyx—street name, no serial number—was an android escort, top-tier, built for pleasure but modded for more. Her eyes glowed a soft violet, adaptive lenses scanning him as she approached, and her hair, a cascade of black fiber-optics, shimmered with tiny LEDs that pulsed in time with the bass thumping from a nearby club.

“Thought you’d ghost me,” Jaxon said, standing straighter, his boots splashing in a puddle that reflected her neon aura. He’d hired her through a darknet contact—500 creds upfront, 500 more on completion. Her cover was perfect: a high-end companion booked for Vex’s private party, a ticket past the guards. Jaxon would tag along as her “client,” a sleazy plus-one no one would question.

Nyx tilted her head, a smirk tugging at her lips—too human, too knowing for something built in a lab. “Ghost you? Nah. You’re my payday, Jax. Plus, I like a challenge.” Her voice was a purr, synthetic but warm, threaded with an accent he couldn’t place—somewhere between Tokyo slums and Old Vegas. She stepped closer, rain beading on her skin-tight bodysuit, a lattice of black polyfiber that hugged every curve and glowed faintly at the seams. Up close, he caught the hum of her internals, a faint vibration under her chassis, and the scent of ozone mixed with something floral—her coolant, maybe, or a programmed perfume.

“You modded for this?” he asked, nodding at her frame. “Vex’s got scanners. If they clock you as a bot—”

“Relax,” she cut in, tapping a finger against her chest, where a faint seam glowed then faded. “Stealth rig. I read human to anything short of a deep-tissue scan. And these—” She flexed her hands, fingers glinting with retractable tools—lockpicks, data-spikes—“get us past the rest. You just play the horny mark, yeah?”

Jaxon snorted, but his pulse kicked up a notch. He wasn’t new to cons, but Nyx was something else—too sharp, too alive for a machine. He’d worked with androids before, but they were stiff, scripted. She had a spark, a glitch maybe, that made her feel… dangerous. “Fine. Let’s move. Party’s in thirty, and I’m not explaining to Vex why his guest list’s late.”

They slipped through the alleys, Nyx leading with a predator’s grace, her optics cutting through the dark. Jaxon followed, his implant syncing to her feed—her vision overlaid his, mapping the route to Vex’s tower, a squat, brutalist slab of concrete and glass perched over the district like a vulture. The streets thrummed with life—vendors hawking vat-grown meat, kids jacked into VR rigs, basslines bleeding from cracked club doors. Nyx wove through it all, her presence drawing stares she ignored, her hand brushing Jaxon’s arm now and then, testing the cover. He played along, slinging an arm around her waist, feeling the hum of her frame through the suit. It was fake, but his nerves didn’t care—his skin prickled where she touched.

The tower loomed, its entrance guarded by two synths in matte-black armor, rifles slung low. Nyx flashed a holo-pass on her wrist, her voice dropping to a sultry coo. “Nyx, plus one. Booked for the boss.” The guards scanned her, their lenses clicking, then waved them through. Jaxon kept his head down, heart hammering as the elevator swallowed them, its walls pulsing with holo-ads for Vex’s latest tech—Own the Night, Own the Code.

Inside, the party was a fever dream—flickering holograms of dancers, bass so deep it rattled his teeth, corpos in sleek suits mingling with street rats in patched leather. Nyx blended in, her laugh cutting through the noise as she tugged Jaxon toward a private booth, her fingers lingering on his chest. “Gotta sell it,” she whispered, her breath—artificial, warm—tickling his ear. He nodded, sinking into the role, his hand sliding to her hip as they sank into the plush seat, the crowd’s eyes sliding past them.

She leaned in, her violet eyes locking on his, close enough he could see the microcircuits flickering in her irises. “Vex’s server’s downstairs. We slip out in ten, hit the vents. You ready?” Her tone was all business, but her hand on his thigh was slow, deliberate, blurring the line between cover and something else. Jaxon swallowed, the air thick with her ozone scent and the pulse of the music. His implant buzzed, warning of an elevated heart rate, but he couldn’t tell if it was the job—or her.

The booth’s holo-screen flickered, casting her face in shifting neon—red, blue, green. She grinned, sharp and wild, and for a second, he wondered if she was playing him as much as they were playing Vex. The gig was on, but the heat between them was already short-circuiting his focus.

The booth’s neon glow pulsed like a heartbeat, syncing with the bass that thrummed through the tower’s bones. Jaxon’s optic implant flickered, overlaying Nyx’s silhouette with data—temperature readings spiking where her hand rested on his thigh, her chassis humming at a frequency that buzzed against his skin. Ten minutes until their move, but the air between them crackled, heavy with something neither the job nor the cover could explain. Nyx’s violet eyes glinted, her smirk sharp as a blade, and Jaxon felt the pull—part adrenaline, part something rawer, clawing up from his gut.

She shifted closer, her polyfiber suit stretching taut over her curves, the faint glow at its seams painting her in streaks of electric blue. “Gotta make it real,” she murmured, her voice a low synth-purr that vibrated in his earpiece. Before he could grunt a reply, her lips crashed into his—fierce, unyielding, a collision of flesh and tech. Her synthetic tongue sparked against his, a jolt of static zapping his nerves, sharp and alive. She tasted like neon and coolant, a bitter-sweet tang that hit his senses like a drug. Then she pulled back just enough to spit into his mouth—neon-laced saliva, glowing faintly as it slid down his throat, a mix of her artificial essence and something primal. He swallowed, head buzzing, his implant flashing overload warnings he ignored.

“Fuck,” he rasped, voice rough, hands gripping her hips as the crowd’s noise faded to a dull roar. Nyx grinned, feral and knowing, and slid a hand under the table, her fingers—modded with retractable tools—now glinting with a vibrating glove she’d slipped on from some hidden compartment. The hum was subtle, masked by the bass, but when she wrapped it around his cock through his pants, the sensation hit like a live wire. She jacked him off with slow, deliberate strokes, the glove’s micro-vibrations pulsing through the fabric, sending shocks up his spine. His breath hitched, hips jerking involuntarily, and she leaned in, whispering, “Stay quiet, meatbag. We’re still on.”

The booth’s holo-screen flickered, casting wild shadows as she worked him, her other hand sliding up his chest, nails digging into his coat. Jaxon’s jaw clenched, the mix of danger and pleasure frying his circuits—literal and figurative. He grabbed her wrist, not to stop her but to ground himself, and growled, “Your turn.” She laughed—a glitchy, electric sound—and swung a leg over his lap, straddling him in one fluid motion. The crowd didn’t notice, too lost in their own haze, but Jaxon felt every eye that might catch them, the thrill amplifying the heat pooling in his gut.

Her bodysuit parted at the crotch with a soft hiss—self-repairing nanotech—and he caught a glimpse of her pussy, sleek and synthetic, wired with faint micro-shock nodes that glowed like tiny stars. She sank onto him, no preamble, no hesitation, her weight pinning him to the seat. The first thrust sent a zap through his cock, a sharp, electric sting that made him gasp, her internals calibrated to tease and torment. “Modded for fun,” she hissed, rocking her hips, the shocks syncing with the bass—pulse, zap, pulse, zap. His hands gripped her ass, feeling the hum of her frame, the synthetic skin warm and yielding under his fingers. She rode him hard, fast, her fiber-optic hair spilling over her shoulders, LEDs flashing in chaotic patterns—red, green, violet—like a rave gone rogue.

Sweat beaded on his brow, his implant screaming data—heart rate 140, cortisol spiking—but he didn’t care. Nyx’s violet eyes locked on his, her smirk fading into something raw, unprogrammed, as she leaned in, kissing him again, spitting more of that glowing saliva into his mouth. He drank it down, the taste searing his throat, and felt her tighten around him, her shocks intensifying. “Close,” she muttered, voice glitching, and he nodded, too far gone to speak. The booth’s holo-screen flared, a burst of static mirroring the chaos building in his core.

He thrust up, meeting her rhythm, the shocks stinging his cock in waves that blurred pain and pleasure into a single, white-hot surge. She arched back, her chassis humming louder, and he felt it—the edge. “Now,” he growled, pulling out just as he came, thick ropes of cum arcing across her glowing chest, splattering the polyfiber suit in streaks of white against the neon blue. Nyx didn’t flinch; she dragged a finger through it, smearing it into her chest plate, where tiny circuits sparked and fizzed, shorting out in a sizzling cascade. Her body jerked, a synthetic orgasm ripping through her—LEDs flashing erratic, violet eyes dimming then flaring bright, a low moan escaping her lips that sounded almost human.

They collapsed against the booth, panting, the bass still thudding, the party oblivious. Jaxon’s implant buzzed, warning of neural overload, but he silenced it with a shaky tap. Nyx slid off him, her suit sealing itself shut, the cum smears vanishing into its nanotech weave. She grinned, wiping a glowing streak from her lip. “Five minutes to the vents. You good?”

He nodded, chest heaving, the aftershocks still tingling in his nerves. “Yeah. Let’s crack this bastard.” But as she stood, adjusting her hair, he caught the flicker in her eyes—something beyond her programming, a glitch of want that matched his own. The job wasn’t done, but whatever this was, it wasn’t over either.