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50 Shades of Apple Watch

apple-watch-personal

Sex Lit in the Age of the Apple

His strong, lean fingers force-touched the underside of her breast, and he pressed his body against hers from behind. She felt the vibrations of his 6 Plus pulsing through the thick fabric of his ironic dress-sweatpants. She arched her back and pushed her lips towards his ear and whispered, “I only use one port. But it does everything.“

His lips caressed hers as he felt the minty cool of her breath, exhaling with noticeably increasing levels anticipatory gusto. Before they kissed he grabbed the base of her ponytail and forced her head towards the pumping veins in his upturned forearm. In tantalizingly slow motion, he twisted his wrist until he saw in her eyes that she took notice of his Mickey Mouse watch face. He pulled her head back, smiled reassuredly and said, “Why? Because we like you.”

She removed her blouse, exposing the engorged olive flesh of her bosom. Then he saw her Pebble Watch and said, “Actually, why don’t we just see a movie or something?”

As he ran the tip of his instrument along the contours of her interface, he spoke in quiet, formal and confident British English: “A finely tuned extrusion process creates a uniform surface, free of defects.” She then wondered aloud, “Are you sure you’re Jony Ive?” His pace increased as he mumbled “Alumineeum” over and over in what now sounded more like a Brooklyn accent.

He entered his credit card number and waited for the nubile webcam girl to appear. “What are you into?” she asked. He fingered his trackpad. “I like to watch.” She giggled and then wet her lips as she flicked open the front latch of her pink, lace bra. “No wait,” he interrupted. “I mean I like to Apple Watch. Have you guys launched your app yet?”

They stared past each other through minute 30 of a terrible, boring, hopless, uninteresting first date at Starbucks. Then, across the cafe, someone’s iPhone belted out a familiar ringtone. Her eyes rolled. “Oh my god, I hate that free U2 album they practically forced down our throats!” He grimaced. “Yeah, totally.” Fifteen minutes later they had meth-fueled sex behind a stripmall dumpster.

“Send me your heartbeat…” he begged as he desperately sketched a flower to send to her new watch (and noticed, for the first time, her resemblance to Christy Turlington in Africa). “Please, send me your heartbeat.” She glanced at her watch that was still in time mode and said, “Siri, tell him it’s over.”


Dave Pell’s NextDraft sprays the day’s most fascinating news all over your screen.

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