My phone's buzz jars me awake, pulling me from my deep, restful sleep. How long has it been since I've had one? I can't even remember. Thanks to The Pearl, I'm exhausted from having multiple orgasms yesterday. It's early—too early for anything good—but when I see Fergie's name flashing on the screen, a mix of dread and anticipation stirs in my chest.
"Hello?" I answer.
"Ermita dah-ling!" Fergie's voice is all sparkle and jazz, crackling with enthusiasm. "You nailed that review! It was honest, funny, insightful—everything we love!"
Relief seeps into my bones, loosening a knot in my stomach I hadn't even noticed. "I'm glad you liked it."
"Oh, 'liked' doesn't cover it. We loved it. So... you're officially hired! Janine will send you the contract after this call, so you can check if it's to your liking." His tone rises, triumphant. I can almost imagine him making dramatic movements with his hands as he announces the news. "So, as I've said before, you'll be crafting all things Kharat: product descriptions, newsletters, and articles on sexual health—the works!"
"Wow," I reply, trying to muster the excitement he's radiating. "That's great." Great that I got the job, at least.
"Oh, darling, it gets better!" He pauses for dramatic effect. "I'm giving you free rein. I want you to have full creative freedom, no limits. Write about whatever you think will intrigue our readers. You get to shape the voice of Kharat.Ph." His words linger like an invitation, his enthusiasm pouring through the phone. "You'll even be naming our products."
The full weight of his words settles over me, and I feel myself hesitate. There's no doubt that this role is an incredible opportunity, but… full creative freedom? It feels uncomfortably vast. "That's a lot of trust." I voice out.
"And it's well-placed!" Fergie's laughter is warm. "I can tell this is exactly what you're meant for." He pauses, as though picturing the possibilities. "I want our brand to feel inviting, thoughtful. With you, that's more than possible."
A reluctant thrill runs down my spine, but just as quickly, my practical side steps in. It's flattering, yes, but there's a lot to unpack here, a bit more than I'd counted on.
"Oh, and for your first official assignment," Fergie continues, oblivious to my hesitation. "I want you to review another of our bestsellers, the Turbo Massager."
My brows furrow. "The Turbo Massager?"
"Yes, honey! A little more adventurous than The Pearl, but wildly popular." He chuckles, clearly entertained by my reaction. "Trust me, you'll understand the appeal."
I clear my throat, shifting slightly in my seat.
Naming products? Writing about topics I'm still hesitant to even think about? And connecting with readers in a way that's supposed to be personal and fun? That's not me. Still, I don't voice the thought. Bills don't get paid by being picky.
"I'll do my best," I say, my mind still spinning but my tone steady.
"Fantastic!" Fergie exclaims, undeterred. "Seduce them with your words, darling."
The line clicks off, leaving me sitting in the stillness of early morning, the quiet of my room feeling almost oppressive now. The sun is just starting to peek through the blinds, a pale wash of light creeping over the floor. I let out a slow breath, feeling the weight of this new role pressing down on me.
It's official—I'm really doing this.
The reality of this new role is starting to sink in, and I need to do something—anything—to clear my head. Cleaning, as dull as it sounds, seems like the best option. At least if I'm scrubbing dishes or wiping down surfaces, I can pretend I have everything under control. And if I'm being honest, now that my bleak future looks a little more bright, I suddenly have the energy to wipe the whole condo clean, top to bottom.
I wander into the kitchen and grab a sponge, the scent of lemon cleaner filling the air as I squeeze it into the sink. The rhythmic clink of dishes, the steady swoosh of the sponge, even the slight squeak of wet ceramic—it all blends into a comforting background noise.
Lolita perches on the windowsill, the pale light from outside casting a soft glow around her. She watches me with half-lidded eyes, tail twitching lazily. The human is cleaning?Why? She seems to say. Her fur looks majestic in the morning light, and I can hear the faint rustle as she shifts her paws, settling into a more comfortable position.
Once the dishes are done, I pick up the dirty clothes and dump them in the laundry basket. Then I move on to vacuuming, sucking up crumbs, stray hairs, and whatever bits of my sanity I'd left scattered around. By the time I finish, the condo feels... lighter. Less chaotic. Like I've managed to carve out a little order from the mess.
I'm just about to collapse on the couch, enjoying the scent of a freshly cleaned room, when my laptop dings with a new email. The sharp sound cuts through the stillness. I walk over, my bare feet whispering softly against the hardwood floor. It's from Janine, Fergie's assistant, and the subject line reads: Welcome to the Team!
I click it open, and the screen is filled with cheerful, bright text: Congratulations! We're thrilled to officially welcome you to Kharat.Ph! Attached is your contract for review. If everything looks good, please send back the signed copy so we can give you further instructions. Also, please reply with your address so we can have the Turbo Massager delivered straight to you. Congrats again!
My eyes scan down to the contract, and my breath catches as I see the numbers under "compensation." For a moment, I can only stare.
Fergie pays his writer well.
It's more than I'd dared to hope. Enough to help me catch up with my bills, send money back home and even have a little left over. The tightness in my chest eases, and I let out a slow breath, the taste of relief almost sweet on my tongue. I hadn't realized just how much I'd been bracing myself for bad news, even now. I send my address to Janine and feel like I can finally breathe again.
My stomach rumbles, reminding me that I haven't had a proper meal yet. Since I'm in such a celebratory mood, I'll cook adobong manok. I'll have none of that processed food I'd been eating in the past few months. It's a special day for me. As I set a pot on the stove, the smell of garlic sizzling in oil fills the kitchen. The chicken hits the pan with a quiet sizzle, followed by the sharp, tangy scent of vinegar and soy sauce mingling in the air, rising up with the steam. While my chicken cooks, I boil my rice on the side.
Once everything is done, I sit down and savor the first bite of my home cooked meal. The mix of salty, tangy, and slightly sweet flavors explode on my tongue. While eating, I study the contract again and review my job responsibilities. It's mostly a work-from-home set-up. Except for the times when I'm called to report to the office, I can work wherever I want. Satisfied, I sign it and send it back to Janine. Halfway through my meal, the doorbell rings, breaking through the calm. I set my fork down, and head to the door.
Standing there is a delivery guy, holding a black paper bag. It's glossy and looks almost too elegant for a standard delivery. "For Ermita Mandaue," he says. He hands it over, and I give him my thanks.
After delivering the package, he walks down the hallway and disappears. I close the door behind me, and start inspecting the bag. Inside it are two boxes, one bigger than the other. I set it down on the coffee table and take a closer look at the bigger box. The label reads Kharat.Ph, and my heart skips a beat. I already have an idea of what's inside, but there's a moment of hesitation as I see the words stamped on the side: Turbo Massager.
I carry it over to the couch, my fingers tracing the smooth cardboard, feeling the faint ridges under my fingertips. A faint, clean scent wafts from the box, mingling with a hint of plastic. Lolita pads over, her nose twitching as she sniffs at it, her eyes narrowing in suspicion. "Not for you," I murmur, but she doesn't budge, simply sits there, watching with the patience of a guard on duty, waiting for something interesting to happen. I lift the lid, and what greets me inside is far more luxurious than I anticipated.
Nestled in a bed of deep, velvety fabric, is the Turbo Massager, encased in a sleek, matte black box with gold-embossed lettering. I pull out the case, and the fabric beneath is soft and plush to the touch. There's even a faint, floral scent, like they've spritzed the box with a delicate perfume.
The Turbo Massager itself is rose-colored and shaped like a microphone. Segregated into three parts, it has a round head with a neck attaching it to a sturdy handle that fits snugly in my grip. I touch the head, feeling the soft silicone. My fingers glide down and I apply some pressure on the neck. It bends easily, showcasing its flexibility. I feel a current run down my spine at the thought of having it pummel my most sensitive parts. I lift the sex toy out of the case and weigh it in my hand, and find that it's much bigger and heavier than The Pearl.
I press the power button, and there's a low, deep hum, steady and strong. It vibrates in my palm deliciously. But then out of curiosity, I press the maximum intensity and all hell break loose.
The Turbo Massager erupts into a frenzied, full-throttle vibration, like a tiny jackhammer with a vendetta. The hum isn't just louder—it's deeper, almost growling. The thing is barely holding back its eagerness to prove itself. My whole hand tingles from the sheer intensity, and I try to keep a grip, but it's like wrestling with an eel caught in a fishing net.
"Okay, okay, calm down!" I mutter, fumbling to find the button again. When I managed to get it back to a gentle hum, Lolita perked up from her spot on the couch. She hisses at the Turbo Massager. Claws out, gleaming like tiny daggers, and lips curled back to reveal a row of sharp, white fangs, ready to take down whatever wild animal I've unleashed in our living room.
"Easy, girl," I say, raising a comforting hand.
I stare down the toy, still feeling its vibrations echoing through my hand. "What are you, a power tool?" I grumble. For someone who's a virgin, this is way too much power to handle on my own. Turbo Massager? It sounds like it's going to fix my whole life and make me a smoothie afterward. I switch it off quickly, half-expecting a voice to say, "Welcome to the Turbo experience."
I set the Turbo Massager back down in its luxurious case. Sensing that the danger has finally been contained, Lolita finally loses interest, sauntering away with her tail flicking behind her. Back at the coffee table, I pick up the second, much smaller box and notice the same elegant black packaging with the Kharat.Ph logo embossed in silver. I lift the lid with precise fingers. Inside, nestled in immaculate padding, is a frosted glass bottle. The label reads, in sleek, refined lettering: Elixir: Fiery Passion, Perfect Glide. I pause, holding the bottle up with a measured gaze.
"Of course," I murmur, the words slipping out as I examine the bottle in my hand. It's no surprise, really. The Turbo Massager comes with its own premium lubricant, in a frosted glass bottle that looks as if it belongs on a marble-topped vanity. I turn it over slowly, admiring the label's elaborate promises. A fitting accessory, I suppose. With the force that device demonstrated earlier, it would only be sensible to have something to temper its...enthusiasm. I assess the bottle as one might a particularly fine wine—balanced, thoughtfully crafted. When I'm satisfied, I place it down precisely, taking a slow, steadying breath.
I have my massager, my lubricant. "All right," I say quietly, centering myself. "Let's get to work."