Maxie awoke to the sultry purr of something vibrating beneath her pillow. At first, she thought it was a purring cat—or maybe Pierre humming a seductive lullaby in bass frequencies—but no, it was her new companion: the Euphonic Wand.
She held it up like a sacred relic. Sleek. Iridescent. It hummed with the kind of energy usually reserved for Tesla coils and scandalous secrets. The engraving read: Pleasure, With Precision.
There was a note tied to the wand's handle in crimson ribbon:
> "Step Sixteen awaits. Meet me in the Resonance Room. Wear something that buzzes. – B"
Maxie didn't know what it meant to wear something that buzzes, so she settled for a mesh top covered in tiny bells and a pair of panties that had clearly been invented by an electrical engineer during a midlife crisis.
The Resonance Room was deep in the manor, behind a velvet curtain and past a hallway that sounded like a choir moaning in surround sound. She stepped into a chamber that looked like an opera house had made love to a sound lab. There were microphones. Subwoofers. Tuning forks. A xylophone made of polished hips. And in the center: Bliss, dressed in a vibrating gown that pulsed to the rhythm of an unseen playlist.
"Welcome to your next lesson," Bliss purred, striking a tuning fork and placing it gently against Maxie's collarbone. Maxie gasped.
"Oh... that's new."
"We all have a frequency, darling," Bliss said. "Today, we find yours. Your moan tone."
Maxie was ushered onto a massage table made of latex and dreams. Bliss began the session by using the Euphonic Wand on various erogenous zones—her wrists, her knees, behind her ears—while adjusting the frequency with a Bluetooth app that read like a DJ's mixtape.
Every setting had a name. Hummingbird Kisses. Opera Ghost. The Forbidden Jazz.
Maxie discovered that "Bagpipe Whispers" did things to her that made her question whether she should ever attend a Scottish wedding again.
"Oh my god," Maxie groaned, somewhere between enlightenment and inappropriate Gregorian chant.
Bliss adjusted a dial. "Not quite. Let's try... Sultry Sax Solo."
A new frequency shivered through Maxie's spine. Her mouth opened and a moan poured out—low, rich, operatic.
"That," Bliss said, eyes wide, "is a mezzo-soprano in C minor. Gorgeous. You're almost in tune with your core desire."
The room began to shift. Lights pulsed to the beat of her breath. Speakers echoed her pleasure back to her like a choir of delighted banshees. Maxie felt like a symphony had taken residence in her womb.
Then came the duet.
Pierre entered, carrying a harp made entirely of garter belts. "Shall we harmonize?"
"Only if you've been tuned," Maxie said, breathless.
He plucked a string. The panties buzzed in agreement.
For the next hour, Maxie discovered her resonance. Every note of pleasure, every gasp, every chorus of ecstasy was sampled, looped, and played back in immersive stereo. Her moan tone became a composition. An erotic anthem.
When it ended, she lay spread on the latex table, soaked in sweat and sound, panting like she'd just made love to a synthesizer.
Bliss handed her a small speaker. "A gift. It plays your moan tone. Use it wisely."
Maxie took it, eyes wide.
"Where would I even use this?" she asked.
"Traffic," Bliss said with a wink. "Dinner parties. Family reunions."
Maxie cackled. "I think I'm going to need surround sound."
Step Sixteen was complete.
And her moan? Harmonically unforgettable.
Journal Entry:
> Step Sixteen: I accidentally gave my vibrator a name and now I think we're emotionally involved.
Bliss's had a tiny hat. Mine had settings. Like, plural. There was a moment where I may have cried. Not from sadness.
PS: I now understand socket placement matters. Who knew orgasm logistics could be a science?