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The Three-Emma Problem

I pop the TV dinner out of the microwave.

What a depressing Saturday evening. This is usually movie night with Emma, my best friend since college.

But last week, she decided her research had gotten too intense and disappeared to some tropical island for a break. She stopped by just long enough to hand over her spare key. Told me to water the plants while her cab to the airport honked in the street.

So here I am alone and mopey. On my couch while everyone else is out drinking, flirting. Getting handsy in the back of Ubers.

Easy for them. They're not desperately in love with their brilliant redheaded best friend.

I almost burn myself before I remember to put the towel between the reheated plastic tray and my lap. The slop in the spork is steaming, and I'm blowing on it when the doorbell rings.

My couch creaks as I extract myself with a groan.

I open the door, and my jaw drops.

Barely contained ginger chignon. Thick black glasses framing absurdly green eyes. Freckled skin so pale it could get sunburned from a monitor.The Three-Emma Problem фото

Emma.

"Tom!" She exclaims, stomping past me. She makes a beeline for my coffee table and shoves a famished sporkful of my hachis in her mouth.

Her lab coat is a disaster. There are burnt spots and questionable colored stains all over. When's the last time she changed her clothes?

"What the fuck," she sputters, spraying mashed potatoes toward the TV. "White Lotus is our show. Not cool, dude."

To be fair, it is a spite-watch. She's the one who abandoned me.

Wait, but it's only been a few days.

"When'd you get back?" I ask, torn between annoyance, relief, and surprise. "You're supposed to have another week of vacation."

Emma looks at me like she's just remembered I'm the dumbest person in her life. Which, if she's been locked in a lab since last weekend, is probably fair. I'm just an engineer, after all.

"Vacation? I'm in the zone, on the verge of a historical breakthrough," her tone is grandiose. I've rarely seen this manic. She wolfes down another bite, swallows it with a long pull from my beer, then perks right back up.

"Put on some clothes you don't care bout. I need help."

I'm about to protest, but she silently points at my bedroom door.

===

We half-jog back to her lab, just a few blocks away, Emma always a couple of steps ahead.

She only lets me speak once the elevator opens, revealing her workspace. It's even messier than I remember.

The consoles are covered in Post-its and torn notebook pages, complex equations scribbled everywhere. The lab benches are cluttered with dirty scientific glassware and empty Chinese food containers. The air smells like her deodorant.

In the middle of the room stands an imposing structure.

A massive metallic cylinder perched on a tangle of vents, tubing, and pumps. An exam table is bolted to its base, wires and sensors trailing off it. The entire assembly is hooked up to a complex control panel, arrayed with buttons, levers, and delightfully retro LEDs that would not feel out of place on an old Star Trek set.

"So, are you going to explain what you're doing?" I ask, exasperated. She clearly hasn't let the cleaning staff back here in weeks. I try not to notice the discarded bras and panties tucked next to the overflowing trash can.

"I could explain," she says in a dramatic voice. "Or I could show you!"

Emma throws a heavy lever, and a dull whirring noise fills the room.

The metal cylinder begins to rise. Slowly. Comically so.

Whatever engine she used is woefully underpowered, and after a few seconds, the structure only moves up an inch or two. Just enough to reveal the vat contained within it, filled with a weird, syrupy green liquid and lit by bright spots at its base.

"A giant lava lamp?" I try to sound excited. She's clearly put a lot of effort into this.

"Idiot." Emma shakes her head, then points eagerly. "Look!"

I follow her finger. Something's floating in the tank. Feet. Small and pale.

Then calves.

"What the fuck," I breathe, eyes locked on the legs now revealed by the cylinder.

Whoever she stuck in there is unmistakably a woman. Her hips flare wide. An unkempt patch of dark pubic hair floats between them, its color lost to the green tinge of the thick liquid.

A few bubbles trail upward as we stand there, staring at the slow reveal of the softly rounded belly and narrow waist of the floating subject.

The cylinder's rise is unrelenting. My gaze drifts upward as the massive thing inches its way into the ceiling. Did Emma warn her fellow scientists on the floor above, or are they going to come back from vacation to find this thing poking through the middle of their lab?

Generous breasts being uncovered stop me from devoting more time to the logistics. They drift gently with the current, nipples taut.

I swallow.

"Hot," I hate myself as soon as I let that out. I'm usually less of a creep.

A quick side-glance at Emma reveals her embarrassed expression.

Christ. Way to kill the mood, Tom. At least she's not looking, so I can discreetly adjust myself in my increasingly tight jeans.

But there's not much I can do about my erection when my eyes return to the vat.

The subject's face is finally in plain view. And even distorted by the murky fluid and off-putting lighting, Emma's features are unmistakable.

Her hair fans around her head like algae, suspended in the solution. Her eyes are closed, unrecognizable, but her lips are just as pouty, and her nose has that cute little upturned quality. I've seen that face a million times, watching TV on my couch, or stealing my fries in some random fast-food booth.

I turn to Emma beside me. Dressed. Blushing. Sweating through her lab coat. She withers under my gaze.

"What. The. Fuck."

She flinches at the tone of my voice, then takes a deep breath, heads to the console, and takes a long gulp from a neon colored energy drink can, like she's fueling up.

"Ok, so first of all, I think congratulations are in order."

Her tone throws me off. She waves her hand at the vat, annoyed at my limitations.

"Ohhh," I nod. "Yeah, congrats on the clone."

She snorts. "Cloning tech is hardly anything new. The government's been doing it since the sixties. Do you think Ryan Seacrests grow on trees?"

Just like that, Emma is back to lecturing me while I drink in the body I've spent countless nights imagining over the years.

"No, the real feat here is my utter mastery of rapid aging tech," she continues to explain, artfully blending a professoral tone with her usual arrogance. "I started growing her a mere three days ago."

I have a thousand questions. Why? Where'd she find the funding? Is this legal? But I settle on a more important one.

"I'm still not sure why you need my help?" I ask, downplaying my skepticism.

Emma's face lights up.

"I'm glad you asked. Right now, she's just an empty husk. Sure, she has my brain, but there's nothing in there, no memories, no reflexes, nothing. That's where the genius part of this whole setup intervenes. And you, too, I guess. Come over here."

I follow her to the control panel, where a small console sticks out. It's built from a duct-taped second-hand tablet, a chunky green lever, and a bright red button.

She boots up the device, and a pixelated diagram shimmers on the screen: two public-bathroom-style pictograms of women, linked at the head by a flickering loading bar.

Below them is a collection of emojis, such as a brain, a heart, or a flexing bicep. Each one is labeled with a percentage. None of them line up. Some of the numbers are displayed in different fonts.

"Did you get a five-year-old to design the interface?"

She freezes and slowly turns to face me, full of consternation.

"Typical engineer," she says, visibly wounded. "I'm about to show you something that will change Humanity forever, and you're worried about my design skills."

Emma sighs, shakes her head, and dives back in.

"This is me," she points at the figure on the left. "This is her. And the connection between us represents my invention, the Thought-O-Copier. In a few minutes, you'll help me strap myself into the contraption," she gestures toward the exam chair, jankily attached to the base of the vat. "Then you'll hit the red button. Is it clear so far? The next part's crucial."

"Yeah, of course," I answer.

She gives me a long, dubitative once-over.

"Ok," she continues, somewhat weary. "Once you've hit the red button, you wait for the bar to fill. When it's done, you lower the green lever. That drains the nutrient solution. I've color-coded it for you."

Years of friendship have immunized me to most of her casual condescension. Most of it. This one stings a little.

"When the bar is full and the vat is cleared. And only once the vat is cleared, you press the red button again. Red, green, red. Is that ok? Do you need me to write down the instructions?"

There's not even a hint of irony in her voice. Ouch.

"Yeah, I'm good," I sigh. "What about the emojis? I'm guessing they represent bodily functions? Do I need to monitor them?"

"What? No! They're the cherry on top! The Thought-O-Copier lets me tweak the personality of the clone by adjusting elements of the original subject's personality," she taps on the brain emoji, bringing up the wonky menu. It shows a plus and a minus button, each in a different icon style, and reads +20%.

"Why would you want to make her twenty percent more intelligent?" I ask. Emma lives to be the smartest person in the room. And to be fair, she always is.

"I have the opportunity to bring about the brightest being in history," she says, in a solemn voice, wagging her finger. "It would be selfish of me to deprive Humanity of that gift."

She sighs, her shoulders slump. She sounds genuinely crushed. "Even if that means I have to swallow my pride."

It's hard to stay mad at her absurd lack of self-awareness.

"Ok, got it," I say, and Emma clicks away from the brain to scroll down the list of emojis. Some of them would not be out of place in my worst Tinder sexting chains. I snort when I notice that this thing only works in twenty percent increments. "So, for example, the bicep is you making her twenty percent stronger."

"Not at all. The bicep is for assertiveness," she blushes. "I need someone who can yell at funding committees better than me."

Un ange passe.

"Ready?" Emma perks back up, cutting through the weird silence.

"Are you sure this is safe?" I love her, but I'd rather avoid going to jail for her. Or something even worse. I still remember her old intern.

"Absolutely," she spells out the word. "Things only turn dicey if the clone gets about forty percent smarter than me. I've worked out the math."

This does nothing to dispel my doubts. But Emma makes the decision for me.

"Alright," she squeezes my elbow. "Turn around now."

Her lab coat hits the ground. I stare, shell-shocked as she fumbles with the buttons of her camisole, eyes glued to the ground, face redder than her hair.

"What are you doing?" I try to contain my excitement.

Emma clears her throat. "The contraption doesn't work with clothes. So please turn around while I get ready."

I could point to her exact double, floating naked in the vat with everything on display. But some battles aren't worth fighting.

The sound of fabric slipping over skin is interrupted by the rattle of a bunch of metal objects falling on the tiled floor, making me start.

"You can turn back," Emma's voice is strained.

When I turn back, she's lying on the table, naked and flushed, legs dangling over the edge. Her hair spills around her shoulders, freshly undone. But for some reason, her glasses are still on.

One arm covers her breasts. The other's clamped between her thighs like she's holding on for dear life.

"Tell me what I need to do," I say, keeping my eyes on hers, ignoring the goose bumps on her milky skin and the soft, exposed curves beneath them.

Emma tilts her chin toward a clump of cables, each tipped with something that looks questionably medical. "Grab the probes, we need to set them up."

I grunt and start to untangle the mess. "Hope you bumped the clone's neatness, she could really use it," I mutter under my breath.

"There's a bottle of lotion," she says, not paying any mind to my feeble complaints. "You'll need to rub it into the spots before sticking the probes."

I pop open the small plastic bottle. The mixture inside smells like lavender and lime. Surprisingly pleasant for something Emma came up with. Not about to complain.

"Ok, where do these go?" I ask, holding a collection of similar-looking EKG electrodes.

"My heart, duh." Even naked and trembling on a cold table, she manages to summon some backtalk.

Emma adjusts her grip on her chest, trying to gather more of her left breast into her palm. For a mere second, a taut pink nipple slips out.

"Right under the tissue," she murmurs. "Just rub the gel in and stick them on. Doesn't have to be exact."

Her voice is steady. Until I touch her.

She lets out the smallest of moans, which surprises us both. We're left frozen and mortified for a second. Only the clone remains impassive within her comfy vat above us.

I focus. Keep my hands moving. Emma's skin prickles under the pad of my finger. This has to be the best way to contribute to science, right?

Once I've worked the lotion in evenly, I arrange the electrodes around the swell of her breast, careful to avoid brushing it. I'd like to keep our friendship alive after today. Especially if I have to deal with two of them. There's no point worrying about that now. I just need to finish the job.

I grab the next set of sensors and dangle them over her flushed face.

"Forehead and temples," she blurts out. Being so pale makes it hard to hide just how flustered she is. "Same deal."

I wipe my hands on a relatively clean rag, take her glasses off, and gently brush her hair to the side. Emma shuts her eyes. I massage the sweet-smelling gel between her brows, tracing slow, expanding circles.

She lets out a deep, relaxed sigh. I can almost see the tension leak from her pores.

I smile. She looks so innocent when she's that peaceful. Like a cute, colorful, venomous frog.

"I should have involved you in the process a long time ago," Emma purrs. "This feels way better than when I had my robotic arm do it during testing. Fewer cuts, too."

I chuckle. It's the first time I seem to have the upper hand over the stupid device in my best friend's esteem. Suck on that, tin can.

By the time I reach her temples, I can almost feel that big brain of hers powering down under my touch. The spell nearly breaks when my hands leave her skin to fetch the sensors. The little whimper she lets out would lead any man to his downfall.

And just like that, there's only one device left. The probe.

There's no two ways about it. It looks like a big dildo. A shiny cyber-phallus, complete with blinking diodes at the business end.

"Where..." My voice comes out as a squeak. I clear my throat, gingerly lift it from the tray, and try again. "Where does the last one go?"

Emma looks like she's gonna need to be unstuck from the exam table with a spatula. Small wrinkles form around her eyes from the sheer effort of keeping them shut.

"If you look at the end of the table, you'll find two... Leg holding apparatus," she almost nails the detached tone. If you ignore literally every single aspect of her body language. "Please, set them up."

I circle around her, and yeah. They're stirrups. Knowing her stinginess, she probably bought the table at an OB-GYN's office liquidation. And haggled. I flip them up, and they lock in place with two loud clicks.

She lifts her legs into the stirrups, her hand still clamped between her thighs. Then, with what looks like a herculean effort, she pulls it away and folds both arms over her chest.

In a second, I learn everything there is to know about her anatomy. I almost drop the dildo-probe. I am not ok.

"The Thought-O-Copier needs to monitor the electrical activity in my spine during the whole process," she starts to recite, clearly going into panic mode. "The easiest way to set up a probe without surgical intervention, is through the ostium vaginae to then take advantage of the conductive properties of the rugae."

Or in layman's terms, I need to slide the blinking dildo inside her pussy. Noted.

I try to swallow, but my body no longer produces saliva.

"Are you sure about that?" I ask, hoping for a miracle.

"There's a stool if you need better purchase," is her only answer.

I shrug and roll it between her wide-open legs. It appears to have come in a set with the exam table, and helps make the scene feel a little more scientific.

My brain finally catches up with what's happening. And it decides it desperately needs to make a joke.

"She's been stuck in the vat for her entire life. What's your excuse?" I say, pointing at the unkempt bush.

Looking up, between her thighs, I can see her nostrils flare. "I've been busy, ok? Just get on with it."

"Lube?" I ask, delaying the inevitable.

Her entire body shivers.

"Uhm. It won't be necessary. Just go slow and stop gawking."

I don't answer. I just lower myself onto the stool and bring the probe into position. Then I smell her. Sharp, sweet. A small part of me hopes I'm the reason for her dripping arousal.

An even smaller part of my lust-fueled brain wonders whether she also tested this step with the robot arm. I shouldn't be this jealous of a few servo-motors. I need to keep it together.

"Come on," she urges, squirming on the padding.

I press the tip of the probe against her slick entrance. She's already pulsing.

The device slides in with almost no resistance. A few blinking LEDs vanish between her folds, and Emma's back lifts off the table as she lets out a delicious moan, growing stronger with my gentle push.

I pause, hand hovering, with just the hilt of the probe sticking outside of her.

"Do you need to hold it in place?"

"There's... a button," she says, barely above a whisper, "near the base, next to the cable. It triggers... vibration generators array. Keeps it... aligned."

I glance down.

This is absolutely a store-bought vibrator with sensors duct-taped to it.

Emma cries out the second I hit the switch. Her arms shoot down along her sides. They're not hiding anything anymore. She's too far gone for modesty.

"All set?" I ask. "Still sure?"

She lifts one shaky hand and points to the control panel.

"Console," there's a lot of authority in that single gasp.

After a few seconds, I tear my eyes away and head for my station.

The sight of Emma writhing in pleasure on the table made me forget about the naked clone in her vat. This feels like a dream, and I dread I'm going to wake up at any moment now.

"For science," I remind myself, before focusing on the red button.

It squeaks when I press its rubbery dome. But Emma reacts immediately, arching off the table, definitely underscoring the seriousness of our endeavor.

Her chest thrusts up. Her legs lock in place. For a second, she looks weightless.

Then she collapses, limp as a dropped marionette. Her breathing turns soft. Peaceful. Like she's been emptied out. A jolt of worry shoots through me.

It doesn't last.

A burst of steam hisses from somewhere under the vat. Cooling fans stutter to life, sputtering like a beat-up blender. Tubes groan and clink. The machine sounds like it is held together through sheer stubbornness.

Emma starts moving again.

She doesn't look conscious. Her limbs twitch as if following clumsy instructions. Her fingers flex. Toes curl. One arm lifts, then drops. Like a human system test.

 

Then something shifts in the corner of my eye. Inside the vat, the clone is moving.

My head keeps whipping between them. One twitch, two. The clone is mirroring Emma's every movement.

The gestures turn more natural-looking, almost graceful. On the exam table, my best friend starts to let out random high-pitched whimpers. Bubbles appear around the clone's open mouth.

And then, once again, they stop moving.

Slowly, my mind recovers from the hypnotic spectacle. I glance down at the console.

Fuck.

The loading bar is full, blinking angrily. Completely forgot about my one job. I punch the red button again, pulse spiking as I glance back at Emma.

A sharp clang echoes in the lab. The front of the vat opens up. Only as the thick green fluid starts gushing out do I remember the lever I was supposed to pull.

The clone spills out, limply riding the wave, eyes still closed. The surge crashes across the table, right on top of Emma. Unconscious. Completely defenseless.

The green goo hits her like a slow-motion avalanche. It knocks the probes loose, peels off electrodes, and sends both of them tumbling to the ground in a tangled, naked mess. Papers, loose cables, and a half-eaten egg roll swirl with them as they're washed to the back of the room.

The liquid starts to drain into some hidden system.

I bolt and catch up to the closest Emma. She's flat on her back, soaked and slick, red hair plastered to her face. In this state, there's no way to tell which is which.

Everything smells like lime and chemicals. I drop to my knees at her side and gently shake her shoulder.

Her bright eyes blink open, batting the substance from her long eyelashes.

"Tom?" She murmurs, eyes flickering like she's emerging from deep sleep.

I smile and nod, unprepared for what comes next.

Her arms hook around my neck, and she pulls me down. Her lips crash into mine, her greedy tongue forcing its way inside my mouth. Butterflies in my chest. Our first kiss.

Everything else disappears.

Until a howling shape slams into my side. I go down hard, flat into the slime, stars bursting behind my eyes.

When I finally manage to sit up, it's pure sexy insanity.

The two Emmas are fighting, rolling around in the goo. Their naked bodies are writhing against one another, as both clumsily try to pin the other.

For a second, I want to pull out my phone and film. But I chalk this problematic compulsion up to head trauma. Obviously, I'm a good friend and separate the two, holding them apart as they claw at the air between them.

"Tom," the Emma to my left hisses. "The clone's trying to steal you from me."

"You're the clone, you delusional bitch," snaps the one to my right.

Ok. Yeah. We probably should've seen that coming. Maybe put a marker pen cross on her forehead while she was still on the table.

The insults start flying, and the two try to escape from my grasp and go at it again. Thank God Emma spends all her time behind a computer instead of the gym.

"Ladies, ladies," I try to put on a conciliatory tone. "There's no point fighting over me. Why don't we talk it out?"

They both immediately stop struggling. Instead, two pairs of green eyes look at me with infinite contempt.

"Shut up, Tom."

"Yeah. Shut up, Tom."

Their exasperated tones match perfectly. If they ask me later, my plan was always to give them a common enemy. Totally didn't overplay my hand.

I let them go, and they stand next to each other, crossing their arms over their chest in perfect rhythm.

Same wet, slightly dark red hair. Same pale skin, with globs of goo slowly dripping down. Same disappointment in me.

"So," Left Emma asks. "What happened? Who's the clone?"

Still on the ground, I sort of curl inward. Try to shrink between the tiles.

"I forgot the lever..."

"Ugh," groans Right Emma, fists clenched, goo flicking from her knuckles. "I knew I should have written it down."

"It was even color-coded," they add in unison, freaking me out a little.

"So you really have no idea who the clone is?" Left insists.

I'm about to remind them that it was their idea when I notice it. Fuck, they're gonna hate me.

"You're the clone," I mutter, pointing my finger to Left.

"What..." Right begins, but I cut her off.

"She's got... bigger boobs," I blurt, louder than intended. "Like... twenty percent bigger."

Clone Emma doesn't even blink. She cups one of her breasts, then Emma's, giving both a clinical squeeze like she's comparing grapefruits. My brain begs for it all to end, my cock is in heaven.

"Huh," Emma 2 snorts, then continues nonchalantly. "They are. You're such a fucking pervert."

Surprisingly, this is not directed at me, but at Emma 1, who looks like she's on the verge of tears.

"Funding committees," she mumbles, escaping from her grasp and quickly wrapping the nearest lab coat around herself. "Just put something on. Tom has seen enough."

"Why?" says Emma 2, brushing a hand through my hair like I'm a puppy. "He's clearly enjoying it."

She saunters off toward the console, entirely unbothered.

"That twenty percent assertiveness is really paying off," I whisper.

Emma 1's furious glare wipes the sardonic grin off my face.

She crouches next to me, keeping her voice low while the clone taps away at the tablet in the distance.

"Doesn't matter, that was a huge success," she says, way too smug for someone who just had a naked mudfight with her own clone. "This paper is going to blow everyone's minds."

She wipes a chunk of goo off her forehead, then fixes me with a serious look.

"Can you get her back to my place? Feed her, get her to wear something. Don't let her wander. I need to check the contraption and review the logs. Don't take your eyes off her. I don't trust her."

I nod. But the whole time she's talking, all I can think about is the kiss and trying to figure out which Emma did it.

I agree to help Emma 1, just in case it was her.

===

After grueling negotiations, Emma 2 and I are walking to Emma 1's place. She's wearing one of my old T-shirts like a dress. Emma 1 claimed she had no idea how it ended up in her lab. Right.

No pants. No panties. No bra, obviously. Emma 2 acted like she was doing me a favor just putting the shirt on. But it's two or three in the morning at this point, so we don't run into anyone. Better than nothing.

"You're not cold?" I ask as we climb the stairs of the old building.

"I checked the console," she chuckles. "She made me twenty percent more resistant to the weather."

"Of course," I'm starting to get real fed up with that number. "How do you not remember the exact changes? I thought you had her memories."

"She's smarter than we give her credit for," Emma 2 says, impressed and annoyed. "The Thought-O-Copier blurs the past few days, so that the new brain can cope in its own way. That's why I was so sure I was the original."

I unlock the door, and she follows me in without arguing. Thank God.

"Shower," I call, burnt out. "If you drag goo everywhere, she's going to take it out on me."

Emma 2 throws me a smug little look, then peels off the T-shirt and tosses it aside. It's incredible how fast I've accepted that seeing my best friend naked in so many different situations is entirely normal.

"Keep me company?" She asks, tilting her head, chest puffed out. "I remember Emma telling you not to let me out of your sight."

Where did she learn to bite her lip like that? Emma 1's never done that before.

I groan, the constant arousal taking its toll, but file into the small bathroom behind her. I slump onto the closed toilet seat while she climbs into the shower stall.

"I still can't believe how cool you're taking the whole 'being a clone' thing," I mutter, rubbing my temples as the glass pane fogs up from the steam.

Emma 2 slips her head out of the shower, dripping water on the carpet.

"I'm twenty percent smarter. Helps soften the blow," she shrugs. "Anyway, I remember everything. I just don't want to be her. No offense, but she's kind of a wet blanket."

I snort. "Oh yeah?"

"Yeah," she flashes a hungry grin. "First day of Algebra 102, back in college? She sat next to you and faked losing her textbook so she could mooch off yours. I'd have just offered to suck your cock."

She disappears inside the shower again, her blurry silhouette still detaching itself against the glossy partition.

My head is spinning, trying to keep up. "What?"

Emma 2 cackles under the cascading water. "Tom. She built a vibrating dildo probe specifically for you to slide inside her. Brain's fuzzy, but even I know she's never been subtle. You can't be that thick."

She peeks out again, eyes narrowing, looking at me like I'm an idiot. There's more than amusement in her stare now..

"Dude. She crashed your anniversary with your last girlfriend." She pauses just long enough to twist the knife. "But don't worry."

She throws the shower door open and steps into view, bare, soaked, and confident. "I don't need to pull that kind of desperate move. She made me twenty percent hornier. I checked."

The Thot-O-Copier comes to mind, but I know better than to say it out loud.

I should be freaking out right now, connecting the dots of all my past failed relationships. But all I can do is stare at Emma's sultry little smile. At her body, offered without hesitation.

Her invitation couldn't be clearer. In three seconds, my clothes are on the floor, and I step over the small ledge and into her open arms.

She climbs over me, pressing her back to the shower wall, closing her legs around me, circling my neck.

I can't help but compare this with the kiss from earlier. Same mouth. Same face. Same heart-melting freckles. But the rhythm is off. Faster. Hungrier. A little wild.

I file this information all the way to the back of my mind.

One Emma at a time, thank you very much.

"My offer still stands," she purrs in my ear.

"What offer?" I say, racking what little brains I have left while Emma 2 squirms to kneel in front of me, her slippery curves sliding all over me.

"You're lucky we're so into you," she sighs, slowly shaking her head up at me from between my legs. "Because intellectually, you're closer to a monkey than the original Emma."

I open my mouth to protest, but she grabs my erection in her hand, cocking her eyebrow, licking her lips. She sounds way too smug for someone all the way down on the shower tiles, water dripping from my hair right onto her.

"The offer," she adds, with a slow tug. "Was heavily implied from our earlier conversation."

"Oh, a blowjob," I exclaim, proud at how fast I can reason it out, before hurrying to answer when I catch the impatience in her eyes. "Yes, please do that."

It might be a clone putting a soft kiss on my cock. But to my base, mammal brain, it's Emma's lips all the same. And right now they're worshipping every inch of my shaft, before sucking me inside her mouth.

She grabs my wrist without disturbing her rhythm and pulls it to her head. Even with my cock sliding between her lips, she manages to boss me around, nodding in annoyance for me to grab her hair.

I won't pretend I'm guiding anything, but I comply, digging my finger inside her soaked red locks, making her hum around me. Maybe she just craves my touch as much as I do hers.

Her tongue is hard at work, and the feeling of suction is just divine. With every bobbing motion, she takes me a bit deeper. We share a surprised look when I feel my head slide easily inside her throat, the sudden increase of pressure making me moan a little.

Emma 2 doesn't break eye contact as she picks up the pace. The green orbs push me over the edge just as much as the lewd sounds coming from her mouth.

She presses her hands to my ass, making sure I stay deep down her throat as I cum, swallowing my entire release with brio.

Finally, she pulls back, slow and sloppy. A thick string of spit connects her mouth to the head of my cock before she wipes it with the back of her hand.

"That pervert removed my gag reflex," she half-chuckles, half-sputters.

Clearly, she expects some sort of response from me. But I'm not even sure what my name is anymore. Years of frustrated pining undone in a few minutes. Something raw, glorious, and just gross enough to stay on the good side of sexy.

"Towel," I think I blurt out before rushing to grab the only clean one in the small bathroom.

Emma 2 steps out of the shower and into my reach without a word. I wrap the towel around her, blotting her dry as delicately as possible. She's still warm and wet, but her breathing is calmer.

She presses her forehead into my shoulder, the first sign of vulnerability I've ever seen her let escape.

Granted, she was brought to life hours ago, but still, this feels like a momentous step in our relationship.

"Bedroom," she calls with a playful slap on my ass once we're both dry.

I don't let her gloat and throw her over my shoulder. She yelps, flails, and curses at me as I carry her through Emma 1's messy apartment.

I drop her onto the rumpled sheets. She lands with a bounce and immediately sprawls out. Legs parted, one arm behind her head. She belongs on a sticky centerfold.

"You're still functional?" she asks like she's talking about a toaster and not my cock. "Or do I need to do all the work again?"

I would almost buy her blasé act, too. But I can recognize the strong smell of her arousal, which is at least one thing Emma 1 did not modify.

"I thought I could go down on you?" I offer, trying my best to contain the urge to just dive in. "You know, make things even."

"Cock," she says, cutting me off with the urgency of a woman about to burst. "Is your cock ready to go?"

I nod in defeat. She waves me in like she's landing a plane, tapping her thigh with impatience. Being this desired shouldn't feel this humiliating.

It all fades when I slide inside her. Emma 2 moans, arms locked around my back, legs clamped, holding me almost painfully tight. Her pussy is velvet-wet and squeezing me in pulses that short-circuit my brain on contact.

"Fuck," she grunts, then yanks me into a messy, possessive kiss.

She's holding so close I can barely move. Just tilt my hips back and forth, trapped between her thighs and her chest like a very lucky hostage

"You need to give me a bit of space," I let out between two breaths. "I can't thrust like that."

But Emma 2 is already cumming under me, leaving me baffled. Her head tilts back, and a low groan racks her. Emma 1 might have gone too far with the horniness tweak. This was so easy, it hardly feels rewarding at all.

Though I doubt she'd enjoy learning about me sleeping with her clone from the feedback form she'll inevitably provide tomorrow. Proper documentation is everything to her.

"Shut up," Emma 2 pants through her orgasms, her voice rough and trembling. "Just shut up and blow your load."

Yeah, Ok. I guess I'll just cum then.

"What the fuck?" Shrieks the exact same voice, but coming from the other side of the bedroom this time.

I look back, only to find Emma 1, standing in the doorway, lab coat and all.

Her face is a mask of horror. But then again she's in the perfect spot to witness my cock sticking out of her clone's pussy, throbbing wildly and unloading a prodigious amount of cum deep in the willing heat. I think she gets a pass.

I try to launch myself in the air, but Emma 2 keeps me clamped down securely. Which is a good thing, all things considered. I would have hurled myself out of the window, anything to escape the embarrassment.

"Oh hey, you," Emma 2 calls out, smug as ever, patiently receiving my release. "Give us a minute? We're a tad busy."

I swear, steam comes out of the sides of Emma 1's beet-red face.

And just like that, the two are back to fighting each other. I get promptly ejected form the bed, my cock popping out of Emma 2 with an obscene noise as she mounts her defence.

I rub a hand over my face. This day has been so long. I haul myself up and peel the two redheaded weaklings off each other.

It's easier to tell them apart this time around. Emma 1 is fully clothed, if a little ragged. Emma 2 is naked, and freshly fucked, cum leaking out of her.

"What are you doing with my best friend, you slut," Emma 1 screetches.

"Something you should have done years ago, slowpoke," the clone retorts in the same tone.

"Ever heard of the long game?"

"Well, my long game was six hours," Emma 2 deals the killing blow. "He seemed pretty eager with me."

I glare at her. Way to pull me into the conflict. Thanks a lot for that.

Emma 1 escapes from my grasp, and I get ready to catch her again. But instead of pouncing back on her rival, she starts tearing her clothes off, before collapsing on the bed, on all fours, ass sticking out at me.

"My turn, then," she declares over her shoulder, petulant like she's asking for her older sibling for her turn on the Nintendo.

"Hmm," I start. "In any other situation I'd love to, but..."

I obviously don't finish the sentence. There's no way to phrase "Your clone just milked the two biggest orgasms of my life out of me" that ends up with my cock still attached to my body.

Emma 2 cackles.

I can see Emma 1's absolute meltdown brewing, but the clone finally decides she'd rather keep me alive.

"I have an idea," she says in a soft tone, before lying beside her progenitor. "A theory, really. Lick my nipple."

We both freeze, staring at the casually offered breast like it's a live grenade.

But my best friend must be frustrated, or desperate, enough, because she lowers her head and takes the stiff pink nub inside her mouth.

Fireworks shoot inside me as I watch Emma 1 suck more of Emma 2's soft flesh between her red lips. The clone softly brushes the original's hair out of the way, tucking it behind her ear, giving me an unobstructed view.

"It's working," she whispers.

Emma 1 raises her head, her eyes locking on my bravely rallying erection.

"Eureka!" she exclaims, leaning over to bring her face closer to Emma 2's. "Tom is a man."

"And all men are pigs," Emma 2 concludes for her.

They share a giggle, which is soon muffled as their lips meet.

Pig, monkey, I'm not sure what animal I'm supposed to be at that point. I'll have all the time in the world in the morning to reflect on how easily a performative lesbian act swayed me, what it says about me and my in-built heteronormativity. Right now, all I can think about is getting in on the action.

Emma 2 shoots me a weird, pointed look when they finally break their kiss. Then uses her eyes to point to the other Emma's ass, still thrust in my direction. I take one glance at her gushing folds to get what she means.

Unlike their kissing technique, both of the Emmas' pussies feel exactly the same. Which, honestly, I'm relieved about. If the original had tried to tweak the clone's, it could only have gone downhill. You can't improve on perfect.

My best friend's entire body undulates as I slowly enter her. Emma 2 takes the opportunity to press her head and shove it onto her crotch.

"What's the hell?" Comes Emma 1's indignant but muffled voice, her mouth full of her clone's genitalia.

"Tom came inside me like two minutes ago," Emma 2 says, unfazed.

The protests between her legs stop, replaced by a lewd slurping sound.

I need to apologize to the original Emma when I get the opportunity for all my doubts. The Thought-O-Copier is a life-altering invention.

My cock is slamming in and out of my dream girl from behind, who is eating out my dream girl. In turn, my dream girl makes lovey-dovey eyes at me, when she's not too busy redirecting my dream girl's tongue over her pussy.

It's confusing, but revolutionary.

Emma 2 leans over, landing a sharp slap on Emma 1's ass, a few inches away from my cock. I'm not sure if this was the goal, but it triggers a chain reaction.

 

The original Emma cums from sting, howling against her clone's clit. The overstimulation against her hyper-sensitive button causes Emma 2 to orgasm in turn, offering me a fantastic display of trembling curves and pleasure-distorted freckled faces. Which, of course, leads me to unload inside the pulsing, hungry pussy of the original Emma.

We collapse on each other, a sweaty, comfy pile of exhausted limbs.

I could fall asleep like that, the most contented man in the world.

But of course, the Emmas start bickering.

"You're hogging him."

"No, you are."

"That's my thigh, back off."

I brush over the slightly dehumanizing feel of their dispute. Instead, I roll onto my back and pull one Emma to each side, letting them squish against me more equitably.

For a while, we just share this strange, three-way cuddle, and I'm blissfully unaware of which Emma is the clone.

Coming next Thursday: More clones, more redheads, even more Emmas. Tom, Emma, and Emma will return in...

The Five-Emma Problem!

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