**Note to readers – This story takes place in the same universe as Fleshware Requiem, but with more sex. **
June 5th, 2053. Riverdale Plaza Shopping Center, Atlanta Georgia.
Jackson staggered panting into the polished-posh lobby of the Pygmalion cyber-industries local retailer. Shirt torn, knuckles on his right hand bruised and bloodied. He took a moment to calm the flow of adrenaline as he scanned the spacious room before him.
Walls, floors, everything screamed techno-neo-futuristic glitz. There were seams in the white marble floor flashing with electronic fluorescence in a attempt to portray the lobby as some sort of circuit board…
Definitely robot, Jackson thought to himself, as he flexed his bloodied knuckles, eyes sharp as he surveyed the occupants.
There were two men in business-casual wear that screamed ‘salesman’, but they both seemed engaged in lengthy transactions with customers Jackson couldn’t clearly see from the front entrance. Festooning the walls and corners were mirrorscreens that flashed and pulsed with adverts and gaudy enticements explaining the true nature of the products offered.
“… including a next-gen skeleton composed of our revolutionary Pneusteel alloy, designed with a nanoscale hollow-lattice structure engineered to yield a 30% increase in durability over human bone tissue, yet at the same weight.” The camera panned over a honey-combed textured metallic shaft. “This technology reduces the frequency of major overhauls, saving YOU money on maintenance!” The spokes-voice cooed.
“Can I help you sir?” The receptionist’s voice was as smooth and polished as her professional dress. Jeweled earrings fractured the light from the mirrorscreen extolling the virtues of pnuesteel.
“I need to… understand. About what you erhh… sell here. What you do here.” Then he remembered his appearance; didn’t want to come off as a psycho. “Uh… t-to buy one. Of course. I n-need to understand them. First.” He recovered, nodding his sandy-haired head with a little too much enthusiasm.
The secretary’s screens hovered above her desk, mostly columns of numbers, but also a photo of a hawk-nosed man with a buzz-cut. “I’d be glad to give you a complete tour, give me just a moment to close out these customer files.” With a few clicks, most of the holographic screens blanked, as the secretary stood.
Tall, sculpted. Silky legs with no need for stockings flowing into black high heels. Jackson swallowed. Bronzed Hair in a neat interlaced updo bun. She’d mastered that sexy librarian-if-only-she’d-let-down-her-hair look.
“There are a great many misconceptions about the services offered by Pygmalion cyber-industries.” She glided with liquid grace from behind her desk.
“But… you do have… I mean, it’s all about sex, right?” Jackson ventured, moving to put his hand in his pockets, but stopped by the sting of his abrasions.
“Do you require First Aid, sir?” Her jade-green eyes glanced at his injured knuckles.
“N-no I… I just need to look at some Dolls.” The Secretary paused appraisingly for a moment.
“Johnson, Jackson Johnson.” He shrugged. “And me without any children.” He quipped. She gave a brief giggle.
“Glad to meet you. My name is Athena, and I have an intimate familiarity with the specifics of our operation.” Her heels clicked on the marble floor, yet she seemed to float towards the center of the lobby. “The truth about Companion robotics is that the potential lies far beyond the sexual dimensions. But,” She raised a self-deprecating eyebrow.”We’re not blind. We know the use our Units will be put to. We count on it.”
“So they can cook and clean when not in the bedroom?”
“And much more.” Athena answered. Although, in Jackson’s opinion, when promoters of some product said ‘and much more’, it usually meant there was no more. Athena breezed over towards the center of the waiting area, towards a metallic podium with two glowing screens.
“This panel allows prospective customers to-” That was when the door opened again. The man was an over-tanned, balding forest of chest-hair on the wrong side of fifty.
“Hey Miss Ay! Missy’s ‘ere for her check up!” His shirt was a touristy-travesty of palm trees, barely containing the blond riot of curls beneath. But when Jackson saw who the man was with – he knew.
It wasn’t merely a figure that was too athletic to be so voluptuous, nor was it the cascade of purple hair that matched so perfectly her amethyst eyes. There was a constant, continuous seduction about her. And if Jackson could look at the man’s companion and know immediately, it meant that he WANTED people to see. Wanted people to know.
“Please excuse me Mr. Johnson, this customer has a standing appointment. There are arrangements to make.” Athena demurred.
“Uhm, no problem. I get it.”
“The console over there can provide you with a great deal of information until I return.” She pointed to the metallic podium. As she passed, there was a moment of gentle contact against his hand. She seemed so intelligent, friendly. A woman like her – she should have choices, credentials… suitors? Why would a nice girl like this work for Pygmalion? For that matter, why was HE considering doing business with them at all? Jackson flexed his bruised hand, and swallowed.
He had to know more. Had to understand.
Moving to the console, he tapped an activation button.
“Pyg-Mayl-eeeeeee-unnnnnn,” crooned a canned voice. A holo-catalog. Jackson grunted, homework. He was never the bookish type, still it should be a painless task. Touching the directional pad, he gave an aw-shucks smile as -
Bridget Bardot, circa 1968 glided from an unmarked portal off to the northeast. Steam coiled around her iridescent bikini-clad figure as she sashayed past him with a smile… and a wink.
“Eh um… Hi.”
“Bonjour monsieur, A handsome man like you should ask a sales associate about my Restock Fee.” The famed, long-deceased actress said in a rolling French lilt.
“Uhh… ” Jackson tried to speak. He also tried to pay attention to the console before him, yet found himself unwittingly captivated by the sensuous sway of her steamy body as she crossed the lobby with more grace than a ballet dancer exiting a hot shower from the Fountain of Youth.
She continued until reaching a circular indentation on the floor of the lobby about twenty feet from the receptions desk. Adopting a figure-flattering tilt of her hips, her blond hair casually slithered from a tight bun into a sunshine cascade around her shoulders. Then, cocking her head as though in contemplation, her straight hair curled itself of its own accord into bouncy waves of rolling gold.
As if on cue, the floor began to sink beneath her with a motorized whine, retracting the twentieth-century film icon into the depths of the facility.
Jackson had heard of this sort of thing, but had only half-believed it. Wow… the implications of it! Jackson ran a hand over his sharp chin as his imagination soared.
What other possibilities were there?
The catalog had thrown up a holographic image of a athletic young woman with a deep tan, red ponytail and a blonde forelock. Interesting… and the varieties were dizzying; according to the info page on the catalog, Pygmalion had different design studios, each with a different strategy. Something for everyone. Was it time to spend time with one? Talk to one of them at length?
Maybe do more than talk.
But that was hard to imagine… Jackson had never done it with… something like that. How real would it be? Could it be?
” … Unit is equipped with the Dermanext Neoskin system.” cooed a nearby mirrorscreen a little to his right. “A distributed intelligence meta-stable network of polymers beyond cutting edge… ” In the background was a feminine voice crooning in some futuristically-hopeful aria, while computer-generated molecule clusters were overlaid upon young, bare skin. It reminded Jackson of a wrinkle-cream commercial.
“In fact, in 9 out of 10 surveys the burn victims for whom the system was originally designed report that Dermanext feels more human than the human skin they’ve lost!” Jackson frowned, contemplating. Did that make sense? He should experience it. He should learn more.
To the south of the console was a bench, and – oh… Mr. Chest-hair had made whatever arrangements he’d needed and was now sitting comfortably while he waited. Maybe it was time to get the real score from a satisfied customer.
Jackson sat down beside the man, half-watching the info-screens blaring their enticements from the polished walls.
“Hey uhm… does it ever bother you – ya know, being with something fake? A substitute for the real thing?” He swallowed, hoping he wasn’t being too bold. The tanned guy raised a blond eyebrow.
“Ha! You kiddin’ me mate?” He barked in a heavy Strine accent. “The ‘real thing’ cost me two alimonies and high blood pressure!” He made air-quotes with his fingers. “Like anything ‘real’ is somehow better? My Pa has a titanium hip; better than ever. What, should society hate him for not hobbling around on the original?”
Jackson made a shrugging motion. “Makes sense if he’s sick but… not sure that’s the same thing.”
“No, better than the same thing, better than the real thing!” Chest-hair leaned back, relaxed.
“Huh, so I guess the sex is just that good? You never miss flesh and blood?”
“Well…. yeah, it is but,” He cocked his head. “More than that, really. Sex is beyond belief sure mate, but then I woke up one day and realized that my little she-bot could do all the household chores, run errands, bedroom duties too… heh, and I could trust her completely. Total straight-shooter. God, I’d believe her before me own sis. She learns too, knows how to arrange me things. Each day she figures out new ways to sweeten the deal.” His eyes, wistful. “Programmed for loyalty. Nothing beats it. Plus, there’s this thing she does with her tongue…” He giggled in a private fantasy.
“But… it’s not genuine.” Jackson reflected. “You never think you should keep trying for that real connection?”
“I hear ya mate. You want something mutual. Totally up to you.” He tapped a finger to his temple. “It’s all in the mind, her mind. Which isn’t. That’s the thing about the Pygmalion brain; it’s not one. The A.I. processes commands. That command might be – think like a human being and feel real emotions. Or calculate pi to 100 places, or… ” he chuckled. “To believe that I’m a rock-star and she’s my sluttiest groupie! But only on the weekends.”
Jackson opened his mouth to speak, but closed it again.
“But yeah, I hear you. That’s the Magic of A.I. on this level. They become what you want, what you need.”
“Wow… it’s just, so selfish.” Jackson remarked, half to himself. Mr. Chest-hair seemed to bristle at that.
“Selfish? And me exes playing house just long enough to soak me in the divorce? What’s that? Channeling Mother Theresa? Hah! If I could, I’d give the Pygmalion big cheese a kiss.” That thought made Jackson bristle. The hairy Australian probably wasn’t wrong, but he was so wrong.
“Besides, it’s not just a boy’s club – look over yonder, the left runway.” As he gestured, a thumping, Chippendale beat boomed over the stereo system.
Horse-shoe shaped runways were erected at the back of the lobby, similar to those of the near-defunct fashion-modeling industry. Two prospective customers approached in apparent anticipation. One was a hunch-backed old biddy with a greedy gleam in her bespeckled eyes. The other, a mousy, brunette-ponytailed geek-girl that reeked of terminal shyness.
They came out in pairs: A pulse-pounding beat heralded the emergence of chiseled paragons of masculinity as spectacularly unlikely as the purple beauty that entered with the Australian.
“Get ready ladieeeees…” boomed a canned female announcer voice. Sounded suspiciously like Athena’s. “Back by popular demannnnnd! Pygmalion Presents: The Chocolate Thunder 3.1!”
Ripplingly-muscled black body-builders clad only in fire-engine red Speedos, Spear-bald, strong jawed. They seemed to have just a hint of something Asian, despite their hot-cocoa complexions – probably to make them seem more exotic. Both were identical twins, striding confidently onto the stage before launching into a hip-swaying routine that would have put Elvis Presley’s gyrations to shame.
“Can you handle it? Can you handle HIM?” The voice challenged the female customers.
The old woman actually licked her lips.
“Do you have bisexual tendencies, Mr. Johnson?” Athena wondered, suddenly showing up to his left. Jackson jumped, for more reasons than one.
“Wh – NO! Not that I… no. No. Just… no.” She smiled warmly, a hand touched his shoulder.
“We have a WIDE range of options for the discriminating gentleman.” She said with calculated emphasis.
“Gentleman… I wonder about that.” Jackson wondered, brushing a strand of sandy hair from his eyes.
“You’re asking yourself,” Athena began, “what sort of man purchases a Pygmalion Unit?” She glanced at him sideways. “A man unwilling to leave the most important matters of his life to chance. You’re a man willing to assert himself.”
“Am I?” he tested with a wry grin.
“I certainly hope so. You strike me as the sort of man strong enough to seize what he wants; to chart your own path,” She angled closer, her voice breathier. Her ample chest seemed on the verge of heaving. “Live life on your own terms, challenge tradition. Explore the full range of freedoms life has to offer.”
“Huh.” Jackson grunted.
“Quite.” Her perfume smelled of lavender. She seemed to position herself to encourage him to glance at the tantalizing hints of an impressive bosom concealed by a white silk blouse. Then she withdrew suddenly, and Jackson found his eyes had been directed to the middle runway. “You might enjoy these featured female models; just a small part of our inventory.
“Gentlemennnnnn!”Boomed the spokes-voice. “This month is Import month at your friendly neighborhood Pygmalion dealer! Fresh, new… from the most sophisticated laboratories to your bedroom! We present for your consideration: The Odalisque 0.7!” The voice nearly shouted.
The women had complexions like bronze polished with olive oil. They were clad in a fluttering array of gauzy, multicolored veils that undulated like the Northern Auroras between sleekly-muscled thighs. Middle-Eastern love-slave vibe down pat.
“The Odalisque of history was a concubine of Ottoman Sultans schooled from a young age in the physical arts of male pleasure. Add her to your harem today! Financing available!” As a student of history; Jackson was skeptical, but accuracy wasn’t what mattered here.
There was another pedestal near the stage, this one with a pair of odd glasses. Curious, Jackson examined them. They were equipped with a double lens; one that let in normal light; but with a smaller, bluish lens attached to the lower half.
He was unprepared for what happened upon donning them; they functioned almost as X-ray lenses. The normal periphery was unremarkable, but when looking through the blue lenses, he could see… machinery?
Yes, the love-slave women on stage; when the blue lens passed over them, Jackson could see iridescent bundles of contracting cables moving their limbs, some form of translucent gel underlying their skin, and various cables and conduits for both fluid, and faint pulses of energy.
In the place were a normal person would have a liver was an arrangement of pistons like a hyper-miniaturized version of an internal combustion engine. Cables linked techno-organ bundles inside of which were flickering digits of mechanized artifice.
There was something much like a heart and lungs in the chest, apparently controlled by some arcane arrangement of rapidly shunting valves. The head of course, glittered in the distinctive pattern of photonic-pulse circuitry that was in a lot of devices nowadays but… while Jackson wasn’t any kind of engineer – he noticed something that piqued his curiosity: Yes, the brain had lots of very dense circuits, of course but – so did the pelvis. Inside the robot-girls’ hips. It was like a second A.I., a sexual intelligence? Talk about thinking with the wrong head. He swiveled; much the same arrangement inside the Chocolate Thunders as the Odalisque’s, but the Mandroids had far more contractile structures.
Well, back to the girls. He took off the glasses and replaced them on the stand. Not an engineer, no – but he appreciated, admired ingenious construction. Probably the closest man had come to making living works of art.
The four concubines slithered across the stage, veils coming alive. Each hip-thrust, pirouette, and leap was choreographed to cause their filmy garments to seemingly hug their bodies like the caress of a sparkled lover.
Jackson had heard that female units sold much better than males; perhaps that’s why there were twice as many on stage as the Chocolate Thunders. The dance of the Odalisque’s was not only across the stage, but also through the spectrum. As Jackson was drawn inexorably closer, he became convinced that the jet-black hair trailing behind the dancers was actually lightening. For two of them.
But, for the other pair – Jackson did a double take as one nimble unit slid between the legs of her sister, he was sure her skin was lightening! Color and movement blended into a dizzying arsenal of stimuli that left him mesmerized. There was some music playing; just as there had been for the Chocolate Thunders; but it didn’t even register with Jackson’s conscious mind, drawn inexorably closer to the spectacle.
Aware of their audience, they also oiled themselves. Smooth skin seemed to slicken slowly, but thoroughly. Until – as Jackson neared, all the dancers glistened with shimmering reflections of liquid light. Self-lubricating skin. Wow. Not skin – Dermanext, he reminded himself.
At the end of the astonishing journey, two of the girls sported creamy pale skin as pristine as Alpine snow, but with hair the color of Midnight. Yet their sisters became as black as African ebony glazed with dark chocolate, yet with sunny hair of gilded flax.
Jackson found himself gripping the edge of the stage, the Odalisque’s having adapted their dance to center around their observers. On either side of Jackson were the interlaced legs of a black-blonde and white-brunette pair, entwined like lovers – yet their eyes communicated that a male intrusion would be most welcome. They even had the manners to pant with simulated exhaustion after their vigorous exertions.
“What the hell,” purred Chest-hair. “I’ve been wantin’ to get Missy a playmate. Travel a lot fer business. Can’t always bring her. Give her some company.”
“J-jealous?” Jackson squeaked, as the two Odalisque’s began caressing his face with feather-light touches of seduction.
“Do you WANT me to be jealous?” The white-brunette challenged, as she licked her black-blonde partner on the cheek. The latter hooked her muscular leg around Jackson’s shoulders to pull him in deeper. Oh God… the smell! It was as if they were sweating strawberries. Slowly, the Odalisque’s began fading back to their Middle-eastern default complexions, but Jackson was boiling from within as they cooled down. Adding more fuel to the fire, the paler girl spread her legs, pushing her loin-cloth clad groin against Jackson’s face. She… she wanted him to smell her sex! It was so primal; so pulse-pounding.
With a groan of yearning, Jackson buried his nose and face into the sculpted paradise of her inner thighs and willing sex. He was wrong before. Her cunt smelled of strawberries mingled with honeysuckle. Unable to stop himself, he began to inhale her floral musk in gulping gasps, her legs encircling his head as she made an animalistic purr that brought up the beast within him. Lightning bolts shot from his spine to his crotch, as his pants seemed to shrink several sizes.
Gentle fingers brushed his sandy hair as she humped her groin against his face. Her fruity musk made him breathe deeper. Deeper. Harder. He seized her well-oiled buttocks…
And pulled away!
Face flushed, chest heaving.
“See something you like?” Athena ventured, appearing beside him. “Or smell?” She added with that wry yet classy grin of hers. She seemed not the least bit uneasy being around female units grinding their groins against men’s faces.
“Uh… A dead French actress told me to a-ask… about a Restock fee?” Jackson gasped, as the second Odalisque began caressing herself before him.
“Certainly Mr. Johnson! We understand that physical compatibility is a primary consideration before the purchase of a Pygmalion unit, and given the expense involved, many customers feel the need to test out the sexual capabilities of their purchase.
“Rooms are available adjoining the lobby where a customer may sample the unit of their choice in privacy. However,” Here it comes… thought Jackson. “In order to compensate the dealer for the time in which the unit is not available to other customers, a Restock fee must be rendered prior to any private engagements with one of our fine Units.” This beautiful, yet dignified woman seemed not the least uneasy at the prospect.
It made sense; try before you buy, but Pygmalion would want to make sure any yay-hoo off the street can’t just come in and get his rocks off with one of their hot properties at his convenience and be able to walk away scott-free. There was the old adage about whether to buy the cow, if the milk is free.
“I s-see. Is the… Restock fee included in the purchase price if I buy or finance that same unit?” But Jackson was looking at one of the Odalisque’s breasts at this point – both of whom had returned to their prior colors.
“Good question, sir! If final purchasing arrangements are made within 24 hours, the price is reduced by the amount of the Fee.” Gentle touch to his elbow.
“Yeah. I’ve been selling more paintings lately; making contacts. Career is taking off. Now may be the time.”
“Congratulations, Mr. Johnson! So which of these fine machines should I get prepped for your personal use?” Athena had a salesman(woman)’s grin of triumph. The posturing of the Odalisque’s was blatant. Wild-eyed. The femmebot on his right on hands and knees crawling like a lioness in heat. The other, just on her knees so she could arch her spine – thrust her chest at him to best effect. Her lip quivered; there was almost a desperation on her face.
He didn’t need to ask; they wanted him. Wanted it.
“You want me,” Lefty declared, riveting him with her golden eyes. “Do it, stake your claim to me. I’ve dreamed of a man like you.” Her deliciously accented voice was a pleasing chirp.
Taking the initiative, Righty slid off the runway to embrace Jackson.
“She’s only saying that because she’s been programmed to.” Righty purred at him, a hand drifting down towards Jackson’s ass. “Buy me now; don’t pay to Restock me. Take me now-” her voice dropped to a conspiratorial whisper. ” – and I’ll bring you pleasures you can’t imagine!”
“B-but… haven’t you been programmed too?” Jackson reasoned.
“My feelings are real. I crave you. I need you to possess me.” Her breasts pressed into his shoulder, near the rip in his shirt.
“Discount if you buy both of us; let me prove my desire for you.” That floral musk… it was deliberate. They could change their skin color, why not that? She extended a graceful, bare foot towards him, widening her legs – allowing more of whatever pheromone scent she produced to inundate Jackson’s senses.
He’d worried about buying and selling A.I.’s like this – the word was they were really aware, sentient. But it was legal to buy and sell them. The way these two acted; Jackson felt like he’d be oppressing them by NOT buying them!
“As real, as alive as you let them be.” Athena reminded him, whispering in his ear. Wow, she really believed in her work.
He made his decision.
“Let’s pay the Restock fee.” Jackson determined.
The Odalisque blasting him with her honeysuckle seduction scent smiled victoriously.
“I saw her in a catalog…”
June 5th, 2053. Corner of Main street and Powers, Atlanta Georgia. 30 minutes earlier.
It wasn’t really a logical thing. But mostly, Jackson was intuitive. Artsy type and all that. Chicks dig it.
Except for the girl on the train. In a wide-brimmed white hat.
He wasn’t sure that she saw him from the Main street Hover-rail, but as it pulled into the station – there was a clarion moment of contact. It was enough to lose himself in those Sargasso-sea green eyes. He wasn’t sure she saw him. But somehow… he was sure he had been seen. A moment between moments. Beautiful enough to let him dream, but real enough to not be a dream.
He didn’t know then whether she was with anyone; no expectation of seeing her again. No reason why she should stick in his mind, his imagination as she did.
But as a serious artist; he didn’t look for logic – Jackson looked for inspiration.
He’d been returning from a successful gallery showing; not certain what form his next offering should take – until her. Until he saw the woman in the white hat.
He had already painted her in his mind before he caught the next hover-rail to his downtown apartment. The train whizzing on magnetic induction tracks above an urban skyline. The woman’s face looming large as a half-transparent reflection. But on the hover-rail in the distance, the depicted windows were bare of any occupants save a feminine form in that same white hat. Reflection of reality within a reflection.
He would paint it, he would paint her.
It was easy then, to relegate her to the misty afterlife of the quasi-real. Jackson never expected to see her again. That would have interfered with his thought process, he needed her to become an illusion, a fleeting vision.
That’s what made it so jarring when, a half hour before he entered the Pygmalion dealer, he saw her – saw those Sargasso Sea green eyes,
Being dragged, forcibly, unmercifully out of the passenger door of a car. Violently…
June 5th, 2053. Riverdale Plaza Shopping Center, Atlanta Georgia. The Present.
A bare room with a simple mattress. A PA system piped in some sort of bedroom-and-candles saxophone tune Jackson didn’t recognize.
There was an unmarked entryway across from him, like the one Bardot had emerged from. It was open. Jackson waited. More than a little nervous.
Sure, the Concubine-bots had gotten his motors revving, so to speak. But Jackson was a believer in the Diamond in the Rough; looking for the hidden treasure. So he wouldn’t commit to anything right off the bat. If he bought a Pygmalion, he planned to make it/her a long-time investment, he needed to be sure, that meant not charging in impulsively.
But… it seemed strange; where was the femmebot he HAD paid the Restock fee for? The door was open, she should have been here. He was about to turn and leave, hand reaching to pull the knob –
When he felt a tug from behind – from a lasso that encircled his arms tightly!
Jackson gave a surprised yelp as as he felt himself roped in like a prize steer. Although the rope itself felt like some hi-tech nylon, very un-Western.
“I know what you like,” crooned a woman’s voice. There seemed to be a universal cooing undercurrent to the voices of the Femmebots, yet hers also carried hints of Texan Cowgirl. “You don’t want some silly little limp-wristed push-over ‘bot!” She reeled him in closer. “You wanna woman with some Fire! I got ya covered!” Her “I’s” sounded like ‘Ah’.
She had surprised him! Somehow, she must have been lurking inside the passage behind the door, waiting for him to turn away in frustration before she pounced.
He had selected a model from the catalog; a Yellow-Rose 5.3. Her figure was only slightly more voluptuous than that of a human fitness model in her early twenties. She wore the remnants of a plaid work shirt tied beneath a bushel of cleavage just a little larger than any human gal could reasonably expect before surgery.
Above was the prerequisite cowboy hat, in yellow – embracing her red-auburn hair with a blond forelock, and of course – a literal yellow rose nestled within the crimson strands. Face, just a little too soft, too glamorous to belong to any hard-scrabble farm girl. And of course, there were the cowboy boots, extending to just below her knees.
And nothing else.
From the knotted shirt supporting her Everything’s-bigger-in-Texas breasts, to those boots was nothing but a tan-colored, well-shaved wonderland of taut femininity.
Tied securely, Jackson felt a twinge of delicious terror as she tugged him deeper into her Western web.
“My unit name is Jane, men buy my model when they want to put the spurs to the same-old same-old.” She started kissing him, but ended tugging his lip with her teeth. “And I’m gonna make you my… fucking Bronco!” her cunning A.I. joked.
“You gonna ride me all day long?” Jackson assumed with an uneasy grin.
“And night! My batteries just got topped off,” she informed him with a lusty grin. Before he could respond, she roughly shoved him back onto the mattress.
“Gidd-ee up!” His heart hammered. She caressed the sexual center of her chiseled nudity. Wow… Jackson could see her uh, lubricating. She was slick with womanly honey, or… whatever simulated lube had been given to femmebots.
She strode towards his face, and he began to detect the soothing, yet rustic scent of evergreen from her crotch. She coiled her lasso around his neck loosely, then moved to straddle him. Her naked sex looming close enough to his face to count her simulated pores.
“Breathe. Smell me. My musk. Yer sex drive’s gonna get hotter than five-alarm chilli!” Well, he was right about the purpose of sexbot scent production. He found himself unable to suppress an instinct to lick the glistening sex-lips grinding against his face from the wanton automaton straddling his head.
“W-wow…” Jackson struggled to speak. “You really want me to buy you!” he assumed.
“I want you to want me so much that you don’t care what I want.” The A.I. paradoxically explained. “The need… to own me, mate with me, possess me, will burn inside you.” Moaning, Jackson strained against the ropes – and his pants alike. “You won’t care,” she continued, while smearing his face with her throbbing cunt, “That I’m a machine. Whether it’s all just programming.” Deft fingers began attacking his zipper.
“Is that… w-w-what, you want?” Jackson managed between gasps.
Jane snarled, tightening her lasso. Her tender hands had found his iron-hard member. Pump. Jack.
“You’ll buy me. Buy me ’cause you can’t control the urge to mount me like a stallion in heat, bed me, cum inside me.” Somehow, somewhere his pants were gone. Not sure where, because Jackson’s universe was now only eight-inches long, and steel-hard.
“When every inch of me is bathed in your human sweat, when I can taste you in every hole, when you ejaculate all your troubles, all your stress inside me – and sleep the sleep of total exhaustion… THEN you’ll know what I want!” Her voice descended to a growl, head tilting down as she nibbled his earlobe. Was it all a lie? Was it all just cleverly programmed heuristic mimicry of human behavior? Yellow Rose had vowed to make the question irrelevant: next to his rampant need to fuck her.
She shifted her pelvis, putting herself in line with his straining member, leaving a trail of her pine-needleish scent. But was this what HE wanted? For the long term?
“I’m a device created for man’s pleasure,” she conceded as her head bent down to take in her teeth the tail end of the knotted shirt containing her voluminous breasts. “And… urh… that pleasure,” with a grunt, she tugged the knot loose, hard-nippled mammaries ballooned into view, swaying cantaloupe-like before his lusting gaze. Twin works of art. Her breasts were too beautiful to be real, yet with a tiny mole beside her left nipple, a dash of reality was introduced making her treasures too life-like to not be human. Even though they weren’t. “… the desire of the men who buy me – is for a femmebot to rape them!” She snarled, her juicing sex just inches above Jackson’s raging hardness.
“And my model has sooooo many features,” she drawled, eyes squeezed shut, one hand pinching a plump nipple. “Who’s up for some erotic lactation?!” she offered lustily.
That was it.
By shrugging out of his shirt, Jackson was able to wriggle out from her lasso, and out from under her. Yeah, some guys would have gone hog-wild, but… this was a little too edgy for his tastes. Too pushy. Being raped nightly by a lactating, lasso-ing cowgal wasn’t in his long-term agenda.
Ignoring Jane’s squeals of protest, he tugged his clothing free of her bondage, and scampered for the exit before she had a chance to spray him with some kind of robo-milk substitute.
Pounding, slamming, grunting. Feminine gurgles of wanton ecstasy. A male rumble of phallic triumph.
From the other side of an air vent.
The exit from the private rooms didn’t open into the main lobby, but rather into a sort of locker room with showers available. Hmm. Made sense. Jackson had been reminded by an almost forlorn-looking Athena that Restock fees were non-refundable, and he assured her that he intended to examine additional models. The recovery area had comfortable couches, a drink machine, and more mirrorscreens with their glittering enticements. He sat in a plush recliner, contemplating his next move.
It also had air vents – out of which the lusty details of other human-robot liaisons could be heard. Was it deliberate? Hard to say. Only thing Jackson was sure of was that terminally-shy geek girl was getting her turn.
A shiver ran down Jackson’s spine, as he heard all too clearly the pounding, thrashings in the room beyond the too-thin walls, as the girl received her personal dose of Chocolate Thunder.
“… inside meeee!” came the snatch of what passed for conversation that he could make out from his position. Thin walls… shaking from the virile impact of the rampant man-bot who – apparently was slamming geek-girl into the walls with all the vigor of his synthetic manhood; amidst shrieking cries of feminine approval.
Jackson wasn’t sure how long it lasted, but over time – he learned to recognize when the slender girl was driven to climax. There was a particular cadence of squeal, always accompanied by male grunts of release as the walls shook with just a little more force than moments before.
He was miserable.
Jackson regretted almost instantly not getting the most out of his Restock Fee; he’d never been so hard! Wow! almost made him wonder…
” … production of a pheromone subset active in humans known as copulins. Pygmalion sexologists have developed a universal optimization that your personal unit produces via a state-of-the-art aphrodisiac system.” Spokes-voice announced, amidst footage of a generic male and female couple nuzzling each other.
Well, he could believe that! He’d need to select another unit for an ‘engagement’, just to get his rocks off; or he wouldn’t be able to concentrate! What if that made it worse? What if that only sharpened the craving?
There was a reason why Pygmalion had become a global corporate juggernaut.
Yeah… definitely wanted another go ’round. But with who? Hmm… luckily, there was a catalog in the recovery room, so he’d be able to -
Jerk suddenly upright, as soft hands made contact with his shoulders from behind.
“I apologize for startling you, Honored sir.” said a soothing, milky voice from behind him.
Jackson rotated enough to see two women with elaborate raven hair ordered into geometric lobes. The hair framing chalk-white painted faces highlighting intricate eyeshadow that recalled hummingbird wings encircling pupils so dark they were brilliant. Jackson wasn’t sure whether to kiss or pluck their cherry-glistening lips. Floral red silk kimonos exposed creamy shoulders that seemed to cry out for a meaty, male hand to rest upon them.
Some sort of… Geisha bots?
“Oh… the Announcer said something about this being Import month.” Jackson recalled.
“Correct, Honored Sir.” Left-hand Geisha agreed. “We have been repurposed for English that we might service the North American market.”
“That’s a lot of customers. So why me?”
“Athena is aware of your dissatisfaction with the Gaijin-unit, and while Restock fees are non-refundable, we have been directed to offer ourselves as an alternative.”
She really seems on top of things. He thought.
“May I offer you a cup of Tea, Honored Sir?” asked the other Geisha, a steaming ceramic cup suddenly proffered.
“Uh… wow, thank you, yes.” He sipped. It was warmer than lukewarm, but not hot. Just right.
“We are of course, available for sale – if you deem us worthy of serving your noble desires.”
“Two for one special.” The other offered.
“Good deal but,” he took a deep breath. “You don’t really know me; are you sure you want me to… to own you?”
“If that is what you want.” Lefty said.
“We exist to serve.”
“Does… serving humans make you happy?” Jackson had to ask.
“Yes, Honored Sir.” Both said in lock-step unison.
“I see.” Another sip of tea. “What if someone could reprogram you to be another kind of robot? Would you accept that?”
“We exist to service human desires.” Righty replied simply.
“To what extent could your Owner reprogram you?”
“Certainly our emotional baselines can be adjusted, but minimum and maximum levels differ for each model. The Yellow Rose unit could be made more submissive if you wished, or I could be made more assertive, but limited by factory-installed ranges.”
“It is of course, your decision, Honored Sir.” Righty explained with a deep bow. “I am sorry to inform you that my settings are at their limit: I cannot be made more submissive than I already am.” Another bow. “I apologize humbly if my unworthiness disappoints you.” This was surreal! Jackson shook his head.
So they were so submissive that they would submit to being made more submissive – except that their submissiveness was already turned up to the max? For which they felt the need to apologize. So wrong. Wow. Opposite of the domineering Yellow Rose. Maybe that was the point.
“Honored Sir, if you would forgive my presumption, I humbly offer to perform fellatio upon your Worthy member, if you deem this poor vessel suitable for such intimate service.” Lefty bowed even deeper. Begging for the right to suck his cock. Wow. It was so wrong, such a violation of… of… something. And yet – Jackson worried that these gentle entities might be distressed if he refused them.
He did need it.
He wasn’t forcing them.
“Sure, knock yourself out. I accept.”
“Thank you Honored Sir.”
But it felt so right!
As he surrendered to the velvet wonderland of her eager mouth, her sister stood, and unlaced the thick Obi wrap securing her Kimono, as one bobbed her head upon his raging dick, the other bared her chest and thighs simply for his pleasure. Their breasts were not as large as Yellow-Rose-Jane’s were, but they had a pleasing roundness that Jackson found extremely appetizing.
The identical Geisha not inhaling his member thrust her assets at him with a pleasing purr. He knew he could touch her anywhere on her tall figure… surprisingly tall, if the intent was to replicate Japanese women. It was hard to tell, with all the bowing – but when one of the Geisha’s bared herself before him, arching her spine to offer her breasts to him, he could tell her figure was truly statuesque.
His tea forgotten, he cupped a rounded breast and erect nipple, roved painstakingly down the creamy wonder of her belly, only to assault her angry clitoris with his steadily flicking thumb. Occasionally, he thrust a finger into her welcoming sex, reveling in the churning of her wet folds around his intrusion. One humped his hand, the other his groin.