The Peripheral Cocksucker

by The Big Kahuna

Chapter 1

The Brainwave

She was late.

It figures, I thought ruefully.  After all, it was because of lateness – mine – that we were partners in the first place.  Jesus H. Christ, I thought, what the fuck did I do to deserve this?  Top grades throughout high school, two years in the Army (communications specialist), one year bumming through Europe, and I wind up with a total ditz airhead for a project partner in freshman SCI, and all because I overslept.

I looked around the living room; everything was in place, everything was ready: laptop, printer, paper, video camera, and, of course, the necessary bits of hardware.  I even had a pot of coffee and clean cups (my ever-so-British parents were sticklers for observing the niceties, and drilled that into me).  All I needed was the subject, and she was a no-show.

It wasn’t as though I really gave much of a shit about the project in the first place, although I supposed it might be interesting in its way.  The whole exercise involved finding out what we knew about the scientific method and how good science happens.  It was interesting because we were given no instructions, no rules, and no guidelines.  We were offered a variety of pre-made projects, or we could create our own, within reason, and given one week to see what we could make of them, what guidelines, controls, documentation, etc.  A very organic approach, I must admit.

"ES-fucking-P," I muttered.  I'm not given to muttering, much, but I felt the occasion warranted it.  There were about twelve million other projects I'd have chosen ahead of this one, but the choice was not mine: it was Roberta’s idea, my tardy earth-mother partner.  It would be my unhappy task to re-create fucking experiments done who-knew-how-many-fucking-times, using fucking cards with wavy fucking lines, fucking circles, and fucking stars.  A much better idea, I thought, would be to use cards with silhouettes depicting erotica such as missionary, doggy-style and blowjobs. 

I checked my watch again.  Lost, I thought, or caught the wrong bus.  Or forgot what day it is, more likely.  Let that be a lesson to you, make absolutely sure you pull out that little fucking button on the alarm clock or you'll end up playing nursemaid to some spoiled, rich-bitch, vegetarian, Uri Geller wannabe.  Well, who knows, I thought, maybe she's on a lettuce and semen diet and'll need a fill-up when she gets here.

Not that she was my type.  She was attractive, in her own way – dirty blonde hair, good complexion with a cute button nose, and nice, clear blue eyes behind those silly granny glasses.  A little chunky, especially in the butt (broad abaft the beam, my Dad would say), medium height, and a nice set of child-bearing hips.  A decent enough package, but not quite what I look for in a woman.

I like tits, pure and simple.  I mean big, fat funbags that you can mash together and stick your whole head into.  I’m talking about a fantastic pair of large, fuckable melons that a babe can wrap around my junk and show me the kind of love that only a full-figured gal can.  I’ve set a minimum D-cup rule, which has caused my friends to often rib me about my fetish; “Hey, Jake, how big are the tits you’re dating this week?” and shit like that.  I mean, my last girlfriend, Angela, or Amanda – it started with an ‘A’, I think; maybe it was Amelia – anyway she had an absolutely killer pair of EE’s.  They were full and heavy, without the slightest hint of sag, and were topped with perfect, 3/8-inch long, pink nipples that just begged to be sucked.  I loved Norma and Jean (my pet names for them) with all my heart.  I was sorry to see them go.

So Roberta of the A-cuppers had absolutely nothing to worry about from me.  I’d let her blow me, if she was so inclined, but I wouldn’t cross the street for it.

Rapid footsteps clacked on the concrete walk outside the door of my apartment, followed by a series of staccato raps on my door.  I exhaled slowly, trying to dispel the tension that had built up within me before her insistent knocking gave me a cerebral hemorrhage.

“I’m-so-sorry-Jake-the-guy-at-the-Starbucks-didn’t-know-the-difference-between-a-Cafe-Macchiato-and-an-Espresso-Macchiato-and-it-took-him-fucking-forever-to-find-the-soy-milk-and-then-it-turns-out-that-it-was-his-first-fucking-day-on-the-job-and-he-didn’t-even-know-how-to-operate-the-cash-blah-blah-etc, fucking etc…”

“Star.”

“Nope.”

I flipped the card around to show her the black circle; she frowned, as usual.  We had been at it for three hours, and it was finally beginning to tell on her.  We were using the classic five-card Rhine set: wavy lines, plus sign, circle, square and star.  With only five cards to choose from, the average person being tested should score roughly twenty percent, all things being equal.  Roberta, or Robbi, as she preferred to be called, it seemed, was not quite equal.  She was, not to put too fine a point on it, lousy.

She had started off so sure in the knowledge that she had some psychic ability (“I always know what someone is going to say before they say it”), and her disappointment was obvious.  No longer did she sit with her back almost painfully erect, booming out her choices with the confidence of a hick at a revival meeting.  Now she sat with her chin resting on her hands on my kitchen bar/counter.  In fact, she really wasn’t even guessing anymore, but rather making a desultory choice followed by an unmistakable sigh.

I did feel rather sorry for her.  If there’s one thing I’ve learned about human nature is that practically all of us want to be special in some way.  Whether it’s psychic ability, math prodigy, or even just being hung like a horse, most of us want to be exceptional.  But the sad fact is that for most of us, 99.9 percent of us probably, we’re just average.  That’s my philosophy.  Less than one in a thousand of us will ever be or do anything of note, win a lottery, or even get a truly great deal on cable.  Not a real day-brightener, I know, but there it is.

And Robbi, it appeared, was every bit as mediocre as the rest of us.  In fact, to give her her due it seemed as though she might be somewhat exceptional in her anti-psychic ability.  Through three successive runs of forty-five minutes each she had managed to score exactly 19.2% on each of them.  Perhaps the Rhine Institute should be notified, I mused.  At the very least, I knew I would never trust any gut instinct of Robbi’s, ever.

“Well, Robbi” I said, trying to keep my voice as neutral as possible; the last thing I wanted was to have some chick I wasn’t banging to start bawling about fucking voodoo, mumbo-jumbo, yip-yap, which any sensible person should know ESP to be.  Besides, I was eager to put this Sixties bullshit aside and put my own stamp on this project.  “I’d say we’ve collected more than enough baseline data.  What do you say we bag it and try something new?”

“New?” she said, some perk coming back into her now; still no doubt clinging to some faint hope that she might be able to levitate, or channel Elvis, or something.  “New, like what?”

“Well, we’ve done all the standard stuff with the cards, and gotten the usual results…”  I’d lied about her abysmal performance and told her that she was bang on twenty percent.  “I was thinking it would be cool to bring this ESP study into the 21st century.”

She looked at me quizzically, head cocked to one side.  “Like how?” she asked.  “You’re already using a computer.”

“Yes,” I said, “but only for record-keeping.  There are some experiments I’ve read about, experiments I’d like to re-create, and possibly even improve upon.  I’ve got a few ideas…things,” I paused for dramatic emphasis, “that may not have been done before.”

She cocked her head again in that RCA dog way again.  “Things like…what, exactly?”

Good gracious, me, I thought, the airhead shows signs of good, solid skepticism.  There’s hope for her yet.  “Well, I thought we might try doing stuff with brainwaves, y’know?  Maybe EEG’s, and sensors, and stuff.”  I don’t normally talk this way, but I was trying to keep the technospeak to a minimum.

“Huh, what do you mean, EEG’s?  That’s like science fiction, isn’t it?  But we’d need all kinds of monitors, and a hospital room, wouldn’t we?”

“Once upon a time, Cinderella, we would have.  But,” I said, reaching back behind me to the other counter of my laughably small galley kitchen, and retrieving a small cardboard box, “this is the now.  I’ve got everything we need right here.”  I placed the box in front of her and opened it so that she could see it.  Her disappointment was obvious.  I’m not sure what she was expecting; perhaps some cool silver apparatus with chase lights going around it, emitting little beeps and whirrs.

I took it out of the box.  It wasn’t much to look at, I admit, but then I hadn’t built it for looks; it was, after all, a prototype.  I’d got the idea, and the plans, from an old issue of Popular Science (Build Your Own Remotely Controlled Railroad!), and updated and reconfigured it for my purposes.  A little visit to the university’s Computer Lab netted me some spare parts on the cheap, an afternoon’s work cobbling it together, and voila!

“Uhh…what is it?” she asked.

“This, madam, is our addition to science, or parascience, if you will,” I said proudly, holding it up to eye level, undaunted by her less than enthusiastic response.

“It looks kinda like a baseball cap,” she said simply.

“It was, until yesterday,” I replied.

“And you want me to wear this…on my head, don’t you?”

“You catch on quickly.”  It took every effort to keep the sarcasm out of my voice.

“You’re kidding, right?” she asked, fixing me with what I supposed was a stern glare.  She looked it over, and I could see her immediate and obvious mistrust of it, which I had expected.  We geeks are used to the uninitiated, those incurious fools who love the sleek lines of modern technology but have absolutely zero appreciation for the magic that lies beneath the molded plastic.  She wrinkled her nose at the hearing-aid batteries stitched to the brim, the hand-soldered connections, and bits of looped wire.  “It doesn’t look…safe.”

I took the hat and placed it gently on my own head.  I had to do it gently, not because it might fall apart, but rather owing to the fact that I had removed most of the bill, which had the unfortunate effect of making it look like some sort of techno-beanie.  I took it off and placed it back on the counter in front of her.  She crossed her arms – a bad sign.  This was going to be a hard sell.

“I don’t know, Jake.  Do you mind if I ask why?”

“Not at all,” I said, smiling and trying to keep my voice light.  “I’d like for us to try something that, while it has been done before, I’d like to improve on.  Something that might actually yield results.”

“”You mean…with brainwaves?  Like telepathy?” she asked, the barest hint of interest starting to show.

“Exactly!”  I said, my face beginning to hurt from this insipid smiling.  “Parapsychologists in the late Seventies tried experiments involving brainwaves, using computer programs and electroencephalography to see if they could discover or induce latent telepathic ability in test subjects,” I said, giving it my best ‘PBS documentary voice’.

“And did they?” she asked with some slight narrowing of the eyes.  More interest there, I could see.  A little skeptical, yes, but she was no longer ruling it out.

“Nope,” I said flatly.  “None whatsoever.  But that was thirty years ago!”

“And you think we might succeed where they failed?”

“I don’t know what will happen.”  I said truthfully.  “I just know it’s never been done before.”

“What?” she asked, now with definite curiosity.  “What’s never been done before?”

“A little faith is all I ask,” I said, and slid the cap toward her.

She looked at it appraisingly for a few moments, then picked it up with both hands and placed it upon her head.  Her forehead creased as her eyes slid upwards in their sockets, trying to get an idea of how she must look.

“This thing isn’t going to fry my brains, is it?”

“Nah,” I said, “this is wireless technology.  It’d be more like microwaving.”

She laughed.

“Star?”

“Nope.”  I was the one sighing now.  Another hour of fruitless effort, another hour of the exact same results – 19.2%.  I don’t know why I expected any difference; this was all nonsense, end of fucking story.

Robbie was a trouper, I had to give her that.  She was still going strong, with only the occasional yawn, calling out cards every few seconds, despite the lack of any improvement whatsoever.  And that is why I was so pissed, because it was nonsense; nonsense that I had, for a little while at least, forgotten to close my mind to.  Nonsense, in short, that could never, ever fucking work.

Everything was running well, no problems to speak of.  My trusty Apple laptop had no problems with the ‘questionably obtained’ EEG software, which was running smoothly with the Quicktime app that was sending video versions of the ESP cards to the ‘thinking cap’, as Roberta now called it.

No, the problem here lay not with the equipment, but rather with the theory.  You see, I knew it would never work, but some small irrational part of me had thought, for the barest fraction of a moment, that there might be something; some improvement, some new insight, intercourse with the Gods, something.  Stupid, I know, but there it was.

My theory, which I’ve already admitted was stupid, was based on adding something to the mix that, as far as I could find, had never been attempted.  You see, back in those bad, old late Seventies, they had tried a shitload of experiments which had centered on using computers to send images to the brain, all of which had failed miserably.  My addition, our addition, I suppose, was to add a wrinkle to this method, a wrinkle that actually predated the computers of that period.

It is hard to imagine what life was like before telephones, or rather, before long-distance telephony came into being.  Due to the incredible amounts of static in the phone lines, talking to somebody across the country was damn near impossible, about on a par with trying to whisper a secret to a pal at a rock concert – in the front fucking row.  Engineers had worked for years to try to make the long distance signals reasonably static-free, with little success.

But one day, whilst stuck in a traffic jam, one of those ubergeeks had himself a brainwave – what if we feed some of that signal back into itself?

And what do you know, it worked.  Static go bye-bye, patents galore, and now we can send videos of naked chicks out into the Universe at the speed of light, with nary a pixel out of place.

Well, no such luck for my partner and me, unfortunately.  I had interlaced her brain waves, courtesy of my slapped-together headgear and vast intelligence, into the video signal that the computer was sending back to the cap she was wearing.  I had experimented with varying degrees of modulation, even up to the point where I thought I might actually scramble poor Robbi’s brain – nada.  Not one iota of difference.

Well, I told myself, at least you proved it wouldn’t work, which, one must admit, is part of science.

“Robbi,” I called out, “what do you say to a little break?  I’m fairly frying here.”

No response.

I got up from my stool, my legs and back making sharp cracking noises, letting me know how much they had disliked their recent lack of use.  I left the confines of my little kitchen and padded around the corner into my laughably small living room.

“Rob…” I started, but chopped off immediately.  Seeing her sitting in my big, Salvation Army faux leather chair with her head back and her mouth open told me all I needed to know – the bitch was out for the count.  I stood there for about a minute and silently debated with myself whether I should let her sleep or kick her flat-chested ass out.

Well, call me Galahad, but I opted to let her keep snoozing.  Besides, if I woke her she might start talking, and my burned-out brain was just not up for that.  I went back to my kitchen and, in best geek fashion, made myself a bowl of cereal.

I sat at my counter eating my generic Cocoa Bombs wondering what to do next.  It was only two in the afternoon; plenty of time to write this shit up and…do what?  Catch a movie?  Slide on over to Mickey D’s?  Maybe I might go whole-hog and bluff my way into a wedding reception and cadge some free drinks.

Crikey, I thought, the crunching sound of shitty-tasting cereal resonating through my skull, those choices really throw your life into sharp relief, don’t they?

It was at that moment, I realized, that I needed some porn.

To say that I have an extensive collection of computer pornography is like saying that Hugh Hefner has fucked a few broads.  If I had to add all my gigs, from the laptop in front of me, my eight external hard drives, my University account, plus three online accounts, I’d say I have roughly two terabytes of storage – ninety percent of which is porn.

I’m talking big tit porn, Poser porn, girl/girl porn, guy/girl porn, seven guys and a girl porn, horse/girl porn, hot Asian chicks, bukkake, celebs, superheroines, you name it, I got it.

But I draw the line at shemales.  That shit’s just wrong.

My little Mac laptop was sitting there, just waiting to be called into service.  Seeing as how Quicktime was already open, it was a matter of a few mouse clicks to navigate to my big tit movie folder, which in itself contains more than sixty sub-folders and comprising roughly 2,300 movie files, none of which feature Keira Knightley.

“Oh, what to choose, what to choose.” I said, under my breath.  “How about…?”  Yes, that would do it, I thought.  In honor of my reluctant houseguest, and I don’t know why I didn’t think of her before, – they could be sisters – I clicked on America’s Sweetheart, Melony Cox-Zucker.

I opened the folder and up popped more than a hundred .mov and .avi files, ranging from a few second loops to one that was twenty-two minutes of pure finger-fucking, dick-smoking, two-thumbs-way-up cinema.  It was this file that I double-clicked on, and the image of the wavy lines was instantly replaced by the far more curvy lines of Melony and her JJ-cup juggs.

It was this splash screen that was the reason for my choosing this file in the first place.  It showed Melony, who really did look a bit like Robbi, except for the fact that Melony’s massive, fake cans were easily the size of her head, whereas Robbi’s little boobies would fit in a teacup with a fair bit of tea still inside.  No, seeing Robbi asleep in my shitty chair, wearing her denim skirt and red sweater thingy had put me in mind of this particular vid.

I put down my cereal bowl and grabbed my earbuds from my shirt pocket and plugged them into my ‘puter.  I could have just muted it but, as every devotee of Big Tit porn is aware, Melony is one hell of a screamer and the nuance of her performance is simply lost without the audio.  I clicked the space bar and the scene unfolded.

Magnificent Melony, lazing in her overstuffed leather chair, begins stroking her fat boobs through her sweater.  The camera pans across her as she kneads her enormous cans with greater and greater vigor, gasping softly and making little kissing movements with her injected lips.  One elegant hand moves smoothly down her ripe body until it lights upon her silken-pantied mound.  The camera moves in, and more gasps can be heard as a be-ringed finger traces the outlines of her nether lips with a perfectly manicured nail.

It goes on, much as all porn goes on: grab, squeeze, moan, suck, lick, etc.  But Melony is, at least for now, the undisputed queen of Big Tit porn.  It’s not her great, fat juggs – Chelsea Charms, who is almost literally a walking pair of tits, is a good deal bigger.  Nor is it her platinum blonde-ness – SaRenna Lee has that market cornered, and much resembles Marilyn Monroe, to boot.  No, it is, I think, her absolute devotion to being the consummate whore: big lashes, multi-colored eyelids, heart-shaped pubic hair, the works.  And it’s not just her appearance; it’s her whole whore attitude.  She wants that cum, dammit!  She wants it sprayed on as much of her surgically perfected body by as many men as possible and then lick off as much as her talented tongue will reach.  She is quoted as saying, “Cum is my favorite food group, darling.  I would live on it, if I could.”

The progress bar at the bottom of the window continued to mark off the seconds, moving inexorably toward the first of two absolutely stunning orgasms.  Melony had, by now, slipped off her dripping panties and was humping her pretty fist with every bit as much intensity as Meryl Streep on her best day. 

And there it was: the ‘arch’, the movement that precedes the orgasm to end all orgasms.  Her giant funbags hang off either side of her ribcage as she arches her back, her mouth open in a plaintive ‘O’ showing the depth of her need.  Her left hand moves up to cup one of her outrageously huge hooters as the other digs three fingers into her sopping snatch…

“Aughh!” 

I hit the spacebar, pausing the movie, and whipped the buds out of my ears.

“Robbi?”

Stillness.  Silence.

What the fuck was going on?  Was she up?  Was she ill?  The sound from the movie had masked whatever it was I’d heard, but I had heard something, something that decidedly didn’t sound normal.

“Robbi?”

Stillness.  Silence.

I moved off of my stool and crept to the corner that demarcated the two rooms.  I don’t know why I felt the need for stealth; it was my place, after all.  It was just a presentiment of terrible wrongness that had me doing my ninja impression.

I peered around the corner.  Everything looked as it had just ten minutes prior, except that Robbi had slipped down a little on the chair, the top of the cap only just visible over the back of it.  It wasn’t moving.

“Christ on a crutch,” I muttered.  “I hope she ain’t dead.”

And then I saw them, on the floor, about a foot to the right of the chair – her panties.

“No fucking way!” I hissed.

It was about six feet from where I stood to the back of the chair, and I closed that distance in about a quarter of a second.  It was the last quarter-second of an old life, turning the corner into an existence no one could ever have thought possible.

There she lay, in my shitty chair, her back arched, her left hand almost cupping one of her nonexistent hooters, while the other was buried three fingers deep in her sopping snatch.  And, oh yes, her mouth opened in a plaintive ‘O’ showing the depth of her need.

Chapter 2

Access Granted

The smoke from my cigarette spiraled slowly up into the air.

“What am I going to do?”

I sat there, on my shitty couch, my laptop open next to me, with my barely smoked ciggie threatening to burn my fingers, running through all the possible explanations for the phenomenon sitting in front me with her hand up her twat: it was all some elaborate practical joke, that she was some crazy, psycho bitch who was going to knife me at any moment, or, and this was the most likely cause, that I was completely out of my fucking melon.

Well, if I have gone nuts, I thought, at least I’m not hearing voices or hanging around the airport naked. 

“What am I going to do?”

I watched her with a patience I didn’t know I had.  I had been in this position now for almost twenty minutes.  Well, that isn’t quite true.  I had been sitting, yes, but I had moved – crossed and uncrossed my legs, stretched my arms and shoulders, the usual things a person does when seated.

But not my partner, though – she hadn’t moved a fucking muscle.  I got up and stubbed out my cigarette in the ashtray on my shitty coffee table.  I moved around her, carefully avoiding her splayed legs; the thought of disturbing her inert form did not sit well at that moment.  I watched her eyes as I circled, and there was not the slightest flicker of movement whatsoever.  They were bright and clear, but betrayed no sign of consciousness.  I bent over her, until our noses almost touched, hoping for a “Gotcha!” knowing full well it wasn’t going to happen.

It was time to quit fucking around.  I took my sunglasses from my shirt pocket and held them under her nose.  They fogged up, as I had expected them to; I had observed chest rise and fall earlier, as well as blinking, but these appeared to me to be of the regular and involuntary sorts of movements.

I removed the video camera from its tripod and turned it on.  I did the full documentary sweep of her, making sure to get every inch of her body that I could (and certainly far more than I had ever expected to see).  I didn’t expect that anyone else would ever see this footage, but I felt it was important to record as much of this as possible for posterity; certainly not for myself, you understand.

I put the camera back and looked down at her, glad that I had thought to draw the curtains of my shitty living room.  I was going to have to take a pulse, which meant I was going to have to touch her, something I really did not want to do at that moment.  I’m not a pussy or anything, it’s just that I knew if I touched her, any part of her, then this whole thing would become real as it never had before.

I put two fingers to the side of her neck; her pulse was strong and steady.  In fact, her skin felt a little hot.  I put my fingers up to take my own pulse, which was strong, not to mention a bit faster than normal – go figure.

But my skin was not so warm to the touch.  I gritted my teeth and got down to it.  I put my hands on either side of her face – it was a little warm, akin to a low-grade fever.  I moved down to her throat, which felt about the same temperature.  I moved down to her chest, trying manfully to keep this on a professional level; her tits were on fire.  I moved down to her belly, where the temperature decreased, but not by much.  As I continued down her body, expecting at any moment to have my face slapped, I found that she was warm all over, but not uniformly so.  I reached around to feel her ass, which was every bit as hot as her chest, but her thighs were slightly cooler, whereas she began approaching normal body temperature only as I reached her unaccountably slim ankles.

I rocked backward so that I was now sitting on the floor, facing the statue.  What did this mean?  Head warm, body burning up, ankles and feet cool, arms and hands warm, no sweating.  I was stumped.

Well, there was one more thing I really should document.  I got up and moved tripod and all to a more frontward position, taking her in from the neck down, and started recording.

I knelt between her spread thighs and took a deep breath, much as a swimmer before taking the plunge.  I had to find out what she was now: mannequin, statue, or puppet.  I reached out and took hold of her right wrist, and gently pulled it away, removing her hand from its warm hidey-hole, mindful of the liquid sound it made as I did so.  It moved freely, without the slightest resistance.  I pulled until her hand was about a foot from her shaved snatch, her fingers glistening in the light from my lamp.  I let go, making sure to protect her pussy with my right hand in case her arm sprang back to its former position, possibly doing her an injury.  It stayed there.  I moved her arm up, sideways, bent the elbow, wrist, even a few slightly sticky fingers.  Her limbs moved as though they were on ball bearings and came to rest without a bit of droop.

Well, that’s settled that, I thought.  She was neither statue, mannequin, nor puppet; she was, rather, like an action figure, like a living Barbie doll…that resembled an honest-to-God porn star.

And she was in my living room.

I suddenly became acutely aware of how quiet everything was, how hot the room felt, the uncomfortable tightness of my jeans.

I remembered thinking that I would let her blow me if she were so inclined.  Well, one quick tap of the spacebar and she would be, wouldn’t she?

The vid in which my partner had just been the unwitting star is twenty-two minutes long, the first ten of which are devoted to Melony’s solo performance.  The other twelve, however, is pure ensemble: Melony, biker dude, and biker dude’s dick.

What you’re thinking is so wrong, I told myself.

*     *     *     *     *     *     *

Sluts Illustrated: the Ultimate Guide to the Whores of Porn, has this to say on the subject of Melony Cox-Zucker:

Once upon a time there was Linda Lovelace, the first woman to prove that, ‘Yes, Virginia, a throat can be a cunt.’  But ol’ Linda is as an ugly stepsister when compared to the storybook beauty that is Melony Cox-Zucker.  Melony, five-time winner of Slut Weekly’s Best Cumshot Award, is largely considered to be the single best fuck in the porn industry.

“She has the kind of face you just want to cream on,” says veteran performer Big Dick Nasty.  “But it’s not just her good looks,” the actor went on to say, “it’s not her fantastic fake tits, her sweet, heart-shaped ass, or even her absolute meat grinder of a pussy.  It is her devotion to cock.  She loves cock more than anything, and more than anything she wants whatever cock she’s handling at the moment to be happy.  She’s sort of like the U.N. of cocksuckers.”

Melony began making history when she startled the porn world by showing up at her very first AVN award ceremony completely nude, and covered from head to foot in cum.  “She looked a glazed doughnut.  Like one very fuckable glazed doughnut.  Talk about setting a high, fucking bar,” Nasty said.

Mack Dicker, the poet laureate of the industry, also speaks glowingly of Melony’s prodigious skill as a porn slut: “It’s like, man, she’s just this…born cocksucker, y’know?  The first time I got to fuck Melony’s mouth, it was like…my cock was talking to God, y’know?

Dicker summed up Melony by saying, “She is definitely worth more than the sum of her holes, man.  She is…a cock-pleasing machine.”

*     *     *     *     *     *     *

 ‘A cock-pleasing machine’, I thought, feeling just a little lightheaded. …and not even three feet away from me.  I let out a slow breath I wasn’t aware I was holding, reached over and tapped the spacebar.

She instantly came to life, mirroring the action on my laptop’s screen.  It was weird watching this; the arm I’d moved didn’t return to where it had been, but was smoothly incorporated into her next motion, which was upward to her thin lips where she began to greedily suck the nectar from her now dry fingers.

I smacked my head with my palm as I realized that I should definitely be recording this.  I got behind the camera and trained it where I knew the action would be taking place, having seen it played out only about a couple hundred times.

Robbi/Melony, finished her finger sucking and began stroking her piteously small boobies.  A shame, I thought, for someone who so resembled America’s favorite cumslut to be shortchanged where it really counted.

“Hey, baby, how’s it goin’?” came the beginning of the standard insipid dialogue, emanating simultaneously from my laptop’s speakers and the mostly naked woman in front of me.  Keeping an eye on my partner-cum-pornstar, I reached over and tapped the mute key; if I was correct it would silence the laptop but still allow me to hear ‘normal’ speech and sounds from her, instead of from two sources at once.

She had straightened up in my shitty chair but resumed the stroking of her tiny tits. “…ing great now that you’re here.  Did you bring me anything, big guy?” she said, licking her thin lips, her eyes bright and sparkling, addressing an invisible figure two paces to my left.

It was officially the weirdest thing I have ever witnessed.  She was like a … a what?: a simulacrum, a talking golem, a solid holograph?  She was none of those things, I decided.  She had become, well, I really could think of no other word for it: a robot!

I quickly reached over and tapped the spacebar again, freezing her with her hands just leaving her chest, on their way to the main theme of this drama: chick vs. dick.  I positioned myself directly in front of her, where Biker Dude stood in relation to Melony, only just remembering to remove my belt since Biker Dude wasn’t wearing one.  If this really was going to happen, I wanted to duplicate the staging as much as possible.  With extreme apprehension, and great agility, I might add, I tapped the spacebar again, and hit ‘record’ on the camera.

I stopped breathing as her hands came up and deftly began undoing the top of my jeans.  Robbi/Melony smiled and looked up into my eyes as she pulled the zipper down smoothly, then fixed her gaze on my crotch as she reached her tiny hand into my pants and withdrew my almost painfully stiff cock through the hole of my boxers, and into the open air

Time seemed to stop as she regarded my twitching rod, mere inches from her face, exactly as the movie Melony was doing, and even though I could see nothing whatsoever in her face that wasn’t on the screen, I couldn’t help but think, Oh my God, will this cause her to snap out of it?

That thought, however, was immediately blasted from my brain as her mouth engulfed my cock.

Melony Cox-Zucker is reputed by many – by very, very many – to give the greatest head in the world, and I thought, as the reproduction Melony kept facefucking herself on my dick, that my version might well be her equal.  This was already the single best blowjob I had ever gotten and I hadn’t even blown my load down her throat yet; something I found myself very close to doing just then.

That thought brought me up short.  I quick-glanced at the screen, which showed that Biker Dude wouldn’t be cumming for something like another six minutes.  I could’ve cum right there and then if I wanted to, but I didn’t want to; this was, after all, in the nature of an experiment, and I wanted to find out what would happen if the script was followed precisely.  I was going to have to grit my teeth and mentally step back before I ended up spewing man-gravy all over my science partner’s face, which, as I recall, was not part of the original project proposal.

So with an almighty effort, I did, for which I think I must be congratulated because my newest experiment was now making those heavenly “mmph-mmph” noises in the back of her throat as she sucked and stroked me off.

Having removed myself, somewhat, I now dispassionately observed the incredible scene before me, and received yet another shock to my already stressed system – the two Melony’s movements were not identical.

This doesn’t make any sense, I thought, as she continued working my cock.  My cock.  You see, much as I might wish it otherwise, I am depressingly average when it comes to the meat department.  Biker Dude, on the other hand, was well compensated below the belt for his lack above the neck.

But Robbi/Melony, or whatever she was now, was moving her head back and forth no farther than the dimensions of my meat, rather than the longer strokes the two-dimensional woman on the screen was employing on the much larger sausage.  Not only that, but the computer Melony was also squeezing one her massive cans with her free right hand whereas Robbi was making the same movement on her much smaller titty, rather than a foot over and down, which she would be doing if she were directly copying the action.

What did this mean? I wondered, despite the incredible distraction of being gobbled by this pseudo-pornstar.  If the computer/application was driving her movements, they should be precisely identical, unless…unless, and it was hard putting together this train of logic now that the blonde cocksucking machine had started fondling my balls, Robbi’s brain must be filtering the input prior to sending out whatever nerve impulses would be required to fulfill the computer’s directives.

Did that mean she was somehow conscious under this shell?  That she might be aware of what was going on but forced to comply?

No, she couldn’t be, I reasoned, as her mouth continued its extraordinary onslaught on my poor, but happy, cock.  No, the EEG program had, God-knows-how, circumvented her consciousness and was now directing her actions, like she was some sort of peripheral device, like a printer, or a scanner.  No sentience, no will; just a sort of techno meat-puppet.

I sure as fuck didn’t know at that moment, I just knew that my balls were boiling and that if I didn’t blow my load very soon, some part of me was apt to explode.  I looked back down at the screen to see that but one minute remained until the great eruption was to take place.

I allowed myself to be fully drawn back into the action, and it was such a blessed relief to stop thinking and start pumping her face I thought I might die on the spot from pure pleasure.  Biker Dude had hold of Melony’s head and was now jamming his sizable tool down her throat, a trick worthy of David Copperfield.  I, however, kept my hands well clear of the robot’s head, as the last thing I wanted to do was disturb the link that was keeping this mouth party going.  But I found I didn’t need to copy that particular action anyway, as she began impaling her mouth on my johnson without any assistance from me.

And before I knew it, it was happening, I was cumming.  Spasm after spasm racked me as I felt my jizz leaving my body and entering hers as fast as it could.  The sexbot kept pumping her fist up and down my cock, getting every last possible drop of my spuzz into her hungry mouth.  Wave after wave of pleasure washed over me, and I found that I no longer cared whether or not my actions closely matched those of Biker Dude.  I just stood there on shaking legs while my earth-mother/science partner/robot worked feverishly, draining my balls of their contents.

She gradually backed off her ministrations, slowing her pumping and sucking of my cock, which had long ceased disgorging her liquid lunch.  She lifted her head up and away, a rope of spittle connecting us, and wiped off her mouth with the back of her tiny hand.

And, just as she was being directed to by my laptop, she looked up into my eyes, licked her lips, and languidly reclined back onto my shitty chair.

Chapter 3

About This Device

The water felt cool on my wrists.  It was a trick my mum taught me when I was little, and I did it whenever I felt agitated, or nervous – a little water, straight out of the faucet, to help ease a troubled mind.

But it wasn’t working.  And it wasn’t working because the trouble wasn’t in my head; it was in the next room, with a belly full of my cum.

I had committed rape.

There it was, as simple as that, I was a rapist.  In the space of an hour I had achieved the greatest scientific breakthrough of all time, and cum in the subjects mouth.  Eat your heart out, Robert Jarvik.

I shut off the water and dried my hands.  Yes, I had committed rape; something I thought I would never, ever do.

But had I?  I mean, after all, what did I really do?  She took my dick out of my pants.  She gobbled my knob with abandon, making noises of whorish pleasure, sucking like a drunken nympho at a frat party.  I hadn’t done anything, other than to touch the keyboard of my computer and stand in front of her.

The realization that there might be a way out of this, that I might not be spending the next ten years of my life behind bars being cornholed by some hillbilly motherfucker with no teeth, acted on me the way cool water on my wrists hadn’t.

The fear began to recede and I found I was able to think a little more clearly.  The camera, I thought.  The camera can prove it wasn’t rape.  I dashed back into the front room, removed the camera from the tripod, and strode purposefully back into the kitchen, all the while avoiding looking at what was sitting in the chair. Whatever I had or hadn’t done, I had no wish to be reminded of it.

I played back the scene on the camera’s viewscreen, rather than uploading it and using the computer; I really did not want to do anything that might disturb the link just now.  The documentary stuff at the beginning was definitely weird, and could possibly give someone the impression she’d been drugged.  I made a note to myself to edit that part out.  The second bit, where you could hear Biker Dude’s voice, would also have to go, but the rest of it looked fairly straightforward.  I tried to look at it as a juror might; all it showed was a semi-naked chick giving one very lucky guy an absolutely hellacious blowjob.  I had framed the shot well; you couldn’t even see the laptop.  There was nothing whatever to indicate that this wasn’t a purely consensual sex act, and an extremely well performed one at that.  The fear receded a little further.

So that would just leave her word against mine, if it came to it.  I mean, what was she going to say?  “That horrible guy took over my brain, turned me into a robot, and made suck him off!”  I actually laughed out loud at the thought of that, quickly shushing myself afterward.  No, there was no way the law could touch me.  I wouldn’t end up as the ass du jour in the State Pen.

That did, however, leave the matter of her memory.  Was she aware of what had happened?  Would she remember it?  She mightn’t be able to prove anything, but that didn’t mean I wanted her to have to endure the mental trauma of sexual assault.  After all, I had made contact with, and now had some sort of control over, her brain.  Could I not, perhaps, find the memory, if it was there, and extract it?

That, I felt, was probably the single stupidest thing I had ever thought.  But I had done it, hadn’t I?  I had taken over another person’s brain, the first person ever to do so.  I had to explore the full scope of this now, as I didn’t know if I could ever duplicate it.

It was just on 3:30PM, according to the Kit-Kat clock on my kitchen wall, which meant that Robbi had been under for about ninety minutes.  I doubted that she’d had any real sense of the time before she started her nap, since she wore no watch and there are no clocks in my living room, and she didn’t strike me as one of those rare people who have an innate sense of time (she had told me she’d known she was late this morning because of the bank clock on the drive over).

I ran the timings through my head and figured that I could get away with six o’clock as a reasonable time to conclude, if she didn’t come out it on her own before then.  Holy shit! my brain screamed, what if she comes out of it?

I ran back into the living room and, there she was, just as I had left her, still lying back, one hand on her tit, the other hand resting on her slit, her middle finger just nestled within her still sopping folds.

I dressed her quickly, thankful for her action-figure joints and Kung Fu grip, as getting panties up a spread-legged statue would have been fucking impossible. I was also thankful that she hadn’t worn a bra – I’d removed enough of them to appreciate what a righteous bitch-kitty they must be to put on.

There was also the matter of her sperm breath but there really wasn’t anything I could do about that; I couldn’t very well brush her teeth for her.  I just had to hope that Melony, and by extension Robbi, had swallowed it completely.  I was also amazed to find that she hadn’t spilled a drop of it.  I’d never before received a hummer where the girl hadn’t spat, dribbled, or otherwise expelled that shit on some part of her anatomy.  Christ, I had one chick, Jessica, I think her name was, actually had some come out through her nose – and she still wanted me to kiss her afterwards.  No, the only trace of jizz on Robbi was on the back of her hand and forearm, and a bit on her lips, which I wiped away with a damp paper towel, again thankful that Robbi wasn’t into lipstick.

But I couldn’t help but notice she was still a little hot, most noticeably her chest, belly, ass, and legs.  I was pretty sure she was okay as her forehead was cool, which meant her brain wasn’t being boiled by the cap.

I put her back in my shitty chair, where she looked about as unnatural as a Barbie-doll in some little girl’s playset.  I didn’t fret on it as I definitely had badder fish to fry at the moment.  I was just glad that, whether aware of what had happened or not, she wouldn’t wake up to find her pussy taking the air.

I had to find out three fundamental things: was she conscious, would she return to her normal state if the laptop stopped transmitting, and was there some other application of this technique beyond taking a living, breathing human being and turning her into a computer-controlled fucktoy?

When people are faced with unanswerable questions, some turn to religion, others to philosophy, or art, or drink.  As for me, I Google it.

I brushed the trackpad of my laptop, killing my beloved big tit screensaver and cursored up to the minimize button on the Quicktime window.  Keeping an eye on Robbi, I tapped the trackpad, shrinking the window down into the Dock at the bottom of the screen.  Nothing happened, not a flicker of an eyelash or a twitch of a finger.

I cursored down to the Dock, where the Safari icon popped up, my gateway to the ‘Internets’, and was about a hundredth of a second from starting it, when I noticed something new on my screen; something I hadn’t seen before, something that no one has ever seen before.

There are two kinds of people in this world: people who have cluttered desktops, and people who don’t.  I am of the latter persuasion, never more than one line of icons running down the side of my wallpaper, unlike those with umpteen .doc’s and .pdf’s scattered higgledy-piggledy – don’t all those files obscure the nipples?

On my screen, just beneath the wondrous curve of Jana Defi’s giant left tit, sat an icon that hadn’t been there this morning; the icon that, on an Apple computer, represents a storage device, a server.

My jaw fell open, and I started to get the giggles.  This was motherfucking impossible!

“No, that’s just stupid.” I said out loud, “You passed impossible two blocks back at Blowjob Blvd.  This is motherfucking insane,” which must be true, seeing as how I was now talking to myself.

This just could not be.  The brain wasn’t a hard drive that you could just write to.  It wasn’t a device you could store data in.  She wasn’t a fucking iPod.

Was she?

I looked at her, just sitting there in my chair, eyes bright, but looking at nothing in particular, almost like she was waiting.

Waiting for what? I wondered

What else does a device wait for? I answered – Input.

My friends refer to me as, among other things, ‘the Smartest Guy in the World’.  Now while I try never to shit on anyone’s good opinion of me, this particular title just isn’t true.  If it were I’d be living on a tropical island, with a billion bucks in the bank, getting hourly blowjobs from Salma Hayek.  But I do have my strengths, and one of them is that I’m really good at figuring shit out.  I seem to have this natural talent for spotting patterns, or what doesn’t belong, or just how to get you back to where you were before you completely fucked something up.

So put ‘impossible’ out of your mind, bub, I told myself and apply your patented problem-solving techniques to this.

I looked back down at the icon again.  It did have a label, as all icons do, but it didn’t say ‘Robbi’, or even ‘Unknown Device’.  What it was was unreadable, like that Zapf Dingbats shit.  I thought about renaming it, but this was an exploratory mission – plenty of time to fuck things up later.

I put the cursor over the icon and right-clicked on it.  As with any other icon, the little action window popped up, giving me plenty of choices of things to do with Robbi’s gray matter.  I selected ‘Get Info’.  I had expected weirdness and was certainly not disappointed:

Kind:            Volume

Server:        afp://10.0.0.7

Created:     λ.,0θ∏]+<≅≅ξ!%δμ

Modified:     Today at 1:57 PM

Format:       1μ/α][φν

Capacity:    Calculating Size

Available:    Calculating Size

Used:          3.9 GB

And underneath that, in the permissions box, it very kindly informed me: You can read and write

‘You can read and write?’  Okay, this was definitely Twilight Zone shit now.  My computer thinks my science partner is a hard drive, and I can store shit in her, on her…or whatever.

The giggles began to return in full force.  Well, it just makes sense, doesn’t it? I managed to think in between spasms of silent laughter.  I mean, after all, don’t we put things inside chicks all the time?  We put our cocks in them, vibrators, tampons, fucking ben-wa balls.  We put little bits of plastic in them so they don’t have babies, and then we take them out so that they can.  We put things in their mouths, in their butts, and we even put sacs of plastic in their tits!  I mean, what the fuck, they are storage devices.

I had to calm down; I was beginning to feel like some half-crazed, comic book supervillain bent on world conquest.  I took a deep breath and looked back at the screen.

Well, it saw her as a server, and her address was correct, it being the address assigned to the sensors on her forehead.  But the computer couldn’t read when this device was created, or first used, or how it was formatted, which was probably a good thing.  I don’t know why but the possibility of it actually reading that kind of data scared me more than anything else so far.

It also showed that the last modification to the unit occurred at 1:57 PM.  Now, this was intriguing.  This was about the time she had fallen asleep, so was this her last conscious thought, or was it when my laptop stuck its electronic dick into her frontal lobe?  This looked liked the proof I’d wanted that there was no awareness of anything that might, or might not, have occurred in my living room.  But I certainly wasn’t going to take it as gospel.

The next two items almost brought about a return of the giggles. It wasn’t surprising that it couldn’t gauge the capacity of Robbi’s brain; I think I saw some TV program somewhere that said there were possibly 200 million neurons and 10 quadrillion synaptic junctions and that, all told, the cerebral cortex could hold from up to 500 to 1,000 terabytes of data, which equaled about one gajillion books, or something like that.

But it was the last item that really threw me for a loop – 3.9 gigs.  According to my computer, which I was now absolutely certain was full of shit, I could fit the entirety of Robbi’s brain in my iPod nano, and still have room left over for all of the Harry Potter audiobooks.

It was crunch time, time to quit fucking around and see just what I could do.  I took a screenshot of the Info window, and stuck that in a new file I named ‘Robbi’s Brain’.  I looked down at the server icon and realized there were only two actions left to me: copy, or open.  Most people wouldn’t hesitate here, but I felt the need to move carefully.  This was, by far, the coolest thing I had ever dealt with, and I wasn’t about to fuck it up by not thinking things through.

It’s why I’m the Smartest Guy in the World.

I opted to open her up; it seemed the safer route.  Besides, I really did not want my computer to lock up while copying Robbi’s brain, possibly requiring me to reboot the bitch.  I double-clicked.

If I had expected to see flashing light, swirls of color undulating across my screen, or even the face of God, then I would have been disappointed.  There were no strobes, and no burning bushes; there was a file folder, just the one folder.  I double-clicked on that, and that was when I saw the face of God.

File after file after motherfucking file.  So many files my computer could not count them, and all of them with that crazy, unreadable font, which I now realized was the computer attempting, and probably failing, to interpret what it was seeing.  If it hadn’t been for the truly great blowjob, I would’ve bagged it right then and there and gotten down to some serious drinking.  Were these memories, instructions for her liver to convert glucose, or maybe a switch I could throw to make her grow an extra arm? 

I paged down the list, marveling at what I was seeing.  Each file was 0 KB!  I continued down the list, page after page, all of them exactly the same – 0 KB!  I right-clicked on one of the files at random to get some detailed info – more weird lettering – 0 KB!  This was simply too strange to contemplate, how could a file, one of apparently billions of files, take up no space?  I remember that same TV show mentioned that the brain also compressed data far more efficiently than hard drives, which, I supposed, could account for what I was now seeing.

It could also be that Robbi had sucked my sanity out through my pecker.

I grabbed one of the files and dragged it onto my desktop, copying it.  I thought the computer might tell me it didn’t recognize it, or was unable to copy the file, but it did, although I noticed the filename was different on the copied file, strengthening my opinion that my laptop was in over its processor, so to speak.

I tried to open it, but my computer wasn’t having any, which I had figured would be the case.  So where does that leave us, I wondered.  But I knew perfectly well the answer to that question.

“Well, Robbi,” I said, looking at what I used to think of as a human being, now no longer sure, “it did say I could write to you.”

Write what, I thought, should I jam an old term paper in her head, a Jackie Chan movie, an mp3 of ‘Shaft’ (you’re damn right)?  I started to laugh again, at the thought of uploading music into another person – then she really would be an iPod, or better still, an iBod.

So, like a turkey on Thanksgiving, I stuffed whatever I could think of into the maw that was Robbi’s brain: some mp3’s, a vid of a big-boobed brunette ramming a state-fair winning cucumber up her snatch (size isn’t important, my ass), and, just for good measure, a cooking program I’d pirated (you can tell by the number of Arby’s wrappers and cereal boxes in my trash, how much use I’d gotten from it).  I opened them all up and they performed as they would on any other server, but now she was no longer part of the action: no singing, no ramming, or otherwise.  I would have thought, given the previous bravura performance, that she’d be miming the action, but no, she just sat there with that same stupid programmed smile on her lips.  A pity, though, I mean, she had just sucked me off, and done a damn fine job of it, because a computer file told her to, so then why wasn’t she giving me some Creedence, or a live sex show, or making me a fucking omelet?  It didn’t make sense, but then sense had leapt out the window two hours ago wearing a tutu and a frock coat.  I chalked it up to a mystery to solve later, seeing as how the clock was ticking. 

I supposed it was time now, time to see if the thing I was now most interested in doing (having already emptied my balls down Robbi’s throat) was even possible: could I actually download the contents of another human being’s brain onto my hard drive?  I had ample room on my drive for up to twenty chicks, if 3.9 gigs was typical.  I hit the ‘back’ button, grabbed the lone folder that held all apparent knowledge, sentience, and identity of my science partner, and dragged it onto my desktop.

And it worked.  The little window popped up telling me it was now copying a person onto my computer, but sadly it also said that it would take twenty-one minutes to do so; if only Robbi had a firewire port, I could download the bitch in just a few minutes.

But I now had time to think about the events of the last few hours.  I had done the impossible – some might even say the unthinkable – in tapping into another person’s brain.  So what could I do with this knowledge, aside from turning sleeping girls into the world’s greatest sex toys?  The lizard brain told me that this was achievement enough, and to rest on my laurels, preferably with a glass of Tecate and another earth-shaking blowjob.  I shook my head to clear that image, assured that I could call it up again later; I had sexually abused another human being while she was, I hope, unconscious; this would not occur again.

But could this technology be adapted to other uses?  And before I had even completed that sentence in my mind, answers started flooding in: let’s start with education, psychology, health care, you name it.  How about travel?  Just imagine uploading your consciousness into another brain, a rented brain, let’s say, and let’s say that brain is in Australia, or the South Pole, or even on fucking Mars.

I kept blue-skying possibilities in my mind, how the world might change, how the very existence of humankind would be revolutionized by my work, and I got so into it that I found myself pacing around my tiny apartment, oblivious to the fact that Robbi’s brain was now completely backed up on my laptop (talk about the ultimate in data protection).

What else to do, I wondered.  I still had a few minutes until six o’clock and a whole shitload of experiments I wanted to begin, but they would all take too long, and I was not about to run over – good science demands discipline.  But there were two things I was really itching to try, the first being, could I reformat her brain?  I was of two minds on this one: it quite frankly shocked and even scared me that I might actually be able to wipe Robbi’s brain of everything, and reload something else in there, possibly killing or injuring her, or turning her into a flat-chested vegetable: and it gave me the biggest fucking hard-on.

The other thing I desperately wanted to try, and both things really would have to wait, was to just to take Robbi’s brain and trash it; just drag it into the trashcan and hit ‘Empty’.  What would happen?  Would her memories really be irretrievable?  Would she become a real meat puppet, or worse?  I did have a copy stored on my laptop; could I restore?  If I had two women could I transplant their identities?  Could I duplicate them?  Could I create a whole army of vegan, earth-mother, cocksuckers?  I had no idea, all I knew was that as Saturdays stacked up, this was a pretty good one.

But now was the time for restraint, to observe, to document.  As cool as the idea of a legion of Amazon babes was, there was absolutely no evidence that anything I had done, insofar as manipulating data inside what my laptop believed to be Robbi’s brain, was real: writing to a human brain was bullshit, it just had to be.  I mean, yes, Robbi had involuntarily sucked me off, but that could just be a response to external stimuli, akin to touching an electrode to a frog’s leg and making it flex.  No, the only way to prove it would be to repeat it; to go back inside tomorrow and see if my changes were still there.

And there was also the small issue of Robbi, herself.  When she woke up, if she woke up – there was still no guarantee of that, and certainly no precedent – would she be the same?  Or would she be brain damaged? Or might she now believe, despite all evidence to the contrary, that she was a fat-titted pornstar?  Important questions, to be sure.

It was time to pull the plug, at least for today.  I grabbed the icon representing Robbi, and dragged it down to the Dock, where it would, hopefully, eject, thereby turning control of Robbi back over to Robbi, at least until tomorrow.

But would there be a tomorrow?  Would Robbi even want to come back?  I very much wanted to continue but I doubted that Robbi would.  Not just because I’d sort of taken liberties with her mouth, for I was now reasonably certain that she would remember none of it; computer memory is all or nothing.  No, it wasn’t the sucking cock but rather the sucking at ESP that was going to sour this deal.  I had to have Robbi for this, and not just because she’d given me the orgasm of my life, but because she was a ready-made subject, primed and tested – but how to keep her?

The answer came to me in a flash of inspiration that actually gave me goosebumps.

“Robbi?”

“Robbi?”

Her eyes flickered open, then closed, then opened again.

“Robbi?”

She stared straight ahead, unblinking, her chest rose and fell: was she rebooting?  I started to feel the onset of a truly epic panic attack; visions of me calling up the Geek Squad, begging them to come over and fix my SuckBot 2000.

And then animation flooded her face, and real human movement flowed through her arms and legs as she began stretching.  She had come back.

“Oh, I’m sorry, Jake,” she said, a little dully.  “I guess I’m not a very good partner, am I, zonking on you like that.  How long have I been…?”  She let the question hang there and began making a face, a face I’d seen before on more than one girl, the ‘ick’ face.  I needed to move quickly.

“Not long,” I lied.  “Just a little under two hours.  Can I get you something, a glass of water, coffee?”

“Water, please.” she said, the ‘ick’ face becoming more pronounced.

I returned with her water quicker than a butler on crank, having got everything ready beforehand.  I found I was able to breathe properly now, and kept my face impassive as she took the proffered glass and washed my DNA down her gullet, and thereby my guilt.

“What time is it?” she asked, setting the now empty glass on my shitty coffee table.

“Just on six o’clock,” I said truthfully, and more than a little relieved that she appeared to be her normal self.  

“Omigod,” she said, getting to her feet, and beginning to gather her ton of crap she’d brought in that opera house of a purse.  “I’m sorry to, erm, sleep and run, but I’m supposed to meet Mother for dinner tonight, and I really must go.”

“No sweat, Robbi,” I said, trying to compose my face exactly as I had spent five minutes practicing it in the mirror.  “No problem at all.”

“Look,” she went on, “I’m sorry our project turned out to be such a dud,” the disappointment apparent in her tone.  “Do you need my help finishing it up…Jake, why are you smiling like that?”

“Am I smiling?” I replied, knowing exactly how I looked, and thinking I really should consider a career on Broadway, “Why shouldn’t I be smiling?  It isn’t every day that two college students make history.”

“History…” she started.  “You mean the experiment…?” she said, pointing at my laptop, which now sported a lovely picture of a Hawaiian sunset.  “But, Jake, I sucked at it.”

She had no idea.  I simply continued my idiotic smiling, reached into my back pocket and dug out a single sheet of paper, the results of the last hour of experimentation, plus my own small adjustments.

“23.2 percent?  But Jake,” she said, looking at the paper, shock now etched across her features, “you said I was ‘bang on’ twenty percent.  I don’t understand.”

“It’s simple,” I replied, “I fucked up.  I went back over the figures, twice, in fact, and this is how you did.  Fucking history, Robbi!”

“Oh, Jake,” she said, a little quaver distinctly audible, “are you sure?  You said even a one percent variance was significant.  You’re really sure about this?”

“Sure, I’m sure.  It’d be nice to confirm our findings, possibly even improve upon them, but I’ll understand if you’d prefer not to continue.  I mean, I suppose I could find…”

“Jake, don’t you dare!” she cried, with just the look of stricken panic I’d hoped for.  “Please, Jake.  Oh, this is just so max!  Please, I could come back tomorrow, and we could go as long as you’d like.  Oh, please, Jake.”

‘As long as I liked?’  That was truly the understatement of the year, considering how many gigs of video I have.  But I had her precisely where I wanted her.  “Robbi, I wouldn’t dream of using anyone else.”  It was a pity, I thought, that the irony of that sentence was completely lost on her.  Now that I knew that there was absolutely no memory banked of anything while she was under, I began to wonder what the limits truly might be.

“Oh, thank you, Jake,” she said, her eyes sparkling.  “Oh, I swear to God I’ll be on time tomorrow, and I won’t fall asleep on you, and I’ll…” and she paused here, a slightly confused look creasing her brow, “…I’ll even bring lunch.  Yes, I’ll bring lunch.  How would that be?”

Crikey, I thought, I really do have her hooked.  Maybe I should get a voluntary blowjob from her, just for the sake of comparison, of course.  I assured her that that would be just fine, whereupon she actually leaped forward and hugged me.

“Oh, Jake,” she said, almost crooning, “this is so max!  Real ESP!  Oh, wait ‘til I tell Mother!”

I had expected something like this, and I was ready.  “Uh, Robbi, do you think that’s a good idea?” I said, putting just the right touch of concerned paranoia in my voice.

“Not a good idea?  Jake, we can’t just keep this to ourselves!  Think of how ESP could change the world!  I mean, not just science but, well…” and she paused here.  She seemed to be pausing a lot, causing me to wonder whether I hadn’t squashed a few billion neurons whilst I was tramping around in her gray matter; but in all truth I really didn’t know her that well (except for the back of her throat); maybe she was always this way.

“…you know…like, education, and…oh my God, Jake, if people could actually read each other’s minds we could rid the world of hate, of war!  And all because of us!”

“Yes, Robbi,” I said, ever the calm voice of reason and wisdom, “a world without war.  And what do you think the military-industrial complex would do if they thought, even for a moment, that they might be made obsolete?”

“Well, that’s just silly, nobody wants war when they can ha…” and then it hit her.  Comprehension dawned on her face as the enormity of my bullshit engulfed her, smothering any resistance.  “Omigod, Jake, we can’t tell anyone about this!  What are we going to do?”

And I told her.  We would take it slow and easy, we would find out just what, if anything, we had here.  We would keep it between us, and when the time was right we would publish it on the Internet, for the whole world to see – no more secrets.

She swallowed it all, as I knew she would; I didn’t need ESP to know that Robbi, hell, everyone, fears all that shadow government shit; too easy, really.  But I bowed her out of my shitty apartment, and watched her as she clacked her way down the walk, silhouetted against a blood-red sunset, happy and humming to herself, a secret in her heart, my sperm in her belly.

And I kept it together, right up until I closed the door, and then I dropped to my knees and began laughing silently: silently, because if I let anyone hear, they would most certainly put my ass in a padded room post-fucking-haste.  I knelt there a long time, my arms clasped to my now very sore ribs.

I had thought that I would have to wait until tomorrow for conclusive proof that I had actually gained access to another person’s mind, but no more.  For I had recognized the tune that Robbi was humming as she departed: Born on the Bayou, by Creedence Clearwater Revival; one of the .mp3’s I’d uploaded onto the blonde iPod that was now wending its way home.

Chapter 4

Robbi 1.1

“What did you do to me?”

If I hadn’t just gone to the bathroom five minutes before, I would have pissed myself, but fortune was on my side that morning, so I just stood there in the open doorway and stammered.

“I-I don’t…I d-didn’t d-do…” was all I could get out before I realized the face in front of me was not suffused with anger, but rather with a joy usually reserved for a child on Christmas morning.  She was smiling.  Not a happy smile, or a Mona Lisa smile.  It was like no other smile I had ever seen before.  It was a smile that went all the way to eleven.

She flounced past me, carrying the largest picnic basket I have ever seen, which appeared ready to burst, as did the girl hauling it along – “Omigod, Jake, you’ll never believe it, you’ll just never believe it!  I’ve got so much to tell you.  It all started right after I left here.  I just felt so great!  Well, what can I say, I got home, and really, the last thing I wanted to do was have another boring dinner with Mother, so I called her and cancelled; she was really very sweet about it.  But then I realized I was absolutely starving!  So I got in my car and started driving to Taco Bell, you know, because I just love their Grilled Stuft Burritos, but when I pulled into the parking lot I realized there was a Food King in back of it, and suddenly the idea hit me to make my own burritos!  So I went in and started buying whatever ingredients came into my head, and then I realized I didn’t have the right kind of pans to make a whole roast turkey with gravy and parsley potatoes, because I decided I really wasn’t in the mood for burritos anymore, so I went ahead and bought some new utensils as well, you know, a knife block, knives, sharpening stone, meat thermometer, roaster, electric griddle, toaster oven, springform pans, pastry bags, you know, basic cooking stuff.  Well, I got it all back to my place and started cooking and cooking, and you know, Jake, I never thought I could cook before, but you must have unlocked something in my head because it turns out I’m a really good cook, and I didn’t even use a recipe, not even any of my mother’s because Mother doesn’t cook, you know, Cook does all the cooking, and I wasn’t even ever allowed in the kitchen at home because Mother has this thing about gender-assigned roles and stuff…”

She said all of this very fast, without the slightest break or pause, racing to my kitchen, whereupon she began emptying the contents of the basket onto my laughably small counter: roast turkey, stuffing, mashed potatoes, parsley potatoes, candied sweet potatoes, gravy, grilled beef burritos (apparently the mood hadn’t quite left her), homemade tomatillo salsa, green salad for twenty, apple brown betty, and a pan of brownies, still warm, emitting a seductive scent of chocolate that I could smell from across the room.

“Uh, Robbi…?”

“…and God, Jake, I  just couldn’t stop eating.  I just ate and ate and ate, like I hadn’t eaten in weeks.  But I really can’t keep all this food in the condo, and I did say I’d bring lunch and, no offense, but I really think a few square meals wouldn’t do you any harm, y’know?”

“You made all this food last night?  Good God, Robbi, when did you sleep?”

“That’s what I’m trying to tell you, Jake, I haven’t been to bed yet!  And I still don’t feel the slightest bit tired, in fact, I’ve never felt this good in my whole life!  And Jake, that isn’t even the best part; here, look at me.”

She turned around to face me, and struck a pose, hands on hips, in that sort of swimsuit model way.  It was the first clear look I’d gotten of her since she’d walked in, and I definitely liked what I saw.  She was wearing khaki shorts, a white blouse (which set off her tan nicely), and high-heeled sandals.  She did look a little different but it was difficult to put my finger exactly on what.  She looked like she’d dropped a few pounds, her hair looked a little lighter, her skin looked a little more tan, she looked to be wearing makeup today as her cheeks had a rosy glow to them and her lips a dusky shade of red, and…she had tits!  Not a major pair of hooters, by any means, but there were definitely tits there, and my practiced eye told me she looked to be about a B-cup.

I leaned back, allowing the back of my shitty chair to support my weight, as I suddenly felt a little weak in the knees.  What was I looking at here, a whole cup size overnight?  She could be wearing a padded bra, but that just didn’t seem likely.  And what about her skin, tan-in-a-bottle?

“Robbi…” I started, trying not to sound like I was an authority on her body, having seen every square inch of it the previous day, “have you lost weight?”

She laughed.  “Jake, you’re sweet!  If it was only that, I’d be thrilled!  I’ve lost seven pounds, overnight!  And it’s not just the weight, I feel fantastic!  I really didn’t notice until about five o’clock this morning, because I’d been so busy cooking, but after I’d made all the food I’d bought, I decided I needed to relax, so I, umm, decided to take a bath, and that’s when I realized…”

“Yes…?” I said slowly, trying to draw her out.  She was blushing slightly, and if I’d read her ‘umm’ correctly, I took it that she had decided to rub one out.  I stole a look at the plastic-wrapped salad sitting on the counter – she’d used cucumbers, big fuckers, too, and I found myself wondering, were they recycled?

“…just that my body looked a little different…better, skinnier, healthier.  Oh, Jake…” and she actually began tearing up here, and clacked over to me and put her arms around me and hugged me.  “you’ve made a new woman out of me, or something.  I don’t know, maybe you’ve unlocked something in me, or…or, well, I don’t know but, I just want to thank you.”

She continued to sniff, her nose just under my jaw, hot breath on my neck.  I had my arms around her and instantly knew that she wasn’t wearing a padded bra, hell, she wasn’t wearing any bra.  I could feel her newly expanded sweater puppies cuddling up to my abdomen, and though they might not be as large as I prefer, I found that my cock didn’t seem to have a problem.  Christ, I hadn’t been that hard when I’d been fucking her face yesterday.

“I’m sorry, Jake,” she said, breaking away from me, wiping the tears from her eyes and cheeks, “I’ve just been so emotional this morning, not that I’m complaining.”

“Here,” I said, trying to make my voice sound smoothly calm, “why not relax and sit down for a bit?”  I gently touched her shoulder and guided her over to my shitty couch.  “You’ve been up all night, apparently working like a madwoman, your body is, for whatever reason, going through some changes and, I suspect, driving your hormones a little wacky.”  I kept a croon to my voice, like one might use with an overwrought child, and motioned her to sit, which she did.  “Can I make you some tea?”

“Oh, no need to, Jake,” she started, excitedly  “I can do it!”

“No,” I said firmly, “you are my guest now.  I want you to relax, and try to think about nothing while I make you some tea.  Deal?”

She smiled a small smile, her eyes still moist.  “Deal,” she said softly.

I tried to keep my mind blank as I made my way to the kitchen, making sure not to bump into any furniture or leap out the window while en route.  I made it safely, though it took every ounce of my concentration to do so.  My head was swimming.  I saw before me more food than I could eat in a week; all of it looking as though it had come out of a fucking cookbook, which, in a very real sense, it had.

I put on the kettle (a gift from my parents, which I first thought was the stupidest thing they’d ever bought me, and that I now wouldn’t part with for the world – chicks dig tea, always remember that), remembering after about a minute to turn the flame on.

I had bought myself time, time to think, and now that I had that time I found that I couldn’t wrap my brain around a single coherent thought.  What had I done?  I was beginning to feel like Dr. Frankenstein, but instead of a seven-foot tall monster, I had a breast-expanding, Martha Stewart, cucumber-humping, fembot sitting on my couch.

I needed her asleep, right-motherfucking-now.  I needed to see if everything inside her skull was as I had left it last night.  And what if it is? I asked myself.  What will you do?  Are you going to remove those files?  Put her back the way she was?  Take away her tits?  The truth of the matter was I had no idea what I was going to do, but I certainly wasn’t going to fuck with her tits.  Primum non nocere – First, do no harm.

I started putting away the food, more to occupy my hands and try to kick-start my brain than anything else, and I had only just finished when the first sounds of whistling emanated from the kettle.  I threw a bag of chamomile into one of my two mugs (hey, at least they’re clean), filled it with the boiling water, and set the timer for five minutes.  I don’t drink chamomile tea, having just purchased this, and several other varieties of decaf tea only last night.  This had been part of the plan, to induce Robbi to sleep as quickly as possible.  I even purchased a CD of ocean wave sounds to help lull her to sleep.  The thought had occurred to me to try to get her drunk, or even slip her a ‘roofie’, but these things don’t induce real sleep, which I was sure was essential, rather than unconsciousness, plus there was that whole pesky ‘against the law’ thing.

As the timer counted down I began to put together the sequence of events that I would initiate so as to get the day’s real project going: tea, thirty minutes of cards, maybe a turkey and cheese sandwich (now that I knew Robbi wasn’t a vegan), more cards, more tea, etc.  I figured three hours tops, especially since I had practiced the art of speaking in as boring a tone as possible last night.  She wouldn’t stand a chance.

The timer beeped, announcing it was showtime, so I strained out the teabag, picked up the mug, put on my game face, and strode purposefully out into the living room to attend my project, and found out I needn’t have bothered.

She was out like a fucking light.

It was a risk, slipping the cap onto her sleeping head, but I figured it was worth it.  I had the laptop open, only a few feet away, as I slowly put it on her, thankful that she wasn’t partial to the big-haired look.  I waited.  And there it was, on my screen as it had been yesterday.  The fembot was now online.

Now, I know I had said I wasn’t going to molest her anymore, and I intended to keep that promise, but I had to see the full extent of what was going on with Robbi.  I quickly began unbuttoning her blouse, unworried that she would awaken now that she had been acquired.  I parted the expensive material to find her new, larger breasts sitting prettily on her chest.  Yes, a B-cup looked to be about right, and I could barely keep the giggling from my voice as I squeezed and tested her new endowments.  They felt absolutely fine, as firm and warm (though not as large) as a pair of tits should be, and I was pleased that they were no longer as burning-hot as they had been when I first held them.

But why?  I could understand her weight loss due to her exertions while staying awake all last night, and certainly due to the body heat given off yesterday, but why would her tits grow?  If she gained some of it back in the form of fat from all the pigging out she’d done in the night, it would just go right back where it came from, rather than into these nice, new boobies, wouldn’t it?

I’m no biologist, but it just didn’t add up, unless she was wrong about having lost the weight in the first place.  That could be, especially if she were high on sweets.  Robbi, really, was not a reliable witness.  What was needed was independent verification, which left…me.

I disrobed her, which was not as easy as I would have thought.  While her limbs moved effortlessly, it’s a major pain in the butt to undress a girl if she isn’t helping, but finally she lay on my shitty couch, completely nude.

Well, one thing was for sure, she certainly had improved in the looks and tone department.  A good bit of the chunkiness was now gone, and her skin practically glowed with good health.  In fact, it looked like she’d spent a few hours on a tanning bed.  Her hips also seemed to have lost some of their size, and tapered down to what almost resembled a dynamite pair of legs.

But then I noticed something odd: her tan lines had changed.  Yesterday she’d had the typical tan lines most girls have – standard two-piece, thin straps reaching up around the neck, and nice, sensible bikini bottoms – but not anymore.  There was now no trace whatsoever of any tan lines on her upper body, and ‘nice and sensible’ had given way to what looked like fairly daring French-cut panties.  I lifted her legs up high, purely in the interests of science, and looked down the backs of her thighs.  Her tan was smooth and even all the way down to her feet, though quite faint.  I moved back up her body, and that was when I noticed the truly weird thing, which had gotten lost amidst the other weird things that I had seen thus far this morning.

Her pussy.  It wasn’t the same.  I grabbed the video camera; the only other witness to the events of this weekend, and ran the video back to where I could verify I was not hallucinating.  I found what I was looking for and paused the image in the viewfinder.  Yesterday her pussy had been as bald as Britney’s, but not today.  Hair had grown there, overnight, about three days worth, maybe more.  Beautiful, blonde pussy hair – in the shape of a heart.

Just like Melony’s.

I reset the camera back to the end and began filming every inch of her I could.  This was fucking insane, a word I was really going to have to expunge from my vocabulary.  It was insane, but the proof was here, right in front of me.  Her new tan lines were the same as Melony’s, her pussy was starting to look like hers, her tits were getting bigger, her hair becoming lighter, even her formerly thin lips were beginning to resemble the collagen-injected pole-smokers of Melony’s.

But how?  I had stuffed a cookbook in her brain, and she had gobbled it up like a lumberjack at a pancake breakfast.  She had been humming a song I’d planted in there, and, I was now absolutely sure of this, she had probably fucked herself stupid on a cucumber that was now part of my lunch.

So why wasn’t she becoming her, a fat-titted brunette instead of a fat-titted blonde? I asked myself.  I hadn’t stuck a video of Melony in there.

For the same reason that she didn’t turn into a roast loin of pork, I answered.  A file in her head was apparently treated as a stored item, a memory, an image, or whatever.  But as her body recreated the movements of whatever image was jacked into her brain from an exterior source, so her body, itself, began to recreate that image as well.  And she had been in contact with that image for almost four hours!  It didn’t make a whole lot of sense to me, but this was definitely uncharted water.

I mean, the human body can do some amazing shit.  How many stories have been written about scrawny women lifting cars off of their children, or those religious wack-jobs whose hands will start spontaneously bleeding as though they’d had nails driven through them, or idiot-savants, like Blind Tom, a blind, lightly retarded, piano-playing Southern slave who could play back any tune perfectly, even from only one hearing, without ever having taken so much as a lesson.

So while whatever metamorphosis Robbi was undergoing was certainly bizarre, it was not without precedent.

Did that mean, then, that my partner was going to become the spitting (or swallowing, as the case may be) image of the greatest porn star alive?  The jury was out on that one, only time would tell.  All I knew was that I better get a fucking ‘A’ on this assignment.

I needed more data, more footage.  I grasped her by the wrists and pulled her up, but this, I found, was not going to work.  Getting her to lay or sit was easy, as there was little or no balance involved, but getting a two-legged device to stand up on its own was something else.  But I have a flexible mind and a shitload of porn.  It took all of a minute to find a .jpg of Melony standing.  I brought that up and, sure enough, Robbi swiveled smoothly around and stood up, almost nailing me in the seeds with the side of her hand.

She now stood before me, her ass thrust out, her chest thrust forward, head turned to the side, half-hidden behind her upraised left arm, and a smile that made my already hard cock almost explode on the spot.  I was now better able to appreciate the new and improved package that was my science partner.  She was definitely finer, no doubt about that: slimmer ass, thighs and belly, fatter tits.

I took about another ten minutes of video, detailing as much of her as possible, without using a speculum.  I got an extreme close-up of her right nipple and, just for shits and giggles, blew on it.  It erected.  I hadn’t expected this and wasn’t quite sure what to make of it.  After a couple of seconds it returned to its ‘normal’ state.  I blew on it again, and again it stood up like a little soldier.  I shut off the camera and put it down on the coffee table.

What I was about to do was in the name of science, and also out of simple human curiosity.  I bent over so that my face was a scant few inches from that beautiful pink nipple, ready to give it a fat kiss, and felt, again, the heat radiating off of it, which meant that Robbi’s body was working overtime trying to become the image it was connected to.  This worried me a bit.  Robbi’s body was presumably burning off its fat to make this happen; what would happen when she ran out?  Would she burn up, like a car engine?  I had no idea; I’d just have to make sure that she never ran dry.  After all, a lot of people drive cars without knowing the first thing about what makes them tick.  This really wasn’t all that much different, except this model had tits and gave unbelievably great head.

Undeterred, I bent back down and began to suck at that nipple.  Man, it felt good, and it immediately became erect as I played my tongue across it, batting it back and forth, swirling it around.  I looked over at the other nipple.  It was as it had been, so it appeared that arousal, for Robbi’s body, was purely limited to direct contact, meaning her mind was completely out of the loop.

I had to test her further, but again, not out of any personal desire I might feel.  I sat her back on my shitty couch in a reclining position, thinking as I did so, that I had the latest thing in life-sized love dolls in my apartment, and for a lot less than the $6,000 they normally run.

I spread her lightly tanned legs wide and knelt between them, gazing up at her new and improved body.  She already looked about three times better than she had yesterday; was she really going to look like Melony, JJ-cup cans and all?  I looked down at her sweet sex, moved my head downward, and inhaled.  Her pussy smelled wonderful, leading me to believe that she probably daubed it with Chanel, a better use I cannot imagine.  I put my tongue on her clit, and began spelling the alphabet on it.  The effect was instantaneous; her clitoris became engorged, much the same as any other chick I’d eaten out.  I gently put a finger up to her cunny, tenderly parting her nether lips, and then began stroking them slowly up and down.  I glanced upward, trying to see if there was any change in her facial features, any form of response other than local – not a bat of an eyelash, as far as I could see.

I slowly worked my finger into her, or started to, because I quickly realized that her pussy was as wet and inviting as I had ever known one to be.  It actually began pulling my finger into it.  I pulled it back and formed the three-finger triangle and presented that.  Her cunt accepted it like an old friend, pulling on it, almost begging it to come in and spend some time, as I continued sucking on her sweet clit.

I couldn’t take it any longer, my cock was as hard as a fencepost and I felt that I would die if I didn’t stick it in her, pronto.  “Just for a minute,” I told myself heatedly, “just to see.  Then I swear I’ll take it right out.”  I quickly yanked my pants down so that they pooled around my knees, moved my hips forward and inserted the head of my dick into her gaping snatch.

“Holy Fuck!”  I moaned, as my cock was gripped, pulled in, and given a massage by this sexbot’s velvet cunt.  I had never felt such unimaginable pleasure as I had at that moment; it seemed as though every nerve ending in my prick was being lovingly attended to.  This was, far and away, the finest fuck I’d ever had; possibly the finest fuck ever had by anyone, anywhere.

But I had to pull out soon or I was going to end up dumping about a quart of cum inside Robbi’s funbox, which would certainly be awful hard to explain to her when she came out of it.  But as I began to pull back, her sugar walls contracted around my cock even more, not making it impossible to vacate her snatch, just very, very undesirable, and within a few seconds I found myself wondering why I had ever wanted to.

But nothing lasts forever, and her cunt’s insistent milking of my prick had the desired procreative effect: I came like a fucking bull.  I slammed into her, again and again, determined to drive my seed as far up into her as possible.

I lay there, panting, my head resting upon her burgeoning boobies, exhausted, and unhappy.  Unhappy because I had just had the second greatest sexual experience of my life, and I had got it, again, through rape.  Over the gentle curve of the pleasure droid’s right tit, Melony’s stupid picture stared at me from my laptop’s screen, mocking me.  I reached out and killed the image on my laptop, and turned my head away, not wishing to be reminded of where technology had led me.

“I’m so sorry, Robbi,” I said miserably.  “Say you forgive me.”

“You forgive me.”

I shot bolt upright.  I looked at her, watchful, not daring to believe that I’d heard her speak.  But she had spoken; I’d heard it.

“Robbi?”

Nothing.  No sign of life, save for the steady rhythm of her breathing, which had not changed one bit, even while I was banging her like a bass drum.

“Robbi?”

Nothing again.  I replayed the scene again, in my mind.  I’d said, ‘please forgive me’.  No, that’s not it, I’d said, ‘Say you forgive me.’

“Robbi, say ‘you forgive me.’”

“You forgive me.” she replied, mechanically.

I began giggling again, almost girlishly, for which I think I can be excused, considering the circumstances.

“Robbi, say ‘fuck me, Jake.’”

“Fuck me, Jake.”

“Robbi, say ‘cum on my tits, baby.’”

“Cum on my tits, baby.”

I began laughing so hard that my softened prick popped out of her sloppy vag.  My jizz began leaking out of her, dribbling down her crack until it dripped off of her, and onto my shitty shag carpet.

I backed away from her and stood up, mindful of the coffee table.  “Robbi, stand up.”

She stood up.

I put both hands over my mouth, trying to keep from screaming, laughing, and sobbing hysterically all at the same time, which I’m sure can never look dignified.  I backed away from her until I was well clear of the furniture; for what I wanted to do, I needed room.

“Robbi,” I said, “walk over to me.”  She turned smoothly and began walking toward me, clad only in her high-heeled sandals, her expression neutral.  It was eerie, watching her move, looking neither sideways, nor up or down.  She walked right up to me, stopping precisely when her small boobies gently brushed my chest.  This was closer than I’d had in mind, so I backed up a foot.

Robbi walked forward a foot.

This was going to take some work, I could tell, considering that I didn’t have a manual.  “Robbi, stop,” I said, and backed up a few feet.

She stayed put.

“Robbi, touch your toes.”

She bent forward at the waist, and smoothly reached down her now beautiful legs and touched her pretty painted toes.

“Robbi, straighten up.”

Just as smoothly, she came back up to her original position.

It was official – I had a fembot!

I had been using the term for the better part of a day, but in actuality I had been misusing it.  The term ‘fembot’ actually came from an old ‘70’s TV show about a flat-chested woman with bionic limbs who could run sixty miles an hour, which I supposed answered the question of why they didn’t slap some bionic titties on her while they were at it – imagine the wear and tear on those puppies.  Anyway, she ran into the typical supervillain bent on world domination, and he had an army of female robots – fembots.  But his fembots were machines in the shape of women, whereas mine (now that she actually performed commands given by me) was a woman that functioned as a machine; perhaps I should call her a ‘robabe’.

She stood before me, arms at her sides, her face forward, cum dripping down her thighs.  I was going to have to fix that, pronto, as nothing puts a damper on a working relationship more than waking up to find someone’s scum leaking out of you.  Well, I supposed a warm washcloth would do the trick; I certainly wasn’t about to use my tongue, ick!  I felt a little sheepish, realizing that in all of my sexual experience, I had never seen what a chick actually did with her pussy after sex.  I’d just lie there, doing that habitual cuddling thing they like, and then they’d just off to the bathroom.

But maybe I didn’t have to clean her up.  Maybe I could use the very latest thing in labor saving devices.  “Robbi,” I said, in a clear, commanding tone, “go into the bathroom and clean out your pussy.”

She turned smoothly and went in the direction of my bathroom.  I followed, hoping that the grin forming on my face wasn’t of the maniacal sort.  She walked straight into my bathroom and turned her head side to side, as though she was assessing the situation, considering her options.  She then opened the door of my slightly grody shower, turned on the water, pulled the showerhead up and off of its cradle, kicked off her sandals, stepped in, and began washing her snatch.  I was so dumbfounded watching this that I forgot about the cap; if it got wet Robbi would be disconnected in a hell of a hurry.  But I needn’t have worried; Robbi’s aim was true as she washed her box out of every last bit of my cum, spraying the stream up inside her heavenly snatch.  After a minute or so, she shut it all off and stood there, waiting.  I grabbed my towel, only slightly damp from my morning shower, and held it out to her.

She didn’t take it.

“Stupid goddamned robot,” I muttered, and started to grab her hand to put the towel in it when I realized that it wasn’t her fault – it was operator error:  She was waiting for her next command.

I started to get those damned giggles again; I really was going to have to be more disciplined if I was going to take over the world.  I let them out and then wiped my eyes, which had got a touch misty.

What should I command her to do? I wondered.  The term ‘robot’, as I’m sure most people are aware, comes from the Czech, ‘robota’, meaning forced or compulsory labor.  Well, I surmised, if she really was now ‘Robbi the robot’, perhaps I should have her do some work.

I reached under the sink and grabbed the little wicker basket of cleaning stuff Mum had gotten for me as an apartment-warming present (what was she thinking?) and put it in front of the shower door.  “Robbi, clean the shower.”

She bent down, still a little wet, and grabbed the spray-bottle of cleaning gunk.  She had just started to her task when it struck me that something was missing.  “Robbi, when I address you, you will answer with ‘Yes, Master’, or ‘No, Master’, whichever is appropriate.  You may continue.”

“Yes, Master,” she replied, and started cleaning my fucking shower.

Yes, I thought, if one is going to do it, one may as well do it right.

It took her all of forty-five minutes to finish her task, not to my satisfaction, but rather hers, which apparently bordered on the obsessive.  I’d discovered that the cooking application I’d installed in her was actually pretty detailed about all things domestic.  Kind of ironic, I thought, what with Robbi having grown up completely ignorant of such things.

But she had done an absolutely spanking job of cleaning the shower; too good, I thought.  So much of what she had been doing was, to my mind, in excess of program parameters.  I mean, take the towel thing, for instance.  Most people, upon finishing a shower, would immediately towel off, but Robbi hadn’t.  Why, I ask myself?  Well, because she hadn’t been commanded to, I answer myself.  Then why, I counter, did she take off her heels before getting in?

The thing that really sucks about being the Smartest Guy in the World sometimes, is the absolute inability to let the little shit go and just fucking enjoy it.  But it was a mystery, and the thing about mysteries, if you really want to solve them, rather than just let the art flow over you, is to apply Occam’s Razor.

Occam’s Razor is defined by that repository of all knowledge, Wikipedia, thusly, ‘All other things being equal, the simplest solution is the best.’  Not a bad way of looking at things, on the whole, but then old William of Ockham never had to contend with a pole-smoking robobabe, with tits that were growing faster than the National Debt.

But this had reminded me of some earlier inconsistencies, namely the tit-grabbing of the previous day.  Perhaps this was yet another example of the peripheral device’s processor – Robbi’s brain – filtering the data prior to implementing directives, i.e. Robbi’s whole life experience prepared her for knowing better than to wear high heels in the shower, ergo she mindlessly removed them.  Same for the shower cleaning; the application told her how to clean, but she had grown up learning what ‘clean’ was because that’s how Esperanza, or Lupe, had left it for her.  It was all conjecture on my part, but it seemed a reasonable hypothesis, considering I really didn’t know jack-shit about it.

Why was this important, my future biographer might ask?  It was important because if I was going to give Robbi commands, I better damn well know what I was doing if I didn’t want my dick bitten off because of a few ill-chosen words.

Since she had done such a good job on the shower, I decided to have her clean the rest of my bathroom as well.  I monitored her, keeping an eye on her from my bed.  It was a good thing she was naked, as she would have stained or damaged those nice clothes of hers.  Although she wasn’t entirely naked; I had ordered her to put her heels back on; firstly, to observe how well she functioned with them, and, secondly, because she looked really good doing it.

But it wasn’t all just cooling my heels, no sir-ree, this was our project, after all.  I noticed that Robbi still had a few pounds to spare, a little jiggle to the wiggle, as it were.  I paused her, mid-wipe, and felt her nicer, bigger boobs.  They had definitely returned to normal body temperature, so I felt it was safe for the computer to continue her reshaping.  I called up another pic of Melony, one where she was bent over a rail, her fat, fake juggs just hanging down, waiting to be groped, minimized that window, and restarted Robbi.  Sure enough, the excess heat returned to the non-conforming areas, but it didn’t seem to be causing her discomfort or slow her down at all.  In fact, I even uploaded a dozen new songs into her and had her hum them while she worked.

In not much more than an hour, my toilet glowed, the sink was clean, the counter shining, the mirror spotless, and the tile floor looked as though you could perform surgery on it.  Crikey, even the taps gleamed.  Not only was this endeavor going to change the world, I was also certainly going to get my cleaning deposit back.

She looked positively radiant, standing there, in my now immaculate bathroom, her newer, firmer breasts standing out proudly from her ribcage.  I gave them both a squeeze to find them still quite warm.  I gave her butt a swat and found there was quite a bit less jiggle, so out of concern for her welfare, and general good maintenance, I killed the image on the laptop.

In no time her body temp returned to normal.  Since she seemed none the worse for wear I set her to work on straightening up my bedroom, something my parents had never been able to get me to do, despite all their begging, pleading, bribery, and threats.  If only they could see it now:  bed beautifully made, laundry neatly folded and put away, and the closet perfectly ordered.  I made a mental note to send a testimonial for that cooking program; it really was very comprehensive.

But having watched Robbi doing all this work had made me hungry.  I ordered her back into the living room and I had just put my hand on the fridge door when I realized how stupid I was being.

“Robbi, come into the kitchen.”

I heard her, “Yes, Master,” which I can’t deny caused more than a minor stirring below the belt; it really was a nice touch.  She arrived in just a few seconds, stopping precisely when she clacked onto the linoleum, eyes forward, face expressionless.

“Robbi,” I said, trying to figure out just the proper wording, “make for me a lunch suitable for one person from the food you brought here this morning.” 

“Yes, Master,” she said, and began working at the task I had set for her.  She worked with an almost, well there really was no other word for it, robotic efficiency; no wasted movements, no false stops or starts.  It was also a pleasure to watch her work, her new, almost heart-shaped ass shone prettily as she bent to retrieve the turkey from the bottom shelf of the fridge, her lovely C-cup tits wobbling nicely as she moved from side to side; a feast for the eyes in preparation for the one below.

And before I knew it, Robbi was placing before me a beautifully plated lunch that would not have been out of place at a Manhattan sidewalk café.  It was also just about the finest meal I’d ever had.  Everything had been nuked just perfectly, the salad was wonderful, although the cucumber did taste slightly of pussy (which was something I could definitely get used to), and the warm brownie was worth toppling a small government.

Robbi stood beside me the entire time I ate, looking every bit as delectable as the meal she’d prepared.  Her beautiful tits were on a level with my eyes and I really couldn’t help but admire the work that I’d done.  I had thought about having her sit, but my shitty dining room table is really quite small, and I found the idea of being stared at while I ate a little unnerving.

I pushed back from the table, my stomach full, but the rest of me was by no means sated.  Something in the back of my mind had been gnawing at me, ever since Robbi had attained true fembot status, something having to do with her skills.  Her oral skills, not to put too fine a point on it.

Yesterday I had received what was probably one of the hundred best blowjobs ever given on this planet, but how could I truly gauge it?  Today, Robbi had cooked me a fantastic meal, but she had done so with absolutely zero experience, her sole training having come from the computer: but what about her skill as a cocksucker?  For all I knew, she might have blown the entire gardening staff on her mother’s estate every morning before her kippers and eggs.  Perhaps she was every bit as much an accomplished pole smoker as Melony.  What I needed was a baseline.

I moved my chair away from the table and repositioned it so that it more faced the silent fembot.  I stood up, unselfconsciously shucked off my pants and my boxers, and sat back down again, my cock stiff, expectant.

“Robbi,” I said, my command voice coming quite naturally now, “give me the best blowjob you can.”

“Yes, Master.”

I still found it nothing short of amazing the utter lack of hesitancy on her part to do whatever I instructed.  She dropped gracefully to her knees, landing perfectly between my spread thighs, gently grabbed my cock, placed it between her much improved lips, and began sucking.

It took me less than five seconds to realize that Robbi absolutely sucked at giving head.  I watched her, mouth open like a cod, her cheeks contracting as she literally sucked on my dick as though it were a fat straw.  I figured it was pretty likely Robbi had never had a cock in her mouth before, as far as she knew.  I couldn’t help but feel a stab of pity for the gardening staff; perhaps Robbi’s mother felt dick-smoking to be gender-debasing, which it is, if it’s done right.

So I had my baseline.  Yesterday’s foray down Robbi’s throat had been entirely program dependent, which was a real pity.  Blowjobs like that really could end up saving the planet.  I laughed at that thought, not because I imagined hordes of soldiers throwing down their weapons, leaving the field of battle to go home, their fish-mouthed wives dutifully waiting to suck the aggression from their balls; nothing quite so bizarre.  No, I laughed because that was the reason Robbi had given in her written response for the project – that she wanted to save the planet.

“Well,” I said, as Robbi continued sucking away, “this planet certainly could use all the help it can get.  Robbi, stand up.”  She ceased her labors and stood up, my cock exiting her mouth with a pronounced ‘pop’.  I got up and went to the living room, leaving the fembot to stare at the wall.

I sat on my shitty couch and pulled the laptop over to me, making sure that Robbi’s server icon was still on the desktop; wouldn’t it just be too funny if the connection had dropped, and the last two hours was Robbi’s practical joke on me?  Everything appeared cool, so I began my search.  It took me ten minutes to find what I was looking for, another five to find a copy on a file-sharing website, and an additional minute to download it straight into Robbi’s brain.  I opened the application, and it certainly appeared to have everything the website had boasted: blowjob techniques, tips on talking dirty, not to mention forty sexual positions that might not even be legal in San Francisco.  What else would one expect from a program named Ultimate Babe?  I mean, after all, a cooking application had, overnight, turned Robbi into a gourmet chef and housekeeper, might not a sex program yield similar results?

I returned to the dining room, pausing only to admire Robbi’s backside.  I ran my fingers slowly up the baby-smooth slope of her right bum cheek.  I gave it a light spank, admiring how quickly it returned to rest; she really was looking quite remarkable.

I regained my seat before the fembot, my rod as stiff as ever.  “Robbi, give me the best blowjob you can,” I said, hoping I was as smart as I thought I was.

I apparently was.  Robbi, looked down at me, an expression of lioness lust suffusing her face.  She grabbed my cock roughly, squeezing it, pulsing it, looked into my eyes and purred, “I’m going to suck your balls dry, Jake.”  She then practically flowed to her knees and started the show – literally. 

She started by placing both of her hands on my ass and pulling my butt forward, so as to give her unobstructed access to my cock and, I think, to let me know precisely who was in charge of my pleasure.  I’d never had a chick do this; it was awesome.

She then licked her lips and took my rod into her mouth, treating it like a lollipop, swirling her tongue over the head, then, putting her lips over her teeth, she dove down my length, swallowing it all, applying suction on the upstroke, her free hand cupping my balls, squeezing them lightly.  Again and again she did this, driving me absolutely wild.  She hummed as she repeatedly devoured my cock, then she would let it slip from her mouth and run her moist lips and tongue down the underside of the shaft, sending chills up my spine.

She also did one thing that no other girl has ever done when sucking me off – she didn’t look at me.  Girls seem to think this is cool, and sexy, and whorish, and really excites the guy, but in reality it doesn’t, and it appeared that the people at Ultimate Babe were aware of this.  Her complete and total attention was entirely on my cock and balls, as though I wasn’t a part of this, as though they were the object of her devotion; a new experience for me.

I made a mental note to send Ultimate Babe $39.95 for the software, thereby acquiring it legally, also a new experience for me.

She continued her slavish ministrations on my meat, using teeth, tongue, nails and lips.  I was right on the verge of cumming, something she was obviously aware of because she kept the base of my dick tightly clamped with her fingers, preventing any impending eruption – this blowjob was not going to be over until she decided it was.  She then slowed things down, switching to a sort of ice-cream cone licking technique.

And then she rocked my world.

She straightened up, looking me in the eyes, and started caressing my cheek.  She sinuously raised herself up from her kneeling position, rather like a dancer might, and moved forward, straddling me.  She began slowly grinding her hips, forward and backward; rubbing her soft, wet pussy lips across the head of my thoroughly excited cock.  She began dancing for me, to music, I guessed, that only she could hear, and lightly pressed down on my forearms, sending a silent signal that I was not allowed to touch her.  She swayed and dipped, rubbing her erect nips across my dry lips while she teased my cockhead with her very wet ones.  She then pushed back and swung her leg over and around, so that her back was now to me, and bent over, presenting her nearly perfect ass to me and began bobbing it over my helpless dick, pushing it to and fro like a metronome as she danced.

I reached out to stroke her swaying flank, but she swatted my hand away, rhythmically shaking her finger at me.  She then took that same finger and inserted it into her wet hole, making sure I could see her finger-fucking that wonderful quim of hers.  She then, as Darwin is my witness, removed it and brought to her lips, whereupon she began sucking on it with lascivious delight.

Every cell in my body was aching for her to finish me, but the incidental contact was not enough and she knew it.  Her posture allowed her to grab my ankles, and then, with agonizing slowness, she lowered her sopping pussy onto the engorged head of my twitching cock – and no further.  She continued her soft swaying movements as her sweet gash frenched my dick, like she was stirring a drink, driving me to the edge, but not over.

I could feel my lungs rasping, my heart racing, as this robo-whore worked my cock into a frenzy.  But she started taking pity on me.  Slowly, so slowly, she began to take my shaft deeper inside her, jerking it off with her snapping pussy.  I could feel the pressure in my balls growing, I was going to explode inside her…when she suddenly dismounted.

I cried out as my sensitized cock hit the open air, slapping against my stomach.  I opened my mouth to speak, to beg her to finish me, but she silenced me as she rammed her tongue into my mouth.  She grabbed me by the back of the head, kissing me roughly, ramming her skilled tongue down my throat as she maneuvered her slit back over the head of my dick, again grinding her hips back and forth, sending me into a whole new realm of sexual pleasure I hadn’t been aware existed.

She pushed away again, a line of spittle connecting us, which broke as she turned and strode into the kitchen.  She grabbed the mostly full pan of brownies, and swirled her tits into the soft, chocolate frosting, coating them.  She then ran up to me, shoving those nipple-topped confections into my mouth, smearing my face, and then my chest as she slid down my body.  She was now back in the ‘V’ of my thighs and, having smushed her sweet tits around my dick, was now jacking me off.  She was driving me to the edge of insanity as her boobies pumped my shaft mercilessly, while her mouth tortured my cockhead at the end of every downstroke.

I whimpered aloud as she released my cock from its happy imprisonment, grabbed the base of the chair with both hands and began impaling her mouth on my cock.  Every stroke was now top to bottom; her throat became a cunt that engulfed my rod without the slightest resistance as she fucked her face with it.

And then I felt it; that wonderful sensation at the base of prick, my cum boiling upward, an impending Vesuvius: she felt it, too.

I gasped as the first spasm racked my genitals, and Robbi, now thoroughly schooled in all things penis, pulled back and began stroking my cock: torrent after torrent of my hot jizz spattered her pretty face, coating it from chin to nose, a truly first-rate facial.  That done, she then deftly pointed my dick downward so that I was now cumming on her chest, painting her chocolate-covered tits. 

Like a cannon, I fired salvo after salvo, each spurt – my very life essence – being coaxed from my body by this computerized concubine.  She continued her gentle stroking of my overwhelmed cock while, with her free hand, she massaged her gooey chest, working the chocolate and cum together until they formed a ganache, which she scraped from her skin and licked greedily from her fingers.

Melony, I realized, didn’t know shit.

Time had stopped.  I slouched there, completely oblivious to the passing seconds, unable to form a coherent thought.  Finally, with agonizing slowness, consciousness began creeping back into my brain.  My first thought was: is this how Robbi felt yesterday, when she’d awakened, or booted up?  My next thought was, thank God this isn’t a cane chair.  I dragged my sorry, sucked-out ass up, and looked at her.  She knelt there, in front of me, looking in my direction, but not looking at me; her program completed, awaiting fresh input.

I’d ordered her to give me the best blowjob she could, but she hadn’t quite done that.  She’d given me every best blowjob in the world all rolled up into one.  If this was another example of her exceeding her parameters, I was certainly going to do all I could to encourage it.

But this couldn’t go on.  As much as I might want it to, it was going to have to stop.

“But why must it stop?” my new best friend, The Advocate who resides in my brain, asked.  “Why must it stop?  What has happened here that is so awful that Science, itself, must be denied?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” said Mr. Reasonable sarcastically, “how about rape, for starters?  And let’s throw in slavery while were at it.  Oh, and let’s see, there’s fraud, coercion, assault…”

It really was quite the laundry list, I must admit, but The Advocate is not so easily gulled.  “This is Science!” he rumbled, kicking in the bass drivers and adding a touch of reverb, “It cannot be stopped!  It is not about one person; it is about the Truth!  Knowable Truth, Tangible Truth, Truth that needs not disguise itself in the cloak of faith!  It is Truth for Now, and for all Eternity!  What is the odd blowjob, or two, compared to that?”

Mr. Reasonable, who I’m pretty sure inhabits the left side of my brain, really couldn’t argue that point so I considered the matter closed for the moment.

But there really was a problem that was going to have to be dealt with now: the problem of Robbi’s quickly changing form.  People were surely going to notice the change, her mother, for starters.  Then there were close friends and, Crikey, what about a boyfriend?  She’d never mentioned one, and she did come from money: rich chicks always have boyfriends.  Or maybe she was bi, or even a lesbo.  That last put a thought in my head – two fembots; now that really would be sweet.

I actually, physically, slapped my face at that point.  I needed to focus on the problem, and two identical Melony Cox-Zuckers cavorting through my brain was a definite handicap.  The pain helped bring me back to reality, mostly.

And then there was the huge tit problem.  Robbi was pretty much a C-cup now, and while she might be over the moon about her new endowments, she would certainly want to halt her development fairly soon, not more than DD, most likely.  And while I wouldn’t mind playing in that melon field, I would surely feel cheated if we didn’t push this project to the max.

Well, I had turned her into a cook and a cocksucker, hadn’t I?  Could I not also program her to desire having giant boobs every bit as much as I wanted her to have them?  Now this was a thought.  She’d hummed a tune I’d put into her head, might she not also think a thought I’d put in there? 

Okay…fine; so how do I go about planting thoughts in there, make an .mp3 of me telling her she wants them?  Or maybe…

I found myself moving back to my laptop before I’d even made the decision.  I opened up my word processor and just typed the first thing that came into my head:

You want to have big breasts.

I tried to think of it from Robbi’s point of view, ‘You want to have big breasts.’  Would that work?  No, I thought, people don’t think in terms of ‘you’, they think in terms of ‘I’.  This was programming, not hypnosis.  I deleted it and retyped:

I want to have big breasts.

Better, I thought, but I’d rarely heard a girl speak of her ‘breasts’, always my ‘boobs’.  And big didn’t quite cut it, what Robbi had now was big, compared to the mosquito bites of yesterday:

I want to have huge boobs.

Yes, that was much better; but it wasn’t enough.  Let’s say that my reprogramming really did work, and that Robbi loved her new, massive juggs; what about other people?  If Robbi’s tits started growing, she would encounter resistance; that was for sure.  As a tit-man who reads, I’ve come across countless stories of women who’d received rations of shit about getting breast implants, or face lifts, butt lifts, or whatever.  Even if Robbi’s changes were natural, people would not be accepting of them, and they would apply peer pressure.  I would have to be proactive:

I want to have huge boobs.

I will love my boobs no matter how big they get.

I don’t care what others think or say about them or me.

That should nullify any ‘helpful advice’ from her friends, but what about more powerful influences?  Her mother sounded like piece of work, and she would surely interfere, probably with doctors and shrinks as well.  I needed Robbi for the long haul, and finding another chick quickly would take time:

I want to have huge boobs.

I will love my boobs no matter how big they get.

I don’t care what others think or say about them or me.

I want the project to continue; I won’t let anyone stop me.

That should take care of any meddlers.  What else, I wondered.  I mean, I was in here, ostensibly fucking around with Robbi’s motivations; what other strings could I pull?  Why not go for broke?  If worse came to worse, I could delete it all and put Robbi back to normal; it was time to be creative:

I want to have huge boobs.

I will love my boobs no matter how big they get.

I don’t care what others think or say about them or me.

I want the project to continue; I won’t let anyone stop me.

I want to be sexy.

I want to show off my boobs.

I want to tease men with my boobies.

I want to help Jake in whatever way I can with the project.

I want Jake to love my boobs.

Good, I thought, that ought to be enough damage for one day.

She came out of it quicker than the day before; I made note of it, but really hadn’t the slightest idea what it meant.  What I was watching for were signs.  Did she know I’d poked her, cum all over her?  Did she now want to stick her tits in my face?  But she appeared normal, or at least, as normal as she had been when she’d walked in.

But she’d also awakened ravenous.  I played the good host and fed her up, with her food, of course, while she apologized profusely for having crapped out on me, again.  She ate like a horse, which made me extremely happy, as I knew the more she stuffed in her face, the more she’d be stuffing into a bra; it was all tit-making material, as far as I was concerned.

I sent her home, happy and reassured that we would try again tomorrow (it being a school holiday).  She had been terribly worried that I thought she was a flake, but I mollified her, noticing that she seemed to be showing a bit more cleavage than when I’d dressed her; had she undone a button when she’d gone to wash up after lunch?

Chapter 5

Robbi 1.2

“Hello?”

“Jake, it’s me, Robbi.”

“Hi, Robbi,” I said, a little worried that she might have discovered some dried jizz behind her ear, or something.  “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

“Jake, can I come over?  I know it’s late but I really need to see you.  It’s important.”

“Well, sure, Robbi.  Mi casa, su casa.  Come on over.”

She hadn’t wished to reveal anything on the phone, just that she needed to see me.  Had others been in the room listening?  Her mother?  Her boyfriend?  Her extremely jealous, flannel-shirt wearing, man-hating, nut-crushing, strap-on wielding, dyke lover?  I had no way of knowing; I just had to be ready, relaxed, and flexible.

It was a little late in the day, but I really hadn’t been paying attention.  From the moment Robbi had clacked her way out of sight, I’d been busier than a motherfucker, surfacing only when the phone rang, having lost all track of time.

I’d been giving the matter of Robbi’s visage some serious thought.  As much as I might want her to look exactly like Melony Cox-Zucker, it just wasn’t a good idea.  What was happening to Robbi’s body was going to bring a fair amount of attention, actually turning her into another person would be to invite more scrutiny than she, or I, could likely handle.  But I’m not the Smartest Guy in the World for nothin’; there were options.

There are, I expect, only a very few people with my level of interest in porn who are unaware of image manipulation software, Photoshop and Poser, to name just two.  They really are quite cool – just import your digital image and morph away.  I’d taken more than enough video and still footage the previous day to create a digital Robbi, but it wasn’t a thing of a moment; in fact I had spent most of the last six hours with my nose buried in my computer screen making her perfect.

And, boy, was she fucking perfect.  The image on my screen was the ultimate blend of everything that I found attractive in a female: long legs, round hips, Melony’s patented ass, teeny waist, volleyball-sized tits with silver dollar-sized aureoles, pencil eraser nips, pouty lips, and high cheekbones just made for cumming on.  I even, out of homage to Steve Jobs, shaped her pubic hair to look like the Apple logo; Robbi’s creation was due in no small part to them.

Robbi had spent just about six hours in contact with image files, in which time she’d moved about halfway to Melony, facially, and added two full cup sizes.  If alteration was constant, and I had absolutely no reason to believe it would be, then another six hours connected to the digital Robbi should bring her back to looking like what people who knew her would accept, plus putting her squarely in the DD range, which would be attributable to a boob job.

That is, if she wasn’t sore at me for turning her into a sex object.  Why the need to come over this late?  Had I tipped my hand with that Ultimate Babe program?  Had she just fucked the entire rugby team, and blown that stupid Golden Bear mascot, to boot?

Rapid knocking on my door told me I was about to find out.  She must have called while en route to get here so fast.  I shut my laptop, hiding the ideal Robbi, and went to open the door to the real one.

I have no idea how big a Nobel Prize is, I just found myself hoping my mantle would be big enough to hold one.

She’d had her hair done, but I hadn’t noticed that at first, likewise her makeover.  What I did notice were her tits: they were practically spilling out of a black, perfectly cut, PVC micro-minidress that probably thought it had won the lottery.  I stepped back, in utter surprise, thinking an asthma attack would be a really good idea just then.  She smiled a satisfied smile and walked in, closing the door behind her.

It was a sexual experience just looking at the dress.  I don’t know shit about clothing, but I know what I like.  Her shoulders were bare, a look I’ve always loved because it means a girl’s tits will be that much easier to get at.  It wasn’t much more than a strapless bodice with a pair of cups whose sole purpose, it seemed, were to almost hold in Robbi’s lovely cans.  They were being pushed up and out, an offering to the lucky viewer, with just the barest hint of nipple visible.  It flowed lower, gripping her rib cage, squeezing her waist, and then flaring out over her hips only to stop at the very tops of her long legs.  There was not the slightest bulge or ripple in the smooth and shiny material, causing me to wonder if this was all the clothing she was wearing; it seemed unlikely that even a G-string could be under there.

She clacked toward me on incredibly high stilettos, each step sending a jiggle through her perfect, grapefruit-sized tits.  She tossed a short trench coat (worn, no doubt, so as to protect herself from being raped by a horde of passing priests) onto my shitty couch as she passed, every step, every sway of her hip, a symphony of sex; a promise of ecstasy.

My back was literally against a wall as she continued inexorably toward me.  She walked right up to me, stopping only when her tits were nestled between the two of us, her pelvis pressing against the excruciating hardness of my cock.

“So, what do you think?” she asked softly.  Her breath was warm against my cheek, redolent of violets.  I honestly could not think of a thing to say, so spellbound was I by this embodiment of sexual perfection.  Her warm breath tickled my ear and she kept shifting her hips, ever so slightly, lightly massaging the tent in my jeans.

I opened my now dry mouth to say the word ‘lovely’, but got no further than “lo…” when she stopped it with her full, sensuous lips.  I couldn’t help but moan softly as she pressed herself into me, her warm tongue invading my mouth, her hips now insistently grinding into my burning meat.

She broke the kiss, softly panting, and looked up into my eyes, all animal hunger, “Jake,” a velvet whisper, “do you like them?”

“Huh, wha…?” I replied stupidly, all the blood in my brain having long since migrated southward, “…like… who?”

“Not ‘who’, Jake, them, my boobs,” she said, deftly licking my lips, and pushing herself further up my body so that her sweet cans were practically in my throat.  “Do you like my boobs?”

She was like an unstoppable force of Nature, sex incarnate.  “I…uh”, I needed time to breathe, to get my bearings.  “Let me…see you,” I gasped, “I want to…to see you.”

She kissed me again, gently biting my lower lip and reluctantly releasing it as she pulled away.  She moved gracefully backward until her PVC-clad rump squeaked against the ancient, faux pleather of my couch.  She was still panting, her bountiful titflesh heaving over the edges of the cups.  She leaned her ass against the back of the couch, spreading her legs slightly and arching her back.  Her left hand trailed slowly up her body, coming up and circling around the partially exposed jugg, dragging a crimson-painted fingernail along the border of material and flesh, leaving goosebumbs in its wake.

She knew the full effects of her movements – Ultimate Babe had trained her well.

She looked worth a million, literally.  Her hair was now perfectly straight and silky, and had been cut in that Eurotrash way that slopes down from the nape of the neck until the ends pointed directly to her nipples, drawing the viewer’s attention to the good stuff.  Her makeup, which was still mostly intact, straddled that fine line between supermodel and cheap whore, and subliminally bespoke the promise of lipstick on the dipstick.  Her skin, and there was much of it on display, was smooth and flawless, its deep, rich tone unmarred by tan lines.  Her legs looked wonderfully long, tapering to firmly sculpted calves accentuated by those painfully sexy high heels.

She looked so hot Elton John would have fucked her.

“Well, Jake,” she breathed, now looking down at her endowments, pressing them into one another, creating one very fuckable canyon of cleavage, “do you like them?”

“Robbi,” I croaked hoarsely, thankful for the presence of the wall behind me, the only thing keeping me remotely vertical, “I love your tits.”

She then exhaled, as though she’d just had a thousand-year orgasm – the bitch even breathed sexy – and fixed with me with a look that could only be interpreted as ‘Why aren’t you inside me right now?’

She didn’t need to look at me that way twice.  I closed the distance between us and melted into her embrace.  I kissed her hot mouth, driving my tongue as deeply as I could, the which she greedily accepted.  She saved me the trouble of undressing her by simply grabbing hold of the material and pushing down, causing it to pool at her feet, whereupon she kicked it away, its purpose served.

We continued to kiss wetly and my hands grabbed at her sweet tits.  I broke the kiss, wishing only to move down her delectable body, to cradle my head between her firm melons.  Robbi put both of her hands on mine and pressed her milkers into my face, giving it the most wonderful massage.  I withdrew my hands from their sweet confinement and reached around her to squeeze the ripe globes of her ass while she continued her ministrations.

But I had been wrong thinking that she might be nude under that plastic; she had worn just one item underneath it – she’d had her bellybutton pierced in the short time she’d been gone, and out of that delicious navel shone a little golden plate, engraved upon it in elegant script a single word – Jake’s.

That little touch drove me over the top.  I had to fuck this bitch now.

As I straightened up, she clamped her mouth upon mine again, ravenous, while with incredible sureness she grabbed the waistband of my jeans and tugged the zipper down.  Using just her thumb and index finger, she parted the thin material of my boxers, freeing my cock from its captivity and gently drawing its full length into the open air.

She half bent down and, grabbing one of her tits, rubbed the erect nipple over the head of my dick, impelling me further down the road to sexual madness.  Bending down further, she flicked her tongue, snakelike, over the head of my now painfully erect cock, and then spoke softly into it, like a microphone, “Fuck my pussy, Jake.”  I heard her loud and clear.

She laid back, her sexy body resting solely on the arm and back of my shitty couch.  She raised her knees so that my way was clear, the gates of Paradise open before me; all I need do was step forward.

She gasped softly as I entered her wetness, stopping only when my balls made contact with her ass.  The snapping pussy of the fembot was no longer, but had been replaced by something every bit as good: her cunt shook hands with my cock, embraced it, and invited it in for tea.

She grabbed my hands and placed them on her tits, hooked her ankles behind my thighs, and started bucking her hips into me.  “Do me like the whore I am, Jake,” she pleaded.  “Fuck me like a mare, my stallion.”

‘Mare?’  ‘Stallion?’  Perhaps the people at Ultimate Babe were into stranger shit than I was, but that didn’t matter at the moment.  I pounded her pussy relentlessly, like storm-tossed waves breaking against the rocks, proving I, too, could play the simile game.

Fully clothed, I fucked her naked ass savagely, sending her new, fat boobs bouncing.  She moaned loudly as she massaged her clit with one hand and groped a jiggling tit with the other, all the while clamping down on my prick with the walls of her exceptional snatch.  Despite having cum violently twice today, I found that she was about to wring yet another one out of me, and in another minute she did just that.  I grunted like a wild thing while she screamed, locked in the throes of her own body-racking orgasm.  Her grasping pussy milked my dick as I felt my semen quickly departing my body, to find a new home upon better shores.

And that was when my shitty couch gave up the ghost.

All was quiet now; stillness.  Outside, a car was moving steadily down the street, sirens off in the distance.

But though there was no movement in my bedroom, things were definitely happening.  Robbi had fallen asleep after sex, the sleep of the righteously fucked.  But I hadn’t, couldn’t, as a matter of fact, for there were things I needed to do.

No sooner had her eyes closed as she drifted off to dreamland, than I was off to the other room to retrieve the cap.  I slipped it onto her head, unworried that I might awaken her; I could have put a rhino head and a clown suit on her, she was so out of it.

As she lay there, being silently reconfigured to my vision of perfection, I ticked off the laundry list of items: firstly, the charade of ESP had to stop.  I could not hope to sustain it, and I could easily explain it away as a fluke or as an error on my part.

There was also the issue of Robbi’s present and future attractiveness.  The digital Robbi was, as far 99.9% of male heterosexuals, and every last lesbo, the most bangable female on the planet.  If she were to become a real flesh and blood chick – two weeks seemed a reasonable estimate – everybody from the Pope on down would be trying to nail her.  I wasn’t worried about someone wooing her from me; that could be easily remedied with another command line.  No, it was her security that was at issue; a woman that hot would be a target: rapists, thugs, ex-presidents, etc.  It was a thought that had caused me considerable worry until I found, and ‘obtained’, a copy of an Aikido training program, which I had only just installed in the offline fembot.  When Robbi woke up, she’d be able to kick Jet Li’s ass without breaking a sweat.

Lastly, for tonight at least, there was the issue of programming.  Did I really know what I was doing?  A big, fat, ‘no’ came to mind.  It had occurred to me, after the super-colossal, furniture-destroying, humping match, that the command, ‘I want Jake to love my boobs’ had somehow been altered, perverted to mean, ‘I want Jake to love me”.  I had thrown in that command to try and keep her close but, never having had tits myself, I hadn’t considered that some girls do indeed identify themselves by their boobs.  ‘I’m flat-chested’, or ‘I’m a D-cup’, I’ve heard them say.  In retrospect it was understandable that Robbi might make that leap of logic.

But it meant I had to be very cautious about what I put in her cranium; something, I’m sure, very few people on this planet have ever really had to worry about:

I love Jake and will always be faithful to him.

I trust Jake completely.

I will protect myself if I am harassed, threatened, or attacked.

I decided to leave the original programming intact as it seemed to be getting the job done, and my dick certainly seemed pleased with the results.  I did feel a little sheepish about adding the ‘love’ and ‘faithful’ part, but as long as I was conducting this little personal project, I felt the closer I kept Robbi, the better.

But I was tired now, a little woozy, come to that.  Robbi had been plugged into her digital destiny for just about an hour, I figured another two hours would do for the night.  I collapsed onto the bed and set the alarm, wondering how Robbi would react when she woke up to a D-cup rack poised pertly on her chest.  Maybe even DD’s.

It really had been the most extraordinary day.

“Ohmifuckingod!” I yelled, as I awakened.

Now, I’m an Atheist to the very bottom of my soul, but I think I can be forgiven for invoking the whole ’God’ thing, considering the circumstances.  It wasn’t the ringing of the alarm clock that woke me, for I had, again, failed to pull out that little fucking button.  Nor had it been the sunlight streaming through my bedroom window, which had been impossible to see owing to the fact that there had been a massive tit in my face.

It was the tit, you see, that woke me; it was huge.  Fuck, they were huge, and almost perfect.

I looked over, rubbing the sleep-goop from my eyes; my soon-to-be-shitcanned alarm clock showed the time as being just past nine-thirty.  I scrambled off the bed and checked my laptop.  I had wisely set a stopwatch on her, so that I could monitor her connection time; it showed 8:26:12.  Almost eight and one-half hours had elapsed for this session, more than twice as long as any time previous.

I began to get the giggles again as I gazed down upon my unintended handiwork.  She was fucking awesome!  I couldn’t really gauge how big her tits were now, since she was lying down on her side.  They were lying on the bed, next to her, almost as though they were separate beings; one perched precariously atop the other, as she breathed steady, unconscious breaths.  They weren’t quite as big as her head yet, which told me she still had a few cup sizes to go, but they were amazing.

I couldn’t wait to wake her up.  There were measurements to take, video to shoot, and I desperately needed her to jerk me off with those incredible fucking funbags.

“Ohmifuckingod!” she screamed.  “Jake, honey, wake up!  You’ve got to see them!”

She saved me the trouble of having to act like I was waking up.  She grabbed me by my shoulder and pulled me over onto my back, whereupon she pounced on top of me and sat upon my chest.  All I could see was tit: the undersides of two big, lovely juggs that swayed softly as she mewled in mammalian glee.  She rubbed and massaged them, squeezed them and playfully hefted them up and down, together and singly, giving me what was truly, ‘The Greatest Show on Earth’.

She leaned her head out over the flesh mountains that loomed above me, her erect nipples, like pencil erasers, rubbing out all reason from my tortured mind, “Do you like them, Jake?” she asked, in that wonderfully neurotic way she’d developed.  “Oh, I hope you like them.”

“Robbi,” I said, mindful of the fact that she now had a firm grip on my rock-hard johnson, and that if I answered in a way that displeased her she might take a leaf from her new martial arts program and demonstrate ‘the man with no dick’ technique, “I love your tits, now and forever.”

For the record, I got the titjob.

What to do, what to do, I wondered as the coffee dripped into the carafe.  Coffee had, for pretty much of the past six years, been the center of my morning ritual.  I laughed, thinking that it was definitely going to be downgraded as soon as I programmed it into Robbi’s skull that she absolutely had to have me cum between her tits first thing every morning.

I heard the squeak of the hot water handle, signifying that Robbi’s shower had begun.  She had offered – encouraged, more like – to let me soap up the twins, and though I was sorely tempted, I had to put my foot down; she was likely to fuck me to death at this rate if I didn’t lay in a gross of vitamin E, tout-fucking-suite.

I poured myself a cup and added a buttload of sugar to it, not because I like it that way, quite the opposite, in fact.  No, I needed to distract myself from the fact that two of the biggest tits I’d ever laid hands on were in the next room, presently being lathered to a high sheen, rivulets of soapy water cascading down those big, wet, wonderful juggs.

“Well,” I said, looking down and making a face at the sickeningly sweet coffee, “just one quick peek couldn’t hurt.

Two hours later, showered, shaved, and only slightly sore, I poured myself a new, unadulterated cup of coffee, my mind now remarkably clear.

I really didn’t have all that much to do today: mainly lie through my teeth in my project findings, gather new parts for and begin construction on a new wireless interface, have anal sex with my fembot; the usual college shit.

Being hooked up to the computer for such an extreme length of time had apparently done Robbi no harm, and had done me nothing but good, but it was curious.  I had been over every inch of Robbi’s now fabulous body, more than once, and could not find a trace of body fat, nada.  So what was she burning to make this transformation?  Was she burning muscle, bones?  One more fucking mystery to add the growing pile.

But I was saved from further rumination by the clacking that announced Robbi’s impending entrance.  She appeared in the doorway absolutely starkers, save for those impossibly high stilettos she’d arrived wearing.  Robbi glowed as she walked unselfconsciously through my living room, even putting a little extra spring in her step, setting her sizable juggs that much more a-wobble.  It was a great effect.

“Good morning, Robbi.”

She positively flowed into me, her tongue sliding into my mouth, her wonderfully warm tits pressing themselves into me, just below my chin.  Now I’ve never really been a big fan of kissing.  I mean it’s nice, and all that, but kissing for me was just the toll I’d pay to gain access to a firm pair of knockers.

But not with Robbi.  Her kisses weren’t a prelude to sex – they were sex.  Her hands caressed the back of my neck, and she moaned softly as she pressed her body into me.  “Good morning, Jake,” she cooed, breathing hotly into my ear and rubbing her naked pussy over my thigh.  “Oh, you are sweet, you made me breakfast.”

“I, uh…” I responded eloquently, “huh, what?  Uh, no, I didn’t.”

“Oh, no?  Then what is this?” she asked, her voice now low and husky, patting the bulge that had formed under her relentless care, “You made me a nice, big, fat sausage.”  She leaned in, her lips barely touching mine, as she stroked my swollen member through my jeans, while her perpetually erect nipples brushed my chest, “I’ll tell you what, Jake, honey,” she whispered, “why don’t you stay here while I get the gravy?”  And with that she flowed downward (she was doing a lot of that flowing thing lately) and, moments later my cock sprang forth, giving her an unexpected kiss which she returned in full measure.

This was, if my fevered brain could be counted upon to return good data, my fifth blowjob from Robbi, and it was nothing short of amazing.  Every chick I’ve ever known only ever gave one blowjob, that is to say, while she might give hundreds of blowjobs, even thousands, each and every one of them would be pretty much the same, as individual as a fingerprint.  Oh, they might get a little more adventurous and aggressive under the influence of some Cuervo, but most babes are pretty much one-suck ponies.

But with Robbi it hadn’t been the same hummer twice.  Now, the first one had been a rerun of Melony Cox-Zucker production, so that one didn’t really count, but every other one since had differed.  In fact, you could say each one was tailored to fit the mood, like choosing the right wine to go with dinner.

The first one was the ‘Melony’, the second was ‘The Showstopper’, the third one, delivered amidst the wreckage of my shitty couch (which after last night was going to receive the honor of a Viking funeral) was ‘The Gobbler’ – a truly stellar bit of oral magic where the girl feverishly hobs the knob as though her life depended on it.  The fourth one, given to me in appreciation for some truly cunning linguistics, was a playful, happy, and carefree BJ, which I named ‘The Bobbie Jo’.

But this blowjob – and it looked as though it might leave them all behind – was the ‘Sweet’.  Robbi’s mouth absolutely caressed my cock.  It was by far the most sensual blowjob I’d ever gotten.  No tricks, no technique, just long, slow, deep strokes.  Her whole attention was on that six inches of flesh, and it was as if she was symbolically saying, ‘This is my whole life, right here, just sucking your cock.’  It was a blowjob that said unmistakably ‘I love you truly, madly, deeply.’  Time slowed to a crawl as I sat there, watching the hypnotic back-and-forth movement of her blonde head.  And when I came, she stroked me so that every bit of my jizz shot down her throat, and then she resumed her sucking until she had swallowed every last drop.  When she was done, she kissed the head of my cock and put it away, like a treasured possession, closing the zipper with the utmost care.  She looked up at me and smiled sweetly, her eyes bright; and there was not so much as a trace of cum on her lips – it was the ultimate portable sex act.

“Is there coffee?” she asked.

“I, uh…yeah.”  I retorted snappily.  “In the, uh…”

“Don’t worry, honey.  I know my way around an ‘uh.’”

And with that she elegantly rose up, giving me a wonderful view of her newly renovated front porch, and went off to get her coffee.  I found myself hoping she took it black, as I really didn’t think my balls could take another harvesting just then.

It was a pleasure watching her move about.  Her rack, which I judged to be in the Danni Ashe range now, dipped and swayed seductively, and her nicely rounded ass looked supremely fuckable.  I could feel my already overburdened cock rising again, ready for yet one more bout.  I was beginning to feel like one of those lab rats they used for cocaine testing, where the rats continued to suck down the coke, rather than eat, until they fucking well died.  Two days ago I couldn’t have given a toss about Robbi’s snatch; now it was all I could do to keep from fucking the skin off my johnson inside it.

She sat down, across from me, her hooters jutting well out over my little table, which I noticed forced her to keep her coffee cup to the side rather than the front; definitely a new problem for her.  But now that we were sitting down together like two fairly normal people, and not fucking like minks, I had to ask the question that I’d been burning to ask since yesterday.  “Robbi, what do you think of all these changes your body’s undergone?  I mean, doesn’t it scare you a little?”

“It did, at first.” she replied, nodding her head.  “When I left here yesterday, I thought maybe I should see a doctor.  But then it struck me, ‘What am I going to tell him?  That my boobs are growing?’  Jake, I want to have big tits.  I want to be sexy, and beautiful, and I want men to desire me…”

“But…”

“No buts, Jake.  I feel fine, I feel healthy and perfect.  What would a doctor tell me?  I know my own body.  If I were sick, I would know.”

“Well, okay,” I said, pleased that my programming had taken so well, and trying to keep my inward smile from showing.  I had to draw her out.  It was important to keep her talking.  I needed to know just what she would do, say, think, imagine, dream, ad-fucking-infinitum, regarding every aspect of her new iteration.  She had gone from slightly chunky college chick to hot babe in a day, and from hot babe to porn goddess in one night – bound to cause talk.  “But what about your friends?  Robbi, over the course of this weekend you’ve added, I would guess, about five or six cup sizes to your chest.  I’m not even sure you can get breast implants that big in one operation.  People will notice.”

“I know they’ll notice,” she said, sliding her small hands up and down her enormous juggs, “I want them to notice.  Jake, you have no idea what it’s like to grow up flat-chested in this boob-centered country, where everyone, guys and girls alike, looks at you and judges your worth based on the size of your tits.”  Her speech was making me feel a little uncomfortable, and a little guilty, but by the same token the more she spoke, the more impassioned she became, which caused her big funbags to jiggle fetchingly.  “…and one night, oh, I think I’d just turned seventeen, I actually cried myself to sleep because Mother had allowed one of our maid’s daughters to use our swimming pool.  I saw her floating there, her boobs bobbing on the surface of the water.  Jake, she was eleven years old, and her boobs were already bigger than mine.  But now I’ve got the tits I’ve always wanted, and the body as well.  If they really are my friends they’ll understand.  If not, I’m sure my ‘girls’ will help me make nice, new ones,” she said with an airy smile, giving them a little pat.

“But Robbi…” I blurted.

“Oh, I’m just kidding, Jake,” she said, smiling sweetly, and making a kissy-face gesture at me.  “You’re so serious, all of a sudden.  You do like my titties, don’t you?  You don’t think they’re too big, do you?” she asked, suddenly worried.

“Not at all, Robbi,” I said smoothly, but it did strike me funny how neurotic she’d become about something, er, some things, that weren’t even two days old.  “I told you, I love your tits.  They are the be all and end all of Titdom.  I will love your tits until all else falls to wrack and ruin, and Man is but a distant memory on this planet.  Okay?”

“Okay, Jake,” she said, mollified, and then went happily about the business of making us a lovely breakfast from the leftovers she’d brought the previous day.  When we were done eating, she shooed me out into the living room so that she could clean up.  It was a joy watching her work; naked save for those ridiculously high heels she was wearing.  Her tits were now perfectly out of proportion to the rest of her dynamite body, which is infinitely preferable, in my opinion.  My favorite part was when she wiped the surface of the table, causing her fat boobs to sway pendulously beneath her as she worked.  I think she was perfectly aware, too, that I was absorbed in this visual, as she did seem to take rather a long time to complete the task.

“You’re not serious, Robbi.”

“But Jake, honey,” she said, standing in front of my bedroom mirror, scrutinizing her appearance, “you know I need to go shopping for some new clothes.  And I can’t just stay around here all day, especially if you’re going to spend all your time working rather than…” she let the sentence trail off, wiggling her hips and inviting me to fill in the blanks.  I hadn’t had to break the news of our not playing with the Rhine cards anymore.  She’d actually asked if we could skip it for a while; ‘A waste of perfectly good humping time,’ she’d said.  It seemed odd, I thought, watching her preening herself in front of the mirror, that she would so defy her programming like that, until I realized that it was probable that she now saw herself as the project, in which case she was 100% correct.

She nodded at her reflection, apparently pleased with what she saw.  I, however, was less than thrilled.  She was wearing the clothes she’d arrived in last night, with one tiny omission: that PVC minidress that should have a bridge named after it.  She was now clad only in the little trench coat she’d brought with her last night and her black come-fuck-me pumps.

It had not been designed to be someone’s sole form of attire.  It was deeply cut, and with the belt-tie cinched tight about her trim waist it pushed her yabbos in and up, forming a valley of cleavage that a man would sell his soul to put his dick within, which was yet one more reason I was glad to be an Atheist – I could fuck those babies with impunity.

It also ended just below her crotch, and since she had no underwear with her, and would draw even more attention to herself if she wore my boxers, she would have to be very conservative in her movements, unless she wanted to have twenty-dollar bills stuffed in her belt as she strode down the street.

“Robbi, this is Berkeley, California, the most liberal and progressive city in America, and even they would put you in the stocks for appearing in public like that.”

“Jake, honey, you’re just being silly.”  She cinched the belt a little tighter, thereby raising her tit-tops to damn near chin level.  “There,” she said, satisfied, “that’s nice.  Will you walk me to the front door?”

It was funny, I thought, as we walked through my hovel to the front, and only door, that she wasn’t more subservient, but on the whole I was glad she wasn’t.  It was Ultimate Babe I’d unleashed inside her, not Ultimate Co-dependent Bimbo.  I liked this Robbi, and not just because she could suck a tennis ball through a garden hose.

When we reached the door, she turned and put her arms around me, pressing her firm cans against my stomach  “Jake,” she said, her breath warm in the hollow of my throat, “before I go, I want to tell you something: my pussy belongs to you.  Whenever you want to fuck it, lick it, finger it, it’s yours.  If you just want to bend me over and fuck me, don’t even waste time asking; just slip it in.  I want your cock inside me as often as you want it to be there.”

“Uh…” I started.  It was ironic, I thought, all my messing about with Robbi’s brain seemed to have rendered mine bloody well useless.

“I know you’re worried about me, Jake, and that really is very sweet, but I’m fine.  In fact, I’m the best I’ve ever been.  You’ve unlocked something inside me, I think, something that was always there, but hidden from me.  You’ve turned me into the person I’ve always wanted to be, and I’m grateful.  That’s why I love you, Jake.  My pussy is yours, and no one else’s.  And the same goes for my tits, my mouth, and my ass, too.  Every inch of me is yours to do with what you will.”

“But Robbi,” I said, my voice just skirting the edge of whining, “it’s not so much you I’m worried about, it’s…”

“You’re worried about little, super-sexy me being raped, is that it?”

“Robbi, you’re a walking wet dream…”

And with that, she slipped away from my embrace and walked over to the undamaged end of my shitty, but heroically-died-in-battle couch.

“HAI!” she yelled, driving her palm down hard onto the arm of the couch, breaking it cleanly.  She then blithely walked back over to me, kissed me tenderly on the cheek, and opened the door.  “Like I said, you’ve unlocked something within me, and I like it.  I think I could take on a whole football team and walk away.”  She smiled and walked out the door, humming happily.

A whole football team, I thought.  One way or another, I supposed, she could.

Chapter 6

The rest of the day passed mostly uneventfully, which pleased me.  The Chinese have a saying – ‘May you live in interesting times.’  Over the last few days I had begun to realize why this is a curse, rather than a blessing.  Everything I did that day: the completion of Robbi’s and my class assignment, the design and research on a new cap, coating my poor dick in aloe vera gel to help speed its healing, was done while listening to the local newsradio station.

But Robbi had apparently not ripped out anyone’s throat nor turned San Fran’s mayor straight, so I was able to breathe easy.  But something did happen.  It was about five-thirty when I heard a knock on the door.  I fought down the impulse to look out through my shitty curtains to see who it was.  If it was the Police, or even the Feds, it wouldn’t matter whether I knew it in advance or not.  If it was Robbi, my dick might need that few extra seconds of healing if she showed up wearing a genie outfit or something.  As I’ve said, just be ready, relaxed, and flexible.

“Jake McBride?”

He was about 6’-4” tall, neckless, with fingers that were as big around as my wrist.  Crikey, his stubble looked tougher than I was.

“Yes?” I said, hoping it didn’t sound like too much of a whimper.

“Alright, guys!” he yelled, waving his left arm in an unmistakable ‘Bring it on’ sort of gesture.

Four guys, who I was pretty sure referred to the guy in front of me as ‘Tiny’ appeared out of the back of a big-ass moving van, their heavily-muscled arms laden with furniture.

I was so bewildered by the goings-on it didn’t occur to me to stop it.  They marched right in, carrying a new couch, club chair, coffee table, dining room table, chairs, espresso machine, and a waterbed that looked like something Hugh Hefner would approve of.  They worked efficiently, without so much as a scratch, bump, thump, or ding.  They were all extremely professional and courteous, and were in and gone in under an hour.

But it was their manner that freaked me out.  They kept shooting me odd, furtive glances, like I was somehow alien, or liked the movie ‘300’.  It all became clear, however, when Tiny asked me to sign the receipt.

“Jake, can I call you Jake?” he asked in a friendly manner.  “Is she really your fucken’ girlfriend, dude?”

So this was the reason for their odd behavior; it didn’t fit their paradigm that a stick figure like me could get hot ass like Robbi.  “Yes,” I said, without copping an attitude, “she is.”

He took his clipboard from me and shook my hand.

“You are my fucken’ hero, man!”

As they drove away I couldn’t help but think, maybe the Chinese were wrong.  Maybe ‘interesting’ isn’t such a bad thing.

“You’re not mad, Jake?”

“Why would I be mad, Robbi?”

“Well,” she said, a little sheepishly, gooseflesh forming on the visible portions of her tits, which meant practically every hectare, “some guys might think a girl was being controlling, or…or trying to change them…”

“But I’m not ‘some guys’, Robbi, I’m me,” I said, opening my arms wide, “and I couldn’t be happier.”  She smiled a tear-filled smile and ran up to hug me, her fabulous, jiggling tits reaching me first, followed by her arms, which wrapped themselves around me.  I had indeed thought that the moment I looked at my new living room, but then I realized that money and objects are how wealthy people often show their gratitude, and Robbi had said she had much to thank me for.  But if control was her game, well, I could nip that in the bud with a few keystrokes.

“Oh, Jake,” she said, her sniffles quite voluble.

“So, now that you’ve re-outfitted yourself, pet,” I said, looking at the ton, or so, of boxes and bags she’d brought in with her, “I’m more than a little curious.  What did they say?”

“Pet, Jake?  Oh, that’s so sweet!”  The eruption of gooseflesh that spread out across every inch of her fat tits (which was considerable, owing to the fact that she was wearing a corset underneath her new denim minidress) returned, causing my dick to return to its usual state of diamond-hardness.  “Well, you’ll never believe it, Jake,” (try me, I thought), “but my measurements are now 34FF-21-34!”

She raised her arms and did a little pirouette, almost crashing into my bedroom closet as the weight of her cantaloupe-sized juggs, combined with centrifugal force, threatened to pull her over, thereby proving the First Law of Booby Dynamics  – When big tits and ballet dancers occupy the same space, little girls will end up face first on the floor.

“Oops, I guess I’m not used to my girls yet.  Oh, God, Jake, it’s so nice to have ‘girls’.  Thank you again, so much!”  It looked as though the waterworks might get turned on again but she apparently had more to say, so stifled the impulse.

“Jake, um, you asked me this morning how I felt about my body, and I told you ‘I loved it’…”

“You don’t love it, Robbi?” I asked, all my attention now sharply focused on every aspect of her being: physical, verbal, what she said, how she said it, how she didn’t say it.  This might be make-or-break time: programming errors, system faults, and the very real possibility that I might have fried her brain.

“No, no, Jake, I do love it, really.  It’s just that…well, could you please…take a look at my pussy?”

“Robbi, I don’t believe any girl has ever asked me this question in quite that way.” I said, trying to keep things light.  “Is there something wrong with it?  Something new there?”  If she had a pair of balls growing out of her vag, that would definitely put the kibosh on this relationship.

“No, not wrong, Jake.  Just something…well…could you please just look.”  She was definitely upset, but not mental or anything: about on a par with getting a speeding ticket.

“All right, Robbi, all right.”  I gestured for her to turn around, which she did, albeit slowly, apparently having learned from her earlier lesson in physics.  The skin of her back was smooth and tanned, quite close to the digital Robbi.  I slowly lowered the zipper of her minidress, reveling in her scent.  I let the fabric drop to the floor and peered over her shoulder into the valley of cleavage below.  It seemed to go on forever, the vastness of her breasts.  They rose and fell within the corset’s cups, practically heaving, causing me to wonder if it was emotion, or was she as turned on as I was?

The room had darkened somewhat since we’d begun talking, and the half-light that came from the bathroom threw the tight globes of Robbi’s ass into sharp relief.  I reached down and slowly drew a finger across them.  More gooseflesh erupted, and she let out a pent-up breath.  I knelt down, her smooth, bangable bottom mere inches from my face.  She revolved at my touch until her sweet pussy was before me.  “So, Robbi,” I asked from beneath the shelf of corseted tit that loomed above me, “what am I supposed to be looking at here?  All I can see is just about the finest vagina known to Man.  Nothing remotely strange.”

“I’m sorry, Jake.  I-I didn’t mean my vagina, exactly.  It’s my pubic hair.  I used to, well, keep it completely shaved, and…well, now it looks like an…”

Shit.  I knew I’d forgotten something in all the hubbub of the past few days.  Well, the damage was done, now I just had to figure out how to play it.  The first time I’d seen Robbi’s trim was last night, as far as she was concerned, and last night it was most certainly not bald, which had to mean she wasn’t real up on it either.  But there’s a reason I always won at Texas Hold’em during my short stint in the Army.

“Gee, I don’t know, Robbi.  It’s kinda like your breasts, isn’t it?  You’ve always wanted bigger boobs and, boom, you got ‘em; maybe, way down deep, you’ve always wanted hot-looking pubes.  Maybe a girlfriend of yours, maybe something you saw in a magazine, or on the Internet.  I mean, you spent an awful long time looking at the logo on my laptop while we were doing the cards; maybe it just stuck in your mind.  Sound reasonable?”  First rule of bluffing – lay it on thick.

“I don’t know, Jake, I suppose so, maybe.  Do you really think it looks hot?  Does it turn you on?”

“Robbi, pet, the last time I was this turned on was when you walked in the door.”

She laughed; her hand gently stroked the back of my neck.

“Wait a minute,” I said, “there is something here.  Something you may not have seen before.”

“Ohmigod, Jake,” she said, anxiety seeping back into her voice.  “What is it?”

“My Ellen DeGeneres impression.”  And with that, I heaved her onto the waterbed and ate her pussy like it was going out of style.

Note to self: Chanel-scented pussy has no equal.

The rest of the week went by in a blur of sex and studying, but mostly sex.  My mornings began with a latte and a lapdance, blowjobs in the bushes once or twice during breaks, and righteous back-door action followed by a gourmet dinner every night.

But there was the odd hiccup or two.  Everywhere Robbi went on campus she was gawped at: sometimes subtly, sometimes with mouth agape.  Not that I could blame anybody, for Robbi, true to her programming, dressed to tease.  She made sure her tits were always prominently displayed, and her omnipresent high heels made sure everyone knew she was in the vicinity.  Guys openly lusted after her, girls silently scorned and/or envied her.

And sometimes not so silently.

We’d been having a nice lunch of cold chicken (made and packed by Robbi, of course) under a tree on the edge of the Glade, when the less than dulcet tones of the Small-breasted California Feminist assaulted our ears.

“Honestly,” it screeched, “she parades about like the worst sort of sex object.  You’d think her brains were in those big, fake tits of hers.”

Robbi looked at me, a look of sorrow mingled with frustration and hurt.  “Jake,” she said pleasantly, “will you excuse me for a moment?”

A hundred images flashed through my mind in the space of a second: all of them variations on Robbi doing a spinning round kick to this cunt’s gut.  But I had to give Robbi her head and just hope she didn’t end up breaking this bitch’s nose like she did that rugby player’s – poor bastard never even got to feel her tit.

She got up and walked over to this group of harpies with an elegant bearing usually reserved for royalty, despite the fact that her heavenly ass cheeks were barely contained within her Daisy Duke shorts.

“Pardon me,” she said, the epitome of politeness, “was that really necessary?”

I don’t think Unpleasant Girl had expected to be challenged, but rather figured Robbi for a victim she could score points off of with impunity.  Darwinism comes in many forms, I thought.  It looked as though I was about to see one of them.

“Well, well, well,” Unpleasant Girl sneered, “the tits can talk, and multi-syllabically as well.  Kudos to the pair of you.”

But Robbi was not cowed by this small-uddered one.  “I wonder, does your bitterness stem from my exhibiting my genetically successful sexuality or from your inability to do the same?”

I suppressed a smile as I watched the other members of the herd exchange glances.  It was obvious that they had a shitload of retorts they wanted to fire at Robbi, but it was also obvious that they did not want to get into a shouting match with an intelligent girl who would engender a fair bit of sympathy were she attacked four-on-one.  And this was their giant mistake – because Robbi had no interest in them, their beliefs, their censure, or their approval.

Unpleasant Girl rallied.  “Listen, tits-for-brains, it’s sluts like…” which was as far as she got.  Robbi, with a speed even I didn’t know she had, pulled down her top, exposing her massive left tit, reached out and grabbed the back of Unpleasant Girl’s greasy head, and yanked it forward into her dug, silencing the shrew.  The other girls sat in stunned horror, not knowing what to do.  This was Berkeley, the Shining Beacon of Civilization.  People just didn’t engage in this kind of behavior.

“Mmph-mmph!” Unpleasant Girl burbled, her screeching quite a bit less irksome now.

“Suck my tit, bitch,” Robbi said, sounding rather a lot like Clint Eastwood, “you know you want to, you envious dyke cunt.”

The other girls began getting up, the looks on their faces ranging from ‘We’ve got to stop this!’ to ‘My turn!’

But Robbi had apparently sized up Unpleasant Girl correctly.  Her shock had given way to confusion, followed quickly by submission.  Her frightened ‘mmphs!’ were now impassioned ‘mmm’s’.

Robbi turned and smiled at me, adding a wink for good measure.  She then spun Unpleasant Girl off of her, sending her crashing into the rest of the herd, landing them all on their collective bovine asses.

“Now, if you’ll excuse me,” she said, putting her tit away, “I’m going to go suck my boyfriend’s cock.”

But there were also setbacks.

It had occurred to me that I had been sloppy (chalk it up to the little head doing the thinking for the big head) in documenting my upgrades, and that I should be making better use of the Scientific Method, seeing as how that was what got me here in the first place.  So, one night, as Robbi lay sleeping, I put the cap on her and booted her up.  There, amidst the gajillion files that made up Robbi the person, was the folder I’d created, just as I had left it on Monday morning.  At least I’d thought so until I opened it.

If memory served (and how often does it ever really?), I had installed three applications, fifteen mp3’s, one video, and my list of commands, meaning that the ‘Robbi’ folder should have only nineteen items in it.  But when I opened it I got yet one more shock to add to the pile.  The nineteen items I’d put in had grown, multiplied, until they filled the little window.  I maximized it, and it was completely filled as well, and the scroll button on the side was quite small, indicating that, for reasons unknown, there were now a shitload of files in there.  I looked down at the bottom of the window, fearing the ugly confirmation that would be displayed there: 169,488 files!

Apparently there was much more to cramming shit into somebody’s brain than I had realized.  What did these files represent?  Were they all the thoughts, dreams, and memories that Robbi had had since I’d created this folder?  Were they, perhaps, some form of outgrowth of the files and apps I’d installed, or were they who-knew-the-fuck-what?  What should I do with them?  Leave them as they are?  Trash them?

I was probably now more anxious about this specific issue than with anything else so far.  I couldn’t very well remove the files without knowing what they were, or what affiliation they might have to files outside this folder.  The last thing I needed was to send my fembot into the biological equivalent of a kernel panic.  I was pretty sure the guy in the Genius Bar at the Apple Store wouldn’t be able to cope with it.

Christ! I thought.  It would likely do more harm than good to remove them, and she seemed to be functioning well.  I just had to monitor her closely and hope that smoke didn’t start wafting out of her ears.  Her original, intact brain still sat on a DVD – if worse really came to worse I could always wipe and re-install, if I really could read and write, which, so far, had been the case.

But there were also other issues, though not so dark and unpleasant.  As much fun as Robbi was to play and to be with, there were things I wished to explore with the fembot side of her.  I wanted to take her out and see how she performed in public situations, like driving, grocery shopping, or automobile repair.  But I could not do these things with the present gear, and none of my new designs were practical.  I’d considered barrettes, earrings, visors, eyeglasses (which she no longer needed, as her eyesight had improved along with her bosom), and there always ended up being some hitch, usually moisture, power, distance, or method of contact.  It wouldn’t do to have a sensor/barrette fall out of the fembot’s hair while she was overhauling a transmission, thus causing her to become disconnected, especially if I’d programmed it to be a ninja-bitch. 

The sawed-off baseball cap had performed beautifully so far, and could continue to do so, provided it didn’t get wet, or knocked off during the next lap dance, etc.  What I wanted was a sturdier and more elegant apparatus, something invisible.  What I wanted, were this the best of all possible worlds, was implantable sensors.  They do make them.  I’d found out about them one evening, between the pre-dinner straight-lay and the salade d’endives, in an online article about severe schizophrenia, and new methods being used to monitor patients in situ.  Pricey as hell, they are absolutely the state of the art, drawing their power from the body’s own heat.  Their range is limited, on the order of a few yards, but any number of wireless devices configured to piggyback a signal can boost that.  If a person had the smarts, the money, and a fucking iPhone, he could program a fembot in Paris.

But I only had one out of the three, and that just wasn’t going to cut it.  If only I had come from money, like Robbi.  Now if I had her kind of dough…

“Robbi,” I asked, trying to keep my voice steady, “do you have an iPhone?”

“Sure,” she replied, brightly, expertly flipping an omelet, “you have my number, don’t you?”

I surely did.  That, I surely did.

“Jake, honey, is everything all right?”

It was Friday evening, the end of a very long and strange week.  I had about a hundred things on my mind, and one very hot piece of ass on my cock.

I was feeling guilty.  Here I sat, dressed in fine silk pajamas, bought for me by Robbi, wearing a fine silk robe, also bought for me by Robbi, sitting in my grand leather club chair bought by Robbi, and coming down from an incredible blowjob, given expertly by Robbi.  She seemed to think I needed the ‘Sweet’ treatment, and she had been right.  I had so far catalogued sixteen separate and distinct kinds of blowjobs – goodness knew how many different types Ultimate Babe had put inside her skull, I only knew I wasn’t complaining.  She was well aware that that loving, extremely intense bit of oral was my overall favorite and hadn’t hesitated to serve it up.

“Jake…?”

“Why don’t you climb up here, pet?”

She smiled, kicked off her pink, high-heeled mules (the only scrap of clothing she’d been wearing, save for that bellybutton plaque, which she was unable to remove as she had given me the key), climbed onto my lap, and made herself at home.  Her long, smooth legs rested over the right arm of the chair, while she reclined against the left one.  Her GG-cuppers, big as cantaloupes, sat just below my chin, and were an inexpressible source of comfort to me; their warmth, their incredibly full roundness, and most importantly, their reassuring weight and heft.  They were like twin, fleshy anchors that helped to keep me grounded amidst all this tumult.

“I love it when you call me that, Jake,” she whispered tenderly, “I love you.”

Hot breath in my ear, the smell of her perfume, and the incredible mammalian display before me threatened to, as they had more than once this week, distract me from a very important matter.

I’d been bad.

A week ago, minus about twelve hours, Robbi had been her own woman.  She’d had her own aspirations, dreams, and goals.  But now what did she have: a killer pair of cans and a body that could stop traffic.  This last was absolutely true, as she had confessed to having caused three fender-benders while walking along Shattuck Ave.

But what she didn’t have was a choice.  You know, that most basic and fundamental right granted to her by the fucking Constitution, which I’d taken from her, simply because I had the ability to get past her native internal programming and implant some of my own.  Were it not for sheer dumb luck, and to give credit where it’s due, some pretty damn fine thinking on my part, she would now be free to make her own decisions.  Titless, yes, but free.

“Robbi,” I asked, “do you remember what you were like before?”

She giggled.  “You mean,” she said, squeezing my hand, which had been absent-mindedly stroking one of her wonderfully full tits, “before these?  Of course I remember, Jake,” she said, an unmistakable trace of bitterness coloring her speech, “it’s my body that’s been altered, not my mind.”

“Are you…”

She bent her head down and silenced me with one of her breathtaking kisses.  She did this sometimes, apparently when she felt the need to shut me up, a ploy that worked every damn time.

“Jake,” she said, “there is not a woman alive who would mind being made to look beautiful, as you have done to me.  I don’t know what you did, Jake, but you have somehow helped me to look how I’ve always wanted to look, and I will love you forever for doing it.”

“But what if your feelings aren’t real, Robbi?  What if ..”

“You think I’m projecting, Jake?  Or transferring?  Maybe I am, it’s not unheard of.  Women have been known to fall in love with their doctors, or shrinks, or even a big, strong man who changed her flat tire some dark night.  So what if I am?  What does it matter?  I’m happier than I’ve ever been, and I think you are, too.”  She smoothly slid her hand down the front of my pajamas, grabbed hold of my cock, and gave it a playful squeeze, “I know he is.”

“But …” I started, and here she began shifting her position on my lap until she was facing me, straddling me in the oversized chair.  She rose up, pushing her melons into my face, silencing me as effectively as she had Unpleasant Girl.  She reached down and pulled my cock out through the front of my pajamas (“I made sure they had easy access when I bought them,” she’d made a point of telling me) and settled herself down upon it, giving an ‘ooh’ of appreciation, and then began riding me with a slow and steady rhythm, her breasts crushed up against me as she slid up and down my pole.

“But, Robbi,” I croaked, hoarsely, plowing doggedly on despite the incredible distraction she was posing, “what if I have somehow…altered your mind, somehow…robbed you of your ability to choose?”

There it was, the million-dollar question, out there at last.

She stopped pumping her hips and looked at me, an expression of utmost gravity.  “Jake,” she said softly, ”you know a lot about computers, but let me teach you something about women.  Choice, for us, is not the same thing as it is for men, it’s rather an abstract concept.”  She began slowly sliding up and down again, orating while she fucked,  “It starts when we’re little girls, and our parents make all our choices for us.  Then we become bigger girls, and suddenly we have hormones, and our bodies are no longer really ours to control.  Then we become young women, with boyfriends or husbands who will insist on making the decisions.  Then a baby comes along, and we’re even less in charge of our own destinies.”  She bore down, clenching her sweet pussy when she’d said ‘baby’; an ominous sign.  “Jake, choice for a woman is an illusion.  But this is my body, no matter how I came by it, and I choose this body, I choose this life.”

“But, Robbi,” I gasped, as her velvet quim continued its loving assault upon my poor cock, “what if…”

She pushed up again, and pulled my open mouth onto her nipple, bringing to an end any further discussion on my part.  “No more ‘what if’, please, Jake.  Just fuck me, cum inside me.  Fill me up with it!”

Her big tit ballooned over my face, damn near suffocating me, but I couldn’t have cared less.  The fat nipple invaded my mouth, demanding my attention, something I found myself unable to refuse.  Every lash of my tongue across its pebbled surface brought another gasp of pleasure from my girlfriend/fucktoy, every nibble of that erect bit of flesh caused her to reflexively clench her gash about my tool, which in turn cause me to buck my hips into her tight, sweet warmth.

Fuck Disneyland, my tortured mind managed to think; Robbi’s pussy was definitely the Happiest Place on Earth.

As if she’d read my mind, she clenched her pussy again, driving me over the edge, my shouts of ecstasy stifled by her voluminous titflesh.  She continued pumping my cock with her snatch, drawing forth torrent after torrent of my scum until I was utterly drained and completely sapped of all resistance.  If nothing else she really knew how to win an argument.

But she wasn’t done.  She smiled at me, gave a little giggle, and kissed me sweetly.  She then put her arms around me, plastering my chest with those magnificent juggs, and hugged me.

“Jake,” she whispered softly into my ear, “I don’t know what you did to make me this way, but please don’t try to undo what you’ve done, don’t try to imprison me in my old body.  I love you, Jake, maybe more than you realize, but if you try to take my beautiful boobs away…I will also choose to leave you.”

I could feel the wetness of her tears as they slid from her cheek onto mine, and suddenly it all fell into place.  I had programmed her to love me, and she did.  I had programmed her to love her tits, and she did.  But I had programmed her to love them first.  The hierarchy now embedded in her brain was tits first, Jake second.

Yet again I found myself identifying with Dr. Frankenstein.  His fictional creation is often said to be symbolic of technology, whereas my very real creation was quite definitely an outgrowth of technology; the perfect marriage of human and machine, but without those stupid bolts in her neck.  But like technology, Robbi was an unstoppable and utterly seductive force, and like Frankenstein’s Monster, freeing her meant unleashing upon the world a power too great and terrible to imagine.

Besides, I would really miss her blowjobs.

It had finally struck home, the enormity of the stupid thing I had done in reprogramming another human being with my own ham hands.  I could not let her go, and she would go if she felt threatened, which I would never, never do.  But it was her perception that counted.

I could not let her go, that much was certain, and sitting in a little box, on the lacquered side-table Robbi had bought me, was the means to prevent it.

It had arrived today, shipped overnight from Minnesota.  Normally, medical devices of this nature are impossible for regular folk to lay hands on, but you can accomplish much if you aren’t afraid of a little risk, and happen to work in the mailroom at a major university, which I do.

If I implanted Robbi, she would never be more than a phone call away, provided that phone were always kept close, which one more essential bit of programming would easily ensure.

“Jake?”

“Yes, pet?”

“Would you say my boobs are big, or huge?”

Her delightful neurosis; again, my doing.  She talked about them endlessly, posed them, adjusted them, and all for the greater good; a gift that I, through her, gave to the world.  “What a question, pet.  Why?”

“Well,” she said, straightening up so that we could speak face-to-face, more or less, “they pretty much seem to have stopped growing, Jake, and…”

“And you want them to be bigger?”

“Would you still love them if they were?”

“With all my heart, pet.  I would love your big, wonderful boobs even if they were as big as your head.  Bigger even.”

She beamed, hearing this, and began tearing up again.  “Oh, Jake, and I love you, too!  Do you really think they’ll get bigger?”

“I’m absolutely convinced of it.  I think if you concentrate your mental energies toward that end…picture yourself in your mind’s eye…”

“Do you really think so, Jake?  I would love for them to be huge.”

“Just dream a little dream, pet, and I’m sure they’ll be perfect before you know it.”

“Oh, Jake,” she said, her eyes becoming misty again, “I’m just the luckiest girl in the world.”

I really should be arrested, I thought.

Midnight, the Witching Hour; a time when magic abounds and evil is given free reign.  Too right, I thought.

Robbi lay there, networked into the system, silently being made into the vision that I’d decided she should wish to become.  It was so odd that I now took this incredible phenomenon, this technology that would reshape the world every bit as much as it was reshaping a formerly flat-chested young woman, at face value.  But I didn’t take Robbi that way.

For all my talk of implanting her, I could not do it.  That small box containing all the hardware necessary to ensure my fembot’s unwavering proximity had also included a handy DVD showing how to do it – it was major fucking surgery.  I’d had ideas on the doing of it, but having actually watched the operation, I now realized that I literally could not do it.  I would need an actual surgeon, an operating theatre, and a shitload of machines that go ‘ping’.

…or a fembot and a bottle of alcohol.  A properly programmed fembot could do it, with sterilized equipment in a clean environment.  It could be done, it had to be done – but I would not risk Robbi in the doing of it!

So what choice did that leave?  ‘Elementary,’ a great fictional detective was wont to say – I would have to create another fembot, and have Robbi practice on her.  There really was no other way; Occam’s Razor may not give you the solution you want, but it always cuts true.

So I needed another girl: a guinea pig for science, but who?  Getting another chick would probably be fairly easy, as Robbi had told me that all of her remaining friends (she had lost a few – tit-envy, she’d said) were positively desperate to know how she’d made this miraculous change.  But Robbi, true to her word, had kept mum, telling her friends that she must be having a wonderful growth spurt.  If Robbi told them how it had really happened, as far as she knew, I’d have no shortage of volunteers.  Berkeley might just as well rename itself ‘Stepford’ before the year was out.

But I wouldn’t want to risk an innocent either.  Back in the bad old days of science, they used to use prisoners for medical experimentation, but I didn’t have any of those on tap at the mo’.  No, what I needed was a girl who wouldn’t be missed; someone Darwin wouldn’t mind being culled from the herd…

Herd, I thought.  Yeah, there was someone who fit the bill, someone I, for one, wouldn’t miss.  Either way, success or failure, the world would be a better place.

In about six hours Robbi would be done, would be ideal.  A week ahead of schedule, but then I’ve always strived to be ahead of the curve.  Robbi could easily lure Unpleasant Girl here later this very evening.  ‘Twere best it were done quickly.’

I laid there a goodish while, mulling over ways ‘‘twere best done’ until a plan formed.  It was a good plan, a cunning plan.  But as Robert Burns said, ‘The best-laid schemes o' mice an’ men gang aft agley.’

Stupid fucking Scots.  If they’d just written in real English I might have known the shit was about to hit the fan.

Chapter 7

Robbi 2.0

“Whu…?”

Thud!

The scream hadn’t startled me, but the thud had.  I turned over to look at my creation, but she was nowhere to be seen.  Then I heard the giggling.  I slid across the bed toward the source of the giggling, which was growing in intensity, to find Robbi on the floor, cradling her new, perfect tits in her arms.

“Robbi…?”

“I fell, Jake,” she said, still giggling, “I rolled over and my boobies went off the edge of the bed…and I went with them!”  Her giggles became laughter, and tears rolled down her cheeks.  “Oh, Jake, look at them.  Aren’t they gorgeous?”

She raised herself, and her much larger endowments, until she could kneel comfortably, and placed them on the edge of the bed.  “Are they all right?” I asked.  “Any bruising, scrapes?”

“Relax, honey,” Robbi said, in a placatory tone, “I’m sure they’re just fine.  Titties have to put up with a good amount of abuse, just in daily wear and tear alone.  Why don’t you examine them, Jake?”

They were the two most beautiful tits I had ever seen, and I could find no evidence of injury, far from it.  Their perfection existed on so many levels it boggled the mind.  They were flawlessly round, full, and high.  Her areolae were the size of silver dollars, precisely circular, and were topped by the most enchantingly suckable nipples.  They seemed to be looking up at me, as though they had identities of their own, and were also awaiting my approval.

Robbi could not help but stroke and pet them.  Her cheeks were wet with tears again.  “Oh, Jake, they’re just wonderful.  I just love them so much, Jake.  I love you, Jake.”

I lay down, resting on my elbows so that I could take both of them in my arms, kissed them, and laid my head down upon their expansive softness. 

“And I love you.”

Robbi stroked my hair whilst I snuggled her beauties.  If there was a happier man anywhere in the world, I would personally shoot the fucker.

There has never been such a morning.  She posed for me, in all manner of styles from Seventeen to Cosmo to Hustler.  I shot a good thirty minutes of video of her just walking, dancing, doing jumping jacks, the usual things you’d expect.  Her tits were just so stupendous; they never stopped moving!  There was no flaw in her; she was now a flesh and blood duplicate of her digital counterpart.  We measured every inch of her – 34JJ-19-34.  Robbi 2.0, the most perfect woman ever created, was now complete.

She ran her hands up and down her body, reveling in the sensations from it.  I put down the measuring tape and joined her, reaching out for the nearest tit and running both of my hands over its immensity.  I lifted the fat, volleyball-sized dug, testing its weight – Crikey, I thought, it must weigh 10 pounds!  Its warmth and heft was reassuring.  I raised it to my lips like a loving cup, nodded my head toward Robbi, and toasted her, “To you, pet,” and put the nipple in my mouth.  Utter perfection.

“I’ve always wanted to do that,” she said in a low voice, and heaved her other tit up to her full lips.  She drew the erect nipple into her mouth and began suckling.  I didn’t need her moans to tell me she enjoyed the sensation, I could feel her body responding to her own attentions, the nipple in my mouth becoming even stiffer.

We stood there an unknown time, gazing into one another’s eyes, each of us sucking on a tit of our very own.  Life was good.

“Are you sure you don’t mind, Jake?”

“Of course not, pet,” I said smoothly, “You need new clothes to go with those huge boobs, and the only one who can make that happen is you.”

My cock had been at it for just about the last three hours, getting fewer rest breaks than your average migrant farm worker.  The sooner she went shopping, the sooner I could pack my johnson in the cooling relief of aloe vera gel.

“Jake, you’re just the most understanding man ever,” she said, wobbling about as she dressed.  She managed to almost stuff her immense cans into a black leather bustier, the spillage alone was more than most chicks could lay claim to.  “I promise I’ll make it up to you tonight.  I’m supposed to have dinner with Mother, but I’ll call and tell her I have to study for midterms, she’ll understand.”

I stood at the door and watched her walk away, a sight every bit as luscious as the view from the front.  She was just so fucking gorgeous.  So fucking gorgeous, in fact, that everything that I was going to make happen in the next twelve hours, despite all the gothic horror overtones, would be worth the risk.

It had, believe it or not, occurred to me that I was about to cross a very definite Rubicon from which I could not return.  I have crossed the actual Rubicon, which is a stream in Italy – I rowed across that fucker four times, just to prove I could do it.  But kidnapping someone, implanting a device in them, and having them paint your apartment is not quite in the same league as taking a fat-titted Italian prostitute out for a drunken boat ride and some anal.  What I was planning to do was more on the order of the kind of shit for which they used to put people on trial – in Nuremburg.

But I wasn’t doing it just for the sake of doing it.  I had more to lose by not taking these actions, I felt, than by taking the risk and failing.  Besides, this operation had been performed dozens of times before, with a fatality rate just barely over twenty percent – I’ve doubled-down on worse than that.

I worked quickly, my speed approaching fembot efficiency, completing everything necessary to ensure success.  I was ready: my new laptop, courtesy of Robbi, was loaded and configured, as were the iPhone and digital camcorder, also courtesy of Robbi.  The new cap was completed and ready, the old cap had a fresh set of batteries, kitchen counter/operating table cleaned and sanitized, and the implants tested and a-okay.  All that was missing were the doctor, the patient, and a couple of cans of paint.

My Kit-Kat clock said there were still two hours left until zero hour, ahead of schedule as usual.  I didn’t expect Robbi for another hour yet, which was a pity – I really could have used a ‘Showstopper’ long about now.  I opened a beer, settled into my bitchin’ club chair, grabbed the laptop, and opened up the Poser project I’d started earlier in the week.  Ten inches shouldn’t be too big, I thought, appraising the image on the screen.  It would be the least I could do for Robbi after all she’d done for me.

I was beginning to get worried.  It was just on eight o’clock – a full hour past when she’d said she’d be back.  Image after image flashed through my mind, each more horrific than the last: Robbi being forcibly taken by white slavers, Robbi lying on the floor at the mall with blood gushing from her ears from the cerebral hemorrhage caused by the constant skullfucking I’d put her through, Robbi buying maternity clothes.

I was spared more visions of terror by the welcome ringing of my telephone.  Life experience has taught me that there are two kinds of people in the world: people who believe that every phone call portends dire events, and sane people.  Science has proven that only six percent of phone calls are bad news, no matter how many black cats are licking their asses in your path.

I hate it when science lets me down.

“J-Jake?”

She was crying, and not happy tears either.  She was, in fact, damn near sobbing.

“Robbi,” I said, trying to keep her steady, “are you all right?  Are you hurt?”

“I…oh, Jake…I’m so sorry…I…”

“Robbi, honey, listen to me,” I said, still maintaining my suicide prevention hotline demeanor, “are you hurt?”  She was definitely scaring me.  What could have happened?

“I’m…n-not, Jake,” she said, sniffling, “I’m not hurt.  I’m just…just…it’s Mother…she…”

“Robbi, where are you now?  Are you driving?”

“No, Jake, I’m…parked.  Oh, please don’t be mad at me…I’m…” and her sobs began afresh.

“Robbi, pet, I won’t be mad at you.  Just tell me where you are, baby.”

Her crying tapered a bit.  “I-I’m in the parking lot.”

“What parking lot, pet?”

“Your parking lot, Jake.”

“Wha…my parking lot?”  I wrenched open the curtains to see her black Mercedes parked in the lot, taking up two stalls, headlamps on, a lone female figure behind the wheel wiping her eyes.

“Please d-don’t be mad at me, Jake.  It’s Mother…she…I couldn’t help it!”

“Robbi, stay where you are, okay?  Don’t move, just stay in the car.”  It sounded like she was in shock.

I ran like a bat out of Hell toward her car.  She must have had a fight with her mom, the controlling bitch.  Everything Robbi had told me about her thus far had led me to the conclusion that Godzilla would have made a better parent.

I reached the car, gasping about as much as Robbi had been on the phone, and clutching at a stitch in my side.  She sat slumped in the driver’s seat, wiping her eyes again.  Her tits, barely contained in a new, red leather bustier, were thrust out before her, wet from catching her falling tears.  A fat teardrop landed as I watched, rebounding up and forward as it impacted upon the soft flesh, to be lost amidst the chiaroscuro of the low light of the parking lot.

“Robbi...?”

“I’m so sorry, Jake,” she said, her voice hoarse, “I-I just didn’t know what else to do.”

“Robbi,” I said, getting my breathing somewhat under control, “why don’t you shut off the car…and come inside and tell me…all about it?”

She blew her nose daintily on a tissue and threw it onto the passenger side floor mat, wiped her eyes with the backs of her hands again, and then shut off the car.  I opened the door for her; her feet were surprisingly bare, an oddity in itself as my fembot always wore some form of footwear whenever she was about.  Her juggs spilled forward as she exited the car, her red miniskirt riding up past her crotch, showing anyone who cared to look that panties were definitely last century.  Britney would be so proud.

She fell into my arms.  “Oh, Jake,” she bawled, and the tears began again.  I let her cry it out, patting her bosom consolingly and stroking her hair.  I crooned softly into her ear until her sobs abated.

“Robbi,” I said gently, my stomach still clenched with worry despite the reassuring comfort of the giant tit beneath my fingers, “I need you to tell me what has happened to you.  What does this have to do with your mother?”

“I-I’m not sure where to begin,” she said, sniffling, but a little more under control.

“Start at the beginning, pet.  What happened after you left here?”  The parking lot was fairly quiet at the moment.  It being Saturday evening, the rest of the people in my complex were more than likely gathered together on Mount Tam, trying to harmonically converge some anal sex.  A few passersby did make a point of not staring as they walked by, for which I could not have given two shits – my fembot needed me.

She managed to pull herself together enough to give me a sense of what had happened.  She had gone, as she said she would, to her dressmakers, a necessity, as she certainly couldn’t buy clothing off the rack due to the now prodigious dimensions of her own.  Muumuus were right out, of course; people would think she was smuggling basketballs.

She then went back to her condo, to collect her mail, grab a shower, and get ready for the evening.  She had only just put the finishing touches to her makeup, which she wore religiously now (thank you, Ultimate Babe), and was about to put on her matching red pumps, when she walked in the door.

“So it’s true,” she said, “my beautiful little girl has turned herself into a breast-implanted whore.”  Things went pretty much downhill from there.

The Chinese, those inscrutable bastards, have another curse – ‘may you come to the attention of those in authority.’  Robbi, and myself by extension, had done just that.  Robbi’s mother, being one of the beautiful people, traveled in pretty much the same circles as Berkeley’s Chancellor, and knew her well.  Chancellor Simmons had lost no time in notifying Maria, (rhymes with ‘pariah’) of the damage Robbi had done to that rugby player’s nose.  Maria had also gotten wind of the $7,000 in cash that Robbi had withdrawn for me (though she was unaware of what it had bought).  Meanwhile, Robbi, who rightly feared her mother’s wrath, had been ducking her calls and not returning her voicemails.  Maria had even driven by Robbi’s place a couple of times, but since Robbi was spending all her free time with me, and my laptop, she’d had to resort to more drastic methods of reaching her daughter – she’d hired a detective.

The news had stunned me, though not nearly so much as the pictures did.  Robbi pulled a fat file folder from the dashboard of her car and gave it to me.  I certainly had to give the guy credit; he was really quite a good photographer.  There was one pic of Robbi that could easily take Best Cumshot of the Year away from Melony, were it submitted.  Robbi also said there was video as well; I found myself hoping that whomever Maria had hired to do the snooping was discrete, as I really didn’t want to see my naked ass banging away on YouTube.

“Oh, Jake,” she said, again on the verge of tears, “she was so awful.  She called me a bimbo, and a slut.  And she said that you were a loser who would never amount to anything…”

‘Never amount to anything’, huh?  Here I was, poised on the brink of taking over the world, and even that’s not enough for the Wicked Queen.  And the more Robbi talked, the nastier it got: threats of blocking her trust fund, of pulling her from school, moving her cross-country, or even Europe, and most abhorrent of all…

“…she threatened…to remove my breasts, Jake!”

“You’re joking!” I hissed, appalled at the evil cunt’s nerve.

“Actually, she said, ‘We’ll have those fake tits cut off of you in the morning.’  And then she grabbed my boobs, Jake, hard.  And that’s…that’s when I hit her.”

“You what?”  Visions of Robbi’s mom crawling on the floor, bleeding profusely through a shattered nose, blackened eyes, maybe a busted jaw for good measure.  I had programmed Robbi to respond to perceived threats, and Maria had most certainly been that.

“I didn’t hit her…actually,” she said, shaking her head slowly and looking down into the crevasse of her cleavage, “I, um…kicked her.  In the head.  Pretty hard.  I couldn’t stop myself, I-I just did it.  She, um…oh, Jake, I think I may have k-killed her!”  And then the dam broke.

I stood there, holding her while she sobbed, feeling like a complete idiot.  I didn’t know what to do or say, thinking that I’d done quite enough already.  I’d turned a perfectly nice, slightly chunky girl into a sex toy/killing machine, and it now seemed likely that I might also be responsible for the death of another human being.

And all before midterms.

“Robbi,” I said, calmly and evenly, “I need you to get a hold of yourself now, and come with me into the apartment.  Can you do that?”  I held her close, stroking her hair, rocking her gently.  She seemed to be on the very edge of shock, and though I may be a dab hand at human reconfiguration, I know next to nothing about medicine.  But I had other reasons for wanting to get her inside: the cops could show up at any minute.  It was also possible they might not show up at all, depending on what had happened after Robbi had done her Bruce Lee impression on her mom’s skull.  I needed her to tell me exactly what, which meant getting her inside and getting her calm.

“Robbi, why don’t we go in the apartment, and I’ll make you a nice cup of tea?  You can relax and then we can see about how to deal with your mom, okay?”

“All right, Jake.  I-I’m really sorry about…all of this,” she said, shaking her honey-blonde tresses, her eyes still moist.  “I guess I’m a little bit…well, yes, you’re right.”

”Good girl,” I said, “why don’t you let me just shut everything down, okay?”  I took her keys from her, gently, for fear of spooking her, and began collecting her shit and closing windows, making damn sure I didn’t leave anything incriminating behind.  I could see her standing there under the yellow lighting, a confused, overdeveloped, barefooted doll.  She seemed disassociated, almost as if she was watching it happen to someone else.

I completed my task and locked up.  “Okay, Robbi,” I said, holding my hand out to her and trying not to sound as though I thought she was a bomb about to explode, “let’s get you some tea, shall we?”

“Sure, Jake.”  She took my hand and we began walking back to my apartment, my mind spinning about 10,000 rpm’s, trying to figure out what ducks should go where when Robbi stopped and grabbed my wrist.

“But Jake, what about Mother?  Shouldn’t we get her first?”

“Later, baby,” I said, putting my arm around her shoulder and moving her forward, “let’s just get you taken care of first.”

“All right, Jake,” she said simply, “I just thought she might get cold out here.”

‘Out here’?  My mind latched on to those two words like a pit bull on an old lady.  “Robbi, please tell me you’re not saying what I think you’re saying.”

“Well, good God, Jake,” she said exasperatedly, pushing a button on the keychain dangling from my now nerveless hand, “I couldn’t just leave her lying on the floor in my condo.  She is my mother, after all.”

Some people fear a ringing telephone portends ill.  I’m pretty sure that for the rest of my life I’ll feel the same way whenever I hear the sound of a car’s trunk unlocking.

“Oh, this is bad.” I said, under my breath, looking down into the Mercedes’ trunk.  I know they’re supposed to be roomy, and all that, but I couldn’t quite get over its resemblance to a yawning chasm, an abyss into which my soul would be cast down, to burn forever for my crimes.

Hey, even the staunchest Atheist is allowed the occasional terror-induced delirium.

There was quite definitely a body in there, and I found myself hoping that it was indeed Robbi’s mom, rather than some hapless meter-reader who just happened to get caught up in my fembot’s faulty programming.  Robbi was ten feet behind me, anxiously awaiting word from me.  The lighting in the parking lot wasn’t great, and the body in the trunk obscured most of its interior lighting, but I could see well enough: knee-length gray dress, blonde hair, and a nasty bruise to the side of its face.  The neck was visible, so I gritted my teeth and extended a slightly shaking hand to feel for a pulse, expecting two possibilities: that I wouldn’t find one, or that an army of the undead would rise up, wanting directions to fucking Alioto’s.

She was alive.  There was a pulse, though faint, which only complicated matters.  I find I think best in times of crisis, which stood me well during my aborted stint in the Army, and my brain clicked into overdrive.  Options: do nothing, do something.  If I did nothing, she would probably die, and she was certainly notable enough to be missed.  If I dumped her body somewhere, it would take the Police about four seconds to pin it on Robbi, especially since there was a private dick out there who knew something was up, so doing nothing was not an option.

That meant I had to do something: ambulance…or what?  If she died before an ambulance made it here, or died in hospital, Robbi would be tried for murder.  If Maria survived, Robbi would likely be tried for battery, attempted murder, et-fucking-cetera.  At the very least, my fembot would be taken from me, and I could not allow that to happen.

I couldn’t do nothing, and I couldn’t call for help, that left only one option – to get her into the apartment and get her connected up now.  I didn’t know if it would work, I didn’t know if I could even gain access.  Maria was unconscious, or comatose, neither of which qualified as sleep.  But much of science happens by accident, or at least by the switching of variables, and this was the only shot I had.

“Jake…?”

“Robbi,” I said, wondering at the sound of my own voice, having forgotten I had one during my brief vacation from reality, “I need you to do something for me.”

“Yes, Jake?”

“I need you to go put on that white bikini and the matching heels you bought the other day.”

“Um…” she started, sounding as if she thought I was now the one who’d slipped a cog, “will that help?  Besides, the top won’t fit anymore with my bigger boobs.”

“That’s what I’m counting on, pet.  I need you to take a swim while I tend to your mom.  Can you do that for me?  I know it’s a little chilly, but I think that will work to our advantage.  But I need you to do this for me right now.”

“Okay, Jake.  If you say so.”

“And Robbi,” I said, trying to keep things nice and calm, “I want you to swim until I come and get you, no matter what happens, okay?”

“Okay,” she replied, sounding thoroughly unconvinced, but willing nonetheless.  And then she was gone; her huge cans bounding to and fro as she jogged barefoot to my door.  I kept my finger to Maria’s carotid artery, wishing, perhaps for the very first time in my life, that I had a God to pray to, one that would at least keep her alive for the next ten minutes.  I just hoped that Robbi would be quick about it, but I needn’t have worried; the welcome sound of her heels could be heard in next to no time as she came striding up the concrete walk that leads to the pool, looking every bit as stunning as I had expected.

That white string-bikini was possibly the most scandalous bit of clothing ever created, covering perhaps less than six square inches of my fembot’s perfect body, and deserved a place in the Smithsonian.  Its top consisted of two small triangular patches that were almost large enough to conceal Robbi’s rather sizable areolae, when she’d purchased it.  Now, even at a distance of fifty feet, it was obvious that only Robbi’s perpetually erect nipples were all that were covered.  But as nice a sight as they were, it was the bottom half that really rocked.  A thin strap of white material encircled her, disappearing into the crack of her supreme ass, to come up through her legs and then widening only barely enough to cover her labia, then just clearing the top of her slit by only the smallest fraction of a millimeter.  And as though my fembot had read my mind, she’d tied it so tight that the material was sucked up into her, giving anyone who cared to look, meaning pretty much everyone on the planet, not to mention most of the higher primates, a spectacular view of her little camel toe.  To top it all off, her blonde, Apple logo pubic hair was just visible over the rim of the bikini bottom, which, ironically enough, sported a little tag that said ‘eat me’.

From my vantage point I could see that the sound of Robbi’s heels was having the desired effect.  Like Pavlov’s dogs, my neighbors came unto their windows, conditioned to expect the arrival of the first-rate nookie they had come to associate with those loud, clacking steps.  Robbi sauntered up the walk to the pool’s gate, her giant breasts rolling side-to-side, visible even from behind.  She opened the gate slowly; the high-pitched whining announcing that one small section of the civilized world was about to receive a show for which there would be no equal.

I could see people staring out of the windows of all the apartments that faced the pool, not to mention digital cameras, cell phones, and even one motherfucker with a telephoto lens that looked like it was designed for capturing images of pulsars in deep space.

All eyes were on Robbi as she threw her towel onto one of the shitty chaise longue.  Her tits wobbled wonderfully, barely contained within their insubstantial bindings as she stretched, catlike, preparing for the plunge.  Steam rose from the surface of the water, shrouding her in a sparse fog that couldn’t entirely obscure her fat nipples, now made ever so much more erect in the coolness of the evening.  She clacked over to the deep end and kicked off her heels, and the night was now utterly silent, as though every man, woman, and child in the world was waiting, holding a collective breath.  Robbi put her hands over her head in the classic diver’s pose, knees bent, head down, and dove.

Her top exploded off of her tits before she even cut the water.

I went into action.  Robbi’s mom was not by any means light, but I had youth and adrenaline on my side.  I got my arms under her and heaved her out of the trunk without managing to cave the other side of her head in.  It was about a hundred and fifty feet to my door, and I felt not the slightest need to hurry.  I could be carrying a SCUD missile for all the attention focused in my direction, and it wouldn’t matter, for I certainly had the mother of all distractions.

Six minutes later I shouldered my way through the cheering crowd around the pool to collect my fembot.  She rose from the water majestically, supremely uncaring about the multitudinous camera flashes going on about her; all that was missing was the fucking clamshell and cherubs.  I enfolded her in the fluffy towel, which elicited a few boos from the assembled onlookers.  She looked radiant, and moved in close to whisper in my ear, “Did I do okay, Jake?”

“Baby,” I said, truly relieved for the first time since I'd seen her this evening, “you did it perfectly.”

She beamed as I held out her shoes to her, and put them on gracefully, amidst more flashes of light, one hand on my shoulder to help keep her from pitching forward back into the pool.  We worked our way back through the throng, my back being clapped a few times out of good-natured envy, when one woman, who I recognized as the stupid cunt whose Pekingese barks incessantly when she walks him at five o’clock every damned morning, hissed at us and said, “You should be evicted, and your bimbo girlfriend arrested!”

“Madam,” I said, weary from a day of humping, planning, scheming, and assorted ne’er do well activities, “in the immortal words of my hero, the Dalai Lama, ‘Go fuck yourself.’”

“Will she be okay, Jake?”

Robbi was fretful, and rightly so.  That Maria was alive was a marvel; I thought sure the trip from the parking lot would likely finish her off, but she was still hanging in there.  But I’ve had enough nurse friends tell me tales of patients who were doing just fine, until they would suddenly go south on them; here one minute, gone the next.  “I think so, Robbi,” I lied, “but how are you doing?”

“A little better, I think the tea is helping,” she said, taking another drink of the chamomile, then putting the cup down with elaborate grace upon the table.  “Jake, am I going to go to jail?”

“No,” I said emphatically, “you will not.”

“But…”

“Robbi, pet, what happened was not your fault.  It was a natural reaction to a very real threat.  I will not permit them to take you.  You belong with me, and I will let no man put us asunder.”

“Oh, Jake, do you mean it?” she asked, tears running down her cheeks.  Crikey, she was always wet on one end or the other.  She got up and came around the table and hugged me, her naked breasts gently coming to rest against my stomach.  I patted them reassuringly while she kissed me.

“More than you know, pet,” I said, looking into those crystal blue eyes.  “Now, baby, I need for you to try and get some rest.  You’ve been through a tough day, and worrying won’t make things better.”

“But, Jake…”

“No buts, Robbi,” I said, rising to my feet and guiding her around the couch where Maria lay, somewhere between sleep and death.  “I don’t know what tomorrow will bring, I only know we’ll need to be ready for it.”

“You’re right, Jake, you’re always right,” she said drowsily, her head now resting on my shoulder as we walked into the bedroom.  She sat down on the edge of the bed, my poor, troubled fembot, “Jake, will you undress me?”

“Robbi, my pet, you are undressed,” I said, reaching down and pulling the strings that held her bikini bottom on.  They fell away and she reclined so that I could strip her completely.  She was so lovely, so perfect.  I wanted nothing better to fuck her at this very moment, but there were other matters that needed tending.

“Jake, I won’t be able to sleep,” she said, looking up at me, “not without giving you something first.  Please?”  Her delicate hand came up and began stroking my cock through my jeans, already stiff, something she seemed to know automatically.

I started to say something, but it didn’t really matter, her attention was already focused on the task at hand.  She really was an artist when it came to cocksucking.  It was like a language she could speak fluently, communicating on a level that required no words, just her facility with her mouth and my cock.  She was giving me a ‘Sweet’, probably out of gratitude for my actions, but as my cock was being wonderfully engulfed I could feel this blowjob going off in a different direction, another plateau, and I found myself being reminded, bizarrely enough, of Italy.

I’d attended my first opera there, La Boheme.  Now, I speak only enough Italian to say, ‘Fuck you’, which is enough to get you by in old Roma.  But opera, performed in its native language, needs no translation.  By the end of that performance I was in the same weepy state as all of the women, as well as a good majority of the men.

But this blowjob could have been composed by Mozart.  It was a blowjob that bespoke admiration, heroism, unfailing loyalty, need, desire, trust, and eternal love.  When I came in Robbi’s mouth, it was a climax of Wagnerian proportions and I found that I was utterly spent, emotionally drained, and completely wrung-out.

She worked my softening cock with her swollen, perfectly designed lips until she had consumed every last drop of my jizz, and looked up at me, my cock pressed against her cheek, her eyes shining,  ”Did I do good, Jake?”

“Brava, baby,” I said hoarsely, “the best yet.”

She smiled, a tired but contented smile, and rolled over, keeping hold of my cock, forcing me to sidle over with her, until her head lay on the pillow.  She sighed and kissed the head, “I love your cum, Jake, I love swallowing it.  Do you know why?”

“No, pet,” I said, amazed at the direction this was taking.  I could not now honestly say where Robbi ended and Ultimate Babe took over, but the woman lying naked before me had no equal anywhere in this world, and I would dearly love taking the rest of my life to find out.

“When I swallow your cum, a part of you is inside me.  My body digests it and it goes into my cells and it becomes a part of me, so that no matter what happens, no one can ever take you from me.  You have made this body, Jake.  You have made me.  I am your creation.”

I looked down at this body, my creation.  “And did I do good, pet?”

“Bravo, Jake,” she purred, releasing my cock so that she could run her hands up and down that exquisite construction of flesh.  “I feel like a work of art, like I should go on forever.”

“I agree, baby,” I said softly, marveling at her.  “You should be eternal, unchanging, like a Greek goddess.”

“I like that,” she said, yawning.  “Which one should I be?”

“I don’t know, pet.  There’s Aphrodite, the Goddess of Love, but her job is taken.”

“Well, then,” she purred, looking up at me through half-closed eyes, “we’ll have to invent a new one.  I’ll be Fellatia, the Goddess of Cocksucking.”

I laughed.  “You’ll have statues in your honor, pet.”

“Thousands of them,” she giggled, “and none more than waist high.”  She continued giggling, sending delightful ripples across her vast tracts of titflesh.

“I love you, Jake,” she said, taking hold of my cock again and giving it a tender goodnight kiss.

I bent down and kissed her full, warm lips, “And I…” I moved to her right tit and french-kissed the erect nipple, “…love…” and moved to its twin and gave it the same treatment as well, giving it a little pat for good measure, “…you.”

I got off the bed and moved to the door, taking one last look at her before turning off the light.  She had rolled onto her side, my bronzed fembot, her eyes closed, one huge tit balanced atop the other, nipples perfectly aligned, giving me the feeling they were watching me.

I shook it off.  It was time to go hook up Mom.

Chapter 8

Maria 1.x

So now I had a fembot sleeping in my bed, and her unconscious mother on my bitchin’ sofa.  At this rate, I thought, I really should consider getting a castle and a hunchbacked assistant.

She was still alive.  She was a tough old bird, I had to give her that.  But that wasn’t exactly true.  Oh, she was tough all right; the bruise to the right side of her head showed a blow that would have knocked Mike Tyson stupid, well, stupider.  And she was, as my Dad would say, a bird.  But old?  Not bloody likely, mate.

Robbi, in between bouts of body fluid exchanges, had told me a good bit of her life history, starting with the fact that she was – her wording, not mine – a bastard.  Born out of wedlock, to a single mom who wasn’t even old enough to drive, Maria had told her, one night after hitting the Bacardi once too often, that ‘if it weren’t for the Catholic religion, you wouldn’t be here now.’  Robbi was raised by her grandparents while her mother finished high school, and then college.  She graduated with honors, and thanked her parents for their love and sacrifice by taking Robbi from them, severing all ties with them, leaving the Church, marrying some rich puke, divorcing same and taking half his money, and then writing a few bestselling novels about her life of oppression.  Nice work if you can get it.

She was a bitch, all right, or a self-made bitch if one wanted to be precise.  But if one really wanted to be painstakingly meticulous about it, she could be referred to as a pretty damn bangable self-made bitch.  Maria was a looker, no two ways about it, and she’d gone to great effort to keep what I presumed were her natural good looks; I doubted that all her nonsense regarding gender oppression would allow for such a thing as a facelift or Botox.  She wore minimal makeup, a little pancake, some blush, lipgloss.  She had a nice, firm pair of B’s that I knew were real, as I’d given her boobies a good squeeze when I’d set her down on the couch.  Her driver’s license, which was two years expired, put her age at thirty-five.  She obviously worked out, as there was very little fat on her, and I wouldn’t mind checking out that ass some time, when she wasn’t about to bleed out of her ears, that is.

Could this even work, I wondered?  Would my laptop be able to acquire a server that was unconscious, or comatose?  Would the unit simply be considered offline?  I was damned if I knew.  All I knew was that I had very few options, and that this plan was the best of a bad lot.  At least it didn’t require the use of a chainsaw, a bathtub, and a shitload of bleach.

But Apple computers are the best for a reason: stability.  Not much happens that is unexpected, but when you throw weird shit at it you can pretty much predict what will happen – S.B.O.D, ‘the Spinning Ball of Death’.  A cute, little beachball that spins and spins, signifying that it doesn’t know what the fuck you want it to do.  This is analogous to the ‘hourglass’ on a PC, which almost always precedes the ‘Blue Screen of Death’, which is followed by the inevitable loss of all your data.

True to form it now sat there spinning away happily upon my screen, sensing something was there, but unable to talk to it.  The EEG program was fine, it had a brainwave to work with, and was feeding it back; I was knocking but no one was answering.  Well, I figured, I may as well knock louder.  I increased the signal volume slowly, monitoring Maria’s pulse just to be on the safe side.  When I’d reached three hundred percent of normal, with no discernible change of consciousness, I stopped.  Maria’s brain had been knocked about enough, no sense frying it, too.

If this was a coma, and I was pretty sure it was, it could last for days, months, even years.  She might also die before I finished my beer, just simply stop breathing, cease to function.

If Maria lived, she would take Robbi from me.  If Maria died, the police would take Robbi from me: your classic lose/lose situation.  Occam’s Razor said I was doing all I could for her at the moment, considering the big picture, but there were things I could do while my laptop continued trying to hack Maria’s system.  I pulled my backup out of the closet, my G3 tower.  Not much memory, not even much storage, about five chicks worth, but I could do some simple shit, namely programming.

If my laptop penetrated Maria, I figured she would probably recover.  If she recovered, that meant she would have to be seriously reprogrammed if Robbi, and I, were to be allowed to live free from the evil bitch’s interference.  I’d learned enough to know that Robbi and Maria’s whole family dynamic was just one transvestite midget short of a Jerry Springer episode, so I’d better start with that.

The basics: from everything Robbi had told me, I gathered that Maria, when it came right down to it, didn’t really love Robbi.  I mean, sure, she probably loved her in some form of familial-socio-minded-I’m-supposed-to-love-the-fruit-of-my-loins abstract kind of way, but this situation really required something more like an I-won’t-press-charges sentiment:

I love my daughter.

That was good, for a start.  Nice and simple, but Maria already loved her as a daughter, sort of.  They needed a more stable and healthy relationship, to love each other as people:

I love Roberta.

Better, I thought, but love is, so they say, a two-way street:

I love Roberta.

I want Roberta to love me, too.

Good, I thought, loving and wanting to be loved are healthy emotions, but love goes hand-in-hand with respect, and people don’t generally threaten to cut the tits off people they respect:

I love Roberta.

I want Roberta to love me, too.

I respect Roberta’s choices.

Choices?  Crikey, what was I thinking?  Maria was going to wake up, if she woke up, madder than a wet hen, which meant this Dr. Phil choice bullshit was a tad bit subtle for the occasion:

I love Roberta.

I want Roberta to love me, too.

I love Roberta’s big boobs.

I love Roberta’s new look.

Pretty sledgehammer-like, but elegant enough for my purposes; but was it enough?  I’d covered the high points but there was still the matter of acceptance.  Robbi had never awakened from a session – boom! – ready to do whatever I’d encoded, there was always a lag.  I needed to decrease that lag, otherwise my fembot would end up with her new, sweet, loving mom in Europe, far away from me.  How to do it, I wondered.  How can I get her programming to sink in faster?  When my Dad wanted to get something across to me, he’d yell, either that or natter on and on, ad-motherfucking-infinitum, until I’d do what he wanted just so he’d shut the fu…

Maniacal laughter is best done privately, and since Maria was presently out of order I felt it was cool to indulge.  ‘Ad-Motherfucking-Infinitum’ was the name of a little program I’d written during my abbreviated stint in the Army.  Simply put, it would copy and rename files, as many times as you wanted.  In a matter of minutes you could clog up the biggest hard drive, even one belonging to a Sgt. First Class who’d reprimanded a big-boobed comrade of mine for wearing non-Army issue lingerie under her uniform (too bad for him that he was later court-martialed – who’d have thought that an officer would have so much kiddie-porn?)

It took me all of a minute to find it.  I loaded each of Maria’s new commands into its own file, put them in all caps and 72-point font, which should simulate shouting pretty well, and set each of the four files to begin copying itself – 100,000 times.  I figured 400,000 commands should get the point across fairly quickly, if it worked at all, though at 9.5 gigs it would take a while to upload.  Now all I needed was something to put it into.

The little ball was still spinning away, spinning its wheels, so to speak.  I had done all I could; I would just have to wait.  I grabbed another beer from the fridge.  The Kit-Kat clock said it was 1:15 AM, which explained why I felt dead on my feet.  It had been a day of some energy expended, as my Dad would say, and it wasn’t over yet. 

I knelt down beside Maria to check her pulse again – no change.  She really was a good-looking woman, despite the large, purple bruise on her temple.  I could see Robbi’s good looks, before my alterations, that is, in her.  I could also see she didn’t mind a few feminine accoutrements, notably earrings.  I had noticed them before, in passing, but I hadn’t really seen them, considering all the other shit I’d had to deal with.  They were diamonds, of course, and looked like your standard Tiffany’s fare, probably about five grand for the pair.  I would have thought such adornment beneath her, more gender debasement.  In my tired state I began wondering what else might lay hidden away from prying eyes.  I decided to do a little prying.

When I was seventeen my father told me something about women, “The more prim and proper they are on the outside, lad, the naughtier they are when the lights are off.”  I expect Maria would probably kick my father in the nuts for this kind of sexist remark, or she might do it because he was right.

Underneath that fashionably dull, gray dress was a veritable Victoria’s Secret fashion show.  Maria was partial to red, it seemed.  Her nude hose – not sexist frippery, but a necessity in San Fran, considering the weather – stopped at the tops of her milky thighs where they met the straps of her super-saturated, red Merry Widow.  My johnson sprang to life at the sight of this mature, concealed slut.  See-through red panties under a body-hugging corset that pushed her smallish boobies up and together, an offering to the lucky man, or woman perhaps, who might say the right words, or flash the right amount of cash.  She was hot, no two ways about it.  Mid-thirties chicks usually tend toward the cougar-ish.  Not so Maria; she was still a babe, a bona-fide piece of ass.

I undid the straps at the base of the corset and flipped them up.  Her panties slid off of her like a whisper in the moonlight.  Naughty Maria, like her daughter, also preferred a trimmed bush, though rather than going for the bald look, which isn’t precisely my cup of tea, Maria’s cooter sported a ‘V’, like an arrow pointing toward to the goal.

I held her panties up to my nose; they smelled of her perfume, not Chanel, but some other fragrance, pheromones, perhaps, as my cock seemed to swell even more as I inhaled.

Her legs were smooth, without a trace of stubble.  I slid my hand upward to the arrow above her slit and traced her pubic topiary with my index finger.  It pointed down, so down I went.  She was dry, which was hardly surprising, but a little spit can do a world of good, and soon I had two fingers deep inside this hot mama.  Her pussy felt luscious, and quite tight, considering what had once been forced through there.  But then I noticed the very faint scar of a C-section running across her middle; a wise choice, I thought.  My free hand found her right tit and massaged it while I continued finger-fucking her with my right hand.

This wasn’t how I’d anticipated spending my evening, making out with the unconscious body of the mother of my fembot, but then life often throws one a few curveballs.  You simply have to flexible, like the willow.  But my cock was rather like the mighty oak just now, and I really couldn’t see the harm in ripping off a quick piece.  I mean, I was trying to save her life.

I joined with her on my spacious leather couch, sliding into her velvet smoothness, my cock meeting only sweet resistance.  I sawed in and out of her, nibbling her fine tits, a little sad that she wasn’t participating, but bearing up just the same.

The beers I’d had were taking their toll on my performance, prolonging it.  But the power of the poon, even a comatose one, will quickly overwhelm the fiercest invader, and within a very few moments I found my hips bucking uncontrollably as I slammed into her, spraying my cum deep inside this rich…bitch…whore.

I lay on her, panting, guilt now overtaking me like an eighteen-wheeler on the highway, a big sign on the side reading ‘Guilt Bros. Hauling’.  In only one week I had committed such atrocities and crimes as I’d never imagined, and done so with increasing depravity, culminating in the rape of a woman a mere inch from death.

And then I felt it.  Maria’s pussy was tugging at my softening cock, milking it, inviting it back in for a second helping of pie.  I gasped and swiveled my head back toward my laptop’s screen to find the spinning ball gone, a new server sitting there.

Maria had been acquired.

I shlorped out of her quickly and got to work.  The very first thing I had to do was download the contents of Maria’s brain.  This was crucial as she was still not out of the woods, as far as I was concerned, and if she lapsed back into a coma, or died, I would at least have a copy on disk, available for loading onto a third fembot, a brainwiped one, Unpleasant Girl if need be.

The file transfer window showed things progressing nicely, approximately fifteen minutes remaining, during which time I would do nothing that might cause an interruption.  I had wanted to put Robbi on the network ever since she’d gone to bed, if for no other reason than to be sure she wouldn’t wake up and find me doing my mad scientist/mother-fucker impression on Maria – Ultimate Babe or not, there was always the chance she might kick my nuts into a jelly before her programming kicked in.  But I couldn’t risk having Robbi online while trying to acquire Maria, and I couldn’t risk it now.  I would just have to be patient.

When the transfer window disappeared I breathed a sigh of relief.  The poor woman might still be iffy, but I certainly felt a good deal better.  Now that Maria 1.0’s data was in the can I could try putting this situation back on track.

“Maria, stand up.”  Like her fembot daughter, Maria did precisely as ordered, and it was nice to know that there was consistency of performance across the two units.  But she was beginning to leak cum, which might lead to embarrassing questions later.  “Maria, remove your dress.”  She did so, disrobing unselfconsciously and placing her dress neatly over the arm of the couch.

She really was quite lovely, for an older woman, her mature breasts stood out from her chest proudly, with only the slightest bit of sag, leading me to believe that Robbi had been a bottle-baby.  I gave her ass a squeeze and found that it, too, had been well cared for.  But now was not playtime, it was time to see if my technology could handle the load.  I left her standing there while I went into the bedroom.  Robbi was sleeping peacefully, something I very much wanted to be doing at the moment, but I’m sure Tesla had more than his share of sleepless nights, such are the demands of science.  I put the original cap on Robbi’s head, and returned to the living room.

I brought Robbi online, but using the older laptop rather than the newer one; it might be the ultimate in geekdom, having three ‘puters going at once, but I really needed to minimize the potential for interruptions.

“Robbi,” I said, loudly enough to carry, “come here, please.”  Noise from the other room told me that my first, and best, fembot was about to join us.  Robbi, gloriously nude, came into the room, stopping when she was about a foot in front of me.  “Robbi, stand next to Maria.”

“Yes, Master.”

She went over and stood next to her mother, almost but not quite touching.  This, I thought to myself, was probably closer than they’d been in years.  Standing side-by-side, the resemblance between them was clear, obviously related, and both of them eminently fuckable.  I doubted there was a millimeter difference in their heights, and from the neck down they looked quite a bit alike, whacking-huge tits notwithstanding.  But there was something wrong: flat-footed fembots just didn’t look natural.

“Robbi, go into the bedroom and get a pair of shoes each for yourself and Maria.” 

“Yes, Master,” and off she went.  She returned in less than a minute, carrying two pairs of high-heeled shoes, black for her, and red for her ‘sister’ fembot.  Robbi had filtered her data correctly, getting her mother heels that perfectly matched her lingerie without being specifically told.  Over the last week I realized how lucky I was that they came this way, otherwise getting them to do the simplest thing, without having to spell out every little detail, would be fucking unworkable.  Be better off as sexbots if that were the case.

“Maria, put on the shoes.”

She slipped her feet into the perfectly positioned shoes before her, and resumed her stance, eyes front, but seeing nothing.  “Maria, when I address you, you will answer with ‘Yes, Master’, or ‘No, Master’, whichever is appropriate.”

“Yes, Master.”  Vanity, perhaps, but it just seemed fitting, and ironic as well, seeing as how she’d made her fame writing nonsense about having been oppressed.

Mother and daughter stood before me, waiting to be called into service, whatever I wished.  What I wished, for the moment, at least, was for this day’s work to be done, but that was just not in the cards as there was still so much left to do.  I needed to upload Maria’s new programming, create and upload complementary programming for Robbi, and see what I could do about the damage to Maria’s face.

They both stood there, majestic odalisques, while new commands poured into their brains.  The windows on their respective screens telling me it would be forty minutes until transfer would be complete, so I used that time to take pictures of Maria, upload them to the G3, and start the process of retouching and making some small improvements.  The animation software was as intuitive as one could want, and by the time both uploads were complete, I had removed the bruising, smoothed out a few wrinkles, and added two cup sizes to her digital doppelganger.  I plugged the new image into Maria’s workstation and laid back.

“Christ a’fuckin’ mighty,” I muttered, “this is like fuckin’ work.”

But it was done, all done.  I got up and stretched the kinks out, more tired than I could remember being in the longest damn time, and went to check on Maria’s progress.  Her boobs, as I had expected they would be, were warm to the touch, as was her face, though a bit less so.  The bruise at her temple was already beginning to fade, and I wondered what was actually happening in there.  Was I making her younger?  Fitter?  Could I actually just keep her in a state of perpetual unchangingness?  I’d noticed Robbi would awaken with an almost boundless energy after being online, as though I’d somehow reset her, able to go all day on just a short charge.  There was so much that needed to be explored here, so many civilization-altering facets, that I began to feel a little overwhelmed by all of the ramifications of my breakthrough.

I decided civilization could wait until after I’d had another beer.  “Mar…” I started, but then stopped.  I had become awful damn lazy over the last week, and had grown accustomed to fembot service; it would not kill me to get my own.  But there was something that needed tending to, a mess that needed cleaning up.

“Robbi,” I said, making sure of my wording, “clean the cum up from Maria’s legs and pussy, and from the couch as well.”

“Yes, Master,” she said, leaving me free to seek alcoholic contemplation.

My kitchen is quite small, as most apartment kitchens are, but it is a private place, somewhat.  I reflected upon the number of times I’d watched Robbi cooking in here over the past week, her ever-increasing bosom bashing into things as the week progressed.  How would she operate with her super-massive cans?  It would be a bitch for her to sauté mushrooms in here now.

No two ways about it, I thought, we’re going to need a bigger place.  Robbi had offered up her condo for us to live in, which now seemed unavoidable, especially if Unpleasant Girl was going to move in and become part-time maid and full-time cocksucker.  And there was also the matter of money.  Experimentation and equipment were going to take some bread, and I had no desire to sponge off Robbi when I could make my own money; perhaps I could lease out Unpleasant Girl, or some of her friends, for frat parties.

I was awakened from my reverie of sweet justice – I really did hate those bitches for sassing my fembot – by the unmistakable sound of slurping coming from the other room.  I turned and looked around the corner to find Robbi doing as I’d ordered, just not in the way I had expected: she was cleaning out her mom’s pussy, all right, with her tongue.  Her honey-blonde head was between Maria’s smooth legs, lapping away all traces of my visit.  Maria’s face was blankly impassive, but I could swear that there was just the faintest trace of a smile there, as though she might be enjoying the attention despite herself.

“Rob…” I started, but stopped myself.  Fembots qua fembots had no issues regarding incest any more than a pair of toasters would, and Robbi was doing rather a good job of it.  They were a pair of sexual delights for the eye.  Robbi’s bronzed body positively shone in the muted light of the room.  Her fat boobs just cleared the floor, and her perpetually erect nipples skated lightly over the tramped-down fabric of my shitty area rug, reminding me, oddly enough, of a pair of plumb-bobs.  Maria’s legs hung over Robbi’s back, no doubt to give Robbi greater access to Maria’s inner depths.  They were now closer than they had been for something like nineteen years – it would be a shame to break them up, I thought.

I watched them while I continued trying to think my way through the problems at hand.  The first problem was keeping Maria in line, which her programming would see to, I hoped.  Second was the money issue, which could be solved by whoring out Unpleasant Girl and her posse, or setting up a sort ‘Hot Lesbo College Girl’ website, chatline, or…

It amazes me sometimes, the utter depths of my stupidity.  Here the answer sat, not ten feet away, getting her snatch sucked out by her daughter, and I had not the brains to see it.  Hell, she was already acquired, and readily programmable, and maybe…I made a beeline for her purse, which I’d retrieved while Robbi had been giving my neighbors the full show in the pool.  I rooted around inside of it and found, to my delight, that yes, Maria had an iPhone.  Things were looking up.

Well, my plans might have gone agley, but I saw before me the chance, not only to repair them, but also to greatly improve them.  It would be risky, no doubt about that, but with Maria’s brains in my possession I felt compelled to dare.  I grabbed the laptop controlling Robbi, and inserted the disk that came with the new sensors.  It popped up on my screen, a big-ass .pdf file and a short video that explained everything to do with implanting them in a human brain.

In the 1930’s, a new and revolutionary technique had been developed in the field of psychosurgery: transorbital lobotomy.  A surgeon would literally take a rubber mallet, and hammer an ice pick into the skull – through the patient’s eye socket.  It required only local anesthesia, left no scars, and required only minimal skill and training to perform.  This practice of routinely lobotomizing patients, even children, was discontinued in the ‘50’s when the operation, performed 40,000-50,000 times, was considered too barbaric a practice to continue with, especially with the advent of psychoactive drugs.  I mean, who wouldn’t prefer dropping a little acid versus someone wiggling an ice pick around inside their brainpan?

It was the ‘minimal skill and training’ aspect that had sold me, though, in truth, what Robbi would be doing was certainly less involved than a lobotomy.  I ordered the two of them to stand up and then had Maria go into the kitchen to lie down on the counter and await Robbi.  Uploading the documentation and the movie into Robbi took less than a minute.  I then laid out everything required for the procedure on the dining-room table, only a few steps away from where Robbi would perform the actual operation.  Everything was ready, it was time to put up or shut up. 

I took a pull from my beer, exhaled a measured breath, and said, trying to keep my voice steady, “Robbi, implant the devices in Maria’s brain.”

Whenever I watched Robbi walk, it was always her tits that I noticed, how they swung, or rolled, or jiggled, but not now – I watched her eyes.  Without so much as a blink, Robbi walked over to the table, put on the surgical gloves, picked up the little compressed air gun, and fitted the first implant – the transmitter – into the nozzle.  She then walked over to her mother, placed her thumb up to her open left eyeball and inserted the nozzle just above the tear duct, and depressed the trigger.  It made only the slightest noise, a little pffft sort of sound, signifying that the sensor had indeed been fired into Maria’s left frontal lobe.  Not even a minute later, Robbi implanted the receiver into her mother’s right lobe.  The whole operation had taken less than two minutes.

Maria was now a cyborg.

Chapter 9

Casa de Fembots

Maria sat on the couch, fully dressed, her bruise already half-faded, her tits a little firmer, and her pussy absolutely jizz-free.  She had bled a little, where Robbi had inserted the nozzle of the air gun, giving the impression she was crying blood, but after one wipe with a bit of Kleenex she seemed perfectly fine.  My new laptop showed the devices were working properly, their addresses known.  All I had to do was eject the cap from the computer and Maria should still remain wirelessly networked, with no visible connections or apparatus.

Should.

Robbi the fembot was cooling her heels in the bedroom.  If the implants didn’t work and Maria became completely disconnected, I didn’t want her waking up to see her mammoth-titted, ninja-bitch daughter standing over her, in case my programming needed some time to kick in.  I held my breath, and killed the address.

She remained online.

I wanted to cry, I was so happy, but since I’m not given to getting all weepy over shit, I let out a celebratory whoop, took a long pull from my beer, and gave my newest, most elegant piece of feminine technology a big, fat kiss.

Of course she didn’t kiss me back; a fembot doesn’t kiss any more than she can cuddle.  They feel neither joy, nor sadness, pain, nor loss.  They don’t experience fear or hate, nor do they love.  In a small apartment, filled with two gorgeous, sexy women, I had no one with whom to share my achievement.  I began to feel, perhaps for the first time in a long time, alone.

But I could compensate.  “Maria,” I said to the still form, “give me the best blowjob you can.”

“Yes, Master,” she said, and got down to it.

It took me less than two seconds to realize that Robbi and her mom were polar opposites when it came to cocksucking.  Robbi had only ever experienced having one cock in her mouth in her whole life – mine.  Maria, apparently, must have swallowed hundreds.

She found my hardness through the fabric of my jeans and placed her mouth upon the denim, transferring the moist heat of her mouth through the material, thus enflaming my dick.  That feeling alone almost brought me to my knees.  She then placed a hand on each of my buttocks and, using her teeth alone, drew down my zipper.  She reached one hand through the gap in my boxers and snaked out my stiffened rod.  She kissed the head lightly, and then slowly, ever so slowly, she began taking it deeper and deeper into her hot mouth.  She hummed and sucked, licked and tongued my pole with as much skill as any Italian or German whore I’d been with during my tour of Europe, and, as though she’d been programmed by Ultimate Babe, she also knew not to look at me while she performed, her focus stayed fully rooted on my meat.

For the third time that night, I found myself cumming in a woman whose actions were not entirely of her own making.  I tried feeling bad about it, as I shot my load down her throat, but I found myself unable to muster any guilty feelings at that moment; I was simply too exhilarated by my newfound ability to touch my fembot while she blew me.  I could hold onto her ears, grab her hair, whatever I wanted, without the slightest worry that she might become disconnected.  She would be online as long as I wanted her to be.

“That was very good, Maria,” I said to my newest fembot, who had resumed her earlier position, “I can see how you managed to snag that rich husband.”  I went to the kitchen to get a washcloth for her, not being nearly so fastidious when it came to swallowing jizz as her daughter was.  In a trice she was clean, and ready for the last task of the day, or evening, or rather morning, as it were.

I needed to know how much I could count on when it came to her money.  What her net worth was, where it was, and in what forms.  I had no intention of bleeding her more than necessary, but for all I knew her wealth might be a sham; propped up by leased vehicles and real estate, fake jewelry and hocked furs.

“Maria,” I said, placing a piece of paper and a pen on the table in front of her, “provide me with all the information you can recall regarding your present financial situation.”

One second later I heard a familiar sound, and received the biggest shock of my life.  It was the sound of my printer starting.

“Wha…?”  I looked at the printer, and then looked back at Maria, and sat down quickly, my legs giving way.

Is it such a stretch? I asked myself.  Is it any more wondrous than being able to install a computer application inside a living being?  Is it any more incredible than rapid healing?  More mind-blowing than turning a chick into an exact duplicate of any person I wanted?

In a sense it was.  If Maria, or any other fembot, could directly interface with my computer, and any other computer or device on the network…

“Robbi, come here.  I need you!” I called.  She entered the room, as cool and impassive as ever.  But despite her long legs, perfect ass, sweet face, and giant, rolling boobs, she somehow seemed less human, and thereby more sinister.  In my overwrought state I half-expected Governor Schwarzenegger to bust down my door, one skeletal titanium arm gleaming, yelling ‘You better vote for me next time, dammit!’

“Robbi, fetch the printout from the printer and bring it to me.”

She did, and stood there while I quickly scanned the data provided by her sister fembot.  According to this, Maria was loaded.  Millions in the double-digits, scattered throughout various banks around the world, and more than one using the word ‘Suisse’.

I now had access to more money than I had ever dreamed of, and it paled next to the discovery of the last five minutes: I had a biological interface to my computer.  I needed to test this, though quickly, as I really was on my last legs.

“Robbi,” I said, looking up through her monstrous cleavage to her expressionless face, “what is the capital of, um, Mauritania?”  Robbi had told me, over homemade scampi, that Geography was her worst subject.  If that was the case, as it was for most provincial American fucks, she should not know the answer.

“I don’t know, Master.”

Her answer to this question hit me on so many different levels at once.  I had never asked my fembot an actual question before, having only used her for sex, housekeeping, and pushing back the frontiers of science.  But having been asked a direct question, she responded with a direct answer.  I would’ve thought she wouldn’t use contractions, like robots in the movies, but I guess Hollywood doesn’t know everything.

So Robbi didn’t know, which meant she didn’t have access.  Or did she?  I hadn’t asked Maria if she knew something, I’d asked her to provide me with something, a world of difference.  I dreaded asking the next question, because if I asked it correctly, and she answered it correctly, I would pretty much have to consider leasing a cabin in the hills and taking up the hermit lifestyle.

“Robbi,” I asked, unable to keep the apprehension from my voice, “find and tell me the answer to the question I just asked you.”

“Nouakchott, Master.”

I was glad I was already sitting down, as I was beginning to lose feeling in my legs.  Robbi, and therefore Maria, had access to the Internet, which meant…what?  What were the ramifications of this?  Could Maria sit there, hands in her lap, and transfer money from one of her overseas bank accounts directly into mine?  Could she transfer someone else’s?  Could they hack?

So many motherfucking questions.  My throat was dry, I was out of beer, and my fembots were about two steps away from taking over the world.  Time to call it a day.

I left them standing there while I shut down all non-essentials systems, filed away Maria’s net worth, and disposed of the beer cans, while my brain tried to come to grips with all that I had seen and done in the last twenty-four hours.  It had started out as a science project, a stupid little experiment.  But because of a little quirk on my part, a little luck, and some problem-solving skills, I had, in my dingy little apartment, turned science on its head.

Some might say that what I was doing wasn’t science at all.  They might say what I was doing was blatantly illegal, heinously immoral, and supremely evil.  All that might be true but consider this: How many chicks have ever performed cunnilingus and illegal brain surgery – on their mother – in the same evening?  Exactly one, and she could suck the chrome off a trailer hitch, to boot.

But now was not the time for self-justification, it was time for sleep.  Time to see if all my work and skill were going to pay off.  I considered just letting them stand there while I slept, so that I could continue later, a little better able to cope.  But I knew sleep would not come to me while this situation remained unresolved, I would simply lay there, my mind whirling, trying to figure this shit out: it is the biggest downside to being the Smartest Guy in the World.

I removed the .pdf and the video I’d installed from Robbi’s brain; I didn’t want her to have any memory, or knowledge, of the procedure if I could avoid it.  I then ordered the two of them into the bedroom and had them lie down, Robbi, under the covers, Maria, fully dressed, atop them.

It was 4:00 AM.  The longest day of my life would soon, I hoped, be drawing to a close.  Everything depended on what happened in the next few minutes.  I disconnected them both, and quickly removed the cap from Robbi’s head.  I went and sat down beside Robbi, and gently squeezed her nearer boob.

“Jake?” she called out, her eyes still closed.

“I’m here, pet.”

“Oh…I feel a little…weird,” she said, stretching, and lazily opening her eyes.  Chalk it to having a couple of hundred thousand commands blasted into your brain in the middle of the night; I just wondered if it would work.  “Oh, Jake,” worry creeping into her voice, “Mother, is she…”

“She seems better, pet.  She’s sleeping peacefully just now.”

Robbi registered Maria’s presence next to her and I tensed up, fearful that Robbi might reflexively rip her throat out.  At that moment, Maria made a noise deep in her throat: she was waking up.  I got up from the bed to stand in the doorway; close, but not too close.

“Mother?” Robbi asked, relieved, but apprehensive.

Maria opened her eyes, closed them, shook her head, and then opened them again.

“Ro…Roberta?” she said, her voice a little hoarse.

They said nothing for what seemed like a full minute, just laying there, looking at one another, and then both of them burst into tears.

“Roberta, I-I’m so s-sorry…” Maria blurted between huge, braying sobs, “I’m a terrible p-person.”  She sat up and threw her arms around her daughter, sobbing to beat hell.

“No, Mother,” Robbi cried, her eyes sparkling with tears, crushing her huge cans into her mother as she returned the hug full force.  “I’m a-an ungrateful d-daughter.”

Crikey, I thought, catfight city would be preferable to this schmaltzy reunion.  But it appeared to be working.  My programming appeared to have taken hold, and Robbi and Maria seemed to be on their way to a more healthy, loving relationship; move over, Dr. Phil.

They broke their hug, and began wiping the tears from their eyes, sniffling, then crying some more, and kissing one another’s cheeks.

“M-Mother, this is Jake, my boyfriend,” Robbi said, holding out her hand to me, inviting me to sit next to her.  “He’s really very sweet.”

Tangy, from what I’ve been told, something Maria could attest to had she been aware of just how deeply she already knew me.  She looked at me, as though seeing me for the first time, and held her hand out to me as well.

“Jake,” she said, in a surprisingly pleasant, husky voice, “please forgive me.  I-I’m so dreadfully sorry for my behavior.  I-I’m just…just…”

“You have nothing to apologize for, ma’am,” I said, trying to add a touch of Sam Elliot to my voice, “you were just looking out for your daughter.”

She smiled.  “Roberta is right, you are very sweet,” she said, gazing at her daughter.  “I certainly cannot fault her taste.  I promise to make it up to you, the both of you,” she said, one arm around Robbi, the other holding mine.  “I hope that we will be good friends.”

So long as I get a crack at that sweet ass of yours, honey, I thought, smiling inwardly, I would dearly love to take that for a spin sometime.

“I’m just glad everything’s all right,” I said.  In actuality I was just glad that she was all right.  There was still the worry about infection, not to mention the very real possibility that her brains might start coming out through her nose.  “Now if you ladies will excuse me, I think I should let you get reacquainted.  I’m sure you have much to discuss.”  They both smiled at me, Robbi‘s eyes awash with happy tears.  I turned on my heel and left the room, shutting both laptops as I exited.

“…and I’m so sorry about what I said about your boobs, honey, they really are just love…”

I laughed quietly to myself as I entered my living room.  A cigarette, maybe a quick blowjob from Robbi, and twelve hours uninterrupted sleep were what the doctor ordered.  I went outside to enjoy a little fresh air, and to consider all that I had done this evening.

The morning air was cool on my face, and the light fog added a veneer of soft beauty, concealing the seedier aspects of my environs.  I shook my head in utter disbelief at what was going on in my life: I had not one, but two perfectly serviceable women, that I could mold into any shape I wanted, into which I could embed any skills I wanted, and with whom I could do pretty much anything I wanted.  I had access to millions upon millions of dollars, and on top of all of that, I had developed a technology that would make me a thousand times richer than Bill Gates.  Mum and Dad will be so proud.

I stubbed out my cigarette and went inside, where a new life awaited me, new experiences, new challenges – the world wasn’t my oyster, the future was.  “No man,” I said, almost a whisper, “has ever, or could ever, conceive of the existence that lay before me.”

And when I turned the corner into my bedroom I realized that truer words had never been spoken.

Robbi and Maria, due solely to my intervention, now loved each other very much, and were probably closer than any mother and daughter have ever been, considering the fervency with which they were now lapping each other’s cunts.  Maria lay on her back, her talented tongue driving deeply into Robbi’s quim one moment, lashing her clit the next.  Robbi was no less skilled as she plied her mouth around and into her mother’s sopping hole, moaning loudly as Maria kneaded and caressed her daughter’s enormous funbags with both of her hands.

I watched for a full minute, unable to think of anything to say, or what I could do, when the two enhanced women heaved as one, crying out, practically screaming, the noise muffled within one another’s muffs, as they both achieved orgasms that would probably kill lesser women.

I stood there, mutely, while they came down from their incestuous, tempestuous romp, with much laughing, crying and ragged gasping.  I opened my mouth, closed it again, and shook my head as I gaped at my two fembots, finally seizing upon the only word that my flustered mind was able to produce.

“Oops.”

END OF BOOK ONE

Continued...

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