by Rachael Eyre
He only speaks to me about my work, or to lecture me. These lectures can go on for any length of time, straying down all kinds of boulevards. I try to pay attention but he’s not looking at me in any case.
Perhaps it's as well. The girls whispered about the things you were expected to do with your owner, though they were never sure how that would work if it was a woman. Something came out of them and went into you; I would have dismissed it as one of Leda’s outrageous lies if Miarka hadn't confirmed it.
If he ever tried to kiss me or touch me, I would die. He'd probably wear his white glove and check me for dirt.
***
Vivaan came again today. I'm not in love with him or anything; it'd be agony if I was. He's married to an “exotic,” or so the wolf says.
I know when he’s due, because my owner actively seeks me out. Whatever I'm doing must be dropped; they must have tea and rock cakes. I know my cakes are bad - I tried one last time and nearly choked. Vivaan nibbles his politely and leaves most of it on his plate. He wolfs them down, appropriately enough. He must have a stomach of steel.
It's been two weeks and Vivaan has visited four times. Is this normal? He seems to be my owner’s only friend, if that's the right word for it. Mostly he seems bored or vaguely disgusted by the things the wolf says.
I greeted him in the hall, took his jacket. Though it's not the best quality, he looks after it. Unlike my owner, who lets good clothes run to rips and holes.
“Hello, Audra.” As he said this, it was clear that he remembered my old name, even if the wolf chooses not to. I see Summer and Audra as two distinct people: Summer the innocent, wistful girl I used to be; Audra the overworked drudge I am now. From the way he looks at me, at my new clothes, it's clear he thinks the same.
“Hello, sir.” I ducked a curtsey. He closed his eyes and shook his head as though the right gave him pain.
“You don't have to do that,” Vivaan said ruefully. “I'm visiting you.”
He might have said more, but my owner cleared his throat behind him. “We’ll be in the study. Bring along tea in an hour.”
I’m supposed to go straight to the kitchen and start making rock cakes. Instead I went to the room next door, taking a glass I keep for this purpose on the piano. If I press it against the wall I can just about hear them.
“How's it going? Do you think she needs to go back?” Vivaan asked.
He's asked this same question every visit. The first time he said it, I felt a hopeful flutter, wished for it so violently that the wolf must have heard it. Send me back, please send me back. I wouldn't mind the shame, being considered damaged goods. Ms Adelaide might fob me off on some unprepossessing woman, but she could hardly be worse.
“Fine. I have no complaints,” my owner said.
Fine? How can this be fine?
Vivaan muttered something I didn't catch. My owner rounded on him.
“Vivaan, don't interfere. I’m in charge of this - let me manage it in my own way. You had plenty of time to object before.”
“Thao says -"
“Thao? Why the hell have you been discussing this with Thao?”
Vivaan seemed to be having a hasty rethink. “She doesn't know. I just thought I'd ask about bots, seeing as it's her area.”
“Well? What stunning insights does she have?”
“She says they're very receptive, and understand more than they let on. Treat them like you would anyone else.” He sniggered in spite of himself. “Of course, that's the problem.”
The barb passed over my owner’s head. “She's a good housekeeper. I speak to her once or twice a day. What else is there?”
“You really are clueless, Robbie.”
I'd procrastinated long enough. My owner would notice the lack of industry and grow suspicious. I replaced the glass, dashed into the kitchen and bustled around to compensate.
***
I will tell you something now that I've never told anyone.
While everyone else at the school liked to read Girls’ Love, I preferred a magazine that belonged to the gardener’s boy, Adventure Weekly. Thinking about it, he might have had a bit of a crush on me, but that was unthinkable. He was young, spotty and sweated if you so much as looked at him.
I didn't read it unless I was alone - it was the sort of thing they'd tease you about it. All of the articles were interesting, but I relished the ones by Vita Alconbury.
She had the most glorious hair, ringing every colour from copper to gold, and a heart shaped face with violet eyes. I felt a queer affinity with her. But with her wicked pout and opulent bust, she was an image of womanhood I could never hope to attain.
And the adventures she had! Crossing the desert, canoeing down jungle rivers, scaling mountains. I'd read them under the covers, on the window seat, and wished I could go on such expeditions myself. Or accompany her.
I don't know when my daydreams changed from wanting to be her to wanting her, but somewhere along the line they did. Brushing myself by accident, I discovered how pleasant it felt; now, in imagination, it was Vita I touched, and she who touched me.
I didn't tell the others, of course. They'd only jeer. You might wonder why I didn't put myself forward on the days female owners came to call. Perhaps I should have. But I didn't see how they could live up to the kaleidoscope of my fantasies.
Not that it matters now. Cooped up with the wolf, with no chance of escape.
Robert: The Second Bird
I'm sure that when Lady Augusta and Professor Summerskill created the Storm fourteen years ago, they had a noble, philanthropic goal in mind. Breaking down barriers, melding minds. Allowing you to communicate with the rest of humanity. They probably never expected you to be able to buy sex bots with it.
Well, the professor might have. We've all heard the rumours.
The past few days have been an education. There are domains catering to every conceivable fetish, legal or otherwise. I draw the line at underage, though they doubtless exist. Where there's a want, there's a market.
Short artificials, tall artificials. Skeletally thin and morbidly obese. One brand claims to replicate ‘the girlfriend experience,’ but whoever would want that? That’s precisely what the discerning man is trying to avoid.
A few times I was tempted. The footage was convincing, the settings suitably malleable. But there was no way to get around the thing being delivered to your house. Imagine the sensation if a human sized box arrived here! Besides, it was non refundable. I need evidence before I part with my cold hard cash. Look at Audra: she spoils the rock cakes and cuts corners with the chores. I would have to use a less conventional route.
One of my disillusioned men - I won’t give his name, only that he's high up in the Forum - told me about Juno’s. “A topnotch place, I've been going for years. The owner’s a bit squiffy, but it has a super ambience and the girls are corking. Who knows, pay enough and she might part with one.”
It intrigued me. I'd always pictured a robot brothel as a dank hole where tin girls turned tricks, but my contact was adamant: “The best night you'll have in the city. They could teach human gals a thing or two.”
I thanked him for the tip. My best suit aired and a set of directions in my hand, I hit the cobbles. Here begins one of the stranger nights of my life.
***
For once my contact hadn't exaggerated. Juno’s, once I find it, is a model of restraint: no louche tassels or slippery wallpaper. In fact it's exceptionally clean, minimalist and modern - more like a business complex. I've watched too many pornographic films, it would seem.
A bored blonde sits at the reception desk. She has what Vivaan calls “resting bitch face.” Although generically attractive, I doubt her straight, narrow features are ever troubled by a smile. “May I help you?” she yawns.
So much for the madam’s famed hospitality. “My name is -" I curse myself for not inventing a pseudonym, this pause is lasting far too long - “Perival.”
The only alias I can come up with is an ana
gram of my own name. I could kick myself.
“So, Mr Perival,” making it clear she doesn't believe it for a moment, “what does a gentleman like you require on a dismal night like this?”
She's right, the elements are making themselves heard above the usual sounds of a city weekend. Perhaps I can pretend I've come in to shelter from the rain.
Percivals are not cowards, as my father never ceased to remind me.
“I would like to meet … one of the girls.”
She turns me over as though I’m a bad coin, her pale eyes boring into me. “I know just the right one.”
I expect her to pass me a key, tell me to find my way, but my schema is thwarted again. She leads me upstairs, daintily swaying her skirt, a move so mannered it has to be deliberate. Though past her best, she's still a handsome woman. Whatever possessed her to start up a business like this? It’s obviously profitable, the proof is all around us. The walls are chrome, so polished your eyes smart. The carpets crunch like snow underfoot. She guides me through the labyrinth, lights snapping on as we pass. The only clue to the building’s purpose is the scent they're piping in: musky, dark, intoxicating.
“You have a beautiful establishment, Madam Juno.”
She flinches. “Although the business keeps her name, she no longer works here. She was … unsuitable.”
I think of my contact’s clumsy hints. There are many ways you can offend someone in the underworld. Which code has the mysterious proprietor violated?
“I am Madam Felicia,” she clarifies.
I've made her uncomfortable, so it's just as well we’ve reached our destination. “Please wait,” she says, passing beyond a plain, wholly unremarkable door.
I strain to hear the sounds of the suites around me - beds heaving, women feigning ecstasy, men’s groans - but it's all soaked up. After perhaps five minutes, Madam Felicia steps out and gestures into the room. “She's ready.”
I've never cared for sex as a pursuit. It's something you do to satisfy an urge; I've never understood why my contemporaries expend so much time and energy on it. Sharing a wall with Vivaan at university, I'd hear him telling the girls how beautiful they were; he'd graduate to moans, expletives and sobs.
Human women aggravate me. I regard relationships as a mutual arrangement to fulfil the aforementioned need, but everything has to mean more with them. They boss you in bed, complain if they haven't climaxed yet. “What about me?” they whine when you roll over to sleep. What about them?
The woman on the bed is below average height and plump, with mahogany skin. Her hair’s a shade lighter, in kinky ringlets. I must be staring, since she says, aggrieved, “I didn't know black hookers were so unheard of.”
Wrong footed, I apologise. “I didn't realise robots could be different races.”
“Sure.” Her voice is sing song, sarcastic. “We come in every shade, like paint.”
According to my mental script she should be approaching me, or whatever it is women in her occupation do. I've seen clips: artificial women forcing penises down their gullets, assuring the clients they're the biggest they've seen, begging them to fill them up. Not unlike Vivaan and his women.
Why am I thinking about Vivaan? I'll never be able to perform at this rate.
Instead she waits for me to join her on the bed. She looks out of the window, as though whatever’s out there is more compelling than what’s happening in here.
I should be offended. Instead her boredom excites me. I tug at her dress - a long red thing, I don't look at it - and pull it down. She's naked beneath, easy access. I kiss her, explore her breasts. They don't fit in my hands. She's the biggest woman I've gone to bed with. Academia is full of skinny, intense types; this woman is comfortable in her bulk and doesn't care.
She kisses back absentmindedly, her hand gripping my cock. I feel as though I'm about to blow. Once she removes my trousers, pulls me onto the bed with her, I go in. An arrow seeking its target.
She doesn't cry out, clutch or squirm like my previous partners. She lies there, sublimely calm, not speaking or making a sound. I think I might have found my ideal bedfellow.
It lasts perhaps fifteen minutes; I believe in quality, not quantity. When it's over I clamber off and look at her. “What's your name?”
She gazes up at the ceiling, mesmerised by the fan whirling overhead. “Elle.”
“Well, Elle. How do you feel about coming to live with me?”
She tears her eyes away. “That depends on Madam Felicia, doesn't it?”
Madam Felicia is far easier to persuade than Ms Adelaide. “She's never taken to this life. It'll be the making of her. In fact, Mr Perival,” with what looked suspiciously like a wink, “you can take her right away.”
A man is lurking outside her office. He's short and aggressively ugly, like a vicious rodent. One of the pimps? He nods at me, as though we’re all boys together. I shudder to be included in the same category.
But he's not important. I take the lift up to Elle’s room, my cock twitching at the thought of being near her again. Madam Felicia has given me the key. I let myself in.
“Hello again,” I say.
She sits on the bed, towelling herself dry. Her expression is inscrutable. She has enormous eyes, a sultry mouth.
“Madam Felicia says you can come with me,” I explain.
She hesitates. I fear a repetition of Summer, that I'll have to restrain her, but she remains unruffled.
“Let’s go,” she says.
Elle: Disaster
The days following Lucy’s visit were tense, crackling with static. We talked about it endlessly but there was nothing we could do.
“We can run away,” I said for the hundredth time. “Go to Arkan. Bots are their own masters there.”
Juno sighed and shook her head. “You're not listening. I can't leave the girls and Rio. What would they think?”
“Who cares what they think? I love you.”
She smiled through her tears, touched my face. “I know. But I owe it to the others to stay here, look after them. I'm the only reason this place hasn’t been shut down.”
I didn't believe her. We had so many high ranking clients; I’d even seen the Mayor eating trifle off Chi’s chest. Couldn't they intervene?
I lost my temper. “You’re lying. You don't care about them. You're just scared of what people would say if they found out about us. I bet I'm not the only one you've been with. What about Krystle?” We both loathed Krystle, but she was too popular to get rid of. “What about Rio?”
She stood up to go, nose in the air. “I'm not speaking to you till you’ve calmed down.”
***
Of course Rio had spread the news, though not what he suspected of our relationship. He treated me carefully now, with a wary respect. The girls congregated in my bedroom to share the fruits of their experience. Krystle came to gloat.
“So you're finally earning your keep. Big of you,” she drawled.
She was the most obviously robotic of us, with her porno mouth and pneumatic tits, but the punters seemed to go for that. Perhaps they liked to be reminded they were screwing a machine, not a human woman.
“Get fucked,” I said.
Tatiana tittered like the tag along she was. Chi and Bibi took cover. Zena continued her lecture, acting as though Krystle was invisible. Normally they couldn't be in the same room without fur flying, but Zena had always had a soft spot for me.
“Men are only interested in getting themselves off,” she declared. She took a long swig of her Formula 40 - we all knew she laced it with rum. “In, out, in, out - nothing else matters. If it’s going on too long and you're getting bored and sore, ram your finger up his shitter and grab his cock. Works every time.”
“I’m not sticking my finger up Captain Lucy’s arse,” I protested.
“Tell him he's the best you've had,” Chi chipped in. “They love that. Say -" she started to writhe and moan - “Oh, Captain! You're so big! You're hurting me!”
In bet
ween her humping and Bibi giving graphic demonstrations of face fucking - “Make him come on your boobs, not your face,” I didn't know where to look.
The collar around Krystle’s neck buzzed. “Punter calls. Some of us have better prospects than bent coppers.” She tottered out of the room, so staccato I’m surprised she didn't topple over.
The others lost interest and drifted away. Only Zena remained, sitting at my dressing table. She looked at my reflection and sighed.
