by Rob Rosen
When I was young, there were three of us left, locked into a controlled environment. It was a perfect life—cultivated humans, our every whim seen to—but when we discovered sex, we were separated, walled off from each other for fear we’d prefer ourselves to them. At nineteen we all escaped, went our separate ways, of necessity, and I know one of the others survived because we met up later, on the run.
I’d been initiated into android sex before the real thing, and they worked hard to convince me human sex was far less enjoyable. I tried to buy this, but we humans have an intuitive bent, and I knew what was happening with their spring-loaded dicks wasn’t what went on with mine. And then I hooked up again with Robin, one of the humans, both of us gravitating to an abandoned building not far from where we’d been raised, and we set about finding out once and for all.
Robin was dark like me, but smooth. Where I’d sprouted hair and become almost too much a man, he still looked like a boy. The first time I put my cock in his mouth, I thought of the angel pictures I’d seen, relics from human history.
Our first day together, we talked and fucked almost constantly. Starved for human companionship, we wanted to feel it all and know it all. As I pushed my dick into his ass, I asked how it compared to a droid cock, and he mouthed something about comparing meat to wood. “Did you ever notice how silent they are when they fuck?” he asked. “It’s because nothing’s happening. Twenty-two strokes every time, then that pitiful wad.”
I kept pumping his ass, felt the slow rise of the real thing. Back in my spine the first tingle, thighs gradually tensing, balls tightening. “Fuck me,” Robin said.
“Say it again,” I rasped. “Say it over and over.”
He did as asked, setting up a fuck mantra. He knew why I wanted the verbiage. Droids said fuck like they said rock. They didn’t feel it. Nothing turned them on the way we got turned on; they just flipped a mental switch.
Robin’s fuck-me’s did it. Come shot out of me in long streams, and he cried out as he took it all. I rode him until I was empty and then some, reluctant to depart a human hole.
“One told me once that they do feel,” Robin later told me. “Really argued the point even when I told him it was programming and therefore not real. Reactions written by another droid who was written by another and then another, all the way back to the droid creator who was, it appears, trying for immortality. The droid hated hearing that. Go figure.”
Robin and I spent several months together before he was captured by the droids. I never saw him again. When they got me four years later, I asked about him and about Jared, the other one of us, but was met with dismissal. “There are no others.” I’d heard it before.
I wonder now if they did to Robin what they’re doing to me, turned him into a sex machine and fucked him to death. Or did he finally fail them, and they did him in for that? He couldn’t still be around. I stopped thinking about him, noted a new face at the window. The door opened.
Droids are beautiful, of course. Sculpted bodies, wonderful definition, formidable thighs, rounded pecs, but their nipples are flat and unable to harden—another oversight nobody’s bothered to fix—and their cocks are all a uniform, neatly cut, eight inches. Soft or hard, that same eight.
Their asses are wonderfully round, cracks and balls hairless. And that center, that sex hole is truly a scientific wonder. There’s muscle, but nothing to get past, no gate, so to speak, just a willing hole. The tissue isn’t good, however. They haven’t perfected a decent rectum, and it’s obvious they’re not trying, everyone having settled for less. They fuck each other all the time; it’s considered natural to do it anywhere they please. The creator programmed the act, but he made it more a compulsion than a human-like need. Desire for them is truly a mixed bag.
The droid who comes into my room is naked. He’s already made his dick hard, and now plans for me to do something about it because they can’t jerk off. Droid hands don’t do droid cocks. More irrational conception. They can suck each other, but it’s considered bad form, probably because their cocks are so bland. Fucking is their focus.
He’s got a lube gun with him. They all carry them because they’re dry inside, so they’re forever shooting grease up each other. That part I don’t mind because it’s got to be the best lube ever invented, perfected as only a science-based society could do. I roll over and stick my ass up and feel him squirt a long stream up my chute. And then he’s climbing on behind me. No foreplay for these guys. Truly single-minded. When he sticks his cock into me, it feels wonderful, the standard eight being such a nice fit. I squirm a bit as I know they like that, and I know keeping them happy is my only ticket out of this cell. He starts to thrust, and I push back, squeeze his mechanical cock as only a human muscle can do.
I try not to count, but it’s difficult to hold back. Twenty-two every time. I tell myself it’s a real dick on a real man, that it’s Robin come to rescue me. It’s not going to be twenty-two, it’s going to be a hundred, and the juice is going to be real, an honest-to-god cock that will leave me full of human come, but then I feel the shift and know the droid has slipped into high gear. We must be near twenty. His thrusts are faster now, and then the slam and the stop. No slowdown, no easing off. Come. Out. End of fuck. I roll over and look at him, wishing he was human because he’s so handsome. I take hold of my rigid prick—much as I’d like not to participate in this mechanical act, my cock insists—and start to stroke. He watches, but there’s no visible response. They view jerking off as an oddity. Still, he remains.
“Feels good,” I tell him. “Make myself come.” I pump frantically now, and big white gobs shoot up onto my stomach. When I’m done, I run a finger through the come and put it into my mouth, suck it clean. I murmur with pleasure. He turns, closes the door behind him.
The next droid I recognize because I got him to suck me off before. He’s the blond model, blue eyed, golden tan. Amazing what they can craft. He’s naked, but I know he won’t fuck me. This model must have a different chip or something because he thinks a bit more, tries to decide things. Close to human, and yet the eight-inch cock is erect, dry, perfect.
I lie still and he kneels, lowers his mouth onto me. Droids definitely do not know how to give a decent blow job, but I have to allow that they’re probably not programmed for it, that this model may have figured it out on his own. He doesn’t lick or play as much as suck. Still, that does it for me. I’m hard and I’m coming, bucking up at him as he gags on cream. I doubt he’s used to anything in there but his own artificial lubricants.
“You wanna fuck me?” I ask afterward, eyeing his ready cock.
“No.”
“Ah, the other way around. Well, you’ve got to give me a minute,” I say.
He ignores this, rolls me over and shoves several fingers up my ass, working me until I’m hard again. When he keeps on, I tell him, “You want me to do you, you better quit that.” He stands up; we exchange places. He lies on his stomach, then draws his legs up under him. They all just do this one position. You’d think the newer model would have some variety, but no, still that bureaucratic shortsightedness. I take the lube gun and give him a few good squeezes, then get behind him and push in.
Droids don’t come when you fuck them; they just like the feel of a dick in them. And they’ll let you do it for hours if you want. One stuck around all night once, and I fucked him about six times. His dick was hard the whole time, but he only came after I was exhausted. He stuck it up me and did his twenty-two, then left. I think he was the best I’ve encountered, but he’s never been back.
So I fuck this one and tell myself it’s Robin. I shut my eyes and once again pretend I’m inside a human, that there’s a prostate to tickle, a bowel to prod. Real tissue up there. I picture Robin’s stiff dick shooting load after load onto the bed, picture us kissing afterward, falling asleep, then waking later and doing it again. I get so far into my fantasy that I shoot a massive stream up the droid, then fall across him, exhausted. For a second I like his feel,
his ultrasoft skin, but he’s impatient now, pushes me off, flips me over, climbs on and gives me a quick ride. When he’s done and departs the cell, I work at forgetting him, forgetting them all. I think of Robin. Maybe he’s out there somewhere, maybe thinking of me.
I don’t count the days. Without windows I have no concept of time, and the lights are always on. I’m allowed exercise in a small yard, but even this is a closed environment, artificially green, plants wonderfully lifelike until you touch them. I do some sit-ups, stretches, then walk in long circles. Eyes are on me, of course, and after I’ve worked up a modest sweat, I start to think about fucking. I turn toward the glass where I know they are watching me, and I start to work my cock. I get a good erection, get some precome oozing out my piss-slit, then work a hand back to my crack, finger my hole. I can almost hear the dicks springing to attention.
A door opens and one of the blond models comes in. He motions for me to lie across a bench, and when I do, he fucks me. When he departs, another droid takes his place. They all feel the same, and then the unthinkable happens. I get a live one. For a second I think I’ve gone around the bend, fucked to insanity. My breath catches, a cry struggles to get free. “Easy,” he says.
I squeeze my muscle in response, and hear a soft chuckle. “Yes,” he whispers, “it’s real. I’m Jared, remember?”
I want to scream, to shout my elation. Everything in me suddenly soars, but I remain quiet. “I know,” he says, understanding what I’m going through. “Don’t worry. I’ll be back, but for now it’ll be the standard twenty-two. Can’t let them catch on.”
When he comes he digs his fingers into my hips, and I know it’s real come squirting into me, that I’m getting a real fuck, an honest-to-god dick. When he pulls out, I turn, sit up.
His expression is as bland as the droids, and I realize he’s passing as one of them, but his eyes allow a second of that human sparkle. For the first time, I think maybe I’ll get free again.
Jared leaves, and when a droid comes in, I don’t want to let him do me, but know that I must. Any break in the routine might give Jared away.
It seems ages before I see him again. Countless droids have passed through my cell when he finally returns.
I go into a kind of hyper mode when I see it’s him. He smiles, and I realize how much I hunger for a human smile, a human anything. “I’ve got a plan,” he says as he mounts me from behind. “When we’re done, I want you to start screaming, really freaking out. I’m a scholar. I can convince them you need rest. I can get you moved out of here.”
Jared speaks in a low, even tone, as if he’s half droid, but what he says as he fucks me is pure human. “I could fuck you forever, and after I’m done, I want to get down there and lick your hole, taste some human ass. And suck your dick. I’m so hungry for the taste of come.”
He goes past the twenty-two, and I know he’s living dangerously, but when he unloads, it’s a gusher. I shoot a massive stream as well, thrilled by the feel of him.
“Now,” he says as he pulls out and stands up. I’m still coming down off the fuck, but force myself to create a scene. I run around the room, screaming how I can’t stand it, and by the time the droids come in, I’m cowering in a corner, blithering. I’m led away, Jared at my elbow.
They talk amongst themselves, and I see Jared has great influence. He fools them completely. I marvel at his ability. His human dick is even the requisite eight inches—fortunate for him. He has perfected the blankness of the droids, yet is forceful among them. Finally they retreat, and he alone guides me down a long corridor and out into the world at large.
“I’ve convinced them confinement is too much for you,” he tells me as we walk along, “that you need a larger world for a while. We’re headed for a camp in the woods. They’ve agreed to let you spend a few days at one of the outposts.”
“Will you be with me?”
He laughs. “They think I’m going to leave you there, get you tucked in, then come back in a few days to retrieve you. They’re so incredibly stupid. Full of logic, but no program for deviousness.”
We’re deep in the woods now. For the first time in what must be months, I feel dirt under my feet and savor the scent of pine and damp. Jared slips an arm around my shoulder and pulls me to him. We stop. “We’re not headed for any goddamned outpost,” he tells me. “What we’re doing, my long-lost friend, is getting the hell out of here.”
Escape. I can almost taste the word. “Escape,” I say to him, giving life to the word.
“You got it.” I look into his wonderful blue eyes, watch them blink. I lean in and press my lips to his. It’s my first kiss since Robin. Jared’s tongue finds mine, and we’re soon pressed together, gently humping. “There’s so much I want to do,” he tells me, hands on my ass.
“Hear, hear.”
“But first we need to get away. I have it all planned, a safe route, a place to go to. Total sanctuary. They’ll never find us.”
I’m overcome with joy. Jared kisses me, then pulls me along the trail. Hours later, we’re in a cave hidden among rocks at the foot of a mountain. Candles illuminate the comfortable nest he’s made for us. There are blankets, food, water, everything the primitive man could want. We settle onto the makeshift bed and begin to explore each other. As he fondles my cock, I ask how he found me.
“I heard they’d captured a renegade human, and knew it was you or Robin. Got myself reassigned to your sector, eased my way into power. There’s not much problem manipulating droids.”
I slide down, get my face into his crotch, inhale his manly smell, then suck his cock into my mouth. I marvel at the feel of human flesh, the taste of dribble juice, and then he’s pulling me around to him, getting me into his mouth. We lie feeding off each other for what seems like hours. When Jared starts shooting into my throat, I swallow and swallow, hungry for real cream. As I suck him dry, I unleash my own load while he licks and pulls, devouring every drop.
Afterward, we talk of the future, how we’ll never be caught again. “What about Robin?” I ask. “Do you know where he is?”
Jared shakes his head. “We’ll find him. I don’t know how, but we will, and we’ll have us a threesome to celebrate. But for now, it’s just us.” He slides over onto me and I feel him getting hard again. “For now,” he says, “forget the world.” He rolls onto his back, pulls me over with him, then gets his legs up. I sit back, look at the wonderful sight of a hole pulsing at me, hard cock above. “Fuck me,” he says. “Stick it in me and keep it there. Give me the real thing.” He laughs. “The real thing,” he says again. I push into him and he moans, takes hold of himself, starts to stroke. “The real thing,” he says once more, and then he’s gone into that world we both know so well, human dick in human ass, as life was meant to be.
FIRE AND PAIN
Richard May
I went back to Mesopotamia after the Great War to dig for history, part of an archaeological expedition sponsored by the University of Pennsylvania. France had changed me. Before the war I had been tentative and unconscious; I was neither in 1919.
As a graduate student and dig veteran, I was given charge of my own archaeological site. It wasn’t considered an important one, so my resources were sparse. I had only two undergraduates and barely enough money to hire a handful of local men. The published report, however, would have my name on it.
We were at a tell in western Iraq, a mound of ruined history a few miles from the Euphrates. Our area was under British control, but there was still distrust among the locals and fighting in the south. Even so, Penn had decided to resume work at our site and elsewhere in Iraq on projects in progress before the war had started.
We’d been sifting through dirt and debris at Amayia for weeks, finding bits and pieces left by the peoples who had lived there, one group succeeding the other for millennia. We’d found nothing of importance, but I appreciated the stories hinted at of Sumer and Akkadia, of Babylonia and Arabia.
During the day the sun was almost unbe
arable, so I’d adopted the thawb and keffiyeh, which protected me from both sand and sun. I sweated under the long sleeves and ankle-length tunic of the thawb, but it was better than burning. I wanted to avoid the leathery skin of older hands in the Middle East, especially since I was blond and thought myself rather good looking.
We rarely saw strangers. We had helpers from nearby villages, but they always left before dark. They seemed to be afraid of the site after sunset, though they wouldn’t say why. Even Mustafa, our Baghdad guide, couldn’t get the truth from them.
Each evening, we three Americans and Mustafa were left on our own, talking around the campfire, over which Mustafa had prepared our meal. As the embers began to darken and die, Mustafa would announce he was going to bed and look meaningfully at Eric, one of the undergraduates. At first, Mustafa had been interested in me—he called me Ashqar, which means blond in Arabic—but he had settled on Eric, because of his youth I assumed. Arab men seemed to like their partners young.
After we all went to our tents, Mustafa would move from his to Eric’s. I said nothing when David, the other undergraduate, reported this to me. We were a long way from home, and men must somehow find their comfort. This was something else I’d learned during the war.
One night I heard Mustafa tread carefully past me to Eric’s tent. I felt restless, envying Eric his Mustafa, knowing David had no interest in male genitalia. I decided to smoke, and left my tent wearing only the izaar, a sort of kilt Arabs wear as underwear beneath the thawb. The night was warm. I didn’t even drape a keffiyeh around my shoulders.
I lit my cigarette when I was well away from the tents. The match sparked bright. The desert night was a blacker black than ever you’ve seen, I’ll wager. The skies there are usually full of stars, and a fullish moon can provide some light, but this was a moonless night and the sky was clouded over.
I puffed in each direction, making a three hundred and sixty degree survey. When my circuit reached the ruins, said ruins seemed oddly outlined. I realized they were illuminated. I dropped the cigarette, brushed sand over it with a bare foot, and loped quietly but quickly to the site. Looters were common at digs in Iraq, like jackals at a kill.
