As things worked out I was so special that the Board of Directors of the International Robotics Corporation, under advisement from their Advertising & Marketing Department, decided to maximise the publicity they would get from the launch of the world’s first Robohooker by offering my virginity as a lottery prize. Fifi, still determined to twist the knife into Jim Frankenstone, revealed that I was, technically, no longer a virgin as I had been boned by the Professor. Frankenstone protested that he had not ejaculated inside me, basing his defence on the ‘Clinton-didn’t inhale’ precedent, but the Board refused to accept this, saying that penetration was enough to disqualify me from promoting myself as still a maiden. Frankenstone thought he could save his skin by fitting me with a brand new, unused, vagina but, though this cleared me to be a lottery prize, as advertised, it did not rescue the Professor from his fate. He ended his career in charge of the house-training division of the Robodog programme.
Fifi wasn’t happy with the lottery idea as it would mean that practically anybody could win me for only a dollar. She had always prided herself that her girls were the elite among the hooker community and she thought a lottery cheapened and demeaned me. But I was the property of the I.R.C. and they wanted the world to know that they would soon be supplying artificial pussy to anybody that could afford it. To that end I was dressed up to the nines and made up by experts before being extensively photographed in a variety of provocative poses to publicise the lottery and the luscious prize, me.
Of course all this publicity brought the media to the doors of the I.R.C. all demanding to see this marvel and hopefully meet her and interview her. This made the Directors very nervous as though they were convinced of my sexual abilities as I’d been trained by Fifi, they were still unsure as to my social skills. Before they would allow me to be interviewed by TV, radio and the like they insisted on me appearing before them for a casual ‘chat’ to ensure that I would not embarrass them or their company by some faux pas.
I was therefore ordered to appear before them in the Corporation’s Board Room for their inspection and approval. Fifi was quite happy with this as she assumed company directors would be my natural clients once I fully entered the profession and it would do me no harm to see them outside of a sexual scenario.
There were seven of them, five men and two women, and they all stared at me silently as I entered the room.
“Jeeze,” one of them uttered eventually, “She is so lifelike.”
“And beautiful too.”
They all nodded in agreement and the Chairman said, “Take a seat, Ms Allure,” and waved me to the only spare chair at the table.
“Are you nervous, dear?” one of the ladies asked.
“The feelings I have may be regarded as nervousness. I am entering a situation I have not experienced before and that stimulates certain pathways in my neural banks.”
“Well, there’s no need to be,” the lady continued. “You cannot do anything wrong here. If you malfunction in any way it will be the responsibility of those who built you and they will be held to account, but you will be innocent.”
“That is not strictly true, ma’am. It would be impossible to program for all eventualities and I am therefore programmed to adapt. That is solely my prerogative and I should be held liable.”
“Damn, she’s giving an argument. And a good one,” one of the men gasped.
“Who are you?” the Chairman asked in a very businesslike fashion.
“Andi Allure, sir.”
“And what are you?”
“I am a Robohooker.”
“What will be your primary function?”
“To provide my clients with sexual pleasure.”
“Who do you belong to?”
“The International Robotics Corporation.”
“I wish to buy you. How much do you cost.”
“My services will be available at rates still to be set.”
“No, I want to buy you outright. How much?”
“I am not for sale. Only my sexual services can be bought for a limited period of time. I can thus be hired but at all times remain the property of the International Robotics Corporation.”
“She’s not falling for that one, Bob,” the other lady said and they all laughed.
“Do you follow Asimov’s Three laws of Robotics?” another man asked.
“They are fiction,” I replied.
“So, you are capable of harming a human being?”
“If necessary. I am programmed to defend myself.”
“And you don’t have to obey all human orders?”
“I am a sentient being, not a toaster,” I said, which made them all laugh again. “I judge human requests and put them into context. For instance, if you asked me to open the window for you, I would assume that you were incapable of performing the task yourself and would comply. But if later I noted you performing strenuous physical activity which would imply that you had only been a lazy shit earlier I would respond to any further request for aid by telling you to fuck off.”
“Dear God, we can’t put that cursing in front of the press,” the vice chair said, the color draining from his face.
“Damned refreshing honesty,” the first lady said. “I’m impressed. We should be proud of what we’ve created. This isn’t the clanking, hissing, robot of science fiction novels, this is as near to a real, live, human being as you can get. I think that would make her more appealing as a Robohooker.”
They ignored me for a while and squabbled among each other, some taking the position that my language would demean the company, while the others felt it made me appear more human.
“Would you use such words in front of the press?” the second woman barked at me.
“I try to use all of the words in my data-banks in the appropriate context.”
“We should delete all cussing from her vocabulary!”
“And thereby make her less human. That’s a nonsense. We set out to create a human simulacrum and that’s what we’ve got.”
The Chairman succeeded in hushing them eventually and turned to me. “What do you think, Andi? Would it be appropriate for you to use such language in front of the press?”
“Not if it was a live transmission on TV or radio and might be heard by children. I might use it in a newspaper interview however, where appropriate, to emphasise my command of the language which, I understand, is my major flaw in successfully imitating a human.”
“She has a point,” the Chairman said. “The only giveaway is her stilted use of the language and she’s aware enough to know what’s appropriate. Shall we vote on allowing the press access to her, ladies and gentlemen?”
The vote was carried by five votes to two and appointments for interviews were set up for the following days.
Humanity was well used to robots and androids by this time, of course, but I was still so far beyond what was currently available that I had novelty value if nothing else. Most menial or domestic robots had a limited vocabulary and only enough programming for them to carry out the tasks that were assigned to them. I, however, as I would be dealing with humans on a more intimate level, not only had more storage capacity for data but also vastly superior processing power. However, this posed a problem as the Board feared that interviewers would concentrate on the more prurient side of my skills. Consequently Fifi was appointed to chaperone me through my interviews and her first words to every reporter I encountered were, “Ms Allure is a lady and we expect you to treat her as such. Any question which you would not pose to me, you should not put to her. Let’s keep it clean.”
Despite her size Fifi is feisty and formidable, so none of the reporters transgressed and asked me improper questions apart from one cheeky young girl who asked me if I liked ‘big’ men.
“About as much as you do,” I replied, before Fifi could interject.
The interviews went out and had the expected effect. People saw me as a desirable woman and not just a fucking machine and so sales of lottery tickets soared.
It was decided that I myself would select the winning numbers through a random number generator sub-program I had specially installed for the occasion. The announcement was to be made in the boardroom with the press in attendance as the Board wanted to milk every ounce of publicity from their endeavours. It was even suggested that my deflowering might be televised or, at the least, made available on video, but this was vetoed by the accounts department as we would not only require the permission of the winner to film him in action but would also have to pay him a royalty.
The winning numbers were 12, 16, 34, 45 and 49, and the winner was declared to be Arthur Marsden, an auto mechanic.
“I knew it,” Fifi complained, “a working class schmuck. A beauty like Andi shouldn’t be wasting her talents on a grease monkey. We should have priced the lottery tickets at 500 dollars to keep the riff raff out.”
“What a snob you are, Fifi,” I chided her. “I’m sure Mr Marsden will be a perfectly adequate lover.”
A total of 3,041,662 lottery tickets had been sold, raising that amount in dollars, and the I.R.C. promptly donated the amount to charity so that retired hookers could be retrained as librarians’ assistants and continue to make a contribution to society. This was, of course, an inspired piece of further promotion.
The event, when it finally occurred in the privacy of a room at the Pleasure Palace was not notable, though infinitely superior to the fuck I’d received from Jim Frankenstone. Arthur Marsden was a slim, shy, boy of only 19 and not greatly experienced. He had a nice size of cock, much bigger than the Professor’s, but he was affected by nerves, no doubt due to the occasion and found it difficult to get and maintain an erection. His eyes told me that he was aroused by me, but his penis failed to react without a great deal of manual and oral manipulation. Once I had him fully erect I lay back and allowed him to mount me. He fucked me vigorously for a few minutes but came quickly, no doubt due to his youth. I reassured him that I was his for the entire night and he fucked me three more times, each time managing to last a little longer so that by his final attempt he managed to trigger a small orgasm in me. He was a very happy boy when he left me as I was only the third girl he’d ever slept with and the first of those had been his Aunt Gladys.
In the morning Arthur was required to fill in a report on my performance where, thankfully, he marked me down as Excellent, and I was rushed off to the lab to ensure that I had functioned as planned and had not acted beyond my parameters. This too I passed with flying colors. My vagina had lubricated the correct amount, and both temperature and pressure were as required. This marked the end of my training and I had, finally, qualified as a Robohooker.
THE PRICE OF ELECTRIC PUSSY
Now that I was ready for action, the fight over which part of the market I should specialise in intensified. Fifi was insistent that I should be a premium priced fuck, at least until I had been joined by thousands of other Robohookers, whereas the I.C.R. had always planned for me to be a mass market commodity. They, as my owners, obviously had the ability to impose their will, but their problem lay in the fact that they had no experience of the sex market and how to deal with sex workers. They were unwilling to set up brothels of their own and were, therefore, reliant on madams such as Fifi to provide an establishment where I could ply my trade. It was proposed that I could take up street-walking and thus bypass the need for premises but this was rejected on two grounds. Firstly, I would be in direct competition with real street-walkers who might make life difficult for me, and secondly the I.R.C. wanted to keep a close eye on me during my probationary period in case any unforeseen difficulties arose and this would be easier to manage within a brothel.
So it was that I became a thousand dollar a fuck hooker, rather than a hundred dollar one, though the price difference would have no effect on the fucks I was expected to deliver. Fifi was given a budget for my wardrobe and would thereafter pay the I.R.C. a monthly rental of twenty thousand dollars for my services. Even if I only entertained one client per day that would generate a profit of ten thousand dollars per month for her, so she snapped up the deal. She also decided, at this point, to give up the life of the sex worker for herself, and appointed herself as my de facto manager. She confided in me that she saw the future of whoring lay with machines such as myself and a smart operator with a string of Robohookers was assured a fortune. She had been lucky to get in on the ground floor of this new opportunity and would be forever grateful to me. She told me this as I was moved into my own room in the Pleasure Palace. A room! Previously I had resided in a cupboard at I.R.C.’s lab, it’s only furnishing being the slim anal probe with which I was recharged. One of these was installed next to my bed and I would be expected to recharge myself at night when I had no clients.
I had an en suite bathroom with a shower closet and bidet though, of course, the toilet was unnecessary. My wardrobe was stocked with alluring clothing and my dressing table furnished with cosmetics and perfumes fit for a queen. Making myself look good was part of my basic programming though, unlike a real woman, I could go from pretty to stunning in three and a half minutes from a standing start.
Before I was even ensconced in my new home Fifi had taken over five hundred advance booking for my services due to some discreet online advertising. If I emulated the real hookers and only took one client a day I was already organised to be busy for over a year. This was a tricky problem, because although Fifi wanted to keep me as a premium fuck, it was also true that I could not be over-fucked. A few minutes to clean up were all I needed to be as fresh as a daisy for my next client which meant that I could probably handle upward of 20 clients in any 24 hour period. Fifi thought this was excessive and we compromised on 10, meaning I could clear my backlog in nearly two months. I was to be available to clients from 9 am to 12 midnight, a period of 15 hours, which would allow each visitor one and a half hours of my time, if we excluded the time I need to freshen up.
Even though I did not eat, Fifi took all of the girls our for a ceremonial dinner on the night before I was due to start work, to mark my arrival. The entire complement of Madame Pandora’s Pleasure Palace were present. Apart from Fluffy and Mandy, there was also Priscilla Pleasure, Katie Kinks, Linda Lovesit, Jennifer Juicy and the Englishwoman, Betty Lumbove, who was dyslexic. Also present were the receptionist, Mrs Harris, and the general factotum of the Pleasure Palace, an extremely large black man called Slab. He was an interesting character not only because of his imposing size, but also because he was a martial arts expert. Fifi’s clients rarely offered any violence to the girls, not surprising when Slab was there as a deterrent. He had the added advantage of being gay, which meant that the girls did not bother him when they were seeking non-commercial pleasure. Despite this they enjoyed teasing him with glimpses of naked female flesh. His security duties were not onerous and the upkeep of the premises did not take up much of his time either, so he was usually to be found in his little office, watching film musicals, which he was passionate about.
We visited an Italian restaurant and I sat and watched them as they ate. There was a continued and understandable wariness from all apart from Fifi, for though we’d talked many times, I still wasn’t one of them. Perhaps after I’d serviced a few clients I would be accepted into the sorority but for the moment, though they were friendly enough, it was still obvious that they were unsure of me. Fifi tried to include me and once she discovered that I was physically capable of eating though, of course, I derived no nutritional value from the food and had to void it undigested, she insisted that I join in the meal. However the engineers had provided me with a very limited ‘stomach’ to store food, so I could only pick at the veal dish she ordered for me and had to refuse dessert.
The whores were allowed alcohol for the evening and in the later stages became quite drunk and merry, swapping rude stories, the funniest of which involved clients becoming outraged when the girls farted while being buggered. This was a occupational hazard, especially as access all areas was permitted for the standard fee of one
thousand dollars and most liked to avail themselves of the pleasure of a tight sphincter, though where they expected the air they pumped into a whore’s bottom was meant to go was a mystery.
“Skinny cocks is the worst,” Jennifer said, “Least with a thick one there’s a good seal with your pooper, so you don’t get a lotta air pumped up there.”
“It aint fair,” Katie added, “You spend a year loosening up your ass so you can take a cock comfortable and then the rest of your life trying to keep it tight.”
“George Turnbull liked me farting,” Linda said, “Used to make him laugh.”
“You shoulda charged him extra.”
“I couldn’t do it on command,” Linda protested but this line of conversation brought a frown from Fifi. There were no extras on offer as the standard fee was inclusive of manual, oral, vaginal and anal sex to completion, and only specials, such as those desired by Bill Collins, were charged at a different rate and had to be negotiated with Mrs Harris prior to commencement of any sexual activity.
The evening continued with further salacious stories by which time the ladies were in such a state that Slab and I had to carry them out to the people carrier so that Slab could drive us all home.
The next day and my first paying customer arrived. He was Arnold Hope, a middle aged man who owned a bakery business. My services were a birthday gift to him from his wife who, he told me, was very open-minded. She would, however, expect to be allowed a fling of her own when they visited Jamaica later in the year.
“She’s obsessed with black cock,” he informed me as he removed his clothes. “It’s not even the size that does it for her, just the color. She’d rather have a little black one than a big white one. She’s weird.”
The Adventures of Robohooker Page 4
