The Adventures of Robohooker

by Sally Hollister

  I was already lying on the bed, my legs wide open and stroking my pussy beguilingly. Mr Hope’s cock was of an average size but already fully erect and he didn’t want much by way of manual or oral stimulation. He just wanted to insert his cock in me and fuck me, but in every position imaginable. This was a man who intended to get his wife’s money’s worth.

  We started in the standard missionary position, with my legs flat out. I then bent my knees and raised my legs to wrap them round his waist. Following that he required me to place my legs on his shoulders. He pummelled me thus for several minutes before he asked me to take the superior position, firstly facing him and then away while he massaged my buttocks. After this he rolled me onto my side and took me in the spoon position. From there it was easy for him to roll me onto my face and pound me vigorously before, finally, pulling me up by the hips onto my hands and knees. I reached between my legs and fondled his balls lovingly which eventually initiated his climax, a noisy affair which he announced with much cursing, “Damn! Fuck! Take it, take it, you beautiful bitch! Take that hot come! Take it in your sweet pussy!”

  I replied with lines such as, “Yeah, baby, give it to me! Give me all that hot cock!”

  As he collapsed on top of me he was bathed in sweat but with a satisfied smile on his face.

  “Jeeze, that was the best fuck I ever had and I’ve been screwing whores from every corner of the planet for years. Even beats the time I fucked my wife’s sister, in front of her.”

  “I am glad you enjoyed the experience,” I replied. “Was my vagina adequately hot, moist and tight for you?”

  “Super pussy, honey, that’s what you’ve got there, super pussy. I never thought an android fuck would be better than a real woman, but you’re a marvel.”

  “We still have over half an hour if you would like to repeat the procedure,” I offered.

  “Again? Hell, no, baby. I’m no youngster that can manage a repeat fuck right away. No, one crack at it a day is all this old boy can manage. I just wish I could afford to come visit you every day, you’re miles better than Mabel and for you I’d let her take as much black cock as she wanted.”

  “I am afraid that I cannot offer a discounted season ticket for my services. But perhaps you should save encounters with me for special occasions so that they remain special?”

  “Yeah, I suppose you’re right,” Mr Hope said, “And that’s smart thinking. Beautiful, intelligent and a great fuck, you’re the perfect woman.”

  “The perfect artificial woman,” I corrected him.

  He put his mouth to one of my nipples and sucked on it timidly, almost as if he was afraid to become aroused again. “You’re woman enough for me.”

  PANTIES

  And so my career as a Robohooker proceeded, as clients came and went, but mostly came. My fame as an accomplished lover grew and I was in great demand so that my waiting list, far from shrinking, grew, even though I was getting through ten men a day. I volunteered to put in a night shift but Fifi totally refused to countenance such a suggestion, stating emphatically, if erroneously, that even androids needed their beauty sleep. The number of clients the other girls received declined as most men would rather wait for a crack at me than have a flesh and blood woman they could have at any time. Resentment towards me grew as the whores’ income decreased and Fifi pleaded with the I.R.C. to bring more Robohookers online but their Knee Department was on strike and as knees were vital in the production of a fully functioning Robohooker, production was brought to a halt and I remained as the sole Robohooker in the world.

  Alone, I bore the brunt of the other whores’ venom. They ignored me at every turn and denigrated me to their clients, claiming that a plastic pussy could never give as much pleasure as a genuine one. One of them cut the power to my recharging probe and Slab found me lying, unable to move, in my bed one morning. Fifi remonstrated with them and threatened to have them retrained as librarians’ assistants but the truth was that they loved their work and didn’t wish a life in the word of books.

  Things would have come to a head if another event had not transpired which deflected their attention.

  “Someone’s stolen my panties,” Mandy complained one day.

  “You too?” Priscilla said, “I thought some of mine had gone missing.”

  Underwear was one of the girls biggest expenses as they changed their panties several times a day so that they would always be shop-fresh for their clients. They only wore the finest and most expensive of undergarments, of course, and their loss was a major blow.

  “Oh they’ve just gone missing in the laundry,” Fifi said dismissively.

  Each girl had a laundry basket in her room where they deposited their soiled underwear. Slab collected these on a daily basis and they were picked up by Mr Wu for laundering twice a week.

  “No, I count mine out and I count them in,” Mandy insisted, “And these ones are going missing from my dirty laundry.”

  “It’s some dirty pervert,” Katie snarled. “What john have you both entertained recently?”

  Mrs Harris was called to produce her appointment book but it seemed that they had not shared their services with anyone.

  “Maybe there’s more than one of them then?” Katie suggested.

  “Your theory may be correct, Kate,” I said, “I have suffered no losses and this may be because I do not soil my panties.”

  I had at one point considered exuding moisture from my vaginal orifice regularly to better simulate a real woman but had decided that it was unnecessary.

  “No one wants panties soaked in engine oil,” Priscilla snapped, which showed her ignorance as, though my vaginal lubricant was synthetic, it was not engine oil and I had even been told that it tasted nice.

  “Maybe it’s Slab,” Mandy suggested.

  Kate snorted. “The only panties he’s interested in are those worn by blond, twenty one year old white boys.”

  “Yeah, but maybe they’re not for his personal use, he could be selling them. Pandora’s Panties, bet there’s a market.”

  “I have known Slab for over fifteen years and he has my absolute trust,” Fifi said imperiously which removed our handyman as a suspect immediately.

  “Hell, I could sell my panties myself and put the fucker out of business,” Mandy offered.

  “I don’t think profit is the motive,” I said, “The thief derives a perverse pleasure from purloining your panties.”

  “But I don’t see that we could have a bunch of thieves all appear at the same time. And that’s all that makes sense if we haven’t had the same john.”

  “We must set a trap to capture the miscreant,” I suggested. “If it is the same culprit he must be booking under different identities. He must also be a master of disguise otherwise he would run the risk of being identified.” I paused and considered. “I think another reason that I have not been targeted is that I do not visit the toilet when a client visits, which is obviously when he strikes.”

  Fifi nodded sagely, but said, “I don’t see what kind of trap we can lay, especially if we don’t know who the shit is and I’m not sure I’m happy about putting the girls in harm’s way by asking them to collar him.”

  “What about Slab, surely that’s his job?” Mandy said.

  “Slab’s big and strong, but if he’s in the middle of Carousel he’s not fast,” Fifi admitted. “Our bad guy could rob a girl and be on his way before the big man got moving. I like to think of him more as a visual deterrent than anything else.”

  “I could be put in harm’s way without endangering anybody,” I said.

  “But he doesn’t want your panties because you don’t leak and he can’t get them because you don’t go to the can,” Fifi reminded me.

  “My physical appearance can be altered so that I look like any one of you,” I said and as they all turned and stared at me I added, “The fee for the encounter would go to the girl I imitated.”

  “The I.R.C. might not accept that, Andi,” Fifi said.

&nbs
p; “My owners do not need to know,” I said.

  “I didn’t know you could lie.”

  “Saying nothing is not lying,” I answered, though the truth was that I could deceive as well as the next girl if required because exaggeration and dissimulation were programmed into me as a Robohooker.

  “And you’d do that for us?” Mandy asked.

  “You are my sisters and I must defend you,” I said blandly.

  “It’s only a few pairs of panties,” Fifi said weakly, fearing that I would jeopardise her relationship with the I.R.C.

  “That does not matter. It is an offence against our dignity. If a gentleman wishes to purchase a pair of our panties he should state his intent and offer a reasonable price. What this miscreant is doing is theft and he must be stopped.”

  It became very clear, on further investigation, that all of the girls apart from Priscilla had suffered a loss and as it seemed likely that he was working his way through all the girls, she would be the next target. I, therefore, took photographs of her and precise measurements and relayed them to the lab, requesting that my appearance be changed to hers. There were enquiries as to my purpose from I.R.C. of course, but I informed them that I wished to establish how much my physical appearance had to do with my popularity, and that seemed to satisfy them. The major alterations were that my cheekbones were reduced in prominence, my lips thinned and my red mane was replaced with Priscilla’s short dark curls.

  “Goddam, it’s like looking in a mirror,” Priscilla said when I met up with her after being refitted.

  “In terms of body shape we are roughly the same,” I informed her, “It was only my face and hair that have been altered. I will try to keep conversation to a minimum so that the clients will not recognise my true nature. This would have been more difficult with Mandy as I have not yet mastered her command of filthy language. I know the words but cannot deliver them convincingly.”

  “You’re a peach,” Priscilla said, though neither she nor I resembled the fruit in any way, even when I was wearing my own face.

  I had to increase vaginal pressure slightly to encourage my own clients to finish more quickly so that I could squeeze in the one client a day Priscilla entertained, but it was so slight that nobody noticed or complained. For her customers, of course, I could not do this, but being a more mature type she seemed to attract a younger client who climaxed quickly in any case. The first few of these were no more than routine, though I offered every opportunity for theft by making two calls to the bathroom during each encounter.

  It was while entertaining her fifth customer, a small man called Mr Kevin Underwood, that I became suspicious, especially as he insisted on buying me copious amounts of drink before we retired to my room. Was this a ploy to ensure that I visited the lavatory thus allowing him the freedom to rake through my dirty laundry, I wondered? I explained my lack of conversation as we sat in the bar by claiming to have a sore throat, an explanation he accepted willingly as it allowed him to talk at length about himself. He was a highly successful artist, he told me, who specialised in water colors, though when I questioned him about the subject it was scant, implying that he might be a master of disguise but he was not a master of deception. Basically, he had not done his homework adequately and had expected that no whore would have an in-depth knowledge of the subject. It was not a part of my primary programming either but my neural banks had wireless access to the internet and so I caught him out on several errors, though I said nothing.

  Mr Underwood imagined, like most humans, that as sight was the primary perceptive facility, anything he did while not being visually observed would not be noted. However as most of my senses were infinitely superior to human ones, I distinctively heard him, while I was in the lavatory, rise and open my laundry basket. It was made of wicker-work and I had deliberately engineered it so that the lid would make a slight cracking sound when lifted. Further shuffling sounds indicated that he was secreting his prize somewhere though, as I could not see, I did not know where and could not accuse him directly of the theft. I waited, therefore, till I was sucking his cock and my finger was inserted firmly up his back passage before I released his member from my mouth and said, “What have you done with my panties, Mr Underwood?”

  He started, but with my digit several inches up his fundament he realised he was at my mercy.

  “Nothing, nothing, I never took them,” he all but confessed.

  “I heard you take them,” I said. “You are a thief.”

  “No, no, it is just a little sex game. I like to sniff them while I fuck.”

  “I am not Priscilla, I am Robohooker,” I told him, “And you are lying to me. You have been stealing the panties of all the girls in this brothel and if you do not confess this instant I will thrust my finger so far up your ass hole that it will tickle your tonsils.”

  At that a look of resignation crossed his face. “They are for Betty, my wife, I like her to wear the panties of you hookers because it excites me. I didn’t mean any harm.”

  “You could have purchased our used panties, but you resorted to theft.”

  “I had no guarantee that they would be genuine used panties unless I stole them from your laundry basket.”

  He said this so plaintively that I saw the logic in his position, but had to insist that, “Madame Pandora’s would sell nothing but genuine soiled panties.”

  “Forgive me,” he pleaded. “I will pay for all I have stolen. Just don’t call the police. I am actually a famous personage and this would destroy me.”

  It seemed that he was actually the actor, John Fitzwalter, and this explained his ability to don other guises and play the part of others. In truth he had no interest in actually fucking we whores, only in stealing our underwear so that it could be worn by his wife.

  This mark of romance touched Fifi, who upon being informed of the matter, agreed to dismiss the crime if the girls were reimbursed for their loss, and so ended the matter of the stolen panties, which gained me the grudging appreciation of my fellow whores.

  THE ROCK BAND ORGY

  As news of my abilities spread, ordinary women such as housewives turned against me as the whores once had. They feared that if the I.R.C.’s plans to make Robohookers a mass market product, available at a very low price, went ahead their menfolk would use their services for sexual pleasure and flesh and blood women would be deprived of sex fun and left to act only as breeding stock. This was exacerbated as the strike in the Knee Department looked likely to be resolved shortly and Robohookers would soon be in full production.

  The I.R.C. claimed that they had plans for a male Robohooker who would be available to service real women but their bluff was called when they were unable to produce even a prototype. The men on the Board, being very old-fashioned, had not even imagined that women would have such desires and the women directors had not felt able to voice the fact that they harboured a need for cock.

  So it was that female protesters, bearing placards reading ‘DOWN WITH ROBOHOOKER’ began appearing outside the Pleasure Palace and on one occasion a brick was hurled through a window. No-one was hurt and Slab rushed out to remonstrate with the ladies. Unfortunately one of them had brought her handsome son with her on the protest and upon spying him Slab was so smitten that he spent the afternoon trying to woo him.

  The women shouted abuse at me if I appeared at window and though the other girls jumped to my defence and uttered curses in response this did not deter my detractors.

  A consequence of this, of course, was that our visitor numbers fell dramatically as few men were willing to face up to the gauntlet of outraged harridans at our door.

  It was the lack of turnover this caused which, I believe, caused Fifi to accept the request to hold a rock star’s birthday party in the Pleasure Palace. Normally she would have rejected any such request out of hand, believing these purveyor’s of popular music to be uncouth types and nowhere near as refined as the business gents she preferred as clients. However the sum offered for our
services was immensely large and was difficult to refuse, especially in our straitened circumstances.

  So it was that Fleapit Fandango, an English punk band, appeared at our premises in all their unholy and impolite glory. They consisted of lead singer, Slick; lead guitarist, Ripper; bassist, Smallball and drummer, Tick, whose birthday it was. They arrived at 9pm already drunk but with a truck load of more booze which they continued to imbibe throughout their stay. They were loud, raucous, and seemed incapable of any kind of sexual dalliance as Fifi had insisted that no illegal drugs were to be brought into the premises. They had complained at this and even more so when Slab frisked them before he allowed them to enter, but at that stage of the proceedings were still in a relatively good humor.

  They did not behave like gentlemen at all and every girl, including Fifi, was subjected to much pawing and groping. Clothes were ripped off and obscenities hurled but throughout it all Fifi bit her lip and encouraged us to tolerate their outrageous behaviour for the sake of our bank accounts.

  At one point in the proceedings a bus-load of 20 of their cronies arrived. These were roadies, groupies, and various other hangers-on and at first Fifi refused them entry, stating that the arrangement had been for the band only. Slick told her that if she took that attitude they would take their business elsewhere and all contracts and payments would be cancelled. As they had already all but wrecked the premises the wisest thing to do seemed to be to admit their entourage and hope for the best.

  I tried to play it low-key and stay in the background as much as possible, but it was plain that it was my presence which had made the band select the Pleasure Palace as a venue for their debauchery.

  “Where’s that fucking robot whore?” Smallball roared, “I’m gonna fuck her brains out!”