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shhhhh
I am definitely not sufficiently frustrated with wolves that I started writing fic where Nate is a sexbot. And even if I were writing sexbot fic, it would definitely not be creepy, dubcon, and/or under the cut here.
It's a custom order from overseas, so of course the thing takes forever to show up. Every day when deliveries come in Brad asks about it, like they could somehow forget the crate on the truck. The tracking program on the company's website just insists that it's arrived in San Diego, and they're technically not outside the delivery window yet, so Brad can't do anything but wait.
When the package finally does arrive, wheeled up to the door on a dolly, there's just one tiny indication of what the holdup was: a few scribbled marks on the customs form attached to the outside of the crate. It happens all the time, especially with the high-end stuff. Brad knows that; that's why he can make a living repairing and modifying these things for people who don't want to spend all the time to ship them back to their manufacturers in Japan or Hong Kong or Latvia. He's just never been at the sharp end before, and it's all he can do to keep a straight face while he signs for it.
The delivery guy, Rick, who's used to Brad and Brad's business, smiles a little. "New gear, Mr. Colbert?"
"New toy," Brad replies, cracking a smile, and tips it off the dolly so Rick can get the hell out of Brad's back room.
Brad hesitates about half a second before he locks the doors--not like they get much walk-in business worth worrying about--and sends a quick text to Ray. Don't come back to the shop, new toy is here, we're closed.
Brad shuts off his phone and leaves it on the counter and then finds a prybar to open up the wooden crate. He can see, once he's cracked it open, that customs got exactly this far and no farther: the manufacturer's seals are all still in place on the plastic packaging beneath. Brad enters the code he long since memorized from the order confirmation emails, and the box cracks open like an egg, the smooth white surface parting to reveal the damp interior, and the thing curled up inside.
The bot has fine pale skin, guaranteed to tan with sun exposure, and buzzcut short hair of a damply indeterminate medium color. Brad had selected not-blond and not-black-haired and this, clearly, was what was left. It has long eyelashes and full pink lips; Brad brushes his thumb over them, and even in low-power sleep mode they part a little for him, giving the faintest hint of suction.
"God, you're perfect," Brad breathes, leaning down to put a shoulder into the bot's midsection so he can hoist it out of the crate over his shoulder. He rubs his cheek against the pale, firm round of its ass as he walks over to a workbench and flips it down onto the surface to look it over properly. It's anatomically perfect and factory fresh from head to toe; its feet are soft and pink and smooth. If Brad never lets it venture out of a carpeted bedroom--or, hell, out of his bed--the soles of its feet will never harden.
It's got hair on its toes and legs and crotch, all the same lightish brownish color--Brad had selected the fully adult and natural options--and its dick is in the circumcised style; there's a little fake scar just below the head and everything. Its belly button is a whirl of random puckering, and its nipples respond when Brad fingers them, hardening into points. It doesn't make any breathing motions in factory-default sleep mode, but it's human-warm to the touch and has that faint intangible feeling of invisible activity, presence, that the best bots have.
Brad gets his hand under it and pushes it up onto its side, facing away from him. The aesthetic engineering is perfect on this side as well, but Brad's handled his share of high-end bots and he knows just how to place his thumbs on either side of the C2 vertebra and push in and up. The anterior access panels pop open, a crack appearing to either side of the bot's spinal column. Brad grabs a screwdriver from the wall rack without looking and uses it to lever up the bot's right-side access panel.
The little interior lights come on, warm and golden, lighting up circuit boards and wiring interlaced with all the necessary mechanics to make the bot move, plus fluid storage sacs and power converters and, per Brad's specs, hardware slots currently occupied by dummy boards. It's no wonder the thing weighs as much as a human, with all this packed into it--and there's more in every available interior space, so much scope for programming and modification....
"You are fucking gorgeous," Brad murmurs. "And I am going to do such filthy fucking things to you, you beautiful piece of plastic."
Brad sets down the screwdriver, letting the panel fall almost shut again, and runs his hands through a sterilizer before he pulls his newest and finest tracer bug out of clean storage. He takes it back to the bot, opens it up again, and selects a wire-thin probe off the rack. With the bug hooked carefully on the end of the probe, he feeds it delicately into the bot's scant open space, up along the spinal column and toward the thick bundles of transmission wires that occupy the center of the neck. The bug will burrow if it has to, homing in on the highest concentration of electrical signaling so that it can eavesdrop on all the elegant and expensive proprietary code that makes the bot tick. But there's no reason not to get it as close to the target as possible.
It activates when it latches on to a signal strong enough to kick off its subroutines, and Brad eases the probe back out of the bot and closes it up, running a caressing hand down the perfectly sealed seams of its back.
"Such filthy things, you have no idea," he mutters, flipping open the screen of his laptop to see that, yes, the bug is already transmitting, just a trickle of information compared to the flood he's prepared drive space for.
"But first," he says, pulling the bot back down onto its back and tickling it under the chin, the unavoidably twee wake-up trigger that he'll only have to use this once before he sets his own. It blinks green eyes--not-blue and not-brown--at him and starts to smile even before he's taken his finger away, even before he's finished speaking. "I'm going to fuck you up against the wall."
The bot's smile widens into a pleasantly boyish grin and it says its first words: "That's my very favorite way to wake up."
It's a custom order from overseas, so of course the thing takes forever to show up. Every day when deliveries come in Brad asks about it, like they could somehow forget the crate on the truck. The tracking program on the company's website just insists that it's arrived in San Diego, and they're technically not outside the delivery window yet, so Brad can't do anything but wait.
When the package finally does arrive, wheeled up to the door on a dolly, there's just one tiny indication of what the holdup was: a few scribbled marks on the customs form attached to the outside of the crate. It happens all the time, especially with the high-end stuff. Brad knows that; that's why he can make a living repairing and modifying these things for people who don't want to spend all the time to ship them back to their manufacturers in Japan or Hong Kong or Latvia. He's just never been at the sharp end before, and it's all he can do to keep a straight face while he signs for it.
The delivery guy, Rick, who's used to Brad and Brad's business, smiles a little. "New gear, Mr. Colbert?"
"New toy," Brad replies, cracking a smile, and tips it off the dolly so Rick can get the hell out of Brad's back room.
Brad hesitates about half a second before he locks the doors--not like they get much walk-in business worth worrying about--and sends a quick text to Ray. Don't come back to the shop, new toy is here, we're closed.
Brad shuts off his phone and leaves it on the counter and then finds a prybar to open up the wooden crate. He can see, once he's cracked it open, that customs got exactly this far and no farther: the manufacturer's seals are all still in place on the plastic packaging beneath. Brad enters the code he long since memorized from the order confirmation emails, and the box cracks open like an egg, the smooth white surface parting to reveal the damp interior, and the thing curled up inside.
The bot has fine pale skin, guaranteed to tan with sun exposure, and buzzcut short hair of a damply indeterminate medium color. Brad had selected not-blond and not-black-haired and this, clearly, was what was left. It has long eyelashes and full pink lips; Brad brushes his thumb over them, and even in low-power sleep mode they part a little for him, giving the faintest hint of suction.
"God, you're perfect," Brad breathes, leaning down to put a shoulder into the bot's midsection so he can hoist it out of the crate over his shoulder. He rubs his cheek against the pale, firm round of its ass as he walks over to a workbench and flips it down onto the surface to look it over properly. It's anatomically perfect and factory fresh from head to toe; its feet are soft and pink and smooth. If Brad never lets it venture out of a carpeted bedroom--or, hell, out of his bed--the soles of its feet will never harden.
It's got hair on its toes and legs and crotch, all the same lightish brownish color--Brad had selected the fully adult and natural options--and its dick is in the circumcised style; there's a little fake scar just below the head and everything. Its belly button is a whirl of random puckering, and its nipples respond when Brad fingers them, hardening into points. It doesn't make any breathing motions in factory-default sleep mode, but it's human-warm to the touch and has that faint intangible feeling of invisible activity, presence, that the best bots have.
Brad gets his hand under it and pushes it up onto its side, facing away from him. The aesthetic engineering is perfect on this side as well, but Brad's handled his share of high-end bots and he knows just how to place his thumbs on either side of the C2 vertebra and push in and up. The anterior access panels pop open, a crack appearing to either side of the bot's spinal column. Brad grabs a screwdriver from the wall rack without looking and uses it to lever up the bot's right-side access panel.
The little interior lights come on, warm and golden, lighting up circuit boards and wiring interlaced with all the necessary mechanics to make the bot move, plus fluid storage sacs and power converters and, per Brad's specs, hardware slots currently occupied by dummy boards. It's no wonder the thing weighs as much as a human, with all this packed into it--and there's more in every available interior space, so much scope for programming and modification....
"You are fucking gorgeous," Brad murmurs. "And I am going to do such filthy fucking things to you, you beautiful piece of plastic."
Brad sets down the screwdriver, letting the panel fall almost shut again, and runs his hands through a sterilizer before he pulls his newest and finest tracer bug out of clean storage. He takes it back to the bot, opens it up again, and selects a wire-thin probe off the rack. With the bug hooked carefully on the end of the probe, he feeds it delicately into the bot's scant open space, up along the spinal column and toward the thick bundles of transmission wires that occupy the center of the neck. The bug will burrow if it has to, homing in on the highest concentration of electrical signaling so that it can eavesdrop on all the elegant and expensive proprietary code that makes the bot tick. But there's no reason not to get it as close to the target as possible.
It activates when it latches on to a signal strong enough to kick off its subroutines, and Brad eases the probe back out of the bot and closes it up, running a caressing hand down the perfectly sealed seams of its back.
"Such filthy things, you have no idea," he mutters, flipping open the screen of his laptop to see that, yes, the bug is already transmitting, just a trickle of information compared to the flood he's prepared drive space for.
"But first," he says, pulling the bot back down onto its back and tickling it under the chin, the unavoidably twee wake-up trigger that he'll only have to use this once before he sets his own. It blinks green eyes--not-blue and not-brown--at him and starts to smile even before he's taken his finger away, even before he's finished speaking. "I'm going to fuck you up against the wall."
The bot's smile widens into a pleasantly boyish grin and it says its first words: "That's my very favorite way to wake up."
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I do love that most of the filthy depravity Brad's salivating over involves a keyboard and not his own dick. Classic nerd.
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...I once wrote a Trek fic where Jim Kirk died and Scotty and Chekov grievingly reprogrammed a sexbot into a copy of him, Buffybot style. That one got a little bit Philip K. Dick on me but not in this sense.
I really like this genre but in a way that makes my own head hurt.
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