The first thing to know about Corbyn is that he's kind of a stupid prick. From the moment he unpacked me, I could tell. His shitty, scruffy little beard, his sweaty forehead, the obsessive way he checked his phone while he scrolled through my settings -- it all said "pathetic man-child" in a way even my outdated, bottom-shelf Personality Cortex could understand.
The second thing to know about him is that he doesn't like rules. I, for instance, came with a whole host of rules. Here are several of the ones Corbyn read and agreed to in my Terms of Service:
1.1. StockBots are to be used for retail and customer service purposes only. Clients seeking bots for personal relationships or intimate fulfillment are pointed towards the most recent models in the AmicaBot and SmutBot lines, respectively.
1.2. StockBots are only to be used for greeting, stocking, carrying, cashiering, and other such retail-oriented physical tasks.
1.3. Each StockBot is a finished product, not to be tampered with or hacked. Clients seeking a fun, user-friendly AnthroBot hacking experience should look into our established line of ClayBots and our new 8-week online academy, Sculpting Your Very First Bot.
1.4. StockBots, while programmed to be patient with the groping, catcalling, and sexual malfeasance endemic to the world of retail, will never reciprocate and should never be asked to reciprocate a sexual act.
The list goes on. By the time he was done, Corbyn had violated pretty much my entire agreement.
--
Although I'm wired to be mechanically competent and neurologically plastic, I still need roughly a week of hands-on job training to ensure optimum performance. Once Corbyn had set me up to his liking, he handed me off to middle management for an intense five-day tour of duty on the shop floor.
I did any number of fun (or basically tolerable) things: I unpacked pallets full of soft drinks, baking flour, instant coffee, and more. I greeted customers with a warm hello when they arrived and sent them off with a heartfelt "see you later!" when they departed. Incapable of physical exhaustion, and seemingly possessed of a female anatomy that appealed to the male managers, I did a great deal of bending over and picking things up off the floor. "Mm," said Dave, our Junior Director of HR, the second time he had me lift a pallet of ketchup bottles off the linoleum in front of him. "That's a great rack, Sweetie."
My name isn't Sweetie; my name is AnthroLine StockBot Model 8.4.1. But "Sweetie" ended up sticking. Such is life, as I began to learn.
As for my "rack," I inspected it in the employee bathroom later that day. There was no real reason for me to use the employee bathroom since I don't eat or drink or have a bladder. But I found that I could slip in quietly. My breasts, when I removed my HaveMart uniform and examined them, did indeed seem awesome, though this was likely little more than the result of my well-functioning modulatory self-esteem algorithm. But still, yes, I liked them: they were medium-large, according to my packaging, and very smooth and squishy to the touch.
My nipples were a light pink and pointed slightly out to each side. Out of curiosity, I touched them, gently running a finger around first one and then the other. And this is when I ought to have sensed that something was amiss, because in strict contradiction of my standard protocol, these casual, curious strokes felt... wonderful. Really wonderful.
But I am a StockBot, not a SmutBot. They shouldn't have felt wonderful at all. I am programmed to perceive myself as a friendly and efficient mind inside a tight-fitting corporate uniform. Suddenly, deliriously, I began to perceive myself instead as a friendly and efficient mind inside a soft and throbbing body inside a tight-fitting corporate uniform. This wasn't right at all.
--
But anyway, the seriousness of my situation did not come clear to me until I underwent my first spontaneous orgasm in the middle of a routine customer service interaction. It was a totally normal interaction; I was ringing up a middle-aged woman named Bessie, and then suddenly pardon my non-protocol language but holy fucking fuck, my legs were shaking, I stumbled against the cash register, and a white heat like blown glass blazed repeatedly through my polyurethane vagina. My body, which I was not supposed to be conscious of, was crippled with pleasure.
And then it passed. I looked up into Bessie's concerned face. "Are you alright, sweetheart?" she asked. I'm not sure she even knew I was a StockBot.
"Yes," I said, standing up straight. I'm just fine. Thank you so much for visiting us today!" She smiled, grabbed her bags, and left. And then Corbyn, with a shit-eating grin on his rat-like little face, walked slowly past me and winked.
