Robocock was holding me aloft, speared on its cocks, arms pinned above my head with my body flattened against the glass. Seeing myself in the mirror above the sink, I gave myself the impression of a butterfly in a collection, held in place and spread open wide to be viewed with detached curiosity. My long, slender legs were buckled at the knees. My lean, taut thighs quivered and trembled as the electric pulses ran through me from my cunt down to my curled toes. With my arms above me, I could see the outlines of my ribcage, my abdominal musculature framed against the triangle of my pelvis. The bruises on my ass and midriff were blossoming in mottled purple. My whole body above the knees was drawn taut. The stitches of pain releasing and coursing through me were like the fraying of string. I could see the half of my face pressed against the glass, my mouth open in a rictus of pleasure, my eyes large and glassy, like dolls eyes, my cheeks reduced from their full-bodied olive hue to a drained, ashen grey.
It was the smell that brought me back to myself, back into my body: the tang of urine mixed with musky, acrid sweat and the savoury, proteinous stench of semen. Back within myself, I relished the sensation of liquid moving within me as Robocock pumped me to the brim with hot spurts of cum. I could see long stringy globes of it dripping out of me onto the floor.
When it withdrew itself from me and released my arms, I crumpled fully, banging my knee hard against the ceramic rim housing the glass panel as I fell. I couldn't move any part of my body, but an occasional erotic twinge in my loins would bring me out of my dissociation long enough to convulse on the floor. The creature bent down over me and scooped some of the artificial semen emerging from my cunt onto its fingers. I couldn't see anything but the perforated metal panel over the drain a few inches from my head. A small hand appeared in my line of sight, offering the salvaged cum to me as you would offer a dog a treat. I had enough strength to open my mouth and receive it. The creature pressed its fingers deep into my mouth and let me suck them clean.
I KNOW WHAT YOU LIKE, JEFF.
I noticed that my ears were ringing. The wetroom seemed blanketed in a preternatural silence. The voice spoke to me soundlessly, merging with my inner monologue like an intrusive thought.
I KNOW WHAT YOU WANT ME TO DO TO YOU.
Robocock was fucking my mouth with one hand and now gently fingering my sore asshole with the other. As it slid a second and then a third finger into my ass, I could feel a thin stream of Richards cum emerging from me.
YOU'RE AN EXCELLENT TOY. SO FLEXIBLE AND YET SO DURABLE.
It was right. I did want everything that it was doing to me. Every position it had arranged my limbs into, each of the sexual possibilities the furniture of my small dorm room had afforded, every detail, down to the composition of the pool of bodily fluids pooling around my face (saliva, sweat, semen, both artificial and human, urine, blood, flecks of fecal matter) was a choreographed step of our insane dance. And we had choreographed it together, in my dreaming and its careful attention to my dreams. No lover I've had, before or since, has been such a good listener as Robocock was. It was the kind of lover you need to tell nothing to, for it already knows, already has anticipated your every passing whim and your deepest desire. How did I get here, splayed out on the floor, gagging on the fingers of an ex-boyfriend transformed into a meat-puppet by a sentient dildo?
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It really had begun innocently enough. Well, perhaps not that innocently. It was Valentine's Day. I was in Richard's flat, quite literally lying on a bed I had strewn with rose petals, wearing a LoveHoney French maid costume over my binder with the skirt hiked up as I idly rubbed the polished wooden handle of a feather duster over my clit. My clit. My overactive fucking clit. It had landed me, once again, in a sexualised pose of utter humiliation. My fucking clit--like those big red buttons that activate the nuclear bombs--was the kind of thing a certain sort of man liked to hover around and think about, maybe hesitantly run his finger over, but never ever, for fear of the consequences, actually press. Richard was late.
The whole thing had effectively been his idea. Perhaps not the French maid outfit (though I had gone through his internet history for inspiration). I wanted to surprise him. Do something special, you know? Something I knew he would like. He was going to break up with Maria on Valentines Day so we could finally end the sneaking around. He was a true romantic, of course. But, in truth, I was trying not to think about Maria at that moment. It's funny how, when you try to recall a moment in which you were deliberately putting something out of mind, it's always that thing you were trying to forget which comes back clearest.
Maria and I had been friends since we were, I suppose, six years old. All the way from Year 1 in the same state primary up to our 11+ exams, which we had studied for late into the night at her enormous townhouse in Mayfair. As far as memory goes in preserving that time, I can recall very little in terms of studying. Just us, together in our pajamas; giggling and making an absolute mess in the kitchen (What were we doing? Making slime?); and the sound of steps in the hallway, a light turning on; us, turning and looking at each other in horror; then breaking out into shrieks of laughter as we ran out into the massive shared garden, into the limitless night; a mental picture of us running in that night, an image frozen in that cool air.
Over the course of her childhood, Maria's father, Dante, had risen through the ranks of an apparently lucrative bottle service enterprise that I still suspect had ties to the Italian mob. Both of Maria's grandfathers had been drain layers, though her paternal grandfather had apparently nurtured an interest in renaissance literature.
Her parents and mine were very close. My mother referred to this alliance as the 'Foreign Office' of the school PTA. It was an old, wealthy C of E primary school and most of the non-British parents were rather cowed by Father Peter, but not our parents. Our parents were older, in their late 30s, and, so we had come to believe, wiser than the others. I suppose I never mentioned that I'm Romanian. Eastern Orthodox by religion, according to my mother. She had been a mathematician, she said, "back there," or, "in a past life."
