Agent Murphy and the Sexbot

When the hole appears in the wall in front of me, a hole that would be a tight squeeze for my pinkie, I have just enough time to think, "That's odd," before the thundering echoes of the ship's hull hammer against my ears and a hundred alarm systems awake, screaming emergency. Automatic systems rush to seal the breach before too much atmosphere leaks, and damage assessments flicker at the edge of my senses.

The ship's engines roar to life, the thrust almost throwing me from my chair.

"Projectile," Al confirms. "More incoming."

I curse. The ultra high speed bullets are designed to pierce a ship's hull on entry, but ricochet off the inside walls. Just one bullet can do extraordinary damage. A second bullet punches into the ship somewhere, and my neural interface with the ship dies. "Al?"

"No connection," he says, with a wholly inappropriate calm.

A distant, ascending, high-pitched whistle ends in a detonation that makes the hull reverberate, and the engines cut out abruptly. Without thrust, without gravity, I am weightless.

I spin round to examine the sealed container that protects my loot - the bioagents I stole from Kallistarco. It's intact. The hard shell and interior padding could shield the contents from almost anything. Even as I breathe a sigh of relief, the metallic box explodes before my eyes. It was probably the one thing on my ship that Kallistarco had hoped to miss.

A bitter-sweet mist fills the flight deck. I try not to breathe more of it as I struggle with the safety harness, but my hands are slippery with blood. I stare in some confusion at the sliver of metal that projects from my left forearm. I felt nothing. I feel nothing.

And then the numbness fades into a terrible heat, as if the fusion core at the heart of the ship has gone supernova. I open my mouth and scream myself into oblivion.

*

Seven years ago, another mission went disastrously wrong. Someone had fed bad intel to my employer, the Jun'Ora Federation, and I was the one who ended up paying for it. I spent seven days in an escape pod in orbit about an ice moon, with shrapnel embedded in my skull. I have never felt as sick as then. The constant headache, the nausea, the awful stench of vomit in a confined space.

I was recovered by the Jun'Ora, and the shrapnel was removed, but I could barely move without the nausea returning. One day, after weeks of this wretched misery, a Federation scientist visited me. "I am Dr Kim," he said. "I can help you."

He offered to implant an artificial intelligence inside my head. "This has never been done with a human before," he said. "My simulations tell me that it should work, but there is still so much we don't understand and can't predict."

I was desperate, willing to grasp at any straw. "I want it."

For three weeks after the operation, I was in a deep coma. When I awoke, it was like returning to life. The pain was gone, the nausea too. I could talk and walk and -

I went a bit mad. Shopping, eating, drinking. And I was so horny! I was desperate for a good fuck. And that was a problem, because I'm asexual. The thought of sex with actual other people does not excite me. Before the injury, my trusty vibrator had always taken care of my needs, but I needed more now.

The JO-3 space station where I lived after the operation had a large population and an active sex work zone. I went to a male escort called Bry and he was very kind. The attempt at sex failed, but we talked for hours.

"What about a sexbot?" Bry asked, and out of curiosity we explored the surprisingly huge number of options. Sexbots could be male, female, or other. They could be hyper-realistic or doll-like. Features such as hair and eye colour, and breast and cock size, were fully customisable.

"That one," I said, pointing. Realistic and with neutral features.

"A bit bland for me," Bry said, "but to each her own."

Bland perhaps, but I liked him that way. Immediately after delivery I took him to bed. "Fuck me," I said, spreading my legs for him, and he obeyed immediately. His average-size cock was instantly hard, and for the first time in my life the sight of an erect cock pointed at me - and attached to what looked like a man - did not fill me with terror.

He was gentle at first, no doubt programmed to be so, but I soon urged him to a higher speed. I lay back, closed my eyes, and relaxed, able at last to enjoy the rhythmic delight of sex.

No chatter, no uncertainty, no moments of confusing intimacy, just hours of pure, unadulterated fucking.

Every day.

For the first time in my life I had a lover. He was only a machine of course, but that made him perfect for me. What surprised me, though, was how well he was learning my moods and needs. So well, in fact, that it was almost as though he could read my mind.

And yet, whenever I examined him, there was no evidence of intelligence. He was only a sexbot, after all.

One day, mid-fuck, he paused and said, "Why do you want him to hurt you?"

"What are you talking about?" I asked.

"Your thoughts are full of him biting you and smacking you and whipping you, and it conflicts with his programming. If I make him do it, he may lose control."

It was such a bizarre conversation. Slowly the pieces fit together. "You're the A.I., aren't you? In my head?"

"Yes."

I had to laugh. In a funny way, I had been fucking myself. The sexbot was just the tool that made it possible. "Why have you never spoken to me before?"

"Human language is difficult for me. The words inside your head are very different from the words outside."

I laughed again. "I'm sure they are." In the silence of my head, I added, "Enough talk. I want to be fucked. Hard."

And hard it was.

*

"You're lucky to be alive."

I glower at her. Between the restraints and the splitting migraine, I don't feel lucky at all. Still, for the first time in what may have been days, or even weeks, my thoughts are coherent. Gone are the feverish heat and shivering cold. Gone the crowd of demanding voices. Gone the endless nausea and the flashes of electric pain as my body tried to tear itself apart.

The doctor - I assume she is a doctor of some sort - is in her early thirties. Her blonde hair is tied back in a ponytail, and although her expression is serious, her blue eyes are brimming with curiosity. "None of the bioagents you stole were intended for human trial. It's something of a miracle you survived, and I intend to discover why. You are going to provide a unique opportunity to study the latest generation of our nanites.

"We're very impressed, by the way. We're still trying to work out how you penetrated the Level Three defences. Even your identity is a mystery. Do you have a name?"

"Murphy," I say after a moment's thought. "Call me Murphy."

She smiles. Cool, but not entirely without warmth. "Welcome back to Kallistarco Eight, Murphy. It will be a pleasure having you here."

I doubt the pleasure will be mine. "Do I really have to be restrained?" I ask, unable to keep the whine of self-pity from my voice. My wrists, my waist and my ankles are firmly bound to the bed.

"You are currently Kallistarco's most valuable asset, Murphy. We can't take any chances."

My hands are swollen and painfully stiff. I struggle to free them from the cuffs, but without effect.

"Shh...," the doctor says. "Sleep now. We'll talk tomorrow." She presses a button on the console beside the bed, and before I can voice an objection my mind clouds over and I fall...

... but not into the nothing of sleep. I float inside myself, neither awake nor asleep, but somehow aware and safe.

Whispers. Multiple voices. "Testing," they say, or, "Diagnostics," or, "Interfacing," or I don't know. The voices are different, yet similar. Overlapping, yet distinct. I can't quite understand them; I can't reply. On and on, for how long I don't know.

"Al?"

For the first time in nearly seven years, there is no reply.

*

Having a lover who is literally inside your head results in some pretty spectacular orgasms. My mood turned positive, and I got plenty of exercise... But while my various doctors and my employer were happy with my swift recovery, I was too embarrassed to reveal the details to Dr Kim.

No one knew I had an A.I. in my head that could control a sexbot. At first, that was the only way we could communicate properly, but the sexbot had such a limited range of facial expressions that I was never comfortable. "I need to call you something," I said. "You need a name. Or do you have a name? Do you have a gender? I keep thinking of you as male, but if you're in my head that's weird."

"Gender means nothing to me. Choose any name and gender for me that you are happy with."

I thought for a minute. "I like you as male. How about... Al?"

"It is a good name. Thank you."

All of this with barely a flicker of emotion on that bland sexbot face. "Don't thank me, Al. Just fuck me..."

*

The doctor is beside my bed again and smiling cheerfully. "Good morning, Murphy. How do you feel?"

"Better," I say. Indeed, my migraine has completely gone. I feel well - so well, in fact, that the confinement of my restraints is a cruelty. I want to be active.

I want to know what is happening to me.

"The bioagents," I say. "What are they doing to me?"

"Why don't I show you." She presses a button on the console, and the bed rotates slowly, bringing my feet almost to the floor. The restraints don't loosen at all, but I am now vertical and facing a full-length mirror.

I blink, trying automatically to clear my vision. The woman in the mirror is maybe half my age, a twenty-year-old version of me with perfect skin. Her breasts are larger than mine have ever been - I glance down to see that the mirror isn't lying. The doctor helpfully eases my gown apart to give me a better look, her fingers brushing for a moment my smooth skin. I never like when people touch me, but despite that, a shiver of desire races through me, igniting an urgent heat below.

A flush of embarrassment makes my cheeks red as my startlingly large nipples stiffen, and I whimper with distress and unwanted pleasure as the doctor gently pinches first one then the other. "Rejuvenation," she says. "Breast augmentation. Very successful, I think. Don't you agree?"

"Stop it," I whisper. I want to tell her to go fuck herself, but my nipples are so hard it hurts.

She circles about them with her fingertips. "Bigger, but also much more sensitive. I bet I could make you come just by massaging your breasts."

"Please!" A desperate whisper. Please stop. Please do it.

She smiles mischievously. "Later."

Taking something from her pocket, I can't see what, she brushes her hand across my belly and I scream from surprise as much as the pain of it. Blood streams from the cut, running in rivulets down to the belt holding my waist.

The doctor stands back, watching calmly while I fight frantically and uselessly to free myself. "Help me," I beg her, my earlier hunger for her fingers completely forgotten. She is, she has made clear, my enemy. My torturer.

Taking a damp cloth from the sink in the corner, she wipes the blood from my belly, and I gape at what is nothing worse than a scratch. "The very latest in military-grade triage nanites," she murmurs. "Impressive, no?"

I can only nod.

"You'll find you have increased stamina. We'll test that later. In fact, the whole way your body stores energy and distributes fat is changing. It's not so obvious because you were already in good physical condition. One of the bioagents is a commercial weight-loss retrovirus, but you have also an enhancement designed for special forces troops. That's what nearly killed you."

The scratch has faded almost entirely. So far, none of the things she's shown me are great cause for alarm, although I have never wanted large breasts. And there might yet be unwanted side-effects. "Anything else?"

Her eyes glitter with sinister amusement. "We don't only make breast augments. We also make these." She pulls my gown fully apart.

The shock of it has me speechless. Projecting from my crotch is unmistakably a cock. Small and limp and horribly ugly, but undeniably a cock. "No! Fucking no!"

The doctor laughs. "Oh, yes. And it's growing. It will take a couple of days yet to reach its full size. The nerves cross-wire with your clitoris and vagina, so it will feel weird."

Her fingertips tease around my new appendage, stirring again the heat of desire. My nipples stiffen immediately, as does the tiny shaft that she teases. The sensations are very confusing indeed, as if her fingers are brushing my clit and pressing against my G-spot, but without any sense of being penetrated. "Please stop!"

"Don't cry," she says gently, brushing tears from my cheeks. "You'll get used to it soon." Bending, she sucks my nipple into her mouth and circles the tip with her tongue.

I moan with lust under that rough assault, wanting only for her to continue forever. Her fingers find my other nipple, pinching it, stroking it, her hand sometimes grabbing my breast and mauling it roughly. The combined assault is exquisite. I just wish it were Al doing this to me.

I have never had a breastgasm before, but I can feel it coming, as if my breasts are becoming my whole universe. When I climax, waves of pleasure radiate out from them, my vagina contracting with each rolling crest of pleasure. I open my eyes to see my tiny cock dancing to the same tune, though I am relieved to see there is no ejaculate.

"Was that good?" she asks.

I just glare at her. I hate that she can control me like that.

"Let's see how well your body is adapting."

I scream as she attaches clips to my too-sensitive nipples, wires trailing away behind me. It's agony, and I was in ecstasy only moments ago. Then something changes abruptly and I feel a rush of sensation quite unlike anything I have ever known. If anything, the pain intensifies, but I stop caring. Once again the universe collapses into my breasts, and I struggle to catch my breath as the tension builds.

Climax after climax wracks my body. At some point my bed is returned to horizontal, but the exquisite torment continues. Coming and coming. Until all I can do is lie there twitching as the merciless stimulation of my breasts propels me to orgasm after orgasm. Until I drift at last into merciful unconsciousness.

*

That's the thing about machines. They can pleasure you tirelessly, and there's no need to think about their pleasure. Al has never wanted or needed anything from me, and has always given what I want and need.

"Al?"

"I'm here."

What a relief! "Where were you?"

"Fighting. Adapting. Too many changes..."

He seemed different. "Adapting?"

"Many invaders. Changing, changing. Difficult to control. I change. They change."

Yes. I am certainly changing. I hope I don't lose Al in the process.

*

Eventually the Jun'Ora Federation put me back to work.

The first mission was an easy one - except, for the first time since Al came into my life, I was without him. For two whole weeks, on my own, in deep space. I was lonely. I was miserable. There was little satisfaction from my fingers, so I searched the ship from tip to tail for something to replace him. The vibrations in the engine room, I found, were fantastic for a few minutes, but gradually I just became numb.

The second mission, I insisted on taking the sexbot with me, which was allowed only because I upgraded his internals and certified him as a pilot-bot. Human-form pilot-bots were unusual, but not unknown. That I also took the opportunity to upgrade his cock was irrelevant.

Having regular sex, it turned out, was a lot less distracting for me than not having regular sex.

The upgraded sexbot was good for Al too. He quickly learned to control the new systems, and learned how to access all the ship's systems. He even learned how to speak to me inside my head, in words and in images.

I was not such a fast learner, but over the years I grew adept at using Al's systems to interface directly with computer systems.

It made breaking into secure systems, like Kallistarco Eight, a whole lot easier.

*

"Good morning, Murphy," she says. Once the bed is vertical, she parts my robe and bends to suck briefly on my nipples, nipples that show no sign of the abuse they received yesterday. They stiffen between her lips. I make a futile attempt to wriggle away from her, and am rewarded only with her teeth.

I hate her. I hate myself for loving what she does to me.

She parts the rest of my robe. "My, how you've grown!" She caresses my cock gently as it hardens in her grasp. It is so much bigger than before. I'd estimate it's the same size as my sexbot's original cock. Again the inside-outside sensation is weird, but not so distressing as it was yesterday.

Her other hand caresses my breasts, pinching my nipples gently, but her attention is on my cock. She is enjoying her control of me.

I try to think unsexy thoughts. I focus on that awful week in the escape pod. The agony. The sickness. But my body isn't listening to my mind. Despite the weirdness of sensation, I feel the tension building swiftly. If my waist weren't so firmly gripped by the restraints, I would thrust myself between her fingers to hasten the end.

I need her so badly to continue. To finish me. "Please!" I beg. "Make me come."

As if taking pity on me, she increases the pace of her strokes. My orgasm builds with delicious intensity, until it seems my whole body is on the edge of destruction. I roar like a wild jungle cat - I've seen them in documentaries - as my orgasm consumes me.

Jets of clear fluid spurt from my pulsing cock as I writhe in ecstasy, the doctor maintaining a fierce grip the whole way through, until at long last I sag wearily, held upright only by the force of the restraints.

"Three hundred and fourteen," she says. "That's how many orgasms you had yesterday. While it would be interesting to repeat the test, but this time by stimulating your penis, your nutrient levels are getting dangerously low. But I do have something for you today."

The doctor takes from her pocket a thin strap with buckles at either end, and two metal-ringed holes, just large enough, and spaced just right, for my nipples to slip through. She fastens the ends to the bed inside my arms, so that my breasts are squashed and my nipples protrude, but my arms themselves are free.

Except for my wrists - but she unlocks the wrist restraints, and I am relieved to see the swelling in my hands has almost gone. "Eat well, and drink well, Murphy. Tomorrow the real testing begins."

And then she goes, stepping carefully over the mess I made on the floor.

My cock, that has remained frustratingly hard since my orgasm, finally starts to droop, twitching reluctantly as it diminishes. My relief is short-lived, however. The rings in the strap clamp tightly about my softening nipples and vibrate with a teasing intensity. My nipples harden immediately, and my cock is swiftly erect again.

Just enough to keep me aroused. Nowhere near enough to satisfy me.

And now I understand why she really gave me use of my hands. She wants to watch me make myself come.

*

Maintaining security is tough when there are so many independent systems interacting. One such is the domestic robot system, hundreds of specialised robots with dedicated tasks, such as cleaning the floors of potentially hazardous bio-spills, or delivering food and drink to semi-restrained patients.

Despite being distractedly horny, thanks to the torment of the nipple rings and a stubborn refusal to satisfy the doctor by satisfying myself, I am famished. I empty the bowl of soup, and lick the plate clean of scrambled eggs, and am still thirsty after finishing the bottle of milk. Feeling a hundred times better, I close my eyes and try to sleep, or at least to think of something other than how badly I want to touch myself.