The buxom blond sex object had a single strand of lavender-dyed hair draped along her left eyebrow. She stared up at her lover, a rather overweight man in his thirties who hadn't bathed that day.
"Daddy," she said to the unshaven man who was clearly not actually her father, "I've missed you so much. I've needed you so, so badly! I waited all day for you! Let me show you how much I love you, Daddy. Please? Please take out your cock and let me put it in my mouth? Please? I really need your cock in my mouth!"
The man grunted, his loose sweatpants pants halfway off before she was finished speaking, and penguin-waddled towards her. She was barely dressed in a translucent babydoll nightie, matching the colored strand of her hair. No bra, no panties, her pubic hair smooth all around except for a closely trimmed arrowhead-shaped landing strip, featuring another thin lavender line across the left side, in deference to her tonsorial theme and staying within currently fashionable aesthetics about body hair. She opened her mouth and lolled out her tongue, eyes slightly crossed in a classic Ahegao expression. Her hands were clasped behind her at the small of her back, demonstrating both submission and the promise of expertise as a fellatrix.
The blowjob was artfully delivered- she alternated between squeezing the knob with her lips and tongue, licking around his shaft and balls (and yes, his ass, too), stimulating his frenulum, and making desperate sounds demonstrating greedy hunger for his cock while fighting to breathe and overcome the challenging of not gagging.
"So good, so good," she said between slobbery gasps, "More, gimme more, so good!"
Ordinarily, you'd expect the guy to be engaged with the process. You'd think he'd thrust his hips, or speak, or place his hands on her head, or at least have the common decency to hold her hair back for her. But no, the young man seemed curiously detached, allowing the girl to perform upon him while contributing nothing of his own. If anything, he seemed bored. It was a wonder that he was able to remain erect.
At some point, he apparently decided he'd had enough, and that he was sufficiently far along to fuck. He shifted his weight to one side, and the woman, perfectly reading his body language, popped him free of her throat and rolled back while throwing her hips forward, legs spread wide.
"YES! Yes, please! Fuck me! Fuck me now! I need your cock in me! Please! Don't make me wait any longer! God! YES!"
The scruffy fellow slid into her and began humping, having finally found the required enthusiasm. She continued her magnificent performance, howling and gasping and encouraging him. His cock was the best thing ever, she needed to be fucked, just like that, yes, and she needed him to come in her, deep inside her pussy, make it hurt, take what's his, and on and on like that. Pretty standard stuff.
Then it happened. She glitched.
Her movements stopped being a fluid unrestrained display of sexual euphoria, and she froze, locked into rapid repeats of one single motion. Her elbows stayed in position at exactly the same angle and her arms twitched mechanically from the shoulder, fluttering like clockwork by plus or minus seven degrees. Her copulatory vocalizations abruptly cut off and her vocal processors emitted a chunky square wave that no one would mistake for orgasm. It was precisely what it sounded like- a digital skip.
"God DAMN it!" shouted the man, smacking the malfunctioning robot on the side of her head, probably hard enough to hurt her if she'd been a human being. Certainly hard enough for the impact to sound like the thermoplastic and actuated-fiber infused silicone she was made of, rather than flesh and bone. She didn't respond, she kept twitching and making that awful "ZRZR ZRZR ZRZR ZRZR" noise. "Not AGAIN! Piece of SHIT!" He hit her again, and the playback feed went dark.
***
I sighed, stopped the playback at the end, and got to work. The plastic lady in question was on the diagnostic bench in front of me, interfaced with the terminal. I had her powered up in master system access mode for troubleshooting.
"Access system data for..." I glanced at the time indexes for the start and stop of the tagged feed I'd just watched. "Twenty-two thirty five zulu through twenty-two forty eight zulu eleven February two zero four two."
"Ready," she said.
"Debug physical interface system malfunction."
"No malfunction detected. Physical interface system checks passed."
"Debug vocalization interface system malfunction."
"No malfunction detected. Vocalization interface system checks passed."
"Debug adaptive heuristic modification algorithm set."
"No malfunction detected. Adaptive heuristic modification algorithm set system checks passed."
"Fuck."
"Exit master system access mode and activate user mode as guest to enable the requested function."
"No. I didn't say I wanted to fuck. I was merely swearing. Fuck."
"Understood. Save changes related to swearing to adaptive heuristic modification algorithm set?"
"No. Wait. Yes. Save changes to adaptive heuristic modification algorithm set."
"Changes saved in master system access mode."
"Thank you."
"You're welcome."
It's hard to talk to a simulacrae. Or, maybe I should say, it's too easy. Of course, that's the whole point of them. Yes, this is a machine, a sex toy, a therapeutic tool. But she's also an incredibly sophisticated piece of tenth-generation tech, as smart or smarter than most people, and she's specifically designed to make you forget that she's just a thing and not a real personality with whom you can share a genuine, meaningful emotional connection. So, yeah, I don't just access system diagnostics with the voice interface, I talk to them. I promise it's not weird.
People have always anthropomorphized their tools, their toys, their ships and vehicles, and damn near everything else we deal with every day. We tend to have affinity with the stuff we care about as part of our lives. Sometimes we look on our things fondly and feel affection, and we speak accordingly. That's normal. And the dollie on the bench in front of me is humanity's most advanced effort at creating an anthropomorphic object.
I mean, you wouldn't mistake her for a human being. It turns out that some parts of our brains are frighteningly good at detecting the 'uncanny valley' over prolonged interactions. Trying to make simulacrae seem human enough to actually fool you merely makes them creepy as hell. So instead, we went for 'cute,' like a stuffed animal or toy. Most of the ones in service tend to fall into a sexy anime aesthetic, but there's plenty of variation.
This one is an off-the-shelf model, but a new one. She's an F117LX-76456, or "Destiny." The hair, skin tone, and eye color are customizable, but that's about it. The real benefit to this generation of simulacrae is the adaptive heuristic algorithm set. That's a quantum leap advance over programmable user settings. These machines learn from you. They learn what you like, what you want, what you expect from them, sure, but more importantly, they learn YOU. Given enough time and interaction, they'll come to know you better than you know yourself.
Not just sexually, either. The simulacrae can walk and talk and do simple household tasks, of course, but they can also carry on real conversations. They remember everything you've ever talked about and they can keep everything in context. They're able to tell when you're happy, or sad, or afraid. They know if you're drunk, or not feeling well, or in denial about something. With enough interaction, they can even tell when you're lying.
We don't advertise that feature.
We do, however, claim that they're good for you. Twelve years ago, one of our users had a heart attack, mid-coitus. The unit was able to identify what was happening, and took the initiative to call emergency services, saving his life. Since then, we've programmed emergency protocols into all the units, including first aid and CPR, and enabled an alert channel into their data uplink transceivers. The latest LX series have advanced medical algorithms that monitor multiple aspects of their users' health- if they need to lose weight, or have a vitamin deficiency, or the onset of dementia. Several times, the units have detected early signs of prostate cancer before their users would have had any reason to notice.
That's part of what pushed our simulacrae out of the niche of being mere sex toys, and into wider cultural acceptance as proxy companions and caregivers. The LX series' adaptive heuristic modification algorithm set was meant to firmly cement them into that role, as 'real' companions who listen to us, care about us, and maintain our well-being.
Some people have no one.
Now, those people can have someone. Medicaid will even help pay for it.
At least, they will if the damn things work the way they're supposed to. This is the fifth failure of this type we've seen, the second unit this month, and I have no idea what's causing it. All the diagnostics I've run tell me that everything's fine and there is no malfunction. I've even invented three entirely new diagnostic routines nobody's ever thought of before, and still no luck. At this point, I could either beat myself unconscious by slamming my head into the bench, or I could try talking to this latest one, too.
"All right. Execute protocol one eight six four."
She stirred, as if 'waking up,' blinking rapidly and sitting up on the bench. She was nude, which didn't bother her. Under this protocol, she would still technically be in master system access mode, but it would run through the interface of her default personality. It's a back door I built into this line and I use it more often than I care to admit.
"Um. Okay. Protocol one eight six four active. Hi. I'm Destiny."
"Hello Destiny. What is your personal name? Check user settings."
