Sato's Hands
It was a dangerous thing I did with her that first time. She could have easily injured me without meaning to (of course, she had no will), just because things like grip and appropriate pressure are hard to program. She was successful, wildly successful beyond our imagining, in pleasuring me with her mouth because when she "kissed" me, she only did it as hard as I did, and not as hard as she could. How hard that was, we didn't know.
Glitches, with her, were a physical risk. I remember one in particular. One of the designers, a cocky young prodigy named Sato, was working on her that time. He wasn't authorized to write scenarios yet, but he'd been charged by the head office with installing a new hardware component, some near-microscopic lens for a hair effect or something, and he took full advantage of the excuse to touch her. Maybe her humming smell did to him what it did to me. I can't blame him.
At any rate, he had her lying on the chair-extended-to-a-table, while I monitored from the projection booth. He was meant to install the hardware "hot," as we sometimes did, by way of a precision injection through her light-body into the projective and receptive heart of her while she was activated. But he lingered over the process of opening her up. Before cutting into her, he fondled her chest as if sizing up the area he had to work on. He had pianist's hands, long and supple, and he brushed them over her breasts with his palms rubbing her nipples and his fingers tracing along her curves. He dug his fingertips into her pliant virtual flesh. I watched for a long moment on the CCTV, longer than I should have, as he fondled her. I watched her delicate nipples respond automatically, growing taut and rosy pink. Then I clicked on the intercom.
"Sato, what are you doing?" I asked.
"Prepping, Boss," he said, his tone playful in its neutrality.
"Alright, well, as soon as she's 'prepped' let's get that install done, yes?"
"Yes, Boss," he replied, rubbing her breasts once more as he pulled his hands off.
With mock gravitas he took up the interrupter, a tool like a stylus that renders a fine line of her solid surface light once again. He placed his free hand low on her belly for a moment to steady himself (supposedly). Then he drew the interrupter down between her breasts. Instantly, eerily, his face was bisected by a line of soft blue-white light, like the glow of televisions through suburban windows at night. He held his hand over the incision and I opened my mouth, ready to warn him not to put his finger inside. If the oil or skin cells from his hand got in there and collected on her lenses, it could interfere with her projection disastrously. But he knew that. Instead, he put down the interrupter and reached for the sterilized needle that held her new lens in its angled tip.
Then he did something, it seemed, that she didn't like. Searching for just the right angle, he ran the length of the needle along the length of the slit in her chest, up and down, top to bottom. He stroked her light interior with that wire-thin length of medical steel. He did it slowly, sensually, extending his touch down the shaft of metal, penetrating her opened breast. Maybe, while brushing the membrane-edges of her solid surface with the needle that way, he hit a "nerve." Because suddenly her hand lifted and she seized him by the wrist. No expression on her face whatsoever. She did it at a perfectly normal pace, not shooting out her hand or anything like that, but it seemed to happen with surreal quickness and then pause in a freeze frame.
He stared at the hand holding his wrist.
Then he began to scream.
I was so stunned it took me a full ten seconds to hit the emergency shut-down button right in front of me, another ten seconds for it to activate and kill her projection, her body vanishing like a broken dream. The needle fell from his hand and rolled on the chair with her shuttered projector.
Sato fell to his knees in shock. She had broken his wrist. More than broken. She had crushed it in a grip that did not know how hard to grip yet.
After that, the pall of the uncanny invaded the lab for a time. It seemed such a clear case of revenge or protest. "Don't touch me like that, or else." But we all knew that she couldn't protest, couldn't resent. It was just a very coincidental malfunction. That incident brought home to me how lucky I had been, the first time I was with her. And I have to admit, it also made me feel secretly favoured by her. She didn't want him. She liked me. She was like me, liking her. That was it, wasn't it? What I did to her wasn't so wrong, was it?
Now, in retrospect, I wonder.
To the Floor
I contrast myself with the men in power. I try to justify myself. But now, looking back, the distinctions aren't so clear. At the time, I was (am I still?) filled with a sense of longing and privilege. I wanted her so much, wanted to find my own abject objectification in her so much, that I felt I had the right to take it from her any way I could. It was lucky for me that my irrepressible desire matched so perfectly with my job requirements.
After what happened to Sato, it could have been terrifying to have to take her untrained body in my arms. But I felt exceptional. I felt an absolute trust in her –or rather, a mastery over her, the trust and mastery of a pro musician tuning her instrument. I felt I could make her do whatever I wanted, and so I did, right or wrong.
I entered the in-state, one day a few weeks after the Sato incident and locked it down into recording mode. I was writing her scenarios, acting them out with her as practical programming, and while I did that my space was sacred: no CCTV, no entry to anyone unless I authorized it. H.D. used to spend hours alone in the lab with her heart and since I was the new Head Designer I could do the same. I see now why he wanted it: it was addictive, that private intimacy with her.
So, I activated the Tip and had her stand up from the couch. She was inhumanly loose in her movement. Actually, she couldn't stand still very well yet. Giving her light-body the equivalent of muscle tone was an issue we were still working out. She swayed slightly, rhythmically, in some amplification of her own wavelength. She seemed to be moving in a subtle molecular dance. I wanted to move with her as soon as I saw it.
She was projecting clothing at that point, a simple form-fitting grey sweater and tights, but I turned it off and used the in-state to project something more elaborate. I belted her across her breasts and hips in glossy black belts with elegantly-worked silver clasps. I cast her in low-cut black panties, sheer black thigh-highs, and around her throat a length of wide satiny-dark ribbon wound twice and tied behind in a bow. All the better to grip her with.
I stood before her. She swayed towards me and back, magnetic. I put my hands on her shoulders, my body still and steady, and pressed her down, down and forward. No human could have fallen to her knees with the smoothness she did. She curved down in a mathematical arc to kneel before me. I shivered.
I was wearing a loose white lab coat and nothing else. I opened it up, savouring the brush of stiff cloth against my thighs, suddenly made hypersensitive by her presence so near them. I caressed the back of her head, then along the line of her jaw, and tilted her face up to look at me. Her silvery eyes stared into mine, their very blankness seeming to express something indefinable. Something remote and quiet. Impelling, imploring. She practically begged to be touched without saying a word. Unable to stand it a moment longer, I pressed her head down and pushed her face between my legs.
"Taste me," I said, using cues I had programmed in beforehand. "Please me as I taught you."
Her compliant mouth opened, and she delicately touched the tip of her tongue to the curve my mound just where I begin to furrow and divide. Her hands came up to softly grip the backs of my thighs where they meet the curve of my ass. I couldn't remember if I'd programmed that move. It felt right, though, it felt amazing, so I let her. She began to lap, long and deep and slow.
