Xxxecil's 'the Restoc Fee'

**Note to readers - This story takes place in the same universe as Fleshware Requiem, but with more sex. **

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June 5th, 2053. Riverdale Plaza Shopping Center, Atlanta Georgia.

Jackson staggered panting into the polished-posh lobby of the Pygmalion cyber-industries local retailer. Shirt torn, knuckles on his right hand bruised and bloodied. He took a moment to calm the flow of adrenaline as he scanned the spacious room before him.

Walls, floors, everything screamed techno-neo-futuristic glitz. There were seams in the white marble floor flashing with electronic fluorescence in a attempt to portray the lobby as some sort of circuit board...

or robot?

Definitely robot, Jackson thought to himself, as he flexed his bloodied knuckles, eyes sharp as he surveyed the occupants.

There were two men in business-casual wear that screamed 'salesman', but they both seemed engaged in lengthy transactions with customers Jackson couldn't clearly see from the front entrance. Festooning the walls and corners were mirrorscreens that flashed and pulsed with adverts and gaudy enticements explaining the true nature of the products offered.

"... including a next-gen skeleton composed of our revolutionary Pneusteel alloy, designed with a nanoscale hollow-lattice structure engineered to yield a 30% increase in durability over human bone tissue, yet at the same weight." The camera panned over a honey-combed textured metallic shaft. "This technology reduces the frequency of major overhauls, saving YOU money on maintenance!" The spokes-voice cooed.

"Can I help you sir?" The receptionist's voice was as smooth and polished as her professional dress. Jeweled earrings fractured the light from the mirrorscreen extolling the virtues of pnuesteel.

"I need to... understand. About what you erhh... sell here. What you do here." Then he remembered his appearance; didn't want to come off as a psycho. "Uh... t-to buy one. Of course. I n-need to understand them. First." He recovered, nodding his sandy-haired head with a little too much enthusiasm.

The secretary's screens hovered above her desk, mostly columns of numbers, but also a photo of a hawk-nosed man with a buzz-cut. "I'd be glad to give you a complete tour, give me just a moment to close out these customer files." With a few clicks, most of the holographic screens blanked, as the secretary stood.

Tall, sculpted. Silky legs with no need for stockings flowing into black high heels. Jackson swallowed. Bronzed Hair in a neat interlaced updo bun. She'd mastered that sexy librarian-if-only-she'd-let-down-her-hair look.

"There are a great many misconceptions about the services offered by Pygmalion cyber-industries." She glided with liquid grace from behind her desk.

"But... you do have... I mean, it's all about sex, right?" Jackson ventured, moving to put his hand in his pockets, but stopped by the sting of his abrasions.

"Do you require First Aid, sir?" Her jade-green eyes glanced at his injured knuckles.

"N-no I... I just need to look at some Dolls." The Secretary paused appraisingly for a moment.

"Certainly, mister...?"

"Johnson, Jackson Johnson." He shrugged. "And me without any children." He quipped. She gave a brief giggle.

"Glad to meet you. My name is Athena, and I have an intimate familiarity with the specifics of our operation." Her heels clicked on the marble floor, yet she seemed to float towards the center of the lobby. "The truth about Companion robotics is that the potential lies far beyond the sexual dimensions. But," She raised a self-deprecating eyebrow."We're not blind. We know the use our Units will be put to. We count on it."

"So they can cook and clean when not in the bedroom?"

"And much more." Athena answered. Although, in Jackson's opinion, when promoters of some product said 'and much more', it usually meant there was no more. Athena breezed over towards the center of the waiting area, towards a metallic podium with two glowing screens.

"This panel allows prospective customers to-" That was when the door opened again. The man was an over-tanned, balding forest of chest-hair on the wrong side of fifty.

"Hey Miss Ay! Missy's 'ere for her check up!" His shirt was a touristy-travesty of palm trees, barely containing the blond riot of curls beneath. But when Jackson saw who the man was with - he knew.

It wasn't merely a figure that was too athletic to be so voluptuous, nor was it the cascade of purple hair that matched so perfectly her amethyst eyes. There was a constant, continuous seduction about her. And if Jackson could look at the man's companion and know immediately, it meant that he WANTED people to see. Wanted people to know.

"Please excuse me Mr. Johnson, this customer has a standing appointment. There are arrangements to make." Athena demurred.

"Uhm, no problem. I get it."

"The console over there can provide you with a great deal of information until I return." She pointed to the metallic podium. As she passed, there was a moment of gentle contact against his hand. She seemed so intelligent, friendly. A woman like her - she should have choices, credentials... suitors? Why would a nice girl like this work for Pygmalion? For that matter, why was HE considering doing business with them at all? Jackson flexed his bruised hand, and swallowed.

He had to know more. Had to understand.

Moving to the console, he tapped an activation button.

"Pyg-Mayl-eeeeeee-unnnnnn," crooned a canned voice. A holo-catalog. Jackson grunted, homework. He was never the bookish type, still it should be a painless task. Touching the directional pad, he gave an aw-shucks smile as -

Bridget Bardot, circa 1968 glided from an unmarked portal off to the northeast. Steam coiled around her iridescent bikini-clad figure as she sashayed past him with a smile... and a wink.

"Eh um... Hi."

"Bonjour monsieur, A handsome man like you should ask a sales associate about my Restock Fee." The famed, long-deceased actress said in a rolling French lilt.

"Uhh... " Jackson tried to speak. He also tried to pay attention to the console before him, yet found himself unwittingly captivated by the sensuous sway of her steamy body as she crossed the lobby with more grace than a ballet dancer exiting a hot shower from the Fountain of Youth.

She continued until reaching a circular indentation on the floor of the lobby about twenty feet from the receptions desk. Adopting a figure-flattering tilt of her hips, her blond hair casually slithered from a tight bun into a sunshine cascade around her shoulders. Then, cocking her head as though in contemplation, her straight hair curled itself of its own accord into bouncy waves of rolling gold.

As if on cue, the floor began to sink beneath her with a motorized whine, retracting the twentieth-century film icon into the depths of the facility.

Jackson had heard of this sort of thing, but had only half-believed it. Wow... the implications of it! Jackson ran a hand over his sharp chin as his imagination soared.

What other possibilities were there?

The catalog had thrown up a holographic image of a athletic young woman with a deep tan, red ponytail and a blonde forelock. Interesting... and the varieties were dizzying; according to the info page on the catalog, Pygmalion had different design studios, each with a different strategy. Something for everyone. Was it time to spend time with one? Talk to one of them at length?

Maybe do more than talk.

But that was hard to imagine... Jackson had never done it with... something like that. How real would it be? Could it be?

" ... Unit is equipped with the Dermanext Neoskin system." cooed a nearby mirrorscreen a little to his right. "A distributed intelligence meta-stable network of polymers beyond cutting edge... " In the background was a feminine voice crooning in some futuristically-hopeful aria, while computer-generated molecule clusters were overlaid upon young, bare skin. It reminded Jackson of a wrinkle-cream commercial.

"In fact, in 9 out of 10 surveys the burn victims for whom the system was originally designed report that Dermanext feels more human than the human skin they've lost!" Jackson frowned, contemplating. Did that make sense? He should experience it. He should learn more.

To the south of the console was a bench, and - oh... Mr. Chest-hair had made whatever arrangements he'd needed and was now sitting comfortably while he waited. Maybe it was time to get the real score from a satisfied customer.

Jackson sat down beside the man, half-watching the info-screens blaring their enticements from the polished walls.

"Hey uhm... does it ever bother you - ya know, being with something fake? A substitute for the real thing?" He swallowed, hoping he wasn't being too bold. The tanned guy raised a blond eyebrow.

"Ha! You kiddin' me mate?" He barked in a heavy Strine accent. "The 'real thing' cost me two alimonies and high blood pressure!" He made air-quotes with his fingers. "Like anything 'real' is somehow better? My Pa has a titanium hip; better than ever. What, should society hate him for not hobbling around on the original?"

Jackson made a shrugging motion. "Makes sense if he's sick but... not sure that's the same thing."

"No, better than the same thing, better than the real thing!" Chest-hair leaned back, relaxed.

"Huh, so I guess the sex is just that good? You never miss flesh and blood?"

"Well.... yeah, it is but," He cocked his head. "More than that, really. Sex is beyond belief sure mate, but then I woke up one day and realized that my little she-bot could do all the household chores, run errands, bedroom duties too... heh, and I could trust her completely. Total straight-shooter. God, I'd believe her before me own sis. She learns too, knows how to arrange me things. Each day she figures out new ways to sweeten the deal." His eyes, wistful. "Programmed for loyalty. Nothing beats it. Plus, there's this thing she does with her tongue..." He giggled in a private fantasy.

"But... it's not genuine." Jackson reflected. "You never think you should keep trying for that real connection?"

"I hear ya mate. You want something mutual. Totally up to you." He tapped a finger to his temple. "It's all in the mind, her mind. Which isn't. That's the thing about the Pygmalion brain; it's not one. The A.I. processes commands. That command might be - think like a human being and feel real emotions. Or calculate pi to 100 places, or... " he chuckled. "To believe that I'm a rock-star and she's my sluttiest groupie! But only on the weekends."

Jackson opened his mouth to speak, but closed it again.

"But yeah, I hear you. That's the Magic of A.I. on this level. They become what you want, what you need."

"Wow... it's just, so selfish." Jackson remarked, half to himself. Mr. Chest-hair seemed to bristle at that.

"Selfish? And me exes playing house just long enough to soak me in the divorce? What's that? Channeling Mother Theresa? Hah! If I could, I'd give the Pygmalion big cheese a kiss." That thought made Jackson bristle. The hairy Australian probably wasn't wrong, but he was so wrong.

"Besides, it's not just a boy's club - look over yonder, the left runway." As he gestured, a thumping, Chippendale beat boomed over the stereo system.

Horse-shoe shaped runways were erected at the back of the lobby, similar to those of the near-defunct fashion-modeling industry. Two prospective customers approached in apparent anticipation. One was a hunch-backed old biddy with a greedy gleam in her bespeckled eyes. The other, a mousy, brunette-ponytailed geek-girl that reeked of terminal shyness.

They came out in pairs: A pulse-pounding beat heralded the emergence of chiseled paragons of masculinity as spectacularly unlikely as the purple beauty that entered with the Australian.

"Get ready ladieeeees..." boomed a canned female announcer voice. Sounded suspiciously like Athena's. "Back by popular demannnnnd! Pygmalion Presents: The Chocolate Thunder 3.1!"

Ripplingly-muscled black body-builders clad only in fire-engine red Speedos, Spear-bald, strong jawed. They seemed to have just a hint of something Asian, despite their hot-cocoa complexions - probably to make them seem more exotic. Both were identical twins, striding confidently onto the stage before launching into a hip-swaying routine that would have put Elvis Presley's gyrations to shame.

"Can you handle it? Can you handle HIM?" The voice challenged the female customers.

The old woman actually licked her lips.

"Do you have bisexual tendencies, Mr. Johnson?" Athena wondered, suddenly showing up to his left. Jackson jumped, for more reasons than one.

"Wh - NO! Not that I... no. No. Just... no." She smiled warmly, a hand touched his shoulder.

"We have a WIDE range of options for the discriminating gentleman." She said with calculated emphasis.

"Gentleman... I wonder about that." Jackson wondered, brushing a strand of sandy hair from his eyes.

"You're asking yourself," Athena began, "what sort of man purchases a Pygmalion Unit?" She glanced at him sideways. "A man unwilling to leave the most important matters of his life to chance. You're a man willing to assert himself."

"Am I?" he tested with a wry grin.

"I certainly hope so. You strike me as the sort of man strong enough to seize what he wants; to chart your own path," She angled closer, her voice breathier. Her ample chest seemed on the verge of heaving. "Live life on your own terms, challenge tradition. Explore the full range of freedoms life has to offer."

"Huh." Jackson grunted.

"Quite." Her perfume smelled of lavender. She seemed to position herself to encourage him to glance at the tantalizing hints of an impressive bosom concealed by a white silk blouse. Then she withdrew suddenly, and Jackson found his eyes had been directed to the middle runway. "You might enjoy these featured female models; just a small part of our inventory.

"Gentlemennnnnn!"Boomed the spokes-voice. "This month is Import month at your friendly neighborhood Pygmalion dealer! Fresh, new... from the most sophisticated laboratories to your bedroom! We present for your consideration: The Odalisque 0.7!" The voice nearly shouted.

The women had complexions like bronze polished with olive oil. They were clad in a fluttering array of gauzy, multicolored veils that undulated like the Northern Auroras between sleekly-muscled thighs. Middle-Eastern love-slave vibe down pat.

"The Odalisque of history was a concubine of Ottoman Sultans schooled from a young age in the physical arts of male pleasure. Add her to your harem today! Financing available!" As a student of history; Jackson was skeptical, but accuracy wasn't what mattered here.

There was another pedestal near the stage, this one with a pair of odd glasses. Curious, Jackson examined them. They were equipped with a double lens; one that let in normal light; but with a smaller, bluish lens attached to the lower half.

He was unprepared for what happened upon donning them; they functioned almost as X-ray lenses. The normal periphery was unremarkable, but when looking through the blue lenses, he could see... machinery?

Yes, the love-slave women on stage; when the blue lens passed over them, Jackson could see iridescent bundles of contracting cables moving their limbs, some form of translucent gel underlying their skin, and various cables and conduits for both fluid, and faint pulses of energy.

In the place were a normal person would have a liver was an arrangement of pistons like a hyper-miniaturized version of an internal combustion engine. Cables linked techno-organ bundles inside of which were flickering digits of mechanized artifice.

There was something much like a heart and lungs in the chest, apparently controlled by some arcane arrangement of rapidly shunting valves. The head of course, glittered in the distinctive pattern of photonic-pulse circuitry that was in a lot of devices nowadays but... while Jackson wasn't any kind of engineer - he noticed something that piqued his curiosity: Yes, the brain had lots of very dense circuits, of course but - so did the pelvis. Inside the robot-girls' hips. It was like a second A.I., a sexual intelligence? Talk about thinking with the wrong head. He swiveled; much the same arrangement inside the Chocolate Thunders as the Odalisque's, but the Mandroids had far more contractile structures.

Well, back to the girls. He took off the glasses and replaced them on the stand. Not an engineer, no - but he appreciated, admired ingenious construction. Probably the closest man had come to making living works of art.

The four concubines slithered across the stage, veils coming alive. Each hip-thrust, pirouette, and leap was choreographed to cause their filmy garments to seemingly hug their bodies like the caress of a sparkled lover.

Jackson had heard that female units sold much better than males; perhaps that's why there were twice as many on stage as the Chocolate Thunders. The dance of the Odalisque's was not only across the stage, but also through the spectrum. As Jackson was drawn inexorably closer, he became convinced that the jet-black hair trailing behind the dancers was actually lightening. For two of them.

But, for the other pair - Jackson did a double take as one nimble unit slid between the legs of her sister, he was sure her skin was lightening! Color and movement blended into a dizzying arsenal of stimuli that left him mesmerized. There was some music playing; just as there had been for the Chocolate Thunders; but it didn't even register with Jackson's conscious mind, drawn inexorably closer to the spectacle.

Aware of their audience, they also oiled themselves. Smooth skin seemed to slicken slowly, but thoroughly. Until - as Jackson neared, all the dancers glistened with shimmering reflections of liquid light. Self-lubricating skin. Wow. Not skin - Dermanext, he reminded himself.

At the end of the astonishing journey, two of the girls sported creamy pale skin as pristine as Alpine snow, but with hair the color of Midnight. Yet their sisters became as black as African ebony glazed with dark chocolate, yet with sunny hair of gilded flax.

Jackson found himself gripping the edge of the stage, the Odalisque's having adapted their dance to center around their observers. On either side of Jackson were the interlaced legs of a black-blonde and white-brunette pair, entwined like lovers - yet their eyes communicated that a male intrusion would be most welcome. They even had the manners to pant with simulated exhaustion after their vigorous exertions.

"What the hell," purred Chest-hair. "I've been wantin' to get Missy a playmate. Travel a lot fer business. Can't always bring her. Give her some company."

"J-jealous?" Jackson squeaked, as the two Odalisque's began caressing his face with feather-light touches of seduction.

"Do you WANT me to be jealous?" The white-brunette challenged, as she licked her black-blonde partner on the cheek. The latter hooked her muscular leg around Jackson's shoulders to pull him in deeper. Oh God... the smell! It was as if they were sweating strawberries. Slowly, the Odalisque's began fading back to their Middle-eastern default complexions, but Jackson was boiling from within as they cooled down. Adding more fuel to the fire, the paler girl spread her legs, pushing her loin-cloth clad groin against Jackson's face. She... she wanted him to smell her sex! It was so primal; so pulse-pounding.

With a groan of yearning, Jackson buried his nose and face into the sculpted paradise of her inner thighs and willing sex. He was wrong before. Her cunt smelled of strawberries mingled with honeysuckle. Unable to stop himself, he began to inhale her floral musk in gulping gasps, her legs encircling his head as she made an animalistic purr that brought up the beast within him. Lightning bolts shot from his spine to his crotch, as his pants seemed to shrink several sizes.