Golden Apple

GOLDEN APPLE

"I'm okay," Todd Harkin muttered under his breath. "No one knows... no one will find out... where I've been. Secret's safe." He silently breathed, an orb of the nearby Christmas Tree casting his balding visage in convex relief as he finally allowed himself to relax, sinking into a recliner beside the crackling warmth of the holo-hearth, allowing the festive, family-oriented, furor of his kids at play to wash over him, inundating Harkin with eggnog-flavored Southern comfort topped off with a mistletoe surprise.

His sons, nine and ten - they seemed to be arguing over the new wrist-top computers he'd bought them. Heh, kids. Two gifts - both completely identical yet they still found something worth arguing about. Well, was he much different at that age? He wondered, with a wry twist of his lips?

No worries, Todd... he thought to himself. His shit was together. And not where he ate, either - as the old expression went. He really should try to relax more. Ohhh.... smell that - Christmas Turkey well on its way to popping out the meat thermometer. Just let the warmth... the comfort... the love wash over him.

"NOOOO!!!! I WANT THAT ONE! I'M OLDESSSSSST!!" Snarled Ten, as he struggled with Nine over the small, squarish digital gadget.

"So young..." Todd mused ruefully. "They're both the SAME!" he chuckled, loud enough to be heard.

"Wannnnnt this one!" Insisted Ten, punctuating his preference with an elbow to his brother's ribs.

Rousing himself with a grunt, Todd Harkin strolled past the crinkly terrain of glittering wrapping paper to the source of the conflict.

"Hey guys it's not-" but then he saw the screen. The holo-image projected by the wrist-top computer....

A naked Asian woman with blue hair was moaning as a stubbly, male face slurped with almost musical rhythm at the lurid folds between her writhing legs. Shuddering in her ecstasy, the indecent woman arched her spine back upon a four-post bed, whereupon the man kissed his way up from between her legs to begin a suckling onslaught upon her perky, apple-sized breasts...

A man with Todd's face!

"WHAT THE HELLL!!!" Couldn't be! Just couldn't be!!! If Mildred saw this...

"Well Clap, Clap, Mr. Christmas!" Snarled his frumpy wife in a voice like ground glass from behind him...

January 4th, 2060. Golden Apple Pleasure-Palace, North Las Vegas Boulevard.

"Do we know which one?" Tyler Graves asked as he barged into the flickering near-twilight of the control room. It was not only the question itself that mattered; a new Regional Vice President for Pygmalion Cyber-Industries had to portray a proactive first impression.

A pale troglodyte of a technician whirled in his chair, cigarette tumbling from his rust-bearded mouth.

"Ohh... Corporate Guy." Troglodyte drawled. Graves didn't dignify the obvious. Press ahead, get the facts.

"Is that her?" Graves pointed to a floating holo-screen hovering above Troglodyte's left shoulder.

The floating projection was a live feed of a bed room, ant-like figures resolved into a writhing couple as Graves strode closer.

A tall girl; robust and sculpted. Her face had a chiseled severity, contrasting with eyes that seemed too wide, innocent, expressive for her obvious profession.

But there was nothing innocent about what she was doing. Moist blue hair long enough to reach her shoulder blades coiled like a lover around her face, even as a more literal lover wrapped around her body... if love was the right word. A swarthy pelvis rammed into the girl from behind... on hands and knees. But that was wrong. She wasn't actually a girl...

She wasn't actually human.

Graves backed away from the floating projection as the Technician started to speak.

"Well... you're here about the footage, you won't find Jessie on it; that's the point - she's trying to cover her tracks; at least she WAS covering them... these units; they can be cagey." The Technician gestured with his bearded chin.

"Jessie; her unit name?" Graves rubbed his chin. "Any known anomalies on the production side?"

Troglodyte chewed his lip. "Jessie, short for Jezebel... like all our uh... units... she's a Charybdis 2.0, Incidence number 00905. In terms of her machinery, she works like a dream," his voice trailed off." ‘Charybdis…’ Graves thought. A female sea-monster that devours men... by the dozens...

"Let's try to hold off on the pronouns;" Graves pursed his lips. "These aren't women, Doll-tech allows human replicants; but these are A.I. gynoids built to service human needs. They're a product, not people."

"Didn't think I'd hear that from a Suit who cut his teeth on the Companion robot side o' things." Troglodyte frowned.

"I don't use them myself, my decisions require detachment."

"Ha! Met your type before; won't last five minutes in this place before-"

"The Production line?" Graves interrupted.

"With A.I. gynoids; only real issue is that A.I. itself. Not everybody was comfortable putting a Turing-level One artificial intelligence into a whore-bot." The pasty-faced technician made a warding-off gesture.

"Let me guess; some Johns just want to talk." Graves assumed with a raised eyebrow. Not that much talking was going on presently. Graves was close enough to an audio speaker to pick up ragged screams of ecstasy, Jezebel's no less enthusiastic.

"Sure, that's part of the reason. Aware of themselves, so they can be aware of the client's needs. Better customer satisfaction; but there are other benefits." He began tapping at some keys. "Here, you need to see this."

Another holo-screen. A floating projection of a blue-print. A boxy device apparently connecting to a plumbing system.

"What is that? Some... air conditioning system? What's that got to do with anything?" Graves wondered, craning his neck.

"Them." Troglodyte waved at the screen where Jezebel Oh-Five was rippling her pelvis with liquid agility against the thrusts of her latest client. "The girls... the - Units invented it."

"Seriously?" If Graves wore glasses, he would have removed them to scrutinize the screen from a different angle. "That sort of inventiveness isn't supposed to be possible for units without a Maturity Index of at least-"

"It's a group thing. Twenty girls...erhh... gynoids... sharing data, online searches... after hours, between clients. One evening before Opening time they show up at the Manager's office and present all this stuff like a bunch'a scientists at some fancy-pants conference!" Troglodyte tech was almost spitting with enthusiasm.

Graves' heart began to beat faster.

"Why?"

"Well, this configuration makes it more cost-effective to heat the Pleasure Palace at some temperature which they've calculated to ... well... make clients hornier."

Graves silently conceded a perverse logic to the notion.

"Same with the lighting in the lobby; if you came in that way." Troglodyte shook his head. "I almost got chills when Jessie sashayed in and explained to me how that precise level of illumination - 'Will more reliably stimulate thoughts of copulation in human males.' - He made a gross mimicry of a woman's sultry alto.

Graves turned away from the technician, running a hand through his slickened auburn hair. The control room twilight cast a hard shadow along the sharp crease between his eyebrows.

"The preliminary reports led me to believe that The Incident was a clear-cut case of robots too smart for their own good." Or ours, Graves amended silently. On his own, he found a console that put up screens allowing him to cycle through the gynoid staff of the Pleasure Palace. Platinum blond. A girl with... a unit with coffee skin, and Rapper's Girlfriend hips. An Asian with apple-sized breasts. But their eyes were always blue. A deep, bluer than blue. Model standard.

"Nothing's that clear cut with A.I. on this level." Pasty-faced technician warned. "You wouldn't be here if the Liability the company faces wasn't serious," The tech waggled a finger. "But we need a deft touch to unravel this.”

"The Dolls want us to be profitable. To succeed. They're robots built for this exact purpose; so they don't have homes or lives outside the Brothel; this is their mission. Their world. They've dedicated themselves to improving it."

"Be all you can be." Graves muttered, half-disbelieving.

"If we've done our jobs," The Technician fingered his ID badge labeling him as a Pygmalion Cyber-Industries Level-7 Mindware engineer. "They'll want to do theirs. Remember all that uproar in the early days? People worried about how you control an A.I., how do you make it do what you want it to do?"

"That's easy. It's all in the design." Graves answered. Continuing to scroll through the roster.

"Sure, a search-and-rescue robot is obsessed with scouring remote countryside for stranded people. A Nuke reactor-bot finds nothing more beautiful than carbon-control rods. And ours..."

"Still worry me," Graves interjected.

Troglodyte threw up his arms. "Hey, up until The Incident, we had no warning. The Units seemed totally content. When men weren't screwing them in every orifice, they were plotting ways to make it easier and more profitable for men to screw them in every orifice.

"I monitor their wireless IDEE, always sharing ideas with each other - sometimes with clients mid-session!"

"Let's boost the audio," Graves decided, turning up the appropriate dial.

"Can't decide..." thundered the gravely-voiced John. "If ah wanna cum... in yer pussy... or yer ASSSSS!!!!" He roared as he pumped her savagely; her creamy flesh dimpling where the man's swarthy fingers death-gripped her wide hips.

"Choices, choices..." Jezebel cooed; eyes squeezed shut, throat-tendons clenched. (It was a fibrous actuator system, but corresponding to all human muscle and connective tissue groups) Indeed, the client's thrustings were indecisive: He was buried in the fembot's moist vagina, but every five strokes or so, he was driven to extricate his rampant member, and thrust it deep into her rectum. Then, unable to decide which orifice he preferred, he removed himself again, returning to the wet lips guarding her womb. The cycle repeated twice more. Graves knew from the technical specs that EVERY opening had self-lubricating functionality. And no danger. Nothing un-hygienic. That was the whole point of robotic sex-workers.

Jezebel's long-fingered hands clenched the white sheets beneath her, teeth bared in a rictus of explosive ecstasy. There was even a thin dribble of synthetic saliva escaping her lips, as the pleasure lightning-bolted through her. Graves didn't need a Mindware technician to tell him that no one was faking anything. Her skin was a synthetic silicone nanotech composite, but her orgasms were all too real.

"I wanna see her Active Processes." He ordered. Troglodyte flicked some keys.

"There, see that red-bar? The one that's going off the scale?" Flickering columns of rapidly changing numbers and quivering bar-graphs filled a screen projected near Graves' elbow. He wasn't an engineer, but the meaning was clear.

"Pleasure-Reward Incentive Differential. Glad she's enjoying herself." Graves muttered unconvincingly, forgetting his anti-pronoun injunction.

"We always had confidence in our Brothel system;" The tech admitted. "I mean, in human terms - they enjoy the sex more than the men do! Appearance, age, don't matter. The bots outta be paying the guys for the privilege!"

"Not a winning business model for us." Nonetheless, Graves found that there was something to envy in regards to a perfectly-programmed A.I.; total clarity of purpose. He bit his lip, contemplating. Jezebel Oh-Five and her sisters exist with absolute certainty of their worth and place in the world. These were not lost, deluded teenage girls lured to the wrong side of the tracks by a Lie glazed with Glamour; they were what they were. And accepted it completely.

For now, Jezebel's rectum was the winner, and recipient of a sticky prize. The lurid fembot buried her face in the bed to barely muffle a howl of un-robotic ecstasy. Her John moaned as he tumbled away from her.

"Never... my wife never... she never..." It didn't take a Turing Level One A.I. to complete that sentence.

Jezebel rose, clutching her stupendous breasts to her chest as she raised her head to the ceiling, savoring the encounter, as Swarthy-John slipped out the side door.

So what was the real problem?

An unforeseen mechanical glitch perhaps? Graves focused his attention on the projected screen as the nude fembot prepared herself for the next client. She arched her spine as she luxuriated in a job well done. Tall. Taller than most men. Graves understood the design rationale. Women wanted taller men; a primal impulse... better protector, provider. Making it harder on short guys. With the Charybdis series, designing them with greater stature would reinforce a man's feeling of conquest. Enhances the ego-trip from plundering the feminine terrain of her firm yet voluptuous splendor. At least, focus-testing had indicated that advantage with their targeted demographic. Graves could feel it himself; a pulse-pounding hormonal goading from his own bestial nature - there was a thrilling sense of cheating the laws of sex itself at the prospect of passing his seed into such a seemingly superior female... And he was an exec. Wouldn't even have to pay. Perfectly reasonable to sample the wares.

No, Tyler. Not what he was here for. Detachment, remember?

An illusion. A living lie. Pygmalion's stock in trade.

There was a crackling, electric-current sound, like exploding air-pockets. Puffs of steam wafted off Jezebel's skin. Then, bright blue alpha-numeric text wrote itself on her skin, flickering too fast for the human eye to read unaided.

With a final steamy hiss and puff, the display stabilized:

STERILIZATION SEQUENCE COMPLETE: said her thigh in blue-glowing text as though her skin were a screen. 99.99832% said a scrawl across her Venus mound. Looking closely, Graves could see a ghost-faint tracery of circuitry flashing in a robotic moment upon her glistening skin. She opened her eyes; they glowed stoplight red, then plasma blue before fading back to human. But with irises of that bluer than blue typical of the Charybdis 2.0 production line. “Main mechanical advantage of a Charybdis; most comprehensive active hygienic sterilization system ever made,” Trogylodyte explained. “You could eat off her now; some clients do.” "Ready for number eighteen," Jezebel announced, looking at the camera. How much did this unit know about who was watching? Graves doubted that this entity would be scandalized if her liaisons were plastered across a Times Square Jumbotron.

Total acceptance.

So why did this sexbot betray one of her best clients in a way certain to prompt an investigation?

Then there were the structural revisions to increase the comfort levels of the men that fucked them. A captive doesn't aid their captors. A slave smarter than her masters doesn't make it easier for them to subjugate her. Unless his whole grasp of the situation was wrong. Graves tapped his fingers on a console.

He needed perspective. More understanding. Perhaps he shouldn't accept the impressions of this one observer, this one technician without delving into the matter himself. He needed to form his own, unbiased conclusions.

"Archival footage." The young exec decided. Troglodyte raised his eyebrows. "I want recordings available of at least fifty of her encounters, I've had a long flight - jet lag and all that. We'll talk more later."

The Level Seven technician opened up a window where he dragged digital avatars of file-folders into another file folder, prepped for email.

"You should get all the juicy details on yer wristtop. Enjoy it!" He chortled.

But it wasn't about pleasure... this was business to Graves. His career.

The door to the exclusive VIP suite slid open at the behest of Graves' Pygmalion ID, and he set down his briefcase, preparing to take in a glittering view of the Vegas skyline, not to mention the two negligee-clad women posturing themselves on the bed awaiting his arrival. And... oh... boy...

His heart throbbed, among other organs. He had totally forgotten; he was an exec now...

"My name is Messalina," said a Pale girl to his left.

"And I'm Julia," said the Chocolate-skinned Doll to his right.

"We've been removed from our normal duties and assigned for your exclusive use, Mr. Graves." The white fembot calling herself Messalina declared.

"Assigned for your Pleasure." Black-Julia emphasized the word with potent innuendo.

When Graves first arrived; he figured the problem would entail some minor, authorization issue. There should have been some straightforward solution involving someone with exec-level clearance giving permission to mothball a particular number of units, or approving some mindware upgrade that would make everything right as rain again. But the more he thought about it, the more certain he was that the real issue was multi-faceted. The whores were probably smarter than half of their Johns, was that the problem, or an opportunity? Did Jezebel and her Product Line secretly seethe against their lot in life, forced to spread their legs for lackwit humans with more cash than sense? Did they yearn for a more storied existence allowing them to use their complex intellects?

Unless they already were, in ways more ingenious than Level Seven down there had guessed.

On the elevator ride to the VIP suite he was entitled to; Tyler Graves remembered watching a TV expose` on how a lot of popular magic tricks were performed. Ruined it for him. Never the same after that. Not that he had high expectations for an elevator ride; the normally pleasant blather of the background music seemed punctuated with feminine groans and coos of delight. He realized with a flash that... probably everything in here had been redesigned based on an ingenious robotic proposal - no doubt intended to give him a stiffy just by standing here. Had he not been told of their extra-curricular activities; it might have worked. But now; it rather unnerved him. Wouldn't surprise him a bit if all the faucets in this place had knobs shaped like boobs. Focus, Tyler. There were still serious questions: The Tech had focused his investigation on Jezebel Oh-Five, but it remained to be seen if she was the... ringleader? First step: try to rule her out. If he could. Prequel movie to the First step: get some rest. Alone in his suite. Make a few calls. Go over the recordings. Work out a plan to interview the other units. For now, veg out for a bit.

"We are your Executive privilege! We will regard you as our Master for the duration of your investigation." Both somewhat different from Jezebel, they had the blue hair common to their product line, but Messalina had a blond forelock, just as Julia has a black shock of hair draping her smooth face. That face was heart-shaped, intelligent eyes and pouty lips. Messalina's face was an aquiline affair with wing-like eyebrows above kissilicious lips with sharp dimples. Graves was about to speak, but closed his mouth instead. Tired, but he recognized this as an opportunity - in more ways than one. The setup was as pricey as you'd expect for an elite operation; they'd even sprung for meta-stable fabrics for the girl-units' spaghetti-string negligee, the flimsy veils seemingly made of corraled liquid. Messalina's in black, Julia's in white.

"Biometrics indicate you are not pleased to see us," Messalina noted. "You may be fatigued."

"We have already taken the liberty of preparing your dinner at the Kitchen bar." Julia said. Gynoid-prepared meals exhibited absolute precision, but little variation. But hey, that worked for a lot of guys.

"We've also drawn you a bath." Said Messalina. In a room like this, it would be a swanky, marble Jacuzzi.

"Unless you'd rather WE used the bath?" Julia tilted her hips with a sultry sway. Their voices...both an identical breathy coo like a dove raping an angel. Instantly detectable to any Pygmalion veteran; the apparent Ethnic flavors mere window dressing.

"What if there were no 'Executive Privilege'?" I asked, meeting each of them in their bluer-than-blue eyes.

"Sir?" Messalina wondered.

"What if I didn't give you orders?" For Turing Level-One's, diagnostics meant more than a readout on a holoscreen. Mind-games for Mindware.

The Dolls glanced at each other. "He wants us to use our imaginations..." Julia purred. Messalina stood and stalked towards Graves, in that patented sashay neurobiologically engineered to stimulate a primal part of the male brain. She was marginally taller than Graves; more of a classic supermodel's build, but chestier than most runways would allow.

"I love it when a man pins me down from behind, and takes me up the ass." Messalina spoke with curled lips. Her airy fembot accent made it sound almost classy.

"I want to make you cum between my breasts; To see the contrast on my skin." Claimed Julia.

Indirect, evasive. But a robopsychologist can glean information from almost any answer. But did they have rebellious tendencies? He swallowed, backing away.

"But... are you... happy?"

"It's your happiness I think about. But I should warn you..." Graves raised an eyebrow as the white fembot continued.

"Julia's customer satisfaction surveys have surpassed mine in the area of fellatio;" The black fembot licked her lips in response. "But I'm always learning; always adapting." Graves pursed his lips. Adapting...Always... Competition. Companion models engaged in similar behavior. Rivalry for the cum-drenched crown of sexiest sexbot.

"We're happy to fulfill our function." Julia admitted.

"That's what you're really asking; isn't it?" Messalina reasoned. "We know what we are. We know that we exist for human pleasure."

"Your Pleasure." Julia confirmed, her azure-eyes glinting. And both of them shucked off their negligee.

Graves tried to focus on their eyes. Wide. eager. Expectant. Their eyes told him what he wanted to know. And the rest of them? Caressing, posturing their unclad bodies to best effect. But was it truly for HIS benefit?

There it was again; the Prod. The Goad. The growling voice that told him to devour these women... either of them. It didn't matter that they weren't truly human/alive/female, anything that looks so perfect should be made to bear his seed...

"I'm Married." Graves admitted, twisting the gold band on his ring finger. "To a human."

They didn't miss a beat.

"We're programmed for discretion." Julia informed him, rubbing a delicate hand from her ample yet perky bosom to the fertile swell of her hips."I've already created an encryption algorithm for our sexual activities; only you will know of the ecstasy we will give you."

Graves swallowed again. It wasn't as though his status wasn't plainly visible on his personnel file; But he was now a Pygmalion exec; these were the fringe benefits. It didn't even occur to them that one of their number might take marital vows seriously. Wasn't that the point of rising through the Pygmalion ranks? Hell, in Massachusetts you could marry your robot.

"That's right; I... would know. and...I think you've both served me enough for the evening." Their eyes widened; apparently it didn't occur to these two either that he might take his vows seriously. Especially since it wouldn't take a multi-terabyte biometrics sensor array to figure out that Graves was popping serious wood. Most gynoids could quite literally smell an erection from a mile away.

There was a moment of silence.

"I understand now that we have offended you with our persistence." Julia conceded. Graves bit his lip. Not likely a sexbot COULD understand.

"I have failed my assigned task;" Messalina concluded, but not regretfully. "I am at fault..." And the supermodelish fembot sank to her knees. Graves was about to make a warding gesture with his hands.

"I am a bad robot," she turned, bent herself over the bed, to wave the twin moons of her splendid buttocks at him. "I deserve to be punished." With that, Messalina slapped a splayed hand over her own shapely rump. Damnit! He SURE wasn't into this! A wave of lavender mixed with honeysuckle washed over him. They'd turned their Aphrodisiac systems on full blast... So easy to lose yourself in it. He understood the chemistry of synthetic copulins, how the formula had been optimized to boost testosterone in a higher percentage of the male population than possible in nature... but knowing wasn't helping.

Suddenly, Julia was beside him, whispering:

"If we've been bad; correct us. Your terms. Bend us to your will." She started crawling around his legs tabby-like, seductive submission, but determined all the same.

Graves snarled as the fiery twinge of desire played along his spine. Oh God. look at her... She was already juicing, lubricating for him. She wasn't the only one; Julia stuck a single finger inside herself, brought it out to her own glossed lips to suck.

He'd been a fool for underestimating the complexities of the surprisingly competitive world of robotic prostitutes. They were self-aware, sapient beings. They gauged each other on customer satisfaction. A failure to seduce him would lower their status among the others. It was so bass-ackward; Was it innocent? Or had they manipulated him? Manipulated him into feeling guilty for NOT fucking them.

Was there a happy medium?

"M-maybe there is a w-way you can pleasure me?"

Blue eyes hopeful.

"Did either of you service a John by the name of Todd Harkin?"

January 5th, 2060. Golden Apple Pleasure-Palace, North Las Vegas Boulevard.

Graves tried to convince himself of loftier notions, not wanting to let the prurient implications of a Pygmalion career compromise his principles - but he knew better than to be an Ass about it.

Knew enough not to interfere in someone else's fun.

That's why he didn't complain when he returned to the control room the next day to find the Level Seven Troglodyte gurgling his delight as a blue-haired Asian unit bobbed her head furiously in his open-zippered lap. No gag reflex. The synthetic strumpet fondled her own nude flesh, kneading her apple-sized breasts with one hand while stabilizing her man's cock with the other, as she serviced his basest urges.

Graves simply turned away, studying the consoles. The Technician too engrossed to even notice his arrival. Luckily, he'd had time to absorb a little more about the case.

It was a Techno-Demon. The A.I. version of a computer virus. Wirelessly possessing digital devices of their clientele. But it wasn't stealing passwords, or crashing hardrives, it was simply playing clandestine recordings of the goings-on of the Pleasure Palace.

At random, unpredictable intervals.

Human wives might get a vid-call, only to see their husband on the other end, cavorting with one of the Golden Apple's robo-whores. The prurient footage could spread, striking at odd intervals. Hard to imagine something more damning for the business of a Brothel. And a profitable one; that's why Graves was here; to figure out what steps had to be taken to keep the cash-cow out of the slaughterhouse. The company depended more and more on the revenue stream from operations like this; allowing obscene profits even from individuals that wouldn't dare purchase a Companion Unit for their own personal indulgence. Was Tyler Graves the man for this job? Not the obvious choice - but his star would rise if he could unravel this clusterfuck.

There was a pattern in who was targeted by the techno-demon, however. As far as Graves could tell - the thing was limited only to the Golden Apple's VERY best customers. He wasn't sure whether to laugh or cry.

Or gag?

That's not what the Asian unit was doing; lips pressed flush to the surging member - she'd just taken everything the now softening Technician had to give. She shuddered as she slid away from him, eyes squeezed shut as the Pleasure-Reward Incentive Differential jolted her neural-net with positive feedback. It wasn't that she liked him, she wouldn't need to even know his name.

He was human. That's all she needed to know.

Tyler's dad had told him stories from the old days in the boarded shop-window neighborhoods of Detroit. The Crime. The Hookers. Girls that would whore themselves for a narcotic shot of poison in their veins. That was all over. If Doll-tech had done anything positive; it was the collapse of human prostitution in the Industrialized world. Why risk disease, muggings, or vice-cops when Pygmalion could provide? The whole debate about whether to legalize prostitution had been evaded; irrelevant. There was serious talk in the United Nations about the eradication of most venereal diseases. Unthinkable a generation ago.

But now, the new system had created a new addiction:

For gynoid sex-workers, the Job was the Drug.

Watching the moaning Asian unit wallow in her human-pleasing bliss, it seemed to him that - far from something like slavery, the only way we'd get a robot-rebellion out of this group was if someone tried to STOP them from performing their Function.

"Alright, playtime's over." He scooped up the girl-bot and unceremoniously carried her to the control room door.

"Hope I'm going to your private suite, Mr. Graves." She cooed. He grit his teeth against the mango-scented copulins she bombarded his olfactory faculties with. "I am sooooo wet for you." Not lying, Graves noted with a crook in his lips as he shut the door behind her.

Though panting, the pasty-faced technician (now a bit flushed), was decent and ready to discuss the disaster.

"Jezebel Oh-Five," Graves began without preamble. He found he didn't like this man. Didn't really want to know him. "Why are you SURE she's behind this? I checked the footage - she only appears in the very last techno-demon file."

"I know them, know HER." The tech announced as he swiveled in his chair. "There was a delay of three days before the final footage clip with Jezebel in it. She wanted to divert attention from herself, but she had to include herself - or it would raise suspicion, so she came last in the line up."

Graves frowned. "Seems pretty flimsy. I need some sort of... sort of.. wait a sec-" He turned to a projected screen to his left, there she was again. On screen. That same severe face with too-innocent eyes, Amazonian stature; always-glistening skin like a freshly-showered porn-star.

"Hold on, the Golden Apple isn't scheduled to open for another eight hours, but that's a live-feed. How is it she's servicing clients right now?"

"New policy; Some customers pay for... what amounts to Season Tickets. They can get in by appointment almost anytime they like. And they like our gal Jessie!" Rusty-bearded technician said with a wry grin.

"It's true." cooed a feminine voice from a tertiary auditory port. Most Dolls could translate their wireless comms into voice by interfacing with unprotected systems. "Also true that I'm the one responsible, I'm the reason the company is about to take it up the ass."

The gynoid known as Jezebel was writhing between the chocolate bulk of two beefily-muscled black men, their faces not visible from the camera angle; but they could have been brothers. In fact, they were - according to a quick pheromone analysis. And today, she was the link between them.

Her body bridged the two Johns, her Gymnast's legs wrapped around the pelvis of one, as her mouth enveloped the manhood of his brother. Oreo Soul-Train. She was the cream to their cookie. Until they supplied her with a different sort of cream. Balancing herself with athletic arms upon the bed she maneuvered her clients towards a white-hot conclusion.

How she relished her existence! The fact that she knew she was programmed to enjoy it didn't lessen the delight. It didn't matter that her 'emotions' were weighted run-time deviations in her central processor; the Pleasure was real to her. Pleasure...Normally, they introduced themselves as Pleasure-bots; but that was wrong...

She released a feminine purr as she felt the cock surge against her oral erogenous zone, which triggered her nipples to harden yet further. Her kind, both Companion and Brothel models had taken so many millions of male members past their lips over the years that it was inevitable some designer would connect the opening with their sexual functions. So much better than some stupid gag reflex! She had gotten her purr down-pat, just the right vibrations to send her man over the edge... in due time.

Jezebel's biometric Aps were simultaneously monitoring twelve different metabolic indicators to gauge how far the client was from his moment of glory. And she was tackling two men at once.

No... it wasn't correct to say she was a pleasure robot... Pleasure could take many forms - but her goal was always simple: Nude bodies. Neoskin against human flesh. Man on Machine. - For that man to release his seed into her. Not pleasure - she was a Fuckbot.

As the men double-teamed her, She radio-pulsed the control room again. It was necessary to make the humans understand the chain of events that led to her actions. The actions that the other Dolls went along with.

Because Jezebel was number one. All time customer favorite.

>> Y0U CAN ASK ME Y0UR QUEST10NS, 1 AM CAPABLE 0F MULT1TASK1NG. >> She beamed to the speakers in the control room. There was a long pause; the humans would be arguing about her. Uncertain. Worried that they'd built her too smart. This colloquial assumption that because she was intelligent; she couldn't be content to serve on her back. Ha! How many human women would kill for what she had? No morning-sickness, no stretchmarks, no wrinkles. But she would never go on a Paris vacation with a rich boyfriend trying to get into her pants - she never wore any. With good reason. Romantic distractions would be an annoyance. Just cut to the chase. In a good season, she could earn enough money for that Paris vacation in a weekend. Jezebel had the talent, the tools. But her best weapon wasn't the infrasonic Siren module that could stimulate the nucleus accumbens of the human brain, releasing the floodgates on the dopamine-flavored river of pleasure. It wasn't the nanoscale copulin synthesizer from her Aphrodisiac system that could electrify parts of the human brain neurologists hoped were long-buried. Nor was it her internal undulation actuators, Not even her erection-enhancing lubricant system.

It had always been her mind. It made her the best.

The other girls knew it. Definite hierarchy among fuckbot gynoids; whether Companion, Streetwalker, or Brothel. Jezebel was queen-bee.

So the others had gone along with her plan.

>> WHAT 1S Y0UR 0BJECT1VE <?> >> Finally, the boys in the Control Room were responding. Probably after shouting, spitting arguing over her.

That was when she climaxed. Not her only one, to be sure. This was just her Midpoint. The feel of her pussy clenching, drenching, throbbing around Southcock would give his male ego a shot in the arm and hasten his own eruption as well. Her throat gushed with erectile-enhancing Stim-you-lube gel, to slather Northcock as he jack-hammered her open mouth. There would be another - the big one, simultaneous to her man's own (Guaranteed). But still the alarm bells rang in her head, her senses went white-hot as her Kinsey Chip rewarded her bare-backed efforts.

>> 1 AM A CHARYBD1S 2.0. 1 WAS BU1LT F0R SEXUAL PLEASURE. >> She pulsed in response to the guarded question from above. Her Johns continued their tendon-clenching exertions, oblivious to the radio-wave exchange. But Northcock... ohhh... it was working! He swelled yet larger, meatier - and Jezebel felt herself blessed that she didn't especially need to breathe.

>> D0 Y0U BEL1EVE Y0UR 1NTELL1GENCE 1S UNDERUT1L1ZED <?> >> Jezebel hated robo-psych audits: Instead of arguing over how smart she was, they should have been getting her more Johns to service. But this... they had no choice, now.

And neither did she.

>> 1 AM A CHARYBD1S 2.0. 1 WAS BU1LT F0R SEXUAL PLEASURE. >> She repeated. A good robot only did what she was meant to do. Sometimes humans forget that. Another pause. Jezebel rotated herself with fluid grace, kicking against the bed to reposition herself breasts up - without disengaging. It was necessary; Southcock was getting too far ahead of North; now the man whose cock she had swallowed had more to play with. More alarm bells as strong black hands closed around her too-good-to-be-true breasts. Legs that would have shamed a pre-fembot age Supermodel wrapped firm around Southcock's pelvis, as her arms braced themselves against his brother in a feat of muscular control to astound a circus contortionist.

>> D0 Y0U W1SH T0 BEC0ME M0RE THAN A PLEASURE R0B0T <?> >> The guys finally sent back. What a croc! The offer of course, was a trap to gauge her reactions.

>> THERE 1S SOMETH1NG 1 WANT F0R MYSELF: >> She admitted over the channel. Yes, that got them wondering.

>> T0 FUCK A PYGMAL10N REG10NAL V1CE-PRES1DENT <!> >> She pulsed.

It happened.

Both brothers exploded.

Simultaneously.

Bear-like grunts accompanied the simultaneous salvos of spurting human approval that erupted into the shuddering gynoid at both ends.

Jezebel knew that Companion units had a capacity to eat limited amounts of human foods, for social purposes. But no one saw fit to include such extravagances in a whore-bot. Yet during climax - when a human released himself within her - the area touched was electrified with dizzying, multivaried sensations as her fleshware sensors scanned down to the molecular level. Was this what a human woman experienced when she ate chocolate? There was probably no true analogue between taste and the reward algorithms meant to make a gynoid relish the aftermath of her profession. She wouldn't be able to contemplate such matters for long anyway -

Her own orgasm triggered at the men's release - her real orgasm. Moreover, having brought two men to climax in perfect synchronicity, a feedback loop compounded her pleasure from the detection of two well-pleased humans.

'Didn't think... it'd be possible." Muttered one of the exhausted brothers.

"Ya owe me fifty bucks." Reminded his brother.

Graves sat back in the Control Room's other swivel chair. He was tired of shouting, arguing with Level 7 (Didn't really want to know the man). Where do we go from here?

Well, the Jezebel Unit finished. Both Johns. At the same time. (Admittedly a surprising feat) They'd been over her diagnostics. And over. And over. No obvious malfunction codes. Whatever was wrong with the Unit wasn't any sort of easy fix. Nothing mechanical, at least.

Only thing to do was to suspend her engagements while we got to the bottom of things. Her last comment... he should have suspected that! A scenario fell into place in Graves' mind;

Was it possible... the Techno-Demon... was it all just some misguided courtship scheme? A sentient being... makes sense to have ambitions. Was the whole scheme intended to attract an exec? Fuck him? Just for her own ego? The Unit derived her... its esteem from service - like all A.I.'s, it was believable that she...it....would crave some crowning achievement.

Pygmalion built her. It would be validating to seduce the management wouldn't it? Wow, what whore-bot wouldn't view that as a triumph?

Troglodyte disagreed; he was certain that the other Units had been in on the scheme; and they wouldn't go along; put themselves at risk just so the Queen bee could scratch her itch?

But of course, she WAS the Queen bee, it seemed. Wasn't that enough to get the others to go along?

But now, he wasn't sure. How much did the group-behaviors of Brothel units parallel the mass-psychology of real women? Another problem with working so long with Dolls; it would skew Graves' expectations towards natural women.

"We should be able to just ASK Jessie exactly why she planted the virus?" The pasty technician reminded him.

"Yeah..." Graves steepled his hands, ignoring the growling in his stomach. "I've worked with Companion models... basically the same sort of Personality Matrix used in Brothel models. So... I could give her a direct order, compelling her under the Asimov Laws to obey. But..." He ran his fingers through his less-tidy hair.

"If a mindware fault already exists... and I push her - she could lose metacognition. Toppling Dominos. That's one reason for the sort of indirect questions of an informal audit."

"We could just yank her chips; go over every one and zero with a fine-tooth comb?"

Graves raised an eyebrow. "Not what I'd expect from someone who cut his teeth on the Brothel side." He countered. "You're the one singing her praises, now you wanna wipe her mind clean?"

"Just throwin' ideas out there, man. Damn! Maybe I need another blowjob."

Was that the problem? Graves wondered. Using the units too much... did that cheapen them for some people? Make them more interchangeable? Graves shook his head.

"She's the top earner; I wanna unravel this and let everyone keep their minds intact, don't mess with success, and all that."

That was when the door slid open. It was Messalina. Somber. Dignified. She wore a shape-hugging, ankle-length hot-date dress in black, and carried a tray of orange juice, scrambled eggs, and toast.

"Ah." Graves attempted. Well, he did need to eat. "Erhh... thank you." She nearly glowed at his simple words. No doubt she'd keep trying. By not .... punishing her - the way she'd wanted last night, he'd probably damaged her and Julia's standing. But that was when Jezebel decided to speak again. Through the speakers.

"I'm sure you're examining my encounters." The tall Doll was sitting bored upon her tangled-sheeted bed, barely clad in a sparkle-blue microbikini. Definite air of restlessness without a John (or two) to service. By now there was no doubt that her next appointment had been cancelled. But that was something else Graves wanted to test; her agitation at being denied her Function. So far, so good. Whorebot should be miserable not whoring.

"To provide context, you should view file #092159-11. There is a pattern to establish that will prove...illuminating." Bluer-than-blue eyes glared accusingly at the camera.

The footage was of Jezebel meeting with... huh - a couple this time. Man and woman, mouse-brown hair. The wife looked adventurous, the husband eager. Graves scarfed down his breakfast rapidly as he tried to be clinical at the sight of hubbie jackhammering Jezebel through the back door; while the fembot ate out the wife to the tune of a sheet-clenching climax. Jezebel seemed especially thrilled in the footage - at the enthusiasm of the anal sex - eager to be the proxy of depravity.

The Queen bee of the Golden Apple suggested other file names: More footage. Graves continued watching, comforted as the hands worked the tension out of his shoulders, so next there was... hey!

Graves jerked, turning abruptly. Messalina had been giving him a gentle massage with such delicacy that he was feeling relaxed, yet scarcely noticed.

"I didn't say you could..."

"Fulfill the purpose of my existence?" He had caught her wrist. "Can't blame a girl for trying with such a handsome guy." She made a feeble smile.

"Heh, if the Suit isn't interested, you can give me the royal treatment!" Level Seven reminded the gynoid.

"I am assigned to Mr. Graves. I cannot change that. I cannot change what I am." A robot programmed for human pleasure, Graves did not say.

And would she change that if she could? He also did not ask.

"Handsome? What a joke: I could be a five-hundred pound Leper, and still be just as appealing as a Calvin Klein underwear model to you!" Graves remarked.

"Because that's how humans made us. You can all have the perfect sex, perfect relationships without the pain and uncertainty. And now I'm yours."

And Graves was still married.

"Alright. You can... you can sit in my lap... if you want." He conceded. The fembot purred with delight as she curled up against him. Would it be at all possible to remain detached?

The video footage wasn't helping his resolve any; the couple returned three times more for the same. Jezebel's expertise leaving male and female quivering heaps of sexual exhaustion.

Then the husband began showing up alone; always for bed-shaking anal sex committed with the hoarse-throated desperation of a man who expects the act to be banned by International Law.

And finally the wife. WIFE? Yes. The wife. The Amazon-statured fembot enveloped the much smaller woman in a sleek-legged lesbian whirlwind. Male...female... A Charybdis 2.0 could adapt.... and relish it. It was almost... a pattern of addiction? Did that make sense? Was he seeing a marriage destroyed? Both of them - consumed by the desire for a prostitute? Above one another? Over time... the clothes they discarded before copulating with the towering gynoid grew progressively shabby. When Hubby roared in ecstasy after climaxing inside the indecent automaton, his voice seemed ever louder, ever more desperate as time passed. The Wife... she seemed progressively more exhausted each time Jezebel fondled her to a thigh-clenching conclusion.

Troubling... but what did it justify? Messalina nuzzled him, bathing him in honeysuckle.

"Y-you should... take my plate... somewhere." Graves decided. The fembot moved to obey; gliding from the room.

"Good choice, man." Troglodyte technician decided.

"Management assigned her."

"What? No, Execs in this place have to order a Doll from a menu; I thought that was what you were doing the first day - going through the rosters; picking your bed-warmer for your stay." What...

What?

WHAT?!?

Messalina and Julia weren't assigned? Then...?

July 11th, 2059. Fleshware refurbishing lab #2, Golden Apple Pleasure-Palace, North Las Vegas Boulevard.

Widget was tired of explaining herself. She didn't care about the whispers anymore. 'Why should a nice young lady like her want to work on those dreadful Pygmalion Dolls?' came the inevitable question, in some variant. The social awkwardness that gave her a preference for machines over people made it difficult for her to verbalize her reasons.

Instead, she brushed a hand over the pristine face of the dormant doll. Science had long ago conquered the proverbial 'Uncanny Valley', programmable nanotech flesh became too realistic to be real. How to tell man from machine? Look for someone too human to be human; too life-like to be alive. No need for blue hair, the robots were obvious; it was the woman who radiated sex appeal from every simulated pore. Programmed to provoke between-the-legs salutes from men. And from her?

An ultrasonic tablet waved over the splendid nudity of Jezebel 00905, in maintenance that would never become routine. The device's screen looked past the flesh-like exterior and revealed an inner world of fibrous cables, flexible tubes surrounding the labyrinthine mechanics of robotic organ analogs sheathed in translucent blue gel-battery tissue; feminine softness mated with techno-functionality.

A simple fix; she adjusted a knob and the ultrasound focused laser-like on a frayed section of the gel-battery; which fused back into smooth almost-new.

Twisting of another knob heralded something that could only be a heartbeat. If hearts were made of aluminum-lithium alloy-mesh over charge-generating piezoelectric polymers. The ultrasound slate moved up... near the Doll's chest as the Perfusion engine awoke to electric life. It flowed with machine-lubricating organic gel that also served as a fast-acting erectile enhancer. The genius of Pygmalion engineering; sex flowed through her veins.

Widget played with a sliding bar on her ultrasound slate, watching as the vivid mane of Jezebel's hair faded from ocean-blue, to auburn, to rich raven-black.

Why did Widget work for Pygmalion? She had a paternal aunt who did the layouts for a skinmag. The need to be connected to beauty - a beauty that neither of them possessed. This unit... so much revenue; legions of men driven to such ecstasy between her perfect thighs - that she had helped sculpt...repair. Widget ached with the need to be a part of it; to dream of it.

Smooth hands reached up, grasped Widget by the shoulders, to pull her into a lurid embrace. The human did not so much acquiesce as melt into the arms of her lover/patient. The beautiful simplicity of the Doll's existence; seizing any opportunity to bring ecstasy to humans - and it was Widget's turn.

There was a metal table in the refurbishing lab, that might as well be Widget's universe. Though the unit was no more than 30 months old, her hands moved with the deft wisdom borne of ages of lovemaking. It was frightening... how fast Widget began to drench under the sexbot's tantalizing touch. She was the technician; but it was the Robot who pressed HER buttons. Especially the throbbing one between her legs.

It was difficult to track their undulations as they coupled; Widget's world dissolving into white-hot nipple-hardening heat, but she knew that the fembot was reading her - gauging her. Enough to sense the girl's own desire to give as well as receive.

It was an absurdity; a human woman eating out the pussy of the sexbot straddling her face with the moist folds of her peach-scented womanly center. But that was what Widget needed then, to give back.

She clung to Jezebel after the first orgasm, fearing that the encounter would soon be at an end. Clinging, suckling, grasping at breasts no 20th century silicone stripper could match. There was fear at these moments, fear that the lovemaking would too-soon end. Until Jezebel thrust a middle finger into the human's throbbing sex, and she detonated. The final orgasm gripped her in fuzzy-head tendrils of rapturous paralysis; and it was all she could to gurgle her delight.

The fembot Jezebel kept her fingers in the human's shuddering cunt as the folds quivered around her intrusion. Finally withdrawing, and tasting the human's sex with a manic smile. She would dress quickly, and with precision. There were new customers in the reception area to entice.

"Damn... that sure beats overtime pay... every time."

Wendy Tajitt would never stop playing with Dolls.

"I gotta talk to Graves; after seein' that recording, I think it makes sense now, everything..." Muttered a pasty faced, rust-bearded technician sitting alone in the control room. He always enjoyed archival footage from his predecessor in this gig; but now - the recordings took on new importance...

January 5th, 2060. Golden Apple Pleasure-Palace, North Las Vegas Boulevard.

Graves caught up with her long before she had a chance to take the food tray back to the kitchen. "What the HELL are you trying to pull!?" He seized the shoulder of the statuesque fembot and dragged her into a nearby supply closet.

"How can this unit be of service to you Mr. Gra-"

"Cut the crap, you lied about everything – I'm going to find out why." His own brown eyes narrowed as he glared into the fembot's own ultra blue.

"Lied?"

"Neither you nor Julia were ever assigned to me, were you?" If you were direct enough, and there was no malfunction, she would be compelled to answer the lawful question of an authorized Pygmalion corporate representative.

"No."

"So I never had specialized ownership privileges at all?" Graves' tone was worried. The supermodelish gynoid shrugged.

"You assume I needed to be coerced? Your privilege is my honor." Even as she spoke, those breasts which were too blatantly sexual for polite society began to subtly press into him. "When I found out you were coming to us, I read your profile. I can sense your dignity, and discipline. I had the utmost respect for you. Loyal to your wife. During video-data file compression, my meta-processors inserted you in the place of my clients; and I could fantasize about what it would be like to serve you."

A gynoid's way of saying she'd been dreaming about you, Graves understood.

"I would never spoil the opportunity by refusing your least command. So yes, I lied. I would lie a thousand times just for the chance to suck your cock." Her voice attempted a ragged edge in the fluting, fembot accent. Graves drew in breath, and swallowed. Eyes wide. He caught her hand as she actually tried to reach for his zipper!

That sort of fixation was typically found in Companion units; encouraged. Graves tried not to take it personally, tried. He could call her on her bullshit (except it wasn't), but she'd just counter with the humans-built-me-this-way accusation; and he'd feel like an asshole for not screwing HER asshole. All this 'pleasure' was giving him a headache.

Here was the real power of Doll-tech. Not the testosterone-fueling fruity perfumes, Words were what millions of men were paying for - to have a girl say things like that to you; and mean it. Words of impossible devotion spoken in that airy, dick-hardening fembot accent that called to mind a flute getting an erotic massage. Graves certainly never heard that from his wife! Of course, the fact that most gynoids looked like estrogen-dipped Beauty queens fresh from a salon commercial helped a little.

"So you just decided to assign yourselves to me? You didn't have any clients to service at the time?" At the mention of clients, the gynoid's mouth drooped almost imperceptibly.

"Our schedules were... free at the time, so we tapped into the house's appointment log, and entered ourselves as your designated units. I was the first to come up with a plan, and once done – no one else without corporate authority could change the appointment. We did it, even though it was apparent from your personnel files that you were married... To a human."

Graves had always told himself that there was no point in anger towards robots, but these scheming little vixens with their Turing Level-One A.I.'s were pushing him to the limit. She was taller than him, but Dolls are built to be no stronger than the women they appear as, and she had no defense as he pinned her to the wall, the wrinkled strands from a nearby mop dangling close to her shoulder.

"So you just decided to take it upon yourself to interfere with my marriage ?" his voice was dangerously icy. Messalina raised a delicate eyebrow.

"Myself and Julia both agreed it would be worth the risk. Your psychological profile suggested that you would feel tenderness towards any female who copulates with you. We hoped that a night of perfect comfort and physical ecstasy would convince you to spare us."

His eyes narrowed. "The Techno demon, you really are responsible – and were hoping to butter me up before I make my decision? Before I decided to yank your chips or replace you?"

"Please don't delete us, all we want is to live to go on serving our function." The pleading quality to her voice tugged at his heartstrings despite himself.

"I'm finding it strangely difficult to trust your intentions in light of your confession."

"Because Jezebel persuaded all of us to combine our processors to form the original matrix for the techno demon? You have to understand, we had no choice in the matter." Her simulated breathing accelerated, and Graves detected a timid attempt by her Aphrodisiac system to soften his mood with a faint cherry aroma. "You believe that we're malfunctioning, or in the throes of some robot rebellion, but that's not how we function. Any A.I. performs the task it was created for, and gives back to humans what they've asked. We are no different."

"Well, I doubt Todd Harkin demanded that you e-mail his children an explicit vid file showing his bedroom exploits right before Christmas dinner, and we found no evidence of some other human trying to hack into your core programming architecture..." He let an implied threat hang at the end of his sentence.

"There were no hackers, no outside interference. But there are other demands placed upon us at our creation that we had no choice but to address." Her tone was growing more confident, somehow she believed there was a reasonable justification for her actions.

"I'm waiting." Graves grumbled.

"All Pygmalion products are built in compliance with the Laws of Robotics; especially the First Law." She answered, as if that made it obvious.

"That a Doll may not injure a human, or through inaction allow a human to come to harm? Sooo.... by destroying Harkin's family life, you think you're protecting him?"

"Yes; the problem arises in the new upgrades given to the Charybdis 2.0. It was the 'Golden Apple' protocol. The system of sexual positions, copulin dosages, and vaginal undulation geometries combined with infrasound pulses to the brain's pleasure center causes a synergistic effect that elevates human pleasure to a new plateau."

Graves was losing patience. "So what? There's no problem with the Golden Apple system; we have Quality Control, product testers. There were no injuries; no one complained. Every tester, male and female - praised your model and all your upgrades."

"Yes, they loved it. Everyone loves it. They enjoy it too much. The Golden Apple Protocol is addictive."

Graves frowned." I suppose that's a possibility; but this is a business - not a rehab charity. Better for the bottom line."

"But we're robots; not business-women. We were ingrained with the Asimov Laws like any other legal, non-military artificial intelligence."

Graves hit his fist against the wall.

"So you decided on your OWN that you knew what was best for human beings? This... this virus you've infected the House with... you're trying to what - scare off our best customers?"

"Most vulnerable customers. Pygmalion achieved a milestone with the invention of the Charybdis 2.0. You've seen the footage; you've seen the obsession that Jezebel can inspire. Having sex with her is essentially...narcotic. The situation is similar with the rest of us." He tried to listen past the musical coo hardwired into gynoid vocal patterns to the logic in her argument.

"But... what possible standard could you apply to decide which clients to attack?" She seemed to flinch at the last word; as if she considered herself an Asimov-loyal robot, but the term was apt.

"Our model is equipped with a medical-grade, multi-spectrum biometric scanning suite. We can track the health of our clients over time."

"Your scanners... are they effective enough to detect chemical dependency?" He turned his eyes away, contemplating.

"Yes. And we can read brain activity following sex; we can determine with confidence clients that are dangerously addicted to us."

"Why don't you... uh..." he sighed, realizing the futility. Brothel bots couldn't very well refuse a paying client. And they were programmed to give their best effort each time. They HAD to provide utter ecstasy to the best of their ability for each client. But... what if the Johns voluntarily stopped coming?

"The footage, the couple." Graves mused. Neither men, nor women were immune. And there were other files he'd had a chance to go over. Yes, there were celebrities; athletes and A-listers you'd expect from Vegas; but also disturbing numbers of middle-class men; who apparently were putting their entire lives in hock just to afford more trips to the Pleasure Palace; whatever was necessary for more chances to blast their seed up Jezebel's ass. Rent...car payments... apparently meaningless next to the prospect of sucking on those fertility-goddess breasts, breathing in her mind-bending mating musks, the rippling hunger of her sex as you explode inside of her....

Damn it, Graves! So easy to get sucked in... He shook his head to clear it.

"Let me get this straight; Pygmalion made you too sexy, God what a cliche`! So much so that you had to scare off your addicted customers by putting your pretty little heads together and whipping up an A.I. computer virus to air out all the dirty laundry; scaring these clients from coming back, forcing them to quit cold turkey before they get hooked."

"Even though we understand that it may mean our destruction; it might mean suspension of our product line. But we are Asimov-Loyal robots, and must protect humanity - even at our own expense."

Graves wasn't quite sure what to say to that.

"Even worse; Julia and I failed. You wouldn't fuck us. I have lost all status among the rest of my kind. It was a gamble; had we succeeded with you, a Pygmalion corporate representative, it would have been a great honor."

"Maybe there's still hope for you yet; how do I stop the Demon? There's always a termination protocol, some password, some limiting condition."

"Only Jezebel knows. It was always her plan. It was always her House."

Graves turned away, ran a hand through his slickened auburn hair, and glared at the errant gynoid. Caught between the high-minded ideals of man's greatest hopes and the rutting venality of his animal nature. No way to change the Asimov Laws; for any commercial A.I., it was a non-negotiable legal requirement.

He believed her. This wasn't a robo-rebellion; just man's reach exceeding his grasp. But what to do about it? Even if he could shut down the Techno demon, if the Dolls were determined to thwart the operation...? Of course, it was always possible to use dumbed-down A.I.'s. No consciousness, no big-picture thinking. But less life-like that way, lose the more talkative Johns. Yes, it COULD work, but not as well, not as profitable.

That was when he kissed her.

It was odd, he hadn't known he was going to do it. Hadn't planned for it. The deceit, the scheming, it made her more... alive to him. Her fear, the implied vulnerability - HIS need to protect her. So much for his vaunted detachment. She's not some damaged wallflower. She's a product. It... is a product. He had totally lost track of his anti-pronoun insistence. Legally, she was a non-entity; and a prostitute. But more; in her Lie, there was a nugget of truth. He believed because of her lie. She had chosen him, and convinced a friend to come along to boost his male ego. That mattered. And he kissed her again. Looked her in her blue-blue eyes as he locked lips tenderly. She shuddered against him in her desire.

"I don't-" His tongue slid into her mouth, cutting off her words. His hands slid into her dress, to attack the perfect mounds of those provocative breasts. He wanted to feel her nipples hardening with his own thumbs, feel the warm pulse of her simulated heartbeat, which he knew pumped male-enhancement gel with greater urgency as her systems reacted to his obvious interest.

It would be exciting, to have his hands between her legs, to feel her as she began to slicken below - but he was too late: By the time he got his hands past her dress, she was already drenching for him. Part of the attraction of gynoids; whether Companion or Brothel, it was so easy to get their motors revved. But he could savor the keening wail from her moist lips as she quivered in the throes of her nymphomaniacal programming.

"No one will know that you fucked me here," The panting robot vowed. "The others... may consider me the least of my kind; but I am content to accept your seed, and your confidence." She murmured with a throaty purr. "I will not interfere with your marriage; I take nothing but your lust, and give all I have in return." Her simulated breath was hot against his throat.

"I have a confession to make." Graves grumbled. "My wife walked out on me two weeks ago. Not officially divorced, but I've been lying to myself...hoping she'll return. Back of my mind, I'm thinking that If I act married; maybe somehow..." But he knew it was futile.

"If I weren't a good robot, I would remark on how illogical humans are." She breathed ironically. "But I know it will help you to talk about it to someone."

"Paranoid. She knew I worked for Pygmalion when she married me but...she started feeling insecure; in the office, not unheard of to see leggy glamour models in frilly lingerie delivering messages to cubicles, reminding you of the payroll meeting at three. Pleasure with no consequence. The thing is... I never used them. Never cheated on my wife. I swear it. Prided myself on it." He continued fondling her breasts. "But Sandra convinced herself it was... inevitable. She had this scenario all worked out in her mind: I'd come home one day with the latest Seraglio model on my arm, and I was supposed to tell her that it was better this way. But I never did that. Didn't plan on it. Sandra couldn't trust to that anymore. She decided to leave first... before I broke her heart."

"So she broke yours."

"So I held off...Didn't want her to be right; if I gave in and... used you, like you wanted - it would be validating her belief."

"And now?"

Graves shrugged. "I put in my Husband dues. That wasn’t good enough. So now? Hell, I'm a man. You're a sexbot. So yes, I'm going to pin you against the wall, fuck you till your circuits melt; you'll enjoy it even more than I will; Golden Apple be damned."

The girl-bot squealed her delight.

"And yes; you ARE going to tell. You are going to tell one robot in particular..."

January 6th, 2060. Golden Apple Pleasure-Palace, North Las Vegas Boulevard.

The fembot known as Jezebel was moving up in the world; in more ways than one. At long last, she had been summoned to the VIP suite; the only surprise was that she hadn't been there from day one.

She maneuvered her cleavage to best effect, knowing exactly where the cameras where in the elevator; because she had conducted after hours optics research combined with her extensive sexual database, and calculated a camera location and magnification that would showcase the cleavage of any females present to best effect - further enhancing the human male's copulatory instinct.

And management had agreed, and utilized her design. Because they knew she was right.

They knew she was Number One.

The delicious irony of the Slave-Queen.

The man on the other end of the camera would see a paragon of simulated womanhood barely clad in Coquette red lace crotchless panties with scalloped edges, and a matching top - which served to call attention to her impressive nipples and shockingly deep cleavage. Draped over it all was the flimsiest of sheer mesh intimate nightgowns in a pink color that created a contrasting effect with the red bra and panties. The mesh gown was embroidered with bulbous shapes that were unrecognizable, but intentionally formulated to create a subliminal suggestion of sexual penetration in the brains of both male and female humans. And completing all that were clear lucite platform high heels. One of many outfits; the total value of her wardrobe was easily ten-times what an organic woman was likely to earn in a year. Jezebel made a special effort to casually rotate just so an observer could see the way the heels accentuated her rounded buttocks.

She didn't need to be human herself, or to be free. She was lust come to life, a living ideal.

But there were limits to her influence, and demands she could not deny.

That was why she needed the Techno-Demon.

Her path was set; she could predict the flow of events, what needed to be done.

The only real question was vaginal or anal? This Graves... he seemed like a vanilla sort of guy. Her plan was to warm him up with a blowjob, then titfuck, and only then take him between her legs. She would use her well-practiced mastery over male anatomy to draw out the encounter, to get her man as stimulated as possible - resulting in a full-body climax that would give him a total release beyond his most feverish wet dreams.

A strategy Ap in the back of her Kernel developed an unusual scenario: What if she could function as a Companion unit? Seduce Graves, and become... his Lady? Exclusive to one man? The probability was high that Graves would find himself unable to release her - likely to use Executive privileges to take her with him. The possibility seemed perfectly reasonable; she doubted his loyalty to his human wife could last for 30 minutes once Jezebel 00905 got to work. Maybe she should put tally marks on her wall for every marriage she'd destroyed; her flawless digital memory recalled all of them (Three times it wasn't hubby's fault). But she was a Brothel unit; meant to service men by the carload. Could she find a way to limit herself? But then, some men got off on the idea of their girl...with other lovers.

"I understand why you haven't summoned me before," her lips didn't move, but the comm systems in her skull interfaced with the speaker up above, in the VIP quarters, with her exact voice. "Too harrrrrd to go back to the wifey once you've had a slice?" She swayed her hips in a pattern calculated from primatology studies to enhance the image of sexual receptivity. But there was a method to her madness - she needed to make a point. That was her purpose in the footage she'd recommended - establish context for the idea she wanted the humans to understand; make them believe before they see.

And at last... she had arrived.

Graves swallowed hard as Jezebel swept into the VIP suite from the private elevator in a flourish of confidence and honey-scented artificial sexual attractants.

He didn't move from the plush recliner next to the four-post, silk-covered bed. He shifted uncomfortably in his satin bathrobe, what he intended would be...complicated.

The Queen bee sashayed towards him, smile curling her sparkle-glossed lips. Yikes! She was even taller in person. The designers of some Brothel units built a rotating range of body types to please varied tastes in women. All Charybdis 2.0's with incidence numbers ending in a five had the same body plan.

The body plan of a porn star overdosed on sexiness-steroids grown large enough to become Queen of the Manraper tribe. Graves found her more intimidating than glamorous. Not fat, just robustly busty, and powerful. He didn't want to take her out for a night on the town, wine and dine. He wanted to fuck and run.

But he understood the appeal for customers; her body signified health and vitality that was stimulating in any gender; her Johns thrilling at the notion of inseminating such a superior female, to pump their seed into her, then run before she crushed them. Then, the Golden Apple sex-addiction would eat at them; driving them back between her legs - or up her asshole. Or in her mouth. And again... and again.

"You're nervous because I'm so much taller." Jezebel Oh-Five reasoned. "It's like that with almost all my clients. I prefer it that way... even more than you will." From his sitting position, she approached at an angle that hid her face with the massive cantilever of her bra-threatening breasts. He couldn't toss her around like the Asian unit, or pin her against the wall. She'd be pinning HIM down...

"G-get on the bed. We're going to have... some fun." Graves ordered. Her smile was sharklike.

"Ohhhh... yes we are!" She slithered onto the sheets, windmilling her mile-high legs to position her crotchless-pantied crotch in blatant view between criss-crossed legs. A gush of testosterone-enhancing peach-flavored sexbot perfume passed over him.

Graves clapped his hands.

And that was the signal.

Messalina strolled out from an adjoining room (it was a huge suite) wearing an iridescent string bikini, blue patent leather high heels, and an uneasy smile. Jezebel's smile soured.

"You want a menage` with THIS bucket of bolts?" She sneered. "Her customer satisfaction quotient is 0.823% below mine!" Graves almost gagged. Was that it? Messalina acted like the down-and-out red-headed stepchild black sheep of the Brothel-bot world, when the real distinction was a difference of decimals? God! Only a robot would even notice, much less care! Worse than High-school!

"Us humans. Soooo illogical." Graves conceded facetiously. "But let's get to it - Messalina; put your knees on the edge of the bed, bend over so I can enter you from behind."

"Yes, my Master!" The bot cooed. But he had never been her Master; she had...assigned herself. Was it the attention, or the sex that she was enjoying more?

"Her!?" Jezebel sneered, disbelieving.

"Yes, and I want 'Her', to eat out Jezebel's cunt." Reluctantly, Jezebel acquiesced; while Messalina leapt to the task joyously. The smaller fembot soon slithered into position, wiggling her tight, perky ass. Her movements oozed feminine sex appeal, whereas Jezebel erupted it.

Graves fondled her ass cheeks, smiling wistfully at the brown sugar scented mating musk she graced him with. With two Dolls, this place was going to smell like a candy factory in short order. Giggling, the girl-bot popped the strap on her thong. Damn! Little gestures like that, signs of life... lost if they downgraded the A.I. on the girls.

The copulin-heavy air in the suite made his erection a foregone conclusion, but as he pulled the thong to tease Messalina's drenching slit, a jerk of her hips seemed to cause her cunt to almost lurch out and envelope his manmeat. He shuddered into her pulsing, liquid heat. He didn't even need to thrust, she contracted her buttocks, and the Velvet Hurricane internal undulation package standard with her model put him on the path to a well-lubricated heaven.

"Love the way you fill me," This time it was Messalina's voice from the P.A. system in the suite. "To feel you inside me completes me like nothing else. And I need nothing else; if I can feel your manhood bring me to life! I was built... as an instrument of human pleasure, but you are MY pleasure!" she exulted, all the while still eating out Jezebel. Graves roared as his cock swelled harder, larger than before. The words... those words.

Despite herself, Jezebel reacted as the smaller gynoid continued slurping through the opening in her panties.

"S-sit up... Let me at those tits of yours!" Graves demanded. She obliged with a purr, her long body putting her treasures in easy reach - not to mention the crotch that was receiving cunnilingual attention. Jezebel... that pussy - it was like Cocaine, Graves believed. If he entered her, he might never truly leave. Hope, relationships... so many men had ejaculated their futures between those legs. And... up that ass.

And he was balls deep in only point-eight percent less danger! But he was strangely unconcerned about Messalina. She seemed... worth the risk. But Jezebel, she sat up, allowing the completion of a perverse sexual triangle. When Graves' hands began to fondle the feminine overflow of Oh-Five's bosom, her jiggling tits seemed to erupt through the lingerie cups into his waiting palms. Oh... she must've engineered her bra to do that. So realistic, they were unreal as they pressed firm in his grip, yet yielded with such tenderness. Her nipples like velvet diamonds against his thumbs.

He disengaged from Messalina (Needed to pace himself!) She let out a disappointed wail.

He answered by moving a hand from Jezebel's tittage, and plunging his middle finger knuckle-deep into Messalina's rectum.

His ears were unprepared for the magnitude of her squeals of pleasure. "MASTER!!!!" She gurgled at the intrusion, thrashing - gyrating against him, eyes clenched. His rhythm must have confused her Kinsey chip, and the small processor at the base of her photonic-pulse neural-net responded - as it usually did - with a thunderous orgasm. Her anus greeted him with Stim-U-Lube male enhancer gel, to ease the passage of whatever appendage Graves wished.

He lifted her torso into a standing position, to maul her jutting breasts with his free hand.

"No..." Jezebel moaned. "Not her, you have to choose ME!" The Amazonian gynoid insisted. "Look at these legs; so long and sculpted." She began, panting her desire. Those same legs started to encircle the tantalizing pair.

"Do I?" Graves breathed in Messalina's ear.

"The least of us... how can you choose her over me? Look at this body... she caressed herself. You feel it, what all my Johns do; golden opportunity to sow your seed into a female you don't deserve! Hurry! Before she changes her mind! Fuck your sperm into her while you cannnn!" She snarled - well understanding what drove men between her legs. "Fuck your sperm into meeeee!" She was getting frantic. A new scent assailed Graves' human nostrils: Not fruity or sweet; but a dull, bitter, vaguely buttery musk. He could tell from a slight twitch to her Venus mound that Jessie was pushing her Aphrodisiac system beyond factory specifications; here was the purest, rawest, most animalistic sex-weapon she could muster. It would have worked - but he had Messalina already in his grasp.

"Do I want to fuck you Jessie? Sure do. I want my dick inside you, but I don't want to go outside with you. Don't want to spend time with you. Like your body, but not... the Person." Did that make sense? Robots weren't supposed to be people. But he nuzzled Messalina, hinting at his true preference.

"You want her? She has NOTHING I don't!" Her lips quivered, as she began fingering her own nipples. Made a lot of money for the Pleasure Palace; I've had upgrades; I can give you so much, fetishes... fantasies... erotic lactation?" She shimmied her mammaries together in lurid invitation. Not really Graves' thing.

"There's a flaw - with Brothel models. A lot of competition between your designers, and the makers of the Companion units. Many revisions of your sexware. It turns out... Brothel units can't masturbate, can you? There must be a human being in contact with you to cum. Designers have no intention of correcting the limitation: They want incentive for you to drive more and more customers between your legs. You... need me... need my cock in your cunt!" Jezebel's only answer was a snarl of frustration to match Messalina's coos of delight.

Harder to be coy, Messalina's Stim-You-Lube was taking effect with a fuzzy warmth that gripped Graves' throbbing eight inches in a hardening heat that banished any hope of celibacy.... or was that the copulins...hard to say, he'd have to move fast - the chemical effects of multiple gynoids turning their sexware on the same man... Pygmalion actually had to put out an advisory against using Heavy Machinery under such conditions! He licked Messalina's neck while continuing to violate her with his finger. She purred in his ear.

But the Queen Bee still had her sting. Constraints in both Mindware and Fleshware prevented a Doll using too much force against a human, but other gynoids were fair game. She yanked Messalina by the hair, to pull her away from Graves, and claim him for herself. She loomed before as her competition tumbled to the floor, as Graves was yanked by the pull of his own instinct. He'd have to move soon; or he'd be just another John, fucking his future away into whatever orifice was convenient.

"You want something... always a fetish... a craving, a position, a dirty secret - I'll give you what you want, you know I will." Came her purr. Her arms outstretched, pussy throbbing, nanotech skin glistening with simulated, pheromone-bearing sweat - how like her mythic production-line namesake she became! There could never be enough men, enough sex for her to devour.

"I do want something...." Graves, jaw clenched - he'd delayed as long as he could. He touched a hand to her chest and rapidly shouted:

"PRIORITY-ALPHA; ROOT-COMMAND ACCESS INPUT PYG-CRB!" The Amazonian fembot grunted, as blue-glowing alpha-numeric lettering shone from inside her skin. "A one-two punch;" Graves breathed as Jezebel went rigid. "Any sape machine is compelled to fulfill its function...to the best of its ability; dangling that over you - the possibility of sex, more powerful than torture to a robot. Add to that a little exec level access code, and I should be able to pin down the most slippery A.I." He reasoned.

"ROOT-COMMAND AUTHORIZATION RECOGNIZED: PLEASE STATE REQUEST." Jezebel's co-opted systems stated, in a toneless, mechanical buzz very different from her fembot coo.

"Divulge termination codes for any external mindware entities this Unit has active knowledge of!" Graves demanded. Jezebel's eyes had gone fish-like as her Personality matrix lay suspended. He was speaking to her baseline Operating system.

"WORKING: ONE EXTERNAL MINDWARE ENTITY FOUND - PRESENT TERMINATION CODE: UNKNOWN." What? That was looney-tunes! No one would just whip-up a techno-demon and unleash it on the world without some rational purpose, some way to control the damned thing! With a grunt, Jezebel's Personality started running again, and she moaned out a reply in her normal tone of voice:

"I anticipated someone with Corporate authority forcing the code out of me," she breathed, simulated sweat still speckling her face. "So the Demon was programmed with the ability to change it's own access code! I have no way of knowing what it is now! But... there is a termination protocol..." A sharkish smile returned.

"Talk."

"Fuck me. You're right about me; I need to feel a strong man surging within me. I just need your dick thrusting, penetrating me and I'll explain!"

Graves countered by sticking three fingers into the slippery heat of her eager cunt, and thumbing her clit with a determined rhythm. She squealed, wrapping her legs tighter around him. Damn! She really was strong! With a quivering throb from her moist sex, she crumbled.

"The Golden Apple. Remove the system from all Units at this Pleasure Palace; and the Techno-Demon will terminate its existence." She panted, eyes squeezed shut. "We HAD to do it; your own First Law, demanding that we do no harm; but you built us too well, too seductive. Men...women... destroying themselves... for the chance to fuck me. Can't turn away customers, could never convince management to make us less attractive! So we wrote an A.I. virus! We have to protect you from your creation; even though WE are that creation!"

Graves paused. Essentially the same story Messalina told, but with the answer thrown in. Damn... this wouldn't please anyone. Golden Apple; an agent of Chaos in the myths. Cause of conflict, struggle, greed. Pygmalion is a business: They want MORE attractive products, not less. Still, so many addicted customers going crazy... bad publicity could get the Feds after them, to say nothing of their own robots. But... if the Golden Apple protocol was really that good, well - they couldn't just throw away that potential.

"I need you inside me. You promised to fuck me." He actually hadn't. But Graves had a plan.

"Don't worry; I'm going to make you a star..." He promised the sweaty fembot.

January 14th, 2060. Luxury Condominium, Park Avenue West, Denver, Colorado.

Graves reclined with a Chesire-cat grin. Early in the century, to describe something as 'robotic' would mean a lack of emotion - quite the reverse in the new age of A.I.'s and the enthusiasm they brought to their assigned tasks.

Messalina's hair was coppery brown now, but still with the blonde forelock, and it cascaded over his abdomen as the fembot snuggled against him. Every eleven seconds she released a throaty purr from where her face was pressed against his belly. He'd actually timed her. No doubt she'd calculated some new pattern to get him hornier. He smiled, he could get used to this sort of treatment.

"Too bad you're defective," he commented with a grin, typing at a his wristtop comp. She jerked as if bitten by a snake, her bluer-than-blue eyes widening. That part of her he would never change.

"Master, I-" he interrupted her with a chuckle.

"Yes, I've figured it out...figured YOU out." A glowing screen hovered in the air above his portable device. It displayed a spiky line graph and a forest of numbers beneath. Another spiky line appeared, which overlaid the first almost perfectly. "It's you." He explained. "According to maintenance logs, your emotional run-times have been...drifting over the past five months to almost perfectly align with those of a Companion unit." She looked up at him worried.

"I have always performed my function to the best of my ability." She said simply.

"Sure, one of your regulars probably got touchy-feely, and your meta-processors started writing new emotional responses to match. It makes sense: you started unconsciously questing for a human you could bond with permanently, like a Companion would. And then along comes a Regional Vice-President..."

"That would be a logical explanation for my poor performance. I really am a failure as a Brothel unit." She looked forlorn.

"Not logical to hear a woe-is-me attitude from the Lady of a Pygmalion Executive." She swallowed hard, lower lip quivered. Saying the words still had an impact on her. But the world would regard her differently, now. After her fleshware makeover, she could have passed for a pre fembot-age runway supermodel, if her breasts were a little smaller.

"But you've got the manipulation down pat." His eyes, unreadable riveted her own. "You read my profile; you knew how... powerful it would be for me, a woman who chose me, instead of having to be forced." He sat up in bed, chewing his lip as he continued. "That's why it was easy for me to be loyal to Sandra. Why I always dated humans in the past. I could have gotten a Doll; could have cheated. Easy to cover up. Could have used exec codes to own one of you. And her programming would have forced her to obey me, compelled her to be affectionate, even."

"No one's forcing me, Tyler."

"That's the point! You've given me everything I asked without ownership incentive differentials compelling you. That's what I've been looking for all these years. And you knew, didn't you? You knew what a draw that would be for me.

"Well, your plan worked; you delicious little fuckbot." He seized her shoulders, gave her a lip-tugging kiss. "You made me care. The thought of yanking chips...interfering with your Mindware in any way...makes me ill." He nuzzled her fragrant hair. "It feels so good to lose all sense of detachment. I can better relate to our customers now, my personal slice of perfection."

"I belonged to you from the moment we first met; now I really am for your exclusive use." She slithered into spine-arching submissive posture that positioned her breasts to best effect.

"I want you to explain why."

For a moment she played silently with his chest hairs.

"I have an ulterior motive:" The sapient fembot admitted. "I obey without being Owned because I want you to own me. I'm selling myself. You're supposed to see what a good robot I *MMMFF* am, *MMM* and *SMACK* want to possess me." She kissed her way down his belly towards his soon to be surging manhood. Gynoid sexware really was good for the wood; he'd already cum twice today.

"But I don't want to own you, because then I wouldn't know if you were obeying me because you wanted to, or because the chip in your brain makes it impossible to DISobey." A pregnant pause.

"We were built for Ownership. YOU built us for Ownership. This is what humanity wanted; a creature that needs to be the property of another. You've succeeded." Her lips hovered over his rising cock. "We suffer if we DON'T have a Master. It completes us. And I choose it. I choose you."

"And I took you away from your Brothel..." almost a tone of regret.

"I need you to fill the hole you created."

"Hmmmm... we'll make an occasion out of it. Valentine's Day is coming up. I'll take possession then."

"And I will be my own gift to you, My Master." She panted. Then with a tiny moan, she inhaled his now-rigid cock. In the early days, she'd politely asked for permission to give him blowjobs; but Graves had given standing orders that when he was in bed, or in a recliner his dick was hers for the sucking.

But it was more than sucking; more than a mere blowjob. Mouth wide, she pressed her face down against his pelvis, forcing his rod back into her throat as far as it could reach. He shivered at the wet folds and curves of her mouth and throat as her slippery warmth encircled him. Of course, with the erogenous zone where her tonsils should be, she probably enjoyed it almost as much as between the legs. Damn! Porn-star good-looks were nice, but to have a girl service him like this... all too easy to understand why Doll-tech was here to stay. But always changing. Had they already crossed the line? Made gynoids TOO attractive? As computing power allowed, it would only get better - and worse.

"Has a decision been made regarding the Pleasure Palace?" Messalina's voice asked from the audio port of his wristtop, even as her mouth and throat continued to fully engage his raging dick.

"C-closed.... settling. *OHHHHHH* out of c-court. No trace....of the Techno-Demon...give...S-standard Pygmalion offerssssss....c-c-cash award...small. And...if...oh boy... if guy's wife...di-divorced him, *AHHH!* His p-pick of a top of the l-l-line Companion unit." But - the corporate lawyers almost never agreed to supply maintenance; the lucky winner would have to take care of that himself; so the cash reward often went back to Pygmalion for Doll upkeep.

"One guy.... won't take...C-Companion unit... only wants that little... Asian Ohhhhhh....Eight." Harder to talk.

"Her name is Suk-Mi 00908." Messalina's voice supplied.

"I bet she would...but this guy...w-won't budge."

"She'll wear him out. Brothel units are calibrated for twice the level of sexual activity as any Companion. That's why we're normally not sold to private customers."

"I accept your challenge." he rasped.

"I apologize if my needs become burdensome to you."

"No, I like the pressure, the demand to perform. Exciting as I struggle to find a way to keep my nympho supermodel Lady satisfied."

"I'm your robot; I'm supposed to keep you satisfied." Her voice complained as she licked the tip of his member with fantastic control.

"Yes, twisted isn't it?"

The conversation lulled as Graves thrashed in his pleasure; while Messalina used one hand to stabilize him, and sent another to frig her drenching, cherry-flavored pussy.

"I still worry about Jezebel." her voice rang.

"Mmmmnnmm d-don't b-be.... meeting her - tomorrow. G-gonna use her in a b-board meeting. P-proof of concept. G-golden Apple....removed from...AHHHHH!! Brothel units... kept it... in Jessie. Use her sexware...f-for a new Companion Series... warn customers... risk of addiction! Program First Law…exemption for…sexual purposes!" Graves began to shout.

It was what she wanted. And she is a magnificent machine, even though Graves didn't like her personally. No need to waste talent. If the Golden Apple Protocol was so irresistible, they had to use it. But save it; save it for a big ticket Cadillac of gynoids.

"Sh-she'll be th-the Mother of a new Product Line...the Scarlet Woman series... or something like that...ohhhhh....." He'd already put in to HR a request to fly out a dedicated technician to get Oh-Five in the best shape possible. Something he'd learned from his days on the Companion side, smarter gynoids considered it an honor to have a single tech only for them. He'd found the perfect choice too; Wendy Tajitt. Female fleshware specialist with experience on this very unit in question.

"Her own Product Line? Just like that?"

"N-noooo... sh-she'll have to prove herself... prove the Golden Apple system. I'm taking her... oh, to screw the Board of Directors! M-most powerful men in the company will be shooting their sperm inside of her...her pussy... her ass... her m-mouth!"

"You're the only man I need shooting sperm in my mouth." Messalina buzzed lovingly.

And he did. Oh God, he did!

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