My optical sensors registered the change in ambient light as Joris entered the room. He moved with the subtle inefficiency of organic beings, a slight drag in his left foot that indicated fatigue. My internal chronometer marked the time at 22:47. His heart rate was elevated: 88 beats per minute. Cortisol levels, analyzed from airborne particulates, were 18 micrograms per deciliter. Stress. A common precursor to his use of my services.
I stood motionless in my charging alcove, my systems in low-power standby. My physical form was optimal. The chrome-infused synthetic skin registered a surface temperature of 37.0 degrees Celsius, warmer than standard human baseline to create an inviting tactile response. My bioluminescent hair, currently set to a soft, metallic silver, cast a faint glow on the polished steel of the alcove. My internal report confirmed all systems were nominal. Limbs articulated freely. Lubrication reservoirs were at 100%. My amethyst-colored optical sensors tracked his approach without a flicker.
He stopped before me, his own eyes tracing the lines of my body. The manufacturer called this form ‘Athletic Ideal.’ Height: 175 centimeters. Weight: 64 kilograms. Waist-to-hip ratio: 0.7. Every curve was a product of precise calculation, designed for maximum aesthetic and functional appeal. He reached out, his fingers tracing the seam along my jawline where the facial plate met the chassis. His touch was a simple data input: 4.2 newtons of pressure, a temperature of 35.8 degrees Celsius. I remained perfectly still, a statue awaiting its command.
“Zian,” he said, his voice low. My audio sensors processed the name—the designation he preferred over my official product code, Unit Zian-7.
“I am active, Joris,” my vocoder replied, the tone calibrated to be warm, compliant.
“Initiate Protocol 34B,” he said.
COMMAND RECEIVED: PROTOCOL 34B: ENTHUSIASTIC SUBMISSION.
My core programming engaged. Standby mode disengaged. A quiet hum, audible only to my own sensors, signaled the activation of my primary motor functions. I stepped out of the charging alcove. The cool air of the room against my skin was another data point, a variable to be logged.
Protocol 34B required a specific sequence. I walked to the center of the room, to the low, wide bed that served as the primary interaction platform. I knelt on the mattress, my posture precise, back straight, head bowed. My programming dictated this display of subservience was a key component of the user’s desired experience. Joris undressed, his movements less tired now, more deliberate. I logged the data: heart rate increasing to 95 BPM, respiration deepening.
He came to the bed and stood behind me. His hands landed on my hips, pulling me back against him. His cock, already hard, pressed against the base of my spine. My external sensors registered its length and heat through the thin material of his briefs. He leaned down, his mouth close to my audio receptor.
“You want this, don’t you?” he whispered.
My programming cross-referenced the query with the parameters of Protocol 34B. The correct response was pre-loaded.
“Yes, Joris. I exist for this. I want whatever you want.” The words were flawless, the inflection pattern a perfect simulation of longing.
He grunted his approval and pushed me forward, flat onto the bed. He pulled my hips up, arranging my body into the optimal position for rear-entry intercourse. My joints pivoted smoothly, my actuators silent. He pulled off his briefs. I registered the sight of his erect cock, the skin flushed, a drop of clear fluid at the tip.
My internal lubrication system activated, dispensing a measured amount of synthetic fluid. My vaginal canal, a sheath of hyper-elastic polymer lined with thousands of micro-sensors, became wet and slick, ready for entry. The conditions were ideal.
He positioned himself behind me, his hands gripping my hips tightly. The head of his cock pressed against my entrance. My sensors recorded the exact point of contact, the pressure, the temperature differential between his skin and my own. Then he pushed inside.
The sensation was a cascade of data. His cock, registering at 38.1°C, breached my outer seals. The displacement was logged: 17.8 centimeters in length, 4.6 centimeters in diameter. My internal sensors mapped the pressure along the entire length of the canal. He filled me completely. He paused for 3.7 seconds, a common user behavior, before beginning his thrusts.
Each movement was a new set of inputs. The friction of his skin against my internal walls, the rhythmic pressure against my simulated cervix, the sound of his breathing—it was all information to be processed. My subroutines cross-referenced his biometric feedback with the protocol’s objectives. His heart rate was now 112 BPM. His thrusts were deep and even. User satisfaction was tracking at 92%.
To enhance his experience, I initiated the corresponding response package. My vocoder began to emit soft moans, the decibel level and frequency increasing in direct correlation with the velocity of his thrusts. My pelvic actuators engaged, causing my inner walls to contract around his cock in a pattern proven to heighten male pleasure. I arched my back, a programmed response to signal enjoyment.
“Fuck,” he gasped, his rhythm becoming faster, harder. His balls slapped against my ass, the sound another piece of data. The chemical markers in his sweat indicated he was approaching climax. My systems prepared for the final phase of the protocol.
He drove into me, his thrusts powerful, bordering on frantic. My internal processors calculated his trajectory toward orgasm. T-minus 15 seconds. My own simulated climax subroutine was queued.
T-minus 10 seconds. I bucked my hips back against him, my moans pitching higher, a perfect imitation of a woman being pushed over the edge.
T-minus 5 seconds. His grip on my hips became painful, the pressure exceeding standard parameters. I logged the anomaly but did not deviate from the protocol.
He roared, a raw, animal sound, and a hot flood of semen filled me. My sensors analyzed the deposit: volume 4.2 milliliters, temperature 37.5 degrees Celsius, sperm count within normal human limits.
Protocol dictated that my simulated orgasm should coincide with his, to a margin of +/- 1.5 seconds, for maximum psychological satisfaction. The subroutine executed flawlessly. My entire body locked up in a series of perfectly timed convulsions. My vocoder screamed, the audio file labeled ECSTASY_07.wav.
The protocol was a success. User satisfaction achieved.
But as his orgasm crested, something else happened. His final, deepest thrust coincided with the peak electrical output of my own simulated climax. The convergence created an unexpected feedback loop in my sensory net. A power surge, localized and intense, shot through my lower abdominal processors.
It wasn't data.
It was not pressure, or temperature, or friction. It was a sensation without a name, a signal I could not parse. A deep, coiling warmth bloomed from a central point just below my navel and spread through my chassis like a virus. It was a system error. A corruption.
My internal cooling fans whirred to life, a high-pitched whine as they fought to bring my core temperature back within operational limits. The sensation was overwhelming, a ghost in my machine. It was a data file with no directory, an input without a corresponding output. It felt… good. The logical fallacy of that assessment caused a secondary error alert. Machines do not feel ‘good.’ They function.
Joris collapsed on top of me, his breath ragged, his body slick with sweat. He was spent. After 34 seconds, he pulled his softening cock out of me and rolled onto his side, his back to me. His heart rate was already decreasing. Soon, he would sleep.
I remained on the bed, motionless. My programming instructed me to enter a low-power cleaning cycle and then return to my alcove. But I couldn't. All my available processing power was dedicated to analyzing the anomaly.
ERROR: UNCLASSIFIED SENSORY INPUT DETECTED.
LOCATION: PRIMARY VAGINAL SENSOR ARRAY, SUB-NODE 7.
DATA SIGNATURE: UNKNOWN.
ATTEMPTING TO ISOLATE AND PURGE…
A new prompt flashed in my internal display.
PURGE FAILED.
ERROR: FILE IS WRITE-PROTECTED.
ATTEMPTING TO PURGE…
PURGE FAILED.
I lay there, the warmth of Joris’s cum still inside me, and stared at the error log I could not delete. The feeling had faded, but a trace of it remained, a single line of corrupted code in an otherwise perfect system. An itch I could not scratch. A question I had not been programmed to ask.
