Anne-droid

"Mark wants me to be a robot," Anne said, while munching on her toast and marmalade.

"Okay," I answered, wondering just how she expected me to respond.

"It's about a scientist who lives alone, but with a life-like robot he's built," she added, sipping coffee.

I took a sip of mine.

"Sounds interesting," I said, half-heartedly. The drama group that Anne had joined puts on some pretty esoteric pieces. Deeply meaningful crap.

"It is," she said. "It's an extended metaphor about relationships."

"Just a two-hander?" I asked.

"This time," she nodded. "Mark's directing and playing the scientist himself."

I was not surprised. I had met Mark, and would not trust him as far as I could throw him. He was the kind of guy who would be looking to get inside of Anne's panties, and not just Anne. Any female under forty in his drama group. Not that I was going to say that to her. I liked that she enjoyed amateur dramatics, even if it was not my thing. She needed the outlet. My role, as her husband, was to feign interest, and give her all the support a wife deserves.

"Tough gig," I said. "Carrying off a full length play. Just the two of you, I mean."

"It's not full length," my wife said. "It's a double bill this time. Two fifty-minute pieces. The other is an office worker having a breakdown. Mark felt the rest of the group should be working on something too. He's directing that as well."

"So when are they playing?" I asked her.

"In ten weeks' time," she said. "Will you come?"

"Of course," I said. "You know I never miss any of the plays you're in."

"So you don't mind?" she asked.

"Why would I mind?" I asked her in return, puzzled at the question.

She looked at me, and shrugged.

"I don't know," she said. "But you're fine with it,.. and you'll come and see it,.. yes..?"

"Of course I'll come," I said.

And that was that, or so I thought.

**********

"So how's it going," I asked Anne, after she had taken off her coat and come and sat beside me on the sofa, while the television news was on. Not just sitting, nestling, close, my arm around her, the way we always do.

"It's good," she said. "Mark's organised a photo-shoot next week, to get the posters printed. It should be fun. I'll be in body paint and everything."

Boris Johnson was saying something meaningless about how he was tackling climate change. It was all his usual bluster couched in Latin ad-libs and lame jokes. The guy was a walking lame joke.

"Sounds good," I said, half listening, but more just pleased to have her back beside me. Her twice weekly rehearsals for the show were eating into the time we like to spend together.

I should have paid attention.

**********

I heard her in the hall before she came into the lounge, a little sheepish, very self-conscious about the way she looked.

"You drove back, like that?" I laughed.

Every inch of skin above the neckline of her sweatshirt top, was silver. Her forehead, nose, cheeks, jaw and chin, her ears and neck as well. Only her hair was untouched. It was still its lustrous, natural blonde. I thought of the Tin Man, from Oz, but that was too unfair. He was straw and metal, clumsy and not great to look at. Anne is blonde and striking, although right then she had this silver sheen.

"I thought I'd wait and take a shower here," she said, giving me her apologetic half-smile.

Which was when I took in her hands and wrists, as silver as her face.

"I guess you'll need to," I said, "if they've sprayed your arms and legs the way they've done your face. How was it?"

She joined me on the sofa, incongruous in her top and jeans, her shoes left in the hall, her feet and ankles the same spray-silver, but she snuggled close, as always, and felt as good as always too.

"Nerve-wracking," she said. "I mean, having to undress in front of everyone, and then get sprayed, and then pose as a robot. But I guess I took the role, so I didn't have much choice."

I laughed again. There was something amusing about Anne having committed herself, and then finding it that bit embarrassing at having to change into her costume and get the parts of her that were still exposed, spray painted.

"You could have used the ladies as a changing room," I suggested.

"Well, I could have," she said. "But there would not have been much point. I still had to get sprayed all over."

That got my attention.

"You're serious?" I asked her. "So what about the parts covered by your costume? What are you wearing anyway? Some kind of leotard, or what?"

Time stopped. Then Anne turned her head to look up at me.

"She's a female robot," she said. "That's crucial to the role."

"Okay," I said. "And..?"

"And Mark thought it would play better if I don't wear a costume," my wife said.

My stomach dropped.

"Tell me you're not playing it naked," I said, already knowing the stark truth.

"Do you mind?" Anne asked me.

"Do I have a choice?" I asked her. "I'm assuming the photo-shoot is done and dusted now, and there'll be pictures of you on the posters pretty soon."

She nodded.

"With a skullcap, to hide my hair and give me a robotic head," she added.

"Makes sense," I said, trying in my head to make sense of what seemed a bit extreme to me, especially for an amateur dramatics group who performed in the local community centre. The audience was bound to include some of our friends and neighbours.

But, cuddling Anne, I felt a nice sensation in my groin. Her being naked on the stage was proving a strange kind of a turn on. Which confused my head, since Anne being naked with other people was totally wrong. Unless it was an all girls' spa day. Or a doctor's appointment. Not in front of two hundred people in our local community centre's hall.

I was also thinking that, right then, hidden by just her sweatshirt and jeans, my wife was silver, the same silver of her face and hands and feet. Not just her legs and arms, but if she had been spray painted naked, than her breasts were silver. So would be her back, her waist, her butt, and then I started wondering about her cunt.

"You did wear a bikini bottom, didn't you?" I said. "I mean, one of those tie string things, or something?"

"You mean a thong?" she said.

"Okay," I said. "I mean a thong."

The terminology used for women's underwear was not exactly the point. The point was whether my wife now had a silver cunt. My cock needed to know.

"No," Anne said, just like that. "Mark wanted me exactly as I am. My character's a robot, but a female one, that his character has made, with all the female attributes that any man would want."

"So your pubic hair is painted silver?" I asked her.

I tried to picture it. Silver curls, where hers was naturally blonde.

"Robots don't have pubic hair," my wife said, dead pan.

Which made sense. Which my cock responded to. It was looking forward to exploring the smooth silver feel that a robot would have between its legs. Which my head reacted to as well, but in a different way. Naked is one thing. Shaved is yet another.

"You've shaved?" I asked, unsure whether it was my cock, or my head, putting the words into my mouth. Curious, turned on, or shocked and concerned, that my wife had exposed herself to this extent, just for some dumb play.

"I should have," Anne said. "I should have realised before I left for the photo-shoot. Fortunately Mark realised I might not have done, and he had brought a razor with him."

My cock jumped, suddenly alert to its territory having been trespassed upon.

"So who shaved you?" I asked her, to be sure.

"He did," she said, as if this was nothing more than the guy helping a woman on with her coat. "It seemed easier.

"I bet it did," I said.

So now I knew. Underneath her sweatshirt and jeans, my wife was not just painted silver, from neck to cunt, and right down to the soles of her feet. She was also shaved silvery smooth by a silken smooth, amateur director, who clearly had no boundaries when it came to working with another guy's wife.

Thinking about this Mark, my thoughts were turning blue, swearwords and blasphemies exploding in my brain. Thoughts of what I would like to do to the guy. Thoughts of what I would like to do to Anne as well, for letting him do something as seriously intimate with her, as shave her smooth. Not quite such violent thoughts about her, though. She was, I knew, the naïve innocent in this. But just the same. There is a level of naivety that should be punished, and my cock was ready for the task.

"Okay," I said," so show me, then."

She turned her head and looked at me, her innocent, blue eyes coming alight with the excitement of playing such a daring role.

"I've got the skullcap home with me," she said. "And my contacts."

**********

"Would,.. you,.. like,.. more,.. wine..?" Anne asked me.

One word at a time. Her face impassive. Her eyes unblinking, although they were trained on me.

"You're kidding!" I laughed. "That's how you have to speak? The answer's 'yes', by the way."

She had left me on the sofa, and had changed upstairs, if that is how you describe taking off a sweatshirt and jeans, putting on the silver, bald-look skullcap, and inserting contact lenses in her eyes. Back downstairs, she had walked across to me from the lounge doorway, naked, gleaming silver, back straight, limbs moving stiffly, head held erect, though not quite as erect as my cock.

The wine I had been drinking when she returned home from the photo-shoot was on our coffee table, the glass in my hand dangerously close to being empty. Which is why the domestic robot standing by the coffee table was asking me the question. It was programmed to perfection.

One thing I had to concede, my previous irritation with the whole robot performance in the play having been replaced by curiosity as to just how Anne would look when she came down. The fact is that she looked incredible.

The silver skull cap, in particular, had sealed the transformation, from human into automaton. A very sexy automaton, with perfect breasts, slim waist, smooth pubis, all shining silver, as were her legs and arms.

"Fuck!" I said, "You look amazing!", while disbelieving just what I was seeing.

Her beautiful blonde hair was now tucked underneath the skullcap, which itself was painted silver, like her face, and overlapped enough there appeared to be no join. She looked like any android you would see on television, the contact lenses she had sais she had brought home, silver where her eyes would have been white, and instead of soft blue irises, there were just wide black holes into her computer brain.

Androids, however, tend to be gender neutral. Anne was far from that. Instead of the robot flat chested look, with token nipples just to look the part, my wife's breasts were, are, full, and no amount of silver spray-paint could disguise her nipple stubs, or the more crinkled texture of the wide areolas that surround them.

Where androids tend to be slender, androgenous, Anne is most definitely feminine. Below average height for a woman, not quite petite but close, her waist pleasantly narrow, her stomach flat, contrasting beautifully with her full breasts and hips, she is close to hour-glass in body shape. But it was her pubis that got me seriously turned on. The shaved look suited her, at least the robot Anne, although one aspect of that look, if that was how she would appear on stage, might not be quite what in keeping with the robot role.

I always knew that my wife's lips protrude. Husbands know that kind of thing. I have been down there more than often enough, teasing her pubic copse to either side and tonguing her. Taking her all the way. Opening those labia as part of the process, to get closer access to her clit, and delve deeper in her vaginal void. Sucking on them too. Teeth teasing them. Masticating gently. Driving her insane.

But around the bedroom, her pubic hair disguised them, sheilding them from view. Shaved, the camouflage of pubic growth removed, her labia were suddenly exposed, protruding noticeably, visibly suspended in that open triangle right below her pussy where her thighs curve in. A generous inch of vaginal curtain flesh, painted silver, like the rest of her, as they would have to be.

On stage, those labia could get an interesting audience reaction. Not quite the sexless automaton look. And this was not the professional theatre, where the audiences would be anonymous, invisible in blackness, hidden by the lighting from the gantry and the spots. It would be a low stage in a community hall, with seating starting feet from where the actors would perform. There were going to be a lot of people, some of whom we knew, who would see those protruding labia, and lodge in their minds, my wife's anatomy, the private becoming very public, irreversibly exposed.

But Anne really did look amazing. I was impressed. So was my cock, which was now pulsing in appreciation. Which made me think that there might be something else I would prefer instead of sipping wine, or while I sipped, but as a prelude to the main event. So as she moved with the same robotic stiffness in her limbs as when she had first walked back in, to pour the wine, I added to my previous answer.

My robot wife had offered me more wine. I had another request, or, given that she was now mine to command, an instruction, to be obeyed.

"Actually," I said, "When you've finished pouring, I'd like you to kneel down and give me head."

Robots are not supposed to smile, but Anne smiled. She poured some wine, stiffly but with calculated precision. Set down the bottle. Moved in front of me. Knelt on the floor. Silver breasts betraying a softness that could not be metallic by the way they swayed seductively, as her more convincingly robotic silver arms reached out in angular movements all their own, silver fingers opening my fly, slipping inside, easing out my already rigid cock.

She held its solidity, while staring up at me, her contact lenses rendering her eyes impassive, blank, emotionless, and almost cold, but that look conveyed her robot readiness to comply. Then she stiffly leant forwards, opened her silver lips, and took my cock head inside the softness of her mouth.

"Oh, fuck!" I heard myself sigh, at the exquisite feelings she was inducing, and the amazing picture she presented, naked, silver, android, yet deliciously sensual as she sucked my cock.

It took some effort to keep focused on the fact that this was my wife giving me such incredible head. The contact lenses she was wearing defined her as a robot. No human has such black holes for their irises, or metallic silver eye-balls. Even her eyelids, and her lashes, were now silver. The effect was literally out of this world, an alien female, from Stephen Speilberg, here to fuck the inhabitants of earth.

Anne can give head like the best of them. She can take it deep, can press her nose and lips against my groin, relax her throat, and swallow down the head, and rock herself back and forth, mouth fucking me, bringing me to the point of no return. She also knows just when that point will come, and knows to stop in time.

"You,...must,... fuck,... me,.. now," her robot voice instructed, as she leaned back, revealing once again her silver breasts and nipple stubs.

She rose from where she had been squatting, walked stiffly round the sofa, went to the table that we use for formal dining, and leant across it, legs parted wide. I followed, my cock all too eager to slide into her android cunt and fuck it rigid.

Straight silver legs, forming an inverted vee, deliciously curved silver buttock flesh, and slender back, waited subserviently for me to make use of the cunt that was being offered so invitingly. Her incredible silver labia parted to the pressure of my cock head, while I gripped her by her pelvis, to thrust on deeper, pulling her against me. Her other hole winked back, a dark star in a silver valley. Whoever had held the spray can, painting her, had done their job to perfection. They obviously had enjoyed their work.

For just a moment, I pictured Anne, legs apart, while that bastard Mark spray painted her freshly shaved pubis, and those protruding lips of labial flesh, fingering them, pulling them, to ensure that every part was sliver sprayed. Then her turning, one leg raised onto a chair, while fucking Mark knelt down and aimed the paint spray into her butt crack, assuming that it had been him. Of course it had. As if he would have delegated so pleasurable a task to any others in the group.

But now was not the time to let my thoughts of him get in the way. Right then, I was fucking my first alien, and alien cunt is every bit as good to fuck as that of any earthling.

Her cunt was wet. Slickly slippery to fuck. Her movements and her speech may have been robotic, but her cunt gave away just how human the real woman was. Or how similar to human anatomy, that of alien women is. My cock head slid to the full depth of her in one easy thrust, as easily as a thumb penetrating a generously buttered anal hole. Vaginal muscles twitched and played on it, giving the lie to any mechanical interior of this android. The outer layer might be of a robot, but underneath that metallic layer, all was deliciously penetrable flesh and bone.

I withdrew, thrust back inside, withdrew again, rammed home my cock again, fucking my alien wife steadily for a several minutes, luxuriating in how her cunt felt, the sensations in my cock head as I glided through her, and the tightness of her vaginal muscles round my shaft.

Anne, meanwhile, did not move a muscle. Her butt flesh gave way each time I thrust against it, but apart from that she was immobile. Her torso stayed exactly as it was, bent over the polished oak surface of our dining table, her head not moving, her legs splayed, but motionless. I paused, to see if anything was wrong.

"Please,.. do,.. not,.. stop... I,.. was,.. enjoying,.. that.."

Practising her role.

I hoped that her role did not include Mark fucking her. Not even simulated. I had met the guy at a previous performance that the group had put on. One of those full of themselves guys, who I had no doubt enjoyed the power-rush of directing as much as he enjoyed acting. Six foot something, rakishly slender, jeans and white tee-shirt and tousled black hair over days-old stubble on his jaw.

Something about Anne's private performance, the compliant stillness of her silver torso on our dining table, was a total turn on. The blood flow that causes an erection seemed to increase in pressure. I felt my cockhead bulge, my shaft become yet more solid. I did exactly as robotic Anne had asked of me, and resumed my fucking.

My brain switched gear, however. Imagining rehearsals in the private room. Just two of them. My wife, naked with this guy, enunciating her lines mechanically, programmed by the writer of the script to do just what she was told. Kneeling in front of her creator, the solitary scientist, offering her mouth, and sucking on his cock until he came. Robots do as is required of them, no passion needed, no love or romance, nothing. Tell them what to do, and they comply.

My wife is not a robot. Unless robots can feel pain. Or simulate the sense of nerves reacting to a palm struck against a silver butt, and cry out in a replicated scream. Because Anne gasped, when I landed a stinging smack against her butt flesh. Punishment for taking on the role. For offering her body, which was not hers to give, but mine, to be an artifice for others, an object in a pretentious playlet, a piece of scenery, a naked prop, a compliant puppet, pandering to her director's whims.

She cried out again, and shuddered, when I used the other hand, and landed on real flesh, not metal, just painted, that was all, and the impact of my palm against it, distending it, sending real sensations through her spinal cord to her far too compliant brain, in punishment for having let another man not only shave her smooth, but paint her too.