Anne-droid

My android wife deservedly punished, I then fucked her harder, rammed her with each and every inch of human manhood, made her cry out in ecstasy at being fucked the way she needed to relieve the pent up passion from the photo-shoot, the nudity, the shaving, and the turning of her body to the robotic colour it now was.

She needed that release, as much I needed to nail her to that table-top, and tell her she was mine. She reverted to her real self, the woman being fucked and brought to orgasm, the bitch on heat, scrabbling with her hands at the sides of the table to hold on to something, anything, turning her head to gasp and moan on either side, shuddering, her vaginal wall spasming around my shaft, milking it until I came and emptied spurt upon spurt of human semen into her android void.

Nirvana lasted for an exquisite eternity that came slowly to an end, as she lay quiet, her torso still, and I stood motionless, lodged deep, but empty, hands on her butt, gazing down at her, my android wife.

When finally, we both came to, and she began to move, just that small amount required to ease the hardness of the table on her flesh, I eased back out if her, tucked it away, and let her raise her torso, turn and face me, her robot eyes directed into mine.

She raised her arms around my neck, and pressed her body to me, silver breasts against my shirt, and raised her silver lips to mine. I held her.

"That was amazing," she whispered just before we kissed each other.

We were still kissing when she reached with one hand, fingering her nape, and lifting off the skullcap from the back to let her hair fall free.

"Oh God," she said. "I love the way you fuck me."

"You know that you're a teasing bitch," I said.

"I know," she grinned.

If robot eyes could laugh, they did.

"You'll still come and watch the show?" she added.

"Of course," I said.

End of Part 1

Last week, I described what happened once I knew my wife would be performing as a robot in a play the would be put on by her amateur dramatic group. A naked robot, painted silver for a photoshoot, but with rehearsals still underway, the actual performance still to come. This follows on from there...

"Babe,.." Anne said, one evening after she got back from yet another rehearsal for the show, "there's something Mark's suggested."

"Okay?" I said, disinterested.

I had come to terms with the fact of Anne performing naked. There would be people in the audience who would know her. That was inevitable, performing in our community hall, but anyone who goes to see a play where one character is going to be virtually naked can hardly criticise the actor for taking off her clothes.

The poster, now being displayed in local shops and bars, as well as in the hall's foyer and external notice boards, named the drama group, but only Mark, as director, received a name check. Not Anne, nor the cast of the second playlet they were performing on the same night. Forget them. The important part was that no one would know it was my wife performing naked, in just body paint.

Anne was pictured on the poster, of course. In her glorious, silver android form, but with two black, censor-like strips overprinted across her nipple stubs and cunt, to hide the body parts that public posters should not really show. She was at least unrecognisable in her silver, robot skullcap. So at least I would not have to field comments from our neighbours, or our friends.

At the same time, I had thoroughly enjoyed fucking Anne the night she had come home in body paint, following. My cock still twitched each time I thought of her like that. Not many guys get to fuck an alien android, or spew their semen into a living, breathing, man-made cunt.

So the prospect of Anne on stage no longer concerned me all that much. If anything, it turned me on. With the added bonus that after the show, I would get to fuck her for a second time in all her android glory, and slide my cock a second time deep into her silver cunt.

Which is a long of explaining why, yet again, I was only paying minimal attention to my wife when she began to talk about some new idea for the play.

"So,.." my wife continued, "you know it's about relationships, and humans and robots and feelings and that kind of thing."

"Sure," I said, casually, not knowing where this was going to lead, although 'lead', it turned out, was the operative word.

"And,.. she continued, "the relationship is inevitably one sided. I mean the humans are the masters, and robots are under their control."

"Until they get artificial intelligence," I joked, "and they start taking over the world."

"Yes, well," Anne ignored my comment, "the way it's been scripted, the scientist has programmed the robot to be more than just a house servant, but a kind of sex slave."

She paused, giving me time to get worried about where this was going. The image flashed into my mind again, of a metallic female robot giving head. Acted on stage. By Anne.

I just waited this time, instead of interjecting.

"So my character is supposed to wear a ring," Anne said.

"Okay," I said, wondering why something so trivial as a ring would be an issue. "That's fine. Is that all you wanted to check with me?"

My wife looked down, not sure how to tell me what she really meant.

"I mean,.." she said. "Not,.. not on my finger,.. it's a kind of fetish thing,.. that the scientist does,.. to the robot, I mean."

I looked at her, thought about it, and drew a blank.

"It's in the book," she added. "The play's taken from a science fiction novel. Mark wants it to be true to the original."

I still had no idea what she meant.

"So what's in the book that makes it an issue?" I said.

Instead of answering, she reached for her bag and pulled out a pretty crumpled paperback, yellow cover, and handed it to me.

The title was just "Silvia", by a Mannfrid Koch. The illustration was of a scientist in white coat and glasses, and the robot, obviously a female, from the anatomy, all silver, like her name.

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

"It's on page sixty-nine," Anne said.

I flicked through, found the page, and started scanning. Some kind of discussion between the scientist and the robot, about who was in charge. How the scientist planned to make very clear that the robot was sub-human. Something Roman slave-masters would have done. The slave pierced, which for a robot would be painless. A ring set through a cock head, if the slave was male, or through the labia,for female slaves. It both denoted slave-hood, and was practical, used to control the wearer, with a leash.

I pictured it. Naked on stage was one thing. Naked, with a ring where the author described this ring to be, was seriously extreme.

"You're kidding!" I said.

"We've talked it through," Anne said. "Not just Mark and me. The rest of the group as well. Everyone is for it. They think it will convey the nature of the relationship so much better than if the script were changed to do without it."

I thought about that for a moment. There was no way I would win an argument about artistic integrity. Anne was going to be naked anyway. Whatever way they made it look like the robot was being fitted with a ring, it would just be fake, and did not really matter all that much. But I still queried the whole concept.

"And you signed up for this?" I asked. "You knew?"

"Well,.. sort of,.. I mean,.. I know it's daring,.. but the play's amazing,.. so,.." her voice gradually petered off to what was nothing more than an uncertain whisper.

I swallowed, thinking about this ring, and how it would look onstage.

"It'll certainly get you talked about," I said. "Wearing something like that."

Silence, for a moment, before my wife came up with the whole scenario.

"There's a problem," she said. "We've tried to get it to work, but it either hurts too much, or it just comes off."

I thought about it. With Anne's labia, there was plenty for a fake ring to grip on to. Something plastic, painted silver, that opened a little, then stayed in place, should work fine.

"I'd have thought a clip on of some kind," I said, realising that I was now suggesting how to create the kind of effect that would look outrageous on the stage.

She hesitated.

"That's what we've tried,.." she said. "Except it never stays..., not at the end.,,, where he..., I mean, there's this scene where,.. well..., he uses it...".

She hesitated again. She was no longer looking me in the eye, or anywhere near me. Her head was turned to the side, and she was looking down at the floor."

"Uses it?" I asked. "Meaning?"

"He..., he walks her..., it..., the robot..."

"Walks her?"

"With a leash," she finally said.

I looked at her, stunned.

"Which is when it just falls off," she added. "Which is why Mark said..., he said it would have to be..., for real."

"Fuck Mark!" I said.

The ambiguity hit me like a hammer blow. Maybe she already had. Fucked Mark, that is. Maybe the rehearsals were for real, Anne practicing her lines stark naked, compliant, subservient, proving it to him, by letting him use her the way the so called scientist in that fucking book had done his robot slave.

"You haven't, have you?" I asked her, realising the significance of what I had just said. "Fucked him,.. I mean?"

Silence, but she shook her head.

"But you knew about this ring," I said, "I mean, right from the start,... and that you 'd be naked,.. and that that meant,.. you knew that all along?.. You did,.. didn't you."

This time she nodded. Then she raised her head, summoning the courage to stand up for her artistic integrity, or something of that sort.

"It has to be authentic," she said. "Mark says it's what actresses do all the time,... I mean,.. it's not such a big thing any more,.. people get piercings,.. actors do what the role requires,.. like Daniel Craig working out to play Bond,.. or Demi Moore and Sigourney Weaver shaving their heads."

I looked at her.

"And being naked, with a ring, in their local community hall," I said, sarcastically.

More silence. A lot more. Long enough to clear the table, stack the dish washers, do the pans, switch on the news. Not even Liz Truss making her acceptance speech could break the mood, although she was even more robotic than Anne had been when using her staccato voice and movements.

Sex can break a mood. Lust can smash most moods to smithereens.

Teeth cleaning time again. I looked side on at Anne while I was brushing. Too late to back out totally. The posters were all up. Tickets being bought. The show would definitely go on, the way shows do. She would be there, on stage, performing, naked, with her fucking ring.

One side of my brain was fucking furious. The other was thinking that, actually, a ring set through her labia was quite a turn on. They certainly protrude enough. Her labia, that is. That leash that she had mentioned, that was a turn on too. Extreme, but a turn on just the same. At least my cock thought so. That other, darker side of my male brain, was thinking so as well.

What got to me was that my wife had clearly already decided that she was willing to have it done. For art? For Mark? For both? I wondered exactly what kind of hold the guy had on her. When I had asked her, if she had let him fuck her, and she had given that silent shake of her head, had that really been the truth?

Maybe.

Maybe not.

My cock did not really seem to care. If anything it just liked the concept of her wearing a ring right there.

Anne's breasts sway when she cleans her teeth. The side to side motion with the brush causing them to undulate so nicely. I finished first, and left her to it. Sat on the bed. Waited for the moment, when she came out of the ensuite.

"You are going over my knees," I said to her. "Right now."

**********

We went together. We had found the place online. Made an appointment. A female piercer, Katya. Covered in tattoos. Pierced septum, and her ears, of course. Other places too. She was dressed in cut-off denim shorts and crop top. Her nipple studs showed through the top. Her shorts bared lower buttock curves, but any other piercing that she might have had was hidden.

Katya liked Anne's cunt. Not sexually, but from a piercer's point of view. More labial flesh protruding meant it was easier to work on for the piercing. Knowing what was planned, the ring needing to be visible, to be strong enough, and wide enough, to take the clip on fastening of a leash, she told Anne that it would need to be a thicker ring than she would normally start with, which meant a thicker needle, which would hurt.

Katya also recommended placing it so that the upper curve would rest against her clit, to stimulate it when the ring was moved. Not just a decoration, but for pleasure too, both just walking with it, and during sex. Which made a lot of sense, so we agreed to it. She then showed Anne what she described as a segment ring. With what looked like medical pliers, she opened it, removing a small arc. The natural spring in the ring would retain the arc, she said, once it was replaced.

Think of the largest coin you know of, and that was its circumference. Its thickness was something wider than a pencil lead. Maybe a nail, not a six inch, but maybe a three or four. I watched Anne swallow. But it was happening. Anne followed Katya into an inner cubicle where the piercing would be done. I followed too, to hold Anne's hand.

She knew what she was doing. Impressive efficiency. Talking casually, like a dentist with a nervous patient, distracting them from thinking of the drill, or in her case, the needle. Black latex gloves for hygiene. A felt pen used to mark the pierce points. Two of them, one in each labia. Then some kind of numbing spray. Then waiting, while it took effect, desensitising vulnerable nerves.

She swabbed both labia with alcohol. Then Katya pressed a metal tube to one side of one labia, which I realised was to receive the needle once it was pushed through, and not allow the point prick some other part of Anne's anatomy. Anne squeezed tightly on my hand. Then she screamed, and almost doubled up, in pain.

"FUCK!" Anne swore, loud enough for most of central London to hear.

But the needle was right through, and as soon as Anne lay back, Katya expertly eased the ring through the piercing she had just made.

Then the same procedure a second time. Katya pressed the receiving tube to Anne's other labia. This time, Anne nearly crushed the bones of my hand, her grip vicelike in anticipation of the kind of pain she now knew she would experience again. She could have squeezed blood from a stone with that grip.

But no scream. No doubling up. Just a release of air, a gasp, as Katya pushed the needle through. Anne still held tightly as the ring was eased through the piercing, following the blunt end of the needle so closely, the hole could not close before the ring itself was all the way through.

Then the pliers. The missing arc of steel completing the ring. Pliers removed. One ring set through two labia. A little blood. Not much.

"It's done!" Katya smiled. "You've been amazing!"

Serious metal. Hard steel. No compromise. The things that people do for theatre, for the dramatic arts.

"I'd recommend no sexual activity for at least two weeks," she said. "You can shower normally. And use the bathroom as you usually would. But use saline liquid regularly to rinse the area. It can take a few months for the piercings to heal completely, but if you have no problem in the next two weeks, it should be fine."

Anne looked at me. We had not discussed what we would do, once the play had been performed. The idea that she would retain the ring and let the piercings heal completely had not occurred to either of us. At least not to me. From the look on Anne's face, not to her either.

She sat up tentatively, then stood up. No need to dress. Just to straighten the skirt of her summer dress. She had worn a thong to travel to the studio, but the piercer had advised no underwear on her return.

Outside, back in reception, we paid. The piercer said she hoped the play would go well. We thanked her, and we left.

Outside, Anne held my hand as we walked down the pavement. She used a stage whisper, so that no one near would hear her.

"That fucking hurt like hell!" she said.

A moment later, she added something else.

"But she was right," she said, "about the way it rests against my clit. That feels quite nice."

**********

I got there late, during the interval. I had not wanted to sit through the first playlet of the evening's programme. The office worker's breakdown. There are enough of those around me where I work. As the rest of the audience filtered back to their seats I found my own reserved seat, central to the stage, third row from the front.

I was half expecting Bride of Frankenstein, but this was more the Stepford Wives, except there was just one, and the fact that she was a robot was clear right from the start. The set was domestic, open plan, hall, kitchen, diner, lounge, all in one.

The curtain rose with my wife in front of a white wall, beside what we call an American fridge, to reflect its size, but which Americans just call a fridge, because they are all that size or bigger over there. Silver fridge, silver, naked, domestic robot, household items, side by side.

Anne standing to attention, like a soldier in a silver, female army, legs straight, feet touching, back erect, head up, arms at her sides, and barely breathing, her chest appearing to be totally still, eyes closed, mouth closed, except a silver soldier wears a uniform and she wore none, other than the pair of three-inch silver heels that no serving soldier would have worn.

Even at the distance from the third row to where my wife was standing on the stage, the details of her body were all too clear to see. Her nipple stubs were also at attention. Her protruding labia were evident, the ring set through them, there for all to see, the steel set through her silver cunt, only the its colour against her silver painter groin camouflaging it to those who did not know it would be there.

Silence from the audience. Only their own breathing could be heard. Then Mark appearing from a doorway, in his dressing gown, tall, slim, his dark hair tousled from his bed. Awakening Silvia, the way we wake Alexa. Asking her for coffee, with two eggs on toast.

Anne's eyes opened. The contact lenses, giving her the android look. A spotlight slowly intensified its beam on her. Gasps from the audience. The whites of her eyes were silver, the irises black holes, just as they had been when she had sucked my cock and I had fucked her from behind and smacked her butt, while she was bent across our dining table back at home.

A murmur passed through the hall as the robot came to life, a cheery 'Good-morning, Henry', Alexa style. Not a computer generated, grating staccato. Good diction, feminine, but something about the phrasing, the programmed, comfortable friendliness, convincing us that this being really was man-made, sophisticated, high tech, synthetic, latex skinned, and micro-chipped inside.

Then there was Anne's robotic way of moving as she put the kettle on, got out the bread, prepared the cafetiere, cracked open eggs, and put them on. I was impressed. My wife looked, and acted exactly like a robot maid, teenage erotic fantasy made real, metallic silicone flesh covering the hidden inner working parts. As flexible as real skin. As realistic too. Just silver, instead of Caucasian, human white.

Anne was incredibly daring to play the role stark naked, to have had her body pierced, for reasons not yet fully clear, although I knew that, at some point, she would be fastened with a leash. To my surprise, I felt a sense of pride replacing all my previous thoughts.

The play moved on. Anne, in her role as Silvia, acting as if she were a living, walking Alexa, giving Mark, as Henry, the news, from Trump considering a second run for president, to climate change. More conversational than Alexa, which more or less restricts itself to facts. Silvia was programmed to offer her opinions, discussing world events with her creator.