Anne-droid

She busied herself around the apartment. Dusting, plumping cushions, straightening pictures, all done robotically, stiff legs and arms, torso straight, head kept in line. Mark drank and ate, and finally left for work, and end of scene.

Anne was back against the wall when the curtains parted for scene two. Mark coming in. Awakening her again. Handing her a bag of groceries. Clearly she did not do the shopping for him. But she put what he had bought away. She brought him wine. She cooked. They talked.

Then the line that changed things.

"You never think to bring me flowers?"

Followed by existential clap-trap about who and what she really was. Interminable, dramatic nonsense about the nature of existence, of conscious thought, of sentience. Anne, or rather Silvia, pleading to be recognised for the creature that she was. Henry dismissive, scathing in his put-downs, insisting she was nothing more than circuitry and artificial limbs. Describing her as pure automaton, the perfect, modern slave, unquestioning, obedient, existing only to placate his whims.

As if to prove it, another line, from Mark this time.

"Bring me your leash," he said to her.

Compliant, Anne went to the door, removing from a hook what until then even I had failed to notice, a steel chain leash, which she then brought to where he was still sitting casually in his chair.

"Tell me what you are," he said to her, as he clipped it to the ring set through her labia, so that it was attached directly to her cunt.

You could have heard a pin drop. Nudity on stage was one thing. This was another level of daring altogether.

"A woman," Anne said to him.

"A slave," he said, correcting her.

"A woman," Anne repeated. "Just like any woman. Are they not slaves to men as well?"

Silence, as the audience took in what was, I guessed, the central message of the play.

Then Mark stood up. He led her by the chain leash, to the front on the stage, facing the audience, the two of them standing two feet part. The chain leash formed a low arc, from my wife's silver painted cunt, to Mark's hand. From where I sat, the ring was very obvious now, as were Anne's labia.

Everyone in front of me would know that this was real, that she was pierced, and that the ring was genuinely set through her labia. Further back, they might be wondering, just how the leash was fixed to her. But from this close the stage it was very clear.

"What are you?" Mark asked her a third time.

"Every woman in the world," she said.

"Then do what women do for men," he told her.

The lighting had been standard stage lighting for an open plan apartment, bright white. It dimmed. The turned to red. Then spotlights started circling, changing colours. More like a nightclub than a home.

The speakers suddenly roared to life with a 2010 hit, "I am not a robot!", while the spots continued random circles, centred on both Anne and Mark. Mark turned first, went back to several feet behind the front edge of the stage, Anne following, the leash swaying. Mark stopped, his back still to the audience. Anne went around in front of him, and knelt.

The rock music continued, "I am not a robot!", again and again. Mark's hands were at his groin. What he was doing was left to the imagination. Anne's hands cupped his trousered butt. What she was doing was also in the audience's heads. Or so I hoped.

You read about actors doing sex scenes for real, actually fucking one another underneath the sheets while being filmed. All the while the music was playing I was thinking that Anne could actually be really sucking on Mark's cock, right there, on stage. That would take some daring, but the angles meant that no one in the audience would know.

The applause, when the curtain closed over the fellatio scene, was phenomenal. The "I am not a Robot!" hit started playing all over again, but this time the speakers also had the grunts and groans of male ejaculation, audible over both the soundtrack and the applause. Pre-recoded. Not for real. Even if he were actually coming in Anne's mouth, behind the curtain, they had no mikes to make it loud enough to hear.

"Oh my God," the woman on my left me exclaimed. "Is that for real?"

"That was pretty incredible!" This from the guy the other side of me.

Each of them talking to their partners, but easily overheard, even with the music blaring.

The curtain opened. Anne and Mark now both facing the audience. Three feet apart this time. The leash still in Mark's, hand. Still arcing to Anne's groin. Her clit ring. The applause grew louder, the music fading.

They bowed. The applause kept on. They bowed again. People started standing, still clapping. They bowed a third time. Then Mark led Anne off stage, still by the leash. The curtain closed.

We got up from our seats. The usual slow movement towards the exit doors, as people followed one another along the rows of chairs and into the aisles on either side.

"How do they do that?" a guy behind me asked.

"Prosthetics," his companion said. "You can buy most things from theatrical stores. Noses, ears, whole faces, so why not private parts?"

Interesting what you happen to overhear. Good question too. If synthetic prosthetics could be made to look like real flesh, and pierced, and stuck in place with some kind of theatrical glue, then why had Mark suggested Anne should have her labia pierced, just for this role? Some kind of fetish thing? Because he liked the idea of hooking on a leash for real?

**********

The hall emptied fairly rapidly. People with homes to go to. Backstage, there were bottles popping. Cava, not champagne. Much cheaper. Mark was in his element, having directed both the plays, and acted in the second, with all the actors and the stage crew celebrating how well both the plays had gone.

Robots tend not to drink champagne, or cava, or anything but oil, but Anne had a glass in one hand, her leash in the other, still clipped to her clit ring, Mark's arm round her shoulder. She was still naked. Smiling. Laughing. Then noticing that I was there, and looking shyly towards me, easing Mark's hand from where it had been lazily dangling at her breast.

She ducked from his arm, and came across to me, and smiled.

"What did you think?" she asked.

That was when I noticed her teeth. Not white, but silver. As were her lips.

"Put out your tongue," I said.

She opened her mouth and put it out for me to see. Silver.

"The make up team did a pretty thorough job on you, then," I said.

"It was a bit of a nightmare," she laughed. "At least it was quick drying. But yes, it was cotton wool pads in my mouth to stop my lips from sticking to my teeth, and I had to keep my mouth open until it dried."

"Ready to go?" I asked.

"We're just celebrating for a bit. You can join us if you like."

"I'll pass," I said. "And I'd rather get you out of here."

She looked at me for a moment, uncertain, torn between wanting to celebrate the evening with her drama friends, or come with her husband. At least that was what I guessed was happening. It was a robot looking up at me, with silver eyes and black holes where her irises should be, metallic mouth, silver-steel bare skull, albeit it with amazing breasts and a leash still in her hand, fixed to her slave-cunt just below. You cannot always read a robot's computer brain.

I took the decision from her hands. Literally, not metaphorically. The leash. Taking hold of it and tautening it, taking control.

"Now," I added.

She capitulated. Not that she had too many options open to her, with her clit-hood ring still held by the steel clip of the rope leash, my pulling on it gentle, but insistent nonetheless.

"Okay, just let me get my things," she said, conceding.

"No need," I said. "We'll pick them up tomorrow. It's warm outside."

You get mixed weather in July in England. This was one of the balmy nights. I was just in jeans and a short sleeved shirt. Anne would not need anything to keep her warm. To keep her covered, now that was different. Naked on stage was governed by artistic licence. Naked outside would be something else again.

"You're serious?" she asked me.

"I'm serious," I said. "You wanted to go naked as a robot, so now that's what you'll do."

"Can I run to the car?" she asked me, giving in.

"No," I said. "We'll walk. It's in the car park. It's not that far."

We walked. Not with the leash. Even I have limits. I unclipped that from Anne's cunt inside the community centre's entrance doors. No one else was there. The audience had already left, while the drama group was still celebrating in the dressing room.

Anne walked normally. Not her robot movements. By my side, back straight, head high, and hand in hand with me. I was impressed with her. Appearing on stage was one thing, outside, in car park lighting, crossing tarmac, something else again. Stark naked, just with silver body paint, the lights reflecting from the sheen, she looked like something out of Star Wars, or Trek, or science fiction of some kind.

I thumbed my key fob to unlock the doors. The tail lights flashed to confirm. I got there first, opening the door for her. Not just because I am a gentleman. It was a rear door. Not the passenger.

"Robots travel in the back," I said.

She did not argue. All she wanted at that moment was to get in the car and out of sight.

"I'll be just a moment," I then told her, "I'll get your things."

I closed the door and locked the car, with her inside. Probably, there was no need to lock the doors. She was unlikely to get out again. But I wanted her exactly where she was, and had left the child-locks on. Meanwhile I headed back inside.

Mark had taken liberties with my wife. Serious liberties. Persuading her to play the role in the first place. To play it naked, instead of in some kind of a body suit, or leotard. To have real piercings for the slave aspect of the part, when prosthetics could have done the job. Then to use the leash, the way he had. Serious liberties, with the woman that I love.

Maybe another guy would just have called a halt to everything, way back before the show was staged. I had thought of that, of course. But posters had been printed, tickets bought, rehearsals started, and Anne had been enthusiastic. As for the leash, I had had no idea that it would be used the way it was. Anne did. She had to have known. But she had not said a word. But even without that scene with the leash attached to my wife's cunt, I had known that once the play was over, I would be coming back for Mark.

Back in the dressing room, more champagne was being drunk. I found Anne's clothes and sports bag, and packed her stuff in the bag. Then I went and had a word with Mark.

"Great show," I said. "Have you just got a moment?"

He followed me to the entrance hall.

"What's it about?" he asked me when I turned.

"Just that, Anne's my wife," I said. "and you've gone that bit too far."

Said quietly, so that he started to defend himself, some stuff about the dramatic arts, which I guess I rudely interrupted.

I dropped the bag. One step towards him. Then my knee. He was one of those guys who stands with his feet apart to impress, like Superman. He had used the pose on stage. Now, it left his groin exposed. My knee connected.

The guy buckled. I used my knee again. This time the impact was taken by his face. He crumpled. Started whimpering about his nose. There was definitely blood. Whether it was broken, I could not tell. I thought about kicking him while he was down, but the guy was just not worth it. I left him there instead.

**********

"Is everything okay?" Anne asked, as I climbed into the car and started the ignition.

"All good," I said. "I thought that you were amazing, by the way. And brave, to play the role completely naked, especially that last scene. That was something else, again."

"You don't mind?" she asked me. "I mean, they kept my name off the programme. So how many people will have known that it was me,...?"

"I did have an idea," I told her, looking at her in the rear view mirror, "for while you're still wearing the body paint."

I turned onto dual carriageway.Towards central London. Our house would have been straight on.

"I thought we were just going home?" she said.

"Later," I reassured. "First, it's my turn to have some fun. You wanted to be naked, so I thought you might enjoy more people seeing you like this."

We got to Leicester Square around ten thirty. The entertainment centre of the capital, packed with people until well gone midnight and beyond. Pedestrianised, of course, but I knew a side street where there would likely be a parking space, not yet designated residents' only.

I opened the door for Anne. She climbed out, very naked, very reluctant, but still, somehow, managing to stand proud. I opened the trunk. Took out a hoodie. For modesty, of sorts. She slipped it on. It skimmed her silver buttocks. Hood up, it hid her metallic head.

In the crowd people would just register a female in a grey hoodie, with great legs, clad in silver tights, or something, not realised that those legs were silver painted flesh, and that beneath the hoodie, she was naked, and the silver paint was not just on her legs.

I already had a two foot square of folded card, sprayed silver, stashed in the back of the car, with exactly this in mind. I held the card in one hand, Anne's hand in the other, and walked her down the side street, and out into the square itself, buzzing with people, talking, gawking, taking selfies, eating fast food on the run, or just sitting, groups, couples, singles, all ages, although that late, few kids, just the way I had imagined it would be.

There were buskers. A guy with a guitar. A girl with speakers and a lap-top for her backing, and a voice that would have made Madonna envious. Two statues, in their painted costumes, a guy, in a rumpled Charlie Chaplin suit and battered bowler, with his cane, everything about him black, other than his face, which was chalk white with make-up, and had the Chaplinesque moustaches. A Supergirl, costumed and caped, and posed ready to fly, one arm pointing to the sky. Each of them holding their poses while the crowds strolled past them, then shifting positions, taking some by surprise, who had thought that they were mannequins, not real.

It amused me that we were standing in the crowd, waiting for Charlie Chaplin and Supergirl to move, with no one seeming to be paying too much attention to the female robot in the sliver hoodie right beside them. Not that the silver hoodie was staying on.

I found a space, backing onto the central gardens, against the curved, low wall, and opened up the folded cardboard square. Unfolded, it was now a four-foot square of silver, not exactly a stage, but large enough to define itself as a performance area for what I had in mind.

"Okay, babe," I said, turning to my wife. "If Charlie Chaplin and Supergirl can pose like that, then so can you. Time to take off the hoodie."

I sensed Anne freeze, which was ironic. That was exactly what she would be doing, but naked, and on the makeshift silver podium I had just put down for her. Freeze-framing her body, statue-like, while people did the same as with the others, tried to work out whether the silver female robot might be real.

She looked up, maybe nervously, but when you are wearing silver contact lenses with black irises, facial expressions are not so easily conveyed.

"I,... I can't,..." she started.

I took her by the hand and walked her to the centre of the square, pavement platform. Then I lifted the bottom hem of the hoodie, drawing it up her body, baring her butt, and her cunt, then her waist and her breasts, and she gave in by raising her arms so that I could slide it right over her silver, skull-like head.

"Yes, you can," I said. "You've got until mid-night."

She started with the sleeping robot pose, the one that she had done on stage at the beginning of the play, standing erect, arms by her sides, head up, eyes closed. Maybe because it was the easiest pose to do. Maybe because closing her eyes meant shutting out the crowd, and the location, the busiest night-time tourist spot in London.

I backed off. Human statues are not enhanced by having their assistants standing close. Not far, of course. The nearest bin. Which was where I put the hoodie. Primark. Seven pounds. It did not matter. What mattered was the Anne was naked, here in Leicester Square, and she was going to stay that way.

She held the pose. Domestic robot, waiting to be woken. Her breathing now so shallow that her rib-cage barely moved, her breasts rising only fractionally, and so slowly, that only watching closely would you see them move at all.

Night-time London is not dark. As if to liven up the street lights, Leicester Square has more neon than any shopping street, except maybe, its neighbour, Piccadilly. Reflected light of all colours glistened on the silver surfaces of Anne's naked body. She looked incredible.

I smiled to myself. It was a neat form of retribution, a punishment of sorts. She had decided, without asking me, not properly, how I would feel if she were to play the role of naked, female robot, where we both were known. Now she could spend some time, still in the role, where anyone and everyone could get up close and see her silver alter-ego, right down to the intimacy of the piercing, with the ring set through her labia, and with no escape route from the cardboard stage that she was on.

People paused, as I had known they would. They stood and looked. They waited, for some movement, more than her shallow breathing, but for a good ten minutes, she stood stock still. Some dropped coins onto the cardboard. Buskers busk for money after all.

Then she moved.

Maybe she had thought about it. Ten minutes of immobility had given her time to decide how best to deal with her new, unexpected role. She had practiced how to wake up, when Mark had summoned 'Silvia'. She had perfected her robot walk for the play, the stiff limbed movements, the clockwork turning of her head.

She came to life. Her eyes first. Opening them wide. Not looking round. Just staring straight ahead. Her right arm next. Bending it to an exact ninety degrees. Keeping her hand flat, thumb in line with fingers. Robots only bend their fingers when they use them. Her left arm next.

Then her body. Twisting at the waist. Slowly, as if a clockwork motor had engaged. Keeping her arms locked in that right angle position. Holding the pose, looking to the right. Then turning back and round to the left, the same mechanically controlled rotation of her waist. Her legs unmoving. Her head kept steady on her turning shoulders.

People watched. Fascinated. Some exchanging looks with one another, then back to Anne, smiles on their faces. I was smiling too. Her performance was impressive.

She turned to face directly forwards again. Raised one leg, knee to groin height. Lowered in. Then the other. As if she were testing out her limbs. Making sure they worked as they had been designed too, and were lubricated well enough for use.

Then standing stock still again. Arms still at right angles. Eyes still open, but unmoving. Unseeing. Registering nothing. Just there. Available when needed. Another statue. Breathing imperceptible.

Had she simply held that pose, then wakened every few minutes, used her limbs, then switched off again, I would have been more than satisfied with her. She could easily have spent the hour or so until midnight doing no more than that, and just her being bold and brave enough to play her robot role in public, would have seriously impressed.

She did look amazing. I loved the way that, even painted silver, you could still distinguish her areoles from the fullness of her breasts, how the finish was not quite smooth, but softly crinkled around her nipple stubs. I loved the way her labia protruded, silver, with the ring set through them, the lower arc resting on them, and wished that I had brought the chain leash from the car, to use to walk her back when we were done.