Anne-droid

What Anne told me later was that once I had removed her hoodie, she had loved the fact that she was naked. She would never had dared to do what she was doing, but having been pushed into it, she found it felt amazing. She could sense her nipple stubs reacting to the warm evening air, and her clit responding to its exposure, and to the touch of the ring that she was wearing there.

In fact, just walking from the car had been a turn on. Wearing knickers, or a thong, the ring was held against her, and barely moved when she walked, but, naked underneath the hoodie, its weight meant that it bounced gently against her, nudging her clit and sending incredible sensations through it.

Not that I knew this at the time. I just watched, fascinated, as my robot wife came to life again, this time stepping off her cardboard podium, and robot-walking into the crowd. She stopped, robot turned, and started walking again, straight past where I was standing, eyes focussed directly ahead.

Anne really had perfected her walk. Now her fore-arms were angled down, her hands still stiffly straight. She raised each leg higher than normal walking, before stepping forwards, all in slow motion. She was still wearing the silver heels she had worn on stage, but nothing else. Yet she continued in a straight line, fifty feet past where I had been standing. Stopped. Turned again, and started down the next side of the Square, people making way for her, but fascinated at the naked robot passing them.

I followed, casually of course, and watched as she robot walked her way past Supergirl and right up to Charlie Chaplin, stopping only a foot from where he was in statue pose, cane bent, like in the silhouette photos. She angled her head to stare right at him. Then statue posed herself.

Chaplin stayed exactly as he was, except for his eyes. They took in what he was seeing, naked, silver painted, but living, breathing, female flesh. Phone cameras flashed, inevitably. This was something you do not see every day in Leicester Square, or anywhere. Then Chaplin moved.

The standard routine for living statues was to stay stock still, then, without a hint that it would happen, change the stance, and freeze in a new pose. Maybe smile, or wink, before resuming the immobile statue masquerade. Chaplin varied it. He stepped forward, put his arms around my wife, and with both hands, held her butt, the cane now dangling from his wrist.

He froze again, the grin on his face as fixed as his fingers, where they were squeezing my wife's buttock flesh. Clever improvisation. Sexy, too. Anne's breasts now pressed against Chaplin's shabby jacket. But she did not move. Chaplin was holding a robot statue, whose breasts and butt just happened to be soft enough to give a little with his embrace.

More camera phones flashing, as people took their photographic souvenirs.

Not that Chaplin was finished. He held the pose with Anne for several minutes, then whispered something her, and a moment later they both moved at once. He let go of her, went to one side, while Anne leaned forwards. Chaplin slow motion caned her butt, stopping as the thin stick touched her there, and statue posing in that stance.

This time there was laughter, a little ripple of applause, and then more flash photography. To my surprise, two police officers worked their way into the crowd to see what the attraction was, grinned when they saw, and left Chaplin and my wife to do their thing, without a hint of concern that Anne was naked. A rare bit of leniency from the law.

Anne moved first. She had been leaning forwards, a difficult position to hold. But instead of standing straight again, she bent forwards even further. As well as amateur dramatics, she does yoga, and can bend at the waist to touch the floor with palms flat. Not wearing heels, but she did the equivalent instead. Parting her legs, she bent low enough to grip her ankles.

Of course, in that position, her butt was beautifully displayed, perfect cheeks, anus, protruding labia, and steel ring, all exposed and deliciously visible from behind. Her anus has been spray painted like the rest of her. Even where her labia had parted, the inner flesh was silver. Mark had obviously enjoyed himself. More than was needed for the play.

Chaplin, meanwhile, raised his cane again. This time not in slow motion. He drew his arm back, then used the cane the way an old school headmaster would have done, but freezing as it landed. Anne barely flinched. If anything, I flinched more than she did. She stayed bent double, still holding her ankles, still exposing her butt and cunt, while Chaplin stayed statue like, the cane against her buttocks, and yet more photographs were taken by the crowd.

It was Anne, taking up the bent over, doubled, ankle holding yoga pose that made me realise just how much my wife was actually enjoying this. She was flaunting her body, her cunt, for everyone to see. She was also acting out as a submissive, which was what made me decide to leave her there, and head back to the car. Chaplin could pose with her a little longer.

It only took five minutes, a fast walk to the side street, then another fast walk back. They were in a different setoff poses by the time that I returned. Anne was kneeling on the black rug that Chaplin was using as his performance space, the child pose, from yoga, not just on her knees, but bent forwards over her knees, her head down, forehead to the ground.

Chaplin was beside her, one foot on her back, the cane in one hand, its other end between my wife's buttocks. Out of character. Totally dominant. But then a comic clown is higher up the pecking order than a robot. Perhaps not intellectually, but still. My wife was being as submissive to the guy as anyone could be.

There was a good sized crowd around Anne and Chaplin, while, as I had anticipated, Supergirl now had only a few people admiring her flying pose. I went over to her, explaining who I was, and what I had in mind. She did not move a muscle, keeping her arms raised towards the sky, about to lift off, but I could tell that she was thinking.

"Okay, sure," she finally said.

She came to life, stopped flying, and adopted a straight-forward, standing, talking, pose, the way that Supergirl would look talking to any member of the public.

"You're sure she'll be okay with this?" she asked me.

"I'm sure," I said.

"Okay," she smiled, brushing back her long blonde hair, and taking the leash that I had just collected from the car.

Supergirl casually walked over to where Anne and Chaplin were now posing side by side, Anne standing in sleeping robot pose, Chaplin back to his standard, so often pictured, legs slightly bent, feet pointing out, cane bent, pose, their dom-sub act now ended. The rug was littered with coins. An appreciative crowd, still admiring the two of them.

"Anne-droid," Supergirl called to my wife. "Here! Now!"

My wife is not quite average height. Supergirl was taller. Great figure too, breasts pushing out against the 'S' logo on her costume. Not so much flesh on show, but good legs, emerging from her short red skirt. Robots may have reasonable mechanical strength, but Supergirl was bigger and had super-strength. Besides, robots are supposed to do as they are told.

She reacted superbly. She turned her head the way a robot would, to see who was now commanding her. She would have seen the chain leash that Supergirl was holding. I sensed her eyes turn to me, then back to Supergirl. She started walking, the stage, robot walk, as she had been instructed to. Stopping directly in front of Supergirl. Arms by her sides, eyes open, ready to receive whatever further commands.

"You'll come with me," Supergirl said. "And you will let me fasten this to you."

"I..., will..., do..., as..., you..., wish...," Anne said.

Supergirl did not hesitate. She used the clip at the end of the chain leash, kneeling on one leg to fasten it to the ring set through Anne's labia. Even from where I was standing, it was pretty clear that the ring was not some kind of fake. As Supergirl took hold of it, Anne's labia were clearly being stretched, and once the leash was fixed to it, it swayed, Anne's labia being pulled from one side to the other.

"Fuck!" I heard a guy say to the woman he was with. "That's for real?"

She did not answer, but they both stared, as did the rest of the people watching this, as Supergirl walked Anne to her own performance space, demarcated by the red cape, identical to the one that she was wearing, spread out on the Square's paving slabs for her to stand on.

Anne followed, the leash arcing between Supergirl's hand and my wife's cunt. She stayed in role, robot walking, keeping pace with the longer legged Kryptonian. Once on the red fabric, they posed as if they had already agreed how they would stand, Anne facing the crowd, which had filtered across to see how this would play out, legs together, arms by her side, head in line with her torso, while Supergirl stood legs apart, the power pose, triumphant after taking control of the robot, chain leash in her hand.

That was when they resumed their role as statues, and when coins started to be thrown down, onto the red cape. More photos, of course. This was far too good a scene for any tourist to ignore.

A moment later, Big Ben sounded. Twelve peals of the celebrated bell. Midnight in London.

**********

"Did you enjoy that?" she asked me, quietly, as we walked back to the car.

"Did you?" I asked her in return.

She smiled.

"Yes," she told me. "Weirdly, it was fun."

"We can always stay longer," I offered her.

"It's fine," she said. "That was enough exposure for one night."

I led a silver alien from the Square, using the leash on her, of course. We just walked between the people mingling there, as casually as had we been dressed and leaving the theatre for home. Anne walked normally, no longer using the rigid, robotic style of walking she had mastered for the play. She seemed totally relaxed, and totally unconcerned about her nakedness, or the ring that was so very obvious, set through her pierced labia, or the chain that was attached to it, and was swaying as we walked.

We took the side street back towards the car, and might have gone past the various buildings without anything further happening, except for the grunted cry that came from a set of steps leading to a rear entrance of some kind.

"Fucking hell!" we heard. "What the fuck is that!"

We both stopped, instinctively, turning to see who it was.

Fifties, maybe sixties. When you live on the street, I guess it ages you. Grey hair emerging from a woollen hat, straggly, unkempt beard. In spite of the mild temperature of the evening, a woolen jumper worn beneath an anorak, loose trousers, well worn boots. Sitting, but getting up to get a closer look.

Harmless. Not drunk. Just down and out. Not exactly clean, but then, if you sleep in shop door-fronts, the facilities are not there.

"Fucking hell!" he repeated, coming towards us. "Is she real?"

We could have just walked on. Instead we stood there. He could get a closer look, if that would make his night.

He came right up to us, to Anne. Not a tall guy. Shorter than me. An inch taller than Anne in her silver heels, the only clothing she was wearing, if shoes count as clothes. He snorted. He looked her up and down. Snorted again. Reached for her breast. His hand roughened by outdoor living, ingrained with dust and dirt from the streets. Fondling Anne's silver painted breast.

"Nice!" he said, his hand moving to her other breast.

Any other guy, in any other place, fondling my wife, and more violence would have taken place. I would have floored them, just like I had already floored Nick. But I held off. Maybe because one guy a night is one more than I really want to put back in their place. Maybe because beating up a homeless guy was not in my repertoire of things I like to do. Maybe because felt a bit of sympathy for him, guessing that the last time he had touched a woman would have been some time ago.

Besides, he was not touching her. There was a coating on paint covering her skin. It was the paint that he was touching. Not her actual body. Not her flesh. Also, Anne was not objecting. Maybe she felt the same as me. Sympathy for a homeless guy. Not even when he thumb-and-fingered her nipple stub, and played with it. Maybe she liked it. But she did not complain.

The guy grinned. He started moving his hand lower.

I was about to end it there, but Anne got in there first, using her robot voice from the play.

"You,... are,... not,... author,... ised,... to,... touch,..."

It worked. He backed off, hands up, palms towards her, acting apologetically. We walked on, reached our car, and climbed inside. I then drove a still naked star-woman back to our house, my hand resting on her silver leg every so often, her knee at first, then higher up, then right at her cunt, the edge of my little finger sensing the wetness that no real robot would exude.

We have a driveway, just long enough to park the car. I got out first. Opened our front door. I thought that Anne might streak inside, wary of our neighbours, even at that time of night. Instead she just walked normally, carrying her leash, unclipped by then, her silver body tinted amber by the nearby streetlights.

Inside, not a word was said. We went upstairs, Anne first, her exquisite silver rear undulating nicely several steps ahead. Once in the bedroom, she just knelt right by the bed, leaned over it, in silence, her silver body contrasting with the pure white of our bedsheets, and she stayed there, waiting, while I undressed.

Penetrating her silver cunt, parting her silver labia, it felt like I was about to fuck an alien. Not a robot any more. She was no longer moving in that staccato fashion. But she was not yet humanoid. My hands on her butt felt soft flesh beneath her silver skin. Her cunt was wet, and more than ready. I slid inside her, and enjoyed the feel of warm flesh welcoming my rampant cock, the so familiar tightness of her vaginal muscles stretched round my shaft.

Thinking about it later, I realised that by then she had been virtually naked for more than six hours, from being painted silver for the play, through the performance, at the after-curtain party, then driving into London, putting on the different kind of show in Leicester Square, and driving home again. All of that had got to her. Had been a turn on for her. Had made her wet, and longing to be fucked.

Which could be why she reached behind her butt, clawing for my own, using my pelvis to pull me deeper into her, while giving out a keening moan.

Aliens can swear. She did.

"Fuck!... Oh Fuck!.. Fuck me,... you fucking bastard,... making me,... do that,.. just fuck me!"

What the lady wants, even if she is a silver alien, the lady gets. I fucked her, hard. No holding back. No gentleness to start with. No slow build up. Just ease out and ram back in, slamming into her, making her silver butt flesh ripple with the impact, then pulling out again and slamming in, repeatedly, good, solid, hard fucking, one hand on her back, pressing her torso down on the bed, her arms still scrabbling at my hips, but unable to get a hold on me, her head up, turning from side to side, gasping, groaning, whimpering, then crying out, as a long awaited orgasm racked through her, from cunt and clit to every silver atom of her body.

I stopped. There is something incredibly beautiful about a woman, your own wife, even when she has become an alien from another galaxy, in the throes of orgasm. The complete and total loss of control. The way it ravages her body, send spasms through it, shuddering, bucking, quaking, then slowly, as the raw intensity begins to ebb, the spasms becoming little trembling shivers, and then tiny jerks and little ripples, until all is still and calm.

I waited in the stillness, my cock still rigid, still deep in her. Then I began again. This time slowly, easing out of her, right to my cock tip, allowing her sweet cunt to close, just nudging at her silver lips, then easing back, reopening her, feeling those vaginal muscles stretch again, feeling the remnant of her orgasm through the fluttering of those muscles round my shaft.

Slow and steady fucking can be just as good as hard and unforgiving. You can take your time to savour all of the exquisite sensations that slow fucking gives. The gentle grazing of wet inner flesh against the taut skin of your distended cock head, with its million nerve endings, each luxuriating in the touch of female flesh as you effortlessly glide in and out of her.

Anne mewed with delight, a cat's mew, the cat that had not quite got the cream, but knew it would, the pussy that was being nicely fucked, that was tightly filled with hard male flesh, that would, in time, be flooded with the kind of cream that, had she really been a cat, would give her kittens.

You can mate with an alien. The anatomy of aliens is not so different from that of humans. Alien women possess tubes and ovaries and eggs that are released and everything necessary to kick start life and carry the unborn foetus while it grows and readies itself to live outside their body, just as human woman do. Flood an alien woman with your semen, and your sperm will seek an egg to penetrate, with which to merge into a new and independent being.

Fucking my alien wife, I just enjoyed her silver body, the difference of her painted flesh compared to blonde and white complexioned Anne. I could forgive her having let herself be persuaded into performing naked, into being pierced, and wearing the ring set through her labia, that right now was oscillating with each thrust of mine, playing against my cock, her clit. I stroked her body as I fucked her, the texture of her different, although the feel of cunt around my cock was just the same.

What neither of us knew right then, was that we genuinely were mating, that the semen that I spewed into her alien cunt contained dynamic sperm, and that an egg was waiting. We found out later, calculating back. It was that night that life was started, and nine months later, to the day, a child was born, so blonde her hair is almost silver, white complexioned, female, a gift from some distant star.

We named her Sylvia. The name made sense to us.