Automatic for the Peeples

"One more thing," he said, pausing with his hand on the doorknob. "I will be checking the logs. I don't care how much plastic fantastic thinks it loves you. Leave it turned off. Understand?"

Mrs. Peeples nodded, the tears streaming down her cheeks.

**********

Mr. Peeples checked into a hotel near his office to ponder his next move. He texted his wife with his location. They exchanged messages several times each day over the next three days. Mrs. Peeples queried him about every third time asking him when he would be back home, to which he replied that he would return when he had come to grips with the problem and that he loved her now and forever.

He had absolutely no doubt that she would not be using the Mark Two while he was absent. She was just not like that. She had agreed that it be left turned off, and she was not a liar.

She was a fantastically intelligent woman, however, and had a streak of malicious compliance. If he had told her to not use the fuckbot, she might have let it bang her sore and claim that it was using her and not the other way around. If he had directed her not to do X with it, she could have fucked it and claimed that it was really Y.

So he had requested that she not turn it on at all. The robot's cock had retracted to zero, zero the last time it went back to its charging station, whether from shame of being yelled at or the failure to ejaculate inside the human it claimed to love or maybe it had learned to bring the damn thing in so as not to be damaged by passing objects.

But powered off it had no prick for her cunt, so he saw no way for her to stray.

Wait. It wasn't straying. Damn, he was on the edge of anthropomorphizing the collection of gears. He realized that if he allowed the bot to become personified, he would be tempted to stop at the outdoors equipment store on the way home and purchase a 12-gauge shotgun. That would come to grips with the problem. There would at least be no blood, he mused. Just cherry cyborg semen all over the master bedroom. Unless the dispenser had switched to pineapple already.

**********

Mrs. Peeples, in the meantime, was true to her word. She missed her husband terribly, but she loved him deeply and truly. Of course, her vagina took orders only from her horny unthinking brain stem and not the larger more sophisticated parts of the brain responsible for logical reasoning.

Her pussy wanted the Mark Two. It ran with moisture and throbbed with the anticipation and desire of the stiff carbon fiber composite shaft sliding inside her.

She had not agreed to neglect her vagina in toto, however.

She lay in bed that first night alone with her slim vibrator up her ass and her rabbit in her twat, the rabbit's eager busy ears slapping her clit. Just as her orgasm was assembling like a summer thundercloud building in the sky she saw the Mark Two out of the corner of her eye.

The orgasm died.

She gasped. It came to her in a flash of insight.

She felt like she was cheating on it.

The majority of the brain rallied and yanked her from that irrational place, and she relaxed. She could not, however, continue this under the gaze -- even pillowcase covered -- of him.

It was not a him, she cursed to herself as she waddled to the guest bedroom with the two old-fashioned toys still firmly lodged inside her. It was a thing.

When in the new bed she began again and her orgasm finally flooded into her like water filling a sunken submarine she fought hard to make and keep the image in her mind that and only that of her loving handsome human husband hovering over her, thrusting into her.

**********

The next day Mrs. Peeples commuted to her downtown office. When she returned, she gave a cry of happiness, for Mr. Peeples' car was parked in the garage.

She ran inside, calling his name. He was not in the kitchen, living room, dining room. She ran down the hallway.

She stopped.

On the other side of the bedroom door someone was grunting in a slow rhythm. She had a frantic vision of her husband and the Mark--

It was too terrible to contemplate. She threw open the door.

Mr. Peeples was naked, lying prone on top of a long curvy pink object. His hairy muscular buttocks rose and fell as he grunted.

Mrs. Peeples put a hand to her mouth and gasped.

Under her husband lay a plump woman. No -- it was no woman. It was not human. It had realistic muscular legs that were clamped over her husband's thighs, encouraging his thrusts. It had long black hair and a cute little face with a button nose. It was whispering something sweet into her husband's ear.

"Mr. Peeples!" his wife cried.

Mr. Peeples raised his head a fraction of an inch.

"Just a minute, dear." He began to pump the thing harder, then stopped. His butt clenched and he gave a long aching groan as his cock pulsed. After a bit, he relaxed and rolled off the object. One of the thing's hands reached out and stroked his hair.

"What is this?" Mrs. Peeples was on the verge of tears.

Her husband stood up, his cock still throbbing and dripping. She wondered what the parameters of his penis had just been. It looked from what she had seen to be greater than she remembered and wondered how that was possible.

Mr. Peeples made a sweeping motion of introduction to his pink paramour. "This, dear wife, is the latest release from the same people who brought you the Mark Two vaginal massager. Which seems to be already being deprecated, by the way. Destined for the scrapheap of history. Did you hear that voice? And look at those tits! We truly owe a huge debt to Mr. Moore and his Law. Or is it Professor Moore?"

It was true. The humanoid on the bed had large firm breasts topped with large brown areolae. Mrs. Peeples instinctively drew her arms around her own bosom to shield herself from comparison.

"The Betty," he continued. "That's its name. Well, it doesn't really have a name, being a simulacrum and all. But they designed it after the proportions and look of Betty Boop. Isn't she -- I mean it -- remarkable? Her vaginal socket exudes an organically-sourced non-GMO oil warmed to just the right temperature. It vibrates, of course, but it also--" Here he just put his two hands together and mimed a cylinder pulsing squeezes.

The Betty reached up and began to fondle Mr. Peeples' softening cock. He looked down at it in adoration.

"What will they think of next?" He said to it softly.

Mrs. Peeples stepped back. She glanced at the Mark Two, hooded still, and immobile and insensate on its charging pad. She had an irrational hope that it would come to life and-- what? Do what? She just knew that she needed someone to hug her right this minute. And it wasn't going to be the Mark Two, nor was it likely to be her husband, and she was damn sure it wasn't ever going to be the Betty Boop.

She turned and ran out.

**********

Mr. Peeples found her crying by the pool. "Sweetheart," he said. "What troubles you?"

She sobbed. "It hurts me to come home and find my husband fucking some--" She dropped the sentence into the bin all at once, seeing the deadly symmetry of their situation.

She regrouped. "Why would you need that -- mechanical minge -- when you have me here, always willing?"

"Hmm. You know, I hadn't thought about needing anything until I got an ad for Betty in my email. I guess the company is pretty thorough at parallel marketing and had your purchase in their database. I was only moderately interested at first. I have always had a crush on the Betty Boop sexy flapper image. The hook was their detailed description of Betty's vaginal mechanisms. Adaptive feedback, high-speed dynamical intercalation. That got me to thinking about you."

"Me? Why me?"

"I realized right then that there was sure to be a night when I would come home to find that your vagina was unavailable due to overuse of the Mark Two--"

"That's silly! I have never denied--"

"Again, you forget the log. I have watched the duration of use increase. It is almost linear with the increase in the dimensions you have been programming into the fuckbot's johnson."

"You are a bad liar, dear husband."

"You shock me with your insults, Mrs. Peeples. I do have the logs here in the app--"

"Not that. You lie about your motive. You had nothing in your mind but jealous revenge. You hate that I could be so satisfied with Mark."

"Oh, is it to be Mark and Betty now?"

"Why not?" She said furiously, "you seem to love her. I saw the way she caressed you. And what was she whispering in your ear so intimately?"

Mr. Peeples cleared his throat. "Actually, she was reminding me of her next scheduled maintenance. She also offered to upgrade to the--"

"To the what?"

"To the anal package. Half price if I acted now. Or then, I guess. I don't know if the offer stands."

Mrs. Peeples got up and went back into the house.

**********

The next few days were tense in the Peeples house. Neither husband or wife wanted to be the first to give in to lust and activate their respective cyborg lover.

The two were civil to one another. They ate take out together as usual but did not make small talk other than asking to be passed the chopsticks or the barbeque sauce. They did not caress each other's butts when they passed. They did not kiss for no reason. When one of them left in the morning or came home at night, the other did not make any move to acknowledge it.

Mrs. Peeples broke first. One night they sat down to an aromatic collection of naan, saag, and chicken tikka masala, but before one bite was taken, she jumped up and said, "Oh, fuck this."

Which Mr. Peeples took her to mean literally, as she stomped down to the bedroom. He heard her say, "Mark. On the bed. Now!"

He knew from perusing the manual that the Now! was superfluous. It had no context in the input language, but only reflected his wife's frustration from lack of vaginal massages.

When he got to the bedroom, she was already on top of it, riding hard. The fuckbot's hands were squeezing her boobs. She did not look up at her husband.

Undaunted, Mr. Peeples began to strip, saying, "Betty. On your back."

By the time he was fully out of his kit, Betty was spread on the bed next to them. He saw the moist sheen of the furry cunt module, which he had chosen to have delivered with just a bit of black hair.

Mrs. Peeples glanced over at it as well, unconsciously licked her lips, then returned her attention and full effort to riding Mark Two.

Mr. Peeples was hard and ready. He pushed into Betty's synthetic slit and began his efforts at 10 without warmup. In a minute he felt himself on that one-way trip and tried to slow down. As he did so he looked up and met his wife's eyes, glazed over with her own impending orgasm. He realized that this was a competition she would win by female default. She would have as many orgasms as she could belt out while he would be lucky to survive one.

Mrs. Peeples began to moan. It was coming.

Then Betty began to moan as well. The bot's moans were professional grade, throaty and excited. The sound quality was excellent. The volume ramped up in synch with Mr. Peeples' effort and Betty peaked once, twice, three times, eclipsing the mere mortal vocalizations of Mrs. Peeples.

"Shut up, you bitch!" Mrs. Peeples hissed.

Betty paused moaning and replied, "I would not even be here if you were a better wife."

Mrs. Peeples gave a strangled yip trying to reply in kind but her orgasm seized her and what came out of her mouth sounded like Portuguese, which Mr. Peeples was pretty sure she did not speak.

"Next generation speech synthesis," grunted Mr. Peeples, speaking of course of Betty and not Mrs. Peeples.

"I. Love. You. I. Love. You." said Mark Two, late to the party.

"Oh shut up!" cried Mrs. Peeples. "And increase two centimeters in both dimensions!"

She gave a cry of intense wonder and started bouncing up and down like the dance of a demented Masai warrior on amphetamines.

Mr. Peeples, thinking about the increased volume inside his wife, felt that odd jealous rage coupled with desire and began to cum.

Mrs. Peeples, hearing her husband's urgent shout, looked over at his pale hirsute ass pumping up and down. She squeaked and began to shake as if she were urinating on an electric fence.

They fell away simultaneously, overcome by their orgasms, and ended up lying on the floor at the foot of the bed staring into each other's eyes.

Betty moaned, "Lover, where are you? I am coming."

The Mark Two made no sound, just geysered a spray of whitish flavored cyborg pretend sperm into the air. It hit the ceiling and exploded out in all directions. Tiny and not so tiny drops showered the bed, the room, and Mr. and Mrs. Peeples' eyes and mouths.

It had changed to pineapple.

**********

Mr. Peeples stood at the foot of his bed next to his wife. Still breathing hard, they stared down on the two humanoid mechanisms now unmoving on the marital bed.

The two bots looked like they were holding hands.

"What is that all about?" asked Mr. Peeples, pointing.

Mrs. Peeples shrugged. "Probably mesh networking. That way you only have to push out one software update."

**********

The foursome did not improve the atmosphere in the Peeples home, rather it intensified the renewed competition between them to forsake the pleasure of their semi-autonomous toys. Mrs. Peeples was mortified that she had been the first to bend the last time and so was triply determined to be abstinent as long as it took to outlast Mr. Peeples.

A few days later, a Saturday, Mrs. Peeples was down in the basement doing laundry when she heard a distinct thump thump thump from the master bedroom overhead.

"He's not mowing the lawn," she cried in triumph, "he's--" She sprinted for the stairs.

Running down the hallway, she ran into an agitated Mr. Peeples, who was struggling though the bathroom door with a paperback novel in one hand while trying to button his pants with the other.

They looked at each other in confusion.

"I thought you were--" they said in unison, better timed than they could have done with a week's practice.

They ran to the bedroom door as one and threw it open.

On the bed -- their bed -- the Betty Boop was on her back, leg appendages spread so wide it made Mrs. Peeple's groin ligaments ache in sympathy. Mark Two was plowing her.

"I. Love. You. I. Love. You."

The Betty moaned and groaned and made some other loud appreciative noises the Peeples had no names for. They did notice on the upstroke that the Mark Two parameters had been maxed.

"Ow," Mrs. Peeples whispered.

**********

Mr. and Mrs. Peeples stood hand-in-hand in their driveway watching as the truck drove away with the Mark Two and the Betty Boop crated and secured.

"Too bad. There goes the best fuck you ever had," Mr. Peeples said sadly.

Mrs. Peeples turned her face up to her husband. "What are you talking about?'

"I downloaded the logs. Part of the return process. Voice to text and all. Mark Two transcribed everything you said during your work breaks."

"I said it was the best ever?"

"That and other things I probably shouldn't have read."

She kicked him.

"Ow! What was that for?"

"For being a dumb man!" She was furious. "The truth and what a woman might say when she is masturbating are two different entities."

"I thought it was a vaginal massage."

"Whatever! The point is -- none of that--" She threw one arm out to encompass the house, the recent past, the bots-- "was the best ever. Not even close. Don't you know what the best ever was?"

He had the feeling he should know, but any answer he ventured now would be wrong.

She prompted him. "The best ever was that first night in your apartment after our third date."

"Oh. Yes, that was fantastic."

"And why was it so damn good?" she asked. It was rhetorical, because she proceeded to tell him. "It was good -- no, it was fucking great -- because I was nervous. I was trembling. I wanted you to like me so much and I was afraid my tits were too small, my cunt was too lose, my nose was too big, I had crooked teeth. I felt imperfect. Then I had your cock in my hands and it felt rubbery and hot and lopsided and hard. I was terrified. Then you put it in me and I melted. My cunt exploded."

"Lopsided?"

"You know what I mean. A little bend, so what? Perfect things are boring."

He felt brave enough to say, "You call what you -- and I, I confess -- were up to in the last couple of weeks boring?"

She wrapped her arms around him. "Yes, boring. I love you because you are unpredictable. And that unknown is exciting."

"What did you say your name was again, ma'am?"

"You don't need to know my name. Just take me to your place and fuck me."

Mr. Peeples picked his lovely wife up and kissed her. Mrs. Peeples slid her hand into his shirt and tickled a nipple.

He gasped and felt his parameters increase several centimeters in each dimension.