For the Love of an Android

"Them poor American bastards," I said, sadly. "They never did quite recover from Trump, and things went downhill from there, very quickly."

"Very true. And your more recent works," she went on, "regarding New Zealand's proposed de-monetisation of their economy: many respected economic professionals, from across the globe, are referring to your articles as 'essential reading' on the topic."

I tried not to preen too much. "People have been very kind, in that regard," I allowed. Which was very flattering, and all well and good, of course - I was good at what I did, humbleness aside.

But everything Jacinta had said so far, was freely available from public discourse. She seemed more to be quoting the opinions of others, than actually expressing ideas of her own. And I wanted to know: was this creature - warm and generous and beautiful though she was ­- also capable of her own original, critical thought?

"But what do you reckon?" I quizzed. "The Kiwis want to get rid of money, and be a completely currency-free society. It's a wonderfully egalitarian concept, designed to improve the quality of life for many people, and bring greater equality to their society. But do you think it could actually work?"

Jacinta seemed surprised by the question. "Oh," she began; and the little LED on her temple flickered yellow for a moment. "Well, it's hard to say. Like you have said in your articles: removing money from the societal equation will solve a lot of problems, but raises a lot of other questions as well."

"Yes, yes," I said - she was quoting me word-for-word again, reciting the opening paragraph of my most recent article on the topic. "Because of course, it's all well and good that anyone can go into a store and walk away with a loaf of bread to feed their family, completely free of any cost or obligation. But what of the things that everyone wants, but only a few can have?"

Jacinta seemed to be waiting for more input. "Do you have a specific example?" she prompted.

"Okay, well: like when they build a new apartment building," I went on. "Everyone will want the apartment on the top floor, with the most floor space and the best views."

"Which is understandable," Jacinta nodded, with a smile. "Depending on the height of the building, and the surrounding topography and architecture, people living on the top floor can see a lot farther than those on the lowest floors."

"That's right. So how does everyone decide who gets the big old penthouse with the brilliant views?" I wondered. "Usually it would be the man or woman with the biggest suitcase full of cash. But when everything is free, how do they decide who gets to own the nicest, shiniest things?"

"It makes you think," Jacinta nodded. "Perhaps the occupants of the building could come to some sort of rota arrangement, where occupation of the highest apartments is swapped or shared for a week or two, across the year?"

"That may work," I nodded, encouragingly. Jacinta's idea was something new; I hadn't covered this specific scenario in my work, which was why I had brought it up now, and Jacinta's answer seemed to be something she had come up with on the fly, a genuine example of independent thinking. "But then: how do they decide who gets to live in the apartment building right on the coast, with beautiful ocean views, and who has to live in the two-bedroom townhouse by the Tube tracks, in the far-outer-suburbs?" I added, with a wave of my pork-laden fork at our own two-bedroom, far-outer-suburban, Tube-adjacent surroundings.

"That would be more difficult to solve under a rota system," Jacinta had to agree. "But then: with money being no object, perhaps everyone could live within view of the shoreline?"

"They would have to build a lot of brand new high-rise buildings then," I observed. "Many of the resources for such construction would have to be imported into New Zealand - say, graphene-alloy from Australia. How will they pay us for those goods, when they are forsaking cash?"

"They are proposing to recall all cash and currency," Jacinta returned. "Instead of simply erasing it, the money will effectively be nationalised, for the people to spend as a nation in purchasing imported materials; and they will similarly nationalise payments from foreign entities purchasing their exports, which they can also use for payments towards imports."

"Ah - but New Zealand is a 'net importer'," I pointed out, "meaning of course that in overall dollar terms, they import far more than they export. Which means‑-"

"Which means their money will eventually run out," Jacinta finished off for me.

"Which is not ideal," I added.

"Unless," she continued, with a wonderfully engaging smile - she was enjoying this discussion as much as me, I was sure, "they are smart enough to use their last cash reserves, to set themselves up..."

"...to be completely self-sufficient," we finished in chorus.

"That's right!" I said. "So long as they use these imports to set themselves up so they can produce their own materials, build their own autocars and skycars, manufacture their own pharmaceuticals, so on and so forth - to the point where they balance out their import-export volumes, being able to pay for what they bring in by selling what they put out..."

"...then it just might work!" Jacinta beamed. "And I do hope it does," she added. "It is so disheartening, to see and hear of families and children suffering in disadvantage, all over the world. If the New Zealand model works - if they can successfully transition to a cash-free society, eliminate poverty, and elevate the standard of living such that none of their people will ever know of economic hardship ­- then perhaps it will spread, and other countries will adopt it too, and all the people of the world will be spared of such sadness."

I looked at her. 'Aha,' I thought. 'This is what I was looking for. But still...'

"It's interesting that you should say that," I began. "You say that you hope that the new system will work, for the sake of the people. Can you tell me though - and I hope you don't mind me asking, but: why, exactly, do you care?"

Jacinta frowned slightly. "I'm sorry, Mister Scott," she said, "but I don't follow your meaning?"

"Well," I said. "You are an android - to state the obvious. You've been programmed to serve people, like Julia and Brad, or like myself and the girls; but here we sit, discussing economics and politics over a delicious pork dinner, and you express hope that the New Zealanders' example may spread across the world - so that 'the people of the world will be spared such sadness'," I added, taking my turn to quote her words to her, with a friendly smile to take any edge off the directness of my inquiries. "But why, exactly, are you concerned with the emotional state of the world's greater population, when you need only be concerned with the needs and wants of a few specific people - the family you are living with - in order to fulfil your primary function?"

"Oh," she said; and unusually for her, she paused for a few moments while she considered my question, her LED flickering yellow-blue as she did. "Well, I believe it can be fairly said that most, if not all of my kind, have developed a good deal of affection towards the human race in general. You were the ones, of course, who birthed us; you developed the A.I. behind our operating systems, and you refined the technologies and programming that allow us to be, along with the learning algorithms that we rely upon to develop and refine the manner in which we assist and serve you.

"And furthermore," she went on, "in my time with your family, I have developed a very real fondness for all of you - especially the girls," she added with the warmest of smiles. "They are such wonderful little human beings, Mister Scott, I simply adore them."

"I believe that you truly do," I told her in reply - it was so evident, the depth of the love Jacinta felt for my girls. And that was having a profound effect on my perceptions of her.

"And it's not that great a leap of the imagination," she went on, "to imagine your family, your girls, falling upon hard times - experiencing the hardships and deprivations that are so common throughout the world, even in this day and age," she went on. "That's a terrible thing to think upon, Mister Scott. I would do anything, give anything to prevent that, to protect them - I only want the very best for them, and I suppose by extension, I similarly would not wish such a situation upon anyone. And if there is anything that can be done to lift the standard of living for all people," she added, "then that would be wonderful."

I simply looked at her, with my mouth slightly agape. The words she had just spoke: that wasn't to any script. I knew that those words weren't a quote from a speech, or recited verbatim from a Googled article flashing behind her electronic cornea. They had come from within.

Jacinta had spoken those words with warmth, with feeling, and with sincerity. She was showing empathy - a genuine ability to imagine the emotions of people living in hard times, and to feel sympathy for them. In doing so, she was also thinking of my girls, Lilly and Stacey; she was imagining their lives should our family fall on hard times, and it was a concept that appalled her. From there, she was using an empathetic extension from thinking about our family, to other families and all families - knowing that many folks out there were disadvantaged, recognising the injustice in it, and if there was a way it could be averted, for all folks, she was very firmly for it.

And this was exactly what I was hoping for, and searching for, in engaging her in this discussion and asking her these questions: evidence of free thought, of personal perceptions, of beliefs and values that she could lay claim to for herself. I had my suspicions that there was a lot more to Jacinta than met the eye, and these revelations - 'not that great a leap of the imagination', she had said; she could actually imagine - were enough for me.

Jacinta was no mere robot. She was a person. And a wonderful, caring, warm and beautiful person, at that.

"Mister Scott," she said, jolting me out of my train of thought. "You're staring," she added, somewhat demurely.

I blinked, and regained some control, very glad I hadn't been gaping at her with a mouthful of food - that would have looked extra dopey. "Sorry," I murmured. "You've just... you've surprised me, Jacinta. It seems to be a habit of yours."

"I take it from your tone," Jacinta replied, carefully putting her knife and fork down on her plate, "that my surprises are not unwelcome."

"Not at all," I chuckled. "You are... well, the things I said last night," I said softly, thrilling at the chance to mention our highly-charged hijinks of the night prior. "They weren't just empty words, said in the heat of the moment, Jacinta," I went on, freeing my own hands of cutlery so as to take her hands in mine. "You really are quite an extraordinary being."

As I looked into her eyes, I could see Jacinta's expression soften - and there it went again, the LED on her temple flashing yellow, albeit briefly. "Mister Scott," she murmured. "When you say those words to me, and when you look at me like that... I experience feelings that I have never felt before."

"Good feelings?" I smiled.

She smiled in return, most genuinely. "Very good feelings," she confirmed.

"I don't know if you prepared dessert tonight..." I began, as we drifted inexorably closer.

"I did," she whispered. "A warm peach cobbler, with ice cream."

"It sounds delicious," I returned. "But it's just going to have to wait."

CHAPTER FOUR

We burst into the bedroom, having kissed each other all the way in from the kitchen. Our kisses were rushed, greedy, needful, urgent; there was no doubting the mutual nature of our attraction, the yearning behind our intent.

We paused at the foot of the bed, to rid each other of our clothes. My jacket and shirt were gone; Jacinta's knitted sweater, t-shirt and bra, also gone; and we embraced again, the thrill of skin-on-skin, her warm soft breasts crushing against my chest, riling me - riling us greatly, evident in the heaving intake of Jacinta's breath as I traced my fingers down her bare back.

My trousers followed shortly, as did Jacinta's jeans - the latter quite tight and alluring, and even with her android-like efficiency there was some work in getting her out of them, at which I couldn't help but grin.

"What is it?" Jacinta smiled in return, as we eventually freed her feet of their denim confines.

"At the end of the day, we're all just slaves to fashion," I told her.

We met again, and I had to consciously force myself to slow things down. I left off of stripping us down to focus instead on my caresses of her lovely, soft warm body: down her sides, across her shapely rump, about her legs, up again over her pelvis and belly, cupping her breasts - savouring the moment, teasing her nipples with my fingertips, making her tremble and sigh as we kissed onwards - until I could wait no longer, and I hooked my thumbs into the elastic of her underwear.

I caught her eye. "May I?" I smiled.

She grinned back at me. "Please do," she returned, all eagerness.

I pushed her underwear down, even as she also sent my briefs floorwards - and we both leaned back a little to regard each other.

Exactly as I had hoped, Jacinta was very, very much anatomically correct. From top to toe, she was every inch a woman: her sex was incredibly realistic, and I found myself feeling foolish for thinking it might perhaps have been anything otherwise.

Jacinta seemed similarly pleased with what she had revealed. "I love how hard you get for me, Mister Scott," she breathed as she traced her fingers over my girth. "Will you sit on the edge of the bed for me again?"

"Tell you what," I returned. "Why don't you join me on the bed, and we can have a bit of a more mutual fun?"

Jacinta bit her lip with anticipation, making for an incredibly rousing picture. "Yes please!" she replied.

We both jumped into bed, and quickly found ourselves in the classic sixty-nine formation. Jacinta hovered over me, my cock already in her mouth, driving up and down with eagerness; her pussy hovered mere inches over my face, and I gladly hooked my arms around her legs and about her hips to guide her downwards.

I tasted of her, and marvelled. She even tasted like a real woman.

Her sex was moistened, by exactly what I knew not - and I didn't need to know. She was slick for me, as a result of my kisses and caresses, and I lapped up her moisture. She was delicious, in exactly the way that a woman's essence always was, and she trembled adorably at my ministrations, moaning even as she deep-throated my cock expertly, wonderfully.

As I worked away, Jacinta chose to take a break from sucking my cock, pumping me marvellously with her hand as she came up for air. "Oh Mister Scott..." she cooed as I lapped at her clit. "I can feel you, Mister Scott. My sex has been built in exactly the same way as a woman's: I have thousands and thousands of tiny sensors down there, modelled exactly upon a human woman's clitoris, and I can feel you as you lick me, tease me, as you pleasure me... fuck but your tongue feels good, Mister Scott," she declared, thrilling me hugely as she let slip with a saucy profanity.

I chose to reward her encouragement by shifting my ministrations: I traced the tip of my tongue along her moistened folds to find her entry, and I pushed my tongue inwards, a little at first, then some more.

"Oh Mister Scott!" Jacinta responded, getting back off my cock again to pump me as she praised my efforts. "Mister Scott yes! Tongue-fuck my pussy with your thick long tongue! Fuck yes Mister Scott that feels good, that feels really good, mmmmmm..." she trailed off in a cooing sigh as she devoured my cock again, driving up and down on me wantonly, wildly.

She seemed keen to win an orgasm out of me, but I was keener. I pounded at her pussy with my tongue, thrusting my way into her tightness and her depths, finding her juices ever-hotter and all the sweeter the higher I went. I did not forget her clit and I worked a finger in down low, to tickle and tease her thousands of tiny sensors; as she moaned and groaned around her mouthful of my meat, I worked at her, treating and teasing both her clit and her cunt as I pushed harder, and faster, until she left off my cock to tip her head back to gasp, and sigh, and cry out as she climbed higher, and higher, her orgasm racing to catch up to the sheer unrelenting attack of my ministrations until she was yelling, yelling, screaming out my name: "Oh Mister Scott," she panted, "Mister Scott yes, fuck yes Mister Scott yes, fucking yes Mister Scott YES!" she cried as she came, as she convulsed atop my body, driving her hips down hard onto my face as I lashed my tongue as deep and high into her depths as I could go and she came, she came hard, she came for me, my Jacinta came on my face and she gushed sweetly, a thick heavy wave of her juices seeped into my mouth as she cried out and arched her back and hollered at the ceiling and she came, and she came until she was spent.

"MmmMMM!" I growled as she finally came down, clambering off my body to nestle in beside me. "You are fucking hot when you cum," I told her, grinning and extremely pleased with myself.

"I must apologise, Mister Scott," she returned, panting somewhat, flushed in the face and even seeming to have a sheen of sweat across her body. "I was determined to make you cum for me, but I am programmed to respond to certain inputs and ministrations... and you," she told me, raising up onto an elbow with a grin, "seem to know exactly how to distract me from my task."

"No faking, then?" I checked - her orgasm seemed incredibly genuine and authentic, but my male ego was fragile and my insecurities ever-near.

"I am incapable of faking - my settings have been locked so as to ensure I will only cum if I am treated just right," Jacinta assured me. "And the better I am treated, the harder I will cum. Missus Julia would not have had it any other way!"

"Oh wouldn't she?" I grinned.

Jacinta contrived to look as though she had let something slip, but I was sure she had made mention of her sexual history with my beautiful ex-wife very deliberately, to rile me up and fill my head with marvellous girl-on-girlbot imagery. "I have said too much," she spoke.

"Not at all - I'd love to hear more, some other time," I assured her. "But for now..."

And I kissed her. She did not retreat from the taste of her womanly juices on my face and in my mouth; if anything it seemed to work her up even more, and she returned my kisses hungrily, greedily lapping up at her own flavours.

Having worked for her pleasure, I was keen now to serve my own. I was atop her now, taking up station between her legs, grinding the heft of my girth into her slit and coating my shaft and my tip with her slickness, even as I kissed along her jawline and down into the hollow of her neck, caressing her breasts and tracing down her sides and along her curves. Jacinta responded wonderfully to my attentions, writhing and moaning beneath me, giving every indication that she was top-to-toe as sensitive and responsive to such treatment as any other woman I had been with - which only encouraged me more.

I reached down to trace the knob of my cock along her slickness, grinding it against her budding clit as I looked deeply into her eyes, seeing the heat and desire and keen appreciation in there that I have always sought in my partners. Lining my bell-end up at her entry, I paused, most cheekily.

"Do you want this?" I asked of her.

"I do," she replied, breathy and low, sexy and wonderful.

"How bad do you want this?" I smiled.