Man, Get Yourself a Woman

"How about a tabby cat?" I suggested.

"Mmmm," she said. "That sounds great."

I found an orange-and-white plug with a happy, cartoon cat face for a base. The material was something ultra-modern, and its contours were customized for Elizabeth's hypersexual asshole and rectum. Every ridge, bump, flare, and ripple was just for her. The lube wasn't a custom job, but didn't really need to be. Science had perfected three or four different types, and Elizabeth, though she liked them all, had discovered a slight preference for the thicker, translucent gel. We barely even needed it anymore; after more than a month of receiving my cum every day, her body was producing natural lubricant everywhere. It still made the sex better, and, for another five months at least, I was getting quite a lot of it for free.

"Back or belly, baby girl?" I asked when I returned.

"Mmmm... back."

Elizabeth rolled onto her back and put her legs up. She was limber and strong, and could hold the submissive, puppy-play position almost indefinitely. I sat down beside her and began petting her butt. The change in her was immediate. She was horny.

"Are you going to take good care of me, Paul?" she purred.

I smiled down at her. "I am, Elizabeth."

She nodded and sighed, communicating complete trust. I lubed my finger and tickled her pink rear hole. She giggled and then bit her lip.

"Stop it!" she said, but she clearly didn't mean it. She made no move to get away; she even shifted her body so that her asshole was easier for me to molest. That was another big change in her; she could play with me, even when she was horny.

"Sorry, baby girl," I said, still smiling down at her. "I'll stop teasing. Get ready."

"I'm always ready for you, Master," she replied. Then she pursed her lips. Her brow creased just a little. She knew what she'd done.

Male Guilt stabbed at me. She could sense it. I loved her, but I didn't know how to love her best. I made a choice. I leaned over her -- loomed, you could say -- and placed my finger squarely on her vulnerable hole. I applied pressure, but not enough to penetrate. I gave her a slow massage there, emphasizing that I could, and would, do whatever I wanted, at my own pace. I let her know I was in complete control of her asshole.

"I'm your master, am I?" I asked. I tried to sound playful, seductive, aroused and menacing all at once. I had no idea if I succeeded. "What does that make you, Elizabeth? Tell me."

Her brilliant green eyes asked so many questions. I tried hard to answer them with my bright blue ones. Her brow stopped furrowing. Her lips parted. I saw the merest hint of a nod, and returned it.

"I'm your little kitty-kat, Master," she said. She moved her raised limbs around helplessly, just like an animal. "I've been so good for you, so you're going to make love to me. You're going to make me cum, and you're going to feed me your special milk."

I leaned down and kissed her forehead. "That's exactly right, kitty-kat," I said. "Such a smart little kitty. Such a good little kitty. But first, you need your plug. You need your little reminder that I own you."

She nodded again, then started nuzzling my face. "I do need it," she said, "and I love it. I love my reminder. I love that you own me. You're the best master a little kitty-kat could ever hope for. I love you so much, Paul -- um, Master -- and I want to be yours forever and ever."

"And you will be," I promised, and penetrated her. She moaned out her anal surrender to both me and to pleasure. She relaxed into the perverted safety and security of our awful relationship. I tried to imagine her at the gate, holding back the Male Guilt. I couldn't quite make it work, but help was on its way. Soon, I knew, I'd be too horny to care.

She barely needed to be lubed or stretched, so one finger was enough. I withdrew it, then awkwardly and blindly lubed the plug before placing it at her entrance; we nuzzled and kissed the whole time. When I pushed it in, her moan was even deeper and louder.

"Good kitty," I whispered. Her primal groans were interrupted by a high, happy, breathy sigh. She shuddered with pleasure that derived from sex, love, and submission, all at once.

I got to see her special face again when my cock entered her pussy; I never got tired of it. She held on after that -- much longer than she'd been able to only weeks prior. As I made love to her right there on the couch, her whispers of love and devotion soon gave way to bliss. I knew her sexual instincts would carry her farther and let our kisses continue, but I sank down onto her body and let her slip away. I joined her. The pounding at the gates seemed to recede, but it was we who were receding. We were going someplace that Male Guilt couldn't follow.

I didn't lift myself up to see her face when she started cumming, or when she received her medicine. I only moved enough so she could slide her hands between us to massage her breasts and milk her nipples. It was awkward, and felt strange against my chest, but I didn't mind. I focused on my cock and her cunt. I reveled in her soft, smooth legs wrapping around me. I gently chewed and sucked on the skin between her neck and shoulder -- more intense than kissing, but nothing that would've caused her pain, even if she'd been aware enough to notice. She probably wouldn't have cared. She might've loved it.

We recovered together, as we always did. Her quivering cunt milked me of its own accord, and, like always, I hoped it found at least one more drop somewhere.

"I love you, Paul," she said.

"I love you too, Elizabeth," I replied.

I knew things were going to get harder, but I took selfish solace in the fact that, at least seven times a day, we had the perfect excuse to escape from reality. Elizabeth would always need her cum.

*************

I got through the first day, but only barely. Games weren't nearly enough of a distraction -- not even the VR-cube ones I rarely played. I abused myself. I scolded myself. I paced and tried to be angry at the world instead of at myself, and instead of heartbroken. Then I switched over to being very angry with myself. That felt right. Unfortunately, it also seemed to slow down time. The universe itself warped so I could feel all the bad feelings I deserved to feel.

She banged at the door. She wailed. She said horrible things, and then she begged. The quiet times were the worst. I knew the room had been made safe. I knew the collar, leash, plugs, harness, House and her Healthee rendered her powerless to truly hurt herself. I knew she wanted for nothing -- not even for her addiction-above-all-others. The only thing she couldn't have was me, for one hour.

When that hour was up and I went into the room -- her room, from then on -- neither of us spoke. Neither of us knew what to do, even though it was obvious that I should free her from her bondage. I didn't approach. I tried to communicate silently, but she wouldn't look at me. I finally gave in, losing the little contest she'd created.

"Elizabeth," I asked in a low, even voice, "would you like me to help you take off your... equipment?"

"No," she lied. "I can do it myself." She was aching for my touch, just like I was aching for hers. Even the second part was a lie -- sort of. She could only take off the equipment because the AIs and I had said so.

"Okay," I said. "You can do it whenever you like -- or you can keep it on. It's your choice."

"Oh, it's my choice," she said. "How nice."

Male Guilt was inside the gates. She'd let it in, finally realizing it had been an ally all along. I couldn't blame her one bit. It was a sword in her hand. It was a knife in my heart.

"Did you get any reading done?" I asked like a stupid idiot, because that's the best thing I was.

"I didn't much feel like reading," she said coldly. "I didn't feel like doing much of anything, really, Paul. How about you? Did you get anything done out there, by yourself? I honestly can't imagine what, but since you were nice enough to ask me, I suppose it's only fair I be polite."

"I didn't much feel like doing anything either," I said, fighting back tears -- and the urge to wrap her up in a suffocating hug.

"I want cum," she said abruptly.

"Of course, Elizabeth," I said. "Should I wait... somewhere? Until...?"

"I don't want sex," she lied. "I want cum. Go make some for me, please. I'll get changed. I'll meet you in the kitchen."

"Okay," I said. I was glad for the excuse to leave. My desire to flee from our pain and her anger trivially overrode everything else, and that made me feel like an even bigger piece of shit.

Once I was in the bathroom, I let myself break down and cry. Healthee pinged a yellow warning.

"Oh, fuck you," I yelled, violently waving it off, as though it had some corporeal form for me to denigrate and dismiss. "Fuck your fucking warnings, you machine-ass motherfucking useless shitfuck."

I leaned against the cool, faux-tile wall and sank down. I was a useless lump of self-pity. If there'd been such a thing as the most flaccid cock ever, it would have been mine.

"She needs her cum," Healthee said. It sounded almost human. That shocked me out of my stupor.

"What the fuck?" I asked.

"You have responsibilities," House chimed in. It was playing the same game Healthee was. "Let us help."

"I'd almost forgotten how annoying and creepy you fuckers are," I groused.

"You were happy," Healthee said. "Now you need help."

"Fuck," I said. "Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck... I do." I stood up and wiped my eyes. "I can't get hard."

"Acknowledged," Healthee said.

"Proceed to the extractor," House said. "It's fully capable. Set to local. A simple drinking glass. Bathroom, or kitchen?"

I tried to imagine the various scenarios: giving her space, or proving I'd never abandon her when things got difficult. In every one, I did the wrong thing and lost. "Here," I said. "Bathroom. I don't know. What's the right answer?"

"There is none," House said. "Bathroom. Confirmed."

For the first time in years -- and years, and years -- I had to use my hand to slip my flaccid cock into the extractor. It was warm and wet, but most importantly, it was loose. It silently mocked my inadequacy.

"Okay," I said, telling them they could butt fuck me. It preempted another humiliating conversation with two non-people whose faux-humanity was just more mockery.

The rear penetration was nothing out of the ordinary, but my mindset made all the difference. It felt clinical and cold. The expert massage of my asshole and insides -- most of all, my massive, elongated, and ultra-sensitive prostate -- felt like a disappointed schoolmarm sighing her way through a chore that her backsliding pupil had been taught how to do years ago. I collapsed onto the machine in resignation. I felt exhausted; my body knew that sleep was the best available escape from reality.

I did get hard. I halfheartedly humped. The machine had to fuck the cum out of me. Healthee and House spared me one indignity, at least. They didn't talk dirty. They didn't force me to remember how much I'd loved it when Farah had so enthusiastically dominated my asshole with all manner of toys and strapped-on dildos. I did anyway. How could I have not? It was the one thing that Elizabeth hadn't yet done -- and, I despaired in that moment, might never.

The process was quick, as was the cleanup. I took the cup to the kitchen. I was surprised by how empty it was. It was more than old-world men could have produced across several days. I knew that, vaguely, from net articles and conversations. Modern men were told that to try to assuage Male Guilt, and maybe even foster some dumb Male Pride.

Elizabeth was in the kitchen, and clothed. But for the vibe, she would have looked great. The novelty of seeing her wear something -- anything -- would have worked for me. I'd always been a fan of lazy, comfortable clothes on girls. It had been an utterly non-kinky kink for me and Farah.

"Elizabeth, honey," I said, "you should probably sit down, at least."

She stared murder into me. "... Fuck," she said. I'd never heard her say it like that before. Without another word, she stormed off to the living room. I dutifully followed.

She sat down on the big couch and folded her arms. I set the cum down on the coffee table near her, then cautiously sat on a love seat.

"You can sit wherever you want," she said venomously. It wasn't permission. It was a pointed observation -- the tip of a knife or a sword, stabbing into me again. I didn't respond. I knew I couldn't win, or even make up any ground.

She lifted the glass. "Thank you," she said.

"You never need to thank me," I told her.

"Problem of infinite regress," she retorted. It sounded like something Farah would have said. I didn't understand. She clenched her jaw and decided whether or not to let me stew. "It means I still need to thank you for generously letting me not thank you. Feel free to mull it over while I'm fucking high."

She tossed the cum back like a stiff drink from an old movie, and struggled to set the glass back down on the coffee table. She almost made it, but the cup tipped over and rolled onto the plush carpet. She sank into the sofa and, just like she'd said, got higher than high. With sex, she could resist and pretend for a while. Not so with cum.

I stayed with her. I didn't play a game, or even get help from an AI to understand what she'd said. I just let my life be empty for a few minutes.

When she came to, she tried as hard as she could to shake off her obvious satisfaction. "I'm going to go masturbate in the bedroom. You should probably come make sure I don't do anything crazy."

"I will," I agreed. Healthee and House would have never let anything "crazy" happen. We both knew that. I took whatever I could get, and I didn't talk back.

She stripped down and went to town on herself. She clutched at her breasts violently, and milked them the same way. She violated herself with large, alien-shaped dildos and mashed her large clit into bucking, vibrating toys. Her entire pelvis was shiny with lube, and traces of it transferred from her fingers to her tits as well. She kept her hair up, but the bun fell apart as she writhed, moaned, and came. At first, she couldn't find her state of being; when it approached, she lost her ability to abuse herself. She solved that problem quickly enough, silently communicating to me -- her impotent overseer -- that she only needed one thing from me. Healthee and House cooperated. I silently denounced them as traitors. She set herself up on a jury-rigged fucking machine, bitterly acknowledging that the AI would dictate the length and intensity of her session.

I watched the whole time. I didn't get hard. I didn't get jealous, either, but the whole affair felt ugly and wrong. She was punishing me. Male Guilt, pride, selfishness, love, and even outrage at her ingratitude fought a war inside -- a war so deeply psychological and emotional that it felt too smart for me to participate in, whatever "me" even was. The end results were much simpler than the raging conflict itself. At any given moment, I either did, or didn't, feel like I deserved what I was getting and being denied.

She tired herself out. She detached from the toys, curled up, and slept. At first, she pretended, but then she actually did. I stayed, and did nothing. I thought. It was unlike me.

I thought about the things she'd said. She'd been lashing out, but the truth was a powerful weapon. I thought about my life outside of her. It was empty. It was pathetic. I didn't work. I didn't have a real hobby to speak of. I'd left nothing behind in the world but cum. The system said that that was more than enough. Elizabeth -- some version of her -- had violently disagreed. She'd picked up Male Guilt and stabbed me with it some place that I didn't think was going to heal.

I fed her three more loads of cum the same way. She thanked me every time. We were always in the same room. I hovered and dithered like a pet who knew it had misbehaved, but also knew that to spurn its owner was death. It was exactly how I deserved to feel, because she was the pet, and I was the owner, and that was horribly, horribly wrong. The world was wrong.

I gave her her final dose. She was already on the bed. She blissed out, then came to. I made one lame, selfish attempt to bridge the gap.

"I love you, Elizabeth," I said.

"Thank you for the cum, Paul," she replied.

We were both on the bed, but I couldn't say we shared it. I suffered without her touch, and let her do much the same to herself. I slept, eventually, but only because I was too exhausted to keep hurting.

*************

I woke up in the middle of the night, cried, and left a message for Suzy on the holonet. I remembered what she'd told me at the shelter. I was suddenly keenly aware that I didn't understand how the world worked. I just hoped everything was magical and easy, like it had been for most of my life.

I wasn't entirely wrong. Elizabeth had only been in her room, secured and alone, for five minutes when House's chime echoed down into the pathetic well of my self-pity. With a lazy wave, I gave permission for the visitor to enter the transition chamber -- an airlock, essentially, to the outside world.

I stood up, wiped my face, and went to answer the door. Suzy was wearing casual clothes, and looked good. She'd already logged in with House, and she reached out with her Healthee for mine. I waved full permission. I would've just given her the apartment outright. I would've let her claim me as a pet so she could punish me properly.

Instead, with infinite grace, she walked in and hugged me. She was the first person besides Elizabeth I'd touched in over a month. It felt really, really good. It felt better because she was a mutie. She didn't need me. She didn't even love me.

"You made it through the first day," she said. She meant it as a compliment.

"No I didn't," I said. "Not really."

"Tell me."

We released each other. I told her, right there near the door. I didn't cry, though it was a close thing.

She led me to the living room sofa and encouraged me to be small -- to curl up, as best I could, onto her lap. It was awkward as anything, but I did it eagerly. The couch was big enough and comfy enough to make it almost work. I felt her fingers in my hair. I felt the heat of her core near my head, and didn't worry about it. I tried to let her calm me down.

"Paul, I'm so sorry," she said. "I know it's hard. You're doing the right thing, and that can be so hard sometimes. Everything you're feeling is okay to feel, at least for a while. Just keep doing the exercises. I know you're not a fan of your Healthee, but please listen to it. Take all the help you can get. Talk to it. Talk to yourself. Talk to me, even if I can't always come over."

"You're not missing work?"

"This time they're paying me," she said, "so put it out of your mind."

"This happens a lot."

"It's a red flag when it doesn't. It means a caretaker isn't doing his job, or something worse than that. You're a good caretaker, Paul. You're a good person."

As if on cue, House pinged an alert. I panicked, and Suzy's hands on my head became authoritative and controlling, forcing me back towards sanity.

"I'll check it," she said. I figured she'd patch it in through her eye HUD. "Yeah, she knows someone else is in the apartment. Probably should've soundproofed, but I understand why you didn't. I should've sent you the advice before I came. Sorry. Too late now. Consciousness of guilt. It'll seem like we're trying to hide something."

I tensed up on her lap. "I don't understand."

She sighed. "Jealousy," she said. "The separation's hard. Women are... shit, there's no way to explain it and sound like a good person. Sorry."