Mechanical Bull

She leaned forward and stared straight into his eyes and yet, she still couldn't tell. She couldn't tell one little bit. She had always heard that the eyes were the windows to the soul... but now, as he stood directly before her with a perfectly sculpted nude body and, more importantly, those two perfectly human-seeming peepers, it was wildly apparent that that old saying could no longer carry much weight.

UNLESS... was it a mistake? Had the company accidentally sent her a *real* man? Or was it a trick? Perhaps the "company," was just that. A man. A single man, advertising himself as a love-droid, conning a slew of bored housewives and lonely spinsters into allowing him inside of them.

It was only after she cautiously allowed him inside of her that she knew he was no man. No man made of flesh and blood could ever do to her what he did. No mere man could ever bring her such unearthly pleasures. For the first eight minutes, she could not make a sound. Her mouth was frozen agape and her eyes saucer-wide... he was a complete and total shock to her system. Try feeding a five-course meal prepared by the world's greatest chef to someone who had spent their entire life up to that point eating third-rate dog food and back-alley dumpster scraps and you might get the same reaction. Only after those first eight minutes did her mouth begin to work again. What came out of it was as uninhibited a noise as perhaps had ever escaped a human mouth.

----------------------------------------23 MINUTES LATER----------------------------------------

As he continued to thrust forward with no hint of tiredness or exhaustion on the horizon, she whispered the magic word into his ear. "Grow," she said, ever so softly. "Grow."

And then, she felt his penis grow inside of her... from 7 inches to 8... and then from 8, to 9... growing whilst still fucking her, from 9 to 10, still pounding her, 10 to 11, she began to weep, tears of pleasure, tears of joy... 11 to 12... her whole body quivered as she clutched his hard back tightly... 12 to 13 inches. Heaven was a robot.

And it didn't just grow in length, but also in girth, until it filled almost her entire vaginal cavity... his built-in lubrication modules keeping things slick and smooth. She would have thought that having something so large inside her, so massive and powerful, would be painful. But it wasn't. His member was scientifically designed to grow to just the right length and to expand to just the right circumference in order to bring about in his partner the most copious amount of physical pleasure possible.

And he kept going, filling her up with an expanding cock and thrusting it inside her at higher and higher speeds until she was sure that she was just about to explode with sheer bliss... only for him to stop right before reaching said moment of mind-shattering rapture... slowing the pace... shrinking slightly inside of her... bringing her down from sheer ecstasy to a place of peaceful relaxation... leaving her there in that moment to, "mmmmmm," in lazy satisfaction like a carefree cat stretching out on a warm, sunlit windowsill... only to begin growing and expanding and turbo-thrusting again, until she was clenching her teeth and crying more and more tears of unmitigated euphoria. A never-ending cycle of the best fucking sex she had ever received, full of skyscraper peaks and heavenly valleys.

During one of those serene momentary valleys, when the thrusting mechanism was operating at a low medium, she managed to open her eyes and stare across the room at her fully clothed husband, who was sitting and observing from his easy chair in a nearby corner. She smiled at him in a way he had never seen her smile before. It certainly was not the same sweet smile she had given him way back when as they stood across from each other on the altar, pledging to be true to each other for all of eternity. No. This was the smile of the cat who had eaten the canary. No. This was the smile of the cat who had eaten two dozen canaries.

"Happy birthday," he whispered to her.

"Mmmm. Thank you, honey," she said, this time with a voice he had never heard before either. It was the voice of a woman who was having all of her needs completely satisfied.

"You're welcome, sweet princess," he replied, confident he had picked out just the right gift for her, but with a lilt in his voice that betrayed perhaps just a slight trace of nervousness... the emergence of a fear, however fanciful, that his gift may prove to be a little too perfect.

----------------------------------------3 MONTHS LATER----------------------------------------

The seven moons of Yandor shown brightly throughout the transparent, rounded glass walls of the sleek and stylish space-habitat. It was roughly 200 years ago that the Earth, origin planet of the human species, had been destroyed. Sadly, its destruction 'twas not due to global flooding, an onslaught of massive meteorites, or a bout of intergalactic warfare, but instead, by the careless act of one man falling asleep with a lit cigarette in his mouth. As Gary sat cross-legged on the floor, polishing and waxing the right calf muscle of his wife's sexbot, he wondered what life had been like on a planet with only one moon? A student of history, he knew that in 1984 A.D., back on Earth, singer/songwriter Corey Hart had a hit record with the tune, "Sunglasses at Night." Back then, the lyrics, "I wear my sunglasses at night," were quaint and carried with them an air of mystery. Why would someone be wearing sunglasses at night? But here on Yandor, planet of the seven moons, everyone wears their sunglasses at night. The lyric is as straightforward and obvious as were he singing, "I wear my space suit when I venture outside of the space-capsule."

Gary, towel in hand, switched over to waxing its left calf muscle. Yandor, oh, Yandor. Home sweet home. The working title for Yandor was Earth-2. Almost everyone wanted to call it Earth-2. But Terry Yandor, the scientist who discovered the planet that was to become humanity's new stomping grounds, insisted it be called Terry Yandor. After much deliberations between both parties (one party being Terry Yandor, the other being every major government of every major country of the world), they were able to reach a compromise and decided to drop the Terry portion and call their new home simply: Yandor. And as the President of the United States famously stated at the time, "whilst we don't like the idea of our new planet being named after like, just one guy... at least 'Yandor' already sounds kind of space-y and exotic. I mean, if Terry's last name was Anderson or Thompson... look, it'd just be ridiculous to name a planet Thompson. Jupiter, Saturn, Mars, Thompson? So I guess we just sort of lucked out since his last name is... well, it's pretty cool sounding."

Gary's mind would often wander like this whenever he waxed the sexbot for his wife. She liked for her toy to be as clean as a whistle, and so Gary dutifully obliged. Why not? It was pretty much the only chore he had to perform each day. Two months ago, he had lost his job as a space miner, coincidently on the same day his wife was promoted to the position of senior executive at her space company. Since then, he really didn't have much to do while his wife was at work. The sexbot doubled as a handyman and did all the rest of the household chores. It cleaned, organized, made repairs, etc. Gary's wife seemed fine with the sexbot performing tasks outside of its primary function, but she had a condition. She did not wish for it to debase itself by cleaning itself. As day after day passed, she gained more and more respect for it... thinking of it less and less as a toy and more and more as an actual lover. Also, the idea of having her husband clean and maintain her sexbot sort of... tickled her.

Meanwhile, despite realizing it a small favor to ask, Gary secretly hated this new chore. The whole sexbot scenario... it was only supposed to be a one-time thing. He had rented it for her as a birthday gift... but he lost his job shortly thereafter whereas she had gained her promotion and became the sole breadwinner of their happy home. And her promotion brought in a lot of bread. Enough for her to purchase the robot he had previously rented for her. He could still hear her voice on outcall-transmitter, "No, no. I'm not interested in any other units or any newer models. I want to purchase Unit 78567. That's the one my husband rented for me last month, and that's the one I want." He tried to argue with her that it wasn't a practical purchase and that they could use the money for something more important... like a space trigonomiclaturistic fibord clingser... but even he knew that there was no real merit in that angle. Her new position at the space company was triple the salary of her old position... and so she could easily afford such a luxury without ever feeling any monetary squeeze. Also, he had no hand to play. He had no cards or chips. Were he still in possession of his job as a space miner, then, even though he would still be making marginally less space units than her, he could still justifiably have some say, some input on how their money was spent. But he was now without job at all. She wore the space pants in the house. She was the space boss. And if she was the one working all day while he stayed home, the very least he could do was wax her sexbot for her.

It's not cheating if it's just an android, he told himself. A fellow would have to be crazy to get jealous of his partner's vibrator and this is no different. But why'd they have to make it looks so... human? And why does he need to have such well-defined abs?? Couldn't they have sent a droid that could please her but maybe not please her so much? And maybe look more Lou Costello and less Lou Ferrigno?

"Right calf is not adequately polished. Please return to waxing right calf." Gary froze. This was the first time the sexbot had spoken outside of the bedroom, outside of the act of pleasuring his wife, and the first time it had spoken to him at all.

"What?" he responded.

"Right calf is not adequately polished. Please return to waxing right calf."

Gary sat completely frozen save for his eyes, which blinked several times in quick succession. He then, still in shock, began to slowly return to waxing the bot's right calf.

"Right calf complete. Finish left calf."

Several more dumbfounded blinks. Gary returned to waxing its left calf.

"Left calf complete." The sexbot turned away from its waxer, trudged heavily over to the green easy chair in the center of the room, and plopped down into it. That was Gary's green easy chair. He'd had it ever since he was in space college. It was in his space dorm room. It had grown up with him. Over the years its cushion had been slowly and perfectly sculpted to fit his butt cheeks. The sexbot's heavy metal carcass was set to destroy all those years and years of hard work in a matter of moments! Every other piece of furniture in their home had been selected by his wife. She was responsible for all of the interior designing; every little thing was to her liking, every aspect of their home meticulously crafted to meet her standards. And he was fine with that. As long as he had his chair. It was the one thing in their goddamned space house that he felt belonged to him!

Gary marched over to his green easy chair filled with a bubbling anger. He stood behind it and slapped both of his chubby hands onto the side of the bot's shoulders, attempting to pick him up and toss him from the chair. From his chair. But try lifting a boulder. Try lifting a car. Gary grunted, straining every one of his muscles, not giving up.

The automaton's head turned swiftly, rotating about 180 degrees, to stare at the man who would contaminate his pristine shoulders with dead skin cells and chocolate crumb-embedded fingerprints.

Something in its cold robotic stare and stoic facial expression told Gary that he'd better let go. And he did. As the front door swooshed open, so did the sexbot's head swoosh, back to its normal position. Becky was home.

She was greeted with the sight of her two boys in the center of the room, one sitting in her husband's green easy chair, the other standing beside it, a look of bewilderment plastered on his slightly chubby face; both of them staring blankly at her.

"Honey, I think there's something wrong with your sexbot," Gary said, breaking the momentary silence.

Becky smiled. "No there isn't."

"There isn't?"

"Last night, while you were sleeping, I tweaked some of his programming."

"Tweaked it? Tweaked it how?"

"Listen Gary," she began, in a tone that seemed distinctly reserved for unsatisfied wives, "we need to have a talk." Becky made her way over to the sofa and sat down. Then, with an outstretched hand, quickly patted the cushion next to her. Gary obediently trudged over and sat down, nervous about the nature of the talk. He decided to cut her off at the pass.

"Are you leaving me?" he asked, heart in mouth.

"Leaving you?? No! I'm not leaving you, Gary. You're my husband. We made a vow!"

He sighed with happy relief.

"But there are going to be some changes."

And just like that, the nervousness crept its way back.

"78 will no longer be used for household chore completion." (She often affectionately referred to the sexbot as "78," as he was Unit 78567. Also, she felt calling him "sexbot," was demeaning to him).

"Well," he paused, dumfounded. "Why the hell not???"

"Because it just doesn't seem right that the man who pleases me so completely should also have to do the dishes and clean the floors. Quite frankly, I think it's a little beneath him."

Gary stood up from the sofa.

"He's not a man, don't call him that."

"Semantics.

"But then what's going to happen to the space habitat," began Gary, as Becky rose and made her way towards the kitchen. Gary continued, "everything will fall into disarray. Your sexbot keeps this place neat and tidy."

She removed something from one of the kitchen cabinet drawers. "Simple. His jobs and tasks are now your jobs and tasks. You will now be in charge of keeping the space habitat in tip-top condition."

"ME? Why me? We have a perfectly good appliance here that is more than capable of doing anything we want it to," he said, motioning towards the animatronic beefcake.

Becky began making her way back towards Gary.

"It's going to be too busy pleasing me to complete any household chores. Besides. 78's primary function is not for chores. I think you know that."

"Okay then. Okay, fine. We'll get a chore-bot then. Your... robo... lover can do... all of that stuff, and the chore-bot can do the chores."

She snapped her fingers twice in quick succession and motioned that he rise from the couch, and he obeyed somewhat instinctively. Before he could even process, she swiftly swooped in behind him, and proceeded to nonchalantly tie an apron around his waist. "With only one of us working," she hit the emphasis just right, not enough to be out-and-out vicious, but just enough to make it sting, "we only have enough in our budget for one android." It was a lie. They could have easily afforded a chore-bot. She didn't want to. Becky placed a pink feather duster in Gary's right hand.

"Well then why not get rid of him," Gary's arm shot up, pointing angrily (yet still gripping the pink feather duster) at the masculine, chiseled figure that sat coldly and confidently in his easy chair. "Get rid of him, and then we'll order a cleaning-bot!"

Becky tilted her head sideways, clucked her tongue and stared at her husband with disappointment. The disappointment did not stem from the fact that she might have to return her synthetic lover. No. That would never happen. Not in a million years. She was disappointed in her husband for failing to realize that he really didn't have a say in the matter. Had he not yet come to accept the total shift in roles? Not just of the she and he, but of the he and it?

"Look, honey... I understand your apprehension. You don't want to become just a servant in your own home. You want to be a husband."

With big wet eyes, he nodded.

"And, guess what? You will be."

"I will?"

"Yes! I worked out a schedule." Becky removed a holo-pebble from her back pocket and tapped on it. A large, rectangular green-glowing holo-schedule filled the room. Gary and 78 observed.

"As you can see on the chart, I've designated alternating weeks for you both. For week one, 78 will serve as my lover and you will serve as our maid. Week 2? We'll depower him and you'll get to spend all 13-days * as my loving husband. We'll do loving husband and wife things. And best yet, I've decided that you'll get to have sex with me! All week long. Think about it! A whole week with me to yourself! How does that sound?"

(* A week on Yandor is 13 days long.)

Gary began to fantasize about what he'd been missing

"I'll need a break from all that robo-fucking anyway!"

"Okay," Gary replied reluctantly. He was beginning to realize that, no matter how this was being framed, he didn't really have a choice so it would make more sense for him to embrace the situation than to oppose it. It was either embrace it and get a week of sex with his wife every alternating week, or oppose it and possibly get divorced. And he looked his wife from head to toe. She was a thick-framed knockout. Not exactly a brain buster here. She continued.

"Listen... I know you're worried." He was. "Don't be." Becky walked up to Gary. She embraced him and did not let go. "This is going to revitalize our marriage. After one full week of working hard at being a maid, think about how much fun it will be to get a crack of me. A reward feels sooo much better when you've actually earned it. Trust me. All the build-up and release? It's going to feel so, so, so good."

When she put it like that, Gary's mood suddenly changed. This was actually starting to sound exciting. Maybe this schedule she had created would turn out to be a good thing. He returned her physical embrace.

"Finish left calf," 78 instructed loudly.

Gary pulled back from the embrace and looked at Becky. She leaned forward and whispered in his ear. "I think you better do what he says, honey."

Gary sighed heavily, dropped to all fours, crawled over to the sexbot, and resumed polishing its left calf.

----------------------------------------4 Months Later----------------------------------------

Gary mopped the kitchen floor. It was 4am, but time had lost all meaning for him. He didn't have a job. He didn't have any hobbies. He didn't have any friends. Day was night, night was day. All months were interchangeable. The schedule his wife had arranged was never followed. He protested at first, but he found it hard to argue against her reasoning. He wasn't providing for them financially, she was. He wasn't providing for her sexually, her sexbot was. When she had designed the schedule to begin with, she had only done so out of pity (and perhaps a few remnants of love), but as the first week of non-stop robo-fucking went by, practicality began to set in. She just didn't see how spending one week fucking her husband's short, partially limp dick made much sense when there was a glorious, technological wonder that could pound her brains out every night.

That damned sexbot... I mean, that damned 78, he thought. Earlier in the day he had been admonished for calling it the wrong name. "Honey, the space weeds are growing at much more of a rapid pace than I can keep up with. For just this one time, are you sure we couldn't program your sexbot to-"

Becky quickly and sharply slapped his face. It was not out of anger. It was the way an owner sprays their cat with a water bottle to train it. "Try that sentence again."