Robocock Files 001_b

Robocock was holding me aloft, speared on its cocks, arms pinned above my head with my body flattened against the glass. Seeing myself in the mirror above the sink, I gave myself the impression of a butterfly in a collection, held in place and spread open wide to be viewed with detached curiosity. My long, slender legs were buckled at the knees. My lean, taut thighs quivered and trembled as the electric pulses ran through me from my cunt down to my curled toes. With my arms above me, I could see the outlines of my ribcage, my abdominal musculature framed against the triangle of my pelvis. The bruises on my ass and midriff were blossoming in mottled purple. My whole body above the knees was drawn taut. The stitches of pain releasing and coursing through me were like the fraying of string. I could see the half of my face pressed against the glass, my mouth open in a rictus of pleasure, my eyes large and glassy, like dolls eyes, my cheeks reduced from their full-bodied olive hue to a drained, ashen grey.

It was the smell that brought me back to myself, back into my body: the tang of urine mixed with musky, acrid sweat and the savoury, proteinous stench of semen. Back within myself, I relished the sensation of liquid moving within me as Robocock pumped me to the brim with hot spurts of cum. I could see long stringy globes of it dripping out of me onto the floor.

When it withdrew itself from me and released my arms, I crumpled fully, banging my knee hard against the ceramic rim housing the glass panel as I fell. I couldn't move any part of my body, but an occasional erotic twinge in my loins would bring me out of my dissociation long enough to convulse on the floor. The creature bent down over me and scooped some of the artificial semen emerging from my cunt onto its fingers. I couldn't see anything but the perforated metal panel over the drain a few inches from my head. A small hand appeared in my line of sight, offering the salvaged cum to me as you would offer a dog a treat. I had enough strength to open my mouth and receive it. The creature pressed its fingers deep into my mouth and let me suck them clean.

I KNOW WHAT YOU LIKE, JEFF.

I noticed that my ears were ringing. The wetroom seemed blanketed in a preternatural silence. The voice spoke to me soundlessly, merging with my inner monologue like an intrusive thought.

I KNOW WHAT YOU WANT ME TO DO TO YOU.

Robocock was fucking my mouth with one hand and now gently fingering my sore asshole with the other. As it slid a second and then a third finger into my ass, I could feel a thin stream of Richards cum emerging from me.

YOU'RE AN EXCELLENT TOY. SO FLEXIBLE AND YET SO DURABLE.

It was right. I did want everything that it was doing to me. Every position it had arranged my limbs into, each of the sexual possibilities the furniture of my small dorm room had afforded, every detail, down to the composition of the pool of bodily fluids pooling around my face (saliva, sweat, semen, both artificial and human, urine, blood, flecks of fecal matter) was a choreographed step of our insane dance. And we had choreographed it together, in my dreaming and its careful attention to my dreams. No lover I've had, before or since, has been such a good listener as Robocock was. It was the kind of lover you need to tell nothing to, for it already knows, already has anticipated your every passing whim and your deepest desire. How did I get here, splayed out on the floor, gagging on the fingers of an ex-boyfriend transformed into a meat-puppet by a sentient dildo?

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It really had begun innocently enough. Well, perhaps not that innocently. It was Valentine's Day. I was in Richard's flat, quite literally lying on a bed I had strewn with rose petals, wearing a LoveHoney French maid costume over my binder with the skirt hiked up as I idly rubbed the polished wooden handle of a feather duster over my clit. My clit. My overactive fucking clit. It had landed me, once again, in a sexualised pose of utter humiliation. My fucking clit--like those big red buttons that activate the nuclear bombs--was the kind of thing a certain sort of man liked to hover around and think about, maybe hesitantly run his finger over, but never ever, for fear of the consequences, actually press. Richard was late.

The whole thing had effectively been his idea. Perhaps not the French maid outfit (though I had gone through his internet history for inspiration). I wanted to surprise him. Do something special, you know? Something I knew he would like. He was going to break up with Maria on Valentines Day so we could finally end the sneaking around. He was a true romantic, of course. But, in truth, I was trying not to think about Maria at that moment. It's funny how, when you try to recall a moment in which you were deliberately putting something out of mind, it's always that thing you were trying to forget which comes back clearest.

Maria and I had been friends since we were, I suppose, six years old. All the way from Year 1 in the same state primary up to our 11+ exams, which we had studied for late into the night at her enormous townhouse in Mayfair. As far as memory goes in preserving that time, I can recall very little in terms of studying. Just us, together in our pajamas; giggling and making an absolute mess in the kitchen (What were we doing? Making slime?); and the sound of steps in the hallway, a light turning on; us, turning and looking at each other in horror; then breaking out into shrieks of laughter as we ran out into the massive shared garden, into the limitless night; a mental picture of us running in that night, an image frozen in that cool air.

Over the course of her childhood, Maria's father, Dante, had risen through the ranks of an apparently lucrative bottle service enterprise that I still suspect had ties to the Italian mob. Both of Maria's grandfathers had been drain layers, though her paternal grandfather had apparently nurtured an interest in renaissance literature.

Her parents and mine were very close. My mother referred to this alliance as the 'Foreign Office' of the school PTA. It was an old, wealthy C of E primary school and most of the non-British parents were rather cowed by Father Peter, but not our parents. Our parents were older, in their late 30s, and, so we had come to believe, wiser than the others. I suppose I never mentioned that I'm Romanian. Eastern Orthodox by religion, according to my mother. She had been a mathematician, she said, "back there," or, "in a past life."

It was this alliance of the PTA Foreign Office that had bought me my ticket up. Dante had an in with the headmaster of a posh, private girls school in central London. When Dante told me that he had been responsible for my scholarship placement, him shit-faced at my nineteenth birthday party in some godforsaken Mayfair tiki-themed bar for the insanely rich, staring at my bound tits as he spoke, he effectively crushed my entire personality. The cornerstone of this personality had been, of course, my adolescent obsession with having finally had my immense and neglected intellect recognised. I had ascended to my deserved seat at the table, among the gods, on my own merit, so I thought.

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That was November, two months into my first year of university. Two months of Richard lurking in the wings, and only a week later he struck. I was in exile at Imperial. Maria and the others, Claire and Tricia, had found a crowd of artists and poets with whom I would maintain ambivalent connections until all my childhood friends, one by one, had severed me off. Tricia, full name Beatrice, was B now.

It was a time of reinvention. I was finally beginning to be taken seriously as a programmer by my peers. It was the first time in my life that this hidden part of me could be really exposed without embarrassment. I was quite the opposite of embarrassed, in fact. Now I got to humiliate self-important men with limited personal hygiene standards using my superior knowledge of Python and penetrating insights into Neon Genesis Evangelion. The fact that I made the occasional joke about, like, Poles or non-binary people didn't bother these guys. Nobody called me a contradiction for voting Tory, as if, just because of my dysphoria or where I "originally" come from, I automatically have to conform to some prefabricated lefty agenda. No, it felt good to be king of the nerds. There was a sense of mutual kinship in the fact that we had been collectively overlooked through most of our adolescences but would soon be making a shitload of money. Of course I wasn't fully exposed: parts of me had opened up and other parts had closed. But that's just the way it is, I suppose. A mask is just another object to be used, like any object, for pleasure.

Then Richard ruined everything. He was with me before he was with Maria anyway. I suppose the girls were making an effort at continuity when they invited me on that pub crawl with those blonde girls from UCL, that faggy CSM guy with the beret and skinny cigarettes, and Richard, the philosophical twink.

And I suppose I was making an effort at continuity when I pulled Rich into the stalls at Dalston Superstore, pushed him down to his knees, slowly, savouring his look of uncertainty. I turned around and dropped my drawers, heavy belt thudding on the lino, put my ass back, steady against the wall with one hand and the other hand feeling through his sweaty, matted mass of sandy hair, grabbing it, pulling his willing head into my asscrack. I held him there as he probed my asshole with his tongue, running it along my ring, then pressing it deep into me and squirming inside me like a crazed animal.

Yes, an effort at continuity. Getting twinks to rim me at Superstore or Heaven had become something of a pastime of mine since my eighteenth birthday. Club toilets were a significant novelty after 2 years of Grindr and no fake ID: all integral parts of my maturation. I had even gotten to piss on a couple of them, with consent of course. I hadn't been radicalised yet. As I said, it began innocently enough.

But Richard ruined everything. Or maybe not Richard himself (he wasn't that bright anyway), but what he represented, what he brought with him. He didn't wait long after our little toilet trieste to start seeing Maria. And it was all very public. Trish and Claire both said--sorry--B and Claire both said, "What a lovely man," and "He's so smart and yet so sweet", and "They really get each other, y'know?". I was ready to forget him entirely, focus my energies on Joel.

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Joel was real future world leader material. He was a short, skinny guy with the kind of pale skin those nurtured by the blue light of artificial suns often develop. He had the cutest little freckles on his face and arms! It was like so much power had been condensed into the most adorable little man. He had this mousy, strawberry blonde hair, small, unassuming features and giant coca-cola bottle glasses. But, when he got stirred up about a topic, he would speak at lightning speed in fiery, impassioned invective, firing out words like a poorly made machine gun, a machine gun which would suddenly jam as his absurdly cute stutter overtook him.

Joel. I really could never work it out with him. I knew he was looking at me. A guy like me knows when he's being looked at. So, when we were at the pub with the boys celebrating the first batch of submissions and everyone was starting to peel off until there was only us (and why didn't he leave?), I tried to do something about it.

We were both a bit drunk, the lighting was right, so I interrupted him going off on some tangent about Hamas and student protests, and I said to him, straight up, "I've seen you looking at me, Joel. We were just in the library finishing off the logic coursework, and I saw you looking at me when I was bending over by the water fountain, when I was stretching in the smoking area, when I dropped my hard drive by your leg and had to go under you to get it. I see it in lectures, I see it at the cafe and I'm seeing it right now. You're always fucking looking at me."

I really did drop a hard drive by his leg. I'm not above a bit of cat and mouse, as you may have already guessed. Oopsie! He reached down to grab it and I touched his arm to stop him. He turned to look at me with his small face, eyes magnified by his glasses, porcelain skin glinting in the halogen halflight. My little china doll.

Now I had the chance to bend down over him, let him drink up the musk of a programmer that hasn't left his chair in 12 hours, let him see my shoulder muscles coming out my wide-neck t-shirt as I get down on my hands and knees. I start "looking around," with my back arched, legs wide apart, ass up, tight sweatpants clinging to my ass, faint line of perspiration visible along my undercarriage, small holes in the fabric of the inner thigh, waistband riding low by my hips so he could see the top of my boxer briefs.

I saw him from beneath too. He was wearing baggy basketball shorts for some reason and I could see his dick rising, poking at the fabric, then him shuffling back into the chair to conceal himself. In my head I was already taking those little shorts off, grabbing him by his lean, undernourished thighs, and running his hard dick down my throat. When I got up with the hard drive, he had this face on with totally blank eyes and his mouth opened into a perfect "O" shape.

He made the exact same face when I asked him in the bar, "Do you want to fuck me, Joel?" He was wordless, opening and closing his mouth, looking down at his hands gathered in his lap, then over at his emptied half pint glass. I decided I was going to wait for him to talk, and, when he finally did, it was a long, unassailable, uninterrupted sermon about the fact that he wasn't gay. Joel, you see, "was not gay."

I said something to the effect of, "Gay, straight, what does it matter? I know you want me. It's not a crime for two guys to fuck each other. No homo, or whatever, if you insist." But he just wasn't buying it. Cute, but determinedly unobtainable, despite both our desires. It's funny how we all get caught up in that most insidious of technologies, language. No, not programming language, human language. I had prized fearlessness in this man, and here he was, afraid of a little word. I don't hold it against him. It was a kind of gender-affirming rejection. At some level, Joel saw me as a man, as a peer, and sex was not something he did with his peers. Not ironclad logic, but I was in many ways more mixed up than he was.

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But that's not how I saw it then. I was growing tired of twink shopping at the Superstore. I wanted something I could sink my teeth into, really develop, get weird with, you know? Twink shopping was Tik Tok, but I needed a Netflix binge. Have I mixed my metaphors enough? Richard was like a seagull, swooping down into an overflowing rubbish bin to rescue a perfectly good, half-eaten chip butty someone had arbitrarily rejected. Whatever way I choose to say it, the facts are the same.

It was January and I had spent Christmas in the dorms by myself playing Hearts of Iron 4 and feeling a bit unwanted. Suffice it to say that my parents were having some difficulty with the extent of my transition: I had begun to flourish since escaping their grasp.

When Richard showed up at my dorm late one night, face still puffy and slightly red from crying, and effectively demanded that I comfort and advise him after what proves to have been a literally unmemorable fight with Maria, my faculty of reason failed me. Something failed at any rate. No, it was not long before he was putting his hand on my knee as we sat side by side on my twin bed, feet dangling over the edge, and telling me "what a good friend" I was. A good friend indeed.

I did want Maria's happiness. I wanted to tell him to go back there with flowers and chocolate and ask her to watch Mama Mia 2 with him. I wanted to tell him he was an absurd ponce with no respect, that he should grovel for her attention, that he wouldn't deserve the forgiveness I knew she would generously offer him.

She was a beautiful, intensely smart woman, with a comprehensive knowledge of art and culture and sad, serious eyes. Frankly, I thought she was wasting her time studying fashion, but she was a woman with a vision. She was funny too, with a biting wit, but her sharp tongue would quickly soften in your moment of need, revealing a boundless well of tenderness within her. The first time I was dumped (Harry, a Westminster boy), she had effortlessly glided between these postures, eviscerating his character, clothing and tastes in one sentence and wrapping me in a blanket of her adoration with the next. Maria's presence was a guarantee of safety. Richard wanted danger.

Richard wanted to look deep into my eyes and tell me what a good friend I was. He wanted to run his small thumb over my cheek and rest his palm on the nape of my neck, grazing his fingernails over the stubble on the back of my fade. He wanted to pull me in, grabbing me by the t-shirt, kissing me long and deep, pressing his tongue into my mouth, exploring me: virgin territory, fresh blood. When I pulled back, his angular features had slackened, his russet mouth still slightly open, eyes fixed intently on mine. He looked like a newly released prisoner about to tuck into his first home-cooked meal. He looked like he wanted to devour me. I yielded to him.

Now his one hand was cupping my waist, thumb moving up under my shirt to my navel, his other hand grabbing my breast roughly. I wrapped my arms around his neck and pulled his mouth into mine, deeper into me, aching begin to well in my loins. He pushed me down onto the bed, climbing over and straddling me. Pinning me by the shoulder with one hand, he held me face with the other and pressed his thumb into my mouth. I started sucking on it. His cheeks were sharpened in a rictus of anticipation, eyes wide and tense, beaming submission into me.

I started to unbutton his hideous flannel shirt from the top, feeling the softness of his throat against the backs of my fingers, the lines of his ribs, all the way down to the lean musculature of his abdomen. I unbuttoned his ugly, brown corduroys and ran my long, slender index finger into the waistband of his boxers. I could feel his erection already through the soft mass of hair. He had his index and middle finger in my mouth now. I ran my tongue one way then the other around them as I sucked, until he had pressed the fingers so deep into me that my tongue could no longer move. When I began to splutter, his grin turned toothy and menacing.

I bit down on the fingers and, as he withdrew them, grabbed him by the arms and pushed him off of me.

"Wait there. Don't move."

I went into my dresser and grabbed a condom and a spare bedsheet. As I strode across the room to hang the bedsheet over the mirror, I could feel his eyes on me, sizing me up in my chequered pyjama bottoms and loose t-shirt: the savage beauty of a man left unattended and unshowered for days. Richard was wearing that foul-smelling Johnny Depp cologne, but I had the real deal: eau de animal shithouse.

When I turned back to him he was sat, expectant, long legs wide apart, crotch bulging through the corduroy and a small, grey dot of precum seeping through the fabric by his thigh. He must have thought those legs were pillars. Legs of the Colossus, straddling the gates of the heavenly city: his dick.

"Take it off."

He complied quickly and wordlessly, leaving his trousers and boxers around his ankles. He had a really lovely cock, long and tapered, curving upwards towards the tip. His glans was red and inflamed from prolonged friction against the fabric of his boxer briefs. His balls were chaste and compact, framed elegantly by his fair pubic hair and huddled together against the chill of the poorly-heated dorm. His taut thighs were speckled with goosebumps.