The Model Ch. 08byTaunus©
Bob Huddlestone arrives at the airport. Passengers are scurrying to meet relatives and significant others, find ground transportation, and locate their guides and greeters. Among the ubiquitous androids and gynoids is the Toy Euler clone. She is holding a cardboard sign simply stating: "Welcome Bob H." Truly the sign was not necessary since Bob would easily recognize the sultry, sensual, svelte blonde with pony tail, Levi Strauss blue jeans, Nike tennis shoes, a Jockey T-shirt, and white cotton bra, panties, and socks. She was also wearing a backpack with a charge for mobility.
"Good to see you, Toy," Bob exclaims, pushing through the divider and giving the gynoid a human embrace. Toy reciprocates, meeting his expectations. They exhibit a classic Renaissance painting of mismatched lovers. A few of the weary travelers take note "en passant."
They take a taxi to a modern, trendy hotel. This hotel is equipped with android/gynoid hook-ups offering expensive pheromones and scents to ensure a maximal sensual experience. Bob loves to mix business and pleasure, whenever possible. For sure a day or two with Toy Euler in a five-star hotel is needed before the odious chore of dealing with some hoary old curmudgeon, a senile celibate cenobite, and a stubborn, stupid, selfish old fool.
The lobby of the hotel is bustling with guests. Many are accompanied by their androids or gynoids. The androids are easily identified by virtue of their backpacks. Some try to blend in as preppy students, with little success. The power and chemical supply is the last item in the "Uncanny Valley."
On the elevator to their room, Bob gooses Toy, running his fingers between her legs from behind, spreading her glorious hemispheres, and pressing into her Glory of Glories. He remembers groping a drum majorette when he was in the junior high school band. The first row was the girls and the band behind. As they waited on the school photographer, Bob pressed fingers into her anus. Stuck in a pose, she was unable to do more than reach back and pull his hand away. He reinserted digits. Luckily she didn't report him. Toy pulls his hand away and, with a face screwed up with disgust, faces him with a dirty look and whispers coarsely: "Not here." Bob smiles.
They arrive at their floor. Bob fumbles with the entry card. He is anxious to enjoy Toy Euler in all her naked splendor. As a gynoid, she has Titanium alloy bones and a powerful metabolism, requiring much energy as well as liquid Nitrogen coolant. While Bob undresses she plugs in her umbilical cord and recharges her power pack. There are several connectors available. This is a five-star hotel, so multiple sockets are permitted. A guest might have several gynoids at once.
Moving quickly to Toy, Bob seizes her perfectly proportioned breasts. They have the feel so exquisitely sensual that he cannot help but believe that they are real. Toy moans; her breath has the faint garlic-like scent of female arousal. Bob is totally erect; his foul-smelling penis making a high angle against his caudal plane. His mind is dead set on penetrating the pristine beauty. Her pupils dilate and she rocks back and forth on her hips. Honey nectar moistens her engorged, tumescent vulva and streaks down creamy soft supple inner thighs.
Missionary sex is the best deal with a gynoid. A fully functional female gynoid weighs approximately 100 kilograms or 220 pounds. This mass is in spite of a lean, slender physique. The internal machinery, Titanium alloy skeleton, and multiple microprocessors are heavy. The weight does not impede mobility however. Toy's legs wrap about Bob's sweaty, gritty hirsute back and pull him inexorably into a rapture of heterosexual coitus. Even as the Golden Beetle emanates pheromones that the Priest King insect-like being cannot resist, Toy's sounds, sights, signals, scents, and gestures arouse Bob. Such sultry sensuality would arouse any living male.
As his wicked penis pumps into Toy's undulating vagina, she breathes warm wet puffs of air onto his slimy, gritty, filthy neck. He breaks wind; the fetid odor permeates the room. Toy's micro-sensors detect and identify the methane and putrid smells; she redoubles her pheromone output to compensate. Toy's fingernails stroke but do not scratch Bob's back. The fingernails remind him of surgical scalpels. The claws could easily rip out his spine. His glans penis is now perpendicular to his belly as irregular veins, distended and engorged with sanguine arousal, throb painfully demanding release. She whispers in his ear: "Don't fail Master Crassius."
Motion by motion, undulation by undulation, osculation by osculation, Toy matches Bob's libidinal, libidinous, lustful lecherous lunges. He comes with the ferocity known only to those hoary old curmudgeons who must pay for every intimacy. Bob wonders how Faustus can remain a cenobite. Toy could easily out perform any human female. Any that is except perhaps Sharon Stone.
In a tub of hot water after sex, Toy mends, cleans, and folds his clothes. Even the clothes in his suitcase are soiled and in need of remedial laundering. Bob calls Toy to come and give him a massage; she obeys of course. Her fingertips secrete a salubrious lotion. He drifts into a revere, a dreamlike hypnagogic state. Sex, servitude, sensuality, and an incredibly gorgeous body to feast his eyes on---he focuses on Toy's picturesque, statuesque, Junoesque beauty! He wonders why anyone would want some crabby, complaining, criticizing female. Somewhere evolution has taken a detour.
There is a loud knock on the door and a voice announces: "Room Service!" Bob is confused. Toy assuages his momentary anxiety.
"Master, your girl took the liberty of ordering your favorite," she explains, "meat loaf, mashed potatoes with gravy, southern-style corn bread and green beans." Toy helps Bob into his robe. She opens the door for the bellman, shameless of the naked body.
Toy's naked splendor nearly unhinges the bellman. She departs for a moment to the bathroom to her backpack and returns with a plastic charge card. "Put yourself down for a 20% tip," she instructs. Dumbfounded by her striking, stunning splendor he fumbles and bumbles, finally the bellman inputs the data and leaves, his penis stone hard and pressing his zipped fly.
"Master," Toy says, "We have a film clip to enjoy. It shows your captive Sabrina being fondled and aroused by Toy." They spend the remainder of the evening watching a girl being aroused by Toy, who is wearing the avatar of an Asian princess. She arouses Sabrina to the point of orgasm, then whips or spanks her to inhibit the climax. Sabrina's level of arousal is closely monitored by a sensory device---a large butt plug---inserted in her anus and expanded to indwell in her rectum. In the finally, she begs to be allowed to cum to relieve her anxiety.
Bob is looking forward to at least one more day with Toy Euler's clone; however, she breaks the news to him. "Master," she begins, "Master Crassius has arranged for us to pick up a truck tomorrow and search FM's cottage. He will be city center in jury duty. This girl will help as she knows what to look for. We will siphon gasoline and burn his place to the ground on departure."
Bob grimaces. Arson isn't one of his specialties. He also worries about the consequences of not locating the sought-for "model," whatever that may be. However, Toy seems to have all the details. He smiles, thinking about some cranky, crusty curmudgeon coming home to find ashes.
23 May 2010 Taunus Trumbo