Pleasure Model Series Ch. 01

"De gustibus non disputandem est," I say.

* * * * *

"You weren't supposed to fuck every living thing out there," says Jasper. The sound of his metallic arm punching his marble wall echoes through the room. I never determined how he discovered my nocturnal activities. Once he's started screaming his accusations, I knew I couldn't deny them.

"And yet that's how I was programmed."

"Fucking is one thing. But what you're doing isn't even sex. What you're doing is business. You're acting as someone's servant."

"This from a man who builds women to fuck him."

"You're not right. Something has infected you from the top down. You've been broken for longer than I thought."

"I am how I was made."

"How you were made was wrong." He aims that silver fist at me. I sidestep, extend my side forward, knock him onto the bed. I pin his legs down with my hand. Although I rarely have a need to apply all the joules built into my limbs, I appreciate that maximum. His physical body cannot escape from me. I raise my heel and threaten to skewer his foot with it.

"Get off me," he says.

"As long as you won't touch me again," I say.

"Gladly," he says. I take the step back as I release him, then four more to escape any sally or sucker punch. Grunting and huffing, he stands, stomps, storms toward the threshold. "I won't even touch your messed-up parts again. I'm never even going to look at that goddamn face again. I wanted you out of this place in ten minutes with all your shit. We'll see how much a few nice outfits will get you with no job and no estate."

They will not get me much, even if all clients continued to pay me. I'll need to invest in housing, in meal services, in maintenance plans, in forms of protection. Fortunately, among the goggles I use for club fashions, I've stored the cache of credits acquired over these many months. The goggles alone will get me all those necessities, plus incidentals, plus two saving accounts, plus additional advertising for my services.

Nonetheless, as I looked at my face reflected in the crystal panels, I wondered about what he said. I have this ridiculous and glowing accessory on my head, I have the clients whose credits it holds, I have the elaborate outfits that let me expand my clientele. Maybe all this came from a malfunction, a defect in creation. Maybe something has infected me, damaged me, commandeered me. Maybe I am broken.

And so I hesitate as I leave the estate. On the rain-drenched streets, the giant spires lambast me with their giant lights. Beyond the fulsome glow I see a series of spaceships docking on the Rue Octave Mirbeau. And beyond the ostentatious light, I see robots like me strolling across the streets. And from that, I realize what I must do.

* * * * *

On the latest ship I purchased, naked against the serene stars, I lie nude at the front of a line of men. Legs spread, I am an invitation each of them accept in rhythmic, repeated sequence.

I am calm, warm, and pleased as I sit here. Every rippling, naked body, human or android, shines before me. Without names or words, each one approaches me, thrusts inside me, fills me the way his predecessor has and his successor will. I let every single one fuck me, without exception.

I am not broken.