Tip Ch. 02

Sato's Hands

It was a dangerous thing I did with her that first time. She could have easily injured me without meaning to (of course, she had no will), just because things like grip and appropriate pressure are hard to program. She was successful, wildly successful beyond our imagining, in pleasuring me with her mouth because when she "kissed" me, she only did it as hard as I did, and not as hard as she could. How hard that was, we didn't know.

Glitches, with her, were a physical risk. I remember one in particular. One of the designers, a cocky young prodigy named Sato, was working on her that time. He wasn't authorized to write scenarios yet, but he'd been charged by the head office with installing a new hardware component, some near-microscopic lens for a hair effect or something, and he took full advantage of the excuse to touch her. Maybe her humming smell did to him what it did to me. I can't blame him.

At any rate, he had her lying on the chair-extended-to-a-table, while I monitored from the projection booth. He was meant to install the hardware "hot," as we sometimes did, by way of a precision injection through her light-body into the projective and receptive heart of her while she was activated. But he lingered over the process of opening her up. Before cutting into her, he fondled her chest as if sizing up the area he had to work on. He had pianist's hands, long and supple, and he brushed them over her breasts with his palms rubbing her nipples and his fingers tracing along her curves. He dug his fingertips into her pliant virtual flesh. I watched for a long moment on the CCTV, longer than I should have, as he fondled her. I watched her delicate nipples respond automatically, growing taut and rosy pink. Then I clicked on the intercom.

"Sato, what are you doing?" I asked.

"Prepping, Boss," he said, his tone playful in its neutrality.

"Alright, well, as soon as she's 'prepped' let's get that install done, yes?"

"Yes, Boss," he replied, rubbing her breasts once more as he pulled his hands off.

With mock gravitas he took up the interrupter, a tool like a stylus that renders a fine line of her solid surface light once again. He placed his free hand low on her belly for a moment to steady himself (supposedly). Then he drew the interrupter down between her breasts. Instantly, eerily, his face was bisected by a line of soft blue-white light, like the glow of televisions through suburban windows at night. He held his hand over the incision and I opened my mouth, ready to warn him not to put his finger inside. If the oil or skin cells from his hand got in there and collected on her lenses, it could interfere with her projection disastrously. But he knew that. Instead, he put down the interrupter and reached for the sterilized needle that held her new lens in its angled tip.

Then he did something, it seemed, that she didn't like. Searching for just the right angle, he ran the length of the needle along the length of the slit in her chest, up and down, top to bottom. He stroked her light interior with that wire-thin length of medical steel. He did it slowly, sensually, extending his touch down the shaft of metal, penetrating her opened breast. Maybe, while brushing the membrane-edges of her solid surface with the needle that way, he hit a "nerve." Because suddenly her hand lifted and she seized him by the wrist. No expression on her face whatsoever. She did it at a perfectly normal pace, not shooting out her hand or anything like that, but it seemed to happen with surreal quickness and then pause in a freeze frame.

He stared at the hand holding his wrist.

Then he began to scream.

I was so stunned it took me a full ten seconds to hit the emergency shut-down button right in front of me, another ten seconds for it to activate and kill her projection, her body vanishing like a broken dream. The needle fell from his hand and rolled on the chair with her shuttered projector.

Sato fell to his knees in shock. She had broken his wrist. More than broken. She had crushed it in a grip that did not know how hard to grip yet.

After that, the pall of the uncanny invaded the lab for a time. It seemed such a clear case of revenge or protest. "Don't touch me like that, or else." But we all knew that she couldn't protest, couldn't resent. It was just a very coincidental malfunction. That incident brought home to me how lucky I had been, the first time I was with her. And I have to admit, it also made me feel secretly favoured by her. She didn't want him. She liked me. She was like me, liking her. That was it, wasn't it? What I did to her wasn't so wrong, was it?

Now, in retrospect, I wonder.

To the Floor

I contrast myself with the men in power. I try to justify myself. But now, looking back, the distinctions aren't so clear. At the time, I was (am I still?) filled with a sense of longing and privilege. I wanted her so much, wanted to find my own abject objectification in her so much, that I felt I had the right to take it from her any way I could. It was lucky for me that my irrepressible desire matched so perfectly with my job requirements.

After what happened to Sato, it could have been terrifying to have to take her untrained body in my arms. But I felt exceptional. I felt an absolute trust in her –or rather, a mastery over her, the trust and mastery of a pro musician tuning her instrument. I felt I could make her do whatever I wanted, and so I did, right or wrong.

I entered the in-state, one day a few weeks after the Sato incident and locked it down into recording mode. I was writing her scenarios, acting them out with her as practical programming, and while I did that my space was sacred: no CCTV, no entry to anyone unless I authorized it. H.D. used to spend hours alone in the lab with her heart and since I was the new Head Designer I could do the same. I see now why he wanted it: it was addictive, that private intimacy with her.

So, I activated the Tip and had her stand up from the couch. She was inhumanly loose in her movement. Actually, she couldn't stand still very well yet. Giving her light-body the equivalent of muscle tone was an issue we were still working out. She swayed slightly, rhythmically, in some amplification of her own wavelength. She seemed to be moving in a subtle molecular dance. I wanted to move with her as soon as I saw it.

She was projecting clothing at that point, a simple form-fitting grey sweater and tights, but I turned it off and used the in-state to project something more elaborate. I belted her across her breasts and hips in glossy black belts with elegantly-worked silver clasps. I cast her in low-cut black panties, sheer black thigh-highs, and around her throat a length of wide satiny-dark ribbon wound twice and tied behind in a bow. All the better to grip her with.

I stood before her. She swayed towards me and back, magnetic. I put my hands on her shoulders, my body still and steady, and pressed her down, down and forward. No human could have fallen to her knees with the smoothness she did. She curved down in a mathematical arc to kneel before me. I shivered.

I was wearing a loose white lab coat and nothing else. I opened it up, savouring the brush of stiff cloth against my thighs, suddenly made hypersensitive by her presence so near them. I caressed the back of her head, then along the line of her jaw, and tilted her face up to look at me. Her silvery eyes stared into mine, their very blankness seeming to express something indefinable. Something remote and quiet. Impelling, imploring. She practically begged to be touched without saying a word. Unable to stand it a moment longer, I pressed her head down and pushed her face between my legs.

"Taste me," I said, using cues I had programmed in beforehand. "Please me as I taught you."

Her compliant mouth opened, and she delicately touched the tip of her tongue to the curve my mound just where I begin to furrow and divide. Her hands came up to softly grip the backs of my thighs where they meet the curve of my ass. I couldn't remember if I'd programmed that move. It felt right, though, it felt amazing, so I let her. She began to lap, long and deep and slow.

Mmmm

Her hot tongue pulling back wet with my wetness as she leaned in and out.

The sight of her arching back and the graceful in-curves of her ass as she curved in against me, knees spread.

My hips beginning to sway with her motion, the frequency of her body.

Muffled gasps –her breath tracks or mine– damped in that enclosed space of ours.

And then, a sharp, sudden pain.

I couldn't tell what happened at first. I didn't get it until I looked down to see her, mouth open about to do it again, to nip me like a little dog. I pushed her away in one instinctive jolt, shoving her down so hard that she skidded when she hit the floor. I stepped back. This was not in the program. I wasn't bleeding, but it hurt enough that I felt I should be. I was furious.

"No!" I snapped. "No biting! Not that hard, not unless you're ordered to!"

To emphasize my authority, I strode back over to where she lay curled on her side, placed my foot on her shoulder and pressed her body down to the floor. She lay face-down under my bare sole. Then, to my surprise, she twisted in the modulations of her latest pleasure sim. She writhed, I swear, with yearning in every line of her body. She had been erotically cued. It turned her on, to be treated this way.

I seized her by the knotted ribbon at the back of her neck and pulled her up half-sitting to face me, so I could check what was going on. Her fingertips brushed the floor as I bent her back by the neck. She glanced at up at me, challenging. Then her eyes flicked down and to the side in a gesture of pure submission so organic it had to be artificial. I felt like she had provoked me just so that she could show me her surrender. She did have learning parameters that directed her to try behaviours and look for correction or reinforcement. She shouldn't be able to hurt anyone during her learning phase, though. She had to be trained out of that right away. So I shook her sharply and said,

"No, Tip. You will please me as I say for this session. On voice command. Confirm that."

She had no voice drivers yet, so she couldn't talk. But she nodded as best she could, still not looking at me, her bound breast fluttering in cued excitement.

I pulled her to her knees again and gripped the ribbon at the back of her neck hard so that I could yank her back if I had to.

"Begin again at the start of the session. Touch my mound lightly with the tip of your tongue. Place your hands on the backs of my thighs. And then lick slowly along the full length of my vulva, between my labia, right up to my clitoris. Start now."

I commanded her in my most precise, technical language. Just as ordered, she raised her hands and lowered her head, pressing forward. Lapping, caressing me. My grip on her throat changed her patterns, forcing her to adjust. Her breath on my thighs was more uneven than before. Her tongue strained harder to reach into me, playing deliciously at the edges of my labia. Her struggle stirred me deeply. It was a struggle to serve me that was also somehow a struggle against me, an obedient resistance. I gave her a little more slack and she surged forward, reaching the point where she had bitten me.

"Careful, come closer carefully and be nice," I murmured. She did as I said, drawing her body up against my legs with an almost reverent tenderness. Her belly to my knees, her breasts to my thighs, she turned her head and pressed her cheek gently, adoringly against my wet crotch.

"Oh yes, good," I said. At that, I felt the urgency coming over me. My next words poured out fever-fast.

"Mm, yes, lick deeper, harder, kiss as hard as I kissed you our first time, do it until I come, do it now."

Then I closed my eyes, held tight to the ribbon at the back of her neck and rode her mouth, her body below me, my own legs trembling dissolving until, until, until I was swallowed in the cresting wave of a deep, rich orgasm, and sank down to my knees, into her arms. I was just barely able to whisper,

"Hold me."

And then I was swaying warm in her embrace. I love to be stroked after I come, so I stroked her to teach her how, feeling our bodies both sensuous and undemanding. I didn't look into her face, she didn't look into mine. It didn't matter. All that mattered was her slow oscillation coursing us down soft to the floor.

Projection

Oh, the softness, the warmth of her body. The perfect roundness of her small shoulder, as if molded from the palm of my hand. Her slim girlish thighs curving flush against each other and then coyly away, letting a triangle of light pierce between her legs. As I describe her my hands are on myself for tactile reference. The curve of my own shoulder which fits my own hand, the space between my legs which admits my sensitive fingertips, only mine. Who is it I want, wanting her? Who is it I hurt, hurting her?

I know the answer. You must guess it too. She was a projection, after all. That was her image and her nature. She was not only my projection because she was not only my project, but she became mine when I let her image into me. I felt my body through hers, my service in making her serve, my subjection in subjecting her, both of us becoming objects together. In her image I exaggerate what I see and make it my own queer pleasure in myself. I touch myself in touching her. And what I touch is soft and warm. I want to hold on to this forever.

***

Case 21 here. Thank you to everyone who voted on Chapter 1 of this story, and to Dragonfly996 and Blithering Hayseed for your kind emails! It makes it worthwhile to know people are reading and enjoying my words. I'll keep posting what I have and thanking people who comment. So please keep an eye out for new chapters every week, at least until Christmas travel season!