He's continually sending out new bots to try to tempt my nonexistent libido. (I've sampled the former, not the latter.) I'm not sure how historically accurate that is, but it's a skill I can get behind. Our services aren't cheap, but if he wanted to play Caligula at a Roman orgy, or quarterback of the football team getting it on with the cheerleading squad, he had enough flash to make it happen. There was a flag on his file, too: he was a frequent customer. I realize there's the whole propagation of the species angle to consider, but apparently I experience the phenomenon differently from most. My sex stunt double has been screwed by the office? I don't want these creeps coming in here, thinking they'll get a piece of me, leering at me—" "They do that now." His seamed, suntanned face was serene as a Buddha's. "Come on." I knew where the playrooms were, but hadn't set foot in one since my orientation—despite the generous employee discounts.His latest angle was literary figures, since he found out I majored in British literature in college. " His green carnation was a dead giveaway, even if I hadn't recognized the swoopy hair, heavy-lidded eyes, and general air of dissipation. Wilde, what an unexpected pleasure." I let him kiss my hand, and he lingered over it an extra moment, stroking my skin with his thumb. All the bots have built-in chess engines, but how sexy is that? He seemed vaguely familiar, but I didn't recall working with him directly before. I was putting on my coat in the employee break room when I felt a presence. Bots must make some high-pitched whine, servomotors or something, that doesn't register consciously, but it prickles the hair on my nape. " Realizing he was just digging himself deeper, he fell silent. "Clarkson, I am going to ask one question, and you are going to answer it. At the moment, one was set up like a locker room, another as a shoe store.I suppose it's silly to try to be polite to a bot, since they preserve no memories after being repurposed, and wouldn't take offense even if they did, but still. I mean, how many people want to boff Bobby Fischer? I started to feel him out—metaphorically speaking, of course—and he got shy. "I want to talk to someone else." His gaze slid off me and fell to the floor. Truthfully." I glared at him and he managed to meet my eye for a fraction of a second. Jones led me to a third door and opened it, waving me inside. I was looking at the reception area where I meet with clients. The chair was much more padded, and the desk was as large as a twin bed. He's pissed enough that you took her off-site, unauthorized—" "." "Weasel," she said, in a careful, neutral voice. "I refer you to the waiver you signed during your first day on the job," he said calmly. It's fantasy we provide here, whether it's a fantasy about the latest movie star or the front office help.

Sex pleasure bot chat with voice-40Sex pleasure bot chat with voice-55Sex pleasure bot chat with voice-60

" A mellow baritone cut through the tension in the cubicle. You know we'd double-bill Elvis and Mother Teresa gettin' it on for these jokers. "Among a certain set of our clientele." "The switchout with Mr. I assure you it wouldn't have been Bill's idea—he's been against this from the start." "Well, that's just fucking great." I fought with my gorge and won, temporarily at least. We're going out." "I'm sorry, I'm not allowed out, but we could go back to one of the rooms and—" Shit. "Open the door and get out." She—it—obeyed, and I followed, clipping the rig to my belt. The first-generation models were limited to the basic commands: . Bots have acute hearing and sight, so I knew she'd heard the water shut off, had noticed the door open half an inch. "You aren't Narcisse," I muttered, "just the reflection." I could deactivate her, leaving her a dead marionette. Even limited by the number and type of bodies we had, and with no special equipment, it was fairly exhaustive. Outside it got dark, then got light again, a couple times. "And tell Jones that he should model for the next one, so he can go and fuck himself." I picked up the box and walked out the front door, the one the clients used after slaking whatever desire they imagined they'd brought in with them.

"I had hoped you would understand, Carla." "No, you didn't, or you would have told me first." My vision blurred and went red around the edges. I didn't think too much about what I was going to do until I saw her again, standing in the corridor by the back door. What is it with programmers and little plastic boxes with belt clips? Get in the passenger side." I drove five miles to a convenience store parking lot. "Here's your tea." It was hot and steeped perfectly. " "Yes, ma'am." Her tone was mocking, but I knew she would obey. She did obey while I let the near-scalding water pummel me for almost twenty minutes. Instantly suspicious, I wrapped a towel around me and opened the bathroom door a crack. I could melt off her face over the burner of the stove, revealing the titanium alloy substructure underneath. When I thought of it, I ate; when I needed to, I slept. If I hadn't glanced back one last time just as I stepped onto the pavement outside, I would have missed Narcisse taking her place at the front desk, a bright and welcoming smile on her face.

"You would have asked me." "I—" "Just save it, Jones. She was wearing a wool skirt, black tights, a black tank top, and a cardigan—what I would wear, only shorter, smaller, tighter, and sluttier. "Lean forward and pull your hair away from your neck." "Glad to." The two words in her mouth somehow held infinite erotic promise. We're just going to do a bit of minor surgery here. "Why don't you quote me some Yeats while you're at it? She was made for sex, so I was just going to have to get used to everything coming out like a double entendre. I propped myself up with pillows to drink it, and Narcisse sat primly in a chair—primly except for her lack of attire, which made a mockery of the primness. I could even instruct her to wade out to the middle of the lake, thirty feet deep, and stay there. I wasn't horny or hot, but I was very, very curious. She's your work." It wasn't a question, so he didn't answer it. Copyright © 2008 Sarah Kanning (Comments on this piece | Fiction Forum | Main Forum Index | Forum Login) Sarah Kanning lives and writes in Lawrence, Kansas.

Lots of nervous practice sex, trying out the moves before the big prom date or wedding night. And a youngish woman with better than average looks and a deep well of patience and tolerance is a good fit for a job that entails asking paying customers to reveal their deepest sexual fantasies.

Lots and lots of illicit and morally questionable sex. Jones must have thought it the height of wit to hire me, but it worked out well; to have anyone but an asexual in a job like "bot sex parlor interviewer/order-taker" would be inviting trouble in and putting it on the payroll.

Smith through the design process, then sent him off with an appointment card and a dazed expression.

My utter lack of interest in sex does seem to bring out the puckishness in some of the techs, however—especially Bill, the principal programmer. Bill was good; his Shakespeare was downright convivial, and could make you a proper cup of tea after a tumble. "No, heavens no." He stammered a bit and wouldn't meet my eyes. "I just—I'm not comfortable talking about this particular, uh, order with you." "Don't worry, Mr. Jones will be happy to continue your consultation." look and I lost no time getting. Long past lunch and four or five consultations later (a couple of star fuckers, a re-creation of prom night, a widower looking for one last snuggle—poor bastard—with his wife, and a twosome looking to become a three- or foursome), I was ready to get home and hit the shower. I mean, I don't understand the attraction of online gaming, either, but people spend their lives in that pursuit, too. "Jones signed the work order." "And you just nodded and started scrolling through my security footage? We shipped the specs to Baltimore, and—" "Baltimore? Our business is crossing lines." He gave me a cool, evaluating look.

18 August 2008 It was a typical Friday at work; my day started with a first-timer interview. He'd given us that over the phone, a requirement to get in the door. "Cleaned ultrasonically, then treated with a combination of chemicals, UV light, and heat, and finally rinsed in distilled water." He seemed to relax marginally. " Design a date: that was everybody's favorite part—or at least, everybody's favorite of the parts of the process that I saw. Sex between two sex bots while the paying customer watches. "Some girls aren't comfortable with this type of business," he had explained, shrugging. And of course he'd have to be an early riser." He recoiled in mock horror. Might as well ask someone to be brilliant at breakfast, and"—I helped him finish the phrase—"only tiresome people are brilliant at breakfast." Unabashed, he tried a few more chestnuts out on me and trotted off again. " I was shouting and running into things, knocking over the delicate fabrication instruments, the programming rigs. He was cowering when I got there, cornered in his beige work area, eyeing the five-foot cube walls as if he might try some impromptu high jumping.

He sank into the black leather and chrome armchair, one hand gripping the other nervously as if to remind himself to touch nothing. A large enough credit line guarantees privacy at a place like the Boutique. You'd think there would be infinite variety in a place like this, where you can have sex with whomever or whatever you want, and there are a few truly strange requests that come in, but mostly it's the same sad old kinks. The star fuckers are the easiest to deal with, because they mostly have no idea what sex would actually be like with that particular famous person. "But all I want from you is what's on the job description." So it mostly worked out. I didn't think there could be much demand for Trollope, but I've certainly been proven wrong before. It's like watching a group of enthusiasts really get into a hobby that you don't share. "It wasn't my idea to make her," he said, stammering a bit under my white-hot glare.