by M. Christian
(10/08/03)

Once part of a sprawl of temporary industrial units floated into Kyushu harbor to make a Korean-owned nanochip factory, the building had been left to rust. Rumors said that Mama had scored the old building for cheap, had found some hungry jacks to scalp juice from the main grid, and some mysterious "sources" for the rest. The girls? They came from wherever lost girls always came from: the cramps of hunger or addiction, the Devil of father. They came and Mama fed them, sprayed them when they were sick, and put that rusting roof over their heads. In return, they worked.

Friday nights weren't usually this busy. But someone asked for the special of the house. Fields was the special, so she had awhile to get ready.

The streets said that Autos took awhile to get their circuits warm and ready. The real fact was that it took Fields time to get completely into her Act.

Her friendly gray robe went first, into the hidden closet with the rest of her reality: hung on a hook next to her vid discs, street clothes, wigs, pills, towels, creams, sprays, and plain-faced bottles of special dye.

Very special; a bonding polymer that she applied each morning -- but was always careful to examine every inch of herself in a roll-up plastic mirror, lathering on the thick blueness at the faintest signs of her real pinkness before the light over the door flashed green. Her hair, every brown strand, was months gone -- and kept at an imperceptible level by tailored enzymes. She liked going smooth and streamlined: you paid for a machine.

The little yellow hexagon pills still had about another two hours to go -- her skin texture and temperature would be just that different. Not quite human, almost machine synthetic. Anyone, of course, who knew the real Mitsui would know the reality of pink-skin and blood Fields under the blue, behind the contacts, beyond the re-engineered body. But then the Autos were very rare, their legends and rumors huge, and who would know the real thing, after all, in the dim shadows of Kyushu?

Fields's body was a gift from Mama, really an investment: those long days two years ago with the Osaka Scalpers had taken what nature had lucked her with and shaped her into an almost perfect Auto Class B -- still one of Mitsui's most popular models. Strong shoulders; round face with high, almost too-wide-for-nature, cheekbones; tiny, pert, full lips; huge crystal blue eyes; high, wide and moderate tits, huge against her small frame, with aggressively large nipples -- some of it was really hers, some machine made.

Fields's cortical jack was a gift from Sammi; now long gone -- his gift of matched wetdreams through cheap Kobe scalp implants was also gone, one quick brain-trip with the tall and lean New Tokyo hustler had been enough for the pre-teen Fields -- the jack was the one and only thing that really remained of him. It was important to the Act, so she kept it polished and in repair.

The clients knew, if they knew anything, that no one had shrunk the hardware for the Autos enough for them to be self-supporting. They expected and got her -- Regulation Blue, hairless, eyes blue but no irises, just slightly cool, perfect little ass, perfection tits, and trailing her braid of cables: a love-doll lifted from a Japanese collective consciousness, a manga sex-toy -- all eyes and ass and tits and mouth and cunt. Pure fantasy, rolled off the assembly line to a male libido's factory specs. Her body was flesh, tricked by drugs and chemicals -- the jack on the crown of her head was real, the line was dead, but she was still State: the perfect whore, the perfect trick.

And, god knew, she liked it.

She sat on the stool, made sure one last time that she was jacked into the dead line and that her breathing was cool and calculated. Mama buzzed her that the client was coming up the stairs.

Green light over the door.

He was nice. That night, she was tingling with work lust, and she liked it. She had enjoyed a quick little jill -- running a blue finger up and down her little blue slit, bathing her blue pearl with her own juice. No cry, no come, not enough time for that. But a trembling thrill up and down her, up from her blue pussy. She was wet for the client, always wet for him (Mama schooling), but she was going to be really wet for this one.

And he was going to be a good one. Mama school and her years there clicked through her as he opened the door and came in. Shy and kind of reserved. He looked everywhere but where she sat on her stool in all her blueness, the Act full blown: a square room, walled with semi-transparent white plastic, bare save for the stool, a simple futon, one wall the brains of the Mitsui Automaton (closet, bathroom, etc.), and the "Unit" itself sitting on that black and chrome stool waiting for the Job -- almost lifeless, almost perfectly human (Regulation Blue, so if they should impossibly break free they could never pass), waiting to do just what you wanted. Anything. At all.

She stood and took a neutral position, making sure her legs were just-so parted so he could see her blue slit and the dot of her blue clit. Her nipples were hard, and she knew her scent was filling his nostrils. Perfect imitation of a machine that was supposed to be better-than lifelike.

He was a surprise. Still a type, but still a surprise. Away from the Company tour, maybe? Shy and inside about this, maybe not wanting to be seen with the rest of his Contacts diving into perfumed pools and being given tepid blowjobs by bored/hungry girls?

"Stand up and come here." Stone, gravelly, deep. Young, yeah, but childish, no way.

As Fields stood and walked, in that special loose-hipped caricature that the Autos really did walk, she took better stock of Johnny. He was youngish, maybe mid thirties. His synthetic suit was simple and professional. The tie, though, was real silk. And the tone, the strength, the gravel: maybe he was one of the managers.

Fields got even wetter. She liked it rough and fast and maybe metal-tinged dangerous. And she was in the mood, anyway. She liked her job.

"How can I please you, sir?" It had taken her a while to get the voice just right: just enough of a non-inflection.

Without waiting for his commands, she walked to him, listening to her cables sing across the futon. A tinge of fear: maybe he suspected, maybe the dye was wearing thin, maybe he knew the real thing. But he let her come forward, drop to her knees and breathe on the tent of his pants. "Will you allow me to pleasure you?"

He shook his head and moved past her to sit on the stool. "Come here--" patting the fine synthetic of his suit leg.

The tone was just right. Fields moved her head just so to untangle the trailing decorative umbilicus, a debutante's hair toss, a flirt's bat of shaved eyebrows, and a step, walking an invisible line to get her hips and bare breasts just enough of a sway. Her lip got jutted: impertinent and pouty, her hands ran through her non-existent hair and, instead, tugged a bit on the cables to make sure they didn't grab or snag. Across the room now, in front of the Client, she stuck a finger under her chin, lowered her eyes and shuffled her feet.

She made a move to make a noise ("Daddy?") but caught it in her throat at the lights in his eyes, the firm tent in his pants. The Act had her then, and it had him. His need leaped the gap as she moved closer, putting him into her heat -- letting it wash over him.

"Come here," he said, patting his knee.

She nodded, her age somewhere between naughty girl and strumpet, and moved towards him, letting the tingling of his excitement bathe her. Her eyes batted: part Act, part his excitement.

On Daddy's knee, she turned and looked at him. So close, so close, the heat of him -- this was his treat, this was what he'd come for. She didn't pretend to know (his hand lifted and traced a fingernail line up the side of her arm and across her left shoulder) what drew them to Autos, but they came. Something tight and shut and secret within him.

On Daddy's knee, she arced her back just a bit. An Auto would treat each and every client as if they were the only Client, man, woman, in the world. They matched: the fact of what she was supposed to be, and what she was.

His breath was hot and faster, it warmed the side of her left breast. The nails turned and glided under: her nipple tightened and knotted in front of his eyes. His breath tingled her nipple and she ached to reach around his head and draw his hot and soft mouth to her nipple, to reverse the play and become mother to him. But she resisted, and let she him take the way.

The hand dropped to her thigh and rested there. She resisted again, trapped in the Act. Fields was in bondage to her performance: Think like the machine and let the Act take its way.

I like being the machine, she thought, her mantra as he pushed just a bit against her tight thighs, so she took the cue and spread them ever just so.

The terror came as he brushed his fingertips up along her slit, tickling the bead of her clit ever just so. The Act: she responded a bit late, a second after the thrill itself, the wave itself, went from pussy to head. A second delay. A second second, and she moaned slightly. She wanted to turn and slip off his leg, turn and face him, spread her legs to let his fine, smooth fingers touch her, explore her. She wanted to be free, but the Act was around her, close and confining.

He said something lost in the heat.

"Pardon, sir?"

"Have you been keeping clean?" he said. His voice was constrained and hard, but broke with a crack of excitement.

"Yes, Daddy" she said, tones of slight shame. Resting her hands on her thighs, she spread her legs a little wider on the balancing Act of his knee.

"All over?"

"Yes, Daddy"

"Even your coochie?"

"Yes, Daddy." (Machines do not laugh, machines do not laugh, machines do not laugh...you sweet, crazy guy.)

She knew the next: "How did I tell you to do it?" but that didn't stop the tingle when he really did say it. Leaning back into his arm, tucking herself under his arm, she put her head on his shoulder: a silent language I'm embarrassed.

He stiffened somewhere else. This was almost, his thoughts almost ringing through her head, too real.

Time to bring him back. Give him his money's worth: she whispered her adolescent fear into his shoulder again I'm embarrassed, Daddy and let him stroke her back, tisk-tisking her into comfort.

"I use a washcloth on my private place," with small hands over her slightly-spread thighs.

"Especially your pearl."

Quiet, shushed. "Yes, Daddy"

Knew the next line, too, but let it come from him real and quite strong: "Show me how you do it -- how I told you to do it."

Dropping her hands into her lap, she spread a bit wider, balancing herself on his knee, leveraging herself on the ridge of his cock. Her clit was a tiny button under her finger, and the first touch was almost too much, too hard and chaffing. The finger went down lower, scooping up a shine of her own juice, and returned to her knot. The first stroke was clumsy and childish, in character: a quick, hard rub up and down with the meat of her hand, pressing up and in. The feeling tore, rather than washed over her. It was a near-kick in the clit. It was too much too hard too soon and she had to use her Act, use the breathing of the machine to keep from making a noise. State of the Art, she thought, gripping herself inside to keep from making noise, tightening her thighs too much. State of the Art--

"That's it, that's it--" his voice a deep whisper in her ear "--it feels good to clean yourself, doesn't it?"

That was the way she would have started, if she was what he really wanted, so she had given it to him. Now what he really wanted, what she really fucking wanted: the next stroke was leisurely and circular. She cupped hand in another hand and moved them slow counter-clockwise, cupping and working her cunt with her fingers. One thumb stroked and ringed her hardening clit while the other fingers, and the other thumb, worked into her cunt itself, relishing the muscularity of her, the rings of her muscles, the little no-man's land between cunt and asshole.

Under her, behind her, Fields felt him tighten, and caught a whiff of the metal tang of his excitement. The gates had been passed, and the Act was running smooth. A quick jill come climbed up out of her cunt in a series of throbbing quakes. Her legs, her thighs, her tummy jiggled with the coming wave, and she pressed harder and moved faster, and chanced a quick skirt right across the top of her clit.

The orgasm was real -- it reached out of her cunt, through her gut, up her throat in a low moan, finally spilling out of her lips.

Leaning back, she twitched and quaked in his arms. She let herself fall only so far, not letting him have to support her entire weight. She was, after all, supposed to weigh something like five hundred pounds altogether.

Propped, balanced on his leg, she slowly let herself slide down to a crouch on the floor. His hand was on her shoulder, stroking her. His fingernails were lights gliding through her closed eyes. A good performance, a fine come.

Act 2: Turning, she pulled herself now back up, pulling with all her real weight on his pants, climbing the fine suit with clenching hands till she was where she needed to be.

Rubbing the bar in his pants, tracing with her first and little fingers the crown of his circumcised head, she admired it, lost herself in her contemplation of it, getting off on its length (average) and hardness (the Act was really working, it really was). She was contemplating, working herself up with another hand between her legs (and the sweet slick noise of her cunt juice, and her hard clit swimming in it), and she was feasting on his cock without really touching it.

Sign: his hand gently rested on the back of her head: "Clean Daddy now."

With fluttering skill, she found the zipper. His underwear was peach and silk. A darker, salty-smelling dot ended at the tent of his ridged crown.

The material was clean, with the fine wine of his sweat and the tingle of a few pubic hairs poking through the fine material. She washed it with her tongue, bathing him, tasting the salt of his pre-come. Fields pulled back and admired her work: a darker spread on the fine peach: his cock slowly becoming visible through the damp fabric.

His pants came down: fingers snaking up, she hooked his belt with one hand, unbuckling with the other. With a hiss of Tokyo tailoring mastery, and the creak from the stool as he stood, they came down.

Dimly, as she licked and kissed his hard cock, she was aware of him undressing over her. Tongue around the head, tasting salt and skin. Hands in his short, almost shaved pubic hair, fondling his balls, feeling their wrinkled sacks, their bristling hairs.

Too quick, maybe, too sudden probably, but he was hanging way down, his breathing was quick and deep, his legs were columns of meat and tension. He slid down her throat: the head rubbing against the ridges of the top of her mouth, the softness, smoothness, of the back of her throat. She swallowed and pulled him close, and kept swallowing him down and down -- using those hungry, swallowing, eating muscles to draw on his cock, milk it, and work it inside her.

Dimly, though all this, she became aware that her other hand was back inside her, three fingers deep, playing with the twitching, clenching muscles of her cunt. Her clit was a tight, singing, throbbing, pulse between her legs. She soothed it and calmed it and bathed it with a circling thumb, pressing on that special spot just to the right of her slit, hitting her special COME button at just the right instant--

--and somewhere, he was standing over her, his hard, hard, too-hard cock down the back of her throat and she was consuming him, swallowing it down deep--

--and somewhere was the room, somewhere was Fields and her trailing umbilicord prop in a small room in an old factory building in the old, bad part of Kyushu--

--and here was Fields in the Act, connected and linked to this man, this man who came to her, who let it down and showed it to her, and she played with it, and make it real safe and fucking hot. State of the fucking Art--

--he came, a shudder and two hands hard on the back of her head, not pushing, not forcing, just holding himself there. The jets (one, two, three, four -- good boy -- five, six...) were beyond taste but his body relaxed and oozed the come out of his skin. He broke out in a head-to-toe shine of sweat and giddy release.

Opening wider (was it possible?) she eased him out and kissed and licked him clean, then let her own deep and rumbling come, a thigh-trembling and spine arching (was that her head on the floor, was that his hand on her hand, steadying her, easing her rough ride?), spasm that left her panting almost out of Act, almost to the edge of mumbling "Fucking grand, man--"

Final Act, lady and gentleman: She got to her legs in a supreme Act of control (without a quake, without a mumble, no hand to reach to steady herself) and walked to her private corner of the room.

With the stainless steel bowl of warm water and the soft cloth, she bathed and cleaned his cock and balls. She let him prattle a bit, his "Oh, Gods!" and such washing over her. Applause. Applause. Applause!

Cleaned, she helped him dress: cocksucking whore to Geisha in one quick move. The Act for him was over, the orgasms tasty and filling. The Act, though was not quite.

Fields showed him to the door, and concluded with a "Thank you, sir. Please come again," in the voice, in the Act. The tones of coolness, not of boredom, but of very, very expensive circuits. A stance slightly stiff, slightly posed, more than slightly mechanical.

She closed the door behind him and stretched out on the futon. The applause of her come, the applause of his come, the applause for the Act. This was someone, and something, she really, really, enjoyed, and could do a really, really long time--

The purr interrupted her quick sleep. Not soon, just long enough for her head to rest.

Mama glowed, a wrinkled goddess with a thin black cigarette, as always, between broken tombstone teeth. In chopped English she woke Fields up--

--the message worked its way through ("Okay, Mama -- okay..."), "He say he want you--"

"That's great, Mama. I'm broken, though, right? Little Miss Robot busted for the night--"

"No, no, no, he want you. Buy you. He want buy you--"

Fields smiled back at the broken, smiling, teeth. "Good night, Mama."

Applause, applause, applause...

...to sleep.

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