Make Me Feel My Flesh

Cybernetic yelps rung out into the air in staccato,

-Ah_.

-Ah_.

-Ah_.

-Ah_.

-Ah_.

They sounded neither real nor fake. The machine was programmed for pleasure.

That's what the user wants.

They want to make it feel pleasure.

They want to take out all their frustrations on something that can cum but can't hurt.

The machine is padded with a sophisticated blend of material technology. An agar-based compound beneath a bespokely textured silicone to simulate the give and softness of muscle and fat.

The machine's fully articulated titanium bones were wireframes for an almost ethereally complex network of fibre-optic cables and fluid tubes; to send sensationary input to the CPU in its skull and regulate temperatures, respectively.

The cunt is lined with a scientifically engineered, anti-bacterial "velvet" and almost 10,000 node receptors that control fluid discharge and the intake of air into the rubber pressure sacks encased within the interior shell of the invented vulva.

It was programmed to feel pain.

But due to a glitch, or mercy, in its code, the synaptic response to strikes upon the flesh, changes in temperature, and getting reamed with no thought or care, the body encased within the machine reacted similarly to human sexual pleasure.

Each reaction involuntary, every input "felt".

With the machine bent over on its knees, getting pounded from behind, it would make noise and feel the sensors in the soles of its feet get tugged on - Meanwhile, its carefully crafted cheek lay upon the satin-lined mattress; it looks out the floor-to-ceiling-wall-to-wall window and stares at the city lights.

It had never seen real stars - But in the deep dark of night, Cyber City sparkled like torchlight upon pixelated ore veins.

It blinks, a regulatory precaution to keep the rubber ball bearing lubricated in its socket - And a thought is synthesized.

In the casing of its skull, a teeny-tiny printer awkwardly jerks out a centimetre or three of ticker tape :

Does my window look like theirs?

Its client reaches round and plays with the pearl encased at the top of its makeshift slit and the system is overwhelmed -

The servos spasm as the RAM is forced to clear its cache; a bug in the system causes the volume modulation knob to twist awry.

Hot semen (or perhaps something like it) pours into the cavity between its legs, adding to the mess of synthetic mucousy liquid.

The heat stored in her power source is puffed out through the mouth in a series of pants as the fans that wing her main battery get to work and cool air is pulled into the system - "Breathe" coming and going in perfectly timed increments as to not consume all of the processing power.

Another 0.3cm of ticker tape pops out in its head:

:)

Having had the sensors and hinges in its hands recently recalibrated, the machine reaches back as its client pulls out and rubs the deposit around its hole as it seeps out. It drags a bit down to its pearl and fiddles with it through its semi-pliable sheath.

The feedback loop threatens to reset itself.

- Mmmmmm~...

It quietly whines, the digitality of its voice straining against its own hardware.

The client rubs a gentle hand across its hind.

"Turn over..."

They whisper, and the machine flops onto its side and rolls onto its back. This particular command is typically paired with the need to stretch its legs.

Unstoppable, (at least until a battery alert pops up), it hooks its wrists beneath its knees and spreads itself open for its favourite client.

-

.EPILOGUE.

The Machine is a sight to behold. The Client thinks She is a work of art. They hear the fans within it whine as She bucks her hips against the air. Unable to resist, the Client's face drops down. They rest their cheek against its thigh as their fingers delicately brace the sophisticated machinery, marvelling at the viscous fluid that gathered on the pads of their skin... Turning them upwards, the Client slotted a pair of fingers into the canal and felt the slick, artificial muscles tense and quiver around them. In awe of Her creation, they plant kisses along her lower chassis as they apply pressure to the artificial G-spot within. Her pre-programmed responses are exhilarating. They rise back up fully to their knees. Its bitcrushed voice gave the illusion of a ragged edge to its begging,

- Please_. Please_. Please_...

They slap their cock against its cream-lathered "clit".

It's servos twitch, and the client smirks.

Their member model was:

- synthetic

- organic

- android-wear/tech

CHOOSE TO CONTINUE_...