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For her thirtieth birthday, Meredith Vickers treats David 8 to an upgrade.
Of course, it’s all highly confidential, managed through several backchannels and certainly not under her own name. Why, the daughter of the CEO of a multi-million-dollar company ordering the first android every made to be endowed with something more… human – simply unheard of. But at Weyland Corps, there are no delays, not even when it comes to cloak-and-dagger operations such as this one.
And that’s why, just when Meredith thinks he’ll be late, there’s a knock at the door. Immaculately short and precise. Immaculately on time.
Immaculately subservient.
Meredith smiles and savours the last sip of her sweet Malaga wine before she turns her head and calls, in a voice that cannot resist a commanding overtone, “Come in.”
The lock panel on the wall flickers to live, and the door slides open without a sound. David 8, dressed in his usual steel-grey jumpsuit, enters, back held ramrod straight like he’s standing to attention. The door slides closed.
The click of glass on wood rings through the absolute silence when Meredith places her glass on the chest of drawers by the floor-to-ceiling window. Thirteen stories below them, the hustle and bustle of LA is passing by soundlessly.
The wet noise David’s lips make when he opens them sounds almost human. Then, “Where would you like me, ma’am? Over here?”
His handsome face betrays not an ounce of insecurity, and his voice is a neuter, like always. The index finger of his right hand does not quiver where he’s pointing it at the freshly made bed in the middle of the room.
Meredith knows better. Of course, he’s intimidated. Her father programmed his androids to serve and be aware of their place, not to get delusions of uninhibited grandeur. David – poor, gorgeous little David, the very one who named himself all those years ago under her father’s watchful eye – is scared.
“In fact…” She takes her sweet time, clicks her tongue as she savours the unmoving mask of deference that is his candid, chiselled face. “… I’d like you to remove your pants first.”
“Certainly.” His hands don’t shake when they start unbuttoning his jumpsuit and ruck the fabric down his slender frame, baring an expanse of unblemished white skin on which every pore has been designed by a human hand.
A touch of her thumb to a control panel on the wall dims the windowpanes to a smoky grey. “Make it quick.”
His movements speed up. His plastic slippers come off first, then the jumpsuit. The white, factory-issue briefs clinging oh-so tightly to his crotch are last. Their removal reveals nothing but a smooth, flat pubic mound. One after the other, his sparse clothes join a neatly folded pile on the floor beside his feet.
“On the bed,” she commands, and he clambers onto the mattress with carefully coordinated movements. The pearl-grey covers whisper.
“Undress me,” she says and steps in front of him where he’s kneeling with his hands on his knees, and he obeys. He pulls off her high heels where she puts them up on the mattress one after the other, unbuttons her suit jacket, and slides open the zipper of her pants. When he gets to the blouse beneath and her underwear, she gets impatient and steps back to do the rest herself.
“On your back,” she orders. He does as he’s told. All the while, his slate-grey eyes stay glued to her face.
At last, she has him exactly where she always fantasised she would one day have him. Relishing the smooth glide of the room’s cool air on her skin, she strides over to the dresser, pulls open the topmost drawer, and lifts out the smooth plastic box she knows has been sitting in there for six days and seven hours.
“You know about the constant work my father’s engineers and robo-technicians perform in order to keep you and your kind up and running, don’t you?”
“Yes.” The way he says it, it’s not a word, but a mere whispered exhalation of air.
“And you know that as they work, they invent you over and over again, and better each time.”
“Yes.”
She’s almost at the bed now and can see his chest heave and sink with artificial breath.
“And you know that as time wears on, little mistakes and faults accumulate in your engineering, and that in time even you – the first fully functional android – must be replaced bit by bit, like the ship of Theseus.”
This time, there’s a pause of half a second. She can almost hear the cogs whirring behind his eyes.
“Yes.”
“Good.” The fastenings on the box spring open, and the lid lifts. She reaches inside. “David. Please meet-”
It takes a firm grip, and then she’s hoisting out a pale pink, oblong object-
“-your future lower left arm.”
There’s no reaction. Of course, there isn’t. David is smart, and he is able to extrapolate future events from current happenings like a normal human, but he hasn’t been blessed with foresight. There is no way he can see this coming.
“I want you to become acquainted with your new limb before we have it installed,” she says, and just as he’s about to open his mouth and interrupt with his smooth, accented purr, she adds, “Spread your legs.”
Maybe it’s just her imagination, but for a split second, something like realisation flits over his perfectly impassive traits. With slow, measured movements, he bends his knees and puts his heels at hip-width from each other.
“Wider.”
He spreads his legs wider. His slate-grey gaze has finally detached itself from her face and moved on to bore into the ceiling.
The mattress creaks faintly when she sits and trails the hand that isn’t holding the robotic arm over the gossamer flesh of his thigh. He doesn’t shudder, as a human would. He just lies still and motionless, chest heaving and sinking with regular breaths. That doesn’t change when she reaches the junction of his thighs, puts fore- and middle finger together, and wets their tips in the hole that disrupts the regular smoothness of his crotch.
The upgrade. She has it on good authority that they added a flexible lumen of about one foot to his abdominal area, equipped it with self-lubricating mechanics and an aggregation of sensory endings that coats its surface and the rim of his hole. It’s how she put in her order.
A feeling like Christmas Eve bubbles up in her, and she watches as she pushes her fingers forward. They disappear smoothly and to the hilt inside David, as though enveloped by cool, wet velvet. Unlike with the women and men she picks up in nightclubs or after conference meetings, now, she doesn’t have to be careful with her fingernails. Easing the pressure on her wrist so it won’t cramp, she starts to pump her digits in and out of him.
At first, nothing happens, excepting the increased secretion of lubrication around her fingers. It would be disappointing, if the sight of her fingers moving in and out of him and jostling him on the bed wasn’t so hypnotic.
The nail of her thumb catches on his rim, and his hips jerk upwards. She glances up.
It’s nothing more than a slightly delayed inhalation of air. A twitch of his lips. But it’s there.
“And now to the fun part,” she breathes and pulls out, and his eyes snap down to look at her in something that is not quite horror. Manipulating a bunch of wires where they protrude from the elbow joint, she brings the hand on the artificial arm that she’s holding into a conical constellation, thumb folded into the palm, fingers pressed together.
“Ma’am-” David begins, his grip bunching up the grey bedcovers, but it comes too late. She positions the tip of the hand at his entrance, grips his jutting hipbone tightly, and drives the robotic arm forward.
It’s slow-going at first. The unlubricated synthetic flesh catches at the rim of his hole, there’s some kind of internal resistance, a rhythmical contraction, and it takes Meredith several energetic thrusts until she’s got the hand in past its wrist, then the rest of the arm. David’s breathing has fallen out of its usual placid pace, interspersed with low, almost inaudible keening sounds as he writhes on the bedsheets. His ivory-white teeth are bared in a grimace of what Meredith refuses to call pain.
She only lets up when the arm is buried to the hilt, stretching David wide and open around its largest circumference. Surplus lube oozes out around it and wets the expensive bedcover below in a faint trickle.
David is staring down at the wires protruding from between his thighs, like he’s unable to believe the sheer length that can fit into him. Meredith leans over him until his steel-blond hair and the perfectly curved shell of his synthetic ear catch on her lips.
“You could take a horse’s cock and still not tear,” she whispers.
David looks up at her, clear eyes wide and beseeching.
“Full,” he chokes out, dryly, like he’s begging for her to pull it back out.
Instead, she scrapes her immaculately manicured nails over the receptor-rich rim of his hole. He whimpers, low and deep in his twitching throat. Finally, two perfectly spherical tears detach from his perfectly arched eyelashes and roll down over his perfectly modelled face.
It takes no words to get her orders across when she gets up and climbs onto the mattress, gripping the headboard tightly as her knees bracket his shoulders. He knows by now how to comport himself with his head between her thighs. She’s used him in this way countless times already – almost as much as her father before her.
“Get to work,” she growls and tangles her fingers into his platinum blond hair, and he obeys – maybe a bit more reluctantly than he usually does, but his mouth is accommodating as ever.
His tongue quivers as he slips it between her damp folds. When he sucks her clit between his lips, a dry, heaving sob escapes him.
Other than that, it’s all business as usual. When she comes, she presses his face into her cunt. Any normal man would have suffocated – but David is not normal, and he’s certainly no man.
She gathers up her clothes and leaves him lying on the bed while she takes a shower in the adjoining bathroom. The cool water washes over the planes of her shoulders and stomach and carries off the sweat of her exertions. It doesn’t take much to fix her hair and make-up in the mirror, and she’s smoothing the last crinkles out of her blazer when she steps back into the bedroom.
David is lying in the exact same position she left him in – gaze turned heavenwards, hands fisted into the sheets below him, a faint trickle of lubrication still dribbling from his hole. If she was a different person, she might feel sorry for him, all spread out and limp like a ragdoll. But she is only herself.
“Go on then. I give you permission to fish it out.”
Only when he stirs does she notice the silvern tear tracks shimmering on his cheeks. His hair, usually combed back neatly, is sticking up in disarray, and the remnants of the service he did her are still glistening on his lips. His movements are very slow and careful as he props himself up against the headboard and gingerly starts to pull the robotic arm out of his hole, keening every time it tugs on his rim.
“Clean that,” she tells him as soon as it slides out with a faint squelching sound, something like relief softening his facial traits, “and yourself. Father wants you down in the atrium in five.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“And don’t forget our next appointment on Friday.”
“I never forget, ma’am.”
She holds his quiet, carefully composed gaze. If it weren’t for the remnants of their session on his chiselled face, one might almost believe it had never happened. The lock panel gives a confirming beep when she slides her thumb over its smooth, vanta-black surface, and the door slides open.
“Of course, you don’t,” she says and turns to stride down the deserted corridor.