The Last Fembot

by KT McColl

  It was more out of habit than ambition that I hefted my pack to my shoulder and snuck out of Lowville before the sun rose on Sunday morning. There was no one to scavenge for. Abigail was gone and I had no idea when or if she'd be back. Rabbit had kept himself scarce, unnerved by Abigail's arrest and torn between his friendship with me and his Lozen lover. I'd miss him when he was caught. He would be. It was only a matter of time.

  Abigail. I wondered where she was now. Possibly to prison, maybe to some re-education center somewhere, which was just as bad. While we hadn't been together in years, at least not in the way that had landed us in trouble before, her absence was a gaping hole. As bad as things got, Abigail had always been there, not as a lover but certainly as a friend. It was more than I deserved.

  It seemed that Abigail and I had somehow run afoul of the Sorority again. At the beginning, I'd allowed myself the illusion that it was us against the world. It was an ignorant, romantic notion. The world always won and of course, we were never the same after it did.

  I couldn't fathom the reason why we would have earned the attention of the Sorority this time. Was the Sorority revisiting past transgressions? I couldn't imagine that this would be the case -- we'd paid for those in full -- but who really knew.

  Taking Abigail for lustcrimes was an insult to the injury she subjected herself to every day. She already bore the mark of that crime and really, what did they expect her to do? As much as I wished that another path were open to her, her situation didn't leave a lot of choice.

  On leaving Lowville, my anger had left little room for thoughts about Jessie. I simply wanted to be away, but my journey took me to the familiar old Victorian anyway.

  Decrepit as it was, it felt like a sanctuary.

  I stood in the kitchen and Jessie appeared like I knew she would. I wondered how she passed her time when I was away. Did she just go dormant? Did she pine for me? Were her hours long or was time nothing?

  We looked at each other and something passed between us, something I recognized. Need. Hunger. I couldn't imagine that such subtlety could be programmed. Maybe she was a mirror, reflecting my own need back to me. Without a word, she approached and wrapped me in her arms. After a minute or so, I reciprocated.

  There was comfort in her embrace, like a remembered childhood blanket.

  At that moment, I didn't care that she was a robot; she was warm and seemed to understand. She held me in her arms and said nothing, granting me an embrace when more wasn't immediately wanted and less would have been nothing.

  I made the first move, plucking absently at her blouse, untucking it from her skirt to feel the skin beneath. Warm and silken. I held my palm to the small of her back, waiting for the rebuff that I would have expected had she been anyone else. It didn't happen. Touching her, the feel of her against my hand, awakened a distant memory, when something as simple as the touch of skin could be good and without consequence.

  At the touch, she pressed against me. Nothing overt, but subtle, like she wanted this too. Maybe she did. Maybe she was programmed to need it, and at that moment, it didn't matter that it was programmed. What mattered is that it felt right.

  I unzipped her skirt and she shifted to allow it to fall to the ground, her thighs rubbing against mine as she did so. My hand drifted down from her back to the smooth curve of her ass, kneading it, trailing a finger along the cleft.

  She murmured something I didn't quite catch.

  I wanted her naked. I needed her naked. Had I taken a moment to think about it, I might have recognized the selfishness of the need to possess something when everything else had been taken away.

  Easing my fingers into the front of her blouse, I pulled it apart, sending buttons popping and skittling across the floor. Her eyes widened in surprise and I took a step back, breathing heavily, surprised too.

  With the faintest of smiles, she reached behind her back and moved to unclip her bra. "I can get another blouse," she said. "Bras like this aren't so easy."

  I could understand. I hadn't seen the like before. This one was more form than function and I didn't want to see it go.

  "Leave it," I said.

  Her eyebrow quirked and her hands dropped to her sides. "Really?"

  "For now."

  "Alright."

  My fingers traced the scalloped line where lace met skin and I marveled as my fingers brushed her nipples, feeling them respond to my touch. She stood still and expectant as I explored her, running my touch from her breasts down her torso, brushing the area between her legs, graced with the same delicate fabric that covered her breasts. Her breathing quickened, and I could feel a warmth emanating from her.

  "If only you were real," I whispered.

  She froze and then pushed me away. Before I could react, her palm seared across my cheek. "Asshole!"

  "I'm sorry."

  I could hear sobbing on the other side of the door. She'd locked it and I was sitting opposite in the hallway. I hadn't realized that robots could be programmed to do this. It was unexpected but I could see the sense in it.

  I found myself thinking what a heel I was, making a robot cry. Something programmed for pleasure and I made her cry. What kind of shitheel did that make me? What kind of algorithmic rabbit hole had I fallen into?

  I gave my head a shake. What did it matter? Did her nature excuse insensitivity on my part? No. Would I treat any other woman this callously, simply because she was different in some way? Again, no. Not again, at least.

  Jessie thought. She obviously felt. She had a personality. Whatever mechanism produced these things was irrelevant. They were a fact. She was a fact.

  Facts like this would be my undoing.

  "Please, Jessie. Come out."

  "No."

  "I wasn't thinking, Jessie. I'm sorry. This is new to me too." I listened. The sobbing had abated somewhat. She was listening. "I haven't had much experience with... with women. Everything I've ever had has turned to shit, which is probably no big surprise I guess." I was babbling because I realized that I couldn't lose her too. That would have been the final insult. And it wasn't that she was a fembot or that I owned her -- whatever that meant -- or that she was beautiful. She was all I had. "I think I could cherish you."

  Where had that come from?

  Silence.

  I waited. I'd talked myself out.

  At length the door opened, revealing her tear-streaked face. I felt like a shit.

  Her breath hitched in the way it did after a long crying jag. "I have feelings, you know."

  "I know. I'm sorry. I really am."

  "Let's not fight," she said. "I don't like it." Her lower lip quivered and she stepped into my waiting arms. I did my best to comfort her, fighting the temptation to say anything, knowing that words had the potential of getting me in more trouble.

  She leaned back, holding me at arm's length. "Our first quarrel," she said, almost in wonder, a slight smile lifting her lips.

  "Look at us," I said. "Almost like a regular couple."

  She sniffled. "Watch it buddy."

  "You're right." She was. It was becoming increasingly difficult to think of her as a machine, or maybe it was becoming increasingly irrelevant.

  "What now?" she asked.

  "I don't know. I don't have much experience in relationships."

  "This is a relationship?"

  "I suppose it is."

  She kissed me and grinned. Her mood was infectious. In spite of myself, I grinned back.

  "Is this when we have makeup sex?"

  We'd been going there, guided by our own imperatives, but now that she said the word, I found myself uncertain. Had I been maneuvered to this by superior programming, or was it my programming that wanted this?

  "Is that the protocol?" I asked.

  "You tell me. I've never had a spat before."

  I took a deep breath. "Yes, I believe that is the protocol."

  Protocol and the fact that it was what I wanted.

  Jessie held my hand as she led
me down the hall to the bedroom. The room was bright and I liked that. I wanted to see. I was done with consummation accompanied by darkness.

  We stood at the foot of the bed and she took a step back from me. Looking almost shy, she watched me with her head cocked to one side. She looked at me for perhaps some word of approval or encouragement, but words were beyond me at that point. Anticipation and desire had rendered me mute.

  With a practiced flick of her fingers, she unfastened her bra and tossed it into a corner.

  "We need music," I said stupidly.

  She gave me the look I deserved.

  "When I imagined this, I also imagined music."

  "Oh? What kind?"

  "Old jazz or something."

  She nodded. "That would have been nice. I'm sorry I can't help you there," she said as she slipped her fingers into the band of her thong and pushed it down her long legs. It followed the bra to the corner.

  Idiot, I thought to myself, pining about what I couldn't have when what I wanted more than anything was unwrapping herself for me.

  She stood before me, naked, appearing almost self-conscious, eyes averted, a foot tucked behind an ankle. Her appearance of vulnerability might have been some subtle trick, but I didn't think so. It was unnecessary; she needed no tricks.

  "You're beautiful," I whispered and I meant it.

  "Shucks," she said with a faint smile. "After almost real, I'll take it."

  I felt a welling of something, but desperately tamped it down before I could fully recognize it. All of this -- the room, the woman, the suspension of consequence -- was an illusion. I knew I shouldn't submerge myself in it entirely, but I didn't care.

  Jessie approached. "Either you're overdressed or I'm being an exhibitionist."

  "I'm overdressed."

  "Good."

  "And you're an exhibitionist."

  "Maybe you're right."

  "Not that I mind. You're..."

  She placed a finger on my lips. "Shh."

  Her hands then moved to my waist. She kissed the tip of my nose and raised her hands, taking my t-shirt with them. Her touch left a tingling wake up my sides. I dutifully raised my arms and allowed her to pull my t-shirt off.

  "Better," she whispered as she leaned down to kiss my neck and then my chest. Her hand, small and pale, lay lightly on my abdomen. It tickled.

  "You're not so bad yourself," she murmured.

  Soon my jeans followed my shirt and I could understand her earlier self-consciousness. This was the deeper meaning of naked and I fidgeted beneath her steady gaze, the brightness in the room providing none of the obscurity that made these moments easier despite what I'd thought earlier. I was naked, scarred, and worn. She was naked too, the vision of perfection.

  She perched a knee on the bed and grabbed my hand, pulling me after her as she tipped over with a giggle onto the mattress. We lay on our sides, facing each other, and she allowed my hands to explore her body. It was flawless, of course. Hills and valleys, hardness and softness, a human geography in perfect balance.

  "I like it when you touch me like that," she said.

  "I like touching you."

  "I'm glad."

  "I'm about to ask something stupid."

  She narrowed her eyes. "Okay."

  "Do you respond..."

  "Like a real woman? I feel pleasure, Jude, just like a real woman. Can I fake it? Sure. Can I respond honestly? Yes. Which do you want?"

  "Honesty. Always."

  "Okay. Then you can start by being honest yourself."

  I nodded and continued stroking her back.

  A couple of minutes later, I pushed her onto her back and straddled her. She was captive under my weight and looked at me expectantly. It was time, I thought. Time to allow myself the leisurely exploration I'd never had the opportunity to do before. I had nowhere to go, nothing to do beyond this.

  I kissed her, first the forehead, then the lips, then her eyelids. Her smile was self-indulgent and it was good to see such a reaction in a world where too much was fearful and furtive. In fact, the world beyond the bedroom ceased to exist. We had world enough in this bedroom and the illusion of time.

  From her throat and collarbones, I navigated her body with my lips and tongue, attuned to every expectant breath and tremor of her body. This was her first time, I realized, and I felt a responsibility to her. Not necessarily to make it good -- I wasn't sure I could -- but at least to make it memorable. Maybe show her that she could be more than the target of lust. And so I took my time, lingering at her waist where it flared into the hips, where she was particularly ticklish, and then down the outsides of her long legs.

  Her breathing was coming in expectant hisses and gasps as I worked up from her ankles along the insides of her legs. She spread them for me in invitation.

  I traced the fluted opening of her sex with my fingers, marveling at how it glistened, how warm and soft it was.

  I hadn't planned this but I couldn't help myself. Tentatively, I licked the opening, tracing a furrow through her labia. She didn't taste like I expected, not that I had any expectation. It wasn't entirely human but it wasn't unpleasant either. Marzipan, a taste vaguely remembered from childhood. Weird. Soon, it didn't matter. Women tasted differently, I supposed, and Jessie was just more different than most.

  What she shared with women, as far as I knew, was her response to this kind of attention.

  She gasped and pressed her ass into the mattress.

  "Don't do that," I said.

  "What."

  "Fake it."

  "I'm not, Jude."

  I'd expected a return of the anger, but there was none. In its place was an expression of wonder.

  "I'm not."

  Her hands found my head and I felt her fingers bury themselves in my hair.

  I resumed, exploring her with my tongue, varying the texture of my touch, learning her body by her reactions. She widened her legs, surrendering herself to me. I lost track of time, but came to myself again when the timbre of her breathing changed and a tremor passed through her body. She moaned, a thoroughly human sound, and whispered what might have been my name. She pressed my face into her pelvis and erupted, forgetting in that moment just how strong she was.

  Another spasm took her and I held her legs apart while I continued to torment her with my tongue.

  "Enough," she whispered. "Please."

  I let up a little, flicking the pearl of her clitoris whenever a sigh signaled that she was coming down.

  "Stop," she gasped a minute later.

  At length I crawled up her body again and lay beside her.

  I felt her fingers on the numb parts of my back, the cross-hatching of welts that marked the last time I'd lost myself in a moment.

  "I... I didn't know it could be like that," she said, voice breathless, eyes shining. "Thank you, Jude."

  I grinned.

  "You seem pleased with yourself."

  "I am."

  Jessie's brow furrowed.

  "What do you want me to say?"

  "Uncle." She pushed my shoulder, rolling me onto my back and before I knew it, she was on top of me, holding my hands on either side of my head. "I want you to say uncle."

  "We'll see."

  "You're on."

  It wasn't long until the word played on my lips. She didn't do it by force, but by guile. She teased. Mercilessly. She dipped upon me like a promise and then withdrew to run her warm, slippery sex along my length. She took her time, allowing me to commit these sensations to memory. Her breasts brushed against my chest and I could trace the calligraphy of her erect nipples against my skin. I wanted nothing more than to caress them, but she held me immobile. All the while her body worked against mine to bring me to a state of arousal that I hadn't felt for far too long. She moaned in sympathy with me, as though she wanted it as badly as I did. I hoped it was the case because I needed it.

  She paused, the head of my cock engulfed in her warmth, and squeezed gently. I could only imagine wha
t it would be like to be fully sheathed in her. She contracted again and rode up and down in minute increments.

  "Uncle," I gasped.

  An instant later, I was buried in the tightest, most delectable silken warmth I'd ever experienced. She let go of my wrists and placed her hands on my chest, rising up, and flung her head back.

  "Finally," she said.

  My hands found her breasts and kneaded them as she rode me.

  Jessie played her fingers through the hair on my chest. It felt good. I wasn't accustomed to this kind of leisure but I could get used to it. The warmth of her naked body next to mine felt good as well, the most natural thing in the world.

  I was in an unusual headspace and it took me a moment to put a name to it -- contentment. I was content. From the way she pressed into me, her purring breath warm against my skin, she was too. Looking up at the skylight, I saw a little square of the world outside. Clouds drifted by, cotton balls against the deepest blue I remember seeing. I was still and the clouds were drifting and I felt peace. It was as it should be.

  Ultimately, it was an illusion. As much as an oasis this derelict house was, it wasn't real. The world just didn't float by. It took you and everything else with it. I sighed.

  The moment was over.

  "They took Abigail," I said into the silence.

  "Your woman?"

  "I don't have a woman."

  "You have me."

  "Yeah." I turned to kiss her lightly. "I have you. I'm grateful."

  "So what happened to Abigail?"

  I told her.

  "We have to do something about that," she said.

  "What can we do?"

  "Something."

  "There's nothing."

  "Let's make love again. Maybe something will come to us."

  "I'm done, Jessie. You wrung me out and I'm not young anymore."

  "You underestimate me."

  It turned out that I underestimated the both of us.

  Chapter 11

  It was growing dark and this time, I truly was well and truly wrung out.