by PMJ Downing
Harry fucked her on the table where she ate her meals, in her bed, on the floor of the machine room, and wherever her fertile imagination wanted. Finally, exhaustion and hunger forced her to call a halt to Harry’s unbounded energy. Harry, obeying her instructions to ignore her cries for him to stop, continued to fuck her, driving his member into her body relentlessly, hour after hour until she collapsed.
Mila slept for forty-two hours without waking. Finally, hunger forced her to wake and she climbed from her bed, her legs trembling and hardly able to support her. Staggering into the living quarters, she gasped, “Water, Harry, I need water.”
Harry gave her a large tumbler full and she gulped it down. “Are you alright, Commander?”
With her entire body aching, her pussy raw, and her throat rasping with each breath, she said, “I need food, Harry.”
“Yes, Commander.” The faithful robot turned to the SR, and seconds later he placed a bowl of cereal in front of her. Mila eagerly spooned it into her mouth.
When she had finished, she sat back in her chair and looked at Harry with bleary eyes. “Harry, I don’t want to see a cock for another hundred years.”
“Really, Commander? Why is that?”
Holding her arms across her bruised stomach, she said, “I’m not sure I could explain it to you.” She groaned. “I’m going back to my bed, Harry.”
“Do you wish me to accompany you, Commander?”
Alarm spread through her. Keeping her composure with difficulty, she muttered, “Thank you, Harry, but not right now. Please continue to work on the radio.”
“Yes, Commander.”
Mila slept for a further twelve hours.
Chapter Twelve
When Mila woke, her mind was clearer. Of course, she still ached and her insides felt as though a moon transporter had driven over her. A hungry rumble made her realise that she needed sustenance.
“Harry, I think I will have bacon and eggs this morning.” She said as she entered the living pod.
“Certainly, Commander. Will that be smoked bacon or a plain variety?”
“I don’t care, Harry.”
“Very well, Commander. If I may remark, you look more refreshed this morning.”
“Thank you, Harry.”
He removed a plate of bacon and eggs from the SR and placed it in front of her.
“I have some good news, Commander. I have managed to repair the radio.”
“What did you say?”
“The deep-space radio, Commander. You did instruct me to repair it.”
“Yes.”
“According to your latest instructions, I continued to work on it while you were comatose. It may not have the full range of the original, but I think it may suffice for effecting communications.”
Had he really fixed it? It would be wonderful to hear a human voice again instead of the clinical facsimile of her robot. “Is that true, Harry? You’ve repaired it?”
“Yes, Commander. Of course, it still needs testing, but I do believe it will work sufficiently for your needs.”
“My God, Harry, that’s wonderful. When can I try it?”
“When I make the final connections, perhaps in an hour, it will be available.”
Mila wolfed down her breakfast and then had another plateful followed by three glasses of orange juice and four cups of strong black coffee. At last replete, she wandered into the machine room, where Harry was still working on the radio.
“How’s it going, Harry?”
“Commander?”
He could be so infuriating at times, so bloody robot-like. “I am talking about the radio. Have you tested it yet?”
“Yes, Commander. It is ready to make communication with any rescue ships within twenty light years’ distance.”
Her heart lurched. Rescue. She longed for human company, to hear a voice that had an opinion, however fallible, instead of Harry’s exactitude. Of course, she would miss Harry when she got back to Earth—rather, she would miss the fantastic orgasms he had given her and his enormous cock, but sex wasn’t everything. As she picked up the microphone, she wondered if they would let her purchase him. But no, he would be far too expensive for her meagre wages.
She pressed the transmit button. “Mayday, mayday, this is space mission DS23 calling. Mayday, mayday.” The only response was a few crackles. She banged the handset against her hand. “Are you sure this is working, Harry?”
He took it from her and in a haughty tone said, “Of course it is working, Commander.” He removed the rear of the unit, made an adjustment, and handed it back.
“Mayday, mayday. Can anyone hear me? Mayday, mayday, over.” After repeated attempts, she threw the handset down in disgust. “It’s not working, Harry.”
“Commander, I can assure you it is working perfectly.”
Suddenly, a faint answer came from the speakers. “Hello, DS23. This is space freighter Cormorant outbound for Siriumis. What is the nature of your mayday? Over.”
With her heart in her mouth, Mila thumbed the transmit button. “Hello, Cormorant. Our mission crashed on Epsilon. All the crew are dead but for myself. Man, it’s good to hear a real voice. Over.”
The voice faded and then came back strongly. “DS23, we estimate we can be with you in three days. Can you last that long? Over.”
She laughed, the mirth bubbling out of her almost uncontrollably. “Cormorant, I have been here for eight months. I am sure a few days more won’t hurt me. Over.”
“Roger, DS23. Where are you from? We’ll let your home base know you are safe. Over.”
They exchanged details and signed off. Mila was looking forward to meeting her rescuers and returning her life to normal. Harry would go back to doing whatever his owners decreed. After some leave, she would go back to space academy and wait for her next mission. She realised that she would miss her metal companion, who had been so much a part of her life and survival on this desolate planet. And she would miss the fantastic orgasms he had learned to give her. Would a mere human now be enough for her? Of course, human interaction played a big part in sexual relations, but she sure would miss the sheer size of Harry and his inexhaustibility.
“Your lunch, Commander,” Harry said, placing a succulent beef stew in front of her.
“Thank you, Harry,” she said automatically. “Err…Harry…”
“Yes, Commander?”
Mila pushed her plate away. “Shall we…Err…Shall we make love before my rescuers get here?”
“Certainly, Commander,” Harry said, and she was sure the damn robot winked at her.
About the Author
PMJ Downing was born in Drogheda, Eire, in 1940. His family immigrated to Australia in 1953. At the age of 17, he left his job in Brisbane and, for three years, he travelled extensively around North Western Australia in the Kimberley region to places such as Townsville, Alice Springs, Halls Creek, Rum Jungle and Darwin. He worked on a water-drilling rig deep in the bush and as a miner in Mt Isa Mines where they extract silver and lead. He has done a cattle drive and panned for gold in the Ord River.
He married an English girl in 1962 and returned to England where Pat joined the Royal Air Force. He spent 22 years travelling, with Dee, and their two daughters to places such as Hong Kong, Cyprus and Machrihanish on the Mull of Kintyre. He left the RAF in 1988 and started a photographic studio. In 2005, he retired and settled down to write stories.