“No, you aint!” Slick replied, “She hasn’t got no brain, just a computer.”
Betty was appalled at her countrymen’s behaviour and apologised profusely but this only served to further arouse them.
“Here, Betty, what you doing selling your pussy to Yanks? Aint English cock good enough for ya?”
I had no ability to judge men as I was expected to be available to everyone, but Mandy told me these examples of humanity were odious and repulsive and I took her word for it.
A dispute arose over who would get to fuck me first. Tick demanded to go first as the birthday was in his honor, but Slick claimed that as the leader of the band he should go first.
“It’s me birthday, I’m not having no sloppy seconds,” Tick screeched.
“No sloppy seconds are offered,” I corrected him, “as I wash myself thoroughly between bouts.”
“It don’t matter, I’m the birthday boy. That robot pussy’s mine.”
Slick, a tall gangly youth, attempted to place proprietary arms around me and when the smaller drummer attempted to remove him the two squared up to each other. Slab, who was in the lounge with us, moved to intervene, but Fifi waved him back. “Let the fools kill each other if they want to.”
They circled each other as the crowd parted to allow them room rather than attempting to stop them. “Leave them to it,” Ripper said, “They’re always fighting.”
If size was to be the deciding factor Slick definitely had the advantage, but Tick flew at him in a frenzy, raining blows on the singer’s head, which caught him unawares and sent him sprawling to the ground. His state of inebriation no doubt helped in assuring that he could not defend himself so that it was the drummer who rose triumphant from the fracas, while the lead singer lay in a daze.
He proudly took my arm as his friends and supporters applauded him and led me off to my room. I was wearing a long, silver, gown and had only begun unzipping it when loud snoring attested to the fact that Tick had fallen asleep on my bed. He made the place look untidy, so I rolled him onto the floor before returning to the party.
Slick was on his feet again but had a mean look on his face as he staggered towards the bar, the natural grudging look of the loser in any battle. He lifted a bottle of Bourbon to his face and chugged down half the contents before dropping it to the floor and belching loudly. A pair of half-dressed groupies attempted to engage with him but he snarled them away, unwilling to be placated.
“I don’t want no cheap, groupie, pussy! I wants an expensive whore’s stinky crack!”
“Now, young man, behave yourself,” Fifi chided him.
Slick grabbed her wrist and pulled her towards him.. “You’ll do, you old trout. Let’s see if we can get a juicy ride out of your dusty old hole.”
“I am not available,” Fifi screeched, “I am no longer a hooker.”
“Once a whore, always a whore,” he replied, nuzzling at her neck.
Slab saw what was happening and moved towards them at which point Slick pulled a knife from his boot and placed it against Fifi’s throat.
With all eyes on him, for the room had gone silent, Slab looked sheepish. “I was told to frisk them for drugs, not weapons,” he pleaded.
“Not one step closer, big man,” Slick spat, “Or the old broad gets it. Now, back off.”
Slab hesitated and I said, “Retreat, Slab, he has you at a disadvantage. You cannot possibly reach him before he harms Ms Fontainbleu.”
“Yeah, listen to the robot, minder man,” Slick added, “She knows what she’s talking about. Now I’m going to take this old bitch up to her bedroom and fuck her, but I’ll have my knife by my side and if I’m disturbed I’ll stick her. Get me? One little noise, a floorboard creaking, anything, and the knife slides straight into her guts.”
“Fifi has informed you that she is no longer a sex worker. If you intend to have sexual intercourse with her, it will be rape and you will be brought to account,” I said boldly.
“Rape? Yeah, won’t be the first time. But money talks, metal Miss, and I aint never done time yet.”
“If you persist in this course of action I will be obliged to stop you,” I warned.
“She can’t do nothing, Slick,” one of the groupies shouted. “She’s a robot and they can’t harm humans.”
I was amazed at how ingrained Asimov’s fallacious dictums had become.
“Oh yeah, supergirl,” Slick sneered, “You might be mechanical but the black guy’s closer to me than you are, so what makes you think you can get to me faster than he can?”
“Because I have no need to ‘get to you’.”
“What?”
I did not answer him immediately but took a sip of my drink. Rather, it was a large mouthful of the vodka and ice I had in my glass. I allowed the liquid to slip down my gullet but retained the ice cube in my mouth. I had a nose and lungs which allowed me to breathe, but these were not to supply me with oxygen but to cool my internal mechanisms. Now I filled my lungs and spat out the ice cube at close to the speed of sound, directly at Slick’s eye. At the same time I raced forward, for if I had miscalculated he might still have had time to exert pressure on the blade at Fifi’s neck. I had no need to knock the knife away from his hand however, for he dropped it himself as he lifted his hands to his face with an exclamation of surprise, shock and pain.
Slab was close behind me and grabbed the stunned youth.
“I thought you couldn’t hurt people,” the factotum said.
“I can’t and I didn’t,” I lied, “I just coughed. But I understand you are capable of harming people. Please feel free to do so.”
And so Slick suffered his second drubbing of the night before Fifi announced that this outrage was too much and everyone must leave. As the band and their entourage trooped out, vastly deflated, my fellow whores crowded round me and I was, once again, the hero of the hour.
THE HOUSEWIFE HOOKER
The problem of the protesting housewives outside the Palace remained. They grew in number day by day, but they also wrote to newspapers, posted on blogs and forums on the web and created a groundswell of opposition to the very concept of the mass-market Robohooker. This seemed to vindicate Fifi’s belief that we should be a premium product but the mood of society in general was against the type of elitism she desired. The Board of the I.R.C. were caught between a rock and a hard place even though their plants stood ready to produce further machines at a moment’s notice. They had accelerated their plans to produce a male counterpart to the Robohooker so that women too could have access to mechanical sex fun, but even so it would be over a year before the Cockbot, as it was nicknamed, would be available.
I thought long and hard about the problem, thinking that as I was part of the problem, perhaps my brain was capable of finding a solution. There seemed to be no easy answer. My creation had been for specific purposes, to save real woman from demeaning themselves, to cut down on sex crimes and to reduce the spread of sexual disease. But by aiming for a superior product my creators had ignited resentment by making me both more beautiful and a better lover than my human equivalents.
Humanity, I had come to understand, works best when its avaricious and altruistic instincts are combined. Too much avarice is destructive and yet too much altruism destroys the ambition which is also a part of basic human nature. I had to be a superior woman so that men would strive to have me, yet I also had to be of a standard that was acceptable to not only the ordinary man, but the ordinary woman. The answer came quickly then, once I had laid all these facts down, there must be a lesser me as well, a common strumpet or whore. When I presented these conclusions to the Board however, there was uproar.
“A cheap and cheerful Robohooker,” the Chairman croaked, “It would take years to develop, and even longer to bring to market.”
“Not at all,” I replied, “You already have a lesser me available, the domestic maid android, model KZ88, from which I was developed.”
“But that has no sexual functions.”
“They can be easily installed, hardware and software. But they should not be made too beautiful or too sexually sophisticated. They should be, essentially, housewife hookers.”
“But that brings us back to the problem of how to make a profit from them. Where do we place these plain machines, in cheap brothels or walking the streets?”
“Neither, we lease them as we do the maids, to households, but at a higher price.”
“What!” the lady director exploded, “Housewives will never stand for that. A hooker in the house indeed.”
“I beg to differ, madam,” I replied, “Housewives will welcome them but only under certain conditions. If we insist, that only the real housewife can specify the physical appearance of the housewife hooker.”
“Brilliant!” the director hissed. “the man of the house can fuck the ugly maid as much as he likes if he’s of a mind to, which probably won’t be much.”
“You’re a genius, Andi,” the Chairman crowed.
“No,” I replied, “I am Robohooker.”
END
Check out Sally Hollister’s other erotica books as well –
Husband Approves
I. MILF
Married But Willing
The Secret Letters of Two Naughty Victorian Sisters
Little Red Riding Nude & Other Naughty Bedtime Stories
The Erotic Roleplay Book
Slut Trek
Confessions of a Shared Wife
The Hot Wife Chronicles
Diary of a MILF
Confessions of a Cheating Wife
Wife Watching
The Adventures of Robohooker Page 6