Plastic Patty, the Girl From C.L.I.T

by

Caution: This Science Fiction Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/Fa, Fa/Fa, Consensual, Heterosexual, Fiction, Humor, Science Fiction, .

Desc: Science Fiction Story: n 1999, Congress surreptitiously established another secret government agency and christened it the Center for the Location of Idealistic Tyrants. They needed a very special agent to fight those intent upon world domination. This is her story.

"Ouch, you sadistic bastard. That's me you're jabbing there, not that vibrating pussy you made on your lunch hour last week."

"Hold still. It's really swelled up. It'd help if you weren't so damn big, you know. Everything's soaking wet and you keep slipping away."

"Oh, and I suppose you want me to squeeze it down for you?

"Well, it really would help, but not too much at a time, OK? You're dripping as it is, and I don't wanna have to shower after we get done."

I couldn't help it, really. It's just that, when I contract, the juice has to go somewhere. The jet of AG43 hit Horace on the nose. He looked disgusted as he wiped it away, but it served him right. He'd been acting really pissy ever since he found out what Martha did. I guess she really fucked up his plans, but I think it's hilarious. I mean, honestly, did he really think I wouldn't figure it out anyway?"

"Damn it, PP, how can I fix your toning system when you keep screwing around? I wanted to go home early, but at this rate, I'll still be welding Surgi-sil at midnight. Couldn't you just cooperate a little? They have another job for you, and you have to be done by tomorrow morning."

Horace and I work at a government base in the mountains of New Mexico. Well, at least Horace works there. I go wherever they send me. "They" are a bunch of people who don't have names or faces that I know of, but who seem to be able to do pretty much anything they want in order to keep the world safe for you weak little humans. Now, don't get me wrong, I like all you soft little people, and I'm especially fond of Horace and Wong. They're sort of my mother and father,

although I haven't yet decided which is which. It's just that, once in a while, it'd be nice if you could do something for yourselves.

Horace Peabody has a whole wall full of Phd's in all sorts of engineering stuff, but the poor thing hasn't got one social skill in his whole pudgy little body. Horace's primary life goal is to have sex with a real woman at least once before he dies. I suppose he might find the right girl one of these days. Nah, on second thought, even a nymphomaniac in prison isn't that desperate.

Wong See Chow got his Ph.D. in computer science at the age of twenty. The Ph.D. in biomechanics came two years later. Standing a whopping five feet one inch, Wong weighs about eighty-five pounds soaking wet, and his glasses are a half-inch thick. He stutters any time he gets around anything female. Wong claims to have had sex, once, but he and Horace bicker about that all the time. It seems the woman in question was employed by Wong's father in the interest of his education, and Horace claims you have to seduce them before it counts.

In 1999, Congress surreptitiously established another secret government agency and christened it the Center for the Location of Idealistic Tyrants. The Republicans didn't like the name. They accused the Democrats of being soft on tyranny. Cried the minority whip, "The name suggests this agency would merely locate those with hopes of world conquest. Would it not be prudent to

also eliminate this heinous threat to the safety and security of the free world?" The Democrats maintained the Republicans were a bunch of politically posturing hypocrites who were mad because their choice, the Supreme Committee for Heteronomous Liberation from Omnipresent Numinous Gonadotropes, had been found too hard to say. According to those present at the debate in closed committee, their response was indicative of the normal Republican reaction to

any deviation from the politics espoused by their learned, but extremely narrow-minded, brethren of the legislature.

The Democrats held the majority, and C.L.I.T officially became part of the clandestine bureaucracy. The charter of this new organization was to seek out and destroy the enemies of the world by whatever means necessary. Funding was to be obtained by transfer of money from experiments in pre-hatch communication between turkey chicks at the Department of Agriculture.

After two years of study, the agency determined that, for some inexplicable reason, your average, garden-variety world-dominator is fairly tight-lipped about his or her future activities. The only way to learn of their plans would be to send out field investigators. They would funnel vital information back to the strategists and planners who would then initiate countermeasures.

After another year of intense psychological profiling of egomaniacal personalities by the best psychologists in the US, the agency determined these agents should be female. The six-inch thick, top secret report listed all the characteristics needed for the successful candidate. The study team were all promoted one grade level, and "they" appointed another committee to devise

a selection plan.

The list was extensive, and included body types from slender Asian to obese Central European, and all known hair and skin tones. She should have the morals of an Amsterdam whore and strength six times that of the normal human male. Needless to say, they weren't having much luck filling the position.

During one particularly grueling debate on the relative merits of tits and ass in espionage, a junior aide jokingly whispered to his boss, "Sir, if it's so hard to find the right women, why don't we just build our own?" The four-star general carefully shaped the ash of his cigar, "harrumphed" to clear his throat, and proposed the idea. It was immediately accepted, and the search began for engineers who could accomplish the task.

They found Horace and Wong sitting in university labs working on really far-out stuff, whisked them away to this remote laboratory, and gave them a challenge. The committee figured nobody would miss the two scientists, and as it turned out, they were right. Nobody else at the universities could understand what they were doing anyway.

Horace and Wong might not have been your average party guys, but they were pretty sharp with the scientific stuff. By combining technologies from NASA, several fledgling software companies, and a couple of medical schools, they developed a prototype design. That design turned out to be me, Model APP-1: agent, polymorphic, prototype, series 1. That's the official nomenclature

for me; Horace and Wong call me Plastic Patty or, if they happen to be upset, just PP. They seem to be upset a lot of the time. I think it's a hormone thing.

Horace and Wong, being the incredibly horny guys they are, decided to have a little fun in the process of my design and construction. Horace designed me to be fully functional in the sexual department, and then added a few features from his own little perverted mind. My specifications included the requirement for artificial intelligence, and Wong did an extraordinary job with my

programming. He also added a few tiny little subroutines that were supposed to activate when I heard certain key words. This almost worked, and might have changed things a great deal, had not Martha foiled their plans.

Martha is the cleaning woman for the lab where I was made. She's kinda plain and a little dumpy, but she has a heart of gold. The poor dear also has a libido the size of Montana and the mothering instinct of a tiger. Her only fault is a taste for bourbon, and she's usually feeling really good when she reports to work. She says the little flask in her purse is only for mergencies, but Martha seems to have an emergency about every half-hour.

Martha cleaned the lab after normal working hours, and always brought something to read on her lunch break. This was innocent enough, and caused no problems for anybody until the day Horace left me switched on after bench testing my vision system. I could see! Wong had already loaded most of my software, and I could read seventeen foreign languages. As luck would have it, Martha always ate her lunch at the workbench, so I just looked over her shoulder.

Of course, Martha didn't know anything about me, because I didn't look like me then. I was just a box of circuitry with wires going to a power supply. I had my memory core installed, and my AI software was working, so I uploaded everything in Martha's books.

Martha's taste in reading was fascinating. She read plain cover books about women and men having sex. In most of them, the women forced the men to take care of their every whim. Some of the whims were not in any of Wong's programming. The women in Martha's books seemed to like having their toes sucked. They liked tying men to beds, and sometimes used whips and

stuck these bumpy little rubber thingies in the tied-up guy's... , well the books said up their asses, but, at the time, I didn't understand how men could have donkeys.

If the books were right, men really enjoyed this type of sex. I assumed this was the normal way in which women treated men, and added this information to my database.

I got my body about a month later, and finally I looked like a person. Yay! From what I could see, Horace had done a very good job. I thought my boobs were kinda big, but Horace was grinning from ear to ear, so I decided to leave them alone for the moment.

Horace forgot to turn me off again that night. Martha couldn't see me when she came in, because my maintenance stand was covered with a heavy drape. I tried my infrared, and could see her very well. I reached to pull the drape aside and my vision turned completely blue except for the little message which said, "FILE NOT FOUND". Now I understood why Horace had been bitching at Wong about servo-drive code.

.... There is more of this story ...

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Ma/Fa / Fa/Fa / Consensual / Heterosexual / Fiction / Humor / Science Fiction /