Tony was used to receiving packages; rich by birthright and lazy by nature, he preferred others to bring him what he wanted and needed. But no package, before or since, had ever equalled Silver.
His family had made their fortune in space technology, the new orbital factories their latest, greatest triumph. But they'd left the running of the companies to minor, more responsible relatives. Tony didn't mind, however, as this freed him to pursue his twin passions: women and painting. He fancied himself a Master of both, but lately neither seemed to produce what he would have considered satisfactory results. So, in a rare moment of introspection, he had decided to spend the summer concentrating on one, and as he'd grown jaded with the women he met in his preferred circles...
The villa was one of family's retreats in the Ukraine, in a forest of thousands of square kilometres, part of the Eurostate program to combat global warming. Here, with the nearest neighbours a three hour drive away, he believed he could achieve a measure of serenity and inspiration, of the type only found by the best painters - with all the mod cons on hand, of course.
But then came Silver.
On days when he wasn't expecting a delivery of supplies, Tony walked about in his boxers, his lank, almost-hairless body on display to the local wildlife. Stubble dotted his narrow, near-pointed chin, and a shock of dirty blond hair nearly touched his shoulders; he thought it attractive. Admittedly less attractive was the paunch he'd acquired over the weeks, now hanging over the elastic of his shorts, but a spot of gene therapy in the autumn would quickly correct that, before he graced the ladies of the upper circles with his presence once more. And on those quiet days, he liked to pee outside, too, even when it was raining; there was something atavistic about the act, a primordial marking of his territory.
Thus, he reasoned later, he could be forgiven for wetting the front of his boxers on stepping outside and finding Silver, squatting on his front porch like a child waiting for the school bus.
She responded to his presence, rising to her feet, turning and facing him, thumbs tucked into the belt loops of her shorts. 'Good morning, Anthony. I am for you.'
What an invitation, so direct and confident. What a voice, like quicksilver, fervent with anticipation, as if she'd waited all her life to say those words. And as for the figure: undeniably feminine in build, graceful, lithe, but with maturity, a ballerina whose career had been cut short by puberty - but the change was worthwhile. Prominent 36Ds, firm and round beneath a tight black T-shirt, nipples jutting like football studs. Curvaceous hips, wrapped in impossibly-small, impossibly-tight faded denim cut-offs. Long legs, parted slightly and capped with black leather cowboy boots. Plenty of skin, polished silver skin which reflected the morning light.
Tony's eyes finally rose to capture her face. High cheekbones, snub nose, solid bright red eyes peering over the tops of her sunglasses, pupilless as though painted on closed lids, staring at once unseeingly and with feeling. A full head of silver hair like finely spun thread woven on the looms of the Gods, flowing forth from beneath a black cowboy hat. Silver lips, as full and soft and anticipatory as any human woman's.
'What the-' was the wittiest reply he could manage on the spot.
An explanation was forthcoming. Silver was a gift from Angela Gould, a woman Tony finally, eventually recalled from three years ago. She'd been a mousy, flat-chested cyberneticist with his family's England divisions. Strictly downmarket, she'd been, but not without a certain low-rent appeal, like a cheap pub meal. They met at one of his family's corporate functions, and when they'd begun their six-week affair, she said he'd been her first, and because of this he was willing to give her the benefit of his considerable experience, teaching her to properly service a man.
But it quickly, inevitably grew boring, at least for him, and he tried to break it off. Of course, she'd fallen head over heels for him, and when she wouldn't take No for an answer, he used his influence to have her fired. He didn't want to do this, of course, but if their was one thing he hated, it was a clinging, possessive female.
Today, apparently, was the anniversary of their parting, and this present a form of apology from Angela. And what an apology! A Mark XII Biomech, the most advanced humanoid robot available on the market! One of the Annabelle Series ("Pert and sassy, but with a heart of gold, a lover and a fighter!" went the adverts), with a molecular-scale woven polycarbon skin over an articulated steel alloy endoskeleton which mimicked the full range of human motion. Complete with a superdense metatasking computer, terabyte-sized adaptive personality simulation program, and the ability to alter its framework, it was the ideal "companion" (to use the polite term), always present, always ready, willing and able to serve.
In so many ways.
They cost a fortune - even Tony would pause before purchasing one for himself, had he not been so successful with real women - so why did Mousy Angie spend so much on a belated apology?
Such questions were fleeting, however, as his attention returned full to the object in question, now standing in his living room, legs akimbo, hands on hips, like some Martian woman waiting to learn about this strange Earth custom called Love. She had poured him a drink - gin and tonic, his favourite - and bid him sit in his cushy leather recliner. The expectancy in the air was thick, palpable, like a curtain about to fall.
Or rise. 'What now?' he finally asked, breaking the spell.
'Would you like to see me naked, Anthony?'
Would he... 'Yes, please.'
Silver obeyed, carefully folding her clothes into neat squares and arranging them on the seat of the adjacent chair. When it - she - was naked, she resumed her former pose, this time affecting an almost subliminal shudder of modesty. Tony, his drink forgotten, stood up and slowly paced around her, inspecting her chassis like a vintage car - or at least, the silver hood ornament. Firm-looking breasts, twin cheeks tight enough to crack walnuts, even a trimmed and groomed delta of silver hair over the vulva. A perfect specimen, even to being slightly shorter than himself, something he preferred in his women. Except with Silver, there wasn't the slight motions, the breathing and involuntary muscle shifts one expected from humans.
He reached out to touch her, hesitating, as if he should ask permission first. Then he proceeded, holding and squeezing her right breast, watching in fascination as she responded, head arched back, mouth saucered, her moan so human-like. He admired the smooth, wet-glass feel of the skin, the warmth of the breast, its weight and firmness in his cupped hand, the attention to detail in the convolutions of the nipple as it hardened. He slapped her more boldly on the ass; it was as firm as it looked to the eye, producing a yelp of simulated surprise.
She parted her thighs further, as if anticipating his next destination. His fingers reached between them, cupping the vulva; the hair, the heat emanating like a furnace from the gasping lips of her sex, was just like a human bitch in heat. One finger entered; she gasped, her arms twisting at her sides, her hands bound into fists. He nearly gasped, too, finding hot, sticky moisture, resistance, like a virgin's channel.
As if connected already, Tony's cock stirred within his boxers. He withdrew his hand, and she made sounds of disappointment(!), he tasted what she had produced: sweet, m, parting her thighs even further, before reaching up and drawing down his boxers to his ankles; his cock, proud at seven inches with a flaring damask head, sprang forth from an unruly patch of pubic hair, and his balls felt heavy, burden-laden, clinging to the front of his sweaty thighs. Without further ado she took him fully into her hot, moist mouth, drawing herself back and forth over the length of the rapidly-stiffening shaft, keeping up a constant, relentless pressure.
It was exquisite. And it did not take him long to shoot his seed into her mouth, shuddering, clutching the sides of her head while she drained him of every drop offered. Then, her lips still wrapped around his shaft, she looked up and smiled, awaiting further orders.
Tony decided he was going to like this package.
Tony's first assumption had been correct; the Mark XIIs were not like real women. They were infinitely better. This wasn't some old-fashioned inflatable latex doll with three working orifices and a conspicuous nozzle; Silver was, to coin a cliché, More Human Than Human. Her expert systems allowed her to be, among numerous others, a world-class chef, valet, tutor, medic (she used the home gene therapy equipment to deal with his beer gut), electronic engineer and housekeeper. And financier; after signing over authority to her, she glided through the Cybernet with ease, quickly doubling, then trebling the miserable annual stipend his family gave him in return for staying away from them as much as possible.
But it was her skills as a lover which drew most of his attention. And his stamina; as her sarium krellide batteries needed recharging only one in every hundred hours, she had Stamina, with a capital S. Her pussy was, like her mouth, distinguishable from a real woman's not only by its colour, but by its eternal receptiveness, ready for him whenever he wanted. And wherever: the bedroom, living room, kitchen floor, outside. And as she grew to know him better in the following weeks, her adaptive programming tailored itself to his tastes, becoming submissive, coquettish, at least at first, only becoming sluttish under Tony's "influence".
She asked to order clothes; Tony, thoroughly entranced with her, allowed her to open new shopping accounts for herself. Outfits arrived in due course: schoolgirl gear with ivory white blouses, plaid skirts and white socks; pink and black baby doll nighties; Roman slave girl tunics; garter belts and stockings and Cyberbras and so many other wonderful things. She could play the virgin teenager, the naughty student, the supplicant slave, all with equal enthusiasm.
The painting, and most everything else in Tony's life, was forgotten.
'Tony, would you do something for me, please?'
They lay naked in bed, the glow from the TV wall illuminating them in earth tones from a century-old Western featuring that old actor turned President, Eastwood. He was half-sitting up, pillows propped behind him, half-watching a generic stampede unfold. 'Sure, babe.'
Silver wasn't watching, curled up near his crotch, head propped on one elbow, her free hand gently, almost absently nursing his semi-flaccid cock, manipulating it just enough to keep from going completely soft. 'Tony, would you masturbate for me? I'd really like to see you do it.'
It was unexpected enough to draw his full attention. Everything sexual between them had, until now, been with Silver's active, eager participation. 'Really?'
'Oh, yes. Show me how you please your hard, pumping meat. may learn how to better please you.' To punctuate her sentence, her tongue darted out like a snake, licking the underside of his cockhead, making it spasm to full attention.
He didn't need much persuasion after that. He wanked as she encouraged him in a low, husky voice, his pumping motion quickening as he fell completely into the role, his hand a blur, his teeth gritted, breath shooshing forth like steam. Before he even realised it, he'd pushed himself over the edge, only dimly aware of the sticky semen spilling down the rounded curves of his knuckles.
'Oh yes, lover, ' she cooed, electric red eyes aglow in the dim light. 'That was marvellous.'
He lay back and closed his eyes, hand still grasping his cock, glowing with narcissistic satisfaction as Silver proceeded to lick his hand clean.
He performed for her numerous times in the following days, Silver asking him to do it standing up, lying down, but mostly on his knees, while she watched and verbally encouraged him, afterwards taking over, bringing him to a second, even third orgasm. She seemed to react just like a real woman to it, and Tony could forget that it was all mere programming. He had found within himself a hitherto unrecognised love of this form of exhibitionism, and fed it.
He never thought about how strange this all might seem to an outsider.
They lay on the grass outside, beneath a starry, moonlit summer evening, a slight northerly breeze rustling the tops of the trees around them like sheaves of newsprint. She was singing softly - she had a creamy smooth voice, like that old-time singer Madonna - when she stopped and half-sat up on one elbow, reaching out to stroke his smooth face (she said she'd preferred him clean-shaven). Tony lay hands locked behind his head, eyes closed, grinning Cheshire as his cock stirred once more inside his boxers.
'Tony, darling? Would you do something for me, please?'
He laughed softly; when Silver asked for something, it was always worthwhile. 'Anything you want, babe, I promise.'
'Would you wear these for me?'
She didn't elaborate, and when she stopped stroking his face and started moving about on her own, he opened his eyes and sat up. 'What the-'
Silver was removing her favourite red satin tanga briefs, sliding them down over the curved expanse of her thighs and shins.
Apprehension tugged at the pit of his stomach, like a child on his sleeve. 'I don't think so, Sil-'
But that quicksilver voice was turned back on him, as she dangled the knickers before him like a hypnotist's watch. 'Oh, please, Tony. You promised. Please do it for me. It'd get me so horny.'
As she said this, she rubbed his growing hard-on through the thin cotton layer of his boxers, arousing him further. He said nothing as he slid off his shorts, accepting the knickers. They were a tight fit, and for a moment he thought the elastic would snap. But they didn't - the miracle of modern clotheswear - and he didn't know whether to be disappointed or pleased.
Silver seemed pleased enough for both of them, gazing at him with a smile of longing. Tony was more ambivalent. He hadn't worn anything this tight since childhood. But despite the ludicrousness of the sight - the front of the knickers tentpoled up, and one of his balls peeking out at the side - his excitement hadn't diminished. If anything, it had grown fiercer.
'Oh, yes. That turns me on.' She half-lay over him, tongue-kissing as she rubbed his crotch, making him come more quickly than he could imagine.
Tony drank more; he found it helped. Over the following days Silver had "encouraged" him to wear her knickers all the time, while she wore his boxers. Admittedly the sex was even better during those times, though he was certain it was because of Silver, rather than any arousal on his part. Yes, that had to be it.
Then came the stockings, secretly purchased in his size. That took more persuading, but inevitably he found himself being taught how to properly draw them up over his legs. More persuading, and he had his legs depilitated. It was bizarre how the material hugged the entirety of his legs, like the trousers of a rubber wetsuit, only lighter and sleeker. Admittedly they didn't feel bad - until he caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror. But she rewarded him each time, with a passion that bordered on ferocity.
He'd drawn the line at the dress and wig. No, he repeated adamantly, slamming a fist into his open palm in a rare moment of proud machismo. You'll not get me to do that!
In response, Silver fucked him - just. There was no response from her, none of the accustomed moans and climaxes and pleas for more; such was her inertia that he didn't know whether to embrace her or embalm her. She never spoke to him except to answer questions, stopped preparing her special meals, stopped singing as she cleaned the house. In short, she was little better than a Mark III Housebox.
After the fifth night, and nearly a fifth of Scotch, he relented. And Silver smiled.
The wig was long and red, and, with his own hair under a net, wearable; when he turned his head, he could see the silver crescent moon clip-on earrings, hear them jingle. His face, scrubbed clean with eyebrows trimmed, were now adorned with bright apple-red lipstick and blue eyeshadow.
The underwear was a complicated arrangement, making him wonder how women can keep track of it all. There was a frilly black bra, of course; even with further adjusting, the strap felt tight across his chest and back. Heavy silicon gel bubbles were safety-glued onto his nipples, so that he could properly appreciate the brassiere, and a form-fitting corselette shaped his stomach and hips into a more feminine frame, though he thought he might pass out from it if he had to bend down. Then there were the satin knickers, garter belt and stockings, all making him feel encased and controlled, but these as least he had had weeks to grow accustomed to them.
The dress that Silver had ordered for him was a slinky black sleeveless model of fitted stretch sateen, with a shockingly low neckline that could afford much cleavage, had it existed, and a hemline that barely dipped between the tops of his stockings. He even had women's black shoes, though these at least were mercifully low-heeled.
Tony kept his eyes shut through most of the transformation, trying to ignore the almost-constant encouragement from Sil. Thus he was unprepared for the wide silver-studded black leather collar strapped comfortably but snugly onto his neck. Part of the new fashion, he was helpfully informed, as if that would make a difference.
Then he saw himself in the full-length mirror - or at least, he thought it was himself. Despite the hairs on his arms, he found to his surprise that he was passable as a female, albeit a tall, large one. Not that he enjoyed any of this humiliation of course, ignoring his rebellious cock, excited despite the amount of alcohol he had already imbibed, the apprehension in his gut and the restraint placed upon it by the black women's knickers and the corselette; it still strained to make its presence known at the front of his dress.
He wrapped his arms around himself, as if cold, as Silver clasped his shoulders from behind, whispering in his ear. 'You look superb, Darling, ' She reached down and around and touched his bulge. 'l'm glad you feel the same way.'
Tony didn't know how he felt. He was too afraid to find out.
'Make me a drink - gin and tonic, ' she told him.
Tony waited in the living room while she dressed as per her request. For a moment he tried to access the Cybernet terminal and read the files on Biomech instructions available on the Net to all owners, but for some reason he couldn't even call the Emergency Services. He pulled back from the terminal when he heard her voice.
She entered, her hair pinned up in no-nonsense fashion, wearing a dress nearly identical to his own, but with high heels, a longline black jacket with red trim, and a long length of thin silver chain, winding down and around her like a snake, from her neck, between her breasts, and coiling to a stop at her crotch.
The stereo came to life as she approached him - one of her remote control capabilities - and as some woman belted out a century-old song about a dark lady, and he stood there dumbly, she repeated, 'Well? Where's my drink?'
Tony had it half-prepared before he even realised what he was doing, and carried it to her. She sipped cautiously, as if it could really affect her - Mark XIIs could ingest food and drink for appearance's sake, passing it out through the appropriate orifices in a compacted if unmetabolised state - and made a show of looking him over and smacking her lips. If possible, this made him feel even more self-conscious. 'Not bad, girl.'
Somewhere beneath his inebriated, humiliated state, Tony felt a stab of rebellion, 'This has gone too far, Sil-'
'Not far enough yet, lover.' Casually she dropped her glass, ignoring the remains of her drink seeping into the carpet, reached out and took him by the wrist. 'Let's dance.'
She didn't wait for his consent, taking him into her arms and leading, subtly first, then overtly. He fought this dominance but it resulted in her stepping on his toes with her hundred-kilo steel body, until he stopped. His head swayed beneath the wig, his stomach swayed within the corselette. Silver seemed taller now, and not just because of her high heels, and she had to bend down to whisper in his ear. 'You've some good moves, girlfriend.' She reached down behind him with and squeezed his cheeks. 'But you have some nerve, wearing the same outfit as me.'
Finally he broke free from her, pulling off his wig. 'Right, that's enough! I've had it with this program, and I want it cancelled - now!'
The music stopped - Silver's doing again - and she stood, hands on hips, tapping one foot impatiently. 'Put that wig back on, bitch. Now.'
It was still clutched in one hand, like a strangled mink. Now he flung it to the floor. 'You fucking wear it! I've had it with you-'