by Derek Shannon

Caution: This Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/Fa, NonConsensual, Reluctant, Coercion, Heterosexual, TransGender, CrossDressing, Science Fiction, Robot, FemaleDom, Spanking, Light Bond, Humiliation, Anal Sex, Masturbation, Water Sports, .

Desc: Sex Story: A lazy misogynistic man of the future receives a female robot from an ex-lover to keep him company in the wilderness. She seems too good to be true. She is...

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.

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

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