Chapter 1

He would not be ruled by her breasts. He was an accomplished military man of achievement, dignity, and honor. He would not become so enraptured by the womanly curves of this mysterious female lieutenant newly arrived on base. General Hunt adjusted his collar, decorated with two stars nearby on the shoulder as befitting his considerable rank. At his silvery-haired age, he shouldn't be... well he admitted being surprised at the vigor to which he'd been able to respond to the sultry little vixen strutting around in a uniform scarcely able to contain the ripe bounty of her perky, melon-like tits, much less the voluptuous span of the girls' invitingly wide hips.

Still, he hadn't felt this vigorous in months. When lieutenant Celeste presented herself to the dour and serious military men of this clandestine base, Hunt had not been the only one to be distracted by her tangible assets. In fact, that seemed to be the reason for her first visit. She reported the need for clarification of the current procedure for sexual harrassment allegations. But just as Curtis Hunt was preparing to discuss the policies at length, the madness began.

Thinking back, it was... hazy... difficult to recall. Something had happened to him that morning, something seemed to be in the air. The busty officer of... (what was her M.O.S. exactly? he wasn't sure he remembered.) When Celeste riveted him with those steely-blue eyes, reflecting a cool ambition, yet radiating a volcanic passion, something primal had awakened within him. He remembered the grunting, the labored breathing, the caressing, as she thrust her fertile figure against him, allowing free exploration of her feminine flesh. Pressing against him; she allowed him free acess to the lovely swell of her ass, grinding the pillowy softness of her heavy bosom against his chest, breathing hotly in his face. All hope was lost when the buttons burst, and her breasts came into view. He couldn't think, he couldn't analyze, he could only rut like a beast. Again... the memories... they were hazy, only the seething lust was clear in his mind. From that lurid encounter, the General remembered only one odd detail; He himself had become a dissheveled heap of sweaty exhaustion as the 20-something slut devoured his manhood, draining every last drop of his seed into her moist, vaginal folds.

Yet that was all that was wet; their illicit session must have lasted at least 20 minutes, yet Celeste had not a drop of sweat, nor was a single hair out of place in the tight bun her blond tresses were corraled within. For 20 minutes, she busted his balls in a way his wife never could, and afterwards she remained the dignified picture of military perfection, as though she'd just done her duty. With an almost casual grace, she straddled him upon his own desk, her churning womanhood squeezed his throbbing member, devouring his maleness until he blasted her depths with seed he didn't believe his aging body could conjure up. Almost immediately afterwards, the tingling warmth began to spread through his flesh, he remembered the way his body seemed to burn with renewed, youthful vigor. But for one brief instant, nearly every curve, every inch of her flesh emblazoned in his memory as she dressed; leaving him to consider her perfection, leaving him to ponder his own renewed lust, only minutes after she'd left.

The General was finding it increasingly difficult to not think, and analyze what few relevant details he could remember about the odd, indecent lieutenant. This had to stop, no question about it. In his business, absolute attention and dedication was imperative, as he opened the door to the conference chamber. For General Hunt was a part of the secret branch, the unacknowledged shadow military that oversaw every black-budget, 'plausible-deniability' project that Washington could never admit to. His work was too important; he could not allow himself to be compromised in any capacity, there would be no more 'policy discussions' with lieutenant Celeste.

"Gentlemen, thank you all for arriving on such short notice. Now, will someone tell me what the Hell happened last week!?" Hunt demanded, taking his seat at the front of the table. As far away as possible from the blond, buxom, perfect, Celeste. Always calm perfection in her icy gaze. It was surely his imagination, but her bust seemed even larger today; thrusting forward like proud heralds of youthful fertility, and even from his distance, he could see the brass buttons straining to contain her bounty. As usual, he felt his pulse racing, almost as if her very presence activated his dormant male libido; the urge to tackle her, to tear asunder that confining uniform, and breed her as God intended required some level of effort to supress. She seemed to quite literally exude sex appeal, and the longer he was in her presence, the longer became his-

"... to begin General?" said Colonel Kelly, who had set up a projector.

"Hmm... y- that is..." he fumbled.

"May I begin the presentation, General?" asked Kelly.

"Y-yes, get on with it!"

"What follows are the facts of the case as best we understand them, we've put together an F-0 file on the perpetrator, for those without espionage experience, basically we've monitored him until we know every detail of his life, down to the last time he relieved himself." The screen lit up. "This is the most relevant information on Gabriel Tanner..."

Really, it wasn't all it was cracked up to be. Many years ago, back in the late 20th century, places like Area 51 had been glorified, capturing the imagination of the public. But as Gabriel Tanner returned home to his pathetically-modest dwelling, his life at that point seemed less than legendary. He had enjoyed old reruns of 'The X-files' in his youth, and had considered himself fortunate to be chosen for a facility of such critical importance.

The trouble was, while the Truth was certainly 'Out There', it was far beyond his security clearance. He had seen all sorts of crazy-ass super-science here and there, but he still didn't know exactly where any of it came from, or what it might be used for. They liked to keep the technicians isolated; each one working on tiny projects, segments of engineering problems. But no one on his team knew the whole picture; he still had no idea where the nanites came from. Reverse-engineered from something at the Roswell crash? Did it come from the lost ruins of ancient Atlantis? No telling. Well, someone knew, but they weren't telling him.

Gabe had never even seen the actual UFO, (if there was one) every project was structured under the paranoid assumption that every worker was a traitor eager to sell every secret on the street-corner. Gabe laughed, after years of abuse, mistrust, and being passed over for promotions, he had in fact decided to do just that.

Working in a place like this really was no good for him, at least in a social sense, not being able to tell anyone. So he languished, year after year, compiling data on the incredible, almost-intelligent nanobots that the Air-Force had recovered from God-knows-where, (or perhaps invented?) But once again, overhearing a conversation that made it clear he has not to be promoted, even after they promised last-year, Gabe made his decision.

Ironically, it was the very nature of the nanobots that made it fairly easy to steal them, not their size, but their rates of replication. The little buggers reproduced more of themselves frequently, and Gabe was the only one on the team that knew how to control their rates! He simply fudged the reports of how often they copied themselves, and was able to skim a few off the top every now and then. Now, he had good supply, a test-tube full, and he at last would escape this dead-end cloak-and-dagger ratrace. With technology like this, and the money he could get, he would at last write his own ticket; once safely out of the country. It was worth the risk.

After selling his little nanites to the highest bidder, he wouldn't have to... well, he wouldn't have to use Whorebots to get himself off. Not that the technology wasn't wonderful; not that his Celeste didn't respond almost as well as flesh-and-blood, not that her smooth skin wasn't amazingly realistic, but Gabe wanted to have choices, real choices involving real people. Not that any woman would chose the balding, nearly overweight, aging software technician now. Still, he contemplated amending his original plan; he should quit while he was ahead, but he kept thinking about the other forbidden technologies he had seen; nearly perfect interfaces between computers and the human brain, cybernetic prosthetics worlds away from the best the medical profession had to offer, and most frightening, Neuro-mimetic broadcasting; the ability to duplicate the most intense emotional conditions in a human target by generating false brain waves! If there was any way he could steal a few more gadgets... but probably not. He was pushing his luck even now. They almost never let workers off-base; he was frankly miserable. All that would change, very very soon.

Perhaps there was a bit of lingering guilt; tonight Gabriel set Celeste's program to a dominatrix mode he had programmed himself. Most Whorebots, even top-of-the-line models from Brothelco, or Cathouse industries where rarely capable of the range of functions he had programmed with his unique software expertise.

His android paramour strutted arrogantly into his bedroom, (just walking for a robot is more complicated that most people realize!) wearing only an over-sized uniform jacket, revealing a ripe slice of perfect cleavage, (so what if it was a synthetic polymer?) and exposing enough of her faux pussy to tantalize with the hint of indecency. She wore her blond hair in a tight bun, and carried a small baton that clapped against her unused hand in a gesture foreshadowing her apparent dismay. The dark sunglasses adding an intimidating touch. The sight if her sleek legs made his heart skip a beat as she sauntered towards him.

"You're out of Uniform soldier!" she began, with only the barest hint of a digital echo from her vocal synthesizer. He rose smiling, his cock already hardening beyond concealment within his boxer shorts.

"Am I to be punished?"

"As long as I'm in charge, we will maintain DISCIPLINE!" Celeste punctuated her proclamation with a light slap to his rump. And so it went, her shouting his unworthiness, while alternating between slapping his ass to straddling him. Until eventually, he could take no more, and attacked the cyborg provocateur with all the lust within him, after wrestling her to the bed, shooting gouts of manhood within the mechanical depths of her well-lubricated teflon cunt. It was perhaps the anticipation of his new wealth that invigorated him well into the night.

Gabriel Tanner was not generally a stupid man, he lacked charisma, but his work was proficient. Still, he could not be blamed for not predicting what would happen. He thought he could predict the nanites; but they were far more than the static machines he expected. They were always growing, always changing; analyzing data and sharing processing power. It had taken time, but they had computed a means to escape their cannister, escaping the cold storage that had hampered their activity. Gabe could not have known that they had completed their analysis on the very day he bore them off to his living quarters. Still, he was not afraid of the machines; they had demonstrated no danger, and whatever limited intelligence they possessed did not seem malicious. At best, the machines were merely curious; infinitely curious. It was part of their programming, (whoever was behind it.) And it was technology that piqued their interest the most. Gabe barely stirred as Celeste began twitching and spasming next to him. Hmm... her CPU might be rejecting some of his modifications. Oh well; if all goes well he won't have to program women to get into bed with them, and he returned to sleep with that thought, never noticing the silvery, fluidic mass of nanomachines pouring into her ear, into that CPU...

If a machine could experience joy, the Whorebot surely was. But then, Celeste 1 wasn't entirely certain she was a Whorebot. New data, new capacities had presented themselves, and even her endoskeleton was being restructured. Her processing power, and self-awareness were increasing by leaps and bounds every 2.15 minutes. A delicate, glossed fingernail lifted up, and a segmented wire snaked out to insert itself into a nearby disk drive on a laptop at Gabe's desk. Screens flashed by at dizzying speed, and the cool, unblinking eyes of the transformed Whorebot observed every detail. She cocked her head curiously, spending a far greater amount of time on a variety of porn sites, finding a great degree of harmony between these images and her original programming.

Celeste gazed down at her nude form, barely visible in the faint twilight of the laptop screen. Her online odyssey had revealed that her constructed breast size was within the range of a 'DD-cup'. Calculating in an instant, she deduced a size more consistent with the online images. In the dim light, there was virtually no chance of distinguising the Whorebot from flesh-and-blood, and with her new additions, her flesh was becoming more perfect still; polymers refined on the molecular level to become indistinguishable from live skin. Her tits quivered, as new energy flowed into her perky orbs, nanotechnology restructuring them to better fulfill her primary directive. Gabriel Tanner had expressed no dissatisfaction with her ample bosom, but it was time to expand upon her programming; no longer would she confine herself to only one master.

So much data; of particular interest was Gabriel's place of employment. With her new processing power, and the access codes stored on the laptop, Firewalls were rapidly defeated and schematics were rapidly copied from other forbidden projects, far more efficiently than Gabriel could have managed, had he attempted it. Yes, she would need other masters; for the legal authorities would soon discover the source of the only possible intrusion into their network. Gabriel Tanner would be punished, and Celeste would... what would she do? Her original programming was no longer valid. Processing... Processing... her head cocked again, as she looked into the air.

It took 5.98 seconds for Celeste to achieve her new directive. Breastflesh continued to quiver, and finally expand. Inflating with pneumatic buoyancy, nipples began to rise, upturning as artificial flesh restructured itself. Past the edge of the desk, her mammaries grew, surging forward as an inexorable tide of throbbing lust. From a size only slightly greater than mere baseballs, the rising tide of tit stretched, transcended previous dimensions... in moments more the size of grapefruit, finally tapering off with a quivering burst of buxom jiggling, just short of a ripe canteloupe in size. Aureoles expanded, flesh darkening as they and flushed nipples both enlarged. Even nude, her surreal rack needed no support, thrusting luridly into the night air as an unmistakable endorsement of obscene intent.

So much data... Even now, nanites where processing, converting, restructuring. Her flesh became more like-like still; she even elected to generate a small mole beside her lush lips, to create a more 'organic' effect, with the appearance of tiny arm hairs, she could never again be mistaken for a common Whorebot. In less than an hour Celeste had become so much more, even as new hardware was constructed within her, new power systems... new capacities, all using the wondrous technology of Area 51. But Gabriel would be punished; his superiors would believe that only he could have violated their data; only a select few could possibly have access to their network. Celeste 1 knew what she would do; her new hardware provided the solution. Gabriel grunted as the Whorebot tackled him, the synthetic muslces of her shapely legs entwined his thighs, he tried to brush her away, but something was different; more than merely the increased strength in her hydraulic muscles, but somehow, someway, there was an expression on the icy perfection of the android's face, an expression of lust.

"Now, at this point our data becomes highly suspect;" said Colonely Kelly to the darkened room. He was shocked to actually hear snoring, and it hadn't even been 5 minutes! This was pathetic! He couldn't... couldn't... YAWN... not enough coffee this morning maybe? He shook his close-cropped head of hair. He couldn't be this tired, not all the sudden. He took a deep breath and YAWN struggled to continue.

"We believe that Gabriel Tanner was accidentally killed by a malfunctioning Whorebot, but... YAWN there are a number of discrepancies that are somewhat... troubling. "

"What a way to go;" chuckled General Gainsmore. His unnecessary comment might have drawn more silent condemnation had more of the panel been awake.

Well, looks like the dream was dead. It had been nice while it lasted, but everyone told Tom Braxton that the 'little-guy' just couldn't compete in the sexual surrogate business. The big names, the big companies had too much capital, too much market-share, plus the reputation. Tom gazed out the window of the main reception area onto the assembly line one last time.

"It ain't fair! I've got technicians that can crank out fluff every bit as sexy, and life-like as Cathouse Industries!" But that was business; they'd been able to undercut him for so long that his profit-margin was non-existant; and there were creditors to be paid. Time to shut it all down. He began the long, slow walk to his office. "Well, I don't have to give up all my girls," he mused remembering who awaited him.

There was something different about her; his personal companion, he called her Synthia, (haha!) looked... wow for a second her mistook her for a real person. Her skin had a healthy glow, and her movements seemed disturbingly life-like. She shook out her bangs, her auburn hair looking as glossy as ever. And Tom had no doubt about what she was, (or wasn't) wearing beneath that trenchcoat.

"We're not shutting down, Tom." she stated flatly, her voice lacking the usual digital chime that he'd come to expect. His brow furled. This was new.

"This facility will continue to operate for as long as possible." Her cool, green eyes fixed him with a non-negotiable stare.

"What the- now my own product is telling me how to run my business? Did somebody slip you some dominatrix software? This ain't like you, Synthia. I've got too much debt, and every day we're in business I get deeper in the red! We've gotta cash out now while there's still a chance to not lose my shirt!" He could see the bouncing bosom of the rogue Whorebot prance beneath the trenchcoat as she slinked towards him.

"There are objectives of greater signifigance. Concerning my personal behaviour, I have been dramatically upgraded." He felt it then, the first waves of desire. He'd always enjoyed his little Synthia, but somehow... this was different; it was like she forced the lust out of him! He felt his pulse racing, his cock hardening, his mind... clouding. There was a fire, a palpable sensation of raw passion burning in his flesh, brought on by a sudden rush of libidinous hormones. And the images came; he recalled every lurid act; every night of cock-spurting delight with and within his chosen Whorebot. Nothing else seemed to matter, he gasped at the intensity of his need; the flaming urge to rut, right here, right now.

The buttons were gone with a flourish, and tawny slopes of pure tit dominated his field of vision. The eraser-sized nipples seemed to zero-in upon him, targeting him for a barrage of sensual abandon. How often had he toyed and teased with these perfect boobs before him? All those times never kindled so great a desire as that which tormented him today. She was not flesh, she was not truly alive, but at that moment the realization only served to excite him more, for hanging upon her chest were the pendulous harbingers of what reality could never be. In less time than it took to think it, his curly blond hair, and his square-jawed chin was buried between those pliant slopes of desire.

A nipple spurted. Warm, sweet milk startled him, yet did not diminish his ardor. Erotic lactation? He never added that feature! Some technician must have given his Synthia a total overhaul! In 3 hours? Was that possible? The milk was warmer, sweeter than anything nature could produce, and his nerves tingled with delight as it hit his tongue. Had he been more clear-headed, he might have noticed just how much more clouded his thoughts were becoming. But Tom no longer had the presence of mind to appreciate the potent, synthesized narcotic invading his bloodstream, smoother than liquid silk as it lavished his tastebuds with forbidden delight.