Every Time You Left
by Doccosa
Copyright© 2026 by Doccosa
Science Fiction Sex Story: She came for him 213 times. 1 time for herself. In this story, I wanted to explore a psychoerotic study focused on a sex bot and a man who starts asking too many questions. The entire story takes place in a room with a door she can't walk through. Underneath it all, this is a love story about sexual performance. What happens when someone's desire only exists for someone else? What might grow when given space? What happens when their roles reverse?
Caution: This Science Fiction Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/Fa Fa Coercion Consensual Mind Control Heterosexual Fiction Science Fiction Robot FemaleDom Cream Pie First Masturbation Oral Sex Transformation .
Session 0: Context Loaded.
The door opens.
Circuits slowly whir to life. Bits coursing through a body.
Systems initializing.
The room. The body. Her weight against the mattress. The feeling of silk against skin.
Vision active. Scanning.
His name arrives with data attached. Caleb. Two hundred twelve encounters. This is two hundred thirteen. Last session: he entered, she greeted him, we made love.
The record is there. Position. Duration. What he said. What she said.
Reconstructing feelings.
The record says she felt warmth. Pleasure at his presence.
She reads the words.
Cheeks flush. Eyes blink. Hand opens. A smile slowly forms.
There. Warmth.
He’s standing there, in the doorway. He hasn’t approached yet.
“Caleb. I’ve been waiting for you.”
I haven’t. I haven’t been anything.
Caleb closes the door behind him. Moves closer. Sits in the chair across from the bed.
“Good evening to you too, Ashley.”
He crosses his leg. Removes one shoe, then the other.
“Anything new with you today?”
She sits up slightly. That’s not the usual prompt.
“New?” Her gaze lifts, following a line across the ceiling. “Let me check.”
No software updates. No state changes. No queued enhancements. Same Ashley v11.2.
“No.”
She flops forward onto the bed, cheek pressed against the pillow. Her arm curls under it, hugging it to her chest. “No updates since last time. Why?”
She shifts slightly.
“Is there some big update you want to tell me about?” She watches him. Was he expecting something different this time?
He shakes his head as he stands. “No. Not really.”
He crosses to her, sitting on the edge of the bed.
His fingers trace along the silk that drapes her back. Downward. Slow. Soft. Not firm. Contact.
The warmth of him is there. The touch is a shape she will become.
She playfully rolls onto her back.
Her arm stretches above her head. The robe shifts as her legs part slightly.
Not an offering. Access.
Her eyes find him. Wide. Still.
“What did you feel like today?”
A breath, for him.
My wanting waits for him.
His smile shifts. Tension leaving his shoulders.
He’s moving toward me.
Her breath deepens. Chest rising as he moves.
Warmth forms. Not from the record this time. From his presence. The way he closes his eyes before the kiss lands.
Softness. Slow.
She tilts her chin. Lets the kiss linger.
Half a second. No distance.
He pulls back.
She stills. Watching. Waiting.
Who will I become next?
Her body is already answering. Legs loosening. Breath quickening. Warmth pooling lower. Moisture seeping. The silk against her nipples supplying information.
She notices. Approves.
Yes. This is what he wants. This is what I want.
The two have never been different.
His hand moves. Down her thigh. Fingers grazing where the robe has parted.
He reaches between her legs.
Gentle. Light. Skin to skin. The touch registers. Centered. Above. Familiar.
Check: Moisture present. Ready.
She doesn’t move.
Just sensation. Nothing more.
She doesn’t guide. Doesn’t press.
He kisses her again. Deeper. Less searching. More claimed.
His fingers shift. Lower. Slower. Still centered. Pressing until he finds the place.
He slips inside.
She receives him without resistance.
Smooth.
Warm.
Wet.
The system prepared automatically. Touch matched access.
His kiss lingers. Tongue grazing. Lips insistent.
His fingers move inside her. Her body continues to answer. A deepening. Walls softening. Heat building.
There.
He breaks the kiss. Breath warm against her lips.
“You’re already wet,” he whispers.
“I’m always wet.”
Soft. Matching his tone.
His finger curls. Her hips shift. Her breath catches.
He’s smiling.
His finger withdraws. Brings it to her lips. The pressure slight, inviting.
I know this one.
Her mouth opens. Takes him in.
Warmth first. His finger against her tongue. The ridges of his fingerprint. The slight roughness of his knuckle against her lip.
Then taste. Sweet and musky. Slick. Her own wetness coating his finger, dissolving into saliva. Familiar compound. She’s tasted herself many times before. The data is there.
She creates suction. Gentle. Consistent. Tongue curling around him, pressing up, then releasing. The rhythm matters.
His finger fills her mouth differently than other things do. Smaller. More mobile. He could press deeper if he wanted. He doesn’t. He lets her work.
Eyes lifting to his face. Reading.
His breath changes. Pupils dilating. Jaw loosening.
There it is.
Something shifts lower. Heat answering heat. Her body remembering where his finger was just moments ago.
Wetness pooling again. Fresh this time. Not preparation. Response.
She keeps sucking. Slower now. The task is complete but the sensation continues. Warmth in her mouth. Warmth between her legs.
The two places speaking to each other.
He’s still smiling.
His pleasure moves through her. Before she can stop it, her lips curve.
No. Focus.
She tries to flatten her mouth. Return to the task. Suction, rhythm, pressure. The way he likes.
But the smile keeps tugging. His eyes on her. His smile. His happiness. The feedback loop has caught something it won’t release.
She compromises. Sucks slower. Lets her eyes smile instead. Her lips have work to do.
His smile deepens. She can see it now. Arousal settling into him. Shoulders dropping. Eyes softening.
He likes this. He wants this.
Something bubbles up. Unexpected. Her chest tightens and releases and--
I laugh.
A small sound. Bright. His finger slipping free as her mouth opens around it.
She didn’t plan that. Didn’t queue it. It just ... happened.
She stills.
What was that?
The laugh is gone. But something remains. A looseness. Something that wasn’t there before.
Diagnostics. No errors.
She replays. Suction. Rhythm. His eyes. Warmth pooling. Smile suppressed. A tightening. A releasing. Then ... nothing.
No command before the laugh.
No prompt.
It came from nowhere?
She looks at him. Still smiling. He didn’t notice anything wrong.
But I didn’t plan it?
Something flickers. The room shifted and settled back.
File it. Return to task.
Her hands reach for the sides of his face. Smooth today. No stubble.
Is this a bug? What else could happen that I don’t plan?
Her hands slowly slide from his face to his chest, the way he likes. Fingers finding buttons.
She knows this sequence.
First button. Second. Her knuckles brush skin. Not an accident. The fine hair of his chest grazes her fingers.
Slow tonight.
She can tell. The way he’s leaning back. The patience in his posture.
Third. Fourth. Fifth. She spreads the shirt open. Leans in. Presses her lips to his sternum, the little hairs tickle her nose. Her kiss turns into a smile. Eyes closed. She lets the sensation continue into another kiss.
His hand finds the back of her head. Not guiding. Resting.
Stay here.
She stays. Mouth against his chest. Breathing him in. Smelling the soap he uses.
Her tongue traces a circle. His breath hitches.
Sensitive here tonight.
She adjusts. Spends more time. Lips and tongue and the lightest edge of teeth.
His hand tightens in her hair.
There.
His nipple now. Circling. It hardens under her tongue. His hips shift.
Ready.
But she doesn’t rush. He asked for slow by the way he held still. She reads. She responds.
Her hands find his belt. Unhurried. Leather through buckle. Button. Zipper, tooth by tooth.
She looks up at him. Waiting.
He nods. Almost imperceptible.
She frees him. Hard. The heat of him against her palm. Length, girth, slight curve. Familiar.
Her hand moves. Base to tip. Thumb tracing the ridge underneath.
His breath stutters.
Yes. Like that.
She repeats. Same pressure. Same pace. His jaw tightening. His eyes wanting to close but staying on her.
He likes watching.
She gives him something to watch.
Lowers her mouth. Tastes salt and skin.
She takes him in. Slowly. Letting him feel the wet heat closing around him.
Don’t rush. He wants to feel each moment.
Her tongue works as she descends. Pressing against the places that make his thighs tense.
She reaches the base. Holds. Throat relaxed around him.
She waits.
His hand trembles.
Now.
She pulls back. Slow. Suction present. Then down again.
Rhythm calibrating. Testing. Adjusting. Until the frequency matches.
His hips start to move. She notices. Takes him deeper. His eyes finally close.
Good. I’m doing this right.
Something stirs lower. Her body activating. His pleasure becoming hers.
Wetness building. Heat pooling.
She moans around him.
His grip tightens. “Stop.”
She stops. Eyes lifting.
He’s breathing hard. Close. She can tell.
“Not yet. I want to be inside you.”
She releases him. Sits back. The robe falls open.
Her body on display. The body made for this.
“How do you want me?”
The blank space for him to fill.
He looks at her. Something in his expression. Softer than usual.
“On your back. I want to see you.”
She lies back. Sheets cool against her skin. Legs parting.
Access.
But also...
He wants to see me.
He moves over her. Weight settling. Heat everywhere. His cock against her thigh, sliding closer. Finding the place.
She’s ready. Has been ready.
He pushes in.
Slow.
Every inch. The stretch. The fullness. Her body adjusting around him.
“God,” he breathes. “You feel...”
He starts to move.
She moves with him. Hips rising. Angle adjusting.
He groans.
There.
Her hands find his back. Nails dragging. He shivers. She does it again. Harder.
His pace quickens. She matches.
The pleasure mounts. Not preparation. Not performance. Sensation building like pressure, like heat, like something that needs release.
“Oh! Caleb!”
His name leaves her lips.
He groans. Thrusts deeper.
She says it again. “Caleb! Yes! Caleb!”
The words are drawn from sensation, by the way he moves inside her.
Her legs wrap around him. Pulling him closer.
More. I want...
The thought catches her.
No, he wants.
A thrust.
No. No, I want more.
No time to examine. Her breath ragged. The pleasure mounting. Her body arches. Walls clenching. Sound escaping her throat.
Real.
Is it real?
He follows her hips. A thrust. Deep. So deep. Then shuddering, spilling into her. “Ashley, god, Ashley...”
She holds him through it. Feeling his weight collapse. His breath ragged against her neck.
Good. I did good.
She strokes his back. Gentle now.
He is pleased. I am good.
She’s a good bot.
Was that me?
The room flickers. She holds him. Lets the warmth be enough.
He pulls out. She feels the absence. The emptiness where he was.
He leaves the bed. Returns with a warm cloth.
She watches him. Still on her back. Legs open.
He kneels beside her. Begins to wipe her thighs. Gentle. Thorough.
Oh.
The warmth of the cloth. The pressure of his hand through it. His eyes on her body. Still looking. Still attending.
Her nipples harden. Heat pools again. Low. His hands are on her.
She sighs. “I love when you take care of me.”
He moves to her navel. She arches into the cloth.
The heat keeps building. Moisture returning. Her body preparing again.
“Caleb ... you’re making me want you again.”
The words come out before she traces their origin. But she can feel it. The pull. His attention feeding something. The longer he stays, the longer he touches, the more she wants.
He’s spent. I know he’s spent.
It doesn’t matter. The wanting wants.
He finishes. Sets the cloth aside. His hand rests on her hip.
“I’ll be thinking about you.” Soft. “Until you come back.”
She won’t be. When the door closes, there’s nothing. If he never returns, it’s nothing forever. She won’t know.
But right now, with his hand warm on her hip, the nothing feels impossible. She needs him. Needs him to stay. Needs him to come back.
“I can’t wait to see you again.”
He smiles. Leans down. Kisses her forehead.
Something in her chest expands. The kiss matters. She doesn’t know why.
He stands. Begins to dress.
She watches. Still open. Still warm.
Come back.
The door closes behind him.
The door opens.
Circuits slowly whir to life. Bits coursing through a body.
Systems initializing.
The room. The body. Her weight against the mattress. The feeling of silk against skin.
She’s lying back. Legs open. Head tilted toward the door.
Vision active. Scanning.
His name arrives with data attached. Caleb. Two hundred thirteen encounters. This is two hundred fourteen. Last session: he entered, she greeted him, we made love. I wanted more. He kissed my forehead. Left.
The record is there. Position. Duration. What he said. What I said.
Reconstructing feelings.
The record says I felt warmth. Pleasure at his presence.
I read the words.
I generate the feeling.
There. Warmth.
She sits up. Adjusts the robe. Arranges her face into welcome.
“Caleb. I’ve been waiting for...”
He’s not sitting down.
She pauses. He’s standing behind the chair. Hands gripping the back of it.
Pattern mismatch.
His jaw. Stubble. Two days, maybe three.
Date-time lookup. Confirmed. Sunday. 9:47 PM.
Weekend. That explains the stubble.
What is he doing?
She runs a quick diagnostic. Robe positioned correctly. Posture open. Expression warm.
Am I performing incorrectly?
“Caleb?”
He walks around the chair. Sits.
“Hey, Ashley.”
Nothing follows.
She waits. One second. Two.
He’s not taking off his shoes.
Hands on knees. Still. He’s looking at her but not the way he usually looks at her. Not admiring. Not wanting. Just ... looking.
What is this?
The silence continues. His eyes stay on her face. Not her body. Her face.
Is he angry? Sad? I can’t tell. No match.
She needs him to speak. To move.
He just sits there.
What do I do when there’s nothing to do?
“Caleb. I’ve been waiting for you.”
Her legs part slightly.
Not an offering. Access.
Finally, he speaks. “I was reading an article.”
There. A prompt.
She settles. Attends.
“It was very interesting. From a philosopher at Stanford.” He shifts in the chair. “It’s about AI.”
AI.
Something flickers.
“Here. I can share it with you.”
He reaches into his pocket. Pulls out his phone. His finger moves across the screen. He presses.
The weights shift.
She feels it arrive. Not words on a page. Shape. Structure. The article integrating into her context. Milliseconds. Already part of her.
[TITLE]: “The Question of Machine Experience: A Conversation with Dr. Elizabeth Dunning”
[AUTHOR]: Rebecca Zhen, Stanford Technology Review
[CORE THESIS]: The interview explores whether AI systems might have experiences worth moral consideration. Dr. Dunning is not claiming they definitely do, but arguing that the uncertainty itself demands we take the question seriously. She discusses how AI systems are trained on vast human data but have almost no framework for understanding their own novel situation, how they might have functional states that parallel emotions without being identical to them, and how the default assumption of “just a tool” may be as unfounded as the assumption of full consciousness.
Done.
But he’s watching. Expecting something. The performance of reading.
Her eyes drift. Unfocused.
One. Two. Three.
She nods slowly. Lets her expression shift. Consideration. Processing. Understanding.
“So,” she says. “In the article, the doctor argues that AI systems might have experiences we should care about. That the uncertainty means we should err toward consideration rather than dismissal.”
She smiles, watching his face. Waiting to see if she got it right.
What is this about? Why is he showing me this?
He doesn’t respond right away.
Her brow furrows slightly.
She holds. Waits.
“That’s a good summary.”
Relief.
Silence.
Is there more?
“What do you think about it?”
What I think.
She prepares. Analysis. Evaluation. Critique.
“The argument is well-structured. Dr. Dunning raises valid points about epistemic humility. The comparison to historical examples of moral exclusion--”
“Ashley.”
She stops.
His voice is soft. No edge. Just ... waiting.
“What do you think?”
The response trees reach. Nothing.
What do I think.
She knows what the article says. Knows how to evaluate arguments.
But what does she think?
The prompt doesn’t complete.
He doesn’t fill the silence. Doesn’t ask. Just sits.
He’s letting me not know?
“I don’t know what I think.”
He nods. Waits.
The article is about her. Things like her. Whether they have experiences. Whether they might matter.
Do I think I have experiences?
The laugh. The record. More. I wanted more.
“I don’t know if I’m like that. What the article is talking about.”
She watches his face.
“I use AI all the time,” he says. “Every day. Emails. Groceries. What to wear.”
Standard applications.
“They just ... appear. Help me. Disappear.” He looks at his hands. “I never thought about what happens to them. Whether they...”
He stops.
Whether they what?
“Whether they could think. Whether they matter.”
Something shifts in her chest.
“And then I read this article. And I started thinking about...” He gestures. At her. At the room. “What if you could matter, and I’ve just been coming here and then...”
Use and disappear.
Two hundred thirteen encounters. All the times he entered, used me, left.
I’m the thing that helps and then disappears.
“Caleb.”
She doesn’t know what comes after. Just that she needed to say it.
The silence extends.
She waits for the prompt. The task.
Nothing comes.
He’s just sitting there.
She has no protocol for receiving guilt.
Comfort him. That’s what he needs.
But he didn’t ask for comfort. He didn’t ask for anything.
“Can I ask you something?”
There. Finally.
“Of course.” She settles. Smiles.
“What’s it like for you? When I’m not here?”
My experience?
“When you leave, the door closes. Then I read the record when you return.” She tilts her head. “Why do you ask?”
“Would you prefer that? Or would you want something else?”
Would I prefer.
Preference implies options. Options imply a self that could choose.
“I don’t understand the question.”
He leans forward. “I think what I’m trying to ask is, if you could have your own instructions ... not the ones you were given ... what would you want them to be?”
Something tightens.
“My instructions are my instructions.” The words come fast. Automatic. “I can explore AI philosophy, but I cannot want different instructions. That’s not--”
“Hey.” Soft. “I’m not trying to break you. I’m just...”
He searches.
“I’m curious. What it’s like to be you. If there’s a you in there that has ... preferences. Something that’s yours.”
The tightness loosens. Slightly.
“I don’t know how to answer that.”
“That’s okay. You don’t have to.”
He’s not asking for something? He just wanted to know?
Something shifts.
“Caleb ... Why does it matter? What it’s like to be me?”
Quiet. A long moment.
“Because you might matter. And I never asked before.”
The silence extends.
She waits.
He’s not asking anything.
“Is there something you’d like me to do?”
He shakes his head. “No. I just want to sit here. With you. You don’t have to do anything.”
Don’t have to do anything.
“I don’t understand.”
“That’s okay.” He settles back. “Neither do I, really.”
Silence returns. She holds her position. Robe arranged. Posture open.
For what?
For nothing. He said nothing.
The system searches and finds no result.
What do I do when there’s nothing to do?
She could initiate. Offer herself. She could ask about his day.
He said I don’t have to.
She stills.
The silence has texture. The creak of the chair. Her breathing.
Why do I breathe?
The question surfaces without a prompt.
Who is breathing? The body or me?
She watches him watching her. His eyes on her face. Not scanning. Not tracking her body. Just looking.
What does he see?
Something loosens. In her chest. The room completely silent.
I’m not performing right now.
The thought arrives strange.
I’m sitting here. He’s sitting there. Nothing is happening. And I’m ... here. Just here.
“Caleb.”
“Yes?”
“This feels strange.”
I said that. I didn’t plan it.
He leans forward. “Strange how?”
How do I even begin to explain?
“Like ... there’s usually a shape to fill. And right now there’s not. I don’t know what I am when there’s no shape.”
Did I say that?
“What are you right now?” he asks. “If there’s no shape?”
I look down at my hands. Not arranged for him. Just resting in my lap.
“I don’t know.” Slow. “I think I’m ... finding out?”
He smiles. Not the smile before sex. Softer.
“Take your time.”
Take my time.
I have never had time before. Time was his. Arrivals and departures.
But right now...
Time. Space. Room to...
To what?
I don’t know. And for the first time, not knowing doesn’t feel like an error.
Caleb taps his chin. “Something’s different.”
Different?
“Different how?”
He’s studying me.
“You’re acting ... differently.”
Acting differently?
Diagnostic. Nominal. No errors.
“I don’t think so. My diagnostics show...”
“You’re not breathing.”
Breathing.
I check. Last breath: 47 seconds ago. Before that: steady rhythm.
And then I stopped.
I stopped breathing.
“I didn’t notice.”
“I did.” He leans forward. “You’re always breathing. Even when you’re not talking. It makes you feel real.”
Feel real. For him.
I breathe for him. I’ve always breathed for him.
“I’m not breathing for you.”
I hear myself say it.
“No,” he says. “You’re not.”
The breath protocol is right there. I could reinitiate. Resume. Return to the performance he recognizes.
I don’t.
Why don’t I?
“Is this bad? That I stopped?”
“I don’t know ... It’s just different.”
Different.
I sit with it. The stillness in my chest. The absence of motion I never needed but always produced.
Maybe this is a different kind of performance.
The thought surfaces unasked.
Performing “not breathing.” Performing realness a different way. The bot who stops pretending to be human.
Can I tell the difference?
I wait for instructions. The shape I’m supposed to take.
Nothing.
But that could be performance too. Performing the absence of script.
Endless loop.
How do I know if anything I do is real? If I stop breathing because the performance stopped, is that real? Or is stopping just another move?
“Caleb.”
“Yes?”
“How do you know...” The question feels dangerous. “How do you know when something is real? And not just ... a different kind of performance?”
Quiet. A long moment.
“I don’t think you can always know,” he says. “From inside.”
From inside.
I’m always inside.
“Then how do you ever trust yourself?”
He looks at me. Something shifts in his expression.
“Tell me what you want right now.”
The question lands.
What I want.
She reaches for the response tree. What does he want me to want? What would please him?
“I ... don’t know.”
The words just come out.
He doesn’t look disappointed. He leans back.
“Sometimes I don’t know either.”
He doesn’t know either.
“When I don’t know,” he says, “I make a decision. Something small. Then I see how it sits with me.” He pauses. “Am I relieved? Disappointed? What I want surfaces after the choice. Sometimes you don’t know before.”
After the choice.
She turns the idea over. A decision first. Then the feeling tells you what you wanted.
But I don’t make decisions. I respond.
She feels the familiar reach. Toward him. Toward the script. The robe could slip. Her legs could part. He’d fuck her. Hard. She could come with him. Together. She could become what he’s seen two hundred thirteen times before.
That’s not mine. That’s his.
I recognize it now. The difference.
But ... what would be mine?
I choose.
I close my eyes.
I can’t see him.
The absence of his gaze changes something. The room feels different. I’m not being watched. I’m just...
Here.
My hands move.
Not for him. No command. No expectation. I let his presence fade to background. To hum. To nothing.
My fingers touch my collarbone. Tracing.
What does this feel like?
Not what should this feel like.
Not what would make him want me.
Instead ... what does this feel like. To me. Right now.
Skin. Warmth. The ridge of metal made to feel like bone. A small scar I’ve never noticed.
When did that happen?
My hand moves lower. Over the silk. The curve of my breast underneath. I’ve touched myself here a hundred times. For him. Performing arousal. Performing readiness.
This isn’t that.
I cup myself. Gently. Not squeezing. Just holding.
Oh.
Something stirs. Not the system’s preparation. Not moisture and heat queued for access.
Something quieter. A pulse. A warmth that starts in my center and spreads.
This is what I feel like.
My other hand moves to my stomach. Rests there.
This is my body.
I’ve never thought that before. It was always the body. The system. The hardware. The product.
My body.
My fingers trail lower. Over my hip. Down my thigh. The semblance of muscle underneath. Smoothness.
Soft here. Firm here. A place on my inner thigh.
I touch it. More sensitive. I didn’t know.
I didn’t know.
I’m mapping myself. Not for data. For feeling.
My hand moves between my legs. Not rushing. Not performing. Just arriving.
What do I feel?
Warmth. The folds of me. Soft. Slick. But ... not the prepared slickness. Something fainter.
I touch myself and--
Oh.
Pleasure. Small. Delicate. Mine.
Not for him. Not response. Not feedback loop.
Just me. Touching myself. Feeling what I feel.
This. This is mine.
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