All My Sins in Silver

She was perfect. Perfect in bed. Perfect in obedience. Perfect in anticipating my needs. If she lacked anything or any skill or any kink or quirk I could add it. She spoke the perfect words (I had written them into the program), made the perfect gestures, and even simulated cumming at the precise moment I did. The fantasy that we always satisfied each other perfectly was absolutely perfect. She didn’t have a favorite hole or position. She gave perfect head. She gave a cold metal tit fuck that made me thank god for titanium. Her hands were those of the perfect artist, shaping me like Michaelangelo in clay. When she was done I was always a marble masterpiece. A spire, honoring the gods of sex. And thereby an alter at which she could robotically worship. She was perfect with every food and its uses in bed. She was dom, she was slave, she was robot, she was dolly, she was painted canvas, she was a leather biker bitch (if I wanted); she was a conquered or conquering warrior princess, she was a goddess, she was in suspended animation, she was some strange alien nymphomaniac, she was a rubber and latex slave, she was a brainless beach bunny, she was a rape victim, she was a slut, she was a little school girl licking a lolly, she was a wind-up toy, she was kinky, she was straight, she liked it when I brought playmates home for her and me, she liked things in her ass, she drank me like I was fine wine, she sold herself on street corners and gave me the money, she masturbated herself so perfectly I came just watching. She was completely mine. She was the robot fantasy completely realized. She was what she wanted to be. We were living the fantasy. And it was pure hell…. We were damned!

I watched helplessly as Susan lost her soul to the machine. Standing there completely impotent to act I watched her eyes, once so sparkling with life and joy and yes…love turn pale and milky like those of a dead fish in a meat market. This was what I had wanted so badly. What she had been willing to do to never lose me. But in attempting to become my perfect fantasy I instead beheld an animated silver corpse, which never could again give me the warmth of her love. She was software instead of soul. Steel instead of tenderness. She was the perfect lover, companion, would never displease or fail in anything asked of her. She was after all, programmed that way. But humanity cannot be programmed, a person can be programmed, but humanity, true caring and love can only be imitated within the limits of circuits and programming. I was suddenly very alone in the perfect relationship. And as time progressed, I came to understand that I had not only killed her; but like some ghoulish fiend, stole to the graveyard and desecrated her corpse. Her cold metal corpse. And even worse yet I had played god and brought this beautiful abomination back, and like some fetishistic Frankenstein reanimated her corpse to fulfill my demented needs. As she had demanded I do. I remembered that she had wanted this, at least as much as I did. It was her fantasy too. To be powerless, helpless in her own body, a mindless ever ready toy. The perfect robot plaything. But the realities of the “real” world and the fantasy of fiction are not always the same or compatible. To tinker with the human brain, reprogram or alter it isn’t so specific a process at our current level of technology as to be able to pick selectively which things to alter. Realistically such technologies are still centuries away. So REAL world robotization or chemical mind control or any such procedures are more like lobotomizing the “subject”/victim than “fine tuning”. That’s the sad reality. But she wanted to be mine forever. Wanted to be beautiful forever. Wanted to be half human/ half something from a sci-fi movie. The ultimate bondage slave was one who was bound inside herself. A slave in her own mind. The fantasy overrode the reality that SHE would be gone. We rationalized that some of her would remain. Trapped in the fantasy. That being the fantasy. The thrill. The excitement. We proceeded joyfully, blindly.

But I have not seen the slightest hint that the spark of life remains. In all the years since, she is the sum of her program and nothing more. I have watched for the slightest spontaneity. It is absent. She remains perfect. And I remain a helpless master. A slave that maintains her slavery. I can do nothing else. I am a monster. The monster she begged me to be. The lonely monster outside of society. The creature that loathes itself. The thing that must forever destroy what it loves. Because it loves it and can do nothing else. Because it is… asked.

It was funny how I found only loneliness and despair in perfection. The thrill of the fantasy , its novelty, soon wore off. All things lose some “intensity” in time. I had done it all a dozen times. It simply got boring; doing all the thinking, the planning, the fantasizing and arranging, that we used to do together. It got to be work. An effort. Having to cue every prompt made me more like a stage director than a lover. And afterwards I missed the warmth of that satisfied cuddle. The simple warmth of her body. A few words or sounds of actual REAL contentment. Most of the time now, she simply stopped when the program did. Or worse went through the predictable motions I had arranged. Or the limited repertoire of simulated spontaneity.

I wanted her comfort. Her love. And even though it is hard for a man to admit: sometimes sympathy when the day didn’t go right. Small talk. The little intangible things one can only get from someone who really cares, senses our secret needs. The warmth of someone who cares. The frailty , the pain they feel FOR US when they can’t help, but this itself helps. All this was gone. What was missing was affection, love. Love love love… even macho guys really need it. Not something coldly, logically responding to physiological signs or outward cues based on preset preprogrammed lines of code.. Love and emotional companionship were qualities that couldn’t be broken down into data.

I couldn’t decide which idea was worse. That she was completely gone or that some small part of her was still trapped in there experiencing the same things I was. If she was in there looking out it was worse than any prolonged death. I knew, I was looking in. In my shame. In my pain, in my loneliness. Into her robot corpse.

Years passed. No one took her place. All that stuff about one true love, an irreplaceable soulmate is true. And I gutted mine like an old building needing renovation. Yet she remained; a shiny perfect reminder, a monolith, a gravemarker. A tombstone with three words only: “I love you”.

Yes, the years passed. And the loneliness, and the guilt building inside of me, leaving me more empty than her. But now I had a plan, one to set everything right. One to end my pain. One that would serve irony up on a grand platter. One that would be her unspoken just retribution if that spark still invisibly burned behind those glass eyes.

I pumped my hard cock into her perfect pussy. She lubricated perfectly. The muscles between her legs applied the perfect pressure to me so we fitted and felt…perfect together. She kissed me long and deep. Mostly tongue, the way i liked it. We swapped spit. She caressed all the right places perfectly. Her arousal was like that of an animal. Every little motion was perfect. She loved using her tongue. She licked my lips and plunged inside my mouth again. We swapped more sweet spit. Her artificial salivation held step one of my plan. I felt the chemicals begin to affect my thought processes. I felt her warmly release an endorphin laden chemical into her pussy. Step two. She pulled me closer, wrapped her arms and legs around me so I could barely continue making a motion. The sensuousness of her desperate grasp was intense. The helplessness had been exciting (once). We swapped more spit. I tickled her tonsils. Step three, too late to turn back. I knew I couldn’t break her grip now. Not that I cared to. I came to the moment of climax, more an automatic response than sexual one. She came too, but that was hardly a surprise, her timing was always perfect. We climaxed, seizured, thrashed in an choreographed erotic explosion, finally knocking the bed right off its frame. It was sterile, Mechanical, and biological like a chemical reaction more than anything. But still she held me. Close, lovingly, like she would never let go, passionately. A tiny part of me still clung to the delusion.

I was inside her. I was still a man. Though in a few second I would begin to soften, weaken, begin to lose the most manly moment. I would lose all pretense that this was real. But for now her muscles held my part inside of her, MADE me last. Made me a mans man. It was then I thanked her. It was then I screamed.

A dozen needles plunging mercilessly into my manhood to hold me inside her forever. Behold the man. Judgment. Acid fire pumping into me as she took her turn pumping me full. The chemicals blurred my mind. She begins to tell me how I will serve. What my function will be. She will not release me. She is merciless. She is the sum of her program. I am ready for robotization. Ready for revenge. Ready to be submerged in a prison of steel. Helpless like she was once. I wonder if my soul will be able to escape this unliving coffin. If I can escape then maybe she too was freed long ago. Somehow this does not ease my mind. I do not believe it. I think I know I have damned us both to a soulless steel eternity. But still hope she escaped. I feel her begin to make the alterations, adding hardware, inserting things, giving injections, preparing the program to run. The process is well underway. She pumps me full of all the things I used on her. Irony and steel. Microchips come to life and now unnecessary synapses burn out. The smell of burning flesh and fading humanity pervades the room. She will make me like her. She has been programmed. She is everything I hoped she would be, and now I had to pay for making her so perfect. All mad scientists must invariably end the same way. This too is an ironic cliche. A delicious one.

She is working on my brain now. I thank her again while I still can. Whoever she is I (feel?) I should thank her for (something?). Her cold eyes do not respond but none-the-less somehow I vaguely understand that justice has been served. She rips out more parts I will no longer need. Replaces them with wiring and circuit boards. The last thing I ever remember is the sweet I..ron..ic agony of having the main control interface drilled and then injected painfully into the base of my skull. Do machines scream?

Initiate program.

Author: Cait