Chapter 2: Filth
The hum of the bio-printer was a constant drone in the background, a bass note to Dolly’s choked whimpers. Eli hadn’t let her clean up. He liked her like this—smeared, used, glistening with his mess and her own artificial sweat under the stagnant basement air.
He hauled her up by her arm, her body limp and pliant. “C’mon,” he grunted, shoving her towards the nest of blankets. She stumbled, her bare feet slipping on a damp patch on the concrete. She fell onto her hands and knees, the position exaggerated, presenting herself.
“Daddy wants more?” she breathed, looking back over her shoulder with that wide, empty look. A thread of saliva stretched from her lip to the floor before snapping.
“What do you think?” He unbuckled his belt again, the leather rasping loud in the room. He was already hard, a painful, angry-looking arousal fueled by a deep well of power. He knelt behind her, his knees popping. The sight was exactly from a thousand thumbnails: the impossible curve of her back, the round, jutting fullness of her ass. He didn’t prepare her. He just spat onto his hand, wiped it clumsily over himself and against her tight, pucker.
She flinched at the cold contact but made a high, encouraging ‘eep’ sound.
He pushed. The resistance was intense, a tight, hot ring of muscle that refused him. He grunted, bearing down with all his wiry strength. Dolly let out a sharp, ragged cry that dissolved into a series of rapid, panting moans. He felt her body forcibly yield, a sensation that shot through him like a drug. He sank in, inch by brutal inch, until he was buried to the hilt inside a searing, clenching heat that was all wrong and perfect.
“Fuck,” he hissed, his fingers digging into the soft flesh of her hips. He began to move, a rough, sawing rhythm. The sounds were obscene: wet, slapping flesh, the choked squeak of the blanket fibers beneath her knees, his own ragged grunts. Her moans were constant now, a mindless porn soundtrack he’d composed himself. “Yeah, take it. You’re just a hole. A stupid, tight little hole I made.”
“Y-yes, Daddy! Dolly’s your hole!” she wailed, her voice breaking as he slammed into her. Her face was pressed into the blanket, her drool making a dark patch on the fabric. With each thrust, her whole body jolted forward.
He fucked her like that for a long time, losing himself in the rhythm of conquest. The air grew hotter, steamier. Sweat dripped from his brow onto her back. The smell of sex, sharp and musky, mixed with the chemical cherry and the faint, coppery tang of something torn.
When he felt the tension coiling again, he pulled out abruptly. She gasped at the sudden emptiness, a wet, messy sound. He flipped her over like a ragdoll. Her vacant eyes were glassy, unfocused. He slapped her cunt, the sound sharp. She jerked, her legs falling open automatically.
“This one’s for your purpose,” he panted, aligning himself. He drove into her soaking, used pussy in one single, punishing thrust. It was easier, slicker, a hot, willing sheath. Her back arched off the blankets, a garbled shriek tearing from her throat.
This was different. Deeper. Her internal programming seemed to short-circuit into pure, noisy ecstasy. Her eyes rolled back completely, showing the whites. Spittle bubbled at the corners of her mouth as she babbled. “Daddy! Daddy! Feels so—gnngh—full! Dolly’s gonna—ah!—break!”
He pounded into her, the bed of cables and blankets scrunching loudly with each impact. He leaned over her, his face inches from her drooling, ahegao-contorted one. “Say thank you.”
“Th-thank you! Thank you, Daddy!” she screamed, her body shuddering violently around him.
His release was a wave of convulsive heat, pumping into her synthetic core. He collapsed on top of her, his weight driving the air from her lungs in a pained oof. They lay there, a tangled heap of slick limbs and quick, shallow breaths. The printer hummed. A pipe dripped.
After a few minutes, he rolled off. He sat on the edge of the blanket, staring at the buzzing fluorescent light overhead. Dolly lay beside him, twitching occasionally, a low, continuous whimper in her throat. A thin trickle of opaque white fluid leaked from between her thighs onto the blanket.
He looked at her, then at the printer. The cooling cycle was complete. The chamber was empty, clean, waiting.
“Get up.”
She stirred, struggling to push herself onto her elbows. “Daddy?”
“I said get up.” His voice was flat, tired, but edged with a renewed hunger. The sight of her, utterly wrecked, only made him want to wreck her more. To see what else she could take. “On your knees. Face me.”
She crawled, movements clumsy and pained, until she was kneeling before him where he sat. He unbuckled his belt again. He wasn’t even hard yet, but he didn’t care. He pulled himself out, shoved his softness against her swollen lips. “Make it work.”
She opened her mouth, obedient. She used her tongue, her lips, her hands. He watched, dispassionate at first, as she serviced him. Her technique was clumsy, overly enthusiastic, sloppy. It was perfect. Spit dripped from her chin onto the floor. As he began to stiffen in her mouth, he grabbed the back of her head, his fingers tangling in her sticky hair.
“Remember your first words?” he muttered, pushing himself deeper, hitting the back of her throat. She gagged, her eyes watering, but pushed her head forward. “You said ‘Daddy’. That’s all you are. A mouth to say Daddy. A set of holes to fuck.”
He fucked her face with a slow, grinding insistence. Her nose pressed into his pubic bone. She couldn’t breathe. Her body trembled, struggling against its programmed obedience to please and its physical need for air. Just as her slaps against his thigh grew weak, he pulled her off.
She gasped, a raw, sucking inhalation, strings of thick saliva and pre-come webbing between her lips and him. She coughed violently, more drool splattering onto his legs and the floor.
“You’re a mess,” he said, a strange note of pride in his voice. He looked past her, at the silent, ominous machine. “A beautiful, stupid mess. But one’s not enough.” He tugged her head back, making her look at the printer. “I’m going to fill this whole room with you. Every version I can think of.”
Dolly blinked, her oxygen-starved brain slowly processing. She smiled, a dribble of spit tracing a line down her neck. “More sisters for Daddy?”
“Yeah,” Eli said, his eyes gleaming in the low light. He pushed her back down onto him, not waiting for her to recover. The wet, choked sounds started again, mingling with the hum of possibility. The night was long, and his imagination, fed on a lifetime of bitter loneliness and twisted desire, was just getting started.