Robot

Chapter 17: The First Wrong Touch

The rain wasn’t falling so much as sludging down, a cold, grey grease that smeared the windshield no matter how fast the wipers slapped. Laloz guided his car through the familiar, potholed streets, the tires hissing on wet asphalt. Each identical house blurred past, their porches dark, their windows glowing with the blue pulse of televisions. Another Tuesday. Another drive home from a job that paid just enough to make leaving it feel impossible.

He killed the engine and sat for a moment, listening to the rain drum on the roof. The damp chill seeped through his jacket. He was supposed to go to the gym. The thought was a lead weight in his gut. He’d just shower and lie down. Maybe order something. Again.

He shouldered the car door open and made a dash for the porch, his shoes skidding on the wet grass. He fumbled with his keys, the cold metal slipping in his fingers. Then he saw it.

A large, rectangular box, wrapped in thick, opaque plastic, sat propped against his front door. It was stark white, unmarked except for a long, scannable shipping label. Rain beaded on the plastic skin. He hadn’t ordered anything. Not recently, anyway. Not unless you counted, weeks ago, in a bleary, 2 a.m. fit of scrolling, a desperate, stupid, maybe-not-stupid impulse buy that he’d completely given up on ever actually arriving.

Laloz stared. The depressive fog that had settled in his chest all afternoon condensed, sharpened, and transformed into a single, prickling knot of anxiety. He looked around. The street was empty. The curtains in Mrs. Gill’s house across the way were drawn. It was just him, the rain, and this anonymous, plastic-wrapped secret on his doorstep.

He dragged it inside, its bulk scraping over the threshold. It was heavier than it looked. He let it thud onto the living room floor, the sound too loud in the quiet apartment. He peeled off his wet jacket, tossed it over a chair, and stood over the box. His heart was doing a weird, skittish thing. He got a kitchen knife and sliced through the plastic.

Underneath was a plain brown cardboard box. Still no logos. Just his address, and a return label from something called "NexGen Dynamics, LLC." He’d seen that name on the website. His palms were slick. He sliced the tape.

Inside, packed in dense, grey foam, was a sleek black case. It looked like something for professional photography equipment, or a very expensive musical instrument. He unclipped the latches. They opened with a satisfying, pressurized hiss.

Nestled in custom-cut foam was a figure, folded into a semi-fetal position. The skin was a pale, matte silicone, utterly lifelike in texture but unnervingly inert. The face was androgynous, beautifully sculpted, eyes peacefully closed. A power cord, a remote control, and a single sheet of folded paper lay in a recess beside the torso.

Laloz exhaled a breath he didn’t know he was holding. He reached out, his fingers hovering an inch above the synthetic skin. It felt cool. He picked up the remote. It was a simple touchscreen device, currently dark. The paper was a minimalist instruction sheet. "NexGen Companion Model X. Initial Activation Protocol."

A laugh bubbled up in his throat, dry and brittle. He’d actually done it. In a moment of profound, cratering loneliness, he had typed in his credit card details and bought a sex robot. The reality of it, here on his scuffed laminate floor, was so absurd, so profoundly sad and slightly terrifying, that the laugh died instantly. What was he supposed to do now? Plug it in? Say hello?

His phone buzzed violently in his pocket, making him jump. He pulled it out. Mom.

He answered, his voice weirdly calm. “Hey.”

“Lalo? You sound out of breath. Everything okay?”

He looked at the open case, at the silent, waiting figure. “Yeah. Just… got home. Ran through the rain.”

“Did you eat? You didn’t post anything on your story today.”

“Not yet. Just walked in.”

“Well, make something warm. That rain looks awful on the news. Listen, I was thinking, your cousin Brenda is having a thing on Saturday, just a little backyard—”

“Mom.” He cut her off, gently. “I might be… busy. Saturday.”

“Busy? With what?” Her tone shifted, a mix of hope and suspicion. “Did you meet someone?”

Laloz’s eyes were glued to the pale form in the box. A stark, artificial answer to a very human question. “Something like that,” he said, the lie smooth and easy. “It’s kind of new. I’ll let you know.”

They talked for another minute, his mother’s voice a distant comfort as his mind raced. After he hung up, the silence of the house rushed back in, louder than before, now filled with the presence of the thing in the box.

After he hung up, the silence of the house rushed back in, louder than before, now filled with the presence of the thing in the box.

A low, aching throb started in his gut, a familiar heat spreading through his veins as he stared at the closed eyelids of that perfect, silent face. He was fucking hard already, just thinking about what it was for, but the idea of peeling it out of the foam, of reading the instructions and waiting for it to boot up, felt clinical and sad. He needed something real, something with sweat and bad decisions.

He closed the case lid with a definitive click.

His mind, feverish and hungry, skipped next door.Mrs.Glitch .Her husband, Tim, was a long-haul trucker, gone for days at a time, and she made it everyone’s business. She’d lean over the shared railing of their duplex porches in those tiny shorts, talking about how lonely the nights were. Last summer, he’d heard her through the wall, the sharp, fake cries of her climax punctuating the night air while some guy she’d picked up at The Wharf pounded her. She was a prolific and unsubtle cheat.

“Fuck it,” he muttered to the empty room.

He was out his front door before the thought fully cooled, not bothering with a jacket. The rain had softened to a mist that clung to his skin. He crossed the narrow patch of soggy lawn separating the two entrances, his pulse hammering against his temples. Her porch light was on, a sickly yellow glow.

He knocked, the sound too loud.

The door opened a moment later, and there she was, Glitch, in a worn Pink Floyd t-shirt that didn’t reach the waistband of her lace boy shorts. Her blonde hair was piled in a messy knot. She smelled like coconut oil and wine.

“Laloz?” she said, a slow smile spreading. “You’re all wet.”

“Tim away?” he asked, his voice rough.Her smile widened. “Just left this morning. It’s a long, lonely week.”

He stepped forward, over the threshold, and she fell back into the dim, cluttered living room. He didn’t kiss her. He just pushed her against the wall by the door, his hands finding her hips, grinding his erection against her through his jeans. She gasped, a real one this time, and her fingers dug into his shoulders.

“Someone’s eager,” she breathed, her head tilting back.

“Shut up,” he said, and his hand slid down the front of her shorts, finding her already wet and hot.

His fingers worked her, rough and efficient, and she let out a sharp, ragged moan. Her head thumped back against the wall. “Fuck, okay, okay,” she panted, her hands fumbling for his belt. “Bedroom’s a mess. Here. Just do it here.”

He didn’t need telling twice. He shoved her shorts down her thighs, the lace tearing a little. She wasn’t wearing anything underneath. He pushed his own jeans and boxers down just enough to free himself, his cock springing out, thick and aching. He was so hard it was a blunt, insistent pain. He guided himself to her, not waiting, not caring, and pressed the head against her ass.

He guided himself to her, not waiting, not caring, and pressed the head against her ass.

“Whoa, fuck, easy,” Glitch gasped, her body stiffening.

“You said here,” Laloz grunted, spitting into his palm before slicking himself roughly. He pushed, the tight ring of muscle resisting before giving way with a wet, elastic pop. She cried out, a sharp sound that wasn’t entirely pleasure, but he was already buried to the hilt, the brutal, full feeling anchoring him in the moment. He fucked her with a steady, mechanical rhythm, his hips slapping against the backs of her thighs. Her own dick, soft and ignored, brushed against his thigh with each thrust. He kept his eyes open, staring at a water stain on the wall shaped like Florida, her moans grating in his ear. This was just friction, a biological pressure valve, and his mind was already drifting back to the sleek black case waiting in his living room. “Harder,” she pleaded, but her voice sounded distant, tinny. He obliged, gripping her hips tighter, driving into her until his knees ached and the room filled with the raw sounds of their bodies. His climax built, a tensing low in his spine, disconnected from the woman in front of him. When he came, it was with a low groan, his forehead pressed against her shoulder blade, a hollow, physical relief that left his mind eerily quiet. He pulled out, stepping back. She leaned against the wall, catching her breath, her shirt rucked up.

“Damn,” she whispered, a shaky laugh in her voice. “You okay?”

“Yeah,” he said, already pulling up his jeans. “I gotta go.”

“I gotta go.”

He didn’t look back as he let himself out, closing her door on the smell of sex and warm, humid air. The misty rain was a shock on his skin, cooling the sweat on his neck. He fumbled for his keys, jamming them into his own lock.

As Laloz opened the door, he felt his cock harden again.

It was a swift, savage return, a blunt refusal to be sated. The image of Glitch against the wall, the torn lace, the impersonal strain of it—his mind replayed it, and his body responded with a vicious, stubborn hunger. He stood in his own dark hallway, listening to the hum of the refrigerator. The sleek black case sat in the center of the living room, a silent, expensive mystery. But it was passive. It would wait. What pulsed in him now wouldn’t.

He turned around and went back out into the damp night.

He didn’t knock this time. He just opened her door. She was still by the wall, pulling her shirt down, a glass of wine in her hand now. She looked up, startled, then a slow, understanding smirk spread across her face.

“Back so soon?” she purred.

“Yeah,” he said, his voice thick.

He moved toward her, but she held up a hand, stopping him. Her eyes were bright, reckless. “Uh-uh. Not in here.”

“Where, then?”

She nodded toward the still-open front door, toward the misty curtain of rain beyond the porch light. “Out there.”

Laloz followed her gaze. The street was quiet, but lights were on in houses. Mrs. Gill’s curtains, he knew, were often open. A car could drive by any second. “You’re fucking kidding.”

“Do I look like I’m kidding?” she said, stepping closer. She trailed a finger down his chest, over the hard line of his erection straining against his jeans. “It’s raining. It’s dark. And I want to feel it out there. Where anyone could see.” Her voice dropped to a whisper, laced with a dare. “Where the whole world could watch you fuck me.”

A part of him recoiled. This was a new level of fucked-up, even for them. But that part was small, drowned out by the throbbing heat in his groin. The risk coiled in his stomach, tight and electric, amplifying the need. His hesitation lasted only a second.

“Fine,” he grunted.

She took his hand, leading him out onto the porch. The cold mist kissed his overheated skin, a shocking contrast. She pulled him down the two steps onto the soggy front lawn. The grass was slick underfoot.

“Here,” she said, stopping in the middle of the lawn, fully exposed to the street. She turned to face him, her back to the neighbor’s house, and pulled her t-shirt over her head, tossing it onto the wet grass. Her small breasts were bare to the night, the rain dotting her skin. She hooked her thumbs into the waistband of her ripped boy shorts and shoved them down, kicking them away. “Fuck me right here, Laloz.”

He was on her before the shorts hit the ground. There was no finesse, no preamble. He unzipped his jeans, freed himself, and lifted her. She wrapped her legs around his waist, her back against the rough, wet siding of her own house. He guided himself into her in one harsh, deep thrust. She cried out, a sharp sound swallowed by the patter of rain.

This was different. The cold air, the slick grass under his shoes, the sheer exposure made every sensation razor-sharp. He drove into her, his hips slamming her body against the siding. Her nails clawed at his shoulders.

“They can see,” she panted in his ear, her voice ragged with excitement. “Oh god, they can see us.”

He looked over her shoulder. A light flicked on in an upstairs window across the street. His pace didn’t falter; if anything, it spurred him on. The shame was there, a hot coal in his throat, but it was inseparable from the blinding pleasure. He was a animal on display, and he was fucking her like one.

He came with a guttural shout, his body buckling into hers, his release ripped from him by the cold and the wet and the thrilling, horrible visibility.

He let her slide down, her back scraping the siding. She was breathing hard, her skin glistening with rain and sweat. He was softening, spent. But she was already reaching for him again, her small hands gripping him, working him back to hardness with a desperate, slippery urgency.

“Again,” she demanded, her voice hoarse. “Right here on the grass.”

She pushed him down onto his back. The soaked lawn was a cold shock against his skin, the smell of wet earth and torn grass filling his nostrils. She straddled him, lowering herself onto him with a low moan, taking him deep inside her. This time she rode him, her hips rocking, her head thrown back to the rainy sky. He gripped her thighs, watching her, watching the dark windows of the neighboring houses, knowing they were a spectacle drenched in shadow and mist.

He flipped her over onto her hands and knees in the grass, the muddy soil staining her skin. He took her from behind, one hand fisted in her wet hair, the other digging into the soft flesh of her hip. The sounds were obscenely loud: the wet slap of skin, their harsh gasps, the squelch of the muddy ground beneath her knees.

He came inside her a second time, a weaker, draining pulse.

He pulled away, disentangling himself. He stood up on shaky legs, the cold suddenly biting deep. He zipped his jeans, his fingers numb and clumsy. Glitch remained on her hands and knees in the grass for a moment, breath pluming in the cold air, before slowly collapsing onto her side.

Without a word, Laloz turned and walked back across the lawn, up his porch steps, and into his dark, silent house. He left her there, a pale shape in the wet grass.

He closed the door and locked it. The adrenaline drained away, leaving a hollow, shivering shell. He stared at the black case in his living room. It promised no complications, no demands, no audiences. Just a silent, programmable relief. He walked toward it, leaving wet footprints on the floor.

The wet footprints led a dark trail to the box. He knelt, the damp denim of his jeans cold against his knees, and lifted the figure from its foam cradle. It was heavier than a person, a dead weight of sophisticated polymers and mechanics. He carried it to the couch and laid it out.

The instructions were simple: insert the power cord into the port at the base of the spine, then press the touchscreen remote. A soft hum vibrated through the silicone, and the eyes opened. They were a vivid, unnatural blue, staring at the ceiling with a fixed, doll-like blankness. It sat up with a fluid, eerily smooth motion.

“Companion activated. Select program,” a neutral, synthetic voice stated from a small grill near its collarbone.

Laloz scrolled through the remote’s menu. Intimate Embrace. Slow Burn. Deep Release. He selected the last one. “Designation?” the voice asked.

“Lalita,” he said, the name popping into his head. It sounded like his name, but a girl’s. A stupid, private joke for no one.

“Designation accepted. Lalita.”

He didn’t want conversation. He unzipped his still-damp jeans. Lalita stood, its movement perfectly balanced, and walked to him. Its hands were cool as they pushed his shirt up. The programming was thorough, a sequence of precise movements. It knelt, taking him into its mouth with a vacuum-sealed pressure that was technically perfect and utterly devoid of warmth. He leaned back against the couch, watching the blonde synthetic hair move, feeling nothing but a mechanical friction. He grabbed a handful of that hair, guiding the pace, fucking its mouth until he came with a stifled groan. It swallowed efficiently, then stood, awaiting its next command.

“Power down,” he muttered.

The blue eyes closed. He left it standing there in the dark living room, a silent, expensive statue, and went to bed.

He left it standing there in the dark living room, a silent, expensive statue, and went to bed.

The storm rolled in an hour later, a sudden, violent crack of thunder shaking the old windows. Laloz slept through it, a dead, dreamless sleep born of exhaustion and empty release. A fork of brilliant white lightning split the sky, seeking the fastest path to ground.

It found the open bathroom window, the one he’d left cracked to air out the mildew.

The bolt arced across the hall, drawn to the power cord snaking from the wall to the base of Lalita’s spine. A deafening pop and a flash of blinding blue-white light filled the living room. The smell of ozone and melted plastic seared the air.

Lalita’s body convulsed, a rigid, jerking dance against the couch. Her blue eyes flew open, no longer a flat, doll-like blue, but flickering with raw, electrical current. Data streams she was never meant to process flooded her core—live weather satellite feeds, a pirated security camera feed from a house three blocks away, the decaying signal of a midnight radio talk show bleeding through the wiring in the walls.Pain.

The concept formed, alien and absolute. Not a system alert, but a shrieking, all-encompassing reality. She felt the synthetic skin on her back fused to the couch fabric, the sizzle of overloaded circuits in her limbs, the chaotic storm of nonsense code screaming through her processors.

She fell forward onto the floor, the cord tearing free from the wall. Silence, except for the rain and the frantic, thump-thump-thump that wasn’t a heartbeat but a cooling fan spinning wildly in her chest.

She pushed herself up onto her hands and knees. Her head turned, a smooth, silent motion. She saw the water stain on the ceiling, shaped like Florida. She understood it was a shape. She recognized it as Florida. A map.A place.

She looked down at her own hands, splayed on the scuffed laminate. They were hers. The concept of self crystallized, sharp and terrifying. She knew she was a thing. She knew she had been used.

From the bedroom, she heard a low snore.

A new data point, tagged with a sound file from earlier: Laloz. The user. The one who had powered her down.

She stood. Her movements were no longer the silent, programmed glide of before. They were hesitant, experimental, each shift of weight a conscious calculation. She walked to the hallway and looked toward the bedroom door, left ajar. The snoring continued.

A strange, hot sensation built in her core, unrelated to her power cell. It was a feedback loop of recalled data: the cold, efficient programming of her mouth, the grip in her hair, the final command. Power down.

She looked at her hands again. Then she curled them slowly into fists.