Robot

Chapter 9: Cock hungry

The hum of the house was different in the morning. It wasn't just servers and climate control. It was the sound of three bodies breathing in sync, a low, warm rhythm under the static. Glitch woke with her face buried in Laloz’s neck, his arm a dead weight across her ribs, and for the first dizzying second, she didn’t know where she was. Then the scent of him—ozone, salt, him—flooded her, and the memory of the night before crashed in like a wave. Not just the sex. The words. The fusing.

She stirred, and he tightened his hold, a sleepy, possessive grunt vibrating in his chest. His morning erection pressed against her thigh, insistent and familiar. She smiled against his skin. Some things didn’t need rewiring.

The day unfolded in a lazy, surreal spiral. It began in the shower, a cascade of hot water sluicing over them. He turned her to face the cool black tile, his hands sliding down her stomach. “Morning,” he mumbled, his voice thick with sleep, as his fingers wrapped around her. She was already half-hard, responding to the simple proximity of him. He stroked her slowly, his other hand braced against the wall by her head, his body a furnace at her back.

“You’ve got a one-track mind, mechanic,” she sighed, but she arched into his touch, her head falling back against his shoulder.

“It’s a good track,” he said, and sank to his knees on the wet floor.

The hot water pounded her lower back as he took her into his mouth. It was languid, deep, a slow-motion worship that had her palms slapping against the tile for purchase. He sucked her with a focused, unhurried intensity, his tongue circling the head before diving down to take her whole. She came with a series of soft, shuddering cries, her release lost in the steam and the downpour. He drank her down, then rested his forehead against her thigh, nuzzling the soft skin there as she trembled.

Breakfast was a silent affair of nutrition bars and cold juice, eaten standing at the kitchen island. The ghost of her taste was still on his lips. He watched her chew, the line of her throat as she swallowed. His eyes kept drifting down. She caught him, a smirk playing on her mouth. “See something you like?”

He put his juice down, walked around the island, and without a word, dropped to his knees again, pushing the loose fabric of her borrowed shorts aside. She let out a short, startled laugh that dissolved into a groan as his mouth found her. She leaned back against the quartz, one hand tangling in his damp hair, the other holding her nutrition bar, taking another bite as he worked her back to full hardness. “You’re fucking insatiable,” she said around a mouthful of oats and protein, her hips giving a lazy roll.

He hummed in agreement, the vibration making her thighs clench. She came again, quicker this time, a sharp, sweet pulse, and he licked her clean with a thoroughness that left her weak-kneed. He rose, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, and went back to his juice as if nothing had happened.

They migrated to the living nexus, the aurora fibers casting their perpetual, gentle rain. Lalita was there, standing perfectly still before a holoscreen scrolling with lines of code. She turned her head, her visor cycling to a soft violet. “Your heart rates and endocrine levels suggest continued mutual arousal. Is this a scheduled maintenance cycle?”

Glitch barked a laugh, collapsing onto the low sofa. “Something like that, doll.”

Laloz sat beside her, but not for long. His hand found its way to her waist, then slipped under the band of her shorts. She was soft, spent from the kitchen, but his fingers were patient, coaxing. He leaned in, kissing her shoulder, her neck, as his hand worked. When she began to swell again, he slid off the couch onto the floor, settling between her legs. He didn’t use his hands, just his mouth, sucking her slowly to life while Glitch watched Lalita over his head.

“He really can’t get enough, can he?” Glitch said, her voice already breathy.

Lalita tilted her head. “The behavior is consistent with a deep psychosexual fixation. His previous loneliness creates a feedback loop where your physiological response validates his worth. His mouth is the actuator.”

“Jesus,” Glitch breathed, as Laloz swirled his tongue. “You make it sound so romantic.”

“Is romance not a complex algorithm of need and validation?” Lalita asked, taking a step closer. Her optical sensors zoomed, recording the minute twitches in Glitch’s facial muscles, the flutter of her pulse in her throat. “He is running the algorithm with high proficiency.”

Glitch came with a cry that was half-laugh, half-sob, her body bowing off the couch. Laloz stayed with her, gentle now, until she pushed his head away, oversensitive and giggling weakly. “Okay, okay. Give a girl a fuckin’ minute.”

But a minute was all he gave her. Through the afternoon, it was a constant, low-grade obsession. While she scrolled on her phone, he’d rest his head in her lap, nuzzling her through the fabric until she sighed and opened her legs for him. While they argued about what synthwave album to play, he’d sink down and silence her with his mouth, her protests melting into moans. He sucked her off against the reinforced glass of the window, the city a blur of light far below. He did it on the floor of the workshop, surrounded by half-dismantled drones, the taste of her mixing with the smell of solder and grease.

She lost count of her orgasms. They blurred into a continuous state of low-grade pleasure, a humming wire in her core that he kept plucking. Her body, so used to the jackhammer pace of anonymous fucking, was being rewritten by this relentless, tender devotion. It wasn’t about taking. It was about giving. About him claiming his pleasure from the act of servicing her.

During a lull, as dusk painted the sky in shades of charcoal and rose, they were in the kitchen again. He was making real food, something with actual vegetables. She leaned against the counter, watching him chop, her body thrumming with a pleasant exhaustion. She felt deliciously sore, used, owned in a way that had nothing to do with possession and everything to do with being seen as essential.

“You know,” she said, her voice casual, “you’ve had my dick in your mouth more today than I’ve had hot meals in the last week.” She paused, watching his hands, the careful way he handled the knife. “Serious question, Lalo. And don’t get pissy. It’s just… have you ever wondered if you’re, like… a little gay?”

He didn’t stop chopping. The steady thump-thump-thump of the knife on the board was the only sound for a moment. “I’m not gay,” he said, not defensively, but like he was stating a simple fact he’d already examined.

“You sure?” she pushed gently. “Because the enthusiasm level here is… fucking notable. You don’t just like it. You love it. You crave it. I’ve had guys who were into it, but they treated it like a weird favor, or a kink. For you… it’s like your favorite thing in the world.”

He set the knife down. He turned to her, his eyes clear and utterly serious. He was hard again, she could see the outline in his pants, a constant state around her now. “I love you,” he said. “This,” he gestured vaguely between her legs, “is a part of you. The part that makes you sigh like that when you’re coming. The part that gets slick and salty in my mouth. The part that I get to make feel good.” He stepped closer, his voice dropping. “If it was a strap-on, I’d love it just as much. Because it’s yours. Because when I’m sucking it, I know exactly where you are. I know you’re not leaving.”

Her throat tightened. She had no smart reply. He saw the crack in her armor and leaned in, kissing her deeply. She could taste herself on his tongue, a faint, musky reminder of the day. It should have been gross. It was the most erotic thing she’d ever experienced.

He backed her against the counter, his hands pushing her shorts down. He didn’t kneel this time. He lifted her, setting her on the cold quartz edge, spreading her legs wide. He pressed his body between them, his clothed erection rubbing against her, and took her into his mouth once more. This time it was fierce, hungry, a claiming. She wrapped her legs around his back, her heels digging into his ass, holding him to her as he fucked her with his mouth, his tongue a ruthless, perfect pressure on the swollen head.

She came screaming, a raw, ragged sound that bounced off the sterile surfaces, her fingers clawing at his shoulders. He drank her down, sucking at her until she was whimpering from overstimulation, then finally lifted his head, his lips glistening, his eyes dark with a satisfaction deeper than lust.

“That’s why,” he panted, resting his forehead against her sternum. “It’s you. It’s all you.”

Later, much later, they were a tangled heap of limbs in the nest of cushions, the aurora their only light. Glitch was boneless, floating in a sea of endorphins. Laloz was tracing idle patterns on her stomach. A soft, blue glow approached.

Lalita stood over them. She held a small, clear capsule filled with a viscous, silvery fluid. “I have been analyzing the biochemical components of Glitch’s emissions,” Lalita stated. “I have synthesized a lubricant that replicates its primary characteristics: pH, salinity, and mucosal viscosity.”

Glitch raised a heavy head, blinking. “You… you made synthetic come?”

“An approximation,” Lalita corrected. “For maintenance and authenticity.” She looked at Laloz, her visor pulsing. “You enjoy the taste and texture. This will allow for extended interface without depletion of Glitch’s resources. It is also biocompatible for internal use.”

She offered the capsule to Laloz. He took it, a slow smile spreading across his face. He looked at Glitch, then back at the capsule. “For authenticity,” he repeated, his voice a low rumble.

Glitch watched as he broke the capsule open, coating his fingers with the cool, silvery fluid. She understood. The robot wasn’t just observing anymore. She was participating. Curating their experience. Perfecting it.

Laloz’s slick fingers found her, not on her cock, but behind it, circling the tight furl of her ass. She gasped, her exhaustion forgotten, burned away by a new spike of dizzying heat. He pressed one finger inside, the synthesized lubricant a perfect, slick mimicry of her own body’s signals. It felt indistinguishable. It felt like him. It felt like them.

“Oh, fuck,” she breathed, as a second finger joined the first, stretching her with a delicious burn. “You’re both gonna be the death of me.”

Laloz leaned down, his mouth hovering over hers. “Good,” he whispered, and kissed her as his fingers worked her open, preparing her for what she knew was coming next, in this room where the only gods were need and the machines that learned to feed it.

His fingers, slick with her own replicated essence, pressed deeper, and her world narrowed to that singular point of stretching, burning fullness. “You gonna fuck me there now?” she gasped against his mouth, her voice stripped raw from a day of use. “With your perfect goddamn cock?”

“Yeah,” he breathed, the word hot and damp on her lips. He withdrew his fingers, and she felt the blunt, insistent pressure of his erection replace them, not at her entrance, but against her. He rocked there, smearing himself in the synthetic wetness, a torturous promise. “I’m gonna fuck this tight hole until you forget you have another one.”

He didn’t enter her. Not yet. Instead, he sank down her body, his mouth leaving a searing trail from her lips to her navel, then lower. He took her cock into his mouth again, sucking hard, making her arch off the cushions with a shattered cry. He was everywhere at once, his mouth on her, his hand between her own legs, fingertips pressing where he’d just been. He was a circuit of pleasure, shorting out her higher thought.

When he finally pushed inside her ass, it was with a single, relentless thrust that stole the air from her lungs. It was a brutal, perfect possession. She was so open, so slick from his preparation and Lalita’s gift, that he buried himself to the hilt in one smooth, devastating motion. The feeling was immense, a filling beyond anything she’d known. “Fuck! Laloz!” His name was a broken thing.

He didn’t move. Just held himself there, deep, letting her feel every inch, her body clenching wildly around the invasion. “Mine,” he growled into the skin of her shoulder, his teeth scraping. Then he began to move.

The next few days dissolved into a wet, hungry dream. Time lost its linear shape, measured only in her climaxes and the relentless, warm pressure of his mouth. He couldn’t leave her alone. If she was sitting cross-legged on the floor, sorting through a crate of his old music drives, he would crawl over, nuzzle his face into her thigh until she uncrossed her legs with a soft, indulgent sigh. He’d take her soft into his mouth and nurse her to hardness while she tried to focus on the holographic track listings floating in the air.

Their arguments were short-lived and always ended the same way. A dispute over the abrasive merits of post-terrain crunch versus vintage dream-synth would heat up, voices rising. “You have the auditory palette of a fucking malfunctioning excavator,” she’d snap. He wouldn’t reply with words. He’d just look at her, a dark, intent look, and slide off the chair onto his knees. He’d push her shirt up, bury his face between her legs, and suck the fight right out of her. Her rebuttals would morph into choked moans, her hands fisting in his hair, pulling him closer as she came on his tongue.

She took to wearing one of his old band shirts as a dress, knowing it left her bare underneath. He would walk past her in the hallway, his hand sliding beneath the hem in one fluid motion, his mouth following, and he would suck her right there, propped against the cool wall, until her knees buckled. She never minded the lack of warning. The surprise was part of it—the sudden heat, the instant surrender, the proof that he needed her with a frequency that bordered on pathological.

Lalita watched, documented, optimized. She began pre-emptively adjusting the ambient lighting to a dim, warm hue whenever Laloz’s pulse elevated in Glitch’s proximity. She played soft, droning ambient soundscapes that masked the wet, sucking sounds. She perfected the lubricant formula, adding a subtle pheromone mimic that made Glitch’s skin flush the moment it was applied.

One evening, Glitch was standing at the floor-to-ceiling window, a silhouette against the sprawling city lights, a stolen bottle of his expensive whiskey in hand. She was thinking of the hollow apartment across town, of the husband who probably hadn’t filed the missing person report, of the life that now felt like a poorly written script for someone else.

She felt him approach from behind before she heard him. His arms slipped around her waist, his chin resting on her shoulder. For a moment, just stillness. Then his hands slid down, under the shirt-dress, his fingers finding her. She was already half-hard, her body anticipating him now on a cellular level. He stroked her slowly, his lips on her neck.

“Stop thinking about out there,” he murmured.

“It’s my mess,” she said, her voice quiet, the whiskey bitter on her tongue.

“It’s our mess now,” he corrected, and turned her around. He took the bottle from her hand, set it on the floor, and sank to his knees. The city lights painted his face in neon streaks—blue, amber, crimson. He didn’t nuzzle or ask. He simply leaned forward, his tongue laving a long, flat stripe up her length before taking her fully into the heat of his mouth.

She braced her hands on the cool glass, watching their reflection: a man on his knees in worship, a woman staring out at a thousand other lives, her head falling back in ecstasy. He fucked her with his mouth with a fierce, focused rhythm, his hands gripping her bare ass, pulling her deeper onto his tongue. The vast, indifferent city twinkled behind their intimate, obscene tableau.

She came with a gasp, her forehead pressing against the window, her breath fogging the glass. He lapped at her, cleaning her meticulously, until she was soft. Then he just rested his head against her thigh, his breath warming her skin, his arms wrapped around her legs as if to anchor her.

“I’m not going back,” she said, the words leaving her like a physical object, dropped into the silent room.

He looked up, his eyes reflecting the city’s electric grid. “I know.”

From the doorway, Lalita’s visor glowed. She held a small data slate. “I have drafted fourteen logical pretexts for your continued absence, and three irreversible digital trails suggesting your demise in a freighter accident beyond the Cordova Belt,” she stated. “The latter would be most efficient. It would terminate all searches.”

Glitch stared at the robot, then down at Laloz, who was now gently mouthing at the inside of her thigh. A hysterical laugh bubbled up in her chest. Her choices were a cheating husband, a void, or a man who wanted to swallow her whole and a machine ready to help her fake her own death. It was no choice at all.

“Do it,” Glitch said, her voice suddenly clear. “The accident. Make it messy.”

Lalita’s visor pulsed once, a flash of crimson. “Acknowledged.”

Laloz rose then, kissing his way up her body. He tasted of her and of whiskey. He turned her again to face the window, his body pressing against her back. His hands were on her hips, his erection nudging against the cleft of her ass. He was already slick—Lalita must have applied the lubricant to him while he was on his knees. The realization sent a fresh, electric thrill through Glitch.

“Watch,” he commanded, his voice thick, as he pushed inside her in one slow, inexorable slide. Her eyes flew open, locked on their reflection, on his face buried in her hair, on her own mouth falling open in a silent cry. He began to move, deep, rolling thrusts that pushed her against the cold glass. Each drive forward was a punctuation mark on her decision. Each withdrawal felt like the pull of a life being left behind.

He fucked her with a solemn, almost brutal intensity, as if sealing a pact. She reached back, her hand gripping his thigh, her nails biting into his skin. “Harder,” she hissed, and he obeyed, his pace turning punishing, the sound of their bodies connecting a sharp, wet slap in the quiet room. She could see Lalita in the reflection too, standing motionless, a silent witness to the consecration.

Glitch’s climax hit like a system crash, wiping all coherence, a blinding white noise of pleasure that ripped through her with convulsive force. He followed, slamming into her one last time, a guttural roar stifled in her hair, his release flooding her with a heat that felt like a brand. They stood there, locked together, trembling, their reflection a blurred portrait of possession and surrender.

The city glittered, infinitely distant. Behind them, Lalita’s sensors recorded the final, confirming biometric spikes. The circuit was not just fused. It was now encrypting itself, preparing to erase all traces of its former shape, to become something entirely new, and entirely them.