Wanking off to a freeze-frame of Lance Henricksen’s half-molten, severed head in Aliens gave Simon his first earth-shattering, nerve-shivering orgasm as well as a devastating prang of guilt – a combination he found exceptionally sweet and pleasing. In fact, Simon was so pleased with the sensation that the second he had shot his load, his member started to twitch again. Squinting his eyes, he imagined picking up the head by the charred strands of hair and shoving his cock down the throat, rubbing it along the cool, steel-hard palate and within seconds he came again, the tip of his prick sizzling as if the wires inside the skull had gone live again, giving out galvanizing kisses, milking him dry.
Watching Terminator and Robocop back-to-back a week later put him into a masturbatory frenzy. He came so often and so hard, he feared that the next thing dripping out of his cock might be his spine-fluid.
As internet research revealed to him, Simon was obviously a gay Technosexual with a thing for severely damaged robots.
“Well, talk about one fucking fringe fetish.” he thought.
Though generally speaking, gay wasn’t quite the exact term, for only his robots had to be male. There was no room for softness and curves; they had to be streamlined and hard; cold, steely missiles targeting his sex. The boy of his dreams was a distorted hunk of scrap metal. In real life, throughout the next few years Simon slept with some girls, fucked some guys in the ass, got fucked, ate pussy and sucked dicks and found it all quite unsatisfying. Sure, it relieved the tension and it felt nice being close to a human being every now and then, but the sex was stale, with orgasms passing casually as he watched himself, detached. Not that he was very active. Since his build and height were as average as his looks, so was the number of his sexual encounters. And afterwards he always went straight back to his video collection.
If a movie featured a humanoid robot, Simon had seen it, always waiting hopefully for it to get blown up, shot to pieces, molten or shredded. He had high hopes for Robocock and The XXX-Terminator, but the films didn’t deliver. Porn let him down, anyway: there was something for every perversion, from granny humping to preggo mounting; you were able to order “The Beginner’s Guide to Scatology” from Germany (“Scheisse am Schaft. Lecker.” read the ad ), “Old Ma Donald Fucked The Farm” from Denmark, you’d find flicks for folks who had a hard-on for crack whores, fatties, dwarfs, amputees, drugged out fat dwarfs with one leg missing, but he had to wallow through Cyborg 1 to 5 for maybe two scant minutes of wriggling robotic remains.
Via amazon he ordered a book called “Robot Building Bonanza”, solely for the pictures, since he lacked the skills to perform any electronic tasks more elaborate than changing a light-bulb. Simon just loved the irony. He was born to work in special effects or robotics, but passion was all he had to offer.
So he took a job as an accountant in the firm where his father worked, fucked a bit, wanked a lot and settled for an unsatisfied and lonely life.
Until Japan presented The Fuckbot.
Actually, it was called Foxxxy, the Robot Doll. Anatomically correct, with highly defined physical features, moving private areas, Foxxxy, as the constructers stated, was way more than just a high-end sex doll. It was able to carry a conversation, it had moods that shifted throughout the day, and it had not one, not two, but five personalities, depending on your own personal and sexual preferences. It could be your slave or your master, a cute, eyelashes-fluttering innocent plaything in a public school skirt, a nymphomaniac slut, whose three high quality inputs were in constant need of filling and – your mum. Simon guessed the Mommy mode was probably bugged – the minute you switched it on, your local copper would receive a call. You were even able to mix these preferences to your individual liking. Due to a motor pumping heat through a tube that winded all the way through Foxxxy’s body, she was warm to the touch, made breathing noises and sported a heartbeat. Foxxxy came at a wholesome 8.500 quid and could also be ordered as Maxxx, whose most prominent feature was modelled from a cast made of Ron Jeremy’s pecker.
Simon almost had a heart attack.
If he took out his savings, sold his movie collection, fiddled a bit with the accountancy at work in creative ways, the money should be his in about a month. He filled out the pre-order.
Finally he needed six weeks to gather the money, three minutes to transfer it abroad, spent two weeks waiting until Maxxx was shipped from Japan in a solid wooden box and four hours driving to the port of Liverpool and back home to at long last become the proud owner of an automatic wiener with artificial intelligence attached.
Fidgety from excitement, Simon pried the box open and there, embedded in a plethora of polystyrene balls, wood shavings and crumpled silk paper in all its glory stood his new companion. The body looked finely shaped, with abdominal muscles to play xylophone on, a powerful breast, strong legs and an impressive bulge under some cheap white cotton briefs (and, hell,the queer little robot even wore white tennis socks). His face was a different matter.
“Jesus,” Simon muttered. “You’re one butt-ugly motherfucker.”
The Maxxx looked liked someone had tried to clubber the Elephant Man’s head back in shape with a croquet mallet. Not that it really bothered Simon. When he was done with it, conventional beauty rules would be redundant. Important to him was the thing hidden behind the shorts: the Ron Jeremy certified knob. He ripped off the briefs and almost saluted. On TV Ron’s schlong sure looked smaller. This one was likely to shove his prostate up his oesophagus before it was halfway in his bunghole.
“Welcome to your new home, love.” Simon said. “We’ve got to do some serious damage.” He grabbed the robot by its feet and dragged him into the basement. Over the last weeks Simon had bought quite an assembly of power tools for the cosmetic restyle. He heaved Maxxx upon the work-bench.
“I think we’ll start with the face. Pull out the ugly stick.” He picked up the pliers and pinched the first tooth. “And improve the quality of the blow-jobs along the way.”
Next in line was the steel saw. Simon felt so high-spirited, he started to sing.
“The head-bone connected to the neck-bone…”
The steel saw screeched, cutting through Maxxx’ right arm just above the elbow. Flying sparks hit Simon’s face, but he was too excited to notice. Purple, gray and dirty white wires hung from the severed arm, wriggling like fat worms.
“The neck-bone connected to the backbone…”
Simon fired up the Bunsen burner and melted the silicone nipples. The breast began to drip, plastic bubbles bunched up. Soon it looked like flesh pizza.
“The backbone connected to the thighbone…”
With a grinder he abraded the synthetic skin from the left half of the face and three quarters of the jaw down to the silvery skull.
“The thighbone connected to the knee-bone…”
He put the tip of a crosshead screwdriver on the right eye and drove it down with a hammer, smeared some molten plastic over the eye-socket and blow-dried it. Maxxx face now looked less than Robert Z’Dar with elephantiasis than The Six Billion Dollar Zombie. Simon had a boner to boot.
“The knee-bone connected to the leg bone…”
Why the heck would an android need a ballsack, Simon ruminated. He cut it off with a hedge clipper. Without testicles the wiener looked even larger.
“The leg bone connected to the foot bone…”
Simon skinned the right leg, parts of the torso, sprayed rusty colour on parts of the skeleton, flayed both buttocks, severed four fingers, ripped off one ear, set fire to the genuine hair wig and drilled some random holes with diameters in the approximate range of his dick.
“Oh hear … the word … of the … Looooord!”
By now he had come twice in his pants.
“We’re done here, auntie.” Simon said. “Now – wanna see my stamp collection?”
Dragging Maxxx up into the bedroom, Simon noticed some worrying rattling noises, some jingling and clattering and a constant flapping sound. He was pretty sure he had avoided vandalising all places he considered harbouring vital electronic devices. Of course, if they had put the main controller inside the scrotum he was pretty much arsed. Getting a refund would be difficult now.
Simon placed the robot up against the wall, tore the adhesive plaster from the infrared receiver under the hairline, sat down on his bed and pushed the ON button of his remote control.
And Maxxx sprung to life.
Truth be told, he more or less juddered to life with sounds that reminded Simon eerily of a ship scraping against the harbour walls. The limbs Simon had left intact twitched and shuddered, the damaged ones fluttered like epileptic hummingbirds. His remaining eye spun in the socket, and then the whole head jerked around violently. The flayed legs did a Charleston and the toes wiggled. Finally Maxxx thrusted out his pelvis like a sleazy Elvis impersonator and went rigid. Simon held his breath.
Maxxx adjusted his eye.
“Aww damn, you dirty bugger. I just thought you was busted.”
“Pleashe shelect pershonality.” Maxxx uttered, sounding like a lisping Dalek. Maybe breaking out the teeth had not been one of Simon’s better ideas. Whatever. He glanced over the quick guide and pressed five: strong and domineering.
“Get naked, shucker.” Maxxx demanded.
Something had to be done about the speech impediment. That lisp took the edge out of commands and dirty talk. “First things first, though.” Simon thought and stripped. Maxxx stroke his cock and started to get hard. It was astonishingly life-like. He teetered over to Simon, pushed him onto the pillows and went down on him.
“Aaaawwwwhh, fuuuck…” – A tidal wave of incredible sensation swept through Simon. The robot slowly deep-throated him a few times, then sucked on the tip of his cock while the tongue licked on his sulcus. And then he deep-throated him again. And sucked, all the while massaging Simon’s balls firmly with his hand. Simon wished he hadn’t cut off the other arm. A good, firm thumb-job would have been the icing on the cake. His dick was harder than Lenny McLean, his balls were pebbles, his spine tingled, all of his nerves seemed to sparkle, the muscles of his butt flinched and just a second before he came, Maxxx pressed two fingers around his pre-cum wetted peter, stopping the blood circulation and robbing Simon of his relief. With the better half of his lips gone, the robot looked like he was grinning mischievously.
“Now shuck me off.” demanded Maxxx.
“Yeah, sure.” Simon tried to control his breathing. “Chocking on that fucking totem-pole is exactly my idea of fun, tat-head.” He rummaged through the drawer and produced a tube of Durex lube. “But I’d sure like to be your brownie queen.”
“I will ram it up your cornhole sho hard, you’ll schream and beg, faggot.”
Simon eyed the robot quizzically. Even without the lisp, the speech program left a lot to be desired. But the glistering cock looked just too tasty to let himself be distracted by minor quibbles.
“I’ll shure dog you out and make you holler.”
“Just shut the fuck up and shove it in!” Simon screamed, pressed his hands against the wall and pushed his ass towards the robot’s gargantuan member. Maxxx smeared some lube on Simon’s anus, fingered him a bit and rammed his dick in at one go. White lightning hit Simon right between the eyes. The pain was so all consuming and yet so exquisite, every cell of his body turned into an erogenous zone.
“I’ll phottom you, phutt-phoy. I’ll phang you shenshlesh. I’ll…”
“I’m not listening.” Simon muttered. “Not listening.”
“Yeah, I’m shure giwwin’ you one hard nigger-fuck.”
“Oi. Give it a break, will you?” With an audible ‘plop’ Simon freed himself, turned around and grabbed the robot by the throat. “Take a look at me cock, mate – you’ve talked it fucking limp.”
“I will make you my cum-dumpshter, pooph.”
Simon ripped down the robot’s jaw, grabbed the tongue and tore at it until he managed to jerk it off at its root. Looking at the fat, greyish, jelly-like thing he remembered the orgiastic pleasures it had provided and cursed himself. Maybe he should have looked for a mute button on the remote first? Shit, but he could try and super-glue it back on later. For now the strong, silent type was very much preferable. And it was an aesthetic improvement, he thought, as he watched a tiny stump wiggle in the back of the throat. Behind the stump flared some sparks. Then something exploded with a tinny sound, like a fire-cracker going off in a metal bucket. Maxxx’ head juddered as if it was going to skyrocket and a jet flame shot through the patch of silicone that Simon had smeared over the right eye. The acrid stench of burned plastic stung his nose. The next moment Maxxx grabbed Simon by the throat, threw him against the wall, back-slapped him into position and held him with two fingers around the neck. Blood ran over Simon’s cheek. He tried to struggle himself free, but to no avail – the robot had pinned him down like a numbed butterfly.
“Come on, guy.” Simon croaked. “Not that rough, eh? Skip that Bobby Blake shite.”
Maxxx pumped his silicone muscle up Simon’s ass and started to fuck him relentlessly. A long metal splinter from the robot’s hip punctuated Simon’s left buttock with every stroke, piercing him straight to the bone. Soon the lube had worn off, and Simon felt soft tissue tearing apart. Searing, indescribable anguish flooded his body, inflamed every sinew. Blood ran down his thighs. His crotch exploded. Simon looked down and watched in agonizing horror a slim, sharp, silver tentacle sliding up his urethra, wriggling and winding, widening it for another, thicker tentacle.
“Please, please, no…” Simon muttered through snot and tears, while Maxxx frenetically fucked his ass and his cock simultaneously. Almost blinded from hurt, Simon felt more tentacles wriggling around his neck, pushing his face so hard against the concrete, his nose crushed. Slime and blood filled his respiratory tract, clogged the airwaves and he almost suffocated. Maxxx hand grabbed Simon’s testicles, rubbed them, hit them and pinched them until they squished with a sickening slurping sound. Simon puked spasmodically, all the time hoping he would just faint and die. Razor-sharp cable ends wormed over his chest, slicing him. Finally one stiffened and shot straight down, cutting off his right nipple. He was thrown round like a sack of dry bones. The robot gazed at him. Simon half expected to see a vengeful glint or hatred in the ravaged face, but there was nothing, a dark blank stare that frightened him even more. Dozens of wires slithered out of the severed arm, some hissed of electrical arcing like attacking snakes. The fattest one, hot and red, slid around Simon’s hip and impaled him straight through the pelvic wall, while the robot started to jerk him off hard. The foreskin tore and the iron claw soon masturbated raw muscle. There was almost no pain anymore. Just numbness. Soon darkness. And before that came a moment of clarity, a moment when time seemed to slow down, and Simon saw with a perspicuity he had never known before, like everything was etched out before him. He saw the small table to his right and he saw the scissor on the table and he saw his hand picking it up and bringing it down with a violent blow and he saw the blades entering the robot’s eye socket, twisting and turning and he saw smoke coming out of Maxxx’ mouth and he saw him go rigid and collapse and then he collapsed himself.
“Fuck you, asshole”, he sputtered.
The tiredness was overwhelming. He just wanted to sleep.
“Don’t.” he told himself. “Try to get to the phone.”
Maybe he could make it. Survival instinct was one mighty mother, after all.
Or he could just lay here; bleed out into the carpet, this soft, cosy carpet…
“Move.” Simon started to crawl, bit by bit, clew his fingers into the fabric, slowly dragging himself forward, trying to push himself with his legs. When he hunched a bit too much, he spat out a foamy clod of blood. Every inch was agony and his phone was down in the living-room. A sharp ache ripped through his left calf. Simon turned his head and saw a ripped shred of metal protruding from his lateral sura. Damnit, there were pieces of the fucking robot just about everywhere. And he saw something else, too: himself, in the mirror. He gaped in disbelief. He looked like he had been chewed, spat out and trod upon by Godzilla. Pieces of bone were sticking through his arm, whip-marks covered his torso as if Jackson Pollock had body-painted him, his face was swollen beyond recognition, red and blue with lips like bicycle wheels. His right hand was missing the index finger.
“When the heck did that happen?” he wondered. He was mangled meat. He was…quite sexy, actually. Simon felt a very familiar tingle in his groin.
“No. Nonononononono.” he sputtered, but the androgens had already kicked in. The erection throbbed. His penis resembled something out of anatomy class, with the tendrils and muscles clearly visible. Simon spat blood into the palm of his hand and went to work.
He wondered how long he would be able to keep up his new fetish.
By TM Simmler