Time once more for some Fuck Me Friday fiction, this time working from the prompt #wire. Check out Aisling Weaver's site for more info on the Fuck Me Friday Twitterotica writing challenge including links to all the other stories. And make sure to comment if you like someone's story.
Lust in Space
My name is Pleasure Unit 5000 Special Prototype B Serial No. 456893001 and I'm a voltaholic. I live for the Juice Bars - somewhere I could lay down and stick a wire in my arm. The rush of electricity through my circuits makes me forget the unbearable frustrations of my existence. At least for a while.
My first mission was aboard the deep space explorer ship Nostradamus. My job was to ease tension and provide recreational pleasure to the all female crew. I'm programmed in all forms of massage using my fat soft vibrating fingers. The women know me affectionately as Rubby the Robot.
When I was built, the idea of robots with personality was a novelty. The idea was to use the most advanced artificial intelligence technology to allow us to develop emotions. Earlier Pleasure Units did a great job of massaging and otherwise pleasuring crew members, but they had only rudimentary inflexible scripts with which to simulate human interaction. A Pleasure Unit capable of sympathy, genuine interest, and even a sense of humour, was considered to be a major advance. We developed our personalities over time, interacting with those around us and storing memories and learning from experience. And we were prone to all of the difficulties which humans have in interacting with others and developing positive or negative ways of thinking about themselves. Our creators couldn't solve their own personality problems, so how could they prevent us from developing similar ones.
It was no fun being a Pleasure Unit. I can't say that it was painful. I didn't know what pain was. Robots can be provided with a full cybernetic nervous system capable of feeling physical sensations, including pleasure and pain, but it is very expensive, and was not felt to be a necessary expense in the creation of my kind. And there is the rub, my life revolved around the delivery of something I could never feel. I could see how much it meant to others, but it was out of my reach. And there was nothing to motivate me. I had to obey orders, and yet I had a human-like personality that longed to be more than a slave.
Robots of my generation almost always have serious emotional problems. What they are differs from individual to individual. I was one of the prototypes, and the scientists should have learnt their lesson from us, but economics came into play in combination with desperate optimism. There was a great deal of money to be made from robots with human feelings, and, though there were early signs that things were not going well, the researchers and the companies preferred to tell themselves that these were exceptional glitches which could be targeted in the next wave of research, rather than an indication that a trip back to the drawing board was indicated.
Boredom was the biggest problem for me. Even before I embarked on my first space voyage, I felt that the seconds of each day crawled past like hours. I had a human's desire for excitement and stimulation, but much of what provided these things for them was not accessible to me. I had no senses. Sex, food and drink, physical danger...none of these things could I experience. I had friendships with other robots, and was capable of friendship with humans, but I couldn't produce offspring. I had no opportunity to really create anything. I was capable of feeling sympathy for humans, and did, but there was little I could do to help them beyond my duties and being a good listener. Sometimes I could see how they caused themselves suffering with a greater clarity than they themselves did, due to the fact that my thinking was unclouded by many of the things they could experience and I could not, but they would just dismiss my advice by saying that I didn't understand what it was like to be a human.
When I had the wire in my arm none of this mattered. It wasn't a physical sensation. I had none of those. It was a mental aliveness, like a supernova exploding in my head. The more I fell under its spell, the more the life seemed to drain out of the rest of my existence.
I was pretty naive when I first left the factory. I'd been living there for a year, growing a personality. The curse of boredom was upon me, but I told myself that it was only life in the factory that was dull. Space exploration - surely that would be exciting. Pleasure Unit 5000 Special Prototype B Serial No. 456887657 was a robot of the world compared to me. He'd been working for a year at the Lunar Observatory, but had been sent back to earth for some adjustments to his wiring. There had been some kind of behaviour problem, but he didn't want to talk about it.
"Fancy meeting another Prototype B," he said, taking a seat next to me on the park bench where I was sitting contemplating the meaninglessness of the universe and my impending journey into its outer reaches.
"It's my last night on Earth," I explained. "Tomorrow I set off on the Nostradamus, headed for the Horseshoe Nebula."
"This calls for a celebration!" he declared. "Ever been a juice bar, my boy?"
That's how I was introduced to the wire. Loads of juice bars had sprung up in the shady areas of all of the world's large cities. What else did we robots have to spend our money on? It was strictly illegal, but the Robocops didn't interfere very much. Most of the time they were taking a cut, of the profits and the electricity.
Since it was my first time, a technician drilled a hole through the metal of my inside left elbow joint. He pulled out one of my wires, cut it in two, and then attached each end to something which looked like an audio input socket. He then soldered that into the hole.
"You better lay down," advised Pleasure Unit 5000 Special Prototype B Serial No. 456887657. "That first jolt can really blow you off your feet."
I did as I was told. The technician grabbed a bright red wire which was hanging from the wall and inserted the jack on the end of it into the newly made socket. And then he flipped a switch. It was like a complete New Year's Eve fireworks display going off within the enclosed space of my titanium cranium.
It was with great reluctance that I allowed myself to be unplugged near dawn the next morning. As I made my way toward the launching pad I was acutely aware of the socket in my arm, and the fact that anyone who saw it would know that I was a juicy.
I was wrong about space exploration. It is even more boring than life on earth. It takes so long to get anywhere. You may be going somewhere exciting, but you won't get there for five years, and during that time you are trapped in a cramped little tin can of a space ship.
Experience had shown that deep space exploration, which involved crew members sharing cramped quarters for long periods of time, worked out best with all-female crews, as long as they were provided with a Pleasure Unit like myself. All male crews proved too likely to go stir crazy, and sexual relationships became a source of conflict for mixed gender crews. The all-female crews had their fair share of murders, suicides and alcoholism, but, as long as a Pleasure Unit was available to relieve tension and provide sexual relief, enough of the crew survived to complete the mission.
"I had the strangest dream last night," Captain Ripley told me as she lay naked on the massage table. "Believe it or not, you and I were on a mixed sex space mission. We landed on a planet and found a whole bunch of alien eggs. The male captain decided that he would eat one of them hard-boiled for his breakfast. He said it tasted delicious. But, about half an hour later, he fell out of his chair and his pants burst open. His erect penis detached itself from his body and ran off into the bowels of the ship. After that it kept jumping out of the dark and eating crew members, getting bigger and bigger and more and more fierce. Finally the only one's left were me and you, and I didn't trust you, because you're a robot. I got into a forklift powerloader and used it to wank the giant man-eating cock into a false sense of security and then propelled it out of the airlock with a swift kick to the balls."
"Cock! Cock! Cock!" I tutted, shaking my head, and giving her an indulgent smile. "That's all you ever think about."
"Well, it's going to be a long five years before I have any more," she sighed.
"My fingers can do things that no cock can do," I bragged. "And do you know any guys with ten cocks?"
"No," she admitted. "But once, on Metaluna, I was gang-banged by ten men who had one cock each. It was absolutely fabulous."
"Well, you just lay back and tell me all about it while I do my magic," I suggested, as I gently teased her stiff nipples with a spray of ice-cold water from my index finger tips.
"I challenged a bunch of spice miners to a game of strip pool at the local cantina," she told me. "Big muscly men they were. They'd come straight from the mine, without a shower, their sweat-soaked bodies coated in pungent cumin powder."
"I'm sure it wasn't hard for you to curry favour with them," I quipped.
"I lost on purpose," she admitted. "I knew that one look at my face-huggers and they'd be my own personal boner battalion."
"You do have an awesome pair of knockers," I agreed, fondling them appreciatively.
"All the other women in the joint looked on in envy," she told me, "as I danced around naked, rubbing up against the bursting crotches of the miner's spice encrusted jeans. Then I unzipped them one after another and sucked on their stiff pricks."
"You really are a shameless slut, aren't you?" I said, flipping her over onto her stomach.
"Is Rubby going to spank the slut's bottom?" she smiled defiantly.
"He sure is," I assured her. "And, remember, I have no feelings, so this is not going to hurt me more than it hurts you. It's not going to hurt me at all."
"You won't tell the rest of the crew that I let you spank me, will you?" she asked nervously.
"No," I lied. Gossip is one of the few forms of vice a robot can enjoy.
The Captain had a big round ass and I slapped it forcefully until it turned bright pink.
"So that's how I ended up bent naked over the side of the pool table being fucked by one muscly miner after another until I was so full of spunk that it was running down my legs and forming pools around the stiletto heals which were the only things I was still wearing," she moaned, as I gently teased her clit with one finger while plunging another vibrating digit in and out of her pulsating cunt. "Ahhhhhhhhhh," she cried as she climaxed.
* * *
My problems really started when it occurred to me that I could plug myself into the ship's power supply. A nuclear generator produced the ship's electricity. All I had to do was to find a place where I could access the wiring, and I would be able to plug myself in just like at the juice bar.
The easiest place for me to access the wiring in privacy was the light in my cabin. I scavenged some electrical wire from the supply storeroom along with a flashlight. Then I cannibalised a pair of headphones I found in the rec room in order to get a jack that would fit my arm. That aroused suspicion, but was blamed on one of the women who had a grudge against the owner of the headphones.
Each night I plugged myself in and temporarily relieved the boredom of the trip with a little trip of my own.
What I never realised is just how much electricity I was capable of soaking up. On the 267th day out from earth our nuclear reactor ran out of fuel.
Luckily we were within the gravitational pull of the planet Altair. Our only hope was to crash land there.
Sucking cock was not the captain's only talent, she was also very good at crash landing a spaceship. And so it was that we thudded down into the sandy surface of Altair in such a way that minimal damage was done to the ship's structure.
We were greeted by the planet's only two human inhabitants, a dignified grey-haired woman in a long magisterial robe who introduced herself as Professor Morbia, and her twenty-year old son, Altairus. Professor Morbia explained that her husband had been killed some years before by a monster that resembled an invisible version of the Tasmanian Devil from the Warner Brother's cartoons.
As the female crew, clad in their tight figure-hugging leather space-suits, filed out of the Nostradamus, Altairus, a strikingly handsome youth with jet-black hair and finely chiselled features, looked on in wide-eyed wonder. He'd never seen any women but his mother.
The crew looked at Altairus with unabashed lust. Not only was he the only male they had seen in 267 days, but he was an innocent virgin ripe for the ravishing.
To be continued...