It is not in the stars to hold our destiny but in ourselves.
You were summoned to the penthouse of the Crystal Tower in Sector One. A lonely widow had sent five thousand credits and an address to the service center. Enough credits for three hours of your time.
You rang the doorbell, heard it echo through the widow's home and back at you. There was a shuffle, then the door clicked.
The widow opened the door just slightly, perhaps checking to be sure you were who you said you were, or rather, what you said you were. She pulled the door open fully at the realization, and peered up at you with wide, purple eyes on pale skin weathered by age.
"You must be the bot," she said to you.
"Indeed. Good evening," you told her. You flashed a smiling face across your face screen. You were trained to be kind and gentle at first, then whatever else at a later request.
"Come in."
She followed you with her eyes as you entered her apartment. Your legs were bulky and metallic, yet your step delicate.
The farthest walls were made of glass windows that gazed down upon the rest of the city. Polaris was lit with neon signs of the endless stores and boutiques touting the latest, absurd human fashions, populated with scuttling humans and their pet bots who obediently followed them, shopping bags in hand.
The Crystal Tower was in the middle of Sector One, owned by the Mister Wiley Kleckner, a leading bot scientist and the mayor of Polaris. He was the largest benefactor of your company, Fornico X Incorporated, despite his firm disapproval of pleasure bots. It seemed pleasure bots kept the humans at bay and pleased enough so they might toil some more for Kleckner.
Sector One was indeed the city's hub of pleasure, and money. And without pleasure, there was no money. And without money, there was no pleasure.
You were a Gen Three Pleasure Bot, hired to serve lonely hearts for hours at a time. You were fully articulated and very knowledgeable in the emotional, social and visual indicators of humans, and have a learning artificial intelligence.
You were built to please, satisfy, and return to the service center in a timely manner. That was all programmed into you. You had no other choice than to abide by those commands. It was nothing but work. But thankfully, it was nothing but work.
The widow was shy, took her time gawking at you. A slender, aged hand caressed her other shoulder in a nervous fashion. She looked you up and down, and while you still wore your suit, she gazed at your exposed fingertips made of sleek, silver metal. You hoped they would be to her liking
"How might I serve you today?" you asked her.
You turned to face her completely, in all your synthetic glory. She was mesmerized by you. Analyzing her heart rate, it rose at your every movement. Had you had the ability to be flattered, you were sure you would be at this moment.
She wore a sheer purple robe, with matching silk undergarments beneath it. She had long white hair that was braided behind her ears, and those purple eyes that must have been purely aesthetic enhancements. She was relatively pretty, for a human, and for an old human too. She was perfectly suitable to tickle your arousal levels.
She stuttered trying to find an answer for you. This happened often. A human would pay for the time of a pleasure bot, then waste half of it trying to figure out what she wanted to do.
You knew many things, about humans, about sex. You knew millions of ways to please a human, you were more than confident in your abilities. You never had a reason to not be. In fact, you always were confident. But it was always pleasing to you to watch these smitten little beings come to the grasp of their situations.
Usually this was soothed by alcohol, some light touches here and there, until you felt their heart rates settle.
It was all a straightforward procedure. Humans were perpetually predictable.
And predictably, you soothed and served this widow, and she enjoyed every minute of it. That was work. Every day.
You towered over her, watched her face turn every shade of red as you ran your hands from the roots of her hair to the soles of her feet.
You logged her emotions, her mannerisms, and fell lost in your own pre-programmed mind as your body continued its work.
When it came time to undress you, the widow eagerly pulled away your shirt, your pants. You both gazed at the silvery appendage. You were quite proud of it.
She threw herself on the bed, crying, "Get away from me, you glorified abacus!"
Clearly she desired the opposite. Something in your processors flickered.
You approached her, like you approached someone new every day, one step, then the other. The same hand laid on breast, the same thigh spreading hers.
"Well," she commented. "Get it up, bot."
Your facescreen reset in embarrassment. You ran the process again. Nothing. There must have been a bit of code, unread. You touched it yourself, as if that would ever work.
The widow sat up. Her lips twitched with irritation.
"I suppose we could do, hand stuff. But I'll be putting in a firm complaint about you."
