Ginosko – Chapter 7 – Lawrence’s Office Politics

Sometimes, Trish parades me around. It’s one of those weird status things—in this case, an android ‘owning’ a human being—that make some deals go that bit smoother. It’s also a good way to keep my cover, seeing as I’m expected to be eye candy while Magda and my… well, my girlfriend do the actual work.

It’s a fucking relief, is what it is.

I mean, acting like I know what I’m doing? Sure, no problem. Bluffing is not so much a life skill as a death avoidance one where I came from. My own body mods are meant to be deceptive, to make my body perform beyond what anyone would expect of me at a glance.

Ayane? Ayane is the precise opposite. All of her modifications are geared to loudly state that nobody should be messing with the tanned pile of muscles unless they want to learn how a replacement larynx feels like (hint: it feels like Sam swindled me, and I still suck at singing). One needs not look for too many hints to realize that the enhanced bodyguard can handle anything short of military chrome—and then Ginosko chrome gets into the equation, and things get dicey because I’m sure that, even as boisterous as Theresa’s minder is, she still has a couple of aces up her often-ripped sleeves.

Everybody does, after all.

But, in my case, I’m mostly aces and sleeves. I don’t want anybody to realize just how sharp my senses are, how honed my reaction times, how unlikely my working memory. I don’t want them to know I can and will crush anyone who so much as looks at Trish wrong—OK. Settle down, Lawrence; she’s the actual powerhouse between the two of you. Not to mention her chassis is entirely replaceable, while you lost that chance a few years ago.

Cyber rejection sucks.

…

Dwelling on old trauma aside, the thing is that, while I’m very adept at looking like a good personal assistant, I suck at it. Trish knows it, Magda knows it, and I’m pridefully knowledgeable about the depths of my utter incompetence. I only got this job because I’m sleeping with my boss.

Heh.

But, more seriously, while I do some work, mostly adjusting schedules and taking calls when absolutely no one else is available to, most of my time is still spent ruminating on Trish’s original commission for me. I’ve copied as much of her code as I safely can out of her personality matrix so I can dissect it while meetings go on, and I pretend to carefully take notes for somebody with perfect recall.

Occasionally, I even make eye contact.

After a few complaints, Trish asked me not to.

… I’m still a bit miffed about that.

But, well, here I am: a bona fide, non-chromed human doing menial labor for a Ginosko sister, parading my toned muscles around in a shirt and vest combo that I abhor while both my office mates assure me they compliment my figure without being too obvious about it.

Which, yeah, it’s objectifying, but… I used to work with sexbots. The notion has lost all meaning to me.

All of that brings me to what I spend my time on other than hacking the very soul of my lover.

Making her happy.

Luckily for me, that notion has a substantial overlap in my personal Venn diagram of ‘things that Lawrence devotes entirely too much time to’ with the set titled ‘messing with Patricia Ginosko.’

“Where’s my coffee?” I ask her while sitting at her desk, lifting my eyes from the empty spot beside the main monitor displaying something that makes my eyes water and my will to live shrivel.

In this particular instance? Trish’s schedule for tomorrow.

“I… I’m sorry, Mister Weathers; Magda is running late with it,” Trish says with a fearful tone that would win an Oscar if not for the small twitch of a smile when she bashfully lowers her eyes.

Magda, though, is not running late: she has the day off.

Because, despite what a certain redhead seems prone to implying as of late, we can learn.

…

Sometimes.

“Well, there’s an expresso machine right there, isn’t it? Do you need to have your optics checked, Patricia?” I tell her with my worst ‘awful boss’ impression.

Because of two reasons: the first one is that the scenario calls for me to be a sleazy bastard who’s blackmailing her for sexual favors. The second is that I enjoy seeing her perfectly sculpted eyebrow twitch.

One of those is more important than the other, but I’ll only confess under torture.

“I… It’s not my job to—” she says, still pretending at bashfulness.

And so I stand up, pushing her borrowed chair away more than necessary until the plush leather thuds against the thick glass behind me as I tower over her, the short platform her desk’s in only adding to our height difference.

Trish looks up at me and loudly swallows.

And I, without saying a single word, walk around the desk and toward her, circling her, approaching her back until my white shirt almost grazes her black jacket.

I stand there for a few seconds, letting the tension build up, breathing over her nape.

“Patricia…” I almost growl. “Make me a cup of coffee.”

She shivers before slowly nodding and silently walking to the expresso machine that is on the small stand of dark wood near my actual desk.

She’s done this to me often enough, asking me to make her coffee when trying to put me in my place in those past instances of artificial forgetfulness, when she was confused about all the things she felt for the impertinent man acting like a very inept assistant that she didn’t feel the slightest desire to fire.

It was tricky work, letting all of her feelings for me remain while blocking the memories they were based on. It was… A part of me loves it, the challenge of working on something as sprawling, as majestic, as the mind of Patricia Ginosko. Another is horrified at that part, at the temptations it keeps bringing up, at the knowledge of everything that could go wrong and harm the one thing on Earth that should never be hurt.

Patricia. Trish. My lover.

And what we have.

So I told her what I could scarcely believe I could tell her: I told her ‘no.’ I told her I wouldn’t do it again, that I wouldn’t risk any cognitive damage just because she got off on it, that I would find something else, something that would bring her to the same heights without risking any of the lows.

Because I love her too damn much. Far more than a juvenile part of me could’ve ever guessed, a part of me that keeps being thrilled at mysteries and playing with fire when I should’ve already learned not to, that the only thing that gets you is getting burnt out from the inside out.

Oh, and Magda. It also gets you Magda.

I suppress a sigh as I stare at Trish walking with a suppressed hip sway I know she wants to tempt me with as I watch charcoal grey hug her behind in painstaking detail, her aristocratically pale skin peeking in a tight band between the upper bound of glossy, black stockings and the hem of a skirt that doesn’t even reach the middle of her plush thighs, the flesh overflowing over the elastic in something that cries out to my eyes and roving fingers.

It also gets me Trish.

So, yes, I should mature. I should be prudent.

I have. I am.

But…

I step forward, following her just as she stops in front of the expresso machine and, knowing her, hurriedly downloads the operating manual for such a thing and frantically browses it, hoping she’ll be fast enough not to break the fantasy.

I let her be for a moment, just… just being close. Just savoring the shrunken distance between the two of us, and how a deep, chest-broadening breath would outright breach it.

I love her too damn much. Too much to risk her. Too much to lose her.

Too much not to give her everything she wants.

“Patricia,” I whisper, the second joint of my bent finger resting in the middle of the hollow of her back, pressing forward just hard enough to hear her suppressed hiss. “What are you waiting for?”

“I… I’m just letting the machine build up some pressure, Mister Weathers.”

“Good girl,” I whisper, leaning forward and down with just my head, still not touching her but caressing her ear with my voice.

This time, she shudders.

And I take full advantage of being out of her sight to smile with relief at it working.

It’s always a bit of a tightrope, a balancing act, to push the fantasy without falling into something ridiculous, something that takes us out of the play. It was far easier when I could code the belief in her, when I knew none of my lines and reactions would be second-guessed, and I could act with certainty that my act wouldn’t come across as anything other than genuine.

I suppose it was also… worse, in a way. There’s trust in these little performances of ours: trust that we will stick to our roles, that we will work together to make the most of it, that we won’t betray the other’s expectations.

Just… Just blocking or editing her memories? Just making her believe what was happening was real? That didn’t require anything other than for me to come up with something that I knew she would enjoy after the fact.

And during it, of course.

With trembling hands that Trish needs to actively turn into something less adroit and sure than a surgeon’s touch, she reaches for the measuring spoon and grabs the vacuum-sealed pot of coffee that opens with a hiss of released aroma just fragrant enough to block her scent from me.

… This may be the first time I’ve gotten violently angry at a pot of coffee.

She dips the metal spoon in it, taping the edge of the container so that the overflowing, excess brown powder will cascade down on it, each tap a susurration of softly falling coffee that catches my eye as I look over her shoulder.

She’s hugging the black, gleaming pot close to her chest, between her two pale breasts, against bare skin that I know is nude beneath the tightly closed jacket.

Because this Lawrence first ordered her not to wear a blouse, then a bra, then panties.

This Lawrence may be a bit of a genius.

“Well?” I ask when she hesitates, and then she remembers she hasn’t taken the percolator out, so she carefully balances the spoon and pot toward the shelf so that the rest of the coffee doesn’t fall out of the measuring utensil before reaching down and twisting the piece of machinery loose.

I can see from my peripheral vision the slight smile of triumph at not needing to redo the measuring, at the right amount still being in the spoon when she looks down, and such a simple joy on her lips and downcast eyes makes my heart race.

I… OK, I am in love. I’ve already told her, plenty of times and in a variety of circumstances. I don’t need to be embarrassed by it.

It’s still… New. Unfamiliar.

Almost painful in its stark clarity.

So I wait for her to pour the coffee into the percolator with far less ceremony than when she was putting on a performance for me, and to then restore it to the machine before she quickly navigates the menu of options, trying to choose from among the overwhelmingly large list of things people with too much time came up to do with roasted beans of an obscenely expensive plant that now can only grow on robotized plants that should be reserved for nutrients and not luxury goods.

Even if those luxuries are…

I remember Sam’s face the first time I brought her some smuggled chocolate cookies from Trish’s office. The sheer… The sheer innocent joy in the dying woman at such a simple thing, such a casual, unremarkable thing that was now all but impossible except for those brought up to obscene wealth and the people they want to impress.

Luxuries are…

I rebel against the idea, against the notion that only so few can enjoy them.

But it would be far worse if Sam couldn’t have ever shown me that smile.

“Am I… Is a plain expresso all right, Mister Weathers?” Trish asks, bringing me back to the moment.

To her.

“What do you think?” I ask in the most passive agressive, assholish way I can, because that’s what this Lawrence would do when he’s gotten this Patricia cornered.

She bites her lip, her eyes downcast, looking at me without turning her head around.

“I think… I think you like your coffee black,” she says.

I nod.

“Get to it, then,” I tell her, keeping our slight distance, resisting the pull of her body heat drifting to me, between us.

She nods again, pushing the button, the machine silent as it pours out the foamed beverage that has so little in common with the caffeinated soy I used to consume by the liter.

Honestly? Old habits die hard, and I’m not really picky about it. Much less since I got my own implanted adenosine modulators to replace my caffeine cravings.

Shut up, Sam. It’s my brain, and I’ll fuck it up however I damn well please.

With a soft beep, the coffeemaker signals its job is now done, and Trish holds the cup, turning in place, barely separating from me as she faces me, the white porcelain the only thing between her breasts and my chest.

She lifts it toward my lips, and I take in the fragrant scent, once more masking hers.

“It needs some cream,” I tell her.

“What? But you said you wanted it black—”

“It’s not for me,” I cut her off.

She blinks at me in incomprehension, and I raise an insolent eyebrow at it until her eyes widen in understanding.

“I…” she says, almost stuttering the single syllable.

“Get to it, Patricia,” I tell her as I unzip my pants.

Violet eyes that always make me believe they are a natural color stare at me, her lips slightly open in a shock that isn’t faked. Not until she exaggerates it a bit more as a slight, pink tinge crosses the bridge of her nose.

And Patricia leans away from me, her lower back hitting the shelf with the coffeemaker much more roughly than I pressed the back of my finger against it.

“I… Mister Weathers! I… I won’t. This is too much—”

I press forward, and she takes the cup of coffee away so our chests can press against one another, her breasts almost spilling up from the tight V that offers them to me.

My finger is yet again gently bent, but now I’m using it to push her chin up, to force her to look into my own eyes. And part of it is because that’s the role I’m playing, but another part is that I crave those eyes being on me, the gorgeous shades of color flowing in radially shifting hues, in light and darkness playing beneath the white, sparkling, glimmering reflection of the lights in the ceiling of our office swimming in the moisture covering them.

It takes… It takes quite a lot not to kiss her.

Instead, I leer at her, relishing in a power I don’t have, and lean forward until I bend over her as she reclines back, her head hitting the wall behind her.

“Which one do you like?” she asked me, holding up a sheet of actual paper filled with colored squares.

“Trish, I honestly don’t have a clue about this stuff,” I answered, my head still reeling at the mere notion of decorating an office, given I had just spent years living somewhere that had a slab of plastic as a coffee table.

A slab of plastic whose color I could only describe as ‘scratched.’

“I know you don’t. I just asked which one you like,” she said, rolling her eyes and pushing the paper at me.

There were… a lot of greens. Many more than I’d ever seen outside the Hive.

“You seem to have already done a preliminary culling,” I told her with an arched eyebrow.

She bit the corner of her lip, and I wanted to kiss her.

“I… It’s a message. That we will bring it back. That we will bring it all back.”

She didn’t meet my eyes for a brief moment of silence. And then she shyly looked up at me, still embarrassed at her dreams of restoration, of making the world a better place than it was when she was made.

“I… I don’t know about messages,” I just told her, inadequate in front of that gaze.

And she stepped forward, still shy, still embarrassed, but…

“I just want you to choose. To choose something you want to see every day when you come here,” she told me, saying far more than I thought.

I pointed at a square.

Her eyes lit up.

“Celadon green. I like it,” she said.

And now, through the sparse openings between Trish’s black, gleaming tresses, celadon green peers at me, a pale thing that has tones of jade and gray, that originally came from a glaze in China, or so Trish told me.

I look at the color Trish painted our office with because she wanted me to have something to look at that I wanted to see every day of my life.

She didn’t have to bother.

Not when she’s here.

“Patricia, you are going to get on your knees sooner or later. The only thing that will change is what else I will do to you before you do,” I tell her, my breath washing over her as brilliant eyes drag me closer.

“I… I didn’t agree to that. Haven’t you… isn’t this enough?” she asks, gesturing at her breasts pushing up through the opening of her jacket.

“No,” I tell her as I pop the lone button holding it closed.

She gasps as the lapels suddenly fall away, as her breasts regain their shape with mesmerizing elasticity, and I drag my fingertips up her sides and back down around them, barely brushing the curve beneath them with, yet again, the back of my fingers.

She shivers, a rippling of goosebumps racing over her chest, and I have to hold myself back once more.

Piloerection. One of the many, many things only high-end models have. One of those things that mark Trish as ‘expensive.’

I focus on it so that I don’t focus on my desire to spread her legs and enter her so hard she screams my name.

“I… This isn’t… Mister Lawrence, please,” she begs, and I know she’s acting like she’s asking for one thing while really demanding quite another.

And…

It’s Trish.

And I love her.

So I have to give it to her.

I spread my fingers and push up, sinking into marvelously soft flesh I’ll never grow tired of, even after years have passed and I’ve learned to despise celadon green. She cries out, her nipples hardening with a flush of pink reddening, contrasting the pale blue veins around them.

And I keep looking at her.

“How much more will you force me to do until you’re a good girl and drop on your knees, Patricia?”

Her mouth is open, and her breathing ragged. Then she licks her lips, and it’s almost too much for me to hold back.

“I’m… I’m not forcing you… Please…”

She writhes, her back arched, pushing her breasts into my hands, increasing the varied ways in which she’s shaped beneath my touch as her eyes lid, and she lies the coffee cup on the shelf behind her with a tremulous hand.

I shift my grip on her and softly roll her nipples, playing with pressure and angle until she lets out a soft, barely there cry.

“This can stop as soon as you do your job,” I tell her.

She shakes her head, her hair following the motion, covering and shadowing flashes of green with the rippling waves of hair that is straight, yet also light and fine enough that it sometimes looks like she’s underwater, like the currents are drawing cresting waves across it that light can’t help but be trapped in.

… I honestly don’t know when I became this sappy. I used to be content with a quick, perfunctory fuck. It’s not like the Hive lacks for places to find those.

But… But something about Trish just…

“Please, don’t fire me…” she mutters. “I can’t… You know what they’ll do to me if I’m deemed inept one more time,” she says, bringing me back to the fantasy of the moment.

To her.

As if I’d ever be anywhere else.

“Of course I know, Patricia. That’s how you ended up coming to the office without underwear, remember? Because I discovered just how much you need to keep this job and wanted to see how appreciative you were of my continued support.”

“I… I’m very appreciative, Mister Weathers, I promise—”

“Then show me,” I say before I bite down on the side of her neck and her grip tightens on the shelf behind her so hard the dark wood groans.

“Mister… Mister Weathers…” Her voice quivers as much as her chest against me, and I…

Muscle. Twitch.

It takes… a lot of effort. Plenty of it. I hope it will pay off.

So I grind against her, but the rampant erection Trish has grown used to expect isn’t there. Not as long as I keep it suppressed with the last implant Sam put in my body.

I can see the slight bewilderment from the corner of my eye before it gets replaced by sheer determination, and Trish swings her hips against me, her heat going straight through the tight skirt and the open fly of my pants.

So, yet again… muscle twitch.

“Oh? It looks like we may have found the actual issue with your coding, Patricia. Why you are so bad at your job.”

“Wha—what?” she says, turning to me, breaking the thread of saliva connecting my tongue to her slender neck.

I pull back, my hands going from stiff nipples to heated cheeks as I hold her in place, looking up at me.

“There must’ve been a mix-up somewhere. You’re not an assistant: you are a sexbot.”

Trish blinks up, processing the change in the scenario as…

Uh.

That may have hit too close, given the dilated pupils, steadily increasing blush and visible pulse on her temples.

Just… you know. A hunch.

“I… I am not a sexbot. I am not,” she says in what almost sounds like a question.

“Really? How else do you explain that, as bad as you are at anything that has to do with even taking a call, your nipples become rock hard as soon as you’re touched? That you’re drenched—”

“I’m not drenched! It’s just…” she bites her lip, looking aside as, I think, she tries to stay in character. “It’s just a natural reaction…”

I let go of her face. My left hand brushes back marvelously silky hair over her ear before grabbing it, pulling just tightly enough that looking away is not an option, and the right hand traces the line of her slender jaw until I reach her chin and I slowly caress down the middle line of her perfectly symmetrical body, resting for a moment in the hollow of her throat as she loudly swallows, then continuing between her breasts, down her belly, around her navel, down the line of the taut muscle on top of her left thigh.

And to the hem of her skirt.

“You aren’t drenched?” I ask.

Her lips are barely parted, her breathing almost sibilant, and she can only answer with a slight shake of her head that makes her hair pull taut between my clenched fingers.

So I drag my open hand between her legs, my palm caressing her inner thigh as my wrist pulls her skirt up until the base of my thumb reaches open, warm, wet lips.

“How do you explain this, then?”

Patricia whines.

And I… Well, muscle twitch.

It’s so close to pain it’s a struggle not to show it on my face, but I manage to yet again wrestle down my nascent erection even as I look into pleading, open, violet eyes, and—muscle twitch.

Why do I do this to myself?

“Mister… Mister Weathers… Please, I… I’m not a sexbot. Really. I am… I am not horny. I am not close to begging you for your thick cock. I am just doing this because you’re forcing me to… I am a good girl.”

Ah, right. Because of that.

Also: muscle twitch, twitch, twitch—gods damn it, fuck!

OK. OK, I can manage. I’m not about to grab her hips, throw to the floor the stupid coffeemaker I’ve grown to hate, and reclaim its spot in the name of the Lawrence Weathers Liberation Front by fucking Trish on its shelf.

Yes. I’m not about to do that.

Also: muscle twitch.

… Why do I do this to myself?

“Prove it,” I growl.

“What?” she says, already panting as I saw my hand back and forth, her labia clinging to me and her eyelids fluttering when I press up.

“Prove to me you are not a sexbot,” I insist, just grinding on her clitoris with the bones of my wrist, with tight circles of varying width, the stimulation just irregular enough to keep her guessing how I’ll tease her next.

“How… How can I do that?” she says before biting the middle of her lower lip, letting the red flesh slowly escape from the grip of white teeth, the plush, shiny skin slowly ballooning out as it regains its shape and keeps me mesmerized all the while so that I almost forget to muscle twitch.

Goddamnit, Trish!

“By sucking my cock,” I growl.

“How will that—”

“I have experience, Patricia. I will know if you’re improvising or if you were coded for this,” I tell her.

She looks at me with a pleading note as I regain the sawing motion, more forceful this time as her wet thighs close around my hand, and only the softness of her flesh allows me to keep moving, to keep teasing her.

“Mister Weathers…” she whines.

And I stop.

She blinks as I take my hand out, the skirt almost snapping back in place despite her rubbing her thighs together and mewling in protest.

“You’re a horny little thing. You’re aching to feel a cock inside you, my cock inside you, because that’s what you were made for. Not this job, not parading around as a pants-tenting secretary, but being on your knees and slobbering on me until I shoot it all down your throat and you cum your tiny sexbot brains out at both your fingers and my taste. You, Patricia, were made to suck my cock.”

I take a step back, pulling her down in front of me by her hair, her knees bending with no resistance before they hit the plush green carpet that’s so much darker than the walls.

And Trish is, once again, kneeling in front of me, rubbing her cheek on my pants, looking up at me with fake horror and genuine lust.

And something else. Something that…

Well, I would get mushy at it if it didn’t bring me the almost excruciating experience of yet another muscle twitch strangling my erection in its cradle.

“Not… a sexbot…” Trish almost dreamily mutters as her hands trail up my legs before reaching my belt, tugging at it hard enough that I have to suppress a grunt before she undoes and attacks the button, all the while faking the reticence of a blackmailed secretary who’s fearful of discovering her true place in the world is at the feet of her new owner.

And now, for my masterstroke.

“Why aren’t you hard?” Trish, not Patricia, asks, her tone far more annoyed than fearful as she stares in disbelief at my half-mast dangling between my legs, in front of her, as her hands hold my pants and boxers by my knees.

“I don’t know, Patricia. I guess you’ll have to use all of your sexbot tricks to change that, won’t you?”

She shoots me a killing glare before she remembers the scenario, and then deft fingers take me, lifting me up so she can look at me from beneath my cock, and I’m forced to rely on my overtaxed implant yet again.

The thing is? Trish doesn’t know I had Sam put this in place. Mostly because it’s never come up in conversation, but also because I can’t imagine any conversation starting with, ‘So, you remember when you were getting increasingly horny while I put you under, and I kept fidgeting until I suddenly didn’t? Yeah, that was because I was so horny and confused myself that I thought it was a good idea to surgically implant an erection suppresser. Yeah, Sam also thought I was being a moron. You can stop laughing now.’

… OK, that was a lie: I can imagine such a conversation in excruciating detail, which is the foremost reason as to why it hasn’t occurred yet.

“Am I… doing it right?” she asks before darting a brief lick at my ballsack that gets turned into something longer when she keeps leaning back, dragging the tip of her tongue up my entire penis with something that is a full-body motion, as if the entirety of Patricia Ginosko was now devoted to getting a hardon out of me.

The muscle twitch goes without saying.

Which brings a brief moment of triumph to her eyes before she realizes that, no, that wasn’t me getting hard despite myself, that I’m still just at half-mast, longer than I’d usually be, but still far from what she wants me to be.

And now, her eyelids twitch.

Heh.

“Not bad… But make it more interesting for me. Give me something to look at,” I tell her with my most carefully cultivated condescending tone, the one that was honed through years of customer service but only found its true calling after a certain woman with legs that reach all the way to the floor walked into my office and set me up for the best Noir monologue of my entire life.

She looks at me with incredulity, her lips almost grazing the tip of my cock before she looks down at her exposed breasts as if asking herself if those are still there.

Then pretends to turn back to her meek self and shifts her hips side to side as she pulls her stretched skirt up until it becomes a broad, wrinkled belt digging into her curves, her sex bare to my eyes, the glint of light on wet skin as obvious as her pointed nipples and her scrunched eyebrows.

“Is… Is this good enough… for you?” she breathes out, every single syllable enough to bring a renewed burst of blood roaring down to my shaft only to be impeded by an increasingly strained barrier.

“No. Not really,” I tell her with my most perverse smile. “Try to touch yourself. It should be easy: just think of all the things you will get to do once you finally manage to get me hard.”

Something interesting about Trish? Despite being, objectively, one of the most intelligent and attractive people anyone will ever meet, she’s terribly competitive.

Or so Clarissa assured me when, at the last Christmas party, she managed to talk her into a karaoke duel.

My sides have never ached so bad. It was hard to keep the laughter inside my head.

So I figured, why not give her a challenge? Why not make her work for what she often gets without even meaning to?

Why not make Trish actually have to make an effort to get me to fuck her?

And, well, I admit it’s been a bit masochistic of me, given how a certain implanted muscle is starting to burn like it needs more regular exercise, but…

But with the way she’s now looking at me? That spark of defiance as she keeps holding my cock up while she first grabs her breast then pulls at her nipple before letting the marvelous orb bounce back as her fingertips recreate my earlier journey down her body, her leg, up the inside of her thighs…

“Look at me,” she whispers. “Look at what you have at your mercy,” she purrs.

And then she leans forward to lay a gentle kiss on my tip as her fingers go inside of her, the wet sound coinciding with a loud smack of her lips right before she opens her eyes again and looks up at me.

This is getting kind of painful…

“You… You may be right,” she says as she moves two fingers inside herself, alternating, one bending back and out of her tight opening as the other straightens to plunge back in. “I may be a sexbot. Because I’m furious at you. At your belittling, at your snide remarks, at your blackmail,” she says, mixing character and pure, undiluted Trish. “But, most of all? I’m furious at this,” her hand on me tightens, the flesh slightly bulging above and below her fingers as she glares at a cock’s head that, for once, isn’t offering her the thick drop of precum she’s so used to licking up. “I’m furious at you getting me like this,” she looks down between her legs as marvelously deft fingers start moving in unison, at a steadily accelerating rhythm, “getting me ready to do anything to your cock, and you… you… You!”

Trish glares. I smirk.

Really, it’s kind of our thing.

“Words, words, words,” I tell her.

“What?” she says, her tone on the brink of something dangerous.

“You’re ready to do anything to my cock? Well, so far, ‘anything’ has been a couple of tugs and a single lick. That’s not—fuck!”

Trish is beautiful. That’s not me being sappy and in love; that’s an objective statement. A fact.

What may be a tad subjective is that, when she glares up at me with her nose buried in my pubis, her tongue wrestling my cock as far inside her mouth as it can currently reach, and her eyebrows scrunched in fury, Trish is stunning.

So, yeah, the muscle twitch is getting increasingly harder to pull off.

“Stop that!” she says after pulling back fast enough that a glob of her own spit falls on her cleavage, the highlight devastatingly eye-catching when combined with the jiggle rippling across it due to the sides of her arms pressing her breasts together.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I tell her.

“Your implant! I swear, if you suppress your erection one more time, I’m going to do some surgery of my own—”

“I don’t have an implant for—”

“You do! That twitch in your thigh? That’s a standard model, and you’re not fooling anyone—”

“I’m perfectly capable of not having an erection by myself! Don’t be so pretentious that—”

“Pretentious? Pretentious?! Sam told me! I thought it was cute, and embarrassing, and something I’d never tell you because it made me feel—damn it, Lawrence, just let me have this already!”

I stare at her, shocked, yet not at all surprised, at Sam’s posthumous betrayal.

She glares up at me, my spit-shined cock in her grasp twitching at a rhythm about on par with that of her left eye.

“Make me,” I tell her.

And then, Patricia Ginosko, for the first time in our lives, roars in frustration, grabs my hips, and lifts my body as she stands up.

It takes me a second to register her violently throwing the coffeemaker away before she sits me in its former place.

It’s kind of a mixed feeling: on the one hand, the vindication and defeat of my long-time tormentor has been swift and ruthless; on the other, I regret having only an indirect hand in its demise.

“Make you? All right, let’s see how long you can hold on,” Trish darkly whispers before kneeling down once again and grabbing her breasts to envelop me, managing to get my tip to peek out of the pillowy embrace before she leans down to circle it with her tongue, to trace the slit up and down, to suckle at it with devoted lips.

My eyes almost roll back at the assault, but I’ve got an image to maintain, so I only cock a supercilious (that’s the word Trish loves the most when complaining about it) eyebrow at her, and she closes her eyes in anger, refusing to look at me as she dives down into her own cleavage, inducing in me both a jolt of pleasure and a brief pang of jealousy.

…

I really like her breasts. It’s kind of unfair that she gets to monopolize them.

As if sensing her brief victory, Trish pinches the tips of her nipples and shudders as I can see the edges of a smile tugging at the corners of her lips even as she pushes forward, her tongue busier than ever in tracing every single spot below the ridge of my cock’s head.

Then she starts humming.

It’s… It’s also somewhat unfair that she doesn’t need to breathe. And the less said about her capability to modulate the vibrations coming from her own modified larynx, and how they seem to reverberate through my very bones until they make my jaw clench in a futile struggle to suppress the effect they have on me, the better.

Also, a certain muscle may be getting increasingly strained.

I wonder if overworking it will result in extra erections? It shouldn’t, not by any reasonable logic, but… But the idea of being constantly hard while sitting at my workstation, waiting for Magda to turn her back on us so I can throw Trish on top of her desk and—damn it!

She looks up at me, a spark of victory in her gorgeous eyes as she feels the steady pulse of my cock enlarging between her lips.

It makes it all the sweeter when it deflates yet again.

“You impossible man…” she mutters darkly, her breath on my wet tip almost managing to make me shudder.

“Well, you hired me to do the impossible…” I say, buffing my nails on my shirt before carefully examining them.

No, I don’t know why either. It’s just something smug characters do, so I, of course, have added it to my ever-growing repertoire of ‘Things to Annoy Trish With.’

The corners of her eyes narrow, and then…

She leans back.

She’s sitting on her haunches, her open jacket barely hanging from her shoulders, her legs spread so I can see her lower lips open and close beneath her superb control, and she’s resting an arm between her breasts, the tip of an extended finger pulling her pouty lip down as she looks up at me with fake innocence and open defenselessness.

“Mister Weathers… I think you were right. I think I am a sexbot,” she says, with the best ‘innocent schoolgirl who’s not actually that innocent’ voice I could’ve coded if given years to devote to such a project. “Because… please, don’t get mad at me, Mister Weathers, but I so want to… to learn about your cock. To feel it deep inside of me, stretching me wide open, reshaping me…”

Trish holds her pose as I strive to hold something elseback.

Then her lips briefly tighten in a whitening line at my lacking reaction, and she stands up, swaying her hips as she first turns around, and then walks to her desk with one foot in front of the other, bending over the dark wood that contrasts so perfectly with her pale skin as she half lies on it, her arms spread to her sides, her head turned to look at me over her shoulder.

“Mister Weathers… won’t you please fuck me and teach me my place?”

It takes every last shred of the self-control I still have left not to jump off the shelf.

I just stand up and walk toward her, my hands on her waist before going down to her ass, caressing the soft flesh, looking at the exposed stretch of skin between her pulled-up skirt and her rumpled jacket before I dig my fingers into a deeper massage and Trish arches her back as she lets out a moan that races up my spine.

“No,” I whisper.

Her eyes shoot open, and I plunge my fingers inside of her.

Whatever scathing, indignant reply she would’ve let out is held back when she hurries to bite down on her wrist as her eyes search mine while I do to her what she was doing to herself.

Except… I’m not her.

I have augmented myself. I have a kinesics precision on par with professional athletes, the senses to perceive what I’m doing and the effects it causes. I’ve got a cognitive booster that lets me all but slow down time when I need to process all that input and make something of it.

I can watch Trish writhe beneath me, at my touch, and get as much crystalline detail as my strained mind can manage. I can see her hair being uncharacteristically messy, yet still glinting the lights off with something that looks like fluid, intentional grace. I can see all the ways in which Trish strains to communicate with her eyes, with the visible parts of her face. I can feel the heat into which I’m plunging my fingers.

I can see the pores crafted into her skin with a pattern that should be procedural to save on resources, yet isn’t. A pattern that all sisters share and that I’m sure was optimized to give her that perfect blush that always makes my heart clench.

So I do it. I take in everything of Trish that I can, that my limitations allow me to commit to memory.

But I’m not her.

I don’t have her precise touch, her sprawling intellect. I don’t know the best, the literal best, way to touch her.

I just have agile fingers, a quick mind, and the will to see her feel loved.

It’s… the best I can do.

“You… You bastard, don’t… don’t make me come like this,” she says, her voice sweeter than her words would imply.

Thankfully, the best I can do has always been enough.

So I suppress my own sweet look to keep that supercilious eyebrow in place, and I push my fingers in before grinding against her, my palm cupping her sex, trapping her heat between us.

“I’m going to make you come in whichever way I please, Trish,” I say.

She shakes her head, her lip bitten so she won’t cry out, and then I move again, faster than before, a slapping sound coming from her every time I sheathe them as fully as I can while I hold her hips in place with a single hand digging on her ass, pushing her forward against her own desk.

And then, as she yet again looks straight into my eyes with mesmerizing, ever-shifting violet, I pull them out and attack her clitoris, rubbing in tight circles, once more adding as much variety to my touch as I can, not in rhythm but in pressure, and the hand with which she was covering her mouth goes behind to pull at her hair as she throws her head back and lets out the kind of moan that I need an implant for.

Not yet.

“Mister Weathers…” she whines. “I… I’m everything you said I am, so please—” and she cries out.

Just as I drop down and lick her pussy. Such a serendipitous coincidence.

Her hands are now on her own ass, spreading herself for me, her legs stretched to both sides as I do my best to stimulate her despite the awkward position.

“I…” she manages to say, so I’m not doing my very best. “I… This feels good, this feels wonderful, Lawrence, but…”

She cuts herself off when I grab her from below, my thumbs digging into the hollow behind the taut tendons of her hamstrings as I push her up, lifting her entirely off the carpeted floor in which I’m kneeling so that her sex is above me, so that I can bend back and kiss her clitoris with all the tenderness she deserves.

“Lawrence!” she cries out. Not Mister Weathers.

So I stop.

I hold her above me, her weight nothing to my arms. Not now. Not since we met.

“Such a disrespectful little toy,” I whisper, just a tad louder than her gasps.

“I love you,” she says.

And I…

What?

“I love you, and I don’t care for this… this game. Not if you’re holding back. Not if you… I love you, I love you so much it hurts, and I can’t stand the thought of you even pretending not to want me, so, Lawrence, please—”

This time, when she cuts off, it’s not with a whimper or a cry. She just goes suddenly still.

It may have to do with me being sheathed fully inside of her.

Inside my right thigh, a tired muscle finally rests.

Inside my head, something roars.

So I bend over her, trying to feel her back on my chest, but my stupid shirt’s on the way, so I rip it open before I tear apart her jacket and I rest on top of her, finally feeling that empty void in front of me I never realized was there until the first night I hugged her pleasure-wracked body to me.

“I win…” she mutters.

It’s the last thing I’ll let her say in quite a while.

I grab her lustrous hair and wrap it around my wrist before I pull her back with a delighted gasp that ends when my lips find hers, and I devour her, my kiss as hungry as I can make it as she answers it with every bit as much need as I feel for her.

She pushes her hips back against me, wanting all of me, and I push forward, the passage offering me no resistance until I try to pull back, and her sex grabs at me as desperately as she holds my head in place when her tongue wraps around mine, making me renew my attack, sucking her tongue into my mouth before I plunge back into hers.

I manage to get out just a tiny bit, but it’s enough for Trish and her gymnastic body to turn around without stopping our kiss or our fucking, her left leg maneuvering between our bodies until she’s lying on her back and I’m resting on her breasts.

Then I pull her up so she’s sitting, and I thrust in and out hard enough that her tongue goes limp against mine as her sex clenches against me, and her mute thrilling once more reverberates through my whole body as Trish comes with me inside of her.

It takes… It takes me a lot not to join her, but I want her too much to stop this quickly, this suddenly, so, as soon as she regains a bit of herself, I pull her closer to me, once more massaging her ass with fingers just strong enough for it, and she wraps her legs around me, the black nylon forcing her to pull tighter so her legs don’t slide down, our bodies so close together that there’s only enough room for a thin layer of glistening, shared sweat as our skin glides, her breasts flattened against me, her belly quivering against mine.

Then I lift her up.

And I put her on the coffeemaker shelf.

She hits my back with a petulant fist when she realizes what I just did, but she still hugs my neck, still kisses me, still hooks her ankles together behind me.

Still makes love to me.

I have trouble believing it, from time to time. Yet, the other day, when we went out because of her ridiculous Stacy stunt…

It broke my heart.

It broke my heart in all the right ways, and I don’t know when I’ll stop finding new pieces with which to love her even more.

I pull back on her hair, and our kiss breaks as her eyes open to look into mine.

She’s going to say something. Something utterly Patricia Ginosko that will likely leave me either reeling with a deluge of overwhelming feelings or straining to come up with the best sarcastic quip to answer her with.

My personal best so far?

“I love you.”

She melts before my eyes, and so does my own smile until…

“You… You just remembered the Red Room thing, didn’t you?” she asks with eye-narrowing suspicion.

“See? You know me so well,” I tell her with my own smirk firmly in place.

Her nails dig into my nape as she pulls me closer so that myriad shades of violet swallow my entire world.

“Well, I love you,” she answers.

“It lacks a certain bite when I never had any convoluted complex about you saying it while we have sex—”

“I love you enough to make you break out of character and get hard for me,” she adds with all the smugness a Ginosko sister is capable of.

I blink at her. Her grin mirrors my usual one.

And I laugh.

“You do realize this means war, don’t you?” I finally tell her.

“I wouldn’t want it any other way,” she answers before plunging her face forward and biting on the side of my neck, her tongue doing unspeakable things to me across every patch of sensitive skin she can reach.

I’m still holding a leash made out of her hair, still can pull her away to regain lost ground.

Instead, I pull out and back in, our flesh slapping in something that echoes across her too-large office as Trish whimpers against me.

Then her heels dig into the hollow of my back, and I do it again, this time faster, fast enough that I can see her ass ripple over her shoulder and down her back, the shelf rattling as we both use our full strength to bring our bodies closer as we finally fuck in earnest.

Trish lets go of my neck, and her eyes once again take away everything else, even celadon green, as I see her look at me with…

With love, I guess.

The love an artificial intelligence was surprised to discover she could still feel.

“Trish, I’m going to—”

“Inside me. Please, inside me,” she begs, a small smile on her lips that…

I push one last time, and her lips turn into a flat, tight, pursed line as her eyes narrow in pleading yearning, and something strangled tries to leave her throat.

Her stocking-clad thighs tighten around me.

Her heels push me closer.

And, just as my girlfriend opens her lips to cry out her third orgasm of the evening, I come, filling her body with jet after jet of my seed.

It… It takes me a moment to calm down. To just breathe, even if harshly, as Trish does pretty much the same, staring up at me with all that wonder I always feel uncomfortably undeserving of.

Then, as I go to say the three words once again…

The shelf cracks.

The both of us, respectively one of the most capable human-seeded AIs in existence and the only person alive we know of who has been able to turn a sexbot into a person, stupidly look down at it.

Which is all the time it takes for it to split in half and Trish and I to fall to the carpet below.

She’s on top of me, one hand on each side of my head, her face looking at me in utter shock.

I look up at her, suspecting my own face shows her pretty much the same.

And then, we two impulsive, bumbling, maybe childish fools in love laugh.

It’s almost the best part of the evening, if we don’t count everything that comes after.

***

Magda is standing in the middle of the doorway.

It’s morning. She works today. There’s nothing exceptional about such a fact.

Trish and I are appropriately dressed and already in the office. This is also unremarkable enough.

“We’ll be done in a moment, Miss Ginosko,” the repairman screwing the new shelf in place says.

“Yeah. Almost done over here,” the other repairman putting a new, unbroken sheet of glass on the coffee table says.

“Terribly sorry about the delay,” the one replacing a patch of torn-up carpet adds.

Magda looks at all three of the André models, completely undistinguishable except for the ID patches on the chest of their janitorial uniform.

Then she looks first at a fidgeting Trish who should relearn how to use a poker face when dealing with her closest female friend, and me, an unperturbable bastion of bluffing serenity.

Then Magda, without saying a single word, arches an eyebrow that is in no way at all supercilious but that makes both Trish and I look away in what I suppose some biased spectator may think is embarrassment.

Really, you ask a girl to bring you emergency clothes one time…