Artificial Alan

January 2, 2011 at 12:16 am · Filed under erotica, sex ·Tagged erotica, fantasy, oral sex, sci-fi, sex

My brand-new Artificial Alan arrived on a Saturday morning, by way of an old UPS truck, converted over to hydrogen fuel cells, spray-painted Day-Glo orange, and double-parked in front of my building.

I’d tracked him in real time from the factory in Bangalore where he’d been assembled, to the integration center in Dublin; from there through Port Newark and then to a warehouse in Brooklyn where he had languished for two whole days.  It had taken a phone call –a phone call!– to jumpstart the process.  And now here he was, just as promised!

Leaning over the balcony rail, I watched the delivery guy load the large, square cardboard box off the back of his truck and onto a handcart.  Don’t. You. Fucking. Drop. It.

It seemed to take forever for him to get to my apartment.  I live sixteen floors up, in a building that was once an office tower. The owners had abdicated years ago, and the elevators have been out of service since long before I moved in.  That’s part of the price you pay for living rent free.  Another is the lack of heat and air conditioning.  Even so, it was taking unreasonably long.  After all this, it wasn’t getting delivered to the wrong apartment, was it?  My poor pussy cringed at the very thought.

Finally, the rap at the door.

The delivery guy was a rasta dude, well over six feet tall, in a blue jumpsuit with nothing on underneath.  He was really ripped, black muscles tensing and bulging.  He was covered in sweat from the climb, and smelled like a sexy mixture of ganja, male perspiration, and incense.  If I was one of those sassy size-zero girls in the tri-dee pornos I’ve gotten so addicted to, that is where I would have jumped him.

Instead, I just signed for the package, which was surprisingly heavy, and thanked him for bringing it all the way up.  I tipped the guy 500 Yucks, greasy, tissue-thin paper money, and he grinned and bobbed his head knowingly at me.

Holy over-packaging!  The cardboard box was full of peanuts. Excavation revealed a knife-resistant plastic blisterpack, which enclosed a styrofoam clamshell which finally contained my new shrink-wrapped Artificial Alan.

He was beautiful, of course.  I’d selected the inputs myself; an algorithmically extruded amalgamation of Sonny Chiba, Clint Eastwood, and Toshiro Mifune, with just a touch of a young Will Smith thrown in for spice.

It was a pity I’d only been able to afford the head.  But hey, I wait tables for a living.

The instructions said he had to charge for six hours before the first use.  Hrrmph, they didn’t mention that in the sales brochure.  Oh well.  I had to go to work anyway.  I sat him on my coffee table (read: executive desk truncated with a Sawzall), and plugged him into a wall socket; got dressed and threw my work clothes in a carry-along bag.  The Crazy Lady is only three blocks from my tower, but man, those stairs are a bitch!

I thought about him all day while I made coffee and delivered tiny fried chicken sandwiches to Asian men in identical prefab suits.

When I got home, the LED at the base of his neck was glowing solid green.  I thought about taking a shower first, but I’d had quite enough anticipation.  He was an artificial.  He wouldn’t mind a little sweat, would he?

I thumbed the ON switch, and there was a barely audible hum as he powered up.  I held my breath.  Please work.  Please, please don’t Bill Gates on me.  Finally, his eyes blinked open.  They were big, soft oak brown eyes, with specks of gold in the irises.  They looked around the room, the big empty room still strewn with packing material, and then settled on me.  He smiled, and I felt myself blush.

“Are you my End User?” he asked, eyebrows raised in a question mark, “You’re quite lovely.”

I blushed and beamed despite myself.  Getting all hot and bothered over compliments from a machine.  Ha!  “Oh, you’re just programmed to say that…”

“No, I’m serious,” he said, “We did all our beta integration on Artificial Angies.  They’re just a bunch of Barbie Doll clones.  No personality.  I find you much more attractive.  I’ll bet you’re a really good kisser…” he paused, as if embarrassed “…I hope that’s not too forward.”

“Not at all,” I said, tentatively stroking his cheek.  His flesh was warm and soft, with just a hint of stubble, as if he had shaved early that morning.  I lifted him up and brought him to my lips.

He was a really good kisser: passionate, eager, exploring me with just enough tongue and playful nips and tugs from his perfect teeth.  Holding him up to my face felt awkward and got uncomfortable fast, so I set him on the couch, and we made out like that for a while.  I ran my fingers through his hair, which was thin, fine and clean.

“I’d like to see your breasts” he said, “if you don’t mind.”  It was cute to see him blush.  They’d engineered it perfectly.

“I don’t mind one bit,” I said, peeling off my work shirt and bra.  I fed him my boobs, which he attacked with unabashed joy.  It must have looked ridiculous, from a bird’s-eye view; a disembodied head sucking my nipples pink and hard until they stuck out like gumdrops; but I didn’t care.  I for one was having a blast!

“Would you like to go down on me?” I asked, already knowing the answer, “Would you like to lick my pussy?”

“I’d love to!” he grinned up at me, “I’m equipped with the new mimetically-programmed advanced cunnilingus routine… I’m dying to try it out on you.”

I shucked off my black skirt and tossed my damp panties in the general direction of the laundry basket.  I’ve never put up anything to cover the windows, and I’m always wandering around the apartment in the nude.  I’ve often fantasized about my neighbors; other people in the high rise towers around mine, watching me through high power binoculars.  Sometimes I masturbate to that, putting myself on display for the empty window.  Well, if anyone was watching that Saturday afternoon, they were in for a show!

He licked and kissed and nibbled my upper thighs, assiduously avoiding my needy parts, tormenting me with a discipline no flesh-and-blood lover of mine had ever demonstrated.  It took all the discipline I had to not grab him by both ears and mash him into my cunt.

Finally, when I really couldn’t bear the teasing one more instant, when I really was about to mash his mouth into my sopping wet crotch, he at long last dove in.

His slithering tongue found its way through my slick folds.  He methodically explored my pussy, tracing that impossibly long and agile tongue all the way from the top of my slit, carefully avoiding my clitoris, down the length and breadth of my vulva and beyond, dancing merrily around and then on my asshole.  I squirmed and giggled as his tongue invaded my butt.  GOD, he was good!

Then he traced his way back up toward my clit.  Never actually on that sensitive flesh, his flickering tongue weaving in close, but never quite touching me, always just a Planck length away from those critical nerve endings.  My clit strained outward.  With two fingers, I squeezed and separated, offering myself to him.  He finally accepted my offer, the soft wet flat of his tongue pressing oh so gently against my hyper-excited button, moving in infinitesimally small circles; up and down, left and right; and I exploded, bucking and shaking, squeezing him hard between my thighs. He kept licking, tracing those exquisite little circles.  A human would have had to come up for air, but not Alan.  I gave myself over to it, the orgasm broke over my body like a rogue wave, throwing me tumbling through the surf, gasping for air.

His face was all sticky, and he was smiling, a huge goofy smile, when I lifted him up and placed him back on the coffee table.

“How was that?” he asked, “You’re not going to mail me back to Dublin and those awful Angies, are you?”

“That,” I said, still trying to catch my breath, my body still quivering through residual aftershocks, “that was fucking amazing!”

“What would you like to do now?” he asked, “I could start teaching you French.  Or I could read you some Shakespeare.  I have the complete sonnets on file.”

“Actually,” I said, stretching lazily and spreading my legs wide.  I traced a finger up and down my pussy.  Wet.  “Actually, I thought we’d try doing that one more time.”

“I was hoping you’d say that.” he said.  I was tweaking my nipples, rolling them between thumb and forefinger.  I hoped someone was watching through binoculars.  This was too good.

“You know,” Alan went on, “If you got me the Arms and Torso Accessory Kit, I could give you a nice back rub… or a sound spanking.”

Actually, I’m saving up for a Plug-in Penis Pack.  It’s supposed to plug into the abdomen, but it can be used separately too, with a wireless connection.  You get to specify the exact length and girth you want, and you can choose from 52 different anatomical archetypes, erect and flaccid, with a 5% randomizer built in just to keep it spicy.  When you’re ready to feel your Artificial Alan come, the user-actuated pseudo-orgasm routine features a hypoallergenic butterscotch-flavored semen analog.  And… it vibrates.

END

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