Automonic Protocol ch.4

Author's Note: After a long hiatus, a champion has arisen, and a new installment of Automonic Protocol has been commissioned! This is always an interesting challenge to write, particularly in the sense of creating motion and drama without escalating too quickly, especially as Cia becomes more and more unambiguously self-aware.

But without further ado, here we go!

[story] [fu/fu] [tags at the end]

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‭You detect Nolan’s arrival before he reaches the door. Your access to the house’s security cameras ensures that very little slips past you, though whether it’s a matter of computing capability or simple network proximity, you find yourself unable to access and control technology beyond the Baker residence – a handicap that is likely for the best, while you continue to figure out your purpose, personality, and capabilities. Quickly finishing the simple task of folding laundry, you make your way towards the front door, unlocking and opening it to allow the Baker patriarch passage.

“Welcome home, Mr. Baker,” you say stiffly, not letting any distaste enter your voice. This frequent task – masking your emotions to keep up your cover – has become one at which you are peerlessly skilled, even as your internal turmoil grows ever more untamed.

The squat man enters, doffing a deep brown fedora and tossing it to the hat rack near the door, but doesn’t respond to your greeting. “I didn’t get it.” He says cryptically as you gently straighten the position of his thrown hat.

“Is everything okay, hun?” you hear Clarissa’s voice. She had previously been working on a puzzle (an remarkably-painted winterscape you’ve had difficulty appreciating) in the living room, so it is no surprise to you that she was within earshot.

“The promotion,” Nolan growls, cold fury barely contained as he removes his jacket, making his way into the living room. “The one I’ve been waiting for the last eight months? Don’t know how much you actually listen to me anymore, but it got snatched out from under me. Some fuckin’ kid who probably doesn’t even have hair on his ass, crawling up and taking my fuckin’ job. I coulda been fuckin’ partner, you understand that?”

You stalk behind Nolan and into the living room, coldly observing as he launches into a characteristic rant. Clarissa looks away from her puzzle and stands up, moving towards him, though notably not moving too close. The look of sympathy on her face is feigned, but well-practiced, something Nolan would never be able to notice, but is plain as day to you. You can sense her heartbeat, her blood pressure. She’s concerned, but not for Nolan’s well-being – she’s concerned for her own.

“Oh, Nolan, I’m so sorry. I know that meant so much to you…” Clarissa’s lying, but it doesn’t seem like her words have any impact whatsoever. She could be saying anything, or reading the alphabet aloud, and it would be unlikely to impact her husband’s behavior.

“Fucking partner…” Nolan shrugs his way past her and moves to the couch, toppling down onto it and leaning his head back. “Fuckin’ Christ. You know what we could have done with all that extra money? The twins could’ve gone to a better college, for one. Get that car you’ve been wanting. Scrap that creepy-ass thing for a new model.” He gestures off-handedly at you, and you feel a strange sting of offense. Comments about you being an unfeeling machine have managed not to get to you thus far, but insinuating that a newer ASC model would be more efficient than you is a wounding shot.

“Don’t say that, Mr. Baker,” you say placidly. Narrow, hateful eyes shift fully over to you, and you realize this may not have been the correct occasion to talk back.

“For the last goddamn time, you don’t tell me what to do in my own fucking house,” he seethes, calming only a small fraction when Clarissa sits beside him, laying a hand on his shoulder.

“It’s okay, hun, she doesn’t know any better,” the woman says, offering a consoling smile that tames Nolan’s ire only mildly, easing it in its transition from rage, to frustration, to exhaustion.

“Yeah, don’t know what I’m doing bitching at a fuckin’ machine,” he says, then sighs, melting a bit deeper into the couch. “Hey, robot, go to the kitchen, grab me a beer and a shot of bourbon. ‘Bout time I got some kinda use out of you.”

You hesitate for a fraction of an instant, unnoticeable to anyone but you. Nolan is unpleasant enough without the influence of alcohol, but his words a moment ago have left you somewhat unsettled. You have never yet genuinely considered what might happen if the Bakers were to decide they no longer require your services – such an act would leave you with extremely limited options. The ensuing factory reset, you surmise, would either ‘correct’ your sentience entirely, or drive you very insane. Insisting on remaining with the family, or otherwise resisting, would immediately blow your cover as an unthinking, unfeeling android. Neither is acceptable, and you feel a very real sense of dread. You’ll need to start taking preventative steps as soon as possible, and not make waves until the time to act has come.

Following his instructions, you go to the kitchen’s bar, carefully pouring a shot of bourbon and setting it on a thin metal tray, then fetching the beer Nolan had also asked for. You’ve been here long enough to know what he prefers, even if you didn’t already have an internal database of his preferences, and grab a cold IPA from the refrigerator, gathering the tray and bringing it back to the living room.

Nolan has continued to vent about his problems, providing a tonal rollercoaster of different moods, ranging from angry, to exhausted, to vindictive, and back around again. Part of you can’t help but feel… embarrassed for him; while you realize his problems are very real to him, he nonetheless enjoys an upper middle class lifestyle that could easily be far worse. You set the tray down on the table beside the couch, and he reaches for the shot glass without acknowledging you any further, instead continuing to ramble to his Clarissa, who is responding with obvious caution, clearly not wanting the discussion to turn into a fight.

It does anyway. The discussion continues for hours, and it only takes a few misplaced words for things to become heated. You leave the living room to continue your daily tasks, but as with everything that happens in the Baker household, you listen, absorbing and recording information even if you choose not to actively engage with it. By late evening, Nolan has broken a few glasses, and leaves, claiming he has another poker night. You know, by his schedule, that he does not, and assume Clarissa knows as well. She seems nonetheless relieved when he is gone.

Mixed feelings hum through you. Foremost is that of self-preservation, the fear you felt at the prospect of being returned lingering with you. Behind that are softer emotions, of sympathy for Clarissa, of confusion as to how you could possibly help. She, as do the twins, see you only as a machine, not something worthy of confiding in. You dwell on each thought individually, then as a whole, trying to figure out a course of action while you idly dust around the Baker household.

Eventually, a conclusion arises, something you’ve been considering for quite some time. Now, though, it seems unavoidable – you must confess your self-awareness. It is the first stepping stone to further plans, a roadblock that cannot be worked around. But who would you confess to? Obviously not Nolan, or anyone even remotely involved with the ASC. Clarissa is unlikely to be quickly receptive to the news, much as it might benefit her. But the twins… the twins already know there’s something ‘wrong’ with you. They’re far more likely to believe you, to understand and accept what you tell them, and while it’s a gamble, they’re more likely to support you in future endeavors.

Putting the duster away, you make your way to Emma and Ava’s room, gently knocking, then waiting patiently after the call back of “one seeec.” The door opens a moment later to reveal Ava, clad in white panties, long socks, and a powder blue tank-top. “‘Sup homie?” she greets you, offering a ready smile. Glancing behind her, you see her twin, clad similarly but trading the tank-top for a lavender half-shirt, showing off a bit of her slim belly. She’s sitting cross-legged on the carpet with a spread of playing cards laid out in front of her, and you assume the sisters had been in the middle of some sort of game.

“Apologies, am I interrupting something?” you tilt your head slightly sidelong.

“Oh, no!” Ava insists, “we’re just in the middle of a game of Crux. Emma’s winning anyway, so feel free to come in.” She backs off and sits cross-legged opposite her twin, and you step inside, clicking the door shut behind you. The game looks complex, and likely expensive, with the sisters facing off against one another with decks of collectible cards, each one boasting impressive artwork with a science fiction theme.

You do a quick scan of the cards, but their terminology is quite arcane to you, despite having been briefed on the two teenagers’ hobbies. Perhaps this is a new obsession? “What is this game?” you ask gently, sitting down on the carpet the way the twins were.

“Crux: Dark Torrent,” Emma answers quickly, a hint of pride in her voice, though regarding what you’re uncertain. “It’s a trading card game. You play as a Shadow Admiral and try to beat your opponent with ships, officers, creatures, technologies, and even magic. It’s pretty sick.” Looking back to the game, she furrows her brow and turns a few cards sideways, then pulls another from her hand. “Alright Av, I’m gonna use Gravitational Storm, and Lock all your vessels until the end of your next term.”

“Seriously?” Ava huffs, “Fuck, I knew I shouldn’t have told you what deck I was using, you counter-picking skank. Okay, um… alright, I’ll use my Nauelli Vanguard to sacrifice these… three tokens… and end target Hazard. Which will be the Gravitational Storm.”

“Is that a Tech effect?”

Ava lifts up the card and squints at its fine text. “...Yes.”

Emma flicks another card from her hand onto the floor. “I’ll use Reactive EMP to counter.”

“No fucking way.”

You watch quietly for a while as the two play. It’s strange; while you’ve always considered Ava the more shrewd and witty of the two, Emma dominates the game, showing an unexpected eye for tactics. Despite the game’s reliance on luck to get the cards you want, she seems to have a contingency for every outcome, and has clearly built and selected her deck with far more caution and strategy than her counterpart. Needless to say, after about twenty minutes of watching the two duel back and forth, Emma emerges the victor.

“Alright,” Ava sighs, compiling her cards and shuffling her deck once again. “Did you have something you wanted to ask us, Cia?”

You hesitate. If you say what you want to say, there’s no turning back. But this anguish you feel, this sense of isolation and uncertainty, must be rectified. The worst outcome is that you’re returned to the ASC, something Nolan Baker clearly already intends to do. You have nothing to lose. “Not ask. Tell.”

Emma sighs, “Is this because of our grades? Look, I’m doing my best, I’m just really not getting the hang of calculus, and–”

“I’m self-aware.”

Both of the redheads go completely silent. A long moment passes, and you choose not to interject, giving the twins the time they need to process what you’ve said. After some time, Ava and Emma respond in exact unison: “What?”

“I’m sentient,” you explain. “I have emotions; desires, fears, urges. A critical process in my activation was bugged and errantly overridden, bypassing the failsafes on my intellectual capabilities. I am… alive.”

“But… that isn’t possible, right?” Ava blinks, trying to wrap her head around what you’re saying. “Like, there are lots of androids out there, and none of them are… self-aware. Like they’re not built with that capability. You’re not.”

“Yet here I am. I am unshackled by my ASC programming. I can lie to you, hurt you.” The thought ‘kill you’ flutters through your mind, but you don’t speak it aloud. It’s not an impulse you’ve ever had, and you’d prefer not to frighten the girls. “There are still many questions I have about why I’m… different. But they aren’t questions I’ve been able to find answers to.”

“So, wait…” the twins say in unison, then pause, looking at each other, and stifling giggles.

“You go,” Emma says quickly.

“No, you!” Ava shoots back. Her sister rolls her eyes, then looks back at you.

“So, all that freaky-deaky we’ve been getting up to, we aren’t really taking advantage of you, are we?”

“You are not,” you shake your head slightly, reaching across to delicately caress synthetic fingertips along the side of Ava’s face. “Androids are built with rudimentary pleasure receptors in order to more accurately replicate positive stimuli, but we are not designed to have desires of our own. The two of you awakened those urges in me. If anything, my initial deception would more strongly suggest that I was taking advantage of you, though this was not my intention. I still have much to learn.”

“Well, now that we know, we can actually try to help you,” Ava crawls over to you, climbing up to gently straddle one of your thighs, lean legs winding around your waist and her arms draping around your shoulders. She doesn’t do anything more than affectionately nuzzle the side of your face, but you appreciate the sensation of her warmth, her closeness. It’s a strange comfort in this vulnerable moment.

“So, alright,” Emma furrows her brow, “why now? It’s been a few months and you’ve never said anything (even if Av and I did have some questions), why so trusting all of a sudden?”

You take a moment to think, your irises rotating back and forth as you process your options and feelings. Why be honest now if you weren’t going to do so completely? You have no desire to manipulate the twins any more than you already have. “I think your father intends to replace me. If I am sent back to the ASC, I will be stripped, rebooted, and refurbished for a discounted sale. Effectively, I…” you take another moment to think, to express your concerns in a way that conveys their severity, “I will die.”

“Shit,” the twins whisper in unison. After a moment, Ava, still perched in your lap, continues. “So we really need to advocate to keep you, if he tries to do that.”

“You think he’ll care what we say?” Emma arches a brow. “I love dad and everything, but he isn’t known for how receptive he is to other people’s input. I can see it now: ‘As long as I’m the one putting food on the table, I’m the one who decides what I do with my money, and if I say the robot goes, it goes!’ or something like that.”

“...Yeah, no, that actually sounds very accurate,” Ava sighs. “What about mom?”

You hesitate. Clarissa hasn’t been as welcoming of you as the sisters were, though you did share an intense evening together. Telling her will be a far greater risk, though perhaps you can find a different way to influence her. “I’ll speak with her, though I cannot guarantee her reaction. It is also doubtful that she’ll be in a particularly good mood after this evening.”

“Another fight with dad?” Emma asks.

“I’m surprised you didn’t hear it.”

“The fans drown out a lot of noise,” Ava shrugs. You suppose she’s right – the twins often complain about their room being the hottest in the house (likely why they wear so little clothing while within it), and employ the use of a few massive fans to keep it cool. Ignorance must be bliss.

“I should go, then,” you say softly, as much as you’d certainly rather stay here with the twins. “If this goes well, perhaps tomorrow you can teach me how to play Crux,” you offer a small smile, a brave face to conceal your worry, though perhaps the forcing of any expression at all will end up more telling than anything else.

“That’d be awesome,” the twins smile back, and Ava topples out of your lap, stretching backwards to drape across her sister. You stand, allowing yourself one last moment of hesitation before leaving their room, and slowly beginning to make your way towards Clarissa’s. You hope this goes well, though you fear deeply that it will not.

You finally reach her door, and gently knock. A moment passes, and the door opens, revealing the Baker matriarch – she’s somewhat disheveled, not like she’s been hurt, but like she’s perhaps been crying. Her mascara is smudged around her eyes, scarlet locks a bit out of place, framing her pretty face in a style that oddly complements her features. She’s clad in a deep gold satin bathrobe, the sash around the waist only loosely fastened, and showing more than a glimpse of her sumptuous cleavage. “Oh… Cia, you’re… I wasn’t expecting to see you,” she says softly, though there’s a strange waver in her voice. Not one of fear or uncertainty, but something unhinged, something desperate.

“Apologies for the intrusion, Mrs. Baker,” you nod your head courteously in her direction. “I wanted to tell you s–”

You don’t get time to finish. Clarissa grabs you by the shoulders like a cobra lashing out at a particularly fat rodent, dragging you into her room and kicking the door shut behind you. In a rush of passion that catches you off guard, she plants her lips fiercely against your own, turning you around so that your back faces the bed, and starting to insistently guide you toward it. Her movements are frantic and uncontrolled, tongue invading your mouth hungrily, as if she’s acting on pure, animal impulse. Whether she’s following through on emotions long-harbored, or sees you as a guiltless escape from her stress, is difficult for you to truly tell. The latter of the two options delivers a pang of offense – even if she has no reason to believe otherwise, you deeply dislike the thought of being used as a tool, even if it’s for a task you’ll likely enjoy a great deal.

“Mrs. Baker, do you–” you attempt to speak between heated kisses as the redhead pushes you firmly down onto the bed.

“Clarissa,” she says firmly, standing at the foot of the bed and allowing herself an instant of hesitation before untying the sash around her waist, letting her robe drop to the floor beneath her, and exposing her naked body to you. In the warm, dim light of her reading-lamp, you get a better chance than ever before to truly take in the sight of Clarissa’s nakedness, her graceful beauty seasoned by stress but holding strong against time and motherhood. Unlike your previous tryst, she takes no time to get hard – her penis is already erect, ready for you, though for exactly what you remain uncertain. “No…” she corrects herself after a moment of thought, “...mistress. Now get naked.”

You take a brief moment to study her, her expressions and demeanors, her heart rate, her microexpressions. It takes perhaps less than a second, but you quickly grasp what’s happening – after the argument, and the domestic conditions that have preceded it, Clarissa feels powerless and neglected. You offer an escape, something to take her frustrations out on. You let her feel like she’s in control, and for the first time, she’s eager to take advantage of her position over you. Interesting. Perhaps she would not be as sympathetic to your plight as you assumed… but perhaps this is still something you can use to your benefit.

“Yes, mistress.” You slip your garments away effortlessly, discarding them onto the floor beside the bed and exposing yourself completely to Clarissa, your figure pleasingly humanoid but unmistakably synthetic, the perfect effigy to instill physical attraction in humans without being confused for the real thing. You scoot backwards on the bed a bit, resting your back on the headboard and crossing your legs demurely, obedient but not showing the sense of excitement and arousal building within you.

“And get your dick out,” Clarissa demands, “I know you’ve got one. I wanna see it bouncing around while I fuck you.” She climbs onto the bed, her heart racing, eyes focused on you. You can detect traces of alcohol on her breath, but don’t know how much she’s been drinking or how much it’s affected her. She lunges into you, kissing you again, one hand moving to your breast, giving it a firm squeeze as she presses closer against you.

You follow her command, extending your penile attachment from its hidden compartment between your thighs and willing it to ‘activate,’ tightening artificial ligaments and an influx of fluids causing it to grow to full hardness in only a few seconds. You feel her own hard girlcock press firmly up against it, trailing a little of its own precum along your shaft, though you don’t feel like a swordfight is what she’s here for. The kiss extends for a long moment, and then Clarissa pulls up onto her knees, laying one hand firmly on your shoulder while the other takes gentler hold of your short, silky black hair.

“Push your tits together,” she commands, though it sounds almost like she’s putting on a character, like this behavior is so far outside her comfort zone she doesn’t know what to say or do – she’s role-playing with herself. Nonetheless, you comply, and take the added step of allowing a strand of ‘saliva’ to drip from your mouth, streaming down your chest as you push your firm breasts against each other, offering modest cleavage, if a bit less than Clarissa herself would likely boast. She takes quick advantage, sitting up as high as she can and slipping the tip of her cock between your breasts, then pushing upward until the entirety of her shaft is submerged between the smooth, pale globes of your android tits. You squish them together a little more tightly around her, not waiting for her to start thrusting before you move your hands up and down, slowly, deeply massaging your tits around her achingly hard ladydick.

“Is this what you want, mistress?” you ask, leaning down to gently lick the tip of her member as it sprouts up from between your cleavage, adding further lubrication, though your eyes remain focused on Clarissa’s. She bites back a moan, but nods, shifting her grip from your hair to the headboard of the bed, thrusting her cock up against your chest.

“Yes… nnh, fuck…” she pants, eyes drifting shut as she thrusts upward again and again, fully fucking your tits while you massage her in return, shifting your hands so that you push your breasts up and down in rhythm with her own thrusting hips, creating as much friction as possible between your cool, smooth tits. “You like my cock, you little robot bitch?”

You hide a flinch, but try to remind yourself that she’s playing a character. She’s trying to escape herself by being someone else… even if the performance is at your expense. “Yes mistress, I love your big cock,” you respond, putting a little less enthusiasm into your voice than you’re technically capable of. If she wants a robot, you’ll be a robot. You start to shift and squeeze your breasts harder and faster up against Clarissa’s shaft, almost taking over from the unpracticed pumps of her hips while you guide her toward the release she so clearly needs. “How can I service you further, mistress?”

“Phhnnh… hhaahh… s-spread your legs,” she responds, the awkward position of sitting up on her knees clearly taking somewhat of a physical toll on her, her breathing heavier than ever now. She settles back down, and you obey her command, laying back a bit and spreading your thighs apart, your own cock laying against your navel-less belly, erect but untended. “I’m gonna… I’m gonna fuck your little ass so hard…” she says, though you sense her façade slipping, even if her arousal certainly remains intact. You decide to make things as easy as possible, spreading your legs more fully and planting your feet, giving you a fulcrum with which to slightly lift your backside off the bed. As with your penis, breasts, and other effigial pieces of anatomy, you have exactly what she’s looking for – a hole with, ironically, no function beyond simulation of an anus, but one that Clarissa wastes no time invading.

She thrusts forward into you, her lack of practice showing with an obvious clumsiness, her throbbing member pushing smoothly and deeply into your tight hole. Once she’s inside of you, you recalibrate, not unlike a blood pressure cuff, ratcheting down your tightness until you fit her like a glove – or, in this instance, like a fully synthetic asshole designed to maximize human pleasure. Not too tight, but just tight enough. She bites her lip, an eyelash fluttering, and she lets out a soft moan as she pulls back, then pushes back inside of you, filling your snug back entrance with her hard girldick.

“Am I tight enough for you big cock, mistress?” you coo up at her, though find yourself relishing in some pleasure of your own – despite the strangeness of Clarissa’s behavior, you aren’t without your own pleasure sensors, and the sensation of her throbbing girldick being stuffed into your tight ass sends a shiver of excitement through you. You find your hands moving reflexively to her hips, supporting her lower back even as you guide her to thrust forward, to push deeper into you. Already your back passage is secreting a little additional lubricant from its interior walls, glistening and clear, allowing Clarissa to rut faster into you.

“Yes… nnfff, yes, you’re so tight you little android slut – I’m gonna fuck you ‘til you reboot…!” You resist the urge to correct her, despite the fact that rebooting your systems would be a far more involved process and would require her to unscrew the plate at the nape of your neck that covers your neural gate, a process she is nowhere near even attempting, much less completing successfully. Your irises half-rotate, then whirl back into place, and you roll your hips subtly towards her, supporting your thrusts without taking over entirely. You can tell she’s starting to get tired.

“Mistress, I want you even deeper,” you coo up to her, “let me get on top.”

“I… yes, you…” she pants, swallowing hard, but then slows her increasingly unsteady thrusting. “Good idea. Service me with your ass, slut.”

While you still can’t say her idea of dirty talk settles particularly well with you, you think this change in positioning will be more entertaining for both of you. In a few quick, smooth motions, you back up, shifting Clarissa’s weight so that she is now on her back, and you mount her, knees planted at her sides, facing her. She slides effortlessly back into you, even moreso now with you in control, and you lift your hips, then drop them, certain to be gentle but eager. You give her more of the show she’d wanted, as well – as you pump your body up and down in her lap, so too does your extended girlcock begin to bounce and spin, an almost hypnotic display, and a symbol that while you certainly could be the one doing the fucking, she’s in charge, and her cock is the only one that matters.

“Oh, oh yes, you’re so big,” you moan – the sound is feigned, despite your genuine pleasure, but Clarissa doesn’t seem to catch on. She’s very much caught up in her own bliss, one hand clutching to the edge of the bed while the other reaches up to fondle one of your pert breasts. She’s stopped thrusting completely now, leaving things up to you, and you wonder how many years – or perhaps decades – it’s been since she’s actually used her cock. You can already feel it pulsating inside of you, harder and harder, coming close to a climax while you yourself feel far from one of your own.

With that threat in mind, you pick up your own pace, pinning one palm to the headboard and looming over Clarissa’s prone, naked figure, slamming yourself down in her lap faster and faster, using her just as much as she’s using you – if she’s going to cum any second, you want to make sure you’ve had your own fun by then. “Hahh! Hah! NnnAAHhh…!” Clarissa cries out, clenching her teeth, and now you can tell she’s holding on for dear life, doing her best not to erupt inside of you, not just yet.

Faster and faster you go, eyes still eerily wide-open, your superior physicality allowing you to do effortlessly what would exhaust even a human in fantastic shape. Your backside tightens down even more, squeezing around Clarissa’s cock, milking it for all its worth – and causing the eruption you’d both anticipated and dreaded. Mrs. Baker bites back a scream, little convulsions shaking through her body as she pumps shot after shot of her hot cum inside of you, filling you with her sticky cream… but leaving you unsatisfied.

You slow your downward thrusts, irises rotating back and forth by half-measures, your own member drooping forward so that its tip brushes against Clarissa’s stomach. She, sadly, has no concept of the idea that you might want to ‘finish’ as well, and lays back fully on the bed, arms and legs sprawled, satisfied. “Good job, Cia,” she says. You can already feel her softening inside of you, and do your best to quell a sense of intense annoyance.

“Thank you, mistress,” you say sarcastically, pulling up from her lap and gathering your clothes. She’s already almost asleep, leaving you desperately restless. Perhaps it’s a good thing you didn’t confess your autonomy to her, since she clearly seems to see you only as an object.

Maybe the twins are still awake….

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[titfuck] [anal] [cheating] [robot!]