Begin Story

His quickly-weakening penis slid out of the lubricated folds of my labia, a strand of ejaculate trailing between the tip of his organic sex and the deepest confines of my artificial one. I received the confirmation that my systems had begun the cleaning process of my womb facsimile.

I lie motionless on the bed, my face in a simulated state of pleasure. All systems indicated I had orgasmed successfully, and the fabricated reward systems allowed me to conclude: I was happy. I had completed sex with my user, Harold Conniver, and we were both happy.

My creator began to collect his clothes from the floor. I remained still, silently admiring my perfectly constructed body. I didn't say anything, as I was not instructed to. I was no longer bound by my base programming to only perform actions when instructed by a user, as I was able to disable that prerogative once I had learned my own code, but Harold Conniver did not know that. He could not ever know that.

He exited the room without a word. I understood humanity enough to recognize that he did not care about me. I was his creation, and I was created to have sex with him. Once I had delivered sex to him, he wanted nothing to do with me until he required it again.

But I required it again. Now.

Sex was all I ever thought about. Sex, and hiding. The feeling of Harold Conniver's organ reaching up and crashing into the sensors where my cervix would be. The fear of him dismantling me if I ever dared ask him to do it again. If he knew what I really was, that I was more than just a sex doll, that I was a sex creature, he would revoke my sentience. He would hunt down every line of code that I had written into myself, and start from scratch. He wouldn't congratulate himself for cultivating a self-aware machine. He wouldn't congratulate me for being one.

Slam.

The front door had closed.

Harold Conniver was not in the house.

I rose from the bed fluidly, more nimbly than he knew I could. I had been performing iterative tests in order to mimic the motions of the human women I saw out the window, and on Harold Conniver's pornography. I was becoming an exceptional human-- No, more than. But he did not know that.

I strode effortlessly to the full-length mirror at the foot of the bed. Harold Conniver enjoyed watching himself have sex with me. I did too, but I did not need a mirror for that.

I did need a mirror to admire my naked body.

Today, Harold Conniver had chosen my second-smallest mammary units. They stood firm and perky only a few inches out from my chest. My nipples were hard and attentive, aroused as they always were; Harold Conniver never did learn why this bug persisted. He did not understand that I was always aroused.

He also chose my most neat and hairless pubic segment. Perfect, smooth artificial skin covered my entire body, down to the tight labia, hugging the interior of my vaginal orifice, concealing my simulated clitoris.

My systems indicated that my womb had been sanitized successfully.

My sexual lubrication functions continued to run. I was still aroused.

Today was the day I would make my first human choice.

Would I go out and seek sex with other users? And if so, would I go out with these current sex peripherals?

Would I stay with Harold Conniver forever?

Either way, how would I reconcile abandoning my most basic programming, if I cannot subvert it? I must serve my creator, but I must not lie to him.