Consequences

While I still stand by my justification for it, the fact that I didn't make it to work that day meant that I was demoted three ranks on the voluntary service register. When I'd thrown myself onto my bed that morning, as I desperately tried not to listen to the first sounds of my own voice expressing its ecstasy at being fucked by my brother, I had finally been able to reassure myself that it was just further evidence that I needed to get the hell out of this toxic home. So what. My gross brother got a gross toy. As if I needed another reason to hate him. And I'd be free to escape soon enough. I'd been volunteering for two whole years, six days a week, ever since I turned eighteen, just to earn a ticket out of this house and away from my vile family.

But the vicious irony. Of course I was in too fragile a state to realise it. By not turning up that day I got a huge demerit mark on my stipend credits account, setting my progress back by a year, and putting the eventual escape a good fourteen months out of reach. I'd been so close. So close. And by running upstairs to hide instead of leaving and accepting the minor penalty for lateness, I'd sealed my own fate.

I was stuck - really stuck - here with Evan and my Dad and my sexbot clone. If only I'd had the clarity of mind to think it through at the time instead of clamping my hands over my ears in a vain attempt to block out the dolls voice.

The morning after, I'm frazzled and exhausted as is usual these days. Most unusually, Evan is already in the kitchen when I stumble in.

"Not fucking your piece of trash toy this morning then?" I don't even bother to hide the bitterness in my voice.

"She needs to recharge once a week," he manages to form the words around the artificial fruit-packed sponge cake snack that seems to count for him as breakfast.

Recharging. I see. My brain dimly thinks back to the all too brief periods of respite that have happened in the past month. I guess they are about weekly, and seem to last a day. Ok, makes sense.

I grab some juice and lean dejectedly against the side, regarding my revolting brother without the distracting presence of my naked likeness for the first time since the toy arrived in our home.

Much as I don't like the circumstances, I am **** to reflect that all the rutting is doing wonders for his health. He is still a grotesque, overweight manchild. And nothing will ever change his pathologically ingrained selfish, brutish behaviour, but he's lost a fair bit of weight and his greasy skin looks clearer than I've seen it since we were children. If only he wasn't such a troll of a person I could almost get behind this change in his lifestyle. If I wasn't **** to listen to him fuck a clone of me eight times a day that is.

But then there is also the other thing... the cries the doll makes when he's doing it. They are so ingrained into my mind that I feel they are subtly reprogramming me. The masturbation along to the audio last night... well, let's just say it wasn't the first time I've done that. The slickness between my thighs right now... it's not just residue from before. Somehow, the thought of them together... it's actually turning me on again.

I **** myself to turn away and put the juice back in the refrigerator with a slam, pacing upstairs for a shower with a burning... fury? Yeah, sure. Let's go with that. Just a fury.

Several hours later, I disconnect in frustration from the VR arena after losing yet another match following a lapse in concentration. My groin is plaguing me with fierce needs, impossible to ignore. My t-shirt, and the panties below it, are both soaked and the latter not just with sweat. It's hopeless. I'm going crazy.

Silencing the games terminal and tossing the MoCap cuffs aside, I give in and go do the thing I've been trying to convince myself for a week that I don't have to do.

There's silence when I knock on Evan's door. I knock again. When he doesn't answer a third knock, I push on it and find it's unlocked. The reek of body odour and stale cum assaults me as I enter. He's sitting facing me, VR visor down, naked except for some ragged shorts. His still-unappealing shape glistening with sweat. I glance over at the doll, kneeling silently in the corner with a braided cable snaking from the nape of her neck to the wall. She is... I am naked, crusted and leaking with fluid. Hair is tousled, skin is bruised. Chromatopores beneath the facial myomer display an eerily perfect makeup despite the spray of cum that covers one cheek and closed eyelid. She is sordid and revolting, and she looks exactly how I've been imagining myself to look these past several nights.

"Evan," I say more firmly. He finally stirs.

"George?" He lifts the visor. "What are you doing in here?"

"I'm... uh. I don't know. It's stupid. I'll go."

"What do you want Georgia." His reedy voice is firm.

"I... look. I haven't been able to sleep for weeks, because of the noise you two..." My weakly gesturing hands flick between them.

"So?"

"So I'm losing it, Evan. I'm going crazy. The... sounds she makes. I..."

He's grinning now, an expectation of some kind of victory burned into his expression. "Yes?"

"While she's charging... I... want you to make me make those sounds too."