Registration and Programing

Inside the workshop you notice all the parts of different droids laying about. Under dim lighting, you see sexbot heads with plump lips and black empty eyes, workbot chest plates and limps and even search and rescue droids with damage marks all over them. Glancing back to the small man in front you, typing at a tablet with his back turned, you remember the droid regulations. Ever since technology advanced enough to allow the average joe-smoe to create their own custom built droids, all the core systems established standardized regulations for droids. They require a standard name with the identification for their role. Sexbot names/code start with P, workbots with W, medical with M and so on. Droids also all needed to display their codes somewhere on the units and have their owner recorded in registration logs. Once registered, all droids required a standardized control unit for it's model, these allow for any governing authority to program, recognize, control and repossess any confiscated droids. Although your confused how you could even have a control unit, since you have a human mind and body, not a CPU.

Your daydreaming is suddenly disrupted by a shearing pain, you'd scream through the gag if the AI hadn't already administered a powerful painkiller right before what just happened. Unnoticed by you, the shopkeep just branded your left thigh with a registration code. The rubber padding prevented any actual damage to real skin, but the nerve attachments done by the machine didn't shield the pain. As you delt with the realization of being branded, the shop keep orders you to a crouching position, which you're **** to comply. As you are **** in position you steal a glance at the number; P-34457. What the fuck! You think, this can't really be happening, I'm not a pleasure droid, I'm human!

After finishing his work on the tablet, the shopkeep walks behind you and plugs a hard drive into the AI backpack's port. Moments later the speakers and your earpiece state in a robotic feminine voice: "Registration complete, P-34457, pleasure droid, owner of P-34457 is David Connors." You scream inside but nothing comes out, the gag fixed in your mouth prevents this and the AI immediately moves to correct behavior. The earpiece comes alive as another prick is felt in your back. "P-34457 is now a registered pleasure droid, human responses will not be tolerated, administering compliance." The fog returns over your mind and your eyes glaze over, everything else blurrs as your master reclaims you and drags you back to his ship. All the while the earpiece quietly repeats:

Good Droids Obey

Master is my owner

I'm a sexdoll

Sexdolls are good droids and good droids obey

Thoughts are for humans, droids give pleasure and dont think

This droid is programmed for pleasure

This droid does not think

Attempting to resist the mantra was pointless as the **** essentially put you to sleep, eventually your mind started repeating without you noticing even while your new owner fixed you to an operating chair and revealed something new.