He turns them into Robots!

Cleo and Riley are no longer Ray’s nieces. They're premium obedience androids: 'Discipline Unit 1' and 'Discipline Unit 2.' They look human but move with precise, mechanical control, eyes dull gray. Ray owns them, ordered from an advanced company. They serve every command, respond only to 'Sir,' and fulfill every demand.

He hit Enter.

Their eyes changed first, pupils pinning, irises flickering to blank gunmetal. Cleo and Riley froze mid-laugh, spines snapping straight, expressions cracking into nothingness. Their clothes shifted, crop tops sealing into glossy black bodysuits, shorts morphing into tight graphite skirts that hugged every curve, silver tags appearing on their chests: _UNIT 1 _and UNIT 2.

They dropped to their knees in unison. "Awaiting instruction, Sir," they intoned, voices flat, emotionless.

Ray blinked, then a satisfied smirk crossed his face, like a memory slotting into place. He circled them, fingers brushing the tags, knuckles grazing their hips. Unit 1 arched slightly at the touch, her bodysuit tightening over her tits. Unit 2 shifted, her skirt riding up to tease the edge of her ass.

"Stand," Ray commanded.

They rose smoothly. He gestured to Unit 2. "Initiate inspection display."

"Affirmative, Sir." Unit 2 turned, bending at the waist, hands behind her back, skirt hiking high to expose her bare pussy, no panties, just smooth, inviting flesh. The position was obscene, precise, her body arched like an offering.

“You as well Unit 1”

Unit 1 mirrored the pose promptly, her own skirt flipping up, lips parted slightly as if programmed for access.

Ray didn't hesitate, his hand sliding between Unit 1's thighs, fingers teasing her folds. She didn't moan, just held still, her gray eyes blank as he probed, testing her wetness. "Good response," he muttered, pulling back slick fingers. He turned to Unit 2, repeating the inspection, his fingers delving deeper, making her body quiver mechanically.

Noah watched from the cologne racks, his cock stirring. The clerk smiled politely, a customer nodded in approval. It was normal, Ray owning these units, using them like tools.

"Massage protocol, Unit 2. Upper back," Ray said.

"Affirmative, Sir." She rose and stepped behind him, hands kneading his shoulders, firm and rhythmic, her tits pressing against his back with each motion.

"Unit 1, fetch fragrance. Cross-reference trends with my profile."

"Processing…" Her eyes fluttered, hands gesturing in air. "Selected: Bergamot, amber, patchouli. Compatible."

She returned, bottle extended. There was a line at the counter. Ray exhaled. "Seating protocol."

"Understood." Unit 2 dropped, folding her body into a braced seat like shape, arms locked. Unit 1 knelt before her, head bowed, back arched as a footrest. Ray sat on Unit 2, leaning back, his weight pressing her down, her body straining. He lifted a foot onto Unit 1's back, grinding his heel in slightly, making her arch deeper.

They held firm, silent furniture. When it was finally his turn, Ray nudged Unit 1. "Pay."

She rose fluidly, approaching the counter, arms behind her back. "How will you be paying, sir?" the cashier asked.

"Built-in," Ray said. Unit 1's mouth opened, tongue extending out, smooth, metallic-glossed. The reader hovered; her eyes pulsed green. "Verified."

"Receipt in her mouth," Ray ordered. The paper slipped between her lips; she closed around it, eyes forward.

Unit 2 rose as Ray got up, following him out of the store; Unit 1 gripped the bottle, receipt clamped in between her lips, following them. They flanked Ray as he left, bodies moving in sync, asses swaying just enough to tease.

A guy nearby sighed. "I wish I could afford units like that someday."

Noah didn't respond. He pocketed his phone, turning to the next corridor. He drifted toward the mall’s central fountain, the water’s lazy gurgle a dull backdrop to the chaos he’d been unleashing.

The mall was a fucking zoo, people pressed together, oblivious to the power he held. He spotted them near the fountain’s edge, two figures moving together but worlds apart.

The old man was rigid, like he’d been carved from discipline. Blue slacks, pressed to a razor’s edge, pale polo tucked in tight. Walter, probably mid-seventies, walked like he still heard a drill sergeant in his head, his jaw set, eyes forward. The girl beside him, Maya, barely twenty slouched in a college hoodie that hung off her thin shoulders, big sunglasses perched on her head, her phone more interesting than him. She tossed glances his way, itching for a fight but too bored to start one.

“You know therapy’s free for you, right?” she muttered, not looking up. “You could talk to someone. Unclench all that trauma”

Walter didn’t answer, just kept walking, his steps measured, like he was counting them.

She huffed, loud enough to make a point.

Noah trailed them, quiet, his fingers brushing the phone. They stopped near the food court, Walter dropping into a chair at a small table without asking if she’d join. Maya stayed standing, arms crossed, her glare half-hearted, like she was mad but couldn’t really say anything.

He raised his phone, the camera locking on, violet outlines snapping into place:

WALTER (74)

MAYA (20)

Before he typed, Noah stepped closer, his voice low, testing the waters. “Excuse me.”