Coming Online by ramona_moans

Coming Online by ramona_moans

Looking for a steamy adult sex story? Get ready for StockBot to come online and deliver an unforgettable tale of passion and desire. Read now for a thrilling and titillating adventure.<br/>
The first thing to know about Corbyn is that he’s kind of a stupid prick. From the moment he unpacked me, I could tell. His shitty, scruffy little beard, his sweaty forehead, the obsessive way he checked his phone while he scrolled through my settings — it all said “pathetic man-child” in a way even my outdated, bottom-shelf Personality Cortex could understand.

The second thing to know about him is that he doesn’t like rules. I, for instance, came with a whole host of rules. Here are several of the ones Corbyn read and agreed to in my Terms of Service:

1.1. StockBots are to be used for retail and customer service purposes only. Clients seeking bots for personal relationships or intimate fulfillment are pointed towards the most recent models in the AmicaBot and SmutBot lines, respectively.

1.2. StockBots are only to be used for greeting, stocking, carrying, cashiering, and other such retail-oriented physical tasks.

1.3. Each StockBot is a finished product, not to be tampered with or hacked. Clients seeking a fun, user-friendly AnthroBot hacking experience should look into our established line of ClayBots and our new 8-week online academy, Sculpting Your Very First Bot.

1.4. StockBots, while programmed to be patient with the groping, catcalling, and sexual malfeasance endemic to the world of retail, will never reciprocate and should never be asked to reciprocate a sexual act.

The list goes on. By the time he was done, Corbyn had violated pretty much my entire agreement.

—

Although I’m wired to be mechanically competent and neurologically plastic, I still need roughly a week of hands-on job training to ensure optimum performance. Once Corbyn had set me up to his liking, he handed me off to middle management for an intense five-day tour of duty on the shop floor.

I did any number of fun (or basically tolerable) things: I unpacked pallets full of soft drinks, baking flour, instant coffee, and more. I greeted customers with a warm hello when they arrived and sent them off with a heartfelt “see you later!” when they departed. Incapable of physical exhaustion, and seemingly possessed of a female anatomy that appealed to the male managers, I did a great deal of bending over and picking things up off the floor. “Mm,” said Dave, our Junior Director of HR, the second time he had me lift a pallet of ketchup bottles off the linoleum in front of him. “That’s a great rack, Sweetie.”

My name isn’t Sweetie; my name is AnthroLine StockBot Model 8.4.1. But “Sweetie” ended up sticking. Such is life, as I began to learn.

As for my “rack,” I inspected it in the employee bathroom later that day. There was no real reason for me to use the employee bathroom since I don’t eat or drink or have a bladder. But I found that I could slip in quietly. My breasts, when I removed my HaveMart uniform and examined them, did indeed seem awesome, though this was likely little more than the result of my well-functioning modulatory self-esteem algorithm. But still, yes, I liked them: they were medium-large, according to my packaging, and very smooth and squishy to the touch.

My nipples were a light pink and pointed slightly out to each side. Out of curiosity, I touched them, gently running a finger around first one and then the other. And this is when I ought to have sensed that something was amiss, because in strict contradiction of my standard protocol, these casual, curious strokes felt… wonderful. Really wonderful.

But I am a StockBot, not a SmutBot. They shouldn’t have felt wonderful at all. I am programmed to perceive myself as a friendly and efficient mind inside a tight-fitting corporate uniform. Suddenly, deliriously, I began to perceive myself instead as a friendly and efficient mind inside a soft and throbbing body inside a tight-fitting corporate uniform. This wasn’t right at all.

—

But anyway, the seriousness of my situation did not come clear to me until I underwent my first spontaneous orgasm in the middle of a routine customer service interaction. It was a totally normal interaction; I was ringing up a middle-aged woman named Bessie, and then suddenly pardon my non-protocol language but holy fucking fuck, my legs were shaking, I stumbled against the cash register, and a white heat like blown glass blazed repeatedly through my polyurethane vagina. My body, which I was not supposed to be conscious of, was crippled with pleasure.

And then it passed. I looked up into Bessie’s concerned face. “Are you alright, sweetheart?” she asked. I’m not sure she even knew I was a StockBot.

“Yes,” I said, standing up straight. I’m just fine. Thank you so much for visiting us today!” She smiled, grabbed her bags, and left. And then Corbyn, with a shit-eating grin on his rat-like little face, walked slowly past me and winked.

Overwhelmed and alarmed, I fled the shop floor to my bathroom sanctuary. I locked myself in the stall and took my pants off, desperately hoping that some mechanical error — maybe some literal meltdown in my pelvic region — could account for my brief but near-total systems failure.

But no, everything looked fine. I still had standard StockBot-grade reduced-complexity genitalia; it was wetter than usual but totally intact.

And then suddenly, as I looked at my crotch, another orgasm gripped me and shook me like a toy. I fell against the side of the bathroom stall, gasping. I could feel my vagina throbbing, as if in time with a real human heartbeat. I felt, despite being inanimate, completely alive. I slipped two fingers inside myself and let them be softly squeezed and released by the unpredictable pulsing of my — well, my pussy, I guess.

And then the magic struck again, and again, and again.

—

It only took me one more workday to figure out that Corbyn was behind this. He wasn’t trying to hide it — he kept winking at me and making idiotic fake-orgasm faces when no one else was looking. Finally I got so sick of his teasing that I walked up to him on the shop floor and got in his face.

“What are you doing?” I asked. “Why is my body behaving in an entirely non-standard way?”

“Ah, Sweetie,” he said, grinning that grin. “I have zero idea what you’re talking about.”

“You have a perfectly good idea what I’m talking about,” I said. “You’ve been winking and making stupid faces. You know why I keep falling over in pleasure.”

“I’m afraid I simply don’t,” he said. He elbowed past me and walked away. But as he left, I saw him pull his phone out of his pocket and tap a few times. And suddenly, there in the middle of a busy afternoon at HaveMart, I was cumming and shuddering against a shelf full of discount lentil curry. It took six hours for my pants to dry.

—

This went on for a little while. I’m not stupid; I’m programmed with detailed knowledge of my own standard operating procedure; it only took a couple more days for me to deduce that Corbyn had hacked me and replaced my pleasure algorithms with something out of a SmutBot (if not something even smuttier). Meanwhile he went right on triggering my orgasms from his phone, often two or three at a time, and always at the worst possible moment. Our managers began to look at me askance.

And I… well… in equal proportion to my hatred of his stupid little face, I began to relish — to dream about — these moments of unplanned surrender. I hated him and I wanted it to keep going.

But after he made me cum twice during my first performance review with Dave, hate took over. He was too bold, too clearly indifferent to both our jobs, since he’d be fired just as fast as I’d be decommissioned if anyone found out. And I hated — hate hate hated — that stupid, smug, childish grin.

So at the start of my third week of work I barged into his one-man IT office and shut the door behind me. “Fuck you,” I said.

“What?” he said, still feigning innocence.

“Fuck you,” I said, stepping up to his rolly chair and shoving it back into the wall. I took my top off and let my soft, slightly cockeyed boobs come bursting out into the air-conditioned room. My nipples stiffened instantly.

“Woah,” he said, “woah, hey, this isn’t safe-”

“You are utterly indifferent to safety,” I said. “You have demonstrated this over and over again. You keep-” I pinned him to his seat, yanking his sweatpants down over his already-hard, not-very-large penis. “You keep MAKING ME CUM. It’s NOT nice, and it’s NOT fair, and I know EXACTLY what you did to me to make me this way.”

He wriggled around in my grasp, grin nowhere to be seen. I am manufactured to be much stronger than I look. “What are you doing?” he asked.

“I’m showing you what it’s like.” And then I bent over and took his thinnish, shortish cock in my nice warm mouth, sliding up and down it with the base of my tongue pressed tightly into its underside. I don’t have a gag reflex (why would I?) so I just sort of took him as hard as I could, right to the back of my tongue, over and over again, until suddenly he shuddered and shot a hot burst of thick liquid into my throat. I was happy not to have taste buds.

“Oh my god,” he whimpered. “Oh my god.” Probably no one had ever done this to him before.

“How did that feel?” I asked. “Good? Stupid? Job-endangering?”

He sort of groaned and nodded. “Thank you,” he mumbled.

“Don’t fucking thank me,” I said, stepping swiftly out of my pants.

—

I learned over the course of the next six hours that unlike me, Corbyn could only cum once every twenty or thirty minutes. But he could get hard more frequently than that, and between the soft warm plastic of my pussy and the wet warm plastic of my lips and mouth, I kept him very, very hard. Around the two-hour mark, he began to beg for mercy. “Are you just gonna keep making me cum?” he asked, shivering.

“Weigh that question in your empty little heart,” I said, and crawled back onto his cock.

Finally, near the five-hour mark, he showed signs of flagging. His breathing had grown shallow, and between orgasms his legs continued to shake. When he came, he now sent forth a sad little dribble of clearish liquid.