J waited. He’d heard shouting inside and the sound of someone moving. A short top-bald man with a thin ponytail of slick pepper and salt hair opened the door. The everything-for-sale-cheap sign had been sticky-taped to one of the empty club’s bay windows weeks ago, but so far, no one had answered J’s ringing or banging on the door.
“For the sale?” the man said. “You’re a bit late, but come on in. Just browse around. All floors are open, cellar included. Pick anything you like. Your price is probably going to be mine. I’ll probably be there,” he said, pointed at an open door leading into a cramped office-like space, and shuffled back towards it. “Have fun. There’s not much left.”
The club smelled of mouldy fitted carpeting and peeling wallpaper. In the sunniest of the empty ground floor rooms, next to a bare heart-shaped bed, J found a toolbox of stripped screwdrivers, seized c-clamps, and an amalgamated assortment of rusted screws, nails, and globs of hot glue. Clear spots and screw-holes dotted the walls where light fixtures or frames had been removed. Against the right wall – stripped even of its mouldings – sat a lone cardboard box full of wigs. A curly orange one crumbled into loose strands as he fished it out to see what was underneath. He tossed it back into the box, got up, and brushed off the orange dust on his jeans. In a walk-in dressing room on the first floor he found a stiff leather corset and a pair of thick leather jackets and jeans he might keep and put them aside. Rubber and PVC gear, some underneath clear covers, had congealed into a shrink-wrapped sticky mess. When he ran his hand along them, the cheap dresses and discoloured maid’s costumes – now more purple than black – still exuded a whiff of spray-bottle deodorant. A complicated harness crumbled when he took it off its hanger. He went down. The large, mostly open cellar was bare. He hadn’t been expecting a fully equipped dungeon, but the absence of even a crate or a cardboard box or a tatty pillory no one had been interested in annoyed him. He was late to the second-hand party and all the goodies were gone. The lights, not to his surprise, didn’t turn on when he flipped the switch. He looked around deeper into the gloom and an electric spasm went through his chest when his eyes locked onto a long, dark mass lying against the furthest wall. In a corner, barely lit by grating set in the top of the wall, a body decked in full gimp gear lay on a painter’s blanket. He kept still until his heart no longer beat into his throat.
“Hello?” he said, staring at the body. It didn’t move. “Are you all right?”
He got closer, knelt, stretched out his hand, and touched its chest. It was cold and solid. There was a sharp buzz, J jumped up, and the lights flickered on. He looked at the light switch at the bottom of the stairs. No one was near it. The thing on the mattress hadn’t moved. He rocked it. It weighed a ton. It wasn’t a mannequin. He had no idea why a dead automaton decked in pristine, elaborate, full-coverage bondage gear worth thousands was lying alone in a bare damp cellar and he didn’t care. He decided to strip it. That suit was his.
The gear didn’t budge. Not only did it seem glued on, the lacing and buckling all over the solid leather suit – was it leather? – was tight enough to constrict anything to death. After heaving for minutes, he managed to pry loose one of the straps that had squashed a panel gag into the bot’s mouth. The automaton’s lifelike, lush, lazy lips, parted by a slit of mouth and framed by an oval cut-out in the thick hood, had him hold his breath. He kneeled to have a better look and reached out to touch them when the lights, after a crackling buzz, went out with a pop. He heard swearing from above, a door slam, and the man trudging down the stairs.
“Forgot to tell you,” he said halfway down the staircase, “don’t switch the cellar lights on.” He switched them off, got on a chair, opened a breaker box, and flipped a fuse. “I see you’ve found Oscar,” he said.
“Oscar?”
“The house gimp.”
“I see.”
“Found anything else?”
“One or two things.”
The man’s thick eyebrows flicked up. “Ah, well, good for you, I didn’t think there would be anything left…”
“Do you know how to strip this gear off?” J said, pointing with his foot at the puppet.
The man giggled. “No idea. Many have come before you, and all have failed.” He put his hands in his pockets. “If you want it, you’ll have to take the whole shebang. I think you can only take it off when you switch Oscar on. That’s what they’ve told me. And Oscar no longer switches on they said. I’ve got two more boxes of expensive stuff to go with him, if you’re interested. A manual as well, I think. You might need that too, you never know. Can of worms, these old pups. Still, built like tanks. Might make for an interesting weekend project to get it working again, you know? Do you want it?” The man’s beady eyes twinkled.
J looked at the dead bot decked in its lush gear with a mixed heart – he knew he’d never try and fix it, all it would do is take up space – and was annoyed when he heard himself say, much like an automaton, that yes, he’d take it.
He got Oscar home two weeks later. Paul – the beady man – gave him a hand and had added two more boxes packed with bot-related sundries to the delivery. They’d been waiting in the attic, he said. Apart from one woman who said she’d call back if she decided to get the bot – she never did and was too late now – no one had shown interest once they knew all the gear only came at the price of a useless, unregistered automaton.
Oscar, now at J’s place, lay in another corner for two more weeks. J went through the boxes. He found the manual at the bottom of a box, buried under medical looking paraphernalia. The other boxes contained more gear made of the suit’s stuff, mostly small bits and pieces, some of which he had no idea what they were. The manual said the gear should come off the bot easily, but that overtightening and time might cause some mild bonding to the bot’s skin but nothing that soapy water wouldn’t get going. The leather, it also said, wasn’t leather, but SkyB – laminated multi-fibre synthesised leather – and was breathable, waterproof, self-lubricating in areas of high friction, and near-indestructible. It had the texture of full grain leather and smelled wonderful – if somewhat of damp cellar as well – and whenever J ran his hands over the gimped bot and its forbidding, locked-on gear, his groin answered in kind.
One late Friday evening, after a month of fiddling with the odd strap and lacing, and wilfully forgetting the gimp with the lush lips in the corner, as he’d finally opened a seam at the back of the bondage socks with lots of soapy water, he figured out by chance how the lacing mechanism in the calves had been tucked away. He folded open thin flaps of zip-locked leather underneath a padded, D-ringed strap around Oscar’s ankle, pressed what looked like flexible integrated flat cord locks, and the deadlocked lacing inside the suit’s leg sprang back as if rewound by magic springs, except that it was still stuck underneath three more D-ringed straps along the leg which, like all the other straps, had been tightened by a madman. After two hours of puzzling and meticulous unlacing and wild pulling and heaving and using a whole bottle of dish-soap to get the seemingly one-piece suit, hood, mitts, socks and all, off the bot – and apart from getting the bot out through the arse of the suit, so to speak, nothing logically worked – he had a peeled-off tangle of mostly inside-out SkyB and an inert boy in a corner of his living room. ‘Vintage Surfer Boy’ the designers had called his model. Its tanned skin was riddled with creases – some deep – where the leather had dug in for the past decade of cellar-bound inertia. Oscar could well be dozing off a long afternoon of riding monster waves on some far flung Australian beach. His mouth hung open in a slit, his closed eyes were relaxed, and an aura of contentment rose from his mop of sun-bleached hair like incense. He was knackered now – the good sort of knackeredness – but later tonight he’d party with mates, drink himself into a haze, and fuck and suck like a buck. His cock and mouth – there was no doubt about it – had been designed for that purpose. He would stay ripped and twenty forever. There seemed to be some perks to being an automaton. J huddled Oscar in the corner, draped it in a blanket but couldn’t bring himself to cover the bot’s head – that would make it look like a corpse – picked up the pile of gear and dropped it in the shower to give it a good rinse, as per the instruction manual. The shampoo foamed and frothed, and when he rinsed the pile of wet blackness the water ran off in thick beads over the oily looking synthetic stuff. Streams poured out of the waterlogged mass as he heaved it up. He gave the massive suit an awkward shake, hung it up to drip dry, and went to bed.
In the morning the surfer boy was still asleep and the suit, while looking wet, felt dry. The living room smelled of leather and fresh plastic, chain lubricant, mould and dish soap and J opened a window. While his coffee was brewing he got the suit off its hanger and disassembled what he could. Two long zips over the shoulders were hidden under lacing on each side, each with their own tucked-under cord stop mechanisms – undoing them also allowed him to get the hood off. The codpiece came in two parts – cock and balls each had their own separate pouch – and attached to the main suit with press studs, seamless zip-locking, lacing, and buckles, and all of it formed a perverted-looking, endlessly adjustable bulge of leather and black metal that could be made as punishing or rewarding as a cock could take. Water had pooled in it and splattered on the floor as J turned it inside out. J got hard at the idea of slipping into the suit – he’d fingered the confining but slippery smooth insides of the bulge for minutes – but the over-engineered hassle of getting the suit on, and not exactly knowing how to, felt like an invitation to procrastinate. He took a deep breath, loosened the lacing over the shoulders as far as he could pull it, zipped open the awkward zips just enough for him to squeeze through the neck hole, got undressed, and stepped into the suit. He pulled it up, and it slid on so effortlessly that he had to catch his balance. It was still damp and soapy inside. With the lacing undone and all the buckles loose it had just enough give for his heels to pop clear out of the legs into the attached bondage socks. They were squelchy and gel-like inside, still wet, and his toes slid into individual pockets. He grunted. He lost balance and flailed his arms when he moved about too abruptly, and the suit dropped down to his waist. He steadied himself on the table and worked the suit up. His cock didn’t find its way into the half-detached pouch and had got unwieldy from sliding against the suit’s smooth inside well before he could have nestled it into the done-up and tiny, downward-pointing double bulge, even with it being damp and slippery inside. He tried getting his right arm into the sleeve, but as frictionless as bits of the inside were, he couldn’t clear the wrist-cuff. He grappled for a few more minutes with the suit which kept sliding off his shoulders – its weight didn’t help and the shoulder zips, of course, had now decided to open by themselves – knew it wouldn't work, resigned himself to the fact that the mitts had to come off first no matter what, which involved more tinkering with the complicated locking mechanisms and finding hidden zip-locks. He thought of slipping the hood on and having a quick wank with his arms out of the loose suit, picked it up from the table, started pulling it over his face and toppled over when he wanted to keep the suit from sliding down. Two hands steadied him. J jumped out of his skin and screamed.
“Careful. That’s not how you do it,” a gentle voice told him.
The suit dropped down to J’s ankles. He turned around half crouching, clutching the hood he’d quickly fumbled off his head in front of his crotch, looked at the naked boy standing in front of him – in the corner where he’d laid down the surfer boy, only a folded blanket remained. Both stood naked facing each other, the bot looking down in amusement, and J wobbling in a mass of black gimp gear.
“Let me help you,” the boy said, and crouched. He got hold of the suit around J’s ankles, helped him step out of it – clearing the cuffs the other way round was like working against a barb – and with blurring fingers, took the mitts off the suit, loosened the codpiece, and undid more hidden seams and buckles than J had ever noticed. “This will make it a lot easier,” he said.
“Wait, how, er–”
“It’s warm in here,” Oscar said. “My battery has reconnected and I’ve been charging. The last error message in my system says that pressure on my body was exceeded. This can cause malfunctions. The manual warns against it. Was I in that suit?”
J nodded.
“Must be the cause. I’m Blue, by the way.”
“J,” J said.
“Well J, shall I help you in?”
J looked at the suit Blue was holding up and the bits he had laid out on the table. It looked as inviting as forbidding. “Oh well,” he said, steadied himself against Blue, and slipped in. Blue helped it over his shoulders, zipped it shut, and laced the arms up to J’s wrists.
“I didn’t do it too tight,” it said.
J flexed. He didn’t get far. “Fuck,” he mumbled.
“Too tight?”
“No, it’s fine. Very fine. I didn’t think it’d be so immobilising.”
“Let me know if it gets uncomfortable.”
Blue tightened three padded and D-ringed straps over each arm and J gasped when Blue started lacing up the back, the front, and the sides of the suit as if simultaneously. He folded the cord locks under each of their hidden seams or straps before tightening those as well, and all that remained visible were laces with no beginning or end zigzagging in and out of black metal eyelets criss-crossed with straps, buckled and D-rings.
“Time to get your cock out,” Blue said.
“I’ll do it,” J said, bent his arms, shrugged his shoulders, twisted his torso, but all he could do was reach with his right thumb where the bottom of his balls would hang weren’t they still lodged into the suit.
“I can’t,” he said. “Not for long enough anyway.”
“You sure?”
“No.” J flexed again. “No, can’t reach.”
“Wonderful, isn’t it?” Blue sniggered.
J groaned when Blue adjusted the cock-hole and fondled J’s tackle out of the suit. As efficient as the automaton had been at lacing J up, taking J’s cock out he did with deliberate – intentional? provocative? – care and delicacy.
“You’re very hard,” Blue said when he had finished. He sounded interested. “And self-lubricating. Good design.”
J didn’t answer. He blushed.
“Shame, but the codpiece will have to wait.”
Blue tossed it back on the table, crouched behind J, and with the same superhuman speed and precision laced and buckled up J’s lower back and legs, sealing him in. When Blue’s tightening reached J’s crotch, it got an unabashed groan out of J. Blue got up, rummaged in one of the boxes, slid a first sleeved mitt up J’s left arm, like half of a straitjacket, and attached it to straps and rings along the back of J’s shoulder. Mid-tightening the bot slowed down and with a hum stopped moving. J twisted around. By the time he’d turned to face Blue, the naked boy had crouched into a foetal position on the floor. Inside his skin over his left shoulder, a diffuse red battery sign blinked.
“Oh fuck,” was all J could muster. A spike of adrenalin wooshed through his ears. He’d been unable to reach his cock. Getting out of this thing alone with only one hand was impossible. He considered calling a friend, but how would he come in? J could not stomach the thought of sudden exposure to someone who didn’t know too much about this side of him, nor the humiliation and cost of needing a locksmith to get that friend in to begin with. He decided to wait. Blue seemed to have charged overnight, when J got it out of the suit. With some luck, by early evening, the bot should get him out of his prison. If not, he’d bite the sour apple of humiliation. If he could reach his cellphone. If he could, he might reach his keys as well. Deciding not to overthink it was easy in principle. In practice he realised his nerves had made him need to pee. Good thing his cock was out. The sink would have to do. It still splattered everywhere.
His hobbling, after a few hours, became more buoyant. He could just about reach his cock, could just about reach stuff in the fridge – putting stuff in his mouth was a different matter – and had started, given the circumstances, to enjoy himself. The suit seemed more moulded. He had a lie-down on the settee filled with strange half-dreams. Getting out of the settee was a workout. Around nine in the evening, while he was concentrating to relax a vicious, recurring cramp in his bowels, with the gentlest of hums, Blue came back to life.
“I’m sorry,” it said. It looked concerned, bent over J sprawled in the settee and rid him of the suit in about thirty seconds. J ran for the toilet.
“No more suit until you’re fully charged,” J said, arranging some eatables on the kitchen table.
“Good call.”
“How long before you’re fully charged, by the way?”
“About two days.”
J nodded. “That’s good,” he said. “How do you feel?”
“Fine. If a bot can feel fine. Thanks for asking.” Blue smiled and leaned back. A dreamy look, contentedness perhaps, filled his eyes. J looked down from the bot’s smile and noticed his pecs, abs, and a tuft of pubic hair before the table in between them hid the rest of his package.
“Ah,” J said. “If you want some clothes, there should be stuff that fits you in the wardrobe. Room’s over there.”
“Oh. Thanks.” Blue slid a flat hand over his chest and looked at it. “But perhaps I should shower first. I’m tacky with dishsoap. And I haven’t had a shower in ten years. If you don’t mind.”
“Of course not.”
Naked Blue got up, smiled, and went into the bathroom. The water started running, and the boy hummed something that J didn’t recognise. Strange, how quickly one gets accustomed to a perfect surfer boy lounging around naked and humming in the shower. He heard Blue look for towels, then go into the bedroom. When Blue didn’t reappear after over ten minutes, J had a peek. The boy was crouched, wearing only a white hoodie, in front of the open wardrobe. Through the left sleeve a diffuse red light blinked. J sighed. He tidied up what he could be bothered to tidy up of the suit in the living room, had a short shower, and went to bed. Around two in the morning, a naked Blue joined him. He’d recharge more quickly in a warm bed he said, and hoped J wouldn’t mind. J wouldn't, hesitated, caressed Blue’s neck – the boy purred – and spooned him. J shivered at how distressingly alive the bot felt when it huddled itself gently against him, decided it was all a mental thing he’d sort out, and fell asleep.
*
Blue didn’t wake up. By noon the red battery still blinked. J leafed through the manual. A flow chart told him to switch off the bot by pressing the recessed button underneath his left sole and referring to chapter eight for more detailed flow charts. J felt horrible when Blue went limp. He covered it in an extra duvet.
Chapter 8 detailed the self-repairing procedures built into the bot that could solve battery trouble. J struggled through the many pitfalls of the various resetting options, the possible impacts on previously built dynamic personalities, the importance of memory checkpoints, and the loss of any liability Pan Electronics had when such repairs were attempted by uncertified technicians or without the possession of a Power Owner’s Certificate. It also warned that the wobbling mass of skin deforming and stretching into a non-human mass during certain procedures might be a shock to delicate onlookers. J considered himself one of those. He dialled the diagnostic and self-repairing sequence – the manual laid open next to the dead bot – into Blue’s lower back on a light blue panel that had lit up under the bot’s skin as he’d searched for it. A plain woman’s voice coming from inside Blue confirmed his choice. Repair would start in about two hours and forty minutes or when the battery had charged enough, it said. Do not cover the bot, it said. Keep the bot on the floor and clear everything in a three foot radius around it. Keep clear while diagnostics are being made. Do not interfere with the process. When the same warnings started over, J left the bedroom and tried to look up how to turn them off. The manual didn’t say or he didn’t find it. Getting Blue off the bed and arranging a clearing around it in his cramped bedroom took more effort that he’d expected. He was watching shit television when he heard rumbling and beeping and diagnostic voices coming from his bedroom. He sneaked to the door. The rumbling stopped about ten minutes in. The woman said the process had finished. J peeked through a crack in the door. Blue was lying on his back, a bit askew with his head at a gentle angle, and looked happy, much like J had found him when he’d first pried the bot out of the suit. He went in. The battery sign was a brownish green and would be gone, the manual had told him, once the battery had charged. It also told him to try and rapid charge the bot with the rapid charger. J looked through the boxes, but none contained the cables or the magnetic link that looked like those in the manual. J rearranged the room, heaved Blue onto the bed, straightened the covers and covered the bot with a duvet. It was past twelve. He went to the bathroom, brushed his teeth, and went to bed. He couldn’t resist stroking Blue’s arm, held his hand, and fell asleep.
While energy trickled into Blue’s battery by some forbidden thermodynamic magic, J had a deep look at the suit and its attachments based on how he’d seen Blue manipulate it. Now that he better understood how the suit fitted together, he skimmed again through the four boxes. They contained more straps and cuffs, boots of the same black stuff, and hoods, gags, pouches, mitts, and internal attachments of varying girth and design. He hadn’t inventoried everything, and glossed over things that looked alike. The black mass in one of the boxes was so difficult to disentangle visually or otherwise, being made up of small straps and pouches and panels, that he left it alone. Another box contained generic containers with powders and sweet smelling oily liquids bearing only a serial number and the company’s logo, and what looked like medical stuff and electronics. His living quarters did not allow for more of the expanding mess and he gave up the sort.
Blue’s battery turned to a vivid green after two more days – not full, but close enough. Straight back from work, J had the manual open next to Blue, rocked the bot onto its side, dialled the code to confirm a successful repair – the voice answered affirmatively – and rebooted from the last checkpoint. There was a hum, Blue rolled on his back, looked at J with his meltingly soft eyes, and said thanks.
J sighed in relief and didn’t move. “This isn’t good,” he said.
“What?” Blue said while he stretched.
“You have no idea how happy I am you’re alive. I want to hug you. Perhaps even kiss you. Perhaps.”
“Nothing wrong with that. Though I wouldn't if I were you. I don’t know what’s been in my mouth the past few years. Do you mind if I have a more thorough clean?”
“Of course not.”
“I would also need to stock up on some water and lubes, if you want my bodily functions to mimic yours.”
J shook his head, not understanding.
“That’d be the bottles in one of the boxes.”
“The bottles in one of the boxes?”
“The bottles in one of the boxes. Fake saliva, that sort of thing. There’s even granulated synthetic spunk in there.”
“I see. Disgusting.”
Blue laughed. He had his shower and replenishment, suggested he do the cooking, and spent the evening low-key flirting. J went to bed on a cloud of contentedness, made out like he’d never made out before, and ended up cumming twice before Blue told him all that romping would make waking up on time an ordeal. J moped like a kid, Blue mock chided him, and J crashed to sleep.
On Friday evening, as they’d discussed, Blue had lined up the undone suit, the double codpiece, some short padded mitts that attached to the end of the suit’s sleeves, and another pair of boots they’d discovered in the tangle of black stuff. He’d chosen a more complex hood, one lined in the same black gel-like stuff and that could be tightened with riveted-on straps and attached to latching point by its dozen or so D-rings.
Once J had the loose suit and hood on, his eyes still uncovered, he tried squeezing into the codpiece. He managed to plop his balls into their slippery pouch, Blue tightened it a smidge, and already J had to fight the urge to wank. His cock, again, wouldn’t fit. The suit did that to him.
A short round of pottering around later, Blue crouched in front of J, slid his softened cock into its private prison – J felt his knees wobble when Blue snapped the slippery codpiece up shut and pointed his cock down – half-tightened the entire package into a neat bulge, took care of the rest of the suit, and then tied down J’s crotch in earnest. He seemed to be moving faster and smoother. J, even though he flexed hard, barely managed to raise his arms half a foot.
“You enjoy yourself for a while,” Blue said. “Let the suit get up to temp. Then I can tighten you down some more.”
J nodded with hazy eyes. Blue helped him sit – or sprawl – on the settee and covered his eyes with a padded eye cover that buckled to the hood. While J tried to hump to get his cock to slide inside its unreachable bulge – and as hard as he tried, he barely felt any movement – he could hear the splatter of water in the kitchen, Blue putting things back into drawers and cupboards – he was humming a tune – and switching the kitchen lights off.
“What do you think of this?” Blue said, right next to J.
J squealed. The tip of a humming probe had touched his cockhead through the codpiece. “You may have to gag me,” he said.
“Do you want me to gag you?”
J nodded.
“You’ll enjoy this one,” Blue said.
J did. It just cleared his jaw after Blue had to loosen parts of the hood, and then it inflated. The humming was back. J knew he’d be close in seconds.
“We’ve forgotten something,” Blue said. The hum went away and so did Blue. “Lift your right arm… Oh, that’s right, you can’t.” Blue sniggered. A mitt went on. To J’s erotic horror, the mitt had internal fingers and when he tried to move them all he could feel was the resistance of some gel against the slickness of that slippery leather stuff. And the hum was back.
“I’m going to cum,” J said.
“Do you think that’s wise? You’ve barely been in the suit.”
“I don’t care.”
“You’ll want out.”
“No, I won’t.”
“You say that now.”
A second hum stroked the underside of J’s balls. J clenched, flexed against the entire suit at once, and came. Blue moved his fingers around the bulge, lowered their hum, and when J had calmed down, started stroking his legs and stomach.
“How was that?”
“Oh fuck.”
“You want out?”
J shook his head.
“Let me know when,” Blue said, laid his hand back on J’s crotch, and hummed it softly. Seen from up close, the edge of his fingers blurred like the flutter of moths’ wings. J hummed too. When he felt close to dozing off, Blue got up and started using the straps of the suit to pin J’s arms to his sides and buckle his legs together. He tightened each strap until he got a grunt out of J.
“How’s that?”
“I think I need to cum again.”
“That’s good. I like that.”
“Could you make me cum?”
“I could.”
J waited.
“Please.”
Blue hummed once on the tip of J’s cock. He bucked and groaned. “More,” he said
“No, not now.”
“Please.”
Blue waited.
“Pleaaase.”
“Oh all right then.” He tapped the cock a dozen times with the hum. J humped as much as the suit allowed.
“More, Blue. Come on. Please, Blue.”
Blue tapped the cock a few more times and, whether it was programmed or not, raised his eyebrows at how much J bounced up and down the settee. He lightened his taps.
“Blue, please!”
“That’s all you’re getting. If you’re horny and you want it…” he started singing, “…er, whatever. You can’t clap your hands. You can’t do anything, in fact. If I stopped tapping your cock–”
“No!”
“Well, stop me.”
“No! Don’t stop now. Fuck! Touch it, touch it, dammit! Do something! Fuck!” J bucked.
“Are you cumming?”
The black bundle of straps and buckles that held J inside twisted, kicked, and, if it weren’t for the gag, howled. Blue watched it with a smile.
“You are cumming,” he said.
J whined. “I don’t know,” he said. “I was so, so fucking close.”
“That’s good.”
“No, it’s not.”
“Again?”
J sighed.
Blue knelt next to J’s head. He stroked J’s chest, and leaned over right next to J’s ear. “You want it done again, don’t you?” he whispered. His voice was lower and slower, hovering between the flirtatious and the menacing. “You want me to do this for much longer. You want me to make you beg and beg until you think you can’t take it any more, and then you want me to stop, just as you’re going to cum and ruin your orgasms until you start crying. Don’t you?”
“Oh fuck.” J sobbed.
“Are you fake crying?”
“I’m horny crying.”
“That’s good. One more?”
“Could you make me cum? Properly?”
“I’m not sure I want to.”
J moaned.
“Do you want out? I think this is enough for a first time.”
“I don’t know.”
“Let’s get you out.”
Blue undid the buckles pinning J’s arms and legs together and pushed the cord stops. The lacing zipped out of tension and it felt as if the suit had dropped off and cool air had rushed over J’s skin. J closed his eyes after the hood came off and Blue helped him to sit up.
“I think you enjoyed that,” Blue said, sat down next to J, and stroked his thigh.
“Hated it.”
“I could tell.”
J got up with a struggle. “Could you help me out?” he said, and tried dislodging the suit by shaking and twisting his torso. He looked behind him.
“Blue?”
Blue smiled and stared at nothing, frozen mid-movement on the couch.
“Blue?”
A tenuous, high whine, difficult to locate, whistled inside his chest. J lifted the sleeve of Blue’s T-shirt. The battery sign wasn’t lit. J grabbed the boy by his shoulders and gave him a gentle shake. It didn’t stop the whine or Blue’s inertia. He took off Blue’s sock, glanced at his frozen face, looked away, and pressed the off button. The whirr’s pitch lowered, stuttered, and when J could no longer hear it, the boy closed his eyes and slouched into the settee. Only when he covered Blue with a blanket did J realise he might have stayed trapped in the suit for days, incapable of getting out, with a blocked bot sitting right next to him.
The instructions in an error table at the end of the manual told J to run a self repairing diagnostic. If that didn't work – and it didn’t – to switch the bot off and on again, and if that didn’t resolve the problem, to call a technician. He only now looked up Pan Electronics. The company had been gobbled up years ago, and their ElectrcSwtch line, of which Blue was one, no longer got serviced. The company had issued a last call for destruction five years ago. The net said that the whine was a stuck actuator and to do the thing that always worked with old, stuck electronics: hit it. If that didn’t work, the bot was ripe for the bin. Replacing the actuator was madness, even though the web had tutorials, and repairing the cut skin afterwards could only turn into a botched job. In the middle of the post, a user suggested bypassing the actuator. It could reduce the bot’s functionality and cause a cascade of malfunctions, but should allow the user to get a few more years out of the bot. He included instructions on what codes to dial in and a link to a professional service manual. J didn’t know what to do. He copied and pasted the instructions and downloaded the manual to be sure. It was over three thousand pages long.
After a couple of days, J couldn’t bear the sight of dead Blue any more and powered the bot on. While Blue booted up, J went into the kitchen. He didn’t like seeing the bot power up and the woman’s voice coming out of Blue’s chest freaked him out.
“I’m sorry,” Blue said in the doorway.
“Oh thank goodness. You’re alive.”
“I have to warn you that you’re getting attached to a malfunctioning bot,” Blue said.
“I know. Let’s not think about it now. How do you feel?”
“Worse for wear, but functional.”
“There’s not much I can do, I suppose?”
“There’s not much you can do.”
*
Saturday afternoon – after a few lush and carefree days with functioning, flirtatious Blue who told J to keep his cum in until the weekend as he wanted him hot and bothered and didn’t stop teasing him, especially in bed – J held the suit up. “I need it now, Blue,” J said.
“You should take precautions. If I freeze again…” Blue looked serious.
“I have. Key’s under the doormat, friend knows. If he doesn’t hear from me by this evening, he’s letting himself in.”
“You cheeky bastard, planning to use me for your disgusting sessions without my knowing. That’s good. Come on then.”
Blue’s hands coursed over the locks and lacing and in seconds, with a grunt at each pull, J was snugged up. He tried flexing. There was some give, more than last time, just enough to put up useless resistance but never enough to free himself.
“Head,” Blue said.
The lined hood came down. The gelled mitts, gelled bondage socks and inflatable gag followed. He buckled J’s arms to his sides.
“Don’t you do the codpiece?” J said.
Blue pushed him into the settee. J shrieked briefly, wanted to flail his pinned arms, couldn’t, and flopped with a grunt into the cushions. “No codpiece yet. There are many bits of me you haven’t tried yet and I need your bare cock’s undivided attention for that.” He leaned over J’s stiff, laced up legs and licked his cock. “I think it’s time you got to know what needing to cum really means. Last week was nothing but a lovely, sunny, balmy, exploratory, joyous walk in the park.”
Blue switched to a more filling gag after getting J close enough to scream from licks only. Long licks, slow licks, persistent licks on the very tip of his swelling cockhead, swirls around the throbbing corona, and just one suckle and a pop before he got up to get the larger gag. J was loud. Now that the boy was gagged again – “Growl for me. Yeah, much better.” – Blue looked into one of the boxes and fished out a plug. He thought of washing it, but either it had never been used, or J’d already done a pristine job. He rolled J onto his stomach – the scratchy settee, he hoped, would keep him from cumming – opened the suit’s rear access, and started rimming J, who complained and whined. When Blue dug in deeper, J started humping. He lubed up J’s arsehole with thick spit, loosened the boy’s arse with humming fingers – J shrieked – drove in the plug and laced up J’s bottom as tight as it went. When he flipped the boy over his cock was soaked and red from humping the sofa’s fabric and had it not been for the clearness of the goo clinging to his cock, Blue would have thought J had cum.
“When did you last cum?” he asked.
J mumbled.
“Last time I had you in the suit, you said?”
J nodded.
“A week ago then. You know, you can go a lot longer without cumming. I don’t think I should make you cum at all today.”
J whined. Blue touched the plug through the suit with humming fingers and J stopped whining. The plug suddenly felt bigger. He gasped and struggled for breath. He tried to hump and either get away from Blue’s hand or push against it. Blue touched and let go, touched and let go. A glob of precum squirted from J’s cock. When Blue bent over and took J’s entire cock in his mouth, the boy spasmed. Something in the back of Blue’s throat hummed on and off. J got close when it hummed, caught his breath when it stopped, got close, gasped, and swore when Blue let him hang and hang, waiting for the hum to come back, after god-knows how many cycles of humming and gasping.
“I need a break,” J said.
“That’s good. Are there things you dislike?”
“Like what?”
“Pain, nipples, verbal humiliation? That sort of thing.”
“I don’t like any those very much.”
Blue tweaked J’s nipples and battered his balls. J screamed.
“What’d you do that for? I just told you that–”
“Testing.”
“Don’t.”
“And for this,” Blue said, hurried to push J’s balls and softened cock into the codpiece, latched it on, and tightened it.
“You bastard. You could have told me.”
“It wouldn’t have worked. You have a rest. Still comfortable?”
J nodded.
Blue got up, unstrapped J’s arms from the rest of the suit, undid their lacing, crossed them over J’s stomach like the sleeves of an industrial looking straitjacket, and used all the available straps to refasten the black bundle into its new configuration.
“Try to reach your cock now,” Blue said.
“You know I can’t.”
“Try.”
J moved about and squirmed a bit.
“That’s not trying.” Blue got hold of the bulge. The moment he hummed his hand J twisted, swore, and tried to reach up and down. “That’s better,” Blue said. He increased the hum.
“I’m going to cum.”
“Are you?”
“Please. I’m close. I’m so close. Oh god–” J held still and shut up, fearing Blue would let go, which he did.
“Fuck. Don’t–” J strained. No matter how he jerked, his cock wouldn’t slide around in the codpiece, his cockhead was pinned down, trapped, and couldn’t swell quite enough for him to finish himself off. He froze when the hand and the hum were back. It was quieter this time. He humped for a long time, never getting close enough, begged Blue for more, tired out, sighed, and just squirmed now and then. He thought he dozed off. The hum, even quieter, was still there when his slumber crumbled. His cock felt warm and slick, still confined to a pouch too small to cum in by himself. Blue had kept him from going soft, and that was all. J squirmed again, jerked, pushed his crotch up against the hum. It followed.
“Blue. Please. I’m so horny.”
“Hmmm?”
“Could you make me cum? I need to cum.”
“But do you want to?”
“I don’t know,” J said after a long silence. Blue kneaded the bulge like a black balloon filled with jelly.
“I don’t think you want to cum and I don’t think I’m going to let you, but I’m going to make you need to. Badly.”
J moaned.
“Well, that’s a clear answer,” Blue said. He increased the hum. J jerked his arms down against the sleeves. His cockhead shifted just enough inside its wet, smothering prison for his mind to latch onto. He felt the onset of orgasm – or the first nudge before the onset, he no longer knew at this point – and he humped and strained – all he needed was another nudge – and howled when the hum went quiet. “No Blue, please!”
“Yes.”
“Please!”
“Deal with it.”
J humped, swore, twisted and turned, he clenched his entire body, kicked his legs. The plug burrowed. He clenched against it and knew he was too late. He could feel something around his arse contracting, some muscles in his pelvis tighten, and he jerked his groin up as hard as he could. The pouch kept his cock from swelling, the plug no longer moved, he felt a twitch, and slow enough to make it unbearable, the glorious feeling of spurting and clenching and cumming which he’d been craving and straining for receded and burrowed itself as mere throb deep inside him. He panted.
“Let’s do that again,” Blue said.
“Oh god no.”
“Sure?”
“I don’t know.”
“Right. Let’s get you out.”
“Could you leave me in just a bit longer?”
“That’s good.”
Blue got up, tightened what he could – it got him grunts but no objections – slid J down the settee, sat at his head end, propped it up in his lap, and stroked J’s chest for a while. J strained against the suit whenever horniness re-emerged and got hard and sighed as he did. Both went quiet. J could have stayed like that forever.
“Let’s get you out before unsolicited visitors barge in,” Blue said. “It’s not quite evening, but it’s getting there. You’ve got someone to call.”
J nodded. The hood came off and Blue sorted out J’s arms and mitts.
“Could you loosen the suit just enough?” J asked. “I don’t feel like getting out. It’s so warm and cosy.”
“Can do.”
Blue helped J out of the settee. It took J a long time to sort his phone out.
“You sound kinda high,” the friend said.
“Yeah.”
“You all right then?”
“You have no idea.” J blurted into a stupid giggle.
They both laughed, and that was it.
“Could you get the key from under the doormat?” J asked Blue. “I wouldn’t want people to see me in, eh, this.”
“Sure.”
J crashed into the settee. He’d forgotten about the plug and winced. He rubbed his bulge, homed in on his cockhead, and started rubbing its underside through the pouch. The package tightened and his cock, swelling and growing as he rubbed it, squeezed itself where it could. Again the pouch made it feel like he could not work himself to orgasm. It seemed only humming Blue had that knack. His cockhead was just too squashed. He got hold of the entire bulge, fucked it like a fleshlight – that seemed to do something that could get him somewhere – and threw his head back. If he humped as well, the plug hit the right spot. It would take some time, but he’d get there.
“Where do you want your key?” Blue said.
“Fuck, I’d… Eh, just on the table. Thanks.”
Blue smirked, shook his head in tutting disapproval, and tossed the key on the table. “Ready to come out now?”
“Oh all right then.”
Blue crouched, started doing his magic on the suit’s legs, and stopped. J, who still had his eyes closed, looked down. Blue had frozen; the same high pitched whistle whirred inside his chest. His hands were latched onto the lacing over J’s calves. J tugged, tried to step away, tried to bend over to get to the bot’s hands and pry the cording loose which he only succeeded in after undoing lacing around his waist. He grabbed Blue’s fingers and tugged. They were locked on. Apart from a crowbar, possibly, nothing would move them. With Blue holding onto his legs, the bot’s foot was next to impossible to reach. Here goes nothing, J said, and after a few tentative taps and shakes, scrunching his eyes closed, he thumped Blue square on the back.
It snarled back to life, jumped up, grabbed J by the suit’s collar, and lifted him straight out of the sofa.