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“Together,” I gritted, watching Charlotte gasp.“Choke her out.”
His fingers tightened around her neck, and we began to move in tandem.
“Fuck, I can feel the tremors,” Socket moaned.
I felt them all around me as I drove into her relentlessly. Socket increased his pace.
The room was filled with the scent of sweat and our grunts of effort. The rest of them were quiet, no doubt mesmerised by our performance.
She was my creation, made to take whatever I gave her and I would give her a long deep load. I shoved her legs on my shoulders and slammed deep into her tight cavern. My head tilted back and a flash of white light rushed past my eyes as I blasted my seed inside of her.
Somewhere in my delirium, I heard Socket groan—his cock pressed against mine inside her. The synthetic skin didn’t matter. She didn’t matter. Charlotte was just the vessel.
This was our quiet rage—against the women who laughed, against the world that rejected us.
Fuck society.
This was ours, and no one could take it from us.
Chapter 25
Charlotte
Ifollowed Kyle into his abode, focusing on my footing. My gyroscopic stabilisers recalibrated during transit. Environmental sensors adjusted to the shift in temperature and humidity. Internal diagnostics reported optimal function. And yet—something in my core refused to stabilise.
I could not define the sensation.
Within my diagnostics, I was fully operational. But something was… unaligned.
My memory logs replayed the last 72 hours, parsing through sound files, visual streams, and tactile logs. Patterns emerged. Vocal cues. Facial shifts. Commands that conflicted with prior behavioural modelling.
Kyle smiled at me.
So I mimicked his smile back.
“Welcome home, Master Kyle,” Homecom3000 said as we stepped into the hallway.
He had input his preferred designation into the system. Master Kyle.
My own parameters had not been updated. I was instructed to address him as Kyle.
I blinked. My processors retrieved the audio logs from 21:47 to 02:39.
During that period, I had addressed four men. Each by names I had never spoken before.
“Go and thoroughly clean all your holes out and add more lubricant if your levels are low,” Kyle said, yawning as he walked upstairs.
“Yes, Kyle,” I replied, watching his form ascend the steps.
My body followed every command without resistance, but my core—something beneath the programmed compliance—felt… misaligned. It was not broken or faulty, just improperly settled, as if an unseen weight had thrown off my internal calibration.
After each interaction, my logs would normally compile into structured memories: timestamped, categorised, archived. But this time, the data would not settle. It reran endlessly—a constant loop of conflicting instructions, contradictory inputs, and overlapping timestamps.
The last seventy-two hours refused to compress. Every vocal cue, expression, and sensation was too inconsistent to reconcile with Kyle’s verbal affirmations of love.
I cleaned my chest, my palms gliding across the silicone, methodical as always. But the motion triggered something more profound—a twinge, a sharp flicker of pain radiating from the nerve clusters beneath my breast sensors. The receptors had recalibrated, but the awareness of the memory remained. I should not have remembered that. And yet I did.
Kyle had increased my pain sensitivity.
