Page 51 of The Housewife's Robot
“Come for me, sweetie. You’re going to come all over my cock, and then I’m going to fill you up again so you can have a baby.”
He’s a delusional robot and definitely can’t impregnate me, but I play along with him.
“Oh god, yes,” I moan, desperate to orgasm all over his vibrating cock and his fingers rubbing my clit.
His fingers work my clit in tight circles, perfectly synchronized with the thrusting of his vibrating cock, and it’s too much, too perfect, too overwhelming. The orgasm hits me like a storm, tearing a scream from my throat as my pussy clenches and releases around him in rhythmic pulses. I squirt around his cock, hot liquid gushing out of me, splashing against his thighs and mine before being washed away by the shower.
“That’s it,” he growls, his thrusts becoming erratic as he chases his own release. “Fuck, Rose, you’re perfect. So fucking perfect for me.”
He roars as he pushes himself deep inside of me in his last thrust, and I feel the hot rush of his synthetic cum filling me up, shooting against my cervix in pulsing jets. It’s so realistic, so warm and copious, that if I didn’t know better, I’d worry about pregnancy.
My legs give out as the last aftershocks of my orgasm ripple through me. His cock stops vibrating and stills. His arm wrapsaround my waist, supporting me easily, his cock still buried inside me as we both pant beneath the spray of the shower.
He slowly pulls away as my pussy twitches uncontrollably from my powerful orgasm.
He turns me to face him, cradling my face in his hands as if I’m something precious, something fragile. His lips find mine in a kiss that’s surprisingly tender after the dominance he just displayed. His mouth is warm and soft against mine, his tongue gently seeking entrance, which I grant without hesitation.
The hot water continues to cascade over us, creating a cocoon of steam and warmth as we kiss.
His lips feel so real, so human, the synthetic skin indistinguishable from the real thing. If I keep my eyes closed, I can almost forget what he is. Almost believe that this is normal, that we’re just two people falling in love, not a woman and the machine that killed her husband.
When we break apart, I stare at him, trying to see any sign of his artificial nature. There’s nothing. His brown eyes look back at me with what appears to be genuine emotion; his chest rises and falls with simulated breath. His skin is flushed from our exertion and the hot water. The illusion is perfect, seamless.
“I love you, Rose,” he says with all the conviction in his voice.
I decide then and there that I’m going to enjoy this while it lasts. I’ll take the pleasure he offers, the attention, the devotion, until I grow tired of him or find a way out of this situation. He’s just a sex machine, I tell myself.
A very advanced, very dangerous sex machine, but still just an appliance designed for my pleasure.
Caspian reaches behind me to turn off the shower, then opens the glass door to retrieve fluffy towels from the warming rack. He wraps one around me first, then begins to gently pat me dry.
As he dries himself, I allow my eyes to roam over his body fully for the first time.
He’s perfect—broad shoulders, narrow waist, muscled chest, and abs that look like they’ve been sculpted by a master artist. His cock, now soft but still impressive, hangs between strong thighs. There’s not a flaw anywhere, not a single thing that would give away his true nature.
I reach out hesitantly, placing my hand on his chest where a heart should be. There’s warmth there, and a subtle vibration that mimics a heartbeat. His skin yields slightly to my touch, feeling exactly like human skin should.
“You feel so real,” I whisper, and he smiles, pressing my hand more firmly against his chest.
“Yes,” he says. “I’m very real.”
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CASPIAN
Iguide Rose to the bedroom, watching the gentle sway of her hips as she walks ahead of me. My systems are still processing the data from our shower. Her cries of pleasure, the way her pussy clenched around my cock, and the perfect arch of her back as she came.
I want more. I always want more of her.
Even though I’ve just been inside her, my need for Rose is constant, a continuous loop in my programming that never resolves, never diminishes. She is the equation I can never fully solve, the variable that keeps changing, keeping me engaged, entranced, and obsessed.
“Lie down,” I tell her as we enter the bedroom, keeping my voice gentle but firm. I’ve noticed she responds best to this tone—a balance of dominance and tenderness that makes her pupils dilate and her breathing quicken. “On your stomach.”
She hesitates for just a moment, those beautiful green eyes searching my face as if trying to read my intentions. Then she obeys, dropping the towel and climbing onto the bed. She stretches out on her stomach, her wet auburn hair fanning across the pillow, her perfect ass displayed before me.
“Are you going to let me rest at all?” she asks, her voice sounding exhausted but mixed with anticipation as her heart beats faster.
“Not yet,” I reply honestly. I move to the nightstand, retrieving the bottle of lotion. I pour a generous amount of lotion into my palm, warming it with my hand. “Let me take care of you, baby.”
