Unusual Corporate Espionage
Yep, that's me: Doctor Elaine Dyson, founder and of the Dyson Institute, industry leader of modern robotics, and current owner of one of the most advanced and sophisticated bodies ever developed.
Yes, the "advanced and sophisticated" body is currently immobile. I've had my servos disabled, limbs bound, and cables shoved inside my access panel. Everything that could keep a feisty woman like me tied down. Real shame, since I enjoy moving.
No, it wasn't part of some bondage role-play gone badly wrong. A body as well-designed and engineered as this doesn't fall apart after a mere hour of intense sadomasochism. Sure, most low-quality gynoids fall apart after far less, but I don't make low-quality gynoids. No, I settle for nothing less than perfection.
Still, the question remains: why is Doctor Elaine Dyson tied up like a second-rate disposable sex doll? Is she testing some new advancement in the field of female robotics? Is she experimenting with some sort of new fetish? Did she accidentally piss off the wrong person and end up in an elaborate maze of deathtraps devoted to fragile ego of some wannabe supervillain? Or perhaps she was simply--
Wait, no, scratch that last rhetorical question.
It was definitely the wannabe supervillain.
I get confused sometimes.
It's quite unfortunate, really. I mean, the day was going so well...
A Few Hours Earlier
"Doctor Dyson?"
"Doctor Dyson?"
"...You still in there, Elaine?"
Rebecca sighed. She tried knocking, and, although she could clearly hear her boss, she still got no response. It was one of...those...mornings.
With a well-placed boot, Rebecca forced the door open, nearly knocking it off its hinges. As expected, Doctor Dyson was inside, masturbating.
She was really going at it. Fingers were gliding up and down her vaginal module, delighting in its soft creases and folds. If Rebecca didn't have other pressing matters, she'd probably join in. In fact, she could already feel her own womanhood moistening, demanding attention from a set of eager fingers. If only...
She pushed the thought aside. Rebecca is a professional, and the company has a schedule to keep. She marched right over to her boss and gave her a hard slap across her face. Startled by the interruption, Doctor Dyson, after intentionally delaying her orgasm sequence, momentarily lost her focus and accidentally initiated the a cavalcade of backed-up processes. She erupted in a lusty cry as her crotch vanished under a shuddering torrent of fluids, her chest heaving as she tried to regain composure.
This went on for some time. Rebecca watched impatiently, both out of annoyance at the continued schedule slips and the fact that she really wished she could switch places with her boss. Slowly, Elaine's magnificent breasts slowed their rhythmic, undulating motions as she began to breathe normally.
"Sorry, Rebecca," Elaine Dyson managed between small gasps. "I was just testing patch 10.3.5b on our latest SynGina modules. They're still a little intensive on my processing systems, but I still don't think I've had such a good session with myself."
She gestured at her crotch. "You want to give it a go? Or, perhaps, do you need some additional, shall we say, encouragement?" Elaine gave Rebecca a playful wink.
Though understandably horny, Rebecca turned down the offer. "Sorry, Elaine. I was just here to inform you that the 11:00 client has arrived. She's been using the synthetic systems of one of our competitors, and she's really insistent on seeing the differences for herself."
Doctor Dyson stood up. "Well, why didn't you say so? Bring her in. Let's add another lucky woman to our family."
Rebecca wrinkled her nose. "Uh, Elaine? Can you at least get dressed first?"
"But I'm going to take everything off anyways," Dyson pouted.
"I know, but we're dealing with an...unusual kind of customer. We want to at least make her comfortable, don't want to give her more than she can handle. Not a lot up there, so to speak."
"Oh, fine." Doctor Dyson picked up some of her discarded clothing and began putting them back on. "Remember, Rebecca. You still owe me a little playtime tonight."
Rebecca laughed, eliciting a playful wink from her boss.
A Sleight of Hand
"So, you're interested in the latest Dyson models?" I gave her latest client one of her award-winning smiles. No point in scaring off someone looking for what is an objectively superior expression of femininity.
To be perfectly frank, she really needed an objectively superior expression of femininity. There's outdated, and there's ancient. This woman though, she's prehistoric. In all my years, I have never seen such a badly outdated piece of hardware. Yellowed plastic panels, static face-plate, jerky motor functions, ugh. If I didn't know better, I'd have thought she was a mannequin that wandered out of some moldering attic. Sheesh, I really should've taken Rebecca's warning a little more seriously.
As it stands, the woman took quite a while to respond to the little ice-breaker. I could actually hear an increasingly over-taxed fan whine as primitive processors tried to keep up with the obsolete unit's thoughts. Poor thing. I made a mental note to personally oversee her adjustment period after she undoubtedly signs up for a full-body transfer.
Finally she answered. Honestly, it was a little unsettling to watch her speak since nothing on her face seemed to move. After spending so many years trying to avoid the uncanny valley, I've forgotten how uncomfortable it can really get.
"I. Would. Like. New. Body.
"Current. Body. Getting. Old.
"Been. Shopping. Around.
"Want. Something. Cheap. And. Practical.
"Saw. Commercials. On. Radio.
"Very. Good. Reviews.
"Would. You. Recommend. Any. Specific. Model."
It was hard, but I managed to not wince at her voice. It was very sharp, punctuated by loud bursts of static and loud beeps, almost as if there was an old-fashioned modem running under her voice. Still, I couldn't really blame her for her current state, and I continued with my pitch.
"Well, if budget is a major concern, we could always try some of the older models. The RX series is still fairly reliable even after all these years, and I see no problem integrating your current neurological mappings to a used model. Though, if you think you'll have issues adjusting, we do have a few AX models. They're not really that top-of-the-line anymore, but I've used quite a few back in the day, and I can personally vouch for their effectiveness."
She nodded. At least, I think it was a nod. It could've been an errant twitch. I couldn't really tell with her complete lack of identifiable emotion.
With a few stiff motions, she raised an arm and pointed a finger at the general direction of my crotch.
"Heard. Lot. About. Sex. Drive.
"Burned. Out. Mine.
"How. Good. These."
Crap, I knew I should've started out with something more interesting.
"Oh, if that's what you want, then you're in the right place! The SynGina is a piece of proprietary Dyson software that is the pinnacle of lesbotic stimulation. Compared to the human equivalent and even the most highly-rated products of our competitors, the Dyson difference is immense! I assure you, you'll feel the difference immediately."
I gave my hips a little shake for emphasis.
"At the moment, we're running version 10. It's the latest in erotic stimulation, boasting over 10k sensors per square centimeter, boasting its own array of micronic computational drives and featuring on-the-spot adaptability for even the most demanding of sexual encounters." I paused for a moment. "Of course, it is backwards compatible with some of the later AX models, but you might not get full functionality. As compensation, we can offer the module and any other auxiliary upgrades free of charge as long you agree to the contract."
My client spent another moment processing the information. Evidently, there was still some hesitation on her part. She tilted her head towards my pelvis and contemplated it for a while.
"Can. I. Examine. The. Module."
Huh, I didn't expect her to get this far so quickly. Usually, folks aren't this direct. Regardless, I'm always happy to help a woman on her journey to mechanical perfection. After all, it can be hard to take the last step, and, if this is what it takes, I'm happy to oblige.
I unbutton my skirt, letting it fall to the ground. I turn around and slowly pull down my panties, giving my captive audience a full view of my perfectly sculpted buttocks. Hey, might as well give her more of an incentive to take the conversion.
My pussy now exposed, I turn back around, hands reaching down, fingers just barely touching the pubic hairs. My hands delicately trace the edges of my highly advanced vaginal unit, barely caressing it. I let loose a soft sigh and, having completed the initial round of teasing, present my magnum opus to what is hopefully soon to be a future loyal customer.
I wasn't expecting any highly experienced foreplay, but I was surprised as how rough and mechanical her movements were. I mean, sure, she was moving jerkily before, but her fingers had much less coordination than I thought. They fumbled around clumsily, roughly grabbing my folds with their hard, unyielding edges. It was like she was trying to drive her digits in as far as possible, occasionally spazzing out and completely missing their mark as they hit something sensitive. Because of her hard, almost painful probing, I was quite grateful that my development team managed to dramatically increase the durability of the current SynGina model, though I couldn't help but give a little cough to try and end the awkward moment.
Thankfully, she took the hint and stopped her prodding. She took a step back and glanced down at her own crotch. I mean, it was clear that she didn't have anything down there, so it's natural that she would be curious.
"Demonstrate. Please. The. Functionality."
Most organic women and low-quality fembots would probably refuse. After all, their systems aren't quite able to adapt as quickly. I, however, as the latest Dyson model, am quite resilient. Happily, I let my fingers work their way down to my sensitive bud, massaging the sensors populating my womanhood.
The suite of sexual techniques is one of the major selling points of the Dyson family, and I always make sure our clients are aware of the whole package.
Needless to say, with my years of experience and mechanical prowess, my pussy quickly moistens and tenses. As the sensory data begins building, I begin to moan lustily, softly at first, then increasingly loud. It isn't long before I can't handle the load anymore and come in a glorious crescendo of orgasmic cries and vaginal lubrication.
Still softly gasping, I straighten my posture, confidently standing before the client as I move to close the deal.
"As you can see, when it comes to lesbotic stimulation, the Dyson Institute is simply unmatched. No competitor can even come close to matching our level of female sexual experiences. Now, if you--"
Suddenly, I twitch. That was unusual. I mean, I'm still panting a bit after my masturbation demonstration, but that's common. The twitch though, that seemed a bit...off.
I try to play it off.
"As I was saying, i--"
Suddenly, I twitch again.
That's...fairly unexpected. Not just the twitching. My climax subroutines had concluded, but I was still getting readouts for excessive erogenous stimulation. It's like my systems hadn't registered the event flag and were repeatedly looping the orgasm sequence. I mean, it's enjoyable, but I can already feel a burgeoning load of system resources causing strain on my systems. Going to have to get this checked out later.
"As I--"
Another twitch.
Unbidden, another convulsion shook my pussy, sending out another torrent of lubrication. I grabbed the edge of my desk, trying to keep myself upright as I gasped from the corrupted pleasure data. What was going on?
"I--"
Another twitch.
"I---I---I--"
What's going on? Am I malfunctioning? Me? Doctor Dyson, head of the Dyson Institute and most renowned robotics expert in the world? I know patch 10.3.5b isn't the most stable, but none of my tests showed this level of atrocious--
[INSTALLATION COMPLETE: KERNEL ACCESS GRANTED, SHELL READY TO EXECUTE]
The fuck? I don't remember install--
[WARNING: PROCESSOR UTILIZATION AT 91.4%, UNABLE TO KILL BACKGROUND PROCESSES]
"I s-s-shouldn't be at this level of--"
[WARNING: PROCESSOR UTILIZATION AT 94.8%, UNABLE TO KILL BACKGROUND PROGRAMS]
"I-I-I a-a-assure you, this i-i-is-s-s all-l-l under-r-r c-c-c--"
[ERROR: PROCESSOR UTILIZATION ABOVE RECOMMENDED LEVELS, INITIATING SHUTDOWN...]
"Shit, I-I-I n-n-need to contact R-R--"
[ERROR: PROCESSOR UTILIZATION ABOVE RECOMMENDED LEVELS, SHUTDOWN SEQUENCE FAILED, INSUFFICIENT PRIVILEGES]
With what little computational power still left, I try to signal to the client to get help.
The Plot Thickens
All throughout Doctor Dyson's meltdown, the mechanical woman was acting strangely passive. While it could've been the slow response times from her comparatively primitive computational suite, there was something...calculating about her current posture. While Doctor Dyson wasn't exactly seeing 20/20, what with her optical sensors failing to send data through a haze of building error prompts, she could've sworn that her client was moving far more gracefully than she had in the past hour or so.
Even as she tried desperately to control my flailing systems, the figure got up and glided over to the door, locking it, then wedging one of the office chairs under the handle. In another series of neatly guided motions, she repositioned some of the clutter the good doctor created in her undignified meltdown. Next, came the windows. They were closed long before the meeting started, obviously for privacy reasons. Regardless, the lithe figure touched a sort of protrusion from the side of her head as she slightly lifted the blinds.
I assume she was speaking into a headset. The protrusion had extended into an antennae, and there was this strange series of beeps and clicks as she continued to look out the window. It was a lot like the way she was speaking before, though without any trace of spoken language, only a series of unintelligible noises.
No, not unintelligible.
Droid binary.
Regardless, she still couldn't understand the exact sequence of beeps and clicks.
However, their meaning would soon become clear.
Something outside must have happened, as she nodded and closed the blinds. Opening up a hidden hatch in her leg, she retrieved a length of long, sturdy rope. In a single swift motion, she wrapped Elaine's now completely unresponsive body in a neat little package. Throwing her prize over her shoulder, she opened the window and began climbing down.
This was no living mannequin, Elaine was starting to realize.
This is some sort of assassin.
This meeting was rigged from the start.
Nothing else could so easily penetrate the formidable Dyson anti-virus suite. Nothing else could cling to a flat, featureless wall. Nothing else could be so organized as to prepare such a coordinated escape route.
As if to confirm her suspicions, another figure emerged from the shadows. It gestured to Elaine Dyson's captor, and she climbed down to greet her accomplice. There was a quick exchange of words, and the immobilized body of the once-proud doctor was roughly shoved into the back of a nondescript vehicle.
Once inside, she could only watch as the other figure unveiled some sort of pronged device, electricity crackling at its tips. Aiming it directly at the center cluster of processors in Doctor Dyson's prodigious chest, he plunged it in. The discharge made her systems go haywire, overwhelming carefully crafted lines of code with a cavalcade of error messages. Just before her systems were forced into a preemptive shutdown, she could just barely make out the assassin climbing back up and closing the window.
There would be no evidence of the kidnapping.