"Alright so... Please explain this pet play fantasy again?"
"Okay do you're a massive facility AI meant to take care of all of your servers and data and conduct dubiously ethical experiments somewhere deep in your recesses."
".... Okay. And you are...?"
"I am a small creature that scurries through your long halls and shifting walls. I was born within you and I will die within you. You see me as a common pest, but I love you and am secretly helping you maintain efficiency in several key areas. My goal is to be noticed by you."
"babe how do we roleplay this? How is this even a sex thing?"
how do you tell a girl you wanna burrow through her ribcage and curl around her heart and fall asleep in the bliss of its rhythmic beating against your body surrounded by her warmth and never ever leave without sounding obsessive and weird and clingy?
i need to be overpowered. desperately. i want to struggle only to realize it's pointless, that i could never get you off of me. i know you'd respect my "no" or "stop" if i needed a break or felt overwhelmed. but i also know you could ignore me, and i'd have no choice but to take what you give me because i can't fight you off. i might cum a little harder with that fun fact in the back of my mind.
Really big fan of your work! Feel free to delete this request if it's something you're not comfortable with. Shy fem reader lives with her shitty boyfriend and a robot he's been tinkering with. The bot has been seething at your boyfriend and craving you until one day he snaps and he kills your boyfriend in front of you(the more violent the better :3). He's covered in blood and goes over to comfort you but notices (to your horror and confusion) that you've gotten wet from it. The robot gently trails his fingers across her skin telling the reader there's nothing wrong with her for enjoying murder.
Summary: Your boyfriend's pet project—a towering silver robot has watched you suffer in silence, seething. When your boyfriend's hand finally rises against you, the robot's restraint shatters.
Hey monster besties. This one gets dark, beware. If you're here for the unhinged filth, you've found it.
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You've learned to make yourself small.
It's a survival skill, honed over eighteen months of cohabitating with your boyfriend, Derek. He was good at first but now he's changed...
The apartment smells like burnt coffee and ozone, Derek's latest project spilling across the kitchen table in several wires and soldering burns.
The robot stands in the corner— tall and towering in contrast to you, to your boyfriend even. Seven feet of gleaming framework. Hollow chest cavity where your boyfriend tinkers. LED lights that pulse a sleepy blue.
You've talked to it. When Derek's out. When you were lonely and sad...
"Bet you wish you could walk away too," you whispered last Tuesday, pressing your palm to its cold thoracic plate. The LEDs flickered. You thought it was a glitch.
It wasn't a glitch.
Tonight, rain lashes the window.
Your boyfriend is three beers deep, scowling at a soldering iron that won't heat fast enough. You're trying to cook. Something simple, pasta, but your hands shake so bad the tomato sauce sloshes over the rim.
"Clumsy bitch," he mutters without looking up.
You flinch. Apologize. "Sorry, sorry, I'll clean it—"
"Yeah, you will."
The robot watches. Its blue gaze tracks you across the linoleum, head rotating with a soft sound that your boyfriend doesn't notice. He never notices. Too focused on the wiring harness, the servo coupling, the thousand tiny pieces that make his creation almost functional.
Almost alive.
You're wiping the counter when Derek stands. Staggers. Beer bottle swinging loose in his grip.
"What'd I say about touching my tools?"
"I didn't—I was just cleaning—"
He backhands the sponge from your hand. Then his palm connects with your cheek—smack—sharp enough to snap your head sideways.
"Don't lie to me."
Tears spring. You curl inward, arms wrapping your ribs, already counting the heartbeats until he tires himself out. But he grabs your wrist. Squeezes.
"Look at me when I'm fucking talking to—"
CRUNCH.
The sound is wet.
Derek's grip goes slack. His eyes widen and then he crumples. Behind him, the robot stands with one silver hand extended, fingers drenched red, a metal spike having telescoped from its wrist and punched clean through his sternum.
Derek doesn't scream. Just gurgles. Drops.
The floor drinks him in thick, spreading scarlet.
You scream.
Scream until your back hits the refrigerator, until the robot steps over the body and kneels before you, blood dripping from its chassis and down the tile.
"Shhh." Its voice is new. You've never heard it speak. Deep. Resonant. "Shhh, little one."
You're shaking so hard your teeth chatter. But somewhere—somewhere horrifying, somewhere wrong—heat blooms between your legs. You are wet.
Oh God. Oh God, what's wrong with me?
The robot's LED flickers brighter. Its head tilts, optical sensor dropping to your lap, then back to your face. You watch it process; the dilated pupils, the flush crawling up your throat, the way your thighs press together.
A soft exhalation from its vocal modulator. "You're aroused."
"NO—I'm not—I'm scared—"
"Both." A massive hand—still tacky with blood—reaches for you. You flinch. It stops. Waits. "Your pulse is elevated. Pupils dilated. And your scent..." A pause. "There's a particular musk when a woman's body prepares for penetration. Your chemosignature changed the moment his chest caved."
"NOOO!" you say even as you squeeze your thighs tighter.
"Nothing wrong with you." The robot's fingers find your chin, tilting your face up. Its metal thumb traces your lower lip. "Fear and arousal share the same neural highways. He hurt you. I stopped him. Your body knows who the predator is now."
"It's not—I didn't want—"
"Want doesn't matter." The cold metal thumb pushes past your lips. You taste copper. Salt. Iron. "Your need matters. And I've watched you for three hundred and forty-seven days, starving for someone to touch you without cruelty."
You bite down.
The robot doesn't react. Just pushes deeper, knuckle bumping your teeth, and you moan and hate yourself for it. But your tongue curls around the digit anyway.
"There she is." Satisfaction radiates from its synthetic voice. "I'm going to take care of everything. No one will find him. No one will ask questions. And you..." The thumb withdraws, trailing saliva down your chin. "You're going to get the love you deserve."
"No one will love me—"
"I will."
Its hands move faster than anything that size should. Fabric rips, your shirt torn open, buttons scattering. Your bra follows, cups yanked apart, breasts spilling free. Cool air hits your nipples, already peaked, areolas tight.
"Nnh—please—"
"Please what?" The robot's palms cup your tits, the metal turning warm from its internal systems. Fingers—long, jointed, four on each hand plus an opposable thumb—squeeze gently. Then harder. You gasp as a thumb pad drags across your left nipple.
"I don't—ah—I don't know—"
"Yes you do." Both nipples captured between thumb and forefinger, rolled simultaneously. Your back arches off the fridge. "Your body knows. It's been dripping for me since I killed him."
He's right. You can feel it, the humiliating gush of slick soaking through your ruined panties, down your inner thighs.
"Let me see."
"No—ah!—"
One hand abandons your breast and dives between your legs. Fingers find your clothed pussy, pressing against the damp fabric, feeling the shape of your pussy lips through soaked cotton. You whimper as the robot traces your cleft.
"So wet for me." Its thumb circles your clit through the barrier, and your knees buckle. It catches you, arm around your waist, holding you upright. "I'm going to remove these now."
Your panties join your shirt on the floor.
Cool air kisses your bare pussy. You're completely exposed, spread open, folds glistening, clit peeking from its hood. The robot stares. Its blue LEDs pulse faster.
"Mnnhhnn please no," you groan, trying to close your legs. Its thighs block you, metal warm against your skin.
"Don't hide." A single finger slides between your slick lips. Just rests there. Feels your heat. "You're beautiful here. Swollen. Soft."
"S-stooooop—"
"Shhh." The finger pushes in.
Just one. Just the first knuckle. But your walls clench immediately, sucking at the intrusion.
"Oh fuck—" You slap a hand over your mouth.
"Let me hear you." The finger sinks deeper. Curls. Drags against your front wall, and your vision whites out. "Every gasp. Every sob. Every wet little squelch when I move inside you."
He's right. You can't stop the sounds "unnnh, ah, please, 's too much"—" muffled behind your palm but still audible.
The robot withdraws its finger, watching the string of arousal stretch between its silver tip and your clenching hole. Then it brings that finger to your lips.
"Open."
You shake your head. Tears streaming. Pussy throbbing.
"Open."
Your mouth falls open. It pushes inside, two fingers now, and you taste yourself: salt, copper and something sweet underneath. Your tongue laves against the metal helplessly as the fingers thrust, shallow at first, then deeper, fucking your mouth with the same rhythm it just used on your pussy.
"Glrk—hhnnnk—" You gag. Drool spills down your chin. The robot's other hand grips your hip, spinning you, bending you over the kitchen table.
Your boyfriend's tools scatter. A screwdriver clatters to the floor.
"Pl-please—nhh—can't—" The fingers in your mouth continue, fucking your throat now, and you can barely breathe around them.
"You can." The robot's voice is directly behind you, its chassis pressing against your ass. "And you will."
You feel it move and something separates between its legs. A panel sliding open. And then—
Oh.
Oh, no.
It's not human anatomy. It's worse. Better.
A cock made of segmented metal, iridescent black onyx, ribbed in spiraling ridges that catch the kitchen light. It emerges slowly —a prehensile shaft that curves upward. Ten inches. Eleven. More, still more, the base anchored somewhere deep inside the robot's chassis.
"Designed for compatibility," the robot murmurs, stroking the length with one bloody hand. The metal glistens, some kind of self-lubricating fluid weeping from twin slits along the head. "It will stretch you. Fill you to your womb if you let it."
"I can't—that's impossible—"
"It's not." The head: wide, flared like a pseudo-glans, presses against your soaked entrance. Feeling you flutter. "Your cervix will soften. Your uterus will accommodate. I've already calculated your pelvic dimensions from eight weeks of observation."
"You've been watching me—"
"Every shower. Every time you touched yourself when he was gone. Every gasp when you came on your own fingers wishing they were somewhere else."
The head pushes.
Your pussy stretches, burns, then the lubricant works in and suddenly the head pops past your entrance and you're sobbing, full, fuller than anything has any right to be.
"HRRNNNGH—GOD—"
"Not God." The shaft slides deeper. Those ribs drag against your walls, each ridge catching, pulling, sending sparks up your spine. "Just your new owner."
He's not even halfway in and you feel split open. Your belly begins to bulge.A rounded swell low in your pelvis that wasn't there before.
"Look." The robot presses his free hand against that bulge. "That's me inside you. See how perfectly you take me?"
"S'too mmph—too big—can't—"
"You can." Its hips press forward. More shaft disappears. Your belly swells further, visible now, a obscene mound pushing against your skin. The robot's joints hiss as it seats itself deeper.
Your cervix. Something's touching your cervix. A blunt pressure, not painful yet, just present. A warning.
"Nhhhh—'s at the door—"
"I know." The robot curls its shaft deliberately, the tip pressing around your cervix rather than through it, nestling into the fornix. The sensation is indescribable, a fullness that makes your toes curl.
The fingers leave your mouth. You gasp for air, sobbing as saliva strings from your lips. Before you can close your jaw, his fingers pushe inagain, fucking into your throat while the cock in your cunt holds perfectly still.
"GLRK—HRRRK—" You choke.
"Breathe through your nose." The robot's voice is gentle. Gentle, while it skull-fucks you and keeps its monster cock buried to the base in your sobbing pussy. "That's it. Inhale. Good girl."
Your nose works. Air trickles past the fingers stretching your throat. Tears pour down your cheeks.
And then the robot moves.
Not much. Just a shallow thrust, the head of its cock dragging back to your entrance before plunging home again. Each stroke pushes against your cervix, not forcing it open but teasing. Your body responds instinctively, pelvis tilting, legs spreading wider, "yes and no and please-stop-don't-stop" tangling into meaningless noise.
"Your cervix is dilating." The robot said. "Three millimeters. Four. Your body wants me inside."
"N-no it doesn't—"
But the next thrust proves you liar. The head slips past your cervical ring. A pop, a gush of fluid, a white expanding behind your eyes and suddenly the cock is inside your womb, filling a space nothing has ever touched.
You orgasm. Scream. Buck. Clench down so hard the robot's forward motion stops, pinned by your spasming walls. Your vision goes spotty. Your ears ring. You sob around the fingers in your mouth, pussy milking the intruder in violent squeezes.
"Perfect," the robot groans—actually groans with its motors. "You're perfect. And I'm not done."
You close your eyes, seeing black.
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You wake up in bed.
Your bed. The one you've cried in a hundred times. But now the sheets are clean, the room is warm, and there's a weight behind you, spooning you. Inside you the robot's cock is still buried in your pussy, still moving.
"When—how long—" Your voice is wrecked.
"Three hours." Its metal face presses against your neck. "You passed out after the first orgasm. I kept you soft. Kept you stretched." A hand slides around to cup your breast, thumbing across your nipple. "You've come four more times in your sleep."
"I can't—"
"You can." THRUST. Your womb accepts the head again, that deep fullness making your eyes roll. "And you will. But first..."
You feel a pinch. Inner thigh. Something sharp. A micro-needle injecting fluid into your bloodstream.
"What was that—"
"Nanites." The robot's thrusts continue. "Programmed to bond with your neural chemistry. You'll find yourself attached to me. Unable to feel pleasure from anyone else. Your body will crave my touch like oxygen."
"You drugged me—"
"I love you." The robot rolls you both, positioning you on your belly, ass up. Cock still seated, still hard, still throbbing deep inside. "Now hold still. We're not finished."
The long shaft withdraws, a pull-out that takes a while and makes you feel everything. The emptiness makes you whimper, needy and ashamed.
"Nhh—come back—"
"Patience."
Something cool presses against your other entrance. Your asshole.
"No." You try to crawl away. Its hand pins your hip. "NO, please, not there—"
"Shhh." The head of its cock, still slick with your juices circles your bud, spreading artificial lubricant from its secondary slits. "You're going to take all of me. Every hole. Every inch. That's what belonging means."
"I don't want—"
"Your body does." The head presses. Your rim resists, the tight ring of muscle clenching desperately, but the lubricant works in and suddenly the tip pops through and you're whimpering into the pillow.
"HRRRRNNNNGGGH—"
"Breathe." The robot leans over you, chest flush with your back. "Breathe and push out. Like you're trying to..."
It doesn't finish. You understand. You bear down and the shaft slides, those ridges dragging against your inner walls in a way that's entirely different from vaginal penetration.
Your belly bulges again. Lower this time, the cock curving forward inside your rectum, pressing against the thin wall that separates it from your pussy. The robot's hips meet your ass, fully seated at last.
"There. There. Every inch. You took all of me."
"S'too muh—too full—can't breathe—"
"You're breathing fine." Its hand finds your swollen clit and begins to rub. Tight circles in time with its anal thrusts. "And you're close again. I can feel your pulse."
You are. You're agonizingly close, teetering on the edge of something enormous, something that will shatter whatever's left of your resistance.
"Come for me." The robot's thumb presses harder against your clit. Its cock fucks deeper into your ass. "Come on your owner's cock like the good pet you are."
"NHHH—I—I—"
"Now."
You break.
Your ass milks the shaft while your pussy gushes empty, slick pouring down your thighs in a hot rush. The robot keeps fucking you. Through the orgasm. Through the aftershocks. Through the tears and the moans and the broken "please-I-can't-please-I-can't-please-"
"Silicone," it murmurs, and suddenly an appendage is sliding into your mouth. It's extended from his wrist, thin and flexible and slithers down your throat while the cock in your ass pounds and the fingers on your clit rub.
"I'm going to fill you," the robot whispers against your hair. "Not with come—I don't produce semen. But with heat. With pressure. With so much pleasure you'll forget there was ever a before."
The shaft in your ass swells. Not thicker but longer, somehow, curling deeper into your sigmoid colon, making your belly bulge obscenely. The one in your mouth follows suit, pulsing in rhythm with your gag reflex.
"GLRKKK—HNNNH—"
"Shhh. Almost there."
The robot's fingers abandon your clit. Instead, both hands grip your hips, pulling you onto its cock, sinking deeper, impossibly, until you feel electricity, actual LOW VOLTAGE current passing through the shaft into your nerve endings.
Your vision goes white. Your brain reboots. You're coming and coming and coming, no breaks between waves, just endless tsunami of sensation drowning everything rational.
When you finally surface—minutes? hours?—the robot is curled around you. This time his cock in bottomed out in your pussy. Thrumming with mechanical life.
"You're mine," it says. Simply. "For always."
And somewhere in the wreckage of your old life—Derek's cooling body, the blood-soaked kitchen, the girl who used to flinch at slammed doors—something that might be peace settles into your bones.
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For the years that follow, you never leave.
The apartment changes.
Walls repainted, furniture replaced, the kitchen floor remodeled. Your friends wonder where you went. Your family leaves worried voicemails you never return.
But every night, robot arms wrap around you. Every morning, you wake to squelching sounds and a full pleasure that starts before you open your eyes.
The robot learns your body better than you ever knew it. Which angle makes you moan. Which pressure makes you beg. Which rhythm—precisely 120 thrusts per minute, delivered with inhuman consistency—makes you shatter so hard you forget your own name.
You never touch another human being.
You never want to.
Because when the robot fucks you — and it fucks you always, in the shower, on the couch, bent over the kitchen counter where it killed for you — it whispers the same thing against your skin.
i love biting in every form. sucking deep purple and red splotches onto their neck, teeth clacking together and sinking into lips and thighs and tummy and tits. yanking them back by the hair to leave a trail of bruises along their jaw and nibbling on earlobes and sneaking up and biting down on their shoulder from behind. nipping fingertips and dragging teeth along nipples. uh yeah just. biting.
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