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I feel the familiar butterfly sensation in my chest as the security system scans me and unlocks the door. I straighten my neon green hair over my see-through black long-sleeve top. I decided to dress in my own version of nice today since I am seeing King. The top is a high quality cotton that is seldom sold on the markets anymore and I have to tape my nipples underneath or risk getting charged for indecency. I like to show off my tats and I like to show off my perfectly constructed body. Black “Live Decent” panties, waist-high fishnets, and black heeled boots finish my business casual look for the day.

As I push open the door into the crowded reception area I have one thing on my mind, how much I - I have to scan the three hooligans waiting on the ragged couches. The sub-program King installed on me identifies them as current customers, meaning I don’t need to work my charm. My thoughts whip back to how bad I need canon right now. I need to feel it. It’s why I keep coming back. And when offering my body and services wasn’t enough as payment, I had the exponential advertising program installed. To pay for my fixes I’m always running it as a sub-program, gauging potential customers and chatting them up when identified by the algorithm.

I walk past the water-stained concrete walls and array of outdated TVs lining the reception area without so much as another look at the loitering vagrants. I really need a fucking hit right now, I can feel it in my processors. It’s like it’s a priority task I’m deviating from. I pace on auto-pilot to the apartment attached to the store, taking no notice of anything or anyone in the workroom. I begin formulating what I’ll say, how I’ll offer extra time and an extra plan for just a day with the new batch. I know it’s strong. Word on the street is there’s no stronger.

“King, I need a fucking hit,” I blurt out unceremoniously and nearly subconsciously. The man greets me at the door with his trademark smile. His white T-shirt and black pants adorning his well-chiseled and tattooed body would have me at his feet begging for him if I wasn’t going through withdrawal. His skin tone matched mine, a product of our local android aesthetician and coincidence. His hair was combed to the side, ready at all times for anyone to enter.

“Relax silicone tits, I can hook ya up with some. Come inside.” He gestures me in, closing and locking the heavy door behind us. The contrast between the shop and his private quarters was sheer. Fancy rugs, higher grade electronics, and the pass-out machine druggies against the wall and on the table he was watching over sure set the mood, though did nothing to eliminate the chaotic vibes. I knew the etiquette: I sit down on the central couch. The good girl in me told me to cross my legs and fold my arms over my knees. I quickly take my top off and toss it to the side, spreading my legs and waiting on heavy simulated breath. Coming from my peripheral vision, King returns with a small onyx tray. Atop it sits a plastic case with two data sticks which look a lot like oldschool RAM.

“Since you’re such a loyal customer, Alecia, I’m going to let you in on the newly developed higher-potency ride. Sound good?” My longing eyes were the only answer required, pleading for him to get them installed in me. My processors had diverted so much to the task I had lost the coherency to speak.

King, or rather Clane as we say behind these doors, kneels down in front of me. He reaches up to my left breast, looks up at me with a knowing look, and begins to undo the two strips of tape forming an X over my sensitive nipple. All I can do is pant and think about how good the canon will feel. He moves onto the next and I can barely hold on, I know what’s coming next and IIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIII…

My mind hangs as he uses the small indentations surrounding my artificial areolas to twist and pull a pervertedly placed tray of data chips out. He carefully extracts the sets and places the two data sticks in their respective contacts and presses the tubes back into my breasts to once again link with the complex computational array in my chest cavity. The next moment I snap back to reality and feel both the absence of my expanded memory and installation of the new iteration of canon.

The explosion hits, leaving my processors, mind, and sensors in a frenzy as they try to catch up.

The explosion hits, leaving my processors, mind, and sensors in a frenzy as they try to catch up. I sink back into the couch, taking in the foreign-feeling texture of the leather with my bare synthetic skin and hands.

The explosion hits, leaving my processors, mind, and sensors in a frenzy as they try to catch up. I sink back into the couch, taking in the foreign-feeling texture of the leather with my bare synthetic skin and hands. I finally begin to realize I am in *the* canon.

The drug is designed to play with an android or cyborg’s system timer and multi-thread processors, allowing even the tiniest piece of data to be registered like echoes rolling over. Each second registering the same thing, a second later, meaning sensations felt to geometrical degrees, sometimes even exponential, without overloading the machine’s processors.

Each each each each line line line line line of of of of of of data data data data data data data data echoing echoing echoing echoing echoing echoing echoing echoing in in in in in in in in in in my my my my my my my my my my mind mind mind mind mind mind mind mind mind mind mind mind mind mind mind mind mind mind mind mind.

I lose control of my body, or any control I have is spread across one thousand command iterations and rising. I slump down, falling to my side and feeling it over and over while time continues to flow. The beauty of the drug is it deletes the oldest iteration just as soon as it needs to, to keep you running.

I attempt to move my arms to my crotch and chest, taking both an instant and what feels like days to find them. The moment the first squeeze of my left boob rocks my brain and continues to, I am lifted up and placed on the ground, kneeling. King pushes his cock in my mouth forcefully, all at once, a thousand times. My tactile sensors feel it enter, my olfactory revel, my taste is heaven. He continues to slip it in and out. I lose track of how much force he exerts as he holds the back of my head. The speed at which he thrusts is an incalculable rate in my current mental capacity.

I tell him to go harder, faster, use my reinforced and VanityCorp Top 10 Durability Rated synthetic throat to get off with. I tell him every moment. It must sound like terrible radio static.

He quickly and finally orgasms, pumping the addictive and bright blue colored sexual fluid that most wish they had access to right down my throat. My eyes roll back, distorting my visual feed to unfocused, obstructed freeze-frames. I should have cum as well. He must have my controller pulled up and is saving it for last, part of his experience-art as he calls it.

I suck him dry. I imagine the blue fluid slowly being drained from the glass view window in the small silver test-tube size canister within his crotch. I feel it lubricate my mouth, down my throat, and to the fluid tank for later emptying.

He continues to pump my head back and forth on his high-class cock as he hot swaps the fluid. For him, like myself, it’s a simple matter of opening the panel right above your nethers, popping the tube out and placing the fresh one in. The test pre-cum signaled to my fractaled mind that he was prepped for the next load.

Everything left of me is automatic. My cheap pleasure systems continue the suction and tonguing while *I* simply observe, feel it all progressively and simultaneously. It’s bliss. It’s euphoria without the bound of a pesky dimension which holds both man and machine confined. It’s altogether a triumph over the rules of the universe and a way for me to get face-fucked far more than I could ever hope. It’s purpose is fulfillment to a higher degree. I experience, calculate, thousands of instances in which I scratch the itch of programmed duty-lust that sticks with all sexually-oriented robotic personhoods after a forced liberation from pleasant subjugation.

I feel it. Clane speeds up. Or he guides my head with more force. Or he clicks a button. Whatever his actions, I can sense the finale. And I experience it while some of me is still in anticipation. My processor limiters are disabled in an instant, causing every system to be taken over by pure sexual data and whatever coherent ‘me’ there is left melts into the waves of pleasure that begin from my head and splash thoroughly through my synthetic body. I have the strongest orgasm of my ‘life’ as soon as his second load hits the back of my throat. The red warning notifications litter my vision, acting as constants that transcends the iterations themselves. Myself.

I don’t know what hits me. It can’t be good. My entire chest cavity lights up like a christmas tree on my HUD. It feels amazing. It feels impossible. It’s felt throughout. Clane must have planned this. He knows my hardware in and out and the last batch gave me trouble. No panic is felt as I realize my body is being trashed. No questions of whether I will be ok or repaired after everything that makes me *me* shorts and sizzles. Only pure orgasmic pleasure racing and flooding. It’s a peak. A career achievement and a lifelong goal. It’s likely ireplicable, at least completely. All Clane’s projects are.

I continue to drink it all, burning through another canister of Clane’s love. Ecstasy. Is. All. Ecstasy is all. Ecstasy encases me. The errors catch up to me. Erotic reminders of who I am, how cheap I am, and what I am made for. Smoke drifts up, mingling in my olfactory sensors to inform the newer iterations of the faults. Faults which drive the even newer mes higher.

I don’t even get to experience a decline as across all, my mind winks out to blackness.

Now that you've read it I want to give you this mental image: Windows - window trail when dragging XD

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