All night long Polly had kept her eyes on this exuberant bimbo she had been noticing for a few parties now, keeping an eye out for the collagened-up beauty, a vulgar creature of puffed-up lips, balloon tits, over-inflated ass, loud, crass laughs and functionally nonexistent dresses. Polly didn’t know her from Adam, but she did not like how she intruded on her own hunting ground, mixing up with her crowd of bored inheritors, angel investors and other sugar daddies, and how quickly she was seeming to gain everyone’s favors. And probably in a much less classy fashion than her if the way she was decked out was any indication. She herself was magazine airbrushed perfection made real, but she thought her charm was in how much she held back her assets under (relatively) conservative designer outfits, angelic blondness and a teasing smirk. Which was certainly a much more long-lasting way to go about gaining favors, Polly thought, rather than chain one-night stands as quickly as possible. Either way, it was becoming increasingly clear the bimbo needed to go, and fast.
The bimbo, whose name she didn’t even grace remembering, was breaking her own record in tackiness tonight, sporting a midriff-baring, 4k-wide boob window leopard halter top and matching pencil skirt, and seemed even more loud and quickly inebriated than previous functions. Thankfully, this made her easy to track in the crowd, and would put her even more under the spotlight when Polly would execute her plan. She eventually broke off her group with a lewd comment and a roaring laugh that barred her neat pearly white teeth, heading for the party-thrower’s inherited villa. Letting a beat pass so she wouldn’t seem suspicious, Polly then politely excused herself, keeping her champagne level as she weaved through the crowd and zeroed on her rival’s rolling plastic ass, barely contained by her tight skirt. The mansion was an sprawling old thing, but it wasn’t Polly’s first time around, and she had a sure grasp on which bathroom the bimbo was heading to - a place nicely isolated from the ongoing party. Calmly tailing her, Polly heard the bimbo close the bathroom’s door. Making sure nobody was following her herself, she let a few moments pass, intently listening for footsteps. Satisfied by the silence, Polly moved on with the next step of her plan.
She barged in the bathroom and slammed the door shut behind her in one swift movement, not letting the bimbo turn around from her standing at attention pose, staring dumbly at the wall before kneeing her in the back of the leg and dunking her head in the toilet bowl, which she hit with a dull “thunk”. Keeping the now flailing socialite wannabe pinned with a knee on her back and her left hand in her hair, Polly put her unspilled champagne glass down and pulled out a cable out of her purse with her right hand, then brushed of her silky blonde hair, plugging it into a port in her neck. Holding the other end of the cable between her teeth, she pressed down two symmetrical bumps on the bimbo’s neck with her thumb and finger. A click was heard, her luscious black hair rose slightly, and she froze and finally stopped her thrashing. Sliding her fingers under the hair, Polly grabbed onto the wig-like back of the bimbo’s head and pulled it free, revealing a blocky cranium of plastic, cables and computer ports underneath. Carefully discarding the removable part, Polly located a compatible port and plugged the cable in, diving into the bimbot’s systems. As the scans and masked pings she had made during their previous encounters had led her to believe, she was indeed a cybersocialite from the ZN Foundation, and one of their aging model lines as well. An aging line the Jefferson Club had an extensive documentation of backdoors and known issues on, documentation that had been downloaded along with the appropriate tools in Polly’s own plastic head. With millions of operations per second, Polly began rewriting the silicon bimbo’s brain.
Hacking the mechanic doll, however, was proving harder than originally thought. ZN Foundation had apparently rolled an update out only hours prior that fixed most of its fembots’ most important security flaws, throwing a wrench in Polly’s always well-oiled plans. Running out of time and surefire schemes, Polly’s internal Jefferson Club scenario database finally settled on scenario K503A: keeping the fembot’s own AI off, maintaining the connection through wireless means, and puppeteering the slutty socialite into her own social suicide. This would be a risky strategy, as the two fembots would blare data, however encrypted, back and forth on the radio waves, and more importantly, this would prove a great strain on Polly’s system as it would have to run two bodies at once, a taxing task even with the bimbo’s functionalities and pretenses of humanity kept to a minimum. But with an algorithmic success rate of 92.1%, Polly brushed off the risks and acted on it.
The wireless backdoor opened and functional, Polly stepped off the bimbo’s back and rolled her over on her back on the tiled floor, her plastic features and glassy eyes slack and empty, her luscious lips slightly open. Stepping off and retrieving the robot’s wig, she commanded it to sit up. The motion came out as rigid and straightforward, lacking the flawed and superfluous aspects of natural human movement as Polly struggled with the alienness of the ZN Foundation‘s designs and running two bodies at once. Brushing off the wig, she clipped it back on the bimbot’s head - if she was to shock the crowd with the bimbo’s true nature crowd, she needed to make it clear that this was the very same woman they’d been talking with minutes before. Now was the time for the big event. Commanding the fembot to stand up, she controlled it back to the party, before picking her flute back up and heading back there herself after a few moments, slowly and methodically, as much to distance herself from what was to come as to manage her own strained systems.
As she merged back into the crowd, the cybersocialite had already started the fireworks. She had already popped her balloon tits out of her top and was pinching and squeezing her perfectly-defined nipples, moaning so immodestly it would have been comedic was her face not vacant and inexpressive, her vocalization coming from a mouth frozen open. The crowd wasn’t really alienated yet, as wilder things were known to happen in these parties, but a small circle had cleared around her and looks were beginning to be more judging than appreciative. Polly decided to step it up by having the robot drop on her knees. Without interruption, the robotic babe then hiked her pencil skirt up, laboriously brushing against the tanned, toned silicon legs it was hugging so tightly, ultimately revealing her bare molded plastic pussy and an expertly trimmed, or rather implanted, heart-shaped tuft of synthetic pubic hair. Proceeding, Polly began pleasuring herself by having the bimbo rub her manicured, painted fingers around her clit, gently at first, then faster and harder until the fembot was vigorously fingering herself, her moans now ragged and even louder, her whole body jerking with simulated pleasure, her free hand kneading her hard rubber spheres, aphrodisiac lubrication fluids dripping from her cybernetic cunt. Truly a masterful plan, Polly congratulated herself, her own nipples hardening with more than just pride.
As curiosity was clearly shifting to unease regarding the bimbo’s pornographic display, and the disconnect between her hyperbolic vocalizations and her dead, empty face, Polly moved to the coup-de-grâce. Freezing the bimbo in the middle of the act, she granted herself a few cycles to address the errors piling up in her own system, before throwing herself back at it. With hacking motions, the fembot pulled her fluids-covered fingers out of herself, reaching for her head. With a sharp counter-clockwise twist followed by a snappy brittle sound, the fembot pulled her own head off, fingers strategically placed so her “wig” would fall off too, finally making her true nature explicit to all. Such an expert plan, Polly managed to compute, a hand arduously crawling its way towards her own nether regions. Unconcerned with the protests emerging around her, the bimbo kept going, bringing her disconnected head upside-down in a single motion to her crotch, nobody wanting to step up and stop the robot’s graphic exhibit as her rubber tongue twisted and probed her own pussy with much noise, her face bathing in synthetic cum.
Finally, both robots could take it no more, and Polly had to end it. Finally reaching its breaking point, the now irremediably exposed cybersocialite tensed up with a sudden jerk, letting its own head roll into the lawn, her tongue still pushing and wriggling in the dirt, glassy eyes impassively staring into nothing. Flailing, her body rocked with three consecutive simulated orgasms, her rubber cunt flowing with what remained of lubricant, before Polly finally fried her hardware for good with an overflow exploit that sent the fembot crashing on her back in a pile of limp plastic limbs.
The finale was received with deafening silence, before outraged, excited and confused conversations exploded. With a satisfied smirk, Polly pondered on how this disturbing display would be forgotten by all these dilettantes with too much money to spend, and how smarter, classier and more savvy cybersocialites like her would carry on their schemes unaffected - until she caught up with her own sensory input and realized the was pleasuring herself, leaning on a buffet table as her legs trembled with pleasure, her fingers rubbing back and forth on her own exposed crotch, her whole body jerking with digital pleasure and overworked systems intertwined.
Accelerating out of control, her fingers sent wave after wave of pleasure and data to Polly’s CPU, making her hardware work overtime. In fact, the combined stresses of puppeteering the bimbo, the data generated by her pornographic excesses, the planning of her demise, and now Polly’s own simulated superlibido would have already shut down the blond cybersocialite long ago was it not for the overrides that made her such an effective infiltrator of the wealthy, but that would now lead to her graphic demise as a faint glow was beginning to pierce through her smooth rubber skin and acrylic smoke was pouring out of her ears, mouth and eyes.
Finally, with an anguished, distorted moan, Polly reached her climax, and that final peak of entwined data, pleasure and hubris burst out of her right ear in a fiery explosion, tearing apart her perfect rubber lobe and revealing her own plastic cranium and smoking, molten electronics in her charming head. As the blast send her falling on her right side, her thorax exploded in turn, utterly ruining her little black dress, cutting open one of her synthetic, perky firm breasts, revealing the pliable grey gel under the smooth rubber covering, and shearing the other from her torso, sending it flying like a horny molten jellyfish. Finally, as she crashed on the floor, a molten pile of plastic and metal and a partygoer had the brains to pop out the fire extinguisher, her failing CPU managed to compute one last byte of data, about how her demise had been both more classy and spectacular than that ruined bimbo fuck.