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"And cut!"

The sexbot's post-climax panting and moaning came to an abrupt end. She silently climbed down from the teacher’s desk and straightened her schoolgirl uniform while awaiting her next instructions. Her partner pulled off the headset that had been recording every detail of the experience, handing it to the set's technician. As the partner made his exit, the tech gave the sexbot's pert backside a slap, offering, "Good work, D4."

"Thank you," she said in a polite tone, her eyes fixed forward.

"She seemed a little 'squeaky' out there," the director observed, the tech frowning at the workload this implied.

"I'll… check her out first thing tomorrow."

"Fuck tomorrow, we've got another shoot!" The director tapped his phone and the technician's subsequently chimed. "That's the address. Get her there and get her tuned - I don't need another sexbot explosion."

"That happened once, and she was a used D2 - look, sir... I've got shit I need to take care of-"

"You're goddamn right you do - Her. At the set. And fully serviced." The director stalked off without waiting for a response.

The technician sighed and looked at the sexbot. "When was your last diagnostic?" he asked.

"49 days ago."

"Jesus, 49 days? Fuck me," he muttered, hastily amending. "That's not a command, Carrie."

As she pulled her pleated skirt back up he checked the address the director had sent - dammit, clear on the other side of town. Maybe there was a way out of this... "Carrie, can you get yourself to-" he read from his phone, "-One-Oh-"


"-three Birch Street?"

"Four!" The director shouted again, marching toward her and the tech.

"Yes," she replied to the tech.

"D-Four!" the director shouted directly into her ear. The sexbot turned, taking the garment bag he shoved into her hands. "That's for the next shoot. And pay attention when I call!"

"Of course," she said to the director's back as he stalked off.

"Here's cab fare," the tech said in a quiet voice, handing her a few bills. "First thing you do when you get there is have someone run a diagnostic. Insist on it - no filming until you've had a thorough diagnostic. Alright?"

"Yes," she responded. "Should I leave now?"

"Yeah - and don't let the director see you taking a cab! If he asks... just tell him I dropped you off. Got that?"

"I think so," she said, the uncertainty in her voice revealing a potential conflict in the command.

"Just don't tell him how you got there," he insisted, peering into the garment bag she had been handed. "Put that on before you go - it's a little less conspicuous than 'slutty schoolgirl.' And once you get there, get that diagnostic - before you do anything else! Understood?"

She nodded. "Understood."


A knocking at his door startled Mark from his nap, and he noted with annoyance that his friends were two hours earlier than expected.

Stumbling over to the door, he flung it open and immediately forgot whatever tirade he had been preparing about no sleep and a twelve hour workday. Standing outside his door was a woman - a beautiful woman - apparently ready for a night out, dressed in a small black dress. Her dark hair was tied back in long braid, her face expertly made-up and impassive, professional. There was something familiar about her, like he knew her from somewhere - but he couldn't put his finger on it.

"I'm here for my diagnostic," she said flatly.

"Uh..." he tried to imagine what she could be talking about. "You sure you got the right place?"

"1-0-4-3 Birch, Unit 4," she said, looking at his apartment door with its dingy '4' slightly askew.

"That's me," he muttered, now even more confused. "But… I think... did someone put you up to this?"

"Jake dropped me off," she said, pushing past him. "I am afraid I will require a thorough diagnostic before we can begin."

"Who's Jake?" Mark asked, admiring her tanned figure as she surveyed the room. Her skimpy dress enticingly hugged the curves of her pert backside, and her long, slender legs were fitted in dark stockings that ended high on her thighs just before her dress began. "And what's a... 'diagnostic'?"

"Jake is the technician," she replied, turning her attention back to him, now with a cheerful smile on her face. "And if you are not familiar with a diagnostic, allow me to walk you through it! First is the range of motion test."

Mark struggled to remember if he knew a Jake (or anyone else for that matter) who would want to send him a call girl while Carrie began to stretch. First with her arms reaching upward, her black dress stretching tightly against her perky breasts, then her legs, bending one, then the other behind her in an impressive display of flexibility. As she slid to the floor and reached for her toes with her legs splayed wide, Mark thought he heard a faint 'whirring', thinking it was probably her phone set on ‘vibrate’. He began to ponder where on that outfit she could keep event the slimmest of phones, but the idle question was gone in an instant when she bent forward at the waist, her black dress sliding up to expose the bottom half of her ass and the minuscule black thong within.

"Do I pass the range of motion test?" she asked from between her calves, her hands gripping her ankles above her black heels.

"Fuck yes you do," Mark managed, no longer giving any concern to the many questions the situations was raising. "Thank you, Jake, whoever you are," he muttered, and she suddenly stood and pivoted to face him. "Next is the sensory feedback test. Do you have a diagnostic tool?"

Mark took her hand and put it over the bulge in his pants. "This should do the trick."

She hesitated with a strained look of concentration on her face. After a few moments she recovered, offering a pouty, "Any ejaculation while I am in diagnostic mode could lead to system damage..."

Mark pulled out his wallet and flashed a condom, puzzling at her rather odd way of insisting on protection. "Are you supposed to be a robot?"

"I currently have no assigned role," she said, nonchalantly tugging down her thong. "And I must insist we finish the diagnostic before any acts of intercourse."

Mark wasn't averse to a little role-play, and while he didn't know how she settled on 'robot', it was definitely doing the trick. "So you need a 'sensory feedback' test?" he asked, and she gave a nod. "Alright, tell me how this feels," he slid his hand between her thighs, his fingers teasing up under her skirt as he leaned in for a kiss. She seemed confused when his mouth met hers, and he caught a glimpse of her eyelids fluttering as he eased her down on to the couch.

"This… this is not part of the diagnostic," she said, her voice somehow clear despite that her lips were still pressed against his. "Potential... potential conflict..."

He parted from her, removing his pants as she writhed for a moment before freezing entirely, her mouth hanging open. There was an audible 'click' and her expression became calm. "Please insert diagnostic tool," she said plainly, parting her thighs.

The whole robot act was doing wonders, and while sliding the condom on Mark suddenly wondered whether she actually could be a robot - after all, was that any more ridiculous than some half-baked theory about a mysterious call-girl pretending... yes, he decided. The cost alone-

Her vapid expression unchanged, she repeated, "Please insert-"

"With pleasure," he said, refocusing. He explored beneath her dress, finding the smooth mound of her flushed labia, parting them with a gentle push. He slid into her and leaned over for another kiss, his mouth brushing against her soft breasts before hungrily pressing against her lips. She offered nothing in return at first, but slowly grew more responsive as he pumped her in an easy rhythm. She returned his kisses shyly at first, then hungrily, her fingers beginning to claw at his back as his own hands slid beneath her dress to grip her soft haunches tightly, pumping faster, causing a whimpering moan to escape from her lips. Suddenly another look of confusion overtook her and she droned, "Corruption in data feed, instructional c-c-conflict-t-t-t, diagnossszzzzhhhh-" her body shuddered and she pushed him off of her, then on to his back. Looking up at her, he noticed her head was cocked unnaturally to one side, twitching in time to a distinct mechanical buzz.

"Holy shit," Mark muttered, watching her apparent struggle to recover as the noises grew louder. "You really are a-"

With a sharp 'snap' her head realigned itself and she gave him an inviting smile before diving at his crotch, her velvet mouth gliding over his cock. Her ass shot into the air, quivering in place before plummeting when her legs splayed and she began to grind her crotch against the couch in shuddering movements. Meanwhile her head bobbed over his member as she took in his entire length, her hands steadying herself while her lower half continued its independent and wild flailing. He felt a tugging and saw she held the condom in her teeth, tearing it off with a savage grin, leaving him exposed. She took him in her mouth once more, the feel of her tongue massaging his tip almost unbearable. The part of Mark's mind that found her jerking movements and mechanical sounds 'distressing' lost out to the part that found all of this to be an incredible turn-on, and despite his wishes not to end it so quickly, he could do nothing to stop his flooding climax.210

There was an immediate popping sound and he saw her head jerk back, smoke rising from a mouth hung open in shock, her blue eyes wide as sections of her throat flickered red from some internal light. She fell backward with a soft thump against the couch, and Mark wondered if she was broken for good when she groaned, "Fff-fuck meee," her mouth unmoving, her words heavily distorted.

Without a second thought, Mark pushed his still firm member into her pussy and she let out a digitized squeal, her eyes widening as the redness across her throat spread to her cheeks. As he pumped with no thought but to fuck her as hard as he could, she jerked her dress down over her bouncing tits and grasped each in her hands, fumbling with her nipples as her face grew even redder. "Ahhh... ahhh! Do I... do I pass the... the s-s-sensorrrrr<ksssh> t-t-test?!" she cried, her voice rising to a shrill pitch as her eyes clenched shut in apparent ecstasy.

"You pass every fucking test!" Mark groaned, his hands joining hers to massage her soft breasts as her entire head glowed brightly, bursts of electricity visible inside her gaping mouth.

"Di... diagnostic <ahhhh>!" she moaned, the smell of burning plastic filling the room as her hips slammed with newfound energy against his. "Diagnostic com... com... compleeeeeEEEEEE!" There was a sudden burst of sparks through her cheek, her synthetic skin melting away to show metal, ceramic, wiring, and a rampant electrical blaze. Mark only had a moment to take all this in before her head exploded in a blinding flash.

His vision returned slowly, during which time her bucking pelvis never broke its rhythm despite that her face was now a smoldering crater of burnt electronics. “D-d-diagnostic compleeet-t-t-te,” she stammered in a wholly synthetic voice as he realize he was coming a second time, his fingers digging into the plush softness of her breasts as her shuddering hips finally gave way, a few sparks dancing around the ruin of her head before she finally collapsed into an awkward ragdoll slump.

As he caught his breath, Mark suddenly realized there were voices in the hall, and glanced over to see his door was slightly ajar.

“…but this is where her signal says she is!”

A short, rotund man with a well-groomed beard and sunglasses pushed open his door, followed by a nervous looking younger man whose attention seemed divided between the scene in front of him and the device he was holding.

“Carrie!” the younger man said, ignoring Mark and rushing over to her. “I… I can fix this…” he stammered nervously, staring up at the man in sunglasses.

“If you don’t, it’s your ass,” the one in sunglasses grumbled, taking a look at Mark. “And just who the fuck are you and what are you doing with her?”

Mark did nothing to hide his anger, “I know exactly what this is! You send this slutty robot to my apartment, have her break down-“

“Easy kid!” the man in sunglasses interrupted, suddenly taken aback. “No one’s trying to con you! Look, I represent Suntouch Interactives-“ he glanced at a few cartridge cases scattered next to Mark’s headset, several depicting women in various stages of undress “-and I see you’re familiar with our work. “

Mark nodded.

“Carrie D4 here is one of our robotic actors, but we need a human actor to take the interactive impression from. Now it seems you’ve got no qualms fucking a ‘bot – am I right about that?”

Mark nodded again.

“Well then,” he flicked his phone toward Mark’s. “There’s my info. Look me up and we’ll see if we can’t put that talent to use.” He flicked his phone again. “And buy yourself a new couch,” he added, Mark suddenly noticing the scorch marks on the cushions as the younger man lifted Carrie’s still-smoking body with a wheeze.

“Totally fixable…” the young man reassured himself, stumbling toward the door.

“Diagnostic c-c-complete, no fff-faults de-tec-tec-tec-ted,” Carrie droned.

“Look forward to hearing from you,” the man in sunglasses called ambivalently as he followed the others out the door.

After closing the door behind them, Mark looked over the man’s information, still uncertain whether this wasn’t all a con.

“But if it gives me another shot at her,” he muttered, and sent the man a simple reply: ‘I’m in.’

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