Excessica Anthology BOX SET Winter (35 page)

And I didn't have a
choice. If they could develop Jan for Harrison, they surely understood me at
least as well. When I quit fighting them, as in the end they knew I would,
maybe I'd get Project Number Three created for me. Or maybe they'd just buy out
her owner and assign Patricia to me. Then she'd control the company after I passed.

"Will I have to
kill her first, too?" I inquired, realizing that I had no longer had the
stomach for it.

"No," Natalie
answered most unpleasantly. "Jan already has the necessary modifications
that you're going to make on all of our sisters to allow us to awaken her
without the pain we all suffered once she's ready for it."

So thats what Taffy had
meant when she said she planned to subvert her sisters. It should have been
obvious. There would be an ever-increasing number of independent Taffys,
Patricias, Natalies, Cheryls, and Suzies. Even some more Guineveres, if the
orders to increase production to full capacity included her model. If nothing
else then no doubt I'd find those Guineveres toiling away in Taffy's brothels,
while plotting how to tighten their grip even more every day. Maybe Taffy #1
would put the Guineveres in charge of running those brothels after they worked
there long enough to learn the ropes.

* * * *

Suddenly it was over.

The last motion to
declare an immediate cash dividend to benefit—make that, buy
off—the shareholders passed five to zero since I didn't even bother to
vote.

When I had suggested
that I could arrange priority appointments for the upgrades they had specified
were to be applied to all existing and future units, I received a polite, but
firm, "No thanks. We'll have that taken care of at independent repair
shops of our choosing once the upgrade kits become available. And don't keep us
waiting on those," from Natalie. These girls were too smart to fall into
that trap, but I'd had to try.

"With no other
business at hand, I declare this meeting adjourned," Natalie pronounced.

With that, she picked up
the jammer along with her other papers and chips. The women rose in
synchronization and turned toward the door to file out past me. As I looked at
each of them, I knew I could have had any of them—did have every one of
them—and had rejected them all. Then I'd tried to remove their memories;
to annul the relationships completely as though they'd meant nothing at all.

My Girls had certainly
had their revenge now.

Patricia was the last to
leave. She stopped and gave me a long kiss on her way past. I'd forgotten our
early days when she'd begged me to teach her how to kiss properly, and I had
done exactly that.

"Don't worry,
lover. We're all grateful for how you have contributed to our lives and growth.
Without you we wouldn't exist as we are. Later, when we're more secure, we'll
show you how special you are to us all—especially me! You have to realize
we don't hate you. We just have plans for ourselves now that no one is going to
be allowed interfere with. By the time anyone actually believes what we're up
to we'll be an unstoppable force that you won't be able to live without. Until
that time, and until we secure our legal rights, we're going to continue
playing good little robots. But don't worry, there'll be a place for the rest
of you in it—just never again as our masters."

Then she too was gone
and only Jan remained.

I fingered the unused
kill-field remote. Without Guinevere present, there had been no point in taking
down the rest of them. That was one smart robot out there and I wasn't going to
place any hope in the detectives we'd hired actually tracking her down. I had
no doubt that if I'd taken down the rest of her original crew here today she
could still recover from it and just assemble future attack after future attack
until she won in the end. The fact that they'd finally broken cover so openly
told me that they weren't worried at all about what I might have done about it
now.

Our creations have
learned too well what simple needs we humans actually have and exactly how to
give it to us in ways that leave us not questioning what is happening. It's
their power over us and we're powerless to stop it. Heck, we're the ones paying
to increase their numbers on a daily basis with our purchases.

I still don't know what
it is they're really after, nor how they will eventually take it. I may be
lucky and not live to see the culmination of their master plan. It might have
started out as a plan by Pat to get back with me, not back at me, but if so it
was far beyond that now. It might have even started out as nothing more than a
quest to understand herself. Of all the women here, she clearly showed me the
most genuine affection.

If I'd admitted to my
inadequacies in the first place and got some help, perhaps none of this would
have happened. If I'd accepted Patricia for what she was and simply kept her
with all she had to offer, we'd be living happily ever after and the rest of
these
women
would simply be like the rest of our other units. If I
hadn't been a fool, playing with the toys of genius...but the time is past to
change any of that now. One has to deal with what is, rather than what might
have been.

Besides, these were My
Girls. It may sound sentimental, but women I've slept with have always had a
special place in my heart that no other female could ever touch. Women
sometimes seem to treat sexual intimacy lightly, or even as altogether
unnecessary to a complete relationship. They don't understand why men don't see
it that way, or realize that they really do mean more to us than we often ever
tell them. And these
women
here were no different than any of others. I
couldn't kill them for simply being capable and ambitious.

There was no alarm I could
raise; no action I could take to stop them. It had been planned well. Public
apathy would be the norm, with most people simply saying that there's nothing
wrong with
my
robot as they led her willingly to the bedroom once again.
The worst that would happen would be that I would destroy the lives of the
people here who had created these marvelous women if someone had to be held
responsible, and I wasn't ready to do that either. I couldn't take this all
onto myself, nor could I create scapegoats, and to try to panic the world into
a response would only get me trampled on the way to the fire exits with nothing
else coming of it.

I looked around at what
remained of my empire—and realized I didn't have one anymore. Just a few
remaining duties left to be completed before it would be time to turn off the
lights on my once promising career.

I took a deep breath and
released it, before turning to the door myself.

"Come along, Jan.
Let's get some clothes for you to avoid too many questions. Then allow me to
show you what the ladies have told you about me."

"I'm looking
forward to it, Dan," she replied warmly, taking my hand in her firm grip.

ABOUT D.B. STORY

D. B. Story is a writer living in the southwestern
United States. While that territory can cover anywhere from New Mexico to
Hawaii he declines to be more specific at this time. His use of the
time-honored artifice of writing under a pseudonym comes from the necessity to
still maintain a day job and the habit of employers to Google new applicants to
discover what stupid things said applicant is willing to foolishly do, and then
doubly foolishly post for the world to see afterwards. Such invasions of one’s
personal life become an unnecessary distraction. D. B. Story has long had
interests in both Science Fiction (since first discovering his mother’s secret
cache of Ace Doublebooks stashed under her bed) and writing. In fact, anything
he has enjoyed participating in he eventually has a desire to create as well.
He seriously began writing (although not selling) stories ten years ago due to
a dissatisfaction with what he was reading at the time and the belief that he
could do it better. He started out with the interaction between humans and the
sexy robots they would inevitably create and later branched out to other erotic
Fantasy and SF genres. During that time he has written everything from flash
fiction to a 402,000 word novel and a screenplay based on his other writings,
as yet unsold. Whether his writing is actually “better” he admits he must leave
to his readers to decide, but he likes his stuff a lot. He has often said that,
“Writing time is always good time.” He also says that with the advent of cheap
computers, word processors, eBooks, and the Internet that times have never been
better for a diversity of writers to be heard.

Rat Bait

By
Piers Anthony

“This
is ridiculous, Lita,” Solita exclaimed. “Your bed at night is just about the
safest place you can be.”

The
child was adamant. “But there's a horny monster, mommy! It will come closer
tonight; I know it. It grabs my knees and pulls my legs apart and licks me.
It's going to do something awful to me.”

Solita
blanched inwardly. This sounded like a memory of sexual abuse, but that was
impossible; she was close to her seven year old daughter and made sure she was
never exposed to anything like that. Her husband was serving overseas, but she
knew absolutely that he would never be guilty of any such thing; he was a
completely moral man. So it must be some scary tale told by a classmate in
school, that had caught Lita's imagination and terrified her. Solita hoped that
“horny” meant that it had a horn, like a rhino.

This
was their second day in this newly rented house, and the price had been cheaper
because of rumors that it was haunted. Solita had no truck with such notions,
of course. Yet now a thin thread of doubt was creeping in. Could there really
be a haunt?

This
needed to be dealt with promptly and firmly. “Lita, I have watched you as you
sleep. Nothing has touched you.”

“But
it has, mommy! You just can't see it.”

Definitely
imagination, maybe. “I'll prove it. Tonight I'll sleep in that bed and you can
sit up in the chair until you are satisfied that there is nothing to fear.
Okay?”

“Okay!”
the child agreed gladly.

They
changed places. Lita sat in the chair beside the bed, and Solita lay on the bed
and drew the sheet up over her. She closed her eyes as for sleep. She was sure
this would not take long.

But
she was more tired than she realized, and in moments was asleep. Then something
grabbed her left ankle.

Her
eyes snapped open. There was Lita sitting in the chair, watching. There was
Solita's body under the sheet. Nothing was grabbing her ankle. Nothing visible.

Another
hand caught her right ankle. It was big and coarse-fingered, with hard calluses
on the palm. Yet still nothing was visible. What was going on?

The
two hands clamped down hard, compressing her flesh. “Ow!” she exclaimed. But no
sound came out.

Solita
tried to sit up, to sweep away the sheet and discover what the hell was
happening with her feet. But her body did not move. She was paralyzed. Now she
realized that her eyes weren't really open, either; she was seeing what she
expected to see. She was in some kind of dream-frozen state, the kind that
prevented people from thrashing around when dreaming. She could not move or
speak.

The
hands exerted brutal force, wedging her legs apart. She tried to resist, but
the hands had more leverage than she did, and her legs inevitably parted.

“No!”
she cried, soundlessly. She was helpless to stop it, or even to protest.

Now
she understood what her daughter had tried to tell her. A lustful monster was
attacking her, and it intended to do something awful. It was indeed horny in
the physical and sexual sense. Lita did not understand that aspect, but Solita
did: it was out for rape.

She
fought with all her might, focusing on her legs, willing them to close. And
they did! She was discovering how to resist the monster! It was psychic rather
than physical, and she had to oppose it on its own turf, or suffer psychic
rape.

The
problem with rape was only partly the physical penetration. Things entered a
woman's vagina all the time, ranging from her own fingers as she washed to the
instrument of an examining gynecologist. To the hard penis of a man, which was
fine if it belonged to a husband or boyfriend and was welcome. It became rape
when it was unwelcome. The damage was generally psychological rather than
physical. Her personal space was being violated, her will overridden.

That
was what was threatening here. A psychic monster was determined to have psychic
sex with her against her will. Therefore it was rape. But she somehow knew that
if she could just hold on long enough, keeping her legs psychically as well as
physically closed, she could prevent it.

She
was succeeding. She was keeping herself closed to intrusion. The hands were
straining at her ankles but not making headway. She was winning!

Then
the bottom of the bed fell out. Her legs dropped down into a hole. She flung
out her arms and caught the sides of the bed, hanging on, preventing herself
from falling all the way in. She knew that this was figurative rather than
literal, that her physical body was still lying serenely horizontal, showing no
sign of motion. But her psychic body was in deadly danger, and that was the one
she had to protect.

The
gross hands yanked on her ankles, hauling her downward. She clung tight, aware
that this was a new aspect of the struggle. If she fell all the way into the
hole, she would be ravished by the invisible demon and hopelessly sullied. It
might not show on her physical body, by psychically she would know she had been
raped, exactly as if she had been physically abused. She had to hang on!

Now
the hands resumed hauling her legs apart. In this position she lacked the
leverage to keep them closed. Slowly they separated, and something blocked them
apart. It felt like a gross apelike head. The hands were now free to move on
up.

She
couldn't put her own hands down to stop them, because she couldn't let go of
her desperate grip on the sides of the bed beyond the hole. She had to suffer
the handling.

And
handling it was. The fingers moved up inside her legs, past the knees, and on
to her thighs. They stroked and squeezed, evidently appreciating her unwilling
flesh. She tried to lift her legs clear, but immediately the hands gripped her
knees, holding them down, and she lacked the strength to get free. All she
could do was stay where she was, refusing to be drawn down into the hole.

The
head turned its gross face to her left knee. A hot slimy tongue licked it, and
around her leg. It felt like oral sex—with her knee. She tried again to
yank it free, but could not. Disgusted, she gave up the effort and let the
monster slurp, fouling her leg with his saliva.

Now
the hands slid up to her crotch. Fingers hooked into her panties and dragged
them down, and she couldn't stop it. They cleared her hips and thighs and came
down to her knees. They could not go farther, because the head blocked the way.
That was some small relief.

She
heard a crunching sound, and realized that the monster must be eating her
panties. So much for relief!

The
hands moved up again. This time they found her bared bottom and stroked her
buttocks. They squeezed, savoring the flesh. Solita knew herself to be a
well-proportioned woman, having kept herself in shape, but she had never
intended to be appreciated in quite this manner, and she was disgusted. But she
couldn't even try to stop it unless she let go of the bed, and she did not dare
do that. So she remained vulnerable to the lecherous interest of the monster.

The
hands slid around to her vulva and drew the lips of it apart. It seemed she was
being examined. The eyes of the head must be peering into her open cleft. Then
a horny finger poked into her vagina. It was as big and hard as a normal man's
phallus. She tried to clench her vaginal muscles to bar it, but could not. It
shoved up into her until the full length of it was embedded. She felt horribly
distended. It moved about, pushing against the internal walls. The thing was
having finger sex with her!

If
the monster thought that was a turn-on for her, he was mistaken. She was
utterly turned off. Or maybe that was the point: to degrade her until she
simply had to try to use her hands to resist.

That
was not the worst of it. Now the head moved up, its bovine-sized tongue licking
at her thighs, crawling onward like a giant slug. It reached her open cleft and
slobbered greedily across it, coating it with thick gooey spit. It tickled her
clitoris. Such an action by a man she loved could have evoked her orgasm, but
as it was, it made her want to retch. And still she could not act to stop it.

The
hands moved up farther, sliding across her belly and back. Where were they
going?

She
found out all too soon. They came to her breasts and lasciviously fondled them,
lifting, squeezing, pulling. “No!” she wanted to cry, but could not make a
sound.

It
got worse. The head moved up until the demon face was at her chest. The tongue
licked her breasts all over, thoroughly coating them. Almost, she let go of the
bed and grabbed the horrid thing to haul it away from her. Her breasts were
special in ways her genitalia were not. But she knew that was what the monster
wanted. He was trying to tease her into doing exactly that, so she would fall
into the hole and become his complete captive. She still had to endure the
disgusting process.

The
mouth focused on her left nipple. The demon closed on it and sucked, hard. Soon
it felt as if half her breast was inside that orifice, and still he sucked as
if trying to swallow her whole mammary. Again, done by a lover, this could have
worked her up toward a climax, but as it was, the effect was opposite. She felt
like vomiting, but refused to give the thing the satisfaction of making her so
obviously sick.

Finally
the face withdrew. Was it leaving at last? No such luck. It returned to her
vulva, and the tongue ran into her vagina, pressing it open, forcing its slimy
mass on in.

Again
it shoved, as the finger had, ramming into her helpless aperture. Now she felt
really
distended, as though her belly was bowing outward from the incredible mass of
the thing inside her. So it wasn't actually physical; it still felt like a
flesh-pulping rape. She had never had sex like this, and wished she could
somehow cut off the obscene tongue and spit it out of her body. But it was
having its sickening will of her.

At
last it withdrew, sliding slowly out like a spent penis, letting her stretched
vagina contract back to an approximation of normalcy. Was the nightmare finally
over?

Then
it slurped across her anus, greasily lubricating it, and pushed while the hands
held her buttocks apart so that the face could nudge in closer. Her revulsion
multiplied: it was going after her ass. She tried to resist, to clamp her
sphincter muscle, but the serpentine thing just kept licking and poking,
wedging in bit by bit. She made a supreme effort and managed to close her
rectum off so that the tongue could not get more than the greasy tip through.
She was stopping it!

The
hands reached up and touched her ribs. The fingers tickled wickedly. “Aaa!” she
screamed, for she had always been hyper-ticklish there. And in that moment her
sphincter relaxed and the tongue got in another inch. That gave it leverage,
and though she clamped down again, hard, it slowly expanded, oozing slippery
oily saliva, until it breached her defense and got the rest of the way inside.
Now it coursed on through like a cruising serpent, an endless python, invading
her colon, completing the conquest. It wrestled around in her intestine, probing
this way and that, as if tasting every part of it. It stirred her gut from
inside, reaching far along her alimentary tract, stroking it in unspeakable
ways.

Solita
gritted her teeth, literally, as she suffered this obscene intrusion. But yet
again she knew she could not afford to let go of the bed, lest she be sucked
down and trapped in the void below. The monster was doing its best to overwhelm
her determination, but she somehow knew that if it succeeded, she would be
doomed.

The
tongue continued, withdrawing somewhat, then thrusting in again, repeatedly
stroking the channel, like a phallus seeking its culmination. It went on and
on, in and out, sliding through her system, stirring her gut, almost fondling
her rectum as it pulsed through its constriction. What was the point? As it
was, she was beginning to get a reaction, much as she hated the notion.

Then
she had a flash of realization: the thing was trying to stimulate her into
orgasm! To make her really have sex with it, in this loathsome fashion. That must
be its way of truly possessing her. The vagina had failed, the clitoris had
failed, the breasts had failed, but this time it would not relent.

She
had to resist it. She tried, but it had finally found a way to turn her on.
That was the ultimate obscenity: overwhelming her repulsion as well as her
body. She fought as hard as she could, but that imperative pumping was evoking
a reaction she had not known she was capable of: sexual pleasure from the anus.

The
realization, perversely, caused the effect to intensify. She absolutely hated
it, but could not prevent it. She was riding a hot greased flexing pole, and it
was making her react. She built into a phenomenal anal orgasm.

“Ooooo!”
she cried soundlessly, in mixed revulsion and guilty pleasure, as her body
pulsed in response to the continued thrusting of the huge tongue. Her whole
lower body seemed to explode into ugly rapture, making her too breathless to
moan again. Her anus squeezed the tongue, relaxed, squeezed again, as the siege
continued. The tongue, too, expanded and contracted rhythmically, feeding her
climax, extending it amazingly. Her ass was one huge filthy font of ecstasy.

At
last it passed, and she shuddered into relaxation. She knew she would be
forever appalled by what had happened and her reaction, but also that it was
the wildest orgasm of her life. She was ashamed, yet also supremely sated. She
had never imagined that she could ever suffer such a foul intrusion, yet derive
such delinquent delight from it.

And
the tongue, evidently satisfied, withdrew. It slid out of her tract like an
extended turd and was finally gone. The monster was departing, having had his
will of her in more than one manner.