Passion Model Page 7

  “Times are changing,” Rando continued. “Maybe not for the better. But we’re here to do a job the best we can. I will not let common bias and prejudice come between any members of this team, am I clear?”

  “And when they take away our citizenship?” Orli asked, giving it one last try. “What then, Cap’n?”

  Rando met his gaze without flinching. “Let’s hope that doesn’t happen, Orli.”

  He didn’t say anything else. I felt the weight of a dozen pairs of eyes on me, but if I looked around I couldn’t seem to get anyone to meet my gaze. I’d never made a secret of my condition to anyone…except Declan.

  Rando continued. “Along with the recent ranking changes, the Ruling Council has also implemented some new regs for the entire SpecOps department, including R.I.O.”

  A low groan rippled through the group. New regs meant training time, at three quarters pay.

  “Obviously, we can’t have all Ops tied up in training. Pleasurebot related incidents have risen .003 percent since last year. So half of you will hit the field while the rest participate in the new training. Then we’ll switch.”

  Eddie nudged me. “I caught a glimpse of the new protocols. Hot stuff.”

  Rando was reading off the list of partners. I rolled my eyes. “So some manufacturer puts out a new set of specs on its models, and we have to be updated. Why? When you come right down to it, even the Kama Sutra only has so many positions.”

  “You’re awfully young to be so jaded,” Eddie told me, which was a laugh since he’s exactly my age.

  “EDDE 08111977, GMMA 4121609.”

  “That’s us, surprise.” I gave him a wink. “Let me go beat your butt.”

  Eddie grinned. “I look forward to it.”

  It turned out the new regs were for the HTTIE 750, the latest Pleasurebot to hit the stores. It was the most expensive bot on the market, and most were still privately owned. A few used models had started to trickle into the pricier Lovehuts now, and several problems had been detected. Nothing quite as serious as the PSSN’s malfunctioning ignition, but the sexbot industry couldn’t afford any bad publicity.

  “Not much like the GRLFRND 220, huh?” Eddie remarked as we entered the training room.

  The Girlfriend model had been the most popular in history—until it became obvious that once the warranty expired, the bot’s ditzy nature turned to maudlin self-pity. Privately owned models were the worst—sold into service or even those given up to work as freebots, the Girlfriends became suicidal at being sent away from the men and women who’d bought them originally. Expired-warranty Girlfriends had taken to self annihilation all over the place, sometimes taking their unfortunate clients with them. It had been the biggest scandal in Pleasurebot history, but had reaffirmed to all Newcitizens the importance of R.I.O. Interestingly, the equivalent male model, the BYFRND 220, hadn’t had any problems at all. What that said about the differences inherent between men and women, I couldn’t tell you.

  “I’m a Hottie Model.” The bot flipped her cascade of blonde hair over one perfect shoulder and looked down her nose at me. “Not a Girlfriend. I’m the most advanced and expensive model out there.”

  “I see the snob function works perfectly,” I remarked, not bothered by her dismissal of me.

  “Some men prefer an aloof partner,” said the Hottie. “It validates their belief that they’re escorting the finest Pleasurebot available.”

  “In other words,” Eddie said, “some guys like getting it on with chicks who’d would turn them down if they were flesh.”

  The Hottie sniffed. “I’ve had two owners, and both were ecstatic with my performance.”

  “Not ecstatic enough to keep you very long,” I mentioned. She didn’t respond. She probably wasn’t programmed to react to criticism. I glanced at her specsheet. “And now you’re a freebot, registered in District 56?”

  “Yes.”

  “Available for private jobs through appointments at the following: Xtasy, Xanadu and Perfect Partner?” I named three of the most prominent kennels in that District.

  She gave a supercilious smirk. “That’s right.”

  Eddie took a peek at the specsheet. “Says here you’ve had several complaints about being difficult to stimulate.”

  Her pretty features creased momentarily. “I undergo daily diagnostics. I perform perfectly.”

  I looked over our instructions, which included a log of complaints. The instructions included a list of malfunctions, most of them minor, and the specific workarounds to eliminate them. I’d never take in a bot for something as stupid as this, but if the order came down from above, it had to have been backed by the manufacturer. The companies don’t want to lose business.

  “Eddie, this looks right up your alley.”

  She allowed herself to look curious. “What’s it say?”

  “Says here we’re supposed to stimulate you to climax three times.”

  She shifted in her chair, crossing one long, perfect leg over the other. The artisilk skirt clung to her thighs like a second skin. “No problem.”

  “In under an hour.”

  She still didn’t look concerned, even though her diagnostic report clearly showed an inadequately tuned climax dial. She must’ve been programmed with a healthy dose of attitude.

  “Let’s get started.” I unsnapped my jumpsuit and hung it up on the wall hook. I checked my internal clock. “I need to get out of here on time tonight.”

  I’m not a HTTIE 750, but I had to admit I looked pretty good. The personal holo image from which I’d selected the dress had shown it would flatter my figure. In reality, it did more than simply make me look pretty. It made me feel pretty.

  It wasn’t in style, not with the long sleeves and high neckline. Current Newcity fashion ran to sheer fabrics and exposed skin. Only the back opened low to the first swell of my buttocks. The color was a deep, rich plum that softened the violet hue of my hair and emphasized the natural blue of my eyes. I wore a thin pair of slippers with it, and my feet felt so light after removing my standard footwear I almost thought I could fly.

  I forced myself not to pace as I waited outside the restaurant. Emile’s is the hottest eatery in District 87. I’d never been there…but since I hated eating in restaurants alone, I hadn’t been much of anywhere in eight years.

  Declan was late, and I tried not to let that bother me. I filled my time watching the outdoor viddy screen. Its visual had split, with the city ranking still scrolling on the left and a Donball tournament showing on the right.

  Nobody waiting to get in tonight had to worry about their Newcitizen rank. The cream of Newcity society mingled outside the doors of Emile’s. I recognized several faces from the viddy screen. Nobody really famous, nobody really powerful. B-list celebs, at most. Still, it was interesting to note that Frank Phillips’ hair was grayer in real life than on viddy, and his wife fatter.

  There were more reports from the Ruling Council about citizen classification protocols.

  “Nobody’s saying that bots should be given citizenship,” one talking head was saying. “That’s ridiculous. Bots are made, not born.”

  “Are you denying the rights of artificial womb babies?” A woman on the screen yelled out.

  “That’s different,” put in another debater. “They’re human, no matter how they were conceived. Bots are made of metal and wire. They have computer chips for brains.”

  “And what about mechos, then?” cried another woman. “Once the body’s dead, shouldn’t it stay that way?”

  I turned from the screen, disturbed. I thought I heard a couple of muttering whispers, but shrugged them off. The bottom line is, unless you know for sure about me, you just can’t tell. The medtechs had done an excellent job in that respect.

  I ignored the sinking in my gut when fifteen minutes passed, then fifteen more. I checked my internal clock against the numbers on top of the viddy screen and was disappointed to find they were the same.

  The crowd thinned as the dinner hour
, even for the fashionably late, passed. My stomach growled. I waited another ten minutes, then turned on my heel and headed for the pedtread.

  A green-uniformed courier stopped me just before I got on. “GMMA 4121609?”

  “Yes.”

  “I have a delivery for you.” He flashed a portable retscan in my eyes to confirm identity, then handed me the lightweight silver box. As he rode away, I thumbed the button on top of the box to activate the holomessage inside.

  Gemma

  The letters formed in a golden haze an inch above the box.

  Ran into some problems. Will not be able to get to Emile’s. I’m waiting at Chez Garnier.

  *D

  “Screw that,” I muttered and tossed the holocube into the closest incinerator. “I waited forty-five minutes for him. I’m not that much of a sap.”

  But I was. When the next courier caught me on the next block and gave me a florb, which opened to reveal a spray of daisies and ferns, I changed my mind about meeting Declan. I didn’t like myself for doing it, because it went against my nature to cater to a man like that. I’ll admit the thought of not seeing him broke my pride better than anything else could have—except the second holocube and its one word message.

  Please.

  Chez Garnier isn’t quite as high-class as Emile’s, but the food is good and the company delightful. In truth, I doubt I could recall now what I even ordered, only that the meal was warm and the beverages cold.

  We talked a lot, sparring our words back and forth across a checked tablecloth. The waitrons had begun to dim the lights and make rude noises about the time when we left. Declan linked his hand through mine as we went through the doors.

  We revealed everything and nothing about ourselves. Our secret dreams, our favorite foods, the names of our first sexual partners. We spoke of nothing that hadn’t happened within the last year or less than ten years before. If Declan noticed the glaring gap in my recounted history, he said nothing. I did the same for him.

  We walked, hands linked, along metal catwalks and looked down at the traffic below. We stared up at the night sky, tinged with a plethora of colors from Newcity’s thousands of neon signs. We talked about stars, though we could see none. We just…talked.

  Declan had a lazy, crazy sense of humor that had me chuckling at the least provocation.

  “When’s the last time you laughed like this?” he asked me when I had to take my hand from his to wipe a tear from my eye. He’d pointed out how the trendsetters all looked the same from above, and likened them to a species of Lebanonian bird that displays its feathers to attract a mate, but ultimately is sexually impotent.

  I thought. “It’s been a long time.”

  He took my hand back again and pressed it to his mouth. My laughter cut off with a small gasp at the sensation of his tongue flicking once, twice, against my palm. He closed my fingers around the kiss and gave me a look I couldn’t mistake.

  “We need to go somewhere,” he said.

  I nodded, but thought of Kaelyn, asleep by now in her closet. “Not my place.”

  “Not either of our places,” he replied. “I have a better idea.”

  The Laughing Woman wasn’t a Lovehut I was familiar with, though I’d heard of it. I glanced dubiously at the sign, which featured an obese women, hands on her knees, laughing. Her neon lips opened, closed, opened, closed, in silent hysterics.

  Inside, however, the hut was tastefully decorated and nearly empty. Declan waved me down a hallway and opened one of the doors. The room inside surprised me as well. It was clean and smelled sweet, and the only indication this was a room made solely for sex was the enormous bed that was the only furniture.

  It will sound crazy, but suddenly I was as shy as a newbie. Heat bloomed in my cheeks, and I shook it off. We’d already been together, yet the evening we’d spent together had changed things in a subtle way.

  “Very nice.” I touched the bed. Soft. I looked at Declan, who’d ceased his joking and now only looked at me with a serious glint in his chocolate-colored eyes.

  “I wanted it to be nice.”

  I cleared my throat and looked from him to the bed. “Declan.”

  He tilted his head. “Yes, Gemma.”

  “Come here.” I crooked my finger at him.

  “Always have to be in charge, don’t you?” he asked, but there was no sting in his words. He took me in his arms. I had to tilt my head to return his kiss, and the tickle of my hair on my bare back made me feel dreamy and disconnected. Our mouths opened, our tongues danced. His hands on my skin made me realize I was naked, and I hadn’t noticed when my dress fell into puddle on the floor.

  With no sense of urgency, I unbuttoned his shirt while we kissed and his hands roamed my skin. I slipped the thin material off his shoulders, down his arms, past his hands, and laid him bare for my appreciation.

  “I’m glad you came to Chez Garnier,” Declan said. “I wasn’t sure you would.”

  “I almost didn’t.” I traced the outline of his nipples with my fingertips and enjoyed the way his skin prickled into goose bumps. His skin was smooth, and nearly hairless but for the twin circles on his chest and the line disappearing into his trousers.

  I paused to lightly touch the pale spot of a scar on his throat. “What happened?”

  He took my hand from the spot and put it back on his chest. “Hoverbike accident.”

  I didn’t ask again. I didn’t want to remember my own scars, my own accident. Instead, I concentrated on dipping my head to tongue his salty flesh. He didn’t wear a belt, and his dark pants were made in the current fashion of no snaps, buttons or zippers. I loosened the drawstring and let the material open wide enough to slide over his hips. Again, he wore black briefs that accentuated the bulge of his erection.

  I slid my hands to his hips and tilted my forehead to rest against his chest. Declan put his arms around me, lightly, not pressing. It occurred to me with a sudden shiver that I was just as happy to stand like that with him as I was to be fucking.

  “Cold?” He wrapped his arms around me more firmly.

  The simple gesture made feelings I wasn’t sure I wanted to feel rocket through me. I didn’t have time to pursue them, though, because he put a finger beneath my chin so I had to stare into his eyes. We said nothing, but the silence wasn’t awkward. It was charged with expectation.

  I hooked my thumbs in his waistband, slid the briefs down and followed the motion by sinking onto my knees before him. I’ve said before going down on a man gives me a sense of power, but I didn’t feel that with Declan then. It seemed at that moment this wasn’t about power, or advantage. I took the length of him in my mouth because, right then, I wanted to please him more than I wanted any other thing.

  He groaned a little and pushed himself deeper into my mouth. The scent of him, soap, clean clothes, arousal, filled my nostrils and made my thighs jump in expectation. I stroked my hands down his legs and cupped my hands around his calves. The crinkly hair brushed my knuckles. The muscles of his legs twitched beneath my fingers. He put his hands on my head and entwined his fingers in my hair.

  I had no need to switch on my instant-arousal love button this time. The slickness between my thighs was natural, my arousal my own. I let go of his leg and touched myself gently, not wanting to move too fast.

  “Have you won awards for this?”

  The question so startled me I let him slide out of my mouth with a moist noise. How could I ever have mistaken Declan for a Pleasurebot? The humor sparkling in his dark eyes was too human to be mistaken for anything else.

  “Do I deserve one?”

  In reply, he tugged me to my feet and kissed me again. Brief regret flashed through me at how I had almost never known the feeling of his mouth on mine, that I’d denied him access to my lips before this, when I could’ve felt him kissing me. His hands splayed around my hips, and he lifted me.

  I am not a small woman, but he didn’t even stagger as I wrapped my legs around his waist. Now my head was higher
than his, his mouth was at my breasts, and he took the time to give them equal attention. My nipples tightened beneath his questing tongue. My head lolled back, the fall of my hair once again providing exquisite sensual counterpoint to what he was doing with his mouth.

  Somehow, we landed on the bed, Declan between my parted legs. It was like landing in a cloud, pillows and blankets and softness all around us. He moved up a little, just enough to push himself against my opening. Then he stopped.

  I opened my eyes. “What’s wrong?”

  “Are you sure you want to do this?”

  I could have smacked him. “Declan!”

  He laughed and buried his face in the sensitive spot beneath my chin. “Just asking.”

  “Now?” I wriggled beneath him. “What more do you want?”

  His mouth teased flesh of my throat. “I want everything.”

  I didn’t ask him to explain. I was afraid to learn his words were only sex talk—or perhaps equally as afraid to learn they were not.

  In reply, I lifted my hips again, just enough, and he slid inside me. I bit back a low moan, but Declan didn’t bother. He let out a low, shuddering sigh against my skin, and I felt the brief pressure of his teeth on me. I tensed, waiting for pain, but none came. He nipped softly, then laved the area with his tongue.

  He set a slow, gentle rhythm. I met his thrusts with my hips, my legs hooked over his calves, my arms around his back and his face buried in my shoulder. We rocked together that way forever and for but a moment. Time meant nothing in the sensual haze of delight our lovemaking was creating.

  Sparkles of climax burst within me, built and burst again. We murmured words, but I don’t know what they were. He smiled as he pressed his forehead to mine, our eyes locked together, our bodies moving in perfect time.

  I know I wept and wasn’t ashamed of my tears. Declan licked them away, and I tasted the salt of my emotion on his tongue when he kissed my mouth. We joined and parted, every movement like a choreographed dance, until I could no longer keep myself from crying out his name as my body surged toward a final orgasm.