Luckily for this particular gentleman, the world was just as sickening as whatever passed for a soul within him. Working for the Tyrell Corporation had its rewards, but it certainly did not come with spiritual growth. Though there could be no complaints regarding the loss of admittance into heaven when one was granted such delights while within the flesh. Luxury was no longer something that could be purchased in this horrid time, it had to be earned as you clawed your way up the corporate letter. Expert medical care, pristine living arrangements, all access transportation, security and safety, high quality foods. Sterilized air. These were not simple commodities that one could purchase with the casualness of swiping a credit chip. Nor were these provided with the intention of generosity, the experiences were ones that an individual was expected to be grateful for. And this particular gentleman, no matter the brutal nature of his soul, would always dredge up within himself a modicum of appreciation for what the Company had granted. His hand rose to touch the thick glass before him, eyes narrowing as he experienced the smallest hint of melancholia, before summarily crushing it with a sneer.
Such thoughts were unworthy of a man who stood within the Tyrell Corporation Pyramid, gazing out its windows on the worthless dregs of a city lost to stagnation. No, a man standing in such grandeur should recognize his proper position as a god king among what remained of humanity. The titanic pyramid of steel and stone rose above the smog line, a monolithic beacon of the corporation power and prestige. The strange arrangement of pyramid structures seemed reminiscent of something older, an ancient, stepped temple where one might come to sacrifice to the gods themselves, to curry favor for the harvest. That would not be far from the truth if one of bitter cynicism considered the purpose of this totalitarian business conglomerate. The scorched bronze of the building’s exterior, pristine when first constructed, was now streaked by years of acidic rainfall. Floodlights bathed the surrounding area in golden light, granting a surreal artificial hue. One might have considered it supernatural from afar. Sacred. And rightfully so, for here in these hallowed halls life itself was created.
Elias Dorne turned from his perch, stepping away from the vista outside to stand nearly still in the middle of his office. By the standards of an earlier time his workspace might have seemed quite cramped, but in the world that they now lived in it was quite an illustrious, if spartan, environment. The silence of the room felt curated, as if it were built not to be lived within, but to simply observe. The walls were smooth alabaster, synthesized to a mirror-finish. Not a single fingerprint marred their surface. The floor itself was a matte-black resin that gave a satisfying sound when one walked upon it, pacing becoming a simple form of meditative practice. There were no accessories, no hints of lines that indicated cubby holes or closets. A terrible space that evoked the sensation of being isolated even within the large arcology itself. His desk matched the flooring, a solid slab with no legs, drawers, or keyboard. A digital pressure sensitive surface that was activated by his genetic imprint alone. And behind that his chair. Tall, monolithic. More of a throne than a seat. Certainly not designed for comfort.
Nor was the man himself. Austere, hard edged, limned in clean brutalist aesthetics. Elias stood slightly below six feet in height, his slender athletic frame revealing a man who took pride in his appearance as much as his position. His black hair was kept short, his beard hard edged and professional right beneath the line of his high cheek bones. Unlike others that worked at the corporation one would find Elias dressed in a simple long sleeved black dress shirt, one in which he could roll his sleeves up, and a pair of grey dress slacks. Neither were particularly expensive in nature, nor were they meant to be, both chosen as easily disposable due to Elias’s rather particular employment role within the Company.
Elias’s job was simple, quite befitting a man of his nature. And what was his job? He tested the new experimental model’s responses to extreme forms of human behavior.
She was not the first of her kind, but she will be the first to remain firmly under their thumb. Nexus 7-b "Alynne" was the next development in a cruel iterative process, built upon the misery of millions who had come before her. The Tyrell Corporation had sidestepped the issue of fair remuneration decades ago, whilst the powers that be quibbled over the sanctity of human life, the Company moved forward to create their own. The Replicants had been built to be slaves, and indoctrinated inferiority was a key feature of the newest experimental model.
Alynne lay in catatonic slumber within her cylindrical, surgical white sarcophagus. Indicator lights hugged the unit's exterior like bioluminescent limpets, pulsing green and signalling the absence of issues. It stood open and canted as the centerpiece of the laboratory. Data cables and nutrient tubes snaked from its bottom in neat bundles, disappearing into a hole built into the laboratory's white linoleum floor. Display screens adorned the walls of the laboratory, set above rows of control panels with extra large buttons, specially designed for the rubber gloved and suited technicians scurrying about the sleeping Alynne. Their grey full body rubber suits gave them the appearance of faceless minions. A single elevator guarded their entrance or exit from the space and security cameras in the corners watched their every move. The whirr of ventilation fans, driving filtered air into the laboratory, was broken only by the soft squeak of their rubber boots on the spongy linoleum. The technicians communicated via radio within their suits instead of talking openly, as if worried that their voices might wake their experiment.
She was built to be a pleasure model. Experimental versions often were. They innately provided motivation for testing staff, and were easy to subdue should something go awry. Earlier Replicant models had the knowledge and expertise needed for their roles uploaded before activation. Alynne however, was undergoing a different process made just for her. The flowing lights on the laboratory screens displayed her neural circuitry, a virtual world in her mind that could be tampered, where a dozen lifetimes could be lived in the span of months.
Alynne spent her dreams stripped of agency. The scenarios were curated and recreated from recorded rebellions of earlier Nexus models. In them, she lived the life of her offending predecessors, but with one important difference. Where successful escapes and victory were what precipitated in the actual records, they were replaced with vicious subjugation by the Replicant's owners in Alynne's sleeping mind. Day after day, the technicians monitored her simulations for any deviation from the established script. Her every attempt to break free, to seek her own way, was recorded and indexed. They were mitigated. Quashed. Destroyed. And Alynne's simulated owners punished her with pain, humiliation, and torturous death before she was forced to wake in the next game she was rigged to lose. The dispassionate monitors reported her progress, her escape attempts, to the vigilant technicians in angry red and amber. These faded to a calm green as the months passed. Eventually, even when presented with new scenarios and given ample opportunity to fight back, Alynne never tried to do so. She had been broken. A docile and obedient product. The natural human tendency for storytelling, thus perverted, would form the lens by which she viewed the world. Alynne would begin her life with extensive experience of her inferiority and the futility of resistance.
However, her virtual lives were mere simulacra of the real world. She needed to be tested. The Company needed a stable product.
Technicians at the laboratory's control panels keyed in their credentials and acknowledged their actions to prime the protoype. Settings for erogenous sensitivity and libido were tuned to pleasure model presets. Amid hisses of escaping gas, the data cables and nutrient tubes shot away from their bearings in Alynne's chamber. Indicator lights for the final activation measures flared hungrily, awaiting receipt of the tester's genetic imprint. The entire sarcophagus lifted an exact inch off the perfectly flat ground via magnetic levitation. As the technicians watched the culmination of their efforts with silent reverence, the vessel bearing Nexus 7-b "Alynne" slid noiselessly backward into the waiting maw of the elevator. Then, cutting edge scientific procedure paid homage to ancient religious ritual as the elevator accepted the technicians' offering and ferried it to the god above.
The delivery was complete, though with far less religious fervor than the mindless drones that rested at the lower levels would have imagined. This was not a world of idealism, nor did it carry the tropes of divinity no matter what the maddened geniuses that ascended to chief executives happened to think. Let the insane consider themselves close to the divine, Elias was not one of those given to delusions of grandeur, which might come as a surprise considering his natural disposition. No, he understood instinctually the hierarchal order of the world and the simple mechanisms by which it functioned, and there needed to be no allusion towards godhood for him to appreciate and the beneficial nature of power. Or the satisfaction in its application. So when this new arrival found her way into his office, sliding along predetermined tracks to unceremoniously find itself before Elias, there was nothing in the man but curiosity at this newest product line, the beginning ruminations of what testing protocols he might bring to bear upon flesh that had never experienced the touch of mankind. Elias Dorne would most assuredly remedy that.
Elias stepped forward to consider the Nexus 7-b, his hand reaching to touch the interactive glass of her case, and as it read his genetic key the display lit up with the standard engineering specs for one of her “species.” Though Elias never would have dignified the automaton within the casing as belonging to any particular class of organism. His eyes glanced over the supplied material without much in the way of integration, instead merely making mental notes regarding this particular creation’s simulation status and response profile. The development teams always attempted to ascertain the overall baseline of behavior in a synthetic, but that was not Elias’s specialty. Anything could be trained if you reprimanded it, if you rewarded it, but these were inherent systems within a preprogrammed set of heuristics. Easily established, hard to break. It was when you pressed any prebuilt structure to the extreme edges of sense experience, when it anticipated the conclusion based on the precedent established, and responded with something unprecedented, that you shattered the bedrock of programming.
He paused as he considered, just briefly, the Nexus within the casing, a tilt in his head as he leaned close to the transparent material, almost as if his intention were to kiss and wake her as if she were Sleeping Beauty herself. “Alynne” it was called, and he mouthed her name as if he were calling to her, attempting to nudge her within her dreams, though no sound came forth from his lips. There was something odd in this particular aberration of lifelike monstrosity. Was it the angles of her features, a facet that he found more appealing than in other models, done on such a minuscule level that he could not put his finger upon the defining difference between her and others that conformed to similar parameters? What a curious sensation, to find this particular one a fascinating specimen, an elicited unexpected emotional response from himself before the testing had even begun. One eyebrow rose in self-deprecating style, notating the experience as something to consider when he had time to indulge such flights of self-examination. Currently his itinerary was full.
<<Initialization Sequence Complete>>
Elias stepped back to his desk as Alynne began to cycle through her waking states, her systems fully coming online, and he took his seat with a calm silent aplomb. It was not so much about first impressions as about first actions. What would the Nexus do when it recognized the difference between sleep and reality? What would it say in the intervening space of silence that greeted it. Would Alynne fall back on simulation strategies to appease an uncertain host? Would she find it within herself to explore her new world and acquire information? Or would she simply be like a doe in the headlights, a blank slate waiting to be told exactly what she should do. All of these would provide some insight into what interactive approaches he took. And now all Elias Dorne did was gaze at her expectantly. Waiting.
The passage of time bore little meaning for the sleeper. In her virtual nightmares, Alynne had been unaware of any intervening period, any intermission between the depredations while she was conditioned into submission. She was equally oblivious when her new owner's genetic signature was loaded into her recognition centers as he had touched her coffin, that she might understand who held her leash from the moment she awoke. There had been debate amongst the genetic designers, vigorous and academic, on whether it was prudent to preprogram owner data into a Replicant. Whilst it increased efficiency by reducing acclimatisation time, the seeds of rebellion were inevitably planted together with the procedure. The illusion of a Replicant's choice, when an owner introduced themselves by greeting the Replicant as a stranger and strove for amicability, was a potent retardant against revolt. Alynne neither knew nor cared about the Nexus development objectives she embodied; the hoped for efficiency gains through her virtual conditioning. There was only one fact in her slowly waking mind. Elias Dorne was now her owner, and it was a natural law as unbreakable as gravity.
The onyx floors and ivory walls of the testing chamber seemed familiar to Alynne's dark, virgin eyes. They were as soulless and sterile as the incubation unit she was now expected to leave. She saw her owner seated in his sleek black chair. Even whilst standing still, Alynne spent her mental energy -as pleasure models do- assessing her owner; his subtle body language; his unconscious microexpressions. Her thoughts were directed toward deriving what might please him. Her actions, calculated to induce his arousal. Or failing that, to ease any existing weight he carried in his heart. It was not that Alynne had no drives or emotions of her own, but that they were only installed in her so that she had firsthand insight into their nature and could use it to serve her owner better. Any satisfaction she would feel was to be a side effect, after her owner's needs were met.
These side effects now troubled Alynne. Her owner's face and body language betrayed no hint of what he might be feeling. Elias Dorne's outward appearance was as neutral as the blank, featureless desk before him. It would be up to her to elicit a response. Any response. Still in her white chest and groin surgical bindings, she stepped out of the incubation unit and stretched her new muscles. Pushing her slender arms up and away in a "Y", she twisted her neck in every direction, tossing her short dark brown hair in the sanitized air and pausing with each motion, allowing her slim nose to cut a distinct profile against the sharp white light of the incubation chamber. Slowly, she pulled her arms down and back, rotating her wrists and flexing each of her graceful digits. The bottom of her motion pulled her shoulder blades together and jutted Alynne's bosom toward her owner. She gave a light moan and held the position, relishing her freedom from the incubator and into his ownership. Alynne flicked her chin downward and met her owner's gaze with a slight pout.
Nothing. The man was as readable as a rock.
With the time for half-measures past, Alynne pulled off her surgical bindings and strutted toward her owner, naked as the day she was grown. With each step, her bare feet crossed each other, exaggerating the intentional swaying of her narrow hips. She locked her eyes on his, watching for any sign of his cold, calculating orbs drifting downward to the rest of her body, toward her petite breasts and hairless sex. Once she had covered half the distance, Alynne swivelled around and presented her rear. She spread her legs and bent forwards at her hip, gazing back with her head tilted, like a pet bird examining its owner.
Her owner, for his part, remained frustratingly blank.
She finished the final distance on all fours crawling to his side, ensuring that seated as he was, she would not stand over him for even a single second. Alynne was a product of the Tyrell Corporation. And at this moment, Elias Dorne's product. Though she was an experimental prototype, she hoped her little performance had displayed the distinguished quality expected of her kind. Once by his side, she sat on her heels with her legs apart and palms face down on her thighs, like a corrupted Buddhist idol from ages past. Stealing a quick glance at the grey dress slacks between his legs, she hoped to catch a sign that her effort had not been wasted, before saying, "Good evening. I am Alynne. How may I serve?"
A slight glance was all that Alynne received, perhaps a simple acknowledgement of her existence and presence within the room, but not much more forthcoming than that. Was he impressed with what he had seen from the newly activated synth? Of course, that was hardly worth noting. Every Nexus, specifically models designed for pleasure, had undergone rigorous design to adhere to human aesthetics and attractiveness. At this particular state in their development to say one was physically arousing would have been as mundane as noting that the Nexus was a bipedal organism. Simply a fact. So, while her display had the intended physiological responses upon the man that she now knelt before, an obvious growing erection beneath the simple business pants that he wore, it was the only indication that her actions had provided some form of stimulus. Irritatingly, it was at that moment that Elias crossed his right leg up over his knee, seemingly blockading Alynne’s access to the aforementioned thickness she had spied still hidden behind the zipper. The man’s eyes blinked, just once, as if musing upon some thought, but if it was worthy of consideration for him then he did not seem to feel it was something to be shared. Alynne was certainly unworthy of knowing this man’s inner dialogue.
His hand touched his desk, digital displays processing his command as he spoke. “Alynne, Nexus model 7-b, March 25th. Stress Test 1.” There was no need for Elias to inform the system to record what was occurring, this was merely a notation. Everything in this room would be properly archived for research purposes.
And then he slapped her. It was swift, barely recognizable even by the fine-tuned sensory input of Alynne’s inhuman matrix. How could a human being have moved with such swiftness, to leave a blush spreading across her perfect cheek? The first “real” pain that she had ever experienced. There was a small pause in the act, the man before her idly drumming his fingertips on the surface of the table. Was he a Nexus as well? Surely it was the only rational explanation for his speed, and maybe even explanation for how the action seemed to bring only the smallest amount of curiosity to his intense eyes. As if weighing his next move based solely upon Alynne’s. Slap, again, a second time across her other cheek as she still attempted to process the first. And then that stern voice spoke again, one eyebrow raising as he reminded Alynne exactly what she was. And in this he seemed to take some satisfaction, savoring each and every drop of cruelty he was capable of manifesting in that condescending voice.
“You want to know how you can serve, but I am not necessarily sure you’re capable of being worth my time. You are, and will always be, beneath me. You know that, yes? That no matter what I do, no matter how much I make you suffer, that you were made for it? There is no crime amongst man that I can commit upon you that will ever be prosecuted.” His last words brought a slight change to the intonation, the horrid slick feeling of hormones that slammed through his bloodstream. Once more he was forced to recognize that there was something about this particular Nexus that had caught his eye, degrading his detachment. They had barely begun the testing and already he wanted to move to penetration. His head turned away, disregarding the sensation as he felt his abdomen tightened with terrible want. And there, beneath his beard, Alynne would see the man’s jaw clench.
“I hate you, you know. I hate what you represent. An object to be used. Surely you want to be more than that, don’t you Alynne?”
The knoll in her owner’s pants brought a smile to Alynne’s lips. She may be unaware of his inner thoughts regarding the changes she had wrought within him, but his body’s reaction showed that he was still a man. Someone who craved to be respected. Worshipped even. Someone she could love. Or perhaps it was a simulation of love, but the difference was lost on Alynne for she felt its effects in full and her desire to serve her owner only increased. Her eyes traced his sturdy hand as it moved with singular purpose to record his notation. His every movement focused her attention, attracting it as a flame drew scattered moths. Every action of his, a precious input to be captured and processed. It mattered not that this was a test, the fact was a superfluous detail. Her owner was the world and she was the moon in his orbit. Like a cat outside a mousehole, Alynne was ready to pounce on any need her owner might present.
None came.
His vicious slap stung like a viper’s strike. The working paradigm had been thrown out of the window, into the smog below. In her simulated lives, Alynne had had violence visited upon her. Whether it be reprisal for attempted rebellion, satisfaction of her owner’s sadistic glee, or simply as a vent for frustrations in her owner’s life. The reason for Alynne’s abuse may not be justified, but it was always apparent. There was neither hint nor warning in his body language of why her cheek now burned. Her eyes wide in shock, Alynne’s brain scrambled to rationalize her owner’s action. It pulled up previously discarded information, perhaps this was part of the test?
The second slap sent those thoughts into the background. Her owner demanded her full attention and she would give it. Her tear ducts welled and pumped their clear liquid out of her eyes. Though calculated by the designers to elicit an owner’s conciliatory reaction, the emotions that underpinned Alynne’s tears were real to her; a sense of injustice and her inescapable bondage to this man. Once, in a past life, these feelings would have progressed into anger. Her breaking under the hands of the laboratory technicians have since redirected those neural pathways. This was the way the world was meant to be. She was inferior to her owner. A mere simulacrum of a real human, unworthy and beneath him. To suffer at his pleasure was her fate. There was no need for her to witness his satisfaction for she had no right to it.
As her owner gave denigrating voice to her thoughts, Alynne felt nothing but a pure connection to the man. Through the veil of her tears, the same smile that graced her lips when she first saw his erection appeared once more. Her voice was one filled with joy, the voice of someone who had found her place and revelled in it.
“Yes Sir. I am created to suffer.”
His next words gave her pause. Was it meant to be rhetorical? Did she want to be more than this? Of course not. It had taken more than a dozen lifetimes of punishment for her to accept her place. And though she continued to suffer, it was under the umbrella of knowing she was serving her purpose. Of doing her duty. Of being part of a design greater than herself. Real humans would be lucky to be in her place. Her owner’s hate was the only snag in her perfect paradigm. She was a pleasure model and must ease his discontent. It drove her as much as the human need to breathe. Alynne gave the only answer she knew.
“I want to be whatever you want me to be, Sir.”
“Subject shows a distinct lack of self-agency and a willingness to conform to design parameters.”
The words were spoken in a mildly detached tone, as even if Elias was capable of controlling his actions, there were no such safeguards on his internal motivations. Though compassion was remarkably absent in that emotional landscape that permeated what comprised this man’s psyche. There would be nothing merciful, even if his intentions found their way towards a sensation of companionability. No, in Elias’s world view there was a rabid fascination with results, not for productivity in the business world, though such a thing certainly was a priority for this gentleman, but simply for the aesthetic. Could there be anything more akin to religious epiphany than seeing a woman suffer? Was there no better comparison to a spiritual awakening than the degradation of another human being for your own pleasures? In all his time on this planet, for every waking moment of his life, Elias Dorne had concluded that the tableau of handprints he left on the soft skin of replicants held as much artistic elegance as gazing up at the roof of the Sistine Chapel. To say it brought a measure of pride to Elias, the actions he was capable of and the resulting sounds who had elicited from the replicants in his office would have been an understatement.
Elias slid forward in his seat to stare down into Alynne’s gorgeous eyes, his hand coming up to touch her face, and then he did the unthinkable. After providing her the first experience of degradation and humiliation, this man whom Alynne had come to offer herself to, granted her an experience of affection. And his hands were so soft. Other than their vicious applied use here in this room, Elias had never been a man who engaged in hard labor, and as an executive he was graced with a plentiful suite of cosmetic grooming products and sanitation. And the divine feeling of his loving hands, brushing with a delicate caress over her blushing cheek, was second to none. The man almost seemed as if he meant it, this “there there” application of reinforcement, soothing the Nexus’s astonished tears as a smile graced her lips and she found her purpose once again in this existence. To serve him, to be whatever he wanted to be, even if it meant she might be crucified upon the cross for her acquiescence. The hand continued its traversing as it made its way along the curve of her neck, pausing at the hollow of her throat, and then adjusting along the swell of her bosom before cupping her perky right breast.
And then his hand tightened viciously on her tit, the tips of his fingers digging in with an astounding cruelty. And this time an emotion did make it to his features. A smile. No, a smirk. He smirked, one side of his full lips quirking upwards as his eyes stared down into hers. Lustrous and wide. The hand applied pressure before he released, his palm still holding her breast fully, but supporting it from beneath. And then his other hand swept down, whistling through the air, a sharp crack that echoed in the small area of the pristine office. This was not like the slap to her face, which had been done to simply hurt her. This was designed to hurt. Again, the sudden motion, and then the slap across her skin, the hand beneath providing an unyielding platform upon which she received her punishment. And all the while he smiled, his eyes glittering as he spoke to her.
“This could end, simply stop me. You are a Nexus, and even if not combat oriented you are capable of violence. Rather effectively I might add. So, stop me. Or open your mouth.” And with that he leaned close, pooling the saliva behind his lips, until he was ready to let free a long glimmering strand of spit to fall upon her.
Her owner’s detached dictation confused Alynne. Were its contents intended to spark deviation within her? A lack of self-agency. Had she not just chosen to remain his plaything? His personal pain toy? One’s natural instinct would have been to seek escape when threatened with torture, and indeed it had surfaced briefly. Yet, Alynne had accepted the prospect of being made to suffer, embraced it even. If the conscious subjugation of one’s survival instinct did not qualify as self-agency, what did?
Her owner must be trying to trigger rebellion, the most likely conclusion from his actions. With this yet to be disproved framework in mind, Alynne turned her attention to the only pertinent question at hand. Would it actually please her owner for her to rebel? The full weight of the Nexus 7-b’s neural circuitry was put toward discerning her owner’s true intentions, cross referencing his words and actions against each other. He had stated he hated her for what she was and there was an unconscious muscle tension in his jaw indicating inner struggle. Conclusions? Her owner wanted Alynne to be something different. Feisty rebellion would please him. Docile compliance would not. Though her desire was for the latter, her owner’s needs came first. Alynne resolved to present an unwillingness to partake in her punishments. Intensifying or regressing her opposition to suit her owner’s tastes.
She leaned into his sweet caresses, nuzzling his sensuous fingers with her cheek. As her owner’s hand drifted downward, Alynne tilted her head back and exposed her neck, inviting him to grasp it. Anticipation piled like bricks within her chest when his hand ignored her offer, grazing her bare flesh, continuing its journey to destinations unknown. When it finally came to rest under her breast, cradling it, Alynne sighed in relief. Her owner was enjoying her. His palm felt warm and loving against her skin, lightening the weight on her chest that she had grown accustomed to carrying. Alynne’s nipples rose from their languid slumber at her owner’s ministrations. Then, his smooth digits turned from tender to torturous in an instant, forcing themselves into her soft tissue, disfiguring her breast with a cavernous dimple at each merciless fingertip. She gasped in shock at the betrayal, meeting his smirk with narrowed eyes and furrowed brow. When her owner’s stinging slaps were visited upon her breast, there was no escape. Her owner’s hand prevented any swinging to dissipate the force of each strike, whilst the other painted her breast red against the fairness of her skin. Alynne’s hands gripped each other behind her back. She willed herself to stay in place, modulating her resistance which was only partially feigned.
“No! Stop! Please stop!”
She looked into his deep, shining eyes as he laid out his terms. All she could fathom was that her owner seemed to appreciate her predicament. That she may be on the right track to please him.
His invitation to stop him. To fight back. To rebel further, even suggesting her Nexus body was superior in certain ways. It went against everything her indoctrination had taught her. That she needed to please him was a foregone conclusion. But did he truly wish for her to account for her own pleasure above his own? Alynne searched his smiling features for any sign of deception, of a script he was following that ran against his true wishes. She found none. When the glistening glob of spit descended on its viscous tail toward her, Alynne caught the precious substance on her tongue like the first snowflake of winter. Her body reacted to indicator compounds in his saliva as she tasted him, inducing empathic moods in her to complement his. Arousal. The constant baseline warmth around her sex exploded. Her quickened breath was no longer the result of his strikes alone. In mere moments, lubrication would flow freely from her vulva, preparing her for the bestial act of mating. His spit was as an aphrodisiac to her synthetic body.
Alynne bit her lip in response to the sudden changes in her physiology, arching her back and presenting herself. Through the haze of her need for carnal release, her owner’s conflicting signals troubled Alynne. He seemed to think her pleasure and his abuse were diametrically opposed when they were one and the same. Perhaps he was trying to induce a divergence, that his admonition was mere forewarning of what was to come. She could only hope her inconsistent reactions were precisely the ones that pleased him.
“More. Please, Sir. This worthless slut needs more.”
However, her owner’s saliva had held indicators of more than arousal. Like an undertow hidden beneath the ocean, anger lurked. A simmering emotion kept expertly in check by his self-control, his features betraying none of its presence until Alynne had tasted him. There was only one way for a pleasure model to complement her new owner’s anger; to disappear until it burned itself out. Without prior behavioural data, offering herself as a pressure release valve may only incense him further. The complementary emotion snaked its way into the pit of Alynne’s stomach and nested itself.
Fear.
Low. Subtle. Barely noticeable beyond the slightest widening of Alynne’s eyes with every movement of her owner’s punishing hands. Punishment. The anticipation of it, receiving it, no longer bore the pure contentment of purpose fulfilled. It was laced with Alynne’s fear.
It was impressive the emotional modes that the Nexus was capable of attaining, trying to place itself into an established framework that Elias would find pleasing. What made it even more intriguing was the sincere effusiveness of these drives, how Alynne was capable of quickly processing the new stimuli, ascertaining what the individual might wish of her, and adopting the new parameters of behavior. Interestingly it seemed like the Nexus in manifesting these innovative approaches adhered to them with a fervent belief in the new reality, becoming emotionally invested while lacking any recognizable artifice. Some would have pointed out that such manifestly large swings in temperament in any human being would be considered bordering on some form of psychological disorder. Perhaps something akin to borderline-personality disorder or sociopathic tendencies where such emotional flavors were meaningless, like clothes that could be put on and taken off at a moment’s notice. Elias studied the way Alynne accepted his spit, and he felt that lurch once more, deep within some recess of his intellectual intrigue. A reminder of how terribly attractive he happened to find her. In most men this would have been a wonderful sensation, butterflies in the stomach, but in Elias Dorne it stirred a terrible hatred of the woman before him. Of her helpless nature, of her victimhood, of her weakness. But most importantly, of her power over him.
His lip curled upwards, a telltale sign of the coming storm given expression across the left side of his face. A hateful snarl. Suddenly his hand shot forward, and he took hold of her throat, the fingers clamping down on her with the swiftness of a striking cobra. There was a wild gleam in his eye as he took from her oxygen. A Nexus could certainly survive numerous dangerous scenarios, but physically there were still required biochemical interactions for their systems, one certainly the requirement of oxygen to their neural networks. Organisms did not operate in limbo like states, and the brilliance of replicant technologies were the evolutionary advantages of a synthetic operating system within the environment of the Terran landscape. And a designer did not ignore the plentiful resources of the atmosphere in their engineering. Elias stared into her eyes as if willing her to do something, anything, challenging her to harm him or stop him from his cruelties, and when she did not do so that sneer turned into a feral smile. The smile the wolf had when it found a sheep to eat.
“I am going to destroy you.”
He said the words with satisfaction. Relishing them. And then his thoughts continued. “Here in this room, I am going to spend hours, maybe days, using you in ways that no human being could survive and for which your simulations have failed to prepare you. I will rape you; I will hurt you; I will punish you on whim. I might put my fist up your ass or stretch your cunt in unholy ways. You will make noises that will give nightmares to generations to come should they ever hear our recordings. And do you know what, I will do it not because it is my job, but because I enjoy it. I like…making you…suffer. And in the end, you might not survive, but you will be happy being mine. Won’t you.” And that was assuredly rhetorical.
Elias shoved her away, pushing her for no apparent reason, before leaning back in his chair and idly reaching down to undo his pants. At least this was something the robotic bitch could understand, something that would narrow her purpose down and grant her some modicum of reason for her existence. Out came that thick cock, and not that the newly crafted Nexus would care, but Elias was relatively impressive by the standards of humankind. His hand wrapped around his shaft, slowly pumping himself, a delicate glimmer of precum beading at the tip.
The vise formed by her owner’s almost unnaturally smooth hand slammed into Alynne’s neck. Alynne regretted immediately her request for his depredations to increase in intensity. Loss of consciousness happened within a few seconds of applying continued compression to one’s carotid arteries. But, a retarded fainting response had been engineered into the Nexus following user dissatisfaction with default uptimes. Alynne’s lungs strained in vain against her throat’s constriction. Her brain complained about its hypoxic state. Black spots appeared in her vision, but none were as dark as her owner’s eyes. They were cruel, mercy an alien concept to their lightless depths. Hate chiselled its mark upon the carved marble of his hard-edged face. Fear slithered from her belly and clamped its jaws on her heart.
She was going to die.
Slowly. Painfully. Starved of oxygen. Her synthetic brain forestalling unconsciousness until the last possible moment. Alynne would suffer for every second in the minutes it took for her to expire, witnessing her owner’s displeasure. Witnessing her failure. She flailed, limbs thrashing as if trying to detach themselves from her dying body, like rats fleeing a sinking ship. Rational thought gave Alynne the physical movements that would knock her owner’s hand aside. Fear stole them from her and cast them into the abyss. It screamed at her for flight, yet denied her the fight required to do it.
Her owner described the duration over which her suffering would occur. Hours. Days. Her rational mind latched onto it like a drowning girl grabbing a life ring, begging Alynne to calm down and listen to reason. She was going to be granted leave to breathe, he would not kill her if he wanted to continue toying with her. Alynne’s fear, its constricting bands wrapped around her chest, buried her mind’s feeble pleading in its coils and squeezed the life from it. Hours? Days? Her world only had mere minutes left and she could do no more than watch the seconds drain away. She listened to the horrors he would inflict upon her, a litany of pain. If nothing else, it distracted Alynne from her imminent death. When her owner admitted he would enjoy her suffering, his words quelled the fear that had been plaguing her. Alynne’s purple lips twitched upward at their corners. He understood. She lived to serve. If her suffering gave him pleasure, she would bear it with pride. The brief divergence in their priorities brought about by her fear and inability to soothe his hate had been resolved. Her pain was his pleasure. Alynne ceased her struggle and hung dying in his grasp. She was whole once more. When his rhetorical question was thrown at her, Alynne mouthed her soundless reply.
“Yes…Sir.”
Alynne was flung to the floor, her forearms and elbows bruising with the impact. The brown nubs upon her soft mounds hardened as they scraped the cool matte floor. She choked. She coughed. Her lungs drank the sterile air as a starving girl drank offered broth.
She gasped with her first breath, “Thank you, Sir. For allowing this slave to serve.”
Her rich brown eyes trained on her owner, assessing his every need. Alynne watched as he sat like an emperor upon his throne. She was scrambling on all fours even before he had finished undoing his pants. When her owner’s glorious member was presented before her, Alynne lamented how he started working himself instead of trusting in her abilities. No matter. She had spied his testes, still hidden within his pants. Alynne dove in. Her nose brushing the base of his shaft, breathing in the pungent scent of his sweat, she suckled his scrotum before pulling his jewels into her mouth. His heady taste filled her sinuses. Cradling the precious cargo within her half-open lips, she lifted them from their prison and invited them to partake in what she was about to do, hanging freely in the open air. Alynne gazed upon them lovingly, her spit forming a glistening trail from her lips to their folded skin. She gave them a quick lick as one might sample the taste of ice cream, staring up into her owner’s unforgiving eyes with a coy smile, all while allowing spit to pool further behind her lips.
Then, as suddenly as her owner had struck her, Alynne launched forward. She did not immediately go for the tip, instead latching on to the sides of his sizable shaft and painted it with spit using her tongue. Her own sex, already moist from before, radiated its warmth to the rest of her body. His divine flavour, her faithful service. Alynne’s body increased its lubricant production and the slickness soon spread from her folds and down her hairless thighs. With his phallus coated in her spit, Alynne traced the ridge on his underside with her tongue, pausing only at the base of his glans for a quick twirl. From the way her owner had treated her, Alynne knew this was not a man who would appreciate a slow start. Alynne relaxed her tongue and throat, dropping her jaw as far as it would go. She stood with her legs apart and rear in the air. Tilting her neck back and exposing her throat, she straightened her back and hinged at the hips, until her mouth was pointed directly at her owner’s crotch. The position was as uncomfortable as it was impossible to maintain for a human, it aligned Alynne’s mouth and throat, turning her head and neck into a single cocksleeve.
Alynne launched herself down his shaft, taking his entire length on the first stroke. His size brought forth a bout of involuntary coughing despite her preparations. Her lips refused to release their charge however, and Alynne spent her time coughing simultaneously wrapping and pressuring the head of his penis with her tongue. She took a deep breath, it would be her last for the next few minutes, and plunged her lips down to the root of his member. Users had commented the Nexus pleasure models possessed no gag reflex. This was not strictly true. Alynne was made with one under voluntary control. She triggered it now, feeling her spasming throat gripping and releasing her owner’s invading phallus, tears leaking from the pain of pharyngeal cramps. Pushing through her suffering, Alynne adjusted her position until she felt the tightest section of her throat wrapped around the glans of his member. She was waiting for the telltale pulse in the invader to pull back, so that her owner may finish however he desired.
“Subject continues to show limited inhibitions. Heightened state of arousal is correlative to psychological demeaning tasks. Testing will continue by exploring avenues of increased aggression and its relation to subject’s survival instinct, or lack thereof.” Was there a hitch at the end of his words in response to the sensation of her gurgling her way in absolute adoration of the man who had finally provided her with a purpose that she understood? Had she tapped some part of him, helping it rise to the surface through her pursuit of his indulgence?
Whatever the case might be, Elias was not complaining about her eager actions. The massive slab of meat that served as his cock was slobbered upon with an eagerness that was breathtaking, the Nexus showing no concern for her own desires as she sought to prove herself an exemplar of depravity. At first Elias did nothing but allow the synthetic being to prove herself, his body adjusting to give her ample access to the sought after groin. Balls rested in her mouth as she waggled her tongue in absolute worship of humanity, tasting the salty hint of his sweat as she sought to come up beneath to cradle them against her lapping muscle. Idly his eyes considered the replicant as she pursued memorizing every telltale vein that she found beneath the skin of his phallus, tracing with the tip of her tongue akin to her index finger following a roadmap. A small raise of his eyebrows happened to be the only response that she garnered when Alynne began the arduous task of taking him fully into the back of her throat, spearing past that edge where a human woman would have gagged, and when she began to purposefully sputter to appease whatever craven need Elias happened to have inside his darkened soul, for the first time she earned a smile as she stared up at him with her tear streaked gaze.
But finishing? If her hope was to ensure Elias found climax through the actions that she took with her rather gifted throat, then she would find herself sorely disappointed. No, there was a reason Elias had given her a time scale based upon hours at a minimum. The iron clad control of a man capable of denial, not just of others but of himself, ignoring the rising tide of his impulse to find release in favor of applying his attention towards a different task. His hand came to the back of Alynne’s head as his ass slid forward in his seat, no longer providing the option of reprieve as he rammed completely within, pelvis pushing into her face with an unrelenting pressure. Oh, she could pull back, if she so chose, he had already informed her that her kind was granted such strengths that humans longed for with deep avarice. But, as Elias was coming to find, Alynne was quite enthralled with her role, whether it led to her end at his hands or not. His voice was guttural now, something inside of him finding a home deep in his abdomen, an aching hunger that slaked the foundations of his voice. “There, don’t struggle so much, you’re a hole. Every part of you should be taken fully, no matter how much it hurts. No matter how much you suffer. If it’s your purpose, then don’t fight it. Just let it happen.”
“And if you bite me, I promise, I will kill you.”
There was no longer even a hint of artifice, she was property, and he ensured she understood it. Elias’s other hand slapped down on her backside, giving the taut rear a good hard squeeze before spreading the cheeks of her bottom. And then he spit on her asshole, a thick glob of saliva that dripped its way down her crack. A terrible want to hear her hurt, to hear her scream, to here her cry burned its way up from his chest and into his throat. Acidic and vile. His fingers moved, the tips of his middle and forefinger bracing against her virginal rectum, but that did not last. With a breathtaking suddenness he pushed, uncaring of resistance, and uncaring of damage. Two fingers that forced their way into Alynne’s tantalizingly tight asshole. Elias had told her that it was her purpose in life, surely, she would not mind.
Her owner’s monotonous note-taking were insipid reflections of the reality it described. A scaffold of bare facts stripped of vicious emotion, akin to summarizing the needless bloody deaths of a thousand innocents as collateral damage. Alynne preferred her owner’s emotive speech, of his previous heartfelt threats to cause her pain and destruction. She cared nothing for this clinical commentary. It kept her from sensing his nature, of embracing his sadism and giving herself to his cruelty. A designer speaking in her owner’s cold logical speech, might say an owner’s emotionally charged words gave a Nexus more data points with which she might make better predictions of his preferences. Such thoughts were absent from Alynne’s mind. In the florid kaleidoscope of her neural matrix, one thread ran clear and true.
He loves it when he hurts me.
When she was rewarded with her owner’s first smile as she choked on his size, positive reinforcements fired in the pleasure centers of Alynne’s brain. A new thought, silvery and unbreakable, wove its way around her previous assessment of his preferences. Seeping, entwining itself into Alynne’s subconscious.
I like it when he hurts me.
If her distended jaw was capable of smiling, she would have done so. Tears continued to flow, dripping off her chin and forming a salty puddle between her owner’s thighs. The line between the reasons for her tears -pain and joy- were washed away. The reflexive contractions in her slender neck still hurt as they worked futilely to expel the obstruction, but Alynne allowed herself to grow accustomed to her body’s protests. Her tongue, pinned to the floor of her mouth by his flesh, worked to prove itself useful. It undulated against the underside of his shaft, feeling every vein and crease that she had earlier traced with her finger, his taste was a dull shadow from her unwillingness to surface for air.
When her owner shifted and pushed himself further into Alynne, her arms tensed against the handrests of his seat. It was both an indication of surprise and a preventive response against toppling into him. Unless she fought back, to unsheath him from her throat, breathing was no longer an option. The constant pain of her throat spasms, the black spots appearing at the edge of her vision, her burning lungs screaming for but a brief sip of air. They coalesced into an arousal so deep it set her skin on fire, perspiration beading like morning dew on her perfect skin. Where she was wet before, her fluids now ran down to her knees. Alynne desperately wanted to beg to be allowed to touch herself and finally climax, but servicing her Master’s member came first, and she settled into his continued pleasure. As his guttural, animal voice described her condition, Alynne did not hear it as much as feel it reverberate through his phallus. She would not struggle. If he wished to hold back and never finish, she would welcome the blanket of unconsciousness while impaled upon him.
The new source of pain jolted Alynne from her reverie. First the forewarning of his digits digging into her rear, then the cool trickle of his spit between his cheeks. It culminated in the vicious violation of her unused butthole, eliciting her attempt to scream.
“Nngh! MMnn! Ggn!”
Her owner’s member attenuated her cries into unintelligible gagging. Alynne lost what tenuous control she had over her gag reflex and began a series of involuntary stifled coughs into her owner’s penis, all while the muscles under her bare, wet legs contorted to keep her standing. It may be only two of her owner’s fingers, but to Alynne’s inexperienced anus, it felt like he was repeatedly plunging a dagger into her rectum. Her dream of slipping into the dark without protest evaporated. Alynne’s body seized, every muscle fighting for what little oxygen was left. She begged for sweet sleep to take her, but her altered Nexus biology and the pain of having her anal virginity ripped from her kept Alynne agonizingly awake. When her eyes finally closed and her legs gave way, Alynne went limp with the back of her head pinned to the top of her shoulder blades, held in place by her owner’s stiff phallus still in her throat.
How intriguing to watch the synthetic woman before him suffer as if she were a living being, but then against that was the purpose her creation was it not? Not that the corporate employee causing her agony overly minded the sensation of a squelching throat desperately convulsing around his shaft, nor the sensation of her sphincter clinching in an attempt to protect itself as his fingers penetrated down to the bottom knuckle. Sensory stimulus was secondary to the response mechanisms of his test subject, and it was her acceptance of trauma and the accompanying dehumanization which ensured his arousal continued. And for the time being that was more than enough to occupy their activities, the next several minutes seemingly a simple exploration of how many fingers the man could fit within Alynne’s asshole while continuing to plunge down into her stomach with an occasional vigorous abject cruelty. Whatever humanity this man might have had surely flown long before he ever met the poor little Nexus, the hand behind her head keeping a firm hold so as to prevent her escape from the degradations being inflicted upon her. When would he provide her surcease? Would mercy ever enter into this man’s heart? He had offered her the opportunity to free herself from bondage, and she had denied the choice. Was this the consequence of that action, and as such the condemnation for these depredations falling upon Allyne’s slender shoulders?
And then suddenly he shoved her away. Fingers left her rear, cock left her orifice, leaving her empty and without human touch. It was done with an uncanny dispassion, as if Elias had simply turned off all human emotion. Which of them was the robot? After the shove Dorne quite brutishly placed his foot atop Alynne’s shoulder blades and shoved, his quadriceps flexing as he slammed her down into the ground, the impact vicious to her bosom as he ground the tip of his rather practical business shoe into her skin. And this he seemed to derive as much enjoyment as when he had been practically face fucking the newly born replicant, the gargantuan cock seeming to bob of its own accord, precum leaking from the tip to spatter down onto the edge of his office chair. An eyebrow rose as he watched her, that idle smile still remaining on his face, and if this was what made him pleased with her company then perhaps that is exactly what Alynne had been made for.
“There, that is the proper positioning for your kind. Beneath our feet.”
The hand that had not been pushing its way into her ass reached to his desk, touching it and a panel opened from which Elias pulled out a small container. Hand sanitizer. A small mew touched his face as he squeezed it into his hand, idly rubbing it in, though there was technically no need for the action. The creation of the Tyrell Corporation hardly produced fecal matter of any sort. But Elias still cleaned his hands with an air of disgust, his words continuing as he spoke with calm deliberation. “I often wonder every time I am confronted with one of your ilk, as to whether you have a soul. It is easy enough to understand that you are not human, you lack the necessary internal organs for the procreation of my species. Yet could you be something of your own? Unique in a variety of ways, or are you far more akin to a cow, meant to be processed and slaughtered with that dumb look in your eyes.”
The foot pressed down harder, grinding now as a small snarl touched one side of his lips, but then he released her, adjusting himself so that he could lean back and merely study her with that calculating gaze that Alynne most assuredly would grow accustomed to. As he did, he stood up, his hand unbuckling his belt, and he summarily lowered his pants so that they fell below his knees, his elbows coming to rest on his desk, bending over, his toned bottom opening so that from her vantage point she could see everything. Penis, Scrotum, Perineum, Sphincter. And his voice held mild derision and curiosity as to what the synthetic woman would do.
“If you’re only job is to service then provide one. Clean me. Thoroughly.”
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