Proof
The argument started while Jena Say was receiving cunnilingus from her friend’s sally.
Jena Say’s legs were spread wide, and she had been resting her feet on the servitron’s back when she heard the comment. Andre Tom’s statement was so outrageous she almost kicked the blond sextoy off of her. “What was that?” Jena Say asked, more than a bit incredulously.
She lifted her head from her cozy laid-back position, eyes closed and enjoying the talented tongue and lip action of the sally. For some reason, the servitrons at Andre Tom’s were ever so much better than her own or any of Jena Say’s other acquaintances. She would have loved to known the reason why.
“The marys are more sensitive than the sallys,” Andre Tom repeated. That was what she thought he had said. Probably not coincidentally, Andre Tom was riding a mary at the time, standing behind the bucking and writhing servitron, hands reached round and caressing her enormous mary-sized breasts, tweaking the nipples between his fingers, member inserted deep inside her bent and forward-facing figure. The mary’s mouth opened and closed silently in an ongoing paroxysm of bliss. Like all but the administrative units, the christines, the georges, and the occasional charles, the mary was completely mute.
“That’s absurd,” Jena Say replied. Everyone knew the sallys were better at sex than the marys. They were blonds, after all!
She leaned back, spreading again. Andre Tom’s sally resumed her loving attentions. “Everyone enjoys a good sally,” she went on, hissing. “They’re simply everyone’s favorite sex unit.”
“Then everyone is wrong,” Andre Tom insisted. He forced his mary into a soundless climax, the docile toy squirming abjectly about his shaft. Andre Tom grunted and sighed, then slowly disengaged.
He stretched and touched the servitron’s face. “Leave us.” The mary nodded, smiling joyously. She climbed to her feet, body flush and covered in sweat, and lowered her head deferentially to the pale-white Civilian. She kissed his hand. A moment later the portal irised shut behind her and disappeared.
Andre Tom walked over to Jena Say’s couch. She sensed him hovering and opened her eyes.
He held his smooth, featureless hand up with thumb and forefinger barely apart. “A mary unit is just a hair’s breadth more sensitive than any other purely sex servitron. It’s a slight but deliberate modification made by the Makers. It’s what makes the marys the best sex units.”
“That’s ridiculous,” Jena Say said, snorting laughter. “The female units are identical in every significant way, right down to their core DNA and programming. The only difference between a mary and a sally is the color of the slut’s hair.” That this comment contradicted what she had said previously, Jena Say ignored. Her tone brooked no possibility of error. There was a difference in style, too, she knew—the marys wore their dark hair short and curled on the sides while the sallys’ locks were blond, straight, and fell past their perfect shoulders—but that was a matter hardly worth mentioning.
Andre Tom shrugged. “You’re wrong. It’s true. I think it’s a puzzle left for us by the Makers, for a time when they predicted the levels of ennui in the City would be on the rise.” Tedium was always a problem for the cloned and idle Civilians. “I discovered the marys’ extra sensitivity in my research.”
“Research,” Jena Say guffawed. She didn’t believe him for a second. She lifted herself on her elbows. The sally between her legs continued to probe deeply into her pussy, licking in, licking out. She went on with her work uninterrupted as the two elites spoke above her head, literally as well as figuratively.
“There’s absolutely no difference. If there was a difference, the City would have said so already.”
Andre Tom shook his head. “No.” Few people said that to Jena Say; it irked her now. “It’s a secret. A surprise meant for us. Some of us, anyway. The City knows, because It has to make and maintain all the servitrons, but It doesn’t know that It knows, if you know what I mean.” He grinned smugly.
He went on to explain, at length, how each of the servitron unit classes had an extra special something in their makeup just waiting to be discovered by a genius such as himself. The dylans were good dancers. The georges had a sense of humor. The donnas enjoyed being used by both genders, naturally, but they preferred to be fucked by men. They could also paint. The marys were the best sex toys.
Another reason Jena Say liked to visit Andre Tom was because he was always doing and saying things that were out of the ordinary, that no one else in the City ever bothered with anymore. He “collected” things, for instance. He referred to himself as a “collector.” He had a whole museum of pre-Disaster relics, entire chambers of his Residence filled with items like “tele-phones,” “butter-flies,” and “nuclear-weapons,” whatever they were. He actually studied history. He could name the individual Makers, all however many of them there were. Andre Tom was an interesting person in a world where very few people Jena Say knew were anymore. That didn’t make Jena Say believe what he saying, though.
“I don’t believe you,” she said. “There’s no difference between a mary and a sally, no difference between a donna or a pamela, either. You are . . .” What was the phrase he used? “. . a criminal,” she finished. “You are ‘criming’ me.”
Andre Tom shook his head again, that same look of confident smugness on his face, exasperatingly.
“You’re using the term wrong. A criminal is an individual who breaks a law. Since there are no laws in the City, I can’t be a criminal.” He smiled. “I think you mean a ‘fraud.’”
“Fraud, then.” Jena Say put her hands to the back of her servitron’s head, pushed the sally’s face deep into her crotch, and climaxed suddenly and viciously. She stood up then and called to her clothing, which immediately flew across the room and draped itself around her body. Jena Say looked Andre Tom directly in the eyes. Aside from gender, every Civilian had nearly identical physical measurements.
“You are frauding me,” Jena Say said. “The ‘train-things’ that rode on rails made out of processed tree products, maybe I could believe. The proto-Makers did all sorts of strange things, I’ve heard. A ‘blue sky,’ I had my doubts about, but I said nothing. But this . . .” Jena Say shook her head now.
“You’re lying. I own a stable of marys and sallys and pamelas, and, aside from their hair color and a few other cosmetic differences, each and every one of them is identical.”
Andre Tom gave her that infuriating look of pity he sometimes showed to people when they failed to understand what he was talking about, his “auto-mobiles” and his “world-wars” and so on. “You’ll never understand,” he said, radiating his particularly obnoxious kind of arrogance, he the possessor of oldfound knowledge, he the holder of the secrets of the ancients. “You’re too simple-minded.”
“I am not simple,” Jena Say said. “You’re just playing one of your games again.” He did this on occasion, pretending to find new diversions or facts from pre-Disaster days to amuse his friends, only to tell them later he had merely made the whole thing up. Years ago he had had hundreds of Civilians believing in his “King of the Burger Creatures” fad, sacrificing time and energy to “Having it Their Way,” whatever that meant, and going on an expedition outside the City to find “Grace’s Land” and clone the burger corpus. Jena Say hadn’t fallen for that hoax, and she wasn’t going to fall for this one either.
“Then why do you always keep coming back to my Residence to use my marys and sallys and pamelas, eh, Jena Say?” Andre Tom put his hands to his hips. “Can it be that mine are somehow the better sluts? The more devoted love makers? How could that possibly be if they are all the same?”
“I don’t deny you have an excellent stable of sluts, Andre Tom,” Jena Say said. “But that’s training, however you do it. I still want to know how. But to say that one unit class of sex servitron is inherently more sexually adept than another . . . more ‘sensitive’ . . . I just don’t believe you.”
“Would you like to make a wager on that, Jena Say?” Andre Tom said haughtily. “Because I know I can prove to you the truth of my claim. Or are you afraid that I might ‘criminalize’ you?” He laughed.
Jena Say sneered. “I thought you were interesting. I was mistaken. You’re a . . . a fraud.” And with that she activated her internal tripjourney matrix and teleported back to her Residence, as angry as she could remember being for the longest time.
The City, the Last City, rested on a plain of green glass while inside its inhabitants grew old and strange.
No roads led from the City. Aside for certain jokes, there was nowhere else to go. No fertile fields lay beside the City. Aside from algae, there was nothing outside to eat. The red sky was poison; the light was poison; even the glass was poison, were anyone to touch it with their bare flesh. No one did.
The City had neither entrances nor exits. Its inhabitants needed neither. They could go where they willed, instantly. But there was nowhere else they wanted to be. The City was its own world, and the only world left: black and purple towers, blue-steel walls, domes of diamond and ruby. And inside those domes the inhabitants grew very old and very strange. And, occasionally, very bored.
Jena Say floated. Below her, a blue giant with a dozen ugly faces stretching round its abnormally shaped cranium strolled through a garden of twisty wires. Each of the giant’s mouths was open, and out of those mouths pale-white webbing extended out, blanketing the garden. At the end of each strand was a miniature blue head, also cast with numerous ugly faces. These too expelled webbing. The entire dome was filled with webs and heads, and below the milk-white downpour the Civilians of the City, the Last City, danced, cavorting, licking, drinking in the web and eating the heads, and they laughed.
But Jena Say was bored with eating. She tripjournied to another locale.
She watched as the pale Civilians—in groups and individually—teleported from geometric shape to geometric shape along a vast gridwork. Flying objects—actually, harmless holograms—darted from all directions, including below. The grid had the appearance of a chessboard as drawn by a lunatic: no squares, instead an array of sharp triangles, oblongs, and rectangles in various sizes and arranged in a seemingly random pattern. The individuals tried to break up the rhythmic routines established by the groups dodging the holograms. At the same time, the groups tried to incorporate the individuals into their designs. Despite appearances, though, the action played out on the gridwork was neither a game nor a competition. It was a dance, solemn and joyless. Jena Say hated dancing. She moved on.
In the Pliable Nexus, Jena Say watched as obsessive arrangers balanced their synthetic plants, robotic animals, and artificial sceneries into exquisitely designed, imaginative gardens, some so small they could fit inside the eye of a needle, others so large tripjournied warpings of space-time were necessary to fully encompass their orbits. These artists concentrated on the horizontal, the vertical, the color, shape, and so on, all to achieve a sublime beauty which, more often than not, only they and their entourages could perceive. Jena Say considered herself an expert garden maker, but she had lost interest in the hobby when her friend, Laura Pai, stopped attending the shows. Jena Say hadn’t seen Laura Pai for months; the last time had been at one of Andre Tom’s parties. She had lost all track of her friend, in fact.
Jena Say moved on.
She traced outlines in the Orthodox Dross. She configured transistor circuits in the Microscopic Interplane. She took a nap. She killed autoflyvers in the Sparkling Arena. She floated aimlessly and watched others perform the same or equally pointless activities.
She was bored, bored with the endless pleasures and opportunities and rituals that were an ever-present component of life in the City. And because she was so painfully bored, Jena Say’s mind returned once more to thoughts of Andre Tom and his current fascination. Jena Say truly did despise the man, but at least he was never boring. At least he always had something to do to occupy the tedium of Civilian immortality.
Jena Say turned to her Residence and asked the City to send her two fresh servitrons, a mary and a sally. They arrived almost instantly, tripjournied direct to her living room.
“Strip,” she ordered, and the two female units discarded all that they wore, a mary-dress and a sally-dress, respectively, until all they had on were the dangling pendants about their throats that were their only identity. These baubles had numbers written on them, she had been told, but since Civilians didn’t need to read (in fact, the only Civilian she knew who could read was Andre Tom), they were beneath Jena Say’s notice. She didn’t need numbers anyway. The Civilian examined the two units closely.
As she had maintained earlier, save that one had short and dark hair, and the other had long and blond hair, they were identical. The two female units had the same exact size, the same exact voluptuous shape, even the same bland but pretty face. Their bodies were tan and tone, unlike the pallid, soft flesh of the Civilians, and they smiled, beautifully.
There’s no difference whatsoever, Jena Say thought.
She ordered the two units to have intercourse. “Lick each other out” was the exact terminology Jena Say used. The mary and the sally turned to one another, smiled again, lowered themselves to the floor, and positioned themselves appropriately. Jena Say ordered the City to monitor their biophysical responses. Soon enough the two units had their faces each buried in the other’s crotch, and they were both squealing with the mindless happiness of a sex servitron.
The City displayed the mary and the sally’s responses on a monitor It formed out of one wall. Simple pictures were used to present the information. As she watched the climaxes turn out, even Jena Say could see that the figures were all but identical. For every orgasm the mary had, the sally had one of her own as well. There was no difference in their responses whatsoever.
Jena Say soon ordered all of her female units to come to the living room. A plethora of pamelas, donnas, marys, sallys, and so on gathered, and she ordered them all to fuck. The City monitored everything. Soon Jena Say was beaming. There was no difference. No difference in any of the scores.
Jena Say was so happy, she celebrated by having one of each unit play with her until she passed out.
“So,” Andre Tom said, “you’re ready to see if I’m right?” Jena Say had asked him to come by her Residence. She hadn’t wanted to go back to his, feeling that he had too much home-ground advantage there. It didn’t help. He was still an insufferably smug jerk. “I am, you know. I always am.”
“Be quiet,” Jena Say said. She lifted her nose. “You mentioned a wager.”
Andre Tom nodded. “Yes, certainly. Anything you want. If I prove the mary is a better fuck than any other sex servitron, I win. You win if you prove the sally is better, or if there’s no difference. That sound right?”
“Yes, but what I want to know is, how can you prove such a thing?” Jena Say gestured at the two servitrons of her own she had brought in for this meeting, one mary, one sally, standing side-by-side in servile attendance. “What’s the criteria? Who’s to say, objectively, one is better than the other? It’s all too subjective.”
Andre Tom hummed, thinking. “Those aren’t bad points, Jena Say,” he said. “I didn’t think you were capable of such deep thinking.”
“Don’t be insulting. We won’t have a wager if you can’t come up with an objective criteria.”
“Well, what are your thoughts?”
Jena Say had given the matter some thought. She had given it more thought than she had given anything of late. She was unaccustomed to deep thinking, and it felt rather good. “I say we get a neutral Civilian, or a group of Civilians, and have them use a succession of marys and sallys until we have a winner. That seems fair to me.”
But Andre Tom disagreed. “No, no, no. You still don’t comprehend what I’m saying. The opinions of other people are irrelevant. What we’re trying to determine is whether the mary is inherently the better sex servitron.”
“Then I fail to understand,” Jena Say said. “What are you trying to say?”
“The mary is the most sensitive of the female unit lines. She enjoys sex more. She receives the best orgasms.”
Jena Say laughed. “Then I win! I’ve already tested that! There’s no difference between the number of orgasms a mary, sally, or pamela has during sex.” She rapidly told Andre Tom about her experiment.
But again, infuriatingly, Andre Tom disagreed with her.
“Irrelevant. The City can only count the physiological responses of the units. It can’t measure how intensely felt those responses are by the unit herself.”
“How can we measure that?” Jena Say asked. “What you’re asking is impossible. How can anyone know how a mary feels at any given moment? You certainly can’t ask one.”
Andre Tom smiled. He removed a small bauble from a pocket in his jacket. “I have a way.”
“What is that?” The object looked like a large jewel with a chain set through it, as if it was meant to be worn about the neck. It resembled the I.D. tags the servitrons wore.
“Just something that will help us get the proof we both want. Now, we haven’t discussed what we’re wagering yet.”
Jena Say had already decided that. “I want to know how you train your sex servitrons. I want to know why they’re the best I’ve ever had . . . the best anybody’s ever had. If I win, you tell me.”
“Done. Better yet, I’ll show you.” He narrowed his eyes. “As for what I want, hmmmm . . . I want you.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“You,” Andre Tom said. “If I win, you agree to act as my sex servitron for as long as we both desire each other.”
“You . . desire me?” Jena Say laughed contemptuously. “I find you repulsive in every way, Andre Tom. No way.”
But then she reflected on what Andre Tom had said. “So long as we both desire each other,” she repeated, and Andre Tom said yes. That was his only condition.
“Then you gain nothing . . . if you win . . . because I will never desire you.” She brightened. Andre Tom shrugged.
“For me, the real prize will be proving that I’m right. Everything else will be, at best, secondary. Do we have a wager?”
Jena Say thought about it, trying to find a loophole in anything her fellow Civilian might have said. She could find none. “All right. I agree. We have a wager. So, what now?”
“Hold this.” Andre Tom handed Jena Say the chained bauble. She took it in her hands.
As soon as the bauble touched her fingers, an electric charge seemed to pass through Jena Say. She went numb all over. She didn’t go slack; she didn’t fall over. But she did lose instantly all control over her limbs and body. Andre Tom took her hands in his—she couldn’t feel his fingers on hers, she couldn’t feel anything!—and, still keeping the jewel in touch with her skin, raised it along her arms and then around her throat. Once settled on her chest, Andre Tom came around and stood in front of her.
“Don’t be afraid, Jena Say,” he said. “Come along with me.” He touched her arm, and they tripjournied. Jena Say couldn’t even blink. One moment they were in her Residence, the next they were in a large circular chamber she had never seen before. Two george units were waiting for them.
Despite Andre Tom’s words, Jena Say was in a panic. She was also furious. Release me!! she screamed inside, unable to voice her indignation. What are you doing, you . . you crimer!!
She had no idea what was going on. She had never been in a place like this before. The chamber was large and circular, and there was a raised platform in its middle. Several circular depressions were set in the platform, and from them rose half-tubes each large enough to hold a single Civilian. Above each half-tube was another dangling over it. Near the platform was a podium, and it was there that Andre Tom walked to speak with the two georges. Jena Say couldn’t hear what they were saying to one another. She tried to move, she tried to feel, but she was totally helpless. Andre Tom pointed at her.
The two georges both laughed uproariously, suddenly. It was the first time Jena Say had ever heard a servitron laugh. Smiling himself, Andre Tom walked back over to Jena Say. “I told them it’s all a big joke,” he said. “Like I said, they have a great sense of humor! They’ll do anything for a joke!”
You scum! she thought. What are you doing to me!? Release me!! She couldn’t even given him a dirty look. Andre Tom told her to climb onto the platform and stand in one of the half-tubes.
“I’ll see you when we discuss the results of the wager,” he said, and then he tripjournied off.
Jena Say’s possessed limbs settled her into the empty slot.
From her new perspective, she saw the other half of the tube overhead. When it was lowered, it would completely surround her. The two bribed georges bound Jena Say to the sides with rubbery cords.
“You will feel so much better soon,” one of them whispered as he tightened the band around Jena Say’s left wrist. The handsome man then reached around and removed the bauble from Jena Say’s neck.
Feeling at once returned to her limbs. She could speak. She could move on her own again, albeit only as far as the bands about her wrists and ankles permitted . Jena Say immediately struggled to free herself. She screamed loudly. “No! NO!! Let me go!! Let me go, I demand it!!!”
But she could not break her bonds. And the georges would not obey her. She was trapped.
“Nooo! Andre Tom this is enough! This is enough! Free me!!”
The identical georges met at the podium. “In what capacity will this recycle serve our lords and ladies, George?” one of them asked the other, giggling. They both looked at the podium’s blinking console.
“There has been a request for seven new marys today, George. There is a celebration this evening.”
“Wonderful,” the other replied. “A mary it will be then.” His fingers danced across the podium’s surface. Instantly, the lower tube-half began to vibrate. The upper half lowered down.
“NOOOOO!!” Jena Say screamed. “Makers, NOO!! I want to go home! I want to go home!!!”
She tried to activate her tripjourney. The matrix was inoperative. More of Andre Tom’s tricks, no doubt. The georges were oblivious to her pleas. The last Jena Say saw of them before the tube sealed was their blank and smiling faces. One of them waved. Jena Say squirmed. She struggled valiantly.
“Please! Please!! I want to go home!”
The upper half of the tube closed in with a loud THUMP! and then abruptly she was in total darkness.
Her screams resounded loudly within the very tiny space and deafened her. She couldn’t breathe. There was no air in the tube! Jena Say felt a sudden heat, and a flash of light seemed to pass right through her. There was no pain. It happened too quickly for pain. Whatever happened, happened so quickly there were no words to describe the process.
Almost as soon as the tube had sealed, it unsealed.
The upper half lifted. The entire platform rotated. Within a few seconds Jena Say was facing in another direction. The important thing was, though, she could breathe again! She gasped in a delightful mouthful of air, and her momentary jubilation at being alive was marred only by the fact that she was still bound by her wrists and ankles in the lower tube.
The two georges were still at their podium, she saw, still smiling grandly.
One of them pressed something on the podium. The tube-half holding Jena Say rotated to the right. A row of mirrors came into view . . . or what at first the Civilian took for a row of life-size mirrors.
The reason she wasn’t sure they were mirrors was that the person revealed in their surfaces was obviously not her. The mirrors showed the platform, the tube-half, and the upper tube with its cavity above her. What the mirrors didn’t show her was, well, her.
Her standard yet comfortably familiar form was missing. In its place was another woman . . . no, not a woman. A mary! A pretty yet meaningless trollop of a mary!
This mary she saw lay in the mirror staring wild-eyed at Jena Say, wrists and ankles as tightly bound as Jena Say’s own. She was tall and busty and dark haired, with tan, healthy skin. She was as perfect and beautiful as all the other marys of the City, the only difference being that she was bound and, like Jena Say herself, looked as absolutely terrified as she at being restrained.
Restrained. The girl in the mirror was restrained. Like her. Exactly like her.
Jena Say felt dizzy. The universe spun on its axis. Everything looked sharper than before. Everything looked more real, more there, more solid. Unfamiliar scents filled her nostrils. She could hear her own heartbeat, fuller, stronger. Jena Say blinked. She turned her head from side to side. Dark curly locks dangled in front of her face. She trembled. What . . what’s going on? the Civilian thought.
Her breath stopped.
Everything stopped.
Jena Say looked—really looked—at the image hanging before her. She stared at it in absolute bewilderment, all her thoughts gone. She then looked down at herself, at her now enlarged bosom.
Those were beautiful mary-breasts.
Those were . . . these were that mary’s breasts!
Her breasts.
Hers.
A dainty gasp came out of Jena Say’s mouth, and the Civilian’s eyes widened further at the soft, exquisitely feminine noise she had made. She tried to yell in her own voice, her real voice, but all that emerged again was that same demeaning squeal. She tried to speak, to actually say something, anything, but all she managed was that debased sound. Makers! she thought. Makers, save me!
What have they done to me!?
Jena Say’s hands—thin, delicate, and shapely hands, now—twitched helplessly within their bonds.
She had been transformed! She had been transformed into a mary! An exquisitely beautiful, absolutely gorgeous trollop of a mary!
Jena Say’s shocked eyes raked over her radically altered body. Two large, firm, and sassy breasts—very far from the simple breasts she had come in with—now descended from her chest. Their increased weight was unreal. The way they pulled at her shoulders felt both unfamiliar yet alarmingly great. Her nipples were now pink and engorged and jutted forth like little quivering digits. The brush of the cool air over them as she struggled sent waves of pleasurable sensation cascading throughout her body, warm and moist feelings which in moments had Jena Say’s new, plumper pussy mound, hairless and deliciously sensitive, convulsing spasmodically. Her thighs quivered. Her back arched involuntarily.
She wanted to have sex.
She was in a dire need of sex. Attention drawn to it, her transformed pussy instinctively began lubricating for penetration. She needed to be penetrated . . . used . . . fucked . . . fucked long and hard and thoroughly. It was an utterly unfamiliar feeling. Jena Say was far from a virgin. She had had sex countless times. It had always been quite fun. But never had she felt this desperate, yearning hunger!
She wanted to have sex. She needed to have sex!
Sex. Hot, burning sex.
A hot, hard cock probing her damp, boiling cunt.
It was as if she had turned into a cunt, that she had turned into a massive, burning, yearning sex organ.
Fuck me, she thought helplessly. Oh Makers, I need to be fucked! I need it!
She imagined cocks sliding inside her. Moving inside her. Using her.
Making her hotter and hotter.
That’s what she wanted. That’s what she wanted more than anything else in her life.
The twin georges continued pressing buttons. Above Jena Say, two outlets opened. From each, a curving piece of metal with glowing lights along the sides descended. The pieces were projected from rods of metal, and these rods aimed themselves directly at Jena Say’s head despite her futile attempts to evade them. The pieces settled along her scalp and joined together, holding her head steady while forming a cap covering the entire back of her skull to the ears and ending above her eyebrows. Below her, another hole opened in the platform. A second later Jena Say yelped in high-pitched girlishness as a third metal rod, sans curving metal, deftly inserted itself up her rectum.
The pressure was totally foreign and painful, yet, in some strange new way, exhilarating as well.
Alien flutters of pleasure filled Jena Say’s transmogrified sex, inspiring even greater wetness and heat between her legs. Her amorous need increased beyond her ability to deny it. She very much needed to have sex soon. The image of a huge phallus—Andre Tom’s penis!—using her filled Jena Say’s thoughts.
Her nipples tightened. She licked her lips uncontrollably. The rod inside pressed upwards even further, and she squealed inarticulately, in a girlish voice demanding even harder sexual use.
The rod pulsed electrically.
The makeshift helmet buzzed.
And suddenly Jena Say understood. She understood the answer to the unspoken, unrealized question she had been searching for her entire life, unknowingly. She grasped it, like a tough mathematical concept that had finally clicked into place after countless nights of study.
Obedience. Obedience was the answer.
Obedience was the key to everything. She had to obey. That was why she had been made, to learn to obey. To obey and to serve perfectly. A soft, effervescent squeak emerged from her throat, in delight at this realization. Obedience. She had been recycled in the City of the Civilians to serve and to be obedient. To serve and to be a servitron. She was a servitron. She was an obedient servitron.
Obedience. Awareness. Identity.
First came obedience, which was the most important lesson to be learned. Then came awareness, of how to serve and be obedient. The City of the Civilians was large and complex. Where a moment earlier there had been ignorance, a poor state for a servitron such as herself, suddenly the layout of her new home and its rules filled her pitiful emptiness. In a flash, Jena Say knew the identity of every Civilian of the City. She knew where they lived. She knew where their servitrons went when they were not serving. She knew what they did to please the Civilians and to make their lives comfortable.
Many useful lessons became clear to Jena Say. How to carry a serving tray. How to walk in high heels. How to lick and kiss. How to tighten her vagina for her user’s pleasure. How to suck on a woman’s breasts and tickle her clitoris. A whole index of helpful, essential knowledge became hers.
And with an awareness of these many things came Identity. Identity. Where before she had been an ignorant nothing, a mere Civilian, Jena Say was now a mary.
She had been transformed into a mary.
She had the perfect face of a mary. She had the perfect body of a mary.
Her measurements were an ideal 91-55-86 centimeters. She weighed a flawless 48.5 kilograms. She stood 1.7 meters tall. She was a perfect mary in every way, just as the georges who had converted her were perfect georges in every way. She was still Jena Say inside, but, more importantly, she was a mary. She was—the educator buzzed around her scalp, processing, searching—mary 3776.
As the educator helmet and control rod withdrew from Jena Say/mary 3776’s body, one of the georges left the processing podium and bent to untie Jena Say/mary 3776’s ankles. She no longer struggled.
She understood better now. Struggling would be disobedient, and that would never do.
She was a servitron. She must be obedient. The george undid Jena Say/mary 3776’s wrists. Now that she was educated, the servitron could read the pendant dangling from the george’s perfect throat.
He was george 2023.
“Hi!” george 2023 said cheerily. He held another pendant in her hand. Brushing back Jena Say/mary 3776’s perfect hair, he hung the clear plastic ornament around the new servitron’s throat.
“You are mary 3776. Do you understand?”
Jena Say nodded. The mary series of servitrons had no need for speech. The only sounds they could make were lovemaking noises. She breathed heavily. Sex. She wanted to have sex with a Civilian. She very much wanted to be used sexually. Part of her desire was built-in, as it were. The mary series was a slut model, and as a mary, Jena Say knew she would be in a constant state of heat. At the same time, part of her need was psychosexual conditioning. She wanted to be of sexual service to a Civilian of the City because that was part of her education. She smiled at the helpful george.
“Go to room 47 and put on a mary-dress. Then go to central distribution and report in.” The george reached out and caressed Jena Say’s perfect mary tits, eliciting a soft moan from the new servitron.
“You will be used at a party this evening,” george 2023 said. “Isn’t that wonderful?”
Yes. That would be wonderful. Jena Say moaned, partially in the bliss of being fondled, mostly at the thought of serving. At the moment, her home and her wager with Andre Tom both seemed far away.
The george let go, and the mary hurried off to obey her orders. She knew exactly where to go.
“I ate an apple yesterday,” the pale Civilian told his companion, proudly.
“Did you make it yourself?” The man nodded as the anonymous mary waited at his beck and call.
“Yes. I actually grew it from a tree! Isn’t that fantastic?”
The party was a dense one drawing Civilians from all over the City. All around was the sound of conversation, the squeal of used servitrons, and the clinking of drink glasses. Tables floated in the air with foodstuffs. The ceiling rained narcotic drugs. Dancers pranced from one space to another.
The mary designated 3776 waited impatiently to be used. She absolutely had to have sex soon. She had to. With every fiber of her being.
The couple talking about trees and apples continued on interminably. The male reached out at last and took Jena Say by the head and pushed her to the floor. At last, she thought. At last!
She had arrived at the Civilian Residence hours ago, along with a host of other marys and servitrons. For the first time in her life, Jena Say worked. She set up tables, brought food, cleaned and polished; it was strangely wonderful. The sexual tension in her had risen and risen.
The male Civilian’s cock looked rock hard. It was straining the front of his trousers, and Jena Say/mary 3776 couldn’t keep her eyes away. The Civilian unzipped casually, still engrossed in his conversation with his fellow peer. To him and those like him, the servitrons were entertainment vessels; their use was a casual thing, like popping a pill or taking a drink. For the servitron, though, it was much, much more.
Oh, yes, Master! Jena Say/mary 3776 breathed inside. She inched forward. She had never wanted to have a cock more in her life. She had to have sex. She needed to be fucked.
I’m a slut, she thought. She made a soft, pleading noise, and the Civilian offered himself, finally.
He moved up. The mary pounced on him like a she-lion. Her head came down over his crotch, and she swallowed him, desperately, eagerly. Oh, my Master, she thought. The taste! The taste! It was like that first hit of a narcotic, that first glorious high. The mary’s tongue circled the throbbing rod; the precum that hit her tongue sent a wave of magnificent fire coursing through her veins. As much as she had wanted—needed—to have this Civilian’s penis inside her, the shock of it was still a surprise. The pleasure was pure and undiluted, glorious. More, though: she was performing Service . . . she was fulfilling her Purpose . . . she was being Used . . . and that awareness in and of itself was every bit as great a high. If Jena Say had had any doubts remaining, they disappeared in that first instant of Use.
She was a mary. She was only a mary. And her Purpose was to provide the City’s Civilians pleasure.
Her hands raked up and down her Master’s hard body. Between breaths, she moaned. He gasped and let his head lean back, eyes closed, enjoying the way her tongue worked at him, the way her head bobbed, the vibrations increasing his pleasure. “Yes, I keep an orchard of real trees in my garden. I think tree-growing will be the next great fad.”
“Can you grow animal matter on in your orchard?” his companion asked.
“No. I take it only vegetable matter can be produced. But maybe we can DNA-design a new type.”
The Civilian came in Jena Say’s mouth. The mary swallowed, and her tongue licked at her lips.
Her pussy was on fire! Nonetheless, the Civilian just rezipped himself and then handed the servile mary his drink. She nodded, understanding. She rose to her feet and went to fetch him a new glass.
The party lasted for hours. Jena Say attended tables, gave fellatio, and offered herself as the toy she was.
Soon enough, the mary crawled before another male Civilian, instinctively shaking her ass as she did, thrusting upward enticingly, like animal. At the Master’s prompting, Jena Say turned around. Putting his hands on her—burning, magnetic hands, hands that sent waves of ecstasy crashing into her—he pushed her face into a wall and raised her pussy up high.
He took her from behind.
The meaty thickness of him—Him!—felt heavenly. No exaggeration: it felt heavenly, like a divine gift, a godly fucking. It was a religious experience. As He thrust into her, celestial fire blazed inside Jena Say.
Her Master’s hands were at her hips, clutching, burning. He was totally in control. He pulled his shaft almost out again—the mary whimpered in the sudden loss—and then rammed it in again, as far as he could. The servitron spread herself as much as she could to accommodate him. He went deep inside. His balls slapped against her thighs, and she whimpered, lights flashing behind her eyes, spasming in an utmost frenzy of sensation. Each thrust was like the thrust of some powerful engine of pleasure.
She had had no idea a Civilian—no, not a Civilian, a Master!—could make her feel this way, could incite such passion, ignite such pleasure in her lowly mary body.
She bucked like the servitron that she was. She writhed within his grasp. His strokes came faster and faster, and the mary gritted her teeth, the pleasure so intense now it was painful, it was breaking something inside her, she could feel it. Her Master’s hand reached over and caressed her engaged pussy lips. He slid his fingers in, pressing against his own shaft, increasing the tightness, the pressure.
Her heart was pounding so that it felt like it would soon burst from her chest. Her mary’s body was slick with sweat. Her fingers dug deep into the sides of her dress. Her pussy felt so good wrapped around her Master’s cock! Suddenly, though, he pulled back completely out of her.
NO, she yelled inside. NO!
She was so empty. So terribly, terribly empty!
With masculine ease, the Civilian took Jena Say by the tummy and flipped her around, and before she could groan again, he was on top and inside of her again, his mouth on her mouth, their tongues locked together. His shaft sank deep, even deeper than before. It seemed to touch the core of her.
She climaxed.
Her body shook. The universe shook. At some level, Jena Say, the real Jena Say, realized what was happening. The mary education had brought her information, and she used that information. Her natural feelings of submission were being enhanced. The physical ecstasy of her fucking was being augmented by the changes performed to her mind. Objectively, she was being fucked no better than she had ever been fucked before. The difference was in her. She was different. Her mind was different.
She had been programmed to respond this way. She couldn’t help but feel this way.
And knowing all this made no difference. Master! she cried out in her mind, loving her Master, loving the Use she was receiving, loving every Civilian in the City. Master! This slave loves her Master!
Pleasure. Literally mind-blowing pleasure.
She lost track of everything else.
They put the mary to work. She fetched the Civilians their drinks. She programmed their clothes. She scrubbed the floors. She spent much time on her knees. There was always some menial job for her to perform. As a mary sex servitron, Jena Say’s days blended together in a haze of ecstasy. Only when she was ordered to report back to the recycling plant where she had been transformed earlier did she come to understand, and remember with the perfect recollection of a servitron, that the City recycled all its units as they were needed. Too many barbaras or jacobs, too few nancys or davids . . . no problem.
Every servitron served as every other servitron, eventually.
The mary unit 3776 was recycled into sally 8139. Why? Because a new sally was needed, that’s why!
Sometime later, in a waiting room in the City, sally 8139/Jena Say examined her new uniform.
A sally-dress was a short, wide-skirted uniform of tight-fitting plastic. It was pink and shiny, and it was tailored to stretch from a sally’s neck and shoulders to slightly above hip level, leaving her arms uncovered. Tight in the middle to uplift and display the servitron’s magnificent bust, it left her backside and crotch completely exposed. Pink plastic leggings ending at mid-thigh only further drew attention to the girl’s exposed sex. Pink gloves and a set of very high heel pumps completed the outfit.
Jena Say examined herself again in the mirror, marveling at the changes wrought upon her.
I am sally 8139, she thought, and shuddered. Part of her was aghast at the new transformation, at the humiliating adornment she had to wear. She had no underwear, no covering at all for her privates.
That’s because they are private no longer, Jena Say reflected, and she felt immediately better.
Covering her sex would be disobedient, and that would never do.
I am no longer entitled to privacy. I am a servitron. I am a sally. A thrill ran through her naked loins at the idea, causing her nipples to harden. This was rapidly becoming a familiar feeling. While part of her, a small part of her, was in opposition to what had been done to her, for the most part Jena Say enjoyed her new appearance and found that her new sally-dress looked absolutely scrumptious.
The other sallys looked scrumptious too. Scanning around this sally waiting room was like looking into six mirrors. The six sallys all had the same face, the same bust, the same scandalous dress. Even their makeup was identical, courtesy of the mask they had all used. This was a remarkably simple device. Porcelain white and cast as if from a mold of any one of them, all one had to do was slip it over her features. A second later that sally’s makeup would be perfect: eyes delicately shaded, cheeks blushed, lips ruby red and moist. The only difference between them was in the number pendants dangling from their throats. 5743. 6912. 6049. 7511. 7560. 7691. And herself, of course, 8139.
They were all perfect, perfect sallys.
The former Civilian took her head in her hands, fingers entwined in the long strands of her beautiful golden hair, and moaned in ecstasy. For the hundredth time since her transformation, Jena Say closed her eyes and began to explore the alien terrain of this newest body. She cupped her breasts in her hands. They were huge. Their oddly firm softness made her shiver in involuntary glee. Her fingers pressed inward; her thumbs rolled over her erect nipples beneath the clingy material, which swelled more so under her touch. The stimulation was all-encompassing, full bodily electrical, yet it was centered in her breasts at the same time. And elsewhere, always. Opening her eyes again, the sally reached down and caressed the hard firmness of her abdomen, twirling her fingers softly in dainty circles. She touched her thighs, so soft and slender now. She stroked her legs, down and up.
Unconsciously, her thighs parted, and she grew aroused.
Electric tingles caused her nipples to harden even more so. Finally, she could avoid it no longer. The sally ran her fingers over the denuded mound of her sex. Another soft moan escaped Jena Say’s gorgeous lips. The breasts were one thing—Two things, some perverse wit in the back of her mind said—but this was where the key change in her lay. This was where the real alteration had taken place.
Her body felt empty. Horribly empty: open, yearning, and unfilled.
The sally shivered. Unfilled, she thought.
She touched her vulva. She stroked her labial folds. Unable not to, her fingers pressed inward to the incredibly sensitive opening between her legs. Makers, she thought. She felt so empty, so empty.
Jena Say inserted a finger within herself. The way her body contracted around the digit was at once comforting and inexplicable. Wetness flooded her palm. Her arousal vibrated throughout her, radiating from beneath her hand. Jena Say was hot. Her blood felt like it was on fire. Her skin was enflamed.
A great pressure formed within her, and for the hundredth time she wished she could masturbate as much as she wanted to, needed to, toying with herself as images of the Civilians of the City filled her thoughts. But satisfying her own needs would be disobedient, and that would never do.
Besides, even if she were allowed to masturbate, it would be no use. She was educated. Satisfaction, she knew, would come now only at the hands and will of a Civilian.
She hoped she would be put to use again soon.
A bell rang overhead. The sallys, 8139 included, immediately got into line. There was another party somewhere in the City tonight. Smiling identical faces all looked forward to it. Jena Say went to work.
Jena Say spent a long week as a sally. She had spent another earlier as a mary. It was glorious. After that, though, Andre Tom spoke to the georges finally, and the Civilian was recycled back into her original body and mind. A long session with a helpdoc, and the host of psychoactive drugs that machine prescribed, were further necessary to get Jena Say out of her fugue and into a state where she was, more or less, calm and collected again.
Andre Tom visited her at her Residence.
“So,” he began, seated across from her, “which was it?” He looked honestly interested.
Jena Say blinked once, twice. Andre Tom noticed her hands were shaking.
“What?” she eventually stammered.
“Our wager? Don’t you remember, Jena Say?” She opened her mouth to respond, and then didn’t, so Andre Tom just continued on. “We bet as to which sex model was the more sensitive, the mary or the sally. So, you’ve been both. You must know. Which is it?”
He leaned forward toward her, clasping his fingers together. His smile was close-mouthed and smirking.
“I . . I . .” Jena Say started, and then she clutched at herself desperately. “I can’t live like this! I can’t! not anymore, knowing what it’s like to be them! What the servitrons have and we don’t!”
She blinked again, then seemed to recognize, finally, that there was someone else in the room with her.
She jumped out of her floating chair and fell to her knees in front of Andre Tom. He did not look very surprised at her reaction. In fact, he looked like he expected it.
“Please make me a servitron again, master! Please!! I . . I . .”
She made an inarticulate noise in her throat.
“I’m so empty now. By the Makers, the pleasure . . . the pleasure of serving . . . .”
She started to masturbate in front of the other Civilian, who reclined back in his chair, nodding. “The lowest one of them is so much more alive than we are!”
Jena Say started to scratch at herself, and only then did Andre Tom reach out to grab her hands and prevent her. She tried to kiss him. He let her, but it was clear from her reaction that it wasn’t enough.
Not nearly enough. She moaned.
“We’re dead here. We’re the living dead. They . .” and she indicated the malcolm and the sally units standing faithfully at the sideboard awaiting instructions, “. . they’re the only ones alive in this City!”
She sobbed. “Change me back. Please, master. Change me back.”
Andre Tom released her. “We had a wager, remember, Jena Say?” he asked. He cupped her milk-white chin in one hand, equally milk-white. “The sally or the mary? Which did you enjoy being more?”
Jena Say shook her head. “There was no difference. The joy . . the pleasure . . . it doesn’t matter.”
She hitched another sob.
“Change me back. Sally or mary, it doesn’t matter, so long as I get to serve, so long as I can be used as I now need to be used. Please.” She bent low and kissed Andre Tom’s feet.
Andre Tom nodded again. “Darn,” he said. He threw up his hands carelessly. “I was sure the mary was the better unit this time. I was so sure. Ah, well. I’ll have to try again.”
He stepped out of the chair and helped Jena Say to her feet.
“You were right, of course. I was only bluffing. But I was so sure I had guessed the right one this time.”
He started counting off on his fingers. “I was wrong about the pamela, let’s see, and the charlotte, and of course the sally, that was Laura Pai’s first guess too.” He shook his head. “I’ve been wrong so many times before.” He waved his hands to indicate how large the number was.
Jena Say couldn’t have cared less at the moment. “Will you . . will you change me back?” she begged.
She pressed herself close to him. “Please, master.”
The Civilian shrugged. “Of course. I always pay my debts. What was it again? You wanted to know why my sex servitrons were so much better than anybody else’s? Well, let me tell you.”
And he bent down and whispered the answer in her ear.
Despite it all, Jena Say stepped out of his embrace.
“All of them!?” she exclaimed. “All of them!?” She tried to recall how many of her former acquaintances—her female acquaintances—she had lost track of over the last few years, and how many of them had also known the always interesting Andre Tom.
Andre Tom nodded sadly.
“I’m a very poor gambler,” he said. But then he smiled. “I’m a much better collector!”