Wares
By: Trystor
Above the door, a silver bell chimes gaily as you step into the store. Inside, it’s silent and spookily still. But you prefer the silence, and so you don’t call out in search of service, and you close the door behind you slowly, even reaching up to still the tiny bell with your thin fingers.
You survey the wares. All the aisles are flanked with what seem like mannequins, or androids, frozen in innumerable poses, preening and beseeching, looming or seducing or submitting. So lifelike, you think, walking timidly between the still ranks of men and women, all gorgeous, voluptuous, all nude. You lean down to inspect a curly-headed ginger girl, unmoving on all fours. No, you correct yourself, not a girl. Just a machine.
But then you see her heavy breasts are rising and descending under her. And from her hindquarters, you receive a whiff of the unmistakable musk of arousal. How can they be so realistic? You feel your own loins stir as the scent fills your nostrils.
The shop opened last week, and ever since then you’ve been building up the guts to go inside. There are other stores like it, in the bigger cities. You read online about a three-storey mega-store in Hong Kong. Protesters gather outside, screaming slurs at would-be customers. You, on the other hand, were able to enter unmolested.
“May we help you?”
You start and jump back. Which android spoke? The voice seemed to come from all around you, but none of the figures have moved, though you can see them all breathing now. And you can see how the female organs gleam with fresh juices, while the men’s cocks pulse, thick with blood. Some of the cocks protrude into the aisles, as if inviting you to brush them as you pass.
“I...I...” You stammer and blush. What should you say? You’re poor with words at the best of times, but here, encircled by tableaux of such unabashed obscenity, it’s impossible. You cast your eyes downwards, where they happen to fall upon the redhead’s freckled arse.
“Are you here in search of flesh?” The ubiquitous voice asks, and you flush a hotter shade. It is a curious voice: neither male nor female, not pushy nor judgmental, it bears such a confident timbre that you feel inclined to let your will slide into its syllables. You shiver as the speaker’s breath audibly draws out the final sound in “fleshhhh.” Your own breath becomes heavy; the air in the shop feels thick and warm. You cannot respond.
“Perhaps you are one of the curious,” muses your androgynous, invisible host. It does not seem like a question, merely a fact. Your eyes slide away from the twin pale moons of the ginger’s arse, up to the bewildering figure of a nearby android. Broad-shouldered and wide-hipped, with feminine breasts above but a generous, tumescent cock below. The android is holding something with both hands, offering it to you without the need for speech or gesture. You inch closer. You see a pair of fur-lined handcuffs.
“There are many colours of inquisitive,” the voice purrs on around you, “Some are merely window shoppers, content to look but never buy. Others bring a scientific skepticism—for, as I’m sure you know, there are those who deny that our androids are truly constructs at all—though what the alternative could be, they dare not speak.”
You’ve hear this, of course. That’s what the protesters believe. They can’t accept that human-simulation crossed the hurdle of the uncanny valley so quickly. Only last year, the robots on display were plasticky, dead-eyed mockeries of human nature. Now, this one company has swept the market with its unbelievably lifelike automatons. Some of the nay-sayers are accusing them of exploiting cloning technology; others think aliens are responsible.
You think nothing in particular. But you shudder as you see the statuesque figure’s wide, flat nipples shrink and harden swiftly, tight as dimes. You become dizzily aware of your own nipples, chafing underneath your shirt, and how their heat spreads through your chest and gut and plunges to your sex. You bite your lip and grind your thighs self-consciously. Surely your host is watching you; can they see the state you’re in?
The soothing, self-assured voice carries on. “And then there are a few whose curiosity runs deeper, to their very core. They are the ones who truly understand what sort of service we provide—not only to our customers, but also to the wares themselves. For in their submission, they find the gift they have sought their entire lives.”
Their lives? You timidly accept the handcuffs from the many-sexed statue, and turn them over in your hands. They feel heavy—soft and hard all at once. You vaguely think you’d like to ask your host a question, but your thoughts are heavy too. A tiny gleam draws your eye. The cock in front of you...a tiny bead of silver moisture has just surfaced upon its swollen tip.
“For some, submission is an eternal, distant dream, like perfect silence or delicious stillness. Some yearn to shut their thoughts off altogether, to become merely the object of another’s desires. A choice, made freely, yet the last choice they ever need make.”
The voice’s words stir together like syrup in your mind. You glance back towards the door of the shop, but it seems impossibly far away now, as if you have crossed an unseen boundary across which there is no possible return. The pedestrians and traffic through the windows are just figments. The words, the bodies surrounding you, and the cuffs in your hand—these are the only things that truly exist, maybe the only things that have ever existed. Certainly, they are the only things that matter to you.
You slip the handcuffs around your wrists, and turn to walk down the aisle towards the shadowy rear of the shop. You glide past a ponygirl; past a brutish creature ensconced head to toe in a latex suit; and past a trio of dusk-skinned nymphs bearing silicone strap-ons, three lubricated phalluses that seem to salute your resolve. You would loiter longer at each station, but the voice is becoming insistent, and you feel obliged to finish what you started.
“The paradox is this,” It murmurs urgently, “That once you have surrendered all thought, it scarcely matters what you used to be, or what you are forevermore. What matters is the pleasure that invades you, night and day, when you obey.”
Pleasure. You can see it in the statues’ eyes, and the same lust sparks and simmers in yourself. You feel it percussively between your legs, blood and need pulsing with each step. It takes shape in your mind, not as clumsy words but as a pose, a posture, all your nerves and skin conforming to the form like water in a vase. The word “obey” makes it all clear.
“Each of these curious submissives brought with them the form of their own gift,” The host is droning in your mind. “And we sculpt you to suit your own surrender. There is no need for speech; when you cross the threshold of the store, you are already ours.”
The shadows before you take shape. At the rear of the shop, tucked into a tight, velvet-lined alcove, you see a high-backed leather sofa, curved like a question mark or a crooked, inviting hand. The other bodies in the shop all melt away, though part of you imagines they have moved at last, turning their heads in unison to watch you. Your initiation.
The voice of your host is still washing through your mind, but the words have lost meaning. Language itself seems like a memory of a dream. All your will is focused on the pose—an image of yourself that has always lain hidden in the secret corners of your mind, but which you now urgently need to enact. The handcuffs round your wrists (did you put them on? You can’t remember) make it impossible for you to strip completely, but you sense this doesn’t matter; your host will adjust the details when the time is right.
You focus on removing your pants. Your fingers, thin but heavy, fumble with your fly. Your chest is heaving. Your pants snake down at last, and then your underwear. Your sex exults in being freed. Your bare arse faces out, towards the shop. All you can see is black on velvet black. You’ve almost found your pose.
You press your belly hard against the leather couch and bend across it, stretching and supplicating yourself. The height is perfect; your ass is in the air, but your head is low, and your wrists find a black hook at the far end—positioned precisely to accept the chain of your cuffs. You are exposed, secured. You hold your breath...
But you can hear breath, still, and you realize the voice of the host is no longer speaking. Instead, you feel their presence just behind you. Or perhaps it is one of the androids, come to life—or more than one—or a customer? You stifle a gasp as you realize the person who has materialized behind you may be your new owner.
Soft hands spread the cheeks of your arse, exposing you utterly. Your body is rolling with lust, but you find it strangely, sublimely easy to remain stock still. Await commands, you think deliciously.
No commands are issued, but a moist, warm pressure finds its place against your anus. The hands of your host reposition themselves, sliding up your cheeks to grab your hips. Then a hard shaft is sliding unstoppably into your arse. It is slick, warm, hard and soft at once. It doesn’t thrust at first, it simply occupies. It feels impossibly long and present, all throughout your loins.
This is the pose, you think—the surrender. Your thoughts have collapsed like a house of cards; as they all tumble down, you flit through images. Who is behind you and inside you? The androgynous android? One of the strap-on sirens? Or the host, the master/mistress whose voice so effortlessly overcame your will? You do not care; you couldn’t turn your head or ask, in any case. Choice is gone.
The cock begins its work in earnest. First, slow gliding back from the depths, then in again. A circular movement, stirring to coax your tight channel wider. Hands clenching your hips. A sudden, urgent thrust, deeper than before. Your muscles clench reflexively. You want this forever.
Faster thrusts. Your arse is convulsing with need. One hand shifts to the small of your back, pressing firmly to ensure you stay completely prone. Distantly, you note you’re drooling, and your sex is leaking too. You impassively view these fluids as options, now, that your owner can control at his/her leisure. Your body is finally, sublimely someone else’s.
Will I cum? This is your last true thought—the old, selfish, human claim to pleasure. But the host’s voice assured you that the androids—call them that, for the alternative is far too twisted to consider—the androids feel pleasure through submission. And so your question can’t be answered until you stop asking. You submit your will to the cock that’s annexing your arsehole. One last unbearably deep thrust and it explodes inside you. Its torrent snuffs your will like a candle flame, and you are cumming too, your mind on fire and every inch of sex-flesh crackling, electrical, unceasing pleasure coursing through your blood.
You barely move a muscle. Your owner knows you’ve done well, though. The spent cock is withdrawn gently from your arse, then tenderly replaced with a thick, ribbed dildo. A tiny sound, as the rubber thing settles: a silver bell attached to the end, chiming as the dildo fits in place. Then, silence. Eternally prone, you flex the muscles of your arse around the dildo. The movements are invisible to any observer; the bell does not chime again.
But in your frozen world of surrender, you cum and cum and cum.