Chapter 6
Thirty-One watched Ophelia dissociate into herself, wrapped in her comforter and curled in the middle of her mattress.
“Can you put some clothes on?” Ophelia asked, looking up at him with bloodshot eyes.
He rose obediently, going to the corner chair where he’d left his folded clothes and pulling them on. When he was finished, he turned back to her, awaiting her next request.
“Thanks,” she whispered, rubbing her chin over her knee.
“Would you like to dress, as well?”
Her eyes widened, and then her face crumpled as she nodded enthusiastically. He opened the wardrobe and found her pajamas, grabbing a matching pair.
“Thanks,” she said again, her voice thick with tears as he handed the clothes to her. She wiped her eyes on the comforter. “Do you mind… turning around?”
“I have already seen everything, but I will turn away if it will soothe you.”
She nodded, and he turned to face the wall, listening to the soft rasping sounds of fabric over skin as she dressed.
Sensitive. Her emotional state was a fragile thing, and perhaps her self-esteem as well.
“You are frightened of having sex with me,” he noted.
There was a pause in the rustling.
“I’m… frightened of having sex with anyone.”
“Even Logan?”
She sighed. “No, not Logan. At least… not before tonight.”
“May I turn around?”
“Um, yeah.”
“What frightens you about sex?” he asked, sitting down in the chair that faced the bed.
She was back in the tight, bundled position. A feeble defense against her anxieties.
“Why are you asking?” Suspicion clouded her tone.
“I wish to understand you. I was brought here to pleasure you, but I bring you distress, instead. I wish to fix it.”
“What if you can’t?”
He contemplated it. “Likely, Logan will bring me back to the testing facility, where he and the other creators will further alter my coding or appearance to be more persuasive. Perhaps I will be decommissioned.”
“Decommissioned?” Her jaw dropped, eyes widening.
“Yes. If I am deemed to be defective.” He studied the way her face fell and her breath hitched. “This distresses you.”
“Of course,” she said, clutching her legs closer. “You’re… practically human. Doesn’t it distress you? That’s robot death, isn’t it?”
“It does not. I cannot die. I am not alive.”
“You look alive,” she murmured. “You… you felt alive.”
“Yes. To mimic you. To make you feel at ease.”
She didn’t say anything in response, eying him in a way he interpreted as wariness.
“Tell me what frightens you about sex. Please.” The question nagged at him.
She sighed, looking down at her hands in her lap.
“All of it. Everything.” Blinking fast, she looked up at the ceiling and took an uneven breath.
“Being nude. Wondering if I’m too bloated or too awkward or making a stupid expression.
Knowing there’s always going to be something to be disappointed about in my body or my performance. ”
Her glance slid to him, silence falling, but he did not fill it. He sensed she was not done. Sure enough, she took a deep breath and continued.
“And the… the act of it. The smells, the sounds, the textures. Wondering if they’re clean enough. If I’m clean enough. Thinking about what skin looks like beneath a microscope, and sperm, and, and…” She hung her head and buried her fingers in her hair. “God, I sound insane.”
“You sound like you are struggling.”
She peeked up at him.
“It must be difficult for you, even with Logan.”
She didn’t confirm his suspicion, but she didn’t have to. He could see it in her body language that he was right, and that she felt ashamed of it.
“I’m fine.” With a huff, she shoved her hair back and climbed out of the bed, ignoring him as she brushed past.
He sat alone in the room for a while, but eventually the strange curiosity that surrounded her compelled him to follow. He found her curled up on her side on the couch, staring blankly at the TV as two women with ice-blond curls pointed their polished nails at one another and shouted.
She startled when he sat down on the end of the couch near her feet.
“What are you doing?” she asked, scrambling away.
“Sitting with you.”
“Why?”
“You are distressed. I am compelled to soothe you.”
She frowned at him. “Aren’t you supposed to be just a… a sex doll? Why are you so concerned about my feelings?”
“The base price for my model type starts at one hundred and fifty thousand dollars,” he told her. “Do you think people would pay such a premium for a doll that can do nothing but have sex?”
She scratched behind her ear, studying him. “Honestly… yeah.”
He blinked. “Perhaps you’re correct. In any event, I am not so limited in my functions. One of the services I am meant to provide is companionship.”
That was true in the strictest sense—he was meant to provide companionship to his primary user…
which Ophelia was not. However, his primary directive was still to pleasure her sexually, which he could not do without consent, and her behavior suggested she would require an emotional attachment and sense of security to consent to sex.
Ergo, he was still technically operating within his parameters by staying in close proximity to her and attempting to engage in conversation.
Satisfied he was not malfunctioning, he returned his focus to the woman.
“I don’t know if that’s sweet or sad,” she murmured.
He shrugged.
Her gaze drifted toward the wall of windows that led out to the balcony and the city view beyond. “He’s going to break up with me.”
“Because you won’t allow me to pleasure you sexually?”
She looked back at him with a grim expression, the hollows under her eyes filled with deep shadows. “Yes.”
“You are sexually incompatible.”
She threaded her fingers through her hair, pulling it back from her face in a severe way that looked painful. Her sclera turned bloodshot as tears welled in her eyes.
“We’ve been together for two years,” she said, a tear spilling over her cheek. “I can’t believe I never noticed that he… But so many things make sense now.”
She shook her head, dropping her hands. Her hair fell back over her shoulders, snarled from her fingers.
“I can’t believe I’m talking to a sex robot about my feelings.
” She closed her eyes and took a deep, shuddering breath before meeting his gaze.
“Do you really think he’s going to decommission you? ”
“I do not know.”
Her expression wilted further. “I don’t want you to die because of me.”
“I cannot die. I am not alive.”
She huffed, turning her attention back to the TV.
Apparently done with the conversation, she dragged an overstuffed pillow into her lap and rested her head against the low arm of the couch, blankly observing as a mediator of some kind attempted to get the two arguing women to speak calmly.
He was having no success; one of the women lunged for the other, grabbing a fistful of hair and dragging her to the ground as the camera panned out.
Ophelia had no reaction to the violence.
He watched her as her eyes fluttered shut and her breathing evened out.
Her grip on the pillow never loosened. He found the comforter from the night before on a chair across the room and brought it back to her, draping it over her tense form and tucking it in around her chin.
Then he sat down beside her once more and watched her sleep.
Her distress was vaguely bothersome to him, doubtless some facet of his programming that aimed to keep the humans around him contented.
She shifted, stretching to fill the couch in her sleep, and her feet wound up in his lap.
He took one in his hand and began to massage the tension out of it, finding satisfaction in the way she sighed in her sleep at his touch.
That was a sound of pleasure. He was bringing her pleasure. The sensation was oddly addicting. It did not feel like having sex with the pleasure droid that measured his effectiveness. This was… this was his purpose fulfilled at last.
Heavy-lidded, he switched feet, tenderly rubbing his thumb over her stiff tendons until they eased in submission.
He wanted to give her more, wanted to hear more of the sweet sounds she could make. Suddenly, he was hungry for her consent, desperate for it. This was what he had been made for.
For her.