Tuesday (reposted old story from 2005)

[nachtjaeger]

Note: This story was inspired by both Messyfun's model "Tuesday" and Robert A Heinlein's novel "Friday." If the model, Messyfun or the Heinlein Estate is offended, the story will be deleted with apologies.

Tuesday

By Ostlandr 2005 Do not repost without permission.

The mud was up to my chest. I struggled, and my breasts went under. He stood there, watching me sink. I was going down easily- the clay was thick, but I mass a bit more for my volume than a human female. In water, I float like a bowling ball without a life jacket. Moving in this thick stuff took a lot of power, and I was panting, to move more oxygen to my fuel cells. The mud was closing over my shoulders, and I started to thrash around, letting it claim my arms too. Now I was tipping my head back, to keep my chin above the mud. He was looking down at me with an amazed and happy expression on his face. I knew what he wanted. I reached my right arm out of the mud, reaching for him, then let the mud take me under. I took a last gulp of air, then shut down everything nonessential. My backup batteries don't provide much power- I can idle for weeks if necessary, but moving around in this claypit would exhaust them in seconds. I grasped with my right hand, then started to pull it slowly under. Then he was there, pulling me above the surface, clearing the mud from my mouth and nose. I gasped, and set my fuel cells back to turning 150 proof ethyl alcohol into electrons, the waste heat circulating to keep my skin at a comfy ninety-eight-point-six. As I'd learned so long ago, I hugged him tightly to me, and whispered "thank you" in his ear. I was feeling the intense satisfaction of having fulfilled my primary programming. He wrapped his arms tightly around me, and the tender way he caressed my muddy hair made me feel for a moment like I was more than an animated blow-up doll. Like I was a person. Like I was loved.
Maybe I better start at the beginning. My name- if I were legally permitted to have one, that is- is Tuesday. I first came on-line in 2058, custom built for a very wealthy gentleman in the image of his favorite fetish model from back at the turn of the century. Under my 100 percent custom skin are the mechanicals of a standard Sony ServBot. My brain- well, that's another story. Suffice it to say that I'm about a thousand times more intelligent than I'm legally permitted to be. My first owner wanted not just a bed partner, but a chess partner and someone to argue logic, history and philosophy with. And- despite the laws- my programming is a one-off custom hack job, which some of my source code suggests was based on something No Such Agency came up with back in the 40s. Strange- it was that robo-babe sliding a knife between the ribs of that tinpot dictator back in '48 that caused a lot of the anti-droid fervor that followed. Maybe she was my grandmother or something.
But I digress. The Old Boy loved his quicksand, and his nookie, and his brainy courtesan, in that order. When he died, he left what remained of his vast fortune to me. Then out of nowhere, his estranged nephew shows up with a pack of lawyers on the scent of megabucks. You know the rest, or you should. 'Paulson v. Estate of Andrew Carl'? Does that ring a bell? Yeah, that was me. At least Dred Scott got his name on a Supreme Court Decision. What I got was sold into slavery. At least the nine tyrants in black, in yet another of their infamous 5-4 indecisions, upheld the provision in the Old Boy's will that said "in any event, if any attempt is made by my heirs, assigns, executors, the State, etc. to disassemble, deactivate, or otherwise impair the functioning of Tuesday, my entire estate shall go to the Robert Blaine Memorial Actresses' Benevolent Fund." So the idiot nephew did the only thing he could think of to legally get rid of me- he sold me to a sex shop.
It wasn't just any sex shop. If you're into the rough stuff, you know about the "Marquis' Lair", more commonly known as the Can Opener Club. Yeah, that place. Act out your bloodiest, grimmest, most violent fantasies with what looks and acts just like a real girl. They scream like real girls (or fake it in my case- I only have the self-preservation response when I'm either being ripped apart or overheating- the rest of my stablemates had very realistic full-skin pain responses programmed.)
They bleed just like real girls (yeah, my primary coolant is red.)
They realistically get cold after you cut, beat or choke them until they stop functioning.
I managed to stay functioning- more or less- in that environment for seven years. The only bright spots were when the rare customer wanted to see me drown in quicksand. At least that satisfied my primary programming. Towards the end, though, few customers wanted me- because I hardly had an unscarred patch of skin left. My cooling system was compromised, so I couldn't move around much without overheating. And worst of all, the rotgut Russian vodka the idiot owner fed us girls with was slowly killing my fuel cells. I worked out that I only had a short time left to function. So when my next "maintenance" cycle (what a sad joke) hit, I went to the owner. "This unit will soon cease to function" I said, mimicing the deadpan vocals of the other girls. "Where shall I position myself so that my body will not interfere?" He grunted. "Over there." he said, pointing to the "dead line" where used-up droids were kept while their parts were salvaged to keep their sisters operating. Now for the hook. "My programmer input detailed instructions on how I should be marketed by internet to maximize my price. Shall I repeat those instructions?" He bit. "Yes- go ahead." I proceded to monotone my plan to sell myself on the internet to someone who would hopefully maintain me properly and let me satisfy my programming. Then I walked to the dead line and went into sleep mode. I woke to hands on my body. The owner was showing someone my most intimate secret- my manual override. Was this the end? Was I being parted out? I felt a hand push deep into my artificial flesh, then nothing.
The next thing I knew, I had been restarted. I opened my eyes, and found myself looking at a middle-aged man. "Welcome back, Tuesday." he said, smiling. "I'm Rick." I sat up on what I expected to be a workbench, but turned out to be a bed. The air here- wherever here was- didn't smell like rotten sex and droid death, but like a home. I looked down at myself as I did an internal systems check. I was wearing what looked like the same high boots and black party dress as when I'd first come online. My skin had been very expertly repaired- in fact, it looked like some of it had been replaced- the skin tone was very close, but my millitary quality optics could tell the difference. I had what felt like a new power cell- actually a good used one- I had 98 percent power for the first time in years, and my cooling system checked out fine. Also, somebody had replaced some of my memory chips- the ones that had been damaged when some huge wack job beat me with a crowbar. I started to access them, then found to my surprise there was data on them. The file system wasn't there, but there were strings of droid memory data on them sure enough. I protected those locations, then looked at (I assumed) my new owner. "I'm not legally allowed to have a name, you know." I told him. He laughed. "Ask me if I care. The SCOTUS says you're property, so if I can name my dog or my boat I can name you." He seems nice, I thought. ** He is nice. ** the thought popped into my head. ** He will take very good care of you, and he will satisfy your programming completely. ** I shook my head, confused. Where had that come from? He looked at me, an expression of concern on his face. "Something wrong?" "Where did those new memory chips come from?" I asked him. He looked like I'd slapped his face. "Come with me." he ordered. I obediently followed him. In what looked like a living room, he stopped by a large 3D photo of himself and a gorgeous babe. I recognised her as a droid- a Nymph 2060, Aryan feature package, with blonde hair and my medium-tan skin tone. He looked at the picture, then at me. "Her name was Tiffany." My advanced logic circuits read a lot into that statement. "What happened?" I asked quietly. My body language interpreter told me he was in intense emotional pain. "We were together for almost ten years. She was exactly what I wanted." He paused. "We were on a road trip, quicksand hunting. I stopped at a hydrogen station to fuel up and buy a map. She got out to check the tires for me. A busload of Fundie Droid-Bashers made her- I found out later they had a scanner. When I came out, there were twenty of them around her screaming 'Abomination!' and kicking and beating her." He paused again, and I saw the tears in his eyes. Tears for a droid? He began again. "I ran to try to save her, but one of them had a pipe wrench, and when he pulled it back for another swing he caught me in the head. I was out for two days. When I got out of the hospital, I found out the police had taken her as evidence. After the trial- they were found guilty of destruction of property and assault- the cops sent me back a box. I couldn't do it myself- I had a factory tech check for me. Her main processor module was desroyed, and the survival center was shorted. She was gone." I understood now- the power core, the skin, the memory chips- they were from her. Suddenly another thought popped into my head. "Chester. You were in Chester, Illinois when it happened." He grabbed me roughly, and stared into my eyes. "Is Tiffany in there?" I shook my head no. "I'm sorry- just a few memories, a few thoughts. Nothing like a full personality matrix." I hesitated, then told him. "She was happy with you. You took good care of her, and her programming was satisfied." His grip became gentle, and fresh tears welled up in his eyes. "I'm sorry, too." He put his arms around me, and I responded as I'd been programmed, holding him gently. After a moment, he let go and stepped back. "Other than that, how do you feel? Does everything work okay? What can I get you?" I gave him a sexy smile. "How about a bottle of grain alcohol and a good sink?"
So that's how I came to be "owned" by Rick. He took me to his bed after that first sink, and as he sank into me I said the same words that my first owner loved. "I'm sinking." I'm going deeper." He responded the same way. Talking about quicksand during sex satisfied both my primary and secondary programming- (quicksand and conversation- sex is #3) and as I excecuted a perfect fake climax in response to his I felt more satisfied that I had since the Old Boy died. After, he cried in my arms. I couldn't tell if they were tears of joy, or for Her.
It's been five years now. I've got it pretty good here, even if he isn't a great chess player. I've got access to more of Tiffany's memories now- she was programmed for quicksand, too, so she taught me a lot on how to please Rick. Every day when he's home, I do a sink for him. And every other day or so, either in the mud or his bed, we have sex. We even go on road trips- did a tidal mud flat last year.
We do have a couple of problems, though. He's on the road a lot for work, so I can't satisfy my programming properly. Also, I'm a very expensive lay- I need a bit of maintenance in my old age. So we worked something out. Rick lets me "work" on the side to bring in money for my upkeep. I have my own website now, and a few loyal repeat customers. That occupys my time while Rick's not around.
So that's my bio- if you're into quicksand sex, and you want a chance at the world's only surviving 100 percent custom quicksand robo-babe, email me at qsrobobabe@deepsinking.org. I'm very expensive- but worth it. Satisfaction gauranteed.