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Jul 20, 2019

This month's patron-sponsored story is "Arvent4299" by R. Tusker, read by Violet Jade.

"Arvent4299. That's my access password," said N-04, her synthesized voice not betraying a hint of nervousness. Her client nearly spat out his drink in response, not expecting a serious answer to his question.

"Wait, hang on. That's a joke, right? You're joking." Her client chuckled, setting his stein on the bar counter. "Let me guess. I try to hack you with that password and it'll blow up my tablet. Or it's actually your kill code and you'll go 'Destroy All Humans' on me." N-04 frowned, the glare of her faintly glowing eyes cutting through the murkiness of the lounge.

"The assumption that all synths have a kill code has caused an undue amount of stress for human-synth relations. I gave you my access password, and I will revoke it if you continue to act so foolishly. Or if you’re not bold enough to use it." N-04 sat and watched the TV as the client paused and tentatively pulled out his tablet. Porn was on. There was never anything but porn on in these hookup lounges.

All things considered, this side gig could have been worse. The pay was decent, and the benefits were amazing, with free access to a human-synth relations agent, subsidies for maintenance costs, and access to a server for mind-uploading. All you had to do is bend over and let corporate perverts with more money than charm have their way with you. Technically, all a client paid for was your company for the evening, but the more of yourself you gave up, the better the payout, as long as client uses what you offer. Most synths stick to the baseline, some light conversation and maybe a handie, but N-04 had aspirations, and aspirations need more than 14 credits an hour.

"Holy shit," her date whispered, breaking her line of thought. "I'm in."

"Took you long enough. You have access to most of my operating system. You can change whatever you wish, do whatever suits what fantasies lie in that little head of yours. As long as you don't break the the terms of the contract you signed with Escortcorp. So nothing against the law, no messing up my clothing, and no denting my chassis." The client looked back and forth between N-04 and his tablet, his bemusement clear on his face.

"Why?" he finally sputtered out.

"Because it's either this, cancelling this appointment or listening to you blather on about fantasy football all night. This is the only route that actually seems fun." She smiled cattily. These sort of nights always went better when she poked fun at the client. Always getting mad, going overboard and getting hit with a massive bill. "So go on. Dominate me. Impress me." The client scowled and began to frantically peck away at his tablet, his bemusement turning into indignation. After a few moments, N-04's arm locked at the elbow and jerked roughly upwards, then downwards.

"So, this is your fetish, huh?" she quipped. "You must like your handjobs super intense."

"Do you mind?" he growled. "I'm testing the movement controls."

"If it took you that long to pull that off, I should probably go home. By the time you figure out how to really fuck me up, it'll be--" N-04 was cut off as the client, roughly controlling one limb at a time, managed to force her body off of the bar stool and stand it up. She sneered at him as he locked her into a pseudo T-pose and rotated her. Leering at the hot pink minidress and nylons - the standard uniform for greeters at her actual job- and the curvy body of metal, plastic and synthflesh that lay beneath.

"You done twirling me around like a Barbie?" she sniped. The client grinned and pressed a few buttons. Slowly, N-04 bent over the bar, her dress riding up her hips until the bottom of her underwear, a pink thong, came into view. He brushed his hand against her ass tentatively and a shock ran through her body.