Unboxing Viktor

by BRK   

In a not-so-distant future, Christian receives a gift that reminds him of the hot neighbor he has a crush on.

Christian dropped into the back seat of the airtaxi with a long release of breath, leaning his head back against the cushions and closing his eyes gratefully. “Orion Towers, please,” he told the car.

“Certainly,” a pleasantly masculine synthesized voice said. “Street entrance or Skyport?”

Christian hesitated. He’d moved into the 100-story semiluxury semisuburban skyscraper a full six months ago now, and he still hadn’t decided whether it was easier to get to his rooms on the 55th floor from above or below. Normally he took the New Metro so it didn’t matter. But after the just-completed and ultimately successful top-priority Friday night client outing at the swank rooftop restaurant behind him, the kind of shindig that involved a lot of food, a lot of swagger, and just the right amount of top-shelf booze, it was easier just flag down a passing cab. 

Mentally he flipped a coin. “Skyport, please.”

“Thank you,” the car replied. “ETA is four minutes.”

As the taxi slid silently into the skyway transit lanes leading out of the city center, bound for the calmer climes of high-rise suburbia, Christian pondered his work/life balance. He wriggled his broad shoulders in a conscious effort to relax. Most people probably had their homes and neighborhood figured out better than he did, he thought sourly. But being go-to junior partner at Sendra Metasolutions meant he was a busy guy. He’d risen fast on a mix of dedication, hard work, and good looks, his striking red hair, piercing blue eyes, and tall, lean, hard-sculpted body catching the eye of his prospects and his diligence and charm doing the rest. His brash masculine confidence was smoothed with exactly the right natural touch of effeminacy, making him more approachable and intriguing to colleagues and customers—especially when he was done up all sleek and elegant in his fanciest suits and a bit of product in his hair, or dressed down a level in a crisp white dress shirt and butt-hugging pleated slacks, as he was now. He was always either at his desk, at the gym (tablet in front of him as he worked out), or on the town with enthused high-profilers and glad-handing execs grateful for the largesse he shoveled their way. 

It wasn’t how he’d thought it would be, this dream path of his. It was all good, it was fine, but he couldn’t help thinking his life of success was starting to take on a certain sameness.

Even now his work brain was telling him he wasn’t done with the day. He still had forty-five minutes of free time before sleep, time he could be using to sign documents or layer a few more ounces of muscle onto his carefully-honed torso. He could at least and keep himself limber. Elegance wasn’t any more of a gimme than sleek, hard muscles. 

Christian pushed his inner scheduler firmly aside. He wanted to be home—just, home. 

The aircar slowed and he opened his eyes, a flutter tickling his stomach as he recognized his destination coming into view. I should see if Paulo’s around tonight, he thought.

He’d increasingly found himself looking forward to his increasingly regular encounters with his across-the-hall neighbor. During the day Paulo, a Brazilian engineer skilled in nanotechnology, was almost as work-focused as Christian, but at night he was all relaxed smiles and easy friendship, always glad to share a starlit walk or a simple meal, or a cozy bout of old movies—the kind of old-fashioned utter laziness best enjoyed with a good friend. The guy started bringing over that delicious steamed Chinese take-out they both liked once a week or so, at first claiming he’d ordered too much. Other times he’d be texting Christian about shows he’d be up for binge-watching, if Christian was game. They saw each other most days now, and texted more and more.

As a good-looking man used to men paying attention to him, Christian suspected Paulo of having a bit of a crush on him, and it had been creeping up on him lately that the sentiment was increasingly reciprocated. Paulo was certainly a very sexy man: shorter than Christian and bursting with muscle, he had jet black hair, piercing brown eyes, and dark skin decorated with a multitude of tribal tattoos that Christian wanted to trace as he asked about each and every one. So far, they’d only hugged and cozied up on Christian’s extra-deep couch for a bit of shared streaming time; but lately Christian had been waking up hard after nights filled with dreams featuring even hotter fantasy versions of his oh-so-hot friend. 

Just thinking about those dreams and snuggles as the car slid into the port was making Christian’s cock thick and heavy in his pants. This was another fortunate byproduct of his genetics, though perhaps not as directly useful to his career as his other gifts, he thought wryly. 

Sighing at his ridiculousness he got out his phone to pay, but once the device was in his hand he impulsively pulled up Paulo’s linkscreen instead. “Hey,” he typed. “You around?”

The message sent. Too late he looked at the text again winced. Definitely sounds like a booty call, he thought. His lips quirked, even as his pulse sped up a bit. Oh well. 

What if, though? It had been a couple days since he’d seen his friend, and he might as well admit he had a hankerin’, as his grandpa used to say.

“Destination reached,” the car announced gently, polite as ever. Oh, right. He tapped his phone on the screen in front of him. “Have a nice evening,” the voice said.

Without a word, Christian got out, staring at his screen as he walked slowly to the elevator, the light wind riffling his ginger locks. The whole way down to his floor he watched for a response, feeling increasingly uneasy as none came. Paulo was almost always up at this hour, and he always answered texts. His texts, anyway. 

The elevator opened on 55 and he stepped out. There were only two apartments on this floor, his and Paulo’s, the corridor was just a short stub with two apartment doors almost but not quite across from each other, plus elevator and the door to the emergency stairs at one end and the refuse and utilities room at the other. Christian walked the few steps to Paulo’s door and rapped gently.

Nothing.

Christian bit his lip. Paulo not being home and awake at this hour was weird, especially three days in a row. Was he gone somewhere? Or just… gone? Rubbing his rusty stubble uncertainly he crossed over to his place and keyed in the entry code, pushing the door in when it beeped.

He was so preoccupied he almost stumbled into the large gleaming white plasti-pine shipping crate that had been parked right there in his darkened living room, directly in front of the frickin’ door—apparently by a bunch of braindead deliverybots. “Appleguts!” he cursed under his breath, just barely having avoided stubbing his toe on the coffin-sized monstrosity, lit only by the moonlight and the soft luminescence of the nearby city through his full-wall picture window. 

He stepped back, staring at the thing incredulously. Okay, what the hell?

He walked around the sturdy prefab crate. Oddly, it was unmarked—no drone barcode, no airbill label, not even sticker that read “this side up.” The box was pristine, without a single transit scuff. An eerie chill slithered up Christian’s spine. 

He crouched for a closer look. He should have turned on the overhead ceramic phosphors, but the plastipine surface was so reflective it seemed to light itself. How did it even open? There didn’t seem to be a seam or anything. Tentatively, he placed a hand on the upper surface.

Immediately it slid to the side, and Christian quickly pulled his hand back. Lights sparked within the fancy crate, revealing the contents.

Christian pushed to his feet with a horrified gasp. “Paulo—?” he breathed.

Fuck, it was a coffin after all!

Except—

He frowned, bending closer. The well-muscled figure in the crate, clad in nothing but Crayola-blue boxer-briefs, certainly looked a lot like his tall, dark, and handsome tattooed across-the-hall neighbor. But the resemblance was not exact. For one thing, the real Paulo didn’t have a narrow, shaved gap in his right eyebrow, or a jangle of three little titanium hoops in his left earlobe, or a perfectly sculpted goatee that looked black as shoe-polish in the glow of the in-crate lighting. This jaw was a bit squarer, too. 

And then there was the rest of him. He’d seen Paulo mostly naked a couple of times when he’d stopped over to say hi after work, and… okay, the guy in the crate was ripped like Paulo, with all the same proportions, but he wasn’t as heavyweight thick as his friend. It was almost as though Paulo’s iron-hard swole had been dialed back to a more neutral setting.

His eyes snagged on those blue shorts. Unlike his package, Christian couldn’t help thinking. Crate Guy’s junk was, if anything, the opposite of scaled down from the already-hefty Paulo original. 

He was actually salivating, Christian realized, amused. That bulge… it looked swole as fuck.

He looked over the figure, baffled. Was this real? Was he seeing things? Had he gotten more trashed at the dinner than he’d thought?

Christian shook his head, no longer sure what he was looking at; but he couldn’t deny his reaction. His skin felt heated, and the latent chub he’d been sporting since the cab was inflating again toward full appreciation. It… it couldn’t actually be that someone had randomly shipped him a Paulo-themed personal droid, though that was sure what it looked like. 

It didn’t make sense. Sure, okay, there were household robots made to help with cleaning and basic mundane tasks; that was pretty common. Many of them came with various utilitarian attachments—pop out a hand and replace it with a vacuum attachment or reading lamp, that kind of thing. But even in this era of advanced robotics and everyday A.I., perfect, ultranatural humaniform androids like this were still the stuff of science fiction. And, maybe, certain kinds of intimate fantasy. 

So, it couldn’t be. Right? But, if not that—? “What are you?” he whispered aloud as he stood by the strange crate, intrigued, aroused, and mystified all at once. “Where did you come from?”

As if triggered by his voice the eyes dramatically popped open, blinking twice. Vivid browns, a notch brighter than Paulo’s, fixed directly on him, and Christian felt a little thrill up his back at their touch. “Hello,” the figure in the box said, smiling warmly. “Welcome home!”

With an effort of will, Christian prevented himself from stepping back. “H-hello,” he said. The figure continued to smile at him, his gaze unwavering, and Christian found himself unexpectedly turned on by the heated attention. He bit his lip and made himself step forward, then, realizing he was looming, he crouched and tried to smile back. “Sorry, um, wh—” He’d started to say what, but at the last minute switched to who. “—who are you?” 

The hunk-that-wasn’t-Paulo was still smiling, not just warmly but with what seemed like real affection. That gaze was acute and knowing, tinged with interest and even lust. “I’m Viktor,” he said softly. “I’m here to help with… anything you need.”

Christian was unable to hold back a smirk. “Anything?” he repeated. Probably Viktor had just meant mopping floors and fetching the mail like a conventional household bot, he told himself… but it sure didn’t sound like that was what he meant.

“Absolutely,” the android said. “I’m your Papa.”

Christian huffed out a laugh in surprise. “You’re my what?” he asked with a grin,

Those bright brown eyes seemed to twinkle. “Papa,” Viktor repeated with a quirk of his soft, inviting, beard-framed lips. The stylized eyebrow lifted slightly. “Physically Adaptable Personal Android.” The way he said the word personal seemed to convey a layer of deliberate subtext that Christian definitely did not miss. His eyes danced over Christian’s face in seeming appreciation, even lighting up a little as they glanced across Christian’s distinctive, perfectly styled red hair before returning to his piercing blue stare. That was hot—he liked it when guys noticed his hair.

Christian held the android’s heated gaze and decided to focus on the other end of the description first. “Physically adaptable, huh?”

“Infinitely,” Viktor said. “You might even call me I, Papa.” Christian blinked, wondering of the android had just made a joke. 

“Help me up?” Viktor added, reaching up his right hand for Christian to clasp. 

Christian didn’t move for a beat, just admiring the strong-looking hand, ordinary in every way and yet oddly thrilling. Done looking, he grasped the hand and pulled the briefs-clad android to his feet and out of the semiplastic shipping crate. He had no doubt that Viktor could have easily done so himself, but he was more than happy to help. 

Now they were facing each other, their still-clasped hands between them, Viktor’s toes curling into the thick, snuggly pile of his dark blue living room carpeting. They were eye-to-eye, Christian noticed—another deviation from the slightly shorter Paulo. He smiled, imagining Paulo seeing this little tableau. Had the nanoengineer been involved in creating this wonder? Would he be jealous watching Christian standing here, hot and hard as a rock in his sexy semicasual shirt-and-slacks wine-and-dine outfit, up close and personal with his android not-quite-doppelgänger? 

“Look at my hand,” Viktor instructed, his tone still soft and intimate.

Christian looked down and drew in a breath. The hand now had a twin—another hand emerged from the same wrist, grasping both their hands together. “Wow,” Christian said. “That’s… adaptable, all right.” He met Viktor’s bright brown eyes with a half-grin of awed disbelief.

“Now, kiss me,” Viktor said.

Christian’s brows lifted. “Bossy for an android, aren’t you?” he teased.

Viktor inched his face closer, his smile knowing. “I am merely offering a tour of this unit’s many features,” he purred. 

Christian wasn’t fooled by the android’s confident deference. He was certain Viktor was quite capable of taking charge, and the thought only turned him on more than he already was. 

With the uninhibitedness of the slightly lubricated Christian dove in for what quickly became a feverish kiss, only to grunt in astonishment as the long, nimble tongue wrestling playfully with his started to harden and thicken as they made out, until he realized he was giving head to the deliciously thick and crazy-hard ten-inch cock Viktor now had in place of his talented tongue. 

Christian moaned. This was exactly the kind of thing that had been happening more and more in Christian’s dreams—a Paulo that was like Paulo, but more. Had he known? It didn’t matter. He was so turned on he couldn’t think. The taste and feel of this hard, fat, uncut mouthcock and the possibilities it suggested drove him over the edge like a freight train over a cliff, and he clutched Victor’s naked chest to him with his free hand as he came spectacularly in his best ass-hugging slacks. Viktor came too, aligning his orgasm exactly with Christian’s, the spray of hot cum on his throat and the intimacy of the bj-make-out creating a feedback loop that intensified Christian’s climax almost beyond endurance.

They tried to keep kissing around gasps and pants, open-mouthed and sloppy. Viktor’s mouth-boner softened, reverting back into a long, strong, cummy tongue that was happy to resume its sinuous writhing against Christian’s eager, equally spunky counterpart.

Finally Christian broke the kiss and they pulled back, breathing hard. Their hands remained gripped between them, the extra hand still clasping their threaded fingers. Christian didn’t want to let go. He was delightfully and deliriously flushed and slightly sweaty, and he was pleased to see that Viktor looked post-orgasmic, too, a line of cum dribbling down from one side of his kiss-bruised lips, though his eyes suggested a tireless lust that was completely at Christian’s disposal.

“Not bad,” Christian said. “Is that all of your… features?”

Viktor smiled. “Not at all,” he said. He held up his left arm, revealing that the hand on that side had been replaced with a cast-iron skillet, joined perfectly to his wrist as if it had always been there. When Christian turned his astonished eyes back to Viktor’s, the android winked and added, “I also cook!”

Christian laughed, hard, and Viktor laughed with him. Then they started kissing again, and Christian learned about other things Viktor could do that had nothing to do with kitchens and housework, and everything to do with personal assistance.

A day and two nights of debauchery later, Viktor padded naked out of the bedroom, four-armed and six-handed, his cocks thick and swollen with a permanent partial arousal, to find Christian curled up equally nude in the armchair by the big picture window, staring out at the predawn light with his phone asleep in his hand. Viktor watched him admiringly. Christian had been tentative at first, but had rapidly opened up to Viktor (figuratively and otherwise), experimenting with Viktor’s endlessly changeable body, detaching this and morphing that, becoming more adventurous as he’d awakened his latent sex life and merged it with his recently kindled fantasies. So why was he out here looking slightly melancholy? 

Viktor moved around behind his naked, stunningly hot human lover and started rubbing his shoulders with all six hands. Christian moaned lightly. He was very vocal, Viktor had discovered, which had been a nice surprise. 

“What can I do?” Viktor asked solicitously.

Christian let out a breath. “Nothing,” he said. He lifted the phone in his hand, though the screen had gone blank. “My… friend isn’t returning my texts.”

Viktor felt a twinge of excitement at this. “You miss Paulo?” he asked.

Christian looked up at him sharply. “Yes,” he said suspiciously. “What—?”

Viktor came around the chair and slid effortlessly onto Christian’s lap, brushing a finger across his lips. He followed the touch with a kiss. “Ask,” he said finally.

More gently, Christian asked. “What do you know about Paulo, Viktor?”

Viktor smiled lovingly. “All information about Paulo is stored in me,” he said. When Christian’s flame-red brows drew together he added, “I… was Paulo.”

He watched understanding dawn in those penetrating blue eyes. “You…?” he began.

“…made myself like this,” he said. “I became this. For you.”

Christian’s jaw dropped slightly at the immensity of the revelation. At the same time he felt Christian’s impressive tool swelling to almost instant hardness under him.

Those blue eyes filled with fiery need. He watched as Christian’s delicious mouth spread in a very salacious smile. “Do that thing with your tongue again,” he growled. Viktor smiled, his entire being swelling to full and easy arousal as he melded his mouth against Christian’s. He was ready to serve his man’s ultimate pleasure any way he could—and for them, after unrewarding lives apart, those ways and that pleasure had become truly without limit.

Christian used to like traveling for work. The brash new all-premium-business-class airline he flew with offered the most consistently comfortable rides, the best food, and the twunkiest stewards, no doubt trained in being just flirty enough to put you at your ease. The hotel concierges remembered him wherever he went, ensuring a smooth stay whether it was a last-minute overnight salvage op in New Singapore or a weeklong hard sell in Nairobi. But it wasn’t just the travel, it was travail. For Christian good meetings with measurable outcomes were a rush and a respite. The strong grip of a deal-sealing handshake unbent him inside in a way he’d compared more than once in his thoughts to the release of an orgasm. It felt good to represent his powerful, well-respected firm, and that text to the senior partners telling them all those hours he’d spent schmoozing and finessing had paid off felt like a reason to be alive.

Now, though, Christian’s mindscape suddenly wasn’t so simple or easily mapped, and as he stared out at the spectacular nightscape view of Milan afforded by his deluxe hotel’s 75th-floor view he couldn’t help feeling both slightly resentful of his changed mentality, and embarrassed by his own ingratitude.

He was three days into a five-day mission that so far was going exceedingly well. Alessandro, the tousle-haired point man for Logistica Quantistica Mediterranea, seemed to like him—they were going running together on the virtual sports karaoke the next morning before the morning session—and half the talking points had already been agreed and worded for the final deal. Sendra Metasolutions would be earning a huge win, and his bank account would be so full of bonus dinero that he’d have to ease the pressure with a few big-ticket purchases to keep it from messily exploding. All of which made him, standing here being all wistful and fidgety because he missed his infinitely adaptable android boyfriend, feel nothing short of perverse.

It wasn’t even some high-minded insight or great epiphany opening his eyes to the vulgarity of his old wealthmongering ways. No scales had fallen away from his sight. His perspective-changer was, like the life it had complicated, tawdry as fuck. He fucking missed Viktor’s mouth and hands and his perfectly muscled tattooed body. He’d lost count of all the ways Viktor knew to give him raw, soaring, completely superficial pleasure, and he was sure there were more the android had yet to invent. All at once, getting off metaphorically on his martini-and-silk-tie bigwheeling had taken a back seat to getting off literally with his android fucktoy, the man who was, in so many words, made for him.

Christian grimaced. He was being hard on himself. Pleasure was pleasure. As a human being, he was just as built to enjoy it and give it as Viktor was. And he wasn’t being fair to Viktor, either. After only three months he was certain Viktor meant more to him than all the physical gratification they gave each other. He believed, too, without question, that Viktor’s feelings for him, whatever they were, were just as real as his for Viktor.

Thinking of him as a fucktoy had been stupidly misguided. Not only was Viktor no mere mechanical plaything, he might be more than an android. If there were such a thing as love between machine and man, Viktor, with his tender brown eyes and knowing smile, would be the one to find it.

That said… after three days away, Christian knew that what he needed most urgently wasn’t hearts and violins and romantic folderol. His well-built body clenched and flushed, every inch of his classically-developed physique feeling his desire deep within. It wasn’t his soul but his id that needed slaking. In that moment, what Christian craved more than anything on earth was a dicking deep enough and hard enough to nail his prostate to the fuckling wall.

He brushed his knuckles lightly along the stiff erection pushing out the soft dynacotton of his sleep pants. It squeezed reflexively, making the even larger one sidling next to it do the same. Of course, his supremely adaptable and very kinky artificial lover with the easily detachable parts had sent along one of his impressive, tireless monster cocks to keep him company. Two, actually—the second was in his luggage, still snoozing in a cozy nest of balled socks and boxer briefs. This one, though, had stayed with him, and the novel experience of having Viktor’s huge half-hard cock right there in his pants, snuggling next to his own, during those long meetings and equally endless well-lubricated dinners with the LQM team had been titillating as hell. It had also been an increasingly necessary distraction: the more he failed to find his old fulfillment in the rituals of buddy-buddy capitalism, the more the press of Viktor’s warm, detached phallus calmed and centered him.

This was ridiculous. How was he so horny? He was still himself. He still looked the same. The light in the bedroom was on low, so that out here in the main room of the suite there was faint illumination, enough for him to see a gossamer image of his shirtless form overlain on the glimmering Italian metropolis below. He looked hot, in every sense. He could almost feel his horniness. If fucking a windowpane reflection were a thing, he would be considering it, he needed to cum so bad.

But it wasn’t his own amazing body that he wanted. His tastes had narrowed to a single, artificial man.

He was panting now. He had to make love with Viktor and cum with him, now. Doing it remotely with just Victor’s cock in his hand and a live video feed on his tablet like he had the last two nights was not enough. He needed Viktor’s strong arms around him and his cocktongue in his mouth and his fingers spreading Christian’s ass. He needed his heat and his warmth and his cum—god, he needed to feel Viktor’s hot spunk spraying ceaselessly across his firm pecs and leaking, still warm, down the cuts of his cum-whore abs.

So hot. He almost rode a shuddering orgasm just thinking about it, but he forced it down. He didn’t want to cum alone. He couldn’t.

The scale of his lust made him a little awed, in a way. Had his level of degeneracy descended even further? Had his libido swollen and thickened since meeting Viktor, in the same way he was trying to pretend he hadn’t noticed his cock was getting slowly but steadily bigger? He’d never been this thirsty for carnal pleasure and release.

But then, he’d never been with a man who turned every crank in him (and gave him new ones to spin) the way Viktor had, in spades, from the moment he’d opened those sweet, intense eyes and stared all the way into his heart… and past it, to take up permanent residence in his balls.

Forcing his fists away from his straining cock (and the equally rigid and needy guest cock next to it), he instead reached for the phone in his other pocket and called Viktor.

Christian paused in what he was doing to glance down at the phone facing up at him on the coffee table. “Are you sure this will work?” he asked doubtfully.

Viktor smiled up at him, his trim, perfect beard framing the handsome, brown face that was, and was not, an echo of his half-forgotten crush from across the hall. “I know what I’m doing,” the android purred, his voice as always layered with the promise of sex and comfort. “Just like you, Christian. We know ourselves. What we both have yet to learn are each other’s deepest secrets, and there’s plenty of time for that.”

Christian smirked. He was lighter of heart now that he had his Viktor to talk to, even if it was only over a video link. “Big talk for someone asking me to shove his detached footlong dick up a robot’s ass,” he teased.

Viktor’s bright brown eyes glinted. “I always talk big,” he said.

Christian turned a skeptical eye to the placid, 6-foot-tall humaniform rental standing naked in front of him. The embarrassment of ordering it from the hotel’s room service still twisted in Christian’s belly. However common it was to make use of the in-house sex rentals, and however stone-faced the bellman had been when he’d brought the thing up to him (receiving a hefty e-tip in return), Christian was more than chagrined at the ignominy of having a fuckbot in his bedroom like he was some sort of hack traveling salesman. Without Viktor’s urging he would never have done anything like this.

“This is ridiculous,” he muttered. “Next it’ll be strip clubs and lap dances.” Viktor chuckled softly over the miles between them.

The humaniform was serviceable enough, Christian conceded. Like all uncustomized male personal androids, it was shaped like Ryan Gosling circa Barbie (the original, not the remakes). Christian had studied the ancient worldwide cross-promotion in school (a company called Ma Tell, if he remembered his android history classes correctly, had brokered the deal to coincide with the 50-year anniversary rerelease of the cinema classic) and had always thought it was a bad deal all around. For one thing, in the absence of any kind of androdiversity at the mundane, unaugmented level, the setup had resulted in that particular face and body being so common, they were barely noticeable now. Like steel and glass skyscrapers, or your standard fist-sized strawberries. Not only couldn’t anyone imagine service droids looking like anyone else (and so the deal had never been overridden with a less outdated celeb), it had become the baseline for minimally handsome, forcing standards of male beauty even higher in an age of gene massage and android escalation. His own parents had shelled out a lot of money to make sure he turned out several tiers sexier than an everyday sex droid like this one, an investment that had long since paid off for all concerned.

More aggravating than the blandly attractive, mass-produced exterior, though, was the fact that it was clearly a much more primitive and rudimentary machine than Viktor. The familiar blue eyes were blank and disinterested, awaiting instruction. The tanned, well-defined arms hung limply from firmly sculpted shoulders, showing none of the coiled strength and promise of sensory overload packed into the ones his lover possessed.

The construct before him was simply a tool, unlike his wily, seductive, often-unpredictable bedmade. Even the detached erection Christian currently had clasped tightly in his right hand (the sole relic of Viktor anywhere in this hemisphere—not counting the one nestling in his underwear) had more personality in it than this thing did.

“Are you sure you can’t just fly out here?” he whined after a moment, eyeing the Goslingbot with a frown. “Like, right now?”

Christian could hear the eye-roll without looking. “You know androids can’t fly unaccompanied. Remember? The Emergency Anti-Artificial Intelligence Act of 2026?”

“EAAIA,” Christian grumbled. “Those were weird times.”

“You’re stalling,” Viktor coaxed. “I can feel your arousal from here. Stick it in already!”

Christian sighed. Addressing the humaniform he said, “Turn around.” It did so. “Bend over.” The Goslingbot smiled a plastic smile of anticipation. Closing its eyes, the fuckbot grabbed its knees and then went uncannily still, waiting.

Like a trained hoplite soldier, Christian considered his target for a moment, then shoved his rigid dirk of a dork underhand, straight into the always tight, prelubricated ass. The Goslingbot grunted. “Thank you sir,” it said politely. Then it seemed to glitch. “Thank y-thank y-thank—”

Christian took a step back. “It’s not going to explode, is it?” he asked, alarmed.

Over the video link, Viktor snorted. “Relax. It’s resetting,” he said. “It has a lot to recalibrate.“

Christian huffed, watching the android twitch. “I—” he started to say, then stopped as a dark-honey color bloomed in waves over the pallid skin. as though he were being infused with billowing swaths of pure melanin. Muscles swelled before his eyes, especially across the upper back and shoulders and through his ass and legs, which seemed to lengthen, too, as he watched. Tattoo ink crawled across him, swirling and twisting into familiar patterns.

Suddenly the android opened his eyes and looked back at him, piercing Christian with Viktor’s intense light brown gaze. Christian gasped. “Here we go,” Viktor said from the phone, low and guttural. He sounded as though he were anticipating, or maybe sensing, what the android was experiencing, and was getting off on the transformation from thousands of miles away.

All at once the cock Christian had shoved into the android’s ass shot inside with a thmp and vanished. Then, without prompting or permission, the android turned and straightened to face him.

The features were still refining at the minute level, as were a thousand other details, like the shape of the sculpted pecs below, the contours of a swelling, rapidly hardening cock. But the face was unquestionably, delightfully Viktor’s. The lively, admiring eyes were the same ones he had been staring into all these weeks, and the amazing, deliciously muscled, poised and ready body was the same living, thriving form of his impossibly adaptable partner. Even the scent was Viktor’s, and it seemed to draw him forward, eating the space between them until they were in each other’s arms.

“Is it really you?” Christian whispered roughly. His cock, which had flagged during the embarrassment with renting and receiving the generic room-service fuckbot, was now huge and hard—as was, again without request or permission, the thirteen-inch, wrist-thick tool currently shoving affectionately at his belly.

For an answer, the Viktorified android smiled and looked down at his chest, which dutifully started to swell upward and divide into two sets of heart-breakingly beautiful pecs, each with two aesthetically swole muscle arms to a side. Smiling down at Christian now, the android proceeded to wrap all eight powerful arms around Christian, whose own perfectly crafted form shivered with anticipation.

“What do you think?” the newly formed Viktor retorted, speaking in flawless unison with the Viktor on the phone.

Then the artificial man holding him spoke on his own, his lips close to Christian’s ear. “I’m Viktor,” he said softly. “I’m here to help with… anything you need.”

Christian almost came as he remembered the first time he’d heard those words, and the night and days of spunk and pleasure that had followed. He pulled back, looking searchingly into achingly recognizable brown eyes. Then he smiled. “Shall I take the tour, then?” he asked with a wink.

Viktor smiled warmly and moved in for a kiss that tasted so very familiar. He moaned as Viktor’s long tongues slid into his mouth and began to thicken and stiffen, already tasting hints of the cum his mouth and throat would soon be filling with.

The Viktor on the phone smiled and disconnected, leaving them to find their pleasure as the kiss deepened, the two well-made men rutting against each other in ecstatic reunion.

“What do you mean I have to buy him?” Christian barked at the sour-faced front desk clerk, annoyed that such a simple thing as hotel check-out might turn into a delay that would keep him from getting home as quickly as the forces of the universe allowed.

The clerk tilted her head in slight admonishment, and Christian shut his mouth, chastened. The clerk (her nametag read “Antonia”) didn’t deserve his attitude. Nor was she actually all that sour-faced; in fact she was quite pretty, in the leonine way that had become fashionable 20 years back.

Still, though, he’d agreed to a rental.

Antonia tapped a few keys, then looked up at him, a stern the-customer-is-not-always-right expression on her slightly fuzzy face. “The end-user terms of the rental clearly state—” She glanced down briefly and read. “—’No modifications or upgrades shall be installed on or applied to any rental humaniform. Any such alternations will result in recompense to the Hotel for the full value of the humaniform.’”

Antonia looked up again and added, “Was the wording not clear, sir?”

Christian glanced over at the fully Viktorified humaniform, who was smiling wryly back at Christian, watching the exchange. His bearded expression was fond and a little indulgent, he thought, like a boyfriend whose thoughts were running along the lines of “My guy is a mess sometimes and I love him for it.” The fact that this Viktor was dressed in a simple white tee, boots, and jeans, a stark contrast to Christian’s high-end, exquisitely tailored corporate drag, and at the moment possessed only the baseline complement of two arms and two legs, only seemed to emphasize the sheer potency of his sexuality and inhuman allure. People passing through the lobby were staring at him, and as Christian watched one young guy headed for the front doors diverted unconsciously toward Viktor with an infatuated stare before shaking his head and looking away so he could continue his journey.

Christian turned back toward Antonia, gesturing triumphantly toward Viktor. “I improved him,” he said. “See?”

Antonia wasn’t having it. “‘Any such alterations—’” she began again.

Christian put a hand to his temple. “Okay, okay,” he said, stopping her. He’d got his fill of legalese the day before while they fine-tuning the formal agreement between LQM and Sendra.

He let out a breath and gave Antonia a contrite moue. “Put it on my private bankapp,” he said. “Not the corporate.”

Antonia smiled briefly and began typing. “Thank you for staying with us,” she said chirpily as she finished, and Christian’s phone dinged.

He pulled it out and felt his lips quirk at the very expensive notification. Opening his travel app, he added another seat for the flight, then stowed his phone and met Viktor’s gaze. Slinging his bag over his shoulder, he drank him in with a crooked smile of serendipitous anticipation.

“Ready to go home and meet your brother?” he asked.

Viktor gave him a smirk that was nothing short of salacious. “I can’t wait,” he purred. The promise of endless ravishing that underlay those words had Christian shivering, and before he knew it he’d turning and was sprinting for the door and their car to the skyport, his personal android lover matching him step for step and grin for grin.

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