Date Published: August 1, 2025
Automaton engineers Clara Wheeler and Edmund Blake, groundbreaking developers of the first robot program, the Lovelace Protocols, are sent by Queen Victoria to the moon on a mission of vital importance to the Empire. They are to help Mon Ilson, the Lunarian Emperor of Space, conduct experiments on their bedroom automatons: Jack and Jill.
There is a darker aspect to the experiments. Spiritualist Cordelia Warrington, her automaton lover Adam, and Harry Kincaid of the Home Office are there to do the unthinkable: transfer a human soul into an automaton’s body.
Supervised by the beautiful Lunarians Pamela Fyfe and Burton Sobel, the group pass the three days of the journey with card games, dancing, and a wild weightless orgy. To her horror, Clara discovers that her machines have more than sex actuating their cogs and pistons. Death is also on the program.
Clara Wheeler, Automaton Engineer
1868 -- A Royal Command
Edmund says composing riddles is childish, but I find them to be so much fun. Even while working.
Knowledge, he has, But never ideas.
Skills, he has, But never control.
No children has he, Nor can ever be.
Dependent souls has he, But master he can never be.
What is he?
“Slower,” I commanded.
JN32’s response was sluggish.
“Stop.”
“I saw,” Edmund muttered, and took his trusty turnscrew to JN32’s exposed innards.
I gave my aching thighs a stretch before resting my ankles on JN32’s broad shoulders. The automaton had not yet been given a face, so I was looking at the brass framework from which distinctly inhuman oculi stared down at me with mechanical indifference.
“Hurry up. I’m getting cold.”
“Just a jiffy.”
The certification room never seemed to be at the right temperature. One would think being rogered for two hours without pause ought to have raised my body temperature enough to boil water, and that may have been true in the first thirty minutes where I usually achieved several climaxes. But when it came time to make final adjustments, my level of passion had declined markedly. So far JN32 had performed to a standard which, by human standards, was spectacular.
Edmund began to whistle a music hall tune he’d picked up during his last weekend pass. He had been deliberately torturing me with “Champagne Charlie” ever since.
“This does not qualify as a jiffy,” I complained.
“Nearly there.” He finally stepped back and gave me that quirky smile of his. “When you’re ready.”
“Resume,” I commanded, and JN32 began moving his hips. Slowly at first, following the appropriate Lovelace Protocol, one of several thousand which governed all the behaviours the automaton could express. This particular set ensured that the pace and magnitude of his strokes built up gently so as not to injure the customer with a sudden assault. A half minute later when he’d concluded the sequence of graduated steps, I commanded him to go faster. His response was also to specifications, and his thrusts accelerated. Automaton cocks, if not restrained, are like the pistons of a locomotive, and the resulting friction could be discomforting and downright dangerous.
“Lubricate.”
The rim of JN32’s cockhead immediately released a measured amount of specially blended synthetic oils that matched the average viscosity of vaginal fluid, and I felt the improvement almost at once.
“Again.”
“What?” Edmund asked, looking at me over the top of his notebook.
“I was just getting a little dry,” I replied.
He raised a quizzical orange eyebrow. “That’s not like you.”
I returned what he unkindly termed my Medusa glower. “Faster, JN32.”
I was rewarded with an immediate quickening. My body shook with each thrust so that my breasts jiggled and swayed. Now came the test of Edmund’s adjustment.
“Slower.”
This time JN32’s response was immediate, and the protocol smoothly reduced stroke speed by a quarter, then a half.
“Faster.”
JN32 complied.
“Slower.”
“That’s good,” Edmund muttered. “No lag that I could see.”
“Nor I,” I responded between gasps. A pleasant pair of climaxes had surprised me.
“He found the spot, did he?” Edmund quipped.
Another series of small climaxes overtook me. “Never… you… mind…” I replied as waves of pleasure pulsed through my body, radiating from quim to chest in gusts of white-hot flame. “Stop.”
“What’s wrong?”
“I just need a moment.”
Edmund’s gaze travelled from my eyes to my heaving breasts and to my quivering belly to where my body joined with JN32’s. My gaze dropped to the decided bulge in Edmund’s trousers. I pushed away the readily evoked images of his thick ten inches ploughing the artificial sheath of a female automaton. After a few moments I had collected myself enough to resume the test.
I took JN32 through the advanced routine where his cock would vibrate at variable speeds sequentially from the head down to the base of his shaft. Then with the “wiggle” command the top half of his shaft moved up and down and then side to side as his cock moved inside me.
This is my favourite part of the test, one which gave me exquisite pleasure, particularly on the outstroke where the movement stimulated my swollen nub. I must admit it made me squirm every time. I peeked through my eyelashes to note that Edmund had seen my response. The bulge had doubled in size. Served him right for inflicting me with one of Charlie’s song lines: “Come and join me in a spree.”
About the Author
Aussie Mikala Ash used to be a mild-mannered training & development consultant by day, and a wild sci-fi and paranormal adventure writer by night. Now she is a brazen full-time writer and nature photographer who is concentrating on having among other things, “… bags, and bags of fun!” Mikala can be found on Facebook and on Twitter.
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