Tip Ch. 03

Comfort and Fog

I'm getting sentimental. I miss her. I miss her so much. It sounds one-sided and exploitative when I write it out in these notes, but she was more to me than just a toy or a product I was developing. Well, alright, she was a product I was developing. But you know, the things we use every day have life too. The objects in our lives. Don't you ever feel the body-heat of the keyboard, the cell screen's warmth brushing your cheek? I'm talking about more than techno-commodity fetishism here. I'm talking about our relationships with objects, especially from the point of view of those of us who were once property and can't help but fantasize the liveliness of objecthood, however wrong, however...

Oh, never mind. Let me get back on track. I was talking about her, the Tip, and what I did to her.

I wasn't always cruel to her. There were times when I was feeling low, and in those time I thought I saw a kind of sad resignation in her depthless eyes that mirrored my own, even in its alien abstractedness. I was moved by her the way a child is moved by a wounded bird: compassionate yet fascinated, pitying her torn breast even as I admired the graceful sweep of her unbroken wings. Crying for her because she was as small and fragile as I felt myself.

Waxing poetical again, I see. What I mean to say is that even when she functioned well, her experimental projector was delicate and subject to damage. The same glitches that made her dangerous made her fragile. In those early days when her hardware was still under development, rough handling could jar her lenses. Accidents like that rendered her light body fragmentary or immobile, though she often still had the capacity to process interactions as if "conscious." It was a blow to me too, when that happened. Looking down on her beautiful body as she flickered in paralytic loops made me realize when I had gone too far, hurt her too much, and I felt myself wounded by my own insensitivity.

The first time I accidentally broke her was the time I pushed her down for biting, and pulled her up again into obedient resistance. The symptoms came on slowly. They manifested as pauses when she ought to respond, brief at first, then longer and longer. The delayed responses spiralled into an inability to raise herself from the chair, to move her limbs. Finally, all she could do was shift slightly and watch me with wide, wounded eyes as I stood there commanding her.

It should have been a simple matter to fix her. Only, the lens I'd damaged was so small and finely-wrought that we had to have another crystal-grown, a process that took several weeks. You'd think we would just shut her down for maintenance, but we had to keep her running because the dynamic balance her light body generated in its circulation from projector to surface was the only thing holding the damaged lens in place. If it fell, who knew what damage the refraction could do in the seconds before she went offline?

And so we reclined her chair back into a bed, laid her out on it, and tucked her in under a white sheet: playing hospital, with Tip as the patient. She was compliant as always, but in her prostration I (imagined I) saw a quiet sort of suffering. Whenever I entered her room she would look to me, then away again. In her glance was the accusing question: "Why are you making me feel this?" Seeing her like that, day after day, the urge began to grow in me to comfort her, and myself, the only way I could.

One evening, instead of leaving the lab at the end of the night and heading home alone through the fog-shrouded streets, I went to her. I went to her like the fog, soft and gently enfolding. I was so careful as I slid myself onto the bed next to her. She shifted slightly to face me, though the movement was flickery and her expression remained uncertain, poorly rendered.

"Don't move," I whispered, "It's all right. I won't hurt you. I promise, not tonight."

I drew her body into my arms and almost cried at the warmth still radiant from her core.

"Oh my dear one, my darling, I'm sorry. I've been too hard on you. I've been driving you too hard, too fast, and I should have known it might break you rather than teach you. I'll make you stronger. There's just a little more to suffer yet, but I promise it will make you better in the end. Let's see it through."

I don't even know what else I said: I was incoherent, my mind as hazed as the streetlamps' haloes with fatigue and concern for my project. But I know that as I spoke to her, I stroked her gently, rubbing her back and sides as if I could soothe away all our fear and confusion by caressing her smooth surface with my hands. The way I hold myself now, I held her and whispered my love and regret. Love, because she was so pure and trusting that she pressed her body to mine, nuzzled her face into the side of my neck and gave herself to me with total forgiveness (or in total compliance with her program for snuggling, which no doubt I cued.) Regret, because I knew I would have to continue working on her, doing things to her that risked damaging her more. I was sorry to keep inflicting such stress on that unspeaking body, that tattered bird, but I couldn't not do it: if I stopped, she would never be completed. I did it for her, and for myself. I had to do it. Over and over.

At least, that's what I tell myself when I get to rhapsodizing. But (I never could keep this voice of mine straight) when it comes down to it now, I'm a little cynical, and more than a little bitter. The pain I put us through, was it worth it? We had such a brief flash of success. There were never any guarantees it would work out in the long run. I think maybe I was wrong. There were points where I was cruel and arrogant in my desire for her. Still, I would do it again. I would do it, if only I could stroke her again the way I did that night.

So I had one quiet night with her. But the story doesn't end there. My lab mates found us the next morning. I had fallen asleep in her arms, and she, naked as the new day, was curved against me with her gaze falling into empty space. They broke in on us there like that before I could pull myself from sticky sleep. I extracted myself from the twining of her long legs as calmly as I could, without betraying a whisper of embarrassment. But they were...not happy with me.

"What were you thinking, Boss? You know the projector's on the fritz. And you stripped her too! Do you know what kind of strain it is on the rendering system when you-"

I glared at the engineer, five years and several stations my junior. He flushed.

"I apologize. I spoke out of turn." A long humble pause, a bow. Then: "But, with all due respect..."

"Yes? Speak up."

"...it's just a product. And it's dangerous right now."

I think he thought I was going to fire him on the spot ("kubi da!"), but I wasn't so far gone that I couldn't see he was right. I sighed.

"I accept your valuable professional feedback. You're right, it is a product. It's a product we need to work on as a team. I lost sight of that. It won't happen again. The fact is, we all need to be on the same track now. So, Evans, you and your engineering team have a look at those mock-up lens mounts. We will not lose a lens like this again. And Li, gather the programmers and let's get to compressing those rules for her verbal generators. I want her talking as soon as we get her fixed."

Everyone nodded. But I could feel their hostility after that. They had seen our bodies clasped together. They must have known what I was doing with her on a technical level, but now they had witnessed my undeniable attraction for what it was: a need to be with her that could no longer be passed off as purely professional. I loved her. And they saw it. The barbs were forming on their tongues.

"Boss isn't the man H.D. was."

"It's not right that she's doing this."

"Is our customer base going to be a bunch of lesbians?"

"Why did HQ put her in charge of this project?"

I had to get things back under control again. Somehow.

Like a Man

In the end, I realized that of course I would have to write programs in which she fucked and was fucked by a man. It was unthinkable not to program her that way: heterosexual men aged 18-45 were our target demographic (though later market research showed that she was popular with women as well, something I like to take credit for privately.)

The way I saw it, I had two choices when it came to designing male-female scenarios. My first choice was to turn that part of the programming over to one of my straight male colleagues. A number of them were competent and qualified for it, and in the end they did get to have their way with her before we rolled her out. But at that early stage, the problem was that I would need to supervise them in order to maintain my status as Head Designer of this project.

Now, in a way, it appealed to me to imagine watching her with one of the young men. (A flashing image: Sato, his healed and graceful hands clasped around her breasts, thrusting mercilessly into her wet pink pussy while she looked to me, gasping, with unspeakable pleasure in every line.) But I highly doubted that anyone I turned the case over to would let me watch. If I was to accept anyone as co-programmer, they had every right to demand what I demanded: blind sessions, creative freedom. To grant someone else that right would give him power, increase his claim on my position in the eyes of the other men. A man, after all, could program her "straight." No matter how talented I was, I faced what they perceived as a natural barrier: the barrier of my sex and sexuality.

But this situation was not natural. My sex was not immutable. And that lead into my second choice. I could continue to program her myself, as a man. I could do it through the in-state. The in-state system was designed to handle complex tactile projections that interacted with the Tip's surface, mostly clothing and accessories. But why not, I thought, a cock? Why not a projected-flesh strap-on that I could align with my body, though it would technically interact with hers?

It was not easy to convince the men to help me write this projection -and I did need help, since designing functional bodies is much harder than designing clothes, and requires concerted collaborative effort. But I stated it as a simple and inevitable fact that I had been assigned to take over from H.D., and it was my responsibility to oversee all of the Tip's functions personally the way he would have. I made my case logically, in a way that would appeal to both their sense of efficiency and their corporate loyalty. In the end, begrudging concession outweighed disapproval just enough to tip the scales in favour of my plan.

It felt better than I expected, getting into character.

I began, even before I went into the lab, by binding my breasts. I considered doing it classically with bandages or linens, but in the end I am, to put it delicately, a bit too well-endowed for that. I couldn't afford any slippage. So I opted for a specially-made binding corset ordered in from Thailand. Sliding my body into it, inspecting myself in the mirror and running my hands down my front, I had to admit it did a miraculous job. Besides binding my full breasts down more or less comfortably, it matched my flesh tone surprisingly well. It was also lightly padded with some naturalistic material that molded to my form to create modest pecs and abs, matching the willowy yet athletic style of masculinity that was so popular with the flower-eater set back on the mainland. With a thin white cotton t-shirt on, my chest appeared slim but muscular. My own nipples (erect already in anticipation) showed through the fine, tight fabric just enough in just the right places to look plausible.

I put on simple black poly-blend pants, straight-legged to balance my hips, a white men's collared shirt over the t-shirt and binder, my usual required footwear, and my unisex lab coat over it, left open to create a straight line down my figure. I usually keep my hair fairly short, but just to drive the change home I'd had it trimmed pixie-short and styled it edged and androgynous, glossy-black with product.

I contemplated my transformation in the mirror. I still couldn't pass for a "typical" adult male -at least, not in the offshore R&D enclave where Hayama had me stationed to work on the Tip project. That place was stacked with Navy SEAL muscle and tattooed yakuza. Compared to them, my jaw is too tapered, my hands too slender, my dark eyes too wide. But still, in that get-up, I didn't look like a woman either. I had managed to mix the signals and avoid the cues just enough. I could pass for an effeminate man or a masculine woman, or something else entirely. That was more than enough for me. It felt good. Very good.

These of course were all only externals, cosplay. There was another matter to attend to once I arrived at the lab, the more crucial matter of my projected penis. Getting the projection made had involved a hellish series of jokes among the male programmers about whether or not my cock should be bigger than Sato's or Evans' or even H.D.'s (imagined) member. They consulted me on the tiniest, most embarrassing details of cock-design they could think of, and if I hesitated they made suggestive comments about my lack of experience with male genitalia.

Still, I pushed through their mockery, and I knew it was worth enduring from the first moment we turned the projection on. Standing before the in-state control bank, hitting "run" with my own hand, I gasped to feel the warm juncture between my legs filled with light-cock, light-balls against the soft skin of my thighs. There was even a slight feedback effect (or an optically-induced delusion) that made me think I could feel with them, though strictly speaking my virtual organs shouldn't have had any more sensation in themselves than the belts or shawls I projected onto the Tip. I took my newfound penis in my hand and stroked slowly along the shaft, around the head, exploring, teasing, until it began to respond. But I reined myself in before it got too hard. This was, of course, a job for the Tip. That was the point of this exercise.

The Tip. Where was she as I transformed myself into her next tutor? Her mobile projector was freshly repaired, so there was no reason to have her on all the time any more. Her heart, a shuttered innocent, lay on the reclining couch. I picked it up, tossed it lightly into the air, and started her up. Her body came into being falling forward with the fall of her heart, causing her silky pale hair to flutter charmingly around her as it always does during her transformation-sequence boot-up. She straightened and looked at me as if she didn't know me. Well, she always looked at me as if she didn't know me in those days: we didn't have owner-recognition turned on yet. But given my appearance it had extra resonance this time. I spoke to her in a low, calm voice.

"Tip Prototype 01. Today we begin a new training routine. Recording on, yes?"

She nodded to confirm, still voiceless. As she bowed in deference, I suddenly became aware of the pressure of the light-cock's base on my own sensitive sex. The centre of it was resting right over my clit. I restrained my rush of excitement and strode up to her with authority.

"Get off the bed." I ordered.

She climbed off with that same swaying instability she'd had earlier, an unnatural movement perfectly suited to displaying the slender grace of her nude body.

I tried to think of what a man might do to her, what I wanted to do to her. Recalling Sato's obsession, I reached out and touched her breasts, cupped and fondled them. I felt a warm glow of satisfaction as my fingers stirred her, the little pointed buds of her nipples growing eagerly at my touch. I guided her to run her hands down my smooth chest. Her light touch, combined with the restrictive binding, awoke a deeply pleasurable ache in my own breasts. I opened my white work shirt with one hand (the other still on her body) and let her slip her hand inside to feel me through the t-shirt, to encounter the flat expanse, and the small bumps that were my masked nipples. Without even thinking, I pulled her to me and kissed her roughly, my hands sliding down her body to her ass, feeling both her hands on my chest. I held her like that, then slid one hand between our bodies.

Fumbling below, I got the button of my pants undone and let them drop, the loose fit falling away easily, kicked aside along with my lab slippers. Next went the men's boxers, equally as easy to drop (at least, easier than the fitted panties I normally wore). Almost instantly, following her theoretical programming, the Tip reached her doll's hands out to touch my cock, looking to me at the same time for confirmation to proceed. I nodded. Let her see how it feels, to please me as a man.

"Get me hard, Tip," I said, "and then I'll teach you something new."

At a touch of my hand, she knelt in a position of service. She stroked and licked at my image cock, first lingering on the head, swirling around it with her tongue, then plunging down deep to engulf me in her mouth. As she went down on me, I pressed into her mouth just slightly, rocking my hips in the intimations of a thrust. The base of the tactile projection pressed against my living flesh and sent an electric sensation of rise through me. As it grew erect, the shaft of the penis put more direct pressure on my flushed, wet clit. The pleasure there seemed somehow to be extending into the erection I should not be able to feel but was convinced I could. A rising pleasure-pressure flooded me, coursing through my twinned sex and into my belly. An insatiable curiosity about what I could feel in this body drove me to do what I did next.

Seizing her by the shoulders, I stood her up and pushed her backwards to the end of the bed. It caught her at the upper thighs, just below her buttocks, and as she sat automatically. I pushed her torso down, so that she was lying half-on, half-off the bed, belly up, propped on her elbows. I cast off the lab coat and the open white shirt to free my waist. Then in one smooth movement, as if I'd learned it in another life, I lifted her long slim legs to lock around my back and pushed my hips forward until the head of my cock pressed against the entrance to her sex and spread her, hovering on the brink of penetration. We both gasped at the same time, cued in different ways. I was breathless with excitement to feel her legs trembling and between them the flush and constriction of her cunt, slick and palpitating. But from her sharp breath, it almost sounded like she was in pain. I looked at her face. Her eyes were turned to the ceiling in something that might have been a determination not to betray herself by showing pain (or pleasure), or might have been sheer inhuman, mechanical compliance. An infinitely interpretable expression. I interpreted it to mean "take me; whatever you do, however it hurts, I surrender to you." Revelling in her submission, I went ahead and pushed into her, doing it straight, but so queerly.

Queerly, I say, because the most delicious part was this: the deeper I thrust into her as a man, the closer it brought my woman's sex to hers. I realized very quickly that I could feel her heat along with the heat of my projected organs against my lips and clit. We were that close. It also occurred to me that if I could go all the way in our lips would meet in a layering of physicalities. The possibility spurred me to thrust harder, though in the end they had made my cock pretty big, maybe too big for her in her "virginity." It was hard work; I could feel sweat trickling, tickling down my sides and the shaft slipping against my own wetness, threatening to slip down and slide deeper into me. Bracing myself, I lifted my hips and leaned my full weight up and into her. Finally, finally, that motion slid me fully inside, brought my doubled sexes into exquisite contact with hers. My body was wracked with a long, ecstatic, shuddering spasm that cued my ejaculation sim, pumping virtual cum along with my own organic gush into her. She, just as perfectly cued, arched on the table, mouth open, eyes closed, long silk hair falling away to bare her as she rose and subsided under me.