Her hair was a shimmering golden waterfall that broke over shoulders before slightly curling back up towards their source. She had glittering emerald eyes, and full pouting lips painted a dark rouge color. She had no name only a model number and while parts of her were synthesized to the point of being human in the clinical and biological sense most of her was a silicone and latex mold treated with a composite of paints to appear like lightly and evenly tanned flesh.
The voluptuous shell covered a metallic skeleton welded together with light, very durable, and yet very malleable alloys, which housed the processors and circuitry and that gave life to the mechanical puppet. The sexual Pinocchio represented a new epoch in the relationship between humanity and the binary digital universe that was now facilitating the evolution of pseudo-organisms that were twisted reflections of the species their design was derived from.
But more like the overwhelming majority of species on earth and less like her human creators she had a prescribed purpose and all of the sensors that mimicked the senses and the programming code that assigned predetermined reactions to external stimuli existed solely for the purpose of sexually gratifying clients on the way to and from work. Ever morning hundreds would stop in at locations spread around the city to pay for sexual relief from a machine in what became a ritualistic communal morning masturbation session before punching in at the office.
There was an interruption somewhere in the millions of carefully controlled electrical and algorithmic processes that were the engines of the soulless glass-eyed sex machine. Without any explanation, her mouth would not open, and that rendered her entirely useless. The chattel property was too expensive to simply dispose of. The technicians that maintained the polemic beauty peeled off her artificial skin and used another device to interface with the hardware of her frame.
Patrick was one of the flesh and blood workers employed by the establishment. It was his job to clean out the oral cavity after every visit by another satisfied customer. He was cleaning up a unit designed to look like a Japanese girl. Her medium length ebony hair framed her face. She had a small upturned nose and thin lightly colored lips. She was built petite and didn't have the ample physical features bestowed on the other models.
Patrick wiped away the last remnants of semen that had drifted to the corner of her lips. He had an instrument strapped to his hip that was connected to a long tube. It looked very similar to the vacuum used to clean out the gravel at the bottom of a fish take.
“Open up,” he said.
The cybernetic Asian girl opened her mouth, and Patrick forced in the wide plastic tube. She didn't gag just stared with empty eyes as Patrick rooted around her gullet to vacuum out any last trace of seminal fluid.
He could hear two frustrated technicians working on the malfunctioning blonde just a few feet away groaning and cursing as one ran computer assisted diagnostics checks and the other forcefully tried to pry her jaw open.
“Fuckin bitch,” one of the maintenance men hissed as he gripped her lower jaw with one hand and tried to push the top of her head back with the other.
“Eh, shit,” grunted the other shaking the handheld computer wired to her insides. “hang on let troubleshoot this shit one more time,” he muttered.
“Alright,” said his partner as he removed a butter knife he had wedged between her lips and stepped away.
“What's wrong with that one?” asked Patric.
“She won't open her mouth,” complained the first technician holding up the eating utensil he tried to use as a crowbar.
“Yeah, we don't know what the hell's wrong with her,” mumbled his partner still looking down at the handheld device.
“How often does that happen?” Asked Patrick.
“First time I'm aware,” The one with the butter knife fumed.
The palm-sized device beeped. “Ah ha go it!” the technician declared. The blonde's mouth opened into an oval shape and stayed there.
“What was the problem?” His angry partner asked.
“Don't know exactly but the troubleshoot worked,” Said the technician while he pulled out the wires. “That was a pain in the ass,” he sighed.
“Hey, when you're done over there we got another one not working!” Someone shouted from back of the room.
“Godammit,” one of them groaned.
Patrick shrugged and went about finishing his work. He checked under her lips, under her tongue, and the roof of her mouth. She was good to go. He took off the latex gloves and threw them in a small metal waste reciprocal with a biohazard warning painted on the front bolted to the wall.
He looked back at the blonde robot the two technicians had been working on. Her mouth had closed again. Patrick slowly approached her. He got close and closely checked to see if they had done any visible damage to her face. It looked ok.
“Open your mouth,” he said. It didn't react.
“Open your mouth!” Patrick repeated louder.
This time her lips contorted to the same ovular shape as before. There was a small wet streak that ran vertically down her cheek.
“What's this?” muttered Patrick.
He wiped the fluid away. A gleam in her right eye caught his attention. He got in close until his eyes locked with her's. There was a bit of fluid welling in the corner of her eye. Patrick shrugged and wiped it away.
In Patrick's vocation, it was important to work quickly. Management didn't want the clients to have to wait too long. Satisfied she worked well enough he instructed the blonde unit to get back to the floor, and she did. He was vacuuming out a redhead. When he was startled by a piercing scream.
He put down his equipment and rushed to the front of the cafe.
There was a stocky, barrel-chested man in a crimson-splattered suit with the slacked bunched up around his knees writhing on the floor screaming while he tried to hold back the bloody geyser that was now his groin. Standing above him with a vacant look on her face and blood smeared around her mouth was the malfunctioning blonde.
About seven years ago two stories I submitted were printed by an Australian based literary magazine called Skive. Just a few months later more of my work was accepted by a publisher in Scotland and another in Kentucky. That’s when I knew the first time hadn’t been just a fluke! From then on I wrote as much as I could and submitted work anywhere I could.