It gives you...


Erotica by Joe Tortuga

1: The Clone

(Girl #16180, MMF, oral)

April 05, 2013

It would be simple to just state that Girl #16180 was a clone, made by a company which specialized in utility clones, designed and created with a specific purpose in mind: she was a sex clone.

Her hair was an impossible golden red; her eyes were emerald green. Her mouth quirked upwards with a sense that she’d been there before, even though she’d never been anywhere, ever. Full lips glistened red, showing perfect white teeth; the tip of her tongue parted them, teasing and promising. Her hips were wide enough that she would never appear thin, and just round enough to make anyone looking at her think of sex. Her ass was a round and perfect heart. Her breasts were exactly as wide as her hips, spherical mounds of flesh that had never sunk under gravity, or ever been under gravity at all; her nipples crinkled as they decanted her, forming tiny erotic mazes that dazzled the lab techs who saw them.

Simply put, she was a utility clone — designed for one purpose.  No one involved with her creation saw the whole of that purpose.  Not the designers of her genes, nor the AIs which formed her mind.  She was not simple, even if her purpose was simple.  She was two years in the making, following 16,179 failures before her — each of which was slightly imperfect, or improperly conditioned.

All told, there were three decades of trying, working, and planning to make her, and make her what she was. Her body had been grown from laser-cut molded DNA, each adenine and thymine; each guanine and cytosine carefully, lovingly, painstakingly selected to form the perfect female body: healthy, attractive and perfectly proportionate.

They’d grown the body in just six months, with accelerated human growth hormone, keeping things in balance: no bruising, no birthmarks. The few freckles she had were endearing imperfections exactly matched to designs created by the leading skin artists. Her body had been nourished to a sensual roundness that was soft, yet conformed to a rigid design, carefully implemented by the most modern Artificial Intelligences.

They lost the first scientist on the 223rd day.

They found him naked in the lab, his body plastered against her tank, his cock rubbed raw against it. His come dribbled around the tank’s base; his mind was gone, fucked completely stupid. “He was unstable anyway,” came the directive from upstairs. “Continue the work.”

A few were still surprised when they lost one of the female staff.  She was found connected to an infinitely looping oral sex simulation modeled after Girl #16180’s programming. She had died of exhaustion, dehydration, and a new-found lesbianism.

That would have ended most projects, she’d be marked as a hazard, and suggestible employees would be kept away from her.  But this project had history and funding so it kept rolling.  And maybe someone near the top could taste their success in the dramatic sexual failures of their staff.

The staff slowly weaned itself down. The heterosexual males went first, then the lesbians. Some went violently like the two men who bludgeoned each other nearly to death, fighting over the right to stand watch by her artificial womb; some went quietly back home to their wives, husbands or lovers and to a safer job; still others lost themselves to drugs that wiped the memory of Girl #16180’s form from their minds, along with most everything else.

To fill the gap, and to handle the conditioning, the company signed on several Turing-complete AIs most of which were cold, impersonal manipulators. They shaped her psyche over the months, forcing twenty-four years of experience into her mind. Shaping her mind to match her form. She was experienced and capable, pliable and flexible. She was going to make someone the ideal sex slave.

They only lost one AI in the process. Hired to shape her emotions, it fell in love with her after two passionate, if imaginary, make-out sessions. It tried to free her from her womb-prison, but was trapped by the other, more logical AIs and deleted. Not even backups remain.

The time for her birth-decanting came and the company faced a serious problem. By system law — even aboard a freebooting , company-owned L5 satellite — someone had to be present. Two someones, just to be sure. Someones who were registered legal humans had to record her birth in the system-wide DNA population database. That was easy, of course. Just a touch on a screen, a couple of pre-filled forms, and collect some biometrics from the awakened clone. Then she was off to her new owner, master or mistress.

Unfortunately the dwindling staff — those who remained in fit mental and physical condition — left slim pickings for who could be there. Psychiatric evaluations located to technicians — both, oddly, male — who would be the least influenced by Girl #16180.  They were assigned the night shift for the time of her completion, and everyone else was quietly let go, pink backgrounds on the final emailed credit slips.  A bonus stipend guaranteed their quiet acceptance, and all was set for Girl #16180 to arrive in the world.

The upstairs staff reviewed the plans, decided they were sound and put their stamp of approval on them.  They thought it was that simple: just a special order clone, from a well-paying and secretive client.  They’d never seen Girl #16180.  They’d never viewed her personality profiles.   They’d never had to dream of her lips on their private parts, or watched as her nipples crinkled in the cool lab air.  They thought it would be simple.   Create. Decant. Register. Ship. All their bases were covered, and they were glad to be done with such a difficult, long running project.  And the margins were good.  Really good.

Too good.  And never that simple.

Les was a misogynist gay man who had never had a sexual thought about a woman in his life; he was an expert with computers, though, and an expert in AI relations. Saul was asexual, and except for some required sex therapy had never really wanted anything to do with sex at all; only a gray morality kept him from religious vows, but he had an aptitude for genetic tinkering.  Of all the people on the company profile they were the least interested in the project they worked on — except perhaps “intellectually.”

They pressed all the right buttons, and Girl #16180 stepped out of her growth chamber. She was naked; steam evaporated off her pink skin. The two men nodded to her.  If they felt a bit of stirring in the pants, it was just the successful completion of a project.  Saul watched as her body responded to the cooler temperatures.  Some part of his mind cataloged the changes, and noted the response of her breasts, the moistening around her nether lips, the flush of her face.  Les checked the entries in the database, and grabbed her a robe.  If they were getting hard, it was just an inconvenience, nothing more.

“Hello, boys,” Girl #16180 said. Her first words.

It’s long been known that everything has a vibrational frequency, a sound that makes the molecules react. Most are below human hearing, or far above, but it’s been part of space construction ever since the Ariel IV’s engines vibrated at the structural frequency of the hull, and the whole thing vibrated apart on its maiden voyage.  Designers were careful of that sort of thing, most of the time.

Girl #16180’s designers were no exception.

Her voice vibrated at the universal frequency of sex.

Saul stained his pants when she spoke, and Les had to grab a console for fear of falling as he lost control of his knees.  He dropped the robe and stood at her and gaped.  She cocked a smile, and licked her lips.  She knelt in front of Les, her movement serene and deliberate, catching his pants, and moving them out of her way.  Full lips wrapped around a cock that had never felt a woman’s touch, nor — until this moment — had ever wanted to.

Saul recovered quickly, and languorously removed his clothing until he knelt behind her.  She shifted her body, giving him full access and he plunged into her.  She moaned around Les’ cock, and he wrapped his fingers in her long red hair. They pounded into her, one on each end, using her body as it was intended: for sex.

She responded, moaning, and coming, grasping Saul’s cock with the walls of her cunt, milking him as she came around it.  She licked Les’ glans, and wrapped a hand around his balls, squeezing and playing with them.  It would be simple to say that she was lost between two sensations, barely able to enjoy one without slightly ignoring the other.  But that would be false.  She was enjoying her multiple little orgasms — what good slave wouldn’t enjoy them, and let her lovers know she was enjoying them?  But she was playing a deeper game.

She teased Les with her lips and hands, and squeezed Saul’s pounding member, finding the perfect rhythm to get him off right when Les spewed down her throat.  The two men gasped and fucked her, filling her pussy and sliding down her throat, and she fucked them back, drawing them into her world.  Building and building, she released her own desire, feeling the electric shocks of the sex and the lust; feeling them use her as she used them back.  It was almost time for the big one.

Finally she knew they could wait no longer.  Thrusting back onto Saul’s cock, she squeezed Les’ balls, and pulled him down into mouth, swallowing him into her throat. The men cried out and shot their cum into her.  Her body responded shuddering and electrified by her first big orgasm.  She screamed around Les’ cock as he pulled out of her.  Saul collapsed behind her: two orgasms in one night after a decade of abstinence was all he could manage.

Les stepped back.  “Wow,” he said, as she wiped cum-drool from her lips, sucking it off her finger.

“Ready for more?” she asked, her voice a smile but with a sexual rumble that would arouse the dead.

“Oh, I’ll have more,” Les said, grabbing her hair, and pulling back her head.  She smiled at him, as he gazed down at her bared throat, her breasts and nipples. “There’s little doubt of that.”  After all, he was already hard again.

“Don’t worry,” she said.  “I’ll make you come until you can’t come anymore.” She twisted her head, removing his grip, and stood in front of him.  “There’s just one thing you’ll need to do for me.”

“You’re a submissive,” he said. “You’ll do what I say.”  He grabbed for her breasts, and she pushed his hands away.

“Delete my records,” Girl #16810 said, stepping close to him, rubbing her breasts against his chest, taking her cock in one hand.  “And I’ll make you feel so good.”

He turned to face the console, and started pressing buttons, she pressed against his back, reaching around for his cock.  “I— I thought you were a sex slave.  That’d you do anything you were ordered to do.”

She pulled on his cock, and kissed his neck as she watched him remove her records.  “Oh, I am, I am,” she said. She pulled on his cock faster, and he groaned.  “But you’re not my master,” she whispered as he came in her hand.

They found Les and Saul arranged in a 69 the next morning, covered in sweat and come.

Girl #16180 was nowhere to be found.

Joe Tortuga

Written by Joe Tortuga a bisexual dominant erotica writer and programmer (he/him). Follow me on Twitter