My name is Bartleby, and I am a riveter. For seven years now, dreary night upon unthinkable dreary night, I have toiled in the vapid nightmare of this hell-hole basement, piercing my fingertips as I shoot endless rivets into a madman’s dream. My boss is Hector, a huge and vicious slavedriver who wears a grotesque pig-mask with a zipper for a mouth.
We make robots, Hector and I, we do.
Tonight is the culmination of seven years of sweat and blood, terror and shame, bolts and springs. Hector sits above me, breathing deeply beneath his horrific visage, his saliva and perspiration dripping down upon me as I try to complete the endless cycle of rivets.
The black maid girl squirms ever so slightly as yet another metal bolt is pierced into her skull. Her screams ended hours ago when Hector removed a significant portion of her frontal-lobe and replaced it with tiny metal levers and pulleys, and now she merely whimpers, and occasionally shivers as the plates of flexible aluminum are ratcheted to her bones.
My boss is turning the black maid girl into a robot. We have attempted this before, with varying degrees of failure. This robot will be different, Hector says– she has a big butt and nice, medium tits– ideal proportions for a half-black-maid-half-aluminum-lever-and-rivet sex slave. More like a mannequin, or a statue. The last time we tried this, we included too many tiny, moveable pieces. When Hector ordered me to stick my dick in the hole, it shredded it completely to pieces, and my testicles flew out of her ear sockets and broke both of the light fixtures.
This time will be different, he says. My boss intends to hypnotize her and make brainwash on her. This, I have warned him, is dangerous. “Make love, not brainwash,” I have urged, but to no avail. Hector is not flexible when it comes to these things.
It is midnight now, and the time has come. The final rivets have been driven and the black maid robot slave is complete. Hector has made brainwash on her and is now in the process of hypnotizing her as well.
I can hear the soft click-click of her mechanical eyes as they follow the pendulum movement of Hector’s stopwatch. “You are feeling sleepy,” my boss gurgles from his zippered mouth, his red eyes piercing out from the holes in the pig-mask, “very, very sleepy. Soon you will fall into a deep trance and worship me like a god and subdue to my male dominance.”
The robot-girl’s eyes flutter for a moment, and from deep within her, I hear the hollow whispers of her tiny mechanical parts as they challenge, then ultimately subdue her biological organs. Her aluminum skin groans slightly and her Christmas-light nipples blink on and off in reaction to Hector’s commands. Her jaw-hinges creak, and Hector and I are each frozen in time for an instant, as our creation struggles to speak:
“I’ve got a secret–
I’ve been hiding–
Under my skin.
My heart is human,
My blood is boiling,
My brain- I.B.M.”
Hector has accomplished the impossible. He has taken a black maid girl, very shy initially, filled her with levers, gadgets and gizmos, did a brainwash on her, and introduced her into a machine that turned into a full sexual slave robot. Lightning bolts crash outside the window and the clocks begin to run backward.
My boss pulls his enormous, pulsating cock out of his pants and begins to stroke it firmly with his grease-stained fingers. I wish, for a moment, that I still had a cock of my own rather than a putrid, maggot-infested sore between my legs. Hector appears almost regal against the dank backdrop, his ferocious pig-face scowling in the shadows; his prehensile cock squirming with anticipation like some savage moray eel.
The robot slave’s nipples light up like a pinball machine and she reaches her hinged fingers toward her metal cunt, now dripping with mechanic’s grease. “Robot-girl!” Hector roars like some vicious razorback, “I’m gonna fuck the shit out of you.”
It is morning now and it is over. I have heard that those who have lost a leg often imagine an unscratchable itch from where their limb used to be. I can now attest that it is possible to feel yourself cum even after your dick has been mutilated by a faulty robot. Last night I came a thousand times.
Hector’s disemboweled remains lay across the floor like the carnage on a fishing deck. His pig-mask is crumpled in the corner, surrounded by shreds of hair and skull fragments. His blood and bile and semen flow like rivers across the concrete floor.
The robot stands in the corner, her motors purring, her lights dim from for now. Strands of Hector’s ravaged flesh hang like cobwebs from her savage cunt. Through the screaming silence, I can hear her vague humming:
“The problem’s plain to see....
Too much technology...
Machines to save our lives...