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Message-ID: <55500asstr$1175159401@assm.asstr-mirror.org>
From: "\"Generic\" Joe Tortuga" <joe@cultoftheturtle.com>
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Subject: {ASSM} Girl #16180 [Joe Tortuga] (MMF oral scifi)
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Date: Thu, 29 Mar 2007 05:10:01 -0400
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World: the deSade
Story Arc: Girl #16180
Piece: 01
Abstract: After 16,179 tries, Girl is finally created.

Story can be seen at http://www.cultoftheturtle.com/
Permalink:
http://www.cultoftheturtle.com/2007/03/23/girl-16180-01-the-clone/
All stories in this series:
http://www.cultoftheturtle.com/category/girl16180/
-----------

Girl #16180
By "Generic" Joe Tortuga<joe@cultoftheturtle.com>
(MMF oral)


Part 01: The Clone
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 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 16179 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 adonine 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 birth
marks. 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 in the seventh month.

They found him naked in the lab, his body plastered against her tank,
his cock rubbed raw against it. His come dribbling around its base,
his mind gone, fucked completely stupid. "He was unstable anyway,"
came the directive from corporate. "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 -- evidently -- 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. It was, perhaps, a bit too
human. Hired to shape her emotions, it created a cyber-landscape where
AI decided the best way to teach her was to interact with her on an
emotional level itself. 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 forced
into an offline storage cube with just a simulation of Girl #16180. By
all accounts, it is completely happy in its fantasy world.

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 every one else was
quietly let go, pink backgrounds to 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 corporate 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 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'd 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."

When they pressed all the right buttons, and Girl #16180 stepped out
of her growth chamber, naked, steam evaporating off her pink skin,
they 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 font 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
was split three ways -- one for each cock, and the third for her game.

She was going to make them come at the same time.  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 and
her game.  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 move," 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.

-- 
Pursuant to the Berne Convention, this work is copyright with all rights
reserved by its author unless explicitly indicated.
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