“Do one about a sex robot,” Marcye said from behind Mark’s chair. Startled, he felt a bit embarrassed at the single idiotic sentence on his laptop screen: “It was the best of fucks, it was the worst of fucks.” That was all he had come up with since lunch. Writer’s block.

“It’s been done. Over and over. In literature, on TV, and in the movies. From all angles.”

“So?” Marcye took a big sip of her strawberry-banana-chocolate smoothie through a fat stainless-steel straw. “Nobody says it has to be totally original. Just hot as hell. I would hit that.”

“One does not ‘hit’ a short story,” Mark said, annoyed.

“Jesus. Okay, Mr. Crabby. I’ll leave you alone.”

Mark swiveled his chair and watched as Marcye sauntered away. Her famous auburn tresses, done in trendy elaborate braids, swayed gently. Within insanely-expensive jeans (pre-worn to perfection by sex workers in Guatemala), Marcie’s equally-famous little ass moved in ways that made Mark dizzy.

Any man who shared a home—and a bed—with the fabulous Marcye Van Slay had no reason to be crabby, he thought. Also, no excuse for a lack of ideas for erotic stories. Since he had met Marcye nine months earlier, their adventures had been astonishing. Tabloids made up stories about her, but none of the stories was anywhere near as outrageous as reality. She took incredible risks and somehow always got away with them. Mark was having the time of his life. He had met (and fucked, and been fucked by) some of the most famous, most grungy, and most insane people on earth.

And yet. Writer’s block. Go figure.

Time for some fresh air, he thought. He silently slid the perfectly-tinted patio door and took a slow walk around the pool, deliberately not thinking about his writing. This air, he thought, is the very best that money can buy. Pre-breathed for us by film stars, washed-up pop artists, and tax accountants. Also by their new neighbor.

That was another cliché, of course. New neighbor sneaks over to skinny-dip in pool; gets caught; sex ensues. There were lots and lots of variations on that old theme.

Mark and Marcye had never seen their previous neighbor. Supposedly, the sprawling pinkish house and lush grounds next door had been owned by a Chinese corporation. The property had been meticulously maintained, but with no sign that anyone ever lived there. Their new neighbor was a slender young woman. She took out her own garbage, got her own mail. She painted her own front door a beautiful deep red. No one seemed to know who she was, or where her money came from.

As if on cue, the mysterious neighbor appeared just as Mark was thinking about her. She was standing just on her side of the low stone wall separating the properties, not far from Mark, and looking directly at him. She had an odd expression on her face, he thought. A combination of eagerness and confusion.

“Hi!” he said with his best smile “I’m Mark Oberlein. Welcome to the neighborhood.”

The woman’s eyes met his with a flash of intensity that almost scared Mark. “I...I am not sure who I am supposed to be. Your desires are not clear.” Although hesitant, her voice was pleasant, with a neutral accent.

Was this girl high on something? “I’m sorry. I don’t understand. Is there any way I can help you?” She just shook her head.

As a writer, Mark was in the habit of noticing details and making mental notes that would later show up in his work. Especially when attractive women were concerned. But there was something hard to pin down, something strangely nebulous, about this woman’s appearance. For a second, her facial features looked surprisingly like Marcye’s. Then for an instant she looked like a girl Mark had known in fifth grade. Then like a cute bagger at the local supermarket. Then a little bit like Mark’s older sister. Mark was confused. Maybe he was the one who was tripping, although he hadn’t ingested anything lately.

Mark tried again. “What’s your name?”

“She’s Creamy.” The voice came from behind Mark. Marcye was walking quickly toward them around the swimming pool, a big smile on her face. She laughed. “That’s going to be my favorite pun for a while.”

Mark’s eyes narrowed. He wasn’t sure what was going on, but it was bound to be interesting.

The woman called “Creamy” locked eyes with Marcye. The confusion in her eyes vanished, but the eagerness remained. “It is so good to meet you at last!” Her appearance finally seemed to come into focus. She looked very much like Marcye after all; they could almost be sisters. Although her hair was golden blonde, it was braided in the exact same way as Marcye’s. How could Mark have missed that? She must be some kind of fan or groupie, he assumed.

“Come on over,” Marcye said. “Let’s take a look at you.” Creamy nimbly climbed over the wall and did a slow twirl in front of them. She was strong and very graceful. Maybe a dancer? She was barefoot, wearing little white shorts and a red tee with some kind of foreign calligraphy; Mark didn’t recognize the language. He saw stiff nipples and approved wholeheartedly.

Apparently, Marcye approved as well. “Good!” she said, her sparkling eyes taking in every detail of Creamy’s body. “Very nice. Mm hmm.” She held hands with Creamy and Mark and led the way to her favorite play nook on the patio. “Let’s have some fun.”

In a few moments, all three were out of their clothes. Mark’s t-shirt and shorts tangled with Marcye’s pricey jeans and Creamy’s cryptic top on a random patio chair. Marcye and Creamy were standing, almost dancing to imaginary music, locked in a juicy, frenzied kiss that went on and on. Mark was content to watch for the moment, his cock already very hard and pulsing. The two women reached out and put their right hands behind each other’s heads at exactly the same moment, pulling their mouths and tongues tight together. It was a spectacular sight. Creamy had several piercings, each with its silver ring, but no tattoos. She had a glowing golden tan straight out of the 1970s, and a bright blond bush of pubic hair from the same era. Equal parts Marcye Van Slay and vintage hippie chick.

Marcye broke the kiss, nearly panting. “Mark,” she said, voice husky with lust, “come and get some of this.” Mark put his arms around both women, their skin warm and supple, and kissed Creamy, then Marcye. Their kisses were not just similar; they were nearly identical. It seemed almost unnatural, yet perfect. Tongues slid over and under each other as their desire ratcheted up.

Moving slowly, as though under water, Marcye lay back in a nearby redwood-framed lounge chair, drawing up her legs to expose her drenched, fragrant pussy. Creamy knelt, her mouth so very close to Marcye’s epicenter, her warm breath making Marcye whimper. Then the tip of Creamy’s tongue moved in a languid zigzag, starting close to Marcye’s asshole and finally swiping across her clit. Over and over with subtle variations, each better than the last, taking Marcye to the very brink of orgasm and keeping her there until her mind nearly broke.

Creamy finally pulled back to admire the quivering, spasmodic wreckage of Marcye Van Slay. “Sweet fuck of a fuck,” Marcye said, her voice trembling, chest heaving, as aftershocks rolled through her brain and body. “I am half dead. Your tongue should be insured for a billion dollars. To reward you, Mark and I are going to treat you like absolute shit.”

“Yes, please!” Creamy said as she took Marcye’s place on the lounge chair and spread her long, tanned legs. Marcye knelt next to Creamy’s head. She played with a stray lock of blonde hair and ran a red nail across Creamy’s throat. Mark positioned himself between Creamy’s legs and tapped her hair-covered mound with his hard, throbbing tool, causing Creamy to whimper and buck. Moisture glistened in the California sunlight.

“Tell us. What are you?” Marcye demanded.

“A filthy slut. Your little whore.”

“Yes. More.”

“I’m a set of open holes. Your fuck toy.”

“More!”

“I’m a worthless, disgusting, soulless cum dump.” Mark tapped her again with his cock. “Oh, God! Please. Please fuck me. Use me.”

“Did you hear that, Mark? She said ‘please’ like a good girl. Screw the little cunt. Right now.”

Marcye grabbed Creamy’s hair roughly and turned her head so she could stare into her eyes from inches away. Mark thrust into Creamy’s passage, meeting resistance for a split second before feeling a tearing sensation. Creamy cried out. Pain momentarily clouded her face. Marcye greedily drank in the sight and sucked in her breath. So fucking good.

Mark quickly and instinctively settled into the right pace. He supported his body so that only his penis made contact with Creamy, but he made sure she could feel his whole length on each stroke. Marcye was still watching Creamy’s face closely, enjoying every wince, every gasp, every involuntary flinch. She looked up at Mark, her eyes glowing with sadistic glee. “Choke her out. I want to watch that.”

Mark had been expecting that. It was one of Marcye’s favorite things, whether he was choking her or someone else. He brought his knees up under Creamy’s thighs, both to support himself and to tilt Creamy’s pelvis for even deeper penetration. Then he placed his large hands around Creamy’s neck and squeezed, just the right amount. Practice had made him very good at this. Some of their partners had no doubt lost some brain cells, but all had survived, and most had experienced glorious orgasms.

When Mark judged the time was right, he let up on his grip, just long enough for blood to flow in and light up Creamy’s deprived pleasure center. Her eyes were wild and unfocused, her legs churning in a chaos of panic and ecstasy. But Marcye was not satisfied. “Again! Longer this time. She can take it.” And, somehow, Mark knew she was right. He applied the choke hold again, and this time held it longer than before, longer than was safe, before allowing her release. The reaction was gratifying, intensely dangerous and satisfying. A fleeting thought came to Mark: “Do not try this at home.”

“Flip her over,” Marcye instructed. Mark pulled out and repositioned Creamy on her knees, ass high, head down. Glancing down, he saw a thin jagged streak of blood on his penis like red lightning, but Marcye immediately took him in her mouth and licked and sucked him clean. “Fuck her ass now,” she said. “And don’t be gentle.”

Creamy’s ass was identical to Marcye’s, except for the all-over tan. In one deliberate, gradual push, he worked his way into Creamy’s back door. She uttered sounds of discomfort as she struggled to adjust to his invading, impaling prick. Marcye watched every motion closely, lips slightly parted, two fingers in her own pussy. “Now,” she said, “switch back and forth. Ass to pussy. I love that, and she will, too.” Mark was happy to comply. A few strokes up the ass; then a few in the pussy; then back again.

Mark felt himself tensing up, his stimulation reaching the boiling point. Marcye noticed, too. “Porno finish. I want it all on my face,” she said. And that’s where his come went. In her open eyes, up her nose, dripping from her chin. A beautiful sight.

Instantly, Creamy dropped and rolled out from under the other two. She put her right hand over Marcye’s nose and mouth. Marcye smelled something sweet. “I’m sorry,” Creamy whispered. “No worriesh…” Marcye slurred before falling unconscious.

Mark gripped Creamy by the shoulder and spun her around. “What did you do to her?!” he demanded. Moving with unnatural speed, Creamy evaded his grasp and somehow got behind him. Mark felt her touch the back of his neck, then everything went black.

About ten minutes later, a middle-aged man wearing spotless gray coveralls silently opened the patio door and stepped outside. He looked at the three inert bodies and nodded. It seemed everything had gone well. Creamy was lying in a flower bed next to the house, eyes closed, the palm of her left hand up against an outdoor power outlet. A dim green light shone through the skin on that hand. Fully charged. The man stood next to her and did a scan with a device that resembled a cell phone. The results were satisfactory. Creamy had recorded a large amount of data, which would be used to refine and improve her programming before final delivery. The man was particularly happy with the breath-play data; the designers had specified a stock subroutine for that fetish, but now they could customize it to fully meet Ms. Van Slay’s needs. He tapped the screen and scrolled down. The simulated virginity feature had also worked well. Ms. Van Slay could reset that and use it as often as she desired.

Leaving Creamy for a moment, he stepped over to Mark and ran another scan. The male unit was functioning within parameters. This was actually the second Mark Oberlein, a replacement for the original unit, which had been seriously damaged at a party in the Canary Islands. The Company was proud of its twelve-hour, worldwide replacement policy; and Mark Two, complete with the proper fingerprints and retina patterns, had been on Tenerife within ten hours. Disposal of the original unit was, of course, included. The Company also discreetly disposed of a human casualty, who had apparently tried to attack Ms. Van Slay at the party. Mark One had neutralized the threat, sustaining heavy damage in the process, even though bodyguard duty was not part of his programming.

Finally, the man gazed for a long moment at Marcye Van Slay herself. An object of desire for hundreds of millions around the world, now naked and vulnerable, her beautiful face streaked with Mark’s synthesized semen. She would be unconscious for another thirty minutes. He was tempted…. But no. Any impropriety with a customer would be grounds for immediate dismissal. Or maybe far worse.

The man went back to Creamy and entered a code in his scanner to enable transport mode. She opened her eyes, took her hand away from the outlet, stood up, and silently followed the man through the empty house to his SUV parked in the circular brick driveway. She would return in a few days, fine-tuned and ready to party. A siren sounded in the distance….

_____

A squad car passed by on the street below, siren at full. The writer opened his eyes. He had almost been sleeping on the job, but his brain had been hard at work. The clock in the corner of the laptop screen read 2:13 am. There was a Word document open, with just one silly sentence: “It was the best of fucks, it was the worst of fucks.” He smiled. No more writer’s block. He was going to meet his deadline. After backspacing over the text, he started again:

“Do one about a sex robot,” Marcye said from behind Mark’s chair….