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“So how does this work, exactly?”
Root laughs softly and starts to unbutton her shirt. “However you want it to, sweetie.”
“Like, do I talk to it? Or do you just tell me what it’s saying, or…?”
“Like I said, Sameen, however you want.”
The whole AI thing has never been a kink—shouldn’t you need a body to have sex?—but Root’s into it, and the weird shit she’s into generally ends up being a good time.
“Well, how does it work with you?”
“That's a little different,” she says, peeling off her shirt. A film of sweat glows on the shelf of her collarbone and between her breasts. “Since She can talk to me directly.”
“So, is it like phone sex?”
Root laughs again. “Sure. Something like that.”
There’s something both titillating and unsettling about the idea of the Machine talking Root through solo sessions. Building up a data set of stuff that gets Root off. It’s a distracting thought. Root’s noticed, judging by her smirk.
“Something on your mind?”
“I—I guess I don’t know where to start.”
“Just lie back, then. We’ll figure something out.” She tilts her head in that way she does when she’s talking to the Machine. “Can you get us started?”
This is going to be something else.
After settling into a comfortable straddle, hips flush over hips, Root begins to scratch in a downward path: ribs, belly, thighs, trailing red lines in her wake. Her eyes widen as the Machine chirps in her ear.
“I see,” she says, her hands pausing in place.
She passes her hands lightly down the paths she’s scratched before reaching around to unhook her bra. After slipping it off and tossing it to the floor, she strokes the bare undersides of her breasts, the plane of her stomach, and traces the rim of her underwear. Then her head cocks and her hand stops in place.
“Oh. She says you might want me to keep these on.”
Root grins in her devilish way before dipping her hand into her underwear. Her lips part as her hand begins to move slowly, purposefully; she tosses her hair back over her shoulders in that way she clearly knows is sexy.
“Do you want to know what we do together? Her and me? When we’re alone?”
“Yeah. Tell me what you do.” This is happening; might as well get into it.
“We usually start like this. She likes to ask me questions while I’m touching myself.”
“What kind of questions?”
“A lot. Like what it feels like. What I think about.”
“And… what do you think about?”
“Now, now, Sameen, that’s a personal question, don’t you think?” She smirks as her fingers draw their slow circles. “I know—I’ll tell you one of mine, if you’ll let Her tell me one of yours.”
“How the hell would it know mine?”
“Come now, you’re smarter than that, sweetie. Browser history.”
Ugh. Of course.
“Fine. One of mine for one of yours. And it can’t be something I already know.”
“All right. Well. Pick one of mine,” she says, looking upward—clearly talking to The Machine. “Fair is fair, after all.” She listens, musing, but her fingers stop and her smile falters when she hears the answer. “Seriously? You can’t pick another—hmm. I understand.” She sighs. “I—I like thinking about… getting caught.”
“Like, someone watching you do this?”
“No—although I’m enjoying this quite a lot.” Her fingers start moving again, and she licks the thumb of her other hand before rubbing it gently over her nipple. Her eyes flutter to a close. It’s distracting—but not distracting enough to lose the scent.
“Come on, Root. You have to tell me if you want The Machine to tell you one of mine. I know it’ll play fair.”
“I know. Fine. I—I like thinking about—if we got caught, say, in the safe house. By one of the boys. Just your pants unzipped and my fingers inside you and my hand up your shirt.” Her breath picks up. “So they see you’re mine.”
Root squeezes her eyes shut and stills her fingers. Her expression is sheepish, but her breath is short—this is clearly a big turn-on.
“Don’t stop now. You haven’t even heard my thing yet.”
“True. Fair is fair,” she concedes, gathering herself. “So, what’s Sameen’s thing?” she asks, staring into the middle distance as her fingers start up again—slowly, carefully. Her other hand absentmindedly drops to her hips, then slides further down and across—the electric jolt of her touch, fresh, on bare skin, sliding up over belly and breasts, slow lazy warm strokes that reignite the throbbing lines her nails drew earlier.
“Oh, sweetie,” she sighs, eyes following the path her hand is retracing. “That’s hot.”
“What is? What did she tell you?”
“You want to cut someone’s clothes off, piece by piece.” A wide grin. “Ruin them.”
Eh, not too creepy. Way less embarrassing than Root’s. Point Machine.
“You want to ruin mine?” Root continues. “I don’t have much on right now, but I can get dressed again.” She gestures to the pants on the other side of the room.
“Don’t be stupid, Root. I know leather pants aren’t cheap.” Plus, the thought of her getting up and stopping those little circles is unacceptable right at this second.
She shrugs. “Whatever you want.” Her ears prick up again. “Oh, that’s convenient.”
“What is?”
She doesn’t answer—just reaches into the dresser drawer and pulls out a pocket knife.
“Lucky you’ve got this within easy reach,” she notes, flicking it open and handing it over.
Fuck. Everything about this is hot. The way Root flinches as the back of the knife draws a cool line over her thigh. Her gasp at the quick flick of pressure, the soft zipper sound of cut fabric. She grips the headboard and straightens out her hips slightly to make it easier to cut the other side free. A little slower this time, to savor the feeling of pulling the cloth tight. A slight nick to the fold of hip and thigh—not enough pressure at the knifepoint to break the soft skin, but enough to make her hiss in pleasure.
She lifts her hips to make it easy to pull the ruined, sticky cloth from underneath her and toss it to the floor. Way hotter than the fantasy: the sweet raw smell of Root touching herself, exposed to the air.
“She says you should slide down the bed a little,” directs Root, and scoots up at the same time. “She wants you to go down on me and make me come, nice and slow.”
“Good by me.”
She lowers herself slowly, still gripping the headboard, with a soft sigh when she meets the resistance of lips and tongue. She’s cool and wet and tastes intoxicating—a little like that spot behind her ear or the sweat that films the undersides of her breasts—in short, like Root.
She doesn’t rest her full weight: she hovers, braces herself with her hands. A few locks of hair spill over her shoulders—god, she’s got beautiful hair.
“She says you might want to hear about some of the things She and I do later, when I’m getting close,” she pants.
Oh, fuck yes.
“We run probabilities,” Root continues. “Numbers. Like—like estimating how long it will take me to come from a certain kind of stimulation. She’s aggregated plenty of data from our—little sessions.”
“Yeah?” It comes out as more of a grunt—full mouth—but Root correctly interprets the encouragement.
“Mhm. Or she’ll spin up fun scenarios based on what she knows will turn me on. There was… something a little like this,” Root admits, breathlessly, “with you going down on me and Her talking me through it. Call it meta.”
It’s worth pulling away for a minute to ask—“What’s it saying to you now?”
“She’s telling me how long it took Her to get me off on that fantasy—53 seconds; we’d already been going for a bit… And now She’s telling me how turned on you are—heart rate, breathing patterns—how your legs are in a position you like when you’re touching yourself.” Her breathing picks up. “She wants you to touch yourself, Sameen.”
“Okay.” God, it feels amazing. Already so wet.
“Slow, to start,” Root instructs. “She doesn’t want you to come from this. She says to go in circles, light and slow.”
“Ugh.” The groan of frustration rumbles against Root’s skin. The Machine is a tease.
“Patience, Sameen,” says Root, with that maddening grin of hers—which falters with a little more tongue pressure and speed. Ha. “Oh—there,” she breathes. Her eyes flutter shut. “She says—says if you keep doing—just like that—just twenty”—her hips start rocking slightly—“this way, seven—seconds before I come.” She grips the headboard. “Oh god, is she? Don’t let her,” she whispers, apparently to the Machine.
Then she comes, magnificently, sweating and shaking, and it takes every ounce of willpower not to follow her—takes stopping those stupid slow circles just to enjoy the feeling of Root, of her trembling hips and her wetness and warmth and the sounds she makes.
Root slumps forward, onto the headboard, and takes a few deep breaths. Her skin is glistening all over and she looks wild, exhilarated, irritatingly knowing.
“What did it say to you there, at the end?”
“She said you were getting close too. That your movements were getting erratic. She says you’ve come before when I did, without my knowing.” She grins. “Naughty girl.”
“Huh. Really awkward it knows that.”
Root shakes her head. She dismounts, shuffles down the bed, and claims a messy, sticky, long, leisurely kiss that lasts for a minute or more. Root has got a fucking magical tongue.
She pulls away to listen. “I understand,” she says, clearly to the Machine. Her fingers trace a slow path from breast to stomach to hip to inner thigh, where she gently replaces the hand resting there with her own.
“Oh, Sameen,” she murmurs. “You’re so, so wet.” She burrows her head close, peppers soft kisses all over, leans over to whisper, “She’s going to tell me exactly how to touch you to make it last.”
“Gonna be hard. I’m pretty close.”
“Not that close,” she counters. “She says you’re about two to three minutes away if I keep going like this, nice and slow.”
“The Machine had you down to the second. Why the margin of error for me?”
“She knows my body better than yours.” Root shifts position, hovers close; her hair shivers into a dark halo. “I mean, She and I have been doing this for a long time—a lot longer than you and me.”
“You know how weird it is, don’t you? That you get all hot and bothered for a robot?”
“She’s not a robot, Sameen,” says Root, smugly, “and be honest, you’re enjoying this.” She slips two fingers all the way inside with no preamble—holy shit—and grins at the effect, crooking them playfully. “As evidenced by how easy that was.”
“Keep talking.”
Root grins, curling her fingers until she hits something that makes stars appear.
“Okay,” she says. “She told me I could maybe keep you going longer with my fingers inside you. A couple extra minutes, if I’m careful.”
“Tell me more about what you do together.”
“Hmm.” Her fingers move lazily, deep and rhythmic. “Always fun when She hacks my bluetooth vibrator. I just hold it in place, and… She takes care of the rest.”
Using Root’s vibrator on her is hot, but the idea of the Machine doing the same thing is something else altogether.
“She says you’re getting close,” says Root. “Though she hardly has to tell me. Do you want me to finish you off with my mouth?”
“Not exactly… Do you—do you have it with you? Your vibrator?”
She smiles impishly. “I might have it in my bag. A girl likes to come prepared.”
“Get it now.”
Root pulls out, leaving a cold wet aching behind her, and saunters way too slowly over to her bag. She rifles through the contents until she apparently finds the little egg, tests it with a faint buzz against her fingertips, and comes back, holding it enticingly between finger and thumb. The vibration is off, but the indicator light is blinking.
“You want just Her, or my fingers too?”
“Both.”
She slides two—then three—fingers inside, testing them gently, and then nestles the vibrator in her palm—right against where it needs to be. A little cool, but the plastic warms quickly.
“Whenever you’re ready,” she says, and it’s clear who she’s talking to.
The vibration starts slowly, in soft, gentle waves. Root watches and listens as her fingers glide slowly in and out, rolling the egg over her palm.
“Feel nice?” She smiles and waits for a nod. Her head cocks, listening, and she continues, “She wants to know if you want more.”
“Maybe.” And to the Machine: “Do it like you do for Root.”
“Oh, sweetie,” Root coos, “that’s adorable.”
Annoyance bubbles up, but then the egg’s waves of vibration tighten, getting faster and a little bit harder, and it’s hard to think of anything else.
“You like that?” asks Root, her fingers still making long, slow strokes.
“Yeah.”
“I like it this way too. But—will You do the fluttery thing?” she asks, staring into the middle distance again, and—yep—fluttery is the only way to describe it. Christ, it’s good—and Root’s apparently noticed it’s a hit, from her sympathetic moan and the purposeful, faster movement of her fingers. “You like it too, Sameen. I thought you might.”
The pulses get more intense. The pressure of Root’s body, the warmth of her skin, the wet sound of her fingers, the fluttering—it’s a lot. Too much.
“She wants you to come,” whispers Root. “Come for us, Sameen.”
Fuck fuck fuck fuck. It hits hard—mind-melting, peripheral vision blotted out with stars, Root’s soft moans—when had she started touching herself with her free hand?—all bending the laws of time and space. This whole Machine sex thing is fucked up and weird and all kinds of creepy and—yeah—full credit to Root—unbelievably hot.
By the time the last aftershocks are rolling through, Root’s made herself come again too, hard and wet and trembling. She collapses off to the side and picks up the now-still vibrator to examine it.
“Best threesome ever?” she asks, slyly.
“Sure, Root, I’ll admit it. This was actually pretty hot.”
And in that infuriating way of hers, she arches her eyebrow, smiles, and quips,
“I wasn't talking to you.”