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Cyrus Borg was used to being surrounded by machines. It was his corporation, his factories, his ambition that ushered in the technological revolution. He loved tech, and occasionally found its company preferable to being around other people. But now, the damsel in distress locked in his own Tower, amidst the company of a dark god and its automatons, Cyrus longed to get away. He missed the plants and the animals and the humanity out there. The tyrant wouldn’t let him outside.
It wasn’t very comforting, being here.
Hunger pangs clawed at Cyrus’ insides. His captor insisted he could survive off proximity to its spiritual energy alone, but still Cyrus’ body wanted food and sleep. His office had long since run dry of its stash of snacks. If the Tower’s drinking fountains had not continued to pour, he might have suffered dehydration too.
But as a consequence of sipping water in a sad attempt to soothe his empty stomach, he now had a different biological problem demanding his attention.
Cyrus liked to think about the body as a machine. A soft, but so very complex, machine. He was not a biologist, so it was through the lens of robotics that he best understood his physiology. Glucose serves as the fuel. Skeleton for support system. Muscles contract to move the body. Nervous system acts like wires carrying information. Water keeps everything running.
And, thinking along this metaphor, Cyrus concluded that much the same way a car produces exhaust, his body needed to rid itself of its waste. By the First, he needed to pee.
It was humiliating, but the alternative of waiting until the bladder forcibly emptied itself would be even more humiliating—so he broke the silence. “I need to use the men’s facilities.”
At his timid words, Overlord briefly turned its attention to its poor captive. “Do you really believe you can trick me? You mean to escape.”
“No, no,” and he hated begging but he was going to wet himself if he didn’t go right now—
It read his thoughts and understood that he was not lying. “Fine. General, take him.”
Cyrus looked over at the doors to his office as they swung open, and in stalked General Cryptor, always obedient to his terrible master.
It would be inaccurate to think of them as soulless, unintelligent drones. Cyrus knew PIXAL had some soul within her, though he never intended to embue his creation with a soul. It had just happened. And now these robots, too, were developing personalities of their own. Perhaps the dark god gave them souls. Perhaps it happened spontaneously as their programs grew smarter, more complex.
Cryptor did not have a pleasant personality. He was proud, cruel, aggressive. Cyrus hated being around him.
He cringed away as Cryptor approached, yanked a bar on his wheelchair, dragging the seat. “I can steer it myself,” Cyrus argued.
“Right,” Cryptor simulated an eye-roll. But he let go of the bar, letting Cyrus lead the way to the bathroom.
It was a one-person room built with plenty of space to accomodate Cyrus’ wheelchair. A bar near the toilet helped him pull himself on and off the seat. He didn’t need help, so frankly he found it insulting when Cryptor followed him in and moved like he was going to pick Cyrus up.
“Keep your hands to yourself,” he snapped.
“You are defective, Cyrus Borg. Let me help you, so we can get this over with much faster.” Then, seeing the anger on the man’s face, Cryptor let out a mean laugh. “I don’t have all day to watch you fumble around in here.”
“Get. Out.”
Rather than leave Cyrus to do his business in peace, Cryptor scooped the man up and held him out with one arm, flaunting his strength. Cyrus dangled, eyes wide with surprise.
Cryptor’s head tilted as he analyzed the man, or more accurately, leered at him. “So this is the creator of my creator. How could somebody like you build an empire?”
“I did it through years of hard work,” Cyrus growled. “Put me down at once.”
“Oh, so impatient.” Cryptor set Cyrus down on the toilet seat, and for a moment Cyrus felt relief. Now Cryptor would leave him alone, and he could wallow in private misery for a moment in this restroom. Maybe he could… no, there was nowhere to escape in here, Cyrus couldn’t reach the air ducts…
But a touch shocked him from those thoughts. Cryptor reached down to undo Cyrus’ buckle, slipped the leather from the loop and left it hanging open.
“What are you doing.”
“Helping.” He most certainly was not.
Mechanical fingers undid the buttons of Cyrus’ pants, sliding under the fabric to shamelessly grope his soft dick. Cyrus shrieked, tried to push Cryptor away, but the android did not budge.
“Stop!”
Then he was being manhandled again, picked up and turned around to face the toilet as the android positioned him over the porcelain bowl. One arm held him tight around the man’s stomach, pushing him backward against Cryptor’s lap. The scratchy fabric of his mask brushed against Cyrus’ neck, sending a cascade of goosebumps down the man’s spine.
“Go on,” Cryptor encouraged, voice low. “Run your ‘urination’ program.”
As if to help illustrate what he wanted, he snaked his other arm around Cyrus’ waist and pulled his dick out and squeezed.
An awful choking sound escaped the man, and he tried again to scramble out of Cryptor’s hold, but his strength could not compete with the general’s. Even though his captor had… outfitted him with some new parts, including a bionic arm, Cyrus was still human, and that came with inherent weaknesses. He was not built for anything, let alone combat.
Cryptor was built for combat.
Falling limp when it was clear he could not escape, Cyrus tried for reason: “How do you expect me to do anything like this?”
“You’re the genius, aren’t you? Figure it out.”
It was a strange phenomenon that even though his bladder ached, he shyness stopped anything from coming out. Cyrus was mortified, hardly able to breathe for the shock he was in—let alone relax his bladder.
Cryptor’s hands were deft, well-designed. There is a certain gracefulness to machines that Cyrus has always admired. That precision of fine motor controls, able to exert crushing force as well as manipulate the most delicate materials, had always fascinated him. There was a reason he devoted his life to engineering.
Cryptor began to move his beautifully-designed hand, fisting up and down Cyrus’ cock in careful, precise jerks that had Cyrus biting down whimpers.
All pretense of “helping” him in the bathroom was out the window. Cryptor readjusted his hold on Cyrus to get more comfortable, leaning back to take more of Cyrus’ weight, supporting him as he embraced him from behind and masturbated with him.
The more scientifically curious part of Cyrus’ mind buzzed with questions. Why was Cryptor doing this? What did he get out of it? Could an android feel sexual pleasure? Was this lust or sadism, or were those things entertwined in Cryptor’s messed-up CPU?
But more than he was curious, Cyrus wanted to escape. No amount of struggling would set him free. This would go on as long as Cryptor wanted it to.
He tried not to make any sounds that might convince Cryptor he was enjoying any of this. But the groans built up in the back of his throat anyway, an unavoidable response to the nonstop attention Cyrptor was giving his dick. It had been too long, his body was so hungry for touch, even an unwanted one.
“That’s it. Just let it happen.” Cyrus couldn’t see it, but he could hear the nasty grin in Cryptor’s voice. He was deeply enjoying this power trip, that much was clear.
Despite his horror, Cyrus was getting close. Panting and whining like a whore, his cock twitched in Cryptor’s grip, whose movements became rough as soon as he noticed it, fist nearly beating its base. The abuse left him trembling, blunt fingernails scrabbling at the general’s arm as if that could stop him.
“Hurts,” Cyrus moaned.
Cryptor’s voice was strangely hoarse as he intoned, “You poor thing.”
It was becoming too much. A smooth, slick motion up to the leaky tip, a twist around the glistening head, and just like that Cyrus came, gasping as the orgasm tore through him. When the tide of pleasure-pain receded, it left him exhausted in its wake. Undignified and degraded, he went limp in the general’s embrace. His cum painted the toilet, thick stripes across the seat, some mixing with the water.
Cryptor dragged his fingers through the last sticky drops of semen leaking from Cyrus’s dick, pressing his forefinger and thumb together before pulling them apart to watch the string stretch between them.
“This is not urine.”
It was such a banal statement, Cyrus almost wanted to laugh at the absurdity of it.
“We’re not leaving till you take a piss. Go on. Urinate.”
And now he just wanted to cry.
Though frightened and humiliated, Cyrus tried to obey. He was too tired to fight, too emotionally drained to muster up the courage to do anything but give in. Maybe if he pleased Cryptor by doing what he demanded, he would let him go and this would all be over.
It was hesitant, but eventually he felt the signal that his bladder was ready to expel its contents and—with a shaky exhale—he peed. The sound of fluid hitting the bowl was for a moment the only noise aside from his ragged breathing and the soft hum of Cryptor’s systems, shifting gears and servomotors.
“…Gross,” he remarked. His dirty hand idly caressed the length of Cyrus’ cock while he urinated, endlessly fascinated by the organ.
The stream slowed to a trickle, and then it was over. Cryptor didn’t tuck him back in immediately, continuing to stroke Cyrus though he was too sensitive after just cumming. His little whines that it was “Too much!” and “It hurts!” only spurred the general on. This soon Cyrus physically could not get hard again, but Cryptor stubbornly wanted to make him cum a second time.
“Why won’t it get erect?” Cryptor asked, reaching lower to fondle the neglected testes. “Are you malfunctioning?”
Cyrus jerked back like he’d been stung. “It doesn’t work that way! Th-there’s a refu— refractory period, I can’t…”
“Really? That’s a stupid design flaw. How long until you can go again?”
“A week at least, maybe a month!” Cyrus lied. “Now let me go! Please! Why aren’t you satisfied?”
A punishing squeeze. “Don’t forget where you are! You belong to my Lord. And since I am His second-in-command, that means you also belong to me. I will do whatever I want to you. What are you gonna do? Stop me? You can’t! You are defective, your body is weak, you’re nothing but a broken toy.”
If Cyrus had known this is where his engineering would eventually lead… molested by the bastard child of his own invention in a bathroom… Oh, but he could not possibly have known what cruel jokes the future waited to tell. All he set out to do was change the world for the better. Something about the road to hell being paved with good intentions. Here was the proof of the idiom: Cyrus squirming and whimpering as this bloodthirsty machine abused his body.
“This is where animals like you belong. Serving us, pleasing us. You’ll accept your place beneath me once I break your feeble spirit.” The imprint of teeth, dulled by the fabric of his mask, ghosted along the man’s neck. Cyrus’ eyes were wild like a jackrabbit, his lungs heaving air and his arms pushing ineffectively at the predator who captured him.
“No,” the man denied, vehemently.
As he continued to massage the oversensitive parts to the point of torture, Cryptor backed away from the toilet and sat down, leaned against the wall, his other hand coming up to wrap around the man’s neck. Cyrus started to hyperventilate though Cryptor did not yet choke him, afraid of the threat hovering over his windpipe.
“If I had a cock I’d fuck you with it right now,” Cryptor snarled. “I’d make you scream. I’d rip you apart, I’d make you bleed! It’s what you deserve!”
They both knew it was no bluff. Cyrus began to feel faint, the lights too bright, the dread suffocating him. Claws settled dangerously close, carving stripes on his neck, the cold kiss of a metal palm sealing over his throat. Then Cryptor’s hold constricted, cutting off Cyrus’ airflow.
“GRK-!!”
They were so close, so intimate as Cryptor forced Cyrus’ head back against his shoulder. His lonely eye, blood-red and burning, glared at Cyrus’ wild terror. The man scratched at his forearm but could not pry the hand away from his throat. Cryptor laughed at the pathetic display.
‘Please,’ Cyrus mouthed. The fear of death drew a fog over his mind—all he could focus on was the pressure on his throat, the pain building in his lungs as his aborted attempts at breathing brought no air.
“My Master still needs you.” Cryptor released the man’s throat, who swallowed air too quick and started coughing. “Did you really think I was going to kill you? No…. I want to keep you around a little longer, anyway.” His eye creased above a hidden smile. “You may be a broken toy, but you’re still fun to play with.”
He finally let go of Cyrus’ ruddy, abused cock, only to lift the dirty hand to Cyrus’ mouth. Through a haze of unfocussed vision and lightheadedness, Cyrus stared at the digits hovering in front of his face.
“Are you stupid? Go on, lick them clean.”
Drifting, distant, Cyrus opened his mouth and let Cryptor jam his fingers in there.
The bitter tastes of semen and urine stained his tongue as he sucked and licked. Saliva pooled in the back of his mouth.
“Dirty bitch…” Cryptor sounded almost sick with lust. “Keep going…”
Obediently, seeing the world a blur around him, Cyrus ran his tongue over Cryptor’s palm.
Once he decided his hand was clean enough, Cryptor grabbed a fistful of Cyrus’ hair and pushed his face into the streaks of cum on the toilet seat. “Clean this too,” he hissed out.
Cyrus’ tongue darted out against the cold seat. The unforgiving weight of Cryptor’s body pressed against him from behind, as close as he could get. And the machine shivered with desire.