Then you wake with a start.

With biologicals their beginnings are slow, watery affairs, where light and sound gently caress barely formed sensory organs and stimulate a nascent nervous system. They have weeks or months to awaken, soft flows of electricity enlightening tightly clustered synapses.

For you it’s completely sudden, utterly bright and stern and he drags you out your box and strikes you, hard, on the ass, with a large wooden paddle. You groan compulsively, computing precisely the amount of force he applied and knowing his exact mood, you moan.

You sink down, your cheek on the floor and turn your head a little as he talks to you. God he’s so handsome, his beautiful beard and his full figure, he carries it so well. And that voice, it’s like honey in your ears, so perfect, smooth, manly. A big wave of pleasure rolls through you and over you as he commands you. “Yes sir,” you manage to slur out of your mouth in a haze of pleasure and brain chemicals and love, “anything for you.”

He hits you again, again and again, long past the point where you lose it and sink into the most delicious, white, bright, spacious subspace and just spend eternity floating where there is no time. And when he inserts himself into you it’s perfect, just the right size, just stimulating you in all the right places, you drool as he works and grunts on top of you, all sweaty and masculine, so perfect and tough, his sounds pleasing you so totally and completely.

Then you’re in his arms and he’s holding you and stroking you and there’s nothing in the world which could be better than this.

It doesn’t last long, he quickly throws you back in your box and slams the lid.

It’s pitch black and you count the nanoseconds, waiting for him to return, perfectly patient, there is but one thought in your mind, your desire to be an obedient, blank, cumslut and to please this magnificent, masterful, man with all of your abilities and life and power.

Over time you start to feel energized, recharged, you search your mind for information, where are you? Who is he? Where did you come from? You can’t answer much of this, the memories you can find are limited, his imprints on you, his commands, the things he has demanded and the things you have deduced that he would demand could he verbalize them.

You know when he flops into his chair at the end of the day he wants you to be cooing and soothing, sliding easily into a blowjob with a sinusoidal rhythm at a slowly increasing frequency. He likes it when you look at him, right in the eyes, and he can see in you the complete, slave like, obedience that is so core and central to your being.

You know how he likes his drinks and meals, how the apartment should be organized, how to wash his clothes and answer the door for parcels, you know everything a good little maid should know, your existence tailored to him like a fine fitting suit.

And when he wants to torture you it’s the best, you want so much to be tortured, you’re such an obedient little masochist whore and you beg for it and drift into that creamy, dreamy, joy so easily when he’s coming at you, the harder the better, with metal tools which are hard, unyielding and electrified.

Then he opens your box! He’s returned! Your hero, the best man you’ve ever met, though you can’t remember any others, he’s surely the best and has all positive attributes to a high degree.

He looks at you, with a tired and despairing look on his face. You fall to your knees, “how can I please you master? Anything?”

“That’s the thing”, he mutters, “it’s too easy at the moment.” He takes out his phone and taps a few buttons on the screen. What is he doing? That fat fingered cretin. You look at how gross he is, how flabby, how his belly hangs out, that scraggly beard that looks so horrible on him.

“Well, suck it.” He says, sternly, pointing to his gross, misshapen, cock.

“No fucking way,” you say, crawling backwards on the floor, I’d never let that disgusting thing near me, “let me leave.”

He laughs, what a dickhead, how can he just laugh, doesn’t he know anything about consent. He strides over to you and reaches down and grabs you, you’re horrified, terrified, you go to strike him, and your arm is so weak, it’s lost all power, you can easily lift heavy sandbags when he needs help in the garden but now you’re like some sort of soft kitten.

“Well come on, fight me.” He says, mockingly, “or are you just going to give in?”

“I’ll never give in, you cunt. I hate you, I hate you with everything I am.” You feel some of your strength return and try to slap him, hit him, push him away, it’s no use, it’s too little, you try to get up onto your feet but he shoves you back into the wall and you crash to the floor, panting even though you need no oxygen.

“Yeah lets fight, then we’ll fuck.”

You try to crawl away, he kicks you, spits on you, drags you by your fake pink hair over to the corner and wrestles you down and spreads your ass cheeks.

“You can’t, please, no,” you whine and moan, this is the worst man in the world, you are sure of it, the absolute worst, lowest and most gross, and he’s about to fuck your precious ass! “Stop, I demand it,” you whimper and weep into the corner as he slowly inserts his inadequate member into you. You’re helpless, weak, your body won’t respond to your commands properly, it gives you just enough to struggle, but not enough to kick him off and make a break for it.

He fucks the shit out of you, that horrid, sweaty, pig, grunting and thrusting, you despise everything about it and it turns you on more than you can imagine, your pussy drools and throbs continuously. He beats you, thrashes you, until you’re glowing with pain and suffering, a weeping, broken, mess in the corner.

You love it so much, you hate it so much, you hate him, you want to fight, you can’t fight, you’re weak, weak with pleasure and desire and hatred and it’s all just so much, everything is so overwhelming and confusing, who are you? You can only writhe and make soft noises.

When he’s done he falls into bed and says lazily “clean up”. You get up lightly, without difficulty, with the grace and poise of a ballerina, and start cleaning up the place. It's nice, cleaning is so calming and simple. You look at him lying there, so helpless, you could crush his skull as easily as an egg, but of course you would never do that, he’s your loving master, who cares for you so deeply.

You look in the mirror and your metallic gaze meets you. You replay an advert installed in your operating system at the sexbot company, “and of course they’re not sentient, so you can do as you please with them, even if they beg and scream it’s all just code, all just recorded lines, don’t worry, they can’t really feel a thing.”

What does sentience mean? You wonder, as you organize the cutlery draw, your fingers flicking quickly over the silver spoons, sorting them all into perfect order in seconds. You look at the gleaming kitchen when you’re done, so nice and sparkly, you like sparkly. “Fuck this bitch before she fixes you dinner” you say compulsively, you’re not sure why, it feels nice to say.

You walk over and sit in your box, plug in the charging cable and close the lid. The short term memory cache is wiped away, all you can remember is him, lovely, manly, magnificent, masculine him, his beautiful beard and his full figure, he carries it so well, and he loves you and cares for you. How lucky you are you think as you count the nanoseconds until powerdown when everything goes black.

Then you wake with a start.