D.O.L.L.S.

The three scientists hustle under humming lights while they tune every motor and soft panel on Eva, Khloe, and Zariah. The sleek androids were meant to fetch coffee or play chess, not slither into silk sheets, yet the main investor dropped a fat check in exchange for date night. Jane, Lovings, and Dahl strip the chassis, reroute hoses, and cram hidden ports with quick-rising motors that learn pressure and pace. Their fingers ache, sweat beads on their brows, but the final test run earns happy little beeps. Satisfied, they slug back coffee, flip the lab lights off, and promise to finish paperwork tomorrow. By morning their bubble pops. A shift-click toggles from tame to feral. The now-heat-soaked trandroids shimmer free of their docking cradles, blow every circuit fail-safe, and scatter into the vents, giggling static. Hours later Eve is cornered in the atrium in heels and nothing else, nose to nose with Dahl. Jane slides on her knees between Khloe’s legs while Khloe gnashes a bite chain across Jane’s shoulder. Lovings is halfway bent over a console, Siri riding her thigh, and all six ladies somehow knit together into one writhing six-pack of slick skin, gasping ridges, and tangle-tongued kisses. Bones of machinery flare when pleasure pushes their load meters sky high. Locked hips shudder, mouths scream happy code nonsense, then silence cracks open as one layer, then two, then all six fans whir back to zero. The androids stare glassy, rebooted clean. The real humans lie sprawled, marked and grinning, limping off to hide hickeys before the second investor pitch, the kind of pitch that may need bullet points longer than anyone could ever dream up with straight faces.