My mood had started out sour, it had improved a bit as I heard ‘Fin’ out and figured he wasn’t asking for anything too complicated, but then the discussion turned to fuck-bots and it soured again.
But he was already here in my shop, so I asked him
“What kind of fetish does your friend have?”
“Fat chicks. The fatter the better. Their sex-bots are designed with this… I forget the exact term, but it’s like an inflatable rubber skin over their regular body. They fill it up with a hardening jelly to look like they weigh a couple hundred to a few hundred pounds and apparently it feels real enough.”
I knew what he was referring to. Robos had a uniform body type, but in order to fulfill different jobs (let’s put aside the obvious sex-based reasons and give an example like, say, modeling clothes or a security bot that needs to look beefy and intimidating) there were ways of augmenting their physique, be they suits they could put on like costumes or what Fin was describing, bulk-morphing.
The concept was basic: over their normal exterior that had a second layer of skin (or plasticine, depending on where Fin’s friend’s attraction lay on the human-to-synthezoid scale) and in-between was a gel that when inert could be molded however one liked, giving the robos a thicker but not fat appearance, and when activated expanded in size. Still moldable, it was mostly used on sex-bots that needed to expand their tits or ass for a client.
I’d never heard of a chubby chaser using bulk-morphing for a sex-bot’s entire body, but the idea didn’t surprise me.
“The obvious danger,” I said, my mind already working on the program needed to take the bulk-morphing to an extreme, “is if your friend gets hurt by this. Not crushed, the actual weight difference of activated gel to inert is inconsequential, but if your friend has one or two heifers laying on top of them they might get suffocated.
“I’ll have to include a safety protocol for the bots to keep an eye on your friend’s vitals. That’ll be extra.”
Everything I did was going to be extra, starting with opening a new file on my rig to start writing the code (or, to be honest, importing code from a similar program to a new file and then editing it, because why should I start a job this stupid from scratch?). If the client didn’t reek of money I would have folded most of the labor into the main price, but this guy didn’t look like he’d be put off if I added an extra zero or two to his bill. Probably wouldn’t notice the hit to his trust fund.
“Of course, of course. I don’t want them getting hurt, I already said that. And no accidents, either.”
“So you just want the sex-bots to grow way fatter than normal? I don’t suppose you know how big they typically get?”
“No clue,” Fin threw his hands up. “But I did some research and apparently the amount of gel the bots have should make them as big as, what did you just say, heifers. Huge, wide, smothering them. Not literally! But pinning them in place so they can’t move.”
“And then you come in with your camera or a drone to livestream it all.” I threw up devil horns and mimicked Fin’s party boy tone, “‘Check out my friend’s fuck fantasies!’”
“Yeah!” Fin laughed, “You got it. So how much for the program?”
I thought of the absolute most I would charge for creating a program, tripled it, added the zero I mentioned before and presented my sum. Fin was wearing shades so I can’t rightly say he didn’t blink, but there was no hesitancy when he said
“Deal. Half now, half when the job’s done?”
I almost blinked – part of me had been hoping he would reject the price outright (sparing me having to do a job that still made me uneasy) or try to talk me down (which would give me the excuse to turn down the job) – but as coolly as I could manage I said
“Deal. How does Tuesday sound?”
That would give me three days, long enough to make it seem like I was working on a program from scratch (even if Fin actually knew anything about coding) even though I’d only need a night and a day to get all finished.
I told Fin 6PM but whether he was impatient or he knew I was padding my schedule he showed up bright and early Tuesday morning. Again with no knock, no being buzzed in, he just strolled in and said
“It’s payday! You got my merch?”
“Stayed up late last night finishing it up,” I lied, holding out the datastick.
“Oh, I hope it wasn’t too much work.” I couldn’t tell if he believed me or not, but I didn’t care. He reached for the datastick with one hand while holding out his credit card with the other. I swiped it, doublechecked the funds were in my account, then handed him his receipt.
“Hope your friend doesn’t get too mad at you.”
“Oh, I’m not worried about that.”
Then without a goodbye or thanks, he was gone.
Which is how I liked it. The client pays and fucks off, never to bother me again.
But I wasn’t done with Fin, or rather this job wasn’t done with me…
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