Throbby Robby (asfr)
Copyright © 2015 z119z. All rights reserved. This story may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the author.
That's all the man has to say. It's 3:00 a.m. at the other end of the line. His call woke the Throbby Robby. He can hear the sleepiness in the Robby's hesitant "hello," sleepiness mingled with worry—only bad news could make someone call this late at night—and annoyance at being roused from a sound sleep. Both vanish when the man says the trigger words. The Robby gasps as the preprogrammed moment of pleasure kicks in. A second later he turns his phone off.
The man could program the Throbby Robbies to set a unique ringtone for his calls or train them to recognize his phone number. Either could function as a trigger and initiate the sequence of responses. But that would deprive him of a moment of satisfaction. He enjoys letting the Robbies have a last second or two of freedom and then hear them succumb. That's what gives him pleasure—knowing that the Robbies are helpless to resist. Once the man says the trigger words, the Robby on the other end of the phone comes under his control, unable to struggle against the programming, unable even to conceive of struggling against it. It's the inevitability of their submission that pleases him, the knowledge that he has trained them so thoroughly that their compliance is automatic. One second they are independent men; the next second they are his puppets. The small gasps, the little moans, they make as he takes control are only the first in a series of rewards for himself that demonstrate his triumph over each of the Throbby Robbies.
The man turns toward his monitors. Several hundred miles away the Robby is rousing his computer from the sleep mode (he trains the Robbies to leave their computers on and prepared for action). Shortly this particular Robby will type in the code words that grant him access to the man's secret website. It will take the Robby's computer a minute or so to cycle through all the steps and activate the program fully. Once the Robby clicks on the link, his next act is automatic—he positions himself in the preprogrammed spot, ready to perform. For the next hour, the Robby will be the man's personal entertainment machine.
The man waits patiently. It won't be long now. There—the Robby appears on the man's three wall-mounted, large-screen monitors. The program has turned on the Robby's three webcams. Each camera shows the man a different view of the Robby. One focuses on the Robby's face and another on his groin; the third camera shows a three-quarters view of the Robby's body. A fourth, smaller monitor on his desk shows the man what the Robby is seeing on his own screen—the video the man's computer is sending to the Robby's computer. He ignores that screen. He knows what the Robby is seeing, and he is here to watch the Robby, not his own broadcast. He adjusts the volume on his speakers until he can hear the Robby breathing.
The man likes to watch and to listen. There are days when he triggers a dozen Robbies. Remote control fascinates him—and arouses him. He has Throbby Robbies all over the globe. Knowing that some of his Robbies are ten thousand miles away yet as close as a trigger phrase titillates him. He can summon them at any time. He could order a Throbby Robby to come to him, to perform for him in person. He does that a few times a year, but why limit himself to the few who live locally?
The man acknowledges that he is a visual person. He likes pornography. He prefers watching and listening from a distance to physical contact. There is a messiness in the meeting of bodies that repels him. The performers on his monitors don't smell, they don't fart, they don't rub their sweaty bodies over him, their juices don't drip all over him. He doesn't have to talk with them. He doesn't have to risk contact. If he discovers that his choice is not quite what he wanted, he can terminate the program and call another Robby.
Plus he likes variety. Sometimes he is in a mood for a big, hairy gorilla; sometimes he wants a smooth twink. Often he doesn't know what he wants until he sits down before his computer and pages through the catalog of Robbies. He doesn't want to limit himself to the handful of Robbies that might be available locally at that moment; he doesn't want to wait for them to travel to him. Where else but online could he find the spectrum of men to fulfill all his cravings?
And if there is something about the physical appearance of a Robby he doesn't like, he can always make the Robby change it. In fact, knowing that his mental reprogramming of the Robby is so complete that he can make the Robby alter his appearance adds to the pleasure he receives from a performance. The man knows that most people would turn away in disgust from the once-svelte twink he turned into a sumo wrestler. Most people would see only a freak, a grotesque of triple chins, sagging boobs, and rolls of fat hiding his groin. But the man sees a puppet whose mind he controls, and it is the control that arouses him, not the Robby's body. Or the massive bodybuilder whose roided-up body now wears a suit of tattoos from the top of his head to the soles of his feet. Even that Robby's eyelids are fluttering testaments of submission and obedience to the man's ownership.
Or take the Robby now appearing on the monitors. The man congratulates himself on what he has achieved with this Robby. The exercise program is having good results. The Robby loves to exercise now. He never misses his daily workout. His shaved body highlights the considerable gain in mass that he has achieved in the three years since the man took control of his life. His definition is superb—each muscle stands out clearly—and the veins cording his body attest to its hardness.
The man wouldn't have it any other way. A Robby's appearance is one of the rewards he gives himself for all the work he puts into each subject, all the hours spent writing hypnosis scripts for each individual Robby, all the hours spent recording them, all the programming that delivers each Robby to him whenever he wants.
The man always wakes the Robbies in the middle of their night. All of them live alone—now. Many of Robbies had a partner or a roommate or lived with their family when the man began programming them. He always makes the Robbies sever all relationships. That's not at all difficult. Once they experience the pleasures the man gives them, they are only too happy to abandon friends, family, lovers—anyone who might disturb their performance for him.
They have to be ready to perform when he triggers them. That is why he has trained them to sleep in the nude. He doesn't allow them to waste time getting undressed. None of them questions this. It is simply what each of them does. No fully trained Robby feels comfortable wearing clothes to bed. They have forgotten that they once may have worn clothes at night. As far as they are concerned, they have always slept in the nude. They associate sleep with nudity so strongly that they literally cannot entertain the notion of wearing clothes in bed.
On the monitors, the Robby stares at his computer screen, waiting. His face is blank, his body motionless—for now. The man likes to savor each Robby for a few minutes before the performance begins.
Off to the side, a flicker of images on the small screen briefly captures the man's attention. Good. The video has started. On the screen the Robby is watching, an image of path through a forest has appeared. The man filmed the video years ago as he walked along a path through a forest. Someone not trained to be a Throbby Robby would see only a video recording of a walk through a woods. But the Robby isn't watching a video. He thinks he is actually walking through the woods. He isn't seeing the recording—he is experiencing it.
The Robby feels his body saunter along the path, his stance adjusting automatically to the uneven surface, the muscles of his thighs lifting and straightening each leg in turn, propelling his body forward along the path. The ground is firm but slightly damp and chilly beneath his bare feet. His arms hang loosely by his sides, swinging freely in cadence with his steps. Occasionally a tuft of grass or the leaves of a bush growing beside the path brush against his ankles and calves. The day is warm, and the dappled sunlight streaming through the branches of the trees glides over his torso. He hears the breeze rustling the leaves of the trees overhead, the chirping of birds flitting through the woods, the buzz of insects. He smells the moist odors of ground and the sharper scents of bark and leaves. For him the walk is real.
Every ten seconds, the image is overprinted with the words "good boy." Every time the Throbby Robby sees the words, a jolt of pleasure surges through his body. Every time he feels the wave of pleasure, he goes deeper and deeper into trance. The deeper the trance, the greater the Robby's pleasure. At first, he simply wants the pleasure. Then he begins to desire it more and more until he needs it, until he will do anything just to experience the pleasure again. Without hesitation, the Robby surrenders. He moves beyond conscious thought. His free will dissolves. He submits. He obeys. The pleasures of submission and obedience—total unthinking, unresisting, exuberant obedience to his programming—overwhelm his senses, his mind, his body. He trembles with anticipation of the joys he will soon experience.
The walk lasts fifteen minutes. The man is in no hurry. He enjoys the performance—the movements of the Robby's eyes as his attention is caught by a detail of the path along which he thinks he is walking, the smiles that play across his lips each time he sees the words "good boy," the moans and groans that begin to escape his throat. The camera focusing on his groin captures the swelling of his cock. At first, the Robby's cock merely rolls from side to side as the Robby shifts his hips in time to his imagined steps. Then it begins to stiffen—not much at first, it mustn't happen immediately. An immediate, full erection would spoil the pleasure the man finds in anticipation. The Robby enjoys the feeling of his cock gradually growing heavier. It swings less easily as it hardens. At ten minutes into the walk, it has risen to half mast, the head pointing directly at the camera focused on the Robby's groin. The swinging of his balls beneath his cock, the rubbing of his ass cheeks past each other as his buttocks tense and relax as he walks, the contraction and hardening of his nipples as puffs of cooler air play across his chest—all these arouse the Robby. But more and more his focus narrows to his cock as it lengthens, as it rears up.
For the man, each action demonstrates his power over the Robby, and that is what tantalizes the man. Each action is a small pleasure in a familiar sequence of pleasures. He never tires of watching his Throbby Robbies. They belong to him, and his ownership arouses him. They submit to him and obey him, and their submission and obedience excite him. All over the world, Throbby Robbies wait for the trigger words that bring them under his control, an army of robots—his robots—who love to perform for him.
At fifteen minutes, the path emerges into a clearing. On the other side of the clearing is a log cabin. The Robby's cock oozes a drop of pre-cum when he sees the silvery gray hue of the weathered logs and the moss growing on the time-blackened cedar shingles. He feels a tickle of heat as pre-cum forms into a bead on the tip of his cock. The sticky drop slowly falls onto his thigh and clings there. He gazes in wonder as the thread linking the drop on his leg to his cock glistens in the sunlight.
The Robby walks across the clearing and mounts the three steps up to the covered porch extending across the front of the cabin. It is cooler under the roof, darker, damper. The flesh on the Robby's arms contracts into goose bumps, lifting the fine, sun-bleached down that covers his tanned forearms.
A stone holds the door of the cabin propped open against the breeze. The interior of the cabin is dim and obscure. Only a subdued light comes through the windows. The Robby steps inside. It takes a few seconds for his eyes to adjust. Ahead of him is a table. On the table is a glass jar. The Robby identifies it as a quart canning jar because the program long ago told him that is what it is. The label on the side of the jar has his name on it. The jar is slightly over half filled with a viscous white substance. On the wall ahead of the Robby are hundreds of similar jars, each with a different man's name on it, each with a different level of the white substance. Some of the jars are almost full. Some hold only a quarter- or a half-inch at the bottom.
The Robby unscrews the ring around the top of his jar and pries off the lid. In his mind, he bends over the jar and inserts his cock into it.
The Robby hears the man repeating "good boy" over and over. The Robby has been programmed to experience the man's voice as a caress, a kiss. "Good boy" makes every nerve on his body send messages of delight to his brain. "Good boy" is a fingernail stroking one of his nipples. "Good boy" is a tongue licking his throat. "Good boy" is a pair of lips kissing him. "Good boy" is a mouth on his cock, the tongue rubbing against the head as the entire shaft is engulfed by smooth, fluid heat. "Good boy" is a firm, sinuous tongue rimming him, the wet tip penetrating him. "Good boy" is a hard, cock gliding over his tongue and down into his throat. "Good boy" is a throbbing cock impaling him.
The man watches the Robby's body writhe. The muscles contract and spasm as the programmed scenario plays out in the Robby's mind. For thirty minutes the Robby's body contorts as it tries to absorb the pleasure being pumped into it. The Robby cannot cum until the program runs its course. The man is in no hurry. He likes to watch. He likes to listen.
On the screen the Robby's moans grow louder and louder. His body bucks and heaves as the cocks slam into him. The Robby's cock convulses as the programming holds him back and prevents him from cumming. The cocks inside his mouth and ass grow larger and larger until they are splitting him apart. He feels no pain, just joy. His mind grows dimmer and dimmer until he is only an idea of pleasure rotating on a spit of cocks. A continuous groan hums in his chest. His body throbs.
The Robby never touches himself. He doesn't have to. He experiences a myriad of lovers stimulating every part of his body, invading him. He deep-throats a cock and sucks his cheeks in until his lips, tongue, and mouth mold themselves tightly around the cock. He shoves his ass back against the groin of the man fucking him, greedy for more. He thrusts his own cock ferociously into the mouth of the man sucking him. He gives his body up to the hands stroking him, the mouths kissing him, the tongues licking him—the devouring angels and demons tormenting him with every pleasure the man can imagine.
Cum erupts from the Robby's cock. On the man's screens, it arcs upward and then is pulled down by the force of gravity until it disappears off-screen. The Robby shoots four streams of cum from his cock. This is followed by a series of diminishing spasms that force more cum from his body. The last drops of cum pool on the tip of his cock. In the Robby's mind, he has shot his cum into the collection jar.
The orgasm blows the Robby's mind—a mental explosion of dynamite inside the Robby. Each of the Robbies finds the orgasms he has while performing for the man far more intense than the orgasms he used to have physically. A physical orgasm doesn't compare with the mind-gasm. That's what keeps the Robbies cumming back. That's why they cooperate so enthusiastically in their own enslavement.
The man relishes the control he has over the Throbby Robbies. He can make them do anything. They exist for him, even though they don't know that. They have forgotten his existence. They have forgotten the moment they found the three introductory audio files on that website for "erotic hypnosis." They have forgotten listening to the files and then contacting the man. They have forgotten that the man asked them to test a few experimental files for him. They have forgotten how flattered they were to be asked and how eagerly they cooperated in their own entrapment. They have forgotten all the hours they spent listening to the tapes until their free will was destroyed and they no longer had a choice about their future. They were so happy to become Throbby Robbies.
The man loves the power he has over the Robbies. He loves their helplessness, their inability to resist. They are his puppets, his marionettes, his army, his robots, his subjects, his slaves. His mindless, will-less, obedient Throbby Robbies. His control over them—their submission, their obedience—is his orgasm.
On the screens, the Robby's breathing slows. Finally he is able to stand up again. He removes his cock carefully from the jar, squeezing the last drops into it. He screws the lid back on again. The level in the jar has risen slightly. When he fills this jar, he will begin another.
The man says "Good boy" one final time. The Robby closes the program. The images disappear from the man's screen. He knows that the Robby will walk away. He will go back to bed. Already the Robby has forgotten what just happened. He will wake up in a few hours, refreshed and ready to face his day with enthusiasm. He will not think about the man. He will not be aware of the man's existence—until the man calls him again and triggers him.
(Comments are appreciated. Please leave one here or email it to me at firstname.lastname@example.org.)