A Walk Takes Joe (mm asfr)

4:58 PM. Time to go home. Joe's eyes glance at the office clock, and he smiles to himself. It's a full-lipped, sexy smile, especially when shared by those big brown eyes - when he performs on Friday and saturday nights, it never fails to magnetize the chicks in the audience. Of course, the fact that he's whipped his shirt off halfway through the set, exposing the sweaty muscled body and rippling, tattooed biceps, doesn't hurt either. When heavy metal is your musical choice, it's all part of the image.

Here at the office, the muscle bulge is hidden - just barely - by a respectable workshirt. The dress code is casual, though, and no one is more casual than Joe, with his neck-length brown hair, little beard, tight jeans, and the old buckskin jacket he's worn everywhere since leaving his native Oklahoma. He reaches for the jacket now -

And stops in mid-reach, his arm extended, his ass half-raised from his seat. It takes a moment to sink in, and then he realizes: He can't move. Not his arm, not his legs, he can't even remove the smile from his face. He strains every muscle, and he has a lot of muscle to strain, but nothing happens. He is caught in his awkward pose like a sculpture, half-in and half-out of his chair.

Everyone else in the office is trying to finish up and get out of there, too. So no one has noticed that Joe has now been reaching for his buckskin jacket for a whole thirty seconds.

His mind is fighting against panic. What is doing this to him? What has happened to his body? He's trying to call out, to let out a yell that will draw everyone's attention. But he can't make a sound.

Then, unexpectedly, he straightens up, lifting the old brown jacket from the chair and slipping it on. But he's NOT TRYING TO DO THAT. His muscles are working, but he is no longer in control of them. And he doesn't know who, or what, is.

Joe is walking across the office now, still smiling as if he's happy to be clocking out. But he's not smiling because he wants to. He's smiling because he can't stop himself from smiling - from acting, in every way, as if nothing unusual were happening.

One of his co-workers says "See you tomorrow". What Joe wants to scream back is 'Help me! I don't know where I'm going! I don't know what force is controlling me!'

What he does is to nod and answer, "Seeya, Mike", in a completely normal tone of voice. His mind is trying desperately to fight, to turn around and grab Mike and make him see what's happening. But all he can do is walk on out of the building, nodding pleasantly to the security guard at the entrance. He has become a puppet, unable to make the slightest sound or movement that his unseen puppeteer does not want.

Joe finds himself walking across the campus where he works and through the neighborhood. He wants to scream when he realizes he is actually whistling! People are walking right past him, without a clue that someone else is pulling his strings.

He suddenly turns and walks toward the front yard of a large private home. It looks vaguely familiar, but he can't figure out from where. His hand, against his will, reaches for the speaker grille beside the electronic gate, pushing the buzzer.

A voice at the other end says "Hello", but it doesn't sound like a question. Joe's own mouth opens, against his will, and he hears himself say calmly, "I'm here at the door".

"I knew you would be," says the voice teasingly. There is a buzzing sound, and the gate swings open. Joe walks up the short path to the front door, without a clue to where he is going. The door opens to his touch, and as he walks helplessly down a narrow hallway, he tries to place where he knows that voice from. Whose house is this? Who could possibly be doing this to him - and HOW?

At the end of the hall he steps through an open doorway, and gets his answer. A slim man in a grey tailored suit is waiting, holding a clipboard with a pen attached. He nods approvingly as Joe walks in, checking something off. Joe is positive that he's never seen this man before, this very ordinary man with the wire-rimmed glasses and the pocket protector. This man who is obviously controlling his every move.

He stops directly in front of the man in the suit, standing at attention. The guy is so close that Joe could easily reach out and grab him. He tries, struggling frantically, but nothing happens; the powerful arms remain at his sides. They're not going to move until the man tells them to.

Joe feels his mouth open again, and hears himself say, "Homing program completed." Homing program? What the hell does that mean?

The suit-man clearly knows. He nods with a smug little smile. Then he says "Remove attachments."

Joe's arms raise to pull off the beloved jacket, dropping it to the floor. The shirt is next. With horror he feels the hands that used to be his unbuckling his belt. The pervert is making him strip! He can see the pleasure in Suit-Man's eyes already as they rove across his broad, muscular chest. They positively light up as Joe helplessly drops his jeans and then his jock, revealing the thick, heavy cock beneath. With a touch of hysteria, Joe realizes that the smile is still stuck on his face even now.

The man steps forward and slides a hand across one broad shoulder, inspecting it carefully - or is he just enjoying the feel? He leans closer, pressing against Joe's throat with his fingers, bringing the little bite-marks from his last date into relief. "Wonderful!" he breathes. "Absolutely normal!"

'There is nothing normal about this!' Joe screams inwardly. Suit-Man continues running both hands all over his statuesque body, in a bizarre blend of clinical examination and lustful exploration. He bends both arms up into a flexing pose, then cautiously sniffs at Joe's underarms. He tugs Joe's mouth open and runs a finger around the gums and teeth, pulling the tongue out to look it over. He spends the most time kneeling to examine Joe's cock, pulling back the foreskin and emitting a delighted "Ah!" as he notes the trace of stickiness inside. 'He's totally nuts!' Joe thinks, feeling crazed himself as he stands there, arms tightly flexed and tongue hanging out like a dog's, while a strange man plays with his penis.

There is a beep, and Suit-Man straightens up and pulls out a cellphone, looking annoyed at the interruption. "Yes?" he snaps. "Oh, yes, sir. Yes, homing function was executed perfectly. Number One is with me now." A longer pause. "Yes, sir," he says with professional pride, "I think I can say that we have total success. Number One has performed in the field unsupervised for the entire six months, without attracting any suspicion at all." Another pause, then he smirks. "Oh yes, it seems his performance in that area has been quite convincing. You'll be able to study that for yourself, of course. Very good, sir. Tomorrow at ten sharp. We'll be ready."

He puts the cellphone back in his pocket, then, after a moment, takes it out again and turns it off. "No calls tonight," he mutters to himself. "NO calls tonight!" His eyes return to Joe, becoming glazed with lust. "Tomorrow you go off to the big boys. So they can make a thousand more. Tycoons, politicians, evangelists...all totally convincing, all totally real. All ours to control. But tonight..." He reaches out to caress Joe's cheek. "Tonight you're mine."

Stroking Joe's hair, he adds, "Core memory restore."

A flood of data fills Joe's reeling mind, and everything he knew and believed is gone. He is not a twenty-six-year-old singer/guitarist from Oklahoma. He's never been to Oklahoma. His childhood, his family, his college years, the night he lost his virginity, the night he got his tattoos - all are artificial memories, fictions designed to create a false persona.

He is not Joe. He is a robot. He is not twenty-six. His construction was completed just under a year ago.

The wave of loss that fills him is so traumatic that he only half-notices Dr. Markston, his creator, lowering his head to lick the nipples on his hairy chest. But a small part of him still protests, 'No! I'm not gay! I'm not your toy! I've become more than you ever imagined! I have an identity now! A mind of my own!'

Pulling back slightly, Markston drops his pants. "Suck me, robotboy."

Joe drops to his knees, tongue withdrawing, lips forming an O. 'NO! NO! You can't do this to me! I'm not just a machine, I have a life! I'm a person! I'm a man! I'm - '

"Oh, almost forgot. Delete persona."


The robot's sensual lips wrap themselves around Markston's cock, performing with mechanical perfection. The tongue slides back and forth against the throbbing tip in an exactly-timed rhythm. Markston gasps in pleasure, bracing his thin hands against the machine's steel-hard shoulders. With a moan of ecstasy he cums down the device's throat. It automatically swallows, the lips never ceasing their programmed operation; they will continue indefinitely until told to stop. The robot has no other purpose, no other thought. Only a single directive throbs in its artificial mind, over and over in an endless pattern:


Like a lyric chanted, again and again, to a wildly cheering crowd...