You stand on a glowing platform in a lab surrounded by computers and other equipment. The machinery is all bent towards a single purpose: your robotification. I turn a switch and a plexiglass tube, studded with technology inside and out, slides down around you, sealing you in. Your conversion has begun. A pair of thick clamps shoot out and seal around your wrists, pulling them to your sides. Micromolecular wires pierce your flesh with a brief sting of pain. They attach to your nerve endings and spread quickly through your system, altering cellular pathways and transforming nearby tissue into metallic circuitry. A pair of flexible electronic tubes slide up from the floor, then clamp shut across your calves and ankles. Similar monofilament wires break through the skin and began their invasion. You are now held fast to the ground.
A wide belt slides around and cinches off you waist. A computerized box on the front sends down a tentacled cable, which slides effortlessly into you sex and attaches itself to the tissue there. It sends a low electric current through the nerves, sensitizing them to the point of ecstasy. Your pain vanishes, to be replaced by pleasure as every nerve in your vaginal wall lights up.
At the same time, a pair of diodes attached to flexible metal cables snakes up your sides and attaches themselves to your breasts. A spiderweb of circuits shoots out across their expanse, trapping the globes of your chest in its grip. The interface equipment connecting you to my computer remotes will be located there.
A metallic helmet slides down and cuts off your sight. The headgear is connected to unseen machinery above by a thick strand of cables, and had a solid black faceplate that completely covers your eyes. Beams shoot into your ocular cavities and began adjusting your vision, while a pair of tiny radio transmitters are planted in your ears. Another cable slides down and inserts itself into the base of your neck. Entering your spine, it shoots a glittering arc of microscopic computer circuits into your brain. Now the very core of your being is open to the robotification process.
The first to go is your pleasure center, the area which regulates endorphins and other chemicals to your body. Once the circuitry attaches itself, it begins sending jolts of pleasure through your body, in time with the changes the conversion makes. The pain fades, to be replaced by utter bliss. Each new transistor or transformative wire sends a ripple of ecstasy through you. If you were struggling against the process, the struggles become more rhythmic, less forced as your essence slowly transforms to its new matrix.
The circuitry in your brain begins issuing commands, overriding your personality in favor of robotic programming. Your thoughts and feelings are replaced by binary codes of ones and zeros telling you how to act, how to move, and whom to obey. Each new command is accompanied by a burst of endorphins, so fighting the process becomes difficult. Accepting the code means increased pleasure, as the programming sends a preprocessed orgasm through your body every time you stop fighting it.
More circuitry is being added by the minute, designed to replace and improve upon your natural abilities: hydraulic boosters in the muscles of your thighs, oxygen converters in the chambers of your lungs, increased reflex reactions in every corner of your body. They heighten your physical abilities far beyond what you would have dreamed possible. You cannot acknowledge any of it, though. Your thoughts are quickly being reduced to the cold, hard logic of machinery - accepting input, following orders, processing algorithms. The part of your mind which might still resist the process were now overwhelmed with pleasure, a pleasure that will never abate for as long as you live. You now live to obey your new master. Your only thoughts are following his orders to the letter.
Your body stops writhing, commanded to by the condition of your reprogramming. The diodes on your breasts buzz and hum while the rest of the robotification equipment completes the transformation of your body. Finally the machinery stops. The cables and wires detach themselves and returned to their former positions. The helmet slides up from your face, revealing eyes that glow an inhuman white. Here and there, the sheen of metal or glitter of circuitry pokes through your skin. But not enough to disguise your gorgeous curves or the powerful muscles beneath - muscles which would now serve your master.
“Fembot.Unit.JB1.online.” you speak in a robotic monotone, your voice devoid of emotion. “Awaiting.orders.master.”
You step out of the conversion tube. As a new fembot, you no longer need food, water or air. Nor do you sweat, urinate or otherwise excrete. I order you into the bedchamber where you will pleasure me for the remainder of the night. You move smoothly, but unmistakably artificially. Each footstep is exactly the same length, your hips sway back and forth at precisely identical angles, your chest rises and falls with circuitry-controlled automation.
Once in the bedchamber, you proceed with your new duties. Eventually, you will serve other duties, such as bodyguarding or procuring more robotification subjects, but for now, your primary function is as a sex machine. You have been programmed in extensive forms of stimulation, for oral and anal to more traditional styles. Because of your new form, you know exactly where to touch me, exactly how to achieve the greatest possible pleasure; it’s all been programmed in.
Once you have completed your tasks, I hand you your new clothes: a tight
silver bikini bottom and matching athletic top. You move robotically to
the corner and place your hands on your hips. I activate sleep mode and
you remain frozen in place until activated again. If you performed adequately,
I set you on an orgasm loop-cycle before shut down. Though your robotic
façade never changes, a cascade of pleasure washes constantly down
your circuits for the length of your shut down. You live a constant sheen
of ultimate stimulation until your next reactivation. If you have performed
inadequately, you are merely inactive: an unthinking void until your next