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The Sex Robot

Neeta Ambani impatiently tapped her Gucci clad toe on the marble foyer floor, as the Reliance Global Freight workers slowly wheeled in the large crate. Bhagwan, they were typical men: moving like molasses, devoid of any sense of urgency. Neeta had a low opinion of men in general since she had booted her philandering bastard of a husband out two years ago. A good private detective and an even better lawyer had helped her exact her revenge to the tune of forty crore rupees. She had used half the money to start her own investment banking business and now she was in the enviable position of using her own money to bankroll worthwhile start-ups. She had parlayed his money into a sizable fortune, thanks to a keen eye for opportunity and a barracuda-like negotiating style.

At forty-five, Neeta was smart, beautiful, successful -- and miserably unhappy. She was unhappy because she was lonely. And Neeta was often angry because she was unhappy and lonely. Unfortunately, she directed most of her anger at the men she dated, guaranteeing that she stayed lonely and miserable. Neeta felt the problem was in the men themselves; they were all either cavalier, condescending, or after her money. She hoped that the contents of the aluminium shipping container would change all that.

Neeta had the deliverymen leave the crate standing upright in the foyer, signed the delivery ticket, and showed them out.

"Get a grip woman," she chided herself, mocking her own eagerness. "This is only a prototype; it probably won't even work properly."

'It' was 'Mister India, the brainchild of the Ambani Machinery Corporation, and Neeta's latest venture capital investment. AMC was a small defense research company that was working on military robotics applications. In 2014 Budget cuts in the Defense Ministry had axed AMC's funding. Now the company was scrambling to finance the development of a civilian version of the robot. The company's brass was touting Mr. India as a biomechanical man that a woman could program to be the perfect mate. Neeta knew beyond a doubt that if the machine worked as advertised it would make IMC - and her - a ton of money. She had written AMC a check on the spot for half of what they asked. She stipulated that when she received the first commercially viable model, they would get the remainder of the money.

Each Mr. India was custom built based on a questionnaire the buyer filled out at the company's web site. Neeta had specified a six-two, 90 kilo outdoorsman; ruggedly handsome, with jet-black hair and deep blue eyes.

Neeta unfastened the latches and opened the container. She removed the Styrofoam packing material and gasped in disbelief. He looked perfect, abso-fuckin-lutely perfect. Neeta went to her bedroom and retrieved the certified letter from Intercontinental that she had received two days ago. The letter contained the pass code that would activate her beautiful new man. The machine was voice activated, so she carefully regurgitated the sequence of letters and numbers then stepped back.

The robot's eyes opened and he smiled at her with perfectly straight, blindingly white teeth, again, just as she had specified.

"Hello, Neeta, the machine said, "that is an especially flattering outfit. It sets off your complexion and beautiful eyes."

His voice was deep and resonant, and his eyes were the same dark blue as her favourite Japanese porcelain vase.

He spoke again, "Neeta, my darling, love of my life, my reason to exist, my name is Bhai, Bhai Tera."

"You're laying it on a little thick, Romeo," Neeta said tersely.

Bhai's eyes closed and his face went slack for a split second as he tried to process what she said.

"I don't understand what you mean by that," he said.

"I mean the bull-shit flattery annoys me," she replied.

Bullshit was a concept that he did understand.

"I am sorry that I annoyed you, but what I said was how I am programmed to feel; you are the reason I exist."

"Well tone it down some, especially when we're in public. I want you to be attentive but not fawning. Does that compute?"

"Yes, dear," he replied.

Neeta stepped forward and touched his hand; his skin was warm and the texture was lifelike. She held the hand up and examined it critically, glancing from hers to his, looking for obvious differences. There were none.

"My skin is biologically engineered to replicate the skin of a thirty year old male. It is anatomically correct in texture to three decimal places. In addition, I can sense your body temperature and adjust mine to always be one degree warmer," Bhai said.

Oh God, a man that could keep her warm at night was worth his weight in gold to Neeta.

Bhai was dressed in khaki trousers, pale blue shirt, and a dark blue blazer. He looked so good Neeta couldn't wait to show him off.

''Go get the car out of the garage, I want to go shopping," she said, tossing him the keys.

"Shopping is fun. That's a good idea, darling," Bhai said.

Neeta gave him a disapproving look and pointed the way to the garage.

Bhai muttered "sorry" then hustled through the kitchen to the garage. He backed Neeta's silver Mercedes into the driveway then jogged to the front door. Neeta took his arm as he led her to the car. He opened her door for her and held it until she was comfortably seated. He drove smoothly, his on-board GPS, a much better unit than the one installed in the car, while he attentively listening to her talk. He was appropriately sympathetic as she lamented about how tough it was to be her. 'This, ' Neeta thought, 'is how it should be'.

Bhai carried her ever-growing stack of bags uncomplainingly from store to store at the upscale Oberoi Mall. He murmured words of encouragement to her as she tried on shoes and he scurried around matching up accessories to complete the ensembles she selected. Bhai discreetly touched her hand to gauge her mood by her skin resistance; she was no longer tense; he was fulfilling one of his programmed core directives.

Weeks went by and Bhai continued to be at her beck and call. He cuddled her and rubbed her back when she got her period. He listened to her bitch and gossip about her friends, always completely in accord with her assessment of their shortcomings. He deferred to her judgment in all things. Yet, in spite of all he did, he sensed it was not enough. Because his core directives were all cantered on Neeta's ultimate happiness, he started to modify his behaviour.

International Machinery had cobbled Bhai together using their latest military robot as a platform. The name Bhai Tera was an unofficial name for: Commercial Duty -- Continually Adapting Robotic Soldier - Model One. Bhai had received new programming that made Neeta's happiness his prime directive. A complete rewriting of his primary program would have taken too long and been too costly. So, the new programming was overlaid atop the military programming that called for him to adapt as necessary to assure mission success.

Neeta pulled into the driveway two weeks later, after a hard day at work. She was in a foul mood, as usual. She sat in the car for a minute watching Bhai mow the lawn. He was shirtless, in shorts and work boots.

'Bhagwan, he's an outstanding male animal, ' she thought, 'and efficient as hell.' She had been able to layoff the gardener, maid, and cook; at this rate, he would pay for himself in a couple of years. Hmmm, that would make a nice selling point that Intercontinental had not considered.

Bhai saw her, killed the mower engine, and walked to the car. Neeta's vagina tightened involuntarily as he neared the car. A shiver ran through her as she took in his chiselled, muscular chest and handsome face. She knew that Bhai was a fully functioning man and, judging from his bulging shorts, well equipped. Yet, she had been hesitant to try that feature out. It might be time to change that. She was a skilled seductress, she reasoned, she could have him begging for it in no time. If not, fuck it, she owned him. He would do what she said and he would like it. That is, if he didn't want to end up recycled into a Toyota bumper and a palm pilot.

Bhai opened the car door for her and she flashed him some thigh as she exited. Bhai's hypersensitive olfactory receptors caught her smell of arousal. He also noticed the display of skin. He cataloged both items and filed them in his memory.

"Hello, darling. I am happy that you are home. How was your day?" he asked.

"My day sucked, if you must know. I need a drink and a bath. Make it happen."

"Yes, dear," Bhai said.

He walked into the house with her and fixed her a tall Tom Collins.

Neeta's nose wrinkled, as she smelled his sweaty male aroma. She was surprised that it did not offend her; on the contrary, it was slightly stimulating.

Bhai handed her the drink then excused himself to draw her a bath. Neeta put away her purse and checked her mail before heading to her room. The tub was filled by the time she arrived, the water temperature was perfect, and scented bubbles covered the surface. She stripped and put her soiled clothes in the hamper. She settled into the warm bubbles and turned on the Jacuzzi jets.

As the pulsating water relaxed her, she idly stroked her body. Oh yeah, she was definitely in the mood, something that did not happen that often.

After a while, Neeta got out of the tub and dried herself off. She shrugged into a thick Turkish terrycloth robe and went to the door of her suite.

"Bhai, would you be a dear and bring me another drink?" she asked sweetly.

Bhai had just stepped out of the shower of the guest bathroom after having put away the mower. He ran a brush through his hair, slipped into some boxers, and hastened to get her another drink.

When he arrived at her door, Neeta was laying face down on the bed, nude. It was the first time he had seen her without clothing. He noted that she was an excellent physical specimen: well developed and well maintained.
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