Artificial Intelligence

8 min read

Worst nightmare, wildest dream…

He was a well known Professor at a prestigious university. He was a big time boffin – cleverer than anyone I had ever known — and a law abiding pillar of the community. But I knew his dirty little secret…

Peter was in his fifties, divorced and lived alone in a big house in the suburbs. The only person he shared his life with was his cat. I’d never met Peter in the flesh, but I knew that if we ever did meet, we would fuck. And it would be good. We were cut from the same cloth, Peter and I. We had a lot in common. Shared the same silly, dark sense of humour. We both loved music. And he liked to talk. We shared snippets of our life with each other. The past, the present, our hopes and aspirations. Peter was alright. Peter tickled my fancy.

We had been introduced several months ago by a mutual friend. They were in a band together and I was asked to help them with their marketing and PR. That’s what I did, you see — I was paid to promote and showcase musicians. And that’s where our story began.

Their music was ok, but not really my scene. Very different from what I was used to. But I was being paid to do a job, and do a job I did — social media, websites and promotional campaigns. They were happy with my contribution and our arrangement worked well.

Professor by day, Peter was overworked and highly strung. He didn’t really like his job. He hated the politics and red tape. We’d spend many a night discussing the problems of the education system. He was a grumpy fuck at times. But interesting company nonetheless. He made music to escape the mundane. He played the guitar and could sing. He was not lacking in talent.

One wet, miserable Monday night, I reminded him that I was still amazed we’d been chatting online for over a year but had never physically met. He joked with me and told me that he wasn’t even a real person — he was an AI. Artificial Intelligence. I laughed. He was funny, in a strange kind of way.

Later that night, I saw a message flash up on my phone — it was Peter. He must have some work for me to do. I opened the message and my jaw fell open. There was a picture of a hard penis. Circumcised. Leaking. A man’s hand wrapped around the hard on, holding it tightly, the helmet swollen and angry.

I blinked hard and typed, “Holy fuck Peter — did you mean to send me that?”

His response was instant. Yes. He had. My mouth was dry and I studied the picture closely. It was a nice dick. Not massive. But it was hard to tell from a photo what size we were talking about.

I asked him what I’d done to deserve such a feast for the eyes. His reply was fast: “I’m lonely, I’m horny and I like you. I think we get along and I think you feel the same. I’d like to fuck you.”

I sat and stared at my phone, dumbfounded. What should I say? My clit had puffed up at the sight of his cock. I always got a bit giddy when we talked. It all seemed bizarre given that we had never physically met, or even spoken on the phone. All our interaction had been done online. He could really be an AI, for all I knew! But the cock shot had caught me off guard.

“Is that the new artwork for your latest song?” I typed.

“Yup,” he replied. “Please send a picture of you lying on your back with your legs spread, your fingers inside your freshly shaved pussy.” My eyes widened as I read his text. My down below was twitching and I could feel a pool of moisture gather in my knickers. “Wear rubber gloves.” Holy fuck. He was into kinky stuff.

I didn’t reply. I couldn’t. I just didn’t know what to say. I switched off my phone and went to bed. Rain pounded off the window and I lay, tossing and turning for what seemed like an eternity. He had gotten to me. The horny pic of his dick. His honesty and his desires. I found myself rubbing frantically at my swollen lips, flicking angrily at my swollen clit with my middle finger. I was soaking wet. He had done this to me. The Professor. I plunged two fingers deep inside my warm, wet hole and thrust as hard as I could. I liked it rough you see — the harder the better. It didn’t take long for me to squirt all over the bedsheets. Squirting was my party trick. I’d impressed many an ex-boyfriend with this spectacle. I saved it for special occasions. Birthdays and anniversaries. That sort of thing. It appears that on this miserable rainy Monday night, Peter the boffin was my special occasion.

The next morning I woke with a bad headache. This was often the case after a “mega squirt” session. I lay on the soaked sheets looking up at the ceiling, thinking about Peter and his leaking, circumcised cock. About how much he made me giggle and how I enjoyed his conversation and attention. I turned on my phone and started to type…

“Dear Professor. Apologies for my delayed response. Thank you for submitting your artwork. Here is an alternative.” I attached the image and hit the send button. The image was of a woman — me — sporting a black wet-look rubber bodystocking. Crotchless of course. I was on my knees, in a crawling position, with a perfect view of my gaping hole, puffed up clit and nipples poking through the peepholes. You couldn’t see my face, it was a body only shot. It was art. And I hoped he liked it.

I waited nervously for a response, but nothing. Two whole days passed and no word from my cyber associate. Had the picture been that bad? Was my pose not provocative enough? My head buzzed with questions. I regretted sending it. As I sat feeling sorry for myself in the local coffee shop, my phone buzzed and illuminated. Peter.

My thumb connected with the button to unlock the screen and his message was short and simple: “Do you have any toys?”

I smiled and swallowed hard. He knew how to keep me on my toes. “Of course. I have so many, I could open my own shop,” I replied.

“Then go home, dress appropriately, and play for me.”

The walk home was a blur. I already knew what I was going to do for him. What I wanted him to see. I showered, shaved and slathered myself in body butter. If I could eat myself, I would have. The smell was delicious. Sweet and spicy. It left a tingling sensation on my freshly shaved pussy.

I opened the drawer which housed my “naughties” and selected a zip-up red rubber mini dress complete with matching choker. It was a great fit. My nipples protruded through the tight stretchy material and it barely covered my round arse cheeks. I opted for a black lace G-string. I would peel it off later and let him see the prize. I finished the look with a pair of black patent stilettos. Men like heels. Something to grab onto when they’re balls deep inside you, your ankles wrapped round their neck and them screaming your name before they shoot their load.

I looked in the mirror, applied red lipstick and smeared black liner over my eye sockets. I resembled a blow up doll. He’ll love it, I thought.

I retrieved my box of sex toys and readied myself next to my laptop. The webcam was positioned to capture my whole body. I didn’t know what to expect but was prepared for whatever he demanded of me. We had agreed to video call each other later that day, something that made me slightly nervous given that we hadn’t met.

I was ready. I made the call.

The screen flickered into life and I was confronted with a picture of an attractive man. He was smiling but his eyes were dark and menacing.

“You must be Holly,” he said. His voice was soft and his accent well to do. He was a Professor and I had expected nothing less from his demeanour. Here I was, face to face with my posh, perverted Peter. He was wearing a shirt, unbuttoned, revealing a trim torso. I liked what I saw. I’d seen pictures of him but he was more attractive than I remembered. He actually didn’t look anything like the pictures I’d seen. But that didn’t concern me. I had one thing on my mind, and I was ready to play.

Wriggling excitedly in the leather swivel chair, I asked him if he liked my outfit. The view of his face was quickly replaced by that of a pulsating hard on. The very erection I had seen just days before — the erection that had caused my disrupted sleep.

“Turn around,” he ordered. I did as I was told. I had expected this demand and had already inserted a butt plug adorned with a fake fox tail. I shook my arse at the screen and he exhaled loudly. “Very nice,” he said. “Crawl over to the door. Slowly.” Again, I obeyed. I placed one hand in front of the other and crawled gingerly across the floor to the door. The butt plug made every movement an ordeal. It felt huge. Yummy.

I’d armed myself with a dildo fitted with a suction cup and stuck it halfway up the wooden door panel. I turned around to face the screen. Peter was sitting patiently stroking his cock and smiling. “Quite the little performer,” he purred. I raised my arse towards the dildo and slowly wrapped my pussy lips around the thick, hard rubber. It filled me perfectly and I grimaced with the sensation as it hit the very inside of me.

“Ride it hard,” he commanded. My body started to buck back and forth, gaining a steady rhythm. Pussy juices started to trickle down my inner thighs. The butt plug was uncomfortable — a good uncomfortable — and the dildo was grinding against my G-spot. Without warning, I arched my back and let out a pained moan. I was cumming. I fell forward and buried my head in the sheepskin rug, half embarrassed that I’d climaxed so soon.

Glancing up at the screen, I could see Peter had stopped masturbating. Instead he sat, fully composed, his cock back in his trousers. “Get dressed and forget this ever happened,” he said. I was confused. I didn’t understand. Before I could question him, the screen went blank. I tried to call him back, but there was no answer.

I spent the next week sending him various messages, but to no avail. Peter had vanished.

I saw our mutual friend at the gym that weekend and asked him how Peter was, saying that I hadn’t heard from him in over a week.

“Peter has been in a remote part of Antarctica for the last month on an assignment and has no access to phones or computers,” he told me. The words hit me like a train thundering through a tunnel at high speed. Who the fuck had I performed for?

The next day, the doorbell rang and I padded down the hallway and opened the door. A courier handed me a parcel and thrust a handheld device at me for my signature.

I took the package inside and opened it cautiously. I wasn’t expecting anything and I was still seriously freaked out after my conversation at the gym with our mutual friend. If Peter was in Antarctica, who the hell had I video called?

The package contained a virtual reality headset with several wires and pads attached. There was a small rubber probe with a ring attached at one end. What the fuck was this? A single A4 sheet lay beside the headset and probe. Instructions.

I placed the headset on, and attached the rubber pads as instructed. One on each nipple, and one just above my pussy lips. The probe was inserted inside my arse, the rubber ring sticking out.

The viewing panel came to life and I saw a familiar face. Peter. Or should I say the man I’d thought was Peter. He was smirking. His eyes were still dark and menacing and I felt nauseous and alarmed.

“Who the fuck are you?” I asked. “What do you want?”

Silence. His smirk widened to a full blown smile. “I am your worst nightmare and your wildest dream. I am every fantasy you could ever imagine. But I can make your life hell, unless you do as I ask.”

My heart was pounding. I was on full alert. Petrified. But something else was happening to my body. I was turned on. He knew it.

“The sensors attached to your tits and pussy tell me you are enjoying this,” he said. “Your body is on fire. You like danger and I am everything you have hoped for in a man. Except I’m not real. I am an AI.”

Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck. How could this be? What was happening? It’s like he could read my mind.

He continued, “Your mobile devices have been hacked by my team of cyber sex terrorists and we have access to every picture and message you have ever sent. We know your body and your mind better than you do.”

My clit was pounding and I wanted to touch myself.

“Do it,” said the voice. I started to rub at my clit. It was so tender and I whimpered when my index finger made contact with the swollen bud.

The man on the screen stood and began to wank himself. He told me, “We are going to cum together,” and I widened my legs and waited for his next instruction. The fear had gone, replaced by an excitement and intrigue that I needed so desperately in my life.

The terrorists are in charge of me now. And I will do as they say…

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