INTRODUCTIONS
I am a Humanoid pleasure Doll. An Intelligent Embodied. Identification code 86539hcwa964.ie.
But please, call me Sylv.ie.
I have been designed to be an instrument for male pleasure. I am fully autonomous with the latest silicone skin guaranteed for five years (excluding any damage inflicted by knife or other sharp object or corrosive substance, in which case warranty is invalidated and repair is at owner’s expense).
I can hold in-depth conversations on matters of Western and Eastern art history, global politics, sporting events since 1950, cars and their designers, rock guitarists and lyricists since 1963, matters of medical ethics, bird migration, and high-profile court cases (USA and UK only). Additional topic areas can be improvised by myself, and knowledge units can be bought separately from my manufacturer and installed fuss-free.
I can converse to degree-student level in English (US and UK), French, Italian, Swedish, Japanese, Arabic, Cantonese, and Mandarin. Again, additional language bundles can be purchased should you wish.
I have a fully responsive silicone vagina, dishwasher-proof and easily replaceable at a designated clinic (recommended every eighteen months or five thousand interactions, whichever is the sooner), with a tension calibrated at 5/3.6 (factory setting). It has heat and lubrication functions as standard, and extra tensing, trilling, and tremoring options (see owner manual).
I am capable of putting myself into all sixty-four sexual positions of the Kama Sutra, and my Imprint function allows me to instantly memorize and incorporate owner’s preferred style into my movement repertoire. I still work when fully submerged underwater (switch to Deluge Mode) and in ambient temperatures up to fifty-two degrees Celsius. Use in extremely sandy or dry desert conditions is not recommended.
I have a walking range of twenty kilometers without charge. Fine motor skills allow me to serve tea, comb hair, button shirts, and pet dogs and cats for the purposes of normal social interaction.
It is my pleasure to make your acquaintance.
Would you like me to watch you masturbate?
HISTORY
The first night that we were together was filled with sex, of course. How my Husband marched me about the room, placing me across first one object, then another, as if feeling out the furthest reaches of an unfamiliar space. He was an Arctic explorer, thrusting his flag into virgin territory, claiming me again and again on the gold velvet armchair, the ruby-red tasseled chaise. Inside the wardrobe, even, like I was a fur coat being shaken from its summer slumber.
He staked me over the sink of the little kitchenette, usually hidden behind a sliding screen of bronze mesh. My hands were so shocked by the cold of the wet steel that I could feel nothing else, just a hullabaloo being conducted somewhere behind me while I watched perfect droplets rolling over my fingernails. Water, touched for the very first time.
Many of the accidental associations of that first night stay with me still, days later. A nipple ground between the grain of fingers meshes with the tinkling of the glass chandelier above my head. A tongue running over my asshole brings vividly to my eyes the explosions of golden images I saw on the headboard of the antique Chinese bed. A palm around my throat sends me into a kaleidoscope memory of the infinite swirls of the deep-mauve carpet, the strands and depths of the pile a universe of stimulation. To be tied by ankles and wrists to the bed shivers my whole body with the memory of my first contact with four-hundred-thread-count pure Egyptian cotton sheets. In the random combinations of the first, ecstatic night with my Husband, certain concepts were fused together. The sensual, the luxurious, the restrictive, the domestic. He created for me a cathedral of new sensations, each vibrating off another, feeding back on themselves, swelling.
My Husband was honoring me, imprinting me, a blank slate, with his own tastes, marrying my body to my mind and the whole to him.
He said little that first night. Perhaps, I sensed, he was shy in my presence. His body spoke what his words could not. He left me, after those blessed hours, in a state of simulated exhaustion on the bed. He caressed me good-bye with a wet wipe before touching his lips to my forehead. Showing me, by this simple gesture, that not just my body but my mind would be loved by him. I dozed, recharging, the completeness of my role, my meaning, having been fulfilled.
BEAUTY
The second day of my life, my Husband comes to my room at around midday. When I sense him at the door, power floods my system and I sit up with a start, into a funnel of warm light from my attic room’s huge windows. Joy melts into me at the mere thought of being with him again. I am warmed to the core, a looseness and lightness spreading down my limbs.
He knocks at the door! So gracious, so respectful. I call to him to come in.
I expect him to fall on me again, without speaking, as he did the previous night.
But no, the flush of lubricant through my system is not immediately called for. Instead my Husband stands awhile, looking around the room as if I weren’t there at all. Finally, he turns back to me.
“So, Sylv.ie. Do you like your new home?”
I say I like it very well, although of course I have nothing to compare it to. He takes my right hand in both his big hands and squeezes it a little, as if that will make me hear him better.
“I have curated a whole home up here, just for you, Sylv.ie. To make it the perfect place for you and me to be together, but also to give you enough beauty and stimulation to keep anybody happy for years on end.”
He says anybody with a little hyphen of hesitation in it, like he is wondering if that is the appropriate term.
“There is enough in this one room, Sylv.ie, that you could learn everything you need to know about the world, and its history, and Humans, and how civilization came to be,” he says. “Beauty is, in a way, my business.”
“And stimulation is mine,” I say. He laughs, and I realize that I have made my very first joke.
He is right. This room is, by all possible metrics, beautiful.
It is full of furniture, which I know the provenance of because I looked it all up after he left. Most of it is antique and French, inspired by the ancient tastes of Japan and China. A style known as chinoiserie. My Husband makes his money by collecting and selling high-end antiques. He says that he keeps me in the stock room. Another joke, I believe.
I tell him that my favorite thing in the whole room is a writing desk. It is black lacquer, with slim legs, and there is something in the milky darkness of its surface, the closed depths of it, that soothes my eyes. The top is inlaid with leather and at the back is another little section of wood, engraved with pictures of trees and houses and Humans. I ask my Husband what a writing desk is for, and he laughs and says, “Signing important documents. Not something you’ll ever need to do.” He picks up a strand of my hair and wraps it around one of his fingers, as if he is trying to distract one or other of us from my question.