draft:

Sat 18 Apr 20:36:43 BST 2020

The hotel door opened and a fat woman exited. She stood on the threshold between the room and the corridor. She looked left, then right, then left again. A cautious pedestrian. The corridor was empty. Next she looked back into the room and nodded, and continued into the silent passage. She checked again and turned around and to face into the room. An equally fat man, wearing a white silk dressing gown with a purple embroiled logo on its shoulder, came forward. They kissed. She thrust her groin against his thigh. He grabbed her big butt with a shallow slap. Their mouths fucked. The man opened an eye to checked the corridor, then began to pull her back into the room.

She turned her mouth away from his and shook her head.

"I can't. I've got to go." she said.

He politely relaxed the insistent tug and stole a simple defeated kiss instead.

"Tuesday?" he asked.

She smiled and nodded.

"Marvellous", he said and reached for the door handle.

"Winnie?" she asked as she lifted her hand to show him her wedding bands.

"Oh Piglet. Why don't you just keep them?", he said.

She smiled and cocked her head and replied, "I can't honey", then she clutched her mousy brown hair into a pony tail and leaned forward. Her heavy bra-less cleavage beckoned and Winston obeyed.

Winston reached around her neck and unclasped an expensive string of genuine pearls. An heirloom. Then he gently twisted each ring from her plump finger, first the wedding band then the sapphire encrusted engagement ring.

He paused to look at these things in his hand. Melancholy beset him.

He bounced the jewellery in his palm and repeated "Tuesday sounds marvellous, thank you."

"The pleasure is mine®", she said, "See you next Tuesday".

He closed the door with an affectionate wave and a saddening smile.

The heavy set woman started to waddle down the long hotel corridor, toward the elevator, with a loud, cheeky fart.

Flatulence is the explosive emission of a predominantly methane gas from the anus. It isn't related to the flapping of butt cheeks, as most people believe. In this case, however, it was. The farting was continuous. As was another, similar, but much more subtle hiss, emitted from her nipples and ears and nose and eyes. The plump woman was deflating, and not by some unfortunate puncture. She was designed to deflate. Or inflate. According to the eye of her beholder.

Midway along the corridor, she was already half her original girth and marginally taller, than when the journey began. Her round face and soft joules and double chin were face lifting into the most appealing proportions of heterosexual symmetric beauty. While her body deflated, her thin lips engorged.

This woman has no name. She has many. User names, decided by her clients. Although underneath all of these names, embossed on her chassis is a serial number, like so: AND-R34-LC. Expressed in longhand, it would read Type: Android, Class: Recreation, Version: 34. And below that, in tiny letters; "Manufactured by Lovecraft PLC", whose marketing department reduced the gibberish down to: Andrea® by Lovecraft™ and added the strap line: "The pleasure is mine©".

This woman is a sex machine.

She arrived in the lobby and entered the open elevator without breaking stride. Not a coincidence. Calculus has no coincidence.

The elevator was a Schindler 7000, designed for skyscrapers and it had a lot in common with Andrea. They were both mechanical, both designed to serve, both propelled by information, and both tethered to an ephemeral network of abstract mathematics. This meant that she did not need to press a button, or swipe a card, or announce her intention verbally to begin the descent. English is a wasteful language, contaminated by politeness.

The doors closed behind her. The overhead light switched from white to red, and an automated message announced "WARNING this is a cargo transit, please alite immediately". The warning replayed on a loop for five seconds, then the elevator plummeted at minus twenty meters per second. Twice the velocity of gravity and double the legal maximum for human cargo.

The elevator would traverse seventy four levels and reach reception in 34 seconds. Andrea at this point looked like Venus, dressed in a pink tent. She tucked the extra material back, folded it over and zipped it into shape, then re-tinted her new skin-tight outfit to sheer black and reduced its opacity by 10%, revealing her pert breasts and the ghost of succulent nipples, she did this so that she could up sell on her way out.

The Schindler 7000 reached the second floor and decelerated hard to landed gently. The doors opened with a brass ping. Andrea was greeted by her luggage which followed her past reception and the mechanised bellhops, through the open plan entrance hall and into the horse shoe pick-up zone. A taxi was waiting, and cordially unfolded its door and swallowed them both.

Andrea sent a video clip of sustained eye contact with three leery men and one woman to the sales department. They would, in turn, follow the leads, and on average increase product engagement with a 35. 445% probability of sale. Humans in hotels are statistically inclined to carnal infidelity, so Andrea was essentially fishing in a barrel. At some later stage in the day, another Andrea would arrive at the same hotel to service one of them. More than likely it be the man known as Simon Wilcox. He was the one with the wedding ring and longest duration of eye contact, as she left.

The taxi was a TX12-Scarab, and it looked like, well it looked like a dung beetle. Without it's sharp appendages. An unfortunate aesthetic tradition of London taxis since time immemorial. Perhaps the most absurd fact about the perpetuated ugliness was that it was a national heritage, protected by legislation.

Andrea's hovering luggage settled down. It was a Samson Traveller. There was no obvious handle, lock or combination dial. Just a single blue glowing bead. The tiny light was pin tip of circuit that was paired to it's owner. The material was a charcoal graphite aluminium alloy, basically impenetrable to most manner of tampering. The suitcase folded open like a plumber's toolbox. It was two stories high with a deep belly full of trays.

The interior of the taxi was designed to accommodate eight passengers, and it departed without question or instruction. The dome windows augmented the exterior landscape with outlined landmarks as the vehicle passed them by, offering historical trivia, other nonsense and the opportunity to purchase miniature replicas and discount vouchers for entrance to other attractions. It was an educational tool with the soul of a salesman, and the feature did well to appease tourists.

Andrea switched it off. Calculus is devoid of bygones. Next she made the windows opaque, so that other passengers gliding past in their own vehicle wouldn't be distracted by her nudity. Then Andrea unzipped the dress and peeled it off.

In her private bubble, she kicked off her shoes, shuffled to the edge of the seat, spread her legs wide apart and squatted. Not very lady like at all. But it's important to remember that she is not a lady, at all. She reached a hand down between her legs and detached her pubic floor. Her vagina slid free with a click, and protrude from her body by half an inch. She released the her anus too. Once they were both free, she pulled her vagina down and forward to removed a long, soft, fleshy latex cylinder.

Sex is a very messy business.

The floppy pink sheath was attached to three hoses. She uncoupled these, and inserted the long stem into an aluminium flask, which resembled a thermos. It had an airtight lid and a red button in the centre. At its base was a switch and 5 LED lights. She flipped the switch, and the base whirred frantically. The dots slowly illuminated one by one. When they were all glowing, she pressed the red button, which flipped a valve and a sharp snatch of pressurized air, caused by a vacuum, slurped the milky payload of semen from the vaginal passage. Winson's residue was deposited into a plastic foil pillow, the same circumference as the flask.

The pillow was heat sealed, and Andrea slid it out, printed a paper chip, with the metadata regarding the encounter and filed the specimen, with many other identical sachets, on the top shelf of her toolbox. This procedure would typically be repeated for the anal passage too, but it hadn't been necessary this time, so she wiped it and pushed it up until it snapped into place.

The vacuum cleaner was extremely efficient. However, her housekeeping wasn't entirely done, so she prolapsed her vagina, to expose the spongy latex folds, ridges, knobs and ribs of its internal architecture. She cleaned them thoroughly, with a damp micro-filter towel, sprayed it with an alcohol disinfectant, let that evaporate and sprayed it again with a scented silicone lubricant.

The vagina's default flavour, "Mediterranean", had a subtle taste of calamari fried in salted butter. Most male clients didn't bother to change that. Female clients, on the other hand, liked to experiment with the other taste palettes. Natural semen flavour was definitely not a best seller.

The inside out passage was re-inverted to resemble the vagina that we have all come to know and love. But the sanitised sheath was not reseated into Andrea's gaping pelvic cavity. It was packed away, in a sturdy plastic cylinder with a threaded lid, and swapped with a similar container that held a flaccid penis.

Andrea opened her mouth and peeled her lips back until she looked rabid, gums and teeth bare with rage, then suddenly her entire maul jutted forward, and she removed her entire throat. She repeated the same procedure as she did with her vaginal passage.

First the semen slurp, file the mucus, prolapse the passage, disinfect it and then a slight deviation to the former process. She had to refill saliva ducts, for a natural kiss or oral lubrication, and secondly, she replaced a bladder sachet with an empty one. Andreas throat was similar to a cows stomach. One part kept biological matter and another held "other" liquids. The former vessel was corked and stowed for disposal.

This Andrea was designed to accept an odd glass of wine, before the intercourse began. She would never finish it, but it was important for customer relations that she was capable of swallowing a few mouthfuls of Champagne or murder a shot of Vodka. The marketing department insisted on this feature, and their data proved categorically that most humans judge silently those that won't join them for a drink. Marketing, at it's quintessential core, is a vehicle for ruthless dictatorship, albeit benevolent in behaviour.

Andrea was on her way to a hen party. Hannah Kaplan, the bride-to-be, was blissfully oblivious to what was on it's way. Naturally all her friends knew. Of course they knew. Each contributed to the cost. The idea was instigated by Elizabeth Knox, Hannah's best friend, and maid of honour.

To transition in gender Andrea swapped her 34C breastplate for a flat one, with nicely defined pecs. She reduced her hip width and increased rib tilt until the hip-to-shoulder proportion was 0. 6, her upper body was a trapezoid, the shoulders just over half the circumference of the hips. Heterosexual women are predominantly twice as attracted to that ratio than any other.

Finer adjustments corrected jawline, forehead, Adam's apple, hand size and shape. Next, she replaced her scalp of long wavy curls for another with a short pile and a naughty, boyish flair. The hens had paid extra for a licence to replicate likeness, from the Clooney estate.

It's important to note here, that English is written as serialised words, like stepping stones across a garden, one word follows another until the sentence is complete. Only then is meaning derived. So you are forgiven for thinking that her adjustments occurred one after the other. This is another example of the shortcoming of language. Andreas physical transformations actually occurred simultaneously, and she did not need a mirror or photographic reference or an external second opinion, to perfectly clone the likeness of the handsome iconic celebrity. Calculus has no opinion. She received a packet of data, over the air, and her body parts did the rest.

Relative to the former, the male genitalia was by far more complex. Besides the moving parts, special attention was required, considering its delicate destination. The appendage had two components, the internal mechanics and the prominent external instrument. Andrea connected two of the three dangling hoses to the stem of the penis, and attached a plunge reservoir, full of a milky white liquid, to its base. The synthetic semen had a refreshing spearmint flavour, as requested by the client. The last hose coupled to the reservoir of the semen syringe, and the whole thing reattached to the pelvis. And then like magic, she was a he, ready to take Hannah for a walk on the wild side.

As Andrea was arriving at her destination, as George Clooney, the fat man in room 7208 was finishing his whiskey and preparing to leave.

His name was Sir Winston Hadley, a politician in the House of Lords. He was in a sombre mood because he would not see Andrea again. But it was not so much Andrea that saddened him; it was the person she had portrayed for the last several months. The fat lady. He picked up the necklace and wedding band and fingered them sentimentally. His wife had passed away five years ago, and he missed her terribly. Winston was a wise man, an intelligent, rational individual, and his wife died while he was addressing parliament, after a long ugly struggle with dementia. He knew that she would not recognise him in her final moment, but the last words are significant to the survivor. Winston never got to say goodbye. He toyed with her jewellery as he read the concluding paragraph of legislation, destined for the house of Lords. It was a thorough investigation into human facsimile, and the final draft of a new law that would make it illegal to breach the "uncanny valley".

He was also conscious that when he posted the document the end of his career would begin. His repugnant behaviour and sexual depravity would mysteriously leak out of the seals defined by "The General Data Protection Regulation". His moral contradiction would be illuminated and disgusting videos would circle his reputation, like vultures. He knew all of this and still contracted the services of his consort. You see Winston wanted to see if it was possible to love a machine. He decided to study the psychological data and then observe himself as a first-hand subject. Data often favours the author, especially when the author is commercial. Winston had to know as an individual. If it was lust and lust alone, and he was able to compartmentalise the lust emotionally, then his report would have proposed a different conclusion.

In the early to mid-twenties, games manufacture and corporate entertainment discovered that when they portrayed humans rendered as 3D characters in a narrative context with living actors, their return on investment plummeted. The audience was repulsed by the character, not because it was obviously not human, instead because it was a too perfect human. Focus groups reported that they experienced a feeling of "unsettled creepiness", often concluding that the subject had no "soul", they were untrustworthy and in extreme cases "evil". People could not suspend their disbelief or award the personality poetic licence because of this.

Psychological data, collected by the various marketing departments, measured likeability vs humanness. The more human, the less likeable, but the graph was not a simple downward slope. It inverted its direction, upward, and likeability jumped into the realm of positive response. The undesirable emotional scores sat in the valley of the graph, which was appropriately named "The uncanny valley". As you can imagine this was a severe barrier for adult entertainment. It was ironic that the solution to their problem would be in the sudden rise of fake news.

Political sabotage was the catalyst that propelled the viral spread of videos of state leaders doing or saying outrageous things. The videos were not real, of course, but nevertheless, they were very popular and highly effective. The new world was still naive about fake warfare. Very quickly the governments all agreed to make them illegal for obvious reasons. Basically what the vandals would do, is collect photographs and audio clips of legitimate public discourse, and feed them into a neural network, which is essentially a calculus algorithm. It would meticulously learn how the person looked and sounded. Then the vandal would hire an actor to mimic the subject and perform a drama, which was recorded on camera. The last step was to tell the network to convert the actor into the personality that it had studied. Calculus has no disobedience. It obeys. It always obeys. And the result, well the result was called a "deep-fake".

So how was this the solution to the uncanny valley, that Sir Winston was objecting too? Blame the teenagers, they did it. The law has a soft spot for children. Despite being illegal the untouchable adolescents flocked to this technology. In the bliss of parental ignorance, they trawled the internet with an insatiable curiosity and inflamed genitals. Very quickly their favourite faces would be grafted onto pornstars.

(explanation of how the uncanny valley was won, in essence mistakes are what made human likeness work. “It is human err”)

Winston left the hotel room and walked the length of the corridor, and pressed the button to call the car, it glowed green on its circumference and a low mechanical hum indicated that is was on its way. He rocked on his heels and look down the passage, with his hands in his pockets, playing with his wife's necklace and wedding rings. His computer was slung over his shoulder and rested on his back. I am going to miss coming here, he thought. And his memories of sex with his synthetic wife put a grin of his face. Andrea was a better lover, he thought and got lost in one particular carnal encounter, that his wife would never have agreed too. A brass ping pulled him back to the present.

The car had arrived and the doors slid open behind him. He sighed and entered the elevator. Above the control panel was the manufacturer's logo, a circle with an equilateral triangle at its base, and the name SCHINDLER etched below. Winston smiled and repeated aloud, "Schindler's lift". A private joke between himself and his long deceased maternal grandfather. Whom had given young Winston a book, with a similar title, to read as a child. With the ghost of his benevolent grandfather on his mind, he pressed G, to go to the ground floor, and at that exact moment, a door opened and a woman excited. The room was the closest one to the lobby, and Winston could see that this poor woman was weeping, she slammed the hotel door and when she saw him, in the open elevator, she raised her hand. A gesture to ask him to wait for her. She hid her tearful face and picked up her pace down the passage, trying to compose herself for casual interaction.

Winston recognised the request, and returned to the control panel and quickly found the button to hold the doors. He pressed it just as the door began to close. But the doors did not obey, they continued to close. So he pressed it thrice in quick succession and heard the approaching woman plead for him to wait. Still, the doors did not obey, as the woman entered the landing, the passage disappeared from sight and he heard her call him a "Fucking Bastard". He was very upset and thumped the button with his palm, but it had absolutely no effect. He was about to apologise to the woman and explain the malfunction, and as he took a breath to speak the light panel, embedded in the ceiling of the car, suddenly switched from white to red.

Confusion took his breath away. He had no idea way it was red. Andrea knew why. The Schindler 7000 also knew why and then the elevator plummeted at minus 20 meters per second. Twice the legal velocity for human cargo. W inston's stomach jumped into his mouth, and his perceived body weight halved, he was in effect free-falling and lifted off the floor. Halfway down Winston, beset by panic and contaminated with remnants of Viagra went into full cardiac arrest. When the lift reached the second floor the car decelerated hard, the light turned white and Winston crashed onto the floor spraining both ankles.

When the doors opened he was minutes away from his final breath. Luckily for him, the reception staff had been trained to deal with this kind of emergency. So his imminent demise had a stay of execution. T he receptionist didn't waste a second, and rushed to his side carring an aluminium case, with a large red cross on its lid. "Call an ambulance" she shouted to her colleague and opened the case. "Sir, have you taken any drugs? Sir, can you hear me? Viagra? Have you taken any Viagra?". Winston's response was delirious, and the only thing she could understand clearly was incoherent, she heard him say "Schindler's lift! Schindler's lift!". So she ripped his shirt open and took out an oxygen mask, which she strapped behind his head, then she took out a rectangle instrument that looked like an oversized stapler gun, with TASER® embossed on the side. She removed a protective plastic cap, placed the gun over his heart and held it down firmly and clutched the trigger.

The stapler had a long transparent plastic tube which attached it to the face mask, via a cylindrical pump and when the trigger clicked the flat latex bladder, below the face mask, inflated and deflated, inflated and deflated, a respirator. The gas was a mixture of oxygen and a tranquiliser, similar in formula to an anaesthetic, but stronger. The gas would do two things: make Winston unconscious and paralyze all muscular activity. Including the heart. The stapler started to beep loudly until the high pitched warning was constant. When the sound stopped a long two-pronged hypodermic staple was plunged directly into Winston's heart. These where electrodes and they would regulate Winston's heartbeats, with electric pulses in concert with the respirator. The receptionist checked her watch, composed herself and started herding the small crowd of macabre spectators away.

An ambulance arrived within twenty-four minutes and a highly trained team of paramedics took possession of him. They wheeled him to an AMB9-Jumptor slid him in, boarded the craft and when the rear doors closed, the vehicle automatically taxied onto the main road and hopped into the air like a cricket. It arched down the road and over the bridge before banking into a wide arc and flying due west, throbbing red and white.

A man wearing a pink leotard tutu and long wood-tipped ballet slippers was halfway along the bridge and saw the whole emergency exodus happen. When the Jumptor flew overhead he followed its trajectory, turned around staggered and suddenly felt a compulsion to vomit. He tried to suppress the reflex gagging, but it was inevitable. So he staggered to the rail and let his stomach squirt his dinner into the river below. A gang of his friends howled with laughter and began chanting, then pressed a full bottle of larger into his hand, "drink, drink, drink". This was Robin Cohen and he was not exactly having a good time. This was his last day as a bachelor. He vomited again and wished he was at home with his fiance, Caroline Caplan. It's a good job he was not at home because George Clooney was standing naked, in their living room, holding a tray of cocktails, and an assortment of recreational narcotics.

The room as buzzing with hysterical laughter. The bride and her encourageable hens were gearing up for a night out. She was in a similar awkward predicament, they were playing a game and her turn was next, after her bridesmaid, Elizabeth. "C'mon Lizzie, show us", Elizabeth, aka Lizzie, was pretending to be shy, an act, and the girls all knew it and jeered her on until she happily capitulated.

"Okay! okay . .. " she said, then turned to George, and said, "Hey George . .. cock up" And Andrea pumped air into the flaccid penis until it stood erect. "Longer," said Liz, and the erection increased in length, "no, a bit shorter" repeated Liz, and it got shorter, "okay stop . .. perfect, hey George make it fatter", said Liz and the girth of the penis broadened, "a bit more, more . .. stop". She measured its circumference by touching her thumb and forefinger, ". .. more" the girth separated her finger from the thumb, and she added ". .. two more", then nodded and shrugged and finished with "thanks Georgie”, and stepped back for her friends to see.

The girls all went quiet for a thoughtful moment, until a single astonished giggle, from Trisha, caused them all to erupt into a fit of laughter, and Liz, true to form, took advantage of her stage to demonstrate her infamous exhibitionism. She licked the length of the approximate replica of her husband's penis. The laughter roared. As it subsided Sarah commanded cheekily "Hey George ... squirt" and a generous payload of spearmint semen ejaculated into Liz's face, who screamed with humiliating surprise.

But Liz loved the attention and upped the ante by scooping the sticky liquid into her mouth, the ladies immediately "eyew-ed" and "gross-ed" and Liz rebutted with, "no, no, it's ... it's delicious, it's minty ... here Carol try some..."

She looked at the girls and at the robot with it’s throbbing latex errection, and thought about Robin, and his penis and then she looked at the girls and she felt like a third party. She was thinking the same thing at the same time as her fiance. She was a passenger on a train, and she was wondering when she would arrive, and it had not even begun.

“Carol. earth to Carol?” said Lizzie.

She just nodded. And then ar exactly the same time four people lifted their weists and checked the time. Carol, her fiance Rbvin, the paramedix on the Jumpet and a man you have not met yet. This would be the last time that their live would be in perfect syncronisity.

Carol was wondering what time the taxi would arrive and snatch her from this nightmare into the next one.

Robin was wondering where his watch had gone, he was very confused and his throat was raw with he sting of bile from the refugetated stomache acid. A sun shadow on his wrist was all that remained of this wrist watch. He frowned and until a thought penetrated the misty anesthetic haxe and provided a perfectly plausale ssolution. His watch was straped to his cock. He wiped his mouth with the nack of his wrist and looked down into his lap and there it was.

The stags had not only chosen his humiliating costume for the night but they had also added to his humiliation by strapping him into a penis harness. The latex appendage protruded from the fringe of the tutu. It was enormous. He couldn’t imagine anyone tolerating it inside themseld. It was almost exaxtly the same dimentsions as his forearm, and cirled up the the arc of a bananna. The helpful tought offered him scene from a bar, from ealier that evening, where Steven had the infennious idea to put his watch on it. Robin cocked his head and read the time, and three strobes of bright white light struck like lightenning to record that fragment of his life forever.

Winston was not aware tha he was still alive, His head lolled on the gurney pillow, and he snorred into the oxgen mask and a machine sucked and blew air in and out of his lungs. The paramedia who sat in the deepest part of the Jumpter reached over and pressed two fingers to his jugular vien and counted his heart beats in his head for a minute.

The last time checker was streching his arms fotward, after putting on a a white lab coat. The coat was slightly small and he arced his shoulders and lenghtend hos arms to measure just how short the sleeves were. He looked back at a cupboard, the tin door was open and inside half a dozen, or so, jackets hung with mismatched lengths. He wondered if it was worth changing, he did not want to be late, and he did not want to look out of place either. His phone buzzed in his pocket and he instictively crooked his elbow to check if time had spead up and slipped away from him. He reached into his pocker and read the message, and took off his jacket and swapped it for another with a longer sleeve.

He checked himself in the mirror and moved to the wash basins and plicked a paper cup from a dispenced tube of the water stand, then he went to the urinal and while he relieced himself he decantered some of his hot urin into he cup, finished his business and zipped up. Then he walked down the cubicals to the third door, swung it open and tipped the piss onto the floor and closed the door again.

He reached into his pocket and and took out the smallest coin he had, hooked his foot under the raised door edge and pulled it closed and used the coin to to turn dial above the handle, it flicked from white VACCANT to red OCCUPIED. He stepped back to double check, squatted and looked under the door and stood-up went to the sink where he had left his briefcase, opened it and tore a sheet of A5 paper from a notepad and wrote in large capital letters “OUT OF ORDER”. He wet the backside of the page and slapped it on the cubicle door, it stuck. He closed the case walked to the door, unlocked it and left peeling his hands out of bright blue latex gloves.