THE REHABILITATOR

As sentences went, Paxton Cross didn't think it all that bad: a year of house arrest, restricted access to the outside world, and supervision from some live-in Rehabilitator that the Courts were sending that morning. It beat a real prison (not that there was many of them left nowadays) and forced ageing, and he certainly preferred it to the behavioural modification most people accepted for crimes they've committed. Not that he was some human rights espouser, he just didn't want anyone tampering with his mind or his body.

Of course, it would have been ideal if his family had simply paid the fine; they had made their fortune in space factories, and could well afford it. But they had seemingly washed their hands of him, after what he'd done to Angela Cartwright, a visiting rep from another company to one of his family's parties (hell, as far as he knew his family didn't even bother trying to pay the woman off! I mean, it wasn't like ti would have been the first time!). He didn't know what he was going to do with himself when he was released in a year's time, but he figured he'd cross that bridge when he came to it.

The Department of Corrections had come round and fortified his apartment, secured the doors and windows, locked out his media units and Cyberterminal, and installed a security pocket where deliveries could be made. He walked about in his boxers, his lank, almost-hairless body on display to no one. Stubble dotted his narrow, near-pointed chin, and his shock of dirty blond hair needed washing. The paunch he'd acquired over the past few weeks now hung over the elastic of his shorts, but a spot of nanotherapy on his release would quickly correct that, before he graced the ladies of the world with his presence once again. Who were they going to send? Or rather, what; it would be a Biomech, some Mark III creepy genderless mannequin. The Department preferred employing Biomechs that couldn't be bribed or threatened, that could work 24/7 towards his so-called rehabilitation. Well, fuck it-

He heard his door open, but he waited in the living room for the Rehabilitator; he was damned if he was going to do anything for him-

Then she not he entered, clad in a one-piece black bodysuit with a V-cut that opened to her navel if she'd had one. "Good morning, Paxton. I am your Rehabilitator."

What an invitation, so direct and confident. What a voice, like quicksilver, fervent with anticipation, as if she'd waited all her life to say those words. And as for the figure: undeniably feminine in build, graceful, lithe, but with maturity, a ballerina whose career had been cut short by puberty - but ballet's loss was the world's gain. Prominent 36Ds, firm and round beneath the suit, nipples jutting out like football studs. Curvaceous hips, long legs, parted slightly. Smooth skin, polished silver skin which reflected the lights overhead.

Paxton's eyes finally rose to capture her face. High cheekbones, snub nose, solid bright red eyes peering at him, pupilless as though painted on closed lids, staring at once unseeingly and with feeling. A full head of silver hair like finely spun thread woven on the looms of the Gods, flowing forth from her head. Silver lips, as full and soft and anticipatory as any human woman's.

"What the-" was the wittiest reply he could manage on the spot. "You're.?"

"Your Rehabilitator, a Mark XII Biomech. I am here to serve you, and make your confinement as enjoyable as possible."

His eyes widened. A Mark XII? The most advanced humanoid robot available on the market! Sheathed with a molecular-scale woven polycarbon skin over an articulated steel alloy endoskeleton which mimicked the full range of human motion. Complete with a superdense metatasking computer, terabyte-sized adaptive personality simulation program. Why would the Department employ one of these for him? And why would it talk as if it was ready to fuck him rather than save him?

Then it occurred to him: he must still have some pull with his family! They hadn't completely disowned him! They'd sent this beauty to keep him company! "Who was it? Who arranged this? My father? My sister?"

But she just stood in his living room, legs akimbo, hands on hips, and asked, "Would you like to see me naked, Paxton?"

Would he. "Uh, sure."

Argenta obeyed, carefully folding her clothes into a neat square and arranging it on the seat of the adjacent chair. When it - she - was naked, she resumed her former pose, this time affecting an almost subliminal shudder of modesty. Paxton, his questions forgotten, stood up and slowly paced around her, inspecting her chassis like a vintage car - or at least, the silver hood ornament. Firm-looking breasts, twin cheeks tight enough to crack walnuts, even a trimmed and groomed delta of silver hair over the vulva. A perfect specimen, even to being slightly shorter than himself, something he preferred in his women. Except with Argenta, there wasn't the slight motion, the breathing and involuntary muscle shifts one expected from humans.

He reached out to touch her, hesitating, as if he should ask permission first. Then he proceeded, holding and squeezing her right breast, watching in fascination as she responded, head arched back, mouth saucered, her moan so human-like. He admired the smooth, wet-glass feel of the skin, the warmth of the breast, its weight and firmness in his cupped hand, the attention to detail in the convolutions of the nipple as it hardened. He slapped her more boldly on the ass; it was as firm as it looked to the eye, producing a yelp of simulated surprise.

She parted her thighs further, as if anticipating his next destination. His fingers reached between them, cupping the vulva; the hair, the heat emanating like a furnace from the gasping lips of her sex, was just like a hot woman. One finger entered; she gasped, her arms twisting at her sides, her hands bound into fists. He nearly gasped, too, finding hot, sticky moisture, resistance, like a virgin's channel.

As if connected already, Paxton's cock stirred within his boxers. He withdrew his hand, and as she made sounds of disappointment(!), he tasted what she had produced: sweet, very much like honey; she even had a musk of arousal, like lavender potpourri. His erection grew, calling for attention. Seven weeks had passed since his arrest; that been the longest he'd gone without a woman since his teenage years, and while he was sure this machine could not take the place of flesh-and-blood pussy, he'd heard so much talk about them on the Cybernet, about their capabilities. But were they as good as their reputation?

There was only one way to find out. "Show me what you can do."

And she did. Argenta knelt before him, parting her thighs even further, before reaching up and drawing down his boxers to his ankles; his cock, proud at seven inches with a flaring damask head, sprang forth from an unruly patch of pubic hair, and his balls felt heavy, burden-laden, clinging to the front of his sweaty thighs. Without further ado she took him fully into her hot, moist mouth, drawing herself back and forth over the length of the rapidly-stiffening shaft, keeping up a constant, relentless pressure.

It was exquisite. And it did not take him long to shoot his seed into her mouth, shuddering, clutching the sides of her head while she drained him of every drop offered. Then, her lips still wrapped around his shaft, she looked up and smiled, awaiting further orders.

Paxton decided he was going to like rehabilitation.

*

Paxton's first assumption had been correct; the Mark XIIs were not like real women. They were infinitely better. This wasn't some old-fashioned inflatable latex doll with three working orifices and a conspicuous nozzle; Argenta was, to coin a cliché, More Human Than Human. Her expert systems allowed her to be, among numerous others, a world-class chef, valet, tutor, even a medic (she used a home nanotherapy kit she'd ordered to deal with his beer gut, rather than make him go through exercises).

But it was her skills as a lover which drew most of his attention. And his stamina; as her sarium krellide batteries needed recharging only one in every hundred hours, she had Stamina, with a capital S. Her pussy was, like her mouth, distinguishable from a real woman's not only by its colour, but by its eternal receptiveness, ready for him whenever he wanted. And wherever: the bedroom, living room, kitchen floor, the hallway by the front door. And as she grew to know him better in the following weeks, her adaptive programming tailored itself to his tastes, becoming submissive, coquettish, at least at first, only becoming sluttish under Paxton's "influence".

She had access to the outside world where he didn't, and to his surprise had ordered booze, fine foods and clothes for herself. Outfits arrived in due course: schoolgirl gear with ivory white blouses, plaid skirts and white socks; pink and black baby doll nighties; Roman slave girl tunics; garter belts and stockings and Cyberbras and so many other wonderful things. She could play the virgin teenager, the naughty student, the supplicant slave, all with equal enthusiasm.

He wished he'd raped that stupid bitch a long time before this.

*

"Paxton, would you do something for me, please?"

They lay naked in bed, the glow from the TV wall illuminating them in earth tones from a century-old Western featuring that old actor turned President, Eastwood. He was half-sitting up, pillows propped behind him, half-watching a generic gunfight unfold. "Sure, babe."

Argenta wasn't watching, curled up near his crotch, head propped on one elbow, her free hand gently, almost absently nursing his semi-flaccid cock, manipulating it just enough to keep from going completely soft. "Paxton, would you masturbate for me? I'd really like to see you do it."

It was unexpected enough to draw his full attention. Everything sexual between them had, until now, been with Argenta's active, eager participation. "Really?"

"Oh, yes. Show me how you please your hard, pumping meat. I may learn how to better please you." To punctuate her sentence, her tongue darted out like a snake, licking the underside of his cockhead, making it spasm to full attention.

He didn't need much persuasion after that. He wanked as she encouraged him in a low, husky voice, his pumping motion quickening as he fell completely into the role, his hand a blur, his teeth gritted, breath shooshing forth like steam. Before he even realised it, he'd pushed himself over the edge, only dimly aware of the sticky semen spilling down the rounded curves of his knuckles.

"Oh yes, lover," she cooed, electric red eyes aglow in the dim light. "That was marvellous."

He lay back and closed his eyes, hand still grasping his cock, glowing with narcissistic satisfaction as Argenta proceeded to lick his hand clean.

*

He performed for her numerous times in the following days, Argenta asking him to do it standing up, lying down, but mostly on his knees, while she watched and verbally encouraged him, sometimes making him lick his hand clean, then afterwards taking over, bringing him to a second, even third orgasm. She seemed to react just like a real woman to it, and Paxton could forget that it was all mere programming. He had found within himself a hitherto unrecognised love of this form of exhibitionism, and fed it.

He never thought about how strange this all might seem to an outsider.

*

They lay on the living room floor, on an impromptu picnic blanket, looking up at a holographic starfield on the ceiling. Argenta was singing softly - she had a creamy smooth voice, like that old-time singer Madonna - when she stopped and half-sat up on one elbow, reaching out to stroke his smooth face (she said she'd preferred him clean-shaven). Paxton lay hands locked behind his head, eyes closed, grinning Cheshire as his cock stirred once more inside his boxers.

"Paxton, darling? Would you do something for me, please?"

He laughed softly; when Argenta asked for something, it was always worthwhile. "Anything you want, babe, I promise."

"Would you wear these for me?"

She didn't elaborate, and when she stopped stroking his face and started moving about on her own, he opened his eyes and sat up. "What the-"

Argenta was removing her favourite red satin tanga briefs, sliding them down over the curved expanse of her thighs and shins.

Apprehension tugged at the pit of his stomach, like a child on his sleeve. "I don't think so, darling-"

But that quicksilver voice was turned back on him, as she dangled the knickers before him like a hypnotist's watch. "Oh, please, Paxton. You promised. Please do it for me. It'd get me so horny."

As she said this, she rubbed his growing hard-on through the thin cotton layer of his boxers, arousing him further. He said nothing as he slid off his shorts, accepting the knickers. They were a tight fit, and for a moment he thought the elastic would snap. But they didn't - the miracle of modern clotheswear - and he didn't know whether to be disappointed or pleased.

Argenta seemed pleased enough for both of them, gazing at him with a smile of longing. Paxton was more ambivalent. He hadn't worn anything this tight since childhood. But despite the ludicrousness of the sight - the front of the knickers tentpoled up, and one of his balls peeking out at the side - his excitement hadn't diminished. If anything, it had grown fiercer.

"Oh, yes. That turns me on." She half-lay over him, tongue-kissing as she rubbed his crotch, making him come more quickly than he could imagine.

*

Over the following days Argenta had "encouraged" him to wear her knickers all the time, while she wore his boxers. Admittedly the sex was even better during those times, though he was certain it was because of Argenta, rather than any arousal on his part. Yes, that had to be it.

Then came the stockings, ordered in his size. That took more persuading, but inevitably he found himself being taught how to properly draw them up over his legs. More persuading, and he had his legs depilitated. It was bizarre how the material hugged the entirety of his legs, like the trousers of a rubber wetsuit, only lighter and sleeker. Admittedly they didn't feel bad - until he caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror. But she rewarded him each time, with a passion that bordered on ferocity.

He'd drawn the line at the dress and wig. No, he repeated adamantly, slamming a fist into his open palm in a rare moment of proud machismo. You'll not get me to do that!

In response, Argenta. began trying to really rehabilitate him, switching off the movies and music, preparing decent meals, requiring him to perform exercises and chores and complete essays on why what he'd done to deserve this sentence was wrong. In short, she was little better than a Mark III.

After the fifth night, he relented. And Argenta smiled.

*

The wig was long and red, and, with his own hair under a net, wearable; when he turned his head, he could see the silver crescent moon clip-on earrings, hear them jingle. His face, scrubbed clean with eyebrows trimmed, were now adorned with bright apple-red lipstick and blue eyeshadow.

The underwear was a complicated arrangement, making him wonder how women can keep track of it all. There was a frilly black bra, of course; even with further adjusting, the strap felt tight across his chest and back. Heavy silicon gel bubbles were safety-glued onto his nipples, so that he could properly appreciate the brassiere, and a form-fitting corselette shaped his stomach and hips into a more feminine frame, though he thought he might pass out from it if he had to bend down. Then there were the satin knickers, garter belt and stockings, all making him feel encased and controlled, but these as least he had had weeks to grow accustomed to them.

The dress that Argenta had ordered for him was a slinky black sleeveless model of fitted stretch sateen, with a shockingly low neckline that could afford much cleavage, had it existed, and a hemline that barely dipped between the tops of his stockings. He even had women's black shoes, though these at least were mercifully low-heeled.

Paxton kept his eyes shut through most of the transformation, trying to ignore the almost-constant encouragement from Argenta. Thus he was unprepared for the wide silver-studded black leather collar strapped comfortably but snugly onto his neck. Part of the new fashion, he was helpfully informed, as if that would make a difference.

Then he saw himself in the full-length mirror - or at least, he thought it was himself. Despite the hairs on his arms, he found to his surprise that he was passable as a female, albeit a tall, large one. Not that he enjoyed any of this humiliation of course, ignoring his rebellious cock, excited despite the apprehension in his gut and the restraint placed upon it by the black women's knickers and the corselette; it still strained to make its presence known at the front of his dress.

He wrapped his arms around himself, as if cold, as Argenta clasped his shoulders from behind, whispering in his ear. "You look superb, darling," She reached down and around and touched his bulge. "I'm glad you feel the same way."

Paxton didn't know how he felt. He was too afraid to find out.

*

She unlocked the drinks cabinet. "Make me a drink - gin and tonic," she told him.

Paxton waited in the living room while she dressed as per her request. For a moment he tried to access the Cybernet terminal, activate the Emergency beacon installed in case anything went wrong with the Rehabilitator as had obviously happened with Argenta. But nothing was working. He pulled back from the terminal when he heard her approach.

She entered, her hair pinned up in no-nonsense fashion, wearing a dress nearly identical to his own, but with high heels, a longline black jacket with red trim, and a long length of thin silver chain, winding down and around her like a snake, from her neck, between her breasts, and coiling to a stop at her crotch.

The stereo came to life as she approached him - one of her remote control capabilities - and as some woman belted out a century-old song about a dark lady, and he stood there dumbly, she repeated, "Well? Where's my drink?"

Paxton had it half-prepared before he even realised what he was doing, and carried it to her. She sipped cautiously, as if it could really affect her - Mark XIIs could ingest food and drink for appearance's sake, passing it out through the appropriate orifices in a compacted if unmetabolised state - and made a show of looking him over and smacking her lips. If possible, this made him feel even more self-conscious. "Not bad, girl."

Somewhere beneath his humiliated state, Paxton felt a stab of rebellion. "This has gone too far, Argenta-"

"Not far enough yet, lover." Casually she dropped her glass, ignoring the remains of her drink seeping into the carpet, reached out and took him by the wrist. "Let's dance."

She didn't wait for his consent, taking him into her arms and leading, subtly first, then overtly. He fought this dominance but it resulted in her stepping on his toes with her hundred-kilo steel body, until he stopped. His head swayed beneath the wig, his stomach swayed within the corselette. Argenta seemed taller now, and not just because of her high heels, and she had to bend down to whisper in his ear. "You've some good moves, girlfriend." She reached down behind him with and squeezed his cheeks. "But you have some nerve, wearing the same outfit as me."

Finally he broke free from her, pulling off his wig. "Right, that's enough! Put me in touch with my family, my lawyer!"