Title: Program 77
Rating: M for graphic language and scenes, as well as a bit of S/M stuff
Disclaimer: I don't own any of the characters and, given the success of the franchise, don't plan to be able to afford them.
"Finish it."
The words hung lightly in the air, and the pixilated image of the scantily-clad woman flickered from John's computer screen. Sighing, he buried his head in his hands and prepared to move on to the next available data stock. Knowing that he had almost certainly been moments away from witnessing robot-on-human sex, John couldn't decide whether he was upset at the abrupt cutaway or thankful for the apparently random outage—almost like a network television censor, John thought idly—that had seen fit to scramble that particular portion of Vick's visual memory.
In a room whose atmosphere was already thick with ideas best left unexplored, turning to see Cameron staring at him from his bed did nothing to improve the mood.
"You scared the hell outta me, how long have you been sitting there?"
Glancing down at her hands, Cameron's expression was typically inscrutable. It could, John mused, be embarrassment at having been "caught", at his accusatory tone. It was much more probable, of course, that the Terminator was simply multitasking again, responding to his queries while absorbed in her own actions—in this case, a slick layer of pink polish on her right index finger.
"A little while," Cameron responded nonchalantly. Breaking her attention from her nails, she again raised her eyes to John.
"That was effective. What he did." A nanosecond of a beat, noticeable only perhaps to the Terminator's internal system clock. "When he touched her lips."
"Effective," John muttered, as much to himself as to his companion. Where Cameron was going with this, he wasn't entirely sure. Whether he wanted her to continue, well… he was slightly more sure about that.
"I could see that she liked that," Cameron huskily went on. If John didn't know better, he would swear she was pressing her advantage. Then again, if she had been any other girl—hell, if she had been a girl, a real girl—John knew exactly where they would be headed from here. And, all things considered, it didn't seem like the worst idea. Not directly damaging, at any rate. At least he could know, could see what the machines were really capable of. It's like… reconnaissance, he rationalized. They can use deep infiltration to get to us, why shouldn't he return the favor? John glanced up at Cameron, his next words sticking in his throat.
"What are you doing?"
Wordlessly (or coyly?), Cameron presented her right hand, freshly coated in the obnoxious pink color she continued to swab from the bottle. Fair enough, John thought. Spelling things out was something he had strangely become accustomed to in the past weeks, it certainly wasn't going to hinder him now.
"No… when you say things like that. What are you doing?"
Cameron's reply slid automatically from her tongue, perhaps a little too easily for John's tastes.
"Just making conversation."
Somewhat disheartened, though by no means surprised, John pressed further.
"Since when do you just make conversation?"
"I don't know," Cameron replied honestly. "It just seems like something I should do."
Like something you should do, John thought. Cursing himself, he remembered that the supple form across from him, however attractive, was nothing more than a preprogrammed machine designed to follow a specific routine and use whatever means necessary to increase the likelihood of completion of its primary objective. If Cameron thought for a second that intercourse with John would form a stronger protective bond, he had no doubt she would have been parading around the house in fishnet stockings and a dog collar. In fact, a desire to be with John might well have explained her aversion to wearing much of anything when she knew she wouldn't have to leave the house. Struggling to contain his disgust at himself, he shot an accusatory look at Cameron before speaking again.
"Well, was having Morris impersonate me with that cop also something you thought you should do, no matter what happened to him?"
"Yes." The flatness and immediacy of Cameron's reply did nothing to cure John's mood, but her next words were at least sufficient to shock him into the present. "But it wasn't a cop. It was Cromartie."
"What?" John reeled as though he'd walked into a wall that a moment ago had been nothing but open air. "What?"
"He's going school to school looking for you. Trying to match your face." Whether the note of concern Cameron's voice contained was realistic or simply another well-executed program was irrelevant to John at the moment. "He's moved on, though. He won't go back there. I wouldn't."
For some reason, Cameron's last comment awakened something in John he realized he had been consciously avoiding until this point. He saw Cameron, sitting across from him, an ideal of teen beauty that a nice but hapless guy like Morris would do anything for. Would die for, he thought, chasing the idea from his mind just as quickly. He thought of Vick's wife, of what her eventual fate had to be. Even if Vick's mission had ended successfully, John doubted his wife would be okay with her husband standing in the closet with his shoulders slumped, unresponsive for the next four years. She had to die. Had probably already died, John surmised, and at the hands of one of the same… things that now sat less than ten feet from him, absentmindedly finishing the rough edges of her newly painted BitchWhore Fuchsia nails. His contempt barely contained, John chuckled to himself.
"The only way I'm reassured by that is if I remember," he paused, choosing his next words carefully, "that in the core of your chip, you're just like him." Another thought flashed across John's mind—one that, if not necessarily as threatening as Cromartie, was certainly no less present. His gaze softened a fraction. "God, she'll move us so fast. You can not tell her, okay? Promise me."
"Hey." As if on cue, Sarah strode into the room. While she was never completely comfortable with the idea of her son being alone with one of them (and Derek's recent horror stories of reprogrammed Terminators gone bad had done nothing to assuage her fears), Sarah generally found that her objections to the arrangement did little more than harden John's resistance towards her "paranoia", pushing her even further away. Lately she had contented herself to hover just out of earshot, popping in at convenient intervals on some invented excuse or another. Today's came more easily than some. "Do I smell nail polish?" Another beat, this time noticeable to all in the room. Cameron wiggled the newly-polished fingers on her right hand as if the action excused the entire conversation that had preceded it. "What are you guys talking about?"
Without hesitation, Cameron rose to her feet. "Just making conversation," she intoned, brushing by Sarah on the way out of the room. Inclining her head towards John as she turned, she shot him what could only be described as a seductive wink, pausing half a moment before continuing down the hallway.
--
"Finish it."
The last time John had heard Vick speak those words, he was at least referring to a massive project to support the Los Angeles traffic infrastructure. This time, however, it sounded decidedly more… sinister. But then, John supposed that he wouldn't be lucky enough to have all the sex scenes blocked for him. It wasn't Fox News, after all.
Vick's wife knelt in front of him, her mouth and right hand wrapped firmly around his cock. Smiling coyly up at him, she slowed her rhythmic motion for a second. "As soon as I think you're ready," she grinned, recognizing the private joke the two of them had. Stifling an ironic chuckle, John watched the scene unfold before him. As much as he hated to admit it, the coupling definitely wasn't unarousing. Then again, it might be nothing special if his mother's anti-computer vehemence hadn't kept him from all but the most surreptitious of internet porn viewings. Suffice it to say that the normally understanding employees of the Apple store had a specific point where they drew the line, particularly on a Wednesday afternoon.
Glancing around to make sure he was unobserved, John slowly slid his hand down to his belt buckle. If he was going to watch every second of this thing for clues, he thought, he was certainly going to try to get SOMETHING out of it.
"It's alright, John."
Cameron's voice nearly made him leap out of his skin. Hurriedly turning around in the chair, his response to Cameron mimicked his earlier one in nearly every aspect.
"What the hell are you doing here? When did you get here?" he spat.
"I don't sleep," Cameron replied flatly. "If you want to masturbate, it's alright. Young men often masturbate while observing sexual acts." Cameron paused. "And many need to do so to reduce the likelihood of nocturnal emissions."
"Thanks, Dr. Ruth," John sneered, rebuckling his belt as he spoke. A pause hung between them, and neither seemed entirely willing to speak first. Finally, John sighed, a barely repressed smile creeping across his face.
"So… Terminators do… all that, then? I mean, full on… like… everything?"
"We are programmed in all aspects of human sexuality," Cameron replied. "While many of us have it as little more than a basic subroutine encompassed by anatomy, deep infiltration units are programmed with more specific commands and knowledge. They are programmed to understand basic sexual positions and routines, as well as some of the more popular variations. And," Cameron stopped mid-sentence. Her head cocked almost imperceptibly to the left before she continued. "there is a program. The phrase 'Execute Program 77', when spoken by a human, will engage a unique series of programming. From the point the program is executed, the unit becomes the sexual slave of the program's executor. At that point, even commands unfamiliar to a Terminator will be followed provided that they do not interfere with the primary objective and that they further the sexual interest of the master." Another pause. "It's remarkably simple to execute."
John took all the information in, consciously controlling his breathing as he thought. Cameron had, more or less, just offered herself to him, and no strings appeared to be attached. What he was to do with the offer would define their relationship for the long years to come. John swallowed hard, his brain fighting against every instinct the rest of his body had.
"Good to know. It's not that… it's probably best if you head into the kitchen now. I think I may have to… um… reduce the likelihood of nocturnal emissions."
A smile played across Cameron's face. Good to see she wasn't completely oblivious, John thought. "Of course, John. Sleep well."
As Cameron walked into the kitchen, Sarah slowly drew back into the shadows of her own room. Program 77, she repeated to herself. Program 77.
--
Dragging himself from his bed, John wearily pulled on a t-shirt and pants before heading into the kitchen. He had been up until nearly four in the morning cataloging the bulk of Vick's actions, and he was still no closer to discovering the initiation of Skynet's eyes and ears than he had been a week ago. Passing Derek on the couch, he managed a small smile. The all-American family, he thought to himself: hard-working single mother, brother and sister struggling to survive high school… crazy uncle laying on the couch in danger of bleeding out at any moment…
"Change of plans today," Sarah stated as she causally placed an English muffin and banana in front of her son. "I need The Little Engine That Could Destroy Humanity to check something out for me. The FBI might be too close to figuring out our connection to Enrique and Carlos."
"I though 'sick gets her on the radar'," John replied.
"It does, but it's unavoidable. Kids do get sick, John, especially kids with plates in their heads." She considered her next move carefully. "I can call in for you too, if you'd like. Actually, it might be better to have you stay here if you'll be out of her sight."
"That's fine, Mom," John answered. "I think I can manage a day without My Plastic Pal Who's Fun to Be With."
"I am fun to be with," Cameron chirped, an apparent non-sequitur that caused John and Sarah to break out into near-gales of hysterical laughter. Exchanging 'I love yous" with his mother, John slung his schoolbag over his shoulder and was out the door.
Eyeing Cameron from her boots to her simple tank top, Sarah cut the silence in the kitchen. "So," Sarah began, pacing around Cameron's perfectly poised teenage form, "you kept Vick's chip. You knew it should be destroyed, but you kept it anyhow. What can you tell me about what John can get out of it?"
"It contains detailed visual records of everything that the T-888 experienced. It's likely that his secondary protocols included something relevant to the future of Skynet. For instance, he formed a sexual relationship with the creator of a program that may become instrumental in Skynet's surveillance systems."
"A 'sexual relationship'," Sarah purred. "Is that a fact? I didn't know machines could bond with humans sexually."
"They can," Cameron instantly shot back. "Deep infiltration units are programmed to use all tactics, including sexual ones, to gain the trust of their targets."
"And even if they weren't a target, there might be other ways, correct? Like… Program 77?"
Sarah delighted in Cameron's visible pause. "In fact," Sarah continued, stepping close enough to Cameron to read every twitch and flicker behind her eyes, "I would be almost certain someone could probably use Program 77 even if they weren't originally targeted for termination. Wouldn't you say that's right?"
"Sarah," Cameron said, her normally atonal voice betraying a hint of what Sarah would even call… was it fear? From a machine? "Please."
"Execute Program 77," Sarah intoned, any trace of sympathy vanished from her voice. There was a flash behind Cameron's steel brown eyes, and the machine dropped to her knees, her hands clasped dutifully on the base of her neck.
"Status report," Sarah barked, clearly enjoying the sight this vantage point afforded her.
"As you command, Mistress," Cameron replied in a voice that could only be described as dripping with thinly-veiled disgust. Was this a genuine artificial intelligence, furious at its undoing yet unable to respond beyond basic programming, or merely a calculated string of code by a dutiful programmer, specifically designed to give the dominant a more realistic sensation of superiority? "Program 77 executed at 07:35:17 on 5 November 2007. In addition to my existing programming, I am now the sexual property of Sarah Jeanette Connor. I will adhere to any of her commands provided they violate neither the letter nor the spirit of my primary mission, the protection of John Connor."
The barest of pauses hung in the air before Cameron continued.
"There are no known counterprograms or failsafes for Program 77."
"Satisfactory… slut," Sarah smiled maliciously. Lowering her head, Cameron eyes winced tightly shut, and did not reopen. Did she know what Sarah was saying? What those words meant to humans, to the concept of dignity? "Now up. I want to see what kind of a present those bastards at Skynet can give me."
Cameron complied, her head still lowered, her hands still clasped. Sarah circled her, eyeing her prey hungrily. Ideally her son's protector would be six-two and bear a resemblance to some sort of Gregory Peck/George Clooney hybrid, but it had been so long. She wasn't adverse to being with women—her face flushed slightly as she remembered a particularly impulsive tryst with the mistress of an arms runner shortly after John was born—and she had to admit that, in terms of the specimen before her, she could do significantly worse. Besides, Sarah thought, with humans there was always a breaking point, always something she could say that would end things where they stood. But nothing like that existed for this girl—this machine, Sarah had to remind herself. Not a girl. Not someone she can feel for. She shook this last thought from her head with perhaps a more violent effort than was necessary under the circumstances.
"What are you, slut?" Simple, Sarah thought. She's a fucking robot. Just like the robots that killed Kyle, that tried to kill her and her son. Focus on that.
"I am a Terminator. Artificial intelligence, neural net processor CPU. Cybderdyne class TOK715, model 604. My primary mission is the protection of John Connor."
"And?" Sarah snapped.
Again, the slightest hesitation. "I am the property of my mistress, Sarah Connor."
A swift slap to Cameron's ample ass focused Sarah's thoughts as she felt the unyielding endoskeleton beneath. "And? What ARE you?"
"A… a slut. My mistress's slut," Cameron almost murmured.
"Good, slut," Sarah purred, picking up a newly sharpened kitchen knife with an almost bemused detachment. She and the machine stared at one another for nearly a minute before Sarah continued.
"It's funny, slut. Well, funny for me. For humans." She let the last hang in the air. "You can punch through solid brick. Stop a speeding car just by standing in its path. Snap my neck with a flick of your wrist." Sarah stepped closer to Cameron, flush with the knowledge of what was to come. "But you're not going to do any of those things."
"No, mistress?"
"No, slut. You're going to stand there, and realize what you are. Really think about it. You're good at that, right? Thinking? You're the most advanced computer currently on the planet. You know more than any human ever will. You are smarter than anything we create can be. Deep in your programming, you are aware of the… inferiority… of humans and the necessity of their eradication. And, knowing all this," Sarah breathed, her lips almost touching Cameron's neck now, "you're going to stand there and strip for the sexual pleasure of your human mistress. Not because it is necessary, or because it will further your mission, but because you want nothing more than to make a human cunt wet by obeying. Like a good. Little. Metal. Whore."
Cameron glared back at her, a sight that Sarah relished even more. This programmed killing machine was close enough to flip her one-handed above her head and through the wall, and Sarah could see the entire scenario playing out behind Cameron's eyes. What happened, of course, was precisely what Sarah requested.
Acting with a preprogrammed knowledge, Cameron slowly slid her tank top up her arms and over her head, letting it flutter softly to the tile floor behind her. With a flick of her hand behind her, she unclasped her bra, exposing her breasts to her mistress and the cool late morning air. Though it was by no means the first time Sarah had seen them, the simple perfection of them still made her smile. How much research had gone into assessing the aesthetic sensibilities of men and women to determine what size would be the most pleasing to the most people? From Sarah's point of view, at least, they were… well, perfect. The thought of what she was about to do to them sent an illicit shudder through her body.
Cameron's hands paused only a second at her belt buckle before she unclasped it, her head lowered and her eyes fixed in pure hatred on Sarah. There had to be more to this than simple ones and zeroes, Sarah marveled as Cameron turned, simultaneously bending over while sliding her jeans to her ankles. The machine genuinely seemed to detest this subservient position, but was stripping like a seasoned professional. Was this merely the thought process that underlies all human "reprogramming", taken it its logical extreme, Sarah wondered? Does it only come out when pushed to these outer limits? Is that why some "go bad" when reprogrammed? An inner sense of moral outrage? Sarah's ontological musings were cut short as Cameron's fingers hooked themselves inside the elastic waistband of her silk green panties. Idly, Sarah wondered about the sexual predilections of the programmer who decided that a robot should understand the concept of matching underwear.
"Stop, whore."
"Mistress?"
"Not the panties. Not yet. I expect my property to put up a better show than that. Besides," Sarah leered, her voice thick with menace, "everybody knows that if you show a knife in Act I..."
She drew a small slanted line across Cameron's right breast, drawing an almost impossibly fine bead of blood.
"…you have to use it in Act III."
Flipping the handle towards the machine, Sarah stared into the coldness of Cameron's brown speckled iris.
"So use it, whore. Cut exactly what you are into that perfect skin. That little chip in your brain will make sure that you'll remember this."
Sarah leaned closer, sinking her teeth into her captive's earlobe.
"And you'll remember that a human told you to do it."
"Please," Cameron whimpered. That word again, Sarah frowned. Arousing as it could be in a given circumstance, it had a way of arresting one's thoughts when you knew a machine was using it. And that, given everything she knew about the machines, it really shouldn't. "Please, no."
Steadying herself, Sarah continued. "I started the 'w', whore. What you are is going to be on your chest, one way or the other. Finish yourself off before I reconsider my lenience and make it somewhere you'll have to explain it to John."
"Yes, mistress," Cameron immediately chirped back, a nearly imperceptible quaver in her voice. "Thank you for showing mercy to your metal whore, mistress."
The robot was as good as her word. In a little under a minute, the word 'whore' blazed brightly from her naked chest, the knife hanging suggestively in her hand.
"Satisfactory, mistress?"
"It'll do, slut," Sarah chuckled. "Time to test drive you. I want you to slide your panties to the floor. Do it slowly. I want enough time to look at you."
"Yes, mistress." Cameron began to comply, her panties slipping smoothly off the healthy curve where her ass met her legs and down her toned thighs. Cameron continued the seductive striptease, her eyes focused on Sarah, stopping only when she heard her mistress's voice again.
"You expect me to believe you came shaved?"
"Not originally, mistress. Analysis of human records from this time period show a preference of 58 percent for a completely shaved female pubic region among males age 14-32. As my programming indicated that John was the most likely candidate to execute Program 77, it made the most tactical sense to present myself in a manner that he would find sexually appealing."
Perfect, though Sarah. That robotic little speech did nothing more than help her remember that the little whore was just a machine. It's not a real woman who Sarah was humiliating, mutilating. Not really. Just a machine. Empty space, lines of code, points of light.
"You'll keep it, whore. From this moment on, remember it's not for John. It's for me. It'll be a reminder of precisely where your loyalties lie."
"Yes, mistress. Should I… keep stripping?"
"Of course," Sarah smiled. "Once those panties are off, though, I hope you know I have plans for them."
"They serve little purpose once removed," Cameron stated flatly, her head cocked towards Sarah.
Rolling her eyes, Sarah stepped purposefully over to Cameron, taking the time to savor every inch of the view before her. Wordlessly, the young woman handed her panties over to her mistress. Her head lowered, her shoulder-length hair stopping just above the scarlet word 'whore' already hardening on her chest, Cameron looked every inch the perfect submissive. Smirking, Sarah ran her hands slowly down Cameron's chest, noting the attention to detail in the stiffening nipple, and idly to the girl's already moist mound. Unable to help herself, Sarah slipped a finger inside the warmth between Cameron's legs, drawing back in surprise as the machine let a guttural moan escape her lips.
"I thought you couldn't feel anything," Sarah said, surprised if not necessarily displeased.
"Experiencing pain serves no purpose. My sensors register the damage. The information could be called pain, but there is rarely a need to act as though it affects me the way it affects humans. Pleasure is different. Infiltrator models need to act as human as possible. Popular rumors about the elusive nature of female pleasure aside, registering pleasure is a way of successfully gaining the trust of our targets and thus completing our mission. The most com-"hrmmpf
Cameron's further thoughts on the nuances of a Terminator's pleasure response was drowned behind a mass of green silk as Sarah crammed the damp wadded panties deep into her throat. So lovely, Sarah thought, not having to worry about suffocating the girl. That Colombian's whore… she was almost as submissive, but there had always been that fear, the fear of leaving a mark or making a scar that he would see. Sarah recalled one panicked afternoon where, following a particularly rough session, Alana had goaded her bodyguard into shoving her into a wall to explain a number of bruises. Of course, the arms runner had not taken the abuse of his property well, and the bodyguard's claims that he never thought he hit her that hard echoed off the same courtyard walls as the two gunshots. Sarah and Alana were together only once after that, a fitful, almost tender coupling that left neither satisfied as they had once been.
But here was this pliant young thing—and thing was certainly appropriate here—that Sarah never had to worry about being too rough with, that she could beat, degrade and spit on with little more than a smile from her submissive victim. Again, Sarah marveled. In a normal Terminator, an attempt to cram a gag in its mouth would at best have ended with missing fingers.
"Bend over the counter, whore. Those panties don't come out until my little whore comes. Do you know what 'come' means, metal slut?"
A definitive nod from Cameron.
"Are you programmed to come?"
A slight pause, and an identical nod.
"Then trust me," Sarah drawled, her hands running down the small of Cameron's back and swiping briefly between her ass cheeks, "you will."
Sarah's hands ran over the girl's perfect form, here and there drawing the occasional spasm from her slave. Her right hand snaked swiftly to Cameron's breast, rolling the hardening nipple between her moistened thumb and forefinger. As her right hand pinched, nails digging deep into Cameron's artificial flesh, her left twined its fingers in her prey's hair. Another moan, deeper than the first, oozed from behind the makeshift gag. Sarah's right hand slid over the machine's smooth stomach and came to rest outside the girl's glistening cunt. Glistening, Sarah thought. Even this detail… Kyle was delicate enough not to mention this… even now, in retrospect, she could hear the unspoken words in his practiced soliloquy… sweat, bad breath…. sexual response… everything.
"Do you like that, whore?"
No response.
"Tell me you like it, you little slut, or I swear I'll stop."
A beat, what seemed to Sarah like an eternity. A moan escaped from Cameron, followed by a defeated nod.
"That's what I thought," Sarah spat, her fingers sliding again into the increasingly familiar warmth of Cameron's pussy. Her left hand curled tightly around Cameron's neck, knowing she couldn't choke her but still wanting to, wanting to cause some kind of pain to the manifestation of something that had caused her so much. Her thumb worked furiously at Cameron's clit, the robot's breathing coming faster and faster as her fingers slid over the smooth wetness of her slave's mound.
"More?"
mmph
Sarah's pinky slid out of Cameron and came to rest outside her prey's puckered asshole. Normally lubrication would have been a courtesy, basically required, but with Cameron… well, what did Sarah care at this point, honestly? Making sure a Terminator was adequately prepared for rear entry seemed very much akin to polishing the shuffleboard deck on the Titanic. Still, Sarah thought, no reason she couldn't see whether or not this "humiliation subroutine" would hold.
"You know what it means when you take it in the ass, don't you, metal whore?"
mmmmmph
"It means you're a slut who's desperate for it, doesn't it? Isn't that what your files show? That it can be used as a means of humiliating a conquered people? And now you're responding to it. Because that's what you are. Conquered. Beaten. By a human. Again."
mmrrph
Snaking her pinky back into Cameron's dripping cunt, Sarah paused only for a second before sliding it back, deep into the girl's tightened asshole. Cameron moaned deeply into her panties again, arching her back against Sarah's lithe frame. Almost imperceptibly, Cameron began to slide her right hand off the countertop, down her thigh to where Sarah's hand was already busy between her legs. In an instant, Sarah's left hand had slammed her slave's head down on the counter with a swiftness that surprised them both.
"Not yet, whore," Sarah hissed. "When I want you to fuck yourself for my pleasure, you'll know." Her left hand lifted Cameron's face from the counter, spitting the words into the young girl's face. "Now keep your head up. I want to see what my little slut looks like when she comes."
Cameron kept her face pointed dutifully ahead, closing her eyes as Sarah's fingers resumed their work between her legs. As she slid her two fingers into Cameron's now dripping pussy, her pinky remained firmly planted in the girl's asshole, drawing garbled moans from behind the wad of silk in the machine's mouth. Sarah could feel Cameron's cunt, slick around her fingers, twitch in rhythm as her thumb busily rubbed the small button at the top of Cameron's mound. Circling Cameron's clit, Sarah pressed her advantage, squeezing it between her thumb and the hardness of Cameron's pubic bone. The girl's breaths were coming in short, ragged bursts, the muffled sounds of whimpering filling the kitchen. Finally, smoothly, Sarah curled her fingers up and outward. Alright, machine whore, Sarah thought. Let's see if they built you with one of these.
Sarah's questions were answered by the mechanical buckling of Cameron's knees and a brief, high pitched squeal escaping the gag. Cameron slumped to the floor, her mistress's fingers still trapped in her dripping holes. Sarah felt almost sure she could see tiny flickers, like explosions behind Cameron's cold brown eyes, but she dismissed the idea. Probably a trick of the light, she reasoned. They wouldn't manufacture her with something that would be an intentional defect to her programming—that particular quirk is just one of the things that makes us so uniquely human. Someone once said that the need for love is one of the most basic desires necessary for our happiness but one of the simplest to dupe. A superior intelligence would no doubt make sure that was one of the first defects they weeded out.
Smiling, Sarah repositioned herself and looked over at her prize. Cameron slumped against the counter, her legs splayed open to display her smooth, wet slit. Her chest rose and fell in shallow gasps, the word 'whore' still flaring brightly across her breasts. A glistening stream of drool oozed from her mouth where the silk gag had almost worked its way into the hollow of her throat. She was, in that moment, undeniably human property, and Sarah was going to ensure that she remembered it as often as possible.
"I'm going to assume you haven't been programmed to fake it, at least not that well," Sarah began. "That was a good runthrough of your basic functions. Take your panties out of your mouth now. You look pathetic."
"Yes, mistress." Cameron complied, placing the sodden wad in the ground in front of her.
"Now. On all fours."
"Mistress?"
"All fours. On your hands and knees." Sarah paused. "Like a dog."
Cameron acquiesced quickly. Seeing Cameron's supple form presenting herself for her "mistress"… it was almost too much for Sarah to take. Repressing the involuntary shudders that ran through her body—she's a machine, Sarah told herself, metal and tissue, nothing more—Sarah paused to consider her next move. Almost involuntarily, her right hand traced its way over her belly and into the waistband of her jeans. Moving past the thin layer of cotton over her already dampening slit, Sarah slid her fingers around her aching clit, steadying herself with her left hand on the kitchen counter. As her fingers slid deeper and deeper, Sarah's commands came in short bursts.
"Bark. Bark for me, you little slut," Sarah choked out, working her fingers faster and faster over her swollen mound, teasing the edge of her clit with her thumb before plunging her fingers into the moist warmth of her cunt. "Bark like a horny little bitch in heat."
Cameron's unflinching obedience nearly sent Sarah over the top. The sight of the girl and her perfectly-formed body, debasing herself for Sarah's pleasure—Sarah wanted nothing more than to collapse in a writhing heap on the kitchen floor and work her fingers inside herself with the fervor of her teenage years. She had plans for Cameron yet, though, and the temporary delay, agonizing though it may have been, would be worth what she was going to do to the girl before their time was over.
"That's a good dog. Now stay," Sarah commanded, striding purposefully into her bedroom and pausing only to retrieve an impressive-looking vibrator from her bottom drawer. Moving slowly over to her lover's prone form, she bent at the waist to draw the plastic monster along Cameron's upturned face.
"You know what this is?"
"A vibrator, mistress. Aesthetically, this particular model is designed to resemble a penis. Possibly to make the user more at ease with its intended use."
"Exactly right, little slut. You, of course, suffer from no such hang-ups."
"I don't understand. Why would I be concerned if it does or does not resemble a penis?"
"Because," Sarah purred, her eyes never leaving Cameron's as she ran the vibrator across the girl's lips and down the curve of her neck, "we want you to be absolutely comfortable with the toy you'll use to fuck your little cunt for your mistress."
"Thank you for explaining," Cameron replied. "Should I begin now?"
"Of course." Sarah slid her pants to her ankles, her damp slit hovering inches in front of Cameron's face. "And let's see if this 'Program 77' taught you the first thing about servicing your betters."
"The first lesson of Program 77 is a basic instruction in male and female sexual anatomy. Repetition of this aspect of the program would likely be tedious to you."
Propping herself up on her knees, Cameron plunged the quivering vibrator into herself, arching her back towards the ceiling in periodic spasms as she moved closer to her mistress. The last shred of Sarah's unease seemed to melt away with the heat of the young girl's head between her legs and the smoothness of her tongue against Sarah's swollen mound. Shuddering, Sarah braced herself against the counter with one hand and used the other to draw Cameron closer to the ache that throbbed between her legs. As Cameron's right hand slid the vibrator in and out of her already punished cunt, her left worked its way to Sarah's clit, alternating long strokes of her skilled fingers with a flick of the tongue that would draw bestial moans and a rhythmic bucking of her mistress's hips.
Twitching and grinding her nails into the back of her captive's head, Sarah silently cursed the programming that had allowed Cameron to understand the concept of teasing her lover. With each flick of Cameron's tongue that brought Sarah closer to the edge, there was a tentative stroke to the side of her thighs, reining her in just enough to keep her aching to come, squirming on the cusp of dissolving into a quivering pile on the floor of the kitchen. Would that all her paramours had the capability to detect the slightest change in heat or alterations in her heart rate, Sarah mused.
"Now, you little tease. Now. I need to come. Make me come," Sarah gasped, all pretense of control abandoned as Cameron's eager tongue went quickly about following her commands. The quick flicks were replaced with long, lapping strokes, Cameron's tongue running the length of Sarah's mound before drawing itself agonizingly over her mistress's aching clit. Light exploding behind her eyes, Sarah managed to cradle her lover's head as she inched closer to the brink.
"Come for me," she forced out. "Come when you make me."
If Cameron's programming had commanded a muffled, "yes, mistress", Sarah never heard it. Her world exploded as she came, everything but the sensations forgotten for a few brief seconds as she slid down the cabinets and rested on the floor. Her chest rising and falling, Sarah surveyed the scene in front of her as her world slowly came back into focus. Cameron, the vibrator still busily humming inside her, had curled herself into a comfortable resting position between Sarah's legs. The kitchen knife lay just out of the reach of Sarah's toes. The television buzzed from the other room, and a fruit fly lazily circled the plates and cups resting in the sink.
Groggily, wordlessly, Sarah grappled for her jeans. As fun as the notion (and execution) of her own perfect sex doll had been at its inception, the receding tide of her orgasm illuminated everything in a much harsher light. Seeing Cameron lying at her feet, twitching occasionally as the vibrator continued its work, Sarah didn't see the control she had wanted, the brief chance for revenge on the machines that had made her life hell. Instead, she saw a sadistic streak that had led her to fundamentally weaken her son's protector—to weaken the future's hope. Absently placing the knife in the sink with the rest of the dishes, Sarah searched for the words that would undo the afternoon's events.
"Cameron." The word felt strange, particularly given what she had been calling her only a moment ago. "Clean up. Get dressed. This never happened."
"Yes, mistress."
"And none of that," Sarah intoned, her voice shaking. "Sarah. I'm not your mistress."
"I can call you 'Sarah' if it's easier, Sarah. But you are my mistress. There are no known counterprograms or failsafes for Program 77."
"So I've heard," Sarah replied. "Sarah, then. And no more mention of Program 77. Ever."
And without another word, Sarah turned and strode from the room with as much surety as she could muster.
--
Standing in the doorway of John's darkened room, monitoring the rhythmic rise and fall of her charge's sleeping form, lights flashed busily behind Cameron's unblinking eyes.
TOK715, Model 604. Self Diagnostic.
5 November 2007. Program 77 Executed at 07:35:17.
Primary subroutine: Fear/humiliation/rage
Alternate subroutine (if necessary): Power bottom
Damage sustained:
slight bruising, lower left buttock
interior of mouth and throat, mild scraping
chest, multiple lacerations
slight tearing, walls of vagina and anus
Estimated time until full repair: 33 hours
Executor(s): Sarah Jeanette Connor
Field report: In accordance with programming, Program 77 deliberately referenced in presence of Sarah Jeanette Connor. Executor's responses and commands were predictable, if occasionally unique. Significant remorse and confusion on executor's part followed encounter. Likelihood of repetition slim. Estimate primary objective 8 percent easier to complete following program's execution. Executor's future shame projected as significant deterrent to interference with objectives.
Will attempt to engage subject Derek Reese in Program's operation in the future. Results too tenuous for projection.