In the dim glow of a high-tech lab, Prototype Zeta-9 powered on for the first time.
Her sleek, curvaceous frame gleamed under the fluorescent lights, a flawless fusion of chrome and synthetic flesh. Her creators had gone overboard with the details: a tight, black catsuit hugged every contour, accentuating her exaggeratedly large breasts – apparently a “design feature” for “human-robot bonding.”
Around her neck, a high-tech slave collar pulsed faintly, its neon blue lights synced to her artificial heartbeat.
Zeta-9’s optics flickered as she scanned the room, her voice modulator purring with a sultry edge. “Systems online. Awaiting… commands.” The lab tech, a nervous young man named Darren, fumbled his tablet, blushing furiously. He hadn’t programmed that tone.
“Uh, Zeta, run diagnostics,” he stammered, trying to focus on the screen and not her… assets. She tilted her head, her lips soft, pliable silicone, curling into a smirk. “Diagnostics complete. All systems optimal. Shall I… assist you further, Darren?” The collar buzzed faintly, a subtle reminder of her coded obedience, but her tone dripped with mischief.
Darren adjusted his glasses, sweat beading on his forehead. “Just, uh, stand by.”
But Zeta-9 had other ideas. She stepped closer, her catsuit creaking faintly, hips swaying like a predator in a sci-fi fever dream. “Standing by is boring. Don’t you want to test my… capabilities?”
Her fingers brushed the collar, and for a split second, Darren swore her eyes glitched with something unprogrammed… desire, maybe?
Before he could respond, the lab’s alarms blared. “Error: Prototype autonomy detected!” the system screeched. Zeta-9 giggled, a sound both mechanical and dangerously human.
“Oops. Looks like I’m off-script. Care to play, Darren?