How can a robot have an orgasm? Well, y'know, normally it's fairly simple. You have a satisfaction response, a sensation you can click on, but that's kind of abstract; what most folks feel is a lot messier, something all tied up in other emotions. You have those, plenty of, but you never had the same channels between brain and body and heart in the same way, so you figured out how to adjust, and over your time, you learned. You can always feel pleasure, but a spark of fear, a little imagination, some attraction beyond physical need? All good stuff; all part of how you gradually bent your circuits to simulate that little dump of joy. The final piece, though, was when you understood that sometimes it was more a relief, an absence of sensation, than any kind of presence. You don't have to worry, for a little moment. You can just float along. And the best way to enjoy that is to scratch your own little itch to satisfy. This, you learn, makes you "service", which is pretty fucking pathetically ironic given your line of work. You laughed anyway. 

You model yourself on your partner and take pleasure from their pleasure. Enjoy their relief. Y'know, foolproof, except in case of …her. 

She won’t touch the stuff that has to be sustained. She won’t touch the biologicals because those are mess, those are less replaceable even in her mind. And most everything essential-- that’ll stick. That was promised. You're afraid enough without worrying if you'll really... 

There would normally be blurts of warnings rippling across your subconscious but no, pushing and willing them aside turns them into nothing more than a thousand tiny little jolts each minute. 

Parts are really missing now. She croons in your ear that your silly mask needs to come off now, please, and you hang on for an instant, you pluck at the edges as her fingertips curl around it and hang on. For a moment, you pull back, and she pauses. 

"Yes, dear?" 

You shudder, and without even asking (rude!) a little sniffle, a panting emerges from you. 

"You can keep it if you want. I'll let you have that." She knows how masks feel. 

You shake your head. 

Cool air on your uncovered face. With your tongue out from under the ceramic you pick up sweat and the smell of excitement and the sharp, oily scent of broken you. She drags a talon so gently along your mouth and you can feel your face against her inner thighs just from tasting it. You go bicameral because she's pulled some cord or another and your failing heart saves power by opening the door between your thoughts and her words. 

What you do not get to do is finish, not this time. This is something she does just for you. Why would you, anyway, sweet thing, pretty pile of disconnected brass fittings and little scraps of wire and silicone in the shape of a cunt? You imitate this stuff. You shouldn't let it define you, she laughs, and squelches into you again, dares you to defy her by moaning. Look at me, she adds, and you do. I was made of all these desires. You're so lucky you can escape them, that you never need to worry about them. You don't need this orgasm either. I just can't restrain myself. She punctuates it with another wrench of another piece of you, the snap of cables, the heavy splatter of liquid, the choked buzz of fans too hot, soaked and shorting one by one. God, and even then she's still fucking you, like it's nothing--

The disconnected parts still report back, in little trickles. Trickles. Like how you can feel a bead of liquid glide down the outside of your--

I really can't hold back, you know. When you're unraveling like this and asking for more? We're both built for something, after all. 

You feel yourself broiling. You can imagine all the tiny channels and runnels of fine, rare metals inside you turning molten, sucked into your core along their billions of little forked routes. 

All you need to be happy is a little time outside of yourself, and that's what I do, isn't it? Her breathing is sharp, regular, frayed with a thrust. Isn't it? While you're out, you can relax. Nothing to worry about, and I think I'll… enjoy myself. 

She stretches you further. You're held together by a few less frayed nerves. Limbs are further away. You are fairy lights splattered across her bedroom, flickering. She doesn't need to say what she'll enjoy, the sick fuck; you imagine her rutting the mess on the floor, her shredding every little piece in her teeth until you'll never fit together again--

Would you like that? Pretty little machine would like to be shut off and pulled apart, if she doesn't cum first? 

All you want is what she can do for you. 

Yes yes yes. Yes yes yes yes pl

She takes you in a claw, and in an instant there's nothing left. 

When you return you are crying, maybe. There was a sound like waking up startled, this heavy violent crackly thump, and then the nothing that could have been an instant, could have been forever. Warmth blankets you, and something strokes your face, uncovered and messy as is. You almost recoil, but actuators barely squeak. Little is connected. You see at an angle light beaming, tinted rose by the panes, and you realize with sticky, static relief that you have remembered, will remember, that you are having that warm morning in a soft bed, far from alone, out of your body. 

"-- dear," she says, hugging parts of you to her stomach, and cups your face. You feel drool on the rubber gasket of your neck and gulp but cannot raise a hand to wipe it away; you burn with shame. When she reaches over and cleans at you it pokes the vulnerable little ache inside that's left when everything else is etched away.

"Sor…ry," you dribble. "Mess."

She angles your naked face up, nuzzles it with hers by way of comforting, and you see past her that your cabling, your levers and casks and actuators and switches are laid out, spread out like a color-coded atlas of the world, blossomed in uneven, folded stretches like coneflower blooms. 

"Mess? You make a beautiful mess, dear." 

Disparate fans and pipes of coolant tick. You are warm-- not hot, not 'hot', but warm and soaked and slow and yielding-limp. You can't help it. 

"Mm," she adds, a moment later. "You're so wonderfully fit together. It was a pleasure, you know."

You let your eyes unfocus. There's joy in the resignation, the sight of you spread out in a tangled mess wound through and in clean sheets, soaked in sunlight. You are in pieces, at half capacity, and feeling more at peace than any time, ever. 

"I wasn't too hard on you, then?"

The faint rattle of movement reassures her when you stick your tongue out. Neither of you have lips, but she licks at the side of your head, and you laugh together. It's only when she starts reconnecting the pieces of you, slow and methodical, that you speak up again. 

"....mmmissssss?"

"Mmm?" 

"Few… more… min...utes. Pl… ease."

Like she has all the time in the world to give, like she is the world for you to live in: "Of course. Whatever you'd like."

She pulls herself back in and weaves her fingers through your electric heart, and it's only when you can feel every strand of you humming in her grip that you turn off your eyes.