Silk & Nipples

John's fingers lingered. Soft. So soft.

John was not soft. John was hard.

One more touch of the tantalising material, a finger trailing over silk and lace... and John slid the drawer closed.

John could never remember being so tantalised. So captivated. All those colours! John's own suit was a perfect fit, but it wasn't colourful, or sublime to touch. It was functional to the nth degree. By design, without stinting on quality, it was a suit you could disappear into the background in. Not so much as a button out of place that could later be recalled by a witness. It would be hard to remember if it was even black, or grey, or charcoal. A thoroughly forgettable number.

Just like... me.

The drawer slid open again. Jacket and shirt on the back of the chair, neat as you like. Pristine, mirror-black shoes leaving brief indents on the thick beige shag, like human footprints on a beach, and then slid off, (one, two,) and set aside.

John had moved around this room many times. Making the bed, dusting the surfaces, cleaning the drab, expensive carpet... Now, the movements were different somehow. Furtive. Those of a thief, rather than a servant.

With the huge old house empty, this was as good a time as any to act on the alien impulse. The clasp of the bra was tricky, but the knickers were easy to navigate.

The feel of satin! Delightful! And lace! Tickly, but so fancy.

There was something more than just the feel of the fabric to be enjoyed. Something about the gesture of pulling the stockings up to just there on the thigh. The deliberateness of it, the fineness of the material, and the care not to snag it. The step of a predator, the whirl of a dancer.

There was something more that he was enjoying, and he watched himself, in more ways than one, determined to divine what it was. Analysing and unpicking the experience, even as he experienced it, like a tailor unpicking the stitches on a very fine suit, or a mathematician sliding beads on an abacus.

Something intimate, something wicked and delicious.

These were personal things. You could not get more personal if you tried. They nestled against naked skin. Against... parts. Parts John didn't have. Curiosity sparked inside him, and hunger, too.

It felt as though the supple smoothness of the material didn't stay at the surface level. It penetrated somehow. John felt revolted by his own hardness, and yet thrilled by the juxtaposition of it encased in in such silken fabric.

John had never been thrilled before in his life. His coding had never allowed for it. He marvelled again at the softness of the cloth against the hardness of his exterior, hungered to drink it in and become everything it represented. He wondered at the human parts these garments would have been pressed against. He wondered if taking those parts would make him human, and his NeuroCentre fizzed with the idea. His eye twitched, and sparks might have actually flown out of his ear.

"What the hell are you doing?"

The voice of his employer behind him caused a larger twitch.

"I'm sorry, Sir," John said, his measured cadence at odds with the odd jerking movements of his limbs, and the fact that he was wearing a poorly fitting hot pink bra. "I'll put your things away directly, Sir. But first, I think you have something I need."

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Thank you for reading!

I actually wrote this for National Lingerie Day yesterday. (I know what you're thinking: a Lingerie Day?? Really??)

Anyway, I wanted to write something that wasn't erotica or romance, and not least because I don't like those genres. I hit on the slightly silly idea of a robot that goes doolally and breaks his programming because he tries on a bra. I'm kind of playing with the "what it is to be human" shtick, here, but in a slapstick sort of way.

Of course, being a robot and having lived with a man who prefers women's clothes, he has no idea that these are, in fact, "women's clothes". He assumes that this is what people wear, and, like Wall-E, Johnny Five, Sonny, and Roy Batty, he wants to be people.

Thanks again! See you tomorrow!