Date: Tue, 16 Jul 2002 02:53:40 +0000
From: Java Biscuit <javabiscuit@hotmail.com>
Subject: Free to Good Home, chapter nine

This is a futuristic fantasy involving inter generational
male/male graphic sex and it's not intended for reading
by minors. If you are underage, or this type of material
is illegal where you live, please stop now, and go read
something else!

Feedback, always appreciated, to:
javabiscuit@hotmail.com


Free to Good Home ~ chapter nine

by Biscuit


Only three days after Tiger's transformation into Ty33 I
introduced him to my friends en masse. His debut was the
weekly meeting of the writing group. Rory's idea.

"Tiger can be my helper," he said. "He can trot around
looking cute and bring the guys drinks and snacks. Every
one will get a chance to see him and get used to him. It's
got to happen some time, Toby."

Rory had come home with me Tuesday night after work,
volunteering to color Tiger's hair to match Ty33's shade,
which Rory claimed was a few tones lighter. He'd studied
the catalogue image and noticed the difference. Tiger was
impressed, having considered it and decided the difference
was negligible. He agreed to let Rory do coloring for him,
though he pointed out that he was capable of doing it for
himself.

"Of course you can do it for yourself, sweetheart," Rory
said to him. "But this is what we call friendship in human
talk."

I saw Tiger's brows go up, curiously.

"A gesture of friendship," he said, as if he were tasting the
thought. Then he smiled and said, "I am very grateful."

Rory shot me a look, as if to say -- I got him -- but he was
smiling too.

"Good," Rory said. "Now that we're all friends ..."

He proceeded to whip Tiger into a froth over the prospect
of attending the writers' group meeting. My boybot's eyes
glazed with pleasure discussing the possible appetizers and
drinks to be served. Tiger seemed to think the chance to wait
on a group of my friends ranked right up close to cuddling
and kissing on the scale of pleasurable things to do.

What I'd intended was to back out of the meeting altogether
and rush home Friday night to start my weekend alone with
Tiger. Instead I ended up agreeing to bring him with me.

There were six of us, all friends of Rory's. Most of them
were a little older than I was and almost all of us had gone
to the same school. Rory had dubbed our group the Sex
Diary Project since so much of what we wrote centered on
who we had fucked that week and how. I'd contributed a lot
of moody pieces on the theme of one night stands.

The group was light on critique, strong on encouragement
and we always met at Rory's. On nights when his trio was
having a party there was sometimes a spill over from our
group. I was always long gone by the time people's clothes
started coming off. Nobody took offense at my early exits.
They'd heard too many of my anguished journal entries
describing my panic attacks after sex.

Sometimes I thought about staying, wondering if it would
be different with friends, but it wasn't worth the risk.

I'd never had a boyfriend. I'd never had sex with anyone
more than two or three times at the most, except as a kid,
with my own brother -- something I alluded to in my writing
without spelling it out explicitly. I always portrayed him as a
young friend, slightly older than me.

Sam and I were very young when it happened and that part
of our relationship ended when he went to high school and
started dating.

I hate to think that Tiger was Sam to me. Sam as he'd been
when his caring as a brother got tangled up with his need for
sex. There was a connection, I can't deny it. But I'm not the
first or last person to have their choices shaped by something
like that. If I saw my brother in Tiger, it doesn't mean I loved
him any less. It doesn't mean I didn't love him for himself.

By late Friday afternoon I was a nervous wreck. Rory stood
behind me at the desk at the end of the day and gripped my
shoulders -- hard.

"You," he said, "have got to relax. It's going to be fine.
Better than fine." He kneaded the muscles between my neck
and shoulders. "Everybody's going to like your little bot once
they get over the first shock. Who wouldn't? I like him, don't
I? They know he's going to be there. You should be grateful.
I've already done the hard part -- breaking the news that our
farmboy bought himself a used boybot for Christmas."

I groaned, partly at the thought and partly because he was
grinding my poor aching muscles so hard. Rory's theory
of massage was -- if it doesn't hurt it isn't working.

"Okay," he said, mercifully stopping. He patted my head. "Go
home and fuck him. Get it out of your system and I'll see you
at my place in a couple of hours."

Oh God. That's exactly what I wanted to do, except for the part
where I'd see him at his place in a couple of hours.

Everything about the night to come made me anxious. Even
getting there. I'd only taken Tiger out a couple of times, for
short walks along the river and around the neighborhood. I
didn't let him go out on his own. God knows he could have
protected himself better than I could do it but I couldn't
stand the idea of him out on the streets by himself.

It was a good thing that I had anxiety to distract me on my
way home. If I hadn't been imagining every possible awful
thing that could happen, my dick would have been so hard
from thinking about all the good things that were going to
happen when I got home -- I'd never have made the walk
from the train to the condo.

I felt like Alice in a wonderland of sex and yet I'd only
dipped my toe in the waters that Tiger wanted me to swim
in. I was excited, scared and living in a fog of lust.

In the past I may have only fucked a guy once or twice, as
a rule, but I'd done it politely. My one night stands weren't
spurred by a need some guys have to use somebody and move
on -- though people sometimes thought that about me. People
who didn't know me. I was, in fact, a careful and thoughtful
lover. Always thinking ... and always planning my escape.

The night that Tiger and I had first talked openly, when he
knew the truth, he'd said to me, "You've used my body very
well." As if it were a compliment. It was agony to hear that.
It was exactly what I didn't want to do. Use him. I wanted to
love him and I couldn't see any way that the two things went
together. Tiger was saying, if you love me, you'll use me.
He might as well have been a bird talking to a fish -- until,
of course, he stopped talking and forced me to fly.

And I flew, even if it was in bursts that sometimes ended in
woeful crashes.

Wednesday, near midnight, we took a walk by the river. It
was romantic, I thought. We were holding hands, looking
at the lights across the water, the coating of snow in the
riverside park. I was thinking about how it would feel to do
it right there, to be outdoors and feel the heat of him all
around my cock in the cold air. As if I'd transmitted the urge
through my skin to him, Tiger suddenly ran from me, veering
off the path into the trees yelling,

"Chase me!"

He didn't get far. When I caught him he struggled, laughing,
taking us both down in the snow, his body taking the brunt of
the impact, face down. He was still wiggling like he'd get away
from me again, bubbling with laughter and pressing his ass up
against my very hard dick.

My brain shorted out and I was holding him trapped under me
with one arm and fumbling with the other to get to bare skin.
Tiger's suit opened from his bellybutton to the small of his back
and I got my fingers and eventually my dick into the moist heat
between his cheeks, finding my way into his tight slippery hole.
He bucked and squirmed under me and I forced him down. The
added pressure of struggling sent shocks of pleasure through
my belly and thighs.

Immune to the cold, all that mattered to me was riding his ass.

Until I'd come and my brains reassembled.

When it was over and the cold started seeping back in, I realized
I must have been grinding Tiger's bare stomach and cock into the
snow. I rolled off of him and pulled him into my lap, cupping his
icy genitals in the my palm of my hand. Chilled as my hand was,
his dick was colder, the open edges of his clothes packed with
snow.

The upper regions of my brain knew that he didn't feel the cold,
he'd told me so, but my gut told a different story. I was about to
come completely unglued when I heard a sound like the crunch
of a footstep in snow and thought I saw a man shaped shadow at
the edge of the trees. My heart lurched in my chest and I wanted
to get to my feet and run but my body had turned to stone.

I don't even remember Tiger leaping but he must have because
he was in front of me suddenly with his arms outspread like a
shield. Not a boy, not an android but some fierce little warrior
stood over me, demanding, "Who's there!" of the shadows.

He waited and I stared at him in awe. There was only silence.
His arms dropped to his sides.

"There's no human scent, Toby, only the smell of squirrels" he
said, turning to me. "No danger is indicated."

"Oh Tiger," I started to speak and nothing more came out as he
helped me to my feet.

I stood there and let him brush at the snow on the legs of my suit,
and my frozen backside. He was clucking at me like I was a baby
bird.

"I thought I had succeeded in circumventing your shame," he
said. "You fucked me beautifully, like you owned me." He rested
his hands on my waist. "I thought you would love it."

Oh God. Not a boy at all. I knew that, I knew it so well. And yet
there I was again, confused by his young face, his boyish need for
reassurance from me and the awesome things he'd just done and
said. I hugged him.

"I did love it, Tiger." I felt the tension drain out of me, out of him.
I rubbed his back through the light thermal jacket he wore, for
show. It was a thing personal bots did, he told me, so that looking
at them in the cold would not make humans uncomfortable.

"But it's a bad thing to do what I did," I said. "It's wrong to hold
someone down in the snow and just take what you want," I tried
to explain. How could he not see that? We started to walk.

He fit me so perfectly, his shoulder in my armpit, his arms around
me, keeping a lazy clinging pace as we made our way back to the
path toward home. It was a cold night but the air was still and I
felt warm in the wrap of his body.

"I believe the darkness worked against me," he mused. "If you'd
seen my face or the snow melting around my cock, you wouldn't
have felt shame."

"Maybe," I said, stroking his back.

"I made a slush puddle of elixir," he said.

Oh Tiger. There wasn't another creature in the world I could
imagine saying such a thing.

He held me still for a moment, gazing up at me in the moonlight.

"You felt my excited movements. Your body knew I was feeling
pleasure." He said it like it proved I was good, not bad.

"Maybe," I said, to appease him. Maybe, I thought, but it was
half-hearted. I didn't trust my body as a guide. I was used to
judging its every action. It seemed to be Tiger's mission to
short circuit that process.



What I remembered, in the lulling warmth of my train ride
Friday night, with the glossed tunnel walls blurring on the
periphery of my sight, was the wild excitement of fucking him
outdoors; how it felt to rip his clothes open, naked skin in the
night air, the joy of burying my needy dick in his silky ass.

But I remembered too, the feeling that someone was hidden in
the trees and it fed my fear of the night to come; taking Tiger
out into the city where God only knew who or what could try
to steal him from me.

I hadn't forgotten the break-in or Tiger's vague memory of
being taken from Roger Davis's home. I tried not to think
about those things but they were always with me.