The I.T Girl

The I.T Girl The I.T Girl

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Genre: Humor

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Status: Finished

Genre: Humor

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Submitted: December 21, 2016

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Content

Submitted: December 21, 2016

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The IT Girl

Saturday:

There’s nothing sexy about I.T. That is, unless you’re planning on building your own boyfriend!

I think I was kind of drunk when I first dreamed up the idea. At the time I was in a tawdry nightclub, feeling dreadful, staring down, into a porcelain vortex. It wasn’t the first time I’d been on my knees in this place, but I really wanted it to be the last. Standing against the wall, watching a hotbed of hormonal gyrating excess is awfully thirsty work, particularly when no one wants to dance with you. Honestly, it’s quite depressing and can be lethal on your smart and sensitive neurones.

 

I guess that’s half my problem. I have too many clever neurones and not enough of the feminine wiles. Quite a distinct disadvantage I’m told. In fact, it’s becoming quite apparent, brains and too much visual body hair can be seen as a problem in certain places. Particularly this one, a glimmering repository for clean skinned, walking porcelain dolls in heels. I guess that’s why I don’t quite fit here. To be honest, shaving is as foreign to me, as Ethiopian goat stew on pita bread.

 

Also, I want it on record, I said nightclub, not Knight club. There are no fucking knights left in this world.  Plenty of frogs though and I think I’ve kissed them all, well those that wanted to be kissed anyway. But it’s really a moot point if truth be told, as I don’t get to do that very often. Once I tell them about my job it’s usually all over. Boys don’t like girls who work in the upper echelon of IT, particularly in robotics. Usually, they are running into the night in about ten minutes, particularly once I mention my work. Typically, the first sign of unrest appears after I mention the title, “Specialising in Engineering Cybernetics and Control Algorithms.” That’s me, not so pretty, but pretty damn smart. It’s a passion killer all the same. You’d think I was designing a Terminator or something. Sometimes, I wish was just a simple programmer or software developer, but no, I had to specialise in robotics and start creating a line of self-sufficient, forward/backward, thinking mechanical fork lift drivers. Silly me, but it does make you wonder...

 

So there I was, on my own as usual, in my sad pathetic cubicle, feeling like shit as I watched, a large portion of my weekly pay packet disappearing down a mechanical whirlpool. What’s even more annoying is that in the next booth, Clarice, from accounts was on her knees too, staring at her own form of destiny. Well, if you can call it that. While I was expelling, she was doing quite the opposite, if you get my drift. Greedy cow, I bet she even brought her own knee pads! I mean what a slapper. What was his name again, Jack from PR as I recall? Why is it, the good ones always seem to be chasing those tarts from fucking accounts? What is it about finance software that turns them on so much? You’d think it was the aphrodisiac of the 21st century. Whatever happened to oysters, and Michael Buble? Fuck Zero is all I can say.

 

My life only got worse, when more noise erupted from the cubicle on the other side. Now the girl from HR is starting to moan so loudly that even the permanent flush won’t hide it.  Clearly, I really needed to create my own cubicle relief package, as I’m obviously just not in their real man flesh league. I mean how hard could it be, to build your own big boy substitute?

 

But, as I left, feeling rather grumpy I did get one small smidgen of satisfaction, Already I could I hear Jack from cubicle one, moaning crazily, as he decided to let go. I was quickly reminded of the old adage, Jack be nimble Jack be quick. Well, that was too quick in my opinion. I hope Clarice carries plenty of mouthwash.  If my turn ever came around, I was really going to have to change his algorithm!

 

Monday

Forklifts go up and down, so why can’t they go in and out. That was my question and it was a heady one indeed. I had to be very crafty about how I sold this one to my team leader, though, but he brought it in the end. So here was the latest R&D revelation, a forklift that could duck in and out of tight places, by using extendable appendages. I didn’t mention the latex, though, or the width and thickness of the forks. I kind of kept that to myself. It was very naughty of me. I began to progress my design!

 

Tuesday

The prototype was ready, it hadn’t taken long at all, you gotta love 3D printers, the new technology love machines. I decided to call him Jack, in honour of the original. To be fair he was hardly a mentor, but a girl has to start somewhere, or in my case anywhere, even if that special someone has rubber wheels instead of two legs.  Anyway, I just told everyone I wanted to stay a little later tonight and try out some new software applications, and everyone just nodded, wishing me good night and left.

 

“Good night Indira,” called the boss as he ambled out the door and then the place was empty and I was alone. Alone with Jack!

 

I’ve always fancied a man that came with a remote control, particularly one that lived in a cupboard, so it was a watershed day for me. Slipping down the back of the lab, I dragged him out on his four wheels. It seemed only fitting I dimmed the lights and started playing some Buble. Soon I was humming and in the mood, so I drew him close to me, watching with excitement how his wheels slowly rumbled around, as he carefully sidled nearer. The gaze of his wing mirrors were becoming increasingly intense and now he drew even closer, his vibrating forks caressing my cheeks, drifting up and down my trembling body, caressing me like a lovelorn mechanic, the only sound, beyond my passion, the delicate hiss of his compressors as they slid eagerly along the steamy, ever shiny metal struts.  I’d cleverly inserted lubricant above his tender arms and so it was easy, so easy, to make him ready, willing and desperate. He came even closer, lining me up like a quivering target, his wheels slow and steady and his aim clinical and firm.

 

I soon found myself sprawling ecstatically across a table, dripping with desire, wanting his intensity, my body draped over the corner like a dishcloth on heat, wanting, waiting and then. Oh my lord, heaven! My carefully programmed algorithm was exquisite, enticing perfection as he thrust himself forward, the tiny whir of pulleys and chains, all-consuming as he impaled me with a sudden inescapable yearning.  Well, that was until I nudged the remote, forcing my man machine to lift instead of push. Oh boy, that was a mistake and could have been nasty! Thank God I’ve learned to dive in the face of adversity. It was still quite shattering, though, as my nose hit the floor, and Jack’s hydraulics sent him to the roof. That was not in the plan at all, it was me who was supposed to hit the roof, not him, bloody peasant robots.

 

Wednesday

Ok, so Jack wasn’t a spectacular success. I can also confirm a broken nose is no aphrodisiac either but what can a girl do?  But it was a start, and despite the pain, I pondered the flaws in my design. It occurred to me that I really needed to spend some time analysing the mechanics of sex if I really wanted a hot wild man-machine. Looking out the window I could see Clarice, from accounts, with that short, skimpy skirt, leaning provocatively over the photocopier, no doubt, seeking a few glances from my nerdy four eyed male colleagues. Then it occurred to me, biomechanics. I needed to record the intimate moments of the act with someone dumb enough to let me watch. So if I got her drunk enough, maybe I could insert a few probes, here and there, and record her movements in real time. Worked for me...

 

 

Thursday

I hacked her email and sent an invitation to Jack, the real Jack that is. Meet me at my work tonight, I told him, 7.00pm, no cubicles. but quality knee pad time. That would surely work for any horny admin guy from advertising.  Indeed it did, but I didn’t expect him to bring a friend. That was when things got kind of complicated.

 

It was no picnic getting the ever-winsome Clarice to stay behind either I must say. Luckily there are only a few women in this place so drugging her tea wasn’t terribly difficult. My most trying aspect was keeping her locked in a cubicle until after 5 pm, an issue I endeavoured to solve by giving her a very healthy dose of sleeping pills, so she would doze well. Hell, it wasn’t as if she was a stranger toilet cubicles anyway, was it?

 

Sure enough, closing time rolled around again and I gave my usual sad excuses about staying behind. Hurriedly I got all the equipment in order, a bucket load of probes, my laptop and plenty more drugs to make my subjects malleable for testing. It didn’t take long before the clock read 7,00pm and Jack arrived with his buddy in tow. Now that was a pain, if I’d known he was bringing company,  I’d have been prepared for a stoner foursome myself, but that wasn’t an option given I was recording the act, so to speak. There was also another wee problem regards my plan Unfortunately Clarice was giving a performance of life imitating art if you can call accounting art? You see the stupid tart hadn’t woken up yet and despite my desperate shaking and pinching, still snored winsomely away. It seemed she intended to remain stubbornly semi-comatose. Frankly, I was very annoyed! I hadn’t actually anticipated giving that greedy bitch from accounts a threesome, but if it was meant to be, then so be it, but I supposed she ought to be at least awake first. It’s no fun trying to have it away with a sleeping person, (trust me I’ve tried) so I did feel at least some obligation to get Clarice up and at it, so to speak.  All the same, I had to accept there’d be a slight delay in recording.

 

Buzzing the two likely lads in, I directed them by loudspeaker to the lab, trying my best to imitate the dulcet tones of a wanton woman, even though my version of the real Clarice’s current tones bore a remarkable resemblance to an unconscious whale. Dutifully, they did as they were told, clearly driven by typical male hormone imbalances, brought on by the impending expectation of unbridled lust. I’d left some nice potent chemicals on the table for them to sniff, and with much pleasure, they quickly obliged. Soon they were as high as two balloons on a satellite trip to Venus and I was ready to begin. Covetously, I wheeled out the luscious and dozy Clarice. I imagine she could have been a comatose sheep, for all those two cared, given they approached their work. To be honest they looked more like two dope dealers playing Pokemon Go in a cave, than lovelorn Lothario’s but who’s counting. It didn’t matter anyway as looking on the bright side, they didn’t seem to mind where I put the probes, apparently finding the imposition somewhat amusing. Within minutes they got to work and I got to probing, mapping their wicked and wobbly thrusts and penile parries with some excitement.

 

For while, everything was going smoothly, as Jack and Zack took Clarice for a very firm ride. But I soon learned it’s not a very good idea not to use an executive chair with wheels when attempting coitus en masse. Regrettably, during one of Jacks more ardent thrusts, poor Clarice was sent whizzing across the vinyl floor to thud into one of the motorised benches, which turned out to be a disaster. Unfortunately, it supported quite a heavy clamp which tragically plummeted down onto the salacious accountant’s sleepy head. Oops, so much for scientific rigour. Now it was substituted for rigor mortis that is because I’m afraid she died somewhat instantly from a whack to the head.

 

I really didn’t have the heart to tell the boys she had expired prematurely, and it would have been a waste of good probes and lubricant anyway, so I just kept on measuring for a while longer as they grunted and groaned their way to what seemed a very successful climax. But now I was in a quandary, as I carefully wiped some of Zack’s spillage from Clarice’s rather dead and open lips. You see I really I couldn’t risk either of these guys blabbing about my wicked experiments. So there was only one thing for it I’d simply have to kill them all!

 

But not right away, well not Jack anyway. I would use him as a mould for my 2nd prototype mechanical boyfriend. But I spared Zack no mercy, suffocating him in a fume cupboard, and tossing naked onto a mechanical wheelbarrow. Then, I tied Jack up and trundled his chemically contained body into the end room. Finally, without further ado, I dumped Zack and Clarice’s bodies down by the river, lying in Jacks car, in a pile of exhaust fumes, there only refrain. Maybe they’d suspect a murder-suicide. I hoped so! Now it was back to Jack...

 

Friday

Everyone’s asking about the whereabouts of Clarice and I’m keeping very quiet of course. So is Jack, who is still under heavy sedation in the back room cupboard. I hope he’s not too uncomfortable as I forgot to remove some of the probes from last night’s session in my haste. He’ll be dead soon anyway, so I suppose it doesn’t really matter if he walks funny for a while.  I’ve decided I will use his body as a template for a 3d printer makeover and simply enlarge his penis profile a little to suit my own proportionate tastes. Given I do have some concerns about the possibility of him walking out into the main laboratory and asking for more drugs, I have decided to cut his legs off and sit him on an automated trolley. The most important part of his anatomy is still present. I guess the only other thing to do is to lobotomize Jack so he can’t remember anything. His function is purely mechanical, so he doesn’t need to remember anything beyond his algorithm.  I am beginning to like algorithms more and more each day. I can assure you there is no algorithm that wants you to swallow or asks you for a dummy and a golden shower. A true landmark in feminist software development!

 

 Saturday

It’s been a week since I finished remodelling Jack and unfortunately, the lazy sod has had the temerity to go and die on me. This is the third time this week and I got sick of endlessly charging the defibrillator during very crucial moments. Typical male, can’t hack the pace. This became patently obvious last night, when during the act his penis fell off. It really was a passion killer.

Seriously, I mean what sort of sex cyborg has to ask for repeated lubrication every five minutes with WD40. Not a very useful one. This never happened on Westworld! I was actually over it by then, as even the deodorant wouldn’t stop him from smelling and I genuinely feared more body parts would part ways with his person. There was only one thing for it, chop him up and use him to feed the Piranha's . No man is irreplaceable as any fish will tell you.

 

Sunday

I’m back at the night club again. It’s a singles dating night and I’ve just met Roger. He’s a Social media security analyst who works for Google. I like him as he understands search engines, and how to use heuristic analysis to endlessly annoy people. It’s very enlightening. Ok, so he’s only got one leg and he's not so well endowed due to a very nasty chainsaw accident, but what the hell. Love is a many splendoredthing, and in this new age of technology, we can rebuild him anyway. I mean let’s face it, love is only as tender as my 3d printer and a few skin grafts. What’s more, I have a few moulds left over from my last attempt at romance. Robotics for Dummies! I can’t wait to try it out... Mwwaaaaah!

 

 

 


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