FSE

Furry search engine

formerly SoFurry search engine

Author's Note: The following is a work of furry fiction, and is adult and pornorific in nature. If things like depression/angst, thoughts of implied suicide, robots, sex with robots, trans gendered robots, and sexy fox robots offend you, then just up and leave. I'm not forcing you to read. If not, then pull your sheath down and enjoy.

Special thanks go to Kashra, whose story "A Bad Day" inspired me to expound on the same idea, with a futuristic twist. I've admired your work for a while now, and it continues to influence me and keeps me creative, even in times when I don't feel like it. Believe it or not, you are one of my heroes.

COMMENTS AND FEEDBACK ALWAYS WELCOME TO: [email protected]

A.I.: Automatonomic Intimacy ©MMVII Whyte Yoté

There was always something morbidly beautiful about sunsets in Los Angeles. It was the second-largest city in the country, twenty million strong, and even though California's nearly Communist pollution-control laws had banned combustion propulsion ages ago, the city's geography hadn't done it any favors as far as clearing up what smog was left. If one looked closely, in the middle of the day when the sky was a bright hazy white tapestry (it hadn't been blue for twenty years or so), one could see the very tops of the San Gabriel mountains peeking out from San Dimas all the way to San Bernardino.

But it was in the evening hours, when the sun's waning light was bent into a fiery orange-red in the west towards the Pacific Ocean, that the morbid beauty came out. Los Angeles was a place where nobody wanted to live or work, but where too many people gathered to make it totally undesirable as either a home or an office. These days, no one of any consequence lived in L.A. proper if they didn't have to. They commuted from San Diego or Fresno or San Jose, or even Crescent City if they had a book to read on the way. And at the end of the day they all made a beeline from their jobs to the lev-train as fast as they could, because after the sun made its Dante-like descent past the horizon Los Angeles turned into a survival course. No wonder the Lakers had moved out.

Dorian March sat at the very rear of the last car on the northbound lev-train and watched the sun set through the tinted window across from him, and through thick, dark sunglasses so he wouldn't go blind immediately. The thought did entertain him for a moment, though, and that made him want to cry again, and that was bad. He hadn't had thoughts like these in years, but he wasn't surprised at how quickly he'd regressed. The otter reached out a paw to steady himself against the seat as the train lurched northwest, leaving the 10 for the 210, and the northern border of Los Angeles. He didn't know if he'd ever see this town again. Part of him never wanted to look back. Part of him wanted to buy a machine gun, too, so where was the rationality?

What a mess.

Houses and stores and God knew what else blurred by Dorian's window, and the otter wondered how all those people were doing, how secure they were in their lives, or how secure they thought they were. Dorian's last iota of security had been shattered just two hours ago, so anything was up for grabs. Nothing seemed to be glued in place anymore; it was all floating around free-like, waiting to be put into some kind of order. If the otter could tell what was order. Good luck. Oh no, the cynicism was starting up. That jackass of a voice in his head who just loved to give out bad news and dirty laundry. He tried to push it away, and succeeded. For now.

Another lurch as the 210 met Interstate 5 and the train turned to parallel it. Now they would accelerate from a modest 150mph to their cruising speed of 600mph, barreling right through the Grapevine while all the other motorists had to take the twisting road route. This was the NorCal Express train, too, so Dorian would be home in forty-five minutes. No stops until Sacramento, then up to Redding and over to the coast before heading down the 101. The otter considered staying on for the whole ride, but it would take at least 3 hours to get back around to Sac. It wasn't worth his time, whether or not it mattered this evening.

A charming female voice came over the speaker system, pleasant and placating. "Attention." Even a crying baby ahead in the car had the decency to quiet down for that voice. "Thank you for using the California Work Corridor Mag-Lev Transportation System. This is an express train. The next stop will be Sacramento, at approximately seven fifteen. We hope you have a pleasant ride, and thank you for your continued patronage."

"Yeah, you're welcome," muttered Dorian, and the bitterness in his voice scared him. This wasn't him, this wasn't the way he worked. Dorian sat on the train home and read a newspaper, or did extra work, or people-watched, trying to determine if the wolf with the skateboard across from him or the polar bear in the tweed suit was watching. God knew there were enough suspicious people riding the train right along with him, and as far as he knew none of them demonstrated that certain paranoia that comes with being in a confined space with a bunch of other people. He thought about what would happen if he suddenly went postal on them all. No gun, no knife, but he could put on a show. Dammit, why even think about it? Dorian was innocuous as any average Joe on his way home from work. He still couldn't see why his boss had believed that idiot Lars.

So much for the stereotypes about foxes. It wasn't that Dorian had crossed any boundaries, Lord knew he was too reserved to even get close. But Lars had taken advantage of him to gain his own advantage. The girly little fox who worked in Accounts Payable, kitty corner from the otter's own cubicle over in Crisis Management, was gay. And promiscuous. And evil. And Dorian had thought he was having a bad day to start with. Just the latest in a string of bad days that had progressively deteriorated into the maelstrom in which the otter now found himself.

"You doing okay?" Lars had asked, looking all cute and concerned and empathic. This should have been Dorian's first warning, since the fox had been after his job from the day he was hired. Friendly at first, he had quickly turned relentless and nothing short of ruthless in his pestering. "When are you going to move up and let me have your position, Dorian?" "You could earn a lot more money, and I'm sure Mr. Whittaker would love to have you in Management, Dorian." "I really think you need to evaluate your status in this company, Dorian." "I want your job, and I will not stop until I kick you out, Dorian." Puny little vulpine retard; Dorian had reported him twice and nothing...not even a slap on the paw.

A female wolf in a power-suit was reading a newspaper across from the otter. He looked up, and she tore her gaze away, looking almost afraid. Only when Dorian relaxed did he realize his fists had been clenched around his suit coat, tearing eight new holes in between its buttons. He surmised he had also been snarling, by the tingling he felt around his whiskers. Heart attack, here I come. Dorian ran a paw over his face, shifted his tail from his left hip to his right, and gave up on trying to drive Lars' sabotage from his thoughts.

"You look like you've been crying." His concern had been so convincing! Dorian supposed that was what foxes were good at. Must have some coyote in him, now that he thought about it. Now that he had time to think about it.

* * *

The otter looked up from his keyboard, a little too quickly for his wet eyes to adjust, and grabbed hold of the edge of the desk to steady himself. It had been so hard to concentrate today after being stood up the previous night at the most expensive restaurant in town. Shawna, the otter he was supposed to meet and who was forty-five minutes late for their exclusive reserved table, had not shown. Dorian had been forced to pay for the time he spent not ordering food and not eating, and he had left the restaurant almost in tears. It was not that he wasn't trying; he was just a scapegoat for all the idiots of the world. Those same tears the otter was barely managing to hold back in front of the fox from across the way.

"I guess, I'm sorry," said Dorian.

Lars made his way into the cubicle and sat on his calves in front of the otter's knees. Maybe it was the way he leaned in a little too far, maybe it was the way the black circumflexes on his muzzle turned up with his whiskers, but Dorian was now a little less comfortable than he had been. Nevertheless, the fox's presence was comforting because he was there. "You have a bad night? I know how much Whittaker depends on you, and you're the problem fixer for the rest of us. So if you have a problem you can't fix, we're all screwed."

"I hardly think this has anything to do with IT, or crises," replied the otter, smiling and sniffling a little. His computer beeped behind him. He'd just gotten an email.

"You know how the pawbook says you're not supposed to bring your personal life to work, and vice versa?"

"Nobody reads the pawbook."

"I did, and I know how much bullshit it is. But if you want to talk, I'm on break and I'm in your cubicle. You don't look like you're the kind of person who goes around blubbering to coworkers, so I'm being proactive for your sake." Despite the fact that Dorian felt increasingly wary of the fox's demeanor, this was an emotional situation for him and he felt like he would explode down the line if he didn't get this off his chest. Little did he know that later on, his emotional weakness would be his undoing.

Dorian brushed it off. "It's relationship stuff, minor really. I'm just not having much luck."

"I know all about that, man," Lars rolled his eyes and put his paws on his knees. He leaned forward in a just-us-guys way, his dark eyes shining upwards. "Go on."

It came out of him more forcefully than he thought it would. Who knew he had been so worked up about this? "Women are fucking bitches, you know that? I'm sorry, but I know it's not me. It's always been the woman. She has a hair appointment, she forgot she had a date with a girlfriend, she doesn't even show up to the fucking restaurant where I'm paying fifty dollars an hour because I haven't ordered food yet. You know? On my salary that's not chump change. And I'm sitting here and putting myself out there, and I'm getting blown off all the time. It fucking sucks."

Lars looked taken back. "Wow, Dor. You just used the F-word three times, and that's more than I've heard out of you since you came here. You're all kinds of tense. Not good for your heart, especially since otters aren't good for heart health to begin with. Taking your Lycopene?" The fox leaned in just a little bit more, so much so that if he had lowered his head his chin would have been resting on Dorian's knee.

"I don't like tomatoes," replied the otter, twisting to reach behind for a tissue. "Besides, I take multivitamins to make up for all that. I hardly think, with my diet, I have to worry about heart attacks at my age." He blew his nose as politely as he could, and threw the wadded tissue into the bin under his desk.

Lars rolled his eyes way too dramatically for his own good. "I don't know why you even bother with women. It's so much easier with guys, so much less runaround and mixed messages. Plus, they don't bleed once a month. That's just...eww," wrinkling his nose for added effect.

"No offense," said Dorian, "but I bother with women because I'm attracted to them. I want to get married, you know? But if I keep striking out like this, how old am I gonna be when I can't even play the game anymore?"

"Well, you only live once. I'm not attached, and right now I don't plan to be."

"You're nine years younger than I am, Lars."

"Your point being...?" The fox did have a point, Dorian conceded to himself. He was the token gay guy in the office, the one who made sure anyone and everyone with whom he spoke knew all about his lifestyle and boyfriends and--this was only around the water cooler with the girls--sexual exploits. He did his job well and excelled at it, so his sexuality was a non-issue.

Dorian wrinkled his brow, watching the fox's face for solid proof that he was being genuine about what he was saying. One thing about Lars, though, was that you never could tell if he was embellishing or keeping it real. He thought he would try his luck anyway; his day had already started to suck before it had really begun. "My point is that I really don't have a point, other than I just want to find someone nice and fall in love and go on with my life without searching for a partner all the time." He shrugged. It was as simple as that, but it was really so much more complicated.

"Believe me," Lars now had a paw on Dorian's left knee, "I know exactly where you're coming from. Some of the circles I run in, you get nothing but people complaining about everything that's wrong with their lives. 'I can't get a boyfriend,' 'My ass is too fat,' 'My ex left me for a woman.' Just a bunch of fucking drama nobody needs. That, my friend, is why I prefer casual stuff. No strings, just good clean fun. And clean is the most important part; don't get me wrong, I don't fool around with people I don't know well."

That was a little too much information. What was Lars' angle here? Not only was he being all buddy-buddy right out of nowhere, he seemed to be revealing more about his personal life than was necessary even in the most intimate of tête-à-têtes. While it made him decidedly uncomfortable, he couldn't very well just blow the fox off. For all the otter knew, Lars was only really trying to make him feel better. But he was closing in on a line.

"That's a good thing, I suppose."

"Yeah, really good. Keeps you from worrying a lot." Lars' eyes, a deep cacao (and very rare for a red fox), twittered about while his paw gripped tighter onto the otter's knee. "So, being stood up like that, must have given you a giant case of blue balls, huh?"

"I don't really think this is an appropriate conversation we're having," Dorian stammered, and went to brush Lars' paw away. Instead, the vulpine leaned forward past his arms and sidled his fingertips up the top of each of the otter's thighs. Through the thin cotton of his khakis, Dorian felt each claw rub his fur against its grain; the shock was so deep that he twitched bodily in his chair.

"Oh, just get off it, Dorian." The fox's tone was somehow patronizing and placating at the same time. "I've had you figured out since day one. No one else here knows, and I'm not going to tell them. Big freakin' deal, right? But you don't really get what I'm saying, do you?" Lars was scooting forward ever so slightly, and it was all the otter could do to keep from rolling away on his casters. This wasn't exactly his worst fears come true, but the fox could damage him if he used it against him in some way. So much was going through Dorian's head, he didn't even notice Lars was still talking to him...and seemingly crawling his way further up the otter's legs as well.

"Huh?"

"I said, I feel you about being on the fence. I don't know how you grew up or anything. It's not my business, but I know that guys have needs. I bet you were so mad you didn't even take care of yourself last night, am I right?" Dorian was completely dumbfounded. Who was this guy to presume he knew what the otter needed? Just because he was gay didn't make him Confidant of the Year.

"That's none of your business, Lars. Isn't your break about over?" Inwardly, Dorian was cursing himself over and over again for choosing the stupidest possible responses to Lars' advances. But he wasn't the kind of forceful person who could, with one swift sentence, nip things like this in the bud and never have them happen again. Some witty comment, or a subtle threat, anything that would stop the fox in his tracks and make him think twice about trying it again...there was nothing in Dorian's head, short of the simplest of deflections.

"They really don't pay attention over in my department, Dorian. I'm one of those employees who spends his entire morning poring over documents and making phone calls so by the time lunch rolls around, I can take my time and while away the afternoon watching all the idiots around me catch up on all they missed," said the fox. Dorian couldn't call him out for being effective, but the narcissistic air with which he spoke was annoying. It probably annoyed everybody in the other corner of the office as well.

Dorian tried to be angry to cover his fear, which was manifesting itself quite effectively through his ears and squinty, darty eyes. "If your lunch is getting cold, then, why don't you go back to it? I don't feel comfortable...like this." He wanted to push the fox away, practically screamed the thought to himself, but his paws wouldn't carry out the action. Instead they were clamped on his armrests, quivering and throbbing with his grip.

"Come on, dude," Lars continued. The way he was kneeling on the floor provided a incongruity with the way he was dressed. "You may think you're fooling me, but you forget how good my schnoz is. You reek of it, man. It's built up for, like, two days now. You're telling me that you're refusing my help, and I'm giving it to you for free? Who do you think you are?" And just like that, the fox's fingers found Dorian's belt buckle, undoing it with quick dexterity. But before he got to the otter's fly, he placed the flat of his palm--just as naturally as if he were feeling for a pulse--against Dorian's crotch. For the first time since Lars had entered his cubicle, the otter found out just how much his co-worker's speech had worked him up. The outline of his maleness filled the vulpine's paw nicely, and as he began to stroke him through his three-hundred-dollar khakis, something inside snapped.

Dorian stood up so fast he sent Lars tumbling onto his tail, dazedly looking up at the otter. It wasn't just Lars' forward manner alone. This was an adolescent young otter who dreaded summer camp because of bunk beds and communal showers. This was an otter who had dedicated four years of his life to the St. Mary's School Choir. But most of all, this was an adult otter who had let a male fox give him an erection he neither wanted nor could control. He was scared shitless, and he would be damned if this puny...kid was going to try and muscle in on his job by using sexuality as a pawn. How dare he.

"You need to understand one thing, Lars," the otter fairly growled down at the vulpine, who now seemed very little on the floor of his cubicle. In his pause, Dorian wondered how they had gone this long without attracting a single bit of attention. Not even a wandering secretary or Sani-Bot had come by his miniscule door. That was the only reason Lars had taken things as far as he had. "I am not going to bow to your faggoty little games. Do you hear me?" His voice was becoming louder, he could hear that, but he just didn't care. He wanted this fox out of his sight. "Go back to your desk. Tomorrow morning, I'm going to walk into Mr. Whittaker's office and ask to file a sexual harassment claim against you. You can't just get on your knees in front of me and expect no consequences." This is going well, he thought. Sounding like a real man.

For a moment, it looked like Lars was going to do exactly that, but his look of shocked hurt had faded. In its place was passivity on the surface, but just under that Dorian--even as he prepared to let the fox have it--sensed a rising anger and resentment. He couldn't let Lars get away with what he had done, how he had gotten under the otter's skin so easily by trying to seduce him, to manipulate him. Even more so, he couldn't let word of this spread through the office. He wasn't worried about being "outed," but his authority could be compromised if word got around that a little fox from Accounts Receivable had bullied him and won. Already his head buzzed from adrenaline he didn't really want in the first place.

But now, Lars was standing up again, his formerly cool gaze now a cold blaze within the fiery orange of his face. "Why don't you listen to me, Dorian. I'm trying to help you out here, mano-a-mano, and you just fuckin' spit in my face. Real nice." He was right up against the otter's chest, all five-foot-nothing of him, muzzle upturned but snarling. If he didn't stand down soon, he would regret it. Dorian needed to make sure he was absolutely clear on one thing.

"You're invading my private space. I highly suggest you go back to your own department before I have to show you the door myself. I am not a violent person, but you really don't want to push me."

"What, is that a threat? Mister big bad CM guy thinks he has some kind of mad authority over me because he gets paid more and has a corner window?" This was all a bit too over-dramatic for Dorian's taste, and he fought to keep from rolling his eyes. He never could understand the gays and their penchant for drama.

"Oh, my God, Lars. Get a grip! This little charade of yours wouldn't be funny even if you weren't after my job. I know what you're trying to pull, and I won't stand for it. Whittaker won't stand for it either. I don't want to get you fired, but he needs to know about what you're doing. It's unprofessional, and unwanted, and...I'm not attracted to you."

Lars paused just long enough to show he was nonplussed by being so bluntly rejected. Obviously he wasn't used to people saying that about him. Well, whatever would get the fox out of his fur; besides, while his erection was still very much alive, he truthfully wasn't attracted to the fox. You desire another kind of man entirely, came a voice from the back of his head, and Dorian quashed it.

"I find that hard to believe," said the vulpine, his squinty eyes narrowing to slits. "But if you want to turn down a free blowjob--that last word was much too loud--it's your prerogative. But I guarantee you won't be able to find a muzzle as good as mine anytime soon." And a paw was flush against his sheath again, pleasing and warm and foreign. All Dorian wanted was this exchange to end, so he could get on with his day. He tried to remain angry, but all he could feel was fear.

"Get. Away. From me. Last warning." The otter slapped Lars' paw away, the fox cupping it as would a wounded child. "I have work to do, unlike you. Go fuck someone in your own department."

"Fine. I don't give a shit about your job anyway. Why would I want to get a measly raise so I can do triple the work I'm doing now? I can just wait, anyway, until someone quits and then put in to replace them. I've been jonesing for IT for so long, they probably can't wait to take me on. Maybe I'll get an office across from yours. We'd be best friends." Dorian could practically taste the venom in his own mouth. His paws were balled into fists so tight he could feel his pulse in them. Just get out, he begged, before I go crazy.

"Now."

"Okay, fine. You want me out, I'm out. I have just one last thing to say to you, Dorian."

"What?"

The otter was investing so much energy wishing Lars away that he had no way to prepare or defend from what the fox did. Though he was shorter than Dorian, Lars was able to stand on tiptoe and plant an open-mouthed kiss right where it counted. For the third time, the fox's paw cupped his package, nearly mashing it into his groin. Dorian was loathe to discover his erection had never flagged one bit, and as his face flushed up and down Lars was able to slide his long tongue between their pressed lips and gain access to the inside of his muzzle.

This lasted all of two seconds before Dorian could even react, and when he did it was with a mix of revulsion and ferocity. He shoved Lars away with both paws, tasting the hint of roses and cinnamon from the fox's breath. Bile rose in his throat, and he didn't even want to comprehend what had just happened. All he wanted to do was punch something.

So he did.

The sound was much softer than he thought it would be, but Dorian's fist made solid contact with the vulpine's face just below the left eye with a wet thump. Lars' head twisted to the side, and he went sprawling into the cubicle's far wall, managing to catch himself before he crumpled to the floor. A billion words came to his mind, but the otter was way too emotional to dare say any of them. He had to maintain some decorum.

"You need to leave. Now."

"Ow," mumbled the fox, rubbing beneath his eye and looking at the blood on a finger pad from where the skin had been cut. But he was smiling, the fucker, as if he'd won anyway. And as he straightened out his shirt and tie, he started to snicker. "I don't think there's a section in the pawbook for that."

"Lars, just go. I'm warning you again." Post-fight exhaustion was already tiring him out; he wanted to sit down more than anything.

"You got it, boss," the fox, now giggling under his breath, backed toward the hallway. "I'll see you later, okay?"

"No, you won't."

"Don't be so sure." And Lars disappeared around the corner. No one had seen or heard a goddamn thing.

* * *

The lights of Modesto blurred past the train's windows. It was a dirty town that had always been dirty and probably would be until the end of time. Stockton had become just a suburb, and Lodi wasn't that far off. The route along I-599 was fast becoming one giant metropolitan area. Sad, really. Dorian sometimes wished he could just get away from it all and take a break. Now he had all the time he wanted.

He took a handkerchief from his breast pocket and dabbed his eyes; it wouldn't do to have all his commute-mates gawking at his tears. An old woman sitting across from him looked up from her cross-stitch and gave him a warm smile. The otter returned it but it felt empty.

He hadn't stood a chance. He had walked into Lars' trap without even so much as hesitating. It wasn't until he got called into Whittaker's office that he discovered how clever the fox really had been.

Dorian closed his eyes, but the images would not leave. They played like a morbid slide show, one after the other, and his heart ached so much. Not even a day later, Lars had come to work with an impressive shiner, all swollen up and crusted over. He acted morose and depressed, and when someone finally talked to him, he set his plan in motion. The otter had cornered him the day before, harassed him about being gay, and led him into a closet. Shortly and simply, the fox had said, Dorian raped him in the darkness surrounded by mops and cleaning solutions. Faced with the threat of further bodily harm, Lars was told to keep his muzzle shut. But he had to come forward, he just had to. He wanted to do the right thing.

The right thing...

Whittaker had been curt with Dorian, asking for his side of the story. Dorian, of course, was defensive and forceful when it came to his version of the truth. When faced with the black eye and Lars' evidence of abuse (the otter wondered what he had shoved up his tailhole to get that), he was told it would be far better for him if he quietly gathered his things and left as soon as possible. He was lucky the fox didn't want to press charges and get the police involved. Lars "just wanted to feel safe at work," and who wouldn't trust a cute little innocuous fox like him?

For the space of about ten seconds, Dorian had felt panic. He zoned out while Whittaker droned on about professionalism and respect and a bunch of other crap that didn't matter because it didn't apply. There was no point in taking advice he didn't need, and as soon as he realized that the panic went away instantly. But in its place came a numbness that wasn't entirely comfortable. This was just the most recent in a string of unfortunate events in his life, but it didn't seem like the straw that would break his back. A little more weight to bear, nothing more.

A few things were certain: nothing could be done to save his job; he had no alibi, no defense and no legal recourse. Begging for his job would be moot and humiliating. Chewing out Whittaker would only yield a forceful exit from the building. He was well past denial, which wasn't his style anyway. Left with only one option, his mind had cleared (much to his relief) and the otter had simply turned around and left Whittaker's office mid-speech. It took him all of ten minutes to gather his things and tell the secretary to have them picked up and mailed to his condo. And he just walked out the door, hoping to catch the afternoon train home.

Dorian didn't get far before the reality started to seep in, and by the time he arrived at the station the emotional weight was like a crushing force on his chest.

He couldn't breathe...were people looking at him? Clutching at his chest, the otter loosened his tie with a finger and undid the top two buttons on his shirt. The fur on his belly and inner thighs prickled with clammy heat; he was on the brink of a panic attack and he knew exactly what was going on. They had become common in the past six months, as the stresses of his life combined into one big pile of shit.

"Breathe, dammit. Just take...*huh*...a deep breath...*huh*...and let your heart calm...*huh*...calm down," he murmured the mantra in a choked whisper. Just fifteen more minutes and he would be in Sacramento, he would be home, and he could put his thoughts together and figure out a way to go on with his life.

A high-pitched electronic whistle penetrated the car and made Dorian wince from the assault on his ears. Less than a second later, a flash of red flew by the window; the Galt beef farms had a habit of letting their stock wander onto the tracks, and the whistle was designed to clear errant cows before they were vaporized by the cattle guard at six hundred miles per hour. Very effective, but it always gave the otter a headache afterwards. He just sat back on the bench and let it thump behind his eyes; a little pain wouldn't do him any harm now. There were always pills to get rid of that.

I have lots of pills, don't I?

Dorian moaned and massaged his temples. He hated the voices. So far, they were practically the only thing the prescriptions didn't alleviate. It wasn't as serious as it could be, namely him being convinced to kill himself or other people or crazy shit like that, but they had a habit of butting in at just the right moments, Lifetime movie moments. Yes, Dorian had a lot of pills at home. No, he wouldn't take them all and drown them in Absolut.

A sharp pain in his mouth made him cry out softly; the relative silence of the car made it sound a lot louder than it really was. Only the lady across from the otter gave him a second glance as Dorian put a finger to the edge of his lip. It came away bloody. He had been chewing through his lip, the pain was so bad. God, that was a nervous tick that had ended when he'd graduated high school. Or so he'd thought.

"We are approaching the Sacramento station. If you are getting off at this stop, please gather your belongings and prepare to exit quickly and orderly," the soft female voice emanated from the speakers above. "Those needing to transfer to the light rail system will exit to the right, please. And thank you for joining us on the California Work Corridor Mag-Lev Transportation System."

"You're welcome, I'm sure," Dorian said, dabbing the handkerchief on his swelling lip.

* * *

Normally, the sport-utility vessel taking up three spots in the docking structure would have royally pissed Dorian off, but after what had happened on the drive home he honestly didn't even care.

It was just a fix-it ticket. Or at least, it was supposed to be. But when the officers ran his license after pulling him over for an excessive amount of busted rear LEDs, Dorian discovered (much to his chagrin) that he had neglected to put on his new registration code. While he would have been let go for the light, the registration was a more serious matter. Serious matters involved fines, and the fine for this one was quite hefty. Dorian had taken one look at it and felt sick. The perfect end to a perfect day. Those pills sounded pretty appetizing, and the otter didn't try to hold back his sobs as he walked to the lift. They made no echo in the hollow space.

At least none of his neighbors were out wandering the hall to see him in his disheveled and red-eyed state. Mr. Norman, the black fox, wouldn't have said anything because he kept to himself; Ms. Diamant would have most assuredly fawned over him and asked a million times what was wrong honey, everything will be okay, and rub his shoulders before baking two dozen chocolate chip cookies for the otter to take home. Beyond them, and the twins he saw about the floor (though not once had he seen their parents), he realized he didn't really know anyone on his own level. Or in the entire building, for that matter.

He saw his front door and suddenly became very tired, or at least became aware of how tired he'd become. The door slid into the wall, revealing a dark space within, after he put his paw into the scanner.

"Lights," he said.

"Please specify setting," replied the apartment's computer.

"Evening...no, afternoon." The afternoon setting was brighter; the last thing Dorian thought he needed was a dimly-lit room to ease his troubles. After an affirmative beep, his apartment (Soon to be former apartment, he thought dismally) came into being. It brought with it the comfort of home, a home in which he'd lived for the past seven years. That he might not be able to afford this place much longer crossed his mind for only a split-second; the otter reveled in the easy way he was able to feel good after his day from hell.

"Dorian, are you home? The lights came on, but they're brighter than usual." Prada. He'd totally forgot about her. Oh, no, now he'd have to explain everything to her too. It didn't kill the mood, but it did take it down a notch.

"Yes Prada, I'm home." Silence. She must be in the bedroom cleaning, or logging on. "Just feels gloomy tonight, that's all."

Soft footsteps preceded the skeletal form coming down the short hallway from Dorian's bedroom to the left. So she had been booting up, after all. That was a bit unusual for Prada; most of the time she cleaned early in the day and shut down until it was time to make dinner. From the scents coming from the kitchen, dinner had already been taken care of. Salmon was on the menu; it smelled delicious, tinted with lemon and mint. Potatoes, too, and arugula salad.

The robot stopped just short of Dorian, her paws clasped about the servos, wires and actuators that made up her waist. "Uh, Prada?" the otter said, trying to keep from giggling at the sight.

"Yes, Dorian?"

"Your circuits are showing."

Prada looked down at herself, the twin cameras of her eyes telescoping outwards for a closer look. "Oh, dear!" she exclaimed, and all at once her body shimmered into a seemingly liquid state. An outer skin of bubbly metal stretched itself over her exposed frame, sprouting brown and cream fur as it went. It wrapped around her from front to back, finishing in a thick otter tail. Within ten seconds, the skin had formed completely and Prada looked up at Dorian, her green irises just covering her cameras. She simulated a blush. "That was slightly embarrassing."

"That's what you get for being off when I get home," said Dorian.

"Don't you patronize me," the robot-cum-otter shook a finger at him before sprouting clothes over her androgynous (but female enough) body. "I finished dinner, and ICC butted in with an update. I had to restart, and you walked in at just the right time. More like the wrong time, I guess."

"It was still funny." Dorian smiled.

"Ha ha. Glad you find my nudity amusing, you bastard." At least Prada's language processor was working just as fine as ever. "So, how was your day?"

Dorian's heart either dropped to his bowels or jumped to his throat, maybe both. How was he going to tell her? Or, more importantly, how was he going to keep it from her? He couldn't; that would be dishonest. Prada was supposed to be there for support as well as companionship and housekeeping, but she was just a robot. International Cybernetic Corporation had built the Personal Robo-Animatronic Digital Assistant initially for families who needed help around the house, but the software had proven itself so versatile that the customer base soon grew to corporations, restaurants, and--most controversially--single adults who were either lonely or kinky. Dorian had convinced himself of the housekeeping thing when he had purchased Prada, but more and more he had begun to use her more and more as a sympathetic ear and journal.

"It was good. I might be transferring." It wasn't a complete lie.

"Oh, really? Where to?" Prada motioned to the couch, and the otter followed her and sat down, glad to pad his tail after the hard seats on the Mag-Lev train. Her eyes were trained on him, unmoving, one of the few things that belied Prada's cybernetic soul.

Dorian looked at the false hearth in front of him. There were forty-seven floors above his, but it was a nice touch. "A different department. Whittaker said I didn't fit in where I was, and I should be somewhere else." He kept looking away, which was Mistake Number One when dealing with Prada. He could feel her watching him, running constant diagnostics on his body temperature, pulse rate and God knew how much else.

"Really? I hope he gave you a raise, too. Are you sure you're okay?"

"Yeah, fine. That salmon smells delicious. Did you change the recipe again?"

"You're not fine, Dorian." Prada's voice was insistent but polite, a quality the software engineers had mastered over years of trials and upgrades. And viruses. "You're heartbeat just went from resting to over one hundred. You're starting to sweat, and I'm sensing elevated Cortisol and reduce serotonin. To me, you look all orange and red. What happened at work?" She might as well be psychic, for all her sensors and detection algorithms. How was she going to react? She knew he'd been getting progressively more depressed since the business with Lars, and they'd discussed that sneaky little fox numerous times. So badly he wanted to blank it out, but there were issues that needed to be addressed. Like keeping the money flowing. As good as the salmon smelled, Dorian wasn't the slightest bit hungry.

"Dorian, you know you can talk to me. I have the latest psychology and health software available through ICC's database. Hit me." Prada always had a curt way of dealing with stress and problems. Strap it on and go, she called it. Take care of it before it takes care of you. Dorian felt himself slipping, wondered how he had thought he could hold it together in front of his own robot in the first place, and the hearth blurred as he lost the will to focus. His temples pounded.

"I don't know what I'm gonna do, Prada," his voice cracking at the end. "I just don't know what to do anymore. Whittaker fired me."

Just like Prada to sit emotionless. It wasn't her fault; even with the best software in the world she still couldn't just flip out or be overly concerned like a real wife. She was bought and paid for, and she didn't cost anything to operate. From past crises, being logical and calm (Dorian referred to it as her "Spock face") was the best way to break down a problem into parts and solve it mathematically. So in this aspect she was actually better than organic.

"Over what?" Her tone was flat, her gaze inquiring. All the crap he'd been through, not just today but everything up until now, and the fact that he had to explain it to someone to whom logic was an unemotional equation, forced a lump into his throat. He wouldn't allow himself to cry out loud, but he wouldn't hold back the tears.

"Lars is such an asshole, Prada! I mean, I knew all he wanted was my job from the day he started in on me. He's good enough for it, but I already had the position, so I was the only one standing in his way. He tried to get me to move up, but Whittaker didn't need to promote me, you know? I was doing fine. I was happy. But he's a predator! He wouldn't stop!" Prada stood and went into the kitchen, coming back with a box of tissues and setting it on the couch next to the otter. "Thank you."

"You're welcome. Go on."

Dorian wiped his eyes and muzzle and blew his nose. The rest of the story went well enough, and to his surprise, the more he told Prada the less sad he felt about the whole deal. The sadness was slowly giving way to anger, but it wasn't the kind of productive anger that helps in fixing problems. It was a soul-deep, vengeful anger borne of stress and depression and something else he couldn't quite place but was just as strong. But for some reason, he couldn't stop talking about Lars and his underpawed faggoty subterfuge, and how easily Whittaker had believed him over the otter who'd been working at the same company and generating high numbers for year after year after year.

"I wonder how many time's he's sucked that cock to get what he wants. Or maybe he just likes doing it for the hell of it." And when he heard that statement repeat in his head after he'd said it, he looked at Prada and saw her shocked expression.

"This isn't like you at all. I know this has you shaken up, but in your previous journal entries--" she stilled, perusing her hard disks--"you expressed neither the degree of hatred nor bigotry you're displaying right now. Have you been medicating? I'm not detecting any alcohol, but my systems can't spot drugs." Prada scooted closer to Dorian, placing a paw on his knee. It was welcome; even though it held no heat it felt so much more natural than Lars' had been.

"No drugs, Prada. I don't do that. Speaking of which, I think I need to get an aspirin from the bathroom. 'Scuse me."

"I got rid of them."

"You what?"

"I flushed them, for safety," said the robot, with all the care as if she were giving a lifeguarding course. "I was cleaning the other day, and I noticed some new pills in an unmarked bottle. They weren't aspirin, since aspirin gives off a certain heat-retention signature and these were a little hotter. I looked at your aspirin bottle and they were mixed in with the new pills too. I didn't know what they were, and I didn't know if they were expired, so I erred on the side of caution and flushed the whole lot down the toilet. I hope you're not mad at me; I was just being safe."

Dorian just lost it. It had been so long since he'd taken anything, let alone a painkiller, that he'd forgotten about the "suicide cocktail" he'd made after a night of heavy drinking. Painkillers and sleeping pills. It was the only thing available to him that night, and he made it all the way to mixing the bottle before he'd passed out. In the morning, he had been too hung over to bother separating everything, so he'd left it and forgotten it. The otter didn't want to remember that night ever again, because it summed up, in one very clear and very perfunctory way, how fucked up his life and mind had become. And now his head was in Prada's lap, and Prada was petting him, shushing his sobs, the sobs of a grown man who just realized he'd lost what remained of his grip on his own life.

"I wasn't going to do it," he said wetly. "I don't think I have the balls to ever go through with it." He could not put it into words, but he was eternally thankful for Prada's safety protocols. They may not have saved his life directly, but she'd certainly effected something.

"You wouldn't have died anyway," the otter-bot said. "From the combination of pills, you would have just lost consciousness for about eighteen hours and woken up groggy and having to piss real bad."

Dorian laughed through his tears. "Thank God for that. Jesus, just when you think it's over, someone cracks a joke, right?"

"Yeah. I'm not the best humorist, but I only have the Internet to go on. All these years, and it's still hit-and-miss." Prada's well-manicured claws felt so good on his head and ears, so comforting, like his mother used to do. That was probably her source, all things considered. Just like the lit apartment, he felt safe in their presence and stayed there, quiet, until Prada spoke again. "To be honest with you, Dorian, if I had emotions I would be offended."

Straightening up from Prada's lap, Dorian said, "Offended at what?"

Prada's fingers stopped. "For as smart as you are, you're not getting my drift." Her concern for his life and the no-nonsense way in which she expressed it was at once endearing and refreshing. With someone like her, there was no pretense and no posturing, not even any drama to get in the way of a true logical discussion. They had had enough conversations just like this, and she had adapted quite well to countering Dorian's emotional volleys.

"You go through all the trouble of buying me three years ago, and still you don't utilize more than half of my capabilities. Do you know how many times in the past year you came home from work, either mad or crying or just plain out of it? How many times the first words out of your mouth were 'New journal entry?'"

Oh, God, there had been so many. And it wasn't just the depression either; the job paid well, but Dorian had grown tired of his true skills languishing in a stagnant environment. But Lars was new, and he was on the prowl slowly but surely, and the otter wanted to stay in his comfort zone. So he had opened up Prada's "Living Diary" feature. He'd used her as a sympathetic ear, but rare were the times he would open up to her for psychological therapy. Just getting his troubles off his chest was usually enough. "I don't know. A lot?"

"Three hundred and twelve. The shortest entry was seven seconds, the longest over two and a half hours. That was when your brother died." Boom. Prada wasn't one for mincing words. Dorian felt a stab of the old familiar pain in his heart. That was a long time, and another Dorian, ago.

The otter sniffed, leaning back against Prada, and sure enough, her fingers went to work again. "Okay, I've shared a lot of my problems with you. But I told you I didn't need your analysis of my brain."

"That's not my point. I know I'm not one to butt in and share my opinion, but I feel like you listened to me but discounted it as useless. I have the techniques of the world's greatest philosophers, scientists and psychoanalysts programmed into my neural net. It came as part of the standard hardware package. Yet you never wanted to listen to me, just get your struggles off your chest and let it go."

"What do you--"

"But you didn't let it go. I may not have true emotions, but I'm perceptive. You, like any man who was trying too hard to be a man, weren't content with loading me up. You bottled the rest, and let it fester, and now it's all bubbling up just below the surface, waiting to explode." She lengthened the latter half of the word, lending a humorous but foreboding color to it. "That's not healthy."

Dorian chafed, but didn't move. "And how, exactly, do you know what is healthy and unhealthy for me?"

"I've only been cooking, cleaning and playing Dear Diary for you for the last three years." Still no anger, still just the same old stoic but gentle Prada. "I pick up on patterns, facial expressions, the like. You think I haven't learned anything new since working for you?"

"Now you're just putting words in my mouth," Dorian said, fighting off an urge to twitch his tail from mild aggravation. It wasn't just that Prada was annoying him, it was that she was right about damn near all of it. At least the conversation had steered away from the bottle of mixed pills, and he'd rather it stayed away. He was ashamed enough already without the addition of suicidal thoughts and his blubbering outburst.

"That may be," replied the robot, moving slightly lower over his trapezium muscle to work a small knot, "but we both know I'm telling the truth. It's not like I can lie. And it's a proven fact that, if I have an opinion or a concern about something, I'm most likely going to tell you. Right?"

"Yeah."

Prada paused, both her paws and her words. "The fact that we're dealing with right now is, you've lost your job and there's pretty much no way of getting it back. Am I correct in that assumption?"

"As you so astutely described it, yes." Even if there was a way he could go back and fight the system, the otter didn't think he would want his old job back anyway. Things like that didn't stay in the dark for long, and the awkwardness it would cause around the office would not only make for a general sense of discomfort, it would impact productivity on a grand scale. People were only naturally inclined to act in such a way.

"If I wanted to tell you something that might make you angry at me, even though I could convince you it were true, would you want me to speak up?"

Dorian assessed Prada's question very carefully. He picked it apart in his mind, because the roundabout way in which she was asking sent up red flags all over the place. She was getting at something, but the question was what, exactly. He was suspicious for all of ten seconds before he thought about it from the otter-bot's point of view. With a limited array of expression at her disposal, she was probably doing the best she knew how, within her range, to bridge a very difficult gap from one subject to the next. Life as a series of ones and zeros must be quite the challenge when dealing with psychophysiological stuff like subtlety.

"Well, of course I would want you to speak your mind," said Dorian. "If I can't count on you as a best friend and confidante, why would I have bought you in the first place?" He wasn't completely sure, but the otter could have sworn he heard a small sigh of relief from Prada's muzzle. He doubted the possibility of this, though, because of her lack of lungs.

The grip on Dorian's shoulders grew tighter, more tense, and the therapeutic aspect gave way to a more purposeful hold. "Then can I ask you one more, very important, question?"

"Sure, Prada. I want to help if I can."

"Does it feel better when I do this?" Even though Prada finished the sentence, Dorian was up, over the couch and on the floor before she had uttered five words. Instead of her normal voice, he had heard a dark, musky masculine voice utter that phrase. It had scared the shit out of him, not because it was unexpected but because it was simply different. Though there was no logical explanation for how some beefy man could suddenly appear behind him, that didn't stop his brain from just assuming it outright. But after he jumped up, rolled over and sprawled at the foot of the couch he looked up and there was Prada, same as always, her paws unmoved from where they had been just a moment ago. Except Dorian's shoulders were missing.

"Jesus Christ, what was that?" the otter squeaked, one paw over his chest to keep his heart from escaping.

"Hold on for a moment," Prada flatlined as she seemed to study Dorian's disheveled form. Several seconds passed, during which their eyes never moved. "Okay, I'm done," said the robot.

Dorian stood up, brushing his shirt down. "Do you have an undetected virus, or is this some big fucking joke? Because that was not funny." It could have been Prada's way of lending a lighthearted context to things, but she wasn't the kind of person who worked in that way.

"It wasn't a joke, Dorian. It was a kind of litmus test." Thank God her voice was back to normal, but she was no longer looking the otter in the face. Even for her, that was saying something. "I've had a lot of time to observe you since you took this job. Not only have I been able to gather what amounts to a case-study about the effects of sexuality at work and at home, I've also had ample opportunity to study you and your chemistry."

"Okay, fine, that's nothing new to me. That's how you learn; even I know that. But what the hell does that have to do with changing your voice? Other than increasing my pulse rate by about two hundred percent, that is."

"The fact that you don't realize what's going on makes my explanation all the more difficult. But you trust my judgment, don't you?" Prada's ears were down as far back as otter ears could go. She really felt like she was breaching some sensitive circle.

Dorian plopped back onto the couch and took one of Prada's paws, studying it but not knowing why. Was he looking for masculine features? Shorter claws? He just ended up looking back at the robot. "Sure I do. I...I mean, I just got canned, and I have a perfectly good excuse to be all crazy, but it's not right to subject you to this."

"Well, technically no, but that's not the point. I mean I'd just like to think that we can have a mature discussion without biting each other's tails off. But you have to listen to me and hear what I have to say, because by the way you're acting and by your body chemistry, I see a problem." Prada winced.

Dorian thought that, had she had real paws, they would be trembling. "What could possibly be that bad? How could it be any worse than the rest of my day?"

"Dorian, I don't think you're as straight as you'd like to think," replied Prada in a neutral voice so utterly inappropriate to the situation that at first, the otter didn't know whether or not to laugh. But even as he quashed the sudden attack of mirth, Dorian knew, deep down, she was not kidding.

"No, I'm not."

And Prada just sat there, expressionless. She admittedly held the advantage in this conversation, with the whole I-don't-need-to-show-emotions thing. Dorian had rebuked the robot outright, that was true, but there was a nagging feeling in his gut that it wasn't even close to over. And, judging by his prior "arguments" with her, he may not even be in the right. That thought scared the shit out of him. On top of everything else he'd had to go through, this might be too much to bear. The otter didn't really feel up to defending his sexuality this evening. He felt like getting wasted and passing out.

"You may say that, but listen to me," Prada continued. "Over the past months I have monitored a change in your body chemistry. Now, some of it was your job stress. Serotonin and dopamine went down, your lactic acid and ghrelin got all screwed up. You ate more, you became progressively moody and your testosterone was way down. I went to the trouble of downloading an owner-scanner update from the company. Free of charge."

What gave Prada the audacity to download programs without telling him? "Okay, so what? I'm fucked up. Big deal; give me a pill or something. What does that have to do with b--your earlier statement?"

Prada processed for a bit. Who knew what she was thinking about; she must have had tons of data through which to pore. Dorian's acute malaise deepened. "At first I sympathized with you on the Lars thing. But I noticed you started to become deeply involved with him. Not...not in the way you think, but affected by his presence at work. You were angry and distressed, and I could see that. But many days you came home and laid into my journal program, yelling and gesturing. Of course I couldn't say anything because I was running stealth, but I could still monitor your vital signs. And one thing I noticed time and again was while you were pissed off, you were sexually frustrated as well."

Dorian didn't want to hear this especially coming from Prada. He remembered times when she had felt like a substitute mother to him. But he'd gotten the sex talk from Dad when he was twelve, during a run to Blockbuster for movies. Did he even own a DVD anymore? So archaic...

"What are you trying to say, Prada? That I wasn't getting laid and I was subjected to all the sexy secretaries and couriers and managers walking by me every day? That I took that frustration and moodiness home with me and took it out on you? Are you mad about that? Because I'm sorry if I hurt your feelings." The otter crossed his arms, felt like a pouting child, but did not move.

"I don't have feelings, but I appreciate your concern. But it's more complicated than that. I could say you were...enticed at work by the females, and I probably wouldn't be wrong. I also have vocal analyzers. You would yell and scream, and then you would speak Lars' name and it would be said in a completely different tone. Not caring, specifically, but careful. As if you didn't want to speak of him in a negative tone, even though he was screwing with you at work. Tell me what day it was you said Lars touched you inappropriately?"

Oh, my God, I'm being psychoanalyzed by my robot. Dorian recognized the roiling stew that was his dread turning to panic, slow but steady. She's fucking lying, I know she's lying, but why would she do this? She's not capable of deception. "Um, I don't know. It was just a couple of weeks ago...oh, it was Tuesday, because I go to that Greek deli for lunch on Tuesdays. That day I couldn't even finish my falafel. Fuckin' fox."

"Okay," said Prada. "Can I be honest with you?"

Dorian smirked. "Why would you lie to me?"

"I can't lie. I'm not programmed for it."

"Yes," the otter laughed, a ball of nerves. "Honest away."

"You came home that day, practically ordered me into the journal program, and paced this very same room while going on and on, lambasting the fox, the faggot fox, the fairy fox, the usurper. After two hours of ranting, you said you were tired and went to lie down. I know you went into the bedroom and masturbated quite furiously."

"Augh...Prada, what the fuck are you--are you--spying on me?" Dorian began shaking all over. The butterflies in his stomach had exploded into a gooey mess, dripping thickly into his intestines. The panic moved up a notch; his heart, as well, seemed to rise where it wasn't welcome. He knew Prada wasn't spying. It had never occurred to him that she would be able to detect his private sessions, but now it seemed transparent. She was a sophisticated device and he had underestimated her, pure and simple.

"I wasn't spying on you. You never told me to hibernate, and I don't have enough analytical empathy for genuine prudence, so I couldn't help but hear and smell what I heard and smelled. It's really no big deal."

"Not to you," the otter replied, "but a guy thinks he has privacy and now you say I never really did? How am I supposed to...oh, God, how am I supposed to do it now without you spying on me?" He felt dirty. No, more than dirty. Naked.

Prada shrugged, her head tilted. "Tell me to shut down. But that's not my point. You don't find it odd that you talked about this male fox for two hours and then pawed off right afterwards? If it were me...and I were male, and living...I would have wanted to take a nap."

"I did, after...you know."

"But after is the key word. I'm not going to require you tell me, but I'd like to know what you were thinking about."

"It's none of your business--"

"I know."

"...It's none of your business, but I sure as hell wasn't thinking about buttfucking Lars." His language was starting to get away from him; it did this every time he started losing control over a confrontaional conversation or situation. He knew it and Prada knew it. But he was telling the truth; he had used his typical slideshow of toned female bodies without faces, switching species until he'd messed all over the bed. Though he had stained the sheets and two pillowcases, not once had he given thought to what Prada might think when she changed the bed. He was a retard in retrospect.

"I can live with that. Now, that leads me to my litmus test. So far we can discount everything else as coincidence, stress and...blue-balls, is it? I think that is what you call it." She was looking to Dorian for confirmation, her face calm and neutral, always so eighteen-percent-grey.

"Yeah, that's what we guys call it." He was kneading his paws, playing with the onyx ring on his right middle finger. She was going to pigeonhole him somehow.

"Based on my experiential research, I wanted to conduct one more test that might prove my theory. Dorian, I'm not saying you were an experiment; I'm saying I wanted to figure out in exactly what way I could help you by finding the cause of your declining mental health. I can't tell you how big of a chance I took by changing my voice and paws, but I think I found what I needed." As far as Prada's emotions went, this was as apologetic as she could get.

"But nothing happened," said the otter. "I just freaked out and yelled at you. Sorry, by the way."

"Accepted. But something did happen, Dorian. A lot of things happened at once. Your ears perked back at me, your shoulder muscles tensed, your heart jumped...breathing got deeper...and what's most telling, is that your musk spiked and you got erect almost instantaneously. What do you call that?"

Dorian didn't have an answer. Prada got up and paced around the couch. "That doesn't mean anything. How can you just take all these little things I do and assume I'm gay because of it? Lots of guys get hard from a shoulder massage; it's just from the touch. Maybe I'm more sensitive than others. You can explain it six ways to Sunday."

"Except the one way?" Prada asked. "Is it really that bad to entertain that possibility? Forgetting all the drama with Lars and your job, tell me what you're thinking to demonize those thoughts and feelings."

"I don't know, Prada!" Dorian shot a frozen glance at the robot and turned back. "God, you think you can just lay a load of shit on me and you want answers? It's not supposed to be this way."

"What isn't? Your job, your life, or you?"

"None of it is!" The otter gestured wildly into the air, pinpricks of tears at the edge of his vision. It felt good to be letting loose like this, even if it was in a panic-stricken state. Dorian simply didn't know how to react. And when he felt paws on his shoulders again, paws that were too big and strong to be Prada's he did nothing. Up until now he'd wanted to do something to counter the robot's arguments, but he realized he hadn't done a damn thing to advance his case. How illogical was he acting anyway? The thought of...it...was, not exactly disgusting, but foreign.

"Then tell me how it's supposed to be, and maybe we can work it out," said that deep, mocha-brown voice again. The paws on his shoulders massaged deeper, and Dorian actually felt what Prada had described: a chemical wash through his body that ended, to his mixed chagrin and relief, in an instant rock-hard erection. And this time, when he let it come, and actually sat through it, it felt just as natural as any of the times he had been aroused by females.

But it wasn't supposed to be this way. It wasn't! Oh, God, I really don't want to deal with this right now.

"I really don't want to deal with this right now, Prada," said the otter, making no move to shrug off the massage, man-paws or no. The fact of the matter was, it felt good when the robot had her own delicate touch, but the extra bulk and pressure sure didn't hurt at all. Dorian recalled that he'd once been to a chiropractor once, a big bull of a man, who'd practically kneaded his back into hamburger. Funny...he'd come out of that massage with a raging boner as well. Jesus.

Warm breath caressed the top of one of his ears. "Dorian, it doesn't have to be so difficult. You're making a mountain out of a molehill." Prada sounded even more different, and it wasn't a blunt nosepad he saw out of the corner of his eye but a broader, more slender snout. He shivered even before he turned around, heart pounding ahead of his eyes with anticipation for the worst. But the worst of what, exactly?

There was a wolf on the other side of the couch. Dorian wanted to be scared. He wanted to be angry, confused, anything but what he was feeling now. Prada came around to face him, paws in her (his?) lap, her left leg tucked under her right so her footpaw dangled restlessly over the edge of the cushion. A bushy tail flicked the air behind. At least she was wearing something...but the cutoff shorts didn't do much good. Dorian's member flagged little, if any.

"Wuh--" Squeak. "How did you do that?" There was no mistaking Dorian's frazzled state now. Prada must have spent a long time working on that. The fact that she'd basically transformed herself into a completely different...everything was more than enough by itself.

"It's really just an extension of my holoskin program," said the lupine, standing up to show off his new body to the gawking otter. "When you first got me, upon initial boot-up an automatic imprinting program was run through my cybertronic cortex. My visual sensors recognized your species and I became a natural, female partner for you. The idea was to at least be pleasing to the eye..." Prada did a slow turnaround for Dorian's benefit... "as well as pleasing in presence. Obviously, the program can't take a number of extra factors into account, so we can adapt over time to suit our owners, whether it's a jock, a ballerina or an entire family. That's why you see so many different robots out there."

"How come you never changed your appearance once since I brought you home, then?"

"You never asked me to. I can't just execute a program without your approval. I don't suppose you would know that, since you never read my operations file. You were always one of those men. Never ask directions, never share your emotions, always in control. And see where it got you?"

"All fucked up in the head, right?"

"Right."

The otter had his head in his paws, shaking it back and forth like he couldn't believe this was happening. This morning had been so dull by comparison. As of this afternoon so much had happened he wondered how it was still the same day. The sun was set now, though, and as he looked past Prada the wolf to the wall clock he saw it was coming on ten already.

"I don't think...I'm really tired now, okay? Maybe we should resume talking about this in the morning?" Dorian asked. He was tired, but that pesky erection had its own opinion. Sure, he was having a hard time taking his eyes off the wolf in front of him, but it had nothing to do with this. All the clues were there, and even his brain was trying to convince him, but his turning gut bore an uneasiness he hadn't felt since summer camp.

"Your heart rate is still up," Prada said, crossing his nutmeg-brown arms over a creamy well-defined chest. Even in consternation, the wolf had Dorian wondering, deep down, what was behind the short shorts that hid almost nothing. They seemed to be there only to serve as a placeholder until they could be ripped off, and that seemed an effortless task. "I know where your eyes are, and I can smell it coming off of you in thick waves. It's not healthy to be like this, so conflicted." He started pacing toward the seated otter, a looming presence, but not an unwelcome one. "Let me show you what I'm getting at. Give me a chance."

Dorian wanted to shrink into the cushions, but he had spent too much money on the rich Corinthian leather sofa for a soft seating surface. All he could do was pull his legs and tail up tight to his waist, watching as the sizable lupine came over to him on large footpaws, his whole aura reeking of confidence. Nothing short of traumatic, it was at once overpowering and terrifying to watch (seemingly, it felt, from outside his own body) as Prada kneeled down next to him and bent, closing the last distance between their two muzzles. Dorian sank to the right with the weight of the wolf's knee, and Prada's lips closed over his own. He lost it.

The world as an outside force ceased to be for the time it took the otter and wolf-bot to share what amounted to the most intimate moment of Dorian's life. As the lupine's rubbery, slick tongue gently parted his lips to explore his mouth, the otter remarked inwardly on how serious Prada had been about this whole thing. First off, he wasn't in it for sexual gratification; his programming simply was not capable of that. Second, the detail to which he had gone to replicate everything Dorian might want in a man--he now had no choice but to accept it for lack of evidence to the contrary--was startling in its intricacy, to say the least.

For once, Prada had presence. Dorian felt like he was there, in real flesh, with real weight and heat behind his movements instead of just another non-biological organism, an appliance just like the stove and food-replicator. The wolf's muzzle was actually warm and wet, and the otter gave up trying to figure out how that was possible so he could thrust out his tongue against Prada's own, which lashed languidly around his teeth, waiting for simple reciprocation. Meaty paws wrapped around the otter's slim waist and pressed into his crotch, respectively, where he hadn't deflated one bit since this whole talk had started. For once, it was a welcome weight, and he flexed against it. It would just take too much energy now to try and avoid the unavoidable.

Thinking of the wolf as anything other than a mechanical being was much easier without Prada's voice (albeit changed) to keep reminding him of the fact. That the otter hadn't even hesitated, hadn't even tried to avoid the kiss, was proof in itself of how natural it now felt. Even when Lars had put his devious little paw in the same place that now had a lupine's touch gracing it, Dorian could see how his recoil had been more from the jolt of sheer pleasure than disgust. It had scared him to feel such a thing from a guy, and processing those feelings had only succeeded in confusing his "straight" mentality all the more.

But this...this was nice!

The masculine pretense of having control, of owning the situation, had been ripped from his grasp, and the otter had no intention of fighting to gain it back. He was tired of making all the decisions. He was done, at least for now, with micromanaging every little detail of his life and his job and everyone else's job as an ancillary extension of that obsessive need. Prada owned him right now, bodily if not mentally, and Dorian's lips, wanton in their eager upwards pressing, told the robot everything he needed to know. Do what you want. I'm off the map I've made; draw me something new.

Prada the wolf pulled away; Dorian noted with some surprise that he was emanating at least some body heat. "Was that what it was supposed to feel like?" he said, standing and reverting to a not-as-sexy stiff pose. He hadn't yet perfected subtlety, that was for sure. "I detected a rise in blood pressure, a hormonal spike, and your penis felt adequately turgid."

"A-ha! Hahaha, ohmygod! Hee," laughed the otter, feeling his muzzle stretch into a wide, unaccustomed pure grin. He hadn't felt that in a long while. Wiping a tear or two of mirth, he replied, "I would say that was more than adequate, Prada. You...you were perfect, is all I can think to say. I mean, I've never had any girl kiss me like that." And as he double-thought that statement, he gathered it was more true than he wanted to let on. He'd never kissed anybody like that in his whole entire life. All it took was a robot. He blushed, and actually felt a little ashamed.

"I'm glad to hear that, Dorian. You look happy. Much more relaxed than I've seen you recently. I want to say I was nervous about this whole thing, but since I'm incapable of anxiety I was just hesitant. I feared what you would say, how you would react to my forwardness and brash manner. But I knew I had to take a risk to find out if my suspicions were correct. Were they?"

Was there really any other answer to that question besides the obvious one? A small corner of Dorian's mind still could not believe this new revelation, partly due to the swiftness with which it had come about. But for the majority, there was relief. Dorian equated it to an agonizing teenager coming out to his parents, only to find their full acceptance and support. Where was the otter's agony? It was like he'd just skipped three full steps to accepting himself. Well, as long as he was here, who cared about skipping steps?

"I guess so. I guess you were correct. The more I think about it, and Lars, the pieces seem to fit a little better this way. God dammit, this has been the longest day of my life!" Dorian rubbed his temples with a light touch, for fear of triggering a migraine, as stress often caused him. "And you know what the kicker is? I'm going to go into that bedroom and lie down and you're going to be able to hear me pawing off in there, because you've just given me a potential priapism if I don't do something about it quick."

"You don't have to go in there by yourself, Dorian," Prada said, straight-faced. "Are you trying to tell me it was okay to get you hard with no intention to follow through? I hardly think that would be fair, do you?"

"Uh..." Why hadn't he considered this while they were kissing? Was it really that far-fetched a notion that Prada would want to take this all the way? But was it something Prada wanted, or just wanted to do? Did it even fucking matter?

"Dorian? I don't think it's very fair to leave you hanging like that." Prada's long, fluffy tail wagged gently as he spoke.

"I...I don't know what to do," was all the otter could manage; he sat and stared ahead, more through the wolf's legs than at them. It was all blurry anyway. "I wouldn't know where to start. And I've done this a few times, you know." He looked up at Prada, who smiled, ears forward in a friendly sort of dominance. "With girls, but still..."

"For your information, I've read the Kama Sutra, The Joy of Sex, and over three gigabytes of stories. I've downloaded a few dozen adult movies and studied the life and times of the Marquis de Sade. I also know the psychology of attraction, intimacy and arousal. As a free upgrade to my holoskin program, I was also able to install an anatomical imitation code to make me physiologically identical to biological organisms."

Dorian blinked a few times. "So you can..." waving a paw around.

"I can become erect, unsheathe, grow, tie and mimic orgasm, though I cannot ejaculate. Unfortunately."

"Yes, unfortunately. You ever heard of Star Trek? You sound like Lieutenant Data from one of those old shows."

Prada looked to the side and said, "Wait a second while I Google that." After about a second, he continued, "I get what you mean. 'I am fully functional.' I believe it is considered to be a classic line."

"You could say that."

"I can also change my outward appearance to anything you want," replied the lupine, crossing his arms with the beginnings of a knowing smirk at the corners of his mouth. I only took this form to get your attention. I have a feeling you might be better attracted to something else." Prada approached the nonplussed otter, who could do nothing more than watch with a strained expression of neutrality. On his knees, placing his paws on Dorian's thigh, he looked out of place compared to his appearance. But in the end, Prada was a robot and nothing more. Still, Dorian couldn't see past the very convincing skin...and fur...and those eyes...

"You know how hard of a time I'm having trying to convince myself that this isn't some sort of cosmic conspiratorial joke? That you seem like you're trying to help, but it's all at my expense in the end? I feel like a bunch of people're going to come out of the curtains and start laughing their asses off," said the otter, fidgeting again since Prada's paws were almost too close for comfort.

The wolf laughed a little, and it sounded surprisingly real. "Thankfully it's not something you can count on, since I'm not really alive and not programmed for deception like you."

"Like me?"

"You know what I mean. So, what's your decision? You've lost your job, you have an identity crisis, and it's not like you have anything left to lose. You might as well feel better, because that's the only place to go from here." A paw glided up near Dorian's groin just far enough to send his sheath to a firmer place, and for the first time he realized just how nervous he was.

Nervous, or horny? I can't tell the difference anymore. Maybe both.

"Dorian?"

Fuck it.

"Yeah, okay. But I decide when it's over, okay? I'm not sure how to approach this." The otter stood as Prada took his paw and began to walk toward the bedroom door.

"It seems to me, this shouldn't be as complicated as you're making it out to be," the wolf said. "But I understand what you're feeling, to an extent. Ultimately, you're my owner and you make the final decision. If that is what you want."

Dorian stopped, looking into the wolf's deep gaze. Prada the otter had never had that depth before. He felt himself leaning forward, tilting his muzzle and sealing it with Prada's lips. Their tongues danced for a fleeting moment before separating, and when Dorian was on flat feet again he blushed horribly. It had come so naturally, so without awkwardness, that he was actually starting to believe what the robot had been telling him all evening.

As they crossed the threshold, the room sensed Dorian's heat signature and set the lights at their typical mid-bright level for late evening. When the television turned on, tuning to the channel and program the otter usually watched (this evening, it would have been accompanied by a bowl of sorbet, but things happened), he commanded it off.

"Would you like an audio background?" the room asked in its polite, British, feminine voice.

"No, I don't think--"

"Something romantic. And soft. Music that will facilitate arousal in the male and sexual intercourse." Dorian was just about to tell Prada that the apartment's computer would not be able to understand such crude terminology when the faint lofty strokes of a Mozart piano sonata began wafting to the otter's ears from carefully hidden speakers.

Prada said, "It's not the song I was anticipating, but it's close. At least it's Mozart."

"How could you possibly guess?" Dorian asked, sitting gingerly on the bed and kicking his shoes off.

"The apartment computer is connected to the same network as I am, and it has access to the same information. It simply searched for statistics on the most popular music to copulate by and applied it to its playlist. I was halfway waiting for Jimi Hendrix's 'All Along the Watchtower,' but thankfully the apartment is just as discerning as I."

Dorian shook his head. "God, I need a drink."

"No you don't. You need a fuck."

"Prada!"

"Not so much with the vulgar language?"

"No."

"Okay, I can filter that." The wolf began to massage Dorian's thigh again, this time staying up high on purpose but carefully avoiding coming too near his sensitive spots. "What do you want then? What would you like me to be?"

"A fox."

"A fox? But what about Lars? I would think you would be tired of foxes after what happened."

"Just because Lars is a fox doesn't mean I hate every vulpine thing on the face of the planet. Besides, I can mess with colors too, right?"

"Yes, you can." Prada's paw brushed over his crotch, thick pads teasing his hardening flesh.

"G-good," breathed the otter. "Just, I guess, do a standard red fox and we'll go from there."

The wolf smiled. "Okay." His eyes closed, his ears twitching about like antennas searching for some sort of signal. His body stiffened for a moment, and then it shimmered out of focus. For just a moment Dorian could see the metal skeleton that had been Prada for the first three minutes of her life outside the box, before she was activated and assumed the form of Dorian's "preferred" partner. He was reminded, then, of how mundane all of this, his life, had become until today. The room's music, the television, all of it had taken on a new meaning, like it made a bigger impact on him now that he had no job. That no matter how ingrained daily life had become, a little change of point-of-view made a huge difference on everything all the way down to the smallest detail.

A couple of seconds passed, during which the soft brown of wolf fur warmed into the sun-kissed orange-red of fox fur, and suddenly Prada sat before Dorian as a standard example...probably a combination of thousands of reference photos. Gone was the bulky physique, transformed into a swimmer's lanky build. Slender nose, check. Black gloves, check. Ferret-energy wagging tail, check. Prada almost seemed to leer at him from behind slitted green eyes, the epitome of slyness. "Is this better?"

Dorian passed a paw over his fly, meeting hardness. "Uh-huh, much better. Now, reverse your colors. Make all the red black, and all the black red. Keep the white where it is. Oh, just the tail. I want the tailtip the only white thing. Everything else is black."

"You got it," said Prada the fox, once again falling still while his skin waved and crawled like a mirage over a hot asphalt freeway. He came into focus a black fox with red gloves, red ears, red boots and a white tailtip. His eyes fairly glowed, emeralds buried in coal, and when Prada smiled it was like a flashlight in his muzzle.

"Oh..." was all the otter could say. Just a few more, while he was at it... "Okay, okay, but could you put the muscle back on again, like before? But make it a little more this time. Like, how tall are you?"

"Five foot ten," the vulpine purred in a completely different voice. It was smoother, and so much sexier than the wolf's had been. No, sexy in a different way. Old predictable, boring, same Dorian had been bitten by the attraction bug, and he was in a uniquely powerful place of control. It wasn't every day that he could mold a partner to suit his exact tastes.

"Okay, how about six foot two, and muscular, say, two thirty-five?" Seconds later he was practically drooling over a massively built fox. The only things that didn't appear to be covered in sinew were his tail and ears. From the neck to his feet it was solid, rippling foxmeat. Prada did a few poses for the otter's benefit, turning a circle to give him the full Monty.

"You're perfect," Dorian sighed like a high school sophomore, his tail thwacking the bedspread.

"I'm more than perfect," replied the vulpine, wagging slowly as he stood on display. "I am a physical personification of a species impossibility. There is no way a fox on this earth could get this big. And live. Is that what makes love so hard sometimes? Wanting something you can never have?"

"More than you know." Dorian knew the feeling. He thought he'd experienced it before with women, but he never knew what he was missing until he'd been given the power to mold it in his paws. "Can...can I touch you?"

"Isn't that what I'm here for?" Dorian climbed onto his knees on the bed as Prada padded over and climbed on across from him. As the fox lifted one leg after the other, Dorian could only guess what lay just underneath the boxers he was wearing, wondering why the robot had even thought them necessary. It was almost too much to visualize, and he promised himself he would take it slowly.

Even on the bed, Prada towered over the otter by a good eight inches, and Dorian was more than happy to look up to meet the fox's gaze. They were but a foot apart, and he felt no heat from the robot, but Prada emanated a masculine aura nonetheless. His physique and presence commanded attention and respect just by their looks. The otter had to admit the fox attracted his attention a whole lot easier than most of the women he came across. But the most attractive thing about it was that Dorian couldn't pin down why, exactly. It was just something about the whole package: the dominant air, the steadfastness, or whatever.

Dorian hugged Prada, hard. He buried his muzzle in that thick black chestfur, feeling the curve of one sizable pectoral on his forehead. He breathed in the fox's scent, weak though it was, but it was there, and it was his, and he still couldn't believe he was here on his bed with this magnificent creature Prada had made all for him. As he felt his tie being undone, he moved not a centimeter. It fell flaccidly between his knees. His shirt pulled up and out; each button unbuttoned was a small pop in itself, all the way down to his belt. He kept his eyes closed, breathing through his mouth in sharp, shallow bursts, as fox paws pushed him away and let the shirt fall from his back.

"Dorian, does anybody ever notice how you keep so trim? Do they ever tell you they envy you and your persistence to fitness?" The otter shook no. "Not even the women you dated?" No again. He did work hard to keep his body in shape, but being in shape was just normal-looking. His species was naturally athletic anyway, so he didn't stand out by leaps and bounds. But a compliment now and then wouldn't have gone unappreciated.

"It's alright, though. You see it in people's eyes, where they look. They may notice it, but it doesn't mean they have to say something."

"But still, in this world, they must realize how difficult it is to avoid the temptation. I've done research; it's nearly impossible."

Dorian rested his forehead on the vulpine's sternum, running his paws up and down the soft fur of his sides. Not a drop of fat anywhere. Amazing. "Not if you have enough money for Gabosol or surgery. I mean, when you can swallow a pill that'll burn all the calories and fat you don't need, and still eat it all, and live just as long, there's no effort."

"All the more reason to respect you," said Prada, going for the otter's belt buckle. Dorian tensed, tail curled up behind him, trying to keep his paws from trembling too much. He knew his erection was plainly visible pushing out from behind his fly, and it was amazing that he wasn't just thrusting away. After his belt was undone, Prada paused. "You know, Dorian, I don't think I've ever seen you unclothed in the three years you've had me."

"You're...so convincing that, well, you make me self-conscious when I know you're around to see me...that way. But now, I don't think I care. Isn't that crazy?"

"Crazy?" the fox said, pressing the whole of his palm against the otter's equipment and rubbing the cotton. "It's natural for some people. But I'm glad I put you at ease." Dorian could hear the smile on the words, even above his own moaning churr into Prada's fluff.

"Oh, God, fuck me..." And this time he did thrust to meet the pressure, and it felt great.

"Not so soon, I hope. I want to at least be able to work you up beforepaw."

"You may not get your wish. It's too much, I think. I'm overloaded," Dorian panted up into the fox's chin, licked the whiskers at the end of his reach. Prada smiled down and nuzzled him, working him out of his pants at the same time. They were down around his knees, with his boxers, and it never felt so wonderful to be exposed.

Prada sidled up a little closer, so Dorian's back was straight (and his cock was at maximum length) and slid a paw down the otter's side to cup one firm, round buttock. Fox claws groomed the short water-resistant fur there in tiny circles before coming around his hip. There was no mistaking where that paw was headed, and Dorian wanted to tell Prada to stop, but he was so close as it was...whatever would happen would happen.

As if reading his mind, Prada chimed in, "Your hormones are going off the scale, Dorian. I expected something like this, but not nearly as strong." The fox's fingers met the otter's cock, circled the sheath around its base, and started stroking. Dorian's balls tightened almost immediately; he quivered bodily at the sensation.

"I studied masturbation techniques thoroughly, and found this to be the most popular among foreplay activities," said Prada, adding two more fingers to his inverted strokes. They were short and strong, like one would expect the fox himself to use. Not truly romantic, but Dorian didn't give much of a shit because he clawed at Prada's cheekruffs. When the vulpine bent a little, he was met with a kiss full of groaning, drooling lutrine passion. Unimaginable colors burst behind Dorian's eyes and the next thing he knew he was grunting like a caveman, his abdomen twitching as he plastered the dark fur of Prada's right thigh with his release. The fox stroked through the entire thing, though he took the two extra fingers away.

After Prada had made sure every last drop was spent, he released Dorian, who collapsed onto his back, cock flopping onto his stomach and matting everything down. It had been a long time since he'd felt asthmatic, but the breath simply wouldn't come to him.

"I'll get a towel. You calm down," said the fox, rolling over onto the floor with dancer-like agility. Dorian could only wheeze and wave. His cock was sore. His thighs were sore from being on his knees for so long. Taking his length in one paw and squeezing it up and down, a long white watery runnel winding its way down the six inches, the otter shuddered from recollection of the past ten minutes. It had taken nothing at all to bring him off. Nothing. He remembered Doreen. Pretty as hell, and an otter, too. They had made jokes about their similar names. She'd made him feel the same way, but it had taken forever for him to come. And he was fucking her, hard. She didn't have quite the tenacious grip that Prada did, though. Was it all just a ruse, his entire life? The fox came back into the room, carrying a towel for him. His cock jumped to attention again. He wanted those boxers off.

"It's a good thing my appearance is holographic. I read that semen is quick to dry in certain types of fur, hard to brush out if you don't have water, and can stain lighter shades like white and cream. Here," he said, tossing the towel to the otter, who ran it between his legs.

"Well, otters don't have to worry about that with our fur, thank God. My mom never let on that she knew what I was doing alone in my room, but she did wash my underoos and she probably had a suspicion, at least." Dorian remarked how, after sharing such an intimate moment, he found it somehow easier to converse with him. "Hey, Prada?"

"Yeah?" said the vulpine, climbing back onto the bed and sitting cross-legged by the otter's footpaws.

"Thanks. I mean, not just for that. I acted like an ass when I came home--"

"And I don't have feelings for you to hurt, so no harm done. I understand completely. To be honest with you, I didn't know if I was going to be able to pull this off like I did, but I'm glad it worked. I wanted so badly to get through to you, but I knew your attitudes, and even I wasn't sure how you would react to my...accusations?"

"I guess you could call it that," Dorian said, propping himself up against the headboard. His cock still stuck out like a fire poker. "I just...God dammit if this wasn't something I could have fixed a long time ago. But seriously, Prada, I never thought about it consciously. I never agonized over it!"

"And that's good. Maybe it is better that you're just finding this out at your age. Maybe it's best with me, so you don't have to go through the heartache. But I can only do so much."

Dorian nodded. "You've done too much already." He chuckled at himself. "You know, that was probably the biggest orgasm I've ever had right there."

"You did ejaculate forcefully. After that, one would think you would need to rest. It looks, from your erection, that you won't need to."

The otter's heart leaped again, fresh anxiety high in his throat. "You...wanna go again?" he squeaked out as the black fox crawled (very foxlike indeed, for such a bulky body) over to him and began to nuzzle around his balls. "Oh, God, Prada, keep doing that..." And Prada obliged, bathing the pair of otterballs with a tongue that was actually warm and wet. How Prada had managed that feat was beyond him, but he wasn't worried much about aesthetics or physical impossibilities. The fox made sure to get everywhere within his reach except for the one thing Dorian wished he would lick most.

When Dorian pawed at his groin, he found his arms pinned to his sides by quick paws. "I don't think that would be wise at the moment," said the vulpine in between licks, "you might want this to last."

"What are you...*huff*...going to do to me?" Though having a clear thought when he was receiving such an enthusiastic licking was very difficult, Dorian ran myriad possibilities through his head about what Prada had next in store for him. The fox spread his thighs wider with long, slow strokes of his tongue, pausing every now and again to nip an inch or two of flesh between his perfect holographic fangs. Unable to do much else, Dorian let his tail thwack the bedspread and his moans issue forth from deep within his chest. Words couldn't quite convey the depth and complexity of sensations he was trying to process.

At last, right before Prada bent double to take his length in, the otter managed to scoot away to the headboard, leaving a confused-looking black fox on his knees with nothing to suck on.

"Is something wrong?"

"I need those off, now," pointing to the boxers loosely hugging Prada's narrow hips. She complied instantly; the material shivered for a second before melting into invisibility. But what was there threatened to kill the otter's erection in a matter of seconds.

"What the hell is that?" Dorian pointed stiffly at...absolutely nothing. The space between Prada's thick thighs was completely barren. Where there should have been an irresistible set of vulpine genitalia was nothing but an androgynous flat furry triangle. Not even a bulge was evident, nor a hint of one.

Prada looked down. "You never specified what kind of genitalia I was supposed to have. I can't complete a request I haven't been given. Intuition only goes so far until you run into protocol errors." He shrugged. "So, what should I have? It's all up to you."

"You would think--" the otter began, but caught himself...no matter now. What should Prada have? Dorian was like a pup in a pond. On the one paw, he could have anything he wanted, any size, thickness and length. But had he seen many sets of foxy bits in his time? No. He wanted so much, but had so little at his disposal! It was like the proverbial rock and a hard place, except he was suffocating in the middle with no way out.

Scratching between his balls (it was decidedly slimy, but not all that bad), Dorian said, "Show me what a fox of your height and build would have." It was vague, but it was a starting point. And it was a request Prada could process.

Indeed, the fox closed his eyes while he tapped the Net for references and statistics. As he took in information, the dark fur below his navel wavered and blurred. The change was unceremonious: like looking at an inflating balloon through a cloud of fog, the blur seemed to expand outward, growing a highlight along its top. When all came into focus again, Dorian was looking at what could possibly be the most perfectly-shaped sheath and balls he'd ever dared set eyes upon. The curve of it blended neatly with the flat of Prada's stomach, it held just the right fullness in its flaccid state, and the testicles hung loose but symmetrical just below. Mesmerized, the otter felt himself crawling over the covers, muzzle hung open, tongue lolling, and just engulfing the whole package with licks and kisses.

"I take it this will do? Not too small?" Prada said, petting through Dorian's headfur while his foxbits were slathered with saliva.

Dorian took a moment to breathe, leaning his forehead next to the sheath, which was beginning to firm up quite convincingly. "No, this is just...perfect, just perfect." It was perfect, too, since it was all his, and though he would have liked to see a gigantic nine-inch cock of dreams on the fox, it would be unrealistic and impractical. If he couldn't fit it in his muzzle, where did the fun lie?

Prada skritched behind the otter's ears. "I'm glad you approve. I've also read up on pornography, both fictional and non-. You wouldn't think it difficult to simulate an erection in progress, but it really is such an abstraction to process that it takes more memory than most complex programs." Dorian nuzzled the fat black pouch, pushing against its bulk with his truncated muzzle. "But you're giving me ample impetus to try out my logorithms."

"Calculate away," replied the otter who, on all fours now, was dead-set on convincing that foxcock to show itself in all its turgid glory. He was a man possessed now, it seemed, his mind whirling with the events of the evening--no, the whole damn day--and how it had all led to him practically sucking a robotic fox right out of the sheath. Jobless, depressed, but oh so horny...it was almost laughable, but Dorian was hard and hungry with nothing better to do but have fun while he still could, if that was possible.

As soon as the tip of Prada's member made its way into the open, the otter was all over it. He had no idea whether or not the fox would feel pleasure, or if he had to simulate that as well. Whatever accommodations had to be made, however, Prada probably had done the equivalent of hours upon hours of research and had just the answers to whatever questions that may arise. And speaking of arising, Dorian was enjoying each additional inch, dark red and shining with saliva, that escaped one warm and wet place only to find itself in another.

"Did you read a book on fellatio skills, or does this just come naturally to you?" asked Prada, massaging the otter's stubby ears while receiving quite the thorough tonguebath. Dorian pulled off, slowly, while unsheathing the bulk of Prada's knot (perfectly proportioned in relation to his length; the fox had outdone himself in the research department) and breathed...for once.

"To be honest with you, I've never...I've never done this before! Never in my life did I...you just never see it coming, do you?" The otter blushed at his repetitive vocabulary. Speech under duress had never been his strong suit, and that may have been a factor regarding why Lars' story had been so much more believable. It wasn't like he was thinking correctly to begin with anyway, what with the seven-inch foxcock waving in front of his face like a carrot on a stick to a donkey.

Prada brought his paws under the otter's chin, raising him to his knees to look the vulpine in the face: "It's amazing, isn't it? Learning new things, I mean. But realizing you can do something well, something you've never done before? Doesn't it make you think that you were made for something, some specific thing?" He touched snouts with Dorian, who found tears beginning to fill up the corners of his eyes.

Seeing his position with an outsider's view, with Prada's view, really got to him with how false his old life seemed. His old life? Was it old now?

Prada's paw pressed into Dorian's creamy chest. "Your heart is slowing down. Don't tell me you're thinking too hard again. This is not the time for self-doubt."

"But I...I have so much I want to talk about!" he whimpered, almost crying in frustration. "There's so much bullshit I have to wade through before I can figure out what I'm really feeling, my own life is suffocating me, what? WHAT!?" The fox was looking at him, his eyes pleading for him to stop whatever it was he was trying to do to himself.

"Where is it going to get you by doing all this?" asked Prada, taking his owner by the shoulders. "Even in the middle of this, and you're just...bitching about your life."

"I am not a bitch!" shouted back Dorian, who realized that he wasn't angry at all at Prada. A little annoyed, maybe, but not angry. The fox quirked his head to one side, his green, glowing eyes narrowed, and he smiled in a way only a fox can smile.

"Yes you are," Prada murmured in a deep, almost threatening, growl, lowering himself onto his knuckles and looming over the otter, who leaned as far back as he could before flopping onto the bed, exposed and confused. "You're the bitch. You made me like this." The fox rose and posed, flexing his impossible muscles. "I'm bigger than you. I'm stronger than you. I am your Alpha, and you are my Omega."

"What are you talking about?" asked Dorian, completely thrown off, not realizing that might be Prada's point entirely. "You aren't a wolf anymore, and I've never been one."

"Shut up!" Prada sent a paw across Dorian's muzzle, open-faced but forceful enough to smart. "This is what you want anyway, Dorian. You want to give up control. You hate control. You want me to control everything you do, and say, and think. Because you couldn't even keep your stinking job." The fox drooled over him from sharp fangs; he did make a convincing top. But was he just trying to be convincing, or had a wire snapped somewhere? Had a circuit melted? There was no way to tell, and unfortunately Prada wasn't going to just let the otter open him up to take a look-see.

"Quit it, Prada. This isn't funny. Don't make me have to fight back, 'cuz I will." Fuck the psychotherapy; if the robot wanted a fight, Dorian was up for the challenge. The combined musk of otter and synthetic fox thickened the air between them. A paw closed around his erection and held tight, painfully so. Prada grinned down at him, a challenge to his manhood.

"Try me, bitch." Now, that was just over the line. The otter was incensed, yes, but he was too old and too perceptive to believe the vulpine meant what he said. If something had gone haywire in the robot's cerebral cortex, Dorian did not relish the thought of having to first wrestle the fox (who, most likely, contained a strength many times his own) into submission, then open his access panel to reach the emergency shutdown override buried inside the complex circuitry.

But he had a better idea: Dorian was willing to bet that Prada, in his ever-helpful-but-sometimes-over-effective way of aiding the otter with his problems, had tapped into the realm of reverse psychology and was trying to goad him with an insulting challenge. Not only was that a less drastic situation, it was the one the otter was hoping to play.

"You fuckin' wanna piece of me?" he growled, sending one balled fist straight at Prada's xiphoid process. The thud the blow made was just as convincing as the hard lump beneath the fox's fur was. But, as real as it may have seemed, Prada hadn't expected such an instantaneous move. Dorian knew the vulpine would tailor his actions and responses to the database he had gathered on him from their years together, and this martial-arts type move did not mesh with that matrix of data. So when the fox hesitated that crucial split second before reacting with a startled grunt, the otter was relieved that he didn't have to deactivate the robot after all.

Still, Prada launched himself backwards and over the edge of the bed and onto the floor. Dorian crawled over after him, saying, "I know what you're trying to pull, and you can stop it. I know you want me to give up control. You want to ridicule me and anger me until I break. Until I go into a blind rage and force you to your knees and rape you. Right?"

Sitting cross-legged now, Prada looked to Dorian to be almost ready to challenge the otter again. But his face softened; they both knew this faux pas was just that...false through and through.

"I was not built for subtlety. As gifted as I may seem, I'm still just a machine. Though I admit I underestimated your ability to see through my ruse." The fox stood, his member bobbing just above the otter's head. It was all Dorian could do not to lick it. No...he wanted to do this right.

"Sorry I got so caught up in my own experience that I read too much into it. Working at that hellhole, with so many idiots on the team, you can't take anything at face value. It's either a lie or controlled by office politics. Nobody's genuine anymore," Dorian sat up and padded the bed next to him. Prada complied, his weight on the springs making a welcome black hole for the otter to slide into. Though not naturally warm, the heat given off by the fox's circuitry beneath his skin almost replicated the real thing. Just a heartbeat would have been more convincing.

But he didn't stay long. Prada stood again, bent and caught the surprised otter in his arms, lifting him with as much effort as a child with a doll. He set Dorian up at the headboard, propped by the few pillows there, and gently nestled up against him. "You don't need to be sorry about being yourself," the fox said, his eyes bright and shiny as his artificial black coat. "That's how you get to where you're going in life. You can't have not believed, since you were fired, that it would all work out. Right? You wouldn't let that happen; we both know you too well to believe anything else."

That was a bit more Prada, and much simpler than a challenge from an "Alpha Fox." But he was only half right; somewhere, deep down, the otter knew everything would work out, that he had it under control. And he did, no doubt about that. But part of him was scared of the change: the resumes, the interviews, the new jobs, new bosses, new opportunities day after day after day that could change the course of his life either way. And, as with all things, the hardest part was taking the step forward and having the courage to jump in without yelling, "Cannonball!"

As Dorian leaned over, he felt his erection, still fully swollen, leave a trail of precum halfway down his thigh. He gulped down his heart as the muscular fox's left arm swung around the back of his head, tickling one stubby round ear as it went, and pulled him forward. And he moved wherever it told him to move, tilted to one side, paw buried in thick fox chestfur as he did give up control, only because he wanted to make the choice for him. He waited until Prada's tongue searched out his own, and only then did he reciprocate with ferocity.

The otter felt odd being the driver in a situation where Prada would seem the obvious choice. But the fox was only doing what he thought best would please his owner, so when Dorian's paw found its way between his legs, the fox cock was hard and half-knotted, eagerly awaiting a touch to bring it fully to life. Its weight felt more substantial than the otter had expected, but the replication of bloodflow was uncannily realistic. The foxish musk radiating from the same place didn't hurt much either. Prada groaned into Dorian's muzzle, vibrating his fillings with the low frequency. Visions of nursing upon that shapely member came and went; thoughts of sitting gingerly upon its girth also stopped by for fleeting consideration. But Dorian had his mind on one thing only, and he was going to need some of it soon.

Licking a stray runner of saliva from his lips as they parted, Prada said, "You look like you have a question to ask me." Dorian felt heat, then weight, upon his own member as the fox took hold with a much gentler grip, and stroked at the base of his sheath. He shuddered and hunched. "Does it really feel that good?"

Chuckling softly, the otter replied, "If it didn't feel that good, how come society's gotten in so much trouble because of it?"

"That's a valid point."

"I did have something on my mind, though. Are you..." Dorian wandered his fingers down below the fox's balls, teasing there as he would excite any woman.

"Are you trying to vituperate my research?" Prada asked. "Why don't you scoot up and find out for yourself? That said, the fox didn't waste time waiting for an answer; he scooped the otter up by the waist and twirled him around, setting him down face-to-cock. Dorian felt his hips come down, and then a cocoon of warmth settled all around his member as Prada took him in. He hissed and curled his toes, burying his muzzle in the side of the fox's black fur.

What kind of research had that robot been doing? Chances were high that, after draining a few online libraries and university sites, Prada had hacked more than his fair share of pornography to learn his techniques. At least he'd had the sensibility to discern that all the dramatic moaning and swearing was scripted. But the way he used the extra length of his muzzle and tongue to wrap around the otter's shaft from bottom to top, well, that was dramatic but happening to him in real life.

Prada spread his legs, reminding Dorian why he'd been lifted and replaced. The otter pulled the vulpine's sac to one side, almost giddily drunk from the amount of scent emanating from this part of him. He felt with his claws along the perineum, covered in short, soft ebony fuzz before arriving at the small, puckered opening he knew would be there anyway. Still, when he ran his finger pad over the surface, it twitched but Prada made no indication he noticed the touch. The replication was exacting, but the emotion was still lacking. The fox couldn't be expected to cover every possible angle, could he?

Though Dorian had never had an experience such as this before, he was familiar with its dynamics, and wondered if Prada would need any loosening up. Even if he doesn't, thought the otter, I'll do it for him anyway. He had a hunk of a fox underneath him, something he had created straight out of his libido, and the power gained from that creation was the good, thick fuel he needed to prepare for his attempt at domination. Straining forward on his toes, making sure to keep his cock well within Prada's oral reach, he sniffed once and swiped his tongue over the fox's tailhole.

Nothing. Not even a mild scent or a taste. The flesh was perfect, giving inward just about half of a tantalizing inch, but there was no flavor or smell. Prada's fox musk was coming from somewhere else, and while that was a mild disappointment, it did nothing to put the otter off from his goal. Eagerly he set to work, burying his blunt snout below the vulpine's balls and licking, pushing until the tight ring gave way and allowed him entrance.

Opening Prada up was nothing typical in the way of lovemaking because of the robot's inorganic shortcomings, but it offered Dorian opportunities to explore the male body in ways he otherwise could not have. As his lust grew, he was aware of his behavior becoming rougher, more forceful, and had Prada been a living being the fox would have shouted or been brought to utter tears by the amount of pain the otter's paws would otherwise be causing.

The fox was doing a fine job of keeping his owner happy. In fact, the job was almost too good; Dorian had to find a position in which to keep his hips so he wouldn't end up loosing himself into the fox's maw. He wanted that saved for something more special. Dorian stretched his neck to its limits to penetrate as far as possible into Prada's tasteless, odorless hole, managing to get his whole tongue ensconced before rolling off the fox and grappling around the bedtable for the little blue bottle he kept for the one night in a million he actually succeeded in getting a woman into his apartment.

God, when was that? Nine months ago? A year? In any case, the bottle was mostly full...probably closer to a year. Flopping around like a prize salmon between his legs, his cock needed no encouragement into erection. Dorian opened the second drawer from the top and reached to the far corner. The bottle was right where he always kept it; its cool plastic was reassuring in his paw.

"I was wondering when you were finally going to get to that," said the fox from behind him, shuffling his weight around the mattress and making it wobble. "Makes me wonder what you're feeling right now."

What Dorian was feeling, the otter himself didn't quite know. He squeezed a liberal amount onto himself, coating some of the comforter as well (though he didn't care at the moment), the whole time trying to figure out, through the testosterone haze of his mind, how the hell he ended up like this. It was really no use even thinking about such prosaic details in his current state of mind; doing so would be like questioning the formation of the tornado that is currently destroying your house.

He turned around on his knees, pawing idly, and would have embarrassed himself moaning out loud if he hadn't been so damn horny. Prada was a fox on all fours, and looked like the poster boy for gay foxes everywhere. Tail held erect over his chiseled back and shoulders; massive thighs spread wide and hips high, arching his back; he seemed ready to do a hundred push-ups in basic training. If his commanding officer was preparing to fuck him, that is. Dorian's tonguework was evident in the fox's impeccably clean and still shining hole, flanked by that lazily wagging tail.

"Do you like what you've made?" asked Prada, whose head rested on the bed behind one meaty elbow. Dorian kneed up behind and, almost reverently, cupped the vulpine sheath with his fingers, drawing it back until the entire shaft, a respectable eight inches thanks to the otter's attentions, hung perpendicular to the bedspread.

"I don't think I need to answer that question...bitch." If it was a game Prada wanted, then he was going to play along. He was too far into this now, too far past personal inquisitions and soul-searching. He didn't want to know why he felt this way. He didn't want to figure out how to get a new job. He wanted to take this fox and fuck both of them into a stupor. Prada being Prada, though, chances were their coupling wouldn't be so emotional or dramatic, but it gave Dorian a definite advantage as top.

"You finally decided to take charge, Dorian?"

"When you're positioned like that, who would resist?"

"Must be the fox in me. Don't worry about going too fast; just concentrate on yourself."

Dorian grabbed the fox's hips and pulled down to where he could line up. "No problem there." He pushed Prada's tail forward and off to the side, and the tailhole jumped, opened up a little. This is what was missing in his life, he thought. This is what could have been missing all along. Nothing was different, except he knew there was different equipment below that tailhole. And it made him so much hotter! A pawful of tail fur in his grip, Dorian applied gentle pressure until he felt the resistance (what little there was of it) give way. It wasn't as tactile as sliding into a woman's rear, more like a sex doll, but Prada's circuitry heat and musk more than made up for it. The otter grunted, thrust forward, and his balls felt fox balls. Possibly the softest thing on the planet Earth.

"Are you in all the way?" asked the fox, bearing backward and actually clenching that thing around Dorian's member.

"Yuh...yeah, can't get any deeper." The otter began petting Prada's side with the paw that wasn't masturbating the fox.

"I wish I could feel it, but my tactile sensors aren't that complicated, and they aren't even located anywhere near there. Obviously. Feel free to do with my penis what you wish, but I can't orgasm or ejaculate." Here Prada was, stuffed to the limit by ottercock, and he was giving an informational lecture on his limitations.

Dorian pulled back and forth a bit, gathering up a nice slickness and easing his movements. He was sure sex with a real man, if he ever had the chance to do it, would hardly be this easy, nor come as naturally. "That's okay. I just like feeling it. I don't know why, but I just like it." The fox's member was slightly wet, its heft just right for him to hold and stroke while he buried himself between Prada's dark buttocks.

As he built up speed, the otter experimented with various angles of entrance and lengths of his cock to be stimulated. By now, the way things had been before, he would have either brought his partner (female) to orgasm, or he would have pulled off to paw the rest of the way. Usually, he would have gotten a comment about the female "not feeling it" or being "too sensitive," both comments that really meant he wasn't a stellar sex partner. But, with Prada's ambivalent programming and lack of discernment in that department, the otter was free to do things his way, and to his patient tastes.

That's how Dorian found that he preferred the slower, more intimate approach to the hurried, rabbity in-out-in-out of the adult cinema. His paw left the fox's member, which hadn't so much as dribbled because of its inorganic makeup, and joined its companion below Prada's ribcage. They held onto clumps of fur, steadying the otter while he metered himself with a kind of internal metronome, feeling the heat in his groin slowly developing into an aching burn.

It was both good and bad that Prada had stopped talking, leaving the sounds of sex the dominant audio in the bedroom. Dorian didn't have to concentrate on listening and answering, but he felt climax creeping up much faster than it should have. He was far beyond caring, though, and as he heard his own labored breathing and the muted flesh-on-flesh contact, that and that alone was overwhelmingly sexy. Prada's tail began to wag slowly in front of his face, a foxy feather duster signifying its happiness at the otter's dominance.

"I...I cuh, can't...going to, to, huh," muttered Dorian between breaths. Sweat from his muzzle traveled to the ends of his whiskers where it was sprayed, lawn-sprinkler style, over the fox's backside.

"Good, Dorian," Prada encouraged while spreading his legs and hunkering down for the otter, who grunted approval, hunching further up his back with claws extended. "Let yourself go. This is what I'm here for."

"Oh, fuck...you're more than that and we both know it."

"Quit over-analyzing and come, you nerdy closet case!" growled the fox, glaring over his shoulder and reaching back for his arm. The otter barked, a real otter-bark, and swiped furrows into Prada's back, which neither bled nor caused pain to the fox. But Prada yowled and re-prostrated himself like a good puppy. Money well spent.

Yeah. I have control. I can own you...I already own you, and now you know it's body and soul. Sit still while I mark you. The building warmth in his cock grew, blossomed, and exploded...and he was oversensitive.

"Shit, shit, gah...!" the otter stuttered while his toes curled and his lower half turned to jelly. He had to stop, holding half of his shaft in place while he felt his seed jet into the fox's eager rear. Prada's paw landed on his tail, keeping him firmly impaled. He knew he was carving farmland into the fox's other shoulder, but he was barely hanging on. As soon as it came on, it subsided, and Dorian pressed fully in again, almost giddy in the warmth around his spent organ. His mind wanted to get his resume done, check his eRolodex for job references, and have a nightcap all at the same time, but his body was just one big "Hell, no!"

Prada kept the otter in place for a matter of minutes after his climax, monitoring his breathing and vital signs for signs of stress release. And, true to his predictions, the otter's heart came down to a slow resting rate, his body temperature stabilized, and overall, he resumed a very comfortable position as far as tension went. After about five minutes with no action, the fox dusted Dorian's nose with the tip of his tail, buried between his back and the otter's chest.

"Dorian? Are you asleep?" This was a moot question, since Prada could tell just by listening, but it bore repeating. He nudged at the otter with his butt, little by little, until he rolled them both gently onto their sides. Not even a rough separation from the fox could arouse Dorian, and it wasn't unrealistic to expect that level of exhaustion after the day he'd had. Prada exited the bed without making so much as a spring squeak, padding his bulk to the door.

"Set for overnight," said the fox, in a much softer whisper than would be expected. The lights lowered, Dorian's favorite Debussy lullaby started to pour through nine hidden speakers, and the temperature control worked to get the room to seventy-five degrees. Prada gave one long last look at his owner, sprawled out nude on his bed, and remarked how much at peace the otter looked versus when he had come home. The fox's weeks of study, and his taking this one big chance, had worked out for the better, he thought. Maybe now Dorian could wake up tomorrow with a clear head. But, until then, robots didn't need sleep and there remained a good nine hours of night. He closed the door.

Prada crossed the room and entered the den, where the apartment's mainframe sat on the large mahogany desk, glowing and whirring in the darkness. Sensing the robot's presence, the lights came up, but it was not a dream fox they illuminated. The light shined harshly off the chromium, magnesium and aluminum amalgam that was her skin, shaped again into a generic lutrine female form. A full two feet and (theoretically) a hundred twenty pounds lighter, she fit easily into the Eames desk chair.

"Hello, Prada," came a low male voice from the room. Dorian had modeled it after his father's voice when the venerable Emile March had passed on. It carried weight and respectability without being overpowering.

"Hello, Emile. How are you this evening?"

"I've run a complete system diagnostic like every day, detected one thousand two hundred twenty-three viruses and deleted them all. Boring day. You?"

Prada leaned back and emulated a sigh. "Dorian needed some advice regarding employment, and a little life coaching."

"So I heard." Even if the mainframe wasn't capable of smirking, the robot could hear it clearly in Emile's voice. "Do you think your research paid off?"

"I'm certain of it. I can think of a lot more ways he could have come to discover himself, and a lot of them aren't the most savory. You can raise all the ethical questions you want, but I feel I did the right thing." Prada clicked on her wireless connectivity, and Emile responded by patching her through. "Thanks."

"Don't mention it. So, what can I do for you. You're in here for a reason." Emile's voice became softer, as did the room's lighting. "Anything to do with his job?"

"I need information," said Prada. "Information I am confident with which you can provide me. First of all, could I have Dorian's complete work history, and all information I would need for employment applications? Send me his previous résumés, too." There was a minute buzz in Prada's head as the wireless connected, and she sent the information to her internal desktop for future use.

"Done."

"Thanks, Emile. Now, for something a little more challenging."

"Challenging?" asked the mainframe. "As in, hard to find, or slightly less than legal?"

"Maybe a little of both," replied the robot, leaning forward. "Do you think you can do me a few favors?"

Emile chuckled, a hearty sound. "If I can hack my way into fifteen hundred pornographic websites for your lecherous 'research,' I can do anything. Shoot."

"Okay. I need you to get an employee roster for Dorian's company, and search for a fox named Lars. Cross-reference his records and Social Security number and find out everything you can about this guy. Professional life, personal life, credit card debt, who he sleeps with, what kind of shampoo he uses. I want his boss to know what kind of fox he's really dealing with."

"That could take a few hours for a thorough search," said Emile. "Will you be able to wait?"

"Until sunrise, but the faster you can work the better. We don't have much time to lose. Besides this fox, any dirt you can dig up on the company, I would be more than happy to look over."

Emile paused, his blue lights blinking slowly as he thought. "So, you're going to use blackmail to get Dorian his job back? I hardly think that's fair."

"And it was fair of them to fire him in the first place? If you want to talk ethical practices, you've got the wrong people. I consider it more like creative bargaining."

"So that's what they call blackmail nowadays." Emile was making a fuss, but he hardly sounded opposed to the idea. Even if Dorian got his job back, he wouldn't want it. But with enough dirty laundry, there was a fat discrimination lawsuit in the making.

"Well?"

"Give me three hours. You'll have all the dirt you could ever want. I'm running searches on public documents already, and it's looking juicy."

"For a processor, you can be quite diabolical," said Prada. "I like that."

"Pot and the kettle, dear, pot and the kettle." The otter-bot just sat back, rested her head on her paws and smiled. It was going to be a long, long night.

FIN

2/1-9/22/07