The Stash - Episode 11

Barty popped a quick half, then slid forward on the bench, grinding himself against the piano keys like the ivories had personally insulted his mother. The chorus of sharp plinks and low clunks filled the studio. He arched his back, hips working in greedy little thrusts, and moaned over the notes. Across the table, the two life-sized sex robots—skin a flushed silicone that caught every light—leaned in to watch. One robot reached between its own legs and flicked its artificial clit, letting out a high, recorded whimper straight from the sound-bank of some long-forgotten cam girl. The other climbed onto the closed lid of the grand, spreading chrome thighs, and began to fuck itself with the metronome, each mechanical click marking the pace of its own penetration. In the corner, propped on an easel, a scan of a 14th-century marginalia played on loop: a monk with his robes hiked, enthusiastically buried inside a nun who looked both bored and beatific. The entire image cycled on a tablet, each fade perfectly timed to the wet slap of silicone against polished wood and the ragged breath Barty let out every time the bench squeaked beneath him. No one spoke. The machines purred, the piano complained, the camera rolled.