Remember that July lewd vote? HERE IT IS + NEWS!

Hey patrons! I know, it's been a minute for the lewd, but there's good reason - so a bit of an update first before you're hurt with the following lewd words:

(1) There's going to be a smol game! YES, YOUR VERY OWN SMOL GAEM. I've been working on the script, dialogue, storyboarding and everything else, so that groundwork kind of delayed me from getting this out. Sorry about that. But more information coming out soon, with a bunch of patron-only updates and fun things!

(2) LONG AGO IN A DISTANT LAND... one of the higher tier rewards was "you get to tell me what shitpost to write". One of the patrons, who will not be named to protect their privacy, asked me to do a Mad-max themed shitpost. I never got around to it.

So. I decided, here, now, why not just add Mad-Max shitposting to lewd to MEDIBOT? I mean, what could go wrong?!

= = = = = 

A/N: Don’t call this a grave, call this the future you chose. 

I listened to a lot of 80’s synthwave for this, so… just imagine everyone in leather and acid-ripped jeans.

MED-I-BOT Played by Hugo Weaving.

Far-East Sensei played by Danny Devito.

Biff played by the man with the squarest jawline.

Synthia’s name not changed to protect no one.

= = = = =

Biff Hardmeat smiled as he looked down at his first, last, and only true love.

Pastrami on rye with shredded lettuce, Monterey Jack cheese, a splash of vinegar, salt, and a sprinkling of pepper, all toasted for 25 seconds and served with an olive and a toothpick. Sharp, zesty, and with a loaf-crust that balanced on the knife-edge between crunchy and chewy, he couldn’t help but sigh happily as he took a bite of his lunch. 

There was a crash somewhere out in front of him in the arena, but there were always lots of crashes in the arena.
 

There was only one pastrami on rye sandwich.

Biff shifted slightly as he unrolled the brown butcher paper that held his hearts’ desire, absently noting that the roaring cheer of the spectators meant the crash had been a good one. The dull brown of his sandwich flared orange for a moment as a tremendous fireball erupted somewhere in the “arena.” The shock wave hit him moments later, rocking him back on his Medi-Cycle. A motorcycle with a stretcher instead of a side car, but that’s a mouthful, and Biff would rather his mouth be full of spiced cold-cuts, not words.

He ignored the detonation, the gap between flash and boom meant it had to be at least a kilometer from his return-chute, so someone else’s meat-wagon would be scooping up whoever wrecked that racer. Just another day in the Thunder-Pit.

Biff chewed thoughtfully, and swallowed as he contemplated the ‘arena’ before him. A massive airflow return in the alien megastructure ring-world, it was nearly 2 miles wide, and shaped like a bowl. The perfect place to host no holds barred, foot to the floor, hyper-max kill-races. Between the thermal-vents, the cooling towers, and trapdoor-valves you could drift a semi-trailer through sideways, it was the perfect dynamic racing environment. Senate hated it though, but they hated God-Given freedoms too – like fun and emergency surgery and worldstar. 

Perfectly deadly too. Having a good hyper-max kill-race arena meant having it be properly dangerous, and because dying is considered “totally lame” and “illegal” there were also a lot of medics on hand to deal with “accidents.”

He took another bite of his sandwich as he recalled medic dojo. The words of his sensei drifted back to him unbidden. “If you can get all of their limbs from the Pit to the medi-bot, you get a klondike bar or any equivalent non-dairy frozen treat from the food cart. I don’t mean 2 arms and 2 legs a head and a torso, it has to be all the parts from the same person. Throttle is on the right, and you’ll have better luck if you buckle the big parts down before you give it a twist.”

That had been the entirety of medic school. The final test had been starting the Medi-Cycle without help, earning him his medi-black belt, which he wore proudly as a headband.

A dull crunch and the shattering of glass snapped Biff from his reminiscence. With a scowl, he wrapped his sandwich back up, and poked his head out of the chute he’d parked in. There was a burning trike tangled up in a mesh grate that had popped open about a hundred yards away, the thin metal strips behaving like cloth net when impacted with a quarter ton of steel.

10 yards away there was the prone, motionless, distinctly human form splayed out across the track.

“Nuts.”

He scowled

==========

“I told you, I’m fine!” Synthia McQueen huffed angrily. “I was knocked unconscious by the impact, and thrown clear of the wreckage. I’ve got minor bruises and a battle-trike to fix!” She struggled against the belts that held her down to the stretcher/side-car to no avail. She was stuck on a one way trip to the MEDIBOT. 

The engine of the medi-bike grumbled in the close confines of the narrowing vent, and Biff had to duck in order to avoid scraping his head (and sandwich) on the neon-lit ceiling. “Yah . . . noh. I ghet-” Biff’s words were forced out around a mouthful of pastrami, and he took a moment to swallow to make himself more intelligible. His accent was thick, and clearly colonial to the ears of his patient. “Yeah, no. I getcha, but . . . I get paid to deliver road-kill to the chop-shop. That’s official medic lingo for ‘accident victim’ and ‘doctor’s office.”

Synthia shot a withering glare at the back of his head from her supine position. “Where do they find you morons?!” Her tone was scathing, and she had a scowl to match. Not that her ‘rescuer’ seemed to care.

“Oh, uhh, I was hanging out near the front entrance, ya’ know the one with the tire stacks and the flame jets? The flame jets weren’t on at the time, they only turn ‘em on for big races and stuff, but even if the jets aren’t on the food truck is out there so that’s how you can tell it’s the front entrance. Anyway, I was hanging out there and fella with a leg brace came out hollerin’ that-”

 

“OH MY GOD SHUT UP!” Synthia slammed her head back against the polymer head-brace, the dull bang reverberating through the tunnel. “I was going to fuckin’ podium this race . . . and now I have to listen to a mentally deficient, inbred, colonial-”

“Hey! I’m not mentally deficient!” His interjection cut her off as he scowled down at her. “Now, I understand yer’ upset ‘bout losing that there race, but it’s no reason to go takin’ it out on me.” Temporarily silenced, she still leered up at him with a brooding expression. “. . . I’ll even let you have a bit of my sandwich, if it makes you feel better.”

All she could do was groan as the bike dipped into a maintenance hub, and her world was bathed in sterile fluorescent lighting. The walls were lined with crude racks that had been welded to the existing structure. A bizarre arrangement of machine parts, hermetically sealed surgical supplies, and bags of bio-hazard medical waste lined the walls of the converted machinist shop. 

“If there were ever a place to work on gear heads . . .” Synthia muttered to herself, as she found the bike trundling to a stop.

An overhead gantry groaned into place, and a set of 4 mechanical arms swept down to lift the stretcher onto a heavy duty looking work bench. Synthia could barely turn her head to look at the machine that approached her, the neck brace holding her gaze at the lights above her like a bland, if overwhelmingly bright version of A Clockwork Orange.

“Why I say, this young woman seems to have been put through a preponderance of percussive punishment to the primary protrusions of her person, I must perform the perfunctory preparations to properly produce her prescription post-haste!” 

The voice, though synthesized and mechanical, clearly had a British accent and a fondness for alliteration. “What the fuuu-” Synthia began, jaw going slack as she stared at the crudest example of a MEDIBOT she’d ever seen trundled towards her. It looked like a trash can riding on a roomba, with spider legs and 4 camcorders bolted to the top of it, except each of the spider limbs ended in a swiss army knife of surgical lasers, staple-sutures, med-gel dispensers, and more. She could swear that there were at least 2 chainsaw limbs hovering and twitching in her peripheral vision.

“Forgive my lack of manners m’lady, I know this must all be quite a shock to you. Your untreated hysteria has clearly driven you to the verge, and I will be administering laudanum and a massage immediately.”

“WHAT THE FUCK.” Synthia stared up at the advancing machine, bewilderment mingling with anger

A wrench flashed across her vision, slamming into the moderately dented hull of the machine with a dull clang. “Bad Rupert! No bein’ old-timey sexist! She has a head injury, and . . . some other stuff, I dunno. No laudanum, no massage!” 

The MEDIBOT retreated temporarily. “I say old chap, no sense getting bent out of shape about this . . . forgive me if my prognosis was premature, perhaps-” Another wrench slammed into his flank. “Stop it! No more p-words allowed.” Biff appeared over her, frowning at the MEDIBOT. “Sorry. He’s . . . uhh, off brand. The firmware isn’t native to the chassis . . . and the software isn’t native to the firmware. And the last technician installed a couple of API’s to make it sound like a Victorian era surgeon.” 

He patted her shoulder gently. “Anyway, I’m off to get a fudgesicle. You’ll be fine. We’re not sure where it gets the laudanum from, but almost nobody complains.”

This did not reassure her.

Before Synthia could open her mouth to express her lack of reassurance, and overwhelming desire to be unfastened from the stretcher before this machine could do anything to her, Biff Hardmeat disappeared.

“Hey, wait! I don’t need a doctor, I just need to get back to my trike!” Synthia squirmed in her restraints, trying to call over her shoulder to the departing driver. “Don’t leave me here!” Her voice was frustrated, almost pleading. “This is such bullshit! C’mon!” She cried again, even after the dull thump of a closing service door indicated that her driver had left.

The shadow of a badly dented medical robot slowly crept across her helpless form, it’s servos whining softly as it inched towards her.

 

“So. Now it is just you, and I.” There was almost an edge of menace to the things audio transmission, and a twinge of fear shot through Synthia’s heart.

“Uhh . . . will you let me out of these restraints?” She figured it couldn’t hurt to ask.

The machine froze in place, as if her words had shut it down. “Well . . . of course. Do you remember the safe word?” 

Her eyes shot open in panic. “Safe word? What do you mean safe word!?” There was a harsh warble that emanated from the machine, like the timer on a laundromat dryer going off.

“SAFE WORD RECEIVED. REVERTING TO FANTASY CONFIGURATION MODE.” 

Her mind was ablaze with confusion. Confusion and a minor concussion, but predominantly confusion. “Uhh . . . help?” Synthia reasoned that, when in doubt of what to do with any piece of tech, run the help command.

“THE SENS-TECH 9000 PLEASURE DROID HAS BEEN OPTIMIZED TO SATIATE ALL OF YOUR MECHANICAL SEXUAL FANTASIES, INCLUDING USER SPECIFIED SCENARIO’S. THE PREVIOUS LICENSED USER REQUESTED A ‘SEXUALLY ASSERTIVE MEDIBOT, WITH VICTORIAN ACCENT.’ THIS SCENARIO HAS BEEN ACTIVE FOR ERR: OVERFLOW HOURS. SAFE WORD UNDEFINED, DEFAULT SAFE WORD: SAFE WORD.”

Synthia could only stare at the overhead flourescent lights with a mixture of awe and terror.

“So . . . you mean to tell me that you’re a sex robot, pretending to be a doctor robot, and actually treating patients, for longer than you can actively recall.”

There was a long pause.

“CORRECT. EXTRAPOLATION OF INTENT: PREVIOUS LICENSED USER UPGRADED MY REFERENCE LIBRARY TO INCLUDE MEDICAL TEXTS, RETROFITTED MY CHASSIS, AND SUBSEQUENTLY FINESSED SOME BUMPKIN WITH THE PROMISE OF A DISCOUNT MEDIBOT.”

Silence hung between them for a long time.

“So . . . you dispense laudanum and orgasms?” Her voice was sheer incredulity with a touch of curiosity.

“AND SOUND MEDICAL ADVICE.” There was a quiet whirring sound as a fan kicked on inside the rough-looking droid. “BUT MY PRIMARY DIRECTIVE IS TO LAUDANUM AND ORGASMS.”

“. . . so how long does it take Biff to come back from getting ice-cream?”

“HE TYPICALLY BECOMES LOST AND HAS TO BE ESCORTED BACK BY ANOTHER STAFF MEMBER. THIS TAKES A MINIMUM OF 30 MINUTES, BUT LONGEST RECORDED INCIDENT LASTED 22 HOURS.”

Synthia weighed her options carefully.

“Alright, resume program.” If Synthia could have shrugged, she would have. But hey, free interactive vibrator session with free old-time drugs and a hell of a story to tell after . . . why not?

“Now . . . where were me my dear? I believe I had just proposed to give your private parts a proper prodding to promote potential promiscuity, perhaps prompting-”

She groaned softly. “No more words that start with p.”

The machine let out a synthesized indignant huff. “Fine. Absolutely no appreciation for alliteration as an art-”

“No more alliteration.” She groaned louder this time. “And next time I make a groaning sound it should be with pleasure.”

“Absolutely a killjoy. If I weren’t an upright English gentleman, I’d be too snubbed to perform such husbandly duties.”

Her eyes rolled as the machine lurched into motion. “You know, for a trash can with a vibrator attachment, you sure have a lot of attituuuoooooh~”

The snide jape Synthia was about to level at the machine died in her throat as something smooth and buzzing pressed firmly against the soft mound between her legs. Even through the heavy road-leathers she was wearing, the pulsing vibration seemed to carry all the way past her navel and up into her chest.

She strained against her binding reflexively, the synthetic material creaking slightly as she shuddered from the direct, almost painful over-stimulation that hammered into her without any warning.

“F-fuck!” Synthia managed to barely stammer, eyes screwed up tight as she rocked, nearly incapable of thrashing as the stretcher held her firmly in place. The pressure lightened, and her body went slack suddenly as it began to trace light circles down the inside of her thighs.

She panted heavily, brow suddenly beading up with sweat, and her thoughts were once again slightly dazed. “You have to warn someone before you do that, you can’t juuhaaa-” Her complaint was cut off again, this time by a trio of rotating nubs on the end of a flexible, whip-like appendage snaking out of the side of the “medibot” that were grinding little circles around her left teat. While the first touch had been a shock, this one was gentle, tantalizing, and made her back arch slightly as her eyelids flutter.

“Okay doctor . . . you know your craft.” Her tone was breathy, and a quiet humm of satisfaction followed her approving remarks.

“I live to serve. Or I would. If I lived. You understand.” The machine almost seemed apologetic, as if its status as an inanimate object was somehow an inconvenience.

There was the quiet sound of a zipper being drawn down, and suddenly cool air rushed over Synthia’s nether regions. After the heat and fury of the race, the cool touch of smooth, buzzing metal was a kind of crisp relief. She closed her eyes, and rolled her hips slightly, expecting the buzzing appendage to slip inside her, but was only met with a savage teasing as it continued to work a steady, attentive loop around her increasingly sensitive slit.

Synthia struggled to maintain her composure as she marveled at it’s precision, dexterity, and masterful ability to coordinate between multiple erogenous zones. Thin tines lightly played with her hair as blunted orbs massaged her chest. If she closed her eyes, she could imagine a half a dozen partners working in perfectly synchronized harmony to satisfy her carnal needs. Every twitch, every gasp, every shiver was perfectly read by it. It didn’t need to ask cumbersome questions about faster or slower or harder or softer, it read her the way she read a book. A book with a lot of pictures of naked people in it.

Within minutes she was a quivering, panting, twitching mess. That she couldn’t escape, couldn’t move, could only lie and submit and be pleased was half as stimulating as the actual stimulation of it. She could feel her body rising, not a pressure, but a storm building and reverberating through her. A lightness in her flesh caught on the waves of pleasure she was being subject to, each one cresting higher than the last until, with a long, throaty moan, a climax rocked through her body.

With delicate and measured skill, the various probes and tools that had caressed and prodded and titillated her withdrew, never so quick as to let her crash back down to earth, but never so slow as to leave her feeling overstimulated. A coordinated withdrawl that left her a little more than a heaving puddle bundled in leather, basking in her own afterglow.

“Hey . . . you’re called Rupert, right?” Synthia panted, expression one of supreme satisfaction.

“That would be correct.” 

She grinned. “I think this is the beginning of a beautiful friendship. With benefits.”

“. . . does this mean I can go back to applying abundant alliteration to almost all of-”

Synthia shushed him softly. “Shhh . . . Don’t push it.”