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She didn't resist at first.
Not in a real way. It wasn't his turn yet, but when Ellen felt his hold on her from behind, she only somewhat tried to remove his arm by the wrist from around her shoulders.
One dick or another, this one now or this one later—he doubted it mattered much, really. Just going through the motion, just sticking to routine to keep everyone sane. As normal as things can be in their little Pandemonium.
Not like she hadn't taken Ted out of the turn before. He was the youngest; maybe he still had the most juice in him. No harm, no foul, especially if the rest of the men never knew.
So really, it wasn't hard to convince her to wordlessly follow him. Down on the floor, like they were some animals. Getting undressed, at least until her body was visible.
Always quick and rough, because the peace was never permanent. Because what intimacy was there left to explore after a century of seeing one another at their absolute worst?
And anyway, this was never about actual pleasure. At least it hasn't been for a very long time now.
Still, she embraced him as usual and moaned and moved in that practiced way that drove him both angry with frustration and still madder with lust. Learning to buckle her hips against his in a manner that would get him off the quickest. Just a little more of the so-needed same as usual. She had a lot of time to perfect these things, after all.
All of that was until he bit into her. The resistance of her warm flesh felt rubbery and soft on his teeth, and her eyes instantly widened in shock, breaking the mask of elation. They could all be rough every now and then, hopelessness and misery getting the better of them, but it was never like this.
Maybe the slow, drawn-out act of genuine violence from which she was unable to separate was enough of a hint that something wasn't entirely right because as she looked into his eyes, the expression of surprise slowly melted into true terror.
There's something strange about witnessing your usual actions from the side. Like in a prophetic nightmare, you can tell that something is wrong but can never change the outcome asleep or awake. Because he wasn't just a hallucination, a hologram, or an android that the computer made for the purpose of another torture.
AM operated his body like a marionette—a hand puppet, sticking his metallic arm up Ted's asshole to trash him around for a little performance. Allowing him to see and feel but not act, not against the computer, not to stop his body from doing whatever it did to the woman below.
To Ellen, who, whatever she saw behind those eyes, seemed to have realized the gravity of the situation and decided to run, cradling her injured clavicle where his teeth left two bleeding semicircles.
But the woman was easily apprehended, being grabbed from behind as she was turning around, with both his arms and legs holding her in place and not letting go. She scratched at him and screamed in a keen, hoarse way that hurt his ears but probably not the one's who maneuvered his body.
Now that the gig was up, the puppeteer was quick to drop his act as well. Not needing to move in a replicated way that suggested that Ted was the one in control of the limbs, the other conscience allowed himself to move more freely.
The man wasn't sure if the machine could even feel things through him, but there was a definite hunger in the way he made his hand move across Ellen's skin. They roamed her body, gripping it with enough force that Ted was sure would leave her bruised. They caressed her all over as if trying to memorize the sensation of her curves he had been after for so long, perhaps finally getting to be the one making love to someone.
Ellen sobbed and sighed from the unwanted touches, one of the hands finding her neck to stifle her persistent struggle. His other continued playing with her, holding one of her breasts before ducking lower, between her legs. His fingers leaned into her pubes, spreading her lips, and rubbed the sensitive folds there. AM stuck his cock back inside her, deep, moving along with the strokes of his hand.
In some time Ted could tell that her pain was turning into something else. Not concentrating on the action was letting him feel more of the surroundings, so he could tell when Ellen got hotter and wetter. Her moans, too, were losing that sharp, sad edge. They were becoming hushed, broken, puffy in breaths. The woman was now starting to try to control her voice, as if not wanting to reveal some secret.
It made his heart twinge in a strange way, but he was not allowed to dwell on it any more than he was allowed to stop the act in its entirety. And as AM leaned in to Ellen's neck, licking on the dark skin and again biting it but as a lover would now, Ted could taste it and feel that instant—feel it like never before, being artificially laser-focused on it like he was a naughty dog having his muzzle rubbed in a ruined carpet—when the female survivor sighed sweetly for the last time and her hips shuddered, moving on their own to look for a release, the way they used to many years ago, before Ted too was being driven into a shared climax he had no way of controlling.
In the aftermath they were left to simmer in their thoughts. AM emptied him in all senses of the word, disappearing the same way he came, like a real ghost in the machine. Went away to process the information he finally got from the encounter, most likely. Not saying anything: not out of politeness, of course, but likely to drive the man's paranoia higher. That is, if he even was there, inside of him, to begin with.
It was just the two of them, as much as it could be with AM when he felt a touch on his hand and instantly shoved it away.
"Don't," Ted spoke, his tone full of harsh bitterness.
Was he acting pathetic? Perhaps. But he felt pathetic, and in that judged himself justified in acting like it.
"I'm sorry," Ellen was quick to reply meekly, the way she always did, and Ted was nearly unable to suppress a chuckle.
Was she really apologizing now? To him? Clearly, then, the whole experience wasn't particularly bad for her.
Maybe he shouldn't had even the crumbs of bad feelings for her that he did, if that was the case.
Then again, why would it be bad for someone like her? Whore.
"Look, it's okay," Ellen continued, oblivious to how much she played into his perception. "I think I get it. Things happen."
'I think I get it.' 'Things happen.' You get possessed sometimes. A giant artificial intelligence sometimes uses you as a replacement for its own missing dick.
All the understanding in the world carried in the body of one single woman on earth. What a joke.
There was a careful pause before she spoke again. "I know it wasn't you."
He was tempted to write it off as another sentimental remark that women are prone to. 'It's not you, it's the alcohol.' 'It's not you, it's the demons.'
But as he looked into her eyes, confident, unlike his squint-y, shitty eyes of a sneering boy fighting his tears, he stopped. It was a little too on the nose, and deep down beneath the grime and dirt and insecurity and years of abuse, he knew that she wasn't stupid.
Still, he didn't know what to say any more than he knew how to process the subtle intimacy of his violence but had just about enough grace in him to turn away and say, "Sorry."
For what? For lots of things. For something in particular. For nothing. If only to fill the air.
Slowly, he again felt her hand slide against his. He allowed it to hold him this time.
It was a while before either of them spoke again, when Ellen broke the persistent silence. "If you want to, we can do it again. Now that you're you and all that."
Ted heard something akin to a smile in her tone and almost got angry again and disgusted by the suggestion, but for once decided to put an effort into thinking the better of the other person, if nothing else then only to wrap things up on a marginally higher note.
He touched her clavicle and couldn't help the small guilt when the woman twitched in surprise. "Let's try to fix this first before it's infected."
Her hand felt warm and strong in his, and he wanted the moment to linger.