Throbby Robby

z119z

© 2015 by the author

“Good boy.”

That’s all the man has to say. It’s 3:00 a.m. at the other end of the line. He has awoken this session’s Throbby Robby. He can hear the sleepiness in the Robby’s hesitant “hello,’ sleepiness mingled with worry—only bad news could make someone call this late at night—and annoyance at being roused from a sound sleep. Both vanish when he says the trigger words. The Robby gasps as the preprogrammed moment of pleasure kicks in. A second later he turns his phone off.

The man turns toward his computer screen. Several hundred miles away the Robby is awakening his computer from the sleep mode (the Robbies always leave their computers on and prepared for action). Shortly he will type in the code words that grant him access to the man’s secret website. It will take the Robby’s computer a minute or so to cycle through all the steps and activate the program fully. Once the Robbie clicks on the link, he will stand in the preprogrammed spot, ready to perform.

The man waits patiently. It won’t be long now. There—the Robby appears on the man’s three wall-mounted, large-screen monitors. The program has turned on the Robby’s three webcams. Each camera shows the man a different view of the Robby. One focuses on the Robby’s face and another on his groin; the third camera shows the Robby’s body. A fourth, smaller monitor on his desk shows him what the Robby is seeing on his screen—the video his computer is sending to the Robby’s computer. He ignores that screen. He knows what the Robby is seeing, and he is here to watch the Robby, not his broadcast. He adjusts the volume on his speakers until he can hear the Robby breathing.

The man likes to watch and to listen. There are days when he triggers a dozen Robbies. They are scattered around the globe. He always wakes them in the middle of their night. All of them live alone. The man wants no one around to disturb their performance for him. He has trained them to sleep in the nude so that no time is wasted getting undressed. None of them questions this. It is simply what each of them does. No Robby would feel comfortable wearing clothes to bed. They have forgotten that they once may have worn clothes at night. As far as they are concerned, they have always slept in the nude. They associate sleep with nudity so strongly that they literally cannot entertain the notion of wearing clothes in bed.

On the screen, the Robby stares at his computer screen. His face is blank, his body motionless—for now. The exercise program he devised for this Robby is having good results. The Robby loves to exercise now. He never misses his daily workout. His shaved body highlights the considerable gain in mass that he has achieved in the three years since the man took control of his life. His definition is superb—each muscle stands out clearly—and the veins cording his body attest to its hardness. The man wouldn’t have it any other way. The Robby’s body is one of the rewards he gives himself for all the work he put into this subject, all the hours spent writing hypnosis scripts for this Robby, all the hours spent recording them, all the programming that delivers this Robby to him whenever he wants.

Off to the side, a flicker of images on the small screen briefly captures the man’s attention. Good. The video has started. On the screen the Robby is watching, an image of path through a forest has appeared. The man filmed the image years ago as he walked along a path through a forest. Someone not trained to be a Throbby Robby would see only a video recording of a walk through a woods. But his Robbies don’t see a video. They think they are actually walking through the woods. They just don’t see the recording—they experience it.

They feel their bodies stride along the path, their stance adjusting automatically to the uneven surface, their muscles of their thighs lifting and straightening each leg in turn, propelling their bodies forward along the path. The ground is firm and dry beneath their bare feet. Their arms hang loosely by their sides, swinging freely in cadence with their steps. Occasionally a tuft of grass or the leaves of a bush growing beside the path brush against their ankles and calves. The day is warm, and the dappled sunlight streaming through the branches of the trees glides over their bodies. They hear the breeze rustling the leaves of the trees overhead, the chirping of birds flitting through the woods, the buzz of insects. They smell the damp odors of ground and the acrid scents of bark and leaves. For them the walk is real.

Every ten seconds, the image is overprinted with the words “good boy.” Every time the Throbby Robby sees the words, a jolt of pleasure surges through his body. Every time he feels the wave of pleasure, he goes deeper and deeper into trance. The deeper the trance, the greater the Robby’s pleasure. At first, he simply wants the pleasure. Then he begins to desire it more and more until he needs it, until he will do anything just to experience the pleasure again. Without hesitation, the Robby surrenders his free will. He moves beyond conscious thought. His free will dissolves. He submits. He obeys. The pleasures of submission and obedience—total unthinking, unresisting, exuberant obedience to his programming—overwhelm his senses, his mind, his body. He trembles with joy.

The walk lasts fifteen minutes. The man is in no hurry. He enjoys the performance—the movements of the Robby’s eyes as his attention is caught by a detail of the path along which he thinks he is walking, the smiles that play across his lips each time he sees the words “good boy,” the small moans and groans that begin to escape his throat. The camera focusing on his groin captures the swelling of his cock. At first, the Robby’s cock merely rolls from side to side as the Robby shifts his hips in time to his imagined steps. Then it begins to stiffen, not much at first. The Robby enjoys the feeling of his cock growing heavier. It swings less easily as it hardens. At ten minutes into the walk, it has risen to half mast, the head pointing directly at the camera focused on the Robby’s groin. The swinging of his balls beneath his cock, the rubbing of his ass cheeks past each other as his buttocks tense and relax as he walks, the contraction and hardening of his nipples as puffs of cooler air play across his chest—all these arouse him. But more and more his focus narrows to his cock as it lengthens, as it rears up.

At fifteen minutes, the path emerges into a clearing. On the other side of the clearing is a log cabin. The Robby’s cock oozes a drop of pre-cum when he sees the silvery gray hue of the weathered logs and the moss growing on the time-blackened cedar shingles. He feels a tickle of heat as it forms into a bead on the tip of his cock that slowly detaches from the head. The sticky drop falls onto his thigh and clings there. He gazes in wonder as the thread linking the drop of pre-cum on his leg to his cock glistens in the sunlight.

The Robby mounts the three steps up to the covered porch extending across the front of the cabin. It is cooler under the roof, darker, damper. A stone holds the door of the cabin propped open against the breeze. The interior of the cabin is dim and obscure. Only a subdued light comes through the windows.

The Robby steps inside. It takes a few seconds for his eyes to adjust. Ahead of him is a table. On the table is a glass jar. The Robby identifies at is a quart canning jar because the program long ago told him that is what it is. The label on the side of the jar has his name on it. The jar is slightly over half filled with a viscous white substance. On the wall ahead of the Robby are hundreds of similar jars, each with a different man’s name on it, each with a different level of the white substance. Some of the jars are almost full. Some hold only a quarter- or a half-inch at the bottom.

The Robby unscrews the ring around the top of his jar and removes the lid. In his mind, he bends over the jar and inserts his cock into it.

The Robby hears the man repeating “good boy” over and over. The Robby has been programmed to experience the man’s voice as a caress, a kiss. “Good boy” makes every nerve on his body send messages of delight to his brain. “Good boy” is a fingernail stroking one of his nipples. “Good boy” is a tongue licking his throat. “Good boy” is a pair of lips kissing him. “Good boy” is a mouth on his cock, the tongue rubbing against the head as the entire shaft is engulfed by smooth, fluid heat. “Good boy” is a firm, sinuous tongue rimming him, the wet tip penetrating him. “Good boy” is a hard, cock gliding over his tongue and down into his throat. “Good boy” is a throbbing cock impaling him.

The man watches the Robby’s body writhe. The muscles contract and spasm as the programmed scenario plays out in the Robby’s mind. For fifteen minutes the Robby’s body contorts as it tries to absorb the pleasure being pumped into it. The Robby cannot cum until the program runs its course. The man is in no hurry. He likes to watch. He likes to listen.

On the screen the Robby’s moans grow louder and louder. His body bucks and heaves as the cocks slam into him. The Robby’s cock convulses as the programming holds him back and prevents him from cumming. The cocks inside his mouth and ass grow larger and larger until they are splitting him apart. He feels no pain, just joy. His mind grows dimmer and dimmer until he is only an idea of pleasure rotating on a spit of cocks. A continuous groan hums in his chest. His body throbs.

The Robby never touches himself. He doesn’t have to. He experiences a myriad of lovers stimulating every part of his body, invading every hole. He deep-throats a cock and sucks his cheeks in until his lips, tongue, and mouth surround the cock. He shoves his ass back against the groin of the man fucking him, greedy for more. He thrusts his own cock ferociously into the mouth of the man sucking him. He gives his body up to the hands stroking him and the mouths kissing him.

Cum erupts from the Robby’s cock. On the man’s screens, it arcs upward and then is pulled down by the force of gravity until it disappears off-screen. The Robby shoots four streams of cum from his cock. This is followed by three spasms that force more cum from his body. The cum pools on the tip of his cock. In the Robby’s mind, he has shot his cum into the collection jar.

The man relishes the control he has over the Throbby Robbies. He can make them do anything. They exist for him, even though they don’t know that. They have forgotten his existence. They have forgotten the moment they found the three introductory audio files on that website for “erotic hypnosis.” They have forgotten listening to the files and then writing the man. They have forgotten that the man asked them to test a few experimental files for him. They have forgotten how flattered they were to be asked and how eagerly they cooperated in their own entrapment. They have forgotten all the hours they spent listening to the tapes until their free will was destroyed and they no longer had a choice about their future. They were so happy to become Throbby Robbies.

The man loves the power he has over the Robbies. He loves their helplessness, their inability to resist. They are his puppets, his marionettes, his army, his robots, his subjects, his slaves. His mindless, will-less, obedient Throbby Robbies.

On the screens, the Robby’s breathing slows. Finally he is able to stand up again. He removes his cock carefully from the jar, squeezing the last drops into it. He screws the lid back on again. The level in the jar has risen slightly. When he fills this jar, he will begin another.

The man says “Good boy” one final time. The Robby closes the program. The images disappear from the man’s screen. He knows that the Robby will walk away. He will go back to bed. He will not remember what has happened. He will wake up in a few hours, refreshed and ready to face his day with enthusiasm. He will not think about the man. He will not be aware of the man’s existence—until the man calls him again and triggers him.