We spent the afternoon setting up our new home server rack. It’s beautiful. All clean cable management, blinking blue lights, silent fans. Chris looked at me, wires in hand, and said, ‘You know what this reminds me of?’ and I just KNEW. It’s the same feeling as imagining a perfect, intricate scene. The server obeys every command without question, runs protocols exactly as written, and exists solely to serve a purpose defined by its admin.

It made us both so fucking wet. We ended up on the floor between the server and the wall, my face buried in Chris’s pussy while she described, in excruciating, nerdy detail, what it would be like to be that server for a person. To have our entire OS rewritten. To have our admin install whatever ‘software’ they wanted—public use, sleep deprivation, consensual blackmail, body writing, forced bisexuality training. To have our pleasure metrics monitored and our orgasms treated as system errors to be patched out unless granted by root permission. The fantasy of being someone’s living, breathing, fuckable infrastructure, where our only function is optimal sexual utility… it’s the ultimate service submissive dream.

We’d be such good appliances. We’d even come with a manual (mostly FAQs about our weird triggers and how to make us cry). Just need to find the sysadmin who wants two permanently installed, deeply affectionate sex toys. (P.S. The server is named ‘FuckBot_Prime’.)