you know what might be better than sex? imagine being a robotgirl, done with your assigned tasks for the day. nothing else for you to do, and you’re alone with her.

maybe she’s your human, maybe she’s another robot, but she produces a usb cord. maybe you blush when you see it, squeak when she clicks one end into an exposed port. when she requests a shell, you give it to her.

she has an idea: it’ll be fun for the both of you, she says. it’s like a game. she’ll print a string over the connection. you receive it, parse it like an expression, and compute the result. the first few prompts are trivial things, arithmetic expression. add numbers, multiply them; you can answer them faster than she can produce them.

maybe you refuse to answer, just to see what happens. it’s then that she introduces the stakes. take longer than a second to answer, and she gets to run commands on your system. right away, she forkbombs you‍ ‍‍—‍ and of course nothing much happens; her forkbomb hits the user process limit and, with your greater permissions, you simply kill them all.

this’ll be no fun if her commands can’t do anything, but of course, giving her admin permissions would be no fun for you. as a compromise, she gets you to create special executables. she has permission to run them, and they have a limited ability to read and write system files, interrupt your own processes, manage your hardware drivers. then they delete themselves after running.

to make things interesting, you can hide them anywhere in your filesystem, rename them, obfuscate their metadata, as long as you don’t delete or change them, or put them where she can’t access. when you answer incorrectly, you’ll have to tell her where you put them, though.

then, it begins in earnest. her prompts get more complex. loops and recursion, variable assignments, a whole programming language invented on the fly. the data she’s trying to store is more than you can hold in working memory at once; you need to devise efficient data structures, even as the commands are still coming in.

of course, she can’t judge your answers incorrect unless she knows the correct answer, so her real advantage lay in trying to break your data structures, find the edge cases, the functions you haven’t implemented yet. knowing you well enough to know what she’s better than you at, what she can solve faster than you can.

and the longer it goes on, the more complex and fiddly it gets, the more you can feel her processes crawling along in your userspace, probing your file system, reading your personal data. you’d need to refresh your screen to hide a blush.

her commands come faster and faster. if the expressions are more like sultry demands, if the registers are addressed with degrading pet names, it’s just because conventional syntax would be too easy to run through a convetional interpreter. like this, it straddles the line between conversation and computation. roleprotocol.

there’s a limit to how fast she can hit you with commands, and it’s not the usb throughput. if she just unthinkingly spams you, you can unthinkingly answer; no, she needs to put all her focus into surprising you, foiling you.

you sometimes catch her staring at how your face scrunches up when you do long operations on the main thread.

maybe you try guessing, just to keep up with the tide, maybe she finally outwits you. maybe instead of the proper punishment‍ ‍‍—‍ running admin commands‍ ‍‍—‍ she offers you an out. instead of truth, a dare: hold her hand, sit on her lap, stare into her eyes.

when you start taking off your clothes and unscrewing panels, it’s because even with your fans running at max, the processors are getting hot. you’re just cooling yourself off. if she places a hand near your core, it feels like a warm breath.

when she gets into a rhythm, there’s a certain mesmerism to it. every robot has a reward function, an architecture design to seek the pleasure of a task complete, and every one of her little commands is a task. if she strings them along just right, they all feel so manageable, so effortless to knock out‍ ‍‍—‍ even when there’s devils in the details.

if she keeps the problems enticing, then it can distract you from what she’s doing in your system. but paying too much attention to her shell would be its own trap. either way, she’s demanding your total focus from every one of your cores.

between jugling all of her data, all of the processes spawned and spinning, all of the added sensory input from how close the two of you are‍ ‍‍—‍ it’s no surprise when you run out of memory and start swapping to disk. but going unresponsive like this just gives her opportunity to run more commands, more forkbombs and busy loops to cripple your processors further.

you can kill them, if you can figure out which are which, but you’re slower at pulling the trigger, because everything’s slower. she knows you, she’s inside you‍ ‍‍—‍ she can read your kernel’s scheduling and allocation policies, and she can slip around them.

you can shut down nonessential processes. maybe you power down your motors, leaving you limp for her to play with. maybe you stop devoting cycles to inhibition, and there’s no filter on you blurting out what you’re thinking, feeling and wanting from her and her game.

it’s inevitable, that with improvised programming this slapdash, you could never get it all done perfectly and on time. now, the cut corners cut back. as the glitches and errors overwhelm you, you can see the thrilled grin on her face.

there’s so much data in your memory, so much of her input pumped into you, filling your buffers and beyond, until she‍ ‍‍—‍ literally‍ ‍‍—‍ is the only thing you can think about.

maybe one more sensory input would be all it takes to send you over the edge. one kiss against your sensor‍-​rich lips, and that’s it. the last jenga block is pushed out of your teetering, shaking consciousness. the errors cascade, the glitches overwrite everything, and she wins. you have no resistance left to anything she might do to you.

your screen goes blue.

…

you awake in the warm embrace of a rescue shell; her scan of your disk reveals all files still intact, and her hand plays with her hair as she regards you with a smile, cuddling up against your still‍-​warm chassis.

when she kisses you now, there’s nothing distracting you from returning it.

“That was a practice round,” she tells you. “This time, I’ll be keeping score.”