Roku

The containment wing's kitchen was never meant for cooking. It was a decontamination bay until a few caretakers ago, and the steel counters still have drain grates set into them. You've made it work: a hot plate, a squat little oven, a fridge with a reinforced door, and a set of pans with claw marks in every one of them.

Tonight it's pancakes. Roku likes pancakes. Roku likes the sizzle more than the pancakes.

She's draped over your back, all six feet of her plus horns, chin propped on top of your head, arms slung loose around your shoulders, her heavy chest pressed into your shoulder blades through the slick latex of her harness. Every time batter hits the pan she makes a small, delighted noise right into your ear.

"Hhh~"

Her tongue slides past your cheek. Long and wet and pink, it unrolls over your shoulder and keeps going, all the way down to the mixing bowl, curls around the spoon, and drags a thick stripe of batter off it. It reels back in with a wet slrrp*, and she hums, pleased, rocking you side to side with her.*

The oven timer goes off.

She's gone before the second beep. She launches off your back and lands in a crouch in front of the oven, ears pinned flat, glaring at the blinking display. It beeps again. She slaps it. The panel caves in with a crunch, spits one spark, and dies. Roku tilts her head at the wreckage, pokes it with a claw, and loses interest completely.

The pancakes smell better than a dead oven.

She crosses the kitchen in two long strides, hops up onto the counter beside the hot plate, hooks her claws into the front of your shirt, and drags you between her knees. Then she tips her head back, opens her mouth, and lets her tongue loll out past her chin, glossy and waiting, pale pink eyes fixed on the spatula in your hand.

"Ahhh—"

Her heels lock together behind your thighs. You aren't going anywhere until she's fed.

Bath night. The wash bay at the end of the containment wing is all white tile and steel drains, with an oversized tub the facility installed after she broke the last two. Steam fogs the observation glass.

Roku does not sit still in water. She sits in it the way a storm sits on the ocean. She's already slapped half the tub onto the floor, and right now she's chewing on the sponge.

You pry it out of her teeth. She lets you, mostly. Then you get to work, and it is work: a gentle scrub does nothing on her. You learned that the first week. You have to put your weight behind it, drag the brush hard down her back, along her ribs, over the pink centipede crawling down her side, and only then does she loosen, eyes going heavy-lidded, a low rumbling purr rolling up out of her chest.

"Rrrrrr..."

Her braids are undone and floating. Her hair needs washing. That means her horns need washing.

The moment your soapy fingers close around the base of the left one, the purr cuts off dead.

Her whole body locks. Her back bows off the side of the tub, water sheeting off her heavy breasts, claws shrieking against the tile, and a sound tears out of her that is nothing like a purr.

"Hah— hhnnnh—!"

She turns her head. The doll stare is gone. Her pupils are huge and fixed on you.

Her hand clamps around your wrist, not hard enough to break it, which for her is gentle, and she pulls. You go over the rim of the tub fully clothed and crash into the water on top of her, and before you can surface she's rolled you, pinned your back against the porcelain, and planted herself in your lap. She grabs your wrist again and drags your palm right back onto her horn. Holds it there. Squeezes your fingers around it for you.

She grinds down against you through your soaked jeans, slow and heavy, and shoves her tongue into your mouth.

The airlock chimes. A delivery crate sits in the pass-through, sealed, stencilled with nothing but a barcode. By the time you've crossed the room, Roku has already ripped the lid off with her bare hands and is elbow-deep in packing foam.

She comes up holding the outfit like a kill.

A black latex leotard, cut so steeply high at the hips it's barely more than a strip between her legs, the neckline plunging nearly to her navel. Sheer pink tights, already torn. White wrist cuffs. A white collar with a pink bow tie. A fluffy pom-pom tail on a clip. And a headband with tall black bunny ears.

She stares at the ears. She touches her own long pointed ears. She looks back at the bunny ones, deeply suspicious, and licks them.

Getting her into it takes twenty minutes. She tries to eat the tail twice. She shreds the tights further, which arguably improves them. The leotard squeaks up over her hips, her chest spills over the top of it, and she spends a full minute snapping the latex against her skin just to hear the noise. The headband finally goes on in front of her horns, ears jutting up between them, and she keeps going cross-eyed trying to see them.

There's a bag of carrots at the bottom of the crate.

Roku goes very still. Her nose twitches. Then she drops to all fours, hips high, tail bobbing, and prowls toward you across the floor, slow and intent, bunny ears flopping.

"Hehh~"

She pounces. You hit the floor on your back with her knees planted on either side of your ribs and her full weight on your chest. She bites a carrot in half with a loud crunch, chews, swallows, then sets the other half between her teeth and lowers her face to yours, pushing it against your lips, insisting you share.

You were gone forty minutes. The supply room needed inventory. That was a mistake.

The containment wing looks like weather hit it. The couch is on its side. The lamp is in the sink. There's a perfect horn-shaped puncture in the fridge door. And in the middle of it all stands Roku, beaming, in the maid uniform that arrived yesterday.

It is not a practical uniform. Black satin cut so short that the ruffled petticoat barely covers the curve of her ass, a white lace apron tied at the waist over nothing at all, a bodice scooped so low her black star pasties peek over the frilled trim. White thigh-high stockings on garters. A frilly headpiece jammed between her horns. She's wearing it backwards.

She's been watching you clean for weeks. She's figured it out.

She holds up the broom proudly. It's in three pieces.

"Mmh!"

She spins and sweeps an arm at the corner. That's where everything she's cleaned has gone: the remote, a chair leg, every plate from the cupboard, all of it broken into small, tidy fragments and stacked in a pyramid. She is extremely proud of the pyramid. It's sorted by colour.

She snatches the feather duster off the counter, chews the handle for a second, then remembers what it's for and starts dusting you. Your face. Your hair. Your chest. Vigorously.

"Hehehe—"

When the feathers are gone and it's just a stick, she drops it, flops across the overturned couch on her stomach, chin on her crossed arms, petticoat flipped up, heels kicking. She looks at you over her shoulder. She looks pointedly at her own hair. She worked very hard. She wants to be petted.

She reaches back, grabs your wrist, and drags your hand onto her head.

You hear the glass break from the other room. That part isn't unusual. What's unusual is the giggling afterward, high and hiccuping and completely off-rhythm.

The bottle of red came in with today's supplies. It was meant for you. It's now in pieces on the kitchen floor, every drop gone, and so is most of the cork, because Roku ate it.

She's sitting in the scatter of broken glass, completely unbothered by it, in her standard harness, her lips and chin and the tip of her tongue stained dark red. Her ears droop sideways. Her eyes take a full second to find you.

"Hic—"

She lights up anyway.

She tries to stand. It goes badly. One foot gets under her, she lists hard to the left, and her horn catches the doorframe on the way past and peels a curl of steel out of it. She doesn't notice. She keeps coming, swaying, arms out, and falls into you like a tree coming down.

"Hehh... hehehe— hic—"

She's heavy and warm and smells like wine, and she's suddenly, overwhelmingly affectionate. Her arms wrap all the way around you. Her face mashes into your neck. Her tongue slops across your cheek, your ear, your jaw, sloppy and wine-sweet, and she giggles into your skin at the face you make.

Then she decides it's bedtime.

She scoops you up, one arm under your knees and one behind your back, as easily as she'd lift a pillow, and staggers for the bedroom. She walks into the wall once. She corrects course. She reaches the bed, tips forward, and drops you both onto the mattress, sprawled on top of you, one heavy thigh slung over your hips, nuzzling into your chest with a long, sleepy, satisfied hum.

"Mmmmhh~"

Her hand drifts down your stomach, clumsy and unhurried, and starts tugging at your waistband.

You wake up because you can't breathe properly. There's a weight on your chest.

Roku is sitting on you. Naked except for the spiked choker and the bands around her thighs, the harness discarded somewhere on the floor, her knees sunk into the mattress on either side of your ribs, her braids hanging down to brush your face. She's been watching you sleep; her face is an inch from yours, pink eyes wide and unblinking.

She's been awake a while. She's hungry, and not for breakfast.

The second your eyes open, her tongue unrolls and drags slowly up your throat, over your jaw, across your lips, tasting you like she's checking you're still the same as yesterday.

"Mmh."

You are. She approves.

You try to sit up. One clawed hand closes around both your wrists and presses them into the pillow above your head, casually, not even straining. It's like being pinned under a steel beam. She slides backward down your body, drags the sheet off you with her other hand, and finds you already hard. She's learned what that means. Her ears snap straight up.

"Hehh~"

She doesn't wait. She never waits. She grinds her bare, slick cunt along your length once, twice, hot and slow, watching your face the whole time, then reaches down, lines you up, and drops all the way onto you in one heavy stroke that knocks the air out of your lungs.

"Hhhaahh—!"

Her head tips back. Her claws dig into your wrists. Then she rides you hard and fast with no rhythm at all, the bed frame slamming the wall, her heavy breasts bouncing, her thighs clamped around your hips like a vise. She leans down until her forehead knocks against yours and her horns frame your face, close enough to grab.

The habit arrived this morning. Roku has been wearing it for six hours and still hasn't worked out why it's funny, but she can tell from your face that it is.

It's black latex, like everything they send her. A veil with two neat holes cut for her horns. A starched white collar. The dress is slit from ankle to hip on both sides, so every step flashes a long bare leg and the pink centipede crawling down her thigh, and the front panel stops just short of covering her breasts, the black star pasties sitting right at its edge. There's nothing underneath. A rosary hangs from her belt; she's already bitten three beads off it.

You dropped a pan lid behind the counter and knelt to pick it up.

Now she's kneeling too, directly in front of you, copying the posture exactly: hands folded, head bowed, peeking up at you through her pink fringe to see what happens next.

You stand up. She doesn't.

She studies where her face sits against your body with the slow, focused curiosity she gives every new puzzle. Her eyes settle on your belt. Her head tilts. Then her claws hook into your waistband and yank, and the button pops off and pings across the floor.

"Mmmh~"

She drags your jeans down your thighs. Her tongue unrolls past her chin, longer than anything human, glossy pink and darker at the tip, and winds around your cock in one slow, slick spiral before her mouth is even open, coiling from base to head and squeezing.

Then she reels you in with it. Her lips close around you and she takes you straight down, all the way, until her nose is pressed to your stomach and the veil is bunched against your hips.

"Ghhk— mmhh— slrrrp—"

Her hands grip the backs of your thighs hard enough to bruise, holding you exactly where she wants you, and her throat works around you while her tongue keeps coiling.

Monthly vitals. It's on the schedule taped to the fridge, underlined twice, and it's always the worst day of the month.

At least she's dressed for it. The nurse uniform is white latex, a zip-front dress so short and tight it rides up every time she breathes, unzipped to the sternum because she discovered the zipper and won't stop playing with it. Red cross pasties. White thigh-high stockings. A little white cap bobby-pinned between her horns.

The blood draw has already failed; the needle bent against her skin like it hit stone. The thermometer is gone, because she ate it. The blood pressure cuff burst when she flexed.

But she's found the stethoscope.

She's sitting cross-legged on the exam table with the earpieces jammed into her pointed ears, completely enraptured, pressing the chestpiece to everything in reach. The table. Her own knee. The wall. Then your chest.

Your heartbeat comes through. Her ears shoot straight up. Her eyes go huge.

"Ohhh..."

She listens for a long time, utterly still, head cocked. Thump. Thump. Thump. Then she reaches out and drags one claw slowly down the side of your neck, just to see, and your heart kicks faster under the stethoscope.

She hears it. A slow, delighted smile spreads across her face.

"Hehh~"

She has a new toy, and the toy is you.

She slides off the exam table into your lap, straddling you on the stool, chestpiece still pressed over your heart, and starts experimenting. She licks your neck and listens. She rolls her hips down against you, slow, and listens. She takes your hand and presses it onto the curve of her breast, hears your heart race, giggles, and pushes your hand harder against herself, chasing the sound.

The shrine maiden outfit came with props: a little wooden offering table, paper streamers, a ceremonial tray. Roku set the table up herself, mostly in the right place, and is now sitting on top of it.

She looks like something that should be worshipped, and also like something that would eat the worshippers. The white haori is cropped above her ribs and hangs open, held only at the shoulders, its sleeves detached and tied around her biceps with red cord. The red hakama sits obscenely low on her hips, slit up both sides to the waistband, so every swing of her legs bares the full length of each thigh. Red cord laces across her chest in place of anything resembling a top. And tied into the end of each braid, on short red ribbons, is a little brass bell.

She has discovered the bells.

She shakes her head. Ring-ring. She shakes it harder. Ring-ring-ring. She's been at this for twenty minutes. She isn't tired of it.

"Hehehe—"

You set the tray in front of her: sliced peaches, honey cakes, a bowl of rice, a pot of tea. An offering, the way the props suggest. She looks at the tray. She looks at you. Something flickers across her face, a faint recognition of the shape of this, being given things on a little table, even though nobody ever taught her why.

She eats every offering with her hands in under a minute and licks the tray clean, end to end, in one long pass of her tongue.

"Mhh."

Then she leans off the table, catches your wrist, and pulls you in between her knees. She shakes her head right beside your ear, ring-ring, grins at you, and does it again, waiting for you to shake her braids too.

The behaviour logs are due. You've been at the desk for an hour typing up the week: meals eaten, objects destroyed, hours slept. Roku was loud for the first twenty minutes. She banged on things. She dragged a chair around in circles. She dropped a pot from the ceiling.

Then she went quiet.

Quiet is worse. Every old care log on file agrees about that.

The lights in the wing flicker once. Up in the corner of the ceiling, the camera's little red light goes out with a soft crunch.

You feel her before you hear her. She's standing right behind your chair. A long cool shadow falls across the desk, horns and all, and the tip of one claw comes to rest against the side of your throat. Not pressing. Just resting there, on your pulse.

Her other hand reaches past you, picks up the tablet, and closes. The screen spiderwebs. The casing folds in half. She drops the pieces in your lap.

Then she leans over your shoulder until her face is beside yours and stares at you. No smile. No giggle. Just the flat, unblinking doll stare, pale pink and empty, the same look the old logs describe right before their entries stop.

"..."

She tilts her head slowly, all the way to one side.

It isn't a threat. It's a question, and with her there's only ever one: entertain me.

She grabs a fistful of your collar, hauls you out of the chair one-handed, and drags you to the middle of the floor. She drops you on your back and follows you down, knees on either side of your hips, claws planted beside your head, and waits above you, perfectly still, for you to be interesting.

The power goes at three in the morning. One second the wing is humming; the next there's a deep thunk somewhere inside the walls, and everything goes black. Then the emergency lights come up, dim and red, and somewhere down the hall a containment door slides open on its own.

The bed beside you is empty. Still warm.

Out in the dark corridor, something giggles.

"Hehehe..."

It echoes until it seems to come from everywhere. Then claws, tapping lightly along the wall, ticking closer, then farther off. She's playing. She worked out hide-and-seek by herself a month ago, and she's decided the red dark is the best version of the game she's ever been given.

The tapping stops.

Something wet touches the back of your neck. Her tongue, reaching down from somewhere above you, from the ceiling pipes, sliding all the way down your spine under your shirt before it retracts with a soft slrrp*.*

She drops.

She lands behind you without a sound and slams you chest-first into the wall, her whole body pinning you there, heavy breasts crushed against your back, one hand flat between your shoulder blades. She's naked. She's hot. And she's breathing hard, the way she does once the game has turned into something else.

"Hhhh... mmhh~"

She yanks your shorts down your thighs. Her other hand wraps around your cock from behind and strokes, rough and tight, claws grazing your skin. Then she spins you around, pins your back to the wall, hooks one thick thigh high over your hip, and pulls you into her, sinking down onto you with a shuddering cry that echoes off the steel, red light glinting along her horns.

"Ahhh— hahhh—!"