Dr. Robotnik’s gonna soothe your moons off

She sat back in the jacuzzi.

“Pleasing you to letting the hot gurgle water bubble blow your obvious fatigue and other neagtivities away,” the metal man kind of whispered. More dialled down his volume really. To like a 3.

She felt his alloy fingers slip over her shoulders, cold and lifeless. They began a complicated rhythm of kneadings that worked her tension filled muscles.

“Does this massage algorithm working for you? Or would you be pleasing something more Asian? Or Italian?” He monotoned soothingly.

“No, no, please, It’s nice like that,” she said, and he let out a satisfied beep and his servos locked in and whizz-grrrr’d with what can only be described as moto-aplomb. 

Her flesh began to melt.

She let out a moan.

“Moaning is an accurate sign that your body skin muscles etcetera are begin to succumb to the hot water and my digital manipulations,” the auto-dude droned. Volume up slightly, say 3.27, “Would you be desiring whale song?”

She murmured, her mind lost in the smooth, confident handling by this gear-driven body worker.


Her body was weightless. Her mind was removed from form and function. Like she was drifting in space. Beautiful space. Away from all her cares and worries. To a better place, a place she would choose to live for all eternity. It was sublime.

“Oh, Dr. Robotnik, you’re so–so good,” she gasped, “will you marry me?”

He gripped her tightly with his metal hands and turned her to face him. His red glowing eyes bored into hers, the wire mesh of his mouth, his complete lack of a nose, his guidance dome, all there, all for her.

“Yes,” he intoned, “that will be fine.”


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