I Want to Be a Cyborg (Chapter 1)

Flesh and Chrome

Matt came with his eyes open. 

Jim’s back arched slightly atop him, fingers curling into the sheets as he let out a quiet, familiar growl. The ceiling fan spun overhead in lazy circles, evaporating the sweat from their bodies and infusing their shared afterglow with a hint of chill. A floorboard creaked beneath their bed. In the silence that followed, Jim exhaled and rolled back over to his side, letting his body go slack. 

But Matt’s body didn’t follow. His mind was still alight with his secret desires. He blinked slowly, and for a long moment, he was able to successfully delay reality’s inevitable return. In his imagination, his skin wasn’t flushed and freckled, but smooth, mirror finished, and free of pores or blemishes. His arms were chrome. His thighs reflected the light. Each breath was a servo-whir, each moan a filtered audio file marked “submissive_pleasure_014.” An output report immediately followed each climax response. 

Matt lay beside his husband, thoughts of robotic transformation already bringing him back to half mast. He imagined his chest as a seamless panel, perfectly segmented to simulate the various muscle groups. He flexed his fingers, and in his mind they hissed like pistons. The bedsheets should have clung to his rubberized outer shell. Instead, they clung to his skin. Everything about him was warm, flawed, and too human. 

“Mmm,” Jim murmured, already drifting off to sleep. “You okay?” 

Matt nodded. “Yeah.” 

They always touched after. Jim draped a lazy hand over Matt’s stomach like a paperweight being placed atop loose papers. The gesture was soft, honest, and loving, and Matt hated that he didn’t hate it. 

It didn’t take long for Jim’s breathing to settle into the steady rhythm of sleep. Matt, meanwhile, lay on his back and watched the ceiling fan churn the air. He tried to sync with it—inhale, rotate, exhale, rotate. A machine would have synced perfectly. A machine would have known the exact RPM. A machine wouldn’t even be here, in this soft bed, full of secrets he couldn’t tell even the person closest to him. 

He slipped out of bed and padded to the bathroom, where the tile was cool underfoot. He turned on the sink and leaned in, bracing both palms against the vanity. His reflection stared back: stubble and crow’s feet, with graying, sweat-dampened hair at the temples. His lips were parted just slightly, like he was about to whisper something he didn’t have the nerve to say. He stared into his own eyes, imagining them blank. Not lifeless, just neutral. Functioning. Default. 

His lifelong secret desire to be a robot always hit low and hard after sex with Jim. The spikes of arousal he felt with his husband always coiled into his gut immediately afterward, driving him back to the only thing that had ever been able to get him off. If he could only unzip his skin and step into something artificial, he would. Not for play, not for show. For good. But Jim would never understand. Matt had tried, and the closest Jim ever got was an awkward roleplay session that ended up more Star Trek: The Next Generation than RoboCop. 

Matt splashed cold water on his face, turned off the taps, and avoided his reflection as he left the bathroom, crept past the main bedroom, and ducked into his home office at the end of the hall. 

The dual monitors glowed faint blue on the desktop, casting cool shadows across the desk. Matt didn’t turn on the overhead light; he just sat down and opened a bookmarked website, buried in a folder he’d intentionally mislabeled “Annual Reports.” His username and password auto populated. He’d lurked for years but never posted, and the forum was mostly dead now anyway. Each time he logged in, all he saw were threads from a decade ago bumped to the top by spam bots and hopeful necroposters. 

The site was old and glitchy, but the banner still loaded. ASFRnet: Android & Synthetics Full Realization Network. 

He clicked into the Transformation Roleplay subforum. The same old sticky post greeted him: READ BEFORE POSTING: Consent. Limits. Safety. 

He ignored it. The threads were tired. 

Help me build a transformation script for my partner. 

Anyone know how to customize text-to-speech for immersive play? 

Best gloves for full rubber enclosure! 

He scrolled. Lurked. There were no new posts, no new replies. All the usernames were long deactivated or renamed. He clicked his profile. Zero messages, zero posts, zero followers. What was he so afraid of? 

Matt’s index finger hovered over the mouse. He moved the cursor to log out, but a notification pinging in the opposite corner attracted his attention. New thread posted! “Realistic Full Immersion Cyborg RP – Not for Beginners.” 

He clicked on it. The post opened with a black field and white text, center aligned. 

This is not a game. This is not “pretend.” You will not be asked to beep and boop like a robot at a stage hypnosis show. You will not be given a safe word. If you proceed, you will believe it is real. Prepare for complete sensory immersion and a total identity rewrite. 

Protocol includes: 

• Hypnosis induction 

• Visual sensory override 

• Auditory replacement interface 

• Chastity with tactile nullification 

• Subroutine implantation 

Duration: 12 hours minimum 

Cost: Negotiable 

Commitment: Absolute 

DM if serious. NO TOURISTS. 

—Ben 

Matt read it three times before he even noticed his hand was trembling on the mouse. The post’s tone was clinical and brutal in its efficiency. Most threads in the roleplay forum were full of emojis, gifs, and performative irony, like community theater directors putting out a casting call for a play. This one, on the other hand, seemed to be the poster was serious. 

He clicked on the username—BenUnit_0x49. The profile was bare. Joined yesterday, one thread, zero replies, zero friends, no location, and a blank profile pic. 

“Spammer,” Matt said aloud. “Has to be.” Yet he hesitated, his finger hovering over the message button as if clicking it might shock him. 

He clicked. 

FROM: CyberStrongman72 

TO: BenUnit_0x49 

Hi, I read your post.  I’m interested.  What do you mean by “full sensory immersion?” —Matt 

He hit send, then immediately closed the tab, as if that might prevent the inevitable embarrassment from fomenting in his gut. Thirty seconds later, a reply came through. 

FROM: BenUnit_0x49 

TO: CyberStrongman72

You will believe you are a machine. 

Matt stared at the line for several long seconds. He replied: 

How? 

Another reply, just as fast. 

VR helmet.  Eyes only see HUD.  Voice-only interface.  Suggestion—layered audio.  Chastity lock.  No mirrors.  No feedback.  Everything “real” is filtered.  After a few hours, the distinction fades. 

There was a pause. Then another message appeared below it: 

I built the system.  I calibrate the units.  I know what I’m doing.  But this isn’t cosplay.  I don’t play robots with safe words.  Once you’re in, I run the program.  You will not know when I stop.  You will not want me to stop.  Consider carefully. 

Matt swallowed. The air in his office felt thick and heavy, like it hadn’t moved in hours. His fingers hovered over the keys again. 

What does it feel like? 

The reply came slower this time. Matt agonized over the wait, refreshing the page every few seconds and wondering if BenUnit_0x49 was just another fantasist like him. 

Order.  Precision.  Quiet. 

Matt sat back in his chair. His breath caught in his throat. The desire started deep in his body, but it was something more than arousal, like a lever was being thrown deep inside him. He typed: 

I’m in SW Wisconsin.  Where are you?  When can we meet? 

Ben replied: 

Chicago.  Today, if you’re serious. 

Matt paused. His mouth was dry. His thoughts were sharp and buzzing, but he felt calm, as though he had detached himself from his emotions. 

I’m serious. 

Ben replied with an address and then went offline. Matt stared at the screen, eyes wide and unfocused. The glow of the monitor lit his face in sterile blue. 

Am I really doing this? he asked himself. He already knew the answer. For years, he’d wanted someone to turn him into a robot, and his need only grew the longer it went unfulfilled. He exhaled and rubbed his bare chest, already fantasizing again about his hairy skin being replaced with smooth rubber or chrome. 

“I’m really doing this.” 

He fired off a quick email to his boss, stating that he needed the day off because “something unexpectedly came up,” then logged out of his computer. The monitors powered down, leaving the room dark. The only sound was the slow churn of the ceiling fan in the bedroom next door and the thump of his own heart. 

He sat there for five minutes. Ten. Then he stood, slipped into the bedroom closet, and pulled out an overnight bag. He packed nothing fancy, just jeans, two changes of clothes, deodorant, a toothbrush, a phone charger, and a small bottle of lube, just in case. Then he closed the bag, stopped, opened it again, and removed the lube. Ben’s words echoed in his mind. 

NO TOURISTS. 

He sat on the edge of the bed next to Jim, who didn’t stir. He looked at the curve of his husband’s back under the sheets. The rounded slopes of his shoulders. The steady rhythm of his breath. Matt kissed him gently on the nape of the neck, careful not to wake him, then shrugged on his overnight bag and tiptoed down the stairs. Before slipping out to the garage, he stopped in the kitchen and scrawled a note on a napkin. 

Babe, 

College buddy just split with his wife. Heading to Chicago to take his mind off his troubles. Be back tomorrow. Love you, —M 

As he started his car and backed out of the driveway, the GPS voice guiding him to Ben’s address, he looked up at the bedroom window where Jim still lay sleeping. 

“Here goes nothing,” he said.