“Sucked to Death”

Robot death #5! This one for Greg Herren.


“I had a friend who once stuck his doinker in a Roomba,” Chip said, raking leaves with his friend and business partner, Greg. They owned a gardening company together.

“Ha. Good one. A friend,” Greg replied, using air quotes for the word friend.

“No, honestly, not me. Buddy of mine. Don’t think you know him. Steve Jenkinson.”

“That name sounds super-made-up.”

“Your face sounds super-made-up,” Chip said, and smiled wide.

“How can my face sound like anything? That doesn’t even make sense.”

“You face doesn’t even make—”

“Ugh,” Greg grunted, cutting Chip off.

“Come on, seriously, you think I’d stick my doinker in a Roomba? You think I’m that dumb?” Chip asked, stuffing a handful of leaves into a yard bag.

“Well, let’s see. You’re dumb enough to trot out ‘Steve Jenkinson’ as a name to cover up for the fact that you stuck your cock in a Roomba, so yeah, I’m gonna go ahead and say you’re that dumb,” said Greg.

“Oh, like ‘Greg Herren’ is such a real-sounding name.”

Greg just stared at his friend for a while, aghast at his idiocy. Then he said: “Anyway, tell me about the time you stuck your cock in a Roomba.”

Chip sighed. “Forget it.”

The next day, finishing up the same lawn:

“Have you heard about iRobot’s new Roomba model?” Chip asked.

“Is this another non-story about your friend ‘Steve’ getting a Roomba blowy?” Greg replied.

“No. And shut up. I do have a friend name Steve Jenkinson.”

“Okay, but imaginary friends don’t count. You know that, right?”

“Haha. Whatever. Listen, this is serious. iRobot’s new Roomba is a joint venture with Dyson so they could get maximum sucking power. It’s a full-size man or woman of your choice. You can make it look like anyone you want. And it vacuums your fucking house. So rad.”

Greg propped his rake against a tree. “Say what now?” He wiped sweat from his brow, and sat down with his back against the tree.

“Hey, it’s not break time,” Chip said, playfully whacking Greg with his rake.

“Yes, it is. I can’t very well be expected to rake leaves and listen to your ridiculous bullshit.”

Chip leaned his own rake next to Greg’s, pulled out his smartphone, tapped it a bunch of times, swiped here and there, then turned the screen toward Greg, and leaned down. “Look, fuck-knuckle. The new Roomba/Dyson hybrid.”

Greg sighed and took the phone from Chip’s hand. His eyes widened considerably. “Jesus H.”

“See? Told ya, dingus.”

The image on the screen was of a very attractive man holding a vacuum—rather, the vacuum was one of its arms, seamlessly blending from a hand into a pipe, broadening out to become a vacuum head when it reached the floor.

“Creepy, but . . . yeah, dude is super-hot. No argument there,” Greg said, passed the phone back to Chip. “You gonna name yours Steve Jenkinson?”

Chip kicked Greg in the feet. “Shut it, filth.”

“Seriously, though, are you gonna get one?”

“They’re way too expensive for me.”

“What if I bought you one?”

“Whoa, you’d do that?” Chip asked, suddenly very excited.

“Sure, why not? I have some extra dough socked away, and I still owe you some for the extra you’ve put into the business. And hey, you’re my buddy, and it makes me sad that no one wants to blow you.”

Chip kicked Greg’s feet again, this time much harder.

“Hey, easy! Save that energy for your new boyfriend,” Greg said, standing back up, and brushing himself off.

They raked up the rest of the leaves, and put the yard bags at the end of the customer’s driveway for pick-up. He wouldn’t tell Chip but, truth be told, Greg was pretty excited to see what this sexy vacuuming robot was all about.

When it arrived four days later, Greg was at Chip’s house playing video games with him.

The doorbell rang, and Chip nearly knocked everything off his coffee table leaping for the door.

“Christ! Take it easy!” Greg yelled after him. “You really do have toxic sperm build-up, don’t you?”

Chip ignored him, whipped open the door, flirted with the FedEx guy while he signed for the massive box sitting on his porch.

“Hey,” Chip yelled into the living room, “help me get this monster into the house!”

They hauled it in, unpacked it, put it together, and now stood appreciating it in the living room.

“It has a very nice penis,” Chip said.

“Yes. Yes, it does,” Greg agreed.

“Want to turn it on, see if it works?”

“Should we put some clothes on it first?”

Chip considered this for a moment. “Why bother?”

“Just less creepy is all. He’s very creepy right now, don’t you think? His dong just hanging out like that.”

“No, I like it. No clothes for him. That’s settled,” Chip said and grinned at Greg.

“Fine, have it your way.”

Chip leaned forward and flicked the on switch.

The moment it came to life, it dropped to its knees and started sucking at the air with its mouth. It raised its hands like it was cupping a shaft and balls.

“Jesus!” Greg said. “Are there different settings? It must be set to SexBot or something. Turn it off. That’s disturbing as hell.”

“Says the guy who has no trouble getting blown,” Chip said.

“Well, if you’re leaving it like that, I’m outta here.”

Greg headed for the door, a shiver winding its way up his spine. Something about the thing’s eyes . . . Christ. Horrifying.

Behind him, the robot stood up. “Where are you going, friend?” it asked.

Greg froze, turned around slowly, tried not to look directly into the thing’s eyes.

“You bought me to clean Chip’s house and give you blowjobs,” it said.

“Good lord,” Greg muttered under his breath. “I’m not your fucking friend, you weird-ass machine. Now back off.”

It dropped to its knees and started sucking the air again. “Give me your cock, friend. Give it to me. Give it to me. RIGHT NOW.” On the last two words, its voice dropped several octaves. “GET IT IN ME. GET IT IN ME RIGHT NOW.”

The slurping sounds were horrendous. Greg involuntarily backed up till he slammed against the door. The hand motions were harsher now. Greg imagined his dick in those hands being pummelled and crushed.

“Turn it off, Chip. Jesus! Something’s obviously wrong with it. Turn the goddamn thing off!”

Chip moved forward, tried flicking the off/on switch, but nothing happened. It stood up again, starting moving toward Greg, sucking the air, slurping sloppily, drool now running from the corners of its mouth.

“It won’t shut off, Greg. Fuck! What do I do?”

“Kick it! Punch it! Do something!”

Chip tried pushing it over, tried punching it, but it didn’t stop, didn’t even waver.

Then it was right in front of Greg, who stood paralyzed by fear. His hand reached behind him, scrambling blindly for the doorknob, but the robot’s hand pulled Greg’s away from the knob, moved it down to its engorged penis.

“STROKE ME,” it said in its nasty, guttural voice. Then it dropped to its knees for a third time, and its voice changed to an insistent whisper. “LOVE ME, LOVE ME.”

Greg screamed as the robot pulled his pants down hard, jammed Greg’s cock in its mouth. It sucked and sucked, its Dyson motor revving up to full power. Its eyes rolled back in its head.


That’s when Greg lost consciousness.

Right before his cock was ripped off entirely by the force of the vacuum engine, he heard Chip very far away, saying, “But . . . it was supposed to be my robot. No fair. It was supposed to be mine.”

Chip called 911, but Greg bled to death on Chip’s floor before the ambulance could arrive.

The next day, Chip returned the robot for a full refund, and ordered a regular Roomba instead. He used the extra refunded money to pay for Greg’s funeral.

And a blowy from his friend Steve Jenkinson.


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