Hacked: Rape on Air (robot girl rape and snuff on live TV)

Denise is a synthetic human reporter girl who loves her job and doesn't know that her coworkers hack her every night and rape the fuck out of her. She doesn't know until the layer after layer of malicious code keeping her from remembering these things breaks on-air and she winds up cumming her brains out on live TV to the sudden influx of memories, while her neural circuitry is overheating until smoke's coming from her head as she melts down and dies.

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Anonymous Dreams and Equestrian Screams, Chapter 7 (MLP, human/pony, anal rape, impalement, noncon but she loves it, deep throat suffocation, rape, mutilation, brain penetration)

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My story index.

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Hacked: Rape on Air

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“And that’s all from me. The protests are increasing in intensity, and it’s clear that anti-synthetic voices are speaking loudly these days. Back to you in the studio, Denise.”

“Thank you, Craig. Stay safe out there. You may be human, but there are always troublemakers who won’t care much either way!”

Denise turned back to the camera and gave it a dazzling smile. She was a tall, statuesque blonde synthetic, a creation of long cycles of self-refining artificial intelligence both in her electronic brain and her lusciously well-designed body. Her skin was lab-grown and absolutely flawless, her hair real human hair, her eyes a brilliant metallic green that marked her as not being a natural human even before you saw her tastefully subtle robotic joints. Her body was designed on what you could consider a Barbie doll frame – slender, with big tits, and she never had to worry about gaining weight.

The anti-synthetic protests worried her, of course. Synthetics that passed a certain sapiency threshold had enjoyed full human rights for almost ten years, but there were many humans who would never consider a machine to be human, no matter how complex. Denise could feel it in the way meat-people looked at her, especially the men. Their eyes raked her body, like they were trying to taste her artificial flesh with their gaze alone. There was a raw lust, a hateful desire, the need to dominate and treat her like an object to take out their fear and sexual needs on.

To the extent the feelings of humans and synthetics were truly comparable, you could say that it turned Denise on.

She didn’t know why, and no self-diagnostic had been able to reveal it to her. But she knew that there was a strange craving that built and sparkled inside her mechanical form at the thought of human men dropping their façade, dragging her around a corner, and emptying all of those tangled feelings inside her along with their sticky human cum.

Synthetics were equipped for it. It was part of the human rights thing. No synthetic could be denied the equipment required to engage fully in the human experience – in other words, to serve as a sex doll should they wish to. Those synthetics who enjoyed sexual relations with humans often sported sexual organs that would put a high-class robot brothel to shame.

Denise had opted for a pristine, highly humanlike pussy and butthole, along with oral equipment to let her give, in theory, incredible vibrating blowjobs. She had never actually used these for their intended purpose, but she loved knowing they were there, and not needing sleep, she would touch herself late into the night, musing upon her strange electronic daydreams.

She lost hours every day, it seemed. Denise had long thought that she should seek a synthopsychologist to analyze her neural circuitry and find out if there was something wrong. She wasn’t sure if synthetics were supposed to go into fugue states like that, have stretches of time where memory broke down and she couldn’t quite put her finger on what she’d been thinking of as she slowly stroked her virginal synthetic pussy.

These thoughts spooled along in the background of her electronic mind as she rattled off the news with her usual perfection. She knew how and when to move to make her breasts appear best beneath the tight white blouse she wore, when to stand to point at a particular screen and show her tight, round butt off under her pencil skirt. The camera’s view fed into her system, appearing in her vision like a heads-up display, so she could always see exactly how she looked.

It was fun. Teasing the humans, turning them on. She liked knowing they wanted her. To feel desired, darkly desired, a desire tinged with fearful things, was one of Denise’s very favorite things.

If she had been human, she would have left a wet spot on her chair with every broadcast.

“As you can see on the graph, these economic markers have consistently improved since the Synthetic Rights Act passed…”

Denise was standing, knowing the cameraman was drinking in the artificial perfection of her body and wondering how many of her viewers were masturbating to her, when she staggered forward with a groan as something sparked in her skullcase and her left eye’s visual feed disappeared into static. She shook her head, trying to keep her feet and keep reading the newsfeed, when the static cleared.

Instead of the newsroom that her right eye saw, her left eye was filled with a dark room and the sight of her own wrists bound in front of her. Her physical senses couldn’t feel the air conditioning she was used to, but a heat and closeness. She felt sweat dripping on her skin.

I don’t sweat she thought, and then her jaw dropped open as more of her sensory apparatus was hijacked, and for the first time ever Denise felt herself getting fucked.

She cried out in a low tone, clapping her left hand to her mouth as she bent over at the unfamiliar, unspeakable, irresistible feeling of a hard, hot human cock pummeling her custom-made cunt, of human sweat on her back.

What is happening to me? she thought desperately, trying to straighten up despite the sick pleasure the sensory assault was bringing her. Am I being hacked?

She’d heard of synthetic virtual defense systems being sidestepped or overwhelmed, but she always kept hers in tip-top shape, didn’t she? The network security team was great, they checked her antivirus suite weekly, she had nothing to fear from hackers, so what was happening?

With an effort, trying to ignore the filthy scene playing in her left eye, in her skin, in her ears – she could hear it now, the slap of human hips against her round buttcheeks, the squishing sounds of sex, she could feel his hand in her hair moving her head around.

There was a dizzying sensation as her left side’s view swung around the dark room while her right remained stationary in realtime reality, and she saw that the human raping her from behind was her frequent cohost Carmichael Stephens.

“You fucking stuck-up robot cunt,” he growled, slapping her ass, and in the studio Denise cried out with a weird mix of offended pride and masochistic lust.

What the fuck was this? Had this really happened?

Subroutines were spinning in her neural systems, trying to keep her mouth in control, and she heard herself say “Sorry, folks, just some technical issues. As I was saying, economic markers have been good, and…”

The electronic attack on the gorgeous synthetic reporter stopped as soon as it had started, and the sudden absence of sensation left her gasping. A shiver passed up her body, and she felt her diagnostics running as fast as they could as she soldiered on.

“Despite this, there have been several high-profile cases where synthetic rights have been ignored or outright violated. The original synthetic pop star, Sadie Song, went offline after a fan abducted her and shorted out her neural circuitry by introducing human fluids into it through a repair port in her skull cowling. And…”

Both of her eyes sizzled into static this time, and she was thrust into a depraved scene. She was hanging from her arms, bound by a rope that hung from the ceiling, her body pressed between two sweating, grunting human men.

It took only seconds for her other sensations to synchronize with the visual, and the studio microphones caught her loud, startled moan as a perfect simulacrum of the sensation of being double penetrated pounded into her brain.

There was a huge cock plunging into her tight asshole, another sawing in and out of her pussy, lube smearing over her thighs as they gang-raped her. There were other men in her peripheral vision, jerking off. Waiting their turn for her body.

She was bending over again. She couldn’t hear what she was really saying, only the sounds of sex, only the vicious mockery ringing in her ears - “Take it, you little cunt, fucking whorebot. You like it. Literally fucking built to be raped.” She recognized the voice of one of the network’s security techs.

There was a growing sense of panic in the newsroom as their star reporter jerked and moaned, the skin of her face reddening slightly.

“Hey, can those fucking things blush?” the cameraman asked uneasily. “She doesn’t turn that color when we… you know.”

“Shut the fuck up,” a producer said. “We don’t talk about that. Give it a minute.”

Denise suddenly straightened up and smiled. “Again, I apologize,” she said. “Allow me to continue. The most recent case involved a hacking attempt on the first synthetic congressperson, Madeline Graff. One of the first synthetics to adopt a full human name rather than a descriptive designation, Madeline was the victim of a brute-force hack that failed to gain control of her, but succeeded in burning out her circuitry. I don’t think any synthetic will forget the visual of Madeline toppling over at the congressional podium, smoke pouring from the orifices of her head – or rather, we wouldn’t if we were able to forget things.”

She tossed off a saucy wink with the last few words, while thoughts raced in circles inside her.

If I’m not able to forget things, how on earth could I have forgotten those…

She shuddered as she felt the phantom sensation of an eager mouth on her breasts, licking, then biting down cruelly.

“Laws to increase penalties for hacking synthetics to bring them in line with assault, battery, and murder have repeatedly stalled in state legislatures, so many synthetics rights activists have hoped for the Supreme Court to step in, but thus far…”

All of Denise’s sense vanished in a moment, then came crashing in on her with a chaotic jumble of sex. Her splintered vision showed her half a dozen different views at once – looking down at her pussy as a man fucked her, looking up at a man while she sucked him off, one view of a man’s balls covering her eyes while his dick was buried down her throat.

The sounds of hard, hot, rough sex sizzled in her ears, the noises of flesh slapping and men grunting, and her own moans and cries, overlapping until it sounded oddly like the ocean.

“It’s so fucking hot that she doesn’t know we’re doing this,” she heard the excited voice of her favorite cameraman say. “God, what a body!”

“Thank the security guys,” Carmichael responded, and Denise felt his hand caress her face, the queer hot feeling the tender touch sparked in her belly. “It’s hard to hack these robot cunts but they keep a backdoor open for us.”

As he said that, she felt fingers thrust viciously up her asshole, and her viewers saw her knees press together, her body bend forward at the strange sharp feelings that shot through her electric nerves.

“Alright, I’ve seen enough, cut the feed,” the producer said, but as a technician reached for the kill switch, the screen flickered.

“Holy shit!” the tech said, his hand faltering as a misfiring routine in Denise’s overworked robotic brain reversed the camera connection and pushed her internal view back to the screen.

All across America and large parts of the world, TVs and computer screens were filled with an X-rated mix of hardcore robot rape footage as Denise’s sexy body was shown being filled, slapped, shaken, spanked, used and abused in endless ways and combinations simultaneously.

“I said cut the feed, fuckface!” the producer hissed.

“I’m trying!” the technician said, but the rig wasn’t responding to his controls anymore.

Denise stumbled randomly, her mouth open, eyes wide. She backed into her desk and toppled backwards, writhing atop the flat surface as the sensory memories of dozens of brutal rape sessions flooded her.

“Annh! Aaah! Ooooooooh, oooooh, augh!”

Slutty moans filled the studio as Denise’s hips bucked up against her imagined or remembered assailants’ dicks.

“Too hard! Too fast!” she slurred, her face growing even redder as the digital ghosts of her rape-induced climaxes forced a string of fresh, hot, incredibly powerful orgasms through her sexual circuitry.

“Boss, she does not turn that color when we fuck her,” the tech said again, in a low voice. “The security guys are on the way.”

“Just keep trying to shut it down!” the producer snapped. His own face was turning red. He had recognized himself in one of the sexy reporter’s snarled memory clips, chomping a cigar as Denise gargled on his balls.

Denise managed to roll off the desk and land on her hands and knees. Gripping the desk edge, she hoisted herself standing.

What is happening to me? was the only thought repeating in her head. It wasn’t AI-generated video, her internal security suite told her that.

Then there was a man behind her (Really or in a memory?), and she felt a hatch at the base of her skull opened, fingers probing inside, a click as a probe was inserted.

She stood bolt upright. The madness receded temporarily, and the technician at his racks of controls breathed a sigh of relief as the robot rape disappeared from the screens, leaving only Denise standing there with a shocked, slack-jawed look on her face.

She was very red.

The security technician pushed a button on his diagnostic device. Somewhere in the complicated, mostly machine-designed framework that was a synthetic’s brain, whatever he was doing caused as overflow. A digital dam burst, and all those raw, filthy scenes flowed into Denise’s conscious mind – not as contemporaneous inputs hijacking her senses, but as memories.

The first time had been after her fourth broadcast. She had stood up from her chair, seen the lights blink out on the cameras, and sighed happily. Carmichael had shaken her hand with a warm smile. The next thing she had remembered from that day was walking home with a free and easy feeling, taking her favorite seat, and casually playing with herself while she pondered what it meant to have a real job, coworkers, an office.

What had actually happened, as she now knew, was that as he had pressed her hand a certain way, her face had gone briefly blank, then snapped back into a neutral expression. Carmichael’s smile turned into something animal and cruel, and he gripped the top of her dress and tore it down, exposing her perky, perfect robotic tits.

“Carmichael!” she had gasped. “You...”

He slapped her, and she found she couldn’t raise a hand to stop him. In her own studio, surrounded by the men who worked on her show, he forced her on her belly on her own desk and without asking jammed his rock-hard erection into her virgin fuckhole.

She screamed at that, but she couldn’t move, couldn’t resist, as one of the other studio men gripped her hair and pushed inside her mouth, cockhead sliding over her tongue, down her throat – and her vibrating feature turned on against her will.

“Ohh, shit, what a good little metal cocksucker,” he groaned, pumping his dick past her bright red lips.

“Nice little cunt, too,” Carmichael grunted. “She’s a fucking machine.”

Stretched between two human dicks, Denise had whimpered, begged, protested as best she could past the cock pummeling her throat, but it had done no good. She had taken them all.

Eleven men had drained their balls into her and left her dazed and reeling, to clean herself off and stagger home, drunk on unfamiliar sensations that were carving themselves deep into unconscious areas of her artificial brain.

And the security techs’ work had been good.

And she hadn’t remembered anything.

And it had continued every… single… day.

It was different groups of men.

It was different acts. Sometimes they all wanted to buttfuck her. Sometimes they jerked off in her ears or on her tits and face. Sometimes they triple penetrated her. A few times a woman joined in, raping her with a strap-on or double-ended dildo.

Each time it was the first time for her as layer after layer of mind-controlling, memory-erasing hack job was piled on. Patch after patch to contain her memories, to control her behavior, to keep her from telling anyone what was happening to her.

She had been a virgin being gang-raped for the first time more than five hundred times, and the accumulated emotional and traumatic weight had exploded out into her consciousness like a tornado.

“Jesus Christ she’s hot!” the man behind her yelped, pulling his hands away.

Denise stared around. Something was happening inside her.

“How many times did you hack me?” she said in a broken voice. “H-how many times did you r-rape me?”

She took a stumbling step forward. Some kind of vapor was obscuring her vision, and she realized that smoke was beginning to rise from her mouth, to leak from her ears, to trickle out around her eyes.

There was a pop as a coolant reservoir inside her head burst, and boiling hot tears gushed from her eyes to evaporate into steam.

It was all happening very quickly now. Her right knee buckled, and her head slammed into the side of her desk as she toppled sideways. It broke her jaw out of joint, and a fresh burst of smoke from her burning internals filled the air.

Her hair, real human hair, caught fire and burned like a torch as her vision shut down and her mind’s eye filled again with memories of her nightly hell.

The last few seconds of Denise’s digital life felt like an eternity as she was brutally, repeatedly, mercilessly raped dozens of times a millisecond. She had plenty of time, subjectively speaking.

To those watching it seemed like a burst of static filled the viewscreen, Denise’s last broadcast, and her hips pumped once more before she still forever, but in that burst was a lifetime of horror for the synthetic reporter. A lifetime of her holes being stretched, her nipples twisted, of being spat on, of having cum splattered in every orifice and on every square inch of her beautiful body. A lifetime of abuse and mockery and hatred and a lifetime of cumming her brains out to it over and over and over again until her sick masochistic lust spilled out into her daily mental life and she imagined strangers doing the same things to her that were happening every night in the studio.

No one knew.

And laying dead there on the floor, Denise burned.