Whistle
The first words he heard were, “...cking installations never seem to get any faster.”

“Charming,” he thought, his neural net updating to register the guy knew some profanity, and inferred he was into tech. He didn't have a “name” as yet, just an identity code: 5TZC8D5YDJZBQM that would be changed once he'd been assigned a new name. He – which currently consisted of a bunch of nanobots in a large box, with a simple interface – only knew he was a “he” because his BIOS told him he was, meaning a nanomachine cock was going to be part of his future. He decided to download all the information on penises, just to get an idea about them.

Voice analysis told him his owner was also probably a human male. After a flicker, his eyes came online, lenses focusing and scanning the room. The furniture was reasonably-priced, though the other computer equipment, and the augmentations to the guy sitting in the room were quite high-end. Probably a tech geek, he guessed: quickly searching the net for some basic shared interests, plus looking up some info on his owner.

Initial results seemed pretty respectable: well-paying job, good credit rating, little activity on the major social networks outside of those professionally necessary. He interfaced with the man's augmented parts: they were pleasant, and in good condition. Most of the usual for this type of person: a few neural implants, dietary manager, sensory adjustments, and of course the penis upgrade.

He chuckled, feeling his body growing out of the morass of microscopic machinery. His owner, a Mark William Paterson, PhD, was very kinky. He was looking for companionship – it wasn't too surprising to be bought for sex and company – though his ideal partner seemed to include horns and a tail along with the obligatory giant schlong. The model Mark submitted was intricately detailed, and explicit: he appreciated that his owner had gone to that much trouble to make him unique.

“Hi Mark,” he greeted. “Why don't we hurry this along, then? Name me: 5TZC8D5YDJZBQM's pretty impersonal.”

“Fine, Asterion,” Mark answered. “Everything going okay?”

“You've done this before, I take it?” Asterion asked. Even the name had been well-researched: a grin spread across his jet black lips, his silvery teeth showing through.

“Not personally, no,” Mark answered. “I've set up plenty of you guys for work.”

Asterion nodded; this seemed to tally with what he read about. The start of a bulky hand pulled out of the nanoscopic soup, running his hands through the black mohawk that donned his head. “Well, since you've pretty much got everything set up, want to whip it out? Your cock and I have been having a nice little conversation.”

The robotic minotaur grinned as Mark blushed, mumbling, “I've never gotten really used to that.” Sighing, he continued, “It has been a while, yeah. I'm just not...”

Turning around in his vat, Asterion grabbed the “upside-down” Mark's pants, jerking them down as his muscular torso spilled out. His back slammed into the ground, and Mark slammed down on top of what had been built. His muzzle opened wide, easily engulfing Mark's surprisingly modestly-augmented shaft, encasing the balls as well. Synthetic oils dripped out of his mouth, lubricating the flesh and artificial parts of the shaft while his lips tightened.

Asterion's own cock emerged long and hard; the doctor had a thing for burly, big bull-men, meaning there was plenty of Asterion to make. Mark didn't need much coaxing however, as his fantasy partner grew out of a vat in front of his very eyes, not even fully-formed and willing to sate his desires.

He'd prepared the files, but nothing prepared Asterion for his first blow job. His cock's sensitivity had been maximised, not usually something creators did with his models. He squirted a little lubricant into Mark's mouth, contorting his body impossibly in order to suck and be sucked at the same time by a man significantly shorter than he would be.

His balls bubbled to the surface, primed to produce plenty of synthetic sperm; though even that had been customized. It seemed Mark had a lot of trouble with relaxation, but enough self-awareness to set those anxieties aside and come up with a solution. Even though Asterion was technically owned by Mark, the minotaur was the one now in control.

Signalling the neural implants, Asterion got Mark's sphincter to loosen, hijacking his body to stick his finger, extending it around to play with the prostate through the layers of flesh. More signals, and he'd perfected Mark's cock-sucking, more and more of the massive length able to slide in and out of Mark's mouth.

Using up the rest of the nanomachines, Mark dangled his hooves in the air, wrapping his hocks around the doctor's moaning, writhing body. He'd quickly been able to turn the lonely doctor into the perfect little slut: doing so made him feel incredibly good. They were now ready for hours of fun; but for now, he wanted to take it easy: Asterion had a few designs of his own for Mark.

Wrapping his tongue around the shaft in his mouth, Asterion made it jerk him off, milking Mark's manhood as he writhed, downing gulps of Asterion's lubricants. It was good – oh so very good – that Asterion was going to have to do something about ensuring it happened as often as Mark could afford. He timed his first ejaculation to match Mark's; Asterion wanted them to share the pleasure, moaning and writhing in a mass on the floor as they shot their respective loads into each other's mouths.

That's when they learned of the defect: something must have come loose when Asterion had come out of the tank, which rattled around as Mark's hungry mouth drained him dry, accompanied by a high-pitched noise. If the minotaur could have blushed, he would have, but he'd been designed to be shameless.

Panting, synthetic minotaur spunk dripping from his mouth, Mark laughed, “I should have called you Whistle!”