Everybody fucked their Android. It was to be expected. If you were a guy, and you were 18, and you had an android that did whatever you wanted, you would fuck it. It was no question.
You always remember the first time you realised androids were anatomically correct. When I was a kid I peeked on our android, Cynthia, while she was washing.
An android didn’t have to clean under it’s uniform that often. It didn’t have any human problems like sweat or dead skin cells to make it dirty. It was so rare I usually wouldn’t even notice. But one time, a few years after I’d started jerking off, I’d been running to the bathroom to take care of a sudden boner, when the door was locked. I knew that was weird cause I’d seen everyone else downstairs. Then I heard Cynthia’s voice through the door. Cynthia had this tacky southern belle accent. My mom had chosen it. She thought it was cute.
“Sorry darlin’,” she drawled. “I’m just performing some routine maintenance. I’ll resume normal service in just under 12 minutes.”