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Martín came home feeling like absolute shit. There had been a power outage at work, the snot-nosed heterosexual intern forgot to back up their drafts, and Martín, being the star engineer and only competent man within a one-kilometer radius, was left pulling overtime to save the company like the unsung hero he was. As thanks for his service, the boss personally came into his office, spilled coffee on Martín’s carpet, and sobbed over a plummeting stock that had shit to do with what Martín was working on. That was the thanks he got for being, in the son of a bitch’s words, “the smartest man in here. What would I do without you, Martín Berrote?”
Of course, thanks to said plummeting stocks, Martín was denied his raise for the second time. And that was the final straw. He couldn’t care less about the promotion that was no doubt his. He was going home that very night and emailing his resume en masse to every company that was hiring. His workplace was going under and Martín had no intention of sinking with it.
By the time Martín actually returned to his flat, it was well into the morning. Hence, his bones feeling like shit and his stomach reeling from too much hot-coffee-gone cold. It didn’t help that fucking Silene Oliveira, the nightmare from down the hall, parked in the wrong spot again. Martín intentionally backed his car into the front of hers as a reminder. That dent should take her boytoy some time to repair.
That left Martín parking in Mirko’s empty spot. It was empty because Mirko was currently canoodling with ‘Marseille’ in that new fancy beach house of theirs. Speaking of which, Martín still didn’t have a date to their wedding and it’d be awkward if he didn’t show. Mostly because he knew Ágata, the other nightmare from the floor below, would chew him out if he failed to do his part as the supportive best man.
Especially because she still hadn’t quite forgiven him for “breaking” Mirko’s heart in the first place, whatever that was supposed to mean, because last time Martín checked, they parted on perfectly happy and civil terms. And wasn’t it thanks to Martín that Mirko met Marseille in the first place? If anything, the two of them should be giving Martín a wedding gift, not the other way around.
And technically speaking, Ágata the “bridesmaid” was the actual best man planning all the parties and showering the couple with unconditional love. But Martín had to order the champagne and nobody seemed to understand how difficult a job that actually was. But Martín couldn’t voice these thoughts aloud, not unless he wanted another round of lectures from his so-called friends.
When Martín finally climbed up two flights of stairs because Daniel still hadn’t fixed the elevator (either because he went to jail for beating a man to death or because he absconded with that soft spoken blonde from the building across, Martín wasn’t too sure), he ran into Agustin. The old man was taking a drag in the hall when Martín greeted him with a wave.
Then, just as Martín walked past him, Agustin said, “Oh! Martín, there’s a package for you. It’s a big one.”
Martín didn’t recall ordering anything, and he should have seen that as a sign of shit to come. But at the moment, he thought nothing of it. So he shrugged and answered, “I’ll take a look.”
The package in question, however, was indeed big. Agustin hadn’t been kidding. Dumbfounded, Martín stood in front of his own door, his entrance blocked by a box that stood taller than himself. It didn’t help that it was wide too, wide enough for a set of shoulders at least, which meant he couldn’t walk around it either. It also didn’t help that the damn thing was heavy and took some pushing and pulling to maneuver.
By the time Martín got it through the door, he was positive the package was delivered by mistake. It was probably an indoor bike or treadmill or something else Martín absolutely did not order. There was no return or delivery address to speak of, and the thing was wrapped from top to bottom in black, concealing any and all information from the outside.
Once inside, Martín shut the door and inspected the pillar of a package. It was too big for him to move out without raising questions. But he also couldn’t do anything about it without unwrapping the sheet of black-- at least then he could find a number or some source of return to get the fucking thing off his hands.
“Just what I needed,” he grumbled, giving the package a sharp kick.
Then he went to the kitchen, grabbed his boxcutter, and returned to slice the sheet off. He cut away at the corners first, peeled away the rip with his nails, then-
The boxcutter fell, missing Martín’s foot by less than a millimeter.
A curse died in his mouth.
And without thinking, he shoved- no, whipped- the box away.
It slammed against the floor with a heavy thud, just as Martín fell back himself, toppled by the force of his own fucking push.
He stayed sitting, knees crunched forward, hands frozen in front. He blinked, then rattled his head left to right and right to left, just to make sure he wasn’t having a sleep-deprived hallucination. Once the paralyzing shock wore off, he regained enough wits to gulp and push himself up.
Martín picked up the boxcutter, and cautiously, returned to the package. Bending over it, he took a closer look and this time, cold horror replaced his shock.
“What the everloving fuck,” he hissed.
He’d peeled enough of the cover away to reveal a plastic window at the very top of the box. It reminded him, somewhat sickeningly, of a barbie doll’s display case. Except it was not a toy staring back at him.
There was a grown man’s head under the plastic. Martín knew it was human just by looking at it. There were creases around the eyelids and neckline, a texture to the skin that was no doubt real flesh. The hair looked nothing like a doll’s cheap replica either. Each dark strand grew its own way, looking as if the had had been touched up that very morning.
He felt nauseous.
Someone had, for all intents and purposes, fixed the hair of a corpse, added makeup to the face so it looked less dead, shoved it into a giant doll case, and sent it to Martín of all people. He could not fathom what kind of sick son of a bitch would do this.
He had to report this. He already had a list of suspects on hand. None of them struck him as murderers nor did he think sending someone a corpse was appropriate retribution for some rude remarks. But there were too many perverts out there in the world, so Martín shouldn’t have been surprised to have finally become a victim of their fuckery.
Martín swallowed again.
The rational part of his brain told him to investigate thoroughly before calling the cops to his flat. It would be humiliating if he turned out to be wrong, mostly because his neighbors were all nosy pieces of shit.
Holding his breath, he ripped the rest of the black off. Once he tore the last of it from the box’s edge, he stood up to take a look at the full picture.
And it was just as confusing and offensive, if not more so, than the theory he’d first formed.
“La concha de tu madre.”
It was indeed an enlarged display case. But under the plastic window, he could clearly see the words- printed and bolded white over black- “XINTHETIC CO.” And under that title was lighter text reading, The art of pleasure. Satisfaction Guaranteed.
There was nothing else on the front of the box besides a name tag: Andrés de Fonollosa, Make 013. That was one clue at least. Maybe this Andrés was the one that ‘Xinthetic’ meant to send the package to.
With a grunt, Martín flipped the box on its side, not quite willing to look at the head. The backside read like a IKEA manuel, with instructions on how to open the box and remove its contents. The contents were, according to the outlines, a lifesize mannequin and a jumpsuit. Martín assumed it was a mannequin because the back also listed its measurements, height, weight, and all.
But there was still no number or website, only an unhelpful message telling him to look inside the box for the instruction booklet.
Like hell he was opening that box. Not only was he stuck with a doll the size of a man, he also ran the risk of having to pay for it now. Especially if the damn thing had been damaged in the fall. But if nothing else, Martín was certainly not stupid.
He didn’t have to look inside to know what kind of company Xinthetic was. The secretive packaging, the minimal descriptions, the incredulous detail on the doll’s face, the fact that it was made to scale, and the word “pleasure” told Martín all he needed to know.
Someone sent a motherfucking sex doll to him.
And he knew exactly who would do something as sick as this. Without a doubt.
Martín barged into Silene Oliveira’s flat without so much as a knock, effectively startling her and baby-faced Aníbal from their disgusting cuddles on the couch. Served her right for not locking her doors even when he’d scolded her again and again on the matter.
“What the hell is wrong with you!?” he shouted, “what the fuck is wrong with you!?”
Aníbal quickly pulled up his pants, red in the cheeks as Martín continued his tirade.
“Take that thing back and I won’t press charges!” Martín snarled.
Silene was on her feet. “What the fuck are you yelling about!? The fuck’s wrong with you, asshole!?”
She would probably have punched him, or attempted to claw out his eyes like the uncivilized pervert she was, if it wasn’t for her boyfriend’s arms holding her back. It was laughable of them to think that Silene’s punches would do anything to him anyway.
“You fuck into my home!” she said, “start threatening us and now you’re playing victim? Son of a bitch, Martín, just when I thought you couldn’t fucking sink lower!”
“Oh? I’m playing victim?” Martín laughed, and he hoped it was threatening. “How much did this prank cost you? If I wasn’t so fucking nice, you’d be-”
She spat in his face.
Martín lunged at her, and found himself reeling against Aníbal’s other bicep.
“You’re sick in the head!” he snapped, “fucking psychotic!”
“Fuck you!” she said, “no wonder you can’t keep any of your men, you shriveled piece of dick!”
“Bitch!”
Before Silene could continue their screaming match, Aníbal finally managed to get his voice in. “Wait! Wait! What’s going on? I really don’t-”
“Ask her what’s going on!” Martín tried to push the younger man’s arm away, only to find out that under Aníbal’s baby face was a body of toned muscle. So he was effectively pushing against a rock. “Your deranged girlfriend put a sex doll in my mail!”
“I’ll shoot your balls off-” Silene was in the middle of another uncreative insult when the meaning of Martín’s words sank in.
Her mouth stayed agape, but no words came out. Aníbal was looking at Martín like he’d misheard. And in the middle of all that silence, Martín found himself at a loss for words as well. It was so awkward, in fact, that he almost wished Ágata would have come in waving her son’s water gun and order them all to shut the fuck up. She’d always done it whenever he and Silene had a spat, so of course when he actually hoped she’d interrupt, she was nowhere to be found.
“Um.” Aníbal exchanged a look with Silene, then glanced at Martín, but with his eyes somewhat downcast, as if afraid the wrong gaze would insult Martín. “Do you want us to take a look?”
According to Aníbal’s genius observations, the sex doll was indeed a sex doll. In other words, he figured out in ten minutes (of careful inspection) what took Martín ten seconds. And while her boyfriend made himself useful, Silene had the balls to laugh at Martín in his own home, right after he’d been generous enough to offer them beer.
“Someone must have realized you were a lonely son of a bitch,” Silene said, no doubt enjoying every second of this, “or maybe someone thought you needed more practice in bed.”
“I am not having this discussion with you,” Martín spat back.
“You owe me an apology.”
“I’m sorry,” Martín said, in a way that sounded very close to fuck you instead.
But it satisfied the ridiculous smirk on Silene’s face. She said, “cheers,” and took another swig of her beer. And her eyes somehow kept smirking.
Disgusted, Martín knelt down by Aníbal. “So now what? How do I get rid of this? You’re young, you know this stuff-”
Aníbal smiled, somewhere between confident and painfully awkward. “I uh, don’t know anything about this kind of stuff. I’ve never had the um, need… but-”
“But what!?”
“Let him speak,” Silene said.
Martín glared at her. “I am letting him speak!” Then he returned to Aníbal. “But what?”
“The company’s contact details are probably on the inside. It might tell you about who actually ordered it. Or-”
“Fuck!” Martín slapped the box, right above the head he was unwilling to stare at for too long. “Can’t we do anything else with it? Ship it back to Andrés de Fonollosa?”
“Andrés de Fonollosa?”
“His name’s right there on the box! He ordered this. It has to be him!”
Aníbal had that awkward look on his face again, like he was unsure how to proceed with this conversation. Coward.
“If you have something you want to say, say it,” Martín demanded.
“Well.” Aníbal pulled his phone out, and tapping away on the screen, said, “You can just google Xinthetic too. Their website comes up on the first page. But Andrés isn’t the guy you want.”
“And why’s that?”
“Andrés de Fonollosa is the doll’s name.”
“They name these fucking things!?”
Behind them, Silene choked on her beer, likely from laughing too hard like the insensitive asshole she was.
“Andrés isn’t the only one,” Aníbal continued, apparently thinking himself helpful, “there are a lot of models here. You can take a look if you-”
Martín smacked the phone away from his face, Aníbal fumbling to catch it. “Just tell me what this company does.”
After regaining his balance, Aníbal held the phone up again and read aloud, “Xinthetic is a Canadian company specializing in adult sex toys, bdsm gear, and silicone transplants. One of the leading forerunners of the sex industry, Xinthetic has been unafraid of the taboo since 1998. It opened its first storefront in 2001 and since then, has expanded to branches in Hong Kong, Japan, Spain, the United States, and-”
“So where does ‘Andrés’ come in?” Silene interrupted, and Martín was loath to admit that was his exact same question.
“Hold on.” Aníbal scrolled for a beat, then said, “Okay. It says they started making dolls in 2017. It gets pretty insane. They hire scientists to do the designs, and professional sculptors, so the ‘skin’ is synthetic flesh, ‘made to feel like real human touch.’ That’s fucked up. These things look just like real people.”
“La concha de tu madre.” Martín rubbed a palm over his sore eyes. “Anything about customer service? Damages? Incorrect orders?”
“Loading- okay, here it is.” Aníbal chuckled, nervous, like he needed reassurance that Martín wasn’t going to throttle him for what he was saying next. Martín could not guarantee that.
“Because the dolls are so expensive, there’s a special bar code inside the instruction manual. You’ll have to snap a photo and upload it to their website or scan the QR code, to get in touch with a sales rep.”
Silene put her arms around Aníbal’s neck, and looking at Martín with mock sympathy, said, “Hear that? Looks like you have to open the box.”
“Do you need us to help you with that?” Aníbal asked, as if he was genuinely interested in what was inside.
Martín scowled. And Aníbal took that as his cue to leave, Silene following suit, but not before she wished Martín a sexy time with his creepy doll. He wished she and Aníbal would get themselves neutered.
Martín was careful to cut around the flaps of the box, just in case there was some anal return policy affected by packaging damage. The directions on the back told customers to pull the box up from the bottom for easiest handling. Thinking it safer to follow instructions, Martín propped the box against a wall.
Then he made the mistake of looking into the plastic window again. He nearly jumped. The doll’s eyes, previously shut, were open, and they had the chilling effect of looking as if they were staring directly at Martín. Its eyelids must have shifted when Martín lifted the box up.
The irises were brown, almost amber under the light trickling through the window. As unnerved as he was, Martín knew to give credit where it was due; the manufacturers certainly knew their craft. He could see the shadows of thick lashes, impressively long. There was a slight bump to the nose, just enough to give it the appearance of authenticity. Even the hair on the doll’s head blended into varying strands of gray by the ears. At a glance, ‘Andrés’ looked no different from any man walking on the street.
Martín tapped the plastic. That wasn’t exactly a fair sentiment-- the doll actually surpassed most living, breathing men. It was fucking beautiful, and had ‘Andrés’ been real, he’d be exactly Martín’s type, the kind of unattainable man he’d love to admire from afar. Whoever was behind Xinthetic’s doll line deserved some props for that.
Either way, the sooner Martín got rid of the doll, the better. He stooped by the box, and slowly removed it from the bottom up. When the box was off, Andrés was left leaning against the wall, bound in thick bubble wrap from the chin down, head propped up by a roll of cotton. Martín couldn’t find anything else in the box save a red jumpsuit lined with black and sealed under a plastic bag. He supposed it was one of the doll’s accessories.
Finished, Martín folded the cardboard and slid it under his couch. The instruction manual carrying his beloved bar code had to be under all that bubble wrap then.
Cursing Andrés, Martín marched toward the doll, and as carefully as he could, removed the cotton and peeled the wrap off. There was a mess on the floor by the time he was done, but he’d have to clean later because Andrés then collapsed into his arms with nothing left to hold it up. Martín nearly fell with it. For someone without organs, Andrés certainly weighed as much as a human being.
Martín dragged it to the couch and placed it on the leftmost seat. He angled Andrés’ head so the eyes looked elsewhere, and it was only then that Martín realized the doll’s mouth carried something of a smirk. Almost a sensual duckface that only a pervert would design. He wondered if the lips were capable of parting, then immediately shook that thought away. He didn’t want to know.
If anyone chose to walk in on Martín now (not that they could because unlike Silene, Martín locked his fucking door), they would only see Andrés as another guest. A man casually sitting on Martín’s couch.
The tackiest part about Andrés, really, was the suit that adorned his body, velvet burgundy over black. The tie looked like it was made of latex, but Martín suspected real silk was used because Xinthetic’s goal was absolute realism, it seemed. The hands were even more disturbing than the face, because every crease, hair, and nail were as real as they came. It was the slight imperfections of the doll that made it so compelling, he mused, perfectly imperfect.
So just to be sure Andrés really was a doll and not a corpse, Martín squeezed his hands. They felt like skin, not unlike the flesh of his own palms. But they were cold, complete with a plasticy sort of detachment that assured him this thing was made of balls and joints and nothing more. Then his eyes drifted to the bulge between Andrés’ legs, no doubt the most impressively crafted part of the doll’s anatomy.
“Just a glorified fleshlight,” Martín said with a sneer.
He released those fake hands and slipped his fingers into the breast pocket of Andrés’ suit. After an hour of painstaking work, he finally had the wretched instruction manual in his hands.
But when he opened it, he knew another headache was to come. It was one of those booklets, the kind that had to be unfolded for the full picture. And when he did that, it assaulted him with around ten languages, all with text the size of ants. He scanned as quickly as he could, jumping over directions on how to have anal sex with Andrés (apparently the doll was ‘versatile’ and designed to accommodate more than one hundred positions) and how to remove its clothes (which Martín doubted anyone actually needed instructions for), until finally he found the damn bar code.
Recalling what Aníbal told him, Martín set the booklet on the coffee table and snapped a photo. His phone was running low on battery (no thanks to the damned intern that forgot to charge it for him), so he had to run and grab his laptop from the corner. He pulled up a browser window and squinting at the booklet, keyed in Xinthetic’s url.
There wasn’t anything on the website that Aníbal hadn’t already told him or anything Martín deemed important enough for a second glance. And he certainly had no interest in watching Dr. Satoh’s various interviews about Xinthetic technology or what innovations it brought to the ‘human experience.’ He did, however, release a sigh of relief when his photo finished uploading, bringing with it a customer service pop-up window that also came with at least ten languages to choose from. He chose Spanish.
Hello! Who am I speaking with today? - Xinthetic Sales
He typed in, Martín. That was vague enough.
Hello Martín. It looks like you have an issue with your Andrés de Fonollosa model, make 013. Serial AP202100. Are you contacting us about damage, functionality, or a shipping problem?
shipping problem
Can you elaborate?
I never ordered a doll from you. I never ordered anything from you. You must have sent it to the wrong address. Please rectify this mistake and I won’t press charges.
I’m sorry about the inconvenience, Martín. Can you elaborate?
What more do I need to say? I didn’t order a sex doll. I would never order a sex doll. Someone else did and your incompetent people sent it to my home. I would like to get rid of it as soon as possible.
Can you elaborate?
HOW DO I RETURN THE DOLL
Thank you for your patience, Martín. We’re searching through our database. Is this your address? (typing…)
“Fuck,” Martín hissed.
Yes, that’s my address. But it has to be a mistake. I never made any purchase. Someone must have made a typo.
We apologize for the inconvenience, Martín. We will have to investigate further. Is there anything else I can help you with in the meantime? Are you interested in a Xinthetic membership?
What do I do now? There’s a fucking sex doll in my home!!
It’s Xinthetic’s policy to never resell dolls. Our warranty covers repairs, but should you return Andrés, we can’t ship him back out. So in the meantime, we encourage you to enjoy him until we get to the bottom of this :)
Did you just respond to me with an emoji??? What kind of sservice. I want to speak to your manager (typing…)
Thank you, Martín. Have a nice day! Would you like to take part in a customer survey?
Fuck you.
“La concha de tu madre.” Martín hit the X on the pop-up. Then banged a hand on the table. The son of a bitch failed to solve any of his problems and told him to ‘enjoy’ the sex doll that he clearly did not want.
He considered calling them, but he doubted service would be any better than what he just endured. Maybe he should have taken part in the survey just to rate it zero stars. He checked the time and calculated the corresponding hour in Canada. Later then, he would call their service at its source and hopefully the original branch would be slightly more useful.
Martín was about to leave the browser when the top banner changed to an image of Andrés, eerily similar to how Martín had posed him. The Andrés in the computer however, was in a green three-piece instead. Curious, Martín clicked on it unthinkingly.
The website redirected him to the dolls, or as Xinthetic labeled them, ‘companions’ page. Martín scrolled down, not particularly enthusiastic about the number of female models Xinthetic carried. Though he was somewhat impressed by their dedication to creating dolls of every ethnicity and body type. There was even an option for custom dolls, and Martín wasn’t even remotely curious about how much that cost.
He clicked on the page for male models, mostly because he wondered why Andrés was their posterboy. Then the browser froze, and unwilling to accept defeat, Martín aggressively clicked anywhere and everywhere until it redirected (and possibly gave him a virus). When he next blinked, he was staring at an image of a man with thick brown hair. His fingers were adjusting the glasses sitting over his nose, and the rest of him was covered in an earthy beige suit. When Martín looked closer, he realized it was also a doll, perhaps even more intricately made than Andrés because of the detail on its facial hair.
Below the image, Xinthetic listed the doll’s height and weight, along with the size of its penis, complete with graphic photos. Followed by a blurb that sounded like it belonged in a cheap romance novel:
This is Professor Sergio Marquina. Tall, dark, and handsome, the professor is an intellectual with a sensuous side. He might seem humble and shy at first glance, but Sergio has an unrivaled appetite in bed. He’s a stickler on the outside and a rebel at heart, what you could call a bad boy in disguise. He’s a man who writes his own rules. As sensitive as he is alluring, Sergio is the professor you only dared dream about in class. Sergio values wits and strength in a partner above all else, someone to challenge him and make him sweat. Let him satisfy your teacher kink and indulge in the professor’s deepest secrets… or let him indulge in yours.
Martín was unsure what exactly he was reading, but he felt a vague unease over how much effort was put into making Sergio sound like a flesh and blood man. The blurb also mentioned something about a heat sensor under Sergio’s synthetic cock. From the corner of his eye, Martín glanced at Andrés’ pants. He assumed Xinthetic treated all their dolls equally.
He scrolled on, stopping to read another line, If Sergio doesn’t do the trick, you might be interested in meeting his older brother, Andrés.
The page redirected and Martín was again staring at the image of Andrés from the banner. The doll was sitting on an armchair, legs crossed and a glass of dark wine in its hand. The angle of the head also made it look like Andrés was smirking at the camera, eyes tilted away just enough to give the aura of aloofness. And just like his ‘brother,’ Andrés could have passed for a human being.
Martín read the blurb, and he could not say it was any less cheesy than Sergio’s.
Meet Andrés de Fonollosa, gentleman thief. He’s a man with a crooked smile and an undying love for art. But Andrés hides a dark side under that handsome face, and a stormy temper you won’t want to cross. Sexy and suave, Andrés is a man who values aesthetics more than ethics. With a libido that matches any young man’s, there’s nothing Andrés won’t try in bed. Something of a womanizer, Andrés has been divorced five times and counting. But don’t worry boys, because Andrés has a bicurious side as well. So let Andrés satisfy your daddy kinks and indulge him to your heart’s content… or let him indulge you.
Andrés comes in a custom three-piece suit (1 of 3 choices) for your stripping pleasure.
Handcrafted from state-of-the-art synthetic technology, Andrés is the newest member of the Xinthetic Companions collection. Prices start at 8000,68 € , prior to shipping and handling. The Andrés model is limited, and orders are made on a first come, first serve basis. Call or visit our FAQ for further questions.
Martín nearly keeled over at that price. And that was before shipping or the heat sensor. With all of that put together, plus the warranty plan, Andrés’ total cost came up to 9800,50 € . He tried to wrap his head around the fact that there were people out there who both had that type of money and were willing to spend it on a glorified fleshlight of all things.
He slammed the laptop shut, and marching over to Andrés, lightly smacked him in the jaw. “You cost more than my rent. Son of a bitch.”
Aníbal was right. This was fucked up. And Martín was too tired to deal with it. He was going to go to sleep and when he woke up, he was quitting his job, calling the Canadian Xinthetic line, and getting Andrés off his hands.
But because Andrés was so fucking expensive, Martín also didn’t want anyone breaking into his flat to steal the doll (yet another issue he had to deal with!). So he shut the doll’s eyes, and dragging it by the arms, pulled Andrés into the closet. He sat Andrés facing the wall, then shut the door. Out of sight and out of mind.
The Canadian line told him the order was correct. La concha de tu madre. Like it or not, Martín was stuck with the doll. He thought of throwing or giving Andrés away, but the price made him reconsider.
“You could try reselling it,” Aníbal told him when Martín called him over to fix his wifi.
“Where is it anyway?” Silene asked like the useless waste of space she was, again kicking back on Martín’s couch like she owned the place and drinking his beer like it was hers.
“None of your business.”
“What’d you do, Martín, put it in the closet? That’s not creepy at all.”
“Fuck you.” He looked back to Aníbal. “So resell how? Like put up a sign?”
“No, I mean- on Amazon or eBay or something. People resell all the time.”
Maybe that wasn’t so bad an idea.
Martín forgot to quit his job, so he went back in the following week and decided to make the intern’s life hell instead. He still ended up with a shit day.
Ágata left him a string of texts that Martín left on read. Which led to a string of voice messages that called him a “lazy son of a bitch” among other things.
As Mirko’s wedding crawled closer, Martín felt rather burnt by the radiance of his engagement photos. It was an ugly habit of his, and probably why they broke things off in the first place. Martín hated the sting of other people’s happiness, mostly because he didn’t believe such things existed.
To Silene’s chagrin, Martín made it a habit of walking into her flat and eating her snacks whenever he had a bout of insomnia. And she still didn’t lock her door. Pathetic.
“I’m trying to watch TV,” Martín snapped, putting the remote on maximum volume to prove his point.
Beside him, Silene and Aníbal pulled apart from their makeout session. Silene glared at him. “Then stop third-wheeling and go back to your apartment, asshole. This is my home.”
Martín ignored her and said to Aníbal, “Go get some more chips.”
Silene, being the insensitive neighbor she was, told Aníbal to fucking stay put. Then she threw the empty bag of chips at Martín, dusting his shirt with crumbs.
“Get the fuck out of here, Martín!”
Martín cursed her right back, and tossed the bag at Aníbal’s head. “You going to let your girlfriend talk to me like that?”
Silene glared at Aníbal then, as if daring him to pick a side. He tugged awkward at the bag, then said, “Martín, it is kind of late. Maybe you should go home.”
Martín snorted. “Oh, I see how it is. Siding with her just because she’s your woman, huh?”
“It’s also her home…”
“Fuck you both. I’m gone.”
“Good riddance!” Silene called behind him.
Without Silene and Aníbal to distract him, Martín was trapped between Ágata’s texts and the fact that he really had no one at home. Everyone and everything had someone except him, it seemed. Just like it had always been.
The worst part was that he knew, deep down inside, that it was only because he pushed them all away in the first place.
“Hi.”
Martín removed Andrés from the closet after weeks of not thinking about Xinthetic. But he wasn’t in the mood for drinking or picking up guys. And he didn’t quite feel like getting into it with Silene either. There was only so much monotony and melancholy a man could take before he snapped and did the unthinkable.
Or in Martín’s case, a complete change of pace. He was a little nervous about it, he couldn’t quite lie, but there was a tiny thrill to it too, something that told him there was no going back after this.
He’d looked over the instruction booklet beforehand and he was fairly confident he knew how to proceed.
“Andrés right?” he said to the doll, not really caring if it sounded ridiculous.
The only thing that gave him pause was how damn realistic the doll looked. Especially with its eyes open. He half expected Andrés to speak, or at least do something to indicate a hint of emotion.
“So I know you’re a- no offense- sex doll, but this is a first for me too.” He placed Andrés on the couch, tilting the head so it faced Martín’s own. “If you don’t want to do this, let me know, okay? If you don’t want this, just blink or something.”
Andrés did not blink.
“Okay. Then are you ready?”
Andrés still didn’t blink, but his eyes remained smugly looking forward, as if daring Martín to continue, demanding him to relinquish control.
“Okay.” Martín chuckled, anxious.
He undid Andrés’ tie first. As it fell away, Martín tugged off the red jacket. Then the black button-up. Followed by the belt and trousers, and at last, the leather shoes. The website hadn’t lied because there was some strange satisfaction in rendering Andrés nude.
Martín stepped back and removed his own belt. Then he tugged the zipper down.
He didn’t know why he’d expected Andrés to be smooth under his clothes. Martín was, a little embarrassingly, pleasantly surprised to discover that there was a fair amount of chest hair on the doll that trailed down to his genitals. And true to the pictures, Andrés’ cock was a thing of Michaelangeloan beauty.
He took a moment to admire Xinthetic’s handiwork. There was an organic flow to every mark on the false skin, enough crease and imperfection to give Andrés the appearance of something real. The only hint of his synthetic origins was the line around each shoulder, betraying wires that held his joints in place.
When Martín released his boxers, he placed himself on Andrés’ thighs, hands around the doll’s neck. It was a strange feeling to hold Andrés, because he knew he was holding a doll. He knew it felt nothing like real flesh. And yet it had the exact same effect as the real deal.
Martín felt his buttcheeks part as he eased himself over the tip of Andrés’ cock. Then hands in the doll’s hair, he began rocking himself back and forth. The heat sensor worked wonders beneath him, and the lube felt no different on Andrés than it did on any breathing man.
“Shit,” Martín laughed, “you’re good at this.”
When he finished riding Andrés, he put two fingers between the doll’s lips. To his shock, they parted, enough to reveal another synthetic hole, complete with false teeth. Martín kissed him then, and the plush things pushing back were not wholly unpleasant.
Martín slid Andrés downwards, until the doll’s head was tilted back on the edge of the seat behind. Then moving himself upwards, he slid his cock into Andrés’ mouth. The lips seemed to instinctively close around his dick, and when Martín bobbed up, the pull of gravity allowed Andrés to mimic the motion of sucking along.
Martín gave it a good few rounds, before he twisted around, Andrés’ arms interlocked with his own. He flipped onto his back so Andrés lay on top of him, and as they grinded against each other, he could not say it was unpleasant. It was very pleasant, actually, probably because Andrés was made for this shit.
And above him, Andrés watched him with those confident eyes, like the doll knew Martín was enjoying this. Like Andrés was pleased. And for whatever insane reason, Martín was glad Andrés was pleased.
And he wasn’t sure if it was the angle or lack of light. Because Andrés’ smirk looked a bit like a real smile in that moment.
A smile just for Martín.
“I set up an account for you,” Aníbal told him chippily the next day, “there’s a lot of people willing to buy Andrés-”
“I’m not selling.”
“What-”
Martín passed him in the hallway, unlocked his door, and returned home.
Martín tried out every position in the booklet. He’d held Andrés’ head between his legs, between his arms, against his chest. He’d bent himself over the edge of his bed, Andrés’ hands angled over his shoulders. He’d bent Andrés over the couch, his own cock inside the doll’s hole. He’d even taken Andrés’ synthetic cock into his own mouth and blew him as he would any other man.
He and Andrés tangled together like pretzels more often than not. Under and over. Above and below. Twisted arms and feet. Fingers in his mouth. In his ass. Not a single thing left untouched.
But Andrés wasn’t just good for sex. He was good for a number of things.
Andrés filled the other side of Martín’s bed and provided him with a set of arms to cuddle at dawn. Andrés made for a good companion on the couch as well, and he was quite comfortable to lean upon. And best of all, he was a great listener (mostly because he lacked the ability to talk back, judge, or disagree).
“Things didn’t work out with Mirko because I was an asshole,” Martín found himself telling Andrés one night, settling into the doll’s welcoming arms, “I never really had luck in men or anything else. So maybe a part of me was jealous of Mirko for being so good, so kind. It’s not like he had it easy in life either.”
He snuggled into Andrés’ chin. “Ágata thinks it’s because I thought I didn’t deserve Mirko so I pushed him away.”
Martín snorted. “I’d have to be a good man to think that. But I’m not. I pushed him away because I had to see something negative in everything he did, something bad maybe to bring him down to my level. I was a selfish son of a bitch who never gave a fuck about the man who loved me. That’s a fact.”
He looked at Andrés then, the eyes half-hooded to the point where he could pretend Andrés was understanding. “And in the end, I dumped him because I didn’t want him to dump me. I hurt him a lot, Andrés, a lot. And when he finally found someone who treats him the way he deserved to be treated, who told him it wasn’t his job to fix me, who looks at him the way I should have looked at him, I wasn’t even that happy for him. I wasn’t jealous either. I was just-”
He shrugged. “Upset that I didn’t have the right to be upset. I don’t know. I don’t deserve it, but sometimes I wish something good would happen to me too, you know?”
He pecked the doll on the cheek. “You would know. You were divorced five times, right?
Martín fell asleep against Andrés’ chest that night, and he could have sworn there was a glint of sympathy in the doll’s eyes.
The great thing about Andrés was that Martín felt no pressure around him. Dolls didn’t have feelings or needs. With Andrés, all Martín had to do was pleasure himself. He didn’t have to bother pleasing Andrés’ friends or minding Andrés’ moods or listening to Andrés talk. It helped that Andrés always looked so proud of him after the fact.
Andrés was the ideal partner because he existed to please Martín. Glorified fleshlight or not, Andrés lacked the complications of a real partner and that was exactly what Martín needed.
Andrés didn’t have needs, but Martín felt irrationally guilty about treating the doll like a doll anyway. So against all logic, he bought Andrés another three piece suit from Saint Laurent. Then another one from Armani. Then another one.
Until Andrés had more suits than Martín.
Haven’t seen u in a while, want to hang out with us tonight? Silene and I are seeing a movie.
It was the first time Aníbal had texted him and Martín barely remembered giving the young man his number.
No, he texted back, I have a date. But thanks, kid.
Then he put the phone on silent. Martín didn’t want to be interrupted again. He popped the cork of the wine in his hands and poured himself a glass. Then he poured Andrés a glass.
Andrés was smiling at him from across the table, his sculpted face illuminated by candlelight. He looked good in the cream suit, happy.
“I think we were made for each other,” Martín told Andrés, “I don’t think I’ve been this happy in a long time.”
He grinned. And in the dim light, he liked to believe Andrés grinned back.
Martín’s perfect peace was ruined when Silene barged into his flat while he was cuddling with Andrés on the couch. Startled, he nearly rolled to the floor.
“The fuck!?” he cried, “how’d you get in here!?”
“I picked your lock, idiot. Aníbal wanted to make sure you weren’t dead.”
“Why would I be dead!?”
“Nobody’s seen you leave the flat in a month. I thought you slipped in the bathroom and died.” She scoffed. “Unfortunately, that didn’t happen.”
“Get the fuck out before I kill you.”
Then Silene’s eyes landed on Andrés. “Holy shit. You kept that thing?”
“Get out,” he growled, holding Andrés protectively to his chest. “And it’s none of your business.”
“That’s so creepy. Holy fuck, Martín, what’s wrong with you?”
“Nothing! What the fuck is wrong with you!?”
“You were snogging a fucking doll.”
Martín rolled his eyes. “And what about it?”
“That’s not normal or healthy.”
He laughed. “Like you’re the expert on healthy relationships? How many times did you and Aníbal break up anyway?”
Silene gulped. “You’re an asshole, Martín, a real asshole.”
Then she flipped him off and stomped back out. Martín told her to go fuck herself. And when he looked back at Andrés, the doll seemed to be frowning.
Martín was sure Silene was a bringer of bad luck, because the following day, he received another knock at the door. When Martín opened it, he found himself face to face with a young redhead he had never seen in his life.
“Hello,” the woman said, a little shy, “are you Martín?”
“I am. And you are?”
“Tatiana.” She bit her bottom lip, then laughed, a charming embarrassed little laugh that Martín would probably have found endearing if he was in a better mood. “This is a little embarrassing- I hope you don’t judge me too much for what I’m about to say.”
He offered her a smile. “Try me.”
“There’s no other way to say this. I bought a mannequin from Xinthetic four months ago and it shipped to the wrong address.”
His smile was frozen.
“They discovered the mixup last Friday, but couldn’t reach out to you. There was an address on file though, so I wanted to come and see if you still had the order. I’m sorry for any inconvenience and I’m willing to compensate-”
“He’s not for sale.”
“Pardon?”
“I’m keeping Andrés.”
She laughed, like he was joking. And when it dawned on her that he wasn’t, Tatiana’s shy demeanor dropped. “I don’t think you understand how much I paid for my order, Martín. If you don’t give it to me, this is theft.”
“Then report me. Andrés is mine and that’s final.”
“You-”
Before she could finish that line of thought, Martín (politely) shut the door and locked it. But when he returned to Andrés’ position on the couch, he realized the doll was indeed frowning, a line of worry between its eyes.
Silene and Aníbal were in the middle of eating Chinese takeout when Martín kicked their door open, effectively making them spill a box of rice and chicken.
“You fucker!” Silene said.
He didn’t have time to argue with her. Martín wedged himself between Silene and Aníbal and said to the younger man, “It’s Andrés- his expressions change!”
Aníbal’s brow hiked up. “What?”
“His face. It emotes. I need you to figure out why- is he a robot?”
“Or maybe you’re just crazy,” Silene remarked, “fucking creep.”
“Fuck off,” Martín told her. Then back to Aníbal, he said, “Can you look it up online or something?”
Silene pinched her nose. “Oh my- do you not know how to use google? You have to annoy us every time you need to look something up?”
“I didn’t ask for your opinion,” Martín hissed.
Before Silene could insult him back, Aníbal said, “That is pretty weird. I think it might be worth looking into- synthetic technology is still really new, so anything goes. I think Dr. Satoh said something about nerve reflexes in development.”
“You’re such a nerd,” Silene told him, with a disgusting amount of affection.
Martín snapped his fingers in front of them. “I need answers. Now.”
After another five or so minutes of arguing with Silene and badgering Aníbal, Martín finally got the young man to pull up his laptop. Martín’s problem, it seemed, was unique among Xinthetic products. According to Silene, that meant Martín was just insane.
But Aníbal did find something in the end, a post from a forum dated two years back (after combing through a thousand or so pages). Someone on an anonymous forum mentioned their Sergio Marquina doll frowning whenever he was in proximity with their former spouse.
“Get in contact with this person,” Martín ordered.
“It’s not that easy,” Aníbal said, raising his hands in defeat, “they’re all anonymous and I’d have to trace the IP-”
“Can you do it?”
“Well, yeah, but it won’t be easy.”
“Then do it.”
And before Silene could cuss him out for ordering her boyfriend around (again), Martín was out the door. He had to check on Andrés lest that Tatiana return to pester them.
There was a hole in his window, evidence of a sledgehammer having broken the glass. Martín looked over traces of the robbery with his jaw gaping. His wallet was still on the countertop and all the furniture remained in place.
The only thing missing was Andrés.
Some fucker had stolen Andrés.
“La concha de tu madre!”
He rushed to the window, and leaning out, saw a glimpse of a man dressed in skintight black. The bald bastard looked up, and Martín met his eyes, a pale blue. Martín recognized that look. It was the look of a man obsessed with his doll, the same look Martín saw in the mirror every day.
“You!” Martín said, “stop right there, son of a bitch-”
The man sneered at him and kept going, Andrés draped over his back in a terribly uncomfortable position. Martín couldn’t see the doll’s face, but he knew Andrés was calling for help.
“Hey!” he cried, “I told you to fucking stop!”
He really wished he had a gun, but the man was steadily running towards a motorcycle in the middle of the street. Shit.
“Hey, hey!” Martín crashed back into Silene’s flat, blood pumping so hard he was sure he’d die if he didn’t get Andrés back right this fucking second. “Let’s go!”
Aníbal looked up from his computer. “I’m still routing the-”
“Who cares about that! Some fucker stole Andrés!”
Silene laughed like the insensitive sadist she was.
“Wow.” Aníbal looked back to his screen. “Someone must have really wanted that model. There were a lot of buyers on your account-”
“So it was your fault! You led them to us!”
“What-”
Martín grabbed Aníbal by the arm, managing to pull the young man to his feet, and when Silene protested, Martín grabbed her too. “You two owe me! Come on!”
“What the fuck!?” Aníbal cried.
“We’re getting him back! Come on!”
Then Silene laughed again (asshole!). “Come on, cariño. Let’s help Martín out. This is going to be fucking hilarious.”
“Your face is hilarious!” Martín snapped.
Martín hated Silene Oliveira with every fiber of his being, but if nothing else, she was an insane driver, a literal menace to society behind wheels. Which was why she was the perfect driver to pursue that bald son of a bitch.
“Hurry!” Martín said from the front seat, “hurry, he’s getting away!”
“Shut up,” she hissed, swerving right, “I don’t want him to know we’re following.”
“I think we ran a red light,” Aníbal said from the back, and was promptly ignored.
After several traffic violations and at least one near death experience, they tailed the shameless thief to a house in the suburbs. The guy parked in front of a curb even though he had a driveway (fucking sicko), and hopped off, hurriedly carrying Andrés to the back of the house.
Martín had seen enough. Andrés needed him now. He unbuckled his seatbelt. “I’m going in.”
“Wait,” Aníbal whispered, “just like that-”
Martín didn’t wait for him to finish his concerns. He crept in the direction that son of a bitch went. The house was suitably upper middle-class, but luckily came with no further security measures. Martín slipped around the back and watched the fucker enter through a backyard door.
He followed, and on his toes, made his way into the house. There was some kind of family photo in the middle of the hall (so not only was the dollnapper a sicko, he was also a cheater!). He kept moving, pausing by a countertop to see an unopened electric bill: Cesar Gandía. So that was the bastard’s name. Martín remembered it in case he had to file a report against the fucker later.
Gandía disappeared down another door, leading to a basement it seemed. Martín hugged the nearest wall, holding his breath until Gandía came back up. The fucker seemed satisfied with his crime of the night, so satisfied that he didn’t notice the extra shadow in his home.
When Gandía was gone, Martín leaped into the basement, dashing down the stairs until he found Andrés sitting in a wooden chair.
He threw his arms around Andrés, and whispered into his ear, “You’re okay, you’re okay. I’m here now. Let’s go home.”
Martín saw a look of relief on Andrés’ face and he was sure he didn’t imagine it. He was about to grab Andrés and go when he saw something lying in the corner of the basement. Tentatively, he crept over to it because the outline looked disturbingly like a human body. He lowered himself to the ground and almost toppled over it.
The thing on the floor was also Andrés, a crumpled heap of dusty limbs. Martín lifted it up. The doll was naked from head to toe, and if not for the face, Martín would never have recognized it.
What the fuck did that son of a bitch do to you?
Gandía must have stabbed the doll a hundred or so times in the torso and chest. There were marks running down its back, some from the imprint of nails, most from the outline of a whip. Teeth marks on the neck. Skin was peeling away on its cheek. And the artificial anus was so ruptured and desecrated that Martín was surprised it hadn’t split in half.
Gandía’s Andrés was unusable, so it was little wonder he felt the need to steal Martín’s. It honestly made him quite sick. Someone like Gandía did not deserve an Andrés.
He went back to his Andrés, thankfully unharmed. Martín positioned Andrés over his back, draping his arms over his shoulders, and made to leave when he again saw the Andrés in the corner.
“I’m sorry,” he muttered to Andrés, “I can’t leave him here.”
He went to the abused doll, gathered it into his arms, and carrying the damaged Andrés like some ill bride, started the journey up the stairs.
“He’s hurt,” he told his Andrés, “that’s why I’m carrying him. Don’t worry. You’re the only one I care about here.”
When Martín got to the driveway, he felt a flashlight flood his back. He turned, and stood frozen when Gandía sprung towards him with a spade in his hand, fully intent to kill.
But the blow never came. Aníbal slammed into Gandía from behind, arms tight around his torso.
“Go!” Aníbal cried, “hurry!”
Martín turned, and as Silene brought the car to a skid before him, jumped into the backseat. The car twisted around, sparks and smoke from its wheels as they rounded back to where Aníbal lay, Gandía hammering blow after blow onto his face.
Silene rammed into him, and when Gandía tumbled away, Martín pushed the door open and yanked Aníbal backwards by the collar. He thrust Aníbal in between the dolls and slammed the door shut.
Silene stepped on the pedal and they zoomed down the street. Martín glanced out the rear window, and to his delight, saw Gandía limping and failing to catch up from behind. Martín flipped him off.
Aníbal held a hand to his bleeding nose, one eye rapidly swelling blue. “Did I die?”
“Shit!” Silene said, “don’t worry- I’ll take care of you when we get back.”
Then she turned to glower at Martín. “And I’ll fucking kill you. You almost got him killed! And what the fuck- why do you have two of those things now!?”
“Oh please. He didn’t die.” Martín held Andrés tight. “And we got Andrés back.”
“You’re so fucked up.”
Aníbal laughed, for once. And Martín decided to let it slide. He looked into Andrés’ eyes, at that unconditional gaze of love and gratitude, and he knew what he did was right.
And when Martín turned to the window, he heard a voice by his ear, most certainly not Silene or Aníbal’s. It was deep, low, and carried the slightest of rasps:
“Thank you, Martín."