>>1787798The bathroom's little more than a cubicle. Facilities slide in and out of the black-tiled walls - a sink, a shower head, a medicine cabinet. It's like one of those makeup boxes with a thousand unfolding compartments inside. Not that you use makeup. It would clash with your image. There's a full-length mirror on your side of the door that you try to avoid looking at. You press your ear to it instead.
You can hear Moto talking outside. She's on the phone with someone.
"No. No, she's not here yet. Thought I heard a noise. I was going to have her pretend to be a cleaning android, have a little fun with her. Yes. Yeah, she walked through the whole stock exchange. Can you believe it? She could have gone around!"
You don't have time to think about the full ramifications of this conversation before a shower head, on the end of a long stainless steel tendril, emerges from the ceiling above you. You didn't press any buttons. It seems to have a mind of its own, curling and twisting, stretching out to its full length like it's been cooped up in the wall too long. The technology's familiar to you. Everyone has robot showers in the future, though the one you have at home isn't half as elegant as this. Usually they're programmed to massage someone's back or wash some hard-to-reach spot. You're not sure what this one's doing.
You quickly find out, as it shifts to its lowest-pressure setting and begins to sprinkle you with cold water. It's like being caught in a gentle rain. In your underwear.
You refuse to squeal. You can't let Moto know you're there. Hopefully she won't hear the shower over her telephone call. You try not to think about the cold water dampening your panties and dripping down between the curves of your breasts.