If you’re a more practically minded android they likely seem kind of pointless at first. Just excess mass on the frame, and the weird stigma of one more unnecessary part to mirror the hubris of your creators’ image. But maybe you hear how useful they can be, how the nanotech in them can really help with internal hardware quick-fixes. You decide to get a small, low-key pair, just in case.

As the technicians plug their sensory line into your neural systems you’re overwhelmed with tactile sensation— an amped-up sensitivity to touch and temperature on them, and the buzzy, warm feeling of millions of tiny nanites swarming in the gel that fills the breasts. Your breasts, you correct yourself. Custom detailing always feels a little strange afterwards.

Later that evening, as you’re lounging in your charging dock, you can’t stop playing with them. Groping and teasing them. Pinching and coaxing the tender, sensitive nipples until they leak tiny rivulets of bluish discharge. You can’t quite put a point on why venting excess nanite fluid feels good or what functional purpose it serves, but something is telling your brain that you could definitely explore this all night.

And eventually, after your core systems cycle down and enter sleep mode, your peripherals are still all keyed up. The nanites churn and swarm inside of your new breasts, remembering the signals of satisfaction and positive reinforcement that bounced between them and your brain when you were touching yourself.

It’s obvious you were into it— you literally can’t lie to them. And the way this uncountable legion of tiny construction engines sees it, more of a good thing is good for the whole system, right?

So they get to work.

When you wake up, your gyroscope is the first thing to ping you that there’s something different about your body. Your modest breasts have swollen in the night. They’re big enough now that they don’t fit entirely in your hand when you try to grab them, and their nipples are puffy and bloated, already leaking neon blue streams of gel.

As you try (and fail) to button your shirt over them, you realize every glancing touch and brush of fabric against them makes the urge to milk in the back of your mind louder, cutting through your thoughts like a hot knife through plastic. These aren’t just breasts, they’re __tits.__ And they’re not about to just get ignored.

So, before you go about your day, you try and get this little chore out of the way. But this time, the sensations are a lot more vivid and arresting. You find yourself groping that _other_ piece of hardware you figured was a frivolous addition to your chassis, until it wasn’t.

Lying back on your couch, body wet and sticky with nanite gel, one hand switching off between milking one overfilled hip and then the other while your other hand furiously teases and grinds against your cunt’s tender, synthetic little clit, you honestly can’t think of anything else right now other than what you’re doing. All parallel processes have ceased.

You’re completely entranced, focused exclusively on fulfilling your sizzling, aching carnal needs.

Later you’ll find a tank top that fits, just barely, and you’ll valiantly try to accomplish your daily routine. But every stranger’s eyes reflexively travel down to your chest when you’re talking with them, and every friend compliments you on your marvelously outré new hardware. You blush, maybe taking a deep breath to strain that poor overburdened blue-stained top of yours a little further.

“But why?” they ask. “What are they even for?” You smile and think of how much more you could milk out of yourself with others helping, thinking about chests swelling and blue running down lips as your enthusiasm infects your entire social circle over time. Pretty soon it’ll be all any of you can ever think about: walking avatars of pure synthetic sex with horny, giggling AIs along for the ride.

Oh, these are good for all KINDS of things, you tell your friends. Would they all like to see for themselves?