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The sheer difficulty of the task became clear when Cole realized that he wasn't even going to be able to put on a shirt. The pants, well, he felt like that was obvious. With his sensitivity maxed by his owner, anything touching or wrapping around his genitals would be overwhelming. He'd pulled them off almost immediately as the cloth wrapped around his package, and came, hard, into them, body doubling over as the touch of every fiber felt like the brush of an enthusiastic lover's tongue, the fabric around his cock better than anything he'd ever fucked. But even the shirt, his nipples sending lightning bolts of sensation through his body with every slight movement his chest made inside the shirt, sending Cole into a heap on the floor, clawing off the cloth even as the withdrawal felt like a sensuous tongue up his chest, tracing lines of fire across his skin, his other hand almost instinctively reaching for his junk.
He stopped just in time, fingers clutching the air around his painfully stiff erection. Simon had told him he was forbidden from masturbating until his chore was done. Besides, he knew, with how good even casual touches felt, actual masturbation would likely leave him mindlessly drowning in it, unable to return until Simon came back and found him in a puddle of cum, with no dinner to show for it. It shouldn't be that hard. Dinner wouldn't take much time at all. He had hours to get it done. But.
Simon enjoyed toying with Cole's settings, using Cole's own robotic body against him in their play, tormenting and teasing him as his own body betrayed him at his owner's whim. Cole, now, was dealing with the absolute maximum sensitivity of his body, his tactile sensors at their device limits, the limiters having been carefully removed by his owner's efforts, and every bit of input was being sent right to the pleasure centers. His entire body made to mimic an overstimulated erogenous zone, every inch of skin like touching the head of his cock or brushing his prostate. And then told him to get pancakes made before Simon got home.
It was already distracting, trying to walk across the floor like someone was sensuously massaging Cole's feet. Socks had also been much worse, and at least he could keep moving, keep walking like this, even if it was distracting. After brushing the doorframe and nearly losing his feet, he carefully dodge the corners, the countertops, the carelessly-left-open cupboard. It wasn't hard. On another day, he'd be able to do such a task in minutes. But, he'd taken almost an hour just getting out of bed, trying to get dressed, make his way to the kitchen. His body, naked under the harsh kitchen lights, felt the apartment's AC like Simon's hot breath on his skin in medias res. Cole tried to calm himself, let his heart slow down, as he went for the ingredients, first. It shouldn't be that hard.
Despite knowing how difficult everything had been, just getting there, Cole still hadn't been prepared when he attempted to pick up the bag of flour. The large bag, heavy enough to require a firm grip, ideally support from both hands, jarred him as he picked it up, and overcorrected, bringing it, fatally, to his chest, the crinkly surface pushing against his chest and sending him to his knees, his fingers dropping the bag as he felt his body shamefully erupt again, spilling another overwhelming orgasm onto the floor, wasted seed mixing with the spilt flour. The powder coated his skin, and his body felt it like a delicate touch that shifted with every move he made.
He had to get up, move, get some of this off him, pick up the bag. The flour hadn't spilled completely, he could still work with this, and he could clean up... later. Now was probably impossible. A few false starts, scrabbling against the oddly sensual feeling of the cool tile floor managed to get him to his feet, and he took careful grip, slowly lifting up the bag, clutching it with the smallest grip he could manage, trying to think about anything other than that satisfying weight against his skin. He managed three steps before setting it on the counter, releasing it almost too hurriedly, but the bag managed not to topple again, half-emptied as it was. The return trip was a little easier, though he had to dodge the flour pile. He brought back the baking powder and sugar one at a time, the smaller containers proving less of a challenge as he gripped them between the tips of his thumb and forefinger.
The milk was next, and while he was sure it was going to be a unique challenge, he didn't think it would start with the mere opening of the fridge. Sure, the smooth metal of it pulled a gasp from his lips, but... he nearly collapsed as the wave of cold air stretched out, washing over his chest, his nipples, his cock, like an eager lover, sensation boiling across him, only the repeated orgasms and a careful hand snaking out to grip the countertop saving him from another tumble. He took a moment there, breathing heavily, his cock dripping pre, trying to adjust to the cool air, before he even tried to pick up the milk. It was fresh, possibly last night, but only just opened, heavy and cool from the fridge, and trying to wrap his hand around the plastic handle felt like his fingers were closing around simon's cock, desperate and eager to be painted with his seed. His bracing arm, even if it felt the woodgrain massaging his fingers, held firm as his other hand pulled the milk loose, and he swung it as fast as he could over onto the counter, the liquid sloshing inside the plastic with the force of his movement.
Cole took a moment to breath. He'd have to be more careful with the eggs, but... they weren't as heavy. A delicate touch of a few fingertips carried the carton out, setting it delicately down before Cole could relax, the moan breaking free as he recovered from the strain of it, closing the fridge door with a careful finger.
It was frustrating how even just clutching the measuring spoons made it hard to focus, Cole taking iron-grip control of himself as he pulled loose the flour, the sugar, trying to keep his hands from touching the texture of the ingredients, pouring carefully to not make any further messes. The heavy milk jug, he tipped over without taking the whole weight, managing to only spill slightly on the counter as he topped up the measuring cup. The eggs, however. He needed two of them, and there wasn't even the full six in the carton. He couldn't afford many mistakes, and he wasn't, exactly, a professional chef. The cool, textured egg was enticingly difficult to grip as the insides shifted with his movements, his hand unable to adapt to the pressures of it as he tried not to tighten his fingers around the shell. He tapped it lightly, to no effect, and then, harder. Too hard, overcorrected, the edge of the counter bashing its way into the egg, the shell crumbling in his grip. he reflexively pulled his hand up, back, and felt the mistake before his mind considered what he'd done.
The egg white slid down Cole's hand, a tongue snaking down his skin, then dripping onto his chest, headed downward towards certain doom. Only a desperate arm clutched against his belly stopped it before it passed his hips, and he clawed for napkins. Cleaning himself off took far too long, and another shameful spill came in the wake of the silky caress of the paper, which somehow felt like the softest silks against his flesh, but at least left him clean enough to try again. He grabbed a fork, this time, smashing the egg open above the bowl with a few hits of the side of the tine, accepting the few shards that fell into the batter, and discarding the eggshell into the sink. He was doing his best, and time was ticking away. He managed the second with a little more neatness, at least.
Mixing it was difficult. His body, even rubbing against itself, got overwhelmed too quickly, and so he had to whisk it slowly, carefully, watching the liquids devour the pockets of powder, being careful not to splash or launch powder into the air. The batter came together deliberately, and was given a moment to rest as Cole breathed. Obviously, the batter needed a second to rest. Cole was fine. He could do this. There was plenty of time left.
Turning on the stove was hard, the heat licking his chest. Moving the frying pan needed two hands, an iron will. He carefully pulled out the measuring cup of batter, moving it across the floor like he was moving something radioactive, watching it to try and prevent any spill, pausing whenever the liquid so much as shifted, pouring it out with breathless precision. His body ached from the orgasms, his cock throbbed in the air. He watched the pancake batter like he'd watched the clock in the last class of the day, desperate for it to be done. The bubbles rose up through the batter after what seemed like an eternity, and he gingerly flipped it, managing to make... an acceptable level of mess of it, and waited again. He pulled a plate, body shivering at the cool touch of stoneware under his fingers, gripping it carefully. He couldn't bare to break one, to have to clean that up like this. Leaving the flour was one thing, but shards would need dealing with. He pulled the pancake out onto it. It was malformed, and slightly overdone on one side. But. It was a pancake. Simon could eat it. He reached in, distracted by the revelry, pulling another cup of batter... and felt it snake down his fingers.
Twenty minutes later, Simon came home. The stove was off, and the mess was... less than he'd expected. A single pancake sat on a plate on the counter. Nearby, however, in a pile of flour, sat his robot companion, Cole, feverishly masturbating, body clad in spilled flour and a few rogue splashes of batter, both pancake and his own. Dazedly, Cole looked up at his bemused expression, still stroking himself, and said, in a slurring voice "I wasn't hungry."