My New PDA
I was at my run-down apartment waiting for a new PDA. It was dark, moist and unkempt – like my career. I was – still am – a freelance graphic designer, and with little luck in finding neither permanent job nor any contracts. People said that I had a degree of talent, but somehow I had trouble making myself known. I tried to improve myself in various ways, even starting to training martial arts to increase my focus and discipline, but I couldn't afford it and eventually I fluked out.
I was two weeks behind the deadline of illustrating a brochure, and as I calculated the rates and the penalty, it became apparent that I would afford the rent for the flat – and given that it was a shithole, why even try. I also had some projects on the backburner, but since I'd end up on streets sooner or later, so I'd rather browse internet and read shitty porn stories. And among these I spotted an ad – "our product will make you disciplined and motivated in no time". I was intrigued. If you can't trust a pop-up add on a porn forum, who can you trust? The company promised a revolutionary new device that could increase my productivity, help to create good habits and get rid of the bad ones… but to be fair, I was so mesmerized by the beautiful babes on their website, that I paid little attention to the product itself. The reviews on the website were enthusiastic, so I bit the bullet and ordered one. Only a couple of days later I realized that I don't know what the device actually looked like. I guess even if it was a scam, it would teach my a valuable lesson nonetheless; but a couple of days later, they contacted me and told to be present in my flat at 4 PM. I don't often go out, even when I can afford it, so there was no problem with that.
I didn't clean my flat – what would be the point, for a delivery man? I checked my watch, and just as the seconds changed, I heard knocking on the door. I opened it to find a large cardboard box that barely fit inside the door. I signed the form, and tried to reel the box in. Why was this so heavy? I reached for my pocket knife and opened the box. Inside, buried among the Styrofoam chips, was a middle-aged, beautiful woman with a mane of fiery, auburn hair (later I noticed that they were elegantly dyed grey near her temples). She was dressed in a black leather suit, and as I lifted her out I felt tough, muscular shapely body. She was cold, but I sensed the artificial skin. That was a fembot, a machine.
So this was this PDA? If that was it… her… I guess it was a bargain for a fembot, and I could see how having an android assistant would improve my life. She could clean and cook while I'd work. I browsed the manual (she also came with two large suitcases) and activated the bot. She stretched her arms to sides… smashing the flimsy cardboard box, causing the (remaining) contents to spill on the floor. In one fluid move, she jumped onto 7 inch-tall heels of her black, thigh-length leather shoes, and stared at me.
"Are you David?", she said in a low voice, while flicking of specks of dirt and Styrofoam off her imposing leather costume.
"Er… yes?"
"Pleased to meet you. My name is Mrs Miranda Hartford, and I am your new PDA. I will help you achieve you goals and motivate you to work effectively. To begin, you need to sign these documents." From her purse she pulled out a thick booklet of a contract. I started to skim it, but in the end I signed it in the marked spots. She grinned with her pearly white teeth.
"Very well. You have agreed to the corrective disciplinary regimen. We shall start with the personal training. You need to lick the travelling dust off my shoes."
I shook my head. That was not warranted.
"What if I won't?"
She laughed, and walked to me, he long heels clicking slowly against the dirty floor.
"Then I'll turn myself off." She stood behind me and put her hand on my shoulder. "I'm a machine, David, programmed to do whatever is demanded of me. If you don't want to comply, just tell me to switch off."
"So, it's that simple?"
"Of course." She pouted, narrowing her eyes. "Only…"
"Only what?", I asked.
"Well, for starters, you've thrown away your money on a product you're never going to use", she continued in angelic, sweet voice. "It also means, that you don't want even to riks any effort that is actually proven to help, that you refuse any assistance." She gestured me to bend over and went on whispering. "You also don't want to use a companion that's devoted to you. Especially a fembot… which gives… amazing… head…"
I hesitated. She was good. She was smart. An android manager could help me, and if she was a bot? That'd be one more relationship, bringing it to a total of… one. Plus she was my robot now, and I could always turn her off. Even reprogram though it would probably void the warranty.
While I was pondering it, she, still smiling serenely with her carmine lips, graciously sat down in my work chair at the computer and crossed her shapely legs. Smug, egocentric and in control. Could she be trusted? What kind of question was that? She was a machine and you can't mistrust a car or a shovel… But was I or she in control…
I knelt on one knee and gently kissed the tip of her black shoe. Miranda purred with satisfaction. "Lick it. Lick it clean. Speaking of cleaning, we'll start with cleaning this dump."
I liked it. I liked her stern, authoritative self-confidence. I liked the fact that her shoes – and probably herself – were brand new and clean. It was all a mock-up, I suddenly understood. Establishing hierarchy and suchlike. It's a tradition, or an old charter or something. It was like in prison, I mused as my tongue slid on the fembot's shapely calves, and I got to be the bitch.
Miranda nodded with pride, and reached to my work PC. With a weird, audible click, she bent her right wrist from which a Firewire port emerged. She plugged herself into my computer! "Admin privileges obtained." She exclaimed in a playful tone of voice. "Downloading data relevant for the corrective regimen. Downloading." She shooed me away from her legs, spread them apart. Starting to rub her labia over her tough latex skirt. "My, you are a nasty one, David. Analysing. Analysing. Controlling. Installing control software… oohhh, that feels good."
She smoothed out her mane of red hair, stood up and looked at me with a jaded smirk. "Aren't you a little piece of crap?" she laughed. She lighted up a cigarette and started to stride around the room.
"I have insinuated myself", she went on "as your main internet router and admin on your sole workstation – and all mobile devices in your home network. I control your entire IP, and will allow you work-related connection, plus some free time for good behavior. Every 30 minutes you will be forced to take a 5 minute break for exercise, snacking and etiquette practice with me."
Etiquette? 5 minute breaks?
"I am programmed to value your financial privacy", she went on, and I felt a glimmer of hope. "But it conflicts with my basic function to organize lifestyle. Therefore I installed a new bank account in your name and informed your contrahents to use that one. When necessary, I shall transfer money to your main account."
My printer suddenly came to life. "Right now you need to obtain the items on this grocery list. I don't eat and came equipped with adequate supplies. This is a healthy balanced diet that will ensure you'll lose weight, completed with physical activities."
She sat down comfortably on my bed and begun rattling through her suitcases. "Hell's Belles, you're still here? Chop-chop."