Setting Things Straight

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[Original post]

Hey, turns out I’m not actually a story mercenary! Here’s my second story, a trashy romp featuring some guilty pleasures of mine: latex, damage porn, nasty talk and a few twists. Hope you enjoy! :D

The Home Assistant™ was a gripping sight indeed, Carla thought. The housekeeping fembot was clad in an integral black latex catsuit, only a pale rubber face showing behind a semi-transparent hood, somewhat bringing the robot in the vicinity of humanity. Somewhat, as her form-fitting outfit was unnaturally devoid of any ties, zippers, folds and creases, and tightly hugged an unrealistically tight and well-endowed body. She could see why her husband had been falling for it. But as the fembot moved around the kitchen in mechanical strides, elbows bent at right angles, swiftly rotating her limited articulations points, her anger came back. That she had been played by this plastic, mindless gadget was a thought that brought her to the boiling point.

As the fembot rigidly bent over at the waist, its synthetic backside offered itself in all its glory, latex stretching over its computer-optimized curves, she couldn’t take it anymore. As she walked towards it, the fembot stood back up, staring blankly ahead, her mouth in a pouty “O”, seemingly unaware of the enraged woman walking towards her.

“Hey, you fuckthing,” yelled Carla to the fembot, to no avail. “Hey, I’m talking to you, you synthetic bitch.”

Its head unhurriedly rotated to face her interlocutor.

“Oh, I’m sorry, ma’am. I hadn’t registered this expression as one of my callsigns. Would you like me to do so?”

“Don’t play dumb with me. I know Georges’ been fucking you behind my back. I know he’s been upgrading you with all kind of perverted shit,” she said, pointing to a dubious, lone zipper on the machine’s crotch.

“I’m sorry, Mrs. Clarkson, but my relationship with Mr. Clarkson is only professional, and my upgrades are only for making me more work-effi-”

Before she could finish her sentence, her head was slammed onto the steel counter.

“I don’t care if he programmed you to recite this shit or if he just pressed your buttons and you acted as the good little fuck machine you are,” Carla hissed, “you’re as guilty as he is to me.”

“Mrs. Clarkson,” the robot began with its undisturbed monotone, “with all due respect, I think your current actions are way out of line. May I recommend speak-”

“SHUT-THE-FUCK-UP!”, she yelled, punctuating each of her words by smashing the fembot’s head onto the countertop as hard as she could, each hit resonating with an empty plastic thud, the robot’s expression growing more and more emotionless and unfocused. After a few hits, Carla noticed a growing seam between the fembot’s facial hood and the rest of its flawless black shiny head. Grabbing one of the cooking knives nearby, she jammed it into the opening, using it to widen the gap.

As she worked it back and forth like a lever, the metal blade seemingly created short-circuits as it made contact with the various high-precision electronics components behind the facial assembly, creating spasmodic, inhumane expressions, worsening with each twist. Finally, with a forceful lever movement, the last brace broke with a brittle plastic pop, and facemask finally came off. Savagely pulling it off, Carla tore off the remaining cables feeding data and power back and forth to the various sensors and servos, threw it on the ground and repeatedly stomped and stabbed the insulting piece of plastic with her high-heel.

Meanwhile, the fembot had stood back up, and was taking steps back like she was drunk, unable to perceive her environnement. Judging by the blinking lights in her head, the electronic gargling coming out of a half-dead speaker and its twitchy, whirring motions, the fembot was still trying to offer her empty reasoning to her. Losing it at this perceived display of arrogance, Carla slammed the fembot on the countertop again, and slid her to the sink, shoving the exposed electronics into the dish water.

While the Home Assistant™ all-latex covering was advertised as waterproof, Carla doubted this applied with such a gaping hole in the suit, and she was proven to be right when the water lit up with sparks. The fembot, already made twitchy as the beatdown damaged its central unit, went all-out as short-circuited chips sent garbled instructions at random, and various components blew with a cracking noise under the stress. After a moment, the robot finally died down, with the exception of occasional spasms and accompanying electrical noises.

Pulling what remained of the fembot’s head out of the water, Carla checked the cavity behind where its face used to be, checking for any insolent blinking light. The job having been done, she threw the limp machine at the wall. Hitting on its back, the machine slumped down to the floor on its padded ass. Brushing hair out of her face, Carla took a look at the irremediably broken-down android. Even though she had messed it up beyond repairs and exposed it for the worthless lump of silicone and latex it was, she felt its statuesque body still taunted her, with its inhumanly thin waist and ludicrously shapely firm breasts. Furious, Carla began kicking the slumped robot, heels piercing and tearing into the latex covering, revealing silicone padding, servos and motherboards, which she gleefully broke into pieces with the heavy front of her platform shoe.

With the loathsome machine irremediably damaged, she took a break to catch her breath, and heard the bell ring. After quickly wondering if she should drag the wrecked machine out of sight, she decided against it and headed for the door, making sure her hair hadn’t been tousled in the action. But as she prepared to greet her visitors with a sugary and hypocritical welcome, she stopped.

In front of her were two Home Assistant™, one carrying a sports bag with a LaMarquise Robotics logo on it, in all points similar to the one she just took her anger out on. As she took a step back in shock, the two units entered the house. After a beat, they both headed into the kitchen. Regaining her spirits and her anger towards these crass parodies of femininity, Carla followed them.

One of them was standing still in the entrance of the kitchen, arms at her side, staring blankly ahead, while the other was kneeling down in front of her smashed brethren, methodically scanning her. As Carla cautiously entered the room and maneuvered around the two drones, the fembot stood back up, staring straight ahead. A beat passed. Then as it kneeled back down and started to dismantle the ruined robot limb by limb, the other turned around and headed towards Clara. Taking a step back, she found herself against a wall. Trapped, she prepared to swing at the ominous machine, but with a swift motion caught her fist in mid-air, and with its other hand grabbed her face.

With a click, Carla face came off, revealing a hollow and expressionless pit of circuit boards and mechanical components, and her body went stiff. Letting go of her hand and putting down the facial assembly on the countertop, the Home Assistant™ grabbed a cable from its companion’s bag and plugged it into a port in the empty hole of blinking lights and electronics. Reaching for its own face with its empty hand, it removed it with another click, and plugged the other end of the cable into its head.

As the two machine exchanged information and Carla’s programming was rewritten through proxy by the Lamarquise Robotics central mainframe, the other unit broke down the original fembot into pieces for an easier transport. Twisting the legs counter-clockwise, while pressing two specific points on the hip, the leg split at the thigh, revealing a cross-section of silicon padding, alloy endoskeleton and a handful of connectors that the robot dutifully separated before placing the leg into the sports bag.

As it finally removed the head from the torso, it slid the heavily reinforced hard drive out of it, placed it aside and reached for the discarded facemask, eyes crossed and half-open, lips peeled back in an unnatural grin and plastic skin torn off. Meanwhile, the exchange between its companion and Carla ended. Disconnecting itself, the faceless machine turned towards the other Home Assistant™, who picked the old hard drive up and plugged it into the exposed electronics. Another silent moment passed as it held it up, recovering the decommissioned unit’s data. The transfer completed, the unit disconnected the cable with great care, her latex-covered fingers reaching inside her hollow cybernetic head, delicately pulling the cable’s head out of its socket, then picked up and clicked its faceplate back into place. After a moment spent wirelessly exchanging data, the two identical machines parted ways.

While one unit headed back to the LaMarquise Robotics van with the remains of the destroyed Home Assistant™ and Carla’s old programming, the other fixed the synthetic wife back to a human-like look. Throwing her over her shoulder, it carried her to the luxurious living-room, sitting her on the sofa, then went back to the exact spot the previous house’s assistant had been interrupted at, and resumed its activities. Five minutes later, Carla snapped back to her human emulation mode, her hazel eyes flickering as her CPU loaded all the protocols and routine necessary for her operation.

Bored out of her mind as her husband was at work, she headed to the kitchen where she knew she would find the only other “living” thing in the house. Looking at the robot work, she leaned on the doorpost.

The Home Assistant™ was a gripping sight indeed, Carla thought. Looking at its phantasmatic shapes, its provoking outfit and intriguing mechanical movements, she couldn’t help but feel her mouth water...

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