4.50 - Office Pace
I looked down at the checklist. "Okay, Monica," I said to the statuesque woman, "I just need you to walk to the water cooler and back."
"Sure, Jane," she said, nodding. "Whatever you say." She set off at a purposeful pace, neither hurried nor leisurely, her stride placing each foot directly in front of the other. This caused her hips to move to and fro as she walked, gently swishing the light fabric of her miniskirt. Her arms swung casually with each step.
She reached the water cooler, then deftly spun on the toe of one low-heeled shoe, momentarily flaring her skirt immodestly. I made a note of the motion on the list. Her returning walk was virtually indistinguishable from her outward walk, save for the moment she made eye contact with me. At this, she brushed a lock of hair out of her eyeline and smiled wide. I noted this action as well.
"Good," I told her, "now without the skirt and blouse."
"Okay," she said, already moving to remove the garments. She hung them on a single coat hook under a plaque which read "Test subject use only." To the left of this, a printed page had been affixed to the wall. It showed a photograph of a massively oversized women's purse, hanging on that same hook. A bright red "X" had been drawn through the photograph. The photo bore the caption:
TEST SUBJECTS DON'T BRING HANDBAGS, SHEILA
Wearing only a simple black bra and matching panties, Monica took her place at the start mark on the carpet, and began walking to the cooler again. The stride was noticeably different this time, as she intentionally swayed her hips in a sensual rhythm. Midway into the trip to the cooler, she planted her hands on her hips, and began animating her shoulders, rolling them in a circular motion backwards. It was an appealing effect, and I had to exert some self control to keep my arousal at bay. I scribbled down the observable differences in Monica's body language.
She turned at the cooler, and I could see her facial expression was one of pure desire. Upon making eye contact with me, she brought one hand up, tracing her fingers from the base of her neck to between her breasts. She then ran her hands down her sides, down below her hips, and around to her butt. This also had the effect of sticking her breasts out further. I made a note suggesting we add a more customized partner recognition response. We tried not to use the pre-installed routines, since they had almost no variation.
"Peters got you on testing again, I see." Kyle's voice startled me, and I briefly felt a moment of embarrassment, like I had been caught misbehaving. This is your job, I had to remind myself, it's okay for you to enjoy it, just don't get carried away.
"The sneaky devil," I replied, laughing. "Ever since I took over as -testing- manager for the entire -testing- division, it's almost like he thinks my job has something to do with -testing-."
"You're the manager, Jane," he said, a sympathetic frown on his face, "the actual testing is for your subordinates."
Not if I really enjoy it, I thought to myself. "We've never dealt with this model before," I said. "Visage likes to switch up their pre-set behavior pattens between hardware revisions." I tried to ignore the lingerie-model poses Monica was cycling through in her idle state. "I'm not going to recommend we buy 1500 units unless I'm confident that they can potentially run at our expected performance levels." I showed him the clipboard. "It's possible the complexity of required adjustments will make the Visage Girl90 cost-impractical for general use."
He flipped through the lists I had compiled. "Looks like the hardware is good. Most of this is just software tweaks. Is she running one of our packages?" Before I could answer, he turned to Monica. "Hey cute thing, like the outfit, wanna see how it looks tossed into the corner?"
Monica smiled warmly. "You're a real sweet-talker, aren't you? Ask nicely, and I might be up for it."
"Don't initiate a scenario while I'm testing!" I swatted at him playfully with a rolled up paper.
"Ow, ow, ow, okay, ow, I give up!" He laughed, then smiled that winning smile of his. "Still, it looks like we could just install some of our existing programs, test the hardware, and call it a day. This looks like a spec sheet for a whole new persona package."
"I know, right?" I nodded. "Peters has been really weird about this model. No one seems to know what his plan is, but he made a big push for testing, and said he didn't think anyone else could do the job." I turned back to the nearly naked girl. "Basic aerobics next, Monica."
"Ooh, mind if I watch?" Kyle asked, rubbing his hands together like an old broadcast theatre villain.
"Gosh, I wish I worked in accounting," I said in an exaggerated voice, "then I would have enough free time to wander all the way across the complex just to watch a peep show with a coworker."
He blinked, a sincere, disappointed look on his face. "I come to be social." There was an awkward pause, then he grinned as Monica began doing jumping jacks. "I stay for the peep shows."
"Well the real show starts when I start on her sexual features," I said. "Since I need to finish this no later than first thing in the morning, that means I'll probably be here pretty late." I sighed, only half disappointed at the prospect. Sure, it would be fun, but a dark, empty office is just plain gloomy.
"You selling tickets?" He smirked.
I rolled my eyes. "Only one performer here, Kyle. But stop on by later. I could use the company."
There was that smile again.
"But how do you resolve the fundamental dichotomy this presents?" I asked. A few of the other party guests were observing our debate in rapt attention. I knew they would do so regardless of the situation, but part of me liked to pretend that it was due to our body-hugging cocktail dresses.
Monica gestured as she spoke. "There is none. The free will doesn't exist as a component of the physical form, it exists as the perception of events experienced by the physical form."
"Aaand that's a repeat back to branch twelve," I said, noting the conversational pathway on my hand-drawn diagram. "Well, it's not going to publish any award-winning research papers, but 96 nodes is enough to cover philsophical debate in a casual setting. Monica, do you have anything else to say in this subject area?"
Monica smiled. "No, Jane. I have no further responses in my installed libraries." She went into a sales pitch. "Additional libraries are available. Your ARA can converse at a college level, draw abstract connections between literary themes, or even randomly generate philosophical debate topics on-the-fly. 9 out of 10 philosophy professors found this package at least as competent as a B+ student. For only..."
"Stop talking," I said casually, as I looked over my notes. "Well, that about covers conversation samples," I said, tapping my pen on my leg. I pretended not to be excited for this next part. "Time to check your sexual functions."
I lead her out of the simulated cocktail party, weaving my way through the small crowd of simulated guests. Erica approached me as I neared the exit. "Oh, don't tell me you have to go already. You will join us for the bike run, won't you, dear?"
"Blah blah blah," I replied in an enthusiastic tone.
Erica grinned. "That's wonderffffffffff..." she froze, then suddenly came to life again. "Oh, don't tell me you have to go already."
I turned off the light switch, also deactivating the permanent guests. Erica attempted to say "that's wonderful" again, but her voice dropped to an incomprehensible drone as soon as the room went dark. We really needed to get a new Erica. This one had really worn out over the years, but was kept as a tradition. I didn't see why. The more recent Ericas had double the performance specs and half the pricetag. And, I thought to myself, a more realistic vagina and an ass I could spank for hours.
As I expected, everyone else had gone home for the night, and most of the lights were out. I led Monica by the hand down the main hallway, past the sign which read "Intimate Testing and Development", and into the complex which no one ever referred to as "Intimate Testing and Development." There were plenty of nicknames for it, ranging from the corny to the vulgar. My favorite was "Sex Squad Headquarters," but that was partly because I suggested it, and it became popular for a while. The current office favorite was "Fuck Central Station." I gave it a week, tops.
The main room was a large laboratory with a high ceiling, and stairs leading up to an overhead walkway. Along this walkway were six evenly spaced doors, each leading to an apartment-sized living area. During the day, at least four of these would be in use pretty much non-stop all day. Right now, I had the place to myself. I walked with Monica, her spike heels echoing in the large space, my wedge heels making a kind of "clop" sound. It wasn't actually required for us to have dressed up for the fake party, but I enjoyed playing dress-up. Besides, Monica was a knockout in her skin-tight black gown, and I liked to think that I didn't look half bad in my little red number.
And then, of course, there was what Monica had on under that dress. According to the wardrobe department, I was the only one who ever checked them out. It made me wonder why they were there in the first place. I was so excited, I had to keep myself from watching her get changed just so I would still be able to finish the other tests first.
We headed up the steps. I lagged behind a bit, letting Monica take the lead - in part because I would have thought Kyle would show up, but also to check out Monica as she climbed the stairs. The cocktail gown's slit gave me a sneak preview of my treat to myself. To anyone else, it would just look like she was wearing stockings or opaque hose. An anticipatory shiver ran through me. I chose the room closest to the top of the stairs, unlocking it automatically with the transmitter I wore on my bracelet.
Before the door was even fully closed, I nearly pounced on her, covering her neck and lips with eager, pleading kisses. She reciprocated, running a hand through my hair, and throwing her head back to give me greater access to her chest. I felt something rubbing up the back of my leg, and immediately recognized it as Monica's leg. I luxuriated in the sensation of the smooth, stretchy fabric of her leggings gliding silkily across the fabric of my own tights.
I spun her around, flinging the skirt to one side to expose her rear end, clad in the same stretchy fabric. The dark black of the leggings contrasted with the bright red of the area around her pelvis. I gave her ass a firm smack, and she writhed in pleasure. I smacked again, and she let out restrained gasp. It was meant to sound as though she was enjoying it, but trying not to show it. One more smack and... "Ah!" She cried out, "Yes!" Same responses as the previous model then.
My hands clutched her butt cheeks through the tight fabric. I ran one hand down the cleft of her ass to the gap between her parted legs. As I touched her delicately, she suddenly bit her lip and sucked in air in a sensual gasp. It's more realistic than their previous models, I thought to myself, but that response has been part of an open-source package for years now.
I couldn't stand it any more. I unzipped her dress as quickly as I could, pulling it down to reveal the skin-tight outfit she wore beneath. It was a collision of contrasting primary red and black, with yellow accents. I knew every inch of that costume well. I'd seen it hundreds, if not thousands of times from every conceivable angle, and in every conceivable pose. It was one of the costumes which had stirred my sexuality in ways that boys and girls never had, back during my teenage years. I turned her around to face me.
She was every inch the curvaceous, athletic woman of mystery I knew so well. She was the defender of the Fontana Colony. She was Nightengale Burns, common laborer by day, crimefighter by night. She was NightFire.
I nearly came just stroking her body.
I didn't know what it was about costumed heroes - primarily heroines - that got me all hot and bothered. Maybe it was the audacity of clothing which completely covers while being completely revealing. Maybe it was the thought of the smooth, thin texture, one last microscopic layer preventing skin-on-skin contact, but allowing one to caress and explore their lover's every curve. I was only barely bisexual with real people, preferring real guys to real girls any day of the week. But give me a comic book full of shapely women wearing skin-hugging tights, and I would be excusing myself to somewhere private within minutes. I didn't just want to wear the clothes, I wanted to touch those girls.
It was the same with ARAs. Mandroids built to pander to women's most shameless fantasies left me cold. But a cute girlbot like Monica here would completely set me off with the slightest hint of sexuality. I gave them orders, and they obeyed. I had them give me orders, and I obeyed. There was no fantasy too extreme or surreal for them, and they could perfectly mimic the costumed characters from those early fantasies, years ago - and they were always available to share with another partner or two. Even out of the form-fitting comic costumes, I found female ARAs to be unaccountably erotic.
"Tits," I said, barely able to contain myself. I was impressed that Monica was able to pick out the implicit "show me your..." portion of the command, reminding myself to write that down later. She pulled the elastic fabric of her neckline down to expose her full, round breasts. I needed to feel those against my body, and feel her hands on my own breasts, through the material of my own costume. I nearly tore off my dress, revealing the red and blue of GloryGal, champion of ancient Greece. We writhed and kissed against the wall for nearly half an hour, and her tongue motion routines only looped once. Not bad, but there were comparable models with double that cycle length.
Monica shocked me by pulling away. "You're so beautiful," she said, gazing into my eyes. "Let me tell you a secret." I leaned in, puzzled. "You'll like this," she said, cupping my cheek with one hand. She suddenly lunged closer to my ear,
"He craves you every day," she whispered, "longing to feel your sweet caress and taste your lips on his. He sees you every day from afar," she continued, reaching down to massage me between my legs, "knowing that you don't know how he feels." She licked my ear, teasingly. "He is constantly surrounded by playthings like me, but you are the focus of his passions. He is amazed at your talent, your beauty, and your kindness. He may enjoy many things, but you are the only one who could make him happy." Her fingers were moving between my legs in a regular pattern that made me roll my eyes back. "Can he make you happy?"
"Huh-who is ah-he?" I asked between breaths.
"If you want to find out, you should look..." Her hand stopped. I was momentarily worried it was a battery life issue, but then she resumed. "behind you," she said.
I turned. Kyle stood in the door. He spread his hands wide. "Will you have me?" He asked, a meek expression on his face.
I growled at him hungrily. "Stop talking," I said, "and get in here and fuck us."
He did.
The next day at work, I was putting together the follow-up details from Monica's feature tests. Monica sat demurely on the diagnostic bench in my office, wearing the dress she had been shipped with. Her hands rested in her lap. Her head rested on the console across the room, where I was downloading the runtime data to send to development for debugging.
My phone rang, and I kicked at the console, sliding my wheeled desk chair across the room to my desk, picking up the phone. "Hello?'
"Jane, did I tell you about our new textile fabricator?" It was Deb, my friend in the wardrobe department.
"Don't think that's been part of our conversations in the past, Deb," I said, puzzled as to where she was going with this.
"Absolutely amazing machine," she commented, "it can completely print out a hundred of your character costumes a minute, or repair wear and tear on as many as five hundred already-printed costumes in the same amount of time." She sounded like she was doing some calculations. "Let's see, if we left it running nonstop for a whole week, we'd have just over a million outfits like those."
"You going somewhere with this, Deb?" I asked, baffled.
"Slow down on tearing crotch-holes in them every time. We can't keep up."
"Very funny," I said, "maybe you should take my suggestion and print them with the hole already there?"
"Because we have six outfits like that, and you never check them out," she answered. "I think you enjoy tearing them up."
"Don't make me disable your AI, girlfriend," I threatened, jokingly.
"Like they would program a 'bot with an attitude like mine, and put her in wardrobe, of all places? Please," she laughed. "I'm no robot, but the more you use the same cornball line, the more I think you might be one."
I was bluffing, of course. She certainly was a robot, I knew for a fact. I had personally assembled her from the custom-designed individual components (each shipped separately - she had just been a head, a torso, and a left leg for six weeks), and performed her skill audit testing. I even supervised when they had crated her up, taken her to Wardrobe, and unpacked her there. We'd transferred her nude, as usual, so we just booted her into a passive personality profile and told her to get dressed. Once she had done so, I gave the command to start her main profile, and just like that, she went from compliant object to the sarcastic, constantly complaining woman I knew. I had grown to consider her a close friend. I only ever disabled her AI to test upgrades.
"Anyway," she continued, "I wanted to mention, we found some other body fluid traces on these costumes. Anything you want to tell me?" Her tone was overtly gossipy.
"Maybe I'll tell you later, if you model a new outfit for me," I teased. "Something that really shows off that ass of yours."
"Sounds like my time at the gym is paying off," she laughed. "I'll stop by later today. I'll see you then!" The line clicked. We probably should look into updating her phone etiquette apps, I thought.
The download of the audio-visual data from Monica's head had completed. I opened the file, and was confused to discover that it was over eleven hours long. We only logged ten hours of testing, and the receiving crew always cleared the sensory cache before delivering for testing. She should only have logged from the time I activated her in my office yesterday, to the time I deactivated her that night. Curious, I started playback. A message appeared on the screen:
Jane: If you are reading this, it means you declined the invitation. If you ever change your mind, the offer has no expiration date. Yours forever, An admirer
That was odd. Kyle hadn't made an invitation, he had just shown up. Monica even identified him directly. What was that all about?
The message disappeared, replaced by the scrolling code of Monica's boot-up sequence. I expected this to resolve to show my face looking at her, but instead it showed Kyle's. The audio feed blipped into distinguishable sounds.
"...hell is Peters playing at? We don't have any upcoming product cycles," he said, scrutinizing her face. "This is some kind of joke, isn't it?" He looked around, reaching out-of-frame to close the door, then directly addressed Monica. "Your name is Slutbot," he said. "My name is master. Slutbot, tell me your current instructions."
As Monica spoke, her words also scrolled across the bottom of the display in text."
"Yes, master. I am to await testing by Jane. During sexual testing, I am to play a message for her. When she asks me a question, I am to play a second message."
"Play the first message for me, slutbot."
"Yes, master. He craves you every day..." I was floored. It was the message from last night. Kyle had nothing to do with it. What was going on here?
A look of rage covered Kyle's face. "No, no, no, you can't have her you bastard, she's mine! Stay away, she belongs to me!" A ball of fear and shame began to fill the pit of my stomach. This was how he felt about me yesterday morning - long before any romantic encounter. We hadn't ever done anything other than mild flirting, and he thought of me as property.
"Play me the second message, you worthless, mindless slutbot," he growled at her.
"Yes, master. If you want to find out," Monica began, "you should look in the top drawer of your desk. No strings, if you don't want to know, ignore this whole message, and I won't bother you again. If it makes you happy, just put it behind you."
Kyle squinted at Monica's face, his expression inscrutable. He turned to my desk, seeking the drawer mentioned in the message. Inside, he found a pale blue envelope, the size of an event invitation. Tearing open the envelope, he pulled out the card inside and read it. I paused the feed, tracking in on the card and magnifying the image at maximum. I resumed playback at half speed, ready to freeze frame on the card when it became legible.
It never did. Zoomed in on the card, I didn't see Kyle's expression, but the half-speed audio played a clearly distinguishable "Yyoouu wwoonntt ttaakkee hheerr ffrroomm mmee!!" With that, he stuffed the card into his jacket's inside pocket. I switched back to normal speed. Kyle seethed for a few moments, then smiled the angriest smile I'd ever seen. "I can work with this," he said, pulling out his hand comp.
He approached Monica, reaching towards her face above her eyes, then peeled down her dermal cover. He then moved his hand just to the right of the camera view. Suddenly, the feed went black, then switched to a slightly different angle. The hard link port behind the right eye, I realized. He connected a cable from his comp to the port, and began tapping away at his keypad. Lines of commands scrolled across the bottom of the screen, and I watched him remove the middle section of the second message.
He had Monica play the message again, confirming his changes, then began tidying up, reverting his initial name assignments in the process. Once everything was back in place - except, I reminded myself, the note - he reached to the left of the camera's view, holding a long, thin activator tool. The image once again went black, then showed the bootup sequence again, this time resolving to my face. I muted the feed. What had I done? Worse, what had Kyle done? What kind of person was he?
"Hey babe, ready for lunch?" Kyle called from my office door. I stared at him, feeling like I was in freefall. I jumped the video back to his actions, turning the vidscreen to face him.
"What is this?" I asked.
A look of... fear? Resentment? Anger? - flashed on his face. "I can't believe it. I can't believe he would go that far."
"Who?" I had no idea what he was talking about.
"Peters, of course." What did Peters have to do with any of this? "Can you imagine the nerve of it all, spying on us in our private moment, then creating this computerized rendering to break us apart! At least it isn't a very realistic model. I don't think anyone would look at this and believe it was an actual recording. It's insulting to our intelligence!" He calmed a bit.
I came around my desk to stand next to him, watching the video again. "So... you didn't do any of that?" I asked. I could cope with that, if it was true. It was outlandish, but more comfortable than the alternative.
"Of course not," he said, dismissively. "We're both above this kind of manipulation. Just put it behind you."
I felt another stab of anxiety as he said this, and looked at him. He was still staring at the screen. "It barely even looks like me, see?" He said, pointing. The motion draped open his jacket, showing me the inside pocket. A pale blue invitation-sized envelope stuck out of it. I snatched it, and Kyle suddenly looked truly afraid. "Don't read that, Jane, I forbid it." He tried to grab it back, but I avoided him, opening the envelope.
The card inside read:
Jane Meet me at the blue lab after five. Any day. Your admirer
"Get out," I told him.
"Jane, please, I may not have written those things, but that really is how I feel about you, can't we..."
"Get out!"
He screwed up his face in rage. "You're already fucking him, aren't you? No, let me guess, you have to start out just sucking his cock, then work your way up to fucking." He sneered at me. "You're not even worth it, you whore."
"Get OUT!" I bellowed. I resisted the urge to slap him.
"You didn't mind me calling you that during your sick costume fantasy last night. I guess it stings more when it's true."
I wasn't able to resist the urge to punch him hard enough to break his nose.
I didn't wait until five, and went straight upstairs to the Blue Lab. To almost every employee, the Blue Lab was just a locked door that no one opened. I'd heard reports that we had sub-let the space to another company, and other reports that it was an abandoned area that some clever employee had secretly transformed into a home. There were even rumors that it was a super-advanced research division, staffed entirely by experimental prototype ARAs. As my bracelet transmitter unlocked and automatically slid open the featureless doors, I learned it was none of those things.
It was a museum, filled with the most beautiful ARAs I had ever seen, dressed in the most faithful recreations of comic character costumes I had ever seen. I spotted Katt Liat, the Feline Fatale. Beyond, Motley and Punchline, the jester-themed residents of the techno-fantasy world, Source Realm. The exhibits wound around the great space, hundreds of my favorite characters - and costumes - on display.
"Jane?" An unseen, male voice called, "is that you?" The voice was unsteady, as if shaken by a traumatic event.
"Hello?" I called.
"Oh good," the voice said, a wave of relief clearly audible in the words. "I was afraid you'd turned me down." He sniffed, "Silly, I know, I mean, you're always so dedicated to your job..."
"What is all this?" I asked.
"It's my collection," he said, his voice brightening a bit as I wandered the aisles trying to find him. The acoustics were dizzying. "I got a little fixated on them when I was a boy. The day I bought my first ARA, I had her wear Lady Hive's costume all day. I nearly passed out from dehydration."
He took a clearing breath. "I'd practiced a speech, all amateur poetry and romantic imagery, but... I'm not going to sugarcoat this. You need to know what kind of person I am, warts and all."
He sighed. "I'm an eternal child who loves playing dress-up and make-believe. I'm a perpetual teenager who constantly fantasizes about sex with beautiful women, and acts out those fantasies frequently with ARAs. I'm irresponsible, lecherous, and depraved." I turned a corner, finding a thin, suited man facing away from me. It was strange, seeing a full-grown-man professional so thoroughly overcome with emotion.
I considered what he had said, and knew what I needed to say. It wasn't going to be easy.
"So am I," I said. "Every part."
He spun. It was Mr. Peters. That made sense. He would have to have resources to put together this collection. I walked towards him. "I'm not done. There's more you should know," he said, startled.
"I'm listening," I said, smiling.
"I like to control."
"I like to obey." My smile widened.
"I like multiple partners," he said. Like there were guys who didn't.
"Me too," I said. I held up a cautioning finger. "But only one guy." He laughed.
"I like to watch."
"I like to show off," I said, spreading my arms wide as I approached him.
"I'm... turned on by them." He gestured around at the immobile ARAs. "By the fact that they're robots."
I started to cry, overjoyed. I took him in my arms, and he wrapped his around me. "Me too." I said.
He was shaking with silent sobs. "I'm clueless how to please a real woman," he choked out.
I was shaking too. "Tell you what, Mr. Peters," I said. "You tell me what to do, and I'll tell you what I like."
He took a few deep breaths. "Call me Kirk," he said. I heard the note of hope in his voice.
"I like that, Kirk," I said obediently.
I called him Kirk many, many times that night. I liked it a lot.