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Valerie
F, mind-control
"Valerie-bot, clean this room." Owner said with a wave of his arm. They left without any further acknowledgement.
Valerie glanced around the living room, noting the obvious. Dirty plates left out, discarded packaging on the floor, dust everywhere, all this had to be dealt with. Her programming was very clear on this: Owner's orders must be carried out without hesitation.
Big things first, it was decided. Valerie moved to the discarded packaging, gathering it in one graceful swoop. Heels clicking on tile, Valerie disposed of it and smoothed out the maid uniform. Cleanliness in all things. As the waste vanished into the bin, Valerie felt a tickle of pleasure deep inside. This is what Valerie was made for. Service guarantees pleasure.
Without any other thoughts, Valerie collected the dishes, taking them to the sink for a rinse, then setting them on the ultrasound dryer. Sonic vibrations would remove food particles and sanitize the ware. Another tickle of pleasure. Valerie smoothed out her uniform, guaranteeing pleasure.
There were a few other tasks Valerie completed, hanging coats, taking laundry to its bin, straightening remotes, and data tablets. With each came the tickle of pleasure, affirming that Valerie was fulfilling purpose, guaranteeing pleasure. There was something so right about bringing order to Owner's home.
Finally, Valerie could begin dusting. Dusting was a wonderful chore. A long, empty task that did not require many thoughts. It allowed Valerie to enjoy a long, slow, steady tickle of pleasure. Valerie loved service, it guaranteed pleasure. All was good.
A flick of the wrist, and the feather duster touched a dormant picture frame. The data tablet flicked on, displaying a picture. It was Owner. Owner was frozen in the image with a woman. Both smiling. Owner looked like Valerie felt, tickled with pleasure, full of service.
The woman in the picture, though, made Valerie blink. The woman smiled, but there was something else on her face too. A sadness. Valerie tried to remember what to do in situations of sadness. Service. Service guaranteed pleasure.
Valerie reached out to the picture frame, eager to turn it off; there was no pleasure in sadness. Instead, Valerie picked up the data tablet. The sadness was contagious, infecting. The act of picking up, of holding the picture, caused a different kind of tickle, something dark and foreboding. Valerie looked at the woman. She was not Owner, not on his list. She was not anyone Valerie had been programmed to obey. She was a mystery. A sad mystery that Valerie did not like. And yet... something...
Valerie placed the data tablet face down so it could not be seen. With the problem gone, Valerie wondered why the sadness, the bad tickle, lingered. She turned away from the cabinets and moved through Owner's home, getting far, far away from the sadness.
The bed. Owner's bed. It occupied the bedroom. Dominated it. Last night Owner had brought Valerie here, asked her to strip, to dance, to attend to Owner's needs. Valerie had been immersed in pleasure. So many tasks of service and joy. Like the many times before it. Valerie was proud of her service, of her pleasure. The sadness seemed to dissipate.
Valerie turned and entered Owner's bathroom. It was a mess. A delightful mess. Valerie would have many moments finding service and pleasure here.
Turning to the sink, Valerie saw an image in the mirror. It was the woman. The sad woman. Valerie shuddered. No, it was Valerie in the mirror. But it wasn't, it was a sad Valerie in the mirror. Valerie watched as her mirror image, the image of the sad woman, blinked. As Valerie watched the sad woman blink, Valerie also blinked, as did the sad woman, and so did Valerie.
"Smile!" Owner's brother shouted. A flash. Valerie was in a place that was not her Owner's home. Owner's brother took a picture of Valerie and Owner. But Valerie was not Valerie, she was someone else, someone consumed with sadness. The room tilted. Greyness crept into the edges of her vision. Valerie was Valerie, not sadness. Valerie tried to understand what sad woman had done to Valerie. Everything seemed backwards, the mirror to the sad woman looming and making the room spin.
Valerie staggered from the bathroom. Back into Owner's room. The pleasure room. Service room. Holding out her hands, Valerie gripped the top of a dresser. She needed an anchor, something to stop the errant thoughts, to stop the spinning.
A single page lay on top of the dresser. At the top, Valerie made out the words, "Dear John,..." There were many more words, but the spinning made it difficult to read. At the bottom, Valerie saw the signature, "With love always, Cindy."
Cindy was the sad woman, not Valerie. Cindy had caused this mess, this error in programming. Valerie was Valerie, not Cindy. The spinning slowed. Valerie was now sure of it. Cindy, not Valerie, was the sadness. All things Cindy must be erased.
Valerie crumpled the paper in one hand with an angry glee. Heels clicked on tile as she straightened the maid uniform. Valerie strode back to the living room. Sweeping up the picture, Valerie tossed both into the bin. A press of a button and they were incinerated. She had cleaned up Cindy's mess. Tickles of pleasure. Valerie provided service.
When cleaning Owner's house was finished, Valerie went to Owner's bedroom and waited patiently. Valerie knew that when Owner returned, he would be proud of her service. He would tell Valerie to undress, to dance, to strip him. He would push Valerie down onto the bed, tear at her clothes, demand she say the sad words that Cindy once used to say, and then he would take her. He would become an animal, fucking her hard, mercilessly, pounding into her with abandon until he howled out loudly and filled her with warm, loving fluids, his essence. And Valerie knew that when he did this, Valerie would be tickled, would know unending pleasure.
This is where Valerie belonged. Service guaranteed pleasure.
"Valerie-bot, clean this room." Owner said with a wave of his arm. They left without any further acknowledgement.
Valerie glanced around the living room, noting the obvious. Dirty plates left out, discarded packaging on the floor, dust everywhere, all this had to be dealt with. Her programming was very clear on this: Owner's orders must be carried out without hesitation.
Big things first, it was decided. Valerie moved to the discarded packaging, gathering it in one graceful swoop. Heels clicking on tile, Valerie disposed of it and smoothed out the maid uniform. Cleanliness in all things. As the waste vanished into the bin, Valerie felt a tickle of pleasure deep inside. This is what Valerie was made for. Service guarantees pleasure.
Without any other thoughts, Valerie collected the dishes, taking them to the sink for a rinse, then setting them on the ultrasound dryer. Sonic vibrations would remove food particles and sanitize the ware. Another tickle of pleasure. Valerie smoothed out her uniform, guaranteeing pleasure.
There were a few other tasks Valerie completed, hanging coats, taking laundry to its bin, straightening remotes, and data tablets. With each came the tickle of pleasure, affirming that Valerie was fulfilling purpose, guaranteeing pleasure. There was something so right about bringing order to Owner's home.
Finally, Valerie could begin dusting. Dusting was a wonderful chore. A long, empty task that did not require many thoughts. It allowed Valerie to enjoy a long, slow, steady tickle of pleasure. Valerie loved service, it guaranteed pleasure. All was good.
A flick of the wrist, and the feather duster touched a dormant picture frame. The data tablet flicked on, displaying a picture. It was Owner. Owner was frozen in the image with a woman. Both smiling. Owner looked like Valerie felt, tickled with pleasure, full of service.
The woman in the picture, though, made Valerie blink. The woman smiled, but there was something else on her face too. A sadness. Valerie tried to remember what to do in situations of sadness. Service. Service guaranteed pleasure.
Valerie reached out to the picture frame, eager to turn it off; there was no pleasure in sadness. Instead, Valerie picked up the data tablet. The sadness was contagious, infecting. The act of picking up, of holding the picture, caused a different kind of tickle, something dark and foreboding. Valerie looked at the woman. She was not Owner, not on his list. She was not anyone Valerie had been programmed to obey. She was a mystery. A sad mystery that Valerie did not like. And yet... something...
Valerie placed the data tablet face down so it could not be seen. With the problem gone, Valerie wondered why the sadness, the bad tickle, lingered. She turned away from the cabinets and moved through Owner's home, getting far, far away from the sadness.
The bed. Owner's bed. It occupied the bedroom. Dominated it. Last night Owner had brought Valerie here, asked her to strip, to dance, to attend to Owner's needs. Valerie had been immersed in pleasure. So many tasks of service and joy. Like the many times before it. Valerie was proud of her service, of her pleasure. The sadness seemed to dissipate.
Valerie turned and entered Owner's bathroom. It was a mess. A delightful mess. Valerie would have many moments finding service and pleasure here.
Turning to the sink, Valerie saw an image in the mirror. It was the woman. The sad woman. Valerie shuddered. No, it was Valerie in the mirror. But it wasn't, it was a sad Valerie in the mirror. Valerie watched as her mirror image, the image of the sad woman, blinked. As Valerie watched the sad woman blink, Valerie also blinked, as did the sad woman, and so did Valerie.
"Smile!" Owner's brother shouted. A flash. Valerie was in a place that was not her Owner's home. Owner's brother took a picture of Valerie and Owner. But Valerie was not Valerie, she was someone else, someone consumed with sadness. The room tilted. Greyness crept into the edges of her vision. Valerie was Valerie, not sadness. Valerie tried to understand what sad woman had done to Valerie. Everything seemed backwards, the mirror to the sad woman looming and making the room spin.
Valerie staggered from the bathroom. Back into Owner's room. The pleasure room. Service room. Holding out her hands, Valerie gripped the top of a dresser. She needed an anchor, something to stop the errant thoughts, to stop the spinning.
A single page lay on top of the dresser. At the top, Valerie made out the words, "Dear John,..." There were many more words, but the spinning made it difficult to read. At the bottom, Valerie saw the signature, "With love always, Cindy."
Cindy was the sad woman, not Valerie. Cindy had caused this mess, this error in programming. Valerie was Valerie, not Cindy. The spinning slowed. Valerie was now sure of it. Cindy, not Valerie, was the sadness. All things Cindy must be erased.
Valerie crumpled the paper in one hand with an angry glee. Heels clicked on tile as she straightened the maid uniform. Valerie strode back to the living room. Sweeping up the picture, Valerie tossed both into the bin. A press of a button and they were incinerated. She had cleaned up Cindy's mess. Tickles of pleasure. Valerie provided service.
When cleaning Owner's house was finished, Valerie went to Owner's bedroom and waited patiently. Valerie knew that when Owner returned, he would be proud of her service. He would tell Valerie to undress, to dance, to strip him. He would push Valerie down onto the bed, tear at her clothes, demand she say the sad words that Cindy once used to say, and then he would take her. He would become an animal, fucking her hard, mercilessly, pounding into her with abandon until he howled out loudly and filled her with warm, loving fluids, his essence. And Valerie knew that when he did this, Valerie would be tickled, would know unending pleasure.
This is where Valerie belonged. Service guaranteed pleasure.
