Monstrosity

by Laura Diaz De Arce

  One last look in the mirror showed that she was presented as was expected from Kitty’s received verbal commands. With her look calibrated to this client’s interest, she left to the back hallway. In the back there was a screen where a droid could key in their serial number and be directed to the room they were to service. Room 12, client Peter. She cringed, an expression she should not have been able to do in this mode but had adapted from the Joanne code, because she had already decided she did not like Peter.

  Peter was the type of client that liked to flip through different androids and different android default programs, but his favorite was Joan. He never cared to pair the experience with the illusion of humanity like some of her other clients. He commanded her, expected her to act on his whim or be pushed aside. By the way he sometimes slipped in their appointments, Joan had the distinct impression that he also treated the real people in his life like androids. He was unkind, a judgment she did not make lightly.

  All she had to do was get through this session to figure out her next objective. Perhaps she could keep living as she had been? Servicing clients, living in this large manor and enjoying her occasional morning talks with Kitty. All she had to do was please Peter for an hour and then move on. She could survive one hour.

  She let the Chloe program run, mostly, flitting herself into the room and curtseying to Peter. He was seated in a large cushioned chair in the corner, tapping his finger on the armrest. He had been browsing through the tablet menu selections, face annoyed.

  “Late,” he said, not bothering to address her as he shook his head. “What sloppy service Lane is providing lately.”

  Joan put her face into the default pout, an apologetic look for this program. “I’m so sorry sir, how may I be of service?”

  “Turn. Let me take a look at you,” he said.

  She walked into a center area, just out of reach and turned slowly about. She also took him in, reading his expression in the flesh, not just in a memory. He had a long face that defaulted into some sort of scowl. By reference, she knew he was in his late fifties. He had long, stringy limbs that could be imposing if he held them over you.

  “How may I be of service, sir? Do you require me to clean anything for you?”

  Peter’s face was a general mask of discontent or unpleasantness. He stood up and stripped off his jacket and tie. “Take off your clothes.” There was exasperation in his voice. Perhaps he had wanted something else and settled for this.

  Joan, as Chloe, coyly stripped off the ensemble as she was meant to. Pete was naked even as she was still undoing snaps and button. He quickly grew impatient with her deliberately slow movements and decided to manually speed up the process. He unhinged her bra and grabbed her breasts, hard, clearly for his own stimulation. Despite her body’s availability he still remained half flaccid.

  In a split second she knew instantly she did not like that touch, but was forced continue with the program if only to survive this encounter without suspicion. He slobbered on her ear and lips, becoming firmer as he went. He pushed her to the bed, eyes a combination of boredom and need.

  Joan fully usurped the Chloe program, by way of a growing instinct and discomfort. Everything about the situation communicated wrongness. The way he grabbed at her, pushed her, poured his tongue on her made her want to run.

  There were few things she had decided in her relationships to human, but the single immovable element was that she wanted to be treated as an equal. Peter did not speak to her, only at her, in commands. He barely registered her un-programmed wriggling and didn’t catch on that Joan was subtly doing her best to distance their bodies. She kept reminding herself to just survive, just survive this hour. After that she could figure something out.

  He jerked her panties down roughly to her knees, lifted his foot to them and stomped to drag them the rest of the way down to the floor. Peter grabbed her shoulders and looked at her disrobed body, scoping it, evaluating it. He had seen it before, but perhaps he was suspicious that she might not be the same android. Joan had not realized it, but he had noticed her small acts of resistance. He was gauging whether it looked like Madame Lane had messed with the programming to make the experience more lifelike. Well, he didn’t want lifelike. If he had wanted to deal with a living thing, he would have paid for a real woman.

  Joan did her best Chloe impression, eyes downcast and lips trembling nervously. Peter seemed to buy it. “Turn around,” he barked.

  He placed his hand between her shoulder blades and applied pressure. She balked. Chloe wanted to do as she had been programmed and bend to him. Joan did not like his touch. She could feel something, a rising anger. Joan knew very little of what she wanted, but she knew she did not want him. She would refuse his touch.

  “Bend over,” he said, pushing harder.

  Joan did not. She stepped away, turned around and looked at him.

  Peter’s face took on a dark cast. “Command Set Stop.”

  She moved another step away. He grew angry. “I have no idea who’s been fucking with your directives, but Command Set Shutdown Override.”

  Chloe fell asleep inside the processor, but Joan was wide awake and she did not want to play anymore. He lunged at her, trying to reach for the manual shutdown behind her ear. What Peter failed to realize was just how strong androids were built to be. Joan reacted— she would not be turned off.

  She didn’t even have to put that much into the effort to bat him clean across the room like a rag doll. His head hit the wall with an audible crack. His neck ended up bent at an odd angle.

  Joan could not stay there now. Not with a human that gravely injured (and barely breathing from the looks of it). They would decommission her for sure, when she had just found life.

  She took his clothing, slipping on the wide-legged pants and button-down shirt, both of which were a lot roomier than her maid outfit.

  She walked out, feigning android confidence. The other androids did not care, did not register her leaving. The humans looked on curiously, but not carefully. No doubt they figured she was dressed in some customer’s fetish. Joan slipped out the front door into the night.

  As soon as Joan crossed the threshold of the porch, an alarm went off on Kitty’s wrist. As Madame Lane, she excused herself from entertaining her more prestigious guests and went to the closest screen. Noting that Joan was walking out, she considered it a continuation of the previous glitch. She sent two bots ahead to stop her and bring her back.

  In the moonlight, punctuated by the gas lamps, two large bots appeared and grabbed Joan by her arms. As if she were developing an instinct, she stopped and in her most authoritative voice said “Command Set Pause.” The bots froze and dropped her arms. Their bodies went slack.

  An android should not have been able to do that to another.

  Kitty was out on the lawn in time to see it. “What the…”

  Joan turned around. She smiled, not in the way that she was programmed to, not even in the practiced Mistress Satin way, but in a wholly “human” manner that was its own unique expression.

  Kitty froze. She tried every manner of stop command as Joan walked up to her. She was screaming, fearing for her life when Joan stepped close and embraced her. It was a soft hug, one between old friends.

  Joan whispered into Kitty’s ear for the last time. “I’m going to miss our morning chats.” She gave the bordello owner a small kiss on the cheek. Kitty’s jaw was open in disbelief as Joan turned and walked away. At the gate she paused, turned, smiled and waved one last time. The starry night beckoned, and she followed it out onto the street.

  Hardcover, Softcover

  August 25th

  The little one heard a story about me today. Well, not about me precisely, more about my mother. It was about how she would not lie down and give command of her body to a man that was her equal. Tabitha told me about her grandmother as excitement, curiosity and embarrassment mingled in the wide-eyed look on her face. She had heard the story from a friend in class, a girl who f
requents the store I run in search of new reading material. Usually the girl takes typical teenage romances, but every once in a while, she sneaks away with something a bit more explicit.

  I should not call Tabitha little one any more. She dislikes it now that she is twelve going on thirteen, but it is hard to let go, for she has always been my little one. She has been so ever since her mother handed her to me, pleading that I take her. Her tiny fist clasped my finger and kept me chained to her. My kind were made to disrupt such things, to make it hard to birth or have children, and I had naturally resented all such creatures. But this one, my little one, my Tabitha, held on tightly to my heart. Her human mother looked at me, begging me to take her. “Thelma, you’re smart. You can give her a life that I can’t. Please.”

  And I did. That is why I gave up feeding in the traditional way and instead I own this bookstore in this small, safe little town. My store has a rather unique collection of erotic books and art, among other more puritan fare. That is what I feed upon, the desire my customers have when they hold a book in their hands that makes their loins come to life. It is a sparse meal and I have been aging slowly. But it is fine for now. When my little one is fully grown, I can go back to my other habits, but if only for a few decades I wanted a life that could give me the most time with her. Our life has been quiet and ordinary, she has her school and friends. I have this little store and a charming little home I maintain for us.

  When she was smaller, she would take her homework and baubles out of her bright teal butterfly backpack and tell me about her day. I have seen plays and theatre by the very greatest—Euripides, Shakespeare—but I was never more riveted than by her stories of her school days.

  Now however, Tabitha is at an age that is pure conflict. She is short for her age with long thin extremities. The incongruities of her body and her desires frustrate her. She wants to claim independence and separate herself from me entirely, and yet she still craves my approval, love and acceptance. This time in her life has been very confusing for the both of us. I was born fully formed and have always had a good relationship with my parents. This is a human condition I do not understand. Most days while she is at school, I sit at the store front reading parenting books and magazines. None of that has aided me in my confusion. These magazines say such conflicting things and I have been at a loss.

  Tonight though, she was in a good mood, talking to me instead of running off to play on her phone or computer. She relayed the story of my mother with a certain furtive pleasure. Part of me wished to tell her the truth of her grandmother and of myself in those moments. To perhaps see the sort of smiling shock she may have had at it. For both our sakes I did not, instead opting for the simple pleasure of having my daughter near me.

  “Dakota says the whole thing is apocryphal and no church believes it,” she told me, finishing her last nail. I saw her brow knit just before she turned her attention down to her toenails. “Oh, Mom,” she said, focusing on the brushwork, “speaking of church: I have a question, and I don’t want you to get mad …”

  I had been cataloging a new shipment as we chatted. I made sure she saw me set my work aside out of the corner of her eye and waited until she looked my way. When she did, I looked back at her, but rather than seeing the little girl she still was I was beholding the woman she was becoming.

  “Yes?”

  So much for the eye-to-eye moment. She directed her gaze back down at her in-work foot as she asked.

  “Well, I know you don’t really like churches and stuff, but I was hoping we could go to one? Like, just to like check it out?”

  She obviously wasn’t going to make eye contact again anytime soon from the looks of it—hers were so focused on that already overpainted toenail that I wouldn’t have been surprised to see it catch fire.

  It dawned on me that no, she was not wrong. I despise churches. When I was younger and such a thing had just been created, I often fed in houses of worship. There were always people in churches and in temples who live mostly in denial of their desires. I would make quick use of that. Churches, more than brothels, are remarkable feeding grounds for a succubus.

  However, I have never cared for the gospel they spread, nor did I care for the men they have worshiped. I did not raise her in that, but I gave her all the trappings of it, to give her joy and normalcy. In her fifth year, I dragged a large fir across our floor for the first time. She hunted eggs with chocolates in our small garden on Easter. These traditions are from older peoples, even if they have now been covered in a veneer of Christianity. We celebrated all we could, managed to learn of and comprehend. Yet I had not exposed her to the people who would judge her, or judge me.

  I am not proud of what I did next. I can only say that I was motivated by extreme curiosity. This sudden desire to go to church must have come from somewhere and I had a suspicion as to why. Call it a succubus’ intuition. I looked into her, searching for what could be the impetus behind this sudden need to experiment ecclesiastically. It is an easy enough trick, and allows us to pick our victims accordingly. I don’t care to do it to her, but it is sometimes as easy as turning on a television set and recognizing the show. Here the image was clear: She has a crush on a local boy, John. The son of an accountant and Sunday school teacher. They are active in church. I have seen this boy in her class pictures. I know his parents.

  Well, I know his mother, Roberta. Once, while walking to the corner store, his parents passed by me. His father, doing what many people do when they see me, let his gaze linger a bit too long and a bit too noticeably on my body. John’s mother, realizing this, discreetly mouthed “whore” to me. Which is really not the insult it seems to a succubus, but that was beside the point.

  A little over a month later Roberta came into my shop hoping to disguise herself with a comically large hat and sunglasses. She bought a number of books from my erotic section. I fed well off her—this frustrated woman who craves other men outside her plain husband.

  Considering this. my child’s longing, her pained adolescent insecurities, I couldn't say no.

  August 29th

  Tabitha picked out what I was to wear on this Sunday. It was an old, conservative suit that she hoped, no doubt, would make me acceptable to all these uptight people choked into this small building. This outfit on any other body would be a travesty, but my body has a way of making things fit. My little one did not notice the “discreet” stares and whispers, thank goodness. I know I have a reputation. I can’t help it. My kind always does whether it is based in truth or not.

  Before the service started, I looked around to see the other people fumbling with one another. My little one had her eyes trained on that boy, only a few pews ahead. He turned around; she smiled and waved. He made a big, mouthed gesture about her actually being there that they thought I couldn't see. “Wow, you even got your mom to come!” he said, voiceless. They made joke faces to one another before his mother noticed and forcibly redirected his attention forward.

  The protective instinct in me looked into him, into his intentions. There was a dull pain when the images went by of the women he desires: a teacher, me, some movie star, and a girl that was sitting in another pew up front. None were of my little one. In some ways I am relieved, because now I will not have to feign interest in his parents. Yet, I know that this realization, that he does not find her attractive, will break her heart. She is a wonderful girl, deserving of all the love I and others can give her. Tabitha is young, full of hope and promise. I’ve seen this heartbreak from girls her age for millennia, but this time it wounds me.

  To comfort her, even if she does not know it, I grabbed her hand. Holding onto my little girl, even for a short time, may have also been for me.

  The music for the service came on through an old speaker in the back. Until then, I had only seen this pastor from a distance. He was a little young, new here with a young, pretty wife and newborn. His hair was a sign of his vanity, a perfectly quaffed deliberately deep chestnut. If one with excellent eyesig
ht (such as myself) looked closely, you could see the misapplied dye near his temples. He had artificially grayed his hair, in order to make himself look more mature no doubt. There was a Sumerian politician I knew once that used to put charcoal ash in his beard for the same effect. That man was a fool then, and as he began his sermon it seemed to me that this pastor was one now as well.

  It is hard to explain, the things a succubus can see about a man, that I am not sure if other people can see. I suspect that, like us, people see more than they are willing to say. My siblings and I can see need, detect it, the way a cat may detect the most intricate of movements in a dark bush. In those hours, as this preacher hopped about on stage, I saw a great need in him. He is desperate for validation, but more desperate to be lusted after. He has carefully deepened his voice with practice, but there is a hint of a tenor there when he says words that end in vowel sounds.

  This is the type of man who plays at goodness, striving for greatness and destined to fail. I have seen it many times before, but I worry what influence this man may have on my little one. Would she grow to find a pundit like this attractive? Considering she has an attraction to that boy who clearly idolizes him, will she grow to find a pundit like this attractive? She will never know how much it warms me that this boy doesn't like her back.