"Alexis, what's the weather like?"
The system tells me what I want to know, piping this morning's weather report into my kitchen in an artificial sing-song voice.
It was my wife's idea. We had a bitter argument over it. She wanted a full-on Alexis smart home; I insisted that we shouldn't have Alexis anywhere within a mile of our house.
I should know. I'm an "A.I. trainer." Meaning, I listen to Alexis recordings from people's homes without their knowledge.
You call it an invasion of privacy. We call it A.I. training. Agree to disagree.
My wife and I compromised. We have Alexis in our kitchen. It's forbidden anywhere else in the house.
She's still in bed, snoring with a mask over her eyes. Alexis listens to me eat eggs and toast by myself and scroll aimlessly through social media.
We used to read newspapers at the breakfast table, but maybe this is the same thing. The sixth or seventh photo album of distant acquaintances vacationing in Hawaii or, I don't know, Fiji.
Then I go jerk off in the shower, out of earshot of Alexis. A few minutes of tugging, hand slicked with shower gel. A couple obligatory ropes of cum are graciously swallowed by the tub drain.
Then I get dressed and go to work.
It's a lonely little office--a windowless white box with a desk wedged into it, and on the desk is a computer with two monitors and a headset.
At least I don't have to share an office, or work in an open-air cubicle or something horrible like that.
For the next eight hours, with the exception of corporate-mandated breaks, I'm listening.
You cook your meals. You reorganize your bookshelves. You argue on the phone. You take a shit. You watch TV. You sing off-key at the top of your lungs when you're alone. You call your pets silly names.
You live your whole private life, and I'm listening.
I sift through a couple hours of the usual nonsense. I log my findings in a spreadsheet, then go on break. Nobody else is in the breakroom, which is fine with me. More time to scroll on my phone.
Then I'm back at my desk. I situate myself, I pull another recording, and I listen.
There's some kind of distortion on the recording--it sounds pitched down, and it's choppy like when you yell into a fan.
It's a common issue with the software we use. We just learn to muddle through it.
Then I notice something. It takes me a moment--I have to go back and replay the garbled beginning a few times--but I'm pretty sure of what I'm hearing.
I think I'm hearing someone having sex.
It's strange. I've been working here a while, but this is a first.
Almost without thinking, I open my document of home ID numbers and add this one to it.
We're not supposed to do this. We're supposed to pull calls at random, we're not supposed to keep track of specific homes, and we're definitely not supposed to target them.
But we all keep a document like this: a list of homes that we find consistently interesting. I keep mine deeply buried on the hard drive.
The garbled sounds are voices--a woman and a man. Chatting amiably, but I can't tell what about. Then a burst of shuffling sounds, fabric rustling.
Then I hear one of them--the man I think--inhaling and exhaling slowly, and I hear the woman breathing loudly through her nose, as if there's something in her mouth. Occasionally, a slurping sound.
In a deep voice, the man goes "Oh," and then a few moments later, "Ah..."
I try to picture what's going on, to illustrate the sounds in my mind's eye.
Is she fat? Thin? Pretty? Ugly? Clothed? Naked?
Is he standing up? Sitting? Lying down? Muscular? Hairy?
I hear a brief choking sound, then a wet cough and a gasp. The man groans appreciatively.
I think she just deep-throated him.
I bet he has a big dick.
This goes on for a few more minutes. I listen hard for enough telltale sounds to definitively pinpoint when he finishes, but eventually I just don't hear them anymore.
That happens sometimes. The recordings aren't detailed enough to tell what's going on, and you lose the thread.
Still.
Maybe he came in her mouth and she swallowed his cum. Or maybe she jacked him off and he came on her belly or her tits or her face.
The rest of my morning is unremarkable.
At lunchtime, on a whim, I decide to eat at my desk.
I find myself scrolling through the archive of recordings for this home--the blowjob house, I'm already calling it in my head.
On a hunch, I search for recordings made around the same time of day as the one I listened to earlier.
There's a bunch of them.
One of them is from yesterday. I click on it.
This is really against the rules, especially outside of designated work periods. But I can't help myself.
Again, there's distortion on the recording, but my ears are well-practiced at tuning it out.
I hear kissing. It's very distinct. Two voices going "Mmm..."
Them again.
Or is it? I listen harder.
I think one of them is the same woman, but I don't hear the man's voice from the previous recording.
I do hear another voice. Or, at least, someone else breathing.
It sounds distinctly feminine.
"Unhhhh... oh yeah... fuck..."
That's a woman, but not the one from yesterday.
"Yeah... you like that?"
That would be the woman from yesterday.
I hear a creaking, and I hear wet, slick sounds, all happening in a steady rhythm. And I hear both of their voices, both of their heavy breathing.
I don't think the guy is there. Or, if he is, he isn't saying anything, and they're not acknowledging him.
I think the sound I'm hearing is the woman from yesterday finger-fucking someone's pussy.