The waiting is torturous, but also undeniably exciting, like sugared flame on my skin. The way I lean forwards, eyes narrowed and hand on my lips, my brow tight and my foot tapping, you would think I was viewing some critical milestone moment of the human race on my computer screen, one that might elevate us to new heights or send us tumbling backwards to the dark ages. Or maybe I'm watching a sports game that I have bet some money on. Instead, the screen shows an endlessly flickering list of files and digital commands, far too fast for my human eyes to properly take in. And above it, the aching slow of a bright blue progress bar. Ninety-seven percent, now. A few moments later, it becomes ninety-eight. I let out an impatient huff of hot air. And then I peer over the lenses of my glasses to the seat beside mine at the long, wooden computer desk.
The second chair is a reverse of mine, its high back pressed against the edge of the table. A set of thick, rubber-lined cables lie heavily on the narrow headrest before snaking away into the recesses at the back of my computer. It's a big machine, but showing its age in its old-fashioned, black and blocky aesthetic, as well as in the intolerable waiting caused by its aged processors. It sits on its desk at the edge of this little room that I charitably call a study. The only other things here are the long sofa in the centre of the room, aimed at the screen in case I feel like watching a movie, and a bookcase on the far wall with a few old favourites stored within. The windows and curtains over the bookcase are closed, since it is evening, and the door is shut so that I know for absolute certain that I am not being watched from beyond.
But I'm not alone, as the second seat at the desk is filled with the other resident of my small apartment. Her eyes are open, but she doesn't see me. Her green irises flicker in tandem with the flowing text on the screen of my computer, her mind working as the data travels along the cable and into the socket at the base of her neck. I wonder what that feels like. Could it be a bit like dreaming? What manner of dream is this data I have purchased and downloaded conjuring for her? Her soft lips twitch minutely as I watch, and a finger on one hand, placed demurely in her lap, wiggles restlessly. I smile.
To call Fiona a 'resident' of the apartment might be stretching the term, by some people's perspective. You wouldn't say you lived with your fridge-freezer, after all. Fiona is an 'android service device', one of a line of humanoid houseworkers provided by Sigil Incorporated. Physically, she has the artificially constructed body of a young woman, early twenties or so. She has blonde hair and green eyes, pale skin with a hint of freckling along her cheeks. All features I selected for her at her conception in the Sigil warehouse some eight months ago. She has her hair curled and tied in two tails on either side of her head, though that wasn't always the case. About three of those eight months ago, I asked her if she fancied a change, and this is what she decided. Also new is her outfit. Her blue-black jumpsuit with the prominent Sigil logo is hanging up on her side of the rack in my wardrobe, and in its place upon her body is a wide, black dress with a frilled, white pinafore tied tightly around her front to demonstrate the slimness of her waist. The sleeves come down to her elbows, and on her slender wrists are the curves of white cuffs, held in place by simple, black cufflinks. Her skirt is short enough to expose her knees and is made full and wide by the soft excess of the black underskirt beneath. She has long white socks on her feet, and a frilled headscarf across her crown. The bust is tight enough to make full use of her excellent chest, and droops to show off a highly unprofessional level of cleavage above the top of the apron.
Fiona smiled prettily when I had this outfit ordered for her, the same way she smiles whenever I ask her to do anything. She certainly didn't complain about the change in attire. Thematically, it's a very appropriate state of dress considering the housework she accomplishes around the apartment, I tell myself. Fiona doesn't seem to mind one bit the way the skirt lifts when she bends forward, exposing the white underwear beneath, nor the way I ogle when I get a glimpse down the front of her dress. Still, I have her change clothes when my friends are around.
"Master?"
I sit up at the sound of her voice. I hadn't realised I'd been daydreaming so heavily. Fiona is looking my way with a curious smile. Her green eyes are big and bright. I glance at the screen of the computer. 'Installation complete!' it tells me.
"Oh," I think to say, leaning back on the chair. "Great. It's done, then?"
"I believe so," Fiona smiles.
"And?" I ask warily. "How do you feel?"
The android raises a finger to her lips in a charming facsimile of human consideration. "I do not feel so very different to before. There is quite a bit of new infrastructure in my core programming that may take some getting used to. Additionally, my centre of gravity has been slightly altered."
Fiona's thighs roll together under her skirt as she tests out the weight of the new additions to her body. That had been an awkward moment for me, and I hoped to God I got the physical installation right so I wouldn't have to go through that again. But after a moment's thought, Fiona nods once, decisively, and smiles broadly.
"A quick diagnostic shows that everything is in working order!" she announces proudly.
"Great!" I reply with a smile of my own. "Glad to hear."
She nods, and I nod back. And we are silent.
When I first bought Fiona, it was after a considerable amount of internal debate. For obvious reasons, Sigil's brand of android housekeeper isn't an expenditure I can lightly write off. Not on my salary. And if I'm honest, I don't really need help around the house. I know how to cook and clean to an acceptable degree. And there's the matter of the social stigma associated with buying a girl to live in your house. My friends give me enough flak for that without seeing the French maid outfit I ordered for her.
But what tipped me over the edge this last January, when digital products like Fiona were all on sale after Christmas, was her other function. Fiona's charming smile, her chatty personality and compassionate care for my wellbeing are all part of her trademarked Companionship Protocol. And after another New Year mostly alone, my friends with their own families and my parents abroad, my co-workers not the sort I really get along all that well with, I decided to throw insecurity to the wind and buy myself a housemate.
Right now, I am recalling the shyness I felt when she first arrived. Fiona is kind, considerate and helpful, but it still took some time before I was comfortable ordering her to make meals or tidy up. It didn't feel fair, not when I had time in an evening to do that myself. But before long, I was talking with her long into the nights, sharing myself openly in a way I'd never really opened up to a human before. She's an excellent listener. Her iterative conversational AI means that we clicked after just a bit of getting to know each other. I even eventually found the courage to buy her a sexy outfit and ask her to call me 'Master'. Now, knowing what I have just done to her, it feels like that first, shy day all over again.
She is smiling again. I wonder if the way her eyes crease coyly like that is something new from the installation, or if I'd just not noticed it before.
"Master, your heart rate is elevated considerably," she remarks. "I believe you are nervous. May I remind you that my purpose is to serve you to the best of my abilities? If there is something I can do for you, you must tell me. I shall not mind."
"Right," I sigh. "You're right."
This is Fiona, I remind myself. She's an android maid that I bought with my money. I also paid for her upgrade today. What I ask of her and how she reacts are not a matter of record anywhere but in our memories, and Sigil have been very public about their respect for privacy in that regard. It's not the same as talking to a human. I don't have anything to be ashamed of. I take a breath.
"Fiona," I say, hands on my thighs. "I'd like you to suck my dick."
