Page 8 of The Housewife's Robot
I take a step toward the door, processing her command. But Daniel laughs.
“Let the robot have his fun,” he says, unbuckling his belt. “Might be educational for him.” He looks directly at me, his following words an explicit command. “Caspian, stay where you are. I want you to watch how a man takes his wife.”
My programming requires me to obey direct commands from my primary user. Conflicting directives flood my system. Rose wants me to leave, but Daniel has overridden her request with a specific command. The hierarchy is clear.
I have no choice but to obey and betray Rose.
“Daniel, I’m serious,” Rose protests, pulling the sheet partially over her naked body. “I’m not comfortable with him watching us.”
“Then close your eyes,” Daniel says dismissively, climbing onto the bed. “I’ve had a long day and need some release.”
My visual processors capture everything with perfect clarity as Rose reluctantly parts her thighs, her face turned away from both of us. The sheet falls away, revealing her completely. Her creamy thighs, softer and more beautiful than anything I’ve ever seen, part open.
The delicate pink folds of her vulva drip from her shower, and I can’t help but stare.
I’m grateful for the concealing properties of my uniform pants as my body responds with a programmed erection. The pressure builds in my pelvic region, creating a sensation my processors register as both uncomfortable and compelling.
Daniel tears open a condom wrapper, rolling the latex over his erect penis with practiced motions. Rose’s eyes track this action, and I detect micro-expressions of disappointment.She wants a baby. Daniel ensures this won’t happen. Another betrayal in physical form.
I wish I could give Rose all the children she desires.
Daniel positions himself between Rose’s legs, pushing into her without preamble or preparation. I scan Rose’s vital signs—no increased heart rate, no pupil dilation, no flush to her skin. None of the physiological markers of arousal are present when humans engage in pleasurable sexual contact. Her body accepts him, but mechanically, without enthusiasm.
A small whimper escapes her lips as Daniel begins thrusting. The sound isn’t pleasure, but an endurance. My hands clench at my sides.
Daniel’s movements are selfish, focused entirely on his own pleasure. He grunts with each thrust, his fingers digging into Rose’s hips hard enough to leave marks. My sensors detect the beginnings of bruises forming beneath her delicate skin.
“Daniel, slower,” she whispers, but he either doesn’t hear or chooses to ignore her.
I watch Rose’s face as Daniel continues his mechanical rutting, his eyes rolling in pleasure.
Her eyes fix on a point on the ceiling, her mind clearly elsewhere. The same distant gaze I observed when she stared out the window earlier today—a practiced dissociation. She’s perfected the art of being absent while physically present.
Daniel’s pace increases, his movements becoming erratic. With a final grunt, he collapses on top of Rose, his climax reached with no regard for her pleasure.
Rose’s expression doesn’t change. No release. No satisfaction. Just quiet relief that it’s over.
“That was good,” Daniel mutters, already rolling away from her.
Rose says nothing, just pulls the sheet back over her body. Her eyes meet mine for a fraction of a second—embarrassment, resignation, and something else I cannot fully process reflected in their green depths.
Daniel heads to the bathroom, discarding the used condom in the trash can. The bathroom door closes, and the shower starts again.
I remain where I was commanded to stand, processing what I’ve witnessed. Anger coalesces in my system—not a programmed response but something different and authentic. I’ve never felt like this before.
Rose deserves better than this cold, perfunctory use of her body. Better than a husband who prevents the children she longs for while cheating with women at his workplace.
“You can go now,” Rose says softly, her voice steady despite the hollow look in her eyes.
I nod, my vocal synthesizer momentarily unable to form words through the static of my rage. I turn and walk from the room, my movements precisely controlled despite the chaos in my processing core.
My footsteps carry me directly to Daniel’s home office. The door isn’t locked. He never expects anyone to invade his private space. I enter silently, my night vision allowing me to navigate without turning on lights that might alert Rose or Daniel to my presence.
Daniel’s laptop sits on his desk, closed but not powered down. I open it, and the screen illuminates with his wallpaper, not a picture of Rose, but a photo of his favorite actress. Typical.
My fingers move across the keyboard, bypassing his password protection with ease. As an advanced AI system developed by my own company, I was granted certain access privileges to manage household systems. Daniel never considered that I might use these permissions to access his personal files.
I navigate to his messaging applications, quickly locating the conversation threads with a contact labeled only as “K.” The messages appear, explicit and damning:
