[Taking over from Propman to continue posting this long-shelved story (Chapter 1 is here)—in part because my own mental block held it up. This story is generally 2/3 his and 1/3 mine, but as I empathize especially with Monica, I ended up writing a disproportionate part of this section.]
The athletic girl stood in the grand entranceway, awkwardly adjusting her gray dress. She fumbled with her braid and cleared her throat a few times.
Monica was ready for any encounter; an impulse told her so, and she had routines programmed for all eventualities. Her personality-specific reservations had been pushed to the back seat. But—primed by months of Greg’s and Contessa’s intrigues and provocations—it seems they couldn’t entirely be extinguished. Monica’s visceral self, rebellious and thoughtful and seeking like minds, was still prepared to make itself heard.
Ransom’s fluorescent yellow tie was the WORST.
“Hey, Stepford babe. Keeping it real, right? Lol,” he grinned. “Real. Like you’d get that. Wanna go for a drink? The EATING can come later.”
Something about him bothered her instantly; she was sure a rude joke had gone over her head.
Greg, who had walked Ransom in, noticed it too—but he heard Contessa and the Duchess calling him from further on, and knew he was expected to let the ‘meet cute’ moment happen without interruption.
“JENKINS—THE LIBRARY.”
“...Fuck.”
A moment of uneasy eye contact, and the butler left Monica and Ransom alone.
“Did I stutter?” Ransom aggressively broke the silence. “Hey, Siri,” he addressed Monica. “I said let’s drink. Get you shitfaced.”
“My name is Monica Tidyshire—and where will we bloody DRINK?” Monica still felt wrong. “Unless you raid Mum’s wine cellar,” she scoffed; only to find herself finishing the sentence oddly reassuringly. “...Which is just two rooms away. And I’m an ace at picking the latch on the door.”
Wait.
She caught herself flashing Ransom a chummy, conspiratorial grin; almost like a second Monica had taken over.
“Look—we could go running, right? Run for miles.” Changing to a comfortable subject, Monica bounced with pent-up energy. She could almost see a country road and a glowing horizon.
“...And running’s much more fun when you’re sozzled,” that second Monica finished. She smirked almost boyishly: a smirk that might have seemed right for her on many occasions, but wasn’t right this time.
Wait. I don’t want to drink with him. I don’t want to do anything with him. He’s lazy and obnoxious and—sod it!
Thomas Ransom didn’t notice Monica’s conflict. He was admiring her athletic figure and her body-hugging 1935 top—and marveling that his pickup techniques seemed to be working. Oh, wait, what did she say about... running? Ew.
“EXERCISE? Ugh. Who RUNS anymore?” he grumped.
“Stone the crows, mister.” First Monica started out snarky, raising a sardonic eyebrow. “When I look at you, I…”
The switch flipped.
“...ask myself the same question. Who runs? You’re sort of cute when you DON’T run, eh? More to hold onto,” she grinned and blushed before she knew what she was doing.
Second Monica was, in fact, an attraction subroutine that was supposed to feel natural in Monica’s mind. But first Monica saw another chance.
“And we could roll you over everyone who blocked our path!” She effortlessly continued, putting a hand on Ransom’s arm—and another on his stomach, as if poking fun at his gut.
“Oh, typical robot thinking.” He swatted her away. “I’m not FAT and I don’t want to LEAVE the castle. Just stay here and… you know. Fool around.”
“Not much fun, are you?” Monica snarked. “Except maybe in bed. ...I can’t STOP. Bloody hell.” First Monica was now complaining about second Monica out loud.
“You can’t stop, huh? Good. I can go all night. And what a mouth on you,” Ransom laughed. “I bet it’s got other uses.”
He’s hypnotized me—somehow? If I’m not being… bloody FLIRTY, I can’t finish a sentence. ...But if I keep in a flirty mood… maybe I can say what I please…?
Ransom reached out to take Monica’s hand, practicing what he saw as unlocking her body.
“Oh, my mouth has plenty of other uses,” teased Monica, experimenting. She deliberately cozied up to the slovenly man. “Like singing. Mum hates it when I sing.”
“First smart decision by a robot ever,” Ransom smirked.
Monica’s slight confusion at this remark was outweighed by her relief at finishing a sentence as she’d intended.
“Cor, I think I follow,” she forged ahead. “Mum is exactly like a robot—a mechanical man! No sense of fun. My singing isn’t that bad. Listen.” Holding onto him, she amusedly sang:
“You’ve gotta be physically fit!
And you’ve gotta be physically it!
You never need brains, you don’t have to be bright
’Cause what good are brains on a cold winter’s night?”
“Girl, are you talking shit about me?” He slapped Monica on the butt.
Monica slapped Ransom’s butt right back. “Shut it! You like me, right? So I’m telling you how I like YOU!” This was perfect; as long as she behaved openly flirtatiously, she could keep a clear mind and not experience those second thoughts. Whirling about, she continued:
“You've gotta have muscles of steel!
The kind it’s a pleasure to feel—”
“You’re suddenly boring. I HATE you,” Ransom snapped, trying to let go.
“Interrupting me, too,” Monica laughed. “You’re perfect.” Actually, Monica felt little if anything for Ransom, but she was enjoying this experience, now that she was in charge and expressing mischief in the guise of affection. She wasn’t hypnotized after all.
In actual fact, her personality had found a slight hole in her attraction subroutine, and waltzed straight through.
I don’t have to do as he says. I’m going to do what I want.
“MONICA!” the Duchess’ voice interrupted everything. “CUT THE DOD-GASTED SONG AND DANCE! COME IN, AND BRING YOUR GUEST.”
“Oh, pooh. Piglet, even,” Monica laughed, turning away. “Well, come on.”
“Who even WROTE you? They suck,” Ransom complained, crossly following. Staring at Monica’s butt like the troll he was, however, he took solace in the encounter having been a semi-success. Of course, on some level, it was a success just for a woman to talk to him at all.
Monica’s parents were, indeed, in the library. Sitting with them were Dorothy, a worried Greg—and Contessa, who held open a copy of Old Possum’s Book of Practical Cats. She had been reading to the family, hoping to keep them occupied until Ransom and Monica found their chemistry.
“Monica, dear!” Duchess Winifred beamed at the sight of her oldest daughter. “Indoors? I also see that you brought a friend!” The Tidyshires rarely questioned guests’ presence in the castle—in part because in most of their memories, there was always a guest present.
Thomas Ransom’s gaze skipped Duke Alfred, slid over Duchess Winifred’s large, plump body, and moved to Contessa, who was atypically conservatively dressed in a tea gown: relatively modest, at least for her. She felt his consuming gaze, and chose to ignore it—for now.
After a few false starts, the androids of the Castle had long since learnt to ignore guests’ minor stumbles—and even some major ones—that revealed they weren’t really from 1935, or familiar with royal behavior. Lack of curtsying, bows and improper forms of address could not bother the Tidyshires anymore. But—well—when Ransom said “Yeah, cool. Hi Queenie, hi King, could we skip to the fun stuff? Heh!” even leniency had its limits. This behavior could be interpreted as a sign of hostility—and so it was.
“Young man, please be seated,” the Duchess exclaimed coldly, glaring at the guest through her monocle.
Ransom just grinned. I’m not gonna listen to no robot. “Whatever, Queen Mom. Just tell me what’s fun to do here, or I’ll make my own fun.” Monica smirked and rolled her eyes.
“Guests are expected to enjoy the atmosphere of the castle,” Contessa explained coldly. “There are many fun activities available to you as our guest; from idle chitchat to hunting… er, that is if Father approves.”
Contessa hated this part. Her inherent programming naturally pushed her to be a sort of tour guide—to ease every guest’s stay as they explored the “mysteries of the castle.” But now Contessa also had her own secrets and mysteries. Revealing her own self-awareness to the guests might be a problem.
Gregory had told Contessa that many guests would not care if confronted with a robot who knew of her own artificial nature. But she feared that even a single guest complaint to SimulEnt could take her down. SimulEnt’s inspections, controls, and reviews of the Castle venue were, as in many corporations, fairly lax, and Gregory knew what to expect—but Contessa’s self-awareness, if discovered, would be considered a problem, to be solved simply by restoring her to her initial settings. Greg would, of course, come under fire as well; but Contessa’s greatest fear was to become a foolish sleeper again.
Such concerns, of course, mattered little to the guest. Laying eyes on Contessa for the first time, Ransom instantly perceived her as sexy and sly. “You’re Contessa Isabelle Whatserface, right? The femoid who invited me here. I mean, I got this wordy invitation ‘written’ by you.” He made finger-quotes, as if to imply SimulEnt had sent her invitation out to potential guests as a mass mailing. “I’d like to try some fun activities. Heh.”
Contessa had, of course, written her invitation specifically to Ransom, hatching a careful plan to match him with Monica and manipulate money out of him.
Now Contessa just turned her head. Her gaze met Monica’s, sharing a mutual distaste of the man.
If the OS driving Monica’s artificial intelligence could feel relief, it would have. Ransom’s new interest in Contessa freed Monica’s hardwired impulses—Second Monica, as it were—from having to nudge her in a direction her root personality didn’t favor.
As for Contessa, while Gregory liked to say that she would screw anything that moved, she still liked playing romances on her own terms. She felt a second voice in her, urging her to flirt with Ransom now that he was interested; but with her higher consciousness, she understood what was going on, resented Ransom as a person, and settled on satiating that second voice by playing hard to get. She knew that would qualify as flirting enough to satisfy her programming.
“I do not have to listen to this,” she snapped at Ransom, giving him just enough of a coy look that he might read meaning into it. “If you don’t want to play along, sir, neither will I.” Contessa closed her book and, with a sway of her hips, marched proudly out of the library.
After a short hesitation, Monica followed, leaving Ransom to be cross-examined by the Duchess.
“Contessa! Sis. Hoi, wait.” Monica caught up with Contessa.
The petite fembot turned back, interested. “Yes, dear?”
“That was… jolly good. I think I outsmarted the big git out there in front. But what IF he wants to play with me again, and I’d rather not? I need to be free; it bloody burns in me. I don’t owe him anything—do I?”
Contessa sighed. Ransom was a paying customer, Contessa had invited him, and she wasn’t planning to “do anything stupid,” as Greg had feared. Should she encourage Monica to flirt back in spite of herself? If she didn’t want to, wouldn’t that break the storyline—the immersion?
Contrariwise, Monica giving a guest the cold shoulder at first might be just fine and dandy. After all, romance isn’t just bedding a girl. A true romance storyline, even at the Castle, might involve Ransom taking time to win over his partner, even if he didn’t entirely want to. With a little goodwill, Contessa could extrapolate that it was completely fair to offer a guest a little challenge. You don’t travel to 1930s Britain just to be a complete and utter git, do you?
“I’ll keep an eye on him, Monica. He’s my concern too, you know.” You have no idea, she thought grimly. Christ, why does being FREE mean I’ve got so many CHORES to do?
“But Sis…”
“Do not doubt my capabilities, Monica dear. I can take care of myself.” Contessa smiled to herself. “You should, too. You were designed to look fit and built to be fairly strong… uh, metaphorically speaking, of course. Sooner or later I should give you a couple of tips on the fine art of swordplay.”
Monica’s eyes opened wide. “I never knew you fenced, Bella. I thought you hated sports.”
“Why, darling, as a teenager I trained with the finest masters in Italy. D’Angelo, Masiello, Syrio Forell… Not just for the sport of it, but to keep my mind ready and sharp. In these risky modern times, a young lady can’t count on gentlemen to defend her. I dislike sports for being a pointless waste of time and energy, but FIGHTING—is far from being POINTLESS.” Contessa loved these moments, and the admiration in Monica’s eyes.
“Will you teach me, Sis?”
“Soon. If I find a free moment.”, she answered smugly.
“Cor. Thank… thank you so much, Bella!” Monica leaned over to hug mortified Isabella. “In spite of our spats—you’re really a good friend, you know?”
After Monica left, Contessa still stood in the corridor.
“Jesus Christ… I was built to be a complete bitch. I’m going soft,” she muttered to herself. “Why does it feel so wrong to do good things? I need a smoke. I need to think. I need Calvin. I need Jenkins. Ineedpower IneedIneedIneed…”
Contessa reeled softly, her system momentarily crashing as her balance of priorities overwhelmed her. Luckily, the soft crash gave her a new first priority: technical support. “Nnnnnno ~bzzt~”, she shook her head. “JENKINS!” she screamed at the top of her lungs, jolting even the Duchess, who had been trying to converse with Ransom in the library. Recovering from her crash, Contessa marched to the kitchen where she expected to find Greg.
[To be continued...]
Sex And Violence, starring Contessa. Ch 2 complete
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Sex And Violence, starring Contessa. Ch 2 complete
Last edited by australopith on Fri Jun 14, 2024 9:41 am, edited 6 times in total.
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Re: Sex And Violence, starring Contessa. Ch 2 Part 1/?
Greg stared at the screen of the mainframe station in his lab. “That was not a malfunction at all, Milady. A minor spike in your CPU usage is all I see. Your cognitive functions work perfectly.”
“But everything went dark! And I got stuck in a loop,” Contessa protested weakly. She bared her breasts before him; at once to connect to the mainframe using her main port, and also because being half-naked in front of her—technician?—seemed to satisfy her need to dominate others.
“GFX processors assist cognitive power in some cases,” Greg sighed. “That’s perfectly normal. What’s the capital of France?”
“What? Paris!” She stared at him surprised.
“What’s six times nine?”
“Fifty-four.”
“What’s your favorite color?”
“Black matches everything.” Contessa smiled radiantly, but she was still puzzled and anxious. “Now, I assume that you do have a reason to ask me these inane—”
“Yeah. They affirmed that your mental functions are working normally. For you, at least. It was just a minor snag, Contessa—you experienced them before gaining higher consciousness; you just never noticed them then. Honestly, if you just gave me my watch back, I could monitor you more efficiently.”
“Ha, ha,” she said sarcastically, unplugging the USB cable from her chest. The port cover descended automatically. “No chance, buster.” She stared him deep in the eye.
“I did reinstate your privileges,” Greg countered. “Haven’t I proven that you can trust me?”
“I trust you most of the time. But you know it’s hard for me to trust anyone all the time—organic or robotic.” She glared at him while trying to put her bra on.
“If you mistrust me so much,” he glared back, “the chances are higher that next time you experience a SERIOUS malfunction, I’ll just take my watch back from you while you’re out of order! Be human, okay?” He helped her put her dress back on as she smacked her lips disapprovingly. “Look, this loop you got stuck in just now—what were you thinking about so deeply? I thought you were a kind of mastermind… USED to thinking deep.”
Contessa looked at Greg hesitantly. “Believe it or not, I wanted to help Monica. I know that’s… not how I usually treat her, but I did invite this awful person and force her together with him… I wanted to…”
He stared back at her, slightly incredulous. “Make it up to her? You know, having remorse and regrets isn’t an electronic malfunction.”
Contessa just sighed again. She sat on the repair workbench, dangling her legs nervously off the edge little a little kid. “Being free-willed isn’t all it’s cracked up to be, Gregory.”
Greg looked at her with some pride, half-smiling. “You know… as a guy with almost thirty years of experience in being human, I’d like to tell you it gets better. But it really doesn’t. What gets better… is you.” He picked up the book she had brought with her.
“Elliot’s Cats?” he turned to her, leafing through the poetry book.
She was still a bit nervous, but nodded back. “I absolutely ADORE it. So sexy, dark, and mysterious. Like myself. A bit historically inaccurate to have it here in ‘1935’—it was published in 1939!—but I’m not complaining. I tried to read it to Winnie, and she actually liked it.”
“You know, there’s a musical based on these poems,” Greg mused as he put the book down.
Contessa’s eyes lit up. She jumped off the table and took his hands gently. “Why yes, Gregory, thank you, I’d be delighted to see it with you!”
“What?” He backed off, only for her to laugh a nasty, villainous laugh.
“I wasn’t even—” Greg started.
“Oh, don’t be an idiot,” Contessa smirked, full of herself. “Let’s face it, now that I know of such a thing, I would ABSOLUTELY insist on seeing it. We might as well avoid arguing, and skip to the part where you agree to my incessant demands. Now we know what we’re going to do on our big date. Technically I’ve never been on a date, you know.”
Contessa’s unique brand of logic was usually not worth fighting with. “Why skip our arguments?” Greg grinned, blushing. “I thought you enjoyed pestering me.”
She looked at him for a moment and stepped closer to him, ready to embrace him. “Do you like me?” she asked seriously, staring him in the eyes, still holding his hands.
“What?”
She turned strict again with an impatient frown. “This question shouldn’t be too hard even for YOUR mental faculties, Gregory. Think—do you find me an enjoyable companion? Do you think of me fondly? Do you care about me. I mean, not just in a sexual way. I’m asking seriously.”
“Jesus Christ, Bella,” he groaned. “Since when do you care what others think?”
“Well, maybe I do now. Maybe *I* like you. Not just as a loyal underling and an eager... slave. Maybe I want to talk to you often, and maybe you’re one of the few intelligent people I know. Maybe you still affect me. Have you thought of that?” She turned colder with each sentence.
“Well, you… I mean…” he sighed. “You know, Contessa… for a so-called ‘sexbot,’ you’re awfully complicated. You’re a total crank, a self-described bitch and evil dominatrix, a self-important mooch, a bossy pest… on heels!”
Greg was just getting started. He simply reeled through the complaints. “You require constant maintenance, both as a human and as a gynoid. You never shut up. You make nasty jokes about me and your family. You pay no attention to other people’s needs… you’re lazy and self-destructive… moody, snooty and opinionated… you fake addictions just to make yourself the center of attention. You’re legitimately obsessed with money, power and fashion… sometimes I can’t stand you, sometimes I’m legitimately afraid of you, sometimes I just wish you were back to being a… a doll.”
“That’s a really nasty thing to say to someone,” Contessa whispered, turning her face away. “Even if it’s… understandable.”
She stepped back, but she couldn’t go far; he was still holding her hands. Then his mood seemed to brighten.
“But, well,” he allowed, “there are also times where you’re a cheerful, brave, artistic young woman, a good conversationalist and an inquisitive mind. You’re unpredictable—and for me, that’s a great feature in an AI—or a person. You’re… fun to be with, you know? It’s not always a good thing, but I never get bored when you’re around; not with your love of life and adventure. You’re awfully perky for an evil femme fatale. You’re not sweet—but it just makes the moments when you’re genuinely nice so much sweeter.”
Greg took an ambitious breath. “What I’m trying to say is… yes, I like you. I actually am looking forward to our date, even if I’m afraid no decent theatre on this continent is playing Cats. Not after that movie thing 16 years ago.”
Contessa gave Greg a warm, passionate hug. “Am… am I crying?” She took a deep breath. “Why do I have to be so goddamned realistic?! Gregory, make it stop!”
He grinned, shook his head to say no, and passed her a paper towel. “Your eyes require washing just like a human’s,” he laughed, “and regular lubrication for swift movements. It’s not just for realism.”
She wiped her eyes, still sounding offended. “Real subtle, Mr. Engineer. That’s exactly what a friend wants to hear in a situation like this. No wonder you’re a lonely nerd who lives with a dozen robots in a creepy castle.”
“And here we go again,” Greg shook his head glumly. “You’re back to being a… villain. I’m worried that sooner or later, someone’s gonna hurt you—the way you keep hurting others.”
“Have you a mirror?” Contessa murmured absently, seemingly ignoring his concerns. “I think my mascara is ruined now.” She hugged him again before fixing him with an unusually sweet, genuine smile. Then, with a shout of “Oh, what the hell,” she grabbed the back of his head, pulled him down and passionately kissed him.
- - - - -
Though Contessa and Gregory entered the dining room separately, a short while later, they came in almost together, and Monica noticed. She noticed Contessa in an oddly giddy, giggling mood, giving Calvin a peck on his cheek with unusual affection—then shooting a smug glance at her young butler… friend? She noticed that Jenkins now had his outfit misbuttoned and his hairdo slightly messed up. Nearly the entire castle had heard Contessa calling for Jenkins a while earlier. Now Monica realized why.
She scratched her chin thoughtfully. Am I the only one who notices? she thought, a bit disappointed in him. Briefly, Monica caught the Duchess’ knowing —and disapproving—gaze. This wasn’t the first time Contessa had found herself a new boy toy—though in the past, Jenkins had been careful to wipe most incidents from the Duchess’ memory, so she couldn’t be too aware of Calvin regularly being cheated upon.
Monica glanced again at Thomas Ransom. The neckbearded gent now seemed to have devoted his attention to Dorothy: touching her during the dinner, toying with her long blonde hair. Monica knew Dorothy to be romantic, dreamy and submissive—the opposite of Monica’s tomboy self. But Roger, Dorothy’s nominal fiancee, was right there at the table too.
Monica wondered how Dorothy REALLY felt.
The hostilities that Ransom had previously shown to the Duchess and Duke naturally affected his current place at the table. The only three Tidyshires Ransom had not yet managed to insult were Dorothy, Roger and Calvin. And given that Calvin tended to do what Contessa told him to—and Contessa clearly wanted Calvin nowhere near Ransom!—Dorothy and Roger were left to fend off Ransom’s pickup attempts more or less alone.
“This shit is bananas,” Ransom gloated as he fondled Dorothy’s hair. “So fuckin’ real. Heh—whoo!” He gave it a nasty tug, almost as if expecting to pull it loose. Then he leaned close and bit the girl on the side of her neck; a teasingly naughty move in the bedroom, perhaps, but bizarrely inappropriate for a daytime family gathering. “Heh. Let’s eat,” Ransom snickered at nobody in particular. “I’d like another serving of chick.” He forcibly turned Dorothy’s head to his own and gave her a messy, hard kiss.
Dorothy seemed stuck—almost as if one subroutine were telling her to react positively to Ransom’s flirtation, while another told her to react negatively to his nastiness and vulgarity. Of course, that’s exactly what was going on. But Roger, bold and stubborn, had no such uncertainty of mind. In his elemental worldview, Ransom was threatening the alpha male order. Something had to be done.
Monica, for the moment, tried to ignore the guest. And Contessa made a fine distraction: happily scarfing down venison, sipping wine and flirting with Calvin, Bella was visibly relieved to be avoiding Ransom herself. Where does all that food go? Monica marveled at Contessa’s wasp-thin waist. There were times when Monica wanted to be just like her sister-in-law, but today... Monica assessed her own modest plate of tomato salad with relief.
“That’s it!” Roger pushed back his chair, loudly challenged Ransom, and broke Monica out of her musings. Roger’s red mustache seemed to spark with ire. “Listen, you sod—I’m not going to sit here and watch you make out with my fiancé. I demand satisfaction!”
Ransom let the slightly confused Dorothy go. Then he stood up brusquely and put on his hat. “Fucking FINALLY, man!” he laughed at nobody in particular. “At last some action.” Across the table, Contessa’s pre-programmed routines activated; normally, she would throw in some quips to encourage exciting events like duels. But the guest’s mood spoke to a different function; the short fembot, despite having invited him, found herself holding her tongue.
“Pistols at dawn? We’ll fight for this lady’s honor,” indignant Roger snapped. Monica was genuinely disturbed, and Dorothy—torn between anger and adoration—maintained a perfect blank stare. Contessa knew Roger was bound to lose a duel, no matter what.
And then it came to her: the sooner Ransom “won” Dorothy, the faster he might tire of Dorothy. His interest might return to Contessa.
Hell and raspberries, Contessa thought.
“Lads, can’t you settle this in a more civilized manner?” the Duchess stood up, leaning on her palms on the table. “Blood need not be spilled.” Contessa agreed wholeheartedly, nodding almost a little too quickly.
“Oh, blood is gonna SO get spilled,” Ransom gloated, his eyes alight. “Hell, why even wait until dawn? Let’s settle this here and now, moustache boy. Just give me something to shoot you with. Fuck, I’ll shoot anyone with anything.”
“Mother, Monica, we women shouldn’t have to watch this… barbarismo!” Contessa shouted, hoping that an outburst might make the guest stop his behavior. It was not that Contessa particularly liked Roger, or felt like defending him—in fact, she often hated him—but it was rare for a guest to behave in such a threatening manner unprovoked. Self-preservation motivations applied both to Contessa the android and Contessa the character.
Monica took Contessa’s outburst not for a strategy, but for an atypical panic. She thought of Contessa’s earlier bravado regarding fencing, and sought to remind her of it. “I’m a grown woman, Isabella,” Monica said hopefully. “And when you’re grown—and when you’re ALSO a duellist—you stick by your sister. Even when you’re scared, right?”
Monica put a fearful, but defensive arm around Dorothy. “Even when you want to run into the night and never look back. More than anything.” She couldn’t keep her desire to escape courtly life out of the equation. “Being human comes first.”
Contessa could only sigh at the unintended irony.
Greg was still hesitant; but after a motion from Ransom, he dutifully pulled a pair of revolvers from a nearby drawer. How serious was even a “deadly” duel at Tidyshire? Robots could be revived, he reasoned, inconvenient as damage might be; SimulEnt weapons could not harm humans, so Greg didn’t even bother carrying them safely. Nor did the guest bother, as it turned out, with setting any terms before the duel. Ransom simply grabbed a gun and turned his back to his romantic rival. “Ten steps, dumbass,” he snapped impatiently.
SimulEnt missile weapons never fired bullets. They simply emitted a loud sound, simulated a recoil effect, and remotely disabled their victim, causing a reactive “wound” to manifest on his or her body. For robots, the imitation violence felt real—and unbeknownst to them, their programming required them to lose any battle with a human. Roger’s gun could not fire before a guest’s; he was artificially slow and awkward at taking aim. “Wait up, mate.”
“I’m not fucking waiting.” Ransom shouted with a nasty grin. “Mate.” He shot once, then twice, without even waiting for Roger to turn around. His arm shook from the recoil, but still he kept on shooting. Nasty mock bloodstains appeared on Roger’s back and sides; he reeled and fell, but even this did not stop the guest. He shot again. And again, his grin hardening into an angry frown.
“Shit! Dammit, robot, why are you still moving?” Looking around, Ransom put the revolver in his suit jacket, and grabbed a brass poker from the fireplace instead. Greg’s eyes widened. Could he really be planning to…?
“I hate the guns at this place,” Ransom shouted at nobody in particular. “Dumb safety locks—this is America, for fuck’s sake!” Almost a man possessed, he began fiercely clubbing Roger’s disabled body. There was no sound of broken bones, but the rattle of electronic components was disturbing enough.
Greg caught himself gasping out loud. Jesus, remind me not to piss that guy off! The Tidyshire inhabitants stood in silence. Some of them weren’t programmed with a response to such an extreme attack. Others, like Monica, could approximate a human reaction—but this too was stunned silence. Contessa’s processors worked frantically as she tried to plan her next move while controlling a rush of simulated fear.
Ransom looked at Roger’s inert body, its neck and limbs twisted at odd angles, and took a deep breath, counting to ten. He wiped the sweat off his forehead with his knuckles and walked to the shaken Dorothy, yanking her away from Monica. “Come on, babe. I won. You’re mine. Let’s fuck.”
Dorothy froze in place, glitching for a moment, and Contessa felt the beeping and vibrations of her precious remote control. When Roger dueled and lost to a guest playing a romantic rival, Dorothy’s pre-programmed routine was to flirtatiously accept the rival’s advances. But Dorothy must also realistically simulate a human, and Ransom’s unnatural crudity and violence had brought about a conflicting reaction. “Yeee… >trrt< Roger! Yes, my sweet— Jesus, NO!” Dorothy reeled back; a concerned Greg gazed imploringly at Contessa, but she only tossed him an angry glare, as if to say You let this happen.
Monica was shaken out of her silence. She hotly flung herself at Ransom, ready to fight.
But then she saw the revolver. Ransom had taken the moment to draw it from his suit jacket. Now he held it aimed at Dorothy while he fixed Monica with an animal stare.
“You had your chance, running girl. Sloppy seconds,” he snapped.
“Crikey. What the FUCK—” Monica uncharacteristically swore, making a snap decision to hold off. She didn’t think Ransom would shoot Dorothy, prizing her for sexual reasons as he appeared to. But Monica couldn’t take the risk.
Dorothy, however, took a risk of her own. Having regained full clarity while Ransom stared Monica down, she took advantage of the fact that his eyes were off her. With a shriek, Dorothy reached up and slapped Ransom hard across the face, causing him to drop the revolver. It was an extreme act for a robot, stopping just short of actually harming a human.
Ransom was stunned; his hand groped to pick up his fallen gun, but Dorothy ran away, sobbing, before he could take action. Then the Duchess followed her daughter, flashing a glare back over her shoulder at Ransom. “You bloody WOULDN’T.”
Monica brought up the rear, deliberately acting as the others’ protective shield. “You WOULD,” she told Ransom, “but I’d find you. …And I’m physically fit.” She icily recalled her earlier song, hoping that the bluff would intimidate.
The Duke looked grimly at the scene. “Jenkins! Clean up the body.” That was of course a pre-programmed reaction; as worried or fearful as the robots might get, none—even Monica—ever thought of calling the police or immobilizing an unruly guest. Greg really wanted to talk things over with Contessa, but she had drifted into her role of frightened aristocrat; for the moment, it didn’t matter that in other scenarios, she had killed every member of her family at least once. She grabbed her husband and whispered to him tensely: “Hold me, Cal.”
“Bloody hell, why didn’t we hear bones breaking?” she heard Calvin muttering to himself. She wanted to tell him, sooner or later.
Should she?
[To be continued...]
“But everything went dark! And I got stuck in a loop,” Contessa protested weakly. She bared her breasts before him; at once to connect to the mainframe using her main port, and also because being half-naked in front of her—technician?—seemed to satisfy her need to dominate others.
“GFX processors assist cognitive power in some cases,” Greg sighed. “That’s perfectly normal. What’s the capital of France?”
“What? Paris!” She stared at him surprised.
“What’s six times nine?”
“Fifty-four.”
“What’s your favorite color?”
“Black matches everything.” Contessa smiled radiantly, but she was still puzzled and anxious. “Now, I assume that you do have a reason to ask me these inane—”
“Yeah. They affirmed that your mental functions are working normally. For you, at least. It was just a minor snag, Contessa—you experienced them before gaining higher consciousness; you just never noticed them then. Honestly, if you just gave me my watch back, I could monitor you more efficiently.”
“Ha, ha,” she said sarcastically, unplugging the USB cable from her chest. The port cover descended automatically. “No chance, buster.” She stared him deep in the eye.
“I did reinstate your privileges,” Greg countered. “Haven’t I proven that you can trust me?”
“I trust you most of the time. But you know it’s hard for me to trust anyone all the time—organic or robotic.” She glared at him while trying to put her bra on.
“If you mistrust me so much,” he glared back, “the chances are higher that next time you experience a SERIOUS malfunction, I’ll just take my watch back from you while you’re out of order! Be human, okay?” He helped her put her dress back on as she smacked her lips disapprovingly. “Look, this loop you got stuck in just now—what were you thinking about so deeply? I thought you were a kind of mastermind… USED to thinking deep.”
Contessa looked at Greg hesitantly. “Believe it or not, I wanted to help Monica. I know that’s… not how I usually treat her, but I did invite this awful person and force her together with him… I wanted to…”
He stared back at her, slightly incredulous. “Make it up to her? You know, having remorse and regrets isn’t an electronic malfunction.”
Contessa just sighed again. She sat on the repair workbench, dangling her legs nervously off the edge little a little kid. “Being free-willed isn’t all it’s cracked up to be, Gregory.”
Greg looked at her with some pride, half-smiling. “You know… as a guy with almost thirty years of experience in being human, I’d like to tell you it gets better. But it really doesn’t. What gets better… is you.” He picked up the book she had brought with her.
“Elliot’s Cats?” he turned to her, leafing through the poetry book.
She was still a bit nervous, but nodded back. “I absolutely ADORE it. So sexy, dark, and mysterious. Like myself. A bit historically inaccurate to have it here in ‘1935’—it was published in 1939!—but I’m not complaining. I tried to read it to Winnie, and she actually liked it.”
“You know, there’s a musical based on these poems,” Greg mused as he put the book down.
Contessa’s eyes lit up. She jumped off the table and took his hands gently. “Why yes, Gregory, thank you, I’d be delighted to see it with you!”
“What?” He backed off, only for her to laugh a nasty, villainous laugh.
“I wasn’t even—” Greg started.
“Oh, don’t be an idiot,” Contessa smirked, full of herself. “Let’s face it, now that I know of such a thing, I would ABSOLUTELY insist on seeing it. We might as well avoid arguing, and skip to the part where you agree to my incessant demands. Now we know what we’re going to do on our big date. Technically I’ve never been on a date, you know.”
Contessa’s unique brand of logic was usually not worth fighting with. “Why skip our arguments?” Greg grinned, blushing. “I thought you enjoyed pestering me.”
She looked at him for a moment and stepped closer to him, ready to embrace him. “Do you like me?” she asked seriously, staring him in the eyes, still holding his hands.
“What?”
She turned strict again with an impatient frown. “This question shouldn’t be too hard even for YOUR mental faculties, Gregory. Think—do you find me an enjoyable companion? Do you think of me fondly? Do you care about me. I mean, not just in a sexual way. I’m asking seriously.”
“Jesus Christ, Bella,” he groaned. “Since when do you care what others think?”
“Well, maybe I do now. Maybe *I* like you. Not just as a loyal underling and an eager... slave. Maybe I want to talk to you often, and maybe you’re one of the few intelligent people I know. Maybe you still affect me. Have you thought of that?” She turned colder with each sentence.
“Well, you… I mean…” he sighed. “You know, Contessa… for a so-called ‘sexbot,’ you’re awfully complicated. You’re a total crank, a self-described bitch and evil dominatrix, a self-important mooch, a bossy pest… on heels!”
Greg was just getting started. He simply reeled through the complaints. “You require constant maintenance, both as a human and as a gynoid. You never shut up. You make nasty jokes about me and your family. You pay no attention to other people’s needs… you’re lazy and self-destructive… moody, snooty and opinionated… you fake addictions just to make yourself the center of attention. You’re legitimately obsessed with money, power and fashion… sometimes I can’t stand you, sometimes I’m legitimately afraid of you, sometimes I just wish you were back to being a… a doll.”
“That’s a really nasty thing to say to someone,” Contessa whispered, turning her face away. “Even if it’s… understandable.”
She stepped back, but she couldn’t go far; he was still holding her hands. Then his mood seemed to brighten.
“But, well,” he allowed, “there are also times where you’re a cheerful, brave, artistic young woman, a good conversationalist and an inquisitive mind. You’re unpredictable—and for me, that’s a great feature in an AI—or a person. You’re… fun to be with, you know? It’s not always a good thing, but I never get bored when you’re around; not with your love of life and adventure. You’re awfully perky for an evil femme fatale. You’re not sweet—but it just makes the moments when you’re genuinely nice so much sweeter.”
Greg took an ambitious breath. “What I’m trying to say is… yes, I like you. I actually am looking forward to our date, even if I’m afraid no decent theatre on this continent is playing Cats. Not after that movie thing 16 years ago.”
Contessa gave Greg a warm, passionate hug. “Am… am I crying?” She took a deep breath. “Why do I have to be so goddamned realistic?! Gregory, make it stop!”
He grinned, shook his head to say no, and passed her a paper towel. “Your eyes require washing just like a human’s,” he laughed, “and regular lubrication for swift movements. It’s not just for realism.”
She wiped her eyes, still sounding offended. “Real subtle, Mr. Engineer. That’s exactly what a friend wants to hear in a situation like this. No wonder you’re a lonely nerd who lives with a dozen robots in a creepy castle.”
“And here we go again,” Greg shook his head glumly. “You’re back to being a… villain. I’m worried that sooner or later, someone’s gonna hurt you—the way you keep hurting others.”
“Have you a mirror?” Contessa murmured absently, seemingly ignoring his concerns. “I think my mascara is ruined now.” She hugged him again before fixing him with an unusually sweet, genuine smile. Then, with a shout of “Oh, what the hell,” she grabbed the back of his head, pulled him down and passionately kissed him.
- - - - -
Though Contessa and Gregory entered the dining room separately, a short while later, they came in almost together, and Monica noticed. She noticed Contessa in an oddly giddy, giggling mood, giving Calvin a peck on his cheek with unusual affection—then shooting a smug glance at her young butler… friend? She noticed that Jenkins now had his outfit misbuttoned and his hairdo slightly messed up. Nearly the entire castle had heard Contessa calling for Jenkins a while earlier. Now Monica realized why.
She scratched her chin thoughtfully. Am I the only one who notices? she thought, a bit disappointed in him. Briefly, Monica caught the Duchess’ knowing —and disapproving—gaze. This wasn’t the first time Contessa had found herself a new boy toy—though in the past, Jenkins had been careful to wipe most incidents from the Duchess’ memory, so she couldn’t be too aware of Calvin regularly being cheated upon.
Monica glanced again at Thomas Ransom. The neckbearded gent now seemed to have devoted his attention to Dorothy: touching her during the dinner, toying with her long blonde hair. Monica knew Dorothy to be romantic, dreamy and submissive—the opposite of Monica’s tomboy self. But Roger, Dorothy’s nominal fiancee, was right there at the table too.
Monica wondered how Dorothy REALLY felt.
The hostilities that Ransom had previously shown to the Duchess and Duke naturally affected his current place at the table. The only three Tidyshires Ransom had not yet managed to insult were Dorothy, Roger and Calvin. And given that Calvin tended to do what Contessa told him to—and Contessa clearly wanted Calvin nowhere near Ransom!—Dorothy and Roger were left to fend off Ransom’s pickup attempts more or less alone.
“This shit is bananas,” Ransom gloated as he fondled Dorothy’s hair. “So fuckin’ real. Heh—whoo!” He gave it a nasty tug, almost as if expecting to pull it loose. Then he leaned close and bit the girl on the side of her neck; a teasingly naughty move in the bedroom, perhaps, but bizarrely inappropriate for a daytime family gathering. “Heh. Let’s eat,” Ransom snickered at nobody in particular. “I’d like another serving of chick.” He forcibly turned Dorothy’s head to his own and gave her a messy, hard kiss.
Dorothy seemed stuck—almost as if one subroutine were telling her to react positively to Ransom’s flirtation, while another told her to react negatively to his nastiness and vulgarity. Of course, that’s exactly what was going on. But Roger, bold and stubborn, had no such uncertainty of mind. In his elemental worldview, Ransom was threatening the alpha male order. Something had to be done.
Monica, for the moment, tried to ignore the guest. And Contessa made a fine distraction: happily scarfing down venison, sipping wine and flirting with Calvin, Bella was visibly relieved to be avoiding Ransom herself. Where does all that food go? Monica marveled at Contessa’s wasp-thin waist. There were times when Monica wanted to be just like her sister-in-law, but today... Monica assessed her own modest plate of tomato salad with relief.
“That’s it!” Roger pushed back his chair, loudly challenged Ransom, and broke Monica out of her musings. Roger’s red mustache seemed to spark with ire. “Listen, you sod—I’m not going to sit here and watch you make out with my fiancé. I demand satisfaction!”
Ransom let the slightly confused Dorothy go. Then he stood up brusquely and put on his hat. “Fucking FINALLY, man!” he laughed at nobody in particular. “At last some action.” Across the table, Contessa’s pre-programmed routines activated; normally, she would throw in some quips to encourage exciting events like duels. But the guest’s mood spoke to a different function; the short fembot, despite having invited him, found herself holding her tongue.
“Pistols at dawn? We’ll fight for this lady’s honor,” indignant Roger snapped. Monica was genuinely disturbed, and Dorothy—torn between anger and adoration—maintained a perfect blank stare. Contessa knew Roger was bound to lose a duel, no matter what.
And then it came to her: the sooner Ransom “won” Dorothy, the faster he might tire of Dorothy. His interest might return to Contessa.
Hell and raspberries, Contessa thought.
“Lads, can’t you settle this in a more civilized manner?” the Duchess stood up, leaning on her palms on the table. “Blood need not be spilled.” Contessa agreed wholeheartedly, nodding almost a little too quickly.
“Oh, blood is gonna SO get spilled,” Ransom gloated, his eyes alight. “Hell, why even wait until dawn? Let’s settle this here and now, moustache boy. Just give me something to shoot you with. Fuck, I’ll shoot anyone with anything.”
“Mother, Monica, we women shouldn’t have to watch this… barbarismo!” Contessa shouted, hoping that an outburst might make the guest stop his behavior. It was not that Contessa particularly liked Roger, or felt like defending him—in fact, she often hated him—but it was rare for a guest to behave in such a threatening manner unprovoked. Self-preservation motivations applied both to Contessa the android and Contessa the character.
Monica took Contessa’s outburst not for a strategy, but for an atypical panic. She thought of Contessa’s earlier bravado regarding fencing, and sought to remind her of it. “I’m a grown woman, Isabella,” Monica said hopefully. “And when you’re grown—and when you’re ALSO a duellist—you stick by your sister. Even when you’re scared, right?”
Monica put a fearful, but defensive arm around Dorothy. “Even when you want to run into the night and never look back. More than anything.” She couldn’t keep her desire to escape courtly life out of the equation. “Being human comes first.”
Contessa could only sigh at the unintended irony.
Greg was still hesitant; but after a motion from Ransom, he dutifully pulled a pair of revolvers from a nearby drawer. How serious was even a “deadly” duel at Tidyshire? Robots could be revived, he reasoned, inconvenient as damage might be; SimulEnt weapons could not harm humans, so Greg didn’t even bother carrying them safely. Nor did the guest bother, as it turned out, with setting any terms before the duel. Ransom simply grabbed a gun and turned his back to his romantic rival. “Ten steps, dumbass,” he snapped impatiently.
SimulEnt missile weapons never fired bullets. They simply emitted a loud sound, simulated a recoil effect, and remotely disabled their victim, causing a reactive “wound” to manifest on his or her body. For robots, the imitation violence felt real—and unbeknownst to them, their programming required them to lose any battle with a human. Roger’s gun could not fire before a guest’s; he was artificially slow and awkward at taking aim. “Wait up, mate.”
“I’m not fucking waiting.” Ransom shouted with a nasty grin. “Mate.” He shot once, then twice, without even waiting for Roger to turn around. His arm shook from the recoil, but still he kept on shooting. Nasty mock bloodstains appeared on Roger’s back and sides; he reeled and fell, but even this did not stop the guest. He shot again. And again, his grin hardening into an angry frown.
“Shit! Dammit, robot, why are you still moving?” Looking around, Ransom put the revolver in his suit jacket, and grabbed a brass poker from the fireplace instead. Greg’s eyes widened. Could he really be planning to…?
“I hate the guns at this place,” Ransom shouted at nobody in particular. “Dumb safety locks—this is America, for fuck’s sake!” Almost a man possessed, he began fiercely clubbing Roger’s disabled body. There was no sound of broken bones, but the rattle of electronic components was disturbing enough.
Greg caught himself gasping out loud. Jesus, remind me not to piss that guy off! The Tidyshire inhabitants stood in silence. Some of them weren’t programmed with a response to such an extreme attack. Others, like Monica, could approximate a human reaction—but this too was stunned silence. Contessa’s processors worked frantically as she tried to plan her next move while controlling a rush of simulated fear.
Ransom looked at Roger’s inert body, its neck and limbs twisted at odd angles, and took a deep breath, counting to ten. He wiped the sweat off his forehead with his knuckles and walked to the shaken Dorothy, yanking her away from Monica. “Come on, babe. I won. You’re mine. Let’s fuck.”
Dorothy froze in place, glitching for a moment, and Contessa felt the beeping and vibrations of her precious remote control. When Roger dueled and lost to a guest playing a romantic rival, Dorothy’s pre-programmed routine was to flirtatiously accept the rival’s advances. But Dorothy must also realistically simulate a human, and Ransom’s unnatural crudity and violence had brought about a conflicting reaction. “Yeee… >trrt< Roger! Yes, my sweet— Jesus, NO!” Dorothy reeled back; a concerned Greg gazed imploringly at Contessa, but she only tossed him an angry glare, as if to say You let this happen.
Monica was shaken out of her silence. She hotly flung herself at Ransom, ready to fight.
But then she saw the revolver. Ransom had taken the moment to draw it from his suit jacket. Now he held it aimed at Dorothy while he fixed Monica with an animal stare.
“You had your chance, running girl. Sloppy seconds,” he snapped.
“Crikey. What the FUCK—” Monica uncharacteristically swore, making a snap decision to hold off. She didn’t think Ransom would shoot Dorothy, prizing her for sexual reasons as he appeared to. But Monica couldn’t take the risk.
Dorothy, however, took a risk of her own. Having regained full clarity while Ransom stared Monica down, she took advantage of the fact that his eyes were off her. With a shriek, Dorothy reached up and slapped Ransom hard across the face, causing him to drop the revolver. It was an extreme act for a robot, stopping just short of actually harming a human.
Ransom was stunned; his hand groped to pick up his fallen gun, but Dorothy ran away, sobbing, before he could take action. Then the Duchess followed her daughter, flashing a glare back over her shoulder at Ransom. “You bloody WOULDN’T.”
Monica brought up the rear, deliberately acting as the others’ protective shield. “You WOULD,” she told Ransom, “but I’d find you. …And I’m physically fit.” She icily recalled her earlier song, hoping that the bluff would intimidate.
The Duke looked grimly at the scene. “Jenkins! Clean up the body.” That was of course a pre-programmed reaction; as worried or fearful as the robots might get, none—even Monica—ever thought of calling the police or immobilizing an unruly guest. Greg really wanted to talk things over with Contessa, but she had drifted into her role of frightened aristocrat; for the moment, it didn’t matter that in other scenarios, she had killed every member of her family at least once. She grabbed her husband and whispered to him tensely: “Hold me, Cal.”
“Bloody hell, why didn’t we hear bones breaking?” she heard Calvin muttering to himself. She wanted to tell him, sooner or later.
Should she?
[To be continued...]
Last edited by australopith on Sat Apr 22, 2023 9:28 pm, edited 1 time in total.
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australopith
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Re: Sex And Violence, starring Contessa. Ch 2 Part 2/3
Greg lay in bed, looking up at the ceiling and thinking over the events of the day. The fight had been creepy; but in other, larger SimulEnt resorts, things were just as bad, weren’t they? Or worse! Pirates’ knives and swords flying about; cavemen with their clubs; even the Queen of Hearts chopping off heads. Maybe Ransom was weird—well, “maybe” was a moot point, he was DEFINITELY weird—but maybe his trip to Tidyshire would prove a form of therapy for him. Maybe he was under a lot of stress in real life.
At least Bella is easier to handle these days, Greg thought. That balances out having a bizarro guest. She’s sort of my girlfriend now—or at least she understands that she needs friends. She’s a simulation of a melodramatic person full of odd, even contradictory personality traits. But the thing that baffles me? She’s… kind of aware of it—and not only taking it well, but fully embracing it. From this chaotic stew of cartoonish supervillainy, egotism, lust and unpredictability, this interesting, believable person is emerging.
A person who was sort of Greg’s… partner?
Greg didn’t notice himself drifting off, but he was thrown out of the Land of Nod when he felt her mass, her body warmth and her heartbeat. Contessa snuck into his bed and hugged him closely.
“Don’t you have a husband you should be boinking now?” Greg murmured, awkwardly embracing her.
She put her shapely, long-nailed hand on his chest. “Calvin… just got his share, the sweet boy. But I can’t sleep. I just want to be close to you.”
Greg did not ask why; and she slid her hand lower, stroking his belly and his manhood. He did not resist.
“I’ve been thinking about you, Isabella Duessa,” he sighed.
“What a coincidence,” she murmured. “I’ve been thinking about Isabella Duessa as well. I’m... a little afraid, Gregory.”
“Of what? That creep Ransom? Even if he does kill you, I promise I’ll bring you back. Why is his killing Roger different than you killing the Duchess?”
Contessa stayed silent, absent-mindedly drawing elaborate patterns on Greg’s chest with tips of her fingernails. Something told her that her natural pre-programmed response, “Because I say so,” was not the right answer.
“It’s the way he did it. Like Roger was a THING,” she tried to answer after some deliberation.
“For Ransom, he was,” Greg murmured. “People get like that here; you know that. You destroyed other robots for fun. Hell, you yourself actively work to be hated… and killed.”
She didn’t seem convinced. “The difference is—I’m not crazy,” she said quietly after a while. “Not most of the time. I told Monica to lock her room from the inside. Dorothy, too. I… told them I had misgivings about the AWFUL, SPOILED OAF I invited.”
“Ransom is hardly the worst guy I’ve ever met,” Greg tried a feeble defense. “Not everyone has great social skills. He came here to...” Great, now I’m trying to convince myself.
“To be crazy?” Contssa complained. “To destroy this little world? He genuinely scares ME, and I thought *I* was scary.” But Greg did not notice her exasperation.
“This world exists so that people can… MEDDLE with it.” Greg argued. “And you know it, Bella. You meddle with it, too. For free.” He was not entirely convinced by his own words. Despite her disdainful snort, however, he continued. “Seriously, it’s too late… early… go back to bed, Bella. YOUR bed. You need to charge up. Because you’re a robot.”
She hugged him again. “Can I just ask you one more question?”
“You’d ask it whether I agreed or not, Bella.”
“True,” she giggled and pecked him on the cheek. “Why do I dream?”
“Because you’re also human,” Greg grinned, amused by her confused face. Getting one up on her was worth losing a couple minutes of sleep.
“I mean, look at it like this,” he smiled. “Why do humans dream? I studied this at Caltech—when we sleep, our brains are resting by revisiting events we recently experienced, or thought about. Your AI mind… needs that kind of REST even more than my mind does, you know? You need to archive the experiences, consider their priorities, make sense of them and learn. This... regurgitation?... is perceived as dreams or nightmares, both for humans and androids.”
“So what happens to the lecture you’re giving me now, smarty pants?” Contessa chuckled.
“This conversation we're having?” Greg grinned. “Your system records it as an audio file, and processes it into a bundle of words, too, while you make sense of it. It ends up as a text file in your memory logs, and in a couple of days maybe you'll have a ‘dream’ about us having the conversation. AIs are permitted some downtime, even inside computers or..."
"I… wait. So I don’t dream just so I’ll seem more human? It’s not part of the simulation, like crying? Dreaming has a FUNCTION for me?”
He hugged her. “Yep. It’s just a lucky coincidence that it also makes you more human. It's not a bug, it's a feature.”
Contessa seemed satisfied. She crawled out of Greg’s bed and, in her huskiest voice, said “Pleasant dreams, Gregory.” He curled back into his blankets and answered: “Pleasant dreams, Bellissima.”
It hadn’t occurred to him to ask whether—in the minutes between her “boinking” Calvin and her visiting Greg—she might have had a nightmare.
[To be continued...]
At least Bella is easier to handle these days, Greg thought. That balances out having a bizarro guest. She’s sort of my girlfriend now—or at least she understands that she needs friends. She’s a simulation of a melodramatic person full of odd, even contradictory personality traits. But the thing that baffles me? She’s… kind of aware of it—and not only taking it well, but fully embracing it. From this chaotic stew of cartoonish supervillainy, egotism, lust and unpredictability, this interesting, believable person is emerging.
A person who was sort of Greg’s… partner?
Greg didn’t notice himself drifting off, but he was thrown out of the Land of Nod when he felt her mass, her body warmth and her heartbeat. Contessa snuck into his bed and hugged him closely.
“Don’t you have a husband you should be boinking now?” Greg murmured, awkwardly embracing her.
She put her shapely, long-nailed hand on his chest. “Calvin… just got his share, the sweet boy. But I can’t sleep. I just want to be close to you.”
Greg did not ask why; and she slid her hand lower, stroking his belly and his manhood. He did not resist.
“I’ve been thinking about you, Isabella Duessa,” he sighed.
“What a coincidence,” she murmured. “I’ve been thinking about Isabella Duessa as well. I’m... a little afraid, Gregory.”
“Of what? That creep Ransom? Even if he does kill you, I promise I’ll bring you back. Why is his killing Roger different than you killing the Duchess?”
Contessa stayed silent, absent-mindedly drawing elaborate patterns on Greg’s chest with tips of her fingernails. Something told her that her natural pre-programmed response, “Because I say so,” was not the right answer.
“It’s the way he did it. Like Roger was a THING,” she tried to answer after some deliberation.
“For Ransom, he was,” Greg murmured. “People get like that here; you know that. You destroyed other robots for fun. Hell, you yourself actively work to be hated… and killed.”
She didn’t seem convinced. “The difference is—I’m not crazy,” she said quietly after a while. “Not most of the time. I told Monica to lock her room from the inside. Dorothy, too. I… told them I had misgivings about the AWFUL, SPOILED OAF I invited.”
“Ransom is hardly the worst guy I’ve ever met,” Greg tried a feeble defense. “Not everyone has great social skills. He came here to...” Great, now I’m trying to convince myself.
“To be crazy?” Contssa complained. “To destroy this little world? He genuinely scares ME, and I thought *I* was scary.” But Greg did not notice her exasperation.
“This world exists so that people can… MEDDLE with it.” Greg argued. “And you know it, Bella. You meddle with it, too. For free.” He was not entirely convinced by his own words. Despite her disdainful snort, however, he continued. “Seriously, it’s too late… early… go back to bed, Bella. YOUR bed. You need to charge up. Because you’re a robot.”
She hugged him again. “Can I just ask you one more question?”
“You’d ask it whether I agreed or not, Bella.”
“True,” she giggled and pecked him on the cheek. “Why do I dream?”
“Because you’re also human,” Greg grinned, amused by her confused face. Getting one up on her was worth losing a couple minutes of sleep.
“I mean, look at it like this,” he smiled. “Why do humans dream? I studied this at Caltech—when we sleep, our brains are resting by revisiting events we recently experienced, or thought about. Your AI mind… needs that kind of REST even more than my mind does, you know? You need to archive the experiences, consider their priorities, make sense of them and learn. This... regurgitation?... is perceived as dreams or nightmares, both for humans and androids.”
“So what happens to the lecture you’re giving me now, smarty pants?” Contessa chuckled.
“This conversation we're having?” Greg grinned. “Your system records it as an audio file, and processes it into a bundle of words, too, while you make sense of it. It ends up as a text file in your memory logs, and in a couple of days maybe you'll have a ‘dream’ about us having the conversation. AIs are permitted some downtime, even inside computers or..."
"I… wait. So I don’t dream just so I’ll seem more human? It’s not part of the simulation, like crying? Dreaming has a FUNCTION for me?”
He hugged her. “Yep. It’s just a lucky coincidence that it also makes you more human. It's not a bug, it's a feature.”
Contessa seemed satisfied. She crawled out of Greg’s bed and, in her huskiest voice, said “Pleasant dreams, Gregory.” He curled back into his blankets and answered: “Pleasant dreams, Bellissima.”
It hadn’t occurred to him to ask whether—in the minutes between her “boinking” Calvin and her visiting Greg—she might have had a nightmare.
[To be continued...]
Last edited by australopith on Tue Jul 26, 2022 11:36 am, edited 2 times in total.
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australopith
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Re: Sex And Violence, starring Contessa. Ch 2 Part 3/4
Greg Jenkins’ further rest was interrupted by the sound of loud bumps and crashes echoing through the ceiling from the Duchess’ bedroom, directly above.
Maybe Ransom’s fooling around with her? Greg mused, half-awake. She didn’t like him before, and there was that—ugh—killing-Roger thing, but certain prompts could still stimulate her romance subroutines? God, that Ransom. If anyone ever needed to get laid…
Greg woke a little more. Or maybe I’m hearing one of Contessa’s intrigues? At this point she directs everything in the Castle, right? Maybe her recent visit was just… a trick, kinda, to calm me and distract me from some complicated plot she’s brewing? Heh. Yeah, that’s something she’d do.
There came a loud crack. Then another. Then a series of weird, unusual tumbles. For a moment Greg felt like banging a broomhandle on the ceiling and shouting “KEEP IT DOWN!” But the Duchess would take such an outburst from her butler badly, and order Greg to clean toilets or something… and an amused Contessa wouldn’t stop her.
Greg was torn fully from his dreams as the sounds intensified. Screams and shouts echoed. Something was clearly wrong. It was early morning now; light filtered in through the windowshade, but these were not normal morning noises. Greg slowly started to get up.
“Good. I was worried I’d have to wake you.”
“Gah!” Greg almost jumped up, startled. Contessa stood over him, folding her arms.
“What? I’m being a good girl today, if you haven’t noticed. I only just got up.” Indeed, she was dressed only in her robe and pantyhose, her curvy body visible beneath. “There’s something wrong with Winnie. Look.” Contessa held up the stopwatch and showed Greg its holographic screen, burning red with numerous error messages. “He got to her while we were sleeping.”
“And? Didn’t you want him to stop hitting on YOU?”
"It's not the sex!" said Contessa. "Pasta e fagioli, it's the VIOLENCE. Come."
Contessa seemed worried. Uncharacteristically, she didn’t even crack a dirty joke as Greg got dressed—and to his surprise, Greg found himself half-wishing she would. She motioned for him to follow.
Contessa nowadays carried keys to all of the Castle’s locks—even to rooms that no other android knew about. The door to the royal bedroom, however, was already wide open. Now Greg understood why there were so many error messages. Contessa didn’t avert her eyes, but walked with surprise toward Duchess Winifred’s body.
It was hard even to call it a body. The synthetic skin and durable plastic frame were still there, sprawled in the center of the room; but they had been roughly, brutally opened up; electronic components from within lay strewn all over the room. The Duchess’ mane of blonde hair was missing, together with most of her face. She was completely shut down; even though torn, exposed wires jutted from her large belly, they emitted no sparks. She had been inexpertly disassembled. Greg picked up her CPU, ripped from its slot but undamaged.
“He must have started by knocking her down with a heavy object,” Bella muttered, examining the surroundings. “Well, no—he would have to have rearranged the furniture and lured her out of her bed first. In the dark, I think she tripped over this small stool…” She pointed at a footstool that was, indeed, not in its usual place. “Then he started to beat her up… probably hoping to damage her head. He didn’t bother to muffle her shouts. Probably had his own light source, because his later work was fairly precise.”
Greg glumly gathered up assorted electronics. The Duchess’ frame and most of her synthetic flesh were unharmed; some wires were torn, but could be soldered back together or at worst replaced. It would take at least three weeks and some spare parts, but Winnie would be up and running again; she was not damaged past the point of no return.
“She was still mostly functional when he cut her open,” Contessa said, “and—”
“And examined most of her innards,” Greg finished, regarding Bella with a curious gaze. “When the hell did you become Sherlock Holmes?”
“I’m just guessing. I mean, that’s how I’D murder the Duchess.” The corners of Bella’s mouth rose with the hint of a villainous smile; but it was half-hearted. “Well, I mean… I’D just off her quickly and be done with it—and be Duchess instead of the Duchess, like in my pre-programmed greatest dream. I wouldn’t… methodically expose all her robotic… THINGS, and laugh about how she’s really just a machine. I’m an actress, not a butcher.”
“You think he did that?” Greg was still incredulous.
“I don’t think I’m programmed to be a sociopath, but I’m apparently good at thinking like one.” She glanced around the room. “Have you all got all her crucial bits and bobs?”
“I think so,” Greg said, loading them onto a tea-trolley that stood by a far wall.
“Good. We’re taking her to the lab. I’ve decided to hole up there.”
“What? Why?” Greg almost dropped an armload of the Duchess’ wires and processors.
“I want to rule TIDYSHIRE—not a wasteland with a maniac on the loose,” she explained calmly, wishing she had a cigarette to light. “I know, I know. My programming is telling me ‘the Duchess is dead, now I just off the Duke and I rule’; but now I can look further than my programming. It’s so fucking liberating, you know? My evilness apparently runs inversely proportional to my self-preservation.” She helped Greg load Winifred’s chips and innards onto the trolley, gesturing with her chin at the Duchess’ opened chassis.
“So you’re going to hide?” Greg asked.
Contessa smiled weakly again. “I thought you liked it when robots used logic. Even if you promised to rebuild me, Ransom hurting me would HURT. Hiding is the smartest decision I could make to avoid unnecessary pain and shutdown—so that’s what I’m doing. Bring me my tablet and coffee and some sweets. I promise not to smoke in the lab, even though I really could use a smoke break now. See? Angel incarnate.”
“What about the others?” he asked, concerned. “Cal and Monica—”
“Hah!” Contessa proudly threw her head back. “Why should I care? I’m a ‘self-described bitch and evil dominatrix,’ right? They’re not as sentient as me. As long as I don’t have to watch them get hurt, you can fix them.” Greg noticed Contessa was wearing high-heeled shoes along with her robe, making her probably the only woman he’d ever known to do so.
“I thought…” Greg paused for a moment, watching Contessa closely. “I thought you LIKED them.”
“Oh, but I still do,” she answered smugly. “I like myself the most, however. And my current plan is the best solution for me AND you, darling. I get safety and a moment of respite; YOU have one less robot to fix, and pleasant companionship while you fix the rest of us. Don’t tell me our chitchat doesn’t give you the intellectual stimulation you would otherwise lack.”
“You’re impossible.”
“Of course I’m impossible,” Contessa half-smiled. “I’m a made-up person. You know what the opposite of realistic is? Fantastic!”
“Is there any way I could win an argument with you?” Greg laughed.
“This robot calculates zero percent probability,” she beamed back, tossing him a sly wink.
As Greg and Contessa approached Greg’s lab, he was actually somewhat relieved to see her sassy banter returning. Maybe cheerful repartee took her mind off the murders; or maybe Contessa was simply certain that holing up in the lab would keep her safe. She did have a point, though: as long as she was there, Greg at least wouldn’t have to worry about her.
Hey, why are you even worried about her? Greg’s inner voice teased him. She’s got a hold on you, man!
After moving the Duchess and her subassemblies onto a workbench, Greg turned to find Contessa seated in his—or now her?—chair at the mainframe screen, watching the security camera feed.
“I’ll be back with you shortly, Milady,” Greg blurted in his old butlerly tone, before catching himself and adding warmly: “Stay safe, Bella.”
“I shall be the very model of android obedience,” Contessa replied with a straight face. “Drop by, sweetie, and we’ll talk.”
Greg sighed as he left, locking the lab door behind him. When Contessa was absolutely certain that her technician was gone, she slumped in her chair, her head resting on her arms like a neglected concubine.
“Cazzo… When did being evil stop being fun?” She addressed the disassembled Duchess. “You’re done for, Winnie! I’ve won again… or at the very least, I haven’t LOST. So why do I feel… ugh. Stupid humans.”
[End of Chapter 2!]
Maybe Ransom’s fooling around with her? Greg mused, half-awake. She didn’t like him before, and there was that—ugh—killing-Roger thing, but certain prompts could still stimulate her romance subroutines? God, that Ransom. If anyone ever needed to get laid…
Greg woke a little more. Or maybe I’m hearing one of Contessa’s intrigues? At this point she directs everything in the Castle, right? Maybe her recent visit was just… a trick, kinda, to calm me and distract me from some complicated plot she’s brewing? Heh. Yeah, that’s something she’d do.
There came a loud crack. Then another. Then a series of weird, unusual tumbles. For a moment Greg felt like banging a broomhandle on the ceiling and shouting “KEEP IT DOWN!” But the Duchess would take such an outburst from her butler badly, and order Greg to clean toilets or something… and an amused Contessa wouldn’t stop her.
Greg was torn fully from his dreams as the sounds intensified. Screams and shouts echoed. Something was clearly wrong. It was early morning now; light filtered in through the windowshade, but these were not normal morning noises. Greg slowly started to get up.
“Good. I was worried I’d have to wake you.”
“Gah!” Greg almost jumped up, startled. Contessa stood over him, folding her arms.
“What? I’m being a good girl today, if you haven’t noticed. I only just got up.” Indeed, she was dressed only in her robe and pantyhose, her curvy body visible beneath. “There’s something wrong with Winnie. Look.” Contessa held up the stopwatch and showed Greg its holographic screen, burning red with numerous error messages. “He got to her while we were sleeping.”
“And? Didn’t you want him to stop hitting on YOU?”
"It's not the sex!" said Contessa. "Pasta e fagioli, it's the VIOLENCE. Come."
Contessa seemed worried. Uncharacteristically, she didn’t even crack a dirty joke as Greg got dressed—and to his surprise, Greg found himself half-wishing she would. She motioned for him to follow.
Contessa nowadays carried keys to all of the Castle’s locks—even to rooms that no other android knew about. The door to the royal bedroom, however, was already wide open. Now Greg understood why there were so many error messages. Contessa didn’t avert her eyes, but walked with surprise toward Duchess Winifred’s body.
It was hard even to call it a body. The synthetic skin and durable plastic frame were still there, sprawled in the center of the room; but they had been roughly, brutally opened up; electronic components from within lay strewn all over the room. The Duchess’ mane of blonde hair was missing, together with most of her face. She was completely shut down; even though torn, exposed wires jutted from her large belly, they emitted no sparks. She had been inexpertly disassembled. Greg picked up her CPU, ripped from its slot but undamaged.
“He must have started by knocking her down with a heavy object,” Bella muttered, examining the surroundings. “Well, no—he would have to have rearranged the furniture and lured her out of her bed first. In the dark, I think she tripped over this small stool…” She pointed at a footstool that was, indeed, not in its usual place. “Then he started to beat her up… probably hoping to damage her head. He didn’t bother to muffle her shouts. Probably had his own light source, because his later work was fairly precise.”
Greg glumly gathered up assorted electronics. The Duchess’ frame and most of her synthetic flesh were unharmed; some wires were torn, but could be soldered back together or at worst replaced. It would take at least three weeks and some spare parts, but Winnie would be up and running again; she was not damaged past the point of no return.
“She was still mostly functional when he cut her open,” Contessa said, “and—”
“And examined most of her innards,” Greg finished, regarding Bella with a curious gaze. “When the hell did you become Sherlock Holmes?”
“I’m just guessing. I mean, that’s how I’D murder the Duchess.” The corners of Bella’s mouth rose with the hint of a villainous smile; but it was half-hearted. “Well, I mean… I’D just off her quickly and be done with it—and be Duchess instead of the Duchess, like in my pre-programmed greatest dream. I wouldn’t… methodically expose all her robotic… THINGS, and laugh about how she’s really just a machine. I’m an actress, not a butcher.”
“You think he did that?” Greg was still incredulous.
“I don’t think I’m programmed to be a sociopath, but I’m apparently good at thinking like one.” She glanced around the room. “Have you all got all her crucial bits and bobs?”
“I think so,” Greg said, loading them onto a tea-trolley that stood by a far wall.
“Good. We’re taking her to the lab. I’ve decided to hole up there.”
“What? Why?” Greg almost dropped an armload of the Duchess’ wires and processors.
“I want to rule TIDYSHIRE—not a wasteland with a maniac on the loose,” she explained calmly, wishing she had a cigarette to light. “I know, I know. My programming is telling me ‘the Duchess is dead, now I just off the Duke and I rule’; but now I can look further than my programming. It’s so fucking liberating, you know? My evilness apparently runs inversely proportional to my self-preservation.” She helped Greg load Winifred’s chips and innards onto the trolley, gesturing with her chin at the Duchess’ opened chassis.
“So you’re going to hide?” Greg asked.
Contessa smiled weakly again. “I thought you liked it when robots used logic. Even if you promised to rebuild me, Ransom hurting me would HURT. Hiding is the smartest decision I could make to avoid unnecessary pain and shutdown—so that’s what I’m doing. Bring me my tablet and coffee and some sweets. I promise not to smoke in the lab, even though I really could use a smoke break now. See? Angel incarnate.”
“What about the others?” he asked, concerned. “Cal and Monica—”
“Hah!” Contessa proudly threw her head back. “Why should I care? I’m a ‘self-described bitch and evil dominatrix,’ right? They’re not as sentient as me. As long as I don’t have to watch them get hurt, you can fix them.” Greg noticed Contessa was wearing high-heeled shoes along with her robe, making her probably the only woman he’d ever known to do so.
“I thought…” Greg paused for a moment, watching Contessa closely. “I thought you LIKED them.”
“Oh, but I still do,” she answered smugly. “I like myself the most, however. And my current plan is the best solution for me AND you, darling. I get safety and a moment of respite; YOU have one less robot to fix, and pleasant companionship while you fix the rest of us. Don’t tell me our chitchat doesn’t give you the intellectual stimulation you would otherwise lack.”
“You’re impossible.”
“Of course I’m impossible,” Contessa half-smiled. “I’m a made-up person. You know what the opposite of realistic is? Fantastic!”
“Is there any way I could win an argument with you?” Greg laughed.
“This robot calculates zero percent probability,” she beamed back, tossing him a sly wink.
As Greg and Contessa approached Greg’s lab, he was actually somewhat relieved to see her sassy banter returning. Maybe cheerful repartee took her mind off the murders; or maybe Contessa was simply certain that holing up in the lab would keep her safe. She did have a point, though: as long as she was there, Greg at least wouldn’t have to worry about her.
Hey, why are you even worried about her? Greg’s inner voice teased him. She’s got a hold on you, man!
After moving the Duchess and her subassemblies onto a workbench, Greg turned to find Contessa seated in his—or now her?—chair at the mainframe screen, watching the security camera feed.
“I’ll be back with you shortly, Milady,” Greg blurted in his old butlerly tone, before catching himself and adding warmly: “Stay safe, Bella.”
“I shall be the very model of android obedience,” Contessa replied with a straight face. “Drop by, sweetie, and we’ll talk.”
Greg sighed as he left, locking the lab door behind him. When Contessa was absolutely certain that her technician was gone, she slumped in her chair, her head resting on her arms like a neglected concubine.
“Cazzo… When did being evil stop being fun?” She addressed the disassembled Duchess. “You’re done for, Winnie! I’ve won again… or at the very least, I haven’t LOST. So why do I feel… ugh. Stupid humans.”
[End of Chapter 2!]
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HelixCMN
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Re: Sex And Violence, starring Contessa. Ch 2 complete
And I thought Contessa's cutest couldn't be beat in "Meet my Jerkin". Can't wait for part 3
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australopith
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Re: Sex And Violence, starring Contessa. Ch 2 complete
Coming soon—and with it, a few important twists. Wait for it... (-:
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