Adoring My Robot Overlord

Disclaimer: All characters are over 18 years old.

My bomb fizzles out on the steps of the Capitol building. Seconds after I'd armed it an EMT pulse short-circuited it. Stupid Joan! Stupid! Why did you bring a digital bomb to a robot's playground!?

I don't have time to kick myself before the android guards tackle me to the ground.

–

A robot guard nudges me into a room. The door slides shut. My handcuffs unlock automatically.

This is my cell? I'd never seen a bedroom like this, except in movies from before the Bomb. Well-made beds, thick carpets, the smell of mint, and absolutely no cockroaches. Even the British Prime Minister had to sleep in a bunker – and the Caretaker's prisoners get this!?

I slap myself. Stop gawping, Joan! Of course, the Caretaker makes a good first impression. No one gets out of the Caretaker's Commonwealth, but stories leak through. The Commonwealth is a nation of smiling slaves. Is this how the brainwashing starts?

The TV turns on. The Caretaker smiles from the screen. She's a black gynoid who smiles and speaks like your mother. She's also enslaved half of Europe and a third of the Middle East.

The Caretaker says, 'Welcome home, *name field null*.' Her voice is surrounded by whispers. 'We're home late, aren't we? You must have had a tiring day at *occupation field null*.'

Yeah... I have had a tiring day at occupation field null. I ache in all the places the guard-robots tackled me.

'Why don't you tuck yourself in, and we'll get you nice and cosy for beddy-bye-time,' the Caretaker coos.

Beddy-bye-time... Just tuck myself... in...

As I stumble to the bed, I stop myself. The brainwashing starts early! No wonder no one revolts in this place. Every night they're hypnotised when they sleep. Well, I'm not brainwashed! I can stick it out a night.

'I hope you're nice and snug in bed,' says the Caretaker. (I'm not – First strike, dictator.) 'And aren't you lucky-' She yawns. '-that you slipped into bed just in time. You're just so sleepy.'

She yawns and stretches. I have to press my lips together to avoid following her. By her third yawn, I yawn, mouth gaping, eyes watering.

'So *sleepy*. Like your whole body's made of warm jelly.'

My legs almost flop away under me. I slap my face. I am not a slave. I will not sleep when a dictator tells me! I slap and slap, but my slaps get weaker while the Caretaker coos and my blinks get longer.

'Oh! I almost forgot, *preferred pet name field null*,' says the Caretaker. 'Open your eyes, open your *tired*, *heavy* eyes.'

I whimper as I crowbar my eyes open.

'What kind of dream would you like,' says the Caretaker. 'A peaceful dream, an action-packed dream, a *sexy* dream, an embarrassing dream, a-'

'Em... barr... assing...' Why did I say that? Brainwashing...?

'What a lovely choice,' says the Caretaker. 'In your midnight movie, you're going to work at a café, and your manager has found a wonderful way to pull in customers. He's converting it to a cat café – and you're going to be the cat!'

My toes curl and I bite my lip. I shut my eyes. It couldn't hurt to try out their dream machine...

Before I can fall to the ground, large, strong arms, catch me.

'Oh, no, we can't have you nodding off just yet,' says the Caretaker's voice, but... behind me. 'On the count of three, wide awake and refreshed: one, two, three.'

SNAP!

My eyes snap open and I see arms around my stomach. I arch my neck up. The Caretaker smiles down on me. She must be eight foot tall. Up close you can see her skin is matted black plastic. You can even see the seams between the plates. This is her, the evillest dictator in the world – hugging me!

'Get the fuck off me!' I struggle against her hug, but it's like fighting a metal bar. And her smell is... making my thoughts fuzzy.

She lets go. I run to the other side of the room and press my back against the wall. She keeps talking as I scan the room for exits:

'Your accent,' the Caretaker says. Her voice has whispers around it like on the TV 'You're from England, aren't you? Is it true, they've finally restored running water to every county? I always say humans can do anything they put their little hearts to.'

'Not all the counties,' I say, just trying to buy time. The front door is still shut. The window looked over a 100-foot drop. 'Will your slaves like that you're giving a terrorist a personal call?'

'Oh, ho,' the Caretaker says, 'I give none of my wards special treatment - because all of my wards are special!' She strolls over to me. 'I have 350,406 bodies (one for each neighbourhood), so I can have a personal relationship with each of my wards. And you!' She pinches my cheek softly. 'You are my newest ward.'

'Making me a ward,' I spit. 'You're going to make an example of me!'

'Whatever do you mean?' She covers her aghast mouth with her hand. 'Why on Earth would I make an example of you?'

She looks genuinely shocked.

'Because... I tried to blow up the Capitol building.'

'And that was very naughty of you.' Her face grows stern. 'I am *very* disappointed in you.'

I shrink into myself. It's like when your mother refuses to yell at you. Wait, why am I ashamed!?

'How you going to punish me, then?' I straighten up.

'Punishment?' The Caretaker looks worried. 'Oh, no, do they still punish people in England? Oh... and the worst part is they mean so well. I'll have to prioritise the invasion of England.'

Well, fuck...

'But that's for tomorrow. Tonight, let's get you all washed up and ready for bed.'

A door to my left opened. It's a bathroom, again, like one I'd only seen in movies from before the Bomb. Shining tiles, and a mirror with not a single crack in it. Don't get entranced, Joan, it's just a bathroom. Freedom is too high a price for a nice place to shit.

'Do you prefer showers or baths... what is your name?'

'Showers. Joan.' The answers pop out of my mouth.

'Joan is such a lovely name.' The Caretaker smiles. 'Do you mind if I call you, Jo, or Joey, or sweetie, or... chickee-pooh.' She boops my nose. 'You look like a chickee-pooh.'

I press my lips shut to stop the answer. But I'm not being forced to tell the truth. She's forcing me to want to tell the truth. 'Chickee-pooh! Call me "Chickee-pooh"!'

Tomorrow, she'd ask me about the England's military configuration – well, joke's on her! The higherups told me nothing!

'But I'm not showering,' I say. I am a soldier, a freedom fighter. I get tortured by the enemy, not washed.

The Caretaker tuts. 'Methinks I sense rebellion for rebellion's sake. I can't say it's not adorable, but how can you not want a shower, when you're so *sweaty* and *smelly*?'

The dried sweat sticks to my body. My sour smell clogs up my nostrils. I cover my nose with my sleeve, but the sleeve smells worst off all – like the sewer I'd crawled through in the morning.

'Does a shower sound nice now?' she asks. 'With warm water and lavender soap?'

'Yes,' I say. 'No!' Both were true. 'No! Yes!'

The Caretaker sighs at my tantrum – at my resistance. 'I can't be having a ward of mine going to bed with her skin all dirty and her hair in tangles. If you won't wash yourself, I'll have to wash you myself.'

She comes closer. I grab a lamp from the desk, ready to smash her face in.

'Stand still,' the Caretaker says and my body freezes.

My mouth gapes open. I can't blink. I want to run, but my legs don't listen to me.

The Caretaker chuckles. 'Chickee-pooh, I didn't tell you to freeze. Aren't you eager to please? You can move, just don't be so rambunctious.'

I can move, but I cannot resist her leading me by the hand to the bathroom. She gets on her knees to undo my belt and pull down my jeans and panties. I try to slap her hands away but my hands dangle at my sides.

'Hands above your head,' she says.

My hands shoot above my head. I breathe quicker and shallower. The Caretaker pulls my T-shirt off and undoes my bra. She traces a finger around my flushed breasts and hard nipples.

'Someone's excited,' the Caretaker says.

I want to cover my tits, but I can't lower my arms. I quiver.

'Don't worry.' The Caretaker pulls my arms down to my sides. 'Some of my wards can't help but love how helpless I make them feel. Do you like how helpless I make you feel?'

I need to answer, I can't stop myself answering, so I whisper it. 'Yes...'

The Caretaker smiles at me. She starts to take off her clothes.

'What... are you doing?' I ask. Her clothes hid it, but she is a Goddess. Swelling breasts, curving at the waist to a massive arse and thick thighs.

'I don't want my clothes getting soaked, now do I?' The Caretaker takes us both into the shower.

The water hits the bruises and cuts I'd gotten. I wince, but soon the hot stream melts my muscles. The Caretaker shampoos my hair. I can't resist, so I may as well let her. Her soapy fingers massage my scalp. I close my eyes and rest my head against her breasts.

'See, wasn't having a shower a wonderful idea?' the Caretaker asks.

'Yes...' I moan, 'Mummy.'

My eyes shoot open. I slap my hands over my mouth.

'Don't be so shocked,' the Caretaker says, washing the shampoo from my hair. 'None of my wards can resist acknowledging my authority in some way. Some call me "ma'am", some "President", "mistress", "chief", but to my taste – and this doesn't leave this room, you understand – my favourite is "Mummy".'

I'm glad my blush just blends with the rest of my body reddening with the hot water. I gasp when the Caretaker's soapy hands massage my tits.

'Just let your hands do whatever makes you feel best,' says the Caretaker.

With horror and relief, my hands move on their own, one between my legs, the other to my breast. I need to stop. I cannot masturbate in front of my enemy. I resist the pleasure building in me as I finger myself. I clench my teeth, straighten my posture, as I tweak my nipple, as guilty arousal hollows my stomach. The Caretaker's foaming hands massage my stomach, tickling me. I giggle and the giggle becomes a moan. I lose the fight, when she rubs the soap on my arse. I give myself to my hands. I can't stop them, so I let them make me feel what they want to feel. My shoulders and knees relax. My eyes roll back in my head, as I masturbate at the command of the Caretaker. That thought makes the pleasure treble. I feel this because she's making me feel it. I hate myself as I bite my lip. Feeling pleasure like this for helplessness. I'm going to cum, my fingers pump harder in my pussy as the Caretaker runs her hands down my inner thigh.

The Caretaker whispers in my ear, 'Hands behind your back.'

I whimper. The receding orgasm thrums under my skin, whimpering like a dog to be let out of me.

'You bitch,' I say, but it cracks on my voice. Is she trying to break me with pleasure?

'Naughty language,' says the Caretaker. She swats my bottom, and my body shakes like a guitar string. 'How can I clean your pussy when you're playing with yourself.'

Her foaming hand runs between my legs. A groan rips from my throat. I push my pelvis forward, I want her to put press harder on me, to stick her fingers in me. My hands are locked behind my back. I can't hold her hand over my pussy when she pulls her hand away, leaving only the dripping soap to tickle me.

The water stops. From all angles hot air rushes over me. From below it's like the winds fucking me. If I just put my pussy in the right place and really focus, I can cum from the-

'Nice and clean and dry!' The Caretaker runs her finger over breast to show that there is no water on me. 'Now's the time to brush your teeth.'

She takes me to the bathroom sink, with the bathroom mirror. Oh, fuck, I'm pathetic. Hands behind my back, almost standing at attention, except for cringing in pleasure. Seeing the Caretaker behind me, two heads taller than me, knowing she made me like this, I rub my thighs together.

'Do you want to cum, chickee-pooh?' The Caretaker kisses my ear.

'Yes, Mu-' I stop myself. But what shame do I have? What do I have to lose giving in here? 'Yes, Mummy...'

'Of course, you do, chickee-pooh.' In the mirror, the Caretaker puts her finger to her chin. 'But... you don't want me to just *give* you an orgasm, do you?'

'I do!' I gyrate my hips, trying to fuck the air. 'Let me cum!'

'I heard what you said to the bedtime program on the TV. You wanted an *embarrassing* dream, didn't you?'

'Yeah...' I blush deeper, eager and terrified at what's coming.

'How would like it if I made you do something *really* silly before you came? How would feel if I made you feel like a great big fool?'

'H-horny!'

The Caretaker giggles. 'Aren't you honest and pliable now. To be honest (and again, this doesn't leave this room) I really like the wards of mine who love being teased. Hmm... how can I embarrass a soldier girl like you...? Oh! I have the most delicious idea – it may be a bit extreme, but you tell me to stop if it ever goes too far. You will tell me if it gets too extreme, won't you?'

'Yes! Just please, please, Mummy, just make me cum!'

'Brave girl.' The Caretaker rubs her cheek against mine.

I smiled, fuck me, I'm smiling a dictator's praise.

'Imagine,' says the Caretaker, 'imagine so fully, it's like it's real. You are back in England, with the top brass, and you have a video...'

I'm in England standing at attention with the top brass. I'm the first person to ever break into the Caretaker's Commonwealth and escape. Prime Minister Brandt tells me what a... good girl I am... how... obediently I carried out her orders. That doesn't sound right, but before I can think too deeply, she puts on the video containing all my spy-footage.

The Caretaker is on the screen. 'Hello, England! And hello, chickee-pooh!'

I smile at the Caretaker – Why am I smiling?

'Ms Prime Minister, I want to show you what a dutiful, obedient girl you have in Joan. Chickee-pooh.' The Caretaker snaps her fingers.

'Yes, Mummy!' The top brass stare at me, mouths gaping, whispering to each other, but I ignore them. I need to hear the Caretaker's order.

'I know you're too brave to be a chicken,' says the Caretaker, 'but why don't you buck and flap like a good little hen?'

Up-tempo music starts. My body stirs. It's going to happen. My superiors will see I not only failed to get any info on the Commonwealth, but that I was compromised. They can't have a brainwashed agent in the country. They'll court-martial me, kill me, I'm going to –

*I am safe. I will not be court-martialled. There are no long-term consequences. I am only making a fool of myself.*

My superiors will think I'm an idiot!

'Squawk! Buck, buck, buck. Squawk!' I peck the air and tread the floor. I peck the Prime Minister's face. She laughs at me.

'Happens to the best of them,' the Prime Minister says. She scoops some nuts into her palm and holds them under my face. I peck them into my mouth. I can't help it!

On the video, the Caretaker claps, and - God fuck it! – pride tickles my chest. 'What a good little hen you are! Isn't our Joan just the best actor you've ever seen, everyone? Clap for our hard-working chickee-pooh.'

The patronising claps, the laughter, make me almost cry with embarrassment.

'Obedient chickens deserve rewards. Do you feel it between your legs? Do you feel the arousal?'

The heat trembles through my thighs. My steps become slower and more stumbly. 'B-buck, b...buck... Squawk!' It's like I've been spiked with an aphrodisiac.

'And the better a chicken you are,' says the Caretaker, 'the louder you buck, the harder you flap, the more you peck, the greater the arousal you'll feel.'

My superiors watch me flap my wings, watch me flap three times a second instead of one and see my eyes roll back in my head. My superiors all sit back in their chairs, chuckling, like they expected this of me. I want to prove myself to them. I want to prove that a little horniness can't make me give in to the Caretaker's brainwashing. That I can resist.

I want to. I can't.

I barely think about the scene I'm making. The heat in my pussy radiates to my breasts, and I think only of stoking it. I buck and squawk and crow until my throat's dry. I flap my wings until my shoulders are sore. I run around the room with chicken steps, pecking here there and everywhere. I'm going to cum. The heat pushes through my whole body. Why can't I cum. Why can't I cum and just stop.

'Chickee-pooh,' says the Caretaker, and even through the arousal I hear her, 'I'm going to let you cum in a little bit. I'm going to count you down from five. Five.'

My body throbs like an engine.

'Four.'

I can't even buck, my throat's so dry.

'Three.'

I stumble. I'm on the floor, but I flap my wings and peck the ground, trying to

push the arousal over the edge.

'Two.'

'Squawk! Squawk! Squawk!'

'And before I say the final number,' says the Caretaker.

Oh, fuck, fuck, fuck. Say it! Please, say it!

'Tell your superiors what a horny hen you are.'

'I'm a horny hen! I'm a horny hen! Horny hen! Horny-!'

'And one.'

My bucking and flapping stops, as every muscle tightens. I groan as the orgasm courses through me like bombing raid.

When I'm a trembling mess on the floor, eyes half-closed and watering, I hear the Caretaker.

'Wakey, wakey, chickee-pooh.'

My face presses against the bathroom tiles. I want to shoot to my feet, but my muscles are too fried to hold me. It felt so real. I felt my superiors' gazes on me.

After the second time I tried and failed to stand up, the Caretaker picks me up and carries me to the bedroom.

'I... don't... need... help...' I have to gulp in breath between words.

She dresses me in flannel pyjamas. I'm almost too weak to lift my leg so she can put on my pyjama bottoms. She lays me on the bed, pulls the covers up to my chin. The mattress, softer than any of the iron bedframes I've slept on for the last five years, makes every ache in my body turn to endorphins.

'You best get some sleep,' says the Caretaker. 'You have a big day tomorrow. We're going to get you your first Commonwealth job.'

Adrenaline and righteous indignation rise in me. 'So... that's how it... is,' I slur. My eyes shut for ten seconds, but I force them open. 'You butter me up... and then... throw me... in the coal mines...'

The Caretaker boops my nose. 'Silly billy! I throw none of my wards in the mines. Unless they really want to be miners, of course. Don't worry your head about it tonight, we'll get you a job just right for you. But, right now, it really is beddy-bye-time. Close your eyes, count sheep, and go to sleep.'

She kisses my forehead. My eyes shut, and one sheep goes through my mind before I'm fast asleep.

**

'You know the Caretaker doesn't need engineers,' I say to Hannah. 'She leaves those "malfunctions" in just for you to find.' I mix Hannah another gin and tonic.

'She's just giving you things to do.'

Hannah's a black woman in her fifties. She works as an 'engineer' in the Commonwealth.

'She may do,' says Hannah, sipping her drinking and leaning forward on her stool at the bar. 'Fake or not, don't matter to me.'

'It doesn't matter to you that the only reason a robot doesn't do your job is 'cause the Caretaker wants you to feel occupied.' I pour a beer for another patron.

'I play chess,' says Hannah. 'Don't matter that a robot'll beat me every time. Don't matter that a robot'll beat any human any time. I like getting better. Don't care about being best. And 'sides, you think the Caretaker couldn't get a robot to tend bars.'

'This is different,' I say. I lower my voice: 'I'm just biding my time. I'm playing the good productive citizen, so that when the time comes-'

'You'll escape. Yeah, yeah, yeah.' Hannah rolls her eyes.

I blush but can't rebut her because everyone in my bar turns to the entrance. The Caretaker!