There's Always Someone Listening

"Alexis, what's the weather like?"

The system tells me what I want to know, piping this morning's weather report into my kitchen in an artificial sing-song voice.

It was my wife's idea. We had a bitter argument over it. She wanted a full-on Alexis smart home; I insisted that we shouldn't have Alexis anywhere within a mile of our house.

I should know. I'm an "A.I. trainer." Meaning, I listen to Alexis recordings from people's homes without their knowledge.

You call it an invasion of privacy. We call it A.I. training. Agree to disagree.

My wife and I compromised. We have Alexis in our kitchen. It's forbidden anywhere else in the house.

She's still in bed, snoring with a mask over her eyes. Alexis listens to me eat eggs and toast by myself and scroll aimlessly through social media.

We used to read newspapers at the breakfast table, but maybe this is the same thing. The sixth or seventh photo album of distant acquaintances vacationing in Hawaii or, I don't know, Fiji.

Then I go jerk off in the shower, out of earshot of Alexis. A few minutes of tugging, hand slicked with shower gel. A couple obligatory ropes of cum are graciously swallowed by the tub drain.

Then I get dressed and go to work.

It's a lonely little office--a windowless white box with a desk wedged into it, and on the desk is a computer with two monitors and a headset.

At least I don't have to share an office, or work in an open-air cubicle or something horrible like that.

For the next eight hours, with the exception of corporate-mandated breaks, I'm listening.

You cook your meals. You reorganize your bookshelves. You argue on the phone. You take a shit. You watch TV. You sing off-key at the top of your lungs when you're alone. You call your pets silly names.

You live your whole private life, and I'm listening.

I sift through a couple hours of the usual nonsense. I log my findings in a spreadsheet, then go on break. Nobody else is in the breakroom, which is fine with me. More time to scroll on my phone.

Then I'm back at my desk. I situate myself, I pull another recording, and I listen.

There's some kind of distortion on the recording--it sounds pitched down, and it's choppy like when you yell into a fan.

It's a common issue with the software we use. We just learn to muddle through it.

Then I notice something. It takes me a moment--I have to go back and replay the garbled beginning a few times--but I'm pretty sure of what I'm hearing.

I think I'm hearing someone having sex.

It's strange. I've been working here a while, but this is a first.

Almost without thinking, I open my document of home ID numbers and add this one to it.

We're not supposed to do this. We're supposed to pull calls at random, we're not supposed to keep track of specific homes, and we're definitely not supposed to target them.

But we all keep a document like this: a list of homes that we find consistently interesting. I keep mine deeply buried on the hard drive.

The garbled sounds are voices--a woman and a man. Chatting amiably, but I can't tell what about. Then a burst of shuffling sounds, fabric rustling.

Then I hear one of them--the man I think--inhaling and exhaling slowly, and I hear the woman breathing loudly through her nose, as if there's something in her mouth. Occasionally, a slurping sound.

In a deep voice, the man goes "Oh," and then a few moments later, "Ah..."

I try to picture what's going on, to illustrate the sounds in my mind's eye.

Is she fat? Thin? Pretty? Ugly? Clothed? Naked?

Is he standing up? Sitting? Lying down? Muscular? Hairy?

I hear a brief choking sound, then a wet cough and a gasp. The man groans appreciatively.

I think she just deep-throated him.

I bet he has a big dick.

This goes on for a few more minutes. I listen hard for enough telltale sounds to definitively pinpoint when he finishes, but eventually I just don't hear them anymore.

That happens sometimes. The recordings aren't detailed enough to tell what's going on, and you lose the thread.

Still.

Maybe he came in her mouth and she swallowed his cum. Or maybe she jacked him off and he came on her belly or her tits or her face.

The rest of my morning is unremarkable.

At lunchtime, on a whim, I decide to eat at my desk.

I find myself scrolling through the archive of recordings for this home--the blowjob house, I'm already calling it in my head.

On a hunch, I search for recordings made around the same time of day as the one I listened to earlier.

There's a bunch of them.

One of them is from yesterday. I click on it.

This is really against the rules, especially outside of designated work periods. But I can't help myself.

Again, there's distortion on the recording, but my ears are well-practiced at tuning it out.

I hear kissing. It's very distinct. Two voices going "Mmm..."

Them again.

Or is it? I listen harder.

I think one of them is the same woman, but I don't hear the man's voice from the previous recording.

I do hear another voice. Or, at least, someone else breathing.

It sounds distinctly feminine.

"Unhhhh... oh yeah... fuck..."

That's a woman, but not the one from yesterday.

"Yeah... you like that?"

That would be the woman from yesterday.

I hear a creaking, and I hear wet, slick sounds, all happening in a steady rhythm. And I hear both of their voices, both of their heavy breathing.

I don't think the guy is there. Or, if he is, he isn't saying anything, and they're not acknowledging him.

I think the sound I'm hearing is the woman from yesterday finger-fucking someone's pussy.

I can't explain why, but the image that I have in my head is of two women, middle-aged, generously figured. A one-time hookup, maybe from a matchmaking service. Or maybe just friends who semi-regularly fuck.

I couldn't tell you how much of this is from audible clues being assembled by my subconscious brain, and how much of it is pure fantasy.

I'm hard.

My hand travels of its own accord to the ridge behind the fly of my khakis.

Before I realize it, my dick is out. It's in my hand, and I'm jerking myself slowly as I eavesdrop on these two libertines. In another time, in another place, they get it on for my private amusement.

My door has no window, but it doesn't lock. If anybody walked in unannounced right now, I'd be in a lot of trouble.

Like the previous recording, this one goes on for a few more minutes before dissolving into a muddle of undifferentiated details.

Then it ends.

I sit there for a moment, as if coming out of a trance, then hastily tuck my erect penis into the waistband of my pants and fasten it there. I feel embarrassed, even though there's no one here but me.

I'm certain there must be many recordings of this woman logged in the system. For the rest of the day, I'm tempted to listen to them.

But I think about how carelessly I just started jerking off, the unbidden movement of my hand, and I think the better of it.

That night, I go home. My wife and I have dinner at the dinner table. I want to fuck. Tonight, like most nights, she isn't interested.

She works from home. I've been occasionally suspicious that she's having an affair, but I have no evidence for it. No real reason to suspect.

Mostly, I assume that it's my own undersexed brain spinning her refusals into paranoia.

We go to bed, and she falls asleep immediately.

The next morning, I come into my office and power up my computer as usual.

Before I start any official business, before I even think about getting any work done, I wedge my shoe under the door and test it.

It's difficult to open. It won't stop anyone who's determined to get in. But, if someone tried to come in unannounced, it would slow them down and buy me a few precious seconds.

I bring up the call archive and punch in the home ID of the woman from yesterday. On a whim, I go back to the earliest ones, from the first day she powered up Alexis in her house.

I find a recording from the same time of day as usual. I open it.

This time, despite the usual distortion, what I'm hearing is loud, clear, and unmistakable.

"Hi Alexis," she says.

"Hello," I murmur back, not sure why.

"I'm gonna level with you," she says. "I know there's always someone listening to these things. And that's kind of what I'm counting on."

I hear something clattering, like a hand sifting through objects in a box or a drawer.

After a moment of silence, I hear a click. And I hear a buzzing noise.

Her voice grows low and breathy as she speaks. The lowered pitch and choppy sound of the recording exaggerates it, making her voice sound even huskier. All the while, the noise in the background buzzes away.

"I know you're listening. And I want you to listen. To be honest, that's why I wanted this fucking thing in the first place. I want to be listened to..."

Oh yeah.

I've taken my dick out. My hand cruises up and down the shaft, delighting my hungry nerves.

I hear rustling. I assume she's rearranging herself on her bed or her chair or whatever she's on.

More clicking. The amplitude of the buzzing changes.

"I want to be listened to," she says, "while I fuck my brains out."

I'm picturing her reclining on a pile of pillows, legs open, pressing a vibrator to the soft flesh at the apex of her vulva. She has pubic hair, I think. A full bush.

Is she naked?

No, I don't think she's naked.

She's wearing something sexy, like a satin nightgown. She has it hiked over her hips, which are round and soft. She wears no panties under it.

She's breathing hard, a little high-pitched moan escaping from her tightened throat at the end of each breath.

As I jerk off, thoughts of my wife start to intrude into my head. I realize that the woman I'm picturing is similar to her. She wearing something I know my wife has, which I haven't seen her wear in years.

I'm too far along to change course now. I commit to the fantasy of my wife's doppelganger moaning into my ears while she pleasures herself.

I'm feeling very warm and tingly. I'm getting close.

I snatch a scrap of paper towel out of the trash bin.

The recording keeps going while I ejaculate into the paper towel.

It's a weak, hasty ejaculation--a brief burst of pleasure, a couple thin ropes, and it's over. The product of too much habitual masturbation.

I should try edging sometimes. From what I've read, I think it would make it better.

As I wipe the last drips of cum that ooze from my reddened pisshole, I hear another click, and the buzzing stops.

She must have come while I was attending to myself. I didn't notice. Maybe she's a quiet comer.

"See you tomorrow," she says, her voice thick with ardor.

That night, again, I go home, and my wife and I eat dinner across from each other.

For whatever reason, I'm into her more than usual tonight. Maybe it's the residue of my fantasy version of her imprinting itself on the real thing.

She finishes her bathrooming for the night and comes into the bedroom, wearing flannel pajamas with little cartoon pigs on them.

I watch her as she walks by me to climb into her side of the bed. I admire the way the fabric clings to the roundness of her body.

When she settles in, I turn towards her and kiss her. She seems surprised, but she doesn't push me away.

She does, however, break the kiss off before it gets too far.

She says, pointedly, "Goodnight."

Then she turns the lamp off.

The next few days, I settle into a routine. Casual invasions of privacy and workplace masturbation during the day, dinner at arm's length and failed sexual advances towards my wife at night.

Then one morning, the first recording I open is a little different than usual.

She speaks to Alexis. Through the usual fog of lowered pitch and choppy distortion, I listen.

"I'm not sure what you think this is," she says, with the air of someone talking through something for their own benefit.

For the record, I already have my dick out.

I'm prepared to jerk off to whatever she has in store for me today--masturbation, an encounter with a partner, multiple partners, various things other I've heard her do over the past week or so.

Recently, she incorporated some truly spellbinding dirty talk into her masturbation. She took me through a fantasy scenario in which she invited her female partner over to have sex with me while she watched.

As she continues, I get the feeling that this time isn't going to be like that.

She says, "This started out as an adventure for me. I don't have a very exciting life. I wanted to do something big, something really wrong, but in a way that no one in my personal life would find out."

Despite the non-sexual topic, I'm still touching myself. At the moment, it's to maintain my erection more than anything else.

"I have a few friends I sleep with," she says. "We talked about making homemade porn and putting it on the Internet. We had a friend shoot some videos at one point, but I got cold feet, so he deleted them."

I'm holding out hope for something to happen.

She says, "Then I thought of Alexis. I wanted to install it in the bedroom, but that wasn't an option. Instead, I just make sure that I angle the receiver towards the bedroom, or wherever I'm at."

Then she's whispering, but she sounds close. She must be right up on the mic.

She says, "I knew you'd be listening."

My hand stops.

She says, "I wanted you to listen, to turn you on. To drive you mad with desire. Maybe you masturbate at your desk when you listen to me. I'd like that. I like that you'd risk your job for me."

It feels like she's speaking directly to me, like she knows I'm here.

She says, "I want you to know what I do to myself in bed. I want you to know that I have a revolving door of partners of all kinds, and I want you to hear me having my way with all of them."

I know she doesn't know who's listening. That would be absurd.

She says, "I don't know when you'll hear this. Maybe I'm with one of them right now. Or two, or more. Or maybe I'm in the shower, washing off the cum of the whole neighborhood."

This recording isn't happening now. It isn't even from today. The timestamp is from two days ago.

She says, "It's funny, how desperate people can get just because they're bored, or stuck in a routine, or taken for granted. Some of them run away. Some of them do drugs. I do this."

This moment of penitence I'm hearing has already come and gone.

"Anyway," she says, "I no longer feel like the walls are closing in. This is how I'm living my life from now on. And I don't feel like changing anything. So please, listen to me. I want you to know."

The recording ends.

I sit there, a little rattled by the frank admission I've just borne witness to, and how direct it felt.

For a few hours, I get actual work done.

Eventually the effects of the confession have worn off, and I'm once again moved to pry into the sexual escapades of this anonymous slut.

The archive refreshes itself throughout the day. By happenstance, a brand new recording comes in under her home ID, made earlier today.

I open it, holding my hardening penis at the ready.

From the start, I'm bombarded with clapping sounds and hard breathing and moaning.

It takes a moment to orient my mind's eye in the scene.

Then I hear her voice.

"Oh yeah... fuck... fuck my ass..."

Then another voice. Deep, a man's voice. Maybe the same man from the first recording I heard.

"You like it, don't you? You like getting fucked up the ass like a good little housewife."

He sounds big.

I imagine the way his voice sounds isn't the only big thing about him.

I'm beating off in earnest, listening to this man plunge over and over again into this woman's ass, hard enough for their bodies to slap together. I imagine a frothy coating of lube on his dick and her anus.

I'm hearing scraping sounds, like chair legs on hard wood. I imagine he's bent her over a kitchen chair, fucking her ass from behind, the rocking motion of her body moving the chair inch by inch.

I come pretty quickly--another perfunctory orgasm, short and dissatisfying.

When I ejaculate, I catch the cum in a wad of toilet paper. I've become accustomed to stealing toilet paper by the yard from the employee bathroom and stashing it in my desk drawer.

I tell myself, if I need to come again, I can always listen to another recording.

I notice there's more to this recording. I debate closing it out, since I've already gotten what I need from it.

But, for whatever reason, I keep listening.

He finishes loudly--inside her, I'm guessing, judging from the sudden final clap and his grunting. Then a slow moan from her, which I think corresponds to him withdrawing his dick from her ass.

I hear the snapping sound of latex and the clank of a trash can opening and closing.

"Watch me," I hear her say.

I hear furniture being moved, then, a click, then a sustained buzz.

I listen to her masturbate in front of this man while he mutters profane things under his breath, some of which I catch and some that I don't--about her body, about things she's doing, things they've done.

At one point, she responds to something he said.

"No, I'd never let him do that to me," she says, her voice breathy and tremulous. "But you can do it to me anytime you want."

After a while the buzz stops, and so does the recording.

That night, as usual, I have dinner across from my wife. Afterwards, I try to come onto her. As usual, she isn't interested.

She retreats into the bedroom to put on her pig pajamas. I'm in the kitchen, putting the food away, when I notice something strange.

Our Alexis receiver is on a different place on the countertop than it was this morning.

On a hunch, I glance at the flooring under our kitchen chairs. One of the chairs has some scrapes under it that I never noticed before.

I debate looking through the trash, but I decide not to.

Later, in bed next to her, I lean over and kiss her. Like before, she doesn't push me away, but she is the one to break the kiss off.

"Goodnight," she says.

Then she turns the lamp off.