Putting her together takes some time; at one point, you accidentally place her right arm in the left socket. You are very fortunate that they build these things sturdy. Any lesser hardware would snap under your handiwork.
That’s all the components done with. In the box, there is just one of those tacky maid outfits: a black dress with white frills sealed in a plastic bag. Sliding it on her is as difficult as putting clothes back on a Barbie doll, but you manage.
A.C.E units, they call them. Automatic Caretaker Emulators. But on the internet, they are just known as good old-fashioned maid bots. The one you have is an outdated model, but who are you to complain? At least she came with the box.
You stand up in front of the rigid android. Brushing aside her short silky hair, you reach for the switch at the nape of her neck. It gives a satisfying click, and the sound of a computer booting up fills the room. You have stared at those black, lifeless eyes for so long that seeing them lit up is almost surreal. They let off a gentle blue glow, gazing back at you.
Before you can say anything, Ace whispers, “Are you my master?” in a metallic, low-synth voice.
With a grin on your face, you nod yes, reaching out to grab her cheeks. As the hardware finally warms up, the ivory polymer gains a skin-like feel to it.
“Master?” She stares straight ahead—unblinking. “Is there an issue with my epidermal coverings?”
You shake no, trying to brush it off. You don’t want her to think that you’re some weirdo, do you? Well, you can always reset her memory if that happens. What’s the point of having a bot if you can’t indulge a little?
“I have already taken a voice and face sample for recognition purposes and added you to the database as my owner.” She bows. “Do you have any requests, master?”
Let’s start with something simple. You order her to clean your room. This is what these machines are made for, and it would be a shame to accidentally break her before the filth is managed.
“I have managed to connect to your internet router.”
That was fast.
“Looking over the company database, it appears that I am an obsolete model with design flaws. It is highly recommended that you upgrade. Would you like me to call a sales representative?”
You immediately shout no. This thing was already way too expensive.
“Understood. Please acknowledge that during long operational hours, my hardware may overheat,” she explains. “Would you like me to enable sweating functionality?”
Sweating?
“Yes, master. There are several nanopores throughout my body.” She lifts her armpit to prove it, but the fact that they are nano-pores means you can’t really see anything. “Don’t worry, master, my synthsweat is laced with pheromones you should find pleasant. There will be no dangerous coolant chemicals in the air.”
Was… was that a concern with the old models? Never mind. You say yes and tell her to get started.
Ace proves as diligent as advertised, cleaning your house in just under an hour. Her eyes occasionally turn scarlet, indicating that she is using her shrinking functionality to miniaturize the garbage for disposal. You follow her around for a while, making sure she doesn’t accidentally crush something you care about, but after proving herself capable of differentiating between a heap of old soda cans and a computer, you sit back on the couch and relax.
This might have been your best purchase yet.
She wasn't kidding about the smell. It’s odd, having a weird sweet aroma to it you can’t help but find exciting. The scent grows even more pronounced as she approaches you—her maid outfit utterly drenched.
“I have finished cleaning your household, master.” A streak of sweat glides across her cheek as she says that, using her dress to wipe it down. “Do you have any other requests?”
Screw it. You can always reset her memory, right? Extending your hands, you put them on her shoulders, ordering her to shrink you down to worship her feet.
“Master?” The maid looks confused—not because of what you said, but because she thinks her voice recognition has malfunctioned. “But I am your personal assistant,” she says in the same emotionless voice, shaking her head. “I should be the one giving you a massage.”
You insist.
“Understood, master.” With that, her eyes flash red again, and you feel an invisible force beginning to condense you from every direction. It may just be your brain playing tricks, but she almost seems disappointed in having such a lustful master. Still, you dwindle—past her head, then her chest, her stomach—before finally ending up at the height of a mere two inches. The previously short maid now looms above you—her lens-like eyes focusing on your tiny body.
Sitting down on the bed, the maid lifts her feet, presenting them to you like just another piece of hardware. They are extremely slender and petite, glistening with sweat. Currently, her factory-new footpiece is covered with a thin layer of black grime that contrasts with the white plastic skin. “You may begin to worship me, master.”
Using your entire body, you begin to pamper the maid, rubbing against the wrinkles of her feet. She wiggles her toes in response, sending a miasma of sweat down at you. The smell is simply enchanting, with the pheromone cocktail working as intended.
You start thinking about all the mods for sizeplay you can buy. Starting with a personality core might be a good idea. She’s simply too obedient. Looking up, you order her to dominate you. This isn’t as good as a whole new personality, but it will do for now.
“Dominate…?” These things have databases of common requests. The fact that it is taking Ace so long to come up with a response means that yours must be a novel one. “Understood, master.”
There is a glint in her eyes as they turn scarlet again. But instead of a flash, they remain like this. Before, her vacant expression made her look derpy and almost cute. Now? The red glow across her face is downright ominous.
Raising the ball of her foot, it crashes down on you like a falling boulder. Before you can even begin to struggle, there is the sound of her knee joint revving up as the maid pins you against the floor with the efficiency of an industrial press.
More and more force is applied over time. Just like with everything, Ace does her best. You wanted to be dominated, and she will oblige. “Are you about to break, master?” she asks, lifting her foot for just a moment to see if you have turned into a red paste yet.
Her microphones are very advanced, so she easily picks up the sound of your tiny lungs begging for her to stop. “I am sorry, master, but I cannot take any further requests. I am currently dominating you.” Rising to her feet, you only manage to catch a glimpse of her glowing red eyes before the onslaught continues.
This is bad. You didn’t think about it before, but personality cores usually have some kind of safe words installed. Even without them, the program understands that killing its tiny master isn’t good. An Ace unit with default personality software (that is to say, no personality at all) simply does as ordered—without fail.
Right now, you are just another piece of garbage for disposal.
STOMP. STOMP. STOMP. The maid’s foot keeps pelting you like cruel raindrops. Each time you try to stand up, you are thrown to the floor again—your nose harassed by the scent you once loved. The smooth plastic mixed with sweat makes for a perfect adhesive, and you find yourself flung into the air with the rhythm of the foot. Back and forth—over and over again. Only when you finally peel off and land on the ground with a painful THUD do you regain any sense of direction.
In the end, you give up. There is nothing you can do. Closing your eyes, you prepare to meet death. But instead of being trampled underfoot, your body is forced between the maid’s toes. Looking up, your half-conscious form catches a glimpse of the maid squinting down at you. She nods to herself as her eyes shift back to blue.
“Master. You have been dominated.” There is a hint of satisfaction in her voice as she places your battered body between her breasts. “I think you deserve a little rest, master. I will take care of the house for now.” She gently ruffles a finger through your hair. “Oh, and master? I can send you a list of recommended modifications so that I may dominate you better in the future.”
You aren’t sure if it’s because you are about to pass out, but you swear you caught a sly smile creeping across her face.
Alternative Ending: There is nothing you can do. The more you resist, the more pressure the maid applies—like a stress-testing algorithm designed to find the breaking point of a material: you.
With a single loud SPLAT, you are obliterated.
“Master?” The maid looks down at the small red splotch on her sole. All that was once your notion of self is now indistinguishable from the grime coating her foot, no matter how many times she zooms in. “If there are no further orders, I will return to standard cleaning mode.” She announces, grabbing a napkin to scoop up your viscera.