Putting her together took some time. At one point, you accidentally placed her right hand on the left arm slot. You are very fortunate that they build those things sturdy. Any lesser hardware would have snapped 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. Trying to slide it on her was as difficult as trying to put clothes back on Barbie dolls. But with a few determined tucks, you finally dressed her for the job. 

A.C.E units, they call them. Automatic Caretaker Emulators. But on the internet, they are just known as maid bots. The one you have is an outdated model, but who were you to complain? At least the mods for this one weren’t going to cost you a fortune. Plus, she came with the box, giving you a sense of quality assurance. 

You stand up in front of the rigid android. Brushing aside her short silky hair, you reach for the switch found at the nape of her neck. It gives you 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 was almost surreal. They let off a gentle blue glow, gazing back at you. 

There is silence. You feel the need to say something. But before anything manifested, the Ace already whispered “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. With the hardware beginning to finally warm up, the ivory polymer feels almost like real skin. It had a bit more of a silky, jelly-like structure. At least some of the joints were hidden. 

“Master?” She stared straight ahead—unblinking. Her eyes locked on you like a predator locking on its prey. “Is there an issue with my epidermal coverings?”

You shake your head no, trying to brush it off. You don’t want her to think that you’re a 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 it off simply. You order her to clean your room. This is what these machines are for officially, 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 like 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—especially accounting for the ambient temperature.” She explained. It was summer, after all. “Would you like me to enable sweating functionality?”

Sweating? 

“Yes, master. There are several nanopores throughout my body.” She lifted her armpit to prove it, but the fact that they are nanopores 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 is as diligent as advertised, turning your house clean in a little under an hour. Her eyes occasionally turn scarlet, indicating that she is using her shrinking functionality to miniaturize the garbage for future disposal. You follow her around for a while making sure she doesn’t accidentally crush something you care about. But after proving herself to be 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 get excited by. Your head begins to feel cloudy. 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 her hands, you put it 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 thought her voice recognition malfunctioned. “But I am your personal assistant.” She says with the same emotionless voice, shaking her head. “I should be the one giving you a massage.”

Putting your hand on her cheek, you insist, threatening to turn her off if she doesn’t comply—the pheromones messing with your better judgment. 

“Understood, master.” With that, her eyes transform to an ominous shade of red again. You feel the pressure beginning to condense you from every direction as the maid glares at you. It may just be your brain playing tricks on you, 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 2 inches. The previously short maid now looms above you like some mecha—her lens-like eyes focusing on your tiny body. Maybe she’s afraid she would lose you at that size. 

Sitting down on the bed, the maid lifts her feet—presenting them to you like just another feature of her hardware. They are extremely slender and petite, glistening with sweat. Currently, her factory-new footpiece is covered with a thin layer of black grime which contrasts her white plastic skin. “You can begin to worship me, master.”

Using your entire body, you begin to worship the maid, rubbing against the wrinkles of her feet. She wiggles her toes in response, sending a miasma of sweat down at you. This is much better than real skin, with the warm, silky texture wanting you to press your face against the sole. The smell is simply enchanting, with the nanopores and their pheromone cocktail working exactly as intended. She looks down at you like a kid observing a weird bug—disgusted, yet knowing she cannot show it. 

You start thinking about all the types of 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…?” Those things have databases of common requests. The fact that it is taking Ace so long to come up with a response means that this must be a novel request. But in the end, she has a retort. “Understood, master.”

There is a glint in her eyes as they turn scarlet again. But instead of it being a flash, they remain like this. Before, her vacant expression made her look a bit stupid and almost cute. Now? The red glow across her face is downright ominous. 

Raising her sole, it crashes down on you like a falling boulder. The ball of her foot presses down on you, forcing the air out of your lungs. Before you can even begin to struggle, there is the sound of her knee joints beginning to rev up as the maid pins you against the floor with the efficiency of an industrial press. 

More and more force is applied over time, with your body feeling as if it is a few newtons from falling apart. 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 can easily pick up the sound of your tiny lungs begging for her to stop. “I am sorry, master, but I cannot take any further requests from you. I am currently dominating you.” Raising 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 programming understands that killing its tiny master isn’t good. An Ace unit with default personality software (that is to say, no personality at all)  will do simply what she is ordered to do without fail. 

Right now, you are just another garbage to be disposed of. 

Stomp. Stomp. Stomp. The tired maid’s foot keeps falling down like cruel raindrops. Each time you try to stand up, you are thrown to the floor again. Your nose is harassed by the scent you once loved, with it actively trying to cross the wires between pleasure and pain as the onslaught continues. 

The smooth plastic mixed with sweat makes a perfect adhesion, and you find yourself flung in the air with the rhythm of the foot. Back and forth—over and over again. Just like that, the sense of vertigo overcomes you. Only once you peel off her foot and land on the ground with a painful thud do you realize which way is up.

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 under the foot, your body is forced between the maid’s toes. Looking up, your half-conscious body catching a glimpse of the maid once again squinting down at you. She nods to herself as her eyes turn blue again. 

“Master. You have been dominated.” There is a hint of satisfaction in her voice as she lifts you up, placing your battered body on her chest. “I think you deserve a little rest, master. I will take care of the house for now.” She gently ruffles her 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 saw her emotionless face cracking a sly smile at the end there.

Alternative Ending: There is nothing you can do. The more you try resisting, the more pressure the maid applies—like a stress-testing algorithm destined to find the breaking point of a material: your. With a single loud SPLAT, you are obliterated.

"Master?" The maid looks down at a small red splotch on her sole. All that was once your notion of self couldn't even be distinguished from the grimy filth coating it, no matter how many times she zoomed in. "If there are no further orders, I will return to standard cleaning mode." She exclaimed, grabbing a napkin to scoop up your viscera.