Come with me to meet my mother, Natasha. She always says the right thing, she never raises her voice in anger, she knows 8 languages and she works for my Dad at THE National Robotics Initiative for Nasa. When you look at her you’d think “what a beautiful and smart woman,” and she is, but she’s not a woman, she’s a robot.
My mother passed away at birth and my father knew his demanding job wouldn’t allow him to raise me on his own. He went through several prototypes before he designed the woman I come to know as mother, Natasha, the perfect woman. Natasha was designed in my late mother’s likeness. She can remember events and she backlogs those memories to help her run more efficiently. Her memory is also updated by my father once per month through the laptop while he works abroad. That’s how I came to find out that my mother was, in fact, a robot. It was just last Spring when she was hooked up to the laptop. I heard the buzzing and beeping from my bedroom. I tiptoed into her room, right through the bedroom door with it’s faulty lock and saw my mother’s eyes whirling as the wires connected her to her latest upload. My voice quivered in fear, “mom?” She grabbed my wrist, swung her head around, her red eyes glowed at me, “GO,” she demanded in a low-toned robotic voice. I ran away in fear and grabbed my nine iron and clutched it close to me, I stared at the door waiting for her to come in and attack like the Terminator, it never happened. The hours passed, my grip relaxed, I fell asleep and woke up to the birds singing. I called out to my mother, ready to strike her with the club if she attacks, but didn’t see her. I remembered it’s Saturday, oh– the day she volunteers at church. She came in the door and handed a package, “guess who remembered your Birthday, late as usual, but at least he remembered,” she said in her sweet sing-songy voice. I scrunched my brow in confusion, where were her beady red eyes, and the wires coming out from her skin? I accepted the box from her, cautiously, she went into the kitchen, as she does every morning when I wake, to make English Breakfast tea.
I opened my father’s gift box, and it was a remote control with a letter explaining what I expected, my mother was a robot. He told me that she can be programmed to my liking and gave me instructions on how to fine-tune her personality to my liking. The remote control had a few auto-buttons that dad thought I might enjoy as a young man with brand new needs. I pushed the one labeled, “STRPR” and my mother dropped her tea. My jaw dropped, my heart raced, I held my breath as I watched her eyes turn red, green, blue, she was being altered to become the woman I could never confess I wanted, not even to a friend, my mother is becoming a sultry stripper, with an insatiable hunger for my cock, and I can’t wait to explore all of her channels.