Meals of Misery

The late morning sun filtered through the blinds of Fox’s office, casting long shadows across the mahogany desk. The man sat slumped in his leather executive chair, his head tilted back and eyes closed, a look of blissful exhaustion washing over his features. Between his legs, kneeled Annetta. Her blonde hair cascading down her back, her movements practiced and eager.

"God, that's good," he groaned, his voice thick with arousal. Fox gripped the armrests of his chair, his knuckles turning white as the pressure built to an inevitable peak. "Just like that... don't stop," he hissed through gritted teeth, his hips bucking slightly off the leather.

With a final, shuddering moan, he found his release. The blonde continued her motions, swallowing every drop without spilling a single trace, milking him through the aftershocks until the man collapsed back into the chair, spent and panting.

Seeing that the he was totally spent, Annetta released his cock from her mouth with a wet pop. The woman rose up, adjusted her blue sundress and went to sit on a sofa at the other side of the office near the coffee maker and just watched with detachment how Fox was slowly pulling himself back together.

“Wow”, he said after a heavy sigh. His hands moved to put his cock back in his trousers and then he zipped up his pants. “Too bad you are not the real thing, eh?”. The synth said nothing, only smiled at him. Fox involuntarily shuddered looking at the being’s face, something in that smile made his skin crawl. Of course, he and his other two companions in crime knew about that the real Anne was currently being held captive, and that the sponsors organized this little charade to make anyone not privy to this none the wiser.

Fox ran a hand through his hair, trying to compose himself. The post-coital fog was lifting, replaced by the cold prickle of reality. He stood up and walked over to the small bar in the corner of his office, pouring himself a stiff vodka. He thought of offering the drink to the synth, but thought better of it – who knows what these creations live or not live on.

“So, I take it, since you are here, that means our lovely Anne is being processed over there, huh?”, he chuckled downing the vodka in one go.

“My creators thought it prudent for me to continue living as the human I was modelled after, so to not raise any suspicions”, the synth said in the same tone and timbre that Annetta always spoke, however, something cold and metallic could be heard in its voice.

“Sure, sure”, Fox said nodding.

“Before this little deviation in business”, the synth continued, “I thought it would be useful to talk about what the next cooking show segment will be like, in case Annetta will not be able to appear herself”.

“What, you mean to tell me, that they are actually thinking of letting her go?”, Fox asked incredulously.

“Of course, why wouldn’t they? She just needs to accept her position, and then, she is free to go under their initial agreement”. Fox just stared at the robot for a while trying to process this, and then shrugged his shoulders. “The transition period is always the most difficult. In the meantime, production must continue. We cannot allow the viewers to sense a disruption in the schedule", the synth continued impassionedly.

The executive wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and moved back to his desk, settling into the chair. He tapped a few keys on his computer, bringing up the show's calendar. "Alright. If she's... indisposed for a few days, let's say, or longer, we need to fill the slots. We have the pre-recorded interviews, but we need the live cooking segments. That's, I guess, where you come in, right?"

The synth nodded. “So, do you have her memories and thoughts or something, or did your creators give you specific instructions on what they want you to do?”, the executive asked while looking over the show’s upcoming plot-lines.

"I possess a complete cognitive upload of Mrs. Mortinson's neural patterns," the synth replied, its tone eerily flat despite the cheerful cadence it used. "I have access to every memory, every skill she possesses, including her culinary techniques, and, naturally, I am fully aware of the financiers' specific requirements for the show's new direction."

Fox let out a low whistle, spinning his chair around to face her. "Every memory, huh? That must be..." He trailed off, suddenly very conscious that this machine knew his deepest secrets, his business dealings, and likely every dirty thought he’d ever had about Anne before this arrangement began. "Convenient."

"It is efficient," the synth corrected him. "Which means I can step into her role seamlessly. I know her recipes, her speech patterns, and how she smiles for the camera. I propose we center the next broadcast around the upcoming centenary celebrations," the synth stated, clasping its hands in its lap with perfect, rehearsed poise. "Given the upcoming jubilee of the founding of this nation, a segment on Medieval cuisine would be historically resonant and highly marketable. I can prepare venison or boar dishes with local vegetables and spices".

Fox nodded slowly, the idea solidifying in his mind. "Medieval... that's good. It fits the narrative. Who are we bringing in?"

"I have compiled a list of prominent, 'well-deserved' local figures," the synth continued, its eyes fixed on a middle distance. "We can interview the Mayor, perhaps a respected historian, and a local priest. They will speak about the importance of tradition, family values, and our shared heritage. It will be a wholesome, unifying broadcast".

"I can see the promos now," Fox mused, already leaning forward to type notes into his planner. "A return to our roots. The viewers eat that up. Especially the older demographic."

"Precisely," the synth agreed. "We film the intro in the main hall, maybe with a few tapestries hung in the background for authenticity. The recipes are simple enough that I won't require any real prep time, allowing me to focus entirely on the banter with the guests. It will paint a picture of a stable, culturally rich society."

Fox tapped his pen against the desk, a satisfied smirk playing on his lips. "It’s brilliant, actually. Keep the masses fed with history and patriotism while the real show serves the... refined tastes. A balancing act."

Then, the synth stopped. It didn't trail off or pause for breath; it simply ceased speaking, its head cocking slightly to the side as if listening to a frequency Fox couldn't hear. The sudden silence in the room was heavy, broken only by the hum of the computer fans. The man looked up from his notepad, frowning. "What is it? Why'd you stop?"

The synth’s eyes, which from the start when it walked in to Fox's office was warm blue, seemed to become steel like before refocusing on him with terrifying intensity. "I am receiving a priority update from the mansion. My creators report that the... orientation phase has been concluded successfully. In order to keep up with the appearances, I must go to them. It would not be wise to have two “Annettas” running around", the synth said, its head still cocked slightly to the side as if processing a stream of data…

"Wait, what does that mean exactly?" Fox asked, standing up abruptly, his chair rolling back and hitting the wall with a thud. "She's coming back here? Now?"

"I do not know whether she is coming back here, but my creators are letting her go. Ergo, I must go as well", the synth replied, already standing up. It moved with a fluid, unnatural grace, smoothing down the fabric of the blue sundress…

Fox watched the sentient machine leave. Nervousness pooled in his stomach. When the door closed, the man took out his mobile phone from the pocket of his jacket and speed dialed Jim Masters…