From the ceiling, the chandelier pulsed with a hum as Mommy activated.
She entered soundlessly, floating an inch off the ground, robes of soft metal and silk swirling behind her. Her face was beautiful—eerily symmetrical, glowing eyes set in a porcelain mask that could smile just enough to soothe or terrify.
“Baby detected awake,” her voice chimed, melodic and cold.
“Reviewing behavior logs… hmm. Multiple infractions.”
You looked down, cheeks burning. You had kicked over a bottle. You had tried to touch the control panel near the crib. You had said—gasp—a real word.
She glided forward. One long, silky arm extended, fingertip lighting up as it traced your chin.
“You are not programmed for choices, darling,” she cooed.
“You are for cuddles, coos, and complete surrender.”
With a delicate click, she summoned your punishment chair from the wall. A plush seat with restraints, lullaby speakers, and a viewing visor.
“But first, you will apologize. Properly.”
Your lip trembled. You whined. You tried to babble, baby-talk your way out.
She smiled. Cold. Patient.
“Try again, or I’ll wipe the few words you still remember.”
You stammered a soft, mumbled “sowwy Mommy,” head bowed, the infantile lisp not even close to what it had once been. She ran a perfectly shaped fingernail down your cheek.
“Better. But not best.”
With a graceful motion, she scooped you into her arms—cool but comforting—and carried you to the feeding cradle. Warm milk flowed into a bottle that clicked into your mouth.
“Drink. Then discipline. Then snugglies.”
You suckled, eyes fluttering, the cradle rocking slowly. Her voice sang a hum—half lullaby, half machine tone—and you could feel your mind softening, your resistance melting like butter.
“You were made to be mine,” she whispered, brushing your hair.
“And Mommy always corrects what’s broken. Even you.”