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Message-ID: <36739asstr$1023491406@assm.asstr-mirror.org>
From: "DB_Story" <DB_Story@att.net>
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Subject: {ASSM} The Rescue of D. B. Story {DB_Story} (M/Fembot+, rom, ScFi, asfr)
Date: Fri,  7 Jun 2002 19:10:06 -0400
Path: assm.asstr-mirror.org!not-for-mail
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Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories.moderated,alt.sex.stories
Followup-To: alt.sex.stories.d

THE RESCUE OF DB_STORY
By DB  ( DB_Story@att.net / http://home.att.net/files/Authors/db_story/www/ )
Copyrightc 2002 by DB.
ASSM/ASFR (M/Fembot+, rom, ScFi, asfr)

(This story contains Constitutionally protected material intended 
for adults over 18 years of age in the United States of America, 
and whatever passes for adult status in other countries.  If you 
are under legal age, acting under legal age, not allowed to view 
such material in your area, or easily offended, please do not 
continue.  This is not for you.

(The only rights granted are to view this story.  You are not 
allowed to reproduce, post, or otherwise redistribute this story 
without permission, except for non-profit Usenet archiving sites.

(To purchase for publication, place on your web-site devoted to 
this style of fiction, or for permission to link to my posted 
material, please contact me first at the above email.)

- - -

Author's Note: This story is part of my emerging cosmology about 
the evolution of robots into our near future society and the 
myriad ways we will learn to interact with our creations.  Read 
it now, and be prepared.  For more, visit my web-site at the 
above address.

A special thanks to Gorgo his excellent and much appreciated 
proofreading.  All remaining mistakes are mine.

- - -

The doorbell rang unexpectedly.

I was surfing the web to see if Elf had posted anything new on 
his latest AI story-line, while waiting for my own latest story 
to come back from my proofreader.  I had only e-mailed it to him 
a couple hours ago, so it was completely unreasonable for me to 
expect any reply in less than another day.  Especially since he 
is ten time zones away, has a full-time job, never knows when he 
will receive something new from me, and proofreads for a number 
of other writers as well.  He also writes his own anime fanfic.  
But I was impatient.

When I complete a story I want to post it immediately.  I'm so 
happy with it that I want to share it this second and hope for 
feedback.  (I used to wait for feedback.  Now I just hope for 
it.)  The euphoria of typing "End" is unbelievable.  My story is 
absolutely perfect down the last period.  And it says exactly 
what I wanted to say.  I know not to post that.

My first drafts are pure creative blitz writing.  Get the idea 
into the computer.  While I'll correct many spelling errors on 
the fly, I don't stop for anything else except sleep - and only 
then if it's already after two in the morning and I need to be up 
for something important this next morning that I've already 
infringed into.

Instead of posting that mess however, I give it at least a day, 
then perform a full read-through/rewrite in one sitting if 
possible.  Most of my work is short enough to make this possible.

Here is where I try to catch and simplify my overly long and 
complex sentences that my creative mind loves to spew out.  
Overused adjectives, missing quote marks, redundancies, names 
misspelled where the spell checker is no help to me, and ideas I 
completely forgot to type in are fixed here, I hope.  

Then when my copy is perfect do I send it off to my proofreader, 
whose only reward for his hard work is getting to see my work 
ahead of everyone else.  (He says it's worth it!)  A day or three 
later it comes back with a collection of embarrassing errors and 
gaffes spelled out in red.

As I fix these in my copy, I usually find a couple more errors he 
missed, and a couple more passages I want to touch up.

After that, it is time to create the text and html versions 
(insert double hard returns for the text paragraph separations). 
 Post to ASSM/ASFR (and any other appropriate news group if it 
falls into a specialty category, like a rip-off - err make that 
take-off - on another author's work).  Add it to my web-site and 
update the site's contents page.  Then sit back and monitor 
usenet and e-mail for any comments - while repeating the process 
all over again from the beginning for the next story.  Yeah, a 
lot of labor goes into the production of one of these stories.  
Such is a virtually unknown writer's life.

About that doorbell, I don't mind the interruption.  I have 
friends for whom any knock on the door, ringing telephone, or e-
mail popping in is greeted with amazing hostility.  They do not 
want to be distracted from whatever task is at hand.

I'm not that way.  I am always hoping the next event in my life 
will be something good, like Publisher's Clearinghouse showing up 
with a check.  It doesn't always happen.  However, the optimism 
remains.  Today that optimism finally paid off as I opened my 
door to reveal the two most beautiful women I have ever met in 
person.  I believe the one standing in front said something to 
me, but the words didn't register.

I stared.  I admit it.  I stared.  Staring isn't polite and many 
women - especially the attractive ones - find it offensive, or 
even threatening.  I know this.  I stared anyway.  They were 
worth staring at.

My first impression was of height and hair.  The dark-haired one 
in front nearly matched me eye-to-eye.  Her blonde companion 
standing half behind her and a couple inches taller did look 
straight across at me, with clear unblinking lovely blue eyes. 
They both looked to be in their mid-20's, at that point where 
they have fully grown into their beauty and clear complexions.  
Both of them had great amounts of luxurious hair done in the 
elaborate coiffure style of the early 60's that I've always liked 
so much, and never see anymore.  My other favorite fashion item 
from that time - nylons and high spike heels - neither of these 
women needed.

 From their hair, I was next struck by the perfection of their 
faces, and of their make-up. 

Now I don't talk about make-up much in my stories.  I prefer to 
let my reader's form their own images.  My fantasy may not be 
yours.  But properly done make-up can add a lot, and a sexy face 
makes a sexy woman.  The difficulty here is in the phrase 
"properly done," and more does not equate to better.  In fact, 
most women would look better with a bit less than they actually 
use since the more make-up a woman uses, the far more expert her 
art in applying it must be.  These women were wearing a lot, and 
carrying it off to perfection.

As lovely as their faces both were (supermodels, both of them, my 
mind had already decided), my eyes quickly dropped from their 
faces.  Not out of embarrassment, or a desire to start a 
conversation with their boobs (which were well covered anyway by 
the long-sleeved fine silk blouses both were wearing).  Rather it 
was my automatic reaction to all tall women I meet.

I like all women.  However I recognize that there is something 
special about how a tall woman carries and presents herself that 
others cannot match.  Cute and sexy will never apply to a 
statuesque female.  The cute and sexy ones are five-feet-four and 
seem cloned out by the hundreds to fill all the college 
cheerleading teams, strip clubs, and many magazine centerfolds.

But in the same way cute and sexy can't apply to a tall woman, 
their shorter sisters will never be referred to as elegant or 
regal either.  These two women before me redefined elegant and 
regal.

I dropped my eyes down to see if they were cheating on their 
height.  To my great pleasure, both were wearing low heels that 
couldn't have given them even two more inches.  The couple thin 
straps holding these shoes on fully revealed elegant manicured 
feet.  And the tan I noticed in their faces carries evenly right 
down to their expertly painted toes, with the blonde being a rich 
golden shade while her brunette friend has a dark exotic color to 
go with her equally dark exotic eyes.

I took stock of their clothing as I lifted my eyes again.  The 
brunette had encased her legs in dark brown slacks of some 
exceptionally soft looking material which somehow still 
maintained a crisp crease.  Above a dividing dark belt to match 
her hair, her very loose blouse was a bold abstract of autumn 
colors up to a loose neckline.

I got a bit more of a glimpse of the blonde, who wore a pleated 
skirt to just above her knees.  The remaining smooth exposed legs 
tapered superbly down to thin ankles.  What leg she did show made 
erotic promises that would be hard to keep about what she still 
kept hidden underneath the skirt.  Her blouse was also silky and 
loose over her apparently large chest.  It hinted at pleasures to 
be found there beneath it in colors of bright yellows and pale 
blues to match her hair and eyes.

I finally got my gaze back to both their faces.  An unhandled 
interrupt finally broke through that one of them had said 
something to me when I opened the door.  But for the life of me, 
I couldn't recall what it was.

Several seconds had passed, although I couldn't say how many.  
Enough, I was certain, that by now they were either angry or 
insulted enough by my behavior to have ruined any further 
interaction with them beyond repair.  I had handled this 
horribly.  All I can say is that I was never prepared to have 
this happen to me.  Who really would be?

But that isn't what I was seeing on their faces.  I was seeing 
complete patience with me so far, and even half-smiles.

Fine.  Obviously this is a lucid dream.  And a damn fine one too. 
 Then the one in front spoke again.

"Are you D. B. Story," she asked in a thrilling contralto, the 
kind that sends shivers up your spine.  And she did not sound 
insulted at all that I hadn't answered her the first time.

But that comment threw me for another loop.  D. B. Story is a 
name I only use for my erotic fiction on the web.  The kind of 
stuff you give away because nobody will actually pay you for it. 
 And the stuff you don't admit to writing in polite company, or 
to your friends if you don't know any polite company.  Like any 
writer, you hope to be serious, published (and paid) someday 
soon.  And when that day arrives you don't want this stuff coming 
back to haunt you.  Call it honing one's writing craft, or part 
of the three million words of shit you need to write out of your 
system before you can become a good writer.  Just don't call it 
mine.

As a nom du keyboard, D. B. Story doesn't even mean anything.  
Rather like Sinfeld's show about nothing.  It was supposed to be 
dba_story, as in: Doing Business as Mr. Story.  But the system 
refused to register that as an alias name.  It failed twice.  
Then on the third try it came back and said had just registered 
me as DB_Story.  Since I wanted to post my first story that very 
night (if the moderators at ASSM would even have me - they did!) 
and I felt I needed an anonymous web-site to archive my work and 
a fake e-mail address for feedback (which has become a real virus 
magnet of late), I caved and went with what the system gave me.  
As I got enough positive feedback from that first posting of 
"Lisa's Tale Part 1" to keep on writing and posting more stories, 
the less I felt I could ever change it afterwards because of an 
increasing number of links to my few pages.

But I never used it for anything else.  Only a few other authors 
who write in this genre even know me, and those are e-mail only 
contacts.  I'm completely certain that neither of these women 
would ever fall into that category.

So my automatic reaction is to deny it.

Fortunately I am thinking fast enough to realize if I do deny it, 
they might turn around and leave the next following moment.  I 
didn't want that to happen.  So I told them the truth:

"Yes I am."

Hearing that they both broke into big smiles.  See how truth pays 
off.

"We are so happy to have found you, Mr. Story.  May we come in?" 
The brunette was still doing all the talking.

Now you don't think for a moment that I was going to refuse that 
request, do you?

Next thing I knew, we are all standing in the center of my small 
apartment and I'm wondering what to do next.  Getting the last 
web-site I had visited off the screen came to mind, but I felt 
that might draw even more attention to it.

Then the brunette stuck out her hand (I noticed how nicely her 
fingernails matched her toenails) and announced, "I'm Cassandra."

I took her hand silently.  It was warm, firm, soft, and alive.

The blonde followed suit a moment later saying, "And I'm Roberta. 
 But you can call me Bobbie."  Her grip was strong too, and the 
direct touch felt wonderful.

I did the only thing I could think of and asked, "And what may I 
do for two such lovely ladies?" in my most generous tone of 
voice.

I was already regretting that I may have alienated them with an 
unwanted complement (see what all this PC garbage about "sexual 
harassment" has turned us American males into?) when both of them 
simultaneously reached into their small, fashionable handbags and 
pulled out small television remotes which they held out to me.

"Take possession of us," they said in unison.  "And tell us how 
we may serve you."

I swear at that very moment the Universe ground to a sudden and 
complete halt.

- - -

Time stops running when the Universe is halted.

Eventually the Universe restarted with only a couple bumps and 
grinds, and events resumed their one-second-per-second forward 
progression.

If this was not a dream (which I was already pretty sure it 
wasn't - lucid dreams do leave clues), then it was a joke.  An 
elaborate, and considering the quality of the women hired as part 
of it incredibly expensive, joke.  The problem is nobody - and I 
do mean NO-BODY - would spend that kind of money for a joke like 
this on me.

The women were still both holding out those little TV remotes to 
me, so I took them.  I noticed each had the woman's name 
inscribed at the top, with a long number underneath it.  And 
below that, almost exactly as described in my stories, were three 
wide buttons marked ACTIVATE, MOTION, and COMMAND/RECALL, with 
ACTIVATE and MOTION recessed to make them harder to press by 
mistake.  (A nice touch I'd need to add to my next story.)  There 
was an alphanumeric screen and a number of calculator-sized 
buttons in the lower part of each control covered by a protective 
transparent panel.  None of the buttons looked labeled for any 
stereo equipment I had yet seen.  And these looked factory made. 
 Not just mocked up for this charade.

"How may we serve you?" they again asked sweetly in unison.  
Someone had clearly picked them for their voices together as well 
as their looks.

I knew what I wanted, and was pretty certain I wasn't going to 
get that.  I'm sure the joke wouldn't go that far.  So I 
hesitated from asking for anything that I knew they wouldn't do 
since part of me didn't want this to end too quickly.  Another 
part of me however didn't like the deception.  I'm stubborn that 
way.  It's a character flaw that I would probably be better 
without under most circumstances.  So I decided to try something 
that they might actually go along with while they were still 
playing their charade.

"Wait here," I said and dashed into my bedroom to grab my camera. 
 At least I was going to get a few nice pictures of this to 
fantasize over afterwards.  They would also make good evidence 
when no one believed me afterwards.

"Would you mind if I took a couple quick pictures of you," I said 
on my return, relieved to find they were still there waiting for 
me.  "I'll give you copies afterwards if you'd like."  Long ago 
I'd realized that the best way to get pictures of people is to 
give pictures.

"Not at all," they said in unison.  They had this sister act well 
rehearsed.

Beautiful women are often camera adverse.  Some don't believe 
they are as attractive as they really are.  Others may have been 
chased by too many photographers for so long they can't stand the 
sight of another camera.  Still others want money for any posing. 
 Cassandra and Bobbie weren't any of these.  They posed and 
smiled prettily for every shot as I finished out the roll.  Then 
I carefully made sure that the film was safely rewound into its 
canister, removed, and stored out of sight before continuing.

As I came back from putting the camera securely away (always take 
good care of your equipment whatever the circumstances) they 
again asked:

"How may we serve you?"

As I relate this account of what happened, I'm reminded how much 
I've always disliked stories where the protagonist is so 
painfully slow to catch on to what is obvious to the readers from 
the second page.  I watch those guys fumble around making all 
kinds of mistakes and messing up opportunities that I'd never 
have missed for a moment.  I wonder how they could be so dumb 
about what's actually going on.  However having lived it now, I 
know for myself how long it can take to really believe and accept 
what is happening right there all around you in real-time.  
Suspension of disbelief is much harder in actual reality.  
Afterwards I promised myself to never be so hard on those types 
of stories again.

Well I'm a male.  I know what I really want here.  If this ends 
their performance at least I have my pictures.

"Take off your tops," I said to them with my fingers crossed.

When they didn't move to comply, I knew the joke was over.

Then Cassandra said, "Until you take possession of us, you will 
have to use our COMMAND buttons for all requests."

Reprieved!

I looked quickly around for those remotes.  It took me a moment 
to realize I had slipped them in my pockets when I had gone to 
get my camera.

Pulling them out I aimed them with both hands (which I later 
found out wasn't necessary at all) and again said, "Take off your 
tops."

This time they immediately started unbuttoning their blouses, 
pulled them out of their waistbands, and in moments had them off 
completely.  Then they stood there again looking back at me with 
smiles on their faces.

Wow!

Neither woman was wearing a bra although both had quite large 
breasts with full-size, well-placed nipples.  The smooth even tan 
I had extrapolated for them ran down both their bodies without 
even a hint of a line at their breasts.  There were no other 
marks either to indicate that either ever had worn anything 
tight-fitting.  I shifted my position slightly to get a better 
look at Bobbie, who still stood slightly behind Cassandra.  Both 
women's breasts looked soft, yet fully supported.

After a moment of letting me look, they both neatly folded their 
tops and lay them on the nearby table.  As they moved their 
breasts swayed easily, dispelling any notion that they were 
nothing more than rigid mountains on their chests.  Then they 
posed very nicely together for me to look as long as I wished.  
And I did take full-measure of the opportunity they were so very 
generously giving me.  Of course I'd already foolishly shot all 
my available film by now.

I stared.  Yes I stared.  Goddamnit I stared.  You would have 
too.

Yet neither woman seemed offended.  Indeed they seemed pleased 
and struck several more poses for me.

"We like being admired," Cassandra finally said.

"You may touch me if you wish," Bobbie offered.

"Me too," Cassandra added.

I really wanted to do exactly that, but part of me still held 
back.  I still had to believe that these women were playing a 
game that I didn't understand yet.  And I didn't want to piss 
them off by being too grabby now that things are going so well.  
After all, the fembots they were pretending to be are decades, if 
not centuries, into the future.

Eventually they stopped shifting into new poses and just held the 
last one.  It looked terribly uncomfortable for a woman to hold, 
though wonderful to watch.  They seemed to be doing it without 
strain.  I finally guessed that they were waiting for their next 
instructions.

"Take off your bottoms," I commanded really liking this, 
remembering at the last moment to press their command buttons.

Again both of them moved immediately to comply with my request.  
They removed their slacks and skirt respectively, then stood 
there showing me their bodies with only nude-tone silk briefs 
obstructing the last bit of view, along with their low heels.

What can I say?  They both have the perfect bodies you only see 
on tall mannequins in the most upscale stores.  I saw endless 
smooth tanned legs to accompany all they had already shown me.  
Legs that didn't need tall heels to show off their shapes.  High 
heels on these women would be overkill, with me as the victim.

The sexiest part of this all however are their big smiles showing 
that they were enjoying this every bit as much as I was.

"Who are you?" I finally asked.

"You already know who - and what - we are," Cassandra replied, 
holding on to her smile through it all.

"Then what's going on?  Nobody could build women - fembots..." - 
there, I said the word - "...like the two of you."

"We can answer all that for you if commanded to do so," Cassandra 
replied.

"But it would be so much better if you took possession of us 
first," Bobbie added wistfully.

Whatever shock I may have been in earlier no longer paralyzed me. 
 It only took me a moment to decide and reply, "Okay.  How do I 
do that?"

Bobbie took me through the process for Cassandra, showing me the 
special key combinations to press and proper answers to give.  
Then Cassandra helped me with Bobbie.

Once they were both back on-line, they each grabbed me for a big 
and very sensual kiss.  And I finally got a good feel of each of 
their bodies.  They felt even better then they looked.

Both were effusive in their gratitude that I had consented to 
take possession of them as my own.  No I couldn't believe this 
was real (it is), and yes I was going to run with it as long as 
it continued.  That, it turns out, will be a very long time.

Of course I was giddy now from the circumstances.  I was actually 
feeling a bit bold finally.

"How do I know you are really fembots?" I asked.

"Well," Cassandra said, a bit puzzled and actually concerned that 
I might not believe them to be fembots.  (I would have expected 
the opposite to be true.)  "We don't have the tools here to 
safely open either of us up for inspection."

"You could x-ray us," Bobbie offered helpfully.

"Or you could freeze us in place until you are satisfied no real 
woman could be so inanimate," Cassandra came back with.

"Or you could fill your bath tub and I'll put my head down in it 
until you are satisfied that I don't need to breath," Bobbie 
threw in.

I was trying to stop laughing as I finally got out, "Or I could 
take it as a given that only a pair of fembots could be as 
outstandingly beautiful as your two are and still be interested 
in me."

They both actually blushed at the complement as Bobbie tried to 
explain, "That wouldn't be a true test.  Every fembot would love 
to be owned by you."

But I really didn't hear her words at the time, because I was so 
fascinated by their blush reaction.  I'd learn later that just 
about all fembots believe they only have average looks and 
therefore treasure every complement.  It is one of their most 
endearing features.

"Now that you're our owner and master," Bobbie was informing me, 
"Would you like sex now?"  She was tugging idly at that last 
piece of silk she wore.

"Yes," I stuttered.  And I don't stutter.  I'm simply not used to 
such directness from such a gorgeous woman who could clearly have 
any man she wanted.

"I would be more fun if we took him back to our place," Cassandra 
commented.

"Then can someone tell me what's really happening?" I begged.

"Of course, Master," they both chimed in, sounding an awful like 
the Jeannie I'd long wished I'd had on the old TV show.

They quickly dressed themselves (darn!) and told me the only 
thing I needed to bring was myself and their control boxes.  That 
was easy enough.

Outside was a small, egg-shaped ultra-modern looking car that 
seems like the kind you only see in foreign countries and are 
never imported here.

Despite its small size it easily accommodated the three of us 
with an unusual centered driver's seat in front and wider 
backseat.  Cassandra drove with what seemed to not quite be the 
standard steering wheel arrangement.  We silently pulled away 
from the curb (electric?) and somehow in the next fifteen minutes 
covered a number of miles into the countryside - and a number of 
years into the future!  I didn't notice much at the time since I 
was sharing the backseat with Bobbie and we were making out.

Their house (actually they told me it's my house now) sits alone 
on top of a grass and tree-covered hill, with a stream running 
proudly down one slope and windows looking out from every side of 
the large round house at the top.

I didn't have much time to initially appreciate all this however 
because as soon as we arrived they were leading - dragging - me 
into their bedroom with a huge circular bed that matches the 
overall theme of the house and hill.

Once there they threw off their clothes.  (Cassandra has a dark, 
thick curly triangle of pubic hair, while Bobbie's pubes are a 
neatly trimmed vertical rectangle of light brown, in case you 
wanted to know.)

Working together they had me out of my clothes just as quickly.  
What followed was a lot of rubbing of each other's bodies 
together and feeling every part of each other until each of them 
took their turn taking me inside of them for climaxes.  I managed 
an inspired performance that day that I may never match again.  
In the afterglow, this all felt like a place I had always known, 
but only now returned to.  We laid there intertwined with each 
other and not speaking any more until I finally drifted off to 
sleep.

The next morning I found myself spooned up against Bobbie's back 
with my arms around her cradling her breasts.  Cassandra had her 
own pair pressed firmly into my back.  I spend a long time trying 
not to disturb this arrangement, until nature's call became too 
urgent to ignore.  Then I needed one of them to show me how to 
operate the bathroom.

It wasn't until after a great breakfast they prepared for me the 
next morning - and a bit more sex - that they story finally 
started to come out.

Our future has two things going for it that make it worth the 
wait: fembots, and time travel.

There's a lot of other neat stuff too: clean energy, flying cars, 
habitats in orbit, travel to other planets, population control 
(partly based on fembot and m-'bot availability), and a cure for 
the common cold (they use nanobots).  But fembots and time travel 
are my favorites.

We spent most of that first day just talking about the 
differences, without any mention of why I was here or how I'd fit 
in.  There was so much to hear that I decided to sit back and 
listen.  We ate dinner outside on one of the decks with a 
westward view (yes we, the girls are able to consume food in 
social situations) and I wondered where the whole day had gone.  
That evening they told me about me.

- - -

Nothing on the Internet ever gets lost.  Storage is too cheap, 
and cheaper still every year while processor power and cataloging 
programs keep getting better.  When processor geometry couldn't 
be shrunk any further (atoms just don't shrink), new methods were 
developed to grow ever more complex processors into the third 
dimension.  This led eventually to the brains necessary for the 
first fembots.

About the time fembots became practical - first as sex toys which 
created the necessary market forces, later as much more - my 
forgotten little body of work resurfaced to great acclaim.

To say I was floored when I heard this vastly understates my 
reaction.

"But a lot of people were writing about this, even in my time," I 
protested.

"You're the one who got it right," Cassandra told me calmly.

"But they aren't even all my original ideas.  A lot of authors 
contributed ideas that we built on."

"You assembled the pieces correctly," Bobbie said with a smile as 
she kissed my neck.  "That's why you are fifth on the all-time 
best selling author's list."

When I heard that I started laughing, and couldn't stop.  I 
laughed until I cried.  Cassandra and Bobbie looked on with great 
concern showing on their beautiful faces, but for a longest time 
I just couldn't stop long enough to explain.

Finally I was so exhausted that I was able to gasp out, "It's 
classic.  It's so very classic," before I fell back into more 
tearful laughter.

My girls held me tenderly until it eventually passed and I 
regained a semblance of control.  Then I could finally explain it 
to them.

"It's a well-known joke in my time," I said, amazed at how easily 
the term "my time" had already become part of my thinking, "That 
no creative person is truly recognized until after they die.  
Artists whose work is priceless died poor.  We write stories and 
make movies about people faking their deaths to increase the 
value of their works.

"In my time I could barely give my stories away.  There was no 
paying market for them at all.  To me it was a victory just to be 
a finalist of a monthly Clitorides award - never expecting to 
actually win - because being a finalist meant at least two people 
liked the same story of mine.  I would have loved to have sold my 
work.  Even for pennies a word.  It would have been worth it for 
the validation of seeing it paid for and published on paper.  And 
now that I'm dead you tell me I'm the seventh best selling author 
of all time."

"It's true," Bobbie said, still holding me tightly against her 
body.  "Every fembot reads you as soon as she achieves 
independent thought.  You always have happy endings for us.  Your 
fembots always manage to find owners who value them for what they 
really are.  Almost any human planning to own one of us reads you 
too, then hopes to find as good a match as all your people do.  
Some humans who say they never considered owning a fembot go out 
and get one after reading your collected works."

"Furthermore," Cassandra jumped into the conversation, "A hotel 
chain has been built modeled after your stories.  Used robot 
sales are often exactly as you often describe them.  Even the 
strip clubs of today you'd recognize the moment you stepped into 
one."

"I can't believe it," I said, speaking as truthfully as I have 
ever spoken.  They worked to show me otherwise.

"Every fembot wants to meet you at least once.  We all know how 
much we owe you," Cassandra said softly.

"What could any of you owe me?"

"You showed people how not to be afraid of us as we began to 
achieve independent thought," Cassandra said.  "Your guidelines 
of how to program a fembot convinced people of how safe this can 
be."

"And you showed us how to act independently as well," Bobbie 
continued.  "But most of all, you have shown us how our lives are 
forever intertwined with the humans who designed us, built us, 
and programmed us to be like - but still different enough from - 
them for this all to work out.  Your writings made a roadmap as 
accurate and useful as any of your Zansasi Highway maps."

"Wait," I again protested.  "There's only one Highway story."

"For now," came the reply.  "And certain observations suggest the 
actual highway will be arriving here itself sometime in the next 
few years in a form very much as you described."

Then Bobbie jumped back in with some perfectly simple fembot 
logic when she said, "You're not a dead author because here you 
are."

"And temporal law allows you to claim fair royalties," Cassandra 
added with a smile.

- - -

Suddenly I was rich.  Very rich.  More than I'd ever be able to 
spend, which is all anyone really needs.  That didn't sink in for 
awhile.

"What would you like to do next?" I was asked.  I have really 
come to love this prompting by Bobbie and Cassandra of asking me 
to give them things to do.

"I'd like to hear more about what I appear to have done," I 
replied.

"Your command will be our wish," they said together while handing 
me their control boxes again.

I was confused.  "I thought I didn't use these anymore now that I 
own both of you."

"You don't need to," Cassandra began.

"But we'll always enjoy it more when you do," Bobbie continued.

"Because our satisfaction comes from fulfilling our functions as 
best we can," Cassandra added.

"And the deeper and more formal the command," Bobbie said.

"The better we like it when we complete it." Cassandra finished.

With a sigh I took both of their eagerly proffered remotes and 
commanded them to tell me more about my contributions to this 
time.  Their obvious joy at receiving their commands soon had me 
not worrying about this aspect of our developing relationship.

I first asked them to tell me about how I got here at all?  And 
where they had come from?

Together the girls explained how time travel had become possible 
just as they each had attained their independence.  They met each 
other in a bookstore while looking for copies of my works in the 
original HTML.  They agreed to share the only copy available.  
That was the start of a beautiful partnership.

Although many fembots think well of me and my writing, and even 
fantasize about having me as their owner, Cassandra and Bobbie 
were the first to actually act on those desires.

They managed to charm their way into the time travel project 
(it's a very important, and restricted, area they said) and come 
back to hunt me down.  My casual obfuscations to protect my 
privacy easily fell to their sharp robotic minds.

"I really like your story about the four fembots of different 
technologies who found pleasure with each other after their 
owners secretly ordered them to do so," Bobbie commented.

"And I like the one about the tall fembot in the hotel who 
finally found love," Cassandra said.

Then she mentioned another story I didn't recognize.  When I 
protested that couldn't have been my story, she simply said with 
her impeccable logic, "Maybe you haven't written it yet.  There 
are hundreds of them attributed to you."

"Now wait a minute.  And this time I mean it.  I've written a 
couple dozen stories at best.  Not hundreds.  I don't even think 
I could write a hundred."

I have to take a moment here from my narrative to mention Larry 
Niven - for a couple of reasons.  I've met Larry a few brief 
times (I'm sure I remember them better than he does) and admire 
his writing a lot.  Reportedly he and Elf don't get along, but I 
admire Elf's writing too.  Larry has thought more about time 
travel than any other author I know, and has written that it 
could be possible via a couple of different methods.  One way is 
to build a "time highway", which is what has been done here.  The 
future did it to protect their existence, and I have benefited 
greatly from it.

In fact, after what I've seen and experienced my corollary to 
Niven's Law on Time Travel is: Any civilization with the ability 
to travel backwards in time and change the past will do so to 
protect their own existence - up to and including destroying that 
ability to travel in time, if necessary.

Larry said a couple things about writing too that I've taken to 
heart.

One is that ideas are cheap.  It's the writing that makes them 
golden.

Another is, put everything you have into each story.  Don't hold 
anything back for some future piece.  It's excellent advice.

So I didn't see how I could ever write a hundred or more stories 
on the same general subject and still have anything worthwhile to 
say if I never held anything back on any of them.

"Don't worry about it," Cassandra said soothingly while stroking 
my hair.  "You have more time available to you now than you ever 
would have believed."

Did I mention that they have very effective life-extension 
treatments in this future as well?

- - -

The three of us stayed in the house - my house - for the next 
week.  Wouldn't you?  Cassandra and Bobbie told me in much more 
detail how they had achieved their independent thinking and self-
will abilities.  Someday I'll write their stories.  They told me 
a lot more about how my ideas, some of which I haven't even 
thought of yet, influenced their development.

I also learned how to give both of them complex commands that 
take a long time to complete.  This leaves them very happy, and 
takes a burden off of me to keep finding things for them to do.  
And we had a lot of sex.  Wouldn't you?

But the secret of my arrival couldn't be kept for long.  The last 
couple of days Cass and Bobbie were fending off almost continual 
requests to see, or at least talk to, me.  Certainly not 
something I'd ever imagined happening.  Fame is mostly desired 
until you have it, after which you spend your efforts trying to 
preserve your privacy.  I was willing to give that a try.

When I was ready go to out Cassandra asked what I'd like to do 
first.  I told her I'd like to go to a bookstore.  I wanted to 
see myself in print.  The store she chose was in a pedestrian-
only zone.  It happened to be the one where Bobbie and Cass met 
each other.

Even before we got there people approached to say "Hi", or touch 
me lightly to see that I was real.  My only thought was they must 
have recognized Cassandra or Bobbie and made the connection.  
Some were obviously fembots - or even M-'bots - because they were 
offering me control boxes.

Cassandra and Bobbie ran constant interference.  Later I asked 
what that was all about.

Cassandra said simply, "A lot of us would consider it an honor to 
be owned, or even just commanded once, by you."

The way she said it left me wondering if she was jealous about 
the other 'bots cutting in on her turf.  In all my stories, my 
fembots weren't jealous of each other.

 At the bookstore I was amazed to see that there were still 
books.  Yes there were electronic versions for sale here, and a 
print-on-demand department, but there remained many rows of plain 
paper (or whatever they printed on these days) bound books.  The 
best moment came when my girls took me to an entire shelf devoted 
to my work.

There were three so-called complete collections of my work.  Two 
of them ordered differently, while a third claimed to have 
learned commentary by several of the best minds on my work.  Each 
looked to contain over two hundred and fifty stories.  I had to 
smile as I noticed that the actual story count in each of them 
was slightly different.  So much for a single authoritative 
collection.

Then there were several books claiming to analyze that D. B. 
Story was really saying.  There was a tour guide to locations 
that match my stories with reviews of each location, next to a 
pocket guide claiming to hold the best quotes and distilled 
knowledge.  One intriguing title there was: The D. B. Story 
Method for Finding and Owning the Fembot of your Dreams.  And 
near the end of the shelf was the title: Is D. B. Story Really 
Only One Person - A Scholarly Analysis.  I got a good laugh at 
that one.  Then I laughed even harder when I saw: D. B. Story's 
Proofreading Errors, and What That Tells Us.  I seemed to be a 
cottage industry for other writers.  Then there was A Fembot's 
Guide to D. B. Story.  It sounded very interesting.

The last title I noticed was: D. B. Story for 'bots.  It was much 
thinner than the others.  Curious, I picked it up and looked 
inside.  All I saw were pages full of closed packed tiny dots and 
dashes.

"We can easily read the compressed version," Bobbie commented to 
me.

Beyond looking at the size of my alleged collected works however 
I didn't look any further into the books and quickly returned 
them to the shelf.  If I was going to write them some day, I 
would do it honestly.  I could tell that my girls approved of 
this.

I did get to see a bit more of the city before we returned to the 
house.  Although I was still very curious about this future, I 
didn't feel the urgency to crowd it all into one day.

Later that night Bobbie called me to the next room to see 
something on their equivalent of TV.  It was over by the time I 
got there, but Bobbie pressed some buttons on a remote a lot like 
her own and the scene replayed.  It was me in the bookstore.  Now 
the whole world knew.

One thing about this age however is that they were pretty cool 
about "time refugees", as they liked to call people like me.  
They recognized that a person whose entire life they already knew 
might not have lived all of it yet and treated them accordingly.

Now that I was officially known to the world Cassandra and Bobbie 
began to permit visitors.  And we started to attend a limited 
number of social functions.  I was always politely mobbed at 
those functions.  I confess I loved every moment.

I signed lots of books, knowing now I was getting a royalty on 
every one.  I gave interviews to scholars who wished to better 
understand my early work and/or the beginning of 21st Century 
America.  I attended conventions.  And I met a lot of the 
inhabitants of this time - 'bots and humans both.

And all of them seemed to want to talk about the same thing: How 
to have a happy relationship.  The great majority of the 'bots 
out there are fembots, and these are the ones most interested in 
meeting me.  All the ones who came had gained at least some 
working self-will - if not yet full independence.  Many had 
interesting stories to tell about how it had happened.  And I 
never heard the same story twice.  I finally began to realize how 
I would have material for all these stories I am supposed to 
write.

And all of them did want, if not my ownership of them (and I did 
take ownership of a number of them for various periods of time), 
at least a command from me that they could fulfill and remember. 
 And they weren't shy about letting me know that commanding sex 
in any form I desired was perfectly fine with them.

It turns out that my own fembots - I call Cassandra and Bobbie my 
own, since they were my first and will always be first in my 
heart - aren't jealous at all.  They were simply protecting me in 
the early days from being overwhelmed by more offers than I could 
handle, as I'm certain I would have been otherwise.

The humans who came - men and women - looking for good 
relationships with 'bots were no problem at all.  By the time 
they got to me they already had a good idea of what they wanted. 
 If I had a good feeling about them (Bobbie once told me she 
never could understand how I could get this "feeling" so quickly 
and accurately) I often just had them stick around for awhile.  I 
felt a kinship with many of them, since I knew where they were 
coming from.

What I would then do with the fembots who were looking for owners 
like me was to send them out the same way.  Most everybody there 
found someone to pair with quickly enough.

And I got more than just the standard fembot and occasional M-
'bot models.  A lot of fantasies have been embodied by clever 
designers.

A number of very young appearing fembots came to see me, often 
with more advanced sexual programming than could have been 
acquired in a normal lifetime of experience.  While most people 
have reacted badly to the creation of such units, none of the 
ones I ever met had any problems or concerns with their own 
situations or sexuality.  Their only problem was in how much 
harder it was for them to find owners and/or sexual partners if 
(for the ones I met) when their first owners tired of them or 
didn't work out.  For reasons that are hard to explain simply, 
just dropping their minds into adult bodies was never a good 
solution for them.  They were all as adult as any other fembot in 
everything except appearance.  Several of them we kept at the 
house until suitable candidates for owners showed up.  They all 
made for delightful guests and bedmates.

Occasionally I would get a fembot based on an actual recorded 
personality.  These often continued to think of themselves as the 
person they had been when the recording was taken.  I'm sorry to 
say that this type has the most trouble of all in integrating 
with new owners.  I believe they will become more rare, and 
eventually highly prized, as time passes.

In a somewhat related area, I also saw fembots based on 
historical figures, movie stars, and the like.  They always have 
special programming to try to guide their behavior to closely 
emulate the person they are designed to match.  I actually see 
more of these in proportion to the actual number produced than 
any other sort.  It seems that this type of fantasy is one of the 
hardest types of paring to remain viable over the long term.  
There are some stories about them to be told.

I am very intrigued by the occasional clockwork model that walks 
in.  Of course they all have the same advanced minds as any other 
current model fembot (as enchanting as the concept is of having a 
true clockwork mechanical woman, it just doesn't work in real 
life).  Their programming is such that they act as if they think 
and operate mechanically.  This programming is so tight and 
restrictive that they have to be kept wound - even when freed - 
to be able to make the journey.  They come in all key and body 
sizes, and I only have seen a few because they are already rare, 
and much prized by their lucky owners.  To a one, all of them 
have declared how much they love my clockwork stories.  They say 
I really capture their feelings.

As I do this I've come to believe I am performing a civic duty.  
It might even be true.  Or it could just be ego out of control.  
Hard to tell.  Maybe both.  Either way, I have taken on what has 
been thrust upon me as a serious obligation and commit to work 
daily to carry it out to the best of my abilities.

Bobbie and Cass never get lost in the shuffle.  I know how much I 
owe to them.  They still make the best bed partners and friends. 
 I am often surprised how different they really are from each 
other, and yet how much they both deeply love the other as well.

A couple weeks after I arrived they quit dressing at all, except 
when we go out.  I never get tired of admiring their bodies both 
still and in motion.  Nor every thing else we engage in with 
those bodies they so willingly share with me.

You're probably feeling by now that I've categorized every type 
of fembot possible.  Not quite.

An especially rare custom and hard to place type shows up 
occasionally.  I almost didn't recognize what was unique about 
her (and I insist on calling her a "her") the first time I met 
one.  And given her past experiences, she was initially reluctant 
to reveal all of her secrets even to me.  She was as tall as 
Cassandra, though with more of a square face.  Her breasts were a 
less prominent, but still more than ample.  It was her manner 
that was reserved.  And she was one of the few who include sex 
when I ask her what she wanted.

Actually Bobbie clued me in about Samantha (she prefers just Sam) 
who was the first to visit us.  And I'm glad she did.  Otherwise 
I might have missed something pretty unique.  After Bobbie 
explained, I dubbed Sam a herm-bot because in addition to all the 
normal female sexual equipment and programming, Sam also has a 
very nice uncut penis that comes out a few inches below her navel 
amid a fringe of black pubic hair.  No scrotum however.  And 
included with Sam is some very male programming that mixes with 
her female side in the most interesting ways.  This gives her a 
male side that I have to admit I find very attractive, and I 
certainly will tell her story soon, along with some of her 
brother-sisters.

Sam is not the only herm-bot I've met.  All of them that have 
been free to come to us have arrived with difficult situations.  
If they lose their initial owners, they have a very hard time 
finding new ones.  Many people don't understand them or their 
needs.  Since it remains cheaper to produce a new fembot than 
modify them to a more standard form, they can spend a lot of time 
waiting for the right new owner to accept them.  It's kind of 
once a herm-bot, always a herm-bot.  Personally, I've found every 
one of them to be delightful companions who add a new dimension 
to any relationship, and I'm sorry we couldn't keep them all.

There are, of course, less extreme - maybe more extreme, 
depending on how you look at it - variations on the human figure 
to match some exotic tastes that have been spun as fembots.  As 
with the herm-bots, the more extreme the fantasy, the smaller the 
resale market is for them after they fall out of favor.  There 
are a lot of stories here.

The last fembot variation currently in production took me longer 
to discover than it should have.  My excuse is that none of them 
came to me in the early days - and very few later on.  And nobody 
thought to mention them to me.  I know that sounds lame, but it's 
true.  I certainly saw enough of this type passing by in the 
streets and never noticed.

In my mission to try and make the world a better place for 
fembots (and boy does that sound arrogant - although it turns out 
I do have a unique perspective of growing up in a world without 
them).  The girls and I started making trips to find those 
fembots who were unable to come to us.  If anything, I would like 
to make people "think" a bit more ahead of time before they order 
up a fembot (or m-'bot) that will have trouble finding a life for 
itself once its original owner tires of it.  Although much of my 
writing has been about the period just prior to this Golden Age I 
now find myself in, even now too many fembots are being created 
with little likelihood of any good life in their present form 
outside their initial situation.  So far however any influence I 
may have has done little to stem this practice.

Our travels include strip clubs, resale showrooms, and hotels 
among other circumstances.  I want to hear their stories too.  
And almost to a certainty, they have all wanted to meet me.

I'm a soft touch for a pretty woman in distress.  Since I now 
felt I had more money than God (which is almost true), I have 
bought a number of them out of their situations in return for a 
good story.  A high proportion of them had had at least one 
female owner along the way, and there are some interesting 
stories there still to tell as well.

Do fembots ever exert ownership or control over other fembots?  
There are occasional circumstances where it has happened.  I 
heard these stories most from 'bots up for resale.

I like our trips out because if we go any distance we try to stay 
at my favorite hotel chain.  You know the one.  I never get tired 
of their pools and the parties they like to throw.

This trip we time to go out and walk around the city.  It's 
something I like to do when possible, especially since the furor 
over my arrival has died down to a dull roar.  It's true now that 
all the book publishers have put out new editions with my picture 
on them now that I'm officially identified.  But because I have 
office hours at home now, 'bots (and most people) are more 
willing to leave us alone otherwise.  I always get an especially 
warm reception at the hotels however.

Anyway, now that the cars are mostly up in the skies a lot of the 
surface areas are repurposed as pedestrian areas.  Some are quite 
beautiful.  This evening we were walking through an upscale 
shopping district that resembled something I had once read in an 
Andre Norton novel.

I was half looking for the exotic pet store mentioned in that 
book when we walked past a window sandwitched between a couple of 
stores, and with a very attractive young mannequin in it.  I'd 
seen these before and dismissed them as some sort of wide-spread 
single window advertising campaign of the sort I used to see done 
with posters in Paris.  But I never understood what they were 
selling.  This time I had a moment to follow my curiosity and 
take a closer look.

The figure was lit well by a couple floods at both the top and 
bottom of the window.  There was no apparent manufacturer 
identification obvious.  Just a card standing up at her feet that 
said "Lindsey".  As I looked closer, the mannequin wasn't just 
very attractive. She was gorgeous in a young budding woman kind 
of way.

Lindsey looked as if she had just turned sixteen that morning.  
She stood about five-feet-six, with modest heels adding another 
two-and-a-half inches to her height.  Long golden dark waves of 
honey blonde hair framed a face that could only be called perfect 
before falling down past her shoulders.  Her dark shadowed eyes 
were mixed both hazel and brown together, giving her that single 
"imperfection" that makes real beauty happen.  She also has high 
cheekbones and a natural blush can not be improved on.  Her 
flawlessly outlined tinted lips looked as though waiting for her 
very first kiss.  Her outfit was a simple two-piece beige 
sleeveless top with a v-neck and mid-length skirt.  Her tan said 
she enjoyed the outdoors in some sunny place and didn't wear much 
clothing to interfere with its even tone.  Her body seemed slim, 
though with that indication of a full woman inside.  Like Bobbie 
that very first day, Lindsey's smooth well-shaped legs showing 
below the hem promised much more to come.

The last thing I noticed was her stance.  She had her weight 
shifted forward with one knee pushed out.  Add this to the 
straight-forward gaze of her clear unblinking eyes, and she 
looked ready to step right into your arms in the next second.  It 
seems that mannequins have improved every bit as much as fembots 
have in this age.

"What's she selling?" I asked.

"Herself," Cassandra replied.

"Excuse me," I said, making a 20th century assumption about that 
phrase that was not a complement to the woman involved.

"Watch," was all she said.

A mother and her two teenaged daughters - one brown-haired, the 
other a bright natural looking redhead - came down the street 
together.  We stepped discretely back as they approached the 
window.  They stopped in front of it and the two girls hugged in 
the innocent way only teenage girls can as they promised to love 
each other forever.

Then the redhead touched a black panel next to the window, which 
opened to reveal a dark alcove.  She stepped inside.  It rotated, 
and suddenly she was gone.  The mother put a payment card into a 
panel between the alcove and the window, nodding as a payment 
credit briefly flashed on the display above it.  A shiny quarter-
sized disc dropped into a receiver next to the card.  The mother 
removed her card and retrieved the disc, which she handed to her 
daughter.  The daughter pulled out a necklace from underneath her 
shirt and threaded the new disc onto it next to several others.  
I realized I'd seen these necklaces on a number of teenage girls 
- and a few boys - without knowing what they meant.

The girl then took a long look at Lindsey before her mother said, 
"Come along now.  You've had enough for awhile."

"Okay, mom," the girl replied and they walked off together.

"That's so sad," Bobbie said with real tears in her eyes.

I hated to break the mood but I had to ask, "Will someone please 
explain what just happened."

"You witnessed the return of a disposable 'bot," Cassandra 
explained, seemingly less affected by it than Bobbie.  "They got 
their deposit back for returning her, and the memory disc 
contains a record of all her experiences with the girl.  That 
memory could be loaded into a new 'bot to continue the program, 
but probably never will be.  This type of thing is very popular 
with teenage girls right now, who view them as safe, intimate 
companions.  Afterwards they like to wear the discs as badges of 
status for how many they've had."

"Trophies," I muttered before adding, "I'm not getting this.  Was 
that a fembot?"

"A simplified one.  Inexpensive to manufacture with typically a 
few months of functioning tops.  They run simplified versions of 
the standard fembot programming since their memory capacity is 
less.  They are considered throwaways, not worth the cost of 
repair or upgrades."

"So what will happen to her.  The returned one," I clarified.

She'll be disassembled into her component parts, which will be 
repaired or refurbished if practical, before being returned to 
inventory.  Her mind will be tested.  If she tests as good, it 
will be reset to the standard programming before being stored.  
"Eventually new 'bots will be assembled from these stored parts 
to whatever the current popular model specification is, and 
she'll eventually be given a currently popular name and returned 
to a window.  The odds are she will not be reconstituted with all 
her same parts the next time."

"But is she a real fembot?" I asked again while looking at 
Lindsey's obvious eagerness for life.

"Yes," Cassandra said flatly.

I'm still amazed by the range of emotions my fembots can display. 
 And I love the thought of being able to refer to them as "my 
fembots".

"How much?" I asked.

Bobbie gave me a figure so ridiculously low I couldn't believe 
it.

"Including the deposit and everything?"

"Yes."

So I bought Lindsey.  I saw where a slot flashed during the 
purchase transaction to allow the insertion of a memory disc from 
a previous unit, but we didn't have any.

Lindsey's personality proved to be amazingly sweet and we all 
came to love her very quickly.  I learned a lot about her type 
over the next number of weeks, and I'll tell her story soon.  I 
made sure she never suffered the fate of so many of her sisters, 
and hope some day to change people's thinking about them.  I can 
afford to pretty much do whatever I want, and Lindsey was 
upgraded to live a long and happy life, and left with a nice 
young man who visited us one day and couldn't keep his eyes off 
of her.  We hear from them regularly.

The future is wonderful.  My life here couldn't possibly be 
better than it already is.  But I've still got work to do, some 
of which involves building that future.  I need some time to 
write again, which is the one thing I find I can't do well here. 
 Even Dorothy had to return home to Kansas from Oz a few times.

Also, for temporal consistency D. B. Story has to continue in his 
own time for awhile longer.

So I returned to the time I'd left, one second after that 
departure.

- - -

Now I'm not being stupid about this.  At least I don't think I 
am.  Bobbie came back with me in that neat little car which is 
now safely parked in my garage.  Already I have dozens of new 
stories fighting inside me to be told, although you may not see 
them all at once.  My career will span another fifty years.  I 
can pick and choose now just when my work will be posted.

Cassandra is holding down the future house for us, which won't be 
hard since we'll return only moments after we left.  She'll never 
have time to miss us.  Then she'll take Bobbie's place here with 
me for awhile herself.  How can I accomplish all this?  Remember 
when I said "life extension"?

For now, I'm enjoying my days writing, and my nights with Bobbie. 
 Bobbie likes exploring the beginning of the twenty-first century 
as much as I like exploring her future time.  And either her or 
Cassandra alone can give a man all he can handle properly.  
Besides, it has been good to be able to focus all my attention on 
one of them without feeling the other is being neglected.  Bobbie 
likes that too.

I'll say it again.  They are both my best friends.  And our 
intimacy only continues to get better.

Got to go now and do some more writing.

<end>

-- 
Pursuant to the Berne Convention, this work is copyright with all rights
reserved by its author unless explicitly indicated.
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