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Message-ID: <46361asstr$1074913803@assm.asstr-mirror.org>
From: "DB_Story" <DB_Story@att.net>
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Subject: {ASSM} revised: The Rescue of DB_Story {DB_Story} (M/Fembot+, true, rom, ScFi, asfr)
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Date: Fri, 23 Jan 2004 22:10:03 -0500
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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 2002-2004 by DB.
ASSM/ASFR (M/Fembot+, true, 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 Sternberg 
(http://www.drizzle.com/~elf/) had posted anything new on his 
latest AI (what I generally call robot) storyline.  Although he 
recently, publicly referred to my writing as "abusively shallow", 
he also admits that it has affected him enough to provoke him 
into writing stores in response, so a lot of good has come from 
this in unexpected ways.  Besides, having Elf as a critic is an 
honor to anyone who realizes that your worth as a writer can be 
measured by the quality of critics it attracts.

Anyway, it was keeping me busy while waiting for my own latest 
story to come back from my proofreader.  I e-mailed it to him 
only a couple hours ago, so it was completely unreasonable for me 
to expect any reply in less than another day at best.  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 very 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 right down the last period.  And it says 
exactly what I wanted to say.  Fortunately I know now not to post 
that mess.

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 vital later this next morning that I've already 
infringed into.

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

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

I also try to catch all my tense problems.  My problem with 
tenses is that I know my story before I sit down to write it.  As 
such, when I do type it in, to me it is all now in the past and 
gets told as past tense, even when it is intended otherwise.  I 
spend a lot of time afterwards correcting the story back to the 
real-time way it actually happened.  And I always seem to miss a 
few, though I don't see them at the time.

So when my copy is perfect, 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 for me to deal with.

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, 
and wash the horrible Microsoft Word html conversion through 
DreamWeaver to clear out the worst excesses).  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 - hou 
about homage - of another author's work).  Add it to the sites 
hosting my work and update relevant contents pages.  Finally sit 
back and monitor Usenet and e-mail for any comments - while 
starting the process all over again for my 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 don't 
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 giant 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 stunning women I have ever 
met in person.  I believe the one standing in front said 
something to me soon after I opened the door, 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 still did 
look straight across at me with clear, unblinking lovely blue 
eyes. They both looked to be in their mid-20's, being at that 
point where they have fully grown into their beauty and clear 
complexions.  And both of them have 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.

After 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 readers form their own images.  My fantasy may not be 
yours.  But properly done make-up adds a lot, and a sexy face 
makes a sexy woman.  The difficulty here is in the phrase 
"properly done".  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.  Tammy Faye could learn a lot from 
them.

As lovely as their faces are (supermodels, both of them, my mind 
has 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 is 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 by the hundreds to fill 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 wore low heels - an inch and 
a half at best.  And they didn't hide their feet.  A thin strap 
across the toes and another around the thinnest ankles I've ever 
seen managed to hold these shoes on their bare elegant feet.  And 
the tan I noticed on their faces and hands carries evenly right 
down to their perfectly manicured toes, with the blonde being a 
rich golden shade, while her brunette friend comes in 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 encased her legs in dark brown slacks of some 
exceptionally soft looking material that somehow still maintained 
a crisp crease.  Above a dividing dark belt to match her hair, 
was a very loose blouse was a bold abstract of autumn colors up 
to her open neckline.

I got a bit more of a glimpse of the blonde, who wore a pleated 
skirt short enough to just graze her knees.  The rest of her was 
held up by smooth exposed legs tapering down to shoes to match 
her eyes.  The leg she did show made erotic promises that would 
be hard to keep about what she kept hidden underneath the skirt. 
 Her blouse is also silky and loose over her apparently abundant 
chest.  It made overtures to the pleasures to be found beneath it 
in colors of bright yellows and pale blues to match her hair and 
eyes.

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

Seconds had passed, though 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 dealings with 
them beyond repair.  I'd handled this horribly.  All I can say in 
my defense is that I was never prepared to have this happen to 
me.  Who would be?

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

Fine.  Obviously this is a lucid dream.  And a damn fine one too. 
 These are the best kind of dream to have, until the one in front 
spoke again.

"Are you D. B. Story?" she asked in an arousing contralto; the 
kind that sends shivers up your spine.  And she did not sound at 
all insulted 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 I give away because nobody will actually pay me for it.  
And it's the kind of stuff one doesn't admit to writing in polite 
company - or to your friends, if you don't know any polite 
company.  Like any writer, you want 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 
have 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 actually mean 
anything.  It's rather like Sinfeld's show about nothing.  In 
fact, it wasn't even supposed to be DB_Story.  That was a 
frustrating typo.

It was supposed to be DBA_Story, as in: Doing Business As Mr. 
Story.  But my stupid ISP refused to register that as an alias 
properly.  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 
in rather than fight the machines any further 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 the 
name afterwards because of an increasing number of links to my 
few pages.

But I've 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 that I'm him.

Fortunately for once I'm thinking fast enough to realize if I do 
deny it, they may 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 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're 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 what I'd been viewing than 
just praying for the screen saver to kick in.

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 may call me Bobbie if you wish."  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 compliment (see what all this PC garbage about "sexual 
harassment" has turned the American male into?) when both of them 
simultaneously reached into their small, ultra-fashionable 
handbags and pulled out small television remotes which they held 
out to me.

"Take ownership 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 rough 
halt due to an immense causality fault.

- - -

Time stops running when the Universe is halted.  It waits for God 
to press the reboot button.

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, and have at least some 
semblances to reality), 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, so 
I took them.  I noticed each had the woman's given name inscribed 
at the top, with a long number underneath it.  And below that - 
almost exactly as described in my stories - were three large 
colored buttons marked ACTIVATE, MOTION, and COMMAND/RECALL, with 
ACTIVATE and MOTION half-sized and next to each other in addition 
to being recessed to make them harder to press by mistake.  (A 
nice touch I'd need to add to my next story.)  COMMAND was 
underneath them and full width.  Couldn't miss it.  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 them labeled for any stereo equipment 
I had yet seen.  And they looked factory made; not just mocked up 
for this charade.

Some time must have passed unnoticed as I inspected what I was 
holding because, "How may we serve you?" they asked again sweetly 
in unison.  Someone has clearly picked them for their voices 
together, in addition to their looks.

I knew what I wanted, and was pretty damn certain I wasn't going 
to get that.  I'm sure this joke comes with built-in limits that 
won't stretch that far.  So I stopped myself from asking for 
anything that I knew they wouldn't do to stop this from ending 
too quickly.  Play along with it and enjoy the moment.

Another part of me, however, didn't like the deception.  I'm 
stubborn that way, and it has cost me significantly more than 
twice in my life.  It's a character flaw that I would probably be 
better without under most circumstances.  So I decided to try 
something that they actually might go along with while they were 
still playing their charade.

"Wait here," I said, dashing 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 nobody believes me about me afterwards - or when I don't 
believe 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 standing 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.  Works almost every time.

"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're as attractive as they really are.  Others may have been 
chased by so many photographers for so long that 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 giggled a bit 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 hidden out of sight back in my bedroom 
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?"  Much later on I'd wonder 
why I refused them for so long.

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 ignorant mistakes and messing up great 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 now having lived it finally, I know for myself how long 
it can take to really believe and accept what is happening right 
in front of you.  Suspension of disbelief is much harder in 
actual reality, if that's where I am right now.  The strongest 
male drive nature gives us I'm certain is the overreaching desire 
to not be a fool.  We deny the obvious, rather than risk being 
shown gullible for accepting it.  We look for curtains with bald 
men hiding behind them, even when there's not a drapery in the 
room.  Shout a thousand times, "I know you're here somewhere.  
Now why don't you come out?" when we know for certain we're 
alone.  I've since 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, well at least I have my pictures.

"Take off your tops," I timidly said to them with my fingers 
crossed and heart racing.

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 pocket when I'd gone to get 
my camera.

Pulling them out I aimed one with each hand (which I later found 
out wasn't necessary at all), pushed the obvious button, 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 
happy smiles on their faces, as if what they had just done made 
them even happier than I was at that moment.

Wow!

Neither woman was wearing a bra although both had quite large 
breasts with full-size, well-placed nipples.  The smooth even tan 
I'd extrapolated for them was true.  It ran down both their 
bodies without even a hint of a tan line at their breasts.  There 
were no other marks either to indicate that either one of them 
had ever worn anything tight-fitting.  That was excellent, since 
their skin was far too lovely to allow to be marred.  I shifted 
my position slightly to get a better look at Bobbie, who remained 
slightly obscured by Cassandra.  Both women's breasts looked 
soft, yet fully supported.  Exactly the way I'd always hoped to 
find them.

After a moment of letting me get the look I wanted, 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 piled on their 
chests.  Then they posed very nicely together for me to gaze on 
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.  Godamnit 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.  "Part of our 
function is to be appealing."

"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.  Somewhere I still felt 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 are 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 
for more than a couple moments, 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 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, 
which obstructed nothing significant.  They looked born - 
manufactured - to wear heels gracefully.

What can I say?  They both have the perfect bodies you only see 
on tall mannequins in the most upscale stores.  Endless smooth 
tanned legs to accompany all they had already shown me.  Legs 
that didn't need stilted heels to show off their shape.  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 
finally allowing my self to do.

"Who are you?" I finally asked.

"You already know who - and what - we are," Cassandra replied, 
holding on to her thousand watt 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 did the same for 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 feel even better than they look.

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 continues.  That, it turns out, will be a very long time 
indeed.

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

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

"Well," Cassandra replied, a bit puzzled and actually concerned 
that I might not believe them to be true fembots.  (I would have 
expected the opposite to be true.)  "We don't have the tools with 
us 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 under 
water until you are satisfied that I don't need to breathe," 
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 you both are, and still be interested 
in me."

They both actually blushed - a truly amazing demonstration of the 
technology at work here - at that compliment 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 
virtually every fembot believes they only have average looks and 
therefore treasure every compliment.  It is one of their most 
endearing features.

"Now that you're our owner and master," Bobbie informed me, 
"Would you like to engage in 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 sane man she wanted.

"I would be more fun if we took him back to our place," Cassandra 
commented with a secretive grin that I would learn a lot about in 
the future to come.

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

"Of course, Master," they both chimed together, sounding an awful 
like a particular television Jeannie I'd long wished to know on a 
personal level.

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.

Despite its small size it easily accommodated the three of us 
with an unusual configuration of a centered driver's seat in 
front and wider backseat for two.  Cassandra drove with what 
seemed more like the pilots yoke on a small aircraft instead of a 
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 
noisily down one slope and windows looking out of 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 where a huge circular bed awaited 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 
needed to know.)

Working together they had me out of my clothes just as quickly.  
What followed was a lot of rubbing together of each other's 
bodies and feeling over every part of each other until each of 
them took their turn taking my most sensitive part inside of them 
for climaxes.  I managed an inspired performance that day that I 
wonder if I'll ever match again.  In the afterglow that followed, 
this all felt like a place I had always known, but only now 
returned to.  We lay there intertwined with each other and not 
speaking further until I finally drifted off to sleep.  A heck of 
a day that was dozens of years long.

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 with her holding tightly to 
me.  I spend a long time trying not to disturb this arrangement, 
until nature's calling 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 - 
and a bit more sex - that the story finally started getting told.

- - -

Our future has two things going for it that make it worth 
surviving your way into: fembots, and time travel.

There's a lot of other neat stuff too: abundant 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.

A couple things however especially surprised me, and deserve 
special mention.

The telephone network finally got smart.  After all, if you can 
build a fembot, why not a better telephone.  Gone are dials and 
buttons and calling 411 for information.  Now you just pick up 
any phone and tell it what you want.  It never fails.

The other thing is the mundane direction sign.  Somewhere in the 
years I skipped someone decide to quit basing them on an ancient 
weapon of war.  The direction arrow of the future consists of a 
circle or spot that indicates where you are now, and a line 
pointing off in the direction you need to go.  The magnitude of 
the line usually indicates the distance in a logarithmic fashion 
relative to the diameter of the circle.  It is not nearly as 
complicated as that sounds.  In complex locations it becomes a 
three-dimensional sphere for current location and rods - often 
many - labeled and pointing out the way.  Intuitively it is the 
simplest thing master once you've gotten over the hump of 
realizing that these are actually direction signs to start with. 
 Sometimes it's the small stuff that really makes you feel the 
differences.

And by the way, the USA has yet to go metric.

We spent most of that first day just talking about the 
differences between then and now, without any mention of why I 
was here or how I'd fit in.  There was so much to hear that I 
just sat back and listened.  We ate dinner outside on one of the 
cantilevered decks with a westward view (yes we, the girls are 
quite comfortable consuming 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.  And there are people simply 
destined to keep archives of the entire net, which turns out to 
be to my extreme benefit as I will explain shortly.

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 for mass production, 
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 all built further on."

"You assembled the pieces correctly," Bobbie said with a smile as 
she kissed my neck.  "That's why you are seventh 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, and cried until laughter was the only 
option left.  Cassandra and Bobbie looked at me 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 I eventually got it out of my 
system and 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 ever truly recognized until after they die. 
 Artists whose work is priceless died poor.  Writers who lived on 
the edge of poverty never lived to see movies of their work make 
millions for others.  We've written stories and made movies about 
people faking their own deaths just 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.  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're telling me I'm the seventh best selling 
author of all time."

"It's true," Bobbie said, still holding me tightly against her.  
"Every fembot reads you as soon as she achieves independent 
thought.  You always have happy endings for us.  Your fembots 
manage to find owners who value them for what they really are.  
Pretty much any human planning to own one of us reads you too, 
then hopes to find as good a match as all your characters do.  
Some humans who say they never considered partnering with 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 deal with a fembot convinced people how safe this can 
be for both parties."

"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 futilely.  "There's only one Highway 
story."

"For now," came the reply.  "And certain special 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 on your 
work," 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 
a while either.

"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've taken possession of 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 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, and 
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 very, very restricted, area they told 
me) and came back to hunt me down.  My casual obfuscations to 
protect my privacy easily fell to rubble before their analytic 
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 it couldn't have been my story she remembered, 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 brief moment here from my narrative to mention 
Larry Niven - for a couple of reasons.  I've met Larry a few 
times (I'm sure I remember them better than he does) at 
conventions and admire his writing a lot.  Reportedly he and Elf 
don't get along although Larry has said that it was his lawyer 
who wrote the letter and Larry hadn't even read Elf's story until 
much later.  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 has 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 several hundred 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 and good independent thinking 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.  For the 
last couple of days. Cass and Bobbie had been fending off almost 
continual requests to see me, or at least talk to me.  Certainly 
not something I'd ever imagined happening.  Fame is mostly 
desired until you actually have it, after which you spend most of 
your efforts trying to preserve your privacy.  I was willing to 
give it 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 verify that I was real.  My thought was they must 
have recognized Cassandra or Bobbie and made the connection.  
Some were obviously fembots - or even M-'bots - because they were 
the ones 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 were never jealous of each other.

- - -

 At the bookstore I was amazed to see that there were still 
books.  Yes there are electronic versions for sale here, and a 
print-on-demand department, but there remain many rows of plain 
paper (or whatever they print 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 arranged 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 
differed.  So much for a single, authoritative collection.

Then there were several books claiming to analyze what D. B. 
Story was really saying.  There was a tour guide to locations 
that match my stories, with reviews of each location, sitting 
next to a pocket guide claiming to hold the best quotes and 
distilled knowledge of my work.  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.  That one 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, 
dashes, and spaces.

"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, now that I 
felt I have many more to come.

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 showed me in the bookstore.  
Now the whole world knew.

- - -

One thing about this age is that they are pretty cool about "Time 
Refugees", as they like to call people like me.  They recognize 
that a person whose entire life they already know may not have 
lived all of it yet, and treat 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 that I was now getting a royalty 
on every one.  I gave interviews to scholars who wished to better 
understand my early work and/or the beginnings of 21st Century 
America.  I attended conventions.  And I met a lot of the 
inhabitants of this time - 'bots and humans both.

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 have 
take ownership of a number of them for various periods of time 
since), at least a command from me that they could fulfill and 
remember.  And they weren't shy about letting me know that 
commanding sex from them 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 a while.  
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 door.  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 adult owners and/or sexual 
partners if (for the ones I met) when their first owners tired of 
them or just didn't work out.  For reasons that are hard to 
explain simply, just dropping their minds into adult bodies has 
never been a good solution for them.  They already were 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 and 
implanted personality.  These often continue 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, sex symbols, 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'm 
actually visited by 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 pairing to remain viable 
over the long term.  There are some stories about them to be 
told.  They also gravitate towards me because I'm one of the few 
people alive here who has lived through the times of the person 
they resemble.

I am very intrigued by the occasional clockwork model that walks 
in.  Of course they 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 highly 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 meet all these 'bots and people 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 them.  They still make the best bed partners and friends.  I 
am often surprised how different they really are from each other 
once you get to know them, and yet how much they both deeply love 
each 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 visit 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.

A new variation just being introduced is a variation on the herm-
bot, the bi-gendered 'bot.  Unlike a herm-bot, a bi-bot can 
conceal her male sexual equipment and appear identical to a 
standard fembot.  Then on her owner's command - or on her own 
wishes for an independent 'bot - she can bring out new options 
for sex play.  I believe the idea is that economies of scale can 
be achieved through a single design that can fulfill more roles. 
 It makes a great amount of sense to me, and I have a lot of 
ideas already for stories about them.

- - -

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 from growing up in a world 
without them that leads me to value them more highly than if 
they'd always been a part of my world.  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 inhabiting, 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 places to find these 'bots.  I want to hear their 
stories too.  And almost to a certainty, they have all wanted to 
meet me and couldn't have made the trip otherwise.

I'm a soft touch for a pretty woman in distress.  Since I now 
feel I have 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 have had at least one 
female owner along the way, and there are some interesting 
stories there 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 especially like these trips 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 fantastic pools, and the parties they 
like to throw.

- - -

This trip we had 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 now died down to a dull roar.  It's true 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 outside of them.  I always get an 
especially warm reception at the hotels however.

Now that the cars are mostly up in the skies a lot of the surface 
areas are repurposed as pedestrian-only areas.  Many are quite 
beautiful.

This evening we were walking through an upscale shopping district 
that resembled something I had once seen described in an Andre 
Norton novel.  I was half looking for the exotic pet store 
mentioned in the book when we walked past a window just wide 
enough to be sandwiched between a couple of stores, with a very 
attractive young mannequin in it.  I'd seen these before and 
dismissed them as some sort of widespread single window 
advertising campaign of the sort I used to see done with posters 
in Paris.  But I never understood just what it is they are 
selling.  This time I had a moment to follow my curiosity and 
take a closer look.

The figure was lit well by floods at both the top and bottom of 
the window.  There was no manufacturer or product 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 a beautiful young woman just now fulfilling 
the promise of puberty.

Lindsey looked as if she had just turned sixteen this morning.  
She stood near five-feet-six, with modest heels adding another 
couple inches to her height.  Long golden waves of honey blonde 
hair fell past a face that could only be called Young Woman 
Perfect and down past her shoulders.  Her dark shadowed eyes were 
duo-colored an unusual hazel and brown together, giving her that 
single "imperfection" that makes real beauty happen.  She also 
showed high cheekbones, and a natural blush can not be improved 
on.  Her flawlessly tinted lips looked as though waiting for 
love's first kiss.  She was dressed in 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 looked slim, 
with high young breasts pressing against that top, and a woman's 
curves at the waist and hips.  Like Bobbie that very first day, 
Lindsey's well-shaped legs showing below the skirt 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 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 is not a compliment to the woman involved.

"Watch," was all she told me.

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 
each other 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 as 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 
tell me what just happened."

"You witnessed the return of a disposable 'bot," Cassandra 
explained, seemingly less affected by it than Bobbie, though her 
voice was shaky too.  "They got their deposit back for returning 
her, and the memory disc contains a record of all her experiences 
with the girl.  That memory can be loaded into a new 'bot of this 
type 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 owned."

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

"A simplified one.  Inexpensive to manufacture with marginal 
components, having 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 has been 
upgraded to live a long and happy life.  She eventually departed 
our house with a nice young man who visited us one day and 
couldn't keep his eyes off of her.  We hear from them regularly, 
although I continue to feel bad about all her sisters who didn't 
get the change she has had.  I hope in some sense her full life 
can somehow apply to all of them.

- - -

The future is wonderful, and my life here couldn't possibly be 
better than it already is.  But I've still got work to do, some 
of which involves helping create this 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 along the way

Also, for temporal consistency, D. B. Story has to continue in 
his own time for a while 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 hidden 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 a while 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 properly handle.  
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.

And I don't miss fembots back here in the past - or is it the 
present - since I always have at least one of my own.  What I 
really miss are those great telephones.

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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