Message-ID: <46361asstr$1074913803@assm.asstr-mirror.org> Return-Path: X-Original-Message-ID: <01f201c3e221$2ff9bd00$c701a8c0@orovly01.az.comcast.net> From: "DB_Story" MIME-Version: 1.0 Content-Transfer-Encoding: 7bit X-Priority: 3 X-MSMail-Priority: Normal X-MimeOLE: Produced By Microsoft MimeOLE V6.00.2800.1165 X-ASSTR-Original-Date: Fri, 23 Jan 2004 19:24:22 -0700 Subject: {ASSM} revised: The Rescue of DB_Story {DB_Story} (M/Fembot+, true, rom, ScFi, asfr) Lines: 1461 Date: Fri, 23 Jan 2004 22:10:03 -0500 Path: assm.asstr-mirror.org!not-for-mail Approved: Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories.moderated,alt.sex.stories Followup-To: alt.sex.stories.d X-Archived-At: X-Moderator-Contact: ASSTR ASSM moderation X-Story-Submission: X-Moderator-ID: hecate, hoisingr 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. -- Pursuant to the Berne Convention, this work is copyright with all rights reserved by its author unless explicitly indicated. +---------------------------------------------------------------------------+ | alt.sex.stories.moderated ------ send stories to: | | FAQ: Moderators: | +---------------------------------------------------------------------------+ |ASSM Archive at Hosted by | |Discuss this story and others in alt.sex.stories.d; look for subject {ASSD}| +---------------------------------------------------------------------------+