You never know when or how the right fembot will find her way into your life, even when you have intentionally moved away from most of civilization to live a simpler life. When it turns out that she is escaping here as well, and that her motivations dovetail nicely with your own, then magic can happen—but always be prepared for surprises.
Chapter 1—A Wayward Fembot
I live up in the north where the towns are small, the forests, lakes, and open spaces large, where the way of life changes slowly, the people are real, and everyone knows how to mind their own business.
When she stepped out of the forest into my clearing that alone wasn't the greatest surprise in the world. People often sought me out for my work despite my best efforts to keep the world at bay so that I could work in peace, though few had ever looked as good as her. She was tall and not too slim, with an excellent figure that her backwoods shirt and skinny jeans couldn't hide. She had a high security purse over her shoulder. As she got closer I could see that her face, framed by long, loosely curled, brown hair lived up to the rest of her body in terms of spectacular. It was a face that you might have trouble taking out in public if you wished to remain inconspicuous. In fact, the only thing out of place—and a dead giveaway to her nature—were her horribly inappropriate stilettos cladding her otherwise bare feet. I do have to admit to the thought that she did manage them quite well considering the uneven terrain. Without any doubt my unexpected visitor was a fembot—the first one I'd met face-to-face.
Now I know about robots. We're not ignorant about the world out here. I lived in the big city before my decision to leave all that behind, although unaccompanied ones are virtually unheard of. I looked around, but couldn't spot anyone with her. The reason I wasn't surprised by her sudden appearance was that I'm far more in tune with the nature around me than I ever was with the machines of the big city. I'd been very aware of the sudden hush in the forest as she made her way through it, as well as her own sounds as she struggled to overcome the unfamiliar environment.
Now it wasn't that I hadn't had my chance to become acquainted with fembots myself—even unaccompanied ones. Miss Kitty, a fembot herself I'm told, opened a discreet bordello on the edge of the nearby small town a few years ago and staffed it exclusively with other fembots. I've never been there, but it didn't cause any big stir out here for a couple of reasons.
First, because it didn't involve any human women there was no reason to go out and get all moral about it. It wasn't as though there weren't a few other women practicing the sex trade out of their homes already to meet expenses, as if anybody cared.
And secondly, we mind our own business around here. It's our religion as much as anything else. As long as Miss Kitty wasn't causing trouble for anyone else we wouldn't cause any trouble for her. What went on in her two-story Victorian-style pink and white house with the curtains always discreetly drawn tended to stay there and that made it fine with everyone else. Now, however, I was about to meet a fembot of my own up close and personal.
She strode right up to me, stopping only a meter away, and looked across levelly at me. That's one of the two advantages that high-heels give a woman—they equalize her with her taller male counterparts, and I am tall enough. The other advantage is how they extend her leg to its optimal attractive length. And although I couldn't see her leg, those tight jeans left nothing to the imagination except how to get them off of her. But then again, who would build an unattractive fembot?
"Hi," she said, extending her hand. She spoke in a very nice contralto. "I would like to offer you my services."
I didn't take the proffered hand. Out here a handshake is a contract that is used to seal a man's word as his bond. It's not offered, or accepted, lightly. I had no idea just what deal was being offered and had no intention of signaling any assent that I wasn't yet willing to give—especially without knowing the price. The fembot withdrew her hand once it was obvious that I wasn't going to take it and studied me more closely.
Now I've heard that robots these days can know people better than they know themselves. They have excellent sensors and a database developed over decades to understand humans in order to serve them better. And if she were holding my hand she would be more accurate than the best of lie detectors if she had the proper analysis programs to run. None of that, however, bothers me. I simply am what I am, and the better someone else knows me the better we will get along.
"I don't remember advertising for any help lately," I told her easily enough. I wasn't trying to scare her off, she was actually quite easy on the eyes, but when someone comes out of nowhere to suddenly claim a job you haven't offered, one is right to be cautious.
"You did not make any such offer that I am aware of," she said, speaking in the precise diction that all robots use. "I sought you out on my own initiative."
That was interesting—and unexpected—but not helpful. I run a simple, one-man operation out here and a fembot, no matter how appealing, just wasn't in the plan. Plus that left me very suspicious. Although there have long been rumors of robots capable of acting on their own, there have been many more counter-stories calling any such accounts mere wishful thinking based on the exceptionally clever programming in the latest robot models. Besides, why would a lovely fembot seek me out on her own "initiative" even if she could? There was no logical reason for it.
"I don't want, and can't afford, a top-of-the-line robot," I told her, paying her a compliment, as if that would actually matter to her.
"I am not trying to sell myself to you. I am seeking your help in return for what I can offer in recompense for your time and effort."
I don't know just why I even bothered to ask the next question. It would only extend a conversation I already felt was over. I didn't want her, didn't need her, and good robots are still as expensive as good sports cars. But something about her intrigued me enough to inquire, "And just what kind of help do you require?"
"I need a trustworthy person to represent themselves as my current owner in certain circumstances where I will be unable to adequately watch out for myself," she explained unhelpfully. "It will not be difficult for that person to perform this task, but it will be vital to me."
"And in return...?"
"I can offer a variety of personal services that a robot can perform well. Cooking, cleaning, handling business matters, other things..."
She wasn't saying outright the most personal service that even basic model robots perform, but that was good. Not everything needs to be said upfront. She was trying to work a bargain with what she had to offer and I admired that. She had managed to interest me by being not what I expected a robot to be. Interested me enough that I felt personal introductions were now in order.
She added to that interest by adding, "I can see that I appeal to you to some degree already."
That was true, and I've always admired direct honesty.
As to her offer to me, barter is how a lot of what we do gets accomplished around here. Money gets taxed, while barter gets things done. If every robot in the world was like her than maybe I'd been missing out on something worthwhile being so far out here on my own, but I doubted that. Life out here has attractions you just can't find anywhere else.
My gut feeling was that this fembot was very atypical for her breed and now I was curious. In fact, she seemed to know exactly how to incite my curiosity enough to keep me talking, rather than just send her on her way and get back to work.
"I'm Kolb," I said, extending my hand.
"I'm Kara," she replied, taking it firmly, yet in a way that I knew I held a very feminine hand in my own.
"Supergirl," I muttered softly to no one in particular, but not so softly that her keen ears didn't catch it.
"Kara Zor-El," I replied, wondering if she'd get the full reference.
"Super-powered orphan girl from the planet Krypton," she finally replied.
"I think it fits you," I said, more insightfully than I realized at that moment.
"It was also my first password," she said musingly, as if seeing that connection for the first time.
Of course a robot has to know its own passwords. How else would it know when to respond to them?
* * * *
Our conversation might have continued in its pleasant vein, but suddenly she seemed to stagger for a moment. I didn't know if she had a problem, or had just lost her footing in the moist soil we have this time of year. A moment later it happened again.
"Darn!" she exclaimed, in a most unladylike tone that endeared me to her more than anything she had said so far.
"I had hoped this would not happen so soon. It is the temperature and moisture up here that must have thrown my calculations off."
"I don't understand?"
"I need some privacy—quickly!"
There isn't much privacy inside my cabin. It's large, but an open layout, which is fine when you live by yourself. But its thick log walls give complete privacy against the outside world, which seemed to be what the fembot was most concerned about at the moment.
Once inside she quickly removed her shirt, and a moment later the concealing bra underneath it, revealing a beautiful pair of teardrop D-cups with darker, erect nipples. I knew that fembots never had modesty concerns, but it was startling to actually see that happen up close in real life.
My glance at a bra that certainly must have been unnecessary for her elicited the unhelpful comment, "It helps protect me."
Against what? I had to wonder. Looking too good?
Only now when she was bare from the waist up, did she start to turn her back to me in apparent modesty. And then, in such an expressive manner to clearly communicate the thought "What's the point of it now?", not turn away any further, leaving me to wonder if our robots have already become more human than humans themselves.
Her bag, which opened at her touch, was one I recognized as fully secure against anyone else's intrusion. It would sound an alarm, report its location, and lock itself tightly, against anyone else. She quickly reached in and, to my surprise, withdrew a white plastic Zerostat pistol of the sort I hadn't seen since I'd finally given up on vinyl records in my youth. It looked like an original model, meaning it was worth a small fortune to a collector now.
The small pistol had a plastic shroud at the muzzle surrounding a sharp needlepoint. The sharp point is necessary for the ion charge to be sprayed from, and it can give you quite a shock when placed against bare skin and the trigger pulled.
To my astonishment, she took it and fitted it over her right nipple, clearly driving the needlepoint down through the middle. Then closing her eyes and taking a very human-like deep breath, she slowly squeezed the trigger.