Peter Caffrey

Owning Emily

I arrived at around 3am. I wanted to be first in the queue but had been beaten to it. Occupying the prime position was a tatty old sleeping bag, topped with a woollen bobble hat bearing multiple primary-coloured stripes. Somewhere inside was a man; a man with foresight, as he was slumped in a fold-up picnic chair. A chair; I hadn’t thought about bringing one with me. That meant I would be standing for six hours, if not more.

I said hello to Man Number 1 as I took my place behind him, but he didn’t reply. I wasn’t sure if he nodded an acknowledgement or twitched due to the shock of being addressed. Either way, it was clear he wouldn’t be good company for the long wait that lay ahead.

As the sun sneaked above the rooftops, more people arrived: all men and all alone. The shipment would be limited to 25 models, according to the rumours, but there were already over a hundred people in the queue. The numbers swelled as the store’s opening time approached. Maybe they were just hoping to get lucky.

Activity inside the shop caused Man Number 1 to shed his hat, climb from the sleeping bag and fold his chair. It would soon be the start of the business day.

‘Which model are you after?’ I asked Man Number 1. He didn’t reply, turning away as if I had somehow broken a code of silence. I didn’t know about the etiquette of such transactions; it was my first time.

‘Which model are you after?’ I asked Man Number 3. ‘Any take your fancy?’

‘I don’t want one for myself,’ he replied, almost too eager to disassociate himself from the impending transaction. ‘Hell; I don’t need a sex robot. Why would I? I’m a real man, I’m all man and the women love me for it. I’m only buying one to sell it on. I hear the ethnic models attract high prices in the Middle East, so that’s where I’ll be flogging it.’

Man Number 3 said nothing else. He wasn’t interested in which model I was after. Had he asked, my answer would have been an anti-climax. I didn’t care which model I ended up with; any of them would do. I wasn’t looking to fulfil a specific fantasy.

The staff brought us into the shop ten at a time. As we entered they gave us a number. We sat on a collection of unmatched chairs, filling in the various questionnaires that the programmers would need to ensure compatibility.

They called Man Number 1 in. My consultation wouldn’t start until he had selected his sex robot, and Man Number 3 would wait until I had made my choice. All the robots were unique; well, that’s what the adverts claimed.

The consultations could be quite a lengthy process. After assessing the purchaser’s personality, the next step was to filter the choices of sex robot by looks. They considered weight, height, ethnicity, age, hair colour, eye colour and a host of other physical attributes. Then there were optional extras: piercings, tattoos, scars, birthmarks and the like. With only 25 models in stock, not every taste could be catered for. It explained why some of the late-comers still queued. The last few purchasers would have little choice and might pass up the opportunity to wait for the next delivery.

Once the purchaser assessment was completed, the next stage was to define the robot’s personality. This part of the consultation considered culture, beliefs, hobbies and a wide range of socio-political data. The manufacturer insisted that every purchaser went through the process. Following widespread criticism in the media, they were trying hard to reduce the sleaze-factor of what was – in truth – a machine men could have sex with.

Once the consultation was complete, the purchaser went into another waiting room. The engineers added any optional extras to the robot and used the information from the consultation to create a personality profile. All the robots had artificial intelligence and deep learning was implemented, so they adapted to the owners’ routines, their likes and dislikes, and any special needs they might have.

After an hour, the representative called me in to the consultation room. On the table was a multi-page questionnaire. Its cover proclaimed it to be the Owner Requirements and Expectations Survey. I told him we wouldn’t need it.

‘Are you sure?’ he asked. ‘I don’t think it’s possible for anyone to know which model they want, not without going through the consultation process. Then there’s her personality; we need to get that right for your relationship to be realistic.’ He made his comment sound like a warning against my haste. Representatives were paid commission on upgrades, so it was in their interests to push the customisation options.

I decided to seize the initiative and keep the transaction as straightforward as possible.

‘I’ve done some research and as I understand it the robots, when new, all fit into general classes regarding looks and personality, and within those classes there is a degree of individuality which can be adapted.’

‘Yes, you’re right; that’s stated in the brochure.’ He seemed put out I wasn’t letting him do the hard-sell on me.

‘Do you know which the most popular classes are – in terms of sales – for looks and personality?’

‘Of course I do,’ he replied, not liking my approach.

‘Okay; do you have a model in stock with looks and personality that fall within the most popular classes?’

He checked the stock sheet and nodded. ‘We have three. If we complete a few sections of the survey I can determine which is best suited to your needs.’

‘Don’t worry about that,’ I said, adding a smile to appear friendly. ‘Just get whichever of the three is nearest the door in the warehouse.’

The representative wasn’t happy that I hadn’t let him indulge in his sales patter. He stressed the need for compatibility, for optimal adjustments to the programming, for tweaks to physical traits to suit my every need. By ‘my every need’, he meant tweaks that would make my sexual experience with the robot dirtier. I let him finish his argument and then repeated he should just get the one closest to the door.

The sex robot I purchased was called Emily. She came in six parts: two legs, two arms, one head and one torso. The package included the tools required to build her. At first, I put her head on backwards for fun, but she wouldn’t power up until I put it back the right way. They were happy for you to screw the robots, but not to screw with them.

She had three operational modes: Girl Friend, Mistress and Filthy. I selected Filthy and dressed her in a leather basque and thigh-length latex boots.

Emily asked if I wanted to fuck her. I said I might, in a while, but before we did the dirty deed would she mind sweeping the leaves off the driveway? She took the broom with a smile and went outside. After some time, I went out and watched her working. In fairness, she made sweeping the driveway look sexy. She spotted me watching, and as she swept she told me how much she wanted to feel my cock inside her. After an hour of sweeping and a long verbal description of what she wanted me to do to her, the driveway looked great.

She asked again if I wanted to fuck. I told her to wait and suggested she pass the time cutting the grass. I watched as she mowed accurate lines into the lawn. Each time she reached the end of a line, close to where I was sitting, she’d say how much she wanted me to ejaculate on her breasts. She said it in coarser language; I had set her to Filthy mode after all.

That night I was in bed, reading, when Emily appeared at the window. The rain bounced off her face, her hair wet, bedraggled and plastered to her head. She balanced on the ladder, her skimpy negligee flapping in the wind. As she cleaned the glass with a squeegee, her lips mouthed a message. The only words I could make out were ‘finger’ and ‘anus’.

After a few days the deep learning had built a database of the clothes I dressed her in and the tasks I asked her to complete. She dressed herself, learned where I kept the tools and understood the jobs that needed doing. She also propositioned me for sex and described her fantasies in the filthiest of terms while she was doing her chores.

In the following days she built me a shed, cut the hedges, painted the living room and even carried out an oil change on my car. Despite her usefulness, Emily was beginning to bore me. A sex robot carrying out everyday tasks in a slutty way had seemed amusing and, to be fair, the first few days were fun. However, her sunshine attitude and legs-akimbo spirit started to grind me down.

One night, after a few drinks, I contemplated having sex with her. Despite her attractiveness, that was something I had no intention of doing. With the amusement factor on the wane, Emily represented a pointless investment.

Man Number 3’s plan of selling on his sex robot came back to me. Emily was, to all intents and purposes, a virgin. She had also amassed several housekeeping and maintenance skills, and while it might take time for her to unlearn those, she had kept her filthy attitude. Emily would be a catch for anyone seeking a nearly new sex robot. In fact, I was proud of her and all her achievements.

Searching the internet revealed a rich vein of potential sex robot purchasers. The unique personalities and low supply volumes of the automatons had kept resale values high. Demand changed according to locations. In the Middle East there was little call for anything but ethnic models, and North American purchasers seemed to prefer sex robots of greater heights. Emily was short, slim and blonde. The demand for such characteristics came from Japan.

Finding a buyer was easy, but as we discussed the transaction via a series of emails, he asked questions that made me feel uneasy. How tight was she? I said I didn’t know; I hadn’t had sex with her. He then asked me to gauge her tightness with my fingers. How big would a penis need to be, in terms of girth, to enjoy a tight fuck? He wanted information about her vagina and anus.

I was appalled. This was Emily. She had her own ways: fixing things and cleaning up and doing so with a slutty indifference that made her charming. The thought of a stranger using her as a sperm receptacle was unacceptable. The transaction was akin to handing over a loved one to sex traffickers. I couldn’t sell her.

I bought Emily a dog costume. It was hairy with floppy ears and a long tail. I taught her to chase cats, fetch sticks, bury bones in the garden and sleep in a basket in the kitchen. I took her out for walks, let her curl up in front of the fire when I was watching TV, and trained her to heel and stay.

She still asks me to fuck her every day, but I guess some characteristics are buried too deep.

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