Owning Emily

Owning Emily was originally published by Horror Sleaze Trash

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 the bundle 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 One as I took my place behind him, but he didn’t reply. I wasn’t sure if he’d nodded an acknowledgement or just 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. If there was a queuing etiquette for this sort of thing, it was obvious I’d already breached it.

As the sun sneaked above the rooftops, more people arrived and joined the line: all were men, and all were alone. It was obvious this was a solitary pursuit. The shipment we awaited would be limited to 25 models, according to the rumours, but there were already over one hundred people in the queue. The numbers continued to swell as the store’s opening time approached. No one left, despite demand outstripping supply.

The majority of those waiting were going to be disappointed, but they remained in the queue. Maybe they were just hoping to get lucky.

Activity inside the shop caused Man Number One to shed his hat, climb from the sleeping bag and fold his chair. It would soon be the start of the business day and he knew he had the first choice in terms of the available products.

‘Which model are you after?’ I asked Man Number One. He didn’t reply, turning away as if I had somehow broken a fundamental rule by speaking to him. If there was a code of silence, I knew nothing about it. I had no experience of the forthcoming transaction; it was my first time.

‘Which model are you after?’ I asked Man Number Three, an overweight and miserable looking fellow. ‘Any in particular 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. Jesus H Christ, what sort of a man resorts to fucking a machine? All I want to do is sell mine on and make a few thousand in clear profit.’

Man Number Three said nothing else. He wasn’t interested in which model I was after. Had he asked, my answer would have been something of 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 fantasy.

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

They called in Man Number One. My consultation wouldn’t start until he had selected his sex robot, and Man Number Three would have to wait until I’d made my choice. All the robots were unique; well, that’s what the adverts claimed, and to try and give credence to the story, the process was overly protracted. Every customer was asked to undergo a detailed consultation with an advisor, and they really didn’t like it if you tried to evade the time-consuming process.

The first step involved assessing the purchaser’s personality: likes and dislikes, sexual kinks, desires and any other information they could use to sell additional extras. The name of the game was upselling.

The next step was to filter the choices of sex robot based on the customer profile data, resulting in a perfect match. The advisors considered a range of criteria such as weight, height, ethnicity, age, hair colour, eye colour and a host of other physical attributes. Then they would move on to the 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 less choice and might prefer to pass up the opportunity in order 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 – nothing more than men buying machines they could have sex with.

Once the consultation was complete, the purchaser was sent into another waiting room. As they sipped coffee and watched soft porn movies on giant screens, the engineers added any optional extras to the robots and used the information from the consultation to create a personality profile. All the robots had artificial intelligence and deep learning, so they adapted to the owners’ routines and any special needs they might have. By special needs, they meant oddities and perversions.

After an hour of waiting, the representative called me in to the consultation room. Man Number One had made his choice and was now in the more luxurious waiting room while the final customisations were completed.
As I sat down, the salesman placed a multi-page questionnaire on the table. 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 you to know which model you want, not without going through the consultation process.’

‘I like surprises,’ I said. ‘After all, when I date women, real women that is, I don’t ask if we can compare data before asking them out.’

‘This is different,’ he said, his voice smarmy and condescending. ‘You are buying a unique companion, and it’s important we help you get it right. Her looks are totally customisable, as is her personality. We need to get that right for your relationship to be realistic. You wouldn’t want to spend your money and then find you’ve missed something important, something which might impact adversely on your maximum pleasure.’

He made his comments sound like a warning against my haste. I knew the representatives were paid commission on upgrades, so it was in his interest to push the customisation options. If I didn’t complete the survey, his chances of upselling were minimal.

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

‘I’ve done some research. As I understand it, the robots all fit into general classes regarding looks and personality when they’re new. Your job is to select a robot for me from within those classes, and from that starting point there’s a degree of individuality which can be adapted. Am I right?’

‘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 are the most popular classes – 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 the latest shipment which has looks and personality which fall within the most popular class?’

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, giving him a smile to ensure I appeared friendly. ‘Just get whichever of the three is nearest the door in the warehouse.’

The representative wasn’t happy 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, along with a guide that used photographs to cover the assembly process. All the parts were colour-coded to make things simple.

At first, I put Emily’s head on backwards fora laugh, but she wouldn’t power up until I put it back the right way. They were happy for you to fuck the robots, but not to fuck 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 and, with a dirty smile and a lick of her luscious lips, 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 put a wiggle into her work. 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, in the dirtiest of details, the driveway looked great.

She asked again if I wanted to fuck her. I told her I would, soon, and suggested she passed the time until I was ready by cutting the grass. I brought a chair into the garden and watched as she mowed accurate lines up and down 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 much 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 engine had built a database of the clothes I’d dressed her in and the tasks I’d asked her to complete. She dressed herself, learned where I kept the tools and understood the jobs that needed doing around the house. 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 ceiling and even carried out an oil change on my car. She spent one afternoon cleaning out the gutters. She asked me to hold the ladder, and then took every opportunity to tell me she wasn’t wearing any knickers.

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 a lot of 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, a purchase made on a whim which now seemed to be a lapse of judgement, a mistake.

Man Number Three’s plan of selling on his sex robot came back to me. Emily was, to all intents and purposes, a virgin robot. She had also amassed several housekeeping and maintenance skills. Even if someone didn’t want a robot to help with the chores, the deep learning would allow her to unlearn those skills. Throughout it all, she had kept her filthy attitude. Emily would be a catch for anyone seeking a nearly new but unfucked sex robot. In truth, I was proud of her and all her achievements.

Searching the internet revealed a rich vein of potential second-hand 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 above average height. 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 both 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 which made her charming. The thought of a stranger using her as nothing more than 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.


If you have enjoyed this story and want to read more tales involving sex robots, then take a look at Whores Versus Sex Robots (and Other Sordid Tales of Erotic Automatons).

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