Press 1 for the "standard model."

"Thank you," the telephone says, "your order has been placed. Expect delivery within twenty-four hours. Your customer reference number is ..."

You grab a pen just in time to jot down the twelve-digit number, and then the voice response system hangs up, leaving you listening to a dial tone. You hang onto the phone a moment, wondering if you've made a mistake. Are these fembots really reliable? Is is even reasonable to assume that they're going to be able to ship you a demon succubus fembot within 24 hours?

Still, alea iacta est, and there's nothing to do but wait. You hang up the phone and get on with your life.

Night comes, and a storm comes with it. The dark sky is soon filled with clouds and thunder. You sit on the couch and watch television, while the occasional stroke of lightning flashes in your windows.

One lightning bolt crashes down at the same time that a furniture-shaking BOOM rocks your house -- and the lights go out.

You blink, and wait a moment while your racing heart slows down. After a few moments, the lights still haven't come on. It's probably time to find a flashlight. You get off the couch and creep through the house, navigating by memory and by the intermittent light of the storm. Meanwhile, the sound of thunder and rain surrounds your house, drowning out the sounds of your own footsteps, drowning out every other sound except ...

Was that a woman laughing?

Halfway down the hall to your bedroom, something hits you, grabs you, and slams you back against the wall. You cry out in surprise just before all the wind is knocked out of your lungs. You instinctively struggle, but your arms are pinned to the wall. Something has you with a grip as strong as steel.

Another flash of lightning illuminates the hall, and you see your captor. You see a woman, with long green hair, with small bat wings outstretched from the sides of her head, and with a look of unescapeable hunger in her eyes.

The lightning fades, but there's no doubt that she's still there. Her body is pressed up against yours, and you feel the swell of her breasts against your chest, her hips against your own hips. The smell of her is like wine, dark, intoxicating.

"Silly boy," Morrigan Aensland whispers in your ear, close enough that you can feel the brush of her lips. "You should really be careful what you wish for."

It's your fembot (isn't it?) and it seems that yes, they can make a pretty convincing demon succubus. But how did she get in the house? "Wait," you say, "you're supposed to ... shouldn't there be a control manual? Or something?"

You hear her laughter this time, close and in person, musical and menacing. "You think YOU'RE in control? You sweet, sweet thing. Let me SHOW you which one of us is in control."