Fantasy Curves 269 (BBW SF Erotic Romance and Domination) by Ann Vremont Page A
Book: Fantasy Curves 269 (BBW SF Erotic Romance and Domination) by Ann Vremont
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Authors: Ann Vremont
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to recognize.
Blood rushed to my face. Perspiration flashed along my skin only to cool and evaporate a second later from the cold subterranean air. I picked up my pace, not wanting to find out if karma really is a bitch and that the voice ordering me to halt belonged to Vance Gemini, one of the spreadsheet jockeys from the investment house Tina works at.
The chance to offer Vance a little good (or ill) natured mocking at Tina’s party had been half the reason I had selected the Fantasy Unit costume. I had been running into him off and on over last twelve months. For a numbers guy, he is really into books -- not just the stories but the physical objects that held them. We talked about our favorite reads, old and new, whenever we bumped into one another.
Funny, smart, seemingly sweet during our conversations and undeniably drop-dead sexy, Vance is next to perfect. I'd say he is perfect, but Tina has complained over and over that he won't date real women with all their "complications." Not that he'd date me anyway -- ever. I'm more real than most women. No visits to the synth farm for me, no five-minute liposuction booth or bone restructuring over lunch to match whatever face is in vogue for the season.
"FU 269, I said halt ." Encased in a purr, the commanding voice twined around my thighs, its effect like the warm, gentle grip of a lover. "Are you malfunctioning?"
I stopped dead in my tracks. After suffering several blocks of lewd catcalls and ruder than usual gestures from the men on the street, Vance was the last person I wanted to see while dressed up like a bloated fuck droid. He was supposed to see me like this at the party, where I would be surrounded by a few friends. The big joke wasn't supposed to be me, alone with him on a platform after I had just run a gauntlet of groping male hands and whistles.
"I want your time, 269." His light growl instantly teased my nipples to hard points.
My shoulders did a little dance, trying to erase the sensitive puckering of flesh while I puzzled over his order. If it was Vance, he should know better than most that there are no big pleasure droids. Hell, there are very few big girls, period. There are pills for that, if one doesn't mind the side effects. There are needles and micro-surgery, too. There are countless measures for people willing to sign on the dotted line and pay every day for the rest of their lives.
People like my mother.
"I said I want your time. Turn around, FU 269."
My jaw tightened as all the many reasons I had to be angry since leaving work finally coalesced inside my body. Vance knew. Not that it was me, necessarily, but that it was some real girl just like me with real feelings. Yet he apparently intended to be like every other jerk out on the street and teach the anonymous fat girl a lesson about masquerading as a pleasure droid.
Fine. He wanted to play -- I could play, too. Before the night was up, Mr. Almost Perfect was going to get a double shot of my opinion straight in the center of his handsome, smirking face.
I brushed a hand against my neck, activating the voice blur on my collar, and then I spun slowly on one heel until I faced him. The costume had come with its own guide on Fantasy Unit etiquette. Droid protocol defaulted to submissive until the would-be client transmitted his preferences. Keeping my gaze on the ground, I answered in a digitalized voice that was soft as silk and nothing like my own.
"Yes?"
He put his finger under my chin and lifted until he looked directly at my masked face. If there had been any doubt, I knew then that karma is, indeed, a bitch. It was Vance, no mistaking any other man for him. At six-foot-three, he would have been tall in any century, but in New York City, where the average male height had decreased by a quarter inch per decade since the turn of the century, he towers over most men.
He definitely towered over me by a solid six inches despite the three-inch heels I wore. I had to look up to see the
Blood rushed to my face. Perspiration flashed along my skin only to cool and evaporate a second later from the cold subterranean air. I picked up my pace, not wanting to find out if karma really is a bitch and that the voice ordering me to halt belonged to Vance Gemini, one of the spreadsheet jockeys from the investment house Tina works at.
The chance to offer Vance a little good (or ill) natured mocking at Tina’s party had been half the reason I had selected the Fantasy Unit costume. I had been running into him off and on over last twelve months. For a numbers guy, he is really into books -- not just the stories but the physical objects that held them. We talked about our favorite reads, old and new, whenever we bumped into one another.
Funny, smart, seemingly sweet during our conversations and undeniably drop-dead sexy, Vance is next to perfect. I'd say he is perfect, but Tina has complained over and over that he won't date real women with all their "complications." Not that he'd date me anyway -- ever. I'm more real than most women. No visits to the synth farm for me, no five-minute liposuction booth or bone restructuring over lunch to match whatever face is in vogue for the season.
"FU 269, I said halt ." Encased in a purr, the commanding voice twined around my thighs, its effect like the warm, gentle grip of a lover. "Are you malfunctioning?"
I stopped dead in my tracks. After suffering several blocks of lewd catcalls and ruder than usual gestures from the men on the street, Vance was the last person I wanted to see while dressed up like a bloated fuck droid. He was supposed to see me like this at the party, where I would be surrounded by a few friends. The big joke wasn't supposed to be me, alone with him on a platform after I had just run a gauntlet of groping male hands and whistles.
"I want your time, 269." His light growl instantly teased my nipples to hard points.
My shoulders did a little dance, trying to erase the sensitive puckering of flesh while I puzzled over his order. If it was Vance, he should know better than most that there are no big pleasure droids. Hell, there are very few big girls, period. There are pills for that, if one doesn't mind the side effects. There are needles and micro-surgery, too. There are countless measures for people willing to sign on the dotted line and pay every day for the rest of their lives.
People like my mother.
"I said I want your time. Turn around, FU 269."
My jaw tightened as all the many reasons I had to be angry since leaving work finally coalesced inside my body. Vance knew. Not that it was me, necessarily, but that it was some real girl just like me with real feelings. Yet he apparently intended to be like every other jerk out on the street and teach the anonymous fat girl a lesson about masquerading as a pleasure droid.
Fine. He wanted to play -- I could play, too. Before the night was up, Mr. Almost Perfect was going to get a double shot of my opinion straight in the center of his handsome, smirking face.
I brushed a hand against my neck, activating the voice blur on my collar, and then I spun slowly on one heel until I faced him. The costume had come with its own guide on Fantasy Unit etiquette. Droid protocol defaulted to submissive until the would-be client transmitted his preferences. Keeping my gaze on the ground, I answered in a digitalized voice that was soft as silk and nothing like my own.
"Yes?"
He put his finger under my chin and lifted until he looked directly at my masked face. If there had been any doubt, I knew then that karma is, indeed, a bitch. It was Vance, no mistaking any other man for him. At six-foot-three, he would have been tall in any century, but in New York City, where the average male height had decreased by a quarter inch per decade since the turn of the century, he towers over most men.
He definitely towered over me by a solid six inches despite the three-inch heels I wore. I had to look up to see the
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