Fantasy Curves 269 (BBW SF Erotic Romance and Domination) by Ann Vremont
Book: Fantasy Curves 269 (BBW SF Erotic Romance and Domination) by Ann Vremont
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Authors: Ann Vremont
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Riding the elevator down to the blue line platform, I felt a hard pinch to my right butt cheek. Sensing the impertinent male lean in for a second attack, I turned and swatted at his hand.
"It’s just a costume, gramps. They don't even build fantasy units this big!”
Embarrassment flushed my cheeks. Bad enough even pleasure droids don't come in my size, I didn't need every randy drunk out on the street conveniently forgetting that fact so they could cop a feel or otherwise give me a hard time.
"The hell they don't, sweet buns. You don't see 'em because they're always in use!"
He leaned close once more, his breath telling me he had his whiskey goggles on and likely thought I was ten sizes smaller than I am.
Propping one arm against the elevator door, he reached down and rubbed at the geriatric half chub poking at the spandex tights of his pirate outfit. "Wanna walk my plank before you go off-shift, beautiful?"
"Drunk, old and clichéd," I groaned. "Just what I'm looking for."
Mercifully, the elevator doors opened. He started to fall. I pushed him upright then escaped through the doors and onto the platform a second before they closed. Finding myself on an empty platform, I slid behind the nearest column and closed my eyes for a few seconds to regroup.
The evening had been beyond surreal -- even by New York standards for Halloween. I never imagined that going to a friend's party dressed in a Fantasy Unit costume sized Xtra-Fun (as the manufacturer had so politely phrased it), would attract every joker in the city wanting to poke fun at the fat girl wearing pink latex and a vid mask.
The reaction had been so bad I didn't even make it the six blocks from my office building to Tina's party before I gave up, shot her a quick text containing a heartfelt mea culpa and ducked into the nearest metro entrance for the ride home.
Reaching up to the side of my face, I tried again to remove the mask I wore. The particle pins securing it in place tore at my hair, blurring my vision with fresh tears. Unless I wanted to lose a patch of hair, I would have to wear it all the way back to my studio apartment in the Bronx.
I just hoped it really was a ghost train tonight. Wearing the outfit on the street had been bad enough -- trapped on a train with more of the same would be an absolute nightmare.
Glancing up, I made sure I was on the right platform. I had hopped the blue line from Cathedral to 168th every workday for the last three years, but never with a damn Fantasy Unit mask obscuring my vision. I'd be lucky if I didn’t step off the platform and onto the track the way my night was going.
Pulling out my net card, I hit the fast connect to my Endscape account and streamed video of my upper body clad in the face mask and pink latex dress. "Halloween 2169. Epic fail. This is Morgan Macy…over and out.”
Walking toward the far end of the platform, I hit send to broadcast the video to the inner circle of my Endscape profile then slid the card into the costume's only pocket. Stepping close to one of the train monitors, I growled. The sign either said fifteen or eighteen minutes until the next train. Either was too freaking long if the platform started filling up with drunks while I was dressed in the outfit.
Minutes ticked down with no one else around and then the elevator door opened. Dreading a fresh round of males, I started walking further down the platform.
Behind me, a strong, masculine voice called out. "Wait!"
I groaned -- either the guy was another joker or a drunk looking for a fast fuck with an unengaged pleasure droid. Even though I had no intention of stopping, something about the voice, or the way the platform's acoustics familiarized it, slowed my pace.
"Halt FU 269."
FU 269 -- the letters and numbers were emblazoned across my ass in big black print in the exact fashion of a real pleasure droid’s call sign. This wasn’t the first male voice calling out my costume’s unit number -- just the first one I seemed
"It’s just a costume, gramps. They don't even build fantasy units this big!”
Embarrassment flushed my cheeks. Bad enough even pleasure droids don't come in my size, I didn't need every randy drunk out on the street conveniently forgetting that fact so they could cop a feel or otherwise give me a hard time.
"The hell they don't, sweet buns. You don't see 'em because they're always in use!"
He leaned close once more, his breath telling me he had his whiskey goggles on and likely thought I was ten sizes smaller than I am.
Propping one arm against the elevator door, he reached down and rubbed at the geriatric half chub poking at the spandex tights of his pirate outfit. "Wanna walk my plank before you go off-shift, beautiful?"
"Drunk, old and clichéd," I groaned. "Just what I'm looking for."
Mercifully, the elevator doors opened. He started to fall. I pushed him upright then escaped through the doors and onto the platform a second before they closed. Finding myself on an empty platform, I slid behind the nearest column and closed my eyes for a few seconds to regroup.
The evening had been beyond surreal -- even by New York standards for Halloween. I never imagined that going to a friend's party dressed in a Fantasy Unit costume sized Xtra-Fun (as the manufacturer had so politely phrased it), would attract every joker in the city wanting to poke fun at the fat girl wearing pink latex and a vid mask.
The reaction had been so bad I didn't even make it the six blocks from my office building to Tina's party before I gave up, shot her a quick text containing a heartfelt mea culpa and ducked into the nearest metro entrance for the ride home.
Reaching up to the side of my face, I tried again to remove the mask I wore. The particle pins securing it in place tore at my hair, blurring my vision with fresh tears. Unless I wanted to lose a patch of hair, I would have to wear it all the way back to my studio apartment in the Bronx.
I just hoped it really was a ghost train tonight. Wearing the outfit on the street had been bad enough -- trapped on a train with more of the same would be an absolute nightmare.
Glancing up, I made sure I was on the right platform. I had hopped the blue line from Cathedral to 168th every workday for the last three years, but never with a damn Fantasy Unit mask obscuring my vision. I'd be lucky if I didn’t step off the platform and onto the track the way my night was going.
Pulling out my net card, I hit the fast connect to my Endscape account and streamed video of my upper body clad in the face mask and pink latex dress. "Halloween 2169. Epic fail. This is Morgan Macy…over and out.”
Walking toward the far end of the platform, I hit send to broadcast the video to the inner circle of my Endscape profile then slid the card into the costume's only pocket. Stepping close to one of the train monitors, I growled. The sign either said fifteen or eighteen minutes until the next train. Either was too freaking long if the platform started filling up with drunks while I was dressed in the outfit.
Minutes ticked down with no one else around and then the elevator door opened. Dreading a fresh round of males, I started walking further down the platform.
Behind me, a strong, masculine voice called out. "Wait!"
I groaned -- either the guy was another joker or a drunk looking for a fast fuck with an unengaged pleasure droid. Even though I had no intention of stopping, something about the voice, or the way the platform's acoustics familiarized it, slowed my pace.
"Halt FU 269."
FU 269 -- the letters and numbers were emblazoned across my ass in big black print in the exact fashion of a real pleasure droid’s call sign. This wasn’t the first male voice calling out my costume’s unit number -- just the first one I seemed
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