Coming Soon

by Rachel Kramer Bussel

  She shrugged into a short robe and padded back to the living room to turn on the TV. It may always be listening, but to be certain of the seeing part, Truvi checked that the webcam was enabled. Then, turning her back to the screen, she bent over the coffee table, flashing her bare ass and giving it a little wiggle. Hopefully, whoever monitored these things would sit up and take notice. She picked up a sign she’d made—bold black letters on white paper—and taped it to the wall behind the sofa.

  TELL ME, DO YOU LIKE WHAT YOU SEE?

  DewyTruvi at hawtmail dot com

  She’d written it out that way on purpose, thinking that if she got a reply, it would have taken a human to work out the address.

  Everything was set. Now she just had to wait for Roman.

  The clock on the kitchen wall ticked loud in the silence and made her nerves feel jagged-edged. She’d pleasured herself often enough, but alone in the dark, not when someone might see her. And never had she felt so ripe and ready to burst as she did now. As if the smallest touch—a brush of one aching nipple with her thumb, or glide of the tip of her finger following the landing strip right down to the top of her slit—would be all it would take to make her shudder in ecstasy.

  If she didn’t back off a notch, she’d spoil the whole plan, so she made herself a cup of herbal tea and nibbled on a chocolate chip cookie while she sipped. But her knee still bounced, her heart still beat erratically, and she could feel every inch of the inside of her throat, it was so thick with anticipation.

  Finally, a few minutes from the time she’d given Roman, Truvi took her place in the middle of the sofa and activated both the web browser and the camera on the TV. She logged onto her email account, but there was nothing yet, so while she waited, she untied her robe and pushed the satiny material to the sides, then she slouched back.

  When she switched the screen to the webcam view, her heart thumped. Christ, but she made a sight, her feet on the table, her knees spread, her newly bared mound visible for some stranger to gaze at. Potentially.

  A notification popped up in the corner of the screen. This was it. Truvi switched from the camera view to her email, drew a deep breath, and clicked on the link.

  Roman’s image resolved onto the TV, bigger and clearer than when she’d been using her laptop. He stood close enough to his camera to allow her the illusion he was in the room. He looked amiable rather than cocksure. Calm. And so fucking delicious. She ran a finger through the air, traced his shoulder and arm from one muscle to the next, imagined the warmth and sleekness of his skin.

  “Are you there, Truvi?” he asked.

  The question drew her back to reality. “Oh. Hey. Hi. Yes.” She clenched her teeth to stop herself from babbling. “Um, Roman?”

  He bent closer to his camera. “Yes, love?”

  She shivered again at his voice, a cool, mercury trail shimmering down her spine. “This is . . . a first for me. I’m a little, I don’t know. Unsure.”

  “Aw, no, love.” His head tipped at an adorable angle, alluring as Lucifer. “This is about finding pleasure, right? No shame in that.”

  “I’m not used to being . . . seen.”

  “But that’s the beauty. I can hear you—so you can tell me what you want, what you like—but I can’t see you.”

  She glanced at the little eye of the TV’s webcam, where her potential audience would be. “Tell that to the guy eating donuts at the server farm,” she muttered.

  “What?” Roman said with a confused laugh.

  “Nothing. I just . . . need you to talk me through it for a bit, until I get . . . I don’t know. Lost, I guess.”

  “That,” he said, his voice gone rough and suggestive, “I can definitely help with.” He took a sauntering step backward, bringing his hips and thighs into view, along with the sight of him running the base of his palm down the front of his jeans. “Finger your cunt for me, Truvi. Help me get hard.”

  Fuck. Yes, that was it.

  “All right,” she said, and relaxed her legs, letting her knees fall all the way apart. Her fingers danced tentatively over her shaved flesh, the remains of the body oil making them slick.

  He flicked open two buttons on his fly, and the dark tip of his cock came into view. “How do you like your cocks, love? Long enough for a good, slow drag over your clit? Or thick enough to fill you up?”

  Her body flared to full life at the brutish question. Heat and light and a sharp gasp. “I don’t know. Show me more.”

  Roman yanked at his fly, revealing himself one button at a time. Truvi’s spine uncurled and her hips rose, greedy, rocking against the flat of her hand. Roman slipped his fingers into the opening of his jeans, reaching deep, stroking back up. He subjected her to slow torture as he worked the denim apart, revealing his cock in slow increments: crown, shaft, more shaft . . . all the way down to his balls.

  “Oh, god, yes,” she moaned.

  “I assume that means you like what you see.” He ran his fingers and thumb up his shaft. A firm, slow drag over ridges and veins. “Are you wet for me, Truvi?”

  “I’m . . . I’m not touching inside yet,” she said, panting between words. “I want this to last.”

  “Dip a finger into your cunt, love. Tell me.” He ran his fingertips back down. “I need to know.”

  His instruction caused a sheen of sweat to erupt over her skin. She absolutely wasn’t going to make it long at this rate, but she no longer cared. She did as she was told, slid her finger down through her vulva, curled it into her opening. “I’m wet. So wet.”

  Roman uttered a low growl that sounded like yes, and wrapped his long fingers around his cock, dragging back hard like he’d done in the preview she’d seen. Then he did it again, and again, and again, as if he couldn’t stop himself. “I have to sit down, is that okay?”

  “Absolutely.” She watched him through half-lidded eyes, her fingers mirroring his, smoothing up and down, slipping through her ripe flesh. Roman worked his pants to his ankles and spread his legs wide, too, then ran his thumb down the length of his cock, pressing it down hard before he began stroking again. Stroking hard, and harder. Truvi worked her fingers in a hypnotic figure eight—up around her clit, down into the feverish heat inside her—until her juices merged with the oil, and her fingertips slipped and slid across her flesh with growing frenzy. She wanted to feel everything, everywhere, all at once. “I want your cock here, Roman. So bad.”

  “Where, Truvi?”

  “Against me. Inside me.”

  A groan rolled from the speakers, scraping over her as surely as if he were here with her. “And I want your pussy all over my cock, love. I hear you panting and moaning. Wait for me.” He pulled harder, his wrist flexing, adding torque to his movements.

  “Talk to me, Roman.” Truvi pushed two fingers inside herself and worked them in and out, again and again, her thrusts matching his pace.

  “Fuck, I can hear how wet you are, Truvi. Fuck.” His fist rose and fell, each landing with an agonized grunt. “Is that your hand or a toy? Tell me.”

  “Fingers,” she said, her voice thready now.

  “Work your clit, Truvi. I need you to do that. Circle it, nudge it around, I want to hear you gasp.”

  “I am, I—” She pulled back her skin, further exposed the small bundle so she could do what he asked. “Oh, god, yes . . .”

  “Don’t stop the juicy finger-fucking, Truvi. Fuck, do not stop that.”

  Her thumb on her clit, her fingers deep in her cunt, Truvi’s gasps turned to moans, and then sharp cries. Filthy, dirty words. His name. The ways she dared to imagine being fucked by him. All of it.

  “God, there’s a sound a man can’t resist,” he said, his head back, his throat straining. His hand grew furious, blurred. “Come on, baby. Come with me.”

  Truvi pressed in, stroking through the soft depression inside her, behind her clit, while her thumb circled outside. Her ears buzzed as her body twisted higher and tighter, her orgasm barreling down from behind her eyes, racing towar
d her cunt. Groans, his and hers, and—

  “Oh, fuck me!” She came in a fierce, rolling tide of spasms, her ass rising clear of the sofa as her body went rigid. It went on and on, sucking her under. And the animal whine she could hear in the room? It was her.

  Struggling to breathe, she collapsed back in time to watch

  Roman let loose a strangled shout, to see his semen trail out across his belly.

  “Fuck. Me,” Truvi said again, this time in a riveted whisper.

  They sat there together, half a world apart, coming down from the high with heavy breaths. Roman sprawled over the back of his chair like an athlete who’d left everything on the field, and Truvi, boneless on her sofa, a shit-eating grin on her face.

  Eventually, he lifted his head and looked straight into the camera. “Bloody fucking hell, Truvi.”

  She laughed, a quiet, breathy snort. “Is bloody fucking hell good or bad?”

  “It’s bloody fucking brilliant.”

  The sight of him wiping the trail of come across his abdomen with the side of his hand almost did her in again. Her body clenched and clamored, begged for more, but he’d taken his shot, and her time was up. Live time, anyway. She would always have her memory of this, for when she needed it. She traced a finger through her crease, unleashing little zips of unspent voltage.

  “All good?” he asked as he bent to grab the waistband of his jeans. The lazy smile on his face served as a good reminder. This was what he did. It was an act. A service performed for people like her. Lonely people, or awkward people, or people who liked their sex quick and dirty. Or functional and impersonal. Only, it hadn’t felt impersonal to her. Not at all.

  It had been the most sexually intimate experience of her entire life.

  “Very good,” she assured him. “Tell me. You say bloody fucking hell to all the girls and boys, right?”

  He glanced up. “I really don’t.”

  Roman. He looked adorable and serious and she kind of loved him for making the effort. He stood then, giving her a nice, close-up view of his cock, still eye candy even when it was starting to flag.

  “A show-er, are you?” she said to him, hoping he could hear the fond note in her teasing.

  “It’s a good qualification for the job, don’t you think?” he asked, putting himself on garish display for her one last time before he buttoned up.

  Truvi grinned. “Bloody brilliant.”

  His laugh was deep and genuine. “So, you’re definitely all right? Well satisfied?”

  “Perfect, Roman. I’m perfect.”

  “I’m here for you any time, lovely.”

  “I won’t forget.”

  They disconnected, and a moment later, a notification popped up in the corner of the TV screen. An email from an address she didn’t recognize. Truvi’s heart beat triple time. Was it the people in Walla Walla or Kuala Lumpur or wherever the hell? Had they really watched?

  Her finger trembled as she clicked the remote control to open the email. But it wasn’t from voyeurs sitting in a server farm.

  Maybe next time you’ll let me watch, too, it said. I’d really like to. That was bloody fucking hot.

  Her shit-eating grin blossomed again. Who needed a pair of anonymous eyes in Walla Walla when she had Roman? “Maybe,” she said to the empty room. “Just maybe.”

  THE SIZE OF LOVE

  Sally Bend

  Christine groaned as she slid her stocking-clad feet back down from atop the dashboard. She knew it wasn’t safe for them to be up there, but forty-five minutes into an empty stretch of rural road made her brave, and over eight hours into a mysterious drive made her restless.

  As they turned off the dirt road, a flash of headlights revealed the bottom part of a wooden signpost leaning against the remains of a sagging chain-link gate. “Um, I love a good surprise as much as the next girl,” she mused, “but where the hell are we?” The dirt road seemed to go on forever. There was nothing but open fields on either side. In the distance, though, she could just make out a cluster of buildings.

  Rhonda slammed on the brakes so hard the car fishtailed in the dirt. “Why, right here, of course!”

  Christine undid her seatbelt and strained forward until it was her chin on the dash instead of her feet. She turned her head and tilted it up, just barely able to read the sign arching over the roadway. “Putterly Amuzements?”

  Without warning, the car jerked ahead. With a hiss of dirt and gravel, they sped through what appeared to be an empty gravel parking lot, toward buildings that still seemed impossibly far away. It was only as the car came to a stop, the headlights splashing against the backside of a castle wall, that she realized it wasn’t the distance that made the buildings look small but their size.

  They were parked before a miniature medieval-looking village, overgrown with weeds and sagging badly, but still a sight that filled the car with joy.

  The doors unlocked as Rhonda turned off the car. “Shall we, Princess?”

  Christine tugged on her shoes as she tumbled out of the car. She still didn’t know why her girlfriend had brought her here, but she was always eager to explore somewhere secret and abandoned. “It would be an honor, milady.”

  The two lovers walked hand-in-hand through the ruins of a medieval-themed miniature golf course. There were castles and village huts, blacksmith forges, witches’ caves, and the crumbling ruin of what, if you used enough imagination, could have been a dragon’s mountaintop lair. The soft shadows of night cast by the half moon above gave the place a dreamlike quality that made such imaginative thoughts come easy.

  “Close your eyes, Princess.” Christine let herself be led by the hand. She felt them walk up the curve of a hill, or perhaps a bridge, and then squealed in surprised delight as her lover lifted her over some unseen obstacle. She sensed the change in darkness as they continued. Her pulse quickened in anticipation.

  A soft kiss over each eye was her signal to open wide. “Oh, Rhonda . . .” They were in the clearing of a castle courtyard with crumbling turrets in each corner and a sagging faux-wooden drawbridge to her right.

  What had her nipples jousting into the warm summer air, though, were the three statues within that courtyard. In her younger days—before HRT, before Rhonda, before coming out— she’d developed a fondness for mannequins while loitering in the women’s wear department at places like K-Mart and Sears.

  She approached the princess first. The pink of her weathered gown bled into the dirty white of her petticoats. Christine nuzzled the cold, damp crook of the statue’s neck. She pressed her chest against the royal bosom and felt the scrape of pitted concrete against her breasts. A shudder ran through her body, her nipples and breasts still tender with new growth.

  Back in her cross-dressing days, her gaze would linger on the mannequins, wishing she had the curves and the courage to wear such scandalous clothes in public. She would talk to them, commenting on the women who shopped without reservation, and sometimes commiserating over smirking salesgirls who she imagined were just as cruel to the sexless, genderless mannequins as they were to her.

  She pushed away from the princess and twirled into the unforgiving embrace of the queen, her stone arms stretched out before her, with but a single curled talon remaining to mark her as wicked. She humped against the queen’s stiff robes, grinding the illusion of her well-tucked sex against the cruel illusion of the queen’s softness. Before pulling away, she spat in the statue’s face. Her body quivered in arousal at the sight of damp saliva glistening between the hooked nose and thin lips.

  After her parents had thrown her out, she’d lived in the attic of her aunt’s townhouse. It wasn’t much, but she’d filled a secondhand dresser with bras and panties and stockings, and hung an assortment of dresses and skirts from hooks twisted into eaves. The house sat cater-cornered to a cemetery, with the statue of an angel half-turned her way that appeared to gaze up into the tiny window. Visible only from the breasts up, her angel’s eyes appeared more erotic than spiritual in the ha
rsh, halogen glow of the streetlights. She used to dance before her, all the while wishing the angel would rise and make her dreams come true.

  With a haughty flip of her ponytail, she sauntered over to the witch. She draped her arms about its neck in a lover’s embrace. She kissed abrasive lips and groaned as her tongue found a crack into which it could wiggle. She turned sideways and thrust her ass out until it met with the long, hard shaft of the broomstick that still stood tall despite the absence of the hand that once held it. That position forced her chest downward, her nipples scraping against the witch’s dress.

  Her breath came short. Her pulse quickened. Her cheeks flushed. She pushed harder against the broomstick and pressed her breasts against the witch. She rubbed the erect nipples up and down against the hardness of painted concrete. With a kind thought for the princess who’d first aroused her, and a loving one for the woman she knew was watching, Christine gave herself to the witch. She felt the ripples of a mini orgasm spread throughout her body. She hooked her fingers in an unconscious imitation of the green hand hovering before her. She’d been warned this kind of wanton pleasure was only temporary, a gift from the estrogen gods that would fade once the forced puberty of breast growth caught up with the reality of her forty-plus years, but she appreciated it all the more for knowing it was fleeting.

  The orgasm faded. She melted against the witch. Temporarily satiated, she looked over to find Rhonda sitting on the plastic grass of the green, legs spread wide, with the first three fingers of one hand plunging in and out of her sex. “You’re such a sexy little bitch, Princess,” she groaned.

  “Like you didn’t want it to happen,” she teased.