Fantasy Curves 269 (BBW SF Erotic Romance and Domination)

It's not easy being a big girl in 2169…

On her way to a friend’s Halloween party, Morgan Macy never expected to be confused for a real Fantasy Unit for one simple reason -- she has never seen a plus-size pleasure droid. Hell, there are very few big girls, period, and it has been a long, long time since a man looked twice at her overgenerous curves.

Apparently there
are
plus-size Fantasy Units and what was meant as a practical joke poking fun at her secret crush Vance Gemini turns into a gauntlet of groping males. Forced to head home for a costume change before she even gets to the party, Morgan finds herself on an empty subway platform with a masculine, all-too-familiar voice ordering her to halt.

Turn around, FU 269. I want your time.

**********

FANTASY CURVES 269

Copyright © 2012 by Ann Vremont (from original © 2009 by Ann Vremont)

Cover art licensed from and © CuraPhotography@dreamstime

Not for sale to libraries. No lending outside distributor (e.g. Kindle/Nook) terms of service. Otherwise, re-distributing, lending, or reading this e-book without first purchasing a license to do so is illegal and subject to heavy fines. All persons and entities are fictional.

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 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 natural pale green eyes. That he keeps his natural color is itself unnatural. Almost everyone in his income bracket has so many enhancements that they practically leak silicone and circuits.

"Such an unexpected pleasure." His hand landed on my shoulder, the thumb extending to stroke along my collarbone. "I haven't seen an
Xtra
model on the street in…"

He shrugged, the gesture so slight I almost missed it. His hand moved up past the pink collar that housed the voice blur and a mock credit reader to curl around my neck. His thumb resumed stroking, the soft rub just below my earlobe and completely mesmerizing.

I studied his face in search of some sign of recognition.

Was this a joke?

He dipped his head, his mouth against my ear. "Answer me. Are you functional?"

It took me a second to realize the soft, breathless yes, sir hanging in the air had come from my mouth.

"Master," he corrected.

"Yes, Master," I answered in return. If he wasn't having a laugh on some anonymous fat girl, Vance Gemini wanted a submissive. Otherwise, he would have ignored my use of sir or activated a dominatrix protocol by calling me
Mistress.

His fingertips brushed across my lips. "Are all orifices functional?"

My knees went weak. No way was this actually happening. It didn't matter that I had carefully powered my skin to vanilla ice perfection like a real Fantasy Unit or that I had spent the extra money for an actual droid vid mask and fake credit reader. Equally irrelevant was the difficulty in telling synth flesh from real when most everyone is packing a little synth flesh anyway. Vance had to know -- they don't make units anywhere near my size.

Right?

I shook my head. They couldn't. It had been eighteen months since I'd had anything close to a man asking me out on a date. If men didn't want the live version, why would they pay for a droid version?

I shook my head again.

They wouldn't -- case closed.

"Which orifice isn't working?"

I almost broke protocol and lifted my head. "They are all working, Master."

"Are you sure you're not malfunctioning?" His free hand surfed the curve of my stomach on a trip down to the hem of the short latex skirt.

There, with cameras covering the empty platform, he lifted the fabric. Feeling the warm trail of fingers up my thigh, I gasped. My breathing accelerated. Cream built hot and thick behind the seal of my labia as he stroked higher.

"My compliments to your maker, beautiful." A kiss along my jawline followed his throaty laugh. "Your response programming is most excellent."

He rubbed the gusset of the sheer panties I wore.

"Are your moisture cells charged?" His fingers slipped behind the fabric to discover the answer for himself. Finding me wet, he murmured his approval against my neck. "I don't think I've ever encountered a droid so hydrated."

Wanting to pass out, I forced my body to remain upright and impassive as his fingers probed between my wet folds. No one, at least no man, thought twice about touching a pleasure droid. Fuck units aren't programmed to say
no
as long as the credits keep rolling.

From the side of one eye, I stared at his face, waiting for that first flicker of awareness to cross his features. Even if there really were fantasy units sized Xtra-Fun, the man was a self-proclaimed connoisseur of fuck droids -- couldn’t he tell I was human?

"Mmm." His fingers stroked a gentle line up my clit. "I was heading for a Halloween party but, for you, I'll gladly skip it."

Okay, he apparently could not tell the difference, which meant I needed to tell him before things went too far. My lips parted as my mind searched for something funny to say, something that would make our next meeting less awkward for both of us. I inhaled, smiled, and the words came tumbling out.

"My chip reader isn't--"

I stopped and sucked a shaky breath in. Those were not the words I had intended.

"I have paper credits." His hand moved from under my skirt to wrap around my hip as he kissed me before saying anything else.