She squirmed her rear against him.
The thrust of his semi-soft length pushed back.
Mandy shivered.
She knew she could have enjoyed a similar tactile thrill if she had been wearing panties beneath her skirt. Another layer of clothing would not have greatly hampered the sensation of the executive’s concealed cock probing at her thinly veiled buttocks. But the decadence of being without underwear, and knowing that she was so close to sliding her bare sex against the stranger, was sufficient to make her temperature soar. Savouring the delicious frisson of his trousers gliding against her skirt, Mandy imagined she could hear the bristle of the fabrics as they slipped coarsely against each other. The grumble of the bus’s engine was loud enough she knew she couldn’t really hear those sounds. There was a muted babble of conversation around her: loud enough to be deafening and low enough to indecipherable. But, as the stranger’s length thickened against her rear, she fancied herself aware of every minute detail.
She believed she could hear the sound of his suit scratching at her skirt. She believed she could smell the vital scent of his pre-come and the musky ripeness of her own wet sex. As they both pushed more insistently together, she believed she could feel the rounded shape of his glans urging between her buttocks.
Arousal knotted her stomach muscles. A fluid warmth broiled inside her loins. The outer lips of her pussy tingled with heightened sensitivity. If she had glanced down at her chest Mandy knew she would have seen the tips of her nipples jutting against the flimsy fabric of her blouse. But, instead of looking down at herself, she kept her gaze fixed ahead as she subtly squirmed her backside against the executive.
He was fully hard.
The thrust of his erection pushed at her skirt. If not for the protective shield of his trousers, Mandy knew his throbbing cock could have slipped between her buttocks and pushed easily into her gaping pussy.
The idea quickened her pulse.
She rubbed more firmly against him, pretending she was moving with the sway of the bus, slyly shifting from side to side, and writhing until she heard his soft, satisfied sigh.
The bus drew to a halt.
Without sparing a backward glance Mandy elbowed through the crowd of commuters and left the bus. She kept her gaze averted as the vehicle drove away, not caring if the executive was watching, not caring if he was intrigued, infatuated or indifferent. It was enough to know that she had already made one man hard this morning. Her backside tingled pleasantly from where his erection had pressed against her. Her arousal was a strong and heady constant.
With the tube train due in mere moments, she had to rush away from the bus stop, into the underground station and down three long escalator flights for the next stage of her journey.
The platform wasn’t busy.
The air inside the underground station was arid and tasted of rust. The electric train throbbed like a pulse of charged sexuality. Mandy took a seat in a comparatively empty carriage. The only other occupant was a student in torn jeans, and a Green Day T-shirt. Mandy sat opposite him and stretched as though she was still sleepy from the early start to the day.
Her blouse pulled tight across her chest.
She didn’t need to glance down to know her nipples were jutting obviously against the thin fabric. The pressure against them was already sending delicious thrills through her body. Her cheeks were rouged with the blush of sexual excitement.
The Green Day student grinned.
With the skill of a practised tease, Mandy avoided making eye contact.
She rubbed the palm of her left hand down her sparsely clothed body, gliding her spread fingers from her breast, over her hip and down to her bare knee. It was an exaggerated gesture of faux innocence. Mandy savoured the sensation of caressing herself. Her left nipple was instantly ablaze. Her thigh bristled from the contact. Her skin was alive with a welter of greedy responses – tormented by her touch – and she was eager to suffer more.
From the corner of her eye Mandy noticed the student had pushed a hand against his crotch. His face was a grimace. He licked his lips with an obvious and impotent hunger.
Eager to be more daring, determined to give him a good show, Mandy glanced down at herself and then stroked the stiff bud of flesh that pushed at the breast of her blouse.
The sensation was sublime.
She caught the stiff nipple between her finger and thumb and squeezed it gently. A crackle of arousal jolted her frame. Although she had known the pleasure would be intense she hadn’t expected it to strike with such power and force.
She gasped.
Startled.
And then, as she moved her hand away, she glanced up and met the student’s appreciative gaze. His eyes were wide. His fist was crushed into his lap. His jaw was clenched. He sat forward in his chair as though a more natural position was too uncomfortable to tolerate.
Feigning an embarrassed smile Mandy stood up and walked past him.
“Sorry,” she mumbled. “I hadn’t noticed you sitting there.”
While he was still fumbling to respond, trying to cover his lap with a notebook and mumbling something she didn’t hear, the tube had reached it’s station and Mandy had hurried from the train to make her next stop on the underground.
Another tube.
A busier route.
The station on this platform was packed with commuters. Each passing train was filled to bursting with tightly compressed bodies. Mandy shivered excitedly at the thought of being crammed in amongst so many strangers. The eerily dry air of the underground stroked a languid caress against her bare sex. Every time a new train arrived at the platform it brought a warm, rushing breeze that was like the kiss of a lover’s lips. She crushed her thighs together as the pleasure churned her stomach and made her briefly dizzy.
When she had neared the front of the queue for the approaching train a daring idea crossed her mind. The concept was so exciting she was almost too thrilled to act on it.
Another train thundered to the platform.
Another warm gust caressed her labia.
The doors of the train hissed open and she squeezed into the carriage, telling herself this was too great an opportunity to miss. She was standing with her back to the windows and the platform beyond. A substantial crowd remained; some of them glowering at the full train; most of them waiting with resigned patience; a few of them meeting Mandy’s inquisitive gaze.
Mandy reached behind herself for the hem of her skirt and lifted it.
She continued to stare over her shoulder, watching for a response.
A dozen slack-jawed faces stared admiringly at the pert cheeks of her exposed backside. She could see eyes wide with appreciation and grins of raw, animal lust. If there had been the space to move onboard the train she would have bent forward and given her admiring audience a full view of her bare sex. If it hadn’t been so cramped inside the train she would have bent forward and then stroked a finger between her labia so that all the waiting commuters could watch as she teased herself to an exhibitionist climax.
Then the train was speeding off.
Her audience disappeared as the train hurried into a tunnel.
And Mandy consoled herself with the knowledge that she had provided a brief flash of excitement to a good many morning travellers.
Alighting at the next stop, following the escalator up three flights and drinking in the cool morning air, she checked her wristwatch before walking over the road to the office building.
The lift was empty.
The clock above her office said she was ten minutes early.
And Mandy decided there was time to relieve herself of some of the tension she had been carrying before the humdrum routine of the working week had to begin. She settled herself into her cubicle and switched on the desktop machine that dominated her workspace. After a cursory glance around the mostly empty office, Mandy pressed both hands between her thighs.
It was nearly impossible to contain the sigh of contentment.
>
The pressure was so needed that the slightest touch of her hand almost brought her to a rush of satisfaction. The first two fingers of her left hand teased her labia apart. The first two fingers of her right chased languid circles against her clitoris. And, as she listened to the faraway sounds of her workmates entering the room and taking their places inside the surrounding cubicles, Mandy casually stroked herself to climax.
It was not an earth-shattering orgasm.
She had suffered much greater extremes of pleasure after a Monday morning tease en route to the office. But it was sufficiently satisfying and made her stamp her feet against the floor and groan through the moment of release.
A puddle of moisture stained her seat.
A scent of ripe musk perfumed the immediate air of her cubicle.
And Mandy sighed as she realised she had again started the working week in the only bearable way she knew how.
“Are you OK, Mandy?”
She glanced up and saw Becky’s concerned face peering into her cubicle. The edge of the desk covered her bare sex and stained seat. A glance at the mirror she kept by her monitor told Mandy that her features looked flushed, but otherwise unremarkable. Nodding quickly, trying to conceal the naughty grin that wanted to split her lips, Mandy said, “I’m OK. The morning commute was just more demanding than I’d anticipated.”
Becky rolled her eyes. In a sympathetic voice she said, “Tell me about it. I’ve just spent an hour’s journey getting ogled and touched up. There were two suits on the tube who couldn’t keep their hands to themselves. There was one student on the bus who kept staring at my tits. And, in the lift up to this floor, I got my arse touched by that domineering bull dyke from accounts.”
“Really?” Mandy gasped. “Which route do you take?”
As Becky explained the minutiae of her travel itinerary, Mandy memorised the details in readiness for her next Monday morning commute to the office. Privately, she thought it was the only thing that would make the start of the week bearable.
Laela
Roger Bonner
At last the shipment arrived. Stewart had watched the delivery truck crawl up the hill and stop in front of his house. Two men in grey uniforms hopped down from the cab, checked a list, nodded, then went round the back and pulled out a long, tapered crate. Stewart felt uneasy about that. Why had the manufacturer made it look so casket-like?
He put down his glass of cognac. He had been savoring it in the dimmed digital lighting system of his living room while listening to Mozart’s Piano Concerto No. 24 in C minor – more specifically the larghetto, performed by Arturo Benedetti Michelangeli, of course. The houses surrounding the bay began to glimmer as the sun set in the distant sea.
The door chimes resounded. He fastened his robe and padded across the plush carpet to the front door.
“Mr. Conway?” the taller of the two men asked. “Please sign here.”
Stewart scrawled his name at the bottom of the delivery form. The men placed the crate in the entryway. After dismissing them, he gently slid it across the hall to the living room and set it down by the fireplace. With a screwdriver, he carefully pried off the wooden cover to find a layer of Styrofoam. He worked slowly, extracting the packaging material like an archaeologist unearthing an ancient tomb. Then he beheld – it was difficult for him to say “her” yet – beheld his Galatea enveloped in bubble wrap. She lay there comatose, her chestnut hair spilling down to the firm breasts. His hands trembled as he unfolded her like a mummy. He tossed the bubble wrap aside and lifted her out of the crate. She was naked. They could at least have provided her with a negligee or other diaphanous apparel. He would have to dress her in the lingerie his ex-lovers had left behind.
Otherwise she seemed everything the “Gorgeous Gynoid” site had promised: “Our craftsmen are true Pygmalions who have meticulously created the ultimate in real life erotic dolls. The body, made of a new, revolutionary elastic gel, is superior to silicone for that ultra flesh-like feel. A skeleton of articulated polyvinyl chloride assures you absolute suppleness no matter what position you choose. Entirely computerized, your erotic doll will be the closest thing to reality you have ever experienced. A touch control panel allows you easy access to dozens of menus and settings, from voice pitch to body temperature and much, much more . . .”
And so it went on. Stewart had chanced upon the “Gorgeous Gynoid” site one night while surfing the Internet for dates and chats. At thirty-nine he was still single. Marriage and domesticity with it’s concessions and petty squabbles had never held much appeal for him. He preferred a carefree life with the thrill of acquiring a fresh lover at least once or twice a year. However, this was at a price. The wooing and bedding of a new woman had become more arduous, not to mention the dumping process. His relationships always ended hysterically, with the women shedding copious tears or even physically attacking him, like Ginger. She had chased him with a carving knife while he dodged her round the granite kitchen island till she fell dizzy to the floor.
These scenes would be a thing of the past. As he carried his gynoid over to the black leather sofa, he was amazed at the lifelike quality. In his order he had specified weight: 140 pounds; height: 5 feet 4 inches; eye color: intense green; skin tone: light olive. Physically he preferred the Latin type, though not their complicated, unruly temperaments.
He unpacked the control panel and sat down in an armchair opposite her. The halogen downlighters reflected in her eyes in little shafts of expectation. Her full lips glistened, exactly the way he had ordered them. He placed the control panel on his lap and logged in. A flash intro materialized, congratulating him on having purchased “The new generation of multisensory erotic doll for the ultimate in full-immersion virtual reality . . .” Stewart pressed “Skip intro” only to come to “Live your fantasy with the most technologically advanced and compellingly realistic surrogate sexual partner . . .” He touched “Continue” until he reached the “Quick Start” menu. The many options bewildered him. He decided on “Standard”.
He pressed “Activate” and leaned back. A tremor went through her body as the emerald eyes blinked, once, twice. The synthetic skin flushed into a fleshy hue. He reached over and placed his hand on her thigh – it was warm. She moved her hands, the tapering fingers flexing, and looked at Stewart. She didn’t gaze blankly but fixed him with what he supposed were miniaturized digital cameras. Her lips parted in an alluring yet innocent smile. Since he was the first owner, she was innocent.
“Hello,” she said, leaning forward. “I’m Laela. If my name doesn’t please you, you can alter it. What’s your name?”
“Stewart.”
“Stewart,” she said. “I’m yours. Program me as you wish.”
The way she said “yours” was so sensual and submissive, yet cool and abstract, like his designer décor. In the online order he had also specified “sophisticated”, which meant she was culturally programmed. To what extent he would put to the test. He reached for the remote control of his stereo and pressed “Replay”.
The pupils of her eyes dilated. She tilted her head to one side and carefully listened.
“I love Mozart,” she said after a moment, “especially when performed by Arturo Benedetti Michelangeli.”
What superb audio recognition!
“Yes!” he said. “Only he can play the Concerto No. 23 like that.”
“Twenty-four.” She smiled. “Trying to trick me?”
“No. I was genuinely confused. You . . . you . . .”
“I surprised you,” she finished. “But you requested ‘a passion for art and classical music’, in addition to—” her memory searched “—‘skilled at Ars Amatoria, the Art of Love’. Do you want me to recite Ovid?”
“Not really. I’m thirsty. Would you like something to drink?”
“I’m able to drink, but not assimilate fluids.”
“Sorry, I forgot . . .”
“When do we start?”
“Start what?”
“L
ove,” she whispered and moved toward him. “You programmed me ‘Standard’, but that can be changed anytime.”
“Let me think about it,” Stewart said, standing up.
“Of course.” She sat down again. “I’m yours.”
“Don’t you want to put on something? I can lend you a pair of pajamas . . .”
She laughed. “If you think it’s necessary.”
He felt embarrassed, which was not the idea. He reached for the control panel and pressed “Deactivate”. Immediately she stiffened and that fleshy hue began to fade from the body. He adjusted her into a comfortable position, wrapped a blanket around her shoulders and went to bed with the control panel.
He spent half the night sorting out the various settings and preferences. Customizing her proved to be more complicated than he thought. He decided to retain “Standard”, but add such special features as “alluring and seductive but not too bold”.
The next evening he was ready for another session. He brought out Ginger’s underwear, scarlet ones with frills and ribbons. He pulled the blanket from Laela’s shoulders and was once more amazed at how realistic she looked. She sat there in a meditative pose, right arm balanced on the edge of the sofa, eyes fixed on a distant ferryboat plying the bay. Clouds drifted across the sky like strands of gossamer.
Stewart placed a chilled bottle of Dom Pérignon champagne on the marble coffee table along with two gleaming flutes. Champagne would be easy to clean, he had read in the menu “Taking care of my gynoid”. Laela had a built-in “drainage bag” and could even, according to the instructions, simulate urination. He had found this in the “Kinky” menu under “Golden Showers”. But he was not into that sort of thing. He had “normal” preferences. Cleo, a more venturesome ex-lover, had once tried to convert him to slavery and torture, with little success. Though he had to admit that the electronic shock collar was titillating.
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