Coming Soon

by Rachel Kramer Bussel

  Not a drop of water on him.

  “Thank you,” he said, solemnly.

  “No, it’s nothing. You were stuck out there.”

  He shook his head. “You did me a kindness. Three of them. Three kindnesses.”

  Parker frowned. “No.”

  “Yes,” he said, seriously. “You gave me respite from the weather. You offered me a drink—alcohol, no less! You fed me from your own table.”

  There was something weird and old-timey in his speech, something that suddenly made sense of the way he spoke.

  “You are beautiful, yes,” he went on, his hands making the shape of her body in the air between them. “But also here,” he said, and tapped his middle finger to his own chest. “You remind me,” he said, a little fiercely, “of . . . another time for me. Of a time before greedy questions.”

  Parker swallowed. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”

  “But at a risk to yourself,” he said, and frowned too. “Do not do this again.”

  She rolled her eyes. “But if I hadn’t—”

  “I know.”

  “But the gun—”

  “I know,” he said, and made a sound close to a laugh. “But still. You should be careful. People do atrocious things to one another.”

  “Are you going to do atrocious things to me?” It was a joke, brought on because he was saying more than a couple of syllables at once and because, yes, her tea was spiked so nicely.

  The expression that crossed his face was a million things at once: sweet and sly and vicious. Too much for a face so stern and handsome. A smirk that was suddenly too big for a face that couldn’t possibly hold all those teeth.

  “You would have to ask me very nicely.”

  That thing, that feeling coiled in her stomach, gave a sharp downward pull. Tense desire spooled out from there, making her feel like a warm, taut arrow, ready to be fired.

  He never broke eye contact as he shrugged out of his cardigan. He carefully brought the points of the shoulders together before folding it in half again over the back of the dining room chair. He only broke eye contact to undo the buttons at the wrist of his shirt. He popped them open with deft fingers and rolled them back to his elbows. The move—the flick of his wrists and the bunch of the muscles in his forearms—was part businessman, part pugilist.

  He came closer and reached out to tug a curl, as if he only wanted to watch it spring back. And then, oh God, that hand. He stroked the back of his fingers down her cheek, a streak of hot fire that burned from her scalp to her jaw. She turned toward it, nuzzled into that big palm.

  He dipped his head to brush his cheek along her own, and she realized there was the lightest stubble there, stinging her in a scratching slide that made her bare toes curl. If he could do that with his stubble alone, she was a goner.

  Lips brushed her ear. Warm and all tingly-making. “I’m going to kiss you, yes?”

  Parker nodded furiously. More scratching. More toe curling. His kiss crept up on her. Across her jaw and her cheek. Soft and sweet. Tasting her, until his lips pressed against the corner of her mouth and then he was kissing her for real. It started gently too, but she pressed for more.

  She couldn’t resist wrapping her arms around his neck, bringing him in close and kissing him harder, her mouth begging his, already desperate. He pulled back for air with a hiss that told her she wasn’t alone in her intense wanting.

  “I want to touch you.”

  “Touch me,” she agreed, and his hands fisted in her flannel, pulling it down her arms. Off. She needed the clothes off because she needed those hands with much more ferocity than she could form the words to say. Their limbs tangled in a frantic rush to undress one another.

  “Let me, let me,” she murmured against his mouth, her fingers slipping against those fastidious buttons down the front of his shirt. They were half undone and she was getting a sense for how big, how solid he was. He was strong and muscular, but not for looks. There was nothing pretty about him, nothing created for consumption. It was a body of genetic brawn, maintained through work, not gym time.

  “Let me,” he said, and yanked her leggings down and her panties with them.

  They were not sexy. They were neon pink and printed with cartoony doughnuts, but they may as well have been invisible because he backed her up and out of the puddle of clothing without so much as a second glance. Her back hit the counter, hard enough to hurt, but Parker could not bring herself to care because he was kneeling, bending that big body down to the ground so he could sling one of her thick thighs over his shoulder. He made a sight, those strange eyes blinking up at her, full of lust and heavy-lidded.

  “I like these,” he said, squeezing the flesh of her thighs, kneading it between his long fingers. “And . . . this.” His teeth grazed over her stomach where it peeked out from underneath her tee. That touch alone made her remember why teeth existed.

  The corner of his mouth tipped up. “But I think I’ll like this best of all.”

  She was so wet. And so quickly. When he used two fingers to show her just what he’d like best, they sank into her with such little resistance she couldn’t be sorry for it. She swore, pushing into his hand. She didn’t know if she was meant to be coy, but she couldn’t. It had been too long and those fingers were big and she was still so needy.

  With another glance up the length of her body, with those eyes that made her think somehow of promises, he put his mouth to her. His kiss was as exquisite there, his lips and his tongue working in tandem with those fingers.

  His mouth on her pussy was as the rest of him: intense, blunt, and particular. Her clit was fat and swollen, and being played so expertly, she was trembling in a matter of seconds. He focused on the task so completely, he’d closed his eyes, giving himself over to it.

  Parker swore, reaching back to grip the countertop. It was almost too much, an impossible pleasure rushing to its conclusion and taking her along for the ride, a limp body on the back of a galloping horse. And yet, she was desperately trying to hold on and control it, contorting herself one way, then the other, rising on tiptoe, unsure if she was trying to get closer or pulling away.

  Both of those big hands clapped down at her hips and stilled her. Somehow, he pulled her pussy in closer to his face, his nose brushing against her clit when his mouth wasn’t. There was a sound, a filthy wet noise as he worked, and then.

  He grunted.

  A grunt shouldn’t have mattered. But the thing about it was that there was no way to make that grunt in the same meticulous way he spoke. That was the grunt of a fucking brute, of a man sat down to a fine feast, and she’d reduced him to it. He opened his eyes as he repeated the sound, sucking her clit into his mouth, his tongue running against that place on the underside.

  Then. That spooling desire snapped, that arrow fired off. There were lots of things it could have felt like: sparks, fireworks, bright flame. Instead, it was a wash of dark water. Rolling over her, pulling her under. His mouth on her, the way he kept sucking and licking and stroking made it seem as though she was never going to surface, never going to come up for air.

  She heard herself gasp and whine, her hips grinding against his face, with absolute shamelessness, driven to it by the most amazing orgasm of her life. She held his gaze as she moved through it—as that orgasm fucking blew her apart—and that black-silver look was warm on her own.

  He pulled away slowly, sure she could stand on her own two feet before he brought her in for a kiss. That one was crushing and consuming, and she tasted herself on him. He rocked against her in a motion that felt out of control, that made her want him more. They parted, but only so he could cradle her face in his hands, touch her forehead with his own.

  “It’s a start,” he murmured.

  Half in a daze, Parker said, “What’s a start?”

  “One done. Two more. For each kindness you’ve given me,” he added, when she pulled away, looking confused.

  “You think, you only—” She broke off with a
frown.

  He shook his head. “No. There are many ways to have repaid you. I choose this one, because I’m lucky enough that you’d let me.”

  Parker stuttered out a laugh. “I didn’t invite you in from the rain so you’d go down on me.”

  The response was his first real smile. Small, but there. “I know. That is the fun.”

  She shook her head, still disbelieving. For the first time, it occurred to her that she might be dreaming, but her body was still pulsing and her coffee mug was where she’d left it that morning and when she pinched herself it hurt. “Who are you? What’s your name, even?”

  He pursed his lips, his face drawing in tight, his expression a strange mix of exasperation, suspicion, and delight. He leaned in, another kiss, this one an apology.

  “Will you let me stay? Two to go, if you recall.”

  Parker laid her hands flat against his chest. “Yes,” she agreed with a tiny laugh.

  She asked him again in the night, she was sure. For a name to say, and she thought perhaps he might have whispered it in the quiet of the moment right before she fell asleep, but if so it was like the last second of a dream: mostly gone before waking.

  As was he. Man. Cardigan. Shoes. Umbrella. Car. All gone when she rose the next morning. But both bowls were in the drying rack, and her soup pot was still on the counter. Real, then.

  Parker went about setting her home to rights again. She turned on her coffee pot and opened the curtains to let in the sunlight, which seemed richer and brighter for all the rain the night before. She was even smiling as she picked up the previous night’s clothes from the kitchen floor.

  She knew, though, that no one would mind doing chores, if they’d come as many times as she had the night before. As she loaded the washer, she realized that the tables were turned. In his currency of choice, she was now the one in debt.

  Well.

  If he showed up, looking to collect, her door was most certainly open.

  THE (RE) EDUCATION OF TRUVI ANDERSON

  Renee Dominick

  The minute she’d walked out of the courthouse, official divorce papers in hand, Truvi Anderson had set out to make up for lost time. Her entire adult life, she’d only had sex with one man: her husband, Kyle, whose idea of marital relations was for Truvi to spend three or so minutes on her back in the pitch dark, while he pounded into her and grunted in her ear like a rooting pig.

  Her friends talked about men who used sex toys on them, or blindfolded them, or even tied them up. Men who licked their pussies and more. Truvi’s husband wanted no part of what he called harlot sex. Not with her, anyway.

  She was forty when she discovered Kyle had a hidden life full of porn and women he paid for sex, but it took her four more years to gather the courage—and the means—to leave him. And in the months since her divorce, with the signs of menopause tapping her on the shoulder like an unwelcome intruder, Truvi still hadn’t gotten it together. She kept attracting missionary-loving, rooting-pig-men like a fucking super-magnet.

  Something had to give, and it took her monthly lunch meet-up with her oldest girlfriends—Inadequacy Hour, as Truvi liked to call it—to force her to start thinking outside the box. Carmen and Gina had been talking about “smart” everything. Smart phones, smart speakers, smart TVs, even the refrigerator and thermostat, all listening in on their lives.

  “You have to be careful,” Gina said. “They record everything, then they send the data to some server farm and monitoring teams watch and listen so they can refine the voice commands and shit. They can look right in through your webcam and everything.”

  “I don’t—that’s not really how it works.” Truvi laughed and nervously scratched her throat. “Is it?”

  “It is,” Gina insisted. “One company had to send out warnings to its customers. The mic and camera are always on. Watching you. Listening to you.” She wriggled her fingers spookily.

  “Wouldn’t it be hysterical to test it, though?” Carmen said. “Fuck in front of the TV while some dude watches from a server farm in Kuala Lumpur or goddamn Walla Walla, Washington. Like, leave them a note?” She switched to a low, sultry voice. “Hey, baby. Are you watching us?”

  Truvi still wasn’t sure that’s how it worked, but she did know one thing. She was sick to death of being the most sexually unsophisticated adult in the room, and the notion, the possibility of doing something so . . . indecent, dropped like a perfect little seed into her brain and sent out wispy roots. What if she could test it? Not that she’d fuck a Tinder date in front of the TV. She didn’t want to bore anyone. But . . . she could pleasure herself.

  And like that, the seed’s wispy roots burrowed into her brain and took hold.

  * * *

  Truvi had gotten very good at educating herself about all sorts of things—leases, TVs, dating apps—and now she would learn to navigate a world she had hardly known existed five years ago.

  Acquiring a new email address reserved just for her new adventure was the simple part. It was finding the right person to help her that was the sticky bit. She wanted this to be sexy, not pathetic. If anyone was watching from Kuala Lumpur or wherever, she didn’t want them to see a woman robotically masturbating like a test subject in a psych lab. She wanted to provide an anonymous thrill. To get where she wanted to go, she needed a partner. A cam boy. Someone who could make her forget what she was doing while she was doing it. The kind of fantasy man who would probably never swipe on her dating profile.

  Someone who would make her warm and wet.

  She spent days scouring live-cam sites, but finally, finally, she found him.

  Roman. His name was Roman.

  His photo and bio made her scrolling finger slow down, but it was the ten-second clip of him gripping his own erection— and then the fade out on the cocky-ass smile he directed straight into the camera—that made the decision for her.

  She bookmarked him on her laptop, but it wasn’t until a few days later that she mustered the nerve to make contact. After she made an account, a second window popped up, a checkerboard of active webcams. Words blinked in a blank space below.

  What can I do for you, baby?

  I’d like to chat with Roman, Truvi typed.

  . . . One moment while we process your request . . .

  Three dots came and went in the box. She was on hold? Real sexy, she thought with a laugh. The checkerboard switched to a single box with the video blurred out.

  “Hello. This is Roman.”

  A double-shot of lust warmed her right up, and with a jolt. Roman, it turned out, spoke in an intimate, gravelly English accent. Truvi hadn’t been expecting that at all.

  “Who’s this?” he asked.

  “I’m T—”

  What she thought was an intentional blur must have simply been him adjusting things on his end, because Roman suddenly came into full HD as he stepped back, and oh, lord-Jesus he struck her speechless. The ten seconds of that low definition, thumbnail preview she’d seen the day she first discovered him hadn’t done him anywhere near justice. His voice alone had her nipples ripening for attention, but his bare upper body in motion caused a deep, demanding ache between her thighs. He was all curves and firm planes, surely built to haul an eager woman straight to hell. And she was eager. His lower half was still covered, but the top button of his blue jeans was undone, and his fingers traced the outline of his penis.

  She swallowed hard and started over. “H-hello, Roman. I’m Truvi. I’d like to make an . . . um . . . appointment. For later. Is that done?”

  “I can do that, sure. It costs a little extra, though.”

  “That’s fine,” Truvi said with a decisive nod.

  “All right, then. Did you have anything specific in mind? Something I need to plan for?”

  “No. Just you, your mouth-watering abs and your bare . . . cock.” She didn’t know where she dredged up the daring, but saying the word cock out loud like that—with barely a hitch, as if she said it in everyday conversation—made her feel
bold and dirty, in the best possible way.

  Roman didn’t even flinch. “Brilliant. What time, love?”

  Love. Funny what one perfect word spoken in a luscious accent could do to her lady-parts. Truvi squeezed her thighs, enjoying in the low-voltage current of sexual excitement that passed through her body. “Can you do later this morning . . . my time?” She glanced at the clock. She still had some last-minute preparations to make. “An hour from now?”

  “I can make that work. Type in your email. I’ll send you a direct link when it’s time.”

  Truvi entered her new address before she could overthink.

  A moment later, he smiled up at her. The same sexy grin that had buckled her knees just seeing it in a thumbnail. “Dewy-Truvi. I like it. See you in a wink, then.”

  A violent flush rushed up from the pit of her stomach to the roots of her hair, making her skin tingle all over. The video box went dark, and for a moment, Truvi stared at the empty space, paralyzed by the reality of having her plan in motion. Who did she think she was? What did she think she was doing?

  She shook her figurative self by the shoulders. You’re Truvi Marlene Anderson, and you’re stepping up, that’s what. Stretching your wings for an AI—and maybe-possibly an anonymous set of interested eyes—watching through the TV’s webcam.

  The seed planted at that lunch had sprouted into a robust vine, its curly little tendrils spiraling outward, anchoring it tight in the cracks and crevices of her mind. She had to gain confidence in her own appeal somehow, and if the notion of being spied on while she masturbated to an orgasm helped, so be it.

  Before she could talk herself out of it, Truvi marched to the bathroom. If she was going to turn exhibitionist, she wanted everything on view looking good.

  She had shaved all but a narrow rectangle of hair from between her legs. A landing strip, she’d seen it called, and the imagery had tickled her. Now she smoothed lightly scented sensual oil from her throat to her feet, her hands skimming over the soft, rounded curves of her arms and breasts, belly, and legs. Kyle had never shown much interest in learning her body, not beyond the time he’d pinched her nipples and made her flinch when they were teenagers. He’d missed out. Truvi liked the feel of herself under her own hands.