We were down to the last five minutes. I still had my bra.
I was in the library basement, under a shelf, behind a crate. I knew the time because hunters were reporting in across the speaker system as the time ticked down.
Someone unaware, who" d walked in and discovered me curled up in that corner of the basement, might have mistaken me for an addict undergoing withdrawal. I had all the symptoms-agitation, tremors, confusion. Tingling. I tingled from the roots of my hair to my toenails. I tingled as if a million buzzing bees were trapped in the marrow of my bones.
Extreme sensitivity to light, sound, smell, taste, touch. I had that too. I think it would have taken no more than the soft sigh of a hunter" s breath against the lips of my pussy to unleash an orgasm that would go on, and on, and on.
And on.
Three minutes was called. Then two. I was going to beat them. I didn" t want to.
I wanted the drug they" d spent the past hour addicting me to. I wanted sex, hard, hot fucking. When one of them was done, I wanted another. And another after that.
We were supposed to be playing catch, strip, release. The game they played was catch, strip, mind-melting foreplay, release. It had started with manageable teasing.
Fingers and tongues teased, probed, taunted, promised. It deepened as the game went on. That was why they" d given me so much to wear, because every item stripped was another round of sensual torture. I couldn" t remember anyone mentioning that when they explained the game to me. I couldn" t remember my name. I couldn" t remember theirs.
I could remember the promises that it would be worth the wait. The warnings when they held me down. It had taken two together the last time. One held me while the other licked me right up to the edge and no further.
“You" ll need this when the game ends,” he said after. As if he were giving me a gift.
“Hold on to it, save it up. “
“It" s all about you, sugar,” the golden-haired hunter had insisted. He" d held me on his lap in a bear hug while he talked me down. “We talk a hard line, but we want to give you a fantasy, a mind-blowing good time you" ll never forget.” They always knew when to stop. It drove me mad. It drove me to try finishing what they started with my own hands. But they held me, talked me down, and when I could stand they told me to run off the frustration.
Had it really been only an hour? My concept of time was lost. It felt like a month.
I leaned against the cool stone wall, closed my eyes and savored the cold seeping from concrete into my fevered skin. I needed to come so bad my teeth were chattering.
Yet stubborn pride wouldn" t let me surrender and go beg for what I craved. It wouldn" t let me pleasure myself. I was strong enough to win. I was strong enough to wait.
I heard in stereo, through the speakers and from a rough-edged male voice a few feet away, “I spy the lucky librarian" s toes.”
His fingers shackled my ankle and hauled me out of hiding. Romero grinned down at me. He cut away the bra with thirty seconds to spare. I" d lost. I thought I might cry. I didn" t know if it was from disappointment or relief.
He took out the leash and I put my hand on his to stop him. I hated leashings. I couldn" t talk. I begged with my eyes. He took pity and scooped me into his arms. “You did good.”
Romero carried me upstairs and put me on the library table. They undid their jeans.
Three cocks pointed my way, like compass needles detecting a magnetic pole. Men in the Quarterz all came in size extra large. Their attachments came in extra, extra large.
I hugged my knees to my chest, feeling suddenly small and fragile. At least to some extent they" d endured the exquisite torture of waiting for what they craved.
Romero rested one hip on the table, stroked my hair.
“No more teasing,” I said through chattering teeth. He didn" t answer.
I looked up at him. “No more,” he said. Then he kissed me, a long, slow kiss that went past tasting and kept going until my muscles eased and I was lying back, letting go, opening my legs.
A cock bumped my pussy. I mewed like an animal, pressed toward it, greedy for it to fill me, stretch me, sink as far as possible into my hot, aching core.
I was coming before he was all the way in. The orgasm went on and on. So did the fucking. One hunter and then the next, maybe each more than once. I didn" t know anything but the roller-coaster rush of rising and falling, in and out, full-body rapture.
My ears were ringing, the number of bees in my bones multiplied by ten.
And that floating time after, when there are no thoughts, this time it lasted. This time I got lost in it.
“Okay?” That voice came to me from far away, years later.
“Mmm,” I said. It must have been convincing, because the hunter kissed the top of my head, another brushed warm lips over my temple, the third nipped my collarbone.
“You" re good,” the last whispered, the words like a feather gliding over my skin.
I heard the rattle of belt buckles, the hiss of zippers.
I sat up slowly, wincing over tender places. It was so dark. I thought about that a moment and opened my eyes. That helped a little. Everything had the fuzziness of a dream. They" d be gone in a minute. That was important for some reason I couldn" t grasp.
“You okay, sugar?” one of them asked. “You" re awful quiet.” I couldn" t sort them out, dredge up names to go with faces. My mind limped back toward blessed blankness.
“Good,” I said. It was one word. A very short, simple word. Yet all three paused.
Was I saying it wrong?
I closed my eyes. This all felt too complicated. It was a sex game. It seemed simple enough on the surface, but underneath it had more knots than a hunter" s net.
“I got this.” This was a new voice, but not unfamiliar. Wastelander. The name flashed in red neon behind my eyes.
“Hey, Waster,” one of them said, his voice hitched high, bumpy with nerves.
“Is she yours, buddy?” another asked. “She didn" t say you" d claimed her exclusive.
We didn" t know.”
His hands were in my hair, lifting it from my neck. I held my breath, too aware of his hands.
“Did you look?”
No one answered the question.
He smoothed my hair down over my shoulders.
“Don" t worry about it. It" s my fault as much as anyone" s. I got this. You guys go on.”
I closed my eyes, heard the soft pops-one, two, three-as each hunter teleported out.
I hugged myself and opened my eyes into the stare-down I knew was waiting for me. When I looked into the eyes of the other hunters, I saw lust and a desire to be a woman" s fantasies. When I looked in Waster" s eyes, I saw things about myself. I didn" t need a mirror just then.
“I" m safing-out,” I said, “I" ve had enough.”
“I" m not here to use you, sweetheart. I" m here for the aftercare.” I didn" t know what that meant, but it didn" t sound like anything I could handle.
“I think you" re supposed to care before.” Where had that come from? I wanted away before I said something even stupider. “I" m out, Waster. Go away.”
A leash dropped over my neck, cinched tight.
“I mean it, Waster. Cut me loose.”
Blackness and the spin of a teleport followed that order.
We emerged in a bedroom. A fire glowed in the hearth. A tub of steaming water had been placed just in front of it. He plunked me in the tub.
Water sloshed. He picked up a sponge and squeezed. Streams of hot water ran down my back. I groaned. I meant to argue. I" d get to that in a minute. I pulled my knees to my chest, rested my forehead on them and let Waster" s soap-slicked hands work the soreness from my shoulders.
Eventually pride scrabbled its way back into my consciousness. “I said I" m out.
You" re not supposed to keep me when I don" t want to stay.”
“You safe-out of sex, not aftercare,” he said, using the sponge to rinse away the soap.
He tried to push my knees apart to wash between my legs. I pushed his hands away and stood. “I can safe-out of whatever the fuck I want to safe-out of.” I snatched a towel from his shoulder. I ached in a thousand small places, not all of them physical.
He hadn" t unleashed me. I wrapped the towel around me. Waited.
“It" s natural to feel lost, a sense of letdown after a scene pushes your boundaries. I just want to make sure you" re okay.”
“You weren" t worried the other day.”
He sighed, tipped his head back, kept his eyes on the ceiling when he answered.
“Prey aren" t the only ones who get their boundaries pushed.” The leash fell away from my neck.
I logged out.
Jolie stared at the black screen on her laptop. Just sat looking, not thinking, not moving. Breathe in. Breathe out. Blink. Repeat. She had the lights out. Lest arousal seep away into the cool quiet of her shop. It just felt too pathetic to ease the frustration with her own hand in the backroom of a computer shop. Too lonely.
“That wasn" t real,” she said out loud. As if saying it could banish the very real effects.
None of what just happened meant any more than watching a movie or reading a book. But this felt more real than either of those. In movies or books she watched characters go through the scripted events. Yes, she could get immersed in the story, feel as if she were there, but she felt it in an external way, empathy for someone else. In a game world she was the character she created, had to move her, think for her, make choices. There was no script. She did things in the story world and other characters responded. They did things she reacted to, with a pixel body, with avatar senses that could be disoriented by the effects of taking a drink or drugs, going too long without food or sleep or sex. Even her hair fell over her eyes when the virtual wind blew.
Her physical connection to the avatar gave the story power. Her real body responded to what she saw happening to her avatar. Like Snatch Me, she was shaken by the force of her craving for a man. Unlike Snatch me, she didn" t have three or four handy to see to the matter. Unlike Snatch Me, she wouldn" t let three or four see to the matter. Or would she? What she did there could change who she was here.
Where was she supposed to put all that when the game ended? How was she supposed to keep that world, where she could be any of her fantasies, separate from this world, where acting on those fantasies could get her arrested or killed? She couldn" t even figure out how she was supposed to get through the rest of the afternoon when all she wanted to do was crawl through that laptop screen and beg Waster to fuck her.
But she knew, if/when he did, just like the first time, their virtual chemistry would create a connection so real he could make her feel him, make her come in both worlds with no more than the carefully wielded power of the right words. A man, a character, who could do that, was dangerous. A woman could get lost in the dark wilderness that was Waster, so lost she" d never find her way back.
She might go back to his world but she could not go back to him.
The bells on the front door forced her the rest of the way back to reality.
She straightened her clothes, ran her hands over her hair and went out to greet her customer.
Mack.
“Busy?”
She wanted to say yes, go back to her workshop. She shrugged. “It gets quiet this time of year.”
“Well, good. I came to get some help with that 3D software I told you about. I brought a bribe.” He held up a small cardboard box.
Her mind flashed on Urit tossing her a box from behind the checkout desk.
“Jolie?”
He had that expectant look, like he" d said something she was supposed to have an answer for, an affirmative answer judging by the way he was poised at the gate that separated the employee area from the customer area.
She took a chance and said, “Sure.”
Today Mack" s smile was like a physical thing. It poured over her, carrying away tension. It was like stepping into the hot spray of a shower. Like leaning forward while a man wrung a spongeful of hot water over your back.
Mack came through the gate, glanced around. “The place is looking pretty spiffy.
Things that bad?”
When work was backed up the shop was a pit. During a bad virus outbreak it could probably qualify as a public safety hazard. Right now it was so clean you could perform surgery on the workbench. “It" s been pretty slow. I even broke down and read my sack of snail mail. Junk and all. “
“Whoa. You do need rescuing.”
He put the box on the desk. She lifted a flap partially with one finger. Steam kissed her skin, beads of condensation formed on her knuckle. Jolie sniffed, tasted the flavors she inhaled in the saliva that pooled in response. “Coffee,” she said. “And something sweet…doughnuts?”
“You" re good.”
The words brought her head up.
He nudged a chair toward her and slid the box away, opening the flaps and removing king-size foam cups. “Coffee and cherry doughnuts from Lucille" s over on Main.”
He pushed a wax-paper-wrapped doughnut toward her. It was the dark-brown cake kind with nuggets of glistening cherries baked in. She broke off a piece. It was still warm from the fryer. When she popped it into her mouth, the burst of flavor, tart and sugar-sweet, had her closing her eyes and groaning.
“I think I" m your slave. Name your pleasure, master.” She" d forgotten, until he abruptly turned away-looked everywhere and anywhere but at her-that he was a Quarterz resident, that those words might be taken as a sexual invitation.
She washed down the doughnut with a gulp of black coffee that scalded her throat, and attempted some damage control, steering the topic away from her slip. “Is your program on a CD or is it something we need to download?” She shook the mouse and the computer came out of sleep mode.
He cleared his throat, dug into his pants pocket. “I" ve got the install file on a USB
stick.”
“The only free port is on the back of the tower.” She" d started to get back up, but he put a hand on her shoulder. The touch, the warmth of a man" s skin against hers, even through the barrier of her cotton blouse, carried more sensual punch than the food.
Snatch Me" s hyperaroused state still lingered in Jolie" s body.
“Stay,” he said, his deep voice adding a physical dimension to the word, reigniting the quiver in the pit of her stomach. “I" ve got it.” She polished off half the doughnut while Mack crawled under her desk, fiddling with the tower. It didn" t do a thing for the hunger gnawing through her.
Unlike Snatch Me, Jolie dressed conservatively. She was wearing a skirt that fell to her ankles, something feminine, dressy casual, that allowed her to look professional and female, but still allowed her to do things like crawl under a desk to connect cables without putting on too much of a show. Mack" s body brushed the fabric back and forth over her legs as he moved in the tight space. She gritted her teeth and pushed her chair back. She would lose her mind if he kept this up.
He finally backed out and sat down beside her, looking like the same cheerful Mack he" d been last week, but he was a different Mack.
He wasn" t Mack her dad" s friend anymore, or Mack her customer. He was a guy who did “things” to women-things regular guys, and regular women, didn" t do. She" d known that in a vague way the last time she" d seen him. Now she had a better picture of who Mack was and what he wanted. She" d stepped into that picture, walked around in that world. Why did knowing his fantasies make her feel naked? Why did his presence suddenly do things to her?
They were elbow-to-elbow in front of the computer. Not a good time to be wondering if he was into lucky librarians, if he" d spent quality time in a library today-
in a librarian. Could he have been one of them? She pressed her knees tightly together.
“Jolie?”
“Oh, sorry.” A tingling heat spread across her shoulders, up her neck. She kept her head down, hoping her hair hid the worst of the blush. “I zoned for a minute.” They" d been waiting for the installer to finish running and it had. She was a professional, doing a job. All she had to do was think about that job.
“So show me which part of this baby is giving you trouble.”
“All her parts give me trouble,” he said.
Jolie snagged her coffee cup, took a long swallow. He had to be doing this on purpose.
Mack reached politely across her side of the desk for the mouse. His arm brushed against her hair. His hand cupped over the mouse, the way a man" s hand might cup between a woman" s legs. She flashed on Waster, his hand cupped over Snatch Me" s pussy, the slow stroke and tap of a talented finger over tender flesh. Mack" s finger was tapping the mouse button. Click. Click. Click. She wanted to moan, moan, moan.
She put her hand over his to stop him.
“Here, let me take the scroll wheel for a minute. I want to see something.” He slid his hand from under hers. She arbitrarily opened menus, scrolled through options.
“You okay, Jolie?”
“Sure.” She forced herself to look at him, made her lips move upward into a smile.
He knew. She could see it in his eyes, not the pitying concern she" d grown accustomed to seeing when someone asked that question. This was something more, like a searching. But all he could know was that she was acting strange and had probably figured out he was into the Quarterz. He wouldn" t know she" d been there or what she" d done there. He might guess. Imagine. But personal information was shielded and voices were morphed to protect privacy. He wouldn" t know.
He still hadn" t said anything. His eyes still probed.
“I" m fine,” she said again. “I didn" t sleep well last night and I" m a little spacey.” She lifted the coffee cup in salute. “Nothing this and some stimulating company can" t fix.”
“I" ll do my best to keep you awake,” he said.
She scalded her tongue with coffee and chased that with a piece of doughnut to keep any more stupid words like “stimulating” from falling out of her mouth.
Mack turned back to the screen and more to his credit than hers, they did finally manage to get down to work. The program was complicated and not terribly intuitive.
This was open-source software-free but you had to be a brainiac to use it. Since 3D
modeling programs could cost thousands of dollars she understood his willingness to brave the learning curve.
“Now, see that?” He tapped the monitor with his finger. “I move the model, her hair stays hanging in the air where she used to be. Or if I turn her head, the side of her hair hangs over her face and I spend another hour pushing buttons trying to get the hair right again.”
While Jolie experimented, worked her way through the problem, Mack talked about the program and other things. He kept the conversation light at first-a movie he" d seen, a funny story about his dog. Subtly the conversation switched from about him to about her.
”So you" re planning to stick around keep your dad" s shop going?” he asked. She paused, letting the mouse arrow hover over an open menu, trying to hang on to her place in the problem solving while answering him.
“I" ll keep it going through the summer.”
“A lot of businesses are closing. A shame the economy is such a mess.” She right-clicked and opened up a menu within a menu. “In this case it" s more than the economy. Computer repair shops are going the way of TV repair shops. Tablets have ramped up the speed of that shift. I have to come up with some sort of application or content angle if I want to keep the business going. I just haven" t figured that out yet.”
“You will.”
She wished she had his faith. An idea about his issue came to her and she backtracked. She dropped the pose menu and moved to right click on the models head.
A menu opened and another sub-menu.
“You getting along okay over at your dad" s house? You need anything, you can always give me a shout.”
“Mmm,” she said.
“Don" t be shy about taking me up on it.”
“Okay.” She hit another dead end with the program. She considered a moment and decided on a different task. When one can" t find something where a reasonable person would put it, try looking in a place where it would never put it. Mack" s voice had changed, from the cheerful, this-ischitchat tone to something more serious. She tuned back in.
“I just wanted to say, I lost my wife a couple of years back. Sudden, like with your dad. It" s a real kick in the gut.”
She stopped, looked over at him. He was looking away from her, staring at a poster depicting the parts of a computer, but she could tell he was really seeing something farther away.
This was the place where people were supposed to say something like, I’m sorry for your loss. But that sounded too canned. She couldn" t come up with anything original that felt right. “It is,” she said at last, put her hand on his shoulder, felt the muscles in his back go taut under her fingers. She broke the contact as his head swiveled. Fixed her eyes on the monitor. She could not handle another match with those discerning baby blues of his.
She found his solution then, the option he needed to click so attached items would move with the model.
“Look,” she said. Mack leaned close, his head next to hers. His hair was a rich, dark silk with waves that begged fingers to wander through them. It smelled of citrus and spice. She forced her attention away from his hair and back to the model" s.
“See where you link it?”
“Yeah. How the hell did you ever think to look there?” Jolie just shrugged.
A guy with virtual sex as a hobby should be an expert with attachments, but this feature had been buried in an edit menu when common sense would lead you to expect it in an insert menu.
With the problem solved Mack retrieved his USB stick while Jolie cleared cups and crumbs from her desk.
“What do you use the 3D modeling for?” she asked. “If you don" t mind my asking.”
“Fantasy art, mostly,” he said, standing up, dusting off the knees of his jeans.
“Really? That" s so cool.” Mack just wasn" t the sort of guy you thought of when someone said artist. He had the muscled body of a guy whose work pushed its limits.
He had the wit and moves of a guy whose work pushed his intellect. He had more layers than the lucky librarian costume. What would she find if she kept peeling them back? She wasn" t going to.
If a guy like Waster could capture her desire so completely from the reaches of cyberspace, taking up with a real-life player could be as addictive as crack. Despite the teasing about smart girls, everyone who played those cyber games had to master a steep learning curve to make it work. They were geeks, amplified by a factor of ten.
They were dangerous minds, only safe to handle when limited to pixel bodies. She liked to dip her toe in a little danger, not drown in it.
The door bells chimed and Sienna strolled in.
“Hey, girl, you ready for that rematch? Hey, Mack.” Mack backed through the gate. “I don" t want to keep you. Thanks for the help, Jolie.
Later, Sienna.”
“Everything okay?” Sienna asked.
“Yeah,” she said. “Let" s go running.”
She thought about Waster during the run, and that evening as she was falling asleep.
She thought about the Quarterz when she first woke up…fought an hour-by-hour battle once she got to work, resisting the ache to log in.
It was noon when she realized that she" d gone hours, almost an entire day without thinking of her father. After months of thinking of nothing but, she had finally crossed a threshold. He was slipping out of her life.