I’d been flying high for a while, a very little while, and now I was right back where I’d started from. Which meant that the only chance I got to meet great looking women was inside the pages of girlie mags. It’s true, what you’ve never had you never miss, but believe me, what you’ve had and lost you really mourn for. And I as I looked at all those horny chicks I felt as mournful as a grounded hawk.
A feeling which wasn’t improved by checking out all the double cool females inside the covers of the magazine and wondering who the lucky dudes were who were screwing them. Apart from also wondering why I hadn’t gone for a nice safe career in the magazine business instead of getting involved in high tech stock market floats: soft bodies are more fun than software and usually a lot easier to sell. Well, unless your name is Bill Gates, I guess.
And then it happened. I could have sworn I was alone in the apartment, the door locked, everything. Until the mag was snatched out of my hands.
I nearly had an heart attack, then looked up to see who was there and every one of my vital organs did go offline for about a second due to pure shock. Because the girl who was standing beside the couch could have stepped straight in amongst the bevy of lust arousing models on the glossy pages and been at home as a flea on a hound dog.
We are talking long blonde hair, a face that would have knocked any king ever sideways on his throne, and a drop dead figure with perky little boobs, all wrapped up — OK, barely covered — by “Hey, man, it’s like honeymoon time” lingerie.
Maybe there are guys who know exactly how to behave when a living doll like this suddenly steps into their life in her stockings, suspender belt and high heeled shoes. I’m not one of them. I lay there with my arm stuck up in the air like I was pretending to be the statute of liberty and I didn’t move a muscle. I didn’t even speak, I just kind of quietly spasmed. My heart was back in action and an Indie driver was pumping the gas into it faster than I could burn it.
“Hi, Rand, nice to meet you,” she said, and I still gaped at her like it was Independence Day and the earth’s skies had been invaded by flying pizzas the size of cities.
“Who — who are you?” I don’t know how it came across to her but I hadn’t sounded that squeaky since I was in junior school.
“I’m Chloe, and I’m the best thing that’s ever happened to you.”
“Where did you come from?”
“Rand, that’s like asking where the rainbow comes from. By the time you’ve finished asking the question, it’s gone. Do you want me to go?”
However confused I was about everything else, at least I knew the answer to that question: “Hell, no, I don’t want you to go.”
“Can I sit down?”
“Sure, surely.” I gabbled. It wasn’t Independence Day, it was Thanksgiving, and I didn’t know whether I was the turkey or the farmer.
She — Chloe — she sat down on the couch and spread herself out on top of me, with a hand stroking the inside of my left leg. About the only thing which anybody could have dropped on me which might have felt better would have been a million dollars, and right then I wouldn’t even have been sure about that.
Hell, I wasn’t even sure I hadn’t somehow overdosed on something, but when I gently stroked her long blonde hair she didn’t disappear. Not only did she seem real, she felt real. And I think maybe it’s not too crazy to say that what was even better, she smelt real.
“You’re not a dream?”
“I can be anything you want me to be, Rand. Would you like me to be a dream? Just shut your eyes and when you open them again, I’ll be gone.”
“Then I’m not even going to blink — but, but … ”
“If you’re still don’t know whether I’m real or not, Rand, why don’t you let your fingers do the talking?”
Even in the craziest of situations there are arguments that are so good you go straight along with them. I reached out with my fingertip and brushed it as gently as a falling leaf against her stocking clad leg. If there’s anything else in the world that has the same combination of smoothness and heat as female flesh under silk, I wouldn’t know what it is. And if there is anything else like that, I sure bet it doesn’t feel so good to touch.
“OK, Rand, I can feel you, so can you feel me?”
“I can feel you, Chloe. I also feel like Doctor Frankenstein after the lightning struck.”
She giggled: “That’s one lousy comment to make to a lady. Do you think I’m that ugly.”
I felt like biting my tongue off: “Chloe, no, no, I think you’re beautiful! You’re fantastic!”
“OK, you’re forgiven. You want to keep on touch testing, Rand?”
Only about as much as I wanted to go on breathing. Or maybe a little bit more. This time I tried higher up her body — way higher, on the top of one of her bra cups. Her leg might have felt fine but for sheer tactile feedback there’s nothing like a tit. Especially when its owner is enjoying the stroking every bit as much as you are.
“Well, am I real, Rand?”
“I guess all I know for sure is that if you’re virtual reality, and I can figure a way of putting you on the internet, I’m gonna buy California and Wall Street.”
She made a tiny little ladylike snort of derision: “Virtual reality? Put your finger out and we’ll give it the ultimate reality test.”
I can’t say she confused me, because a man couldn’t be more confused than I already was, but it took a while before I realized what she wanted. Then I did hold my finger up for her, and Chloe put it in her mouth and gently drew on it as if it were a Cuban cigar.
She was so right, it was the ultimate reality check. There’s no way anybody is ever put a feeling like digital sucking into a digital format.
It also happened to be a turn on that had me shivering with excitement. Up until then I’d been so shocked by her sudden appearance that I hadn’t really taken in what she was. Now all I could think of was that even if she’d popped up out of hell she was the sexiest little mother of a demon I could imagine. Not only would I be happy to sell her my soul to get on top of her, I’d throw in my visa card as well.