With the Lucky Ones

Janine slipped her underwear down over the curves of her hips, then let them fall. She kicked them off, flashing a little pink in her dark fur.

Flat belly, a glittering diamond pendant dangling from a pierced naval, and a concave hollow emphasizing her ribs led gazes to her breasts, each more than a handful, with light pink aureoles, stiff nipples.

A blush of lust raced up her chest, onto throat and face. Her full lips, crimson from lipstick, parted, a tip of pink tongue sliding quick across her upper teeth.

Her eyes, lids heavy, didn't blink, their pupils big, their irises bright green.

In her thirties, she'd stayed fit. Running her blood red fingernails down her breasts, along her sides, over her hips, around to her buttocks, she rippled with gooseflesh. Her pudenda swelled, a gleam of trickling eagerness showing in her jungle garden.

It wasn't fair, what she did to those men who gaped through the window at her, eyes agog, mouths hanging open. She knew her body would haunt them the rest of their lives but excitement from showing off for them sometimes made her come without so much as the caress of a single finger.

Masturbating for them was reserved for bi-monthly shows. Six times a year sufficed for them. No use overloading their systems.

Some of the bolder males left streaks of semen on her window. One actually rubbed himself against the window, reminding her of window-shoppers pressing their noses on glass to appear grotesque. She'd laughed, he'd spurted, others had cheered or applauded. Ridiculous jerks.

She'd make them clean off any smears or globs, reminding them that a clear window was a happy peeper. She supposed training them to enjoy watching, not touching, in some way warped them, but what was normal? If they didn't like watching, they'd find other bodies to obsess them.

If she hadn't enjoyed their aquisitive gazes on her naked flesh so much, she'd find other ways to get off. It seemed a good balance, and STDs were never a worry.

Sure, one of them might get pent-up to the point of trying to get to her, touch her in ambush, rape her later in her bed in an alley or car when she went out for groceries or to shop. Their robo-wives also monitored them, she knew.

She didn't worry about such attacks. Fit, trim, and trained in Tae Kwon Do, she knew how to take a blow, how to deliver punches and kicks, how to block swings, how to change inertial direction to avoid being knocked down. She walked confidently, aware of her surroundings, alert to stalkers.

So far, none had bothered her. She didn't expect that kind of attention.

Aside from charging twenty a person to enter the dark hall at the end of which stood her display window, a live-feed subscription service online provided a secondary source of income. Third came sales of worn panties. Her scent, which she sold with poetic descriptions, intoxicated, enthralled, and guaranteed huge ejaculations or orgasms.

Yes, women bought them, too. People ached with loneliness in those end times.

Special requests she entertained at her whim. Some made her laugh. Those she discarded. Some made her nervous. Those she set aside, so she could consider them longer. Others, mere requests for specific colors of silk or pattern of lace, cut or brand, she fulfilled.

No cheating, either, not for Janine.

Some women used artificial scent to give their underwear stank. They bought and sold in bulk, pure business, nothing to do with sex or intimacy.

Janine knew they sold more "worn" panties than a hundred women could wear for a day. Some did wear several pairs at once, but Janine thought of those as carbon copies. She gave good weight.

Many texted, emailed, even sent hand-written letters begging her to let them please oh pretty please with whipped cream semen on let them "make love" to her. Those cracked her up. They wanted to stick their silly little cream-filled hot dog éclairs into her doughnut hole, smear their sticky Boston cream all over her, leave her degraded, humiliated, and used.

No thanks, Janine told them, with silent sarcasm. Ignoring such importuning kept them in agony, perhaps, but at a distance, too. Whiners who begged weren't the type to do something.

Males of all walks of life, losers to the man, every one a self-gripper, a stroker ace, a jack off all trade winds... she didn't like them. So what if women had become a scarcity? She knew they coveted her body. She teased, she displayed, she had her own pleasure exhibiting herself to them, but the thought of letting a male touch her brought laughter or gagging, depending on circumstance.

When she grew bored or had a cascade of orgasms, when she'd gratified herself, down came the blind. She activated it with a button always at hand.

Once, as she shuddered a last inner quiver, knocking pounded on the door on the other side of the house. No door existed where her window showed her to the punters in the dark hall. Triple-ply plexiglass made smashing through to get her unlikely even if bullets were used.

The only way to reach her was through the house, and she kept the lower floor's shutters closed and locked, the doors locked and alarmed. Motion detectors warned her if an intruder succeeded in defeating her perimeter defenses. At that point, her partner, Esperanza, flew into action, her own gun drawn, her dark eyes slits of menace.

Esperanza and Janine lived on the upper floor. Their apartments featured a kitchen, a library, a study, and a luxurious bedroom with its own fireplace and bay window. Their downstairs they kept for occasional parties and Janine's internet shows. That people paid to watch her walk around doing domestic chores nude never ceased to amaze her.

Esperanza withheld her amazement for how much Janine's exhibitionism brought in. They lived well.

They'd done a few shows of themselves having sex but Esperanza's solid waist, cropped black hair, and, yes, her relatively plain face brought in no positive attention, no lucrative 'donations', so she was content to remain behind the scenes.

Their marriage had lasted fifteen years already, too.

Janine shut the blind and switched off the display room cameras. Faint thumps and thuds came to her from the dark hall where the paying gawkers finished, zipped, and slouched back out to their mundane worlds.

"You done for the day?" Esperanza appeared at the inner door.

Janine nodded, slipping on a velvet robe. "Yeah, just have a few envelopes to address." Her underwear business surged during holidays for some reason.

Dinner included a fine wine. None was being made any longer but there was apparently enough stockpiled to last the lifetimes of living oenophiles. Few if any canned or dry goods remained but were welcome when available.

Otherwise they ate vat-grown artificial meats, aeroponic vegetables, and various expensive grains grown in underground fields lighted by overhead sunlamps costly to maintain.

"We're lucky you're so good-looking." Esperanza told Janine this at least once a week, and meant it. Despite most of the world's women having died off, stunningly beautiful, sexy women with curves of the right proportion remained as rare as they'd ever been, rarer.

Once they retired, they'd cuddle, whisper, and fall asleep, occasionally making love, often so gently their pleasure merged into dreams.

Esperanza did maintenance on Janine during the nights, usually once a week, tweaking here, adjusting there, calibrating her cybernetic cyborg darling to keep her at a cutting-edge seductiveness.

Males in a depleted, dying world needed something to obsess them, to keep their minds off the inevitable.

Janine, who had no idea she was artificial, whose pleasure remained brilliant, breath-taking, and beautiful, woke to each new day eager for more.

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