Her chest heaved as she panted, her throat gleaming with sweat. Nipples poked into the sticky fabric.She frowned, causing a vertical crease to appear ...etween her eyebrows; there was no smile.“He ... he touched me,” Lucian said, hating how the word rose into a whine. “I’m not a faggot!”The smile returned to Drew’s face. She stepped forward and held his shoulders. Her hands were hot.“Of course you’re not,” she said, her face quite close to his. “But what if you were? Who cares?”Lucian shrugged in. You have a circle of friends back home with an uncanny interest in these women, dressing up in black catsuits and faceless egg-shaped costume helmets to emulate their isolation laminates. You may even have enjoyed a good show or two where dancers pretended to be slaves of the machines in their own burlesque way. But none of your research prepared you for actually encountering one in person, however momentary.You can't imagine what she sees through that helmet of hers, or what the computers at. More

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