Suber: The Uber of Sex (Queer Erotica Short Stories)

Part 10: Rachelle and Ana

The final touch was the sparkling earrings. Cubic zirconium flowers glinted on her ears, trying so hard to look like diamonds. Studying her reflection—the dress's black satin bust highlighting her breasts in a conspicuous diamond, the purple skirt too tight on her thick hips—Rachelle felt like she was trying to be a diamond too. She hadn't worn the dress since her cousin's wedding, and it still looked good on her avocado figure, but it seemed to shine just a bit too brightly. She liked to shine—deserved to shine—but the attention wasn't always welcome.

Please dress formally—If the request had come from a man, she might've refused the job. It wasn't just the request that made it weird—in fact, it was what didn't come with the request that made it weird. No sex. Of any kind. If the requester didn't want sex, they usually wanted to masturbate and watch her do something—eat cake, paint her toenails, touch herself, whatever. But the requester never asked for that either. That was strange—a date with nothing sexual? On a sex app?

Someone who paid for a date on a sex app but didn't pay for sex was, in Rachelle's mind, one of two things: a scammer who thought they could get sex for free, or a murderer with some kind of sexual repression complex. But she had a plan for each.

"If you think you're getting it for free," she bounced her curls one more time and gave her dazzling reflection a look that brooked no nonsense "think again, lady."

#

The person who opened the door was not the person who was suppose to.

It was a man, which meant Rachelle had either just stumbled into her next customer's accidentally-come-home-early husband, or her customer wanted group sex without paying for it. With slick black hair, high cheekbones, smooth, light-brown complexion, and a perfectly-fitted suit, he was an attractive man, but Rachelle knew better. For God's sake, the woman hadn't even paid for sex—did she think this man candy was going to make up the difference? 

"Oh, I'm sorry, I have the wrong apartment. Sorry to bother you." Rachelle started to turn.

"Rachelle?"

She stopped. The voice was velvety, low and soft. She turned back. "Um. Yes."

"I'm Ana. Sorry to surprise you."

Tall, with broad shoulders and a hard-angled face, the greeter's masculine charm was most apparent, especially in the fine black suit. But when Rachelle looked closer, she recognized the dark, large brown eyes, narrow nose, and thick, sculpted eyebrows from the picture submitted to Suber. Ana had flowing black curls and a lustrous, party-girl smile in the picture she'd submitted. This was the same person, but Rachelle had seldom seen a hair-do and stern expression make such a transformation.

"Oh." After a moment, Rachelle gave her introductory smile. "I'm sorry. You look different from your picture."

"No problem. Please, come in." The stately woman held the door open.

"Thanks." Stepping inside, Rachelle took a quick survey of the apartment. Hard, architectural lines—the wood beams over the brick walls, the square, black sofa and arm chairs, the glass dining table near the back windows—clashed with soft touches—a jaguar cub plushie perched on the chair, a lush black rug over the living room floor, the rich, inviting scent of jasmine—everywhere. It was mismatched, but deliberate, and, in a strange way, it all seemed to belong together.

"This is really nice," Rachelle commented, looking around. Smiling, she pointed to the jaguar plushie. "Love her."

Ana chuckled, her hard-angled face lighting up with a shy smile. "Thanks. Let me take your stuff."