Cyberspunk 2069 - Bk. 01

At least in the ring, it didn't matter what color your skin was, or what you sounded like, or where you were from. All that mattered was what you could do with your training and mods, and who came out on top.

Or so we thought, anyway.

Chapter 3

SexFlex Training Center

Ewing Township, New Jersey

April 27th, 2069

10:46 P.M.

"Aw'right, now try'n wrap his waist so you can throw 'em with your hips," Mackey instructed, watching with folded arms while our training assistant, Jay, pinned me to the practice mat. We were in a far corner of the U.B.S.-affiliate gym in north Trenton, and Jay's natural 8-incher was buried halfway into me while he waited for my reversal. I was focused on my breathing, rather than his admiring hazel-green eyes, and hardly registered his surprised yelp when I cinched his torso between my strong thighs and abruptly wrenched him off his knees. He tumbled onto his side, and I used the momentum to roll myself on top, still gripping his cock inside me, prepared to initiate a split-saddle milking.

"Gewd, gewd -- pause there," Mackey stepped over and dropped to a squat beside us. "See how you still got your toes tucked 'neath his thigh? Gotta get that outta there during the roll or a bigger guy's gonna crush that sucker 'fore you can get in position." He patted my heel and I slipped the foot out from beneath Jay, planting my toes on the mat so that I was straddling his crotch in a bent-kneed split. "Bettah," Mackey nodded.

I was wearing just a heather-gray sports bra and had my thick, dark locks twisted up in a bun that was becoming increasingly more frayed as we continued the training session. Jay was naked -- beachy-body and short, sandy hair glistening with sweat as he lay flat on his back beneath me.

"You sayin' I'm small?" He smirked up at my white-haired mentor.

"For the big leagues? You're a shrimp, boih," Mackey's Cajun accent colored his speech intermittently, like someone trying to break an old habit. He'd said he never lived in Louisiana, but with a last name like Lapérouse, I wouldn't have been surprised if he'd told me he was the founder of Old Orleans. His snow white hair was swept back from his face with meticulous combing, and he wore a dignified, cream-colored sweater above his straight-leg khakis. His face had always looked, to me, like it belonged to somebody else. It was clear enough that he'd had a lot of work done, but he'd never go into detail about it. Used to say a body is just a shell, and that "it's the ghost inside what matters."

"Go easy on her, Jay -- she's squishy," a sarcastic voice drew our attention, and I locked eyes with Jay's older sister, Allie, as she strode by. Allie was Borg-5 tier -- basically a half-human blonde bimbo with big muscles and a bigger ego. She'd always seemed to have it out for me, for some reason, and clearly didn't love that her brother was helping me train. She tossed her long, platinum hair as she continued on toward the back of the gym, where the more thoroughly-modded competitors trained.

"Ignore her, she was born bitchy," Jay said from the floor, and I stood up from his crotch without looking at him. His stiff, white pecker jumped against the cool air of the gym, glistening with our combined juices under the vaulted, fluorescent ceiling panels. Allie was lucky we'd never be matched up in the ring -- not unless one of us had a cock grafted on to join the shem-lete league. But that was more of a spectacle than a sport. And I'd heard even synthetic balls were a nightmare to get kicked in.

"Let's grab a wohter break, then reconvene for some grapples," Mackey spoke up. I looked at him and nodded, then headed for the mineral fountains. SexFlex was a great gym chain -- they had practice mats, weight sets, multi-grav machines, saunas, even a mod doc on hand to tinker with any misbehaving implants. Plus, that particular branch was only a short autocab ride from the apartment, so I didn't have to bother Manny for the car keys. Even with the relative wealth I'd achieved through years of blood, sweat, and cum, I still never had the patience for upkeep and storage of a car. So if I couldn't walk or transit to the few places I went out to, I'd sometimes borrow my brother's flashy chrome pickup.

The gym's drinking fountains were centered between the masc-lete and femme-lete training areas, and I glanced over to the other side while I tripped the laser and lowered my head to drink. There was a crowd gathered around one of the training mats, mostly low-tier guys and gym rags, by the look of them. I finished slurping and wiped my mouth as I stood to see what was going on, then saw a pair of slender white legs briefly flip above the heads of the onlookers. A reactive cheer and some laughter followed, and I decided to investigate.

As I got close I heard some mechanical whirring and a rising cry of painful pleasure, then a hard fleshy slap, and a deep, cruel laugh. I pressed a couple of training assistants aside and peered through the first row of onlookers to see a huge pile of SynDerm muscles folding a little blonde waif in half on the mat, punishing her nethers with his hips. And when I say folding, I mean literally -- her toes were mushed to the floor on either side of her head, and her eyes were rolling back in her skull. Another rubbery rag, enjoying a particularly brutal session with a big-timer.

The pile of ivory muscle splitting her crotch like a pile driver was Brawnswick, a Borg-7 monster from New York -- a real prince of pricks, in every sense of the word. His dad had been a U.B.S. legend, before he got disqualified from the league for illegal modding. And Brawnswick inherited every iota of dear old dad's flagrant sociopathy.

"What the fuck is he doing here?" I wondered out loud. I didn't actually expect an answer, but one of the assistants I'd pushed piped up.

"He's on a book tour, popping into some gyms along the way for promo," the broad-chested kid pointed to a holo-banner at the edge of the mat. The illuminated stream displayed an image of Brawnswick leaping through the air, with jagged text overhead that read "BATTLE & THE BEAST" -- I nearly gagged.

"He can't fucking write, probly can't even read," I twisted up my face at the idea, and the kid shrugged. I would've bet real money the huge, ugly fuck didn't even know what was in the book, just paid some pencil neck to push the literary turd out for him. I watched him slaver over the crumpled body beneath him as he pumped his hips like a steam engine -- crown of short, silver bolts embedded around his head glinting in the light from above. His limbs were massive, and wreathed with embossed red serpents. Their scales were textured on his synthetic flesh, and their tails converged at the rippling center of his chest, above his 12-pack of thick abdominal bricks.

The spring-jointed fuckmeat getting flattened on the mat let out a high-pitched, groaning wail as Brawnswick climaxed deep in her guts. His girthy bitchbreaker was almost a foot and a half long, thicker than my wrist, and connected to a SemSac pump that churned out absurd volumes of biologically natural spunk. He threw his big, bald head back and growled at the sky as the girl beneath him swelled like a human condom. After a moment, the jizz overload gushed around his cock and soaked the mat in a thick, white puddle under his knees.

When he moved to stand up, grin plastered on his sweatless, bear-like face, the mumbling rag slid from his massive cock in a daze and splatted down into the mess below. She was fine, mostly, apart from looking five months pregnant with celebrity cum. The crowd broke out into applause and I felt disgusted. It was one thing to hulk out on a wrestler in the ring, but these gym rags were limp fish in tiny barrels. It wasn't impressive, it was cheap and pointless. People swarmed him asking for autographs anyway, and he markered a big, bold "BW" onto tits and duffel bags as they were offered up to him. I turned and headed back to my section with a flustered scowl.

Chapter 4

Capital Center Mega-Mall

Downtown Trenton, New Jersey

April 29, 2069

6:14 P.M.

If I had to describe downtown Trenton in two words I'd say something like "glittery shithole," with emphasis on the shithole part. The grimy storefronts strobed with neon displays and holo-banners advertising all kinds of deals and discounts. The cheerful faces of the models on the LED window panes contrasted harshly with the frowning, tired mugs of the broke employees behind the counters. And the air smelled like sweaty ass anywhere that it wasn't being filtered and conditioned by humming roof units sucking power from the flimsy municipal solar grid.

The states had solved much of their urban smog problem with the advent of widespread electric vehicle manufacturing -- but at almost the very same time, they started shackling women in the hot sun and letting the unwashed masses stuff them full of bodily fluids that dripped and soaked into the sidewalks. Even with regular hosings between "shift" changes, there was no ridding the streets of that musky fuck smell that permeated the universal downtown experience.

I was waiting at the Hanover Street crosswalk with Penny, who'd picked me up for a trip to the mall, and I was already regretting the black beanie I'd chosen to wear instead of just washing and combing my damn hair. The cool weather from the start of the week had turned abruptly hot, and I could feel sweat beading from my temples as we stood surrounded by other waiting mall-goers.

Unlike me, in my baggy brown tee and white sneakers, Penny looked cute and coordinated in her pink spandex shorts and heart-patterned crop top. Her wavy, auburn hair was tucked up at the nape of her neck with a little plastic clip, and she wasn't sweating at all. I could feel the eyes on us, and on my bare legs, without even turning to look. But the Battle-brands on our necks proved effective enough in warding off any wandering hands.

The bright lines of the crosswalk shifted from red to white, and we milled over the street in a disorganized mass to reach the five-story monument to capital and luxury. We passed a row of rubber stocks outside the main entrance, and I mistakenly made eye contact with a bearded walrus pumping his prick into a yodeling brunette sporting big silicone knockers. I could tell from the little flicker of a grin before I looked away that he'd be imagining he was finishing inside me instead of her, out there.

"Hello and welcome to Capital Center! Can I offer you a puck guide?" The docent at our row of safety scanners was wearing some silky white garters and stockings, as well as some frilly, elastic cuffs on her upper arms. Her smile was as perky as her little pink nipples, and as authentic as her cute pale tits. You could always tell which commercial Pets were volunteers, and which were forcibly contracted, simply by their enthusiasm.

"No, thanks -- we're just browsing," I said, quirking the corners of my lips as politely as I could manage.

"Okay! Well, if you change your mind, you know where to find us!" She chirped, and then turned to the next guests to repeat her spiel. Penny and I passed through the scanners without tripping any alarms -- our mods were simple enough, not likely to bomb any storefronts or give any kids cancer -- and we headed for the spiral escalators up to the third floor.

"I heard there's a new bubble tea spot on the roof cafe, we should try it out when we're done shopping," Penny smiled at me as we departed the escalator and merged with the schools of people strolling the long, tiled walkways.

"Mmh, I've never really liked that stuff, tapioca makes my stomach hurt for some reason," I patted my lean tummy and thanked any listening gods for the sweet relief of air conditioning inside the mall. I'd been about ready to ditch my beanie outside, but it looked like I'd be spared the embarrassment.

"They have jelly and aloe vera balls, too -- you could try those!"

"We'll see. Maybe I'll just try some of yours." Penny was one of the few "eternal optimists'' that I could tolerate for extended periods of time. She was just so damn sweet -- not in a diabetic, baby-voice, Barbie kind of way, more like she just cared. She would text me vids she thought I'd find funny, drag me out of my nest when I hadn't seen the sun for a week, and ask me how I was doing -- like actually doing, no one word answers allowed.

She was kind of everything that I wasn't, and I think that's why we just worked. Her face was youthful and she had these bright, sparkly teal eyes that she swore were all natural. I didn't believe her but it didn't really matter, they were pretty, and they suited her. At Org-2 she was just one tier below me in the league, but we had a pretty similar build. She was what guys lovingly referred to as a "PAWG," but her bust was even more modest than mine. Whatever I thought of her as a wrestler, she was a decent human being outside the ring. And that was a rare thing in those days.

We'd headed to the mall just to get out into the world, but also to feed her crippling addiction to running shoes. The girl must have owned 20 pairs, all sorted by color and brand, with soles suited to every terrain a person could run on. She preferred natural, outdoor exercise to the treadmills of places like SexFlex, but still hit the traditional practice mats for league training. We let the mall crowds carry us in a meandering stream, window-shopping and people-watching until we were deposited outside of TRAK, a favorite sporting goods store in those parts.

I followed her through the large glass mouth of the shrine to human fitness, and up to one of the many walls of single-shoe displays. The miniature shelves stretched way up over our heads, but there was a scrollable pinscreen that let you view all the offerings up close.

"Ohh I hope they got a new shipment of the Playmore ProShocks!" Penny shimmied excitedly as she swiped through the digital display, flashing past all kinds of colors and designs.

"Are those special or something?" I asked, picking up a porous, yellow sneaker that if you removed the laces, could easily be mistaken for an oddly shaped sponge.

"I had a pair of regular Shocks last year, but Ren left them on the patio while he was vacuuming and they got rained on," Penny frowned. "These are supposed to be water-repellent AND reflect ambient light for night runs." Ren was Penny's boyfriend, and lived with her in the house she rented in Morrisville, just across the Delaware. They'd been together for a little over a year, and had met at a league press event. He fancied himself a journalist, but was really more of a niche blogger with a major hard-on for U.B.S. girls.

Most guys wouldn't dream of dating a league femme-lete -- either for fear of getting their junk mangled, or watching bigger guy's mangle their girlfriend's junk on TV -- but Ren seemed to be into it. He was Penny's biggest fan, even though her record was something like 6-40 at that point. I personally think he just had some kind of deep-seated cuckold kink, and got off watching his girl get whipped around and stuffed in front of millions of people. But they seemed happy together, so what did I care?

"Evening ladies, can I help you find anything?" A tall attendant with chocolate skin and long, red hair approached us with a smile. Their TRAK uniform was a velvety leotard with stripes running down the sides. The one-piece looked oddly comfortable.

"Hi, yes do you have any of the new ProShocks in stock, size 7?" Penny sparkled.

"'Fraid not, we can't seem to keep those around for more than a few hours after the truck comes by," the attendant offered an apologetic pout. "But! If you're open to it, we do have some new Sezan PolyGlides I can show you. The colorblend fabrics are gorgeous." Penny lamented, then agreed to see the other option, never one to pass up a new shoe introduction.

I watched the two of them pore over the expensive selections at first, until I got bored and pulled my phone out from my bra, sinking into a silvery beanbag chair nearby. I scrolled through a few notifications about the alliance between China and Brazil, a new spray-on makeup approved for market testing, and a release date announcement for the new Sperminator movie, starring Angie Whoresall. The first two had been smash hits, and the new one was rumored to be a director's cut, with all the hardcore penetration scenes left in, unfiltered.

I texted the link to Manny, then popped open my browser to check the U.B.S. lineups for the coming week. I already knew I had a match in a few days with Bryce Abaddon, but I hadn't bothered to look over the rest of the schedule. Penny had a match the night after me. Manny was on a by-week. And Allie had a match over the weekend. I swiped across the screen to see who she was up against, and almost choked on my own spit.

***

"I'm sure she'll be fine, he's only two tiers up from her -- she can handle it," Penny held her honeydew bubble tea up to the light and swirled it around, watching the little yogurt balls dance at the bottom.

"Yeah but she's only been Borg-5 for a few months, and she never wrestled Brawnswick when she was still Org-4," I was sitting cross-legged on the astroturf of the mall's roof cafe, looking out through the glass panels that acted as guard rails.

"Well that's why there's a ref, and rules. He may be a maniac but he can't just do whatever he wants in the ring." She offered me a sip from her oversized straw, and I waved a hand to decline. My stomach was already feeling unsettled, even without the tapioca. Why did I give a shit what happened to that blonde bitch? She'd had nothing but contempt for me since I entered the league a year behind her. The nicest thing she'd ever said to me was that my "ass looked like an implant," and I know she hadn't meant it as a compliment.

"Doesn't that itch?" Penny gestured to the wispy green fibers arrayed against the warm lips of my bare puss.

"Naw, she's mostly dead inside, like me," I joked, grinning and pretending to knock on my smooth cooter to listen for an echo.

"Must take all the fun out of the bedroom for you," she play-pouted.

"Who has fun in the bedroom anymore?"

"Me and Ren do!"

"Really? He doesn't get self-conscious?"

"Why would he?"

"I dono, maybe 'cause the pieces those guys are packing in the ring could put a bull moose to shame?" I laughed.

"Nah, he doesn't care about that. I don't either. It's different with him, outside the ring," Penny suckled at her straw and watched the horizon, as the sunset burned it down behind a veil of pink clouds. With all our modified elasticity and enzyme injections, Ren really didn't have to worry about his girl becoming too loose, or infected -- no matter how many ring rags the masc-letes buried themselves in before her. I watched Penny sip on her tea. I was happy that she was happy. Sometimes the world was still good, I tried to remember that.

"How do the shoes feel?" I flicked the purple-hued toe of her new PolyGlides and she smiled.

"They're a little stiff, but they'll wear in. Gonna go for a run tonight I think, wanna come?"

"No thanks, Manny'll eat all the leftovers if I'm not there to claim mine for dinner."

"How come you guys are still living together, anyway?" The question wasn't meant to be judgemental, but it still caught me off guard.

"Uhh, I guess... it's kind of a cultural thing. Back home, families stayed together. Even when the kids grew up, if you weren't still living at home you visited for dinner most nights. I think if we didn't have each other... we'd kind of feel lost."

"You must miss your parents," Penny placed a tea-chilled hand on my knee.

"Yeah. I do. We talked about bringing them here. At first they didn't want to leave home, and by the time they were ready to consider it, all the rules had changed." There had been an attack at the Mexican border in '65, and the I.S.A. government was convinced it was the work of Cartels, or Coyotes, or even Brazilian ops that channeled up through Central America. But whoever was behind it, the border got locked down, and ports on all the coasts were put on permanent high alert. The tension was palpable, and even naturalized citizens like me and my brother could feel the heat rising for anyone who didn't "look like they belonged."