Cyberspunk 2069 Bk. 02

"Here, let me," Lane pushed off of her perch, and stepped behind me to cinch the braids together, tying them off neatly with just a short, brown tail leftover. I'd never had someone in my entourage who knew anything about women's hair. If I'd thought about it I probably could have saved some time that morning trying to do it all myself in the mirror.

Manny wasn't allowed to join me in the lockers, even though he was a masc-lete, so he was waiting in his V.I.P. box seat along the front row of the half-drunk crowd. My nipples were like pinpricks in the frigid air of the arena's back stage, and I couldn't wait to get warmed up out in the ring. I was always more comfortable out there than anywhere in the "real" world, but also kind of wanted to get the whole thing over with. O'Neill wasn't a familiar face. I didn't know anyone who'd wrestled him before, since he'd only been in the country for a couple of months.

"No-no. Hey. Mia," Mackey pinched my toe and I blinked back to attention. "Unclench that jaw, you're aw-right." He looked through me with those deep-set eyes and I nodded, relaxing my shoulders too. He let my foot down and rose to grab my hooded, short red robe from the hanger, holding it open for me. I stood and slid my arms into it, then flipped the hood over my braids and headed for the ring.

" ... hailing from just across the river in Trenton, New Jersey, with a record of 51-75, tonight's femme-lete competitor is a scorcher from south of the border. Standing at 5'9" and weighing 195 pounds, put your hands together for Mia 'No' Murciaaaaaaa!" Lester's voice reverberated through the dim tunnel behind the arena entrance, and I took my cue. A synth-rock cover of "La Rebelion" filled the speakers overhead as I descended between the railings of cat-calling and jeering fans, stretching their arms out to try for a high-five or a grope of my full, fleshy ass.

Lane trailed a few steps behind Mackey and I, gazing around at the sea of hollering faces. I maintained focus on the sight of my stool ahead, and the mat beyond it, distantly feeling the cool metal of the floor grates beneath my feet. When I reached the center of the arena, I bowed my head and signed the cross, before sliding out of my robe and raising it high in a tightly closed fist. I turned to face Manny, who was on his feet, clapping and whistling beside some other sponsors and league V.I.P.s, then I settled into my stool. The music transitioned to some lively strings and pipes, and Lester introduced my opponent.

"And fresh off the boat from Letterkenny, Ireland - the man with the magic hands, bringing a Euro-Union record of 110-50, and a mouth like a motor - Cormac O'Neeeeeiiiillllll!"

A flame-haired knot of muscles and blue tattoos came trotting down the opposite ramp, with just a patterned towel draped over his shoulders. He was tailed by a tall brute in a flat cap, and a short, hairy man wearing a lanyard that said "Donnie Draught." Lane was not about to drape a tacky-looking piece of plastic around her neck, so she convinced the organizer to let her bring a holo-banner instead. She raised it behind me and set it to rotate slowly, as O'Neill reached his seat.

The rowdy Irishman whipped the towel from his neck and whirled it overhead, spittle flying from his wiry-bearded lips as he shouted to amp up the crowd up. He was hard-bodied and sinewy, and his cock looked to be a ribbed 9 inches, swinging from his taut pelvis. He had a light tuft of coppery pubic hair, which meant he wasn't fully synthetic down there. The ref appeared at the edge of the mat - an ash-haired black man in the stock black and gold jersey - and signaled us to meet him.

"You know the drill folks - no ring-outs, no breakers, Mercy means hands off. Y'all got the same deal in the Union, yeah?" The ref looked at O'Neill, and he nodded, shifting in place like he was overflowing with energy. I was timing my breaths to slow things down, and met his eyes when he looked at me. He seemed intimidating, but not necessarily cruel. At least from first blush. The ref sent us back to our teams, and Violet strutted out with her gold heels and "ROUND 1" sign.

She was my favorite ringside girl. Maybe because she looked a little like an alternate-reality version of me. An hourglass Latina with long, silky black hair and natural, bubbly tits. Her hips swelled and sloped like wind-smoothed desert dunes, and she had these big, dark eyes that drove fans crazy. As she clacked around the metal bannisters in front of the crowd, a guy stood up right as he finished stroking and volleyed a rope of cum through the air that splashed down the front of her thigh. Ever the professional, she just winked at him and finished her lap.

Mackey reminded me about the guy's quick hands, and sent me back in. The ref nibbled his whistle into his mouth, raised his arm, and let it fall. O'Neill immediately dropped his head to rush me, and I sidestepped, but he caught my right leg and tried to haul me off my feet. My tits mushed against the back of his short-cropped hair, and I shifted to loop an arm around his neck. When he slammed me to the mat I had his ears locked between my ribs and bicep, and worked my free leg to get it around his waist. He pushed a palm into the mat and with a surprising amount of strength for a guy his size, and flipped us both over so that I lost my grip.

I snaked my leg free and pushed a heel into his hip so that I could roll away, but he caught my foot and I didn't get far. He climbed to one knee as he tried to reel me in, and I spun onto my back to get my bearings. Looking up from my position on my elbows, I saw the ridges of his cock expand and swell - turning 9 relatively slender inches into 13 bullfrog-thick ones. Son of a bitch was a grower, not a shower. I planted my free foot and used the leverage to rip my ankle from his grip, before rolling to a stand with a few beads of sweat forming on my brow.

O'Neill stood too, and flexed the blue symbols covering most of his torso, as he stalked toward me with hands prepared. He dove for my leg again and I dropped onto my back to catch him in a pincer grip between my thighs, with one arm trapped against his ribcage. I rolled him once like a feeding gator, and his modded dick slapped against my calf after being buried into the mat. Pressure like that would have been the end for a regular cock, but for O'Neil it was just uncomfortable enough to distract him for a moment.

I shifted my weight and seized his free arm, trapping it beneath my armpit, then I reached down with my one unoccupied appendage and grabbed his cock. We were twisted up like a gym-addicted pretzel when I started stroking his shaft at a frenzied pace. I gripped it tight, and made sure to catch the sensitive frenulum on every upstroke, as he writhed beneath me and tried to roll me off. He cursed in a folk tongue I didn't understand, and then hooked a heel high enough in the air to get it behind my head.

Never had I seen such flexibility from a masc-lete - they were nearly always brawny tanks who took a scorched earth approach to wrestling. So when he hooked me toward his crotch to loosen my grip on him, I had to improvise. I still had his cock gripped in my fist, and as his arm began to slide free from my pit, I jammed my face down on his shaft.

"Wow, Murcia is really going for it down there! These two are a spry pair, and it may well come down to who starts running out of steam first," Tony's voice echoed through the arena over the screaming of fans demanding blood and cum. O'Neill's cock plunged halfway down my throat before the absurdly thick center mass maxed out my jaw. I gagged loudly and felt warm streams of drool trickling from my lips to soak his balls, before he wrenched his arm free behind me.

I still had him wrapped in my powerful legs, even though I was bent forward at a pretty extreme angle. And with his ankle still locked behind my head, I felt him grab at my braids.

"If at's a teste ye're wantin' - ah've got ye," he strained before using his shoulder strength to push my head down further. I let out an involuntary little belch as my eyes watered heavily - and then my new springs did their thing. My jaw popped free, still connected by Lane's high-quality mod, and my face barreled toward O'Neill's balls. He let out a surprised groan of pleasure, tossing his head back, and I threw up a little bit from the abrupt, incredibly deep penetration. My nose burned and started to run from the acidic backwash, but I still managed to seize the opportunity.

Not many Org-tier femme-letes had spring implants, and O'Neill clearly thought he was just going to Mercy choke me down there. But his control evaporated as his huge cock twitched in my throat, and I started pumping my head up and down.

"Ah... feck... me," he contorted, trying to get a hold of my braids again. My throat gurgled and spilled over his massive cock as I worked him up, face a runny mess and jaw dragging a moment behind each of my movements. I felt his leg start to shake behind my head, either from fatigue or pleasure, and I knew I needed to free myself soon. I bottomed out one more time, so that my nose was buried deep into his slimy ballsack, then hauled my face from his crotch and started stroking madly.

"O'Neill is definitely in trouble here - you can see him clenching his teeth, trying to hold back under Murcia's oral assault. But that was an impressively committed milking he just endured there," Lester grinned. My hand felt like it would cramp as it flew over the meaty barrel of his shaft, but I held him in place and kept tugging until he finally popped.

A heavy blast of hot, stringy jizz splattered beneath my chin, soaking my chest and forcing O'Neill to release my head. I quit stroking and tilted the slit away so that the rest of his arcs of cum fired across the mat to the delight of about half the crowd. After the third splatter the ref blew his whistle and I let go of my spasming pleasure victim. When I got back to my stool Mackey held a squeeze bottle over me, and I opened my mouth to catch the stream of cool water.

"How's that jaw feel?" He smirked.

"Still weird... but useful," I panted, returning his mischievous look. I still had cum and slime hanging from my chin and coating my chest, and my face was an overheated smear. Lane rounded my stool with a damp cloth and began wiping away some of the mess.

"You don't have ta-" Mackey started but she cut him off.

"It's okay, I'm used to it," she looked me over after removing the cloth, seeing if she missed anything, then nodded and walked over to where Manny was sitting. He opened a black duffel for her and she tossed the used cloth inside, swiping her hands down the side of her dress. Manny smiled at me, holding up a fist, and I smiled back.

***

In the second round, I grappled with O'Neill for a solid fifteen minutes, before letting him think he'd worn me out. I panted excessively as he crawled over top of me with my back on the mat, and I kept my ankles tucked between my hamstrings and his quads, as he rutted ten hot, Irish inches into my guts. I even did some deceptively patronizing whimpering to really get his rocks up, before flipping his world over.

When he bucked his hips and cursed with pleasure, I kicked my legs up hard, so that his feet flew into the air and his cock yanked free from my snatch. He shot one rope up my belly before thudding down into his own, and bathing my smushed ass cheeks with the rest of his load. He looked incredibly dejected when the ref called the match in my favor, but he still shook my hand before leaving the ring.

I was tingling all over from a two-round knockout against a Borg-tier opponent, and hardly even remember getting back to the locker room or showering. I didn't really "come to" until Manny was driving us home around midnight, sailing along the highway with the windows rolled down.

Chapter 5

Stamford, Connecticut

July 3, 2069

7:14 P.M.

"I don't care that he's new to the league, this isn't the image that headquarters is looking to project."

"So what do you wanna do about it, not count the win?"

"Obviously it's too late for that. We need to retake control of the narrative. Dim the shine a bit with some dirt."

"Like dig something up?"

"No, fresh dirt works better. Pull up the projected schedule for the year."

Chapter 6

Rutgers University, College Ave Campus

New Brunswick, New Jersey

July 7, 2069

2:54 P.M.

Lane strode purposefully along the busy sidewalk leading to the Dean of Students building, and I followed behind with my head on a swivel. The university campus was much more modern than my school back home, even with its old style red-brick buildings and wrought iron fences. There were art sculptures and colorful restaurants dotting every stretch of street, and carbon-clearing pseudotrees waving in the wind overhead.

Guys and girls in their late teens and early twenties flitted by in talkative groupings, wearing "R.U." branded fleeces and tees, carrying bookbags and coffees on their way to or from class. I felt so old, watching those creatures sprung fresh from a fountain of youth radiate sex and beauty with little to no effort, seemingly unaware of their own carnal magnetism. I stuffed my hands into my green flight jacket and pulled it closer over my red bralette as I caught up to Lane.

"This is the student center," she said, indicating the wide-pillared rectangular building stretching up above us, "there's one on each campus, but this one has the most scholarship stations."

"What's a scholarship station?" I asked, looking down at her black hair buns from behind.

"Come, I'll show you." She led me through one of the huge, automatic door panels into a chilly hallway full of plaques and large plants. There was a din of chatter from students milling about further inside. Along the right wall, opposite a long row of windows, were a series of upright, hard plastic booths, with soft rubber slots at the base and fronts of them. And from most of them protruded the taut, nude asses of young college girls of every stripe and color.

They were slightly bent over, with their legs stuck into the base rubber slots up to their knees, and their head and arms stuck into the front rubber slots to their shoulders. You couldn't see their faces, but the screens on the booths above their shoulders displayed a little headshot with their name and major, as well as a live-streaming "face-cam" that showed what they looked like on the other side of the rubber slot at that moment. I didn't notice the little pink cable extending from the leg slots up to their pussies until we approached the first one in the row.

"Melissa Huerta, age 19, Fine Arts and Sociology," I read from the screen. The headshot beneath the name was of a pretty, mixed girl with blue eyes and black hair, and a charming smile. The face-cam beside that showed a tired-looking teen with messy hair and streaky makeup avoiding eye contact with the little camera accompanying her in the dark.

"Let's make a donation," Lane said, and waved one of her flouncy-sleeved arms beside the screen to read the pay-chip in her hand. A little green light flashed atop the booth, and then a harsh vibrating sound started from the pink cable between Melissa's legs. She cried out inside the rubber slot and her hips twisted with overwhelming stimulation in front of us. I looked down to see her flawless pussy and ass bubbling over with half-dried cum, which ran down her inner thighs and streaked the hard plastic base of the booth.

"I guess it's mostly guys making 'donations' here?" I nodded to the mess.

"Yeah, mostly. Lots who aren't students catch the trains and buses that run through campus to stop off during lunch or after work. It's a decent way for the girls to knock some zeroes off their loan debts," Lane crossed her arms in her star-patterned, lightweight dress and watched Melissa's legs shiver. After a minute or two the vibrating stopped and the girl's sexy body went limp, stirred occasionally by little aftershocks of forced pleasure. Lane turned to head further into the building and I followed.

"Are these SexCorp booths? They don't look anything like the usual stocks," I noted as we passed a dozen more of them in the hall. A couple of jock-looking guys occupied a pair of booths at the end, rutting into the defenseless assholes of two of their classmates, and watching the girls' faces twist up on the screens.

"No, these are direct university payments - though the idea is similar," Lane rounded a corner and we were in a large recreational area. There were beanbags and ping pong tables, a wall-mounted jukebox, extra large pinscreens, and droves of students lounging and laughing from end to end. Through gaps in the crowd I was able to make out the occasional nude, leashed girl with her head down beside a ping pong game, or sitting on a guy's lap. Some had a cheaply made "R.U." block letter necklace hanging round their collarbones, and some didn't. My guess was the necklace ones were campus Pets, and the others were the standard kind.

We picked through the crowds to a mostly-empty seating area in front of a pinscreen playing the news, and Lane stopped to turn to me.

"Hang here for a minute, I'll be back," her eye discs flicked over my shoulder, and then she departed. I watched her walk over to a line of campus Pets who were leashed to some pay-activated wall hooks, and start talking to them. I couldn't hear what she was saying, and decided to just settle into the uncomfortable brown couch to watch TV.

After my match with Cormac O'Neill, Lane had called and asked if I would go on a "sales tour" with her. She said that brand recognition went both ways, and that having me with her while she pitched her artistic offerings to various Pet outlets around the state could be helpful. I still didn't like the idea of having my "brand" associated directly with Pets, but the more money I helped her bring in, the sooner my jaw springs would be paid off. So I helped her load a bunch of boxes into her company van and we drove 45 minutes north to the university campus, first.

When I asked what she planned to do there, she said she was going to talk to the Dean of Students about improving their branding. And after seeing the flimsy block letter necklaces, I began to understand what she meant. I looked over my shoulder again, and Lane was gone, along with two of the campus Pet girls. Glancing around I couldn't find her in the crowd, so I just turned back and waited.

On the pinscreen, a story about a new restaurant opening on the top floor of some megabuilding wrapped up, and a different reporter appeared in front of a crowd that was waiting for a podium to be occupied by a speaker.

"Thanks Rod, I'm here at Sunset Suites in Downtown Newark, where legendary Ultimate Battle of the Sexes wrestler, Brawnswick, is continuing his book tour," the woman said into her slender handheld mic. "He and his publisher should be taking the stage any moment now, to answer questions about the book, his career, and what his plans are for the future." Just as the reporter finished speaking, applause went up behind her when a man in a pinstriped suit walked in from a side door, followed by his "writer" client.

Brawnswick wore a terribly-strained, sextuple-XL white dress shirt, and some custom-tailored gray slacks that still threatened to burst with every step he took behind his publisher. In his raw-knuckled left fist he clutched the head of a long, pink leash, the tail of which was clipped to a leather collar around Allie Sun's neck. She followed behind him submissively, nude and with her blonde head bowed, hair obscuring her face somewhat as she walked. I groaned audibly at the sight, and wanted to leap through the screen to strangle the huge fucker right then and there, on camera.