Cyberspunk 2069 Bk. 02

The publisher thanked everyone for coming, and started talking about the excitement around the biographical story. I was watching Allie stand there beside her new owner, with a boxy "BW" tatted or branded just above her bare cleavage, when Lane placed a hand on my shoulder.

"We can go see the Dean, now," she said, not acknowledging the screen. She turned to leave, and I took one last look before peeling my thighs from the couch.

Chapter 7

Phillips Buchenwald Estate

Highlands, New Jersey

July 7, 2069

6:43 P.M.

"Good evening, you must be Miss Tran," said the buxom redhead who answered the door in a little black maid skirt and headdress. The entrance to the mansion was at the end of a gravel driveway that was entirely too long, and the residence towered above the surrounding trees, just like the lighthouse on the nearby coastline. Lane confirmed that she was indeed herself, and we followed the dignified, half-dressed woman into her master's home.

The inside was even more garish than the outside, with glitzy chandeliers hanging above loudly patterned rugs, and furniture that looked like it belonged in a baroque museum somewhere outside the states. We passed other "maids" scrubbing stains out of couches and chairs, with feather dusters protruding from their assholes like strange, elegant birds. Then the redhead led us up a wide staircase to a loft with windows overlooking the verdant woods that surrounded the property on all sides.

On an antique, reupholstered day bed lounged a man in a royal blue robe, reading a genuine, hardcover book while a maid fucked him gently. She was holding a tray with a highball glass and a scotch decanter as she steadily lowered herself up and down on his slim, white cock, and gave us a smile as we approached.

"Greetings, Master. Miss Tran has arrived, with a guest," the redhead clasped her hands properly in front of her as her owner looked up from his book.

"Ah, yes. Thank you, Clio," the salt-and-pepper-haired man smiled, and looked to us. The other maid continued to raise and lower herself on his cock. She must have had incredible thigh strength. "Miss Tran, wonderful to finally meet you," the man set down his reading and held out a hand.

"Likewise, Mr. Phillips," Lane crossed the floor to accept his handshake, and then turned to me. "This is Mia, she's an Ultimate Battle of the Sexes femme-lete, and I've recently begun sponsoring her, personally." I stepped forward and offered a highly unpracticed curtsy, then felt like an idiot for somehow thinking that made sense or was an appropriate greeting.

"A pleasure, Miss Murcia - I watched your bout with that O'Neill fellow recently, quite a show." Mr. Phillips' smile didn't waver - if he'd thought my greeting was foolish, he gave no indication. And even more surprisingly, he knew who I was. Apparently high-society types enjoyed an old-fashioned ring romp, too. I thanked him, and then stuffed my hands back into my jacket pockets.

"So, you'd wanted to discuss some of your offerings, I understand?" He looked up at Lane and meshed his fingers over his belly. He was a trim man, probably in his early 50s, with a clean-shaven face and a handsome bone structure. He looked like he came from generations of wealthy white men, which made me inherently uneasy.

"That's correct, I think your muses here would greatly enjoy the experience of becoming art, in addition to creating it with you," Lane said, gesturing a hand over the tanned beauty cunt-stroking her master's shaft.

"Quite, certainly. Let us move to my office, we can discuss matters there. That will do - thank you, Thalia." At his dismissal, the woman stood from his glistening cock, and wet strands of pussy juice and precum swayed from her snatch before sticking to her thigh as she departed with the scotch. Mr. Phillips eased himself up from the day bed, and led us toward his office with his wet cock pointing the way beneath his robe like an old, hard dowsing rod.

An ornate pair of oaken double doors were latched open before a multilevel, polished stone desk that looked like it must have been lowered in through the roof, to end up in that room. Mr. Phillips passed by a young girl with honey-blonde hair as he rounded his desk to assume the high-back leather seat on the other side. The girl was also wearing a "maid" outfit, and carefully packing a large, framed portrait for shipping with lots of styrofoam edges and bubble wrap. I didn't have to look close to guess what it was a portrait of, because the office walls were lined with similar ones, from floor to ceiling.

High-resolution, artistically lit photographs of smiling women with haphazard cumshots strewn over their gorgeous faces, blown up to theater billing sizes, and framed in gold-accented wood carvings. I looked from one pearly, dripping face to the next until I spotted Clio, the redhead, hanging directly beside the desk. She was giving the camera a smoldering, sultry look, with a shimmery web of cum arcing across her nose to settle into her eyelashes.

"Please, take a seat," Mr. Phillips indicated the button-dimpled armchairs across from him. Lane and I settled in, and I noted how velvety the material felt against my cheeks. "Can I offer you any refreshments, tea, water?"

"Uh, just some water, please," I was suddenly feeling parched, confused, and very out of place - all at the same time. Lane politely declined, but pulled a small puck from her stylish purse and set it on the desk.

"Calliope, dear - some water for Miss Murcia," Phillips smiled at the honey-blonde, and she nodded, setting down her packing project and disappearing into the main house.

"So, Mr. Phillips, I'd like to show you something from my current line that I think you may find to your taste," Lane waved a hand over the puck. A little hologram of an earthy-complected woman rose from the desk, around two feet high and nude, with her arms and legs slightly spread. It was a rendering, not a real human scan, and she rotated slowly before us. "I've been experimenting with designs of filigree, and have a variety of pattern work and precious metals to choose from."

She pulled out her phone as she talked, and tapped the little foldable glass device to adjust the settings of her rendering. Delicate, metallic tendrils began to snake up and over the holographic woman's limbs, transforming her into a tasteful, classical sculpture with heavy, brown tits.

"Intriguing - that is quite lovely, Miss Tran," Phillips leaned forward for a better look. "And have you recommendations for skin tone pairings?"

"Of course," Lane said, tapping and sliding a few things on her phone. The woman's skin lightened to a peachy pink, and the filigree shifted from light silver to deep gold, glinting in artificial light as her limbs rotated near to the source.

"Superb! Is the design only possible to inlay onto synthetic skin, or can it work with organic bodies as well?"

"The processes are different, but I've developed a method of application that is equally painless and securely fixed for natural skin. So your ladies shouldn't need to change a thing if you do decide to bring them by for some aesthetic enhancement," Lane smiled. Phillips was transfixed. He asked to see a few of the other design patterns, before confirming his interest and asking about pricing. I was looking around at the cum portraits again, and spotted Calliope's just before she walked beneath it back into the office with a few glasses of water and a small, chrome bucket of ice chips. She set them on the desk, beside the holo-woman.

"Thank you, dear," Phillips lifted a small pair of tongs from the bucket and dropped some ice into his glass. I accepted mine as it was and took a deep swig, wiping my lips with the back of my hand afterward. "I see you're taken in by my photographic pieces, Miss Murcia," he smiled, sipping from his glass.

"They're, uh, unique. Do you shoot them yourself?" I asked. The loads looked too heavy and thick to have come from a man his age, but he assured me they were a solo project.

"One takes up many hobbies when one has a great deal of free time," he set down the water glass and spread his hands, "this is amongst my favorites."

"I see. And, you sell them?" I gestured to the frame being packed by Calliope in the corner.

"Indeed. Like any dabbling artist I am constantly producing new works, and the old ones must be set free - like sending children off into the world once they've outgrown the home." I nodded as if I understood what he was talking about. "But what about you, Miss Murcia, how do you enjoy your career? Certainly, for you, it is much more than a hobby."

I looked at Lane, I hadn't expected an interview, but I guessed this was the mutual brand recognition she was talking about.

"Uh, yeah - I like it, a lot. It's... motivating." I smiled weakly, shifting to sit up a little straighter in my seat.

"Most certainly. I'm likely not the only viewer motivated by your recent performance. I even went back and watched some of your previous matches, afterward - such a fire in you!" His aging eyes twinkled as he relaxed into his seat again.

"Oh, I appreciate that. I have my trainer to thank. And - and my sponsor, of course," I flipped a hand toward Lane, trying to do my part for the business. It wasn't untrue, though. Without her, O'Neill would've gagged me into submission with that cock-lock. But I wasn't used to such positive recognition, like Manny was. My cheeks felt a little hot.

"Most assuredly. Well, Miss Tran, please speak with Clio again on your way out. She will arrange the details of the visit for modification, as well as payment. And Miss Murcia - a pleasure," he stood and held out his hand to shake mine, then Lane's. And Clio appeared again as Phillips turned to help Calliope seal the packaging shut for his cum portrait sale.

We followed Clio to a much smaller desk near the front of the house, where she pulled up a little glowing keyboard and asked for some details about the shop, and calendar availability. Her perfect, pendulous tits hung between her arms as she typed away, and her perky ass cheeks were warmed by the light of the setting sun filtering in through the glass of the front door.

"Do you know which of you Mr. Phillips will likely want to send over for enhancement?" Lane asked as Clio finished creating the calendar entry.

"Oh, likely all nine. Though, perhaps not all at once, or there would be no one here to take care of him." She turned and stood to smile at us, and I pictured that smoldering, cum-splattered look from the portrait.

"And you ladies are happy here, caring for him?" Lane's voice was a decibel or two quieter this time, her eyes fixed on Clio's.

"Why, yes. He is a sweet master. And a brilliant man." The redhead didn't seem to hesitate, or to have to search for the praise. It was right there at the front of her mind. I looked from her to Lane, who held her gaze a moment longer, then nodded.

Chapter 8

Morrisville, New Jersey

July 9, 2069

7:12 P.M.

Penny's house still smelled like garlic and marinara sauce even after Ren had done the dishes, and we opened the old, sticky windows to let in some of the evening breeze. The wafts of brine from the river weren't a phenomenal improvement, but the cool temperature and ambient outdoor sounds were nice.

"So does she sell Pets?" Penny asked, painting her toes with her foot pressed against the living room coffee table.

"No, I don't think so. It seems like she just... decorates them?" I was sipping a beer with my legs folded under me on the oversized recliner in the corner. Ren was in his little "journalist" cave, moderating his forum and chasing down new leads.

"Who decorates a Pet?" Penny wrinkled her brow, being careful with her small pinky toenail.

"Apparently lots of people, based on the responses she was getting the other day."

"Hm. Well, no reason they can't look nice I guess. At least until they get all used up." She shrugged and switched feet after blowing on her toes for a moment.

"The weird thing is like, some of them seemed to be... happy? Like, the weird chicks living in that mansion were all smiles and worship. And not the pleasure chip kind - it seemed genuine."

"Some people like being told what to do, when to do it, how, to who... Maybe they do like being there."

"But they don't get to decide anything for themselves. And I can't imagine 'saggy old white guy' just happens to be the dream type for all of them," I tipped my beer bottle back, and then fixed my fallen spaghetti strap.

"Maybe he does let them decide stuff. I dunno, when you really like somebody, or even just respect them, their looks don't matter so much anymore." Penny dunked the tiny brush into the pastel yellow bottle again and started on her second toe. "In any case, you can dump her once the springs are paid off, if she makes you uncomfortable."

"It's not that I dislike her, I just think I don't understand. The Tauren guys never asked me to go on sales tours with them. Or to talk to their clients about my career."

Penny gave me an incredulous look. "Tauren is a big money machine that just wanted a sexy, half-naked chick for their promo materials. Not that you're not a great rep for any brand - they just don't give a shit about any of us, on a personal level."

Penny's sponsor was legitimately a fleshlight company that designed and sold custom molds of all kinds of famous people. Movie starlets, magazine models, even U.B.S. femme-letes - including Penny herself. She'd had a cast made using some gelatinous silicon mixture that had to settle in her snatch for 20 minutes, and we didn't quite believe that all those Hollywood A-listers were doing the same. But who would know, anyway? Even people they'd fucked couldn't tell you exactly how it felt in there, besides "tight" or "amazing."

Ren leaned out from his research den and cleared his throat.

"Yes, maestro?" Penny looked up from her final toe painting.

"I just thought you guys might want to see the hits from my latest article, about Mia's match with O'Neill." His curly black hair concealed the arms of his clear-framed glasses, and his stubbled lips smiled crookedly with pride. We took the bait and crossed the room to join him, Penny walking carefully while her nails dried.

"I wrote it up the night of the match and posted in the morning, and at first it didn't generate much buzz. But over the past few days, the counter's been climbing pretty steadily." He leaned back in his mesh computer chair so we could see the curved monitor. The headline read "Murcia Grants No Mercy to New Migrant Masc-lete" and there was a screengrab of me puking on O'Neill's balls as the header.

"Ugh, Ren - did you have to use that picture?" I pushed his shoulder and he laughed.

"Listen, I know how to get clicks, okay? But look at the impressions," he pointed to a little line graph off to the side, which showed a steadily climbing amount of interaction over the course of the week.

"Why is it starting to get attention now?" Penny asked.

"Probably 'cause it got buried in the Independence Day match headlines, but fans are catching up on stuff they missed now that the holiday's over." Ren scrolled down to the comments section of his blog article. "See?"

A series of comments rolled into view, from on-the-nose handles like "MascMurder49" and "PuzzyPowerPunani" - some were trolling, others were debating or talking me up, to my surprise.

"Wiped the dude out in round 2, what a welcome to the ISA," from DickDurgler.

"That cunt has sum skills, I'd hit it," from DaddyBaeCareXD.

"She's awesome - new role model," from SammySubs, with a bunch of hearts and flexing arm emojis beside the text. I felt a tingling in my stomach, even as I got into a patch of comments about how I must secretly be a guy, and how my pussy must be rank since I never wear pants.

"Look who's moving up in the world," Penny grinned, slapping my ass cheek and causing me to jump from surprise.

"I wouldn't call it moving up - no offense, Ren," I caught myself.

"None taken," he shook his head. He was mostly immune to my callous remarks, having spent enough time around me by then to know they weren't intentionally mean.

I read the headline and looked at the picture again. Behind my sloppy, regurgitating face, if you followed O'Neill's arm up to his shoulder, you could also make out the look on his own face at that moment. He had one eye squeezed shut, and the other flung wide, with his teeth bared in a stunned pleasure grimace, as he watched the round slip through his fingers. He was like a sailor who'd spotted the rocks moments too late to change course. If I didn't look like such a gross rag in it, I might've considered having it framed.

Chapter 9

Warehouse District

Allentown, New Jersey

July 13, 2069

8:27 P.M.

"Dere ya go, bitch - dat's supper for ya," the scraggly-limbed bionic creature stroked his oversized mod-cock into a dirty, caged Pet's mouth. She was dark-skinned and underfed, and held her tongue out eagerly as the jolts of white sludge poured onto it. A flick of the cumming shaft sent a fat rope splaying up her face, and she coughed as she continued swallowing the long, productive orgasm. "Don't spill now, dere ain't no more 'til morning... unless I gets horny," the little borged-out freak looked at us with that final comment, and I frowned in disgust.

Lane's reptilian poker face was unreadable as ever, watching the other Pets in their cages waiting for "supper" - we'd apparently arrived right at feeding time, much to our misfortune. The little mod-monster said his name was Dunder when he met us at the door of the grimy warehouse on the edge of town. He was the ringleader of the little den of upgrade addicts Lane had driven us out to, and the other bolt-heads watched curiously while getting tuned up or blasting Pet pussy in the industrial space.

"Good girl, dey come to see all you pretty dings - smile nice," Dunder flashed his metallic teeth at the next filthy Pet lapping up his cum as another heavy load spilled from his slit. His SemSac must have been customized, because he was churning out more jizz than even the top-tier masc-letes I'd seen back then. A couple of girls at the end were too weak or unwilling to get up and drink the burbling slime, so he just taunted them while he splattered their legs and tits. Then he jostled his dirty track pants up and stepped back to us.

"Dank you for waiting, ladies," his inverted black eyes with white pupils bounced between us, "what can Dunder do for you?" Some loud jangling of chains made me turn my head to see a huge, Roid Droid motherfucker savaging a gagged and hook-suspended Pet's asshole behind some torn up furniture. He was about the size of Brawnswick, but with red eyes and mechanically-hinged arms.

"We're here to buy some of your stock," Lane said coolly, nodding her head at the cum-soaked crates full of recently-fed Pets. Dunder turned to look too.

"I dought you were a seller, not a buyer. Make 'em pretty, right?" He turned back to Lane. He was shirtless, and there were cables running along his arms and legs up to the back of his head, which was shaved short enough that I couldn't figure out his hair color.

"I play the market, like everybody else," Lane took out her phone. "Most of those look like retired public stock, and Girlfriend contracts. The two on the end are pretty worn down. I'll take them off your hands for..." she tapped her phone a few times, "$11,000 each."

I spun my head to look at her. Why the hell was she buying Pets. And why used up ones? And why for so much? Dunder also seemed a little surprised. He straightened up and pursed his dried-out lips for a moment.