tagSci-Fi & FantasyIn The Year 2127

In The Year 2127


Author's foreword—

Check out my previously posted submissions here on Literotica! This short story is my fifth, so it'd be easier for you to go to my profile and check out my archive of older postings. Enjoy!

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In The Year 2127

Deela stepped out of the turbolift and yawned. It had been just another day working in the salt mines—or the hydroponic gardens as the case may be. She was in charge of fifty subterranean acres of the Van Voss Agra-Lunar Facility, located eighteen hundred feet below the surface of the Sea of Storms on the Moon.

The Moon had been colonized long before Deela was born. Earth was rapidly running out of living space and, in 2032, nine major world powers set aside their differences and decided to mount a serious joint colonization effort to establish the first city on the Moon. Dirt imported from Earth had been mixed with lunar soil in hollowed out caverns for the growing of crops and livestock, and nuclear- and solar-power facilities built to provide electricity. The first lunar city, New Washington, was declared self-sustaining on December 7, 2041—ironically the 100th anniversary of the Japanese attack on Pearl Harbor, Hawaii, which spurred the entry of the United States into World War II. As of today—Sunday, April 25, 2127—there are nine major cities on the Moon, as well as thirty-three suburbs. Deela was headed from her employer in New Tucson to her home in the upscale suburb of Kendallville.

Deela strolled across the cavernous lobby toward the mag-lift tube that would carry her home. The sky was just as black as always and Earth looked like two-thirds of a white-streaked blue marble hanging twenty-eight degrees above the southeast horizon. She felt a low vibration in the floor and looked toward the north—the Repulsor Drive ship John W. Adams, Jr. was taking off from Asimov Spaceport, headed for the colonies on Mars. While the Moon was well-colonized and home to over eighteen million people, Mars was having trouble getting her own colonies established. Humans had been trying to colonize Mars for the past twelve years but the quality of the soil varied. Mars had indeed supported life in her far distant past, and humanity's re-introduction of oxygen and water to the red planet caused long-dormant microbes to become active again. That life had to eat and had a habit of decimating crops, but it had an apparent fondness for hair. Clippings were being placed around plots of crops as a sacrificial element to the microbes; those experiments were showing promise. Until the experiments could be fully confirmed, however, the New Anchorage colony couldn't fully sustain itself yet and had to import food from the lunar colonies.

Thankfully, the Repulsor Drive had been perfected by 2047 and put into full service in 2053. Now, instead of waiting for Earth and Mars to be close proximity to each other in their orbits to launch a seven-month journey, a Repulsor Drive ship like the Adams—named for the famous 21st Century author who first coined the phrase "Repulsor Drive" and laid out the basic parameters of that drive in his fiction novels—could make the same trip in just five hours. If the launch was scheduled for when Earth and Mars were on opposite sides of the sun, however, the journey became much longer—about five days. Once New Anchorage was declared self-sustaining, the United Earth Council had long-range plans in place to begin colonization of Io and Ganymede, two of Jupiter's moons, by 2160. Saturn's moons of Mimas, Rhea and Titan wouldn't see colonization until at least 2195, while the moons of Umbreil and Oberon around Uranus would have to wait until 2220. Neptune's moons of Nereid and Triton were next on the list though timeframes had not been established yet.

Deela felt the mag-lift accelerate as she looked out at the dusty white lunar landscape. She didn't have a man in her life and was lonely. There were ways of making do, of course, but sometimes a woman needed the embrace of another living human. An electronic but pleasant female voice announced the Kendallville station was coming up and for the passengers to prepare for deceleration. Deela braced her feet against the legs of the seat in front of her. The mag-lift slowed, generating a force of about two Earth Gs. The inertia felt good and Deela decided to splurge by setting her apartment's gravity augmentation system for one hundred twenty percent of Earth-normal. Doing so used more power and increased her electric bill; it was similar to an Earth resident running their air conditioning in the summer and seeing a higher electric bill from it. No matter—she could afford it. She planned to do her aerobic and kickboxing exercises and needed the resolute pull of good ol' fashioned gravity to make the effort worth her while. Exercising in the Moon's normal one-sixth gravity was about as challenging as wrestling with a cat.

Deela stepped off the mag-lift and headed for the turbolifts. Her apartment was on the 227th floor of her 351-floor building. She had an excellent view and loved to sit on her balcony, admiring the lunar vista far below and watching ships arrive and depart from Asimov Spaceport in New Tucson, about twenty kilometers away. "Good afternoon," she said to the turbolift operator, stepping aboard.

"Good afternoon," he replied, tipping his uniform hat in a show of ancient chivalry. Bez was 96 years old. He sold his home on Marie Street in Talbott, Tennessee twenty-eight years ago and moved to the Moon as a way of coping with his arthritis. The lighter gravity did wonders for him; he frequently chased women like he was one-third his age. His doctor said he should set his gravity augmentation system to at least eighty percent of Earth-normal for at least six hours a week, no less. Bez ignored the advice. "You'll be dead by the time you're 130 if you're not careful," the doctor warned. Bez thanked her, paid his bill, fired up a nicotine-free cigar and headed for the nearest pub.

The door opened at 227 and Deela stepped out. Bez admired the sway of her might fine behind until the doors closed again. She stepped into scanning range of her apartment's front door, touched an amber pad and waited as it scanned her. It examined things like skin tone, pulse, EEG, and compared her DNA to what it had on file. A second later, it confirmed her identity and that she was alive and breathing. A green light appeared next to the amber pad and her door slid open.

Deela stepped in and the door slid shut. "Computer," she called as she kicked off her shoes. Her household concierge computer indicated it was active and listening by making a pleasant electronic rendition of a bird's chirp. "Check vid-mail and voicemail inboxes."

The electronic bird's chirp was heard again to confirm it heard and was doing her bidding. "Voicemail is negative," the female voice of her computer announced. "You have four video e-mails."

"Identify senders," Deela requested as she went into her kitchen.

The bird chirp acknowledged. "One is from your brother," it reported. "Two are from your mother and one is from Sir Arthur."

Deela's heart froze at the mention of Sir Arthur. "Open and summarize into vocal text the vid-mail from Sir Arthur!" she ordered, her voice shaking.

Bird chirp. "Sent on Sunday, April 25, 2127 at zero-five-three-zero hours, Earth Universal Time," the computer said. "Message as follows: `Little One. I will be arriving tonight at precisely one-nine-zero-zero hours EUT. Be ready for me in your leather corset, stocking and three-inch heels. Have your gravity augmentation system set at Earth-normal. Your cuffs are to be in place and I expect you to be kneeling in the center of your bed upon my arrival. Standard compliment of implements are ordered to be at the ready. Dire consequences await the slightest deviation of my orders. Signed, Sir Arthur.' End of message."

"Computer, what is the time?!" Deela demanded.

Bird chirp. "The current time is one-eight-three-four hours, EUT."

"Shit!" she exclaimed as she scurried for the bedroom. She had just twenty minutes to get it and herself ready, and she inwardly chastised herself for not having the computer flag any incoming vid-mails from Sir Arthur. The randomness of his arrivals was quite annoying at times but there was nothing she could do about it—he came when he came. Deela quickly stripped and got into the specified outfit, leaving the heels off for the time being. Once things were ready, she went back to the kitchen for a quick bite to eat. Sir Arthur always visited for exactly two hours and there would be no time to eat, pee or poop during his stay.

Standing at her kitchen counter, Deela ate a tuna sandwich and washed it down with a bottle of LunarAle, the first beer company to set up a brewery after colonization. They made an excellent light lager. She dumped the plate into the resequencer and brushed breadcrumbs off her leather attire. "Computer, current time?"

Bird chirp. "The current time is one-eight-five-nine hours, EUT."

Her heart stopped. "Computer, precise current time!" she demanded, scurrying quickly for her bedroom.

Bird chirp. "The precise current time is one-eight-five-nine hours and forty-nine seconds EUT—mark."

Sir Arthur would arrive in eleven seconds!

Deela dropped her butt on the bed and grabbed her first shoe while hauling her leg into position to put it on. She shoved it on only to realize she was trying to put her left foot into her right shoe. Flustered, she grabbed the other shoe and brought her other leg up to her thigh—funny thing was, that didn't work either. "Computer, countdown to the hour!" she shouted urgently, abandoning her high heels and assuming the specified kneeling posture on the bed. She could only hope Sir Arthur would be lenient.

Bird chirp. "One-nine-zero-zero hours EUT in four… three… two… one…"

The computer didn't need to announce zero—Sir Arthur's arrival did that just as well. "Little one?" called a deep male voice from her living room.

"Here, sir," called Deela meekly, her heart pounding.

Sir Arthur walked in absolute silence, so it was a small surprise to see him appear in the doorway. "Are you ready, little one?"

She cleared her throat. "Not exactly, sir," Deela replied, feeling and sounding like a schoolgirl facing the principal, knowing she was guilty. "I forgot to put my shoes on in time, sir."

The expression on his too-handsome face darkened. "I sent my vid-mail fourteen hours ago," he rumbled, annoyed, "and you didn't have enough time?"

Deela felt her pulse accelerate even more. "I only checked my inboxes a bit ago, sir! I'm sorry!"

"You will be," he said darkly. Sir Arthur stepped up to the bed and picked up her wayward high heels shoes. "Put these away and get out your special shoes. You'll be spending some time on the treadmill."

She gulped but knew better than to plead. Deela obeyed before getting out the special shoes, feeling dread in her heart.

Sitting on the bed again, Deela brought her leg up and slipped a shoe on while Sir Arthur issued instructions to her computer. The special shoes looked more like a funnel with laces on one side and an extremely tall heel on the other. Known as punitive shoes, they would hold her feet pointed straight down to force all her weight onto the very tips of her toes. It was very difficult and quite painful to balance while standing, let alone walking. Her toes, ankles, arches, calves, knees and insoles would become very tired, very quickly. Sir Arthur watched without sympathetic expression as Deela finished getting ready.

"Come with me."

Deela stood unsteadily and gingerly wobble-walked after him. He led her into the second of her three bedrooms and gestured her to get on the treadmill. "Put your hands behind you," he ordered. She obeyed and Sir Arthur secured her wrists together, crossed over one another behind her back.

"Computer, what is the current gravity augmentation setting?" he inquired.

Bird chirp. "The gravity augmentation is set at eighty percent of Earth-normal."

"You didn't get that done either, little one," Sir Arthur said, sounding a tad more annoyed. "Computer, reset gravity augmentation system to one hundred thirty percent Earth-normal."

Deela looked horrified as the computer made its bird chirp sound and said, "Acknowledged. Gravity augmentation increasing to one hundred thirty percent of Earth-normal." She felt a steadily increasing pull flow over her and her already grouchy lower extremities started to complain more aggressively. Sir Arthur did not appear to be effected.

In Earth-normal gravity, Deela weighed one hundred forty pounds. At eighty percent, she weighed one hundred twelve—but at a setting of one hundred thirty percent, she weighed one hundred seventy-two. It was that sixty-pound increase that flowed over her in just fifteen seconds, and Deela groaned under the uncomfortable strain.

Sir Arthur stepped close. "Open," was all he said. Deela bent toward him, opened her mouth and he inserted a ball gag. The strap was buckled more snugly than she liked and she straightened again. "May you learn from this, little one," he said sadly as he activated the treadmill. The motor engaged and the belt under her punitive shoes began to slide out from under her; Deela had to start walking to stay stationary relative to the rest of the room.

Her feet and lower legs began to howl in short order. The highly augmented gravity, the punishing shoes and the walking all conspired to increase her level of pain. Deela began to whimper and breathe erratically as she fought to maintain her stride and balance. Sir Arthur had inflicted this punishment on her once before; if she stumbled or fell, he would apply five swats to her bare ass with his quirt, put her back on the treadmill and increase its speed by fifteen percent. Last time, he required her to maintain that stride for fifteen minutes and it was logical to presume today would be no different.

Just as she thought that, Sir Arthur increased the treadmill speed by seven percent.

Deela whined through her ball gag, her eyes looking both worried and pleading as she picked up her pace. She was puffing through flared nostrils as sweat from her pain and the exertion began to coat her body. Just as she wondered how her punishment for not being ready could get worse, he showed her—he picked up a flogger from a nearby implement table and began to idly twirl it around as if looking for a place to strike.

Her toes were screaming as she tried to maintain her fast walk like a masochistic ballerina. Sweat increased and started to form little streams on her face and chest; a droplet coursed its way between her heaving breasts. Her whines and whimpers of painful protest were nearly constant now as Sir Arthur looked on without sympathy.

Sir Arthur increased the treadmill speed by two more percentage points and moved to stand beside her. Deela watched with wide and worried eyes as he then drew back the flogger and applied a stroke to her buttocks. She yelped through her ball gag.

Strokes were firmly applied once every eight seconds. Somehow—despite the crushing gravity, the murderous shoes, the haul-ass pace of her stride and the sting of the flogger—Deela managed to maintain her balance. She was right on the ragged edge as it was, but she was somehow coping with Sir Arthur's punishment.

Time passed as Deela hurriedly hobbled along her endless path. She was drenched in sweat now and tears were forming in her eyes. There was no way to ask her concierge computer about how long she'd been at it—the ball gag and Sir Arthur's presence prevented it. Her noises of pain-laden protest were constant and Deela wondered if he was going to keep her at it until she passed out!

Suddenly, Sir Arthur applied an incredibly strong stroke of the flogger and Deela shrieked through her gag. She was approaching the critical point of her balance and was on her way to toppling over when he slowed the treadmill down. Breathing hard and panting quickly through just her nose, she nodded a fervent thanks to him. She could feel nothing but severe pain from her thighs down as the treadmill slowed to a blessed stop.

"Get on your bed, on your back and spread your legs," Sir Arthur ordered.

On unsteady pins, Deela hobbled into her bedroom. She got onto her bed without flopping, as this would offend him. Her crossed wrists were ground against each other as she rolled onto her back. Sir Arthur, meanwhile, removed his clothes. His penis was almost inhumanly large as he climbed onto the bed and positioned himself between her spread legs. She knew her tingling pussy could accept him since it had before, but seeing something the size and shape of an antique Saturn V rocket aiming for her crotch made her hope he'd insert his man-weapon gently.

No such luck. He lined up and entered her all at once.

Deela felt their combined and augmented weight viciously grinding her crossed wrists together behind her back. She fought the pain, howling and snarling through her ball gag as she struggled frantically to find a comfortable position. The only thing that came close was supporting their weight by lifting upwards with her already tortured toes.

Deela was quite surprised when an orgasm suddenly ripped through her with all the speed and power of a Repulsor Drive vessel.

She became aware of herself again after an untold amount of time. Deela opened her eyes and saw Sir Arthur smiling warmly at her. The thought occurred that she'd been passed out or asleep for at least a few minutes since her restraints, ball gag and punitive shoes had been removed. "How long was I out, sir?" she whispered.

"Four minutes, forty-eight seconds. You had four class six orgasms."

She blinked, startled. Her doctor had said she would never have even one orgasm above class five no matter how hard she tried. And she just experienced a quartet of class sixes! "That's amazing," she said in soft awe. "In fact, you're amazing."

"I am programmed to serve," said Sir Arthur with modesty.

"Computer," she called. It replied with its usual electronic bird chirp. "Discontinue Sir Arthur, the treadmill, all his requested bondage equipment and save. Store in encrypted security file for voiceprint retrieval only. Authorization Deela Trumble, omega-ceti-zero-four-two-two."

Bird chirp. "Acknowledged. Sexual session one-four with the treadmill is saved and encrypted."

"Good night," said Sir Arthur.

"Good night, sir," said Deela with soft regret, wishing he was a real person.

Sir Arthur, his clothes, the treadmill in the other room and all the sexual bondage gear disappeared as Deela's household computer deactivated the holographic projection system.

Massaging her traumatized tootsies, Deela wondered for the thousandth time if she should've taken her brother's advice about adding a sexual partner subroutine to her holographic housemaid's programming. It was good to have a man at her beck-and-call without the fuss, moods and needs of having a real man underfoot all the time—but she always felt lonely after her roll in the hay was over. She supposed her relationship with the holographic Sir Arthur was like what men had with naked models in old-fashioned printed-paper magazines one hundred and eighty years ago. Some things never change.

Deela had the computer reset the gravity augmentation to sixty percent, her favored setting for sleeping. Then she climbed under the covers and asked the computer to douse the lights and secure the apartment for the night.

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