Continuing my excerpt-fest, here's a juicy little queer cyberpunk number from my collection, The Bachelor Machine (out now in a new edition by Circlet Books).
Technophile
I almost
lost my virginity at fifteen, but his batteries ran low.
He'd
showed me the unit, zipped open tight jeans and flashed out the Long Thrust.
State, top-of-the-line, implant augmentation. He'd had himself castrated for
the best science had to offer. I wanted it. The instant I saw it, the polished,
burnishing, gleam of it. I wanted it bad. Now. Hard. Fast.
My squat
was old-wired 220 so its juice-pack couldn't take the flow. In playback,
wet-memory, I see him – planes of his face dead in the cheap florescents, as he
hunts in his bag for the adapter he didn't bring.
In the
end, we lit expensive candles and he put his mouth on my cock.
His
mouth was shocking wet, not like my dry hand or the spit sometimes to make it
easier. It was too slippery, and too hot. I was blazing with shame and self
pity, eyes fake closed and instead watching his head dip down. First a quick
spray of over-the-counter anti-viral fog, then it was a wet test embrace on my cock, gentle kisses, then a
wet socket over my cock.
Brent,
friend of my dealer. I'd been taking longer to slip the black market yen, and
taking the tiny plastic bags, just to watch him stand and pose: first time
spotting was like that first time there in my squat. Thick leathers hiding old
cop impact vest, skin-jeans slit to show off log legs, too-tight tee ("YANKEE
IMPERIALIST VICTIM") paint on a stone-mason chest, face cragged and
street-scarred but with museum planes. Eyes then on the street as they were in
my recall of the squat – hidden and refrigerator cool behind convex mirrors of
mandatory shades. He may have been handsome, might have made girls wet, boys
hard – but I'd heard, and then he'd heard that I'd heard and there in that
alley he zipped and flipped it out. Fuck, I wanted it in me right there.
I was
smiling when he lifted from my hardening cock. Smiling back at his smiling
face, at my smiling face reflected in his shades. We smiled at each other
reflected over and over as he gently stroked my cock, kissing it, and sucking a
mouthful of the ridged head (Momma thought cutting sanitary).
The
squat was cold and my futon too fucking hard on my back. My jeans were bunched
around my legs and my back was crooked funny against my pack. So I put my hand
on his head and pushed myself down. So mature for that first time, so
controlled from the burning pity and disappointment of that unit, dead and
powerless between his legs.
Sloped
down onto the futon, I let him suck my cock. The kisses got harder, his tongue
began to play with the tip, that little hot hold in the end that sometimes felt
like prickles and sometimes like warm steel. I was hard from his mouth there,
from his hand gently holding and stroking, from his breath stirring the cool
skin from my shaved balls and belly. I was deep inside, eyes really closed,
letting his hands and mouth work me up and higher and harder.
My balls
begin to swell and heat. Something in me wanted, and because, I guess, I let
myself put a hand on the crotch of his hot jeans. He closed them on my fingers,
trapping them in a denim vice as he made negative moans around my hard cock.
I let
him suck more, letting myself burn deep and pissed and disappointed. I felt his
teeth slide every inch across the skin of my shaft. I couldn't decide if it was
on purpose or accident. And when I thought about it, anticipating it, or trying
to block the hardness of his teeth it just added something to it. I was harder
and harder.
I wanted
something again, I could have what I really wanted but this would do – and from
the heat of him on my cock I pushed a sweet little virginal "please"
out. I opened my eyes and saw that I had slid myself down to his jeans. I could
smell it, that sweet sting-smell of brand-new plastic and his sweat through the
thin denim of his jeans. No negative this time. No refusal for the poor virgin
boy. The sucking never stopped the teeth didn't glide (so I guessed he must be
pretty fucking good at this), but the hands came out and slipped the jeans
down.
Made in
the best labs in Shadow Tokyo. Fucking pure lines – a curving, shining downward
turning tusk of high-impact plastic nested into a shield of gleaming black
chrome. I traced the inert row of decorative indicators that ran along the side
of the shaft (as he sucked the head of my cock, just the head, stoking me wet
and thumbing like a metronome beating against my balls and stomach), feeling
their dimples, and wanting them to light. I kissed the dead head of his unit,
tasting a lingering of lube from the last time he'd fucked with it (boy, girl,
fist, unknown).
He was
sucking so hard now – the coolness was gone, and all I could feel was his hot
mouth sucking and licking and sometimes (there, there) the hard glide of those
special teeth in that trained mouth. His fist was still pumping, and my stomach
ached the good hurt of a rough jerk-off.
The head
of his unit was a different plastic, something so close to skin I could see
with half an eye the unit just a steep pole, an extension of his cock. The head
was anatomically correct and lifelike.
I stoked
it, wishing so hard that it was juiced up and likewise. I wanted it so bad.
Wanted it in my own mouth, wanted to really taste that old lube down deep in my
throat. Didn't know how to do it, natch – but knew I could I wanted it so bad.
Laying there on the hard futon, smelling of years of mildew, I wanted my virgin
ass to take this sweet machine. I
wanted it. I could feel it – so hard and buzzing softly with all those
marvelous features. Closing my eyes, I could feel it, a great background to his
sucking sucking of me. Yeah, I felt it, laying there. Could imagine so perfect,
crisp and clear as I raised my ass up to meet it. I closed my eyes and dreamed
it – that first great touch of it against my asshole as I opened for it,
swallowed it and felt the spasmic vibrators, the asymmetric rhythms, the neural
stims all start to work on the inside of my asshole. I imagined him taking me
deep and hard, only letting the Long Thrust (the Extension Delux Model with the
Dynamic Action Features, coupled with the hottest Joy Buzzer software) do some
of the fucking. My ass, I thought, would go all jelly, my cock would be, and
was, steel. I could feel him slide it into me and out and in and something
powerful would start in my ass and it would travel up my spine and out through
my cock via my brain – just like they said in their ads on the net –
Fuck,
fuck, fuck ... I wanted it in my ass and I wanted it in my mouth – but the
shaft stayed down, the head stayed slightly cold – like a hot-dog from a broken
and cold vending machine.
Too late
for the reality, I was lost in my fondling, his sucking, the beautiful cockness
of the Long Thrust. I felt myself start, felt the rocket start to climb from
balls to tip. I could feel the come start to shake and close my eyes. But I
kept them open and stared: a Long Thrust Delux there, in the crotch of his
hairy thighs. This was one – right in front of me. This was one.
Come jetted
from the head of my cock, into his sprayed, disinfected mouth. The come was as
hard and hurt as much as my fucking cock. My legs danced. He put his hand on my
cold chest as he pumped, sucked and jumped his fist along my shaft. I came and
coated his mouth with my stickiness.
I came,
all wet and sticky, and all I could think of was Long Thrust between his legs –
dead, cold and inert.
