Pleasure 2035
Cameo Brown
Pleasure 2035
A Ravenous Romance™ Fantastica™ Original Publication
A Ravenous Romance™ Fantastica™ Original Publication
www.ravenousromance.com
Pleasure 2035
Copyright © 2009 by Cameo Brown
Ravenous Romance™
100 Cummings Center
Suite 125G
Beverly, MA 01915
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in whole or in part without written permission from the publisher, except by reviewers who may quote brief excerpts in connection with a review.
ISBN-13: 978-1-60777-019-6
This book is a work of fiction, and any resemblance to persons living or dead is purely coincidental.
Chapter One
Mayflower wished the sun would explode.
With one powerful burst of energy, all her problems would evaporate and the universe would go on its merry way, none the wiser. No more worry about Dime. No more running from Chico. No more sitting in a hot box listening to people fucking while her clit throbbed. Just sweet, sweet oblivion. Was that too much to ask for? Mayflower sighed.
Probably.
Knowing her luck, the afterlife held more of the same bullshit as this life. She already felt as if she were in hell. She leaned her head back against the hard silixtric wall of her prison and swiped at the sweat dripping into her eyes. A real pleasure synth possessed the epidermal coating to withstand the high temperatures in its three-by-six home, while a human such as herself did not.
Her barely-there black net covering, designed more as packaging for a synth than clothing for a human, weighed her down, its whisper-thin but dense weave scratching the sensitive skin of her breasts and her thighs instead of protecting it. It chafed her bald mons, and she shifted to ease her irritation. To no avail, of course.
She’d endured worse than this, she reminded herself, although being crammed into a synth holder and having to listen to some gigolo fucking his clients senseless for the last three hours certainly qualified for the top five shittiest experiences of her life. Not only did she have to suffer the heat, she was horny as hell. Who could blame her? Based on the cooing, appreciative females this guy ushered in and out of his housing unit, he could make a rock come.
She tried to focus and considered sleeping. One more hour. Only one more hour until Klyper Corporation picked her up and returned her to the warehouse, where she’d be able to slip out of this hellhole box and find her way back to Dime. She only hoped she wasn’t too late.
“What the fuck?”
Mayflower jerked as the door to her sterile prison swung outward and a massive form blocked the opening and her only means of escape. A large hand grabbed her arm and yanked her into the blinding light of the world outside her silicone-based jail.
She stumbled, blinking, trying to keep up with the force propelling her forward until she took flight, sailing ass over nose, and landed across the room in a heap, limbs akimbo. She held her breath and went into pleasure synth mode even though her instincts begged her to claw and kick her way to freedom. Instead she lay there like a rag doll, eyes as wide as she could make them, and blanked her expression.
Don’t blink. Don’t breathe. Don’t blink. Don’t breathe. Her muddled thoughts pooled into two coherent ones, ones she hoped might save her ass and keep her from committing another felony, or worse, get sent back to Chico.
“Damnation.”
A deep voice registered in her adrenaline-soaked brain as some force of strength lifted her by the throat and held her in the air, her toes just touching the floor. She resisted flailing and emitting a squeal, biting her tongue instead. When her eyes finally focused on the owner of the hand cutting off her oxygen supply, she nearly swallowed it.
Magnificent.
The most magnificent specimen of manhood she’d ever seen stood before her, scrutinizing her, his gaze roving over her face and lower. He stopped at her breasts and licked his lips, and Mayflower’s body rebelled against her efforts to remain unaffected. Though she willed herself to stay neutral, trying to resist his intoxicating presence proved too much.
Down nipple! Down nipple! Down nipple! Shit!
The man’s brown eyes, a shade like deep amber, widened, and he returned his penetrating stare to her face, his angular jaw set in a grimace and his soft full lips pressed into a thin line. Even ready to kill her, he epitomized male sensuality.
His short black hair curled lazily around his ears, the longer back touching the nape of his neck and begging for her fingers to run through the silky strands. His five o’clock shadow lent a hint of ruggedness to his appearance – ruggedness bordering on dangerous.
And dangerous he was. His fingers continued to constrict around her windpipe, squeezing harder in proportion to the fury growing in his expression.
“I hope you like to fuck, little lady,” he ground out, his tone low and threatening, “because if you don’t spread those pretty thighs for me, we’re both dead.”
Without warning, he let go and Mayflower crumpled to the ground, trying not to gasp for air as angry red spots floated before her eyes. She lay still as a corpse, hoping for the best, hoping he was just a delusional loser who thought pleasure synths were real women, instead of a pissed-off lucid gigolo who knew the difference.
She should have known better.
“You’ve got three minutes to make a decision. Either you play along, or I kill you right now.”
He dragged her to the navy blue fucouch and tossed her against the unforgiving hardness of its square cushions. Mayflower let herself bounce onto the floor, maintaining her charade despite her captor’s best efforts to not believe her. Singing and dancing she’d mastered, acting she’d never quite got the hang of.
Still lying in a heap, she did her best impression of a pleasure synth, even though the angle of her head directed her words into the floor.
“I am Synthia, model 5678, from Klyper Corporation. I am designed to meet your every sexual need. Please fuck me!”
With a grunt, the man swept her up against his naked torso, a solid wall of muscle covered with crisp black hairs. An impressive erection poked her thigh through silky pajama-like pants the color of seafoam, and she froze.
Had the situation been different, been before the Great Fall, she’d have melted into his arms and considered spending an afternoon in his bed, milking sweet pleasure from his hard cock and proving to herself she could please a man after all, despite what her husband or Chico thought. But that time had passed, and now the only thing left was survival. If she had to kill him to get back to Dime, so be it.
He glared down at her, placing one massive hand on her lower back as he twisted her wrist behind her with the other, gripping way too tightly to be considered anything but deadly. None of her personal space remained. His face mere inches from hers, his warm breath tickled her lips as he talked.
“I’m Jovinius Markus Artinuous, Synthia,” he seethed, emphasizing her fake name,” and if you don’t do as I say when my clients get here, I’ll rip your fucking head off and shove it up your ass. Do you understand, Synthia?”
A mixture of fear and anger crept up Mayflower’s spine, spread over her brain and camped out in her stomach. Her hatred of being told what to do nearly overwhelmed her better judgment, but common sense prevailed. Her choices limited, she considered her options.
By her estimation, the barbarian named Jovinius Markus Artinuous had the upper hand, a hand belonging to an arm about the size of her thigh, which was bad. As Chico had complained many times before, she had big thighs.
From the way he towered over her, Mayflower guessed he stood well over six feet, and he obviously possessed incredible strength, strength she’d only se
en before in one species…
Oh my God.
Panic flared, replacing anger and ordinary fear to move like fire through her veins and singe her already frazzled nerves.
A synthbot. He had to be a synthbot. Mayflower couldn’t breathe. The one challenge she’d not anticipated when she ran away from Chico now held her at his mercy. His strength, his unusual good looks, his large cock, the freaky name, and his bad manners—being a synthbot explained it all.
She had to get away. Sheer terror sparked her brain into action and Mayflower shrieked. She kicked out, connecting with his shin at the same time she tried to wrench out of his grasp. The monster showed no indication of pain and instead held her fast, releasing her lower back to wind his fingers through her hair. Tugging her head back, he forced her to look up at him.
In a final act of defiance, she closed her eyes, preparing for him to strangle the life out of her, for the jarring pain of her neck snapping and the subsequent absolute darkness of death. She should welcome the nothingness, but unfinished business nagged at her. She should have fought harder. If she hadn’t been so tired of it all, she might have. She’d failed Dime, like she’d failed her son. It would be her only regret.
Mayflower started violently and her eyes snapped open as warm, soft lips crushed hers. A moist tongue probed the slight part where her mouth opened in surprise. Instead of pain, intense desire flooded her being. Instead of choking the life out of her, the man with three names woke up parts of her she’d thought long dead with every practiced caress against her lips.
She closed her eyes again, this time blocking out anything but the sweet sensation of his lips teasing hers. Her fear of the creature slowly morphed into fear of wanting him to take her and do things to her she’d only imagined in her wildest fantasies.
Though confused, Mayflower longed to kiss him back, and she might have. Lack of oxygen and a flood of emotions threw her off balance. Reality came and went.
After one last nip at her bottom lip, the sensual assault ended. Mayflower opened her eyes to find Jovinius regarding her with an unreadable expression, possibly part curiosity and part arousal. She’d never known a synthbot to experience anything but anger and madness. None of this made sense. Her head spun.
“A couple will be here in one minute expecting me to fuck you. If I don’t provide them with what they’ve paid for, they won’t hesitate to kill us both. They aren’t very nice people. Do you want to die, Synthia?”
His words vibrated against her skin as he licked and nipped a trail down her neck. He planted a kiss on her jugular and her pussy twitched. If this monster was half as good with his cock as he was with his lips…
No!
Mayflower shuddered at her the betrayal of her body. Perhaps it had forgotten what these animals had done to her, but her mind and heart never would. As soon as she could find a blaster, she’d end his existence without a second thought and be on her way. But first, it appeared she’d have to deal with the synthbot’s clients.
A loud blip startled her, and her captor searched her face for a response, those amber orbs mesmerizing her like a snake’s does its prey. She focused her gaze on the digital portrait flashing over the computer nook, breaking their connection, and nodded in resignation. With a grunt, he shepherded her to the fucouch on his way to the door, dropping her against its unforgiving rigidness like one would drop a piece of garbage.
Mayflower fumed as she situated herself, straightening her mesh covering as best she could and crossing her legs to hide any evidence of her excitement. Anger fought with self-loathing. How could she ever feel anything but disgust for a creature whose neural mates took her son’s life?
Just as Jovinius Markus Artinuous reached the door, his fingers hovering above the keypad ready to punch in the security code, Mayflower came to her senses.
“Hey, Jovinius Markus Whateverus,” she hissed in a low voice.
He glanced over his shoulder, eyebrow raised. She didn’t care. If he wanted to live, as all synthbots did, he’d have to listen to her.
“Whatever you do, don’t let them see my tits.”
Chapter Two
“Good evening, Janis. Mr. Dosten,” Mark greeted his guests with a practiced nod.
With a sweeping gesture, Mark welcomed the odd couple into his housing unit, an apartment designed for the ultimate bachelor. Sparse furniture and masculine décor, including the digital portrait player flashing artistic black-and-white nudes mixed with landscapes, lent credibility to his image of the typical sexual nomad, yet offered enough humanity and culture so he passed for Blue Honey without any question.
His clients filled in any missing details themselves. How little they really knew about him, and how little they really cared. Except for the ones who wanted him dead, of course. Some Blacks didn’t like any Blues in their techie territory, not since the Great Fall. Too many bad feelings remained between those who wanted pilox technology free for all and those who wanted to profit from it.
Mark breathed deep and tried to focus on the task at hand to calm his overloaded system. Fighting off an assassin was not the usual activity he liked to pursue before meeting with a client, but it didn’t seem he had any choice. Whoever wanted him out of the way must be cleverer than he’d anticipated, and it galled him. After two thousand years, how could he lose his edge now? The residents at the Camp depended on the intelligence he gathered. Failure was not an option.
The sexy nymph lounging on his fucouch, as if she hadn’t been crouched in a synth box waiting to kill him, couldn’t have possibly had anything to do with his blood racing. Janis glanced down at Mark’s erection as she sauntered past, her bony hips swaying and her red-rimmed eyes sparkling with anticipation.
“Oh, Jove, you’re horny as hell, aren’t you?” she teased.
Okay, perhaps his little assassin did have an effect on him. That was probably her job—bang ’em and hang ’em. Female Black bag chicks were notorious for their unusual beauty, and this tantalizing minx certainly fit the bill.
Her black spiky pixie cut accentuated the high cheekbones in her perfectly oval face and set off her deep violet eyes. Her full black lips invited exploration, and her warm mouth promised all kinds of delights.
Mark’s cock twitched. He probably should have killed her during their kiss when she seemed so vulnerable. It’s not like he hadn’t done it before. The image of Niobe’s wide-eyed stare formed in his mind and twisted his gut into a knot.
“Did you get my message?” Mr. Dosten sniffed as he ushered his wife through the door in front of him. Mark nodded, glad for the momentary distraction.
“You wish to watch, then engage,” Mark stated, reiterating the demands Mr. Dosten included in his belligerent phone message the day before.
Janice licked her lips, and Mr. Dosten gave Mark a condescending, tight-lipped smile of assent. The door slid closed behind them, locking in place with a swish.
“I think you’ll like what I have planned,” Mark said, hoping the hellcat on the fucouch hadn’t changed her mind about cooperating.
The Dostens, high-stakes players in lithac smuggling, qualified as certifiably psychotic. Mark had handled them without incident to this point, but having to dispatch a woman sent to kill him in the middle of session might set either one of them off. The ensuing squabble and publicity he simply did not need.
The couple sat down in the identical black leather easy chairs designated for clients, and Mark strolled to the fucouch.
“Janis, Mr. Dosten, may I present Synthia 5678? She’s a new model pleasure synth, custom made to offer the most realistic sexual experience possible. Her breathing, her responses, all programmed to be as human as the real thing. I think you’ll like what she has to offer us.”
“I distinctly remember requesting a human woman,” Mr. Dosten said, frowning.
“None were available with the characteristics you requested, and my notes indicate you prefer a Black woman to a Blue, is that correct?”
Mr. Dosten nodde
d curtly, still obviously displeased until he glanced at the woman occupying Mark’s fucouch. His whole demeanor changed. His foul expression morphed into one of awe, and the front of his pants tented. Mr. Dosten liked what he saw, and Mark should have been happy. However, watching Mr. Dosten’s measly prick continue to ruin the line in his expensive black slacks, irritated Mark to no end for some reason.
Mr. Dosten rubbed the front of his pants, and a low “mmhmm” escaped his throat. Mark followed his gaze to where Synthia struck a docile pose, staring straight ahead, as if sitting for a portrait. Her shallow breathing lifted her shapely breasts against the black mesh hiding them, and even seated, the flare of her hips accentuated her ample curves. Mr. Dosten shifted in his seat and licked his lips.
“She’ll do, Jove,” he said, pulling at his cock. “Let’s begin, shall we?”
Hiding his disgust as best he could, Mark pulled the string on his pajama bottoms with one hand and with the other used the remote control to recline and elevate the section of the fucouch where Synthia sat immobile, lying back without any resistance when the back folded down.
The sides of the fucouch slid away to allow him access to the prone synth impostor as a pillow rose to accommodate her head. She didn’t flinch or breathe. She didn’t blink. He sensed no fear whatsoever. Whoever trained this bag chick did a good job.
“I want you to lick her pussy, then fuck her ’til she screams,” Janis blurted, ending her words with a giddy giggle.
Mr. Dosten turned to face his wife and narrowed his eyes. Her head dipped back and she laughed as she pulled her purple mesh top off and threw it across the room. She bounced on the leather chair, clapping her hands in front of her.
“I’m horny! I’m horny!” she chanted, her head rolling this way and that as if she alternately searched something on the ceiling and all four walls.
Mr. Dosten glared at Janis, but, high on lithac, she didn’t seem to notice. Things were not starting off as well as Mark planned.