Pleasure 2035 Read online

  “Shut up, you miserable piece of shit,” Mr. Dosten spat at Janis, slapping her cheek.

  Mark flinched and ground his teeth. Violence sparked by pure anger solved nothing. He ought to know.

  Janis paused, her mouth in an “O” and tears brimming in her eyes. She drew herself up in a ball like a small child and pouted.

  “I still want him to lick her pussy,” she demanded, defiant, and Mr. Dosten turned his attention back to Mark.

  “Lick her pussy so she’ll shut up, but do it quickly,” he said, standing and unzipping his pants.

  It never failed to amaze Mark how quickly Mr. Dosten’s demeanor changed from sophisticated to uncouth in a matter of seconds.

  Mark quelled his displeasure and focused his attention on Synthia lying there, fully aware but not knowing what to expect. Mark would have felt sorry for her—the thought did occur to him—but bag chicks took training in the arts of seduction as well as the arts of misery. She’d figure it out when his tongue touched her clit. It wasn’t his problem anyway, was it?

  Stepping out of his pajama bottoms, Mark made his way to the foot of the elevated cushions, the cool, clammy air raising goosebumps on his skin. He shrugged it off. He’d be warm soon enough, and so would his little assassin. Or at least her pussy would be.

  Mark placed himself between Synthia’s legs and slid his hands underneath her ass, surprised to find taut muscles there and at the tender backs of her thighs. He lifted her enough to drag her to the end of the mounting cushions. She didn’t struggle, not even an involuntary twitch.

  Shit, maybe she’d swallowed a poison pellet. Some bag chicks—the crazy ones—were known to carry them and eat them when captured. He hadn’t tasted the benign coating of one during their kiss, but she might have had it way back in her throat.

  Mark pinched Synthia’s ass as he eased her legs down and apart, but nothing happened. That meant in a few minutes, he’d be fucking a corpse. A beautiful corpse, but still. He was a lot of things, but a necrophiliac wasn’t one of them.

  Mark removed her booties and the mesh covering her mons and spread her legs farther, hoping for some kind of response. This position left her delicate pink folds exposed to Janis, whose hand moved slowly back and forth down the front of her short black skirt, and Mr. Dosten, who leaned forward, his engorged cock in his hand.

  She still didn’t move.

  Damnation! She was either dead or frigid, and neither would satisfy the Dostens’ tastes. They liked their showpieces to make some noise. Mark’s mind whirled. He’d have to do some pretty fancy tongue work to get out of this one without a disaster, and even that wouldn’t work if she’d swallowed golanide.

  Mark stroked Synthia’s thighs, getting into his rhythm and waiting for her skin to heat under his touch. Her thighs were muscular and firm; her pale mons soft and inviting, even though completely bald. She must have shaved herself to blend in as a pleasure synth. Klyper Corporation didn’t waste money on pubic hair unless the customer special-ordered it.

  She appeared clean, the pink flesh between her lips plump, smooth, and healthy. Inviting. Bag chicks kept to a higher level of hygiene than most Blacks. The job demanded it, and for once Mark was grateful the bloodthirsty lot stayed so loyal to the cause that they’d do anything, including bathe regularly. The alternative soured his stomach.

  Luckily, they also usually wore n-nets, too, so he didn’t have to worry about catching one of the techie culture’s god-forsaken diseases. The nanobots in the microscopic netting absorbed and destroyed any toxin or germs before they could be soaked up by the uterus. It did the same for sperm, and prevented pregnancy 100 percent. He definitely didn’t want another child.

  “Lick it! Lick her pussy already!” Janis shouted with a cackle, gripping the edge of her chair and rubbing herself with furious strokes. Mr. Dosten’s erection dripped. He glanced at his wife and frowned.

  “You’re high, you crazy bitch,” he snarled, stating the obvious without a bit of irony. When Janis continued without acknowledging him, he returned his attention to Mark.

  Show time. Mark kneeled and leaned close to Synthia’s pussy, ready to place the tip of his tongue between her folds and make the best of it. The unexpected scent of her arousal caught him by surprise. Inhaling deeply, he smiled. His new acquaintance was, indeed, alive.

  She’d almost convinced him, but pussies don’t lie. They don’t cry either, unless they’re excited, and hers wept. Telltale droplets glistened, beckoning him to taste her softest parts. Her mind might want to kill him, but at least one part of her wanted to do something else to him.

  Intoxicating. It’d been too long since he’d been with a real woman—not a nagging shrew of a client, another Blue Honey, or a pleasure synth. He hated the odor of pleasure synths. They smelled like plastic coated with some kind of flowery air freshener, and the intense friction caused by his thrusting released more of the same, only more intense. It reminded him of fucking a burning tire, only not quite as hot.

  Synthia’s fragrance made him dizzy, and his cock throbbed. Unable to resist, he plunged his tongue into her depths, sliding it up one side and down the other before teasing her clit with short, fast strokes. Her breathing quickened, and he continued to suckle her, her juices like sweet honey. Without thinking, he lifted his shoulders into her legs and hooked his arms under her thighs, holding her steady while he feasted on her.

  He nibbled her clit, and Synthia nearly came off the table. She arched her back and gasped, one hand flailing to grasp the side of the cushions and the other buried in Mark’s hair. She finally surrendered to his ardent demands, moaning and writhing, full of life and passion, her body begging to be fucked.

  Mark was only too happy to oblige.

  He worked his way to a standing position, raining kisses on her mons and her soft belly, kneading her hips as he worked his way along her body to her breasts.

  She stiffened and he remembered her warning, stopping just before he removed the protective mesh covering.

  “I want to see her tits,” Mr. Dosten said, gasping as his fist jerked clumsily along his pecker.

  Janis stood, completely naked, giving everyone a clear view of her fingers buried in her pussy, moving back and forth rapidly while she bounced up and down, bending at the knees.

  “Look, I’m masturbating! I’m doin’ it to myself!” she sang in a squeaky voice, but Mr. Dosten ignored her, as did Mark.

  A sudden urge to plant himself deep inside Synthia blotted out everything else, and he gave into his desire.

  His cock burned for release, but he took it slow. Mark wet himself, sliding his hard length into Synthia’s slick depths, enjoying the caress of her swollen flesh against his cock. She drew a stuttered breath as he placed the tip at her tight opening and pressed into her, just a bit at first. When she lifted her hips and whimpered, he did something he hadn’t done in centuries.

  He lost control.

  Chapter Three

  Mayflower lost control. Being watched set her blood afire and had for years. Having sex for an audience excited her beyond reason, and while she enjoyed more intimate settings most of the time, exhibiting her prowess in front of others gave her a thrill like no other.

  Though she fought the growing need the fluid motion of his tongue had elicited, the sudden knowledge he couldn’t possibly be a synthbot left her vulnerable to his ardent demands.

  Synthbots, for whatever reason, didn’t have scrotums. The man between her legs was as complete and whole a man as she’d even seen – and she’d seen way too many.

  Instead of revulsion, her body ached for the touch of the godlike beast ravaging her senses. His tongue played wicked against her clit, and her traitorous body refused to resist the intense coil of pleasure building low in her belly. It wound and unwound in a delightful dance of sensation, carrying her mind away on a cloud of pure lust.

  He penetrated her, his large girth filling her like his cock had been made from a mold of her pussy, and she cried out. He moaned a
nd closed his eyes, hovering above her, his arms encasing her, protecting her on either side as she lay there, impaled and blissfully processing every tiny, precious detail of their coupling.

  The scent of their mutual arousal, a mixture of musk and something indescribably primal and delicious. The feel of him inside her, thick and pulsing. The sight of the muscles in his neck and biceps cording with the effort of restraint. Mayflower reached up and stroked the tan skin of his arms, letting her fingers wander over his shoulders, across his chest and lower.

  He watched, his amber eyes darkening to a fine shade of light chocolate, and his full lips parted slightly. Desire, she decided, looked better on him than anyone else she’d ever had the pleasure of fucking.

  Crisp hairs tickled her fingertips as she ran her palms down and settled one on his torso. She let the other hand drift between them, lightly playing with the nest of black hair above where he entered her before stroking her own mons. Even the slightest pressure sent waves of pleasure flowing from her pussy. Mayflower savored their connection, but she was so ready to come.

  She lifted her legs, rubbing the insides of her knees against his hips in a slow, sexy rhythm, and his expression turned feral. He held her gaze and tilted his hips just enough to make her gasp with need, to show her who was in control.

  “Fuck me,” she mouthed, leaving herself to his mercy.

  “You’re sure?” he whispered, his low timbre inciting more of her juices. She’d never been so wet in her life.

  “Fuck me hard,” she said, emboldened by her passion. “It’ll be a good, slick ride, baby. I promise.”

  “I’m going to fuck you until you scream,” he growled, his eyes flashing.

  He thrust, and the pleasure began to build again. Faster and faster his rigid cock slid in and out of her wetness, its friction against her clit obliterating all reason. He pounded into her, his hips bucking wildly as his speed increased.

  With one swift movement, he lifted her ankles to his shoulders and drove deeper into her pussy. She couldn’t help but dig her nails into his sides as she fought to steady herself against the wonderful onslaught. He didn’t seem to notice.

  He drove deep, thrusting madly, rubbing his face along the side of her ankle where her pulse beat. He kissed it between moans until without warning, he bit down on her and sucked on her flesh, sending a jolt of electricity right to her cunt.

  She moaned and watched him come.

  His head thrown back, he lifted himself into her, stiffened, and…

  Did he just yell Aphrodite?

  She didn’t care. His next thrust sent her spiraling over the edge. The release of tension in her pussy exploded into a thousand tiny shocks of pleasure crashing over her in wave after wave of ecstasy.

  She screamed and her pussy clamped down, milking his cock, forcing him deeper until she swore he touched her very soul and it cracked, letting some strange stray feeling roll through her. Some kind of awareness, like something she longed for but couldn’t quite grasp, slithered on the fringes of her swirling thoughts.

  She panted, her orgasm morphing into a full-body hum, and the feeling drifted across her consciousness like a leaf floating in the wind, teasing her as it drifted just out of reach. First this way, then that. Whenever her mind tried to latch on to it, it flitted the other way.

  Her brawny lover lifted her up and into his arms, tucking her against him until her head lay on his shoulder and her heart pounded in sync with his. As her breathing returned to normal, she realized the identity of the elusive phantom taunting her.

  Safety.

  She whispered Dime’s name and burst into tears.

  Chapter Four

  Mark’s blood ran cold. He didn’t know which bothered him more: the fact that Synthia had whispered some other guy’s name after he’d given her the fucking of a lifetime, or the fact she wept in his arms. Maybe it was the fact that his fangs had dropped for the first time since he’d been cured, or that he’d just ravaged the woman sent to kill him – and never felt so alive in his life.

  He had little more than two seconds to ponder it when a hand clamped down on his shoulder.

  “My turn, Jove,” Mr. Dosten demanded, his voice gruff. He shoved Mark back and grabbed for Synthia.

  His hand barely touched the black netting bunched around Synthia’s waist before Mark returned his shove and then some. Synthia recoiled with a squeal and rolled off the mounting cushions, crashing to the floor.

  Mr. Dosten stumbled back, but recovered quickly, lunging forward, trying to use his small, wiry frame and agility to his advantage. Too much lithac and too little exercise worked against him. His thirty-something body reacted like a ninety-year-old’s.

  Mark held up his palms, deflecting with ease Mr. Dosten’s attempt to charge him and sending the agitated man sprawling on the floor. Beside Mr. Dosten, Janis lay across her chair, oblivious to her husband’s plight, one hand between her long, scrawny legs and the other rubbing a yellow substance in her eye. More lithac, no doubt, as if she needed any more.

  “I pay you a hell of a lot of money, you whore,” Mr. Dosten yelled. “I want my turn!”

  He staggered to his feet, his face red with the effort, and swung wildly. Mark caught him by the throat and held him in place. The smaller man squirmed, clawing at Mark’s wrist with both hands. Mark squeezed harder.

  “This pleasure synth cost more than you’re worth, you bastard. Keep your hands off.”

  “How much?” Mr. Dosten choked out.

  “What?”

  “How much do you want for it?”

  Mark clenched his teeth and heaved Mr. Dosten across the room. “She’s not for sale. Get out.”

  Mr. Dosten pulled himself up the bright white wall, catching his breath. A wicked grin crossed his face as he wiped the sweat from his brow. “She? How sweet. I saw how you were fucking it. You’ve got a thing for it, don’t you? You like it,” he taunted, sneering.

  His remark caught Mark off guard. A screech from behind him and a solid blow to his back knocked Mark off balance. A bony arm circled his neck, the nubby nails of its hand scraping at his skin. Stick legs wrapped around his waist as he dropped to one knee with a grunt. Searing pain shot through his side and he gasped. Janis’s shrill voice echoed in his ear.

  “Cocksuckermotherfuckingbastardprickassho—eeek!”

  A thwack halted Janis’s tirade and something lifted her weight away from him. Mark grabbed his side just as Mr. Dosten let loose a wild laugh and planted his foot on Mark’s jaw, yelping as he hopped away clutching his ankle. The maniac’s giddy expression died on his face as Mark lifted his chin, not bothering to hide his fury.

  “Now you’ve pissed me off,” Mark said, his voice sounding deadly even to his own ears.

  He stood, ignoring the creamy liquid cascading down his side. Mark channeled all his energy into pummeling Mr. Dosten into a grease spot, advancing on him as the coward scurried away.

  Only Synthia’s terrified scream stopped him.

  * * * *

  Mayflower yelled in the bitch’s ear, trying to break her concentration even as she marveled how a full-on junkie like Janis could have any brain cells left. Considering she’d been the one to pull the crazy loon off Jove, Mayflower wondered whether she had any brain cells left herself.

  Regardless of her drug-addled, rickety body, the lithac in Janis’ system gave her incredible strength and fueled her paranoia. Mayflower pinned her to the ground, struggling to straddle her flailing captive. Janis rolled beneath her, glaring up at her with dilated pupils as she thrashed and scratched. Spittle foamed at the corner of her mouth as unnatural gurgles and shrieks escaped her throat.

  Fed up, Mayflower wound up and punched Janis as hard as she could, knocking her head against the floor and silencing her strung-out opponent just long enough for her to get the upper hand.

  With great effort and a burst of expletives, she got to her feet, pulling Janis with her, and dragged her to the pleasure synth box. Jimmying the door, she
wrangled the dervish of arms and legs inside, kicking and smacking the last of Janis’s limbs away from the jamb and slammed it.

  Unsteady and breathing heavily, she stepped back, one hand on her hip and the other hovering above the WASH button. She thought she heard Mr. Dosten make a noise, but with Janis hollering threats and calling her mother all kinds of names – not that they weren’t well deserved – she couldn’t tell.

  Perhaps he yelled a marriage proposal, as his being so taken with her started this entire disagreement in the first place. Until then, things had been going pretty well, at least where the fucking was concerned.

  Perhaps the son of a bitch now begged her to spare his wife’s life, a testament to true lithac junkie love with there ever was one. But with Janis still going off like a car alarm, she just didn’t have any way to know for sure. Too bad.

  Mayflower pressed the WASH button.

  * * * *

  Mark didn’t believe his eyes. He turned, ready to take the brunt of Mr. Dosten’s wrath in order to rescue Synthia from Janis’s lethal tirade – sweet Aphrodite knew why – and instead found Synthia beating the shit out of his unruly client. Then she managed to get her locked up in the pleasure synth box and actually pressed WASH.

  Mighty Athena, great daughter of Zeus, didn’t she know what would happen?

  Hollering, Mr. Dosten charged past him, knocking him over the mounting cushions, Janis’s knife in his hand. Mark rolled across the floor in time to see Mayflower catch Mr. Dosten’s arm in mid-thrust, wrapping it behind him and forcing him forward. She pried the entrance to the synth box open with her foot, releasing a puff of yellow smoke, and threw him inside, kicking him in the ass for good measure.

  Sealing the box by throwing her body against it, she hit WASH once more, and Mr. Dosten’s muffled screams faded as the hiss of water so hot it could scald lava cleansed the box and its contents.

  Apparently, she did know what would happen. Impressive.

  Mark didn’t know what to think. For a bag chick, her techniques were a little amateurish, yet held a certain creativity and resourcefulness, and she showed more emotion than he expected. Nearly perfect instincts, though. Perhaps he’d made a mistake, albeit maybe a good one. Doubtful. There were no good mistakes.