It’s riot season. Somewhere downtown a chopper opens fire. There’s a ripple of rubber rounds and the fat-mouthed thunk of gas bouncers. I was hit by one of those fuckers once, dislocated my shoulder. Hurt like hell. Bruised up like a rotten fruit. Once the defamation suit against me clears I plan to sue the corporation. From up where I am the chopper’s muzzle flare is distorted by the heat from the engines, sparks of light crackling above the dark and orange of the streets. I think of Halloween. It’s always Halloween here and you’d better watch out for ghouls.
I’m trying to see the place where I’m heading to, the place where I think I can get a lead on the Bitches. Yes, that’s fucking right, the Bitches. I got a tip from a cop I know. He said there’s this place called the Cunt and Razor where I might be able to find the intel I want. I took the cop’s cock out of my mouth long enough to tell him he could fuck right off, but he insisted it was legit. He even gave me a natty passcard to get in. Who was I to disagree with the strong – ahem – of the law.
Dear reader let us pause. You may wonder who I am. You may wonder what the fuck I am on. You may be about to blink over to the latest mecha fight (and if you do double down on the Samsung rig). But tarry a while, dear reader, tarry. I am Tomasin T. Spitfire and I live to bring you reportage from the bleeding edge of filth. I fuck and get fucked. I seek out depraved dames, debauched dudes. I glug thirstily at the fountain of fetish, the krevasse of kink. Put this on my tombstone and make sure it shows up under ultraviolet: no hole unfilled, no secretion unspilled. Eyeball this, puny apes: five foot not much, athlete’s legs, abs of reinforced concrete, small tits with nipples sharp enough to cut glass. My hair is fuck off short, dyed Very Pink, the same shade as my ample bush. Jealous? Fuck yah, you are. Of course you want to know, of course you want to watch. Press your sweaty eyeball against my keyhole my beautiful wankers. Old or young, big or small, tight or loose, triple welcome to the lot of you. Gather about the campfire. Slip your cock from your knickers, drop your panties and spread your thighs. And save the tissues: let’s get messy together. Ready, steady, rub.
So here I am, naked, looking down at a distant chopper shoot up pedestrians. From the two hundred and fifty third floor the city is a model, a mad mish of crosscut raised trainlines and scrapers, deep valleys and undercrofts, neon, tungsten and all the subways lit with blue to blunt the needleheads.
Up here bedclothes are thrown back revealing saucy stains. Clothes form weather patterns on the floor, spiralling: a hot front led by some you’re-awfully-naughty jodhpurs is precipitating over a range of vintage jazz mags. They excavate these things out in the shires, thick veins of them in the landfill, I hear. The cupboard pukes dirty laundry. The bathroom is all smears of toothpaste and lipstick and a sketchy footprint in old brown blood (remind me to tell you about that – it was wild). The kitchenette is spotless. I don’t cook. Long, nasty, story why. I look out across the City, get a bearing. My neural link jots it all, blip blip blip, elevator schedule, linear times, where the lockdown is rolling. I’ve got the invite to the ball. All I’ve got to do now is choose something to wear.
Cunt and Razor, I say to myself, rolling the words around. Delicious name isn’t it? What would a patron of an establishment with a moniker as fine as that drape on their bones? I figure it isn’t a big place or I would have heard of it. So that rules out the wackier outfits, masks and strap ons and such, the kind of things people wear when they have a fucking point to prove, bless their greasy gussets. I know it isn’t an upper city place because, fuck me Watson, it isn’t in the upper city. So that crosses the classy clobber off the list. This season it’s all frills. Those execs can show you a time but you have to dress like a toy doll. I like it. For a moment I am lost in a memory of infinite reflective windows, long shadows, leg cuffs. But regarding tonight, with public display and upper city ruled out my choice is narrowed down to sexy as fuck – but with a twist of so fucking cool. This is fine. It’s my speciality.
I go for a shoulderless top, horizontal black and white stripes that hangs to my naval. On the bottom a white slitpouch, barely anything, a bit of ruffle on a string that hugs my things, enough to amuse whoever takes it off. Then a pair of slinky lowriders, orbit black, engineered to be high on the back and dip at the front so a good fingerwidth of muff pokes out over the hem. Pink sky at night, pervert’s delight. On my neck, pearls (so fucking obvious) and on my feet…I look at them sitting there, the colour of a haemorrhage, the colour of a dying star, the colour of a gaping throat. The heels are impossible, wild, a gift from the designer for services rendered. She explained the tech that makes sure you stay upright, but I didn’t listen. I only saw those fucking spikes, the points so thin that in bad light you can’t see them at all. Then, right then, as I ogled the weaponised footwear that looked so kooky they might as well have fallen backwards through time, I wanted so badly to find the Bitches, to see whether the rumours were true. The shoes had to be part of the outfit. They would open doors. If not they would impale toes.
Lipstick to match the shoes; eyeliner to match the trous: keep up kids. I stood back, wiped a memo I’d scribbled in mascara on the full-length. Yes, fucking yes, fucking yes! My hand crept down to between my legs, started to stroke. I was making myself horny. It is an occupational hazard of being a sexpot. I had to have a flick. I wanted my wits about me; no, needed them if I was going to pull this off. A couple of hours with the horn put firmly back in its place would be enough to scope the joint, make some connections, and onwards boldly onwards like the fucking marines. On the job Spitfire!
I blinked up my link as I hopped back into the bed, unlocked the sensory safeties, flicked through my extensive library of scenarios. I’m an addict, you too I bet. I went past the standard male, female, multiple combinations thereof, found the list of bio-trigger scenarios I wanted. If you haven’t dabbled, you must. For the committed nub-shuffler, the trigger programmes click on just as you are about to come. Time slows, shit happens man. Having your climax elaborated by all sorts of mischief is a glorious thing. I even heard of one that simulates your fucking mother interrupting you at the perfect moment. Got to try it some time. Tonight, I’m trying a new one, purchased on the recommendation of a trusted reviewer. I scroll to a file called FINSMERE, select it. I get a message that says for best effects I should lie down, so I do what it says and go to the bed, dismiss the alert with a swish of my noggin.
I slip off the trousers and the pouch. I sigh at how much I love my life. I spread my lips. I don’t mess around: I dip my fingers into the pool and get my slippery pinkies to work. It is not long before I’m getting squirmy. The scenario starts. I have the sensation that my arms are tied above my head. If this sounds like the kind of shit that puts you off then come back, try again, easy baby, the water’s fine. You’ve just got to relax into it, let it happen, don’t fight. Learn to pat your head and rub your belly. Take strong hallucinogenics. Get good at receiving anal sex. These will soften you up. I should have gone into sales. Anyway.
My arms are most definitely above my head and the bed is no longer flat. I’m tilted forwards and my legs are in stirrups, knees up. The room dissolves around me (though I know on some deep level I am still there in the sheets thrashing at my twat). It’s burning hot, a blue sky above. I am in some kind of amphitheatre, exposed towards a crowd. They’re hollering, cheering, in olden-days clothes, togas and shit. I’m getting closer to the oh-ho-ho. From around the side where I couldn’t see a man steps into view. He is huge, eight feet tall, built like an advert for steroids, covered in scars. He is naked, massively erect, thick as a fucking drain. He steps in and puts his hands on my hips. His span is so giant his thumbs and fingers nearly meet around my thighs. Did I freak? No I fucking did not. I breathed in the smell of crystal glare and no escape, felt myself begin to come, a lovely tinglewave from near my spleen.
He put himself against my opening and pushed. He was impossibly large yet the simulation made it possible. There was a sensation of utter fullness and stretch, only a hint of good pain. He thrusted, bucked and came explosively, violently, pumping twitch after twitch of seed into me, the jizz squirting back out where my hole hugged his pole when the pressure got too much. I made screams, rolled my head around, all of that. He pulled out and I lay there in the hot virtual world, spunk pouring out of me like yogurt from a split carton. I favourited the sim in the Good Ones folder, came to. I giggled, rolled around, snapped a pic of my flower and sent it to the girl who recommended me the sim with a big XO. My horn, which I had hoped to put to bed, was worse. Fuckbags! I wanted more, needed more. Power through, girl.
I fixed myself up and went out on the hunt. Come on, keep up!
Source: reddit.com/r/eroticliterature/comments/4kis64/tomasin_spitfire_cyberpunk_gonzo