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There Aint No Justice 138
There Ain't No Justice - #138
Detachable Penis, by Arifel
-----------------------------
He leaned back, luminous graffiti patterns on the wall behind him
like a halo. Waiting. Arms crossed, eyes closed, confident; it was
his territory, after all.
He could hear her footsteps down the street, her standard, uniform
shoes clacking on the standard, uniform concrete. He could tell
simply from the sound that she was determined not to show her fear,
her steps slightly louder than usual, each foot put down with just a
little more force than necessary. His only concession to his own
nervousness was to reach down and run his fingers over the outline of
the oblong drug case in his coat pocket, ensuring that it was still
there. Not that the Straights would do anything rash or harmful if
they didn't get their drugs; it was just that the survival of his
Tribe depended mainly on the revenues that their illegal chemistry
provided, and he couldn't afford to lose their merchandise. The
chance of it happening was remote, as in most nervous phobias.
The sound was close, now. She must have been the only person on the
street at this time of night, almost certainly the only Straight. He
shifted away from the luminous graffiti so that he could get a look
at her before she could see him. A precaution, though he knew she
wouldn't try to steal the drugs from him. To the best of his
knowledge, his Tribe were the only ones who made Casmirin, using
tailored e.coli (illegal - more so than the drug itself, and a
closely guarded secret), so the Straights couldn't really afford to
offend them.
He forced himself into the `dealing-with-a-Straight' mind-set, squared
his shoulders and put on a reassuring smile as the sound of her shoes
approached the corner. The smile froze on his face when he saw her.
The Straight uniform hadn't changed much in a hundred years; if
anything, the female variant was even more severe, designed to convey
the impression that the wearer was, in a business environment, not
someone to mess with. She had black shoes with sensibly, relatively
low heels, black stockings (unfashionably unladdered) around shapely,
long legs, leading up into a thigh-length jacket, one button
gathering the lapels at her belly. From there, they opened to reveal
her corporate tie (short, as this season's ties were); they parted to
cup her breasts, which jiggled, otherwise unsupported, beneath a
smooth white silk shirt. Her hair was collar-length, caramel-
coloured, held firmly in place with gel that he could smell from
where he stood. She held a courier's case in one hand, the variety
that would close and then refuse to open unless presented with the
correct palm-print; she held a notepad in the other.
She peered through her wide-rimmed zero-prescription glasses, saw a
pale, thin face above the vague outlines of a black overcoat three
sizes too big; the only details she could make out were his armoured
boots, glittering chrome hinge-bolts at the ankles, a shock of black
hair that hung down over eyes glowing softly in the darkness, eerily
lit from within as was currently the fashion with 'terners.
With a boldness that she didn't feel, she strode up to him and held
out the notepad. The screen showed a record of a financial
transaction, several thousand credits from the Basel Banking
Conglomerate to Nexus Student Tuition (the standard cover account).
He closed his eyes, the pale yellow light dimming, reinforced the
assurance of his smile and produced the drug case, casually flipping
it open to reveal rows of plastic tubes filled with pink fluid. He'd
arranged to include an extra tube, something which the Straights
always regarded as extreme generosity; it barely cost the 'terners
anything to produce Casmirin. He could have given them a swimming-
pool-full of it for what they were paying. What a way to go, he
thought.
Her eyes widened slightly, lashes parting with surprise as she noted
the extra tube; she removed and pocketed it before inserting the case
into a rectangular gap at one end of the courier's bag, which hissed
and closed with a sound one ordinarily associated with armoured bank
vault doors.
The transaction was finished, but she felt inclined to delay, to get
to know him personally. There was a part of many Straights that drew
them to 'terners; the intrigue, mystery, the thrill of danger that
had been carefully excised from Straight life (at least, from the
lower ranks - control wars were something known only to the upper
corporate board-members).
She was presenting all of the standard kinesic signals, but he didn't
seem interested. In an rare intuitive leap (for a Straight), she
realised that he wasn't going to play Straight games, so she decided
to be as frank as possible, asked him directly:
`Would you like to come back to my apartment for a meal?' She knew,
at least, that the majority of 'terners lived on the poverty line,
were usually malnourished and rarely refused a meal. He smiled,
closed his eyes and leaned back against the wall, blue and green
graffiti-light staining his hair.
`Unless you have some sort of other arrangement for the evening, I
think I'd rather join you in bed.' He glanced over to catch her
reaction to this, which was predictable; her eyes widened and her
bright red lipsticked mouth formed an `O'. She was playing up to his
suggestion, though; she inhaled deeply and noted, with a degree of
pride, how his eyes widened at the sight of her breasts pushing up
further from between the dark grey lapels of her jacket. Confident
after this minor reversal of roles, she inclined her head towards the
street, and, after a suitable pause, he followed.
It was only a short walk to the rental AV, but long enough for him to
fix in his mind the image of her jacket, tightly hugging her waist
and her behind. He was sure that her hips were swaying more
exaggeratedly than usual; the sound of her steps was subtly
different - previously, she wasn't trying to attract attention.
The AV was a large, sleekly rounded lump of dark grey plastic, the
walls and door almost fifteen centimetres thick with armour and sound
insulation. Once inside and moving, the journey was silent; neither
of them spoke. She was planning the rest of the evening's events,
and he was wondering if he'd have the opportunity to slip into a
bathroom and attach the bioprosthetic hidden in his bag, a device
that, once slipped over his penis, would attach itself to his nervous
and circulatory system, becoming indistinguishable from the real
thing apart from the fact that it was almost thirty-five centimetres
inches long and, when fully erect, eight centimetres in diameter at
the base. Some of his friends, when cohabiting with Straights,
employed this disguise to engender the belief amongst the mainstream
that 'terners were, by nature, massively endowed. Male Straights
usually thought along those lines, associating penis size with
success (when they couldn't subliminate it into ostentatious shows of
wealth and/or power); the existence of the prosthetic was another
closely-guarded 'terner secret. If the male Straights found out
about it, they'd all want one; it would be a huge marketing success,
but the 'terners who made it weren't that poor. One day, some
Straight research lab would find a reason to replicate it. He
grinned, trying to imagine what sort of excuse they'd give
Management.
The AV soared up, between canyon-walls of glass, steel and plastic,
holographic displays cutting through the night-fog, false colours
blaring into the night. He looked through the smoked-plastic
window, taking in the view; anyone could see this, if they could
afford it. 'terners rarely had any cash aside after their ten-daily
allowance for such frivolities. When smog obscured the view, he
turned back to see her sitting back on the broad leather seat; she'd
unbuttoned the single jacket-button, pushed the lapels aside. The
tails of the silk shirt lay between her spread legs; she smiled,
threw back her head and, in a most inviting fashion, ran elaborately
long fingernails over the tops of black-clad thighs. He made his
optic insets flash red, giving a demonic cast to his gaze which
travelled the length of her body, from her exposed throat down to the
smooth, faintly fluorescent, unnaturally white cloth stretched
between her breasts, down to the darkness that lay under the
shirt-tails. He kneeled forward and shrugged off his coat; he
slipped off her left shoe, then her right, massaging the balls of her
feet, feeling the smooth, uncalloused skin beneath the stockings,
holding her toes in each hand, twisting them first one way and then
another, freeing her muscles of tensions she didn't know she
possessed. He saw that he wasn't going to get that meal after all;
but if he was careful, he could put on that prosthesis while her
attention was otherwise engaged and perpetuate the myth.
His strong fingers slowly worked their way up her calves, digging
with almost bruising force into her flesh while she ran her
fingertips over the smooth material that strained between her raised
nipples, a tell-tale quiver in the muscles of her thighs belying her
arousal. Impatiently, his hands darted around behind her hips,
tugging her forward on the seat, bringing her closer to him, scenting
her, his fingers questing up her sides until they found the hem of
her tights, tugging them down and forward, peeling them from her pale
thighs, chasing the slowly sliding terminator of black netting and
white skin with his own pale lips, gently nibbling the scented flesh
and measuring the degree of flinching his bites caused.
His lips slowly, teasingly centred in on hers, gentle side-to-side
movements of his head pushing her legs further apart, giving him
better access, his unnaturally long tongue - another prosthesis/
surgical adaption - snaking out to tease her, then probing further,
running up one side and down the other, tracing a long, slow spiral
which ended at her clitoris, which responded, making its presence
known.
She ran a hand through his hair, the palm of her hand pressing gently
against his forehead, pushing him back so that he could see the small
pink tube clutched between the thumb and forefinger of her other
hand. She pinched one end, which gave way with the softest of wet
pops, a fat pink droplet running down her thumb. She pointed the
open end of the tube at the abbreviated light-brown curl of pubic
hair two centimetres above his nose, squeezed gently; the aromatic
fluid coursed out and dripped onto her skin, twin reflections of his
glowing red eyes glittering in the wet trail which ever so slowly
wound its way down to disappear between her vaginal lips. The
psychoactive took effect quickly; she arched her back with the sudden
rush, carefully set the tube aside, grabbed his head with both hands
and pressed his face hard against her.
The Casmirin tasted oddly sweet, like honey and cinnamon with a hint
of rose, and it entered his system through the soft tissues in his
mouth just as fast as it had entered hers. While she was busy
sitting back and moaning softly, eyes closed, he undid the front of
his pants and freed his growing erection. He cautiously slipped one
hand into his bag and found the prosthesis, one finger reaching
inside and tweaking the soft-switch. The device came to life, the
end writhing open like a mouth, nanotech lubricants sweating out of
the inside surface. His lips carefully nestled around her clitoris,
he hummed to distract her further while he slipped the prosthesis on.
It always felt strange; slightly cool, clammy; two distinct, sharp
pricking sensations as it connected to his circulatory system and
began engorging with blood, growing warm; the nanotech lubricant
changing cohesivity and becoming an infinitely flexible fixative, a
tissue-thin tube extending down his urethra and fixing itself to the
inside. A moment later, the nerve links connected and he experienced
the strange thrill of running his hand along a swelling appendage
that wouldn't have looked out of place hanging under the belly of a
small horse.
Something of the Casmirin-fuelled thrill he felt on grasping his
enhanced endowment made its way to his partner; he didn't change the
rhythm of his ministrations, but she cried out and her thighs
tightened their grip. He thrust his arms under her knees and pushed
her back in the seat, his lips struggling to maintain their close
contact with hers, tasting her excitement, feeling her climax kicking
back at him and yet staying with her.
They huddled there, clenched together, shaking, her wetness
lubricating the smooth leather seat so that he could slide her
forward again to sit on the edge. She fell back on the seat, her
breasts shifting apart inside the silk shirt, her attitude one of
dazed, heated lust. With a 'terner's sense of the dramatic, he
slowly moved back to where she could get a better look. She lay
before him, panting, her eyes half-lidded, a sensual smile on her
lips, fingers idly running around her nipples which were still
standing up stiffly; the look of surprise which accompanied her
glance down at his erection was almost comical.
`It's true!' she whispered to herself. He grinned, spread her legs
further apart and moved in, almost revelling in the mixture of lust
and fear in her expression. He rubbed the head against the outer
lips, lubricating the head with the wetness there before slowly
pressing it into her. Her legs wrapped themselves around his waist
and held him like a vice; it took all of his concentration to stop
himself thrusting straight into her, which could have injured her.
Instead, he teased her, sliding in a fraction further each time until
the head was pressing against her womb. She lifted her legs up, her
calves resting on his shoulders, squeezing him and giving an added
depth to her vagina; positioned like this, he could almost get all of
the prosthesis into her without causing undue discomfort. They
established a smooth motion and as the AV circled the city, he
ploughed on, powered by the Casmirin which surged through his system.
In her, the Casmirin - coupled with some other drug which she'd been
taking - had an unusual effect on her; she was taking slow, deep
breaths in time with his thrusts; every eleventh thrust would bring
her to a minor climax, and these orgasms were growing steadily in
strength, to the point where he was concerned that she might rip the
prosthesis off him. With the next orgasm, her fingernails broke the
skin on his shoulders; the following one made her moan and shove
herself onto him hard; the next made her scream, and at that point he
decided to release the block he'd put up and allow his own climax.
She slid forward, the leather slick with their combined fluids, and
kissed him passionately. The prosthesis had detumesced almost to
normal size, the head still inside her; she ran her hand down his
chest and stomach, and then she grasped his erection and
inadvertently triggered the soft-switch. The device shut itself down
and released its chemical grip on his real penis; it slid off into
her hand. She looked down, screamed and fainted.
-----------------------------
Phoenix Modernz Systems: 732/xxx-DEAD! BBS's are DEAD, do you hear me?!?
However...
www.etext.org/Zines/ASCII/ThereAintNoJustice
or...
members.bellatlantic.net/~talmeta/ (official homepage of TANJ etc.)
TANJ Lives! (for today, anyway...)
