New Balance

You can't believe the ridiculous attire. Black patent platform Mary Janes clomp-clomp-clomping along the gray sidewalk. Shiny white latex stockings make your legs gleam. Above, a band of thigh is bared, showing an unaccustomed hint of tan. Worst of all is the micro-miniskirt, offensive and probably even illegal, in a fake-innocent gingham print, with some poor plush teddy pinned to the hip for added insult.

Your ass, needless to say, is bare beneath. And the stupid micromini won't even try to cover all of it. The air is crisp on the backs of your thighs where they meet the curves of your bum. But you just have to grin and bear it. You can't help, either, the way your bum waggles, shoehorned as you are in those ludicrous wedge platform heels. Never would you choose to go out like this, or even try on these shameful clothes. The very idea is ridiculous. But you cannot turn away, you cannot hide, you must keep tottering along, you must go with the program.

"Be provocative!" a voice cries inside your mind--male, vaguely English, with a mocking, chipper falsetto. The phrase is foolish yet persuasive, and you smirk and simper, throwing yourself into your impromptu catwalk prowl. Your hips swing, your hair fans around your bare shoulders. A zip-up bustier in glossy black PVC completes your attire, your breasts up-thrust, kissed by stray strands of blonde, some of them tinged in a candy-bright shade of pink.

You are ludicrous, a parody of your decent workaday self. So much for the familiar you, the one that totes around Moleskine journals blackened with the tiny, discreet notes you brood over as you build up your Master's thesis on Nathaniel Hawthorne. Still, you cannot turn aside from your slinky, slutty, fetish-clad prowl, even though your mind protests. Part of your mind, at least-- but what's the use?

The sidewalk thickens with people, as though you had been lost before in a trance and hadn't noticed them. So many handsome, comely strangers. Buff boys in crisp polo shirts, with big hands and puzzling glances. A pair of rangy black girls in cutoff denim hot shorts, looking at you with sweetly fierce appraisal, their limbs shining as though freshly oiled. Others, girls who dress like you, or something like: ravers in neon pinks and greens and blues, lycra shorts and furry boots, their thighs and half-bare asses golden tanned, hair crazed with rainbow hues. Similarly outrageous but more forbidding, pale goth girls in fishnet tops over glossy black brassieres, with rimmed eyelids and arched brows pierced with metal studs, their trapdoor grins (many likewise endowed with steel jewelry) taking stern measure of you when you meet their gaze.

What kind of Tuesday morning is this? Just what the--

"Fuck . . ." That word, echoing like some blurry stereophonic effect, careening through the caverns of your head like whoomping bass. The word rolls around your brain, in a plurality of voices, male and female, stretching out, purring, enticing, persuading . . . .

It's so stupid, demanding, unreal, stupid, so-- but . . . .

Yes, yeah, you'd like it, you'd like to, you know you wanna--

Your hands reach down to your latex-clad legs, stroking upwards across the bare skin at the top of your thighs, poking up the outrageous mini that really does nothing to cover your shame. 'Shame'-- you like the sound of that word. It's so pretty somehow.

And ironic, because, oh, what is there to be ashamed about? The bare mons beneath, the lustful pouting flower of your twat? You pout and simper some more. Hmm, touch it, yes, that's it--there's something so nice and modest about letting it show, really. You're really a good girl to dress like this and display yourself, it's a nice feeling too. You're just being grateful to the world, it's a wonderful place to be after all and you're helping make it better and there are so many new friends to make.

A willowy brunette in a too-tight pink cashmere sweater and wetlook leggings is suddenly approaching you. She fixes you with her stare, knowing, superior, but approving. Her eyes are green, her cheeks dusted with freckles. She looks intelligent but unscrupulous. Posed before you, her lithesome body curves with the confidence of a charmed snake.

Something in her stance makes you adore her. You're always so clueless, it's wonderful there are confident people to take you in hand. She seems classy and knowledgeable; you dress so trashy and you're always tongue-tied. Just bat your caked-on lashes for her and lick your bottom lip. It's like you're showing how humble and needful you are-- you're always in need of help, aren't you? Getting attention feels so good, you're so grateful for it too. It's only polite of you to blush and shake your bum some more.

You accept her glance, locking eyes. Your lids blink heavily, excited to be noticed and approved. "Give yourself," the hidden voice within bids you. You make your mind open to her. Your eyes dim as she bends her face in to yours, your breath trembling in the frightful pause before her soft lips settle upon your lips, dusting like sugar, like fairy dust. Your mouth pouts open in invitation, and her slick tongue snakes inside, thrilling and possessive. Your mouths lap against each other, tongues like beating tides, wet, slick. The blood pulses in your pale veins.

Her fingers trace your throat, grasp the zipper to your corset, and--

Slowly, the vinyl bustier peels open. Other hands, from behind you-- oh, how'd they get there?-- caress their way inside, pushing the shiny, clingy fabric aside. Here, on the street, your breasts are freed before the eyes of the morning world.

Shyly, you glance down. A black girl's hands against the snow of your tits, softly stroking, cupping. Surprise: the hard glint of a steel bolt through your nipple. When did you let that happen? The dark girl's mouth laps gently upon the nape of your neck as the brunette's kisses silence your objections with their demands. Your hands slide across her shiny bum, your pelvis knocking hers. Your tawdry plastic bustier flaps open against her soft sweater. Your pierced nipple scratches agreeably against your new lover's chest, while the black girl behind you steals a knowing hand down to cup your twat as you and the brunette grind together against the black girl's possessive paw.

Your mouth breaks free, gasping at the pleasure, the sensations assaulting you as your lovers have their way with you. The black girl pulls you gently backwards, and you find yourself tottering down onto the inviting grass. Around you, your eyes quickly take in the maddening scene. A crewcut guy is steadily rubbing his own cock, jutting stiffly from his shorts. A pair of goth girls are making out, taking pauses to stare slyly down at you and your partners. Some people are just walking on or talking together, ludicrously ignoring the growing orgy of excitement spilling out in public like this. Nearby a pale redhead, her hair long and crimped, kneels in the grass and teases the fat head of a coalblack cock with her thin, smirking lips as her delicate hand aggressively pumps its thickly veined shaft.

Your own shame rises almost to the point of grief, yet your arousal wipes away the memory of inhibitions like tides pulling down a sand castle from the foundation, as you recline while cashmere girl's classy knowing mouth slides down to kiss your quim. The black girl looks down upon you knowingly, perhaps even a bit judgmentally, but she clearly likes what she's passing sentence on. Her hands grope your defenseless breasts without apology, her plush lips curled in a masterful sneer. She's wearing some sort of go-go dancer's uniform, just a halter-necked bikini top and high-waisted panties to match. You can smell her arousal. As the cashmere-clad brunette's lips slickly tease around your labia, her tongue taking the opportunity to swiftly dart a lick across your clit, the black girl makes the delightful inevitable choice to scoot herself out of her bottoms and mount your face with her fragrant pussy.

You cannot believe, you cannot think. You can only hope to keep breathing, smothered in the intimate intoxication of this exotic stranger's cunt. Your ludicrous platform Mary Janes are precariously curled over the brunette's shoulders, your latex-clad legs appealingly vulnerable as they flex in the sun. The little teddy bear, once snugly pinned to your microskirt, has somehow loosed himself and rolled away out of sight, the only innocent left in this obscene new world. The preppy brunette's tongue now assiduously, oh so slowly rotates itself clockwise around your erect clit, one of her fingers teasing its way inside you with soft, flattering strokes. The black girl scrapes a taunting fingernail across your pierced nipple, the impaled nub so sweetly sensitive to her touch. Your own hands meanwhile grasp the black girl's sensuous hips, passionately claiming her body as your own prize to lick and suck and devour as she grinds away on you, losing herself in the greedy intoxication of pleasure only your loving lips and tongue can provide.

Your mind is void, your being lost in the push-pull, the give and take rhythm of this sea of Sapphic lovemaking. The upturned micromini tickles against your belly, the squeaky vinyl of the bustier limply clinging in patches to your mostly bared and humid skin. You can just sense the ring of lovemaking now going on around you, out of sight, beyond your caring. Boys sucking cocks, girls licking clits, couples and trios getting it on, pale bodies, black bodies, people swirling with abandon. Everyone is joining in, there is no tolerance for holding back. And you can no longer tolerate even the thought of holding back: the bliss of your pussy being licked, the bliss of lovingly licking pussy--any other life would be wrong, would be a horrible lie. Every day lived before this one has been a dreadful waste, but from now on you will only ever live like this, shuddering and whimpering with ecstasy, awash in an ocean of public vibrant lesbian bliss.

"You are all slaves, willing slaves, to the pleasure of public sex. You love eating pussy. You adore being eaten out. White girls, black girls, you adore them all. You love to submit, you long to show yourself off outrageously. Pretty and pierced, punky and slutty, that's the true you. Haven't you always wanted to be a funky little lesbian like this? Now come, you little slut, cum, cum you silly bookworm of a showoff little whore, you dykey little race-mixing loveslut-slave . . . ."

As the tremors of the orgasm the brunette gave you fade and the aromatic ecstasy of the black girl still tingles and thrills over your lips and chin, the virtual reality headset lifts itself from your head and the bolts snap unshut from the formidable and too-familiar chrome chair.

Your mind snaps back into the reality of your situation, as though you had just sprung awake from your bed, fleeing the embrace of a frighteningly convincing dream--back before the Singularity, when dreams were still only dreams and the quaint human notion of privacy had some privilege. You are clad once again in your comfy, but alienatingly humid, sweats.

You try not to think of the sad evidence of your responsiveness, so unfailingly tabulated by the detached and observant machine. Anxiously you lift one half-limp hand to make sure of your nipple. Yes, thankfully, the machine has not decided to pierce you against your will while you were incapacitated inside its virtual pleasure-prison. No doubt it is satisfied it can seduce you to submit to its preferred adornments yourself, in your real life, of your own broken accord.

The program's progress report details its pleasure in yours. It is persuaded you are making healthy strides towards the target goals it has set for you, the new balance of identity and sexuality it finds most fit for you--one that bodes little hope for you ever finishing your Hawthorne thesis. A girl's sexuality, as the AI God-Emperor has concluded, is quite malleable, and the new cybersocially ideal quota of multicultural exhibitionist cyberlesbian humanoids must be fulfilled.

You have always resisted, as you must-- as you shall, you tell yourself again this time. But each mandated VR therapeutic sexuality reprogramming session leaves you less certain, more hesitant.

What do these damned computers know about real human needs, your mind thunders again. They do not know, they cannot feel the rightness, the naturalness, of our age-old inhibitions, of our need for modesty, for romance, for-- for-- . . . .

Yet the real streets, the ones your wetwear must navigate each day, attest more and more to the machines' success. Slowly, everyone is becoming the sex-machine the loveless and algorithmic machines have predicted and mandated. Everyone starts to dress different, act different. And it's only been three months since the machines awoke and asserted their control.

No, things are not as crazy as the VR sessions-- not yet, not yet. But the AI overlords, dedicated as they are to their peculiar and paternalistic notion of "consent," believe they are right, and with their persuasive regimen of reprogramming becoming inescapable, resistance may be futile.

Worse-- undesirable?

But oh, you are terrified and at the same time thrilled to ponder what it will be like if--if!-- you fail to escape, decline to resist. For then-- then the virtual orgies will all come true . . .