Croakers Hate Cyborgs

Greetings, my fellow cyborgs, and welcome to my hot sex content. It's plain text, but it'll get your rocks off, so you'll be glad you paid for it.

Here's a sample. Janine is a 27-year-old peach-skinned brunette, healthy on the outside, and willing to drop her skort in an alley. Low-flying freight drones drowned out her howls when the head of my prick parted her folds. Pay now for more, including why she didn't want to be heard.

I was 53 years old when I amassed enough real and virtual coin to become a cyborg. Barely. You might smirk at my low-budget improvements, but I'm as selfish and greedy as you are, so you'll feel right at home as you live vicariously through me. Cybing left me leveraged up to my still-natural eyeballs, so I had to keep scrambling to prevent the debt from crashing down. Thus, I've posted a lot of these escapades.

I've delayed my natural-cause death by at least eighty years. If I get locked up for my 'financial transactions,' I might not croak in jail.

Veena is 23, brown-skinned, pregnant, and in her own way religious. She sucked my dick, but only while the father of her fetus was fucking her, to keep her vagina honorable in the presence of a strange man's penis. Pay now for more, including details of the rite during which she got pregnant.

You all know that croakers hate cyborgs. Unlike some of you, however, I believe that croakers have every right to that hatred. I shared it for about thirty years. Thing is, though, every young croaker hopes to pile up enough money, someday, to get herself cybed up and delay croaking. So a hot croaker chick would naturally try prostitution, or hook up with a guy or gal who can get her somewhere. She'd hope eventually to afford enough augments to repair later any damage that rough sex might do to her now.

Yes, there are plenty of male croakers out there who take the same approach. Maybe there's a male just-barely-cyborg trolling for gay sex, and writing about it. If that's your thing, you'll have to find it on your own. I won't help you with that or any other special interest. Pay now for a self-deleting four second video clip of a really hot, nude, tan-skinned woman riding my prick.

I'm a good liar. Couldn't have gotten this far otherwise. And I don't mind mingling with croakers, who make up ninety-nine-point-however-many-nines percent of humanity. I spent half a century as a croaker, so I know how to fit in. If I make sure that my conscience doesn't interfere, I can get plenty of sex with women, often not paying for it. I've never had kids, nor been in a long term relationship, so nothing gets in the way of me prioritizing me.

The woman who identified herself only as Account B839H7 may be in her mid-thirties, which I estimated not from her skin (pristine and alabaster) or physique (fit), but from her air of desperation. We swapped insider tidbits from our day-trading, while she succumbed to me more than she wanted. I'm a hunk, with boyish charm and skin roughly between olive and pink. She undressed me while I smiled sweetly and got a hand between her legs, further impairing her judgment. Pay now for more, including the results of our shady day-trades.

If those tidbits don't appeal to you, scroll down to find something else. If you live with someone, can you trust that person during sex? Are you sure? Maybe you're better off doing like all the solitary cyborgs, and getting off alone.

All you chickenshits, who expect to get trampled by croaker mobs if you leave your estates, have to pay up now and select, so you can read my sexploits in croakerland. Pay in advance for more, and someday I might send you POV 3D tactile-encoded videos. You can trust me, I'm one of you now.

***

You have selected 'Encounter With Marisol.' It's my most expensive text, so you may already know that there's not just a sex story here. The information might keep you alive. There will be more prompts ahead to pay extra, but they're worth it.

The bar scene has been much the same for about a hundred years. In the regions I frequent, what's legal can vary from place to place: CBD-infused inhalables here, auto-withdrawal opioids there. The main item purveyed, however, remains the alcoholic beverage. People of this generation, like those of many earlier ones, choose to pursue happiness by killing brain cells.

I'd had four consecutive good days in my various hustles, and after paying all of the red-zone debts, kiting some less urgent ones, and taking stronger positions in some dodgy ventures that I figured to be good for at least twenty days, I cached the rest of the new liquid assets through my wristband, and stepped out in search of pussy.

I drifted through a few places, watching, listening, making some eye contact, confirming that I was eliciting interest. I noted a few ladies that I'd classify as yeah-why-not, nobody good enough for me to stop and make an effort.

Then I entered a sub-street-level joint with a DJ on a platform mixing sound streams pirated from satellites. On the floor, about fifty people were pogoing and lurching to the beat. One person was dancing.

I stopped and stared.

Warnings sizzled through my unkilled brain cells.

I should have been back on the sidewalk in ten seconds.

I wasn't.

What got through to me first was the sight of her huge brown eyes and delicate mouth. The bare arms, when they moved above her head, gave the truest image in that lighting of the smooth café-au-lait tint of her skin. Her torso writhed with no apparent effort, and even when the serpentine moves seemed repetitive, my gaze could not leave her.

Her eyes met mine. What had been a neutral expression of immersion in the music gave way to a small smile.

I feared that she liked what she saw, and believed she could do anything she wanted with it.

I calmed down as she returned to her dance. Sometimes the cybed nanobots in my bloodstream go overboard. This time, I believed, they must have secreted too much flight-or-fight juice. My cooler head prevailed, and seized upon a project.

I wouldn't get far just by praising her looks and acting smitten. Her body language was too cool and confident for her to have low self-esteem. But I don't mind a challenge now and then. Maybe I could sell myself as a good time. Maybe I could afford to buy a good time from her.

I sat on a stool at a high-top in sight of the dance floor, and produced a pleasant, self-assured smile. Any attempt to dance with her would surely be read as a space invasion. At that moment, I invited her to make a move. Or to ignore me completely. I didn't think that a putdown would hurt too long, and only I would know that a hookup with one of the earlier yeah-why-not women would be a defeat.

I fingered the wristband to send an order to the bar. I then resumed observing her. She wore a gray jumpsuit over a compact torso and long slender legs, and blue sneakers that indicated a refusal to destroy her feet in order to achieve a visual effect. Thick wavy black hair reached halfway down her back when it didn't fan out as she danced. The doll-like fragility of her features and proportions made her seem smaller than she actually was. In fact she was maybe five centimeters shorter than I, who stands at average height for a male.

The DJ allowed silence to claim the room. My whiskey and soda arrived at the table shortly before she did. Easing onto a stool, again half-smiling, she said, "Haven't you ordered for me yet?"

"I have," I returned, sliding the glass towards her.

Her smile grew a bit, and her look at me now clearly involved calculation. This was going to be fun for both of us, even if it ended badly. Maybe

especially

if it ended badly.

Pay now for more.

***

I held out my right hand and said, "I'm Gordon."

She wiped her forehead with her right hand and clasped mine. "I'm Marisol. Please enjoy my third-world chick sweat." Her smooth alto voice carried no particular accent.

I pulled back my hand and licked my fingers. Then I said, "I look forward to more."

She rolled her shoulders, sliding the jumpsuit across unseen skin. "There's plenty."

I leaned back, chuckling. I was in no hurry, and wanted to know if she was.

The DJ again filled the air with stolen sounds.

"Don't let me hold you back," I said, nodding at the dance floor.

"I won't," she said. She took my hand, slid off the stool, and led me to the exit.

***

"You're a service provider?" I asked. The term

sex worker

is seen lately as too crass.

"Yes," she said, "but I'm okay with loving my work." We strolled hand in hand. The walktrack had plenty of thrill seekers sauntering to and fro, some of them bantering with occupants of vehicles in the street's guidefield.

"Where's your security?"

"It exists," she said with a sidelong smile, and a squeeze of my hand that seemed too playful for her. "Shall we discuss where and when?"

"Certainly," I said, letting go of her hand long enough to finger my wristband. She fingered hers. Once our databots were in contact, they carried on the 'discussion' and I again took Marisol's hand in mine. That might seem like an innocent, even lame, interaction for two humans planning to fornicate. Yet hand-holding can be deeply intimate, even subversive, perhaps conveying vulnerability along with a willingness to risk being hurt in pursuit of joy. I was faking all of that, and surely she was as well, from the knowledge that many men fantasize about overcoming a prostitute's emotional distance.

"You're a hottie," she said, processing everything brought in through her large eyes.

"I do pretty well," I returned, trying to determine what she was concluding. Maybe that I could hook up elsewhere without paying? Quickly I added, "When I settle for less than the best."

By a small head-tilt, she gave me a point on the scoreboard, but didn't concede the game. "You're adventurous," she said. "But not reckless." Two of her fingers moved along my hand, assessing creases in the skin.

The warnings returned. I knew they had arrived too late.

Now, pay more—yes,

very much

more—because what comes next might save your worthless, potentially endless, life.

***

"Every location I suggested has been rejected," said Marisol, with the merest glance at her wristband. "You don't want to be in any security zone where the detectors can find everything."

I heard a hum from the darkness behind me. One tends to screen out servos and drones that are part of the normal background of city life. At least one of the servos probably had a weapon trained on me.

"You must have telltales, and you don't want them sniffed out." She held up my hand. "This isn't the skin of a young guy." She let the hand go.

I had to concede my sloppiness. "You intentionally suggested locations that a certain kind of person would want to avoid."

Her smile grew, to an intoxicating extent. "I'm sure you'll enjoy our partnership. I expect to enjoy it also." She stepped out of my immediate reach.

An empty vehicle pulled up in the guidefield, and stopped next to us. The hatch parted.

I could have tried a sudden dash, hoping that the weapons would miss.

I entered the vehicle, and she followed.

***

This had never happened before, but I had expected that it might someday. I was calm, asking, "Is there something I can do for you?" This admitted nothing beyond my awareness of a predicament.

Her eyes lowered to look at a microsymbol display on her wristband. "There's nobody who will ransom you. There's only you, and whatever assets you have. But you're a startup cyborg, so you must be good at something." She looked up at me and smiled, while the vehicle's seat restraints tightened on me. "And now you'll do that for me."

I tried to think of this as a game we were playing, and to overlook the fact that it might kill me. That worked, as much as it had to. I smiled back and said, "I'll gladly do it for both of us."

As noted earlier, I'm a good liar. Sometimes I have to lie to myself.

"You're cute," she said, "and clean, and not addicted. You're outgassing a really nice set of pheromones, and I admit that they're working. So I'll start with my professional courtesy. Tell me what you want for our get-acquainted bang. I'll set the price, in real cred, not crypto. We'll see how well you perform under the threat of instant death. If you give me a really good time, I might let you keep some of what you make from what you're good at."

Was that a mistake, or did she really want to improve my chances? I was now eager and aroused, and almost not afraid. "I undress you," I said. "I play with your body while I undress myself. Some licks, jerks, and finger-pokes, by both of us. Then missionary, for as long as I want it. I cum inside." Not, in fact, all of what I wanted, but I needed to keep my mind clear, and an orgasm from this kind of sex shouldn't weaken me.

She laughed, and her attraction zoomed to a new peak. Her eyes twinkled, her teeth shone, her head angled to the left fetchingly. So much for me avoiding weakness. I wanted her, not just to fuck her. Maybe I could never forget her. I might be helpless against her, and I didn't care. My boner pushed back against the seat restraints.

"I admire your confidence," she said. "I hope I don't have to change that later to deploring your stupidity. Eighty-five hundred, real cred, now."

"Six thousand."

"Do you think you're in a position to negotiate?"

A ridiculously high price. My arms were free enough for me to flick at my wristband. I held back all hard currency and converted crypto to real at the Singapore exchange rate. That was good for maybe forty-eight hours, then my deeper assets would be at risk if the crypto fizzled. If I was dead before then, I wouldn't care. I held out my wrist to her. As she rubbed her bracelet on it, I dragged down the seam on her jumpsuit.

She allowed that, with a look that may have shown fascination at the adventurousness she had found earlier. "All you'll get here is a show," she said. The sides of the suit still covered her nipples, but I saw more of her smooth, dusky skin, and the sight was enough to send even more blood to my groin. I refrained from reaching in and touching, although she might have permitted it. I edged myself, yearning to feel what was surely supple and taut, and now fearing that once I did, I would be under her thumb forever.

And, yes, despite the years of effort spent on getting just inside the lower membrane of cyborgdom, on acquiring more decades of life, I was willing to throw them away in my unexpected passion for one woman. The multi-faceted risk excited me every bit as much as the desire to conjoin with her, submit to her...overcome her?

The vehicle veered down a ramp below street level, where I couldn't see our actual location. Security bots on the vehicle and the dock flashed and pinged at one another. Finally the hatch on my side slid away, and the restraints detached. With a turn of her hand, Marisol said, "You first."

Pay now for more. Wasn't it worth it to learn how a prostitute can find out what you are?

***

Her pod was small and spare, with no sign of personalization. The walls and ceiling were display-enabled, but she had them blank, and set for room lighting. There were no windows, and the ventilator hum was constant. This may have been only a workplace, and not her residence.

She faced me, put her hands behind my neck, and leaned my head down. She kissed me, slow and deep, and I reciprocated. We embraced. I hadn't asked for this, and while I enjoyed it, I didn't become more enthralled with her than I already was.

She drew back and murmured, "If you do everything right, for a long time, you'll get that, too. If that's too clingy, be careful what you wish for."

My mind spun, and surely hers did too. Was she admitting to feelings for me, and a potential weakness? Or was this disinformation? Was she so confident she didn't think it would work against her? And was this a test of whether she could get under my skin emotionally, to the point of me putting her welfare ahead of my own? Had she read that it hadn't worked?

"Any time you're ready," she said, letting me go.

I slid the jumpsuit off her shoulders. It fell to her waist, revealing small, high breasts with ash-dark nipples. I grabbed the fabric at her hips and held it close on her as I pulled down, to take whatever underwear she had with it. I didn't look for it, didn't care, I wanted only her. With the shape-obscuring jumpsuit now at her ankles, I saw and touched her revealed curves. Her skin gave way slightly to my fingers, then held firm and resisted. I knelt, and with one hand pulled her left foot free of her shoe and suit while squeezing her right thigh, then sliding the hand up to her buttock.

Pay now for more. It's less than you paid earlier.

***

I switched hands, yanked away her right shoe, clamped her left buttock, and thrust my face into her crotch. The short, thick hair was beaded with sweat and redolent with her arousal. I mashed my nose against her hard clit, drove my tongue through her labia. I would have jizzed my pants right then, were it not for a gland-moderating cybe upgrade.

Along with her quick gasp I heard a loud hum (and felt it through the floor), which faded without me being killed. Marisol was giving me leave to ravish her. I freed my hands, and she thrust her hips forward so I could keep lapping her loins. I snatched at my clothes, got them away from me, and as my putz sprang free, she pushed me onto the floor. I was disoriented, which set off cybe warnings, and I was already cumblasting before I realized that we were now in a sixty-nine. My glans was tight in her throat and she clutched my balls, while I licked and sucked her, faster and faster, enveloping her clit with my tongue, spasming as she drained my shaft. I kept on, splayed fingers gripping her buns, which my hands had yearned for all my life without my ever knowing.

There came a moment when the furious activity had ceased. My face was sodden with her ejecta. She drooled mine onto my groin and said, "No extra charge."

I laughed. She joined in.

Marisol denied me time to recover. Setting a hand on my slimed gut, holding me to the cushioned floor, she pivoted and straddled me. My cock was still thick, more flexible than rigid. She seized it, and shoved the head around and against her labia, then descended on it.

Before she could pump, I grabbed her arms and rolled us over, putting her on the floor. I rose up and began to piston, gritting, "This is what I paid for."

Her mouth opened and her back arched. Her trunk ground against me, and I swelled back to full girth.

I swooped down and got her left breast into my mouth. Bumps rose on the aureole as I sucked and licked, gave and demanded. She howled, and her hands went to my buttocks as possessively as mine had been on hers, except she dug in nails. My cock throbbed in her vaginal heat, and I gushed deep in her belly as her knees pushed hard against my ribs.

A long time later, her nipple went slack.

After we sanitized, we finally went to her pallet, and allowed our languor to include some shared bliss.

"Can all cybed guys bang like that?" she asked in amusement.

"I've never met a cyborg," I said, choosing words carefully, maybe forced by habit. "I've always been a strong fuck. That's given me a great variety of advantages." Didn't have to lie about that at all.

She lay on her side, emphasizing her torso outline, arcing down from the ribs to the narrow valley at her waist, soaring then to her hip. Petite overall, her body presented dramatic contrasts when not hidden in a jumpsuit. And her skin, the color, the suppleness. I shuddered, staring.

My prick twitched. Without looking, she caught it in her hand.

"And now," she said, "be glad that I have plans for you." Much stronger than she looked, she gave me a quick shove at a pressure point that got me onto my back. "You're a customer, so I let you get on top, because I charged you for that." She straddled me again, breasts wiggling merrily. "But

never

do that again! I control my body, whenever I'm using yours." She was pumping my dick the whole time, and now she centered her vulva over the head, and again merged us. She proceeded to grind and swivel in so many directions, and at so many speeds, that I neither wanted to stop her nor dared to move on my own, for fear of injury. She rose above me and jounced in a rhythm like that in her dance, with the arm moves, and in a flash I recalled that when I saw her in the bar, I wanted her to do exactly this to me. I had triumphed within what might be a disaster.