Cyberspun 2069 - B. 01

Mia Murcia is a 27-year-old Colombian migrant, and ambitious "Ultimate Battle of the Sexes" wrestler, living in the New England region of North America. This series follows her trials and triumphs in the corporate cyber-future of the states, where one bad deal or unlucky day could land you in contracted sexual servitude to repay your debts.

She and her biologically enhanced brother, Manny, fight and fuck their way through life inside the ring, and out -- alongside a colorful cast of friends and foes who are equally committed to dominance and survival. It's skill or fill in 2069, and the threadbare leash of mercy frays a little more each day.

***

Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. While the story may refer to real places, none of the scenes depicted have any relation to past or current people and events. Names, characters, business, events and incidents are the products of the author's imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

Kink warnings: sexual slavery, sexual aggression, dubious consent

All sexually-active characters are 18+

(Feedback welcome and appreciated! But dislike doesn't need to be insulting. If this isn't your bag of bananas that's cool, no need to squash them up for everyone else.)

*****

Chapter 1

Bendix Diner

Hasbrouck Heights, New Jersey

April 23rd, 2069

2:47 A.M.

According to Manny, Bendix Diner served the best pork roll in the state, and dragging my bare ass out of the apartment at 2AM would be worth it, "promise." My little brother had perfected the puppy-dog face, and had been effectively employing it against me since we were kids. My "little" brother was also half a foot taller than me by the time we moved to Jersey, after all the growth spurts and body mods that consumed his later teen years back in Colombia.

I sat chewing a greasy layer-cake of meat, eggs, and cheese, sandwiched between a crusty Kaiser roll, while watching a replay of the previous night's U.B.S. match on one of the many pinscreens behind the counter. My friend Penny Pound was getting suplexed onto the spotlit, aqua-blue mat of the ring, and then stuffed with 11 inches of DuraMAX mod-cock by Phil Batey, an Org-4 tier masc-lete who I hadn't met yet. The diner was mostly empty, and I envied all the non-patrons at home in their beds, watching pinscreens under the covers rather than on a sticky, squeaky, counter stool.

"New guy's got good form," some crumbs tumbled from Manny's full mouth to his plate as he hunched over the counter, chewing and eyeing the screen like I was.

"Not the toughest feat, with a ring-rag like Penny," I pulled another bite from my sandwich and a slab of crispy pork slid with it from the roll. I groaned as it slapped my chin, and tried to keep from making a bigger mess.

"You should be nicer to her, only one besides me and Mackey who'll tolerate you with a smile," my brother smirked his greasy lips, regarding me with those synthetic yellow irises he'd splurged on the year before. With his prominent cheekbones and smooth, tapered chin, he looked more like our mother. And I looked more like our father -- square-faced and dimpled. We'd had the same brown eyes and curly brown hair up to then, before he modded his irises, and shaved his stringy locks into a little faux-hawk down the center of his head.

"I am nice to her. I just don't understand how she's so fine with losing all the time," I watched Batey pump Penny full of a half-gallon of hyper-produced, SemSac baby batter for a first-round point. She looked bloated and tired as she snail-trailed her way back to her corner for a quick chat with her coach.

"Not everybody cares about the win ratio, some of 'em just want their check cut. She's still raking it in just being in the ring -- and sponsors love a show, regardless who wins." He was right. My overly-competitive nature would never allow me to submit to being tossed around like that, but Penny knew what she was doing. And what's more, didn't seem to mind one bit. We finished our pre-dawn breakfast and I waved my palm over the chip-reader on the counter to pay, before standing and letting out an unsettled belch that tasted like griddle grease and regret.

"I gotta piss, meet you outside," Manny brushed crumbs from the huge pecs filling out his overpriced V-neck, and I headed for the door. Outside, the cool night-morning air surged over me as buzzy sirens lit up in the distance. I leaned over the railing at the top of the steps and wished I was the kind of person who smoked cigarettes. Really would have completed the scene trying to unfold beneath the blinking diner sign, with one of the huge, neon red letters burned out.

"Fucking finally, here's one," I heard somebody slur as they rounded the side of the small building. I glanced over to see a couple of young guys in disheveled button-ups shambling over, the lead one waving a hand at me. "Geddown here and put that pretty cunt to use," the prick had square glasses and an ugly goatee, fumbling with his zipper as he tottered along.

"'Scuse me?" I grinned.

"I said gethafuck down here and bendover," he pointed at the parking spot in front of him with one hand and tried pulling his cock out from his frumpy slacks with the other. If he was always so coordinated I imagine he must have been getting corner pussy all the time.

"Naw-no, Pete she's not a Pet," the other guy slurred, waddling up behind his friend and squinting, "lookit her neck, she's U.B.S. -- she'll snap yer fuckin' cock off." The second guy was referring to my Ultimate Battle of the Sexes marker: simple linework of a sword penetrating a shield along the tendon under my jawline. The stencil tat indicated that I was a league femme-lete. The little characters underneath indicated that I was Org-3 tier, and would, indeed, snap his cock off.

"Anybody can draw a fuckin picture on their throat, she's just a broke Spic tryin' to act tough -- look she can't fuckin' afford pants!" The first guy finally got his dick out, and with his other hand pointed at my naked lower half. I did have my pussy in the wind, to coin a phrase, but not because I couldn't afford pants. I'd just always hated them -- so constricting, and the baggy ones felt like dragging a tarp around my hips. Skirts were even worse. So most of the time I just wore shirts and shoes, and my cushioned Latina ass provided all the padding I needed on the various hard-surfaced seats of the world.

I had SynDerm grafts from my waist to my toes, and a nerve injury from an amateur U.B.S. bout dampened the signals between the synthetic skin and my brain. Combine that with a "progressively sex-positive" social culture, and walking around without pants becomes a relative non-issue. Until someone mistakes you for a corporate-owned fucktoy, and tries to bend you over in a diner parking lot at 3AM.

"You should listen to your friend," I tossed my head in the direction of the second guy, and the wind whipped a few kinky brown locks around my messy up-do. My legs may not have been able to feel much, but I was glad for my shiny green flight jacket in the crisp spring breeze.

"The fuck, I don't care if you're a Pet or a wrestler or a fucking circus clown, geddown here or I'll fucking come up there and bring the dick to you!" He was obviously plastered, and I had half a mind to let him try bringing the dick to me. But his friend intervened once more.

"PETE," he spun his drunk compatriot around, exhibiting the sudden sobriety of a concern for safety, "any fuckin' girl that would get in that ring is crazy. And you don't stick your dick in crazy. Not unless your shit is sponsored. Get it?" Pete roiled in place for a minute, nearly losing his balance as the wheels turned in his brain.

"Fuck. Fine. Jesus." He packed up his un-sponsored meat and didn't offer so much as a middle finger as the pair stumbled off to find some other prey with shorter fangs. I watched them go as the diner door jingled open behind me, and turned to see Manny shimmying up his pre-shredded jeans as he walked out.

"That was the longest piss fucking ever," I kicked some imaginary dirt at him from my perch on the railing.

"Big hose, big tank," he shrugged, grinning.

Chapter 2

Colombia had mandated nation-wide free sexual use of adult female bodies a decade or so before I was even born. The government claimed it was about population growth, to combat the global decline in birth rates -- but that was a thin veneer that anyone with a uterus could see through pretty clearly. There were no SexCorp Service Pets there, just regular women getting grabbed and fucked by every hungry cock on the streets. That was where I first learned I had a penchant for brawling.

As it turned out, I didn't always want a cock buried up my asshole while I was trying to study at the little university our parents enrolled us in. I would headbutt, and scratch, and knee in the nuts all manner of horny guys when I was feeling feisty or frustrated, and when Manny was old enough to join me on campus, he ended up in a lot of scraps defending me, too. He was still pretty scrawny back then, but he had a lot of fire in him, and the other boys got burned by it at times.

That's not to say he didn't "partake" -- he liked a warm, wet hole as much as the next guy. He was just a little more considerate about filling them up. We were raised Catholic, after all. Our parents tried to instill some values in us, despite the state of the world. Our mom was a nurse working in underfunded hospitals, and our dad owned a corner grocery. He was always dropping off free food and other random items to hard-up families in our neighborhood. And both our parents

loved

throwing parties. But that was just kind of a Colombian thing.

Christmas lasted for weeks down there, and took place in the dead of summer -- unlike the frozen holiday of Jersey in the I.S.A. (the states became "incorporated" rather than "united" in 2042, after the third Great Recession left the country in need of a privately-funded bailout). We used to have aunts and uncles and cousins sleeping on our couches for weeks at a time, while the whole neighborhood descended into all-day-long cookouts and concerts and friendly orgies around the many wide-open backyards. My first body mod was actually a Christmas gift from my mother. It was a SynDerm graft for my pussy.

I remember being laid up for three days from the burning pain of the graft steadily dissolving and replacing my organic skin, but after that I could scarcely tell the difference -- except for the little branded "SD'' initials above my newly hairless slit. Mom said the stretchy synthetic flesh would "make things easier" for me, and she was right. But she couldn't have known it would be my first step toward taking giant, inhuman cocks up my holes in a wrestling ring for money -- on American television, no less. As the controlling sponsor of U.B.S., SexCorp ultimately paid for the complete hysterectomy and vaginal dilation procedure that made it possible for me to take 15+ inches of modded cockmeat up my snatch. It was a sport standard for league femme-letes, to prevent pregnancy and vaginal shortening, and to hold all our innards in place so we didn't bloat up like barren manatees. I'd never wanted kids, anyway.

Even though I had my dad's face, I had my mom's medium-height, lean, sexy body. Neither of us grew beyond a C-cup on top, but we had jiggly, olive-toned booties, and shapely, long legs. Maybe my serial pantslessness was also due in part to a personal fondness for my strong, supple legs, and the way they reminded me of my mother. She was a proud woman, and I inherited some of that, too. My father used to look at her like she was a small, earthly miracle, while she buzzed around our little house straightening things up and singing little snatches of songs in Spanish. He would sit at the kitchen table with his neat, little mustache, sip his coffee and say "¡Mariana, my love, bailas muy bien! ¿Puedes enseñarme?"

And she would always turn, and smile, and say, "nunca, you must learn to dance on your own."

I was 21 and Manny was 19 when we left for the states. Things were getting bad at the border with Brazil -- authoritarian PMCs on the Brazilian government's payroll were starting to raid cities and establish "neutral zones" which were obviously anything but. Our parents pulled us out of school and ferried us up to Panama, where we caught a freighter to the East coast of the I.S.A., and were received by some family friends. They were the ones who put us up and guided us through the naturalization process, vouching for us as "contributors to American society."

True, red-blooded Yankees that they were, they also introduced us to the Ultimate Battle of the Sexes -- which aired almost nightly on primetime streaming, and was usually playing in the background of every gathering in their home. My curiosity at first was simply morbid, but as I watched tough, gorgeous women leg-locking and cock-stroking guys twice their size into simpering submission, something stirred in me. I'd thus far managed to avoid the rampant, abject poverty and indebted sexual servitude of many other immigrants and low-born citizens, but U.B.S. wrestling seemed like a further defiance of my inherent, female "role as a hole." The difference was arguable, even ironic when you think about it -- but it

was

different.

The rules were simple enough: masc-lete and femme-lete compete in the ring, former gets a point for ejaculation inside the latter, latter gets a point for ejaculation outside. Best out of three rounds, winner takes the match pot. As you might imagine, femme-letes were often at a significant disadvantage. Even with a limit of two tier-deviations between competitors, the masc-letes were often much bigger and stronger than their prey. So we had to be smarter, faster, more skilled. And we had to know how to play a cock like a fiddle to get it to bust on us, rather than in us.

It was dumb, guy-centric entertainment, but it was as thrilling as any other major league sport. And I found myself attending local amateur match-ups with Manny during the second year in our new home. They lacked the funding and showmanship of the real thing, but there was a lot of heart there. Inner-city rec centers would host the matches, and even offered amateur training for hopefuls with a little cash to spare. That was how I'd met Mackey for the first time. I attended a weekday match while Manny was working his busboy job, and I was admiring the rec center's U.B.S.-regulation training equipment.

Mackey was a young-looking guy with tired, blue eyes and stark white hair, who approached and asked me if I was a competitor. I laughed and told him I didn't think I was cut out for it, and he said I might be surprised. Three weeks later he started training me, and I rose pretty quickly through the amateur ranks. They didn't have the same mod tiers as the pros, because most amateurs couldn't afford heavy modification without a sponsor. Pretty much all of us were technically Org-1, or 10% modded, at most. Some SynDerm pussies here, a knockoff EverHARD cock pump there. But nobody had the spring-loaded jawbones, or arousal stim-dampeners of the big show.

I spent two years in the amateur circuit, steadily building a reputation, and investing in my body. I worked out hard on top of my U.B.S. training, and gradually replaced my leg skin with the synthetic stuff. You deal with a lot of mat-burn, scrapes, and bruises in the ring, and it just seemed sensible to mitigate as much of that as possible with some stretchy, durable mod-flesh. I didn't have the money to augment direct brain connectivity, though, and that's how I ultimately ended up with the nerve damage. I'm lucky I didn't lose all sensation, but it didn't take long for me to realize how being able to push through the discomfort of an ass-punishing rear grapple could be useful in the ring.

Manny took up training too, but not with Mackey -- he only trained femme-letes, though not for the reasons you might expect. He said it was to "tip the scales" -- and he really never was inappropriate with me. My brother bounced between amateur trainers for a few years, saving up for major muscle mods between multiple jobs, and bulking up into his nickname of "the Minotaur'' over that time. He liked it, and so did the gym rags he was always dating. They were the human equivalent of practice dummies for masc-letes in training -- mostly league groupies and nymphos with so many flesh and joint mods they were basically made of rubber. They'd have to be, to endure U.B.S. practice without the experience and strength of a league femme-lete.

I was scouted for the pros a little ahead of my brother, after I toppled a reigning amateur masc-lete visiting Jersey from NYC. A talent agent caught up with me after the match, while I was still dripping with sweat and jizz, and offered me a tryout. I accepted and was inducted into SexCorp's twisted skin show at the ripe young age of 24. Few femme-letes lasted longer than five years in the league without heavy, continuous modification and repair -- and three years later I was starting to feel just why that was. My hips looked and felt wider, my hands were stiffening from constant grappling and cock-maneuvers, and I could always smell cum on me, even when others swore I smelled fine. I'd gotten so much of the stuff up my nose, down my throat, and in my eyes that I wondered if it hadn't started making a genetic man out of me over the years.

I'd certainly become grumpier with age. As Manny liked to point out, I didn't have many friends -- everyone I met in our state seemed shallow and annoying, and people from out of state were even worse. Especially the goddamn Pennsylvanians. Every summer they would dutifully trek across Jersey to our polluted shorelines, and clog our highways and malls with their bad driving and worse taste in pizza. I'd become something of a recluse, rarely venturing out of the apartment I shared with my brother unless it was for training or a match. I was even annoyed by the SexCorp Pets multiplying in presence over the years.

When we arrived in the states, the long, rubber stocks filled with naked public-use Pets were an occasional sight. But by the time we got scouted and moved to Trenton, they were everywhere, seemingly on every corner. The indentured girls, contracted into full-time service, were sometimes chipped with pleasure enhancers that amplified their arousal and sexual stimulation. They yowled like alley cats in heat while passing randos stuffed them full of cock and cum at both ends. I don't know why they annoyed me so much. I think apart from the noise and display, I was frustrated that they didn't fight back, didn't resist. But I knew better. They couldn't -- they were under a thumb large enough and cruel enough to blot out the sun. At least they couldn't help enjoying it, I guess.

Maybe worse was the non-indentured debt relief. Women who were free to go about their lives, but wore a red sash indicating they were available for a romp and a facial whenever anyone pleased. The sashes were patterned with SexCorp logos, so the super-company got some phenomenal live promo until the debts were paid off. I guess when you own most of the banking and credit systems in a country, you can choose to collect pretty much however you want. It reached a point where sex became a pretty common currency exchange even outside of corporate finance. Minor purchases and interactions could often be sealed by offering up a willing hole, and if the other party didn't specifically want

your

hole, well -- everybody's got a sister, or a cousin, or a neighbor, right?

"Sex crime" basically fell off the police radar. There was just no way to verify facts and falsehood with two-thirds of the population trading pussy and ass for groceries and show tickets. And it was especially hard to make any noise if you were poor -- or worse, a foreigner. Lots of modded-up white boys roamed the streets making "deals" with easy prey. You get a nice fuck in front of your friends and neighbors, and we get to hear you cum on a big white cock! At least, that was their perspective on it all. Having Manny with me deterred some of that attention, but he was no more popular than I was, with his Hispanic accent and dark brown skin.