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.
