Ghost In The Machine Saphire

Author's Note:

Normally, I don't do spin-offs, but after the events of #14, I found it necessary to shed a little light on Mrs. Squier, to put things in perspective. Plot-wise, this chapter doesn't add terribly much, so I see this as "optional reading" for people who want to delve deeper into the character or who want to read a hot lesbian threesome.

As usual, there's only adults having fun here, and again a huge "Thank you" to bikoukumori for a splendid editing job.

Saphire

I never asked to be a trophy wife. If I had my way, I would be living by myself on a remote British estate, writing poetry, painting my lovers and generally enjoying myself. But my parents thought it a good idea to marry me off to that - at that time - ambitious, fiery guerilla programmer. Sure, he was able to write extremely sleek human-machine interface system programs, something none of the hired geniuses at Mindlink's predecessor company seemed to be able to do. But why they weren't satisfied with buying his loyalty with obscene amounts of money still escaped me. No, instead they had to use me to sweeten the deal.

I had to leave college behind, I had to leave my lover, Helena, behind, and from one day to the next it seemed, I was a forty-nine-year old bitter, bodysculpted twin mother. Once routine set in and his heirs were born, I became just a thing to drag along to company dinners or social functions. Money was never a problem. For all intents and purposes, I owned Mindlink once my parents had died. But the things I really wanted, warmth and tenderness and love, I had to give up the day I said my vows. Even my own sons see me as a thing these days, not a person any more, a speaking, breathing ATM.

"Are you okay, madam?" A gentle hand, bearing a soft tissue, brushed away the tears that had come, unbidden.

"Yes, go on, dear," I whispered, trying to suppress the urge to bawl like a moonstruck teenager. Blinking the tears away, I looked at my reflection in the ceiling mirror. I was lying on my back on a massage table, only a hint of fabric covering my sex. A copper mane cascaded down the head end of the table, nearly brushing the exquisite marble floors. I was sick of being blonde so this was the new me, even if Richard couldn't stand redheads. My eyes, a stormy grey, seemed somehow out of place in my face. They seemed ancient in contrast to the delicate, late-teenager features I wore at the moment. My psychiatrist always cautioned me that I shouldn't let my fear of aging override my common sense but to hell with him. I couldn't stand seeing my face become wrinkled. I couldn't stand seeing my body deteriorate before my eyes, knowing that each day I spent as wife to Mr. Richard Squier was a wasted opportunity for a different life.

The hand, belonging to a beautifully delicate, raven-tressed Thai nurse, carefully dabbed away the tears then her supple fingers resumed caressing and teasing my breasts. Her colleague, short-haired with an almost boyish body, was massaging my thighs, showing both great skill and restraint despite my thinly-veiled hints of spread legs, writhing hips and silken moans.

I let one of my hands slide off the massage table, brushing against the stomach of the girl taking care of my breasts. My fingers slipped inside her thin smock, caressing the skin underneath. It was comfortably warm in the room so the staff wore only the minimum of clothing, as little as modesty and hygiene in a recovery clinic for bodysculpting allowed. The girl sighed, if in annoyance at another gropey client or in arousal escaped me. Only one way to find out. I let my hand drift lower and brushed the top of her short-shorts, dipping below the elastic. She was clean-shaven and starting to get wet. Her hands moved to cup my breasts and ever so slightly, she opened her legs for easier access. Looking into the ceiling mirror again, I noticed her colleague looking at her. As if to signal that we were crossing an invisible line, the girl cupping my breasts bent down and sucked my nipple into her mouth. God, just what I needed right now to get my mind away from it all. Her colleague looked at her, an eyebrow raised. Time for a little bluntness.

Richard thought it a wonderful gift to treat me to one of the first consumer Mindlink implants, its jack inlaid in platinum. Grudgingly, I let the company Frankensteins stick it into my brain. Richard was ecstatic, claiming that this was all our marriage needed to work out properly after all. He had no clue. No matter how advanced the female avatar he tried to seduce me with was, I knew it was still his dirty male mind. Dressing me in a school uniform didn't much help matters along and playing "Good pupil, bad pupil" with him as Ms. Teacher killed any last vestige of respect I had for him. I had his people make a skin-toned plug for it and barely used it again. At least not for "connecting" with my husband. One additional side benefit of having a glorified USB port installed in your brain was that I now could use so-called "skill softs," self-contained minuscule computers, providing access to one particular area of knowledge. The best bodysculpting clinics were in Southeast Asia so I had Richard's lab rats cook up a skill chip loaded with pretty much every major language spoken there. Chinese, Mandarin, Japanese, Indian, Thai, you name it. Calling upon this knowledge, I lifted my head and smiled at the girl at my thighs.

"Go on, help yourself. There's a nice tip waiting for you afterwards." Then I relaxed again and opened my legs invitingly. The skin and flesh around my hips still felt overly tight but I was sure that with more movement and rehab it would become as soft and supple as the rest. Hesitantly, the girl pulled the towel off my hips, revealing my new pussy. I was sick of my old one, the same one that gave birth to my sons, all loose and used up. So I had the doctors craft a new one for me. I couldn't resist the offer of a new implant, dubbed "Infinite Xtacy." According to the eggheads, it worked much like an "Iron Stallion," only for us girls, secreting fluids that would keep our insides from going raw when having prolonged bouts of sex. Heck, why not? Then I felt hot lips brushing my slit, a tongue carefully pushing beyond the nether lips, as if exploring unknown territory for the first time. Maybe the nurse feared I would taste like a machine or something. But the more she probed, the wetter I got and the bolder she got. The girl at my side shyly opened her smock, revealing her small breasts and pointy nipples. I practically drooled. Her skin had a rich, bronzed tone to it and I wondered if she would taste as good as she looked. I circled one fingernail around her nipple, causing her to gasp.

"Get naked for me, girl," I urged her on. I wanted her pussy on my face, lapping at her juices. She yanked her shorts down, along with shockingly stuffy panties.

Then my cell began to ring.

"You've got to be kidding me," I snarled.

"Does madam wish to take that," the naked girl next to me asked, one hand still fondling my breasts.

"No, turn it off and then please join me," I purred. The nurse nodded, turned around and strode to the table where my clothing and personal effects were stored, swaying her adorable, bubbly behind my way. Little tease. She got out my touchscreen phone, tapped the icon to cut the connection and returned it to the table. By now I had my legs on the shoulders of the second nurse, humping my pussy into her face. The tip of her nose was brushing my clit while her tongue was buried in my tunnel.

"How may I serve you," the nurse standing next to my head asked demurely.

"Climb onto the table and let me eat you out, darling. How does that sound," I asked, licking my lips. Grinning playfully, she did as I asked and climbed onto the massage table, gently lowering her pussy onto my face. She was lighter than I anticipated and, when my tongue parted her folds, she was deliciously wet. Kneading her behind, I began to worship her snatch, exploring every crevice, every fold the tip of my tongue could reach. Finally, the beauty between my legs remembered she had hands as well and carefully fingered my tunnel while she latched onto my clit in earnest, her tongue fluttering around that sensitive nub. I moaned into the pussy above me. The nurse slowly tilted forward, rubbing her body along mine, giving me room to involve my fingers as well. I felt her lips kissing my stomach, my legs. And then I felt both their mouths on my sex, one tongue lapping at my clit, the other driving itself into my tunnel again. Moans and sighs filled the room, along with the wet sounds of pussies being licked and fingered. I felt my insides tighten up and a moment later I came with shocking suddenness. Instead of stopping, the girls kept on licking, sending me straight into the second climax.

The cell rang again. And again. And then I woke.

***

Groaning, I opened my eyes. I felt a slender arm draped over my waist, the fingertips barely brushing my sex. Silky skin along my back, a hard nipple poking me. Then she stirred as well.

"Huh?" Molly mumbled, her lips almost touching my ear. Then the cell rang again, the vibrating aluminum casing obscenely loud on the glass-topped nightstand. It was dawning outside, the ocean beyond the fully translucent bedroom wall was ablaze with golden fire.

"Go back to sleep, dear," I whispered, sitting up. I quickly bent down and placed a small peck onto her lips. In the last few days, Molly had become not only a source of hot, spontaneous sex but a confidante as well. I knew it was highly unprofessional to fuck my employees but I honestly was beyond caring. Even if she was only after the money, she gave me more warmth, more tenderness than my husband had recently. Molly's mouth opened and her tongue found mine, turning the innocent kiss into a promise of furious lovemaking. I felt myself getting wet.

Again, that horrible cell-phone noise. I finally picked it up and looked at the display. It was almost seven AM and I saw Caleb Quinn's face grinning at me from the display. I tapped it and took the call.

"You know this is an awfully bad time to call me," I told him. Next to me, Molly sat up as well. From the corner of my eyes I saw reflections of gold playing on her dark skin as she languidly stretched, pushing the thin blanket off her. My hand slid onto her thigh, caressing it lightly.

"I know but this is important. Please, turn on the TV, local news," he urged me. This was so out of the ordinary, I complied without hesitation. The camera, mounted to a news helicopter by the sound of rotors accompanying the footage, showed scenes straight out of a Hollywood action movie, crushed and burning cars, ambulances, EMTs caring for injured people.

"Is this another of those incidents which may be related to Mindlink," I asked Caleb over the phone. Ever since they dragged me back to L.A., no day went past without another catastrophe, all of which seemed to involve some sort of computer malfunction.

"I'm afraid so," Caleb said, his voice small. Then I saw it. The anchorman was back, talking about more details of the catastrophe but my eyes were glued to the small inset picture, showing the inside of a tunnel, a section of wall with a crater in it and in front of that, a burning sports car. A sports car I knew, a green 2000 Lamborghini Diablo, license plate M1ND LNK. I gave Richard this car for our tenth anniversary or rather I had one of my associates pick it in my name. No one but him drove that angular monstrosity. And there it was, neatly folded in on itself.

Despite myself, I heard my voice crack. "Any idea who drove that vehicle?" I asked, after the third start.

"I'm trying to reach someone at LAPD but with all that commotion, getting through is pretty rough," Quinn said. "But security says there were no theft alarms. And just to make sure, I'll call every hospital and try to find out if any one from your family-"

"Caleb, my sons are supposed to be at Harvard. The only other person around here with keys to both the manor and the car would be Richard. Find him for me, will you," I hissed before cutting the connection. For some strange reason, my insides churned. I had a bad feeling about all of this. As if to confirm my suspicion, the doorbell rang. I grabbed a robe, tossed it on and went to answer the door.

"Mrs. Squier? My name is Detective Andrews, this is my partner, Detective Cranshaw, LAPD. May we come in?" The thoroughly tanned man flashed both a smile and his badge at me. Wordlessly, I motioned them to follow, leading them to the den.

"This is about my husband, am I right," I quietly asked them.

Andrews nodded solemnly. "I am sorry to inform you that your husband died in a traffic collision. I'm afraid we'll have to ask you some questions concerning the incidents leading to his death."

Exhaling slowly, I sank into an armchair, waiting for the shock to hit. I felt my lip tremble but, to my own surprise, I was eerily collected.

"Are you sure it was him," I wanted to know.

"Pretty much, ma'am," the other detective said. "The body was badly burned when our men found him but the Shepherd chip in his arm was still working. Leaving aside the notion that somebody could have planted that chip on someone else, we are positive it was him. The coroner is currently examining the remains, to remove any doubt though."

I nodded slowly. For once, Richard's willingness to be on the forefront of new technology seemed to have paid off. I was strongly against the idea of being chipped like a pet but in light of the current circumstances, I felt a small bit of relief. So it was him in that car.

"Ma'am?" I looked up. Both detectives smiled expectantly at me.

"I'm sorry," I whispered. "What was that?"

"We need to know if your husband had a history of irrational behaviour. Did he take drugs? Any psychological disorders we need to know about?"

"What is this about, gentlemen? What are you trying to imply here," I snarled.

"Mrs. Squier, before he rammed his car into the tunnel wall, your husband took out at least twelve other road users himself, not counting those caught by traffic when the stop lights went crazy," Detective Andrews explained. "He deliberately harmed pedestrians and sideswiped cars, including at least two of our units. Even more were harmed in the wake of his run. It's only natural to inquire along these lines."

I shook my head wearily. "My husband had few vices. He loved a good drink like the next man but he was far too obsessed with his work, which necessitates a clear mind, to overindulge in any kind of excess." I laughed bitterly. "I would even dare say that he was addicted to his work more than anything."

"Did he have any mental disorders you know about," Crenshaw prodded.

I shrugged. "He had the habit of self-testing most of his inventions but our neurologist never mentioned any kind of damage. You could ask his shrink though."

I slowly got to my feet and booted up the small terminal next to the fireplace, copying the contact info of all our doctors onto a chip which I handed the detectives. They continued their interrogation, trying to be both thorough and sensitive. Almost an hour later, they left me, totally wrung out and more tired than ever before. But even when I sat there, alone, bathed in the glorious early morning sun, the tears didn't come. I was numb. And I was afraid.

Shouldn't I be ecstatic with the thought of Richard finally kicking the bucket? I felt Molly's arms close around my shoulders. She buried her head in my hair, murmuring consolations into it. But her embrace felt wrong, constricting. The last thing I needed right now. Brusquely, I rose, nearly bowling her over. I paced the den, aimlessly drifting between pieces of furniture, rearranging knick-knacks that didn't need fixing, while trying to make heads or tails of the turmoil brewing in me.

No, the thought of Richard dying scared me witless. I loathed him, his fixation on technology instead of people, his inhuman working hours and the fact that he fucked around behind my back. Of course I knew. My mind briefly wandered back to my wet dream of the bodysculpt clinic. That same day, I met with a private investigator in a sleazy Bangkok bar. While around us fathers were selling their sons and daughters to pedophiles, he showed me cold, hard evidence what else Richard did besides working in his office. The photos and videos were only confirming my intuition. Briefly, after my return to the States, I vowed to fight back, to get his attention no matter what, but going by his disgusted face when Molly almost dragged him into my bed, I must have failed miserably. But even then I couldn't have imagined a life without him. His presence was ingrained that firmly into my life. I knew where I was, what I was. Mother, trophy wife, sometimes a cold-hearted slut. But he had cared for me, for us. With his genius, Mindlink became the world leader in man-machine interfaces, practically a standard in itself, and he ruthlessly pushed for ever greater heights, something I never aspired to. I was content to reap the benefits and now that he was gone, irreversibly dead, I realized how petty I had been, complaining about him never being there. But it was his hard work, his inventions, his ruthless expansionism that allowed for my no-worries lifestyle in the first place.

Even if Mindlink today didn't rest on Richard's shoulders alone, without him the company would face hard times. Even I knew that these disasters ravaging the West Coast were draining our emergency funds rapidly and the public opinion regarding our products would be at an all-time low. And without Richard, without one of his genius plans, it would be a nightmare to recover from this.

There were only two ways out of this mess. I could ask Caleb to pay me out, to leave Mindlink to fend for itself. Or I could do something I wouldn't have even contemplated this time yesterday. I could take charge. I stopped fondling a small bowl of cowry shells we brought back from one of our trips to the Maldives and went back towards the sofa, picking up my cell.