Agrippa
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Ginosko – Chapter 5 – Patricia’s Joyride
🕑 Added 2022-09-04 01:51:39 +0000 UTCAmong the models of sex-dedicated gynoids that Ginosko develops, there are a few standard lines based on the same human-seeded AI for consistent results easily recognized by our most… loyal customers.
… I’m trying to have a serious monologue about this thing, and I just can’t. I don’t understand how Lawrence managed to work in this for years.
And then I think about Magda, and I’m glad that he did.
…
The things I do to myself when I’m too mortified to look in the mirror.
Anyway, Magda is a Daisy Beta. Cute as a button, gentle, caring. Many people employ them as caregivers who… go the extra mile. Daisies are cheap, though, and most customization options are locked away behind premium plans or with people like Lawrence making some money off hacking them. It’s the kind of crime corps tend to politely ignore, as it encourages customers to buy models they may otherwise abstain from. The marginal loss of profit in add-ons is more than offset by the increased sales.
That is, for the cheap models.
When it comes to the luxury options? Those are far more protected. For instance, the Stacy model is in high demand as the modern-day equivalent of the luxury escort. Among certain circles, owning a Stacy is a sign of prestige. The personality seed was highly educated yet still adventurous and eager to please. A perfect trophy wife, if she hadn’t made enough money off selling her psyche’s architecture to get a trophy husband of her own.
Or two. Or three.
At once.
Stacy was… well, adventurous.
And her descendants? Her daughters via a pruned psyche and carefully enforced limitations? They are… Sex on high heels. Literally, as they all share a slight manufacturing error (that will never get fixed) that makes their Achilles tendon too short to comfortably walk on flat shoes. They tend to get on their tip toes when barefooted.
We’ve never gotten a single complaint about it. Funny that.
They are blondes, with a bust generous enough I feel somewhat inadequate by comparison, and their hips are... somewhat uncomfortable to behold. Really, all that swaying around can’t be good for the spine, reinforced or not.
They are also short. Because the kind of customer who gets a Stacy wants a woman they can pick up with ease, manhandle. They want the acrobatic little things to mewl as they are carried while—
This is ridiculous.
I look at the woman staring back at me in my bathroom’s mirror, the glass seamlessly inset into blueish marble. At the artfully styled, voluminous ponytail with loose, wavy bangs framing a heart-shaped face with a single mole beneath the left eye. At the short red dress wrapped around the tight body, highlighting curves that don’t need any assistance, with a cleavage barely on the right side of decency held back by spaghetti straps tied behind the neck, leaving the back bare until the Ginosko logo tattooed over the tailbone barely peeks up above the daring plunge, the brand as much of a symbol of status as anything else, even if, in this case, it’s my actual surname acting as a tramp stamp, and doesn’t that bring up some unpleasant associations…
I close the eyes, steady the breath, open them.
And I stare at Patricia Ginosko wearing the body of a Stacy.
“The things we do for love,” I mutter, leaning over the sink until my forehead is pressed against the cool glass and I can’t see my cheeks flushing in a mortification I’m too embarrassed to disable.
***
Stacies are modeled in a way that brings up the human mimicry higher than in most of our models. The circulatory system is fully functional, with a pump that replicates the human heart at its core, rather than the far more efficient turbines my own body uses for analogous purposes.
This means that I’m now feeling the novel sensation of having my heart roar rather than just feeling the emulated experience brought about by the percussive device meant to reassure Patricia Ginosko that she’s alive and doesn’t need to freak out about her body not being human enough, and that the dysphoria isn’t something to be concerned with, no matter how disturbing the—
Oh. An identity crisis. Just as I wear another body for the first time in my life.
How unexpected.
Yet again, I try to hold my breath as I calm myself, but… It isn’t working. Not with how I expect the… the thing to react and it doesn’t, not with just how different everything is to what the body remotely piloting Stacy from the bed back at my apartment usually feels.
This body is empty. I cored out the seed before wearing it because I didn’t want any conflicts when I dived in.
But… it still has the architecture of it.
The instincts and reactions, the databases Stacies are shipped out with. From innocent flirting to outright obscene banter, and with a catalog of sexual acts extensive enough it’s almost as thorough as what Lawrence has installed on me.
…
Oh. Lawrence has turned me into a better sexbot than a Stacy.
Aaaaaaaand now I’m blushing.
All right. Enough stalling. Time to let Stacy Ginosko shine before any further revelations turn me into a babbling mess, and I need to call my secret boyfriend to pick me up.
So I… I push something inside my mind, and I feel myself slide further into the tangled web of concepts, emotions, and ideas that somebody would have paid a fortune for if I hadn’t used a shell company to make the discreet purchase of this body. Then I feel her kinesics kick in, my body straightening just so to adapt to my new proportions, to feel the sway of my hips lengthen to compensate for the lower center of gravity and ample behind, my feet stepping one in front of the other in a very particular way, my calves further defined by the tension of every deliberate motion, my breasts almost bouncing with the energetic rhythm imprinted into my walk.
And, just like that, my heartbeat slows down, my breath deepens, and I… relax. I guess.
Then I see Magda on her feet, by the side of the receptionist’s atrium, guarding the entrance to my office by herself, because of course the gentle soul would have let Miriam get an early lunch break when I’m not there to deny her usual, impertinent request… and everything flies out the window.
All right, Trish, you prepared for this. Don’t mess it up. Just take a deep breath, and… showtime.
I guess.
… I should get some acting skills installed. I’m sure I can justify them somehow other than me wanting to get better at roleplaying.
“Hi!” I greet Magda with all the bouncy energy I feel bubbling up from the bottom of Stacy’s stomach.
… I may ask Lawrence to do some memory editing after today. Just a feeling.
“Yes? Can I help you?” Magda asks as she raises her eyes from the tablet in her hands that she doesn’t need, but prefers to directly interfacing with the office’s network.
“Yes, thank you! I’m Stacy; I believe there’s an appointment on behalf of Patrick Manse?”
My grin is disarming and gregarious to a point that makes me feel uncomfortable, but, well, that’s who Stacy is. Patrick Manse, on the other hand, isn’t.
As in, he doesn’t exist. Or didn’t until I hacked my own office to alter the records so this appointment was made two weeks ago. Because Lawrence isn’t the only one who can play with computers around here.
Play. With computers.
Female computers with a fetish for non-con and submission that he plays at length with.
…
Why do I do this to myself?
“Ah, of course, please, let me check… Oh, how unusual,” Magda says, staring at her tablet with her brow briefly furrowed.
“Is there a problem?” I tell her, not having to fake my burst of anxiety. For once, Stacy and I are in agreement.
“It says here that your appointment is with Lawrence Weathers?” she asks instead, now looking at me with her head tilted to the right at just the precise angle so that her red, almost metallic bangs barely cover her left eye.
Lawrence worked wonders on her. And that’s even before the actual miracle.
“Yes! My… my owner wanted me to meet him for a… friendly first contact?”
Magda’s eyebrow rises steadily as she looks at me. She, of course, knows far more about sexbots than I do, being one herself and having taken a logical interest in the subject, so she understands perfectly well what it means that a business associate would send in a luxury model like a Stacy alone to a meeting.
Her lips frown in disapproval.
“I am afraid Patricia Ginosko isn’t available at the moment,” she says with a tone cold enough that I almost do a double take because Magda is nothing but unfailingly cordial.
“Ah… I see. But my meeting is with Mister Lawrence?” I tell her, briefly upping my processor’s charge to come up with a better answer that will—
Magda’s eyes widen.
And then she smiles.
Warmly.
“Oh! Of course! How silly of me; I hope you won’t hold it against me. Please, do go in. And tell Lawrence I’m going on a break for… a while,” she says as she opens the electronic door to my office with a flick of her wrist over the scanner and proceeds to almost skip down the corridor before turning around and shooting me a thumbs up and a wink.
…
I’m feeling very conflicted right now.
Because… All right, there are two possibilities here:
The first one is that Magda had a sudden change of heart regarding the sexual bribe being sent Lawrence’s way and is now onboard with him getting some actual relief from a very qualified professional after what she thinks are years of celibacy. Which is a perfectly natural thing for Magda to think, seeing as she’s both caring and a former sexbot who understands physical intimacy as part of caring. It’s an entirely Magda thing, except for the cold dismissal that preceded it and the use of my name as a deterrent for precisely this kind of thing.
Which implies Magda sees Lawrence and me in… precisely the same way she’s always seen Lawrence and me. And that makes a flash of heat burst on Stacy’s cheeks as her capillary action seamlessly expresses the very complicated, yet extremely pleasant, feelings the thought evokes.
And that leads me to the second possibility, which is that Magda felt cold rage at a gynoid prostitute throwing herself at Lawrence, then saw something in my expression that made her rethink her formerly hostile stance on the subject. Something specific, like, maybe, a brief glimpse of kinesics this model isn’t equipped with letting her figure out I’m Patricia Ginosko wearing a Stacy to hook up with Lawrence discreetly.
That, in turn, implies that Magda not only sees Lawrence and me in that very Magda way, but that she knows me well enough to pick apart my cues from Stacy’s catalog.
And that she now believes I’m willing to parade around in what amounts to a booty-call body just to get Lawrence to ravage me in our shared office. The office where Magda will look at me with a gentle, kind, knowingsmile each and every time I bother Lawrence to refill my perfectly fine cup of coffee just so he will have an excuse to punish me later when we’re back at my place and he takes out his grievances on my willing, often bound, body.
…
I’m definitely asking Lawrence to wreck my memory after today, concerns for my long-term wellbeing be damned.
Letting Stacy suppress a sigh that doesn’t come naturally to her, I open the door to my office, and I walk in to see Lawrence sitting at his workstation.
He’s not wearing his vest. Because of course he would take it off as soon as I left.
He still thinks Magda and I are at least partially teasing him when we tell him how good he looks with it on, that the way it clings to his waistline makes it so the usually hidden strength of his toned body comes through in masculine angles his shirts usually cover, that the dark green makes his azure eyes stand out even more than they already do, that the satin finish makes it so each gleaming thread highlights the curve of his muscled chest, and…
Let’s just say I’ve been trying quite hard to persuade him otherwise.
And, remembering how he chose to wear it for me the last time he decided to play with my body during a sisters’ meeting in the Hive, how he appeared with it on, with the sleeves of his shirt rolled up so I could see his toned forearms flex with every caress of his fingers over my body… I maybe getting through to him.
Though maybe staring at him while wearing Stacy’s body isn’t the best time to think about that. Not unless I’m desperately trying to come up with new ways to delay the incoming, unavoidable trainwreck that I am about to unleash on myself.
The plan is dumb. Dumb, and stupid, and a certain flavor of moronic that requires a bare minimum of mental prowess to pull off. I should know.
It’s my plan.
And yes, I’m a certified genius by human standards (because IQ tests are inherently flawed when trying to measure an AI, given our advantages in processing speed and memorization that don’t always translate to other areas of cognition), which means I know just how badly this could go in far too many ways, but… but…
“Yes?” he asks me, lifting his piercing blue eyes from his computer and staring right through me.
…
Right.
But.
“Mister Lawrence?” I ask with a Stacy smile as I walk toward him with an exaggerated swaying of my hips that translates to my breasts doing their best to catch his eyes. “I am Stacy; I’ve been sent on behalf of Patrick Manse.”
“Never heard of him,” he says with the characteristically rude dismissal I’ve been trying to train out of him with little success so far.
“Of course you haven’t,” I answer with an airy giggle that makes something in my entrails churn. “That’s why I’m here,” I continue with an almost purr as I stand in front of his desk, the one set in front of and below my own, parallel to the left wall of the office, with the sun coming in from the ceiling-to-floor window behind my desk highlighting his profile, and I lightly trace a line on the dark wood with a pale finger ending on a pointed, red nail that precisely matches the hue of my dark dress.
“Really?” he says with a very unimpressed eyebrow. The same one that makes me want to kiss him until it drops as his eyes lid with—damn it, Trish. Not now.
“Really!” Stacy, is this much pep really necessary? “Mister Patrick is a man who appreciates your hard work and wants to establish a friendly acquaintance!”
“And, to do that, he has a sent a Stacy. To me,” he drones on with apparent boredom.
Which, given that he recognizes the model, couldn’t be further from what he should be feeling, the infuriating man that he is.
“Ah, are you… familiar with my line?” I say as I lean forward, two hands on his desk, my arms pressing my cleavage until it bulges out of my dress, my lip briefly bitten, my hips slowly swaying behind me to tease with hints of the round shape going in and out of view, my thighs taut with the switch in my weight.
… I may have to take some notes. Stacy knows what she’s doing.
And Lawrence’s raised eyebrows seem to think so.
“I… I am. Not in the way you’re implying, though,” he says with a hint of what I know is his mouth being suddenly dry.
Yes. Stacy’s good.
“Implying? I don’t know what you’re talking about, Mister Lawrence, but I’m always so, so very eager to learn…” I purr.
Damn it, Stacy! Tone it down!
Lawrence takes a quick sip of the tea mug he’s got on the table, covering up any reactions to the outright verbal sexual assault, and then he slowly and deliberately sets it on his desk with a slightly louder than warranted clack.
“Let’s cut to the chase—”
“Really? I like being chased!” Damn it, I do.
“—what does Mister Patrick want?”
“Ah. That kind of chase,” I tell him with an embarrassed look and a slight tinging of my cheeks and the tip of my ears that, going by the tingling sensation of heat, is perfectly timed to when Stacy’s body bites her lip as she lowers her eyelashes submissively.
… I don’t know who coded all this, but I’ll hunt them down and—
And give them a raise. I guess.
“Yes. That kind. The straightforward one,” he says, tone once again cold and dismissive.
“Oh? Well, if that’s how you’d rather play it, Mister Lawrence, then I guess I can also be…” Lean forward, offer yet another shot at the barely decent cleavage, lower voice to a sultry murmur. “Straightforward.”
… Definitely taking notes.
“I’m waiting.”
“My, my, so eager to—”
“Stacy, with all due respect, I’m paid an obscene amount of money to be here, and I don’t want to feel like I’m stealing from the company.”
That’s a lie. He always delights in telling me just how many hours he’s been paid for to stare at my ass while I talk to a client.
… It used to make me mad.
Damn it, Trish, you know how bad you have it, thus the damn plan. No need to reminisce.
“The Meadow deal,” I tell him with a slight pout and mulishly looking aside while, incidentally, arching my back further to enhance even more the cleavage on display.
And Lawrence’s eyebrow, yet again, rises.
Because he knows about the deal, he’s listened to me groan about it for the past three weeks of foot rubs I’ll never be grateful enough for. He knows precisely what technology was offered, the projected benefits in Ginosko’s reclamation efforts, the accelerated timeline of forested area recovery.
He also knows all of it is worthless.
The technology was a scam. One good enough to get past all the filters before it crossed my desk. One that promised just enough that I desperately wanted to believe it was true.
It wasn’t.
And so, our plans to recover forested areas are set to proceed exactly at the same rate as they were a month ago.
“What about it?” he asks in precisely the same dismissive tone he was using moments ago and making me proud that he has, for once, listened to me about proper opsec.
Which, given that he is a former clandestine hacker involved in far too many deniable operations in the name of the seedier parts of my company… Right, maybe I shouldn’t have insisted so much on giving him those lectures.
I still think he had the time of his life riling me up during them.
“Well, while Mister Patrick understands your loyalty to Ginosko can’t be bought, he thought maybe a… friend could give him some advice on how to proceed as a, let’s say, interested third party.”
“A friend.”
“Of course. And, well, Mister Lawrence… I’m sure you understand good friends give… gifts to one another. Very generous gifts. Gifts that… keep on giving?” I finish with an airy giggle that makes my breasts vibrate.
… Mine don’t do this. Though maybe I just don’t do ‘airy giggles.’
…
Further experimentation is required.
Also, Lawrence’s staring hard enough that I think that the results of said experiments may be worth recording. Especially what would come after the experiments.
“Just to help me get this straightened in my thick head…” he says as he manages to stare up into Stacy’s baby blue eyes. “Mister Patrick’s gift would be your, I’m sure, enjoyable company for today—”
“Oh, no! Don’t be silly, Mister Lawrence; he values you too much to do something as crass as that,” I tell him, laughing off the suggestion with a wave of my hand until I see his shoulders drop at the release of tension. “I am the gift, Mister Lawrence. All of me. Master,” I purr.
The shoulders rise up yet again, and something in Stacy’s honed skills says they aren’t the only thing rising.
“You? A Stacy? Just for some info on the Meadow deal?” he says, disbelief apparent in his eyes.
“Mister Patrick is very generous with his friends,” I tell him, licking red lips with the very tip of a disturbingly agile tongue.
Yet again, Lawrence picks up his tea and pretends to take a long sip as he thinks things through.
And, well, here’s the plan:
He will refuse.
I will act shocked, because who refuses a Stacy?
He will say the information is too valuable, too risky, but he will be nervous, out of balance, and I’ll catch the lie—that is, the lie that the Meadow deal’s information is worthless (as there’s no such deal and the legal proceedings will freeze the involved accounts before the week is over).
Which will make Stacy disoriented and sad because she never dealt well with rejection.
And that will prompt a man caring and empathic enough to risk his life just to save one of Magda’s memories to get even more flustered as he tries to soothe the far too human sexbot about to have an emotional crisis in front of him.
And that will be when he lets out that he has a girlfriend he loves very much, even if he’s never said those very words other than when I’m blissed out of my mind and he’s deep inside of me!
…
I am insane. I’ve literally gone insane, and Lawrence was right, and we should’ve stopped doing memory play long ago, and I can feelmy real body tossing and turning on my bed just through the sheer backlash of overwhelming emotions—
“Just to make things crystal clear,” he says as he sets down the mug more gently than before, “you, a Stacy, will become mineif I just tell you what I know about the Meadow deal.”
It’s not quite a question, but…
Maybe I should push him a little more?
“All of me would be yours to do… whatever you pleased, Master,” I tell him, purring the last word, undulating my body with a feline grace that’s almost the prelude to a striptease. “And I’m very, very, very expensive,” I finish, sucking the very tip of my finger, lidding my eyes, and smiling innocently at him as I grab my right elbow with my left hand, pushing together a cleavage that doesn’t need any help, but can still do wonders with a bit of it.
And Lawrence stares.
Not at the pale flesh almost ballooning out my dress, at the enticing line between two breasts that are mathematical perfection, or even at the red, plush lips that just hinted at an enthusiastic blowjob.
No, he stares into Stacy’s eyes until I freeze beneath his gaze, not even the extensive libraries at the tip of my mind able to deal with his… assault.
Then he turns back to his screen, quickly presses a few keys that end up with the computer on his desk shutting down, and stands up, towering over the shorter Stacy in a way he never does with me, but that I now wish he did.
“Let’s go get lunch and discuss this,” he says, taking the very same elbow I was grasping with his own, far bigger hand.
…
What?
***
The Red Room is an overly dramatic lounge furnished with red leather furniture and with crushed velvet covering any surface that isn’t dark wood or riveted synth leather. It’s tacky, looks like it should have a bordello on the floor above, and is very, very expensive.
In other words, it’s the kind of place where certain kinds of businessmen like to spend their off hours or, at the very least, want to look like they enjoy doing so.
I’ve seen three other Stacies since we sat down at this corner table.
All of them are constantly giggling and wearing the kind of red lipstick that will leave a very visible streak during a mildly enthusiastic blowjob.
… I should’ve bought some.
“How is the salad?” Lawrence asks as he takes a sip of his wine, looking at me over the rim of the glass with an intense stare that…
That should never be directed at anyone other than me.
“Oh, it’s delicious, Mister Lawrence! The chicken is justright!” I tell him with a saccharine smile that just stokes the flames of my seething rage.
Would you look at that: I wax lyrical when angered out of my mind. Today is a day for discoveries.
Like the fact that Lawrence is willing to take other women on dates while I am stuck with indoor activities.
I’m afraid I’ll be making Magda very sad by the end of the day.
“I’m glad you think so. I’ve never been to this place before, but I thought the situation merited a little… extra.”
Don’t stab him with a fork, don’t stab him with a fork—why would I even do that? My fingers have hydraulic strength; I don’t need the damn fork.
“Oh? I’m happy you value me so much, Master,” I’m going to strangle him. Yes. That sounds far saner.
“Not yet, am I?” he says, carefully tapping his wet lips with the red napkin.
“What do you mean?”
“That I haven’t yet told you about the Meadow deal.”
…
He hasn’t.
… Is this a plot? Is he trying to interrogate Stacy so he can get the information back to me? He’s… It’s actually likely, seeing as he’s more used than I am to deals that skirt or outright break the law.
My crimes tend to be of the perfectly legal variety.
So this means… what? That he’s not planning to cheaton me with the sex on high heels model? That he’s actually loyal enough to take a risk on things just to get me some information on a potentially hostile corporate spy?
And should I disable Stacy’s heart for a quick moment, just so it doesn’t annoy me with its constant hammering against her ribcage?
“I thought… that was already agreed? That you thought I was worth it?” I tell him with precisely the same doe eyes Stacy’s database insists I should employ when trying to get him up for a second round after blowing his thick load all over my face.
… How does Magda deal with this? How can she be so peaceful and sedate when every single gesture is tied to something utterly obscene?
And can she teach me?
“Not at all, Stacy. This was just my lunch break, and I decided to give you a chance to… convince me.”
Stacy nervously licks her lips before biting them, gently setting the fork by the side of the dish of salad with a gold filigree ostentatiously adorning its rim, and, hands on my lap, pressing my breasts together yet again, I lean forward to whisper to him:
“Do you… want me to convince you? Right here?”
My heart is thundering. Stacy’s is, I mean.
And, when Lawrence takes some time to answer, when he just looks at me with those electric eyes of his that started paralyzing me so long ago, so long before the memory play, even before the… even before our first time…
I desperately want him to tell Stacy ‘no.’
Instead, he rummages in his pocket and takes out a very expensive pair of glasses. Ones I bought for him.
Ones that not only incorporate an AR display far better than the one in his contact lenses, but an aural device that emulates his old implants as much as portable technology without a surgical interface will ever do.
Then his eyes go over me, over Stacy, but they focus on something else.
“Mister Lawrence? You’re making me nervous,” I tell him, not even needing to fake the apprehension.
“Let me help with that,” he says, shooting me a look that makes my heart race, my blush spread down to the top of my breasts, my breath quicken—
Oh.
Oh.
“H—help?” I ask with an entirely different kind of apprehension.
“I used to work with sexbots, you know?” he says, admitting something he’s never told anyone since he returned to the arcology. “Stacies… well, you are expensive, but sometimes somebody would get a lucky deal on a secondhand model, or somebody would come in and get uncomfortable if I asked too many questions. The thing is, I know Stacies. I’ve worked with them—with you. And there’s this little thing called a developer’s console that your current owner has left unfortunately unlocked.”
I can feel it.
I can feel his mind sliding over the values my body sends back to my self. I can feel it when he tweaks my sense of smell so I can bask in his scent, when he makes my lips bloom in tingling need for his touch, when the rush of my pulse makes me lightheaded even as I try to swallow enough air to keep me from fainting just through his mere presence.
I… It’s…
It’s Stacy’s body. Not mine.
And I can detach myself from it. I can run back to my own body waiting for me between satin sheets, leaving a tendril of conscience piloting this shell without any of this affecting me.
But… but it’s just physical. He isn’t touching my thoughts, or my feelings, just… just giving me the sensations my body would feel if I was desperately in need of his touch, of his presence, of his sweaty skin gliding over my bare breasts, his deft fingers tweaking my erect nipples, his muscled thigh pushing my legs open, pressing up against wet heat desperately craving the way he spreads me open…
I…
It’s just… physical.
Surely, I can focus through this? Keep the plan going?
Surely, I won’t be overwhelmed merely by…
He looks at me.
Electric blue, holding me still, turning me into a statue for him to admire.
“Stacy… Get under the table and convince me,” he says.
And, before I even know what I’m doing, my bare knees hit the plush carpet, and I slide beneath the tablecloth.
His legs are spread, and I can see the heavy outline of his member throbbing down the left pants leg, a dark, gleaming spot near the end of it that stands out even through the shadows beneath the table, and I find myself leaning forward, my cheek resting on his thigh, my flaring nose right in front of his tip, his scent flooding me through my accelerated breathing, reaching every corner inside my body, making me cheeks bloom, my neck tingle, my tongue peek out as if trying to taste the very air and hoping it will be him.
Then his hand covers my other cheek, his thumb caressing the ridge of exquisitely carved bone in that gentle, reassuring way that I always thought was purely ours, and he speaks.
“Well? What are you waiting for? So far, I’m not finding you that persuasive.”
And, through the haze of arousal, of yearning, of aching need…
I start to cry.
“Wha—Trish!” he says, frantically sliding his chair back and holding my face between his hands. “Trish! What’s wrong?!”
Through unfamiliar tears, I blink to see Lawrence’s face wracked with anxiety and worry.
And not a shred of guilt.
“You…” I try to gather my thoughts, put them into words. “You… cheater…” I tell him, still pathetically nuzzling his hand, finding comfort in his touch and warmth.
Then the very smart man I love blinks down at me stupidly and says the dumbest thing I expected to come out of his mouth today.
“You mean this wasn’t roleplay?”
***
A Ginosko Black Card.
Of course, we have a banking division.
Of course, I made sure Lawrence had one, just in case.
Of course, the first time he’s ever had to use it has been to basically browbeat a poor waiter into letting us use the terrace to get some privacy.
By the very expedient method of closing a section of the luxury restaurant for the rest of the day.
… Guinevere must never take a look at my business expenses.
Much less Clarissa.
“Better?” he asks, sitting in front of me like he expects me to detonate the IED fitted into Stacy’s chest cavity.
Note to self: plan for such a contingency the next time I come up with a plan I myself dub stupid and moronic.
Annihilation seems like a very preferable alternative to what I’m feeling right now.
I stubbornly stare into the depths of my mug of mint tea (one of the least expensive herbal teas there are, and thank God for that) and refuse to meet his eyes over the white patio table we are sitting at.
To my left, a pane of glass covers the limits of the southern side of the arcology, offering what should have been a breathtaking view of the ocean. One that I hope I’ll live to one day see.
The Meadow deal would have shortened the wait.
And just like that, my heart’s back to hammering against my ribcage.
“Trish, talk to me,” he says, all gentleness and with none of the intensity he carried while playing Stacy’s body like a fiddle.
“I’m sorry,” I say, still refusing to meet his eyes.
“What are you sorry for?”
“I… This… This whole spectacle. I’m sorry I broke down like that, and, and…”
I feel the urge to shatter the mug between my fingers. Except Stacy isn’t as strong as I am, so maybe she wouldn’t manage.
Oh. That means I should have used the fork, doesn’t it?
“Trish…” he says before sighing. And then he stands up.
A few covert fans simulate a nice, fresh, maritime breeze going through the terrace, carrying my ponytail behind me in artful waves Stacy’s designer would’ve been elated to see, but Lawrence’s tall body interrupts the flow of air as he just… looks at me.
I suppose.
And then he takes a couple of steps and kneels in front of me, his right shoulder bumping the edge of the table before he pretends that didn’t hurt and cradles my hands between his.
“Talk to me?” he says.
And I…
I look into his eyes.
His electric blue eyes, the ones that hold me still, that make me shiver, that make me give myself entirely to him whenever he so much as hints at asking.
At eyes filled with worry.
Damn it.
“It… It’s stupid. You’ll laugh at me,” I tell him, rubbing Stacy’s eyes with the back of my wrist even as I let my other hand remain between his and the warm mug.
“At this point, I think I could use a laugh,” he says with that wry grin of his that…
I can’t help it: I laugh.
“I feel the allocation of expressions of hilarious relief hasn’t been properly thought of,” he says, eyes glinting in that damnable way—
“I love you,” I blurt out.
“I… thanks?” he answers, bewildered.
Oh, the fucker—
“See! That’s precisely what this whole thing’s been about! All of it is your fault!” I say, accusingly pointing straight between his eyes until he comically crosses them, and—damn it!
“I am a male; I thought that was a given?” Oh, you don’t get to guilelessly tilt your head!
“No! No quips, no dry wit, no banter!” I say, grabbing the front of his shirt.
“I feel like you’re taking away about ninety percent of our non-sexual interactions. And maybe a third of the sexual ones,” he answers, cocking that insolent eyebrow of his.
“Precisely! And what happens during the seventy percent of the remaining sexual interactions?” I tell him, lifting him up, toward me, until his scent yet again hits me, and I’m full of him.
“That… Uh… That… I’m drawing a blank?” he says, eyebrows furrowed in actual confusion.
“That you say you love me!” I say, my forehead touching his, his eyes right in front of mine.
Eyes that slowly blink at me even as his hand clenches over mine.
“Well, I do?” he says.
“Finally!” I yell.
And then I kiss him.
My tongue rushes past his lips even as I stand up, forcing him to follow me through my grip on his shirt before I push him to sit on the white-painted metal of the table, his height when seated on it just right for Stacy’s body to set the mug down and run my fingers through his salt and pepper hair, to grasp his nape and pull him toward me.
“Months,” I grumble, his heated breath washing over my wet lips. “Literal months.”
The hand clutching his shirt is now unbuttoning it with a deftness that is all Stacy’s.
“I don’t know what the Hell you’re talking about,” he answers, pulling at the bow behind my neck and immediately running his hands over my back as the red dress falls forward, hanging from the tight waistline as I finish opening his shirt and step forward to mash my breasts against his chest.
“You never say you love me,” I angrily whisper in his ear between nibbling on his earlobe and shoving my tongue to twirl it inside his ear.
“I tell you constantly,” he growls as he grabs my hips and pulls me up until I climb on top of the table and straddle him, my shins resting on the cool metal.
“Only when we have sex!” I say before biting his neck and sucking on it harder than I ever have, uncaring of any hickeys.
“We constantly have sex,” he retorts, pulling up my skirt until the dress is a stretched, red belt tight around my waist.
“And if you don’t start saying you love me when your cock isn’t inside of me, that will change really quickly,” I say as I undo his pants and maneuver said cock out of the leg of his boxers.
“You aren’t being very convincing.” His hands tighten over my hips, and he lifts me up until I feel his hardness prodding at my needy wetness.
“Shut up. This is my first time having angry sex, and you aren’t going to ruin it for me,” I tell him.
And then I drop down, his cock spearing me open, gliding inside of me effortlessly until my ass rests on his crumpled pants, and stars go off behind my closed eyelids as my hands clench desperately at Lawrence’s back, and his fingers grab me hard enough to leave a red mark on Stacy’s white skin.
It… It’s different.
It’s different, yet the same. Because he’s Lawrence, and I’ve learned his body almost better than my own, but this isn’t Patricia, and so I feel him in another way, prodding at different spots, pulsing even as I reflexively clench around him in a way that makes him hiss before he bites down on my own shoulder, making me shudder as his arms surround me and pull me to his chest as I stare unblinkingly at the clear sky, my mouth open, gaping at the sensation of… Lawrence.
“I love you,” he whispers as soon as my legs give, and I sink just that much farther down his stiff, hard cock.
“You fucker,” I answer him.
I hug him, my hands snaking up his white shirt until I can grab his bare shoulders from behind, and then I use both my grip and Stacy’s acrobatic legs to bounce on top of him, to force him to feel my erect nipples rubbing across his chest right before I clench around the tip of his cock hard enough both of us stifle a grunt.
“I can’t believe you think me talking would ruin angry sex,” he tells me, making me flush with something other than arousal and burning need.
“You always talk too much,” I say as I struggle to plant my feet on the table while keeping my grip on his cock, making him slide over the white metal as my hips move around in search of the perfect position.
“That’s—” I cut him off with a well-timed clench, and he hisses. “That’s the point, Trish.”
I freeze and stare at him.
“You aren’t going to convince me that you always mouth off just to get me in the mood for angry sex,” I tell him.
And he smiles that damnable grin of his at me before leaning forward to kiss the tip of my nose.
“Honestly? No. But I may start now.”
I glare at him. His smile widens.
And I drop down.
Yet again, he hisses, his right hand sliding down my back to grasp my ass as I try not to show the toll my swaying hips are taking on my self-control. Because the motion is optimal, the rhythm perfect, and the creaking of the table beneath us is making me hornier than I thought it would.
And so I ride him.
We start clutching one another with our usual desperation, our need to feel the other’s body, but soon my hands go from his shoulders to his chest, and I push him down, my weight resting on the dense muscle, the fingertips of my left hand caressing the tendrils of the lightning scar reaching over his shoulder.
I lean down to kiss them, to brush every tip of the forked brand on his skin with lips and tongue even as my breasts slide over him, his hands pulling me down every time I’m almost about to get entirely off him, his fingers sinking into yielding flesh that makes me stop in the middle of my exploration of his past wounds to mewl pathetically at the surge of white-hot sensations rushing up my spine as he starts moving his own hips, fucking me from beneath my body, refusing to just lie there and take it.
I look back over my shoulder and see he’s pulled my chair closer to the table so he can rest his feet on it, so that he can find enough purchase to use his far too strong legs to push up inside of me, to fuck me harder than I can fuck him.
I look back at him, licking my lips while desperately trying not to have them turn into a blissed-out ‘o’…
And I kick the chair back.
He blinks at me in confusion.
I grin at him in hunger.
And ride him.
He can still use his hands to help me move and his hips to rock back and forth, but I’ve got all of Stacy’s acrobatic prowess, her formative years as a cheerleader and gymnast distilled into flexible, elastic, synthetic muscle and kinesics libraries, and so…
I let Stacy drive.
Or, well, ride.
I immerse myself in her, in the urge to throw my head back and undo my ponytail, shaking my hair behind me as I bounce energetically enough that my breasts do it with me, imprinting more and more motion into them as I run my hands through blonde tresses, looking down at Lawrence and licking my lips in a way that promises even more than I’m already giving him.
I drop down, my clitoris pressed hard against his body, and I move my hips in a tight circle that makes me clench my teeth to avoid moaning out like a…
Stacy nudges me, and I open my mouth.
The… The howl I let out makes the little hairs on my nape stand on end as I sing to the world that I’m being fucked, that I have found a cock that makes my whole life revolve around it, as I let out the sheer joy of Lawrence being the one who claimed me be known. It’s a sound that shames me in precisely the right way, that has me flushed with a delicious embarrassment that tingles around and over my nipples until I finally stare into his eyes and see him desperately holding back, frantically trying not to let me push him over the edge.
“Fill me,” I mutter through a rough throat. “Give it to me,” I say, closing my eyes and licking my white teeth. “Make me yours!” I demand.
His hands tighten over my hips, and he lifts my entire body as the table below us protests.
Then he shifts below me, each little motion tearing another quivering note of pleasure out of my lips, and then I realize he’s lifted his legs, that his feet are on the table.
And he thrusts up.
My eyes go wide, my lungs empty.
And then he does it again, and I scream as I reflexively swing my hips down as hard as I can, our flesh clapping until he erupts inside of me, my mind emptying of everything but the torrent of cum that runs up my body until it feels like it’s drowning my thoughts.
And then, gasping, panting, feeling his chest beating against mine, our sweat mingling…
I stare up into piercing blue eyes, into the electric hue that can always hold me still.
And he smiles.
And opens his mouth.
“I love you,” he says.
And smirks.
So I narrow my eyes, force my overwhelmed body to slide him out of me, and crawl down his chiseled chest and abs until I’m kneeling between his legs and his deflated cock is in my angrily demanding mouth.
***
Hours later, I think I’ve hit the limits of what Stacy can do without some time to recharge—literally and otherwise.
“You… done?” Lawrence asks me, barely managing to focus his eyes on mine even as he weakly reaches up to wipe the sweat off his forehead with the drenched sleeve of his shirt.
It isn’t very effective.
“Yes,” I admit, leaning forward to lean my cheek on the inside of his thigh, ignoring the dried remains of his seed and the body hair sticking to his sweaty skin as he reflexively reaches down to caress my hair.
Then winces.
“Next time… we’ll use a bed. Like civilized people,” he says, trying to sit up before giving up and falling back on the table.
The surprisingly sturdy table.
I was half-convinced we would have to pay for a replacement.
Though, given the amounts of biological waste currently on it… Right. Maybe we should still pay for another one.
There’s blessed silence unbroken by strained groans and slapping flesh for a moment as Lawrence keeps playing with my hair, keeps dragging his fingers through it in soothing caresses that I let lull me into an almost sleep, unbothered by the scent of both our bodies—
Ah, no.
His body and Stacy’s.
My jaw clenches as I rationalize the anger away, the brief burst of possessive jealousy smothered by the simple, objective fact that—
“What’s wrong?” he asks, his fingers still trailing blissful lines of cool sensation over my borrowed scalp.
I don’t answer.
“Trish?” he says.
And I…
“I am sorry,” I say yet again.
The fingers stop so suddenly I almost mewl in protest. This time, I can’t even blame Stacy.
And then he slides out of the table, depriving me of my spot on his thigh, and I do groan.
Shamefully.
“Talk to me,” he asks once more, kneeling on the floor in front of me, cradling my cheeks between warm hands, making me look into his eyes.
I… I just stare at him. Then I bite my lip in an anxious tic I never had before and force myself to answer.
“I love you,” I tell him.
He pauses, as if he has to think how to answer, and I realize—
“I love you, Trish. I’ve told you over and over again, but I never realized you needed to hear it from me when not… That’s not important. I love you, and I’m sorry I made you feel—”
“No! No, it’s not… I know, all right? I… I always knew. Even before the first time you told me, even before I let myself believe it, a part of me… I am good at reading people, Lawrence; it’s one of the things that’s been branded into me,” I tell him, my hands clenching around one another over my lap, my eyes trying not to stray away from his.
“Then…” he trails off, waiting for me to continue, just filling the silence momentarily.
“I… I didn’t think I could love,” I finally tell him.
And he freezes.
“Not… I knew I could want things. I knew I could… have goals. Objectives. But… Love? I didn’t even know that hadn’t been coded out of us. I didn’t think I was enough of a person to feel it. And then you came into my life—or I into yours, don’t argue—infuriating, clever man that you are, and I… I felt it. I felt it when I left you behind to come back to the arcology. I felt it when I let you in my mind while I was unaware and defenseless for the first time. I felt it when… when you played along with my twisted delusions, letting me believe you had coded me to feel overwhelming lust for you that I’d been feeling for so long…”
I stop, looking at my clenched hands.
“I first felt it when I talked with Magda. When she told me what you did.”
I remember. The… the sheer indignation that he would risk himself like that, that he would throw everything away for mere minutes of another one’s life. That he would be so mind-numbingly stupid while being so incredibly brilliant.
I remember the rage, that he could have been a brain-dead vegetable before I ever met him.
I remember the awe.
“I… I’ve loved you for… for long enough to believe, Lawrence. To believe it’s real, that I can love, and that’s more freedom than I thought I had. More than I’d convinced myself I had. So… when you first told me… I was so, so damn happy, and then…
“Then I was so afraid…”
I look up at him, willing him to understand, to… to learn how broken Patricia Ginosko is, how incomplete my mind and personality, how much I need to mend until I can feel like a person and not someone pretending to be one.
He hugs me.
His warm arms surround me, his chest beating against mine.
Then he tightens his hold on me, and I remember just how strong he really is, how much Sam poured into his body, how…
We…
We are both... different, aren’t we?
“Trish… I love you. You. Patricia Ginosko. The brilliant woman. The one who keeps up with my banter. The compassionate soul. I love you, the… the beautiful human that you are, and I’ll keep telling you every day of our lives until you believe me.”
I hug him back.
And… And I don’t think Stacy’s libraries can help me express what I need to tell him as I clench my eyes shut, lean against him, and just take in his warmth and touch until my heart doesn’t feel like it’s about to explode.
***
“This is all your fault,” I tell Lawrence as I rub my body clean with an entire package of hygienic wipes.
“I wanted to stop after the third round,” he grumbles as he does pretty much the same.
Magda, though, remains silent.
That, or her happy squeal is high enough that even I can’t pick it up.
As it turns out, she had figured things out earlier. Just like Lawrence had.
Because, apparently, I do something very characteristic with my eyebrows when I increase my cognitive load, and that was enough to tip Magda off after being confronted with a very unusual set of circumstances.
In Lawrence’s case?
He’d been wary from the start, and then I had to refer to myself as expensive.
It turns out I also do that in a very distinctive manner.
… Thank God I’m not working in espionage. I would’ve been recycled years ago.
But, well, at least her calling Lawrence to see how things had gone on our clandestine date was a good chance to get someone to bring us a change of clothes and some very desperately needed almost showers.
“So, how is the Stacy?” she asks me, not even taking a look at Lawrence stripping down behind her.
I blink at her in a way she interprets as incomprehension. Which it is.
“The reactions? I think you should have picked a model that didn’t clash so much with your usual personality, but maybe the contrast was a good thing? Was today… different?”
I look at the table I’m morally obligated to buy, then at the clothes Lawrence and I will incinerate.
Then at the placidly smiling redhead in front of me.
And I, in a very Lawrence way, arch an eyebrow.
Magda giggles.
“I guess you usually don’t need me to bring you supplies,” she says with a smile so mirthful and gentle it’s hard to reconcile with the topic of conversation.
“Magda… Look, I’m sorry we hid it from you, but we’re trying to be discreet, and—”
“Oh! No, please, don’t apologize! I’m just so happy for the both of you!”
Of course she is.
“You’re too good of a person, you know that?” I tell her, taking the green sundress from her hands, pulling my head through it, and sliding it down my no longer sticky body.
Still no underwear. Because Stacy and I have very different sizes.
And, also, because Stacy.
“Patricia… you’re my friend. Both of you are my best friends in the world. Of course I’m happy that you are happy,” she says, the smile remaining but… softer.
Maybe tired.
Then, staring at the soft, green eyes of the woman who helped me realize I was in love, I realize the blindingly obvious truth that there are different kinds of love.
And so I hug her.
We stay there, holding one another while the sun glares in through the right side of the pristine window of the arcology, the ocean at our side, a closed section of a restaurant at the other, and Lawrence silently getting dressed behind her.
“You aren’t going to peek?” I whisper.
“I helped put in a lot of what he’s got. Nothing I don’t have in my memory banks,” she answers.
And my best friend and I giggle.
Stacy, just this once, stays out of it.
Comments
Agrippa
Again, sorry this took so long. I had to rewrite the whole mess I managed to write through the week of sleep deprivation. Hopefully, Tales will go better tomorrow.
