Uncovering some corporate skulduggery leads to dire consequences for Beck. Nearly killed in a suspicious crash, he soon finds himself halfway around the world trapped in a physically enhanced pleasure humaniform… in the keeping of a handsome Russian plutocrat. Pleasure is easy to unlock in this new existence, but escape and revenge will be a lot harder to manage.
3 parts Added Jul 2018 Updated 17 Nov 2018 10k views 5.0 stars (10 votes) 14k words
“Marty… I mean, you have to know this is not kosher. Right?”
Looking back, I can’t help but wince. If I’d known those would be my last words, I would have been more forceful. And maybe skipped the ethnic reference.
Not that anyone ever heard them. Though I’d buttonholed my childhood friend turned boss, Martin Carter, in the bullpen outside his office—a location covered on the obsessive in-house surveillance, audio and video, from at least two angles—I learned much later that the security footage showed no encounter at all between me and Martin that night. Instead the cameras just showed my friend, the charming, hardworking, fast-rising senior VP, life of the party, rainmaker, and confidant of the firm’s most senior executives, calmly slinging his messenger bag over his shoulder as he exited his spacious corner office after another late night slogging away on the firm’s behalf before heading out through the darkened, empty offices toward the building elevators. Video and keycard records backed up Marty’s own testimony that he’d last seen me at the Friday post-lunch departmental update meeting where, he confided with a frown of concern, I’d seemed “a little off”. He made a mental note to check in with me and make sure things were “okay at home”, but before he’d gotten the chance I’d “ducked out early” that afternoon… never to be seen again.
I hadn’t even wanted the position at Deepmountain Capital Intensive LLC. Marty’d talked me into it, of course. I was like that around him. Sure, he could talk a chicken into cutting its own head off just to save the poor farmer the trouble, but I’d been his starstruck sidekick from the moment eight-year-old me had looked into the new ten-year-old neighbor kid’s vivid blue eyes, and though as I’d matured I’d managed to suppress most of my embarrassing hero-worship I still remained as vulnerable to his blandishments as Superman was to kryptonite, especially once he’d started augmenting his already compelling beauty from high school onward with gym-grown muscle that increasingly filled out his physique in all the most distracting places. I tried to keep up, working out in secret because I was too embarrassed to do it in public, but all I managed was trim and defined, and no one seemed to notice. Between my narrow face, the thatch of thick black hair that always looked ready for pruning shears, dark eyebrows, my less-than-jock physique, and my natural reticence, I consistently came across as somebody’s kid brother no matter who I was with and what I was doing, even now that I was in my early twenties.
Marty wanted me at Deepmountain with him, and he had a plan. He cornered me in a booth at Ballantine’s one wet Friday night, and over a succession of impressively potent whisky sours he ranted winningly about how my talents were completely wasted and, he was sure, criminally under-appreciated at Tillman & Salinas, the financial consulting firm where over the last two years I’d been doggedly working my way up from the doldrums of internship while pursuing an accelerated MBA. On these points I didn’t need much convincing, as Marty no doubt knew. Not long before, the completion of my long-awaited degree had won me a promotion to associate, a position that so far seemed to consist almost entirely of wall-to-wall internal and client meetings full of buzz-words and double-talk; travel to ugly cities to stay in even uglier hotels; and riding herd over squads of lazy and/or incompetent analysts.
So what was the solution? All I had to do was follow Marty to Deepmountain. Marty had already made VP there in less time than it had taken me to make associate, and he had his sights set on partner. The only thing Marty could think of to make his world even more golden, he told me as I nursed my fifth cocktail, was a right-hand man he could trust—a standup guy ready to make it big with him. Sure, I hated those kinds of rapacious buyout firms, but Deepmountain was different—would Marty even be there otherwise? Then there was the pay, which, astonishingly, was close to half again the very competitive salary I was raking in at Tillman & Salinas. Medical and retirement? Off the charts. Honestly, though, between mounting disillusionment with my existing job and the hold he had on me, I probably would have bought into Marty’s pitch for a smile and a promise of a Subway sandwich on him every other week.
“You have to do this, Beck,” he enthused, leaning close. His proximity and scent were doing funny things to my heart, and however much I told myself I’d gotten over my hopeless adolescent crush I couldn’t deny my groin was reacting, too. He put a hand on my shoulder, and my dick jumped. “You’d be crazy not to,” he said, stretching out that patented you-know-I’m-right grin on one side just enough to dimple. Then he pulled back, keeping the grin, and waved for another round. He was sure he’d closed the deal with me, the cocky bastard, and he wasn’t wrong, either.
Two Mondays later I was hitching up my sharpest purple and puce tie as I debarked the elevator on the forty-ninth floor of the Cavendish Building in the heart of Dallas’s bustling financial district, home to Deepmountain’s M&A division. I hated the place almost instantly. That very first halting walk from the elevators to my new office, two down from Marty’s, I could sense it: a corporate culture of suspicion and paranoia worse than any office I’d ever been in. The looks I got from the people I passed weren’t so much “Who’s the new guy?” or “Who hired the twink?” as “Whose camp is he in?” and “Why is he looking around? What’s he trying to find?” Plus, all of the walls were glass—not just the sides of the outer offices, but every single vertical surface on the floor beyond the elevators and restrooms at the center, leading to endless replays of me looking up and catching the eye of someone in the central cubes, only to have them narrow their eyes at me, wondering what I was looking at. I stopped looking up.
The work, at least, was engrossing, and for the first few months I was happy to submerge myself in producing models and metrics that accurately predicted the profit potential of the dozens of firms we were acquiring or, if they were already in our portfolio, evaluating for restructure, spin-off, or severance. My findings and presentations won high marks from Marty and his superiors, and their approbation, and Marty’s grateful clap on my shoulder as he passed me coming out of the conference room, was enough to offset the subtly poisonous environment I had to live with on the forty-ninth floor.
Then, about six months in, I backed Marty in a power-play against a rival executive in intellectual property. Using a succession of sushi-bar lunches, I convinced my forty-eighth-floor counterpart, the rival’s most-trusted subordinate, that Marty was being unfairly victimized and the firm was better off if the trouble-making rival were eliminated. Yeah, I was pretty naïve.
But then, so was Marty. My aggressive support in helping push his rival out of the way—I even stood next to Marty, wearing a matching smirk, when the rival was escorted out of the building by security—convinced him of my unalloyed loyalty. It was why he had hired me, of course: in that fishbowl shark tank, he’d needed someone who believed in him absolutely; and naturally he’d thought of me, his own personal fanboy. Now that I’d stepped up and become his dragon, standing with him as he’d grafted IP onto his personal empire, he could press forward without fear, confident I had his back for good. It must have felt like a kitchen knife between the shoulder blades when, maybe three months later, I threatened to expose the malfeasance I’d uncovered at one of our earliest acquisitions, Servonyx Cybersystems.
What made me good at my job was an excellent memory, strong analytical skills, and a capacity for lateral thinking that allowed me to connect disparate pieces of information. It made my profit models for potential targets and existing assets more valuable than anyone else’s, because my brain ferreted out the most useful information needed to maximize profit, limit risk exposure, and promote consolidation synergy. (Synergy is a real word involving quantifiable cash, by the way. It’s when you start talking in business-speke pseudojargon like “contingency paradigms” and “blue-sky incentivization” that the self-wanking gesture you’re making with your fist right now starts to become justified.)
The annual audit of Servonyx, previously handled by Marty himself, fell into my lap not long after the IP fracas. At first it seemed routine. Sure, there were a lot more black-box budget lines than was the case in our agrobusiness and pharma properties, but secrecy was naturally at a premium at a bleeding edge cybertech outfit like Servonyx. Half of the next-generation AI research projects they were supposedly about to change the future with were completely locked down even to us at Deepmountain Capital, which owned controlling interest in the company. The project names were opaque, made up of short ten-character hexadecimal strings, and even the staff names, qualifications, and salaries were redacted. The NSA’s ledgers were probably more forthcoming.
Still, the numbers in the research arm added up, as far as they went. Something felt off, though, in way things were being produced in the manufacturing division, which made smart-phone components and end-user goods like TVs that remembered to turn your bread-maker on for you. I got a whiff of it that Friday morning, but It took me all afternoon poring over inventories, ladings, and purchase order paperwork to realize what the dissonance was. Basically, Servonyx was purchasing the raw materials it needed from overseas firms, and the production facilities were using them, but the raw materials being imported were twice what was required for the goods being produced. The balance was blatantly unaccounted for. It wasn’t used in production, and it wasn’t stockpiled. It simply vanished. There was a hole in the supply chain, and the undocumented diversion of these materials, some of them government controlled, was very much against federal regulations. It was also a bit scary: these materials, most of them vital to advanced hypertech systems, were either being used within Servonyx for something very below-board completely without documentation, or they were being sold black-market to organizations that did not want government scrutiny.
By the time I’d finished put two and two together to make five it was late. Night had fallen, and most of the office was dark and abandoned. A quick glance down our side of the floor told me that that Marty was still here but was already in the process of packing up to head home. Without a thought I grabbed my laptop and hurried to meet him, catching him just as he came out of his office. He was pulling the strap of his messenger bag over his head when he saw me, favoring me with a wide, bright smile. That smile faded, though, as I explained my concerns, awkwardly balancing my laptop in one hand as I showed him the evidence and my preliminary figures. When I told him that we were legally obligated to resubmit our quarterly statements and file corrective ladings, his expression was positively grim. His lack of response confused me, because I knew that it was not nothing, and so did he.
I faltered, seeing something in Marty I hadn’t recognized before. Until that moment, I thought I had no illusions about him. Though he was immensely capable of manipulation, and saturated through and through with ambition, I saw him as a man of principles and integrity. What I’d exposed was both illegal and unethical, and I was certain… had been certain… that once Marty grasped what I was saying he would take appropriate action. In retrospect, that was just what I wanted to believe about my childhood hero and teenage crush.
I wanted to believe he would do the right thing—if only to stand be me, his oldest friend. “Marty…” I pleaded. “I mean, you have to know this is not kosher. Right?”
He stared at me for a long moment, his expression unreadable. Then his shoulders slumped, and he dropped his head. I took these as signs that he had resigned himself to the necessary action. What I did not understand was what that meant for me.
He looked up after a moment and met my gaze, and a chill ran through me I couldn’t explain. The office was mostly dark, with only a few security lights casting small pools of illumination on hallways and exits; but even in the dim light where we stood outside Marty’s office I saw something in those blue eyes I’d known forever that unsettled me, though I didn’t know why.
“All right, Beck,” he said quietly. “I’ll set up a meeting with the partners and general counsel on Monday.” He held my gaze and added, “Hold off doing anything until then.”
I nodded. Before I could say another word, he turned and stalked off toward the elevators, adjusting the strap on his messenger bag. A moment later he was gone, leaving me alone in the black, empty floor. I stood there for a minute or two, strangely certain our little meeting hadn’t gone as well as Marty’s parting words had indicated.
Finally I shook myself and headed for the elevators to take me down to my old Toyota, which waited patiently for me in the underground garage.
I didn’t see the truck until it was too late. I was well out of the city, finally making a left turn off the highway into my condo development, when I heard an engine revving from behind me. I glanced up at the rear-view mirror in time to see a large panel truck barreling toward me, but what registered with me was not the imminent danger I was in but the fact that the cab seemed to be empty—the truck had no driver, just empty space where the driver should be. It took maybe a second for this to sink in before the truck shifted left to straddle the yellow line and rammed into me at high speed, making impact just behind the driver’s side door. Everything turned to chaos, my fractured world rolling and crashing around me. Agony tore through me as my left arm wedged in the crumpled door and snapped. I screamed, and I seemed to keep on screaming as a cliff suddenly seemed to give way under me and I fell, plummeting impossibly fast, into infinite, cold darkness.
I awoke from darkness into darkness.
This darkness was different, strange. It was cold where I was now, but not like soulless eternity—more like a brutal, arid winter, the kind where you fought your way home through merciless, icy winds and counted the minutes until you could duck inside someplace warm and cheery, maybe with a fire and mugs of hot chocolate all ready and waiting for you.
I also sensed that I was enclosed, confined, as if I was lying supine in not much larger a space than what it took to contain me. Thin, smooth padding pressed against the bare skin of heels, shoulder blades, and ass. From somewhere below me I felt faint vibrations. I couldn’t be sure, but something told me I was inside something that was moving. Muffled, unidentifiable sounds reached me, but I could see nothing.
Experimentally I moved a hand a few inches out from my body. My stomach fluttered as my knuckles rapped against cold, rough wood. It was the same on the other side. With a faltering heart I made a fist and slowly raised it, inch by inch. I shuddered as, maybe ten inches up from my chest, my knuckles again struck a solid wooden surface with a loud thunk.
My breaths were coming short and shallow now, and I recognized the imminent risk of a panic attack. I tried to calm myself. Just because it seemed like I was naked and trapped in a coffin and probably being carted off in a—hearse?—didn’t mean I was actually naked and trapped in a coffin and being carted off in a hearse. Well, okay, the naked part was pretty incontrovertible. Not only could I feel the fabric covering of whatever thin cushion I was laying on against my bare ass, but there was a distinctly cold draft flitting about my privates. I let the fist I’d used to knock on my coffin door fall to my chest where it brushed against—bristly chest hair? That was weird. Not only chest hair, but an actual chest, with thick, firm pecs more like Marty’s splendid shirt-stretchers than the firm but much thinner specimens I was used to.
I shook my head. I knew I couldn’t be thinking clearly. The accident—something must have happened in the accident. I shouldn’t have lived through something as brutal and catastrophic as that. Well, I was in a coffin, apparently, so maybe I hadn’t. But if I had actually died, what was I doing awake, whole, and—I checked myself mentally—pain-free? Something had happened to me in that accident, but maybe it wasn’t death, exactly?
My memories of the crash were fragmented and disjointed, but that one momentary glimpse in the rear-view of that empty truck cab racing right for me had been such a shock it had fixed itself in my brain. That truck, whoever was controlling it, had been gunning for me. Accident? No way was that an accident, and no way was it random. Someone had it in for me, Beckham Webb. No one else—me.
Someone… someone had tried to kill me.
And as if my brain had been putting the pieces together this whole time, I knew, with a sinking, nauseous wash of betrayal, exactly who my killer must have been. Why wasn’t much of a stretch either. Whatever was happening at Servonyx, Martin Carter was in on it.
I let my hand slip off my chest and fall back to my side—then froze as my hand fell against what was very, very obviously another hand. A thrill of dismay ran through me as I realized my other hand was also resting against a warm, open palm. The horrifying idea that I might be lying on top of someone—a dead someone, sharing my fucking coffin with me—splintered into utter confusion as the full reality of what I was sensing penetrated, because what I was feeling was my hands, both squeezed closed so hard my nails were pressing against the meaty flesh of my palms, laying in those other, open hands… but… I was also feeling those tightly closed fists resting, tense and weight, in my own open palms.
I took in several uneven, ragged breaths, and then, slowly and deliberately, contracted my open hands, and felt, unmistakably, my cold, strong hands wrap tightly around my own closed fists.
I had been fending off universes of panic—from finding myself in a cold, enclosed, lightless space, a fucking coffin—from being naked and confined and murdered—from having my life literally smashed to bits and made inexplicable—and now it all suddenly exploded in me, seizing me with gale force terror. I screamed a throaty, primal scream from somewhere deep inside me. I lashed out, recklessly banging my fists against the thick, unmoving wooden surface above me, screaming and shouting in inarticulate, wordless fury. I was taking a breath, marshaling my entire being to destroy this desperate sense of unknowing helplessness, when I heard muffled voices from outside whatever I was contained in. Three men, maybe four, all sounding even more alarmed than I was, all shouting at once over each other. “Какого черта!” one of them screeched, and not only did I recognize the words as Russian, I even knew, without conscious thought, what they meant. “What the hell!” the same voice said again, and I couldn’t have agreed more. What the hell… What the hell…
“Let me out!” I roared. “I’m alive! Let me out!!” Some part of me was shocked to realize that I was yelling in Russian, a language I didn’t know, but that impossible fact didn’t even come close to mattering in that moment. “Let me out! Let me the fuck out!!”
The men outside were still shouting at each other in rising alarm. “How is it awake?” “Are they supposed to be able to talk?” “Shut it off! Shut it off!” “I don’t know how! How the fuck do you turn it off?” “It’s going to wake up everyone in the complex if we—”
A voice from behind my head rose over the others, sounding more authoritative, though still broad and rough. “Kolya! Use the goddamn control app!” he shouted. “And then inspect your head for holes, you useless shitfucker!”
The commanding voice’s instructions chilled me, because from the other’s murmurs of assent and reassurance it sounded like there really was a way to “shut it off.” I hammered on what I assumed was the wooden coffin lid a few more times. “Let… me… OUT!” I screamed.
“Kolya…!” the commanding voice growled.
“I got it! I got it!” a nearer voice responded. I heard the unmistakable sound of Velcro being ripped open, and the whisk of something being pulled out of a nylon sleeve. The man named Kolya said, “Okay, okay, here it is. I’ve got the control app, it’s—”
Desperately, I shouted, “Kolya! Let me out!”
Kolya let out a little scream. The commanding voice barked at him, “Do it!” I heard Kolya mutter shakily, “Okay, okay!” and then suddenly—
“Ah. There he is.”
My eyes blinked open to reveal an pale, ornate ceiling high overhead, made up of row after row of beveled squares picked out in gold leaf, each with the lines of four thinner concentric squares set close against each other within, a central, solid gold-leaf square at the center of each. The ceiling seemed to march forever in all directions, an endless expanse of décor ancien. Shifting yellow-amber as from a thousand candles warmed the expanse, petering into darkness at each extreme, as if even light could not match its vastness. I felt slightly woozy and wondered if my eyes were playing tricks on me. I was glad at least that I was now someplace comfortably warm, and that I was no longer moving. Wherever I had been en route to, I was, evidently, now arrived.
Far closer than the ceiling a face came into view. It belonged to an older man, though his glinting, cornflower-blue eyes and his smooth, tanned skin betrayed no signs of age; if it weren’t for the well-groomed white beard shot through with gray, matching eyebrows, and shock of pale, once-blond combed-back hair I would have guessed him closer to thirty than the fifty or more he probably was. He was well-preserved, most likely with the help of a great deal of money (if the ceiling overhead were any indication), but not sheltered: I pictured him somehow on the deck of a ship, bracing himself with delight against the buffeting tang of the salty sea air. This was not an altogether comforting image, however, as he was presently looking me over intently with the air of someone making a careful examination, as though I were a great beast of a fish he’d hauled onto his vessel and was now inspecting for the value I had to offer.
I was supine, as before. Evidently I was still in the container I had been in, which it now appeared was a simple rectangular pine box rather than a coffin. The lid had been pried off, leaving me open and exposed, as if at a viewing—though corpses in funeral homes, at least, usually retained the dignity of a nice set of clothes. Lying around naked more likely suggested the morgue, though this was like no morgue I could imagine, and the hale, unaged mariner-aristocrat didn’t exactly match my image of a coroner. I seemed to be elevated at waist-height perhaps in relation to the other man; I guessed the box containing me had been laid on a table or something similar.
“Fascinating,” the bearded man murmured to himself as he examined me, working his way down. His voice was smooth and dark, like old whisky—a marked contrast to the thugs in the—truck? van?—I’d been brought here in. “Impressive,” he added a moment later, and from where his eyes were when he said this, and the demurely raised brow, I guessed uncomfortably he was expressing approval of my, er, personal endowments. Instictively I shifted my hands to cover my crotch, reminding me of the unnerving moment I’d discovered I had two hands too many. Two arms too many, I amended to myself: I could feel the upper arms pressing together, the weight of one set of arms pushing down against the round, muscled flesh of the other. The sensation intrigued me, to be honest, but I was too unsettled by everything that had happened to devote much thought to that yet.
My attempt at modesty amused the bearded man, and he lifted those pale blue eyes to meet mine. “Shyness—an unexpected attribute,” he observed wryly, though he seemed to approve. He frowned slightly. “Do you understand me?” he asked.
I nodded. “Where am I?” I asked. As we were speaking Russian I guessed, “Moscow? St. Petersburg?” I didn’t know any more Russian cities, not for sure. Omsk? Was that a real place? Vladivostok? If we were anywhere other than the first two that came to mind I would be completely clueless.
But the bearded man confirmed that we were in Moscow. This was a relief as long as I didn’t think too hard about how far the old Soviet capital was from Dallas and the life my childhood friend Martin Carter had viciously stolen from me. The bearded man, meanwhile, had found a series small latches along the edges of the pine box I’d been transported in. Once he had flipped them open the side of the box nearest him came away in his hands. He set it aside and then faced me, extending a hand as one might to pull someone out of the water. He was dressed, I now saw, in a salmon polo shirt and black jeans, and he was just as trim, fit, and altogether unfazed by age as his face had suggested. His wine-dark lips were full and mobile—he’d be a good kisser, though I wasn’t sure why the thought occurred to me. “Come,” he said, his right hand still extended. “Stand before me.”
A resentment at being given orders warred with an urgent desire to not be in this box any more, and, once I was out, ever again. I sat up stiffly, trying to ignore how oddly foreign my body felt, even apart from the doubled arms. I looked down at myself and recognized… nothing. My legs were long and toned, with tan, well-worked thighs and calves dusted with dark blond hair that feel away before it reached my ankles. My feet were long and graceful, the toenails meticulously cleaned and trimmed and the knuckles marked with the same smudge of amber hair that trailed down my legs instead of the pitch-dark follicles I was used to. Most shockingly for me, the left foot was completely missing the blunt, pink, ugly scar from the knife I’d sunk deep into my foot in a kitchen mishap when I was twelve, and that—that was weirder than anything else, weirder than the massive, uncut cock currently quiescent between my legs, weirder than the tight, amber-treasure-trail marked six-pack or the hairy, bulging chest I saw looking down at myself, weirder even than the extra arms, almost. The missing scar was like a vacated landmark. I’d been looking at that scar as I’d gone to pull on socks or sandals for half my life, and for it not to be there was like picturing the moon without maria, or the Mona Lisa without a nose.
I glanced over at the bearded man. He still had his arm extended and was waiting for me patiently, though I sensed intuitively that his patience was finite, and that perhaps I would not like what lay beyond it. I placed my hands on the button-studded upholstered padding I’d been laying on and swiveled my feet around until I was facing the bearded man. I found I could lower them to the floor; glancing to either side told me the box and I had actually been placed on a large couch. My bare feet were glad to meet the cool plush of the burgundy carpet below us.
I wiggled my toes for a second in the short pile of the carpet, trying to sort out where I was going and what I needed. I stared at my feet as I did so. I wanted very much to amend that to something like “whoever’s feet these were”, as they weren’t the smaller, paler, unpedicured and scar-marked feet I knew better than I realized I had. But I knew this was a pointless line of thinking. This clearly wasn’t the body I was used to, somehow, and I would figure out how that could be and what that meant. But this was the body responding to my brain’s commands; and given that my real body was probably a mangled, mutilated heap somewhere, if the crash had been anything like what I remembered, I should probably be grateful.
Think of it as a loaner, I thought glumly.
Time to act. Meeting the bearded man’s eyes, I took his warm, strong hand and let him help me to a standing position. My cock twitched at the contact, as if it were waiting for a chance to serve its most pleasurable function.
Another wave of dissonance hit me as I realized I was way too tall. I was used to being five-foot-eight, but I was clearly a lot taller than that. The bearded man let go of my hand as he took one step back appreciatively to take me in, and I regretted this—his firm grip in mine was reassuring. I felt like I was on stilts. I was looking down at the bearded man, and I was sure he was Marty’s height, on the order of six feet. I had a good six inches on him, easily. Now that I was standing my shoulders felt bizarrely wide and heavy, though part of that was down to the extra pair of powerful arms hanging from them, and the doubled, bulging delts and traps that moved, I discovered, independently of each other. That would take some getting used to, and so would my hands brushing against each other as I stood, like lovers too nervous to take hold of each other and lace their fingers together. “Shit,” I said, in English. I shifted my attention off my extra arms and concentrated on steadying myself on my far-away feet.
I tried looked around, hoping to orient myself. The room I was in was indeed vast, and I was right about the candlelight, too, as the room was festooned with candelabras bright with flame—though on second look I guessed they were some kind of artificial, gas-powered flames, as the candles burned at identical heights and there was no sign of melting wax. The illusion, however, was nearly perfect, and the candlelight made the room’s rich red-flock wallpaper, dark-red carpeting, and modern furniture (including many chests of drawers, three wardrobes, and the largest bed I’d ever seen) all seem more cozy and inviting than they had any right to be. One wall was mostly taken up with five enormous, large-paned windows, their scarlet drapes pulled aside and suspended on either side of each; but the panes were mostly black, only the hints of distant rustling trees sketched by the light of a slivered moon.
Directly opposite, in the center of the other long wall, were a pair of alabaster double-doors decorated like the high ceiling in concentric, gold-leaf squares. Though it now seemed to serve as a bedroom I found it hard to imagine it had always done so. It was large enough for a ballroom, I thought, and wondered if whatever secluded palatial manor I’d been brought to was old enough to reach back to the days of bejeweled tsarinas and grand dukes decked out in glittering medals, gold sashes, and duel-ready sabers.
I turned my head back to the bearded man, who seemed, unsurprisingly, right at home in my little vision of the past. For a second I pictured the two of us, dancing alone together to an invisible string quartet, me naked, him in evening dress, those cornflower eyes smoldering with lust…
I shook my head. I’d been thoroughly sidetracked by being killed, and kidnapped, and… you know, arms and stuff. But it was time to move forward, and first on my agenda was getting home so I could throttle Martin Carter and get him and his cronies thrown in jail, if possible in that order. I was about to ask my worldly new acquaintance how I might be able to get back to Dallas, but before I could he spoke first. “Do you have a name?” he inquired politely, his gaze driving straight up into mine.
I blinked at him. “Beckham,” I answered. Any other time I would be bracing myself to tell the story (my dad was a soccer nut despite being born and raised in Texas where football is a religion; Beckham made a really famous mid-field goal for Man-U while mom was in labor; they had been desperately stumped for a name, having used the ones they wanted on my three brothers; voilà, Beckham Webb). But right now I wasn’t sure I could tell anyone my life story like we were a couple of buds having a beer. I was feeling an increasing urgency to get these preliminaries out of the way.
The bearded man didn’t ask. Instead he shook his head, making a tsking sound with his tongue, though without releasing my gaze. At this proximity those bright, cornflower-blue eyes were clear, intense, and inviting. I wondered very much what kind of man he was. “That won’t do at all,” he said, though he sounded amused. “Don’t tell my son,” he added, lowering his voice slightly as if confiding a secret, “but I’m not the slightest bit interested in football.” He considered. “I shall call you John. You came from America, and that’s a good, solid American name.” He brightened. “No—Johnny,” he amended. With a grin he added, “Better than a serial number, yes?”
Whatever. “Sir—” I began.
“No, Johnny,” he admonished, as if reprimanding a child, or an overeager dog. “Not ‘sir’.”
“Uh, all right,” I said. “I need—”
“My name is Evgeniy Aleksàndrovich Ivchenko,” he informed me. “You may address me as Evgeniy Aleksàndrovich. It is a way of showing respect and position.”
“Evgeniy Aleksàndrovich,” I parroted slowly. He nodded, pleased. I carried on, “Evgeniy Aleksàndrovich, I need to—”
His bushy, white-and-gray brows were raised at what must have sounded like the prelude to an imperative request of the sort seldom heard by men as rarifyingly privileged as he. “I’ll tell you what you need,” he spoke over me, firmly though not unkindly. “You need to show me all you have to offer.” Then, before I could try again, he grasped my hips and slid his hands smoothly upwards, caressing up my flanks until his hands cupped my not inconsiderable lats.
Instantly, as if a switch had been flipped, my fat, hefty cock inflated in seconds to a full, aching, monolithic erection. I gasped, feeling a flood of outrageous pleasure as if some massive internal tank of pure, concentrated sexual arousal had been suddenly breached, dousing my entire existence with intense, animal need. The feeling of inundation was so extreme and so devouring I wondered if the onslaught kept washing backwards over my life, rewriting my life so that I had always been massively, impossible aroused. I stared down panting at Evgeniy, who was drinking in my massive, forty-five-degrees-from-vertical erection, my flushed, heated torso, and my wide-eyed, open-mouthed expression of utter arousal with obvious satisfaction.
“Perfect,” he purred. He met my gaze. “Your body is very well designed, Johnny,” he said. “I shall have to compliment your engineers on a job well done.”
I gaped down at him, barely able to think. His words penetrated fevered brain, but I couldn’t hope to apply any kind of rational thought to them. I saw his eyes drop to my dark, pebbled nipples, and the thought that he might move that luscious mouth forward and kiss them, lick them, bite them made me almost surge toward the orgasm that was in that moment my one purpose and only desire.
Evgeniy’s eyes were dark with want as he looked me up and down. “You are amazing,” he said, a little breathlessly. “I can almost feel your arousal. I wonder—does the switch really work a second time?” As if to answer his question he returned his hands to my hips and slid them up my flanks again, and—
I nearly blacked out from the surge of new arousal. I cried out uncontrollably as a new level of desperate want flooded through me. I thought I’d been turned on before, but that was a puddle against the Atlantic Ocean by comparison. My cock seemed to get even harder, swelling bigger, longer, thicker, harder, pulsing and throbbing as clear precum welled and dripped from its red, exposed head, foreskin pulled and stretched completely taut. In fact my whole being seemed to get a hardon as my muscles multiplied and my body surged. My bones cracked and reformed sending shockwaves of unclassifiable sensation through me as my physical form compounded itself. I was still crying out as I grabbed Evgeniy’s shoulders, and he was wailing too. He looked further away now as I towered over him, and he stared up at me in awe, the blue in his eyes all but gone as he succumbed to want. His dark jeans had a just-visible wet spot near one pocket.
“My god,” he said. “I can feel it. Your arousal is so powerful, it radiates out from—”
“No more talking,” I snarled. My eyes felt like they were blazing as I stared down into his. Keeping two hands on his shoulders I used my other hands to grab the fabric of his polo at the sides, and then yanked up with all four, whipping the shirt off him and tossing it aside. A brush of white hair marked his meaty pecs. A small, dark dragon tattoo curled around his right bicep. He was trim and taut, sun-darked and scarred, but he was packed with tight, delicious muscle. I wanted to lick every inch of him with my wide, thick, double-sized tongue.
He was trying to assert his ownership of me again, as if words still mattered, as my arousal were not encompassing the universe. Maybe he was just used to asserting himself through speech. He was trembling with lust as he said, “I shall enjoy turning you on like this, over and—”
“Suck… me… now!” I bellowed, low and guttural. I needed his touch, the stroke of his hands, the brush of his bearded lips, the sucking of his talented, experienced mouth.
Evgeniy obeyed. I was actually thinking about my nipples, poking down now from massive, ponderous, sweaty pecs, because they seemed to have their own need and their own urgency. But Evgeniy went straight for my cock. He wrapped his hands around it, fingers barely touching, and the mere contact sent fire through every vein in my body. Blood rushed in my ears as I stared down at him, watching him stare in reverence at my mighty, impossible colossus of a cock. Finally, when I had almost reached the last shred of my endurance, he used his hands to collect some of of my streaming precum, and then, using hand and mouth together, he began to give me more pleasure than I thought I could possible withstand. I felt it pulsing out from me, too much even for my expanded body, and I could sense it coursing through Evgeniy, driving him unstoppably toward a second orgasm. “Don’t cum,” I demanded. “You cum when I cum.”
Evgeniy made a sound around my cockhead that might have been a whimper. It was too big now to swallow, but he was using mouth, lips, tongue, and hand to give me the most intense blow-job in human history. “Don’t worry,” I rumbled. “I won’t last long.” I wrapped a massive hand around the nape of his neck and had to use all my tattered willpower not to choke him with my cock. I distracted myself using my other big hands to stroke him everywhere, arms, shoulders, torso. Before I’d been taken aback by my extra hands, but now I wanted more. Every caress of his hard, muscle-packed body shot straight to my balls, and the brush of my sweaty biceps together as my arms moved and shifted and flexed as I took care of him made me want more of that, too. If it felt like this I wanted six arms, eight arms, a hundred fucking arms…
Evgeniy, I could somehow sense, was dying to get me off, to experience the explosion of orgasm we were both hurtling towards. He stepped up his ministrations to my cock, and at the same time he took one of his precum-slicked hands away from my colossal tool and, before my frenzied brain could anticipate what he was doing, he reached behind my balls and began sliding his index finger back along my taint, making inexorably for my oversensitive crack. “Yes!” I roared. “Do it!” He stroked and licked and sucked my cock fiercer, harder, faster, even as he pushed his finger further and further, entering the crack between my muscle cheeks, slipping closer and closer to my puckered hole.
The very thought of him pushing a finger into me pushed me all the way to the end, telling me that this time there was no chance of even getting that far. The first touch to my anus would—but then, the teasing bastard pulled his finger back, sliding the way it had come after getting within millimeters of the place it needed to be.
Two of my hands found Evgeniy’s hard, thick nipples. I grabbed them between thumb and forefinger and twisted, hard, even as I tightening my grip on the nape of his neck and clasped his pre-covered cock-stroking hand in mine. Evgeniy gave a low, animal growl and pushed the slick finger of his other hand hard along my crack, shoving unceremoniously right into my tight, virgin ass.
Instantly my heavy balls seized and we hurtled together into an enormous, mind-blowing orgasm. Seed rocketed up my fat colossal cock, even as I was overcome with a release so intense it felt like I was cumming from every pore, like every part of me was erupting with geysers of hot, cleansing, euphoric jizz. I came and came and came, and I felt Evgeniy cumming too, as if two chain-reaction supernovas in the same space became a single, galaxy-shaking event. I collapsed to my knees, and I was still cumming as I found Evgeniy’s mouth and we began kissing messily, arms wrapped tightly around each other, our faces wet with spunk. The pleasure gained from the simple act of passionately macking made for a perfect chaser to the explosive shared orgasm still shaking its way through both our shuddering bodies. We kissed and kissed, slower and deeper, as we climbed down from the dizzying height of our release. I felt my size moderating, too—my cock, my muscles, and my overall stature diminished gently, slowly, like a softening cock, though like my postorgasmic junk I was still thick and swollen, not reduced to my base-line, inert state just yet. I felt big and hot and, weirdly, a little horny. Our kisses softened, too, until Evgeniy broke our lips apart and rested his forehead comfortably against mine.
“Huh, Johnny,” he huffed, flushed and grinning like a boy who’d just had his first fuck, for all he was sporting a white-and-gray beard that at the moment was saturated with thick globs of hot spunk. “I knew (pant) I made the right choice (pant) buying a humaniform like you.”
I blinked. What was he saying? Like him, I was panting still, and concentration wasn’t coming easy.
“This is your home now,” he said, rolling our foreheads together. “This room. You’ll never leave—”
“What?” I said, pulling back.
Evgeniy was smiling wide, suffused with utter bliss. More than that, he was transported at the prospect of an endless supply of it. He stepped back, spreading his arms wide. Shirtless and handsome, thick-muscled and bearded, his jeans and torso soaked with cum, he looked all at once like the god of sex and the consummation of human masculinity. “I’ve already set it up in your app,” he said. Turning around in a complete circle, he marked out my domain. “This room is your world from now on,” he said as he walked backward toward the door, hands still outstretched, his eyes still dark with the indescribable pleasure I had given him. “Oh, Johnny, think of it. The pleasure you will give me, and my heirs, for years upon years, decade upon decade, until your circuits corrode and your servos freeze, and—”
His words stirred a mounting panic in me, and with it came a flood of anger. “Evgeniy—!” I began.
But he shouted back, “Evgeniy Aleksàndrovich!” And—I subsided, unable to protest, unable to move toward him. For a long moment we stared at each other, fear and rage boiling through me.
Then Evgeniy was smiling wide again. “Remember the pleasure we just had, Johnny,” he cooed. “Think what it will be like when I fuck you. When I let you fuck me.” I did think about it, and despite everything my exhausted cock flexed and kicked, and a tingle of anticipation shivered up my spine. God knew he would be a great fuck, either way we did it. He knew it, and he knew I knew.
Evgeniy’s eyes danced. He resumed his backward walk toward the double doors. “Think of how good it felt for me to turn you on, Johnny,” he said. “Think about how amazing it will feel when I do it to you again… and again… and again.”
I wanted to protest. To shout him down and demand he let me tear my way back to Dallas and vent my fury on the villains there who’d turned against me. But something he’d done, maybe the harsh tone of his insistent command that I use his formal name, had shackled me. It was as though I was physically held back from moving toward him, or from speaking against him. And yet there was a part of my brain that knew I could break the constraints, if I needed, if I tried hard enough. Not yet, it said. Wait. So I watched him through narrowed eyes, letting him have his say, laying out my hedonist’s-dream future of endless ecstasy and unending, earth-shattering release.
He’d finally reached the doors. He turned and heaved a pleased sigh. “Get cleaned up,” he said. “Relax. Power down, if you can. I’ll be back…” He pursed his lips and looked up, evidently considering his schedule. “…tomorrow, perhaps. Perhaps sooner. I need a lot of time to set aside the next time I explore what you can do with me.” With a final grin and wink, he was gone. I heard him padding away, presumably toward his own chambers (which were god knew where), and then there was no sound at all but the whistling of a cold winter wind beyond the five great windows, and the ragged sound of my own breaths as I looked around, disconsolately, at the blood-red room that was now my world.
I have an on switch, I thought, a little bewildered.
I was standing in the shower, trying to pull things together. I’d been relieved to discover a largish bathroom behind a half-hidden door set into the shorter wall behind the bed, complete with a decent-sized shower. I needed one, and not just because I stank of sweat and cum. Shower time was thinking time for me, and I felt like there was a lot of thinking stacked up and waiting for me to work through it.
I’d already made a few connections, like who was responsible me being “killed” and sent halfway around the world to be the blow-up sex doll for the world’s hottest tsarist viscount. The why of it…
Delightfully hot water pummeled my lower back from a showerhead mounted somewhere around the middle of his shoulder blades. If this really was my “world” now, maybe I could convince Evgeniy Aleksàndrovich to do something about that. I was lucky there was clearance between my head and the top of the shower stall, though if it was more than a centimeter I’d eat Evgeniy’s stupid salmon polo shirt.
The why of it. I was more and more certain that the malfeasance I’d uncovered in the Servonyx audit was only the surface. Servonyx wasn’t just researching cybernetics, they were… I took in a deep, unsteady breath and raised my four hands, exhibiting the proof for my own eyes. Servonyx had gone beyond research and had begun producing advanced cybernetics. Full-blown androids, I thought, and knowing I was talking about myself made me positively queasy.
“Until your circuits corrode and your servos freeze…”
That was this body Evgeniy was talking about. My body. My fake, artificial body. The body that produced unspeakable pleasure triggered by the mere upstroke of hands along his flanks, sliding up from hips to lats. Getting “turned on” had never been so literal. I snorted. I have an on switch, I thought again. Then I remembered the crazy moment of panic in the transport. The thugs in the van—that guy Kolya—he’d pulled out a device and sent me straight to oblivion with the click of a button in some kind of control app. I have an on switch, I thought, a little more morosely, and I have an off switch. That was… more than a little upsetting. Actually, not having control over either of them was very upsetting.
Evgeniy had mentioned an app, too. I hadn’t missed that. Getting ahold of that was probably my way out, but it would take a lot of planning and patience. Then again, I thought wryly, to hear Evgeniy talk my parts wouldn’t start to wear out until Armageddon destroyed everyone anyway.
Apparently, I had time.
I turned around and let the hot, steamy water cascade over my tight, six-pack abs and slumbering, monster phallus for a while. Everything about this body was new, but the real novelty was having a foreskin. I’d have to explore that.
Okay, the real novelty was the extra arms. I sighed. I realized I was unconsciously brushing the fingers of one hand against the fingers of the other on both sides, idly giving myself low-level stimulus. I rubbed my front arms against the back ones a little, flexing my rear biceps and letting my front arms brush against the round, hard muscle. I liked that. It felt good, and my heavy dick gave a little twitch of interest. I’d have to see what possibilities this body had for self-pleasure later.
I faced what had been niggling at me ever since I’d fully accepted I had an extra helping of torso-connected limbs. There might be more than one reason Servonyx had installed extra arms on me. Sure, like everything else about my souped-up, godly physique, they’d bring my partner/owner/fuckhead power-tripping plutocrat a lot of pleasure. For all I knew he had a kink that way and they’d been specially requested.
But what if—
It was in Servonyx’s interest to keep these sex-bots secret, for now. The public wasn’t ready for self-aware androids. And—fuck, the customers would want features that prevented the sex-bots from running off even if they got the chance.
Damn it, I’d been made freaky for a reason. I couldn’t go out like this. I couldn’t be seen in public, not if I didn’t want to draw the instant attention of every damn person on earth, including the nebulous group of people who wanted me dead. I had no idea who they were, other than that Marty was part of it, so I was calling them The Assholes in my head. If I ran, and anyone at all saw me, word of my bizarre configuration would inevitably make it back to The Assholes. If that happened, I wouldn’t see them coming… and my only chance was if they didn’t see me coming.
I pumped some body wash from a dispenser into a shower scrunchie and started lathering up my heroic torso with both front hands, ignoring the way my remaining hands wanted to play with my now half-awake dick. So… Servonyx was producing androids—full-blown sex-bots, ready to make the customer’s kinkiest dreams come true. The twist, though, was that, at least in one case, the “humaniform” in question hadn’t been loaded up with an A.I. as the controlling interface. No, this humaniform had been factory-installed with a real, human mind.
I paused. Had I been reduced to digital form? Stored on solid-state chips? Probably they were tucked away somewhere unlikely, like where my spleen should be, or just inside the left nostril. Or—was it possible there was actual gray matter inside my artificial noggin, salvaged from whatever was left of my mangled original body? Hmm. Probably it didn’t matter, I decided quickly. What I was really asking was whether my soul had come along for the ride, and that was just as philosophically insoluble whether my brain was neurons and synapses or Intel Inside.
I soaped up my groin, still ignoring my alert and interested cock and my heavy, sensitive balls, and then proceeded down my long, very nicely muscled legs. What frustrated me was that I was living, breathing evidence of a crime. I couldn’t be sure if downloading a person’s essence into a blank android, or thumb drive or whatever, was really a crime—but murdering someone to shut them up sure was. Kidnapping someone’s psyche against their will and turning them into a literal sex machine probably was too, though it would be interesting to hear the arguments if it went to the Supreme Court.
It wasn’t just for revenge that I needed to get back to Dallas, I realized. The Assholes at Servonyx and Deepmountain had arranged my murder, so there were probably other murders too; and who knew if those victims were actually dead, or if they’d been tossed into androids like me. If they were reduced to murdering to achieve their ends, they would do anything, commit any crime, destroy any principle. And… for what?
What was Servonyx up to? I was proof that Servonyx was secretly building an unknown quantity of advanced, “humaniform” androids, with physical capabilities far beyond what anybody would expect. Why? What was their vision, and what would they do to achieve it?
I sighed. I was out of information. I set the scrunchie aside and started rinsing off, making sure to stoop to get my thick, shortish (and, evidently, amber blond) hair, then my face and ears. I straightened up, switched off the water, and, pulling aside the drab blue curtain, started a vigorous towel-off with an extra-large bath towel from a stack in a recess by the shower. Once I was dry I tossed the towel over the shower curtain rod, wondering idly about laundry. A place this massive probably had a coterie of servants, but maybe they weren’t let into the room with the sex-bot.
I shrugged. My eyes fell on the toilet, and I checked myself for any need to pee. Nope. No pee. I started to head out of the bathroom, then froze in mid-step. Wondering whether I needed to pee always made me instinctively think back to the last time I’d had anything to drink, which would have been… before I died, in my other body. That didn’t help. I hadn’t eaten anything, either. And that led to one more mental connection that I’d already set up for myself: I wasn’t hungry, or thirsty. Did I even eat or drink, now? Maybe this just one more fucked up reality for a newly minted humaniform sex-bot.
I scratched my head. How would that work, though? I looked down at my reluctantly, and perhaps only momentarily, quiescent dick. I had recently sprayed a half-gallon of jizz (well, okay, not that much, but an abnormal amount, anyway), and I’d just washed off a fair amount of sweat, too. And the raw materials for all that had to come from… somewhere, right?
I shook my head and headed back out into the main room, closing the inset door behind me. Maybe I could get Evgeniy to lend me the fucking user’s manual.
For no other reason than a general sense of thoroughness, I tried the door. Surprisingly, it was unlocked. Unsurprisingly, it didn’t matter, because I couldn’t get past the boundaries of the bedroom. It wasn’t a force-field—that would have been ridiculous. No, what happened was, I tried to push a hand forward, and it just stopped. I tried walking through, and the same thing happened—I could get as far as the open door, and then my body wouldn’t let me proceed any further. My “control app”, whatever that was, really had been programmed with the perimeter of this room as the finite boundary of my world.
At least they didn’t give a shock collar, I thought, a little bitterly.
I wanted to rip the doors off and hurl them at the beige walls of the corridor beyond. Instead, I carefully closed them and found the switches for the fake candles. I doused most of them and headed across the darkened expanse toward the emperor-sized canopy bed, hoping it was as comfortable as it looked, and that my new body would really let me sleep. My brain needed rest, whether my gears and servos did or not. Fortunately, it was that comfortable, dressed with soft, cool, comfy sheets and deep, friendly pillows, and my body did let me sleep. I even dreamed, rather vividly, of a long sea-voyage where I fucked Evgeniy in every cabin, storeroom, deck, and crow’s nest of the H.M.S. Indefuckable.
I awoke abruptly in the middle of the night. The room was dark—the remaining fake candles had been extinguished—and the nail-paring moon was gone from the starry sky outside. Evidently, though, I had fairly decent night vision now. Which was good, because there was a naked man curled up in bed with me, and it definitely wasn’t Evgeniy.
He was snuggled up close against me, nestled in my arms with his head against my chest. From that proximity I could determine several things. Contact with most of the surfaces of his body told me he was tall and well-muscled, like a swimmer or a gymnast. He had pale skin and dark hair, long on top and short on the back and sides, already tousled into a bed-head mess, but not much hair elsewhere, maybe. I could just make out a rose tattooed on his shoulder. From the feel of him I’d have guessed he was closer to my age than Evgeniy’s. His feet were cold, even under the blankets. He also had a long, raging erection even in his sleep, and it was nuzzling wetly against the side of my own fat, rather larger hard-on like it was sniffing out a mate.
He felt really, incredibly good cuddled tight against me, and I couldn’t quite bring myself to unwrap my arms from around his sexy, sexy form. But… for fuck’s sake, weren’t introductions in order, at least?
“Hey,” I said. My voice sounded low and deep, like I was auditioning for a midnight radio show on WSEX. The man in my arms stirred and looked up at me with an adorable smile.
“Hi,” he said sleepily. “Sorry, you looked so peaceful lying there, and I didn’t want to disturb your sleep, so I just crawled in.” He drew in a deep breath, wriggling a little in my four-armed embrace. “You’re just as beautiful as my father said you’d be.”
“Thanks,” I said wryly. He was speaking Russian, like Evgeniy, and I replied in kind. “You’re Evgeniy Aleksàndrovich’s son?”
He nodded, still smiling. “Valery,” he said. “Valery Evgenevich.” He was handsome, but young and clean-shaven; my guess was early to mid twenties.
“Nice to meet you, Valery Evgenevich,” I said. It felt like a weird thing to say to someone you already had wrapped up in your arms, and whose cock was jousting with yours. But somehow it seemed natural with Valery.
“Nice to meet you… Beckham,” Valery returned, stressing the name Evgeniy had refused to use with a smile and a lift of his eyebrows. My heartbeat actually picked up at that, not knowing how much I’d missed my own name. It sounded nice on his lips, his accent and the surrounding Russian making it seem slightly exotic. Either this was the nicest guy ever, or Valery was one world-class manipulator. Given who his father was, it might turn out he was both.
“Beck,” I said, unconsciously squeezing him a little closer to me. He smiled contentedly and seemed ready to drift back into sleep. Before he went I had to ask. “Valery… why are you in my bed?”
His sleepy smile widened, and he pushed up and gave me a long, sweet kiss that had my toes curling and my whole body wanting the universe to hold on that moment for eternity. When our lips parted I found myself staring into warm, dark eyes, though his heavy eyelids told me he’d be asleep again in seconds.
“This is my bed, Beck,” he said, still with a languid, sleepy smile. “And now, it’s yours, too.” With that he curled back against my shoulder, serenely comfortable in my embrace, his long erection poking hard against my abs. I thought I’d lie there awake for a long time pondering the mystery of Valery, but—fuck, it felt too right, like holding him tight was the real reason I’d been given four arms in the first place. Before long I fell back into a deep, contented sleep, though my boner stayed awake the whole damn night, and Valery’s did, too.
I dreamt, and not of electric sheep.
I was standing in the middle of a large, deserted open space surrounded by ponderous-looking buildings under a vast, slate-gray sky. As I looked around I recognized the luridly hued onion domes of St. Basil’s Cathedral, and my lips tightened. Moscow, then. Still. Was this Red Square? The closest I could conjure to a helpful image was the opening scenes of Cast Away, but not only was there no Tom Hanks or FedEx trucks anywhere to be seen, it seemed there was no one at all. In fact if the still, looming silence was any indication I might be the only soul for miles around. I was in a Moscow of one. Snow fell lazily around me, the dark paving bricks around my big, bare feet slowly gaining a light dusting of white, but I wasn’t cold. I simply was.
In the way of dreams I then realized in swift succession that I was naked and very, very aroused, and that I was not alone after all. The slim, muscled form of Valery was kneeling at my feet, heroically taking my quivering, tremendous dick into himself like he was born to the job. He was naked, too, his long, uncut erection standing flushed and rigid against his pale, tightened abs, and as I watched he boldly swallowed me right down to the root, his dark, impish eyes flicking up to me and communicating brash, untrammeled desire. My balls tightened in response, and a pulse of pure pleasure tore though me, shaking my consciousness with intoxicating, amp-on-eleven sensation. It was so amazing my body couldn’t quite contain it, and it spilled out of me and bore through Valery, too, forcing a moan from him then reverberated through my incredible cock.
My strong hands found his scalp and shoulders, and I gently carded thick, snow-damp hair and kneaded defined traps and delts. As my fingers sifted through his hair it seemed to draw out from his scalp, as though the steady motion of pushing gently through his dark locks, ruffling hair between my fingers, was casually releasing inches of new length from his scalp. In the dream it made sense, and he smiled those sweet lips around my wide dick, so I guessed it felt nice what I was doing, though it was hardly an even exchange of pleasure.
After a moment of blissful suction and tongue play Valery pulled back languidly, releasing only half of my majestic cock to the cool, flurrying fake-Moscow air, the rest of me still caged behind luscious, wine-dark lips that gripped my iron-hard member firm and tight. Hidden from view in that secret heat, a long, deft tongue danced slyly around my sensitive head and thick upper shaft. And those eyes! They seemed to drive into me. The way they stared into mine was pushing me closer to orgasm even without his eager lips, warm mouth and clever tongue.
Some corner of me tried reminding me I should be angry, and, even more, that I should be wary. I didn’t know this kid, but I had his father’s number, and it was 1-800-SOCIOPATH. I was a thing now because of men like him. And Valery—what was he meant to be to me? Companion? Owner? Master? I shivered, and very nearly broke through the monolithic buzz of arousal I had felt all through this dream and long before it, all the way back to the moment I’d woken up in that huge, red, empty room.
But staring into those dark, searing eyes, I could see into him. How different he was to the fuckers who’d done this to me. Evgeniy, who got off on controlling me. Martin Carter, who’d betrayed me. All the evil, soulless snakes behind them in the shadows, who’d twisted and molded human life in their hands with no though but profit and the chillingly smug, rarified superiority of the penumbraed ultraelite. Valery was no innocent, but I knew somehow that he wasn’t one of them, that he didn’t fuck people over. He was a lover, and—my lips curled—his only sadism lay in the honeyed teasing of a devoted fellator. The truth I saw in Valery’s eyes was unadulterated, burning appreciation and pure, star-nova man-lust, and I was ready to feed it right back to him in spades.
Valery blinked then, slowly as if for the effect of shielding his eyes and then revealing them again—and the intensity of them now seemed almost unbearable. Waves of reaction rolled through, hurling me higher, deeper. Close. I was so close. I wanted to cum like a firehose, exploding my pleasure into him, and at the same I wanted to prolong this edge forever, staving off the joy of release for an infinity of taut-stringed, quivering, agonizing bliss.
“Oh, fuck, Valery,” I rasped, letting my head fall back a little as I gripped and forcefully massaged his shoulders while continuing my more subtle caresses of his scalp, though his lengthening hair was starting to tumble over the backs of my other hands, pleasantly tickling the skin there as I kneaded and groped. I barely noticed: my cock and his mouth was my whole world. My eyes fluttered closed as I chased the pure flow of sensation as he slowly, teasingly, pushed down on me again. I groaned inarticulately, loving the touch of four hands along his skin almost as much as the tantalizing stimulation of his mouth and sweet lips around my generously proportioned, deluxe model supercock. Snowflakes curled around us, sometimes falling on my arms and shoulders or the shelf of my ass or into my messy hair, releasing tiny pinpricks of cold that balanced bracingly with the heat of Valery’s talented mouth and the roiling of my own fiery, inexhaustible desire. His rose tattoo decorating his right bicep stood out in vivid, dream-saturated orange bittersweet against pallid skin, the firm, round muscle shifting underneath as he moved to wrap his hands around my perfectly sculpted thighs, snaking them slowing up to my hard, round ass.
I loved this, I thought. The simplicity of him pleasuring me, the two of us alone in an empty world, appealed to me. Yet… I was tempted. I was tempted to want more—the more that had unexpectedly been opened up to me, in my very first night as an unwilling hyper-built sex toy. The possibility called to me, tugging at my heart and id from somewhere deep and secret inside me. Some part of me yearned for him to trip my transformation, to slide his strong, long-fingered hands up my tanned, muscled flanks and make me fucking grow, becoming what it was only now possible for me to be.
I remembered it like it was still happening to me. It was—fuck, it was so—Christ, I couldn’t even put into words how mind-bendingly hot that had been, to grow into a huge muscle beast, and at the same time to have my level of stimulus so brutally compounded that I rocketed well beyond human, or humaniform, or whatever the fuck I was now. In those blurry, euphoria-warped moments I had been beyond anything like normal experience. I was a sex god—no, even gods were too rational. I had become a sex demon, an untamed beast possessed of a surging, nerve-frying ecstasy so primal and boundless it poured out from me like eye-searing light from the sun. I’d dominated Evgeniy with the raw power of my pleasure, and he’d burned in it eagerly.
I could become addicted to that feeling. And that one thought, as it filtered through my mind, was enough to shy me back from wanting it again, though I knew the desire would always surface in me, as irresistible as the tides and equally as potent.
Valery had taken me all the way in again, so far down on my massive dick I was enjoying the sparse stubble of his rough chin against my heavy ballsack as he wrapped head and strength around my shivering, wanton cock with mouth, tongue, and throat. A low growl escaped me. His ministrations spurred and escalated the spiking pleasure of my awed flesh until, suddenly, my churning balls drew tight and I was panting hard—but Valery was not ready to let me cum. He pulled back again, this time almost all the way, and wrapped both hands loosely around my shaft while he mouthed coyly around the wide, leaking glans. I did not know him well, or at all, but when he pulled back, denying me my climax, it felt like exactly the sort of thing Valery would do to me. “Fuuuuuck,” I murmured, and I felt his blessed, must-be-kissed lips smile slightly as he worked shaft and head together. I gripped his head and his shoulders with all my hands and shuddered. How was it he could make me feel like I would well up and burst at any moment, and simultaneously like we could do this forever, him milking me and engulfing me until the end of fucking time? God, I still wanted both, this brimming orgasm and actual, cataclysmic release.
Valery did something with his throat then, and I bit back a cry. Maybe I hadn’t been murdered and been turned into an erotically enhanced artificial humaniform whatever after all. Maybe this was just heaven, pure and simple, and Valery was just the angel assigned to my case, gleefully ensuring I received all the rewards I’d earned. It wasn’t an unappealing prospect. Getting my artificially gigantic pipe expertly sucked off until Judgment Day in a dreamscape Red Square while I doused my lithe, smirking Russian angel with endless, unrelenting pleasure-radiation in between wild, unstoppable, soul-bursting explosions of white-hot cum? I could so deal with that, and fuck bitterness and vengeance, and fuck my whole entirely inconsequential Before while I was at it. This was better, I told myself—so much better. Though we’d have to see about him letting me take turns, because it struck me I wanted to taste him and tongue under his foreskin and mouth my way up and down the sides of his splendid, perfect dick and make him blast load after load in my thirsty mouth almost as much as he manifestly loved to swallow my monster dick all the way down his beautiful, talented throat.
Time seemed to slow, if only for a moment. My eyes were still closed, but yet I was somehow almost seeing something, if there was a way you could see in your head without your eyes being involved at all. It was like catching a fleeting movement in my periphery, not so much out of the corner of my eye as out of the corner of my mind. I tried to focus on it. There were two motes of light wafting through the red-brown darkness behind my lids. My brows drew together slightly—something seemed oddly familiar about them.
I opened my eyes as Valery began an agonizingly slow pistoning on my overstimulated dick, one hand following behind his dulcet lips, hot mouth and wicked tongue as he moved tantalizingly up and down my desperate shaft, while his other hand returned to its place on my round, snowmelt-dappled ass. My balls and some point near the base of my spine were both screaming Orgasm! There has to be an orgasm!—but my eyes were distracted. We’d shifted our position around a quarter arc in the empty Red Square, and were practically on the steps of the Lenin Mausoleum, though the looming, steel-gray sky still seemed immense, and from this angle the open space of the Square seemed even more like a snow-globe full of just enough soft, swirling white flakes to give atmosphere and movement to the leaden space. But that wasn’t what distracted me. I could now see with my eyes what my mind had discovered: two tiny sources of light hovering among the drifting snowflakes. They were aware of me, of course, and even as Valery pushed down hard on my dick in an unexpected, surprise shove that very nearly undid me, the little source of light started to move in an indirect arc in our direction.
Then suddenly we were closer, though I wasn’t sure whether we had moved or it had, and the light had resolved into a glowing, winged man, maybe twelve inches high, and as the wings beat rhythmically my vision focused on the massive erection that was almost as big as he was. It was long and straight and uncut, and even as it moved toward me I recognized it—it was Valery’s cock, though the dark, dour, impossibly handsome face of the glowing fae-man was nothing like my long-haired, smirking fellator. And then the fae-man’s 10-inch erection was right in my face, so close I could smell it, and his four hands were spread low and wide as if he were preparing grab my face. This is weird, I thought, even for a dream.
Valery did that thing with his throat again, and I let out another low, rumbling growl. Already my vision was starting to diffuse, ready to go white with the climax that was even now building to a dam-bursting release. I stared unsteadily into the eyes of the winged, glowing fae. He stared back, tousled and uncannily gorgeous in a way that could not be natural, though his eyebrows were black and knitted, rolling storms brewing behind a mighty brow.
“Connect,” he said, the voice deep and rough even though I wasn’t quite hearing it with my ears.
“Connect,” I said/thought. Reality shifted slightly to the left, and now as Valery started eagerly sucking me to climax like he’d never teased a dick a day in his life, Valery’s rigid, damp-tipped, blushing dick, somehow in this moment the man-sized, toweringly erect tool of the glowingly beautiful glowing foot-hight fae-man, was sliding past my own impatient lips and pushing deep into my incredibly willing mouth. I tightened around it and sucked hard, lathing it with my tongue, and my eyes bore into the fae-man’s stormy gray eyes, and
My eyes snapped open. I had been dreaming, or almost dreaming, but my dream had mimicked reality. Valery actually was going down on me like he wanted me to cum every damned orgasm I’d ever had. More than that—at some point he had swiveled around, and it really was his long, beautiful ten-inch uncut cock pushing frantically into my mouth. Knowing neither of us was going to last long I focused all of my attention on that lovely, sweet, delicious cock, groping his delightfully promising ass with many hands as I gave him back all the pleasure he was giving me. In seconds I felt the rush of orgasm building somewhere deep in my guts. Electric bliss shot straight up my spine, and then suddenly we were blasting hard, together, and I was shooting so much cum I was barely even aware of how he and I were shooting together in sync, shot after shot, again and again and again. I gulped down his cum frantically, reverently, as he did for me, and I could feel our hearts banging in our chests like the fists of mountain gods smashing through ancient stone. Fuck, we were still cumming, and my dick and my body and my orgasm felt so good, and his smaller fit body under my roaming, appreciative hands was so welcome, I was ready for this climax to go on as long as it wanted to and break all the records it liked, even if it broke us, too.
It was several long minutes before our blinding euphoria subsided, and we drifted gently back in the general direction of Earth, until we found ourselves in his/my/our oversized, luxurious bed, arms wrapped tightly around each other’s sweaty, sticky bodies, our still-three-quarters-hard (and very sensitive) dicks resting comfortably in each other’s mouths like they belonged there. Valery hummed in pleasure around my dick, and I did the same back to him.
At length Valery pulled off me and, with the grace of a ballet star, turned himself back around in parallel to my larger form, seeking out nuzzling spots against my thick chest as our legs tangled naturally together. “Thanks,” I said belatedly, as he settled back in under my arms. “That was… wow.”
I knew his smile was there without seeing it. “Thanks,” he said. After a moment he admitted, “I was having trouble resisting the impressive erection you were growing in your sleep.”
“I was dreaming,” I said.
“What about?” Valery asked.
“You giving me head,” I said matter-of-factly. “Right in the middle of Red Square.”
“Is that right?” he responded. He sounded amused.
“Mm,” I hummed. “It was snowing, too. Very picturesque.”
“I don’t doubt it,” Valery said. “We should do it for real sometime.”
I squeezed him affectionately, weirdly grateful that he’d suggested something that was so obviously impossible, and we settled sleepily against each other, heedless of sweat, jizz, and all. I knew I had a lot to think about. The two lights I’d seen as winged, glowing, twelve-inch-tall fae-men with the man-sized dicks… I understood what they were now. They were dream representations of others like me, or, perhaps more accurately, of the possibility of connecting with them. Somewhere, maybe here in Moscow, maybe far away at the ends of the Earth, were at least two more freaky humaniform sex-toy androids off the Servonyx/Deepmountain assembly line, with the minds and souls of living men dwelling within them. And we had a secret, a hidden link that connected us to each other and no one else. Even now, I could feel him, the one who’d connected with me, behind a sort of junction-spot in my mind, waiting patiently to share knowledge between us; and beyond him, just barely perceptible, was the third, the one who’d hung back while the glowering, dusky god-handsome one made contact with me. We were linked together now. We had our own goddamn secret Cloud.
I snuggled against Valery, listening to his breathing slowly even out as he relaxed in my unlikely surfeit of thickly sculpted arms. It was easy enough for now putting off thinking about grumpy Adonis and the other humaniforms. I was remade as a creature of pleasure, after all, and though morning would no doubt bring new worries, in this moment I was inclined to embrace my new purpose… and all the hot sex that came with it.
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