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  Cyberpunk Erotica. High tech and low life. You don’t screw the system. The system has already screwed you.

  Cyberpunk: high tech and low life collide when the dreaded Corporate Investigation team comes after streetwise Zara Mason. Can Zara stay one step ahead or is she doomed to serve the rest of her days as a drone, owned by the Vine Corporation? Relationships, work, education, even the revolution itself will be analysed and dismissed as Zara struggles for survival and individuality, exploring her sexuality and inner self as much as the outside world as she tries to hang onto reality, survive and beat the system.

  Or has the system already beaten her?

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  Cyberpunk Erotica

  Copyright © 2013 Ora le Brocq

  ISBN: 978-1-77111-445-5

  Cover art by Carmen Waters

  All rights reserved. Except for use in any review, the reproduction or utilization of this work in whole or in part in any form by any electronic, mechanical or other means, now known or hereafter invented, is forbidden without the written permission of the publisher.

  Published by eXtasy Books

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  Cyberpunk Erotica

  By

  Ora le Brocq

  Chapter One

  I lay on my back on the foldaway bed. Red, blue and green lights periodically bathed the dark flat as the advertising billboard at the top of the building flipped its messages across the city. I had my old neural uploader inserted into the port behind my ear, so I could absorb the three hundred TV channels directly through the mind link. I would have used the Wi-Fi link-up, but I couldn’t afford the monthly payment, so I was back to using cable. The three hundred channels were also playing on the home movie screen that covered the wall. I’ve only got small walls so the screen barely measured eight metres wide and six metres tall. Miniscule. The small room meant that the 3D was also limited.

  Wrecker, my boyfriend, walked toward the bed, his body passing through the projected images of cars, crisps, make-up, home Botox, dog food, all the things I can’t afford, all jumbled and overlapping. In one corner of the room, a 3D Roger Moore shot at the man with the golden gun, while a cartoon mermaid in the other corner lay on a rock and sang a song. Somewhere between them, Darth Vader cut off Luke Skywalker’s hand.

  There was even a documentary showing on one channel. Something about grass and fields. Old stuff the planet used to have. I was floating through the channels on my neural link, absorbing the adverts, the jingles, the shows and the films. The adverts streamed through my mind. Roger Moore ran through my naked body as I lay on the bed. I didn’t pay much attention. I must have seen all the films and programmes about a thousand times. On other channels, a topless woman screamed as a vampire raped her, while Candy Mouse taught the kids to count to three.

  I watched Wrecker as he approached the bed. He yanked his black T-shirt and leather trousers off. I watched his muscled body as he quickly moved over me, parted my legs and pushed his cock into me, ignoring, as always, my clit-ring, there for my stimulation.

  I moaned and relaxed as Wrecker pushed my legs further apart and then lifted me up by my ass, getting a good grip so he could thrust upward. I moaned again as Wrecker increased his speed, thrusting higher and further. Wrecker’s cock pounded me as Roger Moore ran along a beach. The topless woman was now dead, the vampire walking away, and Candy Mouse was singing the number two. Wrecker pulled out, lifted himself, brought his cock up, his body merging through the 3D figures as he pushed the head of his wet cock through my lips.

  I smiled and gargled as he slid his length back and forth, holding me tightly at the back of my head, bunching my long black hair up in his fist to keep my head still as he increased his thrusts, pushing himself further down my throat, my tongue stud teasing him as my neural link zipped me through channel after channel. I surfed the world media, images running through my mind as snatches of music went through me, joining the cock which was now back in my pussy and pounding again.

  I cried out and wrapped my legs around Wrecker’s muscled body and waited for my climax, waiting for the pounding, sliding cock to give me an orgasm, but Wrecker pulled out and again lifted himself, pushed his cock back into my mouth, sliding it down my throat. I moved my tongue around a little, waiting for him to go back into my pussy. I turned the music up, the pounding in my ears increasing.

  The credits were rolling on the Roger Moore film, more adverts were playing over the top, Wrecker was back inside me and he was thrusting again. I hung on, my legs around him, and this time he went long enough that I came, my orgasm a release, juices sliding down my thighs, mixing with Wrecker’s cum.

  Chapter Two

  Wrecker collapsed on top of me, gasping, then rolled off and went to the bathroom. I lay in the damp apartment, watching the multiple TV images, feeing relaxed and secure, until I glanced over at the clock and saw it was almost one in the morning.

  “Shit!” I hissed as I leapt from the bed. I was going to be late to meet Tony. Late to get the pittance for the work I’d done for him. I moved forward and then yelped. I’d forgotten to unplug myself from the neural uplink. The jack in my skull yanked sideways as the lead reached its full extent. I pulled the jack out and the streaming images in my mind disappeared. Now, they were only in the apartment, floating in 3D and on the screen at the side of the room. Not in my head.

  I tenderly rubbed the port just above my neck but then forgot about it. I was flat broke, and I needed Tony’s money. I was behind on the rent, again. As usual, Wrecker was no use. He doesn’t work, except for the odd day in the junkyard, hence the nickname. He claims to have a bad back, though this doesn’t stop him riding his motorbike around or having sex with me when he wants. Or using his dumb bells to maintain his physique.

  I dressed, covering my many tattoos and piercings. I put on a tight bra to strap my chest in, then covered myself with dark, anonymous biker clothing. Black eyeliner, pale face, piercings on my eyebrow, lip and cheek. Dyed black hair. My anonymity was my safety. Grabbing the bag of memory chips I had wiped for Tony, I walked through to the front door. Wrecker came out of the bathroom, rubbing his cock on my towel as he did so.

  “Use your own damn towel,” I snarled.

  “It’s wet,” he whined.

  “Then put mine in the wash now you’ve used it,” I snapped.

  “God, yeah, yeah,” he muttered, heading for the kitchen.

  “Why not start the laundry while you’re in there, and do the washing up?” I shouted as I left. His reply was lost as I slammed the door shut. I felt it, then, just a little. Dissatisfaction with my life and boyfriend, a sense that things shouldn’t have to be that way. The feeling, and the unformed thoughts, puzzled me as I rode down the lift to the ground floor. I ignored them. I had work to do.

  I looked around as I left the block of flats, making sure the way was clear of dealers, rapists and skinners. In the distance, shining in the night sky against the dirty drizzle and ash that falls all the time, I could see the gleaming steel and glass towers of New London.


  Everyone wants to live in a steel city. Things are better there. The streets are safe and clean, the air is clean, the water is clean and the food is actually from named animals and has to pass safety certificates before it can be eaten. No chance of me ever getting in. You need to be an aristocrat or have an annual income of millions.

  Occasionally on the news, you see how someone from the street gets into a steel city, having invented a new bit of tech or become famous on TV or found some other way of making the millions needed.

  I never wondered why the news broadcast that sort of thing when most of us have no chance of succeeding. Now, I know it’s to keep us compliant, to dangle a bogus dream that anyone can achieve wealth and live in steel. Back then, I was still in ignorance. Back then, I still thought that one day the street would rise and revolution would occur and all would be fair and equal.

  So… It was a normal night, after a normal day. A day and night like all the others. That’s how all this started. As a routine night. I got to the meeting place, a dingy roadside cafe, basically a soiled caravan containing cookers, fridge and Big Vern. Big Vern’s approach to providing meals is to give everything a blast on the metal-topped cooker table for two minutes. Bacon, sausage, liver, kidney, be it dog, cat or rat, is all the same to him. Two minutes on the cooker, shove the food on the plate, push the coins into his filthy pouch, push the plate over and never make eye contact.

  The last is easy, of course, and a law of the street. Who makes eye contact now? You could end up looking at anyone. Undercover cops. Undercover corporate agents. You could even make eye contact with the skinners. Then, you’re really screwed.

  That’s why everyone is invisible. No one dare stand out, down here in the old part of the city, away from the wealthy towers of the elite. You have to fit in or you’ll be robbed, assaulted, molested, raped, killed. I’m told these are crimes in the wealthy areas. My dad once told me they used to be considered crimes everywhere, before the earthquake, but I didn’t believe him. Not then.

  Normally, I wouldn’t be in one place for so long. You have to keep moving, blend in, not attract attention. Although Big Vern had some dirty stools arrayed at the front of his caravan, only the armed, the fearless or the stupid sit there. Well, if it’s a really busy time, you can risk sitting there and be hidden by the vast flow of people as they sweep past, all moving, trying to find work, a place to sleep, a place to belong.

  Tonight, though, I had my monthly meeting with Tony. Tony pays me to wipe the circuits of stolen tech. Everyone knows that computers have memories of everything they have been used for, but few know that almost every piece of technology now contains a memory chip. Take a component from a burnt-out toaster to make your kettle work, the chip records it all. Higher up the scale, use different components from various computers to build a new one, you have a computer with the memories of all the predecessors. Given that making or repairing any consumer goods without a licence is highly illegal, this is very bad.

  Hence, I got paid to wipe the memories. Hence, I was sitting outside Big Vern’s caravan with a bag full of blank chips, waiting for Tony, eating what I hoped was a chicken burger. Not that I got paid what the job is worth. It’s damn difficult, wiping the chips properly. Most people flush them, which damages the delicate electro-membrane and makes the chip malfunction. It takes skill to wipe each individual part of each chip.

  Tony was late. Very late. I was getting worried. We had a routine. I would arrive at 1:25, order something and Tony would join me within three minutes. He’d put his bag down next to mine, containing the next lot of chips to be wiped and the money for the last job, drink the hot coffee he usually ordered, and when leaving, he’d casually pick up my bag and saunter off with it.

  I’d then finish my meal and leave with Tony’s bag, running the risk of being mugged, attacked, raped or killed on my way home, as well as vomiting and sickness from Vern’s food. Which happens about three times out of every five.

  Tony finally arrived. He looked different. He’s always shifty, but that night, he looked scared. Sweat beaded his brow, and he was trembling. Normally, I could see myself reflected in his sunglasses as we talked. That night, I was a blur.

  “Tony,” I said as he slid into the stool next to mine. He hadn’t got himself his usual coffee. Just came straight toward me and sat down. I should have known. I didn’t want to admit it. “You’re late.”

  He shrugged, looked round, licked his lips, looked anywhere except at me. Usually, he’s all over me, brushing up against me, trying to feel my tits until I either walk away or slap him down. He’s grimy and sweaty. He wobbles when he walks. Even if I wasn’t in a relationship, I wouldn’t fancy Tony. Not that being in a relationship stops Wrecker from trying it on with that bitch Manda Tomlinson every time he meets her.

  “Where are the memory boards?” I asked him, the hairs going up on the back of my neck. I should have run. Why didn’t I?

  “I, er, look, Zara,” he blurted. “I’m sorry, okay?”

  “Sorry about what?” I demanded.

  “Oh, God,” he snivelled, the tears suddenly streaking down his face. “They, they found me, Zara, they caught me. I, I was going to belong to them unless I helped them.”

  “Helped who? Helped how?” I shouted as I slid down from the stool. “The police?” God, how I hoped it was the police. The police work for what is left of the government. Most can be bought off, one way or another. I’ve given the odd hand job or a suck off to get out of a tight spot, same as everyone.

  “No, it was the corps,” said Tony, clutching his head and weeping.

  I gaped, frozen, couldn’t move. The corps. Or Corporate Investigations to give them their proper title. Once those bastards have you, you’re lost.

  “Tony,” I whispered. “What have you done?”

  “I’m sorry,” he blubbered, his fat belly trembling under his tight, stained t-shirt. “What else could I do? I had to tell them. I had to tell them everything!”

  “Please come with us, miss,” said a voice behind me. Turning around, my vision swimming, I saw them.

  Chapter Three

  Two corps operatives. Both the same. Dark suits, short hair, pale but healthy compared to most people on the street, but of course, corps work in offices with air purifiers. The rest of us have to breathe the real shit, with all that entails.

  Around us, the huge, surging crowd continued to flow by. Some stopped and stared at the corps operatives, but most didn’t care or were too scared to stop. No one messes with the corps.

  “Who are you?” I asked as I stepped away. Not that I needed telling.

  One of the men flipped a shiny plastic id card at me. “Corporate Investigations,” he said. “You will come with us on suspicion of crimes against corporate entities, specifically, breaking corporate monopoly by assisting in recycling old consumer goods, and thus, prejudicial activities toward intellectual ownership and copyright.”

  I cursed. Crime against the corporate is, of course, the worst crime imaginable. As they say on the street, “kill a man, pay the fine, rob a company, do their time.”

  “I know my rights,” I said. Back then, I believed the same as everyone else, that this was an actual legal term that meant I could go free. I truly didn’t realise how pig ignorant I was. How ignorant everyone on the street was. How ignorant we had been made.

  “You will come with us. Now,” snapped the other corps, stepping toward me.

  This finally broke the spell. I grabbed my bag and swung it at him, smashing it on the side of his head. I was lucky. He stumbled into the other corps, and I was away, sprinting as fast as I could along the crowded road, fighting the flow of thousands of people.

  The rain lashed down in the dark street, all illuminated by the harsh orange security strips bolted to every available surface. Inside the orange strips, as I found out later, were surveillance devices. That’s how they were able to track me as I fled.

  I turned onto a larger road that had once been for ground ca
rs. The global earthquake caused the road to split, lifting up six feet along its entire length on one side and dropping down on the other, leaving a gigantic gash in the street. There are camps and squatters lined up against the ridge, using the raised surface as a protective wall. Many of the squatters fall down the exposed chasm as they get high on cheap slap, but they’re quickly replaced by the next set of deadbeats.

  I nearly joined them as I pelted along, running for all I was worth, past street traders, past the hos and their pimps, past the drug dealers, all working under the harsh glow of the advertising boards. Fear gave me speed and a heightened sense of reality. I barely ever look at the streets as I walk them. They’re all dirty and flooded with the orange security light that nevertheless leaves dark shadows, pools of utter blackness, in doorways and side alleys where the crackers and skinners lurk.

  I saw the old buildings of London, some centuries old, leaning haphazardly, and realised how much decay there was on the streets. The only new things were the security lights and the advertising billboards, all bolted onto any surface, lashed there against crumbling stone. Quite often, they fall off and crush dozens of people below, in which case the London Council has to pay compensation to the advertisers for ruining their boards and depriving them of precious airtime for their products.

  I turned a corner and nearly ran into Butch and his sex gang. Fortunately, they were already busy on some woman. She was lying, sobbing, as they took turns, waiting for the end, after which she would have to get up and move on or else lie there forever. We’ve all been there.

  “Hey, Zara, you want some fun?” hooted Butch as he stood in front of me, his arms spread wide to catch me. Butch and his gang are always looking for meat. They have their code. Steal the victim and share and share alike. If you accept it, you’ll get a few slaps, maybe a kick, maybe lose a tooth or break a rib, but then you’re done. Take a mood pill, you’re good to go again.