Touched
by Jord
Laurel Parsons was on a mission.
The cabbie took her credcard with a grunt, swiping it across a reader so old it probably still used silicon microprocessors. “You sure this is the place, lady?” he asked, handing the translucent plastic card back to her. “This ain’t what you’d call a nice part of town.”
“I’m sure,” she replied, though she was nothing of the sort. What she was looking for was the stuff of urban legend, even in this day of artificial intelligence and interstellar travel. She slid open the door and stepped out onto the cracked, damp asphalt of the street, paving so old it possibly dated from the city’s original construction a millennium before. “No need to wait.”
“Okay, lady,” was all he said, but his tone implied something more like It’s your funeral. The antigravs whined and the cab lifted straight into the air, vanishing into the fog. Then she was alone.
The door she sought bore no number, no palmlock, no retscan sensor, nothing but a recessed square sliding panel set in the heavy steel at about eye level. It certainly bore no name. That would defeat the point, wouldn’t it? she thought, stepping. She raised her gloved hand and knocked three times, then once, then four more discrete taps. Her heart pounded in her chest as she waited for whatever lay on the other side.
The panel slid aside, revealing dark eyes framed by brown skin. “You got trade? Don’t take creds.”
She pulled a gold chain from her pocket, an heirloom older than she could trace in her family line, and held it up. The eyes examined it carefully, judging its value against that which she had come here in search of, and ultimately decided that it would do. The panel slid closed and the door swung open, creaking on hinges long in need of oiling, revealing a chubby man dressed in grimy coveralls. “C’mon in, lady,” he said without smiling.
She stepped into the building, trembling as the heavy door swung closed behind her. The man took another look through the panel, then shot a heavy deadbolt and turned to Laurel. “I’ll take that,” he said, holding his hand out for the chain.
“Not without proof. Show me you are who you claim to be. Show me you can do what you say.” Her voice quavered with each word.
The man smiled, an unpleasant sight. “Fair enough. Felix, open up. Got us some payin’ clientele.”
Another door swung open, revealing a brightly lit antechamber. However dismal the first room, the antechamber was clean and thoroughly modern, an airlock between the outside and whatever lay beyond its far door. “Step inside, miss. There’s baskets for whatever you may have brought with, big enough for your clothes, too.”
“I’m not taking off my clothes.”
The man stopped, an annoyed look passing over his face. When he spoke again, it was as if he were addressing a small child, his words calm and slow. “Miss, the chamber has to stay sterile. You bring in anything foreign, anything ‘t all, could break the machine and wreck any chance you may have of getting what you came all this way to find. That what you want?”
“No.”
“You wanna go back home?”
A pause. “No,” she finally said.
“Okay. So go in there and strip. Felix’ll walk you through the rest of the way.” The man smiled again, but this time it was kinder, and a little sad. “We been doin’ this for a long time, ain’t we, Felix?”
Felix, for his part, remained resolutely silent.
“Don’t mind him. He’s shy ‘round first-timers.”
“You have repeat customers?” Laurel asked, stepping through the door.
“Oh, for sure. Got some real regulars. Every month, like clockwork. ‘Til the money run out, anyway.” He held out his hand again. “Speakin’ of...”
Laurel hesitated, then dropped the gold chain into his palm. He rolled it around his thick, scarred fingers, pressing the links between his fingertips. “Real, by Jeezus. Long time since I seen real gold.” He slapped the wall twice and said, “Felix! Let the lady have a little privacy, willya? She weren’t born in no barn...”
The door slid closed and there was a hiss as the antechamber sealed. Laurel stripped off her clothes quickly, leaving them in the battered wire basket that sat upon a metal shelf that was the only thing in the room. Shoes, gloves, blouse, skirt, undergarments, all neatly folded, leaving her nude in the center of the small room.
“Hey, miss. You all set? “ a voice said from nowhere.
“Are... are you Felix?”
“Indeed I am. Pleased to make your acquaintance. “ The chamber slowly began to fill with an acrid mist and she sneezed. ”Decontaminant spray, to take care of any unwanted stowaways. “ A moment later the sound of electric fans signaled the removal of the mist, and another door slid open opposite the one she had entered through. ”If you’ll step inside, we can get going right quick. “
Laurel stepped through into darkness, her eyes unable to make out anything more than vague, shifting shapes. After a moment soft lights came up, revealing a large machine in the center of the room with a narrow cot set up at one end. A bottle of water and a towel had been placed on the floor next to it. ”Just lay down. “
She closed her eyes and took a deep breath. “Does it hurt?”
Felix paused. When he spoke again, his voice was quieter. ”It always hurts. It must be worth it, though. There’s never a lack of clients. “
“No... I expect not,” Laurel murmured, then walked over and stretched her lanky frame across the canvas cot. It was uncomfortable, light-years from the memory-foam mattress she had slept on every night of her life. “What now?”
“Close your eyes. “
She first heard about it from Helene.
“You would not believe what Melissa did this weekend!” Helene was cutting tomatoes for a salad, deftly moving the fruit across the blade in her other hand. As usual, Laurel was only half paying attention; Helene rarely stopped speaking, certainly not long enough to get a word in edgewise.
Which made it all the more surprising when Helene leaned in closer, her voice barely a whisper. “She had sex!”
Laurel lost her grip on the cup in her hand, sending ice-cold water cascading across the counter. “What?”
“I know! Isn’t that disgusting? Not to mention against the bylaws. I mean, I suppose we’ve all done it a few times without the Q’s consent, but she was so... open about it! It’s like she was proud!”
Laurel’s fingers grazed the soft lump just beneath the skin of her neck, humming happily along as it regulated her body’s every function. The tiny quantum computer—‘the Q’—controlled her body’s systems, ensuring her complete health and happiness. Most everyone had one implanted at birth anymore, except those few whose projected economic status fell beneath certain levels. They were left to fend for themselves among the lowest levels of the cities, free to be ignored by the populace above.
Free, Laurel thought, some undefined yearning once again taking flight in her thoughts. What is free? I don’t know free. The Q regulated even her sex drive, stimulating her when it thought best, accommodating her husband’s own Q-controlled needs. She had desired sex more often, but the Q was quite adept at suppressing desire.
That was the day her search began. It had taken her far from the comfortable confines of her quiet, safe home, a small apartment in a good sector of the city, into the dank heart of the metroplex, far beneath the glittering towers and mirrored glass.
Now Laurel lay on a cot, naked, the Q throbbing in her neck as the machine in the center of the chamber began to thrum with power. Her skin grew cold, clammy, as the Q began to lose its hold on her body, the random quantum fluctuations caused by the machine disrupting its carefully crafted circuitry and programming. Random electrons fired at erratic intervals as the Q’s hold upon her was broken, buried beneath the indelible signal produced by the device in the center of the room.
Her skin flushed and seemed to weep with sweat as long-suppressed functions were abruptly called into service, soaking the canvas beneath her as she writhed on the cot. Each nerve ending tingled and her fingernails raked up and down her arms, her stomach, her breasts, trying to soothe the maddening itch of long-subdued sensation. Every muscle cramped; her back arched as a band of pressure clamped down around her skull, threatening to crush her mind in its inexorable grip. She opened her mouth and screamed, an animal noise she’d never known she was capable of, as the Q finally seized and fell still.
“You okay?” came Felix’s voice from some vast distance. Laurel blinked and tried to look around, but stopped when her neck screamed in protest. “Hurts,” she rasped, her throat parched.
“It’ll pass. There’s water next to the cot.” Laurel reached out, flailing, and knocked the bottle over before managing to get hold of it. She twisted the cap off and tilted the opening between her lips, sending oh-so-cold water coursing into her mouth and down her throat. She sucked greedily at it until it was gone, then promptly rolled over and vomited. Her belly cried out in pain, both wanting more and rejecting it immediately. She moaned softly, wiping the thick acidic drool from the lips with the back of her hand, and tried to spit the horrid taste from her mouth.
“Towels, too,” Felix said. ”When you’re ready there’s a bathroom.”
Laurel mumbled her thanks and closed her eyes, the light too bright for her to tolerate any longer. For some time she lay there, feeling her stomach roll and her skin itch and her skull throb with every aching breath. Eventually she swung her legs over the side of the cot and sat upright, mildly pleased to discover the act did not set off another wave of nausea. “Is it...” she said, and spat again. “Is it always like this?”
“First time’s the worst. Your body’s not used to regulating its own systems anymore, but it’s automatic. Just takes some time to get started again.”
“Did it work?”
There was a pause. ”Looks good. The Q’s core programming is in standby mode, and our little patch is ready whenever you are.”
Laurel stood, her legs unsteady as her stomach cramped. “Bathroom.”
A door slid open a few feet from her, revealing a tiny cubicle which held a one-piece sink/toilet/mirror unit. Tiny bars of soap and disposable scrub pads were stacked neatly in a plastic basket beside the sink, as was a folded threadbare towel. She soaped up one of the pads and cleaned herself as best she could, stripping the dried sweat and crusted vomit from her skin, and toweled herself off. She filled a small paper cup with tepid water and swished it around her mouth, finally removing the worst of the aftertaste.
“Feel better?” Felix asked as Laurel stepped out of the cubicle. She didn’t respond, just sat back down on the far end of the cot as a great fatigue settled over her entire body. ”That’s normal. Your body’s starting to sync to its natural rhythms.”
“How long?” she asked.
“The worst has passed. In an hour or so you’ll feel close to normal.”
“No... how long? How long will it last?”
“That’s tough to say for sure. The Q’s are very sensitive; that’s compounded by the fact that each person is different, too. You’ll probably get a solid ten hours before the patch degrades and the original programming kicks back in. That’s just an rough estimate of course. Could be as little as four hours, or as much as fifteen.”
Four hours. That’s all, Laurel thought, her heart sinking. “What... what do I do?”
“Like they used to say, just do what comes naturally. The patch lowers inhibitions and enhances sensory stimuli. When your body feels something it likes, you’ll know. “
The door to the antechamber slid open. ”You can leave whenever you’re ready,” Felix said, and Laurel felt an unfamiliar heaviness in her chest. “Thank you,” she said, and stepped through the doorway, not waiting for any answer. She dressed quietly and waited for the outer door to open, wondering what was supposed to happen next. Should she go home? No, Bryan would still be at work. Even if her were home, his own Q would certainly prevent him from responding in kind.
Besides... this wasn’t for him. It was hers, and hers alone.
The door swung open, revealing the man in the dirty coverall. “How you feelin’? Felix take care of you okay?” She nodded, and the man’s lips curved upward. “That’s good, real good. You gots someplace to go?”
“I... I don’t know.”
“You wants to use it while you got it, right? What’s the good of all this if you don’t get everythin’ you can, lady? None at all, that’s what I’m sayin’.”
“I don’t know anyone... anyone like...”
“What, like you? Hell, there’s dozens, maybe hundreds, come through that door or some other just like it every day. They’s all gotta start somewhere , right?” The man pulled a battered card from a pocket and handed it to her. “There’s a place, few blocks down. Look for the sign. Jus’ give this to the doorman, he’ll see you right.”
Laurel looked at the embossed lettering on the card: Touched. “Don’ worry, they’s all nice people from on high, jus’ like you. None of us raggedy-ass grounders welcome there.” His smile was without malice as he opened the panel, checked outside and, satisfied, opened the door. “Take care, lady.”
“Goodbye,” Laurel said as she stepped out into the perpetual night of the ground levels, where the massive skyscrapers blocked all sunlight from above. She looked around for a moment, disoriented by the haphazard placement of narrow avenues and brick structures. All the shadows were deeper, blacker, the lights brighter and gaudier than when she had arrived, what, an hour before, perhaps? Textures filled the air; sweat, decay, smoke, musk, sweetness, all mingling like some newfound delicacy that both repulsed and intoxicated her.
She walked quickly through the shadows, the flickering neon signs and bare incandescent lights leaving ghost images burned in her vision for many moments after they passed from sight The narrow streets bore no labels she recognized; many signs were in unfamiliar, ornamental script, all curves and dots that held no meaning whatsoever. Above the streets rose a cacophony of shouts, whistles, and laughter, a thousand conversations in a hundred tongues, very little of which she understood. Men (and not a few women) openly ogled her body through the form-fitting outfit she wore, its cleanliness a sharp contrast to the grime that covered every object and person.
A cheerful group of young men walked by, one or two accidentally brushing against her as they conversed in some musical tongue, each momentary contact like an electric shock. Her nipples were like stone, straining against the confines of her top, each motion of the material driving her wild. An intense heat burst between her thighs and she gasped, putting a hand on the wall for support as waves of... Pleasure? Agony? What is this? Oh, God... she thought, closing her eyes as every heartbeat drove that heat further into her body, up her torso, down her legs, to the tips of her fingers and the ends of her hair.
“Hey, lady? You okay?” one of the men asked, falling behind his companions. He wore a sleeveless, baggy white shirt, oddly clean for the environment. A thin sheen of sweat on his tawny skin reflected the green and red neon light coming from all around, giving the young man—barely a boy, she could see now—a surreal aspect. His voice was light and strangely accented, drawing out the vowels of each word into gentle purrs.
She answered only with a kiss, hard and fierce, grabbing onto the boy’s head and pulling him close. Her tongue slipped into his mouth almost as if with a will all its own, eagerly exploring, relishing the sensation of a like-minded appendage returning its ardent caress. Beneath the skin of her shoulder the Q pulsed in strange patterns, arrhythmic and chaotic, driving her body to match them with every touch. She raised one of his hands to her breast and he pinched her nipple hard through the material, drawing a shriek from her throat. Her hands went to his trousers, desperately seeking to remove them and reveal the prize beneath. He grabbed her wrists and pulled away from her mouth. “Not here,” he said, and led her into a passage perhaps four feet wide, the space almost black just a few feet from brightness of the street.
Laurel pushed him against the brick wall and stroked the hardness bunched there, eager to be released. His lips descended to her breast and teeth bit gently at the material, rough caresses moving down her buttocks as his hands found the curve of her ass and decided they liked it there very much. She felt her skirt pulled up and fingertips touched her bare flesh. The hardness beneath her hand was bigger now, like some beast of legend awakened from slumber, ready to do battle. She tugged at the material, found a zipper and yanked it down, revealing the object of her desire, long and turgid and tipped with royal purple. The boy groaned as she wrapped her hand around it, no longer thinking about his friends as she found a rhythm, each motion bringing her higher.
His fingers moved, trailing over her hips until they reached the front of her panties. She gasped as an insistent touch moved up the front of the soaked material then back down, finding the center of her pleasure as if they had been born to it. “Please...” she moaned, unable to tell the boy what she wanted him to do to her, over and over again until this fire finally abated.
The boy smiled and turned both of them around, pushing her back up against the wall as he found her mouth again. Fingers found the elastic of her panties and hooked beneath, pulling the white undergarment down her legs to the filthy cement before returning to her ass once again and sliding down the backs of her thighs. He pulled up, hard, and wrapped her legs around his waist, pinning her torso against the wall with his own, holding her in place. The head of his cock brushed against her and she shuddered, her hands clawing at his back, desperate for him to move forward just a little more... just a little more... just a little more...
Sweat ran from his face as he slid within her tight pussy, gasping as the warm, snug passage surrounded him completely. He buried himself deep as he could and held still for an endless moment, just looking at her as she squirmed beneath him, desperate for him to continue. Then he smiled, his teeth brilliant against his face, and began rocking his hips back and forth, a smooth, well-practiced motion that felt oh so natural to her. She clung to him, her fingernails drawing blood as they dug through his shirt into the flesh of his back, and lost herself in the pleasure. The Q cycled with his every thrust, each nerve ending firing in sync, and she realized she was screaming with each breath she took.
More to her surprise, she no longer cared who noticed.
Her hips moved against his, finding the perfect counter to his motions, and her screams became harsh, guttural barks as her entire body spasmed in climax. She closed her eyes and let her head roll to the side, letting the boy take his own pleasure as her body took over, long-suppressed instincts finding the best way to drive him over the edge. He paused, groaned, and pulled her closer as a liquid rush flooded deep within her, his cock pulsing again and again with each spurt. Tears flowed down her cheeks as the boy released his grip as at last his strength abandoned him.
He didn’t look at her when he pulled up his trousers and stepped away, nor did she look at him. He tucked his slick, spent member back within and walked back toward the street without a word, almost as if this were some commonplace occurrence down here. For all Laurel knew, it very well could have been.
Is it always like this? she thought, finding her panties bunched up near her feet, stained with grime. She tried to make herself look a little more presentable, smoothing her hair down, tucking her top into the waist of her skirt, wiping the sweat from her face. She caught sight of her reflection in a dirty window as she approached the street and stopped, shocked at how strange she looked to herself. How could anyone live like this, controlled by their impulses? Rutting like animals in heat at every whim?
As if in reply the Q buzzed happily beneath her skin, its rhythm settling into a gentle throb. It makes no sense, she thought.
That’s exactly the point. That’s why it’s so wonderful. And you want to feel it again... don’t you?
“Yes,” she whispered to her reflection, the tingle between her legs returning, faint but distinct. She looked out at the street, squinting against the light, and saw a building a block away. Garish red neon letters a foot tall spelled a single word above the front door:
Touched.