Microfiction: Multiplicity by Cèsar Sanchez Zapata


“It is a tribute—the ultimate tribute to decadence,” said he, the man named Stephen Orrok, standing on the second-story balcony and staring out at a coterie of media vans cluttered beyond the steel gates bordering his estate. Four aerial cams hovered two feet over his head, their flickering lenses trained down on him. Static droned inside his ear, and then through the buds, he heard the rapid-fire questions of journalists—out there.

“You think yourself God?”

“Pray to me in any name you wish.”

“You certainly consider yourself above the law.”

He tapped a fingertip over his pursed lips. “I abide by the ones I agree with.”

“You’ve violated hundreds of international cloning edicts. Special agents from three different global agencies are on their way to shut down your operation.”

“They arrived ten minutes ago.” He grinned, turning on his heels and walking inside. He crossed his hands behind his back, pacing slowly with the cameras always floating above him. “I offered them a deal. They accepted—every last one, man and woman. They leave my little party alone, and in exchange, they get one free night.”

“To do what?”

“To do her.”

He felt the awe, the excitement take hold of their bodies, as profoundly as he felt it overflow his own; felt it, more than heard any indication, no gasps or tight frenzied murmurs. The farther he moved, the more he felt the heaviness in his balls, and thousands of moans and sighs bleeding together, reaching out to him from beyond.

“How do you respond to critics who claim you’re only a bitter, vengeful cuckold, hell-bent on soiling the image of the world’s most beautiful woman?”

“I’m not dealing with androids. These are not machines designed to act, or sound, or to resemble her. Those fools fail to understand—they are her, every single one; her heart, body, and all-consuming passion. Albeit, minus certain inhibitions. Well, they don’t hold their silly reputations sacred.” The moaning grew louder, bouncing off the walls in the corridor, as he neared the corner. “Rest easy, the world will still have its most beautiful woman . . . just multiplied infinitely.” He reached the iron-cast railing overlooking the grand ballroom, so the cameras could survey his kingdom. His voice dropped to a whisper impossible to hear over the cacophony of sex, “How special will she be then?”

The buzzing set off again, the hacks riling up for another barrage of questions; he tapped his earlobe severing the feed. Interview ended.

He gazed at the ocean of bodies—naked dozens tumbling over naked dozens more, here, there, everywhere two dozen more arms, legs, breasts, tongues moist and slavering. A chorus of hers, a choir of orgasms with which he was intimately familiar. Each her was more than a mere replica of her—they were fantasies. Fantasies come to life, scalding flesh and blood, with the hunger for pleasure emanating from every pore. Every man and woman had paid to attend and realize a dream by owning her for the evening. Roaming eyes be damned! The fantasy came true the moment they took her, any which way they chose.

That’s when he saw that one, knowing immediately she belonged to him.

The desire was so clearly, frustratingly, evident on her face—the hammering ache of lust that is unstated, and worse yet, unsated. Clad in just a silk, purple robe, she weaved amid the orgy, like a queen over her subjects, gazing steadily, unwaveringly at him.

He walked along the rail, undoing his belt, unbuttoning his pants, and started down the grand staircase as she reached the first step. She rose out of the sea of coitus like Venus herself, slowly removing her robe, revealing her stunning perfection. She was a goddess—fit for a god.

He snatched her wrist, wrenching her forward and hauling her into his arms. “Welcome home, lover,” said she, and it didn’t matter that he knew; it always shook him when they first spoke. In that instant when the words first reached his ears, he felt all alone with Dianna—with the only her.

He steered them backwards, and she had her hands full of him before his bottom touched the steps, and climbing onto his lap, thrusting her breasts over his mouth, positioning. He seized her ass and she dug her nails into his back, her thighs tightly embracing his hips, her elbows carving into his shoulders as his cock slipped lower between them, between shaven lips. He doused her chest with kisses just as he entered her; tracing the tiny, scattered birthmarks on the underside of each breast with his tongue while his prick explored within.

She moaned into his face. Hot, hurried breaths—a tiny squeal, as he rolled them over laying her on her back. She rolled them around again, and on and on they went, restlessly, eager, oily and pliant as seals when they came together. It was bestial; it was greedy, each voracious and unforgiving. He never relented on her nipples, his licks and bites measured and meticulous. Precise.

She always said he had a talented mouth.

The real Dianna said.

Let others write lies, but the love they’d shared was nothing if not a lesson in hedonism.

The one thing they both prayed never to see was the one inevitability. And when they reached that end, they did so together—collapsed forward on all fours, breathless. Tangled.


Only a man who’d once possessed the real thing could tell the difference—and such was his hell, for he knew—unlike the others—he knew in his heart, festering inside, that the woman now beneath him, squirming, pleading in whispers for his prick wasn’t, as they say, the real McCoy.

A suitable alternative, surely, but he would never taste or feel or touch the real her again. If ever that chance existed, he’d spoiled it tonight.

A small sacrifice to pay for revenge.

Bitter? Perhaps—

Multiplied infinitely.

Microfiction: Latex Hack by Dee Maselle

Latex Hack

My body floats in a gel tank, my brain and nerves wired to the infinite sensations of the exonet.

I can shape my appearance here, but appear I must. Nothing is invisible in the exonet’s virtuality. My shieldcode becomes a skintight suit of black latex embedded with intelligent micromesh, covering me from toes to fingertips to chin. I feel the latex; smell it via the conductive gel bath. The tightness and sheen empower me, make me bold and lithe.

Still–I fall into an unseen trap as I glide around EasBank’s patrols. Nothing is invisible, but destruction can wait beneath a layer of benign code.

I find myself in a seamless granite pit, its opening capped with bars. My wrists are shackled to the floor. Electric blue chains had dived to snare me as I tumbled, disoriented by the explosion of the trap.

An agent appears in my prison. He is cleanly bald, his bronze arms wrapped in fine cybernetic wires. Black latex trews cling to his lean legs like wet ink. A dark metal cuirass protects his torso.

He saunters around my straining body and raises an antiquated monocle. He leans to examine me through the lens. I know the device must not be as quaint as it appears; he is probing the data structure of my suit.

“Well, well,” he rasps, tucking the monocle in a compartment on his cuirass. “One of MachEmerge’s. Pretty outfit.  But what were they thinking, sending an ingénue like you against EasBank?”

> YOU’LL NEVER KNOW, I send in plaintext. The intelligent mesh in my gloves has abraded the encryption in the cuffs. I rush the agent. When he grapples me, I steal his monocle. I spring toward the bars above, melt through them, and escape with my fragment of EasBank tech.

> DUEL. The text scorches the rubber of my palm. I keep my grip on the smoking monocle; the pain is illusion. I have won, but the agent wants to meet me in neutral territory.

We are professional exonet specialists, but there is a secret stratum of the curious, the proud, and the inventive who will duel. My breath catches at the notion of a curious, proud, inventive agent in black rubber and cybernetic wire.

He meets me in a frost white chamber. “Let’s talk deal, not duel,” he says huskily. “I’ll study your suit, and you’ll detank with two million fresh toll codes.”

The agent has not hidden the stiff bulge stretching the glossy rubber between his legs. I cannot hide my arrested stare.

“Four million, and I’ll study your pants,” I whisper.

A transparent blade extends from his fingertip. He slices circles from my latex top, allowing my breasts to spring through the holes. The blade comes exquisitely close to my skin, but never touches it; my nerve interface is left intact as the code of the suit is cut away.

My nipples are stiff; my breathing quick. My breasts are pale moons against the darkness of my suit. The agent meets my gaze and allows a twist of a smile. He crouches and slices a careful oblong in the latex at my crotch. I do not stop him. I am sure my tanked body is aroused by this exposure, and I am wet in virtuality. I feel it as the chill of the chamber brushes my shaven cleft.

The agent’s cuirass vanishes, its shieldcode sinking into his skin. He keeps his latex trews. He slices them open and his cock presses forward: thick, veined and tawny. The blade retracts. His hand curls around my core and he squeezes his palm to the mound above my clit, three fingers arcing into my slick opening.  The curve of his wired hand hums with vibration. Curious, proud, inventive indeed. My passage quakes and I whimper with pleasure. I tug him to the white floor.

He sinks between my legs and thrusts into me. We are both on corporate time. It will be a fast mind-body mating for two anonymous rubber lovers a globe apart.

We fuck with the shameless aggression of craving. He presses me into the floor, his clean-shaven sac pounding against my ass. He rests his weight on one wired arm; he catches my breast in his hand and the aching tip of the other breast between his lips. He nips the crown, and laves it with his hot tongue. The processing power! The intricate randomized detail of a realistic tongue!  My gloved fingers grip his pumping ass, stretching his latex and letting it snap against his skin. The smell of hot rubber rises between us.

I gaze at the bars above, my mouth opening to release immaterial cries. I know my body is silent in its tank, tubes in my nose and throat preventing anything but quiet air from escaping. The agent’s cock scythes without mercy through the opening he has cut for himself in the crotch of my suit. He explodes, sending his own low groan to the digital abyss.

I feel his cream pulse hot inside me, and I wonder if he has ejaculated in his tank in EasBank.  He pulls out and smears our mingled fluids on the rubber stretched across my belly.

That–and the image of his essence dispersing like a cloud in a warm gel bath—and I am lost. He rubs his twitching meat against my clit, growling and biting the side of my neck. I wrap my glistening legs around him and crash to a ferocious climax. I cannot stifle an anguished shriek. I pull his hips hard against me to compress my wracking pulsations.

I still quake as a MachEmerge tech yanks me from the tank. “What on earth were you up to in there?” He jerks his head toward my vitals screen. “Got a few million toll codes rolling in, though.”  He begins to towel away the damp residue of the bath. I want to dive back in.


Microfiction: A Blindfold. A Cigarette, Offered and Declined. by Bernie Mojzes

A Blindfold. A Cigarette, Offered and Declined.

There is the blindfold, of course. That always comes first, though he could always decline. He never does. The blindfold, and the wrist-binding rope. Then the long walk through cold, stone corridors. The scent of mold, of the sawdust that scuffs under his bare feet, and under the heavy-booted feet beside him. The creak of rusted iron hinges, and harsh step into the light. Hot sand between his toes, the sunlight warm on his face, spots of brightness–the closest thing to daylight he’s seen in a year–through the black fabric covering his eyes. The scent of gunpowder.

They’d played this scenario so many times, Emelia leading him out of her basement and onto the desert sands that sifted through the courtyard of her family’s home. Toe-tripping over rubble from the bomb blast. Pressing him against the hot stone of the courtyard wall.

The sound of the rifle being loaded.

Always, was this the time she’d actually do it?

There was an offered cigarette. Always. Part of the ritual, though he’d never taken it. Though Emelia knew he didn’t smoke. The one true thing she’d known about him. The rest–their courtship, their marriage, their shared love of cheesy romantic comedies–all a lie.

Now her family was dead. His fault. His mission.

Once a month, she’d lead him out of his cage, out into the courtyard, up against the wall. The blindfold, the cigarette, the loading, the gunshot.

Splinters of stone cutting his cheek.

Then her hands pulling at his belt, pulling his cock free, hardening in her hand.

The rustle of cloth. Rough fingers gripping his hair, forcing him to the ground, and then Emelia, his captor, his wife, his enemy, straddling him, taking him inside her, riding him hard and fast and angry. Shattered stone digging into his back, his ass, his thighs. His bound hands a painful lump in the small of his back. The scent of her enfolding him.

Her need is as desparate as when they’d first met. Of course it is, he’d been designed for her, sculpted to her tastes, his pheremones tuned to her locks. The perfect spy.

“I loved you,” she said, always said, her tears wet on his cheek, her cunt wet on his cock. Or, sometimes, “I love you.”

I love you, too. Thought, not said. He’d lost that right, when he’d sent the codes that disabled the compound’s anti-missle defenses. When he’d killed her family.

For God and country.

But he couldn’t kill Emelia. And though he could have escaped, how could he deny her this one thing?

It’s Pavlovian, by now. The blindfold, the long walk, his erection pressing against the thin cloth of his cotton trousers.

Emelia comes first, always, at least once. So much has gone into his design, down to curve of his penis and his sexual endurance. Nothing left to chance. The perfect lover, the one you don’t let go.

Sometimes, she sends him back to his cage, still hard. Aching. Sometimes, she brings him to climax, his seed sticky on her fingers, or spilling into her mouth to be spat back contemptuously on his face.

Now, today, there is the sun on his skin, the fabric on his face, the sand under his toes. The cigarette. The cartridge sliding into the chamber. The bolt being drawn.

Always, is this the time she’d actually do it?

It’s spring, and the gentle breeze brings the scent of desert wildflowers he will never see.

New book: Laura Antoniou’s THE INHERITOR (Book 6 of The Marketplace)

The Marketplace cover$9.99 ebook
ISBN 978-1-61390-126-7
$27.95 paperback
ISBN 9781613901274
250,550 words; 620 pages!

Formats: :

The long-awaited sixth installment of Laura Antoniou’s Marketplace series!

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When last we saw Chris Parker, he had been bought by master trainer Tetsuo Sakai and was blissfully ensconced in Japan under Tetsuo’s wonderfully sadistic boot. And here we join Robin Cassidy, now contentedly serving a slave contract for a rich Chicago businessman. But the Marketplace is shaken when a new Trainer of Trainers must be anointed and the resulting machinations and clashing loyalties threaten to tear their world apart. Everyone has a stake in the outcome and Chris Parker is about to find out who is with him and who is against him.

Richly told, interconnecting threads of Parker’s previously unseen past with his complicated present, The Inheritor also weaves in the narratives of many favorite Marketplace characters, including Robin, Ken Mandarin, Ron Avidon, and features appearances by many more, including Jiro, Rachel, Michael, and Grendel.

Laura Antoniou is the award-winning author of The Killer Wore Leather and the long-running series that began in 1993 with The Marketplace.

Enjoy a delicious excerpt from THE INHERITOR:

Continue reading New book: Laura Antoniou’s THE INHERITOR (Book 6 of The Marketplace)

New book! Silent Shadows Come: Erotic Tales of Ninjas

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edited by Jennifer Levine

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Ninjas were historically spies and assassins, trained to blend in using disguises and stealth. Beyond these facts, we have only myth and legend, but there is unquestionably an element of the erotic, the mysterious, the fantastical, in the idea of the ninja. Stories by Hero Freyr, C.V. Madison, Emily Moreton, Nina Parker, Kaysee Renee Robichaud, and Vinnie Tesla.

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