Warning: May void the warranty on a stale sex life.
The punks and rebels of Maker culture have arrived to take sex apart and rewire it into thrilling new forms. They know that skill is sexy. They know the heady power of taking things apart just to see the insides. They know how to get what they want.
Whether building makeshift spacecrafts to fly into unknown astronomical phenomena or staying closer to home and breaking orgasm into programmable parts, these characters tamper when they’re not supposed to, kiss plastic, and involve soldering irons in their foreplay. In the process, they fight corruption, choose who and how to love, and create erotic possibilities both playful and profound.
Edited by Annabeth Leong, and featuring stories by Lillian Marguerite, Renata Piper, Moxie Marcus, TS Porter, Eric Del Carlo, and Kelly Rose Pflug-Back.
For a hot excerpt, keep reading below!
From “Lightning Then, And Motion” by Eric del Carlo
Fingers slid into the waistband of my greasy trousers, hooked firmly, then started tugging, down over the modest, taut swells of my ass. I grinned, wedged halfway under my junk-bucket rig, and did nothing to stop whoever it was. Didn’t have time. My work torch hummed white light onto my busy hands. Tools rang musically as I picked up one, then the next. Had to work fast. The Depravity, whatever it was, was going to reach some kind of crescendo tonight. It might fizz out after that. I was damned sure going to fly my illegal-as-hell rig into it before it vanished out of the high lavender sky of this world.
Meanwhile, somebody was shucking my pants down to my knees, exposing my bare butt to the evening air. I had my weight on my elbows. Every instrument I needed to have a chance at flightworthiness lay within my reach.
Lube-y fingers slipped between the halves of my ass, and grazed my hole. I heard a mutter of pleasure from beyond the small, crude bulk of my vessel.
There were dozens of us out on the orange desert floor tonight, maybe hundreds. Rigs of every fabrication and level of functionality. That was a lot of mechanized rebellion. We never would have massed like this, not if the Depravity, a white god’s-eye unblinking upon the night, hadn’t brought its mysterious coruscating energies to this imminent zenith after a year of hanging in our sky. It felt like a last chance, a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity that, if we let it go by, we’d relive as aching, bitter fantasies for the rest of our time.
I couldn’t miss it. I wouldn’t.
Because, of course, it wasn’t just about the enigmatic, awesome phenomenon that had appeared above our backwater colony worldlet. The spectacle had attracted endless scientific interest, but nobody cared anything about us, the natives, the luckless ones who worked in mines and fields and labs and somehow never saw the yield of our efforts.
Authorities still measured things in Earthyears, and I’d lived enough of those to be tried as an adult for whatever I did for here on out. You found trouble on a world like this, or else you created it, just to give the bleak landscape of your existence some aesthetic nuance.
Tonight, though, would be the do or die event. I thrummed like any of the exposed live couplings on my rig’s undercarriage, ones that could electrocute me instantly. I labored to give maximum power to my little craft.
A slick fingertip worked itself into my asshole. Reflexive pleasures radiated their tendrils through my body. I heard the jingling of buckles, along with the growing growls of desire. I finally gathered enough of the sounds to know it was Sampson back there. But I really didn’t have time for him.
So when I felt him shifting, putting himself into position, I just kept on working. Sampson was a parts guy. Many parts people inhabited the riggers scene, for obvious reasons. We needed their bibs and bobs, their salvage. Sampson and I had been now-and-again lovers, and tonight, evidently, he couldn’t let me go without a last screw. I was okay with that. I just couldn’t really participate in it.
Even so, when his thick lubed cock pressed to my hole and started sliding its way in, my own cock swelled. About half the time I can come from a dude fucking my ass, even without touching myself. Tonight I couldn’t spare either the concentration or a free hand to get myself off. Sampson grunted, “Kolpek! This sweet hole! Fuck…” Other such endearments followed, as his pace sped.
I wouldn’t have minded if he’d approached me a week ago, or two nights ago, or last night, even. We could have made love properly. I’d had more than a few farewell screws recently, men and women who had meant something to me, and ones who’d just been fun. Several among those had been fellow riggers, who would be lifting for the high sky tonight alongside me.
Nobody knew how many of us would back out at the last second, how many would be taken down by the policers. Or how many would die in the attempt to reach the Depravity.
“Kolpek!” Sampson shouted my name again, and this time his liquid love erupted deep inside me. My cock gave a twitch, but I was too remote from orgasm to share in his. I was finishing up the last of the connections, juicing my salvage-parts bird with the final spurts of power I could offer it.
Sampson pulled himself out of me. At any point I could have told him to knock it the fuck off, and he would have gone away. He wiped the backs of my thighs with a cloth. I turned off my glaring work torch and wriggled out from underneath my rig. The settling night blew soft against my face as I did up my trousers. Nearby clangs and curses and laughter told me of riggers’ camaraderie, of shared purpose and intent. Probably a lot of other last-minute screws were going on, on the pilot seats, bodies pressed standing against gritty outer hulls, or grappling on the ground for all to see–because why not? We were a fast, loose community, uninhibited, reckless.
Before I turned to Sampson, I looked out over the desert. It was a rock of a world. Beautiful in its way. Or it would have been if most of the people colonizing it weren’t shackled to lives made deliberately hopeless by government, by corporate interests, by evil-ass greed.
But we improvised. We played a game behind the game. Official personal transports were for our world’s small but vicious aristocracy. Yet riggers had sprung into existence explicitly because of those restrictions. We had made do. We were trained for work with machinery, and we had adapted those talents. Again, a big fuck you.
I looked for Havad among the rigs laid out across the open desert. I sought the shape of her craft, the high dorsal-like fin, but couldn’t find it among the hulks, lit by sparks, by arc flares. I looked for Havad herself, a pointless task in the assembled gloom. I found her image anyway, playing against a back wall of my brain, a surface left somehow untouched by everything else in my life, my disappointments, my frustrations, the driving need to rebel against any motherfucker I perceived as having control over my destiny.
Havad was out here tonight. I was certain. I felt I could breathe in her chill scent. If I reached out a hand, I would brush the stiff tips of her shorn hair. If I called her name, even whispered it, she would hear. But would she answer? I didn’t know that.
She was a fellow rigger. One of the elite. I could judge Havad’s talents because I was an elite rigger too. I did not feel her to be my rival. Rather… my match, my mate. And yet I had never been able to speak more than a dozen words to her, and had rarely met her blue eyes.
And yet and yet…
All that nonsense and I believed I really loved her. Or would love her, given the guts and opportunity to present myself. I was an adult, according to my world’s authorities, but where lovely, able Havad was concerned, I was a dumbstruck boy.
Finally I turned to Sampson. He was a big man with a long face which tonight stretched mournfully. His permanently greased hands bunched at his sides, and I wondered for the first time if he thought of me as something more than a fun lay, if I had a special significance in his mind, his heart. Again, it was something he should have come to me sooner with. Well, at least he’d had me one last time. It was more than I’d ever managed with Havad.
“You really going up?” His eyes, also sorrowful tonight, flicked upward.
I felt the Depravity burning above. It was visible everywhere in this hemisphere, defying logic and all proper analysis. A popular non-scientific theory was that aliens had put the thing into the sky of our little world. Amusing. Two centuries of exploration and colonization, and humankind had not encountered any life which could fittingly be called an alien species. If we do, I hope we come up with a less demeaning word than “alien.”
Sampson’s eyes came back down, and I met them. Others must have been asking that same question, over and over, on this desert tonight. You really going up? We riggers had dedicated ourselves to this wild undertaking, a great mass delusion, a quest. We wouldn’t all succeed. Most of us wouldn’t. Actually, maybe none of us at all. It was the ultimate fool’s errand, after all.
I said, “Fuck yeah, I’m going up.”
To read more, download the ebook today!
Warning: May void the warranty on a stale sex life.
The punks and rebels of Maker culture have arrived to take sex apart and rewire it into thrilling new forms. These characters tamper when they’re not supposed to, kiss plastic, and involve soldering irons in their foreplay. In the process, they fight corruption, choose who and how to love and create erotic possibilities both playful and profound.
Also available in paperback!