The static from the house mother’s hologram transmitting into the locker room interrupted the barely dressed cyborgs’ conversation.
“Hurry up, you cyber-whores!” she screamed with a smile. “It’s the busiest Saturday night in the universe and issa whole lotta money in here!”
Her 20-something-year-old breasts jiggled as she shimmied her 60-something-year-old shoulders with glee. She says the same thing every weekend. Blue thinks it’s because there’s always new girls in here working their first Saturday at TiTi’s Garden. This high-traffic strip club is very similar to the ones we had on Still Earth decades ago… with a few exceptions. The guests who visit are still handsy – they just have more hands (robotic or tentacle-like, in addition to regular human hands). Club security has always been intimidating but it’s different when security is now an eight-foot giant with 100 percent aim accuracy. Their Men in Black-esque suits are bullet-proof, just in case anyone’s feeling themselves too much. Finally, the entertainers are still creating fantasies for the masses, however, the fantasies created in booty clubs in the year 2060 have become more… scientific.
F-Earth-Y2060 is sailing into the depths of the solar system in search of a new planet to call home for dwellers of Earth. This gargantuan spaceship floats with billions on board and has become a world of its own, like a cruise ship in the middle of the Atlantic, equipped with necessities like grocery stores, hospitals, schools and adult entertainment. Blue slammed her locker door shut and bent over to pick up her duffle bag to go for the night. With a floor-to-ceiling mirror behind her, the metal scaling up the left side of her body glows neon green. Adding that feature for the club’s random blacklights was a nice touch, she thought. You can’t have plastic surgery without the resource, so – as usual – humans adapted. All around Blue are dancers with metal work done. Some dancers went full robot only leaving their brains to be the last human thing about them. Others have added tiny touches like Blue did. Half of her body she kept human with metal cut into a tribal pattern on her tight torso and voluminous breasts. The other half is a glossed steel that shines like armor in the light. T’Erika is the name on her birth certificate, but the neighborhood kids back in the day used to call her Blue because of her dark skin. On the operating table she opted for the navy-blue model of steel and so took her knighted moniker as a stage name. God did a fantastic job with her face, so she left everything untouched from her collar bones on up. With the exception of hair implants attached to her brain that allow Blue’s hair to be whatever length or style she thinks of. Tonight’s inspiration: Halle Berry in the 2002 James Bond film Die Another Day, but make it platinum blonde. When done admiring her welded parts, Blue stood straight up and pressed the button on the left side of her temple, taking a mirror selfie with her eyes.
“Embrace new normalcy, celebrate the past!” is the slogan on F-Earth-Y2060. Flying cars whizzed over Blue’s head as she walked out the club. All around her are artifacts of the Earth’s past, repurposed to make this place feel more like home. Payphones from the early 2000s are now transport sites. Blue stepped into the nostalgic booth and picked up the phone. Saying her home address into the receiver, the booth disappeared from the loud and drunken club parking lot and reappeared outside of Blue’s condo. The hours of dancing and chatting and flirting throughout the night have worn her figurative and literal battery low. She was more excited than ever to charge herself up the best way she knew how.
The 10-foot long charger cord dragged behind Blue and flirted with her ass crack as she crawled into bed for the night. She propped her upper body up on the headboard while adjusting the charger’s input into her waist. Once finished, Blue reached for a remote on her nightstand. Pushing a green button on it that read ‘TV’, the large circular window that looked out onto the city’s glowing skyline flipped into a television only she could view. She laughed at herself as the tab she was just about to visit was still up from earlier that morning. A new couple on Lustery had been making her dangerously wet these last few days and she’d received a notification that they’d uploaded a new video. Blue eased back against the headboard and slowly parted her legs. The stiletto-shaped acrylic nails on both her hands lightly brushed past her exposed clit. The crop top T-shirt she had put on after work got in the way of her erect nipples exposing themselves to the room’s cold air. After taking it off, she brought both breasts up to her lips and flicked her bull ring nipple piercings. She moaned right on cue with Elsa, the girlfriend on screen, getting her back blown out doggy style. Without hesitation, Blue cupped her head with both hands and pulled upward. A blue ring of light first circled her neck like a choker, then with a click, Blue removed her head from her body. Just as Joseph (Elsa’s partner) was pulling out to dive face-first into the sloppy mess he had already made, Blue winked at her body before her hands placed her head in between her own legs.
Knowing exactly what she likes, Blue made her tongue flat and moved her head up and down like her pussy was an ice cream cone. Her body’s pulsating movements let Blue know she was hitting her right spots. Only the rose toy in her dresser was a close second to the suctioning powers of Blue’s own mouth. Her hands started pressing down on the back of her head for more, and Blue obliged, sticking her tongue inside the slippery hole and kissing the buttcheck with human flesh. With the bed starting to vibrate and tonight’s porn stars now fucking on the floor in missionary, Blue’s body rolled her head to the other side of the bed and started fingering itself – leaving Blue with a perfect view of the futuristic scene and Lustery performers. The bed vibrated again and the scene of Blue’s bedroom and her cum-covered robotic hand began to fade into the scene of a small living room in a one-bedroom apartment in Louisville, KY. T’Erika’s vibrating phone underneath her couch pillow is signaling her to wake up and take the banana bread out of the oven. Her cat, St. Kitty of Broadway, sits at her feet, meowing his “feed me” meow. His hazel cat-eyes are more judgmental than usual.
“Oh, shut up, Saint,” T’Erika says, tucking the robe she has on between her legs to dab at the excess residue from her wet dream, “you eat your own ass on a daily basis.” T’Erika sits up and snatches her hair bonnet off the floor, where it fell while she slept, and adjusted her braless D-cups back into her tank top.
“You nasty, lucky bastard,” she smirks at her cat.
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