Looseleaf's Diary - 19 / 02 / 2120

18 hours digging through the latest from Shire AgriCorp. Data from all over the world sent through secured channels, but stored in less-than-secure buffers. At least, not the kind of security that could stop a console cowgirl from sifting for anything she might sell—mineral deposits, odd real estate transfers—it wsa past midnight when I noticed I wasn't the only one making my way through the data stream.

The search protocol was ancient, so old it might have been built into the very digital foundations of the Shire AgriCorp's datastructure. Like a quicksilver eel. It darted out like a flash, but I was faster, my avatar's hand closed on it as I interrupted its function.

"What did you find?" I whispered. "And who were you going to report it to?"

My analysis programs dug into the thing's code. Ancient, the Elf script somehow wrong, a dialect I didn't know, it gleamed in my visualization like tarnished silver compared to the bright neon of standard Quenya programming languages. The search program had seized on a report from a ground-penetrating radar unit, uploaded as part of a package for a home delivery in...Mordor. I opened the file, curious. The shadow of a subterranean structure, too small for satellites, in a very specific search area of about a hundred square miles.

The eel was supposed to report to an ancient account, something outside of Shire AgriCorp's megacorporate hierarchy.

"Tû," I whispered aloud, and copied the data and files to my own cyberdeck. With surgical skill, I edited and recompiled the eel, then let it go. If it found anything else that matched its search parameters, it would report to one of my burner accounts, one not directly linked to Brianna Looseleaf. Whatever or whoever this Tû was, if they had gone through the trouble to hide a search program here, then they'd probably pay for this data.

Finally, I jacked out. Unplugged, my eyes opened into the darkened room on Rivendell's lowest level. Once-graceful buildings, too old to destroy, too expensive to restore. After being stripped of everything useful, the owners had turned a blind eye when they were sectioned off into illegal apartments. Never made for this Age. Pipes and wires were bolted onto the pale walls, the carvings long worn, faded, chipped. The glow of LEDs lit the darkness here and there, and my eyes focused on the red light of a power brick near the base of the bed.

My legs were plugged in and charging, but I still had my arms on, so I flopped over onto my leg-stumps and crawled across a floor cluttered with bits and pieces of scavenged tech toward the toilet. I noticed that my panties were off, and my pussy ached pleasantly, which meant that Aubert had a go at me. Not that I minded; it was part of our arrangement. He let me live here and use his direct splice to the Matrix trunk that led up to Rivendell's upper layers, and I let him plug my hole whenever he wanted.

I just hoped he'd remembered to use a condom this time.

Aubert had welded rungs around the squat toilet we used; he was handy that way. Hand over hand, I clambered up and positioned myself above the hole. Tiny red dots blinked into existence, and a flatscreen on the wall opposite the toilet gave me a toilet's eyes view of my pussy as I lined myself up. It could be hard enough not to make a mess when you're a quadruple amputee Hobbit with only a pair of cyberarms hovering above a regular toilet.

Dribbles of white jizz dripped out of me, and I swore. Aubert had not used a condom. Again. I swore, that Man was trying to knock me up. Not that he would succeed. Birth control implants may not be mandatory outside the Shire, but even a Breeland woman knew how stupidly fertile we could be. I wasn't looking to start my own clan just yet.

Suspended above the squat toilet, I finished my business. Automatically, the bidet function began. A stream of distilled water, blood warm. The hot puff of air to dry me off. It didn't help with eighteen hours of accumulated sweat and funk; I needed a bath, and glanced over at where we'd set it up—a tub so small that Aubert had to draw his knees up to his chest, the handheld shower attachment on a holster. There were enough rungs welded on the wall that I could climb over there...but I didn't have any towels nearby.

Then Aubert stepped into the bathroom. Lanky, greasy hair brown. A big, bony frame. Scars where his breasts had been cut away. Barefoot and naked except for a pair of sweatpants that didn't quite hide the bulge. His eyes widened as he saw me there, perched over the potty, legs off and thighs ending in sockets just above where the knees should be. A single strip of red hair down the center of my head, which ended abruptly at the neural jack at the base of my skull.

"Stay right there," he said. Pure Rivendell accent, resonant and sweet, as he pulled the string and let his pants fall.

I'd never asked if something had happened to Aubert's cock or if he'd had it amputated himself. What I did know is that the replacement was a custom-made model, heavily modified. When inert, it was a pale, almost translucent blue with no definition that could be tucked away easily. When activated...blood ran through invisible channels and the blue prick would swell and shift in color, thermal plastic turning dark and purple as it rose to its full height.

He'd reinforced his pelvis and lower spine to account for the weight and mass; artificial muscle-strands had been woven into his thighs, glutes, abs, and lower back to improve thrusting power. The eighteen-inch long monster rose up like a snake, perfectly prehensile. Little ribs and bumps formed on the synthskin surface. Some of those were sensory nodes; Aubert said he could actually smell her pussy, detect diseases, check acidity levels and temperature all with his prick, and I believed him.

There was no massive set of balls to go along with the massive cyberprick; those were internal. From what Aubert had told me, I knew that they had started out as his own ovaries, the ones he'd been born with. When he'd transitioned, he'd paid to have the gamete-generating organs completely remodeled, genetically re-engineered. Said he felt more like a man with that Y-chromosome on his little wrigglers.

In this position, Aubert's cock was just at the level of my mouth. He came closer, and I could smell solder and burnt plastic. He'd been working on something, building something, as he often was. I held my place as the purple cock slid, warm and serpent-like, around the back of my neck. Opened my mouth to let the warm, smooth tip slide into my mouth.

Our eyes met as it began to thrust in and out. His hands didn't touch my head, he knew I didn't like that; instead, he grabbed some of the higher rungs. Braced himself with his legs apart as he began to thrust, that cock coiled about my neck as it slid deeper, in and out. I let my tongue play out on the underside of his cock. Stared up into his eyes as the excitement began to build. His whole big, lanky body moved as he pushed it deeper and deeper, faster and faster. The synthetic flesh burned against my lips and tongue. Ready to explode.

Aubert's whole frame shuddered as he unloaded a gout of genetically engineered semen straight down my throat.

Which was fine by me. I needed the protein.

His cock uncoiled, and when it fell down, it was still long enough that it triggered the bidet again. We both had to smile at that, as a stream of water struck his dangling cybercock.

"Get me a towel," I said. "I could use a bath."

I almost told him to grab a condom, too. Just in case he wanted me to pay the rent again. But as I swung on my cyberarms towards the tub, my thoughts turned back toward my prize, and the mysterious Tû. I'd want to find out everything I could about the potential buyer before I approached him. In this business, it paid to be careful.