Looseleaf's Diary - 9 / 04 / 2120

There was soykaf. The smell drew me out of my slumber, and I rolled over to where my arms were. I needed arms for hot caffeinated beverages. I slid my left stump into the slot until the mating connector clicked into place, then did the same with the right. The arms were cold in the still of the morning, but I'd gotten used to it.

With just my arms, I slid off the bed and knuckled my way across the floor, lifting my ass and leg stumps up. Aubert was already awake, in his favorite Rohan flannel shirt and those loose sweat pants with the broken elastic so that they hung low on his hips. He poured the dark brown liquid into my favorite mug as I climbed onto the chair—which is when I saw it.

The cyberdeck gleamed like a chunk of obsidian studded with dragonscale in the pale light that leaked in from the windows. Down on this level, all of the ambient light looked like it was second-hand, filtered through from far above, mixed and remixed with the brighter lamps of the upper levels until everything lived in a dim grey twilight that didn't differentiate much from dawn 'til dusk, when the electrics kicked in.

My first deck had been little ore than a toy; a pink-rimmed plastic-shelled civilian model dubbed the United Megacorp NetExplorer. A girl deck, the presets aimed to guide me toward fashion, cooking, homemaking sites. Cracking that thing and installing a real browser in it had been my first introduction to hacking; the programming courses I'd taken had led me to my first pirate sights, let me hang out on the forums with the real console cowboys—or so I'd thought at the time.

Since then, I'd upgraded. Improved my gear, my programs. Designed some of my own tools to crack systems, inspect and alter code. I could program in three dialects of Quenya and even read the Dwarf runescript that they used on their vast Dataholds. Ever since Aubert had rescued me, I'd been using his old deck, a very nicely modified Ironhills Steeldeck, 2019 model, robust and practical. Yet this was...

"Soykaf's getting cold," Aubert said.

I looked at him.

"What is this?" I asked, breathless and gobsmacked at the custom-made cyberdeck on the table.

Aubert's lips twitched, and he scratched his head. It needed a haircut.

"I, uh, I've been working on it for a while. Q4 main processor, ten terapulses active memory, five hundred storage in the data array. Slots for all your favorite peripherals. Scored one of those new visual processors for high-rez environments, and there's some hardening against, y'know, lethal feedback. Not that you ever go up against the Black IC in those deep corporate cores, but you know I worry that..."

"Aubert," I cut him off. "What. Is. This."

The flow of technical specifications stopped. He blinked, rocked back and forth on the soles of his feet.

"Um. A present. For you. Happy anniversary," he said. Aubert smiled, then the smile failed.

"Anniversary," I said. Then it clicked. It had been an entire year since the night Aubert had picked me up out of the gutter. A year since the emergency surgery that had hacked off my rotting limbs and ripped the chemical addictions out of my brain. One full calendar year, to the day, of Aubert going from wiping my ass because I had no arms to wiping his dick across my thigh while I was busy delving into the depths of the Matrix.

My eyes narrowed as they met his. Even though he was standing, and taller, he seemed to shrink from that glare—but he didn't look away.

"Aubert Gondorson," I said carefully, using his full name. "This is a girlfriend-level gift."

"Um. Y-yeah..." he mumbled, and his trousers twitched as blood began to flow into his cock.

"I don't think you understand," I told him carefully. "So far, we've been fucking. That was the deal. You saved my life and I'm your personal cumdump. You gave me the cybernetic keys to your gonads. Which is fine, I knew you had some weird kinks when I signed up for our deal. I've been okay over months with you dumping your sperm in me whenever I'm asleep or decking. We haven't had to do any of the lovely-dovey stuff."

He looked like he wanted to respond, but I cut him off, my voice rising.

"But if you want an actual Valar-be-damned relationship, that's an entirely different conversation. That demands emotional reciprocity. Real conversations. Future planning. Cuddles. Date nights. Butt stuff. Are you prepared for that!?"

I almost shouted the last words. To his credit, Aubert stood his ground. He looked deep down into the depths of himself and tried to find the words and the courage to say them.

"Amelia Looseleaf, do you want to go steady with me?" he said at last. Cold sweat beaded his brow.

I took a deep breath. My chest heaved, and wobbled a bit, because I wasn't wearing a bra beneath my t-shirt, which showed a cartoon Hobbit with nine fingers.

Before I answered, I took a sip of my soykaf. The utter bastard had even remembered to add a pinch of cardamom, because he knew I liked it.

"Fine," I said. "Now drop your pants."

Aubert blinked. His erection already made a cartoonish tent in his sweat pants. Without question, he pulled the fabric down over it, to show the smooth purple prick.

"Sit down, over there," I ordered, and he took the chair opposite me. My chair was made for a Hobbit at a Man's table, which meant that my tits could actually rest on the tabletop, and I had to climb down and sit my ass on the floor for what came next. I knuckled towards him under the table, face to face with his prick.

"Get comfy," I said. "Because I didn't get my boyfriend anything for our anniversary, so I'm going to give him a long, sloppy blowjob because he has just given me the most awesome, thoughtful fucking gift in my entire life, and you're not going anywhere until I'm done."

Ass on the floor, my leg stumps wedged between his feet, mouth open, tongue out, and I let that flexible purple prick slide down my throat, so that the heat from it warmed my mouth and esophagus from the inside. I didn't take the whole thing—but I took enough. I gurgled. I was noisy. My arms locked on his ass and wouldn't let him go. Somewhere above, Aubert held onto the table for dear life as my head bobbed and my lips ran over every smooth inch of that stupidly flexible prick that had cum in me—and made me cum—more times in the last year than any cock had in my entire stupid life up to that point.

Which included the six months I'd spent as a fuckpet by the the White Hands.

Was it stupid, to try and have an actual relationship with an emotionally-stunted stud like Aubert? Someone so broken that even the smallest gesture of affection like a kiss made him drip cum like a virgin highlord engaging in unprotected handholding? When he was some Elfblooded vatborn with a lineage going back to old Numenor while my mother could only give me a range of six cousins she'd fucked at roughly the correct time for my conception?

We were from two different worlds. He had literally picked me up out of the trash. Odds were it wouldn't work out. Maybe we were just two sex-crazed losers and one day he'd get tired of slumming it and banging a big-titted Hobbit chick and go back to the upper levels to break the heart and hymens of some almond-eyed corporate debutante.

Maybe.

In my heart of hearts, as the wet schluck-schluck-schluck sound of a mouth full of spit gurgled around a smooth plastic penis, I silently vowed to Varda that I would drain his genetically-engineered gonads dry every day if that was what it took to keep him.