F3: Slip It In

Has it really been three weeks since I last posted Friday flash? Time flies, I guess. I’ve been working on this one for a couple of weeks now, intending to post it each week, but never quite getting the time to finish it off. But now I have! Stories have happy endings after all, it seems.


The transition from darkness to light always leaves me blinking, you know? From the darkness of the booth to the brightness of the ‘net. It creeps me out, puts my hairs up. The light doesn’t come from anywhere, you know, it’s just everywhere.

But this doesn’t matter for long. Quick enough I’m where I want to be. As always I sneak in through the periphery, knowing that the tribal types who hang around this node don’t take too kindly to older guys like me coming in here. You know the sort. Easy enough to get past them, though, as they hang about talking and play-fighting, their body-modded avatars swigging at beers just, I imagine, as the users behind them are doing, far away in their own booths. Lonely guys, making a pretence of society with other lonely guys.

Inside the little whorehouse, my favourite and special place, I feel a snake of excitement slither up my spine. I choose my girl, the one I often choose, with the little lines of tattoo-spiders crawling up her calf and thigh into the nest of her pubic mound. I leave the dingy affectations of the lobby behind, passing through the door festooned with torn flyers for porn and shows. This place, you know, I like it a lot. It feels bad. I crave that sense of transgression, you know, and it’s no less effective for being aware of its artificiality.

And there she is, standing before me, a demure and mute goddess, already half undressed, an oversized shirt hanging off her shoulders. I can see the knife blade tattoos that stretch under the lace straps of her bra. Her skin looks soft, with the colour of a real tan.

I’m on my knees before her, almost genuflecting. Her face slips into a smile and she shrugs her shoulders. The shirt slips down and off her arms; the knife blades are real, for a moment, and slice through those lacy straps. Her bra tumbles down to the ground, the catch somehow released.

I realise I’m salivating, all of a sudden. I shiver in anticipation and reach up to wipe the drool from my beard. I rub the fluid into my tightening jeans and reach out with my other hand, towards that stiffly erect nipple and its piercing spear of titanium.

She bats my hand away, and I look up at her face, surprised. This girl is usually… sedate, you know.

‘Hey mama,’ she says. ‘Come on, come on.’

I stare at her in confusion, hand still upraised. Her blackened eyes narrow, crushing irises like a vice.

‘Come on, come on. This is it,’ she hisses. And adds, in a sing-song aside: ‘ I kinda got a boyfriend.’

Her face flickers; her hair snaps and pops like old TV static. Another face peers out for a moment. Then I’m gasping and wheezing, bent over. I think a fist just rammed into my stomach, faster than I could see.

A hand grabs my hair and pulls my head up. It’s her, but it’s not her. My gaze chases little spiders up her legs. I see her pubic hair, her Celt-tattooed belly, her bell-like breasts – but there she stops. Her neck is thick, like an ox, and now her head is a man’s.

‘This is happening!’ he roars into my face. ‘This is the time! Now!’

‘Wh-what?’ I gasp, stomach still twitching from the blow it took. He snarls, curling his lip, and a slender hand strikes my cheek with stinging force.

‘Jesus Christ!’ I cry. Tears are running down my face now. ‘What the fuck is going on? Who’s doing this?’

‘Mount up!’ cries the… newcomer. He’s glaring at me with an expression of disgust and fury; in unambivalent and quite specific hatred. The woman’s hand releases my hair, but before I can fall I feel the sharp point of a shoe hit me in the chin. I make a glucking noise and fall backwards onto my arse.

I shake my head, groggy. The man is still shouting at me: ‘In, in, in!’

‘You’re getting around,’ he chants. ‘I’m not putting it down. It’s just what it is.’ He puts one of her feet on my crotch, soft now, the heel pressing hard against my scrotum. ‘Getting it while it’s around.’

I whimper and look up at him, ignoring her, and he stares back down at me. He grins a sadist’s grin.

Then I’m outside the building, lying on the granulated ground of the metaplace. My clothes are gone: I’m naked and flaccid. The hangers-on are all around me, laughing. Several of them pour beer on me; a few of them spit. I jump up and turn and run.

‘Slip it in,’ someone shouts at my back. A thrown can clatters off to my left.

I’m never coming back here again.

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