Touched by a Cyber-Angel Pt. 02

Lucinda's body tensed again and she began to pretend that she was actually reading the Ten Commandments.

"Yes… hmmmmm… good point," Spielmann said slowly, and paused, then went on deliberately. "Very good point, indeed. It sounds like the user exclusion parameters for the veracity suppression command-line interpreter of the project integrity assurance sub-routine may have a…what's the technical term?"

"A glitch?" Lucinda offered sarcastically without turning around.

"Yeah, well, I'm not sure that's the technical term, but that's what it would be - a glitch," Spielmann agreed. "Either that or a bug."

"This from a guy who thinks a 'sub-routine' is a repetitive procedure for making long, skinny sandwiches," Lucinda muttered.

"I think," Spielmann said, ignoring the comment, "that her programming is going to need to be tweaked."

"What?" she exploded and spun around to face him.

"What?" Howie demanded.

"It won't take long," Spielmann said brightly. She'll be ready by noon tomorrow. Or maybe mid-afternoon. End of the day latest."

"What?" screeched Lucinda.

"What?" bellowed Howie.

"I can't let her out of here if the integrity of her Veracity Circuitry is compromised," the store manger said flatly. "Do you know how smart she is? Her logical abilities test out to an IQ of about 275. There could be big problems - enormous problems, actually - if she didn't have to tell the truth. Especially now, while her judgment and common sense aren't fully mature yet. They'll develop in time, but right now she's sort of like a really, really smart, defiant, sex-crazed, drug-addled teenager.

"We do need to fix her up. There's no way around it. But luckily, we have the best MicroHard technician in the outer solar system right here in our shop and…"

Lucinda interjected, "That would be Hal 'Open the Pod Bay Door' O'Brien, the only MicroHard technician in the outer solar system." Resentment dripped from every word.

"...He'll have her right in no time," Spielmann finished somewhat limply.

They argued for several minutes, but Howie and Lucinda couldn't budge Spielmann an inch. In the end, Howie swallowed his frustration, made a 10% deposit and said he'd call O'Brien first thing in the morning. Spielmann made out most of the paperwork while Howie and Lucinda made out most of the way toward a violation of the pre-ownership contact.

Finally, Spielmann pried them apart. "Call at 08:00 and see what Hal thinks," he said, as he pushed Howie out the door.

But, as the door closed and the lock clicked behind him, Howie could have sworn that he heard the soft buzz of a zipper being pulled down.

He pounded on the door, demanding to be let back in, but there was no answer. Eventually he gave up and, angry and frustrated, made his way through the ever-crowded walkways of the business dome. As he went, Lucinda's image seemed always to hang before him, soothing and calming him and gradually softening his anger. My Cyber-Angel, he thought dreamily. He looked at his watch, 14 hours, 47 minutes and 26 seconds until 08:00, he told himself, and began the long count-down. ...25... 24... 23... 22...

The Ganymede mining colony was composed of eleven large, round, slightly overlapping domes arranged in a roughly circular cluster. There was an administrative dome, a business dome, two residential domes, an equipment repair and maintenance dome, two farming domes, a storage dome, two domes which acted as staging areas for the mining teams and a life support dome.

Inside each opaque dome were buildings, separated by walkways and streets of various widths, creating the overall impression of a small, covered Earth city.

Howie walked absent-mindedly down neat avenues, past high-end retailers with fancy storefronts. But he hadn't decided where he was going yet. People, who were mostly pretty friendly out here at Ganymede, smiled and said "Hi", but he neither saw them nor heard them. He looked at his watch: 14 hours, 39 minutes, 42 seconds. 41...40...39...38...

He wasn't hungry and, even though he was so horny he could scream, he decided he couldn't stand the thought of spending the evening with plasti-pussy. So he got on the Number 7A moving walkway, which would take him out of the business dome, back to the administrative dome where he worked. There, he could transfer to the 6A, which would take him his apartment in the residential dome.

His stubborn erection refused to soften, so he closed his eyes and remembered Lucinda swallowing it so eagerly. Her mouth and throat had been so warm, so moist, so welcoming.

From there, he slid back into his testing lab fantasy. Lucinda had on the same tiny green dress had worn at the MicroHard outlet, but the hem was pulled up around her waist and the shoulder straps were down by her elbows, exposing her lovely breasts.

She was lying face-up on one of the plush fur-upholstered couches, on top of a white-coated lab technician, who had her ass hole impaled to the hilt on his big boner. The tech slid it in and out at a leisurely pace while her eyes bugged wide with unsatisfied passion.

Howie stood over her, his own impressive and rigid cock out and ready to stuff into her drooling little pussy, which slowly opened and closed like the mouth of a small fish left stranded on dry ground. Her stiff clit bounced and twitched.

She was wiggling and squirming, grabbing ineffectually for Howie's hard-on, his arm, his lab coat, anything that would enable her to pull him down on top of her, and pleading, "C'mon, just shove it into me." And, "Damn you, you lousy sadist, fuck me already!" And, "Please, please, stick it in and put me out of my misery." Stuff like that.

Howie braced one knee on the couch and grabbed his rock-hard prick, aiming it for her hungry cunt. He leaned forward and pressed the head against her sopping wet hole. Her eyes rolled back into her head in anticipation of the ecstasy to come.

Unfortunately, however, Howie was too rapt in blind fantasy to notice that he was approaching the end of the walkway. As a result, just as he was about to give Lucinda the satisfaction she so charmingly demanded, he was thrown unceremoniously to the ground when he failed to step off.

A Security Agent, who had watched his approach with amusement, looked down at him. "You know these things aren't for sleeping, don't you, Sir?" he grinned. "But," he added, nodding toward Howie's lumpy crotch, "that must have been a hell of a dream you were having. I would advise you, Sir, to keep that thing tucked safely in your sock."

Red-faced and a little confused, Howie got slowly and silently to his feet and limped over to climb onto the 6A

On the way home, he decided that alcohol was the only reasonable answer. So, when he got off the walkway a few streets from his apartment, he went to the local convenience store and bought a 12-pack of Great Red Spot Ale and headed through the tidy alleyways to his building, where took the elevator 10 stories up to his floor.

When he got out, his neighbor, matronly old Mrs. Stooshey, was waiting to go down. The short, but very wide, woman was the widow of Howie's father's top assistant. She was also a close friend of Howie's mother. And she was the neighborhood busy-body and a world-class gossip. As they passed, she took in Howie's frantic look and glanced at the 12-pack.

"Stocking up for the weekend, Mrs. S.," he said in response to her questioning look.

"It's Monday," she scowled, and disappeared as the elevator doors closed.

He exhaled deeply, fighting to remain calm and, standing outside his door, looked at his watch: 14 hours, 25 minutes and 57 seconds. 56...55...54...53...

He went in. The apartment was just as he had left it: four small, bachelor-messy rooms, with several big windows and a balcony overlooking a park and recreation area, a relatively large residence by Ganymedian standards, especially for a single person. The first thing he did was pop open a can of Red Spot and jerk off while finishing his fantasy about fucking Lucinda in the MicroHard test labs.

Then he opened another Red Spot, turned the holo-vid to his favorite porn channel and spent the rest of the evening working hard at finishing the 12-pack, while mentally plastering Lucinda's face on each of the actresses and performing self-service sex a whole bunch more times. Practice makes perfect, he thought. He was up to four when the Red Spot made him lose count. But it was at least twice more after that, maybe three times. Just as he finally finished the last beer and was about to pass out, he looked at his watch: 8 hours, 52 minutes and 37 seconds. 36...35...34...33..

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If you have enjoyed this story so far, look for Part 3, which will be posted sometime around February 22nd.