Visions of Cybersex – I – Dreams in Pink

Visions of Cybersex – I – Dreams in Pink

What will sex be like in the future? Rosanne van Spaendonck illustrates the first of Gonçalo Neto's cybernetic fantasies. 

Illustration by ©Rosanne van Spaendonck. All rights reserved

Illustration by ©Rosanne van Spaendonck. All rights reserved

The girl sighed deeply as the flash beam materialized before her eyes. Next to the console, the pink rotating fan breathes life into the small room, its hum a soft reminder of home. Next to the hyperchair, Lizzy the cat sleeps in its screen, the timer on rest mode, idle but dreaming of fish.

Inside the SenLens it is night, and there is the flicker of strobing lights. The girl walks through the dancefloor kissing the beats with the heels of her shoes. Sweat covers her thighs and the dampness flirts with smoke. She feels the bodies moving around her, in fancies of delight, releasing heat that sticks to her mouth as she approaches the table. She licks her lips and sits down.

Beside her, a droog with an eyepatch and a metal arm stirs his drink looking at the woman that sits across the velvet. Mistress smiles, unzips her silver bodysuit and invites the guest to join her in the cocoon. They rise, hold hands, walk to the end of the room and climb down the steps to the chamber. The staircase leads to the membrane, the threshold of foreplay. She hears sounds in the distance, like underwater screams, delayed. As she steps inside, she is no longer wearing her black dress. She wears nothing but her skin and the looks of everyone inside. Dozens of people, naked people, costumed people, dirty people, injured people, sinners and saints all alike in their anticipation for what was to come.

The girl flickers her thumb and the steam stops hissing. Everyone is frozen in place, aloft in the digital realm, unaware of any interruption. She removes the lens and the earbuds from her head, the reflex cable from around her waist. Blinking to the dimness of the Complex’s poisonous sunset, she closes the blinds and reaches for the bottle of juice. Her elbows are sore, and there’s a knot in her lower back. Perhaps it was careless of her to segue the afternoon’s SensAction feed into a LoveSim with reflex tube assist.

She slips out of the stimsuit and washes her face in the sink. She splashes the red in her eyes with water and rinses her mouth. It must have been hours since she last drank or ate, but she can’t swallow liquids while the Tech is working her body. There is precious little time left, and she rushes back to the hyperchair, adjusts the stimsuit to the reflex tube, re-initiates the steam routine and sits down. The loadout is complete, and the girl attaches the rubber to her scalp, straps the SenseLens to her head, and flickers her thumb.

The music caresses her brain and the colours fade into streams of light. She lies down in warm fluid, the tentacles slide across her neck, under her legs and over her breast, into her mouth teasing her tongue. The song the people hum is comforting, like the sound of air blowing out of a pink fan. Mistress swings from lizard flesh strips above the pool, her body facing her on the ground, her back arched into a lament of strength and beauty. The girl holds a tentacle in her hand and pushes it inside her, until she can no longer breathe. It moves in unpredictable ways, pulling her close to the edge of the sun, the room now as white as nothingness, the people now gone. Mistress swings above her swaying body, her mouth opening as something slides out, urgent, final. The growth swells until it bursts, blue liquid dribbling into the pool below, in the girl’s bellybutton, onto her chest, into her mouth.

Fucked by tentacles and oiled by the blue liquid of an alien mistress, the girl screams out her pleasure and her pain in a small one bed cube of Inner City X. Next time, she thinks rubbing her loins as she cleans the reflex tube, she will not initiate a tentacle loadout right after a SensAction feed.  

Killing them softly: Those bloody down feather jackets

Killing them softly: Those bloody down feather jackets

A Fashion Degree: A Fashion Faux Pas?

A Fashion Degree: A Fashion Faux Pas?