by Thomas Hsei
(5/3/00)

Stepping in from deserted midnight streets, Peter Nova shook rain from his right hand before placing his palm over the lev-tube's scanner. A moment passed and then a pleasant, sexless voice droned its recognition of his palm print. The tube's doors slid open with a breath of wind, and allowed him to step inside.

The lev-tube rocked gently before beginning its seventy floor ascent. Exhausted from his fifth twelve hour day in a row at the office, Peter leaned against the smooth, concave walls, and closed his eyes.

"Good evening, Mr. Nova," the same pleasant computer voice greeted. The sound seemed to emanate from all around him, rather than from some set point. "You have seven messages waiting for you. Shall I retrieve them?"

"Just list sender, please."

"Yes, sir. Message one: sent by John Terrant. Message two: sent by Elisa Monte--"

His eyes blinked open. "Back up," he commanded. "Did you say message one was from John Terrant?"

"Yes, sir. Shall I play it?"

He tried to recall the last time he'd spoken with his old friend, and couldn't bear to. A year, at the least. Most likely two or three.

He rubbed his temples. "No, just have it ready in my apartment."

"Yes, sir."

The lev-tube came to a smooth stop on Peter's floor, opening its doors on a hallway that encircled the cylindrical core of the building. Evenly spaced lights provided a soft, amber glow throughout the hall. Five other residents shared the floor, though he had never met any of them and doubted he ever would. His days were too busy, his nights too exhausted.

Rounding the last arc of the circular hallway, he came to his door and pressed his palm to the scanner. The voice seemed to follow him wherever he went. "Nova, Peter L., identified resident, apartment six, level seventy-two. Welcome home, sir."

The door dilated as he stepped toward it, and then whispered closed behind him. An instant later, the lights came on and the soft strains of Beethoven's Moonlight Sonata drifted through the living room.

"Music off," he called out. "Play message one."

John Terrant's voice replaced the piano music. "Greetings, Pyotr Novakovsky. If I know you, it's past midnight and you're just getting home from work."

Peter chuckled and began undressing. He threw his trenchcoat across the room, hardly caring if he left a mess.

Terrant's voice went on: "I'm leaving this message just before 5:00 PM, using the public messaging center at a hotel downtown." Terrant took a deep breath and let it out in a rush. "I'm afraid I have some bad news for you, old friend. Since I know your distaste for euphemism, I'm just going to tell you outright that as of sunset this evening, I am dead."

Peter's fingers froze at his belt buckle. His breath stopped somewhere in his throat.

Terrant chuckled. "Helluva way to find out, eh? No sadness, Pyotr -- I insist. This was my decision. I decided to end it for my own reasons, reasons which are not as important as the favor I have to ask of you."

Peter felt behind himself for a chair, and when he could not reach one, simply sank to the floor.

"I have left someone behind, old friend. Someone who is in grave danger, if I may be so ominous. He needs your help. I need your help. I have transferred my remaining funds into your bank account under an alias that the City will not trace back to me. Pyotr," the voice said, deepening with seriousness, "I'm asking you to save a man's life, for as long as you can, in any way you can. I know you have ways. I know you won't turn me down."

He pressed his palm to his mouth, wondering when tears would replace shock. John was dead. John, dead. He couldn't believe it.

"His name is Raul. He's waiting for you in suite 4416 at the Belphoria Hotel. I've left instructions that your palm print be accepted as my own." The voice suddenly took on a cheerier timbre. "Don't look so glum, Novakovsky. Raul's a beauty and he has the sweetest body and a delicious cock. I think you'll like him."

The Belphoria rose two hundred levels into the night sky, a silvery tower pricking dusky purple rain clouds. He gave his palm imprint at the building's exterior and again at the reception. At the predestined suite, he hesitated, his palm hovering above the last scanner that stood between him and John's mysterious charge.

Taking a breath, he let his palm drop onto the scanner's smooth surface.

The door slid open, and revealed the silhouette of a man standing just inside.

"Good evening, Mr. Nova," the man said. "I am Raul." He bowed slightly. Illumination from the lights in the hallway revealed a young face and skin that gleamed like dark, oiled wood.

Raul thrust out his hand -- Peter thought at first to be shaken. But Raul reached up and touched Peter's neck, his thumb resting between jaw and ear lobe. The skin of his palm was smooth, satiny. Leaning forward, tilting his head, Raul pressed his lips -- warm, full, a little dry -- to Peter's cheek.

"H-hello," he stammered. He stepped into the suite, glancing behind him as the door slid closed. "You've been expecting me?"

Raul nodded. "Mr. Terrant left me here with the promise that you would come."

Peter shook his head and allowed Raul to lead him into the suite. "I hope you'll pardon my ignorance, Mr. --"

"Just Raul, Mr. Nova."

"I hope you'll pardon my ignorance, Raul, but none of this is making any sense to me." His hand went to the spot on his cheek which still tingled as from electricity.

"It will, Mr. Nova. I'm afraid Mr. Terrant couldn't risk telling you over the City's messaging systems."

Peter stared at the dark-haired man. "What?"

Raul held up both his hands. They were perfectly smooth, without blemish... or finger print. "You see, Mr. Nova, I'm supposed to be dead."

He sat across from Raul on the suite's opulent velvet sofa, shaking his head as the other man spoke.

Raul crossed one leg over the other, the muscles of his thighs moving like water beneath his dark blue trousers. "Despite my appearances, Mr. Nova, I am only a little over thirteen chronological years old. I was created, if you will, for the sole purpose of employment as a sex slave, for lack of a better term. Mr. Terrant designed me, paid for me, and three years later, I was given over to him. I arrived in his service already educated in the arts, both intellectual and sexual. I was physically and mentally fully matured. For all intents and purposes, I was eighteen years old then. For all intents and purposes, I am now thirty years old."

Peter watched, fascinated, still confused, as Raul stood from the sofa and began to undress.

Raul faced him, never moving his eyes from Peter's own. He shrugged out of his indigo jacket to show a form-fitting white shirt beneath. His nipples were visible beneath the filmy fabric, as were the outlines of his prominent collar bones and the gracefully angular curves of his muscles. He pulled the shirt's hem from the waist of his trousers, revealing skin of such smoothness that Peter's mouth began to water. Raul pulled the shirt over his head and shook out the tousled mass of his black hair. Without pausing, his fingers began working at the buttons of his pants.

Peter looked away. "What are you doing?" His voice was rougher than he remembered it.

"Showing you," he said simply. "I want you to understand what I am and why I need you. Please watch my genitals, Mr. Nova."

Peter flushed hotly, but did as he was asked. It was not as difficult as he could have protested. This man with only one name was a beauty, as John had promised. Raul was not the muscular behemoth he had come to think of as the norm in the slave industry. Raul appeared more refined, athletic but somehow graceful. His movements were liquid, easy. His startling green eyes peered out from beneath a tangle of thick, black hair. Peter self-consciously ran a hand through his own fine, blond tresses.

"Are you watching, Mr. Nova?"

He nodded. How could he not? Raul stood naked before him, hands at his sides, one hip cocked slightly as if posing for a sculptor. At the juncture of his thighs -- the cock John had spoken so highly of. Soft, it invited touching. He licked his lips, felt dizzy.

Raul reached down and took his cock into his hand, displaying it on his open palm for Peter to see. "Watch," he said.

A second passed, then two. And then the limp thing in his hand began to stiffen, elongate. Veins defined its surface. The head stood out, stretched and shiny, like a soldier's cap. Raul brought his hand back to his side, allowing his hardness to stand out from his body. It seemed to be stretching toward Raul's navel, boosted by a full, round scrotum.

Peter's crotch responded, though somewhat more slowly.

Raul shrugged, looking down at himself. "I can do this, twenty times in a night if it's desired of me. I require fewer than four hours of sleep a day. I am also sterile."

Peter's hand traced an agitated line from his own knee to thigh. Staring at Raul's engorged cock, he could feel his own fingers curving to the shape of its shaft. He could almost feel each vein in his palm. "Why are you telling me this?"

Raul kneeled before him, moving and speaking as if wholly unaware of his effect on Peter. "Perhaps because I want to make your obligation somewhat less unappealing. I am yours for however long you can keep me away from the City. I am yours willingly." Raul rested his hands on Peter's knees, his thumbs caressing each patella.

Peter was finding it increasingly more difficult to speak. His own cock was now straining, rolling forward against his briefs, the sensitive slit dragging on cloth. He cleared his throat, touched Raul's hands with his own. "Raul, I --"

Raul moved forward, separating Peter's knees with his chest. "Sh... I know. I know you cannot risk such a thing. To be caught with a slave who is not your own..."

Raul had let the words fade, but Peter knew the rest of the sentence: To be caught with a slave who is not your own means death. The City made money from selling new slaves itself, not from the resale of slaves from owner to owner.

Raul's hands moved up to his thighs, massaging the flesh between thumb and palm. "Just let me be your obligation, your sweet obligation, for one night. Say in the morning what my fate will be, but not until then."

He was already nodding, already leaning back against the sofa. His hands went to Raul's thick, dark hair. Raul kissed Peter's thighs and then cock through the fabric of his pants. The gesture was somehow both lewd and sweet. Raul's teeth moved over cloth as his lips massaged Peter's groin. He drew a sharp breath through clenched teeth, his hands moving to Raul's smooth, hard shoulders.

He relinquished self-control, allowed the slave to do what he had been genetically and socially programmed to do.

"Lift up," Raul commanded, his voice thick, Peter wondered if from genuine passion or habit. In either case, he did as he was told, lifting up his hips so that Raul could pull his trousers and briefs down over his hips. He did not bother to undress completely; he was too eager to feel Raul's lips close around his throbbing shaft, to feel the other man's tongue sliding over his oozing slit.

"Now," he begged. "Oh, God, now!"

Raul complied.

The slave wrapped one hand around the base of Peter's cock, and squeezed. His strange, smooth fingers felt like the inside of a leather glove on his skin. Raul slipped the finger of his other hand into Peter's anus, bearing inward and upward to massage his prostate.

"Like this?" Raul whispered.

He could only nod and grip the other man's shoulders tighter.

Raul took the head of Peter's penis into his mouth, his cheeks hollowing as he sucked. Peter felt for a moment he was being turned inside out from the head of his cock. Raul ran his tongue from the underside of the swollen glans to the steadily dripping slit. Peter moaned and slid his buttocks toward the sofa's edge as Raul inserted another finger into his tight hole, stroking with an alternately gentle and fierce pressure.

Cool air surround the shaft of his cock as Raul withdrew his hand, eliciting a whimper from Peter's lips. But soon he was enveloped in warmth again as Raul slowly gobbled up more of his aching hardness. He watched as his cock disappeared into Raul's seemingly endless mouth. The slave took his entire length without pause, and sucked on, and on, and on.

He felt his scrotum draw tight around the base of his penis as orgasm approached. He bore up into Raul's mouth, forsaking tenderness. His hips rammed into the other man's face without mercy. He loved watching the length of his cock disappear again and again into Raul's tight, hot mouth. He grabbed Raul's head on his last upward thrust, but Raul pulled away just as the first spasm racked his body. Again his hand went to Peter's pulsing rod, aiming it toward his closed mouth.

With a great moan, he came.

Raul accepted the first burst of semen across his lips before once more opening his mouth to drain the last drops with the muscles of his throat.

Once the spasms had ceased, Peter fell back against the sofa, breathing heavily, his softening cock slipping wetly from Raul's mouth.

Raul looked beautiful. His chin and corded neck glistened with Peter's seed, his eyes were wide and darkly green. He smiled and licked his lips.

"I hope my performance pleased you."

Peter managed to look up. "Shit, Raul! It more than pleased me! It devoured me, exploded me. I needed that more than I would have liked to admit."

Raul rose up to kiss him on the cheek. Peter could smell the salty tang of his own spunk. "I'm glad," Raul whispered, and nestled in the crook of his new master's arm.

"I never realized how many things required a palm print for access," Peter admitted. He and Raul lay in bed, legs entwined in an all-over body embrace. "They really mean for you slaves to never see freedom."

Raul nodded against his chest. "Every building and message booth, restaurant and document. All require palm print I.D."

Peter held Raul tighter; he almost felt as though he could touch John again. Perhaps through mutual grief, he and Raul had found passion, however brief or dangerous. Finally, he said, "I don't know how long I can keep you safe--"

Raul looked up, his hair matted and tangled. "I've thought about that, Mr. Nova. I can't allow you to do it. I have decided to turn myself in to the City for cancellation."

He sat up and took Raul by the shoulders. "Why the hell would you want to do that?"

Raul smiled sadly. "I don't want to, Mr. Nova. You see, there was something the geneticists couldn't program into our cells: the willingness to die. They facetiously call it the "lemming effect." They've been searching for it in our genetic make up for decades. But of course, the irony is that there is nothing to find. Because it's _simply not there_."

Peter sighed in frustration. "Then why turn yourself in? Why!"

Raul looked away. "Because I didn't expect you to remind me of Mr. Terrant."

He blinked. It was not the answer he had expected. "I... I don't understand."

Raul looked again at him. "Mr. Nova, we slaves are designed to be obedient in every way to our masters. We learn their vocabulary of desire; some masters want gentle words, romantic poetry, others want all hardness and brusque physicality. We are physically capable of performing any seduction or perversion, if that's what our owner wants. It's in our make-up. But they cannot make us love when we do not love. I loved Mr. Terrant, Mr. Nova. Seeing you reminds me of him. Besides the fact that it pains me to look at you and think of him, I also care enough for him -- for you, that is -- to not wish you any danger. Therefore, I must do the only rational thing and hand myself over for cancellation."

"Is that in your genes, as well?"

"No, Mr. Nova. I learned it from Mr. Terrant."

Peter paused. He couldn't believe he was going to say what he was about to say. "What can I do to convince you otherwise?"

Raul shook his head. "Nothing."

Peter sat up in the bed, shifting to peer down into Raul's green eyes. "Then let me be your slave, Raul. For one night. Use my body to your own satisfaction, care nothing for me. I am your vessel; fill me as you want."

Raul blinked. "Mr. Nova -- "

Peter pressed his finger's to Raul's full, soft lips. "Please call me Pyotr, like John did. And tell me, Raul, what is _your_ vocabulary of desire?"

Raul seemed to think for a long while. Finally, he whispered, "I don't know. I've never thought about it."

Moving down the bed, Peter straddled Raul's thighs. Bending forward, his body an arc above Raul's, he kissed the hollow of his temporary master's neck. He moved up, covering Raul's Adam's apple with his mouth for a moment before asking, "Do you want me to suck your _penis, or your cock_? Tell me want you want me to say." He reached down between the bridge of his own legs to cup Raul's growing hardness in his palm. "What do you want me to say?"

Raul arched his back beneath him, sighing with pleasure like a stroked cat. "Say nothing."

He covered Raul's mouth with his own, revelling in the rough texture of Raul's cheek and chin. His mouth was hot, teeth slick. Their tongues touched briefly, then, encouraged, delved deeper past one another's lips. Raul's mouth was not deep enough; Peter wanted to taste it all, feel the back of his master's throat with his own.

Pulling away, he stared down at Raul, whose face reflected intense desire. His breath came out in hot, steamy bursts. Raul grinned and covered Peter's hand with his own, moving it over his engorged member in a smooth circular motion. Peter felt warm wetness against his palm and felt his own cock respond in kind. Moving down, Peter took the opportunity to study Raul's beautiful organ closely, like an art student studying some rare Monet.

Grasping it in his hand, firmly, he felt the pulse of Raul's lifeblood against his palm and fingertips. Raul's penis stood out from his body, a shade darker than the surrounding flesh. It was like holding a warm lead pipe wrapped in a swath of velvet, but ultimately more alive. A nest of wiry black hair surrounded his scrotum and feathered the very tops of his thighs.

Peter leaned forward, inhaling deeply, and smelled the pungent odor of Raul's cockhead and the earthy aroma of his asshole. Pushing Raul's thighs apart, Peter moved between his legs, mouth open, and kissed the dark pucker of flesh. Raul gasped and lifted his hips into Peter's face. On and on he kissed, suddenly ravenous for the taste of Raul's hole. He ground his tongue into it, alternately sucking and penetrating it. His forehead occasionally brushed the base of Raul's cock and his tightly drawn, heavy sac. Glancing up, he saw Raul's hands gripping the sides of the bed in ecstacy. Peter smiled to be giving so much pleasure to this man.

Pulling away, he took a moment to catch his breath before moving upward again along the length of Raul's body. He wanted to share the taste on his tongue, and bent to kiss Raul again.

Raul moaned.

Reaching behind him, Peter grabbed Raul's cock and began to lubricate it with the liquid that was already oozing from its tip. He then took his own fingers and applied some of the same moisture to his hole.

He positioned himself over Raul's fleshy spear, and settled downward, slowly. When it became lodged halfway, he cried out.

Raul's eyes fluttered open. "Are you all right?"

He grinned. "It's just that's been so long..." He didn't finish the sentence: A year, perhaps, more likely two or three.

"Take it slow," Raul breathed, and reached out to grab Peter's hips. "That's right. Slowly now."

At Raul's urging, he moved further down his cock, allowing it to become buried in his warm, humid depths. His head fell back -- it felt so good! Raul filled him completely, almost to the point of an unbearable pain, but as he waited, allowing his muscles to relax, the pain began to fade and all that remained was bliss.

Covering Raul's hands with his own, he began gentle up and down movements, clenching his buttocks tightly to give his lover all the pleasure he could.

Suddenly, Raul cried out. "It's not enough!" Peter stopped in midstroke, the head of Raul's cock pulsing just past the entrance of his hole. Raul sat up, disengaging Peter, and kneeled on the bed. "It's not enough," he repeated. "Down on your knees."

Peter grinned and eagerly complied, turning to offer his back end to Raul. Reaching behind him, he used his hands to spread his buttocks open, and waited for fulfillment to replace emptiness once more.

Raul moved behind him, cock in hand, and placed the tip against Peter's anus. With a swift corkscrew motion, he lunged. He held himself there for a moment, perfectly still. "Bend over!" he barked. Peter obeyed, and balanced himself with his hands on the bed. Raul slowly withdrew, almost all the way, and then shoved forward, hard. Peter gasped. Raul leaned forward and grabbed him by the shoulders, pulling himself even further into this living sheath. His movements were slow, long, and driving at first, but quickly increased. He hunched against Peter's back, plowing him to the depths.

Peter reached between his own legs and easily masturbated himself to orgasm.

Raul went on and on, thrust upward and inward, his movement rocking them both. Peter could feel Raul's cheek resting against his shoulder blade and occasionally, the sting of teeth on his flesh. He drove back, matching Raul's increasingly frantic movements thrust for thrust. Together, they moved like the pistons of a well-oiled engine.

Raul stopped, became still. With one finally grunt, he thrust forward once more and filled Peter with slick warmth. He felt spurts of hot liquid splash into the depths of his bowels and sighed with satisfaction.

It was some time before Raul slipped out of him, but when he did, it was as if a cork had been pulled from a champagne bottle. Rivulets of semen began to pour out of him, down the insides of his thighs.

"Stay," Raul commanded.

He obeyed.

A moment later, he felt Raul's mouth on his aching hole, sucking away the briny juice. Raul was gentle, loving, in his technique. He carefully suckled away the pain.

Together, they collapsed, arms entwined, upon the bed.

Peter woke before Raul. Gauging from the darkness of the window pane, it must still have been night. Reaching down between his legs, he felt the stickiness of Raul's saliva and semen. He smiled and rolled over onto his side.

Raul was sleeping on his back, head turned to one side, arms and legs splayed in the sleep of innocence. His mouth was open slightly, no more than a slit. Raising up on one elbow, Peter pressed a kiss to Raul's lips.

"Wake up," Peter said. "Time to go."

"It's been a long time since I've been down here," Peter breathed. His breath formed white tendrils of mist in the cold night air.

"Where exactly are we?" Raul pressed close behind him.

Peter glanced over his shoulder and gave Raul a grin. "Call it down-downtown. This is the City's underground, in more ways than one. If anyone can save you, they're here."

Raul grabbed Peter by the shoulders. "Mr. Nova... Pyotr... I cannot allow you to put yourself at risk for me."

"It's already been decided."

Raul's brow furrowed. "When?"

"When you opened the door at the Belphoria and let me in." He winked at Raul, who reluctantly smiled.

The shells of forgotten buildings lined the rain-slick streets like grave stones etched with forgotten names. The pendulum of an ancient traffic light swung from wires that crisscrossed dark streets. Peter felt Raul shudder behind him.

Suddenly, a voice boomed behind them: "Identify yourself, City scum!"

Peter turned, in the process shoving Raul protectively behind him. He said, with false bravado, "Novakovsky. Who the hell wants to know?" He could see nothing in the oil-black alleyway before him.

"Novakovsky?" the voice puzzled. "Not Pyotr Novakovsky."

Peter cleared his throat. "The same."

"Hold up your palm, Novakovsky. If that is your real name."

Shakily, he lifted his right arm. A thin, flat beam of red light appeared as if from nowhere, hitting the top of his hand and then sliding down to his wrist.

A moment later, the voice laughed. "Novakovsky, you bastard! How the hell've you been?"

Rembrandt Takishida emerged from the dark alley, decked out in full night vision gear. He looked like some hybrid of man and machine. His long black hair fell like thick cobwebs over his shoulders and down his back. The goatee on his chin looked just as Peter remembered it from a dozen years before.

"Tacky!" he greeted. "I'd heard you were dead."

He grabbed Peter in a rough embrace, one arm going around his neck, the other around his waist. He spoke into Peter's neck. "I _am_ dead -- to the City, anyway!" Pulling away, he nodded his head toward Raul. "Who's that?"

Peter made a half turn and looped his arm around Raul's waist. "This is Raul. Raul," he said, looking back and forth between the two men, "this is Rembrandt Takishida, master surgeon and painter. Otherwise known as Tacky or Rem."

Raul's eyebrows went up. "A surgeon and an artist?"

Tacky winked. "The two are not mutually exclusive."

Glancing around, Peter felt nervous. "I don't think we should spend any more time above ground than we have to. Tacky, I need your help, but I can't talk about it here."

Tacky's impish face became serious. "What makes you think I'll help you after what you left us?"

Peter held up his palm. "Because I've got the palm print that'll get you a hundred k. in credits."

Tacky chewed on his lower lip for a moment. "Well, we could use new weapons..." Louder, he said, "All right then, follow me."

"I... I can't believe it," Raul whispered. He held up his hands, turning them this way and that, as if they were mirages he couldn't quite believe existed.

"I do good work," Tacky said as he put away the laser.

Peter leaned over to appraise the surgeon's work. Raul's palms and fingers now bore the delicate whorls of a unique pattern. "Whose hands are these anyway?"

Tacky pursed his lips innocently. "They're his," he said, nodding toward Raul. "They're the prints of Mr. Richard Cardenas."

Peter looked at Raul. "Richard? I don't know if you look like a Richard."

Raul grinned and held up his hands. "My palms do, and that's all that matters!"

Tacky elbowed him in the ribs. "Where's that hundred k. you promised me?"

Peter held up his palm and allowed the surgeon to scan it. "Take everything in the account. Funnel it where you have to, just leave no trace of Peter L. Nova."

Tacky looked at the computer screen. "Jesus, Novakovsky! There's over a mil and a half in here! What the hell do you plan to do with all that cash?"

Peter shrugged. "Oh, I don't know. Give a helping hand to other slaves?"

Tacky smirked. "Generous to a fault, Novakovsky."

Peter took Raul's hand in his own. "Well, it's not like I didn't get anything out of it," he said, and pressed a kiss to Richard Cardenas' open palm.