Hard Byte Page 2

  “I will,” I lie as we step out of her room.

  “And text me updates.” She leads me past the messy living room to the front door. “Also call me if you need me to post bail.”

  “Cheers,” I say—only to realize my mistake when Gia’s grin widens to Joker levels.

  “’Tis my pleasure, guv’nor,” she deadpans with a thick Cockney accent. “Don’t forget about luncheon with Mama and Papa.”

  “I won’t,” I grumble.

  “Jolly good.” She waves her hand in a queenly fashion. “Ta-dah.”

  “Thank you and goodbye,” I enunciate with a perfect American accent.

  She locks the door, and I hear her chuckling behind it.

  I can’t believe that of all my siblings, she is the lesser evil.

  Getting home, I practice lock picking deep into the night, and when I fall asleep, I dream about it.

  By Monday morning, I feel as ready as I ever will.

  It’s time.

  I will get to work, wait for everyone to leave, and proceed with Operation Break-In.

  Chapter Two

  Like the bloody watched pot that never boils, my coworkers refuse to leave for the day.

  I bet they’re not even working.

  In hindsight, this was a flaw in my plan. Since I’m the Chief Technology Officer here, lots of people want to show off how hard they work by staying late—especially in light of the takeover.

  As if summoned by the thought of the takeover, an email from Robert Jellyheim, my equivalent from Morpheus Group, hits my inbox.

  Crap. Are they somehow on to me?

  But no. He’s letting me know that they plan to ramp up the integration soon, and that I’ll meet him and the upper management face to face shortly.

  This must be why the suits got delivered. I have to say, the Devil is pretty confident about getting this round of funding.

  Well, we’ll see about that—assuming my stupid teammates ever leave, that is.

  My stomach rumbles, giving me an idea. Maybe they’ll finally leave if they think I’m gone for the day? And if anyone views the cameras later, they’ll see me come back with food—perfectly natural.

  Grabbing my stuff, I stomp toward the lift—I mean, elevator.

  Wait. What if my coworkers don’t notice?

  Oh, I know. I stop by a few desks and make them more orderly, killing two birds with one stone. By the time I add an extra pen to a cup that contained only four, I’m certain I’ve been noticed.

  Excellent. I head for the elevator, and when I get inside, I press all the buttons for the floors with prime numbers, a luxury I allow myself when I ride alone.

  My daily lunch are the nineteen pieces of ravioli I bring from home, but whenever I need to have dinner at work, I always go to the same Japanese place—Miso Hungry. My order with them is always the same as well: miso soup with forty-seven cubes of tofu and seventeen pieces of scallion, and three avocado rolls with one piece held back in order to make the total a proper prime of twenty-three.

  After all, one of the things that separates humans from animals is our desire for order and predictability, or at least that’s what I say to Gia when she teases me about my idyllic, clockwork-like life.

  “To go?” the hostess asks as soon as she spots me.

  I nod. “Yep, takeout.”

  As she rushes to the sushi bar to give the chef my order, I scan the almost empty restaurant—and am stunned to see a man scanning me with his piercing, cerulean-blue eyes.

  And what a man.

  Perfectly symmetrical face.

  Silky-looking jet-black hair.

  Broad, athletic shoulders.

  The cheekbones of an angel and the most kissable lips I’ve ever seen.

  The only thing that keeps him from perfection is the scruffy stubble on his face and the disarray of the black locks on his head.

  I fight the urge to sprint over to him, slick back that unruly hair, and steal a sushi knife from the chef to shave that gorgeous face.

  Yeah, okay. I must admit I have something of a fetish for clean-shaven guys. When I first saw pictures of Henry Cavill as Superman, all neat and proper, I wanted to touch myself. But I was not a happy camper when he took on his role as the scruffy, mustachioed villain in Mission: Impossible – Fallout. The $25 million DC Films spent on the CGI removal of his mustache during the filming of Justice League was money well spent if you ask me. I can’t wait for a day when technology will allow me to delete mustaches from all the faces on my screens.

  Bugger. I’m still gawking at him—a situation made that much worse by the fact that he’s not alone at his table. With him is a woman as gorgeous as he is. And unlike her scruffy yet sexy beau, she’s extremely put-together, with impeccable makeup and perfectly styled black hair.

  As I tear my gaze away, I catch the bastard smirking.

  What a cad. What a rake.

  The hostess comes back with my takeout, and I spot the stranger whispering something to his beautiful date.

  The woman gives me a once-over and starts to stand up.

  Crap. Is she going to confront me for ogling her man?

  I loathe violence of any kind, but particularly one that could involve me. Frantically snatching my order from the hostess, I thrust some cash into her hands and bolt out of Miso Hungry.

  My heart rate is still through the roof when I return to the office. I guess getting turned on by gorgeous strangers isn’t a good prelude to a proper heist.

  At least there’s good news here. As I hoped, the floor is finally empty. I bet the frauds scattered like quail as soon as the elevator doors slid shut behind me.

  Putting aside the food—I’ve lost my appetite at the thought of what I’m about to do—I pretend to write some code before launching the camera-killing script I’ve prepared.

  Is this really happening?

  Do I have the ovaries to do this?

  I square my shoulders.

  It is happening. I refuse to chicken out.

  Ignoring the tightness in my stomach, I get up and hurry to my destination.

  When I get to the door, I glance at the hopefully disabled camera.

  It’s now or never.

  Chapter Three

  I jiggle the door handle in case someone’s unlocked it.

  Nope.

  I get my tools and start picking.

  Blimey. It’s not yielding.

  Is this lock different from the ones I practiced on? Or is it my trembling hands?

  I take in a deep breath and count to seven.

  Hands steadier, I pick the lock again until something inside it clicks.

  Finally.

  Entering, I examine the large office. On the desk are a high-end monitor and an ergonomic keyboard, next to the desk is a top-of-the-line executive office chair (five-legged, as is proper), and in the corner is a small leather couch.

  Is this the Devil’s future lair? Or the She-Devil’s?

  Ignoring that issue for now, I examine the suits.

  Split into pink “female” and larger blue “male” models, these are clearly prototypes. Some even have parts attached with duct tape. There are also instruction sheets hanging from them, along with a label that states “Sterile.”

  I’m no Gia about such things, but even I feel grateful about the sterile bit—the suit is going on my body, after all. I also feel a pang of guilt. Once I put one on, it will no longer be sterile, which sucks for the next woman who’ll try it on.

  Maybe I can leave a note after I’m done?

  First things first. I grab the instructions sheet from the pink suit that looks closest to my size.

  “Adjust Velcro straps to fit your body” is the first step.

  I’m blessed with prime numbers when it comes to my girth and height, so thanks to the labeled straps, this step is a breeze.

  “Undress” is the second instruction.

  Hmm. Maybe this suit should buy me dinner first?

  I walk over to lock the door. Do
cleaning people have keys to this office? Hopefully not. Either way, they’re not due for a couple more hours—I looked it up when planning this heist.

  Stripping in the workplace feels extremely awkward, but since instructions command it, I do it, leaving my clothes neatly folded on the back of the office chair.

  “Lie down or sit as you put on the suit,” the next instruction advises. “Start with legs, then body, then gloves. The headset is last.”

  I sit on the couch, the leather icy on my naked bottom, and wriggle into the suit according to the instructions. Then I adjust everything to make sure it’s snug.

  The headset turns on, and a virtual reality dashboard appears in the air in front of me. The user interface is similar to the one my team had designed for this exact headset, but with obvious tweaks—must be the work of Robert Jellyheim and his team.

  There’s only a single app icon—“Demo”—in the dashboard at the moment.

  Raising my gloved hand, I jab a finger at it.

  The suit comes to life and squeezes my body tight, creating the sensation of a hug. At the same time, I find myself in a white room with two orbs hanging in the air, and two lines of text hovering above them: “Design partner” and “Use defaults.”

  “Design partner” sounds like something a porn app would say, so I click that.

  Two more orbs show up with the next choice: “Male” or “Female.”

  Chances of this being porn rise.

  I opt for male, since that’s what I’m attracted to, and the white room fills up with disembodied male heads.

  Huh. Okay. Books on user interface design don’t cover how to avoid making your software creepy—an oversight, clearly. Unless you’re making a game about ghosts, disembodied heads are a bad idea.

  With a wave of my hand, I summon each head to me so I can take a closer look at the faces.

  Very nice. Though not as realistic as in real life, these are the best that current technology allows—Morpheus Group must work with some talented artists.

  After some deliberation, I choose a head with a symmetrical face sporting dreamy blue eyes and chiseled features.

  “Change chin?” the interface asks me next.

  I do so, making it stronger.

  “Add facial hair?”

  Hell no.

  “Change cheekbones?” is the next choice.

  I make them sharper, more defined.

  “Change eye color?”

  I go for a darker shade of blue—cerulean, to be exact.

  Next, I swap the short blond hair for black and silky—neatly slicked back, as I like.

  Now a disembodied but very attractive head hovers in the air.

  Is it wrong that I’m now more turned on than creeped out?

  Wait a second.

  The head I’ve designed looks suspiciously like the one attached to the scorching hot stranger at Miso Hungry. This version is just clean-shaven and lacks a body.

  Thanks, subconscious. Now I feel like a total perv.

  “Upper body type” is the next choice.

  The creepy feeling comes back as the hottie’s head flies to the side, and a bunch of headless and legless torsos appear.

  Since I’m not sure if I should continue recreating the guy from the restaurant—and because I haven’t seen him naked—I go for a muscular, broad-shouldered torso with washboard abs. Because why not?

  Once chosen, the torso attaches to the head.

  I study the legless apparition. Is it weird that I already want to have my way with him? Is it even a him without the lower body?

  Swallowing audibly, I touch the virtual pecs.

  Damn. The glove makes the touch feel real—which should be no surprise as I was part of the team that made this technology possible. Yet I am surprised. When working on the gloves, my priority was to make petting a fluffy, cuddly creature feel as realistic as possible, so sex and the accompanying human skin sensations were the last thing on my mind.

  More torso choices follow. I leave his biceps and other muscles as they are and opt out of nipple piercings and tats.

  When the next choice shows up, I blink at it for a couple seconds.

  If I had any doubts left, they’re gone now.

  This is going to lead to porn.

  The space around me is covered with cocks.

  Big. Small. Hard. Flaccid. Fat. Thin. Veiny. Smooth. Straight. Crooked. Deep purple. Pale pink. Green and blue? Someone had clearly taken a perverse pleasure in creating as much variety as humanly possible. Speaking of human, some of the choices don’t seem to be of my species—not unless there are guys out there hung like unicorns.

  This reminds me of the famous scene from The Matrix when Neo asked for “Guns. Lots of guns.” Only this is penises. Wait, is that the plural, or is it just penis, like glasses and deer? No. That doesn’t sound right. Maybe it’s peni, as in fungi? No, that only applies to Latin-based words that end with -us, which penis doesn’t—it just sounds like it does. It might be penes—but that sounds too much like the plural for penne pasta. I’ll have to check all this when I have access to the internet again.

  Oblivious to proper nomenclature, the shlongs dance around me, some happily, some downright threateningly—all clearly eager to be chosen.

  I close my eyes. It’s hard to concentrate like this… very hard.

  I should quit now. These disembodied dicks are my proof, after all.

  Hard proof.

  Yet for some reason, I can’t bring myself to end this VR session. I’m sure it has nothing to do with the epic dry spell I’ve been experiencing. Or that I’ve designed a replica of the hot stranger from Miso Horny… I mean, Miso Hungry.

  No. Nothing so improper.

  I work with VR, so this is purely a professional curiosity.

  Yeah, that’s it. This is about my job.

  I open my eyes and gesticulate at the cocks. It’s a stiff competition—there are so many, it takes me ten minutes to finally settle on one: a (hopefully) human one, extra-large and not too veiny.

  Does the inspiration for this design have a cock like this? No clue, and I’m unlikely to ever find out… or put it in me… or lick it… or suck it.

  The cock perches in its rightful place below the torso, and the place fills up with enough balls to generate a small nation’s worth of testosterone.

  Does anyone really care about testicles enough to need this much variety?

  Eager to see the next phase of this demo, I grab a pair of balls at random, then chose legs equally fast.

  This is when the next choice fills up the room: butts.

  Lots of butts.

  Round-shaped. Heart-shaped. Square-shaped. V-shaped. Muscular and not. With buttholes and, for some reason, without. With dimples and without. The choices aren’t as exhaustive as they were with the cocks but close.

  I choose the first tight tush I see and wonder if there’s going to be more choices—like livers or tonsils.

  But no. Everything finally attaches, and my freshly designed virtual boyfriend starts dancing—channeling Magic Mike.

  Damn. My ovaries high-five each other as I shamelessly ogle the digital perfection. There might even be drool pooling in the corner of my mouth—and other types of wetness in my private places.

  Whoever designed this is an evil genius, especially given how little time has passed since the takeover. If they had to sell their soul to the Devil, I’d say it might’ve been worth it. Or did the Wicked One do this personally? It would be in character for the Tempter to create the ultimate weapon of sexual sin.

  I’m distracted from my pseudo-theological musings by a speech bubble that pops up above the head of the no-longer-dancing-but-no-less-mouthwatering digital specimen.

  “Do you want me to give you a taste of what the suit can do?” it asks. “Yes or no.”

  I choose “yes,” and the guy teleports over to me, getting so close that his jutting erection presses against my belly.

  Wow. The suit creates a sensation of press
ure that’s eerily accurate.

  “Continue?” another thought bubble asks.

  My finger is unsteady as I choose “yes.”

  My digital partner cups my breast with his hand.

  I gasp. The touch feels luxuriously real—even accounting for the hormones wrecking my brain’s ability to have rational observations.

  Another “Continue?” later, he lightly squeezes my nipple.

  Double wow. The squeeze is realistic enough to send a fresh surge of need down under.

  Un-bloody-believable.

  “Continue?” the evil thought bubble asks.

  My “yes” is reluctant, and as I spot him reaching for my lady bits, I instinctively catch his wrist—which proves just how realistic this all seems.

  Hmm. His wrist feels real in my hand, but the action itself was wonky. There seems to be some work required to integrate the gloves with the suit.

  Yet another air bubble appears above his head. “Do you want to sample the cunnilingus phase? Yes or no.”

  “Are you kidding me?” I ask out loud.

  The bubble doesn’t go away—there’s obviously no voice recognition in the suit (unlike in my VR pet project).

  How far am I willing to take my curiosity? I’m on the verge of choosing “no,” but then I wonder how they fake that sensation.

  Yeah. More professional curiosity. Obviously. This has nothing to do with how much I want those lips down there. Or with the fact that I’ve never actually had a man go down on me. Yeah, nothing at all.

  Gulping in air, I again pick “yes.”

  The guy winks out of existence for a moment, then reappears in the cunnilingus position, his face opposite my crotch and his cerulean eyes gazing up into mine.

  I lean back on the couch.

  His tongue takes the first lick.

  Oh. My. Fucking. Golly.

  This is exactly how I’ve always pictured this would feel. His tongue is warm and pliant and beyond amazing. If there were a Nobel Prize for the most perverted invention, the Evil One would get it, hands down.

  Another lick.

  And another.

  Then he latches on to my clit and starts sucking.

  My toes curl.

  Holy HR policies. I’m about to come in my workplace.