Dancing On Mars
Dancing on Mars
By Benji Bright
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Zeb brought the oxygen. It was imported from Earth and Syl said that she could taste the toxicity of it. She was full of shit, of course, but there was something about imported O2 that left you with a mild buzz. I brought the harder stuff: rock candy, fluppers, concatenates, and a hand full of zips that I’d acquired at a premium. From there we headed out to the Limestone.
Zeb’s rover is ancient, but the eerie serenity of the Martian landscape is hard to ruin, even with a chugging, sputtering rover ride. We put on our fishbowls and loaded them up with our earth-oxygen before getting out of the rover. It was a short walk to the entrance of the Limestone made shorter by the reduced gravity. Syl did this really elegant flip through the air that reminded me of a swan, or at least DV—direct visual, of course—footage of swans.
After we went through the pressurization chamber and entered the Limestone, Zeb started complaining about how packed it was. We’d tried to arrive early, but there were still wall-to-wall bodies. No one seemed to care that we’d arrived in our designer pressure suits, Zeb in slate-gray slashed with bright orange capacitive material that scrolled the message “REVOLT! DISARM! DESTROY!” across his abdomen. Syl’s was bright pink in one angle and black in another so that as she danced through the crowd she was a walking strobe. Mine shimmered, oscillating gently between my favorite blues.
We split up immediately. We’re friends, I guess, but not very close, so we sought out other company. I was zipped up to the top and seeing wild shapes flit in and out of my vision. I got a vitamin cocktail to stay hydrated and headed up to the second floor where the dancing was fiercest.
I saw him on the wall and tried to play coy, but the zips were whispering to me, “that’s your soulmate, idiot! Go get him,” and I was powerless to resist. He was tall and tan—an expensive habit—and held a vintage fishbowl under his arm as he looked around casually.
“Hi, I’m Vosh,” I said.
He seemed genuinely surprised that another person was talking to him. “Hi.”
“What’s your name?”
“Race,” he told me.
I nodded, sipped my cocktail. The effect was immediate. True liquid satisfaction.
“Do you wanna’ link?” I asked, the zips making me brave.
“Here?” He asked, eyes wide. “Now?”
I held out my link card in my open hand, waiting for him to put his on top. I thought of a line from the book that my mom was writing on twenty-third century dating culture. “Intimacy is the surest form of communication.”
“We’ve just met,” he said.
“And we’ll never get another first chance at a first chance,” I said, grinning like my stomach wasn’t starting to wobble nervously. Shucks! The vitamin cocktail was sobering me up, knocking my abused neurons back into proper working order.
Race gave me a skeptical look at first, but then shrugged, smiled bashfully and produced his link card. He pressed it on top of mine and the magnetized strips began rapidly transferring information. I felt my brow break out into sweat as my physical state was uploaded to the link/_pleasure server.
Our interaction began with a quick series of permissions: permission to simulate oral sex, permission to simulate anal sex, permission to simulate mutual ejaculation, permission…etc.
Then the link server hosted our private session. Race was naked and hung, his stomach was hardened with muscle and his smile was still bashful. I couldn’t see many alterations in his virtual manifestation. Most people took liberties with their avatars, but it seemed that Race had uploaded himself as-is. I wondered if he was one of those, but I didn’t ask.
We started screwing around with each other. I played with his cock and let him play with mine. It was just playing at first, but upped in intensity as we got into it. Eventually he pushed me back onto a bed that materialized as we needed it and the system lagged for a moment as I cleared the permission prompt allowing him to rim me. He tongued my hole and the sensation welled up in me, translating into a savage digital groan. Race came up from between my legs and kissed me. I could taste the approximation of my musk. We smiled at each other and he pressed his cock against my waiting hole. He pushed—
Our link ended abruptly, leaving me with a real life hard-on staring into Race’s confused face. It took a second before I realized that I was hearing the Limelight’s warning klaxon screaming through the club. It could only mean one thing. Ministry crackdown. Shoot!
I spotted one of the black garbed Ministry officers and grabbed Race’s hand. We put on our fishbowls and ran to one of the many ways out the club: a large opening covered with a thin atmospheric membrane. We passed through it without hesitation, jumping from the second floor window. Since almost all pressure-suits are outfitted with soft landing thrusters it wasn’t as dangerous as it sounds.
On the ground, Race led me to his rover. A tight black model. We hopped inside and took off our fishbowls. He smiled at me and put my hand to his chest. I could feel his heart beating hard.
“See how scared I was?!” he said, smiling deliriously.
“Me too.”
Then he quickly leaned in and gave me a kiss on the mouth. I froze. An actual kiss. It seemed…sudden for that. He smiled sheepishly.
“I’m sorry, I just…I guess I was kind of—”
I launched myself at him before he could finish. I kissed him hard and ran my hands all over his suit. His body was as firm as it had been in the link. I was pleasantly surprised. Breathless, horny, and pleasantly surprised.