Computer Genius goes after mob boss who killed her mother.
"Siri, lights!" the man commands the ceiling. As if our home central would work when we've used our electricity ration. But of course, for them, an electricity ration is a thing of science fiction. I explain that to him, apologetically, hiding my true feelings as we all must, every day. In response he whispers to his watch, "Turn the electricity on at..." pausing until I give him the address. He doesn't know where he is! That thought is followed by the depressing thought that he must've selected this house at random. Followed by the somewhat uplifting thought that there is supposed to be a quid pro quo about these things. And we must put our faith, what is left of it, in that.
"Siri, lights!" he commands again, and the lights blaze on in the room, as we use them to tell us when the new electricity ration begins in the morning. When the lights go on is when our day begins.
Getting my first good look at them, they are almost exactly as I'd imagined, perfectly sculpted as if they have come directly out of a Hollywood vid. He is smooth skinned, hard muscled, but very plain in the face, despite his square jaw. From the neck up, seeing him on the subway you would never take him for one of them. But his presence, the way he holds his limbs, the purpose with which he fucks my wife, reveals his true inner self: a Master of the universe.
She is much more typical of them. A true hourglass figure. Taut, smooth tanned skin, her V shaved smooth save for a tiny tuft of pubic hair, which she absently tugs on as my wife licks her tanned pussy. Legs splayed out without an ounce of fat, her butt must be as yummy as a teenager's. Firm breasts with just enough flesh for a tit fuck, if you push them together hard, are tipped with tiny nugget nipples, the kind most men drool over. Her face is perfectly made up, a model of vacant sophistication. Not quite hidden in her eyes is a vague disgust at her surroundings. They speak "how can they live like this," never having experienced any introspection into how this came to be. Blond, the way California blond used to be, with the air headedness that believes she's overcome great disadvantages because her Daddy's yacht was shorter than their neighbors'.
"Siri, video!" he commands the ceiling, and the pinprick camera activation lights alight momentarily, then fade off. Every room in every home has them, installed with your internet package. They're not supposed to be recording except by command. Nobody believes that. But without the fiction, the world would be an even bleaker place.
"You can vid," he says to me, a statement not a question. I wipe my oil covered hands on my shorts and grab our vid camera from the nightstand. We're not above making a quick vid on the spur of the moment to earn a few extra credits. Just a niche vid for one of them who wants to see a cock or a cunt doing something dirty or perverse 'right now!' and puts his request online for all to see, inviting couples to submit their entries where the prize for the fastest and best vid might be pocket change to him, but a game-changer for them. My wife's take: If someone is always watching, why not make some credits off it?
I don't know where they'll be watching this, but stories abound of their well-attended orgies where similar videos play on all the walls, debauchery wrapped in perversion wrapped in domination. That doesn't matter, except that I edit on the fly. If they're going to ogle and masturbate and fuck to my wife's body, there shouldn't be any awkward moments where the camera is recording the ceiling or the floor or an out-of-focus foot. One must have standards, even in this.
I start at her rear, where his cock is once again switching from her cunt to her anus.