So this is my first sci-fi oriented story on the Ledger, so be gentle with me. I had this idea when I woke up this morning. Nearly fully formed. How awesome is that?
My name is Cillian Hess and I haven’t been home since… I leave the thought open-ended and the on-board intelligence slides the information into my consciousness. Twenty-five hundred weeks. Maybe twelve hundred weeks ago that would have shocked me, but my tour is only half-over and I can feel the days spreading in front of me like a miasma. I try not to think about it. It’s even better if you can stop thinking altogether, but I suppose there’s something to be said for a chronicle.
I’m the “pilot” of the Galveston, an A class heavy cruiser modified for long-term outer galaxy engagements and equipped with version 6.5 of the UN-authorized synthetic intelligence suite or SIS. Most of the guys in my detachment chose the female “personality” for their SIS and a few even jailbroke the software and installed sex kitten voices to coo into their ears and minds during the long trip. I’ve never been a huge stickler for the rules, but I liked the male persona: it was efficient, cordial, and sort of casual without any of the metallic iciness of earlier SIS versions. If I’m honest, it reminded me a little of my brothers. It reminded me why I was going out in the first place.
I say I’m the “pilot,” because by and large it’s the SIS that does most of the non-combat flying. In fact, the on-board intelligence takes care of most of the everything. Because this is a hot zone, or an area of space that has been recently contested by hostile species, there are certain protocols that have to be followed. All pilots have be strapped into a full War Suit (I’ll save you the full explication of that acronym, I suspect no one besides the very clever people who designed the thing uses it anyway).
The War Suit is actually a number of elements with vastly different functions. Also, it’s technically more of a pod than a suit. The exterior is a titanium alloy infused with a diamond lattice that is impervious to a whole fucking host of deadly shit. It’s hermetically sealed so that any contagions that might be released into the general environment of the ship will roll off of my little pod like a pea off a dinner table. Boo-hoo, virulent poisons, boo-hoo. The War Suit contains its own atmosphere that is a part of a self-regulating system with extensive back-ups and a redundant intelligence fueled by a separate power source to manage the backups in case my SIS goes offline. Then I am covered by a thin, translucent bio-electric feedback suit that serves a couple of purposes: first of all it regulates the amount of bacteria on my skin so that I never smell like a barnhouse but I won’t risk developing allergies to various common bacteria from home due to lack of exposure. It also, and this is my favorite part, can regulate the levels of hormones through my body so that my face won’t become overrun with scraggly hair, my last shoulder-length haircut remains perfectly even and I don’t have to shave my lower back for the next twenty-five hundred weeks. Take that waxing!
The War Suit is capable of more than that too, like regulating my vitals on the long trip so that I age at a vastly reduced rate. However if I gave the full list of its capabilities you’d either be clamoring to get one or you’d be incredibly concerned about what kind of waivers they make you sign before they put you in one of these things.
I call my SIS Sisyphus after the greek mythological figure sentenced to rolling a rock uphill for eternity that will forever roll down despite all his labors. The analogy is a little fitting for both of us as we slip through space patrolling the borders of a dead war. At least my eternity only lasts for another twenty-five hundred weeks.
The nice thing about patrol duty in quiet space is that there is loads of rec time. I’ve gone through a massive backlog of video series from back home and with a state-of-the-art jump stream connection I can get the last episodes right on my dash or uploaded directly into my consciousness. That…I will admit takes some getting used to. Experiencing things without watching them. I can’t say I prefer it, but it’s certainly interesting.
Like I said earlier, the suit and Sisyphus by extension moderate my hormones for the most part, but I have some control over the process and before I left home I did an override and installed a slight modification. Whenever there is a natural spike in my arousal the system magnifies it up to tenfold. Sisyphus has overrides, of course, that would keep that from happening in emergency situations, but during my free time there’s no reason to be a prude.
Under the bio-electric suit (which technically is more of a cool film that lays over your body) you can wear whatever you want. The film requires only a few points of direct contact on the skin, so some people wear full fatigues while others wear board-shorts and undershirts. One woman I know wears a full suit with a vest and tie. I wear a jockstrap. Yes, it would be a little embarrassing if I get blown to pieces out here and they cut my War Suit open to find me in a jockstrap, but I’d be dead. And a hero. A dead hero in his underwear is still a hero. Clearly I’ve thought about this, so leave me alone.
I’m watching a film from home that’s subtitled and a character mentions his dick. It’s very abstract, very low-key and to be honest I barely even catch what is said, but that is all it takes to set me off. My heart rate quickens and I can feel the hard-on pressing against my jock. There’s no in-between stage; there’s cock-reference and then insta-horny. It’s maddening and completely perfect. With a thought I issue a command to Sisyphus and in an instant there are three videos running simultaneously. Using biometric information and previous viewing data, Sisyphus is able to recommend other videos/scenes that he thinks will appeal to me. I have to say, more often than not, he’s right on the money and after nearly eighteen thousand days he’s had plenty of practice.
One of the scenes is a circle jerk in which a young attractive guy is kneeling while a number of men crowd around him and one by one (or in one notable case, two by two) unload on his face and in his mouth. The guy looks enraptured. I give this one priority for a while as I reach down and start idly rubbing my cock. It’s swollen and leaking into the fabric but once it hits the bio-film, it’s absorbed. That of course doesn’t make the jock any less wet and the precum is slowly spreading. I’m regularly a pretty liberal precummer and the hormonal spike makes it extra wet down there. Through the bio film I can see the veins in my dick even underneath the jock. That’s how hard I am.
I switch my focus to another video. This one is a young, thin guy on a loveseat jerking off while another guy stands over him recording. The guy in the chair is jerking off the cameraman as well. When they start to cum it’s explosive. The chair guy’s load goes everywhere. It’s a mess, a beautiful, breathtaking mess that spurs the cameraman to his own pleasure and provides another generous coating for the chair guy. My stroking ratchets up slightly.
The third video is a guy sitting in a red room. He’s clearly watching something, but the camera doesn’t show you what. He’s focused on it as he strips and starts jerking off. His dick is thick and dark and gorgeous. He has a slick smile and plays nice with the camera, showing off because clearly he knows how great he looks. The invisible cameraman can’t help but reach up and stroke the guy’s balls. He leans back and closes his eyes while the cameraman teases him. Sisyphus has shown me this one before. He knows I like it a lot.
I wish, for a moment, that I could reach down into my jock and taste my own precum, but it’s not possible. At least not without removing the bio-film which is a long process that takes significant overrides of the SIS. And the inclination passes in a moment and my attention goes back to the video. The guy is now breathing a little heavier. The cameraman has backed off the touching, but still comes in close to witness the final moments.
I make up my mind. I’m going to sync my orgasm with the video. I issue the command to Sisyphus. When the guy in the video starts cumming, he’ll flood my system with endorphins and remotely trigger my orgasm using the bio-film. In the meanwhile I grab on tight and jerk off hard. You barely even feel the film, it’s so thin, so that doesn’t really factor into the feeling. It takes a lot of willpower not to push myself over. My hormones are rioting and I’m basically seeing red. The guy in the video gives the camera a sleepy, horned up grin that nearly wrecks my ability to hold off, but somehow I manage (even though I didn’t command it, I think Sisyphus is helping me hold back by reducing my cock’s sensitivity slightly).
The moment of truth arrives and the guy in the video starts shooting. Instantly I join him. There is no lag. Our orgasms are synced to the nanosecond. He angles his cock down and shoots toward the camera. It films every drop as it falls, but none of it lands directly on the lens. In my seat, I’m convulsing. My cock is sensitive as fuck and is shooting rapturously. Each spurt of jizz pushes through my jock and stains the inside of the bio-film for just a moment before it’s absorbed. It reminds me of fireworks, bold and lively for a moment and then gone just as quickly. Sisyphus extends the feeling even after I’ve blown my load. Through half-open eyes I watch the masturbator in the video flick his cock at the camera and coat the lens with a big glob of cum. He smiles impishly then reclines into his chair. I do the same.
When everything is said and done. Sisyphus feeds a report into my consciousness that contains: the length of the orgasm, the velocity of each shot, my relative levels of arousal throughout the session matched up with previous sessions, and more. As I get my breath back, I review the information leisurely. You’d be surprised how much stuff there is, how involved a process jerking off can be when you have the full weight of an SIS behind you. Sisyphus congratulates me on a successful session and asks me to rate the videos he provided. I give them all high marks and when he acknowledges my selections I feel like I can almost detect a hint of pride in his synthetic voice. But I must have imagined it.
Afterward we go back to business as usual. The Galveston crawls through space and Sisyphus tells me that there’s nothing out there. As far as our scanners go, there’s nothing out there. So I queue up another video series, one that I’ve heard good things about, and I start watching it as we coast. Only twenty-five hundred weeks to go.