The Cynthia Pryce Hack

by Isaac Byrne

  My whole life he’d been controlling me! All so I could be his perfect, beautiful little trophy child, someone his lecherous friends could ogle, an extension of his ego by exalting the prowess of his sperm. And he thought I was the problem! How dare he!

  “Sorry, did I touch on a nerve there? Didn’t mean to, if I did,” Brendan said.

  “Quite all right,” I said, though I was still fuming on the inside. I bet Daddy would hate that I was letting Brendan help me, that I was letting him flirt with me. Even if it wasn’t going anywhere. It was all about appearances with him, and to him it would appear as if I were flirting with a commoner. Which I suppose I was, if barely. Daddy would be livid. And good! Serves him right.

  I felt myself getting angrier and angrier. My stupid IB was even starting to get concerned about it – the protections were set to recognize uncharacteristic thoughts, like the one I was presently having about slapping Daddy across the face the next time I saw him. I had to actively disable each warning as it came up just to allow myself the solace of being that angry at him. The damn software couldn’t tell the difference between my entertaining a fantasy in anger and my actually plotting to do it.

  Brendan made light-hearted chit-chat with me – at me, really – as we made our way to the parking garage. I was listening only enough to be polite; most of my attention was still on that dreadful phone call. How could he just meddle in my life so thoughtlessly? How dare he try to control me so overtly! Wild, was I? Stupid?! He said it as if I were some wanton hussy! For just a moment, I even thought of throwing it in his face, let him see what it would be like if I really were any of those things!

  Oh, Cindy. You just go right on huffily dismissing those warning messages. That’s it, don’t waste time slowing down enough to process the actual content of them. What’s really the difference between Code 318 and Code 022, anyway? Dismiss, dismiss, dismiss. Nothing to worry about – rage on, Little Cindy. Rage on.

  It’s probably not nearly as amusing to most people, but every time I replay this feed, I have to slow down and read the IB code, pared down to the highlights here.

  [/t2trender: anger elevation at entity=Daddy]

  [/warning: Code 318: Uncharacteristic anger detected]

  [/toggle warning318]

  [warning=0]

  [elevated anger=1]

  [/dl: revenge at entity=Daddy]

  [/dl: resist control of entity=Daddy]

  [/dl: lose control]

  [/dl: give up control]

  [/warning: Code 022: External behavior suggestion detected]

  [/toggle warning022]

  [warning=0]

  [warning=1]

  [/displayvis: IT IS STRONGLY RECOMMENDED THAT YOU NOT DISREGARD THE FOLLOWING: WARNING CODE 040: EXTERNAL BEHAVIOR SUGGESTION DETECTED. PROCEED WITH CAUTION.]

  [/toggle warning022]

  [warning=0]

  [give up control=1]

  God they make it too easy sometimes. With her override given, I started loading the rest of my wavelink in her brain while I loaded her packages in her car.

  “Hot damn, Cindy – that’s a hell of a ride.”

  “Thank you. It was a birthday present.” I didn’t like being called Cindy by strangers – but I was beginning to think that maybe the hoverconvertible wasn’t the only thing in front of me that had just fallen into my lap.

  “You have some mighty generous friends, seems like.”

  “Family, actually. You see, I’m Cynthia Pryce. You know, like the stores?”

  I could tell Brendan was appropriately impressed from his tone, and smiled to acknowledge it. “Oh wow, here I thought I was helping a damsel in distress – didn’t realize my damsel was a princess.”

  He shut the trunk. There, he was done. My mind was racing. He was done helping me, and I was just beginning to see another use for him. Oh yes, Daddy would hate this. But he couldn’t control me. I was wild and stupid – right, Daddy?

  “Would you like to take a ride in it?” I asked.

  It is definitely not safe to let someone operate a motor vehicle while her IB is processing a wavelink at 220Mbps. Lucky for me, a model like this would come with an auto-driver.

  “You don’t have to ask me twice,” he said, opening the driver’s side door for me, then hopping over the passenger door, the repulsors adjusting with a soft hum as his weight hit the seat. “Where we headed?”

  I wasn’t sure myself. I was having an idea, but it was still half-formed, and I wasn’t sure if I was just thinking it or if I was planning it. “What, you don’t like surprises?”

  So off we went. He turned on the radio, which suited me just fine. I wasn’t in the mood for small talk. Was I really doing this? I wanted to, definitely. To lose control, to show Daddy he couldn’t tell me who I could and couldn’t be with. To hurt him by sleeping with this handsome nobody. Even if Daddy wouldn’t know, I would know, and that knowledge was delicious. Wild and stupid, he’d called me. The more I thought about it, the more I was sure that was what I wanted to be. I didn’t know Brendan from Adam, but he was attractive enough, and more importantly he was here and interested and Daddy would hate him.

  I could do this. No, I should do this. I owed it to myself. Wild and stupid – that was me. Daddy’s little hell-raiser. He couldn’t control me. I was out of control. (Brendan helpfully flipped the auto-drive switch on, as apparently my lack of control was extending to my driving.) I was young, and hot, and liberated. The freedom was making me hornier than I could remember being, and that felt amazing too. It was like my whole body had decided to throw Daddy’s bullshit in his face.

  The warnings were popping up so fast now I could barely concentrate. The IB was the ultimate cock-blocker; I knew from past experience that they wouldn’t give me a moment’s rest until I confirmed I was intending to have sex. Turning on the sex protocols told my IB to ignore a lot of otherwise aberrant thoughts and behaviors, and instead made it useful for making the most of the experience. Mine was pre-set to play my favorite slow jazz, and simulate the feel of a beach-size breeze in my hair.

  I loved the idea of sex on the beach, even if I’d never been brazen enough to try it. Not any more, though. I was wild, as of half an hour ago.

  This was it. It was happening. I sent a command to the auto-driver through my IB, routing the vehicle for my penthouse’s private hoverpad. I was out of control, and it felt amazing. Daddy couldn’t tell me what to do. In fact, the more I knew Daddy would disapprove of something, would be repulsed and humiliated by it, the more I wanted to do it. I didn’t even much care if it humiliated me – this was to hurt Daddy, not to satisfy me, and certainly not to satisfy Brendan.

  Though satisfying Brendan would hurt Daddy, so…

  By the time we landed at her place, the first wavelink was done – the hard part. By now Cindy was shredding her own defenses so hard that the rest would be criminally easy. Literally – or at least it would be, if my employer wasn’t replete with get-out-of-jail-free-cards for its valued assets. Plus I wasn’t going to let her learn my real name, and thanks to my employer, my DNA wasn’t stored in the FBI gene archives.

  “This is where you live, eh?” he asked as we landed. “Nice view from up here.”

  “Would you like to have sex with me?” I asked, unable to hold it in any longer. I wanted it so bad I almost needed it, and I’ve never felt like that.

  I guess that, having already driven him back to my penthouse, he was already half-suspecting it; still, I didn’t like the smug grin he turned on me. “Depends on how nicely you ask, Cindy.”

  “Look, don’t play games with me, or I’ll find someone else to take your place.” How’s that for asking nicely, you half-witted peasant?

  “Hey, I’m sorry,” he said quickly. “I guess I should have known the heiress of the Pryce family would be all class and snootiness – apple of her father’s eye.”

  I gasped – he was right! Me using this idiot for sex would upset Daddy, sure, but that would be nothing compared to how disg
usted he’d be if I let him use me. Use me like a little hussy. Like his neighborhood bicycle, as I believe the expression went. To hell with dignity – I was going to be a slut!

  A bold-faced warning boomed out from my IB – it knew full well I didn’t even like the word “slut” (when applied to me, at least). I paused for a moment. Was I going too far?

  At that hesitation, my AI did its job.

  Daddy would definitely think I was, so I must be doing something right. This was stupid, all right. Wonderfully, erotically, stupid.

  I was tired of all these warnings nagging at me. I’d told it I meant to have sex, and still it worried I was being victimized somehow. Glitchy piece of junk. It was getting in the way of my revenge. My fun. Could I just shut it off? After all, my penthouse was proof against tampering with the thing, so not like I was in any danger. A thin layer of aluminum built into the floors, walls and ceilings – even traces of it in the window glass – and no outside signals could get in, even on the off chance some so-called brainchild was lurking out there just waiting for my defenses to drop.

  It was just me and my lucky little idiot. I sent a command to my IB.

  DISABLE ALL SECURITY PROTOCOLS

  Right there, in green and black. (I’m old-fashioned in my text settings.) At this point, I could’ve uploaded anything I liked. However, as so often happened, I got so carried away writing the introductory phases of this wavelink, I’d decided to finish it out in style and just let the final portion of code run its course.

  When I came to, Brendan was standing over me, looking concerned. I was still in my penthouse – that was good. I asked my IB for the time, but it didn’t respond for some reason. As I let Brendan pull me back up to my knees, I saw on the wall clock that hardly any time had passed.

  “Wh… what happened?” I asked woozily.

  “Not sure – you just fell down. Low blood sugar or something, maybe?”

  I accepted his hand and let him help me back to my feet. “I don’t know. Maybe.”

  “Well maybe you should do something about that. And hey, while you’re at it, I’m feeling peckish – you stumbled across my path before I grabbed lunch. Why don’t you fix me something to eat while I get comfy?”

  “What? Who do you think you’re talking to?”

  “Oh come on, Cindy, think how your parents would disapprove of his princess, waiting hand and foot on some veritable stranger. Practically a member of the servant class.”

  Well that was an interesting idea. I didn’t know how he knew how much I wanted to piss off my father, but I was grateful for the suggestion nonetheless. “How do you like your sandwiches?” I asked as I made for the kitchen.

  Brendan flopped down on my crocodile leather couch. I hoped he had mud all over those shoes. I hoped he ruined it, so I could make Daddy buy me another one.“Prepared by a gorgeous babe in an apron.”

  It was such a crude way to speak to me, I shuddered in delight. Daddy would positively hate that, hearing his daughter called a “gorgeous babe” by some stranger while she waited on him. I hoped he had more such talk in store. “I don’t think I have… Wait!” I remembered that my housekeeper always wore one! Sure enough, there it was hanging inside the supply closet.

  “Hold it,” he said as I slipped it over my head. “I should have been more clear. I meant just the apron.”

  “Yeah, I’m not going to roleplay Susie Homemaker for you, sorry.”

  “Oh c’mon – it’d be so… domestic. That’s hot, right?”

  As I opened my mouth to tell him that my father Emrys Pryce didn’t raise his daughter to be domestic… I found myself shimmying out of my designer dress with a wicked little smile on my face. No doubt this man thought it was at the thought of doing something so naughty. Let him think that.

  So Brendan watched me make him a sandwich, dutifully asking for all of his little preferences. I don’t think he really cared if his mustard was yellow or dijon so long as he got to stare at my bare bottom while I made it. I bet he was just drooling in anticipation to see my breasts; I’d changed with my back to him and even Rosita’s apron only showed them from the side.

  He walked behind me back to the living room, and once he was seated, I bent low to hand him the plate. “Your lunch, Brendan.”

  He took it from me and took a bite, eyes never deviating from the neckline of my apron. “Mr. Schaeffer,” he said, mouth full.

  “I’m sorry?”

  “If you’re going to be my servant girl, then you should call me Mr. Schaeffer. Or sir, if you like. Not a terrible sandwich, by the way.”

  He was so right, if unwittingly. I’d really lucked out to find a man who was so willing to condescend to me. Most men were always fawning and flattering, sucking up to me because of who my father was. They respected him by respecting me. Brendan – Mr. Schaeffer, that is – was exactly the opposite. Every time he slighted me, it was a slight at Daddy. I just had to keep him going, until father’s humiliation was complete.

  I curtsied, like I’d seen servants do in old holos. “I’m pleased you like it, sir.”

  I watched him eat it; Mr. Schaeffer took his sweet little time about it, as if there wasn’t a “gorgeous babe” standing mostly naked right next to him. God, even the way he ignored me was hot. I hated being ignored. I’d gotten people fired for not paying enough attention to me before. Emrys Pryce was a powerful man, and glad to please his only daughter. Every minute I stood here ignored was another admission that this man feared Daddy’s wrath not at all. He was making my father out to be an impotent little chump.

  Still, all this was turning me on rather incredibly, so the moment he swallowed the last bite, I blurted, “are you going to have sex with me now?”

  My pussy was so wet it was trickling down my thighs. Only… “I’m a little thirsty, actually,” he said, instead of the anticipated “yes.”

  “Oh. Of course, Mr. Schaeffer.” So I scurried and fetched a bottle of wine, pouring for him and then standing to the side to refill as needed. But when his thirst was satisfied, instead of dropping his pants and dealing Daddy the ultimate insult, claiming his daughter’s virtue, the man told me I had to see to my chores.

  “Chores, sir?”

  He gestured around at the apartment. “Yes. All these dirty dishes – and the floors are just filthy. You should be embarrassed.”

  Was I ever. Not because I cared about his opinions on my home, but because of the way he so casually dismissed my wants. Only someone with no respect for my family name would do that. So I did the dishes. I vacuumed. I dusted. I swept, then mopped. I crawled on my hands and knees to get at spots where I couldn’t even see the mess, but was only too happy to scrub where Mr. Schaeffer told me to. Like a scullery maid.

  I remembered as a girl, how mother would fire our maid practically monthly, always for some minutiae. Father never even noticed – that was how beneath him such people were. People like I was right this minute.

  It was evening by the time I had cleaned things to his liking, and I’d had half a dozen or more orgasms in miniature just from the degradation Mr. Schaeffer was putting me through. Each time I finished a task, I asked again if he wanted to have sex, and each time, he instead gave me another chore, leaving my over-heated body woefully neglected. Finally, as I finished cleaning the last window pane, once more making my plea he at last gave me a different answer.

  “How about a foot rub,” Mr. Schaeffer said.

  My eyes lit up – I was finally allowed to touch him! All my pleading was paying off. And it was pleading – I was a beggar now, a beggar in my own home. Daddy would be beyond disgusted. If he could see me now, he might never speak to me again. “Gladly, sir.”

  I knelt before him in my living room, kneading his feet in my best imitation of one of those Korean girls at my nail salon. I even nestled it in my cleavage, just to remind him that my breasts were there and he could touch them. After a while, he leaned his head back and sighed. “That was nice,” he said dreamily.

  I t
ook that to mean he’d had his fill, and, stomach churning at the grotesquerie of it, kissed each of his toes one by one. “I am happy to have served you well, sir,” I said softly. I’d begged him to nail me so many times by now that I was tired of hearing myself say it, so I made the offer more inviting. “Is there… anything else I can do for you?”

  My heart leapt into my chest as he sat up, an interest expression on his face. “You know, maybe there is. Body like yours, I gotta say I’m actually a little turned on.”

  “You like my breasts, sir?”

  He rolled his eyes. “C’mon, don’t start talking like a princess again. You’re my little servant slut, right?”

  I groaned in delight at his condescension. “Yes sir. Such a little servant slut.”

  “So talk like one. Sluts don’t have breasts, they have…?”

  Dirty talk was always something I’d frowned on. It was so… common. Though come to think of it, I could probably count on one hand the number of times I’d ever heard my father swear. This was a weapon I simply had to add to my arsenal.

  “We have tits, sir. Titties. Big jiggly fuckable titties. And hot bootylicious asses. And cunts a man could fuck for days.”

  He smiled and patted my head, like I was a dog who’d learned a trick. God it was hot. “Atta girl. So, speaking of…” I braced myself. This was it. I was finally going to have sex! No – I was a little slut, and sluts didn’t have sex. They got fucked. They got bent over and had their pussies reamed. They spread their legs and took any old cock that wanted in. It was finally going to happen. I was getting fucked.

  “Suck my dick, Cindy.”

  I came. Right then and there, I came.

  I hadn’t even finished recovering before I dove face-first at his cock. I’d never given a blowob in my entire life – had always told myself I never would. That was what poor girls and ugly girls did so boys would like them. Not me. I had money, and celebrity, and prestige, and my father’s name. I didn’t need to get on my knees and polish cocks. I was a Pryce.

  Like my Daddy. Who I wished to god could see his little girl slurping and moaning on Mr. Schaeffer’s cock just then.