CHAPTER TWO
"I assume you're tired from your journey," he was saying. "I just want
you to know we hope you have a relaxing evening, get some good sleep, and I'll
be back here in the morning to pick you up and take you to the meeting."
He kept talking. And talking. He'd been talking incessantly from the
moment he'd met Race and whisked her through Customs and Immigration. Babbling
about local landmarks and history and innumerable other things she didn't give a
damn about. His yammering in her ear for forty-five minutes had been nearly as
tiring as six weeks of staring down her turgid shipmates. Race would've liked
to think their barely contained lust was due to her dazzling looks, but knew
better. After six weeks in space most males would scoop a dwarf hunchback, and
she was willing to bet the near-constant exercising of her shipmates had only
increased their considerable libidos.
Her escort had kept up a non-stop dialogue while he piloted her to the
hotel in his personal speeder, checked her in at the Chandelice's front desk,
and rode up in the lift with her to her floor. Between the ease at which he'd
slipped her past the officials at the spaceport, and the fact that he had his
own speeder, a true luxury -- at least on her world -- Race, under normal
circumstances, might have been impressed and even a bit overwhelmed. If only
he'd kept his mouth shut. She kept a faint smile on her face, never letting her
true feelings show. It was a trick she'd learned long ago, one that had served
her well in the high-powered business circles she traveled.
Suddenly she realized her companion had stopped talking and was staring
at her expectantly.
"You're very kind," she said quickly. He was holding out the keycard to
her room and she took it. He'd already given her a chrono programmed to the
local time. Monsipur had a twenty hour day, each hour fifty-seven standard
minutes, not so different from New Mantique. "What time will you be arriving?"
"Tomorrow we'll start a little later, I'll be here at half past eight."
Race nodded. "Tomorrow then." She opened the door with the keycard and
carried her luggage inside. Her noisy companion had offered to carry them for
her but she'd refused him flatly.
The lights in the suite came on automatically as she entered. She set
her luggage down -- half clothing and half business materials to assist her with
her job on-planet -- and closed the door. Ah, blessed silence.
Race looked around her temporary quarters and was impressed. The suite
was beautifully decorated and, more than large, it was genuinely huge. It was
only three floors from the top of the hotel. She wandered around, staring at
the expensive-looking old-fashioned oil paintings on the walls. Through a
double-wide doorway was the suite's living area. She spotted a couch and
several chairs dotting the thick carpet. The bedroom was dominated by the
massive bed and its imitation hardwood head- and footboards. She knew it just
had to be imitation wood -- no trees grew on Monsipur, and the cost of transport
would be astronomical and prohibitive to a hotel. There was an overstuffed
chair in the corner, with a desk against one wall. A large walk-in closet, and
a bureau, also made of faux-wood.
"Open," she called out, and the thick fuzzy curtains slid apart. The
window was nearly floor to ceiling, and wide enough to drive a speeder through.
The view was simply extraordinary, facing the spaceport's takeoff ramps several
miles distant. Every few seconds a jumper, sparkling in the setting sun, lifted
into view and then accelerated out of sight at a forty-five degree angle.
Between her hotel and the port was a riotous mass of lights, smaller hotels
closer to the port and thus the noise of takeoffs, and a sea of restaurants and
dance clubs, their tall holosigns flashing in the darkening gloom. By day Race
was sure nobody would be able to see into her room through the tinted window,
but she didn't know if that held true for the night.
"Close curtains."
To one side of the bedroom was the bathroom. Its door opened
automatically as she approached. It was cavernous also; a sink with counter and
drawers, and a toilet, and not just an oversized hydro-shower stall but also a
two-person bathtub. Pretty extravagant for a planet that was almost entirely
desert.
Race grabbed her luggage from near the door and brought it into the
bedroom. She hoisted the three pieces onto the bed and opened them, hoping all
of her breakable items hadn't. It was while she was putting her panties into a
bureau drawer that she noticed the big blue egg.
She didn't understand how she could have missed it before, it was
sitting on the carpeted floor just outside the bathroom door. A meter and a
half high, she could see a control panel near its top and what looked like short
rails on either side of the panel. Race walked over and peered at it.
The pod was shaped like an egg, standing on end. Other than the control
pad and handholds, if that was what they were, the exterior of the egg was
smooth and featureless. Except for the rubbery looking seam running up one side
and down the other.
The egg looked like it was supposed to belong there, but she had no idea
what it was supposed to do. Maybe it was some sort of experimental toilet,
since it was near the bathroom. She, however, had neither the time nor the
inclination to play around with it, and went back to her unpacking.
On the ship Race had changed into a proper business suit before she'd
met with her Garshak Universal Products yammering liaison. She favored
button-front blazers of simple design above slacks, the most traditional of
suits. Occasionally she wore skirts, but whenever off-world she liked to
display a more assertive image, and that meant pants. The two piece gold
faux-silk suit she wore had been very expensive, and looked it. All of her
clothes were custom tailored to fit her compact body snugly -- if her figure
distracted her opponents on the other side of the boardroom table, so much the
better.
Age was catching up to her, though. She'd recently turned thirty-five
years old (Earth Standard), and discovered that gravity had begun to visibly
affect parts of her body. She wasn't all business -- she cared how she looked,
as every woman did. Makeup, applied sparingly, was part of her daily routine.
Her short haircut not only implied she meant business but showed off her
heart-shaped face.
Six months earlier she'd undergone only her third skin rejuvenation
treatment. The first two had been years apart, while numbers two and three had
been barely more than a year. Gene restructuring would be next, the thought of
which she dreaded, just because it was a sign of advancing age. The fact that
her breasts were now as high and firm as they'd ever been (or more), and she
looked truly half her age, somehow didn't make her feel as satisfied as it used
to. Maybe because she didn't have anyone to share them with. Sure, she was
more successful than she'd ever dreamed of becoming, but her personal life was a
bit barren. She'd had her share of partners in the past, had her wild times,
but for the past several years she'd been living alone, growing scared,
wondering if she was doomed to a life alone. The years marched on inexorably.
She heard a chime sound and it took her a second to realize that someone
was at the door. The flatscreen on the door frame gave her a wide angle view of
her visitor and the hallway to either side for several yards. He was alone,
patiently waiting, dressed in a conservative suit and well groomed. He was
handsome, she supposed, although she could never be sure about such things. She
had no idea who he was.
"Yes?" The intercom transmitted her voice to the small speaker set in
the opposite side of the doorframe. His head rose and he smiled, aware she was
looking at him in the security screen.
"Ms. Harrington? I'm Trevor. Mr. William Richardson of GUP Inc. (he
pronounced it gupink) has asked me to look after you tonight."
Richardson was the yappy liaison Race had been only so happy to rid
herself of. Now he was sending over one of his assistants to bother her? She
opened the door and eyed the man coolly.
"Look after me? Exactly what does that mean?"
"He thought I could help you find a nice restaurant, or maybe a club.
I'm a native, and--"
"Are you his assistant? I can't believe he'd send out one of his own
employees to--"
"No ma'am," Trevor replied cordially, "I'm an escort."
That brought Race up short. She suddenly remembered that prostitution
was legal on Monsipur. Big business. She was too startled to know whether or
not she should be offended.
"An escort? A-- Would your duties include providing me sexual
servicing?" She almost snapped at him. Her instinctive reaction to
discomfiture was to go on the attack.
He blinked twice. "Most certainly ma'am, if that's what you'd like.
Personally, I do think you're quite attractive, and I do enjoy spending time
with offworlders. I always learn something new. I've never been off-planet
myself, but--" He kept talking.
Race opened her mouth, closed it, then asked with genuine curiosity, "Is
this a common practice here? Providing whores and gigolos to visiting
businesspeople?"
"Yes ma'am, quite common. It's made us quite a popular destination for
corporate junkets and conventions."
Race looked him up and down. She felt queer, knowing that if she so
desired she could take him inside and with no pretenses order him to make love
to her. He was probably very good at it -- Richardson was too high up in the
company to have sent her someone cheap.
"Let me ask you this," Race said. "This is my first time to Monsipur,
so I'm a little shaky on the local customs. Do you think Mr. Richardson would
be offended if I declined the use of your penis?"
Trevor laughed politely, not quite sure if he was being made fun of.
"Ms. Harrington, if you don't wish to be intimate, there are many other things
we can do. I mentioned restaurants. Garshak has several five star restaurants,
and I make a wonderful dinner companion."
"Oh, I'm sure you do. But nevertheless--"
"Would you prefer someone else?" he asked. "Perhaps my looks or
personality isn't to your taste. It happens. Mr. Richardson did say--"
Race waved the idea away like it was a bad smell. "Would he be
offended?" she repeated. "I really don't feel like being sociable tonight."
"Of course, of course. No ma'am, I'm sure Mr. Richardson won't be
offended. This is a normal part of the business world here, and I'm sure you're
not the first visiting executive too tired to take advantage of an escort's
availability. I'm sorry to have bothered you."
"That's fine. I . . . learned something," she replied. "A normal part
of the business world?" she repeated.
"Yes ma'am."
"You're serious?"
"Yes ma'am, absolutely. Why?"
She shook her head with something akin to disbelief and shut the door.
Trevor waited until it was closed, the same bland smile glued to his lips, then
turned and started down the corridor.
"Should've sent a woman," he said to the empty hallway. It was too bad
-- she was very attractive in a stern sort of way. As soon as she'd opened the
door he'd started thinking about what she'd be like in bed. Even if she was
from New Mantique, as Richardson said, Trevor would bet she knew a few positions
other than missionary. At least he'd already been paid, and handsomely, for the
whole night. But what to do? Call the service, tell them he was available
again, make some money, or go clubbing, and spend some? Clubbing, he decided.
He was in the mood for a cocktail.
Race wandered over to the far side of the suite. To one side was the
eating area complete with a countertop food preparation center as well as a
table and four chairs. Most of the room, however, was empty space. A long,
luxuriantly padded fauxleather couch, with a matching overstuffed chair at
either end, faced the suite's only wall that wasn't hung with paintings or
blocked by furniture.
There was a small, low table in front of the couch, made of real wood or
the best imitation of it she'd ever seen. On it was a small control module of
some kind. She'd never seen anything quite like it. Armored steel or some
other metal, about twenty centimeters square by ten tall, and a small keypad on
the top. She had no idea what it did.
"Screen on," she called out, and the entire wall in front of her lit up.
The couch was four meters back from the wall, which was really just one
huge flatscreen, but still Race felt overwhelmed by the video image. It was
three meters floor to ceiling, and at least four meters across. The image of
the newsman onscreen was so big she found herself focusing on his nostrils.
"Reduce size," she commanded. The screen shrank to half its former
size. "Mute sound."
"Much better," she murmured. The sense of claustrophobia disappeared,
as did the newsman's deep voice, droning from hidden speakers all around her.
The vid was clicked on Universal News Network. Even with the sound off
it looked boring.
"Scan," she directed.
The intellivid switched to CPN, another dreadful multi-system news
channel, then to another news program that had to be locally generated. Race
shook her head. It was going to be a while before she was comfortable watching
men in fuscia robes.
The vidscreen skipped through the channels, a new one every four
seconds. After forty-plus channels of news, cooking shows, overacted dramas,
and rebroadcasts of old, universally syndicated Terran half-hour comedy
programs, Race's eyes began to cross.
"Is there anything good on?" she wondered aloud. "How many channels do
they offer?" If she had to pan through several hundred channels of drek there
sure as hell better be something on worth watching. "I thought New Mantique was
boring, this--"
"Stop!" she burst out suddenly, startling herself. She sat up straight
on the couch, eyes glued to the screen. Race wasn't sure what, exactly, . . .
She stared at the image before her, mesmerized.
Even with the screen half size the two women staring back at her were
larger than life. Arrestingly gorgeous brunettes with full lips, perfect skin,
piercing green eyes, and wavy shoulder-length hair. Twins, obviously, perfectly
identical in every way.
They filled Race's world, visible from the waist up, dancing in a very
low gee environment while making seductive pouts at the camera. At least, Race
figured they called it dancing; to her it appeared they were doing nothing more
than bouncing up and down and shaking their breasts from side to side.
The pair were clad in identical greyish blue twoskin tank tops. The
thin fabric clung to their skin like paint, succeeding only in making their
enormous bouncing breasts seem bigger. Their hair flowed around their heads as
if they were underwater.
They can't be under more than .2 gees, Race thought to herself. Their
healthy, swollen globes, nipples fully erect, moved in a slow motion rhythm
independent of the rest of their bodies. The pale skin of their breasts rippled
as they were tossed to and fro. The infinitely elastic Sweatrem stayed glued to
their curves as each head-sized breast bounced wildly in the half-speed of low
gee. Race couldn't take her eyes off them.
The camera slowly pulled back and Race saw the two women were dancing in
some sort of seedy club. As the view widened she saw the man they'd been making
eyes at, standing at the edge of the dance floor. Their greyish blue Sweatrem
outfits were one-pieces -- while the right twin wore bright blue spangly shorts
over hers, the left twin wore nothing but thigh-high shiny black boots with
pointy ten-cem heels. The one-piece was cut high over her hips, and, as she
turned slightly, Race saw it had a thong back. The microthin fabric did nothing
to conceal the shape of the woman's sex. They both displayed perfect figures.
Wide shoulders and narrow waists with full hips below, thighs slender and
muscled. Race felt a twinge of jealousy, and something else.
The man moved toward the twins and began a conversation. They bounced
in place, giving him sexy looks. In a flash the scene changed, and now the
three were in what had to be the man's living quarters. Away from the club's
colored, flashing lights the twins' breasts looked even bigger. Maybe it was
just the gravity -- his quarters had a full one gee, so the twins' breasts hung
lower and fuller. Race didn't know why she was so amazed; she knew that with
the latest hormone or gene therapy courses breast size, shape, and firmness was
limited solely by imagination and money. Still, on New Mantique she'd never
seen anything like the globes the twins displayed -- they were . . . unseemly.
They were so big they were impractical, even though, she had to admit, they were
perfect. Even in a full gee they barely folded over.
There were always going to be those people who pushed the envelope, she
figured. Whole body depilation and skin rejuvenation used to be unusual when
she was a child; now they were the norm, even on conservative New Mantique.
Certain BodMods weren't even considered elective surgery anymore -- breast work,
waist reduction, butt shaping; it was all covered as being necessary to a
person's emotional well-being.
The women stood shoulder to shoulder on the thick carpet of the man's
quarters, lips moving soundlessly.
"Sound!" Race called out.
"-- but you'll just have to see for yourself and wait your turn," the
left twin said in a throaty, purring voice, before turning and embracing her
sister. Race gasped as the two women kissed passionately, bodies pressed tight.
Groans filled the air as they sucked on each other's tongue.
Race realized immediately that she had to be watching a sexvid. She
fought the urge to look over her shoulder -- on New Mantique, just possessing
such a video could get her sent to a re-education school. Not that such vids
didn't exist, and in large numbers, on her planet's thriving black market, but
it had been so long . . . . She felt herself getting warm as she watched the
twins' heated embrace, finding it hard to believe that such a thing, between
sisters, was legal anywhere. They had to be actual sisters -- as advanced as
modern flesh-sculpting was, it still couldn't produce such an exact copy. Or
could it?
As the twins started pawing each others' breasts through the twoskin
tanktops Race began unbuttoning her own shirt, hardly aware of her own actions.
She opened her shirt down to her waist. Underneath her bare skin was hot,
almost feverish.
The right twin tugged down the front of her sister's one-piece, letting
those magnificent breasts spill out. She bent her head to one large pink nipple
and began sucking, while she tweaked the other one between thumb and forefinger.
Race popped the waistband of her slacks as the groaning increased on-screen and
without conscious thought slid her hand inside.
"You know just how to get me all bubbly," Left Twin gasped as her sister
sucked voraciously at a nipple the size of the end of Race's thumb. She reached
down and slid a hand inside her sister's blue shorts
Race's breath was harsh in her throat as her fingertips slid over her
mound, past her rock hard clitoris, and parted the smooth lips of her sex. Warm
fluid seeped out and coated her fingers.
As Race put her feet up on the table and moved her slick fingers up to
touch her throbbing clit, Left Twin began stroking her sister, her hand buried
deep inside the baggy blue shorts.
"You know that's not what I want," Right Twin said, pulling her mouth
off her sister's nipple. She put a hand on her sister's head and pushed it
downward with some force. Left Twin obediently knelt on the floor, her shiny
black thigh boots creaking.
"That's where I like you," Right Twin said. "Now tell me you want it."
"I want it," her sister gasped.
Race's left hand rose up to her open shirt. While she hypnotically
stroked her slick clit her left hand moved from breast to breast, pinching and
tugging at her hard nipples.
"I know you do." Turning her back to the camera Right Twin tugged down
her shorts and kicked them away. Her one-piece had a thong back also, revealing
the perfect creamy ovals of her muscled buttocks. She pulled the straps over
her shoulders and slid the one-piece down her narrow waist, past her full hips.
Even though she kept her thighs pressed together Race caught a glimpse of the
woman's sex as she bent over to step out of the crumpled Sweatrem. Her nether
lips were red and swollen, and shiny with moisture. Race was panting now,
rubbing her throbbing knot of flesh hard and fast.
Right Twin turned back toward her sister and grabbed her by the hair.
She stood with her feet wide apart and tightened her grip on her sister's hair.
"Now suck it," she commanded, and forced her sister's head forward.
Race's eyes stood out wide and disbelieving at the sight before her,
even as she cried out in an unexpected, wrenching orgasm that arched her body
off the couch. Shaking and clenching in a dizzying climax, Race could barely
keep her eyes focused on the impossible picture she was confronted with.
On the bright vidscreen Left Twin obediently sucked on the angry red
head of her sister's veiny penis and, unbidden, reached a hand up to cup the
swollen scrotum hanging between those slender, shapely thighs.
