Layover

                               PROLOGUE


	He toyed with the food in front of him, then pushed the plate away.  He
wasn't in the mood for eating.  Hadn't been, actually, for weeks, and could
hardly sleep, but he'd managed to keep it a secret.  He'd been to the medicos --
there wasn't anything wrong with him.  Physically, that is.  Krikes, he knew
that.  He was in better shape now than he'd been at twenty-five.  He knew why he
wasn't hungry.  It was excitement.  Arousal.  They were getting so close.  These
were important times.  

	He stared around the cavernous room.  The huge dining table, the
expensive chairs and sofas, the two huge flatscreens.  Priceless artwork on the
walls, handwoven rugs on the polished stone floor.    He himself wore a handmade
robe worth more than most of his employees made in a month, and he was a
generous employer.  All of it was his, not that he cared about money or material
goods anymore.  No, he had only one interest in his life now, one solitary
passion that consumed his every waking moment.  The dream of a new world - no,
make that a different world.  The dream was his passion, and he wouldn't rest
until that dream became a reality.  And unlike many men before him, he was in a
unique position to -- perhaps -- realize his lofty goal.  It had been long in
the making, and it would take decades more before the changes were complete, but
the signs were there, too big to ignore, even if you weren't looking.  Had been
for years, in fact.  The dreams of his father, and his father's father, of all
the men in his line since they'd landed on this sandy globe, finally near
fruition after almost two hundred years.  What was once only the dream of a few
special men . . . .

	The man was alone for the moment, though he could hear the incessant
bustle of his employees echoing through the halls.  A veritable army of workers
serving him, performing every task imaginable, only a few of them aware that a
vision was driving their world, changing it, making it better.  Everyone doing
their part, whether they knew it or not.  His contemporaries understood the
purity of his mission, and diligently followed their directed course.  Most of
them, that is.  Those who'd tried to interfere had been handled in ways that
best suited their transgressions.

	Footsteps echoed off the stone and his security chief strode into view
in his black and grey uniform.  Charles Van derMeer.  The man had been with him
for years, his hair starting to grey at the temples but his body still whipcord
tough.  He was in charge of the estate's two hundred man security force, and
fully aware of his boss' vision for the future of his planet.  Whether the end
result would be the perfect world his boss envisioned he couldn't say, but Van
derMeer liked what he saw so far.  Liked it a lot, and was more than willing to
stop anyone who tried to derail his powerful employer.  The huge paychecks were
the cake; the perks were the icing, something he'd found he couldn't live
without.  Or rather, wouldn't.

	The powerful man stood up and together they strode out of the room. 
While everyone called it an estate the property was much more than that, close
to a dozen buildings scattered over an area the size of a spaceport.  They were
all interconnected by aboveground walkways and underground passageways, and
dominated by the huge residence squatting in the center of the complex.   The
main house was mostly belowground, carved into one of the planet's many rocky
hillsides, and was much more than just living quarters.  The two men strode down
a wide corridor carved straight through the orange stone; floor, walls, and
ceiling all polished to a mirror finish.  The edges of the man's robe fluttered
around his legs as he walked.  The robe was woven of light grey and ruby red
fauxsilk, brilliant flowers embroidered on its lapels.  "Where is she now?" he
asked.

	"I've got her in one of the cells off the PowerBall court," Van derMeer
answered.

	The hallway they were moving down was cavernous, over four meters wide
and nearly as high.  A wide fabric runner ran down its center and muffled their
footsteps; the stone walls had a tendency to turn the entire house into an echo
chamber.  Expensive artwork hung on the walls and recessed lighting kept the
hallway nearly sunlight bright at all times.  Employees and household staff
members came into view, moving up and down the hall and in and out of the many
doors that punctuated its length.  All nodded to him, most smiled.

	The big hallway was the architectural spine of the main house.  Almost
all the rooms in the sprawling building ran off of it at one point or another. 
Its mere size, however, was not the hallway's most striking feature.  A visitor
couldn't help but notice that along both walls, every five meters or so, there
was a well-lit alcove.  In each alcove they'd see usually one but sometimes two
life- or larger-than-life-size nude sculptures done in the Realist style.  The
statues were the greasy white of real marble, gleaming dully in the light.  Each
in a different pose, their bodies the idealized perfection of the human form. 
Mostly women, all nude and in classical poses, close enough to touch.  Their
sheer physical presence, not to mention their anatomical correctness, sometimes
caused visiting dignitaries to stop and stare.  None of the myriad people
rushing up and down the hall paid the slightest attention to the white bodies to
either side; they'd seen them all before and had important work to do.

	"Explain to me again how she got onto my property."

	"One of the sensors near the Special Projects Testing Center apparently
malfunctioned.  But the sensor rings overlap, so I don't know how she got
through undetected.  I don't think she even knew there were sensors out there,
she sure wasn't trying to hide.  The first thing she apparently did was approach
the testing center and start asking questions of two technicians who were
standing outside taking a break.  When they were uncooperative she demanded they
call the main house.  They'd already hit the silent alarm."  He smiled, and not
prettily.  "Apparently she has some questions for you personally."

	The two men reached the end of the hallway, which turned to the left and
narrowed to half the width.  To the right was a short hallway ending at a lift,
the doors marked AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY.  Van DerMeer hit the sensor on the
wall and the lift doors opened for them.  His boss swept past in a soft rustle
of fabric and waited inside the small chamber.  Van derMeer entered and turned
toward the control panel.  "Charles Van derMeer," he said.  "Security Chief. 
Bitefly.  PowerBall court."  The powerlift's computer sensor compared his voice
and physiological signature to the one it had on file for Charles Van derMeer,
found a match, and began a rapid descent.  A different password and the car
would have filled with sleeper gas while alarms went off throughout the complex.

	"Any chance she was the one that disabled the security sensor?"

	"No.  Pure equipment failure.  I've got my men fixing that, then we're
going to start testing the perimeter where she got through to figure out how she
got in without the thermal or vibration sensors picking her up.  Then I'm going
to double-check the entire perimeter, just to make sure this doesn't ever happen
again."	

	"I'd expect nothing less from you, Charles."

	"She walked right in," the security chief went on.  "We followed her
footprints straight back to her roller where she'd parked it on the highway
shoulder.  My men cracked it but didn't find anything of note."

	The car slowed after dropping nearly thirty-five meters in complete
silence.  The two men exited the lift on the opposite side from which they'd
entered, stepping into blazing sunlight.  They both squinted against the glare
and took a brief look around before walking on.

	They were in a deep canyon, created centuries before by a massive
earthquake.  Vertical cliffs of orange stone towered above their heads.  The
canyon was a near-perfect oval with a floor that had hardly needed to be leveled
at all.  The majority of the hard-packed earth floor was taken up by a
regulation size PowerBall court, the backboards scuffed with use.

	The powerlift was the only way into or out of the canyon, and that was
just the way he wanted to keep it.  The men walked around the court to the far
side of the canyon, to the doors of another lift, this one not an enclosed car
but rather a small platform with a railing.  They entered the lift and the
security chief spoke once again.  The lift platform rose on a single protected
rail mounted inside the stone of the canyon wall.  That made it impossible, or
so he'd been told, for a person to use the lift's track to climb up or down the
cliff face.

	The small lift hummed to the end of its track, just under twenty meters
above the canyon floor.  Above it stretched featureless orange rock another
fifteen meters to the canyon's rim.  As soon as the two men stepped off the lift
into the wide tunnel the lift dropped rapidly back to the canyon floor.  It
would only return when a voice the computer recognized spoke the correct words
into the control panel near the tunnel's entrance.

	This new tunnel had been carved thirty meters straight into the planet's
native rock.  The engineers had done a beautiful job, leaving the floor and
ceiling smooth and free of machine marks.  To either side of the wide hall bays
had been cut, five-by-five meter rooms that Van derMeer liked to call his pods. 
It was a much more pleasant-sounding word than "cell".  There were twenty
individual pods, and in one of them they found the woman.

	"Amandir Pringler," Van derMeer told his boss, holding up the woman's
permID.  They stood in the hallway, looking in.  The woman, sitting on a padded
bunk with her back to the hallway, heard his voice and jerked.  She stood up and
faced them.

	The robed man raised an eyebrow and stared at her.  "How old are you?"

	"Thirty-four," she said indignantly.  He assumed she meant local years,
and automatically converted that into Galactic (Earth) Standard.  "Krikes, that
doesn't matter.  Let me say right now that what you've done is totally
unacceptable.  Armed men verbally abusing me, physically dragging me off and
throwing me into a speeder.  I assure you I was not trespassing.  I'm on
official business."

	"She's a story wrangler for the Garshak Heralder," Van derMeer told his
boss.

	The robed man grunted with amusement.  "I wouldn't exactly call what you
do official business.  What story were you investigating?"

	"The Squeaker Explanation.  GUP's comments on the situation seem totally
disingenuous and unbelievable, not to mention absurdly convenient.  And the
Council of Twelve's wholehearted acceptance of the explanation and dismissal of
the entire episode seems highly suspect, just as it did with the Lumiprod
fiasco, which you were also behind.  I've done research and it has only
intensified my suspicions.  I wanted to start with your research testing
procedures, then--" her indignant rant was cut short.

	"Did Peter Kians give you this story as an assignment?" he interrupted. 
"Because I'm very close friends with him, and I can't imagine your editor
arranging something like this behind my back."

	The woman took a deep breath.  "Not actually, no.  I'm trying to develop
the story first a little, on my own, and then I was going to--"

	"I talked to Kians," Van derMeer said.  "Asked him if he had anyone
looking into GUP."  He shook his head.

	"Listen, this charade has gone far enough.  I'm appalled at how you've
treated me, no better than an animal.  And this collar, that's the final bot, it
really is."  She tugged at the dull silver ring encircling her neck.

	The two men regarded her silently.  No visible barrier separated them
from the woman, but she knew what the collar meant.  Van derMeer could just hear
the hum from the magnetic field that invisibly sealed off the front of her cell. 
The field was totally harmless to him; he could walk across the portal and
squeeze her nose if he wanted.  But if she tried to leave the field would stop
her, or rather the collar, just as surely as if she'd tried to walk through a
solid rock wall.  It was the time-proven circuitry inside the collar around her
neck that provided the security.  The collar would not pass through the magnetic
field, and removing the collar was something prisoners had been attempting for a
hundred years without success.  The collar was rather dainty, actually, silver
in color and thinner than the woman's pinky finger.  It lay snug around her
neck, locked into place by Van derMeer's men. 

	The woman was rather young to be a wrangler.  Thirty-four was barely old
enough for her to be out of trade college.  Her hair was pretty, light brown
shot with wide streaks of blonde, but styled unattractively.  As for her body,
well, that was another matter.  The robed man shook his head.

	"Are you going to stand there all day staring or are you going to
release me?" she demanded.  Her hands were on her hips, and she scowled.

	"Girl, do you have any idea who I am?  I mean, do you have the faintest
grasp?"

	"Of course I do.  I mean, I think so.  You're Garvin Espering, aren't
you?"  She squinted.  Pictures of him were easy to find, but everyone always
looked a little different in person.

	"I'm Garvin Espering, founder and Chokbat of Garshak Universal Products. 
I'm an inventor, a philanthropist, and an artist of some merit.  Four million
people in five hundred odd companies on six worlds work for directly for me, and
what with contractors and OEM's I could claim another hundred million beyond
that who owe me their livelihood.  I'm rich beyond your ability to comprehend
and, most importantly, head of the Council of Twelve."  His face was red with
anger and indignation.

	"Ms. Pringler lives alone, has no close relatives, and apparently is so
abrasive that she doesn't have any close friends at the Heralder," Van derMeer
murmured into his boss' ear.

	The woman was speechless for a second.  "Well you certainly can't keep
me here!" she said just a little too loudly.  "This isn't the City Lockdown. 
Your keeping me here violates--"

	"I can do whatever I want," Espering told her firmly, his voice gravel
and steel.  "You obviously haven't yet realized just how tenuous your situation
is.  You were trespassing on my private property.  I could have you shot just
for that, and your body dumped in the desert for the shrikes to pick at.  Even
if you told everyone you know you were coming here, no one would question my
word.  They would not dare.  I am the most powerful man on this planet by a
factor of ten.  The most powerful Chokbat Monsipur has ever seen, not that you'd
know.  Your education apparently has gone for naught.  I am the closest thing to
a God that you will ever see.  Maybe that's your problem, that you just can't
see anything."  He peered at her, one hand on his hip.  His eyes roved over her
body.

	"Maybe that's not your only problem," he told her.  "Look at you.  It's
disgraceful.  What do you weigh, a hundred and twenty kilos?  When all you need
to do to stay slim and trim is take a pill or two every morning.  That's got to
be the result of some sort of personality disorder."

	Amandir Pringler weighed, in fact, a hundred and twenty-four kilos. 
Since she was of average height, about one point eight meters, she was shaped
more like a pear than anything else.  Her mode of dress reflected her
less-than-trim physique -- a baggy tent is how Van derMeer would've described
it.  She seemed taken aback by Garvin's line of questioning, but he gave no sign
that he'd noticed.  "I say," he went on, "exactly how do you expect to attract a
mate?  I suppose certain males might have some bizarre attraction to a fat
woman, I guess I've heard of such things, but to tell you the truth, the thought
of seeing you naked turns my stomach."  All that fat hanging on her body, she
was practically the size of a speeder, and still she didn't have any breasts to
speak of.

	Pringler's mouth worked up and down several times silently.  Her face
was red with embarassment.  It took her a few seconds to get over her shock. 
"I'm sure that will never happen," she spluttered.  "I am not interested in men,
and if I was, I certainly would not be interested in you.  I am perfectly
healthy, I just don't happen to conform to your prejudicial idea of what the
perfect woman should look like.  I weigh exactly what I want to weigh."

	Espering couldn't decide whether or not to laugh at her.  "Not
interested in men, oh?  Not one twinge of desire for a stiff, hard cock between
your legs?"

	She got an uneasy look on her face.  "Men are disgusting.  They're
sweaty, hairy, . . ."  She suddenly realized she was divulging too much of
herself to him and clamped her mouth shut.

	Espering pursed his lips and stared at her thoughtfully, an idea
blossoming inside his brain.  He turned to his security chief.  "I'm getting a
vision," he said reverently, with only the faintest hint of self-mockery.

	Van derMeer slowly shook his head.  "I don't know.  Look at her. 
Between her looks and her attitude I don't think you'd be happy with the
result."

	"Nonsense.  You know my people are practically working miracles these
days.  The squeakers, furries, L.O.L., arty FeelReals; the list is immense.  The
true maphs are just the latest.  People told my grandfather the same thing about
lackeys a hundred years ago, said it was crazy, said it couldn't be done. 
Didn't stop him, and have you seen the latest figures on milk consumption?  Have
you seen the latest morphs?  Even I find them unbelievable."  He waved in the
woman's direction.  "She's the perfect opportunity to push the envelope once
again.  And you know something?  I think under all that fat her face might
actually be somewhat attractive."

	"This is totally unbelievable," Amandir erupted.  "I demand you release
me at once!  This charade has gone far enough."

	"Shut up," Espering snapped.  "I'm tired of your mouth.  It's open too
much, I should be running my cock down your throat if I have to see this much of
your tongue."

	"You get anywhere near me and I'll bite it off," she snarled.

	"Look at that," Van derMeer said.  "All that fat and she still doesn't
have any bumpers."

	"Men are such pigs.  What good are breasts except for you to stare at?"

	Garvin Espering studied at the fat woman glaring at him, and smiled. 
"When I get done with you, not only will you look like a new person, you'll act
like one too."  He slowly unbelted his robe and pulled it open.  Underneath it
he was nude, and Pringler stared at him in shock.  "You'll beg me to put this in
your mouth, and every other orifice," he assured her.  "And if you're good, I
just might."  He jerked his robe closed and strode away.

	Van derMeer smirked at the woman and ambled after his boss.  When the
sound of the lift had faded and the rocky pens were quiet again, a voice called
out to her.

	"He won't hurt you, don't worry about that."

	Amandir jerked in surprise and looked around.  There, across the
corridor, in his own pod, sat a middleaged man on a bunk.  He looked very tired,
and she thought for a second she recognized him, but the fact that he was nude
threw her off.  He seemed slightly embarassed by his lack of clothes, but
resigned to it.  She didn't see any clothing anywhere in his pod.

	"He might do a lot of things, but you needn't worry about him killing
you," the man told her.

	"He's crazy if he thinks I'd ever touch him."

	The man's tired eyes creased in a sad smile.  "Oh, he's crazy all
right," he agreed.  "But let me assure you, everything he told you was true."





	"Before we get into your proposals, and status reports," Espering told
the five men, "I've got my own little pet project for you.  Another one."  They
were seated around a thick null-oak table, relaxed and, as usual, enthusiastic. 
Espering's Special Projects Team consisted of two geneticists, one neurologist,
one neuropsychologist, one endocrinologist, one mechanical engineer, and one
public relations expert.  Together his team personally commanded close to three
hundred people, specialists, all geniuses in their own right, none of whom had
ever been heard to utter the word "Why?"

	Espering explained what he had in mind, detailing and elaborating on the
project, adding new ideas as they popped into his head.  When he was done the
men around him were quiet, thinking.

	"Well, as you know," one of the geneticists said, "the obesity is not a
problem.  And in the past twenty years we've made great strides, so hardwiring
her cortex for the high sexual drive won't be difficult either, although that is
a pretty high number."

	"Why not just an injection?" Espering asked him.  His second geneticist
answered.

	"Too unpredictable.  All things being equal, everyone's brain tissue
absorbs the drug at a different rate, and, simply put, fine-tuning injected
levels are a nightmare."

	"Her orientation will take some time to adjust," the neurologist said,
"but once the correct way to alter brain chemistry was discovered the actual
nuts-and-bolts procedure turns out to be rather simple.  Technically still
experimental, of course, but then we've always been so far ahead of the
mainstream it's laughable." He waved a hand around the table.  "I assume you've
got some special chips you want her to experience.  In addition to them, a
lengthy series of psyche-programming FeelReals, some gray-screen, some with the
programming buried inside standard sex-chips, will do wonders.  Not just on her
personality -- they'll erode her memory and alter her brain chemistry, although
that'll take some time.  Her sex drive, too; you've all seen the studies.  Just
one Feelie a week raises the HSF three points a year.  We've perfected the
compressed ones and they'll triple that, at least."

	"No PCA?" the engineer said.

	"No."

	"I'm concerned about the weight distribution," the other geneticist
said.  "Even if we do combine synth muscle strands with her own, and the
vertebrae don't warp, I don't think the result will be practical."  He saw the
looks he was getting from the rest of the table.  "Okay, okay, we're not talking
practicalities here, I realize that, but we're still talking about a huge mass. 
Center of gravity will be totally different, and that's just the tip of the
iceberg."

	"'Tip of the iceberg'?" the engineer said.  "I can't remember the last
time I heard that.  You know," he said to Espering, "I was just thinking about
this the other day.  About how traditional enlargements are limited, because
they don't alter the attachment points to the body.  You see what I'm saying? 
If, on the other hand, we expand the points of contact, say to the base of the
ribcage?  Ovals about this big?"  He illustrated what he meant with his hands. 
"The entire front of the ribcage then becomes the platform, allows for an
exponential increase in volume.  Necessitates it, actually, to maintain a normal
proportion."

	"You're right," Espering said.  "I like it.  Remember," he told the
group, "I want them to be firm but soft, and I want them to look natural.  No
perfect spheres, and no cones.  It seems that's all I see these days is cones. 
I'm afraid of putting an eye out."  They all laughed.

	"That won't be a problem," a geneticist said.  "Between DNA acceleration
and hormone cascades and skin therapy, we'll come up with something you'll
approve of.  It's the sheer weight that has us worried."

	"What about implanting some of those new micro AG units?" the
neurologist asked.  "Calibrated to reduce, by a certain percentage, the total
mass.  So that it doesn't feel any different to her when she moves around."

	"Is that even possible?" the public relations man asked.  "Wouldn't they
migrate?"  They all turned to the engineer.  He had his brows knitted together
in thought.

	"I hesitate to say yes too quickly," he told them.  "We'll have to talk
to an AG specialist, and probably a surgeon.  If it's even possible, we'll need
to learn about unit size, if there'll be a problem with migration, long term
maintenance if any, that sort of thing.  I think I know just the guy to talk
to."

	"So you're saying that it's feasible?  That you can deliver?"  Espering
swept the group with his intense gaze.  He got nods from everyone, some more
confident than others, and a smile creased his face.  He looked half his sixty
standard years, and was still a handsome, charismatic figure.  Whenever possible
he used that to his advantage.

	"You men have never disappointed me," he said warmly.  "Sure, we've had
setbacks, but in the end you've always come through.  I knew when this group
first dreamt up Genuflex you were talented, and then with the squeakers you
cemented yourselves places in Monsipurian history as geniuses.  The Maph
breakthrough merely confirmed what I already knew."  He looked around at their
smiling, proud faces.  "I'll be getting the Demeanor report in a few days, and I
just know the numbers in it will surprise even you gentlemen."

	"Gotta drink water," the neurologist said with a rueful smile.

	Espering laughed and cracked his knuckles joyfully.  "Running into me is
the best thing that ever happened to that fat girl.  I just wonder if she'll
ever figure that out."

                           CHAPTER ONE


	The planet was a pale brown orb, turning slowly, and filled the window,
seemingly close enough to touch.  They could see a quarter of the globe's
surface out the window, and could find but a few wispy trails of clouds far up
by the pole.

	"The library was sure right when it said the place was arid,"
Christopher remarked, staring at the planet.  "I can hardly see any bodies of
water at all, and even fewer clouds.  And that's after what, two centuries of
terraforming?  What's the population supposed to be again?"

	"Thirty-five million," Roberto said.  "Mostly in the northern
hemisphere.  Equator's still too hot for humans.  Garshak, the capital, where
we're going, has about ten million people.  There are four other major cities,
all smaller, and a bunch of what amounts to desert settlements, mostly clustered
around those huge atmospheric processors.  They use an odd combination of the
standard, Metric system and the old--"

	"I hate those damn memory dumps," Hamee complained.  "Every time you get
one you start spewing out a bunch of insignificant facts no one who's not a
local gives a damn about.  It's a sparsely populated ball of dust on the outer
rim of the Outer Rim that I never even heard of until we got the contract. 
You've got to be going here to get here.  'Nuff said."

	"You seemed pretty interested when I told you prostitution was legal,"
Berto snapped back.  It had been over a year since they'd been on a world where
the oldest profession paid taxes-- Isla Nubia, a small planet just beyond the
Yellow Cluster.  Berto warmed to the memory.  Images . . . skin the color of
burnt caramel, breasts as big and soft as pillows, and small pink darting
tongues, floated through his mind. 

	They'd been stuck on board together for nearly six standard weeks, and
had been getting increasingly short and hostile with each other.  Normally they
handled the cramped quarters easily, but this trip had been more stressful than
most.

	"When are we taking the jumper down?" the cause of their disconcert
asked irritably.  If she had to listen to these three men bickering any longer
she was afraid she'd lose control and hit someone.

	Her name was Race Harrington, and she'd been looking for the quickest
route to Monsipur when she'd found this crew.  The three of them were
co-owner/operators of a small cargo vessel, The Nancy.  They'd happened to have
an empty gravity bed that they'd rented to her for a not insubstantial sum of
money.  Race would have much preferred a regular passenger ship, but Monsipur
was nearly to the edge of the Outer Rim.  She would've had to wait another two
weeks for a real passenger ship, and her mission was somewhat time sensitive.

	"As soon as we get clearance to land we'll start down," Berto told her. 
"We've already transferred all the cargo to the jumper.  I don't like waiting
any more than you do.  We don't get paid until our load is on the ground and
cleared by Customs."

	They'd had gravity onboard for most of the voyage, anywhere from one
half to two and a half standard gees, but once they'd stopped decelerating and
hit orbit everything began floating.  They didn't have enough money -- or space
onboard -- for a gravity drive big enough to take care of the whole ship.  So
they all donned magnetic slip-ons so they could walk through the ship.  The
awkward gait the slip-ons generated took a little while to get used to. 

	Berto snuck a glance at the woman.  Her short hair floated around her
head, framing her pretty face.  She caught him watching her and he averted his
eyes, just before he was about to sneak an ogle of her body.  Zero gravity did
wonderful things to the female form.

	Race scowled and stared out the port.  They were in geosynchronous orbit
somewhere above Garshak, the capital, but right now it was daylight there so the
city wasn't visible.  Another few hours and darkness would roll around. 
Garshak's bright cluster of lights was plainly visible to the naked eye at
night.

	Berto could smell Race's faint, enticing perfume.  Bitch, he thought. 
He wasn't being fair, really, but he didn't care.  Cramped in a small ship for
six weeks with a beautiful woman, it was only natural for him to hope she'd let
him scoop a piece.  Just once or twice, that's all.  Of course, his two
shipmates had been thinking the same thing, and all of them had been
disappointed when she'd turned out to be totally disinterested.  He didn't know
if that was better or worse than if she'd slept with somebody on board other
than him.  They'd learned she was a New Mantique native before they'd ever left
that system and that was really all they needed to know about her possible
receptivity to advances.  Boy were they dumb.

	So, not only was there a pretty, shapely female on board and in close
proximity, a woman who had made it abundantly clear to all of them that she was
not interested, but because she was occupying the spare sleeping quarters there
was nowhere for any of them to go to get any real privacy with the synthetic. 
Unless they were willing to use an out-of-the-way corridor, or a cramped gear
locker, or the exercise room that she used as much as they did.  She was always
there whenever Berto turned around, and he could just tell, the way Race was,
she would have made an unpleasant trip unbearable if she'd caught one of them
with the synthetic.  It was there, standing off to one side, looking at the
rotating brown planet like the rest of them and once again he caught Race
glancing furtively at it, like she disapproved.  He didn't know what her problem
was, they'd had Nancy wear clothes for the duration.  Admittedly, twoskin shorts
and a racerback top weren't much, but they were more than what the synthetic
usually had on.  Once they'd been out a week or two just about the only thing it
wore regularly was semen.  (It was common practice for a crew to name their
synthetic after their ship, or vice versa.) 

	The Nancy wasn't a luxury liner; every single cubic meter of her was
there for a reason.  No wasted space at all.  All three of their bunks were in
the same large crew cabin, and they'd used the spare room for privacy.  The
large sum of money Race offered had made the sacrifice seem worth it.  At least
at first.  Luckily she had spent most of the voyage alone in her quarters. 
Seeing her tight ass wandering the corridors in the twoskins she favored, for
six looong weeks, would've been torture.

	"Let me know as soon as you get clearance," she said firmly.  "I'm going
to be meeting some important people very soon after we touch down, and I'll need
some time to get ready."

	"We'll let you know," Hamee said, staring unabashedly at her buoyant
chest.  What she lacked in quantity she made up in quality.

	"I'll be in my quarters," she told them, and headed down the corridor. 
Her steps were jerky and awkward, the walk of someone unused to magnetic shoes. 
The three of them stared at her compact behind until she turned the corner.  She
was wearing fuzzy-looking grey twoskin tanktop overalls under a baggy white
half-shirt.  Race probably thought the outfit made her look unattractive --
little did she know. 

	"Krikes, will you look at that ass.  Lot of muscle there.  I bet she
could bounce on it for hours."  Hamee blew a kiss after her.

	"Would you please shut up?" Berto said.  "You're only making it worse."

	Hamee sighed and shook his head.  Too bad she was a dahlia.  He'd
suspected it as soon as he saw her short man's haircut, and events on board --
or the lack thereof -- had only confirmed his suspicions.  Hadn't touched their
synthetic, though.  Or rather, had their synthetic touch her.  Too shy?  Didn't
like synthetics?  Maybe she just wasn't interested in sex and put all her energy
into her work.  He'd known a few of those.

	"How long do you think we'll have to wait?" he asked Roberto.  "How busy
can this port be, we're at the outer rim of the Outer Rim."

	"Did you see how many craft are in orbit, waiting their turn?"
Christopher remarked.  He pointed out where two MegaStars were in orbit close
enough to be seen with the naked eye, giant grey rectangular boxes with drive
engines and tiny tiny wings.  He touched his finger to one of the tiny glints of
light visible through the "window" and the ship expanded until they could
clearly see its markings.  A TC-30 class medium cargo hauler with Lylar System
markings.  "This place is hopping.  We might have quite a wait.  Reset," he
called out, and the screen switched back to non-magnified perspective.

	No one had built starships with actual windows for close to two hundred
years.  Non-metals were impossible to shield properly and micrometeorites made
the risk unacceptable.  The Nancy's "window" was actually a micropixel
smartscreen, the standard on commercial vessels for over a century, fed info by
hull mounted sensors.

	"You two going to be up here for a while?" Hamee asked.  Christopher
turned toward his shipmate.  Berto kept squinting at the planet below and
touched the screen to zoom in on the capital city.

	"Why?"

	Hamee scowled at Christopher.  "Just stay out of the crewroom for a
while," he growled.  He turned to Nancy and eyed the synthetic's familiar
shapely form, likewise favorably affected by the zero gee.  "C'mon," he said,
and slapped her ass.  Hamee's unsophisticated sexual signals and preferences had
been analyzed and catalogued by Nancy's A.I. long ago, and her expression
immediately became one of crazed lust.

	Berto looked back over his shoulder at the retreating forms.  "You're
going to be dirtside in a couple hours!" he called to his shipmate.  "Can't you
wait?"





	Roberto jerked awake as the roar from a transport vibrated his seat.  He
looked around, rubbing his eyes, uncertain for a second just where he was.  Then
he saw the pretty woman on the dais in the center of the room and remembered.

	He was in yet another waiting room, in one more not-quite-comfortable
chair.  He checked the chrono on his wrist, but it was still set to ship's time. 
No way to tell how long he'd been asleep, but he didn't think it was much more
than fifteen minutes.

	Thirty of the fifty or so chairs in the room were occupied, mostly by
tired travelers waiting, like him, to be given final clearance by Immigration. 
Long-haulers, from their familiar style of dress.  Hopping from planet to
planet, long-haul spacers tended to tire quickly of cutting-edge fashions, and
favored comfortable, loose-fitting clothes.  Some were sleeping, some reading
e-books, and some watching the model in the center of the room with greatly
varying levels of interest. 

	She was a hologram, part of a bland "Welcome to Monsipur" travelogue. 
Behind her panoramic vistas of the capital city and picturesque views of the
desert-like countryside changed regularly.  He was surprised to see the planet,
dry as it was, actually had different seasons (of a sort), ranging from warm to
really, really hot.  Its year was three hundred and nineteen days long, which
only made sense -- a shorter orbit than Earth meant Monsipur was closer to its
sun, and therefore would be warmer.  Thankfully its gravity was nominally
normal.  Low-G planets could be a nightmare.

	Every native he'd met so far seemed to prefer speaking Standard to the
local dialect, although most signs were in both Standard and Monny, as it was
called.  Thanks to the memory dump he was able to read most of what he saw in
Monny, although the slang threw him.  It was through the memory implant that he
knew that the pastel colored robe the holo-model wore was the traditional dress
of Monsipur.  V-necked and usually ankle length, the robes were called tongis. 
The model's tongi was peach in color, with intricate embroidery on the collar
and cuffs.  Berto appreciated the utility of loose clothing on a hot arid
planet, but wished the outfit revealed a little more of the woman's body.  He'd
been ship-bound and, more importantly, companionless longer than he'd been for
quite a few years.  Or perhaps she was a gleek.  He'd been onship for so long
that he'd just assumed the holo was a filmed model instead of a wholly
computer-generated image.  He looked at her again, but of course there was no
way to be certain without using a computer of his own to digitally analyze the
image bit by bit.

	He sat up and stretched, hearing several somethings pop in his back.  Of
his shipmates there was no sign, but then they'd of course been separated during
decontamination.  He didn't mind -- he'd seen enough of them for a while.  Six
weeks en route, then they'd had to spend eighteen hours in orbit waiting for
clearance.  Berto had entertained himself by reading up on Monsipur, so now he
was positively brimming with useless local trivia that would only irritate
Hamee.

	The three of them had loaded their sensitive cargo onto the jumper, an
atmosphere/entry-rated dropship, and when given clearance scooted down
accompanied by one grumpy female passenger.  They'd charged Race a lot of
credits to hitch a ride, thinking it would be easy money.  After six weeks of
her tight wiggling ass and disconcerting scowl they would've paid her to leave. 
To their barely concealed fury she'd been whisked straight through Customs and
Immigration while they'd had to wait another twelve hours for the Customs
officials to check their load.  Then the three hours for a standard decontam and
medical exam.  He was exhausted.  No wonder he'd fallen asleep in the chair,
stuck in a windowless, stuffy waiting room.

	What he was waiting for now he didn't know; yet one more hoop to jump
through in the endless red tape that came with visiting another planet.  They
had a long layover, ten (local) days, before heading back with a another load
destined for Inner Pearl, but there was no way he'd spend it aboard ship.  They
ran a nondescript ship with a relatively small hold, but what they lacked in
capacity they more than made up for in quality.  Through patience and the latest
in load stabilizing equipment they were able to transport nearly anything, and
specialized in delicate cargo the big Galaxy transports and their ill-trained
crews would batter and break.  They specialized in bulk at speed, and their
high-gee starts and stops were just too muck for certain cargoes.  They'd been
contracted to pick up a small collection of the latest bio-gen drugs, frozen and
vacuum-sealed in their crates.  The load would barely fill a tenth of their
cargo space and yet was worth more than their entire ship.  As long as it was
delivered undamaged.

	He was co-owner of The Nancy with Hamee and Christopher, and together
they'd been bouncing around the universe for close to eight standard years.  The
money was great, but he was ready for a vacation.  Sitting in a cabin on a ship
for six weeks was stressful, although in a way he couldn't exactly describe.  He
needed to get out, see some new people, breathe air that hadn't been recycled
sixty times.  Get drunk, get sick on native food, dance with a woman -- even an
ugly woman.  And, hopefully, get inside one or two before it was time again to
leave.

	He stared at the hologram, barely registering the woman's words.  At
irregular intervals names were called over hidden speakers, and he'd see a
spacer get up and head toward the room's only exit.  He hoped they hadn't called
his name while he was sleeping, but he was pretty sure that would've popped him
out of his nap.

	From his reading and what had been dumped into his head he knew Monsipur
had been settled some two hundred and fifty years before by a small, privately
funded expedition, in the old colonial days of space exploration.  Back then the
planet had been barely more than a dust ball at the extreme edge of known space,
almost past the territory that came to be called the Outer Rim, but after two
hundred and fifty years of terraforming the atmosphere was nearly Earth standard
and the water supply was self-sustaining.  The equator was still unbearably hot,
but in Garshak the average temperature was only thirty-two degrees Centigrade,
easily handled by air conditioning units. 

	Little indigenous life, with only one native species weighing more than
four kilos, a quadruped that the locals sometimes kept as pets.  Universal
Credits the currency of choice. Main exports high technology components produced
by major conglomerates who'd settled on Monsipur for its nearly nonexistent
trade restrictions and low tax rates.   

	"Monsipur prides itself on being a modern, enlightened planet, free from
the repression seen on so many worlds," the holomodel said from her low dais. 
"Many of you may already be aware that prostitution is legal here.  If you plan
to visit one of our sex clubs or one of the thousands of talented sex-workers in
Garshak, known locally as pulatritas, the Ministry of Tourism recommends
visiting males use D-semin8.  It is available throughout the city as well as in
most of the retail shops within the spaceport itself.  D-semin8 will make your
visit to Monsipur more enjoyable for everyone."

	Berto leaned over toward the spacer two chairs over.  The man appeared
catatonic but for his blinking eyes.  "What the hell's D-semin8?" he asked.

	The man's eyes slowly rolled over toward Berto.  "It's a pill, makes
your squirt taste like candy.  They got it for splits, too, called Sweetenher. 
Makes 'em taste like candy instead of fish."  Then the eyes rolled back.

	As Berto struggled with that information he suddenly realized his name
was being repeated over the hidden speaker system.  He grabbed his shoulder bag,
stuffed full of clothes and toiletries, and headed for the appropriately marked
door.  He hoped he had everything he needed, because if he wanted to go back to
his ship or even to the jumper he'd be required to decontam again upon return. 
Three hours of nauseating chemical soup.  No thank you.

	There was a long high counter, divided by low partitions.  His name was
flashing above one (in Standard as well as the six other most common languages),
and Berto was pleasantly surprised to find himself face to face with a woman. 
Not a vidscreen, a holo, or even a mech, but an honest-to-goodness person.  She
sat behind a counter, a smile that looked remarkably genuine on her face.  It
was the smile that made him suspect she was a synthetic, but after his long trip
any new face was welcome.  The nearby walls were covered with vidscreens showing
touristy stillshots of all the wonderful things to see and do on Monsipur.  They
changed randomly every few seconds.

	"Greetings," she said.  "Please let me see your permID card."  Berto
handed his card across the counter and she slid it into her computer.

	"You have been cleared by Medical," she told him, staring at her hidden
vidscreen.  "Oh, that's nice," she said.  She looked at him.  "Our examination
has determined that you have undergone a semi-perm memplant that included the
recommended listing of local laws and regulations.  That makes things so much
easier.  Hold out your left arm please."

	No human was this polite.  Nevertheless, he took great pleasure in
staring at the plunging neckline of her bright green tongi.  Her skin was evenly
tanned and Monsipur Tourism Bureau was embroidered above her left breast. 
Embroidery.  He couldn't remember the last time he'd seen that.

	She snapped a silver colored metal bracelet around his left wrist. 
"This ID bracelet is your proof that you are a legal visitor to our planet.  You
are scheduled to be here ten days.  Past that time this bracelet will enable the
Tourism Bureau to locate you and forcibly eject you from the planet as an
illegal.  Unless of course you apply for and receive an extension on your
visiting brick.  Don't attempt to remove the bracelet," she warned him.  "Using
any tools on it might result in injury to or the loss of your hand."  She smiled
reassuringly.  "It is water and shock proof," she answered his unspoken
question.  He rubbed the bracelet self-consciously.

	"Since the stated purpose of your visit is business and pleasure, the
Tourism Board would like to remind you that Garshak is the most popular tourist
destination this side of New Vegas.  Perhaps the biggest reason for this is the
booming sex industry on-planet," she said with a smile.  "Most spacers such as
yourself don't seem to be interested in much else.  Through your hotel room's
intellivid you can access a database of properly licensed individuals, or we
have numerous clubs of varying themes in and around the city.  Something for
everyone."

	"I bet."

	"Your financial institution is licensed on Monsipur, so you should have
no problems using your card here.  You'll be staying at the Garshak Superior,"
she read off her screen.  She pulled his permID and handed the card back to him. 
"That's connected to the SpacePort Multiplex.  Go through those doors and down
the hall and you'll be in the main concourse.  Just follow the signs and the
moving walkways will take you right to the lobby of the hotel.  Oh, and as a
courtesy to our first-time visitors," she said, and handed him a vac-pac of
pills.  Berto looked at them questioningly.

	The woman smiled at him warmly.  "A three day supply of X-Tend,
compliments of the Council of Twelve and the Tourism Bureau."

	While Berto knew, from his memory dump, that the Council of Twelve was
the governing body on Monsipur, he was a little rattled to be receiving a packet
of erection pills from them.  Now, admittedly, he'd never been to a planet where
prostitution was the foundation of the tourist base, but still it was a little
surprising.  Maybe he just wasn't looking at it from the proper perspective. 
Monsipur's population was small, and it was pretty isolated out here on the
Outer Rim.  Things, apparently, worked differently out here.  On Isla Nubia the
sex trade was tolerated, because of the credits it brought in, but that was
about it.

	"Enjoy your stay," she told him with a smile, lacing her fingers
together on top of the counter.

	"That's it?"

	"That's it."

	No grumpy government employee barking out local regulations, or worse,
having to listen to an aging mech do it.  Only a pretty, cheerful woman,
probably a synthetic (but who cared), who handed him a packet of X-Tend and told
him to enjoy his stay without a hint of sarcasm.  Was this a portent of things
to come?

	Down another short hallway and a set of automatic doors and he found
himself in what had to be the main concourse.  A huge bank of windows looked out
onto downtown Garshak.  A forest of multi-hued mirrored buildings stretched
upward, connected by mag-rail lines and brilliant in the mid-day sun.  The
entire city seemed new; not one building looked more than twenty years old.  And
clean, too, with throngs of pedestrians moving about both inside and out.

	Berto tried his hardest not to look like a gawking newbie tourist, but
after six weeks with nothing to look at his eyes couldn't stop moving.  The
concourse was busy with people, purposefully striding this way and that.  All
the movement and faces were a shock to his system, and he just stood there for a
while, staring, trying to keep out of the way.

	Monny women, he noticed, seemed to be lean and tanned, with more opting
for short hair than long.  Usually sun-bleached.  About half wore the
traditional tongi in various bright colors, while the rest were draped in an odd
assortment of clothing, styles new and old, from systems near and far.  Berto
saw everything from traditional business suits to Outer Pearl ring-gowns.  He
stared idiotically at an especially attractive brunette as she passed by,
wearing nothing but an electric blue Plastex bikini and black high-heel
footgloves.

	The passing crowd seemed to be made of more women than men, and he was
momentarily curious if it had something to do with the time of day.  Then his
memplant reminded him that the planet's population was sixty-nine percent
female.  Idly he wondered just what they wore under their tongis.  No way to
tell, really, what with modern skin-rejuvenation techniques and gene therapy.  A
woman could have the high, firm breasts of a teenager if she so wished.  Or any
other size and shape breasts and body she wanted, for a price all but the most
destitute could afford.  Unless Monsipur was one of those worlds that restricted
such things, but it didn't look that way to him.

	Berto weaved his way through the foot traffic and stood before a huge
window.  Out past the farthest buildings, if he squinted, he could just see the
orange and purple jagged swell of a mountain range.  He could feel the heat from
the sun radiating off the glass, but the inside of the concourse was pleasantly
cool.  No snow on the tops of those mountains.  The speeder and floater traffic
seemed to be heavy.  With the sun winking off their bodies as they wound between
the tall office buildings the flitting vehicles looked like fireflies. 

	He'd known Customs and Immigration would take forever, so he'd dressed
for comfort, not style.  A long baggy shirt, collarless with a zig-o-zag
pattern, left untucked over black, knee-length sweatrem lowers and low walled
deck shoes.  Between the shoes and the circles under his eyes he was easily
marked as a long-haul spacer fresh off his ship.

	Sweatrem, once exclusively the fabric of spacers, had gone mainstream in
the last half dozen years.  The latest of the miracle fabrics, this one actually
deserved the title.  For years spacers had been searching for the ultimate
undersuit fabric, something to wear under their bulky Environmental Suits while
out in space.  They needed something that was thin and stretchy enough so that
it wouldn't catch on the rough inside of the E-Suit, yet would still insulate
their bodies and whisk moisture away from their skin.  Sweatrem did it all.

	Amazingly thin and elastic, it practically pulled sweat away from the
skin, yet was so smooth even when dry that it looked wet--no way it could catch
on an E-Suit joint.  It was so smooth it felt wet to the hand.  Only a tenth of
a millimeter thick, it was tearproof, flameproof, and came in a wide variety of
colors.

	A full E-undersuit came complete with boots, gloves, and hood, but
Sweatrem had gone mainstream years ago and was available in an infinite number
of colors and styles.  Shorts, leggings, tank tops -- Sweatrem had been cut into
every conceivable shape, and it wouldn't rip.  As a fashion statement, however,
Sweatrem had a major drawback.  The shy soon learned that an infinitely
stretchable, hair thin piece of fabric has a tendency to display one's flesh as
well if not better than complete nudity.  Hence the nickname for the fabric,
twoskin, and the outfits, Skinsuits.  Berto's shirt was untucked for a reason --
his blue Sweatrem lowers were amazingly comfortable, but might as well have been
painted on for all they hid of his genitals.  However, they were warm, and
comfortable, so he just made sure not to pull up the front of his shirt too far. 
Genital flashing had to be a violation of some local ordinance, although he
couldn't think of which one.  Apparently his memory dump, where the local
regulations were concerned, wasn't as complete as he'd been led to believe.

	 He saw a holo-map console and wandered over.  The brightly lit image of
the spaceport multiplex rotated slowly in the air in front of him.  Using the
console's controls he macro'd the image a bit, trying to get a feel for the
overall layout of the place.  It was bigger than he'd thought.  Six major
hotels, two dozen full service restaurants, three entertainment complexes, all
connected by moving walkways and laid out in a huge oval encircling the
spaceport.  He imagined the city must have grown up around the spaceport, as a
lot of them did.  No one actually built spaceports in population centers
anymore, what with the risk of catastrophic crashes.

	Berto zoomed in on his hotel, figured out where he was in the display,
and tried to get his bearings.  Straight ahead, he was pretty sure, although his
brain was a little fuzzy from exhaustion.  He started walking, and came upon a
small shop selling food and drinks.  They had a flat display-holo in front
advertising something and he stopped to study it while the attractive woman who
was the shop's only employee waited on a customer.  A beautiful, busty, and yet
somehow motherly holowoman in a tongi was holding up a capped plastic container. 
TRY PUREGIRL MILK   it read.   IN ORIGINAL, CHOCOLATE, CHAVA, STRAWBERRY, AND
NOW ORANGE!   GOOD TASTING, AND GOOD FOR YOU  JUST LIKE MOM USED TO MAKE.  He
bought a bulb of the orange from the attractive shopgirl and sipped at it as he
made his way around the concourse.  The drink was surprisingly good, and he was
glad he'd picked orange.  About a hundred meters down he came upon a row of
windows opening onto the spaceport and he stood and watched jumpers take off and
land for a few minutes while sipping at the milk.  After a while he stepped onto
a moving walkway and hoisted his bag onto the handrail.  He spotted a sign
indicating his hotel was only five minutes away, and was reassured that he was
heading in the right direction.

	The non-skid walkway was two meters wide and moving at a slow jogger's
pace.  A waist-high handrail on either side kept people from inadvertently
straying.  There was another walkway beside the first, whisking people in the
opposite direction.  Berto spent the time eyeballing all the passing women,
thoroughly enjoying himself without regard to how lecherous he might appear.  On
other planets he wouldn't have been so open about it, but the vac-pac of X-Tend
in his bag told him a little something about Monsipur.  So did the high number
of revealing outfits the passing women wore.  He wanted to get a feel for the
planet; he always did, no matter where he was.  By studying the society and the
local customs, the natives' clothing and demeanor, he'd found through the years
that he could develop a good enough sense of place to keep himself out of
trouble.  His shipmates couldn't always say the same.  It usually didn't take
Berto long to get a place nailed down.

	Every world was different, and not just in geography.  The planet could
be a frigid ice-ball like Tsarsis, or nearly all jungle like Antico, but he'd
found that there was no way to guess ahead of time what kind of society had
developed just by studying the climate.  Tsarsis, to his surprise, had been one
huge party, nevermind the fact that an improperly dressed person would freeze to
death in minutes, just by stepping outside, ten out of the eleven months of the
year.  And for all its natural beauty, New Mantique was one huge headache.  Past
decontam it had only taken him two hours to discover that the planet was under
the control of a bunch of moral zealots.  Even alcohol was prohibited.  Those
two weeks had been the most boring and unpleasant layover he'd ever experienced.

	He didn't quite have a feel for Monsipur yet.  Sure, a lot of the women
wore figure-concealing tongis, but just as many wore tight or abbreviated
outfits like the girl he'd seen in the Plastex bikini.  Plastex-looked, felt,
and wore like old-fashioned rubber, but breathed to prevent sweating.  Also, in
just two minutes in the concourse he'd already gotten a lot of passing smiles. 
The planet was a barren, desolate ball of sand, but what he'd seen of Garshak
told him the city was as modern as any he'd ever been to.  Instead of a rusty
mech he'd dealt with a polite, attractive synthetic, who'd given him erection
pills on behalf of the Board of Tourism, and yet the customs officials had been,
if anything, slower and more inept than what he'd experienced on Randazzo, the
Armpit of the Universe.  At least on Randazzo the beer was good.

	Up ahead he spotted the lobby of the Superior.  To his surprise he saw
that he would be dealing with actual people, instead of just a computer screen. 
They were probably just synthetics, but still he appreciated the hotel
management going that extra distance to make his stay pleasant.

	He was so focused on the Superior's lobby, and the staff displayed
therein, that Berto almost didn't notice the two women passing him on the other
walkway, heading in the opposite direction.  He caught a glimpse of the two
attractive women out of the corner of his eye, glanced at them, then did a
doubletake and turned to stare after them.  He was still staring at their
receding backs, jaw hanging open in surprise, when his walkway reached the hotel
lobby, its final destination.  Its non-skid track dove beneath the floor and
Berto found himself flying backward as his heels caught.  He landed with a thud
on the hard lobby floor, his heavy bag hitting him on the chest, orange milk
drops speckling his shirt.

	He sat up, at first stunned, then began to laugh.  The people passing by
to either side gave him strange glances, and a wide berth, which made him laugh
even harder.  He laughed so long and so hard his stomach began to cramp up.  The
fact that the two women he'd been staring at hadn't even noticed his near
somersault made the whole incident even funnier. 

	Finally, Berto staggered to his feet, threw his bag over his shoulder,
and strode into the spacious lobby.  The women were long gone, whisked out of
sight by the humming walkway.  He'd been caught totally off guard by the two
bare-breasted women, chatting quietly as they rolled smoothly toward their
destination.  Both had been lightly tanned, and wore loose fitting low-waisted
pastel colored pants.  If he closed his eyes and concentrated he could almost
make out the design of the silver bauble that had been dangling from one woman's
nipple.

	Maybe this layover wouldn't be so boring after all.

                                                     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.

                                                     CHAPTER THREE

	

	Maybe it was just an ad hoc resort colony, Berto thought, sprung up in a
remote, unlikely corner of the universe.  He'd been trying to get a feel for
Monsipur, and Garshak in particular, ever since he'd cleared decontam.  Garshak
had the look of a business or technology center with its gleaming spires and
high-speed magnetic monorails.  Everything looked new, or so clean and well-kept
he couldn't tell the difference.  The streets were busy with pedestrians and the
latest models of sleek speeders, rollers and floaters, but over a third of the
people he'd seen had been in tongis.  Berto was sure they were all productive
members of Garshak society, but baggy pastel robes were not what he considered
appropriate business attire. 

	And that was just his first contradictory observation.  There were a lot
more.

	Legalized prostitution in what he'd heard was the Outer Rim's leading
supplier of biotechnology components.  The governing body an apparently
old-fashioned, traditionally strict oligarchy, and yet Monsipurian society was
relaxed enough to allow public nudity.  Nudity, and prostitution, and eighty
channels of sex programs on the I-Vid.  When he'd seen the schedule in his room
he'd about choked.  He'd checked in briefly, by vidcall, with his shipmates, to
make sure they'd made it to their rooms without trouble.  They'd all been agog
at the programming too.

	If he started watching sex on the I-Vid he knew he'd never get out of
his room, and Berto wanted to interact with some actual living beings before
this layover was over.  Women who weren't prostitutes.  Sure, there'd been a
time or two when he'd exchanged a few Universal Credits for female
companionship, but those had been the exception to the rule, and he'd been a lot
younger.  Paying for sex was something he found slightly distasteful, actually. 
Unlike Hamee. 

	The I-Vid had a long listing of local establishments where he could get
food, drink, and female companionship, but he couldn't decide where to go.  As
detailed as it was, the list didn't seem to be able to tell him what he wanted
to know.  After half an hour he finally gave up and headed out. 

	Berto had showered in the room's small stall, luxuriating in the hot
spray, then changed into fresh clothes.  Black midcalf boots, baggy black pants,
and a white, fauxsilk shirt with baggy sleeves and a square collar.  Not the
cutting edge of fashion, but not horrible to look at, either.  It was so hard to
keep current on fashions.  What was in style on one world was horribly out of
date on the next, and some worlds, like Monsipur, seemed to set their own
fashion trends.  Tongis, for example. 

	Berto took the lift down the seventy-one floors to the lobby and headed
toward the front desk.  The hotel - suprisingly - had attendants, instead of
just reactive consoles.  Berto was halfway convinced that they were actual
humans, not synthetics, as amazing as that sounded.  It seemed like such a waste
of manpower, but he vaguely remembered something from his memory dump that was
fading far too fast for his liking.  Some edict that required any job that could
be performed by a human to be performed by a human.  How could such a thing even
be legal? he wondered.

	"Yes, Sir?" The attendant wore the hotel's black and burgundy uniform
coat and smiled politely.

	"Where can I find something to eat and drink?" he asked.  "Someplace not
too loud, where there's a chance some of the women there won't require UC's for
services rendered, if you grab my meaning."

	The attendant, a dark-haired pleasant-looking fellow a few years younger
than Berto, laughed politely.  "Well," he said, "there are dozens of eateries
within minutes of here, by walkway or magrail.  Most of which will give you a
good meal at a fair price.  But, if I may, I'd like to recommend the Port
Authority.  It's located between this hotel and the Garshak Princess.  Not only
is the food as good as you're going to find, but because of its location the
clientele is very . . . diverse.  Spacers from all over, as well as zuppers --
travelling businesspeople," he explained.  "The Port Authority has been known to
attract a certain kind of woman, the kind who's spent her entire life on-planet
and is intrigued by the men who sail amongst the stars."  He wiggled his
eyebrows.

	"No professionals?"

	"Oh, there'll be those there too," the attendant admitted.  "Lots of
'em.  We call them treats here, and you're going to find they're everywhere. 
But just tell the first couple that you're not interested in paying for it and
the word will get around."

	"I just don't want to be hustled while I'm trying to eat."

	"Oh, you won't have to worry about that, sir," he was reassured.  "We
have strict laws about that sort of thing, and we Monnies are the most polite
people you'd ever want to meet."

	"Well, I can't say I've been disappointed yet." 



	

	Christopher hurried down the hall to the lift.  He was so hungry he was
feeling faint.  His stomach was grumbling so loudly he thought he'd heard an
echo.  Always eager to try out local cuisine, he'd asked the (surprisingly)
human attendant about nearby eateries even before he'd made it up to his room. 
Ship food, never spectacular, lost what little glamour it had after two weeks,
much less six.  The attendant had recommended a restaurant right next to the
hotel.  Christopher was sure that was because the hotel got a percentage of
their business, but he had plenty of time to search out the best restaurants in
the capital.  Right now all he wanted to do was EAT.

	The light above the lift doors blinked steadily as the car neared. 
Finally, with a beep, the doors opened and he stepped inside.  The car's other
occupant was a slender female wearing a white robe.  He'd seen a lot of women in
robes since leaving Immigration and assumed it was the latest style on Monsipur. 
Not very attractive or flattering to the female shape, at least in his opinion.

	Even though she was wearing a robe, Chris wondered if this woman was a
native.  Her robe was white.  He'd seen robes in all sorts of colors, but this
was the first white one.  And her skin -- it was pale.  Very pale.  Almost all
of the women he'd seen onplanet had dark tans from the intense sunlight.

	Chris smiled at her politely.  He stood to one side and stared blankly
at the wall.  "Lobby," he told the car.

	"Good day," the woman said warmly, turning to face him.  She eyed his
clothing.  "Might it be that you're a spacer?" she asked eagerly.

	"Yes," he said tentatively.  Some women were attracted to the adventure
that they saw in spacer life, but she could also be the not uncommon native
upset at all the offworlders on her planet.  "Just arrived."  He raised his left
arm slightly to show off the silver bracelet, assuming she knew what it was.

	"Just arrived?  When?  This day?"

	She seemed a little too eager, too interested in him, but he wasn't sure
what to make of it.  Her manner of speaking could be totally normal for
Monsipur.  He remembered Berto saying that prostitution was legal on-planet, but
she didn't seem the type.

	"Only a few hours ago.  We spent forever in orbit.  I only cleared
Decontam less than an hour ago." 

	The woman began to look him over more intently.  Christopher saw her
forehead crease, then she licked her lips.  "What did you think of the chemical
bath?" she asked, referring to the main tool used to destroy body-borne
contaminants.

	He laughed.  "It stunk, as usual," he replied.  The chemical wash didn't
just smell bad, it smelled horrible.  Thank the stars he didn't have to suffer
through it more than once a month.  "I'm glad they've got it, I don't want to be
the one who brings in some strange disease that kills half a million people, I
just wish they could make it smell a little better.  As soon as I got to my room
I took a wetshower to get the smell off me."

	"A wetshower too?  You must like to be clean."  She had moved closer and
was eyeing him intently.

	"Uh, sure.  I was a little surprised.  As dry as this planet is, I
would've thought I'd be stuck with sonic showers through the whole layover." 
Chris noticed her short blond hair seemed to sparkle in the light, and wondered
if she had it treated.  He also couldn't help but see right down the front of
her robe.  It was V-necked and hung loose on her.  Chris tried to show some
restraint, but it didn't appear that she was wearing anything underneath, and it
had been over six weeks since he'd scooped a piece.  An erection began to make
its presence known.

	"I love a clean man," she murmured, hand moving up to touch his arm. 
"Cleanliness is next to Godliness."

	"Uh . . . ummm, you know," he floundered for words, "I was just heading
to the hotel restaurant to eat.  Would you like to join me?"

	"You want to eat?" she said.  Chris though he might've heard just a hint
of disappointment in her voice.

	"I haven't had anything to eat in nearly eighteen hours, Standard," he
explained.  "I can barely stand up."

	The blond pursed her lips, and pressed her body against his.  When her
hand cupped his crotch he jumped involuntarily.

	"How long has it been since you've had a woman?" she murmured throatily
into his ear.  "Come to my home.  I'll prepare a delicious meal for you, and
then afterward, well, you can have me for dessert."

	The lift car beeped and the doors slid open to reveal the lobby.  The
woman never stopped massaging his crotch.

	"Krikes, you've sold me," he burst out.  Chris put a hand on her
kneading fingers.  "You'd better stop that soon.  I've been shipbound for six
weeks, you know.  You're not going to charge me, are you?" 

	"All I want from you is your seed,"

	"Krikes!"  He looked around in case anybody heard her.  He didn't know
why she'd chosen him, and honestly was afraid to ask in case she changed her
mind.  All he knew was that a young, attractive female was throwing herself at
him, practically laying down and spreading her legs, and after six weeks on the
Nancy, he didn't think he'd be able to say no even if he wanted to.  Alarm bells
should have been going off in his head, but after six weeks staring at Race's
tight ass wiggling around the ship in twoskin his balls felt bigger than his
head.

	She removed her hand from his crotch and took his wrist.  "Lead on," he
told her as she began tugging him through the lobby.

	One of the uniformed hotel employees standing behind the lobby counter
saw the white-robed woman leading Chris toward the moving walkways.  He shook
his head, a disgusted frown on his face, and nudged his coworker.

	"Another Dane lover," he said, jerking his head.  "I wonder how they
keep getting in here, they never go past the desk except on the way out.  We
should call the Blues."  The coworker watched Chris and the woman until they
were out of sight.

	"Some people have all the luck," was his only response.  He laughed at
his own joke, then went back to work.



	

	The Port Authority was big.  Very big, and very busy.  Most of it was a
simple eatery, and glorious smells of cooking food wafted through the air. 
Tables littered the long floor, and booths ran along the walls.  Berto spotted a
small dance floor on the far side of the room.  It was about half full of bodies
flailing to the sonicrock beat.  Luckily the music speakers were shielded, so
the incessant beat was muted to all but those on the dance floor.  There was
also a long, old-fashioned bar, with well dressed attendants dashing to and fro
pouring drinks.

	Berto paused at the end of the small queue trailing out the door and
waited his turn.  There was a partition just beyond the door plastered with
signs, and since he had the time he studied them.

	Posted in the six major languages, including Standard and Monny, was a
notice.  Berto decided to test his Monny dump and tried to read the local
language version.

	"Attention all freelance" . . . pulatritas was the word, a plural, but
he didn't know its definition.  The rest of the notice seemed to have the flavor
of a legal document.

	"1.  Management must be notified of your presence.  See the Manager on
duty for details or if you have any questions.

	2.  No penetrative acts or body fluid transfers will be permitted on the
premises."

	Ah, Berto thought.  Pulatritas must be sex workers.  Treats is what the
hotel clerk had called them.  He read on as the line slowly moved forward.

	"3.  Genitals must be regularly covered."

	Regularly?  Just what do they mean by regularly?

	"4.  We are a Mundane-friendly establishment -- all working pulatritas
on premises must exhibit no more than 5% visible deviation from human standard
as measured on the Compton scale."

	"Good evening sir.  Food, drink, dancing, or a little bit of all three?" 
The waitress appeared before him wearing a pleasant smile.  She had long dark
hair in a topknot and wore a pleated knee-length blue skirt and a black
waistcoat that left her midriff bare and revealed as much of her breasts as it
covered.  All of the waitresses were dressed in the same uniform.  Her eyelids
were colored blue to match the skirt.

	"Food, please," he replied, totally unconscious of the fact that he'd
addressed his reply to her chest.

	"Follow me."  Most of the men talked to her chest.  She didn't mind,
didn't even notice it anymore.  Most of her customers were longhaul spacers,
just off their ships and stinking from Decontam.  If they didn't stare at her
big chest (courtesy of an extensive battery of pituitary stimulations, the
cheapest and longest to implement augmentation procedure) then she figured they
liked men instead, and didn't count on any tip.

	She led him down an aisle between clumps of tables filled with raucous
spacers.  The Port Authority wasn't that busy, perhaps only half full, but after
six weeks surrounded by only three other people and a synthetic Berto was a bit
overwhelmed.  The aromas of a dozen different exotic dishes assaulted his
nostrils and Berto's salivary glands began to ache.  His eyes darted left and
right at people talking, laughing, at the dance floor half-filled with gyrating
bodies.  The outfits he saw were substantially briefer here than what he'd seen
at the spaceport.  TwoSkin, Plastex, spray-ons and old-fashioned fishnet
dominated.  As he followed the waitress up two steps onto the raised section of
the floor running along the back wall a small smile crossed his features.  It
was good to be back on a planet, among people, with real gravity and oxygen that
wasn't parsed out by the cubic meter by some computer.

	Berto slid into the small booth the waitress indicated, sliding around
the horseshoe-shaped bench seat until he was facing out.

	"I'm Nadiline, I'll be your server," the waitress told him  "Can I start
you out with something to drink?"

	"Do you have djilk?"

	"Coming right up.  If you need help with the menu, I'll be back in just
a minute or you can hit the Help button."  She strode off at a high rate of
speed and Berto began examining the menu.  It was displayed on a small
touch-control vidscreen set into the center of the table top.  He scrolled up
and down the entrees.  A description was provided for each, as well as a
picture.  The prices seemed reasonable, although he'd never heard of any of the
local specialties.  Monnies seemed to like red meat and a lot of spices.  He
tried not to drool on the screen and its delicious-looking offerings.  After six
weeks of ship food he was ready to eat the table.

	No alcoholics listed amongst the beverages, which was a surprise, but
there were some mild euphorics.  He vaguely remembered from his memdump that
alcohol was all but outlawed onplanet.  Strange, considering prostitution was
legal.  He would've thought the two went hand in hand.

	He tapped in his order for one of the local specialties and slid his
hotel room card into the slot in the edge of the table for billing.  He hoped it
wouldn't be too long -- his stomach was growling loud enough to be heard in the
next booth.

	Nadiline returned with his drink in a large lidded container which she
set on the table.  He tried not to stare at her abundant cleavage and was only
partway successful.  The pungent aroma of djilk seeped out of the carafe and
found Berto's nose.

	"Just hit the Call button when you need another one," she told him with
a smile.  He forced his eyes up and returned her smile, trying to not be too
neanderthal. 

	"My shift ends right about the time you'll be finished eating," she told
him.  "If you'd like to scoop a piece after that my prices are very competitive,
and as you can see," she looked down at her chest, " I've got a lot to offer." 
She flashed a smile at him and rapped her knuckles against the table.  "Think
about it."  Then she spun away and was gone.

	Caught totally by surprise at this turn of events, Berto blinked twice
and worked his mouth.  He watched Nadiline's hips wiggle beneath her skirt as
she moved across the room, weaving in-between tables deftly.  If he wasn't so
biased against paying for it he would have seriously considered her offer.  He
was a true breast man, and it had been quite some time since he'd been with a
big-busted woman.  A whole year, in fact-that dusky prostitute with the
award-winning smile and breasts the size of small continents on Nubia.

	Berto took a long draught of his djilk and sighed contentedly.  Just the
right sweetness, and only a faint buzz.  Perfect.  He leaned back and looked
around the big room.  Half the tables and most of the booths were full, most of
them occupied by men who -- by their manner of dress -- were spacetrekking
longhaulers of one sort or another.  He saw some female spacers at one table,
and a handful of patrons standing up at the bar in native robes.  Plus a few
dozen individuals in dress so bizarre they had to be from the Outer Rim.

	As he looked closer Berto noticed there were quite a few single women in
the place.  Most of them were sitting with spacers, talking animatedly, while
others roamed the floor around the dancers.  It was their attire that convinced
him they were the aforementioned pulatritas -- he hadn't seen so much Sweatrem,
or rather, so little of it, since that dance revue on New Vegas.  Why they even
bothered with clothing at all . . . .

	Whether they were sincere about it or not, most of the pulatritas, or
"treats" as the slang went, seemed to be enjoying themselves, dancing or just
soaking up the festive atmosphere.  Nobody seemed to be in a hurry to drag their
prospective customer back to his room for a scoop.

	Nadiline reappeared and deposited several wide, steaming plates onto the
table in front of him.

	"Need anything else?  No?  Okay, let me know about later," she told him
cheerfully, flipping her skirt at him and disappearing again.  Berto paused, a
forkful of food halfway to his mouth.  When she'd flipped her skirt at him she'd
done it so he could see that she had on absolutely nothing under it.  Unless the
yellow sunflower design permdyed onto her pubic mound counted.

	"This planet," he said disbelievingly, shaking his head.  He reached
down and surreptitiously adjusted his pants.  He wondered if the sunflower
design had any meaning, such as her specializing in a certain kind of sex act. 
Probably not.

	While he ate he entertained himself by peoplewatching.  The spacers on
the dancefloor had no rhythm or technique.  Mostly they just ground their pelvis
against a willing treat, who was usually grinding back.  Maybe it was just six
weeks in space, but Berto had to admit that the prostitutes circulating around
the club seemed especially attractive.  Better looking than most women he'd met,
period, no matter their occupation.  In fact, all of the local females,
pulatritas or not, were damn good looking.  Pretty, thin, and athletic.  He
remembered that a lot of the original settlers of Monsipur were of Arabic or
Japanese descent, which helped to explain some of the good genes displayed by
the women here tonight.  One such specimen on the dance floor was garnering some
attention.  She was gyrating spasmodically to the beat, hair whipping around her
face like stormy surf.  She also happened to be nude from the waist up, sweaty,
and was bouncing her small breasts so violently it appeared she was trying to
fling them from her chest.

	There were a few bare breasts here and there, and quite a bit of heavy
petting, but mostly the patrons seemed to be obeying the posted rules. 
Multicolored holos flashed above the dance floor in time to the music, and there
were a few big flatscreens on the wall above the bar.  They seemed to be showing
either local news or sports, or both at the same time.  The hotel attendant had
been right, not only had he gotten a good meal at a fair price, but the place
had a very friendly atmosphere.

	Halfway through his meal a woman appeared beside his table, hand on a
cocked hip.  She wore green twoskin shorts and a white longsleeve half-jacket
that left her midriff bare.  Bare slivers of her breasts peeked out beneath it. 
She was pretty, with short brown hair and a trim figure.  Short hair seemed to
be the style among the women of Monsipur.

	"Warm greetings," she said.  "Care for some companionship?"

	Berto looked her over and once again marveled at the thinness of
Sweatrem.  Couldn't see through it, not at all, but it was so thin, tight, and
elastic that he could see that the woman's pubic hair was cut into a vertical
stripe of stubble.  It didn't even look like clothing, it looked like she'd been
sprayed with a thin layer of bright green paint.

	"Only if it's free," he replied with a grin.  She gave a little pout.

	"Mind all set?" she asked.  She performed a little pirouette so he could
get a good look at her tight little bottom.  It was perfect.  He took a deep
breath.

	"Sorry."

	She moved on without complaint and Berto did his best to finish his
meal.  It was tough.  Between the two propositions and the frequent nudity
glimpsed on the dance floor or among the busy tables he had a constant erection.

	Berto's first container of djilk was running low and he was considering
ordering another when yet another woman appeared beside his table.  He'd been
told that the treats would pass the word that he wasn't interested in paying for
it, but that apparently wasn't the case.  He made no attempt to disguise his
frank evaluation of this one, but reminded himself to be polite even if he was
getting a little aggravated at the interruptions; after all, they were just
trying to make a living.

	This woman had short brown hair that framed her heart-shaped face.  Her
features were of the type that Berto didn't even try to guess her age -- she
could have been fifteen or thirty-five, although he was pretty sure she was
younger than his thirty-two years(S).  She wore a baggy white short-sleeved
shirt that came halfway down her thighs.  Blue Sweatrem shorts peeked out from
under the shirt.  Simple pull-ons covered her feet, and she held a small bag in
one hand.

	"And a good hello to you," he managed.  Her round face was rather
pretty, and she liked to smile.  Pretty green eyes set off pale -- for a native
-- skin.  Pale pink lips.  Her legs below the shirt hem were slender and
well-defined.  Big hard nipples set high on her chest, real attention getters,
poked aggressively against the white shirt.  Yow.  Her breasts didn't seem that
big, but her nipples apparently more than made up the difference. 

	This treat seemed a little nervous, a small smile flicking on and off
her face.  Her nervousness didn't seem to be that big of a deterrent, though --
she kept her eyes glued to Berto's face.

	"Would you like to sit down?" he blurted out, not sure why.  Her smile
flicked on and off again.

	"Yes, very much," she said, and quickly slid in beside him, close enough
to bump his arm.

	Berto's heart sank.  When she'd bent over and shuffled sideways into the
booth her shirt had pulled tight against her abdomen and he'd seen jiggling
rolls of fat.  Oh well, he thought.  Too bad.  Her face is pretty, though.  And
a cute, squeaky voice.

	"I'm Berto," he said politely, determined to be cordial.  It was one of
the few remaining virtues left over from his strict upbringing.  He stuck out
his hand.  The woman giggled and shook it, her grip firmer than he'd expected.

	"Gilly," she said.  She looked him over, a little wide-eyed.  "Are you a
spacer?"

	"Sure," he said.  Okay, so she was playing the innocent little girl.  He
was willing to play along, for the entertainment value if nothing else, at least
until she started asking for credits.  "Just arrived this day.  Do you like this
place?"  He gestured around the Port Authority.

	Gilly looked around the big room, her eyes taking in the sights.  "No,"
she said.  "I've never been here before."

	"Okay," he said as he tried to follow the script.  "Well, I guess I
should be flattered you picked me to talk with."

	Gilly giggled again.  She seemed a little breathless, still acted
slightly nervous.

	"You're cute," she said, staring into his face, as if that explained her
presence.  "I was hoping I'd find somebody cute."  She pressed her hands to her
mouth as if she couldn't believe she'd just said that.  The bench seat jiggled
as she bounced her thighs together.

	"Well, I'm glad I was here."  He smiled, and offered her the dregs of
his djilk.  She smiled and took the green plastic container and downed its
contents in one quick gulp.  As she put the empty plastic container back on the
table a red flush warmed her cheeks and she wiggled nervously on the seat. 
Faint blue traceries of veins colored her pale neck. 

	Gilly seemed unsure of what to say.  "Are you on-planet long?"  She slid
closer and he could feel the heat of her leg against his thigh.  Her leg was
quivering.

	"Ten days."  He had to admit, she smelled good.  Soapy, and another,
more earthy girl smell.

	"Monny or Standard?" 

	That's right! he thought.  He slapped himself mentally in the head. 
There was some difference between the two.

	"Monny.  I'm not even sure what that is in Standard days.  Eight? 
Something like that."  At least Monsipur wasn't as bad as Yorra, with its
sixteen hour days that just destroyed his internal clock.

	"I don't know, I'm so bad at math, I can never convert anything into
Standard."  Gilly was just a bundle of nervous energy, wiggling constantly on
the seat.

	"Are you a native?"

	"Oh sure, I'm a Monny," she said.  "Born and bred."

	"You don't look tan enough," he told her.  "And you're not wearing a
tongi."

	"I don't look good at all in a tongi," she admitted, and giggled
self-consciously.  "And I don't get outside very often.  With my blessing -- my
job, I don't really have much opportunity to head out to the Rose Cliffs."  She
wiggled again.

	"That's a landmark around here, isn't it?  Tourist attraction?  Big tall
cliffs that look like they were painted by a bunch of short-circuiting
mega-mechs.  You'd defintiely get a tan out there, your sun's a real burner." 
He lifted his container of djilk before remembering Gilly had finished the last
of it off.  He punched in an order for another one on the flatscreen terminal
and asked, "So what do you do?  What's your job?"  Logic told him that she had
to be a pulatrita, but his gut told him there was something different about her. 
She just didn't have the right demeanor to be a professional sex worker.

	"I'm a lackey," she told him with more than a little pride in her voice. 
Her butt continued its squirming on the seat, her thighs scissoring open and
shut, open and shut.

	"A lackey.  You mean you're an employee?"

	His waitress appeared with another container of djilk and set it on the
table.  She looked Gilly over, evaluating her as a possible challenger for
Berto's money, but her expression remained blank as she left without a word.

	"No," she explained patiently, putting a hand on his thigh.  "A lackey,"
she reiterated in her sweet high voice.  His heartrate jumped ten percent as the
heat from her hand seeped into his skin.

	From the perplexed expression on Berto's face she could tell he didn't
have the slightest idea what she was talking about.  Gilly looked a little
confused.

	"You don't know what a nurser is?"

	Berto shook his head.  "I'm always bouncing back and forth between
worlds all the time," he told her.  "You'd be amazed at all the things that
happen in the universe that I don't hear about until years later.  Stuff just
slips through the cracks, I guess.  You take care of other people's children?"

	Gilly laughed.  "Oh, who'd ever want to do that?"  She pressed against
his side and slid her hand up his thigh until it was only a hair's breadth away
from his raging erection.

	"So what's a lackey?" Berto asked, his voice thick.  He moved his arm
that was between the two of them and laid it on the seat back and Gilly pushed
even closer.  She wasn't a pulatrita, that much he'd figured out.  Exactly what
she was, however, he had no idea.

	The tip of Gilly's tongue appeared between her teeth and a wicked,
naughty gleam came into her eyes.  She furtively glanced around and saw nobody
was close or looking in their direction, then shifted on the seat so that she
was facing Berto.  Another quick peek around, then she grabbed the bottom of her
shirt and pulled it up in front to just below her shoulders.  For a brief
moment, Berto's brain didn't comprehend what his eyes were looking at.  Then his
jaw dropped.

	Gilly lowered her shirt and giggled and snorted at the expression on his
face.  She pressed even closer to him, her nose against his neck.  Her hand
darted into his crotch and gave his organ a quick squeeze.

	"What . . . I mean, how, uh . . . ."  Berto was at a loss for words. 
His jaw moved up and down several times but no coherent sounds emerged.

	Gilly's hand stole back into his crotch and began massaging his turgid
flesh in earnest.  He kept staring at the front of her shirt, but it was too
baggy for him to see anything.

	"Listen," she said.  "I'm all juiced up.  My hormone pop is really
hitting me hard today.  I need a man to scoop me before I go crazy, a pod's just
not going to do it this time.  I can't remember the last time I had a real man. 
Do you have a room we can go to?"

	"Uh, I . . . ."

	"I can't wait much longer," she entreated him.  "I'm all squishy
already.  Or didn't you like what you saw?"  She was afraid that by flashing him
in her unattractively drained condition she'd repulsed Berto. 

	"Krikes," was all Berto could say, but he quickly motioned for her to
scoot out from behind the table so he could lead the way.





	"You live here?" Chris asked dubiously.  Leesee -- that was her name,
he'd learned -- smiled. 

	They'd traveled by moving walkway and magrail to the edge of the city. 
She'd groped him nearly constantly in the railcar, totally unconcerned by the
presence of other passengers.  And in truth, even though her vigorous massaging
of his crotch was visible to the entire car, no one said anything or even
appeared offended.  Perhaps they assumed she was a whore and he her customer,
but their behavior was still strange, at least to him.  She might have been
holding his hand for all their lack of reaction.  Once they'd left the rail
platform she'd taken him by the hand and led him down a narrow street.  This was
obviously an older part of the city, the buildings darker, smaller, and mostly
made of brick and stone.  The street was nearly empty, and lights shone in only
a few of the buildings.  It made Chris a little uneasy -- even though the area
wasn't overtly threatening, it was so different from the area around his hotel
that he got a little concerned.  In the darkness he couldn't see much, but he
got the impression the open desert was just a few minutes away.  A dry breeze
blew along the street, and for the first time Chris saw some sand -- caught in
the cracks of the pavement. 

	Her residence turned out to be a six-story brick and stone building with
a commercial look about it.  Faint light shone from a few of its windows, but
the glow was too feeble to assuage Chris' feelings of unease.  This is insane,
this is insane, this is insane, he kept telling himself, over and over and over. 
A strange woman, on a strange planet, acting strange, and I'm actually following
her into the bad part of town?

	"It looks deserted," he said.  "This whole area does."

	"Most of the business in this area had to relocate when an undetected
rock fault shifted last year and ruptured all the power lines.  Most of the
problems have been repaired, but tenants have been slow to move back, afraid the
same thing'll happen again.  Between that and the location, practically in the
desert, it's very inexpensive to live here.  Come."  Leesee took his hand and
led him up the wide staircase into the dark building.  And, in a triumph of
testosterone over common sense, he went willingly.

                                                           CHAPTER FOUR



	Hamee was nearly shaking with anticipation.  As the saying went, he
didn't know whether to bark or go bite.  He paced back and forth in his hotel
room, rubbing his hands together.  He'd had high hopes when he'd learned
prostitution was legal on Monsipur, but the reality was a whole other world.

	It began when the holomodel recommended he buy some SweetSeed if he was
going to take advantage of the legal sex trade onplanet.  Then was handed a
packet of X-Tend by the Tourism Bureau official!  Unbelievable.  Then as soon as
he was out on his own and headed for the hotel he started seeing the adverts. 
For sex clubs, sex shows on the I-Vid, individual sex workers . . . everything,
and more.  The holosigns were everywhere, and most featured nudity to one degree
or another.  They seemed to be clustered around the spaceport in an obvious call
to the tourist credit, and thinned out as he neared the hotel.  But it was near
the hotel that he saw his first bare-breasted native.  He nearly tripped over a
potted plant staring at her bouncing teats.  The owner of said teats saw Hamee's
near tumble, and instead of being offended by his staring she just laughed and
continued on her way.  He popped one of the little green pills then.  The
package said the SweetSeed would begin working within an hour, less if taken on
an empty stomach, and the effects should last eight standard hours. 

	Talking to the hotel employees (apparently they had no shortage of
manpower on Monsipur, he hadn't seen a mech yet performing a menial task), he'd
learned that not only was the sex trade legal planetwide, but that Garshak had a
section of the city entirely devoted to the business of physical pleasure. 
FunTown.  They said it was elbow-to-elbow with sex clubs, most of which had no
equal anywhere in the universe.  He'd heard that before, but remained openminded
and optimistic, although if any of this small planet's clubs could top Outer
Pearl's Growler Club he'd eat his deckboots.  His toes still curled at that
memory.

	He'd taken a long, hot shower and then eaten a big meal -- real food,
not ship's gruel -- while perusing the I-Vid.  Through it he could access the
files of over a thousand individual sex workers that catered to hotel guests in
Garshak exclusively.  He'd spent an hour in front of the screen, totally
mesmerized.  And overwhelmed.  It seemed he'd never be able to make a decision;
after so many weeks on The Nancy, every one of the women looked spectacular. 
And their prices!  Amazingly inexpensive.  Hamee checked the I-Vid's computer to
make sure there wasn't some screwy local exchange rate that he didn't know
about, but no -- their prices were in Universal Credits.  Each file carried
still video shots of the women from different angles, a list of their physical
measurements, and a short, two or three minute video of the women talking dirty
or masturbating or demonstrating their technique on a partner.  It was almost
too much for him to take.  Most of the women described their specialties, but
Hamee wished he'd had Berto and his memdump in the room with him to define some
of the slang.  Terms like Mergender, PCA, Plug, a few others.  One skinny but
flabby brunette wearing a pink tongi talked about how she was a lackey.  Hamee
had no idea what that meant, but she seemed ghostly white in comparison to the
other girls.  There was another entire subdirectory of pulatritas, listing
squeakers (whatever they were) and morphs, that he didn't even look at..

	When he found her, though, there was no doubt in his mind which of the
treats he had to see.  Monetta was her name, and he'd punched in a call for
service to her through the I-Vid's terminal just after seeing her picture.  He'd
received a message back almost immediately that she was available, so now all he
had to do was wait.

	He'd been told she'd arrive within fifteen minutes, but after such a
long dry spell his anticipation made the fifteen minutes seem like an eternity. 
Hamee had popped an X-Tend, not because he needed help to steel up but because
he was afraid that two minutes with Monetta would be all his organ could take
after so much inactivity.  And two minutes wouldn't be nearly enough.

	He cupped his palm to his face and sniffed his breath.  Uck.  He popped
a FreshMouth and continued pacing.  He didn't know why he was so nervous.  He
didn't share Berto's distaste for buying sex.  He'd scooped whores on a dozen
different planets and had gotten it plenty of times for free, too.  It had to be
because of the extra-long dry spell.  Not only had they been shipboard for six
weeks, with a bitchy cocktease passenger whose presence made it impossible for
him to get any privacy with the synthetic, but for over a week before that
they'd been on New Mantique, the most repressed goddamn planet in the known
universe.

	The soft chime of the door sounded and Hamee jumped.  He rushed over and
opened the door without looking at the security screen to make sure it was
Monetta outside and not some armed bandits.  He knew better, but the problem was
most of his blood wasn't anywhere near his brain.

	She stood silently in the hallway, her head cocked to one side.  The
woman wore a flowing yellow tongi that pooled around her feet on the floor.  Its
pointed hood obscured her face.

	"Come in, come in," Hamee gushed, his voice caught in his throat. 
Monetta glided through the doorway silently, her hands hidden inside the folds
of the robe.  She moved to the center of the room as Hamee shut the door and
turned to face him.  Her hands appeared, rose up to pull back the hood and
reveal her face.  Hamee's breath caught in his chest and his heart pounded
erratically -- the I-Vid picture hadn't done her justice.

	"You're amazing," he breathed reverently.

	Monetta smiled, her teeth dazzlingly white.  She undid the cloth belt
around her waist and let the tongi drop to the floor.  She was nude underneath,
and Hamee was seriously afraid he was going to need a medico, his heart was
thumping so hard and fast.

	"You like?"  she asked, raising her arms and pirouetting.

	Oh, I like!" he said.  "By krikes I do.  I like it a lot."

	Monetta had had her entire body permdyed black.  From the top of her
head to the tip of her little toes, every centimeter of her skin was dyed.  Not
black like a person with heavy pigmentation -- their skin was closer to the
color brown than anything else.  Monetta was pitch black.  Ebony.  It was as if
a shadow had detached itself and was standing in his room.  She was proportioned
just right, with full but not too big breasts over a narrow waist and full hips,
every curve and crease of her body the color of midnight.

	In stark contrast to her skin was her long hair, yellow as straw and
perfectly straight, hanging down to the small of her back.  A small trimmed
triangle of blonde curls decorated her mound.  Her finger- and toenails were all
a deep ruby red. 

	"You have your room card?" she asked, white teeth flashing against her
black lips.  The white globes of her eyes seemed to float in space.  Hamee dug
it out on automatic, his brain still buzzing from the sight of her.  She held a
tiny CredVendor unnoticed in her hand and passed his card through it quickly
with a small electronic chirp, then handed him back his card.

	Hamee just couldn't stop staring.  They way the light played off her
skin was magical.  It almost seemed to absorb the light.  Her nipples,
impossible as it seemed, were even darker than the rest of her skin.

	"Can I t-t-touch it?" he stammered, raising a hand.  His brain kept
telling him that he couldn't be looking at skin, that it had to feel different.

	Monetta moved close and deftly undid his trousers and let them drop to
the ground.  His large organ--naturally so, he'd never undergone any hormone
treatments, and got angry whenever a woman asked him--sprang up.

	"Oh baby," she purred, "you're going to do a lot more than that, I hope. 
Don't you know nothing escapes from a black hole?"

	And with that she opened her mouth wide, revealing an impossibly long
tongue so black it looked purple, and sank to her knees before him.

	"I think I'm going to like this planet," he managed to gasp.





	"You are human, aren't you?" Berto asked Gilly as they broke from a
heavy kiss.  They were in a lift, heading up to his room.  The car seemed to be
moving impossibly slow.

	Gilly laughed and continued grinding her crotch against his hip. 
"You're silly!  Of course I'm human.  I've just been GELFed."

	"GELFed," he repeated.  "Oh!" he said suddenly in understanding.  He
hadn't realized Monsipur was one of the few planets that still allowed permanent
genetic restructuring for non-life-threatening circumstances.  GELF stood for
Genetically Engineered Life Form.  A lot more common a hundred and fifty years
past than today, thanks in most part to the SuperMan Wars of the Earth Triad. 
They'd let GELFing of their soldiers get out of hand and after 20 years with
virtually no restrictions a war of nightmarish proportions had resulted.  Where
it wasn't banned outright, immediate restrictions on genetic engineering were
put into effect throughout known space, most of which were still in place. 
Apparently Monsipur's Council of Twelve felt they could regulate and monitor
their GE industry -- which, Berto knew, thanks to man's proclivity toward
invention and improvement, had on other planets spun wildly out of control.

	GEing of some sort was allowed on most worlds, but only under great
restriction, and usually only for the prevention of disease or the correction of
birth defects.  A few planets, he'd heard, had started allowing GEing for
recreational purposes, but they were few and far between.  The craziness he'd
read about that had preceded the SuperMan Wars was, thankfully, a thing of the
past.

	The lift doors opened and they hurried down the corridor to his room. 
She kept saying something about the hormone schedule, but all he knew was that
she wanted to be scooped something awful.  He carded the door open and pulled
her into the room, kissing her passionately.  Gilly wrapped her leg around his
and ground her pubic bone against his thigh, tongue worming its way into his
mouth.  He sucked at it eagerly, nearly panting with desire.  She tossed her
small bag into the room blindly and ran her hands over his back and shoulders.

	She was shorter than he'd thought while sitting in the Port Authority's
booth.  Barely one point six meters tall, she had a small frame that held more
muscle than he would've guessed.  As she pressed against him he could feel her
loose breasts pushing against him, weighty flesh tipped with stiff knobs of
flesh.  He reached a hand down and was about to explore a little of what she'd
given him a glance of when she broke their embrace.

	"You sit down," she said, pushing him in the direction of the bed. 
Berto bounced down and began pulling off his TracBoots.  Gilly made sure the
door had shut all the way, then pulled off her tiny shoes as she walked back.

	Berto knew Sweatrem was designed to wick perspiration and moisture away
from the skin, but still he was surprised to see the clear droplets hanging from
the crotch of her shorts.  Her cleft was clearly defined by the thin fabric, two
fat ridges of soft flesh each the thickness of his forefinger, nestled together
between her thighs.

	With a smirky grin Gilly reached under her baggy shirt and pulled the
shorts down her muscled legs.  They dropped onto her feet and she stepped out of
them.  Her shirt came down to just past her crotch, and she pulled the front of
it down to keep him from getting another peek.

	Gilly swayed her hips back and forth, teasing him.  Relenting, she
finally pulled her shirt up and over her head and let it drop.  She put one hand
behind her head, modeling, the other on her cocked hips.  She posed for him, a
lustful grin on her face.  Somehow the pose made her look even younger.

	Berto sat on the bed, not moving, maybe not even breathing.  He
repeatedly thanked whatever Deity that was looking out for him for allowing him
this opportunity, and fervently hoped it wasn't some hallucinatory dream due to
space sickness.

	"A lackey," Gilly said proudly.

	Adorning her young, thin, taut, muscular body were six, SIX, luscious
breasts.  Three pairs, each one topped with a big knobby nipple nearly the equal
to the end of his thumb, the flesh dusky pink.

	Gilly's topmost pair was where Berto was accustomed to seeing breasts on
a woman.  They sat high on her chest, rather wide but disappointingly flat.  Her
big nipples, however, more than made up for the lack of breastmeat.

	Her second pair of breasts, identical in size and shape to the first,
sat just below, nearly underneath the top two.  They hung nearly to the bottom
of her ribcage, which was right where the bottommost pair began sloping outward. 
Gilly's lowest set hung to just below her navel, nearly on line with her hip
bones.  Berto could only stare, his cock throbbing like a seismic anomaly.

	Each of her breasts was pale and round, with the blue tracings of veins
showing beneath the skin.  All six of them appeared to be the same size, round
and wide but unusually flat.  Berto was fascinated with her big wrinkled
nipples, each with a tiny indentation in its wide, flat tip.  They pointed
straight out, aimed right at him.  His mind barely registered the rest of her
body and its total lack of hair.

	"Pull it out," she told him hungrily.  Berto maniacally ripped his shirt
and pants off.  Finally freed from its restraints his organ popped up to point
at the ceiling.  Gilly eyed it like a starving cannibal, her hands sliding up
and down the sides of her body.  One hand moved to roughly tug at a nipple, and
she shivered.  A small white drop appeared at the tip of the nipple, hanging on
the dark pink flesh like a tear.

	Gilly suddenly jumped at the bed, twisting in midair to land on her butt
beside Berto.  She crabwalked backward up the bed to its center and laid back. 
When she spread her legs Berto saw the dark glistening split.  Her groin had the
disconcerting appearance of an child's -- hairless, and no real labia to speak
of, only two fat ridges of flesh with a split running down the center.  Her
split showed a hint of pink, the juices actually running out of her and down the
crack of her ass as she propped herself up on her elbows.

	Her breasts flattened even more as she lay on her back, but her nipples
were six short columns of rigid flesh standing proudly from her chest.

	"I want it," she told him in a voice rough with lust.

	Berto nearly dived across the bed and knelt between her thighs, the tip
of his cock glistening with fluid.  It quivered just an inch from her
thicklipped, childlike slit.

	Sucking in a quick breath, he slowly pushed forward into her soft folds. 
Wet heat enveloped him instantly, and he fought the urge to shove his entire
length into her at once.

	"You're so tight," Berto marvelled.  Gilly groaned and spread her legs
wider.

	She was tight, amazingly so -- a true one-finger glove.  He wasn't the
biggest-equipped man in the universe, yet he practically had to fight his way
into her tight flesh.  If it wasn't for the juices practically gushing out of
her, he might not've made it all the way in.

	Berto worked his cock into the wet fist between her legs, her myriad
breasts swaying and jiggling with each thrust.  Gilly groaned louder, her knees
reflexively jerking backward, and pulled him down on top of her.  He felt her
rubbery nipples nudging his ribcage as she rained kisses upon his lips and face.

	Berto finally felt himself reach bottom, her smooth mound pressed
against his.  He stopped moving for a few seconds, to catch his breath.  Gilly
moaned in protest and thrust her hips at him, urging him on.  In the back of his
mind he hoped that with a little activity her insides would loosen up some;
otherwise, she might be in for a short ride.  He reached up to play with her
flat breasts.  They were soft and infinitely squeezable - in fact, there was
nothing to them.  They were just flat, empty bags of flesh with no meat to fill
them.  He'd never felt any quite like them.  Her thick nipples were the only
things on her chest that had any firmness; they were like pink rubber toggle
switches.

	"Pound me, pound me," she gasped, tearing her lips away from his to
catch her breath.  She'd pulled her knees so far back and apart her feet were
flat against his ribs, toes in his armpits.  He began to thrust into her in
earnest, supporting himself on knees and elbows.

	Berto groaned, kissing Gilly and tonguing her neck.  "Oh Lord," he
panted, pumping into her gluey sheath.  He hadn't felt anything this good in a
loooooong time.  Their sweaty mounds slapped as he took her deep, each impact
making her grunt.

	They gradually found a common rhythm.  Berto began thrusting in earnest
as he lost his fear of popping out.  Gilly kept up the tiny, cute grunts as he
pumped into her, running her hands up and down his shoulders and back.  Gilly's
hot hole did begin to loosen up, going from Oh-my-God-that's-tight to damn snug. 
Suddenly she gave a high moaning whine, lips clamped together.  Berto felt her
vagina fluttering against his organ as she orgasmed, and pumped her even harder.

	The twitching between her legs slowly faded and Berto found she'd
loosened up considerably.  His cock also now practically swam in her juice. 
Each slide in or out was accompanied by a squelch or a sucking sound, loud
enough to be embarrassing, but Gilly didn't seem to notice and Berto found it
was instead turning him on even more.  It was as if her furt was talking to him,
telling him how much it liked what he was doing.

	Berto propped himself up on his hands so he could look at her breasts. 
With each vigorous thrust they bounced back and forth, six glorious mounds of
flesh moving only partially in rhythm.  It was a sight he could never have
imagined.

	After her first climax Gilly seemed to relax.  She spread her legs wide
and let him thrust wildly, groaning luxuriously.  She moved her hands up and
began squeezing her knobby nipples at random.  Top left, middle right, bottom
left, she would roll them between her fingertips, pinch them, pull them up away
from her chest.  After a minute of this ivory drops stood at the end of every
nipple.  As Berto pounded her, and her breasts swayed and jiggled, the drops
rolled off her nipples and down the sides of her breasts.

	"Arrggghh!" Berto grunted and jerked against her, his cock spewing seed
throughout her clenching innards.  Gilly felt it pulsing in her and held tight
to him as he sweated and shook through his orgasm.  He'd meant to hold off, but
when he'd seen her six, white-tipped nipples waving in the air like pricked
thumbs he slid over the edge.

	With a smile and a happy groan Berto kissed Gilly and sucked at her
darting tongue.  Her hot flesh pressed unrelentingly on his cock, and after a
brief fade it surged back to full strength.

	"Hello," Berto said, laughing.  He slowly pulled out of her and sat back
on the bed.  A gurgle came from between her legs and a huge gush of fluid ran
out of her.

	"We're making a mess," Gilly said with a giggle.  Her ribcage was
criscrossed with wet trails where drops of milk had leaked from her nipples and
run across her breasts.

	"That's all right."  The slimy head of his cock rested on the bed's
topcover, but he didn't care.  

	"I need a drink," Gilly told him.  She sat up and looked around the
room.

	"I've got a detailed server," he told her.  "What do you want?"

	"Water, or fresh fruit juice if they've got it.  At least a liter,
preferably two.  I'm way behind, I'm practically dehydrated."

	"No problem."  Berto slid off the bed and strode to the server console
on the wall and ran through the options.

	Gilly rolled over onto her hands and knees and presented her behind to
him.  Her breasts swung loosely beneath her, nipples pointing straight down at
the bed.  He looked away, then back.  It seemed strange, but her breasts didn't
seem quite as loose-skinned as they'd appeared when she'd first shown them to
him in the Port Authority.

	"Want to cork me again?" she asked as he punched in an order.  She
waggled her rear at him.  "I like it this way, it feels good when my bumpers
swing back and forth."

	"Hoof," he exclaimed, and leapt back to the bed.  He grabbed her hips
and buried his cock to the hilt in her with one solid thrust.  Gilly sucked in a
breath, then hummed as he began thrusting madly.  Her rows of breasts swung back
and forth, nipples skipping across the coverlet.

	Furiously slamming into her, Berto brutally fucked her as hard and as
fast as he could.  Gilly cried out, loving it, lowering her shoulders and
pressing her top four breasts into the bed.  She moaned with pleasure, and
Berto'd barely found his groove when he felt her coming.  Gilly twitched and
bucked on the bed, thrusting her ass back onto his rod as her hole clenched
spasmodically around him.  Clear fluid ran out of her and dripped onto the bed.

	"Abalab, gurt, fffft!"  With her face buried in the mattress Gilly's
cries were indecipherable.

	Berto increased his already frantic pace, feeling the pressure building
in his loins.  He hunched over, letting go of her hips to grab her nearest set
of breasts hanging from her muscled belly.  He squeezed her flesh roughly and
her hard nipples dug into his palms.

	"Oh God.  Oh God!"  His balls slapped against her moist mound.  Gilly's
smooth ass pressed against his stomach as Berto hunched ever faster into her. 
The muscles in her back stood out on either side of her spine.  Berto reared
back, hips pumping wildly, sweat beaded on his forehead.

	Gilly grunted and moaned continuously, pushing her hips back at Berto. 
Her tiny pink anus kept clenching over and over, as if she was winking it at
him, all the while her wet tunnel squirmed around his shaft.

	With a gasping bark Berto pulled her close and came, cock throbbing and
pulsing.  He jerked and jerked, shooting load after load into her body.  Gilly
gave a giggling moan, stretching her hands out to grab fistfulls of bedcovers. 
Berto bent over her, sweat dripping from his nose into the furrow along her
spine.

	"Unbelievable," he panted.  He released her breasts, finally realizing
just how hard he'd been squeezing them.  Milk was smeared across his palms, but
Gilly never complained.

	"Mmmmm," Gilly said into the bed.

	Berto gently disengaged himself and fell backward.  Gilly reached a hand
back over her ass and idly dipped two fingers inside her soupy cavity.

	"I liked that," she said with a smile.  She climbed off the bed and
moved to the server.  A wide, clear snake of their commingled secretions began
sliding down the inside of her thigh.

	Berto kept his eyes on her small, taut buttocks as she opened the server
port and removed the two one-liter containers of fruit juice.  She set them on
the small table.

	"Your breasts are amazing," he said.  She posed cartoonishly with a
giggle, then popped the seal of one of the carafes.

	"I am sooo thirsty," she said, and quickly downed half the container.

	"I don't doubt it," Berto said.  "You got so wet you were practically
squirting."

	"I do that sometimes," she said.  The sight of her six breasts swaying
not quite in unison as she took another gulp left him speechless.  When she set
down the liter jug he was surprised to see it already empty.

	"Yeow, I guess you really were thirsty."

	"You have no idea how much I have to drink," she told him.  "Never mind
the vitamins and diet supplements.  I should've drunk this hours ago."

	"So what exactly do you do?  You wetnurse infants in collective
childcare or something like that, right?"

	"Oh, no," she laughed.  He watched in delight as the laugh spread in a
wave of jiggles through her breasts.  He still couldn't get used to the sight of
breasts where only a flat stomach should be.  The middle pair, nestled just
under the first, still rode mostly on her ribcage and didn't appear as unusual
as he would've thought.  But the third pair, hanging unequivocally from her
belly, that looked strange.

	"I don't want any little babies hanging on my nipples," she said. 
"Yecch.  G-Milk -- human milk," she explained to Berto, " is very popular on
Monsipur.  It's a delicacy, very much in demand.  Always has been as far as I
know, although I hear that's not the case on most worlds."  Depending on who you
asked, the G in G-Milk either stood for Genetic or Girl.

	"You mean people drink it like cow's milk?"

	"Of course.  Milk has always been a high demand foodstuff here because
it's high in calcium, something Monsipur is always in short supply of for some
reason.  Someone began marketing human milk, and it became wildly popular.  It's
a lot cheaper than cow's milk, almost all of which has to be imported, because
it's too hot here for cows, I guess they dry right up.  About, oh, a hundred
years or so ago the Council, in response to the growing demand for G-Milk,
decided the best solution was to GE a certain number of girl babies to become
volume milk producers."  Berto could hardly believe his ears.  As she talked on
his eyebrows rose in disbelief even as his jaw dropped.  "The Council hired
medicos," she went on, "who talked to qualified couples and asked to GE their
daughters, in utero, in return for a small compensation.  They only chose those
people who passed exhaustive genetic and psychological screening exams.  It's a
great honor to be chosen," she said proudly.

	"I'm sure," he said, not sure of anything at all.

	"They altered my DNA when I was just a little bug the size of your
finger inside my mommy," she told him.

	Berto's jaw moved up and down several times before he was able to get
any words out.  "So, when you were a little girl, you looked normal except for
too many nipples?"  He was trying to get his mind around this bizarre tale she'd
just told him.  It was almost too outrageous to be believed, yet he was staring
at the reality of her six breasts.  Gilly didn't seem to think there was
anything unusual about her situation.

	"Yep.  Until I hit puberty and started lactating."

	"How old were you then?"

	"Fourteen.  Just a tweaker, not even full grown.  I hardly had any
bumpers at all.  The only problem is that I had to take hormone supplements
every day to keep up my production, and the hormones messed up my
whatchmacallits, my secondary sex characteristics.  Same thing with most of the
other lackeys.  The medicos say they're not sure why it happens, and keep trying
to fix it with the new babies, but it's still happening.  The hormones also keep
me from ovulating, which reportedly has something to do with lackeys altered
development during late puberty."

	"Well, you definitely didn't skip puberty," Berto told her.

	"Not this part," she said with a smile, motioning to her chest.  She sat
down in a chair.  "I never got any hair on my furt, or anywhere else," she
explained.  "And my furt," she spread her legs to show him.  "It looks just like
a baby's, you can't even see my knuckle."

	"You're damn near as tight as one, too," he marvelled, staring at her
moist center.  He felt himself rising to the occasion.

	"All the lackeys are this way."

	"How many of you are there?"

	"I don't know," she said, cocking her head.  "Fourteen thousand?"

	"Fourteen thousand?  Krikes."  He sat on the bed and thought.  He just
couldn't stop asking questions.  He was fascinated and more than slightly
aroused by the thought of thousands of Monsipurian natives drinking human milk,
milk that came out of women like Gilly, yet the whole idea of genetically
engineering female babies in the womb to be -- for all intents and purposes --
dairy cows, was somehow creepy and not a little bit frightening.  What the hell
kind of society did they have here anyway?  He just couldn't accept it as a part
of a normal life, as Gilly obviously had.

	"How often do you, uh, give milk?"

	"Four times a day.  Some girls bump up their dose and go in for the
extra one in the middle of the night but I live too far away from the Main, and
they're the only one open overnight."

	"Four times a day."

	"I'd just left there when we met.  I was really feeling the hormone pop
today.  Normally I'd just head home and take a ride in my pod or maybe just go
natural, but I saw an advert for the Port Authority and just couldn't get it out
of my head.  I haven't taken in an actual man since last year," she said with a
little blush.

	"I'm glad you picked me," Berto said.  "So, the hormones get you all
bubbly?"

	"You have no idea," she said, rolling her eyes.  "Although it's not as
bad as when I first started milking and they were trying to set my dose.  They
had my levels so torqued up my parents had to lease a synthetic for a month just
so I could get some sleep.  That whole first year was a nightmare.  My bumpers
started growing like crazy, none of my clothes fit, and my middle left nipple
used to leak all the time."

	"You parents?  Uh, um, krikes.  This was when you were fourteen?"

	"Yep.  Mom was best friends with a lackey when she was my age so she
knew just what I was going through."

	"How old are you now?"

	"Twenty-three," she told him.  "Because the government paid for my
GEing, I'm contracted and bound by law.  Barring complications, I have to
continue producing until I'm fifty, at which point I can withdraw from the
program if I want.  Some women remain productive late into their sixties, but I
don't know if I want to go that long.  We get paid by the liter, you know, of
milk.  The government fixes the price."

	Berto, watching her young, guileless face, had a sudden thought. 
Between her adolescent speech patterns and mannerisms, and her giggling . . . . 
"Is that twenty-three years Standard or Monny?"

	"I told you I'm bad at math," she giggled.  She uncapped the second
juice container and took several large gulps.

	He assumed that meant Monny.  No wonder she was so tight.

	"So what kind of a spacer are you?" she asked.

	With a smile, Berto eagerly began to describe his work.  The vagaries of
interplanetary trade, the troubles he and his partners had had in starting their
own business--with their lender, unions, local governments.  The different kinds
of transport ships, and how a ship's design and capabilities limited the kinds
of cargo it could carry.  How they specialized in fragile cargo the huge
Mega-stars would never take on.  How spaceflight was both boring and
exhilarating at the same time.  The hazards and quirks of working in zero
gravity.

	Gilly nodded eagerly and occasionally asked questions, but he wasn't
sure how much of what he was telling her she understood.  She finished the
second jug of juice and plopped it down on the table.  Berto was almost positive
that her breasts were fuller than just half an hour before.  She sure didn't
seem in any hurry to urinate after drinking two entire liters of juice in a few
short minutes, and the liquid had to be going somewhere.

	Gilly noticed where he was looking and arched her back a little.  "My
whole metabolism is geared to produce milk," she explained.  "If I'm not
drinking enough fluids it can be trouble, because it'll go toward milk instead
of my other organs, and that can sometimes cause toxins to build up."

	"Sounds rough."

	"Oh, I don't know," she replied.  "I've been like this my whole life, so
I'm used to it.  I like it, actually.  I'm special, and I get treated that way. 
I get paid a lot for my milk, and I've got a whole bunch of really nice friends
that are lackeys like me that I probably wouldn't know otherwise.  They know
just what it's like, so if I'm having a bad day I can call them up and they know
exactly what I'm going through.  Going to the collection center, it's almost
like one big party, everybody's happy and joking and talking.  The only
difference is we're hooked up to a draw tank and getting pumped out."

	"Now there's something I'd like to see," he said.  He tried to imagine
what it might be like, but his imagination wasn't up to the task.  Any mental
image he might dream up surely couldn't compare to the real thing.

	"I think you'd like it a lot," Gilly said.  "All the men that ever come
into the collection area always stand there with stupid looks on their faces and
their mouths hanging wide open.  I've been going for eight years now, four times
a day, so it doesn't seem like anything special to me.  Maybe you could come
with me . . . uh . . . ."  She looked uncertain.

	"What?"

	"Well, I was going to say that you could come with me when I go in for
my morning draw," she said rather nervously.  "But maybe you don't want me
staying here overnight."

	Berto looked at her young, pretty face, her six no-longer-flat breasts,
the hairless slit between her muscled thighs still leaking fluid onto the seat
cushion.

	"You've got to be flopping," he said.  "Have you looked in a mirror
lately?  I can't imagine anyone I'd rather spend the night with.  Come over
here, and bring those nipples with you."

	She giggled and stood up.  A clear string connected her labia to the
seat.  "You're going to have to bite," she told him.  "After eight years on the
hoses they're not very sensitive."

	What surprised Berto the most was just how sweet her milk was. 	   

                                                     CHAPTER FIVE



	"Hey, this is pretty impressive," Christopher said.  Leesee'd led him up
to the third floor of her building and down a tiny hall.  He'd been expecting a
cramped living space, perhaps in disrepair, and was pleasantly surprised.

	Her quarters consisted of three, maybe four large rooms, walled in
colored tile and what looked like carved stone but had to be some sort of
locally produced synthetic.  High, airy ceilings made the rooms, with their
sparse furniture, seem even bigger.  Leesee led him inside and secured the old
fashioned door behind them.  At the click of the lock, two women in white robes
identical to Leesee's swept in from a back room.  Christopher stared at them in
surprise, eyebrows way up, and turned to his companion.

	"These are my sisters," she told him, hand waving at the two women. 
"Myna, and Bubek.  Sisters, this is Christopher.  He has just arrived this day
from space."

	The two newcomers nodded their heads at him, their faint smiles and
peaceful expressions only slightly quelling Christopher's uneasy feeling. 
Nobody even knows where I am, he thought suddenly.  Berto and Hamee wouldn't
even know he was gone for another nine days.

	"Bubek, he would like some food and drink," Leesee announced.  The
skinny one nodded and walked out of the room.  She was older than Leesee, maybe
closing in on forty years S.  Above the vee collar of the robe her face was very
tan, and deeply lined as much from the sun as from time.  She had shoulder
length straight brown hair, and her robe was sleeveless, revealing slender brown
arms laced with corded muscle and sinew.

	Myna looked to be in her late twenties and was the complete opposite,
physically, of Bubek.  Large bulbous breasts distended the front of her robe,
her hips wide and full below.  A big head with a friendly, round face.  She
wasn't quite fat, but there was nothing thin or tiny about her.  Christopher
couldn't believe the three were sisters -- they didn't share a single feature. 
Not one.

	"Come," Leesee said, taking him by the hand.  She led him toward one of
the side rooms.  Myna smiled at him and joined them at the doorway as
Christopher saw the only object in the adjoining room.

	It was a large oval pool, filled with water.  Three meters long, two
wide, and maybe one deep.  The inside of the pool was done in tiny tiles, blue
and green and orange, and lettering ran around the entire circumference just
above the water line.  He didn't recognize the symbols and guessed it was the
written form of the native dialect.

	Far too small to be a swimming pool, it seemed a little large to be used
solely for bathing.

	"What's this?" he said.

	"We thought you would enjoy a good bathing," Leesee said.  Christopher
noticed two longhandled scrubbrushes beside the pool, with two folded drycloths
neatly laid beside a large sponge.

	This is getting exceedingly strange, he thought.  I thought I was just
going to have a little romp with a local all bubbly at the thought of gloving a
spacer, and now I'm in a native bath house.  He looked over in time to see Myna
unfasten her robe and let it fall to the floor.  She wore nothing underneath.

	"Uh, wah--" he stuttered, staring at her pendulous breasts.  Her fatty,
bulging vulva was hairless, and light reflecting off the poolwater danced across
it.  Chris turned to Leesee and discovered she'd disrobed also.  She had a slim
body with medium small breasts and tiny brown nipples.  She was hairless too --
it seemed the Monnies were up on the latest fashion trends.

	Hands grabbed at his pants and worked at unfastening them.  As Myna
started pulling off his shortboots Bubek entered the room, a large serving tray
in her hands.  Chunks of native fruits were piled on the tray, and also some
large brown lumps.  An oversized type of nut, he supposed, or perhaps some sort
of meat.  A large carafe of violet liquid sat beside the food.

	"Drink and eat," Bubek told him, seemingly oblivious to her two sisters
busily undressing him.

	Chris grabbed a likely looking piece of fruit and tried it.  Sweet, and
juicy.  Leesee pulled his shirt over his head and then stepped down into the
pool.  The water came to just below her groin.

	She held a hand out for him, and he felt Myna take one of his elbows. 
Chris tested the water with a toe and was surprised at how warm it was.  He
stepped down into the pool, and helped Myna in behind him.

	Bubek set the tray down at the edge of the pool and offered him the
glass container of violet fluid.

	"What is it?"

	"A local specialty," Leesee told him.  She watched as he put the
container to his lips and sipped.  The drink was thick and flowery, and left a
faint burning warmth in his throat.

	"Not bad," he said.  "Is it intoxicating?"

	"Not the way you mean," Bubek responded.

	Chris felt slightly ridiculous, standing thigh deep in a small, shallow,
indoor pool, completely naked in front of three women, two of whom he'd known
for less than five minutes.  He took another nervous gulp of the drink and
enjoyed the aromatic burn.

	Bubek straightened up and quickly disrobed.  Her body was thin and
stringy, breasts small and flat against her narrow ribcage.  Her skin was a dark
brown, no tan lines visible anywhere.  Her stomach muscles were very prominent,
as were the points of her hipbones.  Her bald brown mound protruded
aggressively, sticking out as far from her body as her hipbones.  She eased into
the water and Chris felt the gentle waves lap against him.

	"You're so very hairy," Myna said, staring at his body.  She didn't
sound too pleased about it, either.

	"Sit down in the pool and we'll scrub you," Bubek said quickly, throwing
a sharp glance at her sister.

	I can't even believe this is happening, and I'm here! he thought.  Am I
going to have a story to tell Hamee and Berto.  He quickly drank more of the
violet brew, the carafe more than half empty, and eased his body down into the
water.

	Sitting straightlegged on the tile bottom the water came to just below
his neck.  Myna and Leesee moved close and knelt on either side of him, Leesee
with the sponge.  She wet it and began lightly scrubbing his chest, while Myna
ran her hands up and down his thighs, massaging his flesh.

	"Dip your head under," Bubek told him, stepping around behind Chris. 
She supported him as he leaned back and got his hair wet, then began massaging
his scalp with her fingers.

	"You know, this isn't exactly what I had in mind when I came here,"
Chris said.  It wasn't a complaint, not exactly.

	"First your bath," Leesee told him.  "Then you can cork us."

	Did she just say us? Chris wondered.  He felt a pleasant burning in his
stomach as well as his loins as the three clean freaks worked on him.  Whatever
was going on, whatever their game was, he didn't quite understand it, but he
wasn't about to get up and leave.  The questions rattling around his head he did
his best to stuff away into a dark corner.

	Myna moved down his legs to his calves, then finally to his feet,
kneading all the way.  Chris finished off the drink and set the container at the
edge of the pool, then reached for Leesee.  She was kneeling over him, firmly
scrubbing his belly in circles with the sponge.

	His hand found her undercarriage and he cupped an asscheek.  His cock
was a steel beam, and he was getting hornier by the minute.  She smiled at him
as his fingers found her folds and wormed inside.  She must've smeared some sort
of cream on her skin, for the water seemed slightly thick and slippery to his
fingers.

	"Lean back again," Bubek ordered him.  She reached out for one of the
scrub brushes.  "Hold your breath."

	He dunked his head under and held his breath while she vigorously
scrubbed at his head with the brush.  He liked the way it felt, the bristles
tugging at his hair and brushing against his scalp.

	Bubek kept at it until he was running out of air, showing no inclination
to stop.  Christopher sat up, water running from his nose and hair in his eyes
as he took a much needed gulp of air.  He brushed the hair out of his eyes and
felt Bubek move close and press her body against his back.  Her hands massaged
his neck, head, and shoulders tirelessly.

	Leesee had worked the sponge down between his legs and was delicately
scrubbing his genitals.  He had two fingers deep into her and wiggled them
around.  She seemed to like it, but made no move to touch his erection.

	Christopher was thrumming with desire, aching for someone to touch his
cock, make a move.  His bone was so hard he could crack stone with it, so hot
the water around him should have been boiling.  His heart was going so fast he
was panting.  He couldn't remember ever being this aroused before, his whole
body one burning instrument of lust.

	"Get up on your knees," Leesee told him.  When she pulled away from his
churning fingers he lunged after her but was restrained by Bubek's hands on his
shoulders.

	"Not yet," she said into his ear, forcing him to his knees in the water. 
He barely felt the hard tile beneath him.

	Leesee handed Bubek the sponge.  Chris felt her begin scrubbing his
lower back and buttocks; then, finally, the crack of his ass.  Leesee and Myna
stayed just out of his reach, and it was all he could do not to charge after
their nude bodies.

	"I want to cork you, I want to pound you all for weeks," he gasped.

	Finally it was too much, and he broke free from Bubek's grasp and lunged
for the women.  Bubek tackled him from behind and they went under.  Chris
swallowed a mouthful of water that tasted horrible and he staggered upright,
coughing.  Myna and Bubek shoved him sideways and he landed on his side on the
tile, legs still in the pool.  Before he could get his bearings Bubek rolled him
away from the edge until his legs were out of the water, then the women began
roughly toweling him dry before he'd even stopped coughing.

	A nude body pressed up against him as he struggled to his knees and he
reached back in a blind attempt to grope flesh.  He found a warm thigh, then
Leesee's hand closed around his wrist and yanked it further back.  She grabbed
his other wrist, then was gone.  Chris tried to stretch back to wherever she'd
disappeared to and found his wrists were bound together behind his back.

	"Hey!" he yelled, starting to his feet.  Bubek grabbed and muscled him
down to the floor.  Chris was so surprised he barely struggled.

	One of the women sat in the middle of his back as he lay facedown on the
floor, unable to escape.  He couldn't reach her with his bound hands, and
couldn't get a knee under him on the slippery floor.  He didn't want to fight,
and hadn't even thought about being afraid -- he was so consumed with lust that
all he could think about was grabbing a female, anyone, everyone, and fucking
for hours, days, weeks.

	He could see them all around him, feet and knees on the floor as they
finished toweling off his still damp body.  One of them roughly fluffed his head
with a drycloth, rolling his face back and forth across the hard tiles.  Chris
was about to complain, then realized he could feel the towel as it moved across
his entire head.  Which should have been impossible, unless he'd gone totally
bald.

	The tile pressed against his hard cock, pinned between his thigh and the
floor.  Involuntarily he began humping the tile, grunting with the effort as
there was still someone on his back.

	"Time to go," one of them said.  He was pulled to his feet, erection
flailing wildly.  Bubek and Myna each held an elbow in an iron grip.

	"Come on," Myna told him, pulling him forward.  He tried to jerk out of
their grasp but they had him securely.  They led him into the main room and
Chris saw Myna toss something onto a chair.  He looked at her, curious, and was
thunderstruck to see she'd gone totally, completely bald.  Belatedly he realized
it was a wig she'd plucked off her head.  Swinging around he saw Bubek pulling
the wig off her own head.  Absently he noticed that her skull was deeply tanned.

	"Come on," Leesee called to them.  She tossed her wig away, and Chris
wondered why he hadn't noticed before than not one of them had eyebrows or
eyelashes.

	He was pushed and pulled toward the rearmost room of the living area as
he silently cursed his own penis for always getting him into trouble.

	Nude, Leesee led the way.  Chris was having trouble forming coherent
thoughts.  All he could think about was penetrating her, and only the other
women's iron grip on his arms kept him from lunging, erection first, toward
Leesee's buttocks.  He was so jacked up that even their sudden baldness hadn't
cooled the burning in his loins.

	The back room wasn't a room at all but rather a short corridor that
ended in a door.  The women wrestled him forward.

	"What did you give me?" he gasped, thrusting his purple-headed staff
uncontrollably, his hips pumping of their own accord.

	"A concentrated form of X-Cite-R," Bubek said.  "Quite a lot of it, too,
along with some Breeder's Helper."

	That explained a lot.  X-Cite-R was a sexual stimulant, and aphrodisiac,
that worked remarkably well.  Not just an erection pill, the drug actually
tricked the brain into releasing the hormones that caused sexual arousal. 
X-Cite-R worked equally well on males and females, although it was easier to
tell when the men began to feel the effects of the drug.

	Breeder's Helper was a simple compound used in the breeding of
domesticated animals.  It hyperstimulated the male's reproductive organs and
increased the delivered payload to improve the chances of a successful mating. 
Chris had no idea what the drug would do to him.

	Leesee opened the door and he was pulled through.  Chris found himself
on a balcony overlooking a large courtyard.  So large, in fact, that the
building couldn't be much more than a hollow shell around it.

	The courtyard resembled an atrium, twenty-five meters across at its
widest and open all the way up to the roof, five floors above his head.  Chris'
third floor balcony was just one of many, all hanging over the vacant well that
took up the center of the building.  He saw signs of severe structural damage,
due probably to that tectonic shift Leesee had told him about.  It looked like
several of the building's internal walls had collapsed and rather than restore
them, the courtyard had instead been enlarged.

	The floor of the courtyard was sparsely decorated, with several rows of
benches at one end.  Thick pads of some sort covered most of the rest of the
floor.

	Chris was dragged off the third floor balcony and down an exposed
staircase to a balcony angling off the second floor.  This balcony looked
recently repaired.  It had a low railing across the front, and another set of
stairs leading down to the courtyard proper.  There was some sort of computer
console mounted on the wall, with an object on the floor under it that Leesee
picked up.

	When she approached him Chris saw that Leesee held a braided ring of
synthsteel with a lock.  She deftly fastened it around his neck with a click
while avoiding his clumsy thrusts.  He never even succeeded in touching her with
his flailing shaft.

	Leesee tugged at the collar, verifying that it was secure.  Then she
strode back to the control console and hit a button.  It glowed red.

	"Okay," she said.

	Bubek and Myna let go of Chris' arms and backed away from him quickly. 
They moved halfway up the stairs to the third floor balcony.  Free at last,
Chris turned and ran at them, hands still bound behind his back.  Just as he
reached the first step and was about to surge upward lightning flashed behind
his eyes.  He found himself lying on his back, staring at the courtyard's
ceiling far above.  Fighting back nausea Chris struggled to his feet and looked
at Leesee, still standing beside the console.

	"Balcony's enclosed by a repeating field," she told him.  "In your
present state you wouldn't have stopped if I'd just told you about it.  The
shock won't kill you, but as you've probably figured out, it hurts like hell."

	She dashed away from the box, across the balcony, and up the stairs
toward her retreating sisters.  Chris lunged at her as she passed, but with no
hands to grab her, and still woozy from the shock, he never was a threat.  He
skidded to a stop before he got anywhere near the stairs.  The three of them
were out of sight a few seconds later.

	Cursing, Chris bounced on the balls of his feet and spun in circles. 
The balcony was empty but for a low padded bench and a small cushion on the
floor beside it.

	Looking around for any possible escape route, or opportunity for sexual
release, Christopher's eyes were drawn to a balcony on the far side of the
courtyard.  Another man stood there, nude, bald, arms behind his back.  Chris
could just make out the collar around his neck as the man paced restlessly.

	Krikes! he cursed silently.  He tried to work his hands around far
enough so that he could reach his throbbing member.  No chance.  He cursed again
and bounced around aimlessly, pacing, panting, swearing.  He felt the warm air
brushing against his bare scalp.  One glance was all it took to confirm that he
had no hair left anywhere on his body.  Whatever chemical they'd put into that
bathwater had eaten the hair right off of him.  His fingernails felt strangely
soft too.  At all costs he was going to avoid taking another bath in that water. 
He didn't want anything else falling off.

	Christ.  Well, I hope it'll grow back.  On my head, if nowhere else. 
Provided I get out of here, he thought.

	Finally no longer able to stand it, and barely capable of rational
thought, Chris laid face down on the padded bench and began humping it
frantically.  In some small corner of his mind he was humiliated, but the feel
of his organ rubbing against something, anything, was all he cared about.  He
vowed to beat the hell out of the women for placing him in this position.  If he
ever got the opportunity, that is -- they hadn't made a mistake yet.

                                                      CHAPTER SIX



	The man sighed and stared into the blackness.  So much for getting any
rest.  Another night's sleep interrupted.

	He lay on his small mattress pad and stared upward at the ceiling just
three meters above his head, invisible in the blackness.  The mag-collar was
making his skin itch again and he scratched at his neck absently.  The grunts
and shouts of Espering's daughter, Sylphie, echoed down the stone corridor.  By
some trick of acoustics the stone walls amplified the sound -- she sounded like
she was in the cell with him instead of on the PowerBall court twenty meters
below the holding pods.  She'd been practicing more and more frequently, keeping
to her own bizarre schedule, rousing him more than once in the middle of the
night with her yells and curses.  Were the finals coming up already?

	Above the sound of her exertions he could just barely hear the flat
whack of the ball as she raced around the court and drove it into the goal.  She
was twenty meters below him, at the far end of a thirty-meter-long corridor and
an eighty meter long court, and still she was making enough noise to wake him
from a deep sleep.

	No rest for the wicked, I guess. 

	His name was Bobbinson Ortika, and if he hadn't been dumb enough to try
to steal money from Garvin Espering he'd still be asleep, in his own bed, next
to his thirty-three-year-old girlfriend, instead of awake in a stone-walled cell
at two in the morning listening to a rawboned young girl beating the hell out of
a P-Ball.

	As prisons went, he was in a vacation spot.  Gourmet food, a spacious
cell all to himself, and a disappearing vidscreen that covered one entire wall. 
Even the torments visited upon him by his captors had their positive side, and
he'd lost all the extra kilos he'd put on through the years.  However, a prison
cell was a prison cell, and it was where he was going to stay until Espering
decided what to do with him.

	He'd lost count how many days he'd been imprisoned.  Well over a
hundred, probably closer to three.  At one time he'd been the Chief Financial
Officer of Atlas Shipping, a very profitable subsidiary of GUP Inc.  Then he'd
divorced his wife, taken up with a bubbly woman half his age who'd had some very
expensive tastes, and made some unwise investments.  In a moment of weakness
he'd decided to dummy up some accounts so he could embezzle a few credits to
temporarily cover his debts.  A few credits somehow turned into seven hundred
and seventeen thousand, which he buried in the billing records of ninety-two
different clients.  It was too much money to hide, however, and one night he
went to sleep in his own bed only to wake up in Espering's private little
prison.

	Ortika sat up on his small mattress, bones creaking, and stared out of
his cell.  He always had the urge to just walk out, leave, but even if the
invisible magnetic field sealing his cell off from the hallway suddenly shut off
he'd have nowhere to go.  His house had been seized, and Espering had left a
false paper trail for the Atlas fraud investigators to follow; right now they
were on Earth looking for him.  No one knew where he was -- Espering could kill
him and nobody would be the wiser.  Espering had already shown that he felt
Ortika was his to do with as he pleased, according to his whims.  Not that he
was a special case -- Espering obviously felt that way about everyone.

	Across the stone corridor was another cell identical to Ortika's, a
mirror image.  He could just make out the pale form of the woman inside,
sleeping on her cot.  She was on her side, turned away from him.  It was too
dark to tell, of course, but he knew her skinny body was nude.  Everyone here
was nude.  Her clothes had been taken from her long ago, as had his, but she
really wasn't aware of too much outside her own head.  Espering had her plugged
into FeelReals most of the day, most every day, and Ortika doubted if she even
knew where she was, much less why, and if she'd had her clothes, he doubted if
she could have comprehended why they no longer fit.

	How long had she been Espering's guest?  Sixty, seventy days, maybe
more.  It was hard keeping track, he had nothing to write with.  She certainly
had no clue, she barely was able to feed herself what with all they were putting
her through.

	His ears detected a faint hum, and he turned his head toward the sound. 
It could only be one thing.  He heard voices, and then the lights in the
corridor flicked on as they detected motion.

	Ortika had been Espering's guest long enough to guess who the voices
belonged to.  As they got closer he recognized them -- Espering's wife, Lucia,
and her two obsequious assistants.  He knew who they were here to see -- the
mini-prison's newest inmate.  He couldn't see the man, as a meter of solid rock
separated their adjoining cells, but after he'd been brought in that same
afternoon they'd talked.  He was a middle management drone named Davis, who
apparently had been busy the last few weeks doing a little embezzling of his own
from the payroll of a small GUP subsidiary that Ortika had never even heard of. 
Davis had been confused as to why Espering's personal security staff had
arrested him instead of the Garshak Blues.

	Ortika patiently explained to the man the facts as he'd learned them
firsthand;  firstly, that Garvin Espering took embezzlement of his money as a
personal affront.  Secondly, since he was inarguably the most powerful man on
Monsipur, he had the resources --such as his own personal jail -- to deal with
transgressors as he saw fit.  Davis couldn't quite comprehend the situation he'd
gotten himself into, but Ortika was confident that wouldn't last long.  He
thought to warn Davis not to eat the dinner that had been delivered to his cell,
but knew that would only delay the inevitable.  He could hear him over there
making plaintive sounds, whimpers and groans, as well as a few other, wetter
noises.

	The footsteps stopped just short of Ortika's bay and he stood. 
Espering's wife wandered into view, casually examining the resident of each cell
like she was at a zoo.

	She looked only half her fifty-seven years (S), thanks to the miracles
of modern science.  A multicolored tongi was draped over her thin frame and
swayed back and forth as she walked.  The rumors Ortika had for years heard
about her and her husband's personal habits, which he'd been wont to dismiss,
had turned out to be just the tip of the iceberg.  He guessed she had several
medicos on personal retainer, so unusual were her personal hobbies.  Ortika
wasn't sure if she or her daughter ever slept.

	"Bobbinson," she said cordially, nodding her head at him like they were
at a formal social event.  She looked back down the corridor.  "We're getting
quite a crowd in here."

	"You can thank your husband for that," Ortika said.

	An assistant hovered into view, and she and Lucia stared took a few
moments to watch whatever was going on in Davis' cell.

	"Look at that," the assistant said.  "I'd say the trial's a success." 
The assistant was a compact, tanned brunette in a navy blue two piece business
suit, long hair done up in a braided bun.

	Lucia turned her head back to Ortika with a greasy smile on her
attractive face.  Her blonde hair was long and cut in a style that didn't suit
her, but he was sure no one had dared tell her that.

	"Enjoying your stay?"  She seemed genuinely pleased with herself, in a
jovial mood.  He could only imagine what was in store for Davis.

	"Every second.  Especially that feelie your people plugged me into a few
days ago.  Now I know what thirty hours of labor and childbirth without
painkillers feels like."

	"Don't pout, at least it gave you something to do."  She looked around,
then stopped to peer at the female form still asleep in the bay opposite Ortika.

	"How is Garvin's latest pet project coming along?" she asked, eyeing the
skinny body curled up facing the wall.

	"That depends on your point of view.  What he wants to end up with I
couldn't even guess."

	"He says she's really responded to the feelie behaviormod program."

	"Considering most days she's hooked up from dawn to dusk, twitching and
grunting, I don't see how she could not respond.  At first I thought you had her
on Triggrr.  What are you pumping through her mind, anyway?"

	"You'd have to ask my husband," she said.  "Something delicious, I'm
sure."  She ran her tongue along the front of her teeth and smiled.

	The sounds coming from Davis' cell had been growing louder and louder as
Lucia spoke, until it became obvious that he was trying to get her attention. 
Finally she turned to him.

	"Yes, little man?"

	"Mrs. Espering, I ... oh GOD . . . can you--"  there was a loud series
of squelching noises.  "What did you . . . I can't stop it," he whimpered, his
voice strange.  "Nothing's big enough, and I can't reach . . . ."  The words
trailed off and all Ortika could hear was a strange wet sucking sound and heavy
breathing.

	"What did you give him?"  He could hear Davis whimpering and giving tiny
grunts.

	"A concentrated, hybrid hormonal derivative of X-Cite-R the lab boys
have been toying with for about a year.  They've developed organ-specific
stimulants, which in this case they combined with a heavy dose of
intestinal/rectal dilators and psychosexual hallucinogens.  You should see what
he's doing -- well, trying to do."  Lucia swept her robe open and let it fall to
the stone floor.  Ortika had seen her body before, but each time it was a shock.

	When she'd first met Garvin Espering, Lucia had been a young lackey
having trouble keeping up her production.  Her parents had volunteered their
unborn daughter because they needed the money, but she hated the demands her
dictated profession placed on her time and body.  The story was that it had been
love at first sight, and after just a few months she and Garvin were married. 
The Espering name had always been magical on Monsipur, and he had to make but
one vidcall to get her released from her government milking contract and off the
production schedule.  Free from the demands of milk production, Lucia was free
to start changing her body to a form more desirable to Garvin -- and herself.

	Lucia's topmost pair of breasts looked normal enough for a former
lackey, large with big dark knobby nipples.  Her bottom four breasts, however,
revealed as she undid her elaborate corset, were now barely more than swellings
topped by lackey nipples, which then looked ridulously oversized by comparison.

	Lucia had pierced her middle two of nipples less than a year after
getting married.  Now, over thirty years later, she could fit her thumbs in the
stretched holes, and often did just that.  Her bottom set of nipples had been
normal enough the first time Ortika had seen them, but over the past few weeks
they'd changed.  Her nipples and areolae had swollen to double their original
size, the skin now shiny and taut.  Not her breasts -- her bottom pair were
still faint swells -- just her nipples and areola.  Ortika had no clue what that
signified.  She seemed to like pinching them. 

	Her body was whipcord skinny, her ribs prominent and her stomach muscles
plainly visible under her lower set of breasts.  Her pointy hipbones threw
shadows across her concave belly, which sloped inward, then back out to a wide
smooth mound.  Her clit and hood were the size of Ortika's nose, and he didn't
have a small nose.  She'd done something to herself, had her pelvis altered
somehow.  Ortika noticed her hips seemed wider, her stomach flatter, and her
mound stuck out farther, than the first time he'd seen her at a party about a
year before becoming her husband's unwilling guest.  Her labia had always been
long and slack, but now they were ridiculously so, and swept back and up between
her buttocks.

	Lucia's other assistant stepped into view carrying a hardsided black
case.  Ortika suspected that at one time the assistant had been male, but no
longer.  A bland androgynous face, lips permdyed bright red, perched atop a
slender body clad in a loosecut woman's dark blue business suit.  Very short
brown hair in a vaguely feminine cut.  Small breasts with perky nipples pushed
against the suit fabric, above hips that were just a hair too wide to belong to
a man.  Still, there was just something about the way . . . she . . . moved. 
The crotch of the suit was too baggy for him to tell anything one way or the
other.  It seemed to be the latest trend, all these gender ambiguous people
wandering around.  He just couldn't get used to it.  Maybe he was just
old-fashioned, wanting men to look like men and women to look like women. 
Dating was a nightmare, because he was ignorant of all the codewords and
telltales.  Half the time he'd brought home a beautiful woman after a wonderful,
romantic evening, only to discover she had a penis larger than his.  What was
the term?  Cocktail.  His girlfriend -- make that former girlfriend, he had no
doubt she'd found another wealthy benefactor to take care of her needs -- had
been all woman below the waist, which he'd liked just fine.

	The assistant popped the case open and Lucia reached inside and withdrew
an arm.  Ortika blinked in surprise.  It was a man's hand and forearm, full
size, lightly muscled and covered in babylike pink skin.  Lucia grinned
deliciously and ran her hands over it.  The androgynous assistant licked her
lips and stared at it, while the pert one stared into Davis' cell.

	"A new toy?" Ortika asked.

	"Can someone please help me?" Davis pleaded pitifully.  "I can't . . .
why's it so big?  I just can't . . .  OH God!" he panted, accompanied by more
wet sucking sounds.

	"Oh, you're an evil witch," Ortika told Lucia.  She just smiled at him,
taking it as a compliment as he knew she would.

	"And more."  Holding the disembodied arm by the wrist she pulled the
slack skin of her pubic mound taut.  She nodded at the androgynous assistant and
the assistant stretched out a hand.  Ortika couldn't see the flesh colored
socket protector until it was sitting in the assistant's palm.  A small dimple
revealed itself to be a prosthetic neural port installed at the base of Lucia's
pubic bone.

	The synthetic arm's three centimeter long titanium power plug glinted in
the light as Lucia maneuvered it toward her groin.  She pressed it hard against
her mound, roatated the arm ninety degrees, and with a dull snick the prosthesis
clicked into place, the forearm's synthskin seamlessly mating with her mound. 
She shivered with anticipation and delight.

	"Do you know how much this little toy cost me?" Lucia said to no one in
particular.  "It had to be totally custom made.  The whole thing's covered in
synth KlitSkin," she told Ortika without looking up.

	Originally developed for those people born with irreversible physical
deformities, or victims of industrial accidents, prosthetic neural ports had
been hailed by the medical community and some clergy as being a modern miracle. 
When properly installed the wearer could operate the limb as well as one made of
flesh and bone, and with the advances in synthskin and artificial neural
pathways sensation was near ninety-five percent of the real thing, well within
normal sensation range.  Ortika had first learned of sex-specific PNP's close to
a decade before when he'd seen a sexvid featuring lesbians.  At the time he'd
been shocked, but now it was uncommon to find a lesbian who didn't have a PNP at
the base of her pubic bone.  And impossible to find a lesbian top without one. 
An added bonus to these women was the slight bump the PNP made on the inside
wall of the pubic bone.  By coincidence it was directly underneath the nerve
plexus that some still referred to as the G-Spot, resulting in increased
pleasure with every penetration.  The most common pelvic plug-ins were realistic
phalluses, sometimes featuring ejaculate-capable scrotums -- balls on plug-ins
seemed to go into and out of style fairly frequently.  Most lesbian tops refused
to be seen in public without one, which made proper gender identification even
harder.  Historically known as studs, a new descriptor was coming into fashion
for these women:  plugs.  Plug-ins were available in every conceivable shape and
size, designed to fit every bodily orifice, in a wide variety of colors.  An
arm, however, pelvically mounted, now that was something unusual.

	It sprouted from her mound, looking as real as such a sight could.  It
was a right arm, thumb high as it should be, fingers together and pointing
straight out.  Lucia stared down at the open hand and concentrated, and Ortika
watched it close into a fist.  Fully articulated.  He should've guessed.

	"Let me explain something to you," Lucia said to Davis, walking out of
Ortika's sight, the arm bobbing from her crotch.  Her two assistants followed,
hurriedly unbuttoning their suitjackets. 

	Ortika suddenly noticed the girl across the corridor was awake, sitting
up in bed.  She stood up and walked to the edge of her bay and stared intently
at the activity taking place in the bay next to Ortika's.  He was glad he
couldn't see what was happening; Davis' moans and yells were bad enough.  He'd
experienced something similar not long after arriving, although luckily Lucia
hadn't had her synth-arm then.

	The girl stared wide-eyed, her nude body white from being so long out of
the sun.  She was lean almost to the point of emaciation, the muscles standing
out on her like cords.  She appeared to not even notice the weight of her
breasts, impossible as that seemed, each of which was easily twice the size of
her head.

	Ortika had never seen anything like what they'd done to the girl.  In
two months she'd gone from being fat, flatchested, and a lesbian, to being
skinny with breasts so big that when she lay on her side, her two tits stacked
on top of one another stood up past her shoulders.  As for the homosexual part .
. . .

	Underneath the monstrosity of her breasts her skinny body looked even
smaller, but she moved like the pair weighed nothing at all.  They swayed with
full authority, Ortika could see that, so he knew her back muscles had to've
been augmented.

	Perfectly, naturally shaped, here and there showing the faint blue
traceries of veins, her breasts sloped outwards from her collarbones at a forty
five degree angle and came back to join her body at the base of her ribcage. 
Her puffy areola were as big around as her face, a very light brown darkening
toward the center.  Together with her areolae her stubby nipples formed swollen
cones which pointed at the ground a meter and a half in front of her feet.  From
their shape and obvious softness Ortika could tell they hadn't used bodyfat
relocation to augment her chest.  They hadn't used hormone treatments either, as
those would only have increased the overall size of her breasts.  Since the
attachment points of her breasts to her body had moved -- expanded to the very
top and bottom of her ribcage -- he could conclude only one thing:  Espering had
put a genesmith to work on her DNA.  A talented one.

	Amandir Pringler stared, fascinated, as Lucia and her assistants had
their way with Davis, after a while squatting so she could play with herself
more easily.  As Ortika watched her expression remained blank -- if there was
anything going on inside there, it wasn't much.

	Every other day or so since she'd arrived, someone had come to take the
girl out of her bay.  Where exactly she was going Ortika didn't know for sure,
but after every disappearance, upon her return the girl was changed.  Different. 
Sometimes the change was drastic, other times it was barely noticeable.  He
supposed it was Espering's people poking around in her head, flipping switches
on and off.  She'd dropped the excess weight without any surgery, so obviously
they'd altered her body chemistry.  Which also accounted for her greatly
enhanced sexual drive.  More surprising was the monstrous, daily increase in the
size of her breasts.  All apparently natural, driven by her new genetic code. 
Every day they were a little bit larger, the change visible to Ortika clear
across the corridor, but she never showed signs of even one stretchmark.  Of
course, the girl hardly seemed to notice they were there, other than
occasionally playing with her huge nipples.  She walked around her bay, leaned
over and back, stood up and sat down, like her gigantic breasts had no mass at
all, or were filled with air.  However, every day or two, a member or two of the
household staff or security team would come into her cell.  Her visitors, far
from having to force themselves on her, practically had their clothes ripped
off.  Ortika had seen the men over there, straining to move her fleshy globes
around with varied success.  A few tugged her mountains around this way and that
using her nipples as palmfilling handles.  They had to strain, but she never
complained at the rough treatment.  More than once one of the visiting men had
been knocked off-balance by the impact of one of her breasts -- each one had to
weigh at least ten kilos. 

	Ortika heard rough panting in the corridor and at first though it was
Lucia or one of her assistants.  But Lucia and her helpers were still in the
adjacent bay with Davis, groaning and cursing at him, while loud wet sucking
sounds echoed off the stone walls and he babbled incoherently.  Then he saw
Espering's daughter in the corridor, chest heaving and covered in sweat from her
PowerBall practice.  Sylphie Espering was just under two meters tall and had not
an ounce of fat on her lean body.  Her short brown hair was cut in a pageboy,
and her body was deeply tanned from hours of PowerBall in the intense Monsipur
sun. The power forward of Monsipur's pro team, the Leopards, Sylphie worked hard
to keep her edge, and her muscle tone reflected that.  Her practice attire
consisted of nothing more than springshoes and loose shorts rolled at the waist.

	She looked around, hardly giving Davis' cell a second glance, and rested
her eyes on Ortika.  He should've known it was going to be Sylphie.  Her
PowerBall workouts always got her aroused, and she would come up into the
holding cells to work out her lust while at the same time satisfying her need to
dominate.  The obvious bulge in her shorts was just a manifestation of that
need. 

	He was old enough to be her father, and physically unattractive, but
Sylphie wanted more than just sex, she wanted to dominate and humiliate.  And
hurt.  Sex was just the tool she used.  Eyes locked on him she peeled off her
shorts and kicked them away.  Her hormonally enhanced clitoris sprang free and
pointed down and out from her body.  Nearly twenty centimeters long, Ortika had
at first thought it was a malformed penis, as its tip did resemble the glans of
a penis, but he soon realized the truth.  Its tip was bright red and bobbed in
time to her heartbeat.  Her clitoral hood was taut against the erect shaft near
the tip but swept down to her vagina in loose labial folds.

	He crawled onto his mattress and got onto his knees and elbows.  This
would be perhaps the fifteenth time he'd bent over for her.  The first two times
it had been painful, but one of the biggest surprises of his captivity was
discovering just how much he liked being taken anally by the young woman.  Maybe
it was all the feelies they plugged him into where he'd been the female.  He'd
lost count of how many men and Danes and stud-dahlias with massive plug-ins had
mounted him in programs, where he'd been both man and woman, young and old, and
supposed it had to have some effect on him.  He'd certainly never experienced
anything like it before his incarceration.  He'd groan and moan for Sylphie, but
it wouldn't be because he was in pain.  The last time he'd climaxed twice
without ever having to touch himself.  He just hoped Sylphie wouldn't discover
his little secret -- if she found out he was enjoying her little visits, she'd
immediately switch gears and start doing something he was sure to hate.

                                                     CHAPTER SEVEN



	Roberto pried his eyelids open and groaned.  He hadn't even tried to
move yet and already he was sore.  Blinking repeatedly, he somehow got his eyes
to focus.  He discovered he was on his side, staring at the back of someone's
head.  Just about the time he remembered it was Gilly he realized his arms were
around her.  His left under her neck, tingling and mostly asleep.

	Gilly.  He groaned again.  They'd been up late into the night, the girl
a seemingly insatiable, well-lubricated chasm of desire.  He'd taken her at
least twice in every position.  Sometime during the night he'd taken an X-Tend,
one from the vac-pac given to him by the pretty Tourism Board Rep.  Or had it
been two?

	He'd pounded her, or she'd ridden him, for half an hour or more at a
stretch, Gilly climaxing every five minutes or so, squirting as she came as the
night wore on.  It wasn't long before he was coated from chest to knees in her
warm fluids.  When he just had to take a break, she'd bounce off the bed and
drink liter after liter of juice.  As soon as he was ready to do battle once
more, she was wiggling her ass at him like she'd been celibate for a year.

	The girl had downed at least five liters of juice and water before
they'd fallen into an exhausted heap on the bed, and she'd never visited the
bathroom.  He'd also spent some time sucking on and playing with her nipples. 
They were big and rubbery in his mouth, and the sweet milk fairly shot out of
them when he sucked.  Halfway through the evening she'd gone to her bag and
pulled out six tiny pairs of magnetic steel rollers.  Her breasts had grown
until they were pleasantly round, and with all the bouncing and jiggling they'd
begun to leak badly.  She got paid by the liter and didn't like to see her
credits soaking into the bedspread, so Gilly'd attached the magnetic rollers to
the base of her nipples to stop the drips.  They acted like clamps, squeezing
her pink flesh so that her nipples bulged over the steel and turned an angry
shade of red, but she said they didn't hurt.

	The warmth of her smooth back shifted infinitesimally against him as she
slowly breathed in and out.  Gilly was still asleep, both of them nude on top of
the bedspread.  Her short hair was soft against his cheek, and smelled faintly
of flowers.

	Berto raised a hand and gently stroked her shoulder.  He ran his hand
across her smooth skin, trailing fingers down her ribcage to the hollow of her
waist, back up the curve of her boyish hips.  He felt his cock stir slightly,
nestled against her bottom.  He couldn't decide which ached more, his balls or
his organ, after his record-setting evening, but he didn't really mind the
discomfort; he'd earned it, and proudly. 

	He kept sroking her gently, slowly, from the curve of her shoulder to
the wide spot where her hip turned to thigh.  After four trips of his hand her
breathing changed and she shifted slightly.

	Stroke.  Stroke.  Stroke.  Gilly's breathing grew quicker and she gave a
tiny hum.  Berto's member was an iron bar pressing against her buttocks.  He
could feel it twitch in time to the beat of his heart.

	Stroke.  Stroke.  Stroke.  And then Gilly gave another little hum and
pushed her ass back at him.

	Berto moved his hand down, lifted her upper cheek, and maneuvered the
tip of his organ into her crack.  Gently he found the right angle and pushed
into her still moist depths.  At her sigh he began a slow steady rocking motion,
right hand on her waist for leverage.  His left arm wasn't even tingling
anymore; she could've chewed it off for all the sensation he had in his hand.

	Even after hours asleep Gilly's glove was slick enough so that Berto
moved easily in her.  Her buttocks were a warm cushion he nudged against on
every instroke.  Gilly reached an arm back and cupped one of his buttocks,
urging him faster. 

	In the spoon position Berto knew it would take him longer to reach
orgasm.  He didn't think Gilly would mind.  He rocked slowly against her, in no
hurry, luxuriating in the silky smooth wetness of her.  By the time he was
close, warm and getting sweaty, Gilly'd already climaxed once, shuddering and
jerking her ass against him.  Finally the exquisite pressure and friction was
too much for him, and Berto urged his seed into her with quiet grunts.  He was
surprised he had any left to give.

	"Mmmm, that was a nice way to wake up," she murmured when he was
finished.  "We sure did go to it last night, didn't we?  You really know what
you're doing.  Hmmm.  My chest is all sore."  Suddenly he felt her stiffen, and
she lifted her head.

	"What time is it?" she asked.  Berto's eyes found the display below the
vidscreen at the same time hers did.

	"It's so late!  No wonder I'm so stiff, I'm way overdue.  I don't even
want to move, I just know one of my stoppers is going to pop right off."

	"Are you okay?" he asked, not quite sure what she was so concerned
about.  He sat up on the bed.

	Gilly rolled halfway onto her back carefully and looked up at him.  When
Berto'd first laid eyes on Gilly's breasts he'd been disappointed at their
flatness.  Their sheer number made up for that fact, but flat just wasn't as
attractive, even if they were rather wide.  As she'd gone through liter after
liter of juice and water, however, her breasts had lost some of their looseness. 
At first it'd been hard to tell, since the change was gradual, but sometime
after midnight Berto had gotten a good look at Gilly's chest and seen that her
breasts weren't flat at all anymore.  They'd still been a little loose and
flabby, but they felt firmer, and the flatness had disappeared as they'd --
presumably -- filled up with milk.  That was the point at which she'd put the
roller clamps on her nipples.

	Now, however, with his eyes still bleary from sleep, Berto stared in
wonderment at Gilly's chest.  Her breasts had swollen with milk until they were
near spheres riding on her torso.  The globes were so engorged that her nipples
had been pulled nearly flat, an impressive feat considering how far they'd stuck
out the night before.  The little steel rollers crimping her nipples were sunk
deep into her flesh, only their ends visible.  The tips of her nipples were
nearly purple.

	"Holy krikes!" was all he could say.

	"I've got to get to the Dairy, I'm almost two hours overdue," she told
him.  She sat up slowly and grimaced as gravity took hold of her milk-heavy
breasts.  As she sat up on the bed her thighs pushed her lower pair upward into
her other painfully swollen breasts.  Each one was the size of a regulation
Powerball, twenty centimeters across.  They were so full of milk, the skin
pulled so taut, that as Gilly carefully stood up they barely sagged.  She was
nothing but breasts from collarbones to hipbones.

	"Can I?" he asked hesitantly, one hand outstretched.

	"Huh?" she said distractedly.  "Oh, sure.  But be gentle."

	Her swollen breasts were as firm as rubber.  There was hardly any give
to them at all as he touched first one, then another with curious fingers.

	"Where are my clothes?" she said, looking around.  Her hair stuck out at
odd angles.  White drops appeared on two of her nipples, the pressure inside too
much even for the roller-clamps to contain.  A wobbling string of semen hung
from her puffy slit, growing slowly longer.

	Berto grabbed her clothes scattered around the room and handed them to
her, unable to take his eyes off her breasts.

	"They're huge," he marvelled.  He knew how inane he sounded, if anybody
knew how big they were it was her, but he couldn't help himself.  "I can't
believe how much bigger they've gotten.  They must be nothing but mammary
glands."

	"Genetically engineered," she reminded him.  When she bent over to pull
on her shorts, the sight of her six big swaying breasts took his breath away. 
He couldn't remember ever seeing something so magnificent, and then he watched
her raise her arms above her head to pull on her shirt.  There had to be a God.

	"I need to get pumped out quick," she said, carefully sitting on the bed
so she could pull on her shoes.  "I'm going to get stretchmarks, or worse."  She
felt between her thighs.  "Ooh, I'm still juicy."

	Berto watched her, still nude and shiny and sticky from their long
night.  She was beautiful.  "You definitely need to drain some of that out," he
agreed.  "Krikes, would I love to see that."

	"Come on along then," Gilly said.  "The girls'll like you, and I
guarantee you won't be bored, there's always something happening.  Yesterday two
newbies spun out on a hormone overdose and practically raped one of the helpers. 
It was sort of violent.  They had to restrain them and call for a squad of
synthetics.  Those poor girls were so far gone the synthetics had to take them
right there in the waiting room, two at a time, and of course we all got bubbly
watching that.  Or did you have something else you wanted to do?"

	"You have got to be kidding," he said, scrambling for his clothes.





	". . . and with the changeover complete your fabricating machines will
be running eight percent faster, using two percent less power.  The rotating
schedule developed for the changeover," Race indicated the holographic flowchart
rotating above the conference table, "will only have nine percent of your
facilities idling at any one time.  We are quite aware that you have a constant
backorder problem.  Your overall production should only show a slight dip in the
first few rotations.  Then, as the newer equipment comes on-line, and the new
models start rolling out, your capacity will bounce back to current maximum, and
then beyond.  I estimate that by this time next year your annual output should
have increased by six and a half percent, and ten and a half percent the year
after that."

	She used a vidscreen as well as the table holo to illustrate her
projections.  Race didn't actually think of them as projections;  she'd been at
her job far too long to have to guess at anything.  As the head of New Mantique
Synthetics' Advanced Production Team she knew down to the hour, second, and
tenth of a credit what the changeover would entail.

	As she finished her orientation she scanned the faces before her;  the
brightest lights in GUP Inc.'s Synthetics Division, which by itself was nearly
the size of NMS' entire operation on New Mantique.  In total there were fifteen
people around the table, eight of them women, which was a bit of a surprise. 
New Mantique was a patriarchal society, and women made up less than ten percent
of the upper management in business and industry.  Most of the faces watching
her appeared skeptical that she could deliver on her promises -- they'd gone
through changeovers and tool-ups before, and it had always taken longer and cost
more than the estimates.  However, she hadn't been in charge then, and everyone
around the table was aware of her reputation.  If Race Harrington said she could
do something, smart money wouldn't bet against her.

	"Of course, there are always unexpected delays," she admitted to them. 
"My schedule, however, already takes those into account."  That got her a few
more disbelieving looks.

	"The software reconfig bits arrived with me.  The first wave of hardware
should be arriving from New Mantique . . ." she looked down at her timetable. 

	"This evening," one of the females at the table said.

	"Correct.  Offload is what, eight hours or so?  So tomorrow morning I'll
be down with your engineers, instructing them on the peculiarities of the new
intelligence downloads."  The two heads of the engineering department were in
the room, and they nodded in unison.  "We've already had an engineering team
here for what, a month?  Helping do the initial assembly and checks of the line
equipment.  That's why this changeover will be so painless, the new machines
will already be put together, and will only have to be moved into place and
tested."

	"A transport full of the new Q-Series synthetics will be arriving here
the day after tomorrow.  I was told they were sending twenty-five, but upper
management has a history of arbitrarily adding or subtracting units from the
demo lot, without telling anyone, so . . . ."

	"Now, we've been hearing just how much better the Q-Series is than any
previous model," Will Smylie, the CFO said.  "I don't know about anybody else,
but the P-Series seemed perfect to me.  I don't see what they could have done to
justify the price increase."

	"I understand exactly what you're saying," Race said, dropping her
professional facade just a little bit.  "How the hell can you sell the new model
at a higher price, when it looks exactly the same to the consumer as the old
model?  Right from the beginning I saw this could be a problem.  Synthetics,
externally at least, have been perfect since the second wave of L's.  The
imperfections weren't physical.  You all know what I'm talking about.  Even the
P-Series had some flaws.  I could usually spot one in less than an hour of
casual conversation.  Of course, I've got more experience with them than most
people, but I'm sure you're all familiar with their . . . quirks.  The
occasional odd, inappropriate or out-of-context statement, the disconcerting
lack of movement when at rest, the staring.  Tiny things, but after a while it
becomes pretty obvious to anybody that's paying attention who's a synthetic in
the group and who's not."  She got knowing nods.

	"On the Deckard scale the P-Series averaged an eighty-nine.  That's damn
good, if you ask me, but it's not perfect.  The Q-Series is running at
ninety-four and a quarter.  I'm sure all of you know just how huge of an
improvement that is.  Hell," she lowered her voice," most people test right
around ninety-four."  A few of the assembled nodded vigorously.

	"What does this mean in the real world?  Well, we all know that NM
synthetics look and feel perfect, and have for years.  But that's just not good
enough anymore, not with all the competition.

	"I spent two weeks at our headquarters, working with a ten person team
putting together all the presentation and material I'd need for this assignment. 
David Boardman, CEO of NMS, wanted to make sure I believed in the superiority of
our product.  So, the day before I left, he sat me down, with my ten person
team, and asked me to tell him which member of that team was a synthetic.  These
were people that I'd been working with closely for two weeks, mind you, ten
hours or more a day."  Fifteen pairs of eyes stared at her, waiting for her to
continue.

	"I thought he was joking.  When I realized he wasn't, I didn't know what
to do.  I'd never even had an inkling that one of my people wasn't organic.  So
what did I do?"  She smiled, and shook her head.  "I guessed, and ended up
enraging an assistant manager of sales by saying that I thought she was it.  God
knows if she'll ever talk to me again."

	"There wasn't a synthetic," someone said confidently.

	"No, you're right, there wasn't a synthetic," Race told him.  "There
were three.  I never spotted them."

	The room exploded in amazement and disbelief.

	"Even sexually?" one of the engineers queried her above the din.

	"Well, uh," Race began, as the room quieted down to listen to her
answer, "as some of you might know, NMS has many licensed subsidiaries scattered
throughout known space.  GUP Inc.'s Synthetic's Division is only one such
independent licensee, although it is the biggest.  However, New Mantique is a
very . . . traditional planet.  As ironic as it sounds, even though NMS was
founded there and has grown until its sales are one and a half percent of the
planetary gross, eight percent of total export revenue, uh, having sexual
relations with a synthetic is illegal on New Mantique itself.  NMS has had to
build several facilities off-planet solely to test those skills," she continued,
as the room exploded in noise again.  "So, while I personally can't attest to
that facet of the Q-Series' performance, it has been rated.  The males, going
from the P's to the Q's, on the Deckard scale, rose from an 81 to an 88.  The
females had an even larger jump, from an 89 to a 96."

	"A ninety-six?" someone said incredulously.

	"Everyone here has their own personal synthetic provided by the
company," the CFO informed her.  "As well as being a nice job benefit, we find
it's the best way to discover any problems the units might have.  Monsipur,
obviously, doesn't have the same . . . outdated laws as New Mantique, so we're
all quite familiar with the P-Series' pluses and minuses in the bedroom.  If the
Q-Series delivers such a dramatic improvement as you say, then we're all going
to be very happy."  His comment was greeted with much laughter.  Race smiled
too, but tried not to show her shock.  She wasn't used to such frank sexual
discussion in the workplace.

	"And very rich," someone added.  More laughter.

	"I'm not current on the latest figures out of New Mantique," Smylie told
her, "but as you probably know, fully eighty percent of our customers buy their
synthetics purely or mostly for their sexual function, with household chores
running a very distant second."

	"I wasn't aware that it was that high here, no," Race admitted. 
Mentally she shook her head.  Compared to New Mantique's repressive culture,
Monsipur was a sexual free-for-all.  Smylie, without pause or one whit of
embarrassment, had as much told her that the movers and shakers of this company
spent a lot of time having sex with their synthetics.  And no one at the table
had batted an eye.  She'd seen more overt sexuality, nudity, and uninhibitedness
in two days on Monsipur than in her last ten years on New Mantique.  She still
hadn't adjusted to the change in climate.

	Spacewide, Race knew that over fifty percent of all synthetics ever
manufactured were used primarily for sex, and so were designed appropriately. 
However, it was just not something publicly discussed on New Mantique, much less
admitted to.  Much of the Q-Series design in regards to the sexual arena had to
be programmed and tested off-planet due to social constraints.  Her government
hadn't gone so far as to decree that all synthetics on New Mantique had to be
rendered sexually nonfunctional, but there had been those Senate proposals.  It
was probably just a matter of time. 

	"The Q-Series, as I've said, is the first totally synthetic Synthetic. 
No organic components at all.  That means less maintenance.  If they don't
consume any food or drink for the sake of appearances, we only recommend a
check-up once a year.  If they do eat, the Q's are totally self cleaning, and
their 'stomachs' can neutralize any type of food you can find.  They run on the
standard power cell, which has a half-life of fifty years.

	"As your engineers will soon be telling you, the Q-Series is much more
friendly when it comes to short-runs or custom orders.  There is far less
equipment to change in and out.  I noticed reviewing your production totals for
the last few years that you do a huge number of special orders, at least
compared to NMS, so this should be good news."

	"It sounds too good to be true," one of the engineering staff said. 
"I'm waiting for the bad news.  That they only come with green skin, maybe." 
That got a lot of chuckles.

	"Okay, how's this?" Race offered.  She pointed.  "Let me introduce Billy
Faircloth, one of the members of our engineering team that's been here for about
a month.  Most of you have probably run into him by now?  He's been working
closely with your engineering staff."  Most of the people at the table knew him,
and he got a few nods.  A big smile crept across Race's face, and she spread her
hand out toward him.

	"Ladies and Gentlemen, let me introduce you to your first Q-Series
synthetic, serial number DN38416, also known as Billy Faircloth."  The synthetic
smiled, bowed, and then sat down.  There was stunned silence as everybody stared
at him.  Race silently noted one of the female execs had turned bright red and
couldn't look at Billy.

	"Now who knew?" Race asked.  "Honestly."  She waited.  No one raised
their hand.  "That's what I thought.  Well, people, that's all I've got for
today.  I'll be sending updates twice a day, but I don't think we need to meet
again until the day after tomorrow at the earliest.  Billy, why don't you stick
around.  I'm sure there's a whole line of people just waiting to poke and prod
you."

	"Yes Ma'am." 

	The red-faced female executive laughed out loud, then covered her mouth,
surprised at her own outburst.  The rest of the table looked at her, realized
what had happened, and shared a huge laugh.  Race was astonished that other than
the initial reaction, the woman didn't seem upset that not only had she slept
with a man that turned out to be a synthetic, but that all of her coworkers now
knew it too.

	Smylie stood up.  "Okay people, that about wraps it up.  Mary, you've
got the new promotional materials.  This thing is going to be a goldmine, but
the adverts'll take a bit of thought because all the changes -- most of 'em,
anyway -- are behavioral.  Ms. Harrington's provided us with a few good ideas
NMS has been using in their adverts for the Q.  Even if we can't think up
anything original on our own we'll have to tweak those toward Monny culture." 
The formal atmosphere of the meeting dissolved as people stood and various
discussions began.  "I'll make sure to get you a unit as soon as that shipment
comes in, I know how you like a hands-on approach for inspiration."  More
laughter.

	Race nodded and smiled and shook a few hands as she packed up her
presentation materials.  Things had gone well, but she knew everything was
dependent upon a smooth changeover.  As long as everything went more or less to
her plan, the people in this room were going to be very happy people indeed.

	She couldn't get used to seeing men in dresses.  Several of the males
sitting at the table had been wearing traditional Monsipurian robes, in pastel
colors no less.  To her they looked like women's gowns.  Not appropriate
business attire, as far as she was concerned, but it wasn't her planet.  Not one
of the women at the meeting wore a tongi, though, which puzzled her.  They were
all in sharp, tailored business suits. 

	The current women's business fashion seemed to be short, waist length
double-breasted suitcoats, with snugly tailored slacks beneath.  In dark colors,
forest green the most common.  Race had thought her suits were snug; next to the
women at this meeting she looked positively prudish.  The combination short
jacket and high waisted, tight pants gave every female in the room an hourglass
figure, no matter their age, and not one had an extra ounce of fat on her body,
or saggy breasts, or wrinkles visible from more than three feet away.  As they
made their way out they stopped one at a time to say hello or make small talk
with her; it made Race glad she'd undergone skin rejuv recently.  They were all
smiling, but their eyes ran up and down her body like vultures eyeing the
wounded. 

	"Good morning, Ms. Harrington."  Race looked up into the eyes of one of
the younger females she'd seen sitting at the back of the room; executive
assistants, she'd assumed, recording the relevant sections of her presentation
with their workbooks.  She introduced herself as Tintina Humbert, Executive
Assistant to Indira Chirash, Vice President of Domestic Marketing.  Tina was
perky, confident, and now apparently eager to please.

	"I'm going to be your new liaison with Gupink's SynthDiv while you're
onplanet."  She smiled brightly.  She had to be five years Race's junior, with
long blonde hair pulled back into a ponytail that hung down the back of her
green blazer.  Race didn't think the ponytail looked very professional, but she
had to admit it looked great against the green fabric.  Tintina wore a tight
skirt that didn't quite reach her knees.  Most of the assistants seemed to have
long hair in ponytails or braids, while the female executives had hairdos
similar to Races': short and severe.

	"What happened to Richardson?"  That yappy, annoying bastard, she
silently added.  He'd picked her up at the hotel and driven her in his speeder
to the meeting, inanely talking about nothing the whole way.  He'd finally
quieted down, but she didn't know if that was because he sensed her distaste or
just because he'd run out of things to blather on about.

	"Mr. Smylie thought the two of us might work better together," Tintina
said innocently. 

	Race cocked her head at Tintina, then looked across the room to where
Smylie was in close conversation with two of his subordinates.  He caught her
glance, saw who Race was with, and gave her a little nod, never once losing his
train of thought as he barked out instructions.

	"Oh really."

	"I think you'll find my most important quality is knowing when to shut
up," Tintina said, just as innocently as before.  Race peered at her, then shook
her head.

	"Was I that obvious?  I must be slipping.  I'm sure you'll do fine.  Why
don't you help me get my stuff together here, and then I've got to head down to
Programming."

	"I'll show you the way."

                                                     CHAPTER EIGHT



	It was getting worse.  The fact that he hadn't slept all night was just
the least of Christopher's problems.

	He'd been left alone on the second floor balcony, with no distractions,
for twenty minutes or more.  He'd spent the time uncontrollably humping the
bench, penis wedged between his belly and the slick padded surface.  He came
twice in relatively short order, turning the cushion into a slimy, slippery
mess, but instead of relief his symptoms seemed to be getting stronger;  the
drugs he'd ingested apparently took a while to fully enter his system.  Rather
than relaxing his body, by the time Chris had orgasmed twice he was powerless to
control his wild thrusting.

	Two other men shared his predicament.  He'd seen them earlier, roaming
their respective balconies.  Once he started humping the bench, however, he
ceased to care about anything other than the feel of his cock against the smooth
bench seat.  Presumably they were experiencing the same symptoms.

	At some point he looked down through the balcony railing and noticed the
courtyard of the building filling up with white-robed women.  They quietly took
seats on the long benches with very little talking amongst themselves.  To a
person they were bald, and in identical white tongis.  It almost looked, to
Chris' drug warped mind, that they were preparing for a religious service.  In
another ten minutes, the pews, for that's exactly what they looked like, were
filled with bodies.  All women, all bald, all in white.  Chris guessed there
were at least forty of them in the courtyard, however it was a rough guess, as
he was never able to stop thrusting long enough to count to five, much less
forty.

	Some time later he saw one long-robed, bald woman standing alone in
front of the assembled group.  Her arms were raised, a large violet container in
one hand.  Similar violet containers were being distributed among the seated
women, and when everybody had one, they briefly chanted in unison and drank
until their cups were empty.

	The leader of the group then led them through a series of rhythmic
chants, or perhaps they were boring songs, in a language Chris didn't
understand.  Probably the local dialect.  It went on for some time, and began to
more closely resemble a church service, with the leader speaking and the group
responding en masse.  The singsong chanting rose and fell, and Chris for one was
grateful for the distraction.  Anything that slowed his urge to rut at this
point was welcomed, although he found it hard to focus on anything other than
the feel of the cushion beneath him.

	He had no idea how much time had passed when he next noticed what was
happening on the floor.  The chanting had ended, and the women seemed to be
getting restless in their pews.  The leader had disappeared, but then Chris saw
her walk into view through a doorway near the front of the courtyard.  She
called out loudly, and raised her hands.  The congregation rose to its feet with
a collective rustle.

	Tentatively following the woman, its pink nose sniffing the air, was a
grey fourlegged animal that reminded Chris of a large Terran canine but was
obviously something very different.  Thigh high to the woman at the shoulder,
the quadruped had big floppy ears and wide padded feet shaped like saucers,
ideally suited for running across loose sand.  The animal was a light dusky
grey, either hairless or with hair so short it was invisible from a distance. 
Forty kilos, Chris guessed, with a long skinny tail.

	Berto, with his much-maligned memory dump, could have told Chris all
about this creature.  Nicknamed Danes, for their resemblance to the Terran
canine, they were Monsipur's largest life form, the only species native to the
planet that weighed over two kilos.  Their short, fine coat did an excellent job
of blocking the sun's intense rays, and was amazingly soft to the touch.  Danes
lived in packs, which sometimes numbered fifty or more animals, and were
nocturnal hunters.  Berto could have told him they were popular pets, generally
smarter than the average dog, and easily domesticated.

	What Berto didn't know, however, couldn't know, was that to survive in
the unforgiving environment of Monsipur, the Dane reproductive cycle had risen
to an amazing level.  The females were always willing, and the males were always
eager to service.  The original settlers discovered this little fact early on,
when, ignorant of the incompatibility of their DNA, wild male Danes entered the
small makeshift towns and did their best to mount every human female in sight. 
The majority of these women's husbands spent most of their time away from the
rickety settlements working in the mines or at the atmospheric processors that
would someday tame the planet, so it was only natural that the women, while at
first annoyed by the frisky animals, liked the companionship the easily tamed
animals provided.  Loneliness, and close proximity to animals with large and
very prominent organs that humped anything warm, weakened the settler women. 

	What happened next wasn't explained fully for years, not until
scientists performed tests on the Danes and found that their pheromones, the
airborne sexual attractants they emitted, affected human females as well as Dane
bitches.  All these women's husbands knew, when they returned home weeks and
months later, was that their wives were getting mounted -- daily or better -- by
animals sporting organs bigger than theirs.  Not all the women, but a lot of
them, enough so that a general slaughter of the animals began, and continued for
years.  Eventually cooler heads prevailed, the killing stopped, and sex with
Danes was simply outlawed.  The laws, however, were by and large ignored, and
rarely enforced.  Presently, any single woman in Garshak that had a pet Dane was
assumed to be having sex with it.  It wasn't a topic brought up in polite
conversation, but there was no longer any real social stigma attached to it.

	However, the fact that having sex with Danes was still, technically,
illegal, caused problems for a lot of women, who saw it as a violation of their
personal freedoms.  Most of these women kept their opinions to themselves, but a
few spoke out.  There were others that let their obsession with the animals take
control of their lives, and, eventually, most of these women became DaneLovers.

	The DaneLover Church, as they called themselves, was an underground
organization of women, thousands of them, spread across the planet.  Instead of
defending the right of lonely women to seek pleasure in any form that didn't
harm another, i.e. sex with Danes, the DaneLovers became obsessed with the
animals and the power they had over women.  The "churchwomen" became convinced
that the animals were somehow messengers of God, and were sent to us to show us
the true way.  Although the beliefs of the church changed over time, the
founding members' idea that the Danes were a source of "purity" only grew
stronger.  How this fit in with the Dane orgy that was the centerpiece of every
church service none of the members was quite sure, but that didn't slow them
down.  The church members began ridding themselves of all body hair as part of a
purifying ritual, then drank large quantities of X-Cite-R and Breeder's Helper
before engaging in sex with multiple Dane partners.  The women collected what
they could of the spent Dane seed, no one outside the church knew why, and then
joined with human males who had been proven unsullied.  Their seed was also
collected.

	Most I-Vid commentators thought the DaneLovers were a bunch of kooks who
just couldn't admit to themselves they liked having sex with animals and needed
to make something mystical out of the experience, and embarrassed the otherwise
normal women of Monsipur who liked having recreational sex with the friendly
beasts.

	As the Dane slowly walked into view, sniffing the air furiously, there
was a collective sigh from the assembled women.  By the time the fourth Dane
entered the big courtyard there wasn't a single woman in the audience who still
wore her robe.  Underneath they were all nude, and began to move out from behind
the pews.

	Chris felt the need begin to build again and had to bow his head as he
furiously humped the bench.  In a few minutes he came again, further messing
both himself and the benchseat.  He had to rest for a bit, sweaty forehead
pressed against the cool seat, and when he looked up again the courtyard was a
seething mass of flesh.

	The hollow center of the building echoed with the cries of the women,
hopped to the gills on X-Cite-R and Breeder's Helper, as they were
enthusiastically mounted by the wild Danes captured just for this occasion. 
There were perhaps a dozen of the animals in the courtyard, their impressively
large, midnight black members buried in willing church members.  Those women who
hadn't been lucky enough to snag a Dane on the first round mostly just sat amid
the others, furiously masturbating.  Cries of pleasure, long drawn out gasps and
moans, floated up to the balcony.

	Chris watched in stunned disbelief the spectacle before him.  The Danes
were all vigorously thrusting, forelegs wrapped around a human partner.  Most of
the mounted were on their hands and knees, although a few had just lain back on
the benches and let the Dane take them that way.

	While physiologically predisposed toward a strong sex drive, the Danes
weren't especially long lasting.  Several minutes was all it took, then the
animal would stiffen against whatever woman he was inside.  After a few minutes
downtime, the animal would be ready to go again.

	The first group of women to be mounted began climbing to their feet
after only a few minutes.  The Dane semen was white in color and very thick, as
might be expected from a desert-dweller.  It oozed from some of the women as
they climbed the stairs to the balconies.

	Chris stared from his position on the bench as a middle-aged brunette
stopped at the edge of his balcony.  There were red marks on her ribcage from
the Dane's wide paws, and the insides of her thighs were wet.  He sat back from
the bench, then stood up as she took a step onto the balcony.

	"Join your seed with the pure one's," she intoned, her pupils wide from
the X-Cite-R.  Chris rushed at her but she lithely sidestepped him and moved to
the low bench, kneeling down.  The top of the bench was a sticky half-dried
tableau of semen.  The woman, however, didn't notice or didn't care as she lay
her body across it.  Chris was on her in a heartbeat, groaning in pleasure as he
found her wet folds with his second thrust.

	He thrust into her furiously, laying across her pale back as his hands
were still bound behind him.  So frantic was his urge to pump that he barely
felt her around or under him.  She grunted with each of his thrusts, pushing her
ass out at him and spreading her cheeks with her hands.  His eyes were locked on
the back of her neck, at the folds where her bald skull met the sloping curve of
her shoulders.

	Chris came quickly, but barely paused ten seconds to catch his breath
before starting to thrust in her again.  The woman, however, had felt his organ
pulsing in her in time with his spurts, and fought to her feet.

	"No!" Chris cried, trying to hook her shoulder with his chin.  She got
away from him anyway and scooted toward the stairs, a glob of semen falling onto
the stone balcony floor.  Chris lunged to his feet and raced after her, only to
be brought up short by the sight of three other women lined up on the stairs,
waiting their turn.  Bubek was the first one.

	"Gimmee that stuff," she said, striding past him to the bench.  She lay
on her back and pulled her knees up to her chest.  Out of the corner of his eye
Chris saw lines forming at the other balconies too, even as he charged Bubek and
knelt before her offered purse of flesh.  Dane semen, clear and thin, ran down
the crack of her ass.  Chris plugged her back up and fell atop her, wildly
thrusting his hips.  Bubek barked like a dog when she climaxed, he soon learned,
and liked to bite.  Chris barely felt her teeth.





	All that had been twelve hours ago.  Chris was nearly delirious with
exhaustion.  With just one break to drink several large cups of water, and
another where he was forced to drink more of the violet-colored devil's brew,
Chris had been scooping women all night and into the morning.  He couldn't stop,
and they kept trudging up the stairs.

	He'd fucked at least forty women already, although he didn't know if
he'd gotten to all of them.  Many he'd done twice, several three times.

	The women were exhausted too, but had drunk so much of their wicked
potion it didn't matter.  They were covered in seed, both human and Dane, and
most wore red marks on the ribs in the shape of Dane paws.  Their eyes were wide
from the high doses of Jack, and most couldn't have formed a complete sentence
if they'd tried.

	After about ten hours most of the Danes had fallen asleep.  The only
reason they'd lasted that long was the women had kept their interest up with
oral sex.  Once in a while one would awaken from his stupor and approach one of
the women still in the courtyard, but for the most part, Chris and his
compatriots had assumed the duties of servicing the women.

	They surrounded him on the balcony.  His knees were sore and swollen
from kneeling for so long on the stone, so the women had pushed him onto his
back.  One was gyrating madly on his cock while another was grinding her soupy
pussy against his face so hard he was having trouble breathing.  He couldn't see
a damn thing.  He could feel the woman on his right foot, trying to wedge it
inside herself.  She was having some success.  The rest of the women he could
only hear, moaning softly and breathing hard, as they masturbated and in some
cases fingered each other.  There were at least a dozen of them on or around
him, waiting for their turn with his cock.  They were all a mess, Chris
included, slick and shiny with sweat and semen and spit.  The polished stone
floor was treacherous.

	There was a burning ache in his loins that was uncomfortable, but wasn't
bad enough to deter or even delay his orgasm.  He grunted against the sweaty
mound pressed into his face, squirting into the warm center of the woman
bouncing on his crotch.

	Burning ache or not, the X-Cite-R was still strong enough in his veins
that he never totally lost his erection.  The woman above him had felt his
spurts, however.

	"Off of him, off of him," Chris heard, as both women on top of him were
pushed off.  He blinked to see a massive woman towering above him.  She was
built like a treestump, her thick body white as a cloud.  She looked down at
Chris, licked her lips, and then lumbered over to the bench, massive breasts
swaying.

	Chris struggled to his feet, eyes locked on the pink, deep cleft being
presented to him.  He felt hands grab at him, bodies gravitating toward him. but
he'd locked on a target and didn't let himself get distracted.  Chris lay atop
the woman's wide back and began thrusting.  It was an automatic, almost
involuntary motion.  He didn't even try to control himself anymore.  As he
pounded mechanically, the woman snuffling under him and biting her lower lip, he
could see the other two balconies.  They were just writhing piles of flesh, the
men buried somewhere under the orgiastic females.  Down in the courtyard the
Danes were beginning to wake up, moving immediately to mount the women who had
been waiting for them on all fours, asses aimed toward the animals.

	Chris saw no sign of the activity lessening, and wondered just how long
this could go on.  He hadn't even thought to refuse the offered refill of
X-Cite-R earlier, but now a vague sense of worry troubled him.  What would give
out first -- his heart or his penis?  And, at some point, he'd have to sleep. 
He wondered if they'd just push him onto his back and keep bouncing on his cock
while he slept.

	He felt fingers on his ass and looked behind him to see a skinny woman
with flat breasts and pointy hipbones kneeling behind him.  While he kept up his
thrusting she slid her fingers into his sweaty crack and played with his anus. 
She was giggling uncontrollably.

	"Hey now," he said to her.  He stiffened as she forced two fingers into
him and began tugging on his balls with her other hand.

	"Fiddly, fiddly," she giggled, using her unique two-fingered grip on him
to urge him to speed up.  Directly behind her two women were locked into a
fierce embrace as they lay on the floor, grinding their smooth mounds against
each other's thigh.

	"C'mon fiddly, give her that cock," the woman exploring his interior
directed Chris.  She wasn't hurting him, but he was very aware of just how
easily she could.  She was nearly out of control, and he wasn't sure he'd be
able to stop even if she began pulling his intestines out his ass.  Chris
grunted as she pulled his balls back and forth, urging him faster.  It felt like
she was digging for ore inside him, her fingers twisting and hooking.  They
flicked across his prostate, then turned back and pressed hard.  He grunted and
stiffened, spurting three quick times into the large woman beneath him.  For all
her reaction she could've been asleep.

	Panting hard and hoping for a minute's rest, Chris gasped as he was
pulled backward out of the woman by his testicles.

	"Action already, Pandy," the skinny one said crossly.  Ponderously the
big woman stood up and turned around, breasts swaying mountainously.  Her vagina
had been as loose as a pantleg, and if it hadn't been for the probing fingers
Chris might've been thrusting into her for another hour before he was able to
climax.

	Pandy moved aside and the skinny one hopped onto the bench.  Preferring
to take him while on her back, she pulled him to her by his organ, and sunk him
home with a heel to his buttock.

	"Oooh yeah," she said.  Her fleshy glove was snug around him and danced
on his shaft in an impressive display of muscle control.  "Let's put you to
use." 

	"Refill," he heard.  He turned to see a woman, who he didn't recognize
but whom he'd probably already scooped, holding a white cup.  He assumed it was
filled with more of the evil violet fluid.  Even as his hips began their
thrusting he shook his head at her.

	"Please, no more," he begged, his voice rough.

	"Drink it, or you'll get it in an enema," he was told.  "We can't have
you fading on us so early in the ceremony."  There were two identical red marks
on her rib cage, the exact size and shape of Dane paws.  She grabbed him by the
ear and jerked his head back.  "Drink it, sperm bag," she growled, holding the
cup to his lips.  She poured the fluid into his mouth and he drank reflexively. 
When the cup was empty she patted him on the head and walked off.

	"How much longer?" he gasped.  The skinny thing under him had her ankles
crossed behind his back and was nibbling at his neck.

	"Until the last of us has passed out from exhaustion," she purred into
his throat.  She gripped his elbows and rocked her hips in time to his thrusts. 
"At least two more days."

                                                     CHAPTER NINE



	Garvin Espering awoke with a raging erection and a vague, clutching
sense of dread.  He always awoke with an erection -- that was nothing new.  It
was the sense of dread that concerned him.

	He lay in bed on his back, eyes open and staring up into the darkness. 
He ran through the events of the day, trying to determine if there was some
pressing business that he'd failed to attend to.  Nothing came to mind.  He had
an amazing memory, an ability to retain and compartmentalize every bit of
information he came across in his long business day.  It was a skill that time
and again had saved him trouble.  He went backwards in his head three days,
looking for whatever it was that was disturbing his sleep.  Again, nothing.  He
thought of calling his assistant, Mika, and asking her if he'd overlooked
something, but decided against it.  She was on call twenty hours a day, but he
hated waking anybody up in the middle of the night.  He already spent more time
with her than he did his wife.

	With a grunt he threw off the covers and got out of bed.  He always
slept nude, and the night air was cool on his flesh.  Espering fished a silk
robe off the back of a chair -- real silk, mind you, not that faux trash -- and
wrapped it around his body.  His hard penis made a tent of the material.

	The console beside the bed flashed no warnings about a breach in
security, no Urgent-rated waiting messages.  Espering wasn't worried about
getting murdered in his sleep -- it would take a platoon of combat-hardened
League Marines to break through his estate's defenses, and chances were that
would rouse him from even the deepest slumber.  Not that he was afraid of dying,
mind you.  He'd made his peace with God, and knew there was an honored spot in
heaven for him, but he wasn't ready to go just yet.  There were too many things
left for him to do.  He was still needed on Monsipur.

	Espering slipped on some padded loafers and headed out into the big
recreation room adjoining his bedroom.  It was a dark cave at night, with only
enough light seeping from hidden alcoves to keep him from tripping headlong over
furniture.  The six-sided room was huge, with two of the walls giant
flatscreens.  Chairs, short couches, and a handful of P-pods dotted the floor. 
He paused in the dim space, looking around.  He detected nothing amiss or out of
place, no strange sounds or scents in the air.

	Moving carefully to avoid tripping, Espering made his way across the
room to his wife's bedroom door.  It was shut, revealing nothing.  He put his
ear to its surface and heard nothing.  However, both their bedrooms were
soundproofed, so he would've been surprised to hear anything.  It was a
custom-made door -- she could be in there screaming and he wouldn't hear a
thing.

	His wife had retired earlier with a gaggle of squeakers.  At least, he
hoped they were squeakers.  It was hard to keep up with her ever-changing
tastes.  That was why they had the separate bedrooms; Espering still loved his
wife, and even had sex with her occasionally, but he'd never get any sleep if he
shared his bed with her.  Half the time she was up all night on some escapade --
entertaining herself had become her full-time profession, with no set hours. 

	Espering had his entire property monitored, for security reasons, by
vids, as well as sensors of every type known to man and a dizzying array of
overlapping alarm systems so complex it took a computer to sort them all out. 
That included the bedrooms of his wife and daughter, although they didn't know
it.  He could go back into his bedroom and access the cameras covering his
wife's quarters from the console beside his bed, see for himself what she was,
or wasn't, doing, but he dismissed that thought.  Noises echoing through the
walls from her bedroom hadn't been what roused him and filled him with such a
sense of unease.

	Tying the robe's belt loosely around his waist Espering made his way
across the room and pushed open the door.  He strode down a short hallway and
paused at an archway and the two big doors beneath it.  His daughter's living
area was more than a suite but not quite its own wing of the house.  He had no
idea if she was inside; she'd gone out earlier in the day, he didn't know where. 
She was a bit like her mother, always looking for a new adventure.  It could be
days before she returned.  He moved on after only a few seconds, stepping out
into the main corridor that ran the length of the residence.

	Head cocked in thought, he strode down the wide corridor, the gentle
swish of his robe echoing off the walls.  In the alcoves to either side
Espering's white statues stoically watched him rustle by, tented erection still
leading the way.

	In the security command center vidscreens had flicked over to show
Espering as soon as he'd stepped into the main corridor.  The entire house was
filled with heat, sound, and motion sensors, which were tied into the camera
system.  The finger size cameras were programmed to follow any movement, and the
two sergeants manning the post, alerted to his presence, watched Espering stalk
down the hallway, lost in thought.  When it became obvious he was heading for
the command center they straightened in their chairs and looked around to make
sure everything was as it should be.  He treated his security people so well and
paid them so much money they nearly broke their backs trying to do a good job
for him.  Which was exactly why he did it.

	"Evening, gentlemen," Espering murmured as he swept into the room.

	"Sir," they greeted him.  "Having trouble sleeping tonight?" one of the
sergeants asked.

	He made a face.  "Maybe it was something I ate."  Espering ran his eyes
over the thirty-six flatscreens displaying various locations around his
property.  The views were changing constantly -- there were over two hundred
cameras in the main house alone, so the system shuffled between them when there
were no pickups in the sensors.  When a sensor went off, however, the command
center's computer automatically selected the cameras that were in the area of
the tripped sensor and brought them up on the vid displays.

	Espering stared at empty offices and meeting rooms, closets and
bathrooms and long corridors stretching into the distance.  A dozen different
views of the exterior of his residence.  The killing zone outside the front
gate, the underground garage for those employees that didn't take the rail in,
the storage room filled with the estate's synthetics, the Loomy corral.  Shots
of the vacant Powerball court and the occupied cells above it.  He saw hardly
any movement; other than a couple cleaning bots circling through the second
floor offices, and the two night-shift cooks arguing about sports in the
kitchen, the only activity was  in the cells by the Powerball court.  Pringler
was strapped to her bunk and violently twitching -- enjoying one of the radical
feelies he'd proscribed for her, no doubt.  He wasn't sure what was on her
module this night -- there were so many on her long, busy schedule, and his team
kept coming up with new behavior altering programs they wanted to try on her. 
She'd already done three Dane pack initiations, the Health Department's
thirty-two-part how-to sex education series, not to mention every amateur
instructional chip that had merit, plus the classified military grey-screen
psyche altering chips.  Maybe it was that experimental prisoner training chip
they'd gotten from the Department of Corrections last week.  The Chief Warden
had said it featured the famous punishment and reward approach he'd developed
over many years for use on female inmates with discipline problems.  The
technology that gave the world artificial chips (although they still weren't
widely available to the general public) was amazing -- what his female prisoner
would experience as several months of regimented, physically demanding, and
ultimately fulfilling sexual servitude would only take seventeen hours to play
through her head, and was a completely man-made creation.  Once every single
type of nerve impulse had been recorded, catalogued, analyzed, and diagrammed --
colors, sounds, sensations, everything - it was only a matter of time before the
computer geniuses were creating their own special feelies out of whole cloth. 
As Espering understood it, the possibilities were limitless.  The only
artificially-created chip he'd tried so far had been quite impressive.  A short
chip, with the user assuming the identity of a jacked-up woman in a crowd of men
that had a vagina where her mouth should be in addition to the one between her
legs.  They'd told him it was one of the first arty chips ever created, simple
and very crude, but the sensations he'd experienced had seemed totally
authentic.  As a side note, the Chief Warden, an old friend of Espering's, had
told him in confidence that as a final test of the program he'd helped develop
he'd tricked his wife into plugging it into her machine, and the feelie disabled
the cutoff switch of any machine it was in.  The Warden couldn't recommend the
program highly enough, stating that while she acted the same around family and
friends, his wife obeyed him instantly and acted like a jacked-up pulatrita
whenever they were alone, and seemed unaware things had ever been different.

	If the woman's cell number wasn't in the corner of the screen he
couldn't have guessed who she was, so radically had her appearance changed.  He
made a mental note to ask for a progress report from his Special Projects Team,
although he was very pleased with what he saw.

	The only other person awake in the pods was the female in the cell just
off the lift.  The reason for her presence escaped him at the moment.  He did
remember she'd been given a big dose of TrigGrr, but anyone could've figured
that out just by watching her.  If she hadn't been locked spreadeagled onto her
bunk she would've already hurt herself.

	"Anything happening?"

	"Well, a wild Dane pair caught a shrike just beyond the outer ring.  You
should've heard it squeal.  Then they spent half an hour mating before moving
out of camera range.  It's amazing how well the new SID 4 cameras work."

	"Looked like daylight," the other sergeant agreed.

	SID stood for See In the Dark, and the SID 4 cameras were the latest
generation of night-vision technology.  All the estate's cameras had just been
upgraded with it, and now the pictures were so good they needed an on-screen
cursor just to tell whether or not the camera was filming in darkness or
daylight -- the pictures were identical.

	One sergeant gestured at the vidscreen showing the two cooks arguing. 
"They've been at it for an hour," he said in exasperation.  "I can't believe
they're such wizards with food; I've met Loomies that were smarter."

	"Everybody's good at something," Espering observed.  "We've all got a
purpose in life."

	"I guess."

	"How many on duty tonight?"

	"Twenty-two total, sir, including us.  Two at the front gate, and two
more roving inside the residence.  Two more assigned to the outbuildings.  Four
on the inner ring, and four on the outer ring of sensors, two to a vehicle. 
Plus six more on the roaming sensor detail, on foot."

	"The what?"

	"We're still trying to duplicate that sensor glitch we had beginning of
last month.  They've been checked and rechecked, but all of them tested fine. 
Captain Van derMeer thought he might be able to reproduce the problem, so every
night we've been sending out men to wander the likely areas that the woman
entered the property.  She couldn't remember exactly which route she took in. 
All the men have locators on, so we know where they are.  So far none of the
sensors they've come in range of has failed to pick them up."

	"Tell the Captain to call me when he gets in in the morning," Espering
told them.  "I've got a hunch about this.  The girl wandered in during the day
-- we should be running these sensor tests during the day.  Maybe heat or UV
rays are somehow reducing their effective range."

	"Will do."

	"I'm heading into the bubble," he told them.  "Have someone run me up a
Loomy, will you?  Wake up one of the wranglers; I know you're not supposed to
leave the command center.  The Captain would have my head if he knew I sent one
of you out on an errand."  That got them smiling.

	"Yes Sir, we'll have someone bring it right up."

	The Bubble was what Espering liked to call his command center inside the
command center.  It took a voiceprint and retinal scan just to open the door on
the small room.  Inside was a smaller version of the command center.  A more
modest bank of vidscreens above a computer terminal that gave him complete
access to the entire security system, including parts of it the two sergeants
outside didn't know existed.

	Upon his entry the lights flicked on and the terminal hummed to life. 
He had to submit to another retinal scan before the terminal would obey any
commands, a double safety in case the door was somehow opened by someone other
than him or Van der Meer.

	Every camera on his property had a number assigned to it.  Where several
cameras covered the same area one number brought up all of them.  The terminal
would accept voice commands but he preferred to use the keyboard tonight.  He
punched up his wife's bedroom and four vidscreens flicked to life, showing her
bedroom from three angles, her dressing room, and her private bathroom.  There
she was, asleep in her bed.  With the lights on?  No, there was the SID cursor,
glowing faint in the lower right corner of all the screens.  Amidst a tangle of
sheets he spotted the forms of three squeakers in bed with her.  At least one of
them was female, but it was so damn hard to tell.  And either one of them had
only one leg or his wife had been -- and still was -- enjoying her PCA.  How she
could sleep like that Espering had no idea.  She was on her back, half covered
by a sheet, legs spread wide.  It looked like she'd fallen asleep while playing
with herself.

	In her bedroom his daughter was asleep too, her nude, tanned body
facedown on the big  raised bed.  There was a form on the floor at the foot of
the bed, and it took Espering a while to make out exactly what he was looking
at.  A woman, that much was clear to see, probably just some treat his daughter
had picked up in FunTown.  Her body was a fleshy arch on the expensive rug. 
Sylphie had bound her elbows to ankles, and somehow the woman had fallen asleep
like that, shoulders and knees on the rug, taking the weight, knees splayed
wide.  Her big breasts and wide mound were covered with fresh red marks that
would probably turn into nasty bruises.

	The intercom beside the door beeped.  "Yes?"

	"We've got your Loomy, sir."

	Espering got up and hit the button.  The thick door slid open with a
hiss and he peered out.  A sleepy-looking wrangler was removing the Loomy's bag. 
He carefully disengaged the catheter tube from the valvesleeve, slid out the
rectal drainage tube, and ran a Redi-Wipe between her cheeks.  He gave a sleepy
wave and headed for the door.

	After years of successful testing in laboratories, in computer
simulations as well as on human test subjects, Lumiprod 13 was put on the market
by Strathcon, one of GUP's subsidiaries.  Designed to increase a child's innate
intelligence when administered in utero to the expectant mother, the drug seemed
to work miracles, and was a sure moneymaker. 

	It was the biggest failure of Espering's charmed life.  Instead of
making unborn children smarter, the drug instead produced children that were
severly deformed, both physically and mentally.  Uniformly born without limbs,
these children also were so mentally handicapped they were near vegetables,
incapable of speech or real comprehension.  Espering's experts still weren't
sure what went wrong, but he did.  The head doctor performing the majority of
the tests had been falsifying his results, pocketing his research funds instead
of putting them to use.  Espering, when he found out the truth, had had the man
quietly kidnapped and taken deep into the desert.  Espering had been there when
Van der Meer cut the man's limbs off and roughly cauterized the wounds.  They'd
left him in the blazing sun to die, surrounded by his severed arms and legs. 

	However, that didn't help the thousands of children, "Loomies", affected
by the drug.  With no limbs and almost no mental ability, they were a big drain
on Monsipur's human resources.  Each Loomy required specific care and attention,
although one person could look after quite a few of the unfortunates.  But with
nearly two thousand Loomies just in the greater Garshak area, that was a lot of
wasted man-hours.

	Espering had simplified the problem by insisting the Loomies be equipped
with AG harnesses, to facilitate moving them around.  As head of the Council of
Twelve he also had the power to direct the publicly-employed medicos to equip
each one with a black Plastex body bag, complete with its own rectal drainage
tube, urethral catheter, and airtight waste compartment.  Each Loomy was fitted
with a urethral valvesleeve that blocked all flow of urine except when the
catheter was in place.  The bag was just that, fitted with a simple seam that
ran from the collar in front down to the bottom of the Loomy's legless torso.

	Espering had discovered only one task Loomies could perform that helped
balance out their drain on society, but as yet there had been little public
acceptance of his idea, and quite a lot of protests.  Ignorant traditionalists,
as usual, blocking another of his farsighted ideas.

	He grabbed the Loomy by a strap and pulled her behind him into The
Bubble, taking an extra second to secure the door.  He pushed her in front of
him into the center of the room.  She was a little pudgy, her white skin doughy
and amazingly soft.  Her face was round and, as was typical, completely devoid
of expression.  She looked young, but then they all did.  He knew how old she
had to be, Lumiprod 13 had only been out on the market for eighteen months.  He
knew the dates by heart.  It had taken that long to track down the source of the
deformities.  Still, this one looked young.  Maybe it was because she had a
little extra fat on her body.  Her black hair was in a short bowl cut,
convenient to take care of.  That was what it was all about with the Loomies,
convenience.  It was why none of them under Espering's care had teeth -- they
lived on NutriBlend anyway, and teeth were just one more body part that needed
maintenance.  They were depilated as a matter of course.

	Espering took off his robe and tossed it into the corner.  The Loomy's
eyes never moved.  She stared straight ahead, her eyes unfocused and watery. 
Her drooly mouth hung open slightly, revealing pink gums.  She wore a small AG
backpack with narrow, padded straps.  The straps over her shoulders had a
tendency to slip so they were kept in place by two other straps, one running
above her breasts and one below.  Her breasts were big and hung pendulously down
between the straps, which pressed them together attractively.  The AG drive was
set to zero her -- she wouldn't rise or fall unless physically manuevered.

	Her legless torso hung a meter off the floor, her bulging white pudenda
with its center notch its lowest point.  Espering never got used to how strange
that looked, a torso with no legs attached.  The male Loomies looked just as
odd, with their penises dangling down into space.  He grabbed her soft breasts
in his hands and squeezed.  They were like warm dough, freshly risen, and she
bobbed slightly in the air as he kneaded them.  Then, using her breasts as
handles, he pushed her down until she was resting on the floor in front of the
console.

	It was quickly discovered that the Loomies retained the infantile
sucking reflex.  They sucked on anything that was placed in their mouth.  And if
they couldn't swallow it, they kept sucking.  They also demonstrated a poor gag
reflex, or none at all.  That was why Espering's solution made so much sense to
him and many others.

	Espering sat back down in his chair and scooted it forward.  With a hand
on the back of her head he guided her mouth to his throbbing cockhead.  As soon
as he was past her lips she began sucking, and sucking hard.  Her fat tongue
twiched spastically against his flesh.

	"Good girl," he said, patting her head.  He knew she couldn't understand
him, but he believed in the power of positive reinforcement.

	He moved his hands back to the keyboard and punched in the most secret
of his camera codes.  One by one all nine screens lit up, showing him
still-lifes of the canyons that covered the far west edge of his property like
varicose veins.  There were dozens of them, all interconnected, and they covered
a surprising amount of ground.  Twenty to as much as a hundred meters deep, with
sheer rock walls, the picturesque canyons were impossible to climb out of
without the proper equipment.

	The branching canyon complex was dotted with SID 3 equipped cameras,
programmed to focus on movement.  It didn't take him any time at all to locate
the woman.  She was just outside the big cave at the south end of the canyons. 
It wasn't a cave, really, more like a sheltered area under a big overhang of
rock.  He was surprised at the amount of activity in the canyon, then remembered
the Danes were nocturnal.

	For some reason as he stared at her Espering just couldn't remember her
name.  Some sort of temporary mental block.  He certainly, however, remembered
why he'd dumped her into the canyons -- treason wasn't something he was likely
to forget.

	He'd dumped her into the canyons with just the clothes on her back what,
nine months ago?  Something like that.  It had been a simple task for his
specialists to insert a false memory into her head.  It was a fanciful story
wherein she'd escaped during her sentencing, stolen a speeder, crashed somewhere
in the middle of the Pak desert, and then fallen into the canyons while
traveling at night on foot.

	She'd opened her eyes the next morning with a terrible headache, in a
canyon on a patch of sand beneath a fifty foot tall sheer rock wall.  It
occurred to her she was lucky to be alive.  Never one prone to self pity, she
quickly set out to explore the canyons and in short order discovered a natural
spring.  Using it as her base she slept during the scorching mid-day heat and
spent the rest of her time trying to find a way out of the canyons.  It was on
the third night that the first members of the pack found her.

	Danes.  Sixteen in all, fifteen males and one female.  She didn't have
any experience with wild Danes and knew nothing of pack behavior, but she didn't
think they were supposed to be dangerous.  However, when the pack circled her
and began growling and snapping and showing big white fangs she realized in an
instant her knowledge of the species was woefully inadequate.

	She could barely see them in the dark canyon, lit only by faint
starlight, while they had perfect night vision.  She backed herself up against a
rock wall and began yelling and kicking, but that only seemed to encourage them. 
She managed to keep them at bay for seven hours, almost until dawn, by screaming
until she was hoarse and swinging her fists and feet.  The animals just seemed
to be playing with her, lunging and snapping their teeth but never really
drawing blood.  She was terrified nonetheless, certain that she was going to be
eaten.  Espering watched it all as it happened from inside the Bubble. 

	Finally her legs just gave way and she toppled to the sand.  The Danes
were on her in an instant, but instead of killing her they began tearing at her
clothes with their teeth.  Soon the women was bleeding from a dozen minor bites. 
The animals were in a frenzy around her and she was terrified, not understanding
what was happening.  She was tossed this way and that, hopelessly outnumbered
and too tired to put up much of a fight. 

	The Danes rolled her over and over on the ground, tearing at her, until
her clothes fell away from her body.  Bleeding from dozens of tiny bites the
woman found herself on her hands and knees on the canyon floor.  It was then
that the Danes' intentions became clear, and it brought forth a new will to
struggle in her.  The woman fought her way to her feet and staggered off in a
faltering run, but in the dark she couldn't see and tripped over a small rise. 
She hit the ground with a grunt, then was up like a shot and moving only to be
brought down again by two Danes, running into the backs of her knees.  She
landed hard on hands and knees, and was immediately mounted by the pack leader.

	The first thrust of his massive pink and black organ missed as she tried
to crawl away.  The circling of snarling, snapping teeth couldn't scare her any
more than she already was, but the leader weighed more than she did, and was
much stronger.  When he wrapped his forelegs around her waist and yanked her
backwards she might as well have been made of feathers.

	His penis was twenty-five centimeters long and rather thick.  On his
second thrust he managed to wedge it against the opening of her sex, but her
folds were as dry as the sand she knelt on.  That didn't stop the Dane, who used
brute force and a series of violent thrusts to force himself deep into her. 
Even well-lubed he would have been a tight fit, and her screams of pain and
outrage echoed off the canyon walls.

	As pack leader it was his place to go first.  Since she was a strange
female in the pack's territory he had to make his authority known.  He barked at
her and snapped at her bare back even as he thrust, hunched over her.  She tried
to lay on her stomach, to pull away, but he would just yank her hips right back
up.  His forelegs were wrapped around her abdomen and with his wide paws he
could control her entirely.  His back legs were planted in the sand to either
side of her knees, giving him the needed leverage.

	The leader rode the strange female as hard and as long as he could, to
demonstrate his strength and power.  Danes could last a long time if they wanted
to -- as small as their brains were, Danes were very sophisticated sexually. 
The mewling wet sounds she was making only encouraged him, and after a while she
stopped struggling altogether.  Finally he could hold off no longer and
climaxed.  The woman felt his organ throbbing in her raw channel, felt his
copious seed pooling in her.  Then he jumped off, leaving her sex gaping and
bloody.  A stream of semen ran from her and darkened the sand between her knees. 
The woman remained on her hands and knees, for the moment still too stunned to
make another escape attempt.  Crucial seconds ticked by, and the pack recognized
her behavior as that of a strange female wanting to join them.  The
second-ranked Dane mounted her with one swift, practiced motion, and thus began
the pack initiation.

	The sun was over the rim of the canyon by the time they had all taken
their turn with her.  Bloody and covered in semen, the woman lay facedown in the
sand, semi-conscious.  Her insides were on fire after more than three solid
hours of intercourse.  One of the last Danes to mount her, a young one, had
inadvertently taken her anally.  By then she was curled into a fetal ball, knees
to her chest, face in the sand.  Her entire backside was so slick with semen and
sweat that the young Dane's narrow tool had popped right past her sphincter on
his first poorly aimed thrust.  She was so dazed and battered it took several
minutes for her to notice he'd opened a new door.

	Gradually she became aware of the animals pushing at her with their
noses.  She was so disoriented that she didn't notice they weren't acting
aggressive toward her anymore.  They pushed and nosed at her until she staggered
upright, then, directing her with growls and nudges, herded her up one of the
winding canyons.  Blood and rivulets of semen ran down the inside of her thighs
but she was past noticing such things.  She felt detached from her own body,
unconcernedly looking down at it as it staggered along.

	After what seemed like hours she realized they'd reached a dead end. 
Beneath an overhang of rock there was a large flattened circle of dirt, shaded
from the sun and cool.  The whole area reeked of Dane.  The woman stumbled
inside, ducking to avoid the stone lip, and was asleep before her body hit the
ground.

	For close to two days she barely moved.  She just lay in the shade in a
strange state of semi-consciousness, unaware of the heat during the day or the
cold at night.  The males brought her fresh kills and laid them next to her
head, but she took no notice.  The Danes kept their distance, not knowing what
was wrong with the new female but instinctively shying away in case she was
diseased.

	Finally, near nightfall of the second day, the woman awoke from her
fugue.  Always a fighter, she'd decided to live: she was too strong-willed and
stubborn to just let herself die in the desert.  Before her lay a small striped
four-legged furred animal, gutted and freshly dead, the latest food offering. 
After nearly three days without food or water she was ravenous, yet still could
hardly bear to look at the tiny animal they obviously expected her to eat.  Its
cute little body was floppy and torn, the fur streaked with blood.  As a
lifetime vegetarian, she was horrified.  However, as a realist, she realized she
had only two choices, and one of them was death.  It took her forever to skin
that first creature, using only her bare hands and teeth, and the raw meat was
so tough and foul she vomited most of it up almost immediately.

	With practice, however, she became very proficient at skinning the
little shrikes, using small rock shards.  She even got used to their taste,
pungent as it was.  She learned not to eat the entrails, and found she liked the
taste of the liver best of all.

	She also used the rock shards to cut her hair as it grew annoyingly
long.  It hurt a lot; she really had to saw at it  That and the lack of any
hair-care products convinced her to cut it as short as she could manage. 
Luckily she'd had her body depilated when she was seventeen.  She couldn't
imagine how hideous she'd look with hairy legs and armpits.

	The harsh sun eventually turned her dark hair a sandy blond, and her
pale skin gradually took on a deep coppery glow.  With her strict diet of red
meat and water the fat melted from her slender frame.  Between walking on the
loose sand and chasing the Danes around her thighs became corded with muscle. 
There was enough standing water at the spring for her to wash her body properly
every few days, although soap was just a vague memory.  She used sand to scrub
away any caked-on dirt.

	The Danes hunted at night and slept most of the day, in the shade if
there was any to be had.  She quickly learned their routine, and Espering would
often watch her in the afternoon sleeping underneath the overhang.  She also
spent a great deal of time crying during those first few weeks.  He couldn't
imagine how she must feel, thinking herself stranded nearly a thousand
kilometers from any human settlement, trapped in the canyons with the Danes.

	The male Dane has a very strong sexual drive, one of the strongest ever
recorded in nature, on any planet.  The females are always, at the least,
willing, and the males are always eager.  It was a fact the woman discovered
soon after her recovery.  A young male brought her a fresh kill, and as she
began to eat he attempted to mount her.  The first few times it happened she
resisted as best she could, but they were aggressive and unrelenting, and
quickly wore her down.  There were too many of them, all stronger than her, and
they were too insistent.

	If given the opportunity an adult Dane, depending on his age and
physical condition, will copulate three to ten times a day, at least in
captivity, each mating lasting an average nine minutes.  That's if there's no
female in heat nearby.  And any female will do, as the species is not
monogamous.  With just her and the one female Dane for fifteen males, the woman
found that she spent half her waking hours on her elbows and knees.  Partly that
was due to Espering; he'd handpicked the members of this pack from over two
hundred wild males animal control officers had captured inside the city limits. 
His criterion for selection had been age (young), overall physical condition
(excellent), and organ size (large).

	One afternoon, after about two weeks living with the pack, while being
mounted by the number four male, the woman was surprised and horrified to
discover that she was enjoying the sex.  Not just enjoying it;  she was wet,
really wet as the Dane pounded her, and realized she'd been that way before he'd
even entered her.  Espering would've been surprised if it hadn't happened --
biologists had discovered over fifty years previous that long term close contact
with Danes produced a measurable increase in sexual appetite among humans of
both sexes.  Pheromones, they assumed, although they'd never been able to prove
it definitively, pheromones that could cross the species barrier.  The woman,
however, wasn't a biologist, and hadn't read the findings, which were still
classified.  It took a week for her to come to grips with her desire.  At first
she tried to rationalize her actions and psychoanalyze herself, look at her true
fears and motivations and desires and the part stress played in it all.  But
after spending hour upon hour on her knees underneath the animals, and loving
every minute of it more and more each day, the reasons why seemed less and less
important as time went on.  Soon she couldn't remember a time when her clitoris
wasn't erect and throbbing, her vagina wasn't swollen and leaking, or when it
took more than just a few minutes of thrusting for her to climax.

	The female Dane had birthed three litters since the woman's arrival.  Of
the thirteen pups nine were still alive, seven males and two females.  The three
oldest pups now weighed over fifteen kilos and were beginning to show an
interest in the opposite sex.  Their clumsy attempt to mount her legs just made
the woman laugh.  Espering hadn't been prepared for the pack to grow -- the
canyons were only so big.  It was a huge oversight on his part.  Luckily,
though, they still seemed to be able to find enough game in the canyons to
survive.  He never would have imagined there could be so much wildlife in
something that looked like a barren wasteland.

	Every ninety or so days the Dane female would go into heat.  The woman
knew when it was coming, because she felt a corresponding rise in her own
arousal.  For three days the Danes wouldn't eat, wouldn't sleep, and wouldn't
drink.  All they could do, or think of doing, or try to do, was mount a female. 
It was during the first such cycle that the woman, on her knees being furiously
speared, and surrounded by another half dozen fully aroused thrusting males,
introduced oral sex to the pack.  She hadn't planned it, at the time she was
half-crazy with desire, but when she found herself nose-to-nose, so to speak,
with a raging erection . . . .  None of the Danes complained, although she could
tell they preferred mounting her rear because it put them in control.

	In time the woman managed to explore every centimeter of the mazelike
canyons, and came to the correct conclusion that she was stuck; without rope and
climbing equipment, or even shoes -- hers had long since fallen apart -- there
was no way for her to scale even the lowest rock face.  She tried, but the walls
were all vertical or nearly so, and completely devoid of handholds.  She refused
to give up hope, but once she'd admitted to herself that things were out of her
hands, she became much more relaxed with the pack.  During the day she'd lie in
the shade surrounded by their dusty bodies, her nostrils filled with their
strong musk.  She slept half an hour or an hour at a time, however much she
could fit in-between mountings.  Thick calluses built up on her knees and elbows
from the hours of mating each and every day.  At night she would wander the
canyons far behind the lightning-quick males as they hunted for food.  In time
she noticed that each animal had its own distinct personality, and that the pack
had its own social structure.  Soon she could tell just by how she was nudged by
a nose whether the male wanted to mount her or just wanted her to move over. 
She chased the pups around, yelling and laughing at their squeals, and came to
understand most of the pack's signal barks and growls.  When two newborn pups
died in a freak rockslide she'd keened and cried over the bodies alongside their
mother.

	Espering sat back in the chair and watched her up on the screen.  As he
figured it, she'd been down in the canyons closer to a year than nine months.  A
standard year, at that.  He wondered if she'd even recognize herself if given
the opportunity; her altered appearance was just a small part of the change
she'd undergone.

	The woman was just outside of the overhang where the pack slept, resting
her weight on her knees and one hand.  In her other hand she held the carcass of
a shrike and gnawed on it.  Espering turned up the speaker.  Except for her
repetitive moans, muffled by a mouthful of meat, she seemed rather oblivious to
the young Dane that was energetically thrusting into her.

	Espering marveled at how lean the woman's body had become.  She was all
ribs and whipcord muscle, looking, he realized suddenly, a lot like a Dane
herself.	

	The young Dane finished while she was still gnawing on the shrike.  He
stiffened against her, then dismounted and sniffed between her legs once or
twice before wandering off.  Another young Dane trotted into view.  He was the
largest of the pack, although he wasn't the leader, not yet.  He sniffed at the
woman, who still hadn't moved from her knees, and began licking between her
legs.  Espering watched the beast's organ unfurl beneath his belly.  It was
truly monstrous, thirty centimeters long and as big around as Espering's
forearm.  He knew Dane organs were big, bigger than the average man's, and he'd
handpicked the most well-endowed Danes he could find as a special treat for her,
but still he was impressed by this youngster.  After a few more minutes of
licking, the animal moved close to the woman, then raised himself up and
clumsily wrapped his forelegs around her waist.  She looked over her shoulder as
her elbow nearly buckled under his weight.

	"You're going to kill me with that thing, Thumper," she told the Dane,
setting the shrike down so she could use both hands to brace herself.  "Oh
krikes!" she gasped, as the Dane wedged the end of his shaft into her.  It was a
tight fit, but she was in no danger of tearing.  After nearly a year of oversize
organs her sex was permanently stretched, and usually gaped open if she lay a
certain way.  As the big Dane built up speed her moans increased in tempo and
volume, until her gasps and yowls were echoing off the rock.  She arched her
back and thrust her ass back to meet his massive tool.

	"You've truly become a pack bitch," Espering told the screen.  And a
real moneymaker, he added silently.  For her headache that first day hadn't been
caused by any fall into the canyon; Espering had had his people implant a
send-capable FeelReal master chip into her head.  An extensive underground
antenna system surrounded the entire maze of canyons and recorded her every
sensation, every hour of the day or night, since she'd entered the canyons.

	The fifty-seven-hour rutting marathon that had been the woman's first
exposure to the Dane bitch's mating season was still the highest selling
extended-length FeelReal program in history.  Not bad for something that was
technically illegal (Danesex) and had to be distributed surreptitiously and sold
on the burgeoning feelie black market.  That was just the first program he'd
released, through a cut-out cut-rate chiphouse; they'd followed it up with
others.  A new extended-length feelie hit the marketplace every ninety days or
so as the woman fornicated her way through another Dane mating cycle, although
none of them had sold as many copies as that first program.  A feelie chip could
only hold about five hours of real-time; the extended length ones were actually
a series of chips linked together in a standard size casing and programmed to
run as one.

	Espering had been intrigued to learn that over the past year the woman's
chips had acquired a cult following among middle-class professional women. 
There were dozens of rumors about who the woman in the chips might be.  One had
her a disgruntled civil servant who one day had just wandered into the desert
and joined a feral Dane pack.  There was no way for anyone to know, either --
the canyons had no mirror for her to look into, all that could be seen in the
feelie was the front of her body whenever she looked down.

	Besides the four extra-long-length nonstop mating frenzy chips there
were eight or nine shorter chips that only ran about fifteen hours each.  They'd
been handpicked by the people Espering had monitoring her head unit's
transmissions.  Each detailed a day in the woman's life, exposing her every
activity from one dawn to the next, with only her short naps during the day
edited out.  They revealed the simpleness of her life as she slept, ate, and
played with the pack.  The days selected had been chosen mostly because of the
vast amount of time spent those days by the woman on her knees being taken by
the males of the pack, although there were other highlights as well.  Her
wrestling with pups, or running full-speed down the narrow canyons after the
pack males as they chased a big shrike.

	As head of the Council of Twelve Espering was privy to the data produced
by the military/intelligence satellites in orbit around Monsipur.  Just outside
of Prelak, a big mining colony four hundred kilometers or so west of Garshak,
the satellites had picked up signs of a huge Dane pack.  This gigantic body had
actually turned out to be more than a dozen smaller packs that roamed the Yasmin
Plateau, an arid grassland that stretched for over a hundred klicks to the
south.  These packs totaled more than five hundred Danes, so it was only natural
this area was often the destination of biologists wishing to study the animals. 
This year the biologists reported a record eighteen human females living among
the packs as full-fledged members.  Their acceptance as members of the pack
meant that each of the women had undergone the same initiation rite the woman in
Espering's canyons had endured -- forcible rape by every single male in the
group -- and still decided to remain with the animals.  He supposed it was
different for them than his female prisoner -- they'd known what they were in
for, and in fact had gone out looking for it.  Which, he supposed, meant that it
hadn't been rape, it'd been an inter-species gang-bang.

	The Garshak City Council had recently been forced to publicly admit the
existence of such a movement.  The number of otherwise respectable women who had
left their jobs and headed out into the desert, hoping to join a Dane pack, just
couldn't be covered up anymore.  Apparently there was just something so magnetic
about life among the pack, as experienced by these women through the chips
Espering had been distributing, that certain individuals couldn't ignore the
call.  Some of them died in the desert, and others turned back -- but not all. 
Espering knew about women joining Dane packs; it had been happening since
Monsipur had been settled, that's how he'd gotten the idea in the first place to
toss his prisoner in with a pack.  The DaneLovers were just a warped
manifestation of the same weird biological need women had that the Danes somehow
satisfied.

	The three hour and forty-seven minute real-time feelie of the woman's
chain-rape pack initiation had been very useful to Espering.  Since he'd
obtained it there had been four high ranking female secretaries in his many
companies who'd been caught embezzling or just outright stealing from him. 
Espering despised thieves, but wasn't heartless.  He'd met personally with each
woman and given them an option -- termination with criminal charges and certain
jail time, or they could sit through the less than four hour program as
punishment and keep their job.  He even described what happened in the feelie to
them, but he knew his description could never capture the intensity of the
actual events.  All of the women opted to sit through the program.

	After experiencing the Dane pack rape initiation, one of the women had
marched out the door and gone straight to the police.  The police had, of
course, dismissed her wild story out of hand; to think the head of the Council
of Twelve would even be capable of such a thing was absurd.  Besides, even if
her story was true, no one was sure if there were any laws broken; she had
voluntarily sat through the feelie.

	The woman suffered a massive psychological breakdown and after several
attempts, finally succeeded in killing herself.  The other three women had
returned quietly to their jobs and became model employees.  Espering's
investigators learned that one of the secretaries had, two months later, bought
her own pet Dane.  They installed and monitored vidcams in her apartment
briefly, just long enough to verify that yes, she was having sex with the Dane. 
Quite often, in fact.   Espering marked her file for early promotion, and put
her name on the short list for the GUP Executive Training School. 

	On screen his woman was, for the moment, alone again.  The big Dane had
finished up and then wandered off.  Espering watched her stretch and shiver as
the glow from the rough sex wore away.  She'd become multi-orgasmic, and the
secluded surroundings let her feel free to vocalize.  The Danes had grown used
to her screaming and shaking, her grunting and gasping, although it had taken
them a while.  She shakily got to her feet and walked away from the overhang. 
The cameras were programmed to recognize her shape and follow her, so Espering
had but to watch.  Fifty meters or so away from the sprawl of Danes the woman
dropped into a squat and urinated into the sand with a sigh.  As she sat on her
heels her stretched vagina gave a wet sloppy blat and thick gobs of semen
belonging to half a dozen males dropped into the sand.  She scratched her knee,
and when her bladder finished emptying she swept away the few semen strings
still clinging to her folds and stood up.  She kicked dirt over the wet spot.

	Not a care in the world, Espering marveled.  Not exactly what he'd
planned for her when he'd dropped the woman into the canyons, but apparently God
had other plans for her.  He thought about her situation, and that of the woman
he still held in the cell above the Powerball court, and how their lives were so
much better since they'd met him.  It was amazing just how much he'd done for
both of them. 

	"I don't think anybody really realizes just how big a humanitarian I
really am," he said to the room.  He looked down at the Loomy between his legs. 
She'd slowly sucked his whole length down her throat and was now gumming the
base of his shaft, swallowing repetitively.  Her tongue swirled randomly. 
Espering couldn't figure out how she managed to get enough air to keep from
passing out, what with his substantial length down her trachea.  Her eyes were
open, unfocused, while her jaw and tongue worked robotically.

	"I think we've added enough protein to your diet tonight," he told her,
smiling kindly.  He'd forgotten what he was capable of, given enough time, since
he'd undergone what was euphemistically referred to as product enhancement. 
With enough stimulation the semen just trickled out of him in a constant stream.

	He shut down the console and vidscreens, realizing that he'd put off for
another day making a decision about the canyon woman's future.  It had already
been a year.  Should he leave her in the wilds indefinitely, until she could
remember nothing but pack life?  Or should he let her in on the facts of her
situation, tell her she was just a prisoner of his whims?  His plan had been to
punish her for her crimes, but had he?  He just couldn't decide, and hoped for
some sort of sign.

	He disengaged the Loomy and stood up, hooking her harness with a
fingertip and pulling her up to head height.  He grabbed his robe and shrugged
it on.  The ache in his loins had diminished, and his erection slowly folded to
half-mast, but the desire never faded completely.

	"Well pretty girl, let's see if we can't find your minder," he told the
moon-faced female.  Her juicy mouth hung open and she blinked slowly at him. 
"Get you tethered down for the night."  He lightly slapped the side of one of
her big breasts and watched them sway side to side.

	"What a pair."  He pinched one of her puffy nipples and used it to tow
her behind him to the door.  The nagging unease that had originally roused him
from his bed was now just a faint memory.  Probably just something he ate.

                                                     CHAPTER TEN



	"Talk to me, distract me," Gilly told Berto, forehead creased in
discomfort from her swollen breasts.  They were in an elevated rail car, just
pulling away from Berto's hotel.  Gilly was sitting down;  if she stood up the
movement of the train made her breasts sway, and she just couldn't stand it.

	The car lit up with as the commuter magrail pulled out of the hotel. 
Then the AutoTint glass activated and the harsh sunlight was muted to a pleasant
yellow glow, making the flatscreens lining the walls easier to see.  They seemed
to be running nothing but non-stop advertisements, but thankfully the sound was
low enough that he could ignore them.  Most of the products they seemed to be
advertising had names he'd never heard of.  As he rarely spent more than three
consecutive weeks on any one planet, that wasn't a big surprise to him.  Berto
looked out at the mirrored skyscrapers passing by on both sides and the thick
pedestrian traffic on the walks below and marveled at how clean and new the city
looked.  He had no idea what the tax rate was, but it had to be high.

	Gilly's breasts pressed aggressively against her shirt, her nipples hard
knobby lumps.  Her shirt was darkening in spots as two of her nipples slowly
leaked.  She couldn't stop them; her rollers were set as tight as they could go. 
Her nipples were practically purple.  There was a single lurch as they pulled
out of the station, and Gilly grunted a little as the massive weight hanging
from her ribcage bounced.

	"Tell me about the Dairy," he said.

	The car was maybe fifty feet long and ten wide.  Down at the far end of
the car he saw two big blue things that looked like massive eggs.  He'd never
seen anything like them before and had no idea what they did. 

	It was a mixed crowd this late in the morning.  Perhaps fifteen people
were spread about the car on padded benches.  Some businessmen and -women, in
traditionally styled suits as well as a few tongis.  One tall, majestic looking
woman in long black robes, the folds around her legs hiding, at first, the odd,
ornate white cross.  She even wore the traditional headcovering.  Two grungy men
who looked like manual laborers on their way home after the midnight shift stood
nearby, eyeing the nun.  The rest were women, with and without children, wearing
a dizzying array of clothing styles.

	"You said you go twice a day?"

	"Four times.  I get my hormone pop after the fourth milking."

	Berto watched her globe-like breasts sway slightly as the magrail took a
curve.  Milk from three nipples was now wetting her shirt, gluing it to her
bulging flesh.

	"And how many of you are there?"

	"Fourteen thousand in Garshak."

	"Fourteen thousand just in this city alone?"

	"Sure.  They're starting to export G-Milk offworld now, and there's a
lot of talk about bonuses for girls who'll increase their production."

	"Doesn't the Dairy get crowded?"

	"Well, there are three actual pumping stations, the Main and two
secondaries.  The one where we're going has about five hundred cubicles.  It
handles between two and three thousand lackeys a day."

	"All of you being pumped out."

	"I do it myself, actually.  It's simple, really, I just sit down and
hook my nipples up and let the draw tank do most of the work.  Usually only
takes about fifteen or twenty minutes."

	"How much milk do you produce?"  He couldn't take his eyes off her
breasts.  They were so big now that at first glance she appeared obese.  A
closer look revealed that it wasn't rolls of fat under her breasts, but instead
more breasts.  Berto remembered what her chest had looked like when they'd met,
just after she'd left the Dairy.  Her breasts then had been totally flat,
nothing like the planets she was now wearing.

	"I average about ten and a half liters a day, which works out to over
point four liters per teat per visit, a little above average."

	Your breasts must be nearly hollow!"

	"I guess so.  The government paid to have us GELFed, so they want to get
their money's worth.  Why have breastmeat that isn't producing, right?  Besides,
they pay us by the liter.  I like it."

	The passing mirrored buildings were dazzling in the bright sunlight even
with the car's tinted windows.  Covered, elevated walkways connected some of
them, and passed above and below the magrail line.  The two laborers were now
both talking to the nun near the back corner of the car.  Her smile was so wide,
so white, so radiant and full of joy he wanted to walk over just so he could
hear what she was saying.  He had to force himself back to Gilly's situation.

	"That's got to be irritating," he said, thinking about her 'occupation'. 
"You can never make plans for anything that lasts more than a few hours,
otherwise you'll . . . . burst."

	She laughed, then groaned as her milk-strained flesh bounced.  "Not
quite," she told him.  "I've got an AutoMilker at my apartment that I can take
with me if I have to go somewhere.  But I still need to transport the drawn milk
to the Dairy within a day."

	"What happens if you miss a milking or two?  Or decide you want out of
the program?"

	"Oh, we can't do that," she laughed.  "Our parents signed a contract,
and it's binding on us.  In fact, once we're old enough to have consistent
production they set a minimum quota that we have to meet."

	"What happens if you don't make it?"

	"Oh, they have counselors that talk to you, see if you're eating right,
or drinking enough, or maybe not taking your pop at the same time each day. 
That's usually the problem."

	"What happens if there's still a problem?  What can they even do about
it?"  The whole thing sounds like indentured servitude, he added silently.

	"Well, it hardly ever happens," she admitted, "but some girls just can't
handle being a lackey.  Five years after they start producing they want out. 
And there are those that don't feel they should have to honor contracts their
parents signed, which is just crazy.  It is the law," Gilly said indignantly.

	"For the ones that won't honor their contract, if all else fails, they
get an attitude adjustment by some of the clinic medicos.  Those girls that
don't want to quit, but just can't get a handle on their production because of
personal problems, are treated firmly but fairly, and put into FPP."

	"What's that?"

	"The Forced Production Program.  It's the only way the government can
get the right amount of milk out of them.  They have to move into quarters at
the Lackey Center, and instead of one pop a day they're given four or five, and
metabolism kickers.  They don't have any time to make trouble after that,
they're too busy.  I knew one girl when I just started producing that just
couldn't get herself organized.  Emotional problems.  Her production kept
dropping, and she was warned time after time, then finally one day she just
vanished."  Gilly nodded at him.

	"Everyone knew she'd been put into the FPP.  I saw her six months later. 
She'd lost about ten kilos, and she'd been skinny to begin with.  And her
breasts were huge.  She told us that they'd kept her locked in a room, hooked up
to a draw tank almost constantly because of the amount of hormones they were
giving her.  She said it was as if her nipples had turned into faucets, and she
was always thirsty no matter how much water she drank.  And even pumping all the
time her teats got stretched out, red lines everywhere.

	"The guards treated her horribly.  The worst part about it, she said,
was that she was so bubbly all the time from the hormones that no matter how
mean they were to her she still begged them for a scoop.  They scooped her all
the time, too, but it was never enough.  They made her do all sorts of weird
things, because they knew she couldn't say no."

	"How long was she there?"

	"Four months.  Four months of near constant milking.  They said they
only kept her as long as it took her to replace all the milk she'd shorted them
over the years.  She's still not back to normal.  Her breasts are these huge
pillowcases, and she's already got drawteat.  If she lets them get too full she
can't even walk.  She can't even get her arms around them then.  And even on
just one pop a day she's still milking six or seven times and bubbly as a Jack
fiend.  She's not right in the head either, after four months on pop overdose."

	"That's horrible!"  He couldn't believe what she was telling him.  They
weren't indentured servants, they were slaves.

	Gilly shrugged.  "Well, she brought the trouble on herself.  They treat
the slackers like that for a reason."

	"Yeah, to keep the rest of you in line."

	"Exactly!"  She beamed at him.

	"What's drawteat?" he asked her.

	"Oh!  Well, the way we give our milk to the Dairy is by hooking our
nipples up to vacuum hoses, right?  The nozzles fit right over the nipple, and
the milk gets sucked out, is put through a purifier/analyzer, and goes into the
drawtank.  Each time it takes fifteen or twenty minutes, and we've got to go
three or four times a day.  That's a lot of time on the hoses.  A lot of the
veteran lackeys, not all, but about half of those that've been producing ten or
more years, get drawteat.  The suction, over time, makes their nipples stretch
out.  Or, sometimes, it's the breast itself that gets drawn out.  My nipples are
a lot bigger than they used to be, but they're nothing like what I've seen on
some of the old lackeys."

	Berto tried to picture it.  The way Gilly described these women's
nipples he imagined them looking like a cow's udders, but that was silly. 

	The car beeped again as it neared another station and began to slow
down.  "Our stop," Gilly announced.  She stood up with the care of a pregnant
woman.

	Berto glanced toward the end of the car as the train slid to a graceful
stop and the doors opened.  The two laborers had their backs to him as they
crowded the rear corner of the car.  At first he didn't even see the nun.

	"Hey!" he shouted involuntarily, when he saw what was happening.  Gilly
turned her head to see what had gotten him so upset.

	"That's a Sister Of Mercy," she told him, taking his hand.  "Didn't you
see the habit?  That's what they're there for."  She gingerly exited the car,
careful not to bounce and trying not to be jostled by the crowds.  None of the
other passengers in the car seemed concerned about the nun;  in truth, she
seemed happy to be on her knees, servicing the men not just with glee but a
display of oral skills so astounding it left Berto standing gapemouthed as the
doors shut and the train pulled away.

	The magrail had deposited them deep in the heart of a huge
pyramid-shaped office building.  Assorted retailers lined the mezzanine, selling
everything from candy to computer notepads.  The area buzzed with activity,
people hurrying this way and that, a few waiting for the next train to arrive. 
Gilly led him slowly through the foot traffic to an escalator heading down. 
From there they took one moving walkway, then another, ever deeper into the
bowels of the building.  Berto got his first glimpse of a lackey other than
Gilly as a tall slender woman in a tongi got on the walkway ahead of them. 
Clearly visible inside her robe were the bulges of multiple breasts,
substantially smaller than Gilly's.

	"Bringing a pole-donor in case you get bored on the hoses?"  Berto and
Gilly both turned to see another lackey.  She had short, fiery red hair, and
wore an outfit that took Berto's breath away.

	It was a light blue Sweatrem one-piece, and covered her to wrists and
ankles.  The front was scooped low to display the cleavage of her jutting
breasts.  The rest of the Sweatrem clung to her curves, including her four other
breasts, like a second skin.  The tight fabric displayed her six big breasts
more flagrantly than if she'd been nude, which was exactly the point of it --
she'd chosen the outfit for what it didn't conceal.  Milk had seeped through the
material and hung on her swollen globes in drops. 

	"He wanted to see the Dairy," Gilly explained.

	"You want to see a dairy?" the redhead asked him.  With a filthy grin
she lifted her arms above her head and shook her breasts from side to side.  It
was a version of the latest dance craze, the Switch, but he doubted if anyone
had ever done it the way he'd just witnessed.

	She stopped after about ten seconds, hair in disarray.  The walkway
around her feet was patterned with white drops.  "How was that?" she asked with
a grin.  Her breasts were all askew inside the one-piece.

	Berto knew he didn't have the words.  "Indescribable," he told her
truthfully.

	"Your pop hitting you?" Gilly asked her, sounding a tad possessive.

	"Not any more than usual," she said, staring at Berto.  She licked her
lips suggestively, then went about rearranging her breasts inside her top,
pretending she didn't know he'd watch her every move.

	"I forgot to mention that you'd be surrounded by a bunch of bubbly
women," Gilly stage whispered.

	"You're about ready to burst," the redhead said, nodding at Gilly's
milk-soaked shirtfront.

	Gilly gave her a big smile.  "We overslept."

	"Lucky you."

	The walkways had taken them to a more secluded area of the building. 
The moving non-skid walk ran down the center of a narrow corridor.  Berto
supposed it was for the lackey's comfort; in Gilly's state, walking would have
been unbearable, and almost impossible.  To either side occasional wide doors
loomed.

	"Back there are the storage tanks," Gilly told him.  "Refrigerated. 
There's a spur off the main magrail right below us, and the day's production
gets pumped into a tanker car and taken to the factory to be tested and
packaged.  Today's milking will be on the shelves by tomorrow night."

	"Hey!" he said suddenly.  "PureGirl, right?  PureGirl milk?  Is that
what they do with your milk?"

	Gilly cocked her head.  "That's one of the brand names they package it
under."

	Berto didn't know what to say.  "I drank some of that when I got here."

	Gilly smiled.  "You could have been drinking my milk!" she said
cheerily.

	The redhead's eyebrows went up.  "He hasn't been?"

	It was as if he was living a dream.  Never in the far reaches of his
brain could Berto have imagined something like this.  Lackeys, Gilly, the
hormone pops that kept them bubbling over constantly.  And none of them seemed
to think that there was anything unusual about it.  Not only was it the weirdest
thing he'd ever even heard of, the fact he seemed to be the only person to think
so made him want to question his own sanity.  The redhead behind him, with her
pretty face, six big breasts, and phenomenal body clad only in a twoskin
bodyglove, was a perfect example.  Two days ago she would've been the most
unbelievably beautiful and erotically charged vision he'd ever seen in his life. 
But now she didn't even really interest him.  Why?  Because he was already with
another girl, younger, nicer, and just as pretty, with bigger breasts!  Not to
mention that the redhead was, as unnatural as it seemed, nothing special.  She
was just one of fourteen thousand dairy cows the government treated like slaves
and jacked up until no man near one was safe.  He'd fallen asleep, and awakened
in a sexvid.  And a damned good one at that.

	The walkway ended outside what appeared to be a large waiting room. 
Rows of chairs filled the big space, and more of those big blue eggs lined one
wall.  At this hour the Dairy wasn't busy, and he saw only a dozen or so women. 
Two looked like they'd been swallowed by the blue eggs, arms and legs jutting
out of the orbs, but from the noises they were making Berto finally realized the
eggs were some sort of sexual device.  The other women stood in groups and were
talking idly.

	A wide gated doorway flanked by two uniformed guards was the room's only
other feature.  Two women were in line outside it, and as he watched the panel
next to the gate beeped and a light on it turned from green to red.  The first
woman in line passed through the gate, and the second moved up to wait her turn.

	"Oh good, it's not crowded, I don't think I would've been able to wait,"
Gilly said.

	"Are they going to let me in?" he asked, seeing all the security.

	"We're allowed to bring guests," the redhead said.  "Some cowgirls bring
their husbands, some a synthetic.  They know what the pops do to us," she went
on knowingly.  "Sometimes I think they meant it to be this way."  Cowgirls?

	"You mean they could keep up our production without making us bubbly?"
Gilly said.

	"I wouldn't doubt it.  But what would be the fun in that?"  She winked
at Berto and then stopped to talk to a middleaged nurser, the oldest one Berto
had yet seen.  Her sloppy tongi gapped open, revealing mountainous breasts that
had long since lost their battle with gravity.  They were great slabs of meat,
wide and flat, mounded upon her torso in layers.  From a distance she might
appear to be one of those grossly obese people with jiggling rolls of fat
hanging below their waist, but up close Berto could see it was all breastmeat. 

	By the time they got to the security gate there was no line.  Gilly slid
her Identicard into a slot in the console and waited for the red light to turn
green, indicating an open cubicle inside.  In just a few seconds it did just
that.  She was directed to cubicle C-3.

	Before he was allowed inside Berto had to let the guards scan his ID
bracelet issued to him by the Tourism Bureau.  His name and personal info came
up on their screens, including his arrival and departure schedule.

	"Eighteen hours out of decontam and he's already snagged a juggie," one
guard said to the other out of the corner of his mouth.  "Bet you've been having
fun," he said to Berto. 

	"Don't pinch me, I don't want to wake up," Berto said.

	"I heard that."

	Gilly pushed against the gate and he followed her in.  She slowly moved
down the short corridor and he followed.  The smell was the first thing he
noticed; it was something from a long forgotten dream, and made him think of his
childhood and, briefly, his mother.  It was sweet -- G-Milk, he assumed, and
something more.  Something more musky, more feminine.  The scent of two thousand
bubbly nursers with their straining teats hooked up to draw tanks.  He sucked in
huge lungfuls of the stuff, and found himself as hard as an iron bar.  No
surprise there -- the air was full of female pheromones; every man who spent
more than five minutes inside the Dairy was affected. 

	The corridor opened into a big room.  At first glance it appeared they'd
wandered into the heart of any one of a thousand nameless conglomerates. 
Everything was grey or splashed in muted, unattractive pastels, and while not
old, seemed worn.  Berto supposed two thousand nursers a day would tend to wear
out things quickly.

	The ceiling was lower than he thought it would be, for some reason.  The
recessed light panels seemed to also be heatlamps; he could feel the warmth on
his skin, a comfortable temperature, not quite hot.  In front of him an aisle,
stretching away, all the way to the far end of the room.  It was lined on each
side by small, grey-walled cubicles.  They didn't seem very deep; in each, he
could see a female, but usually little more than their backs as they sat, facing
away from the corridor.

	It took him a while to notice, but the big room was filled with noise, a
constant hum that sometimes rose and fell but never disappeared completely. 
Women talking and laughing, and then fainter still, he could hear sighs, and
moans, and women crying out in a way that got his blood pounding.

	Gilly led him along the wall to the next aisle and started down it,
holding his hand.  Row C was the line of cubicles to his left.  As he followed
her his head spun around as if on a swivel.  Every cubicle he saw, every one --
and there were hundreds -- was filled by a nurser.  The foot traffic was
constant as they came and went, some tying tongis about their waists as they
passed.

	The cubicles themselves were rather unimpressive.  About six feet wide
by five deep, they were separated by grey-fabric-covered partition walls that
had seen a lot of abuse.  They were decorated with stains, tears, and,
surprisingly, dents.  Each had an oddly shaped recliner chair in the center,
facing the back of the cubicle.

	At the rear of the Gilly's designated cubicle, on the floor, was a large
steel cabinet.  It sported two wide doors and a display screen that read
AUTOCLEAN COMPLETE -- PLEASE INSERT CARD.  There was barely enough room for the
both of them in the small space.  The chair took up nearly half the room.

	Gilly inserted her card into the top of the cabinet console.  The
readout changed:

	WELCOME TANGELA SVENSEN!

	PRODUCTION TOTALS

	TOTAL LIFETIME:  23,542.26L

	CURRENT YTD:     2121.59L

	CURRENT DAILY DRAW (AVG.):  10.29L       RANK:  2312

	LAST VISIT:  2.419L



	THIS IS YOUR  1ST  VISIT TODAY.

	"Tangela?" Berto said.

	"Ugh, I just hate that name," she said, as the doors on the front of the
cabinet began to swing open.

	"What does 'RANK' mean?"  Inside the cabinet he saw a tangled weave of
clear plastic tubing.

	"That's how many nursers have a higher average daily production than
me," she explained.  "But it's really misleading.  The longer I'm in the program
the more I'll produce, it happens to everyone.  The constant milking makes our
glands get bigger, which I don't mind, but it'll probably also make my teats
flat and floppy.  But when I get out of the program I can have them tightened up
again."

	She very carefully leaned over and reached into the cabinet.  Gilly
swung out a metal arm from which hung six of the clear hoses.  Each was tipped
with what appeared to Berto to be a nozzle fashioned of black rubber.  The
nozzles were clipped to the sides of the metal arm in rows.

	"If you compare my production to nursers that have been in the program
the same amount of time as me," Gilly went on, "I'm actually in the top five
percent."  With the care of a pregnant woman Gilly settled into the chair.  The
hoses hung from the steel arm directly in front of her knees.  The nozzles were
a soft black rubber and slightly conical in design.  Each was about two inches
across at the mouth; the hoses themselves were an inch in diameter.

	"Of course, if I do this a few more times I won't have to wait years for
my production to go up," Gilly said, indicating her straining breasts.  "That's
what some girls do, actually.  The money would be nice, but getting this full is
just too uncomfortable."  Gilly pulled her shirt slowly over her head and let it
drop to the floor.

	"Krikes!" Berto gasped, staring at her.  If he'd thought her breasts had
been full before, they seemed ready to rupture now.  Huge bulging veins wormed
their way across her globes, forced outward against her skin by her insanely
swollen milk glands.  The skin covering her breasts was stretched so tight it
was shiny.  Each had gained at least two centimeters in diameter since he'd seen
them last.

	"I hope I don't get stretchmarks from this," Gilly said, looking down at
herself.  "It's just a simple vacuum hose system," she told him, leaning
forward.  "I'm going to need your help with this, otherwise half my milk's going
to end up on the walls."

	"What should I do?"

	"Pinch the end of my nipple, as hard as you can," Gilly instructed him,
indicating her lower left breast.  "Don't worry about hurting me, it's gone numb
from the rollers."

	Berto did as she instructed, roughly squeezing the dark purply-red flesh
jutting out past the metal rollers.  She undid the roller with one hand while
moving the nozzle close with the other.  She touched a button on the arm above
where the hose disappeared into the steel and Berto heard hissing.  Gilly slid
her thumb and forefinger onto her nipple behind Berto's fingers and told him to
let go.  When he did she deftly stuck the vacuum nozzle onto her nipple, sliding
her fingers out of the way at the last moment.

	The clear interior of the hose was immediately coated in thick white
milk.  Berto was surprised to see that the milk didn't come from just one main
hole in her nipple but from many.  He helped her the same way with her other
five breasts until Gilly was fully attached to the vacuum system.  She looked
like a fly caught in a spider's web.

	"Oh, that's so much better," she sighed.

	"So it just sucks the milk out?" he asked her.  Gilly was sitting
quietly in the chair, checking the nozzles to make sure their seals were
airtight.  A faint hissing filled the air.

	"I have to massage my breasts to get all the milk out," she explained. 
"The last ten percent, usually.  But today I'm so stretched out I'll probably
have to do a lot more squeezing."

	A readout on the cabinet's console kept track of her output.  .837L it
read, and the number kept climbing.  He leaned back against the side of the
partition and watched her.  Gilly finally could relax with all six of her
nipples hooked up, and she sighed contentedly.  Idly she stroked her breasts,
maybe to encourage the flow, but it didn't look to Berto like she was even aware
she was doing it.  He began to feel as if he was intruding on her personal
space; Gilly seemed to have forgotten he was there; retreated inside herself,
her mind focused on her teats.  He looked up, then around, not wanting to have
her turn around and see him staring at her, even though it was fascinating to
watch. 

	Looking around, however, didn't make him feel more relaxed at all.  He'd
never seen so many backs in all his life.  Bare backs, belonging to the women
who filled every stall.  Most wore tongis, pooled around their waists, and a few
were totally nude, with the rest somewhere in-between.  Most sat in the chairs,
leaning forward over the vacuum tubing, to help the milk flow.  He could see the
backs of thirty women from where he stood, and just about every one of them
seemed to be masturbating.  Some had other options: a nearby woman, standing
bent over, was being gently taken by the man behind her.  Her small slack
breasts swayed gently in rhythm with his strokes, hoses clamped tight to every
one of her nipples.  They were careful not to dislodge any of the white-lined
hoses, even though, from the looseness of her breasts, she appeared nearly
pumped out.

	"Jesus," Berto murmured.  It felt like his cock was going to rip a hole
right through his pants.  He looked down at Gilly, who was still in her own
world, then back down the aisle.

	"If you're bored, I could use a hand."

	The woman was across the aisle and several cubicles down.  She was tall
and slender, statuesque even, with shoulder-length red hair and a winning smile. 
A pink tongi was pooled around her hips as she sat in the chair, leaning
forward.  She was turned three-quarters of the way away from Berto, but he could
see the milk-filled hoses dangling from her chest.  He could also see she'd been
playing with herself; still was, in fact.  If there was any doubt in his mind
that she'd been talking to him, her direct stare erased it.

	"Oh, ah," he began, and turned halfway toward Gilly, pointing.  "I'm--"

	"Go on if you want to," Gilly said, surprising him.  She'd turned her
head in his direction, but didn't want to move her torso, not yet.  She was
still two-thirds full, and if a nozzle came off she'd make quite a mess.  "I
told you how bad the hormone pops make us.  I don't mind if you lend a helping
hand.  But don't forget who you came with ."

	"Are you sure?" Berto said.

	"My chest is too sore to even think about fiddling myself," she told
him, "much less furtspurting with you.  And it's going to be another fifteen
minutes at least..  Go on, if you want to."

	"You heard her," the redhead said.  Her thighs were splayed wide as she
sat on the chair, and he could see her right forearm working busily.

	 Berto felt like a traitor, but Gilly had been very firm and insistent,
and he'd be insane not to.  He took a few tentative steps away from the cubicle.

	"I could use a hand myself," this from the woman in the cubicle next to
Gilly.  She was a thickwaisted brunette with droopy tits and a nasty grin.  She
stood rather than sat, with her feet wide apart, as the hoses drained her.  One
hand played with her pussy, the other was looped around her backside and wedged
between her square buttocks.  She'd buried three fingers deep inside her ass.

	"Is that you Meela?" Gilly said.  She didn't dare lean back far enough
to see around the partition wall.  "You don't even like men."

	"Right now I'd like anybody that has a spare hand."

	Berto had to smile.  "She saw me first," he said, jerking his head at
the tall redhead.  He stopped in front of her, or rather in back of her as she
faced the rear of the cubicle.  His cock felt like molten steel; he didn't how
the hell he could keep from introducing it, somehow, to this woman that wanted
his services, but he'd be damned if he'd let a lack of self control ruin what he
had with Gilly.

                                                     CHAPTER ELEVEN



	Chris was having trouble focusing his eyes, and kept licking his lips
because his mouth was so dry.  His knees were raw and bright red, and his hips
creaked and clicked weirdly from the hours of continuous thrusting.  He was so
tired he could barely form coherent thoughts.  The world swam in and out of
focus.  The only thing he could focus on was his unabated, planet-sized lust,
and whatever willing orifice happened to be in front of him.

	The woman currently kneeling before him, eagerly receiving his thrusts,
was blonde, bronzed, with small breasts and a hearty ass.  Her vagina was a
loose puddle of human and Dane semen, the overflow running down the insides of
her thighs.  She didn't care, she just kept rubbing her clitoris with one hand
while she grunted and gasped.  The very air smelled of semen.

	Gradually Chris became aware of a commotion down in the courtyard.  He
got his eyes focused, and was surprised to see a large number of blue beetles
moving into view, marching toward the pews and the cluster of writhing flesh on
the floor.  After blinking a few times he could make out helmets and
hard-shelled body armor and slowly came to the realization that the police had
arrived.  The Garshak Blues, in force, each officer carrying a meter-long stun
rod.

	Unoccupied women on the floor saw more males coming their way and
charged.  The Blues, apparently unperturbed at this, gently reached out and
began tapping the nude grasping women with their stun rods.  The touched women
dropped instantly to the floor, some twitching.

	"End of the ceremony," one of the officers announced through his helmet
PA.

	"They're totally jacked," another officer said casually as a dazed woman
ground her juicy groin against his suit's thigh plate.  He touched her with his
stun rod and she fell onto her back, twitching.  "Not a bad looking group this
time," he observed.  A pretty redhead dropped to her hands and knees right in
front of him, presenting herself.  She looked back over her shoulder just as the
officer slid the end of his stun rod deep into her slick channel and hit the
trigger.  The woman bucked a foot off the floor and landed hard on her side,
unconscious.

	"Jesus, Carl," one of the other Blues said, his helmet shaking.	

	Behind the advancing double row of armored officers were more uniforms,
collecting the stunned females and heaving them into a small PerpWagon, little
more than a small, motorized cage on wheels.  Gradually the procession moved
across the courtyard.  Wails of disappointed women echoed off the walls, but not
one of them stopped their fornicating until touched by a stun rod.

	Chris saw an officer use her rod on a woman still being vigorously
plowed by a large Dane.  She slumped to the floor while the Dane leapt sideways
with a yowl.  It scurried to a corner and frantically licked at its pained
member.

	"That's gotta hurt," the female trooper said, eliciting laughs from her
coworkers.

	An armored officer lumbered up the stairs to the landing where Chris
still toiled in the blonde.  Chris saw his eyes regarding him through he
helmet's visor.  The bulky armored cop looked bored.

	"It's not my fault," Chris panted.  "I can't help it.  They gave me
drugs."  His thrusts never slowed.

	"Tell me something I don't know," he was told, the officer's armored
bulk moving toward him.  "You're not the first spacer they've grabbed, and you
sure as krikes won't be the last."  He stopped beside Chris and raised the stun
rod.  "Sorry about this, but I'm not going to have you humping my leg all the
way back to headquarters."

	A flash lit the sky behind Chris' eyes and then he knew no more.





	Berto found Gilly just outside the one-way security gate at the rear of
the Dairy.  She was talking to several nursers, and surrounded by a dozen more,
all chatting happily.  He pushed through the gate, massaging his aching forearm. 
Gilly saw him as he came close, and gave him a little smirking smile.

	"That wasn't so bad now, was it?" she said, eyes twinkling.

	"They were about ready to rape me," he told her.  "As soon as they saw
you walk out, they figured I was fair game."  He massaged his forearm some more,
noticing just how sticky the fingers of that hand were.

	"I wondered what you would do," Gilly said.

	"I came with you," Berto told her.

	"I bet you did," the nurser standing next to Gilly said with a laugh. 
She, like all the other nursers standing around, fresh from the hoses, looked
flatchested and flabby, nipples huge and ringed in red from the vacuum hoses. 
As big as Gilly's nipples had been before milking, now they were gigantic,
having expanded in width to fill the two-inch wide nozzle mouths and nearly
doubling in length.  With all the talk of them being cowgirls, their nipples
really did look like udders after they'd been on the hoses.  Drawteat aside, the
immediate size increase was only temporary. 

	All the nursers were relaxed, and seemed in good spirits.  Berto
supposed there must be something inherently comforting in the act of milking
itself, even if there wasn't an infant involved.

	"Did I tell you I pumped out three twenty-two just now?" Gilly asked
him.  "That's a record.  I'd like to do that every time if it didn't hurt so
much."

	"You can stretch yourself out pretty quick if you want to do that," the
other nurser said.  She was short, and had her short hair dyed a royal blue to
match her eyes, and wore a pink tongi tied loosely around her waist.  It was
open at her neck and her top two breasts were pulled out.  They were flat bags
on her chest, pale and finely traced with blurry blue veins.  She was massaging
her nipples and Berto couldn't help but stare at them.  Even though she looked
rather young, there was no denying she was suffering from a rather advanced case
of drawteat.  Her nipples were well over ten centimeters long and as big around
as his thumb, fingers of flesh hanging from her breasts and looking for all the
world like udders, hard as it was for him to believe.  In fact, it wasn't just
her nipples that had been sucked out.  Only the last half of the fleshy fingers
were nipple; the rest was just plain breast.  She looked as young as Gilly until
he got up close and saw the lines in the corners of her eyes. 

       "My teats are still tingling, I think they've got the vacuum system
turned up a click today."  She nodded at Gilly's chest.  "Couple or three weeks,
and then the stretching doesn't hurt nearly so bad.  My sister did it, but her
teats were on the small side.  Still are, really.  Of course, at first it's
horrible."  Berto couldn't stop staring as she massaged the udders on her chest. 
They were like penises dangling from her breasts.  The white drops at their tips
only added to the illusion.

	"Is there a toilet anywhere around here?" Berto asked Gilly, lifting his
hand.  He had to get out of there before he did something unwise.

	"What do you want to wash that off for?" another nurser called out. 
"The way you had that newbie squirtin' and screamin' I figured you'd want to cut
off that hand and put it in a trophy case."  The whole crowd laughed, and Berto
felt the stares of a dozen women.  He could've gone home with any one of them if
he decided to abandon Gilly, he was sure of it; nursers as a rule seemed to be
unmarried and, as he'd discovered, very, very friendly.

	After he'd helped the redhead out with the aid of a few well-placed
fingers, the nurser in the next cubicle had pleaded with him, nearly crying, to
have sex with her.  She was young, the youngest looking nurser he'd seen, and he
doubted that she'd been nursing for long -- the nozzles practically swallowed
her tiny breasts.  They were mere swellings on her thin, boyish torso.  She
looked uncertain, timid, and horny as hell -- the pop apparently was wreaking
havoc between her legs.  She'd insisted she was sixteen years old -- Berto had
asked her three times, not wanting to end up in the city jail; her body could've
been that of a ten year old boy's but for all the nipples.

	"I still can't believe she was sixteen," Berto said to the nurser that
had made the remark.  She was muscular, and had her hair shorn to stubble.

	"So what if she wasn't?"  As she spoke he noticed her tongue was split,
forked like a snake's.  Between that and her haircut, it became apparent to him
that she was a stud dahlia.  There didn't seem to be too many nursers that
leaned that way.  Maybe it was the hormones.  "You didn't do anything that
violated the Natural Law."

	"She looked sixteen," another nurser chimed in.  "Maybe older."

	"I just don't want to end up in jail," Berto said.  He was wracking his
brain for the pertinent local laws, but his memdump seemed to have huge holes in
it when it came to certain subjects.

	"For what?" he was asked by several people. 

	"Consensual sex is not illegal on Monsipur, silly," Gilly told him,
looking at him strangely.  "What kind of crazy laws do they have where you're
from?  Everyone heard her begging you to plow her, and you still only used your
fingers."

	"I'm talking about--" he began, then shook his head.  He was pretty sure
he didn't even want to know.  The girl sure didn't have any complaints.  "Never
mind.  Where's the toilet?"

	"There's one for nursers nearby, but I don't think men are allowed to
use it," Gilly said, looking around.

	"I'm pretty sure that if you go down there and take the elevator up one
floor, or maybe it's two, there's a public restroom right there," Blue-Hair told
him.  "I really need to get something to eat," she told Gilly.  She tucked her
breasts away, for which Berto was grateful.

	"And drink," Gilly agreed.  "Why don't you meet us on the mezzanine
level," Gilly told him.  "There's a little cafe I like right in sight of the
magrail platform.  NOODLES.  We'll meet you there."

	"Okay."

	New nursers arrived and others left, but the size of the crowd outside
the Dairy exit stayed about the same.  Berto politely moved past them, ignoring
the hand that reached out and squeezed his ass, and started down the hallway in
the direction Blue-Hair had indicated.  Around a corner he found a bank of
elevators, with the doors of one car conveniently standing open.  He stepped
inside, but then had to pause.  Not only wasn't he sure which floor he was on,
all the writing on the control panel was in Monny, and his grasp of the written
language seemed to be right around zero.

	"Up one floor," he said, hoping that would get him where he needed to
go.  The redhead had been a joy to pleasure, as had the bubbly girl, but there
was no mistaking where his hand had been.  Her juices had run all the way down
to his elbow, and dried into a crackling aromatic glaze.  His forearm creaked --
she'd been as tight as a clenched fist.  He needed to urinate, too, and soon.

	The lift doors closed and he felt the car begin to move upward.  After
twenty seconds, however, it was obvious the elevator was taking him somewhere
other than "up one floor".  Up about twenty floors is what he guessed, when the
car finally stopped and the doors opened.

	The hallway was nondescript, stretching off into the distance in shades
of grey.  Berto exited the elevator car and checked the immediate area for any
sign of a restroom or toilet.  There was none, of course; he was nowhere near
where he was supposed to be, that much was clear.  If he didn't know better he
would have sworn the lift had taken him clear across town to the Garshak
Superior, the hallway was lined with doors much like a hotel corridor.  He
turned around to take the elevator back down just in time to see the doors
close.

	There was a handwritten sign stuck to the wall next to the lift doors
but again he couldn't read it.  After five minutes of pushing the call button
with no response, he began to suspect -- and rightly so -- that the sign said
Out Of Order.  This floor only seemed to be serviced by the one elevator. 
"Bastard," he cursed.  There seemed to be no stairwell anywhere nearby, so he
started down the corridor, hoping to find a person, a stairwell door, or a floor
directory -- something.

	The hallway curved gently to the left, featureless except for the doors,
which were numbered.  All the numbers began with '23', so he assumed he was on
the twenty-third floor.  He'd traveled nearly two-hundred feet down the hall
when the far end of the corridor came into view.  It looked like it ended in a
T-intersection, and no elevator in sight.  The elevator he'd come up in was
already out of sight around the curve behind him.

	Voices and an open door on his left brought him up short.  One of the
doors -- 2357 -- was open a foot, and light spilled out into the hall.  He heard
a male voice, then another.

	Berto had no wish to intrude; in fact, he wouldn't have been surprised
to learn that these were the staff living quarters.  But he didn't want to go
wandering around the building for hours, lost, with Gilly waiting for him on the
mezzanine.  He put his palm against the door and slowly pushed in open a few
more inches.

	The solid door, painted a glossy blue-grey, slid open with just a soft
hiss as it rubbed against the thick carpet.  It revealed a short corridor
decorated with small pictures and other personal items, obviously someone's
apartment.  It was against his nature to intrude, but he really didn't want to
wander around for another ten minutes looking for the elevators.

	He opened his mouth to call out a friendly hello, then stopped,
realizing it'd been a while since he'd heard any sounds from inside the
apartment.  The hallway ran about twelve feet into the apartment before opening
up to the left into a room, presumably.  The hallway's only feature was a door
on the left side that Berto would've bet led into a bathroom.  Past where the
corridor ended there was a door on the right, and that suddenly opened, flooding
the dim room with light.

	"There we go," Berto heard a man's voice say approvingly.  A hand
appeared on the doorjamb, and then a woman stepped into view.  Dark blonde hair
in a man's short cut, with an angular face.  She was just pulling a thin shirt
over her head; other than that, she was nude, and at least eight months
pregnant.  Her big belly was a giant globe that had just started to drop, and it
seemed even more massive on her thin frame.  Her swollen breasts were tipped
with tiny, dark dark nipples.

	The first thing she did was turn her head and look right at Berto
standing in the hallway staring at her.  Her brows knitted together.  Luckily,
his body language was that of a man who had been walking by and been brought up
short by the open door.  She turned her head back into the room.

	"Which one of you zipheads left the door open?" she scolded in a purring
voice, then headed down the hall.  Berto froze for a second, eyes glued to her
body, then he gave a little nervous wave and scooted on down the hall, never
looking back.  The blonde stuck her head out into the corridor, watched him for
a second, then closed the door.





	"I was beginning to think you'd left me," Gilly said.  She and Yuki of
the blue hair were standing outside the little cafe when Berto came jogging up. 
They'd finished their food and had been debating whether they should wait any
longer for Berto.

	"I got lost," he explained, panting a little.

	"I wondered if you'd gotten a better offer," she said.  He could tell
that she'd worked herself up with the thought of what might have been.

	"I told you, I came with you," he repeated.  "Unless you're tired of me? 
I can go back to my hotel, alone, if you want."

	Gilly looked down, and seemed to get a little weepy.  Then a big grin
crept across her face and she shook her head.  "Come see my apartment," she told
him.

	They got in line for the magrail, Yuki tagging along for part of the way
at least, and talked until the next train arrived.  It was a little early for
the mid-day lunch crowd and the car was only a third full. 

       "Are you still gloving those cute boys?" Gilly asked.

       "The brothers?  Every day after school.  Training 'em right."

       "How old are they now?  Twenty-two?"  Gilly smirked.  "You've been
training them for almost three years, they ought to be getting pretty good. 
What does their mother have to say?"

       "She's grateful I get them out of her hair and tire them out so they
don't have the energy to misbehave.  Triplets."  Yuki shook her head in
disbelief.  "I can't imagine raising one, much less three all at once."

       "That's got to be tough," Gilly agreed.  "But you're going to spoil them
for natural women, they're going to think everyone's as bubbly as we are."

       Yuki shrugged.  "Maybe they'll all marry nursers."

       "If their pops have been hitting the other girls like us lately, those
boys might end up all married to the same nurser."

       They'd only been underway for a few minutes, chatting amiably, when Berto
looked up to see another woman dressed as if she was a nun standing in front of
him.  She wasn't the same nun he'd seen on the magrail coming in; this one
seemed younger, just as pretty, but less regal, somehow.  The black robes she
wore covered her to wrists and ankles, with many folds around her legs.  A
ten-inch-long white cross hung between her thighs from a double string of large
white beads looped loosely around her hips.  The black, flat-topped headdress
enclosed her heart-shaped face in a white frame, and came down to her shoulders. 
She had a healthy chest, and the baggy habit couldn't conceal her hourglass
figure, but Berto wasn't sure if he was actually supposed to notice such things
on a nun. 

	"Good morning, brother," she said to him.  Her hands were clasped
together at her waist.  "How are you this beautiful day?"

	"Fine, thank you," he replied with a smile.  He hoped responding
wouldn't encourage her to try to convert him or something.  The magrail started
around a curve with a slight jolt and she had to widen her stance to keep her
balance.  Berto noticed the nun was wearing black, pointy-toed high heel boots
of some kind.  Not exactly what he would consider proper footgear for a nun.

	She tilted her head and regarded him with a warm, loving smile.  "Is
there any way I can ease your day?  You seem tired.  Together let us honor him
by rejoicing in those gifts which God has given us."  She turned her head and
smiled at Berto's two companions.  Her body swayed as the car gently rocked
around another curve.  What he had assumed was a fold in the skirt of her robe
revealed itself to be a slit which went all the way up past her hip.  A bare
thigh, shapely and muscular, peeked out at him, before the natural rocking
motion of the train caused the slit to close again.  It was a hell of a thigh,
the kind any man would want to run his tongue up and down.  Smooth, lightly
tanned . . . .  He blinked his eyes, then looked up into her blue eyes.  They
were clear and free of deceit, and stared at him with honesty and kindness.

	"Maybe some other time," he said dully. 

	"No thank you, Sister," Yuki said.  Gilly smiled and shook her head.

	The woman in black smiled and inclined her head toward them.  "May the
love of our Lord God stay with you always," she told them, and moved to step
away.  The car jolted again, just a little bump, but it was enough to throw the
Sister off balance.  Berto's hand shot out and grabbed her wrist.

	She smiled.  "Why, thank--"  She stopped, and regarded him quizzically,
cocking her head.  She'd seen the speed at which he'd moved, knew what kind of
reflexes that took, felt the unusual strength in his grip.  Her free hand came
up to touch his fingers still clamped around her wrist, subtly evaluating the
muscle and tendons.  "You're a long way from home," she murmured.  Gilly gave
her a strange look.  Berto saw it, and quickly pulled his hand away, brows knit
together.  The Sister smiled again, realizing she'd made him uncomfortable, and
moved off down the car without another word.  As she walked he could see there
were several slits in her skirt, all of which ran nearly to her waist.

	Near the end of the car the nun engaged a professional-looking couple in
conversation.  The pair were in their forties or fifties, the man in a
traditional suit, the woman wearing a boxy business blazer over a TwoSkin
sheathskirt.  After less than a minute the nun turned away from the couple and
bent at the waist, pressing her palms flat against the wall of the car.  The man
lifted up the skirt of her robes and threw it over the nun's back.  Underneath,
she was nude, and in even better shape than Berto would have guessed.  The man
fished around in his pants, pulled out his penis, and stepped up behind the
Sister.  As soon as he pushed inside her he started gasping and quivering.  He
had to hold onto the Sister's hips just to keep his balance.  His blazered
partner watched with an amused expression on her face, until the nun reached up
under the woman's short skirt with one hand.  Within seconds she was arching her
hips forward, up on her tiptoes, mouth in a huge "O".

	Berto looked at Gilly, then at Yuki, both of whom were staring out the
windows looking bored.  So were most of the other passengers, except for a
couple on the bench halfway down the car having sex.  A man, still clothed but
with his tongi undone, was straddled by a small, skinny figure bouncing
enthusiastically up and down.  She was nude, and so small and thin the cock she
was spitted on looked enormous by comparison.  As Berto stared at her he
realized she couldn't weigh more than twenty-five or thirty kilos.  Her feet
were flat on the bench to either side of the man, fingers interlaced behind his
neck, and he stared into her eyes as she energetically bounced.  The only person
inside the car who seemed to have any interest in the couple was a young boy of
about three industriously picking his nose.

	"Okay, I realize I'm from off-world, and we have different customs," he
said, his voice cracking, "but would someone please explain to me just what the
hell is going on?"  It came out almost in a shout.

	At the sound of his strained voice, the bouncing female turned her head
and looked his way.  When Berto finally got a good look at her he shot to his
feet in outrage and pointed, looking back at Gilly.

	"Are you going to try to tell me that's legal?" he demanded, nearly
shouting.  He took a step toward the couple, but stopped, sensing something out
of kilter.  Gilly and Yuki looked startled, and looked to where he was pointing. 
Gilly's mouth opened in a huge "O" when she understood the source of Berto's
concern.

	"Is he talking about the squeaker?" Yuki whispered to her fellow nurser.

	"She's probably older than you," Gilly tried to tell him, talking
quietly, hoping he would sit down and not embarrass himself or them any further. 
"She's not -- it's a birth defect, caused by a drug they used to use to prevent
early labor, before I was even born.  Whoever took it -- their children, that
is, just stopped growing when they reached a certain age.  We call 'em
squeakers."

	Gilly's attempt to avoid a scene didn't work.  "Little people," the
female in question corrected her angrily, in a high voice.  Her small ass came
briefly to a rest on top of the man's lap as she glared at Berto and Gilly.  Her
back shone with perspiration.  The top of her head was below her partner's.

	"Goddamn ignorant offworlders," the man growled.  "We've been married
for fifteen fucking years," he said indignantly to Berto.  His hands, while not
big, almost completely encircled his wife's waist.  She was scowling at Berto,
face partially hidden by one of her knobby knees.  There were a few lines around
her eyes and mouth, he could see them now what with her face scrunched all up. 
The two of them stared at Berto for a few more seconds, then the female
whispered into her husband's ear and began slowly grinding on him.  She and her
husband kissed passionately, and he reached up to pinch her tiny nipples.  She
looked back at Berto as she worked her hips and grunted, just to tweak him. 
After a few seconds she tired of taunting him and went back to kissing her
husband.  Soon she was sliding up and down on his shaft again, gathering speed.

	Berto stood there for a good thirty seconds, mouth hanging open, staring
at the couple.  Finally he sat down, still watching the miniscule woman bouncing
up and down on a penis as thick as her ankle.  She was panting and grunting and
working her hips with practiced skill.  He noticed quite a few people in the car
were staring at him now.

	"How'd you like to have her chest?" Yuki murmured, nodding at the
squeaker.  "Might as well be a boy.  Krikes, I bet she's as tight as a vise,
look at her hips.  Where does she put it?"

	"He's big," Gilly agreed quietly, nodding.  "Most squeakers can't handle
a normal sized man without elastomers or years of work, and look, she's taking
him to the base.  Krikes, you can see her stomach bulging out.  Well, he did say
they'd been married fifteen years, that's plenty of time to've stretched her
out.  I bet when they started dating one finger was enough for her."

	"How could you tell, just by looking at her, before she said anything,
that she was a squeaker?" Berto asked Gilly after another long pause.

	At first she didn't understand the question.  Then she got his point. 
"Oh!  Well, ah . . . hmmm."

                                                     CHAPTER TWELVE



	Berto was in the small kitchen making himself a snack when the
apartment's front door opened.  He turned to see an astonishingly grimy figure
trudge in, carrying a big, heavy looking gear bag.

	It was a woman, in dark blue baggy coveralls and squaretoed workboots. 
Her long, matted black hair was tied into a shaggy knot behind her neck.  The
coveralls were filthy, smeared from collar to cuffs with black grease and the
orange soil of Monsipur.  Her skin was grey from dust and dirt.

	She stopped when she saw Berto and stared at him suspiciously.  Her eyes
were white orbs set into the dirty brown of her face.  She quickly glanced
around, checking to see if there were any other surprises awaiting her.  Missing
furniture, dead bodies, more strange men.

	"Who are you?" she asked gruffly.

	"Berto.  I'm a  . . . friend of Gilly's," he told the woman.  Between
the dirt, the baggy coveralls, and the wild hair shadowing her face, he couldn't
tell if she was thick or thin, pretty or ugly.  She looked past him, toward the
bedrooms.

	"She's not here, she's at the Dairy," Berto told her.

	The woman seemed unsure of what to do.  She obviously hadn't been
expecting to see a strange man in the apartment.  Berto tried to set her at
ease.

	"You a pusher, or do you work the rail?" he asked, using slang he hoped
was still current.  She tilted her head and looked at him.

	"Blast crew.  I work the drill."

	"Damn.  You must be stronger than you look."

	She set her bag down on the floor with a thump and brushed the hair back
from her grimy face.  "What do you know?  You been down?"

	"In my youth," he told her.  "In my youth.  Three years, working a baby
scoop, mostly."

	"Where?"

	"Bell's Marble.  You've probably never heard of it out here."

	"You worked the Marble?" she said incredulously.  "When was this?"

	"Sixty to sixty-two.  I was fifteen when I got the job, thought I would
be seeing the universe."  He laughed.  "Never realized you can't see many stars
when you're a mile down.  The whole crew was a bunch of kids, we were the only
ones willing to work for what they were paying."

	"Were you there when the dome blew?"  So she had heard of it.

	Bell's Marble had been a small moon a long way from nowhere.  A survey
crew discovered it was indescribably dense with all sorts of mineral deposits. 
To mine it ComExCo had erected several pressurized domes, each a mile across,
and tunneled down from each one.  The moon was nearly solid rock, dense enough
to have workable gravity.  This helped keep the air pumped into the mines from
leaking out into space.  The domes were supposed to be shielded, but apparently
ComExCo had run out of money and decided to play the odds.  An asteroid the size
of a small building impacted one of the domes, blowing it and collapsing the
mineshaft below.

	"I was near the bottom of the shaft when the rock hit.  A mile down,
give or take.  There were about two hundred of us, in a pretty big air pocket. 
We didn't know how much of the shaft had collapsed, or even why.  We actually
felt the impact, but none of us knew what it was.  I thought maybe the resupply
ship had crashed, even though it wasn't due for days.  We were so deep, though .
. . our air pocket was big, but we knew it wouldn't last forever."

	"How long did it take you to get out?"

	"A month."  He was staring off across the room, but what he was seeing
wasn't there.

	"A month?"  It seemed impossible to believe.

	"Yeah.  We had to dig damn near the entire shaft out again.  We'd dig
out a hundred meters, move up, and then the shaft would collapse again,
sometimes in front, sometimes in back, sometimes right on top of us.  The impact
fractured every strata of rock there was.  Everything was giving way.  Every
time we were about to run out of air we'd break through into another pocket.  We
found other survivors, but not many."

	"How'd you survive without food and water?"

	"Well, we had water.  We used the old Belsen Power Rams?  The 4000's? 
They were water cooled, forty gallons each, which still wasn't enough, but we
lost so many people to cave-ins that somehow we made do.  And it was a good
thing it took us so long to dig out, too," Berto told her, lost in the memory. 
"They only had the dome repaired and repressurized six hours when we broke
through.  If we'd have been any quicker we'd have dug ourselves right out into a
vacuum and floated out into space."

	The woman looked down and shook her head.  "How many of you made it
out?"

	"Well, there were over a thousand in our shaft when the rock hit.  Most
died in the initial cave-in.  When we finally dug our way out there were
forty-four of us left.  That's when I decided to quit mining and join the
Marines.  Mining was just too dangerous."  He gave her a quick, strained smile. 
Faces kept flashing across his brain, men who'd died next to him in the mine,
some kids younger than he'd been.  He hadn't meant to ramble on for so long, but
he hadn't thought about the Marble in so long the memories had kind of snuck up
on him.

	"All of our safety measures are geared toward preventing everything that
happened to you," she told him.  "That fiasco sent ComExCo into bankruptcy. 
They had to close the Marble to pay all the insurance benefits."  She looked at
him strangely.  "You're heroes, you know that?  You must.  Everyone knows the
story, about how you refused to give up, and dug a mile quicker than anybody
before or since."

	"We weren't heroes, we were just scared kids who didn't want to die on a
shitty little moon no one had ever heard of.  And we were digging through loose
and fractured rock, so it's not the same thing as a virgin shaft."

	She stepped around the counter and stuck out a hand.  "I'm Sam," she
told him.

	"You're Sam?" he said, shaking her hand.  It was hot and dry, and she
had a grip like a vise.  When Gilly had informed him that she had a roommate
named Sam, most of his enthusiasm about seeing her apartment had quickly drained
away.  "The roommate?  I thought . . . well, I was expecting someone a little
more male."

	"Samantha," she told him.  "Where did you and Gilly meet?"

	"Port Authority, last night," he told her.  "I'd just gotten through
decontam -- I'm a long hauler now," he explained.  "I was eating dinner when
Gilly came in, and, well, her hormone pop was hitting her pretty hard," he said,
wondering what her reaction would be.

	"She must like you if she brought you here," Sam told him.  She suddenly
noticed the dirt she'd smudged onto his hand with hers, and looked down at
herself.

	"I've got to get cleaned up," she apologized.  "We do twenty days on and
six off.  They barely bring in enough water for us to drink, forget about a
wetshower."

	"I'll try to stay out of your way," he told her.  "I'm not sure when
Gilly'll be back, she left about forty minutes ago.  Maybe we could have dinner
together later?  If you're not too tired?"

	Sam smiled at him, her teeth a brilliant white against her sooty face. 
"I'd like that."  She grabbed her bag, took a few steps, then stopped and looked
at him.  She opened her mouth to speak, then changed her mind, shook her head,
and disappeared into her bedroom.  She was still in there when Gilly returned,
looking skinny after being pumped out.

	"Your roommate's home."

	"Sam?  Oh good.  I hope she wasn't too mean to you, sometimes she's real
cranky when she comes home, she's so tired."

	"We got along fine.  I used to mine, years and years ago, so we had
something to talk about.  She's in there cleaning up."  He nodded toward the
bedroom.

	"Can you believe how filthy she gets?  The owners say they can't afford
to install wetshowers in the crew quarters.  I think that's horrible.  It's bad
enough that they're in the middle of nowhere.  That's why they work so many days
in a row and live in barracks right next to the mine; the mine's a good day's
travel from anywhere.  If they worked any fewer days they'd have to spend their
entire time off traveling back and forth."

	"I told her I thought maybe we could have dinner together, and she
seemed to like the idea."

	"She'll want to stay in, but I know just what to fix," Gilly said
enthusiastically.  "Are you eating now?"

	Berto looked down at the cracker he had in his hand.  "Well, uh--"

	"Let me go ask Sam if she's hungry, and maybe I'll just start dinner
right away."  She disappeared into the bedroom, emerging a minute later wearing
a mischievous smile.

	"We'll eat here," Gilly said with a twisted grin.  "She's hungry now." 
She kept grinning at him.

	"What?  Why are you smiling?"

	Gilly's smile grew wider.  "She likes you," she told him, lowering her
voice.

	"Oh," Berto said, a bit taken aback.  "Well . . . ."

	"It's okay," Gilly told him.  "She hardly ever likes anybody.  All she
ever does is work work work."

	"But, I mean," he said, not exactly sure what Gilly meant, "she knows
I'm with you, right?  I told her how we met."

	"Oh, don't be such a ninny," Gilly mock scolded him.  "Just relax.  I
didn't know bubbly girls got you so nervous.  Now go sit down over there, I've
got to start dinner."  When she opened the cooler all Berto could see were the
rows of vitamin-fortified fruit juice containers that filled half the interior.





	When Sam finally exited her room, it was obvious she'd dressed in her
best for dinner, but still the transformation was so startling that Berto could
only stare at her, speechless.  Gone was the matted hair, the grimy skin, the
shapeless soiled jumpsuit.  What strolled out of Sam's room was a strikingly
beautiful woman that bore no resemblance at all to the tunnel rat who'd gone in.

	Sam's hair was glossy and hung in ebony ringlets to the middle of her
back.  It was gathered loosely at the base of her neck, not quite a ponytail. 
Her bronzed skin shone and smelled of exotic oils and the faint trace of
perfume.  Her lips and eyelashes had been subtly accented.

	Sam wore a midriff-baring long-sleeved formal jacket made of a stiff
green fabric.  It revealed a remarkably slender body, deeply tanned, without an
ounce of fat anywhere on it.  Her washboard stomach literally rippled with
muscle.  Slung low on her hips was a tight green skirt that barely reached
mid-thigh and revealed the most shapely, athletic legs Berto had ever seen
outside of a PowerBall court.  She wore black high heel gloves on her feet,
stretchy rubber shoes with tall spike heels.

	"This is a little better," she said with feigned nonchalance as she
sauntered out of her bedroom.  "I actually feel human again after that shower."

	"My God, you are one beautiful woman," Berto blurted out, staring at
her.  She turned red, and he immediately wished he'd kept his mouth shut, but
Sam didn't seem offended.  Gilly just giggled.

	Sam appeared to be a few years younger than him, with a long face and
full, sensuous lips.  Looking at her made him wish he'd brought along something
nicer to wear.  Especially when Gilly retired to her own bedroom to "change into
something special", leaving the roast to slow cook in the P-Wave oven.

	Berto couldn't even remember what he and Sam talked about before dinner. 
She had a wonderful sense of humor, and a great laugh, although she was
obviously unused to wearing a skirt, especially one so short.  It was a constant
struggle for him to keep his eyes on her face as they talked.  She sat across
from him and nervously bounced her knees open and closed.

	Gilly's "something special" turned out to be a blue textured elastic
bodysuit with a high collar and a wide zipper than ran from her throat all the
way down between her legs.  The one-piece had molded-in cups for her breasts
that kept them high and round even in her drained state.  The bodysuit ended at
her knees and elbows, and she wore sporty red thick soled boots to accent the
blue outfit.  For the first time since he'd met her Gilly was wearing makeup,
and her short hair was slicked back.  It made her look older, and a lot more
sophisticated.

	"Now I really feel poorly dressed," Berto said, standing up reflexively
as she came out of her bedroom.  "You two look spectacular."

	"You look fine," Sam assured him.

	Gilly giggled and stepped into the kitchen to check on dinner.  He saw
the zipper running down the front of her bodysuit came up between her buttocks
and stopped at the small of her back.  There was a pull tab there as well as at
the other end of the zipper at her throat.  The textured bodysuit clung tight to
her body, although the fabric wasn't nearly as revealing as TwoSkin would've
been.  Somehow that made it even sexier.  Berto could hardly concentrate on the
tasty meal with the two of them dressed as they were, chatting gaily and
flirting up a storm.

	He flirted with both of them, enjoying himself immensely, but kept
careful watch on Gilly's reactions.  He didn't want her upset with him, but he
apparently needn't have worried; Gilly seemed almost to be encouraging his
flirting with Sam.

	He talked of his time in the mines, and the Marines.  The two women kept
him going with their questions, but eventually he did get to ask Sam about her
mine, and how her crew worked.  There seemed to be some sort of unspoken
communication going on between the two women that he couldn't decipher, a
language consisting of raised eyebrows, knowing looks, nods, and sly smiles.

	"I can't remember the last time I sat down to a home-cooked meal," Berto
said with relish.  He pushed himself away from the table.  "Must be ten years. 
And I know I've never had prettier company."

	Not only was it pure flattery, it was one hundred percent true.  The
evening had been like a dream, some fanciful concoction of his subconscious.  He
was afraid he'd wake up and find himself back in his bunk onboard ship.  But
there was no way he could have dreamed up two women as beautiful, in such
different ways, as Gilly and Sam.  His imagination wasn't that good.

	Gilly had downed nearly three liters of juice during the meal, and the
front of her bodysuit was noticeably bigger.  Sam's stomach, on the other hand,
was so flat that even sitting down there was only one shallow wrinkle running
straight across her navel.

	"I haven't eaten that much in a long time."

	"Don't you have any room left for dessert?" Gilly asked with a twinkle
in her eye.  She and Sam exchanged another knowing look.

	"If I eat anymore right now I'm going to fall asleep," Berto admitted.

	Gilly stood up, and moved toward the kitchen.  "You two go sit down,
I'll get us something to drink."

	Sam led him into the livingroom and sat on the low couch.  She patted
the cushion right beside her hip, but Berto left six inches of space between
them.  Gilly came into the room with two small cups.

	"Candlelight," she called out, and the bright white indirect lighting
faded to a warm yellow glow.  "Rosebriar for the two of you," she said, handing
them the two cups half-full of amber liquid.  Rosebriar was a strong liqueur
he'd heard of but never tasted.

	"You're not having any?" Berto said.  Gilly strode back into the
kitchen.  He felt Sam slide closer to him on the couch, felt the heat of her
thigh against his, but didn't look.

	"I'm not allowed to drink alcohol," she told him.  "I'll have water."

	Berto glanced at Sam, gave her a quick smile, and drank a little of the
Rosebriar.  It burned all the way down.  Out of the corner of his eye he could
see her staring at him.

	"Um," he said nervously, "are there a lot of women working the mines
here?"

	"No," she told him, leaning closer.  "Most women can't handle the work,
or the company.  But there's a few."

	"It was all men when I worked the Marble."

	"For three years?  D'you get any leave?  No?  Wow, that doesn't sound
like fun.  At least I only do twenty days before getting a break."

	"Don't you . . . I mean, uh, are the barracks coed?"

	She knew what he was getting at.  "The ratio's twenty to one.  Even if I
wanted to sleep with one of them, I'd have to sleep with them all, and then
they'd be fighting over me -- you know how miners are.  If I wanted to do that
I'd have joined the Sisterhood.  And yes, the barracks are coed.  About once a
month I have to discourage someone's advances."

	"How?"

	"Broken bones, usually.  The women that don't take care of themselves
end up getting raped.  Those that stay become public housing.  You wouldn't
believe the stories I hear about some of the really remote digs."

	"I bet I would."

	Gilly sat down on his other side and took a long drink of water.  She
set the tall container down on the table.  While he was watching Sam leaned over
and began tonguing his ear.  Berto froze, eyes darting to Gilly.  It wasn't long
before she noticed Sam, but all Gilly did was smirk.  Sam kept working at his
ear, breathing hard, and Gilly watched with a slight hint of amusement on her
face.  He imagined he looked like a panicked animal caught in a bright light.

	"What's the matter, don't you like Sam?" Gilly finally asked, when Berto
failed to respond.  Sam pulled back, looking distraught and very heated up.  For
his part Berto was glad his shirt covered his crotch.

	"Well no, I mean, look, I thought you were . . . ." Berto began, then
stopped and took a deep breath.  He looked Sam in the eyes, put a gentle hand on
her thigh and said "I like you very much."  Then he turned to Gilly and said
"But I came here as your guest."

	"Don't be ridiculous," Gilly laughed.  "Oh boy, I didn't know you were
from New Mantique."  She stood up, picked up her water, and waved a hand.  "I'm
not even here," she said, heading into the rear of the apartment.  Berto watched
her disappear down the hallway, then looked at Sam.

	"Am I making too much of a fool out of myself?" he asked her.  She took
hold of his hand, still on her warm thigh, and lifted it from her flesh.  Just
as his heart began to plummet she pulled his hand toward her and slid it inside
her top.  Her small breast filled the palm of his hand, and he could feel her
hard little nipple.  Sam reached down and squeezed the raging erection trapped
inside his pants.  With a growl Berto pulled her to him and they attacked each
other with their mouths.

	They were a panting, groaning tangle on the couch, limbs akimbo.  She
jerked his cock roughly inside his pants, and he went after her nipples with his
fingers.

	"Oh God," she panted, breaking the kiss briefly as he pulled hard on her
nipple.  She straddled his thigh and pressed her crotch down onto him, hard. 
She ground herself against him, still jerking his cock, while he squeezed her
breasts.  They panted and groaned, tongues entwined like snakes.

	Berto moved a hand down and pulled up the front of her skirt.  Her mound
pumped against his thigh, hidden by a narrow strip of panty.  Berto slipped two
fingers inside the elastic and found loose dangling labia slick with arousal. 
As he corkscrewed two fingers deep inside her she gasped and arched above him.

	"Oh Krikes!" she barked hoarsely, rocking her hips against his hand. 
Berto twisted his fingers this way and that, and Sam gasped and twitched.  Then
she grabbed his wrist and climbed off the couch.  His fingers slid out of her.

	"What--?"

	She pulled him off the couch by his wrist and headed for her bedroom
door.  He nearly had to run to keep up.  Through the doorway she practically
threw him onto the bed.  She scrambled to pull her top off, then tugged the
skirt down her shapely legs.  She kicked her panties off into a corner and
pushed Berto backward as he struggled to get his pants off.

	"Light!" she called out.  The recessed lamps blinked on at full power,
illuminating everything in the room with clinical detail, just the way Sam liked
it.  She was even more athletic than Berto'd thought.  Not an ounce of fat on
her body, but enough muscle that she didn't look skinny.  Her skin was brown as
a tanned hide.  Her arms and legs, while muscled, were also slender and very
feminine.  The only part of her body that wasn't taut and toned and angular were
her breasts, small, rounded, firmly soft and high on her chest, tipped with tiny
dark nipples.

	She practically ripped the pants from Berto's legs and straddled him as
he wrestled with his shirt.  Sam's labia hung long and loose in sharp contrast
to the rest of her body.  They were dark, almost purplish-brown, wrinkled and
puckered and at least an inch and a half long.  Sam parted them with her
fingertips and with her other hand guided his cockhead between her legs  She
sank onto his shaft with a groan, all the way down until her hard buttocks
rested on him.  "Firm mattress!" she called out, and he felt the bed stiffen
under him.  "Firmer."

	Berto finally got his shirt off as Sam pulled her knees up and planted
her feet on either side of his hips.  Palms flat on his chest for balance, she
began roughly bouncing her hips up and down.  Her snug wet channel gripped him
like a fist as she hammered herself on him with single-minded intensity.  The
mere violence of it was startling to him, and that was before she started
cursing and yelling.

	"Fuck!  Yeah!  Krikes!  Oh. God. Yes!  Fuck.  Cock.  Oh.  Oh.  Ahh!" 
Every downward thrust was accompanied by an exclamation.  Berto just lay back,
and watched her with wide eyes, hands gripping her wrists.  She was bouncing on
him fiercely, her wet groin smacking his hard enough to bounce him on the
mattress.  Every few minutes Sam would lower her knees to the bed and grind
herself viciously against him.  It helped her catch her breath, but soon she was
back up, her vagina the only point of contact between them as she cycled up and
down like a piston.  At each impact her labia smashed flat around the base of
his cock, as did her clit -- big and round and hard as a marble.  She was so wet
he could feel her juices running down the crack of his ass.

	She bounced and ground, bounced and ground, cursing and grunting and
panting, all the while staring him in the eye with an almost scary intensity. 
Soon her body was covered in a sheen of sweat, and she shone in the light coming
through the open doorway.

	Berto was sure he was going to have bruises on either side of his pubic
mound from her bony ass.  If she hadn't been so rough he would have already
climaxed; she had him a little nervous.

	Her motions became jerkier and more spasmodic as she bounced on him,
harder and harder.  He reached up and pinched her nipples; they were like little
pebbles between his fingertips.  She bounced around them, her breasts pulling
this way and that, as he kept her nipples locked in place.  Her curses grew more
unintelligible, falling into animal grunts and groans.  He had a hard time
holding on to her nipples, her breasts were slick with sweat.  It dripped from
her nose onto his chest, and streaked her rippling stomach.

	Finally she barked, a hard high gasping cry, and began a quivering and
shaking, thrusting her pelvis hard against his.  Her whole body tensed, the
veins in her neck standing out like steel cables, and her furt clamped down on
him like an oilsoaked vise.  She jerked her mound against his slowly, like a
metronome, each impact forcing a grunt through her clenched teeth, the time
between each grinding thrust growing longer and longer.

	With a grunt of his own Berto tensed up, and as Sam finally ground to a
stop atop him his pulsing organ shot spurt after spurt into her.  She collapsed
onto him, chest heaving like she'd just finished a marathon.  She pushed the
hair back from her sweaty forehead, and gave him a stunned but warm smile.

	"Krikes I needed that," she panted.  Her body vibrated on his like a
live wire, slick and hot.  "Oh Krikes did I need that."

	"You had me scared there for a minute," Berto said with a smile, only
partly joking.  "I thought you were trying to break it off."

	She pouted a little, and gave him a quick kiss.  "I just have all this
pent-up energy after working my twenty," she explained, still panting.  She
reached down between her legs and gave his shaft a quick squeeze with her
fingers.  "Not broken off yet," she said with a smile.  "So, how are you doing?" 
He felt her inner muscles clench around his mostly hard cock.

	It struck him then just how totally opposite she and Gilly were from one
another.  Gilly was all youthful enthusiasm coupled with unexpected shyness and
naivete.  Her pale young skin was all rubbery curves and pink spots when she got
excited.  She had buckets of enthusiasm, but very little skill or technique. 
The joy with Gilly was seeing just how much fun she was having.

	Sam, on the other hand, was leather--wrapped steel, and seemed much
older than Gilly, although if Gilly was twenty-three they couldn't be that far
apart in age.  She was a long-limbed sexual spider sitting on top of him -- he
had the feeling they'd hardly cracked the door of her sexual closet, that she
knew tricks he'd never even heard of.

	"A little dizzy, but I'll survive," Berto replied with a smile.

	Sam grinned sexily and straightened up so that she was sitting properly
atop him.  Her brown skin glistened with sweat, and he stroked her thighs and
stomach with his palms.

	"Oooh, nice," she said.  She reached around behind her ass and took hold
of his balls.  As Berto reached up and massaged her flat breasts she began
slowly pumping her hips back and forth, working his tool around inside her wet
channel.  In no time he found himself back at full mast.

	"Let me do some work," he said, sitting up.  Sam grinned wildly and
scampered off.  She presented her narrow backside to him in what he soon
discovered was her favorite position.  Her slack folds hung down between her
thighs and wiggled like a turkey's comb as he moved around on the bed behind
her.  Her skinny ass in combination with the wrinkled, dangling lips made her
furt seem oversize, but Berto found her nice and snug, even after the rough ride
she'd just taken.

	She was as hard as a rock, every cell in her muscled body clenched tight
as he pounded into her from behind.  She pushed herself back at him as far as
was possible, trying to sink him deeper.  Sam grunted under the impact every
time he slammed into her, but she liked it, liked it rough.  She slammed back,
bit her lip, and smiled to herself as he rode her hard.

	His balls swung violently under her, slapping her mound every time he
reversed direction.  She reached between her legs and grabbed his sack, and
squeezed and pulled on it as he pounded away.  The sensations as she tugged at
his balls were . . .

	"Oh Krikes," he grunted, hunching over her narrow back, humping her seed
into her with spasmodic jerks of his hips.

	"Yeah!  Give it to me!  Fuck that furt!  Fuck me like a Dane!"  Sam
pushed hard against him as Berto thrust and pulsed inside her.  "Fill my
biglipped cunt!"

	Berto slowed to a jerking stop, panting.  Her lithe body was like a wild
animal's under him, thrumming with energy.  Cords of muscle stood out on either
side of her backbone, and ran down to the dimples at the small of her back.  He
still gripped her hips in his hands, and could tell just from her body language
that she wanted more scooping.  Unfortunately, he needed a little time for
retooling.  Maybe he should look around for that X-Tend vacpac.

	Even though his cock was, at that moment, shrinking, his desire for her
was unquenched.  The things she said . . . he'd never had a woman who'd talked
dirty in bed before, and he realized what he'd been missing.

	"Krikes, you are unbelievable," he said.  As she looked over her
shoulder he flipped her over onto her back.  She yelped in surprise and laughed,
eagerly spreading her legs for him. 

	As muscled as Sam's body was, she was anything but stiff; she grabbed
the inside of her spread thighs and pulled them back until her knees touched the
bed.  Berto lay before her and buried his face between her legs.  She was
sweaty, and sloppy, and tasted of his semen which leaked steadily out of her
hole, but Berto didn't care.  He attacked her sensitive flesh voraciously, like
a cannibal who'd forgotten how to bite.

	Her long winglike labia were a delight; he flicked them this way and
that with his tongue, sucked on them, nibbled at their edges.  Sam groaned and
pulled her heels in close, arched her hips up toward his mouth.

	Berto slid first one finger, then another into Sam's hot center.  She
was soupy with his seed and her own excitement, and his fingers swam in her as
he pumped and twisted them about.  He found her clit and used his lips and
tongue on it.  It was large as the end of his thumb, dark red and hard, and it
radiated heat like a rock just pulled from a fire.

	"Oh yeah, suck that pussy.  Suck it!  Krikes that feels good.  Ohh, your
fingers -- Ah shit!  Tonguefuck my furt you animal!"  She let go of a knee to
press his face harder into her sloppy sex and continued to growl obscenities. 
"You like it?  You like the taste of my cunt?  I'm so fucking wet."  Her words
inflamed him and Berto worked at her even more vigorously.  He turned his hand
over so his fingers could curl up inside her, and he massaged the knot of
sensitive flesh just inside her pubic bone.

	"Cocklicker!" she nearly screamed, curling up off the bed, the tendons
in her neck standing out like ropes.  "Gape-assed whore bag!"  Berto tongued and
sucked hard on her clit and massaged in small circles the nerve bundle inside
her with the flats of her fingers.

	Sam lost the ability to speak and seemed locked into position, arched
off the bed, eyes bulging, veins in her arms like sausages.  At first no sound
escaped from her, teeth clenched, lips back in near-rictus, but then her mouth
opened into a ruby chasm and a scream erupted from her.  She bucked violently on
the bed, Berto's head trapped between her scissoring thighs.  Sounds unlike any
he'd ever heard spewed from her as she writhed on the bed.  He hung on as well
as he could, sucking and rubbing, trying not to black out as her thighs squeezed
his neck like a vise.  Her internal muscles clamped down on his fingers as she
bucked and heaved, but he kept working his fingers inside her imprisoning flesh. 
She squirted, several times, right into his face, the clear fluid running down
his chin onto his hand.

	Finally the maelstrom ended, and the pressure of her cable-like thighs
eased enough for him to draw an unrestricted breath.

	"I can't tell you the last time I had a guy lick my furt who knew what
he was doing," Sam gasped.  She opened her thighs the rest of the way and lifted
her head so she could see him.  They smiled at each other, Berto's face a slimy
mess from his nose down.  He pushed himself back onto his knees and rubbed his
neck.

	"Did I squeeze you?" she asked, honestly ignorant.

	"A little bit," he acknowledged.

	"You poor baby," she said with a grin, rolled over, and came after him.

	She swallowed his entire semi-hard organ in one gulp, smashing her nose
against his mound.  She sucked aggressively at him, and used her tongue
inventively.  Berto watched her working his shaft like a woman starving.  She
slurped and huffed and glorped, somehow knowing the sounds would excite him.

	His organ grew quickly as she let the saliva hang in strings from her
lips, bobbing her head and sucking and slurping at him.  Sam stuck several
fingers in her mouth and coated them with spit, then smeared it deep into the
crack of his ass.  She rewet her middle finger, then smoothly slid it between
his legs and right into him.

	Eeoooh!"  He jerked, startled.  No woman had ever done that to him
before, much less one who so obviously knew what she was doing.  She pressed
hard on his prostate, massaged it, and his cock got harder than he thought
possible.  Now that he was fully erect his cock gagged her if she tried to
swallow it all, but that didn't stop her.  She pushed forward, opening wide,
gagging and slurping, finger worming in his ass.  Suddenly Gilly's head was down
there beside Sam's, looking up at him mischievously.  Sam backed off and turned
her head a little to look at Gilly, still sucking hard on the head of Berto's
cock.

	"Can I join in?" Gilly asked with a cute pouting smile.  "It sounded
like you were having a lot of fun."  Berto turned his head and saw that they'd
never bothered to close the bedroom door.

	Not waiting for a reply, Gilly began nibbling at the base of his shaft. 
Sam continued to suck at its head.  Gilly was already nude, and as he caught
glimpses of her half-full breasts swaying beneath her he saw she'd donned her
steel nipple rollers.  Her body looked soft and white, like a baby's, next to
Sam's tanned physique.

	"I still get his cock next," Sam said, finally letting his cock out of
her mouth with a Plop!  She lay back on the bed and spread her legs.  "Stick
your finger in his ass, like I was just doing," she told Gilly.  Berto, halfway
to Sam's prostrate body, halted and nervously looked back over his shoulder. 
Sam grabbed him and pulled him on top of her, in no mood to wait.  He sunk his
cock into her just as Gilly got a finger inside him.  He stiffened, then relaxed
and began pumping vigorously.  On every upstroke Gilly's finger would wiggle
deep into him.  He couldn't help groaning.  Gilly wasn't sure what she was
supposed to be doing with her finger, so she redoubled her efforts.

	"Holy Christ!" Berto gasped.  Beneath him Sam smiled, and crossed her
ankles high up behind his back.  He stared into her beautiful face and they
kissed, tongues gently entwining.  He grunted into her mouth as Gilly explored
his interior.  She seemed genuinely intrigued by the feel of him around her
finger.

	Sam broke the kiss and called out to Gilly, "Stick a finger in my ass,
too.  I don't see why he should have all the fun."

	From mere inches away he could tell just by the look on Sam's face
exactly when the finger pushed into her.

	"Does that feel good?" he heard Gilly say from behind him.  "I've never
tried it."  From the almost alien expressions of ecstasy on Sam's face he knew
Gilly's finger had to be dancing in her just as it was in him.  In fact, he
could feel it inside her, against the underside of his cock.  The membranes
separating the two probes in Sam were thinner than he would've suspected.

	"Just you wait," Sam managed to gasp.

                                                 CHAPTER THIRTEEN



	Sergeant Yvgeny Arbatov hitched up his uniform belt and stepped off the
lift as the doors slid open.  Shouts echoed down the narrow corridor to his left
and he turned his head that way.  Shouts and cries and a string of profanity
that would've made a Marine feel right at home.  He'd been watching on the
monitor upstairs -- with the usual crowd -- but the ruckus was a lot louder down
here.  She was a spoiled rich girl, claimed to be a niece, niece-in-law, of one
of the Council of Twelve.  She sure seemed to have enough money for that to be
true -- iris implants, lab-toned body, one hell of a rack -- practically up
around her ears, and a dress that cost as much as he made in a month -- but that
wasn't his concern.  She'd thought her new PCA, probably paid for by mommy and
daddy -- he shook his head at that, times had sure changed -- would be just the
thing to smuggle nodules of black-market euphorics in from Outer Pearl.  Didn't
these kids know anything about scanners?  Two of his people were in the Standby
room with her now, removing the nodules by hand and tagging them as evidence in
case this ever went to trial -- that was why she was causing such a commotion. 
You had to do it by hand - the gel-caps were too soft and slippery for machine
retrieval, and if one burst the girl might absorb enough to overdose.  On the
monitor screen he'd seen Jasch in her up past the elbow, grinning even as the
prisoner screamed and cursed at him and fought like a wildcat against her
restraints, looking for the last, slippery egg-shaped orbs; it was a good thing
the Department had ordered those shoulder-length rubber gloves.  The girl was on
some sort of mind-altering substance, she was barely coherent, but she'd been
fighting from the first minute in custody and they hadn't had a chance to test
her yet.

	"The more you fight us the longer this is gonna take," he heard Jasch
say faintly.  Arbatov knew Jasch had to be grinning, he loved it when they
fought the search, that's why he never used a stun-rod, even on the most unruly
females.  Jasch's enjoyment of his task wasn't completely professional, but as
long as there was a female officer in the room the arrestee had no legal
recourse.  Of course, Shakiri Ono, Jasch's partner, wasn't much better.  Rumor
had it she was a stud dahlia whose personal tastes were rougher than Jasch's. 
Rumor, but with loads of circumstantial evidence to back it up: Ono's two pet
Danes were registered with the city's animal control office, and that bulge at
her crotch was so big it had its own gravity field.  Plus, her live-in bottom, a
tiny blonde woman, reportedly had a number on her neck, although no one seemed
able to verify whether or not she was chattel.

	The brightly lit main corridor of the Garshak City Jail stretched out in
front of him.  Everything was pretty and white and gleaming and looked brand
new, and a visitor would never know that he was fifty feet below ground in
chambers carved into solid rock.  He strode down the wide corridor, the tiled
floor as shiny as a mirror, and nodded as he passed Officer Benbrak, leading two
dejected-looking girls barely out of their teens toward the elevator. 
Unlicensed treats, Arbatov guessed, caught in a routine sweep of FunTown. 
Bubbly girls out on the town looking for a good time and, usually as an
afterthought, some quick UC's.  Probably heading upstairs to be picked up by
their parents who, more likely than not, would do nothing.  Perhaps buy the
girls licenses.  Krikes.  It seemed like they were getting younger and younger,
and he didn't think that was because he was getting older.  It had to be due, in
part, to all the X-Cite-R people were taking.  Since the government had
eliminated any and all restrictions on its sale everyone was taking the stuff,
especially kids.  It didn't make much sense to him; when he was twenty-two, even
without jack sex was all he could think about.

	His dark blue uniform with its gold accents was pressed and immaculate,
perfectly tailored to his thick body.  His neck was beginning to thicken up, and
his hair was shot with grey, but his body was as fit as when he was twenty and
in the Academy.  That said, he was still eligible to retire in five years, and
had been thinking about that a lot lately.  Should he?  But if he did, what the
hell would he do with himself?

	It was late enough that the small waiting area outside the primary
security station was almost empty.  Today's released prisoners had already been
serviced by the attendant Sisters upstairs and were long gone, and it was past
visiting hours.  A bailbondsman he vaguely recognized, bored and working a
puzzle on his notebook, gave Arbatov a wave.  A disheveled, dirty-faced woman in
a cheap spray-on dress with a hole torn in its side was nearly asleep in the
only other occupied chair, legs splayed wide.  Her sex was visible to anyone in
the room that cared to look.

	The security station was an elevated U set behind a clear wall of
ballistic Flex that would stop any projectile short of a runaway speeder.  There
were three officers behind the raised console, which held the computer that
controlled and monitored all the cells via video, audio, thermal and motion
sensors, although the thermal and motion sensors were rarely used except in
emergencies; they were more backup systems than anything else.

	Arbatov stepped up to the scanner and let it read his retinal print. 
The heavy door buzzed and he pushed it open and stepped into what he thought of
as the jail's brain.  The officers inside looked a little frazzled.

	"Exciting night?" Arbatov said with a smile.

	Corporal Toma shook his head.  "That's got to be the biggest group of
DaneLovers we've ever hauled in," he marveled.  "We only have two empty sleeper
units," he informed his supervisor, "and two barewalls."  Barewalls were the
plain cells with no built-in restraining equipment for unruly prisoners. 
"Hopefully the magistrate will allow most of them to bond out tomorrow."

	Arbatov didn't respond for a minute, scanning the banks of sensors and
vidscreens.  "Well, we've still got what, three, four empty holding cells? 
They'll each hold ten people, easy.  We should be okay unless some riots break
out."  He eyed the screens showing occupied cells.  "How about our unlucky
detainees?  They still flying on Jack?"  Jack was police slang for X-Cite-R.

	"Like you wouldn't believe," Officer Keili said.  Her blonde ponytail
whipped back and forth as she shook her head.  "The 'Lovers must have improved
their recipe.  The autodoc hit them with the regular antidote, but it still
looks like it's going to be hours before we can release them."  Arbatov's gaze
slid from the vid screens to the front of her uniform blouse as she sat in her
swivel command chair.  He admired the aggressive jut of her breasts briefly,
without being too obvious.  At least she still had hers, that was good to see. 
Some of the gung-ho stud-dahlias policework attracted had theirs hormonally
reduced to nothing but nipple.  Of course, most of them had other optional
equipment installed elsewhere, too.  Plugs, they were calling them now.  It was
a wonder they still called themselves female.  He'd heard some stories about
their afterwork get-togethers . . . .

	"Yeah, well make sure the dicks come down and get statements before
they're released this time.  It's hard to prosecute a kidnapping when the victim
never signed a statement or a complaint and isn't even onplanet anymore."  Heads
had rolled over that fiasco.

	"I swear the DaneLovers are the only reason danehumping isn't legal yet,
everyone's afraid it would be like giving drugs to a junkie," MColly Thurpid,
the third officer on duty, said.  Arbatov still didn't know what to make of her. 
Less that thirty-five years old, and barely five years out of the Academy, she'd
bounced back and forth between genders so many times her body'd gone totally
androgynous.  Apparently there were enough men and women out there like MColly
that they'd garnered their own label -- Mergenders.  Just one more bizarre twist
in a society and culture that was already spinning out of control, as far as he
was concerned.  With no end in sight.  Arbatov thought of MColly as a her,
because most of the time she'd been on the Force, including the last year and a
half or so, she'd sported breasts, but he didn't even want to hazard a guess as
to what her genitals might look like.  He couldn't even remember from her file
what sex she'd been born into, not that it mattered nowadays.  All it took was
one DNA unzipper and anyone could switch, although a lot more did than should,
if you asked him.  Some people just didn't have the right bone structure, and
the Switch only affected soft tissue, or so he'd read.  McColly, for her part,
looked better as a woman than a man.

	"You itching to get a pet?" Toma asked MColly.  He didn't think much of
her theory, or danehumpers.

	"You ever had a Dane?" MColly shot right back.  Her dark hair was cut
short on the sides and back, longer on the top and highlighted with blonde
streaks.  She had plain, androgynous features and an unremarkable body under her
uniform, small breasts and narrow hips, but Arbatov suspected she was a dynamo
in bed.  She just had that look.  Word was that Anderson up in Traffic had had a
fling with her, but he wasn't talking.

	"Of course not, it's . . . " he searched for words.  "Well, it's
illegal, to begin with," he spluttered.

	"And we all know why that is," MColly said with a wink to Keili. 
"'After a Dane, all men are tame,'" she repeated the oft-heard phrase.

	Arbatov pulled his popper out of its holster on his belt and locked it
into a SecurDrawer.  "Alright," he said.  "I'm going to wander down and see if
any of these corkbrains can form sentences yet."

	"You want us to pop their bindings when you get there?" Keili asked him
with a mischievous grin.

	Arbatov shot her an evil look and the trio laughed uproariously.  The
sergeant opened the far door and started down the corridor.

	"Good luck," Toma called out.  "Try not to get any on you."  More
laughter followed.  	"Bunch of comedians," Arbatov muttered.  They
remote-opened Gate A for him, and then he was inside the jail itself.

	First off the corridor to his right was the first bay of sleeper units,
and he stopped to look over their readouts.  Little more than lockable drawers
for people, with a control panel on the door and a small window to view the
occupant, resting on a padded tray that slid out for easy access.  Originally
designed to house violent prisoners, the sleeper units worked equally well on
the dozens of DaneLovers the Blues rounded up each month, buzzed on Jack.

	Since they'd gassed the DaneLovers before transport, all that was
required when they arrived at the jail was loading them into their individual
sleepers.  The officers had a mech specifically designed for that, so no one
threw out their back.

	The units were built into the wall, stacked three high, sixty total
units inside each circular bay.  Arbatov peered into one and saw its female
occupant sprawled on the pad, limbs askew.  They'd keep them under, periodically
filling the units with gas, until they were sure the effects of the DaneLovers
home brew had worn off.  The department had quickly learned that was the only
way to deal with large numbers of jacked-up 'Lovers.  This drawer's occupant was
nude, as were most of the others, brought in straight from the "ceremony".

	He peered into random sleepers; they'd nabbed a good-looking bunch of
'Lovers this time.  One of the Corporals on the raiding party had told Arbatov
-- in confidence -- that he'd recognized one of the 'Lovers as sister to one of
the Council of Twelve.  If the officer was right, the next few days would be
very interesting.  Arbatov wouldn't be surprised to see laws quickly and quietly
passed decriminalizing Dane/Human relations, just to prevent further
embarrassments to this Councilmember's family, because once a DaneLover, always
a DaneLover -- his sister would be under a furry mount again in no time. 

	If only the 'Lovers didn't feel compelled to kidnap spacers.  Except for
the abductions, Arbatov doubted whether the Blues would even bother with the
'Lovers, even though sex with the Danes was, technically, still illegal.  Women
had been gloving Danes long before he was born, and would still be doing it long
after he was dead, with no ill effects ever mentioned.  Hell, half the single
female officers on the force -- not just the dahlias, mind you -- had adopted
Danes they'd captured on raids.  Don't try to tell him all they were doing with
their pets was playing fetch.

	He left the sleeper bay and continued down the corridor, passing more
bays.  The three officers in the security station watched his progress on the
monitors, and remote-opened Gate B when the sergeant reached it.  These were the
more traditional cells, small square rooms with three plain walls, a bunk, a
sink, and a toilet.  The fourth side appeared open to the corridor.  The jail
used a variety of fields to keep the prisoners in their cells, even though it
looked like they'd be able to walk right out into the corridor.

	The first cell was occupied by two drunken spacers, arrested for
fighting.  He read the arresting officer's report on the screen set into the
wall beside the open doorway into the cell.  One of the two men noticed Arbatov
and jumped off his bunk and began yelling.  The sergeant just smiled -- he loved
this new sonic field.  Even though there was nothing but open air between him
and the belligerent drunk he couldn't hear a word the man was yelling.  A quick
tap on the monitor beside the door would fix that, but why change a good thing? 
The field somehow disrupted the air molecules so that sound waves couldn't pass
through; he didn't know how it worked, only that it did, and didn't affect the
all-important milliwave field that kept the prisoners contained.

	The sergeant stopped at the second cell and studied the screen detailing
the circumstances surrounding this man's presence in the jail.  He was a spacer
too, registered at the Galandria Hotel, and had been onplanet less than two
days.  Arbatov shut off all the fields and shielding and stepped into the cell.

	"How are you doing this evening?"

	Chris jerked and twisted his head around to look at Arbatov standing
above him, the faint trace of a smile on the sergeant's face.  He was secured to
the lumpy bunk at wrists and ankles, as near as he could figure, although the
blanket covering him made it hard to tell for sure.

	"Hey, let me go," he pleaded, thrashing against his bonds once again. 
Even though the bindings were padded his wrists and ankles were beginning to get
sore.  "I didn't do anything wrong.  I got kidnapped!  Why doesn't anyone listen
to me?  Can't you just unstrap my arm, just for a minute?  I promise I won't try
to escape."

	Arbatov shook his head.  "Can't do that.  You've still got way too much
Jack in your bloodstream -- I untie you now and you'll spank yourself bloody. 
Hell, the report says you've already been treated by the autodoc for friction
burns and joint fatigue."  His levels were still nearly off the scale, and he'd
been in custody for close to six hours -- they had a blood monitor stuck in him
above his ankle that he hadn't even noticed yet.

	"I won't, I promise.  Please?  Pleeease?" Chris pleaded.  He twisted
around on the bunk, trying to get a better look at Arbatov.  Above his groin the
blanket was tented by his straining erection.  In response Arbatov stepped back
out into the corridor and Chris heard him briefly conferring with someone.  He
stepped back into view shortly.

	"Don't worry, you're not in trouble," Arbatov assured him.  "We've seen
this kind of thing, unfortunately, many times before.  But by law we can't
release you until your BXC drops below point one, and you're way over that. 
It's going to be another five or six hours, at least."  As the sergeant spoke
Chris was twisting around on the bunk, trying to get his organ within reach of
one of his immobilized arms, grunting with the effort.

	"When it's safe to release you we'll find you some clothes and get a
statement from you about what happened, then someone will drop you back at your
hotel," Arbatov told him.

	"I hope I'm not going to have to pay extra for this part of the vacation
package," Chris said through clenched teeth, trying to fight back the urge to
piston his hips up and down.

	Arbatov laughed.  "You've got the right attitude.  Years from now you'll
look back on your little adventure fondly."

	"Doesn't help me right now," Chris grunted.  His cock felt like it was
on fire, his groin one giant center of aching, throbbing agony, yet if he got
free he knew the first thing he'd do is masturbate, the sergeant was right.  He
was so tired he could barely talk, but there was no way he was going to fall
asleep.  A white-smocked medico appeared in the corridor behind Arbatov and
cleared his throat.  The sergeant talked to him a distance down the corridor.

	"I was reviewing his file on the way down," the doctor told him, hefting
his notebook which displayed the report of Chris' rescue and the preliminary
auto-doc results.  The sergeant had sent it to him on one of the in-house
channels, concerned about the unusually high levels of BXC in his blood.  "You
were right to call me.  Let me just examine him quickly."  He produced a small
medical scanner and stepped into the cell.

	"Good evening, I'm doctor Shugeti," he said to Chris.  "You've had quite
a day, haven't you?"  He pulled the blanket gently off Chris and bent low over
his groin to examine him.  He pulled out the scanner's screen and slowly passed
it over Chris, studying the three-dimensional display of his internals.

	"Hmm," the doctor said as he held the scanner over Chris' groin.  It was
not a sound signifying all was well.

	"What?" Chris said, but the doctor just ignored him and took a fresh
reading off the ankle monitor.

	"Still almost point four," he said in surprise.  "They've definitely
improved their formula," he told Arbatov.  The doctor perched his behind on the
edge of the sink and crossed his arms as he looked at Chris.

	"Do you want the good news or the bad news first?" he said with a smile.

	"I don't want any news," Chris said.

	"I understand completely," Shugeti said.  "Well, to begin with, none of
the women you had relations with during your imprisonment seems to have given
you any diseases, so that's good.  Of course, I haven't had to treat an STD in
what, close to five years, but you never know what you might pick up, especially
from women who favor sex with wild specimens.  Plus, your hair will grow back,
although it might take a while.

	"On the negative side," he went on, "that witch's brew of drugs they
poured down your throat has caused some damage.  This latest concoction is much
stronger than I've seen before.  All of your reproductive organs have been
permanently affected by this solution, but to just what extent I cannot yet say. 
Everything's still so swollen that it'll take another day or two before I can
get an accurate reading, but I'm pretty sure your fertility will be affected."

	"My fertility?"

	"Yes.  While your actual output, that is to say, your seminal fluid,
will be increased, your actual sperm count will be reduced -- that's a known
side-effect of long term use of X-Cite-R, and superdosing, as you've done,
exacerbates the problem.  Again, I can't say by how much, it's too early, and
there are too many factors to consider.  Also, you will find your sex drive
permanently increased to one degree or another.  And until the chemicals leave
your system entirely, which could take up to a week, you'll experience what
could best be described as hot flashes.  You'll feel hot, maybe get flushed, and
will experience an extreme sense of arousal.  These will fade rather quickly, so
you needn't worry, but you should be aware of what's causing them.  Are you
feeling uncomfortable now?  Pain in the groin area?"

	"Yes, quite a bit."

	"I'm not surprised.  The Breeder's Friend megadose you took has
turbocharged your reproductive system.  Your body is producing seminal fluid at
such an accelerated rate that your vesicles and nearby structures are becoming
swollen with the stuff.  That's good and bad news."  He turned to Arbatov.  "Are
there any Sisters still on the premises?"

	"I think so."

	"See if you can have one sent down here."  Arbatov looked up at the
corner where he knew the cell's vid surveillance cam was, even though he
couldn't see it.  The overhead speaker clicked on before he said anything.

	"Already working on it, Sarge," MColly's voice said. 

	"He's going to have to be masturbated every half-hour or so to relieve
the pressure and prevent a rupture," Shugeti told Arbatov.  He looked at Chris. 
"That doesn't sound so bad now, does it?"  He turned back to the sergeant.  "At
least until his BXC drops below point two.  I'll go meet the Sister, tell her
what's needed of her."

	"I've got two others just like him down the hall," Arbatov reminded the
doctor.

	"I better have a look at them too.  Well, at least the Sister'll stay
busy," the medico said with a grin.  With a nod at Chris he disappeared around
the corner.



	

       Sister Cari Eugenia sat crosslegged on the floor of the anteroom, back
straight, head upright, eyes open but unseeing.  The backs of her relaxed hands
rested on her knees.  Her pulse was an even twenty-four beats a minute, her
respiration a steady six breaths in the same amount of time.  To an observer she
appeared to be meditating, but in actuality she was performing her daily cloud
and pebble exercises while cleansing her mind and body of all extraneous thought
and emotion.

	The cloud was a smooth white sphere three centimeters in diameter, so
light its weight could hardly be felt in an open palm.  The pebble was a mere
centimeter across, a black sphere shiny as glass but with a greater density than
lead.  They were just one of the secret tools of the Sisterhood,  these designed
specifically to tone muscles while improving concentration.

	Her body remained still as she did her exercises.  They seemed so easy
now; she moved through them quickly and surely, not at all like that first day,
when she struggled just to tell them apart as they sat in her.

	Rippling like waves on a beach, her internal muscles pressed the orbs
together and worked them up into the deepest corner of her vagina, then quickly
back down all the way to the mouth of her sex, nearly touching her labia.  She
did fifty repetitions.  She then clamped the pebble in place at the mouth of her
sex while working the cloud up and down the length of her highly trained
orifice.  This was much easier than what she did next, holding the cloud in
place right at the opening of her sex while moving the small but weighty pebble
back and forth her entire cavity length fifty times.  All the while her hands
remained relaxed and upturned on her knees, her face passive, pulse and
breathing unchanged.

	The final exercise was the most difficult.  Called the Scissors, it was
one of the basic tests a novice needed to master before becoming a Sister of
Mercy.  With the orbs at opposite ends of her sex, she worked them together and
then apart, reversing their positions.  She felt a slight click each time they
passed in her channel.  She did this thirty times, slowly, then another twenty
times as fast as she could.  Her vagina was approximately twenty-five
centimeters deep in her current physical state (larger when she was highly
aroused), and she could switch their positions inside herself in an even six
seconds, a better than average time. 

	A similar test, scissoring two heavy orbs of different colors, was the
final proof of an aspiring Sister's mastery of her own body, attempted only
after three days of fasting, prayer, and ritual masturbation.  Successful
completion of it was required before any novice could don the robes.  One blue
orb was placed on the tongue, one green one inserted into the rectum.  The
novice had but ninety minutes to manuever them in opposing directions through
her body's digestive system.  For Sister Cari the hardest part had been the
route upward from her stomach, but she'd completed the task in seventy-seven
minutes, spitting out the green orb a full ten minutes after she'd squeezed the
blue one out her anus.  It had been her proudest moment, although she'd been
hoping to beat the record of forty-six minutes, set by the current FleshMother
Superior.  She was one of four girls that day to take her vows.  She barely
remembered the celebratory orgy afterwards, her head had been spinning so.

	Her highly atttuned body detected the vibrations in the floor of someone
approaching on foot long before the knock came on the door.  By then she had the
cloud and pebble inside a well-concealed pocket of her habit, and was standing
with her hands clasped together, facing the door.  The exercises had left her
wet, as they always did.  In other circumstances she might have succumbed to
temptation and clenched her muscles in a certain way, bringing on the pleasant
relief of orgasm, but she did not know what would be required of her and knew
she would perform her duties more enthusiastically if slightly aroused.



	

       "It's not all bad news," Arbatov said.  "The Council makes a habit of
giving people in your predicament a free pass to a pulatrita.  To clear out your
pipes, get rid of any bad memories."

	"Just how damn often does this happen?" Chris demanded, craning his head
around to glare at Arbatov.  The sergeant had no intention of answering that
question.

	Chris lay back and stared at the ceiling.  The thought of venturing out
of his hotel again just to be nabbed by another crazy was highly unpleasant, and
he told Arbatov just that.

	"Well then, just rent a bunch of 5-chips and stay in your room for the
rest of your layover," Arbatov told him.

	"What the hell's a 5-chip?"

	"A headchip.  You know, five senses?  A FeelReal, a feelie."  He'd run
out of slang, and had no idea what the actual technical term might be.

	"Feelies are legal here?" Chris said in shock.

	"Why wouldn't they be?"

	"Well they've been banned just about everywhere I've been, or severely
restricted.  They say the technology's too dangerous, addictive, and open to too
much abuse."

	"Sounds like a bunch of Daneshit to me.  Addictive my ass.  Those
pissant governments probably just didn't like the fact that their citizens were
having so much fun.  Hell, maybe they had too high of an absentee rate and
blamed it on the chips.  That I could see.  But addictive?  Crap.  You know how
many Monnies have implants?  Millions.  If they were addictive we'd have heard
something about it by now, feelies are HUGE here.  The technology's totally
wireless now, no more holes in the head or ugly helmets."

	"I don't have an implant."

	"Well, get one!  Hell, they're getting cheaper every day, seems like.  I
paid five grand for mine just six years ago, and now they're down under two."

	"Two thousand?  That's it?  Yeow.  Wait, you have an implant?"

	"Sure.  How else am I going to have sex with strange women without
pissing off the wife?"  He gave a little smile.

	"You've got sex feelies?"

	"You've got to be kidding me.  Seriously?  Where are you from, New
Mantique?  That's practically all they sell.  My tastes are rather mundane, but
you should see some of the stuff they've got on the shelves, it's unbelievable."

	"Haven't I had a rough enough week without you kicking me when I'm down? 
You're making this up."

	"I'm dead serious.  After what you've been through, I don't blame you
for not wanting to leave your hotel.  You ought to go get an implant."

	"I'm only onplanet for another eight days."

	"So what?  It's an outpatient procedure now.  Mostly automated.  In and
out the same afternoon, with just a little bit of swelling and pain that's gone
in a day or so.  You can use it as soon as you get home.  Actually, they test it
out right there, before you leave, and then you can head straight to FeelLife. 
That's a feelie rental chain," he explained.  They both heard the rustle of
fabric and Arbatov turned around.  The Sister smiled at him warmly and inclined
her head.  She was rather short, perhaps thirty five years old.  The bulky habit
could not conceal her trim figure, or the full breasts sitting high on her
chest.

	"Sister," Arbatov said in greeting.  He turned back to Chris, who was
staring at the nun in confusion.  "I want to make sure you give a statement to
our detectives about your experience with the cult," Arbatov reminded him.  "One
should be down here before you're released, but just in case . . ."  Arbatov
nodded decisively, nodded again at the Sister, and headed back up the corridor
to the security station.

	With all the chemicals still floating around in his bloodstream Chris
had a hard time paying attention, and had no idea what the nun was doing in his
cell, but he was embarrassed for her to see him naked as he was.  Especially
with an erection.  Surely she wasn't  . . . . naahh.

	"Sounds like you've had a rough couple of days," the nun said sweetly,
kneeling primly on the floor next to his bunk.  She wore traditional black
robes, with a white headpiece that covered everything but her pretty face.  He'd
never seen anything like it except in history texts.  "I understand we need to
relieve some of the pressure building up in you.  And I thought that was just an
expression!" she said with a laugh and a flash of white teeth.  "I'm Sister
Cari," she told him.

	"Sister--" he began, but didn't know what to say.  His cock flew proudly
in her face, painfully, hugely erect.

	"The doctor assumed I would do this manually," Sister Cari told him,
"but that was right after he finished telling me how sore and swollen you'd all
be."  Still on her knees, she straightened up and leaned over him.  "He agreed
this would be better."  Without another word she opened her mouth and lowered it
over his throbbing shaft, engulfing his entire length without pause, like he was
only an inch long, not stopping until her nose was pressed against his mound. 
Even though the autodoc had thoroughly cleansed him she could still taste the
lingering flavor of three -- no, four different women on his flesh.  And he was
sore, she could tell that just by his body language, and the rawness of his
organ against her tongue.  Tilting her head slightly, she made deliberate eye
contact with him, and began licking his balls, his cock still deep in her
throat.  She began gently swallowing, the muscles of her throat moving like
waves on a beach.

	"Gahh!" Chris gasped, exploding down her throat.  It felt like his
orgasm lasted for days, spurt after spurt flying from his organ into Sister
Cari's unprotesting mouth.  She sucked and swallowed, sucked and swallowed, a
grin just discernible on her features, eyes still locked on his.

	"I could've just stood across the room and waved and you would've
popped," the nun said with a laugh when it was all over.  She licked her lips,
checked to make sure she didn't have any on her chin, and stood up.  "Maybe next
time I can actually be of some service."  She picked up the blanket and spread
it over him -- the cells were a bit drafty.  His cock stayed rock hard, tenting
the blanket again.  The look on his face was one of utter shock and disbelief --
a common response among offworlders, she knew, when first meeting a Sister.  The
monitor on his leg still read .36, she noticed.  "See you in half an hour," she
said gaily, and went in search of the other unlucky spacers in need of her
services.  She deliberately brought up some of his seed from deep in her throat
to savor on her experienced tongue.  His seed had a strange aftertaste, most
likely from the chemicals Doctor Shugeti said were flowing through his body. 
Not any more semen than usual, though -- the doc had mentioned the men might
have copious emissions, but that hadn't been the case, at least with this one. 
She swallowed it again, interested to see if she was right in her supposition,
that the other drugged spacers' seed would have the same odd flavor.  She
wondered if the drugs in their seed would have any effect on her; she'd be
eating quite a bit of it in the next few hours.  She might have to write a paper
on it for the Sisterhood if it did. 

	The cool air flowing through the concealed access slits in her habit
felt good on her bare legs as she strode down the hall.  Her firm breasts
bounced slightly as she walked, and reflexively, she made her nipples harden so
their movement against the rough cloth of her habit would feel more pleasurable. 
She felt their weight on her chest, and smiled. 

	Sisters were not allowed to artificially alter their bodies.  No
surgery, hormone treatments, genetic alteration, nothing.  Instead they were
forced to learn how to master themselves with their minds.  If there was
something about a Sister's body that she wished to change, the skills she'd been
taught gave her options women not of the Sisterhood could hardly imagine. 
Sister Cari Eugenia had always been dissatisfied with the size of her breasts,
believing them too small, proportionately, for her body.  Once she'd completed
her training, however, and taken her vows, the Sister realized she was no longer
a slave to her own body.  With the tutoring of several elder Sisters, who helped
her refine her focus, she mastered the art of mentally manipulating her own body
chemistry.  It had taken several months of intense concentration, long hours
every night before bed that left her drained, but her body was now all that she
wished it to be:  smooth and soft and hairless below the neck, as a woman should
be, as well as free from a monthly cycle, although she could reverse that
anytime she wished, topped by large, firm breasts that to her mind were just the
right size for her frame.  Once again she thanked God for all of his gifts,
large and small.    

                                                     CHAPTER FOURTEEN



	Espering readjusted the pillows, useless, decorative things, and leaned
back again.  The woman bouncing gently on him smiled and squeezed his shaft with
her inner muscles.  If he had to guess from her face she looked about thirty,
with a narrow waist and shapely hips, and one of the prettiest vaginas he'd seen
in a long time.  He'd fingered her for a while before she'd climbed on, and her
folds were textbook beautiful.  Below her eyelashes her body was hairless, her
skin a creamy white, which he really liked.  On Monsipur pale skin was rare
enough to be exotic.  Her hair was sandy blonde, and her generous breasts were
some of the softest he'd ever felt as they nudged his chest on each downstroke. 
Faint blue veins were visible on their slopes.

	She put her hands on his shoulders and leaned close as she moved
sensously up and down, up and down.  Her face was inches from his, and he could
see gold flecks in her irises.  Her hair smelled of peaches.

	The young woman was nicely wet, not too tight and not too loose. 
Although she'd been a little bit snug when she'd first pushed down on his big
organ, her insides had relaxed to a perfect warm clench.  Every once in a while,
as she came to rest on his lap, he could feel her cervix nudge the head of his
cock.  It felt like a nose bumping his organ and reminded him fondly of when he
and Lucia were first married.  Skinny as a rail and tight as a pipe, he'd banged
her rubbery little womb with each stroke, but instead of hurting her Lucia had
liked it.  After she'd given birth to Sylphie her internal geometry had changed
and her cervix had moved up out of the way, but he remembered the feeling. 
Krikes, for her PCA she'd had everything removed.  For some reason they'd never
had a second child, and were too old now, so even though the PCA required the
removal of her uterus (ovaries as well, following the medicos recommendation),
he'd never thought to raise an objection.

	His sex partner was beginning to breathe a little heavier from her
exertions.  She was squeezing him inside her on each lift of her hips, and
pulled his head down to her breasts.  Her areola were a light pink, and puffy,
several inches across, her nipples but darker pink nubs in the center.  Espering
sucked on one while thumbing the other.  They were warm, and at first soft as
silk, but quickly firmed into little rubbery points.  He sucked harder, and
reached around to cup her bouncing buttocks.

	He didn't know how long his deskcomm had been beeping before he heard
it.  They'd had a good rhythm going, his breath loud in his ears as he licked
and sucked hard at her nipples, but then gradually he'd become aware of the
insistent noise.

	He leaned back against the pillows with a curse and looked over to see
who was calling.  "Answer," he grumbled.  The woman continued to pump herself up
and down on his cock, breasts bouncing.  Van derMeer's face appeared on the
small vidscreen.  From the background Garvin could tell his chief was at the
command center.  On his end Van derMeer could see most of his employer's
bedroom, including the woman bouncing enthusiastically on his employer, but his
expression remained blank.  Espering didn't say anything, he just raised an
eyebrow at his security chief.

	"Sorry to interrupt, but I think we have a problem," Van derMeer said. 
It was really hard to keep his focus on Garvin with those big breasts bouncing
all over the screen.

	"What kind of problem?"  Espering found he was bouncing on the bed due
to the exuberance of his partner.  He put a hand on her warm thigh.  "Slow
down."  He realized he'd never asked her her name.  Not that it really mattered,
of course, but the oversight wasn't like him.

	The woman changed to a more sensuous, grinding hip thrust and raised her
arms above her head.  The effect it had on her breasts was quite spectacular.

	"Jesus," Van derMeer said under his breath, hoping the microphone hadn't
picked it up.  "We had a security breach at the Torbor building today.  An
unauthorized person went wandering throught he staff living quarters."

	"And you're bringing this to my attention because . . . ?"  Espering
owned nearly a hundred buildings in Garshak alone, his chief wouldn't bother him
about one small security breach.

	Van derMeer's eyes darted to the womabn.  "He . . . he saw one of the
twenty-seven," he told Espering, guarding his words.  "It could have been a
coincidence, but I know you've been about them.  The public announcement is
cheduled for three weeks after LandFall, which is still time enough-"

	"I'll be right down," Espering told him.  "Get off," he told the woman,
grabbing her waist and hoisting her off him roughly.  She bounced on the
mattress, and watched Espering grab a tongie and belt it loosely around his
body.  The fabric stuck to his slick organ and darkened unnoticed.

	"Stay right there," he told her.  She was kneeling on the bed, knees
wide apart, brushing the hair back from her forehead.  "Don't move."

	

	"Okay, what do you know?"  He was leaning against a chair in the command
center, arms crossed.  Two of his people were monitoring things from their
chairs while he and Van derMeer huddled in a corner.

	"The first notice we had that something was wrong was a call from two of
the Torbor building guards.  They were off duty, having some fun with the . . .
well, several of the twenty-seven live on that floor.  It's easier for the men
to keep a close eye on them that way.  They were with one, and she told them
that they'd left the door to the apartment open and someone walking by had seen
her.  Of course, she mentioned this only an hour later, after she and the two
guards had had their fun."

	"Let me guess.  She was nude?"

	"You've got it.  Looks about ten months pregnant, and all the rest.  She
told them she didn't recognize him, didn't think he was a guard.  They decide to
check on it, rewind the sensor grid records, and son of a bitch if he wasn't a
civilian that wandered up there.  An offworlder."

	"Who?"  It had always surprised Espering how not only were hugely
pregnant women physically able to have sexual intercourse, but often they were
more bubbly, too.  When Lucia had been big with Sylphie he'd been afraid to
penetrater her, scared he might injure their child or perhaps induce premature
labor.  Every medico he'd talked to had assured him that as long as there wasn't
any real rough play the baby would be fine, but he couldn't be convinced.  Of
course, Lucia, ex-lackey that she was, had been as bubbly as ever, and demanded
servicing constantly.  She'd never been a big fan of anal play before then, but
after two months of nothing but, she became a convert.

	Van derMeer puched up the Tourism Bureau records on their uninvited
guest.  "A spacer?" Espering wondered aloud.  "Been here less than two days. 
Has he been on-planet before?"

	"No record of it."

	"Small ship. You think this could be a cover?  How'd he get onto a
secure floor?"

	"We backtracked him on the sensors.  He was wearing his TB wristband
still, so if he is a spy, corporate or otherwise, he's a dumb one.  Everyone
knows they're trackable.  Got off the magrail on the mezzanine, headed down to
the Dairy where he went in.  Stayed about thirty-five minutes."

	"The diary?  That's a secure area too.  He must have been with a lackey. 
Check with those guards, see if they've got a record of him entering."

	"Already done."  He punched up Gilly's record on a second monitor.  It
was accompanied by a year-old full-body nude picture of her, courtesy of the
Monsipur Lactation Commission.  Espering peered at her statistics.

	"Impressive.  She's a real cow.  You see how young she is, and look at
those totals.  I wonder what her HSF is."

	"Once he left the Dairy he took a secure lift up to the thirtieth floor,
where he saw the . . .  woman."

	"Did he redwire the elevator car?"

	"I don't know.  It was out of service at the time, I've got people
looking at it now to see if it was tampered with.  From there he took the stairs
down four floors-"

	"Aren't those locked too?"

	"They're supposed to be.  We think the one on 30 was propped open and
the alarm disconnected.  29 is living quarters too, and the guards go back and
forth a lot.

	"On 26, which is commercial office space, he entered the public toilet,
spent two minutes there, then took the elevator down to mezzanine level, where
he boarded the magrail."

	"What'd he do in the toilet?"

	"Use a piss hole."  All the public areas in buildings Espering owned
were covered by security cams, even the toilets.

	"Anybody else in there?"

	"One woman, but she never left the stall.  I don't even think he knew
she was there.  He didn't pass anything off, if that's what you're wondering,
but he had plenty of opportunities on the mezzanine, or after he left the
building."

	"You know more about the latest gadgets," Espering said.  "Could he have
had a camera, or bio-sensors, airborne cell samplers, something?"

	"Anything's possible, I suppose," Van derMeer mused.  "Cameras or
sensors or even a cell-sniffer could be concealed in clothing, but only the
sniffer would cause us problems.  But even if they did capture some of her
cells, it would take them months to replicate the DNA sequencing, months to
unzip a volunteer's helix, and then they'd have to wait to see if she's fertile. 
You knew if was a race against the clock," he told his employer.  "Our spies at
PlannedWeb say they've already unzipped fifty volunteers and are just waiting
for the physiological changeover to complete.  The point was to get there first,
so FFA (a newly-formed GUP Inc. subsidiary) would get the patents and name
recognition.  Even if we lose the patents later."  He shook his head.  "This is
all theory," he said.  "Maybe he just got lost and the lift malfunctioned.  Only
one way to know for sure."  He punched up a 3D map of Garshak and zoomed in on a
glowing red dot, halfway up a large apartment building.

	"He's at the lackey's residence," Van derMeer said.  "Went straight
there on the magrail, hasn't left since.  The lackey's actually back at the
dairy now, according to the computer.  She checked in a few minutes ago for her
last milking of the day."

	Espering nodded, pleased.  "That's why I pay you so much, Charles," he
said, clapping him on the shoulder.  "You're so damn good.  Keep him under
surveillance, but better wait until tonight when he's asleep to grab him. 
Notify me when he's awake."

	The house was still buzzing with people, even though it was late.  Most
of the activity seemed to center around finalizing preparations for the LandFall
celebration and their party afterwards.  His wife and daughter had gone out
earlier to a charity ball, but they'd apparently returned as his wife's bedroom
door was now open.  He forgot which charity it'd been, something to do with
poverty, which was a joke.  Monsipur's unemployment rate hovered at 2%, and had
for decades.  The only people who couldn't find jobs were the mental defectives. 
Poor meant not being able to afford a synthetic. 

	Lucia sat on the charity's board with several of her friends.  She sat
on more than a dozen boards, actually, as did most of the other Council member's
wives, but the wife of the Chokbat was considered a prize catch.

	He walked halfway across the big rec room until he could peer through
the half open doorway.  Past her big dressing room he saw a tangle of writhing
flesh, half on and half off her gigantic bed, at least six people and two Danes. 
They were making quite a bit of noise.  He was too far away to identify anybody
from the body parts he could see.

	Espering walked back to his bedroom and pushed the door open.  The
female was right where he'd left her on the bed, on her knees, not having moved
a millimeter since he'd left the room.  He undid his robe and let it fall to the
floor, and climbed onto the bed.  When he reached between her legs he was
pleasantly surprised to find her still wet, like he'd only been gone a minute. 
She smiled at him.

	"Charles couldn't keep his eyes off you," Espering told her.  "Did NMS
send us a variety of bodystyles, or are there some new Q's that look similar to
you?"

	"There was a redhead with my same face and body," the synthetic told
him, smiling, spreading her thighs even wider for his fingers.  "And a brunette,
with a different face and a much more voluptuous body, but on the same skeletal
chassis."

	"Excellent.  Do you have the same sexual personality files as the
P-series?"

	"The entire P-series library, plus eighteen new files, which I can
detail for you if you'd like."

	"Later."  He laid back on the pile of pillows and laced his fingers
together behind his head. "Let's go with Randy-Ass Bitch," he told her.  "That's
always been one of my favorites.  I'm interested to see if the rest of you feels
as authentic as your furt."

	"I've been wanting you dirty cock in my ass all night, you bastard," the
synthetic said, seamlessly switching personas.  "I want you to fuck my ass raw. 
I'm not leaving here until I've got come leaking out of every hole I have and
you can't get it up anymore."

	"There's my girl," Espering said with a delighted grin.

                                                     CHAPTER FIFTEEN



	The ride was buttery smooth, the car hardly swaying at all even on the
curves.  If the city hadn't been passing by outside the windows he wouldn't even
have known they were moving.

	The sun had just dropped below the horizon and the cloudless sky was
darkening fast.  Lights were popping on all over Garshak.  The skyscrapers
looked like towering fountains of fire, frozen in time, lit up from within and
without, by bright spotlights that did their best to turn each building into a
work of art, lines and shadows.

	It was late enough that the citizens of Garshak had already left work
and made their way home.  The magrail car was half empty, and the adverts
playing on the flatscreens mounted high on the walls were ignored seemingly by
everyone but Hamee, who still couldn't get used to seeing so much nudity and
sexual content on public adscreens.

	"First time on Monny?"

	The speaker sat across the car and sported a long scraggly moustache. 
By his dress he was a long-hauler, native to the Earth system if Hamee had to
guess.  He was swigging chocolate-flavored milk from a chugger; Hamee could see
the words DAIRY MAID on the chugger's label above a picture of a busty blonde. 
Hamee chuckled out loud.

	"That easy to spot?"

	"You're the only one in the car watching the vid.  Going to Fun Town?"

	"Does this train go anywhere else?"

	"Not if you're an offworlder.  First time?"  Hamee nodded.  "Want some
suggestions?"

	"Uh, sure."

	"How long are you onplanet?"

	"I've got about five days left."

	"Left?  Let me guess, you've been sampling the treats from the hotel
I-Vid.  Waste of time.  Trust me, after you've been to Fun Town, you won't even
look at hotel treats or freewalkers.  You'll be in the clubs."

	"The clubs?"

	"Yeah.  Fun Town is laid out like a big courtyard, only it's over a
kilometer wide and about two long.  Used to be several city blocks but they tore
down most of the buildings in the center years ago.  The clubs are mostly on the
perimeter.  You'll see them before we pull into the station.  Dotting the center
are the bars and restaurants, outdoor cafes, permdye parlors, souvenir shops,
things like that.  The square's filled with people, you can't even pilot a
speeder through there.  I've only seen the police try, when someone got trampled
and they didn't have any floaters nearby."

	"What are the clubs like?"	

	The spacer laughed.  "Well, there are dozens of 'em, but really there
are only a few you want to hit, depending on what you're interested in.  Are you
. . . heterosexual?"

	"Yeah."

	"And your tastes.  Are they mundane, or . . . ?"

	Hamee had to laugh hard at that.  "I didn't think so, but this place has
redefined me."  He gestured up at the adscreen, which at the moment was filled
with images of the latest speeder built by GUP Inc.

	"I know what you mean.  Here's my advice -- start off at the Buzz Club. 
It's about halfway down the plaza, past the A & R clubs, and'll give you a real
taste of what Fun Town has to offer.  If you see a club that looks interesting
before you get there, go for it, it's your layover.  The tamest place here makes
the New Vegas flesh hotels look like Catholic churches."

	"A & R?"

	"You are new here.  Abuse and Restraint," the man explained.  "Their
sidewalk shows are enough to satisfy any idle curiosity I might've had."

	Another spacer was nearby, and had been obviously listening in on the
conversation.  He added his own words of wisdom.

	"Don't forget that you're on a strange planet, with its own customs," he
reminded Hamee.  "You're going to see things you swear can't be legal, no matter
what everyone says."  He traded a look with the other spacer.  "Things aren't
always what they seem."

	"Squeakers," the other spacer said, and the two men nodded.

	"Squeakers?" Hamee echoed.

	"Among other things.  You want to really stretch the boundaries of
reality, go to the squeaker club they've got in Fun Town.  Small World."

	"I thought you were going to say the Other Club," the second spacer
said.

	"The morphs are the best thing in Fun Town," someone halfway down the
car called out.  He looked at Hamee.  "The Menagerie," he said.  "The morphs are
getting wilder by the month, the government must have really relaxed the
regulations."

	"I don't want a woman with fur or a tail," another person shot back. 

	"Everyone always overlooks the treats working the street," another man
told Hamee.  "Big mistake, if you ask me.  They're mostly all pretty, and the
price is next to nothing for a mouth.  They usually work in little alleys
between the buildings."

	"Don't forget Public Ordinance 387," someone called to the speaker. 

	"I was just about to mention it," the man replied.  He turned back to
Hamee.  "FunTown is always crowded with people, and the city fathers don't want
any tourists slipping and falling on wet pavement.  If the police catch a treat
spitting on the ground she'll get a serious fine.  A few use towels or buckets
but mostly they just swallow."  He smiled.  "I don't think they've even heard of
SweetSeed here."  SweetSeed came in pill form and had been invented for the sake
of women.  Once he took it, a man had only to wait an hour and his semen would
taste sweet as candy. 

	The car erupted in several loud conversations.  It seemed everyone on
board was going to Fun Town, and had an opinion on what its best feature was. 
Hamee tried to follow the conversation, but there was just too much he didn't
understand; slang terms, unfamiliar names.  The man who'd first spoken to Hamee
pointed past him out the car window.  Hamee turned.

	The multi-colored lights lit up the sky.  Hamee saw strobing
searchlights and flashing, garish holos, but he was still too far away, the
train moving too fast, to pick out any detail.  The train curved in toward the
glowing bowl, which made the rest of the city seem dark and still.

	The elevated rail ran along the rim of the giant plaza for a short
distance and Hamee had a chance to look down and see the mass of humanity
seething among the bright buildings.  There was just too much detail, too many
bright lights, colors, for him to focus on anything.  The train slowed and the
station walls loomed up suddenly.  Not long afterward the train braked gently to
a stop and Hamee stood up, heart beating fast.  He followed a row of backs
across the station platform and down a wide escalator.  As soon as he reached
street level and pushed through the wide doors he was engulfed in a wave of
noise.

	The station doors spit him out onto the sidewalk at one end of a short,
wide avenue that fed out into the huge plaza.  At its mouth was a huge stone
sculpture, a modern interpretation of classic Greek style.  It was titled
"Ecstasy" according to the plaque on its base.  It featured (as near as Hamee
could tell) three nude men and two women in the throes of passion.  They were
upright and so intertwined he couldn't tell where one figure ended and the other
began.  The work was highly erotic and yet still could be said to be tasteful as
none of the sculpted figures displayed more than half a breast or a turned
buttock. 

	There were people everywhere, on the wide sidewalks, in the street,
leaning over second floor balconies.  People shouting, yelling, singing.  The
night sky was lit up with light, every color in the rainbow.  Signs for sex
clubs, restaurants, licensed casinos, fortunetellers, attached to buildings or
freefloating above the crowd, dozens of feet tall.  There were mobile food
vendors trolling the sidewalks, jugglers, magicians, and dancers.  Brightly lit
floating adverts called bubbles drifted amongst the crowd at head level.  He saw
longhaulers, offworlders of every size, shape, and color, in every kind of garb
imaginable, earnest locals in pastel robes, and here and there the bulky
presence of a police officer clad in hard-shell armor, looking like a two-legged
beetle.  The sidewalks and street were a sea of people and he moved through them
in a daze, momentarily overwhelmed.

	Sex was everywhere.  Hundreds of freewalkers mingled with the crowd,
plying their wares.  Bare flanks and breasts were everywhere he looked.  Before
he'd taken ten steps out of the magrail station one had propositioned him.  She
wasn't that pretty, but he supposed she knew that, and was looking to snare
first time visitors to Fun Town before they'd had a chance to look around.  To
get his attention she'd pulled down her twoskin top, revealing what Hamee
considered average breasts.  He'd demurred out of reflex, but the pimple-faced
League Marine private behind him was hooked.  She led him to a shadowed alcove,
had swiped his permID through her tiny reader, and was on her knees before all
the passengers had exited the rail car.

	Just about every third business was a sex club, and their illuminated
holos stretched three and four stories into the sky above the teeming plaza,
which was paved in old-fashioned cobblestone.  Most of the holos featured nude
(or nearly so) women gyrating.  Even though he was deep inside a modern city
what tickled his nostrils was dry desert air.  It was thick with the smell of
cooking food from the cart vendors and the many restaurants dotting the plaza. 
Meandering along the sidewalk, Hamee passed a narrow alley between a PermDye
parlor and a tarot reader's shop; he wasn't surprised to find it filled with a
dozen men -- and one woman -- being fellated by freewalkers out of the crush of
passing foot-traffic.  What surprised him was how clean the alley was, how well
ordered the procession of treats and customers in and out of it were.  The
working women knelt on rectangular pads, a supply of which were stacked against
one wall, and less than a third were using spittoons.

	He came upon his first sex club, The Tiger's Den.  Above him a glowing
two-story woman wearing almost nothing gyrated sensuously, and the front of the
building was covered with flatscreens showing, he assumed, what was going on
inside.  There was a stage, and several very athletic women, and some artificial
tentacles it appeared the audience members could manipulate by remote.  A male
huckster, that Hamee took to be a synthetic because he was far too animated,
tried to entice him inside.  He shook his head and kept going, flowing with the
crowd.

	Every three meters or so a freewalker caught his eye, or touched his
arm, or called to him.  The plainest of them by any standard was still
attractive; clothing was minimal at best.  He declined each offer, ever polite,
knowing he had plenty of time to enjoy himself; Fun Town never closed.  At first
he kept to the edge of the plaza, circling; away from the buildings the gigantic
courtyard was a boiling cauldron of bodies.  After weeks aboard ship, even
though he'd been onplanet a while it was still a little much for him.

	Apart from the treats, the majority of the crowd was men, but there were
more women than he'd been expecting.  Most were shorthaired dahlias, traveling
in rowdy packs, some obviously longhaulers tired of each other's bodies after
untold weeks aboard ship.   He also saw single women in the crowd as well, women
that looked to be buying, rather than selling.  Mostly he saw them going in and
out a small handful of clubs that advertised male entertainment.

	The mood was festive, the atmosphere that of a party still going strong. 
There were several light fountains in the giant square; he supposed water was
too scarce on this desert planet for the real thing.  Once he grew accustomed to
seeing pulatritas servicing their customers right out in the open, sometimes
urged on by rowdy crowds, only the truly bizarre drew his attention.  He saw
League Marines, after overindulging in euphorics, staggering around in twos and
threes, trying to get their eyes to focus.  Some of the small permdye parlors
also offered old-fashioned body piercing.  Perhaps one in five freewalkers, he'd
noticed, had her nipples pierced.  Not long after he'd arrived, a tiny blonde,
her hair cut short, hurried past him on the sidewalk wearing a big excited grin
and nothing else, not even footwear.  She trailed a medium sized crowd of young
men who were hurrying to keep up.  Half a block down he saw her again, kneeling
at the mouth of a busy alley, three of the nearby treats' spit buckets that
she'd collected on the pavement in front of her.  Urged on by the chanting crowd
and their tossed money she quickly gulped down the contents of all three
buckets.  Hers seemed a rather practiced performance.  She collected her money
and disappeared into the crowd, still nude as the day she was born.  

	Outside of a small bar, a woman with flaming red hair stood talking with
a small weasely man.  Her round abdomen and pubis were covered with some sort of
tribal tattoos, but what turned Hamee's head were her labia.  They hung halfway
to her knees, sheets of wrinkled flesh that swayed gently as she gestured, their
edges perforated with holes big enough to stick a finger through.  Her breasts,
oddly enough, were covered.  Not far past her a vendor and his nude assistant
were demonstrating the latest dermal elastomers, this case in the form of
topical creams, at their booth.  She had obviously applied a prodigious amount
to her body, as her medium-sized breasts had begun to sag solely from their own
weight.  The huckster stretched and pulled and squeezed them like taffy, the
assistant smiling through it all, never experiencing the slightest discomfort.

	"For those of you not wealthy enough to buy your lady a PCA,' the
salesman addressed the crowd, "I have a solution."  As he bent the grinning
assistant over and lubed up his arm Hamee turned away and continued on. 

	He came across what looked like a small hotel.  He guessed the rooms
were rented by treats by the minute or hour, as the noise from the crowds would
prevent any guests actually sleeping in its beds.  Three topless women, one of
them visibly pregnant, were whooping it up on a second floor balcony and
spraying the passing crowd with milk from their breasts.  A man appeared behind
them, bent the pregnant one over the balcony railing, and began roughly corking
her.  Drops flew from her dark gyrating nipples into the crowd gathered below.

	A small crowd had gathered to watch a knife juggler.  There Hamee saw a
luscious strawberry blonde with oversize breasts barely contained in a blue
twoskin tank top.  Her breasts were near-perfect cones set high on her chest,
with puffy, clearly defined areolae.  Cone-shaped breasts, as opposed to globes,
had once been all the rage; perhaps on Monny they still were.  From her left
hand trailed two leashes.  The leashes were connected to collars on her two
"pets", on hands and knees by her heel, completely nude, oiled and glistening
for a night on the town.  At first Hamee thought them two men, muscular and
sporting identical blonde brush cuts, then he noticed the smaller one, while
just as muscular, had softer lines and the barest hint of breasts.  As he
watched, the male glanced up at the woman holding the leash.  His mistress
wasn't paying attention, her eyes were focused on the juggler.  In a flash he
was on top of the oiled female, thrusting frantically, balls swinging wildly. 
Her only response was to stick her ass back at him and move her knees apart
slightly.  Two dogs having sex in the middle of the street would have garnered
more attention than they did.  Someone nudged the woman holding the leashes. 
She looked down at her two pets uninterestedly, then went back to watching the
juggling.

	Then there was the young woman obviously superdosed with X-Cite-R.  Her
underwear was tangled around one of her shoes, the only clothing she wore.  She
was cursing the armored police officer who carried her squirming body awkwardly
toward his waiting floater, using profanity that turned the heads of nearby
Marines, all the while grinding her crotch against the officer's hip-plate. 
Finally he got tired of it and tucked her under one arm.  The blue colored
hardshell gloves protecting his flesh made his hands look almost twice their
normal size.  Two fingers so encased were sufficient to distract the woman long
enough for him to get her into the back of his floater.

	Snippets of conversation floated past his head as he swam through the
crowd.  Most was background noise, but here and there a word or a phrase stuck
out.   "--she was so jacked up she forgot to ask me for money!"  "The strip's
not very crowded tonight, I wonder why."  "--I didn't even have to ask her to
eat it . . ."  "Well of course you're sore, his penis is bigger than my
forearm."  "I just saw -- what's the age of consent here, anyway?  Someone told
me there isn't one.  That can't be right, can it?"  "I'm telling you, every
woman in there had a plug-in.  It was krikin' intimidating." 

	A crowd had gathered around a magician, who'd snagged a passing
pulatrita and was pretending to pull objects of all sizes and shapes from her
bare sex with accomplished sleight of hand.  A leggy brunette stood in the
audience, watching.  She wore an electric green twoskin bodysuit, and was idly
stroking the erection plainly visible inside the suit between her legs.  Behind
her two men were locked in a rapturous kiss. 

	Just past the amorous male couple he saw a large courtyard off the main
square, the hulks of two or three clubs crowding it.  At the mouth of the
smaller courtyard he came across two small metal cages guarding the entrance. 
In the one closest to him was a female - the other contained a male.  As he
moved past the cage he could see that the naked woman sitting crosslegged
inside, her head cocked back, had free use of her arms and legs, but was pinned
in place by the steel shafts entering her through each of her three orifices. 
Her eyes followed him as he walked by, and as he passed he noticed her body was
covered with gobs of spit.  Apparently custom was to salute her as you went by. 
He spotted the Buzz Club on the other side of the street and angled for it,
stepping into the street.

	The Buzz Club was a big building, taking up most of one block.  A buxom
holo woman gyrated above the sidewalk to the beat of subdued sonic pop.  She was
fifteen meters tall, her nude body awash with colors, like she'd been immersed
in spotlights when the holo was recorded.  There were three barkers out front,
beautiful women with the glittering eyes and crazy smiles of X-Cite-R junkies. 
They wore matching latex shorts in robin's egg blue, held up with wide elastic
suspenders that clung to the outside curves of their breasts.

	"We've got the prettiest women in Fun Town!" they cried to the passing
crowd.  "Every one of them flying on jack!  Five stages, with continuous
performances!  A  higher treat-to-customer ratio than you'll find anywhere on
the strip.  We've got something for everyone.  Come on in!"

	The front of the building was awash in lights, but like every other club
had no windows.  The owners didn't want to give anything away for free.  Hamee
stepped past the barkers shouting and waving their arms, noticing their backs
were slick with sweat.  Two men staggered past him on their way out of the club,
looking drained.  Hamee pushed through the doors into a small foyer.  Hidden
sensors checked him for weapons, explosives, illegal drugs, and probably half a
dozen other items.  A set of double doors led into the club proper, flanked by
two more women in shorts and suspenders.  Employee uniforms, he surmised
correctly.  These two women were startlingly large, bodies thick with muscle,
both taller and broader than him.  They had a high enough body fat percentage to
sport some breast meat, just enough to make their massive pectoral muscles look
soft.  The security in such a place would be many layers deep, he knew, and this
buff, smiling duo would be but the first.  He moved to the desk built into one
wall.

	"Welcome to the Buzz Club," the woman behind the desk said cheerily. 
She was slender, her small breasts mostly hidden under the suspenders.  Another
employee smiled at him from behind the long desk, moving to help a rowdy crowd
of men who piled through the door behind Hamee.

	"How much does it cost to get in?" Hamee said absently, distracted by
the wall behind her.  It was an ever-changing montage of faces and bodies, an
enticement for what he would see inside.

	"We charge a flat, hourly rate," she explained.  He could feel a
rhythmic vibration coming up through the floor into his feet.  Sonic Pop, he
could hear it through the double doors leading into the club proper.  "One
hundred and twenty-five UC's, with a one hour minimum charge even if you turn
right back around and walk out.  Which, I assure you, you won't want to do."

	"That's rather steep.  What does that include?"

	"The Buzz Club features five stages of non-stop performance twenty hours
a day.  We have one of the largest assortments of sex workers in Garshak, and on
average you'll have several opportunities each hour to experience their
companionship.  No part of the club is off limits to you, except those cubicles
that have privacy shields up, and of course the stages themselves, unless you're
invited up by one of the performers."

	"Do I have to pay the treats or is that included?"

	The woman shook her head.  "Although you will have the opportunity to
tip those pulatritas whose company you've enjoyed.  Other than food and drink, a
wide selection of which we offer at reduced prices, the hourly fee covers
everything."

	"Ah, well, what the hell," he said, handing over his card.

	"Thank you sir.  I would recommend purchasing some Buzz Club tokens as
well.  They're one UC each, and you can use them to tip the staff or pay for
food and drinks.  Their price is fully refundable."

	"Yeah?  Krikes, okay, give me thirty."

	The woman smiled and ran his card into a slot in the desk.  "We'll keep
your card, sir, until you leave.  That way we'll know how much to charge your
account.  Please don't forget to collect it, as you might be charged for time
you weren't in the club.  But we'll stop you if you try to leave without it."

	"Great."

	"Club employees will identify themselves to you.  While their presence
is implied consent for sex, no force will be permitted unless agreed to
beforehand by both parties.  The wait staff will be in uniforms such as mine." 
She swept a hand down her front.  "As they have duties to attend to, they are
exempt from the consent clause.  They can be propositioned, but remember that
they can say no.  Your tokens sir."  She handed him a small pouch that felt like
velvet.  It was heavy.  Inside he found the tokens, small balls about two
centimeters in diameter, silver and heavy enough to be metal, although they felt
like plastic against his fingertips.  They were connected by thin rubbery
strings, six strings of five balls each.  Hamee clipped the bag to his belt and
moved toward the double doors.  The group that had come in after him had already
entered the club, but the doorway was shielded so he couldn't see or hear
anything beyond.

	The bulky doorwomen smiled and pushed open the doors for him.  Hamee
stepped through the grey haze of the shield and found himself in a huge room. 
The throbbing beat of sonicpop immediately got his skin tingling.

	To his eyes the club seemed to be one huge room, filled with many
hundreds of people.  Colored spotlights swept the cavernous expanse, which
except for the bright elevated stages was rather dim.  He stood at the railing
and waited for his eyes to adjust.

	The smell inside was thick enough to chew.  Perfume, sweat, sex, food,
euphorics, tobacco smoke, and the faint tang of X-Cite-R all hung in the air,
creating a haze thick enough to obscure the far end of the room perhaps two
hundred meters away.

	The club was a riot of narrow shelf-like levels.  The stages were
elevated from the floor, but rising rings of tables and private booths encircled
each one.  The lowest rings were in almost complete darkness, broken only by the
occasional sweeping spotlight.

	Huge flatscreens hung from the ceiling out of sight above, dozens of
them, providing the club's best illumination.  Cameras covered the five stages
from every angle and the images were fed into the flatscreens up above for all
the clientele to see, so no one could say they had a bad seat.

	A club employee in the requisite shorts and suspenders approached him
while he stared out into the bubbling chaos.  She had to shout to be heard over
the sonicpop.

	"Would you like a booth or a table, sir?"

	"Booth!" he yelled back.  He followed her down a shallow winding
staircase, past levels teeming with people.

	"Is there any stage you would like to be close to?" she asked him. 
Hamee looked around the club again.  The action on the floor was nearly as
exciting as what was happening on the stages.  The management knew it, too;
Hamee noticed many of the flatscreens up above displayed activity taking place
inside the booths surrounding the stages, between the customers and the club's
pulatritas.

	"Not particularly," he shouted back.

	The Sonic Pop made his skin tingle at first, and his eyeballs felt fizzy
until his body grew accustomed.  Flashing lights in a hundred colors swept the
club, and he had to be careful not to trip as he followed the waitress down a
narrow lane between tables.

	Scattered randomly throughout the club were thick pedestals, four or
five meters tall, each topped with a gyrating dancer.  Hamee looked up as he
passed one and saw the woman's body glistened with sweat as she jerked to the
beat.  A drop of sweat hit him on the nose as he walked alongside the pedestal. 
From the expression on her face and the way she ground her muscled thighs
together Hamee could tell she was flying on jack.  She had a glowing oval patch
of synthetic pubic hair that flashed different colors in time to the beat.  The
two-cem-long synthair was straight and dense, making it look like she'd glued a
brush to her mound.

	The waitress led him to what was closer to a cubicle than a booth,
barely two meters wide and one and a half deep.  When he sat on the U-shaped
cushion the partition only reached to his shoulder, but he saw if he activated
the privacy feature the grey egg-shaped field would conceal him even if he
stood.  A small table folded back against the wall when not in use.  From his
seat he could still see the pedestal dancer.  She was still dancing wildly,
jerking her body and swinging her arms.  Other than the chameleon-like pubic
brush she was nude, her lower body thick with muscle he suspected she'd
developed while grinding atop the pedestal.  The light made it hard to be sure,
and in any case she was bouncing them so wildly it was hard for his eyes to
follow them, but Hamee was almost positive her big breasts were pulsing in time
to the sonicpop beat.

	"No," he murmured, and squinted again.  After a minute of staring, he
was positive.  They were pulsing to the beat.  They swelled for three beats,
then shrank for three beats, over and over, changing at least two cup sizes
during the cycle.

	"Oh yeah!" he heard.  He looked over and saw the man at the next booth
looking at him.  "Sound reactive implants," he told Hamee.  "The latest thing. 
Can't wait to get my hands on a pair."

	There were perhaps two dozen pedestal dancers throughout the club, and
after much squinting Hamee was pretty sure they were all equipped with the
implants and flashing pubic hair.  Club bought and paid for? he wondered. 
Wouldn't that be something.

	He leaned over to ask the man a question and suddenly noticed there was
a head bobbing over his lap.

	"Oh, excuse me."

	The man waved his hand dismissively.  "If I wanted privacy I'd have the
field up."  He held out a hand.  "Guy Ferkeris, from Earth.  And this is
Minnako."  He motioned at the woman between his legs.  Her long black hair
pooled around him, obscuring her face.  The bobbing of her head continued apace. 
"She'd say hello, but . . . ."  He laughed, then saw Hamee's attention had been
caught by the two men just below them on the next level, double-teaming a club
treat.  In fact, as Hamee looked around, he realized just how many people he
could see having sex. 

	"First time?" Guy asked, knowing the answer.

	"What?  Oh, uh, yeah."

	"Look around," Guy told him.  "You'll never find anything like it on any
other planet, and I swear I've been to them all.  And this is a Mundane club."

	"Mundane?"

	"They don't feature any morphs, any GELF's.  Just flesh the way nature
intended.  More or less," he said with a belly laugh.

	Hamee looked at the closest stage.  There, under the bright lights, a
couple had just come on.  The man was impressively well endowed, even from a
distance.  The woman began by kneeling and sucking the head of his cock until it
had swollen to heroic proportions.  Loudly and theatrically she hawked and spat
wad after wad onto his length, stroking him with her hand until his whole shaft
was shiny with her saliva.  Licking her lips she cracked her jaw wide and
smoothly slid his entire length into her mouth.  Her throat bulged downward,
quite a bit, but she never gagged.  As soon as she had his length all the way in
she grasped his hips with both hands and began ferociously pumping him back and
forth.  Ropy veins bulged in her neck, and a long string of saliva hung from her
lower lip.

	"I've seen this before," Guy said.  "I think she's got KlitSkin lining
her throat, you see how she's so into it?  That's another thing I love about
this planet, all the women are Jacked up.  I don't think any of these girls are
faking it."  He swung a hand around the club.

	On nearby flatscreens Hamee could see close-ups of the action.  Other
screens showed him what was taking place on the other stages:  a pretty
brunette, nude and visibly jacked up, pulled men two and three at a time from
the audience and with consummate skill masturbated each one, directing their
spurts into a clear, pitcher-like container set on a low table.  Before the
night was over she'd fill it with over a liter of semen which she would then
drink to the roar of the crowd, rinse it out with her own urine and then drink
that as well.

	Another stage was covered with women in a glistening, oil-soaked pile. 
They were wildly licking, sucking, fingering and fisting, so intertwined it was
hard to tell how many of them there were.  Hamee tried counting heads and
guessed twelve.

	Other screens showed him two whipcord-skinny women abusing a naked,
ballgagged man, bound vertically spread-eagled on stage.  One would whip his red
ass with a long black rod while the other jerked his cock, then they'd stop and
take turns spitting in his face and calling him names.  One attached a large,
very realistic penis to her bald groin, Hamee wasn't sure how, and roughly took
the man from behind while her partner slapped his swinging balls.  All three of
them looked to be having the time of their lives.

	"Hey!" Guy called.  He shot out a hand and snagged a short, stocky woman
going by. Hamee realized she was a pedestal dancer just finished with her shift. 
Her muscled body was dripping with sweat, and she was breathing hard. Up close,
her breasts were even more startling.  Swell, swell, swell to the everpresent
beat, shrink, shrink, shrink, over and over again.  They just about doubled in
size during the cycle.  Hamee wondered what it felt like - at their largest, the
skin of her breasts was shiny taut.

	Guy pulled Minnako up by her hair, revealing a heart-shaped asian face
framed in ebony.  Her full lips were slack and wet, and she wore a vaguely dazed
expression.  "Go work on him," Guy said, pushing her in Hamee's direction.

	"No, that's really not, uh," was all Hamee got out before Minnako was on
her knees before him.  She tugged down the elastic waist of his trousers, fished
out his hard penis, and had it in her mouth before Hamee could collect his
thoughts.  He cleared his throat, then slowly leaned back.  Damn.  She was good. 
Her long hair covered his waist like a cape, and hung down her bare back;  idly,
he wondered why she'd bothered to take off her top, he still hadn't seen her
breasts.

	Guy pulled the unresisting pedestal dancer close and leaned back in the
booth, cock ramrod stiff.  He reached between her legs and chuckled.

	"You're wet as a river," he told the woman.  Her breasts continued to
pulse to the musical beat, her pubic patch still blinked through a rainbow of
colors.  She backed up to Guy, muscled ass moving to the beat, and slowly sank
onto him, her legs between Guy's spread thighs.

	"Oh baby!" Guy exclaimed as she stretched back against him like a cat. 
Her arms went up and behind her to stroke the back of his head while Guy's hands
started at her hips and slid up her body to her breasts.  She ground her ass
against him as he squeezed her pulsing tits and tugged at their flat nipples. 
She had a wild mane of light brown hair that covered Guy's face.  Her eyes were
closed as she moved on him in time to the beat.

	"Krikes," Guy gasped.  The dancer spread her legs and bent forward until
her head was between her knees.  Hands on her knees, she began bouncing her ass
up and down.  Her face was hidden by her wild hair, but Hamee could hear her
panting.

	Guy produced a string of tokens and began thumbing them one by one into
the dancer's ass.  At first she gave no sign she even noticed, then Hamee saw
she was bouncing harder and starting to grind against Guy at the bottom of every
stroke.  When the first string of five was gone he started on a second.

	"Shit," Hamee groaned, and tensed as he came into Minnako's clutching,
talented mouth.  He ran a hand through her long thick hair as she licked him
clean.

	"Club policy," Guy yelled at him over the music.  "With all the action
in here they have to keep it off the floors or people'll be slipping all over. 
Can't say that I mind."  The dancer was still bouncing in his lap, shaking her
head from side to side.  "Some of these girls eat so much belly jelly they gain
weight!" he said with a laugh, as Minnako stood up and brushed her hair off her
face.  Guy nodded at her.  "Give her a token or two."

	Hamee dug into his token bag and jerked his hand away in surprise.  The
token balls were reactive, vibrating to the sonicpop.  He pulled a string out,
his fingers tingling, and looked at Minnako.  She carried no bag, wore nothing
over her skinny body, not even shoes.  He separated two tokens and held them out
to her in his palm.  Minnako, who was older than she first appeared, bent at the
waist.  Her wet lips closed over a ball, and he felt her tongue massaging his
palm.  Then she swallowed the ball and straightened.  Hamee held out the other
token, wondering if perhaps she didn't want it.  With a leer Minnako lifted a
leg and set her bare foot lightly on his shoulder.  He got a splendid view of
her flat mound and unusual labia, swollen to the size of tiny sausages and
permdyed a bright red.  She took the ball from his hand, wet it in her mouth,
then reached down and with a fingertip pushed it into her wrinkled anus.  The
gleaming, vibrating, silver orb vanished inside her.  Then, with a blown kiss,
she was gone.

	"Krikes, you're a machine," he heard Guy gasp, and looked over.  The
dancer was still wriggling in his lap, bouncing and grinding.  Guy saw Hamee
glance his way.  "She's got another implant underneath her pubic bone," he
explained, panting.  "Vibrating like a son of a bitch, no wonder she was so wet. 
If I hadn't come so many times already I'd be drowning her in it.  It'd be
running out her nose.  Hell, who'm I kidding?  Without the X-Tend I'd be an
overcooked noodle.  I'm just dry-barring her."  He slapped the dancer's ass. 
"Why couldn't I have found you two hours ago.  I'd really have liked to decorate
your cake."

	Hamee felt a touch at his arm and turned to see a woman standing beside
him.  She was short, and very slender, with dark brown hair pulled tight against
her skull into a short, braided ponytail.

	"I'm Breena," she told him.  "Do you want a show?  I'm a Spider-Girl." 
She wore black twoskin shorts and nothing else.  Her breasts were nonexistent,
just nipples with no weight behind them.  She was skinny as skinny could be, but
with excellent muscle definition.  A washboard stomach, firm shoulders, and
tight calves.

	"Yes he does," Guy answered quickly for him.  He looked at Hamee.  "You
must be some sort of good luck charm or something.  First missy here comes
along," he slapped the everbouncing rump before him, "and now you get a
Spider-Girl.  Sit down, shut up, and do whatever she says," he told Hamee. 
Breena smiled demurely.

	"I need some tokens," she said almost apologetically.  "Two strings
would be better.  Still together."

	While Hamee dug in his bag she unfolded the table from the wall.  It was
round and smooth, just large enough for her to sit on crosslegged.  "First time
on Monny?" she asked pleasantly, as Hamee produced two strings.  "You hold onto
them for now."  She brought her thighs together, and with a little hop pulled
her shorts down to her knees.  She rocked back and extended her legs.

	"Take 'em off."  Hamee grabbed the shorts and pulled them free of her
legs, letting them drop.  Just that quickly she assumed the splits on the table,
legs out sideways to her body, feet and half her shins sticking out past the
edge.  Her hairless crevice was mashed against the tabletop, but she didn't act
like it hurt.

	"Flexible," he said appreciatively.

	"Somewhat," she said.  She leaned to one side, touched right hand to
left foot, then arched the other way, left hand to right foot.  She
straightened, and pressed her palms flat to the tabletop in front of her groin. 
Locking her elbows, Hamee watched as she lifted her entire body off the table. 
Her legs stayed parallel with the floor.  It was impressive as hell, and he told
her so.

	"Thank you," she said.  At once her knees pulled back, legs turned
inward, and Hamee's jaw dropped in amazement as she crossed her ankles behind
her neck while still balancing above the table on her hands.

	"Krikes," he said, as she slowly lowered herself to the table.  Her
torso looked oddly shortened with her knees behind her shoulders, and he had an
unrestricted view of her thin-lipped sex.  His eyes rose to her face.  "Quite a
sight," he told her.

	"Can't see it very well though, can you?"  And keeping her palms pressed
to the table top she somehow pulled her knees even farther down behind her back
so they nearly touched the table.  Her crossed shins slid down until they were
in the middle of her back.  She rolled gently backward until she was sitting up
on the table, resting on her buttocks and her heels crossed behind her back. 
Her furt bulged at him, a dark red gleam at its center.  She looked down at it,
then at him.

	"Try me with a finger," she purred.

	Hand shaking, he extended an index finger.  She was warm and wet.

	"Okay?" she asked him.  "Maybe a little dry.  Let me take care of that
for you."  And with that she folded herself in half, like she had no spine at
all, grabbed her ass with both hands and buried her face in her own upthrust
groin.  She sucked at her clit and licked it with enthusiasm, her tongue
wiggling.

	"Krikes that feels good," she gasped wetly, then shoved her long tongue
deep into her furt.  After a few seconds, she raised her head and looked at
Hamee.  Her cheeks and chin were wet with her own juices.

	"Want to help?" she asked him with a grin.

	  Hamee had no words.

                                                  CHAPTER SIXTEEN



	Race flopped backward onto the bed with a great sigh.  She rubbed her
eyes with the palms of her hands, then massaged her temples with her fingertips. 
She brought such intense concentration to her job that sometimes it took her
hours to relax at the end of the day.

	She lay on her back with her eyes closed, doing deep-breathing exercises
to fight off the headache she could feel wanting to form behind her left eye. 
After a while she sat up, blinked a few times to clear her vision, and then
changed out of her wrinkled suit into baggy casual clothes, a dark blue
scoop-neck top and baggy bottoms made of a warm fuzzy synthetic.

	She ate her dinner -- room service -- in front of the vid, catching up
on offplanet news.  Corruption, wars, disasters natural and man made -- the same
old thing.  Mostly she was hoping for mentions of New Mantique, but it wasn't
until the newscast was nearly over that her planet's name came up.

	"In an ironic move today, the New Mantique Senate," prattled the
newsreader, "approved stringent new restrictions on synthetic humanoids.  New
Mantique is home to NMS, the largest producer of synthetics, and the giant
corporation has been lobbying against this legislation for years.  The new
restrictions, while not law yet, are in direct response to the growing public
outcry on New Mantique against human/synthetic sexual relations, and would
require NMS to manufacture -- solely -- modified units that could not be used
for those purposes, and retro-fit those still in their warehouses.  These new
restrictions still have to be approved by the New Mantique House before they
become law, but experts say that even if the bill is killed during this session
it's only a matter of time.  NMS manufactured synthetics account for
eighty-seven percent of all synthetics ever made, and company spokesmen say that
this move by the legislature would bankrupt NMS.  Threats of moving company
operations to another planet, however, apparently haven't persuaded the New
Mantique Congress, caught up in a popular wave of regressive, archaic, almost
Puritan-like social restructuring to sidetrack this bill.  Only time will tell
what happens to NMS.  In other news--"

	"Mute!" Race called out sharply.  A whole host of emotions fought each
other inside her, although she really couldn't say she was surprised.  The New
Mantique House would probably be able -- by just a couple votes -- to vote down
this latest version of the bill that had become anathema to NMS, but it was sure
to pass next session.  New Mantique society was becoming more repressive by the
day.  Above her, on screen, the pert blonde newswoman blathered on, thankfully
silent, probably ignorant of just how monumentally important the story she'd
just read was.  Sitting there at her high-tech anchor desk, feeling important,
with her two-hundred-credit hairdo, perky breasts so high they practically hung
from her collarbones, perfect skin, and a blazer that made Race's tailor-made
suits look cheap.  And not an intelligent thought in her head; Race had met
enough newspeople to be sure of that.

	She surfed the dozen or so other news channels, hoping for more
information on the NMS story, but without any luck.  Wandering into the bedroom,
she picked out the outfit she planned to wear the next day.  She'd handed her
wrinkled suit to the hotel boy who'd brought her dinner.  Personal, human
service; so uncommon these days, at least on most worlds.  She found it
refreshing.  They'd done a fine job cleaning and pressing her suits; at first
she'd been worried, but needlessly, as it turned out.

	Race took a long, hot wetshower, reveling in the glorious spray.  After
six weeks of three minute showers and lukewarm, recycled water with a chemical
smell, her suite's huge stall with its eight sprayheads was heaven.

	Her short hair waved wildly in the hot air as the multidirectional vents
blew her dry.  She rotated slowly and raised her arms as the stall briefly
became a raging tornado of lightly scented warm air.  In less than a minute her
body was totally dry, except for the soles of her feet.  She stepped out onto
the soft pad, wiped her feet, and used the toilet.  It was admittedly a little
early to go to bed, but she was tired, and her body still wasn't adjusted to
Garshak's clock. 

	On her way to the bureau, to slip into her cream silk pajamas, she
stopped and studied the big blue egg just outside the bathroom.  She was pretty
sure it was called a pod, but really had no idea what its function was.  She
supposed it was some sort of ultra-advanced bidet, or perhaps a new type of
toilet, but why it was outside the bathroom she couldn't guess.

	The control panel was small and uncomplicated, with a display screen
that at the moment was blank.  It was a MagnaFlux Dynamo 212, according to the
panel.  The Start/Stop button was the biggest and most visible.  The machine
seemed to be programmable for time and intensity, but what exactly that meant
she wasn't sure, and was hesitant to find out.  She didn't want to start
randomly punching buttons and end up with a soaking wet carpet.  Even though
Race dealt with the cutting edge of technology every day in her profession,
personally she was very hesitant when dealing with otherworld hardware.  She
didn't like surprises.

	Race pressed her thumb against the OPEN button and the egg silently
split apart along the gummy vertical seam.  The egg itself was made out of a
hard blue plastic of some sort, but the seam that ran up one side and down the
other was soft and rubbery; it reminded her a little of puffy lips.

	An icon on the side of the machine depicted a person sitting inside it
with their knees apart.  The inside of the egg was a featureless black surface
that hardly looked large enough to accommodate a body.  Inside it, near the
bottom, were two long sunken pads that were supposed to support her thighs, as
near as she could figure out from the crude icon.

	The events of the last few days had left Race feeling more awake and
alive than she'd felt in years.  With surprises coming seemingly every time she
turned around, instead of feeling overwhelmed Race found herself rising to meet
the challenges with a sense of adventurism she hardly knew she had.  She
surprised herself once again by stepping into the egg.

	Awkwardly she squatted down until the backs of her thighs rested on the
pads.  Her ass was unsupported, but the position wasn't uncomfortable.  Her
thighs were nearly parallel to the floor, and spread far apart.  Race nervously
looked down, feeling quite vulnerable, but there was nothing to see underneath
her flesh, just more of the blank, black surface.  Her feet rested flat on the
floor outside of the egg.

	With some trepidation, Race pressed CLOSE and the egg closed around her
silently.  Her eyes went wide as the two halves swung together, enclosing her,
but it wasn't uncomfortable at all.  The big rubbery lips made a perfect seal
against her flesh.

	The egg was wide enough so that just her knees and lower legs stuck out
its sides, the rubbery liplike seals completely encircling her thighs just above
the knee.  The egg came up to the notch between her collarbones, enclosing all
of her torso but leaving her arms free.  She saw there were two padded handles
on the front of the machine to hold onto if she needed.

	The puffy seal ran across her chest and down under both her arms,
joining with the rear seal in a perfect seam just a few inches under her
armpits.  The black interior of the egg, which had looked so solid, had
apparently conformed as it closed to the shape of her body.  It was snug against
her, but not tight.

	The control panel was mounted above her chest, the display oriented so
that she could read it.  The pod was set for Standard Program, she could see
that, but wasn't sure what that meant.  Since she wasn't sure if the pod was an
actual toilet or just a personal cleansing station she decided first just to
turn it on before trying anything more complicated that might require cleanup if
she made a wrong guess.

	She reached over and hit the ON button, accidentally pressing a second
button at the same time.  A red light shone on the display now, as the pod began
to hum, and Race saw she'd engaged the AUTOLOCK.  She hit that button again to
disengage it, with no success.  She supposed it wouldn't unlock until the pod
shut off.  Perhaps it was a safety feature.

	Race sat and stared at the opposite wall of the bedroom, waiting for
something to happen.  The pod continued humming, and warmed to body temperature. 
Inside, sensors were scanning her body, measuring, computing, establishing a
baseline -- dimensional topography, heartrate, perspiration, respiration,
temperature, a dozen others.

	After the pod heated up, Race had only to wait a few seconds.  She felt
something soft and warm brush against her labia, and she jumped a little.  The
contact had taken her by surprise, but she settled down as the machine's
sensitive instruments touched her again and began cleaning her genitalia.

	The tool touching her, whatever it was, was incredibly gentle.  It
lightly wiped at her sex, gentle, long strokes.  It was soft, and warm, and
either it was lubricated or she was surprisingly wet.  For some reason the image
of a tongue popped into her head, but she quickly dismissed the errant thought. 

	Race sat there and began to relax slightly as the machine went about its
business, staring vacantly at the far wall.  She forced all thoughts of GUP and
the Q-Series from her head.  With nowhere else to land her hands ended up
gripping the conveniently placed handles on the front of the machine.  She
should've grabbed a hardcopy book to occupy herself, in hindsight.

	The sensations as the machine cleaned her were actually quite pleasant. 
Race twisted her head side to side to work the kinks out of her muscles, and
closed her eyes.  A second . . . tongue joined the first, and moved back to
swirl about her anus.  It tickled at first, and made Race feel self-conscious,
but she supposed that needed cleaning as much as anything.  The wet probe
circled and pressed and rubbed, and Race gradually became aware that the
machine's actions were arousing her.

	The first probe moved up and began stroking the hood over her clitoris
as the pod's sensors detected engorgement.  A third probe made itself known,
warm and wet and slippery as it rubbed back and forth across the opening of her
sex.  All three probes swirled and stroked and rubbed her rapidly moistening
flesh in unison.  It was about this point that Race realized the pod wasn't a
cleansing station at all, but rather a sexual toy.

	As good as the probes felt -- they did feel just like tongues, and
talented ones at that, with her eyes closed she wouldn't have been able to tell
the difference -- Race did not want to become intimate with a strange machine in
a hotel room.  It was bad enough being a single woman alone in a hotel room on
an alien world; she'd be damned if she'd have sex with a machine, she wasn't
that pathetic.

	As the three tongues continued their skilled licking, becoming ever more
insistent, Race searched the control panel for the OFF button.  She found it,
but when she pressed it, nothing happened.  She hit it, again and again, to no
effect.  She tried to disengage the AUTOLOCK again, suspecting it was the
problem, and hit OPEN over and over.  The three slippery probes were joined by a
fourth, and two of them began nudging the portal of her sex.

	Frantically Race hit every button she could see on the display, but
absolutely nothing worked.  The AUTOLOCK bypassed the entire control panel, and
once activated the pod would not shut down until it had run through its program. 
Race banged on the smooth blue surface with both palms, and pulled as hard as
she could on the padded handles, but the machine was a rock.

	"Stop!  Open!  Uh . . . shut down!"  She tried every command she could
think of in case the machine took voice commands.

	A slender wetness pushed into her gently, easing in, then back, then in
a little further, then back.  A tongue still twisted and squirmed against her
clit, and another licked her ass, worming hard against her puckered anus and
running up and down the crack of her backside.  Race fought against the confines
of the pod, banging its smooth blue surface with her hands, but it was a futile
effort that left her panting.   She was locked partially enclosed in a blue oval
safe, captive to a mindless time-delay lock.

	She felt a swirling about her breasts, which slowed, and became a gentle
pulsing rhythm.  It was as if warm currents of water were massaging her breasts
in undulating waves.  The wand between her legs was thrusting deeper into her,
and the urge to struggle faded away as the sensations became just too powerful
too ignore.  Race felt herself getting wet, wetter, and hated her body for its
natural responses.  This wasn't what she wanted to be doing with her life, alone
on a strange world, being masturbated in an empty hotel room by an appliance.

	The shaft in her continued its insistent stroking, and she began to
breathe faster.  It was warm, soft and yet hard, and had gentle ridges.  Inside
the pod her breasts were being gently squeezed and kneaded, pushed this way and
that, her nipples rubbed and tweaked.  Race groaned and gripped the handles
tighter, closed her eyes.

	The pod's multitude of sensors recorded the signs of her arousal. 
External ones observed the engorgement and lengthening of her labia, the
stiffening of her clitoris, the hardening of her nipples and the slight swelling
of her breasts, the last invisible to the naked eye.  The probe inside her was
equipped with its own sensors.  Those recorded increased lubricity and less
external pressure as her vagina expanded and lengthened in response to her
arousal. 

	The probe expanded in girth as well as length and began a corkscrewing
motion as it pumped back and forth in her.  Race gasped and groaned louder,
unconcerned now about someone walking in and seeing her.  The warm currents
which had at first only swirled about her breasts had now spread to the rest of
her body.  They rubbed across her belly and the insides of her thighs, circled
around her ribcage and stroked her buttocks.

	"Oh krikes," she panted, knuckles white on the handgrips.  The plunging
cock in her had grown in size again, filling her completely.  Its strokes had
lengthened to just kiss the back wall of her wet tunnel, pulling nearly all the
way out of her before rocketing back in, over and over and over.  The end of it
had swollen to twice the diameter of the rest of the shaft, to increase her
pleasure, but Race was too overwhelmed to differentiate the sensations.  She was
as wet and loose as she could ever remember being.  The currents kneading and
stroking her breasts were joined by invisible fingers that twisted and tugged at
her nipples.

	"Oh!  Oh!  Oh!"  Race clenched her teeth and arched her head back as an
electrifying orgasm swept through her body.  The pistoning increased in tempo as
the machine received signals from her body it had been programmed to interpret
as climax;  changes in body temperature, rigidity, muscle tone, lubricity,
contractions of the vaginal muscles, and a dozen other more subtle indicators.

	The machine kept humming as the fireworks faded away.  Her breasts still
swayed and bobbed, nipples still being worked, and the phallus still stroked
smooth and deep into her.  Tongues still licked her fore and aft.  Briefly the
head of the pistoning shaft deflated, but after her climax Race was even wetter
and looser than before.  She felt the column swell inside her once again and the
corkscrewing motion increased. Race groaned and tried to push herself further
down onto the shaft.  She lifted her feet off the floor, but was so snugly
enclosed by the egg that her body didn't move.  She wanted to pull her knees to
her chest, grab her ankles, open herself wider to the plunging tool.  It was an
unconscious, primal urge.

	"Oh my GOD!"  She'd never felt anything like was this machine was doing
to her.  Sweat beaded on her forehead, and her toes were pointed straight out
from the egg, legs parallel to the floor.  Her clit was so hard and throbbing
she was afraid it would burst; it had to've grown an inch.  It felt like the
machine was sucking on it and licking it at the same time.

	The wet sloppy soft/hard cock seemed wide as a tree as it twisted back
and forth and sluiced up and down.  Her nipples were being pinched and pulled,
her breasts squeezed and shaken.  She tried to get her hands inside the egg, but
the liplike seams were tight and seemed glued to her skin.  Her shaking
fingertips got nowhere.

	The huge phallus pumped her ever harder and faster, its surface ridges
growing.  Groaning deliriously, Race bore down on the thick shaft, giving
herself to it fully.  The machine sensed the relaxation of her muscles as she
opened herself to it, and the tongue-like probe wiggling against her anus
slipped in.

	Race gasped at this new sensation, at the tongue squirming and wiggling
like a panicked snake inside her ass.  She climaxed again, this one three times
as powerful as the first.  Race bucked and twitched inside the pod, her insides
clenching spasmodically as the dual invaders continued plunging and wiggling. 
She cried out, blubbering, tears streaming from her eyes, toes curling
uncontrollably, not seeing the suite in front of her, her orgasm going on and on
and on as the big cock pumped and twisted in her furt and the tongue squirmed in
her ass and her tits were squeezed and shaken and tugged on and her clit was
licked and sucked.  "Eeeeeyoooaahhh!!!"

	Gradually she became aware that the churning interior of the pod had
become still.  She wasn't totally positive she hadn't lost consciousness for a
moment.  The currents buffeting and stroking her breasts slowed and faded,
leaving them warm and tingling.  The artificial penis inside her deflated slowly
until it was the size of a small finger, then withdrew.  The tongues all
departed, the one in her anus slipping out gently.  Gradually she relaxed and
let her feet drop back down to the floor.  Her hairline was dark with sweat, one
droplet hanging from the end of her nose.  She pried a hand from one of the
grips, flexed it so some of the feeling would return to her fingers, and wiped
away the sweat.  The fingers shook.  Race was surprised to find she was still
panting, but she was anything but tense.

	The pod beeped loudly and the red AUTOLOCK light turned green.  Race
touched the OPEN button and with a him the pod's two halves cracked open around
her.  The cool air on her skin made her shiver.  Race looked down into the pod
but its interior was still a featureless black surface.  The sticky seam had
left a red line across her chest and down under her arms, but other than that
her body was dry and unharmed. 

	She reached down between her legs, examining herself.  Her sex was wet
and gaping, her labia swollen and bright red, but remarkably, she didn't feel
the least bit sore.  Her nipples still tingled, and looked a bit puffy from all
the activity.

	Carefully she stood up and stepped away from the pod.  Her knees were
shaky, her legs terribly unsteady.  The pod beeped loudly three times, then
began to close.  When it was fully closed two red lights appeared and the unit
began to him.  SELF-CLEANING FINISHED IN 5 MINUTES she read off the display, the
number blinking.  Race walked unsteadily over to the bed and climbed onto the
mattress.  She curled up onto her side in the fetal position, hugging her knees,
facing the pod.  Tears welled up in the corners of her eyes, but she did not
cry.  With every beat of her heart she could feel her nipples, her clit, her
vagina.  Within a minute she was asleep, and the tears dried on her face.

                                                 CHAPTER SEVENTEEN



	Prisoner 452AJ46B woke up five minutes before the morning buzzer and lay
on her bunk, unmoving.  Her eyes opened, but all she could see was the blank
ceiling two meters above.

	Her bunk consisted solely of a thin spongy wafer for a mattress with a
raised headrest built right in.  She had no sheets, or blankets, as they were
unnecessary--the temperature throughout the prison was strictly controlled.

	Two months before she'd had a name, and a job, and an apartment.  Life
had been good, except for the occasional urges she suffered.  When she was
caught shoplifting--for the second time--probation wasn't an option.  The judge
had given her the mandatory two year sentence.

	She'd had no idea what to expect when she got to Garshak; the trip alone
had been exciting, as it was the first time away from home for her.  Originally
from a small, isolated settlement down south, she'd moved to Garshak and
obtained a job, her first, as a secretary.  At first the city's mere size and
complexity had shocked her, but she'd grown used to that.  What she couldn't get
used to was the shocking behavior of its denizens. 

	Raised in a very strict religious household, the lifestyles she saw her
coworkers and neighbors leading were beyond disgusting.  Everywhere she went she
was bombarded with heinous imagery or behavior; she couldn't escape it.  Every
day a new outrage was revealed to her, one after another, until her brain was
numb.  She would have left in a second but for her father; returning home as a
failure was not an option. 

	At the office she became that strange quiet girl that rarely spoke and
no one ever saw outside of work.  If only she wouldn't have had those urges she
could've survived the city; survived just long enough to find a good man and
marry him, let him take her out of this cesspool.  Instead she was twenty-six
years old and sitting in prison, stuck for two years with women who made her
coworkers seem saintly by comparison.

	She'd tried to find out what the prison would be like before she
arrived, with zero success.  At city lockdown she'd had the cell to herself
during her trial, and while she could hear other prisoners she never got the
chance to speak to any of them before the noise shields were activated.

	She'd arrived at the prison in a big lockdown floater bus with about
twenty other women.  She seemed to the youngest person on board, and the only
one who didn't seem to know what was going on.  If the other women were scared,
they knew better than to show it.  Most just scowled at the world.  She didn't
dare ask any questions.

	At the prison they were marched into the processing center, where they
were stripped, scanned, and cavity searched by hugely muscled female guards. 
One by one the new inmates were taken into a small room where they were rendered
completely, permanently hairless, the procedure only reversible by a medico. 
Since just about every Monny female over the age of twenty-five had her body
depilated anyway, the technicians usually only had to concentrate on the new
convict's heads.  Any entering female convict who hadn't already undergone the
procedure was sterilized as well.  In addition to preventing in-house
impregnation, the treatment (the same undergone outside prison -- voluntarily --
by just about every female when she hit puberty) ended monthly menstruation,
which reduced the hygiene concerns of the prison administration.  A guard then
spranded a Prisoner ID Number across the forehead of each inmate in
three-cem-high numerals.  Lastly they injected a nanochip for ID and tracking
purposes.

	At first the sight of herself in a mirror was shocking and
disheartening.  For days she wept off and on, uncontrollably.  Her smooth skull
felt alien under her fingertips.  The other women looked just as strange as
first, but she soon grew accustomed to the sight.

	Not only was everyone bald, but for many reasons, including security, no
clothing of any sort was allowed to be worn.  Not a single inmate in the prison
had as much as a sock with which to cover their body.  The warden kept his
prison warm so no inmate needed clothes to stay comfortable, but the lack of
clothes was something that took the new inmate a long time to get used to.

	The prisoners mingled during mealtimes and the two mandatory exercise
periods each day.  The sight of all those baldheaded bodies doing calisthenics,
shouting out cadence, was enough to startle even the most jaded viewer.

	As startling as the nudity was the Prisoner ID Number across each
inmate's forehead.  Truth be known, after three days inside the new inmate was
used to the nudity; it took her a lot longer than that to get used to the big
black numbers across every forehead.  She knew she had one of her own, but since
she couldn't see it except in the lavatory mirror it didn't bother her as much
as she thought it would.  It did, however, maker her feel like an object instead
of a person, which she supposed was the point.

	Between the low fat diet and the mandatory exercise periods for all
inmates not in solitary punishment cells there wasn't an overweight prisoner in
the population.  A less than complete effort during exercise period would, if
noticed, be punished.  After a few weeks inside everyone began to look alike. 
But for a few brutes they were all slender and, depending on how long they'd
been inside, rippling with muscle.

	At sentencing she'd been given a choice:  two years in federal prison,
no early release, or volunteer to undergo an "Antisocial Personality
Adjustment".  While her trial was going on she'd heard rumors about those
"personality adjustments", none of them good.  Some of the women had said you'd
forget who you were, or become a totally different person, even though when the
Judge explained the procedure, and it's result, to her, it had sounded much less
extreme.  It would only eliminate her desire to steal, the judge said, and get
rid of any other antisocial urges she might have.  Still, the rumors had had a
strong impact, and she was leery of anyone poking around inside her head. 
Perhaps if her family hadn't heard about her arrest, she might have chosen that
route, as her record would've been wiped completely clean, but someone in the
city had vidcalled her father, and he'd sat through her short trial without
saying a word to her.  She chose prison, if only to get away from his accusing
stare.

	After two months inside, however, she was beginning to regret her
decision.  Living in a cage was bad enough; the same routine, day after day
after day, one inmate indistinguishable from the next.  She had to check ID
numbers just to make sure she was talking to who she thought she was.  All the
inmates were pale, lean, and bald.  She'd lost ten kilos herself, and hadn't
been fat.  For the first time in her life she could count her stomach muscles.

	She could have handled prison life if that was all it was; it would have
been difficult, but survivable.  Living in a cage is one thing; living with
animals was another.  On Monsipur, convicted murderers were put to death.  Third
time violent felons were put to death as well.  Everyone else was thrown
together inside without regard to conviction.

	"Hey, Strawberry."

	Heart sinking, she propped herself up on one elbow and looked across the
small cell at the far bottom bunk.  She had three cellmates, all veteran cons,
all with more time in than her.  She'd quickly learned what that meant.

	Inside the prison walls no inmate was allowed to use their name, but
everyone had, or earned, a nickname.  The woman who'd spoken to her was called
Dee, and she was cell stud.  Stud of the whole block, actually, five years into
her stretch, with thirteen more to go.  It was her second time inside, and she
controlled the lives, completely, of the forty-eight women living in D Block.

	"Dreaming about home again?  I heard you up there whimpering."

	While still slender, Dee was one of the most muscular cons in the
prison.  Crude jailhouse tattoos, depicting her favorite sex acts -- none of
them loving or gentle -- adorned her arms, shoulders, and the tops of her slack
breasts.  Tattoos, officially, were not permitted, and easily removable, but the
warden never raised the issue.  There were many issues he never raised.  The
tattoos made Dee easy to spot.

	Dee had christened the new girl with the nickname Strawberry, in honor
of the birthmark behind her knee.  The fact she still had it told the rest of
the cons she came from a dirt poor family, too poor to even get a birthmark
removed.  It was a much better nickname than most.

	"No."

	In the bunk above Dee, Freebie was waking up.  She was only a few years
older than Strawberry, caught selling sex without a license, third offense, five
years in prison.  She only had a few months to go, and didn't seem all that
eager to leave. 

	Freebie rubbed her face and then ran her hands down her body.  During
the strenuous workouts those large breasts of hers bounced around like crazy but
she never even seemed to notice.  After four plus years of daily high impact
workouts she probably didn't.  Even bald with a tattoo across her forehead she
was pretty.

	"Sure, sure," Dee cackled.  She was laying on her side, propped up on
one elbow.  "Whyn't you come down here and suck on my knuckle some, you'll
forget your troubles."

	After two months in prison, in the same cell as the Block Bull,
Strawberry knew all to well Dee's idle offer was anything but, and there'd be
hell to pay if she hesitated even half a second.  With a grunt she sat up on her
bunk and let her legs dangle.  Below her Mini was already awake and watching
events unfold eagerly.

	Mini was Dee's main Tongue, although there were many others on the
block.  That meant she was Dee's property, but Dee let just about anyone use
her.  Mini had a libido no one could tame, although most every stud dahlia in
the prison had tried at one time or another.  Born female, during her early
twenties Mini had taken Genuflex so many times, switched from female to male and
back again so many times, her genetic code had become fuzzy.  A Mergender. 
Strawberry had learned the term while in prison, just another piece of her
ongoing education.  Although less androgynous than most of her counterparts --
she definitely leaned toward the female -- the genderhopping bumped up Mini's
sex drive to an impressive level.  It was an advertised side effect of Genuflex,
not that any of the users cared.

	Mini had small breasts, a clitoris not quite ten centimeters long when
erect, and labia so fat and puffy they looked like a scrotum unless her legs
were spread wide.  She would do anything, anytime, eagerly.  Strawberry was
repulsed by her genitalia, but her mistake was in letting Dee find out.  Dee
took great delight in forcing her, almost daily, to orally service Mini, who
didn't mind the attention one bit.

	Sexual relations between inmates were, surprisingly, allowed, or at
least not prohibited.  There seemed to be an unwritten rule that all sex had to
take place in a cell, the showers, or out of sight, but otherwise the guards
paid it no mind.  In fact, Strawberry noticed that the guards seemed to consider
any sex taking place inside a cell to be consensual.  They sure hadn't responded
to her cries for help her first night in.  The second night they came, but only
to watch.  She quickly learned the score.  The cons didn't mind the guards
watching; in fact, some of them liked it, liked to show off.

	Strawberry jumped down and her bunk retracted into the wall.  It would
be cleaned automatically, and even if she wanted to get back up on it she'd have
to wait five minutes for the cycle to finish.  But for the four bunks, the plain
cell's only feature was the QuiClean toilet on the back wall.

	Dee grinned wickedly and spread her legs as the new girl approached.  In
prison, everyone is a lesbian -- that was the first lesson Strawberry learned. 
New fish ate furt, and whatever else was put in front of them.  Those were the
rules.  Strawberry had resisted longer that most, taking two severe beatings,
but finally she'd knuckled under.

	"Don't make me wait now," Dee scolded her, as Strawberry was slow to
kneel next to her bunk.  There was an edge to her voice.

	Strawberry bent over and eagerly began licking and sucking.  She was
still learning how to please a woman, but Dee seemed satisfied with her
progress.  Inwardly Strawberry wanted to throw up.  Dee's sex was clean, they
all took showers twice daily, but having to do that, to another woman, was
almost too much to bear.  She'd resisted Dee and the rest of them for as long as
she was able, but there'd been more than just beatings.  The things they'd done
to her . . . . and the guards had just laughed.

	Freebie slid down off her bunk and squatted on the toilet.  Prisons used
the QuiClean system for its convenience but it had yet to catch on in civilian
society.  The toilet was little more than a narrow curving trough that had
cushioned edges.  When sat upon, the trough curled up and its malleable edges
formed an airtight seal against the user's flesh, very similar to the technology
used in P-pods.  When the user had completed his or her bodily functions they
pressed a button on the front of the toilet, which in mere seconds quickly and
efficiently water-scrubbed and air-dried their flesh.  It eliminated the need
for toilet paper, but most people in Monny society who tried them found the
toilets a little rough and abrupt.  Unless you were in prison or the army, you
probably haven't seen one.	

	"You finally starting to like that furt?"  Dee laughed and Strawberry
stiffened and looked up at her.  "Come on, suck it bitch, don't stop.  No, you
open your eyes and look at me when you eat my furt.  That's the new rule.  You
like it?"

	Strawberry, tongue waggling over Dee's clitoris, nodded fractionally.

	"I can't hear you, tell me you like it."  A big smile crept across the
stud's face.  She glanced at the tattoo covering most of her left breast, a
detailed primer on fisting.

	Strawberry lifted her head.  "I -- I like it."  Dee was always finding
new ways to humiliate her, but she didn't have the stomach anymore to resist. 
She just couldn't handle any more pain.

	"Tell me what you like."  Dee was still smiling.

	"I -- I like licking your furt."

	"You like eating my cunt?  You like sticking your tongue deep inside my
sloppy hole, sucking it clean?"  Dee's wicked grin grew wider.

	"Yes, I like eating your sloppy furt.  The sloppier the better."

	"Well, don't stop then."  Dee laughed loudly, and shoved the girl's head
back down between her thighs.  With most of her adult life spent in prison, it
took a lot more than the gentle licking Strawberry was administering to get Dee
off, but the point of the exercise was to teach the new fish.  Licking furt was
what she hated most, which meant she'd be doing a lot of it until she was
completely broken.  And she wasn't there, not yet.  She still thought she had a
will of her own.  Dee could've traded her out, to one of the other Block Studs,
but she wanted to break this fish herself, get her to the point where eating
furt made her happy.

	"Teaching the young fish old tricks?"

	Dee looked over her shoulder.  Mancino was standing at the front of the
cell, studying the action with a smile on her face.  The guard was big, her
upper body a wide V of muscle.  The front of the cell was open to the catwalk,
which retracted at night, but all the inmates wore mag collars -- they didn't
have as much freedom as it first appeared.

	"Trying."

	Mancino stepped into the cell.  She feared no violence; she and Dee had
a business arrangement.  After a quick glance over her shoulder she pulled an
object out of her pocket and handed it to Dee.  "Try not to break this one." 
Dee smiled widely and hefted it, then frowned.

	"I wanted one with balls," she complained.  The penis in her hand looked
totally authentic, if a bit large.  The lack of a scrotum and the metal jack at
its base made it easy to identify as a plug-in.

	"I can take it back if you want."  The guard held out her hand.  Dee
gave her an ugly look.

	"So I can wait forever for a new one again?  No thanks."

	With a smirk Mancino turned on her heel and disappeared.  Mini sat up on
her bunk, eyeing the phallus hungrily.  Dee turned it around and around in her
hands, a small smile just touching her lips.  Strawberry stared at the plug-in,
never having seen one this close before.  So that was what they looked like.

	"Why'd it take her so long?" Mini whined.  She hadn't been corked
properly in weeks, since Dee had lent her out to one of the other studs, and was
itching for Dee to sink her new acquisition deep into her.

	Dee trailed the tip of the faux organ across Strawberry's forehead and
down her nose to where it was pressed against the bull's folds.  The new fish
couldn't help but stare at it.

	"I've got something for you," Dee said tauntingly.  Strawberry stopped
sucking and pulled back, suddenly realizing the situation.

	"No," she said.  "I'm not-- I don't have a . . . You're not . . . ?" 
Tears began to roll down her cheeks.  "Please, I'm still a virgin.  Don't.  I
want to save myself for when I'm married."  Dee and some of the other cons had
roughly fingered her a few times early on, but she'd spent most of her time in
oral worship of them.

	Dee's eyes went wide, and her mouth formed a surprised O.

	"Ooooh, that was the wrong thing to say," Freebie observed.  The toilet
uncurled from her groin and she stood up, revealing flesh that was just slightly
redder than before she'd sat down.

	"A virgin, you say?"  Dee could hardly believe it.  Not just that the
new fish was uncorked, but that she was dumb enough to admit it, now, here.  Her
cunt flooded with her excitement.  "Oh girlie, am I gonna train you right."  She
nodded at Freebie and Mini, who'd come up behind the new fish, and the two cons
each grabbed one of Strawberry's arms and yanked her back.

	"No, wait--!"  Strawberry fought, but was no match for the two seasoned
cons and found herself being forced to the floor in the middle of the cell. 
Ignoring the commotion, Dee reached down and removed her socket plug, inspected
her socket for any lint or dirt, then pressed the plug-in home.

	"Oh yeah," Dee purred, running her fingers up and down the shaft. 
Complete feeling, no dead spots, which meant a good connection.  It had been too
long since she'd had a working unit.  Not as big as she would have liked, but
then what was?

	"Oh God, no, please, you can't!  Please!  Dee, I'll do anything you
want, please don't use that on me.  Stop.  Stop!  Guards!  Guards!"

	Dee remained sitting on her bunk, admiring the tool sprouting from her
mound.  She spit several times into her palm and then smeared it over the head
and down the plug-in's veiny shaft.  Mini and Freebie had the newbie down on her
back, legs cranked back and wide apart.  Dee liked her fish on their backs so
they could see everything that was happening to them.  Strawberry's arms and
legs were gripped tightly -- she could struggle all she wanted, wiggle and
squirm, but she couldn't get up.

	"Give her a hit of Jack," Dee ordered Freebie.  Mini contained the
struggling fish while Freebie retrieved a KwikTab of X-Cite-R from her bunk,
then the two women forced it into Strawberry's mouth and held her jaws closed
until the concentrated pill dissolved.  "Are you really a virgin?" Dee said from
the bunk, a fist working up and down her new shaft.  It seemed too good to be
true.  "Do you know how much money I could make selling you in here?  No wonder
you're so vanilla."  She stood up, and let go of the plug-in.  The phallus
bobbed heavily in front of Strawberry's horrified eyes.

	She yelled for them to stop, screamed, begged, blubbered and sobbed, but
her protests only seemed to encourage Dee.  As she suffered the rape, the
thought came to Strawberry that nothing could be worse than this.  But then, she
thought, how did she know that?  Dee was sure to know malignant tricks she could
never even imagine.  Why oh why hadn't she opted for the Personality Adjustment? 
It had seemed the right decision at the time, but if she had to suffer through
this again it would kill her.  Prisoners could request a PA at any time during
their incarceration -- did she dare?

	As Dee began thrusting into her even more violently, Strawberry's knees
pulled back to her shoulders by her excited cellmates, the devilish tool hurting
her in ways she didn't know she could be hurt, she found herself beginning to
respond.  Her response horrified her even though it wasn't her but the Jack
they'd forced down her throat.  Five minutes later she had her legs wrapped
around Dee and was urging her to go faster even while tears streamed down her
cheeks.  Her cellmates looked down at her and laughed at her vicious
deflowering.  Deep inside her head, beyond the physical, the new fish vowed not
to spend another night behind these walls.  She was not a number.  She had a
name.  Frilla Chapakraswahr.  She would get out of there, and begin a fresh new
life.





	As the FeelReal program ended and the world around him came back into
focus Garvin Espering stretched and sighed.  There just wasn't anything better
than a good prison chip.  He shut off the terminal and withdrew the chip
cartridge.  He turned it over in his fingers, thinking fond thoughts.  He'd
always loved lesbian chips, but there was just something about prison chips that
got his motor humming.  He didn't know if it was the bald heads and tattoos, or
the cells and coercion -- in prison, no one was ever nice, and the sex, even
when consensual, was never gentle.

	Perhaps three dozen studs throughout the Monsipur penal system recorded
chips which they traded with the guards.  The black market bartering would have
been easy to stop, if he'd been so inclined -- all he'd need to do is stop
permitting inmates feelie recording units.  But what fun would that be?

	The stud who called herself Dee put out a good chip, but not very often. 
His favorite prison chips came from the massive con nicknamed Animal that for
all intents and purposes ran the SouthTown Federal Women's Prison.  She wore a
plug-in all the time - big ones -- and had prison tattoos all over her body. 
The other cons obeyed her like she was royalty, but then it was well known what
would happen if they didn't.  She had ten enforcers who kept everyone in line, a
dozen full-time tongues (including one guard), and could get just about anything
she wanted smuggled into the prison.  To date all she'd been interested in was
food, euphorics, LoL, and plug-ins, plug-ins, plug-ins, but if she ever moved on
to more serious items, like weapons, Espering knew he'd have to step in.

	There were over a thousand cons in SouthTown, with new ones arriving
every day.  Animal looked them over first and selected the choicest meat, as she
liked to say, preferring fish who weren't just young and pretty and naive but
also . . . impressionable.  And Animal was quite a teacher -- Prison Protocol
and Etiquette, she liked to call it.  Espering was especially impressed with the
way Animal used X-Cite-R and LoL to condition the new fish to her brutal ways. 
From day one she kept their systems loaded with LoL 146 and X-Cite-R.  No matter
how rough she was with them (and he'd never seen anyone rougher with a plug-in),
the drugs made even the most timid fish beg for more.  Psychologically speaking,
her conditioning program was nearly perfect.  The LoL, the new so-called
"miracle drug" designed for women in labor, tricked the user's brain into
interpreting pain signals as pleasure.  It was so effective Animal hardly needed
to use Jack on the new cons; one harsh slap across the face was all it took to
get them bubbly.

	LoL 146, nicknamed by some in the media Labor Of Love, was intended for
women in labor, which meant using it once a year at most.  No one had done any
studies of what long-term exposure to it would do to a person.  No one, that is,
but Espering's private medical foundation.  Their findings were mirrored by what
he saw on Animal's tapes:  namely, that after a few short weeks of constant use
the LoL effectively retrained the brain, so even when the drug bled out of the
body the brain still followed its commands.  LoL was very specific, though, in
this post-training - for example, if a fish had never been pinched while under
the influence, pinches caused pain.  If, however, she'd been no stranger to
pinches while under the drug's influence, once the LoL in her system was gone
pinches would still give her pleasure.  Animal had discovered this long before
his own people and began tailoring her conquests' psyches to her own twisted
designs.  By the time Animal passed the new fish to one of the lower studs, if
they weren't being cursed, slapped, spit on, or otherwise physically or
emotionally abused during sex they couldn't enjoy it.  They were very popular in
the general population.  Animal held onto the fish who were most responsive to
her techniques; they became her full-time tongues.  By the time they got out,
all semblance of normal sexual response was erased from these women; after only
a year or two with Animal, they could only receive pleasure by being abused or
by servicing others.  Even though LoL didn't affect the reception of true
pleasure signals, pain is the most intense of all sensations.  Currently,
Animal's favorite tongue was a young petty thief whose talented mouth had become
her primary sexual organ.  This woman experienced actual physical pleasure when
orally servicing another, even if it was just a lick or two, all without
touching herself.  Gagging while deep-throating one of Animal's many plug-ins
always made her come, and it'd been two years since there'd been any LoL in her
system.  On this tongue's most recent birthday Animal, in one of her rare good
moods, had ordered the woman restrained and spent half an hour viciously
slapping her breasts until they were bright red and swollen and the tongue had
passed out from the pleasure.  It was a gift that kept on giving - the bruises
and soreness lasted close to two weeks, and every day the tongue would have to
do her strenuous, high-impact exercises in the yard with the other cons.  In an
hour she would climax six or eight times.  All Animal had to do those first few
days was gently squeeze one of the tongue's teats and she'd come. 

	Animal had another ten years to go in her sentence for -- ironically
enough -- rape.  It was funny; what she'd done to get into prison was nothing
compared to what she'd been doing since she got in.  Espering leaned back and
smiled.  Whether the convicted women chose prison or a PA, society won.  The
Personality Adjustments, that his father had had to fight so hard to implement
thirty-five years before, were now an accepted part of the corrections system. 
Of course, just like his father had planned, the adjustments being made now were
not what they used to be.  If those narrowminded people who'd been opposed to
the programs initially knew how they'd been subtly altered over the years they'd
be aghast, but then, what they considered 'anti-social', and what he considered
'anti-social', were two very different things.  And he was in charge.  Of
everything.

	Espering, remembering the tattoo he'd seen through Dee's eyes, used his
notepad to search the government database for Prisoner #452AJ46B.  Up popped her
given name and personal history.  He noted she'd opted for Personality
Adjustment not quite eight months previously, successfully undergone treatment,
and been declared cured of all antisocial tendencies by the Corrections
Department medico.  Presumably then her tattoo had been removed and hair growth
reactivated prior to her release back into society.  Bald, however, was coming
back into fashion for women, so he didn't want to make too many assumptions.

	Espering tracked her life since release.  The young woman had returned
to her previous job, which she left after less than one month when her pulatrita
application was approved and her license issued.  Her license listed her
specialty as oral sex(female) and stated she was a submissive.  Currently she
was employed by the Buzz Club.  His notepad also indicated she was living with
two men in a downtown apartment.  By choice, apparently, as she was making more
than enough money at the club to live alone.

                                                     CHAPTER EIGHTEEN



	Espering was deep in thought, putting the final touches on the agenda
for the next formal meeting of the Council, when his intercom beeped at him yet
again.

	"Bughumper!"  He glared at the screen, saw it was an internal call
coming from the staff quarters.  It seemed everybody was having a crisis.  At
least Lucia was busy with her party and wouldn't disturb him.  He hit the
RECEIVE button and the vidphone screen lit up with a vaguely familiar face.

	"Yes?" he said impatiently.

	"Sorry to bother you sir, especially after office hours, but I've got
something of a . . . situation on my hands."

	"Yes, what is it?  Who are you again?  I know I know who you are, but at
the moment my memory is failing me."

	"Haley, sir.  I'm one of the Loomy wranglers."

	"Oh yes, of course.  Is there a problem with one of the Loomies?"  His
two wranglers had thirty to forty charges between them.  Twenty staff favorites
that had been on site since

	Espering had started his program, and fifteen or so short-timers that
were rotated frequently.

	"Well, yes and no.  This is sort of hard to explain."  He saw the
impatient expression on Espering's face and hurried ahead.  "Well sir, about a
week ago I noticed something strange with one of my new charges.  Well, not that
new, she's been here several months . . . Anyway, I couldn't put my finger on it
at first, but then it occurred to me that she just didn't seem blank enough, if
you understand what I'm saying.  And she almost seemed too enthusiastic in her
sucking."

	"Not blank enough?  What the hell does that mean?"

	"I know, it's not much, but I kept getting this weird feeling about her. 
So I checked her records.  She'd apparently come to us from Deacon Hospital's
Extended Care Unit.  Family deceased, twenty-nine years old, good health . . .
."  He could see Espering was getting bored and impatient.

	"As far as I can determine, all of the personal information in her file
is false.  Deacon's never heard of her.  The people listed as her family,
father, mother, and so on?  No record of them ever existing."

	"What?"  Espering couldn't understand what Haley was telling him.

	"So I did some more digging," Haley went on.  "I still can't even
believe it.  She was normal.  Well, physically anyway.  This . . . crazy went to
an underground medico, who, at her insistence, removed her limbs."

	"What are you talking about?  I . . . I don't--"

	"She had arms and legs, and she paid him a huge sum of money to lop them
off and remove the scars from the procedure.  She also had a urethral
valvesleeve installed.  When she arrived here about three weeks ago we had her
body depilated and her teeth pulled, but other than that . . . ."

	"So you're saying that mentally she's . . . ."

	The handler was nodding his head.  "I couldn't believe it either, so
with Captain Van der Meer's permission I studied the camera records of the
corral.  On the screens you could see it over and over -- whenever she was
alone, or only with other Loomies, her eyes would focus and she'd look around,
occasionally smile."

	"What does this woman look like?" Espering asked with a sinking feeling.

	"Like your normal Loomy, sir.  Little bit pudgy, big breasts, a rather
plain face. She's not anything special, I'd have trouble picking her out of a
group, but quite a few people have been requesting her.  Apparently there was
just something about her.  Now we know what it is."

	"Can she talk?"

	"I spoke with the doc who did all the work on her.  He said he didn't
touch her vocal chords.  He also said she was a very unbalanced girl, and he
tried to talk her out of it."

	"I see he still took her money, though."

	"Apparently she had been following your crusade to put Loomies into
service doing what they can with their limited abilities.  Once she decided that
you were going to succeed, she contacted the doctor.  Technically he didn't
violate any laws.  She hasn't either, for that matter."

	"I don't care!" Espering raged, jumping out of his chair.  The vidphone
camera automatically tracked him to keep him centered in Haley's screen.  He
waved his arms in fury.  "These poor creatures were born this way because of a
horrible mistake.  They're like the living dead, and all I was trying to do with
my program was put them to use so people would begin to think positively about
them, instead of just considering them a drain on society's resources.  Do you
know that there are some members of the Council that privately think all the
Loomies should be put to sleep?  Exterminated, like insects?  My program is
changing that, and then for this woman--"  He paced around the room at a near
run.  "The idea that she would alter her body to attempt to become one . . .
why?  So she can be treated like a piece of meat?  Is she some sort of
self-hating submissive masochist that tipped over?"

	"That'd be my guess."  Haley looked ill.

	"I am repulsed and disgusted.  She should be--"  He stopped suddenly. 
"Does she know we know?" he asked Haley.

	"Not yet.  In fact, you and I and Captain Van der Meer are the only ones
who know so far."

	"Well, dammit, if this twisted little girl wants to be treated like a
piece of meat, who are we to get in her way?  We ought to be helping her."

	"Excuse me sir?"

	"Tomorrow night, you're going to drug her NutriBlend.  Van der Meer will
get you what you need.  Then you're going to take her to Dr. Akhdar, one of my
wife's medicos.  I'll give you his number.  He's a very talented man.  If this
woman wants to be just like a Loomy, I'm going to help her.  Tell Akhdar to
remove the speech center in her brain, and to hyperstimulate her infantile
sucking instinct."

	"Uh, sir?  Uh . . . can he do that?  I mean, before she did this, she
was a respected--"

	"I don't want to know," Espering snapped.  "It doesn't matter who she
was.  And didn't you say she covered up her past herself?  She's a Loomy now,
dammit.  We've got the files to prove it.  That's what she wants.  And Loomies
can't talk.  She's wearing a body bag and drainage tube and everything?"

	"All of it."

	"Krikes."  Espering shuddered.  "When are we sending those four up to
Sega Six?"

	"Five days."

	"Put her in with them.  Mining is a rough business, and miners are rough
people.  Sounds like just what she'd want, don't you think?"

	"Uh, sir, it's my impression that the Loomies are just going to be laid
on beds while the miners line up outside the door.  Miners aren't real big on
romance.  God only knows if they've even got NurtiBlend to feed them."

	"Perfect."  Espering nodded in satisfaction.  "I don't want her to know
where she's going until she gets there, if at all possible.  I also don't want
her to know Akhdar worked on her, that's why we're drugging her and doing it at
night.  She might like being on Sega, but if she decides she wants to leave
she's going to have a big surprise when she tries to tell someone.  She in the
corral right now?"

	"No, she's out."  Haley shook his head, disbelief etched into his
features.  "I just don't understand people sometimes."

	"You've done an excellent job here," Espering told him.  "I won't forget
your name again."  He clicked off and sat in thought for a while, then pulled up
Haley's personnel records.  At a glance he saw that the man was single,
heterosexual, and lived alone.  Nothing problematic had appeared during his
employment background investigation.  When Espering saw how little Haley was
being paid to care for the Loomies, a thankless job at best, Espering put him
and his partner in for twenty percent raises.  According to his file Haley was
also just days away from a birthday.  Espering sent a memo to his assistant to
have one of the new model synthetics shipped over to Haley as a gift as soon as
they started coming off the line.

	Espering stood up and wandered around the room aimlessly.  The thought
of someone willingly having their arms and legs amputated was too disturbing to
even think about.  He'd seen some radical bodmods in his time, but this was too
much.  He couldn't even tell his wife about this, she'd get too upset.  What was
wrong with people today?





	"Mmmmmm, you don't know how good that feels."  Lucia Espering reclined
further on the wide sofa and stretched her arms across its back.

	The sofa ran along one side of the sunken center of the Esperings'
six-sided recreation room.  The fact that the center of the room was a meter
lower than the perimeter gave the women a sense of privacy that they might not
have otherwise had in the big room, which had been the designer's intent.

	There was another couch on the opposite side of the hollow, and two
overstuffed reclining chairs, but most of the women were sprawled on the padded
floor.

	The weekly meeting of the steering committee of the Garshak Women's
Historical Society had gone well and, since their agenda had been limited,
mercifully brief.  None of them enjoyed the actual committee work, but they were
committed to the cause, and it gave them, members of Garshak's female power
elite, another excuse to get together socially.  Women had had a greater role in
civilizing Monsipur and making it the successful technological jewel that it was
today than in perhaps any other colony in the universe, and the Society wanted
that fact acknowledged.  But first they had to research and document these
accomplishments, and before that they had to prioritize their goals.  Hence the
steering committee.

	First there was Lucia Espering, Chairwoman of the Society and its
founding member.  She was the oldest member of the committee, which didn't make
her very happy; however, thanks to her personal medicos, she didn't look the
oldest. 

	Then there was Nadia Karkov, wife of Mikhail Karkov, a friend of
Garvin's and fellow member of the Council of Twelve.  She was very tall, with
wide shoulders and a bony frame, and had straight, jet black hair cut off just
below her ears.  Her lined face with its big pores made her look older than her
fifty years (S).  Her lips had been permdyed bright red for as long as Lucia
could remember.

	Next was Bhatia Rhondell, a stout matronly sort with a huge fortune all
her own, inherited from her mother before her, who had done nothing of note
other than marry a billionaire with a bad heart.  Ludia guessed she was in her
late forties, but a combination of square features and the extra weight she
carried made it hard to tell for sure.  Bhatia had a small double chin and short
wavy hair prematurely going grey, and was the hardiest partier among them.  As
she'd never had to work, her whole adult life had been spent playing.  As the
most jaded of the group, she was always introducing them to the cutting edge of
'recreation'.

	Bunni Mitchell, with her quick wit and sarcastic asides, kept their
meetings from becoming boring.  She was the second youngest of the group, just
forty.  Bunni's husband was some sort of executive high up in one of the speeder
companies, but Lucia didn't know too much about him.  Bunni had shoulder length
wavy black hair and a deep tan, which showed off her brilliant teeth every time
she smiled, which was constantly.  She was built thick, with large breasts, but
wasn't fat.  She wasn't very smart, but she knew what fun was.

	The last member of the committee was the youngest.  Olivia Chan was
barely thirty, an up-and-coming entrepreneur with a successful record as an
inventor of clever household gadgets.  She also had the misfortune to be a
squeaker, although she hated the term and none of the other women used it around
her.  She'd stopped maturing when she was seventeen, which was about as old as
Lucia had ever heard of.  She was skinny as a stick, and couldn't weigh much
more than thirty-five kilos.  Olivia was the only member of the committee that
Lucia hadn't known socially before the inception of the Society.  They'd bumped
into each other while doing research on the history of Monsipur, and after
getting to know her, Lucia had asked her to be on the committee.  Orphaned
nearly at birth, she'd been one of the lucky few Our Lady of Mercy, Garshak's
premier all-female orphanage, run by the Sisters of Mercy, accepted each year. 
Atchison employed nursers retired from the program to breastfeed orphans not old
enough for solid food, and sabbatical Sisters performed every other chore
necessary, from diaper changing to calculus instruction.  Every member of the
teaching staff was highly accredited in their field.  The stories she'd told of
growing up in the orphanage were of particular interest to Lucia, as Garvin was
obsessed with finding out all the secrets of the Order.

	"I didn't even see a boy in person until I was ten or eleven," Olivia
had told her one day.  "I thought everyone lived the way we did.  We all slept
together, in the same big room, the beds in rows, the little ones at one end,
the older girls at the other.  We each had our own, but as soon as the lights
went out we were always two or three to a bed.  The other girls were my family;
we were all orphans, so we stayed together whenever we could.  After lights out
we'd watch the older girls get into bed with each other, and then we'd try to
imitate what we saw them doing.  I never thought it was strange. I never knew
anything different.  Plus, it happened most every night, and nobody ever
punished us, so that meant it was okay, right?  The strictest monitor we had,
when she found girls in bed together, would only send them back to their own
beds and tell them to go to sleep. 

	"I was never very shy, maybe because Our Lady was all I knew, and the
older girls always were pulling me into their beds.  I was a quick learner, and
my hands were always small.  We had one monitor, a sabbatical Sister, whenever
she did her rounds at night and found girls together she would give them
pointers on their technique, or maybe show them a new trick.  We held hands in
class, and had kissing contests on the playground, and none of the Sisters ever
told us to stop.  Later on, I realized the Sisterhood had an ulterior motive in
running the orphanage.  They don't like to take on any novice that's even close
to puberty, the training takes so long, and with what I've heard about their
program -- minimum of ten years of study, the work so intense only one in thirty
who start the program ever get asked to take their vows -- they'd have to have
some sort of prescreening program, to keep their dropout rate from becoming
prohibitive."

	"The orphanage?" Lucia asked.

	Olivia shrugged.  "It's so long ago now, but many of the girls I was in
class with suddenly disappeared and I found out later they were talked into
becoming novices.  I know a few who took their vows, but most I just lost track
of.  I don't think many of them made it through the training."

	The members of the committee, obviously, had not been chosen just for
what they could bring to or do for the Society.  Lucia preferred to surround
herself with people that had similar tastes and interests, and values, and her
husband's investigators had told her all she needed to know about these women,
and more.  She was too old to pretend to be someone she was not, and, thanks to
her husband's decades of diligent work, there were more and more Monnies out
there who thought as she did.  After nearly every monthly meeting, held at the
estate, the women entertained themselves the best way they knew how.

	Lucia arched her back a little against the couch, then reached down to
press the face of Olicia's blonde chattel more firmly against her sex. He knew
what she liked, and opened his mouth a little wider so he could get his morphed
tongue further into Lucia's channel.  Olivia had had his tongue grown until he
could barely close his mouth.  He couldn't really talk -- intelligibly that is
-- anymore, but Olivia wasn't interested in anything he had to say.  He jabbed
his tongue rapidly into Lucia several times, then raised his mouth to suck on
Lucia's big clit.

	"Oh!" Lucia said, and groaned.  She opened her thighs wider and sunk
further into the cushions.  She didn't know how big his tongue actually was,
he'd never stuck it out just to show it off, but inside her hot flesh it felt
six inches long at least.  Her tongi was spread around her on the sofa, the only
clothing any of them still had on.

	Olivia's other piece of property, this one a pretty brunette, was locked
in sixty-nine with Nadia.  Lucia didn't know if his tongue was morphed, but his
penis sure was.  At least a foot long, it was comfortably -- but not excessively
-- thick.  Its entire length was circumferentially ribbed to increase the
pleasure of his partner, and the hole at the end was large enough to accomodate
a finger, if one was so inclined.  Her two pets were what first drew Lucia to
Olivia -- even now, four years after the Chattel Law was passed there were less
than five hundred people on the entire planet who'd signed themselves over, and
most of those were Sabbatical Sisters.  That Olivia had two -- two males, with
low numbers to boot -- had been sure sign there was more to her than met the
eye.

	Bhatia lay on her back on the padded floor, nude, her big belly the
tallest part of her body.  Olivia knelt between her open thighs and worked on
her with a plug-in.  The realistic phallus (sans scrotum) would have looked
large on most women;  on Olivia's tiny frame it looked immense.  The thick shaft
covered her entire pubic mound.

	She worked the synthpenis with skill, her strokes long and firm, while
the fat on Bhatia's body rolled back and forth like waves on a beach.  As
overweight as she was Bhatia still didn't have any breasts to speak of.  She
stayed busy roughly playing with her nipples -- very roughly.

	It was officially a stuffing party, but so far only Bunni had started
playing with tonight's designated filling.  The Buzzballs were bright blue and
five cems in diameter, and each weighed a third of a kilo for ease of retrieval
via gravity.  Lucia had brought a whole bucketful of them, a hundred or more,
all activiated and ready for fun.

	Bunni held one of the medium-sized Buzzballs in her palm and smiled.  It
was set on high, vibrating so fiercely it made her hand tingle.  Buzzballs were
her favorite toy.  She had her own collection at home, at least two of every
size made, but she'd never seen so many of them in one place before.

	Bunni knelt on the rubbery padded floor and lowered the ball between her
legs.  She moved her other hand out of the way and pushed the ball inside
herself, then clapped a hand over her slot to keep it from dropping out.  She
could feel it in her, vibrating, against her and the three or four other balls
she'd pushed up inside herself.  One ball by itself was nice, but two balls
together . . . when they touched the vibrations turned doubly intense,
accompanied by an everpresent ticking clack as the hard-shelled balls rattled
against one another.  Four out of the five women present had PCA's; the stuffing
party would begin in earnest when the rest of them started with the Buzzballs. 
Bunni didn't want to wait.  The others could join her when they were ready.

	The bucket of balls was between her and Bhatia, still on her back
getting corked by Olivia.  Bhatia reached over and grabbed two balls, holding
them to her nipples.  As Olivia kept up her steady thrusting Bhatia had her
first climax of the night, grunting softly and quivering.  Bunni watched her
closely, feeding off her excitement, as she did slow pelvic thrusts and fed two
more balls into herself.

	"Very good," Bhatia murmured.  With a little difficulty she sat up and
Olivia stopped moving, keeping the big phallus deep in her friend.

	"Come here, you, hold these for me a little while."  Bhatia reached over
and grabbed hold of the Loomy's harness and pulled her closer.  The Loomy stared
vacantly past them, hovering motionlessly in her AG backpack a little ways off
the floor.  The Loomy was a brunette, her hair in a short convenience cut.  Her
torso was thick and covered in a thin layer of fat, with big heavy breasts
hanging down to her navel.

	With one hand on her harness for leverage, Bhatia pressed one of the
Buzzballs she was holding against the Loomy's sex.  The ball was a bit large for
the Loomy's unprepared orifice, but with a gob of spit and a little worming
Bhatia was able to push it in.  She could see the heavy ball distending the
mouth of the Loomy's vagina, its gleaming blue surface pushing the labia down
and outward, but the ball was too big to drop out on its own.  Satisfied, Bhatia
pushed the second ball up into the Loomy.  She could hear them clacking and
buzzing just inside her, the blue rounded gleam stretching the Loomy's pink
flesh.

	"What are you doing that for?" Bunni said.  She could barely talk. 
After shoving six or seven balls into herself it felt as if her whole lower half
was vibrating.  Her innards had clenched in orgasm twice already, and she hadn't
even touched her clit yet.

	"I didn't want her to feel left out."  Olivia started moving again and
Bhatia slowly sank back down.  "Speaking of that, come here, Philly."

	The squeaker moved from where he'd been sitting on the couch cushions
and crawled over to Bhatia.  He weighed not quite twenty-five kilos and was
naked as the day he was born nearly thirty years before.  He lived in the house,
spending most of his nights in Lucia's bed.

	Bhatia had a fetish for male squeakers, especially the smaller ones. 
Philly had stopped growing almost twenty years ago, which was just perfect for
her.  His cork was a cute bald little thing, hard and bobbing as he made his way
over to her.  It was ten or twelve cems at the most, and skinny as a finger. 
Bhatia got up on one elbow as he knelt next to her.  She lowered her big head to
his member and swallowed his entire length.  Philly's face lit up in a guileless
grin as she sucked hard on his shaft, her nose pressed up against his stomach.

	His testicles had never descended and had turned cancerous about ten
years earlier, so they'd been removed.  He'd left his bag empty, opting against
the little egg-shaped implants.  Bhatia loved the feel of his little scrotum,
all soft and squishy inside.  She opened her mouth up a little wider and
swallowed that too, sucking it right along with his penis.  Even squeakers with
their balls didn't produce what could be called 'normal' ejaculate.  Philly'd
been told it was bland, thin and almost tasteless, not at all like adult jelly. 
Between that and the small size of squeaker organs, a lot of older women
discovered a newfound interest in oral sex.

	Nadia disentangled herself from the brunette, her chin and neck shiny
with her own saliva.  She was one of those rare women who enjoyed performing
oral sex, and whatever skills she lacked she made up for with enthusiasm.  She
spotted Philly's tight little butt flexing as Bhatia sucked on him and smiled. 
She moved close and ran her hands over his two smooth, hard cheeks, then spit
onto two fingers and slid them into his crack.  Philly groaned as her fingers
penetrated him, and he leaned forward slightly as she greased him up with spit.

	Nadia could hardly keep her hands off him.  A lot of women, especially
the older ones, were like that, constantly touching him, holding him, enfolding
his small body in theirs.  Philly loved it.

	She spit on her fingertips again and rubbed it onto the head of her
cock.  It was a small thing, only a little bigger than Philly's, but on her
large frame it looked tiny, more like an overlong clitoris.  She'd had it for
about six years, and it was no plug-in.  She'd paid the ridiculous fees the
medicos had been charging at the time for the male cell implantation/hormone
treatments, and was outraged that since then the cost for the procedure had
dropped ten percent every year.  However, she couldn't be more pleased with the
result -- her own penis, just the size she'd requested, along with testicles to
complete the traditional look.  Everything functioned perfectly, although of
course the estrogen levels in her bloodstream kept her sperm quite sterile.  Her
feminine folds were still there, hidden behind the small wrinkled scrotum when
she was upright; there was only so much room down there, something the medicos
had warned her about when she'd elected to have the "plumbing job".  Olivia's
brunette was quite adept at deepthroating her shaft while fingering her folds.

	Nadia pressed up against Philly's small buttocks and he felt the head of
her cock between his cheeks.  He'd been Lucia's "guest" at the estate for over a
year, so he knew enough to grease up before her meetings.  His sphincter was as
tight as a nine year old boy's -- an impressive feat considering all the use it
got.  Lucia's had her medicos tighten him up twice a year free of charge, part
of their arrangement.  Nadia had to really fight to open him up, even with her
small tool.

	Philly let out a loud groan as his tight ring of muscle finally expanded
enough for Nadia's cockhead to push inside.  Bhatia sensed his excitement and
sucked harder on his genitals.  Philly hugged her big head as Nadia slowly sunk
her length into him and pressed her body against his.  She was so much larger
than him that her body eclipsed and enfolded his.  Nadia weighed over twice what
he did and was twice as strong.  She slid her arms around his soft skinny body
and hugged him, chin resting on top of his head.  As she began pumping her hips
he started groaning and whimpering in his little voice.  His small body was
almost lost between the two big women.  Bhatia was sucking furiously at his
flesh while Nadia worked her thin shaft back and forth in his tight greased
hole.  Nadia was hugging his body fiercely, and Bhatia was gripping his thighs
in both her hands for better leverage -- he couldn't have escaped if he'd tried. 
But why would he?

	Philly had discovered years ago that he liked being used as a sex toy by
women twice his size.  The more roughly they handled him, the more they tossed
him around and had their way with him, the more he liked it.  And being a kept
man was a lot easier than working in the sex clubs.  Lucia fiddled with him
nearly every other day, and then there were her parties at least once a week
where bubbly women practically fought over him.  Lucia paid him a healthy
monthly stipend which he barely touched, since room and board were provided free
of charge.  He knew eventually Lucia would tire of him, it was inevitable, but
he was pretty sure he'd have another benefactor lined up by then.  The women in
Lucia's social circle all seemed to have at least one attendant squeaker, and
rotated through their stock about once a year.  Philly fully expected to be
living in a posh penthouse somewhere downtown this time next year, providing
entertainment for another member of high society.

	PCA's seemed to be all the rage among society women, which would have
worried him if he hadn't known better.  After all, even large male organs
disappeared in the huge caverns the medicos were now carving into the jaded
rich.  But he still remembered the one party -- orgy, really -- where Lucia and
Bhatia and half a dozen other 'society' women had spent the night playing with
the more than twenty male squeakers Lucia'd rounded up.  It was to celebrate the
fact that Lucia had finally -- after almost five months of daily work with
hand-held medical probes  and custom-made toys each night before bed --
stretched her urethra large enough to accomodate the small tools of squeakers. 
Sure, she could have used dermal elastomers (the topical creams were now
available in bulk tubs) and been ready in minutes, but when the cream wore off
she'd be back to square one.

	Philly had thought the whole idea perhaps the most bizarre he'd ever
heard of, when Bhatia brought it to Lucia's attention.  But Bhatia had explained
it was an ancient method of birth control that dated back to well before Christ. 
At that point Bhatia'd already stretched herself out by hand and convinced a
bunch of her friends to do the same.  By hand was better than with the help of a
medico or the use of cream elastomers, she said, because the feelings would be
more intense.  Both women used heavy doses of medico-administered subdermal
elastomers to keep looking half their age.  Those elastomers could do amazing
things and Philly wondered if they were the reason Lucia and her friends were
able to stretch themselves so quickly without complications.  He doubted normal
women would be able to stretch themselves out so quickly, if at all.

	At the start of the party Lucia'd been so tight Philly'd needed a bucket
of lube just to get inside her piss hole, a channel of flesh three or four
inches long running just beneath her pubic bone.  She'd laid on her stomach on a
low ottoman, so her ass would be at the right height, usually taking on two
squeakers at a time, front and back.  By first light her urethra had accomodated
so many thrusting squeaker cocks a normal man could have fit himself inside it. 
Now a three-year veteran of the practice, Lucia's urethra was permanently
stretched large enough to accomodate a normal man.  While she still was a little
too loose for Philly's liking, she really enjoyed him scooping her, especially
when his cockhead popped back and forth through her urethral sphincter.  That
was an unexpected development; the morning after that first party, when Lucia'd
finally staggered into the bathroom to relieve herself, she discovered the full
feeling in her bladder wasn't due to urine so much as it was semen.  Thirty
times or so over the course of the evening squeakers had ejaculated in her, and
even the least endowed of them was long enough that the head of his cock was
past the tight ring of her urethral sphincter, inside the bladder itself, as he
thrust and spurted.  That sphincter clamped shut as soon as they withdrew,
trapping almost all of the seed inside.  Bhatia came to call it "putting money
in her purse".

	Bhatia rolled from her side onto her knees and elbows, never taking her
mouth off Philly.  Olivia backed off as Bhatia rotated her body, then scooted up
again to bury her juice covered plug-in in Bhatia's slack rectum.  The big
phallus slid in easily, Bhatia's enhanced sphincter eagerly sucking in the thick
tool.  Olivia's plug-in was the latest model and custom fit to her body -- it
was molded seamlessly to her mound, and she could bend it backwards to her
sternum without showing a seam or popping it out of the PNP socket.  It looked
and felt so much like an actual penis, albeit larger, that she'd had people ask
her if was real, an organic implant.  She could orgasm from the sensations
transferred to her body by the synthpenis' neurosensors; gentle, rolling
climaxes, rippling through her whole pelvis.  Her vagina would clench slightly
as the waves of pleasure ran through her, but the plug-in orgasms only seemed to
increase her excitement, not lessen it.  She glanced over and saw her two pets
were unoccupied and directed the men to begin fellating one another.  The women
in the steering committee always found the sight of two men together very
stimulating.

	With her PCA Bhatia's back channel was only slightly tighter than her
front.  Olivia grabbed her hips and started fucking the big woman in earnest,
reveling in the feel of her wet tunnel.  The artificially well-endowed squeaker
had to climb up off her knees into a crouch behind Bhatia to stay with her -
once Bhatia rolled onto her hands and knees Olivia was just too short to stay on
her own knees behind her, even though Bhatia pulled her knees up to her chest
(sinking closer to the floor) so the plug-in would go in deeper.  Bhatia
responded with rhythmic high pitched grunts, muffled by the cock and scrotum in
her mouth.  Her back was as wide and solid as a desk.  Olivia hunched over her
and thrust fast and hard and rough; Bhatia liked it rough, and her enhanced rear
passage was big enough to take the plug-in with Olivia's hand wrapped around it.

	Sweat dripping off her nose, Olivia looked across Bhatia at Philly as
she banged her big plug-in back and forth.  Wrapped up in Nadia's long arms the
small man grinned at her, and she had to grin back.  Bhatia's big head and
shoulders blocked Olivia's view of Philly from the chest down.  His hands were
clasped around the back of her head, more for support than anything else as she
sucked and grunted and bucked.

 	Bunni watched the flesh pile writhing just a meter away.  The two
squeakers wrapped around Bhatia big form looked like nursing infants clinging to
their mother.  She still knelt on the floor, knees spread and both hands clasped
over her groin.  Her whole body was quivering, and moisture seeped out between
her fingers.

	Lucia slid across the floor and gently pushed Bunni over onto her back. 
As soon as Bunni moved her hands two Buzzballs slipped out of her and rolled
across the floor.  Lucia could see the blue circle of another one just inside
Bunni's fleshy portal.

	"Starting without me?" Lucia said with a smile.  She slid her fingers
into Bunni's moist folds and removed the ball only to see another one slide into
view.  "How many do you have in here?"  Her folds were mahogany brown and
unusually wrinkled -- from stretching, not age.

	"I don't know, six or seven," Bunni said.  She propped a pillow under
her head and pulled her knees up, breathing heavily.

	"Well, that's not going to do," Lucia said.  She deftly removed another
ball from Bunni's oversize vagina.  "We have to properly count them if we're
going to have a contest."  Lucia pulled two more balls from between Bunni's
legs.  After that, no more dropped into view.

	"Is that it?"

	Bunni concentrated.  Her whole pelvis tingled from the recently departed
balls.  Her insides were raging hot and felt as wet as an ocean, but she
detected no vibrations inside her and shook her head.

	"All right then.  Now we can start.  You hold the record, if you
remember.  Let's see if we can't break it.  You just relax, I'll do the work."

	Lucia grabbed a tube of Versalube and coated her right hand and forearm,
then began reinserting the Buzzballs into her fellow committee member one by
one.  After the original six she began taking the balls from the bucket, quickly
coating them with lube before pushing them into Bunni's gaping pink-rimmed slit. 
Lucia had to hold her hand over Bunni's loose folds to keep the balls from
spilling out -- with her exceptionally well executed PCA, the opening in her
pelvis was as long as Lucia's hand from base of palm to tip of ring finger.  As
she lay on her back her cleft began at her domed pubic bone and ran all the way
down to the floor.  Her loose labia hung down and obscured her tiny puckered
asshole -- she'd left that alone, worried about incontinence if she had it
augmented.

	"That's ten," Lucia announced.  With her left hand palm-down atop
Bunni's tan mound Lucia pushed her right fist into Bunni's wet flesh.  It was
smooth and warm against the back of her hand and forearm, with just a hint of
soft fluttery ripples of flesh just inside her labia, and then she widened out. 
Lucia pushed her hand in farther, now in the man-made section of Bunni's cavity. 
She could feel the Buzzballs vibrating against her hand and wrist as she moved
her arm slowly left and right inside Bunni.  She wanted to make sure there were
no dry spots and to gently stretch Bunni's cavity prior to inserting more balls. 
Bunni twitched and groaned and drooled, the orgasms rolling over her in regular
waves. 

	Cells taken from Bunni's own vaginal walls had been grown in biolabs
while other medicos had spent several days replacing her natural organs with
tank-grown bio-miniatures.  Another two days were taken up replacing her pelvis
with a new one made of Flex with radically improved internal geometry, then
reattaching all her muscles and ligaments to it.  Then they'd grafted the huge
sheets of freshly grown vaginal tissue back onto Bunni, lining the huge cavity
they'd created in her torso.  She'd had to spend nearly two weeks submerged
chest-deep in a special saline bath, to keep all the new flesh inside her wet
and healthy while the grafts took hold.  Before releasing her, the medicos
verified all her new one-tenth-size organs were working properly, then had
rolled a big piece of equipment up to her bed that looked like a black spider on
a stick.  This was known as The Stretcher among hospital staff.  All the
protruberances that looked like rubber coated tree branches were probes that
Bunni soon found inside herself, checking to make sure her new vaginal wall
wasn't freefloating and had expanded completely to fill the available space. 
There had been some pain as the machine tested the size of her new vagina,
stretching her abdomen until it looked like she'd swallowed a cubic meter of
air, but the medicos had assured her that was only temporary.  Lucia had gone
through the same procedure, although her hospital stay had been longer as she'd
had her backchannel improved also.  Externally the women appeared unchanged,
except for their bulging mounds.  Lucia compared it to wearing a man's
protective cup, or a codpiece, that's how much more her new pubic mound stuck
out from her body.

	Lucia pushed in further and could see the imprint of her knuckles above
Bunni's navel as she curled her fist upward.  Here and there a faint bulge
betrayed the location of a Buzzball, happily vibrating away.

	"Oh God," Bunni moaned.  Her flesh contracted around Lucia's forearm as
she climaxed, her sixth of the night.  Bunni was always good for at least ten at
a stuffing party.

	"You seem loose enough," Lucia said, curled over Bunni's stomach.  Her
arm was buried to the elbow and if she backed off and straightened it she could
have pushed it in farther.  The mouth of Bunni's sex still was loose around
Lucia's forearm, but not loose enough for a ball to slip out.  Bunni's flesh
would've been two or three times as elastic with a heavy application of topical
skin elastomer, but that would have been cheating.

       Having her arm in another woman got Lucia almost as hot as having another
woman's arm in her.  She could feel her own loose folds mashed against the
padded floor, wet and sloppy with her excitement.  That was one of only two
imperfections she'd found with her PCA.  With over half a square meter of
vaginal wall inside her body, when she got bubbly, it rained. 

	Instead of touching herself Lucia moved her free hand up to Bunni's
breasts and played with her nipples for a few minutes.  Lucia opened and closed
her hand several times, careful not to pinch any flesh, and watched Bunni's
stomach rise and fall.  Bunni was panting, her mouth open slightly, tiny beads
of sweat at her temples.  Her arms were raised over her head, gripping the edge
of the couch, as if she was afraid of letting go. 

	Lucia slowly pulled her arm out and it made the loud wet sucking sound
familiar to PCA owners, the only other problem with the procedure.  PCA's held a
lot of air, and had a tendency to open up while walking, only to empty loudly
and wetly as soon as the owner bent over or sat down.    She wiggled her fingers
in the cool air, her fingertips puckered from Bunni's salty secretions.

	"You've got lots of room left," she assured Bunni, holding a hand over
her gaping labia while pulling the bucket of balls closer.  She wiggled her
fingers a little and shook her hand around -- all the Buzzballs pressed against
her arm had left it tingling and unresponsive.

	Slowly, one by one, Lucia fed eight more balls into Bunni.  By the sixth
one their rounded shapes were becoming visible inside Bunni's torso, distending
her abdomen.  After the eighth Lucia plugged Bunni's opening with a fist and
with her free hand massaged Bunni's swollen belly.  She kneaded her soft flesh
from just above her pubic bone up to the notch in her ribcage.  She could feel
the Buzzballs through Bunni's skin and stomach muscles and did her best to
smooth them into an even rounded group centered as high up on her body as
possible.  Her cavity was huge -- it might even extend up into her ribcage,
Lucia wasn't sure.

	Bunni was nearly incapable of speech or coherent thought.  Her whole
body quivered and shook, her vagina spasmodically clenching around Lucia's fist
in a continuous orgasm.  Clear ejaculate leaked from her urethra, adding to the
puddle already between her legs.

	"You're doing good, you're doing good," Lucia whispered to her.  She
leaned forward and stroked Bunni's sweat-soaked hair.  The vibrations from
eighteen Buzzballs were so strong that Lucia could feel them through Bunni's
foot pressed against her thigh, and could actually see Bunni's breasts
quivering, her nipples dark and painfully erect.

	Two more balls slid into her without resistance, but as Lucia went to
push in a third she could feel it was up against the mass of balls inside Bunni. 
Bunni's cavity would stretch, but she was almost at her limit.  Lucia kept
pressure against the ball and after a minute it slid in.  Whether the other
balls shifted or Bunni's cavity walls had loosened slightly she couldn't tell.

	Bunni's belly was now greatly swollen and distended, looking like it
belonged on a woman six or seven months pregnant.  Lucia pressed another ball
into Bunni's gaping slit.  It only sunk halfway between her folds before it met
resistance.  Lucia kept pressure on it and with her other hand massaged Bunni's
hard belly.  Bunni's sex and the floor under her bottom were as wet as if
someone had doused her with a bucket of water.  The Buzzball kept trying to
squirt out of her fingers.

	Bunni's mouth was open and a little drool had escaped.  Her eyelids kept
fluttering as if she was going to pass out.  Her breathing was fast and shallow,
her whole body covered in sweat.  She kept arching her back in response as wave
after orgasmic wave rolled through her body.  She was beyond conscious thought,
incapable of speech.

	After several minutes massaging her hard, rounded belly, keeping
constant pressure on the last ball, Lucia finally felt the tension ease inside
Bunni.  The ball disappeared with a pop, going in and up to wedge against the
underside of Bunni's pubic bone against the nerve bundle that used to be called
the "G" spot.  It provoked an immediate reaction.

	"Gggkkk!"  Bunni twitched and jerked her knees back slightly as a
massive, clenching orgasm roared through her.  A glistening stream of ejaculate
shot from between her legs and splattered against Lucia's chest.  Toes curling,
Bunni's back arched off the floor.  She gasped and gargled, snot running from
her nose.  Lucia clamped her palm against Bunni's slimy labia to keep the balls
inside, and watched with something akin to awe.

	Bunni bucked and jerked for a full minute, then lay on the floor,
twitching.  Juice ran out of her like a tap had been left on inside her abdomen. 
The balls kept happily buzzing away, sounding like a distant hornets nest as
they clicked together inside her.  Finally, after several minutes had passed,
Bunni's eyes opened halfway and seemed to focus.

	"I think that's it," Lucia told her.  "Twenty-two, same as before.  I
think that's all you're going to get, unless you have a lung removed."

	"Amazing," Nadia said in between her little grunts.  The display had
left her hoarse with passion. 

	The rest of the small group was clustered around Lucia and Bunni after
finishing up in a multi-orgasmic frenzy.  Bhatia and Olivia sat to one side,
faces flushed from their exertions.  Nadia watched from her stomach, propped up
on her elbows.  Philly was on top of her, eagerly thrusting his skinny tool into
her ass.  Nadia was the only full-grown woman there without enlarged cavities,
and Philly's small cock felt anything but when it was in her rectum.  He wasn't
capable of ejaculation, but that didn't mean he couldn't experience orgasm. 
With Nadia and Bhatia doubleteaming him front and back he'd come two or three
times, but (perhaps) because there was no real ejaculation he didn't lose his
erection.  Nadia's ass was nice and tight around his organ, and he'd pump her
for as long as she could take it.  He had his arms wrapped around her and
clutched her small breasts possessively.

	Bunni's eyes slowly moved left, then right, and she licked her lips. 
"Give me a second," she whispered.  "Then get ready."  She blinked a few times,
took a couple of slow, deep breaths, and blew out all the air in her lungs in a
long rattling wheeze.  Lucia immediately felt the pressure ease against the hand
she had across Bunni's labia.

	Lucia pushed in one ball, then two, then three.  She was gently easing a
fourth in, and was pretty sure it would go, when Bunni, turning red, had to take
a breath.  As her lungs rapidly filled with air there was a pause, then a string
of Buzzballs shot from between her legs.  Her humming body immediately convulsed
in a new cascade of orgasms as the balls rolled around the floor, bouncing off
the women and into the furniture.  As her inner muscles clenched in pleasure two
more balls squirted out before Lucia could put her palm down to block the exit. 
All the women exploded in laughter as the balls shot out of Bunni and rolled
around madly.

	"Twenty-five," Lucia said appreciatively.  "Just amazing.  Let's make
sure we find all of them or someone'll be likely to fall and break a leg. 
Philly?  As soon as you can bear to pull out of there, why don't you help Bunni? 
Your arms are just the right size, we don't want to leave any balls wedged
behind her lungs."

	"She wouldn't notice for a week," Bhatia said, looking down at Bunni,
who had faded back into semi-consciousness.  It reminded her of the time she'd
coated her urethra in elastomer so it could accommodate passage of the same size
buzzballs.  Once inside her bladder their clicking and buzzing, on top of the
arm corkscrewing in her ass, had sent her into orgasmic convulsions that only
ended when she lost consciousness.

	"I'll be next," Lucia said with excitement.  She doubted she'd be able
to contain twenty balls, even with all the stretching she'd been doing in her
spare time, but it would certainly be interesting to find out.

	"There's two still in the Loomy," Bhatia told Olivia, who was on her
hands and knees peering under an ottoman.  Bhatia took a second look at the slim
eurasian squeaker on all fours, the big veiny cock curving down between her
thin, shapely thighs to just touch the floor, looking for all the world like a
third leg, and felt the wet heat come flooding back between her legs.

	Lucia looked over at the Loomy, within arm's reach the whole time but
forgotten in the excitement.  The blue gleam of a Buzzball caught Lucia's eye,
bulging the flesh of the limbless girl's sex.  The ball looked ready to drop out
of the Loomy; Lucia could see almost its entire diameter.

	Lucia reached underneath the hovering Loomy to remove the ball and to
her surprise discovered her sex was dripping wet.  Lucia lifted her eyes to the
limbless, brainless girl's face and for just a second though she saw something
in her eyes.  Something like . . . .

	It was nothing, Lucia.  Of course she'd be wet, she's had Buzzballs in
her for an hour.  That's why her clit's hard as a pebble and her nipples erect. 
Her body's not broken, just her brain.  Still, it unnerved her.

	"Olivia," Lucia said, " why don't you send your two pets over here. 
With that AG backpack she's wearing I bet they can make an interesting looking
sandwich."

	As the two men moved close and began spinning the paleskinned torso
around in midair, trying to find the right position, Lucia lay back in
anticipation.  But while the rest of the group finished collecting the Buzzballs
inside and outside of Bunni, Lucia couldn't help but  keep glancing over at the
Loomy, trying to catch another glimpse of the expression she'd thought she'd
seen.

                                                     CHAPTER NINETEEN



	Berto opened his eyes and blinked several times.  The faint light
shining in from the living room through the still-open doorway lit up the
bedroom ceiling.  He glanced right and left, at the two women in bed with him.

	Gilly's white body shone in the dim room.  She was curled up on her side
facing him, breasts starting to get full again.  She'd drunk another two liters
of water before falling asleep.  Berto figured that meant that over a third of
all the fluids she drank became milk.  Amazing.  Asleep, she looked like a
little girl, innocent and beautiful.

	Sam was face down on the bed, head half under a pillow, the sheets
covering her to the waist.  In the faint light the sharply defined muscles of
her back made her look like a sculpture, an idealized vision instead of an
actual one.  Her hair was a black halo around her head, which was turned away
from him.  She was breathing heavily, almost snoring.

	Carefully he sat up, not wanting to disturb the two tired beauties.  He
was tired too, krikes was he tired, but two things had awakened him - a huge
thirst, and an uncomfortable pressure on his bladder.  He scooted forward, off
the edge of the bed, and stood up.  Neither female so much as twitched.

	He had no idea what time it'd been when they'd all finally fallen
asleep.  Late.  He doubted if artillery fire would wake Sam; not after the night
she'd put them through.  Sam had been like a professor, instructing her
surprisingly inexperienced roommate on the finer points of sex.  Berto had
enjoyed every minute of the fellatio workshop, and was glad Sam was there to
keep him relaxed and moving slow and easy as he introduced Gilly to anal sex. 
Once she got used to the feel of him in her terrifically tight ass she really
enjoyed the experience.  He'd popped at least one X-Tend, maybe more; the night
had gone by in a bit of a blur. 

       Neither woman was a dahlia, technically, and they didn't really go after
each other independently of him, but neither had they shied away at the touch of
female flesh.  After Gilly had joined them he'd scooped Sam two or three more
times, and done Gilly twice, including her virginal anal experience.  Mostly the
women just played with each other's breasts; whoever he wasn't scooping would
fondle whoever he was, but when Gilly displayed some curiosity Sam didn't waste
a second in spreading her legs to let Gilly taste woman for the first time.  For
a long time after that Berto didn't need the X-Tend.

       Berto shut off the annoying light first.  He didn't need it to see, even
though the apartment was a cave with the blinds closed, and headed into the
bathroom to relieve himself.  He didn't bother putting on any clothes.  In the
kitchen he found a container of juice that Gilly had left on the counter
half-finished.

       Standing at the counter in the darkness, he could hear the faint sounds
of the building outside the apartment.  No matter how soundproof the landlords
always claimed they were, he'd never been in an apartment where he couldn't hear
something.  Gilly's building, this late at night, mostly made it's own noises -
creaks and tics and groans of the superstructure shedding the heat of the day. 
The applause and laughter of a studio audience, very faint, coming from
someone's I-Vid . . . above and behind Gilly's apartment, if he had to guess,
echoing through the air ducts.  And across the hall, even fainter, at the very
edge of audibility, the shuddering cries of a woman in the throes of ecstasy. 
Whether it was live or a sex-vid he couldn't tell.

       He'd just finished the juice when there was a very audible Clink! outside
the apartment door.  Berto turned his head just in time to see the front door
slide open and figures enter the apartment.  Caught totally by surprise, Berto
stood frozen just long enough for his eyes to register that the four people wore
medium-weight body armor with no visible insignia, helmets, and two of them
carried shock sticks.  The other two held small gas canisters.

       Berto launched himself over the counter.  He was still airborne when his
heel connected with a helmet and the figure toppled to the floor.  Before the
other three even realized what was happening Berto twisted a shock stick away
from one of them, reversed it, and expertly jammed it into the gap in his armor
at the base of the figure's throat.  When he hit the trigger the man bucked so
hard the stick was wrenched out of Berto's hand.

       The two remaining figures finally realized they were in trouble.  One
lunged at Berto with his stick while the other activated his canister.  Berto
knocked the stick away and fractured the man's helmet faceplate with an elbow
strike.  The misty gas filled the room as Berto wrestled with the stick wielder. 
He could see wide eyes behind the spiderwebbed, supposedly unbreakable helmet
glass.  Berto headbutted the man, hard, and his faceplate went opaque.  He
pushed the blinded attacker away and spun to face the fourth intruder, still
holding the spraying canister.. The gas canister seemed to be this person's only
weapon, and he backed up as Berto leaned forward, as if he was going to leap. 
Instead, he landed hard on his face, finally overcome by the gas.

       The armored figure shut off the gas and watched the only other member of
the team still standing fall over, as the gas seeped in through his damaged
faceplate.

       "Krikes, what a debacle."  The voice, while muffled inside the helmet,
was definitely female.  She looked around the room at her three wounded
comrades, and Berto.  It finally dawned on her that he was nude.  "Now what the
hell am I supposed to do?"

      

      

       Berto awoke in a cell carved out of solid rock.  Pale orange rock, with
veins crisscrossing it.  He had a headache, a bad one, and a strange taste in
his mouth.  He'd been gassed in bootcamp and the taste of it brought back
long-forgotten memories.  He tried to sit up, and learned that not lonely was he
in a narrow metal-framed bunk bolted to the rock wall, but his wrists were
locked to the bunk's frame by magnetic shackles.  And he was still nude.  He
fell back onto the mattress with a groan.

       "Why am I not surprised?" he said to the ceiling.

       "I don't know.  Why aren't you surprised?"  Berto turned his head and saw
the two men standing nearby, watching him.  One was clad in an expensive-looking
and very flashy tongi, the other in a blue uniform of some sort.  Berto glanced
around the rock room.  Other than the bunk, and an exposed sink and toilet, it
was empty.  He could see part of a hallway if he craned his neck far enough, but
no signs indicating where he might be.  He recognized the magfield slots in the
wall near the corridor, though, and felt the collar around his neck.

       "You get attacked by four men with stun-sticks and gas, waking up
somewhere strange isn't really a surprise.  I should've known something like
this would happen, things were too perfect.  Where am I, by the way?"

       "You seem awfully relaxed for someone in so much trouble," Espering
observed.  "And attacked?  From what I hear you're the one that attacked them."

       Berto laughed.  "Even I can tell you don't believe that.  If this had
been my idea I would've put some pants on first."

       That got Espering laughing.  Whatever else this man was, he was a man, in
the truest sense of the word.  They knew who Berto was, of course.  His name,
his age, everything.  It was all encoded into the wristband he'd been wearing
since he cleared Decontam.

       "Why don't you explain to us exactly what you were doing in a restricted
area of the Torbor Building?" Van derMeer asked him.

       Berto frowned at him.  "I can't say that I've ever been in the Torbor
Building, much less in a restricted area of it."

       "You entered the building via a magrail train," Van derMeer told him. 
"You proceeded straight down to the G-Milk recovery room, then from there you
got onto a security elevator and rode it up to a restricted area."  They'd
retraced his steps with the help of the building's networked alarm and sensor
systems, which kept track of all movements inside the facility.  He was easy -
the chip in his wristband acted like a homing beacon.

       "Oh, the Dairy building," Berto said.  "I didn't know it was the Torbor
anything.  That elevator wasn't marked restricted, at least not in Standard, and
I don't think in Monny either.  I got a memdump, but my grasp of your local
dialect is a bit shaky.  I told it to go to mezzanine level, but it took me all
the way up to the twenty-seventh floor, I think.  Then it wouldn't go back down,
and none of the other elevators seemed to be working.  I had to wander down a
couple of hallways before I found a working elevator."

       The elevator he'd ridden in had been malfunctioning, they'd confirmed
that.  It was posted OUT OF ORDER, too; however, that sign had been covering the
"AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY" sign.  None of the other elevators on 27 responded
to him because he didn't punch the required code into the control panel.

       "Who are you, anyway?" Berto finally asked.

       "This is Charles Van derMeer, my chief of security," Espering said, then
introduced himself.  "It was my building in which you were trespassing."

       "Not on purpose," Berto said defensively.  "I was lost."  He paused a
second, then said, "Is there some particular reason why I feel compelled to tell
you everything?"

       "You've been given a shot of TruthTeller," Van derMeer told him.

       "Ah, I thought it might be something like that.  What about Gilly and
Sam?"

       "Who?"

       Van derMeer leaned in toward his boss.  "The women whose apartment he was
in."

       "In your position I would hardly be worrying about them," Espering
observed.  In truth that was the only thing his security people had managed to
do right.  Calisa had filled their bedroom with sleepgas before they'd stirred
from the bed.  "Who do you work for?" Espering asked.

       "Self-employed.  Part of a partnership.  We long-haul delicate items and
charge confiscatory rates."  Which jibed with the information they had, but
Espering refused to believe that it was mere chance that got this man to the
27th floor.

       "Were you spying in my building?  For one of my competitors perhaps?"

       "No.  Is that the problem?"

       "What did you see when you were on the twenty-seventh floor?"

       "Not much.  Looked like the personnel quarters for your security people."

       "Did you see anyone?"

       "Well, yes.  I knew I was lost, and I heard voices from an open door, so
I stuck my head in.  Two men - your men, I presume - were just about to have sex
with a woman, so I didn't think it was a good time to interrupt.  I kept going
down the hall, turned a corner, found a stairwell, went down a floor or two, and
found an elevator that worked."

       "Describe the woman."

       Berto shrugged.  "Brunette, maybe twenty-five.  Pretty.  Six, maybe seven
months pregnant.  She was nude," he told them.  "So were the men.  Oh, and she
had a plug-in, or something.  Male genitalia," he explained.  "Cock and balls. 
Wasn't expecting to see that on a pregnant woman."

       The two men looked at one another.  "What does that mean to you?"
Espering asked him.

       "What, that she had a penis?  Well, at the time I assumed she was wearing
a plug-in.  Prosthesis.  I've heard about them, but never saw one before.  I
hear a lot of women on Monsipur have them.  Dahlias, I assume.  Bulls or studs,
whatever they call themselves.  But then I heard someone mention that they can
actually grow real ones on women now.  I guess they take a few cells and plant
them in the right area, like a seed, so maybe what I saw was actually real, I
don't know."

       "That's it."

       "Yes.  None of the other doors were open.  Not that I saw, at least."

       Espering turned to his security chief.  "Are you sure the TruthTeller is
working?"

       Van derMeer nodded.  "Oh yeah.  He'll tell us anything we want to know. 
We just have to ask the right questions."

       "All right," Espering said, "then I want to know just how it is than an
unarmed, naked man can put down three men in armor, in an apartment so dark
their SID goggles hardly worked?"

       "It was only medium-weight armor," Berto told him.  "Half-shell isn't a
problem if you know what the hell you're doing.  Krikes, you get a stun-stick,
or a pry bar, wedged into the neck joint?  You can pop off that chest plate like
that," and he snapped his fingers.  "If I wasn't so out of shape I wouldn't have
had to take a breath before I took your last guy out."

       "You were in the military?" Espering asked.

       "Yes Sir.  League Marines."  They'd already established that he was a LM
veteran, but that fact didn't explain his success.  When Calisa had brought him
in, still unconscious from the gas, and told Van derMeer what had happened, he
ran Berto through a bio-scan.  And found the man's body had been tweaked just up
to the very legal edge of the Accords.  Not only was he twice as strong and fast
as a normal man, among other things he could damn near see in the dark.

       "What assignment?"  That was the important question. 

	"Seventh Recon after two years in the infantry," Berto told them.

	"Seventh?" Van derMeer repeated, just to make sure he'd heard it right.

	"Yes."

	"When?"

	"From '14 to '17."

	"Fourteen to . . . "  Van derMeer rubbed his chin and looked at his
employer.

	"That's a Special Forces outfit, isn't it?" Espering asked him.  "I've
heard the name before, but I don't remember in what context." 

       Van derMeer continued rubbing his chin.  "When the feral legions
surrounded the colony on Blight it was a company of the 7th, there training,
that fought their way into the settlement and then defended it until
reinforcements arrived.  That was in '16."

       Espering's eyes widened.  Everyone had heard of the Blight siege.  If
even half the stories were true . . . .  "Were you on Blight?" he asked Berto.

       "Unfortunately."

       "Was it as bad as the stories portrayed?"

       "We were outnumbered thirty to one, stuck in a position that was
impossible to defend properly, surrounded by well-trained lunatics that took no
prisoners.  Our closest reinforcements were three weeks out and we were already
tired and half out of ammo from training.  Of the thousand or so colonists,
seventeen made it out alive.  Our company suffered a hundred percent casualties,
eighty-five percent KIA.  By the end there wasn't a building left standing in
the city.  So yes, it was as bad as they said."

	"But the damage you wrought . . . unless that was exaggerated?"

	"Their twelve thousand dead won't bring back my friends."

	"No, I don't suppose they will."  The two men exchanged looks, then
turned and slowly moved out of sight down the corridor, talking in low tones. 
Berto stared after them for a few seconds, then let his head thump back down on
the mattress.

	"I hate my job," he said to no one in particular.  Several minutes later
his magnetic bracelets were remotely released and he sat up on the bunk.  He
rubbed his wrists and looked around his new home, wondering just how long he'd
be there.  He glanced out into the corridor and for the first time noticed there
was another cell there, and it was occupied as well.  He stared, and cocked his
head to the side a bit and stared some more.

	"You have got to be kidding me."

                                  CHAPTER TWENTY



	Espering strode into his wife's dressing room, rubbing the sleep out of
his eyes and yawning.  It had been a mistake even trying to go back to sleep
after being up all night tracking down and then interrogating that spacer.  He'd
swallowed a Zip! when he'd climbed out of bed, but the stimulant hadn't started
working yet.

	Lucia was in the shower, he could hear the roar of the nozzles inside
the stall, even though the stall was around a corner and ten meters away.  The
dressing room connected to his wife's bedroom via a short, wide hallway.  He
could see a lump under the tousled bedcovers, but just who or what was making
the lump he hadn't a clue.

	With a sigh he sank into one of the overstuffed, faux antique chairs
dotted around the room.  The place was ridiculously huge for a dressing room. 
There was space for half a dozen chairs, a loveseat, a couch, a massage table,
and two P-pods, not to mention the dozen or so wardrobes and bureaus in addition
to the built-in closets that lined two walls. 

	With bleary eyes he looked around, unconsciously registering the custom
touches rendered here and there at the behest of his wife.  The custom moldings
at the corners of the ceiling, the handwoven rug, the handmixed tints used to
color the walls.  Also, both end-tables featured built-in lube dispensers, and a
greasy-looking blue buzzball the size of his fist sat silent on the faux-wood
surface near his elbow, in a shallow dish to keep it from rolling away.  There
were mirrors all over, some retractable, some fixed.  Looking into one told him
what he already knew.  He was tired.

	"So what's my schedule like this morning?"

	Mika, his personal assistant who had been hovering around him ever since
he'd climbed out of bed, moved to his side and looked down at her ever-present
notepad.

	"At half past eight you have a conference call with the Council.  You'll
be talking with the trade representatives of Bella Orange."

	"Right.  They've got cheap produce, and have a shortage of bio-tech
components."

	"In a nutshell.  I'll have a summary of everyone's position on this for
you to look at before we hook in.  At nine-thirty you're talking to Mayor
Alhouri about the parade.  I believe he's come up with a few new ideas, and
would like some input."

	"And more money, I'm sure."  Garvin shook his head.  "Nothing like
waiting until the last minute."  He glanced up at Mika, saw her typing notes to
herself on the pad.  She'd been with him for eight years, and still was the
youngest person on his full-time staff.  A tiny little thing with glossy black
hair, she always wore severe black suits with ankle-length skirts, so tight she
could only take tiny little steps.  Her legs were already so short he always had
to consciously slow down whenever they had to do some walking.  She was as
organized as a computer and completely professional -- in eight years she'd
never once discussed her personal life with him.  He'd had her investigated, of
course, but his men had come up with little of interest.  When she was twenty
she'd applied - with her parent's blessing -- to the Sisterhood, and been
accepted into their demanding yearlong preliminary training program that was
infamous on Monsipur for its high failure rate.  Very few of the women who
actually completed that first year failed to make it to the point where they
were asked to take their vows, but there were a few. 

	For all his spies and power, Espering hardly knew anything about what
the novices learned in their years of training before becoming Sisters; even
those women rejected by the Sisters of Mercy didn't talk about what they'd seen
and done inside the convent walls.  Mika had lasted nearly three years before
being asked to leave or quitting, he still didn't know which-the Sisters kept
their secrets as closely guarded as any intelligence agency he'd ever heard of. 
His people had been trying to penetrate the Sisterhood for decades now, with
almost nothing to show for their efforts, which he found very disturbing. 

	From there Mika'd gone directly to business school and to work for GUP
Inc., where in short order she'd distinguished herself enough to attract
attention.  She was at Espering's beck and call fifteen hours a day, which
didn't leave a lot of time for a personal life.  Mika, however, apparently had
no use for free time and seemed glued to his elbow day and night.  Her
professional facade never wavered.  The only truly personal information Espering
knew about her he'd had to learn by planting vidbugs in her quarters at his
house and the apartment she kept downtown.  She practiced isometric Yoga to stay
in shape - the traditional style, without clothing - and masturbated religiously
every night before falling asleep.  Sometimes she masturbated while doing her
exercises, and those sessions sometimes went on for hours.

	"Is that meeting in person?"

	"No.  Vid.  At ten o'clock you have a meeting with Gupink's general
accounting staff.  This is to begin review of the financial records for this
fiscal year.  That should take you right into lunch, which you're having at
Kyobi Grillhouse with Armin Fermier, Director of the Garshak Water Department. 
I have no information as to what the meeting is about, I don't think you've
mentioned it to me."  She pursed her lips and gave him a studied look.

	Some things I keep secret from even you, he thought, glancing up at
Mika.  "That's enough for now, krikes, I'm already tired," he told her.  He
slouched further in the chair, the informal tongi he wore as pajamas wrapped
sloppily around him.

	"Good morning Mr. Espering."  He looked past Mika to see his wife's
personal staff filing into her quarters.  One of Mika's eyebrows went up and she
nodded almost imperceptibly.

	Roc, his wife's masseuse, was a pleasant fellow with almost nothing
going on between his ears.  He smiled at Garvin and stood in the corner, waiting
until Lucia needed his services.  Annika was his wife's classically trained
chapra, a cheerful lady in her late fifties.  She was Lucia's full-time fashion
and diet consultant, helped Lucia pick out what to wear to important social
events, and helped her get ready every morning so as to look her best.  She was
a genius with cosmetics, both temporary and permanent, and was always impeccably
dressed no matter the time of day.   This morning she'd arrived poured into a
form-fitting burgundy business suit.  The tight slacks showed off her
heart-shaped bottom, and the blazer, under which she seemed to be wearing
nothing at all (undergarments would have ruined its lines), was so low cut her
big jiggly breasts looked ready to spill out the front.  She'd had her front end
recently redone, he was pretty sure, but Garvin couldn't imagine her ever having
sex; he doubted she'd ever approve of anything that would muss her hair or
wrinkle her clothes.

	Lucia's two assistants in their matching suits arrived last.  Today it
was a dark charcoal doublebreasted they each sported.  They were an odd pair,
but there was no denying that his wife liked them.  The blonde, boyish woman
with the athletic body was called Bil.  If that was short for something he'd
never heard her full name.  Her ambisexual partner liked to be called Furta,
which of course was a joke.  For the life of him Garvin couldn't remember if the
Mergendered half of the duo had originally been male or female.  Not that it
mattered, but the fact that he couldn't remember bothered him.  Now she was both
sexes, or neither, as some activists looking for special dispensation argued. 
Even without the ridiculous assumed name it was obvious to him she spent far too
much of her free time thinking about her own genitalia.  If someone voluntarily
took the drug to change sex enough times to end up somewhere inbetween male and
female, that was their business.  The government, as far as he was concerned
(and on Monsipur, he was the government) was not obligated to treat them like an
entirely new sex.  It was just another method of drawing attention to
themselves.  And attention was just what they had to be after, switching sex
back and forth so many times.  It wasn't as if they couldn't have their DNA
cleaned up so they looked normal above and below the waist.  They just wanted to
be different.

	"We need to go to Antonelli's today," Lucia announced to Annika,
striding into the room.  "I just won't be able to relax until I have all my
outfits picked out for LandFall, and the colors never look quite the same over
the vid."

	The 400th anniversary of the first landing of permanent settlers on
Monsipur was just days away.  There was going to be a huge parade, in which he
and the rest of the Council and spouses would participate.  Afterwards he'd make
a speech in front of City Hall which would be broadcast worldwide.  That
afternoon the streets around City Hall would be blocked to all vehicular traffic
for the annual LandFall party, a big event all visiting dignitaries were invited
to.  The party would go all night, but most of the Council would disappear so as
not to miss another, more notable LandFall event -- the private party at
Espering's estate.  The Esperings had been hosting LandFall parties for
centuries, and they'd become legendary.  This year's party promised to exceed
all expectations, according to Lucia, who'd been planning and organizing for
months.

	Nude and freshly dried from the shower vents, Lucia put her hands on her
hips and surveyed the outfits Annika had laid out for her across the loveseat. 
She was so hollowed out by the PCA that the uninformed, upon seeing her sunken
abdomen, might think her deathly ill.  Her hipbones and ribs protruded sharply,
while the flesh of her stomach hung slack in a concave bowl.  Her bulging mound
seemed big as a forehead.  Garvin still wasn't used to the sight and found it
quite disconcerting, and was glad the danger of insufflation forced his wife to
wear corsets all the time.  He'd really grown to like the exaggerated hourglass
figure they gave her.

	"Do you have time for a massage today, Mrs. E?" Roc asked her.  His
forearms were thick with corded muscle.

	"A quick one I think," she said distractedly.  She lay down on the
padded massage table which was custom-made with a large bulge in the center
which conformed to the contours of her unusual torso.  As Roc began working her
back she barked out instructions to her two assistants.

	"When did you want to go to Antonellis?" Annika asked, rummaging through
the closets, looking for shoes that would look good with the dress Lucia had
picked.  She would hit a button and the clothes racks would rotate.  She'd study
the dozen or so shoes on display, shake her head, then hit the button again. 
How many hundreds of pairs his wife had Garvin didn't even want to guess.

	Espering noticed some movement on Lucia's bed, and a nude squeaker with
sleep-tousled hair emerged halfway from beneath the billowy comforter.  He
thought this one was female, but it was so hard to tell.  She lay on her back,
visible from the waist up, not moving, although he could see her abdomen moving
up and down as she breathed.

	"At eleven o'clock you've got a meeting with the MEW executive
committee," Bil reminded her.  Monsipur's Empowered Women was an advocacy group
started by retired pulatritas whose original purpose had been to ensure good
wages for those in the business.  Through the years it had broadened its
horizons and attracted the interest of bored socialites who were looking for
ways to spend their time and money in ways that would make them feel useful to
society.  MEW still lobbied for equitable, standardized pay rates for
pulatritas, but now it preached tolerance for those of ambiguous gender or
non-standard sexuality, fought for legalization of consensual sex between humans
and Danes (once considered a long shot, but no more), and advocated the use of
synthetics in public school sex education classes to ensure a well-rounded
competency in the art of love.  Lucia was on the Board of Directors, but this
wasn't a formal meeting of the entire Board and would hopefully be brief.

	"At three o'clock you've got the awards ceremony at the Board of
Education at City Hall.  The little boys and girls will be singing two or three
songs before they present you with the award, but you should be back here by
five.

	"And at seven and a half," Furta said in hir soft, sultry voice, "you
said you wanted to go to the TKX initiation ceremonies."  TKX was the largest
sorority on Monsipur.  Being a lackey Lucia had never attended a university, 
but she'd had a few friends in her youth that had been members.  "You were
invited last year but couldn't attend.  They're dahlias," the aide told her, in
case she'd forgotten.

	"Aren't most sororities?" Lucia laughed.  She groaned as Roc vigorously
kneaded her right buttock and quadricep.  "You are so much better than that
synthetic I used to use," she told him.  He smiled proudly and worked her flesh
even harder.

	"The initiation supposedly drags on for over two days," the aide went
on, "but the HouseMother said that the first three or four hours are usually the
most enjoyable."

	"She's right," Bil spoke up.  The blonde assistant smiled at the memory. 
"I remember when I went through the initiation.  We were all so bubbly at first
we hardly needed the Jack, but after five or six hours that was the only thing
keeping us going.  The seniors were just relentless.  Its an endurance test as
much as anything.  I was sore for days."

	"Well, then, I think just after lunch should be good," Lucia told
Annika.  "Mario'll make time for me even if he's busy."

	"How many outfits do you need?" Garvin asked his wife, glancing over at
the huge closets lining one wall.

	"At least three.  One for the parade, which has to look good on vid,
because it'll be broadcast.  One for the formal ball that I can move around in,
and a third for our party.  Something sexy that I won't have to take off before
I can play."

	"Couldn't you wear the same outfit to the parade and ball?"

	"I could, but what fun would that be?"

	"My mistake," he said drily.  He directed a question at Bil.  "Is TKX
the sorority that got in trouble for using Danes in their initiation?"

	"No, that was another one.  No penises allowed at TKX, not even
plug-ins."

	Movement caught his eye, and Espering glanced back at Lucia's bed.  The
squeaker was squirming, and something under the mounded comforter was moving as
well.  The comforter began to slide down her body, off the side of the bed. 
First her lower body was revealed, her tiny knees up and spread apart, then the
Dane whose head was between her legs became visible.  Next to her the animal
looked huge.  It lay quietly on the bed, but from the way its head was moving
Espering could tell it was licking the squeaker with great intensity.  Its
efforts had her breathing faster.

	"Mrs. Espering," Annika said with a frown, "tell me how you think this
sounds.  For the parade, a somewhat light, informal number, light blue I think,
with a pleated knee length skirt that'll blow around a bit and show off your
legs, tied to one of your push-up corsets.  Hair up and perhaps curled.  For the
official party, we'll start with that low profile corset you have that you never
wear because of the color, the one that's almost too small?  We'll dip-suit you,
put about six coats on the corset.  It's so smooth on the outside, with six
coats hardly anyone will be able to tell you're wearing it, and the little extra
compression when the Plastex dries won't hurt.  You can put on a pair of those
heeled platforms and with six coats they'll never come loose.  For the rest of
your body two coats, I'm thinking electric orange with a blue swirl.  Two coats
won't split accidentally, but still is nice and thin.  It'll give you definition
and be warm to the touch."

	"Full body?" Lucia asked, intrigued.  Lucia flipped over onto her back
and Roc, after deflating the table's center bulge so her spine wasn't curved
uncomfortably, started in on her thighs.  Garvin marveled at how sunken his
wife's waist was.  With the ribs she'd had removed at the bottom of her ribcage
in an effort to reduce the constant insufflation, a hands width of her stomach
lay nearly flat against her spine, perhaps only two inches off the table's
padded surface.  Her pubic mound towered above her sunken waist.  Garvin knew
that if she tensed her stomach muscles, which ran from her pelvis to her ribs,
she'd suck huge amounts of air into her body, which was why she was almost never
without one of her corsets.

	Annika nodded.  "I think maybe your hair as well.  I see it slicked
back, perhaps a different color.  And if he takes his time after every coat to
make sure you're not sealed up he won't have to slit you open later.  It'll be
much more convenient for you, and no one will even be able to tell unless you
bend over."

	Lucia nodded enthusiastically.  "Mario is a genius with dip," she
agreed.  "He's even got a portable tank in case there's something wrong with
ours.  Then for our party, another coat of dip, this time a different color, and
I want him to do my face as well.  Just one coat'll be enough-three coats is
about the most my nipples'll be able to feel anything through.  Now," she
changed gears, " the menu is all finalized for our party, correct?"

	"Yes," Bil told her.  "I've checked, and nothing we're serving will be
objectionable to the offworlders you've invited."

	"I should hope not," Lucia scoffed.  "Else they wouldn't have made the
list."

	"They're not coming for the food," Garvin said with a bit of
exasperation.  "I doubt one of our guests from last year's party could even tell
you what they ate here, if they ate anything."

	"You're limiting this to food, right?" Furta said with a twinkle in hir
eye.

	"That may be, but I still want this to be perfect," Lucia responded. 
"Let's talk about the entertainment.  We've invited almost two hundred people
this year.  About half professional types, businesspeople and fellow
politicians.  The rest are entertainers, celebrities, including quite a few club
performers that have attracted attention.  Some we've invited to perform, and
then stay as our guests, others who were just invited as guests but will
probably perform anyway once they get enough Jack in their system."  It was an
open secret to regular attendees of the Espering's parties that all the food and
drink was liberally laced with X-Cite-R.  "Not counting them, there will be
almost another two hundred performers and treats walking around.  Most I've
selected personally. Males, females, cocktails, mergenders, and morphs of
varying extremity.  The Menagerie's going to have a very dull roster the night
of our party.  The guest list also includes a number of squeakers, lackeys, even
a few Sisters of Mercy to round out the affair. 

	"Fernando the dip-artist will be bringing several of his works.  Some
will be stationary, twenty coats or so, some will be walking around showing off. 
I've personally scheduled at least half a dozen special performances throughout
the party, and I know there will be many more impromptu, there always are. 
Didn't you have something planned as well?" she asked her husband.

	"Yes, in the rock garden."

	"What is it?"

	"Just a little bit of theater people will find entertaining."  A small
smile curved his lips.  It wasn't like him to be so vague, and Mika raised an
eyebrow.

	The squeaker on Lucia's bed sat up, and the Dane stopped licking and
raised its head, cocking it to one side.  The squeaker languidly turned onto her
hands and knees, facing away from the animal, and looked over her shoulder
expectantly.  The Dane climbed to its feet, and Espering saw that its organ was
already fully aroused.  He didn't know how in hell the squeaker intended to fit
that thing inside of her-it was as big around as one of her legs from knee to
ankle, and just as long.  The Dane itself probably weighed twice what the
squeaker did.  It took two steps and moved over her - the hair on the underside
of its chest just barely brushed the squeaker's back.

	She reached back with one tiny hand and took hold of the Dane's pink and
black member.  Her hand couldn't even reach all the way around it.  She wedged
the organ's knobby head between her legs as the Dane stood there patiently,
unmoving.

	The squeaker dropped down onto her elbows and pushed herself back
against the phallus, but only succeeded in getting another centimeter of its
length into her.  That was enough for the Dane, however, which lowered its back
end and moved for the first time, hunching its back in a gentle rolling motion,
slowly pumping what little of its organ was in her back and forth.  The squeaker
reached out with both hands and took hold of the animal's forelegs, pressing her
forehead to the bed.  Espering watched, intrigued; he'd heard about Danes
professionally trained to have sex with humans, but he'd never seen one in
action before.  With patience and slow, short, even strokes, the animal soon was
thrusting deeper into the squeaker, who was breathing hard enough to be heard in
the dressing room.

	Roc had moved to Lucia's arms and was massaging her loose limbs with
singleminded intensity.  Her three pairs of nipples wiggled as his kneading
fingers sent tremors through her prostrate body.  Garvin's gaze was captured by
her two top breasts.  Really, they were her only breasts; the other four had
shrunk down to nothing but nipples when she'd undergone the reversal therapy
after leaving the lackey program.  Lately he'd found himself admiring breasts
larger than what he used to like.  Like the Loomy he'd used a few nights ago in
the Nerve Center.  He'd found her big doughy breasts just spectacular.  He
didn't know what that meant, if anything, but Lucia's now seemed a little small
for his tastes.

	"How do you feel about larger breasts?" he asked his wife.  Just
thinking about it had given him the beginnings of an erection.  Most of her
bodmods had been Lucia's idea.  He'd made a few suggestions over the years, but
never made any demands, and so her body looked exactly the way she wanted it to. 
Other than her hair color, that is.  That was his, and she hadn't complained.

	"Not until after LandFall," was her response.  "Antonelli's has all my
measurements in their computer already, and I don't want to risk the chance
they'll input the new ones instead of the old.  Mario will have enough to do." 
She turned her head as she lay on the table and gave him a probing look.  She
cupped her breasts in her palms.  "These aren't enough for you anymore?"  She
sounded amused rather than put out.

	"Changing tastes, that's all.  Maybe it's puberty."  That got a chuckle
out of everyone.

	"Your chest is a decent size right now," Annika observed, "but with your
slender build, oversize breasts would tend to make a statement.  Heavies are
coming back in, you know.  So is recreational lactating, but I know how you feel
about that.  I'd have to change your style of dress, though, get things tighter
through the torso, to accentuate them."

	Roc finished and Lucia hopped down off the table.  The massage oil had
soaked into her skin, giving her a healthy glow.  Lucia had definitely lost
weight, maybe that was why her breasts seemed too small.  The only real drawback
to her being so skinny was that it drew attention to her oversized pelvis.  It
seemed a size too big for her torso.  Naturally thick women or those with high
bodyfat hardly looked any different after getting PCAs - like her friends Bunni
and Bhatia.  Lucia was the exact opposite body type, and the lack of fat
pressing in on her body made insufflation a real problem.

	Annika helped Lucia fasten the corset she'd picked out around her waist. 
It was traditionally styled, black with demi cups that made a shelf of her
breasts just under her collarbones.  The corset hooked together down her back
and was made to look vertically boned.  It came halfway down her hips, and ended
in a black V that come down just to her protruding pubic bone.  It also had been
custom made by Antonelli's.

	With most of her torso hollowed out to form a giant sex organ, Lucia's
proportions were anything but normal.  If left alone, her abdomen was a sunken,
wrinkled cave above her hips.  Her thirty-four inch ribcage tapered down to a
twelve inch waist when she wore the corset, then flared out again to hug her
forty-inch hips.  Her new pelvic opening-pelvic floor, the medicos called it-was
three times the size it used to be, the largest of three dimensions she'd had to
choose from.  The corset followed her contours perfectly, and was as tight as
her skeletature permitted, but still Lucia had some problems with insufflation
if she bent over quickly or laid on her side for too long unless she utilized
all the corset's custom features.

	Annika activated the compressed air bladder installed on the inside
front wall of the corset, just above Lucia's pubic bone.  When inflated, it grew
to the size of a man's fist, pushing her loose abdominal skin down and in.  The
corset, with bladder activated, was only uncomfortable for the first few
minutes, and was wonderfully effective.  While she did have to urinate more
frequently (the corset's bladder severely squeezed her own), the corset did have
certain other benefits.

	Still wearing nothing but the corset and a smile, Lucia sauntered across
the room to her husband slouched in the chair, swinging her hips.  The
combination of her slender thighs and wide hips resulted in three inches of
daylight between the tops of her thighs where they met her body.  The gap made
her unique sex seem even more prominent. 

	"Do you still think I'm attractive even with these small teats?" she
asked him, bending over to untie the front of his robe.  Her corseted breasts
were right in his face and Garvin could smell the almond massage oil.

	The robe came open, revealing his hard cock, and she bent to kiss her
husband.  Lucia climbed onto the wide chair, kneeling above him.  His cock was
big and bumpy with subdermal scars (for his partner's pleasure), but the PCA had
turned Lucia's slack crevice into such a gaping cavern his big organ might have
been a child's finger in comparison.  The opening of her vagina was huge, a six
inch long oval hole bordered by swaying wrinkled labia.  Unless she scissored
her thighs firmly together it gapped open.  Without a corset on, if she lay on
her back and spread her legs, her vagina opened like a mouth.  A dark oval four
inches wide would appear between her thighs.  Such exposure to air would dry out
the tissues of a normal woman, but whatever team had dreamed up the PCA had been
aware of that possibility and come up with a simple solution.  Increases the
amount of natural lubrication they secreted.  Considering the geometric increase
(with a PCA) in the amount of vaginal walls doing that secreting, the end result
was usually women who were the opposite of dry.  Lucia leaked constantly, like
bad plumbing. She didn't even notice it anymore, seeing as how she never wore
underewear.

	The mouth of her sex was still cavernous, but as his length slid inside
his corseted wife her moist flesh became appropriately snug.  Lucia's tunnel
loosened up again once he pushed past the constriction caused by the corset's
air bladder, but for four glorious inches she was as snug as a natural woman
around his shaft.

	"I love my corsets," Lucia groaned.  "They make everything feel so big." 
Gripping the back of the chair she ground her big fleshy clit against Espering's
mound and growled.  They kissed again, deeply and passionately, tongues
exploring.  She ground against him as the kiss went on, and reached behind
herself to shove his scrotum up inside her furt's loose foyer.  Now she felt
full, and with his PlayBall? mod she knew it wouldn't hurt him.

	Espering looked past his wife at the activity taking place on her bed. 
The Dane had lowered its hindquarters and spread its rear legs and was now
thrusting vigorously into the squeaker.  Half its organ was disappearing into
her now, and her tiny body was shoved forward with each lunge of the animal's
hips.  The squeaker's small cries of ecstasy grew louder and echoed around the
bedchamber as the Dane's thrusts quickened and its tail started its signature
corkscrewing.  No man alive could come close to matching a Dane's speed when it
was going all out, and Espering was a little worried the animal might hurt the
squeaker with its big organ as it reached its stride and its hips began to blur. 
From the sounds she was making, however, the squeaker had no complaints.

	Lucia's waist was so small under the corset his fingertips overlapped. 
If he squeezed hard enough he could feel it against his cock.  Garvin roughly
pulled down the top of her corset to free her nipples as their staff politely
began filing out of the room to give them their privacy.

	"I think that's so sweet," Bil whispered as they moved out into the big
recreation room situated between the Espering's bedrooms.  "Married all these
years, and still in love."

	"I hope they don't take too long or he's going to be late for his first
meeting," Mika said.  The four of them stood near the open doorway and listened
to the sounds.

	"Oh, let them have their fun," Annika scolded her lightheartedly.  "Mrs.
Espering has been so busy the past few days what with party preparations she's
hardly had time to eat, much less relax with her husband.  And you know how busy
he's been."

	Annika was the first to move away from the doorway, stepping down into
the pit at the center of the room.  The rest followed, wondering what she was
looking at with such curiosity.  There, on one of the long curving couches, out
of sight of anyone not actually in the pit, was a sleeping woman.

	"Who do you think she is?"  Annika turned to the group.  "Anyone seen
her before?"

	"No," Furta said, pursing hir lips and cocking hir head.  "She's
pretty."

	"That's my little sister, Angelica," Bil announced.  "She's back home to
celebrate LandFall.  She's friends with Sylphie and Sylphie offered to take her
out, show her a good time."

	Angelica was curled up on her side, deep asleep.  She was young and
pretty, with long brown hair and lightly tanned skin.  There was some slight
resemblance to her sister in Angelica's face, but the attention of the group
mostly focused on her swollen abdomen.

	"When is she due?" Annika asked.

	"Any day now."

	"Is it her first?"

	"Oh yes.  She's still in school."

	Angelica's condition would have been difficult to hide even if she'd
been wearing clothes.  She was a small girl, with slender arms and legs, and
hugely pregnant.  The fact she was nude was hardly unusual in this household,
but the amount of semen covering her body was remarkable.  Half dried puddles
and shiny trails covered her face and body.  Gobs and runnels crisscrossed the
tanned expanse of her belly and dotted her hips and thighs.  Her short hair had
been slicked back sometime during the festivities and dried that way, and to
Bil's experienced eye it appeared semen had been the only gel used to create the
look.  What she hadn't wiped into her hair she'd apparently tried to eat, as her
nose and mouth were smeared with the stuff, glazed and crusty.

	Angelica's milk-swollen breasts bore signs of rough treatment, as did
her furt, exposed as she lay with her knees pulled up.  Swollen with the weight
of her baby it gaped wide, leaking a thick trail of semen, as did her well-used
anus, but whoever her partners had been were nowhere to be seen.  With the
increasing popularity of "product enhancement" (as it was euphemistically
called) among certain men, an unnatural quantity of semen no longer was a sign
of multiple partners.  One little change in the genetic code and what formerly
was enough to fill a bellybutton became (on average) enough to overflow an open
mouth, and flavor was just as easily altered as quantity.  The half-dried pools
and trails on Angelica's skin could taste natural, or be fruit or candy flavored
(those were the most popular choices).  There was no way to know without taking
a lick.  Her little sister had obviously been entertained by a number of men, or
at least individuals with male equipment, but whether that number was two or ten
would be difficult for Bil to guess without further evidence. 

	From the dressing room Bil could hear the shouts and groans of her
employers, and checked the time on her notepad.  They would both be late if they
didn't hurry up.  She glanced back at her sister, still sleeping undisturbed.

	"I hope my sister wasn't too much for Sylphie," she said.  "She can be
quite a handful."

                                                  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE



	"I suppose it's probably ridiculous of me to ask," Tintina said, a wry
smile on her face, "but have you adjusted to Monsipur yet?"

	They were eating lunch at one of Garshak's pricier restaurants that
catered to the business crowd.  It was all the way across town, twenty minutes
from her temporary offices at SynthDiv.  During a changeover Race usually was
too busy to take a lunch at all, much travel across town for one, but she could
tell this had been anything but a casual invitation.

	This latest changeover was the smoothest she'd ever been in charge of. 
Not only hadn't there been any unwelcome surprises, the engineers were actually
half a day ahead of schedule.  It was due in part to the ingeniously efficient
schedule she'd developed, in conjunction with the new fabricators that
practically assembled themselves.  Also, it was her fifth P-to-Q changeover, and
she was naturally getting better at them.  However, she had to give Tintina her
due.  The woman was the best ad hoc assistant she'd ever had, on New Mantique or
off, bar none.  Not only did the woman know the changeover schedule as well as
Race, she had most of the technical details memorized as well.  She seemed to
know what Race needed almost before Race did.  And, not only was she totally
professional and efficient, she was pleasant to be around.  Nice.

	"I've been to New Mantique, so I know you had one hell of a culture
shock," Tintina went on.  She could tell from Race's posture the NM native was
tense.

	The restaurant's dining area was a honeycomb of private high-backed and
thickly padded booths.  Most were filled by sharply dressed professionals
talking business with coworkers or clients.

	"Skirts cut above the knee are considered racy," Race said, nodding. 

	The restaurant had human waitstaff; very classy, and not cheap.  Race
and Tintina watched the waitress taking the order from the couple in the booth
across from them.  The pair were professionally dressed, although Race got the
impression that the woman was an assistant rather than an equal to her male
companion.  She had short, glossy red hair in a pageboy cut framing a
heart-shaped face that was perfectly made up.  Her jacket and skirt were dark
green and cut to show a lot of skin.  The redhead ordered for herself and her
companion, her hand never slowing as she jerked him off underneath the table. 
She wasn't trying to conceal the activity; neither was she trying to call
attention to herself.  Anyone walking by would've but had to glance over to see
her unashamedly masturbating the man, and the waitress couldn't have cared less. 
When the waitress moved off to fill their order the redhead leaned down and went
to work on the man with her mouth.  The man glanced up to see Race staring over
at him.  Apparently he didn't like what he saw on her face for he activated the
privacy screen and the booth was immediately hidden by a fuzzy grey bent-light
sphere.

	Race looked away, a bit embarrassed and a little angry.  "He would be
fired so quickly on New Mantique his head would spin," she said.  "That's sexual
harassment, forcing your assistant to do that."

	"Actually, he's her assistant," Tintina corrected Race.  "I know her,
she's the CFO for a nano-electrical company.  She's orally obsessive/compulsive;
his tool's probably the only thing keeping her from weighing a hundred kilos. 
But she's a perfect example.  You have to remember that Monsipur is not New
Mantique.  Say she was his secretary.  Sexual servicing is considered part of an
executive assistant's job here.  You have to have realized we don't have the
same feelings about sex as most offworlders do," Tintina did her best to
explain.

	"I admit, New Mantique isn't the most progressive planet in the League,
but still . . . ."  Race shook her head, uncertain how to explain her
perceptions.  "It's not that you have a permissive society," she said finally. 
"It's not permissive, it's pervasive.  You have a culture of sexuality."

	Tintina pursed her lips and thought a while.  "I suppose you might see
it that way," she said after a while.  "I don't, I guess.  I've been offworld,
more than once, so I feel qualified to compare Monsipur.  Let's forget about New
Mantique for a while.  We both know it's a male-dominated, sexually-repressed
planet totally out of step with the rest of the League.  That said, it isn't the
only society which looks down its nose at us.  What I feel they have a problem
with is the fact that we treat matters of sex and sexuality no different than
other matters of culture.  We don't hide anything.  I don't consider it
pervasive, we just don't hide it.  At all.  Check that - it is pervasive.  Not
just on our planet, on every planet, in every society and culture humans have
created since we started walking and talking.  The reproductive drive is the
strongest one humans have.  New Mantique is not different - your elders there
can't stop thinking about sex, but they hate themselves for it.  They consider
it a weakness.  We don't.  We are not ashamed of ourselves, our bodies, our
desires, anything.  It's natural.  Sex is as natural to humans as eating, and we
don't make any pretenses to the contrary.  Why should you or I feel ashamed or
nervous about something your body is designed to do?"

	Race wasn't sure whether she agreed with Tintina or not, but she knew
her homeworld had seeded its cultural biases deep in her, so she tried not to
judge.  "The government of New Mantique doesn't exactly feel the same way," she
said with a wry smile.  She tried to evaluate her true feelings.  It was just -
she'd spent so many years hiding from her sexuality, burying herself in her
work, and Monsipur seemed to be doing everything it could to root out that part
of her.

	"Well, we're not there, we're here.  Monnies are a sexually active
people, and by nature uninhibited.  Sex, as it should be, is as much a part of
our lives as eating."

	Race nodded at the booth across the aisle that was currently hidden
under the privacy screen.  "Even that?"

	"You mean doing it in public?  You eat in front of other people, don't
you?  I admit, there are certain circumstances where of course it would be
inappropriate.  Like bringing a big bowl of soup to eat in church.  But they're
not bothering anyone," she nodded at the sphere, then smiled, "or wouldn't be,
if you weren't here."  At that moment the privacy sphere deactivated and they
watched the woman sitting back up.  She wiped at her chin with her linen napkin
as the man, his face half a shade darker than the last time they'd seen him,
busily began tucking himself away beneath the table.

	"I'm not..." Race began, not sure how to say what was on her mind, not
sure exactly how to tame her racing thoughts.  "It's just that New Mantique is
so repressive, seeing a bare-chested man by surprise gets me embarrassed.  Then
I get mad at myself.  I'm actually much more . . . relaxed," she finally said,
"but I've been conditioned to react a certain way without thinking."

	"I understand totally.  Most people are a product of their environment,
no doubt about it.  Plus, I will admit, our society is freer, sexually, than
most any other planet I've heard of, even those supposed to be 'wide open'.  And
I don't know if it's the climate, or something in the air, but Monnies are about
the most sexually active race you're ever likely to meet.  Consensual sex is
legal here, period."  She smiled.  "So is eating.  Had you ever even heard of
P-pods before you came to Garshak?"

	Race colored a little and looked down at her hands.  "I've got one in my
hotel room," she admitted.  "I thought it was a bidet or some sort of
hygienic...."

	"Have you tried it?"

	At first Race was startled that her assistant would ask such a personal
question, but then she forced herself to relax.  In fact, after a few seconds,
she actually smiled.

	"Like I said, I thought it was a bidet.  I hit the AutoLock by
accident."

	Tintina's eyes grew wide, then she laughed long and hard.  "I bet that
was a surprise," she managed to gasp.  Race couldn't help but smile, almost
surprised that she could relax enough already about the incident to find it
funny.  Both of them were still chuckling when their food came.

	They ate in silence for several minutes, then Tintina spoke up.  "The
executive committee is very pleased with how the changeover is going," she told
Race.  You've impressed the hell out of them."

	Race didn't know what to say to that.  She so infrequently got
compliments that she didn't know how to react.

	"I shouldn't be telling you this," Tintina went on, "but I brought all
this up for a reason."  Tintina said, with false carelessness, "I think they're
going to offer you a position."

	"What?"

	Tintina nodded.  "With the Synthetics Division.  There's been a lot of
talk.  Smylie seems to think you'd make an excellent addition to the team."

	"As what?"

	"Vice President of Marketing."

	Race put down her fork, a little short of breath.  "Oh.  My.  Uh...."

	"I shouldn't have told you," Tintina said, putting a comforting hand on
Race's arm, but a decision like this....I just think you should have as much
time as possible to think about it beforehand.  Moving to a new planet to live
is a big enough shock.  Relocating from New Mantique to here . . . . I can't say
for sure that it's going to happen, but if it does, you need to decide for
yourself whether or not you could live here, even if you wanted to take the
job."

	"How likely is this?" Race asked her.

	"With Smylie in favor of it?  Very likely.  Would you consider leaving
New Mantique?  And NMS?"

	"I spend most of my time offworld as it is," Race said distractedly.

	"Family?"

	"Not really.  A sister I see once a year."

	"Then it guess it comes down to what you want.  Whether you like
Monsipur, or not.  If you think you could work with the people we've got here on
a full-time basis.  They'd be pretty much who you dealt with on a day-to-day
basis.  Plus, there's the matter of salary.  I don't know what they'll offer,
whether it'll be enough for you to take the plunge.  Only you know if you could
handle living here, or whether you'd be constantly uncomfortable and feeling out
of place."  Tintina peered at her, trying to read Race's expression.

	"I was so not expecting this."

	"This was quite a few years ago, but I spent some time at NMS when I was
on New Mantique.  Things seemed very . . ." she searched for a politic word. 
"Patriarchal," was what she used.

	Race roused herself from her daze.  She heard what Tintina said and gave
a small chuckle.  "I would have said chauvinist," she countered.  "Or
discriminatory.  Even hostile."

	"I'm not trying to influence your decision," Tintina went on, "but
that's not the way it is here.  Women make up almost seventy percent of upper
management at GUP Inc.  That includes the Synthetics Division."

	"I noticed that at the first meeting," Race agreed.

	"You'd be treated as an equal.  Better, probably.  In the Garshak
business world it's the women that call the shots.  Once you got used to the
corporate culture you'd do fine, I'm sure of it."

	"What do you mean, corporate culture?"

	"You want to call ours a culture of sexuality, okay, fine, but that
culture extends into the Garshak business world as well.  Perhaps it's even more
prominent in the business world what with everyone vying for position and power. 
A lot of the female executives you'd be dealing with are dahlias, you know, and
on Monsipur we all have a tendency to wear our sexuality on our sleeve."

	Race didn't say anything for a long time.  "Homosexuality is against the
law on New Mantique, " she murmured finally.

	"I'd like to see how the hell they enforce that," Tintina scoffed. 
"Here, aspiring assistants are tested on their oral ability before being hired. 
Don't look so shocked, it's part of the job, one of the duties of the position. 
We're a lot more honest than New Mantique when it comes to that.  How many of
your supervisors were scooping their assistants?"

	"Most of them."

	"Exactly.  And I bet most of them were married.  Talk about
hypocritical.  Here it's different.  The sexual requirements of every position
are included in every listing, every employment advertisement.  The more that's
required of you, the more you get paid, it's figured into the salary.  Nobody
forced me to take this job, they're actually in high demand.  There's a fairly
rigorous interview process-"

	"You?"  Race started, then shut up, knowing she was being stupid and
naive.  Tintina was an executive assistant herself, a very able one.  Race
thought about that.

	"Not just that," Tintina went on, "but the prowess of your assistant is
important as well, because word gets around.  The president of a company who
settles for a plain secretary who won't do certain sexual things loses respect
and prestige in the Garshak business world.  Maybe because there are so many
women the internal politics are a little worse," Tintina admitted.  "It seems
they're always vying for position and prestige, where the men aren't.  You
should see them all scrambling to be the first to get their own personal
Q-series.  I assume you noticed how just about everybody at your first
presentation had a pelvic PNP?  Was wearing their plug-in?  Well, that's just
part of the power politics going on, and as infantile as it may be you're going
to have to deal with it.  You may find it hard to believe, but most of them are
real, not plug-ins, that's how ridiculous the "face" and power game is here.  I
think all that testosterone's going to their heads."

	Race put down her fork.  "What's a pelvic PNP?"

	Tintina put down her fork and knife and stared at her.  "You're kidding. 
You're not?  Just what the hell isn't against the law on New Mantique?  It's
like a Third World country.  You don't know what a pelvic plug-in is?"

	"I don't think so."

	"Have you ever heard of Genuflex?"

	"Is that for gender switching? I've heard of it, but it's not legal on
New Mantique.  You have to go offworld if you want to do that, and then you're
not allowed back.  A crime against nature, I think they call it."

	"It's not legal?  You're kidding me."

	"Body mods done solely for prurient reasons aren't allowed.  Of course,
the male politicians seem to forget that when it comes to breast or penis
enlargement.  They call those 'cosmetic' alterations."

	"Body mods aren't....?  I can't-how about Danes?" Tintina asked her. 
"Do you import Danes?  Ever heard of them?"  Race shook her head.  "Furries? 
Lackeys?"  Race kept shaking her head.  Tintina was incredulous.  "You're
familiar with the Sisters of Mercy, right?  No?  No.  Klitskin?  How about PCAs,
Pelvic Cavity Augmentations?"

	"Pelvic what?"

	Tintina was aghast.  "You do know the Division derives almost ten
percent of its profit from sales of NH toys, don't you?"

	"I saw that in your financial statements," Race admitted, " but I didn't
know what it meant."

	"Non-Humanoid," Tintina said distractedly.  "Snakes, octopi,
double-ended torsos, programmed with some really inventive software.  Well, not
the four-holers, those have a pulse and squirm, but that's about it.  That's why
they're so inexpensive.  The octopi are the most popular, no surprise there,
they come in several different sizes, but we make these replica Bolian
twitchworms--"

	"Double what?"

	Tintina paused.  "How about FeelReals?  Feelies?"

	"Sure, but you're not going to tell me they're legal here, are you? 
They're highly addictive."

	Tintina took a deep breath and leaned close.  "Oh krikes.  Well, I
better get you up to speed before Smylie makes up his mind.  I hardly know where
to begin.  You know what a pod is, at least there's that.  And our prostitutes
are called pulatritas.  Treats.  They're licensed and legal, which is why we
have so much tourism."

	Race nodded.  "The crew of the ship that brought me over couldn't stop
talking about that."

	"Okay," Tintina said.  She thought for a second.  "Have you noticed how
tight most of the female executives at SynthDiv are wearing their pants?"

	

	

	Race sat in stunned silence in the passenger seat of Tintina's
GUP-provided speeder all the way back to the SynthDiv offices.  What she'd just
learned was almost too incredible to believe, and yet she knew it had to be
true.  The first thing her hosts had done was provide her a gigolo and a
P-pod-equipped hotel suite  If that didn't demonstrate a radical view of
"normal" sexual behavior, she didn't know what would.  Tintina's words spun
around in her head, echoing oddly.  For the first time she noticed just how
little clothing most of the female pedestrians were wearing.  How had she missed
so many bare breasts before?  Had she not wanted to see them?  What else hadn't
she noticed?

	Race sat in her borrowed office and tried to collect her thoughts.  She
had a meeting with the engineers in fifteen minutes, but she couldn't even
remember what the meeting was supposed to be about.  Race stared at the wall and
tried to figure out what she was feeling. Shock?  Yes, definitely.  Disgust? 
Well.....no, not really.  Excitement?

	Someone cleared their throat and Race jerked around in her chair.  Filpa
Disson, head of Software R&D, was standing in the doorway, holding a lit
notepad.

	"Do you have a second?" she asked Race.  "I have a question about these
numbers."  She walked across the office to stand in front of Race's desk.  Her
tan top was more a waistcoat than a jacket.  It was tailored tightly to her body
and came down just past her waist with a little flare out above her hips.  That
seemed to be the current fashion, short jackets that didn't cover the wearer's
behind.  Her slacks fit snugly, the fabric acting like it had a little elastic
in it.  The unmistakable bulk of a large male organ was stuffed down her left
pantleg, its head clearly defined.

	"Is that a plug-in or real?" Race asked suddenly, staring at it.  She
surprised herself with the question.

	The busty department head looked down at herself and cocked her hips
backward self-consciously in an attempt to minimize her organ.  The maneuver had
the opposite effect, and the smooth fabric tightened against her groin,
revealing a scrotum underneath the fat, flaccid cock.

	"It's obvious you want people to see it," Race continued, "and I was
just curious."

	Filpa seemed a bit nonplussed.  "It-it's real," she managed to get out. 
She seemed glad to have the notepad so there was something to occupy her hands,
but then Race held her hands out for it.

	Race stared over the top of the notepad's screen at the woman's penis. 
Race was sure Filpa had chosen her slacks specifically for their fabric.  Not
only was it obvious she had nothing on underneath, the thin, elastic fabric
brought her penis into sharp relief where it lay along her thigh.  Race fought
the urge to reach across the desk and grab it.

	"Huh.  I see it works, too," Race commented idly as Filpa's fleshy
member responded to the attention.  Race looked at the columns on the notepad's
screen, seemingly dismissing all thought of Filpa's still growing member from
her consciousness.  "The production figures?  What do you need to know?" 
Inwardly she wondered Does it look so big because it is, or because it's on a
woman's smaller frame?

	The department head was caught totally off-balance by Race.  She
stammered her way through a question while Race inwardly smiled.  It was
reassuring to know she hadn't lost her touch, and could still turn a penis
against its owner, no matter who that owner was.

	                              CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

	

	"What is that?" Berto finally said.  The hollow thwacking had been going
on for over half an hour and even though it wasn't very loud it was beginning to
annoy him.  If he leaned his head close to the horizontal he could stick it out
into the corridor but all he could see was the bright circle of sunlight at the
end.  The collar around his neck was stopped at the mag field, and if he leaned
over too far it forced the collar down uncomfortably hard on his shoulders.

	"What?  That popping?  What planet are you from again?  That's a
PowerBall.  Our host's daughter is a forward with the Garshak Leopards." 
Berto'd caught a glimpse of Ortika when he'd been taken out for a hosedown, but
he couldn't see him in his cell.  He was two down on the same side, and they
both would have had to stick their heads past their respective mag fields to see
one another.  No reason to do that, the stone walls bounced their voices around
quite nicely.

	"Is that a school team?"

	Ortika laughed.  "Don't let her hear you say that.  No, professional. 
They're competing for the championship soon. I don't know when, it's hard to
keep track of time in here."

	"How long have you been here?"

	"Too long."

	"How long has she been in here?"  He nodded, and even though Ortika
couldn't see it he knew who Berto meant.  The hugebreasted woman was across the
hall, directly between the men's cells.  Each man could see three-quarters of
her cell, all but one back corner.

	"Several months, at least.  You like what Garvin's done with her?"  The
scorn dripped from his voice.

	"I've never seen breasts anywhere close to those."  He heard a snort.

	"When she was brought in - trespassing, a newsie asking the wrong
questions - she was a big fat flatchested dahlia, and made the mistake of
insulting Espering.  You see how things have changed."

	All either man could see of the female in question was her backside. 
She was crouched over one of the security people, his pants down around his
ankles.  She was bouncing up and down on him so fast her ass was a blur.

	"What's wrong with her?"

	"What do you mean?"

	"Before he arrived," and she practically ripped his clothes off, Berto
could've added, "early this morning, she looked like she was having a seizure."

	"Oh, no, she's doing feelies," Ortika told him.

	"Neural implants are legal here?"

	"Of course, although I doubt she knew she'd be getting one when she came
here, much less experiencing what I'm sure are truly vile and poisonous chips. 
Something dreamed up by the Corrections Department or Military Intelligence."

	"Mind altering?"

	"Like I said, she was a dahlia.  A very uptight one.  Now she can't keep
her hands off herself.  If they didn't have her doing so many feelies she'd rub
herself raw.  She'd glove a chair leg, which is why there aren't any chairs in
there with her.  They've thrown me in there a couple times just for fun, and she
nearly broke my pelvis."

	Berto stuck his head out into the corridor again.  "What's the layout
like here?"

	Ortika's head appeared, looked at Berto, then looked the other way
toward the patch of sunlight.  He turned back to Berto.  "You're wasting your
time."

	"Humor me."

	Ortika glanced across the corridor at the security officer.  The man
probably couldn't hear anything at all, his head had to be buried between
Amandir's freakish breasts.  He could've smothered to death and she might not
notice, as fast and furious as she was bouncing and grinding.

	Of course, it really didn't matter if the nearby guard couldn't hear
them.  All the cells were under constant audio and visual surveillance.  Ortika
would have assumed that no matter what, and events had proved him right.  Well,
if they didn't want him talking to the new man, they'd shut him up soon enough.

	"At the end of the corridor there's an elevator.  Only comes up by voice
or maybe retinal scan.  We're about halfway between the surface and the floor of
the canyon where the PowerBall court is.  About a twenty meter drop, looks to
be."

	"Where are we, though?"

	"Espering's personal estate, about a hundred kilometers east of Garshak. 
At the far end of the PowerBall court is another elevator, also secure access. 
That leads into the estate proper.  There's the main building and about half a
dozen others.  Sensors, cameras, and guards everywhere."

	"Armed?"

	"I don't know.  Van derMeer isn't, and the ones that go in to see our
udderly magnificent friend over there aren't, but I seem to remember that at
least some of them are.  I know there's an armory."

	"Hmmmm."

	"Unless you're planning on chewing your collar off don't waste you
time."

	Berto looked all around, the corridor, the cells.  "This is all solid
rock."

	"All of it, above and below.  Why, you planning to mine your way out?"

	Berto grinned to himself ruefully.  "Not with my bare hands."  The only
break in the stone of his cell, other than the open wall to the corridor, was an
air vent in the ceiling, a full meter above his head.  It was covered by a metal
grate.  The vent hole in the rock was big enough for his body, but the grate
looked melted into the stone. 

	"Who else is in here with us?" he asked, still staring up at the grate. 
Later.

	"It's hard to say.  We're near the end of the tunnel here, if they don't
go by me I'm reduced to guesswork.  There's the two of us, our endowed friend
across the hall, and I think two others.  Davis is right next to me, court side,
and down the hall on the far side is another woman that's been here about a
week.

	"Hello!" Berto called loudly.  He walked to the corridor and stuck his
head out again.  "Hello?"

	"Davis is otherwise occupied," Ortika said.  "Lucia, Espering's wife,
took a fancy to him.  They're doing something to his genes."

	"What?"

	"I don't know.  He won't talk to me.  I don't know, maybe he can't
anymore."

	"Krikes."

	"I thought Lucia was modifying his backchannel.  She really used him
when he first got here.  But he should still be able to talk.  Or stick his head
out."

	"Maybe he's gagged and locked down."

	"At this point, I don't want to know."

	"They just leave him in there?"

	"He's got an automatic food dispenser like us.  But no one's gone into
his cell for several days."

	When he couldn't take any more the security officer pried the woman off
of him and fled to the safety of the corridor.  He dressed while she fought
against the magfield to get to him.  At one point she lay on her back, body in
the hallway up to her neck, legs spread wide, in an attempt to entice the guard. 
He'd had enough, though.  Berto watched carefully as the lift rose up and
carried the guard down out of sight.

	"What about the other prisoner?  The woman down near the elevator."

	"I can't say for sure.  I think she's a pulatrita who tried to rip off
Garvin or one of his men.  Took payment but then didn't want to provide
services.  I think they put someone in there with her."

	"Hello!"  Still nothing.

	Berto heard the elevator again just as he noticed the thwocking sound
had stopped.  Sylphie Espering rose into view.  Even from a distance he was
impressed with her conditioning.  She was nothing but whipcord muscle.

	As she stalked down the hallway, away from the sunlight backdrop, she
became less of a silhouette.  Berto saw she wore nothing but baggy shorts and
odd looking shoes, probably designed specifically for the sport.  She was
covered in sweat, almost glowing, a fierce look on her face.  She saw Berto
watching her and came straight for him.

	"So you're the new meat," she growled, taking long strides down the
echoing corridor.

	"That'd be me."  Berto backed up a couple steps as she drew close. 
Sylphie eyed his muscular body, her eyes glinting in the light.

	"You're not going to like me," she said evilly, peeling her shorts off.

	Berto'd thought he'd detected a bulge.  Her phallus was a little skinny,
and had loose skin stretched tight to the base of the shaft.  It was only later
that he realized it was a giant clitoris.

	"But you seem so sweet," Berto said, taking another step, into the
center of his cell.

	"Get down on your knees, fuck-boy," she hissed.  Her phallus was
rampant, and she was panting, from practice or from lust he couldn't tell.

	"Oh, I don't think so.  Bobbinson?"

	"Better do it," he heard.  "She's Espering's daughter.  It's his cell
you're in."

	"Listen to the man.  You're going to take it like a bitch, just like
him."

	Sylphie stomped into the cell and grabbed at Berto's arm.  He caught her
hand in a joint lock, spun, and used her own momentum to propel her across the
cell.

	"No."  He grit his teeth.  Maybe it was a mistake, resisting her, but he
was damned if some rich spoiled brat was going to rape him in her daddy's prison
with the cock he'd probably bought for her.

	A look of furious disbelief clouded Sylphie's face, and she lunged for
Berto.  She was fast, and strong, but didn't know the first thing about combat. 
Bobbinson heard the meaty slap, and saw Sylphie roll back out into the corridor. 
She sat up, stunned but not really hurt.

	"You come back in here, I'm going to hurt you," Berto warned her.  He
jerked his head.  "He says you've got an important game coming up.  Will a
broken arm affect your play?"

	

	

	Lucia scanned the PowerBall court, finding no sign of her daughter.  The
guard she'd spoken with on her com, one of those monitoring the estate's
cameras, had told her Sylphie was down here practicing.  Lucia hadn't passed
her, the lift she'd rode down in was the only way out.  Her eyes rose up to the
dark circle carved into the far canyon wall, halfway up its sheer face.

	It was ungodly hot in the canyon.  It was too deep for the surface winds
to reach the dusty floor, yet wide enough that any shade hugged the walls except
for dawn and dusk.

	The court was quiet as a tomb.  No wind, no voices, no background him of
machinery.  A faint wisp of cloud scudded into view above her head, and she
looked up.  It was like sticking her face into an oven.

	Lucia was grateful they'd laid in a pathway around the court.  It was
made of a grey-green material that remained cool on her bare feet even in the
direct sun, which had the sand and rock to either side blisteringly hot.  Even
though she was a native, too much of the good life had melted away her tolerance
for the sun.

	Lucia's personal medico had warned her about possible insufflation
problems with her PCA.  For some women it was only a minor occasional
inconvenience, but she soon realized a corset was a necessity for her.  Her huge
cavity just filled up with air whenever she did anything.  At first she'd found
them odd and uncomfortable, but in short order grew quite fond of her
custom-made corsets.  Lucia had almost two dozen, in varying colors and cuts,
and just didn't feel right anymore unless she had one on.

	Today she was clad in her royal blue corset that covered her top pair of
breasts, pushing them up and together attractively.  She was so hollowed out,
what with the bio-miniatures in place of all her internal organs (except for the
last .7 meter of her large intestine), that with the corset on she could
encircle her waist with her hands.  Her hips and large pubic mound flared out
wildly below her waist.  As a result, her ass appeared oddly proportioned.

	The corset was cut high on her hips and dropped down low in front, all
the way to the top of her pubic bone, so the inflatable bladders on its inner
wall would be correctly positioned.  Not only did it make her channel snug as a
newlywed's when inflated, it bulged her lippy furt out even more than usual.  At
first she could hardly stand inflating the strategically positioned bladders on
her corsets, but the bio-mins were only a tenth the size of the organs they
replaced.  Unless she had some ribs removed the only way the corset could
squeeze her hollowed-out body properly was inflating the shaped bladders down
its front.  She had to learn how to move with the corsets on (bending at the
waist was a thing of the past), but she soon grew to love the pressure and sense
of fullness.  A removable skirt, green and pleated, hung from the corset and
covered Lucia's bare flesh to mid-thigh.

	She heard the elevator behind her and turned.  The shaft was actually
carved into the rock face, and only the faint hum escaping through the closed
doors told her the car was coming back down again.  When the doors opened she
saw it was her husband.  He seemed surprised to see her.

	"I thought you'd left for the Sisters of Mercy fundraiser," he said,
stepping out into the sun.  He wore a ruby red tongi with elaborate embroidery
at cuffs and collar.  Even in the appropriate garb he seemed to wilt in the
heat.

	"That's later this evening.  I was looking for Sylphie to ask if she was
still coming."

	Garvin jutted his chin at the piece of shadow halfway up the far wall. 
"I'm sure she's up there, having her fun."

	They walked together along the spongy path toward the lift that would
take them to the cells.  Garvin eyed his wife's corset and skirt.

	"You strike quite a figure in that corset, my dear," he said with a
twinkle in his eye.  They stepped onto the lift platform and he closed the rail
behind them.  Lucia put her hands on her ultra-wide hips, which only emphasized
the slimness of her waist.

	"Why thank you sir," she said coyly, with a little curtsy.  He gave the
command and they rose smoothly and silently.  Garvin reached underneath the
skirt to cup a bare buttock.  He would've been surprised to find her wearing
underwear.  He squeezed her cheek playfully.

	They stepped into the wide dark corridor out of the sun.  Its length was
temperature controlled and they could feel the sweat wicking away from their
bodies in the cool air.  Even though there was plenty of recessed and shielded
lighting it took a few seconds for their eyes to adjust.

	The stupid young girl who'd taken Sylphie's money, then tried to sneak
off, was in the first cell on the left.  Sylphie had nearly beaten her
unconscious before her friends had pulled her off the novice pulatrita.  It had
been Lucia's idea to put four synthetics in the cell with her.  The treat had
wanted the money but not the sex; in the cell she was getting the opposite.  The
synthetics, all male, had been told to scoop her.  Continuously.

	The young treat had been in there with them four or five days, Lucia
couldn't remember.  The four were equipped with self-lubricating organs, but
after the first eight hours the woman had stopped enjoying anything.

	"Is she still here?" Garvin asked, surprised.

	The woman was knees to chest on the floor, asleep or passed out.  Her
cheek rested on the cool stone, face turned toward the corridor, eyes closed,
arms flung outwards.  Her body shook with each thrust of the synthetic kneeling
behind her, working his slick tool back and forth in her rectum.  Splotchy raw
red patches covered her entire body, as did what looked like dried semen.

	"What have you got them filled with?"

	Male synthetics could be equipped with internal reservoirs so that they
could ejaculate when required.  GUP Inc.'s Synthetics Division sold a very
authentic artificial semen for just that purpose.

	"Dane semen.  Their body heat keeps it liquid."

	"Oh, you dirty girl," he marveled.  "I'm surprised they haven't run
out."

	"Two-liter reservoirs, custom made.  I want two out of three holes
filled even if she's asleep," she barked.  The three idle synthetics, standing
in the girl's cell, moved into action.

	The Esperings continued down the wide corridor.  Down on the right was
Lucia's pet project.  She'd been overwhelmingly pleased with how the drugs and
custom X-Cite-R and rectal stimulants had worked on Davis the young embezzler,
and ordered Garvin's team to develop a gene tweaker for him that would produce
similar, but permanent, results.

	As hard as his body was working to remake itself, Davis spent most of
his time sleeping.  He barely had the energy to eat.  It would be another week
or so before his body was done changing, but Lucia was very pleased with what
she saw.  What his fate would be when she tired of him she hadn't considered,
although he'd never look normal again.  His anus had swollen to a giant red
glistening rosebud larger than her fist that shoved his buttocks far apart
whenever he stood upright.  When he was excited it grew even larger, and began
dripping lubricant.  Lucia could fit her entire arm into him up to the shoulder,
and he still begged for more.  His ass had become his primary sexual organ since
his penis and testicles had shrunken to one-tenth their original size, although
he did seem fond of playing with his new, milk-laden breasts.  Seeing as he was
still a devout heterosexual he was going to have a tough time adjusting when
they let him out.

	Garvin, for his part, thought the man's anus looked revolting.  He
wasn't a homosexual, so it didn't really matter, he'd never lay hands on the
poor soul, but he liked that part of a woman.  If he ever saw a woman with such
a gigantic red pucker he'd want nothing to do with her.  On a woman it should be
a small indentation, ideally with little or no pigmentation, easily overlooked,
tight yet receptive and elastic.

	"I told you, I don't want to hurt you, but I've had enough," they heard
from the end of the corridor.  "Go away.  If you come back in here I will hurt
you."

	Sylphie bounded into view, trying not to fall down.  She caught her
balance, face dark with fury, and examined her wrist where Berto had applied a
joint lock.

	"Sylphie!"

	The tendons in her neck stood out as she turned to see both her parents
standing in the corridor.

	"Mother, this little worm-"

	"Young lady," her father intoned, "that man has killed more people than
you've ever met.  You're supposed to check with me when there's a new guest.'

	"But daddy, he-"

	"He should've broken your arm for being so incautious.  Teach you a
lesson.  Don't you have a game tomorrow?"

	Both Esperings knew quite well what Sylphie had been trying to do, they
were well aware of her personal tastes.  Garvin could watch her most nights on
the hidden security cameras if he so wished, abusing pulatritas in her quarters,
but he liked to give her some measure of privacy.

	"Go wash and put on some clothes.  The Sisters of Mercy benefit starts
in two hours."  Lucia frowned at her daughter.  Sometimes her poor impulse
control was a problem.  "You are still going?"

	"Mom-"

	"Go!"

	Sylphie glowered at her frowning parents, then turned and stared daggers
at Berto.  "I'll be back for you," she spat.  She stomped off down the corridor,
stopping only to pick up her discarded shorts.  Garvin and Lucia moved up in
front of Berto's cell.

	"She needs to be more careful," Berto told them.  "She just marched in
here and tried ordering me around, without any idea of who I was.  What if I'd
been arrested for murder?"

	"Well, you wouldn't be here, you'd be in the city jail, but your point
is well taken," Garvin said, pursing his lips.  "I appreciate your not . . .
damaging her."

	Berto shrugged.  "No need.  Besides, she's your daughter.  How smart
would that be?"

	"Right."

	Lucia was studying Berto intently.  He was muscular, and intense
looking, but nothing she hadn't seen before.  It struck her odd how someone
who'd done such extraordinary things, as Garvin had told her, could look so
ordinary.  She studied his flaccid penis and idly wondered what he'd be like.

	"I just wanted to come down here myself and let you know that everything
you've told us has checked out.  You will not be charged."

	Berto perked up.  "So I'm free to go?"

	Espering clucked.  "No, I'm sorry, we have to keep you here for a
while."

	"What?  Why?  How long?"

	"Just a few weeks.  Three or four at the most.  For security reasons."

	"But I'm supposed to be taking a new load offplanet in five days. 
Heading back to New Vegas, then Earth."

	"No."  Espering smiled briefly and turned to go.  Lucia stayed on his
elbow, gazing wistfully at Berto.  No time right now for anything but a quickie,
and she'd want longer than that with him.

	"If we don't take this load we'll forfeit our contract and our
reputation'll be fucked!"

	"I'll see what I can do to make your stay a little more enjoyable,"
Espering called back over his shoulder.  He and Lucia slowly strolled back
toward the lift.  He tapped his wrist com.

	"Loo."

	"Yes Sir?"

	"Send four female synthetics over to the holding area off the PowerBall
Court."

	"Right away Sir."

	The couple drew near the elevator and their attention was drawn to the
first cell again.  The young treat was on her knees, lying on top of a
synthetic, still unconscious.  His phallus was in her furt.  Another synthetic
knelt behind her, his phallus in her ass.  Her body jiggled from their powerful
rhythmic strokes, in-out, in-out.  A fresh load of semen glistened in her crusty
hair.

	"Six more hours, then empty whatever semen you've got left in your tanks
into her mouth," Lucia told the synthetics.  "Then you can leave."

	While they waited for the requested synthetics to arrive the two of them
watched the woman being abused in the cell.

	"Even with her unconscious that's very arousing," Garvin said with some
surprise.  His wife turned to him, then with an impish grin slid her hand inside
his tongi.  Her fingers closed around his stiffening shaft.

	"Have you got time for a quickie?"

	"Always."  He smiled, and looked around for a spot.  Lucia pulled him
into the empty cell across from the four synthetics and their human pincushion. 
While Garvin disrobed she peeled the skirt from around her hips.  He kept
forgetting just how large her labia were since her PCA, her thighs mashed them
together.

	"Where--?"

	Lucia climbed onto the bunk mounted low on the wall, squatting like a
frog and sticking her ass out.  In that position she was all vagina, one huge,
lippy cleft a hand's span across, pushed open by the corset's bottommost
pressure bladder.  Espering could see gleaming pink flesh inside her, surrounded
by the slack lips which dangled loosely.

	"I just love the way your furt looks now," he said breathlessly.  "It's
so raw and aggressive."

	Lucia looked back over her shoulder as Garvin moved close.  She
straightened up, and reached back with both hands.  When she pulled her
asscheeks up and apart her lippy glistening crevice opened into a wide, short
tunnel ending in a wall of flesh pressed inward by her corset.  If she hadn't
had the pubic bladder inflated he would've been able to see her molars.

	"We don't have sex enough," Garvin said, as he pushed his length into
her.  She was very loose, but as she let go of her cheeks and crouched back down
her channel grew a little more snug.

	"You mean with each other?  That does feel nice."

	But a little loose, Garvin thought.  His wife was thinking the same
thing.  Garvin held her hips with both hands and smoothly stroked back and
forth.  As his wife grew wetter he lost almost all pleasure from the act.  She
was too loose in that position, even with the bladders inflated.

	"Very nice," Lucia murmured.  "But let me try something a little
different.  I was going to wait a little longer, but maybe you're not too big."

	With one arm on the bunk, elbow locked, keeping her shoulders high,
Lucia reached over her ass and took hold of Garvin's shaft.  She backed off him
a little, then pushed his cock down hard as she wiggled backward.  Whatever she
was trying wasn't working.

	"I guess I need to deflate the pubic bladder."

	"Sir?"

	Espering turned.  Four pretty synthetics stood in the corridor.  They
were all scantily clad in twoskin ensembles; two blondes, a brunette, and a
redhead.  Two voluptuous, one muscular, one skinny.

	"Go down to the last cell on the right."  He jerked his head.  "Have sex
with the occupant until midnight.  If he's uncooperative, restrain him and
pleasure him if necessary.  Obey his commands as long as he's participating.

	"Yes sir."

	Across the corridor the woman had regained consciousness.  The two
synthetics continued their tempo'd thrusting into her two nether orifices, and
she'd risen onto her hands.  A third synthetic had stepped forward and was
fucking her mouth, his fingers entwined in her hair to keep her head still.  She
was gagging a little, and drooling, but in no danger of passing out.  Her eyes
were wild, somehow not quite fully aware.  The fourth synthetic held a container
of electrolyte solution which he'd feed her when her mouth was free.  The
nutrient-rich drink kept her from becoming dehydrated, although she'd lost close
to ten kilos during her captivity.  She'd eaten nothing but Dane semen for five
days.

	Lucia had deflated the appropriate bladder and now his cock swam in a
vagina the diameter of his calf.  Gripping his shaft near the head, she pushed
downward on it and wormed backward.  Ignorant of her intentions, Espering
grunted in surprise and pleasure as something hot and tight slipped over his
glans.  He groaned along with his wife as she wiggled back onto him.  Whatever
had him slipped further over his shaft, until half his length was trapped in the
tight sleeve.  It was like a fist around his cock, squeezing.  Lucia let go of
his shaft with her hand and went back to all fours.

	"Go slow," she whispered, shivering in pleasure.

	Espering didn't have much of a choice, she was too tight.  He pushed
forward and back, hardly moving his shaft inside whatever fleshy vise had him. 
Lucia couldn't stop moaning.  After several minutes she loosened up
fractionally, and he began taking deeper strokes.

	"Krikes," he said hoarsely, what do you have me in?"

	"Deeper!" Lucia said through gritted teeth.  Her nails were clawing at
the bunk's spongy cushion.  Espering did as requested, and felt his cock nudge
against something that resisted.  He bumped it gently, unsure of what he was
hitting.

	"Oh!  Gaaah!"  Lucia thrust herself back onto his shaft.  His cock
popped through whatever it had been bumping against, and his wife cried out as
she came.

	Espering rode out her bucking shivers, feeling his cock slide deeper
into her.  Right before his pubic mound was going to touch her he felt his cock
bottom out inside her, against something firm.  Lucia cried out again, grunting
and hunching back onto him, bumping whatever it was against his cock head.

	"What am I playing in?" he asked his wife again.  He hadn't orgasmed
yet, but he was close, and the product enhancement he'd undergone had him
leaking like a bad valve.

	"I was talking to Bhatia a year or so ago," Lucia panted.  "She told me
about a method of birth control used as far back as ancient Egypt.  Said she was
using it, that I should try it."

	"Birth control?"

	Lucia straightened just a hair, and looked back over her shoulder. 
Garvin was right there.  "You're fucking my urethra," she growled lustily.  "I
came when you pushed into my bladder past the sphincter.  When you come I'll
have to piss it out of me."

	She had to quick regrip the bunkmat as Garvin began pumping furiously,
insane with lust at her revelation.  His eyes were wild.

	"Unh!  Or-Uh!  Maybe I'll just unh! keep it in me.  Unh!  Oh, krikes. 
Unh!  Unh!  All night!"  She orgasmed again, that quickly, the sensations from
Garvin's cock as it slid back and forth through her bladder's sphincter almost
too intense to bear.

	With a cry Garvin stiffened against her, thrusting deep.  She could feel
every pulse of his climax, feel the familiar pressure as his spurting seed
filled her bladder.  She'd forgotten about his product enhancement; he sent
massive spurts one after another after another into her until finally he too was
spent.  Lucia glanced over at the young pulatrita in the next cell, gulping from
a cup while her other two holes were plunged.  She knew in an instant just where
she'd be emptying her bladder.

	                                  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

	

	Chris stayed locked in his hotel room for an entire day, never once
opening the door.  He even ordered his food in, using the inroom Auto-Chef
instead of ordering room service.  For room service he'd have to open the door,
and he didn't want to risk that.  It was a shame, too; even mediocre fare from
the kitchen would've been better than the pasty dishes the Auto-Chef produced.

	The police had released him early that morning.  After the jail medico
checked him for the last time and announced the jack in his bloodstream was down
to a safe level, an officer had taken his statement and told him he was free to
go.  Chris thought they were making a huge mistake.

	When the medico had told him he'd experience occasional "hot flashes" as
the jack wore off Chris hadn't been too concerned.  But then the first one hit,
while he was sitting in the squad room giving his statement.  He started
shaking, his face got hot, and the sweat poured off him as he fought with every
atom of his being to stay in the chair.  The instant erection throbbed between
his legs, calling to him, commanding him to jump across the desks and thrust
wildly into that pretty female officer's mouth, tear off her pants and do her
doggy style, or just rub himself against her back until he came.

	He had to stare at the floor between his legs, taking slow, even
breaths, counting his pulse, doing whatever it took to distract him from the
jack-induced urges.  Sweat dripped off his nose and made a small puddle on the
floor.

	Then, just as suddenly as it had come upon him, the hot flash was over. 
He straightened up slowly and looked across the room.  The gorgeous female
officer he'd been ready to rape now looked plain to him, nothing special at all.

	Chris quickly finished giving his statement and hurried out of there. 
In the lobby he passed several of the whores in black robes that made them look
like nuns.  He saw no sign of the particular robed woman that had made regular
visits to his cell throughout the night, relieving the pressure on his vas
deferens with astonishing speed and skill.  Chris supposed they must be
contracted by the police department, as no one had asked him for payment for
services rendered.

	The officer who'd released him recommended Chris take a private taxi
back to the hotel.  Chris had taken him up on the suggestion, and it was a good
thing he did.  Another hot flash hit him halfway to the hotel, but this one was
a little more bearable - not only was the driver male, and ugly, and separated
by a ballistic partition, but while the speeder was in motion the doors wouldn't
unlock.  By the time they arrived at the hotel Chris was back to something
resembling normal.  He paid the driver and went up to his room still wearing the
police provided disposable jumpsuit.  He'd been there ever since.

	In the wetshower he'd masturbated through another hot flash, never mind
that his whole groin still ached from the ordeal.  When it was over he was able
to examine himself.  The medico was right - not only had the X-Cite-R and
Breeder's Helper overdose permanently enlarged his penis (he guessed two
centimeters longer and a hair thicker) but he was squirting out quite a bit more
than he used to.  Three or four times more.  Which was fine in the shower, but
the hot flashes kept coming throughout the day, never more than thirty minutes
apart.

	Chris stayed in the room, and by midday he'd given up altogether on
wearing clothes.  Several times he thought about ordering a treat on the I-Vid,
but he was paranoid he'd get another DaneLover.  Instead he just slouched in a
big chair in front of the screen, flipping from one program to the next.  When
the hot flashes would come he would quick-scan to the sex channels for something
interesting.  It wasn't hard to find something he liked, there were dozens of
channels devoted just to sex-oriented programs, and the features showing made
his jaw drop.

	Even the standard channels were filled with sex and nudity.  Whether it
was comedies, dramas, or game shows, flesh was the norm.  Some of the
programming was produced off-planet, but not all.  One of his favorites channels
was amateur vids by Monny natives.  What the natives did here as a matter of
course would be considered extreme on just about every other planet he'd ever
visited.  He wondered if they were all flying on Jack, all the time jerking off
to every image, no matter how mundane or bizarre.

	Flipping back and forth through the channels while eating supper, Chris
caught bits and pieces of the commercial several times before he saw it in its
entirety.

	"Work a little boring, life a little dull?"  The model was gorgeous,
with legs that went on forever and huge quivering breasts that looked like
they'd never felt gravity, dressed in a mini-skirted dress that looked sprayed
on.  Behind her was the image of pallid officeworkers toiling in cubicles on
notepads.  The model smiled.

	"It doesn't have to be.  With a ReelWorld neural implant you can go
anywhere, do anything, be whoever you want, all from the safety and comfort of
your own home.  Be a League Marine, fighting the Durian rebels, or spend a day
as Prince Nantook of West Emer.  Do you want to be a fighter jockey, a housewife
on Earth, a circus performer on New Vegas?  You can, with a ReelWorld neural
implant.  Anything that someone has recorded, you can now experience as if you
were them.  Your brain won't know the difference!  The sights, the sounds, the
smell, the sensations, everything!"  She smiled brightly, while a cascade of
images filled the screen behind her.

	"Men - ever wondered what it would be like to spend the night as a
woman?  Women - ever wanted to see what it felt like to have a second brain
making your decisions for you?"  Big knowing smile.  "You can, with a ReelWorld
neural implant.  Execute convicted murderers.  Bed a Mandalorian princess. 
Compete for the PowerBall Championship.  Spend the night in a New Vegas brothel,
as a customer or an employee!  The possibilities are limitless."  At the bottom
of the screen, a message scrolled slowly by:  'CERTAIN OF THE PROGRAMS MENTIONED
MAY NOT BE AVAILABLE IN YOUR AREA'.

	"Our latest generation implants are amazingly affordable, and the entire
procedure now only takes a few hours.  You can be experiencing chips the same
day!  No wires, no headgear - no one but you will even know you've got one. 
Just press play on your console, sit back, and hang on, because you've never
experienced anything like this before.  Give us a call, or stop on by, we have
twelve convenient locations in greater Garshak.  The ReelWorld - where we give
you the best of real life, at an affordable price."

	Chris' whole body was shaking as he masturbated furiously.  "Krikes," he
spat through clenched teeth.

	

	

	Hamee stepped out into the fading afternoon sun and wiped his brow.  He
looked at his hand and saw that it was shaking, then glanced over his shoulder
at the club he'd just left.

	"Unbelievable."

	The Inferno was the largest Abuse and Restraint club on Garshak,
situated at the far end of the cul-de-sac that was the A & R section of Fun
Town.  Hamee had gone inside on a whim.  He wasn't much interested in pain as
pleasure, at least when it came to his own flesh, but his body was begging him
for a break from all the sex he'd been having for nearly two days straight. 
Everything he had was either sore or aching.  He didn't want to take anything
but the mildest painkillers, afraid he'd lose sensation in some vital areas, and
he'd let the last of the Jack drain from his system to give his battered organ a
little rest.  He'd stepped inside the Inferno out of curiosity, seeing it was
just about the largest club of any type in Garshak, and krikes had he learned a
few things.

	The club offered patrons the opportunity to be either willing victims of
their professional abusers, abusers themselves of treats who apparently enjoyed
pain or degradation, or patrons could just be observers.  The club also seemed
to be a meeting place for those of like mind, as quite a large percentage of the
patrons paid the entry fee but seemed to be providing their own entertainment.

	He was only inside a few hours and saw more shocking, bizarre sights
than he'd have thought possible.  The whippings, beatings, piercing, burning,
branding, and the electro-torture were a constant backdrop, so much so that they
just became a kind of white noise to him.

	Walking in the door he found himself behind a black-skinned dominatrix
with two female slaves.  The slaves were nude and leashed, the leashes clipped
to steel rings embedded in the base of their throats.  Immediately inside the
door the dominatrix turned right and made for some sort of service area, and
Hamee watched her curiously.  Both her slaves had very large, flat breasts that
moved as if they were half-filled with water, rolling and jiggling with their
every movement.  At the service counter the domina took a short, narrow hose
tipped with a glinting needle, lifted the breast of the closest slave, and slid
the needle into the end of the woman's nipple.  Not sideways, across the nipple,
but rather directly into it toward the woman's ribcage.  The domina then hit a
hidden button of the hose and Hamee watched as the slave's breast began to
expand, fill with....something, he didn't know what. 

	The slave's nipples had been transformed into some sort of organic
pressure valves.  Hamee had never even heard of such a thing, much less imagined
it, but he watched as the slaves flat teats swelled one at a time under the hose
until they were huge taut globes on her chest, the skin shiny from the internal
pressure.  When the domina pulled the hose out there were no leaks, so Hamee
still was in the dark as to what the slaves were being pumped full of.

	"Water," a passing patron told him, when Hamee thought to ask.

	The slaves stood there expressionlessly until they each sported massive
breasts of cartoonish proportions, breasts so massive they made their heads look
tiny, although the slaves didn't appear to suffer under the weight of all that
water hanging from their ribcages.  When she was done the domina hung the hose
back up and led her slaves away by their leashes.

	A female-Hamee assumed she was a club employee, a performer, but he
never knew for sure-was lying on her back on a waist high AutoDoc along one
wall, her head hanging off the edge.  Her limbs were restrained, and
bio-monitors displayed her vitals.  Paying customers took turns sliding their
cocks down her strategically positioned throat.  First she gagged, then she
started to choke, her face and neck turning first scarlet, then purple, arms and
legs straining against their bonds.  Finally she passed out from lack of oxygen
and went limp.  Each customer then had a set length of time to finish up, before
they were removed by an attendant club employee.  The next customer in line
would then wait for the sensoreactors to Auto-Resuscitate the woman, and then it
would be their turn. 

	In that same area of the club there were a dozen or so women and half a
dozen men suspended upside down from the ceiling by their ankles, hands
restrained behind their backs.  Customers could adjust their height and then use
their mouths or fondle them as they wished.  It was easy to tell which of the
hanging forms had just been played with, as a few were always swinging as if in
a gentle breeze.  At least half the people using the swinging bodies or lined up
to use the woman on the AutoDoc were women-bull dahlias-with realistic-looking
phalluses, and they seemed to be the roughest when it was their turn.  Hamee
didn't know if they sported pelvic plug-ins or the real thing, but they seemed
to be enjoying their equipment as much as any man.

	As a rule the abuse and degradation didn't bother Hamee, but the naked
human toilets servicing the huge crowd (half of them women, some of them
beautiful, a few of them barely more than children, more than one of them
pregnant) were disturbing in ways he never could have imagined.  When one
scrawny (nude, of course, with rings as thick as his thumbs through the nipples
of her flat breasts) treat or fellow patron (he wasn't sure which) asked him to
fill her mouth with shit, Hamee'd retreated into a booth and activated the
privacy field.  As she wandered away he noticed not just that her belly seemed
slightly swollen (he didn't want to know with what), but also noticed the
numbers on the side of her neck.  Permdyed there.  He wondered what they
signified, if anything.  One grinning male patron who looked like a regular took
her up on her offer just a few booths down and Hamee found himself unwilling or
unable to turn away from the spectacle.  The fact that she masturbated furiously
while eating struck him more forcefully than how much she seemed to enjoy the
taste of it or the impossible amount of stool the man pushed into her eager maw. 
He had to've been holding it in for days.  Hamee finally turned away when she
began licking the man clean.

	There were dozens of stages small and large throughout the club, and
acts were always coming and going.  One memorable stage act featured half a
dozen young, attractive, nude ballgagged women standing in a circle, hands on
knees, facing outward, simultaneously receiving voluminous semen enemas.  The
actual number of liters each woman took inside herself was unnatural,
incredible, and yet they seemed to enjoy the sensation.  Hamee watched as their
abdomens swelled until the women looked like they were four or five months
pregnant.  In unison they squatted over a wide, shallow, clear glass bowl and
voided their bowels.  Huge vidscreens above the audience provided close-up shots
of all the action.  From the lack of anything but semen in the bowl Hamee guess
the women had either been fasting for a few days or had received numerous enemas
before coming onstage.  It took quite a while for them to empty themselves,
grunting and straining to push all the fluid out.  None of the women even
attempted to be subtle about it.  Their faces each turned red at one point or
another, and occasionally a loud wet BLAT! would echo across the stage,
sometimes lasting for several seconds. 

	One by one their handler ungagged the women as they signaled they were
done, and each quickly turned around, dropped to her hands and knees, lowered
her face to the pearl-grey liquid, and began to drink from the bowl.  The
handler walked around the circle of upturned asses and, one by one, as the women
busily-and noisily-sucked up the fluid, refilled each of their colons with
old-fashioned black rubber buttplugs the size and shape of a man's fist and
forearm, confirming Hamee's suspicions about them having had internal work done. 
When the bowl was not just empty but licked clean, the women with come-smeared
faces, they were re-gagged, chained together at the neck, and led offstage to
the cheers of the crowd.  Where the actual semen came from Hamee didn't even
want to guess, and was afraid to ask. 

	Several stages featured the anal abuse of willing male patrons by club
professionals.  The patrons had the choice of a male or female abuser, but once
they were stripped, gagged, and locked into place, they were done making
decisions.  It was pretty obvious to Hamee, both from their eagerness and
capacity, that the great majority of the men who submitted to the abuse were
very experienced devotees of anal play.  He doubted they would even consider it
abuse, just rough play.  At least half The Inferno's male patrons appeared to be
homosexuals, and a large proportion of those were into energetic ass play. 
Hamee'd taken a finger or two once or twice, but most of the men he observed
didn't even pay attention until there was at least one fist involved.  He'd
observed one male patron standing in an aisle and was still trying to reconcile
what he thought he'd seen with what he'd thought were the limits of the human
body.  The man had been mostly nude but for some decorative black straps across
his chest and a studded collar.  He was bent over slightly and listening
silently to three other similarly dressed men as they fervently discussed
something.  What attracted Hamee's attention was the flat-bottomed anal plug the
man was wearing.  It was round and as big as a man's head, so unnaturally big it
spread the man's asscheeks out almost to the edge of his body.  Hamee didn't
think a human's anus could be stretched that big, and yet there he was.  When
Hamee saw how the man's stomach bulged like a pregnant woman's he realized he'd
only thought about how wide the plug was, not how long it might be.  How could
he have fit something that big inside himself without breaking his pelvis or
crushing his internal organs?

	When he saw a gorgeous, busty blonde being tortured onstage he knew he
had to get out of there.  First were the long glinting skewers shoved slowly
through the beautiful globes of her breasts and buttocks.  Then he watched in
horror as her nipples were cut off and fed to her.  Hamee knew she'd probably be
sporting fresh, lab-grown nipples in a day or two, but still.  In fact, he
overheard someone saying she had her nipples sliced off and fed to her twice a
week.  Even though she'd been screaming as the serrated knife had cut through
her tender flesh the blonde begged her torturer - another busty blonde - to let
her eat her own pink flesh.  The torturer had dangled the bloody bits just out
of reach of the bound victim, hanging from her wrists onstage, while blood ran
from the raw circles in her breasts down the front of her nude body.  When the
torturer had produced a wide-bladed knife and pushed it deep into the meat of
her victim's breasts through the bloody holes where her nipples used to be, then
asked the audience who wanted to come onstage and fuck her tits, he ran out of
the club, trying hard not to throw up.

	The noise and light of the main strip were a little too much for him
after that performance so Hamee veered off to the right.  He'd glanced at a map
of FunTown somewhere and vaguely remembered there were some small restaurants
and a few small specialized sex clubs off on a short sidestreet that paralleled
the main one.  He was hungry, and overstimulated-it was going to take quite a
lot to get him up with no Jack in his system, especially with images of what
he'd just seen bouncing around his head, but the club he'd heard could do it was
where he was headed.

	

	

	Hamee found a wide alleyway to cut through - Garshak had the cleanest
alleys of any city he'd ever been in - and politely declined an offer from a
tired-looking pulatrita.  She was skinny and sweaty and wore nothing but
thigh-high shiny black boots.  Her knobby nipples looked like they'd seen a lot
of abuse, and there were red marks on her slightly saggy breasts, perhaps the
first pair Hamee had seen on Monsipur smaller than fists that didn't look like
they'd never felt gravity.

	Farther down the alley, half in shadow, were a rutting couple, the woman
on hands and knees.  Both of them were nude, but Hamee had grown so used to the
sight of bare flesh that he nearly missed the two large jiggling breasts sitting
atop the woman's back.  They looked identical to the pair hanging from her
chest, swaying with each lethargic thrust, and instead of being turned on or
even repulsed Hamee instead wondered how hard it was for her to find clothes
that fit properly.

	Hamee turned left at the corner and saw the club he was looking for at
the end of the street.  It wasn't very big, but the big holo marquee was all he
needed to see to pique his interest.  THE MENAGERIE.

	

	

	"How much?"

	The polite cashier repeated the figure.  Hamee frowned.

	"And that includes...?

	"That's the entry fee, Sir, to get into the club.  Personal or private
performances with Denizens of the Menagerie are, of course, extra, and those
fees you will have to work out with those performers."

	Hamee stared at the cashier.  She was one of three placed behind a long
counter against the back wall of the club's lobby.  All of them were smiling,
and cheerful, and nude.  The one he was speaking to was encased in a giant cube
of some sort of clear acrylic from the neck down.  Inside it her legs were
spread, and Hamee could see two holes had been bored through the cube up from
the floor toward her groin.  Two shafts topped with some type of phalli were
plunging into her with alternating strokes, but she gave no sign she was even
aware of their existence.

	The next cashier over was secured inside another clear cube. 
Spreadeagled, only her hands, feet, and head protruded from the smooth sides and
top of the cube, which Hamee at first thought was solid like the first. 
Instead, he saw this cube was filled with water, or some other clear liquid, and
teeming with hundreds of immature Bolian twitchworms.  They were bright blue and
small, not much longer than his fingers and slightly thinner.  Attracted to the
natural salt content of her body, they rubbed against her in endless circles. 
From the number of tiny tails wiggling between her legs Hamee guessed she had
close to two dozen inside her vagina, although the constant traffic in and out
made it hard to tell.  He wondered if any of the mindless but notoriously
insistent creatures had managed to wiggle themselves into her bladder or rectum
or uterus yet, but once again this club employee gave no indication she was even
aware of her body below the waist.  The cashier's breasts were cartoonishly
large and globe-shaped, and strained oddly upward in the water like they were
filled with air.

	"I come here every time I'm on Monsipur," a scruffy spacer next to Hamee
said.  "It's never the same, and it's worth every chit."

	"But if it's this much to get in-"

	"If you have to ask, you probably can't afford one of the performers,"
the man told Hamee.  "It's worth it just to be able to watch.  Trust me.  Just
look at them."  He nodded at he cashiers.  "I've never seen the same one twice,
and these ones are tame compared  to what's usually behind the counter."

	"You're acting like you don't even feel those," Hamee said to his
cashier.

	"Feel what, Sir?" she asked him innocently.

	Hamee glanced at the cashiers, then back at the man.  "Do they always
act like they can't feel what's going on?"

	"They can't," the man informed Hamee.  "I talked with one of the
cashiers once when she was off-duty.  At the start of every shift they get
neural blocks at the base of their neck.  Everything going on below the neck is
for your viewing enjoyment in hopes of enticing you into the club.  The one I
talked to had a bypass instead of a block, and had all the sensory signals being
recorded on a feelie so she could experience it later."

	Hamee looked at the two shafts plunging the woman's body unceasingly. 
"You're going to be sore when you get off work," he told her.

	"You don't think it's worth the money, you find me in there and I'll pay
you back," the man told Hamee.  He produced his card and ran it through the
reader as directed by the cashier secured inside the water-cube.

	Hamee wasn't about to do that, he could take responsibility for his own
decisions, but the man's confidence was enough to finally sway him.

	"Please slide your card through that slot, Sir," his cashier told him
from her clear prison, the shafts pumping away beneath her.  Hamee did as he was
instructed and the display showed him that the quoted amount had been deducted
from his bank balance.  His balance was much higher than he thought it would be
when he'd first heard prostitution was legal on Monsipur, but he wasn't about to
tell the girls they were undercharging.  He watched the shafts pumping in and
out of the woman for a few seconds, then just shook his head.  As he stepped
away from the counter toward the doors leading into the club the cashier with
the ultra-buoyant breasts burped loudly and a squirming twitchworm landed atop
her imprisoning cube.

	"Pardon me," the woman said without missing a beat, smiling at the next
patron in line.  Hamee would have stood there and stared at her for another ten
minutes, waiting to see if any other twitchworms had wiggled all the way from
her ass to her mouth, but he saw the last cashier in line.

	This last cashier was encased in another block of clear acrylic, but
this block was smaller as she wasn't spreadeagled.  She'd been leaning back on
her elbows when the stuff had hardened around her, and only her head was free of
the block.  Her knees were pulled back to either side of her chest, and her ass
was mere millimeters away from the cube's surface.  This cashier's card-reader
was installed in a custom cylinder-shaped housing mounted directly into the
clear plastic of the cube.  How deep it went into her vagina was anybody's
guess, but it was imposingly thick.

	"Thank you Sir," she said as a man slid his card into the reader, into
her.  "Enjoy your visit."

	Hamee could only shake his head in wonder, figuring the sight of the
three cashiers alone had been worth a good chunk of what he'd paid to get in. 
Then the club doors opened as he walked through and all the sights and sounds of
the Menagerie enveloped him.

	"Oh my God," he gasped.

	"Told ya," the scruffy spacer said with a smile, looking around for a
free seat.

	A waitress with the words THE MENAGERIE written or permdyed across the
top of her breasts approached Hamee and guided him to a seat at the bar which
ran along one of the short walls of the big rectangular room.  Hamee was dizzy
from trying to look in every direction at once, and sat down on the stool as
much to get a solid foundation as anything else.

	"What can I get you?" the bartender asked him, coming over.  Hamee could
only stare at her and her golden serpent's eyes and darting, forked, snake's
tongue.  It was rude to stare, he knew that, but he couldn't help it.  That
tongue, it had to reach down to her-

	The bartender moved away as Hamee noticed the cows on the bar behind her
and his mouth dropped open.  There were two of them tonight, both totally
covered in black and white spots to resemble the Holstein cows of Earth.  They
were big, with much bigger frames than normal women, and had to weigh close to
two hundred kilos, hardly any of it (except for perhaps their teats) fat.  One
was laying on her side, the other was up on her hands and knees.  In addition to
the oversized, cowlike facial features, complete with short snouts, floppy ears,
and huge wet brown eyes, they both sported tails that reached down nearly to
their knees.  In-between the eyes and tails were six pairs of swollen breasts
with huge nipples running down their thick chests to their abdomens, where there
hung on each woman a huge, pink, veined double-lobed thing he finally realized
was an udder.

	The one cow laying on her side had several nozzles attached to her
nipples and to the oversize nipple-looking things that protruded from the udder
bulging between her chunky thighs.  The other cow was lazily walking down toward
the end of the bar on hands and knees, the swollen udder between her thighs
giving her an awkward gait.  When she reached the end she turned around and
Hamee watched her tail swishing lazily from side to side.  Her whole body was
spotted black and white but for her nipples and her udder--even her sex, which
was now pointed at Hamee.  It looked oversize, just like the rest of her.  He
watched as one of the bar patrons fed the cow something green and leafy and her
tail swished back and forth.  While she ate another patron wrapped his mouth
around one of the cow's nipples and began sucking.  It was immediately obvious
he was getting milk from her, and quite a bit of it.  His friend reached up
underneath the cow's switching tail and gently pushed his entire hand between
her folds.  Her tail began swishing faster and then-Hamee was sure of it, even
though the club was loud-he heard her moo.

	Hamee was experiencing sensory overload unlike anything he'd ever felt
before.  The smells alone had him in a sweat-the sights were almost more than he
could process.  He suddenly noticed the man at the bar beside him had a woman by
the hair and was vigorously fucking her face.  She was blonde and nude from the
waist up, and the man was pumping her so fast her head was a blur.  She had her
blonde hair done up in pigtails, and it was these the man was using as handholds
as he pounded her skull.

	"Uh!  Unhh!"  The man forced the woman's face against his crotch as he
came with great grunting thrusts of his hips.  He was gasping by the time he was
done, and leaned back on his stool.  The woman stood up, patting her hair with
her hands, and turned to look at Hamee.  He gave a startled yelp and almost fell
off his stool as he saw the gaping, oozing vagina where her mouth should be.  A
vertical slit, identical to what he would have expected to find between her
legs.  No nose, just a meaty clitoral hood over a decidedly noselike clit, the
hood sweeping down into pink, swollen labia edging a dark red glistening
orifice.  The woman regarded him for a second, her green eyes blinking, until it
was obvious his reaction to her had been one of shock, but not horror.

	"Want to fuck my face?" he heard.  "I always swallow."  The feminine
voice had come from the small black box on the woman's neck.  Hamee stared at
her some more, the shock returning as he realized what this woman had had done
to herself.  Her jaw no longer moved.  No tongue.  No vocal chords.  Only a
neural implant that translated her thoughts into words so she could communicate
with potential customers.  How did she eat?  No nose-how did she breathe? 
Through that thing on her face?  Did it always gape open like that, or only
after she'd been fucked?  Were the juices running out of it and down her chin
saliva, signs or her excitement, or just the semen of her most recent customer? 
Did it provide her the sensations of a mouth or of a furt?

	As Hamee gazed at the swollen, freshly fucked pussy that adorned her
face he fought the inappropriate urge to stick his fingers in it and only shook
his head.  She went her way and Hamee watched her go.

	"Feels just like the real thing," the man who'd been banging her said
conversationally to Hamee.  "Don't have to worry about her gagging or anything,
the morph goes I don't know how far down her throat."  Hamee glanced down and
saw the man had had his penis enlarged to the maximum possible natural
dimensions.  Ten centimeters thick, it hung nearly to his knees and glistened
with the woman's juices.

	Only so much blood could be diverted from the body to engorge a member
before there were health-namely blood pressure-concerns.  The general rule in
determining a man's 'natural potential' was his arm from wrist to elbow long,
his wrist plus thirty percent thick.  Not an exact measurement, but as a rough
estimate it was remarkably accurate.  Few un-altered women could entertain a man
maxed out to his natural potential, but that didn't stop the men.  Hamee
couldn't remember the exact numbers, but something like ninety percent of males
underwent some sort of penile enlargement, and over a third of those elected to
go for their 'natural potential'.   Publicly, women grumbled; there was a point,
they said, where too much of a good thing turned pleasure into pain, but men
didn't seem to care.  Privately, they did what women have always done-whatever
it took to attract a mate, and keep him.  Somehow, maxed out men always seemed
to find women who could accommodate them.  Hamee's natural size was about
two-thirds his 'natural potential', plenty big enough to do everything he wanted
to do, although sometimes he entertained the thought of growing one of those
huge cocks just to see what it would feel like.

	Hamee waved the bartender over and ordered a drink; something, he wasn't
even sure what, he just wanted to do something that seemed normal.  When he
turned around he tried not to look at anything directly, not until he had his
bearings.  The room was packed with people, and he could see two stages, both of
which were empty for the time being.  He looked down at the end of the bar-the
cow had laid down on her side and there were now two people sucking milk from
her nipples, one of them a woman, with a third drinking from one of the
nipple-looking protruberances on her bulging udder.  Her top thigh was raised,
and Hamee saw the man who'd slid his hand into her was now elbow deep, and
swirling his hand around like he was trying to find a lost wrist chrono.  From
the look on her face the cow was in heaven.  Hamee looked away quickly.

	Nearby was a table of women, talking loud and laughing.  Hamee looked
around and saw that the clientele was at least half female, which he found
rather surprising.  He studied the group near him more carefully.  One of the
women facing him had the wide, flat nose of a pig.  Her nostrils were huge,
pink, glistening . . . almost sex-like.  Hamee never thought he would have found
something like that arousing, but somehow he did.  The willowy woman next to her
got up and walked away and Hamee saw that not only was she nude but for some
tall boots and nipple jewelry, she sported a foot-long wiggling pink tail. 
Hamee found that arousing as well.  Was there something wrong with him?  Then
she turned back around to say something to her pig-nosed friend, and Hamee saw
that in the center of her flat stomach wasn't the navel he was expecting to see
but rather a thin, pink-lipped vagina.  Hamee was shocked to discover that to
his eyes it didn't appear out of place: it looked like it belonged there, that
it was only natural for a woman to have an innocuous furt in the center of her
stomach.

	The lights lowered and a huge cheer went up throughout the club.  Hamee
heard more female voices than male, and looked around to see what was happening. 
A barechested man was leading a full-sized horse toward the center stage.  The
back of the horse reached to the shoulders of most of the club patrons still
standing, and they moved out of the way quickly.  Hamee could hear its hooves
clip-cloppng on the hard floor.

	Where the hell did they get a horse way out here in the Outer Rim? he
found himself wondering.  And why?  Who would pay to have the embryo transported
and raised-

	"Holy Jesus," he gasped.

	The man wasn't leading the horse, the man was the horse.  Hamee didn't
know how it had been done, or why, but he was looking at an honest-to-goodness
centaur.  Where the man's waist should have been, there were the horse's
shoulders, covered in glossy brown hair.  No wonder he'd seemed so tall.  And
there, out from the crowd, stepped a female centaur, nearly as big as the male. 
The human parts of their bodies were flawless, perfectly formed.  Both blonde,
the man's human torso was chiseled with muscle, his face handsome.  The woman
had a flowing blonde mane that reached down to where the brown horse hair began
at the small of her back.  She was beautiful, with two large, pendulous breasts. 
Both their equine bodies were covered in glossy brown hair, their twitching
tails black.

	The two centaurs pranced in circles on the stage around each other,
their hooves clip-clopping loudly.

	"Are there any women here tonight that would like to give me a hand?"
the male centaur called out.  A hundred hands shot up, a hundred voices called
out to him.  Smiling, he pointed out four women who came onstage, and apparently
they'd seen the show before because he didn't have to give them any instruction. 
All four immediately bent down underneath his horse body and began massaging his
huge equine organ.  It quickly unfurled beneath his belly, midnight black, until
it was nearly a meter long and thicker than a man's wrist at the tip.  The
female centaur just waited patiently, playing with her nipples, a smile on her
face, tail swishing from side to side like a metronome. 

	The women from the audience couldn't keep their hands off the centaur's
giant cock, and two tried to wedge it into their mouths, without success.  They
went back to their seats finally, eyes glazed with arousal.  He mounted his
partner then, sinking nearly the entire length of his shaft into her horse body
with one long walking thrust.  Every woman in the audience seemed to sigh at the
sight.

	Hamee turned back to the bar, the random clip-clop of hooves in the
background.  Animal sex was of no interest to him, and until the two centaurs
involved the human halves of their bodies in the show he wasn't interested.  He
signaled the bartender for another drink as the room began to fill with the
smells of horse sex.

	"Not interesssssted in the show?" the bartender asked him, her snake
tongue flicking in and out.  She seemed amused, but with those eyes it was hard
for him to tell.

	"Not interested in a woman who wouldn't be satisfied with anything less
than my entire leg up to the hip," he told her.  The bartender shrugged and
moved away, and Hamee noticed her filling a mug with milk from a tap.  From the
cows?  He was afraid to ask, but was pretty sure he knew the answer.  The second
cow was off the vacuum hoses and had wandered on hands and knees down to where
the customers were sitting at the bar.  It was hard for him to say, what with
her entire chest and abdomen covered by huge teats and a swollen udder, but she
looked pregnant.

	A man sitting at the bar reached up and offered the cow a leaf of frin
from his plate.  She took it happily from his hand, chewing contentedly.  Hamee
stared at her oversize head and her mouth and its big, square teeth.  Her tongue
had to be as wide as his palm.  While she slowly chewed the man bent to her
nearest thumb-like nipple and began sucking, then pulled out his penis and began
masturbating as he sucked.  The cow watched him, still chewing.  With his free
hand he fed her another piece of frin, sucked harder, and jerked faster.  He
came less than a minute later, directing his spurts onto his last frin leaf, the
cow watching the whole time with her big, brown, wet, stupid-looking eyes.  When
he offered her the leaf she ate it with the same amount of interest she'd shown
the first two offerings, then wandered slowly down the bar toward Hamee.  He
stood up and moved away before she got close, uneasy with the thought of being
close to someone who'd given up so much of her humanity for...what?  He couldn't
say, and he wondered if even she could articulate it.  Krikes, he wondered if
she could even talk anymore.

	As he walked Hamee saw several cat-women.  He didn't know if that's what
they called themselves, or were called, but that's what they looked like. 
Tails, whiskers, pointy ears, short snouts with pink noses, their whole bodies
covered in short white, or yellow, or orange fur.  One catwoman had stripes,
another had a double row of pink nipples running down her front.  He didn't know
if they were all performers, but he watched one of them crawl languidly up onto
a stage, curl up, and begin to lick between her own legs.  He saw she was
flexible enough to reach everywhere with that rough-looking pink tongue, much
like the spider-girl whose company he'd so enjoyed at the Buzz Club.

	Hamee first saw one, then several men who'd transformed themselves
halfway into dogs.  Their legs had been shortened so they could walk on all
fours, and their heads were mutated-snouts, pointy, erect ears.  The first one
he saw had short brown hair on his arms, legs, neck, and head, and was scooping
a volunteer, a club patron, onstage, with quick short thrusts of his big tool. 
She looked like she couldn't quite believe it was happening to her, but
everywhere she looked there were big vidscreens showing the dog-man atop her
pale and refreshingly human body.

	One dog-man had mounted his paying customer atop her table while her
friends cheered them both on.  Hamee watched long enough to hear her surprised
yelp as her eager sex grew slick and slack enough for the fist-sized knot at the
base of his organ to pop in.  Once it was in, he kept moving in short thrusts
but didn't pull the knot out, and after a moment of uncertainty it was obvious
she agreed with the decision.

	"You greedy slut!" one of her friends yelled at her enviously.  The
friend wore black leather crotchless chaps and had already paid to be next.

	Hamee saw several horse-men as well, equine variations on the dog-men. 
While not as large as the cows or the centaur he'd seen, they were quite a bit
larger than the dog-men, and had their own unique circle of admirers.  Hamee
watched as one of the lanky creatures (if that was the right word, he wasn't
sure) approached a middle-aged matron ready for him and quivering with
anticipation.

	The horse-man's organ was nearly half a meter long and as thick as a
man's forearm and he buried it to the hilt in her.  She gasped and sighed, then
just smiled as he began pumping away, enjoying the feel of her big breasts
swinging beneath her.  He was expensive, but where else could you find a cock
that size?  Her companions, three jaded middleaged society matrons with their
own PCAs, flying on jack, couldn't keep their hands off him, stroking his back,
his soft flanks, his tail, his muscular buttocks, cupping his big swinging
balls.  One of them, overcome with lust, buried her face between his cheeks and
began tonguing his asshole, inhaling his not-quite-human smell.

	Hamee wandered to the far corner of the big room, seeing the corridor
leading to the small rooms where the patrons could go with the performers if
they wanted a little privacy.  Walking down the corridor toward him was perhaps
the most unusual woman he'd ever seen, and that was saying a lot.  Her skin was
a gleaming silver, not like skin at all but artificial, like she'd been dipped. 
Hamee had heard two of the club's customers talking about her, though, and knew
that it wasn't dip, it was her skin-or rather, it was what she was using as
skin.

	Synthskin had been perfected for decades, so much so that they had to
design imperfections into it just so it looked natural.  Its bio-neural
transmitters conveyed 99.638% of the sensations actual skin could, a difference
unnoticeable to all but a very select few.  Used to cover areas of the body
where lab grown skin for some reason just wouldn't graft, synthskin was a modern
medical miracle.  The silver woman walking toward Hamee had, in what was
becoming a new trend, replaced her perfectly good epidermis with synthskin.  Her
entire body, from her head to her feet, and not with the standard, thick,
medical-grade stuff with its pores and hairs and ever-so-slight pigment
variations.  She'd had herself resurfaced in top-of-the-line custom cosmetic
synthskin.  Hairless, with micropores so it was as smooth to the touch as the
finest rubber, and as slippery when wet as black ice, the part of herself she
showed to the world guaranteed she'd be noticed.

	Synthskin could be had in not just every color imaginable but many
different textures, although smooth was by far the most popular.  And, just like
natural skin, synthskin could be found with any number of levels of sensitivity. 
The more neural transmitters per cm2, the more sensitive it was, and the ratio
of pleasure -to-pain receptors could be adjusted as well, for a price.  The
highest grade synthskin, with the most neurotransmitters per square centimeter
and highest percentage of pleasure-vs-pain receptors, was marketed under the
separate brand name KlitSkin.

	Most KlitSkin buyers didn't want more than a certain area or bodypart
covered in it, as just performing some everyday activities could result in
sensory overload if they weren't careful.  The most common KlitSkin bodymods
were covering of the labia, penile shaft (usually with ridged or other
non-smooth textures), scrotum, pubic mound, or parts of the inner thighs, less
rarely the buttocks or breasts as they couldn't help but get rubbed as the
person went about their daily life.  There were, however, always those
individuals who pushed the limits. 

	The silver woman in front of Hamee was one of those individuals.  Her
entire body was covered in KlitSkin.  From the top of her head to the soles of
her feet, nothing but gleaming silver KlitSkin.  Her large breasts didn't even
sport nipples, they would have been redundant, and her head was bald, as hair
would have covered up skin she wanted seen and touched.  Hamee didn't know how
she functioned-he could tell just from the expression on her face that the mere
act of walking, placing her bare feet on the floor, was physically arousing to
her.  It would have cost him six month's pay just to bed her for an hour, so he
never did more than stare, but still he wondered what everyday life must feel
like to her.

	In a back corner Hamee spotted another woman with a furt for a mouth. 
She was on her knees in front of a seated spacer, her body twitching and
bucking.

	"Oh God!  Oh Krikes!  I'm coming, I'm coming!"  The computer-interpreted
sweet, high voice coming out of the transmitter on her neck was laced with
authentic-sounding passion as the spacer worked his twisting fist back and forth
in her face-furt.  She was wet with excitement, and his hand made loud slurping
sounds as it twisted and plunged.  Her chin was dripping with her juices, and
the spacer's arm was wet halfway to his elbow.  When he went deep Hamee could
see her throat bulge, but she gave no indication it hurt, rather the opposite. 
She was leaning into the thrusts, hands on her knees for balance. 

	The spacer pulled his hand from her suddenly and turned her toward one
of his laughing tablemates, twisting his dripping hand back and forth to ease
the ache in his forearm.  As his friend slid his hand into the woman's sloppy
gaping facehole the first man knelt behind her and began undoing his pants. 

	Hamee saw another horse-man as he wandered through the club, and several
more dog-men.  They appeared very popular with the older women, most of whom
appeared to have extensive bodmods themselves.

	Hamee first saw one, then a second girl morphed into some sort of
demoness.  They had bright red skin, pointed tails, glowing red and orange eyes,
forked tongues, and thick jet black manes of hair, not to mention the short
horns sprouting from their foreheads.  He didn't think it was KlitSkin covering
their bodies, probably just standard synthskin, but still the modifications had
to cost them a year's salary or more.  One of them was grinding on the lap of a
spacer seated at one of the club tables.  His cock was deep in her red-lipped
furt, and as she rocked hard atop it she had one hand wrapped around the back of
the spacer's neck while the other shoved her tail deep into her own asshole. 
Her tail reached nearly to the floor, and as Hamee watched she pushed more and
more of it into herself.  She wasn't thrusting it in and out but rather pushing
ever more of it through the tight red ring of her anus.  From her reaction it
felt amazing, and the spacer seemed to enjoy the sensations as well.

	"Just wait 'til I start wagging it," she told him with a smile,
revealing brilliant white teeth honed to razor-sharp points.

	Then there was the busty woman covered in short blue fur.  She had a
thick head of black hair, and it grew down her back along her spine in a
narrowing stripe all the way down to the cleft of her buttocks.  Hamee barely
noticed the fur-he was too busy staring at the vaginas where her nipples should
have been.  Each of her breasts sported a furt of its own, 100% anatomically
correct but for the color of its bare flesh, which was black.

	The corridor heading off to one side he at first thought led to more
private suites, but then he caught a glimpse of the small room.  Hamee wandered
in, seeing a small number of men filling the tiered seats, staring intently at
the stage.  He somehow found an empty seat without taking his eyes off the show.

	In the center of the small stage was a large-framed nude woman.  She
rested her weight on her knees and elbows atop four foot-high padded pedestals. 
When Hamee entered she was facing the audience, but the stage was rotating
slowly, and as it turned Hamee could see she was pregnant.  Very pregnant - from
the size of her belly, he guessed she had to be due any day.  Then he started to
wonder-things in the Menagerie were rarely as they first appeared.  The woman
had brown hair, and while not ugly was physically unremarkable, except for the
fact she had a frame as big as some men and looked pregnant.  On a slender woman
her overlarge breasts, which appeared swollen with milk, would have been huge. 
Next to her big belly they merely appeared proportional.  As the stage rotated
the woman's furt eventually came into view, and Hamee was struck by how long her
split was.  It wasn't just between her legs, it seemed to run down and across
her rounded pubic mound.  Her slit had to be twenty-five centimeters-ten
inches-long.

	A nude man appeared at the side of the stage, accompanied by a club
employee.  Hamee later learned the man was a paying customer, but for what he
didn't know at first.  The two of them stepped onto the slowly rotating stage
and moved behind the kneeling woman.  The man affixed something to his nose
which Hamee realized later was a common emergency breathing device.  The EBD was
small and U-shaped, filling the  nostrils of the wearer, and would provide up to
fifteen minutes of breathable air.

	The club employee, a pretty girl wearing bright orange dip-pants, took a
small tank and sprayed the man with some sort of a clear liquid.  She covered
his entire body with the glistening fluid, then set the tank down and used her
hands to make sure the lubricant-for that's what it was-coated every square inch
of his skin.

	As the kneeling woman's sex again swung slowly round toward the audience
Hamee watched as the dripping man knelt behind her and slid a hand into her
unnaturally long slit.  There was no reaction from the woman as the man rubbed
his palm around the outside of her furt until her flesh gleamed, but the
audience as a man leaned forward and held its breath as the man onstage used his
same hand to grab the bottom edge of her slit and pull downward.

	Hamee gaped in amazement as the woman's sex stretched downward several
inches.  The man adjusted his hand, and pulled down further.  Hamee realized at
once that-impossible as it sounded-she'd had her pubic bone removed, there could
be no other explanation.  As the man leaned forward and slid his free hand into
the opening that now stretched down half a meter between the woman's legs,
nearly between her knees, Hamee began to suspect just what it was he was
watching.  His suspicions were confirmed as the man, shoulder-deep in the woman,
pushed his face and then his entire head into her.

	Hamee watched her belly stretch as the man wiggled and squirmed into
her.  The shape of his body could clearly be seen through her flesh as he pushed
and twisted, all the while the stage turned.  The woman's face came around to
face the crowd and Hamee was struck at how expressionless she was.  By the time
the stage made another half turn the man was in her up to his waist, and Hamee
could only stare at the sight.

	The man, minus the unnatural abdomen, was the same size or larger than
the woman.  Seeing another human, a full-sized adult, half-inside a woman like
that was the strangest thing Hamee had ever seen.  Not only had her stomach
grown to cartoonish proportions, the opening of her sex reached as far down as
her knees.  Not only did she not have a pubic bone (making Hamee wonder how she
could walk), it appeared her ribcage was unnaturally short as well to make room
on her torso for her morphed belly.  The man pushed forward still, and the skin
of her abdomen stretched down until it touched the stage.  Hamee could see the
man balance himself on his hands inside her as he began to pull his legs in.

	The woman's face swung around again, and again there was no expression
on it, like nothing unusual was happening, that she couldn't feel the man that
was burrowing his way into her.  As he studied her from the side Hamee saw the
man pull his last foot into her.  Her stomach was stretched so much by his
weight that he actually was resting on the stage inside her flesh.  That
explained the pedestals-there wouldn't have been enough room for him under her
without them.

	By the time the woman's furt was pointed straight at Hamee again, he
could see that her abdomen was contracting around the man, who had shifted
inside her.  Her back bowed under the weight, and for the first time Hamee heard
her make a sound-a grunt.  The flesh of her belly stretched even tighter around
the man, and his shape could clearly be discerned in her, curled up in the fetal
position, head toward her sex.  Her belly was quivering, and it took Hamee just
a second to realize the movement was from the man inside her as he masturbated. 
Then he realized it wasn't just him-her abdomen was contracting in spasms,
clenching around its occupant, who was masturbating ever more furiously.  Her
split shrunk in length with every contraction, until it was nearly its original,
absurd length.

	Hamee looked around-the audience was two-thirds men, and just about
everybody but him was masturbating., staring at the show with unblinking eyes. 
Just the thought of seeing the man emerging from the woman, glistening with goo
like a newborn, was disconcerting enough to Hamee.  He stood and walked out back
to the club's main room, taking deep breaths.

	"What's going on in there?" a curious spacer near the end of the hall
asked Hamee.

	Hamee shook his head.  "You wouldn't believe me if I told you," he
assured the man. 

	He slowly made his way back toward the bar and the front of the club,
seeing bizarre sights that had already become familiar to him.  The dog-man he'd
observed on a table thrusting into a woman while her friends urged them both on
was still at it.  The friend wearing the crotchless chaps was under him now on
her knees and elbows, covered with sweat and cursing joyfully as he hammered his
big organ into her ass.

	"Take the knot!  Take the knot!  Take the knot!" her friends were
chanting and laughing as they stood around the table.

	"Fuck you you whores!" the woman in chaps growled, sweat dripping off
her nose.  She'd been trying to take the knot for five minutes.

	He saw two women who looked twice his age-which with current medical
technology meant they were probably at least ninety-masturbating one of the
horse-men as he lay on his side.  The skill they displayed only demonstrated the
adage that 'practice makes perfect'.

	The female centaur was off in a quiet corner, her horse body laying down
on its chest.  One of the club patrons had paid quite handsomely for the
privilege of sticking his arm into her up to the shoulder, and she seemed quite
delighted to let him.  The male centaur was still onstage, this time
entertaining one of the cows.

	The cow had risen to her feet for the occasion, and had her hands
planted on a padded bench, elbows locked to support both her weight and that of
the centaur as he thrust his massive shaft into her.  She as able to take nearly
all of it, and as his thrusts rocked her body back and forth her teats and udder
swayed gently.  Hamee spotted the other cow, the one who looked pregnant, on
hands and knees on the bar.  Her underside was a mass of hoses-her nipples and
udder were hooked back up to the vacuum nozzles of the bar's milk tank.  One of
the dog-men had mounted her and was thrusting his organ into her big mouth as
fast as he could.  The cow distractedly sucked as his flesh with the same amount
of interest it had shown toward the leaves of frin it had been offered earlier.

	A slender woman in tall boots passed Hamee and he turned to watch her
shapely ass and the pink wiggling tail attached to it.  She stopped at a nearby
table and as she turned he recognized her as the attractive woman he'd noticed
before with the disconcerting furt where her navel should have been.  She
exchanged a few words with her friends, and then broke out laughing at something
one of them said. As she bent over, her stomach muscles tightening, a thick
runnel of fresh semen squirted out of that furt and ran down her abdomen toward
her bald mound.  Without a second's hesitation, her pignosed friend bent over
and licked her clean, then began snuffling at her slit to see if there was any
more. 

	"Want some head?"

	Hamee turned and saw one of the women with a vagina where her mouth
should be standing beside him, one hand on her cocked hip.  In her other hand
she held a small cardreader.  Before she could utter another sound through her
neck-mounted neuro-voicebox Hamee had swiped his card, pushed her to her knees,
and buried himself to the hilt in her face.  One thing he learned almost
immediately-she might not've had a mouth anymore, but she still had throat
muscles that could ripple like a fish.

	

	

	Hamee had no idea how much time had passed when he finally made his way
outside.  To his relief found the street ahead of him quiet and uncrowded.  He
passed one restaurant that specialized in local dishes, not feeling adventurous
with his stomach, and a small sex club which specialized in hirsute women. 
Especially, extraordinarily hirsute women.  He repressed a shudder at the sight
of a few of them in the lobby.  To him they looked like nothing more than
chimpanzees with their enormously hairy backs.  There was no way that could be
natural, he assumed there must be some sort of hormone or gene tweaking going
on.  He didn't think he'd be interested in sex for months, not after the night
he had.  All he wanted was to head back to his hotel and sleep.

	At the far end of the street he saw the wide purple facade of AOTA/NOTA,
a club he'd heard a lot of talk about.  Its name stood for All of the Above/None
of the Above, which referred to gender of its employees.  Hamee hadn't gotten so
jaded he needed to be confused by the genitalia of the person he was with, but
still, he was curious . . . .

	"Wanna jump?"

	Hamee did jump as the hulking figure appeared suddenly at the mouth of a
narrow alley.  The woman before him was massively muscled - half a head taller
than Hamee and probably twenty kilos heavier.  Her head was slightly misshapen,
her features heavy, like her skull bones hadn't all stopped growing at the same
time.  She wore a loose, short-sleeved shirt and baggy pants, like what a wife
would wear around the house, not, to Hamee's way of thinking, what a trolling
pulatrita would put on.

	"No, uh-"  Her hands were huge, with big knuckles, and she hardly had
any breasts to speak of.  She was a she, he was pretty sure of that, but he was
unable to stop the brief grimace from flicking across his features.  The
reaction he got was immediate.

	"You think I'm ugly?" She roared at him, her voice nearly as deep as
his.  "You think I'm hideous!"

	Hamee only had time to open his mouth and take half a step backward
before her huge fist came out of nowhere and the sky went dark.

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