The Futa Brew was a relatively new entry in the tightly competitive industry of American specialty coffee shops. Enlisting the mysterious yet alluring sexual minority, the futanari, the Futa Brew used special proprietary implants to allow the baristas to provide their customers with lactose-free 'cream' for their special lattes. This revolutionary technique had made Futa Brew stand out among the crowd. Starbucks might have sixteen thousand locations in America, but the Futa Brew stood at... about two dozen.
The exact makeup of the implants remains a tightly guarded corporate secret, a secret recipe equivalent to the Colonel's eleven herbs and spices or the recipe for Coca-Cola. If anyone ever got their hands on how the implants were made, they... would probably not use it and keep making coffee the standard way.
Then again, this was the industry that produced kopi luwak, the expensive Indonesian coffee where the beans passed through the digestive system of the native Asian palm civet. Nonlinear thinking and innovation was the name of the game. There was a chance that more money was spent on kopi luwak in a given day than at even a very busy Futa Brew location.
But if someone insisted on drinking a coffee that had been processed through a living creature... why not a beautiful futanari woman with a huge cock who was being properly compensated for her work?
The same as most luxury food products, kopi luwak beans were subject to more imitation in the market than Gucci purses. But there can be no accusation of such deception at the Futa Brew. The barista will make your drink fresh, right in front of you. Even if you look away and hide your shameful erection with your messenger bag, she will likely beg you to stare at her or else she can't get off because working with her cock out for so long has made her an exhibitionist. But that would be a lie, because almost every futa loves showing off their cock at any opportunity, even before they embarked on this particular career opportunity.
With locations scattered across the central and western United States, the Futa Brew headquarters were established in an unassuming office building in Bakersville, California. Close enough to be in the footprint of the popular California locations in Long Beach, San Diego, San Francisco and Sacremento... and within an hour-long flight to the troublesome Las Vegas location.
The home office had food scientists, customer service workers, procurement specialists, bean counters in both senses of the word, chemists, marketers, graphic designers, brewmasters, executives, office drones... but not the Founder, the likely fabulously wealthy individual for whom this was their life's work. It was rumored that the only way the Founder seemed to talk to those at the very top of the company was by a solitary telephone that did not dial out.
It might be considered a scandal, but none of the coffee served on the home office's premises contained a drop of futanari spunk. They used their own beans and brewed it on site, but the commissary in the home office was ordinary and staffed no futa... unless someone was being underpaid to keep a very big secret. But since no special lattes were made here... the staff was much more representative of the gender split of the average population. Roughly half-and-half men and women... and almost no futa.
Almost.
There were still some new products and formulations to be rigorously tested. The only way to do that properly was to have a real-life futanari on hand.
Bernadette Ahlquist started in the Futa Brew location in Milwaukee at nineteen. That location struggled more than others, possibly due to Wisconsin's known preference of beer to coffee. Whispers of the shop being closed for a more traditional coffee shop dogged the location for a long while, as long as she was there. But it has continued to exist with local Midwestern futa grinding beans... and each other.
Ahlquist was hired as a barista, but rose through the ranks rapidly. She was meticulous, understanding... and sexy. Tall, fit, blonde and quite hung, she was an ideal worker for this position. She could even pretend she liked random inane conversations with people commuting to her job, a crucial skill in this line of work.
Bernadette even drew a few national headlines when she stood outside her shop in a light snowstorm... in uniform. She said to the reporters that she'd never ask anyone to do something that she wasn't willing to do herself... and in fact had never asked any of her subordinates to do this perhaps obvious publicity stunt.
She climbed up from barista to assistant manager and then to store manager within two years. But her ambition wasn't quite satisfied. She wished to climb higher up, if only to hopefully escape the snow-ridden, alcohol soaked junkyard that was Wisconsin. When the district manager for the midwest left the company, Bernadette was passed over for a different candidate from outside the company. The selected candidate was a canny businesswoman and experienced manager for sure, but she... wasn't able to make drinks the way Bernadette did.
Disillusioned with this road block, Bernadette reached out to upper management to see if there was a place for a futa anywhere in the office.
This is how she transferred into product testing. It was really the only way upwards for a futa, so she would take it before someone else got it and obstructed her last path upwards. She was ready to take the plunge and trade in snow shovels for sandy beaches. She even went to a speech therapist to lose her Midwestern accent, so she'd be taken seriously on the west coast.
The position wasn't much different than being a store manager. Most of her days were filled with administration and organization work. It didn't often involve customer service OR coffee... except for that one poor skinny fellow with the deep unresolved crush on her who asked her to 'make her a coffee' on Mondays. So long as he kept his hands to himself, Bernadette was all too eager to oblige him this beverage with her supply of one-serve vanilla pellets they used to use for free samples at mall kiosks.
But in her position as America's best-paid adult-sized lab rat since Beakman's World was on the air... Bernadette did often have to put things in her rear end and ejaculate. Sometimes, the came into graduated cylinders rather than post-consumer recycled paper cups or Styrofoam. Sometimes it was into a breeding mount with molded handles, always a fun workout. Sometimes, they drew blood from her afterwards or put electrodes on her chest, which never failed to freak her out. They must think her standing heart rate was always elevated.
On average, three days of Bernadette's five-day work week, she was obliged to put her body on the line for her work. On those days, she usually got out of her stylish work outfit and walked around the laboratory naked. If she had to leave the area, or if there was a fire drill, or if there was a visitor afoot in possession of a sensitive disposition, she could put on her lab coat. She wore an extra-large coat that fit her like a trash bag, but did reach to her knee to keep everything hidden if need be. Otherwise, she was nude but for her lanyard with her attached ID and her leather slip-on loafers. Even someone as bold and shameless as her knew not to give away peeks at her feet for free.
Of course, parading around in such a manner often drew stares from the other teams. So many women unabashedly staring at her cock and clenching their teeth, many lesser boners not half the dignity of her own from the men... it was so often too hard to resist getting hard herself. In case this was seen as unacceptable expression of lust in the workplace... she had a backup plan.
The implants used at the Futa Brew locations were almost always a solid plastic flange with a short stem with the 'active ingredient' on the end like a lollipop. Bernadette had held onto a shortened empty flange that she could put inside her without discomfort. If anyone ever asked why she was erect, not that anyone would dare... she could just show off her implant and pretend that a test was in progress. Then she could do anything she wanted. Sit and eat, browse porn on her work computer, moisturize her whole body in sight of as many people as she could stand... she never quite had the nerve to just start masturbating in a public area. Surely, someone would tell her to find somewhere else to do that 'experiment.'
Bernadette might have been a lab rat... but anywhere else in the world, rats were very hard to get rid of. She was absolutely vital to the testing of new products. She was well-compensated enough to be invariably patient and professional. Finally, both the men and women didn't seem to mind her prancing around naked. So long as she didn't make any enemies up the chain... she was essentially irreplaceable.
Nevertheless... it never failed to raise her hackles when an email from somewhere above her in the company asked for a private meeting. It was NEVER as much fun as it could have been.
Bernadette hadn't gotten the chance to undress, so she went up in the elevator, higher than she'd ever been before. Bakersville wasn't exactly known for its abundance of skyscrapers, but the quiet hallway with floor-to-ceiling windows that wrapped around the exterior, showing the huge drop from here to ground level... it still made her stomach plunge as she looked out. The Founder themselves was probably in the tallest building they could find, building a rotating restaurant on the top of the Burj Khalifa just to prove that they could... and to show that they would always be out of their reach.
She found the proper meeting room and went inside, the door lock turning green as she approached it. She didn't even need to use the ID card on her lanyard.
If this was a meeting room, it would be a very small meeting. It was a room as small as the average ATM vestibule, with a door on both sides. It was just enough for two people to sit across from each other, a table reaching across the entire room. It reminded Bernadette of the visitation rooms in a prison, or that scene in Brazil where the protagonist's 'desk' was shared through the wall with some other unfortunate worker. There was a white noise machine in the corner of the room made inaccessible.
Bernadette took a seat at the chair on her side, setting her purse beside her. A few minutes passed in uncomfortable silence before the lock opened on the opposite door, the click as loud as a gunshot.
A woman entered and closed the door gently behind her. She was dressed in a white power suit with a matching skirt. She had sandy brown hair clipped at the shoulders and tinted glasses. She had a briefcase in her left hand. She sat down and rubbed an incidental wrinkle out of her skirt against her thigh before looking up at her.
