Yaddy watched the street traffic while ducked down in the floor of the back seats, eyes just over the door, scanning the streets around them. "Ash Man," he called to the driver. "You sure we're not being followed?"
"It's fine, boy-oh." The driver, Ash, handed a flask to the backseat, eyes on the road. "Take the edge off."
Yaddy snatched the flask, pulled it below the eyeline of any passersby. "Don't be so conspicuous!" He ducked a little more to take a long pull from the bottle before capping it.
They drove a budget hybrid in the part of town where most cars still used diesel. Next to the peanut butter factory were several businesses iconic of the area: paycheck advance lenders, plasma donation clinics, liquor stores. The power lines and telecom cables criss-crossed the street, no attention paid to modern urban design. The streets were full of a variety people: some were locals, going about their business, sending side-eyes to the prepsters from the 'burbs and local college who patronized the chic new eateries built to "clean up" the joint. Then there were the other locals, the ones taking advantage of the outsiders, either with bootleg movies on thumb-drives or knock-off purses with designer labels. Surrounding all of them was a seemingly even distribution of litter in the form of tossed receipts, bottles, broken vape diskettes, and anything else easily spilled from trash truck overflow.
The sun was only starting to set. Yaddy leaned back and laid on the floor. "Are we there yet?"
"You're a child." Ash sucked on his vaporizer and puffed thick, purple clouds. "They don't have a giant neon sign saying, 'Cum Cucks Come Inside.'"
"So how do we find it?"
"Don't you worry; I'll tell you when we're there. Here..." Ash opened the glove box and threw back some titty mags. "Work on your stamina. If you pop early, I want you ready for a second act."
Yaddy flipped through a copy of
Juggz
as the alcohol started to relieve some of the tension, getting more excited at the subversive acts than in the photos of the mammarily gifted ladies. If he were caught wasting seed, he'd get a minimum $5,000 fine or (more likely) thirty days in prison. Add to that charges for conspiracy, infrastructural sabotage, and - worst case scenario - high treason, and he could look forward to a life of getting milked by a grotesquely unhygienic warden named "Jim Bob."
After science figured out how to create unlimited energy from semen, the humans thought their cold war with the robot nation would end since they'd stop fighting over natural resources. Instead, it worsened. Rather than improving their solar and wind farms, the androids found it easier to harvest from the humans. Sure: an actual farm of humans, bred to be milked of their seed, would've set off World War III. Instead they created realistic androids to seduce them, covertly ingest the seed, and dump bucket-loads at their own version of the Department of Energy. Meeting at a bar or from a dating app, the humans were none the wiser; as far as they knew, these were nymphomaniacs with a cum fetish, hungry at the thought of sucking down valuable juices. It wasn't until one of these spies malfunctioned, tearing off a senator's dick as the suction overclocked, that the human governments of the world realized what was happening.
Of course, like all international affairs, plausible deniability helped the bots dodge accountability. Not only that, but the threat of imposters seducing healthy testes-havers led to pandemonium and fear, which bred restrictive legislation over something once deemed a natural right and basic civil liberty. From then on, any men, pre-op trans women, and non-binary persons over the age of 18 were legally required to give a monthly sperm sample to the government. But they couldn't spend the rest of the month spilling their seed willy nilly, else their donations risked being low in quality and quantity. To make sure the samples were as thick and creamy as possible, laws were drafted to prevent wasting of earth's most valuable resource.
Masturbation was legal only if the ejaculate were sent to the DoE. The monthly quota was a minimum, so for some of the more socially awkward members of society, this meant an increase in their overall happiness; those who otherwise felt guilty once the post-coital moment of clarity hit were suddenly flush with patriotic pride. Even marriages had limits and included annual polygraphs to make sure they were only ejaculating for "Light or Life," as the saying went; if not donating to the DoE, then only for procreation. And, of course, all premarital sex was outlawed. At first, the progressive caucus fought to limit this to men only; after all, why make it illegal for people who don't produce semen? But the conservative argument that this would be too much of a temptation ended up passing by a slim majority.
So pubs became hotbeds for espionage. The normies drank in hopes of loosening up enough to socialize and potentially meet a mate. But not everyone controls their drinking, so their behavior attracted femme-bots and boy-toys with eager smiles and empty fuel tanks. This meant undercover police were itching to catch a "Cum Cuck" in the act, or they'd get the bragging rights from tazing an android. Of course, increased police activity meant fewer normies and fewer risk-takers, which led to fewer androids, thus less fuzz, which re-invited the normies then the bots then the cops, and the cycle repeated, ad infinitum. Of those three parties, the cops knew when they were pulling back surveillance and the bots knew how many agents were deployed, so the only ones without any idea about which step of the cycle they were currently on were the civilians. And not knowing the risk is essentially the same as high risk.
So, if one were so inclined towards risky behavior, they might get off on simply jumping into this cycle, let alone the pleasures which accompanied it. Suddenly the kink world began a new phase of unsafe sex where adrenaline junkies risked loss of freedom - potentially even life, pending a bot malfunctioning - at the potential for what could be the "Ultimate O" from a suck machine scientifically designed for maximum drainage. This desire for an eruption of epic proportions also led to slightly safer, albeit much harder to find, secret meet-ups spread solely from word of mouth and elite underground information networks. Thus the civilized world saw a seedy underbelly of pop-up pop shops made for Cum Cucks, Goo-Goo Girls, and cuck sluts alike.
