The day after my twenty-first birthday, I started a new job. This was no surprise, of course. Annual rotation of jobs is usual for the first few years in the city. My first job, on moving to the city at eighteen, was as a catering assistant. This involved a lot of making teas and coffees and sandwiches, and so on, and eventually a lot of delivering drinks and lunches to various offices and special events. My second year in the city, I was a painter, mostly of long corridor walls, but occasionally I got to do someone or other's apartment walls in a colour that wasn't a neutral cream or beige. I quite enjoyed that. My third year, I was a seamster, cutting and sewing cotton according to a variety of patterns to make shirts and vests.
Like all children, I was raised in a commune. Mine was up in the North, where it is often cold and often wet. We were raised and educated by retirees from the city, who would tell us how much better life was in the communes but would also reminisce about the life and energy of the city. To us, who had never seen the city, it sounded like a place of dreams and wonder, and we were impatient to reach eighteen years of age and finally get to experience it for ourselves.
We envied the aunties who arrived fresh from the city, their bellies round. They would give birth in the commune, and for a full year after they would care for their bawling infants. After that year, they got to go back again to the city, leaving their children in our care. Some aunties returned to us quickly, within a year, their bellies round again.
At twenty-one, and having finally had sex, I wondered if one day I would be one of those aunties, bouncing between city and commune, popping out babies. I wondered if I would ever meet again the aunty who popped baby me out. Red '23. She was blonde, like me, and was always nice to me, even when her hands were full of some bawling younger sibling of mine.
I wondered which anonymous man had impregnated her, his cock hammering her cunt in a sex booth, his cum inside her afterwards as she went about her day.
I'll never know. But the Organiser surely knows. The Organiser knows everything. The Organiser makes our utopia possible. Through carefully managed randomness, the Organiser ensures that all are born equal. That all have equal chances in life. That the men I meet in the sex booth are unknown to me, and - once I am thirty and no longer on anticonception meds - a good genetic pairing.
The Organiser selects at random those who get elevated to higher ranks in the city. The Managers. The Executives. The Directors. Each rank has its privileges, though exactly what those privileges are is unclear. Anyone like me, under the age of thirty, is a mere Citizen, one of millions. Of tens of millions, even. One in a hundred is selected to become a Manager at thirty. One in a hundred Managers to be an Executive at forty. One in a hundred Executives to be a Director at fifty.
I painted a Manager's apartment once. It was twice the size of mine and had its own kitchen. The cupboards were well stocked with a variety of dry and canned foods. Rumour has it also that Managers have appointments twice per month at the sex booths.
But that isn't quite true.
Yellow '56, the Manager at my new job, explained, "This is a very unusual job that you've been selected for, Red '86. It's very important that you keep the details to yourself. No gossip with friends. No whispered confessions."
"Of course," I said, already intrigued.
"Good. In addition to monthly scheduled visits to the sex booth, Managers are scheduled for a monthly oral service." - Oral service? Like a dental appointment, or something? - "We'll start you off with the men. Come with me."
Yellow '56 led me along a corridor to a small booth where a young, naked man sat on a stool facing the wall. He looked up at me and blushed, but I was more curious about the hole in the wall in front of him. There was a curtain or covering of sorts on the other side. I couldn't think what the hole's purpose was, or why this man was sitting there naked in front of it.
The covering was drawn aside suddenly, and a penis pushed through. I stared at it in shock, entirely unprepared. Only the day before, I had seen a penis for the very first time. I hadn't expected to see another so soon. This one was longer than the other, but just as ugly in its limp state.
The young man barely hesitated. He leaned forward and took the limp member between his lips, and by the shape of his cheeks he seemed to be sucking on it.
"The purpose of oral service is to use the mouth to induce pleasure," my new Manager said. "This is important for relieving sexual tension and allows Managers to concentrate better on their demanding work."
It was a weird reversal of the sex booth. In the booth I had been held passive while a man pounded away at my cunt, but here the cock - very erect now - remained passive while the young man brushed it with his lips and teased it with his tongue and sucked on it while bobbing his head. He even hummed as if there were some enjoyment in this oral servitude.
In truth, there was something both hypnotic and arousing about the spectacle. My initial instinct of disgust and disapproval of this intimate and unnatural act gave way to a reluctant fascination. My disbelief and dismay that this was to be my new job gave way to a tentative curiosity. And after all, the Organiser had selected it for me, and one doesn't question the Organiser.
A muffled moan was heard through the thin wall, and a rivulet of cum ran down the young man's chin as he continued to suck on the pulsing cock. "It's best if the men finish in your mouth," Yellow '56 said, "but it's up to you whether you swallow. If you choose to spit, be subtle about it. It's an acquired taste and varies between men."
He showed me to a locker where I could put my clothes, then once I was undressed, he led me to an unoccupied booth. "Your first appointment is in five minutes. Would you like me to stay and watch?"
I shook my head. The only thing more embarrassing than what I was about to do would be having someone watch me do it.
Blessedly alone, I took my seat facing the curtained hole, still utterly amazed that such a job existed at all, let alone that it was now my job. But also, I was undeniably aroused. I didn't need to touch myself; I could feel how wet I was. Perhaps it was the cool air, but my nipples were hard too.
The curtain pulled aside and a cock thrust through. It was a small cock, and already hard. Confronted by that anonymous cock, my instincts rebelled. I didn't want a man's cock in my mouth. I didn't want his cum either. But this was my job. I didn't have to like it. I just had to do it, and perhaps I would get used to it. Not everyone gets to do jobs they enjoy.
I leaned forward until I could smell it, a raw, musky aroma. I touched my lips to the head, finding it to be soft and warm. And alive. Unquestionably alive. I closed my mouth about it, sucking gently, and feeling utterly perverse for doing so. And yet, it didn't taste bad, or anything really. I was abruptly conscious that I held a man's most intimate part between my teeth, that indeed I had the power to sever it from him if I chose - though of course I would be severely punished for such an act of disobedience and mutilation.
