The Oldest Profession

Chapter 1 -- The Oldest Profession

He pushes me harder against the wall as his cock penetrates me. My circuitry overheats as he rams me. My chest heaves against the glass. I can't move away from it because polycarbon manacles have bound my limbs to it.

Warmth washes over my body as he rhythmically pounds me, strikes me, fucks me. Even though he's thrusting his bio-modded cock hard enough to irradiate me, I want him harder with every stroke. I close the eyes that weren't looking at him. I fall against the glass as the spaceship turns. He's lying atop me when he ejaculates. Semen spreads over me like quicksilver. Some of it drips to the silicon floor as he withdraws, and the artificial gravity returns. I pity whatever maid will clean this.

Slick from being inside me, his sated body collapses onto the bed. His breathing is heavy.

"Tired, Jasper?" I say. He nods.

"Twice in one night can be exhausting. But it's something we have to do. Otherwise, it would mess with your programming. I wouldn't want you to break."

His head leans back. He falls asleep with the smell of my cunt still on him.

I only take five minutes to fix my hair, my lipstick, my outfit. I look disheveled and smell of sex, which is an ideal aesthetic. I stretch the sleeping mask across his eyes. I close the lights and the window so that he's less likely to wake. Injecting him with something is too risky: the puncture might wake him.

* * * * *

The man at the bar has slow, sullen eyes. They don't have the twitchiness of cybernetic implants. If he's law enforcement, he's so mediocre and irrelevant his bosses won't read the report he files on me.

"You're looking lonely," I say.

"You're looking for money," he says.

"A stylish man like you must have the credits. If you can buy the haptic belt, which I believe comes includes the nanomachines for additional energy reserves, then you can afford me."

"How do I know I want to?" I caress his leg with my hand. I can sense his ocular aperture expand. Therefore, I slide the hand up the latex trousers he's wearing. The fabric shifts and squirms: ripples undulate outward from the crotch. He's already hard enough to pressure his own garments.

"Feels like you do."

"I don't know if you're clean. I don't know what you've got. You could be carrying the Tessier-Ashpool strain."

"I'm not carrying anything," I say. "Bots are immune to that." I lean forward toward his ear. "It makes us better at pleasing you." He tenses at the thought, the suggestion. The force spread across the palm I've placed on his thigh. My skin tingles. I relish this dominion over him.

"They just let a bot walk the streets?" He gulps down his drink after he finishes the question.

"Look at my outfit. Do you think I look like I settle for anything less than a ship?"

I take him to this ship in less than five minutes time.

He turns me around, strips the dress from my body, slaps my ass. He smirks when I ask for more.

He takes a small cylinder, presses the side, makes it expand. It's a chrome rod often used by razorgirls to ensure payment from deadbeat hackers.

It snaps against my ass. The pain swells, then surges. It's a measured, pulsing wave. It crashes against me as he strikes again. Unable to stay upright, I lean onto the bed; the silken sheets soothe my skin. He strikes, I shout. I wince at the jolting pressure, needing more.

"I'm going to make it worse," he says. I moan as I anticipate the salvo. "Although I don't have to."

"Please," I say. I hear the screech as he turns the mods to a higher voltage. His breathing slows as he relishes his newfound dominance.

"Because you can't go without the pain?"

"Yes." A strike.

"Because you want to suffer?"

"Yes." A strike.

"Because you're a skinjob bitch?"

"God," I shout after a strike shatters the cable jacks running up my right thigh. He gasps, unaware of how easy I am to repair. I brush aside the chrome with one hand, stroke his hardened cock with the either. He sinks into my pussy. That part still works.

When his hands clutch mine, I wait for white rain to douse me.

I stare at myself in the mirror as he goes to wash himself. My body glisters with him on it.

I don't count the credits he's deposited in my account. I care that he's paid me. I don't care if he's shortchanged me.

* * * * *

Jasper has brought in Sapphire, another one of the robots he constructed. He's modelled her on a modern design aesthetic: asymmetrical haircut dyed with the color and sheen of multiple gemstones, the eyes speckled like marble, the lip pierced through with a single silver stud.

Her tits bounce as she spreads her legs for me. Hers is a model heavier than mine: as she accepts me between her legs, I wonder if she can crush my head with her thighs. She pants for me, says my name, curses loudly. Her pussy is already wet and opened. The newer models have even quicker arousal: they also substituted the sweeter taste of older models for something tart. She yanks my hair and pushes me against her as my tongue penetrates her.

My body burns, pulses, aches. I crave her taste even as I have it; I bury my face against her to taste more of her. Beside me, I hear Jasper's sinewy hand stroking his twitching cock. There's a measured rhythm, then an accelerated one, and then an uneven, frenetic one. I hear his semen plop over the ground. A warm droplet oozes down the side of my ankle. As his muscular legs tromp over floor, I pull away from Sapphire, languid with the pleasure coursing through her. The door closes as Jaspers runs the shower. I rise and look at Sapphire.

"Do you want to use the shower on the upper level?"

"No," I say. I stretch my panties off my body as I lower myself onto the bed. "I want to keep fucking you." I turn her so that both of our mouths can press between the other's legs.

"I was hoping you'd say that," she said. She moves the aquamarine strands of her hair away from her flushed visage. However, her head lingers before my legs.

"But what if Jasper comes out while we're still together."

"Then he'll probably touch himself again," I say. "He'll commend us for being efficient."

We are lying there, sated and denuded, when Jasper exits the wash room. His suit is taut against his body. With the skin modification stretched over the right arm, I can't even tell it's bionic.

He looks at us, smiled, and says: "You two seem d to have enjoyed yourself as much I did." We both nodded.

"Sapphire" he says, "I have an outfit ready for you. It's in the flatline room. Would you please change into it?"

"Of course," she says as she rises. She struts toward the door.

"Do you have something for me to wear?" I say.

"I'm just taking Sapphire, for now," he says. "The Straylight has a large arena. I'd hate if we got separated."

I agree that such a fate would be horrendous. I refrain from saying "what would I do without you" because it would sound desperate and needy, and he only liked that when both of us are naked and pressed together.

"If you are attending this exhibition all day," I say, "then I would like to visit the Sprawl for the day. If that is appropriate."

"Of course," he said, "Although it seems you're spending more and more time there."

"I must confess," I said, "I'm getting quite good at the haptic competitions. They had the best player from Chiba there last week, and I took two games out of five against him."

"Well, I don't see much harm in that," he said, "I'm proud that my girls are so talented, whether it's in pleasing a man or competing in modern gaming. Just as long as you aren't doing both for any of those champions from Chiba."

"Of course not," I say.

"And you know why not?" he says. This is information I should know. He wants me to repeat it to assess me. He's studying my circuitry for errors that might've arisen.

"Because I was built to please only you," I say. The last two words in that were incorrect. He does not suspect what he would assume is an error rather than an overlooked feature.

"That's my girl," he says. He kisses my forehead, takes my hand, walks me to the glossy, pristine living room. The other girls are sitting on the vinyl couches around a projected display of the andromeda galaxy. Jasper stands at the head of the circle, looking at so much beauty so effortlessly presented. Eventually Sapphire, now with fishnets spread over her body, enters from the side of the living room with the pod bay doors. She strolls up to Jasper, takes his arm in hers, and looks at us.

"Sapphire and I will be at the straylight for the rest of the day," he says.

Another girl asks if we'll have new companions. It's Pearl, the tanned blonde modelled on starlets from a bygone era. Pearl has expressed to us that we bore her, by which she meant we never engage in the few niche activities she enjoyed. She's hoping for a robot who shares her fetishistic tastes. She's hoping for a girl to bring hot wax.

"This the latest showing of the 3Jane models," he says. "But it's not just about them. That's why this is a full day affair. I need to examine all the different wares that Diamond is selling. There's some real innovations for you girls." He wants us to ask about the type of innovation to which he refers. Nonetheless, we remain silent. He continues to speak, as if the pause were a dramatic part in monologue performed on a hologram stage.

"I'm a magnanimous sort of man," he says. "I want to make this experience the best for all of us." He winks at us, as if he is our father who informed us of a family secret. I shudder as I extract this thought. Incest was not a desire programmed into my biochemistry. I, fortunately, was not built to look like someone's sister or daughter or mother.

* * * * *

"You're Amethyst then? You're the pleasured-based robot," says the man as he arrives at the bar. He's standing while his friend, a long-time client, sits across from me.

"Yes."

"Or is

android

more accurate?" says my old client.

"It's less accurate," If this man were like most of my clients, I wouldn't detail this information for him. I would've pushed my chest forward, licked my lips, and said: "You can call me whatever you like." But I've talked enough with this one to know he likes to dominate an intelligent woman. Some trivia is titillation, if it doesn't veer into presumptuousness. I assume this new man values similar details as his friend. Clients usually do when they want me at once.

"It comes from the word for male. You'd want gynoid. It comes from the same root as gynecology."

"What does

robot

come from?" says my old client.

"A Slavic term for feudal peasants."

"The dark hair and eyes make sense now," says the new man as he points at my head. My old client chuckles as he wraps his arm around my waist.

"I was told my design was based on the Circassian beauties."

"I like it," says the new man. "The dark eyes are so lovely to see again, after this explosion of multicolor ocular implants. And I haven't seen black hair in ages."

"It is true. Most of my counterparts at Jasper's estate are blonde."

"No shit," says the new man. I can tell from the way he looks at me, at my old client, and then smiles that I'm not the first girl they've shared. "Jasper has billions of credits. There must be like twenty of you."

"There are only eleven of us, right now, although he's in the market for a twelfth."

"Not crafting?"

"He built some of us, myself included."

"Then how come you're talking to us?" says the new man.

"He built me to enjoy sex," The new man stares at me as a woman, a chubby brunette with a black trench-coat and mirror lenses over her eyes, walks over to his side. I see the ring on his hand as he drapes it around her shoulder. I extended the pause for her benefit: I can tell these activities will include her. "He never limited that enjoyment to only him."

"Lucky for us that your creator made a mistake," said the new man.

"I enjoy when people fuck me. And they enjoy it too, judging by how many of them shout my name in ecstasy. I don't think I'm broken, so I don't think he made a mistake."

I thought of the robots built to desires other robots, or to have no desires, or to feel desires only in the presence of certain character traits. I don't mention these details because I don't know how much this new couple cares about the functionality of robot.

"Well then," said the man's wife, "I hope we're part of that vast majority."

"I'm sure you will be."

It takes then only three minutes to bring me to their room, undress me, and share me.

My old client is at my front. His cock fills me. Although it's not long enough with my mouth design that I gag, I make the sound. He pants at the thought of feeling so big, so powerful.

My hands and knees burn as they support the raised ass that the new man is pounding. The two can't keep pace with each other. One launches his cock, giving strong, sensual spikes with long pauses. The other jabs it into me in swift succession. I seesaw between the two: the one at front pulling my hair, the one at back pulling my hips. A hand slaps against my ass. I'm guessing there's another woman I can't see; the chubby brunette girl sits in the corner watching, fingering herself.

* * * * *

"You're an hour late," Jasper says. Multiple holograms display before his chair. His hand manipulates them as he speaks to me. He shifts the focus, he alters their position, he dismisses one with the flick of the wrist.

"I was held up by spaceship traffic," I say.

"You didn't contact me."

"My long-range system short-wired. I got home as quickly as I could once it did."

"You took off the makeup. And your hair is a mess."

"I did say that I was competing in another haptic competition."

"I don't believe you." He looks at me not like a person whose sincerity he is evaluating but like a problem he needs to solve. My source code has confounded him. He needs to assess the accuracy of his methods, and, should he find them faulty, determine who the overlooked the error.

"I'm sad to hear that," I say. "Can I do anything to make you feel better?"

"I don't have any time I can devote to that," he says. "I have to finish this project by Monday."

"You don't need to devote any attention to me," I say. I drop to the ground and crawl to him so that I don't obscure the screens. I remove his belt, his trousers, his undergarments.

His hands don't touch me as I take his cock into my mouth. I feel the light bend and change and warp. He makes no sound. He does not touch me. He removes none of his other clothing. He continues to work as I swallow him. And then he unloads himself into me without changing rhythm or tempo. It is consistent, perfunctory, thoughtless. I rise once he has gone limp and dry. He flicks one hand to dismiss not a screen but me. I go to my bed in silence.

* * * * *

I prostrate myself before one of them. The rest of them in the circle approach me. One of them has a silver band around his crotch, another around his head. Both are wealthy and intelligent enough to buy biogenic modifications to compensate for their problems, the first being erectile dysfunction, the second performance anxiety.

"That's one of Jasper's robots," says the first man.

"Fuck," says another between pants. His hand is close to his quivering pelvis. He'll have ejaculated by the time I reach him if I follow the line in order. "And now his girl is serving all of us."

"His girl can't resist," says the first.

"She must like it," says a third man, one with a voice so gruff I hope I don't hear the sexual noises he makes. "Must be faulty wiring. Malfunctioning."

"My functions are all normal and stable," I say. He laughs at me.

"Trying to convince us she's normal while begging us all to fuck her."

"I enjoy something unusual. That doesn't mean I am unusual," I say. He laughs again. I open my mouth and then close it. Nothing I say will convince him. When I was younger, I might've tried anyway. Now I don't care what he thinks. I care what he can do to me.

I'm desperate in my suffering. That row of them, all those cocks, tempt my whole body. I need them in my mouth, thrusting deeper and deeper. I crawl to one man, wide-eyed and opened-mouth, and reach for it. He clutches my own hand.

"Looks at her," he says, "she's helpless. Cock hungry." He snarls over the word as if a woman should not admit to this.

"Yes," I say. It's an immediate sort of yes.

"Say it," he says. Another one of them starts touching himself. All of them stand there, sword in hand, staying erect for what might happen.

They pour their ambrosia down my throat. I crawl from man to man, semen coating my lips, sucking each to completion. The sudden, powerful bursts warm my throat and my stomach.

Once they are all satisfied, I walk from this room down a chamber, dimly lit by rich, pulsating colors, where a series of men all stand masturbating. I see them, strategize, determine the best way to walk. I maximize the sway of my hips. Although less elegant than a normal stride, it bounces my tits more than usual. Like rice thrown at weddings or flowers at the end of a stage performance, their semen spurts out from their bodies in sequence as I pass. Smiling, triumphant, I stride into the changing room with the other girls.

"My god," says a tall redhead who's changing into a green plastic dress. "I can't believe you can look happy after that."

"Some of us enjoy the work. Or at least we enjoy parts of it."

"I enjoy the money," she says. "And even then, I'd rather be making it by coding."

"This isn't what I want to the rest of my life, either," says a short, auburn-haired girl covered in bright neon. "But it's the best way to afford the training. Most of the time, I can find a way to enjoy the work, even if I don't love it."

"Love is the last word to describe any of this," says the tall girl. "It's all a big transaction. Men have stopped giving a shit about sex. Now that they can summon women at the speed of sound. Or they just build their own."

"That's hardly fair," says the short one. "We might have new outfits, new venues, new bodies. But we aren't doing a new activity. Rome was quite famous for its brothels."

"There are always some men," she says. She leans over, her lanky arms splayed forward, as if offering the point she is merciful enough to concede. "But there were far less men, back then. Most of them wanted love, wanted romance, and wanted sex, yes, but sex that meant something. Marriage wasn't just about tax write-offs and distribution of electronic property."

"That's not exactly true," I say. Both women turn to me. Inert, I make no attempt to dress myself. My state of dress does not affect my argument. And I want to savor any other eyes that might linger on my body. "If you look at the history, at least. All the powerful people, the nobles and whatnot, married for alliances and property. Mistresses were common. Some of them even had titles." The tall girl snorts. I don't respond. I can't make her accept truth if she refuses it. "And even among the wealthy, or the people just above the peasants who are very generous called the middle class--"

"Middle class," says the short girl. "Now there's some ancient history for you."

"Next thing," says the tall girl, "she'll quote some Latin."

"Even outside the nobility, people married because they wanted to combine households, or some amount of security, or whatever property another party possessed. Romance referred to a genre of story with knights and dragons and chivalry long before it referred to two people destined for each other."

"I think you're just trying to justify the screwy wires in your head," says the short girl.

"Everyone is trying to justify what's in their head," I say.

"Use your history, use your old genres, even use your fucking Latin," says the tall girl, "I still won't understand how you enjoy debasing yourself like that."