Just Buying time 1 - Free sex Story

It’s a hundred dollars to use the sex machine in the public restroom.

Insert a couple of fifty-dollar coins into the payment slot to remain

anonymous, though of course it’s more convenient to just let the data

terminal do a neural scan and auto-debit your account.

A hundred bucks buys ten minutes. Upon payment approval, the mirror

slides back, revealing an oval opening. Depending on the option chosen,

the window gives access to either bare buttocks or an erect penis. That

leaves the customer the choice of either penetrating or being penetrated.

I’m pretty conventional in my preferences, so I usually choose

BUTTOCKS-FEMALE, and, depending on my mood at the moment, insert my

hard flesh either into the exposed pussy or asshole. Every once in

a while, I get an itch deep inside my gut and touch the selector for

PENIS-(LARGE). Then I give in to my deepest, darkest desires and scratch

that damn itch by easing myself down on a hard cock.

There’s also the BUTTOCKS-MALE option for those preferring to fuck

male ass. I’ve indulged in that often enough, but still find little

difference between the sensation of being inside a male or a female

ass. Real connoisseurs, though, claim that plundering a man’s ass is the

caviar of sex. Active-penetrative sex, anyway. That’s probably somewhat

of an exaggeration.

I stepped onto the Mu-metal platform and fed the last of my carefully

hoarded spare change into the slot. I prefer the anonymity that cold,

hard cash gives, and anyhow my e-bucks account has been flatlining

lately. Being jobless does have its disadvantages.

The autosensing hydraulics adjusted my elevation to optimal height

opposite the service window. This puts the customer’s groin (or ass)

directly opposite the the opening. What would I choose this time?

Well, why not? Since I was now flat broke, I might as well have caviar.

I stroked the keypad and the window gave me access to a perfect ass.

Slowly, reluctantly I withdrew out of that buttery-smooth, pleasure-giving

orifice. Caviar indeed! I was still horny and ready for another go,

but my time was up. And I had other concerns. Such as where my next meal

would come from and where I was going to sleep tonight. I girded my loins,

drew on my breathing mask, and steeled myself to step out into the cold,

heartless night.

I had to admit it — I was an addict. A sex addict. I was no damn

good at all at relating to real people, so that pretty much left the

sex machines for physical release. And an unfortunate side-effect of

being such a boob in social situations was that I couldn’t hold down a

job for very long. If there’s anything more pitiful than a sex addict,

it’s got to be a friendless, jobless, *flat broke* sex addict.

I was about to go cry in my beer — if I could scrounge together enough

for a beer, that is — when I caught the flashing notice on the sex

machine display screen.

   NOW HIRING. Sex Machines, Inc. [SM, Inc.] has openings for Customer

   Service associates. Earn a good wage doing something you enjoy! Choose

   your own hours. No experience necessary. Just enter code SEXYY%543

   to start an EXCITING and GLAMOROUS new career.

Customer service? I guess you might call it that, since it *did*

involve “servicing customers.” It had a much nicer ring to it than

prostitution. Still, it was an intriguing notion, all the more so since

I didn’t have a hell of a lot of options.

I spent an hour filling out questionnaires on an ancient vintage input

terminal in the potted-palm studded lobby of the SM, Inc. Tower. My

employment history, references, general state of health, and sexuality

index — all the usual stuff. Though why did they need to access my

genetic and psychometric profiles? It wasn’t as if I were applying for

a high-level security position, after all. But since I was hardly in a

position to play stubborn, I thumbprinted the waivers.

The terminal printed out a visitor’s pass. I was to report to room 13703.

Hoowhee, the one hundred thirty-seventh floor. Moving up in the world,

I was.

“Kindly step into the testing lounge, sir,” the receptionist said. She

was a cute little package, a tiny blonde with curves in all the right

places. Her eyes were icy steel marbles.

The door clicked shut behind me. The only furniture in the room was a

padded mechano-table with restraint devices at each corner. There was

a very tall woman standing on the far side of it. She looked at me. Her

eyes widened momentarily as if she knew me from somewhere, but I couldn’t

tell for sure.

“You are . . . Armin?”

I nodded.

“I am the regional SM staff supervisor and your examiner. You may address

me as Galatea. Kindly undress. Completely.” Her voice was unyielding

as granite.