Just Buying Time 4 - Hardcore Ass Fucking

Things got busy after the first half hour. I ended my four-hour shift

having serviced three women and eleven men. One woman couldn’t get enough

of riding my cock. Had to scratch the itch in her pussy and asshole

both. Three consecutive sessions she bought. Then there was the guy with

the inexhaustible cock. A typical day’s work, I was told.

All in all I made sixteen hundred bucks that day for the company. My cut

of that was one-third, less deductions, of course.

The inside of my ass felt a teeny bit raw, but the squeeze bottle of

anti-abrasive solution took care of it. No major problems in the front

equipment, except that my balls ached mightily. Ached from unrequited

lust. I hadn’t been able to orgasm because of the implant. Well,

Supervisor Galatea had told me that if it became intolerable, to report

back to the office for followup “treatment.” I thought it was time to

find out what that meant.

It meant being ass-fucked by her platinum pulsating cock and getting

another jolt of electricity from the Electrovibe. Well, that fixed me

up quite nicely. I got that elusive physical release, and got my rectum

reconditioned while I was at it. Had a thoroughly cleansing bowel movement

afterwards. Got my ashes hauled and got cleaned out, too. Just one more

little benefit of working for SM, Inc.

I settled into the routine. Three days on, at four hours per, then two

days off. My average take-home was about $1800 a week, considerably better

than my old job as a welder on a construction site. And, I didn’t even

need goggles.

Isn’t it every guy’s dream to get paid for doing what you enjoy? I used

to enjoy sex. I used to enjoy fucking and being fucked. Hell, I still do.

Mostly. But after a couple of months of doing it fifty times a week,

it became just one more boring job.

It had been years since I was in anything resembling a relationship. I’m

shy around people and opening myself up to them is like pulling the

scab off a badly-healed wound. Anonymous sex was easier — and safer –

and that’s probably why I got into the sex machine habit in the first

place. But being an SM Inc. Customer Service Specialist — what they

used to call a “whore” in the bad old days — was probably the ultimate

in depersonalized sex. I began realizing what was missing from my life.

Touch. Simple human touch. And by that I don’t mean body parts mingling

and interpenetrating. I mean *lives* mingling and interpenetrating.

Talking. Hugging. Kissing. Sharing with a partner what happened to

you at work. Experiencing laughter and tears together. Living through

joys and hardships together. Maybe raising a couple of kids. Walking

the dog. Barbecuing in the back yard. Having the neighbors over. Sure,

sleeping together. But also waking up next to each other.

What was wrong with me? I was staring to yearn for an old-fashioned

marriage. Something like in the ancient sitcoms from the 1950’s that they

sometimes show down at the Retro Visual-Media Museum. Sheesh! Manning

that damned sex machine was demultiplexing my cognitive nodes.

I had started confiding in Galatea. She was a patient listener, and her

manner toward me had softened considerably. I think she was starting to

actually loosen up toward me a bit, and she had even let slip a couple of

times what a cute ass I had. Sometimes she seemed to have trouble prying

herself loose from that cute ass of mine. . . . Lately our sessions had

been lasting considerably longer than the allotted 45 minutes.

What was even more odd, she had begun showing signs of jealousy.

*Jealousy*. She seemed to resent that, as an SM employee, my body was

accessible to any stranger who could pay for it. Anyone with $100 to

their name was entitled to stick their cock up my ass. *My ass*. The

ass she was starting to get proprietary feelings toward.

When I last time saw her — I no longer thought of it as being therapied

and readjusted — I had been sure she’d been about to tell me something.

When I left, there was extra warmth in the goodbye kiss she gave me,

and there was something shiny in her eye that might just have been a

tear. Now what could that have been all about?

“Armin, I don’t know how . . . how to say this.”

“Teeya, I think I know . . . ”

“These feeling I’ve been having, I can’t . . . no, I don’t want to . . .

I have to . . .

“I care, Armin. I care for you more than I care for my own life. From

the first time I saw your face, I somehow knew . . . knew that you were

my destiny.

“I’m betraying everything I once valued. My loyalty to my chosen

profession, the oath I gave to SM and their bloody-minded Directorate,

my friends and colleagues, my clan group . . . everything. I . . . I

. . . let me say it. I love . . . I love you, Armin. I love you more than

myself, more than life itself. Because by telling you this I’m killing

. . .  killing myself, committing professional suicide, condemning myself

to death or worse. SM will destroy me for this. But I love. I love. You.

I love you!”

I took her in my arms and we cried together, and our tears mingled.

And that put us on the road leading to damnation and ruin — or to

salvation.

“Our civilization is doomed, you know,” she told me.

“Doomed has an ominous ring to it, Teeya.”

“Doomed. It’s been years since you could breath the outside air

without a filter, the oceans are poisoned, the only way to grow crops

is under glass in a culture of artificial nutrients, and epidemics of

antiexinic-resistant strains of bacteria kill hundreds of thousands

every day. It’s only a matter of time before the entire social structure

collapses. And there isn’t much time.”

“If things have gotten to that point, then I don’t know that there’s

much that anyone can do about it. Let’s love each other and make the

most of the little time we have left, then.”

“Sorry, Armin, no. I’m not the type of person to give up without a

fight. I grew up in a shantytown wondering each day if I’d survive

til nightfall, and I struggled and clawed myself up from poverty and

somehow got an education and a decent profession and a secure place in

society. And, you know, if I could manage that, I’m not about to surrender

to fate now. And, damn it, I won’t let *you* give up and die either!”

“So, what do you have in mind?”

“You’ll think this is crazy, but . . . ”

It turned out that SM had its own in-house R & D department, complete with

resident “mad scientist,” a certain Dr. Bezumna Morozov. Her brainchild,

Project Blueskies, was investigating what happened to matter compressed

to superdensity, beyond the theoretical limits allowed by the laws of

physics. She had tried embedding a small capsule of isotope iron, Fe-57,

inside a sphere of powerful shaped-charge explosive. The implosive force

had been calculated to be sufficient to create a miniature black hole,

a tear in the fabric of space. The iron capsule had disappeared in

a violent burst of gamma rays. Vaporized? Or pushed into an entirely

different physical dimension?

Some intriguing evidence indicated that the object might have traveled

backwards in time. The equations hinted at this possibility, and

Dr. Morozov had, in fact, found something that looked like it could have

been a small iron object, embedded in a nearby table top. Tests confirmed

that it was the rare atomic weight 57 isotope of iron and it had about a

month’s accumulation of rust on it. Had it traveled a month into the past?