The first day on the job took a lot out of me. They had assigned me to the machine in the co-ed restroom in the municipal airport lounge. Encased in a Neuromesh bodysuit that reminded me of a wire-frame drawing of an Iron Maiden, I was ready for action. This metal lattice body-cage thing connected me both mechanically and electrically to the sex machine, and it would flex me into various postures and configurations, depending on the customer’s preferences. It would also monitor my nerve impulses, control and stabilize my emotions, and tend to my personal needs. Shunts hooked up to the bloodstream, kidneys, and liver would remove waste and pump nutrients and stimulants into me. Plugged in and networked, I had become a peripheral node of the sex machine.
Things got busy after the first half hour. I ended my four-hour shift having serviced three women
Sex Tube 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
Hot Adult 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.
