Stable Employment Pt. 01

The words are muffled by thighs, but I hear them, and their urgency. More importantly, I understand them right away.

"In me."

A switch flips. My leaking cock and throbbing asshole jolt all my other muscles into action. I push Gwyn's leg off of me, and she uses the momentum to reposition. For a moment, I'm a hunter-killer that knows exactly where the can of lube landed. My cock is coated in it before Gwyn's even got the pillows rearranged. One is under her ass, raising her hips. It's missionary for our first round of proper sex. Her rear slit is parting; I refuse to look. I don't ask her any questions. I just find her eyes. I see everything I need to see. It's time for the bull to claim her cow, who thought she was in control. She doesn't want fingers; she doesn't want to be eased into it. She wants to be taken, hard, all at once.

I mount her aggressively and piston my hips. Her mouth and eyes both go wide, and it's real. The Good Girl lube and my raging hardness leave her plump, ripe pussy with no defense against the sudden and total invasion. If she'd been strong enough to crush my cock down to the size of a pipe cleaner, its tip would've still struck bottom. At a guess, she took eight inches. There's two more to go, and go they shall.

It should be another perfect moment, shouldn't it? I almost hate to ruin it by reminding you what kind of story this is. My cock isn't just long; it's thick. It can feel everything, all around. It feels the anal plug -- the one I've been trying so, so hard not to see this whole time. I still don't know what it looks like, inside or out. Technically, I still don't know what it means. Technically, there's still hope, but I just can't hope anymore. I can't take that ride. The sick, sad, heavy feeling of disappointment surely yet to come is preferable. It's flat. It's thick. I can live in it. My only bliss these days is ignorance, and for yet another girl, that happiness is over and done with.

I still do what a good dickgirl needs to do. I've had a lot of practice.

"Ohhhhh my god!" she cries out.

"Yeah," I say smugly, "that's a lot of cock, isn't it?"

Her brow quivers as she nods. "So much cock."

I smile widely and wickedly, then descend onto my human body pillow -- except she's not mine. It's ruined.

Gwyn loves getting plowed. She loves getting bred. I put in the work, but there's no overtime necessary. I'm very good at what I do, and Gwyn's an expert at getting what she needs.

"That's a good little bitch," I murmur. "Your slutty little pussy knows how to take nice, big dicks, doesn't it? It needs hot cum from a big bull. I need a plump little cow to grow my babies. Open up for me, baby. Time to get bred."

It's nasty and nice, just the way she wanted it. It should be hot as fuck for both of us. Thank goodness for the teaser, and for a giant cock that's too stupid and selfish to listen to my fucked-up brain. Gwyn's going to get her cum. I'll get my orgasm. It's fine. It's not really ruined.

Gwyn moans and groans, and I can tell from the squeezing and shuddering all around my cock that it's not just a show. I'm hitting her spots. Soon enough, I make her cum. Her hands never stray to her clit; instead, they grip my back -- just like her legs are doing -- and lock me into the breeding session.

Then she starts biting -- and she's not playing around. Fuck, that seriously hurts.

"You keep doing that," I growl, "and you're going to get fucked like a cheap fucking rental."

She lets up... but only to say, "Green."

"Green," I echo. I won't be the one to back down.

She digs back into my neck with her teeth. I turn off every mental limiter. The more she hurts me, the more I hurt her. Plowing becomes jackhammering, and it's balls deep every time. I grab at her shoulders from behind. Our tits artlessly smash into each other's chests. She squeals and heaves through her clenched teeth; I can feel the heat of her breath and her accumulating spittle. I wreck her fucking pussy, and squeeze her whole body so hard that I half expect either feathers or cream filling to start shooting out of it.

She's still getting aftershocks from her second or third orgasm when she finally unclenches her jaw. My neck is stinging and throbbing like crazy as she half-pants, half-whispers urgently into the wound: "Breed me."

Jackhammering becomes violent rutting. My cockhead is straining against her final inner barrier when the cum blast strikes. Her moan of satisfaction rises to a shout before tightening to a grunt. She takes control of her muscles and milks my cock for everything it's worth. It feels even better than when she was cumming, and I'm so profoundly fucked in the head that I can't even appreciate it.

Instead, I decide to find out if she can take it as well as she can dish it out. I lift my aching neck, turn my head, and seize her neck with my teeth.

"Yellow!" she gasps.

I relinquish my prize immediately, but my head's getting nasty on me. It's starting to form words of its own -- words I have to keep inside. Fucking pussy.

Gwyn strokes my sweaty, matted hair with one hand and my back with the other. "Stay in me for a while, please. Then you can go down. You can bite my titty. Chew it up. Make me hurt. You're the bull. I'm the bitch."

Well now I don't even want to, bitch.

I bite my tongue, then give her tender kisses along her ear. "Can I suckle?" I ask.

She sighs happily -- almost laughs. It should make me feel light. It doesn't. "Of course you can, baby. I love that. I love you."

I don't say it back. I do suckle, though, once my cock has lost some of its hardness. After that, I play the perfect hostess. I get Gwyn water. I get her snacks. I offer her a toy to keep my cum inside of her, or to clean her up. She chooses the latter, and I lovingly attend to her thoroughly-fucked pussy with a warm, damp cloth. I'm a million miles away... and also just an inch. The plug is taunting me. It's daring me to look at it, to touch it, to ask about it. God dammit.

We're long past the point of politely bowing out for the night. I'm all hers. Is she all mine? Well, she's here for the night. We sleep for a while, then fondle, then fuck, and then I'm back to catering to her every need. It's the way it has to be. Girls talk. Dickgirls have reputations. As far as I know, mine is sterling -- well, between the sheets, anyway. The people who have to deal with me during the day likely sing a different tune.

On the third round, she presents to me so that I can fuck her from behind like a bitch. Finally, I see the plug base. It's a classic: a heart shape, uniformly pink silicone. I tell my hands to focus on her soft, round ass cheeks -- to knead them like dough, sink into them like quicksand, and send those deep-tissue pleasure signals right into her willing cunt.

And her ass, though, my traitorous brain says. You know she feels it in her ass.

I watch it happen in slow motion. I'm fucking her steadily, but I might as well be sleepwalking. My right hand emerges from her ass cheek and drifts towards that blocked bullseye. It's barely even made contact with the base before Gwyn's hand is drifting back to ward me off. That's the kiss of death, right there. It's the worst thing that can ever happen to you when you're fucking someone from behind. Every submissive, primal 'yes' of that position is instantly swept away, leaving nothing behind but awkward obligations.

"Yellow," she whispers.

I can't even say I regain control of my hand. It's obeying her, not me. It knows it's stuck with me, and with my reputation. That's why it moves off, retreating to her hip, where it takes up soft, timid strokes.

"Sorry," I say. I never stop fucking her. I never stop cursing myself for not being able to enjoy it.

"It's okay," she says, and the fact that she's still talking is a terrible sign. It means I took her out of the moment. It also means she's going to say the words.

"It's just that I'm owned back there."

Fucking. Fucking. FUCK.

That's what it's like down here in the dirt -- the ironically clean dirt, in this bright and shiny city made from living metals and nanoweaves. In a perfectly fine apartment in a perfectly safe borough, a bitchy dickgirl who wishes she was funny fucks a pillowy, half-owned bitch who wishes she was important. All told, the night is comprised of four hours of sleep, two hours of sex, and two more of feeding, cleaning, and generally coddling the cum-hungry guest -- who, in fairness, does indeed milk every last drop from her generous host.

It's a night they can afford to have because neither of them truly matter. Their jobs are easy. Their schedules are light. They can wish and want and whine with the best of them, but they'd never voluntarily neuter themselves -- not even for just thirty hours a week -- so that they could climb those towers of ivory and obsidian and maybe accomplish something meaningful with their lives. Their lives are theirs to waste, their good health a gifted birthright. They want to fuck, and they want to cum. They want to love acutely, and maybe even find somebody to like. They're so small, aren't they? One of them can't even muster up a vague, incoherent dream of being any bigger.

The crucial distinction between them -- besides every obvious one, side by side, eight inches here, ten inches there -- is that one of them has submitted to a rare, dangerous, and much-vaunted creature. One of them has thusly dashed an ass-obsessed dickgirl's battered hope. One of them is an on-call butt bitch for a mother. Fucking. Man.

Fucking men.

Fucking men.

******

"Fucking men," I echo, and I raise my shot glass. It's the hardest booze in the city, and it cost us a throat fucking and butt fucking each. This bar is dickgirls only, and it's rough. At least three sets of eyes are fucking us while we drink. If we cared to, we could leave this place looking like raped refugees, zombie-walking towards the ditch we'll die in. It's tough to say if mere carelessness could lead to the same. I haven't had to find out yet. Honestly, I shouldn't keep coming back here -- but then I'd never have met this fascinating ember of bitterness.

My new best friend clinks her glass to mine, and we down the liquid fire. The cum in my tummy cools it down, but it still cuts through and hits the walls. The stomach lining protests, but then the alcohol hits the bloodstream, and everything gets dull.

"Corin, by the way," she says. "Corrine, but you know. Butch it up just a little."

I nod, even though it makes no sense. Clothes and a bit of attitude aside, if she were any more femme her dick would start shrinking. Dickgirls are complicated, though, and they need to support each other. "It's nice. Lim."

Her face screws up. I'm not surprised. "Lin?" she asks. It's kinda racist, but I'm over it.

"El aye em," I spell out for her. "Short for 'Liminal.' Liminal space. Transitional state." Yeah, I'm one of those. I didn't want to be 'Zhu' my whole life, so fucking sue me. Seriously, it sounds like a retarded racist, and if you write it down, it's not long before you're chilling in the monkey hut.

Corin nods. "I'd blame the booze, but truth is I'm just a fuckup. Sorry."

I chuckle. "Aren't we all."

The bartender gives us our next round. We've had two. Two more, and we either have to start paying, or pay again the other way. I'm starting to feel it, both for better and for worse. Corin... I can't say, really. She might be fucked up enough in the head to be able to shrug it off, at least temporarily. That's not nothing. This girl is intense -- oxymoronic for an ember, but that's just more dickgirl complexity. I have to admit, even after getting my ear talked off, I'm still a little curious.

"So this 'Gwyn' chick," I say. "Recent? Old news? Can't get her out of your head?"

Corin shakes her head grimly. "Recent, yeah. Nothing special, though. Feels like a broken record, or a bad dream you just can't stop having."

"Nothing special? You told her you liked her. You made her laugh, for real."

Corin shrugs. "Sorry if it sounds like bragging. If it's any consolation, it feels like shit."

"So... the ass." The question's so obvious that I don't need to ask it.

She shrugs again, then chuckles bitterly. "If only I could explain it. That'd be one step towards getting over it. The universe won't even let me have that."

She's lying. I let it go. "And dickgirl ass just won't do."

"It will not," she says with arch formality. Just like in the story, it sucks to hear it; I barely know this girl, but I'd have preferred it if she'd wanted to fuck me. "I'll do it, of course. I used to enjoy it, even. I ruined it for myself." More shrugging. It's getting old, but I understand. It's a coping mechanism, however insignificant, and she's in a deep rut. "It's fine. I have Jack. I bottom. It's fine."

"You're not fine."

"I know."

I feel some boozy wisdom rising up from somewhere. Rather by definition, I don't push it back down. "Do you think that if men didn't exist, then maybe you wouldn't be so desperate to fuck girls in the ass?"

The question hits her right between the eyes. At the very least, it distracts her long enough for the booze to finally work its evil magic. There's a long pause. I take it as a compliment.

"Fuck," she says. "Fuuuuuuuuck."

Eventually, she asks an obvious question of her own -- one I was fully expecting. "So what about you? Is it... not the ass?"

I smile and loll my head. "Maybe it's a little bit about the ass," I admit. "Mostly, though, it's the principle."

"Fuck yeah," she replies. "The motherfucking principle."

Well, she's drunk as fuck now, but I'll take whatever cheerleading I can get.

"It's minority fucking rule," I say. "Yeah, okay, they're not technically in charge or whatever, but it's... sexual fucking feudalism. It's fucking nonsense. We're out there every day, plowing the fields. Girls are lezzing out on the regular just to make up the difference."

"That's hot though," she mumbles. I want to hate her for ruining the flow, but, well, fuck, she's right.

"It's very hot," I concede, "but they want more dick. You know they want more dick. The system keeps them cock-thirsty so that fucking men can swoop down whenever they want and pluck whatever they want, and these fucking bitches are fucking grateful for a moment's fucking attention!"

"And the cum," she slurs out. "The fuckin' cum."

"Yeah," I sigh. Once again, I want to hate her, but she's only telling the truth. It takes all the wind out of my sails. It's not feudalism; it's capitalism. They've got that rare supply, and near-infinite demand. That doesn't make it any better. We got rid of actual feudalism a million years ago, and you have to go out of your way to find some raw, hardcore capitalism -- you know, like I'm doing right now. You can play-act it in plenty of places, but those places don't have real booze.

"And y'know," she slurs, "it'd be worse if there were more of'em."

I laugh bitterly. "Ain't that the fuckin' truth." History agrees, though it's less myopic about the wherefores.

"I think I'm super fucked up," Corin says.

"You are," I reply, "but it's not your fault. It's... just the way it is."

"No," she says. "Uh... like, you know..."

No sooner do the words "Oh, shit," leave my mouth than something truly foul rushes out of hers. I go into panic mode; this is not the kind of place that takes kindly to accidents at the bar. I fish my emergency supply out of my pants pocket and slam it down on the table: hard currency, a true rarity. For the kind of people who run this joint -- or even just frequent it without having to take a bunch of rough cocks -- it's an irresistible lure.

I drag Corin outside and don't stop walking until I see a few other people who look halfway respectable. Only then do I find a bench and set her down. She's a mess; it must've been her first time. It's almost impressive how much she downed in that case, but unlucky for both of us that she didn't pace herself better.

"I think it's time to get you home, Corin," I say. "Let's get you home to Jack. Can you tell me your address?"

"Yeah," she says. "Fuck, I feel sick. I wanna go home."

I let it slide. "Yes, let's get you home. Where is home, Corin? Where do you live?"

I pry the address out of her. It's too far for us to walk, but the ride share is blessedly quick. It's also well stocked with barf bags in the back. I keep one over Corin's mouth the whole way. Predictably -- the universe, you know? -- she doesn't use it. She waits until I'm getting her out of the car, then dumps another fetid load on the sidewalk. Some of it splashes onto my boots and cuffs.

"No good deed," I mutter as I half-carry her to her apartment.

A dickgirl with awesome cobalt hair answers the door, naked. "Jack?" I ask. The name buys me enough goodwill for us to skip a few steps. 'Jack' sees her roommate, and, without panicking like I did, she joins me in rescue mode. I feel the relief course through my muscles. My stomach even calms down a little.

"What the fuck happened?" she asks as we both maneuver Corin towards the bathroom.

"Booze," I reply.

"Booze?" Jack echoes incredulously.

"Real booze."

"Oh, shit. Huh. Didn't know she had it in her."

Corin's down by the toilet. Her maraschino hair was already in a tight ponytail, so thank heavens for small favors. I nod towards my stained boots and pants and give Jack a dry look. "Yeah, she had it in her."

Jack knows it's not the time to laugh, but she gives me a half-smile and a nod back. Then she gets serious again. "How are you doing?"

"Not great," I admit. "The puking... you know." All other things being equal, I can handle my booze. Some other drunk bitch puking is quite the unequal thing. It's how misery gets its company.

"Yeah. Sorry, but it's just the one bathroom. Sink or tub, though."

Corin pukes again. Jack rolls her eyes and kneels down beside her.

"Sink," I warn her, "but then I'll be okay." Jack nods. I feel the horrible lurch inside, and I will myself to ride it -- to let it get worse so it can get better. I hit my target; my load is almost as horrific as Corin's. The fact that I can look at it and smell it without puking again means the worst is over.

"Kitchen?" I ask. Jack points. I head off.

I down a glass of cold water, then dampen some cloths and get some ice. Back in the bathroom, Jack is rubbing Corin's back; it's strange to see the naked dickgirl watching over the clothed one, but Jack radiates competence and cool. I hand her the cloths, and she gives me another nod. It feels good. I leave the bundled ice on the floor.

"Anything else I should know?" Jack asks in a low voice.

"Fuck," I reply. It holds her attention. "Yeah, uh... she got roughed up in the ass pretty good. Plugged. It's not going to be pretty back there."

"You?"

"Yeah, but I'll be okay. I can wait 'til you guys are done in here."

"Oh," Jack says. "I meant, did you... but yeah. Okay. Sorry we don't have another can."

I give Corin one more sympathetic glance. "Anything else I can do?"

Jack smiles. "Don't be stupid. Stay. I'll get Corin set up in my room. You can take hers. Down and to the left."

"Oh," I say. "Wow. Thank you."

"Us dickgirls have to stick together," she says. "What's hers is yours tonight. Seems fair enough. Find some clothes if you want. Sex drawer is down and to the right, from the bed."

I don't even bother protesting or feigning surprise. We are all dickgirls here. We know the score.

Jack makes a few lazy motions with her free hand. "Spare toothbrushes. Mouthwash. Pills, lube, ointments, suppositories. Linen closet, obviously. I think she has spare pillows in her bedroom already, but there's more in here if you can't find anything that works for you."