Fine Print

Fine Print—Chapter 3

Banda stood in the kiva's kitchen doorway, eating a karberfruit and watching the activity in the fuckpit. Her body hair was thick and dark and now covered nearly every square inch of her body below her neck save for her nipples. She was as hairy as the hairiest man she'd ever seen, nearly as hairy as some chimpanzees she'd seen at the zoo, and her thick mane of hair hung to the middle of her back and would have been even longer if the kiva's medspec didn't hack off six inches every few weeks.

Banda had yet to become pregnant. The doctors had adjusted her hormones half a dozen times, but the only change she'd noticed was that her estrus seemed even more intense, if that was even possible. She still hadn't conceived. In some small corner of her brain she worried about what might happen to her if she couldn't get pregnant; after all, that was her only purpose in HUMACE, birthing joeys. They'd scheduled a meeting tomorrow, or maybe it was today, to discuss her future with HUMACE, but Banda found it hard to concentrate on those things. When she was done eating she'd go back into the fuckpit, to take care of the burning between her legs that had her hips already twitching. She hadn't been fucked in over an hour and the lack of attention had her hot, wet, and irritable.

* * * * * * * * * * *

Jayme grunted as the joey she was caching began to stir. He was already pushing fifteen kilos—it was amazing how time was flying by, it seemed like she'd just birthed him. But then again, she'd birthed enough joeys that they were starting to blur together in her mind. How many had it been? Twelve? Fifteen? Half the time she was running three, which meant she only slept in short snatches when she could get a few minutes.

The joey inside her pushed its forelegs out of her, and then literally hopped the rest of the way out of her vagina. Jayme grunted in surprise as the wind was kicked out of her lungs, but the young one hadn't hurt her. It would take a lot more than a joey's quick exit to damage her toughened innards.

With a palm she pushed on her hanging, slack abdomen and heard the sighing sound behind her as the excess air whooshed out of the six-inch wide hole between her legs. If she didn't clench up and stayed on her knees her vagina would remain an open black tunnel a palm's width across indefinitely, not that the Lingans ever left her alone that long. Her body had changed since coming to the kiva-she could tell that even with her dulled senses. Her hips had widened even more since she started caching, and her stomach hung in slack folds whenever she stood up. Her breasts were pendulous, and her huge nipples leaked milk more often than not. She couldn't really remember what her body used to look like, although she remembered things used to be different.

Jayme was about to get up off her knees and get something to eat when the newest Lingan to the kiva hopped up behind her. Her experienced eye told her he was an adolescent, just barely full-grown, which meant he never lasted very long but always went six or seven times. She clenched what internal muscles she had that weren't so stretched out they would still clench, ridding herself of as much air as possible. The young Lingan mounted her with one quick jab of his organ and began thrusting vigorously. Jayme groaned in pleasure, and felt the ache in her swollen breasts as the sensations caused her milk to let down. She took a glance over her shoulder at him before hanging her head down toward the floor. Her swinging breasts scattered drops of milk on the padded floor. This new Lingan had a four-pointed splash of white hair on his chest. Something about him seemed familiar to her, but she wasn't able to figure out why. She couldn't think too much about anything anymore. She didn't have the energy or the urge, really; all she cared about were her immediate needs—something to drink when she was thirsty, something to eat when she was hungry making sure the joey she was caching nursed enough to satisfy both of them, and easing the everpresent burning ache between her legs. Beyond those simple few, she had no cares.

Banda had been unoccupied when the signal bell chimed, and so had enough time to strap herself into a seat before they went zero gee. She'd been onboard more than long enough to know that the lack of gravity meant that the ship had stopped accelerating. The zero gee would last thirty or forty minutes, as the ship spun around, then the gravity would return as the carrier began to decelerate.

She was onboard a Lingan fighter carrier, part of their huge fleet that no one on Earth seemed to know about, or at least admit to knowing about. The carrier housed about two hundred small orbital fighters, plus their pilots and maintenance crew, and all the Lingans required to keep the military carrier running at top efficiency. Banda thought there were about three thousand crewmembers on board, but she couldn't be sure, since she was only allowed to move about half a dozen rooms in the ship. All of the crew male, of course.

Since she'd been unable to conceive there'd really been no other alternative for her, or so they'd told her. They'd invested a lot of time and money in her, with nothing to show for it. At one point in her life Banda would have recoiled at what they were telling her, and some distant part of her brain still knew that, but that was before the unquenchable ache began between her legs.

There were twelve of them on the carrier, girls like her who'd joined HUMACE but for one reason or another had been unable to conceive. Not very many, for 3000 crew, but then they all had jobs to do, and could only visit the mascots—for that was what she and the other girls were called—when they weren't on duty and had been given a recreation pass from their superior officer.

Because of the pheromones she and the other girls were constantly emitting, they were not allowed to mingle with the crew. It was never really an issue—although it was hard for her to keep track, Banda guessed she and the other girls were visited by ten to fifteen crewmembers a day. They barely had time left to sleep.

After a few minutes of zero gee, instead of releasing herself from the seat harness Banda began grinding her sex against the strap between her legs. It was better than nothing, which was what she'd get if she was floating around the room like several of the other girls.

The hatch slid open and a middle-aged Lingan floated into the room. He was obviously used to maneuvering in zero-gee, and from his shoulder patch Banda could see he was a mid-ranking officer.

The Lingan looked around the room, at the three girls floating around, and Banda and two more strapped down, and then pushed with his big hind legs toward Banda.

Banda couldn't stop her grinding hips as the Lingan unfastened the strap between her legs, then detached the seat beneath Banda's buttocks. The four straps across her chest held Banda in place as the Lingan grabbed the top of the seat back with its forelimbs and gracefully entered her with one thrust. It held onto the seat for leverage in the zero gee environment and began thrusting in earnest. Banda could only groan with pleasure as it had been almost two hours since she'd been mounted and had been going a little crazy. She was to be a ship's mascot for a minimum five years to fulfill her broken promise to HUMACE, and then she was free to travel anywhere she chose. Although she couldn't think of anything she'd rather be doing, or could do, with her mutated metabolism and body.

“Are there any other questions about the HUMACE program?” Kimmie looked around the junior high school auditorium at all the fresh young female faces. She'd been upbeat, positive, and informative throughout the talk, never straying even one syllable from the script imprinted in her brain. The people who'd written the recruiting talk had also provided her answers to any possible the questions the girls might ask her about the program, all of which were technically true but yet still concealed the true nature of the program. If Kimmie felt anything other than 110% enthusiastic about what she was saying, it never showed. In fact, the speech programming and urge blockers worked so well Kimmie felt like she was on autopilot, nothing more than a smiling mannequin standing behind the podium. This was her fifteenth school assembly in two weeks, and the only thinking she was doing behind her smiling, chattering mouth was wondering if she'd make it back out to the transporter before the metabolic suppressors began to wear off. They only lasted two hours, three at the most, and then it was like all of her suppressed urges hit her at once. Half the time she ended up cutting the question and answer period short—like today. She'd taken the urge blocker too early, before they'd even left the hotel.

“No? Then I'd like to thank you for taking the time to listen to me today,” Kimmie told the girls. She smiled even wider, per the script, the perfect recruiter. “I know, it's not like you had a choice, but at least it got you out of class, right?” A lot of the girls laughed.

Kimmie went on. “I felt the same way, when I was your age, which wasn't too long ago. Think about HUMACE, and see your local recruiting office. Thank you.” She waved once more, smiling, and stepped out from behind the podium. VerKleek, the assistant principal, came over and shook her hand.

Kimmie's face was one giant smile even as inside she wanted to run for the door. Maybe VerKleek noticed the sweaty, quivering palm and put it down to public speaking nerves. Kimmie didn't know, or care. All she knew was that her body had given her few options once she'd fulfilled the terms of her contract with HUMACE. She knew she'd been offered this temporary assignment, and the huge paycheck to go along with it, almost solely because she wasn't so tall or oddly proportioned as to appear alien to potential recruits. It hadn't sounded so bad, but then they'd exaggerated the effectiveness of their estral suppressor.

Kimmie forced herself to keep to a brisk walk as she headed toward the rear doors. She nodded and smiled to several students and teachers, some of whom looked like they wanted to ask her some questions in private, but she couldn't stop.

She hit the rear door hard and spotted her transport parked close by. Mark was at the controls. As she came close Birt cracked open the big sliding door and Kimmie ducked inside the spacious interior of the vehicle, which was designed for hauling cargo in urban areas. Mark pulled away from the curb smoothly.

“Oh my God.” Kimmie's hands were shaking almost uncontrollably. “Help me get this off.”

Birt's big fingers worked at the collar of the white shirt. The tailored suit ensemble displayed her body exactly as her employers wanted it displayed. Not only did the expensive fabric and custom tailoring promote an image of wealth and sophistication, they also camouflaged her unusual proportions. The jacket minimized her very wide hips with padded shoulders and by being cut very loose around her waist; it made her appear much thicker she was, and in fact she looked short, squat and chunky in the suit, when she was anything but. It was only when one of the girls would get close to her that they would realize not only wasn't she short, but she wasn't fat either, which was why Kimmie was instructed not to mingle or get too close. Kimmie didn't care if she looked fat; she had no use for men anymore.

The jacket came off first, then the shirt, then the pants. Underneath Kimmie wore a form-fitting bra that minimized her substantial chest, and full-cut panties that acted a bit like a girdle on her loose abdomen. Both pieces were made of clear rubber. Her nipples were only just starting to leak—Kimmie saw only a few white smears inside the cups—but it felt like she had a swamp inside her panties, and there was no doubt in her mind she would have soaked her suitpants through without the rubber undergarment.

“Oh God, oh God, get ‘em off!” Kimmie panted. Birt's hairy, muscular hands grabbed the waist of her shorts and peeled them down her dancing legs with practiced ease.

Kimmie practically jumped out of the shorts, then dropped to her knees in front of Birt. Birt lifted the camouflaging box off the floor of the van, revealing the massive dildo mounted to the padded floor at a forty-five degree angle. The dildo was hot pink in color and made of some synthetic material which felt like natural flesh. Instead of being anatomically realistic, in proportion if not in size, the dildo had been designed to satisfy, and its entire length was aggressively ridged and studded. Birt watched as Kimmie rubbed its bumpy head along her big, glistening crevice, then she sank down and backward onto it with a shiver.

“Oh fuck. Yeah! Yeah! Yeah!” Kimmie humped herself violently backward onto the thick dildo until it could go no deeper. Birt shook his head in amazement every time he saw it—the dildo was a foot and a half in length and five inches in diameter, and Kimmie went all the way down on it until her asscheeks were resting on her heels. She shivered violently and mewled pitifully as that everpresent ache, growing in her quickly as the estral suppressor wore off, was soothed.

Even though she hadn't cached a joey in months, and her stomach was almost flat (if still loose and wrinkled), the dildo slopped loudly around in her like a spoon in a soup bowl. If she leaned back its shape was clearly visible against her belly.

Birt shook his head again. The woman had six more months of these talks before the school year was up, and he and Mark were two of the four men assigned to her to make sure she kept a low profile and ensure her body's needs were met. The assignment wasn't without its benefits—she would let them do whatever they wanted with her, and it wasn't as if she could get pregnant. They tried vaginal sex, of course, but it was like swimming in a vat of warm gelatin. Masturbating inside her sort of defeated the purpose, at least as far as Birt was concerned. Anal sex didn't seem to do much for her—that is, she was tight enough, but hardly seemed to feel anything—and had no interest in providing oral. That's not to say they didn't have any fun—as long as the ache between her legs was being satisfied, by an arm or an oversize dildo, she didn't care if the men entertained themselves in her ass or between her breasts, or got a little rough, and after years of getting soaked by gallons of foaming Lingan semen every day she didn't even notice their minimal output unless some got in her eye. Both the van and her living quarters had floor- and wall-mounted dildos nearly as thick as her thighs, on which Kimmie impaled herself for hours every day. The original dildos they'd installed hadn't been big enough.

Just what Kimmie planned to do after she'd given all of her agreed-upon recruiting talks Birt hadn't a clue, and he doubted she did either. She didn't have much energy left at the end of the day for thinking, but after six years in the kiva he would've been surprised if she had.

Lieutenant Tania Zhirkov stepped into the main room of the kiva and blinked her eyes at the smell. The training to get her medical degree had her in class eight days out of nine, and it had been months since she'd stepped foot inside a kiva, even though she was schooling on Zinta and specializing in HUMACE volunteers. She'd forgotten how strong the smell was, and how even though the volunteer's pheromones had been altered to attract Lingan males, they still affected humans to varying small degrees. She felt the wetness between her legs and the twinge as her nipples hardened, but reminder herself not to lose focus.

This kiva was relatively quiet at the moment. At the far edge of the fuckpit—she couldn't even remember what she was supposed to call it—a young Lingan was mounting an even younger volunteer who had the look of someone fresh to the kiva life—namely, How did I get here? What's happening? and Oh my God it feels so Good! Two other women were in the eating area, using their hands to greedily shove the food that had been prepared for them into their mouths. They didn't even glance up at Zhirkov when she looked in on them. Zhirkov compared their faces with the image she had stored in her palmpad and then pushed away from the door.

Once she stepped closer to the fuckpit, Zhirkov saw another female on its sunken padded floor that she hadn't noticed before because of the ledge. The woman was on her knees, chest to the floor and rump sticking up in the air pointed straight at Zhirkov.

Zhirkov studied the woman's backside with an expert's eye. The woman's rump was all vagina. Well, not all, but it was so large, so out of proportion, that it reminded her of one of those red-assed baboons she'd seen in a zoo on Earth.

The volunteer's sex looked as they all did almost all the time, red and puffy and gaping and glistening—freshly fucked, not to put too fine a point on it, although she seemed free for the moment of the foamy Lingan semen.

This volunteer was getting a pronounced case of what they'd taken to calling Lingan hip. Just as a woman's pelvis expanded during childbirth to allow the baby's head to pass, so were the volunteers' from the caching, but after the baby was born the hips went back more or less to their original shape and size. Not so with the HUMACE volunteers. The program doctors were studying this phenomenon but hadn't yet explained it. The most pronounced case of course was Murga Arroyo, who'd been in the program for fifteen years, birthing over fifty joeys, before unexpectedly dying of heart failure. She'd reportedly once cached a joey to twenty-two kilos, and rumor was that a medtech had once, on a dare, successfully inserted her whole head into the woman.

This volunteer's pubic bone was obviously bulged downward as she knelt on the floor, and the space between her narrow thighs where they joined her body was considerable. As Zhirkov studied her the woman stirred, and raised herself up onto her elbows, then fully upright. The volunteer's belly hung slack and wrinkled, and the change in position sent a large volume of air out between her legs with a loud whooshing splat. You heard it all the time with the volunteers, and if they'd been normal females with normal mucosal membranes, the insufflation might have been cause for concern. The volunteers' purpose-altered orifi, however, resembled a soft leather purse about as much as they did a normal vagina. As tough as their internals obviously were, Zhirkov wondered how they were able to feel as much as they obviously did, enjoy the rutting with the Lingans to the extent they did. She supposed the mere size of the Lingans' organs helped with that.

Zhirkov stepped to the side and saw the woman's breasts showed evidence of long-term rough use as well. They were stretched and partially flattened against her ribcage, even as they bulged with freshly produced milk. Her large, dark nipples looked as sensitive as bootheels. Zhirkov checked her palmpad against the woman's face.

“Ms. Anders? Jayme?”

Zhirkov had to say her name a few more times before her eyes focused and Jayme looked at her.

“I'm Lieutenant Zhirkov. How are you doing today?”

Zhirkov watched the volunteer idly scratch between her legs. From her lack of reaction Zhirkov wasn't even sure Jayme had understood the question. She pressed on anyway.

“Do you remember the visit you had last week from a medical specialist? She brought you into the office complex?”

After a beat, Jayme slowly nodded. “Yeah.”

“Do you remember what she told you?”

Jayme nodded again. “Umm…,” she began, then frowned. Her wiggling finger now seemed to be rubbing more than scratching.

“Jayme!” Zhirkov said loudly. “Pay attention. This is important. Do you remember what she said?”

Jayme jumped at the loud voice, and her finger stopped. “That I, uh, wasn't caching or nursing, so I …. uh…”

“For the first time since completing the terms of your agreement with HUMACE you are not pregnant, caching, or nursing. At least, not one of your own joeys, I know you're nursing others since you have the milk. Do you remember now?”

Jayme nodded more firmly. “Yes.”

Zhirkov leaned closer to her. “That means you can leave the program now,” she told her. “Get out. Settle offworld somewhere, wherever you like. You don't have to mate with Lingans anymore if you don't want to. You can leave. That's what we told you last week, and the scan we did yesterday confirms you aren't yet pregnant again, but if you're going to exit the program, you need to do so quickly, before you get pregnant. Do you understand?”

Jayme looked up at her then. Her finger had gone back to its wiggling. “I don't want to go. Do I have to? What would I do?”

Zhirkov wasn't prepared for this response, even though she'd heard it happened from time to time. Murga Arroyo, in fact, had refused five separate opportunities to exit the program. Jayme had been in the program only nine years compared to Murga's fifteen, but this was the first time she'd been free of joeys and eligible to retire from the program. Nine years, and almost forty joeys before being eligible—now that had to be a record.

Zhirkov was about to respond when she saw she no longer had Jayme's attention. She sensed the Lingan before she actually saw him, looming beside her. The male looked at her, and her uniform, but gave her only one disinterested sniff. Jayme, on the other hand, couldn't take her eyes off of him, or his erect phallus, and dropped back down eagerly to her elbows as the male took one big hop-step to get behind her.

“If you're going to go, you need to make the decision, and soon,” Zhirkov told her, as she watched the Lingan grasp Jayme by the hips, but by the vacant expectant expression on her face Zhirkov knew she'd lost her.

With his first thrust Jayme's mouth opened into a small “O”, and Zhirkov saw her eyes actually partway roll back into her head with the pleasure of it, before her body began shaking violently under his hammering thrusts, her breasts slapping the backs of her upper arms had enough for the sound to echo around the room. Zhirkov looked around and saw that two other males had appeared, and knew she'd better get out of the fuckpit. Pheromones or not, reinforced pants or not (because there had been a few incidents early on in the program with medtechs in the wrong place at the wrong time), she knew if the Lingans were overcome by their rutting lust and she was the only female available, there would be serious trouble. For supposedly sentient beings, they had surprisingly little control of their baser instincts.

She hopped up onto the ledge and backed quickly toward the door. Soon only the head and shoulders of the Lingan atop Jayme Anders was visible. That was two attempts, Zhirkov thought. By administration order they had to make a third within forty-eight hours, and then the volunteer was on her own.

“I know I've fulfilled my five year obligation, but I don't want to leave,” Banda told the human representative on board the Lingan destroyer.

“I'm sorry, but you don't have a choice. Lingans don't much care for humans to begin with, which is why only hirsute HUMACE volunteers, such as yourself, are picked for mascot duty, and they're sticklers about variety. That's why you've been moved from ship to ship so often. But your time is up, and there are more than enough new HUMACE volunteers who have been found infertile to replace you that you just can't remain a mascot.”

Banda stared at him and shifted her weight restlessly, pressing her thighs together. She was going to need some Lingan cock pretty soon. She told the representative as much. “What am I supposed to do? Where can I go? I'm hairy as a bear, and if I'm not getting fucked one hour in three I start going nuts. Can I go back to the Lingan homeworld with any of the crewmembers? Or to one of their colonies?”

The representative shook his head. “Not allowed, I'm sorry.”

“And you can't get me out of oestrus?” Banda pleaded.

“No, I'm sorry. The only change our docs have been able to make to HUMACE volunteers' metabolisms is to alter the type of pheromones—“ he stopped and shook his head.

Banda's hand had drifted between her legs. “What? What is it?”

“Well, I just thought of something, but I don't know…”

“What?”

The representative cocked his head. “Have you ever heard of a carxgle?”

“A what?”

“A carxgle. They're native to the Lingan homworld. They're very intelligent, and the Lingans keep them as pets. Apparently there's a pretty severe overpopulation problem with them, and Lingans don't approve of artificial contraception for themselves or anything else, as weird as that sounds, what with HUMACE and all. I guess it's a religious thing. Anyway, it limits their options.”

Banda's face scrunched up in confusion. She hadn't done this much talking, or thinking, in years. “What?”

It was almost too easy. It was rare to find a HUMACE program veteran who could even carry on an intelligent conversation for more than a minute or two, so leading them around by the nose wasn't even a challenge. The Lingans were demanding more and more women not just for HUMACE but for their pet problem, but so far finding enough desperate, willing volunteers hadn't been an issue. HUMACE enlistment was up, and the girls, especially the hairy ones, needed something to do afterward, whether they'd birthed their share of joeys or not. He watched this one rub between her legs, her oversize brown folds looking like they'd been grafted onto her flying buttress hips from some giant farm animal, a horse or cow, and wondered once again why the Lingans demanded this be done to human females when the classified medical reports showed cows or horses would work just as well for breeding partners.

“Whoo! They sound rowdy tonight!” Pritten brushed her glossy brown hair back from her forehead and smiled eagerly. She and Kimmie peered at the nearby flatscreen which showed what was happening onstage just a few feet away on the other side of the dressing room wall. Triny was in the middle of her famous contortive gymnastic performance, and from Kimmie's perspective it looked like there were two people up there onstage, curled up in a naked sweaty embrace. It was hard to tell Triny's arms from her legs, her knees from her elbows, and again Kimmie wondered just what had been done to her body to enable her to get into those positions.

Triny emptied her mouth long enough to invite the audience members who'd already paid up onto the stage with her. The roar of the crowd doubled.

The FireBall was either a whorehouse with a stage, or a strip club that allowed extensive audience participation (for a fee) both on- and off-stage. Either way, Triny's small, pale body was soon hidden under the sweaty forms of the colonists who'd paid for the privilege.

Alderson Prime had started out as a mining colony on a small planet with a thin atmosphere and not much else out on the fringes of civilization. After seventy years the air wasn't so thin, and there were actual towns instead of camps, but the planet was still wild, and so were the people, still mostly strong young men and those who thought they could make some money off of them.

Being on the edge of settled space, A-Prime saw more than its share of characters who didn't quite fit into the mainstream. The girls working at the FireBall were no exception—in addition to Triny, there were several Academy-trained whores who'd lost their licenses for one infraction or another, and a half dozen or so hardlabor (whoring) ex-cons from the nearby and notorious Cayan system, with their forehead tattoos and bald heads and genetically engineered need for semen. When not working the whore-cons kept to themselves and hardly said a word to the other girls.

There were two Trinians at the club as well. That there were still people who insisted on living on that planet with its atmospheric toxins, just because its ore veins were so rich, was a marvel. The planet-raised Trinians were small and childlike, the toxins having stunted their maturation, but they commanded quite a price from those men and women wishing to fantasize that they were something they were not. There were perhaps two dozen other females from all over willing to sell themselves for money, and then there was Kimmie and Pritten.

Kimmie glanced at Pritten and saw she was bouncing up and down, and that the insides of her thighs were already glistening. Both of them were wearing identical black leather chaps and squaretoed, high-heel boots. The assless, crotchless chaps, surpisingly, seemed to deemphasize their hips.

Although the urge blockers prevented Kimmie from even asking Pritten if she's been in HUMACE, she had no need to—it was obvious to anyone who'd been in the program. Just as Kimmie knew Pritten had been in HUMACE solely by looking at her hips, she knew Pritten had figured out her background just as easily.

Pritten looked young, and Kimmie sometimes idly wondered how many joeys she'd birthed. Of course, she wasn't able to ask her, and she knew looks weren't necessarily a good way to judge a HUMACE volunteer's age—the Lingan health drug had kept Kimmie as freshfaced as any college freshman, although her nipples, labia, and stomach told a different story. Kimmie and Pritten usually squeezed their slack stomachs with corsets or bustiers, when those wouldn't interfere with their performances.

Kimmie had bounced from planet to planet for several years, looking for some place she could lead a normal life. She soon realized that with her altered body, the demands it placed on her, the behavior it required of her, she would never be able to live a normal life. It was then that she began looking for a place where she could, at the very least, make a living without being treated like a freak.

Pritten had been at the club over a year when Kimmie arrived, and Darl, the club owner, had immediately made them a team. Kimmie didn't think it was possible for someone to be hornier than she was, but Pritten proved her wrong. Darl and Pritten had some sort of master/slave relationship Kimmie didn't really understand, and when Pritten wasn't onstage at the FireBall Darl was either whoring her out to private parties or fucking her himself. Kimmie didn't know when or how she found time to sleep, or what she and Darl did for sex—with her proportions, it wasn't as if they could have normal intercourse, but Pritten seemed happy.

Kimmie looked around to see if they had all the props they'd need for their show and saw Glyn oiling herself up for her turn pedestal dancing. Her big penis—Kimmie didn't know if it was the result of DNA treatments, nanosurgery, a birth defect, or something else—was already hard and bobbing as she moved. It worked exactly the way one was supposed to—most of the girls, including Kimmie, had tried it out, half the time in the dressing room while waiting to go onstage. It seemed Kimmie and Pritten weren't the only ones working at The FireBall with overactive sex drives, although few could competed with their engineered need.

The props were there—a dozen or so rubber balls, six or so inches in diameter, and the deflated heavy-duty balloon that when inserted and inflated made her or Pritten look ten months pregnant. The matching flesh-colored dildos, sixteen inches long by six wide, were there, one with a harness so they could strap it on and take turns fucking each other when they weren't fucking themselves.

Kimmie and Pritten's physical geometry pretty much precluded any normal male from enjoying vaginal intercourse with them, and they'd both been told that their asses, perhaps because of how large their pelvic floors were, were looser than most normal women's vaginas. They were, however, as popular as any other girls at the club. Not just for the show they put on with the giant toys—the sensation of being able to put both their arms up to the elbow inside a woman and stir them around, and have her beg for more, was, for some men, better than sex, and Kimmie had yet to meet a customer who was as rough on her as a big Lingan in full rut.

Working at the club every day still wasn't enough for Kimmie, and she had her own set of oversize toys in her quarters for when she wasn't working. It wasn't as good as getting pounded by an actual Lingan, but it was the best she could do. She didn't have someone like Pritten did; Kimmie didn't know exactly what she and Darl did on her days off, but sometimes when she came to work after a day off Pritten was more red and swollen and stretched out than after a long day onstage with a rowdy crowd.

Sometimes when she got a little homesick thinking about the kiva Kimmie would put the heavy balloon in herself and fill it up with three or four gallons of water, then rock back and forth on her hands and knees. It wasn't quite caching, but it was close.