CHAPTER SEVEN
Roberto pried his eyelids open and groaned. He hadn't even tried to
move yet and already he was sore. Blinking repeatedly, he somehow got his eyes
to focus. He discovered he was on his side, staring at the back of someone's
head. Just about the time he remembered it was Gilly he realized his arms were
around her. His left under her neck, tingling and mostly asleep.
Gilly. He groaned again. They'd been up late into the night, the girl
a seemingly insatiable, well-lubricated chasm of desire. He'd taken her at
least twice in every position. Sometime during the night he'd taken an X-Tend,
one from the vac-pac given to him by the pretty Tourism Board Rep. Or had it
been two?
He'd pounded her, or she'd ridden him, for half an hour or more at a
stretch, Gilly climaxing every five minutes or so, squirting as she came as the
night wore on. It wasn't long before he was coated from chest to knees in her
warm fluids. When he just had to take a break, she'd bounce off the bed and
drink liter after liter of juice. As soon as he was ready to do battle once
more, she was wiggling her ass at him like she'd been celibate for a year.
The girl had downed at least five liters of juice and water before
they'd fallen into an exhausted heap on the bed, and she'd never visited the
bathroom. He'd also spent some time sucking on and playing with her nipples.
They were big and rubbery in his mouth, and the sweet milk fairly shot out of
them when he sucked. Halfway through the evening she'd gone to her bag and
pulled out six tiny pairs of magnetic steel rollers. Her breasts had grown
until they were pleasantly round, and with all the bouncing and jiggling they'd
begun to leak badly. She got paid by the liter and didn't like to see her
credits soaking into the bedspread, so Gilly'd attached the magnetic rollers to
the base of her nipples to stop the drips. They acted like clamps, squeezing
her pink flesh so that her nipples bulged over the steel and turned an angry
shade of red, but she said they didn't hurt.
The warmth of her smooth back shifted infinitesimally against him as she
slowly breathed in and out. Gilly was still asleep, both of them nude on top of
the bedspread. Her short hair was soft against his cheek, and smelled faintly
of flowers.
Berto raised a hand and gently stroked her shoulder. He ran his hand
across her smooth skin, trailing fingers down her ribcage to the hollow of her
waist, back up the curve of her boyish hips. He felt his cock stir slightly,
nestled against her bottom. He couldn't decide which ached more, his balls or
his organ, after his record-setting evening, but he didn't really mind the
discomfort; he'd earned it, and proudly.
He kept sroking her gently, slowly, from the curve of her shoulder to
the wide spot where her hip turned to thigh. After four trips of his hand her
breathing changed and she shifted slightly.
Stroke. Stroke. Stroke. Gilly's breathing grew quicker and she gave a
tiny hum. Berto's member was an iron bar pressing against her buttocks. He
could feel it twitch in time to the beat of his heart.
Stroke. Stroke. Stroke. And then Gilly gave another little hum and
pushed her ass back at him.
Berto moved his hand down, lifted her upper cheek, and maneuvered the
tip of his organ into her crack. Gently he found the right angle and pushed
into her still moist depths. At her sigh he began a slow steady rocking motion,
right hand on her waist for leverage. His left arm wasn't even tingling
anymore; she could've chewed it off for all the sensation he had in his hand.
Even after hours asleep Gilly's glove was slick enough so that Berto
moved easily in her. Her buttocks were a warm cushion he nudged against on
every instroke. Gilly reached an arm back and cupped one of his buttocks,
urging him faster.
In the spoon position Berto knew it would take him longer to reach
orgasm. He didn't think Gilly would mind. He rocked slowly against her, in no
hurry, luxuriating in the silky smooth wetness of her. By the time he was
close, warm and getting sweaty, Gilly'd already climaxed once, shuddering and
jerking her ass against him. Finally the exquisite pressure and friction was
too much for him, and Berto urged his seed into her with quiet grunts. He was
surprised he had any left to give.
"Mmmm, that was a nice way to wake up," she murmured when he was
finished. "We sure did go to it last night, didn't we? You really know what
you're doing. Hmmm. My chest is all sore." Suddenly he felt her stiffen, and
she lifted her head.
"What time is it?" she asked. Berto's eyes found the display below the
vidscreen at the same time hers did.
"It's so late! No wonder I'm so stiff, I'm way overdue. I don't even
want to move, I just know one of my stoppers is going to pop right off."
"Are you okay?" he asked, not quite sure what she was so concerned
about. He sat up on the bed.
Gilly rolled halfway onto her back carefully and looked up at him. When
Berto'd first laid eyes on Gilly's breasts he'd been disappointed at their
flatness. Their sheer number made up for that fact, but flat just wasn't as
attractive, even if they were rather wide. As she'd gone through liter after
liter of juice and water, however, her breasts had lost some of their looseness.
At first it'd been hard to tell, since the change was gradual, but sometime
after midnight Berto had gotten a good look at Gilly's chest and seen that her
breasts weren't flat at all anymore. They'd still been a little loose and
flabby, but they felt firmer, and the flatness had disappeared as they'd --
presumably -- filled up with milk. That was the point at which she'd put the
roller clamps on her nipples.
Now, however, with his eyes still bleary from sleep, Berto stared in
wonderment at Gilly's chest. Her breasts had swollen with milk until they were
near spheres riding on her torso. The globes were so engorged that her nipples
had been pulled nearly flat, an impressive feat considering how far they'd stuck
out the night before. The little steel rollers crimping her nipples were sunk
deep into her flesh, only their ends visible. The tips of her nipples were
nearly purple.
"Holy krikes!" was all he could say.
"I've got to get to the Dairy, I'm almost two hours overdue," she told
him. She sat up slowly and grimaced as gravity took hold of her milk-heavy
breasts. As she sat up on the bed her thighs pushed her lower pair upward into
her other painfully swollen breasts. Each one was the size of a regulation
Powerball, twenty centimeters across. They were so full of milk, the skin
pulled so taut, that as Gilly carefully stood up they barely sagged. She was
nothing but breasts from collarbones to hipbones.
"Can I?" he asked hesitantly, one hand outstretched.
"Huh?" she said distractedly. "Oh, sure. But be gentle."
Her swollen breasts were as firm as rubber. There was hardly any give
to them at all as he touched first one, then another with curious fingers.
"Where are my clothes?" she said, looking around. Her hair stuck out at
odd angles. White drops appeared on two of her nipples, the pressure inside too
much even for the roller-clamps to contain. A wobbling string of semen hung
from her puffy slit, growing slowly longer.
Berto grabbed her clothes scattered around the room and handed them to
her, unable to take his eyes off her breasts.
"They're huge," he marvelled. He knew how inane he sounded, if anybody
knew how big they were it was her, but he couldn't help himself. "I can't
believe how much bigger they've gotten. They must be nothing but mammary
glands."
"Genetically engineered," she reminded him. When she bent over to pull
on her shorts, the sight of her six big swaying breasts took his breath away.
He couldn't remember ever seeing something so magnificent, and then he watched
her raise her arms above her head to pull on her shirt. There had to be a God.
"I need to get pumped out quick," she said, carefully sitting on the bed
so she could pull on her shoes. "I'm going to get stretchmarks, or worse." She
felt between her thighs. "Ooh, I'm still juicy."
Berto watched her, still nude and shiny and sticky from their long
night. She was beautiful. "You definitely need to drain some of that out," he
agreed. "Krikes, would I love to see that."
"Come on along then," Gilly said. "The girls'll like you, and I
guarantee you won't be bored, there's always something happening. Yesterday two
newbies spun out on a hormone overdose and practically raped one of the helpers.
It was sort of violent. They had to restrain them and call for a squad of
synthetics. Those poor girls were so far gone the synthetics had to take them
right there in the waiting room, two at a time, and of course we all got bubbly
watching that. Or did you have something else you wanted to do?"
"You have got to be kidding," he said, scrambling for his clothes.
". . . and with the changeover complete your fabricating machines will
be running eight percent faster, using two percent less power. The rotating
schedule developed for the changeover," Race indicated the holographic flowchart
rotating above the conference table, "will only have nine percent of your
facilities idling at any one time. We are quite aware that you have a constant
backorder problem. Your overall production should only show a slight dip in the
first few rotations. Then, as the newer equipment comes on-line, and the new
models start rolling out, your capacity will bounce back to current maximum, and
then beyond. I estimate that by this time next year your annual output should
have increased by six and a half percent, and ten and a half percent the year
after that."
She used a vidscreen as well as the table holo to illustrate her
projections. Race didn't actually think of them as projections; she'd been at
her job far too long to have to guess at anything. As the head of New Mantique
Synthetics' Advanced Production Team she knew down to the hour, second, and
tenth of a credit what the changeover would entail.
As she finished her orientation she scanned the faces before her; the
brightest lights in GUP Inc.'s Synthetics Division, which by itself was nearly
the size of NMS' entire operation on New Mantique. In total there were fifteen
people around the table, eight of them women, which was a bit of a surprise.
New Mantique was a patriarchal society, and women made up less than ten percent
of the upper management in business and industry. Most of the faces watching
her appeared skeptical that she could deliver on her promises -- they'd gone
through changeovers and tool-ups before, and it had always taken longer and cost
more than the estimates. However, she hadn't been in charge then, and everyone
around the table was aware of her reputation. If Race Harrington said she could
do something, smart money wouldn't bet against her.
"Of course, there are always unexpected delays," she admitted to them.
"My schedule, however, already takes those into account." That got her a few
more disbelieving looks.
"The software reconfig bits arrived with me. The first wave of hardware
should be arriving from New Mantique . . ." she looked down at her timetable.
"This evening," one of the females at the table said.
"Correct. Offload is what, eight hours or so? So tomorrow morning I'll
be down with your engineers, instructing them on the peculiarities of the new
intelligence downloads." The two heads of the engineering department were in
the room, and they nodded in unison. "We've already had an engineering team
here for what, a month? Helping do the initial assembly and checks of the line
equipment. That's why this changeover will be so painless, the new machines
will already be put together, and will only have to be moved into place and
tested."
"A transport full of the new Q-Series synthetics will be arriving here
the day after tomorrow. I was told they were sending twenty-five, but upper
management has a history of arbitrarily adding or subtracting units from the
demo lot, without telling anyone, so . . . ."
"Now, we've been hearing just how much better the Q-Series is than any
previous model," Will Smylie, the CFO said. "I don't know about anybody else,
but the P-Series seemed perfect to me. I don't see what they could have done to
justify the price increase."
"I understand exactly what you're saying," Race said, dropping her
professional facade just a little bit. "How the hell can you sell the new model
at a higher price, when it looks exactly the same to the consumer as the old
model? Right from the beginning I saw this could be a problem. Synthetics,
externally at least, have been perfect since the second wave of L's. The
imperfections weren't physical. You all know what I'm talking about. Even the
P-Series had some flaws. I could usually spot one in less than an hour of
casual conversation. Of course, I've got more experience with them than most
people, but I'm sure you're all familiar with their . . . quirks. The
occasional odd, inappropriate or out-of-context statement, the disconcerting
lack of movement when at rest, the staring. Tiny things, but after a while it
becomes pretty obvious to anybody that's paying attention who's a synthetic in
the group and who's not." She got knowing nods.
"On the Deckard scale the P-Series averaged an eighty-nine. That's damn
good, if you ask me, but it's not perfect. The Q-Series is running at
ninety-four and a quarter. I'm sure all of you know just how huge of an
improvement that is. Hell," she lowered her voice," most people test right
around ninety-four." A few of the assembled nodded vigorously.
"What does this mean in the real world? Well, we all know that NM
synthetics look and feel perfect, and have for years. But that's just not good
enough anymore, not with all the competition.
"I spent two weeks at our headquarters, working with a ten person team
putting together all the presentation and material I'd need for this assignment.
David Boardman, CEO of NMS, wanted to make sure I believed in the superiority of
our product. So, the day before I left, he sat me down, with my ten person
team, and asked me to tell him which member of that team was a synthetic. These
were people that I'd been working with closely for two weeks, mind you, ten
hours or more a day." Fifteen pairs of eyes stared at her, waiting for her to
continue.
"I thought he was joking. When I realized he wasn't, I didn't know what
to do. I'd never even had an inkling that one of my people wasn't organic. So
what did I do?" She smiled, and shook her head. "I guessed, and ended up
enraging an assistant manager of sales by saying that I thought she was it. God
knows if she'll ever talk to me again."
"There wasn't a synthetic," someone said confidently.
"No, you're right, there wasn't a synthetic," Race told him. "There
were three. I never spotted them."
The room exploded in amazement and disbelief.
"Even sexually?" one of the engineers queried her above the din.
"Well, uh," Race began, as the room quieted down to listen to her
answer, "as some of you might know, NMS has many licensed subsidiaries scattered
throughout known space. GUP Inc.'s Synthetic's Division is only one such
independent licensee, although it is the biggest. However, New Mantique is a
very . . . traditional planet. As ironic as it sounds, even though NMS was
founded there and has grown until its sales are one and a half percent of the
planetary gross, eight percent of total export revenue, uh, having sexual
relations with a synthetic is illegal on New Mantique itself. NMS has had to
build several facilities off-planet solely to test those skills," she continued,
as the room exploded in noise again. "So, while I personally can't attest to
that facet of the Q-Series' performance, it has been rated. The males, going
from the P's to the Q's, on the Deckard scale, rose from an 81 to an 88. The
females had an even larger jump, from an 89 to a 96."
"A ninety-six?" someone said incredulously.
"Everyone here has their own personal synthetic provided by the
company," the CFO informed her. "As well as being a nice job benefit, we find
it's the best way to discover any problems the units might have. Monsipur,
obviously, doesn't have the same . . . outdated laws as New Mantique, so we're
all quite familiar with the P-Series' pluses and minuses in the bedroom. If the
Q-Series delivers such a dramatic improvement as you say, then we're all going
to be very happy." His comment was greeted with much laughter. Race smiled
too, but tried not to show her shock. She wasn't used to such frank sexual
discussion in the workplace.
"And very rich," someone added. More laughter.
"I'm not current on the latest figures out of New Mantique," Smylie told
her, "but as you probably know, fully eighty percent of our customers buy their
synthetics purely or mostly for their sexual function, with household chores
running a very distant second."
"I wasn't aware that it was that high here, no," Race admitted.
Mentally she shook her head. Compared to New Mantique's repressive culture,
Monsipur was a sexual free-for-all. Smylie, without pause or one whit of
embarrassment, had as much told her that the movers and shakers of this company
spent a lot of time having sex with their synthetics. And no one at the table
had batted an eye. She'd seen more overt sexuality, nudity, and uninhibitedness
in two days on Monsipur than in her last ten years on New Mantique. She still
hadn't adjusted to the change in climate.
Spacewide, Race knew that over fifty percent of all synthetics ever
manufactured were used primarily for sex, and so were designed appropriately.
However, it was just not something publicly discussed on New Mantique, much less
admitted to. Much of the Q-Series design in regards to the sexual arena had to
be programmed and tested off-planet due to social constraints. Her government
hadn't gone so far as to decree that all synthetics on New Mantique had to be
rendered sexually nonfunctional, but there had been those Senate proposals. It
was probably just a matter of time.
"The Q-Series, as I've said, is the first totally synthetic Synthetic.
No organic components at all. That means less maintenance. If they don't
consume any food or drink for the sake of appearances, we only recommend a
check-up once a year. If they do eat, the Q's are totally self cleaning, and
their 'stomachs' can neutralize any type of food you can find. They run on the
standard power cell, which has a half-life of fifty years.
"As your engineers will soon be telling you, the Q-Series is much more
friendly when it comes to short-runs or custom orders. There is far less
equipment to change in and out. I noticed reviewing your production totals for
the last few years that you do a huge number of special orders, at least
compared to NMS, so this should be good news."
"It sounds too good to be true," one of the engineering staff said.
"I'm waiting for the bad news. That they only come with green skin, maybe."
That got a lot of chuckles.
"Okay, how's this?" Race offered. She pointed. "Let me introduce Billy
Faircloth, one of the members of our engineering team that's been here for about
a month. Most of you have probably run into him by now? He's been working
closely with your engineering staff." Most of the people at the table knew him,
and he got a few nods. A big smile crept across Race's face, and she spread her
hand out toward him.
"Ladies and Gentlemen, let me introduce you to your first Q-Series
synthetic, serial number DN38416, also known as Billy Faircloth." The synthetic
smiled, bowed, and then sat down. There was stunned silence as everybody stared
at him. Race silently noted one of the female execs had turned bright red and
couldn't look at Billy.
"Now who knew?" Race asked. "Honestly." She waited. No one raised
their hand. "That's what I thought. Well, people, that's all I've got for
today. I'll be sending updates twice a day, but I don't think we need to meet
again until the day after tomorrow at the earliest. Billy, why don't you stick
around. I'm sure there's a whole line of people just waiting to poke and prod
you."
"Yes Ma'am."
The red-faced female executive laughed out loud, then covered her mouth,
surprised at her own outburst. The rest of the table looked at her, realized
what had happened, and shared a huge laugh. Race was astonished that other than
the initial reaction, the woman didn't seem upset that not only had she slept
with a man that turned out to be a synthetic, but that all of her coworkers now
knew it too.
Smylie stood up. "Okay people, that about wraps it up. Mary, you've
got the new promotional materials. This thing is going to be a goldmine, but
the adverts'll take a bit of thought because all the changes -- most of 'em,
anyway -- are behavioral. Ms. Harrington's provided us with a few good ideas
NMS has been using in their adverts for the Q. Even if we can't think up
anything original on our own we'll have to tweak those toward Monny culture."
The formal atmosphere of the meeting dissolved as people stood and various
discussions began. "I'll make sure to get you a unit as soon as that shipment
comes in, I know how you like a hands-on approach for inspiration." More
laughter.
Race nodded and smiled and shook a few hands as she packed up her
presentation materials. Things had gone well, but she knew everything was
dependent upon a smooth changeover. As long as everything went more or less to
her plan, the people in this room were going to be very happy people indeed.
She couldn't get used to seeing men in dresses. Several of the males
sitting at the table had been wearing traditional Monsipurian robes, in pastel
colors no less. To her they looked like women's gowns. Not appropriate
business attire, as far as she was concerned, but it wasn't her planet. Not one
of the women at the meeting wore a tongi, though, which puzzled her. They were
all in sharp, tailored business suits.
The current women's business fashion seemed to be short, waist length
double-breasted suitcoats, with snugly tailored slacks beneath. In dark colors,
forest green the most common. Race had thought her suits were snug; next to the
women at this meeting she looked positively prudish. The combination short
jacket and high waisted, tight pants gave every female in the room an hourglass
figure, no matter their age, and not one had an extra ounce of fat on her body,
or saggy breasts, or wrinkles visible from more than three feet away. As they
made their way out they stopped one at a time to say hello or make small talk
with her; it made Race glad she'd undergone skin rejuv recently. They were all
smiling, but their eyes ran up and down her body like vultures eyeing the
wounded.
"Good morning, Ms. Harrington." Race looked up into the eyes of one of
the younger females she'd seen sitting at the back of the room; executive
assistants, she'd assumed, recording the relevant sections of her presentation
with their workbooks. She introduced herself as Tintina Humbert, Executive
Assistant to Indira Chirash, Vice President of Domestic Marketing. Tina was
perky, confident, and now apparently eager to please.
"I'm going to be your new liaison with Gupink's SynthDiv while you're
onplanet." She smiled brightly. She had to be five years Race's junior, with
long blonde hair pulled back into a ponytail that hung down the back of her
green blazer. Race didn't think the ponytail looked very professional, but she
had to admit it looked great against the green fabric. Tintina wore a tight
skirt that didn't quite reach her knees. Most of the assistants seemed to have
long hair in ponytails or braids, while the female executives had hairdos
similar to Races': short and severe.
"What happened to Richardson?" That yappy, annoying bastard, she
silently added. He'd picked her up at the hotel and driven her in his speeder
to the meeting, inanely talking about nothing the whole way. He'd finally
quieted down, but she didn't know if that was because he sensed her distaste or
just because he'd run out of things to blather on about.
"Mr. Smylie thought the two of us might work better together," Tintina
said innocently.
Race cocked her head at Tintina, then looked across the room to where
Smylie was in close conversation with two of his subordinates. He caught her
glance, saw who Race was with, and gave her a little nod, never once losing his
train of thought as he barked out instructions.
"Oh really."
"I think you'll find my most important quality is knowing when to shut
up," Tintina said, just as innocently as before. Race peered at her, then shook
her head.
"Was I that obvious? I must be slipping. I'm sure you'll do fine. Why
don't you help me get my stuff together here, and then I've got to head down to
Programming."
"I'll show you the way."
