Cracked Porcelain

by Drake Collins

  Very little internal joy was had by Maximillia from these mechanical routines. Of course, Mardo found a sadistic joy in splitting her petals open on a daily basis or watching her be defiled by whichever of his thugs he nominated. When he snapped his fingers she responded, a slave to the man who held the blissful Gatekeeper. Sure, high-end pleasure droids were almost indistinguishable from flesh and blood humans, but the knowledge that he’d corrupted something scarred, yet pure was the kicker. In her he had a perfectly programmed sperm receptacle.

  Dom admired this feisty little firecracker, less than half Mardo’s size, working his cock with torrid enthusiasm. It was a sight to behold; this tiny, scrawny, pale form crowned with this long, dark mane sucking the cock in her mouth with wild abandon. Mardo wouldn’t last long because she was applying a massive amount of suction, her unseen tongue curling around the underside of the tip of his member. His rising groans exposed his eminent climax.

  Suddenly, Mardo let out a guttural below, his legs trembling as he grabbed the back of Maximillia’s head, shoving his hot club deep into her mouth and holding her in place as he emptied his balls into her. Ever the well-studied pupil, she didn’t gag or thrash about as the hot goo splashed the back of her throat. She merely kept her flattened palms facing outward, letting him expel himself down her gullet. After a few seconds he stopped trembling and let his saliva-coated cock plop from between her lips. Obediently, she didn’t move, she just put her palms back onto her thighs and coughed lightly as spittle dripped from her lower lip, letting the men continue to evaluate her. Rock bottom.

  Dom said nothing, but the ridiculous bulge in Kee’s pants was the unspoken appraisal of Maximillia’s skills. Mardo stepped away from his girl, chest heaving, pants still down, and looked over at Dom’s holographic avatar.

  After a few tense seconds, he finally muttered with stone-faced bluntness. “She’s hired. Send six more of your girls with this one. Kee will give you the location. Have them check in with the manager tomorrow morning at noon. Her name’s Vaika. We understand each other, Mardo?”

  The tub nodded. “Of course. They will not disappoint.”

  “For your sake, I hope not.”

  CHAPTER THREE

  Xartha’s was in the industrial district, planted smack dab in the midst of patches of condemned office complexes. The lowlifes didn’t bother to aimlessly shuffle the streets because there was nothing to take and no one to beg from. Xartha’s customers favored the underground parking lot where their limousines could quickly disappear into, sparing them from having to breath the heavy pollution being pumped out by the nearby refineries and factories.

  The place was your typical pump and dump whorehouse where local businessmen came to get the thrill of violating young girls before quickly paying their tab and being shuttled off before the guilt sank in. Most of the girls under the employ of the house were human, and for good reason. The majority of the businessmen were thoran, saracian and kylaxian expats who were sent to Arceus to manage local branches for off-world banking and real estate conglomerates. Young human girls were something of a cultural delicacy for many alien species; a novelty for the perverse. They found the slim, lithe, relatively hairless forms of nubile human females intoxicating. Thorans, kylaxians and saracians were physically large in comparison to humans and the compatibility of their sex organs with human girls sprinkled a dash of almost immoral, bestial impropriety to their already vulgar indiscretions.

  The aliens also tended to be quite liberal with their spending when it came to rendezvous with their human play-things. Xartha’s general manager was an older tarian woman name Vaika. She’d seen it all and done it all and had little sympathy for any of the new girls that walked into the door. She affectionately called her girls “holes” because she liked to opine that their holes were the only part of their bodies that had the potential for talent. Her husky, smoky voice didn’t help fend off the several new wrinkles that rose on her miserable hide every day. She had an eye for the gifted, though. She preferred the youngest stock available. The more green, the more nubile, the better. She knew her consumer base. Her foreign clientele, unlike human males,

  didn’t always favor the extreme hourglass figure; flared-out hips, bountiful bust line and a firm, bubble ass. More often than not they were more infatuated with unripened, streamlined bodies that were embroiled in the heat of pubescence. They wanted girls who had matured past the point of being mere girls but hadn't reached full womanhood yet; females dancing on the twilight of physical maturity who were untainted but corruptible. It stoked an unreasonable passion in them that loosened the purse strings.

  Maximillia and the other Bruiser girls piled into Xartha’s. None of them were innocent but all of them were understandably apprehensive. This wasn’t the dank confines of the Bruiser compound; here, results were expected. The girls would be expected to perform, to entertain their “company” and do so with abundant proficiency. They even took in Taryn as a willing recruit. Half the time she was higher than a star cruiser and the other half of the time she was Chota’s primary recreational pastime, but she was young, cute and had working orifices, so she qualified. Maximillia hadn’t fared much better than Taryn, but Taryn actually liked her predicament whereas Maximillia tolerated hers.

  Maximillia knew that her friend would be a popular commodity for the establishment: Taryn still carried with her a healthy degree of baby fat held over from her youth, most of which had gravitated to her thighs, ass, breasts and cheeks. She embodied the female whose body matured beyond her ignorance and gullibility, which is a huge reason why Chota could be found most nights on top of her, laboring to fill her with another copious load of his seed. She was easy prey and rarely mounted even the most passing protest.

  On that first day, Maximillia got a surprise upon settling in at her new place of employment. Vaika notified her that “the boss” wanted to speak with her and to meet him in his office. Dom happened to be in town and apparently wanted to supervise the maiden voyage of the Bruiser girls.

  She entered Dom’s office, which was a sleek, classy, smoke-filled abode. The thumping beat of the house music rattled muffled through the walls. She shut the door quietly and spun around to find Dom sunken comfortably across the room in his cushy chair, bathed in the low light and puffing on a toco cigar.

  “Come forward,” he offered firmly.

  She obeyed, stepping into a shaft of light slicing in through the glass. He studied her for a moment, his cigar effortlessly crimped between his fore and middle fingers.

  “So, you’re Mardo’s girl?”

  She stood respectfully silent, unclear on the man’s prominence but instinctively knowing enough to stay quiet.

  “Where did he find you? Park? Shopping center? Kidnapped?”

  She shook her head timidly. “No.”

  “You one of these girls into that sick naughty uncle thing? Maybe you got a sorry home life so you headed out looking for a father figure and instead you’ve got this fat, dirty piece of shit fucking you in that pig farm he’s running out in the desert?”

  She sniffled, wiping her nose, the protocol on how to react lost on her.

  “Ahhh, he got you hooked on something? Hyperia? Narcotep? Gatekeeper?”

  Her body language convicted her.

  “Gatekeeper it is,” he practically mocked. “I can’t imagine a little flower like you would voluntarily find yourself in his bed."

  The off-color name drew her attention and she finally spoke up. “He used to call me Flower."

  “Before he plucked you, am I right? I’ll bet he talked a sweet game right before that first time. Wined you with the Gatekeeper. Whispered those sweet nothings. Played the suave tribal chief."

  He was right but she didn’t have the courage to admit the predictable nature of her own faux-pas in getting suckered. She didn’t have to admit it. He could see the regret on her face.

  “How did you know?” she asked.

  “Predators are like-minded, but, unlike me,
he’s an elevator in free-fall. Doesn’t care who he carries crashing down into the basement with him..”

  “You’re no different than he is.”

  Dom was somewhat surprised by her sudden boldness. “Really? You really think that?”

  “You’re both criminals.”

  “You run with him. So are you then, correct? If me and him are alike, you and me are alike.”

  “I don’t have anything in common with you.”

  “You’re very right about that. I’ll bet you were born in the dregs and figured, 'Hey, why not live here forever?', taking whatever scraps you could find along the way and clinging like a parasite to whatever host you could find that would let you plant your flag. You stick to the first one that would have you, right?”

  She looked away, intimidated.

  “You’ve got fire in you. You’ve got a mouth on you, too. That’s why I picked you. You know how to use it. I’m going to earn a lot of money with you. But, I have to say that I think

  you’re making a mistake. I’ll bet you could clean up nicely. If you were fed a little, got your hair done... You know, your face has an incredible structure. With a little make-up...”

  “I’m not a toy,” she interjected finally, sensing the context.

  “A toy is inanimate. It has no wants, no needs. It exists only to be played with but has no opinion one way or another how it’s played with or who is playing with it. You’re no toy. You’re alive. You have motivations, goals, aspirations, regardless of how far away you think they are. What I’m proposing is a deal that’s mutually beneficial. I have something you undoubtedly want.”

  Dom opened a drawer at his desk and drew forth a small decanter from it. The glass contained the familiar Gatekeeper.

  “I can’t,” she hurriedly admitted.

  “I thought you liked it.”

  “I’m trying to quit.”

  “You don’t just quit Gatekeeper,” he chuckled.

  “I’m trying.”

  “This isn’t the backwater swill that Mardo’s been dousing you with. This is premium, ultra-refined stock. Purified by artisans who know how to extract the essence of the flower the drink is derived from.”

  She shook her head faintly, maintaining a respectful degree of eye contact. “No, thank you.”

  He sat back looking her over. “Maybe next time.”

  Kee walked in. Dom’s gaze became fiercely trained on Maximillia, cutting through her eyes and into her soul. “Now, if you think you’re going to come in here and play the defiant little princess, you’re up for a rude awakening. If you present yourself to any of my clients as anything less than a willing whore, one whose only purpose is to happily and proudly drain the balls of any cock that drops a uni-cred in my establishment, then I’ll burn your compound out in the desert to the ground. Then, I’ll kill all your friends. If you don’t give a shit about any of them then I’ll find out who you do care about and I’ll make you wish you never knew them because the pain I’ll inflict will scar you for the rest of your life.”

  Maximillia wilted under the weight of his reticent delivery.

  “Do we understand each other?”

  She swallowed, nodding in resignation. “Yes.”

  “I expect you to be my star performer out there, but not looking and smelling like that.” Dom looked up at Kee. “Take her to the shower room. Get her cleaned up and have her report to Vaika so she can’t get acquainted with the program. And make sure she washes thoroughly. Every inch of her. Every inch. I don’t want any clients complaining about dirty goods.”

  Kee looked Maximillia up and down. “I’ll make sure she’s clean from head to toe.” He held out his hand to her. “Come on. Let’s go.”

  The showers were a dank, grotty pit. The walls suffered from water erosion and the internal piping and wiring were largely exposed in gored out sections. The constant litany of desynchronized drips from the defective faucets created an unnerving vexation.

  Maximillia stood pinned against the wall of one of the showers while Kee hosed her down as Vaika supervised. The water pressure was cranked up painfully high and she whimpered helplessly as the water mashed her against the tiles.

  The rest of the Bruiser girls got similar treatment and it was then time for Vaika to run them through the gauntlet. Xartha’s doubled as a strip club, so there were stripper poles, runways and private rooms populating the main show floor. Maximillia had never danced in her life and neither had the other girls. A few of the older girls, veterans that had weathered the storm of endless waves of horny alien clientele, showed Maximillia and the other rookies the ropes. The vets had this war-weary, defeated look in their eyes; the looks of lost souls irretrievably bound to their detestable tasks. They exuded this sad emptiness, these bleak husks that existed only to provide temporary sexual relief for nameless travelers. Maximillia felt sorry for them. She wanted to rescue them, but, in a way, they terrified her. She could see herself in every one of them.

  Then, there was the primary function that Maximillia was expected to perform at

  Xartha’s. As far as the sex, there wasn’t much that needed to be taught. She had months and months of on-the-job training, courtesy of Mardo’s preposterously high libido. Only at Xartha’s she’d have to keep her gag reflex policed even better than with him. If she broke the fantasy of even a single client then she’d lose her selling power. She threw up the first night, about ten minutes before her first client walked in. She’d never felt so low. Her room—the same one where she’d be entertaining clients—was a gaudy, slipshod mess, decorated to look like an administrative office. Painfully bland, almost clinical.

  Xartha’s knew the cultural nuances of the clientele. Their kinks in terms of favorable environmental stimulus was unintelligible by a typical human. Something about the sterility and formalness of the setting facilitating such fleshly indecencies added to the fantasy for the alien johns. They preferred it, and in this instance, the customer must always be right. The Tsen-Tzes had all of the Bruisers over the proverbial barrel. Hostages typically didn’t prostitute themselves to spare their own lives, but her circumstances were far from typical.

  Maximillia was in her room, sitting on the edge of her bed, knees together, hands in her lap and head down, mired in disquiet when Vaika walked in. The old woman noticed the quivering fledgling.

  “I’ve got some helpful advice for you, if you’re interested," Vaika offered.

  “Okay," Maximillia whispered.

  “When you’re working, pretend like you’re wearing a mask. Pretend like you’re someone else. Do your job well. Entertain the males and try to make them want to give you as much of their money as you can. The better you do that the quicker you’ll pay off whatever debt your master owes Dom."

  “He’s not my master," Maximillia stated firmly, before sinking back into weakness. “Mardo. He’s not my master."

  “Then what is he?"

  She didn’t know how to answer.

  “Is he worth doing all this for?"

  She shook her head. “No."

  Vaika’s gaze drifted down. “Well, for now, you don’t have much of a choice. You work, you earn and once the debt is paid, you’re not my problem anymore and this place won’t be your problem, either." She looked the dark mop-topped girl over. “You are very beautiful. You’ll be a big earner. You won’t be here long. Just do your best. Be strong. For every client, wear your mask. When they leave, you take it off again. That way they’re not taking anything away from you, just the woman whose mask you’re wearing."

  It was sound, sagely advice. Maximillia was short on helpful advice from wise mentor figures, so she was pleasantly surprised.

  “I see so many girls like you," Vaika continued. “So much talent, but misused, squandered. When you get out of here I don’t want to see you again. Pray you don’t see me again, either." With that, she walked out. Her words were less a threat and more a hopeful prognostication.

  Wear your mask. An insightful tactic. Maxi
millia decided to adopt it. She would play the willing consort to the best of her ability for that first client. She’d give him the time of his life, drain his balls and hopefully a large sum of uni-creds. Unfortunately, it was the only way. Instead of fearing the future, she’d embrace it. She decided that her “mask” would entail her working costume, which consisted of whatever outfit she chose to wear on the day and a healthy slather of make-up. That first night she wore some slinky black lingerie, made sure that her hair was primped and preened with a theatrical refinement and used make-up to create a powdered, doll-like visage to present to the clients. She had adorned her armor. She was ready. Game-time came quicker than expected.

  That first client was a relatively short, rotund, lumbering little saracian. He babbled through wobbly jowls to almost comedic effect. If she wasn’t so terrified she probably would’ve let slip a chuckle or two, but, no. She smiled, spoke in low, whispery tones and exaggerated her every subtle gesture to maximum efficacy. He rattled off incomprehensible garble and, thanks to the room’s universal translator, she managed to understand some of it. Even then, though, the best she could do was let him guide her through it. Less verbal and more physical. He wasn’t paying to hear her beautiful voice. What followed was elementary. Nothing fancy. He directed her to lay on her back on the desktop. She passively allowed him to manipulate her and do what he wished. He slowly fed his bloated organ into her tight gash. She feigned ecstasy but felt nothing.

  It was in that moment as the saracian inserted his translucent, spongy extremity, that Maximillia wondered what had brought her here. How had she been reduced to this? The debt owed wasn’t accrued by her but still she was forcing herself to be allowed to pay it. She felt almost as if Mardo’s debt was hers. She felt as if a hostage by him and by her own deficient logic.

  Just then, as his energetic thrusts gently slid her back and forth across the counter, he quickly pulled out, signaling her to drop to her knees, which she did. He directed his distended organ to her face and began to fist it ferociously. With his free hand he guided her to look down, exposing her beautiful mane. With a groan, the saracian’s member exploded a copious torrent of xanthous fluids which splattered against her head, coating her hair in the goop.