The Syntax of Seduction

by Carlos Malenkov

  "I am securing your arms and legs for the next phase of the examination. So, how badly do you need this job?"

  "Badly, Staff Supervisor Galatea," I said, and I extended my other arm for her to buckle.

  "This shouldn't be too unpleasant," she said. "It's only a proctoscope. A colonoscopy is mandatory for all our candidates for customer service positions."

  It didn't hurt going in. I've probably had thicker cocks up my ass. But she just kept on pushing it in, higher and higher up into my gut. It must have been a couple of feet deep and it kept going in!

  "Excuse me, Supervisor. It feels like you're a plumber trying to unclog a stopped-up drain. Geez, you're using that thing like a Roto Rooter. Ahhh!"

  "Oh, hush. It's not half as bad as that. We're required to examine the bottom foot and a half of your rectum and lower colon. You'll be pleased to know that your intestines pass muster. You'll do just fine."

  Now I could feel that monstrous metal snake snaking its way out of me. Good thing it was lubed up or it would have pulled my guts right back out of my asshole. Funny thing, though. I had sort of enjoyed the experience. In fact, I had a raging hardon.

  "Uh, excuse me, but what exactly were you looking for inside me?"

  "Abnormalities and malformations, of course. But the purpose of the exam is to judge whether your rectum is suitable for intercourse . . . anal intercourse, that is. With a bit of conditioning, you'll do just fine in that area."

  "Conditioning, Supervisor?"

  "Yes. Shall we begin?"

  "Well . . . "

  "Climb up on the table again, my good man. This time on your back. Now raise up your legs, one at a time, and place them into the stirrups."

  Stirrups? Her voice-command had transformed the examination table into something that would have been right at home in a gynecologist's office.

  Galatea buckled my legs with the restraints, then my arms.

  The bottom half of the table tilted upward, exposing my naked crotch and bottom. I felt totally vulnerable.

  "This won't hurt a bit," she said.

  She had pulled on a latex gloves and was reaching toward me. I felt an intense freezing shock as she sprayed something on my crotch area.

  "A local anesthetic," she said. I'm going to insert a Sta-Hard implant beneath the skin of the scrotum. That will enhance your work performance."

  I'd heard of those things. The implants consist of a subminiaturized electronic module that controls blood flow and nerve impulse propagation to the penis. They make it possible to sustain an erection for hours at a time.

  I saw the flash of a excimer-laser scalpel, but didn't feel a thing. I was beginning to get drowsy.

  I startled awake as she came back into the room. She had left me there, with my legs in the stirrups and my ass hanging out while the surgical adhesive set on the incision.

  "Now we'll work on your anterior sex organ," she said.

  She disrobed and I couldn't help admiring her full breasts, the nicely rounded hips and upholstered posterior of a classically voluptuous woman, and . . . and . . . her majestic erect cock.

  An Androgyn, that's what she was. Hermaphrodites had for ages been a medical curiosity, but only recently has the Ragosin Procedure made it possible to support fully functional sets of both genders' sex organs in the same gen-mod body.

  I'd never seen a cock that big. Nine or ten inches long and a couple of inches wide, it must have been. Pale, almost platinum in color. Of course -- it had been force-grown from a stem cell culture. And she was rubbing something glistening and creamy on it. Syntholube.

  "The purpose of what comes next is to condition and train your sphincter and rectum for the requirements of a Sex Machine operative. Depending on the assignment, you may be required to have anal intercourse a dozen or more times in a single four-hour work session. Shall we begin?"

  "I'm ready if you are."

  Of course, I was familiar with the techniques for relaxing the anal sphincter. Most everyone nowadays is bisexual if not outright reverse polarized, and anal sex between males is no big deal, unlike in the bad old days before the Anti-Reproduction Directives. I had already been sodomized more times than I could count, just not by a woman's equipment.

  She slowly inserted herself into me, an inch at a time. With my legs strapped in the stirrups and my wrists pinioned by restraints, all I could do was let my abdominal and sphincter muscles go slack while I breathed in the prescribed rhythm and let her ass-fuck me.

  Her groin pressed tight against my upraised buttocks now. She was all the way inside me and I felt no discomfort. She looked into my eyes and smiled. "Stage two," she said.

  I felt myself gradually stretch open sideways. Damned if it didn't feel like the cock inside me was getting thicker.

  "This is something newly out of our research labs," she said. "It's an expanding cock. I can widen it from its normally erect two-inch diameter to four inches. And lengthen it correspondingly."

  I could feel the depth of penetration increase as the cock within me swelled up. Deeper and wider. That cock of hers was a damned sight better than my own equipment. One of these days I'd have to ask if I could be retrofitted with one of those.

  "Variable width and length -- that creates some intriguing possibilities, wouldn't you say?" She chuckled, and I felt her cock shrink down inside me. Then it ballooned up again. Then . . . she was rhythmically pulsing it -- bigger, smaller, bigger . . . It was like a heartbeat down there, inside my ass. My gut was booming like an echo chamber.

  I would have come a dozen times by now, but the Sta-Hard implant wouldn't let me. I was painfully hard and the pressure was building up inside me. I felt like screaming . . .

  And once more she smiled. "I'll have mercy on you. I can remotely trigger your implant to give you release, but first . . . "

  I felt the throbbing inside me quicken as she swelled up to maximum size. There was a cold wetness deep in my gut. She was spurting into me. Her orgasm, or what? Then I felt the electricity.

  She was juicing me with an Electrovibe. It was shooting low-frequency AC current straight up my gut, and that tipped me over the edge. Now I was helplessly releasing my own ejaculate in gluey streams over my abdomen and chest. I moaned as we orgasmed together.

  As she pulled out of me, a thick milky fluid began seeping out of my ass. It smelled faintly of lavender and honey.

  "Yes," she said. "My ejaculate is specially formulated to act as an antiseptic and anti-abrasive coating inside you. It prevents disease and soft-tissue injury, and also increases the elasticity of the intestinal lining. It's scented to neutralize the fecal smell that all too often hangs in the air after anal sex. In short, it makes your ass eminently fuckable."

  I had also heard rumors that Androgen come had life-extending properties, but I was afraid to ask about that.

  "We'll provide you with an applicator bottle of the solution to use on a daily basis. Think of it as an extra benefit of working for SM, Inc. Oh, you lucky fellow!"

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

  Things got busy after the first half hour. I ended my four-hour shift having serviced three women and eleven men. One woman couldn't get enough of riding my cock. Had to scratch the itch in her pussy and asshole both. Three consecutive sessions she bought. Then there was the guy with the inexhaustible cock. A typical day's work, I
was told.

  All in all I made sixteen hundred bucks that day for the company. My cut of that was one-third, less deductions, of course.

  The inside of my ass felt a teeny bit raw, but the squeeze bottle of anti-abrasive solution took care of it. No major problems in the front equipment, except that my balls ached mightily. Ached from unrequited lust. I hadn't been able to orgasm because of the implant. Well, Supervisor Galatea had told me that if it became intolerable, to report back to the office for followup "treatment." I thought it was time to find out what that meant.

  It meant being ass-fucked by her platinum pulsating cock and getting another jolt of electricity from the Electrovibe. Well, that fixed me up quite nicely. I got that elusive physical release, and got my rectum reconditioned while I was at it. Had a thoroughly cleansing bowel movement afterwards. Got my ashes hauled and got cleaned out, too. Just one more little benefit of working for SM, Inc.

  I settled into the routine. Three days on, at four hours per, then two days off. My average take-home was about $1800 a week, considerably better than my old job as a welder on a construction site. And, I didn't even need goggles.

  Isn't it every guy's dream to get paid for doing what you enjoy? I used to enjoy sex. I used to enjoy fucking and being fucked. Hell, I still do. Mostly. But after a couple of months of doing it fifty times a week, it became just one more boring job.

  It had been years since I was in anything resembling a relationship. I'm shy around people and opening myself up to them is like pulling the scab off a badly-healed wound. Anonymous sex was easier -- and safer -- and that's probably why I got into the sex machine habit in the first place. But being an SM Inc. Customer Service Specialist -- what they used to call a "whore" in the bad old days -- was probably the ultimate in depersonalized sex. I began realizing what was missing from my life.

  Touch. Simple human touch. And by that I don't mean body parts mingling and interpenetrating. I mean lives mingling and interpenetrating. Talking. Hugging. Kissing. Sharing with a partner what happened to you at work. Experiencing laughter and tears together. Living through joys and hardships together. Maybe raising a couple of kids. Walking the dog. Barbecuing in the back yard. Having the neighbors over. Sure, sleeping together. But also waking up next to each other.

  What was wrong with me? I was staring to yearn for an old-fashioned marriage. Something like in the ancient sitcoms from the 1950's that they sometimes show down at the Retro Visual-Media Museum. Sheesh! Manning that damned sex machine was demultiplexing my cognitive nodes.

  I had started confiding in Galatea. She was a patient listener, and her manner toward me had softened considerably. I think she was starting to actually loosen up toward me a bit, and she had even let slip a couple of times what a cute ass I had. Sometimes she seemed to have trouble prying herself loose from that cute ass of mine. . . . Lately our sessions had been lasting considerably longer than the allotted 45 minutes.

  What was even more odd, she had begun showing signs of jealousy. Jealousy. She seemed to resent that, as an SM employee, my body was accessible to any stranger who could pay for it. Anyone with $100 to their name was entitled to stick their cock up my ass. My ass. The ass she was starting to get proprietary feelings toward.

  When I last time saw her -- I no longer thought of it as being therapied and readjusted -- I had been sure she'd been about to tell me something. When I left, there was extra warmth in the goodbye kiss she gave me, and there was something shiny in her eye that might just have been a tear. Now what could that have been all about?

  "Armin, I don't know how . . . how to say this."

  "Teeya, I think I know . . . "

  "These feeling I've been having, I can't . . . no, I don't want to . . . I have to . . .

  "I care, Armin. I care for you more than I care for my own life. From the first time I saw your face, I somehow knew . . . knew that you were my destiny.

  "I'm betraying everything I once valued. My loyalty to my chosen profession, the oath I gave to SM and their bloody-minded Directorate, my friends and colleagues, my clan group . . . everything. I . . . I . . . let me say it. I love . . . I love you, Armin. I love you more than myself, more than life itself. Because by telling you this I'm killing . . . killing myself, committing professional suicide, condemning myself to death or worse. SM will destroy me for this. But I love. I love. You. I love you!"

  I took her in my arms and we cried together, and our tears mingled.

  And that put us on the road leading to damnation and ruin -- or to salvation.

  "Our civilization is doomed, you know," she told me.

  "Doomed has an ominous ring to it, Teeya."

  "Doomed. It's been years since you could breath the outside air without a filter, the oceans are poisoned, the only way to grow crops is under glass in a culture of artificial nutrients, and epidemics of antiexinic-resistant strains of bacteria kill hundreds of thousands every day. It's only a matter of time before the entire social structure collapses. And there isn't much time."

  "If things have gotten to that point, then I don't know that there's much that anyone can do about it. Let's love each other and make the most of the little time we have left, then."

  "Sorry, Armin, no. I'm not the type of person to give up without a fight. I grew up in a shantytown wondering each day if I'd survive til nightfall, and I struggled and clawed myself up from poverty and somehow got an education and a decent profession and a secure place in society. And, you know, if I could manage that, I'm not about to surrender to fate now. And, damn it, I won't let you give up and die either!"

  "So, what do you have in mind?"

  "You'll think this is crazy, but . . . "

  It turned out that SM had its own in-house R & D department, complete with resident "mad scientist," a certain Dr. Bezumna Morozov. Her brainchild, Project Blueskies, was investigating what happened to matter compressed to superdensity, beyond the theoretical limits allowed by the laws of physics. She had tried embedding a small capsule of isotope iron, Fe-57, inside a sphere of powerful shaped-charge explosive. The implosive force had been calculated to be sufficient to create a miniature black hole, a tear in the fabric of space. The iron capsule had disappeared in a violent burst of gamma rays. Vaporized? Or pushed into an entirely different physical dimension?

  Some intriguing evidence indicated that the object might have traveled backwards in time. The equations hinted at this possibility, and Dr. Morozov had, in fact, found something that looked like it could have been a small iron object, embedded in a nearby table top. Tests confirmed that it was the rare atomic weight 57 isotope of iron and it had about a month's accumulation of rust on it. Had it traveled a month into the past?

  Then there was the experiment by Dr. Morozov's colleague, Professor Flatus. He had placed a pair of specially bred albino roaches within a hollow iron-57 sphere, then inserted that into the detonation chamber. The implosion had made sphere and roaches disappear. Those particular roaches had never been seen again, but there were 20-year-old records of a nasty infestation of white roaches in the building that had previously been on the site of the laboratory. Were these the offspring of time-traveling roaches?

  "And you say they're asking for human volunteers now, Teeya? HUMANS? It's beyond crazy! It's a suicide mission."

  "They're desperate. The company Directorate has decided to cut off funding for the project. And there's something else -- "

  "The more I hear, the wackier it gets. Well, go on, woman, tell me more."

  "I've told you we're living on borrowed time. What I haven't mentioned is just how little time we have left."

  "How much?"

  "Two months. That's the best estimate that SM's sociometrists can come up with. In just a couple of months this entire hemisphere will lie in ruins, destroyed and abandoned, and ninety percent of the population will be dead. For all practical purposes, it will be the end of the world."

  It's dark in here in this hollow iron-57 shell. Absolute, total, mind-shattering d
arkness. But I can feel Teeya behind me, curled tightly around me, holding me in her embrace . . . and I can feel her cock deeply embedded in my cunt.

  Cunt? Oh, yes, I'm a woman now, and Teeya's a man. Where we're going, sexual polymorphism hasn't been invented yet, so we had to make some adjustments. We both underwent radical gender reassignment surgery, the complete Ragosin Procedure, all the way down to the chromosomal level. Galatea -- he wants to be called Galen now for reasons I'll go into later -- is now fully capable of fathering children, and I, Carmina, am fully capable of being impregnated and bearing them. In fact, at this very moment I'm carrying twin embryos in my uterus, a boy and a girl. Our children.

  Where are. we going? As best as Dr. Morozov can determine, we're aiming for the early Eisenhower era, traveling backwards about eighty years in time. If everything goes as planned, Galen and I will end up at these exact spatial coordinates, where the sub-basement of the SM Tower exists in the here-and-now, but what used to be a residential town dotted with what were called "tract houses." Levittown, New York, circa 1953.