Chapter 10: Breaking the Devotees: A Symphony of Control
The billionaire’s tablet clattered to the obsidian floor, its screen shattering. He didn’t notice. His entire world had narrowed to the sight of BK perched on the pedestal, to the implicit challenge in her bored, pointed finger.
“What’s on it?” he repeated, his voice a dry rustle. He fumbled for the device, hands shaking. “A… a bid. For a session. A private audience.”
“Read it,” BK said. She didn’t move.
He licked his lips. “Twenty minutes. Uninterrupted. Five million credits.”
A soft, collective inhalation came from the floating fan screens. The number scrolled across a dozen tickers. #BK_Bid_5Mil.
BK didn’t blink. “What do you want to do for twenty minutes?”
The man, whose name was Felix and who owned a continent-spanning data cloud, looked like he might cry. “I… I just want to…”
“Use your words,” Jaz cut in, her voice a lazy drawl from where she now leaned against a stained wall. She’d picked up a half-empty champagne flute from a hidden niche and was sipping it. “Five million buys a lot of words.”
“I want to serve,” Felix whispered, his eyes finally lifting to BK’s. “The… the spec sheet. The H-C-P. I want to… experience it.”
BK felt the thing between her legs give a thick, undeniable twitch. Not from desire for him. From the sheer, naked power of the request. He wasn’t asking to fuck her. He was asking to be used by her new, hated anatomy. The utility. The weapon.
She slid off the pedestal. The impact of her feet on the floor was a soft, weighty thud. She walked toward him, each step slow, measured. The Gallery was silent save for the hum of servers and the faint, excited murmur from the global audio feed.
She stopped a foot from him. He smelled of expensive cologne and nervous sweat. “Open your mouth.”
He did, without hesitation. His eyes were wide, pleading.
BK didn’t touch him. She simply willed the response. The blood flow, the engagement. It was easier now, a muscle she’d learned to flex. The hypertrophied clitoral phallus, nestled within her folds, began to engorge, to lengthen, pushing out from its sheath of flesh until it stood fully erect, a thick, dark 6.5 inches of seamless, fused biology.
Felix moaned, a low, gut-deep sound.
“You swallow what I give you,” BK said, her voice low and casual, as if discussing traffic. “You take it all. You gag, you cry, you don’t pull away. Or the deal’s off, and I keep the credits for wasting my time.” Her hand snapped out, not to caress, but to grip the back of his head, her fingers tangling in his hair. It was a brutal, possessive hold. “Nod if you understand.”
He nodded frantically against her grip.
She guided him forward.
The sensation was nothing like the pool. This was clinical. Dominant. She watched, her own face neutral, as his lips stretched around her girth. She felt the hot, wet seal of his mouth, the desperate flutter of his tongue. She didn’t move. She made him work. Made him bob his head, his tears mixing with the saliva already leaking down his chin.
The fan screens exploded. #BK_ThroatPie trended instantly.
A hot, coiling pressure built in her pelvis, a different sort of ache. The lactation trigger. Adrenal response. She felt the simultaneous, weird sensation deep in her swollen breasts, a let-down reflex tied not to a baby’s cry, but to her own soaring adrenaline. A thin, sweet stream of milk shot from her nipple, arcing through the air to spatter on Felix’s cheek.
He flinched, then renewed his efforts, sucking frantically.
“Good,” BK murmured, the praise a weapon. She began to move her hips, shallow thrusts that hit the back of his throat. “You’re a good little price tag.”
Her orgasm, when it came, was a dry, powerful clenching internally, a pulsing vibration that traveled the length of the phallus in his mouth. There was no ejaculate, but the sensation for him was clearly overwhelming; his eyes rolled back, his body convulsing in a silent, submissive climax of his own. She held him there, until the shudders subsided, then pushed him back.
He slumped to his knees, gasping, a string of saliva connecting his lips to her still-half-hard flesh. He looked wrecked. Reverent.
BK turned away from him. “Credits better be in my account,” she said to the air. A soft chime acknowledged it.
Across the room, the symphony had begun.
Jaz had the athlete, Marco, flat on his back on the cold floor. She’d straddled his face, but not to sit. She was perched on her hands and knees above him, her monumental ass a canyon he was meant to navigate. “You breathe when I say breathe,” she instructed, her voice all business. “This ain’t a pillow, kid. It’s a instrument.”
She lowered herself slowly. He instinctively turned his head to the side, gasping.
“Nuh-uh,” Jaz said, a sharp slap landing on his thigh. “Face forward. Take it like a vitamin.”
He obeyed, his nose and mouth disappearing into the deep, musky cleft. Jaz began to rock, slow and massive, the flesh engulfing his entire head. The precision operation her spec sheet mentioned wasn’t for subtlety; it was for control. With a conscious, internal flex, she released a hot, thick flow of waste—not much, just enough to coat his tongue, to fill his mouth with her most private salt.
He gagged, his body bucking.
Jaz held firm, grinding down. “Swallow,” she commanded, and her voice brooked no argument. He did, the convulsion of his throat vibrating against her. She laughed, a dark, rich sound. “See? Resourceful.”
Sera had approached the author, Leo, with a nervous energy. He’d presented her not with a credit bid, but with a printed, hand-bound chapbook of poetry he’d written about her from the broadcasts. It was achingly sincere, full of metaphors about wildfire and renaissance curves.
“You wrote this?” Sera asked, her fingers tracing the paper.
“For you,” he breathed.
She’d cried a little. Then she’d kissed him, soft and exploratory. But when he’d tentatively touched her hip, she’d flinched back. The ghost of her old insecurity flickered. Then she looked at the fan screens, at the art, at his adoring face.
“I want to try something,” she whispered. “From my… spec sheet. Will you let me?”
He’d agreed, eager, sacrificial.
They’d used a sleek, black harness from a dispenser in the wall. Sera fumbled with the straps, her face flushed, until Vicky, with a sigh of exasperation, stepped over and efficiently secured it for her. The phallic attachment was modest compared to BK’s natural one, but it was still a formidable, silicone curve.
Leo was on all fours. Sera positioned herself behind him, her hands trembling on his hips. “Is… is this okay?”
“Please,” he begged, his face pressed to the floor.
She pushed in. A soft, punched-out sound escaped her. “Oh, god.” It wasn’t pain. It was a shock of connection, of a power so profound it felt like vertigo. She began to move, short, unsure strokes that quickly found a rhythm. The sensation of filling him, of controlling his gasp with each thrust, unspooled something tight in her chest. Her whimpers weren’t from shame. “You feel so good,” she moaned, her voice gaining strength. “You take it so well. Do you like this? Do you?” She was seeking validation, but from a position of absolute control. He could only nod, muffled cries against the polished stone.
Vicky’s client, the musician Alistair, had requested a “performance.” She’d studied him, then the room. She’d made him kneel precisely three feet from her, at a perfect right angle to the main camera sightline.
“You will provide the rhythm,” she informed him. She began to hum a segment of a Viennese waltz. “One, two, three. One, two, three. You will open your mouth on the downbeat. You will swallow on the third beat. Understood?”
Alistair, mesmerized, nodded.
Vicky closed her eyes. She found the internal modules, the synchronization toggle. It was like finding a secret control panel in her own pelvis. On a silent “one,” she allowed a warm, golden stream of urine to arc out, hitting his waiting mouth precisely. On “two,” she clenched internally, switching the source. On “three,” a firm, solid release of waste followed, seamless, the two substances mixing in his mouth as he obediently swallowed.
The perfection of it was horrifying. Beautiful. Her face was a mask of serene concentration, an artist at work. “Synchronize your gagging with my tempo, darling,” she cooed as he choked slightly. “It’s called presentation.”
The Gallery transformed. The white walls were spattered with champagne. The air grew thick with the smell of sex, sweat, vanilla, and a sharper, more organic tang. The once-clean pedestals were smudged with handprints, with the imprint of a massive cheek, with streaks of makeup and other, less identifiable fluids.
The four clients, spent and shell-shocked, were gently escorted out by the silent attendants. They left richer in experience, poorer in credits, and fundamentally altered.
The women were left in the aftermath.
Sera slowly unbuckled the harness, letting it drop with a clatter. She was breathing hard, her skin glowing. She looked at her hands as if seeing them for the first time. “I didn’t hate it,” she said, mostly to herself. “I really didn’t hate it.”
Jaz wiped her thighs with a clean section of a velvet curtain. “Told you. It’s just a tool. Weapon, dildo, meal ticket. Same difference.”
BK stood by the main screen, watching the credits flood her account. The number was astronomical. Her family’s debts vanished with a single digit. She felt no relief. Only a colder, harder certainty. She had done that. With the body they forced on her.
Vicky was meticulously cleaning a spot on her thigh with a damp cloth procured from a wall slot. “The synchronization was off by a quarter-beat on the third cycle,” she muttered. “I felt it. I’ll need to practice the pelvic flexion.”
The central screen, which had been showing a slow-motion montage of their “performances,” switched abruptly. The announcer’s voice was gone. It was the original, clinical system voice.
“Client matching protocol complete. Revenue generation: optimal. Public sentiment: peak saturation.”
A new graphic appeared. It was a leaderboard, but not based on credits. It was based on something called “Influence Quotient” and “Physiological Resonance.” Their names were there, ranked.
“Phase Three initiates now. The Exhibition.”
A floor panel slid open near the center of the room. A chill, chemical-scented draft wafted up.
“What’s Phase Three?” Sera asked, her newfound confidence wavering.
“The fuck is ‘Physiological Resonance’?” Jaz demanded, stepping toward the screen as if she could throttle it.
BK stared at the open panel, at the dark ramp leading down. The credits in her account felt like shackles. They’d been paid. Now the real work began.
“It means the testing is over,” BK said, her voice flat. “The showcase is done.” She looked at the stains on the walls, at her friends—her unit—in their glorious, filthy disarray. “Now they’re putting us in the field.”
She walked toward the opening, not waiting for the system to compel her. The warm, ruined gallery was behind her. The cold, unknown dark waited ahead.
She didn’t look back.