Stable Employment Pt. 02 - Final - Sex Stories

Stable Employment Pt. 02 - Final

... still don't get to see much. The first few rooms we pass through are bright, open, airy, and ridiculously huge. The kitchen area is obvious as such; the rest feel like they could be used for just about anything. There's tons of soft-looking furniture -- a noticeable lack of sharp edges, though there is the occasional hard surface. In some places, the tech is obvious; in others, it's obvious that space is being left for it to emerge from some sleek, hidden cubby. What strikes me as strange is that the house is quiet and devoid of people -- of girls. It's a cult compound without cultists. If it were me, I'd make a strong first impression by showing off how happy everyone is.

My guide reads my mind, which is fine. It's her -- his -- turf, and they've done their homework. The encounter is solved. I'm solved. "Dynamic soundproofing," she says. "The girls are having fun with each other elsewhere. We don't want to get too many people's hopes up."

"Just yours?"

She leans her head on my shoulder and squeezes my arm. "Well, and yours."

My stomach lurches. I think of Jack. "Touche," I reply, which feels like a lie.

"Part of the job. I would've said it back, you know. Part of the job not to."

We enter a hallway that's less spacious and opulent, and more futuristic. It's not dark, necessarily, but it sends a message. We're on our way to someplace serious.

"So... no security?"

"Tons of security," she says. "Not a lot of human presence in this particular area. Good ...

... question, though. Trying to separate mythology from reality, right?"

"I guess so." Most dickgirls go their whole lives never meeting a man. It's kind of a mindfuck. Man's domain -- these compounds, most infamously -- has a reputation borne of secrecy. Girls talk, you know? When theydon't talk about certain things, dickgirls get wiggy.

The hallway opens up again, but the vibe stays serious. We're in front of a set of large double doors, and I'll go ahead and say they're real wood. They look very heavy. They're not tacky at all; they feel like they belong. My platinum-blonde arm candy brings us to a halt. There's a brief pause, and then the doors open.

"There's some of that security," she says. "Invisible." It's like she's telling a silly, spooky story around a campfire. I half expect an"OooOooOh," but it doesn't come.

Thus, we reach the anticlimax. We enter a spacious home office that elegantly brings together old-world touches and the most expensive tech money can buy. The man is already standing to greet us. How do I explain it? He's a man. I've never seen one in person before. The pictures -- of other men, mostly from history -- do him justice, basically. He's a few inches taller than me. His shoulders are broader and squarer. He doesn't have tits -- though plenty of girls and dickgirls are pretty flat-chested, so whatever. Instead, he has muscles. They're not over the top, but they're very obviously not tits. The clothes he's wearing don't accentuate his waist ...