Cracked Porcelain (6 page)

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. Maximillia 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.

After he left she retired to the bathroom and emptied her stomach into the lavatory before washing his seminal juices out of her hair. One down. Not an auspicious debut as far as she was concerned. Considering the circumstances it couldn’t have gone well, regardless.

***

The dances were the sensory foreplay for the clients. Before they forked over the
uni-creds they wanted to do window shopping first. Maximillia had never pole-danced before so she decided that a grueling campaign of practice was required to achieve her ends. An hour a day at first, then several a day. Her coordination skills were definitely lacking. She'd never been one to ever need to rely on being provocatively graceful. The goal of the majority of her youth was spent attempting to blend inconspicuously into the crowd, opting for anonymity over attention.

Self-confident theatricality wasn't a natural attribute of hers so the pole was a daunting adversary. It showed no mercy in its unyielding rigidity; the stubborn beast offered only mute support. After the first week her fingers ached; decades of arthritic stress were compounded into mere days. Her back and legs were all wracked with crippling soreness yet even then she was required to perform. Her clients, though, favored her playing the role of the weak, limp
play-thing. Little did they know that it wasn't a well-played act.

The ends justified the means and the fruits of Maximillia's labor began to reveal themselves with a slow flowering. The intent of her strategy was simple: T
he harder she worked and the better she got, the more she’d earn and the closer to the end of her sentence at Xartha’s she’d be. It took a few weeks but she started to improve by leaps and bounds. She would stay after Xartha’s closed and practiced her dancing to an empty house. After a few months of trial and error she practically mastered the dance routines that she designed herself. Now motivated, her floor skills on the pole began to draw attention.

Vaika didn’t allow any of the male Bruisers into the establishment and Maximillia didn’t dare perform any private lap dances for Mardo when she did go back to the compound so only the other girls knew how good a dancer she was
becoming. She’d found out that Mardo had plucked a few new girls and was taking turns spearing them during her extended periods away. She was thankful, actually, because she didn’t have to get her Gatekeeper fix from him. The days of feeling pressured into sex were becoming fewer and farther between. She was still inextricably habituated to the drink, unfortunately, but since she began to work at Xartha’s she started getting her fixes from some of the older girls. She didn’t feel as obligated to Mardo and even began to attempt to wean herself from the liquid drug. It wasn’t easy. Gatekeeper was effectively parasitic. When she was really low and a client would present her a shot of the drink, she’d regretfully accept. She struggled constantly with it.

Maximillia's
father was a good man and every client she entertained was practically a spit in his face. She cried every night. She even considered running away from the compound and back home, but then realized that as far as the Tsen-Tzes thought, she was a Bruiser and if she ran out on Mardo’s debt then they’d come for her as hard as they’d come for him. If they came for her eventually her father would be put in harm’s way. She couldn’t allow that. Even if she ran out on Mardo and the Tsen-Tzes and wanted to whisk her dad away they couldn’t afford to go far and the Tsen-Tzes' reach extended far beyond Mandra Bay. They had fingers in rackets all over the planet as well as off-world. She felt trapped and rightly so. She was.

There were nights when she had retired back to the Bruiser compound after a night’s work at Xartha’s and found a full-fledged bonfire party in effect. The booze was flowing, the music blared and much skin was proudly bared. To drown her fears, Maximillia would intentionally imbibe. Certain spirits accelerated and augmented the Gatekeeper’s effects and when taken in tandem, the results were significant. Maximillia partook on several occasions herself.

In a particularly hazy, drunken storm of lecherous hedonism during one of those bonfire parties, she awoke from a hammered blackout to find a naked, sweaty Mardo towering over her. Completely indisposed herself, Maximillia found her ankles bobbed up near her ears and her thighs pressed against her chest as his cock stabbed into her. He was dosed up on a one-two punch of Gatekeeper and tanned rum. Unfortunately for Maximillia this was a well-known hyper-aphrodisiac which produced a combination of hallucinatory inebriation and a violently undaunted erection. He fucked her with a voracious purpose for forty-five minutes before expelling his seminal cargo into her silky sheath and collapsing into unconsciousness. Unable to have voiced her dissent through the fog-brained confusion of it all, she followed him into unconsciousness.

Maximillia’s skills around the dancing poles at Xartha’s earned her a growing reputation amongst the lusty riffraff that frequented the joint. Her asking price for lap dances and private meetings spiked, drawing the ire of many of the other girls. A waiting list grew for those wanting to enlist her unique services. She settled into the role of unlikely cocktease. She had studied the
clientele as well as the other girls. She watched them dance, noting what the men responded to and what failed to attract and implemented what she learned into her own routines.

As her routine
s grew more effective, her confidence grew. She allowed a more sensual persona to bubble through to the surface and learned to enjoy the sensation of empowerment that her burgeoning sexuality engendered. She surprised herself every night that, during a routine, she’d spin around one of the dance floor poles in a flirtatious twirl, swinging her hips out and then find, upon looking over her shoulder, that most of the males in the audience had their tongues draped against their chins.

Maximillia still saw herself as the daughter of a grease monkey who loved gadgets and never had a doll growing up. In her youth she was practically allergic to dresses and her proper femin
inity had left much to be desired. The idea that she could possess any genuine sexuality was a foreign concept to her. It was a strange dichotomy because she actually thoroughly enjoyed the dancing and feeling attractive, but she entertained her private clients with carefully hidden disdain and contempt. She was never even mildly attracted to any of the customers, but they paid well. She flirted with the idea of abandoning the Bruisers as soon as Mardo's debt to the Tsen-Tzes was paid and going back home. It was a feeble fantasy, but one she wasn’t willing to let go of entirely.

Her workload started to increase as she had become an unlikely virtuoso. If Xartha’s had a marquee plastered across the facade of the joint, Maximillia’s name would be the primary feature. The waiting list for her services grew by the day as incoming businessmen and locals moved to secure their reservations.

She’d burn through six or seven clients a day. One particularly enthusiastic kylaxian visited several times a week and dropped the most generous of tips. If you peeked into her room at a random moment you might find Maximillia on her knees working a tarian’s cock around in her mouth, pressing it against her cheek or in the face-down-ass-up position, getting drilled from behind by an anxious, clingy thoran.

Certain clients preferred to exploit her services in unorthodox manners
. One saracian in particular liked to fuck her in the parking lot alley next to the trash receptacles and near the solar cell capacitors. One of Xartha’s security mechs would stand watch to ensure Maximillia’s safety as the client bent her over a trash can and throttled her asshole until he promptly emptied his seminal sacs into her silken canal. The perverse, mute batrachian’s bulging eyes would twitch, his chest inflating and deflating as his slimy, suction cup-tipped fingers clung tightly to her hips, granting him purchase as he expelled every precious drop of his essence into her, leaving her puckered button to helplessly drool out its creamy contents.

The seemingly endless carousel of clients reduced their faces to featureless, meaningless distractions. She offered masterfully enthusiasti
c performances for each of them but, inside, her face was slack and completely devoid of emotion. It was all mechanical lacking any discernible passion. The returns weren’t diminishing from client to client. The returns simply weren’t there to begin with. The sexual act became less a march to orgasmic victory and more a cold, aimless trudge ending in anti-climactic disappointment.

The customers could care less. They had their perfect little human girl to toy with, playing out their every depraved fantasy. Each one had their kinks and
she began to notice the habits. One khorlathian liked to drag his noodly sex tentacles across her forehead, spilling his seed across her flawless face. For effect, she’d smile as the goo coated her skin, pursing her lips and even licking some of it up. This ensured a most generous tip.

A thoran john she called “Thornberry” was an effete aristocrat who favored
her services in the royal suite, a room furnished with high-class stylings in mind. Thornberry wouldn’t actually lay a hand on Maximillia. He’d merely sit back and watch, puffing away on a toco stick, as his hulking robotic adjunct rutted into her pink, tenderized gash with its significantly large phallus module. The robot, who she eventually dubbed “Krong", was outfitted with an immaculate nano-resin shell possessed of a smooth—and nearly seamless—set of swooping curves and sporting a faceless visage; his optics were hidden behind a semi-transparent facial screen.

At the behest of his owner, the droid was programmed specifically to perform sexually as an organic, along with all of the earmarks of an organic’s nuanced gestures; he started out fucking slow and deep and, before long, was pumping hard and at an almost preternatural speed, uttering beastly, guttural noises that only an organic would. The mechanical phallus was even designed to ejaculate powerful jets of a sticky, milky fluid that simulated a familiar viscosity.

Of all her johns, Maximillia resented Krong’s visits the least. She allowed herself to actually even enjoy the recreation of their limited time together. He was more a mindless dildo on legs than a perverse sack of organs, although a certain guilt would well up in her as she ruminated on the borderline zoophilic nature of their interactions, considering the ape-like quality of his mechanical physiology. Although, she always felt a tinge of sympathy for Krong, who was no more a willing participant in the twisted proceedings than she was. Willing or not, she would usually be unavailable for subsequent clients after the heated sessions with the beastly droid, her stretched and hammered pussy requiring the recovery time.

The h’Obanza twins were tarian brothers who had connections with one of the Tsen-Tze subsidiaries. They favored kabob
-ing her; one would glide his long, beige member down her throat, drawing forth a froth of slobber which would trickle from her chin as the other would needle into her rumpled asshole. They reveled in coordinating their orgasms, creaming her holes simultaneously and leaving her an leaky, gored wretch.