Sci-Fi Rent Boy (Tales From Dreg City 1)

Sci-Fi Rent Boy (Tales From Dreg City 1)
Kiernan Kelly
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Copyright ©2018 Kiernan Kelly

If there was one basic truth to which Connor subscribed, it was that sex, for all the hype, could be as dull as toenail clippings. At least, it could when you did it for a living. He wondered if other tradesman felt the same about their fields of expertise after a few years spent in the trenches. Did carpenters come to detest the thought of pounding another nail? Did plumbers hate the thought of having to fix yet another leaky pipe?

Although his mind wandered, his body ran on muscle memory, his hips pumping, sliding his cock in and out of Lionel's ass like a piston. The slapping sound produced every time he rammed his cock home was rhythmic, a fleshy metronome, aiding his drowsy mental meandering.

"Connor! Oh, Connor, yes! Right there! Oh! Fuck me!"

Not even his client's cries of passion helped him focus. They might've been a recording, since they were the same words Lionel uttered every week, in the identical order, at almost precisely the same moment. For that matter, the verbiage rarely varied from client to client, either. It was all Connor could do to keep from rolling his eyes and concentrate on the task at hand.

Just to mix things up a bit -- Lionel was contentedly submissive and wouldn't argue -- he withdrew his cock and flipped Lionel over. Sliding one arm under Lionel's hips, he pulled up, urging Lionel to a kneeling position.

Lionel's ass was pear-shaped and plump -- the only cushy area on Lionel's frame. The rest of him was as bony as a Halloween skeleton. Connor wasted no time, pushing back inside Lionel's ass to the hilt. Lionel like it hard and fast, which was fine with Connor. It meant their session would be fast, too.

True to form, Lionel groaned and raised his ass higher, pushing back. His arm bent, his hand snaking under his flat belly to stroke his cock in time with Connor's thrusts. It didn't take long for him to come, his body seizing around Connor's cock.

Connor did what he usually did during his sessions -- he faked his orgasm. It was less taxing that way. Some days he'd be scheduled for six to eight sessions a day, and he had no interest in trying to become some sort of urban legend for sexual technicians. Nor did he wish to have a pair of balls as permanently deflated and as useful to him as two popped balloons by the time he was thirty.

Afterwards, he slid off the bed and made his way into the bathroom, careful not to let Lionel get a close look at the empty condom he'd peeled off. Once he'd disposed of it in the toilet and pretended to wash up, he returned to the bed. As always, he needed to wait the prescribed, polite amount of time before leaving, allowing Lionel several minutes to growl in contentment and whisper how wonderful Connor was, snuggling up to him as if they were old, familiar lovers.

He didn't mind. It was all part of the shtick, and most of his clients -- particularly the females -- expected it. The men were easier. Most of them wanted nothing but pure animal sex, no strings attached, no cuddling, no empty promises. Just slam bam, thank you sir, get the fuck out of my bed. Lionel was one of the exceptions to that rule.

As soon as he could, he extracted himself from Lionel's proprietary, slightly desperate embrace, and redressed while Lionel watched him with a lewd-if-sated smile. Then he scanned Lionel's ID tattoo for payment information, and issued an electronic receipt for his services Business done, he gave Lionel a wave and a grin as fake as his orgasm and left.

The elevator took him to the ground floor, and he strode past the droid concierge's desk and out onto the street, not stopping until he was several blocks away. Then he turned and looked back over his shoulder at the towering glass faÁade of the apartment building he'd just left. He sighed. They were all the same -- the buildings, the clients, the sex. Only the details were different, and sometimes not even those.

His day wasn't nearly over yet, but he wanted nothing more than to claim illness and go home, soak in a tub full of water as hot as he could stand it without poaching himself, and quite possibly drink a large glass of something very alcoholic. The only thing keeping him from it was his fear that the High City Sexual Technician Administration would not consider a sudden, severe bout of clinical boredom as a valid reason to cut out early.

The problem was most of Connor's appointments were a case of the same scene, different day. Just once, he wished one of his clients would demand something special, something different from the norm, something... interesting. He had friends in the STA who'd scored several high profile, high tech gigs, but he hadn't been so lucky.

Just last month, Ranger, for example, had been rented for a six-month stint by the Aerospace Department, and taken aboard one of the exploratory starships for the crew's use. He was cruising the Triangulumg galaxy at that very moment, fucking astronauts in zero gravity, and probably having the time of his life. Olivia, another Sexual Technician, had been sent to a private island in the Caribbean for a month-long birthday fling with a well-known celebrity and his entourage.

Unfortunately for Connor, his clients all had similar tastes when it came to sexual flavor -- to a one they demanded bland, unimaginative, unexciting, earthbound vanilla.

It wasn't that Conner didn't do vanilla well. He did. The problem was that he did it so damn often. He prided himself on being a professional and poured as much effort into the missionary position as he hoped he would any other. He'd never gotten any complaints on his performance in five years, which evidently was some sort of record at the STA. They'd given him a fucking plaque at the last employee appreciation luncheon.

But would it kill any of his clients to spice it up a little once in a while? He wasn't asking them to wriggle into pressurized suits and fly him off to some exotic, distant planet, but he ached to get a bit creative, to stretch his artistic wings. Some role-play, maybe, or a little spanking now and then would kick things up a notch. Hell, at this point, Conner would settle for flavored lube.

The likelihood of him getting his wish was somewhere between zip and zero. Everyone on Connor's client roster seemed to possess only two levels of imagination -- boring, and comatose. He, himself, had no choice in the matter. He wasn't the one who assigned the clientele, nor did he harbor any illusions about his given role. Those had been wiped clean during his first three months on the job. His was not to question why or make demands. His was not even to make suggestions, unless asked. Connor was a product, plain and simple, and as such, his only responsibility, according to the Sexual Technical Administration, was to smile for his catalogue shot, and perform on command.

He'd put in more than one request with his supervisor asking for clients with varied tastes, but so far, all he'd gotten was more of the same old, same old.

I should put in an application with Department of Employment for a change in profession, he thought, not for the first time. Go back to school. Apply for a visa to move to another city. Get a different job.

Get a different life.