Tevun-Krus #73 - Best of '19

Gordon Getithard, Good Guy - @PhonerionBallznevsky - Erotic SF

Gordon Getithard, Good Guy

An Erotic SF story by 

Gordon Getithard set the rickshaw down at the curb of Givithard Productions and wiped the sweat from his balls. He checked his long-outdated phone for the time—which was about all it could do, and should. 

"Phew. I'm early for the interview," Gordon said to the vehicle's owner, a tall dark-haired woman with a mole above her upper lip. She hadn't told him her name and she hadn't bothered to vacate the rickshaw. Why should she? Another random guy would come along to catch a ride across town soon enough. And she wouldn't tell him her name, either.

Gordon added, "I always like to be early."

After she continued to not reply, Gordon cleverly added to his previous addition, "'Early' is my middle name."

Nothing, dangit. He'd have to think up some better material, and fast. This was a prestigious job he was interviewing for. Getting it could change his life. Gordon had people he cared about back home who were relying on him to score enough Points to make their lives better. Without this they'd probably starve to death. Or sell one another into sexual enslavement. Gordon didn't want either to happen.

The woman with the mole cleared her throat.

"So how much do I owe you?" he asked her, as per the law.

She scowled at him, sized him up. She smoked cigarettes, choosing to hold them with her bionic arm. Gordon knew it was bionic because it glowed pink and had a screen that would intermittently appear through the lifelike flesh of her forearm, displaying the stats of any particular male she sought to look up.

After peering through Gordon's own stats, eyes lingering on the numbers next to his government-certified flaccid and erect states (no doubt calculating the vast discrepancy between the two), the woman with the mole finally said, "Twelve nutslaps and two dinners, pretty boy." She licked her lime-green lipstick and added, "Fancy restaurants, too. I pick."

Gordon sighed and unashamedly dropped his pants. Bent over, he allowed the woman with the mole and the cigarette and the bionic arm to wind up and slap him in the balls, not once but twelve times in quick succession. Those were the rules now. The patriarchy was dead. The Sex Crimes Revolution of 2020 had seen to that.

"My, my," she said when she was done. "Your profile didn't lie. You certainly are a grower."

He gulped. His balls throbbed. He felt her cold silicone hand stroke them, then squeeze.

She swiped her card in his ass-crack and gave it to him. The card had her name and phone number on it and everything. Dr. Maxine Spunkguzzle, MD, it read. She winked and sat there, waiting to abuse and humiliate the next guy who needed a lift somewhere.

Gordon pulled his pants back up, pocketed the card and headed down the stairs into Givithard Productions' headquarters, towards the most important interview of his life.

From behind, Dr. Maxine Spunkguzzle shouted, "Good luck, fuckstick!"

Yes. The best of luck to him. After all, Gordon needed this.

Located underground and stretching for over fifty kilometres in any direction, Givithard Productions HQ was a massive, gaping testament to the genius of Gladys Givithard. Not only had she created the largest multi-planet-spanning megacorporation ever, she'd also become the Chief Executive of Earth in a landslide victory both in the election itself and for women's rights. Before she'd entered the race, with candidates that included a raging alcoholic, a convicted child molester and President Donald Trump, the choice had been obvious. Dan Juggins was a smart, persuasive guy; he just liked to download beer into his rectal implant to simulate the sensation of boofing an ice-cold bottle of Bud Light.