Volume 1: Express Delivery
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The Metro trip itself was uneventful, the Automation recognizing my newly-acquired pass without comment. The crowd was sparse; just the usual Saturday morning mixture of stoned party-goers returning to their city-centre lofts and prosperous-looking shoppers on the lookout for an early bargain. I politely fended off the advances of a sexy-looking satyr, his enormous curved member not quite hidden by the thick curly hair that covered his body from the waist down, and the short jacket that so many of his kind wore. I was already in danger of running late, and I really did not have time for another diversion this morning. In case you're wondering, I do have conventional money - a modest line of credit based on my irregular incomes and keyed to my biometrics. I could have flashed my card and confirmed the transaction with my fingerprints, and just bought the Metro ticket for a couple of Kays. But that would make this particular errand overtly plain to anyone who cared to look, and the approach I used avoided the use of easily traceable credit. Besides, it was much more fun my way. Or, I could have just used cash. But hard currency is becoming increasingly rare these days. They've never actually made it illegal, probably afraid of the backlash that would have caused, but it just seems to be in desperately short supply. Steve, who makes a habit of tracking all of the current conspiracy theories, says that the reason we still have, for example, manned booths on the Metro is to provide a way of absorbing all of the floating cash back into the mainstream banking system. Maybe he's right; I don't know, or care much. In any case, I'd like to keep the small amount of emergency cash I'd concealed in a number of places for real emergencies. The meet for the pick-up was in a Starbucks in a fashionably expensive downtown shopping mall, wedged right next to a furrier. I was a few minutes early, so I wiled away the time stood in front of the shop window admiring the display of garments within. All Reel Fur (TM), an animated label proudly announced - although of course these days made without anything resembling Real Animals being involved. A golden knee-length fur coat caught my eye, which would have complemented the chocolate brown of my arms and legs, and given me the perfect foil for flashing my more intimate assets both front and back. As they say, it would have made me look like a million dollars, which was just as well, since that was almost exactly what it cost. It was overpriced, of course - I would have expected to pay less than a third of that - but would be exactly the kind of thing I would need to bag a sugar-daddy. Emerging from my daydream, I shook my head, and marched on to the cafe next door. The 'Bucks was sited on a busy corner - aren't they always - but at this early hour it was nearly deserted. There were a couple of earnest-looking student-y types hunched over their latte grandes and study tablets, presumably trying to catch up with some overdue assignment. They barely looked up when I entered the building. At first I thought there was no-one else in the place. I was about to turn around when someone I recognized stuck his head around the corner of a booth right at the back. His name was Johnny - no other name known - and he beckoned me to join him at his table. "Here's our delivery girl," he said, "Want a latte frappe?" I declined the offer of a coffee - caffeinated drinks make me jittery all day - but accepted a Fruitie Yogart Smoothie(TM) which, although certainly smooth, contained more saturated fats and synthetic complex starches than anything resembling either fruit or yogurt. "Suit yourself," he replied. As Johnny spoke the Automation delivered it to our table in the blur of near-unseen movement that is both familiar and so easy to ignore. I pulled up a chair and sat demurely. Next to Johnny stood a tall and curvaceous figure, a woman with a deeply retro appearance. She looked like a movie star from a century or two ago: a tight red dress with a plunging cleavage and split to the thigh - although I suspected that the nipple cutaways in the frock were probably not historically accurate. A mass of tight blonde ringlets cascaded from her head was complemented by pancake makeup and bright rouge on her cheeks, and teetering high heels - real shoes, I noted. She as a Norm, as far as I could tell, at least without getting a lot closer. Fun thought to try, though. The woman's pose went as far as including, the whole cigarette-on-a-stick thing I had seen here and there, now that smoking is no longer bad for you, but frankly never quite understood. She glared at me through a carefully contrived roiling cloud of smoke with the air of one who had acquired their daddy and weren't prepared to share him. "Hello, Johnny," I said. "Steve didn't mention it was you doing the handover." A sneer, or at least a half-hearted attempt at one, creased his face. "Steve has a tight circle of, um, acquaintances," he drawled, "You shouldn't be surprised if the same few guys come up again and again." "Yeah, yeah," I replied, mimicking his voice. Johnny turned to the statuesque blonde. "Hand it over, Dollface," he said, holding out a well-manicured hand. I do like that in a man: clean and well-shaped nails on strong yet slender fingers - especially those belonging to one who likes to slip then inside you on a regular basis. The woman put her smoking stick in her mouth, pouting in my direction as she did so. A long, pale and very sexy leg emerged from the slit dress as she lifted her high-heeled shoe to rest on the table next to me. She bent forward and reached with both hands into the slit in her dress, very obviously caressing herself between her legs. I had a grandstand seat for the show, as she must have known I would. I could see the slender fingers of one hand separate the outer lips of her vagina, the bright red of her fingernails contrasting with the softer pink of her cunt. With the thumb and forefinger of the other hand, she reached inside her moist opening. Judging by the way her face reacted to her own touch, she was performing a series of rhythmic pelvic floor thrusts. After a few moments, her hand emerged holding a heavy-looking metal sphere, elaborately engraved and inlaid in bright enamel colors, and glistening moistly with her most intimate juices. "The naughty girl!" I thought, then added mentally, "Why didn't I think of that!" She handed the ball to Johnny, again looking disdainfully at me. He briefly licked the object clean, clearly enjoying the no-doubt familiar taste. He unscrewed the sphere and took something from its inside which he flicked casually across the table at me. Johnny carefully re-assembled the ball, choosing this time to return it to its previous hiding-place himself. The Dollface twisted and her mouth opened involuntarily as the now-cool ball was pressed between her lips. I could feel the muscles in my own pussy tautening as I imagined what it must feel like. Remind me to try this at home, kids. I drew my attention back to the item on the table. The package was a sealed plastic bag, through which could be seen the swirl and glitter of automation. I guessed it would not allow itself to be picked up by the wrong person. I also knew the contents must be valuable - no-one wastes such expensive packaging on everyday drugs or data. "What is it?" I demanded, more because I felt I should ask, rather than any particular desire to know. Johnny shook his head. "I could tell you," he sneered, "But then I'd have to kill you." All three of us laughed aloud at this. It was so hard these days to kill or even seriously hurt anyone - unless they wanted you to, of course - that people have basically given up even trying. "You know the address," he asked, as I slipped the tiny package into my purse and made to leave. "Sure," I said. Steve had in fact remembered to tell me this detail, although this kind of thing has been known to slip his mind occasionally. "It'll get there," I added, mainly for the benefit of the Dollface, "Don't you worry your pretty little heads about that."
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Part 3