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Ashley interrupted my hot-faced little reverie. “Okay, see you,” she said abruptly. “I have a date with these panties.”
My lips opened again, but she had gone from the doorway before I could ask what she could possibly have meant. I heard a door open from close by, clearly the one right next to my own, and then close.
Cautiously, I lowered the comforter so that I could look at my naked body. I had been vaguely aware of Daddy Jacob taking me to the bathroom before he and Daddy Phil had put me to bed, and cleaning me up. The fuzzy memory seemed somehow both completely out of character with the rest of the way my brown-eyed daddy had treated me—the way he had punished me so harshly and then made free use of my body for his enjoyment—and very much in line with the care he had shown in fulfilling what he clearly viewed as his duty towards the bad girl delivered to his firehouse to maintain his and his colleagues’ morale.
I moved my hand down and raised my knees. I just wanted to see what kind of state I was in, after two huge penises had thrust inside my virgin sheath, until they had pumped me full of semen. As my two middle fingers probed tentatively at the entrance there, and then of their own accord, moved upward to rub gently at the hood of my clit, I heard, through the wall, the unmistakable sound of a young woman moaning with pleasure.
I swallowed hard. I found that my fingers had begun to rub a little more quickly.
Ashley moaned again.
What the hell?
I closed my eyes and rubbed, trying to imagine my fellow SRD in her tight, thick panties over her spanked and fucked bottom. I bit my lip, hearing a little whimper come from my own throat.
“Marianne,” I heard Daddy Phil call from somewhere in the distance. “Get your little butt out here and have some breakfast.”
My heart pounding, trying to tune out the noises from next door, I climbed out of bed.
CHAPTER11
Jacob
After breakfast, Phil and I left Marianne with basic instructions for holding down the fort and went to do the day’s safety checks. They seemed to take forever. By our second stroll through one of the two hundred or so practically identical cybernetic refineries, Phil had already started to talk about Marianne’s ass.
“Tonight, right?” he said as we performed our primary function, as I usually thought of it: walking the perimeter, looking for vegetation that might have crept up into the clear zone that kept the forest—and the fuel tanks, and the people in a fifty mile radius—safe.
I glanced over at him while we covered the ground in the Selecta-prescribed manner, at the Selecta-prescribed speed. Our eyes were supposed to be scanning the ground at an officially-mandated rate as well. I wasn’t sure my helmet had a sensor in it that could somehow detect where I was looking and how fast I moved my gaze from spot to spot, but from the reports we got from corporate about “ocular compliance” I felt pretty sure.
I hadn’t gone through the incredibly rigorous training necessary to get this job as an industrial firefight so that I could feel like a corporate lackey, but sometimes it seemed that way. Thankfully, Selecta knew that guys like me and Phil, and Ned and Paul, had skills they needed, expertise that even their most sophisticated robots, sensors, and algorithms couldn’t match.
Those cyber-tools could do a great deal, of course. The refineries they helped my team look after were much safer, because of them, than fuel refineries had ever been in the history of the world. The four of us had jobs, though, because the robots, sensors, and algorithms couldn’t do everything, and the part they couldn’t do held a machete over the lives of tens of thousands of people, as well as literal billions of dollars.
The black swan factor, we usually called it, though Selecta’s term was something like “unforeseen adverse consequentialization.” Maybe there was one fewer syllable in the term—maybe one more. As I thought about it, alongside the look I’d just seen on Phil’s face before my eyes returned to the concrete slab in front of me, I thanked God that God’s favorite corporation, mighty Selecta, had sent us a bad girl to take care of the paperwork.
I knew exactly what Phil had meant, and I had to admit that it annoyed me a little—because it meant that I couldn’t get Marianne off my mind any more than it appeared my partner could.
“Her ass?” he added, as if not sure I had caught the meaning.
I tried to concentrate on the concrete of the brilliantly named Refinery 65C. I thought about the black swan factor, which from my team’s perspective really meant something as hard and unyielding as the concrete. At the end of the day, “unforeseen adverse consequentialization” meant the possibility that we would actually have to put on our turnout coats and our helmets and do the kind of old-fashioned firefighting the robots couldn’t do—above all the most dangerous kind, the kind where you had to rescue people in the midst of an inferno.
It shouldn’t have made me feel horny, but somehow the thought of saving someone led to the thought of carrying our naked SRD to bed the previous evening after coming in her sweet, tight pussy.
“Yeah,” I told Phil, my eyes still moving over the slab between the fence and the refinery building. “Tonight.”
* * *
Marianne
To my amazement, I actually liked working in the firehouse office. Working there without any clothes on took some getting used to: my eyes kept straying to the robe my daddies had left for me, hanging on the hook, along with the stern instruction not to put it on unless the door buzzer actually rang. Just as often, though, my gaze went to the surveillance camera Daddy Jacob had pointed out, in an upper corner of the room.
“We don’t even have to look at all the footage,” he had told me. “Selecta’s image tech will tell us if you put on the robe when you shouldn’t.”
But I hardly even thought about it, and thank God the buzzer didn’t even sound once. I read just about everything I could find about my daddies’ job, and the time seemed to go by very quickly. Much too quickly, really, because I could guess what Daddy Jacob and Daddy Phil had planned for tonight: Daddy Phil had patted my bottom with a very significant look in his eyes as he had said goodbye, and I had watched the corner of his mouth quirk upward at the flush of crimson that I had felt come instantly into my cheeks.
A bad girl only gets fucked with a sore bottom.
And if the fucking was a kind of fucking she had never thought she might have to have? A kind that made her bottom even sorer, and in a much more shameful way?
