Kinktober Day 12: Lactation
Overwatch, mccree76. Scifi AU, crossdressing, drugs, strippers, prostitution, just…weirdness. I’m telling you right now: you are not prepared for this. I wrote it and I am still not prepared for this.
Aserfjhws my Kinktober schedule is shot to shit at this point. RL happened and now I’ve missed FOUR days. This was supposed to be Day 8. I didn’t even get it finished. There’s supposed to be porn following this, but I don’t have it in a state I’m willing to show publicly.
OH RIGHT, also @petitecreme shares the blame for this. Always remember.
***
Jack comes out of the locker room, still chewing his milky and pulling at his chest inside the halter top of his server’s uniform, trying to settle his cleavage as the hormones in the candy work on living up to their name. Tits and what comes out of them are a hot commodity on the galactic scene. Recreational drugs have evolved to match. At Double Ts Dairy Saloon, they’re all part of the service on offer. Jack just hates the bit where they first kick in, because his chest gets hot, itchy and tender and he has to readjust his top every few steps he takes until his boobs finish swelling.
The bartender points to a tray laden with drinks. “Table six.”
He scoops up the tray and ferries it past a small stage where one of the servers is putting on a show, shaking her bare breasts in front of the noses of a collection of aliens while they hoot, whistle and make whatever other noises count as catcalling in their various languages. She grabs her boobs and massages them a few times, till white fluid comes trickling out over her hands. The aliens get even louder in appreciation, currency chits clattering across the stage at her feet.
Jack has worked at Double Ts for five days and he’s already 100% certain the money in this place isn’t adding up.
Before humans ever joined the galactic community, as a species they’d developed quite a thing for tentacles. The tentacle-waving aliens they’ve met since they hit space mostly think that’s a pretty weird thing to be into, but they’ve got no room to talk, since a lot of them went completely bugnuts when they discovered humans could squirt their own edible juice out of their secondary sex characteristics.
Situated just off the docks area of the Jupiter orbital trading station, Double Ts makes a killing based on this fact, combined with the proximity of a few planets full of humans and the large amounts of money that bored alien space-sailors are willing to drop on entertainment—especially if it’s sexy.
And yet, the wages this place pays are for shit.
Jack reaches his table and sets the drinks onto the table in front of their respective customers. He represses a sigh as a long, limber arm slides around his waist to pull him in. The customer shoves a few rolled up bills into his waistband with one tentacle-fringed hand-disc, and slips the other into Jack’s halter top, to give his boob a thorough, rippling fondle. Jack makes a strangled noise and squirms a bit. He can feel his face turning pink. The milkies haven’t kicked in quite enough to get the action on, but he’s plenty sensitive.
“Thanks for the tip,” he says when the Andromedan lets him go with a wink and a tongue waggle. He just knows he’s going to find their number written on a napkin underneath the tip.
He does a swing by the rest of his tables, taking orders and making sure everybody’s happy. He gets groped, and tipped, a few more times. A little Cygnaret looks him up and down and asks about transferring to a private booth. Jack tells him he’ll have to come back later. He isn’t on booth shift for another three hours.
Word on the street is that somebody at Double Ts has been taking money under the table for extra-curricular activities. Between the crap pay and the customers, Jack is prepared to believe everybody who works here is probably skimming. But that’s no excuse. You pay your fees on the extra-curricular activities just like everything else or you catch hell from the law. Space stations are too close-quarters and expensive to maintain to let anybody cheat on their taxes. With the station’s treasury office bitching in her ears to ferret out the truth of the rumors, Captain Amari picked Jack to go in undercover.
“On the grounds that you’ve got the best rack in the Vice squad,” she told him when he complained about the server uniforms for the place.
So here he is, dressed like a sexy Halloween cowgirl, except the halter crop top and ruffly miniskirt he has to wear because nobody who isn’t human knows or cares how human gender works are all in cow print. The hiring manager was a Rigelite who’d been very impressed with the authenticity of Jack’s midwestern US accent. He hadn’t bothered trying to explain it was real. He didn’t want to hear the inevitable ‘How’d a pretty thing like you end up so far from home?’ line coming out of this guy’s mouth.
Finally he checks on the last table, tucked into an out of the way corner. “Hey there, Jesse, back again tonight?”
“A’course. Couldn’t go a whole day without seeing your pretty face.”
Jack grins at him. The guy is genuinely charming, even if he is weird as hell. Jack’s dressed like this because it’s his job. Jesse dresses like a cowboy because…Jack can’t fathom why, honestly. Maybe he’s gone space-crazy. Too much exposure to the black can do shit to the mind.
“You all set up? Got the usual?”
“You know it, darlin. Figure I’m about due for another beer an’ ya could bring me a coffee to go with it. Don’t need no milk.” He laughs at his own wisecrack and Jack gives him a smile.
Jesse comes in here every day, orders a beer and drinks it slowly as possible while he helps himself to the coffee and bar snacks that’re complimentary as long as you’ve got booze at your table. He looks like a hobo doing cosplay. Jack can only assume he’s broke as fuck. Maybe he washed out of a crew, or some deal fell through for him. You see people like that on the station all the time, looking for ways to hold things together till they can find a way to climb out of their predicament.
Hopefully Jesse will find one. Jack likes him.
Jack continues to work the tables and ferry drinks for the next couple of hours. An hour before his booth shift, he pops another milky into his mouth. The booths offer private space for customers who want a more hands-on experience. It can be the most annoying service in the house, but it offers by far the best tips, so everybody gets a turn at it. It takes some time and a couple of doses for a server to be properly dripping for the experience, so it’s always the second half of the shift.
Jack’s halter top is getting good and wet by the time he swings by Jesse’s table one last time. “Shifts change in a few minutes. You need anything before I go?”
Jesse tosses back the dregs of his coffee and looks up at Jack. “Kinda sorta. I got a proposition for you, Jack. You got any of the booths empty?”
Jack tips his head suspiciously. “Wait. You’re telling me you actually have money? That you’ve been sitting here for the past five days eating your weight in olives and cashews just because you’re cheap?”
Jesse slaps the table with his cybernetic hand and throws back his head laughing. “Nah, son, I’m broke as shit! But I got something else to offer, to you specifically, and all it’ll cost ya is a lapdance.” He cuts off Jack’s rejection with a wave of his hand and leans forward, with a different kind of look in his eyes that makes Jack frown. “On my honor, darlin. I promise, you specifically will find it very profitable indeed.”
Jack looks him up and down for a moment, thinking. Well, it’s not like he needs the cash anyway. He gets double pay for undercover work. And if Jesse’s got any bad intentions, he’ll discover real quick that Jack is more than capable of taking care of himself. “Yeah, all right. Come on.”
from Tumblr http://ift.tt/2ye1j53