Kit had called a meeting with her number twos during the planets wee hours when activity was low.
“But Kitty,” Felch interrupted, “why don’t we just stay here? It’s easy money.”
“Dear Felch, Up is damaged and Tail is done in. Unless you want to do what they do…”
“You know I don’t have the anatomy for it, and maybe now’s the time to let the ‘bot owners know that if they get beyond basic, they’ll wreck the operators.”
“That would give us the reputation of bad service providers. It would cut down on orders for braindeads, for which we make a lot of doughnuts, my dear,” Kitty replied.
“They can use holotoys and save their ‘deads and ‘bots for special occasions,” slurred Upender, who had somehow pulled two of his six ‘knee’ joints out of their sockets. He was heavily medicated.
“Up and I can contact our planet and recruit some more operators,” Tailgunner suggested. “We can train them, too. Most of our problems are just overuse and fatigue.”
“I agree,” said Kit. “There seem to be quite a few Nams on Earth that are rich enough to purchase the ‘bots, so we’ll need more sexers. I’ll boost the price because the techs are having a hard time keeping up with the orders. The customization each client desires seems extensive and is slowing production. Can you have some more personnel trained and conditioned by our next pass through?”
“Of course,” Tail nodded.
Up snored.
“Would they share the ‘bots they’ve already bought with each other if we cut deliveries?” Yelp asked.
“Maybe the ones who own will rent theirs out,” Ravish suggested.
“Do these creatures share?” asked Cherish.
The tall, toned, milk-chocolate-extra-milk colored twins stared at Kitty.
“It’s been my observation that creatures don’t usually share expensive sex toys, especially with this extent of customization.” Kitty answered.” The reason I’m suggesting we pull up stakes is that there’s a new civilization I want to explore, and from what I’ve heard on the banter lines, their sexuality is much simpler than these clouts. Okay, I’ll program Iffy to notify customers that double braindead fantasies are unavailable for a while, and let them know how they can send good wishes and gifts to Upender. Tail is still available for singles but let’s not overwork him. I’ll have Iffy really push the holotoy experience, so those orders are going to increase. Get back to work.”
“I was sleeping,” Stretch yawned.
“I was eating,” grumbled Gunslinger.
“We were smorling,” smiled Digits. Velvet Glove stretched sensually and smiled back.
“Shut up and get out,” Kitty barked. “Felch, you stay.”
“I’m sorry, Kitten, me and Torcha Galore have a booking soon.”
“I can stay, Kitty,” purred Matilda the Hun.
“Sorry, dear Matty, you know that won’t work,” Kitty laughed.
“And I don’t share,” growled Felch, as he pushed Matty back and out of the hatch.
Goosh the Jelly wobbled in place as the others left.
“Yes, Goosh?” Kit asked.
It was very difficult to understand Goosh, but Kitty had been listening to her for several decades. Something that sounded like: “Madam, may I squash a piece of cheese?” came out of her, accompanied by a sloshing sound.
“The take is already fairly high,” Kit replied.
“Got rocks and planks. Boogers afoot. Foul day bright eye the plankton tractor.”
“Oh, alright. I’ll stop Iffy taking orders for the ‘bots completely for now. Or at least program her to inform the buggers that they won’t be available ‘til our next visit.”
“There are dogs in the pizza,” Goosh sighed, expelling an extra bit of spittle.
“Thank you for your concern, Goosh. I am tired.”
Goosh wobbled out through the hatch and Kit ordered it to seal. She sat down in her ma’s old overstuffed re-re-re-re-re upholstered LaZGirl and closed her eyes. Just for a moment.
Such good kids, really. Good sports, too, because sex was such a shitty job once the novelty wore off. For instance, Tzlotzl were particularly nasty, having no conscience to speak of. More than one sexer had gone a little bat-shit crazy after having had to deal with them for any length of time. Great business minds, though. Every time Kitty showed up they renegotiated and she learned something new. Though she didn’t always think she would use many of the financial techniques they inflicted upon her.
Kitty, operating from space, was subject to no laws or customs except those the planets insisted on, and each culture of each planet had different customs and laws as well. The accounting computer, Iffy, queried all of them for permission to do business, took care of any legal issues, set up payment accounts, programmed herself to allow and disallow various acts according to cultural and legal edicts, saved and updated all information, and managed the orders for the workers to fulfill.
Worker burnout was common. Leave was granted frequently, and occasionally groups of the kids would go down to whatever planet A.G. was orbiting and relax in the most lux vacation spots available. Kitty paid for everything. No side jobs were allowed and absolutely no prostitution. A worker could catch a disease, a beating, be raped, or even be made a homicide victim, and Kitty wasn’t interested in losing her workers or having them damaged in any way that would cut their productivity. They weren’t to speak of her or their work while vacationing, either, and they had cover stories. Anyway, while on vacation they were all trying to get away from sex talk, so the kids obeyed all her rules.
Everyone was a kid to Kitty LeMieux, except some of the aliens. Fist of God, FoG for short, was an antique alien who seemed to no longer have any scruples, if he ever had. FoG would do anything, unlike many of the others who might balk at, say, bestiality. A beast was sub-sentient, as opposed to a mature alien, which could be either sentient, sub-sentient, or non-sentient. Sub- and non-sentient creatures were not clients. That was Kitty’s rule. Sub-sentient beasts could be part of the fantasy, as long as actual beasts were not used. That was where FoG came in. He was an excellent actor. Nor was anyone who was considered age inappropriate by the client species allowed in either the fantasy or as a customer or playmate. These prohibitions were in her contracts. Kitty queried every species for their definition of juvenile.
FoG had been one of Kitty’s ma’s employees, and Kitty had sort of inherited him. She’d asked FoG if he wanted to be pensioned off, but he declined. He’d been sexing for so long, he didn’t know what else to do with himself. And anyway, his experience was invaluable. He didn’t seem to rest or sleep much, or perhaps he was always at rest. He had been an excellent teacher, although some of the comments his students were making lately caused Kitty to wonder if perhaps he was finally flirting with senility. You never really knew, with aliens. How could you tell? He did seem somewhat different than he was before.
The sexers’ working names advertised specialties or preferences, or even referred to personality types, or were just jokes. When some of the workers’ names were too unpronounceable for the species being serviced, these were changed. Iffy translated the nicknames on lists that were offered to clients in their own languages, and altered a bit or completely changed them when necessary. For instance, if the client didn’t have external genitalia, then ‘Wang’ or ‘Dangles’ would mean nothing to them, and would have no translatable equivalent. Without alternative nicknames, those names would show up as dashes in the written translations, or soundless pauses in the audios, and those boys and girls would get no clients from that planet or culture. This wasn’t fair, so alternatives were chosen. Often Iffy would query Kitty for help at these times.
It was all fairly automatic.
Kitty rubbed her sore eyes. There were always complaints, of course. Every culture had its culture warriors, but Kitty’s ma had said, and Kitty still believed, that if they were shouting, slugging, or shooting at you, it was because you were doing something right. Unlike
her mother, though, Kitty cared. She always answered the angry outbursts personally because she knew that if she were mean to people about the mistakes they made, then she could expect them to be mean to her about her own. “Perfection is an ideal, dear,” her ma used to say, “not a reality.”
Usually, doing business was a matter of education. Creatures often needed to be reminded that their choices were not being taken away from them, therefore, they shouldn’t try to impose their choices on others, because turnabout is fair play. Better to keep it in your own pants, so to speak.
Kitty used phrases like “Your ways are not our ways, or your neighbors’”, and “Just trying to make an honest buck, here.” “We’re discrete, your children will never know,” was effective with frightened parents. After speaking that one, Kitty would think to herself, nor would you have if you’d kept your eyes out of certain kinds of advertising materials. “How is it that you heard about us, dear?” reminded a potential player of its own culpability, and was usually effective with all but the most angry and obtuse. Those were usually reported to the local authorities. Not directly, but conversationally, as in, “Chief Whatever, is it acceptable in your culture to threaten legitimate business people? I’m just wondering because… I don’t want to cause a problem… well, thank you, Chief. I really didn’t know. Tomorrow evening? With Hyde Tanner? Of course. I’ve put you down on his list. And keep an eye out, I’m sending some Thorian candy down for your children and some Glaxici cigars for you… of course, and greetings to…” she would struggle with the names of his, her, or it’s concubines, wives, husband, or ‘friends’, but the effort would be appreciated. “Bye now!”
Diplomacy. Such a boon to whatever-kind. Kitty kept a entire hold full of various bribes, uh, gifts, and they were kept as fresh as the day they were made through various expensive devices. Sex paid so well that Kitty could afford this, and she would continue to be able to because she was so very considerate, in a bottom-line-minding sort of way. It was as automatic for her as breathing.