>>
Here we go with the final story in the series. This one deals with some more extreme fetishes than I'd normally like to depict, although becaues I'm a soft-hearted person most of the really extreme stuff is just mentioned as happening in the past or threatened/planned for the future but not actually described as part of the present. I'm not sure why that might make a difference in text but somehow it does.
[[Which brings us to the final tale I have for you. So far I've told you tales of lone angels, of those on the outskirts of the society, of the privileged who still have their struggles. All of them have had choices taken away from them, in one way or another. But it's time to tell a tale of those who usually do the taking, those who imagine themselves the arbiters of destiny. This is a tale you might disbelieve more than any, but it will come with corroborating evidence if you allow me to get to the end.
Many people believe that for corporate operatives at a certain level, there's no soul, no humanity. And that may be true, but it's don't think that they are incapable of something approaching fun... people may throw around the insult 'corporate drone,' but they're not all business, they do like to have a good time, although their delights are extreme even for me. So join as I tell you what happened quite recently at...]]
A Corp's Party
To set the stage for this final tale, picture a board room meeting on the upper levels of an office building, although there are no open windows that would let you know that last part. Old-fashioned, in many ways, like you might see in an ancient netflix. Wooden table, chairs, comfortable lighting, paintings on the wall. A few accessories that we'll get to later, but all of them real, with no AR enhancements. On one wall is a rugged video display screen, but that's the only feature that immediately identifies itself as electronic. And, of course, on this night, there was more, the key to every board meeting, tiresome people in fancy suits... however, most old-fashioned of all, every one of them was actually physically present.
No one was accessing the meeting from outside, sitting out in the comfort of their own office with a heavily-encrypted video link, because even that would be an unacceptable security breach for the types of things they discussed in this room, the types of things they did. Theoretically, some clever hacker might have put a bug in somebody's systems, or perhaps one of the members had turned and was personally recording a transmitted meeting. Even if everyone had the loyalty they were expecting of their highest echelon, transmission is always inherently risky. There are always whispers of illegal quantum computers, capable of breaking any encryption, and even if those rumors weren't presently true, they might be true one day... and the people in this room had certain secrets they didn't want to come to light, ever.
The essence of true security, the modern theory goes, is physical. The lack of ambient technology isn't an aesthetic choice, an artful illusion here, but part of a deliberate strategy. Every corporate facility has at least one, if not several of these Black Rooms. Some of them are physically black, too, or in some other style, or, like this, tastefully paneled in faux-wood. But however they look, the rooms share several characteristics. They're opaque to electromagnetic radiation, a mesh running through every outer surface. Walls are invisibly vibrated with random noise to make it impossible for sound to transmit once the doors are sealed. Every person entering is scanned, smart technology removed, implants, if identified, disabled. Industrial strength poppers activate a few times a second, overcharging and damaging unshielded devices like eyescreens or wearables, just in case anybody didn't follow the rules. But everybody did, in this case, at least, all the corporates. These were the movers and shakers of PATHcorp, and unlike the backstabbing you might picture in a board room, none of these people (to use the term loosely) would defect.
How did this story come out then, you might wonder? Well, no security is perfect. Finding loopholes you can exploit... unforeseen vulnerabilities, unlikely paths, unanticipated technology... it is a difficult task, but incredibly rewarding. Nor was everyone inside truly lulled that the security is perfect. They were experienced enough that they didn't expect perfect security, just enough that, should there be a breach, their existing wealth and power base would provide them the deniability that would insulate themselves from any consequences. A defector could be a liar, an illicit recording could be simulated, and those would be the defenses, turned swiftly to accusations, should any of either turn up.
Of course, there were other reasons for the meeting to be in person, reasons which will become clear in time.
Imagine then, these nine executives, who have just walked into the room that they believe is safe enough. I will not bother to describe, or even name most of them now. I can practically hear your objections at this... this shows my true loyalties, or my fear, or my limitations because I won't dare give enough information that might identify these people, true power-players as they are. But it's not that... some will come up over the course of the tale, others are merely unimportant. You'll have to have faith, and hear the story to the conclusion. The real reason I don't bother to describe them individually is that it would be a waste of my valuable time. Suffice to say, they were essentially all the same. Most of them white, all but one male, most of them even had dark hair in similar cuts. Their faces, their names, may have been different, but that doesn't really matter, these people were barely human, even if they were occasionally are good at looking like it.
They weren't even trying for that at first, all business, that bland look that pervades those with too much money and too much power over lives they care not about. As their security team vetted the room, made sure it was secure, they sat, bored, unspeaking, barely noticing, until all of their underlings left behind a door. Some of their employees were privy to the same secrets they planned to discuss, but, still, the meeting was not meant for their ears.
After the door closed, they relaxed, and seemed almost human. A few smiles even formed... mean smiles, but smiles nonetheless. They took their seats around the fake wood table, and the one at the head said, "Let's start with the traditional prayer."
All in the room bowed their heads and spoke as one. "I follow the PATH, for the PATH leads to wealth and glory and happiness which are all the same thing. I will do my part to increase profits so that the PATH may continue."
The meeting's leader, not PATH's CEO, but one of three Senior Vice-Presidents leaned back in the central chair, a position of power, a position he relished. He I will identify as Lucas Ventura, and exuded villainy, if literate villainy. "We've got a new brother joining us today for the first time. Congratulations. We've had our eye on you for a while, and what you did with the health care deal... excellent work." Crafting terms of service on insurance policies that are half-traps, making people pay more to get less protection... you'd think by now it was hard to come up with any novel tricks that haven't been done, but this man managed a doozy... always a good way to increase a company's profit margin and thus get the attention of those who care for nothing but, although in this case it was just one more ruthless act in a career that had impressed them enough to make him a partnership offer. "How are you enjoying your... new you?"
The object of his attention, youngest in the room but not the youngest looking, bore a flash of individuality among the men in that his hair had something of a pompadour style to it rather than the slick-back short-hair the rest wore. Toby Beukes (rhymes with pukes), was after all, the newest to join the board, and though normally full of unearned confidence, was just then still somewhat unsure of his place there. He shifted in his seat a little. "It's... not quite what I expected."
"Oh?" The VP smiled, like he knew where this was going.
"Don't get me wrong, I enjoy the freedom. I can't say I felt much guilt, but it's good to be rid of it. But I thought the whole point of this was to make me a better executive, and..."
"You've been distracted."
"Yes, I guess you could say that. Part of the reason I volunteered for this was that I figured it was a part of my life I wouldn't have to deal with any more. Be... all business, you know?"
Lucas Ventura nodded, a glint in his eye. "The first versions of the surgeries did just that, you know? Disaster. Well, not a disaster. It makes for useful tools, sometimes. If we need somebody to 'snap' and murder somebody, or go to jail for something so our image looks good, they're loyal soldiers. But there's always a risk in such cases that the treatments will be uncovered in an investigation, so we have to pick our moments. But for the board, we don't just want your blind loyalty, we want flexibility, creativity, ambition. Eliminating your... shall we say, darker urges... it also seems to take out that special spark. Maybe there's a way to separate them, and we'll find it some day, but until then... it's better to allow them their place. At least your conscience isn't bothering you about them, right?" Induced sociopathy was part of the treatment everyone in the room went through. It wasn't a hidden feature... it was part of the advertised effect. The price of rising to the board, along with a machine-modulated rebalancing of your loyalty, supposedly to guarantee that betraying the corporation was as unthinkable as old school patriots felt about betraying their country. In actual fact it made it more unthinkable than suicide, which made it a kind of suicide all its own.
"Yes, but... from a practical standpoint... I mean, the only thing keeping me from trying to indulge in these urges is that I know the risk to the company is..."
Ventura interrupted him. "Let's just speak plainly. You're not going to shock anyone here and we're beyond shame now. I'm a sadist with pedophilic tendencies. Morgan and his wife are manipulative voyeurs. Cline outright wants to eat people, don't you?" The only man at the table with blond hair, a wax dummy of a man, nodded, with a polite smile. "No secrets here. None of us would betray you. What's your poison?"
"Control, mostly... sexual degradation. Boys and girls..." Beukes spoke haltlingly as though expecting he would be shot down at any moment, but gradually gained confidence as he sees only approval. "Age doesn't matter so much but kids seem easier to get to that place."
One of the other executives, a man named Watts, spoke then. "Very common. I think it's part of what makes for executive material. It's the instinct to dominate and use people for whatever ends you want. Why would we want to suppress it?" He smiled. "It would be like telling an artist never to paint, except when we need a corporate logo. Better to let them work as inspiration strikes, and just make sure we get the biggest piece of it."
"This isn't exactly art we're talking about here." But Watts shrugged, like he disagreed.
"That doesn't mean you can't still follow your inspiration, Ventura said. "If only to take the pressure off. I promise, you'll be a better executive if you're not distracted with your urges."
"But the risk of criminal liability..."
The VP interrupted again. "Yes, I'm not suggesting you kidnap somebody off the street. But there have always been ways for those of us in power to get what they they need to feel... sated. That's part of the reason we hold these conferences. Pretty soon they won't be necessary, but maybe we'll keep them. Tradition, after all, can be a good thing, so long as it doesn't get in the way of the path of profit. And speaking of tradition, normally we try to do a little business before pleasure... but since it's your first time, we make an exception." He leaned forward to press the buzzer on the table, a connection the outside world primitive enough to only exist while the button is pressed. "Have Human Resources send up one of the girls."
"Make it the Juggalo," Nick Morgan suggested. "Hasn't gotten too old yet, and I think Toby here will probably get a kick out of how that plays out."
Ventura spoke again into the table. "Is there a clown-faced girl? We'll go with her." He grinned, a predatory grin, at their new brother. "You'll like this."
It took forty-seven seconds from the order before one of the two secondary elevators pinged and opened to reveal a young girl. Down the shaft were workers who perhaps suspected what this girl was getting into, but they had no proof and were trained to ask no questions of their bosses, and all under non-disclosure agreements, so even if they wondered why certain people were requested at these meetings, they would live with the uncertainty. Some told themselves those waiting for these meetings were probably charity cases--or prospective interns, maybe auditioning to be celebrities for the entertainment division--and as long as there could potentially be some a benign explanation, they could sleep at night.
Seconds after the doors slid apart, the eleven-year-old girl finally, though nervously, decided she should step out into the room. Her skin's pale, and on her face even paler, but then again, that was paint there, along with a design, simple shades of purple around the eyes, and her lips black, with a fluid, looping line marked by hash marks extending from the corners to eventually reach her ears. Like all kids of the Juggalo gang, her face paint was part of her identity, the specifics of it important to her, but, as is common particularly among the youth, not especially distinctive to outsiders. Her dark hair was tied in pigtails with one side ending in a dab of pink and the other side blue.
Her outfit was one of the gang's classic--even stereotypical by this point--kids outfits, modeled on a famous flix clown of decades past. A shirt with red around the collar and a little on the sleeves, but mostly white, with the words, "Daddy's Lil' Monster" boldly standing out in a cursive font named Jezebel, and below, a short miniskirt, divided down the center between metallic red and metallic blue, and revealing the girl's gangly fishnet-covered legs. Not a perfect screen match for the character, but close enough to be recognizable, while retaining some individual accents, like a charm bracelet on one wrist, or her pink cowboy boots, and of course her facepaint design, all as though to show that she wasn't trying for complete authenticity. In fact, it was quite probable the rest of the outfit wasn't her choice at all, that she was told to wear this, for the benefit of some of the executives who grew up with the character of Harley Quinn--while certainly plenty of Juggalo kids do choose to embrace the Loli Quinn aesthetic by choice, only a minority wear specific outfits, except around a few of their makeshift holidays.
In the girl's hands she held a simple juicebox, straw inserted, and took another sip to calm her nerves then continued to hold it at her chest like a talisman to protect against evil, never realizing it was intended to do the opposite. After the elevator closed behind her, she spoke uncertainly. "Hello?"
Morgan's beautiful young-looking wife stood up then, a smile on her face, pleasant, reassuring. To the little girl's eyes, she must have looked like the youngest in the room and therefore nonthreatening--an adult, sure, but almost a peer rather than a big scary corporate. "Hi there!" She approached the younger girl, bent down on her level. "Why, aren't you lovely? What's your name, child?"
After a brief hesitation, she offered, "Kiwi."
"Beautiful name. My name's Kaylee. Both K-names. You know, I have a daughter about your age." The juggalo girl seemed to be put slightly more at ease by this revelation, probably from the common culture teaching her that parents, women parents at least, are unlikely to be threats. "She's not as industrious as you, though."
"Industrious?" She wrinkled her face, familiar with the word perhaps but not used to it applied to herself.
"You're here to work, right? That shows industry, which is admirable."
"I mean..." Kiwi said, before stopping and starting again. "I don't know, I was just told that there might be a way to help my Pops."
Kaylee Richards nodded sympathetically. "Yes, but you don't expect for free, right? You and I know that's not how the world works. Something for something. Your father's been convicted of serious crimes, with serious financial penalties attached. I mean, not that serious, any of us could pay him off with less than we spend on fancy coffee for the week, but... your dad, he's not really an earner, is he?" Kiwi looked down, vaguely ashamed. "Now, we can help, sure... but you are going to have to work a little for it. That seems fair, right? It's a very good deal, just a few hours of work for your father going free. You'll be kind of a live entertainer."
"I... I don't really know what I could do, though that would be worth much. I mean, like, I can sing and stuff? I mean, if it's not copyrighted or you have a license for the music."
"Don't worry, we'll work it out, we've already got some ideas that will use your natural talents. And you'd be surprised what you can make doing a live private performance, if you've got the right performer and the right audience."
The hopeful look turned skeptical when the word 'private' was used. "Pops told me I should never sign an NDA. For anything."
Richards laughed, looking over her shoulder. It's a laugh for her audience, not the girl. "Aren't you just adorable. You will have to sign a contract, but don't worry, it's just a performance contract... no NDA is required this time. The performance itself is very exclusive but you can tell people about it if you want to. In fact, I bet it'll be awful fun to tell your daddy exactly what you did to get him out of the mess he got himself in. He'll be so proud. Imagine that while you're performing, it'll help with the jitters." She returned to her spot, but only for a moment, and soon came back with a paper. "I've got a contract right here." She let the girl look it over, maybe just enough to verify there is in fact no NDA but not long enough to really appreciate or understand all of the details. "See, it's for a performer, low skill. One night. Normally it'd be low paying, but we're looking for someone of just your type, with the dedication to see the whole performance through. One part's something anyone can do if they have the will, and one part's something very special that our recruiters saw in you. That's the secret, knowing who you can please by renting out that special part of yourself, and being willing to swallow your pride, and a few other things, and do whatever's asked of you. If you have both, you can profit. Or in your case, earn your dad's early release. So, what do you say, do you want to sign on to work for a night, or go back to your foster situation?"
Kiwi swallowed then, a little early, and nodded, answering the first part of the question. "Okay. For Pops."
"Exactly. Think of your Pops. Then just press your thumb to the little recording patch on the bottom there." She laid it flat on the table so the girl Kiwi could get enough pressure to leave an indentation creating, she probably imagined, a permanent record of her deal. Once that was done, Kaylee smiled. "There we go. Now, you're here as entertainment, right? Let's meet the person you're here to entertain." She walked with Kiwi down the table, arm gently on her back, until they were at the seats near the head and a group, mostly men, watching her closely.
As they passed Cline, he grinned a grin that people of valued opinion would call a creepy one, and said, "Aren't you a sweet looking Kiwi. I could just eat you up."
"It's not your night," said Ventura. "Pull off what you've promised and maybe one of these days you can take her home."
"I'm only working here for one night," Kiwi said. "Just to get my Pops out."
"Besides, she's a clown," Watts cracks. "She'd have to taste funny."
The girl and woman continued walking until they stood in front of, not the head of the table, but rather Beukes, their newest member, who was looking both anxious and eager, like he was concerned that somehow this might be some elaborate setup, a well-choreographed knife in the back. And he was not wrong to fear that, even if these particular men on this particular night meant him no harm and in fact meant to get him off rather than off him. Not that the latter necessarily excludes the former, as plenty of victims of the past would illustrate.
Richards pointed to Beukes, crouching so that her eyeline was on the same level as Kiwi's. "This is our newest board member, and this is sort of a welcome party for him. So your main job is to do whatever he wants. You understand?"
Little Kiwi shook her head, although being her age and in the media landscape, she has had to have suspicions. She probably just didn't believe them, thinking they're the kind of things that happen in gangs, or scare-media, not an actual corporate board room which has to be respectable. "I mean I'll do what I need to. I'm just not sure what you want."
"Just follow instructions. But first... your contract says we can decide how you dress and you're not quite looking appropriate to the job." Richards went to a cabinet on the side and pulled out a large ring with two smaller rings nestled inside of them. "We'll just put this around your neck, and these on your wrists. Don't worry, it's just to fit the role you're going to be playing." Kiwi allowed it to happen... what were a few accessories?
When she had the collar and cuffs on, secure to the point she couldn't remove them unassisted, she asked, "Is that good?"
"Still not quite there yet. Here, let me." And from behind, Richards pulled up on Kiwi's "Daddy's Lil' Monster" shirt, dragging the fabric over her stomach, causing the girl to gasp and to instinctively shield herself with her arms. Not her breasts, mind you, or the irregular flatness that might someday turn into breasts, but the stomach itself, which had a chubby bulge that she was a little ashamed of, caused by only being able to afford cheap, not-very nutritious food and lacking things like toner that render so many of the corporate types' tummies trimmed and attractive. To some her belly could almost be a fetish itself, although certainly her overall illegality provided the prime attraction. "No, arms at your sides, you signed a contract, and we're not going all the way up." Perhaps Kiwi thought 'all the way up' meant it would stop before she actually exposed anything usually covered, but Richards just meant that she intended to stop with it bunched at the collar around the neck, displaying her naked chest to Beukes.
Toby's eyes widened with surprise to see, concealed by strategically placed padding tape on the inside of her shirt, that little Kiwi's nipples were already pierced with simple little bars, probably a home kit among friends. None of the others at the table were surprised, although Richards acted like it was a revelation, stopping to pull on one of the bars, inspiring a little gasp from Kiwi. "Nice," she said. "Love your nude fashion sense. Bet the little juggalo boys and girls love playing with these."
]
[
civ /
co /
eh /
fit /
halp /
jew /
lit /
phi /
pr /
rnb /
sci /
tg /
w /
zom
]
[
a /
grim /
hi /
me /
rx /
vg /
weed /
wp /
x
]
[
ai /
cake /
cd /
d /
di /
elit /
fag /
fur /
gif /
h /
men /
pco /
s /
sh /
ss /
unf
]