Venus Rising Read online

  He half-dozed through an hour of the same-old, same-old news. Protestors had broken up a meeting of the North American Weather Guild in Ponca City. Lunar mineral rights issues had stalled mining operations again. Three children had been recognized for their contribution to fire safety in one of the worst sections of Old London.

  When he woke, he sat up and groaned. He’d forgotten to adjust the bed to suit his off-world back. As he stretched his tight muscles, he caught sight of the card on the floor.

  The same urge he’d felt in the shop swept over him. Impulsively, he plucked the card from the carpet.

  “I must be stupid,” he said aloud, realizing that although he was expecting old technology, whatever access system was used on the card might not be. He went to the comm unit. “Read card.”

  The screen shimmered and glowed in a swirl of gold and white. Two magnificent doors appeared. The Palace, Where You are Royalty, read a superimposed text. The glowing letters faded as the doors swung open to reveal the lobby of what looked like an opulent hotel. The decorator who chose the brilliant palette of fabrics and furnishings was clearly not a fan of camouflage.

  A woman appeared, standing behind a gleaming reception desk made of pink marble. The receptionist was lovely, with large dark eyes and glowing skin that hinted of tropical isle genetics. She smiled.

  “Welcome to The Palace Hotel. It’s been a long time since you last visited us.” She shook her finger at him. “You have very few credits left. You’ll find you have only limited selections today, I’m afraid.”

  The beauty’s face faded and a menu appeared. He almost swallowed his tongue. The menu read:

  Massage pleasures

  Oral pleasures

  The choices were displayed on lozenges of shifting patterns. After a moment, he realized they were slices of bigger scenes, scenes that depicted his choices.

  Fascinated, he looked more closely. He could make out hands, mouths, and both male and female organs.

  Oh, yeah, this was nothing like the pleasure center on Mars. What had that one corporal called it? The Plug and Play. No mechanicals or holos at The Palace, from the looks of it, just warm hands and hot mouths.

  Real hands. Real mouths. His cock stirred.

  “Massage,” he managed to choke out, thinking of his back, but he was pretty sure it wasn’t his back he’d get massaged at a brothel. At least he knew it wouldn’t be at a pleasure center, not that he’d ever been in The Plug and Play.

  Not many women chose the Mars rotation, but Brad and he made sure none of them ever regretted it. Even avoiding the women under his command, he’d never gone long without feminine companionship on the station.

  And there was Erica on the few leaves he spent earthside. Or there had been Erica. She’d had the audacity to tell him it was a formal life partnership this time or nothing. That’s how he’d found himself living at the base hotel.

  The screen remained as it was before. Two options.

  “Massage,” he repeated, but nothing happened.

  He groaned and walked to the screen. He touched the words Massage Pleasures.

  Sure enough, as he suspected, another menu appeared. A damned touch screen! What a nuisance, he thought as he looked over the selections. Somehow, touching the words gave them an impact that speaking them did not.

  The next few menus were pretty simple. Massage, Therapeutic or Erotic. “Massage, erotic” was penis and testicles by the hour or the orgasm. He opened the therapeutic menu and laughed when he saw he really could have his back worked on under the supervision of the orthopedic staff.

  He noticed that his credit on account only allowed him either an hour of therapeutic back massage or a penis/testicle massage resulting in one orgasm.

  His balls throbbed at the thought. It had been a while. Erica had met him at the door with her demand. One minute he was kissing her, tongue halfway down her throat, hard where she ground her hips against him—and the next he was climbing back into his PF with his duffel, heading for the hotel.

  When he reached for the screen, his heart began to beat a little more quickly. He opted for the penis/testicle massage. Another screen appeared and a sultry voice said, “Select your server, please.”

  The screen filled with rows of thumbnail images of women and men—what he thought was called a headshot. Although they appeared to be of different races and ethnic origins, both the men and the women wore their hair the same way, long and brushed straight back from their faces. The similar hairstyle made them monotonously alike.

  He skimmed his fingertips over one face and it enlarged. With an idle interest, he browsed through the headshots, examining the servers available, marveling that there were so many, at least fifty, who were willing to crank his carrot for him.

  Then he paused. He tapped an image and the thumbnail expanded.

  “Not possible,” he said softly.

  The image filling the screen was that of a woman with dark, long hair and finely arched brows. Beneath those aristocratic brows, her large, almost almond-shaped eyes were framed by thick, dark lashes. Her lips were full and well-shaped. Subtle makeup enhanced her beauty.

  It was a face he’d examined up close many times but hadn’t seen in years.

  Cadet Sara Evans. PeaceKeepers Academy, Class of ‘43.

  His class.

  His Evans.

  “Not possible,” he repeated. Then he noticed words beneath her image. “Unimproved?”

  He worked his way back to the beginning of the images and found the help screen. There he read a note he’d missed the first time through. Those labeled unimproved were servers who had undergone no body-enhancing procedures, which was a rarity these days. That meant the woman or man might have flaws and, as the disclaimer informed him, satisfaction was not guaranteed.

  Link tapped the screens until he had Cadet Evans—a woman who should be a full colonel by now—back on the screen. What the hell was a first class officer doing in a home-planet, old-fashioned brothel?

  Unimproved.

  He remembered the soft weight of her breasts in his hands, and the feel of her gasp in his mouth as she climaxed. There had been nothing wrong with her unimproved body then, and he imagined not much was wrong with her now. Without thought, he reserved Cadet Evans, listed as Server G752H, for one penile/testicular massage to orgasm.

  His heart began to pound again. The screen went blank. For a moment, he thought that was it. The card had failed in some way. Then gold and white swirled across the screen and the original receptionist coalesced from the misty effects. As she thanked him for his patronage and reminded him to bring his card along to his appointment, the room printer spat out a flimsy instead of updating his personal data unit. Another odd combination of old and new.

  He picked the appointment reminder off the desk and examined it. G752H. An address, a date, a time.

  An asterisk.

  *No refunds for unimproved attendants.

  Link folded the reminder and tapped it on his palm. “Well, hell. I’m a bit unimproved myself.”

  Chapter 2

  Link tried to watch the news again. He tried to work on the various reports that were due at the end of the week. He tried and he failed. He ordered a meal, but when it arrived, he found himself staring at a plate of pseudo-steak, not sure if it was what he’d actually ordered.

  Finally, he admitted defeat. He used the room controls to pay the high premium on an extra shower, full jets, no time limit, stripped, and stepped into the tiled shower stall. Jets of water gushed from all sides. He hit a pump and filled his palm with the hotel’s liquid soap.

  He lathered his chest and belly, his mind on Cadet Evans. Not the swept-back hair and expertly made up server G752H, but the Evans he remembered from training. He closed his eyes and wrapped his hand around his erect penis.

  With the ease of years of practice, he stroked his cock, his mind on very clear, very precise memories: Evans pulling down her uniform trousers, back to him, her heart-shaped ass tight with w
ell-honed muscles.

  And then the slow turn.

  He’d forgotten nothing. Not the unvarying, soft ivory of her skin. Not the glimpse of the tiny mole high on her inner thigh. Not the profile of her small breasts.

  Natural breasts. Not improved.

  Tight, sweet nipples. Not improved.

  Link leaned one hand on the wall and moaned. She’d been tight and wet each and every time he’d fucked her. She’d bitten his shoulder the first time she’d climaxed around him.

  For a moment, he was back there with her. He could smell the wonderful womanly scent of her. He could feel the scrape of her teeth on his skin, the slick tightness of her body around his cock.

  He came in a near-painful rush. When he opened his eyes, he was in the hotel shower, water pouring over his skin, his come swirling away down the drain.

  * * * * *

  Evans waited in the long corridor for the latch to click on the door in front of her. Other than featureless rows of beige doors, spaced far apart in ivory slick walls, there was nothing to look at. No visible cameras. No exits.

  One end of the corridor was a blank wall. The other ended in a heavy metal door. That door opened to another long corridor lined with more doors. Those each led to a cell.

  Evans wished she knew what lay behind the other doors lining this hall.

  Her door bore a hand in red with a number fifteen stenciled over it. Hands meant massage chambers. Stars meant special client chambers. What was special about them, Evans didn’t know. She hadn’t been “ordered” for anything special yet. Some doors had cryptic signs, arrows, birds, symbols that must mean something to those in the know.

  Unfortunately, she hadn’t progressed to such privileged information.

  A way out was what she wanted. Privileged information was what she needed.

  Her heart began a rapid tap in her chest. She took a few long, deep breaths to steady herself.

  “Wait a moment,” said a voice behind her.

  Evans turned and saw a tall woman striding toward her. She had the dull, gray hair of an elderly woman, though she could not be over forty. She wore the starched white garb of the medical staff.

  Medical Aide Jennel. The tyrant of cleanliness. Now, where had she come from?

  “I need to fill you in on your next guest.” Jennel tapped a stylus against a datapad. The readout displayed what looked like a client contract. Evans knew every guest was required to sign a special contract for an unimproved attendant.

  “I read the appointment codes,” Evans said. “No conversation. Total silence.”

  “That’s not all. He’s not taking any sperm suppressors.”

  Evans felt her stomach dance. What else could go wrong with her day?

  “You’ll get a special kit for clean up after he ejaculates. Be sure to seal the cloth in the pouch provided and report for disinfection afterward.”

  Evans heard a click as the door to her chamber unlocked. She nodded and left Jennel in the hallway. The tap of her stylus didn’t falter before the door shut the sound out.

  The small massage chamber was devoid of objects except the chair in which she sat. It was of some exotic wood and showed that for the client, all things must be of the finest quality.

  Opposite her was the door for the guest’s entry.

  She shifted on the hard chair. This was her second task of the day.

  Task.

  Laughter bubbled in her throat, but she clamped down on it and schooled her features. Think of them as tasks, nothing more, she told herself.

  It was the only way she could get through them. She shivered, although the chamber was warm, as was her loose robe. The warmth “encouraged” the guests. The chamber was also dimly lighted with a soft yellow glow from the floor. Each attendant’s light color depended upon which best reflected their skin tones or the robe they’d been given to wear.

  She waited for her guest.

  Guest. If it weren’t frightening, she would laugh. They were just men or women who wanted sex and were willing to pay well for it.

  She’d been in this place three weeks and learned very little more than that—and how many doors lined each corridor.

  She still knew nothing of what had happened to Angel Martinez, the missing twenty-year-old daughter of the Secretary of the Department of Homeland Security. If Angel wasn’t found in the next six weeks, she would be beyond her twenty-first birthday. At that point, as she would be an adult, The Palace could claim she was there voluntarily. Under the influence of the drugs Evans knew were in the food, Angel would hardly be in any condition to argue.

  The two agents who’d gone in as guests had learned zilch, far less than she’d learned during her first few days. They’d known nothing of the drugs, or how isolated attendants were kept.

  Evans’s heart beat rose from tap to thud. She shifted and licked her lips. At least this was the simplest of tasks. Jerk the guy off and be done with it.

  And clean up. Her mind shied from what preceded the clean-up part. There had been only one guy in her life who had not used sperm suppressors.

  Don’t go there, she chastised herself. Think of Angel.

  She kept her expression neutral and her gaze dutifully on the floor in case anyone was observing her.

  They watched everyone, everywhere, at all times, and it was not considered good service to look at the guest’s face. If and when he wanted eye contact, he’d say so. So far, no client had wanted to meet her gaze.

  The guest door opened. A man’s shadow stretched across the floor. He wore the long, belted robe into which each guest changed after check-in. A twin of her own, though more luxurious. She heard the familiar sound of his card sliding into the service slot. The credits would begin to tick off right away.

  To the public, this building looked like any luxury hotel from the outside. From the interior, which could be gained only with a membership card, it still looked like an expensive hotel. All services were obtained privately, through the use of an old-fashioned card. And old-fashioned service was what could be had behind the many closed doors. She didn’t know the full extent of the available services, but she suspected that enough credits could buy almost anything at The Palace.

  The man waited, standing before her, his hands at his sides. She could hear him breathe. Slightly fast. He was nervous. Perhaps it was his first visit.

  She lifted her gaze to the belt of his robe. Slowly, to both relax and entice him, she pretended to have difficulty working the knot, skimming her fingers against his penis and testicles as she slowly drew the belt open.

  The robe parted. His skin was pale, what back in the Academy they’d called spacer-white, but his body was rock hard, honed and toned, every muscle defined. It was a pleasure to look at—and touch—someone so healthy.

  He had a large cock, thankfully already erect. The relief she felt was almost overwhelming. Her last guest had been unexcited and harder still to arouse. He’d cuffed her twice when she’d failed to stimulate him to satisfaction. Her nipple still ached from the pinch he’d given her.

  She slid her hands over the guest’s penis. The skin was smooth beneath her fingers, the head dusky in its engorgement. His testicles were heavy and warm as she gently palmed and kneaded them. He arched a bit under her ministrations and his breathing quickened.

  The smell of expensive soap emanated from him along with his body heat. She had discovered that even wealthy guests could be repulsive in their personal habits. This man’s skin was clean. A blessing for one in her position.

  She let herself relax and her mind wander. This was a healthy male specimen, which most of The Palace’s guests she had served were not. She hadn’t seen his face, but with his physique, surely women would be falling all over him.

  Why was he seeking pleasure for hire?

  Perhaps he was one of those men who enjoyed sex more if they paid for it. Perhaps he couldn’t reach an orgasm unless he paid for it.

  By all appearances, he was enjoying her touch. She stroked do
wn the hard length of his penis, letting her fingers tangle in his damp curls, exerting pressure right there, as she’d been taught. He hissed in a breath as he jerked in her hands.

  His knees trembled and he placed a hand on her shoulder. She jerked her hands back and the room’s yellow glow flared into stark white.

  A man’s stern voice said, “No touching of the attendants is permitted. A second violation will result in a five hundred credit fine.” The light dimmed again to soft yellow and she reached for him.

  “Sorry,” he said, barely above a whisper.

  She wrapped her hand around his penis and stroked him gently. If they saw him touch her, then they were watching right now and would take note of her technique, mark any inconsistencies with the manual. She lavished gentle sweeps of her hand up and down the fine long length of him. He shifted and spread his legs a bit. He jammed his fists into the pockets of the robe.

  She cupped his testicles and squeezed them with rhythmic gentleness and slipped her fingertips behind his sac to tease the smooth skin there.

  His thighs were dusted with dark hair. So many men indulged in hair removal these days that to see a man with body hair was unusual. It told her he was not up on Earth fashion. He shifted his legs further apart. The flex of his thigh muscles was a pleasure to watch. Since her hand was inside the concealment of his robe, she let her fingers drift up and down his inner thigh. She grasped some of the soft hair there and tugged.

  A guttural sound escaped his throat.

  The disembodied male voice said, “If you’re enjoying your experience, we have an upgrade special today with a discount on fellatio for only another eight hundred credits. Simply step away from the attendant, touch the two on the keypad by the door and the amount will be automatically deducted from your account. This offer is good only for the next five minutes.”