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He knotted his fingers in my hair and thrust into my mouth several times.
[For those of you who've never heard of a Chasti-Permalock (or the predecessor, the "Chastilock2000"), a bit of introduction is in order. Back in 1998, I was watching some infomercial (for lack of a better programme), and was struck by the uncanny way that one Barbie-dollish spokesmodel was hyping up a product as though it were the greatest thing since sliced bread. I even forget what it was, but I remember realizing that it was something she'd probably never used, would never *have* to use, and probably wouldn't be all that good for her, anyway. And yet that pasted-on grin and phony enthusiasm was infectious. I was fascinated, but not in the product, just the Hollywood-style delivery of it.

So to be completely off-the-wall, I imagined some grinning, bubble-headed spokesmodel narrating in all seriousness an infomercial for a permanent chastity device which would rob her of her own sexual pleasure for the rest of her life (but make her constantly craving), and yet somehow she seems convinced that this was a good thing. Moreso, it utilized nanotechnology at an advanced state far beyond current theory (probably impossible, but that's the joy of fantasy). The concept was totally ludicrous, and nobody would ever go for a story like that.

I had it completely written (aside from some edits and additions by J.G. Leathers) in about three hours. The early badly-colored line-art took a little longer.

The "Chastilock2000 Infomercial" became a cult fave in the USENET newsgroups, it's been suggested that it inspired a name for two actual chastity devices which appeared in a few months following (Chastilock and CB2000 -- although both are male devices), and later my website () grew out of the realization from this little tale that there were some twisted people out there who actually enjoyed my kinky stuff. Well, that story is six years old last March (although I got the site URL much later), and what follows is one of a number of sequels it has inspired (by several authors, although the one below is mine).

Yes, it's weird (and it winds up slowly at first), but I hope you find it fun!]

A Day at the Office

By ten to seven, the main-floor lobby of the Chasti-Permalock building is already quite active these days. Sometimes, you'll catch a glimpse of political figures, foreign businessmen, military officials.... The other morning, we even had pop stars Britt Baby and PsycheDelia from the Diva Dolls pass through -- rumor is that there's a cross-promotion agreement in development, so perhaps they're going to be wearing our appliances, soon.

Employees punch in on the main floor, now. Ever since they brought in the scanners to do check-in, they like to encorporate that in the main lobby security clearance. I think they just like to have us show off our C-P devices so that onlookers can see that the staff proudly wears them.

Yeah, we inevitably have to show off our Chasti-Permalocks. After speaking into the voice print mic and giving a retinal scan, I lifted the front of my skirt and the attendant ran the hand scanner over the bar code embedded just above the device where pubic hair once grew, until a >blip< signalled that I was now recorded in the active roster and cleared to enter. "You may proceed," he told me.

Security is a huge issue here, particularily because of the nature of the technology that we wield. There is a global partial-moratorium on nanotech research, with Chasti-Permalock Corporation being one of the very few to be licensed internationally to research and utilize nanoscale tools (a more accurate term than "nanobots," because they're often more likely a charged compound than the kind of 'bot that we're used to).

And when you think about it, it's absolutely necessary. When you're talking about sub-atomic particles geared toward rebuilding matter on a molecular level, you're talking about being able to rebuild all of creation. Splitting an atom would be easy, and you don't need a several-ton warhead to do it. Without regulation, we could be looking at a shift from the old nuclear government-hoarded weapons of mass destruction to private enterprise knowledge-capable mass destruction. A laboratory accident could conceivably wipe out a city or begin a chain reaction that destroys an ecosystem. Oops.

You can guess how many folks would like to get their hands on this technology. Right now, Chasti-Permalock is one of three companies licensed in its use. And different divisions of the company direct many varied applications. The Vyrtu Division oversees medical applications, although the biological functions of Chasti-Permalock's devices require that the division works very closely with their central one. CPFab is researching the use of nanotechnology in construction endeavors and other commercial enterprise, while CPBotix deals with the cutting-edge Artificial Intelligence work we're doing, CP++ directs device and nanoscale programming, and "Ops" is the nickname we have for the unofficial division that works with the military and (as the rumor goes) probably accounts for the lion's share of our funding. My Division is CPKulture, which oversees many departments in the mainstream market geared toward pop commodities: entertainment, fashion, cosmetics (although some of the more radical bodily modification is governed by Vyrtu), and everything on down to the aesthetics of the basic devices that Chasti-Permalock is best known for, themselves. My own role is secretarial, in the Public Relations Department.

Excuse me. The Human Relations Department. I keep forgetting about the recent name change.

All the way up the elevator, I couldn't help thinking about the bar code. Upon accessing a new floor of the building, or entering or exiting a new cluster of offices, we have to get our bar code scanned -- this is how our movements throughout the building are continually monitored. It is also for this reason that it is mandatory in the dress code that women wear mini-skirts and only their devices underneath, barring special personal circumstances. But it disturbs me that our bar codes are so intimate, while men (that is, unless they're part of the various intergendered programs) can wear theirs on their chests. They justify this by physiology: we can't have women publically baring their breasts and men publically baring their genitals (the vast majority of women wear permanent genital devices like mine, and the few exceptions are indecency exceptions that management is willing to live with). What's worse is the bar code's significance. For example, when we get our bar codes scanned to leave the building, we sign the same asset management form that we would if we were taking some other major piece of company property off the premises.

I'm not the only one who's noticed the implications. Several co-workers have remarked on this.

"Keep in mind, though," Ellen from the Telco department had said, "that once you're Chasti-Permalock, you're always Chasti-Permalock. They pretty much own us, anyway. That non-disclosure agreement we sign when accepted for employment here gives them authorization to 'upgrade' our devices upon termination, and we all know that means cutting off all ability to communicate our knowledge of company programs to anyone else... and just about all ability to otherwise function as a human being, in the process. It's not really a change in treatment of staff so much as an acknowledgement of that fact."

Sixth floor. I scanned in, and scanned again when I reached the HRD entrance. "Good morning, Jasmine," Cindy beamed from behind the reception desk. "The board meeting's at eight and we've got a few guests coming in for it. Mr. Sternson wants you to report to him at least a half hour before the meeting. Oh, and you're a mouth girl, today."

A "mouth girl." As if there was ever any doubt.

Sexual favors are not only abused in this company, they've become expected. Part of it is from maintaining an atmosphere of having to enjoy as much pleasure as we can before we lose it to the devices we'll be volunteered to wear. There's no secret that Chasti-Permalock Corporation bucks the sexual harassment policies of other workplaces -- they even welcome the attention, so that prospective employees and the public at large acknowledge that sexuality is a part of the bargain in working for C-P. Therefore, all applicants agree to submit to that treatment. After all, sexuality is an integral part of the market that Chasti-Permalock deals with. They don't hire often, so they can be extremely selective and only take on compliant personnel. When I started there, it was partly for the excitement, I admit.

And that's how I became a mouth girl. Sexual duties are assigned daily. Cindy's usually given ass duties, even though she hates anal sex. Me, I'm always a mouth girl. When I took the job, my talents were assessed and I was given top marks for oral performance. It usually takes several months or even a year or two before a new employee is volunteered for device testing, but within the first two weeks of my employment here, I received permanent vaginal and anal devices. There was no doubt as to where they wanted me perpetually assigned. So I'm a mouth girl. Rare days, I'm assigned "tongue" duties -- oral chores for women -- and I've never been assigned as "hand girl" (I'm not even sure it exists, aside from on paper) or "titty girl," but otherwise, my repertoire is limited. I sort of regret having practiced on a bottle for the couple days before my job interview.

But that was several years ago. Before setting up at the office, I paused to fix myself a coffee in the employee lounge. Cindy slipped in, having had the same idea. "Hey, listen," she confided in a whisper, "I overheard Winston talking about the mass-market devices. He said something about a back door feature. Do you think that the company might be getting involved with population control? I mean, being that they're so closely allied with the government..."

I stopped her there. I've observed that it's not healthy to speculate, in this company. "If they were talking about a 'back door' feature," I fib, "it was probably a euphemism to describe an anal device."

"You think so? I mean, I've heard some weird things..."

"You're only getting half-conversations, Cindy. It's not good to be jumping to conclusions." I didn't elaborate, but I was aware that people who jump to conclusions tend to get reassigned to CPBotix or CP++ suddenly.

"I suppose you're right," she said, tossing sugar into her mug. As for me, I had to hurry to get ready for the day. Especially if I wanted to squeeze in a visit to Pam, this afternoon.

I'm barely in my office when the shocks zapped me.

My anal device is a simple remote-control one. Two quick zaps meant that Sternson wanted to see me in the office right now. He obviously wouldn't wait for seven-thirty. The zaps aren't too bad. Punishment, on the other hand... well, let's just say that I didn't dally.

Sternson is a big man, broad-shouldered and heavy-set. He has a lot of weight on him, but also a certain amount of strength. He dresses in grey, like some bland director of the Ministry of Truth, and his hard eyes are just as piercing and darkly inquisitive. "Were you delayed chatting with Cindy again?"

"Only long enough to pour a coffee, sir." Something in his stare told me that he was somehow aware of everything said. I was suddenly afraid for her. "She's silly, but she's an innocent kid at heart. She'll learn."

He said nothing in response to that. Instead, he tapped the Chasti-Permalock between my legs. "Today's your tongue day, isn't it? And Carole is out on assignment."

I blushed. "I was hoping to see Pam, this afternoon, Sir," I admit.

My Chasti-Permalock vaginal device has an experimental timer programmed into it. If I don't make a certain quota by 7:00 at night, it will begin to shock me intermittently until I fulfill that quota.

The quotas are quite devious. There are sensors embedded on my tongue that can detect the presence of certain chamicals. From Tuesday to Saturday, it has to detect semen in my mouth twice during the course of the day, or it will allow the shocks to kick in.

But Mondays, it has to detect vaginal fluids instead, on one of those two outings.

"No good," he says. "Pam will be out of the office this afternoon, and there aren't too many other women in this department who aren't sealed up. There's Cindy, but she has to stay at her desk." He pressed his fingers between my lips, urged my mouth open, and then inspected my tongue and teeth as though inspecting a horse. "Fortunately, I have another solution, although it will require cancelling all of your other plans, today."

"Sir?" With Sternson, "Sir" is a required appelation which carries almost the same weight as "Master." I feel submissive every time I way it.

"I just received a call from a very special guest who has opted to sit in on our board meeting, this morning. She has expressed interest in being attended to by a white woman who has an aversion to lesbian encounters, but is still compliant and skilled at them. Well, we all know that you protest the lesbian portion of your weekly quota. As to your skills there, reports vary -- but given who the guest is, I suggest that you put in the same kind of enthusiasm as you do with your other oral duties."

"Um, who's the guest, Sir?"

He didn't answer immediately. Instead, he stepped back to his desk, sat back in his chair with his legs alongside it, knees open. "There is a possibility that this guest may require your services for the evening, so then there is the one male portion of your Monday quota to consider. I suppose that I should take care of that, right now."

I understood, and crawled around his desk, to unbutton his trousers. I'm trained to undo the zipper with my teeth, so my face was pressed to his throbbing erection, all the way down. A quick downward slide of his pants and undershorts, and the object of my attentions was freed.

I began with the subtleties, some breaths and licks, a couple of kisses and then some intricate tonguing up and down the length of it. I was reverent and hungry at the same time. After a bit of worship, I opened wide and took it in.

I always hate going down on Sternson. His member is massive, making my jaw ache from the girth. However stiff I can keep my upper lip, there's always a risk of scraping with my teeth. Whenever I get too close, I have to resort to giving little love nibbles, as though I'd meant for the teeth to touch. Even worse, deep-throating is difficult, as it reaches far past the back of my throat. Good breath control is absolutely necessary.

I made sure to generate the required humming and wet sucking sounds for him, as well. If I moan from deep enough within my throat, he can feel the vibrations in my lips.

He got closer to the end and the salty taste became thicker until finally he knotted his fingers in my hair and thrust into my mouth several times. All I could do was breathe on the withdrawals and suck hard as he rode my tongue. And swallow. Lots of swallowing.

When it was finally over, I looked up to him from on my knees, sticky cum trickling down my chin. Oral sex is such a submissive act. But there was one final gesture needed: "Thank you, Sir," I complied.

"You'd better clean yourself up," he stated.

"Yes Sir," I replied, still trying to swallow down all the taste of him. Then, I paused as I stood to leave. "I still don't know what this meeting is, Sir."

"The top brass upstairs have come to an agreement on a cross-promotions contract, and have handed it to us to negotiate the details."

"Oh." Still not enlightened, I went back, wiped up, sorted the things in the office that I probably wouldn't get to that day, went to the restroom to brush my teeth and change into my attendant's uniform, and then reported to the boardroom.

Nicole and Desiree were already kneeling inside the doorway when I arrived. I took my place beside them.

"You mean they're actually going through with it?" Desiree whispered to Nicole excitedly.

"Well, I don't know if they're actually going to be permanent devices, or what, but yeah. I mean, this is history in the making," Nikki bubbled.

"What?" I was hoping it would be a clue about the morning events.

"The Diva Dolls. The pop singers. They're making a deal with the company to promote our devices. Just a minute ago, Cindy heard a rumor that one of the girls would be sitting in on this meeting. And I'm guessing that's why you're here, Jazz."

I blushed. I was never a lesbian, and it still caused me considerable embarassment when people knew that I had to service women as one of my Chasti-Permalock device's requirements.

"I guess that mouth of yours is multi-talented, isn't it, Jazz?" Nicole quipped.

"Winston said that was the one thing that kept them from volunteering her for a pussyface," Desiree added.

"Quit it!" I growled. I wasn't going to take that from them. Not here in the boardroom, and, uh... well, on my knees... wearing my attendant uniform....

The attendant's uniform is a fairly simple ensemble, consisting of 3/4-length silk gloves, ankle boots with 6" heels, a boned satin corset, a choker, a jacket which was bolero-cut in front and tuxedo-tailed in back, and a bellhop's hat, all in royal purple with gold trimmings. Our breasts and vaginal devices were left exposed.

They didn't have an opportunity to continue with their taunts. Members and guests began filing in for the meeting -- at first an occasional one or two, and then a steady stream of people until there were about twenty. Some were executives who I'd recognized, others were music industry folk -- agents, managers, legal consultants. As each entered, we dutifully dealt a welcoming kiss to the swelling crotch of each one, except for the stenographer and security people (any time there were guests, they were always accompanied by security). When paying my homage to one of the guests, he patted my head, turned to one of my colleagues and quipped, "this has got to be a wonderfully sexy place to work...."

And then, she was standing in the doorway, waiting for everyone's adulation as she entered.

I didn't know much about the Diva Dolls, aside from the fact that they were five women who were all image and no substance that the recording industry packaged with lame pop music and sold to the public. They all had tacky stage names (SweetHeart, LeatherEtte, PsycheDelia...), and were similar to other pop tart groups that I'm vaguely familiar with from the past eighty years -- the Tricks, the Go-gos, Tantala, the Spice Girls... although I couldn't name anything they've ever recorded. But this one, she was known to the public by the hokey name "Black Beauty," and was rumored to be a disagreeable sort. Certainly, she wasn't without her own set of controversies, even just a year and a half into her stardom.

She seemed a little startled when Nicole leaned forward to place her kiss, but then when her manager nodded and swept his hand toward Desiree in an invitation to proceed down the queue, she caught on and laughed uproariously.

When she arrived to stand before me, I knew that I had to make my kiss a little hotter, a little more exciting, so I buried myself into the fabric of her skirt until I felt my lips press against her pubic mound. My kiss was flaming and passionate on her, and ended with a lick of the cloth that seperated me from her labia.

"Ooh." She suddenly beamed, a sparkle appearing in her eyes. She ran her hand through my hair as though petting a dog. "Is this one 'Jazz'?"

I don't know if it's the way I shrunk away from her slightly or the fact that my face turned red, but I involuntarily answered her question for her. "She should crawl over to my chair and wait by my side," she stated, grinning wryly.
They exchanged greetings and took their seats, and as the attendant girls rose to take their positions on opposite sides of the room, I found myself on hands and knees, taking my place beside her feet.

She looked down to me and whispered: "I'm Brandy. But you are to call me 'Mistress'."

"Yes, Mistress," I blushed. She patted me on the head and then turned back to the proceedings.

The morning passed with discussions of sponsorships and public appearances. Chasti-Permalock was going to kick in 40 million dollars into their tour and album marketing campaign, and all five pop tarts were going to do television advertisements, as well as hyping the products in the cosmetics magazines and participating in a 5-way nude-except-for-devices Playboy photo shoot (the magazine had already agreed to it and one of the representatives was present at the meeting). Brandy had agreed to flash her device at the upcoming Grammy Awards ceremony as the first public acknowledgement that they were wearing the appliances, but with the understanding that if there was a public backlash, she'd pretend it was an accident.

More money was being discussed and traded than I could ever fathom. There were other surprises, too. Such as the fact that the Diva Doll known as 'LeatherEtte" was still a virgin and already wore chastity belts (apparently, it was an inquiry on her behalf that led to the deal being discussed, although it also sounded as though it was not her own preference to live a life of chastity). Or that Chasti-Permalock had been silent financiers for the girls for some time and that there had been a recent humbling break arranged by C-P for all the girls after their last tour, the nature of which I couldn't determine.

It didn't matter. My role was to attend to Brandy's every need, and from the moment that she poked her foot under my nose, I was oblivious to everything but attending to her feet and legs. I polished her shoe leather with my tongue, shining it, poking into the open top to slip a little between her big and second toes. I did circles around her anklebones and loving strides up her calves, with a little play in the valleys behind her knees. It's amazing the things you never think about: how the idea of foot fetish always seems so creepy until you're actually there, lavishing attention on someone, realizing you're actually enjoying the playful indulgence.

Well, there is the sweat. Brandy slipped her shoe off, and suddenly I was kissing the soles, her sweat filling and overwhelming my senses. Of course, her feet didn't necessarily stink, relatively speaking, but it was still an overriding scent.

Like this, I was able to play with her toes. She was wearing nylons, but of thin enough guage as to still be quite pliable and unobstructive. I slipped my tongue between each of her toes, tasted the salty crevices there and slid on, coming to suck on her big toe symbolically. She seemed to rise to attention at that, so I know it struck a positive chord of some sort in her.

I had been gradually moving around her chair until I was under the table, facing her legs. It felt as fulfilling as ever being on my knees before "Black Beauty," regardless of her stardom, but also because of it. There's something about being on my knees that is rewarding and enchanting. Of course, as a mouth girl, most of my sex is experienced on my knees. Maybe it's the submissive in me: kneeling, I feel that I belong.

I was working my way up the insides of her thighs, now, teasing around her kneecaps and trailing up toward her delta. I felt her skirt wrinkle upon my nose from my ascent, and then felt her hand upon my head.

"Easy, girl. Not here. We're just about to wrap it up."

And with that, I nestled into her thighs, nuzzling the skin and administering an occasional lick. I slipped my nose a little under her skirt to sniff her heat, a kind of light musk. I don't know if there's something biological, or what, but there's always seemed to be a tinge of burnt leather in the African smell, an awe-inspiring thick, primal lust.

Contemplating such things made me feel like a dog in heat. Such animalistic urges inspired by smells. And yet we go years without paying any conscious attention to how important that sense really is.

The meeting broke, and everyone pulled away in a cacophony. I was rewarded with a few amused glances when I crawled out from under the table alongside Brandy's chair. My cheeks burned hotly.

The activity of the next few moments passed quickly and with enough confusion that I couldn't take it all in. I recall that Brandy had determined that I should remain on my knees and crawl alongside her out to her waiting limo for the festivities being provided for her the rest of that evening. Someone in management suggested that if I was to crawl through the lobby downstairs still clad in my attendant's uniform, I should have some pasties to cover my nipples. Most of the other activity surrounded meeting agendas, with most talk focusing on the fact that Chasti-Permalock was to provide a woman kitted up per Brandy's specifications for their next video and tour -- she would get back to them as to what those specifications would be. Not long after I was following at heel behind Brandy, on a leash and collar that had materialized in someone's hand.

Through the lobby, this caused quite a stir. Brandy's stardom instantly drew the attention, and my visible status only caused even more speculation. We went to the security exit, and I had to kneel back on my haunches for the guard to scan my bar code to sign me out. I went to reach up for the release form to exit the premises...

... but he had handed it to Brandy to sign. She was the one borrowing company property, today.

There wasn't enough time to think about it. We slipped into the limo quickly, and were away.

"Don't you worry about what the media's going to make over that show?" I inquired.

"Ah, don't you worry about that. If it gets people talking, it's good press."

(And indeed, within days, the tabloids were filled with photos of the lobby passage, along with stories that claimed that I was Brandy's love slave, that she had a bevy of twenty sex prisoners, that she (*gasp*) MAY be a lesbian, that she dumped her last boyfriend for a dog.... I myself received several requests for subsequent interviews, but as Chasti-Permalock management had previously assured Brandy, my confidentiality agreement prevented me from discussing anything I did for the company's sake)

I was taken to an estate on the city limits, one of the "vacation homes" that the Diva Dolls used. Most of the Dolls were away, Brandy had said, but Britt might stop through on occasion.

We entered, Brandy sent her attendants on their way, and then she took me to a large sitting room. She slipped the leash I wore between her legs and drew it up her back, the effect pulling me in between her legs until her skirt wrinkled and folded upon itself along my nose up to my lower eyelids, and my nose and mouth nestled into what I discovered was a very wet cunt.

"Just so we have an understanding," she spoke, sternly, "THIS is what you are here to worship." I felt a trickle of moisture dribble onto my cheek. "You will keep your lips within kissing distance of my womanhood at all times, unless I make a special exception for one reason or another. If we have a conversation, I want to feel your hot breath on me, and look down at your eyes peering through my fur. Do you understand?"

"Yes, Mistress," I answered instinctively.

The use of the word "Mistress" brought a smile to her face. "I see you are already familiar with rule number two. In any case, I'm not in the mood for discussion, right now. I plan to ride your face. You'll probably have very little to do during this, aside from trying to keep your breaths. After, we can talk and then a little more subtle loving. Got it?"

"Yes, Mistr--"

That was as far as I got. Instantly, her hands were behind my head, her thighs squeezed around me, and her hips thrusting, as she humped my face. "You should also know," I could barely hear her, "that I ejaculate a fair bit when I cum. I'm a gusher. You're going to get fairly wet."

Up and down, chin to forehead and back, she slid frantically, juicing over me completely. Her wetness trickled down my neck and she hadn't even orgasmed, yet.

But when she did orgasm, it was spectacular. I was thoroughly baptized in her thick musky smell, and I was sure that I would be smelling it on me for days to come. She had marked her property.

It was over in a flurry. She had evidently been in a state of need for some time. She collapsed to the floor, and I with her.

"That was beautiful, Jazz. Thank you. I SO needed someone to take the edge of that hunger. The rest of the evening will be great, but I need to rest."

I wanted to wipe my face. But she stopped me. "No, our agreement is that your mouth remains at my pussy. You can do whatever you need to from down there."

We rested a minute. Then, out of curiosity, I asked, "in your agreement with Chasti-Permalock, what device did you agree to wear? If you're this hungry, I can't imagine you'd want a vaginal device, or at least not a permanent one."

"As a matter of fact," I AM getting a permanent vaginal device. No punishment features, just some intermittent buzzing to keep me a little excited."

"But aren't you going to miss cumming?"

"Chasti-Permalock has been fostering our careers for several years. We had been signing contracts without knowing how much we were signing over to the company. The discussions we've been having are actually not necessary -- they could force us to do promotions for them. But they'd rather that we participate willingly and with a little enthusiasm, so they're doing it as a mutual business move."

"But Chasti-Permalock has some riders that dictate the next twenty years of my life. You see, we were all just on seperate retreats following our last tour, ostensibly to teach us a little humility. I spent mine sharing a prison cell with an old, stinky, fat fart. They promised me that when my career is over, I'm going to live out the rest of my contract -- up to the twenty years -- servicing such perverts."

"I'm primarily lesbian. I'd rather wear a Chasti-Permalock device, be free from getting used there by these men, and become immortal enough to still have my youth and beauty after my contract is up, instead of endure it all and have my life gone by. Once our career is on the skids, I don't look forward to what's beyond."

"And what's the half-life of a pop group like ours? Especially a group of girls who don't particularily like each other. Three albums before the one that bombs? Our second didn't do so great, and I'm not impressed by the ones they gave us to record this time around. At least solo singers can 'reinvent themselves' by changing their wardrobe a little and doing a Playboy shoot or a classy movie."

"What about going solo?" I asked.

"I tried to get a deal struck. They all want Britt to be the one to go solo. Britt. Got the brains of a half-baked poodle. She'd stick a live grenade in her twat and pull out the pin if someone convinced her it would be fun. You can start licking my twat again, Jazz. Slowly."

I complied. "That's probably why they want Britt. Easy to manipulate. They hate it when we've got independent thought."

"You don't like your band-mates much, do you?" I noted, my tongue darting back to its work immediately after speaking. I was ministering mostly to the outside of her cunt, right now, straying as far away as the cracks where her thighs meet her crotch -- and the wonderfully intense tendons at that juncture which transmit everything to the clit on a lower level... perfect for recharging one's erotic batteries.

"You don't have to live with them on the road," Brandy laughed. "Christ. Britt's giggling gets on my nerves after awhile. And Andi -- "SweetHeart" to you -- is so pumped on her own ego that her breasts are going to pop. She's convinced she's the only one in the band with talent, and she's going to be the next Madonna, or the next Caledonia Cross. Feh. The worst of them, though, is PsycheDelia. She's actually a nice kid, but all that coke she uses is going to burn right through her brain and into her ass. Which is not a large distance, considering where they're positioned. She truly IS PsycheDelia. We had that name for her long before we all had the current image."

"That's how it all started, you know. The execs caught on that we were calling her that, and came up with tart names for all of us, complete with trashy go-go mini outfits. Then, everyone gets flashy multicolor, and I got stuck with drab, lame-ass white. Fuckin' white. Everything in music is about black music in white trappings. All the hyped superstars over the past hundred years were white folks made to sound black. Mariah Carey, Gillene Thomas Hawkins, Rick Astley, Enienna Ridge, JGK, Elvis Presley...."

"I don't know who these people are," I come up for air.

She patted my head. "That's okay, dear. Just keep licking. Me, I got a whole century of useless music trivia stored in my head. That's why they find me so threatening."

She started drifting, lost in thought. "A whole century. I wonder what the next century's going to hold, anyway. Now that I'm going to get to see it, that is. That's what's neat about the Chasti-Permalock stuff. You trade the ability to reproduce -- which is fine, because we're overpopulated as it is -- but you get to live practically forever."

"Maybe the future will be like that wacky story about that guy claiming to be from the year 2186 and that mankind had rebelled against some evil conglomerate and your company -- yeah, your company -- was at the center of it. Did you hear about that? Probably laughed in the boardrooms all day. Yeah, and apparently all bio-enhanced people were turned into slave commodities, with laws only recognizing true humans and granting rights to only them, but that the people in charge were really secretly bio-enhanced too... I mean, where did he come up with all this bullshit?"

"There's more immediate worries, I suppose," she pointed out. "There's enough growing protest over Chasti-Permalock that our promo could backfire. They say we're giving up our humanity."

"Personally, I'd rather be alive in another two hundred years with a few added features than dead in thirty."

I was picking up the pace a little by this point, and she was melting into the ministrations. Even her speech seemed to be drifting off. That is, until Britt skipped into the room.

"Oh! Sorry, Brandy!"

"Could you leave us alone awhile, kid?" Brandy called back to her. "I'm gonna be teaching my little puppy here some tricks, and I'd like some quiet."

"Puppy?" She giggled. "She doesn't LOOK like a puppy!"

"You know what I mean."

Britt just started chuckling, though. "Hold on. I've got just the thing. It'll stretch and fit, I'm sure. I think I left it here, a few months ago."

"What are you talking about, girl?" But Britt was already dancing up the stairs. I started back to my duties, but no sooner did the sound of her galloping disappear, and it started a resurgence all the way down the staircase.

"Brandy, this is SO cool! You've got to try this!" She was carrying a box, the lid already half off, and some latex fabric spilled over the edge.

"Britt, not now. I mean it...."

"No, this is serious. I wore this for Adrian, one night, and this suit is so cool. You should put your puppy in it. She'll be a REAL puppy, then." She was giggling incessantly. Brandy was getting annoyed, and I could tell from the tension in her thighs that the mood was gone, so I relented from my attempts to keep her relaxed, and simply kept my face over her crotch to protect her dignity. Brandy was edgy. I, however, wasn't quite so at home with the idea of being subjected to the unexpected.

"Look!" she beamed. "It's got little mitts that look like doggie fingers, and everything. And this mask, it's got flopsy ears, but leaves her mouth open for, well, what she's doing right now, I suppose.... Plus, it's got openings for her breasts and, well, I guess she doesn't need the crotch opening. But look at this tail!" It's great! You squeeze it, and it's all springy! When she crawls, she'll be wagging her tail. That is, if you can take that other plug out of her ass. Otherwise, she can't use the tail."

"Let me get this straight, Britt. YOU wore THIS for our ROAD MANAGER?!?"

"He heh he... Well, you know... we were just playing...."

"Here. Let me see those mitts."

Britt passed the box to Brandy, and she rifled through it for a few moments. I was getting a little more worried, at this point. I wasn't sure I liked this idea.

And then, she looked down at me with that lush sparkle in her eye that she had this morning when we met for the first time. And a diabolical grin....


Morning rose, and by ten to seven, the main-floor lobby of the Chasti-Permalock building is already quite active. This morning, everyone present received a bit more entertainment than they had bargained for.

"Black Beauty," the Diva Doll that everyone had seen leaving the building with a woman on leash in tow, had returned to turn a pet over to the security people. They scanned my bar code, and she signed the goods return form, turning me over to a guard.

I was dressed head-to-toe in tight-fitting black rubber with holes exposing my tits and plugged crotch, my hands sealed in confining mittens shaped to look like paws, and my legs folded over and restricted so that my ankles were pressed to my ass. I could only walk on hands and knees.

A collar sealed over the openings of my suit and my doggie mask, presenting a seamless appearance. The mask was fairly insidious, with attached dog ears and it actually covered my eyes, but was thinner at the eye sockets, so that I could see through to a limited extent. There was a dog snout that extended out a slight inch or so at my nose. From the upper lip to chin, though, I was open for use.

There were also two little ringing bells attached by clips to my nipples to attract attention to me, and I carried the tail plug that I was unable to wear between my teeth like a bone.

Brandy handed my leash over to one of the guards. "You'll have to lead her to her office, because I'm sure that she's not going to be able to get there on her own." Then, she crouched down and patted me on the head. "Take care sweet little bitch. I hope you get to lick me again before I get my appliances."

And then she turned and left.

Quickly, we did the retinal scan, and then obediently, I followed the guard on up to the sixth floor.

Cindy wasn't at the desk. Instead, there was a new girl. The guard noted this and asked about her.

"Oh, Cindy's been transferred. I'm Marla. And this must be Jazz. Jasmine, Mr. Sternson wants to see you first thing."

The guard reliquished my leash to her, and I was led to Big Brother Sternson's office.

He greeted me with a smile. "Well. I see you've had quite the night. What's that you've got in your mouth?"

He took the damned thing, and I was finally able to suck back the drool I'd been trailing, and then speak: "I don't know why they wanted me to bring the tail. I can't wear it, anyway."

"Oh, I don't know about that. I'm sure we could work it into a systems upgrade. It'd be a little more of an overhaul than usual, but..."

"Excuse my bluntness, Sir, but can I get out of this thing? I've got lots of work on my agenda, this week."

"Well," he answered, "you don't have quite so much anymore. There's been a change of plans. You see, part of our deal with the Diva Dolls was to provide a woman in Chasti-Permalock gear to their specifications. And Brandy's been particularily impressed with you. So you're going to be reassigned. As their mascot for the next little while."
"Mascot, Sir?"

"Well, yes. They want you exactly as you are now. Plus the tail. Only, in something a little more... permanent. Chasti-Permalock -style."

My heart leapt up into my throat, and a few tears sprang to my eyes. "But..."

"You remember company policy, don't you? You agreed to it when you were hired on. You'll wear what we assign and be transferred where we see fit. And after you've done your tenure as the Diva Dolls' mascot, you can be our mascot here, at Chasti-Permalock. We'll reprogram your quotas so that both male and female sexual fluids count at all times, but you will need three feedings a day."

"But I don't want to be a dog!" I protested. "Can't someone else...?"

"Absolutely not. Brandy was quite specific. You did too good a job pleasing her, pet. She's determined to get you, and you only. And we've initiated a legal name change on your behalf, too. you're just going to have a single name, from now on, no surname." He opened a cupboard door and turned a floor-to-top mirror mounted on the door so that I saw myself in it. "'Jasmine' isn't here anymore. Jazz, meet 'Muffy'. You'd better make the most of the next three days, because that's how long Tech Services says they're going to need to get your suit ready...."

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