Kock Kredit Inc.

I stare back at him and feel mostly terror...with just a little bit of excited wanton. Down girl!

Hey, screw you. I told you he was shirtless.

As the train pulls from the station, I right myself and apologize profusely to the guys whose backs I just jumped on to cushion my escape. I speak quietly and quickly, and I think the only thing that keeps them from raving when they turn around is that my "girls" are trying to jump ship! I follow their eyes to my bulging cleavage and jump with a start to cover myself while tugging on the wet wrap cross sections to the upper part of my dress. I don't like having to use my bedroom dressing dance in public but I'm not exactly spoiled for choice either. If I were alone, I'd simply reach into my cups and place my 'mom-flesh' back into their positions. I'm not sure when I started that dance, but I'm certain in my disgruntled mood, that the dance takes longer and longer the older I get. Hmmm, maybe I should find more time for extracurricular activities to trim some of this..."excessiveness."

Anywho, there is no help for it now, so I have to shake and jiggle the traitors back into their respective positions. The bastards standing there don't bat an eye or at least pretend to not look. I can't be too mad though, they did somewhat save my ass; both figuratively and literally. A bit of wet wiggling is not too out line in the way of appreciation on my part.

My next concern is I'm drenched; as I mentioned before. I ran/trotted that short distance into the terminal but I might have as well been two blocks away, because the commuter pedestrian traffic in and out of the terminal was frustratingly congested. The result of that decision is yours truly who now resembles one very jiggly, fleeing, drowned rat. To make matters worse, I shamelessly have to lean forward to get my décolletage in order, AND I left my scarf in my cubicle along with my jacket! So now I'm stuffed in a subway car, shoulder to shoulder with upper, middle, and lower class guys, soaking wet, hair in a dog-mane, AND now jiggling six inches of glistening wet cleavage back into my dress top.

Does it get better, you ask?? Oh suuuure! It can't be left unsaid that our body heat will soon turn this ride into a neigh unbearable sauna! BUT have no fear! Five minutes into that, the AC will literally run so high anyone not properly protected from the wet weather will DEFINITELY wake up the next day with Pneumonia. If it weren't for the booze on half these guys' breath, who have probably spent the last hour drinking in a pub rather than closing out quarterly stacks or filing in engineering building reports, I would be giggling hysterically, instead of wanting to blow chunks. Jeez, the heat mixed with their breath is the next best thing to CS gas. My eyes begin to burn and water, and I'm praying my mascara hasn't turned me into 'Maniac Mary.'

Another dysfunctional norm of society and commuter transport is that the Japanese fetish of train-groping has made its way to the States. Not two minutes into the sauna effect, several different hands have run over and up the crack of my thongless ass. Do I wear thongs? Not without a beach. My satin underwear had slid into the twenty extra pounds of unwanted cubicle-desk ass when I was making my getaway. Boy, do I wish they were still there now.

Yeah, I'm batting a thousand today. (Did you miss the sarcasm there?)

I could curse the gods for allowing me to get out of bed this morning. But I would have had to be in their favor in order for that to have been possibility. As it stands right now, that Pneumonia I mentioned is very likely. I feel the first of the AC's cycle kick in glide along the floor level. My ankles feel like their forming ice crystals and goosebumps race over me like CGI close camera cinematography. I shiver bodily, and I can't dry off because I left my damn scarf in my cubicle!!

How does this get worse, other than the wet dress, phantom molesters, glistening cleavage, and now the AC running full blast which I would not have noticed if I had my jacket!!? Well, here's how; my nipples are turning hard enough to cut glass. Thanks to the AC, I'm the only one in the whole damn car that is shivering. And no one is offering their coat because A: they are enjoying watching all one hundred and thirty-nine pounds of me quiver. And B: news flash, yours truly is not what you would call Cosmo magazine material. I'm more like that category from the internet, MILF I think I've heard it called. I'm not sure why that would be desirable, but having "padding" has come back into vogue; who knew, right?

The fact remains that I'm standing in the middle of a seven to two ratio of men to women, and no one has offered me any relief from the cold. I hug myself with my hands tucked into my armpits, while trying to keep my nips under my forearms. It works, though not that well, and I begin to feel despair dragging me down even further. Because no matter how miserable I am now, I still have to deal with the guy whom I was escaping. This ride takes a while but it's not forever. I should have a pretty good whooping cough (Good-bye sick days I was squandering for Spring Break) by the time the doors open at our destination.

As I wait for my nose to clog, I happen to look over catching motion out the corner of my eye. A guy who is taller than me by six inches, in a long over-sized trenchcoat, is beckoning me to come and share with him. His Kredit ring is illuminating a dull yellow, indicating he wants to spend. He's half turned toward the car wall which means he probably doesn't want others to see him spend his Kredit. It's been awhile since I've "tricked for Kred" but I'm freezing and this ride's going to be at least forty minutes easy.

Fuck it.

Before I ease over into him, I check my Kredit ring. I switch to Receive-Anon. It's an emergency setting in case of an accident and you need money moved quickly into or out of your account. I know what you are going to ask. Why didn't I use it when I was back in the office? And to counter that I'd like to ask you, at what point exactly would I have had time to use that option? Was it before my panicked flight when I realized the Bane of All Booty Cheeks was in the lobby? Or would it have been right after the K-hunter would have had a change of heart and turned off his jammer long enough for me to actually find someone willing to help me fix the problem? Go ahead and answer. I'll wait.

Now, if I may continue...?

I'm near him now, putting my back to his front and press in close to let him know that I know how this exchange is supposed to proceed. I button the coat as I move closer. It's pretty roomy. And I know why. His shoulders are broader than his waist. This must be the universe balancing itself out. What are the odds I attract two beefcakes in the same day for opposite reasons?

The Kred, in this instance, is an unspoken agreement; he gives me warmth, and I let his hands roam where they will. I've done it before for a whole lot less than creature comfort, so I sigh and lean back.

He has big hands.

I'm glad to find out he's as warm as he is Big n' Tall. If my feet weren't wet, I'd pur. He goes to work with his hands but it's not in the manner I expect. I was prepared for him to begin walking my dress up my thighs, but instead he's dabbing my hair with a handkerchief. Is this the balance of the universe still at work?? Naw. He's probably just some perv with a specific ritual before he begins to spend his Kred. I sigh and wait. At least he's not one of those guys who pants because he's so excited. Ew. And double yuk. Why don't those types just stamp 'degenerate herpe-ridden loser' on their foreheads and save everyone time? But no, he's drying my hair and dabbing my neck dry. I nearly giggle it's so unreal. Just ten minutes ago I was running from an African Warrior King-ish type with the most severe intentions for my posterior in mind; and now I'm with a guy I'd practically say 'yes' to if he asked to me this instant to marry him.

I notice something else about this guy, he smells a lot better than the space I was in a few minutes ago. Before the air was cloying and chilled and reeked of moldy banana. Now I'm warm and he smells of leather and melted chocolate. I almost turn fully around to inhale him but if I did that the parameters of our Kred Encounter would change and then he doesn't need permission to "Impale." His trenchcoat is long enough that we won't be breaking any Indecency laws either. As long as no one else, such as a child or pre-teen, can see our genitals it would be ok. But that's not the name of this game.

You see, I'm married. And I cannot go spending K-Kred like the twenty-three year old-let-me-jack-this-guy-off-because-I-HAVE-to-have-those-boots-to-go-with-that-purse airhead I used to be; at least not anymore. The same goes for an Anon Encounter; if not, doubly-so. I have to keep this totally professional so that the boundaries are not blurred should it get hot 'n' heavy for us inside this guy's coat. So I stay facing away from him. I also reframe from making any noises, those can be instigative, and can be construed as such by Kreditor Court; not a pretty picture for a spouse. I could end up owing this guy some 'tush' every other Saturday for the next month if found guilty.

So I inhale and keep quiet, letting him dab me dry. He has a half-chub but I don't find that threatening. It's when they take the Full Missile out and rest it between your cheeks on your tailbone is when you have to worry. That's their version of waiting on the word from you, like an Indie car waiting for those lights to fall through the yellows to flash green; they're saying they are revved for action.

I'm sorry. I know. I know. I'm rambling because I don't know what to do. And you want to know why a middle—young middle aged woman is running from a half naked linebacker who wants to do her like she's last woman on Earth? You want to know why he's chasing a Chubby like me? And you're wondering why I owe him when I had not been expecting to pay at all? The answer is simple. My lousy rotten simple-bitch of a daughter got herself in trouble. And I, being the dumb retard of a mom and all around sucker, was the closest person she could run to for help.

This dumb huckleberry bitch goes to a corporate party slash orgy, the absolute worst of the worst kind of party a Newb could attend. She was there on the premise that everyone who was there, was there to have a good time. She gets high on drugs and alcohol and jumps from sucking the dicks of ugly guys, to deepthroating cute well made guys; not thinking in her inebriated state to ask if the well-built guys there at the party are Off-the-Clock. This ass-brained cluck racks up sixty-eight hundred creds in dick-ery (penis to norms). O-fuckin-blivious to the damage and chaos she's creating to her own very limited Kred account. Do you know how many orgasms this bitch had to have to build such debt? They were probably fucking that dumb cooz in her sleep...anally! Oh yeah, the women in our family don't come in small packages. We're in sizes Healthy to Fluffy without much effort at all. We can party like road warriors if we're given enough rope to hang ourselves.

How did I come to owe on her fucking dues, you ask? Easily answered; that no-good baby-gravy-bucket must have went into my room while I was at work and used my old accounting dildo. I keep it in case of emergencies, like if I lose the finger ring model that replaced it. Both devices are interchangeable with the sub-dermal implant chip most everyone has installed. I say most everyone because there are some illegal free-lancers in porn who can't get the permits to work, so they de-activated their chips to be paid with hard cash. There is that, and the fact the neuro-chip renders whatever body part you are using at the time immobile when you have Insufficient Funds or an Overdue balance in your account. This was exactly what happened to me at lunch. But we'll get to that. Back to explaining the first model for Kred use; the mystery of dildo usage.

This is how it works, say for instance a guy that is a complete fat, nasty, greasy, pimply-faced son-of-a-Ug-glee-bitch, only chance for stimulation is prostitution. Well, this pug-ugly tech overweight tech jockey has to pay to get laid, and the only stimulation he can negotiate (oh yeah, he's that gross) is masturbation. With a Kock-Kredit neuro-banking-chip installed, deals and transactions are quick, and action follows without worries. You call whatever Prostitute you like, the two of you "slide hands" making the transfer of money, and then she jerks, sucks, or fucks you as the service you paid for. Goods sold and paid for, right? Until you use up your Kredit.

Now you are using your own Kredit, the principle, because you have no more Transferable Kredit (spending cash). Personal Kredit is actual credit, the kind you have pay back to the lenders who turned your actual money into Kredit. If you use up your personal Kredit and you are masturbating because you can't buy someone to do it for you, then your fist freezes up around your dick or your fingers in your beaver-orchid. Yeah, try getting dressed for work then. It will stay that way for twelve hours or until you call the Kreditors to send for a Collector to "unlock" your chip. Then you either pay them the money owed or work it off in a number of ways.

You can pay from a stash you have or have a relative lend you the money, or negotiate to "work" off the debt if neither of the former is possible. That last one is not a place you want to end up.

But I digress.

I was explaining how that dumb little ball-licker I call a daughter got me into this mess. The dildo was the first model when K-Kred to hit the scene. But as cool as it was to trade in Sex, a commodity everyone seemed to want and nearly anyone could use, it proved ungainly to pull out your dildo every time you wanted to load up on Kred. No you don't need a partner to load Kred, it just more fun that way and infinitely more lucrative. It's the difference between playing the Penny slots (self masturbation) and the Dollar slots (sex with an agreed upon partner). All you need is a private space and some time.

What does it mean when I say using dildos were inconvenient? Well, a long time ago, in my grandmother's era, women used to set up personal accounts with cameras. Cameras for video recording you that actually came separate from your console! Can you imagine?! My god, the stories she'd tell me. I nearly died laughing hearing this stuff at eight years old. No wait! It gets better! She said they used analog keyboards. Honest to God! The letters to make words were on their own individual keys. One key per letter and other keys for other specific purposes. But, for me, it was the pressing down on the keys to make them work is where I'd laugh myself silly! I couldn't imagine having to slam down my fingers with enough force to make words. It nearly sounds prehistoric. I couldn't stop laughing. Picture having to hold down a certain key to correct mistakes!? I don't know how much work I wouldn't get done if I couldn't just tell my console to erase the last four words or three sentences if I didn't want them.

But again, I digress. How one created Kred on her own was by doing requests. You would put in your ID number. Then you would get sorted by whatever site you've signed on with for that day. There are dozens sites with open spots for which ever genre you like to perform in. And there are infinite ways you can go about working. You can work with someone by linking up on a Share IP. Or you can jump onto a chain story, but that requires you read up on a script in advance and get in contact with other participants in the story. This is a particular favorite of school kids in both high school and college. Or you can go plain vanilla solo and slip yourself into the category you're best equipped for. For me that was usually, depending on how many outfits I owned. I favored the Thick Thighs category. Schoolgirl, Nurse (both skirt and scrubs), Action heroine, Just out the Shower which was simply me in a towel or t-shirt, and a few other sub-categories.

All these channels, topics and categories were pay-per-view, and yes all of them involved gadgets. One of those gadgets, your Kred dildo, you'd leave connected to your console. When you received the correct amount of Kreds, your dildo turns green. You then perform the requested (and paid for) act. Easy and simple. Ofcourse the "KD" went the way of the dinosaur when the rings were introduced to the populace. And that was when Kock Kredit really took off. Because now it was High Mobility; you were no longer confined to a room.

The rings made it possible to double one's income. No longer confined to one space, many adventurers took to meeting up. Personal visits could be charged for a higher rate. It would have been as risky as normal prostitution, and in the beginning, it was until the Kreditors figured out how to track phony accounts. Ghost Accounting didn't last two weeks before Kreditors cracked down. All it took was one assault and Kock Kredit was as safe as it was when women did it from their rooms. How? All accounts are tracked through the person actual bank accounts; protected by strict privacy laws and procedures. The most enduring of these procedures were Harlequin Accounts. Accounts set up with a number instead of a name. And that name can only be released to authorities in the event the owner is involved in a murder or missing persons' case. And that person has to be proven to be in direct involvement with the investigation; no exceptions. The system gained notoriety nearly over night.

Prostitutes in states where prostitution was legal were up in arms. Certain tourists' spots around the world suffered. Many places which thrived on tourism prohibited the use of Kred within five miles of an established location. And when many of those locations overlapped, it didn't pay to have a Kredit-chip in the area. There were many political battles and for a short time you couldn't turn on the news without someone mentioning a Kred case for advertising, or personal involvement with Kred. Politicians raved, and corporate lawyers roared back in response. The world became a giant chess board over who could get sanctions in place before amnesty was granted to freshly minted branches. And from these ideas, new off-shoot ideas were created. They too collected payment but in a different and more stringent manner. But the bottom line was that Kredit had made its mark.

It was here to stay.

To be clear, sex sells. It also trades very well too. Selling it is not as lucrative as you might think. But if you apply the correct and proper regulations in how it is "spent", then that too will become a beneficial means of currency. It starts out as a person buying a ring and using it for that sole purpose, to relieve stress. Then the process evolved; that led to the Prostitution Renaissance, but instead of making money you accumulated Kred. Prostitution could now be mainlined. This is done by trading sex for money through corporate Kock-Kredit, which is back by actual money. The safety net is that no is ever cheated out of their cash because the world would never run short of sex. The Kredit Union could "finance" anyone. As long as you had good health and were physically capable, you had an account.

Another boon in regards to having an account was your account would never be pirated or fall victim to kredit fraud. Monitored Biometric readouts tailored to your specific physiology guaranteed personal security. No one who wasn't you could load, spend or borrow against your account. The best feature, and arguably the worst aspect to having a biometrically monitored account with the Kredit Union was "Auto-Reactive Appendage Shutdown." This feature- you guessed it- will shut down your account, and you physically, via those impulses. The only thing you have to do as a Prostitute, Ring-holder, or Sex Broker, depending on how you want to look at it, is make good sexual deals to make Kred, AND PAY YOUR BILLS!