Kock Kredit Inc.

You start paying credit with credit you don't have. Interest rates for such things can literally burn you out. You start by paying five for two; meaning you pay two kredits for every five you make. But then you have to pay expenses to have the equipment to do the work. The company will provide it for you when you can't buy it, but the price will come at a really fucked up oversold rate. So now you're paying five for three but you didn't pay off your debt in the time agreed upon, so now your interest rates really kick in! And suddenly you're paying five for four. So you started out being able to pay 30% straight, and end up paying only 10% of your debt. And now you still have to make paying your debt before the company adds another year. Most "box slaves"usually can't make that kind of payment because they can't maintain that kind of pace. Oh there are more than enough "clients", but making the cash with such a big stone to push up hill is nearly impossible.

Many other factors may contribute to why you can't pay. You may fall sick and can't "work". You may run afoul of disease or injury, like a broken bone. The CDC scrubbers installed in the booths will not unlock if they deem you a health risk to the public. In the really good booths the power will shut off if it detects you have a fever. So even if you are able to fool the outside scrubbers, like so many do with sanitizer, you still have to be able to step in with a passable clean bill of health physically; easier said than done.

My toes are deliciously warm as they slide up the backs of pants covered calves. I moan softly as a small electric thrill races through my stomach around my waist and up my spine and over my nips. I nearly stretch out languidly and giggle until I reach down and feel hands that are way too long and soft to be my husband's. The smell is wrong and I hear the whud-doosh of the commuter train zooming over the spaces between the magnets that propel it along. My eyes pop open and I see several asshole corporate types eyeing me. I'm in a trenchcoat that is button up to my neck. I'm also not alone in the coat.

My walking spa-attendant had sat us down on one of the long benches. The bastards watching us probably made way just for him when he moved us toward said seating. I'd fallen asleep on my feet. Dammit! That's not a good thing, especially with a stranger. Falling asleep during a feel-up deal, the same kind I had with the teen, is paramount to giving the other person permission for penetration "by default of involvement" via no pre-set verbal parameters. In other words, I didn't say he couldn't stick dong in me should I fall asleep during the act; which I didn't think I would have done. But you have to remember (like I should have) that I haven't physically run with any form of discernible effort in years. My falling asleep left him the sole controlling interest in our little deal, and therefore left to him to decide what to do; since I obviously trusted him enough (that is according to the K-Kred Judges) to fall asleep during the transaction. I gave him PBO, permission by omission, to screw the living daylights out of me.

Thank heavens that didn't seem to be what got his rocks off. He seemed to like the attention of the others as he played my unconscious form like an orchestra cello. My bra is unsnapped again, and I can't feel my knickers' trying to wedge their way to my navel. In fact, I can't feel them at all. (Oh! That's right. I lost before I fell into the commuter train.)I want to complain but this guy is indeed a "Master Celloist."

Another thrill. I can barely keep my lips pressed together under the sanguine electric wave that pulsed through me. There must have been some pretty good sounds coming out of me (no pun intended) because there were a good half a dozen guys within my line of sight who had their hands discreetly hidden in their pants pockets and a dozen and a half more pretending not to notice.

I give roughly two to two hundred and fifty handjobs a year in collected Kred. Maybe a tenth of that number is done discreetly in barely visible high traffic areas; some guys love the thrill of making moves right under people's noses. So I don't blush easily. But when I glanced at all those guys watching me I must've turned redder than the exit light telling people to stay clear of the doors. I didn't have time to be that embarrassed as another thrill passed through me. My spa guy had magic fingers, and he was dialing my only button with expert dexterity.

My back was still to his front and my legs were straddling his long limbs, with my toes hidden from the AC behind his calves. He was a tall one because my toes slipped loose as another thrill hit me hard. I drew my knees in trapping his hand and sat up straight or as far as the buttoned up jacket would allow. We must have looked like a four legged mutant sitting there. His dark slacks and dress shoes, my pale legs and knitted flats quivering in the air must have made quite the photo op for someone. I was just glad the view was from mid calf down. I think anyone of these pervs watching us would have tried to mount me if they knew spa-guy had hiked my dress all the way up my thighs.

He hadn't sunk his fingers in me at all, which would have been his legal right while I was out of it, but there really wasn't a need. This "body musician" didn't need to invade for this escapade. That's why I woke up. My cheeks and bunghole were soaked, he might as well had been f-banging me raw style. I must have really been gone because my crotch felt like a walrus with a lisp had been using my labia for a beatbox partner. And I was ready to praise a couple gods and not too many saints as warm electricity sparked back and forth under my navel.

My perineum convulsed along with my ya-ya and I felt the tremendous heat of my travel-buddy's engorged member beneath me. Look, I don't hand out praises often because I have had "accounts" with all manner of man. But this guy's chub literally hulked into something I've only wondered about feeling when watching some bestiality vids! Ho momma!! Grab the kiddies people! There are two legged horse spies infiltrating the populace! And they want (and will get) the womenfolk!

His fingers continued to work and I kept making retarded sounding moans. Once I realized the heated cannon beneath me was part of my spa-guy, I began to put my once-upon-a-time glorious ass into motion. Like I mentioned, I'm no novice so I began to massage King Casaba's hot thunder wang with my ass. I gritted my teeth so I wouldn't get any louder and made us both sit up. I hung my head so my hair was shrouding my face from view and began to gyrated my tailbone over the tip of him. I couldn't hold back anymore, besides, he deserved this. He helped me when no one else would. Let the others watch and envy, they deserved to be the ones left wanting.

Finally I burst, I threw my head back and arched my back. I landed on him with a thud but if it hurt him I couldn't tell. My knees raised and touched each other freeze-locking in that cum-intense fashion. My feet quivered in air and I think I lost a shoe. Train Hero's breath was hot on my neck as he spouted in his slacks. I felt him convulse several times as his big hands gripped my hips to him as if I might float away before he was done.

We went limp as discarded rugs. We both were panting, dizzy, and cum drunk. God only knew what the inside of his jacket smelled like. I pretty sure I rained without meaning to, you just don't cum that hard and not. And his dry-cleaning bill was going to be just as epic as our deal. An eternity later, he shook me gently and I opened my eyes for a second time. I looked around and startled awake again. The train was nearly empty. I saw long stretches of padded benches and one or two transients left. Funk brought me back to us and I realized he'd opened his coat.

Oh boy. Maybe I should sing Happy Birthday Mr. President to him. Dame Mortenson would hate me for stealing her shtick right about now.

Body-Celloist didn't seem to mind in the least. Once I eased out of his lap, I slid along the bench because I didn't trust my knees to hold me up. He simply buttoned his coat back up. Then looked down at me, smiled, opened his palm, then "slipped me five"; paid me by touching his ring to my ring. After the rings changed colors he offered me his arm, which I took gratefully. You just don't meet these types in casual settings. The venue is always as obscure as the extraordinary level of the gentleman's debonair. I might have leaned on him a little more than I should have. In fact, if not for my monumental effort to salvage the teensiest bit of what dignity I had left, my toes might have literally been dragging across the concreted surface of the terminal.

Now we were out on the platform. He stepped away when we were sure I wouldn't crash to the ground, then he tipped an imaginary hat and walked toward his platform. I watched him for a second or two then turned and bolted up the flight of stairs to the parking lot and my car.

Alright. I'm exaggerating. In my mind I turned and ran up the stairs to the parking lot, but in reality I looked like a college retard trying to validate her experiment that "one can walk a discernible distance on over-steamed noodle-legs and keep their dignity." I mostly just stumbled on Jello-boned filled knees up the stairs hand over hand by the ascending handrail.

The rain had been both my enemy and my friend. Right now it was my enemy. It had quit and left behind a thickening fog in my suburb. I couldn't see shit in the parking lot of the train station and that worried me. What if "Kong" had gone ahead of me? What if he knew I commuted, and lay in wait near my car? Those fuckers had all kinds of information access and if they didn't, they knew just who to go to get it. It was one of the reasons why women had very specific friends at work. A frienemy would give you up in a second over a good finger-bang or world class Shocker. But a friend would tell a Collector to buzz off, even with the promise of a epic orgasm and a potential three hundred Kred advance.

I didn't have a lot of time. I both didn't and did want to get to my car. If I kept waiting it was going to get dark making it harder to find my car and give the Collector less chance of being seen raping me beside my car. Half the time I had to sound the alarm to find it. My husband told me not to do that because it could alert attackers to my vehicle. But I told him I made a point of waving down the transit cop before leaving the platform. I had spent too long on the damn train in orgasmic Shangri-la; the cop was nowhere to be seen and it was getting late. Cars were constantly exiting, and each one made it more likely I was going to be spotted on the way to my car. Dammit!!

I had to move. I made one final scan of the parking lot then dashed for my car keeping as low as possible. To whom I was thankful I wore flats today. With the wet ground, running in heels would probably have left me with a snapped ankle and crawling on my hands and knees to my vehicle with the Zulu Lord Vanilla Ass-Cheek Destroyer closing in on me. Wouldn't that be a bit of symbolism? Sarah Connor, eat your heart out.

I get to the car with the key ready to go into the ignition. Oh no, he was not going to get me at the car if I could help it. I popped the locks as I reached for the handle and locked them the second I could slide into the driver's seat. The key was turning half a second after the door slammed and the locks engaged. Before I pulled out, my heart lept into my throat as I remembered I didn't check the backseat. I panted audibly as I felt the sweat all over my body go cold at once. My heart hammered my rib cage. I was in no shape to fight off anyone. I just had one of the most incredible orgasms this month and I had run twenty yards to the car on "jelly-knees"; which is roughly the equivalent of a four mile sprint...over rolling earthquake terra. Yeah, I know. You wish you could get it that good, don'tcha?

I finally checked the backseat, moving quickly for a good look and totally expecting huge hands to grip the back of my neck, cutting my scream short, as twelve of fourteen inches of man-meat get crammed down my throat. Hey, I'm not exaggerating! You hear things, you know? The office pool and around; and people talk about this guy. He is feared, admired, envied, and very rarely openly hated. This guy's post coitus MO is putting failed clients in wheelchairs. If that is not a reason to run and scream I don't know what is.

Anyway, I was scared out of my bean for nothing. He wasn't back there. I quickly pulled out of my spot and rudely cut off a jerk that wasn't going to let me in. Why do assholes do that? Pretend they are soooo concentrated on what is ahead of them that they somehow conveniently forget to be courteous? It doesn't make you any less of an asshole. It just means you're a terrible driving asshole; an idiot that needs all their mindpower to drive a vehicle they've been driving for months, if not years, on a route they do at the same time at least five days a week. Sheesh. I almost flip him off, but I'm having a run of good luck and don't want to jinx it.

Thanks to my jelly-knees I feel like I have to stomp extra hard on my accelerator and use both feet for my brakes. It is not a quick ride home. But I eventually make it. I pull into the driveway and nearly sob with relief. I giggle hysterically with my hands and forehead on the steering wheel. "They can't come to your home." I repeat it like a mantra. Sure I just had masturbatory sex of the year with a complete stranger, but fingers are hell of lot smaller than man-meat of any size. The Zulu will have to go get his kicks from some other loser on Route 66; at least for today.

God, what am I going to do about tomorrow? Will he go after Ron? Is the debt that huge that his superiors will rule "any ass" acceptable collateral? It's been known to happen. If obligations such as a CEO or Stay-at-Home parent can't work the booths or any of the other jobs, then a known relative of either gender has been an acceptable substitute to get slotted for collection of pass-due amounts. You have to remember, this "entity" is not officially sanctioned. They can run Collection however they please.

I don't know how to solve this because I've been crying at the wheel. It's not until I stepped out of the car and turn back to lock it up that I see how badly my day has been treating me.

My reflection is a fright. My hair is this side of a witch's perm, and my dress is wrinkled, rumpled and rank. I feel sticky where my dress doesn't touch me and thanks to my crying, my masqura is running. I looked like a two legged furless brothel raccoon that has had better days. I manage an exhausted half-smile and shuffle into the house.

There's no one home, except Amanda...and she is with someone in her room. Judging from her exclamations they are not playing virtual checkers! I don't even bother with knocking. I quietly try the door. Good. It's locked. It is the perfect excuse to give my homicidal rage an outlet.

I put my weight behind my shoulder and the door flies open with so much force the entire inner doorjam is ripped out of the frame. Amanda's confidant flips up and over on his side, whipping out his arm at me. Amanda screams incoherently. Her voice doesn't make sense because she can't warn me properly, tell her "bunk-fuddy buddy" not to do what the hell it is he's doing, or explain herself, all in the same breath. It doesn't matter because I don't really want to listen to anything she has to say. I also really don't get the chance because I can see why she is screaming.

The muscly bald black guy with thick eyebrows and goat-tee has thrown a knife at me. I don't know how, who, why, or what gods of war extend their grace to mortals but they laid a doozy of a Favor upon me. It seems rage gives you razor-like focus, and I literally whip my hand up on reflex and catch his throwing knife by the handle; stopping the point of the blade an inch from my throat. I can't tell if the black guy is horrified that he nearly killed his girlfriend's mother or the fact I caught his knife in so bad-ass a fashion. Either way, if I could have registered what I'd done, I might have fainted. Unfortunately for them my mad-on, is not affording me to take in any other input than she is the cause of everything that has gone wrong today. And now she has the nerve to defile my home with this disrespectful act!?

I stand there in the shadow of dwindling sunset in the door entrance, holding the knife at my side. I glare from under my witch's perm, not saying a word. After a thirty seconds, Amanda finds her voice. It's trembling with uncertainty.

"Mom..!?? W-what...is that...? What happened to you??" she asked with wide eyes.

I don't answer right away. After another thirty seconds I speak, "I had a bad day at work. There were some issues with my Kredit at lunch, dear." The black guy with her wisely remains mute. I look as if my voice should be raspy punctuated by the occasional cackle. But it doesn't sound any different than it would were I coming in from grocery shopping. I think the fact that I'm not moving at all is unnerving them. Good.

To my soon-to-be disowned daughter's credit she doesn't deny or try to hide what she's done.

"Oh...umm...about t-that. I was going to call you after I fixed it. I moved my bill onto your account." She says passively, but then quickly adds. "I wasn't going to tell you. I was hoping to take care of it. I didn't think you'd be using any of it so soon." She can't hold her eyes on me, the shame of failing is dragging them down.

"Who's your friend?" I ask again in the same voice. The temple in the black man's head is beginning to stand out, and his eyes are wide. You'd think he was anxious for some reason. An apparent crazy woman standing stark still in the only exit to the room, with a weapon that a moment ago was his only defensive offensive play. And now he was naked and defenseless in bed. What was there to be anxious about?

Amanda wants to explain. She looks at him looking at me and doesn't seem to be able to put the correct words together. So he speaks, "I'm Cornelius, ma'am. I'm Amanda's boyfriend. She called me to help solve her Kredit problem. I see you've met Sam."

This ought to be good.

"Sam?" I say with a tilt of my head, as if I'm considering the name for adding to my cauldron later.

"Y-yes ma'am. I gave Sam your working address and sent him a pic of you. It wasn't easy because you don't default on your deals. I needed a pic from Amanda. Once I had that, I forwarded it to Sam. It was so he could get to you before any of the other K-hunters could find you."

"And what exactly would Sam have done once he found me?" I tighten my grip on the throwing knife. Amanda unconsciously scoots behind her beau's shoulder, sheets held up to her chin.

"I-I told him to find you, and keep you safe until we could all meet. A-and th-then we could w-work out how to fix the debt." Cornelius says, his eyes now darting between the throwing knife and my face in shadow.

I consider them for a moment. I can tell each second is causing the unbelievable amounts of stress. "And what makes you think this 'Sam' will be so accommodating?" I don't say his name. I'm not letting him for second think I might not try and disembowel him.

"Because he's my brother, ma'am."

I let that information process then ask, "And this?" Holding up the knife so that the point escapes the shadow I'm in. The light catches the sharpened tip.

He actually for the first time looks genuinely embarrassed. "Well, um...I too am a K-Collector. And we often come across the deadbeat woman-"