Gordon Getithard, Good Guy

An Erotic SF story by 

Gordon Getithard set the rickshaw down at the curb of Givithard Productions and wiped the sweat from his balls. He checked his long-outdated phone for the time—which was about all it could do, and should. 

"Phew. I'm early for the interview," Gordon said to the vehicle's owner, a tall dark-haired woman with a mole above her upper lip. She hadn't told him her name and she hadn't bothered to vacate the rickshaw. Why should she? Another random guy would come along to catch a ride across town soon enough. And she wouldn't tell him her name, either.

Gordon added, "I always like to be early."

After she continued to not reply, Gordon cleverly added to his previous addition, "'Early' is my middle name."

Nothing, dangit. He'd have to think up some better material, and fast. This was a prestigious job he was interviewing for. Getting it could change his life. Gordon had people he cared about back home who were relying on him to score enough Points to make their lives better. Without this they'd probably starve to death. Or sell one another into sexual enslavement. Gordon didn't want either to happen.

The woman with the mole cleared her throat.

"So how much do I owe you?" he asked her, as per the law.

She scowled at him, sized him up. She smoked cigarettes, choosing to hold them with her bionic arm. Gordon knew it was bionic because it glowed pink and had a screen that would intermittently appear through the lifelike flesh of her forearm, displaying the stats of any particular male she sought to look up.

After peering through Gordon's own stats, eyes lingering on the numbers next to his government-certified flaccid and erect states (no doubt calculating the vast discrepancy between the two), the woman with the mole finally said, "Twelve nutslaps and two dinners, pretty boy." She licked her lime-green lipstick and added, "Fancy restaurants, too. I pick."

Gordon sighed and unashamedly dropped his pants. Bent over, he allowed the woman with the mole and the cigarette and the bionic arm to wind up and slap him in the balls, not once but twelve times in quick succession. Those were the rules now. The patriarchy was dead. The Sex Crimes Revolution of 2020 had seen to that.

"My, my," she said when she was done. "Your profile didn't lie. You certainly are a grower."

He gulped. His balls throbbed. He felt her cold silicone hand stroke them, then squeeze.

She swiped her card in his ass-crack and gave it to him. The card had her name and phone number on it and everything. Dr. Maxine Spunkguzzle, MD, it read. She winked and sat there, waiting to abuse and humiliate the next guy who needed a lift somewhere.

Gordon pulled his pants back up, pocketed the card and headed down the stairs into Givithard Productions' headquarters, towards the most important interview of his life.

From behind, Dr. Maxine Spunkguzzle shouted, "Good luck, fuckstick!"

Yes. The best of luck to him. After all, Gordon needed this.

Located underground and stretching for over fifty kilometres in any direction, Givithard Productions HQ was a massive, gaping testament to the genius of Gladys Givithard. Not only had she created the largest multi-planet-spanning megacorporation ever, she'd also become the Chief Executive of Earth in a landslide victory both in the election itself and for women's rights. Before she'd entered the race, with candidates that included a raging alcoholic, a convicted child molester and President Donald Trump, the choice had been obvious. Dan Juggins was a smart, persuasive guy; he just liked to download beer into his rectal implant to simulate the sensation of boofing an ice-cold bottle of Bud Light.

Yeah, Gladys Givithard's arrival had changed the game completely. Finally, there was the sensible choice! With no negatives to her name, too. 

Only once she came into power, the first thing she did was obliterate her boss, a chauvinistic male piece of shit. After that day, the roles had been reversed.

Women ran the world now. And boy, did they let men know it.

Gordon headed through a never-ending tunnel. The walls were soft, pink, and meant to resemble vaginal folds. There was a foul odour about the place. Salvation came in the form of a guardhouse, up ahead under the pulsating blue ceiling light.

He peered through the everything-proof barrier separating the inside of the guardhouse from everything else. A lone guardsman sat on a stool, talking to himself, with fat purple pouches under his eyes and hair like a dog with mange. He was unshaven and looked as if he wanted to die. 

Gordon pulled out his balls and rested them on the testicle receptacle for a few seconds. A scan was taken of his balls at that precise moment and were compared to existing balls in the system. It would no doubt match them to his own countless ball scans, filing the balls into his profile for this latest bit of widely known and entirely accepted surveillance.

The testicle receptacle—or testy-recepty as Gordon called them—glowed green.

"Hello," said Gordon, speaking into a large microphone-speaker combo, set above the single item-exchange opening just below the barrier. "I'm here for a job interview regarding the Good Guy position. My name is Gordon Getithard."

The guardsman continued staring into the void of his own soul, then glanced at Gordon and said, "I want to die." He smacked something on his side of the barrier.

There was a crackle.

A hiss.

A giant robotic hand on rusty hinges extended from the floor and made a fist, then shot out towards the guardsman's crotch, striking the area with enough force to propel the guardsman—still sitting in his chair—through a doorway and out of sight.

Lights overhead flickered on, leading off into the darkness, weaving this way and that. Gordon followed the lights through the dark pink tunnel.

The lights stopped at a green door. Nothing to do but go in.

Gordon opened the door with some trepidation—was he even going to the right place?—and found himself in a sweltering-hot pink room, plainly decorated with a stylish green futon and matching shelving units. A kitchen in one corner, and another door nearby. Maybe to a bathroom or bedroom?

A minute went by and he still stood in the same place by the door back to the tunnel. Would it be considered rude to sit down?

He began to notice the perverse paintings on the wall, which depicted various things reimagined as vaginas—including mountains, hamburgers and even vaginas. Shockingly, vaginas reimagined as vaginas looked nothing like vaginas.

Then there were the statues of gaping holes, just rings of smooth white rock floating on nanoparticles. One piece showed two hamburgers with a nipple each on the tops of the buns.

This was madness. Whoever enjoyed this filth was some kind of monster.

The door near the kitchen opened and out walked Gladys Givithard herself. Blonde, beautiful, brilliant to boot. Her bod was rockin' and she used it to her advantage. She had breasts which had swelled to the size of exercise balls after an enhancement surgery had the exact opposite outcome. Her face was sufficient and her caboose could knock you over.

She wore a see-through white top which allowed one to see pancake-sized nipples through it, whether one liked that sort of thing or not. Swollen red lips of vagina hung like curtains out the bottom of her tight miniskirt, just below her cheeks.

Gordon felt himself growing.

"Gordon Getithard?" she asked, raising an eyebrow. "Are you applying for the Good Guy position at my company?" Her voice was husky, like an old man who's smoked three packs a day since he was ten. "You do know we require all Good Guys to take their Vitamin She-12 pills, right? Because we test for that sort of thing."

"That's my name and that's my plan," Gordon said, trembling in his pants.

She opened her legs and squatted down low, kissing the wooden floorboards, sliding along and leaving a five-foot-long slimy trail behind.

"My name is Gladys Givithard," she said, "and I need a man who can take orders like a woman. Not only that"—she slid up close to him and reached into his pants, nudging his knob with the back of her hand before settling on cupping his balls—"but a Good Guy who can do me and get done by me whenever I want."

"Anytime, anyplace," he said.

"Do me right now. You have the job!"

"I'm a Good Guy!? WOW!" Gordon jumped up and down and fanned away tears.

"Yes! Do me! Before I decide to do you first!" She ripped open her white shirt, and her breasts spilled out like great vats of custard. "All the holes. And then I'll do you with my strap-on."

Gordon pulled out his twenty-five-inch rod and watched as it continued to grow. Nanoparticles were a bitch sometimes.

"Holy fuck!"

Holy fuck alright. At some point—maybe when Gordon's seventy-foot-long erection had popped off Gladys' robot head and smashed through the whole Givithard Productions complex—things stopped being fun.

Unfortunately for Gordon, they'd warned him such a post-surgery malfunction could occur. In times of great stress, they said, the nanites might go haywire and continuously self-replicate, even beyond the capacity of the host.

Such a point was reached when his heart exploded, unable to pump enough blood to reach the tip of his cock, which presently rested on Pluto.

His final thought when he died: It was either this or slumming it with a two-inch boner.

Needless to say, Gordon Getithard died with a smile on his face.