Free Cracked Porcelain by Drake Collins

that, during a routine, she’d spin around one of the dance floor poles in a flirtatious twirl, swinging her hips out and then find, upon looking over her shoulder, that most of the males in the audience had their tongues draped against their chins.
    Maximillia still saw herself as the daughter of a grease monkey who loved gadgets and never had a doll growing up. In her youth she was practically allergic to dresses and her proper femin inity had left much to be desired. The idea that she could possess any genuine sexuality was a foreign concept to her. It was a strange dichotomy because she actually thoroughly enjoyed the dancing and feeling attractive, but she entertained her private clients with carefully hidden disdain and contempt. She was never even mildly attracted to any of the customers, but they paid well. She flirted with the idea of abandoning the Bruisers as soon as Mardo's debt to the Tsen-Tzes was paid and going back home. It was a feeble fantasy, but one she wasn’t willing to let go of entirely.
    Her workload started to increase as she had become an unlikely virtuoso. If Xartha’s had a marquee plastered across the facade of the joint, Maximillia’s name would be the primary feature. The waiting list for her services grew by the day as incoming businessmen and locals moved to secure their reservations.
    She’d burn through six or seven clients a day. One particularly enthusiastic kylaxian visited several times a week and dropped the most generous of tips. If you peeked into her room at a random moment you might find Maximillia on her knees working a tarian’s cock around in her mouth, pressing it against her cheek or in the face-down-ass-up position, getting drilled from behind by an anxious, clingy thoran.
    Certain clients preferred to exploit her services in unorthodox manners . One saracian in particular liked to fuck her in the parking lot alley next to the trash receptacles and near the solar cell capacitors. One of Xartha’s security mechs would stand watch to ensure Maximillia’s safety as the client bent her over a trash can and throttled her asshole until he promptly emptied his seminal sacs into her silken canal. The perverse, mute batrachian’s bulging eyes would twitch, his chest inflating and deflating as his slimy, suction cup-tipped fingers clung tightly to her hips, granting him purchase as he expelled every precious drop of his essence into her, leaving her puckered button to helplessly drool out its creamy contents.
    The seemingly endless carousel of clients reduced their faces to featureless, meaningless distractions. She offered masterfully enthusiasti c performances for each of them but, inside, her face was slack and completely devoid of emotion. It was all mechanical lacking any discernible passion. The returns weren’t diminishing from client to client. The returns simply weren’t there to begin with. The sexual act became less a march to orgasmic victory and more a cold, aimless trudge ending in anti-climactic disappointment.
    The customers could care less. They had their perfect little human girl to toy with, playing out their every depraved fantasy. Each one had their kinks and she began to notice the habits. One khorlathian liked to drag his noodly sex tentacles across her forehead, spilling his seed across her flawless face. For effect, she’d smile as the goo coated her skin, pursing her lips and even licking some of it up. This ensured a most generous tip.
    A thoran john she called “Thornberry” was an effete aristocrat who favored her services in the royal suite, a room furnished with high-class stylings in mind. Thornberry wouldn’t actually lay a hand on Maximillia. He’d merely sit back and watch, puffing away on a toco stick, as his hulking robotic adjunct rutted into her pink, tenderized gash with its significantly large phallus module. The robot, who she eventually dubbed “Krong", was outfitted with an immaculate nano-resin shell possessed of a