Roulette (scifi)
by z119z
© 2014 by the author
Minotaur 4—Your Gateway to Pleasure
No one ever admits the real reason for buying the Minotaur 4 game console. All the ads extol the Minotaur series as “fun for you and your family.” Of course, many parents do buy the Minotaur 3 version and invest in a game visor for every member of the family. By linking the visors together, a family can enjoy a joint vacation at a theme park with rides for the kiddies and lots of opportunities to interact with their favorite cartoon characters. Or they can take a sightseeing trip to the Grand Canyon or the Great Wall or the Pyramids—they are hundreds of possible destinations. They can even journey off-world to the colonies on the Moon and Mars or take an imaginary voyage by spaceship to the outer planets or distant galaxies. They can go skiing together on Mount Everest or scuba diving along a reconstruction of the Great Barrier Reef. Or they can visit one of the grand movie theaters of the 1930s, buy popcorn, jujubes, and soft drinks, and watch the newsreel, the cartoon, and the main feature. For an additional payment, the family members can become the characters in the movie and experience the action firsthand. The more competitive can play as a family against other families in any number of sports and role-playing games. The “home” edition even has educational programs. Native speakers will teach you or your children French, Chinese, Russian—any language in the world. Is your child having problems in math? A tutor will offer instruction catered to your child’s needs. Do you want to become a gourmet cook? You can attend classes taught by master chefs. Need help with your golf swing? It’s only a few blinks of your eye away.
But for every family that purchases the G-rated Minotaur 3 family edition, there are ten people who buy the “adults only” Minotaur 4. The adult version provides all the options the family edition does—but it doesn’t stop there. Minotaur 4, as the ads trumpet, is “your gateway to pleasure.” And if you can’t find your particular pleasure, you can buy the “easy programming tool” and create it.
The breakthrough behind the Minotaur game consoles had come eight decades earlier when GC Labs developed the implants that allow a human mind to be linked directly to a computer. By 2100, over 98 percent of human beings had the GC chip—in fact, having your chip surgically removed became the twenty-second century’s equivalent of the death penalty.
It didn’t take long for applications to multiply, and the Minotaur game consoles quickly became the gateway of choice for entertainment. The easy-to-operate visor links each user to the Minotaur Corporation’s computers. You position the visor so that the access port is aligned with your implant and then key in your name and password using eye movements and blinks on the first screen to appear. Once logged in, you can choose from tens of thousands of options, limited only by the amount in your bank account. (The Minotaur Corporation insists on immediate payment, and its computers automatically deduct the charges from your account as you play. The computers also monitor and restrict the amount of time a user can remain connected to four hours a day; early users of the program became so entranced with the experience that they neglected to eat or drink, leading to outbreaks of severe dehydration and malnutrition.)
*****
Friday night was Toby’s night for the Riverboat Club. The Club was a Class A Premium Plus program, and he could afford to visit it only one night a week. So far he hadn’t come close to exhausting its attractions. There were plenty more to try.
The Riverboat Club was his weekly treat. After sitting at his work station twelve hours a day Saturday through Thursday and spending another three hours a day doing the compulsory exercises mandated by his employment contract, he needed to relax. He didn’t remember how he had found the Riverboat Club—it may have been featured in an ad. The central Minotaur 4 computer monitored your selections and suggested others it thought you might enjoy. But once Toby found the program, it quickly became his program of choice for entertainment. His only regret was that he couldn’t visit more often. In another six years, he would qualify for a promotion and a pay raise. If he got it, then he might be able to activate the program twice a week. Even now, he could just barely manage the charges for the Riverboat Club and then only by volunteering to be a performer and not just a spectator.
When Toby called up the program, the Minotaur 4 console remembered his settings and automatically configured the Riverboat as a gay club whose staff and clientele met Toby’s preference for muscular hunks. Toby winked at the “start” icon, and instantly Minotaur 4 transported him to 1856. He was standing on a dock in Memphis, Tennessee, beside The King of Natchez, an accurate replica of a steam-powered paddleboat and the home of the Riverboat Club. The sternwheeler was moored fast by thick ropes fore and aft.
The decks were crowded with men waiting for the boat to embark. Most of them, like Toby, favored the Southern Planter look—a lightweight linen coat in stark black, open at the front, with wide lapels and long tails worn over narrow, lighter colored trousers straining to contain their well-developed calves and thighs. Elaborately patterned and figured brocade vests buttoned tightly across the stomach emphasized the flatness of the men’s stomachs. Dazzlingly white shirts open at the neck to reveal their tanned chests and deep cleavage, highly polished boots, and flat, wide-brimmed black hats completed their costumes. Most of the men had their hands in their trouser pockets, pushing their coats further open to expose their torsos and legs. Many of them puffed on thin, black cheroots tilted upwards at a rakish angle from their lips.
As Toby walked up the gangway, the steam whistle gave three short blasts to signal the imminent departure of the boat. Beneath Toby’s feet, the deck shuddered as steam built up in the boilers and pushed against the pistons that drove the paddlewheel. Sailors and dockhands shouted to one another as the mooring ropes were loosed and the gangway secured against the side of the ship. The dockhands pushed the boat away from the pier with long poles. The flow of the river caught at the boat and nudged it downstream. Once clear of the dock, the captain ordered the paddlewheel engaged. As it turned, the pilot maneuvered The King of Natchez out into the mainstream and, with a long blast of the whistle, aimed the boat upriver towards St. Louis.
Toby leaned on the railing and watched the muddy brown water of the Mississippi River drift sluggishly past. A trim waiter dressed only in a black bowtie, a black jockstrap, and silver nipple rings came up behind him and said, “Mistah Towbee, Suh,” and held out a silver tray with a thick crystal glass of bourbon on it. Aged Kentucky sipping whiskey had become Toby’s preference for drink. The first time he had visited the Riverboat Club, he had tried a mint julep, which the Club’s menu claimed was a historically accurate beverage for the period. One taste had convinced Toby that historical accuracy wasn’t always the best choice. He had also had Minotaur 4 dial back the temperature and the humidity to tolerable levels and replace the accurate smell of fish and rotting vegetation (if not something much worse) with a slight hint of freshly mown grass. Toby lifted the glass from the tray and let his eyes roam up and down the waiter’s body. The swelling curves of his jockstrap were promising. Perhaps later he would rent one of the cabins and request room service. He would check out the competition first, however. There was always someone better in the Riverboat Club.
“The gaming tables will open when you’re ready, Sir.”
Toby nodded at the waiter. “I’ll be in shortly. As soon as I finish this.” He turned his attention back to the river and sipped at his whiskey. One of the great things about Minotaur 4 was that you could eat or drink as much as you liked. The food and the drink tasted real and felt real in the mouth and throat, but you never got drunk and never gained weight.
What game would he play tonight? Last Friday, he had tried strip poker and emerged the winner in a dramatic showdown with Mr. Universe 2138, Ivan Jakov, one of his favorite bodybuilders. In the final hand, Ivan had been reduced to wearing only a flesh-colored posing strap. Toby had on a red jockstrap. Toby’s full house, ace over jacks, had beaten the bodybuilder’s straight. To cries from the spectators of “Take it off,” Jakov stood up and looped his thumbs under the strings of fabric curving around his hips. His cock was hard and throbbing from the excitement of the game. It jutted against the pouch and stretched it outward, exposing Jakov’s balls. Shiny drops of pre-cum oozed through the cloth, making it almost transparent over the head of Jakov’s cock. The piss slit winked at Toby, and another drop of pre-cum seeped out and beaded on the surface of the fabric, sparkling in the light. Mr. Universe eased the pouch off his bulging tool, liberating it. His cock sprung out to its full length and girth. The muscleman bent over, allowing the crowd a view of his ass as he peeled the posing strap off his thighs. He stepped out of it and held it aloft, twirling it around, before handing it to the victorious Toby.
Toby tore off his jockstrap and tossed it into the crowd. He pulled on Jakov’s posing strap, carefully positioning the wet spot over the head of his erect cock. His own pre-cum mingled with that of the gigantic stud. With a roar of lust, Jakov swept the chips and cards from the table and dove across it. His mouth closed around Toby’s cock and swallowed it. The shouts of encouragement from the crowd inflamed both of them. Jakov had muscles in his mouth and throat that Toby hadn’t known existed. He lost track of how many times he came before the automatic timer ended the program and returned him to his easy chair in his living room.
Last Friday had been exciting, monumental in fact. Could it be equaled? Toby reviewed the options on the pull-down menu that appeared on the right side of his vision. There were so many choices—so many games of chance and skill—baccarat, craps, slots, bingo, twenty-one, fantan, roulette. It didn’t matter if he knew how to play them or not. Minotaur 4 would teach him the game in a few seconds. Sometimes Minotaur 4 presented almost too many choices. It made it hard to choose. But, he reminded himself, he didn’t have to make up his mind right away. He could stroll around the gaming room and take a look at the action before deciding.
One feature of the Minotaur console was that it learned to cater to you. An algorithm examined your past choices and recorded what aspects of the various programs you lingered over, which ones you returned to. Whenever a player entered one of the scenarios, it reviewed his or her past decisions and behavior. Once it had accumulated enough data, Minotaur 4 began to tailor its suggestions to the player. Once an individual had played enough games, Minotaur 4 could predict that person’s behavior with 96 percent accuracy. It gained access to your subconscious, and over time it grew to know what you really wanted better than you did.
When Toby pushed aside the swinging doors and entered the gaming room, all activity came to a halt. In the sudden silence, the throbbing of the pistons was the only sound. The floor manager rushed up to him and shook his hand. “Congratulations, Toby.” Everyone clapped and shouted or whistled. People standing nearby tossed confetti at him. “You’ve been chosen as tonight’s grand prize at the roulette table.” The manager put an arm around Toby’s shoulders and guided him deeper into the room to a roped off circular platform. An ornate crystal chandelier overhead concentrated light on the area. Two perpendicular lines through the center divided the circle into quadrants.
“But where’s the roulette table?” Toby hadn’t tried roulette yet, but he knew enough about it to know that a roulette table with a wheel and spaces on which to place your bets was required.
The manager laughed. “You’re going to be the wheel, Toby. Here at the Riverboat Club, we play Cock Roulette, in both the French and the Greek versions.” The manager motioned three muscular attendants forward. The three quickly stripped Toby’s clothes off him. He barely had time to protest before he was exposed to the crowd. The men draped a harness around Toby and buckled it tight around his torso and thighs. His arms were pinioned to his side. The framework held him rigid. One of the men placed a hand on Toby’s chest and the other on his groin and—in one smooth, fluid movement—lifted Toby so that his body was horizontal. A second man put leather cuffs on Toby’s ankles and then bent his calves back at the knee, and fastened the cuffs to the harness with short chains. The third man placed a leather hood over Toby’s head. “Open up,” he said. When Toby did, the man inserted a rubber ring just behind Toby’s front teeth so that his mouth was forced to remain open. The man quickly laced the hood around Toby’s head, compressing it. The hood fit Toby so well that it looked like a second skin. The attendant pulled a cord attached to the back of the hood taut and then fastened it securely to a ring on the body harness. Toby’s head was pulled back and held so that his open mouth faced outward. Toby was firmly trussed into the harness. He couldn’t move.
“Activate the anti-gravity beam,” shouted the floor manager over the din of the excited crowd. The man holding Toby’s body positioned it in the center of the platform. A beam of red and black light shot upward from the floor and illuminated Toby’s groin and stomach. The man released Toby’s body and stepped back. Toby floated in mid-air. After a second, his head and chest began to slant downward.
An attendant said, “The balance needs to be adjusted. He’s been working on his pecs and shoulders and arms. He’s heavier in the chest than in the legs.”
The floor manager leaned forward and whispered to Toby, “This won’t take a minute. We’ll soon have you ready.”
The beam of light moved a few inches upward toward Toby’s navel. His body gradually leveled along both the horizontal and the vertical axes. “Alignment confirmed,” said a mechanical voice from somewhere overhead.
“And now, gentlemen, if I can have your attention,” the manager shouted. “Here are tonight’s players. Tonight’s bull is a returning champion, Mr. Universe 2138, Ivan Jakov.”
Four waiters cleared a passageway through the crowd for Jakov. His nude body gleamed with oil, reflecting thousands of points of light. Toby recognized the body—he would know that body anywhere, even when, as it was now, topped by a bull’s head. It had to be a mask, but it was impossible to see the seam where the mask joined the body. The bull’s neck and head rose majestically over Jakov’s body, and a rack of horns extended outward from the sides of head. Jakov strode up to the circular platform that defined the roulette table and planted himself alongside one of the quadrants. Parts of the crowd greeted Jakov with a roar and shouts of encouragement. Other spectators booed. Jakov raised his arms and acknowledged both the cheers and the jeers. He let the noise swell for a minute before signaling for quiet. As the crowd’s attention shifted toward the announcer and the next player, he winked at Toby. At least Toby thought it was a wink. One of the bull’s eyelids closed briefly, and the expression on the bull’s face looked like what a bull’s smile would look like if a bull could smile. The Jakov/bull licked his lips and winked again. He wriggled his hips so that his cock swayed suggestively. He was ready for a return engagement with Toby.
Similar displays of partisanship greeted the other three players. Another of Toby’s favorites, a porn star known as Rick Plowman, was the second player to step onto the platform. He was smaller than Jakov and not as hugely muscled or sharply defined, but he was attractive in a very masculine way. His well-proportioned body was covered with a light silky coating of brown hair. He had a sexy smile that promised hours of delight. He owed his legions of fans to other qualities, however. His thick cock was roped with prominent veins, and his huge balls hung down loosely. The camera loved to linger over his balls. Every video in which he appeared featured shots of Rick’s legs spread wide so that his balls could swing freely back and forth and pummel the bottom’s face or butt as Rick thrust his cock in and out. As if that weren’t enough, he came so copiously that both he and the bottom always ended up covered with his cum. Rick’s body was topped with the head of a rooster that joined seamlessly with his body. Rick claimed the quadrant to the right of Jakov’s.
Ma Daju, another bodybuilder, was the third player. He had the head of a horse. Ma’s body was tautly muscled and glowed in the light. He wasn’t as tall as Jakov, but his huge, deeply chiseled thighs, his swollen pecs, his bulbous biceps, and the network of thick, rope-like veins that coursed up and down his body won him competitions. He sauntered up to his appointed place, folded his arms across his chest, and tossed his mane.
The final player was a surprise. During his lunch break on Thursday, Toby had clicked on an app and watched a random display of selfies. One of the men had caught his eye—he had a great body and a spectacular ass—and Toby had paused the photo display and devoted the rest of his break to daydreaming about the two of them together. And now, to Toby’s surprise, he was here, wearing the head of a stag with an imposing rack. Once again, the Minotaur Corporation knew exactly what he wanted.
Once all the players were in place, croupiers began to circulate through the crowd collecting bets. As they did so, Toby’s body revolved slowly. The harness held him so rigidly that he couldn’t move his head or any part of his body. One by one, each player came into his line of sight. Bull, rooster, stallion, stag, and then back to bull.
“Place your bets. Last call. Place your bets. Last call, gentlemen.” There was a final rush of noise, and then the crowd grew quiet.
“Here are tonight’s rules, gentlemen,” explained the announcer. “Each player begins with a thousand points. In the first round, each will wager one hundred points on a spin. The round will continue until one player goes bankrupt. To prevent Toby from trying to influence the spin, he will be blindfolded throughout and the players will shift position before each spin. Monsieurs, laissez le bon Toby rouler!”
Toby’s vision immediately went black. An instant later his body began to spin. The machinery twirled his body for several seconds and then it ceased applying force. He body spun more and more slowly until it finally came to rest. Cheers and groans erupted from the crowd of spectators. Toby could only guess that he had stopped within one of the quadrants and the cheers were from those who had bet on the winner and the groans from those who had bet on one of the other three players.
He wasn’t prepared for what happened next. He was still reeling slightly from the spin when a cock was thrust into his mouth. He was so surprised that he gagged on the long, hot object pushing against the back of his throat. It took him a couple of seconds to identify what it was.
“One,” roared the crowd. “Two.” Each thrust of the cock was counted. When the count reached ten, there was a loud round of applause and whistling. Just as abruptly as the cock had been stuck into his mouth, it was withdrawn.
Toby gasped. “Hey, don’t stop,” he tried to say, but the ring gag holding his mouth open made that come out as “ey ont awp.”
The announcer laughed. “Toby sounds a bit disappointed. Gentlemen, now that Toby knows how the game works, I think we can rely on him to open his mouth at the right time. He doesn’t need to have it held open. What do you think? Should we remove the ring?”
Someone stuck his fingers in Toby’s mouth and pulled out the gag. He stretched his jaw and swallowed several times to wet his throat. “Can I suck the winner again? I promise I’ll do a better job.”
“Now, Toby, don’t be greedy,” said the announcer. “You’ll have plenty of chances later. I should have explained that in the first round, each winner of a spin gets only ten thrusts. Now, gentlemen, place your bets. Last call. Last call, gentlemen.”
Toby was ready at the end of the next spin. As soon as his body stopped moving, he opened his mouth and then closed it tightly around the cock, rubbing his tongue over it vigorously. He wanted the winner of the round, whoever it was, to enjoy his victory. It wasn’t the same cock as the first time. He was sure of that. He fixed the details in his mind. Large, smooth, uncut, slightly curved. He thought the cock that won the first spin was larger but cut, but he couldn’t be certain. His surprise and the gag had kept him from cataloging the first winner’s qualities. Nor could he guess which two players’ cocks he had sampled.
If he understood the game correctly, the winner of the first spin had ended up with 1,300 points, and the other three players with 900. The first winner had lost on the second spin; so he now had 1,200 points. The winner of the second spin also had 1,200 points. The other two players had dropped to 800 points. By the time Toby had worked this out in his mind, he was being spun for the third time.
Different cock—this one was uncut but longer and thinner than the previous two. The third cock also won the fourth spin, and then it was back to the second cock. Eventually Toby identified all four cocks:
(1) The largest one in terms of thickness, cut, a large head followed by a slightly narrower shaft that got larger toward the base; heavy growth of hair on the balls. Toby tentatively identified the player as the stag—the man in his “nooner.”
(2) The second thickest cock, uncut, slightly curved upward, prominent veins, and a pronounced curved ridge along the bottom edge of the head; shaved pubes. This had to be one of the bodybuilders. Toby thought it belonged to Ma.
(3) The longest cock, almost as thick as the second cock, uncut, very straight and uniform, smooth and very loose foreskin. The free-swinging ball sack made this one easy to identify. It was Rick the Rooster.
(4) An average-sized cock, uncut, very smooth and regular; shaved pubes. This had to be Jakov, the other bodybuilder. Great body, but not as well endowed as Ma.
By the time Toby had catalogued the players’ cocks and figured out who belonged to which cock, he had lost track of the number of spins and the various players’ scores. It was not until a loud groan from the crowd and cries of “bad luck” greeted the result of one spin that he realized one player had been eliminated. He didn’t know which one. Cock number two won that spin; so player one, three, or four had been forced out of the game. Toby wouldn’t know which one until he had identified the three cocks remaining in the game, and that would take several spins.
“Round Two, Gentlemen. This time each player will wager 200 hundred points on each spin. As you can see, the playing field is now divided into three equal sections, each occupying 120 degrees of the circle. Toby, you will be happy to learn that the winner of each spin will get twenty thrusts. Place your bets, Gentlemen, place your bets.”
Round Two was quickly over. One of the three remaining players must have begun the round with only a small number of points, because he was eliminated after three spins. The winner of the first two spins was the player Toby had identified as Ma; the “nooner” won the third spin. That meant that, if his guesses were correct, Rick the Rooster and Jakov the Bull were no longer in the game.
The playing circle readjusted itself to the two remaining players, each of whom now claimed half the circle. The announcer explained that each player would wager 500 points on a spin, and the winner would claim not only the money but also Toby’s mouth and throat for thirty thrusts.
The contest seesawed back and forth. Toby might suck the cock he thought was Ma’s twice in a row, but then the nooner would win the next three spins. Toby had no idea how many points the two players had. He only knew that the two men’s cocks were harder, the thrusts were more insistent, and both men were leaking pre-cum. And in truth he didn’t want the game to end. He was enjoying it. Twenty spins . . . twenty-five . . . thirty . . .
Oddly the crowd grew quieter as the game progressed. When the spin stopped and the winner’s cock was presented to Toby to suck, the spectators still counted each thrust, but the shouts and whistles of encouragement were replaced by heavy breathing and low moans. Toby began to suspect that many of those watching him and the winner were stroking themselves. As the number of spins mounted, the groans grew more and more synchronized with Toby’s deep-throating of the winner’s cock. It was as if he and the winner of the spin were leading a mass jerk-off. The thought of an unseen group of muscular men engaged in a group orgy coordinated by himself aroused Toby. His cock was swollen, the engorged flesh bursting between the bands of the leather harness holding it. His balls ached with excitement.
Toby lost track of what was happening. His body would be spun about and then drift to a stop. To loud cheers, he winner would step forward and Toby would gleefully award him the prize as the crowd pressed in and counted out the strokes. The end was unexpected. When the spin stopped, the result was greeted by a collective intake of breath before the cheers started. Toby’s sight cleared. It took him a second to realize that he was looking at the winner—Rick the Rooster. The man he had thought was the bodybuilder Ma the Stallion was in fact his favorite porn star.
The announcer grabbed Rick by his left wrist and raised his arm in victory. “Gentlemen, the winner of tonight’s game will now claim his prize.”
Two attendants stepped forward and held Toby as the anti-gravity machine was turned off. They stripped the harness and hood off Toby, releasing his body and leaving Toby kneeling in the middle of the platform. Rick leaped onto the stage and placed his hands around Toby’s head. His cock was stiff and dripping. Toby did not hesitate. He wrapped his lips around Rick’s cock and began sucking with fervor. The few members of the crowd who hadn’t already pulled their cocks out quickly opened their flies and reached in. Toby sensed more than saw their lust. He focused on Rick’s cock and slowly drew it deeper into his throat, sucking on it harder and harder. Rick’s famous balls pounded his chin and throat as the two of them swayed back and forth. Rick’s hands locked Toby’s head in place. The two of them tried to force Rick’s cock even deeper into Toby’s throat.
The moment seemed to last forever. Cum shot out of Rick’s cock and filled Toby’s mouth. The sight of thick ropes of white cum erupting from Toby’s mouth and cascading down his chin onto his chest brought the crowd to a collective orgasm. The odor of a hundred men shooting cum was overwhelming. Toby’s vision blurred and his mind dimmed.
*****
When Toby came to, he was sitting on a couch in a small office.
“Great. You’re awake. I was a bit worried for a minute—you’ve been out for over half an hour. Here, drink this.” Rick handed him a tumbler of whiskey. “When you feel up to it, there’s a man who wants to talk to you.”
“What happened? How I’d get in here? Where are we anyway?”
“We got too excited. Man, you were great. I couldn’t even stand by the time you finished me off. My legs just gave way. I’ve never had that happen before. They carried us in here to recover.” Rick sat down on the couch beside Toby. “I’ve recovered. Let’s see how you’re doing.” He took the glass from Toby and set it on a table. Then he wrapped Toby in his arms and began nibbling Toby’s earlobe. An electric shock surged through Toby’s body and headed straight for his cock. He twisted around and pinned Rick to the couch beneath his body, thrusting his tongue into Rick’s mouth and rubbing his cock against Rick’s hot abs.
A knock on the door interrupted them. Without waiting for an answer, a man dressed in a business suit and tie and carrying a briefcase strode through the door. “Ah, Toby, I see you’re up . . . uh, up and about, I mean.” He held out his right hand. “I’m Milton Drecker, head of programming for the Minotaur Corporation. Rick, good to see you again.”
Toby stared openmouthed at the man and then turned to look at Rick.
“This is the man I told you about. He has a proposition for you.” Rick sketched a half-wave in the air. “Hi, Mr. Drecker. I’d get up, but Toby here has me . . .”
Toby suddenly realized that he was naked with his ass exposed to view. “Uh, yeah. Sorry about . . . We were just . . . I mean . . . Nice to meet you.” Toby pushed himself into an upright position and belatedly and sheepishly shook Drecker’s hand. “I don’t know where my clothes are.” Toby cupped a hand over his groin.
“Karl—find Mr. Bell’s and Mr. Plowman’s clothes.”
A second, younger man poked his head into the office and said, “Right away, Mr. Drecker.” He scurried away, but not before taking a long, hungry look at Toby and Rick.
Drecker snapped open the locks on his briefcase and pulled out a slip of paper. “Toby, here’s your share of the Riverboat Club’s profits for this evening. The betting was fierce. This is just a small token of appreciation from the Minotaur Corporation.” Drecker handed Toby a deposit notice.
“Five thousand credits? You’ve put five thousand credits into my account?”
“Well, you earned it—the hard way, if you’ll forgive the pun. The segment was incredibly popular. We had over 22 million participants worldwide in the club by the end. It was one of the highest rated segments this year. We’re looping it now.”
“But I don’t understand. There weren’t that many people in the club.”
“That’s just an illusion. The program shows you a hundred or so people. But each participant is present in the club and seeing a different group of one hundred people. The composition of the crowd is tailored to each participant’s taste.”
Both Toby and Rick suddenly found themselves dressed.
“Ah, good, Karl found your clothes.” Drecker pulled out a sheaf of papers from his briefcase. “I have a proposal for you. I’ve already talked it over with Rick, and he’s agreed provided you’ll be his partner. After your performances last week in strip poker and tonight in the French version of Cock Roulette, you’ve become a hit. People are clamoring to see more of you. The buzz on our chat network is running 98 percent favorable, and even before tonight’s game was finished, people were already posting videos of you. So, first, we would like you to return next Friday to play the Greek version of Cock Roulette. We’ll show promos of tonight’s French version all week long to build interest. We’ll get an even bigger audience than we did this week.
“Second, there’s such good chemistry between you and Rick that we want the two of you to star in a series we’re thinking of calling The Rick and Toby Show. We’ll send the two of you to an exotic location each week, you’ll do some sightseeing, you’ll show off your bodies at the beach or whatever, you’ll have a great meal, and then the two of you will have sex. Either just the two or you or maybe an orgy with some of the local talent. Participants will be able to opt just to watch, or, for additional credits, they can become either you or Rick or one of the other performers and experience what you are experiencing. I don’t think the two of you will need much coaching, but we’ll have a staff of writers to think up new ways and new places you can have sex.
“So, what do you say, Toby? We’ll pay you 50,000 credits per show for the first year, plus a bonus based on the number of viewers and participants. We’ll buy out your contract with your current employer, pay off all your debts, and relocate you to a suite at our corporate headquarters in Miami. Just sign here. Minotaur Corporation is going to make you a star.”
END