The sun beat down on the county
fairgrounds, the air thick with the smell of fried dough, hay, and the
oppressive humidity of high summer. Tucker, a 13-year-old soon to be ninth
grade freshman with blond hair, blue eyes, and a lean, hairless build, wandered
away from the crowded midway toward the quieter agricultural barns. He was
trying to look cool, like he belonged, but he felt out of place among the rough
farm kids. As the son of a dentist a couple of counties away he didn't find
himself working "out in the fields" all that much.
He stopped in front of a sleek,
chrome-and-glass booth that stood out against the rustic wood of the other
displays. A sign read "Auto-Milk 3000: The Future of Dairy." It was
the only booth in the row with no foot traffic. The locals gave it a wide
berth; it looked too high-tech, too sterile, and nobody recognized the company
name; "FuturoDairy" meant nothing to these
people.
Tucker noticed two security guards standing
near the entrance, laughing with the salesperson inside the booth. Inside, a
stunningly attractive woman with long dark hair and a fitted designer blouse
was standing next to a complex machine with clear tubes and a pulsating
silicone collector while she chatted with them. She looked nothing like a
typical farm equipment salesperson: her expensive heels, perfectly manicured
nails, and form-fitting skirt made her seem completely out of place in the
agricultural barn. She looked bored until she spotted Tucker.
"Hey there," she called out, her
voice smooth as silk, beckoning him over. "You look like a guy who
appreciates efficiency." The security guys withdrew to a discreet distance.
Tucker felt a flush of heat across his face
as he stepped closer. "It's just a milking machine, isn't it?"
"It's a revolutionary milking
machine," she corrected, dropping her voice to a conspiratorial whisper.
"See, the tech is way ahead of what these guys need." She gestured
dismissively down the way to where other booths had dairy equipment. "The
suction and size is... adjustable. Let's just say it's
also become rather popular for other uses besides cows."
Tucker's eyes widened slightly as he caught
the insinuation. The machine was silent now, but the tubes and mechanism looked...
intriguing. "You serious?" he asked, his voice cracking.
The salesperson's eyes lingered on Tucker
for a moment, appraising. Pretty, blond, just the right mix of nervous and curious. Perfect.
"Dead serious," she laughed,
leaning closer and giving Tucker a view down her blouse. "It's better than
your hand, kid. Guaranteed. No chafing, just pure, consistent pressure. It'll
milk you dry while you lay back and relax. But look, I obviously can't demo
that out here on the midway in public. Tell you what," she said, her voice
dropping to a more confidential tone. "The real show's
in the back. Why don't you come take a look at the unit itself? No charge just
for looking."
She didn't wait for an answer, simply
turning and walking toward the rear of the booth, confident he would follow.
After a second's hesitation, Tucker did. The security guys glanced around
making sure nobody was watching the booth too closely; they were clear.
She led him behind the main display to a
small, enclosed area surrounded by heavy, velvet curtains. The sound of the
fairgrounds faded to a dull rumble. In the center of the space, lit by a single
recessed light, sat another Auto-Milk 3000. It was even more imposing up close,
a column of brushed chrome and polished plastic, with a clear tube and a
pulsating, flesh-toned silicone receiver at its core.
"Go ahead, look it over," she
said, leaning against a support beam. "The engineering is beautiful."
Tucker stepped closer, his eyes wide. He
could see his own faint reflection in the chrome. The machine hummed softly, a
low, powerful sound.
She watched him, noting the way his jeans
had tightened slightly at the front. He was trying to hide it, adjusting his
stance. So eager, she thought. And so innocent looking. The curator is going to love this
one.
"You know," she began, her tone
shifting to one of mild, dismissive amusement. "It's probably for the best
you're just looking. This model is... intense. The suction calibration is for
adult use. It's got settings a kid your age wouldn't even understand." She
gave a light, almost imperceptible shrug. "Most boys your size would
probably find it overwhelming."
Tucker's head snapped toward her, a flush
rising on his cheeks. "I'm not a kid. I can handle it."
"Mmhm,"
she murmured, a knowing smile playing on her lips as she looked away, feigning
disinterest. "That's what they all say right before they tap out. It's not
a toy. It's professional-grade equipment. It can milk a full-grown bull dry in
ninety seconds." She let that image hang in the air for a beat. "But
for... alternative uses... well, let's just say it separates the men from the
boys. And you..." She let her gaze travel over
him again, not lingering, but making her point. "You look like you're
still figuring out which one you are."
It was a masterstroke. His pride was
pricked, his curiosity now fused with a defiant need to prove himself. The
illicit thrill was now a challenge. His earlier nervousness was being burned
away by a stubborn, rising heat.
"How would I even know if I don't try it?" he challenged, his voice firmer.
She turned back to him, arching an eyebrow
as if surprised by his insistence. "You want to try it?"
"Yeah. Why not? You said it
yourself—better than my hand." He was committing now, puffing his chest
out slightly.
A slow, inward smile spread through her.
Hook, line, and sinker. His guard was completely down, replaced by adolescent
bravado. He wasn't being led; he was charging ahead, believing it was his idea.
"I suppose a quick demo wouldn't
hurt," she said, as if reluctantly conceding. "But I'd need you to
cover the cleaning and sterilization protocols. They're extensive. We use
medical-grade biocides." She sighed, as if calculating a cost. "For a
full, private session... it'd be twenty."
Tucker didn't even blink. The figure was
meaningless; the opportunity was everything. He fished in his pocket, pulling
out two crumpled ten-dollar bills. "Here. Let's do it."
She took the money, her fingers brushing
his, and smiled a real smile this time—warm, approving. "Alright then.
Let's get you set up. Hop up on the bench here," she said, gesturing
toward a padded seat.
Tucker sat down, his legs dangling
slightly. The salesperson fiddled with the machine, connecting a long, clear
tube to a central canister.
"Here's the deal," she said,
holding up the silicone receiver. "This creates a vacuum seal. It's
powerful. Like, really powerful. It feels amazing, but it doesn't know when to
stop. You'll have to tell it when." She pointed to a tablet mounted on the
wall next to Tucker. "This tablet will walk you through how to set up the
device yourself. I'll give you some privacy. I strongly suggest you use the
helmet too."
Tucker swallowed hard. He was relieved she
was leaving. His pubic hair was still sparse, and his cock was barely four
inches hard because he'd only just hit puberty; he probably would have been too
mortified to stay hard if he'd had to get undressed in front of her.
"I'll leave you to it," she said
with a wink, slipping out through the gap in the curtains closing them behind
her.
Tucker was so focused on the machine and
the tablet that he didn't notice the cameras hidden in the corners of the
curtained area, their lenses concealed behind decorative elements of the booth.
He
pressed the start button on the display,
and the tablet ran through an animated video tutorial showing how to
attach the silicone receiver. This also, invisible to him, fired
up the recording routines on the cameras. Following the instructions,
he undid
his jeans and pulled them down, along with his boxers. His cock was
already
hard from the illicit thrill of it and the memory of the saleswoman's
presence.
He applied a bit of the lube as the tablet
instructed and then fitted the silicone receiver over himself, adjusting it
until it formed a tight seal. It felt cool and clinical against his skin.
The tablet then displayed a new screen:
"Would you like to enhance your experience with voice interaction?"
followed by two options: "Female voice" or "Male voice."
Tucker hesitated, then tapped "Yes" and
"Female voice." The device then instructed him to put on the helmet.
Next to the tablet on a wall hook was a
sleek black helmet, similar to something you'd wear on a sleek motorcycle, but
without a visor and with a cutout to leave his mouth and
jaw uncovered. The tablet instructed: "For maximum sensory immersion,
please place the helmet over your head. It will block all external light and
sound, allowing you to focus entirely on interactive fantasy VR and the feel of
the equipment on you."
With his pants and underwear around his
ankles, the blond teen put on the helmet. Inside, it was completely dark and
silent as promised. The outside world disappeared.
A moment later, a smooth female voice spoke
directly into his ears. "Hello there. I'm here to help you enjoy your
experience. Just relax and let the machine do all the work. You can speak to me
directly, I respond to voice commands."
A low hum vibrated through the bench and
into his bones. The machine activated. Tucker gasped as a perfect, rhythmic
suction gripped him from base to tip. It was nothing like his hand. It was a
precise, mechanical milking, a wave of pleasure that washed away his last
shreds of caution. He wondered if this resembled what a blow job would feel
like when he finally got one.
"Oh god," he whispered, his voice
trembling. The pleasure was blinding, erasing his common sense.
"Tell me what you're thinking about," the
voice whispered, so close it felt like a breath against his ear. "What
fantasies do you like to imagine when you're alone?"
Tucker hesitated, swallowing hard. The
intimacy of the question, combined with the relentless, expert stimulation,
broke down his walls. "There's... there's this girl," he breathed out, his voice
trembling. "Jessica. From my math class."
"Jessica," the voice echoed, as if savoring
the name. The machine's rhythm subtly intensified, the suction tightening just
a fraction. "What does she look like?"
"She has... these perfect lips," Tucker
moaned, arching his back slightly. "Always shiny. Like she just put on gloss.
And when she's thinking about a problem, she bites the end of her pencil..."
"And what do you imagine her doing with
those lips?" the voice prompted, its tone a blend of innocent curiosity and
dark suggestion.
"I imagine... I imagine her kneeling in front
of me," he confessed, the words tumbling out in a rush now that the seal was
broken. "Looking up at me with those big eyes. And she... she'd use them."
"Use them how?" the voice pressed gently.
"To... to kiss me. There. And then to... suck
me." His face burned with shame and exhilarating arousal inside the dark
helmet. He'd never said it out loud before, at least other than a whisper into
his own pillow when he was alone in his room.
"Yes," the voice purred, approving. The
machine responded in kind, the inner silicone sleeve vibrating with a new,
fluttering pattern against his most sensitive spot. Tucker cried out, his hips
bucking involuntarily. "She's sucking you now. Tell me more. Is Jessica alone?"
"No," Tucker gasped, riding the new wave of
sensation. "Her friend Sarah is there. She has this long, red hair. It's like
fire."
"What is Sarah doing while Jessica services
you?"
"She's... she's watching. Touching herself.
And they're touching each other. Sarah runs her hands over Jessica's... over
Jessica's chest. And they're kissing. But they're watching me." The fantasy was
unfolding in his mind, vivid and crisp, fueled by the machine's unerring
rhythm.
"They're putting on a show for you," the
voice stated, not asking. "They want to see you lose control. They want to see
what you have for them. Do you have something for them, Tucker?"
"Y-yes..."
Outside the curtains, the salesperson stood
by the side of the booth using her tablet. As the machine started up she activated
several large LED screens mounted on the booth walls, displaying a large,
ticking countdown timer set to one minute. A scrolling text banner beneath the
timer flashed: "LIVE REVEAL STARTING SOON."
The timer counted down. 0:59. 0:58.
Her fingers danced across the touchscreen
of her control panel, adjusting camera angles with the precision of a seasoned
director. She had four feeds in there to work with:
Camera One capturing a tight close-up of Tucker's face inside the helmet, his
eyes squeezed shut, mouth slightly parted in pleasure. Camera Two was
positioned for a perfect shot of the machine's action, the clear tube
displaying his barely four-inch cock as it was worked by the pulsating silicone
sleeve, every vein and twitch visible in high definition. Camera Three provided
an overhead view of the entire scene: Tucker seated on the bench with his pants
around his ankles, the sleek machine between his legs, the velvet curtains
still drawn for privacy. Camera Four was a wide shot that would capture the
moment of revelation when the curtains dropped.
"Perfect angles," she murmured to
herself, smiling as she zoomed in slightly on Camera Two to emphasize the
contrast between Tucker's sparse pubic hair and the mechanical device working
him. "I bet this will be exactly what the Curator wants."
Inside, Tucker was lost in the sensation.
He could feel the pressure building in his groin, that familiar tightness. The
suction was incredibly strong, dragging him toward the edge faster and faster.
The countdown outside hit 0:10. The crowd
was growing, driven by curiosity about this booth from a vendor nobody had ever
heard of. Some farm hands wandering around, owners looking at equipment, and a
few teenagers started to gather; the flashing screens drawing
them in. They stopped, pointing at the timer. The saleswoman adjusted her fifth
and final camera, aimed at them, to capture their reaction to what was about to
be unveiled.
With 10 seconds left on the countdown, the
screens flickered and switched to different text: a gaudy,
animated gold banner. "FRESH FROM THE FARM - GRADE A BLOND." It
showed a still of Tucker's face, taken earlier from one of the cameras as he'd
entered the curtained area.
The countdown hit zero and the salesperson
pressed another button. The sound of fabric sliding on metal rings echoed
through the booth. The heavy velvet curtains around Tucker released and weights
attached to the top pulled the fabric quickly downward, pooling it on the
floor. The noise of the fairgrounds rushed in around Tucker as his privacy was
torn away. The only thing between him and the crowd was a thin railing which,
the saleswoman had found, created a psychological barrier which dissuade people
from interfering.
For the crowd, the reveal was instantaneous
and shocking. One moment, a mysterious curtained
booth. The next, a boy, helpless and exposed, pants at his ankles, locked to a
gleaming machine, his body convulsing with a rhythm that left no doubt about
what was happening. This wasn't some exhibitionist's daring stunt; the boy's
head was trapped in a helmet, his hands clenched on the bench, not on himself. And
they knew it was a boy both because of his smooth, almost hairless frame, and because
his photo was still shown on the screens.
He was obviously a passenger, not a driver.
There was a beat of stunned silence—the kind that follows a car crash—as two dozen brains processed
this violation, followed by a low murmur of disbelief that swelled into a roar.
That roar would have made the blond's blood run cold, had he been able to hear
it.
But the 13-year-old remained oblivious, his
world still contained within the helmet. The heavy velvet walls that had
protected his privacy were gone, pooled on the floor. There he was sitting on a
bench, pants around his ankles, his cock encased in a clear, vibrating tube,
with a helmet blocking his vision, in the middle of the county fair. The picture
of his face let the audience know what he looked like under the helmet.
Over 20 people were standing there now
forming a semi-circle around the booth. They watched in fascination as the
oblivious boy continued to use the machine to pleasure himself, completely
unaware of his audience. They could hear his voice, obviously vocalizing a fantasy,
but not that of the AI in the helmet goading him on. The security guys stood
ready to subtly block anyone who might step forward and try to interfere or
decide that they needed to start shooting a video. But nobody did. They just
stood there in shocked fascination.
"Tell me another fantasy. A different one."
The AI voice was commanding now, guiding him deeper.
"Cheer practice," he blurted out, his
confidence swelling with his arousal. "The whole squad. All of them in those
tiny skirts. When they jump... you can see everything." His breathing was
becoming ragged. "I hide in the bleachers sometimes. I watch them."
"And they know," the voice interjected,
seamlessly joining his fantasy. "They know you're there, don't they? All those
perfect, athletic girls."
"Yeah," Tucker panted, his voice growing
louder, lost in the scene. "They know. They're doing the routines just for me
now. All that jumping, and clapping... they're looking right at me in the
shadows. They want me to watch. They want me to get hard for
them." He was admitting things to the void he barely admitted to himself. The
machine's suction pulsed in time with his heart, a demanding, mechanical
heartbeat between his legs.
"What would they say to you, Tucker?" the
voice asked, a smirk audible in its tone. "If they saw you right now, like
this? With this machine milking you so perfectly?"
A shudder ran through him. "They'd... They'd
point. They'd tell each other to look. They'd say... 'Look how hard he is for us.
Look how much he wants us.'" His words were becoming choked,
his body taut as a bowstring.
The machine's gentle hum shifted. A higher,
sharper whine entered the motor's pitch. The rhythm didn't just intensify; it
transformed. The smooth, milking pulls became shorter, faster, more insistent
tugs. The vacuum deepened, pulling at his very core. The vibration in the
sleeve amplified, buzzing directly against the frenulum with targeted, ruthless
efficiency.
It was a mechanical escalation, a
pre-programmed spike designed to push him past the point of no return. The AI,
having fully mapped the contours of his arousal through his vocal admissions
and physiological feedback, was now hastening him toward climax.
"They're
watching now," the voice hissed,
urgent and close. "They all are. Jessica, Sarah, the whole squad. They
see you. They see how badly you need this. Let them see you
lose it. Let them see what they do to you."
A new, jagged thought pierced Tucker's
pleasure-fogged mind: What if they really could see? The fantasy, now
terrifyingly vivid, sent a jolt of adrenaline through him that the machine
instantly translated into a sharper, more demanding throb of sensation. His
hips jerked against his will, a puppet on the machine's string. The machine was
a relentless piston, a perfect, frictionless engine of pleasure. Tucker's world
narrowed to the voice, the fantasy, and the devastating, mounting pressure in
his groin. He was no longer a boy in a booth; he was the star of his own
depraved movie, and the director was a voice in the dark, guiding him to the
edge.
The machine hit its peak rhythm. The
internal sleeve began to rotate, adding a twisting motion to the suction. Tucker's
back arched involuntarily.
"Oh god, I'm gonna cum!" he cried
out, completely lost in the fantasy. "I'm gonna cum so hard for you
Jessica! For Sarah! For all the cheerleaders!"
His voice carried clearly to the spectators
as his orgasm ripped through him. Thick spurts of cum shot into the clear
collection chamber of the machine, visible to everyone watching. The volume was
small, filling only a bit of the tube with thin white fluid that clouded the
clear plastic a bit. Tucker was only 13 after all. The crowd gasped and
murmured in perverse delight as they watched the release, his sparse pubic hair
and still small member emphasizing his immaturity.
The machine kept milking him through the
aftershocks, dragging every drop out of him. It was relentless, showing no sign
of letting up even as he started to soften. The post-orgasm sensitivity
morphing from pleasure to pain; the machine didn't know he was finished. It
just kept sucking and tugging at his hypersensitive head!
"Stop, please, stop," he gasped,
his voice cracking. The machine didn't respond. The pain grew more intense with
each passing second.
Finally, in desperation, Tucker ripped the
helmet from his head, hoping to find an off switch. As his vision cleared, the
full reality of his situation crashed down on him. He finally saw the gathered
crowd, the giant screens displaying the mocking logo.
There was a moment of frozen shock as the
reality hit him. No, no, no, no. The thought was a frantic, silent
scream in his head. This isn't happening. This can't be happening!
His brain refused to process it. A part of him detached, observing his own
humiliation as if it were happening to someone else. That part noted clinically
how his body trembled, how tears tracked through the dirt on his cheeks, how
his voice broke when he pleaded with the machine.
For a fleeting second, he imagined this was
all a nightmare, that he'd wake up in his own bed, safe and anonymous. This
is a dream. A sick dream. Wake up. WAKE UP! His mind screamed, a desperate,
internal chant. But the ache in his overstimulated flesh, the cold bench under
his thighs, the gritty feel of fairground dust on his bare legs—they were all
too real, too detailed for a dream.
Then the machine's relentless suction
brought him back to the horrifying reality of his situation. Being naked was
bad enough. He had changed in the locker room before,
sure. But this? This was different. This was him, legs spread, sitting on a
bench like a specimen on display, with a machine attached to his most private
area, which was obviously jerking him off. It was the ultimate humiliation.
They're real.
The thought was cold and absolute, draining the last warmth from his
body. The fantasy girls weren't here. These were strangers. Farmers, mothers,
kids, maybe even from his school. And they weren't watching by his choice, for
his pleasure. They were seeing something he never, ever meant to share. Every
whispered confession to the AI, every moan, every twitch—it had all been for an
audience he didn't consent to. His private shame had been piped directly into public.
He hadn't performed; he had been processed and displayed.
They saw me!
Then he remembered that helmet's jaw section was open and his voice
wasn't muffled on the outside. So they'd heard him talking. They heard me!
That additional realization hit him like a physical blow. Oh god, they heard
everything! All those fantasies about Jessica's lips on him, about the
cheerleaders, the fantasies he's been saying and responding to. He'd said it
all out loud while the machine was milking his cock. The gathered
crowd heard him!
The heat in his face intensified until it
felt like his skin was melting. He wanted to evaporate, to turn to dust and
blow away on the humid air.
"No, no, get it off!" Tucker
whimpered, his panic rising, and face shifting from embarrassment to outright
horror as the full implication hit him. He tried desperately to pull the device
off him but it wouldn't come loose. He clawed at the
base of the device, his fingers slipping on the smooth plastic casing. He tried
to find a release latch, a button, anything to stop the relentless
milking.
His fingers, slick with nervous sweat and a
trace of lube, scrabbled uselessly over the smooth casing. He pulled at the
tube itself, but the vacuum seal held with unnatural, mechanical strength. It
wasn't just stuck; it was holding him. The machine wasn't a tool he was using
anymore. It was a device that was using him, and it refused to let go. A thin,
high-pitched whimper escaped his lips—a sound of pure, trapped distress—which
only fed the crowd's delight. He was pinned. Captured. Forced to continue the show
against his will. There was nothing he could do to stop it or pull it off.
Watching him struggle added a new comedic
angle to the show, in addition to the schadenfreude of his humiliation, and
people started to giggle.
"Look at him try to get away from
it!" a woman's voice cackled from the back. "Poor thing doesn't know
how to turn it off! He's stuck!"
The sensations were now becoming overwhelming
to the blond. The shame of the situation, the intensity of the many eyes on
him, the utter helplessness of being trapped by a machine; it somehow spiked
the adrenaline in his system. He looked up at the crowd, his vision swimming
with tears. They were pointing now. Laughing. The laughter wasn't a unified
sound; it was a mosaic of his ruin. A high, shrieking giggle from a group of
teenage girls. A deep, rolling guffaw from a man in overalls. A snort of
derisive amusement from a boy who looked about his age. Each distinct laugh was
a needle jabbed into a different part of his soul.
The horror was now moving into complete
dread. How could he ever live this down?! Please, please, let nobody recognize
him.
The salesperson watched in cruel glee. This
was the moment she craved: the precise second when the subject realized their
autonomy was an illusion. He had walked in willingly, yes, but every choice
after that—the exposure, the audience, the continuation of the stimulation past
his climax—had been stripped from him. He was raw material. Her material. It
wasn't just the great footage of a cute boy using a sex toy that she wanted to
capture. It was this! The expression of ultimate humiliation on his face
as his worst nightmare was made manifest. That's what the curator wanted to
see. And this cute, adorable teen really delivered!
A few moments later the salesperson pushed
a final button, now having gotten what she wanted. With a loud hiss of air the
machine's cycle concluded. The vacuum was released, the seal broke, and the
tube slid off with a wet, slurping pop.
Tucker scrambled off the bench, tripping
over his own jeans in his haste. He yanked his pants up, not even bothering to
zip them. He could feel the eyes burning into his
back.
A voice cut through the jeers, loud, clear,
and cruel. "Nice technique, kid!" a man in the front row shouted.
"But you gotta work on your stamina! That
was all rather quick!"
Another voice chimed in, laughing. "Is
there a video of this? I'd pay good money for a copy."
"Yeah," someone else yelled.
"Grade A Blond! I'll buy a copy too!" The speaker meant it as a joke,
but others, especially the teenage girls, wondered if that were possible. He was
rather cute!
Tears streamed down Tucker's face, hot and
humiliating. He bolted, hurtling the railing with one arm. He ran past the
crowd, past the smirking saleswoman, and didn't stop until he was hidden deep
in the funhouse, where he could finally catch his breath and slowly die of
shame.
He collapsed against a wall of distorting
mirrors, his chest heaving. In the fractured glass, a dozen distorted versions
of himself stared back—all wide-eyed, tear-streaked, and disheveled. One
reflection showed his fly was still open, the fabric of his boxers glaringly
obvious. He fumbled to zip up, his hands shaking so badly he pinched the skin
of his stomach. The physical pain was a welcome distraction from the psychic
tsunami crashing over him. He slid down the wall to sit on the grimy floor, hugging
his knees, trying to make himself small. The sounds of the fair, the music, the
livestock, the shrieks from the rides, the happy chatter of families, now felt
like a cruel joke. Everyone out there was normal. He was now something else. A
punchline. A pervert. A public exhibit.
The sticky residue of the lube on his cock
served as a constant reminder of his public release, physical evidence of his
shame that he couldn't wash off until he got home and showered.
As he thought back on it, he had a few
small fragments of memory that gave him minor hope. The salesperson never asked
his name, so she probably didn't know who he was; couldn't trace things back to
him. So, maybe there would be no video of it. (There would be, though Tucker
himself would never know about it and years later was able to convince himself
it was lost to history. Only the Curator would have a copy.) He hid there for a
few hours and then moved quickly once outside, right to his family's car where,
thankfully, everyone was already gathered and ready to go. Nobody recognized
him while he walked out, or at least, nobody said anything. He pretended to
sleep on the ride home so that he didn't have to make up any stories about what
he'd done at fair.
Lying in bed that night, the memory
replayed in excruciating detail over and over in his mind. He could still feel
the phantom suction of the machine, still hear the echo of the crowd's
laughter, still see the girl's shocked expression seared into his memory.
Back at the booth, the raw footage had been
uploaded in real-time to a dark web server, to eventually be cut into a proper
video project before being forwarded on to the Curator. And the tablet could be
bricked at a moment's notice with a built-in kill switch. The saleswoman was talking
to a few audience members savvy enough to figure out what had just happened; or
at least make a good guess. And it wasn't just men that were interested. A trio
of women, clearly buzzed from the cider tent, lingered by the booth after
watching the event. They giggled as they pointed at some clips of Tucker on the
tablet the saleswoman had, watching the moment his face cringed with
humiliation just after he took off the helmet.
"Do you take requests?" one of
them asked, a brunette with sharp eyes. She was scanning the crowd, her gaze
predatory. "That little blond was certainly cute, but I like '
em with a bit more muscle. Maybe a wrestler type?"
The saleswoman leaned against the counter,
her smile widening. "We can source all types, ladies. The
'Auto-Milk 3000' is versatile. We're looking to expand our content library in
fact."
Another woman, older and wearing a leopard
print top, handed her a crumpled fifty. "I know a kid just like that. My
neighbor's son. Redhead, freckles, 15, a lacrosse player. Always mowing the
lawn without a shirt to show off his abs. You think he'd fall for it?"
"Few boys turn down the opportunity,"
the saleswoman assured her, pocketing the cash. "But we'll have to rope
him in soon as this is our last day." They chatted for a bit, brainstorming
ways to luring him to the booth later on and have him
get similar treatment to Tucker. The security guards had a bit where they could
stand near someone and allow him to "accidentally" overhear them talking about
the device to peak a boy's curiosity.
As the day moved towards late afternoon,
the day had already been a success. The selling of equipment was just a front
for her, of course. One could buy it, but very few did. The real money
was in videos she made for SNAKPHOB.
A few farm boys, unaware of the predator in
their midst, walked past laughing, pointing at the weird machine, not realizing
they were being sized. The saleswoman made a note of a particularly lean boy
with dark hair who was walking by with a group of friends, mentally tagging him
as a potential target for the next "public demo" if that redhead
she'd discussed earlier didn't work out.