Work Text:
The guy at the front desk is smoking. It catches you off guard, because nowhere lets you smoke indoors anymore, but this guy’s puffing at a cigar like it’s 1970. He catches you looking and blows smoke at you with a wry grin.
It explains the yellow stains on everything.
“Are you looking for something disposable, or a more permanent addition?” The man doesn’t introduce himself, but you suppose that makes sense. This is clearly a ‘rules don’t apply’ sort of place.
You clear your throat, and the second hand smoke clings to the roof of your mouth. “What’s the difference? Besides price, I mean.” You’ve been saving up. But still, you’re not foolish with your money. And maybe something disposable would scratch the itch.
The guy smiles and the cigar cants up. “Sounds like you’d like the tour.”
A boy... a young man, really, is sitting upright in a padded arm chair in the front show room cigar-man leads him to. He’s naked, and his thighs are splayed apart, unselfconsciously putting his pretty, soft cock on display. He’s all oiled up and glistening, and his hair is neatly combed to the side and parted. Copper hair, pale skin that might have had freckles, if he’d been let outside to roam. He’s got thin metal cuffs on his ankles and wrists, but they’re loose enough to jangle like bracelets when cigar-guy claps a hand on the boy’s shoulder.
“This is top quality product right here,” he says, giving the lad a little shake. The boy’s head bobs up and down with the motion. He’s not passed out or anything, but he’s also not really all there. Drugged up, surely, if not something more permanent. But he sits up all on his own, and his body has a lean sort of muscle to it, under all the oil. He’s in good shape, clean and strong.
He does look delectable.
“We’ve got five or six just like this in stock, and another handful in training,” cigar-guy says. “They’re mostly just for fucking, and they’ve got two to three commands drilled in their heads, depending on the boy. This one...” he trails off and looks at the little card affixed to the boy’s chair. “Ah yes, this one can give a hell of a blow job, knows how to clench its ass and milk you, and... ah, never mind, looks like they only managed to get two commands into this one’s empty little head.”
He grabs the boy by the hair and tips his head back. “Smile, sweetheart,” he says. “This fella might buy you. Isn’t that nice?”
The boy’s glassy eyes flutter and he smiles dreamily. He tries to speak, but a gurgle of spittle weeps out of the corner of his mouth instead and he makes a contented humming noise that wraps around a dazed smile.
“Makes up for the lack of options with how well he takes cock, I guarantee. And all of them come with a one year warranty standard, with an option to buy a five year package. Gotta protect your investment, ya know. For the first year, the warranty covers a full replacement, too.”
Cigar man drops the boy’s head and pats his cheek.
“Like I said, we’ve got five or six just like this one. Different colorings, some take to certain types of fucking better than others, but this is the primo stock. A boy like this can keep your bed warm for years, it just needs to be taken in for monthly maintenance. It’ll be there for you, ready and willing, whenever you want it.”
Willing being a generous term. But you’re not about to start quibbling about that. Your heart is pounding, just looking at him. He’s fucking pretty, too, with his flushed cheeks and dazed expression all empty-headed and eager to be fucked.
“How much?”
A puff of cigar smoke wafts towards the ceiling. “Like I said, this is primo stock. Ten grand. I know, it sounds like a lot. But it’ll last you years.”
You’d been saving for this, yeah, but you don’t have ten grand. You don’t even have eight, not without liquidating some stuff.
Oh it’s so tempting to just reach out and touch him. “Can I...”
“Oh yeah, sure, cop a feel! Only thing we ask is no fucking ‘em until you buy. You understand.”
Your throat is tight. He’s warm and firm and soft under your hand. You’d only touched his shoulder, but you drag your fingers down his slick arm and to his thigh.
He doesn’t flinch. He just looks at you, all vapid and content and trusting. His lips are soft and open. What would it be like, to have this in your bed for the next four, five years, until he wears out? Sunday mornings started off with a leisurely fuck, breakfast at the table afterwards, his mouth wrapped around your cock, kneeling between your knees. And when you were done, you'd just get to leave him there, leaking come out of his holes, waiting to be used again.
You draw your hand away. You crave it. Badly. But it isn't in your price range and you shouldn't lie to yourself.
“And the disposable ones?”
Cigar man smiles. “Of course, one’s got to be realistic about the budget, I understand. I’ve bought three of the disposables myself over the years, and I can promise they’re just as pleasurable. The only difference is freshness and longevity. That matters more to some than others.” He gives you a lewd look. “This way, this way.”
The show room for the disposable-classed boys is smaller, and there’s no wallpaper here. Just three young men, one sat up in a cheap metal chair and two laid out on basic cots.
These ones aren’t all oiled up and displayed like high-end dolls.
You figure it makes sense. It matches the products better.
“These are priced based on the specifics, since we can't assure you a particular level of quality across the board. Cheapest is usually between five hundred and eight hundred, but they can run up to fifteen hundred. But like I said, it depends on the details.” He waves a hand and a line of ash falls from the end of the cigar onto the polished concrete floor. “I’m sure you understand. We can’t charge less than we’d get for parts, unfortunately, but usually their livers and hearts aren’t worth anything by this point anyhow.”
He gives you a conspiratorial look, “And between you and me, I’d rather they get used up properly, by someone who's gonna enjoy them.”
“We can’t guarantee any of these ones, and they don’t have any warranties. But it’s just as good a fuck, sometimes, and you might get lucky. I had a fella once who had a disposable boy last him nearly two years!”
Cigar-man leads you to the one sitting in the chair. Unlike the dazed, but still conscious boy worth a whole ten grand, this one stares at the wall, eyes unfocused and unblinking. You’d thought he had black eyes, but when you lean in you see that his pupils are just blown wide enough to all but hide the brown color of his irises. His body is still upright, though. Rigid, actually. Stiff limbed, in a way that looks unnatural and uncomfortable.
“This one’s intact, just got its brain fucked up.” He tips the boy’s head to the side, showing a flat indentation that interrupts the natural curve of his skull. “It’s a return product, so some other fella got the fun of doing the damage. Since its body is mostly fine and we could probably harvest its liver for a grand, it’s on the upper end, cost-wise.”
But the stare isn’t as enticing as the vapid, blissed one of the expensive boy. The emptiness is unsettling. You shake your head.
Cigar-man shrugs. “Don’t worry about it, plenty of options. This one,” he gestures with his cigar, “might be a good fit. Not a return at all, actually, one of our few fresh ones on the disposable plan. I mentioned how we condition ‘em? Like how the boy in the front room knows how to suck your cock real good?”
You nod. Your own cock is twitching just thinking about it.
“Almost always works great. It’s a flash program. Strap them into a headset, give them a nice pretty light show for twenty-five, or thirty hours in a row with the right drug cocktail and they come out with their little empty heads wired up just right.” He shrugs. “Almost always. This one had an aneurysm half way through.”
The boy is flat on a cot. He's got a bit darker of skin, and it's got a nice healthy glow to it. Cigar-man uses his empty hand to roll the boy’s head to the side.
You stare.
His eyes rove all over the place, never quite focusing on anything, just roving lazily. Every once and a while they'll flutter shut and you can see the eyes still rolling under his eye lids. His eyelashes are dark and splay prettily across his face. And then his eyes open again, and the pattern repeats.
Drool leaks from the side of his mouth now that cigar-man tipped his head to the side, shining his lips up.
Your cock is hard, now, straining at your trousers.
“It can still give head, kind of,” Cigar-man says, and your both is bone dry. “But it never actually wakes up, so it’ll only just lay there. But the flash program worked about half way, before its brain had a blow out. It still sucks you off, and it doesn’t have a gag reflex.”
“How much?” you blurt.
You should try to negotiate. You blame all the blood pooling in your cock rather than your brain.
“Well. It’s definitely on the disposable plan. It's in good condition, but it's not primo stock. The aneurysm fried out most of its brain." He grabs at one of the boys wrists and lifts it up. There's no reflex or reaction and the limb just flops limply when he drops it. "The boys back in the flash conditioning department think its probably paralyzed. And since it already had one aneurysm, we can’t guarantee it at all and there’s no warranty. But it’s fresh. And,” he looks apologetic, in that fake way. You wish he’d stop with the used car salesman stuff. “We could get a fair bit for its liver and kidneys, since it hasn’t been drugged much yet. But as a first-time buyer I can cut you a deal.”
You don’t even bother looking at the third boy on the other cot. You want this one. You want this one with its empty face, its roving unfocused eyes, and its throat fluttering around your cock. You don’t need him to sit up or stand. You'll keep him in your bed. Him being all soft and floppy isn't exactly a problem you care about.
“Twelve hundred, cash, with next-day delivery. And I want some pictures, in exchange for the discount.”
You lick your lips.
“I'll do it for that. But I want him today.”
Cigar-man's eyes twinkle. He takes a puff of his cigar and blows out again off to the side, at the boy whose head got bashed in. The boy just stares, unblinking, as the smoke rolls over him.
“Tell you what,” he says, “Just this once, we can make that happen. Cash only, you good for that?”
“Absolutely,” and you dig the money out of your pocket, counting out the hundred dollar bills and arranging delivery, and sneaking furtive glances at the boy who will soon occupy your bed. Or the floor. Or wherever else you decide to leave him. It’s not like he’ll notice or care or be able to do anything about it.
Cigar-man stuffs the cash into the breast pocket of his tweed suit. “Pleasure doing business. I am always happy to send a boy off to a fella who will use him up right. That's what these are for, ya know? Especially the disposable ones.” He rubs an absent hand across the boy's belly. “They're not good for anything else except harvesting 'em for organs, and I'd rather they get sold for fucking, at least while they're as pretty as this.”
You get that. You’d also take a loss of a few hundred dollars if it meant you could fantasize about a boy like this one getting rammed for a few months. You’ll make sure the pictures you send are good ones.
You shake his hand, try not to cough at the smoke, and then blink at the harsh daylight as you exit the nondescript building back into reality.
Your blood is singing and your trousers are tight as hell, and part of you can’t believe you just spent that much money, but...
It's gonna be more than worth it.