The trick to writing a Trashy Sexploitation/Guilty Pleasures story is to know what you're writing, and then to label it properly. There are also some rules—three to be precise:
First Rule: TRASHY SEXPLOITATION IS NOT STROKE! Look elsewhere for that.
Second Rule: Trashy Sexploitation is for stories that unabashedly exploit sex, nudity, and sexy situations, for cheap thrills in the way B-movies exist to show nubile young women in bikinis, topless, naked, threatened, slashed, and in showers. These are stories that simply have no other justification for being.
Third Rule: They must be Fun to read.
As for Guilty Pleasures, I might have just called this Guilty Pleasures alone, but Trashy Sexploitation is just such a catchy phrase. A Guilty Pleasure is something you enjoy, but don't want to admit to anyone. Let these stories become Guilty Pleasures for you.
So to summarize: The Project was top secret. They had global domination in mind. They also supplied you with the most amazing living, breathing, mostly naked, challenging, piece of lab equipment you could ever imagine. Of course, that living, breathing, mostly naked, piece of "lab equipment" might just have some other form of domination in mind, given the chance. What could possibly go wrong?
Chapter 1—The Project
You don't join The Project. The Project joins you.
What I mean by this is, you don't apply to them, they never advertise any openings, and nobody has ever heard of them until they approach you with a one-time only job offer. Refuse, and you'll never hear from them again. Accept, and you don't even know what you've accepted yet—except that the money is three times what you've making now. They promise that it will be tax-free, and you're already at the top of your field in pay and prestige.
There are a few additional caveats. Besides the no criminal record or drug use standards, you've got to be single, never married, and have no children. Your parents and any siblings have to be dead, or completely estranged. And you can't be involved in any serious relationship. In short, there should be nobody who cares that you've left town in the dead of night, or what you might be up to now.
Now these are hardly impossible conditions to satisfy if you're good at what you do, and I am certainly that. When your mistress is your near fanatical devotion to your job, a lot of other things just aren't important enough to invest in. Oh, and they also require you to be male, although they don't specify why.
I had a talent they wanted. I'm skilled with computers. I work in the area of hooking up protein scanners to synthesizers and making them all play together nicely afterwards. I can do DNA databases to gene sequencers as well, and get an entire production line up and running tout de suite. I also have a second degree in biochemistry, which means I'll know if the results make sense afterwards, or not.
It's really that last part that matters the most. A lot of computer programmers are great at programming what they're told to program, and absolutely clueless in knowing if the results they get afterwards bear any relationship at all to reality—or if the problem is in their code, or their equipment. A good programmer is also well schooled in other disciplines and has some idea about what his program is actually accomplishing. Otherwise it's just garbage in, garbage out.
The problem with programmers who can only program came about when Computer Science degrees gained legitimacy and the students started never leaving the CS department once they entered college. They spoke their own language there and the rest of the university didn't understand them anyway.
My interests were always so broad that I took all kinds of extra courses while I had the chance, collecting that second degree and two minors along the way. I've always been one to take advantage of opportunities that present themselves. That was going to pay off for me now. This was really was an outstanding deal I'd been offered, even if I had no idea yet just what I was going to be doing for them to earn it.
* * * *
To make a long story short, I accepted their offer. They had me quit my current job as quickly as I could and told me they wouldn't consider it disloyalty for me to give the absolute minimum notice possible to my current employer. Fortunately, when you're in I.T., once they know you're leaving they hustle you out the door as fast as possible anyway. While I've always considered this behavior by H.R. departments that demand for themselves a minimum of two—sometimes more—weeks notice from you as the employee disreputable, and sometimes outright despicable, it didn't bother me now.
The practice of the Exit Interview is also a futile waste of time in my opinion. What purpose does it really serve? They were happy that I was willing to leave so quickly, once they realized they weren't going to be able to retain me anyway.
The only sticky moment came when they inquired about my new employer and the work I would be doing for them. Although rarely enforceable, they had a signed non-compete agreement on file for me.
I couldn't actually tell them anything about where I was going, or exactly what I'd be doing, anyway so I lied. I told them it was a classified government project that I wasn't allowed to discuss with anyone who didn't have a security clearance of Top Secret, or higher, and a need to know. What I knew, and they obviously didn't, is that there is no such clearance as "Top Secret". No documents are ever stamped that way, except on television. Any actual such classification always includes the project name as part of it, along with other information that the normal public never sees.
Although they grumbled, they had to accept my explanation. So with false smiles and promises that I'd always be welcome back here if it didn't work out, they ushered me out the door.
Because I rent, dealing with that situation was easy enough. My relocation included paying off any early-termination lease penalties—none for me, since I'm month-to-month—and moving my possessions to storage until I decided what I wanted done with them. I was told I wouldn't need them for a while.
Three days later the movers showed up. As the last box was being carried out I was met by a taciturn limousine driver who transported me and my single suitcase to an unmarked private jet to fly off into my new life. I still didn't know where I was going, and they took away my brand new, full GPS enabled smartphone and give me one that met with their approval. They didn't do anything dramatic like black out the plane windows or blindfold me, but all I could tell for sure was that we flew several hours northeast.
I never once felt I'd made the wrong move here in accepting.
* * * *
Orientation came the next morning, after a good night's sleep in the furnished apartment they provided on the campus. Seems that they provided housing for the entire staff and we were discouraged from seeking anything otherwise. Hey, if you want to pay my housing bill, not to mention gas and electric, I'm good with that.
All I knew for sure was that I was a couple time zones east, and in a much more northerly latitude, from my previous Southern California abode. Because of the thick pine forest surrounding the facility, I could have been in the middle of nowhere, or minutes from a large city. Truth is, I didn't even care.
This first morning started for me, and one other new male recruit, in a room with no windows. The trainer covered the basics of being here, identification, security pass, hours, and procedures, without telling me anything about what I'd be doing. While this was starting to peeve me a bit, I just let them take their time. After all, I was already on the payroll.
Then there was a pile of forms to sign, including a confidentiality agreement ten times more complex than my last job had used. Also tax forms, new bank deposit information, health, dental, vision, and life insurance—even a 401k plan, which I was immediately eligible for. That was something I appreciated. Companies that make you wait six months or longer to get your benefits and vacation time just tick me off. These people were nothing like that.
Then we had lunch in the company cafeteria, which was rather small all things considered. I doubt more than fifty people could sit here at once, giving me the feeling this wasn't that big an operation. While crowded here at noon, it was crowded with all men, which was starting to seem curious. Was this some sort of gay positive environment? I wouldn't care, but I had to notice that no one else was making eye contact. Ralph, the other new guy, and I were obviously still outsiders. After the security briefing we'd received this morning, I could understand any reluctance to open up to strangers. They had sufficiently demonstrated that they knew more about us already than our mothers did.
Afterwards we were shown where we'd be working. Ralph was in a different section and we parted ways as I was now taken to my lab.
Once I saw it, I sure couldn't complain about the quality of this operation. Absolutely everything was sparkling new state of the art equipment—trust me, I would know. I had computers on one side, analyzers and synthesizers on the other. Some of the equipment was so new that I'm sure it hadn't even been powered up yet. Some familiar stuff had obvious custom mods to it. The problem was clear. You can't just buy off-the-shelf programs and download a few drivers to interface with stuff this rare. I was already looking forward to the challenge.
One curious aspect was a small apartment opening off of the lab itself. Quite small, actually. Did they expect me to be pulling all-nighters? If so, that would drag the pay back down to what I'd been making before, on a per hour basis at least.
"Don't worry about that," my trainer told me. "It's not for you."
Then, just as I was fully assimilating all that I had to work with here, I was told, "Now you'll meet your last piece of lab equipment."
* * * *
My introduction to Jill-47 was a shock. An absolute shock. I mean it was like Wow and What at the same moment—but definitely more Wow, than What?
Jill—from that first moment she'd always just be Jill to me, although to The Project she was simply known as Forty-Seven—was an absolute knockout of a young woman. Dark hair, dark eyes, tanned skin, and the largest pair of breasts I've ever seen firsthand. She looked to be maybe twenty-two years old, and had the sexiest figure I could imagine. And it didn't take much imagining, since it was already half revealed.
All she was wearing was a pair of tight jeans, bare feet in stylish sandals that mimicked mid-height heels, and a black bra that struggled to contain that mighty chest of hers. My trainer was watching me closely as I ogled—there's no other proper word for it—this amazing, unexpected woman.
Jill herself didn't seem put off by this, which was very surprising. In fact, she demurely kept her eyes downcast, not challenging my viewing of her. Maybe she'd had such attention from men for her whole life, or at least since puberty. I had the very distinct feeling that, to her, such an inspection was hardly unusual, or anything to be concerned about. If so, she was certainly the first such woman I've ever known to feel this way about it.
I don't know how long this inspection went on. At some point I realized that, in addition to being watched by the trainer, I was being inspected covertly by Jill herself in return. I don't know what she was looking for, and hoped it wasn't the growing bulge in my pants that I was desperately trying to conceal.
Then I realized I was being spoken to. I hoped this was the first time, and not a repeat of something I had already missed.
"Jill Forty-Seven is an essential part of your lab equipment, as will become apparent shortly. If this is going to be a problem for you, you can still bow out at this point. Beyond this, however, we will hold you to the commitments you've made. Do you agree to fully accept the position?"
I looked around at the lab equipment. The lab equipment other than Jill, that is. It's the kind of stuff I've always dreamed of using. Stuff you could do almost anything with. Stuff I'd longed even to just touch before. I thought about the compensation and the sense of mystery, which had lured me here more than money ever could. Then I looked at Jill. I could just see a shy smile on her lovely face.
I nodded, not trusting myself to speak at the moment. Then it got even weirder.
"Forty-Seven," the trainer barked to her. "Prepare yourself to meet your new Operator."
"Yes," she replied softly. Then she reached up and pulled her bra down to fully expose her chest.
* * * *
As her breasts tumbled out I could see nothing else but them. This might be because they were easily large enough to fill up one's field of vision, especially as she stepped closer to me while doing this. She had a slightly unsteady walk—the sort one new to fashionable shoes often exhibits. This caused her chest to sway most enticingly. Or she might have been doing it on purpose. I saw no hint of tan lines or other body marks, leading me to believe she often kept her chest uncovered.
It seemed strange that a woman making herself vulnerable like this would step closer, rather than back, but she was now so close that if I even raised my hands between us, I couldn't avoid her chest. That didn't seem like the best way to get introduced and create a positive first impression. However, it seemed that was the way I was intended to get introduced to her.
"Take them into your hands," the trainer instructed me.
"Take what?" I asked dumbly.
"Her breasts," came the sharp reply. "What else would you take?"
I don't know what I expected, but being told to do exactly what I most wanted to do at this moment certainly wasn't it.
Still I hesitated. Hesitated until I looked her to see her mouthing silently to me, Do it.
Well, there were only three people in the room, and it seemed that all three wanted me to do exactly the same thing, so I did.
* * * *
The sensations were as powerful as one could ever expect. Her breasts were warm—almost hot—soft, heavy, and easily overflowed my hands. As I rubbed my hands over them I became aware of a soft aroma emanating from her. It had to be from her, because it sure wasn't coming from either of us males. I hefted those mammaries, held them, and finally found my way to her nipples.
Those nipples, large, erect, and rubbery now in their sudden hardness, were surrounded by puffy, tight areola. So aroused so that I could feel the tiny points on her areola from their tension. I enjoyed, and was allowed to enjoy, the moment fully. Right now I was willing to do this job for free, if this was part of it.
Only finally did I look up to see Jill's reaction. Her eyes were dark, her eyelids nearly closed, and she was softly purring—there's no other word for it. While virtually silent, I could tell she was so into this that it made my own reactions seem tiny by comparison.
Time passed before she opened her eyes and raised them to meet mine. Her pupils were so dilated that I felt I could fall forever into those pools of darkness.
I might have had many more thoughts like that for a much longer time, but a voice broke in. "Is she acceptable to you!"
"Yes," I replied, after a moment. I didn't know what she needed to be acceptable for, but it didn't really matter. Jill was more than acceptable, in every regard, as far as I was concerned.
Noticed he didn't ask Jill if I was acceptable to her. It seems that her opinion in the subject under consideration didn't matter at all. But I was sure at this moment in some telepathic way that I was as acceptable to her as she was to me.
"Good!" came the barked reply. The trainer wasn't actually shouting. It just seemed that way in the warm, fuzzy place I was only now emerging from.
"Put it back on her," he commanded me, gesturing to the bra that was hanging from her waist.
"She can't pull it up herself. You'll always have to be the one to put it on for her."
I was confused yet again, but Jill nodded briefly, then turned around to present her bare back to me.
Fumbling badly, I managed to finally get it first unhooked, then in position. That left only getting all those little hooks fastened on the back. How women manage this on their own is beyond me. When Jill turned back around I could see a different smile on her face, but I knew she wasn't making fun of my poor efforts.
The trainer didn't seem to care. "Forty-Seven, those are your quarters now," he said, gesturing to the small room off the lab. "Go and acquaint yourself with them."
Jill immediately went over and inside, closing the door behind her. I noticed there was no lock on it.
"Now let me finish up your education," the trainer told me, taking my arm and guiding me back out of the lab. I wouldn't see Jill-47 again until the next day.