Extremely Graphic User Interface

Alan P. Scott - Fictions


I get to work early and clock in as soon as they'll open the doors for me, the way I always do anymore, ever since the company brought up the new virtual interface. Put my lunch - food bar and concentrate - into the couch slot for dispensing later, and lie back at my cube terminal, pointlessly trying to conceal my excitement as the morning crew smears the gel on me and inserts my catheter.

Ooh, yeah. Slip on my head as soon as they're gone to the next cube, close my eyes, and boot that fucker up. No screens full of pixels for me, no speakers or sound cards - the head does all that for me via DBI(tm) - Direct Brain Interface. No keyboard, no mouse, no touchpad, data gloves or trackball... I'm virtual all the way, and in the virch there's no reason why entry can't be mapped to any sequence of impulses, any at all. So I lean back in the couch and eagerly suck up the first document in my edit queue.

She's a blonde, and a hot one, too... she's almost ready to print, right outta the gate. When I tweak her nipples, her columns line up for me right away. A couple of flicks to the clit select the right font, and she's ready for putting out... I slap her on the ass and she's on her way to the printer.

The next one's a little harder, a feisty brunette who wriggles to show me how urgent she is. She's picky about how she wants it, though. I've got to heat her up first, a little finger foreplay to reformat her graphs, and then tongue her for a few judicious page breaks, before she'll give me what I want.

By the time I've got her ready to come and go, I'm hot to trot myself, holding on the edge just before orgasm where the work flows the fastest, right where I want to be, functioning at peak efficiency. 'Right where I want to be, functioning efficientLEE'... I make that my little song, a mantra I can repeat to keep me from coming when I'm going too fast, because the work always slows down during the refractory period and nobody wants that.

I do a dozen of the bitches before lunch, man, and about twenty more in the afternoon before they make me jack out, shower off and go home. Just another day at the office, except today is payday. Can you believe they give me money for this, too? Minimum wage, of course, and with the deductions for the gear it doesn't amount to much, but the fringe is inCREDible. I'd be paying THEM if it weren't for the law.

Should do something about that, next election.

* * *

When I get home my wife complains again that I've changed, that I don't touch her anymore, that I don't respect her any more, yadda yadda. Fuck her, man. She doesn't understand.

I get to go to work tomorrow.

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