Author: Thinking Horndog
Title: Checkpoint
Part: 3 of 3
Universe: The Swarm Cycle
Summary: Early New Years morning, Pete Connors and his ladies stumble into a
police sobriety checkpoint -- or is it?

Keywords: ScFi MF MFF FF oral anal harem

Checkpoint

Chapter 3

I eyed her and said, "One more hot, high-performance pussy would probably
put me in my grave!"  When you start looking forward to NOT fucking, you're
DEFINITELY getting too much; I knew that when I got picked up, augmentation
would increase both my interest and my capabilities, but in the here and now
I was servicing three women regularly -- and I had to take one day off in
four in order to do a proper job!  Filling that fourth day with another
hungry gash would likely leave me anemic, at least, as I was pushing large
quantities of protein out my dick on a regular basis.  Pussy is wonderful
stuff; having too much to be able to appreciate it properly is, well, sad.

"Maybe you should be looking for something else, then," Mona replied, and
started digging through the forms.  The forms themselves didn't mean
anything, of course -- they were just releases.  I was in the doghouse with
HR for being the visible reason for a couple of major policy changes, the
first being the stuff they had to put together to suffer Mona's presence on-
site under my supervision, and the second being the whole sexual harassment
waiver thing.  HR made Mona and I sign some forms that made it clear that
the company didn't owe her anything -- they weren't obligated to pay her or
anything, they merely allowed her to be there -- and I was responsible for
her.  She had to sign a nondisclosure agreement, blah, blah, blah...  While
it wasn't the letter of the agreement, Mona could basically see anything I
did -- and that meant she could help out, although she was not obligated to
any more than the company was allowed to pay her.  Sitting around bored
didn't work for her, though, and soon she was 'helping out' more than some
salaried employees.

The sexual harassment waivers weren't REALLY my fault, although they covered
Mona and she signed one; they were coming in, anyway, as a more or less
necessary change.  We had to go to a briefing by the legal department and HR
and sign a paper that said we knew about the waivers.  Some snippy HR bitch
(okay, if you're in HR and you're offended, I apologize, but for every HR
person I ever met who had any sense and truly cared for people, I've met
three who embraced every stupid idea in the book and did fucked up things
like post job requirements that specified ten years' experience with a
product that had been out for two.  If you're in group one, I apologize
humbly; if you're in group two, suck it up...) stood and declaimed on the
matter for a while in terms that indicated that she didn't want to get her
tongue dirty making things understandable, then the guy from the legal
department got up and earned his keep by managing to keep it clean while
making things clear to the densest of us.  Basically, the deal was that
company dress codes, fraternization policies, blah, blah, blah, continued to
be in place -- but you COULD opt out.  If you did, the company wasn't liable
in any way, shape, or form.  "Ladies and Gentlemen," as he put it, "If you
sign a waiver and choose to wear clothing that displays a sexual
characteristic on company property, you need to remember that you are
displaying it to EVERYONE, not just one or two individuals of your choice.
That means that ANYONE may examine or comment upon said characteristic, and
you waive the right to complain about it.  The rules are deliberately
permissive, up to and including actual sexual acts.  No still means no and
unwanted sexual contact continues to be illegal -- but the company is NOT
liable in any way, shape or form; you need to contact law enforcement if you
wish to pursue a complaint against an individual who violates your person;
you waive any right of civil action against the company for allowing you to
pursue your sexual identity.  Did you all get that?"  Several people present
appeared befuddled, so he said, "Let me throw out an example.  Let's say
that a young lady in Sales notes that her bust gets her a certain amount of
attention, and she determines that her sales quota will be more easily
filled if she bares it.  To do so, she must sign one of these waivers, and
if she does so and she wanders past the warehouse and gets wolf whistles,
that is NOT grounds for a sexual harassment claim.  Despite the fact that
her display is intended for customers, if the warehouse staff is exposed to
it, they are free to comment upon its size and so on, either favorably or
unfavorably.  If this young lady doesn't want the warehouse staff to see and
comment upon her bust, she needs to cover it up, not expect the warehouse
staff to pretend to ignore it.  Moving things up a notch, the young lady may
even allow others to fondle her bust if she wishes, in locations and at
times that don't interfere with company operations.  Should an individual
decide to do so WITHOUT the young lady's permission, the authorities should
be called and the assault reported.  The company is NOT in the business of
determining the guilt or innocence of any party involved in such a case and
all consequences will be confined to those imposed by the legal system.  By
signing the waiver, the young lady absolves the company of any
responsibility in the matter; the company is neither criminally nor civilly
liable for situations wherein the company's policy of allowing free sexual
expression leads to untoward results."  The lawyer looked around and sighed.
"To be a bit more graphic, if you expose your breasts and a dirty old man
eyeballs them and drools, tough.  If you don't want them seen by him, cover
them in his presence.  If he insists upon feeling you up, call the cops --
don't bother HR.  Don't expect us to fire him if you don't win your assault
case and he doesn't go to jail -- don't even expect us to suspend him, with
or without pay, while the incident goes through the courts.  Frankly, if you
sign one of these, it is going to damage your ability to win a rape case."

A woman in the back raised her hand.  "What if I don't sign a waiver and I
don't want to see?"

The lawyer pursed his lips.  "We'll handle it in the least disruptive manner
possible.  See your supervisor for alternate seating, for instance.  I'm
looking for an extreme case for this, so bear with me.  If a gentleman
exposes his genitalia to you and you find it distasteful, look away.  If
that doesn't work, pointing and giggling might..."   That got a laugh.  "If
he's persistent, discuss it with your supervisor -- no doubt the
individual's productivity is down if he's waving his privates under your
nose on a regular basis.  If he IS your supervisor, feel free to discuss it
with HIS supervisor or with HR."

He looked around.  "We expect some tolerance from those who do not sign
waivers -- and we expect some effort at decorum from those who do.  Extreme
behavior will get you disciplined because it is disruptive -- I would
recommend avoiding actual sexual activity in the cubes.  We'll be looking
for locations to designate; for now, break rooms are probably your best bet.
Make sure your boss and co-workers aren't going to be too distressed about
it before you come to work nude -- it's the polite thing to do.  And messing
with someone who hasn't signed a waiver and isn't interested IS sexual
harassment and WILL be dealt with, even if it isn't in a zero-tolerance
manner."  He glanced around again.  "A couple of things:  Either this thing
is on or off.  If on Monday Brenda X sticks her bare breasts in your face
and you cuddle them, then on Tuesday she does it again, but you're not
interested because you discovered on Monday she has implants, then on
Wednesday she comes back, don't go to HR, waiver or no waiver.  What you
have is an interpersonal relationship problem, not a sexual harassment
problem; you gave up your right to file a complaint when you felt Brenda up
on Monday.  If Betty shows up on Thursday to see if you have blood in your
veins, then you have a complaint against Betty -- IF you don't test drive
her.  Another note -- if you dress as if you signed a waiver, expect to be
treated as if you signed a waiver.  Don't go running to HR because you
exposed yourself and got commentary on it, but haven't signed a waiver -- go
home and change clothes, or sign a waiver; that's what HR will tell you to
do.  Are we clear?  I'll be available to answer individual questions."  He
grinned.  "In fact, I'll enjoy it."

	       ----------------------------------

So, anyway, Mona starts going through the waivers; there was no requirement
for anyone to actually give anybody else a copy of the form, but girls did
it.  There were little stickers you could put in your cube that said 'Free
Expression Zone' to clarify things -- but I digress, again...  The point was
that someone had generated a little sticky-note form that allowed you to
stick a 'personal ad' to the waiver, telling the recipient that not only was
it safe to play, but how interested the girl was and in what.  The thing had
been written tongue in cheek, with entries like:

"Sex:  (Circle All Applicable)  Male  Female  Hermaphrodite  Transsexual"

and

"Preference:  I am: Straight  Gay  Bi  Undecided"

and

"Practices:  I do:  Oral  Anal  Groups  Bikers  Interracial  Dogs  BDSM
Whatever you tell me to do"

(that last was a popular choice).  The girls filled them out, anyway,
including the obvious jokes.  Physical characteristics were on it, too, as
well as contact info, an a little space for a free-text note -- usually a
come-on.  I'd read a bunch of them for amusement, but nothing had stuck out.
Mona went through them, with numerous giggles, while I resolved someone's
printer problem, and separated them into two piles.

"This is the adult personals," she told me, "and this is just the
personals."  The first stack held the vast majority of forms; the second
turned out to be only one.  I picked up the 'personal.'  The sticky note was
filled out meticulously, even providing info that wasn't anything
impressive, like the fact that her height-to-weight ratio wasn't that good
(it wasn't awful, either, but she wasn't going to be a swimsuit model).
Most chicks filled out the good parts and left out the bad, like the one who
filled in the fact that she had 44DD breasts, but managed to not mention the
fact that she was five foot three and weighed 240 pounds.  Brown hair, brown
eyes, glasses, 38D...  nothing seemed impressive.  But she hadn't written
anything in the text box but, "Please see the letter," -- no come-on or
anything like that.  I took a look at the piece of paper clipped to the
waiver and the sticky note:

Dear Peter (people who know me call me Pete -- but she didn't),

I don't know why I'm bothering with this, but you seem like a nice guy and
I'm a little bit desperate, so I figure it's worth a try.

There's nothing special about me; my girlfriends say I'm invisible -- and
guys don't see me, so it must be true.  I'm thirty, and I have two little
girls -- Caitlin and Karen -- and a little boy -- Mark -- and I love them to
death and would do anything to keep them from being eaten by Swarm things.

I think I have the mechanics of sex down pat -- well, the baby-making part,
anyway, since I couldn't manage to hold onto a husband.  I would learn to do
anything you want, though -- I promise! I have my teaching certificate and
would love to run a day care or a kindergarten, but for now I have to work
here to put food on the table.  My CAP score is 5.4 and the subscores are...

(She went on to detail them -- the codes on the card and the numbers --
something no one else had ever done, to my knowledge.  I went online to the
CAP testing site and looked them up -- sex was middle of the road, self-
reliance was a bit low, her self-image was pretty poor, but her intelligence
was high and her parenting scores were well up in the seventieth
percentile.)  I read on:

If you are at all interested in rescuing me and my kids, I'll do everything
I can to make you happy you did.

		Sincerely,

			Grace Murphy

"Not bad, huh?" Mona opined.  "Do you know her?"

"No."  I thought about it.  "I don't think I saw this one come in; I
certainly don't remember reading it before."

Mona nodded.  "I bet she brought it sometime when you weren't here."

"Probably," I agreed.

"So where is she?"

I looked Grace up in the employee directory. "Customer Service -- the call
center." I grimaced.  Chicks that sat on their ass and answered the phone
all day tended to have big ones.  Customer Service ran to some pretty good-
sized chicks.  Having to spend all day talking to irate customers didn't
help their self-images, either, apparently.  From my (admittedly distant)
observations, half of them smoked -- in this day and age when everybody KNEW
it was bad for you -- and the vast majority looked like the drowned their
sorrows in a big tub of cookie dough ice cream at least once a week.  'Ah,
well...' I thought.  "Let's head down there at lunch."

Grace WAS invisible; it took three passes through the cube farm to find her.
Mine was a known face, so we gathered attention, too, which didn't make
anything easier.  Mona muttered, "Maybe she's on vacation -- it IS the week
after Christmas," after the second pass, but the attendance data said Grace
was there, so I shook my head and dove back in.

The pictures of the kids and the crayon art are what finally caught my eye.
Grace's nameplate had apparently fallen -- it was lying flat on her desktop,
half-tucked under some papers -- but there were 5 x 7 framed pictures of a
couple of little blonde waifs and a boy in a crew cut with missing front
teeth and colorful stick-figure pictures of 'Momy' on the cube walls; when I
stopped to look at them, I discovered the nameplate.  Grace was on the phone
saying, "I apologize, Sir, for the delivery failure -- could you give me the
order number so I can track it?"  Listening while Grace discovered that the
moron had backed out of an online transaction and only THOUGHT he ordered
product, I eyed her from the rear.  She was definitely pear-shaped, but not
as disproportionate as Mona.  The clothes she was wearing were designed to
hide an elephant -- but she wasn't one, really.  It was all pretty standard
-- mouse-brown hair pulled back in a ponytail with little frizzies escaping
at the neck (I'm a sucker for that, actually -- it makes me want to kiss the
neck), eyeglasses, fair skin.  The finger- and toenails were well cared for,
in clear lacquer and that white stripe -- I think they call it a 'French
manicure' -- the feet displayed by the ever-popular (not to me, but
apparently among women of all ages, everywhere) rubber flip-flops. There
were probably thirteen variations on her basic type in sight -- but most
would be bigger or not as clean or have something else going on.

Grace said, "Thank you, Sir.  Buh-bye!" and poked the telephone hang-up
button with a pen and spun to us, surprised.  "Oh!"

There was nothing on display; the bra she had on would have pressed a pair
of five pound lead weights to her chest.  She was wearing a round necked
blouse and a sweater buttoned at the neck, so the postage stamp-sized area
of skin she had on display framed a small necklace and no cleavage at all.
But I'd been sold at the kiddie pics so, with my usually debonair flair, I
blurted, "Grace?  What are you doing New Years Eve?"

	       ----------------------------------

As Grace tiptoed through the snow in her heels at the back of my little
harem, I reflected that she was probably wearing or carrying stuff from
three well-meaning girlfriends -- and despite the fact that probably none of
them could dress, she had turned out halfway decent looking.  The calves on
display below her skirt were a little heavy, but not bad, and the ankles
were decent.  Grace DID have cleavage -- soft stuff -- and it was on display
tonight.  Earlier in the evening, over the dinner and the dancing and the
champagne, the three of us had interviewed her, the girls wanting to know if
she could be bi, and probing for her experience.  It was extensive, from an
experimentation point of view; in her desperation to hold onto her husband,
she'd learned deep throat and anal and had even swung -- but he had left,
anyway.  When I asked for a sample, she turned the most beautiful shade of
pink -- but she hiked up her narrow sequined skirt and crawled over to my
chair and opened my pants and proceeded to prove that she'd practiced THAT
extensively.  Bonnie, who got down with her, gave her the nod in the first
thirty seconds -- but I was FEELING it and had MY opinion before that.  Even
if she was a dead fuck -- and I doubted it -- we had other uses for her in
the grand view of things.  As I stood there holding Mona under my left
shoulder, I watched her array herself between Bonnie and Lucinda and nodded
to myself.  Yeah, she was going.

I turned and asked the Marine -- I now knew he wasn't a cop -- "This is
pretty extensive -- what's the layout?"

"Transport pads are in the trailers," he replied.  The tents are for real
drunks and for prospective concubines -- you obviously won't need to visit
the tent, but some guys do.  Gals we pick up we tell what's going on and let
them choose whether they want the pickup tent or not -- drunk or sober.
Guys are, well, sort of case-by-case.  Drunks go to the drunk tent -- and
off to jail, when it fills -- but female sponsors can tour it, without
letting on.  Sober guys, well, we use our best judgment in offering the
pickup tent.  Sponsors, of course, are briefed, drunk or sober."  He touched
his Smokey Bear hat.  "Just wait here with these guys," he said as he led us
to a cluster of three or four other guys with a couple of confused-looking
gals in tow, "and someone will be along to pick you up and take you to the
transport pads."

I stood watching as the Marine who stopped the guy in the center lane next
to me handed off to a shorter, REAL cop and went over to speak quietly to
the woman he was with.  Clearly, the guy wasn't a sponsor.  He was also a
bit belligerent, but the trooper started asking him about sobriety testing.
"Of COURSE I'm not going to consent to that!" he ranted.  "I'm not giving up
my rights!"  I rolled my eyes.  I could tell he was lit from here, but the
trooper settled for field tests -- the nose touch and straight line stuff.
That went on for a few seconds before the girl he was with erupted, 'Mickey!
This is a pickup!"

"What?  It is?"  Mickey was instantly VERY angry!  "You bastards!"  He
reached behind his back and I saw metal; there was a ZAP! -- but there were
also enough gunshots to support a firing squad, including one from me and
one from Bonnie.  The cop stood there looking like he was about to shit his
pants -- he'd been WAY too close to Mickey and could easily have been
perforated by the vigilante response!

"P--please don't do that again!" he husked.  Three or four of us mumbled,
"Sorry!"  Meanwhile Mickey bled out in the snow.  Mickey's girlfriend went
back and forth for a while, but eventually trudged off toward the pickup
tent.

The Marine came back and emphasized the cop's position.  "Please allow us to
handle disruptions, at least initially."

We all promised we would stand down.  Several other cars in the visual range
had to be emptied rapidly and the occupants searched and calmed down.
"What's up with the girlfriend?" I asked.

"She's... biddable," the Marine replied.  "He was her man, so she was loyal
to him -- to the point of letting him know the setup, knowing he had Earth
First leanings.  But she wasn't Earth First material and once he was gone
there was no need for her to pretend to be.  She'll be looking for a new
owner, one way or the other."

Then the shit hit the fan.  Four rows back, four guys erupted from an SUV
with automatic weapons, alerted by Mickey's demise, and started lighting up
the place.  "Shit!  Down!  Shoot!"  I grabbed my two closest girls and
Bonnie grabbed Grace and we hit the deck, then Bonnie and I started
peppering the terrorists.  It was STILL four to probably fifteen, six of
them augmented Marines -- but surprise netted the bad guys a couple of
wounded, including the sponsor next to me -- and Grace!

"She's bleeding!" Mona wailed.

"Medic!" the Marine yelled.  Two guys dashed over lugging tubes that floated
on their own; one of them eyeballed the guy next to me, then asked me to
help him get the guy in the tube while the other asked the girls to help
with Grace.  Naturally, I was somewhat distracted as I assisted with the
lift; the medic attending to Grace said, "Don't worry -- she's gonna make
it!" and we all drew a breath.

Once they were both loaded, our Marine said, "Follow the medics -- they'll
get you to the ship!"  We trudged off through the snow to the trailers,
worry about Grace eclipsing just about anything else.  As a result, I didn't
stop at the door to take a last look at my home world from ground level; the
medic asked, "You got everybody?"  I nodded, and he said, "Step into the
beam..."