The Art of Adaptation
Table of Contents
The Art of Adaptation
Copyright
The Art of Adaptation
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Want to know what happens next?
The Art of Adaptation
Aubrey Parker
Copyright © 2017 by Aubrey Parker. All rights reserved.
This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, businesses, events, or locales is purely coincidental.
Reproduction in whole or part of this publication without express written consent is strictly prohibited.
The author greatly appreciates you taking the time to read this work. Please consider leaving a review wherever you bought the book, or telling your friends about it, to help spread the word.
Thank you for supporting Aubrey Parker
CHAPTER ONE
July 29, 2060 — District Zero
Gregory Bordeaux said, “Don’t be nervous,” and Chloe knew she was on the perfect track.
Gregory was a more difficult read than the world’s Logans or Falls. There were plenty of those types among O’s client base, given the wealth required to set foot in one of their spas. Chloe didn’t like to stereotype, but the collapse of the world’s economies had been hard, and the coastal flooding had been brutal. Like it or not, it had taken a certain kind of person to rise from the ashes and claw to the top of Enterprise.
People who had — the men, anyway — tended to have egos to match their ballooned credits. They usually had something to prove, and men with something to prove were notoriously simple. A girl only had to do one of two things — either treat them like shit or let them treat her like shit — and they’d rip a hole in their pants trying to get her.
But Gregory was a tougher nut to crack. Unlike most of O’s male clients, he was kind and courteous. According to the other girls, he always tipped extremely well, never slapped or choked or hit (while O had zero tolerance for an unscheduled occurrence of violence, there were girls who would take the abuse for a higher paycheck if they knew it was coming), and never condescended.
He had a geek’s shyness to match his nerdy appearance: a surprisingly handsome face with black-framed glasses worn purely for effect, a mess of dark-brown hair, clothes on his skinny frame that had been the rage in the 2030s and that Gregory had made fashionable again by simple brute force. He smiled from the side of his mouth and averted his eyes when looking at hired girls.
Gregory, in short, was the perfect client. He overpaid, never made messes, always left with genuine gratitude, and returned to drop additional credits a few weeks later.
Chloe’s Beam porter, modeled after her old boyfriend Brad for reasons that struck Chloe as manipulative and not altogether accurate, had become her conduit into the thoughts, plans, and desires of the Six who ran O. According to Brad — which ultimately meant “according to the Six” — O was interested in more than perfect clients or even perfect profit.
Information mattered so much more.
“O has always been about gathering and understanding data,” Brad had said, then without explanation added: “Always. From the very beginning.”
It wasn’t enough for O that Gregory was a happy client; he needed to be opened up, figured out, deciphered well below the level of what he himself knew about his own inner workings. Gregory was an archetype. If there was one of him, then there had to be millions. The world’s psyche was a giant puzzle, and O wanted to understand every nuance … then sell tailored products to suit.
Chloe had kept herself neutral when Gregory entered the all-white room. She’d worn a simple red dress, but it was neither vampish nor innocent, neither sexy nor demure. She’d chosen red shoes to match, but the heels were low. Her lipstick matched, but was toned down a shade. She was also wearing a matching bra and panties.
She’d debated her pubic hair, then decided that bare was most universal, and that she could behave convincingly enough to make her grooming seem demure if she had to.
“Hi,” he said.
“Hi.”
Chloe’s one-word reply as she sat on the white bedspread was perfectly neutral — even more than her dress, even more than the moving cloudscape projected by the photo-responsive Crossbrace surface of the ceiling.
The first part of a journey with a new client was like sailing a boat. You had to make tiny movements in the beginning, because even small mistakes could translate into huge deviations if left uncorrected.
Gregory looked at her, smiling. He was attractive without being charming — mainly because charm required a level of confidence Gregory didn’t seem to have, at least not in the company of pretty girls preparing to spread their legs.
He looked exactly as he’d appeared on the Crossbrace news feed, in his most recent splashy profile piece, but she forced herself to ignore the comparison. It didn’t matter how much background the canvas had wanted Chloe to see on the famous Gregory Bordeaux — because right now he was simply a man.
He’d once been a child. He’d had parents, had gone to a virtual school, and even today saw an ordinary guy in the mirror rather than the inventor who’d made it possible for Organa farmers to thrive inside an artificial weather system without having to touch technology themselves.
To the world, he was an icon. But to Gregory himself, he was only an ordinary man.
“So, you’re new?” he asked.
Chloe smiled and nodded, turning from his brown eyes. He hadn’t said it in the spirit of conquest, to plant his flag in a newly discovered peak. He’d said it almost tentatively.
“What’s your name?”
He knew that, too, of course. O had subtly pushed her on Gregory, but he would have reviewed her info before entering the room. He would have seen the dossier — whatever bullshit backstory they’d concocted for Chloe, whatever turn-ons and turn-offs, whatever age. It might be close to her reality and it might not be, but the one thing Chloe and O had agreed on was her name.
She didn’t want a pseudonym. She was and had always been Chloe Shaw.
Asking for her name, when he already knew it, told her something. She looked down, affected a nervous movement of her leg, a quick, idle brushing of her hand atop the pure, white bedspread. “Chloe.”
“That’s a pretty name.”
She gave a tiny little shrug, then smiled again. This time, her smile was aimed at Gregory’s knees.
He looked like he might put a hand on her shoulder, but instead he sat beside her. The bed sighed with his weight. “Don’t be nervous.”
The way he said it nearly broke her heart. She let it, a little.
Half of what Chloe did with a client was performance: pure acting. The other half was actually becoming what she pretended to be. Some escorts dissociated — not Chloe. If she was supposed to be mean, she let herself be mean. If she was supposed to fall in love, she let herself temporarily surrender to the rapture. And if she was supposed to be aroused (which was always), she let her pussy get wet.
“Okay,” she said in a small voice.
“We don’t have to—” He stopped, seeming to realize that even saying what they didn’t have to do would make this apparently shy girl uncomfortable. So he started again with the tiniest talk: “This is a hell of a room, isn’t it?”
Chloe nodded, without looking up or meeting his eyes. Her dark-brown hair hung around her face. “It’s nice.”
“Did you know it senses moods?” He laughed. “Well, my mood, not yours, unfortunately. There’s a whole psychology behind it.” He looked up, as if genuinely interested in the ceiling.
>
Chloe reached over and put a hand on his leg. Then, inexpertly, she leaned over and added the other hand, starting to unbuckle his belt. He put a hand on hers to stop them. She paused, darting her eyes up then quickly away.
“You don’t have to do that.”
She forced a smile. “But I want it. I want to do it.”
“It’s okay. I’ll pay for the time.”
Chloe shook her head, again fumbling at his belt. “Come on. I want you. I want your …” It wasn’t hard to feign reluctance. Reluctance was what Gregory expected, so Chloe stepped into that expectation like a glove.
“Stop,” he said, pushing her hands away.
She looked up at him, truly meeting his eyes for the first time.
She saw so much behind his black-framed glasses — sympathy, and a desire to do the right thing. He really would pay for the time … and he’d probably tip. He’d give Chloe a stunning review of the deeds he’d already decided not to ask her to do. He’d deny himself, and be a gentleman. For her.
But still, despite Gregory’s good-guy exterior, desire lit his eyes. She’d brushed his belt and found his cock already hard. He kept looking across her body when he thought she wouldn’t notice, his breath deep and slow, fingers twitching as if needing to touch her naked skin.
And in that moment, Chloe suddenly understood Gregory Bordeaux. He was rich, famous, and cute. He could have any woman he wanted — but he went to escorts, because they’d never pretend to love him when they didn’t, like women did in public.
Paying for sex wasn’t shameful these days, but Chloe could tell Gregory secretly resented it. He’d always know that no matter how good the girl was, she was touching him for money. He’d smile, thank her afterward, and leave satisfied, but it wasn’t the same as having a girl in his bed who wanted him as badly as he wanted her — something impossible to be sure of anymore, now that the world knew his name.
“Here, I want to show you something.” He stood, crossed to the terminal mounted on the wall, and tapped a series of buttons. Then he stepped out of the way so Chloe could see the screen. “This is my account.” He tapped a red box. A new set of data replaced the old. Chloe saw her picture in the top corner. “And this is my active session.” He tapped a large, green rectangle at the bottom and hit more buttons until the screen flashed a soft shade of shamrock. “And now I’m paid up, including a very nice tip.”
He swiped his hand and the screen went blank. He crossed to the bed and, instead of sitting beside Chloe, pulled an ottoman from a bright-white chair and sat opposite her.
Chloe looked at the blank terminal, then at Gregory. He had a pretty face behind those glasses, and kindness made him even more handsome.
“Why did you do that?” she asked.
“Because I don’t want you thinking that sex is why I’m here.”
She made herself confused. “But that is why you’re here.”
Gregory shook his head. “It was why I was here. But now I’ve paid, and even if I tried to get a refund, they’d kick me out. Really, I should leave. Because that” — he pointed at the blank terminal — “can no longer be why I’m here. Officially, our business is concluded.”
“So, why have you stayed?”
“I don’t know. Companionship?”
“You must have all the companions in the world. You’re famous.”
He laughed. “So, I guess you know who I am.”
“Everyone knows who you are.”
He waved a hand. “I’m just a guy who got lucky.”
But Chloe already knew that. It was what the other girls and O had missed, and what was going to make this the best sexual encounter of Gregory’s life even though he was about to leave without touching her — with his cock hard and balls blue — certain in his own mind that he’d done the right thing.
“So,” Gregory said, “tell me about yourself.”
Slowly, tentatively, Chloe did.
CHAPTER TWO
“Gregory!”
He turned, halfway to his car, holding a stack of papers over his head. Rain was pounding, and Chloe was soaked, dress plastered to her body like a second skin. Her shoes were both in one hand because she’d needed bare feet to run, to cover the distance from the spa room to the front door before Gregory left.
She’d needed those extra few seconds for her Beam connection to spoof a short burst of rain in District Zero. They’d correct the weather anomaly soon enough — and she’d surely catch hell — but rain seemed necessary for mood.
To make this perfect, as it needed to be.
Gregory looked up before trotting forward to meet her. “Chloe?”
She took a few running steps toward him, bare feet splashing the puddles. She realized how confused he must be. He’d made his fortune from the weather systems, and everyone with a Crossbrace connection knew the weather service had no scheduled rain.
“What are you doing out here?” He had to speak louder than the rain. His messy hair was flat on his head, his glasses like storm windows.
Without hesitating, Chloe gripped his cheeks in her palms and pushed her lips against him. She let herself feel the urgency — a genuine reaction as she felt his. She’d been wet inside; now she was wet all over.
With Gregory’s lips on hers, she couldn’t help pressing her body against him, squeezing both of them to the car behind them. It wasn’t Gregory’s. It was a hover, grounded with its street wheels lowered. It looked expensive. She hoped they wouldn’t scratch it, but mostly didn’t care.
Gregory pulled away, held Chloe a few inches from his face, and looked into her eyes. She saw all the right emotions: lust, love, abandon. It had probably been a long time since he’d felt that particular triad.
Lust? Yes. Abandon? Probably. But affection, love, a sense of self-worth and desirability, a sense of connection? Definitely not. Being desired — truly, genuinely, and absolutely for real — wasn’t part of the equation when a man paid for sex.
But now, in the rain, Chloe felt herself becoming the girl who’d run to Gregory not because she was being paid, but because he’d entranced her. She fell into the role, feeling genuine desire. Her pussy ached for him. She met his lips again, and pawed at the front of his pants. She rubbed hard against his body, massaging his long bulge through the wet fabric.
Everything was rain and rivers and smooth surfaces. Chloe felt the water trickle out of his hair and onto her face, running in rivulets past her eyes, to the end of her nose.
Their lips mashed together, their tongues urgent. She closed her eyes, feeling pressure build, then flinched with pleasure as she felt a hand between her legs.
It moved down, below the hem, then up.
She sighed as he moved to her neck, then the area below her ear.
Chloe moaned, tilting her head.
He kissed, nibbled, pulled back.
She sighed again, falling into the moment, thrilled to the fact that he couldn’t keep his eyes off her.
There was no more acting; the metamorphosis was complete. As always, Chloe had become what she’d pretended to be. There was no O in the picture, no Six, no paid arrangement between them. There were no nanobots or toys or biofeedback sensors to heighten pleasure. Just two people full of desire, in a parking lot, soaked to the skin.
A man and a woman, isolated by rain.
Gregory kissed Chloe’s neck and his hands found her breasts. She reached down and unbuckled his belt. Working quickly, as if time was about to expire, she slipped her long fingers into his shorts, grasping his rock-hard erection.
She handled him deftly, rolling her hand around the head of his cock, then dropped to her knees and pushed him against the expensive car, his palms leaving her breasts and their sensitive nipples as she slid down his body.
His head tipped back. Chloe slipped his cock into her warm mouth, tasting the salty drop at the end that had somehow survived the rain. She gripped it at the bottom and worked his length. She could feel it throbbing against her tongue as she licked
its underside.
Gregory moaned.
Chloe wanted him to explode, gushing his bounty, relieving his lust as she licked him clean. But there was more to do. And right now, she needed him inside her.
Gregory reached down to pull up on her dress, and pulled it over her head. If the rain abated, she’d have some explaining to do; this was the middle of the parking lot and while everything was okay inside, there were still statutes against public nudity outside the spa. But for now the rain held, and Chloe squatted barefoot in a puddle in her red bra and panties, with Gregory’s hard cock filling her mouth.
He was still leaning down, working her bra. He got it off, tossed it aside, and reached below to rub her breasts. Chloe’s nipples responded under his touch, standing tall.
“I need you,” he said.
She stood. One of the hands on her chest slipped down as she did, sliding smoothly down her wet, flat belly and into her soaked panties.
His fingers found her bare cleft and slipped between her lips. Her lube supplanted the rain’s wetness, making his touch slick. She rolled her pussy against his palm, feeling her clit throb under the pressure.
She could come right here, grinding into his hand. She was so close.
She gripped his wrist with both of her hands and held it in place, then came up on her toes and pressed hard into him. She opened her eyes and met his, holding them in a lock and rubbing herself on his fingers and palm. Rolling up and down. Side to side. His fingers moved minutely, tickling the bottom of Chloe’s slit, the sensitive area beneath.
Chloe came, her head falling into his chest, a mighty groan escaping. “Now,” she said. “Fuck me.”
He slipped her panties down, squatting to do it so he could give her pussy a cursory lick, his tongue wide and flat. Then he was back up, leaving her red panties to hang on her left leg at the knee.