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Show Business

Del sighed to himself as he walked to work, ignoring signs lined in bright neon that clashed garishly with the crumbling concrete and pitted steel of their buildings. The short, olive-green lizard walked through the shopping and entertainment district, his gaze firmly on the sidewalk in front of him, his long, prehensile tail flicking from side to side. Torn jeans and a shabby vest over a faded and threadbare black t-shirt made him about as nondescript as he could manage, but perhaps not a good match for his surroundings. He paused at a street corner with a jewelry shop and eyed the window display briefly.

A mistake. His vHUD swiftly reminded him that prolonged eye contact with vendor inventory of a value greater than 5,000 hydrox was strictly prohibited for all citizens Class Six and below. Each hydrox, of course, had a value equivalent to one ration of clean drinking water. A week in the cells for window-shopping. Wouldn't want street trash like me getting ideas, after all. The especially wealthy could ride out their sentences, when they were sentenced, in suspended animation, but everyone else still served time the old-fashioned way. Ordinarily his net worth would preclude such a penalty, but his line of work meant that, money or no, he was stuck as a lowly Class Seven.

Just a couple steps up from the burnouts and scrap-mongers that aren't even allowed in this part of town. He blinked as his retinal implants helpfully censored the offending objects from his view, a workaround that was only really used by people like him, with money beyond their Class norm. Helpful, but disorienting nonetheless. CitSec would grudgingly accept his implant's recording as evidence in his favor, but they'd still give him a hard time for staring, so he glanced away, toward his destination across the street. He immediately wished he hadn't.

Fuckin' Bloodrobes, just my luck! Gathered outside the club where he was due to perform, a small crowd of fanatics in crimson robes stood, holding signs and shooting glares at passersby. Fire safety ordinances required them not to block the entrance itself, but nothing prevented them from making the approach as difficult as possible. The bodily purists wouldn't hassle him too much: most of his modifications were purposely discreet until he needed them, but they would turn away paying customers. Smaller crowds meant a smaller bonus.

"The Church of the Unsullied Flesh calls upon you sinners to reject the destruction of your mortal forms! Save your immortal souls, before you become nothing more than slaves to control chips and enzymes!" A particularly bold canid was shouting at nobody in particular. He fixed his lupine eyes on Del's approaching figure. "You there! You hide your corruption well, but I can sense the taint upon you!"

"More like you can sense that ModScan you've got shoved up your ass! Maybe if you turn up the vibration alerts, you won't even need to head inside!" Del jeered, unimpressed by the charlatan's obvious trickery and mumbo-jumbo.Sure, technology's all well and good, as long as you're only wearing it, right, Bloodrobe?

Making his way to the employee entrance, Del headed to the changing room and grabbed his performance clothes from his locker, then stripped down and started pulling them on, heedless of other workers wandering through. Modesty was a luxury he couldn't even think about.

"Del, get your ass moving! Your show starts in fifteen!" The manager's raspy, smoke-strained voice grated against his eardrums. Breaking out of a brief daydream about freelancing and landing a private client who'd sponsor him for Fifth or even Fourth Class, he jumped to his feet. His tearaway clothes in gaudy, metallic, bright yellow threads clashed somewhat nauseatingly, in his opinion, with his drab scales. Still, he wasn't being paid to model fashions.

Strutting out from behind a holographic curtain and onto the familiar stage, loud music blaring and bright lights flashing, he struck a pose, hips thrust out provocatively, before beginning his dance routine. The crowd was, as usual, too drunk or distracted to take much notice, but he hadn't hit the fun part yet.

The music changed to something slower and more dramatic as he tore away his clothes on-cue, the better to allow unrestricted movement, with nothing but his slit hiding his cock from view. The light level lowered in the room, a pole telescoped up from the floor of the stage, and he swung himself onto it with ease, holding on with his hands, his feet, or sometimes only his augmented tail, the subtle bionic enhancements making it not only prehensile but strong enough to hold his weight.

Once he had the crowd's attention, it was time to keep it there. A quick press of his fingers on the correct pressure points in his thigh, and micro-vibrators implanted in his slit hummed to life, massaging his prostate and the base of his tapered penis, getting him aroused and erect in moments. The audience cheered as his aqua-colored length slid into view, bioluminescence causing it to glow faintly in the dimmed lighting. He bent over to give it a long lick with his smooth tongue, then downed on his own shaft for good measure, bobbing his head along it a few times before resuming his dancing, his arousal and elevated hormone levels signaling to artificial chromatophores that sent ripples of color across his scales in both visible and ultraviolet spectra.

As the music drew to a crescendo, Del pressed his fingers to his thigh again, upping the speed of the internal vibrations as he hung upside-down from the top of the pole, his tail curled around it securely as he hit his climax, ropes of hot, glowing semen spurting out to paint the stage, before he turned off the micro-vibrators, jumped down, stuck the landing, and took a bow. Nothing quite like show business, he thought ruefully, as his cock retracted slowly while he scooped up piles of hydrox vouchers and the odd cheap bit of jewelry. Taking a final bow, he made his way backstage, handed off the armful of loot to his scowling ursuline manager, and headed for the changing room. Maybe someday I'll keep at least half of what I get tipped. Yeah, that'll be the day. He pulled on his clothes and headed to the bar to wait for his next show. Drinking on the job was the only privilege he got, as long as he didn't overdo it. Still came out of his pay, though.

At the end of the night, he strolled home, his bank account and his heart a little heavier. His talents were wasted on Fifth and Sixth Class stiffs, and one of these days his walk home was gonna end in an alley with a knife between his ribs when some piranha figured his implants were worth more than his life. He needed a break, a change, a shot at the big leagues. He didn't expect it in the form of a message in his personal inbox that same night.