The waiver screen blinked blue in the dim light of the casino’s back corridor. Jake thumbed his approval without reading it. Same as last time, same as everyone did. The fine print was always some corporate bullshit about liability, and nobody gave a shit anyway. He pushed two chips into the slot, worn out from a thousand other hands doing the same.
The divider wall ahead was cold steel, scuffed with boot marks and stained with things Jake didn’t want to think about. A slot at waist level slid open as he approached, revealing exactly what he’d paid for: pale skin, oiled and waiting, framed by the edges of the hole like some perverse artwork. This one was nicer than usual. Plump cheeks, smooth as synth-leather under the dim red light, and that tight little pucker twitching like it knew what was coming.
He could’ve taken his time today, maybe. Run his calloused thumbs along the curve where thigh met ass, traced the dip of the lower back hidden beyond the divider. Maybe even leaned down to press his mouth against that softness—just once, just to see if it tasted as clean as it looked under the flickering casino lights. But the clock was already ticking, and Jake was nothing if not practical. So he palmed the left cheek instead, spreading it just enough to watch the hole flutter under his touch, pink and tight like some exotic sea creature caught in a tide.
His cock throbbed in his grip as he spat into his palm—rough, perfunctory, and dragged the wetness over himself before lining up. The first push was always the best part. That moment when the body on the other side couldn’t decide whether to clench or yield, when heat and resistance warred until the ring of muscle gave way with a wet pop. Jake groaned through his teeth, hips snapping forward to bury himself to the hilt in one smooth thrust. The answering shudder from the other side of the wall was delicious. Whoever this was knew their job well—tightening just enough on the downstroke to make his toes curl in his boots, relaxing just before it crossed the line into pain.
Outside, the station hummed with the constant thrum of ore processors chewing through asteroid rock. Belt mining wasn’t glamorous. Just men in patched-up suits drifting through a vacuum, wrestling drills and cursing at equipment that broke more often than it worked. The pay was decent if you didn’t mind breathing recycled air that always smelled faintly of sweat and hydraulic fluid, or sleeping in bunks so close you could hear your neighbor’s teeth grinding.
The casinos were the only real entertainment out here, neon-lit pits where miners blew their paychecks on rigged card games and watered-down vodka.
Deep beneath the casino’s flickering lights, past the dealers with their tired grins and the miners slumped over empty glasses, was where the real action happened. Not the kind you’d brag about over breakfast in the mess hall, but the kind that kept men from cracking under the weight of isolation. The asteroid belt was a graveyard of dead rock and colder vacuums, where every shift ended with aching muscles and lungs full of dust no filter could catch. You either blew off steam at the tables or blew it between someone’s legs, and the house always took its cut either way.
Jake wasn’t proud of how fast he came. He’d barely gotten his hands on those smooth, oiled cheeks before his hips were bucking, his breath ragged behind clenched teeth. The divider wall muffled whatever noises might’ve come from the other side, but his imagination filled in the gaps. Some faceless woman gasping, her painted nails scraping the plastic as he drove into her. The fantasy evaporated the moment he pulled out, leaving her sticky-thighed and unsatisfied, the divider’s slot already sliding shut with a mechanical sigh. He’d barely made it three minutes.
He wiped himself off with the rough paper towels provided, the industrial kind that felt like sandpaper on oversensitive skin. The air recyclers kicked on with a whine, cycling out the scent of sweat and sex, replacing it with the usual casino stink of stale booze and ozone. Jake zipped up, adjusted his jumpsuit, and turned to leave. Only to find the door’s handle unresponsive. A red light blinked above it, mocking. “The fuck?” He jiggled it again, harder this time, but the lock held firm.
A soft chime sounded behind him. The divider wall’s second door, the one he’d never seen used, slid open with a hydraulic hiss, revealing Sam’s grinning face. The man was all teeth and sunken cheeks, his jumpsuit sleeves rolled to show off forearms tattooed with old mining corps insignias. “Congratulations, kid,” Sam said, extending a hand like they were sealing a business deal. “You’re drawn.”
Jake stared at the offered hand, his brain lagging like a busted thruster. “Drawn for what?” The words came out slow, syrup-thick with confusion.
Sam’s grin widened, the kind of smile a man wears when he knows he’s about to ruin someone’s day. “You didn’t read the waiver, did you?” A chuckle, dry as asteroid dust. “Nobody does.”
Behind Sam, the divider wall groaned open fully, revealing the other side for the first time. A cramped space barely big enough to turn around in, lit by flickering biolights.
There, still bent over the padded bench with his oiled ass glistening under the red glow, was Rodriguez from maintenance. His face was flushed, his lips bitten raw, and his cock hung half-hard between his thighs. “Welcome to the club, hermano,” he rasped, wiping sweat from his brow with a trembling hand.
Sam clapped Jake on the shoulder like they were celebrating a promotion. “Two percent chance every visit,” he said, pulling a crumpled tablet from his pocket. The waiver screen still glowed blue, tiny text scrolling endlessly. “Every fuck buys you a lottery ticket. Rodriguez here lasted six months before his number came up.”
Jake’s throat clicked when he swallowed. The air recyclers cycled again, filling the booth with the scent of cheap lube and musk. Sam leaned in, his breath warm against Jake’s ear. “You thought we imported women out here? On miner wages?” The laugh that followed was jagged, like metal scraping metal. “Kid, those asses you’ve been plowing? That’s Martinez from drill ops. That’s Chen from life support.” His thumb jabbed toward Rodriguez, still glistening on the bench. “And now that’s you.”
The second door hissed open wider, revealing a cramped prep room—steel shelves lined with unmarked bottles, a folded jumpsuit on a stool, and a medical droid humming in standby mode. Sam shoved Jake forward with a pat between his shoulder blades that was just shy of violent. “Strip. Clock’s ticking.” The droid whirred to life, its articulated arms unfolding like some mechanical spider as it rolled toward them on silent treads. Jake’s fingers hesitated at his jumpsuit’s seal, but Sam was already tossing him a wafer-thin tablet. “Your shift starts in fifty-three minutes. You’ll want to read this part.”
The screen displayed a flowchart titled ORIFICE PREP & MAINTENANCE. Step one showed a cartoon ass being shaved by a laser. Step two involved a syringe labeled Muscle Relaxant (Premium Grade). Jake’s stomach lurched at step three: Gradual Dilation Protocol. Below it, a timer counted down—*00:47:22*. “Relax,” Sam said, pulling a hypospray from the droid’s tray. “Chen cried his first time, too.” The needle hissed against Jake’s neck before he could protest, cold spreading through his veins like liquid nitrogen. His knees buckled; Sam caught him under the armpits with practiced ease. “There we go. Now the fun part.”
The droid’s pincers gleamed under the biolights as they descended. Jake tried to squirm when cold metal gripped his hips, but his body was pudding. Limp and pliant. Something vibrated against his cheeks, warm and buzzing. Laser shaver, his addled brain supplied. He couldn’t feel the hair falling, just the occasional sting when the droid nicked him.
Sam’s chuckle came from somewhere above. “Hold still, princess.” His boots clanged against the grating as he stepped closer. Jake’s unfocused eyes caught the thick outline in Sam’s jumpsuit first. A lazy curve of flesh already half-hard. Then the hiss of a zipper. Then the slap of bare skin against thigh as Sam pulled himself free, stroking with the casual rhythm of a man checking his messages. “Fuck, I love orientation days.”
The droid worked with mechanical efficiency, its pincers rotating Jake onto his stomach despite his slurred protests. Cold gel slithered between his cheeks, followed by the invasive nudge of a nozzle. Jake’s back arched when the enema hit. Too fast, too much. Sam’s whistle was appreciative. “Look at that clench. Rodriguez never squeezed that pretty for me.” The droid beeped, withdrawing the nozzle just as Jake’s gut cramped. A waste tube hissed into place beneath him.
Sam’s boots clanged closer. He never stopped stroking himself. Long, slow pulls that made the veins stand out. “Five years running this shithole,” he mused, thumb swiping over his leaking tip. “Still gets me hard watching you rookies realize what you signed up for.” The droid’s laser shaver whined against Jake’s inner thighs, leaving skin pink and hairless. Sam exhaled sharply when it moved higher. “There we go. Nice ass, princess. Bet it’s virgin tight.”
Jake’s fingers scrabbled against the grating. The drugs made his limbs feel stuffed with wet sand. “Fuck you,” he slurred. It came out thick, half-moan.
Sam chuckled and crouched, his free hand tracing the freshly shaved curve of Jake’s ass. “Oh, we’ll get to that.” His calloused thumb pressed against Jake’s hole, just enough to make the muscle spasm. “But first, lesson one. Don’t fight it. Makes it worse.” His grip tightened on Jake’s hip, hard enough to bruise, and lined himself up. The blunt press of his cockhead was obscenely hot against Jake’s oversensitive skin. “You’re lucky it’s me,” Sam breathed, hips rolling forward. “Some of those drill ops boys? Would’ve split you like an asteroid.”
The stretch was agony. Jake’s scream echoed in the metal booth, bouncing off the divider wall he’d fucked through not ten minutes prior. Sam didn’t pause, just kept pushing in, inch by brutal inch, his breath coming in ragged gusts. “There we go,” he cooed, hips flush against Jake’s ass. His fingers dug into Jake’s waist, anchoring him as he pulled out halfway and slammed back in. The droid beeped disapprovingly at the sudden movement. “Hurts now,” Sam panted, rutting into Jake with piston-like precision, “but wait ’til your first shift.
Outside, the station hummed its usual dirge of grinding drills and rattling air processors. Inside, Jake’s world narrowed to the searing stretch, the relentless rhythm, the way Sam’s cock dragged against his walls with every thrust. The prep drugs turned pain into static. Distant, buzzing, like radio interference. His hips jerked involuntarily as Sam hit something deep, sending lightning up Jake’s spine. “See?” Sam chuckled, twisting Jake’s hair in his fist. “Told you you’d love it.”
Sam’s voice was gravel against Jake’s ear, his breath sour with synth-whiskey. “Bet you’re wondering who else has been in this booth.” His thrusts slowed, deliberate now, each one punctuated by a filthy squelch. The prep drugs made Jake’s hole loose and pliant, but the stretch still burned. Sam wasn’t small, and he wasn’t gentle. “That sweet little ass of yours?” Sam chuckled, dragging his calloused palm down Jake’s flank. “By next week, half the station’ll know how it clenches when you come.”
Jake’s moan caught in his throat as Sam angled deeper, the head of his cock grinding against something that sent sparks behind his eyelids. “Fuck…” he gasped, the syllable fracturing into something between a plea and a sob.
Sam’s chuckle was dark, knowing, his hips snapping forward with the precision of a piston. “Don’t worry, princess. You’ll be screaming plenty of names soon enough.”
Sam’s fingers dug into Jake’s hips, pulling him back onto each thrust with brutal efficiency. The anonymity was the best part, he’d said. The delicious uncertainty of never knowing if the guy handing you your morning ration of protein paste was the same one who’d filled your ass with his own the night before. That constant itch in the back of your skull every time someone nodded at you in the mess hall: Was it him? The way a cough or a laugh could suddenly sound familiar in all the worst ways.
The drugs turned Jake’s orgasm into something liquid and strange. Not the usual sharp punch of release, but a slow-motion implosion that left his thighs shaking and his cock dribbling onto the prep table beneath him. Sam groaned as Jake’s hole spasmed around him, his rhythm stuttering before he bottomed out with a grunt. Jake could feel the hot pulse inside him, thick as the hydraulic fluid that kept the station’s air recyclers running.
Sam pulled out with a wet sound, wiping himself off on Jake’s thigh before turning him roughly onto his back. “Fuck, kid,” he muttered, palming Jake’s slick hole with something almost like reverence. “You’re a natural.” The medical droid beeped, extending a screen that flickered to life with a high-definition image of Jake’s ass, plump and hairless under the biolights, still glistening with oil and lube and Sam’s spend. It looked good. Feminine in a way Jake hadn’t expected, the curve of his cheeks was almost artistic under the harsh red glow. He’d have approved of that ass if it belonged to someone else.
Sam chuckled at Jake’s slack-jawed expression and slapped the screen shut. “Yeah, yeah. Save the admiration for the paying customers.” He hauled Jake up by the armpits, ignoring his wince as his knees buckled. The drugs were wearing off, leaving behind a dull ache between his legs and the uncomfortable awareness of how used he felt. Sam shoved a folded jumpsuit into his chest, thinner than the standard issue, with a suspiciously placed seam running right over the ass. “Shift starts in ten,” he said, already turning away to adjust the divider wall’s settings.
Jake was in position, his ass raised, pressed to the wall, and waiting. The padding beneath him smelled of sweat and industrial cleaner, the rough texture digging into his hips. He’d been prepped within an inch of his life: shaved, stretched, lubed. But nothing could prepare him for the moment the slot slid open with a pneumatic hiss. Cold casino air rushed in first, raising goosebumps on his exposed skin. Then, a touch. Calloused fingers, smelling of machine oil and stale nicotine, tracing the curve of his ass with the same absent curiosity as a miner inspecting a drill bit. Jake shuddered, biting his lip hard enough to taste copper.
He felt something dragging over his crack and lining up. This was his first, if Sam didn’t count. And many more were to come.
