Hey, Honeybee (1)
It had been a whole week since they started handing out the new Body Checkers exclusively to top-tier dispensers and announcing all sorts of revised policies tailored for us.
But honestly, nothing had really changed.
Sure, they'd lifted the location restrictions, but that didn't matter much to most clients anyway.
After all, it was way more convenient to use the private rooms inside the Interspecies Support Center building—places no ordinary human could even peek into—without worrying about cleaning up leftover fluids, secretions, or whatever else afterward.
If there was one real difference, it was that my daily client count, which used to max out at around three, had now stabilized at that average.
Probably because the deduction rates had gone up even more, and owning one of these new Body Checkers was basically like having an official World Government certification stamped on you. Clients were flocking to us top guys for that reason.
I could see why, too. When I went to pick up my new Body Checker as one of the officially selected top dispensers, every single one of those other guys exuded this insane presence. Like, they weren't normal.
A pot-bellied old dude who looked like he could hypnotize you with a glance, a tanned blond guy, that sort of thing.
The less than ten top dispensers from my branch all gave off that "I've seen this guy somewhere before" vibe—like celebrities or something.
Anyway, it made perfect sense why they were top-tier. You could just tell they were fucking pros at pounding pussy.
So, for clients, getting access to these elite dispensers at even cheaper rates than before? Huge win.
From what I'd seen scrolling through posts on Mammathong, after crunching the numbers, those ten or so top guys per branch actually offered the best value.
Cheaper prices for top-quality service? Of course clients preferred us.
But it wasn't all tilted in the clients' favor.
Dispensers benefited too, beyond just the boosted income from more bookings.
Unlike before, top-tier dispensers now operated on a full nomination-only system—which actually gave us the power of choice.
Full nomination meant we only worked bookings that came directly to us. No more pounding the pavement for sales or schmoozing for regulars. Now, noms just rolled in while we sat on our asses.
Part of that was real-time status updates for top dispensers: currently clocked in? With another client? All public info.
They called it "transparency," but with it plastered right on the Mammathong main page, it was basically free advertising for us elites.
So yeah, no effort required—noms poured in automatically. I'd just pick the ones with conditions I liked and head out.
Plus, clients couldn't hide details anymore; everything was out in the open. Meant I could cherry-pick only the bookings I wanted.
Of course, that sparked some backlash and complaints, but whatever. Not my problem.
Anyway, that morning I'd clocked in early, killing time flipping between Mammathong and Yanetja for any fresh gossip while waiting for noms.
Then—bzzz.
Vibration hit, notification popped. A nom from Yanetja.
Wonder who it is this early, I thought, checking it out—then froze.
It was from a type I hadn't seen in the past week: off-site, outside the Interspecies Support Center.
"...Where the fuck is this?"
The address was totally unfamiliar. I double-checked, thinking maybe I'd misread.
Honeybee Autonomous District. Right there in big letters.
"Gotta pass on this one."
Not just the unknown location—the client was a Wearhoneybee, some race I'd never heard of.
"Wear" suggested a werebeast variant... honeybee? Like, actual bees?
Bees? Kinda rang a bell recently.
"Where'd I hear that...?"
I pulled up my notes app, but no Wearhoneybee on Lilith's "avoid if possible" list.
At least not one of the dangerous ones she knew about.
Still, didn't feel right.
What to do? I pondered, then decided: Filter it. Unknown spot means risk.
As I moved to reject on my phone—froze again.
The detailed contract terms below caught my eye.
"...This for real?"
Normal dispenser contracts priced out by services: creampies, oral, anal, extras, whatever. Client proposes wants and counts; we accept and deliver.
Like the usual creampie courses or milking sessions I'd done.
But this...
"...Full day?"
This nom wasn't for standard services. They wanted to buy me out for a whole day.
Like renting an entire restaurant for the day. Or, more accurately, hiring the chef to slave away exclusively.
But even that aside—the offered fee was nuts.
"One hundred million...?"
Rubbed my eyes, checked again. Still there.
A legit 100 million.
Full day, plus NDA clauses and shit, but still—100 million.
I'd never cleared even 10 million in a full day of nonstop pussy-pounding.
Hell, my record from that virgin slime girl Mumungmumung days—600k per load—still stood unbroken.
100 million was multiples of that, even if they milked me dry till my balls shriveled.
That'd knock off a solid thirtieth of the massive debt I owed Lilith...!
"...Jackpot?"
Fuck no.
Why the hell did I have so much debt at my age?
All to Lilith, interest-free, sure—but still.
Without that, I'd be slaving nonstop just to pay interest, no rest.
"Typo maybe...?"
Made sense. Extra zero by accident felt more real than someone dropping 100 mil on a dispenser.
But...
What if it wasn't?
I'd been set to filter, but seeing that number? Hard to say no.
If it was legit and some other fucker posted on Yanetja about earning 100 mil in a day... I'd regret it forever.
"...Can't let that slide."
After agonizing, I tapped accept.
Bzzz—confirmation from my end. Shit, now I'd taken it... what next?
"Gotta head to this Honeybee Autonomous District or whatever?"
About to search for the location—bzzz. Incoming text.
From the nommer.
"Huh...?"
Pick me up?
Was the Honeybee Autonomous District nearby or something?
Whatever—didn't have to trek there myself. Relief. I headed out and waited a bit, then spotted this badass car rolling up.
High-end limo vibe, but painted in a weird black-and-yellow mix.
"The fuck...?"
Wild custom job, I thought—then it stopped right in front of me. Hit me: the Wearhoneybee nommer.
Honeybee...
Yeah, the colors screamed bumblebee.
As that clicked, the doors opened, and out stepped two identical-looking women. One in a suit, one in a maid outfit.
"Uh..."
"Kang Strong-Cock, sir? Is that you?"
The sharp-eyed blonde in the suit looked up at me and asked.
Obvious non-human: twin antennae sprouting from her head, and a plump, unmistakably bee-abdomen tail swaying behind her ass.
"Kang Strong-Cock?"
"Ah, yeah."
I nodded at her repeated call. She nodded back.
"I'm 6974, here to escort you. We'll take you to our kingdom now."
Kingdom?
Not autonomous district?
Wait, more importantly—6974?
Before I could ask, suit-girl 6974 clapped, and the two maids—dead ringers for her, obvious sisters—grabbed my arms.
"Hold on—"
"Call me 19912."
"I'm... 20134. We'll serve you devotedly during the trip."
Fuck.
Like hell that helps.
Wanted to ask why the fuck their names were like that, but they dragged me into the bee-limo before I could.
"Then, we're off."
Grabbed by 19912 or 20134 or whoever, shoved into the bee-limo, then 6974 hopped in after. Up front, the driver—another dead ringer blonde—spoke up and hit the gas.
What...
The actual fuck.
"Pardon the intrusion."
Still reeling from the whirlwind, the two maids beside me—19912 and 20134—announced and started stripping me.
"Whoa, what the hell are you doing?"
I grabbed their hands, stopping them.
"Apologies, but your current attire isn't suitable for meeting Her Majesty..."
"Sorry we didn't explain beforehand."
Her Majesty?
Queen?
In this day and age? What queen?
Lilith with some "queen" title or something?
"Time's short—could you let go?"
"It'll be quick, no worries."
"Ah... yeah, okay then."
No clue, but "queen" had me folding. Kinda intimidated going to meet someone called that...
Power bends me—your average small-time citizen. That's me.
"Thank you for cooperating. I'll measure your chest; 20134, you handle below."
"Got it, sis."
Sis?
Figured they were related from the looks and numbers, but actual sisters, huh.
As I processed that, 20134 yanked off my pants.
"Hey."
Fuck?
Already half-hard from being surrounded by these busty blonde bee-maids (antennae, abdomen-tail and all), my cock sprang up proud and tall.
"Per the info: 29.8cm. Spot on."
20134 poked and prodded my dick, then rattled off my exact length like she'd measured it herself.
"Worthy of Her Majesty's pick. Impressive."
Even 19912 gawked in admiration.
This whole scene made zero fucking sense.
Didn't make sense, but...
"This part's impressive too."
Her fondling—squeezing my cock and balls like a caress—felt too damn good. I just sat there.