It's Fine, I Never Liked Spas Anyway

"As you've selected the full course we offer, Mister Doe," the brunette woman walking beside me says as we make our way along corridors that seem to be lined with regular mirrors instead of the psyactive ones from before, "you'll have your experience tailored to give you the greatest possible level of relaxation by the time you've finished our time with us." I'm no longer thinking of the two women with me as neat cutouts, I realise. The brunette walking beside me is slightly taller, her face slightly aquiline, while the blonde walking in front of me is slightly slimmer and has a smattering of freckles across the back of her neck.

The brunette clearly notices my thoughtful look, because she immediately elaborates. "All employees on Salacia are linked to HALEC, our Health And Leisure Experience Coordinator, by a set of biological and cybernetic implants," she explains, side-eyeing me as she walks, "which include holographic devices intended to present a perfectly generic appearance until HALEC's behaviour and expression algorithms can determine a customer's ideal appearance and adjust the holograms accordingly. It can't make us look like entirely different people, but it allows us to emphasise and de-emphasise our existing traits to suit the viewer."

"And you two look so distinct from each other because..." I ask, slightly disturbed by the idea of some sort of generic-ising beam. "Your responses indicated that you disliked the use of the hologram, so once you were the only guest who could see us it was shut off," the blonde replies from up ahead. "You're not the first," the brunette cuts in, "maybe a fiftieth of our customers are more disturbed than put at ease by holographic curation - more than enough to justify an option for complete deactivation." As we reach the end of the corridor, the blank wall slides open to reveal a large white-walled room with a well-padded massage table in the centre.

"Please lie down on your front, sir," the brunette says, "we'll get started on your routine shortly." I look around, see nothing unusual, shrug and climb up onto the table. The padded top shifts under me, sections raising and lowering until I don't even need my arms folded under my head to support it comfortably. Instead, I leave them limp at my sides, wondering what comes next. "Please remain still, sir," the blonde says, and I soon discover that 'what comes next' is an energy beam that teleports my clothes into a neat stack on the floor in one corner. "So," I ask, "is there some sort of mind-reading machine that tells you what to do to me, or is it just guesswork?"

They both actually smirk at that. "Neither," the brunette replies, "we were given a pre-made plan when you were first booked in."

"It's unusual," the blonde continues, "but as long as there's plenty of evidence to support their choices, it can be done. Dnd they provided a lot of evidence. Now, neither of us need to be present for this routine..."

"...so we'll leave and let your assigned staff get started," the brunette finishes, "enjoy your stay, Mister Doe."

They both vanish in a flash of the same light that zapped my clothes off of me, and another doorway opens up in the wall in front of me. Out of it strut four identical naked women, almost dripping in what smells like... peach-scented body oil, who my mind immediately labels Andi, Brandi, Candi and Danni for convenience's sake - before discarding the labels because, y'know, they're identical. All four are blonde, busty, bimbo-lipped, big-bootied and bearing more than a passing resemblance to a certain other blonde I've been spending a lot of time around recently. Their tits and asses bounce and jiggle softly with every step they take, their tongues slip over their lips as they fan out around the bed.

They reach out for me, and it becomes immediately clear that, 'blow-up doll of the Doctor' aesthetic aside, they know very well what they're doing. The number of cracks and pops coming from my skeleton in the first few seconds after contact almost convinces me that I'm having my entire skeleton systematically fractured, but my mind quickly runs into the fact that I'm feeling almost too relaxed to move and I'm **** to admit that I'm being pampered rather than killed horribly. Their hands roam up and down my body; popping joints, teasing out knots of tension, kneading muscles into pliability, the whole nine yards. I'm so relaxed I don't even feel the table shifting around me, rolling me onto my back so that the quartet of masseuses can work on my front.

All of them gasp softly at the sight of my cock rising to full hardness and my balls swelling with cum, but they were evidently briefed on what to do. One of them stands on each side of my hips, leaning forward and pressing their tits against one another's around my cock before they shift slightly and start sliding their busts over and under each other, enveloping my shaft completely in an ever-shifting tunnel of soft, wet, warm flesh. The other two decide to smother my face instead, pressing down on me from above and moaning softly every time their fat, tender-looking nipples brush against each other. I lie there for a few moments, luxuriating in the feeling of their flesh on mine.

Then I get bored of it, and decide to have some fun.

I reach back with my arms and grab the asses of the two women with their tits in my face. I'm a little disappointed, frankly - the plush, jiggly layer of fat that gives them their bounce, the firm core of muscle underneath that gives them their bulk, neither are even close to the Doctor's level. I might be a bit spoiled in that regard, I admit in the privacy of my own mind, before releasing them and turning my attention to other areas. The next time one of their nipples brushes against my lips, I shift my head and start sucking on it. Its owner moans loudly as sweet, rich milk practically floods my mouth, filling it up as fast as I can gulp the stuff down.

The woman gasps in relief as the flow finally tapers off and I release her with a wet *pop* of suction, then moans again as her instinctive shift in posture brings the other breast close enough for me to get that one too. By the time I've drained both of her tits, she's stumbling back on shaking legs and I'm moving onto the next one. It occurs to me that that's another area where they don't measure up - I can't imagine the Doctor going weak-kneed like that without some serious pounding, never mind getting her tits sucked. Speaking of, I think, releasing both of the nipples I've been sucking on while comparing their owner unfavourably to another woman, I don't recall making myself that good at this.

#Oh, but you are,# the voice from Wakeford Manor oozes out of hidden speakers and makes my dick throb involuntarily, #my perfect stud couldn't be any other way.# Precum spurts and pours freely from the head of my cock, splattering onto the shelf of the two masseuses' chests or being scooped into their mouths by their eager tongues as they begin to make out around it. #Can you believe that she wanted to leave these people to decide how you would both be treated? I couldn't, so I made the choice for them. I know what you want,# the voice whispers in my ear, and I feel my balls starting to churn in preparation, #and I know what you need.# Without warning, all four of the women vanish in the same flash of light that took the first two attendants.

#Take her. Break her. Make her your slut.#

Got to find her first, I think, clambering up off the table and stumbling towards the doorway that the four masseuses emerged from. It leads to another blank white room and another door, which leads to another blank white room and another door, which leads to another... "Can barely fucking think straight," I mutter to myself, looking around me. The walls are glass, through which I can see dozens of men and women fucking each other into sloppy, dripping messes. Mouths drip spit copiously as they open to cry out or press together in wet, tongue-tangling kisses. Flesh slaps wetly against flesh, slathered in sexual fluids that pour onto the floor and into drains. Men groan and women shriek as they orgasm, bulging bellies with the size of their loads or drenching anyone in front of them with copious amounts of pussy juices.

I wonder for a moment if this is one of the areas that I didn't get invited to, before I notice a small terminal mounted on the frame of one of the windows. I walk over to it and scan what's on the screen, before frowning. 'Initial containment', huh, I think to myself, probably not the sort of place I'd want to get invited to, then. I scroll through the menu options with mounting concern at password-locked documents with titles like 'outbreak protocols', 'employee replacement policy' and 'capture protocols', before another body - a woman I don't recognise - appears in the middle of the crowd. She looks around, dazed, before one of the women writhing on the slick floor grabs her and pulls her down into the pile. She opens her mouth, whether to protest or just to moan I can't tell, and immediately gets drenched in cum by a group of men as they hose the whole girl-pile down.

"Bloody hell," the Doctor mutters angrily from her position next to me, "that's not okay."

I don't jump in surprise, but only because I'm too busy groaning as my cock gives an extra-hard throb.