Yes--on to Tiffany, Inc.

Bella could not bring herself to relax on the car ride from the Agency. Her legs crossed and uncrossed over and over. She shifted her seat belt from one side of her breasts to the other. She looked out the window, then at her phone, then through the front windshield, before returning her gaze back out the side. Finally, recognizing that she wasn't going to be comfortable, the model decided she needed to at least cool down before she got to her employer's offices. And to do that, she needed to heat up.

More than once, she caught the older chauffeur's eyes moving from the road and peering in the rear-view mirror. How could she blame him, though? Her fingers fell immediately to her wet, silvery folds. She wasn't wearing any clothes, and her fleshy, organic legs had to spread for as much space as they could get in the cramped back seat to allow her fingers access. Her cyborg body was on full display for him.

But, Bella tried to keep her eyes closed. This wasn't for his sake, after all. If he asked, she wouldn't even fuck him once they arrived. She just needed to ease her tension some, to rub out her frustrations before they were **** to the front of her mind again, in front of the board.

After all, she knew what they were going to say. The model would be lucky to get much more than a flat 'no.' But it hurt more to bear with it than it would to just ask, fruitlessly. She hoped that would be the case, anyway.

Despite being famous across the country--indeed, across the continent, thanks to her run on the Canadian cy-fashion line and her support of Mexican manufacturers in America--Bella Riviera Arroyo was not wealthy. No models were. It was the nature of the industry.

Most contracts with cypeople models involved paying for the upkeep for the modular parts, providing residence and transportation, and generally giving the model a comfortable, somewhat lavish life.

But it was all on borrowed time. Bella didn't own any of it. Not her apartment, not the cars, not even the imitation pussy she was furiously masturbating. As far as she was concerned, she was fortunate to have the rights to the barebones chassis that held whatever sex organs Tiffany, Inc. needed her to wear at any given time. It was the last thing she could remember that she had actually purchased, and it was a prerequisite for her work with the company.

Because she barely got paid a proper salary, with nearly all of her compensation being funneled directly into goods and services by her employers, she could not afford to buy upgrade parts--could not afford the models that she wore even at that very moment.

That was all she craved. She wanted to go home and feel her own pussy, feel it and know that it was hers. She wanted to wash her own breasts, alone, in the privacy of her own bathroom.

Was that so much to ask?

Finally, the car pulled over to the side of the road. With a jerk, Bella found her fingers violently shoved into the deepest, soft crevice of her mechanical vagina. She moaned, coming down from the simulated--but still so pleasurable and lifelike--orgasm only as the chauffeur opened the door out onto the sidewalk.

His old, erect dick hung from his unzipped pants. Organic and solid, despite his middle-age. She politely gripped it and rubbed it gently in the moist humidity of the downtown Lincoln air, but moved on without offering him any orifice.

Bella Riviera Arroyo looked up at the office building for the cyber-industry giant, Tiffany, Inc., and walked inside.