Sold to a cheap brothel on Io

Your eyes open. The power plug hisses as it retracts out from your neck. It's time to work again. The glass case opens and you step out. You can hear the pounding music from beyond the far wall, strobe lights flashing from behind a cheap red curtain that seperates this room from the stage. The other charging beds open one by one, each one occupied by fembots. Some are only a couple generations old, while some are woefully behind the times. The oldest one was made on Earth in it's hay day. You all march forward and form a line, silently and without emotion. A potbellied technician inspects each of you with disinterest, ticking off a checkbox on his clipboard at each bot. He slaps the metallic butt of the bot last in line, sending everyone marching forward, but he stops you with a hand to the shoulder.

"Not you. You're going out front."

"Yes sir."

You're lead out of the room. Pounding music and flashing lights; too loud to think, if you could still think that is. The fembots that were with you a moment ago are all on stage, beginning their routine of stripping and dancing at their designated areas. The attendance is worse than usual, only a few men here and there. You follow the technician out the front door and into the indoor streets. Io is too much of an inhospitable planet to support anything outdoors, so the city is like one big building, a labyrinth of corridors, warehouses, factories, shanty towns, and cheap back end places like this. The street is dimly lit with dull orange bulbs. Outside the brothel, acting as a pillar for an overhanging terrace, is a glass cylindrical tank with neon tubes running up along the sides, forming a cursive sign up top; 'Open-Robot Gals-Loose Screws-Tight Drinks'. The technician opens the hatch to the inside and you climb in. He locks the hatch behind you and walks away, leaving you behind to dance and flirt for the passersby. It seems to work, cause as soon as he leaves a man who is walking down the street catches an eyeful of you, and redirects himself to the inside of the establishment. You wink and blow him a kiss as a sort of thank you gesture.

You'd say you hate this if you could, but such things just don't exist for you anymore; you were made for work like this, and you were made to enjoy and crave it. You shake your ass and fondle your breasts as you dance. Such is your lot in life.