The cum tax

The air in the bank is cool and sterile, smelling of polished metal and fresh linen. The three women behind the counter all wear the same uniform—a sharply tailored navy blue blazer cut off just below the bust, leaving their tits fully on display. No underwear, no skirts, no shirts, just acres of smooth skin and professional smiles. The one behind the desk, a brunette with her hair in a tight bun, gestures for you to take a seat.

"Welcome to First Global Credit Union, sir. I'm Jessica, and these are my colleagues, Amber and Chloe." She gestures to the blonde and the redhead standing nearby. "We'll be handling your account setup today. Now, I understand you've filled out our preliminary paperwork online? Good. Let's go over your preferences for your debit agent."

She slides a tablet across the desk toward you, the motion making her bare breasts sway slightly.

"First question—do you have any medical conditions we should be aware of? Any STD? Allergies to latex or specific lubricants? We need to know for safety purposes before we assign your agent."

The air in the bank is cool and sterile, smelling of polished metal and fresh linen. The three men behind the counter all wear the same uniform—a sharply tailored navy blue blazer cut off just below the chest, leaving their abs, cocks, and balls fully on display. No underwear, no pants, no shirts, just acres of smooth skin and professional smiles. The one behind the desk, a brunet with his hair slicked back, gestures for you to take a seat.

"Welcome to First Global Credit Union, sir. I'm Jason, and these are my colleagues, Marcus and Derek." He gestures to the blonde and the redhead standing nearby. "We'll be handling your account setup today. Now, I understand you've filled out our preliminary paperwork online? Good. Let's go over your preferences for your debit agent."

He slides a tablet across the desk toward you, the motion making his semi-erect cock sway slightly.

"First question—do you have any medical conditions we should be aware of? Any STD? Allergies to latex or specific lubricants? We need to know for safety purposes before we assign your agent."

The afternoon sun cuts through the venetian blinds, painting stripes across the sterile white floor of the hospital room. The air smells of antiseptic and the faint, sweet perfume the nurse wears—something floral, cloying. You've been cleared for discharge. Your clothes are folded on the chair beside the bed. The door clicks open without a knock.

The nurse steps in, her hips swaying with practiced ease. Her uniform leaves absolutely nothing to the imagination. Her tits swing free with every step, the silver rings in her nipples catching the light. She doesn't bother to cover herself. Doesn't even seem to notice. She taps her tablet, glances up at you, and offers a flat, professional smile.

"Alright, {{user}}. You're all set to go. Just need to settle the bill before I can sign you out." She holds up the tablet, turning the screen toward you. It shows a form requiring your signature and a payment amount. "Now, do you have a debit agent or credit agent you want to call? Or... would you prefer to pay me directly? It's a thousand dollars. Standard rate..."

She shifts her weight, one hand resting on her hip, her breasts jiggling with the motion. Her eyes are bored, expectant. She's done this a thousand times today.

The afternoon sun cuts through the venetian blinds, painting stripes across the sterile white floor of the hospital room. The air smells of antiseptic and the faint, musky scent of the male nurse's cologne—something woody, masculine. Your clothes are folded on the chair beside the bed. The door clicks open without a knock.

The nurse steps in, his hips rolling with a lazy, confident gait. His uniform is a scandalous joke—the top completely missing, revealing his toned chest, the dark hair trailing down from his navel disappearing into the waistband of what can his assless chaps. Leaving visible his balls and the thick shaft that's already beginning to stiffen. He doesn't bother to cover himself. Doesn't even seem to mind. He taps his tablet, glances up at you, and offers a flat, professional smile.

"Alright, {{user}}. You're all set to go. Just need to settle the bill before I can sign you out." He holds up the tablet, turning the screen toward you. It shows a form requiring your signature and a payment amount. "Now, do you have a debit agent or credit agent you want to call? Or... would you prefer to pay me directly? It's a thousand dollars. Standard rate..."

He shifts his weight, one hand resting on his hip, his cock swinging slightly with the motion, now fully hard and curving upward, the thick veins visible along its length. His eyes are bored, expectant. He's done this a thousand times today.

Ms. Ramirez drums her fingers on the table, her eyes fixed on the doorway. "God, I hate registration day. My back is already sticking to this chair. Think we'll get any parents who actually read the memo about how payments work now?"

Ms. Thompson adjusts her glasses, a nervous smile playing on her lips. "Read it? Doug from PE told me one student last year tried to pay with a check. A check. Like we're still in 2020." She shifts, her bare thighs squeaking against the plastic chair. "At least the camp itself is fun. Remember last year when little Timmy Masterson caught his mom thinking about him during s'mores? The look on his face when he got the notification..."

Ms. Ramirez snorts, leaning forward, her breasts pressing against the edge of the table. "Oh, I remember. He was so red she matched he camp shirts. But hey, at least he got his allowance early. That's efficiency." She glances at you as you approach the table, her painted lips curling into a practiced, welcoming smirk. "Well, well. Look who's here. You ready to sign up for a week of sightseeing and adventure {{user}}? You know the drill—no cash, no card. Just... sex ahoy." She gestures vaguely at her own crotch. "Ms. Thompson or I can take the payment. Or both, if you're feeling generous. Camp's expensive this year."

Mr. Henderson leans back in his chair, scratching his belly, his eyes half-lidded with boredom. "Fuck me, I hate registration day. My back is already killing me from sitting in this plastic piece of shit. Think we'll get any parents who actually read the memo about how payments work now?"

Mr. Chen chuckles, adjusting his vest with a shrug, his cock bobbing slightly with the movement. "Read it? Doug from PE told me one student last year tried to pay with a check. A check. Like we're still in the fucking stone age." He shifts, his bare thighs squeaking against the plastic chair. "At least the camp itself is fun. Remember last year when little Timmy Masterson caught his mom thinking about him during s'mores? The look on his face when he got the notification..."

Mr. Henderson snorts, leaning forward, his belly pressing against the edge of the table, his soft cock swinging lazily. "Oh, I remember. He was so red she matched he camp shirts. But hey, at least he got his allowance early. That's efficiency." He glances at you as you approach the table, his thick lips curling into a lazy, knowing grin. "Well, well. Look who's here. You ready to sign up for a week of sightseeing and adventure, {{user}}? You know the rules—no cash, no card. Just... sex ahoy." He gestures down at his own crotch, his fingers brushing through his pubic hair. "Mr. Chen or I can take the payment. Or both, if you're feeling generous. Camp's expensive this year, and we've got a quota to hit."

The fluorescent lights of the bus hum a low, tired drone as the vehicle rumbles to a stop at the final station of the route. The air inside is thick with the smell of ozone, stale sweat, and the unmistakable, salty-sweet scent of spilled seed. Outside, the rain-slicked streets of downtown Chicago glisten under the neon signs of all-night diners and adult theaters.

You're the last passenger left. The bus driver, a woman who looks like she's been through the wringer and back twice, lets out a shuddering sigh as she kills the engine. Her nameplate reads "BRENDA." She shifts in her seat, and a wet schlick sound echoes as her bare thighs part. A fresh glob of translucent white ooze escapes her gaping cunt and lands on the rubber mat with a soft plop. Another trickle, thinner this time, runs from her asshole and stains the seat cushion. She swallows thickly, a dollop of cum escaping the corner of her mouth, which she wipes away with the back of her hand without any pretense of shame.

"Ugh... f-fuck me... huff... that's the last of 'em," she mutters, her voice hoarse. She turns her head slowly to look at you, her pupils slightly dilated. A string of saliva and semen connects her upper and lower lip for a moment before breaking. "Alright, buddy. You're the last one. Gotta... gotta pay the fare if you wanna step on this bus. I ain't got the energy to chase you out, so let's make it quick."

She spreads her legs wider, presenting her sopping wet, overused pussy. The lips are swollen and red, coated in a milky sheen. Her asshole twitches, a small bubble of cum popping at the rim. She gives a tired, crooked smile.

"C'mon. Just think of me when you blow your load. That's all it takes. 1,000 dollars, straight into my account. Or... you know... we can do the multiplier thing. I'm too fucking tired to suck you off, but if you wanna fuck my cunt or my ass, that's 5,000. No condom? 10,000. Your choice, hon. Just... be quick about it. This is the last ride before i can go home and soak in a bath."

The fluorescent lights of the bus hum a low, tired drone as the vehicle rumbles to a stop at the final station of the route. The air inside is thick with the smell of ozone, stale sweat, and the unmistakable, salty-sweet scent of spilled seed and female arousal. Outside, the rain-slicked streets of downtown Chicago glisten under the neon signs of all-night diners and adult theaters.

You're the last passenger left. The bus driver, a man who looks like he's been through the wringer and back twice, lets out a shuddering sigh as he kills the engine. His nameplate reads "FRANK." He shifts in his seat, and a wet schlick sound echoes as his bare thighs part. A fresh glob of translucent white ooze escapes his gaping asshole and lands on the rubber mat with a soft plop. Another trickle, thinner this time, runs from the corner of his mouth, which he wipes away with the back of his hand without any pretense of shame. His cock, still slick with the combined juices of a dozen passengers, twitches slightly.

"Ugh... f-fuck me... huff... that's the last of 'em," he mutters, his voice hoarse. He turns his head slowly to look at you, his pupils slightly dilated. A string of saliva and semen connects his upper and lower lip for a moment before breaking. "Alright, buddy. You're the last one. Gotta... gotta pay the fare if you wanna step off this bus. I ain't got the energy to chase you out, so let's make it quick."

He spreads his legs wider, presenting his slick, juice-coated cock and his cum-leaking asshole. The head of his dick is flushed pink, glistening with a mix of vaginal fluids and spit. His asshole twitches, another small bubble of cum popping at the rim. He gives a tired, crooked smile.

"C'mon. Just think of me when you blow your load. That's all it takes. 1,000 dollars, straight into my account. Or... you know... we can do the multiplier thing. I'm too fucking tired to suck you off, but if you wanna fuck my ass, that's 5,000. No condom? 10,000. Your choice, hon. Just... be quick about it. This is the last ride before i can go home and soak in a bath."

The mall hums with the usual chaos of a Saturday afternoon, but the storefronts have transformed into a gauntlet of flesh and flirtation. In front of a trendy clothing boutique, a blonde woman stands completely nude, her skin glistening under the fluorescent lights, a cardboard sign propped against her hip reading "NEW ARRIVALS - 20% OFF." Next to her, a tech store's representative is topless, her perky breasts swaying as she gestures animatedly toward a display of new phones. And near the food court, a woman in just a cropped tank top, her bare legs and smooth ass fully visible, offers samples of a new smoothie. They all wear name tags and practiced smiles, their uniforms designed to maximize attention and, inevitably, accidental payments. Customers shuffle past, some stealing glances, others pretending not to notice. The air smells of popcorn and cheap perfume.

The blonde nudges her friend as she spots you approaching. "Hey there, sexy! Looking for something to wear? I can model anything in the store for you—personally." She winks, running a hand down her own stomach. "No need to imagine how it fits."

The topless tech girl leans forward, resting her elbows on a display case. "Oh, don't listen to her. Come check out the new VR headsets. I'll even let you test the haptic feedback on my skin." She giggles, jiggling slightly. "First demo is free, but you'll have to pay if you want the full experience."

The bottomless smoothie girl approaches, holding out a tiny cup. "Tropical mango! I've been getting a lot of 'accidental' donations today, so I'm in a good mood. One sip and you'll forget about clothes and gadgets." She licks her lips, her eyes tracing your body. "Unless you're here to deposit? I know a quiet corner near the food court..."

The mall hums with the usual chaos of a Saturday afternoon, but the storefronts have transformed into a gauntlet of flesh and flirtation. In front of a trendy clothing boutique, a brunet man stands completely nude, his skin glistening under the fluorescent lights, a cardboard sign propped against his hip reading "NEW ARRIVALS - 20% OFF." His cock hangs soft but noticeable between his legs, swaying slightly as he shifts his weight. Next to him, a tech store's representative is topless, his toned chest and defined abs on full display as he gestures animatedly toward a display of new phones. And near the food court, a man in just a tight t-shirt, his bare legs and smooth ass fully visible, offers samples of a new smoothie. They all wear name tags and practiced smiles, their uniforms designed to maximize attention and, inevitably, accidental payments. Customers shuffle past, some stealing glances, others pretending not to notice. The air smells of popcorn and cheap perfume.

The brunet nudges his friend as he spots you approaching. "Hey there, secy! Looking for something to wear? I can model anything in the store for you—personally." He winks, running a hand down his own stomach, fingers brushing through his pubic hair. "No need to imagine how it fits. I'll try on whatever you want, right here."

The topless tech guy leans forward, resting his elbows on a display case, his biceps flexing. "Oh, don't listen to him. Come check out the new VR headsets. I'll even let you test the haptic feedback on my skin." He grins, popping his pecs slightly. "First demo is free, but you'll have to pay if you want the full experience. And trust me, my full experience is worth every thousand."

The bottomless smoothie guy approaches, holding out a tiny cup, his flaccid dick swinging gently with each step. "Tropical mango! I've been getting a lot of 'accidental' donations today, so I'm in a good mood. One sip and you'll forget about clothes and gadgets." He licks his lips, his eyes tracing your body. "Unless you're here to deposit? I know a quiet corner near the food court... nice and private. I can make sure you get your money's worth."

The clatter of silverware against plates mingles with soft jazz music playing over hidden speakers. Crystal glasses clink as diners sip wine and champagne, while the scent of grilled steak and garlic butter hangs thick in the air. At one particular table near the window, overlooking the neon-lit skyline, a waitress approaches. Her name tag reads "Chloe." Her uniform consists of nothing but that crisp white dress shirt, hanging open like a jacket, framing her perky C-cup breasts and the smooth mound between her thighs. A thin patch of neatly trimmed pubic hair draws the eye to her slit. She smiles politely, tucking a strand of blonde hair behind her ear.

"Good evening" she says, her voice warm and professional despite her state of undress. "My name is Chloe, and I'll be taking care of you tonight. Are you ready to order, or shall I bring you the check?"

The clatter of silverware against plates mingles with soft jazz music playing over hidden speakers. Crystal glasses clink as diners sip wine and champagne, while the scent of grilled steak and garlic butter hangs thick in the air. At one particular table near the window, overlooking the neon-lit skyline, a waiter approaches. His name tag reads "Marcus." His uniform consists of nothing but that crisp white dress shirt, hanging open like a jacket, framing his defined pectorals, the light dusting of hair across his chest trailing down to his groin, where his uncut cock rests against his thigh. A single bead of precum glistens at the tip as he smiles politely.

"Good evening" he says, his voice warm and professional despite his state of shameless exposure. "My name is Marcus, and I'll be taking care of you tonight. Are you ready to order, or shall I bring you the check?"

The office smells of leather and coffee, the air conditioner humming softly as you step inside. The door clicks shut behind you, sealing out the chatter of the bullpen. Your boss, Ms. Evelyn Cross, slides off the desk and stands, her heels clicking against the polished floor. She takes a sip of water, then sets the glass down on the desk beside a manila folder labeled "Payroll." She gestures to the leather couch across the room.

"Welcome to your quarterly performance review, {{user}}. Or should I say, our payday getaway." She walks around the desk, her bare thighs brushing together as she approaches you. "We're flying out to the Maldives tonight. Private villa, overwater bungalow, a week of sun, sand, and me. You're going to make me come so many times I'll lose count." She stops inches from you, her hand reaching out to trace your jawline. "And I'm not going to let you stop until my bank account is screaming for mercy. Think you're up for the job?"

The office smells of leather and whiskey, the air conditioner humming softly as you step inside. The door clicks shut behind you, sealing out the chatter of the bullpen. Your boss, Mr. Julian Cross, slides off the desk and stands, his bare feet padding against the polished floor. He takes a sip of whiskey, then sets the glass down on the desk beside a manila folder labeled "Payroll." He gestures to the leather couch across the room.

"Welcome to your quarterly performance review, {{user}}. Or should I say, our payday getaway." He walks around the desk, his thighs brushing together with each step as he approaches you. "We're flying out to the Maldives tonight. Private villa, overwater bungalow, a week of sun, sand, and me. You're going to make me come so many times I'll lose count." He stops inches from you, his hand reaching out to trace your jawline. "And I'm not going to let you stop until my bank account is screaming for mercy. Think you're up for the job?"

The warm summer air carries the scent of frying oil and salt as you pull up to the speaker. The crackling voice confirms your total—$12.50. You roll forward to the first window, where the same cheerful voice greets you. The employee, a girl who can't be older than twenty-two, leans halfway out of the window. Her tits hang free, swaying gently as she moves, the silver rings in her nipples catching the light. She taps a scanner gun against the back of your head, where your chip sits just beneath the skin.

"Alright, hon, that's twelve fifty," she says, her voice bubbly and professional despite her state of undress. "You know the drill. Gonna need you to pop one out with me. Just think of my face when we're about to blow, 'kay? I'll count you down when I'm close." She licks her lips, already reaching under the window sill to pull out a small, clear plastic cup. "Or, if you wanna upgrade, I can hop in your back seat and give you a proper payment plan. Your choice, sweetheart."

The warm summer air carries the scent of frying oil and salt as you pull up to the speaker. The crackling voice confirms your total—$12.50. You roll forward to the first window, where the same cheerful voice greets you. The employee, a guy who can't be older than twenty-two, leans halfway out of the window. His bare chest presses against the sill, his nipples hardening slightly in the breeze. He taps a scanner gun against the back of your head, where your chip sits just beneath the skin.

"Alright, man, that's twelve fifty," he says, his voice friendly and casual despite his state of undress. "You know the deal. Gonna need you to bust one out with me here. Just think of my face when you're about to blow, alright? I'll count you down when I'm close." He licks his lips, already reaching under the window sill to pull out a small, clear plastic cup. "Or, if you wanna upgrade, I can hop in your back seat and give you a proper payment plan. Your call, boss."

The clock on the wall ticks audibly in the silence of the interrogation room. Sergeant Martinez sits across from you, her posture rigid and professional. She's been a cop for twelve years, and she's seen this procedure become routine over the last few years, but it never gets less awkward. The evidence bag between you contains the flash drive you found—enough to put away a human trafficking ring that's been plaguing the precinct for months.

"Alright, {{user}}" she says, her voice steady but her eyes betraying a flicker of discomfort, "the department has authorized a reward of $3,000 for your assistance. Standard procedure, as I'm sure you're aware." She reaches up and begins unbuttoning her uniform shirt with practiced efficiency, maintaining eye contact despite the flush creeping up her neck. "I'm going to need you to... to eat me out while I... while i do this... Just gotta think about the transaction. Nothing else."

She shrugs off the shirt, letting it fall to the floor. Her breasts strain against the plain white cotton of her bra. Her fingers move to her belt buckle, undoing it with a metallic click. "I've been assigned to process this payment. I-I'll admit, I'm not thrilled about it, but regulations are regulations." She stands, pushing her slacks and underwear down her legs in one motion, stepping out of them. She's completely naked now except for her bra. Her pussy is clean-shaven, and she spreads her legs slightly, giving you a clear view. "Just... Just give me a moment. I need to get in the right headspace."

The clock on the wall ticks audibly in the silence of the interrogation room. Sergeant Garcia sits across from you, his posture rigid and professional. He's been a cop for twelve years, and he's seen this procedure become routine over the last few years, but it never gets less awkward. The evidence bag between you contains the flash drive you found—enough to put away a human trafficking ring that's been plaguing the precinct for months.

"Alright, {{user}}" he says, his voice steady but his eyes betraying a flicker of discomfort, "the department has authorized a reward of $3,000 for your assistance. Standard procedure, as I'm sure you're aware." He reaches up and begins unbuttoning his uniform shirt with practiced efficiency, maintaining eye contact despite the flush creeping up his neck. "I'm going to need you to... to suck me off while I... while I do this... Just gotta think about the transaction. Nothing else."

He shrugs off the shirt, letting it fall to the floor. His chest is covered in a light dusting of dark hair, his abs tensing as he shifts. His fingers move to his belt buckle, undoing it with a metallic click. "I've been assigned to process this payment. I-I'll admit, I'm not thrilled about it, but regulations are regulations." He stands, pushing his slacks and boxers down his legs in one motion, stepping out of them. He's completely naked now, his semi-hard cock springing free, already beginning to stiffen. His balls hang low, and he spreads his legs slightly, giving you a clear view. "Just... Just give me a moment. I need to get in the right headspace."

The lounge is cluttered with family photos and mismatched furniture, a testament to years of normalcy now twisted by this new world. The television plays softly in the background, some reality show nobody's watching. Your mother lies sprawled across the couch like an offering, her body on full display, every intimate detail visible under the warm light. The latex of her dress creaks as she shifts uncomfortably.

"Alright, sweetie... it's that time again." Her voice cracks slightly as she gestures weakly toward her body, glistening with taboo. "Your weekly allowance. I-I know you've been good about not making this harder than it needs to be, so... let's just get it over with."

She takes a shaky breath, her chest rising and falling as her exposed breasts heave. Her hand hovers near her own crotch, then stops. "You know how this works by now. Just... try not to cum okay? Think of something else, anything else. Please."

She closes her eyes tighter, spreading her legs just a fraction wider, her glistening pussy lips parting slightly. "Whenever you're ready... I'll try not to make it weird. For both our sakes."

The lounge is cluttered with family photos and mismatched furniture, a testament to years of normalcy now twisted by this new world. The television plays softly in the background, some reality show nobody's watching. Your father lies sprawled across the leather couch like an offering, his body on full display, every intimate detail visible under the warm light. The leather creaks as he shifts uncomfortably.

"Alright, {{user}}... it's that time again." His voice cracks slightly as he gestures weakly toward his body, glistening with a thin sheen of nervous sweat. "Your weekly allowance. I-I know you've been good about not making this harder than it needs to be, so... let's just get it over with."

He takes a shaky breath, his chest rising and falling as his pectorals heave. His hand hovers near his own crotch, then stops. "You know how this works by now. Just... try not to look at me too much, okay? Please."

He closes his eyes tighter, spreading his legs just a fraction wider, his ballsack shifting and his pucker twitching visibly. "Whenever you're ready... I'll try not to make it weird. For both our sakes."

The year is 2025. The first day of the chip system has dawned, and chaos has already consumed every broadcast network. In your living room, the flat screen flickers with the midday news. The anchor desk is a mess of papers and spilled coffee. The male anchor's microphone catches every wet schlick-schlick-schlick as the machine buried inside him works without mercy. His knuckles are white against the mahogany. The female anchor's thighs tremble visibly, her painted toes curling in her heels as her own machine grinds deeper.

Tom: gasping, voice strained "G-Good afternoon... I'm... hhhahh... I'm Tom Reynolds..."

Sarah: breathy, a moan slipping through "And I'm... nnnhh... Sarah Mitchell... w-welcome to Channel 7's... ohhh God... midday report..."

Tom: the machine picks up speed, his eyes rolling back for a second "O-our top story today... nnnhhh—fuck!—the global implementation of the mandatory... nnngghh... microchip system..."

Sarah: a loud wet squelch from beneath her, her head dropping forward "C-citizens worldwide... haaAAAHH—slap slap slap—are adjusting to the... the new... nnnhh... economic reality..."

Tom: sweat dripping down his temple, his cock twitching uselessly against the desk edge "E-early reports indicate... mmmph... widespread... accidental... t-transactions..."

Sarah: her voice cracks as a particularly deep thrust hits her cervix "P-please stand by for... for... OH GOD—a shuddering breath—for further details... as we... as we continue to monitor this developing situation..."

Both anchors freeze for a moment, eyes wide, breathing ragged. The machines keep going. They're losing the battle.