Shank. Wake up. Pounds on the cell door jolt me. Petitbœuf’s voice, gravelly. I rub my eyes. Four-sixteen a.m. TV blares in the squad room. News flash. Clones rutting everywhere. Juliette clones. Éloïse doubles. My face on every screen. Zoom out. Eiffel Tower. Paris falls to the fuck-fest. Nationwide now. Cops stare. Pity mixes with scorn. Back to my hole. Thin mattress bites my skin. I crash hard.
Gufti? Juliette’s whisper pulls me from fog. Door locked. She shimmered under it, particles dancing. Real one? Or clone? Where’s Raoul? Nearby, with Éloïse as me. His plan: swap fakes. Genius. Or disaster. Outside? Sunny, few clouds. Wrong question. Her kin still balls-deep in streets? Yes. She nears as I piss. Watches over my shoulder. Intimate. Crude. Is it pleasant? Childlike curiosity. Drink water, I say. She shifts to my form. Gulps. Splashes out in a puddle. Tries to aim my cock. Futile.
The Privilege
Fists on door. Shank! I press flat behind it. Clone plays me. Pissing still? Training, it says. Cop drags it off. Door ajar. I strip bare. Hide clothes. Step into corridor. Cool air licks skin. Balls tighten. Heart races. Elite game now. Invisible in the swarm.
The Excess
Barbaud’s office spills voices. DST suits grill my double. Shape-shifters? Intentions? Stop fondling your dick! Laughter bubbles in me. Sprint past. Naked ghost. Two female cops freeze. Another clone? Not hard. They wave me out. Nice ass, one murmurs. Street awaits.
Hall chaos. Phones ring. Complaints pile. Clones dissolve, reform. Raoul spots me. Winks exchanged. We bolt. Streets alive with moans. Triples tangle. Genders blur. Cum sprays. Real folks gawk at him, me nude beside suited fake.
