This work is a fictional sexual fantasy created for adult audiences only. All characters, events, and situations depicted are products of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or to real events or circumstances is purely coincidental and unintentional. The story does not depict real individuals or machines and should not be interpreted as describing actual conduct, relationships, or experiences.
Orgasmo 9000, pt 1 – Building the Ultimate Arousal Machine
Images of the characters can be found here: forum.xnxx.com/threads/orgasmo-9000-story.719045/
John had always been a man possessed by maps: not the kind that chart rivers or borders, but the secret topography of human desire. In the low fluorescent hum of the university’s psychophysiology lab, he pored over hundreds of anonymous surveys, each page a confession inked by trembling or confident hands. The men were simple cartographers; their answers clustered like iron filings around a magnet (groin, shaft, glans, perineum), a bright, unambiguous continent of pleasure.
The women, though… the women drew archipelagos.
They circled the clitoris in red, a radiant island no larger than a pearl, yet capable of eclipsing the sun. They shaded the soft vestibule where the vagina welcomed the world, and the delicate periurethral ridge that so few lovers ever learned to read. But their pens did not stop there. Lips, nipples, the heavy sway of breasts, the hollow of a throat, the velvet backs of ears, the plush weight of buttocks, the trembling inner seam of a thigh; each survey became a love letter to the entire female body, as though every inch of skin were a clandestine erogenous zone waiting for the right mouth, the right pressure, the right breath.
John sat back in his chair, the stack of questionnaires rustling like dry leaves. A single thought pulsed behind his eyes, equal parts scientific hunger and something darker, more primal.
He needed precision. He needed data no survey could ever give him.
He needed a machine.
Not some crude contraption of buzzing plastic and straps, but an instrument of exquisite calibration (feathers, silk, warm oil, chilled metal, the faintest current of electricity), each stimulus timed, measured, mapped against heart rate, galvanic response, the microscopic bloom of blood beneath skin, brain activity. He imagined her (whoever she would be) reclined on cool leather, blindfolded, wrists lightly bound not for restraint but for stillness and measurement, so that every tremor, every sharp inhale, every slow, helpless arch of spine could be recorded without interference.
He would begin at the hollow beneath her ear, a single pheasant feather drawn downward in a line of fire. Then the lips (first the mouth, then lower). The clitoris coaxed by the softest silicone pulse, timed to her own heartbeat. The periurethral ridge teased with a bead of warm glass. He would chart the moment her thighs began to quake, the instant her breath fractured, the precise second her entire body became one bright, singing erogenous continent.
John closed the last survey and smiled in the dark laboratory, the glow of his monitor reflecting in eyes that had ceased to look merely curious.
He had continents left to discover.
In the shadowed recesses of John's converted basement laboratory, where the air hung heavy with the scent of solder and silicone, the machine took shape like a forbidden sculpture. He called it the Erogenograph, a name whispered only to himself in the dead of night, as if speaking it aloud might summon ethical phantoms from the ether, a clinical name. It was no mere gadget, but a symphony of mechanics and sensors, designed to chart the uncharted seas of female arousal with the precision of a cartographer's quill.
At its core stood a contoured recliner, forged from medical-grade memory foam and clad in supple, hypoallergenic leather the color of midnight. The surface was heated to a perpetual 98.6 degrees Fahrenheit, mimicking the warmth of human skin, with embedded micro-vibrators that could hum at frequencies from a gentle 20 Hz purr to a seismic 200 Hz rumble. Adjustable restraints, soft, padded cuffs for wrists, ankles, and thighs, ensured immobility not through force, but through velvet coercion, their linings infused with a subtle pheromone blend derived from ylang-ylang and sandalwood to heighten suggestibility from the outset.
Rising from the recliner's base like skeletal appendages were a dozen articulated arms, each a marvel of robotic elegance. Crafted from lightweight carbon fiber and powered by silent servo motors, they moved with the fluidity of a lover's fingers, capable of extending, retracting, and pivoting in three dimensions. At the terminus of each arm hung interchangeable probes, a veritable arsenal of stimulation:
• The Clitoral Whisperer: A dome-shaped applicator no larger than a thimble, its surface a lattice of ultra-fine silicone nodules that could rotate, oscillate, or deliver pinpoint air pulses. Linked to a pressure sensor, it adapted in real-time to the subject's swelling response, escalating from feather-light caresses to insistent throbs as arousal crested.
• The Vestibular Explorer: A slender, curved wand with a textured tip, designed to trace the vaginal opening's sensitive rim. It secreted a programmable lubricant, water-based, warming, or tingling, dispensed via micro-pumps, while embedded thermistors monitored tissue temperature, graphing the flush of blood flow on John's dual-monitor setup.
• The Periurethral Teaser: This was his pièce de résistance, a flexible probe with a ridged, bead-like head that could vibrate in micro-patterns, simulating the subtle drag of a tongue or fingertip. It interfaced with biofeedback electrodes placed along the inner labia, measuring galvanic skin response to map the elusive sparks of pleasure that danced around the urethral meatus.
But the arms did not confine themselves to the vulva's sacred geography. Additional appendages targeted the body's broader erogenous canvas: one for the nipples, equipped with suction cups that pulsed in sync with a subject's heartbeat, detected via a wireless chest strap; another for the neck and ears, wielding warmed feathers or chilled metal rollers to elicit shivers; a pair for the inner thighs and buttocks, delivering kneading massages or light electro-stimulation through safe, low-voltage pads.
Overseeing it all was the central console, a sleek touchscreen dashboard humming with algorithms John had coded himself in late-night marathons. It integrated data from an array of sensors: infrared cameras tracking skin flush and pupil dilation; pulse oximeters on fingers and toes; even a neural cap, borrowed from EEG tech, to capture the brain's ecstatic fireworks. The software rendered it all in vivid graphs, line charts of arousal peaks, heat maps of responsive zones, 3D models rotating in virtual space to highlight clusters of sensitivity. He could program sequences: a "Prelude" mode starting with peripheral teases to build anticipation, escalating to "Crescendo" for direct vulvar assault, or "Symphony" for full-body orchestration.
John tested it first on mannequins rigged with synthetic skin and embedded heaters, watching the graphs spike and dip like a composer's score. But in his dreams, and soon, he vowed, in reality, it would be flesh and blood yielding to its touch, her moans digitized into data points, her climaxes immortalized in spreadsheets. The Erogenograph was more than a machine; it was his key to unlocking the female form's infinite mysteries, one calibrated caress at a time.
Yet, as he tightened the last bolt under the lab's flickering bulb, a shadow flickered across his mind: What if the map he drew revealed not just pleasure, but the perilous edges where desire blurred into something unbreakable?
In the dim afterglow of his initial triumph, John returned to the Erogenograph with a fevered intensity, his hands trembling not from fatigue but from the intoxicating pull of deeper exploration. The machine, once a mere cartographer of surfaces, now demanded evolution, a plunge into the hidden caverns of the female form, where pleasure twisted into ecstasy's raw underbelly. He envisioned probes that would delve beyond the thresholds of skin and nerve, mapping the internal symphonies of arousal with unflinching precision. Thus, he forged two new appendages, twins in purpose yet worlds apart in their intimate invasions: the Vaginal Intruder and the Anal Sentinel.
The Vaginal Intruder emerged from his workbench like a serpent of polished obsidian, its shaft a seamless cylinder of medical-grade silicone, eight inches in length and textured with subtle veins that could inflate or contract on command. At its base, a universal joint affixed it to one of the machine's primary arms, allowing for fluid insertion guided by laser-aligned sensors that detected the subject's anatomy with millimeter accuracy. Once nestled within the velvet grip of the vagina, it awakened: pneumatic chambers along its length expanded in rhythmic waves, simulating the girth of a lover's thrust, from a teasing two-inch diameter to a breathtaking four, pulsing in sync with customizable cadences. Slow, languid swells for building tension; rapid, insistent expansions for the brink of overload.
But John's genius lay in the pistoning mechanism, a hydraulic core driven by whisper-quiet pistons, capable of stroking from shallow, teasing glides to deep, relentless penetrations at speeds up to 120 cycles per minute. Algorithms in the console dictated the rhythms: a sultry waltz of in-and-out, a frantic allegro of short, sharp jabs, or an unpredictable crescendo that mimicked the erratic passion of flesh. At the probe's distal tip, concealed like a forbidden secret, extended a secondary appendage, a slender, flexible cervix stimulator, no wider than a fingertip, tipped with a balloon-like expander. It could elongate up to three inches, probing the cervical os with gentle vibrations or targeted pulses of warmth, then inflate incrementally to mimic dilation. Sensors embedded in its surface recorded every quiver, every contraction, graphing the orgasmic cascade as the cervix yielded: heart rate spiking like a storm-tossed sea, oxytocin floods digitized into peaks on his screen, the subject's cries, if she could muster them, captured by hidden microphones for later acoustic analysis.
Not content with this internal odyssey, John turned his gaze to the shadowed counterpart: the Anal Sentinel. Sleeker than its vaginal sibling, this probe was a tapered wand of smooth, body-safe alloy coated in lubricious gel, six inches long with a flared base to prevent over-insertion. Mounted on a secondary arm, it approached with the stealth of a midnight intruder, its entry facilitated by a pre-warming cycle and a dispenser of numbing or sensitizing agents tailored to the subject's thresholds. Once breached, it simulated penetration's primal rhythm: a coiling motor at its core enabling twisting thrusts, expansions from slim elegance to a fuller, insistent presence, all while pistoning in patterns that echoed the vaginal probe's versatility, gentle rocking for acclimation, vigorous pounding for climax mapping.
Embedded biofeedback nodes along its length charted the anal canal's responses: the clench of sphincters translated into resistance data, the ripple of inner muscles as waves on a seismograph, the convergence of pleasure pathways where vaginal and anal stimuli intertwined in a forbidden duet. John programmed cross-probe synchronizations, allowing the two to dance in harmony or opposition, one expanding as the other withdrew, building toward dual orgasms that shattered his graphs into fractal explosions of data.
As he integrated these probes into the Erogenograph's arsenal, calibrating them under the lab's sterile glow, John's breath came in shallow gasps. The machine now pulsed with a life of its own, its arms coiling like eager limbs, ready to unravel not just bodies, but the very essence of surrender. He imagined her there, arched and exposed, the probes delving into her depths while sensors drank in every secret spasm. What revelations awaited in those uncharted voids? Pleasure's pinnacle, or the abyss where control dissolved into oblivion? The shadow in his mind deepened, but so did his resolve; the map was far from complete.
In the flickering sanctuary of his basement lair, where shadows clung to the walls like unspoken regrets, John christened his creation anew. No longer the clinical
"Erogenograph," a name too sterile for the beast he had birthed, it would be the Orgasmo 9000, a moniker that rolled off the tongue with a lascivious growl, evoking visions of chrome-plated ecstasy and forbidden thresholds crossed. He etched the name onto a brass plaque with a soldering iron, the acrid smoke curling upward like incense at a profane altar, sealing the transformation. The machine hummed in approval, its probes and arms quiescent yet pregnant with potential, a mechanical succubus awaiting its first communion.
But as the glow of invention faded, replaced by the cold dawn filtering through a grimy window, John confronted the serpent coiled at the heart of his endeavor: volunteers. Flesh-and-blood women, not the unyielding mannequins he had prodded in simulation. How to summon them into this web of wires and whispers? The ethical quagmire yawned before him, a chasm of consent, coercion, and the fragile veil between science and sin.
He began with the university's ethics board, that bastion of starched collars and furrowed brows, submitting a proposal cloaked in academic veneer: "A Study on Neurophysiological Responses to Multisensory Stimulation." He omitted the probes' invasive choreography, the cervical expander's intimate probing, the anal sentinel's rhythmic incursions, details that would ignite scandals like dry tinder. Instead, he spoke of "non-invasive biofeedback" and "voluntary participation with full disclosure." But even as he typed, doubt gnawed at him. Could consent ever be truly informed when the Orgasmo 9000 promised peaks of pleasure that might shatter psyches? What if a volunteer's "yes" was born of curiosity, only to morph into regret amid the machine's unrelenting symphony?
He thought of recruitment posters blooming on campus bulletin boards, their language a masterpiece of euphemism: "Seeking female participants aged 18-35 for sensory mapping research. Compensation: $200 per session. Confidentiality assured." He imagined the responses, wide-eyed undergrads chasing easy cash, perhaps a few graduate students
intrigued by the psychosexual undercurrents. Yet, the dilemma deepened: power imbalances loomed like storm clouds. As the researcher, he held the reins, the data, the off-switch. What if vulnerability masqueraded as eagerness? What of the aftershocks, the lingering echoes of arousal that might blur boundaries, fostering dependencies or unbidden obsessions? He pictured a volunteer, flushed and spent, her eyes meeting his across the console, the air thick with unspoken invitations. Would he resist, or would the Orgasmo 9000 claim him as its first ethical casualty?
Deeper still lurked the specter of exploitation. In a world where women's bodies were already commodified, billboards hawking perfection, apps peddling intimacy, his machine risked reducing them to data points, graphs of gasps and graphs. Consent forms could be signed in triplicate, waivers ironclad, but could they shield against the intangible? The risk of trauma, if the probes delved too deep, too soon; the potential for addiction, if the machine's calibrated bliss outshone human touch. And what of diversity? Would his volunteers reflect the spectrum of bodies and experiences, or skew toward the privileged, the bold, leaving the map incomplete and biased?
John paced the lab, the Orgasmo 9000's console blinking like accusatory eyes. He could anonymize everything, blindfolds, voice modulators, remote operation from another room, but the core quandary remained: in pursuing the ultimate cartography of desire, was he liberator or predator? The ethical board might approve, volunteers might queue, but in the quiet hours, he wondered if the true test was not of the machine, but of his own soul, teetering on the precipice where innovation met indecency.
In the labyrinthine corridors of his conscience, John felt the weight of history's shadowed pioneers pressing upon him, those alchemists and anatomists who dissected taboos in the name of forbidden knowledge, their scalpels slicing through societal veils under the cover of night. Vesalius stealing cadavers from gallows, Frankenstein stitching life from death's refuse; why should he, in this age of sterile ethics, be bound by chains they had shattered?
The Orgasmo 9000 demanded truth, unfiltered and raw, and volunteers, with their hesitations and withdrawals, would only dilute the data. No, he resolved in a whisper to the empty lab, his path would be darker, swifter, a necessary transgression for science's sake. Abduction, then: clean, controlled, anonymous. The first subject would be his Eve, unwitting harbinger of revelations.
The local grocery store squatted under a leaden sky, its parking lot a mosaic of mundane errands. John's eyes, sharpened by predatory intent, snagged on her amid the carts and fluorescent spillover: an athletic brunette, mid-thirties by his practiced guess, her form a testament to disciplined vitality, 5'6" of toned grace, firm C-cup breasts straining against a fitted tank top, long hair cascading like dark silk over shoulders honed by yoga or runs at dawn. Her tight yoga pants hugged curves that whispered of hidden sensitivities, a living canvas for his machine. As she strode into the store, oblivious, he maneuvered his nonde*********** white van beside her compact sedan, engine idling like a held breath.
Thirty minutes ticked by in agonizing slowness, John's pulse a metronome of anticipation. She emerged, bags rustling with groceries, her steps purposeful toward her car. The lot was sparsely populated, twilight casting long shadows that swallowed details. As she drew abreast of his van, keys jingling in hand, he exploded into motion: the side door flung open with a metallic snarl, his gloved hand clamping a chloroform-soaked rag over her mouth while the syringe, prepped with a fast-acting sedative, plunged into her neck. Her eyes widened in fleeting terror, a muffled gasp escaping before her body went limp, groceries tumbling like discarded props. He hauled her inside with efficient strength, the door sliding shut on the world outside. Heart hammering, he bound her wrists and ankles with zip ties, a gag muffling any premature stirrings, then sped away into the gathering dusk, the van's anonymity his shield. Then picking up the spilled groceries and placing them into her car.
Sneaking her into the lab proved a ritual of calculated stealth. The basement entrance lay concealed behind a false panel in his garage, accessible only after he backed the van in and shuttered the doors. Under the cover of night, he hoisted her slack form over his shoulder, her weight surprisingly light, her scent a faint mix of lavender lotion and exertion, and descended the concrete stairs, the lab's automatic lights flickering to life like complicit accomplices. He laid her on a prep table, the air cool and antiseptic, laced with the faint ozone of machinery.
Stripping her was methodical, almost reverent: first the yoga pants peeled down toned thighs, revealing smooth skin and practical underwear; then the tank top lifted over unresponsive arms, exposing those firm breasts, nipples pebbling in the chill. He removed her undergarments last, folding everything neatly aside, data irrelevant to the experiment. Naked now, she was a study in vulnerability, her body a blank map awaiting annotation. He slipped a black silk blindfold over her eyes, tying it snug to banish light and identity, then carried her to the Orgasmo 9000's recliner. Securing her was an art: wrists and ankles clicked into padded cuffs, thighs parted and strapped to expose her most intimate geographies, a final belt across her waist to anchor her against the coming tempests. She lay splayed, blind and bound, the machine's arms hovering like expectant vultures.
The revival agent slid cold into her vein, then bloomed into fire. Her first conscious sensation was the blindfold (thick, soft, absolute). Then the restraints: wrists, ankles, thighs spread wide and locked, leather biting into skin. Panic detonated behind her ribs. She jerked hard, shoulders straining, muffled screams tearing against the gag as she realized she was naked, exposed, helpless. Who did this? Get off me! Her mind screamed what her mouth could not.
John’s distorted voice floated down like smoke. “Shh… this is for science. Relax, and it will be enlightening.”
She answered with a furious, gagged snarl, hips twisting violently, trying to wrench her thighs closed. Every muscle locked in pure refusal.
Then the machine moved.
The Vaginal Intruder arrived first. A warm, blunt pressure kissed her entrance, paused, then pushed. She felt the slick tip part her folds, the slow, unstoppable glide stretching her open inch by merciless inch. A high, furious whine vibrated in her throat (anger, violation, terror) as the shaft sank deeper than any lover ever had, filling her completely. When the pneumatic chambers began their first gentle inflation, swelling inside her, her back snapped into an involuntary arch. No, no, no, her mind shrieked, but her body betrayed her with a helpless clench around the intruder.
Before she could process the fullness, the Anal Sentinel nudged her from below. A warm, tapered tip circled her untouched ring once, twice, spreading lube in teasing spirals. She clenched hard, trying to deny it, but the probe twisted forward with patient, mechanical certainty. The burn flared white-hot as her resistant muscle gave way; the stretch was shocking, obscene, a second invasion that made her entire body seize. Tears soaked the blindfold instantly. She thrashed, restraints creaking, muffled curses turning into raw, panicked cries.
The Clitoral Whisperer descended last. The soft dome sealed over her clit with a gentle, wet kiss. The moment the nodules began their slow rotation, a lightning bolt of pleasure stabbed straight through the pain and fury. Her hips jerked upward (half escape, half helpless chase).
Anger still ruled, but it was cracking.
The first pulse of true pleasure hit when the vaginal probe swelled again, pressing against her front wall while the anal shaft twisted in perfect opposition. A low, broken moan escaped around the gag, half rage, half surrender. Her mind screamed fight it, but her body was already learning the rhythm (hips rolling in tiny, involuntary circles, chasing the next swell, the next twist, the next spark against her clit).
Setting 2 began like a whisper that refused to stay quiet.
First came the feathers (soft, maddening things that traced the tender skin of her inner thighs and the hollow beneath her ears). She jerked against the cuffs, trying to twist away. Don’t you dare, her mind snarled, but the touch was so light it felt like breath, like sin, raising gooseflesh in burning trails. The suction cups latched onto her nipples with a gentle, rhythmic pull (tug, release, tug), timed perfectly to the frantic drum of her heart. A traitorous throb answered between her legs. No. I won’t feel this. But her nipples stiffened instantly, aching, sending sparks straight to her core.
The Clitoral Whisperer woke with a low, lazy hum. The silicone dome sealed over her clit like a warm mouth, nodules beginning a slow, hypnotic swirl. The first circle drew a sharp, involuntary inhale through her nose. The second made her hips twitch upward, chasing the sensation before her mind could stop them. Stop it, stop reacting, she ordered herself, teeth clenched behind the gag. But the pleasure was soft, coaxing, relentless (like fingers that knew exactly how swollen and needy she already was).
Then the deeper invasion began.
The Vaginal Intruder started its pistoning (shallow, deliberate strokes that grew longer with every cycle), the shaft swelling inside her in slow, pulsing waves. Each expansion pressed against her front wall with perfect, unbearable pressure, while the tiny cervical probe vibrated and inflated just enough to kiss the mouth of her womb. A low, broken moan vibrated in her throat. This is wrong, this is, oh God. The Anal Sentinel joined in perfect opposition (one withdrawing as the other slammed home), crushing the thin wall between them, turning every nerve into white fire. The dual rhythm was obscene, unstoppable, a heartbeat she couldn’t escape.
Her body betrayed her in slow motion.
Breaths fractured into desperate gasps. Her thighs began to tremble uncontrollably. A hot, mortified flush crawled from her chest to her cheeks as she realized she was rocking into the thrusts, tiny, helpless circles she couldn’t stop. I hate this, I hate, fuck, don’t stop. The thought slipped through the cracks of her anger like light through shattered glass.
The first orgasm built like a storm she saw coming and still couldn’t outrun.
She fought it with everything she had (muscles locked, jaw clenched, tears soaking the blindfold), but the clitoral dome spun faster, the probes pistoned deeper, the nipple suction tugged in perfect sync, and the wave crested anyway. Her entire frame snapped rigid, back bowing off the table as far as the restraints allowed. A high, keening moan tore free around the gag (half fury, half surrender). Her walls clamped down in frantic, milking spasms, cervix fluttering open against the balloon tip, anal ring spasming in helpless echo. Fluid gushed around the shaft in a sudden, shocking flood, thighs quaking, nipples screaming under the cups.
The second climax rolled in before the first had finished, pleasure so intense it felt like punishment. The third hit harder, faster, ripping another muffled scream from her throat as her body surrendered completely (hips grinding shamelessly now, riding the probes like they were salvation). Yes, God, yes, more, her mind finally admitted, anger dissolving into raw, animal need.
When the storm finally ebbed, she lay trembling, sweat-slick, chest heaving, every muscle limp with exhausted bliss. The fight was gone. Only hunger remained.
She was less a captive more a convert, and the night had only just begun.
The Orgasmo 9000 fell into a low, almost tender lull, its arms retracting with the soft sigh of hydraulics. The probes slid free in one slow, deliberate withdrawal: first the Anal Sentinel, easing out of her still-fluttering ring with a slick, obscene sound that made her flinch; then the Vaginal Intruder, the shaft deflating as it retreated, dragging against swollen walls that tried, helplessly, to clutch at it. A final, wet kiss of silicone left her gaping for a heartbeat, cool air rushing into the sudden emptiness. The Clitoral Whisperer peeled away from her engorged hood with a faint pop, leaving the nub throbbing in open air, hypersensitive and bereft.
She lay wrecked and trembling, sweat cooling on her skin, thighs quivering in the restraints. Each breath came ragged through the gag, chest rising and falling beneath the blindfold’s black silk. Minutes bled by (three, maybe five), long enough for the aftershocks to ebb, for her pulse to slow from frantic gallop to wary trot. In that fragile lull she floated, suspended between terror and the treacherous memory of pleasure so intense it had felt like dying.
John watched the biometric readouts flatten into gentle green waves. Recovery curve: optimal. He allowed himself a thin, clinical smile.
His finger hovered over the console, then pressed.
The machine stirred again, a predator stretching after a nap.
She sensed it before she felt it: the low thrum of motors, the subtle shift of air as the arms repositioned. A panicked whimper escaped the gag. She tried to close her legs, but the thigh cuffs held her splayed, shamelessly open. Cool lubricant dripped anew (one, two, three measured beads) onto her entrance and the tender ring behind it, making her jolt at the sudden chill.
The Vaginal Intruder returned first. The blunt, warmed tip nudged her folds, still puffy and slick from the last invasion. It paused, as though savoring her involuntary shiver, then pressed forward. The sensation was obscene in its clarity: the smooth silicone crown parting her, stretching tissues that had only just begun to relax, sliding in with a slow, inevitable glide that forced a low, broken moan from her throat. Every ridge and vein on the shaft registered against raw, over-sensitized walls (an exquisite burn, too soon, too much). When the full length seated itself, the inner chambers began to swell again, inflating inside her until she felt impossibly, achingly full, the pressure kissing the mouth of her womb.
Before she could adjust, the Anal Sentinel followed. Its tapered head, slick and unforgiving, circled the delicate rim already softened and fluttering from the earlier assault. A heartbeat of warning pressure, then it pushed. The stretch was sharper this time, her body resisting on pure reflex before the ring yielded with a soft, wet pop. Inch by inch it tunneled in, the cool metal core warming quickly against her heat, until the flared base kissed her perineum and she was doubly impaled, every breath nudging the probes against one another through the thin wall that separated them.
The Clitoral Whisperer descended last, sealing over her swollen clit like a hungry mouth. The moment its nodules made contact she jerked, a strangled cry tearing free; the little bundle of nerves was so engorged that even the gentlest suction felt like lightning.
Completely reattached, completely claimed, she lay trembling in the cradle of the machine, filled and surrounded, every secret place occupied once more. Her hips gave a single, helpless roll (betrayal or plea, she no longer knew), as the probes settled into their new depths and waited, patient and merciless, for whatever torment the next session had in store.
John’s eyes glittered in the monitor’s cold glow. The graphs from Setting 2 were beautiful (three cascading orgasms, each sharper than the last, cervical dilation spikes at 0.7 mm, anal contractions hitting 18 per minute), but they were only the overture. He wanted the full aria.
His finger settled on the console like a conductor raising the baton. Setting 4. He pressed.
The Orgasmo 9000 woke with a deeper, predatory growl that vibrated through her bones, every motor spinning up in perfect, ominous synchrony. The air in the room seemed to thicken with electric intent, pressing against her blindfolded skin like an unseen hand. She felt it before she understood it, a shift in the atmosphere, a promise of something unstoppable, and her bound body tensed instinctively, heart slamming against her ribs. No, not again, her mind raced, a flicker of lingering resistance sparking amid the haze of her earlier surrender. I won't let it break me this time.
She was about to experience another fully synchronized assault on her body.
She felt immediate full inflation. Both internal probes ballooned simultaneously, a sudden, merciless surge that made her gasp sharply against the gag. The Vaginal Intruder, already buried deep, swelled from its comfortable 2.8-inch girth to a brutal 4.1 inches in under three seconds, stretching her slick walls until they burned with an exquisite, overwhelming fire, the kind that hovered on the knife's edge between agony and ecstasy, every nerve screaming as her inner muscles strained to accommodate the impossible fullness. Oh God, it's too much, too big, make it stop, she thought in a panic, her hips jerking futilely against the straps, but the pressure built a heat that coiled low in her belly, insistent and traitorous. The secondary cervical stimulator extended its full three inches like a sly intruder, the soft balloon tip inflating against the os, pressing and pulsing with deliberate, rhythmic taps that kissed the mouth of her womb, sending deep, throbbing waves radiating outward. It felt intimate, invasive, like a secret being teased open, and a reluctant moan bubbled in her throat despite herself.
Then the Pistoning frenzy. The vaginal shaft launched into a savage 110 strokes per minute, long, punishing glides that bottomed out against her cervix with every relentless thrust, the balloon tip flicking the sensitive ring on each impact like a lover's insistent finger. She felt the slam deep in her core, a jolt that rattled her spine and made her toes curl involuntarily. This is torture, get out of me! her inner voice snarled, anger flaring hot as she tried to clench and expel the intruder, but the rhythm was hypnotic, each withdrawal a cruel tease that left her aching for the return. The Anal Sentinel countered in perfect antiphase: as one withdrew, the other slammed home with a twisting plunge, creating a seesaw of pressure that crushed the thin membrane between, lighting up every buried nerve in white-hot bursts that shot straight to her brain. The dual assault felt like being claimed from both sides, overwhelming, and her breaths fractured into ragged gasps, a flush creeping hot from her chest to her cheeks. I hate this, I hate how it feels so... good, she admitted inwardly, the anger cracking as pleasure seeped through, her muscles beginning to clench not in resistance, but in greedy rhythm.
On came the Clitoral onslaught. The Whisperer abandoned all subtlety, the silicone dome sealing tighter with a vacuum pull that made her clit throb in sudden captivity. Suction doubled, drawing her swollen pearl deeper into the dome while the inner nodules spun at 180 rpm, reversing direction in dizzying shifts that sent sparks exploding behind her eyes. Micro-pulses of compressed air hammered the exposed glans in staccato bursts, like a thousand tongues flicking her at once, relentless and precise, while a secondary ring of electrodes delivered faint, safe currents, stinging sparks that made her clit feel impossibly swollen, twice its size, pulsing with every heartbeat. Stop, it's too intense, I can't, her mind pleaded, fury giving way to desperation as her hips twitched against the straps, but the sensation was electric honey, melting her resolve into liquid need. Oh fuck, yes... more...
Continued with the periurethral and vestibular assault. The smaller probes sprang to life like eager accomplices. The Periurethral Teaser vibrated in tight, rapid circles directly over her urethral sponge, a buzzing pressure that built an urgent, unfamiliar fullness, like needing to release but in the best possible way. The Vestibular Explorer traced the rim of her entrance with a ridged wheel spinning at 220 rpm, tugging and releasing her swollen labia in time with the deeper thrusts, each pull sending fresh jolts that made her inner lips quiver. It felt teasing, tormenting, amplifying the chaos inside her until her entire vulva was a throbbing, desperate ache. I can't take it all, it's everywhere, she thought, anger dissolving into overwhelmed whimpers, her body surrendering inch by inch as the sensations blended into one unbearable symphony of bliss.
Lastly followed by the full-body orchestration. The nipple cups locked on with fierce suction, stretching each peak a full centimeter before releasing and repeating, over and over, a rough, insistent milking that made her breasts feel alive with fire, sparks shooting straight to her core. Heated rollers dragged down the tender skin of her inner thighs and up the sides of her ribcage, leaving scorching trails that raised gooseflesh and made her shiver despite the heat building inside. A low-frequency bass wave rippled through the entire recliner, vibrating her bones from pelvis to skull, turning her very skeleton into a conduit for the onslaught. This is too much, my whole body... it's owning me, her inner monologue fractured, resistance crumbling as pleasure flooded every cell, anger giving way to a total, helpless surrender. I don't care anymore... just make me come...
The combined effect was apocalyptic, a storm she could no longer fight. Within fifteen seconds her back arched so violently the waist belt creaked, every muscle locking as the first orgasm detonated, not a wave, but a bomb that ripped through her core. A guttural, animal sound tore from her throat, muffled by the gag yet raw enough to rattle the glass beakers on John’s shelf. Her vaginal walls clamped down so hard the pistoning mechanism momentarily stuttered against the resistance; the cervical balloon registered a sudden 1.4 mm dilation spike as her womb tried to pull the probe deeper, a deep, throbbing fullness that made her feel claimed from the inside out. Anal contractions hit 28 per minute, a frantic, milking rhythm that made the Sentinel’s sensors flash crimson, the pressure between the probes crushing her into white-hot oblivion. Yes, oh God, yes, it's breaking me and I love it, her mind finally admitted, total surrender washing over her in waves of bliss.
Before the first climax could fade, a second slammed into her, harder, longer, fluid gushing around the vaginal shaft in rhythmic pulses, soaking the leather beneath her as her thighs shook uncontrollably, toes curling until the ankle cuffs bit into skin. The clitoral dome registered a sustained 312 % increase in blood flow; the nodule ring spun so fast it blurred on the infrared feed, the stinging shocks making her clit pulse like a second heart. More, I need more, don't stop, she begged inwardly, her body now fully complicit, hips grinding shamelessly into the torment.
A third orgasm followed before she could draw breath, then a fourth, overlapping, relentless, each one ripping a fresh scream from her raw throat as her entire pelvis became one continuous spasm, the probes now moving through liquid heat, every thrust met with involuntary contractions that only amplified the pleasure. I'm yours, take me, break me, her thoughts dissolved into pure, ecstatic surrender, anger a distant memory as she floated in the supernova of sensation.
On the console, the graphs shattered into vertical walls of color: heart rate 178 bpm, galvanic skin response off the charts, oxytocin and prolactin flooding in quantities John had never seen in literature. The 3D arousal map rotated on-screen, her body rendered as a living supernova (every erogenous zone glowing white-hot).
She was beyond language now, reduced to guttural cries and the wet, rhythmic slap of silicone against soaked flesh. Tears soaked the blindfold; drool escaped the corners of the gag. Her hips rolled helplessly, chasing the very instruments that were breaking her apart.
John watched, transfixed, as Setting 4 held her suspended on that merciless plateau (no descent, no mercy, only the next crest already building). The Orgasmo 9000 had found its voice, and it was singing her into pieces.
Somewhere between the third and fourth detonation, something inside her snapped, not in pain, but in surrender.
The terror that had knotted her stomach for hours dissolved like sugar in hot water. There was no more room for fear; every neuron, every trembling cell, was drenched in a pleasure so absolute it felt like drowning in molten gold. The blindfold was soaked with tears, but they were no longer tears of panic; they were the overflow of a body that had forgotten how to hold anything back.
Her mind, once a frantic cage of questions (Who is he? What will he do when this is over?), simply… stopped. Thought thinned into white static. There was only the next thrust, the next swell, the next electric kiss against her clit, the next impossible stretch inside her that made her feel both ruined and reborn. Each orgasm rolled into the one after it without a valley between, until the concept of “ending” lost all meaning. She was floating in an endless crest, weightless, thoughtless, perfectly, terrifyingly sated.
Her hips, which had once strained against the restraints in futile escape, now rocked forward greedily each time the probes withdrew, chasing the emptiness because she knew, knew, that fullness would return even more brutally, and she wanted it. Needed it. A low, continuous moan vibrated in her throat, no longer muffled protest but raw, shameless hunger.
Somewhere in the haze she became aware of a single coherent desire, bright and sharp as a struck match:
More.
She didn’t care that she was bound, that she was stolen, that tomorrow might never come. There was only now, this incandescent now, and the machine’s relentless promise of another crest, and another, and another. Her body had become pure appetite, slick and trembling and open, every secret place singing in gratitude for being used so completely.
When the probes slowed (just a fraction, just enough for the pistoning to drop from frenzy to a deliberate, grinding rhythm), she actually whined, a broken, pleading sound that would have shamed her hours ago. Her inner walls fluttered around the invaders, trying to pull them deeper, trying to say what her gagged mouth could not:
Don’t stop. Never stop. Give me everything.
In that moment, the woman who had walked into a grocery store with a shopping list ceased to exist. What remained was only sensation, only bliss, only the next white-hot wave already gathering in her belly like a promise the Orgasmo 9000 intended to keep.
The probes withdrew once more, a slick, retreating symphony that left her gasping, chest heaving like a bellows in a forge. Air rushed into her lungs in ragged gulps, each breath a battle against the fire in her core, the lingering tremors that rippled through her like aftershocks of an earthquake. Sweat slicked her skin, cooling in the lab's sterile chill, and for long minutes she simply existed in that void, limbs heavy, mind adrift in a fog of endorphins. The restraints, once enemies, now felt like anchors; she no longer tugged against them, her body gone limp and pliant, a ragdoll surrendered to whatever gods or demons presided over this mechanical altar. Compliance had seeped into her bones, a quiet acceptance that this was her reality, at least for now.
John leaned forward at the console, his face illuminated by the dancing graphs, peaks like mountain ranges, valleys brief and shallow. Setting 4 had been a revelation, but ambition burned in him like a fever. He craved the extremes, the data points that shattered norms.
His finger traced the slider, hovered like judgment, then slid home. Setting 6. The machine answered with a deep, bone-rattling whir, a sound that felt ancient and ravenous, as if something long buried had just opened its eyes.
She felt the shift before the probes even moved: air pressure changing, the recliner itself seeming to inhale. No, no more, I can’t… the last shard of resistance flared in her mind, frantic and useless.
Then apocalypse arrived.
Both internal probes detonated into maximum inflation at once. The Vaginal Intruder ballooned to a brutal 4.5 inches in a single, merciless surge, stretching her slick, over-sensitized walls until they burned white-hot. The sensation was beyond fullness; it was possession, her body forced open and pinned wide. It’s splitting me, oh God, it’s too much… her mind screamed, but the scream fractured as the shaft began pistoning at 140 strokes per minute, long, punishing slams that battered her cervix like a battering ram.
Each impact drove the fully inflated cervical balloon deeper, dilating her os in rhythmic pulses that felt like something alive trying to push into her womb. The pressure was terrifying, intimate, obscene, and impossibly erotic.
The Anal Sentinel answered in perfect, frenzied opposition, twisting at 120 rpm while expanding and contracting in chaotic waves, crushing the thin wall between the two shafts until every buried nerve exploded in white fire. She felt the double-helix of penetration like being fucked by lightning from both directions, her insides liquefying into molten pleasure-pain. I’m going to break, I’m breaking,
The Clitoral Whisperer became a maelstrom. Triple suction vacuum-sealed her swollen clit so hard she felt it throb outside her body, nodules blurring at 300 rpm in wild figure-eights while air pulses hammered five times a second and escalating electro-shocks stabbed straight up her spine. It was no longer stimulation; it was torture by ecstasy. Stop, please, more, don’t stop… her thoughts shattered into nonsense.
Every secondary probe joined the assault. The Periurethral Teaser screamed ultrasonically against her sponge, building a pressure so urgent she felt she might burst. The Vestibular Explorer’s ridged wheel spun at 300 rpm, yanking her labia in violent tugs that made her feel flayed open and begging. Nipple cups stretched her peaks 1.5 cm before pneumatic snaps released and repeated, the sharp pain blooming instantly into liquid heat. Heated, vibrating rollers raked her skin in serpentine paths, and the entire chair thrummed with 10 Hz infrasound that turned her skeleton into one giant resonating clit.
The first orgasm hit like a supernova.
Her body convulsed so violently the steel frame groaned, every muscle seizing in a single, impossible arch. A primal, guttural scream ripped from her throat, muffled into a raw wail as contractions crushed the probes in vise-like spasms. Fluid erupted in forceful, high-pressure arcs, squirting clear and far, splattering the floor and walls. Her vision (already black from the blindfold) flashed blinding white. Consciousness slipped for seconds, then slammed back as the second climax clawed up her spine, harder, longer, her hips bucking wildly while the machine pounded through the spasms without mercy.
There is no me anymore, only this, only pleasure… The thought was no longer hers; it belonged to the storm.
The third orgasm detonated before she could breathe, pain and pleasure fused into one indistinguishable roar. Her heart hammered at 190 bpm, oxytocin flooding her like a drug overdose. The fourth tore her apart: cervical dilation hit 2.3 mm, vaginal and anal walls pulsing in frantic unison, squirting in endless, violent arcs that soaked everything. Hyperventilation took her (short, desperate, starving pants) until the world tilted, edges going soft and dark.
She felt the final, shattering crest rising, felt herself surrender completely (no anger left, no shame, only total, worshipful need), and then merciful blackness swallowed her whole.
The machine sensed the blackout and powered down to a satisfied purr, leaving her limp as a broken marionette, blindfolded face slack, chest heaving, every inch of her trembling in the echo of an apocalypse made of pure, transcendent pleasure.
John’s clinical mask slipped the moment the monitors settled into steady green. The woman on the recliner was no longer data; she was art.
He took the inhaler from her lips and simply looked.
She lay utterly spent, limbs heavy, skin glowing with the sheen of someone who had been taken apart and reassembled by pleasure. The blindfold still covered her eyes, but the rest of her was bare and perfect: long dark hair fanned across the leather like spilled ink, full breasts rising and falling in slow, exhausted rhythm, nipples still swollen and dark from the suction cups, the elegant curve of her waist flaring into hips that had bucked and trembled under his machine only minutes ago. Between her parted thighs her pussy was flushed deep rose, glistening with her own release and the faint sheen of the simulant, labia puffy and open in a way that made his breath catch. Every inch of her looked used, worshipped, and utterly female.
He couldn’t help himself.
John let his fingertips drift first, feather-light, over the slope of one breast, tracing the faint red rings left by the cups, feeling the lingering heat of her skin. She didn’t stir. He cupped the weight of it gently, thumb brushing the tender nipple, watching it tighten again even in unconsciousness. A low sound (half reverence, half hunger) rumbled in his chest.
He moved lower, palms gliding over the soft plane of her stomach, pausing to circle the faint silver lines some women carried like secret medals. His hands settled on her hips, thumbs stroking the hollows where bone met muscle, memorizing the shape of her. When he reached the apex of her thighs he didn’t part them, only rested his palms there, feeling the residual tremor in her muscles, the slick warmth still radiating from her core. She was beautiful in ruin, and he wanted to remember this moment forever.
Only then did he begin to dress her, turning the act into something almost ceremonial.
He started with her panties (simple black lace, now soaked). He lifted her hips with one arm beneath the small of her back, cradling her like something precious, and slid the fabric up her legs with deliberate slowness. His knuckles brushed the swollen folds of her pussy as he settled the lace into place, feeling her twitch faintly at the contact, a soft, unconscious sigh escaping her lips. The yoga pants came next. He smoothed them over her calves, knees, thighs (palms gliding along the firm muscle, thumbs tracing the sensitive crease where leg met body), pulling them up inch by inch until the waistband hugged her hips. He let his fingers linger there, pressing gently, feeling the heat still trapped beneath the fabric.
The tank top was last. He sat her up, supporting her boneless weight against his chest (her head lolling to rest on his shoulder, long hair spilling over his arm like silk). He gathered the fabric and eased it over her head, guiding her arms through the sleeves one at a time. When the cotton slid down over her breasts he paused, letting the material catch on her nipples before tugging it gently into place, watching them peak again beneath the thin cloth. Finally, he smoothed the hem down her torso, palms flattening over her ribs, her waist, her hips (one last, possessive caress before the world outside claimed her again).
She stirred faintly as he worked, a flush still painting her cheeks, lips parted on soft, shallow breaths. He brushed a strand of hair from her face, thumb lingering on the curve of her cheekbone, and for a moment allowed himself to admire the masterpiece he had both broken and remade.
Then, with the same reverent care, he lifted her into his arms (her body warm and pliant against his chest) and carried her out of the light, the clinic’s secret heartbeat quiet for now, but already waiting for the next soul ready to burn.
Sneaking her back to the van mirrored the abduction in reverse: hoisted over his shoulder, up the stairs, into the vehicle's shadowed interior. He drove with white-knuckled caution, the night roads empty save for the occasional sweep of headlights. A couple of hours had passed, barely a blip in the grand scheme, he rationalized; who would miss a quick grocery run extended into the evening?
The parking lot loomed unchanged under sodium lamps, her car solitary and unmolested. No witnesses, no alarms. He pulled alongside, engine purring low, and snapped a quick photo of her driver’s license with his phone, for records, he told himself, though a darker curiosity lingered. Then, with a grunt, he carried her limp form to her back seat, arranging her as if she'd simply dozed off mid-errand, keys tucked into her pocket.
He parked at the lot's far end, shrouded in shadows, and waited like a sentinel. An hour crawled by, the dashboard clock ticking accusations. Then, movement: a subtle shift in her car's interior, her form stirring like a sleeper emerging from a fever dream.
She took twenty minutes to collect herself, head in hands, perhaps, breaths steadying as fragments of memory assaulted her. Finally, the back door creaked open; she stepped out unsteadily, long hair tousled, glancing around the empty lot with wide, disoriented eyes. A hand pressed to her temple, another to her abdomen, as if testing for reality. She circled to the driver's seat, slid in, and after a moment's hesitation, the engine turned over. Taillights flared red as she drove away, merging into the anonymous stream of traffic.
As the road unspooled before her, her mind was a whirlwind, thoughts fracturing and reforming like storm clouds. What the hell had happened? Flashes assaulted her: the van's door slamming open, the prick of a needle, then... oblivion? No, not oblivion, something else, something impossible. Her body ached in ways that weren't pain, exactly; a deep, sated throb between her thighs, nipples tender against her bra, skin humming with phantom touches. Had it been a dream? A hallucination? But the dampness in her underwear, the faint scent of lubricant and sweat, she squeezed her thighs together at a red light, a shiver racing up her spine. God, it had felt... incredible. Terrifying, yes, but the bliss, the endless waves that had drowned her fears... she'd never come like that, not with any lover, not even in her wildest fantasies.
Who was he? A face she couldn't recall, a voice distorted like a nightmare. Part of her screamed to call the police, to report the abduction, the violation. But another part, quieter and more insidious, whispered doubts: What would she say? "I was kidnapped and... pleasured by a machine until I passed out?" They'd laugh, or worse, probe her with questions she couldn't answer. And beneath the outrage, a treacherous curiosity bloomed, had it really happened? Did she want it to happen again? Her cheeks burned as she accelerated onto the highway, the engine's hum echoing the machine's distant purr.
Home waited, with its empty bed and unanswered questions, but for now, the road felt like escape, or perhaps pursuit, chasing the ghost of ecstasy that had rewritten her body's map forever.
She came home that first night and stood under the shower until the water ran cold, but she wasn’t scrubbing anything away. She was listening to her own body, really listening for the first time. The tenderness between her legs, the low, satisfied ache in her womb, the way her nipples still tingled when the spray hit them; it was all evidence. Proof that something inside her had cracked wide open and let the light pour in.
For years she had been the woman who couldn’t quite get there with anyone else in the room. Her ex-husband had called her “the ice queen” in the last ugly fight before the papers were signed, voice dripping with resentment. Every lover since had sensed the same invisible wall: she would smile, she would moan politely, she would arch and sigh on cue, but the moment release hovered close she froze, clenched, retreated. Orgasm had always felt like stepping off a cliff she wasn’t sure she’d survive. So, she never stepped.
Until the machine.
It hadn’t asked permission. It had simply taken her apart with merciless precision, held her open, filled her, stretched her, shocked her, vibrated her, refused to let her hide, and then detonated her into pieces so bright she forgot her own name. Four times. Six. She had lost count somewhere between the second and third cataclysm, floating in a white-hot place where control no longer existed and surrender was the only possible response.
Now, standing in her dark apartment, she understood: the cliff had never been dangerous. She had simply never been pushed hard enough to discover she could fly.
The realization felt like waking up inside her own skin for the first time.
The next morning she woke up smiling, a slow, secret smile that felt foreign and delicious. She made coffee, leaned against the counter, and let her mind drift back to the lab without flinching. The memory didn’t feel like trauma; it felt like revelation. She had been taken apart by something that knew her better than she knew herself, and instead of breaking, she had bloomed.
She started touching herself differently after that, slower, more curious. She no longer chased the polite, tidy orgasms she used to settle for. She waited. She breathed. She remembered how it felt to be held open, filled, forced past the point of control, and she learned to ride that same edge on her own. The first time she came without rushing (truly let go and let the wave build until it obliterated thought), she laughed out loud in the dark, a low, astonished sound. So that’s what surrender feels like.
During the day she carried the secret like warm silk against her skin. At red lights she would squeeze her thighs together and feel the echo of the probes, a private pulse that made her bite her lip and grin. She bought new underwear, softer fabrics, colors that made her feel reckless. She started running again, not to burn calories but to feel the slick heat between her legs when her leggings rubbed just right.
She never feared the parking lot again. Some evenings she drove there on purpose, parked in the exact same spot, rolled the windows down, and let the night air stroke her throat while she remembered. She wasn’t waiting for the van (not really), but the possibility sent a bright, electric thrill through her chest. The world felt wider now, laced with invisible doors that might open if she stayed brave enough to walk toward them.
She kept the note she wrote that first week, no longer hidden or password-protected. It lives in the top drawer of her nightstand, next to the sleek new vibrator she finally allowed herself to buy. Sometimes she reads it aloud while she touches herself, voice husky, laughing at how filthy and alive the words make her feel.
She never discovered his name, never saw his face. It doesn’t matter. He was the catalyst, not the destination. What he gave her (stole from her, gifted to her, whatever word fits) was permission: permission to want without apology, to open completely, to come so hard the stars went white.
And every time she does, she silently thanks the stranger and his impossible machine. Then she comes again, louder, longer, entirely her own.
She had learned the most important truth the machine had carved into her body with silicone and electricity: She was not cold; She had simply never been set on fire before.
And now that she knew how brightly she could burn, she intended to keep feeding the flames.
John spent the next fortnight in a fever of refinement.
The data from Rebecca’s session was exquisite: four minutes to first climax on Setting 2, thirty-seven seconds between peaks on Setting 4, unconsciousness at 4:11 into Setting 6 with a recorded cervical dilation of 2.8 mm and an oxytocin spike that broke the upper bound of his calibration curve. He rewrote entire subroutines, smoothing the ramp curves, adding adaptive feedback loops that learned from each contraction, each squirt, each shuddering breath.
He also built a new arm: sleek, flexible, ending in a soft silicone phallus no thicker than two fingers, ringed with micro-textures and fitted with an internal valve that could seal against the palate and restrict airflow in precise increments. The tongue probe could stroke, vibrate, or simply fill the mouth while the airway narrowed to a teasing whisper, heightening every sensation with the dizzy edge of breath play.
He also labeled the level, and added warnings, Settings 7 through 9 glowed amber on the console now; Setting 10 sat alone in pulsing crimson, labeled in stark white letters: DEMON MODE.
But one subject was not science. One subject was anecdote. He needed more bodies, more voices, more proof.
He looked at the picture of the woman's driver’s license. Rebecca Ann Rogers, age 34, 5'6", 124 lbs, brunette, hazel eyes, it read. All that was missing in the de***********ion was her gym toned athletic body, firm C-cup sensitive breasts and extremely sensitive hairy pussy.
But he felt the question burning: what had it been like for her?
Two weeks later, on a quiet Thursday evening, Becky sat at her kitchen table in soft yoga pants and an old college T-shirt, wineglass forgotten beside her elbow. She was somewhere else entirely: thighs pressed together, pulse slow and heavy, remembering the moment the probes had returned the second time (the slick, inevitable stretch, the way her body had simply opened and begged). She was wet again, had been half the day, and the ache for that impossible fullness was a living thing inside her.
Her phone buzzed on the table.
Unknown number.
Rebecca, what was your overall impression about the orgasm machine.
She stared at the screen and felt every drop of blood in her body rush south. Her breath caught so sharply it hurt. The glass trembled in her hand.
She typed before thought could catch up.
OMG, it was amazing!!!
Her thumbs flew.
Experiment? Can I try it again? Do you need an assistant?
She hit send on the last one and then sat frozen, heart hammering against her ribs like it wanted out. A laugh bubbled up (half disbelieving, half delirious). The possibility exploded inside her chest: it hadn’t been a one-time hallucination. It was real, and he (whoever he was) was offering the door again.
She stood up so fast the chair rolled back and crashed against the cabinets. She paced the kitchen, barefoot, fingers pressed to her lips, feeling the grin stretching her face until it ached. Every inhibited, clenched, half-finished orgasm of her adult life suddenly felt like a joke with a glorious punchline she’d finally been told. She wanted same high level (Setting 6) again. She wanted higher (7, 8), whatever came after. She wanted to feel her body betray her so beautifully that she forgot her own name. She wanted to be pushed until the only thing left was pure, screaming release.
Another buzz. She lunged for the phone, pulse roaring in her ears.
“Soon,” the single word read.
She exhaled a shaky, ecstatic laugh, slid down the cabinet to sit on the cool tile floor, knees weak. Soon. She was already counting the minutes.
John stared at the four messages glowing on the burner screen.
Do you need an assistant?
Four little words that upended everything. An assistant meant faster calibration, real-time feedback, a second pair of hands to adjust probes mid-session. It meant exit interviews that weren’t typed in a panic. It meant someone who already understood the machine’s language of surrender. But it also meant risk. A name. A face. A witness.
He paced the lab until dawn, weighing variables like a gambler counting cards. Her immediate, breathless enthusiasm felt genuine (no hesitation, no threat of police, just raw hunger). Still, he would test her obedience first.
Friday night he sent the instructions.
Saturday 8:00 a.m. Same parking spot. Wear something suited for lab work.
Becky’s phone lit up while she was still in bed, sunlight striping the sheets. She read the text three times, squeaked (an actual, mortified squeak), then launched out of bed like the house was on fire.
Lab work? She taught Pilates in Lululemon and bare feet; her wardrobe contained exactly zero lab coats. She tore through her closet, tossing leggings and sports bras over her shoulder, until her hand brushed the Halloween box in the back. The naughty-nurse costume from last year she pieced together from thrift stores (the one her ex had called “trying too hard”). White midthigh skirt, absurdly low cut blouse, and push-up bra built to display her glorious globes. Matching garter belt and sheer white stockings with the little red bows at the thighs. A real lab coat (borrowed from a pharmacist friend and never returned) hung forgotten on the back of the door.
She laid everything on the bed and stared, cheeks burning. Ridiculous. Perfect.
Twenty minutes later she stood in front of the full-length mirror, transformed. The outfit hugged every curve she’d earned in the studio, buttons pulled low enough that the inner curves of her breasts swelled like an offering. The lab coat barely reached mid-thigh, flaring open with every breath. Stockings whispered against each other when she walked. Her nipples were already hard, pressing visibly against the thin fabric, and when she shifted her weight, she felt the unmistakable slick of arousal dampening the lace between her legs.
She looked like a porn parody of herself. She looked ready.
She grabbed her keys before she could talk herself out of it, heart hammering so hard she felt it in her clit.
The grocery store lot was pretty empty around 8 a.m. on a Saturday morning. She parked in the exact same spot, engine off, hands trembling in her lap. She watched the rearview mirror like a hunted thing (no, like a thing in heat).
A plain white cargo van turned in slowly, no plates on the front. It rolled to a stop beside her, driver’s face shadowed. The side door slid open with a soft pneumatic hiss.
Another text buzzed.
Get in. Hood is on the back seat. Put it on. The driver is just a driver.
She laughed once (shaky, delighted) and obeyed. Heels clicking on asphalt, lab coat swirling around her thighs, she climbed into the dim interior. The door rolled shut behind her with finality. A black satin hood lay folded on the seat. She slipped it over her head without hesitation, the fabric cool against her flushed cheeks. The world narrowed to the scent of clean upholstery and her own racing pulse.
John (in the driver’s seat, baseball cap pulled low) watched in the rearview mirror as she settled back. The hood framed her face like a dark halo, but it couldn’t hide the rise and fall of that impossible cleavage with every excited breath. Each inhale pushed soft, creamy flesh against the half-buttoned blouse; each exhale made the fabric tremble. Her nipples were stiff peaks now, unmistakable even in the dim light. The coat had fallen open completely, revealing the full length of those stocking-clad legs, garters taut against smooth thighs.
He adjusted the mirror slightly (ostensibly for safety) and felt his mouth go dry.
She sat blind and blindfolded, hands folded neatly in her lap, but her chest betrayed her: quick, shallow breaths that made her breasts swell and recede like a tide. A soft, eager sound escaped the hood’s fabric every time the van hit a bump.
John drove, pulse thudding in his ears, and headed for the lab. Fifteen minutes. Fifteen minutes of watching those perfect, heaving breasts in the mirror, of listening to the tiny, hungry noises she didn’t even know she was making.
By the time they reached the hidden garage entrance, Becky was trembling with anticipation, thighs pressed tightly together beneath the scandalously short dress, and John knew (without a shadow of doubt) that this alliance was going to change everything.
The hood came off and Becky blinked against the low amber lights, pupils blown wide with anticipation. There it was: the Orgasmo 9000, reclined like a throne of black leather and gleaming steel, its arms poised like a lover’s embrace. And beside her stood the man who had built it: tall, lean-muscled under a plain black T-shirt, dark hair a little messy, eyes sharp behind wire-rimmed glasses. Nerdy, yes, but the kind of nerdy that had spent years turning obsession into precision. He was gorgeous in a way she hadn’t expected, and the sudden rush of heat between her legs made her knees buckle.
She stumbled forward, ostensibly to steady herself, but really to feel him. Her breasts brushed his chest, nipples so hard they ached; her hip grazed his thigh. Another “accidental” step and she was pressed fully against him, the firm length of his body sending sparks straight to her clit. A helpless sound escaped her throat.
John’s breath caught. Scientific detachment lasted exactly three seconds before the heat of her toned, trembling body short-circuited every protocol in his head. She smelled like vanilla and desperate arousal; her thigh slid around his, and then, oh God, she was riding his leg, the damp seam of her panties dragging up and down his jeans with shameless little rolls of her hips. Her hand found the front of his pants, palm curling around the rigid line of his cock, stroking through denim like she was starving for it.
John groaned, a low, shocked sound, and then her mouth was on his: hot, messy, desperate kisses that tasted like surrender. Buttons scattered as she yanked his belt open, zipper down, freeing him. His cock sprang into her hand, eight thick inches, flushed dark, a bead of precum already pearling at the tip.
Becky actually whimpered at the sight. She had never seen anything so perfect: heavy, veined, the head flared and glistening. Her fingers barely met around the girth. “Oh my God,” she breathed, voice shaking with reverence and greed, “you’re huge.”
She sank to her knees right there on the lab floor, lab coat pooling like a fallen halo, and took him into her mouth with a hunger that bordered on worship. Her tongue swirled, lips stretched wide, cheeks hollowing as she sucked him deeper, moaning around his length like tasting him was the answer to every question she’d ever had. John’s head fell back, hands tangling in her hair, hips rocking involuntarily as he grew even harder against her tongue.
He lasted maybe two minutes before the sight of her (stockings, garters, tits spilling out of that ridiculous outfit) threatened to end him. With a growl he hauled her up by the hair, kissed her once, hard, then lifted her bodily and deposited her on the recliner. She spread instantly, thighs falling open, glistening cunt framed by white garter straps. John tore the zipper of her dress down in one motion; the push-up bra followed, revealing perfect, firm C-cups, nipples dark and begging. He peeled the soaked lace panties away and paused, stunned: gone was the lush bush he remembered; in its place a neat, trimmed runway of soft curls pointing straight to her swollen clit like an arrow. His cock jerked at the sight.
He dropped to his knees without thinking (theory finally meeting practice) and buried his face between her legs. He licked her like a man possessed: long, flat strokes up her slit, flicking her clit, sucking it gently then hard, two fingers curling inside to stroke the spot that made her sob. She came in under two minutes, back bowing off the chair, a sharp cry tearing from her throat as she squirted for the first time in her life: a hot, shocking gush against his tongue that left them both shaking.
He didn’t wait. Couldn’t. He stood, lined up, and drove into her in one slick thrust, her soaked pussy taking every inch like it had been waiting years for exactly this. She was tight, molten, clenching around him in waves. He fucked her hard and deep, the recliner creaking, her legs wrapped around his waist, heels digging into his back. She came again on the tenth stroke, again on the twentieth, nails raking his shoulders, babbling his name though she didn’t even know it yet. On the third orgasm she felt him swell impossibly thicker inside her, and then he was coming: pulse after pulse of hot cum flooding her, so much it felt like it would never stop. She screamed at the sensation, the liquid heat painting her womb, completion crashing over her in a final, devastating climax that left her limp and gasping.
He pulled out slowly; a river of their mingled release followed, splattering onto the floor in obscene proof of what they’d done.
John gathered her trembling body into his arms and carried her to the old leather couch in the corner. She curled into him immediately, cheek against his chest, fingers tracing idle patterns through the sweat on his skin. They stayed like that for over an hour, hearts slowing together, breathing syncing, the aftershocks rippling through her every time his hand stroked down her spine.
She nuzzled closer, lips brushing the hollow of his throat, and realized with a quiet, dizzy certainty that it wasn’t just the orgasms she was falling for.
It was him: the man who had seen the lock inside her no one else had ever found, and built an entire machine just to turn the key.
In the hush that followed, as their breaths intertwined like vines on the worn leather couch, Becky felt something unfurl inside her, not another climax, but a quieter revelation, roots sinking deep into soil she hadn't known was fertile. John's arms around her were solid, unyielding, a contrast to the machine's mechanical precision; he smelled of clean sweat and faint cologne, a human anchor in the storm he'd unleashed. She traced the lines of his chest with lazy fingers, marveling at how this man, this brilliant, shadowed architect, had dismantled her defenses with circuits and code, only to rebuild her in his image with his own body.
As minutes melted into an hour, her thoughts drifted from the raw ache between her thighs to the man himself. He wasn't just the inventor; he was the key. The one who had seen her, truly seen her, in that grocery lot, chosen her from the mundane throng because, perhaps, he sensed the fire banked low beneath her Pilates-toned exterior. The ex-husband had never coaxed more than a flicker; lovers had fumbled and failed. But John? He had ignited her into an inferno, first with his creation, then with his touch. Devotion bloomed in her chest like a secret garden, wild and unchecked. She nuzzled closer, lips brushing his collarbone, whispering, "Tell me everything. How you built it. Why me."
He spoke softly at first, voice rumbling against her ear, stories of late nights in the lab, algorithms born from surveys and stolen inspirations, the ethical edges he'd crossed in pursuit of mapping the unmappable. She hung on every word, her hand slipping lower to stroke him idly, feeling him stir again under her touch. It wasn't lust alone; it was allegiance. She wanted to be part of it, his accomplice in this forbidden cartography. "I'll help you," she murmured, eyes locking on his with a fierce, unwavering light. "Test subjects, adjustments, whatever you need. Just... don't stop showing me."
By the time they rose from the couch, her devotion had taken root, twisting through her like ivy. She dressed slowly, stealing glances at him, already plotting ways to weave herself into his world, texts in the dead of night, suggestions for new probes, her body offered as the ultimate canvas. In the days that followed, it deepened into obsession: she canceled classes to linger in his lab, her fingers flying over the console under his guidance, her moans digitized into data points that fueled his refinements. She dreamed of him, not just the machine; woke aching for his commands, his approval, his release. John had awakened her body, but in doing so, he'd claimed her soul, a willing devotee, bound not by cuffs, but by the unbreakable tether of discovered ecstasy.
Weeks blurred into a fevered partnership.
One night, after a three-hour session that left Becky limp and glowing on the leather recliner, she traced lazy circles on John’s chest and murmured, “You’ve perfected everything except the ending.” He arched a brow, still catching his breath. She smiled, slow and wicked. “When you came inside me that first time… nothing the machine does quite matches that rush of heat, that feeling of being claimed, filled, finished. It’s the period at the end of the sentence. The ultimate yes.”
John stared at the ceiling for a long moment, then laughed under his breath (half genius, half besotted). Three days later the new module was installed: a reservoir in the base of the Vaginal Intruder, temperature-controlled to exactly 38 °C, filled with a sterile, viscous fluid chemically tuned to mimic semen, slightly saline, faintly sweet, thick enough to cling. At the moment of programmed climax the probe would swell one final time and release in powerful, rhythmic pulses, flooding the subject while internal sensors recorded the exact second the body registered “completion.”
The first time he tested it on Becky, she came so hard she forgot how to speak English, reduced to broken sobs of “yes, yes, fill me” as the warm rush painted her from the inside. When the probe finally withdrew, a creamy river followed, pooling beneath her exactly as his own release had that first afternoon. She looked up at him with tear-bright eyes and whispered, “Now it’s perfect.”
John’s attachment grew in quieter ways.
He caught himself watching her when she wasn’t looking, how she bitten her lip in concentration while tweaking an algorithm, how she stretched after a long session, long muscles flexing under smooth skin, how she laughed at his terrible jokes like they were the funniest thing in the world. He started cooking for her in the tiny lab kitchenette, burning half the meals but beaming when she ate every bite anyway. He bought her a silk robe to wear between tests because he couldn’t stand the thought of her being cold. At night he fell asleep with her curled against his chest, her steady breath the most soothing data stream he’d ever recorded.
In public, the contrast was almost comical.
Investors’ dinners, university mixers, private fundraising salons, John in his slightly rumpled blazer and earnest expression, Becky on his arm in backless dresses that turned every head in the room. Six-inch heels, toned legs for days, that radiant, just-fucked glow she could never quite dim. People stared openly: How did the quiet neurophysiology post-doc land the walking fantasy in red silk?
Inevitably someone would ask, voice dripping with curiosity, “So, how did you two meet?”
Becky’s smile would turn feline. She’d lean into John, fingers possessively on his arm, and answer without missing a beat: “Oh, he abducted me in a parking lot and tortured me until I begged for mercy.” Then she’d laugh, low and throaty, while John choked on his drink and the questioner laughed politely, assuming it was hyperbole.
Only the two of them knew the absolute, delicious truth in the joke.
Later, in the car on the way home, she’d straddle him in the backseat, dress rucked to her hips, and ride him slowly while whispering against his mouth, “Take me back to the lab, Professor. I’ve been a very good test subject… but I’m ready for Demon Mode now.”
And John, brilliant, once-lonely John, would drive a little faster, hands already tangled in her hair, wondering how a single white van and one reckless decision had given him not just the perfect data set, but the perfect woman, utterly, joyfully, irrevocably his.
Continued with Orgasmo 9000, pt 2 – The Rival
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