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 2 – The Rival
Images of the characters can be found here: forum.xnxx.com/threads/orgasmo-9000-story.719045/
In the polished corridors of academia, where grants flowed like blood through veins and rivalries festered like hidden infections, Dr. Diya Patel emerged as John's unyielding nemesis. At 44, she was a force of intellect and endurance, her Indian heritage evident in the warm caramel of her skin, the raven-black hair pulled into a severe bun, and the sharp, kohl-lined eyes that missed nothing. Motherhood had reshaped her, three children had left her with large, pendulous breasts that strained against her tailored lab coats, heavy and swaying with every purposeful stride. Yet, her body remained a testament to discipline: firm, athletic curves honed by daily runs and yoga, a lithe 5'8" frame that spoke of marathons conquered and surgeries performed with unflinching precision. As a renowned gynecologist and researcher in female reproductive health, Diya viewed John's erogenous mapping study as pseudoscience at best, a perverse indulgence at worst. "Wasted funding on mechanical masturbation," she'd sneered in committee meetings, her voice laced with disdain as she lobbied to redirect grants, whisper campaigns to discredit his papers, even anonymous tips to ethics boards hinting at "unorthodox methodologies."
John seethed in silence at first, but with Becky's devotion came a shared fire. Curled together on the lab couch one evening, her head on his chest, they plotted like conspirators in a gothic tale. "She thinks your work is useless?" Becky murmured, fingers tracing the lines of his jaw. "Let's show her how transformative it can be." John's eyes darkened with a mix of vengeance and scientific curiosity. Demon Mode, Setting 10, the crimson abyss of unrelenting overstimulation, where probes inflated to maximum, pistons blurred at 200 strokes per minute, electro-pulses arced like lightning, and the new cum-simulant flooded in endless waves. Becky had braved Level 8 once, her body a quivering wreck for hours afterward, consciousness clinging by threads as orgasms chained into one endless scream. Recovery had taken days, muscles sore, nerves frayed, her voice hoarse from cries that echoed in John's dreams. He worried about permanent damage: neural overload, tissue strain, the psychological shatter. But Diya? She would be the perfect trial, a rival reduced to data points, her sabotage repaid in ecstatic ruin.
The abduction unfolded with the precision of a surgical procedure. Diya's routine was clockwork: early morning jogs through the fog-shrouded park near her upscale suburb, her athletic form cutting through the mist in black leggings and a sports bra that did little to contain her ample breasts. John and Becky scouted for days, the white van idling like a patient predator. On a crisp autumn dawn, as Diya paused at a bench to stretch, her heavy breasts heaving with each deep breath, sweat glistening on her toned midriff, they struck. Becky, disguised in a hoodie and mask, approached from behind with the syringe, a swift prick to the neck delivering the sedative. Diya's eyes widened in shock, a gasp escaping her full lips before her knees buckled. John surged from the van, catching her slack weight, feeling the soft, pendulous give of her breasts against his arm as he hauled her inside. Becky slid the door shut, zip-tying Diya's wrists and ankles while John bound a gag over her mouth, the van peeling away into the awakening city.
In the lab's sterile glow, they stripped her methodically, a ritual of exposure. Off came the leggings, revealing strong, runner's thighs and a neatly trimmed thatch of dark curls above her mound; the sports bra followed, unleashing her large, sagging breasts, full DDs that hung heavy with the weight of motherhood, nipples dark and prominent against her olive skin. Her body was a marvel of contrasts: the athletic firmness of her abs and glutes juxtaposed with the maternal softness above. They eased her into the Orgasmo 9000's embrace, padded cuffs clicking around wrists, ankles, and thighs, spreading her wide in vulnerability. Sensors adhered to her skin, chest strap for heartbeat, electrodes along her inner labia, the neural cap crowning her head. The probes aligned: Vaginal Intruder gliding into her dry warmth with a lubricated insistence, Anal Sentinel following suit, Clitoral Whisperer sealing over her hood. Diya stirred as the revival agent coursed through her veins, her eyes fluttering open to fury, muffled curses against the gag, body straining fruitlessly against the restraints.
John initiated Level 4, the setting that had shattered Becky into multiples. The machine hummed to life: probes inflating and pistoning in syncopated fury, clitoral nodules spinning at 180 rpm, peripheral arms teasing nipples and thighs. Diya's body tensed, her toned muscles rippling under the assault, but her response was stoic, breaths quickening to sharp pants, a faint flush creeping up her neck, but no arching spasms, no desperate moans. The graphs spiked modestly: heart rate to 140, galvanic response moderate, no cervical dilation beyond baseline. She withstood it like a challenge, hazel eyes glaring defiance through the blindfold they'd added for anonymity, her heavy breasts quivering with each thrust but her core unyielding. "Not as sensitive," John murmured to Becky, who watched with a mix of envy and anticipation. "She'll need more to break."
Becky's hand slipped into his, squeezing with devoted glee. Demon Mode loomed on the console, a red promise of retribution.
As the machine's hum escalated to Level 4, Diya's mind fractured into a storm of calculated fury and unwilling sensation. This is absurd, she thought, her kohl-lined eyes narrowing behind the blindfold, though it did little to dim the blaze of her indignation. John, that charlatan, reduced to kidnapping? Pathetic. He'll pay for this, ethics board, lawsuits, the full weight of my credentials crashing down on his little perversion project. Her body, honed by years of marathons and post-partum yoga, tensed against the restraints, muscles coiling like a predator biding time. The probes invaded with mechanical insistence, stretching, pistoning, vibrating, but she clamped down on the flickers of heat they stirred, willing her core to remain a fortress. I've birthed three children, endured sixteen-hour surgeries; this is nothing. A toy for insecure men who can't handle real women.
Yet, beneath the defiance, a treacherous whisper crept in. The clitoral dome's relentless spin sent unwelcome sparks up her spine, her heavy breasts swaying with each thrust, nipples hardening despite her resolve. No, she snarled inwardly, I won't give him the satisfaction. He's watching, graphing my humiliation like some lab rat. But I'm no Becky, that simpering Pilates princess he parades around. I'm Dr. Diya Patel, mother, surgeon, the one who exposes frauds like him. Her thoughts flashed to her children, her eldest's college applications, the twins' soccer games, and a pang of maternal rage surged, fueling her resistance. They'll wonder where I am. But I'll escape this, expose him, ruin him.
As the minutes dragged, the machine's rhythm gnawed at her edges. A faint flush warmed her cheeks, her breaths shortening not from fear, but from the insidious build of pressure she refused to name. Useless study, she repeated like a mantra, but if he cranks it higher... no. I won't break. I'll turn this into my victory, data on coercion, psychological warfare. He'll regret choosing me. Deep down, in the shadowed corners of her mind, curiosity flickered: What if it does break me? What lies beyond my control? She shoved it away, focusing on the gag's bite, the cuffs' pinch, anchors in her storm. Hold on, Diya. Outlast him.
In the sterile hush of the lab, where the air hung thick with the metallic tang of ozone and the faint, musky undercurrent of sweat-soaked leather, John tapped the console with a measured calm. The Orgasmo 9000 responded like a living entity, its articulated arms retracting in a symphony of hydraulic sighs and viscous slicks. The Vaginal Intruder withdrew first, deflating with a soft, pneumatic hiss as it slid from Diya's resistant core, the silicone shaft dragging against her slick, swollen walls in a lingering caress that left a cool void in its wake. A bead of lubricant trailed down her inner thigh, chilling her heated skin like an icy finger. She bucked wildly against the restraints the instant the pressure released, her athletic frame twisting with feral urgency, muffled snarls vibrating through the gag, her heavy breasts heaving with each ragged breath, nipples scraping against the humid air like raw nerve endings exposed. The Anal Sentinel followed, easing out with a lewd, wet pop that echoed off the concrete walls, sending a shiver through her perineum as cool lab air rushed into the sudden emptiness, her muscles clenching involuntarily around nothing. The Clitoral Whisperer peeled away last, its dome relinquishing her throbbing nub with a faint, sucking release, the hypersensitive bundle pulsing in the open chill, each heartbeat sending electric throbs that made her toes curl against the padded cuffs.
Diya's mind raced in the brief, gasping respite: Now, twist, pull, escape this nightmare. The bastard's weak, hiding behind his toys. I'll crush him, ethics boards, courts, everything. But the cuffs bit into her wrists like iron teeth, her struggles only amplifying the slick slide of sweat down her spine, the salty sting in her eyes beneath the blindfold, the lingering phantom fullness that made her core ache with unwelcome betrayal.
Becky, her eyes gleaming with a devotee's fervent glow, slipped her hand into John's, their palms warm and slightly damp, fingers lacing in a grip that pulsed with shared excitement. "She's a fighter," Becky whispered, her breath hot against his ear, carrying the faint vanilla scent of her lotion. "But let's melt her down." Together, their joined hands, Becky's Pilates-callused, John's ink-stained from late-night sketches, hovered over the dial, Becky's thumb brushing the cool metal as she cranked it to Level 8. The setting pulsed amber on the screen like a warning heartbeat, the machine stirring with a deeper, predatory growl that vibrated through the floor, sending tremors up Diya's legs. The air thickened, charged with the low buzz of awakening servos, the faint whiff of warming silicone mingling with the sharp ozone bite.
The reinsertion unfolded with deliberate, inexorable cruelty, each probe reclaiming her body like a lover turned tormentor, amplifying every texture, every pressure into exquisite agony. The Vaginal Intruder aligned first, its obsidian shaft heating to a feverish 98.6 degrees, the tip, slick with fresh, warming lubricant that smelled faintly of synthetic vanilla, nudging against her entrance. It pressed forward undeterred by her clenched resistance, the blunt crown parting her folds with a slow, stretching burn that ignited every nerve, the veined ridges scraping along her inner walls like velvet sandpaper, filling her inch by inch until the pneumatic chambers inflated with a series of soft pops, swelling to lock her around its girth. The lubricant warmed further on contact, a tingling heat that spread like liquid fire, making her gasp against the gag.
The Anal Sentinel advanced in tandem, its tapered wand, coated in the same slick, warming gel, circling her puckered ring with teasing rotations that sent shudders through her glutes, the alloy core humming faintly as it breached the tight muscle with a twisting thrust, the expansions pulsing immediately to match the vaginal probe's rhythm, creating a dual fullness that crushed the thin membrane between, pressure building like a vise of molten lead. The scent of the gel intensified, a subtle, earthy musk that cloyed in her nostrils, her body betraying her with an involuntary clench that only heightened the friction.
The Clitoral Whisperer descended next, the soft silicone dome, warmed and vibrating at a low prelude hum, sealing over her engorged pearl with a gentle suction that pulled like a lover's mouth, the inner nodules quivering to life, their tiny bristles brushing her like a thousand feather tips. Peripheral arms activated: nipple cups latching onto her large, pendulous breasts with a wet smack, the suction stretching her dark, pebbled peaks in rhythmic tugs that sent jolts of electric honey straight to her core, her heavy globes quivering with each pull, the skin taut and tingling; heated rollers gliding along her inner thighs and the sensitive nape of her neck, leaving scorching trails that raised gooseflesh, the rollers' embedded beads rumbling like distant thunder against her toned muscles.
But the tongue simulator sealed her doom, a sinuous arm arcing toward her face, the silicone phallus at its tip textured with lifelike ridges and papillae, vibrating subtly as it hovered at her gagged lips. The gag retracted with a mechanical click, exposing her mouth to the cool air, and the probe slipped in with insistent silkiness, filling her oral cavity to the soft palate, the tip curling to lap at her tongue in undulating strokes that tasted faintly of neutral saline. The internal valve engaged, narrowing airflow to shallow, rasping breaths, each inhale a desperate sip of ozone-laced oxygen that dizzied her, heightening the flood of sensations, her saliva pooling around the intruder in a warm, slick embrace.
Level 8 detonated like a sensory apocalypse. The probes surged in unison: vaginal and anal pistoning at 160 blistering strokes per minute, inflating and deflating in chaotic waves that stretched her to her absolute limits, the silicone veins dragging like firebrands against her raw walls, the lubricant now a scalding elixir that amplified every slide; the clitoral dome whirling at 280 rpm with electro-pulses arcing like tiny lightning bolts, stinging sparks that made her nub throb like a second heartbeat; the tongue simulator twisting and humming, restricting breaths to gasps that left her lightheaded, stars bursting behind her blindfold. Diya's body shattered first, a violent arch of her back that strained the cuffs with a creak, her toned abs contracting like steel cables as the first orgasm erupted like a volcano long dormant, decades of suppressed frustration exploding in a cataclysmic rush. Her vaginal walls spasmed in frantic, milking pulses around the intruder, the cervical balloon coaxing a deep, wrenching dilation that felt like her womb was blooming under pressure; anal contractions rippled in savage echo, her heavy breasts bouncing wildly under the relentless suction, nipples stretched to aching peaks that burned with each tug.
The scent of her own arousal flooded the air, musky, primal, mingling with the machine's ozone hum, as the second climax crashed over her before the first subsided, overlapping in a chain of fire that tore a guttural, saliva-choked moan from her throat, fluids gushing in hot, forceful arcs that splattered the leather with a wet patter, the taste of salt on her tongue from the probe's vibrations. No, yes, God, the pressure, the heat, I've buried this for so long... cold marriages, quick releases, pretending it was enough for a real woman like me... The third orgasm built like a tidal wave, her hips bucking helplessly against the straps, skin slick and feverish, every nerve alight in white-hot ecstasy that prickled like needles of bliss, tears soaking the blindfold as release after release purged years of denial, motherhood's exhaustion, career's armor, the stoic facade cracking under the onslaught. The fourth and fifth fused into an endless, shuddering crest, her athletic frame quaking uncontrollably, the cum-simulant reservoir activating with a warm, viscous flood that pulsed rhythmically inside her, hot and thick like molten satisfaction, overflowing in creamy rivers that dripped with obscene slaps to the floor, the scent heady and victorious.
By the end, Diya lay a conscious wreck, limbs trembling like leaves in a gale, breaths ragged and wet around the probe, her body a slick, spent vessel of quivering flesh and heaving breasts, nerves singing with aftershocks that rippled like echoes in water. Satisfaction enveloped her in a profound, velvet haze, purging decades of sexual frustration in a torrent that left her mind blissfully numb, floating in the euphoric ruins. He... they... shattered me. And it feels... divine. The machine powered down with a final, contented whir, but the sensory ghosts lingered, her skin humming, core throbbing, the taste of release on her lips, a reluctant epiphany that John's "useless" invention had not just broken her, but set her free in ways she'd never dared imagine.
In the throbbing aftermath of Level 8, Diya's world dissolved into a haze of raw, exposed vulnerability, a fragile mosaic of emotions she'd spent decades burying beneath layers of professional armor and maternal stoicism. Each climax had peeled her open like a blooming flower under storm, revealing the tender core she'd hidden from lovers, from herself: the quiet ache of unfulfilled nights after her husband's indifference, the guilt of prioritizing surgeries over sensuality, the silent tears shed in empty beds while her children slept. The first orgasm had cracked the facade, a sob escaping around the tongue probe as waves of release washed away years of self-denial, her mind whispering, Why did I wait so long? This... this is me, stripped bare. The overlapping peaks amplified it, her heart fracturing with each spasm, joy mingled with sorrow for the woman she'd been, the one who'd convinced herself that passion was a luxury for others. By the fifth, she was weeping silently beneath the blindfold, not from pain, but from the overwhelming flood of liberation, her body a vessel finally overflowing with the ecstasy she'd starved herself of.
As the machine wound down, probes retracting with those slick, intimate withdrawals, the vaginal shaft deflating and sliding free in a cool rush of air against her pulsing walls, the anal probe twisting out with a final, lingering drag that left her clenching emptiness, Diya drifted into a sated slumber. Wrecked but not destroyed, her athletic form went limp in the restraints, heavy breasts rising and falling in slow, even rhythms, a faint smile ghosting her lips as exhaustion claimed her. The lab's hum faded into dreams of unbound freedom, her mind adrift in a sea of endorphins.
She stirred about an hour later, consciousness returning like a gentle tide. Blinking beneath the blindfold, her body ached with a delicious soreness, but the fury had evaporated. No more struggles against the cuffs, no frantic twists; she lay calmer now, almost serene, her breaths steady, the fight leeched from her by the profound satisfaction that still hummed in her veins. What now? she wondered dimly, a curious peace settling over her like a warm blanket.
But John, ever the cautious scientist, exchanged a glance with Becky, their hands intertwining once more over the console, fingers brushing in a spark of shared resolve. "No chances," he murmured, and together they cranked the dial to Demon Mode, the screen flaring crimson like a warning siren, the machine awakening with a deep, ominous rumble that vibrated through the floor and into Diya's bones.
The machine responded with a deeper, ominous whir that resonated through the floor and into Diya's very bones, a sound like the growl of some primordial beast stirring from slumber, hungry and unyielding. The air grew thick, charged with the metallic bite of ozone and the subtle, earthy musk of warming lubricant, pressing against her blindfolded skin like an invisible caress that promised no mercy.
She felt the change instantly—a primal shift in the room's energy that made her bound body tense anew, her athletic muscles coiling in futile resistance. No... not more... I can't take it, her mind pleaded, the last embers of defiance flickering amid the haze of her earlier climaxes, but already her core throbbed with treacherous anticipation, her heavy breasts heaving as her breath quickened.
The reinsertion was a merciless invasion, each probe reclaiming her with heightened ferocity that sent shockwaves through her over-sensitized flesh, the air now humming with the machine's savage intent. The Vaginal Intruder surged forward first, its shaft—heated to a scorching 100 degrees and slick with tingling gel that burned like liquid spice—pressing against her entrance and thrusting in with unyielding force. She felt the ridges scrape her sensitive walls in a blaze of friction, the immediate inflation to maximum 4.8-inch girth stretching her to the brink of tearing pleasure, every inch of her inner muscles screaming in protest as they were forced wide, the burn radiating deep into her womb. It's too hot—too big—get out, get out! her thoughts roared in panic, her hips jerking wildly against the straps, but the heat seeped into her core like molten desire, igniting nerves she didn't know existed, the pain blurring into a throbbing ache that made her clench involuntarily around the intruder.
The Anal Sentinel followed suit, its tapered wand twisting in with a corkscrew motion that amplified the chaos, expansions pulsing wildly to match the vaginal probe's rhythm, the dual fullness crushing her internals in a vise of molten pressure. The gel's earthy musk cloyed in her nostrils as it warmed and tingled deeper within, the stretch in her rear a sharp, invasive fire that made her anal ring burn and flutter, the thin membrane between the shafts pulverized into white-hot bursts of sensation. This is violation—stop it, you bastard— her inner voice snarled, fury spiking as she thrashed, trying to expel the invaders, but the pressure built an unwelcome heat, her body betraying her with a helpless quiver that turned resistance into reluctant rhythm.
The Clitoral Whisperer sealed over her nub with vacuum-tight suction that pulled her swollen pearl deep into the dome, nodules blurring at 350 rpm in chaotic patterns—clockwise, counterclockwise, figure-eights—while air pulses hammered at 5 per second, interspersed with escalating electro-shocks that sent jolts straight to her spine like lightning strikes of ecstasy. The sting was sharp, electric, making her clit throb and swell impossibly larger, the vortex a relentless assault that turned her most sensitive spot into a screaming epicenter of overload. I hate this—it's too much, too fast—make it stop! she thought in desperation, her mind fracturing under the barrage, but the shocks melted into sparks of pleasure that radiated outward, her hips bucking not in escape but in greedy chase.
Peripheral rollers raked her thighs and neck with vibrating beads that left bruising trails of heat, each pass a scorching drag that raised gooseflesh and made her shiver despite the fire building inside. The nipple cups latched onto her heavy breasts with fierce, milking pulls, stretching her dark peaks a full two centimeters before snapping back with pneumatic slaps, over and over—the rough, insistent suction feeling exactly like eager mouths trying to draw milk from her maternal swells. It was abrasive, almost painful in its vigor, tugging deep into her chest with each release, yet surprisingly arousing, a pleasant ache that sent creamy warmth pooling in her core, her breasts throbbing with each pull as if awakening long-dormant sensations, milk beading at the tips even though she wasn't lactating. This is humiliating—my body isn't yours to milk— her thoughts raged, anger boiling as she felt the tugs pull at her very soul, but the ache twisted into liquid heat, her nipples hardening into points of fire that connected straight to her clit.
The tongue simulator completed the assault, slipping into her mouth with a thicker, more textured insistence, curling against her palate and restricting airflow to desperate, wheezing sips that left her head spinning, saliva bubbling around it in warm rivulets down her chin. The restriction dizzied her, each gasp a labored pull that amplified the flood of sensations, her tongue trapped and vibrating in sync with the chaos below. I can't breathe—can't think— her mind panicked, but the dizziness blurred the edges of her fury, turning terror into a heady, floating high.
Demon Mode unleashed hellish bliss: probes pistoning at 200 blistering cycles per minute, inflating and deflating in erratic swells that battered her from within like a storm of flesh and steel, the clitoral dome a maelstrom of spinning shocks that turned her nub into a screaming epicenter of raw electricity; the tongue probe twisting in sync, breaths reduced to frantic gasps that amplified every spike until her world narrowed to sensation alone. Diya's first explosive orgasm hit like a nuclear blast, her body convulsing rigid as decades more of buried vulnerability erupted—sobs of raw emotion mingling with ecstasy, the deep fullness in her womb and ass a claiming pressure that made her feel filled beyond capacity, fluids erupting in forceful squirts that splashed hot against her thighs. Consciousness flickered; she dipped into a hazy void for seconds, resurfacing gasping as the second climax clawed up her spine, her thoughts blurring into fragments: This is destroying me—rewiring me—oh God, yes, destroy me...
The machine powered through mercilessly, indifferent to her shattering peaks, each orgasm chaining into the next without mercy. She babbled incoherently around the probe, trying to scream in ecstasy—"Oh God, please, more—no—yes—break me!"—her voice a garbled wail of surrender, tears streaming as emotional walls crumbled, exposing the lonely, yearning woman beneath the doctor. I was wrong—I need this—crave this—let it change me, her inner monologue dissolved, thoughts scrambling like static as her brain rewired, the new model of a woman emerging: one allowed to enjoy her sexual releases, not just enjoy but crave them like air, like life itself.
The nipple milking intensified the onslaught, rough tugs sending jolts of surprising pleasure that made her breasts feel alive, heavy with phantom milk, each pull drawing moans that vibrated through her chest—the abrasive snap turning into a pleasant, addictive ache that connected her tits to her throbbing core. Orgasms exploded in multiples—second, third, fourth—bringing her in and out of consciousness like a ship tossed in a storm, black voids punctuated by white-hot crests where she floated in pure, vulnerable release, her mind fracturing with flashes of regret for her old self, joy for the liberation, the rewiring complete as she surrendered totally and babbling: More … craving … need more … wow.
After about thirty minutes, the machine cracked her like an egg—her mind reduced to blissful mush, face glowing with transcendent serenity even as drool spilled around the probe in thick strands, eyes rolled back beneath the blindfold. Her body tensed one final time, every muscle locking as the vaginal and anal probes expanded to their absolute limits, stretching her impossibly wide with a burn that blurred into divine fullness, then fired the hot cream-simulant in powerful, endless pulses—scalding floods of viscous warmth that filled her womb and ass like a lover's ultimate claim, the sensation magical, satisfying, completing her in a way that shattered her soul. “Fill me … wow … wow,” her scrambled thoughts exalted, craving the heat like a drug as she exploded in a cataclysmic climax, squirting in violent arcs that splashed the floor, her scream a muffled keen of utter surrender, then collapsed unconscious, body going slack in the restraints.
Her heart rate began to slow on the monitors, dipping from frantic peaks to a steady thrum, but her breathing remained labored, ragged gasps that wheezed in the quiet lab. John sprang into action, administering a mild oxygen mask laced with a calming agent, his hands steady as he monitored her vitals, Becky hovering with wide-eyed concern. The probes withdrew one by one, the vaginal and anal shafts deflating and sliding free in a gush of mingled fluids and cream, the clitoral dome popping off with a wet release, the tongue probe retracting with a slick pull that left her mouth agape. Diya lay there, totally broken: drool trailing from her parted lips, her athletic body quivering in constant aftershocks like a live wire, pussy clenching and squirting in involuntary spurts that pooled beneath her on the leather, heavy breasts still heaving with each labored breath. Wrecked beyond repair, her once-unbreakable spirit reduced to blissful ruins, she floated in oblivion, forever changed.
In the dim sanctuary of the lab's adjoining recovery room, a converted alcove John had outfitted with a hospital-grade bed, its crisp white sheets smelling faintly of antiseptic and lavender essential oil, he carried Diya's limp form with the solemnity of a priest bearing a sacred relic. Her body, still quivering in erratic aftershocks like a storm-ravaged sea, drooled from parted lips, a thin trail of saliva glistening on her chin as her heavy breasts rose and fell in shallow, labored breaths. He laid her down gently on the cool mattress, the fabric whispering against her sweat-dampened skin, but prudence dictated restraint: soft padded cuffs encircled her wrists and ankles, loose enough for circulation yet firm enough to prevent any sudden, disoriented rebellion should her mind claw back from the abyss.
It wasn't until evening's velvet shadows crept across the room that she began to stir, faint twitches of fingers, a subtle flutter of eyelids beneath the lingering haze. John monitored her vitals obsessively, the bedside screen beeping softly with her stabilizing heart rate, a reassuring rhythm that echoed his own relief. Her husband, fortuitously absent on some distant conference, and her grown children scattered to their own lives, left no frantic calls or searches; the weekend stretched before them like an empty canvas, time enough to coax her back from the brink.
As her eyes fluttered open in the gloaming light, they held a glassy, unfocused stare, wide and unblinking, as if gazing into some inner infinity rather than the faces hovering above. No words escaped her; her full lips parted only in silent breaths, her raven hair splayed across the pillow like spilled ink. John and Becky moved with practiced tenderness, drawing from the rituals of BDSM aftercare they'd honed in their own intimate explorations, a gentle protocol to mend what ecstasy had unraveled. Becky dimmed the lights to a soft amber glow, diffusing the room in warmth, while John adjusted the bed to a slight incline, propping pillows beneath her head to ease her breathing. They draped a weighted blanket over her naked form, its heavy embrace grounding her quivering limbs, the fabric's soft fleece caressing her skin like a lover's touch.
Becky fetched a chilled compress, pressing it lightly to Diya's forehead and temples, the coolness seeping through to soothe the fevered remnants of overload. "Shh, easy now," she murmured, her voice a melodic hush, stroking Diya's arm with feather-light fingers, tracing circles that coaxed circulation without startling. John, ever the clinician, administered a saline IV drip through a vein in her arm, hydrating her depleted body, laced with electrolytes and a mild sedative to blunt any lingering neural firestorms. He checked her pupils with a penlight, noting the slow dilation, then massaged her calves and thighs with warmed oil, his strong hands kneading the knots from her athletic muscles, working upward to her hips where the probes had left her sore and bruised. The oil's subtle sandalwood scent filled the air, mingling with the faint musk of her earlier releases, a reminder of the transformation they'd wrought.
They cuddled with her through the night, Becky curling against one side, her head on Diya's shoulder, whispering affirmations, "You're safe, you're whole, let it go", while John lay on the other, his arm draped protectively across her waist, his steady heartbeat a metronome against her ribs. Diya slipped back into sleep without resistance, her breaths deepening into the rhythmic cadence of true rest, her body finally stilling under their vigilant warmth.
Come morning, as sunlight filtered through frosted windows in golden shafts, her eyes fluttered open once more, this time with hints of true consciousness, a faint spark in those kohl-rimmed depths. Her body protested with a symphony of soreness: muscles aching like after a grueling marathon, her core tender and throbbing with phantom echoes, breasts heavy and sensitive from the machine's relentless milking. John exhaled in profound relief, his fingers brushing her cheek, "Thank God, I didn't scramble you completely", his voice thick with the weight of what could have been lost.
To bring her fully back, he intensified the care with meticulous devotion. He started with hydration, offering sips of cool coconut water through a straw, the tropical sweetness coating her dry throat as she swallowed tentatively, her gaze locking on his with a mix of bewilderment and unspoken gratitude. Becky prepared a nutrient-rich smoothie, blended bananas, yogurt, and spinach, feeding it to her in small spoonfuls, the creamy texture soothing her parched mouth. John applied arnica gel to her bruises, his touch clinical yet intimate, massaging it into her inner thighs and labia with gloved hands, the cooling sensation easing the inflammation while stirring faint, involuntary shivers. He monitored her cognitively, asking simple questions, "Do you know your name? The day?", noting her slow, whispered responses, her voice hoarse but coherent.
As the morning wore on, they transitioned to sensory grounding: Becky played soft ambient music, waves crashing and birdsong, to anchor her in the present, while John guided her through deep breathing exercises, his hand on her diaphragm feeling the rise and fall. They bathed her gently with warm, soapy cloths, wiping away the remnants of drool and fluids, the suds' floral aroma cleansing her skin as they murmured encouragements. By midday, Diya could sit up unaided, her stare evolving into tentative words, "What... happened?", her vulnerability a quiet admission that the machine had not just broken her body, but reshaped her soul. John held her hand through it all, his relief blooming into a quiet protectiveness, knowing they'd pulled her back from the edge, whole if forever altered.
In the quiet hours of recovery, as sunlight slanted through the lab's frosted windows and the IV drip's soft beep became a lullaby, Diya's mind wandered the fractured landscape of her shattered self. Broken, she thought, the word echoing like a verdict in a courtroom of her own making. Decades of iron control, boardroom battles, midnight surgeries, the stoic facade of a woman who bent the world to her will, had crumbled under the machine's relentless symphony. And yet, from the ruins bloomed something treacherous: fandom. That infernal contraption... it knew me better than I knew myself. Unlocked doors I nailed shut years ago. She craved more, the phantom throbs in her core a siren's call, visions of swelling probes and flooding warmth haunting her dreams. But pride warred with primal hunger; her mind rebelled, No, Diya, you're Dr. Patel, not some simpering addict. Fight it, this is degradation, not desire. Her body, traitorous vessel, betrayed her at every turn: nipples hardening at the mere brush of sheets, thighs clenching with unbidden wetness, a low ache that whispered surrender until, inevitably, the flesh won. God help me, I need it again. The release... the oblivion... more.
By Sunday afternoon, the soreness lingered like a lover's bruise, muscles tender from the machine's onslaught, her heavy breasts still sensitive from the milking suction, but recovery had woven its spell. She sat up in the bed, eyes clearer, body humming with a restless energy that John and Becky read like an open book. "She's ready," Becky murmured, her devotee's gaze flicking to John with a knowing smile. They decided then: no more metal and code. The real thing, John's flesh claiming hers, culminating in a creampie captured on video, a digital leash to ensure her silence should the old Diya resurface. Insurance, wrapped in ecstasy.
John approached with gentle authority, his hands steady as he dressed her in the clothes they'd stripped from her days ago: the black leggings sliding up her toned legs like a second skin, the sports bra cradling her pendulous breasts with a supportive embrace that made her breath hitch. She leaned into him, pliant, as he guided her from the bed, his arm around her waist, her steps tentative but trusting, the faint scent of his cologne mingling with the antiseptic air. He led her to a small table in the corner, where Becky had laid out a simple lunch: fresh fruit, yogurt, warm naan with hummus, comforts that evoked her heritage. Diya ate slowly, John's hand on her knee a grounding anchor, his voice low and soothing as he fed her bites, wiping a stray crumb from her lip with his thumb. This tenderness... it's a trap, her mind flickered, but her body melted, leaning into his touch like a flower to the sun.
Meanwhile, Becky transformed the recovery alcove: dimming lights to a romantic amber, draping silk sheets over the hospital bed to mimic a luxurious four-poster, scattering candles whose flames danced like promises, the air now scented with jasmine incense. It looked like a bedroom from a fevered dream, intimate, seductive, far from the clinical horror she'd first endured.
John brought her back after the meal, his hands lingering on her shoulders as he eased her onto the edge of the bed. Becky slipped into the shadows, phone mounted on a discreet tripod, the red recording light blinking like a conspiratorial eye. He undressed her slowly, romantically, each movement a caress that stoked the fire within. His fingers traced the hem of her sports bra, lifting it inch by inch, exposing the warm caramel expanse of her midriff, then the heavy sway of her breasts as they tumbled free, his thumbs brushing her dark nipples in feather-light circles that made them pebble instantly, sending jolts of liquid heat to her core. No, resist, her mind pleaded, but desire roared louder: Yes, touch me there, make me feel alive again. He knelt, peeling the leggings down her thighs, his lips grazing the inside of her knee, then higher, his breath hot against her skin as he revealed the trimmed curls above her mound, already damp with anticipation. His hands roamed, caressing the curve of her hips, the firmness of her glutes, the soft give of her breasts, each stroke igniting sparks that made her moan, low and broken, her body arching into him like putty molded by a master's will. More, she thought, the fight dissolving, I need you to fill me, claim me, drown me in it.
The intercourse unfolded like a slow-burning epic, their bodies entwining on the silk-draped bed under Becky's unblinking lens. John entered her gradually, his thick eight inches stretching her sore walls with exquisite care, the initial burn giving way to a velvet fullness that made her gasp, her legs wrapping around his waist to pull him deeper. He moved with deliberate rhythm, long, deep thrusts that bottomed out against her cervix, his hips grinding in circles that teased her clit with each press. Diya's hands clawed at his back, nails leaving red trails as she screamed for more, "Harder, please, God, don't stop!", her voice raw and desperate, heavy breasts bouncing with each impact, nipples grazing his chest in electric friction. He varied the pace: slow, teasing withdrawals that left her whimpering and clenching around him, then sudden, pounding drives that slammed home, the wet slap of skin on skin echoing in the room, her arousal coating his shaft in glistening sheen. She came first in a shuddering wave, her walls pulsing around him like a vise, squirting faintly against his pelvis as she cried out, but he didn't relent, flipping her onto all fours, entering from behind with a possessive grip on her hips, his free hand reaching around to circle her clit, drawing out a second, deeper climax that left her babbling incoherently, tears of overwhelming bliss streaming down her face.
The third built like a storm, John pulling her atop him so she could ride, her athletic thighs flexing as she ground down, heavy breasts swaying hypnotically, his hands kneading them with rough tenderness. "More, fill me, make me yours!" she screamed, her primal desires fully ascendant, the old Diya a distant memory. As her orgasm crested, body seizing, back arching like a bowstring, a guttural keen tearing from her throat, John swelled inside her, his thrusts erratic and urgent. He exploded with a growl, hot ropes of cum flooding her womb in powerful pulses, the sensation magical and completing, warmth spreading like liquid fire that triggered her final, shattering release. She collapsed onto him, quivering, sated beyond words, their mingled fluids trickling down her thighs as the camera captured every intimate detail.
In the afterglow, as Becky stopped the recording with a satisfied smile, Diya nestled against John, her mind a blissful haze: Broken, remade, and utterly his fan. The fight was over; only hunger remained.
In the silken haze of the transformed alcove, where candlelight danced like fireflies on the walls and the air hung heavy with the mingled scents of jasmine and raw desire, Diya lay sprawled on the rumpled sheets, a vision of conquered bliss. Her caramel skin glowed with a post-coital sheen, heavy breasts rising and falling in shallow, contented breaths, nipples still taut from the friction of John's chest. Between her toned thighs, her engorged pussy pulsed faintly, a slick river of their mingled release trickling out in lazy rivulets, pooling beneath her on the silk in a warm, obscene testament to her undoing. She murmured softly, voice hoarse and distant, "It's been years... years since I felt... anything like that." The words slipped out like a confession, her hazel eyes half-lidded, lost in the afterglow.
Becky, ever the devoted caretaker, knelt beside her, fingers petting Diya's raven hair with gentle strokes, the touch soothing yet possessive. "Shh, beautiful," she cooed, her own body still flushed from the voyeuristic thrill. Leaning closer, she whispered, "What birth control are you on, sweetie?" Diya's lips parted in a faint smile, her mind adrift in euphoria. "None," she breathed, the admission hanging in the air like a fragile thread.
Becky's eyes flicked to John, a spark of practical concern cutting through the haze. "We'd better get her Plan B on the way home. Don't want any added complications." John nodded, his expression a mix of satisfaction and caution, already plotting the logistics in his brilliant, methodical mind.
As the sun dipped toward the horizon, painting the lab in amber farewell, John dressed Diya once more, this time with a tenderness that bordered on reverence. He slid her panties up her legs, the lace catching slightly on her damp thighs, his cum still leaking from her in slow, sticky drops that soaked the fabric before it even settled against her mound. She offered no resistance, her body limp and compliant, a far cry from the defiant rival who'd once sneered at his work. They helped her to John's car, his arm around her waist, Becky supporting her other side, her steps wobbly, knees buckling like a newborn fawn. Becky peeled off in Diya's sedan, stopping at a discreet pharmacy for the Plan B, the pill tucked into her pocket like a necessary secret.
The drive to Diya's upscale suburban home was silent save for her soft sighs, the evening shadows lengthening as they pulled into the driveway. No lights burned in the windows; her husband away on his endless trips, her grown children scattered to colleges and careers. They had the weekend, a stolen bubble of time. Helping her ascend the stairs to the master bedroom proved a careful dance, Diya's legs still trembled, her athletic frame leaning heavily on John, the faint squelch of his cum shifting inside her with each step drawing a quiet moan from her lips.
John sat her on the edge of the king-sized bed, her marital bed, with its pristine white duvet and the faint scent of her husband's cologne lingering like a ghost. He stripped her slowly, methodically: the sports bra lifted away to free her massive tits, heavy and swaying like ripe fruit, nipples darkening under his gaze. Unable to resist, he cupped them in his hands, massaging the soft, pendulous flesh with firm kneads, thumbs circling the peaks before he leaned in to suck, first one, then the other, his tongue swirling hot and wet, teeth grazing just enough to spark pain into pleasure. Diya's arousal reignited like dry tinder, a low moan escaping her throat as heat pooled anew between her legs, her body arching into his mouth. More, her mind pleaded, the primal desires overwhelming the last flickers of resistance.
She lay back nude, exposed and willing, when Becky slipped in, the Plan B administered with a glass of water swallowed in a daze. John glanced up, his voice husky: "Get some night clothes from her dresser." Becky rummaged with a wicked grin, emerging not with sensible pajamas but a set of revealing lingerie, black lace teddy with sheer panels that barely contained Diya's curves, garters snapping against her thighs as they dressed her. John continued his ministrations, fingers dipping between her legs to tease her slick folds, drawing gasps that fogged the air. Becky leaned close, whispering to John, "Fuck her here, in her marital bed. I'll film it, that'll be more powerful than the other video." Her phone was already propped, the red light winking like a co-conspirator.
John kissed Diya then, slow and claiming, tongue sliding against hers until she melted open with a soft, desperate whimper, tasting her own arousal on him like a promise. His hands moved with deliberate worship, unhooking the black lace teddy one clasp at a time, letting the fabric fall away so her heavy breasts spilled free, nipples already dark and aching. He cupped them, thumbs brushing the undersides in slow, reverent circles, then slid the garters down her toned thighs, palms gliding over calves and arches until she was trembling and bare beneath him.
She reached for him, fingers shaking with need. “Take me everywhere,” she breathed against his mouth, voice raw. “I’ve never… not there. I want it all now.”
John’s eyes darkened. He turned her gently onto her stomach, arranging pillows beneath her hips so her perfect, athletic ass lifted high, cheeks parting to reveal the tight, untouched ring he’d only ever breached with silicone. Diya shivered when he drizzled warm lube between her cheeks, the slick trail cool at first, then blooming into heat as his fingers circled her virgin entrance.
“Breathe for me,” he murmured, pressing the blunt head of his cock against her. She did (one long, shaky exhale) and he pushed.
The stretch was immediate, shocking, exquisite. Diya’s breath caught on a high, broken cry as the thick crown breached her, burning bright and slow, her body instinctively trying to clench shut before the lube and his steady pressure forced her open. Inch by inch he sank in, the heat of real flesh so much more intimate than any probe, the drag of his veins against her untouched walls making her sob into the sheets. It hurts… it’s too much… and God, I want more, her mind reeled, decades of denial crashing against this new, forbidden pleasure.
When he was fully seated, balls pressed tight against her pussy, he paused, letting her feel every throbbing inch. Her back arched, a low, guttural moan vibrating in her chest as her body adjusted, the burn melting into a deep, pulsing ache that felt like being claimed from the inside out. John began to move (slow, deliberate withdrawals that left her gasping at the loss, then long, possessive thrusts that filled her again and again), his hands gripping her hips, thumbs tracing the dimples above her ass.
The first orgasm built like a tide she couldn’t outrun. Her ring clenched around him in frantic spasms, the pressure inside her ass somehow translating into a deeper, darker pleasure than anything vaginal. She came with a shocked, throaty scream, her pussy untouched yet gushing in sympathy, soaking the sheets beneath her. John groaned at the vise-like grip of her virgin ass milking him, but he didn’t stop (kept fucking her through it, slow and steady, drawing the climax out until she was shaking and begging).
Becky stood in the shadows just beyond the candlelight, phone steady in one hand, the other pressed hard between her own thighs, fingers slick and moving in tight, desperate circles through the soaked lace of her panties.
Every time John eased another inch into Diya’s virgin ass, Becky’s breath hitched in perfect synchrony. She bit her lower lip until it went white, eyes wide and glassy, watching Diya’s tight ring stretch and flutter around John’s cock like it was the most beautiful thing she’d ever seen. A low, involuntary whimper escaped her when Diya’s back first arched and her toes curled into the sheets; Becky’s own hips rolled forward against her palm in helpless mimicry.
When Diya’s first anal orgasm hit (that shocked, guttural scream muffled into the pillow), Becky’s knees buckled.
She had to lean against the wall, thighs trembling, as a sharp, sympathetic climax tore through her untouched body, her panties flooding with fresh heat. She kept filming, but the lens shook slightly with each aftershock, capturing the way Diya’s ass clenched rhythmically around John, the way her heavy breasts swayed and her fingers clawed at the sheets.
He flipped Diya onto her back then, lifting her legs over his shoulders so he could watch her face while he took her ass in deep, measured strokes. Her heavy breasts bounced with every thrust, nipples scraping his chest, milk-long-dried but still aching. The second orgasm hit harder (her eyes rolling back, a low, continuous moan as her ass fluttered and clenched around him, another flood pouring from her pussy in creamy waves).
By the time John flipped Diya onto her back and took her ass face-to-face, Becky had abandoned any pretense of control. She was openly rubbing herself now, two fingers plunged deep inside her pussy, thumb grinding her clit in frantic circles, breath coming in soft, needy moans that matched Diya’s. Every time John pulled out and slid back in, Becky’s fingers mirrored the motion inside herself, her eyes locked on the place where they joined, on the way Diya’s untouched pussy wept and fluttered in sympathy.
For the third he pulled out slowly, letting her feel the devastating emptiness, then slid back into her pussy in one slick thrust (the contrast of tight heat to tighter heat making them both groan). He alternated after that (a dozen strokes in her ass, a dozen in her pussy), until she lost track of where one ended and the other began, her body a single, continuous instrument of pleasure. When he finally buried himself in her ass one last time and came (hot, thick pulses flooding her depths), she shattered completely: a full-body, bone-deep orgasm that started in her clenching ring and radiated outward in endless, rolling waves, squirting in forceful arcs that soaked them both while she screamed his name into the pillow, tears of pure, liberated joy streaming down her face.
Afterward she lay trembling beneath him, ass still fluttering around his softening cock, pussy dripping, every inch of her finally, gloriously used. She laughed through the tears (soft, incredulous), pressing back against him like she never wanted him to leave.
“I denied myself this for forty-four years,” she whispered, voice raw. “Never again.”
And John knew, as he kissed the salt from her cheek, that the woman who had once tried to shut his research down was now its most devoted convert (her body, her pleasure, her every forbidden hole finally, triumphantly hers).
When John finally came (hips stuttering, a low growl tearing from his throat as he flooded Diya’s ass with pulse after pulse of heat), Becky shattered again. Her knees gave out completely; she sank to the floor in the corner, phone still recording from its propped position, thighs spread wide as she rode her own hand through a long, shuddering orgasm that left her gasping and trembling. A thin line of drool slipped from the corner of her mouth as she watched Diya collapse, ass still clenching around John’s softening cock, pussy dripping, utterly, gloriously ruined.
Becky stayed there on the carpet, fingers still lazily circling her clit, eyes shining with worshipful hunger as John gathered Diya close and kissed the tears from her cheeks. She didn’t move until the aftershocks finally ebbed, and even then she crawled forward on shaky legs to curl against them both, pressing reverent kisses to Diya’s shoulder, John’s thigh, anywhere she could reach (her own body still humming with the echo of what she’d just witnessed).
In that moment Becky wasn’t just filming. She was living it through them, every thrust, every cry, every impossible surrender, and the hunger in her eyes promised she would beg for her turn the instant they could breathe again.
In the weeks that followed, Diya's post-submission life unfolded like a velvet revolution. The once-fierce rival became a secret ally, her days a facade of professional poise, surgeries performed with steady hands, committee meetings where she now championed John's funding with subtle endorsements. But nights were a different story: stolen rendezvous in the lab, her body offered eagerly to the Orgasmo 9000's refinements or John's touch, Becky often joining in trios that blurred boundaries into bliss. The videos lingered like shadows, unseen insurance, but Diya's devotion deepened without coercion, texts begging for sessions, her marriage long since a hollow shell she navigated with detached grace, served as the perfect façade she used to mask her news desires. She explored her desires unbound: introducing toys into her solo routines, confiding in Becky about fantasies that once shamed her. Wrecked and remade, Diya embraced the primal woman she'd become, her life a tapestry of control by day and ecstatic surrender by night, forever indebted to the man and machine that had set her free.
Continues with Orgasmo 9000, pt 3 – A couple cheerleaders
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