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Fantasy of the Month 4 (Sybian)
February 1994 No-one responded to my knocking. The front door was open, so I opened the creaky screen door and entered. The living room was deserted; the VCRs were silently duping some Siouxsie videos, the BBS was active with four of the six lines in use, the clothes dryer was humming to itself, but no sign of intelligent life. I walked over to the computer, glanced idly at the usage log. She said she'd be home all day; maybe she hadn't woken up yet. Not wanting to barge in on her, I called out, "Hello ... it's me." I heard something fall over with a crash in the bedroom, and I smiled. I was leaning casually against the pool-table when she emerged, dressed in a dark green satin nightshirt that was about a dozen sizes too large, hanging off one shoulder. She was slumped up against one side of the door, face flushed, looking like she'd just run a marathon. She shook her head, shoulder-length red-blonde hair flying out, and lost some of her dazed expression. I rolled my eyes upwards and asked, "What have you been up to this time?" She grinned and stumbled over for a more-than-usually-affectionate hug. "New toy. Do you remember," she murmured in an unusually husky voice, "when I told you about a machine, called Sybian?" I did. To call it a cross between a motorcycle and a vibrator wouldn't be far off the mark. "You've bought one?" She arched her eyebrows with a haughty expression. "I was given one. It was a donation for the BBS." I grinned. "I can imagine. Well, let's see it." This took her back somewhat, but only for a second. She grabbed my arm and practically dragged me into the bedroom. Her futon had been casually pushed to one side to make room for the device. It looked very much like a jet-ski; the sole difference being that it had an inordinately large rubber phallus poking up out of the seat. I peered down the gap where it was mounted; I could just see some very powerful electric motors. The phallus, which was coloured an unlikely shade of sky-blue, was glistening from recent use, which explained her flushed state. I examined the controls. There was a set of motorcycle handlebars, mounted like an analogue joystick, with motor controls on each hand-grip. She pushed me aside gently, kneeled on the seat and flicked a rocker-switch. A barely audible hum came from the engine cowling. She grasped the handlebars in both hands and pushed forward against the hydraulic mounting; the handlebars moved forward about two inches, and the phallus tilted forward a fraction. She twisted the right hand-grip slightly and the blue shape blurred; I reached out to touch the end with my fingertip and discovered that it was rotating, twisting back and forth rapidly. I placed my hand over hers and gave the left hand-grip a twist; the phallus began vibrating back-and-forth and up-and-down simultaneously. She twisted the hand-grip all the way around and the low hum rose to a plainly audible buzz, about the same volume as a quiet electric shaver. I touched the base of the phallus, and my hand recoiled at the feeling of the vibrations. She giggled and allowed the control to return to rest, almost at zero. "And what does this control do?" I asked, pointing to a small joystick mounted on the right handlebar. She manipulated it with her thumb, and the phallus, still vibrating, twisting around and wiggling back and forth bent in the middle, the bulbous head arching forward. It gave me a very funny feeling, watching it gyrate. Releasing the joystick allowed it to unbend back to its natural shape. Her attraction to the effects of this device overcame any feelings of inhibition that she felt before me; her lips pursed into a bow-lipped smile, she produced a bottle of lubricant with an exaggerated ibis-necked nozzle and squirted a few drops of clear liquid onto the blunt-pointed end of the phallus, rubbing it down the smooth shaft lovingly. Then, she straddled the machine, daintily lifted the hem of the nightshirt over the phallus and, standing on tip-toes, leaned forward, her hands resting on the handlebars, and lowered herself onto the shaft with the hesitancy of someone getting into a hot bath. Eventually, with a degree of twisting and some hip movements that wouldn't have been out of place on a Balinese dancer, she was kneeling on the padded rests on either side of the machine, her eyes closed, fingers clutching the hand-grips. She gave the left hand-grip the barest of turns, and the result made her gasp. She rocked back and forth slowly, occasionally shivering, her breathing slowly growing deeper; abruptly after about only thirty seconds, her face flushed bright red and she made a sound half-way between a groan and a sigh, her eyes opened wide, pupils dilated. She sagged forward, leaning heavily on the handlebars, but didn't relax her grip on the controls; the machine kept buzzing. She regained a degree of composure and straightened up, increasing the strength of the stimulation slightly by twisting the left- and right-hand controls simultaneously. Within seconds she reached another climax, this one a protracted affair drawn out by judicious use of the joystick as she caused the shaft to press up against her. I watched, fascinated, for almost twenty minutes as she reached one orgasm after another, eventually reaching a state where the end of one climax merged with the start of the next. By this time, she was shaking uncontrollably, and her breathing was in shallow, staccato bursts. "Get on," she managed. My eyebrows shot up. "I beg your pardon?" She gestured frantically. "Take your clothes off and sit behind me." I didn't need any further encouragement; I rapidly lost my jeans and underpants and sat astride the machine. The padded leather seat extended back, providing enough room for three people; I put my arms around her waist and felt how tensely she was holding her body. She was hot, sweating freely; I reached up underneath her arms and found her rigidly protruding nipples easily, stroking them through the slippery material. This pushed her above the level of the continual orgasm to the point where she cried out. With her behind pressed against my groin, I could feel the vibrations of the phallus within her, could sense the variations in intensity as she rode standing waves of sensation. Without warning, I squeezed her nipples; the reaction was such that she tried to throw herself backward at me, with the result that the vibrating shaft was pressed against the inner-front wall of her vagina. This drove her wild, almost to the point of standing up. I grasped her hips, pulled her back slightly and allowed her to slide forward; she almost screamed with the feeling. She picked up the bottle of lubricant with her right hand, upended it, coating her hand and her arm up to her elbow in slick transparency. She slid her hand down the divide of her buttocks, grasped my erection and held it against her, sliding up and down about half an inch. When she judged me to be sufficiently lubricated, she levered herself off the shaft to the point where I could slide up underneath her; then, just as slowly as before, she lowered herself onto the twin shafts, the wildly vibrating blue mechanical penis sliding easily inside her and my pulsing, hot human erection penetrating her tight ass more slowly. Once I was as far in as possible, she turned the vibration up, and I felt it pressing up against the underside of my penis, stroking me through the dividing wall. She began breathing deeply in time with the contractions I could feel, each rocking pulse causing her to constrict sharply around my penis, the stimulation as the rounded head rubbed back and forth inside her bringing me close to the point of orgasm. I cupped her breasts, her nipples clamped between index and middle fingers and she threw the hand-grips full on, squeezing her thighs shut around the shaft and clenching her behind as tightly as possible. We were locked together in a single, rigid shape, unmoving, until she almost jumped off the machine, screaming in hoarse ecstasy and driving me over the edge at the same time. We clung together for a few minutes, winding down, my erection still held tightly inside her, waves of trembling intermittently sweeping through her body which caused a delicious sensation. I levered myself out of her, reached back and grabbed some towels; I had to help her off the machine. Her knees were too weak for her to stand unassisted. I helped her to the futon where she curled up in a ball and quivered. I sat on the edge of the bed and held her until the shaking subsided. |
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