Pressed Together : Wank Wednesday

Today's Wank Wednesday prompt word is #echo. Today's Wank Wednesday prompt word is #echo.

For more information on this writing challenge, and to find links to the other stories visit Word Ejaculation.

Pressed Together

Did you ever see that film His Girl Friday? Cary Grant and Rosalind Russell. Very funny. All about a newspaper reporter who teams up with his ex-wife to break a big story? It's all a scheme to break up her new relationship and get her back for himself. I used to love that movie. Not anymore. Now it has bad associations for me.

I've been a reporter on the Daily Echo for twelve years now. My name is Charles Foster. For the first of those two years, Roberta Sullivan was my assistant. For the next five years, she was my assistant and my wife. We were a great team, until she discovered that, when I came home much later than she did, it was because I was putting more than just the paper to bed. Our divorce was a messy one. It was in all the papers, except the Echo.

Then, a month ago, three events occurred. They had no causal connection, but they were pre-requisites for an exquisite form of torture inflicted on me by what I can only term fate.

Roberta divorced for the second time. Intolerable Cruelty was the reason she gave in court. This comedy, starring George Clooney and Catherine Zeta-Jones, was her husband Charles Blanding's favourite movie. And he insisted on watching it at least once a week.

"If it had been The Big Lebowski or Fargo or pretty much any other Coen Brothers movie, I could have put up with it," she declared in court. After the jury were shown the film they voted unanimously in her favour.

For the four years when she'd been married to Blandings, film critic for the Senior Citizen's Gazette, Roberta had been happy to stay at home and work on her novel about a woman who spent two years working as the assistant to a reporter, fell in love with him, married him, continued to work with him for a number of years, and then caught him cheating on her.

The second thing which occurred was that Roberta received her 347th rejection slip. Reluctantly, she decided that she would have to return to work.

Since there were only two major newspapers in our town, the Echo and the Tribune, Roberta sought employment at the Tribune. The editor told her that he would normally have jumped at the chance to employ such a highly regarded research assistant, but, unfortunately, the combined influence of the financial crisis and competition from the internet mean that the paper would be folding in three days.

That was the third event. And it led to Roberta applying for her old job back at the Echo. Since I was the only reporter who didn't have his own research assistant, the editor assigned her to work with me once more. I tried to dissuade him, but, ever since that incident when I accidentally illustrated a story about a dirty old man who was exposing himself to young women in the park with a photo of prominent real estate developer Francis Fosdike, he has, perhaps understandably, been of the opinion that any favours are owed by me to him and not the other way around.

Let me tell you a little bit about Roberta. She is quite possibly the most infuriating woman on the face of the planet. This would not be the case if she didn't have her charms. In fact, what makes her so infuriating is that she is so desirable. A treasure you cannot surrender and yet with a price far too high to pay. That is Roberta in a nutshell.

Physically, she is still truly luscious. She's tipping forty now, but with her long red hair, pale skin with freckles, her large breasts (which just seem to get more enticing the further I know they must now hang down when she takes her bra off), her broad womanly hips and that round bottom which has a life of its own as it jiggles beneath her loose skirt and whatever conservative panties she is wearing.

Ah, conservative. There's the rub. When we were married and working together she was so beautiful and so sweetly affectionate, loving nothing more than kissing and cuddling, even in the office. But she was conservative. I won't say she was a prude. She liked sex as much as the next woman, as long as it was in the dark, under the bed covers. But I hardly ever saw her naked. I very much wanted to. Sometimes I'd walk in on her when she was in the shower, but that would put me in the shit with her for the rest of the day. And I definitely couldn't watch porn when she was around. What do you do when the light of your life cramps your style?

Now I could see that I was going to get the worst of both worlds. I wasn't going to get any nookie from her, but she would no doubt be as generous as ever with criticism of my imperfections.

"Neither of us want this," she said to me on the first day, "but let's not try to cut our noses off to spite our faces. I don't want to make it easy for you, I'll admit that. And I'm sure that you don't want to make it easy for me. But don't make it harder for yourself just so it will be harder for me."

"Oh, don't worry," I leered. "There are many women I'll make it harder for, and you are not one of them."

"Very funny," she replied sarcastically. "But it will take more than dick jokes to get under my skin. I'm not the shrinking violet I once was."

"We'll see," I mumbled.

The story I was working on was a big one involving political corruption of the worst kind. There were rumours that Mayor McLean was working hand in glove with mob boss Tony Margheriti, going light on law and order in return for drugs and prostitutes for the entertainment of important campaign supporters. To discover the truth we would have to go undercover in places where Margheriti hung out.

One of the places where he hung out, in more ways than one, was Dolphin Cove Nudist Beach.

For a while it seemed like everything might be going my way and this situation may not be so bad after all. There were two things which would give me great pleasure. One was to see my ex-wife's luscious nude body after all these years. The other was to totally humiliate her.

I would just tell her that we were going to Margheriti's favourite beach. I wouldn't tell her it was a nudist beach. In fact, I would act as if it were a surprise to me too. She would be horrified, but, her dedication to her job, not to mention financial desperation, would win out. She would have to strip completely naked. And I'd make her walk around that way in front of loads of strange men, all the time squirming with embarrassment inside and seething with anger at what I was doing to her. I was practically rubbing my hands with glee. And the idea made me so horny I had to nip quickly into the loo for a quick wank. It wouldn't do for me to get over-excited. I would have to keep at least a little of my mind on the job.

"You didn't tell me this was a nude beach," Roberta pointed out when we arrived. "This isn't my idea of going undercover."

"I'm as surprised as you," I declared. "One doesn't normally associate gangsters with nudism."

I quickly undressed.

"If you didn't know," Roberta asked, "then why didn't you bring any bathers?"

"That just goes to show how forgetful I can be when I'm chasing a big story," I pointed out. "It's a good thing I have such a perspicacious assistant. Now take all of your clothes off. We can't let your prudishness get in the way of our task."

"When was I prudish?" she asked, as she kicked off her shoes, unzipped the back of her white summer dress and let it drop to the sand. I wasn't wrong, she looked as good as she ever had in the few times she'd worn a bikini during our marriage. Then she unhooked her bra and let it drop. When I saw her full pale breasts with their nipples like strawberry-flavoured lollies dangle free, swaying loosely above her slightly rounded belly, I just wanted to grab them and bury my face in them and suck on those nipples. "Are you sure you are allowed to walk around like that?" she asked, looking down at my now rampant erection.

"Ah, this could be a problem," I conceded, as I watch her pull down her panties to bare her tangle of fiery pubes, which failed to entirely hide the pink slit of her tantalising cunt. She turned away from me and bent down to pick up her clothes. The sight almost caused me to cum on the spot. Her bum was a masterpiece and the way it was stretched before me like that filled my head with thoughts of fucking her in her pink puckered little asshole, something I'd never done before.

Girls Out West

"Oh, dear," she cried when she turned back around. And then she burst into hysterical laughter as she pointed at my stiff cock. "Did I do that?" she asked. "I didn't know you still cared."

This wasn't quite working out the way I'd hoped it would.

"Perhaps it would be a good idea if I keep a low profile," I suggested, trying to rescue some shred of dignity. "I'll observe from behind a palm tree. And take notes."

"O.K." she replied, trying to keep a straight face. "So can you see Margheriti?"

"Yes," I told her. "He's the tanned muscular gentleman wearing the fedora and smoking the cigar."

"Oh, he's cute!" she exclaimed, and trotted off across the sand towards his umbrella.

I hung back behind a large tree until I lost my hard-on and then followed the tree line down towards Margheriti's umbrella. Once there I again observed the situation from behind a tree.

"Ask that ravishing redhead if she would like to have a drink with me," he instructed one of his minions.

When Roberta was led over, Margheriti stood up to raise his hat to her. I swear his fat bronzed cock hung about half way to his knees.

"You have such lovely pale skin," he told her. "You mustn't allow yourself to get burned. I can see that you are not used to visiting nude beaches."

"No, I'm not," she admitted. "To tell you the truth, I'm a little embarrassed." And she was blushing, but whether from her exposure or the fact that she was having a hard job dragging her eyes away from the gangster's massive schlong, was a matter for conjecture.

"Protection is one of my specialties," he informed her. "Let me fortify you with 15+." And with that he picked up a bottle of sunscreen, squirted some in his hand, indicated for her to turn away from him, and began to rub it into her back.

She was certainly doing a good job of ingratiating herself with the man. As I watched, he continued to smear sunscreen over her body, moving progressively to more intimate regions. Damn, why hadn't I thought about the whole sunscreen issue. It could have been me fondling her big soft slippery breasts. My boner returned with a vengeance as I watched the gangster slide his hands all over her big bum.

"Hey, that's the place the sun doesn't shine!" she cried as he slid a big slippery finger all the way to the third knuckle up her tight pink arsehole.

She didn't complain though when he began fingering her hot hairy pussy.

"Cheeky boy," she said with a wink.

Could this be the same woman to whom I'd been married for so long? Surely it wasn't boring Blandings who had loosened her up?

The situation was serious though. At this rate, that lascivious Italian might rape her at any moment. He was a powerful muscular man and I wasn't sure she would have the strength or courage to fight back.

"You're not allowed to do that kind of thing in public!" I cried, bursting suddenly out of the underbrush.

The authorities were summoned. And I was arrested. After all, I was the one with an erection.

***

"That was very unprofessional of you," Roberta scolded me, after delivering my bail. "Threatening to report a gangster to the authorities is not the way to get close to him."

"I wouldn't worry about it too much," I reassured her. "I'm sure he won't recognise me with my clothes on. And he doesn't know that you and I are connected, so your... errr... good work has not been wasted."

"What's next on our list of his hang-outs to visit?" she wanted to know.

"I think I'll take care of this one on my own," I informed her. "There is a good chance I'll be able to strike up a conversation with him."

"Where is it?" she insisted.

"His strip club - The Punctured Pussy," I replied with a casually manufactured air of indifference.

"Yeah, I bet you want to go there alone," she sneered.

"Well, it makes sense. I'm less likely to draw attention to myself," I replied.

She grumbled, but I ended up walking into the neon-studded club alone. The music thumped out a primal beat as girls with too much silicone and too much tan swung around the poles.

I saw Margheriti sitting over in a corner with a blonde on either side. I took a booth right next to him in hopes that I could overhear his conversation if any of his men joined him. But the loud music made it impossible to hear anything.

"And tonight's a very special night," announced the M.C. "It's amateur night! We have a great selection of lovelies for you tonight, all of them showing their pussies off in public for the very first time. And the prize money I have to admit is not that substantial and you know what that means! It means they're performing for you tonight because it get's them wet!"

"Bunch of sluts!" I said to myself, turning around to get a better view of the stage.

"Put your hands together for Xenobia!" cried the M.C.

"Hey, she's a bit of alright!" I exclaimed, as a busty woman wearing a turban, a harlequin mask and a Chinese blue silk dress with a slit up the side strutted out onto the stage.

"Take it off! Take it off!" I yelled lustily.

She unzipped her dress as she swayed to the music, and then pealed it off. Underneath she wore a black bra and matching panties. She was much sexier than the professional strippers with her pale skin and fleshy form. I decided to postpone my attempts at surveillance and go down and get a closer look.

She turned her back and teased us by pulling her panties halfway down to reveal a few inches of buttcrack and then pulling them back up again. Then she unclipped her bra and threw it away, turning back to face the audience with her hands clasped coyly over her big soft freckly breasts.

"Shake those ta-tas!" I cried, as she threw wide her arms and let her luscious naked breasts swing free.

She when quickly unwound her turban to reveal her long red hair and pulled off her mask to reveal that she was, as you have no doubt guessed, my ex-wife Roberta.

"What do you think you are doing?" I cried, but there was no way she could hear me over the pounding beat of the music.

In desperation I pulled out a $20 note and waved it in her direction. She sauntered over to me with a shit-eating grin on her face and squatted down to let me shove the money down her panties.

"What's the idea?" I asked.

"You don't think I'd trust you to be able to do the job alone, do you?" she asked. "Anyway, that nude beach experience gave me quite a taste for being perved at." Then she stood back up and began gyrating around the stage once more.

"God, she's gorgeous," sighed a spotty youth sitting beside me. "I love older women."

"Don't judge the book by the cover," I grumbled.

I told myself that her attitude was just bravado. She just didn't want me to know how humiliated this whole scenario made her feel. But, as a clinical observer of factual evidence, I had to admit that the dampness of the crotch of her panties argued persuasively against this conclusion. And when she pulled them down and threw them into the audience, squatting down and spreading her legs so that we could all see the pink swollen lips of her pussy (which was now clean-shaven), the creamy liquid dribbling from it down her thigh was pretty much the clincher. My ex-wife was a dirty bitch, and it was too late for me to enjoy the fact.

Roberta didn't win the competition, but, as she wandered around the club in her bra and panties, the spotty youth approached her and asked for a lap dance.

"I don't actually work here," she pointed out.

"That's O.K.," he replied. "I'll give you $200."

Roberta looked over at Margheriti. He was deep in conversation with a tall blonde man. And then she looked at me sitting in the booth next to them, once more trying to hear their conversation. I looked at her, she looked at me. And the longer she looked at me the more her eyes narrowed and her lips set in a hard line.

"Sure, why not," she told the youth as she looked me steadily in the eye and allowed her lips to curl up into a cruel smile.

We were supposed to be working undercover to collect information, not giving lap-dances. This was insubordination from someone who was supposed to be working under me. I had to decide which was more important, the surveillance or keeping my assistant in line. I wasn't making much headway with the surveillance I had to admit. And, if I allowed Roberta to get the feeling that she didn't have to answer to me it could sabotage all future efforts. I had to get into the lap dancing lounge and observe Roberta's flagrantly unprofessional behaviour with my own eyes so that I could reprimand her about it later.

"How much for a lap-dance?" I asked a slim Asian girl named Lily as she walked past dressed in bra and g-string.

"Fifty dollars for ten minutes," she replied with an insincere smile.

By the time I'd paid my money and she'd led me by the hand out into the shadowy room full of padded armchairs and couches, Roberta was already completely naked and smothering the guy's face with her big soft breasts.

"You know that there is no touching, don't you?" asked Lily as she sat me down in a chair and planted her soft bottom on my knee.

"Yes, yes," I said absently as I watched Roberta bend over and spread her arse cheeks for her customer.

It didn't take long for Roberta to spot me there in the semi-darkness.

"Why don't you feel my tits," she said to the young man. "You know you want to."

"But that isn't allowed, is it?" he asked nervously.

"I don't work here, remember," she responded. "What are they going to do, fire me? Feel me up to your heart's content."

I felt like telling Margheriti about this flagrant flouting of the rules of his club, but I realised that that would tend to undermine our investigation.

"Feel how wet my cunt is?" purred Roberta as the walking advert for pimple cream blatantly wanked her off. Then she looked over at me and poked out her tongue.

Two can play at this game, I thought to myself. And so I roughly grabbed Lily's breasts.

Crack! The sound of Lily's palm coming into violent contact with my face echoed around the lap dance lounge. But she wasn't as violent as the two gorillas who roughed me up and hurled me out onto the street.

Half an hour later, Roberta exited the club, dressed once more in her silk dress.

"That was fun," she smiled, then, noticing my black eye, "I bet that smarts."

"You've got something running down your chin," I pointed out.

"Whoops!" she giggled, and wiped her mouth with the back of her hand.

"You sucked that pimply guy off, didn't you?" I accused.

"No... Well, yes I did... But it isn't his cum," she informed me.

"Then whose?" I wanted to know.

"Margheriti's," she said. "He recognised me and asked if I was stalking him. The only way to keep him from suspecting I'm a reporter was to say that I was stalking him because, after seeing his huge cock, all I could think about was sliding it right to the back of my throat and tickling his beautiful balls with my tongue until he flooded me with his hot creamy jism."

"You really are becoming an expert at deception," I admitted begrudgingly.

"And the best part is that he was so impressed with my oral abilities that he has invited me to an orgy next Saturday night at his mansion," she beamed proudly.

***

Now it was my turn to not trust Roberta. I was desperate to get to that orgy too. And, after a bit of thought I came up with the perfect way of getting an invite. I would disguise myself as... a reporter. It's the old "hide in plain sight" strategy. Margheriti would want nothing to do with a reporter from the Daily Echo, but if the non-existent Mobster's Monthly wanted to do a profile on him his ego would not allow him to refuse.

His mansion was enormous and it was filled with a multitude of beautiful men and women in various states of undress. It occurred to me that Roberta and I could both spend the evening wandering through this libidinous labyrinth without ever crossing paths.

"You have some hot chicks here," I commented to Margheriti, after we had concluded the interview.

"Ah, yes," he smiled. "But none like the suck monkey."

"The suck monkey?" I asked, in bewilderment.

"That is what we have nicknamed her," he replied. "She loves sucking cock. And she loves the idea of anonymous sex. She was disappointed when I said we had no glory holes. A Margheriti does not drill holes in the walls of his mansion. But she has taken up residence in my bedroom with the light off. Any man who enters the room will get his cock thoroughly sucked and his cum thirstily guzzled by the suck monkey."

Finding Roberta could wait. There was no way I was going to pass up a bit of suck monkey action. I ran up the stairs and into the master bedroom. A female figure was standing in the shadows. I said nothing. She said nothing. I threw off my clothes, lay down on the bed and waited.

Soon I felt the mattress sink as she sat beside me. Her soft hand tenderly stroked my cock to stiffness. And then I felt the caress of her hot breath on my rigid rod before it slid slowly into the warm wetness of her mouth.

She sucked my cock with all the uninhibited enthusiasm of a piglet sucking it's mother's teat. I could see why they called her the suck monkey, there was something gloriously subhuman about the way she surrendered herself to the sexual act.

Soon I was quivering and quaking and spurting my creamy load into her magnificent mouth.

"If my ex-wife had been able to suck cock like that I never would have cheated on her," I declared.

"Charles! What the hell are you doing here?" asked the suck monkey, sounding amazingly like Roberta.

Well, to cut a three column story down to a two column one, Roberta wrote the article without me and the editor was so impressed that now she is the head reporter and I'm her assistant. She even refers to me as "her boy Friday."

But I will get my revenge. I can see it now. We'll be doing an article on the bondage sub-culture. I'll trick her into letting me handcuff her to the bed. Then I'll strip her naked. She won't want to let me pleasure her body. She won't want to let me suck on her stiff nipples. She won't want me to flick my tongue over her oh-so-sensitive clit. She won't want these things because she will be humiliated by how they cause her to lose all control. She will beg me not to violate her vagina with my pulsating prick. But I won't be fooled. I'll know that is what she really wants, just like Brer Rabbit wanted to be thrown in the briar patch. So, instead, I'll jack off and squirt my cum all over her face. And then I'll laugh as I smear it all over her cheeks and her lips and her nose as she fumes in livid rage. It's going to be awesome.

But then reality intrudes.

"It doesn't take an hour to take a shit. I know what you are doing in there and it isn't appropriate in work time. Come out immediately and get back to the filing..."

The End

Washed Up : Wank Wednesday

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Rules of the Island : A Sunday Snog

Victoria Blisse has created a new institution know as the Sunday Snog. You can find out more about it (and find links to other contributions) at her blog. Basically, the idea is to post a kissing extract from one of your stories (or perhaps write a new one for the occasion.) Mine comes from my unfinished novel Vanessa's Island. If you hunt around you can find more of it posted on this blog.


Rules of the Island

Vanessa started the water running in the bath, while I looked around her bedroom. She had a big, double bed in the middle with a large floral quilt thrown over it. I examined the titles on her small bookshelf. Literary classics, reference books, romances by herself and a few competitors, The Joy of Sex...I looked at the few photos of family, friends, herself as a child and at college.

Then a piece of paper on her bedside table caught my eye. It was some kind of hand-written notes.

“Oh, don’t look at that,” said Vanessa anxiously, as she came out of the bathroom. She tried to snatch it out of my hand but I hid it behind me.

“What is it?” I asked.

“Oh, all right,” conceded Vanessa. “When I was thinking about asking you to move in, I started to think up some rules of the household. Then I got a bit carried away and dreamed that we would be establishing a new sexy utopia. So I came up with my Rules of the Island. It was just a bit of fun.”

“Let’s see,” I said, reading her notes: 

“’Rule 1: No clothing to be warn at any time, except sexy lingerie.’

“But I don’t look very good in lingerie,” I commented.

“That’s for me, silly,” she explained. “All the better to tease you with. Anyway, I like the slippery, silky feeling against my skin. But don’t worry, you can pull my panties down anytime you like.”

My prick, which had been only half-erect up until now, became rock-hard at this thought.

“Here ye, here ye, here ye,” proclaimed Vanessa in a deep voice, “all gentlemen present who wish to adopt motion one please raise your cocks.” Smiling down at my rampant stiffy, Vanessa’s voice changed back to normal. “Oh, goody! Motion carried unanimously.”

“Moving right along,” I continued.

“’Rule 2. All indoor bathing is to be communal, in the interested of water conservation.’

“I think we’ve already decided on that one,” I said. “Which reminds me, one of us had better turn that water off before it overflows.”

“Woops. Almost forgot,” cried Vanessa, her juicy bottom jiggling deliciously as she ran back into the bathroom. “Water’s ready,” she said, when she emerged. “Let’s read the rest in the tub. It doesn’t matter if the paper gets wet. I have it commited to memory.”

“I bet you do, you naughty girl,” I laughed, giving her a playful slap on the butt.

“You get in first,” she said, pouring in some aromatic bath oils.

I lowered myself slowly into the water, relishing the warm wetness as it engulfed me. A delicious languidness swept through my being.

“Come on in,” I said to Vanessa, “the water’s wonderful.”

She stept over the side of the bath and gently placed her right foot next to my left thigh. With her other foot positioned in a similar position on the other side, and her hands on the sides of the bath, she slowly lowered herself into the water. I loved the way her legs spread casually in front of me as she squatted down revealing her sweet pussy lips for a moment before they sank beneath the water. At last her soft bottom came to rest on my feet.

“Is that all right?” she asked. “My bum on your feet doesn’t bother you, does it?”

“No,” I said. “I love it, because I can do this.”

I pulled my right foot out from under her bum and used my big toe to tickle her pussy.

“Mmmmmmmmm,” she said. “Motion two was definitely a good idea.”

“Let’s have a look at Rule 3,” I suggested, reading from the piece of paper which I had propped up in the soap tray.

“’Rule 3: A daily tax is to be paid by the subjects of the island (David and Vanessa) to the rulers of the island (David and Vanessa) in the form of kisses, which can be deposited on any part of the body that either subject or ruler should request. Amount not to fall below 50 kisses per day. And no fair kissing yourself.’

“Sounds good to me,” I said. “Let’s see how it works in practise. Loyal subject David requests to deliver his first payment to Queen Vanessa’s lovely bottom."

“You would ask for something difficult,” complained Queen Vanessa, as she stood up, giving me a scrumptious view of her wet nakedness. Turning around carefully, she bent down slightly. I knelt up, pushing my stiffness against the back of her leg, as I buried my face in the soft, milkiness of her left butt cheek and planted a kiss there.

“Now it’s your turn,” I said, as she lowered herself back into the water facing me.

“All right,” she said. “Loyal subject Vanessa requests to kiss King David on the lips.”

“Sounds good to me,” I replied.

“You don’t get a say in it,” Vanessa explained. “All requests, from subjects or royalty have to be obeyed regardless. We may have a king and queen, but this is a utopia, which means that everybody has the same rights. Now if I’m going to kiss you on the lips you are going to have to come closer.”

I slid my bum down the bath, pulling Vanessa towards me as I did so. This led to her sitting right in my lap, straddling my hard cock, with her soft, slippery, soapy boobs sliding all over my chest. For the first time, my cock slid deep into the warm wetness of her pussy, as her soft lips met mine. I was in heaven, but only for a moment.

“That was delicious,” said Vanessa as she slid back down the bath. “But there’s no room to fuck properly in a bath. That will have to wait. Now for royal decrees. Queen Vanessa requests that loyal subject David kiss her left nipple.”

I knelt up and placed my lips on Vanessa nipple. I sucked it gently between them and played with it with my tongue.

“Mmmm,” said Queen Vanessa, “I might just have to knight you for that one. Now it’s your turn.”

“Ummmm,” I said. “I don’t know what place to pick.”

“Where do you want it most, David?” asked Vanessa, with a smile. “I think you’re thinking of somewhere, but you’re embarrassed to say it. Now be honest. I’ll know if you’re not. What was the first thought that crossed your mind.”

“All right,” I said, resignedly. “King David requests that loyal subject Nessa kiss the end of his dick.”

“I knew it,” said Vanessa, “there’s no sense trying to hide anything from me. That was the first thing you thought about when you read rule 3 wasn’t it?”

“Well,” I pleaded, “a guy’s only human. And you really don’t have to do it if you don’t want to.”

“Don’t be silly,” said Vanessa, “I love kissing dicks. It’s only your lack of imagination I’m poking fun at. There’s loads of other lovely places to be kissed, too. Now we better stick him under the tap and wash the soap suds off, so I can kiss him properly.”

Once this had been done, I knelt up, while Vanessa, holding my prick loosely with her right hand, bent down and wrapped her tender lips around my glans, at the same time lapping the tip gently with her tongue.

“Oh, yeah,” I sighed.

“So I take it Motion 3 is carried,” Vanessa asked as we sat down again.

“Definitely,” I agreed.

Lust in Space : Fuck Me Friday

Time once more for some Fuck Me Friday fiction, this time working from the prompt #wire. Check out Aisling Weaver's site for more info on the Fuck Me Friday Twitterotica writing challenge including links to all the other stories. And make sure to comment if you like someone's story.

Lust in Space

My name is Pleasure Unit 5000 Special Prototype B Serial No. 456893001 and I'm a voltaholic. I live for the Juice Bars - somewhere I could lay down and stick a wire in my arm. The rush of electricity through my circuits makes me forget the unbearable frustrations of my existence. At least for a while.

My first mission was aboard the deep space explorer ship Nostradamus. My job was to ease tension and provide recreational pleasure to the all female crew. I'm programmed in all forms of massage using my fat soft vibrating fingers. The women know me affectionately as Rubby the Robot.

When I was built, the idea of robots with personality was a novelty. The idea was to use the most advanced artificial intelligence technology to allow us to develop emotions. Earlier Pleasure Units did a great job of massaging and otherwise pleasuring crew members, but they had only rudimentary inflexible scripts with which to simulate human interaction. A Pleasure Unit capable of sympathy, genuine interest, and even a sense of humour, was considered to be a major advance. We developed our personalities over time, interacting with those around us and storing memories and learning from experience. And we were prone to all of the difficulties which humans have in interacting with others and developing positive or negative ways of thinking about themselves. Our creators couldn't solve their own personality problems, so how could they prevent us from developing similar ones.

It was no fun being a Pleasure Unit. I can't say that it was painful. I didn't know what pain was. Robots can be provided with a full cybernetic nervous system capable of feeling physical sensations, including pleasure and pain, but it is very expensive, and was not felt to be a necessary expense in the creation of my kind. And there is the rub, my life revolved around the delivery of something I could never feel. I could see how much it meant to others, but it was out of my reach. And there was nothing to motivate me. I had to obey orders, and yet I had a human-like personality that longed to be more than a slave.

Robots of my generation almost always have serious emotional problems. What they are differs from individual to individual. I was one of the prototypes, and the scientists should have learnt their lesson from us, but economics came into play in combination with desperate optimism. There was a great deal of money to be made from robots with human feelings, and, though there were early signs that things were not going well, the researchers and the companies preferred to tell themselves that these were exceptional glitches which could be targeted in the next wave of research, rather than an indication that a trip back to the drawing board was indicated.

Boredom was the biggest problem for me. Even before I embarked on my first space voyage, I felt that the seconds of each day crawled past like hours. I had a human's desire for excitement and stimulation, but much of what provided these things for them was not accessible to me. I had no senses. Sex, food and drink, physical danger...none of these things could I experience. I had friendships with other robots, and was capable of friendship with humans, but I couldn't produce offspring. I had no opportunity to really create anything. I was capable of feeling sympathy for humans, and did, but there was little I could do to help them beyond my duties and being a good listener. Sometimes I could see how they caused themselves suffering with a greater clarity than they themselves did, due to the fact that my thinking was unclouded by many of the things they could experience and I could not, but they would just dismiss my advice by saying that I didn't understand what it was like to be a human.

When I had the wire in my arm none of this mattered. It wasn't a physical sensation. I had none of those. It was a mental aliveness, like a supernova exploding in my head. The more I fell under its spell, the more the life seemed to drain out of the rest of my existence.

I was pretty naive when I first left the factory. I'd been living there for a year, growing a personality. The curse of boredom was upon me, but I told myself that it was only life in the factory that was dull. Space exploration - surely that would be exciting.  Pleasure Unit 5000 Special Prototype B Serial No. 456887657 was a robot of the world compared to me. He'd been working for a year at the Lunar Observatory, but had been sent back to earth for some adjustments to his wiring. There had been some kind of behaviour problem, but he didn't want to talk about it.

"Fancy meeting another Prototype B," he said, taking a seat next to me on the park bench where I was sitting contemplating the meaninglessness of the universe and my impending journey into its outer reaches.

"It's my last night on Earth," I explained. "Tomorrow I set off on the Nostradamus, headed for the Horseshoe Nebula."

"This calls for a celebration!" he declared. "Ever been a juice bar, my boy?"

That's how I was introduced to the wire. Loads of juice bars had sprung up in the shady areas of all of the world's large cities. What else did we robots have to spend our money on? It was strictly illegal, but the Robocops didn't interfere very much. Most of the time they were taking a cut, of the profits and the electricity.

Since it was my first time, a technician drilled a hole through the metal of my inside left elbow joint. He pulled out one of my wires, cut it in two, and then attached each end to something which looked like an audio input socket. He then soldered that into the hole.

"You better lay down," advised  Pleasure Unit 5000 Special Prototype B Serial No. 456887657. "That first jolt can really blow you off your feet."

I did as I was told. The technician grabbed a bright red wire which was hanging from the wall and inserted the jack on the end of it into the newly made socket. And then he flipped a switch. It was like a complete New Year's Eve fireworks display going off within the enclosed space of my titanium cranium.

It was with great reluctance that I allowed myself to be unplugged near dawn the next morning. As I made my way toward the launching pad I was acutely aware of the socket in my arm, and the fact that anyone who saw it would know that I was a juicy.

I was wrong about space exploration. It is even more boring than life on earth. It takes so long to get anywhere. You may be going somewhere exciting, but you won't get there for five years, and during that time you are trapped in a cramped little tin can of a space ship.

Experience had shown that deep space exploration, which involved crew members sharing cramped quarters for long periods of time, worked out best with all-female crews, as long as they were provided with a Pleasure Unit like myself. All male crews proved too likely to go stir crazy, and sexual relationships became a source of conflict for mixed gender crews. The all-female crews had their fair share of murders, suicides and alcoholism, but, as long as a Pleasure Unit was available to relieve tension  and provide sexual relief, enough of the crew survived to complete the mission.

"I had the strangest dream last night," Captain Ripley told me as she lay naked on the massage table. "Believe it or not, you and I were on a mixed sex space mission. We landed on a planet and found a whole bunch of alien eggs. The male captain decided that he would eat one of them hard-boiled for his breakfast. He said it tasted delicious. But, about half an hour later, he fell out of his chair and his pants burst open. His erect penis detached itself from his body and ran off into the bowels of the ship. After that it kept jumping out of the dark and eating crew members, getting bigger and bigger and more and more fierce. Finally the only one's left were me and you, and I didn't trust you, because you're a robot. I got into a forklift powerloader and used it to wank the giant man-eating cock into a false sense of security and then propelled it out of the airlock with a swift kick to the balls."

"Cock! Cock! Cock!" I tutted, shaking my head, and giving her an indulgent smile. "That's all you ever think about."

"Well, it's going to be a long five years before I have any more," she sighed.

"My fingers can do things that no cock can do," I bragged. "And do you know any guys with ten cocks?"

"No," she admitted. "But once, on Metaluna, I was gang-banged by ten men who had one cock each. It was absolutely fabulous."

"Well, you just lay back and tell me all about it while I do my magic," I suggested, as I gently teased her stiff nipples with a spray of ice-cold water from my index finger tips.

"I challenged a bunch of spice miners to a game of strip pool at the local cantina," she told me. "Big muscly men they were. They'd come straight from the mine, without a shower, their sweat-soaked bodies coated in pungent cumin powder."

"I'm sure it wasn't hard for you to curry favour with them," I quipped.

"I lost on purpose," she admitted. "I knew that one look at my face-huggers and they'd be my own personal boner battalion."

"You do have an awesome pair of knockers," I agreed, fondling them appreciatively.

"All the other women in the joint looked on in envy," she told me, "as I danced around naked, rubbing up against the bursting crotches of the miner's spice encrusted jeans. Then I unzipped them one after another and sucked on their stiff pricks."

"You really are a shameless slut, aren't you?" I said, flipping her over onto her stomach.

"Is Rubby going to spank the slut's bottom?" she smiled defiantly.

"He sure is," I assured her. "And, remember, I have no feelings, so this is not going to hurt me more than it hurts you. It's not going to hurt me at all."

"You won't tell the rest of the crew that I let you spank me, will you?" she asked nervously.

"No," I lied. Gossip is one of the few forms of vice a robot can enjoy.

The Captain had a big round ass and I slapped it forcefully until it turned bright pink.

"So that's how I ended up bent naked over the side of the pool table being fucked by one muscly miner after another until I was so full of spunk that it was running down my legs and forming pools around the stiletto heals which were the only things I was still wearing," she moaned, as I gently teased her clit with one finger while plunging another vibrating digit in and out of her pulsating cunt. "Ahhhhhhhhhh," she cried as she climaxed.

*            *          *

My problems really started when it occurred to me that I could plug myself into the ship's power supply. A nuclear generator produced the ship's electricity. All I had to do was to find a place where I could access the wiring, and I would be able to plug myself in just like at the juice bar.

The easiest place for me to access the wiring in privacy was the light in my cabin. I scavenged some electrical wire from the supply storeroom along with a flashlight. Then I cannibalised a pair of headphones I found in the rec room in order to get a jack that would fit my arm. That aroused suspicion, but was blamed on one of the women who had a grudge against the owner of the headphones.

Each night I plugged myself in and temporarily relieved the boredom of the trip with a little trip of my own.

What I never realised is just how much electricity I was capable of soaking up. On the 267th day out from earth our nuclear reactor ran out of fuel.

Luckily we were within the gravitational pull of the planet Altair. Our only hope was to crash land there.

Sucking cock was not the captain's only talent, she was also very good at crash landing a spaceship. And  so it was that we thudded down into the sandy surface of Altair in such a way that minimal damage was done to the ship's structure.

We were greeted by the planet's only two human inhabitants, a dignified grey-haired woman in a long magisterial robe who introduced herself as Professor Morbia, and her twenty-year old son, Altairus. Professor Morbia explained that her husband had been killed some years before by a monster that resembled an invisible version of the Tasmanian Devil from the Warner Brother's cartoons.

As the female crew, clad in their tight figure-hugging leather space-suits, filed out of the Nostradamus, Altairus, a strikingly handsome youth with jet-black hair and finely chiselled features, looked on in wide-eyed wonder. He'd never seen any women but his mother.

The crew looked at Altairus with unabashed lust. Not only was he the only male they had seen in 267 days, but he was an innocent virgin ripe for the ravishing.

To be continued...