KamaSutronics

Karen hasn’t had an orgasm since she left her husband, and she wants to get off.  Hard.  Again and again.  That’s why she called me.

She strolls in, eager to be machined.  I smile and give her a hug.  It’s a good moment.

I’ve spent the last four hours getting everything ready.  The fucking machine is waiting for her, the electrodes are lined up, the suction pumps are ready, the vibrators hum in anticipation.  There are wires everywhere, tubes and cords.  Karen takes off her clothes, and I smile.

Flash back three years.  I’m in the hospital.  My guts spilled open.  Doctors are trying desperately to return my innards from whence they came.  Their faces are panicked.  After a few tense hours, they tell me I should feel lucky to be alive; most patients wouldn’t have survived that kind of body trauma.  I’m lucky to be alive, they say, but I’ll never be the same.

I’ll never ride a bicycle again.  I’ll never learn a martial art.  I’ll never be able to make love the same way again.

Drip, drip, drip, goes the morphine.  Beep, beep, beep, goes the heart monitor.  In the bright bare quiet of the hospital, I begin to dream up a kind of second body.

A body made of gears and circuits, pumps and motors.  A body that would be able to make love to women, tender or intense, something that could make them smile and moan and gasp.

Vibrators, of course, and only the best.  Electrosex, to send subtle currents of pleasure across the nerves.  Fucking machines, light-and-sound, suction and pulsation, heat and cold.

Over the next few years I studied everything, tried everything, learned everything.  I may have been crippled, but I could still give women the most incredible erotic experiences of their lives.

And why not?  Aphrodite was married to Hephaestus, after all — the Goddess of Love partnered with the limping blacksmith.  I bring both members of that couple into my sacred encounter with the feminine.

We begin with the simple, with the sensual: I sit Karen on a massage chair, leaning forward.   A paraffin bath has been heating up beside her, the kind they use in salons. I pick up a paintbrush, dip it in the warm, engulfing wax, and I start to paint her back.  I lay down layer after layer of the erotic heat across her skin; she moans, in so much pleasure.

There is a uPapa on the seat beneath her.  The uPapa is a kind of massage cushion — only, instead of vibrating, it can tap out sophisticated rhythms.  She has been relaxing, melting into the bliss of the warm wax, and I decide to turn on the uPapa.  It starts out softly, drumming against her ass, along her upper thighs.  Its rhythms are steady and erotic.  Barely aware of what she’s doing, she begins to grind her hips, pressing down against the uPapa.

The wax has hardened, but it’s radiating heat.  I peel it off with a sharp knife, exposing her skin — flushed and sensitive — to the air.  I mount a pair of Oster massagers on the back of my hands.  These make my hands vibrate.  I place my fingers on her back, skin against skin.  This tender friction is the most basic sensual encounter.  I begin to rub her back.  I touch her and my hands vibrate, softening her, relaxing her body and her mind.  When there’s nothing left of her but a puddle and a smile, I carry her over to the table.

I lie her down on the table, bare as a whisper.  I lift her legs up onto the stirrups.  The fucking machine is mounted, loaded, locked.  Her legs are spread; the smile on her face is blissful.  I take my time.  All the gear is ready to go.  I squeeze warm lubricant onto the dildo.

I inch the fucking machine forward until it’s inside her.  Half an inch, then an inch, then two inches.  The dildo is heated from the inside, radiating warmth inside her.  I push a few buttons, and it begins, a steady thrusting rhythm — thrust, withdraw, thrust, withdraw.

I touch her breasts with my hands,  stroking and kneading.  I focus my vision on her left eye.   A Tantric sex practitioner taught me to watch the eye opposite the dominant hand; this is the way to see souls.

I set the fucking machine to “Stop and Go.”  It thrusts in, several inches, then it pulls out, then it stops.  Waits.  Then it thrusts, pulls out, thrusts, pulls out.  Stops.  Waits.  Waits.  This setting teases.  It gets started and then it holds back.  It sets her yearning, craving, wanting.  She cries out, “Oh god, fuck me!  Fuck me!”  I let it build for a few minutes, the simple rhythm in her genitals, and then I turn on the Lightning Rod’s pulsation.

The Lightning Rod is a modified Hitachi.  It starts sucking on Karen’s clit.  It sucks and releases, sucks and releases, like a human mouth.  Even in her relaxed, erotic state, Karen’s eyes bulge — she’s never felt anything like this before.  And it feels so good.  So very good.

The fucking machine has been thrusting a warm dildo in and out, in and out, pause, for a few minutes now, and the Lightning Rod has been sucking and pulsating on her clit.  It’s time for the subtler sensations.  It’s time to make beautiful music with her.  Inside her.  It’s time for electricity.

I turn on the TENS unit.  It’s an ErosTek 312, the best electrosex machine there is.  The dildo on the fucking machine doesn’t only heat up — it also conducts electricity.  I send current through it now, keeping it low, just enough to give a sense of texture to the dildo.  A slight tingle accompanies each thrust.

The Lightning Rod doesn’t only suck and pulsate on her clit — it also conducts electricity.  I send current through it now, so she can feel it, tingling on her clit, stroking it, while the suction and pulsation continue.  So does the heated, teasing, electrifyingly textured thrust of the fucking machine.

Karen is outofcontrol.  She is wildanimal, fuckhunger, wantflesh.  She has forgotten her name, her history.  I can see at this moment, through her left eye, that she has become a sacred beast for the sacrifice.

I flip a switch and the Lightning Rod roars into action.  It’s a modified Hitachi, after all, and the sacred beast is bucking and sweating and yelling, “CanIcome, ohpleasecanIcome, canIcome,” and I make her wait, because waiting will intensify the orgasm.  When I whisper in her ear, “Come, now,” her whole body convulses.  The convulsions last a long time.

“Oh God,” she says, “that was the best orgasm ever.”

Karen had never had more than two orgasms in a single night before.  By the time she leaves, worn out and elated, I will give her more than thirty.

My ElectroSurge Milker will suck her breasts, pulsate, and shock them.  My Nova Pro 100 will play her a light-show only she can see; millions of lights, colors, stars flickering in her eyes alone.  Before the night is done, she will feel like she heard God’s voice and shook to pieces from the sound; she will see colors turning in a waking dream, she will feel hot all over and cold all over, she will slip into deep trances and burst out in giggling fits.  And I — the man who had been broken — will become the dark god of love, devouring her, making her ache, soar, yearn, and come.  Again and again, again and again, again and again, world without end,

shantih shantih shantih