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Dream Machine
Chapter 1: Contracting
One's Horizons
His fingers shook
as he unwrapped the package. Finally! His own dueling
machine!
Actually, he thought
as he skimmed the instruction manual, "dueling
machine" was a misnomer. Unlike Bova's conception, the
Q-100 model did not
allow two people to share a dream. It simply allowed one person
to
_control_ a dream.
An extended fantasy,
as subjectively real as the chair he was sitting in,
the manual proclaimed. And as dangerous as wireheading, he thought,
which
is why the government required a cutoff switch on every unit.
The machine
would monitor his blood pressure and heart rate, easing him out
of the
dream if they approached dangerous levels. The timer did the
same, and it
could be set for six hours maximum. Six hours of godhood, then
back to the
real world. He had read that bypassing the timer was possible,
but he had
no desire to try. The newsfeeds were full of stories of people
who died of
thirst while experiencing non-stop fantasies.
The actual device
didn't quite "blend right in with his home entertainment
center," as the ads had promised. Still, it was fairly
innocuous in
appearance. A black metal box with an LCD display; cloth head-,
arm- and
chestbands with velcro closures; tethered sunglasses; and a hand-held
remote control unit. The box had a cartridge slot, but the company
hadn't
released any pre-packaged fantasies yet. There were dark rumors
about bugs
in that technology and private company sanitarium.
Still, the manual
was upbeat and straightforward. He decided to give it a
try. First, attach the sensors - no problem. Power on, then
set timer -
he'd give it fifteen minutes, for now. Glasses on, seated comfortably;
press start...
The lenses lit
up. Smoky patterns twisted and twirled in front of his
eyes. He started to feel sleepy, then drifted off in a matter
of seconds.
He opened his eyes.
He was standing on a featureless grey plain that
receded into mist. After a moment of disorientation, he remembered
the
instructions. "The initial environment was chosen to be
as neutral as
possible. Simply concentrate on your desires to give them reality."
"All right,
let's give this a try. Hmmm... I want.. a palace! Yeah. Like
a caliph!" As he imagined them, the walls faded in around
him. Arabesque
designs, twisted pillars, marble statues; as soon as he thought
of them,
they phased into being. He sat, and a pillow materialized beneath
him. He
looked down at his daysuit. "This won't do at all!"
Under his gaze, the
woven plastic transformed into loose-fitting silk, as gaudy as
had covered
any caliph of old. "MUCH better. And now... the serving
girls!"
He clapped his
hands, and they came. Veiled, clad in silk that revealed
more than it covered, they slid into reality by his side. One
moved to
massage his shoulders; another picked up a convenient bunch of
grapes and
began to feed him. Gentle breezes from the fan of a third caressed
his
brow.
"Enough!"
the lord commanded. "Attend me, my harem!"
The servants vanished.
More pillows appeared on the floor. Through the
far archway came his wives. Sensing his need, they were naked
save for
their veils. Each girl's hair was a different shade, but all
had the
bodies of goddesses. As several danced for his pleasure, others
dropped
their veils and approached him. Dropping to their knees, three
began to
caress the stiff member beneath the caliph's silken trousers
(which, being
inconvenient, simply disappeared).
The redheaded one,
always his favorite, brought her mouth down on his
throbbing manhood. Through dint of daily practice, she could
swallow him
all the way to the root, and did.
As her head bobbed
merrily up and down, her tongue performing tricks known
only in the East, the blonde girl (very young, even for a harem)
placed her
lips on the male sack beneath. The third girl, a perfect platinum-blonde,
moved up to suck on her lord's nipples. She knew just how hard
to bite.
Even the cushions
rearranged themselves for his pleasure, cupping his
buttocks like a giant hand. He thrust upwards, jamming his organ
fully
into the throat of his lovely wife. This, combined with the
suction on his
twin oranges of manhood, brought him to the brink.
"Drink me,
my wife!" he commanded, and she hummed her reply. The dancers
moved ever faster, twisting against each other in obscene rhythms...
Everything faded
out.
"DAMMIT!!"
He was gazing through dark glasses at his living room, his
erection painfully tight in his plastine trousers. The display
on the
Q-100 blinked "00:00."
"This time
I'm setting it for six hours," he muttered, reaching for
the
fallen remote. Hell, the manual _said_ he could manually exit
the
dreamworld at any time...
*******
Chapter 2: The
Royal Treatment, or To Di For
As an American
tourist (circa 1993) in the newly-opened Buckingham Palace,
he wandered off from the group. Turning a corridor, he heard
voices raised
in an argument.
"Bloody hell,
Di, you never listen!"
"Sod off,
Charlie! I don't have to put up with your.. oh!"
As he came to a
doorway, he caught sight of the royal couple just as Diana
spotted him. Charles muttered something about "bloody tourists"
and moved
to close the door. Diana stopped him.
"You've always
had your way, Charlie, but no more! I can do anything I
bloody well like now; anything!" She grabbed the American's
arm and pulled
him into the room. "Shut the door, Charles."
The Prince started
to argue, but was silenced by a glare from Diana.
Meekly, he closed the heavy wooden door.
"Just watch,
Charlie!" With that, Princess Di sank to her knees in front
of the tourist. Deft fingers opened his Bermuda shorts, then
tugged out
his penis.
"Now see here..."
the Prince began, but Diana shouted him down.
"Quiet!"
Her tongue darted out, licking the head of this stranger's cock.
This regally dressed Princess sucked the end of the shaft past
her glossy
lips, her manicured hands (utterly free of calluses) gently massaging
the
man's testicles.
Watching his penis
disappear into that famous face was incredibly exciting,
but he wanted more. At his thought, Diana leaned back.
"Any whore
can blow a man, Charlie. It takes a _real_ slut to do this!"
Releasing his scrotum, Diana clapped her hands. A maid (French,
of
course) appeared immediately.
"Oui, madame?
Mon Dieu!" Blushing furiously, the young girl turned away
from the scene of depravity.
"Come here,
Marie," the Princess ordered. Head still averted, the maid
gingerly approached. "I want you to take this man's thing
in your hand,
then jerk him off into my mouth."
"Mais non,
madame!" But a cold look from Diana quieted her protestation.
With an apologetic look at the Prince, the girl wrapped a tentative
hand
around the American's throbbing penis. Slowly, she began to
stroke him.
Diana moved forward,
taking just the head into her lovely mouth. Her
tongue drew lazy circles on the crown.
The French girl
soon started feeling the heat of the moment. She began to
press her body against the man's back, rubbing her lace-covered
breasts
against his Hawaiian shirt as her hand frigged his veined cock.
Her other
hand found its way to his balls, sliding them pleasantly against
Diana's
perfect chin.
What a scene!
A fragile hand tugging relentlessly at his penis, milking
him into the mouth of a Princess! And, ears reddening in the
background,
her estranged husband, watching it all with jealous eyes.
When the young
girl began to suck on his earlobe, that was too much for
him. He started to come, sending throbbing bolts of stickiness
into
Diana's waiting mouth. As her hand moved frantically beneath
her skirt,
she swallowed every dollop.
He saved the last
one, though, pulling back to splatter all over her face
and hair. That perfect coiffure looked so much better with droplets
of
semen covering it, he thought.
Diana stood, turning
to Charles. "Now lick it off, Charlie, and I _might_
let you fuck me again. Sometime."
Ears burning, the
Prince complied. Di's hand pressed tightly against her
sodden knickers; moments later, her body shook with the force
of her orgasm.
The room faded
out, to be replaced with...
*******
Chapter 3: Faculty
Parking in the Rear
He walked up the
steps to the large brick building. The nameplate said
"Miss Eliot's School for Girls." He knocked, and a
woman answered.
"Ah. Dr.
Jones. Do come in. I'm Miss Eliot." As she led the way
down
the hall, he studied her. Thin, nearly forty, but still attractive.
Black
hair pulled back in a bun, horn-rimmed glasses, tweed suit; just
the right
look for a woman in her position.
They came to a
door, with a room number stencilled on the frosted glass.
The voices of young girls could be heard through it, talking
quietly.
Miss Eliot turned to him. "I'm _so_ glad you could take
time out of your
busy schedule to assist us, Dr. Jones. To have an expert of
your
caliber..."
He held up a hand
to cut off her remarks, then motioned to the door. "Let
us begin." She nodded curtly, and preceded him into the
room.
An even dozen young
women, average age perhaps sixteen, were seated at
small wooden desks arranged neatly within the classroom. All
the girls
were dressed alike, in plaid skirts and white blouses. They
matched in
hair color as well; every one had jet-black tresses tied back
with plaid
ribbons. The girls quieted when Miss Eliot entered and approached
the
lectern. She addressed the class without fanfare.
"Now that
the state mandates sexual education for private schools, we have
set up this class for that purpose. We are very lucky to have
with us
today Dr. Jones, author of several clinical studies in the field.
Dr.
Jones, the class is yours." With that, she stepped aside
and turned to
him.
He addressed her
as he made his way to the podium. "Could I ask you to
assist me today, Miss Eliot? I find it's always best to have
an
experienced administrator around on the first day." She
smiled slightly,
and nodded.
Placing his briefcase
on a nearby table, he turned to the class. "Good
morning, girls. Let's not waste time on preliminaries, shall
we? For my
first lesson, I'll need a test subject. Miss Eliot, is there
one girl who
has misbehaved recently?"
The principal nodded,
and moved behind a waiflike girl in the third row.
The girl blanched. "No, Miss Eliot, please! I..."
From somewhere,
a riding crop appeared in Miss Eliot's hand. "QUIET!"
The
crop snapped down, leaving a red welt across the student's lily-white
hand.
The girl shrieked, then quieted, shivering.
"Come here,
please." He smiled at the girl, and she shyly smiled back
after a moment. She stood up and approached the front of the
classroom.
He caressed her
cheek, getting another smile in return. Moving a chair in
front of the audience, he told her to bend over and grasp it
for support.
She obeyed without question. Very good, he thought. Miss Eliot
trains
them well.
He lifted her short
skirt above her hips, then flipped it over her back.
She wore nothing underneath. "Excellent, Miss Eliot! I
appreciate a
proper dress code!" The principal beamed.
"Since I'm
sure you've all had the basics already, we'll start with a
slightly more advanced subject - anal sex." The "test
subject" trembled,
but held her position. "The key," he said, reaching
into his briefcase,
"is plenty of lubrication." He withdrew a large tube
of K-Y jelly.
Removing his trousers, he revealed a massive penis, already stiff.
He
began to coat the shaft with grease. As he worked, he continued
to lecture
to his rapt audience. "Too much is better than too little."
Covering a
finger with lubricant, he pushed it up the backside of the girl.
She let
out a squeak, then suppressed any further outcry. He worked
another finger
into her tight bottom.
"I think we're
ready." He positioned himself behind the student and began
to rub the head of his penis between her buttocks. Her tremors
were
transmitted pleasantly to his member.
"Normally,
I go quite slow when breaking in a new subject." The girl
visibly relaxed, even with his penis pressing against her rosebud.
"I
think today, though..." He rammed the entire length of
his cock up her
rectum, encountering little resistance due to her lack of tension.
She
screamed at the invasion, her sphincter clamping tightly - too
late! "I'll
make an exception!"
He plowed into
her once-virgin asshole, reaming her fully again and again.
The other girls looked on, enraptured; some began to drool, while
others
slipped surreptitious hands beneath blouses and skirts.
A strand of Miss
Eliot's hair had escaped its bun. The principal's eyes
were glazed, then snapped back into focus. She grabbed the girl
nearest
her, pulling the student out of her chair, then shoving the girl's
face
under the older woman's skirt. The girl knew what to do; apparently
the
administration followed the dress code, as well.
With that, the
student body went wild. Skirts flew back, revealing a
myriad of dark triangles and ruby lips. Blouses opened, and
firm breasts
(unhindered by bras) slid into view. Manicured fingers plucked,
teased,
pulled - sometimes on their bodies, sometimes on those of others.
Girls
(those that could tear their eyes away from his pistoning shaft)
kissed
their neighbors deeply, young tongues moving wetly against one
another.
One daring girl mimicked Miss Eliot's pet, sliding between the
legs of her
friend to lick and suck at an elusive clitoris.
The bright, attentive
young woman in the front row never dropped her eyes,
though. She was fixated on his penis as it journeyed deep within
the
bowels of her squirming classmate. In and out, plunging into
that
vice-like tunnel, provoking gasps and cries from the innocent
victim of his
lust. Well, perhaps some of them were due to his hands on her
now-freed
nipples, twisting viciously at the taut nubs of flesh.
His hips moved
relentlessly, powerfully thrusting his great penis between
the perfect globes of her buttocks. She was his completely;
when his
scrotum bounced against her mons as his pubic hair ground against
her anus,
he knew he couldn't get any deeper. His right hand moved to
her clitoris,
and her body began to respond. When her head arched and she
screamed with
the force of her orgasm, he couldn't hold back.
He pulled his greased
organ out of her anus, then turned towards the
exceptional girl in the first row. "Take it!" he cried.
She dropped to
her knees instantly, sliding forward to engulf his great
length in her mouth. (Fortunately for her, the school had a
regimen of
daily enemas.) His grease-slicked cock moved easily into her
throat. She
had obviously practiced this many times; perhaps with a janitor,
perhaps
with her father. It didn't matter; he had no control left.
Twisting his
fingers in her long black locks, he held her tight against his
crotch as he
spurted into her mouth. His orgasm seemed endless, yet she swallowed
every
drop of his sperm, not even coming up to breathe. When it was
done, she
cleaned the grease from his softening shaft with her pale pink
lips. The
pressure squeezed a last drop of come from him, landing on her
quivering
tongue like a candied treat. Smiling beatifically, she looked
up at him.
"Can I be
your _next_ subject, Dr. Jones?"
-BEEEEEEEEEP-
He awoke bathed
in sweat. His heart was pounding wildly, and a high-pitched
alarm emanated from the machine. His face was flushed; he felt
like he'd
just run a marathon.
In a minute or
two, his heart rate went down and the noise shut off. God,
his balls were _sore_! He felt his crotch; it was soaked, and
sticky. His
penis was completely flaccid, and his emptied testicles were
tight against
his groin.
After removing
the contacts and snapping the machine off, he dragged
himself into the shower. Then to bed; he'd figure out a safer
way to use
the machine tomorrow.
Yeah, right. |