Size IZn't Everything [Q]

This is a quickie, a very short story intentionally kept under two thousand words to make it a quick read. As such, it can’t possibly be arousing. There is sex in the story, and the sex is somehow integral in how events play out, but it’s not arousing. That’s not the goal. It is a story, first and foremost. Measure it’s value on the punch the story packs, and the entertainment it provides, not on how much it excites you, because it probably won’t.

This story is part science fiction, part erotic horror, and part humor. I'm not really sure where it fits best.

— The Author

* * * * *

Anything worth doing takes time and effort. It takes preparation, and research. It takes trial and error. And it takes courage, a quality that Dexter always knew that he lacked.

It was smokey, and dark, and loud, and hot, and crowded. It was as unpleasant a place as he could imagine. For the life of him he didn’t understand why so many people, so many attractive people, would congregate in such a place, all at the same time. The music blared, with a vibration that thumped up through his legs from the floor with every fucking, damning, beat.

It grated on him. He didn’t like music. He didn’t much see the point to it. Or dancing.

Drinking he could see. Not for him, but for them. Without drinking, he’d never get a woman to go anywhere with him. He needed drinking.

He looked through thick glasses, around the masking tape at the broken bridge, at her curvaceous body, with pleasing lumps and rolls of flesh exposed in a too tight fitting knit dress. He looked up at her full, red, well travelled lips. She would do, he supposed. Certainly, he would prefer someone younger, and more aesthetically appealing, but he knew his options were limited.

Hell, he’d be lucky to get her to volunteer. And he wasn’t even really telling her that she was volunteering.

She laughed scornfully down at him when he approached her in the bar, but she greedily accepted the drinks he bought her and continued to buy her. She laughed out loud when they got back to his place and she saw the size of his puny apartment, but in her drunken stupor she removed her clothes, and his. She laughed when she saw his four inch cock, but she was too far gone to think about fending him off. She even willingly took him inside her.

She was no tight, young minx herself. Dexter felt like he could get more pleasurable sensations from a storm drain pipe.

Still, he was eager to try his new technique. She lay back, eyes closed, moaning softly, primarily from the way she fondled her own breasts. With his cock still inside of her, she giggled as he used a grease pencil and protractor to precisely mark the connection points around her vuvla. She said it tickled.

She said she liked it as he attached the electrodes with conductive gel and thermal adhesive. She even started to moan then. He wondered if he was going too far, if maybe a more simple, manual technique might be just as effective.

He dismissed the thought. He’d read books. He’d been with three women in his life, and none of them had adequately responded to anything he’d done, unless laughter and a hasty exit were considered in someone’s book to be adequate. Three was a large enough population for statistical accuracy, as far as he was concerned, especially since he doubted he could ever find a fifth consort in his lifetime.

Number four would be different.

He flipped the switch. She instantly screamed. It worked. Great Galileo, did it work.

She screamed.

It wasn’t a scream of pain. She writhed and kicked and bellowed and begged, grabbing at him, screaming his name, which she only remembered because she’d laughingly used as often as she could all evening, in the most pejorative and ridiculing tone she could muster.

She screamed his name, and she came. He turned up the dial, and she came again, harder and louder than before, pleading for more. Dexter cried out himself as her cavernous cunt tightened its muscles around his puny cock, gripping and massaging him quite pleasurably.

He turned the dial further. Her pleas became incoherent animal moans. Her flailing, snapping body threatened to break his cheap, weakly assembled bed frame in its throes. Her pussy grabbed his diminutive cock like nothing he’d ever imagined, pulsating and undulating in an indescribable fashion, covering it with wet, velvety, burning heat, greatly magnified as a side effect of her artificially enhanced heart rate. He made a mental note of that, as an avenue for further research and device enhancement.

He turned the dial all the way up. Her body wrenched, twisting in an inhuman pretzel. Dexter thought he heard her own bones snapping under the pressure of muscles misdirected by a wildly overstimulated nervous system.

Her pussy tore at his cock. Dexter screamed even more loudly than she.

Her electro-neuro enhanced pussy muscles literally tore his little cock off, leaving him with considerably less than the inadequate four inches with which he had started the evening.

So began and died, in one short night, the concept, prototype, future and creator of the “Size IZn’t Everything” machine.

* * * * *

— From the author —

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— Rob