Headshot

I rode Greg several times a week. Riding him was a better workout than all the physiotherapist’s exercise because I had to use so many muscles at once and stifle Greg’s attempts to regain control.

The skullcap was replaced by implanted electrodes linked to a small battery hidden under my hair at the nape of my neck. Now I looked normal and my movements were much less jerky. I could walk one or two miles and even juggle two or three beanbags while walking. Greg and I moved out of the research unit’s hospital facility to a mobile home in the grounds where I tried, successfully, to combine domestic chores with writing a book on my experiences. He continued to commute to his work, as he had done for most of his time with me, and we started to plan our marriage.

Everything seemed to be heading for a perfect conclusion. The TV programmes had ended some time ago. They were intending to produce an hour-long retrospective finishing with our marriage but that was some time away. The money raised had paid for all my treatment and had funded the research unit for several years ahead.

One night disaster struck. I was riding Greg, my arms and legs locked tightly, overcoming his pathetic and futile attempts to displace me as I enjoyed the orgasms induced by my power, when everything shut down as if a switch had been thrown. I couldn’t move my arms or legs and they were impossible for Greg to escape. Even my grasp of his erection had locked into place. I was paralysed and I had imprisoned Greg.

When we realised the situation: we panicked. We tried shouting for help but no one was near enough to the mobile home to hear us. There was an emergency call-out button on the bedside table. There was one in every room. It might as well have been a hundred yards away. I couldn’t move to press it. I was holding Greg so tight that despite his frantic efforts he couldn’t even free an arm. An unintended side-effect was that Greg ejaculated into me. Apparently being absolutely helpless in my grasp was intensely erotic for him.

As I felt him come I was intensely irritated. Here we were in a desperate situation and all he could do was impregnate me. I tried to squeeze him with anything I could move to punish him. My vagina contracted further. He squealed in pain. I had already clamped him so tight that the last contraction around the base of his penis hurt.

If I could do that…

I concentrated hard on my right arm, nearest to the call-out button. It twitched. I tried again. It flinched. I screwed up all the effort I could. My arm slid away from Greg. He could reach out with his left arm and press the button.

Doctor Ali and Delia came running in their nightwear. He had a dressing wrapped over his nakedness. Delia wore a voluminous white night-dress under a satin wrap.

I explained what had happened. The whole system had shut down. Why?

The answer was simple. The small battery under my hair was flat, exhausted, totally dead. A wire had been displaced and shorted it. Such a little thing yet it had caused so much embarrassment. Doctor Ali moved the wire, fitted a new battery and I could release Greg.

Yet how had I moved my arm? The battery had shorted out and there was no possibility that any current had got through.

I had to endure many tests with the battery disconnected. Eventually they discovered that my brain had adapted to the new situation and new pathways were being created that would directly feed impulses to the sensors under my scalp. They weren’t as strong as those fed by the battery but could give me some movement even without the battery. I practised until I had some control. It would never be more than a few limited movements yet it gave us some fallback if I trapped Greg again.

When we married, Doctor Ali was Greg’s best man and Delia my chief bridesmaid. It was a media circus as I walked to the church. I had spent weeks practising walking with a long heavy skirt and kneeling at the altar. Everything went perfectly; the sun shone; the arrangements all worked.

That night on our honeymoon I pretended my battery had shorted out again when Greg was already exhausted. It had the effect I wanted. Trapped inside my body, clamped by my arms and legs, a tired Greg responded again to set a new record for successful impregnations in one night. I think he knew that I was faking but even so the result was satisfying. I may be partly bionic but he knows I’m all woman, headshot or not.