The Origin of the Re-Peter

(Note to Readers: This is a story about dildos. Every character is at least 18 years old, including the people who use the dildos, and the people whose wangs were emulated for the production of the dildos. Be warned: Some of the sex in the story doesn't involve dildos. Some of the sex is mild B&D, in a just-fun way. A slight interracial aspect doesn't affect the sex (or the dildo use), and the two gay male characters do not have sex in the story. I look forward to comments on whether the correct plural is 'dildoes,' and whether the archaic spelling 'dildol' should be revived. I have no horse in either race. No horses were exploited in the making of the dildos, although some customers might have wanted that to happen.)

***

Amy had a sort of mousy-ness about her, in the eyes of most men, and some women. The shag cut of her straight black hair, and the big round glasses, made her facial features seem even smaller than they were. She was half Korean, and her mixed-Euro other half did little to make a Euro-American see her as anything other than Asian, and thus diminutive. Yet she was 5' 6," so not doll-like in stature. Inside her function-first clothes (lots of loose overalls involved), she was well-proportioned. Oliver believed he was the only man who knew this, at least within this metro area. He often worried that other men would find out.

To others, their marriage seemed like a convenience, with neither of them outwardly emotional. Their main focus was a local 'maker' collective. Their relationship had lower priority than their 'making.' When their dating advanced to going steady, Amy had told Oliver that she was okay with marrying him, mainly to get her more traditional relatives off her back. He admitted to her that his eagerness to marry included his physical desire for her, but also a hope to qualify for a mortgage, and a need to convince his parents he wasn't gay.

They had a pretty active sex life. Quite vanilla, though, and seldom passionate. When they both had free time, one would suggest sex, and the other might say "Yeah, okay." They enjoyed it while they were doing it. Then they moved on, and their minds went elsewhere.

All in all, Amy would not strike someone as the kind of person who would use a 3-D printer to make dildos.

As for whether scruffy-bearded Oliver might be seen as the developer of a scanning device to map the contours of a living, erect penis, to provide data for such a dildo...yeah, maybe.

***

It seemed like it was always late at night, in bed, before a day-job morning, that they'd get into conversations that seldom mattered to them personally, but latched onto their brains anyway, and cost them sleep.

"People shouldn't hall-pass," said Amy, lying on her left side, on the north half of the bed. "Waste of time and mindshare."

"Especially while raising kids." Oliver stretched a cotton-pajama'd leg, felt it brush against Amy's flannel counterpart, then eased it away.

They were childless, and had never considered changing that. They were both 28.

She said, "Time to end the masturbation stigma."

"Tell that to anybody over fifty."

"Maybe if it felt more personal, jilling off could seem like a hall pass."

"Guys might worry less about their wives not being satisfied." Oliver was unsure that would ever be true of him.

This talk skipped over a wealth of details. Yet by the time they arrived at the maker collective the next night, with their carryout dinners, their idea, and its division of labor, were fully formed.

***

In their neighborhood of connected vertical townhouses, most young couples were aspirational, hoping to move into more space. Two doors east of Amy and Oliver lived Heather and Bart. People like Heather and Bart were once called DINKs (double income, no kids). This couple wanted kids, however. They doggedly sought higher rungs on their career ladders, to gain a financial cushion to allow them to breed.

This determination left Heather and Bart, very attractive by any cis-het criteria, exhausted once they were both at home for the night. Once there, they had to tend to the needs of Duke (a german shepherd mix who was probably too big for the place). Then they spent hours on the work they had brought home. They had gone through four meal-kit signups and now were resigned to ordering delivery of restaurant food, and trying to hold back enough leftovers to get through the next night.

They seldom coupled more than twice a week, despite high libidos and being hot for each other. Role play and dom/sub, from their dating days, they had set aside. Now there were a few minutes of simultaneous oral, followed by the main event. This usually met their physical needs, but they missed the old thrills. In their own way, however, they had taken on Amy's rejection of the wasting of time.

They were the same age as Amy and Oliver, give or take a few months.

***

Over the next few nights, in the clatter of the collective and its diverse 'makings,' Oliver built a panoramic scanner on an old lathe stand. He rigged low-powered lasers (some scavenged from cat toys) into platforms attached to rails that enclosed a horizontal, cylindrical volume. The scanner, cycling around the cylinder, could map the outer surface of an object up to ten inches long and up to six inches across. Work began in earnest when he was able to feed scanned data to Amy for her to render the shape in the 3-D printer.

To keep her focus on 3-D printing and other projects in the collective, Amy had stayed part-time as a warehouser for a large e-tail empire, despite full-time offers there. The printer produced objects by assembling them, with computerized guidance, from strands of feed materials, like plastics and silicone rubber. Amy's designs and executions for tchotchkes and small machine parts sold well enough, in online spaces, to provide net revenue for the collective, and cover her share of the income to keep them in the townhouse.

Oliver's main work in the collective was the development of lifehacks, in response to frequently asked questions from netizens worldwide. His answers to such FAQs actually helped people. His hacks were generally based on small electronics, often with parts at the collective that nobody else was using. His income from that, along with Amy's, and their day jobs (his, currently, as a barista), kept them afloat in a middle class environment.

Their achievements gave them the kind of standing in the Floodplain Makers' Collective that allowed them to use the place's major equipment, to pursue personal projects, without needing anyone else's approval. They had keys to get in, to what had once been a tool-and-die factory, a block away from the docks along the river.

Amy and Oliver had met here. Each suggested approaches on the other's work. After a while, each asked the other for suggestions. When they started banging, there was awkwardness, but they could deal with it. Because they were problem solvers, they improved together, and became ecstasy delivery systems. Their version of the hopes-and-dreams talk, which bonded them as a couple, was as flat and sparse as their late-night conversations. For them, however, it worked.

As this project progressed, they tested the gear on a variety of inanimate objects. The most demanding was Oliver's ring of five keys, extended into the scanner field on a pencil. The data file was enormous, and Amy had to try four different setups for the printer, enabling it to reverse directions to produce overlapping layers. Their goal product wouldn't be anywhere near this complicated, but Amy was always interested in what the printer could do, and what she had to overcome. They considered the print a success, although it was a single object and not five loose keys on a ring (on a pencil).

The next test had to wait several days. Amy let her nails grow out to give her fingers more complexity, and additional small details.

She and Oliver agreed that their print of her left index finger, with the nail clear of the quick, was as accurate as unaided human senses could determine. It even included her fingerprint whorls. This particular blend of silicone rubber, accreted by the printer, mimicked the feel of her skin. In what they'd do later, it wasn't necessary to emulate the hardness of the nail.

While they examined and handled the print of her finger, there were five other people in the collective's main open workspace. All five were absorbed in their projects. But Amy and Oliver didn't think they could take their final development step under those conditions, even among the youngish, judgment-free makers.

"Sunday night," she suggested.

He nodded. "Around nine-thirty. We'll offer to close."

***

Amy and Heather both grew flowers in tiny beds on their tiny front lawns. Glances from upper-story windows made each curious about the other's plantings and soil work. Heather tended her garden at various free moments, but Amy saw that she was almost always there on Saturday morning. Amy started putting in her time then also.

Somewhat to their surprise, they found themselves enjoying each other's company as they weeded and watered, while acknowledging how little they had in common. It was easy enough to converse, despite talking across the narrow townhouse lot between them. That house was unoccupied.

On this particular Saturday, Amy's current project was at the top of her mind. While still indoors, gathering her gardening gear, she did her usual self-check-in about things most people wouldn't consider acceptable conversation topics. She didn't know Heather well, and they would also be in a public space.

Yet Amy couldn't help wondering if Heather, a young married woman, might provide useful information.

As Heather greeted her, Amy gave back a polite smile. Heather's short blond hair was arranged neatly below her sun hat. Her slightly angular features were well served by a people-pleaser's smile. She seemed to maintain her slender build easily, though her hips were bigger than the fashion-model ideal.

They were a few minutes into light conversation about dealing with grubs, when Heather freed a weed root and started troweling the dirt clumps back into the soil. She said, "This only partly sublimates my maternal instinct." Then she glanced at Amy. "How about you?"

Amy frowned at Heather.

Quickly, Heather said, "Sorry, none of my business."

"It's okay," said Amy. Then, she perceived an opportunity. "I don't mind us getting more personal. But maybe not out here. Anyway, Oliver and I aren't planning to have kids."

Heather nodded. From her perspective, these neighbors seemed less striving than she and Bart, so choosing not to breed might make perfect sense for them.

Heather's mind refused to unhook from thoughts about the sex life of a couple who declined to participate in corporate America. The less sex I have, she thought ruefully, The more I think about it.

She imagined Amy and Oliver banging spontaneously.

Heather looked more closely at Amy, who was kneeling and hunched over her blooms. A scarf hid her hair, and the overalls gave her no apparent body contours.

She might be really hot, thought Heather. I wonder what Bart thinks of her.

Right then, Bart and Duke approached, struggling with each other. Bart gripped the mostly-retracted leash in one hand. Duke leaned hard against it, snaffling as he yearned to dig up Heather's flower bed. Bart hefted the loaded baggie in his other hand, and addressed both women. "Anybody want some fertilizer?"

Heather stated, "Yuck!" while Amy said, "Too acidic." Bart laughed at his own wit as he got himself and the dog across the threshold.

Amy knew she wasn't good at reading people. She saw nothing between Heather and Bart that she hadn't seen from them before, an easygoing public behavior.

Heather's place was now fully occupied. Amy's wasn't, Oliver was grocery shopping.

Amy asked, "Want some coffee?"

***

Not knowing when Oliver might return, Amy said she hoped Heather wouldn't be angry or offended, then essentially info-dumped the project on her. Heather listened with a coffee mug stilled halfway to her open mouth. When Amy finished, however, Heather processed the idea smoothly.

"I like it," said Heather, and finally sipped coffee that was no longer too hot. "I agree that couples shouldn't mess around. I mean, who has the time?"

"Exactly!" said Amy with great relief, valuing feedback on this from a wife.

"And, well," Heather added, then took a moment to choose words. "I think everybody wants a little excitement. If the toy is an exact replica of a real guy's equipment...that's kind of a thrill. But it'd be harmless fun. It wouldn't tear a family apart. I, um, have a few toys. Bart knows, and he doesn't mind."

"Thank you," Amy said, and downed some coffee. "I wasn't sure people in general would think this is a good idea."

Heather got a small smile. "Have you, uh, made any yet?"

Amy blinked. "No. But soon, maybe." She was about to rattle off details, but halted, thinking about Oliver's privacy.

Heather's smile grew. "I could help you with product testing."

This pushed Amy's mind past the project's current state, towards full-scale deployment. If everything went well, many men might have to be recruited, to ensure variety.

She recalled seeing Bart earlier, in a muscle shirt and cargo shorts, showing off his triangular torso and thick, carved legs. The dense black hair that was razor-cut on his head seemed prominent on the rest of him. She presumed that he was suitably masculine between his legs.

She didn't think she was aroused. But the image didn't go away.

"Thanks," she said at last. "And, um, we might be interested in, um, models."

Heather's eyes widened, and not just from imagining Bart modeling for a dildo. The project now seemed to take on business aspects she understood. She clicked into marketing-consultant mode. "Okay if I mention this to Bart? Maybe we could help move the project along. If you're interested, the four of us could talk about it."

Amy got a vague sense that her control of this, which she had never thought about, might be at risk. "Uh, Sure. But we don't know if any of this will work. I'll let you know if we decide to keep this going."

***

Around 10:45 on Sunday night, the last maker powered down, cleaned the immediate area, secured stuff in her locker, said farewell, and departed the collective.

Oliver closed the blinds on the windows.

Amy draped canvas to block the security cams' view of the space that included the scanner.

Oliver stood just outside the open end of the scanner, and dropped his pants.

Amy brought over a step-stool to his left side, and unfastened her overalls.

"I'll want to finish," he said, getting his feet clear of pants and drawers.

"I will too," she said, pulling down her underwear. "Ditch your shirt."

He was already thick, going on stiff. When they'd rehearsed at home, this had really gotten him going.

The lights were on in the whole workspace.

Amy tossed away her t-shirt and climbed to the second step.

Her nipples were at his face-level. She fingered them.

He panted as he looked at her small breasts, so high and round, so smooth and fresh, and so close!

He started jerking his wang.

She pressed her breasts on his face.

He nuzzled, licked, and sucked. She leaned, rolled, and squeezed.

They gasped.

His free hand flipped the switch. The scanner hummed to life. His occupied hand pulled away, leaving only his loins in the cylinder. Despite what she did to him, he kept everything below his navel perfectly still.

Shock dropped Amy's jaw, as she stared at the familiar workspace. This was transgressive, wild, nothing like rehearsal. Sometimes she enjoyed breast play, but never like this. Areolas lifted and nipples hardened, but the surrounding skin also got goosebumps. Her whole body shuddered, and her vagina squeezed hard, wanting to be filled.

Oliver had never known such a mixture of joy and agony. He wanted so very much to respond as this woman's lover, but to get a usable scan he had to stay still. Even moving his hands, to get fingers into her quim, might ruin everything. His sphincter's tight clench demanded action, yet made it possible for him to remain immobile.

It took twenty-seven seconds for the scanner to travel an entire circuit. They waited through all of a second circuit, still sharing breast thrills.

Then she yipped, grabbing his shoulders. His turn towards her made her lose her footing. Her butt dropped hard onto the stool seat.

He squared up to her and reached past her armpits to grip her shoulder blades. Steadied, she spread and hauled up her legs.

It was the third time they had fucked at the collective. The other two were in a bathroom.

It was the first time, anywhere ever, that they laughed while fucking. The tension release was that strong. Then, as he pumped in her warm depth, he resumed sucking her boobs. Soon she spasmed, and yelled. Her squeeze on his member made him flex strongly as he gushed into her, and he also yelled. She spasmed some more, still yelling.

"Microphones," he grunted.

She nodded, but didn't try to make less noise.

Later, she was laughing again when she announced, "I'm okay. We were doing sex. Um, me and my husband."

"It was really great," he added, also laughing.

"Yeah it was!" Then she giggled. That embarrassed her, but she smiled at him.

Amy used her personal knowledge of her husband when she printed the dildo, making it slightly flexible, and the surface slightly yielding. "A penis isn't a dowel rod," she said while she worked, her voice echoing in the empty collective. "Maybe some women want that, but my soft tissues prefer something that can adjust to them. There are any number of rigid cylinders available for women to insert. They wouldn't serve the purpose of feeling like a real human's dick."

By now Amy had, many times, mentioned The Purpose, of encouraging masturbation to prevent infidelity. Oliver got close to curtly saying "Yeah I know." He was able to stop himself, thanks to being very tired, and buoyed by a recent orgasm.

Oliver was acceptably hung. He thought he might be on the good side of average. Despite his parents' concerns, he had never looked closely at other men's crotches, so he didn't actually know.

When fully erect, his dork curved upward slightly, and was thick at the sides near the base. As she built the dildo up, Amy was pleased to see the thicknesses forming.

"Very good," she said later. "The second scan makes it possible to edit out pubes. There'd be no upside in trying to keep them." She looked his way, with a playful smile. "Another point in favor of our self-denial. Along with, um, the intensity."

He smiled, on the brink of getting emotional. But he suspected that fatigue was eroding their usual sobriety. Laughing during sex was one thing, but now she was amused while at work.

It was well past 1 a.m. when Amy finished printing. Oliver had leaned far enough into the scanner to include a partial spread of his ball sac. This provided enough of a grip for the user, so that Amy didn't have to add a base to the dildo.

When they got home they were too gassed to do anything with it, or even talk.

***

Monday was one of those rare days when Bart and Heather both got home around the end of most people's workdays, and did so without bringing home any work. This actually worried them. It meant that they hadn't found extra ways to declare their value to their higher-ups. But Heather made the most of it, picking up foodstuffs for a microwaveable dinner. Bart was pleasantly surprised when she took over the kitchen and shooed him away to walk Duke.

While they finished eating, Heather told Bart, "I had a really interesting talk with Amy the other day."