Travels of the Mind Pt. 09

9 Rocket

Tossing and turning in bed. It was a hot night. Beside her Benjamin lay fast asleep. Through the windows came the moonlight. Her eyes wide open, unable to sleep, she could see the Moon in its entirety. A full moon smiling down upon her. Was it laughing at her inability to sleep, or smiling in sympathy for her plight?

Her eyes turned and she looked at Benjamin's sleeping form. A naked man -- her naked man. A few hours before they had been copulating. Perhaps that was why she could not sleep. There in its nest of hair was his penis. The penis that had been so firm, so strong for her. The penis she had held, had taken in her mouth and had, of course, permitted to push into her, right between her legs and inseminate her. She had not seen that. Had not seen the spurting coming from its end but had felt it. How she hoped that had done the trick. That once again he had fertilised her... as he had before - if he had. If Maisie was his.

Outside the Moon looked down. Did the Man in the Moon know? For all she knew Harris was the Man in the Moon. Who was he? If she turned to the door. might he be there, standing and looking at her? It would not have surprised, even if it might have given her a shock. Harris perhaps in pyjamas or nightshirt -- no doubt immaculate either way -- or devoid of clothes and fully expecting to have sex there on the bed with her, even as Benjamin slept. And she knew she would let him, even with her husband beside her; would let Harris cuckold him again if... if she could have that second baby.

She was moistening again. Could feel her nipples erecting. It was not simply sexual desire, not the thought of enjoying bodily intimacy, but the thought of being made pregnant. Her body wanted that -- she wanted that. She wanted to be made pregnant.

Harris was not there; he was not by the door, he was not in the room, he was not outside the window beckoning her out -- at least not at a first-floor bedroom window. She was surprised at herself for getting up and going to see if he was outside in the street looking up at her house. A lonely figure leaning upon a cane by a lamppost.

In her mind the lyrics of George Formby's song and the sound of the ukulele,

'I'm leaning on a lamp-post at the corner of the street

In case a certain little lady comes by

Oh me, oh my, I hope the little lady comes by

I don't know if she'll get away

She doesn't always get away

But anyhow I know that she'll try'

Would she get away; would she leave Benjamin there for the chance of pregnancy; she knew, Harris knew, that she would try. But there was no figure; no tall, distinguished man perhaps in a cream linen suit waiting in case a certain little lady came by. She turned and there upon the bed Benjamin had erected. She smiled. What was he dreaming about to cause that? Was it her or was he being unfaithful with another woman -- or women!

She got back on the bed. Could she get to sleep? Funny -- an erection in the moonlight. The penis twitched and the foreskin slid back on its own. She rotated on the bed and lay looking at it, quite close. Her penis -- the one she was married to. Not as big as some, but Benjamin knew what to do with it! She smiled at its shape. It reminded her of a rocket. Of course it did. Rockets were penile shaped as were so many things. Men built all sorts of phallic shapes. Were not skyscrapers, to some people, simply men building great big penises? But that was all rubbish really. Men did not build or make phallic things because of their cocks but because the shape was... appropriate... for many purposes. And did they not burrow in the ground or make holes all over the place. And did men not mound up earth like breasts?

The smooth dome shape of Benjamin's rocket there on the bed. Had not that shape gone to the Moon all those years ago. She looked up at the Moon framed in the window. Had man really gone to the Moon? One small step and all that? Remarkable.

She smiled again. Benjamin's really was just a single stage rocket. Not long enough to have two stages unlike... unlike some she had met. She reached out and held Benjamin's cock. Under the foreskin it was still a little wet and sticky from their earlier lovemaking. Gently she pulled the skin up and then down again, wanking her husband in his sleep.

Had she really done the same to Harris, had she really sucked his cock, had she done those things with those lovely native men on the plain? They had had two stage cocks indeed! And nothing like the ones she saw on the television, gleaming white. They had been so black -- shining black! Even the British Black Arrow satellite launch vehicle -- she had seen a programme all about it on television not long before (Benjamin had wanted to see it) -- was white except for its tip, its fairing, which had been red. Rather phallic really! Though the Press had dubbed it the 'lipstick' rocket, which was both a fair representation of its appearance and, of course, rather more appropriate for the newspapers. "Big British cock erected and ready to go at Woomera' was not the sort of 1960/70s headline you would have expected to see back then.

Up and down went her fingers, but Benjamin did not stir. Was that a smile on his lips? Was he imagining some grass skirted maiden on a desert island stroking him? Was he perhaps imagining one of her friends lowering her lips and gently caressing? Was he dreaming of her? Benjamin seemed fast asleep. She had wanked him often enough in the early days of their relationship. Less so of late. Wanking tended to lead to sucking which in turn led to just what they had done earlier. Could she make him come in his sleep? It certainly seemed firm enough.

Presumably there was a certain inevitability about it. If the cock stayed firm and the stroking persisted long enough, ejaculation would happen. She kept wanking, watching its firmness, watching the smooth 'nose cone' of the rocket. What was its payload? What was it taking up into orbit? The first satellite was Sputnik, she remembered. What would Benjamin blast off -- Spunknik? She smiled. How silly!

Benjamin's penis stayed firm. How much longer before it released its payload? She wanked a little more. And then, all at once, without any warning there was a spurt from the end. Out it came in five pulses. Not enormous jets of cum or anything like that: the man had, after all, come not that long before within her.

His eyes had not even opened as he came. The firmness that had persisted began to wane and she let go of her penis. Her fingers moved and toyed with the pooling cum. Warm and sticky -- the stuff to make her pregnant. Or was it? She rather suspected it was not. Suspected that Benjamin could not make her pregnant. She sighed and settled back on her pillow looking out of the window at the full moon. In her mind came the figure of Harris, not Benjamin, even as she sucked her sticky fingertips, all freshly coated in her husband's cum.

The quiet little experience of wanking Benjamin had caused her to become quite aroused again. Perhaps she could jill herself to sleep. Her eyes closed as her fingertips brushed one of her hard nipples. In her mind penises and rockets. Phallic shapes and penises. To emphasise the tallness of rockets in films and on television, sometimes the camera panned upwards from base to nose cone, and it was just that which came into her mind only not a panning view of a rocket but a cock. A slow panning upwards from the base with suitably impressive music in the background. She recalled watching 'Thunderbirds' with her brother when young, and just that panning upwards with the bright red Thunderbird 3.

Upwards from balls, up the rugged but smooth shaft of the long, long cock, up and up -- surely it could not be that long -- the anticipation in her mind of seeing the bulbous fairing, the capsule, the nose cone. Yes, the business end of the penis, rounded, bulbous, smooth and so suited for pushing through the atmosphere or her lips whether those to mouth or pussy. Her fingers touched her sex as might the wavering knob of a penis before entry. How good that would be. It could not be Benjamin -- not after what he had, or rather she, just done. It would have to be another man's cock.

She felt as if she was floating. A lovely feeling, until she realised she really was. Floating out of the window towards the Moon; floating out of her bedroom window with legs spread and her sex illuminated in the moonlight. All so very visible to a watcher.

'Am I going mad?' It was a thought -- or was she merely dreaming? Dreams could be very peculiar, but as peculiar as this?

She was no longer at home -- home was suddenly so very far away. She could almost see it, but from a distance, a very great distance from above, and getting smaller and smaller. It was silent, totally silent around her. It was not that there was no light. There was the Sun and there were the stars and... and... home. She was floating freely looking down at the world, the Earth, a tiny little blue ball in the immensity of the void; so small, so fragile - just an apple whirling silently in space.

"No!" But her mouth made no sound. How could it in the emptiness of space? She could not be there. Quite impossible. Unprotected -- very unprotected from the cold and vacuum of outer space. She was rotating, very slowly rotating. She could watch the Earth for a time, then the Moon and then the stars. It was not good to look at the Sun for too long.

Of course she was naked. Her dreams were like that. She could accept that, the nakedness, but not being a sort of astronaut -- sort of only - where was her spacesuit, the tether to the spacecraft or space station? It was just her. No mother ship nearby. How could she move? Could she perhaps swim? Breaststroke to the Moon or back to Earth. It felt very Alice in Wonderland like -- in a modern setting, perhaps.

And where was Harris? He was always in her dreams now. Would he come walking by, his cane tapping on... nothing? Would he be smartly dressed, not in tweed but in a silver spacesuit, perhaps with a gold, reflective tie; perhaps a helmet upon his head. Would it be one of those goldfish bowls of early SF imagination or the reality of dark visors and brilliant white? Would he lead her home?

Far below her a tiny flare of light upon the Earth. She looked with interest, before she rotated and it was lost to her sight, replaced by the Moon, almost a half-moon hanging there in the void, so far away. It had been a full moon before. If she could swim to it, she could be the first woman on the Moon. The thought of kicking the dust up with her bare feet and leaping so far in the low gravity. There was a lot of dust on the Moon. The astronauts in the 1970s had found it a problem. The thought in her mind of Harris and she jumping hand in hand; not Benjamin -- why not Benjamin? Low G sex -- what would that be like? Or weightless sex?

Another song in her mind. The music so clear:

'Giant steps are what you take,

Walking on the moon...

We could walk forever,

Walking on the moon...

Feet they hardly touch the ground,

Walking on the moon'

It was typical of her dreams that sex always reared its... head. She smiled at the words, thinking of rearing male organs, like the stallion getting up on its hind legs and pawing the air. Did horses paw the air? They had hooves after all, not paws. She frowned. This was all very like Alice, debating with herself.

Slowly rotating into her field of view came the Earth once more, and with it a rocket. It was that she had seen flaring. It was closer to her now, leaving the Earth: a rocket, a penile shaped rocket. Not like the early conceptions of space rockets - Tintin's rocket on the Moon, for instance. Not just tapering to a point. No, this was much more Ariane, not pointed but rounded at the front or top like the knob of a penis. Bulbous indeed - more than a little penile in shape, rather so very penile. Long and very much with a knob at the end. And as she slowly rotated it became increasingly obvious it was making for her. The 'knob' at the end really the fairing containing the payload, bulbous so it could contain more, perhaps a satellite or two, perhaps some sort of space vehicle.

It was coming closer. Unrealistically the upper stages of the rocket not discarded, nor the fairing, the whole thing so penile as it headed for her, becoming closer and closer, its engine or engines no longer firing but simply coasting towards her, aiming, as she knew it would, between her legs. She felt the touch and cold sliding, so smooth, so unlike a man's erect organ, all hot and fleshy. More like how she imagined a shiny stainless steel or chrome dildo might feel, or a solid glass one, touching her entrance and then slipping up inside her, filling and opening her.

There was no 'clunk, click' of mechanical connection, no bolts or sliding metal parts ensuring the connection was held, not like the International Docking Adapter, but she felt her opening tightening around the metal shaft, squeezing around and under the bulbous fairing, like where a man's glans ended, her vaginal opening tightening to hold him in.

The docking was complete. She rather expected a transfer of the load but no, instead the rocket fired, its engine pulsing and pushing her off into space, further and further. A trans-lunar injection burn? Carefully timed to target the Moon as it revolves around the Earth, ensuring she neared apogee as the Moon approached and she entered its sphere of influence. Was she going to be running rings around the Moon? But no, on she went, past the Moon and past the red planet, Mars, it dropping away below her. Away she went, away from all she knew and loved into the cold starry darkness. Still the rocket's engines burned, pushing at her, hot inside her, the steady throbbing so sexual. Her clitoris so extended, feeling the cold caress of the void like the steady stroking Jonathan sometimes did for her with an ice cube. The contrast of heat in her clitoris with the coldness of the ice. He made her come like that and she could feel the same coming now. The regular, so hot, throbbing of the penis rocket full inside her and the teasing coldness upon her clitoris. It was coming, coming, she could already see stars -- so many in the inky blackness of space.

Like a firework rocket, like the ones her father used to send soaring into the night sky full of stars and with the Milky Way stretching overhead on Guy Fawkes' Night, her orgasm came so hard, exploding out of her sex. It was as if she was one of those fireworks. She saw stars, gold and blue all around her and heard repeated bangs. Saw the stars pouring out from between her legs. So lovely, so intense the feeling and the stars so pretty. And then she was falling, like one of those spent firework rockets, her vagina now empty, falling, drifting down back towards the Earth, it getting larger and larger.

And then she was back, back up in space, her nakedness visible as she slowly rotated, bright to one side of her body, dark to the other, the sun shining so brilliantly upon her. Rotating slowly as she orbited around the Earth. For a time silence and then faintly the sound of an orchestra playing 'Also sprach Zarathustra'. Such a remarkable piece of music and its association so clear. She knew why it was in her head. The more so when she saw the Orion III 'Pan Am' spaceplane rocketing upwards below her. She knew it was going to dock, not with the space station but her. Just knew it. Another phallic object to dock with her. She had just orgasmed. Surely it would not happen again?

This was not how Kubrick envisaged his film! But he certainly envisaged 'The Blue Danube' playing and so it now was. His conception, the space plane entering an oblong hangar at the centre of the space station. Visible as the space plane approach. He did not conceive of soft feminine thighs slowly opening, as the Blue Danube played, or the camera zooming in on hair strewn lips slowly opening and getting wider and wider apart. The 'docking port' came into view, not oblong but rounded and with soft edges -- adaptable to various sizes of space plane and rocket!

Wider and wider apart as the white painted Orion III approached. And, as in the film, to dock the Orion's pilot seemed to need to align the long axis of the space plane with the rotation axis of not the space station but the giant, naked woman, achieving the same rotation rate as she. Through the forward-looking cockpit window, she could see the pilot. A tiny figure at the controls. It was, of course, Harris.

She waited motionless as the Orion matched her rotation and then slowly advanced between her thighs, coming closer and closer and then disappearing from her field of vision beneath her mounded pubis. Contact! Again, the coldness of the space vehicle against her hot sex, penetrating her. How many aboard? Was her dream about impregnation? The little spermatozoa disembarking to seek out the shiny ball of her ovum -- or ova -- or none. Was she receptive? Did these dreams of Harris come when she was most ready to... receive? These repeated dockings -- repeated sexual intercourse.

And once more she was floating in space. Dreams so like that, forever changing, maybe repetitive maybe not. Again. a silver rocket coming towards her, so bulbous at the end, a silvery-purple there. All glinting in the white light of the sun. So suggestive, so very cock shaped. A space age dildo for Barbarella or Dale Arden.

Closer it came, looming above her, far, far too big to dock with her. But a hatch opening and a shiny metal probe extending. Of course, phallic in shape, just like the rocket, a bulbous end to match but a very clear opening to its end. So very like a robot's penis might be if a robot was to have such a thing -- extendable, mobile and jointed. A transfer probe -- to transfer what? A refuelling probe like with in-flight refuelling? Obvious where the wavering probe was going to go -- to dock indeed!

Earlier that night Jonathan's real penis had entered her, all warm and cuddly. Her dream was not like that. Hard, cold metal phalluses entering her body, pushing, docking and being absorbed. This was no exception. In it slid, between her open thighs, the male connector to her female one, the male probe slipping into her socket.

A metallic swelling inside her locking the probe from rocket to her in place. And then it started. A humming, pumping sound and she felt -- what -- pulsing into her. Not the short bursts of a male ejaculation like Jonathan's earlier, but a steady rhythmic pulsing as if a man was indeed continuously ejaculating within her. Once more she was set off. Was she thrashing around in her bed beside Jonathan, in a state of continual orgasm? On and on it went, impossibly filling her until, finally, she felt the metal penis shrink and was withdrawn as the rocket ship drifted away. Her legs closing tight.

In her head the sound of a steady countdown. An American voice saying 'we are go to launch'. And then 'T- minus 31 seconds, auto sequence start.' Auto sequence start? What for -- not another orgasm? She felt she could not take that, but still the numbers counted down. At 'ten' she felt her legs opening of her own accord, spreading out. 'We have ignition'. The heat in her vagina surprising. Surely not -- but slowly at first, she started to move and then her velocity increasing as flame -- it could not be -- poured from between her legs as she sped faster and faster away from Earth. She had been refuelled. The transfer made. Could she now travel on further and further out into the darkness of space, go beyond Saturn, to boldly go where no woman had gone before?

In her head the American voice saying, 'we have a sixteen-minute burn.' No! She couldn't take it, the heat, the pulsing across her clitoris. She was going to orgasm again, she was sure, but no, not for sixteen minutes!