Headfuck

Miriam paced like a roof-trapped cat. Nervously downing wine, pacing, refilling the glass and pacing anew. The carpets along the route she took through her genteel flat were encrusted with garnet splatters, testament her clumsy nerves. Ms Riyal would be arriving soon, toting her holdall of wondrous, instant-access physicality. A golconda boxful of orgasms. Sensation stripped back from sex, purified and rarefied and, when not in use, tastefully stowed amid crushed velvet in a fitted morocco case.

Riyal arrived amid flourishes of theatrically quiet dignity, content to allow her charms and talismans and bright robes to convey an impression of exotic wisdom and general juju proficiency. She spoke in mystical tones of her latest acquisition, a triumph of libidinous engineering. No moving mechanical parts, no friction, no decline in sensation. Continuous orgasm for as long as you require, or for as long as you can stand it; a vaginal challenge, clitoral fighting talk. Endorphins predicted to burst like firecracker blossoms throughout the user's mental skyscape. A deep vulvic flex and Miriam's damp fingers were reaching for her purse.

Riyal was shown out and further Dutch courage imbibed before Miriam set about her new purchase. A clumsy insertion of the shiny bullet, a deep intake of breath and a flick of the binary switch yielded no immediate sensation and frustrated expectation made her impatient. She moved the control rapidly from one position to the other. Nothing. Shit. She petulantly hurled the control box at the wall, upon contact with which its metallic shell shattered and released a fine yellow dust. Sulphur yellow, but sweet smelling. The room was a field flooded with lime. Something could then be felt deep within: a sudden expansion, an audible click, and then a sherbet fizzing at her core. The casing had split like a capsule and released more yellow powder inside.

The yellow phalanxes without and within thrust to meet each other; on becoming overrun, her self became lost. The device worked.

Orgasms prickled the entire surface of her skin. Muscles contracted like vulvae and sweet musk exuded from every pore. Genital belle tyrannie had been overthrown, although that part of her too throbbed in conventional bliss; it was always to have been a kind and bloodless coup. Peristaltic motion thrust a firm bolus ever deeper into eager flesh and ripples of contraction snaked on along the entire length of her digestive tract, gripping tightly from oesophagus to colon on the ghost of a penis delivering impossible sensations.

Her nipples were distended buds threatening to effloresce at any moment. Her uterus moaned. Her bladder trembled, taut. Her kidneys strained to rub against each other like rubber-bound fetishists, enjoying their moist frustration more than any success. Every alveoli was a penis fucking the damp heat of the air in her lungs, every endometrial fold a vagina being fucked by tides of her own internal fluids. Arteries and veins flexed their thick valves in hydraulic ecstasy. Bones were caressed by connective tissue and passed on the favour to their inner marrow - an anatomical daisy chain. Her liver masturbated like a bloated couch-bound Caesar voyeuristically enjoying the enthusiastic felching of blood between atrium and ventricle. Fingers of vertebrae performed a vigorous-tender hand job on the shaft of her spinal cord, which ejaculated a thick stream of opaline semen directly into her brain, impregnating the great cerebral ovum at the centre where the two walnut halves are bridged. It was in this manner that her skull bulged and expanded with neon algal blooms, her body shrank and boiled dry on the heat of pleasure, and the light of the sun traversed the living room wall; time eventually spilled into the next night.

Ms Riyal let herself in with the key she had earlier pilfered. A moan emerged from the swollen head of the withered creature twitching on the living room floor. She retrieved a small object resembling a glittering oyster hammer from her capacious pockets; one tap and the head split in two like an overripe peach. The atrophied body, jutting out like a dead stem, shuddered its last. The crystalline ropes of mucus festooned between the two headhalves were cut through by a clumsy armthrust from within, one controlled by a mind and muscles new to motion, but of the strong and evident desire to escape from its softshell shroud. Presently freed, its clear vowels electrified the room. With careful efficiency, Riyal scooped up the infant from the remains of crumpled skullshell, rewrapped it in a few layers of her many garments, and carried it off into the night.

The mess left on the living room floor required no further consideration. Leaving the front door ajar had always proved sufficient in the past. To nightanimals, meat is meat.