by Daniel Six
“That’s the hottest thing I’ve seen in a long time,” Dean throatily commented to Mark.
“I could watch women dress each other all day,” the other man declared. Emma saw that both were forming erections.
Ione watched Manassa garb her with mingled heat and humor, Emma thought. The context of the boutique made the big woman’s role seem totally natural. Nonetheless, Emma was astonished when Manassa moved behind her lover and clothed her with the same lingering flirtation of fingers and thighs, and when she stood them next to each other, they looked so sweetly composed in their matching lingerie that Emma felt a sharp excitation at her crotch, wondered if she was moist enough to stain the panties. She giggled when she saw that Ione had already done just this, realized her companion hadn’t climaxed for days.
Dean came up behind Emma, hands all over the skeined anatomy of her flesh.
“Like my lingerie?” she sleazily inquired.
“I do. And I’m going to enjoy the variations too,” he promised, nodding to the pile waiting for evaluation. He massaged her nimbly cupped breasts, pinching the nipples to dimpled visibility, then moved a hand down to her crotch. A moment later he rubbed his slippery thumb and forefingers under her nose. “But first I think the situation with your clammy drawers needs to be addressed.”
“Undressed actually,” Mark boozily corrected and swigged their last bottle of stillwater. “Then we can get deep into the ‘situation’ as it were.” He reached over to Ione’s fleet physique, yanked her panties down with a presumptive smirk.
She grinned, looked back to admire her own posterior. “Anytime,” she challenged. The group fell silent for a moment.
Then lingerie was spontaneously discarded. Fingers and lips met erogenous targets, knees met carpet and bodies twisted about to oblige some subliminal consensus as to the ideal use of space. Dean wound up lying on the floor and Emma settled on top of him.
“Hey,” said Manassa. “I got something for that.” Searching through an assortment of jewelry gathered for their consideration, she produced a figurine of a nude slipper straddling an unseen lover, hanging by her raised and widespread hands from adjustable chains tipped with nipple clamps.
“What’s that?” Mark demanded as he pulled Ione down onto him.
“It’s a ladylay,” said Manassa, finding its twin in the accessory pile. She fastened the devices on the other women to hang pendulously from their breasts. The metal statuette weighted her glinting chains to a sensual catenary sweep between Emma’s stiffened tips.
Ione gingerly massaged the aureole of a firmly clamped nipple. “Some kind of rhythm toy?”
Manassa nodded. “She’ll delay your lay. Try it!” she grinned.
Emma grasped Dean’s erection with one hand and fed it into her vulva, slowly relaxing her thighs till it was fully accommodated. He sighed minutely, lips narrowing to a blissful line, and Emma carefully set herself in motion, fucking the blond musician with a measured lunge.
The toy functioned to control her velocity, gliding back and forth over her lover with hypnotic regularity, its buxom, glinting form artfully reprising the posture and progress of the woman who bore it.
Emma heard Ione sigh as Mark’s erection put a wide smile on her labia. She glanced over to witness their first, halting effort at intercourse. Ione quickly discovered the correct tempo and her ornament traveled elegantly.
Emma planted her hands farther forward and stared hazily down at her own.
“Don’t stop,” Dean whispered, gaze fixed on the toy. “Just don’t stop.”
“Good,” Manassa encouraged, leaning closer to watch.
Emma closed her eyes. She could feel the swing of the figurine through her nipples, deftly guiding her through an ancient, tidal dance.
“Yesss…” Dean quietly suspired, captivated by her punctiliously phrased sexuality. She felt his long frame tense in anticipation, knew from experience he would surrender to climax soon. Too soon. Emma wanted to meet him there.
“Let’s slow him down,” Manassa softly counseled, crouching next to them now. She felt the clamps flutter as her friend adjusted the chains. “Try that.” On resuming the act Emma gauged the longer arc of the ladylay and conformed to its protracted cycle, loosing a scandalously lax groove on Dean’s manhood.
The drummer groaned worshipfully at this new, stymieing pace and Emma felt his straining limbs shimmy in negotiation with the achingly slow copulation she supplied. His penis was immobilized by lust, rigidly angled to receive the forbearant caress of her vulva as it wandered up the shaft, returned just as slowly to kiss the testicles. Emma let her own pleasure anchor to this ponderous frequency, gather in modest, measured increments as the lady permitted.
There was a clink as Manassa hitched Ione’s pendant a little higher on its chains, setting the tall woman to a faster period of penetration. “Yeah, slip…” Mark grunted in dreamy satisfaction. “Get that thing exercised.” Emma could tell he was in the sphincter now from the higher pitch of her noisemaking.
But the audible rapidity of their congress only emphasized the tortuously prolonged schedule of her own. Emma hissed in blind frustration, almost betrayed the pace, then fully submitted to the suppressive propriety of the lady’s constant, nipple-censuring commandment to delay culmination, though she desperately wanted it now. Bliss built at her crotch, needing just a little more speed to overflow…
Ione called gently next to her, an inarticulate plea that aroused Emma so deeply her vaginal muscles reflexively contracted, gripping Dean with an avaricious stringency.
“Fuck me Emz…” he breathed from somewhere far away, her mutual prisoner to the woman swinging serenely between them. Then they were finally free, redeemed by a conquering ecstasy…
The pleasure spiraled out from her clitoris to bathe her in shivery installments of gratification that lasted and lasted as she helplessly obliged the lady’s uncompromising meter, rendering the most potent climax she had experienced with the drummer.
Emma finally collapsed onto him, breathing evenly. The rounded little woman was trapped between their flesh now, stilled by the fulfillment of her role, and Emma knew they would be leaving the store with it. Manassa finally rose and Emma shakily followed her up. Ione wore a blank expression that signaled a deep satisfaction of appetites but Mark was carefully screening his unsated erection from Dean.
Emma reached for the lingerie pile again, lofted a lacy red brassiere. “So can I actually try on some new clothes, or am I gonna get stripped again?” she challenged.
“Can’t say,” Dean breezed noncommittally, eyeing its bloated cups. “Put it on and we’ll see…”
That night Ione brought them to the Gnomon’s Tower. It was a long trip—her second that day—and she was quite tired of being in the car, but her exasperation with the time lost to the journey was offset to some extent by the strange tale of an “orientation” in front of a huge crowd Manassa related along the way. She had even pointed out the giant, pyramidal garment warehouse called the “tent” where it had supposedly taken place, though Ione had to agree that for all its size it still didn’t seem capacious enough to house the wonders she described. Manassa had escaped the same way she had entered, using some kind of bizarre hydraulic transport tube. She had to wait for it sometimes as the breathable fluid that flooded the tunnel could flow in either direction.
Ione digested this fabulous narrative without skepticism, knowing by now that the other woman’s larger-than-life personality overlay a strict, almost simpleminded adherence to fact. The most troubling detail was her insistence that no one on the upper floors of the building had any knowledge of the City at all. Ione knew of at least one group of people that would be ignorant in just this way; the women of the Lap. If they were kept in the “tent” then she would soon be making war on the place, no matter the risk. And risk was practically guaranteed. Manassa had mentioned the place was thick with mannermen.
Ione mused on the wider shape of their situation as the others drank an
d chattered in back. The duffel bag was sitting open in the rectangular space between the convertible’s plush, sidelining couches, and they were hunched over it, bottles in hand, plotting their social conquest of the City. Save for Mark they were now well-placed individually. But they had no collective authority.
“I could paddle the bucket!” Mark recklessly declared in response to something Emma said about the impossibility of supplanting the Dowser.
“You probably could,” Dean agreed, endorsing Mark’s position as he usually did now. “Lots of employees have taken it down the well and rowed around the lake condensing there, but no one has ever found the stillwater pocket.”
Ione thoughtfully considered their manly friendship as she wove her way deeper into the Gnomon’s territory. In the subterranean world it took three skulks using a crude, almost subconscious majority rule to establish a group will, but the civilizing influence of the metropolis changed the situation by formalizing the concept of individual equality. Yet everyone ultimately owed allegiance to one of the two judges, who were proxies for all personal ambition.
But they were men themselves. There was no question of that. So despite their celebrated rivalry the Dowser and Gnomon had to cooperate in some fundamentally rational fashion to ensure the smooth functioning of their society. And they theoretically managed it without a technical apparatus of negotiation like majority rule—which wouldn’t operate between two people. Yet there was no evidence of that partnership, no evidence they had ever even met. So how could they maintain such a complex social equilibrium?
“Here we are,” she announced, pulling into the great circular plaza surrounding the Tower of the Gnomon.
“Wow,” Emma gasped, trying in vain to estimate its altitude.
“You weren’t exaggerating about the size,” Mark goggled.
“As many have conceded to you,” Ione returned the compliment, pleased by his respect.
Manassa giggled as a crowd of naked employees strolled by. “Back to the bare-ass condition,” she gusted and began to shed her clothing.
Ione got them parked underground as they finished undressing, hurriedly returned herself to nudity. She led them into the building, issuing a steady stream of documentation as to what they were seeing and what it meant.
“They’re with me—regular guests,” she informed a doorman guarding the atrium as she had been told to do at her orientation. The man nodded, committing their images to memory on behalf of all the doormen who served the Tower.
“And here’s the elevator I told you about,” she continued as it arrived with a musical gurgle. She led them onto the platform and in moments it was vaulting for her residential level.
“This is seriously fucked up,” Mark whispered, ignoring a gaggle of passengers staring hungrily at their group as they were lofted with swift efficiency by the Flowgnome.
Ione identified some the intervening floors to the others in passing. Most internal walls in the Tower were made of blue-tinted glass, allowing them to see all the way to the exterior windows in some cases. “There’s the gnome design levels, and that’s my current laboratory… and here comes the lounge and the commissary…” They riddled her with a stream of excited questions all the while and she was prompted by their vicarious appreciation for her new life to reconsider its social possibilities as a sen and more of glittering floors zoomed by.
Her work had so far been quite involving, and Ione had seen real evidence that the Gnomon held the toy design group in special regard. She had been assigned to work on several devices at once and had prototypes of them in her apartment for personal experimentation. But so far, she had to admit, this additional context had produced little improvement in their design or functioning. The reason for that was becoming steadily clearer.
The minions of the Gnomon were intelligent, reasonable, and by Ione’s standard friendly people. But they were not always discerning in relation to the products of their own ingenuity; particularly when it came to sex toys, which she had come to understand were mostly requisitioned and utilized by parties external to the Gnomon’s culture. After a few days in the Tower she knew her work needed to be evaluated by collaborators of greater sexual sophistication than her colleagues, preferably people with biases familiar enough to be casually extracted from analysis…
They reached her floor and jumped off the rounded lip of the elevator together, made their way through the naturalistic artistry of a tree and shrub-dotted plain of grass to her residence hall and were quickly established with its doorman. Ione ushered her friends down the hall to her apartment. “C’mon in,” she invited, and they did.
“Groovy lighting,” Emma exclaimed, twirling around to appreciate the blue and violet emanations of some extra glow gnomes she had requisitioned.
“Check out the view!” Dean marveled, hands planted on the floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the City. “I’ve never been so high in the Gnomon’s Tower,” he admitted.
“These plums are delicious,” Manassa cheerfully reported, having snagged a few from the tree on the way in.
Ione showed them around the rooms, then they returned to the salon. Mark threw himself down on the wider of her two cobalt-toned couches and Ione brought over a carafe of chilled pomegranate juice from the little bar. Emma promptly spiked it with a flask of pure stillwater from the duffel bag, and before long the apartment was filled with enough happy chatter to render the atmosphere of a party. Ione was absently amused at her fast success in provoking such conviviality against the high slope of the Gnomon’s cultural efficiency.
She took a place on the smaller couch and Emma molded to her side as she put her arm around the smaller woman.
“Like it?” Ione inquired, kissing her fragrant blond locks.
“You put a lot of love into the details,” Emma smiled. “That’s not usually your style, I have to say…”
Ione grinned, already tipsy. “I was hoping you’d notice.”
Emma’s beautiful blue eyes gleamed with emotion, and they exchanged a long, sloppy kiss. “We’re gonna have fun here,” Ione promised.
Dean and Manassa had wandered over to a floor-standing mechanism of curiously organic design.
“What the fazzuck is this thing?” the musician bluffly inquired.
“A clutch,” she explained, rising to join him.
“What’s it for?” asked Manassa.
“It clamps a woman in a submissive posture,” said Ione. She slipped the back open and prompted Emma into its molded form, closing and locking it down on her such that her legs were forced wide by rounded stirrups and her wrists were captured in integral cuffs behind her back. There were round openings for her breasts in front, and her thighs and buttocks were fully exposed. Her body was posed as if she were planted on her widened knees, head bowed to the floor, arms tied behind her back—but raised waist-high.
“Okay,” said Emma, settling into its comfortably padded embrace. “Now what?”
Ione released the clutch plate at the side of the device, and with a push sent her partner’s body spinning axially about its middle.
“Whee!” she exclaimed, and Mark padded over to watch her revolve end-over-end.
“It lets you arrange her just how you want,” Ione remarked, halting Emma at a point where her vagina was poised directly before them. She locked the clutch plate to prevent any further movement. “The Gnomon has a theory that we all harbor a subconscious desire for physical symmetry in sexual activity. This thing was designed to give elegant access to female anatomy from any angle.”
“I hear that,” Mark cheered, draining his juice. He found some lubricant on the table next to the device and rubbed it sensuously into Emma’s raised and presented genitalia.
Dean had acquired a three-leaf flam whip, and Emma winced as he brought it down with perfect precision on her vagina, its first two rubber appendages landing with an anacrustic flutter before the final, smacking impact.
“Ow!” she hissed. “Do it again.” Dean worked her over with
the flam as they watched.
“She’s nice and wet now,” Mark enthused.
Ione unlocked the clutch plate and rotated Emma so her snatch was lofted up high. They took turns kissing it as she sighed encouragingly, then she spun the little blond around so her head was facing them. “Suck them,” she ordered, gesturing to the erections presented at her new elevation.
Emma swallowed one penis then the other in alternation, perfectly positioned to receive them by the variable inclination of the machine enclosing her. “All this cocksucking is thirsty work,” she lasciviously hinted between insertions.
Ione adroitly swung her body vertical and tipped a cup of juice to her lips. “Drink up!” she bantered. Emma took a long draught, some of which dribbled down her chest. Manassa and Dean bumped heads in their haste to lick the rivulets sputtering from her nipples.
“After you,” the musician insisted with mock solicitude.
“No, after you,” Manassa returned.
“After me,” Mark decided and stepped between them to suck both clean as Emma wriggled yearningly.
Ione spun Emma to present her posterior, efficiently spread for access.
“Let’s play with her!” Manassa tittered, slipping a finger into her vagina. Dean reached in to tweak Emma’s clitoris affectionately.
“Try this,” said Ione, giving Mark a phallus with a perpendicular handle and a rotating crank that operated through a big bearing. The cock had a series of ridges running its length, and he slipped it into Emma’s rectum as they crowded close.
Mark slowly turned the screw, and Emma moaned dreamily. “What is that?” she wanted to know.
“It’s called a screw.”
“Well by all means screw me then.” Mark turned it a little faster.
“The Gnomon thinks the anus is most effectively stimulated with an axial massage rather than a linear movement,” Ione commented, carefully observing its effect.
“He’s fucking right about that,” Emma whispered.
Mark fed it a little deeper into her, winding faster as Emma’s behind tensed within the confines of the clutch. Manassa reached to her vagina and slowly rubbed it.