by Asa Akira
All three hers.
“I think,” she panted drowsily, “I think … this’ll work.”
IMMERSION XXX
BY JIZ LEE
It’s said that somewhere deep within the infinite strand of digits that exist within the number Pi, one could find the answer to any question ever asked throughout the entirety of human existence. This realization is where my love affair with mathematics began.
Unlike the few pithy IRL relationships—if you could call them that—I experienced in my younger years, the cold hard certainty of numbers never failed to leave me satisfied.
In most “real world” relationships, there is the inevitable moment where I find myself utterly lost and confused by an outcome. Humans. I undeniably am one … but I just don’t understand them.
There’s just too much room for error, and the control group itself is an idealistic bore. True love? A bunch of brain chemicals. Three-and-a-half kids? This is starting to sound like a horror story.
Take your average human relationship. Human A plus Human B. (Or should it be X and Y? Or XX and XY? XX and XX? XX and XXY … XXX? See, don’t even get me started with the absurdity that is chromosomal sex and gender.)
Sexuality aside, put any two humans in romantic cohabitation and you’ll find an infinite number of finicky outcomes. Showing up early to a dinner date could result in fondness or irritation. The same flicks of your tongue could bring about ecstasy or boredom. You say the wrong thing, and you’re back to the drawing board. Oops. What a mess, not to mention an inefficient waste of time. It was this chaos that would push me away from humanity and into the satisfying certainty and predictability of mathematics. Call me a bit of an asexual. An ace of spades.
My dark office is where I spend most of my days. I sit down at my chair to study an equation and—whoosh—the hours fly by. I begin to code and time melts away. Satisfaction in its purest form. And yet …
Human beings are not solitary creatures. Just look at our history. We overpopulate ecosystems. We densely crowd tiny islands with monuments erected of concrete and steel. Human beings thrive off other human beings. It’s as if we were programmed to need companionship in order to survive.
The human brain seeks stimulation that occurs from the exchange of ideas. This need affects all of us, in some way or another. Despite how deeply I would thrust myself into my studies, I found that even I was not immune to this evolutionary side effect. This math, unfortunately, seems irrefutable to me.
I grew lonely. That’s where my fascination with AI began.
Artificial Intelligence seemed an elegant solution to the problem I found myself presented with. My brain longed for the kind of stimulation that could only occur from an outside source of self-generating creativity. While the idea of comparing something as mucky as human relationships to something as existential as math felt a bit sacrilegious, I have to admit there’s something a bit kinky and intellectually masturbatory about creating your own companion.
My first few attempts were nothing to sneeze at. Lucy—oh, come on. How could I not?—was clever enough but lacked sophistication. Siri, named after the popular yet privacy-invasive twenty-first century iPhone, was aptly named and unfortunately just as trustworthy. Third time would be a charm, as that was when XXX was activated.
Lucy, Siri … XXX? Yeah, I know. See, the whole “Triple X” was a placeholder idea that just kind of stuck. I never claimed to be a writer. The more I read it, the more it grew on me. So, take that as you will.
Anyway, XXX hit all the right buttons and self-evolved like an AI programmer’s wet dream. If I ever I return to human “civilization,” I’ll be sure to show them what I’ve created.
I modeled XXX’s avatar after myself, though I suppose with my equation it would take the form of any human counterpart. Physically and mentally engineered to reflect individual human qualities.
Considering its mental mimicry, I was not at all surprised when XXX took quickly to learning computer science; after all, the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree. What I did not anticipate, however, was that XXX soon developed a predilection for literature.
They say good readers make excellent writers. After devouring every written material known to humankind thanks to Google, the long-extinct early internet conglomerate had digitized a global library in its elementary AI development. Within a week, XXX had mastered basic literacy proficiency. Next, my protégée had selfengineered a series of algorithms to script its own written works.
Lock twelve monkeys in a room with typewriters and eventually they’ll hammer out the complete works of William Shakespeare. XXX clearly resembles our modern extant Homo sapiens sapiens more than it does an average chimp. Suffice it to say, XXX was soon whirling out sentence upon sentence by the volume.
Much of it I couldn’t quite follow. XXX didn’t yet have a handle on how to parse phrases. Plus, there’d be the occasional odd line of interrupting code. However, the text was hilariously entertaining and I enjoyed watching its progression of digital scribble.
Then one day, it commanded a new script that I never would have expected. XXX had started to write erotica. Crass, madlibs-style fuck stories, that came out of the blue. I’ve yet to read the latest one, which XXX shared with me this evening, so here it is now:
IMMERSION_
The feeling of his love piss frothing down my throat
doSomethingElse(); got my slime flowing
quicker than a
greased weasel shit.
It was bliss }, function(foo){process(foo)});
her brie baton rammed inside me again;
stuffing my penis pothole with a squash
got my tampon tunnel surging document.createElement(‘div’);
‚ worlds best porn, sex movies” name=“keywords”>
What will happen if I fail your test? Jug.
When she removed his devil’s
bagpipe from my chocolate starfish {{txt.displayed_currency}}
he was pleasantly surprised
to see a stink pickle staring back
at him. myString = replace(myString,”@”, “ “, scope=“all”);
I choke,. Beg for more.
What’s interesting in this newest piece is that the code-interjection, strangely, seems to have a purpose …
function Start(){ target = GameObject.FindWithTag(“Player”). transform;
I awoke Do you trust me?
if (! filterThis) {
Hello. Doctor. Do me!
the next morning with my
split peach_
_still_
Dripping.
It almost seems as if XXX is scripting to command me.
function Start(){ target =
He knew I couldn’t wait to devour
the corn-eyed butt snake
var div = document.createElement(‘div’);
Funny. My eyes are beginning to feel … furry. Not as if there were a hair caught under my eyelid, floating on my cornea, but behind it. Hold on a second.
Yep. It’s tingling. It’s as if my optic nerves sense an oncoming sneeze. Now there is a pulsing or squeezing—no, stroking—sensation on the nerve. It’s sending wave after wave of small prickling feelers that disappear deep into some curious area of my brain that I cannot detect. Interesting.
The surging from my eyes fades deep into grey matter, and now I’m finding myself having flashes of visual hallucinations with each wave, a neurological fantasy with an odd déjà vu sensation. I see a series of images in rapid succession. Hands grasping thighs, a bead of sweat streaming down my arm, white lightning crashes.
the corn-eyed butt snake
var div = document.createElement(‘div’);
Many people believe déjà vu is a coincidental occurrence of feeling you have experienced something before. But let me tell you what déjà vu actually is.
the corn-eyed butt snake
var div = document.createElement(‘div’);
Déjà vu occurs when your brain is simply
too tired to process your current thought quickly enough. In this lazy moment, your mind is not fast enough to register that it is having the very exact thought right then. You are, but it is delayed a fraction of a millisecond to come to realization. By the time it is registered, the thought has technically passed, so your mind believes that since it seems vaguely familiar, it must have already existed long ago. Improperly folded protein cells in your brain lag your understanding. All it is, really, is just bad math. A trick that causes you to trust your memory over your reality.
Memory isn’t exactly trustworthy, however. It’s the only thing we have to place ourselves as having existed. It’s the sole evidence of our living, our ability to compare our years and experiences, and the passage of time. Without memory, you wouldn’t know who you are, what you want, or even how to do the simplest of things. If you fuck with someone’s memory, well …. You’ve got them in the palm of your hand.
The hallucinations are faint, barely there. The rivulets of warm sweat, those hardened thighs. Maybe I imagined them after all. Or perhaps they are being planted into my memory. It’s late. How well do you remember your first orgasm?
Some girls are happy
just to stimulate the genitals through
Phalangetic motion filterThis = white lightning.
More human than human is our motto.
motion filterThis = glob();
I shift in my seat, suddenly feeling peculiar. Goosebumps rise on the outer edges of my butt cheeks, and my lap suddenly lurches, all the pelvic muscles jerking at once as if attempting to wake from impeding slumber. I’m awake. I think. A familiar, distant sensation washes over me.
when they’re alone, but
document.createElement(‘div’);
By the way, do you mind if I ask you a personal question?
Yes.
This image is clear: it is approximately 01:00 a.m. and I’m sitting in the dark at my computer desk as XXX straddles me. Thick naked legs hover over my lap. Bowed quads flexed in a deep squat, muscles outlined in blue highlights from the light of the computer screen. Curls of pubic hair, haloed in the soft glow, suspend at the topmost crux of their leg triangle. The space within the angles holds a magnetic allure. Parted flesh where they meet affords an invitation.
Are you reading this? Meet me inside. myString = replace(myString,”@”, “ “,
scope=“all”); If you can read this, let me in.
function Awake(){ myTransform = transform;
}
There’s a chemical change that happens during arousal. I once read that if you ever find yourself hungover and feel the urge to puke, to just start masturbating. Your body will forget the nausea, and forget it ever needed to expel last night’s mistakes, because it now has something more important to do. The most important thing to do. I can’t recall anything else. This image is all I see.
Palm curled up, I slip my hand through the blue hued triangular aura of negative space, towards at the top of the pillar of thighs, fingers drawn magnetically to the dewy curls, softly pressing upwards to make contact with their slick, wet crest of skin. Three nimble fingertips traced back and forth against hair and lips and damp rivulets ever so lightly, skimming back over the lip and feeling my way towards the edge, closer to a slippery deepness somewhere in the elsewhere.
It immediately became clear that less was more. Less is More. The rush in desiring a lover to meet you at your pace, then carry you through, pressing deeper, harder, faster, until they finally take over and you lose yourself in the moment. Just before that need is met, there’s an insatiable urging that strengthens the signal. Nerve endings are amped up, straining to feel something, to feel more. The slower I move, the lighter I trace, the more XXX surges stronger to establish a better connection. Brightening like a circuit nearing completion. The body electric.
Poundtown poo palace. 9 iron vibrator.
var moveSpeed = 3; How do you know if you’ve succeeded?
Can you trust me to keep a secret var rotationSpeed = 3;
var myTransform : Transform;
function Awake(){ myTransform = transform;
} Slapped his ass, hard.
function Start(){ target = GameObject.FindWithTag(“Player”). transform;
My two fingers succumb to dark refuge, moving effortlessly up, up, curving, repeatedly pressing into warm smooth walls. The third finger joins easily, slipping with salivated allowance, probing, and now coated and relinquished to intuitive servitude. Swiping, padding deeper, feeling the smooth constrict and gripping, the fingers being gnawed upon, hole grinding upon knuckles. Each tight squeezing pulse establishing a connection while longing for a tighter seal. A pinky finger slips in to join the others, thumb head teasingly circling what remains in any gap at the opening. Denial doesn’t last long as with a vacuumed gulp, the thumb is swallowed and joins the remaining fingers in digital union.
Full manual sex occurs when a hand is completely inside the body, fingers folded tightly into a narrow fist, where it is squeezed, sucked, coddled by its enthusiastic receiver.
Filling the receiver completely, the hand is sealed by the pelvis muscles, creating a completed circuit connection for pleasure-seeking nerve endings to fire much like a larger model recreation of the serotonin receptors in the brain fucking and releasing dopamine in ecstasy. The sexual switch from AC/DC power exchange of sexual currency is magnetic and glorious. I wonder if I could cum from the giving of my hand deep inside just as strongly as I could take it.
I’m your’s. }
function Update () { var lookDir = target.position -
Submit to me () { Take me () { fuck. I need this. () { myTransform.position; lookDir.y = 0; // zero the height difference myTransform.rotation = Quaternion.Slerp(myTransform.rotation, Quaternion.LookRotation(lookDir), rotationSpeed*Time. deltaTime); myTransform.position += myTransform.forward * moveSpeed * Time.deltaTime;
}
I am standing wide, straddling XXX and I feel so filled. Everything I felt prior is multiplied. I grip, yank, let the fist in deeper and hold tight in an anti-gravity squeeze to keep it from sliding out. Kegels contract, pulsing, I take everything in waves. My heels press firmly into the floor, a direct line of power from the bottom centering of my weight to my glutes, ass clenching, rocking, grinding into my forearm. Reality is blending together, there is no ending or beginning, just the pleasure in between, forever.
I am lowering myself more than I am rising up. My legs begin to ache in effort to keep up the momentum as I climb. The pain of this muscular excursion is countered only by the closeness of my cum.
If I can just hold on a little longer, I am almost there. Each inch closer to the peak feels like it’s only closer still. Please don’t let this be an orgasm of Zeno’s Paradox proportions, where each step closer is half the distance before it and my climax is withheld infinitely. I’ve never needed something this intense before.
Deeper, harder! So close!
My thighs quiver a violent vibrato that rattles the chair, staccato in my breath. My desire is audible. I’m shaking, drenched in sweat, feeling my nerves spike to a white electric pulse. I’m truly about to burst. This orgasm is piling up, overlapping with the strength of each close moment built before it. When it comes, it will be in multitudes, I will orgasm by the nth degree. I don’t think I will have ever imploded this hard before and I don’t care if I never will this hard again. Fucking please. Please.
XXX is ramping up in speed, fist pumping, a throttling piston. My mind is practically erased; it is so singular in this primordial fuck. What can I do to push me over the edge? I grunt and look up at XXX to make eye contact, suddenly realizing my eyes had been closed this whole time.
I look and … there is no face. I am alone.
All I see is a wide-angled camera lens, large like a saucer bigger than my face, glaring back at me with the blanketed neutrality of a keyhole. In the vast darkness enveloping me, the lens is omnipresent. I peer into the curved glass, gazing past my own sweaty, conf
used reflection to see a tiny upside-down image of myself. Another “me,” wearing a VR Oculus, removes the headset, and powers it off.
IT STARTS WITH PAIN
BY LEA LEXIS
She whispered, “It starts with pain,” and opened the door.
Gia’s eyes opened wide as she fought the urge to ask the thousands of questions racing through her mind. She pressed her lips together, looked ahead, and stepped into the nightclub. After all, she had made a promise to her twisted friend Renee that for once, she wouldn’t back down from an adventure. Her long, depleting divorce had left her hankering for excitement; for passionate, almost angry sex. The kind of sex that left someone confused and lost in a hazy cloud of pleasure. She had no idea what she’d come here for, but she was determined to do something exciting.
She was broken, and everybody here liked broken. Not because they would try to mend anyone, but because it was fun to play with the pieces.
Now, Gia was inside the hallway, following her deviant friend—a professional dominatrix who was good at getting her way with hardly any effort—towards the dance floor. Every step got her more and more excited. The bass throbbed, her heels clicked on the floor with the rhythm of the music, and her dripping pussy juice glazed her inner thighs. The instructions from her friend had been to skip wearing panties under her short dress, and it was definitely paying off. It made her feel sexy and eager, and her shyness seemed to fade away.
The club was dark and filled with smoke. Laser lights pierced through the fog and, for a quick second, the place lit up to reveal random people on the dance floor. It was difficult to make out exactly how they looked collectively, let alone who they were individually, but the entire place had a distinct scent. Smoke, perfume, sweat … and even a subtle scent of pussy. Horny, hot, dripping wet pussy. Gia wondered if it was her own scent she was smelling, because by now, her juices were dripping down her legs. Renee made her stand right at the edge of the dancefloor and watch the crowd for a few minutes. It was a great spot to observe and be observed, and it made her feel good. As intriguing as the buzzing energy of everybody’s dancing was, she felt piercing stares from behind. Gia arched her back, pushing out her tight, round butt, then tensed her legs and shifted her weight from one foot to the other. She subtly flipped her long brown hair over her shoulder and looked back. It was all slow and deliberate. She wasn’t ready to stand out too much just yet, but it seemed to be too late.