Welcome to Part 2 of the 3-part story "Machine Sex." If you missed part 1 it's alive and well and living in our archives. But to get you started, here's where we left off last time:

"Sure enough, I don't have a machine dream that night. Or any other dream that I can remember. But the next night I try again. I'm determined to make it work, you see. I want my Machine to fuck me in my sleep. In the mouth, in the ass, in the cunt. Fuck and pull and squeeze and slap and maul and prick and poke. My need is escalating. My fantasy grows obsessive. It is only a matter of time until all this hot filthy desire leaks into my sleep. This I know. So I try again. And the next night...

[Now for Part 2:]

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The next night I try again, but I visualize a different world. A machine world to be sure, but now I'm before an assembly line of machines. I'm a product in a factory, my body stripped, sprayed, flopped chest-up on a moving belt. Hoist, lower. First machine to take me moves like a piston. It holds a wide cylindrical cork in its hands. It treats me like a container. Spread legs, bums up, stuff ass, bums up, stuff ass, spread lips, stuff cunt, spread lips, stuff cunt, stuff cunt. Its jerky motions pound and squeal to a beat, a machine beat, arrhythmic but uncompromising. My naked body spread and stuffed, is jerked to the next station. Conveyor jerks to a stop, breasts shudder. Another huge robotic packer, stuffs, twists the stuffing in my ass, seals my ass. Stuff, twist, I'm corked. Seats, twists, the wad in my cunt, bevels the protruding wad, presses, bevels, presses, into pussy, flush against flesh, seals off cunt. Bam, grind, rock, move, halt, breasts quiver. Next stop, a machine with long arms yanks my bent legs up. Yank, legs up, like a frog electrocuted. Rope straps, loops, knots -- I'm trussed stiff like a frozen turkey now. Bam, forward, breasts jiggle, slam, stop, breasts quiver. Metallic arms grab me by the limbs, flip me on my front, yank back my arms. Rope straps, loops, knots. My arms tied back, forearms flat against the small of my back. Now it's like I'm going through a carwash. My plugged ass is up hard and a strop slaps it methodically, back-slap, back-slap, as if to strike the road dust off my butt. I am flipped back, dropped, breasts roll, conveyor rolls, two arms like windshield wipers, pass, back and forth and back and forth across breasts that squish and roll, squish and roll, quiver, squish, roll, while rubber blades scrape the nipples with each pass. Over and over, till I have raw, red breast burn and the nipples are frozen into points that can't melt.

At the end of this cleaning I am clutched by hooks under my bound knees and slip-knot nooses around my breasts and lifted, knots tightening, and lowered into a vat of something hot, brown, thick and viscous, like molasses, and lifted -- my breasts stretched to their limits -- and hung there, dripping, from my strangled tits. I can feel the hot liquid cool and the substance harden. Harden and harden. I am stiff. And suddenly swiveled from the hanging place and dropped into a cardboard nest, and slam, forward, slam, stop. I'm a treat. Shaped like a candied frog with two candy cones on its chest. A two-handed arm comes out and places a cherry on each conical breast, right where the nipples used to be.

I do not let myself cum when I visualize this, though I know that once again, all I'd have to do is flick my swollen clit and the waves would roll out of my pelvis and shudder my pussy into puddles. I try to sleep, tossing and turning and squeezing my legs together, cheating a little, because it feels good against my clit and it feels good when the wet oozes from my crotch, so I then open my legs to get the air slap, and it's not enough to make me cum, but it keeps my arousal high. Knowing how wet I am. I imagine an army of robotic ants crawling up my leg, instructed to clean the filthy wet out of my pussy. A plastic colony of computerized ants scramble into my pubic hair, they round the curves of my labia. Inside, the folds are soft sticky hills, the ant colony have little metallic mandibles that give little prickly bites. Every nerve ending in my raw pussy is plucked and pricked by this scurrying army. They're ringed around my hole now, nibbling cunt juice. A hoard of them clusters on each nipple, endless ant-like stinging, thousands of infinitessimal bites to each nipple finally force the nipples to surrender a defensive mucus. They nibble and lap and gather and feed. The more juice my orifices give up, the more frenzied these robot insects get and when I'm so dry they're practically sucking the blood out of my skin, they fall off me in a little clatter and disappear.

Oh, how I try not to come after this fine, fine imagining, but I fit three fingers into my cunt hole, slide them deeper into my vagina and move them in a circular motion -- under the guise of assuring myself that no robotic ants remain. I rub my taut nipples, and -- you know, sympathetically -- the fingers inside my pussy start stroking. Stroking, soothing my velvet, breathing cunt walls. Warming my hole. Surely the ants were not real (my imagination can be very convincing) because the thick slime that strings from between my pussy lips suggests that this horn juice has been backing up in my twat for a while.

So far I've resisted the temptation to orgasm, but with half my hand in my cunt, well... and I can't help imagining one more machine. Big piston, three arms with birdclaw ends. The piston, wide as a baby, its business end rounded as a baby's head, sits at my cunt opening. The birdclaws sit open around my nipples and clitoris. Suddenly with a clank and a whir the machine is cranked and its piston plows me like butter, fucks up into me stretching my hole. The claws pinch. Fuck and pinch, fuck and pinch, fuck and pinch. It's so machine. It so doesn't care. It so easily enters and opens me, and never gives. Entry is expected. Over and over. Expected. Flesh has no say. As I picture this heartless machine I can almost feel the insides of me. I'm giving it up, over and over. Ungh. Ungh. Taking it. Taking it. Just thinking about it makes my thumb touch my clitoris, by accident I swear, ever so barely. I give my clit a light brush. Deep inside my hole, fingers squeeze against a moist, yeilding wall, towards the pubic bone, so soft and spongy, and somehow one firm nipple is gripped between three fingers, nipple, cunt, clit... gripped -- ahh, gasp, groan. And, "oops." And, "shit!"

What can I say? I sleep in my own wet spot after that. And I do not have the machine dream this night, either. But now, the third night. Ah, the sweet third night... yes, I think I have finally outsmarted it.

[To be continued...]