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

"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."

[And now the exciting conclusion...]

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The third night is not about visualization, but about prayer. I talk to it, my machine, but in a positive way: "Tonight, in my dream, you will come to me. You will take me, fuck me, do unspeakable machine things to me, and I will remember you. You will force me to orgasm in my sleep and I'll wake up dripping between my legs."

After that small prayer, I strip down completely naked, lie on my bed in the dark, and run my hands over my body -- up my thighs, over my nipples, down my belly, circling the sensitive navel down my ticklish lower abdomen to my cropped bush. I softly brush the fuzz. I do all this in the dark until the wet wells up between my legs. I open my legs a little. I can smell it. I tell myself that my machine can smell it too. The scent of my pussy calls to my machine so powerfully that it will have to materialize. And so I add, in a whisper, "Come to me. Take me," over and over. Rubbing my aroused body, thrusting my cunt up in the air, undulating as I whisper "take me" in the dark. It starts to feel like a powerful ritual. I don't let myself go any further. No opening my cunt and resting my fingers between the warm lips. No touching my horny clit. No pinching my nipples, fingering my butt hole, pressing on my pubic bone. Uh-uh. I'm wise to these invitations to failure, and this night I do not intend to fail. So I keep up with the chanting and touching and thrusting. My intention is to fall asleep that way, so aroused that only a sex dream can release the tension.

But suddenly, I hear a sound, clink-slam, like the sound of a wrought iron gate. I know that everyone else in the house is asleep. I'm still whispering. I'm still touching my naked skin, a little titillated by the thought that someone could come in and catch my roving hand, my bare breasts, my exposed pussy. I hear a sound like a freight elevator, approaching. But the house has no elevator. The door opens. And there it stands.

I'm surprised that it has an old machine look, painted green and with rounded edges, like a giant lathe or miller from the early 20th century. It's got belts and motors. It is made of iron, more solid and heavy than anything I could imagine -- and yet, I'm sure that I am visualizing again. Except for the noise. The sound of it is so real. The slapping of belts, the squeaking of motor shafts. It is colder, and more beautiful and merciless and charismatic than anything I could imagine. It wheels in. It has arms run by belts. It has endless appendages with strange hands and feet. It pulls my naked body up off the bed by my armpits, hangs me there, facing it.

I feel so helpless with its cold hardness at my skin. My machine is all iron and appendages, motors and belts. It shakes me as I hang there. The shaking opens me up, loosens my sphincter, my pussy, gives me bouncing boobies that rush the blood into the tips of my breasts and puts my nipple nerves on red alert. Out of the machine's middle shoot two little tubes that attach to my breasts and draw in the nipples and areola. While it sucks them heartily, it rushes air over the stretched skin, a tickling breeze. When I visualize, I never get feelings like this. These are not something I can imagine.

I am still hanging in the air by my arm pits and it feels exhilarating. I can feel my clit jumping with excitement. The machine is going to work me, like I'm the machine and it's the human. Two pincers dart out, seize my labia, open them like curtains, and behind the curtains, my horny flesh sparkles. It's a little swollen, too. Something takes hold of the shaft of my clitoris and suddenly the sensitive shaft squirms. It's being worked over, by what feels like a water pic. I am penetrated then. Something narrow enough and comfortable at the insertion end. It goes in so easily, I have no time to clench my legs -- not that it would help. This icy arm spreads conically wider and wider. My cunt hole is stretched to the limits. It gapes; the skin burns. At the sensate mouth of my cunt I can feel a dry ice cold where my machine penetrates. I burn from stretching and freeze from the cold iron fist. The arm inside my walls is not the least concerned with these schizoid sensations, and it begins pulsing.

I know this sounds strange, but it was like we merged then. I felt its life inside me. I felt it was alive. How could it be in me, vibrating, beating with a rhythm that spoke to my most private chemistry, and not be alive?

My machine did things efficiently, quickly. It opened my legs and fastened my ankles to grips in its sides, then it seized me by the waist and clamped my arms up horizontally so it had access to my arm pits and could get under my breasts. Then it entered my ass with something that seemed to breathe, in, out, in, out, turning my anal walls into a great lung. I am spread and spitted and powerless. It had secured all ports of entry open. It was free to start a sensational deluge. That's what a machine can do by being so immutable, so itself. It can redefine you, redefine every organ of your body, and make you take on its rhythm. It had me covered -- my clit, my cunt, my ass, my nipples, and everything being "played with." I was just a slab of sensation. I can't help but that I came right there and then. The moment everything was filled up.

But my machine didn't care. Do you think it stopped driving me with its probes? A machine has its own agenda. A human does not exist. Remember that. You can let it inhabit you and become part of it, and so survive as something bigger than yourself. Or you can resist. And you'll watch your sense of self systematically disassembled, as you become a thing ever approaching zero. I chose to surrender to my machine.

I had no physical choice, however. I could only feel and let it do what it would do next. It kept its hands in my holes, and my tits in its grasp. It sent vibrations through my body, it lifted me, turned and folded me in humiliating positions. It slapped me and burnished me with its belts, vibrated me inside and out, tickled, poked and pressed. It would have me so close to orgasm I could taste it; then it would snatch the good feelings away: It plucked out pussy hairs, tickled arm pits, scrambled with rubbery ticklers around the inside of my mouth, forced the ticklers under my tongue, pushed my tongue from side to side, sprayed my mouth, cunt, ears, nose, ass, with burny-tingly liquid, all while I was impaled and immobile. Oddly, taking its liquid up my nose made my nipples twitch with desire. My machine knew because it would flick them right then. Just enough to have me burning hot.

I have to say, I went through so many sensations at once I can't remember them all. I'm sure I've skipped a thousand or two. Though my machine tortured me with near-orgasm repeatedly, bringing me closer, then stinging me away, I have to say that during the course of this machine takeover of my body, I had orgasm after orgasm all the same. Clit orgasms and cunt orgasms, body orgasms and helpless orgasms, time after time. How could I not? It knew me! It fed on my spasms. I could only succumb. All the while, my machine's hum soothed me -- the chirping of the pulleys, the slapping of the belts -- like a lullaby.

"I am yours, now," I cooed, dazed and spent. "My Master."

I awake. The reality of the machine, its coldness and hardness begin to drift away. I try to hold on as it becomes more like air. I recite it from memory. But it drifts off still, to a mental figment, to a vague cloud. I come to my senses, weak, shivering. "It worked," I say to myself. "The machine has come to me in a dream, so real! I've done it. And I will continue. Now I can be a human by day and by night, just an orgasm in a machine." As I say all this, my whole body is flush, my crotch feels warm, I dare to hope that my dream machine has fucked me until I came in my sleep. And when I spread my thighs, sure enough my cunt wallows in a pool of hot slime.