Welcome to The Masturbatrix. After this, there is no turning back. Let me show you how deep the rabbit-hole goes…
A forceful sigh of exhaled breath caused the few strands of hair across her nostrils to rise, then fall away to the side. In other circumstances she’d be described as sporting ‘bed-hair’; shoulder-length mousy brown tresses fell this way and that about her sweat-slicked face, some wisps stuck to her neck, vanity abandoned in favour of powerful orgasms.
Entirely naked and without a trace of make-up, she wore only the restraints keeping her safely in position in the half-ovoid cradle. This cradle was formed from thick, transparent material, and was fitted with padded body and neck rests to comfortably support her weight. Her wrists were locked down by her sides, and her ankles similarly locked – spread apart and secured to either side towards the front of the cradle.
With legs spread and knees bent so the soles of her feet were flat to the base, her vulva should have been easily visible and accessible. And so it would have been, if not for the spreader bar locked to her thighs. Fused front and centre to this spreader bar was a shiny Doxy wand which pointed towards her vulva, its silicone head nestling firmly against her clitoris. The long Doxy wire trailed down between her knees, plugged into the half-ovoid cradle, the seeming plug-hole of which was, in turn, connected to the main network.
Entwined with the Doxy Wand wire was a wider tube, drawing edible energy from another source below and filling her stomach with liquid sustenance. The transparent tube snaked up over her chest and was held within her lips by a large rubber mouthpiece. She breathed through her nose.
Her last orgasm had been less than 15 minutes ago, and from the way her breasts were rising and falling, the breaths drawn raggedly through her nostrils, it wouldn’t be long before she’d surrender to another. Her eyelids would flutter, eyes behind enjoying the views and sensations of strangely recurrent dreams, her mind in another world – completely unaware of reality. She simply looked, to any privileged spectator, like a restrained woman being forced to endure frequent, full-body orgasms – which for some reason, never woke her up.
She, whose name I don’t recall, was one of several hundred women in the large chamber, in exactly the same position in half-ovoid cradles high up on thick pillars, in exactly the same situation, and connected to the same, orgasm-inducing and sustenance-providing network.
The women were alike except for their looks; the chamber held a vast variety, all shapes and sizes. Natural brown hair, peroxide blonde. Copper-red hair, and the dyed red, black and purples of goth types. Small Parisien breasts which barely quivered during their owner’s climaxes, to breasts which lay heavily to each side, rolling this way and that during the orgasmic highs. Thatches of soft pubic fur were visible around the Doxy head nestled against each clit, some matching the woman’s head hair, others an entirely different shade.
It was important for the women to be fed regularly, so they didn’t become malnourished or expire. Constant drip feeding kept their energy at the required level to fuel the 24/7 orgasms, with little break in between, as well as ensuring their bodies remained fleshy, attractive and arousing.
The feeding tubes themselves were supplied by one enormous cylinder, which was in turn connected to a giant underground vat. This vat was held beneath an auditorium which could (and often did) seat over 1,000 people. The stage of the auditorium was simply a glass window the size of a large cinema screen, through which the orgasm chamber was visible to the audience. Small screens were placed at intervals above the heads of the seated crowd, displaying close-ups of the women in turn, cameras in the chamber programmed to zoom in on women when they were riding their orgasmic highs.
Each plush theatre seat in the auditorium was fitted with a masturbatory milking device, a comfortable rubber ringed nozzle into which the spectator would place their pulsing cock and enjoy undulating suction -which rivalled the best blow-job – throughout the performance.
The nozzle was connected to a large, transparent tube, reminiscent of the tubes fed into the women’s mouths. The similarity was not a coincidence. The cock milking tubes fed down through the floor of the auditorium, drawing the cum from the audience and combining it in the giant underground vat. There, the spent desire of the men who paid to watch, and be pleasured physically as well as visually, was supplemented with additional dietary essentials, and fed to the constantly-orgasming, forever-dreaming women in the cradle chamber.
Not for the first time, I congratulated myself on such a winning business plan. From my office, at the back of the auditorium, I could easily survey both the grunting, shifting men in the pleasure-suction seats, and the restrained, writhing sea of cradled, Doxy-fucked and cum-fed women in the chamber beyond.
They say sex sells. I’d simply perfected the art.
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