Long ago I blogged about fucking machines, but in the years since, this post by Audacia Ray at Waking Vixen is the first detailed account I’ve seen from a woman who has gamely taken one of the machines for a good test ride:

Dacia vs. The Machine

or How I Stopped Worrying and Learned to Love the Robocock

So in the quest to make my life experience increasingly peculiar, last night I had an, um, encounter with a fucking machine. How, you may ask, would this come about? Well, I was contacted a while ago by a photographer who is interested in the intersection between sexuality and machines… an interesting conversation resulted and the revelation that said photographer is in possession of a fucking machine (you know, one of these things). Was I intrigued? Well, considering that I was already intrigued by his project, yes I certainly was.

So, fast forward to last night, when I filled my suitcase with clothes, shoes and sex toys and made my way to the studio we were shooting in. We started out with some still pics for a bit of warm up and utilized my very red wardrobe and collection of high heels. I was amused to find that it’s becoming much easier to walk in 5 inch stilettos; when I put on my platforms I felt almost like I was wearing sneakers, they were so easy to move around in. Hey, strutting in 5 inch heels is a useful life skill for me.

After a while, the photographer took out the fucking machine for me to admire and ponder. It was basically a metal suitcase like the kind you see carrying millions of dollars in those gangster movies. Except inside of it was the metal that makes the hump possible, and it had a metal pole sticking out of it. It came with a collection of dildos (the icky flesh colored, veiny jelly rubber ones) but I was delighted to find out that my favorite silicone dildo happened to have a hollowed out space perfectly sized for said metal attachment. Well then. We turned the machine on its end so the dildo was pointing skywards, twisted its control on, and watched mesmerized as it pumped at the ceiling. Another twist of the knob and it pumped faster.

The photographer turned to me and said, “So what do you think?”

My eyes still locked on the machine, I responded, “Well, it’s kind of scary. But the noises it makes are less terrifying than I thought they’d be; I thought it would sound more like a jackhammer. Let’s do it.”

He raised his eyebrows at me and said, “You’ll be the first to have a go with it. Other models have been curious about it, but everyone’s been too afraid of it to actually use it.”

Leave it to me to take the machine’s virginity and give it my robot love virginity in exchange.

To warm myself up for the machine, I did a bit of a strip tease with the video camera trained on me, unzipped my dress (hey, I’m a class act, what can I say?), sat down in a comfy chair and began to play with my pussy. I dipped my fingers in my mouth and then smeared the wetness on my freshly shaved labia. By this time I was distracted by the task at hand, so I forgot about being careful with my lipstick and probably fucked it all up, but who cares — I was getting ready to make sweet robot love. I lingered with my fingers pulling at my labia, mixing spit and cunt juices together, rubbing my clit into the awakened state that always makes my piercing jut at an odd angle. I reached beside my chair for my trusty lube and toys and started to use the mini slimline all over my vulva; its hard plastic occasionally chattering over my piercing. I felt my labia plump up and the area just above my pubic bone swell. I pressed down on it and slid the vibe inside me at an angle so that I’d touch my g-spot while also bearing down on it from above. Good, cross-eyed stuff. While keeping the vibe in place with one hand, I reached for my lumina wand with the other. I was ready for some harder g-spot banging. Chatter chatter chatter was the sound of the moment as the slimline collided with my piercing and the lumina wand, and sometimes both at once. I felt my juices start to drip out of me and expand down the insides of my thighs — I was ready for robot love. I tapered off with the vibrator and announced, “I’m ready for it.”

We shuffled things around a bit and tried to figure out the optimal position for machine fuckery. Since the floor was looking none too comfy for laying or kneeling on, we decided that it would be best if I stood over the machine, with it poking me from below. I had to take my fabulous stilettos off for this portion of the evening’s program so that I could balance better. I lubed up my dildo and inserted it before turning the machine on, and then slowly twisted the knob. With a click and a grind, the machine sprung to life, and on its first upward thrust popped out of my pussy. This much I can say — though the machine repetitively thrusts in the exact same way, it is still no easier to keep the cock-pussy connection going than it is with a real live cock. Or maybe I just need more machine-fucking practice.

After getting the hang of the machine for a while, we decided that I should turn around and angle the thing so that I would be getting fucked from behind, though still standing up. We put a stool in front of me for leaning against, and this position worked much better, partly due to the fact that I was no long looking directly at the machine and being fascinated by the hump mechanism (yes, that’s a technical term). I could concentrate more on the solid fucking the thing was administering once I was propped up on my elbows and pointing my ass at machine (and camera). I dropped my left hand down onto my clit and realized that my pussy was a sopping mess (in a good way).

I closed my eyes, listened to the steady hum of the machine behind me, and went to town on my clit. That dildo isn’t my favorite for nothing — its smooth swells rubbed my g-spot in just the right way, and the wide base stretched my cunt wide for a spilt second as the machine penetrated me to the hilt. Though at first I had been too concerned with the mechanics of the operation (and I’ll admit, a little self-conscious about being on camera) to think that I’d be able to make an orgasm happen, it was becoming a reality. I felt myself slip into my head and body a bit more, and I looked down to see my legs violently shaking.

The gears inside the suitcase groaned against my pulsing cunt muscles. It made a bit of a cranking noise and I wondered for a second if my orgasm was going to push the cock out (it didn’t), but then I got lost in the feeling of coming. With a soft sigh, my body began to go slack, and I slowed the machine to a stop. I disengaged, still shaking and a little flushed. The photographer watched me shaking subtly before him for a second, and then asked, “So, how was it?”

“It was… good. Interesting. I was able to get into it more when I wasn’t looking at the shiny metal of the machine.”

So, it wasn’t the most fearsome orgasm ever, and I didn’t go totally nuts about the machine, but I think given some practice and a different position (how about not standing up), my robot love skills could increase exponentially. Now there’s a useful life skill to have.

I’m very impressed by the quoted portion of this article:

It’s time someone praised and defended reckless teenage girls and young women who behave badly, dress provocatively, engage in risky sex, and get pregnant. They are the normal ones. The rest of us are the deviants. They are behaving in the most natural way. The rest of us are mutants.

There is nothing wrong with pelvic display, push-up bras, Gosford miniskirts, spray-on jeans, low-cut tops, bare legs, bare arms, bare ankles, G-strings or even buttock cleavage, providing the displayer is young enough to get away with it. A woman’s body is at its fertility peak between the ages of 17 and 23. So when young women advertise or flaunt their sexuality they are being driven by a force far stronger than the Judeo-Christian ethic. They are driven by the power of peak fertility and a million years of evolutionary biology. Nature has programmed them for pregnancy, genetic diversity and keeping the species going. A big job.

Sexually active teenage girls, and sexually promiscuous women of any age, carry the greatest social burden of judgements, punishments, restrictions and risks because we haven’t got the child-care equation right. These women are just doing their job. They are real, while the rest of the equation is artificial. Society is the collective weight of traditions, conventions, laws, habits, fears, tribes, taboos and technologies, permeated by a Judeo-Christian ethic dominated by men and designed to curb female sexual power. Our norms are also dominated by the ideology of materialism that is moving women further and further towards unnatural behaviour, pressuring them to have babies later rather than sooner.

This is society’s real problem. Teenage pregnancy is trivial by comparison to suppressed pregnancy.

In other words, it’s not those damned horny kids who have the problem, it’s us grownups, who’ve built a society where you have to study and train and work your way up for far too many years, before you finally gain the economic power necessary to have children responsibly without depending on anybody else.

Want a castle for your sexcapades? This one, billed as a Wonderfull Castle In The Italian Countryside, has plenty of room, an “underground passage,” and much more. Check out the amenities, especially the second one in the third column. :)

Thanks, Evil Science Chick.

It’s no suprise that nearly-naked catfighting is an old tradition, and not something they just dreamed up over at Ultimate Surrender. Still, I love this vintage 1960’s comic book cover approach to the genre:

Thanks to comics blogger Johnny Bacardi for the illustration.

…shoots himself in the foot. Alternative title for this post: How To NOT Get 3,000 Hits from Fleshbot And A Spot On My Blogroll.

This time, the cutesy javascript said:

“As perverse as it is, you can’t have it.”

I didn’t want to “have it”, I wanted to share it. Some people just don’t play well with others, I guess.

Columnist Emily Pepper writes about the TMI hazards of writing a sex column:

This is worse with family. My grandpa told me he once had anonymous anal intercourse with some Parisian guy — while married to my grandma, no less — because he was questioning his sexual identity, wanted to experiment, etc. And it all turns out for the best, in the end: As the Frenchman embraced him and whispered, “Je t’aime” into his ear, he realized he really preferred women, and, when the evening was over, politely bid Louis L’Amour goodnight and went trotting home. An interesting story. Not, however, one you want dropped on you out of the blue by your 80-something grandfather. It’s uncomfortable. Afterward, I beat my head against a drainpipe and sniffed glue trying to get the naked-grandpa images out of my head — sadly, all to no avail.

Thanks to Waking Vixen for her report from the front lines in the war on terror, aka the dreaded New York Subway random bag searches:

Yesterday, the bag search finally happened to me. As luck would have it, I was carrying a bag full of dildos, butt plugs, lube, condoms, a strap on harness and spiky high heels. I got pulled aside and the cop asked me to open my (black! suspicious!) bag. I obliged, and the collection of silicone toys was right on top, with a stiletto poking straight up in the air. The cop didn’t even bat an eye, just nodded and waved me through the turnstile.