Chapter 10: The Eternal Fuck
The silence after Derek left was a physical thing, thick and buzzing in Lucia’s ears. She lay on the floor, the cold hardwood a shock against her flushed skin, the deep, internal ache a counterpoint to the vanishing warmth in her throat. The permanent plug felt different now—not just a weight, but a foundation that had been tested and found unshakable. The machine’s attachment, slick and abandoned beside her, seemed almost pathetic in its stillness.
She pushed herself up on trembling arms. A strand of saliva, mixed with the last of Derek’s spend, hung from her chin. She caught it on her finger, looked at it, then sucked it clean with a soft pop.
The apartment was too quiet.
Cassie was in a hotel room a thousand miles away, probably reviewing presentations. The thought was a dissonant chord. Lucia needed to bridge the gap, to make the distance meaningless. She needed to prove, mostly to herself, that the architecture held even when the architect was away.
She moved with a purpose that felt ceremonial. In the bedroom, she drew the heavy velvet drapes, plunging the room into a deep, artificial twilight. She lit a cluster of candles on the dresser, their flickering light painting the walls in dancing amber. The air grew warm, close, smelling of vanilla and the darker, muskier scent of her own arousal.
From a cabinet, she retrieved the specialized bench. It wasn’t the simple kneeling stool from before. This was a custom piece: padded black leather, with adjustable rests for her knees and chest, and sturdy straps of supple leather waiting at the wrists and ankles. She positioned it directly before the large television screen, which reflected the room’s intimate gloom.
Next came the machine. She wheeled it close, its black steel frame gleaming dully in the candlelight. She selected an attachment, not the thick veined dildo, but a longer, smoother one made of glossy silicone. At its base was a reservoir and a thin, clear tube that ran through the toy’s core. The cumtube. She filled the reservoir with a special, body-warm lube from a heating pot, watching the viscous liquid drain down the tube.
Her preparations were meticulous, a sacred liturgy. She opened the laptop connected to the TV, navigating to a private folder. The file she clicked was simply labelled ‘OS.’ It opened to show a swirling, psychedelic mandala of pinks and purples, and a soft, hypnotic voice began to pulse through the room’s speakers, barely above a whisper. “You are empty… you are open… you are made to be filled…”
Lucia’s breathing began to slow, synchronizing with the rhythmic pulse of the visuals. She shed her robe. In the candlelight, her body was a landscape of curves and shadows, the silver cage a stark, locked jewel. She approached the bench, running a hand over the cool leather.
She pressed a button on a remote. The TV screen shifted. Now it was a first-person view, a POV clip from one of her encounters. The camera loomed over a figure—her—bent and waiting. The image was high-definition, intimate. You could see the nervous flutter of a hole, pink and expectant. Then, the intrusion. The camera pushed in.
Lucia watched her own past submission as she settled onto the bench. She positioned herself, guiding the slick, tapered tip of the cumtube attachment to her entrance. It slipped in with obscene ease, past the permanent plug, a second invader claiming its space. She fastened the ankle cuffs, then the wrist cuffs, pulling them snug. The leather was cool and firm. She was held.
Her eyes flicked back to the screen. On the TV, the man from the clip was grunting, his hands gripping her hips. The sound of flesh meeting flesh filled the room. The hypnotic voice wove underneath it. “A good sissy has no thoughts… only hunger… only hole…”
Lucia reached a bound hand for the machine’s remote. Her thumb found the dial. She took a deep, shivering breath, her gaze locked on the screen where a past version of her was being used.
She turned the dial.
The machine whirred to life with a soft, electronic purr. The piston began to retract, then push forward. Slowly. Inexorably. The slick silicone slid into her, an inch, then two, then deeper, until the full, impressive length was buried inside her. It stopped, fully sheathed. She gasped, her body adjusting to the profound fullness. The machine held her there, packed.
Then it retracted, almost all the way out, leaving just the tip breaching her. The cool air of the room kissed her stretched rim. She whimpered.
It plunged back in. A smooth, powerful, perfect stroke.
Lucia’s head fell forward. A moan dripped from her lips. The machine set its rhythm: a slow, deep, measured fucking. Each inward stroke pushed against her permanent plug, creating a dizzying pressure deep in her core. Each withdrawal was a sublime emptiness that ached to be filled again.
Her eyes were glazed, half on the room, half on the screen where another man, from another day, was now taking his turn. The hypnotic voice murmured, “This is your purpose. This is your truth. You are a vessel. You are a toy.”
Time dissolved. The machine’s pace was relentless, unchanging. The piston drove into her with machinelike precision, hitting the same deep spot every single time. Her world narrowed to the slide of silicone, the creak of the bench, the drone of the hypnosis, and the visual feast of her own degradation on screen.
She was sweating now, a fine sheen on her skin that gleamed in the candlelight. Her caged cocklet leaked a constant, clear drizzle that pooled on the leather beneath her. The sensations began to blur, morphing from sharp pleasure into a continuous, overwhelming state of being fucked. Her mind frayed at the edges.
Then, a new sensation. A low click from the machine.
As the toy reached its deepest point on the next thrust, a warm, sudden flood erupted from its tip inside her. The reservoir pumping its load. The synthetic lube, warmed to body temperature, filled her, a shocking imitation of a climax she could never have. Lucia cried out, a strangled sound of utter submission. The machine didn’t pause. It kept fucking, the lubed-up strokes now slicker, wetter, a messier, more visceral simulation.
The cycle repeated. Thrust. Hold. Flood. Retract. The warm lube began to seep out around the toy, dripping down her thighs, onto the bench, a continuous leak that mirrored the useless dribble from her cage. The hypnosis droned on. “Mindless… useless… perfect…”
She was gone. Logan was a distant memory, a suit left crumpled in a forgotten closet. Cassie was a pleasant abstract. There was only Lucia. Only the machine. Only the hole being used.
Her mouth hung open. Spit pooled on the leather below her face. Her eyes were vacant, unblinking, reflecting the flickering images on the screen—close-ups of stretched flesh, of mouths full of cock, of blissful, ruined expressions. The voice wove it all together. “This is all you are. This is all you need to be.”
She lost hours. The candles guttered lower. The reservoir was refilled once, then twice. The warm floods inside her became the only punctuation in the endless rhythm. She came, not in sharp peaks, but in long, rolling waves of submission that had no beginning or end, her internal muscles fluttering uselessly around the invading toy, her caged nub throbbing with a pleasure that was purely psychological, a joy of utter uselessness.
Finally, her body could take no more. A deep, systemic shivering took hold, not from cold but from exhaustive overload. With a trembling finger, she fumbled for the remote and turned the dial to zero.
The machine stopped, mid-stroke, buried inside her. The hypnosis file looped back to the beginning. “You are empty…”
Lucia went limp in the restraints, a marionette with cut strings. She hung there, breathing in ragged, wet gulps. The evidence of the session was everywhere: the slick pool beneath her, the sweat drying on her skin, the numb, wide-open feeling that was more than physical.
With clumsy, numb fingers, she managed to unbuckle the cuffs. She slumped off the bench onto the floor, not bothering to remove the toy. It stayed inside her, a final anchor. She crawled, a broken, beautiful thing, to her purse. She pulled out her phone. Her vision swam, but she navigated to Cassie’s contact. She pressed record on a voice note.
Her voice, when it came, was a hoarse, ruined whisper, slurred with spent pleasure. “Hey, baby,” she breathed, the words barely audible. “It’s me. Just… just wanted you to know I’m okay. That I’m… I’m still here. That it’s all still here. Waiting for you.” A long, shaky exhale. “The bench… the machine… it works. It really, really works. I’m so empty, Cass. So empty for you.” She let the recording run, the sound of her own ragged breath saying more than words ever could. She ended it and sent it.
She didn’t move. She lay on the floor, the toy still nestled inside her, the candlelight dying around her. In the darkening room, the hypnotic voice was a soft, persistent whisper. “You are open… you are made to be filled…”
Lucia smiled, a slow, blissful curving of her plump lips. She was.
She was. The deep, stretched feeling was her new normal, the plug a constant companion. Her mouth was parchment, her throat scratchy from the moans and the spent breath. With a groan that came from her heels, she pushed herself up from the floor, the machine’s attachment slipping from her with a wet, hollow sound. She staggered to the ensuite, her legs unsteady, and drank directly from the tap. The water was lukewarm, unsatisfying.It didn’t touch the deeper thirst.
Back in the bedroom, the candles had burned to puddles of wax.The hypnosis file had ended, leaving a silent screen. The stillness felt accusatory. The session, as profound as it was, now felt like a prelude.A single, glorious sentence, but she needed a whole novel. She wanted to live inside the punctuation.The idea bloomed, absurd and intoxicating: what if she didn’t stop? What if she let the machine write her story until Cassie herself came to write The End?She moved with a frantic, giddy purpose.First, sustenance. She dug out a hydration backpack from a closet, its tube long and flexible. She filled the bladder with cool water, mixed in electrolytes, and slid the tube’s mouthpiece within reach of the bench. Next, the lube. She warmed a huge batch, enough to fill the reservoir twice over, setting the heating pot on a stool beside the machine. “Gotta stay slick,” she murmured to the empty room, her voice raspy.
She re-cued the hypnosis, selecting a longer, more intense file titled “Depth Charge.” It began with a low, sub-auditory rumble. On the TV, the visuals were simpler now: just a slowly pulsing, radiant pink dot. She attached a fresh toy, thicker than the last, to the machine’s arm. She coated it generously, watching the lube drip in thick strands onto the towel below. Her own body welcomed the attention, her hole fluttering openly around nothing, missing the fill.
“Okay, baby,” she whispered, a strange mix of ceremony and mania in her tone. “Let’s see how far this goes.”
She climbed onto the bench.The leather was still damp from her previous sweat. She guided the thick, glossy tip to her entrance. It didn’t just slip in; she had to push back against it, a deliberate re-sheathing. A sharp, bright gasp tore from her as the widest part stretched her.She locked her ankles into the cuffs. She fastened the wrist restraints tight, tugging once to be sure. The remote control, a single-button emergency stop, she placed on the bench just past her fingertips.She could reach it if she strained. Hopefully, she wouldn’t want to.She took one last sip from the hydration tube. Then she leaned forward, settled her weight, and hit the machine’s start switch with her chin.
The mechanism engaged with a low whir. This time, she set the rhythm even slower, but the stroke was longer, deeper.Each inward push was a profound, blooming pressure that made her eyes lose focus. Each withdrawal was a heartbreaking emptiness.The hypnosis thrummed through her. “Nothing exists but this hole.The world funnels here.All purpose is here.”
Hours bled. The room lost all definition.The pink dot on the screen was her universe, expanding and contracting with the pounding of her heart. She drank from the tube without thought, a reflexive suckling. The machine dispensed its warm lube flood on a timer, a shocking internal heat that made her jolt every time. The sensations stopped being discrete events.They became a state of being: a perpetual, blissful violation.Thought dissolved. Logan was a ghost.Cassie was a pleasant concept, a destination.Lucia was a process. A receiving. Her mind narrowed to a single, looping chant that matched the piston’s drive: fuck my ass fuck my ass fuck my ass.
She drifted into a shallow sleep, her body held open, mechanically pleasured.The machine fucked her through it. She woke to the same rhythm, the same deep fullness, unsure if minutes or hours had passed. There was no difference.She was a vessel on a slow, continuous fill. Apathy towards her own existence washed over her, warm and approving.This was nirvana. A factory reset of the soul to its basest, most perfect function.
The sound of the front door clicking open was a foreign artifact, a noise from a forgotten dimension. Footsteps, familiar and heavy with travel fatigue, approached down the hall.The bedroom door opened.
Cassie stood there, a suitcase dropped at her feet, her auburn hair wind-tousled. Her eyes, sharp and tired from her flight, took in the scene: the near-darkness, the abandoned candles, the machine’s relentless, mechanical hum, and Lucia—her wife—strapped to a bench, being methodically fucked into a stupor. Lucia’s eyes were vacant, fixed on the pulsing dot, her mouth slack around the hydration tube.A slow smile spread across Cassie’s face. “Well, hello there,” she said softly, her voice cutting through the hypnosis drone.Lucia didn’t respond. Her body just rocked forward and back with the machine’s stroke.
Cassie stepped closer, placing her carry-on bag on the floor.She ran a hand through Lucia’s sweaty blonde hair. Lucia moaned, a distant, automatic sound. “Missed me, did you?” Cassie murmured.She unbuttoned her tailored trousers, shoving them and her underwear down her thighs. The scent of sex, of another man, of travel, wafted from her.
She didn’t turn the machine off. Instead, she positioned herself on the bench, straddling Lucia’s face.She lowered her cunt, glistening and used, onto Lucia’s unresponsive mouth. “Clean me up, baby. Be a good girl.”
The contact, the intimate, salty-musky taste, triggered something primal in Lucia’s rinsed-out mind. Her tongue, as if operating on a deeper instinct, snaked out. It traced Cassie’s folds, lapping at the lingering evidence of a stranger. She drank the mixed fluids with a needy, hungry desperation, her hips pushing back against the machine’s thrust in a mute offering.
Cassie sighed, grinding gently against Lucia’s face.“God, you’re perfect like this. Absolutely perfect.” She came like that, quietly, riding Lucia’s tongue while the machine rode Lucia’s ass.
Afterward, she stood, pulling her clothes back up. She looked at Lucia, still dutifully lapping at the air, still being relentlessly penetrated. The adoration in Cassie’s eyes was fierce, possessive.She checked the lube reservoir.Half full.The hydration bladder. Still ample.She leaned down, kissing Lucia’s damp forehead. “I think you’re on a roll, sweetheart. Don’t let me interrupt.” She picked up the emergency remote and placed it on a high shelf, far out of reach. “We’ll talk tomorrow.”
Cassie left the room, closing the door softly behind her, leaving Lucia to the rhythm, the dot, the deep, endless fuck.
When it finally stopped—a mechanical click, then silence—the absence of motion was a shock almost as violent as the penetration. Lucia sagged in the restraints, a puppet with cut strings.Cassie must have turned it off.Hours ago?A day? Unimportant.Her asshole, when the toy was finally removed, didn’t even try to close. It stayed as a relaxed, puffy O, a permanent invitation.
Cassie undid the cuffs.Lucia collapsed into her arms, a boneless, mumbling thing. She was raw, rinsed, hollowed out.Every nerve ended in her ruined backside. Her thoughts were slow, syrupy. She could form only simple cravings: the weight of a man on her, the smell of cock, the bitter taste of cum at the back of her throat.
“Shhh,” Cassie soothed, carrying her to the bed. “You’re home.”
Lucia nuzzled into her wife’s neck, her voice a cracked whisper. “Need… need to be used.”
“I know,” Cassie said, her hand stroking Lucia’s hair. “And you will be.”