Chapter 11: Automated Bliss
The sticky puddle had cooled to room temperature by the time Alaxa noticed. One moment she was hunched over her holographic display, tweaking the molecular structure of a synthetic pheromone designed to attract stray cats (Project: Feline Overlords, Phase 2), the next, her bare foot landed squarely in a small, viscous lake beside her ergonomic chair.
"Ah, bollocks!" she yelped, yanking her foot back. The goo stretched in thin, glistening strands. She looked down, past the edge of her faded 'I ♥ Newtonian Physics' t-shirt, to the device still securely strapped around her hips. The clear plastic collection tank, bulbous and obscene, was swollen to capacity. Milky fluid pressed against the seams. A slow, persistent drip fell from the overflow valve she’d optimistically labeled 'Safety Release (Probably Unnecessary)'.
The pump itself, humming contentedly beneath her soft, unresisting cock, continued its rhythmic work. The tiny vibrating nodules she'd embedded in the silicone sleeve buzzed against her perpetually flaccid flesh, while the internal heating element kept everything at a cozy 38.5°C. It felt… nice. Annoyingly, perpetually nice. Like a warm, insistent cat purring in her lap, except this cat was relentlessly milking her. And had just made a mess on her vintage Persian rug.
Groaning, she peeled the tape off the 'ON' switch. The pump whined down into silence. The cessation of vibration left a strange, hollow ache. "Cruel mistress, thy name is Bio-Mechanics," she muttered, carefully unstrapping the contraption. A thin river of precum traced a path down her inner thigh as she lifted the heavy tank. "Eighteen hours. Eighteen hours, and you fill a 500ml tank? Honestly, body, a little restraint? We have standards."
She hefted the container, sloshing the contents. It shimmered opalescent under the soft pastel light filtering through her sheer bed curtains. The scent of jasmine candles now mingled unpleasantly with the tang of her own overproduction. Her nipples, as ever, felt tight and sensitive against the soft cotton of her bra. The horniness was a constant thrum now, a biological white noise she both resented and, in a deeply weird way, found fascinating. Data was data.
Waddling carefully, she carried the overflowing tank towards her en-suite bathroom, leaving sticky footprints on the pale pink rug. "Right then," she announced to the empty room, her voice echoing slightly off the tiled walls. "Quantifiable results! Excellent. Now... storage." She eyed her limited fridge space, already crammed with questionable takeout and petri dishes labeled 'FUNGUS: FUN? "Priorities."
Before she could solve the refrigeration crisis, a brisk knock rattled her bedroom door. "Al? You decent? Smells like... victory? Or maybe rancid yoghurt in here?" Anya’s voice, laced with characteristic skepticism, cut through the quiet hum of the nearby fan whirring valiantly against the lingering humidity.
Alaxa didn't pause, sloshing the tank onto the vanity table beside half-used mascara tubes and an open jar of petroleum jelly. "Define 'decent'!" she called back cheerfully, grabbing a fluffy pink towel to mop her leg. "Enter, if you dare the olfactory assault!"
Anya pushed the door open, Belle peering cautiously over her shoulder. Both women froze just inside the threshold. Their eyes travelled from the glistening, bulbous tank on the vanity, past the sticky footprints, to Alaxa standing there in just her t-shirt and dampened lace-trimmed panties, one leg slightly lifted as she wiped herself down. The humming pump assembly lay discarded on her plush velvet chair like a bizarre piece of cyberpunk jewelry.
"Alaxa Thorne," Anya breathed, pinching the bridge of her nose. "What fresh hell is that?" She pointed a trembling finger at the tank.
"Progress, darling! Tangible, measurable progress," Alaxa declared, beaming. She patted the container fondly. "Meet Project E.D.E.N. Mk II – the Erectile Dysfunction Ejaculation Nullifier? No, that’s not right... Efficient Delivery of... Eh, name’s a work in progress. Point is, it works! Fully automated! Vibrations, temperature control, continuous collection. Zero erection required. A triumph of engineering over biology!"
Belle wrinkled her nose, stepping gingerly around a sticky patch on the rug. "It smells like... despair. And biology. Why is it full, Al? How long was that thing running?"
"Eighteen hours! Can you believe the throughput?" Alaxa's green eyes sparkled with manic pride, completely oblivious to her friends' expressions of disgust and horror. "The new libido enhancer is spectacularly effective on the production side. Demand is sky-high, supply is... well, it's overflowing, literally." She gestured dramatically at the mess. "Just need to fine-tune the overflow containment. Minor setback."
Anya walked slowly towards the vanity, peering at the tank with morbid fascination. "So this... this entire tank...
"Yup!" Alaxa popped the 'p'. "Precum, mostly. Some ejaculate. Bit of a cocktail, really. Fascinating viscosity. I need to run some analyses – protein content, fructose levels, viability..." Her gaze drifted towards a compact centrifuge humming quietly on a side table piled with notebooks.
Belle gagged theatrically. "Viability? For what? Please tell me you are not planning to, I don't know, cook with it?"
Alaxa looked momentarily thoughtful, tapping her chin. "Huh. Nutritive paste? Probably not FDA approved." She dismissed the idea with a wave. "No, no, practical application! Think about it: this is pure biological lubricant. Hypoallergenic, presumably. Self-replenishing! I could market it! 'Thorne's Throbbing Tonic'? Needs work." She winked.
"Marketing nightmare," Anya said flatly. "Also, illegal in seventeen states."
"Pfft, regulations," Alaxa scoffed, turning her attention back to the pump mechanism. She picked it up, examining the overflow valve critically. "Okay, simple fix. Need a larger capacity reservoir. Or maybe a direct line... hook it up to a continuous flow system? Like a sap tap!" Her eyes lit up again. "Yes! A gravity-fed collection vessel underneath the bed! Minimal mess!"
Belle looked faint. "You are going to install a spigot? On yourself?!"
"Not on me, attached to me," Alaxa corrected absently, rummaging in a drawer overflowing with silicone tubing and zip ties. "Temporarily. For data collection purposes." She pulled out a large, empty IV bag. "This might do for a start. Need to reinforce the attachment point..." She trailed off, already mentally engineering the upgrade.
Anya sighed, the long-suffering sigh of someone who had witnessed too many of Alaxa’s 'data collection purposes'. "Al, maybe... just maybe... take a break? Let your poor body recover? That looks... intense." She gestured vaguely at the general area covered by Alaxa's t-shirt hem.
Alaxa paused, the IV bag dangling from her fingers. The constant, low-level thrum of arousal hadn't ceased for a second; if anything, the interruption and the discussion had stoked it. She shifted, a fresh trickle of warmth escaping her despite the pump being off. The soft flesh between her legs felt impossibly sensitive, yearning for the relentless stimulation the machine provided. A break? The idea felt like torture.
"Recover?" She gave a short, humorless laugh laced with dark frustration. "Anya, my dear, recovery implies the desire for a cessation of symptoms. This?" She gestured down at herself, then at the full tank on the vanity, her voice dropping to a low, intense murmur. "This is the symptom. The entire bloody condition. The pump... it’s not the problem, it’s the only thing keeping me vaguely sane right now. It’s scratching an itch that keeps re-growing." She met Anya’s gaze, her usual manic energy replaced by a stark, almost feral need. "Stopping isn't an option. I need more. Better. Faster." Her grip tightened on the IV bag.
Without another word, she turned back to the tangled mess of tubing and the humming pump on the chair. Her fingers moved with swift, practiced efficiency, connecting the IV bag inlet to the pump's outlet port with a length of reinforced silicone. She ignored the sticky floor, the bewildered stares of her friends, the sheer absurdity of the situation. The science demanded progression. The relentless, humiliating, fascinating demand of her own traitorous body demanded relief, however mechanically achieved. She secured the tubing with a zip tie, her movements sharp, focused, driven by a potent cocktail of scientific obsession and inescapable, dripping need. The click of the plastic fastener echoed in the suddenly quiet room, punctuated only by the faint hum of the fan and the rapid, shallow sound of Alaxa’s own breathing as she prepared to strap the upgraded, high-capacity system back on.
The sharp click of the zip tie securing the IV bag hose to the pump's outlet echoed like a locking mechanism in the suddenly too-quiet room. Alaxa ignored Anya’s horrified gasp and Belle’s choked cough, her fingers trembling slightly as she deftly re-strapped the modified apparatus around her hips, the cool silicone sleeve nestling against her perpetually soft flesh. The newly attached IV bag, large, clear, and faintly medical-looking, hung heavy and empty against her thigh, its potential for filling absurdly evident. She fumbled with the tape, slapping a strip firmly over the 'ON' switch, reigniting the low, relentless hum and the familiar, frustratingly pleasant thrum of vibration against her unresponsive nerves.
"Alaxa, stop!" Anya finally found her voice, stepping forward, hand outstretched but hesitant to actually touch the humming contraption. "This isn't sanity, it’s… it’s industrial-scale self-abuse! Look at the mess!" She gestured wildly at the sticky footprints marring the plush rug and the now-empty but still gleaming tank on the vanity.
"Data acquisition requires volume, Anya," Alaxa retorted, her voice tight with concentration and the building pressure low in her belly, a fresh trickle already warming the inside of the sleeve. "The Mk I exceeded capacity with fascinating speed. Mk II requires larger parameters. It’s basic scalability!" She shifted her weight, the IV bag swinging, the vibrations intensifying the low, insistent throb of arousal that was her new constant companion. "Besides, the overflow issue necessitates… expansion."
Belle pressed a hand to her mouth, eyes wide. "Expansion? You look like you’re about to tap yourself like a maple tree! Or install a goddamn piss spigot!"
"Collection port," Alaxa corrected automatically, adjusting a strap. "And it’s significantly more hygienic than previous methods. Remember Project: Autonomous Glove? The servo malfunction?" She shuddered theatrically, though whether at the memory or another fresh pulse of sensation was unclear. "This is controlled. Measured. Efficient." Her breath hitched as the nodules hit a particular cluster of nerves. "And… persistent."
Anya grabbed her arm, trying to pull her attention away from the device. "Listen to yourself! Measured? You've got a damn IV bag taped to your leg for your own… output! Your room smells like a jasmine-scented locker room! This isn't science, it's pathology!"
Alaxa wrenched her arm free, her green eyes flashing with a mix of defiance and raw, desperate need. "It's my pathology! My body decided to be a faucet it can't turn off! This?" She slapped the humming pump. "This is the handle! It's the only thing keeping me from…" She trailed off, a fresh wave of intense, unsatisfying sensation washing over her, making her knees weak. "From chewing through the furniture." She leaned heavily against the vanity, knocking over a mascara tube, the scent of jasmine momentarily overpowered by the sharp, biological tang radiating from the device. "Just… give me the data. Then we reassess." Her gaze drifted back down, fixated on the empty IV bag, already anticipating its filling. The hum filled the silence.
Weeks bled into each other. The insistent, maddening thrum of constant arousal, that biological white noise that had ruled her existence, began to… fade. Not vanish, but recede like a tide pulling back from a fevered shore. It was subtle at first. Alaxa noticed it during a late-night calibration session on Project: Feline Overlords (Phase 3 – Sonic Lures). The usual, distracting buzz in her core that demanded attention even while soldering microcircuits was quieter, less insistent. She paused, soldering iron hovering, and frowned at the humming pump strapped securely beneath her t-shirt. The vibrations continued their work, the IV bag beneath her thigh chair held a moderate slosh of fluid – significantly less than the near-bursting quantities of weeks prior.
"Huh," she muttered. Odd. Perhaps a fluctuation? She checked the pump's settings: vibration amplitude optimal, temperature constant, suction rhythm steady. Yet, the frantic need, the feeling of being perpetually on the edge without ever achieving the release of tension an erection promised, was… diminished. It was still there, an above-average background hum of lust, but it no longer felt like her nervous system was short-circuiting. More like a persistent, manageable itch rather than a raging chemical fire.
The evidence mounted daily. The IV bag needed emptying only once, maybe twice a day instead of constantly threatening overflow. The sticky puddles on the rug became a thing of the past, requiring only a quick swipe with a damp cloth. The scent of jasmine finally began to dominate the room again, the sharp biological tang fading to a mere whisper. The tight, aching sensitivity in her nipples eased. She found she could focus for hours on her holographic displays without the overwhelming compulsion to adjust the pump settings or simply grind against the edge of her workstation.
One afternoon, while reviewing spectral analysis data on synthetic pheromones, she finally acknowledged the shift wasn't a fluke. She reached down, her fingers brushing the now-familiar silicone sleeve around her soft flesh. The vibrations still felt pleasant, warming, a low-level stimulation. But the urgency was gone. The desperate, clawing need that had driven her to strap on a collection tank, then an IV bag, to be milked like some bizarre dairy cow… it had receded. Her libido was still lively, definitely above baseline, but it felt… human again. Manageable. Almost normal. Except for that.
She unstrapped the pump with a sigh that held more exhaustion than frustration. It peeled away easily. Lifting her t-shirt hem, she looked down. The soft, unresisting flesh lay exactly as it had for weeks. Months, now. She prodded it gently. Nothing. No response. No flicker of rigidity. Just the same familiar, frustratingly pliant shape. The scarring she knew microscopically marred the cavernous corpus – the result of that ill-fated early experiment – was permanent. A fixed state. The relentless overproduction was gone. The uncontrollable tsunami of arousal had subsided to a manageable tide. But the landscape it washed over? Permanently altered. Flaccid. Unmoving. The pump, the IV bag, the whole elaborate milking apparatus… suddenly felt heavy. Pointless. Like holding an umbrella after the storm had passed, under a sky that would never truly clear. She dropped the humming device onto the cluttered vanity beside the half-full IV bag. Its vibrations rattled against the glass cosmetic jars for a moment before she reached over and, with a decisive flick, silenced it. The sudden quiet was profound. She stared at the quiet, dangling bag, its contents still gleaming faintly in the pastel light.
The silence after the pump’s whirring ceased felt thick, heavy. Alaxa stared at the IV bag, half-full of her own unnaturally produced fluid, gleaming like cheap pearl under the soft glow of her pastel lamps. Jasmine fought valiantly against the lingering, intimate tang in the air. A profound sense of the absurd washed over her, colder than the cooled liquid in the bag. Months of being a bio-factory, a leaky faucet of frustrated desire, culminating in… this quiet, dangling plastic pouch. Her grand automated solution felt suddenly ridiculous, a monument to desperation.
She peeled the silicone sleeve away with a wet squelch, the cool air startling against constantly stimulated skin that refused to stiffen. A fresh, thin trickle traced a path down her inner thigh, warm and embarrassingly mundane. "Right," she muttered to the empty, scented air. "Operation Maple Syrup is officially retired." She detached the IV bag hose with a decisive tug, capping it clumsily. The tubing snaked to the floor, leaving a glistening smear on the pale pink rug she’d ruined weeks ago. She tossed the entire humming pump assembly into a drawer labelled ‘Failed Ventures & Questionable Ethics’, the IV bag landing beside it with a dull thud. Priorities shifted. Cleanup. Then… reassessment.
A long, hot shower followed. She scrubbed away the lingering stickiness, the phantom buzz of the pump, the faint medicinal scent of the collection apparatus. The water sluiced over her, revealing the unchanged landscape beneath: smooth skin, soft curves, and the familiar, frustratingly unresponsive flesh nestled between her legs. She prodded it experimentally under the stream. Nothing. Just the same yielding softness, the permanent result of her earlier, overzealous tinkering. The scarring was etched deep within the corpus cavernosum she knew too well. A fixed state. Like bedrock. The tsunami of arousal had receded, leaving the shore permanently reshaped. Flaccid. Unyielding. Forever. "Well, bugger," she sighed, the steam doing nothing to soften the hard truth. The constant, maddening need might be manageable now, but the mechanics were fundamentally broken. A faulty switch on a machine she couldn’t repair.
Wrapped in a fluffy towel, hair a damp crimson tangle, she surveyed her sanctuary. The sticky footprints were history, mercilessly scrubbed away. The vanity was cleared of its bizarre medical detritus, back to cosmetics and scattered notes. The faint scent of jasmine was winning. Order, of a sort, was restored. Yet, the low thrum of arousal, quieter now but still undeniably present, hummed beneath her skin like a persistent electrical current. It wasn't the raging inferno demanding the pump’s relentless attention; it was a steady, biological pulse, a background radiation she recognized as her new, slightly elevated, baseline. Manageable. Human. Annoying.
She flopped onto the plush velvet chair, the familiar softness a comfort against her towel-draped skin. The quiet was… loud. Her gaze drifted downwards. The towel gaped slightly. She traced a finger along the inside of her thigh, experimentally. The skin there was hypersensitive after weeks encased in silicone. A shiver, pleasant and entirely unwelcome given the circumstances, ran through her. The arousal pulsed, a quiet demand. Old habits, it seemed, died hard. And manual override was always an option.
Her hand dipped beneath the towel. Fingers brushed against soft, warm flesh. Still no response from the primary equipment, just yielding softness. But the nerves… oh, the nerves were very much awake and functional. She explored the scarred base with hesitant fingertips, then trailed lower. There. A different kind of sensitivity. A different path to the same frantic signal center. Her breath hitched. It wasn’t the overwhelming need that had driven her to strap on an IV bag, but it was… present. Insistent. Familiar. Frustratingly achievable, despite the main event being permanently out of order.
A low groan escaped her lips, half-relief, half-resignation. She leaned back, letting the towel fall open entirely. Green eyes fixed on the canopy above as her fingers moved with practiced, if slightly rusty, familiarity. Focus wasn’t on the stubbornly soft cock anymore. Focus was on the heat building elsewhere, the tension coiling low in her belly, the simple, messy, human act of seeking release the old-fashioned way. Her other hand found a breast, thumb circling a hardened nipple, amplifying the sensations converging between her legs. It wasn't the mechanical efficiency of the pump, nor the bizarre spectacle of the collection tank. This was primal. Messy. Personal. And, crucially, it still worked.
The climax, when it crashed over her minutes later, wasn't the earth-shattering, piston-driven release the pump sometimes wrung from her flaccid state. It was deeper, warmer, a wave of heat spreading outwards from her core, pulling a ragged gasp from her throat and making her toes curl into the plush velvet. Satisfaction, thick and heavy, washed through her, momentarily quieting the hum of constant arousal. She lay there panting, staring at the ceiling, fingers still resting on slick skin. The absurdity wasn't gone. The permanent flaccidity remained. But the overwhelming desperation, the need for industrial solutions? That felt… manageable. Contained. Almost normal.
She wiped her hand absently on the discarded towel beside her. A slow, wry smile touched her lips. "Okay then," she murmured to the empty, jasmine-scented room, the scent of her own release mingling faintly. "Back to basics." She stretched languidly, muscles loose and humming with residual pleasure. The chaotic energy sparked again, momentarily diverted from bodily fluids. "Now… where was I with those feline pheromones?" The IV bag in the drawer seemed a distant, slightly embarrassing memory. Her sex life wasn't what it was, wasn't what she'd tried to make it. But it was hers again. Messy, manual, and confined mostly to her own hands and the plush surfaces of her sanctuary. She could work with that. Mostly.