The table splits apart and slides my legs by what feels to be a few inches. Two metal plates snap up and cup the tightness of my inner thighs and pivot to spread my legs ever so slightly apart . . . <<< BACK TO CONTENTS IMAGE ALIEN GANG UP I am transferred to a cold, mercury-plated table on my back that immediately drops from beneath my thighs, lowering my legs at 45 degrees and pushing my hipbones out thru my thin skin. At the same time my torso declines at 25 degrees so that my body rests, splayed upon this arch like an inverted banana, pelvis exposed; a tip of a pyramid rising for experimentation. My wrists are spread out on an angular metal arm that juts out from my hipbones by about two feet. My pelvic bone rests like a smooth shell with this canvass of skin stretched taunt. A clamp stratles each delicate wrist and a thin flexible band is affixed around my neck. All done without ever seeing another person. My eyes blink above me, to the side. An endless room, without time or space to orientate me. Aside from not knowing where my body is, there is a peaceful euphoria that vibrates through me, a subtle gentle lapping like baby waves or a small dog’s tongue, who has a licking affliction and licks the couch pillows, your hand, the cat, as pain-staking and meticulously delicate as he can. Then I begin to realize the euphoria is actually being pumped there by a soft pad affixed to my sacrum bone; the flat area just above my tailbone that works as my axis, allowing for the tilt of my frame at this angle. A light warm electrical current shoots from this center of my body throughout, rippling tiny shock waves. My brain is on, but just barely, as if it’s coherent part has been sunk in some vat of liquid and is straining to keep its rational side just above the waterline, to keep from being washed over completely. My eyes catch movement above me and fixate on two thin, rigid strips of material as they slide from a silver ring that hovers above me like some heavy metal halo. They close in down upon my face and fit into the angled grooves on the sides of my eye cavity, to cover my peripheral vision, Clydesdale blinder-style. My vision is reduced to the slice of space that stretches into above and beyond nowhere. White fuzz without boundaries. My ears and tactile sense are the only feelings I have out into this surreal dream world while my sacrum buzzes on. Eternity passes and a swoosh alerts me to movement around, surrounding me; a faint energy of others in the room and fanning out of them around my splayed and racked body. The moment any jolt from my brain tries to spark me, the euphoria increases from my sacrum to compensate and my body slacks with a will of it’s own. Technically, my brain seems drugged via the body and there’s nothing I can do to jump start it. The entire of my skin feels the sheath of a lightweight material -- something like a plastic saran wrap. It conforms tightly around me, almost melting into liquid at the touch of the heat I’m generating but I can feel the openings made in it; circles cut over my pelvic bone and two that encompass my breast. As the wrap covers my face up to my blinders, there remains a circle for my mouth, nose and eyes. In the absence of being stifled by the material, the subtle presence of air—however faint, feels crisp to my few remaining free parts. The next thing I sense are two sets of fingers spreading my mouth wide apart. They are attached to arms that extend beyond the range my blinders lead to. They pull at opposite ends to make a face only seen in grade school when you didn’t know any better. A long metal wire with a soft tip swabs the back of my throat and I wink my throat shut from the inevitable reflex tickle. While my mouth is held open, a solid device is placed within the lips to spread my mouth and keep it open. I am totally exposed. I know this but still my mind can only blink in numbed acknowledgment. A snap of metal alerts me to machinery that whisks closer to my legs, unable to be seen by me but heightened in awareness. The table splits apart and slides my legs by what feels to be a few inches. Two metal plates snap up and cup the tightness of my inner thighs and pivot to spread my legs ever so slightly apart, bending my knees by a few notches. Not only am I tipped to my peak but I’m also spread for access to something. I cannot formulate any ideas. My mind searches, groping, but clutches in starry darkness. A brush swabs my pubic hair with something that feels like warm melted butter and it dips down to dab the space between my legs and I wonder if I’m about to be cracked apart and eaten like a crab leg. Suddenly, sets of hands surround me and lightly grasp my appendages from all angles of my body. There must be 14 sets of hands on me but they feel all different shapes and sizes, so they either belong to those who have deformities or they belong to twice as many others who only have one paw on my body and not the entire set. In unison, the hands begin to trace concentric circles upon my skin, the buzzing is increased in my backside and from below a single pole rises to my ass, nestling between me and hydraulically spreading me apart. Everything is concise, perfection, and cleanly articulated. The circles from hands increase in pressure and speed and I am oscillating into the feeling of levitation, though my body is fixed solidly to this table, the blood rushed and drained to my head from being at this angle for what seems like timelessness. An energy and heat is building in my body and the hands move closer over my pelvic bone—it’s like they’re drawing all the juice from my corners to gather it in this one elevated spot. I hear the distant whir of a power drill and it edges closer as the circles begin their decent to slow down on my skin. Air is gently being moved around my thighs in a circular movement and the object in question positions to millimeters of my body, wet and syrupy, having responded in a evolutionary way to the stimulation of skin and uncertainly this is bringing though my brain doesn’t register the fight or flight response it should. The whir of the drill clunks and then picks up speed intensifying; as if shifting gears, becoming almost mean and fixated in it’s movement. A blender turned from ‘fold’ to ‘puree’. The blinders raise and I slice my eyes down the fixture of my face to see a clear, smooth, lucite corkscrew drill three feet long circling my spread and opened body. Since I’m tilted down at an angle, it’s coming for me from below and only as it nears can I see the true size and velocity of it. It is bearing down on me, skating closer and my mind sends my body running but there it remains, open, spread, wet, with nothing to do but watch as the corkscrew slowly spins it’s three inch diameter toward me, brushing me, entering me and slowly, gradually screwing up into me. My body expands to take the push, push and then closes around it. The corkscrewing action is so intense it feels like I’m on a nauseating, yet thrill seeker roller coaster ride while the buzzing to my pad intensify. The drill is now fully screwing inside of me and inching toward my cervix. Three feet of it that widens at the base and I have no idea how far it will go, how far it can go before it…In one flash the direction drops and the drill comes from a lower, more tilted vantage point, pushes up into my g spot, screwing into the many rooms that hide behind the door and open; secret doorways, trick walls. Softly, stablely, expertly, mechanically pushing, screwing, rhythmically gyrating. One of the hands takes a knob and places it in the center of his palm. It vibrates like a five speed mixer and he cups his palm over my mound of hair and presses the object into me. The knob is really a softly molded ball of warm putty and it casts to my clitoris in perfection, it cups this orgasmic spot and bears it’s intensity down upon my clit. It feels as if the two are touching each other, through the thin walls of my pressed flesh. Then the butter brush is sliding between my legs, under the corkscrew, gingerly screwing me. From the limited place I can catch glimpses with my neck strapped down, a red rubber ball on a length of rigid tubing is jutting out of a smaller machine on wheels that operates between my legs. The rubber ball perfunctorily, automatically moves toward me and presses against my bottom. It squirts a fluid jelly into me like a fly fish casting and then pushes in, and pulls out, pushes in past the red rubber ball tip and pulls out, the motion faster and the corkscrew spins up into me. The buzz on my sacrum pad has amped to throttle and my spread-opened mouth begins to drool; running down the side of my face. Clamps bite my nipples and are hooked up to electrodes that record my vital statistics. Remote, blurred faces take notes; detached and distant, they stand too far away to be involved. My eyes lash around, my ass sucks in and out, my clitoris vibrates in bliss, my sacrum buzzes in drugged euphoria and my g spot opens the Pandora’s box of lucid interior feeling; a aedificum of small, mysterious rooms all lit with candles and flickering wall shadows, with tiny doors leading one to the other, and trap doors that fell you to rooms, caverns tucked below. My body spasms, tightens, and without warning my eyes clamp shut, palms gripping themselves as the only control I have is reduced to a tiny 2 square inch area. Almost as if a cue being waited for, hungry fingers rush my face and claw to stuff into my opened mouth. Penile portions of humans grace my squinched eyelids in a blinding fury and shoot into my face, mouth, eyes. The red rubber ball is slowing it’s light speed plummeting and the corkscrew remains grinding away, into my g spot, while withdrawing bit by bit to a still flexing, griping interior. The sacrum pad slows from buzzing altogether and waves upon waves upon waves crash over me as my throat moans past the liquid running down it, passing each other on their way, one in, the other out. The neck arches back and the pressure of release escapes out of the tip of my triangular molded body, out through my pelvic bone to dissipate into a container that sucks it in and vacuum seals it shut. The energy of my orgasm, the breathe of life; manufactured and bottled like a rare, natural resource, to be as fuel for another’s way. The bands around my wrists snap back and the jutting of the table jolt me back into flat laying position. My eyes blink, my brain struggles to wake from the drugged sluggishness of what I think must be an alien abduction. I cannot grasp the thoughts that are fleeing from my mind and I chase after them, shouting, “Wait, come back here.” Then I remember my swollen, screwed mound and reach for its testimony for what I know just happened. I find the wetness and the ache but I also find the neighbors small dog nestled between my outstretched legs, slightly bent, and he with the lapping--constant lapping tongue of his licking affliction, stuck to the juicy crease of my high inner thigh like a barnacle on a ribcage, licking, licking, in fond, steady, unwavering, committed, meticulous affection. END Each fantasy is crafted from an orgasm-rich personal experience, seared in my head and poured onto page. These are my fantasies, my dreams, my ultimate orgasms. If you provide the necessary components, sparse but clear, I’ll craft a personal fantasy for your own collection but I’ll have to feel it first. If it’s fake or wimpy, I won’t deliver. Make it original, deep, penetrating and you’ll have a first class flight to coming, twined in my style. REQUEST A PERSONAL FANTASY >>>