Journal Entry 266 / 01028
Erwer, Hiss 23, 01028
Chatenni, in introspective moments, admitted, if only to himself,
that he had never been very good around people, although sometimes
he was willing to stick his head out and be counted among his fellow
Pendorians. Being a graduate student had more or less forced him into
a life where he interacted with others on a daily basis, but if he sat
back and admitted it to himself fully he didn't enjoy it.
It wasn't to say that he didn't like his fellow students. Or Rima,
for that matter. It was simply that, given a choice, he would prefer to
spend time by himself.
This essential truism about his own nature had become clearer to him
in the past couple of weeks as he had gone through the collection of
erotica that he had recovered from the Ritans' personal libraries. He
had collected almost fifteen hours of smut, and he intended, deliberately
and without inhibition, to enjoy it all. He was surprised at how much of
it was strictly fem-on-fem. He supposed that made sense given that it
came from an army entirely of women, but it was also intended to be an
army strictly of mothers, not lovers. And much of the material he had
collected was so badly and blatantly created by males that he wondered
at the sensibilities that had collected it.
It had led to some wild theorizing with the rest of his team. There were
dark suggestions that the material was planted in the personnel caches
after they were frozen, a way of sowing dissent, perhaps, or suspicion,
or ideas that could bring relief, maybe. Nobody knew, and until some
slip of paper that had survived the millenia undamaged certified that
some upper-management type with a self- described brilliant idea had
thought of this, the origin of the smut would remain a mystery.
Chatenni, however, didn't care much about the mystery. He wanted to relax.
He felt crowded, closed in, stuck with too many people in an underground
bunker. Rima was away for the week, and for that, as much as for anything,
he was incredibly grateful. He liked her, but after five weeks sharing
the same air he was ready for a break.
He put in the first he had selected. It was the first all-fem one
he had found, with the Ritan named Crystal, who had charmed him so much
with her soft, doe-like eyes. He willfully suspended his disbelief and
let his mind drift. It didn't take long for him to fall into the kind of
aroused trance that seems to be the downfall of many mels when actually in
the presence of a real fem. He felt the fur on his shoulders prickle, his
groin grew warm and his erection heavy. He could hear his own heartbeat,
a dull drum in the distance, playing a message for the rest of his body.
As the wore on and more fems joined Crystal in her romping around,
Chatenni thought that he was barely going to get through a single hour
of the collection he had amassed. Quietly, as if trying not attract
the attention of someone who might be nearby, he reached over to the
ten-liter box he had acquired for the occasion.
Freed from its confines and exposed to the light, the contents of the
box, a free-moving mass of what looked like nothing so much as pink
clay, flowed over the side and approached Chatenni. The stuff had
various names, 'Go Goo,' 'Pleasure Putty,' 'Climax Clay,' but it was
all marketed with the same tagline: "Why fuck something with a mind of
its own?" Little more than nanochine utility fog with water added for
weight, its processors were programmed with one very simple instruction
and a raft of complicated add-ons: figure out what physical sensations
make someone come the hardest, and do that well.
It was, understandably, very popular with loners like Chatenni, although
this was his first time playing with the stuff.
As he watched the screen, a new began. This one was as formulaic as
the previous; the subtitles, hardly necessary, told the of a woman
tired of the in her life, and her friend trying to show her "another
side of pleasure." The story, such as it was, proceeded from that point.
The had flowed over his body and down toward his genitals. It had
among its finer points the capacity to register pleasure by several
known metrics, including the presence of certain hormones in the blood,
the activity of the nervous system, and of course the intensity of an
erection or the wetness of a vulva.
Chatenni felt the flow over his cock and balls. It quickly began
experimenting with gentle things, trying out different combinations of
vibration, stroking, a sort of sensation, and differing degrees
of friction. Very quickly, it settled on something very much like the
way he felt when he masturbated, only warmer, wetter, and better. He
gasped hard at the incredible pleasure that flowed into his groin from
the goo. It had surrounded his balls, tugging gently at them, letting
gravity pull at them with its weight.
He watched on the screen as the two femRitans turned over on a collection
of mattresses strewn on a floor, giggling before they settled into
the serious business of playing for the camera, exposing themselves,
sliding their bodies one against the other. They turned into a circle,
mouth to vulva and vulva to mouth, as the closed in on friendly
tongues pressed to pouting vaginal openings. Chatenni's imagination
placed him in the midst of all that moisture, earnestly wishing that
someday he could have at least one of this.
His cock was on the verge of exploding. He moaned softly as his orgasm
stayed just out of reach. He didn't know if that was the or his own
expectation that sensations like this only came from masturbation. The
sensations grew ever stronger, until the on screen feigned their
own hysterical climax and he came with them, the convulsing around
his throbbing penis.
He collapsed onto the bed as the retreated, collecting in a pink
puddle next to him. It had consumed his semen, which it would find a use
for, either as power or as material. He stared at it dazedly, realizing
that he would have to recharge the stuff anyway.
He stopped the and sighed. It had done its job and worn him out. He
was ready for sleep. He picked up the now dry sphere of putty and dropped
it into box, before tossing it into a duffel. "Nix? Lights out."
The Journal Entries of Kennet R'yal Shardik, et. al., and Related Tales
are Copyright (c) 1989-2000 Elf Mathieu Sternberg. Distribution limited
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