Aldea, Ring 22, 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 video 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 video 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 movie began. This one was as formulaic as the previous; the subtitles, hardly necessary, told the story of a woman tired of the men 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 goo 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 goo flow over his cock and balls. It quickly began experimenting with gentle things, trying out different combinations of vibration, stroking, a sort of sucking 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 camera 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 goo or his own expectation that sensations like this only came from masturbation. The sensations grew ever stronger, until the girls on screen feigned their own hysterical climax and he came with them, the goo convulsing around his throbbing penis.
He collapsed onto the bed as the goo 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 video 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.”