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Prosthetic
Tales of the Detachable Penis 1 We were hacking around the office one afternoon; things were slow at that time of year. Gerar had bought a cache of old data from some Timonier who lived in the Ruhrik Zone, and we were going through it, trying to identify what kind of information it was. It turned out to be lo-res pictures, 2D, from the early 21st century. At the time, there'd been a powerful puritan push in the west; a lot of then-clandestine things (which seem pretty tame these days) had been hidden inside people's computers. We'd finally established the picture format (a variation on the old JPEG compression) and were looking at the ones that hadn't been encrypted. Digital male gay pornography. A particularly impressive specimen appeared on the screen; I laughed and pointed. "Wau, get that." Gerar zoomed the screen in to the relevant point, and we examined the patterns of pixels. "'sbeen modified with a paint program," he said. "You sure?" He restored the whole image as I brushed one of our nanotech insects - a mantis - off the top of the display. "No, but statistically, that's pretty close to the upper limit -" "Oh, and of course, you've made a study of penis lengths of the late twentieth century?" He grinned, an 'ah, shaddap!' expression on his face. He was about to reply when he thought of something. He cleared the screen and made an enquiry on our human anatomical database. I laughed out loud at this, but he waved my derision aside and pointed to the monitor. It was a diagram of the penis's nerve structure. "Imagine this," he said in his slow, this-may-be-a-moneyspinner voice. "A nano prosthetic, that goes over the normal penis, passes the bloodstream and the nerve-impulses through -" I thought about it. We had looked at similar schemes before, but had come up against a lack of knowledge in the genome area. Some day, someone would devise a way of altering human code in situ, but it would have taken far too much work for us. This, however ... "It could be actuated by the same - " I added. Gerar cut me off, "And parallel - no, direct-linked response -" ... and we were off on another tangent.
Our actual work was growing repair tissue from banks of standard cells, stacked into place by nanotech 'performers'. Like most graduates of Nexus, we'd had solid groundings in related fields, and the bewildering (to the outsider, anyway) array of pets and nanotoys that cluttered the office were testimony to our skills. We'd even been able to sell the designs of some of them. One of my recent successes was a glove made of living tissue, stronger than ordinary skin. It had a web of nerves which passed pressure sensations straight through to the hand in the glove, while protecting it against severe heat. It had proven useful for people who cooked their own food. Just after I'd finished the testing, Gerar had shown me a model. It had belonged to a medical doctor of the late 20th century; a grossly distorted manikin, meant to represent the relative intensities of nervous tissue throughout the body. The lips, tongue and fingers were oversize; the genitals were, in relation, tiny. Various ideas that we'd both had during the past month suddenly came together on this concept. I put a few tentative models through the simulator. Gerar stood behind me and watched. "What's the deal in having a big dick, anyway?" I said offhandedly. I could see his smile reflected in the monitor. "Are you telling me that you've never seen some guy whose equipment made yours look tiny in comparison -" "Despite what you think of me, I'm not in the habit of examining genitalia -" "- and wondered what it'd be like to have a really huge -" "I don't believe that I'm having this conversation ..." Gerar burst out laughing, and then pointed to the screen. "There ... yes. It should detach itself on receiving, say, a pheromonal signal. Something unique, preferably scentless ... one of the KS93 analogues should do. In case the wearer can't find pants to fit." This last was said in a mocking tone. I turned my seat around to face him. "Do you want one of these?" He stared back at me incredulously for a moment, then smiled. "About three months ago, I had this implant - a mood stabiliser, releases tiny amounts of some noradrenaline analogue, or something like that, into my bloodstream. It was for that pseudoreligion that Bruxham wanted us to represent. It's still in me, and ever since I had it put in, I've had no interest in sex whatsoever. I don't think I'd make a very good test subject ... whereas you are obviously turned on by the idea ... come on, don't pretend that you aren't." I admitted grudgingly, "Well, it would be interesting, just for a while ..." He smirked. "Of course it would ..."
All businesslike (in appearance, at least), Gerar summoned up the relevant structural data from the database, and displayed the model, in its erect state, on the holo. He touched the dataplate and using virtual effectors, made some small changes in the model. "Personally, I've always been rather fond of this shape ... very thick just behind the head, here -" illuminating the indicated section with flashing red arrows, "and ... yes. That's about the right shape ... so, let's just scale the entire model by 1.45 ... wau!" I must admit; I was impressed. The prosthesis, when complete, would fit over the original member, with anchor segments fitting down around the scrotum and into the pubic hair. When in place, millions of microscopic cilii would hold it on firmly; veins near the base would intrude through the skin and divert some of the blood from the regular circulatory path. Because it wouldn't function with the regular mechanics of erection, nanoprocessors would emulate the effect, diverting blood through the spongy, centimetre-thick layer, swelling it to about two-thirds of its original size. There was an opening at the end which would allow the urethra to pass through. "Anything else you can think of?" I asked casually. Gerar thought for a moment, his chin resting on his fist; made a few minor changes to the general colour scheme, darkening it slightly, then he increased the diameter of the veins that ran along the underside, until they were almost as thick (in the model) as my little finger. "Not many girls go for that lumpy look," I cautioned him. "You aren't going to waste a beautiful tool like that on a girl, are you?" he asked with mock dismay. I smirked at him. "You'll be the first." He trained his attention on the model, plotting cell-stack paths. Distractedly, he said, "Actually ... I'll be the second. If you can masturbate through it successfully without pulling it off, then it'll be a success." He set the substrate up, poured the nanoproducers and the base material in, and set it off. The device started growing; while it worked, I went and had a shower.
While I vigorously soaped myself, I called out: "You really think that there'll be a market for this?" "Come on! Girls have been telling us that size doesn't count for centuries, but you remember what Captain Brenten said in Tank Police..." "No?" "I quote: `This is a MALE THING! When it comes to male things, the bigger, the better!' Anyway, it doesn't really matter if they never actually get used for fucking ... it'll probably become a status symbol, like wide ties were in the late twentieth century." He continued in slightly more subdued tones: "Oh, boy. Um, maybe that's just a little bit too ..." "What?" "Oh, nothing ... 't's finished." I touched the control pads, turned off the water, and grabbed a towel. I dried myself off and went back into the work room. When I saw the result, I frowned. "That's definitely too much. That's, that's positively obscene!" He looked hurt. "It's still in the last cell stack phase! Give it a few seconds ... there. Is that better?" I went over to the nanoproducer output tray and poked it with my forefinger. It felt like flesh (technically speaking, it was flesh); warm, slightly damp. I ran my finger from the wrinkled pads at the base, along the shaft and up to the more-than-usually pointed, torpedo-shaped head. The whole assembly was about twenty centimetres long in its flaccid state. "Better? Not much. Well, might as well get it over with." He looked at me and I looked back; for a moment, we were both as serious as we ever got, and then we both burst out laughing. I picked up the assembly and took it over to the work chair, which was loosely modelled on what dentists had once used to hold their patients down. I sat down, my wet skin squeaking against the slick black leather, and rubbed my crotch. Gerar came over with a spray tube of the standard activator pheromone; I massaged my semi-erection into full life and cautiously fitted the prosthetic over the end, sliding it down until the base pads rested against my scrotum. Gerar sprayed the activator on the end and the whole assembly squirmed into life. The sensation of it snuggling up against my skin was an interesting one; it made tiny farting noises as excess air was expelled from the edges, forming a perfect seal with my skin. The pads at the base writhed, merged with my body, and there was a brief pang as the venal diversion valve dug into me. It felt numb for a moment, and then suddenly its nervous system linked up with mine. It felt cold; I expected that this would pass as my blood started flowing through it. I reached down and touched it; it felt natural. Part of me. Gerar poked the end, pinched it between thumb and forefinger, wiggled it. It didn't feel like something slipped over the outside of my penis; it felt like it was my penis. He grasped it around the base, tugged gently, then more insistently. It wasn't about to detach itself until it received the appropriate pheromonal signals, chemicals which were in another one of the multitude of spray tubes lined up on the workbench. "Just think," Gerar whispered, "what every man has dreamed of ... finally, we can promise them a penis-extending treatment that works!" I must admit, I was beginning to get caught up in the excitement; the prosthetic darkened appreciably as venal constriction somewhere in the base prevented blood from flowing out as easily as it went in; the age-old mechanics of erection. It felt as it usually did, except more so. I wrapped my fingers around the base, squeezed gently, gasped involuntarily at the sensation. "That feels good ... did you-?" Gerar nodded. "I stepped up the receptors by a factor of two-point-five." I stroked it, feeling the veins along the underside pulsing with warmth, rubbing my fingertips around the end, pressing the pad of my index finger into the knot of flesh where the skin was attached to the underside of the head. I grasped it with both hands, my fingers interlaced underneath, closed my eyes and squeezed gently. It felt incredible. I opened my eyes, and the damned thing had grown until it was almost thirty centimetres long, and as thick as my wrist. Gerar was staring at it with admiration and lust plainly expressed. He bit his lip and admitted, "You know, I wasn't exactly telling the truth about that noradrenaline analogue ..." "I didn't think you were." "It wore off weeks ago." "Uh-huh." He was silent for a moment, and then said quietly, "I want you to fuck me with that thing." I smiled, got out of the chair and stalked over to the workbench, the prosthetic waving in front of me. I grabbed a tube of neutral substrate-base that was fairly slippery in its unactivated state and brought it over to the chair. Gerar had taken off his knee-length jumper and with a few touches of the control arm, had ordered the chair to evert its seat; the middle humped up and he lay face down on it, spreading his legs slightly. I squeezed some of the substrate onto my fingers (surprisingly, it was coloured bright blue) and rubbed it along the crack of his behind, pressing my fingers into his perineum just behind his balls. He arched his back and moaned; I rubbed my index finger around his anus and carefully worked the tip of my finger inside. He tightened against me briefly; relaxed, contracted again and relaxed once more. I withdrew, dripped some more lubricant down onto where my finger entered him and slowly pushed in again, up to the knuckle this time. This substrate was slick stuff; I added my middle finger and worked them both in, sliding them around until I could press down gently on his prostate, sliding my fingers in and out slowly, hooking them over and widening him, then adding my thumb until I was practically shoving my whole fist into him. He squirmed, arched his back and drew his legs up until he was half-kneeling before me. I climbed onto the chair behind him, smeared some of the substrate on the end of the prosthetic (it was increasingly, uh, hard, to imagine it as something separate from me ...) and aimed the head at his ass. I rubbed the end along the line from just behind his balls up to the small of his back and down again; he gasped and thrust himself back at me. I didn't need any more encouragement; grasping it just behind the head, I pressed the end of the penis between his buttocks, slowly forcing it inside him. I could feel his anus alternatively contracting and relaxing, as it had before; he wriggled and spread his legs further apart as I worked more of the head inside. With a gentle swaying motion, together we squeezed the head in. It felt tight and hot; I could see veins along the sides bulging alarmingly. I dripped some more lubricant on the taut ring of muscle which clenched the end of the shaft and with a slow yet insistent movement of my hips, pushed into him further. He reached back, grasped my hips and practically dragged me down onto him. I fell forward, my hands hitting the chair on either side of his arms, and suddenly wondered what I'd say if the manager of our operation had decided to pay a visit just then. I grinned, and thought she'd be impressed with our work. Gerar relaxed his grip, and I withdrew, feeling the exquisite pang as he forced the bulbous base of the head out. I remained poised, the torpedo-shaped end still inserted, and slowly pushed forward again. I could feel him relaxing, allowing me in; the feeling as the widest part of the head finally slipped inside was unbelievable. Gerar gasped as I pulled out and then quickly shoved myself in again, thrusting as far as I could. His legs came together and he squeezed around me as hard as he could; this was all I needed to set me off. I gripped the edges of the chair and, with my shaft firmly planted as deep as it could be in the depths of my lover, my belly against his back, I came with a series of wrenching sensations. Sweating, I slumped down against Gerar's back, feeling the slick warmth I'd just expelled lubricating the channel I'd forced myself into. It was then that I noticed something alarming. "Gerar ... it isn't detumescing." "What?" "It's not going down! There's something wrong with the diversion valve!" I slowly slid out of him, his ass still tight around me, and the penis popped up, turgid as ever, coated with streaks of pearly semen and sky-blue substrate. Gerar got off the chair and went over to the console. "Ah.. Here, see? It's that problem with the seventh module interface that we had with the tracheal support platform, remember? Easily fixed." I sat on the edge of the chair and wiped some of the goo from the head of my penis, which was still pointing at the ceiling. "What about this?" Gerar smiled. "I'm sure you'll think of something." |
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