by Sasha Grey
I need more.
For a moment, I just run my hands over the lines of the page, feeling the indentations where she pressed the pen extra hard over certain words, taken over by passion, anger, righteousness, feeling them link us together over time and space, imagining her writing it, imagining her knowing someday I’d be the one with her book in my hands.
There’s a picture of Inana lying on a white tiled floor, naked, hair held back from her face in a messy bun with wisps escaping above her ears and forehead, sweat dotting her brow and upper lip.
I sweat, too, when I see the contraption between her legs. It looks like a telescope mounted on a wide base with a dildo on it, half of which is buried inside Inana’s pussy.
There’s a handwritten caption beneath the photo.
I wanted to see what would wear out first. Human, or machine.
My lungs stutter.
I feel like I’ve seen this before.
Not something I could find online, no, definitely not. Not like the mechanical beasts that thrust and vibrate, making women burst into ecstasy, gushing with pleasure. This isn’t the same, yet my fingers tremble when I search online for something that will match this, desperate to find more images, a video, anything more.
What would Inana be like with one of those machines?
This doesn’t seem like staged, well-lit Internet porn. I search for keywords, maybe a gallery that might have showed a video performance. My mind must be cluttered, because all I can find are women vibrating and slithering like snakes, something that once simultaneously frightened me and turned me on. But compared to Inana, these women look like girls playing sexy. Inana radiates a more sensual awareness, as though she’s had time to ripen and knows every inch of herself—and the things she could do to you.
The difference between a girl and a woman.
Knowledge. Experience. Wisdom.
Boundaries and limits that have been expanded again and again until the lines of possibility meet the line you should never cross. But maybe you can nudge it just a little farther away with your toe and become someone bigger than you ever thought you could be.
Frustrated to find nothing about the video of Inana, I look up the machine she’s using to see the way it moves.
My pussy throbs in response to the slow—or fast—thrusts of the machine. I saw an oil rig once, and the slow, mesmerizing bobbing of the derrick was a lot like this. I’m sure there’s a raging metaphor for the fossil fuel industry in there, but my wet panties are a serious distraction. The mechanical nature, the even thrusts of the dildo on the end of the contraption…Inana said she wanted to see which would wear out first. How long could a machine like that go for?
Hours? Days?
Being fucked and fucked, coming again and again, and it never ending?
How much pleasure can one person take? Did she eventually tap out and admit defeat, or, like Dorian Gray, did she break the machine? Did someone shout “Have you no shame?” at her if so? No, never. She kept this to herself, she wanted a secret. Maybe it was an unfinished project on a series related to stamina and pleasure.
I head to the couch and turn to the next page of the diary, apprehensive that it will reveal nothing.
The buildup becomes a refuge from the orgasms after a while. The aching need that makes you bear down hard, holding your breath and shaking toward God. The path is slippery and elusive. But today it’s easy. Close your eyes
and you’re gone. Open them and you see your demise. Instead, the eyelashes become a filter for the ceaseless pumping. Sustenance, poison, darkness, bursts of light.
How long would pleasure stretch out with no other person, no fatigue to get in the way of our lust, our greed for pleasure? Forever? Would we all rut until we died, needing more, always more?
How long can I go on? How far would I go? Eight’s as good as seven. Twelve is as good as twenty. What’s one more hour when you’ve gone for seventeen?
The orgasm is as devastating as the asteroid hurtling toward Earth—it’s just a more pleasurable way to die.
After the seventh hour I lost track of how many times I came. I no longer felt the pain in my lower back from writhing and grinding on the instrument of my demise. All I wanted was more. My name became Insatiable and I was the true devourer of worlds. We were made for this, made for fucking, for erasing the facts about ourselves. The things we think we know.
Take them all away, strip them from your bones. Become the pleasure you seek. I spit on myself. I imagine a Roman orgy, hands and bodies on mine. I imagine cuffs binding me so I have no choice but to receive pleasure. It was mind over matter.
After the twentieth hour, I imagined the machine could feel, too, and wanted more. I began moving my hips in ways that would feel good to it. I wanted to show off how steady I could be, too, match it thrust for thrust instead of lying there like a disappointment. It was a fat, stiff cock and I had to grip it tight. “Do you like when I bounce up and down for you, baby?” I started talking dirty to it, imagining that I made it come.
After the twenty-fourth hour, I forgot how to breathe. I popped a pill of Ecstasy to keep me steady. If the machine is artificial, I can incorporate something else man-made. After all, this is an experiment.
After the twenty-sixth, I forgot how to be.
After the twenty-eighth, I was reborn.
After the thirty-first, I knew the truth.
It lives in the insides of our eyelids when we’re open enough to see.
I knew I could go longer. But I also knew the machine needed to serve its purpose. The machine needed to beat me, to fuck me into submission. But I’m a machine too, an extraordinary one, and no way was I giving up.
After the thirty-fifth hour, I lay still, taking instead of giving or responding. Passive as only a woman can be to see what the machine would give me.
More of the same. More and more and more. All the more I could bear and then some, but it needed me to direct it. Up, down, deeper, this angle, that. I had to make it make me come like a lover with the talent but not the direction. The potential without the skill.
I spent the next two hours actively fucking it. Coming three more times.
It overheated two hours after that. Woman versus Machine.
Woman on top. Woman on top with a voice hoarse from panting, but she still could talk.
And when I got home, I made myself come over and over again using nothing but my hands until I thought my fingers would break, until I passed out, as drooling and blissed-out as a drug addict. I slept for three days and dreamed the most surreal things that I’m still processing now, a week later.
Pleasure is a drug we all seek.
Bottle it. We’re all addicts. Sell it. We’re all dreamers trapped in nightmares. Give us something better and we’ll buy our way into bankruptcy.
Fuck it all for as long as we can.
I did and I want it again.
Picturing the insatiable perfection of Inana, lying in bed after having come innumerable times and yet viciously finger-fucking herself, is too much.
I lay the diary on the floor and slide my hand beneath the waist of my jeans, not bothering to undo them. I can feel the wetness, waiting for me, waiting to be used, so I coat my fingers with it and slide it up, spreading it over my clit, feverishly working it across my skin.
How long could I take with the machine she broke?
How long would I last?
It’s like the time in the mansion with Freddie and Dickie, and the masked man— DeVille, though I didn’t know it then—but I push that away as the sensate memories flood my body through the memories the diary has unlocked.
There’s a wall of male flesh separating me from the rest of the room, as if I’m cocooned. And I feel safe.
As some peel away, others take their place immediately. And I want that. The more, the better.
I lose track of how many masked faces and anonymous cocks approach, heads bowing as they move forward, begging for attention. I grab for everything in m
y reach with everything that I’ve got and once I’ve got a taste I realize I’m still hungry for more. The more I get, the hungrier I am, and it doesn’t stop until I want it to. And I don’t.
The sex just keeps getting better and better and better. The orgasms get more and more intense and just when I think I’ve reached the peak, another one comes along that takes me even higher and I don’t want it to stop, because the pleasure is so intense.
It feels like my body is being jolted with electricity. Not just every time I come. Every time I’m touched. Like I’m being hit with a taser, over and over and over. I experience pleasure so intense it feels like pain. Dopamine floods my brain, adrenaline courses through my body, and I lose track of time.
It feels like I’m fucking nonstop for twenty-four hours. And I figure if I want to I could probably keep going for another twenty-four. My body would keep going as long as my brain was stimulated. And here’s the thing: The mind never really gets tired from physical activity; it just gets distracted and bored. That’s when fatigue sets in. But if you can keep your mind focused, there’s no telling how far you can go.
I move my hand faster.
How can you visualize what is limitless? Desire has no limit. If it did, we would all be able to attain our desires and be entirely satisfied, but we can’t and we’ll never be able to.
My toes curl; already I’m racing toward release.
I’ve been there, Inana. I’ve been there, but with people instead of a machine, a wall of bodies, of hands and mouths and cocks. Mine were flesh, but I know how it feels to think you can go forever, come forever, even though I never challenged myself the way she did. Bodies get tired, cocks ejaculate and go soft, pulling out and throwing off the rhythm. What would a machine be like, steady, steady, not caring what you wanted, only giving, giving, giving?
I slow down, closing my eyes and imagining the dildo pushing into me, imagining Inana watching me with those dark, soulful eyes, urging me to keep going, to make every stroke count. I slip my fingers down, shoving them inside as deep as I can to the rhythm of the machine in my mind. The cold, flawless rhythm of that machine made for pleasure.
I bite my lip and moan—so damn close.
But the machine doesn’t know that and doesn’t stop gently punishing my pussy with its motions.
“Cath?”
Jack’s voice cuts through the haze, startling me away from my release, and I open my eyes to find him standing near my feet with a stunned look on his face. My lips part to speak.
SEVEN
HE’S ON ME BEFORE I can get my hand out of my pants and he has me pinned to the couch before I even know what he’s planning. His mouth presses hard against mine, kissing me hard and deep before I can squeak another word out.
His tongue strokes mine, plunging deep inside my mouth to take what he wants from me.
If I weren’t already wet, this would have done it.
Jack—but hard Jack, alpha Jack, taking what he wants.
He slides a hand inside my shirt and up my belly. His nails dig into my skin on the way to my breast, and I gasp into his mouth. My right hand still trapped beneath his weight, pressing further into me, I use my left to frantically tear at his dress shirt to get to his sensitive nipples, pinching at them until he moans, too, the vibration playing on my lips like a song meant to be devoured.
Slowly, he rocks his hips into mine, pressing the back of my hand with his hard cock, and it drives me fucking crazy that I can’t pull the fingers from my pussy so I can use my come as lubrication to stroke him hard and fast, but at the same time I want to drive them deeper inside myself, too. And he knows exactly what I want and is in complete control, overpowering me with his greater weight and my desire that’s making me weak. My mouth waters for the taste of his come.
He uses his hips to move my hand, and it’s so fucking erotic the way he’s making me fuck myself, I shiver and moan his name. “What if I hadn’t come home alone?” he asks.
With my free hand, I yank at his pants and underwear, and he shifts enough for me to slide them down over his ass, freeing his cock, ready for me, the tip glistening with pre-come. I slide my fingers out of my drenched pussy and grab him before he can deter me.
“If you hadn’t come home alone? Who would you have brought?” I look him in the eye and slide my slick fingers up and down, and he groans.
“Maybe someone from the office. Someone new. Someone easily shocked.”
I squeeze a little harder. “Yeah? Maybe she would only be pretending to be shocked because she likes it and didn’t think you’d be into that.”
“Into what?” he pants.
I picture him walking in with Inana, and my nipples ache. “Watching me finish. Watching you finish me. Or maybe even you watching me and her.” I bite my lip and smile at the way his breath catches.
“Is that what you want?”
“I want this cock.”
“Where do you want it?” He sucks just underneath my ear, hips rocking against mine, making me wish I had more than one pussy so Jack could make them all feel good.
“I want to lie here while you fuck my mouth,” I say, leaning back.
He pulls my jeans down my legs, discarding them along with my panties, and then he gets up and crawls over my body until his balls are above my chin. I lick up the seam, leaving a trail of saliva. He pulls back and nudges the tip of his cock against my lips, coating them in his salty, tangy taste, which I lovingly lick away when he pulls back.
But it makes me think what could have happened if Jack had brought a friend back home unexpectedly, a stranger, someone I hadn’t met yet. Someone adventurous—though it would have been more likely for his friend to be a man. God, I nearly purr at the thought of it, of Jack ordering me to my knees to suck his friend off.
I slide a hand along his shaft, squeezing near the root, and I pull his cock down toward my mouth, shifting up a little on the armrest to get my mouth at a better angle.
Jack’s hands would shake as he undid his own pants and gripped his cock, jerking himself off while watching me suck his friend’s cock, making another man feel good.
I swirl my tongue around the little hole, delicately, barely touching it, but his hips give a little jump anyways. It’s only been a few days since we’ve fucked, but it feels like longer. I can never get enough of Jack. My breasts are swollen and ache with need. I cover my lips with spit and slowly close them around the head, tight, and take him into me, licking back and forth along the bottom of the shaft with quick, light motions, watching his eyes darken with desire. He pushes a little deeper, advancing along my tongue. Then withdraws.
Maybe he’d pull me up from my knees, pull my ass in the air while still sucking his friend’s cock, and take me from behind, each thrust pushing the foreign cock further down my throat.
I like that.
“You like my cock in your mouth like that?” I lick all around the shaft, caressing his balls with my hand, focusing on one and then the other. I move to the base of his cock and work my way up like I’m taking slow licks of a melting ice cream cone until I get to the tip. And I lick all around it and put it inside my mouth. “Mm-hmm,” I moan, knowing the vibration will make it feel even better.
He groans.
I want to feel my heart pound in surprise by being overwhelmed by him, by his cock filling my mouth so deep I can barely breathe. Today, I don’t want to give pleasure to Jack.
I want him to take it from me.
I open wider, drawing his cock into me slowly, stroking the underside back and forth with my flattened tongue as it slips past my lips. I can feel myself getting wetter.
I take him deeper, and then withdraw, then deeper, then withdraw again when I feel his hips give an impatient hitch wanting more. His hands grab my hair, lightly fisting it.
I gag with a smile as his cock nudges the back of my throat.
I look up into his eyes, trying to smile with them so he knows it’s good for me, and I bob my mouth up and down on his pe
nis, loving the feeling of it filling my mouth.
I want more.
I feel his hands tighten their grip on my hair, sending little sharp zings of pain across my scalp, and I suck harder when he holds my head in place and begins to fuck my mouth.
I want him to come in thick bursts of sweet tanginess that fill my mouth as he unloads, but I want him inside me, too, pounding my pussy. I want him to be in me when he comes so that later I can stand and feel it drip down my legs and dry on my thighs.
He slips his hands down my face and slowly pulls out of me. I nod and spread my legs and he takes a few steps back toward my feet, settling between my thighs.
I watch as he takes his cock in his hands, his perfect cock, and guides it towards my pussy, then slides the head up and down a few times, coating himself, making his cock slick with my juices. I’m writhing now, desperate for him to shove into me, to slam home and fill me in a way my fingers can’t.
He pushes in, just the tip, and smiles, knowing how torturous this is for me, but patiently teasing me. God, I love this man. He probes around the hole with a finger, spreading the wetness up to my clit, swollen with need, using fast, light flicks to torture me more, pulling back when I try to push against his hand.
“Jack, please,” I say, the words a strangled moan.
“Do you know how sexy that was, walking in to see you like that on our couch?” With a smile, he pushes into me, slowly, his cock deliciously stretching my hole while his fingers graze my clit.
I shake my head. “Tell me,” I gasp. Take me, fuck me, use me.
“I watched you for a minute. You had no idea I was there,” he says, teasing me by sliding in a little more. “If I’d brought a friend back she’d have seen you rubbing that pretty pussy.” His dirty talk surprises me—he’s improved, but this is a new one. If there’s anything that would drive him mad, it’s the thought of me being with another person. “She’d have seen you at your sexiest and joined in with me. We’d all be naked and fucking right now instead of just you and me.” When his lips utter these words, my entire body shivers down to my toes. He presses all the way in, his hard cock stretching against the soft walls of my pelvis, and he holds it right there, letting me feel how full he makes me, but he never stops rubbing my clit with his slick fingers.
