Message-ID: <17048eli$9811070554@qz.little-neck.ny.us> X-Archived-At: From: jordan@u36.com Subject: {Shelbourne} That Long Distance Feeling (F mast SF) Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories.moderated,alt.sex.stories Followup-To: alt.sex.stories.d Path: qz!not-for-mail Organization: The Committee To Thwart Spam Approved: X-Moderator-Contact: Eli the Bearded X-Story-Submission: X-Original-Message-Id: <910408795.AA01121@u36.com> Lust So Stories has kindly released this back to me. I've found a new location for my web site, and I'm just spiffing a few things up before I open to the privates -- uh, public. This story will be there. Mail to jordan@u36.com will still reach me, although u36.com is no longer on the web. As for the topic... Well, what cultural icon do I think will survive well into the next millennium? _Penthouse_Forum_, of course-- Jordan THAT LONG DISTANCE FEELING [Tedious legal materials: [Copyright (c) 1997 Jordan Shelbourne [ You are granted permission to transmit this file across computer networks and to make one hard copy for personal use. All other rights reserved; for information contact jordan@u36.com. Comments appreciated.] In an era of telesex, humpsuits, and pheromone vandals, I didn't think there were a lot of new experiences for a woman to have. Here's one. I'm a repair technician for an asteroid smelting and launching corp. Automated ships redirect nickel-iron asteroids to my station; most of those just get driven down the chute to the main plant by Luna, but I'm set up to do nearly all the processing I need out here. By the time a chunk of rock gets to me, I've got a pretty good idea of its composition and whether I want to pass it along or use it myself. It's not a demanding job, so long as everything goes right; but every repair technician says that. The pay's excellent but it means six month shifts in solitary out beyond the orbit of Mars. I'm not really alone, because I've got a communications bandwidth budget you grounders can only dream about. Full sensory communication, except when there's an emergency, and I'm busy then. We repair technicians keep in touch with each other, no matter who we work for. I read. I write. I talk. I fantasize -- oh, I fantasize a lot. With six month shifts, I have a lot of time to get my hormones clustered. You can imagine the fornucopia I indulge in when I'm back among meat people. I keep myself in firm taut condition because I know what happens to a girl who lets herself go in nanogravity: those buoyant boobs become bovine udders the second she plops into a real gravity well. When I hit one of the stations, I want to fuck, not spend my time binding my tits. And looks count. What I want to tell you about, though, happened in the middle of a hitch. It was four months before I was due to touch people again, which means I had been masturbating for only two months, when there was a shift change at a competitor's station. I gave him a week to get settled in and then I put on some clothes and called him, full video. (Like I say, I've got the budget for bandwidth: the population density's low out here, so we each get a bigger slice of the spectrum.) Because he was less than a million kilometers away, the lag in conversation was about two and a half seconds each way. Five seconds after I called, I got video back and I juiced up immediately. I was multo sorry I'd gone full-video, because I would have loved to have been able to stroke myself while looking at him. I like a strong, clean face, not much hair, and a well-defined build, muscular without looking blocky. Frankly, I like them to look earth-bound, you know? The moon-waif look doesn't float me. His name was Rurich, and he was dish. It's tough to keep a conversation going when there's a five second lag wait between a sentence and the reply. Normally you multitask -- fill out the inevitable requisition forms, pluck debris off the ventilator grille, make lunch, that sort of thing -- but the sight of Rurich had me so distracted I couldn't do anything except wish I had him here, naked, and harnessed to my hips. It's not considered polite to notice what a person does during the lag, but there are limits. What's valuable out here is human contact, and rudeness is a crime punishable by loneliness. Besides, Rurich was fresh meat who might not know what was polite to notice. So we talked, that first time, me floating there with my ankles crossed like a little girl who has to pee and hoping that it wasn't too obvious I was squeezing my thighs together instead of plunging my hand between them. Well, _we_ didn't talk. Rurich talked ("I hadn't thought I would notice the loneliness so much") and I mumbled ("Uh-huh") as I pressed my thighs together rhythmically and my belly tightened with desire. It was not a high point in my conversational career. You can bet I found more excuses to call Rurich, starting with "I'm sorry I acted like such a void last time we talked." Five seconds later he smiled and I discovered he had dimples. "Was it you?" he said. "I was afraid I was being boring." The time lag meant that our calls were more like mail sessions: I'd send him a little video message, he'd reply. I went carefully; I like a good fuck, but I also didn't want to lose one of my correspondents out here in the Big Nowhere. Setback: he'd been raised as a religious fundy. Bonus: he'd broken away. Setback: he talked about his boyfriend. Bonus: he was a serial monosexual, and was ready to switch back to hetero. It was like that: setback, bonus, setback, bonus. And between calls I was rubbing my clit until my fingers were pruned and the air scrubber couldn't get the musky scent of my arousal out of the system. The Mother Corp is lucky nothing broke down in those two weeks because I wasn't good for much work. Finally, Ruri and I had sent enough signals to know that I wanted it and he wanted it and the it we wanted was each other. So we made a date for telesex. Which shows you how juiced I was; normally I'd rather have reality than a humpsuit. There's just something, well, _real_ about the real thing. Five minutes before he was due to call, I was suited in my virtual reality gig and had a leash around my waist to my bed to keep me from floating free. (Always fasten yourself down when masturbating in nanogravity. I had an embarrassing incident once where I squeezed a dildo from my vaj and the reaction sent me floating s-l-o-w-l-y across the cabin for almost an hour. Killed the mood.) And then it was time. My suit got the first feed and there he was in front of me, standing still. I could smell him, I could see him, and I could feel his hands pressing against the base of my spine. He held himself quite still, waiting. And then I figured out why: because he had adopted that position five seconds ago, and he wouldn't know how I reacted for another five. We had five seconds between stimulus and response. Except it was more like seven, because our two stations were moving apart at about 165 meters per second. And he wouldn't feel me sliding my hands onto his bubble-butt for another seven seconds after that. Whenever I felt him move, he was reacting to what I'd done fourteen seconds ago. Forget about the in-out; we couldn't even manage to have a quick grope. Even a tantric master couldn't fuck under those conditions. We tried, we really did, for almost an hour. And in that time I became sure that I would really like fucking Ruri, but it wasn't going to happen for another three months. We did what we could: we sent each other long full-motion messages describing what we'd do to each other when we finally got in person. I watched him play with his thick hard cock as he described how he would quench it in me. I sent him audio and video of the best orgasm I'd ever had alone, imagining him with me. But it was still masturbation, it was still me alone, and there really wasn't anything of _him_ with me. And then a piece of gravel pinged off one of the solar panels and broke it. I was grateful for the distraction. Rather than being welded into place, the panel was held in place by a half-dozen finicky little pins. (We want pieces to break free rather than to misalign the whole station. After all, the station's in the asteroid belt and gravel is floating all around.) I don't actually keep mechanical pieces on hand, I just request the schematics and the 3-D fax builds them out of metal dust and resin. It's really quite a versatile device: you can dictate properties by changing the type of metal dust, the dust-to-resin ratio; you can inject dyes to adjust the amount of light absorbed. You can even prevent vacuum-welding by laying down an outer layer of resin. Another miracle of modern technology. As I took them out of the fax, the pins still warm from the resin-curing, I had an idea. After all, if the fax could build me panel pins or a collector cam, why couldn't it build me a Ruri rod? I bashed off a message to Ruri and went out to fix the assembly. When I came back in hours later, grumpy and sweaty (I told you those pins were finicky), there was a seven-inch boss bobbing in the fax output bin. It was lovely, and just like I'd seen it in his messages: A thick plum-like head, a narrow collar of circumcision scar, and a lovely texture of veins. It had a pronounced bow, a very polite penis. My Ruri knew his stuff, too: he'd managed to give it the velvet-and-steel feeling of a real boss. He'd even specified colors. Hell, it _was_ a real boss. It was Ruri's boss, and it was a welcome relief from Messrs Index and Thumb. Even better, he'd left me another message, audio only. I didn't have to play it to know that I wanted him to see me listening to it. I didn't even shower: I just stripped, sending little blobs of sweat floating around the room, and lashed myself to the bed. I flipped the recorder on, to let him see just how much I loved his boss. "Hello, darling," he said. His voice was deeply-dyed silk. It sent a thrill through me. I let his boss float there for a moment as I ran my hands up to my breasts. I like my breasts in nanogravity: they're fuller and rounder. My nipples began to stiffen, the areoles wrinkling and filling with excitement. I pinched and squeezed them slowly, milking them between my thumbs and forefingers. "Do you like how hard I am for you? It's just thinking about you that's got my boss this hard and big, I swear it's not normally this size. Let me rub it along your breasts." I slid my hands around the bulges of my breasts and then along my belly down to the trail of pubic hair that begins below my navel. With one hand I began to explore myself, all of me fresh and new with a new lover. With the other hand, I grabbed his boss. I traced its bulbous head over each nipple, along the underside and then I pressed its full length between my breasts. "Your breasts are gorgeous," he told me. "I love the red wine color of your nipples when you're excited and I love the contrast with your skin." "Your boss is beautiful," I said. "I love how it feels against my skin." My own sweat provided lubrication as I slid it up and down between my breasts. Finally I brought the head near my mouth and flicked my tongue out for one flirtatious lick. (It still tasted like resin.) "Do you see that?" I told him. "That's what I want to do to you--" He went on speaking, interrupting me. "I feel those hard nipples brush against my cock, against my belly and my chest as I slide down your body to kiss your lovely mouth. My boss traces a path down your belly and finally presses insistently against your pubes. Before you part your legs to let me in, you press your hips against me again and again, pressing my hardness against your clit, your lips." I pressed the cockshaft against my clit, rhythmically feeding my arousal, rising to the plateau. Not a lot of foreplay, but I'd had two weeks of foreplay. "Oh, you juice me," I told him. "I'm so ready for you." I traced a finger along my lips, prying them apart, then circled my vaj entrance. My finger came away gleaming wet. I smeared my juices onto the head of his boss. "I rub the head of my boss against your clit, then place it at the entrance to your vaj." I did. My clit was prickly-swollen with excitement; each touch was another push towards orgasm. "Finally, I can't bear it any more and I slide my hard boss into you. I want to drive it into you but I also want to savor the feeling of entering you for the first time." I knew that feeling of completion -- _foreplay over!_ -- and of beginning -- _fuck me now!_ -- when I began to fill myself with his cock. It slid in easily, the head parting me, opening me, entering me. My vaj closed over the head, capturing him, holding him (that's what makes fucking something two people do, not what a man does to someone else). His boss filled me nicely. My eyes were closed, and I could imagine Ruri floating next to me, connected only by that lovely rod. I had one tiny orgasm when I knew it was fully in me. That didn't take the pressure off, though. I began to slide it in and out as Ruri described, hard and fast and deep, my other thumb playing with my clit, pumping myself to orgasm. I continued to push myself higher until, finally, I hit the top, and there was the endless shivery release. When I came back to myself, Ruri was speaking incoherently as he came, and I was still pleasantly stuffed with hard boss. No, it wasn't as good as having him there, but it was good enough to get me through the next few months. Unfortunately, I couldn't use the same tactic to share a bit of me with him, so he had to be satisfied with his hands and his mouth. Ruri is _very_ limber. Ruri and I met during the off-shift, and, well, we got charged for a lot of oxygen. He lived up to the advance billing. And the Ruri rod didn't go unused. After all, whether Ruri was in my mouth, vaj, or ass, there were still two more holes to fill. _Name_and_address_automatically_anonymized._ -- +----------------' Story submission `-+-' Moderator contact `--------------+ | | | | Archive site +----------------------+--------------------+ Newsgroup FAQ | ----