Enjoy Your Order

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Literary Fiction  |  House: Booksie Classic
Stewart, still half-drunk and dizzy with libidinous curiosity, reached out and touched the rim of the onscreen organ

Submitted: March 10, 2008

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Submitted: March 10, 2008

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With some trepidation, Stewart punched the letters into the search engine. It wasn’t illegal just to search, surely? Just to check a search engine couldn’t be considered as anything close to indulging in something forbidden. He was certain of it. Nobody had ever been punished, to his memory, for typing vulgar terms into Google. There was no way they could ever police such a thing. 

 

Stewart was sure they only really keep an eye out for people who are looking to trade pictures they already had stored. Paedos with large backlogs of unspeakable pictures and German cannibals with video diaries detailing their intricate butchery. But for the likes of Stewart, carelessly typing in a term into a sex-based search engine - surely they wouldn’t even notice? He didn’t even want the real thing. Just a simulation. He had imagination enough to fill in the blanks.

 

Still, he was wary. His last foray into the world of masturbatory web-trawling had been disastrous. He had spent the evening alone, but in a pub. By his sixth pint, he was unable to control his eye movement. When they weren’t crossed, they floated over the bottoms of passing girls. He received glares from the recipients and icy eye-freezes from their unhappy boyfriends. By pint eight he was back out on the street, the barmaid of the luminous theme-pub unhappy with his lack of self-control. He hadn’t struggled with the bouncer, just wearily stumbled out of the building with a pint glass secreted in his coat pocket.

 

Despite having work the next day, he had decided that, at ten past ten, he still had time to search for further oblivion and wandered to a bar only one hundred metres from the last. He attempted to balance, hopping from step to step on the way down to the basement boozer, mastering his squishy ankles, both of which felt prone to collapse under the weight of ethanol. When he finally arrived at the makeshift bar he fished in his pocket for change.

 

‘Bottle of Peroni’ he had slurred, looking about the place as his eyelids drooped. He focused on every female form that passed, to complete indifference. He drank himself into the gloom, pushing his soaked consciousness into the folds of stupor.

 

When he woke up it was in his own armchair. Evidently he had made it home, somehow. On instinct he checked his pockets and found his mobile phone and wallet gone. He was still drunk and the importance of the loss didn’t register with him.

 

It was five in the morning by then and, having woken up, he decided to stay awake. He would get himself clean and prepare for work. If he went to bed, he would risk too heavy a rest and oversleeping.

 

 After showering, walking through the lounge in his dressing gown through piles of discarded fag packets and half empty beer bottles flecked with ash, he spotted that the computer was on. His hangover was fresh and, still slightly drunk, he found his libido twanging wildly both in his loins and in his pulsing thoughts. He couldn’t resist a look at some porn; no matter that it was such an early hour.

 

After viewing a loop of images, all entirely pedestrian, he became bored of the two dimensional aspect and, craving real attention from a real girl. In a moment of whimsy, he typed

 

‘I WANT SEX’

 

into the search engine, the caps lock depressed.

 

The search returned no results. Instead, in a tiny font in the corner of the screen:

 

‘So do I…’

 

Momentarily shocked, then inquisitive, Stewart hovered the cursor over the words. Who had typed this? Was this a joke by some bored programmer? Or had a lonely female found his details and hacked him in a quest for union?

 

As he considered it, the screen faded from white to black. Stewart slapped it on the side. The picture shifted. White lines began to flicker up and down. It looked like a serious malfunction. But slowly, an image emerged from the static buzz. From a pixelated mush there emerged the form of a life-size vagina - moist and perky.

 

Stewart, still half-drunk and dizzy with libidinous curiosity, reached out and touched the rim of the onscreen organ, noticing that the glass of the machine was raised, becoming malleable and softer to the touch. Soon, his fingers were inside of it, poking back and forth. He realised he would be able to fit himself in there. He jumped up and closed the curtains, pulling the blinds that fell against the frosted kitchen door before settling back at the computer desk. He parted his robe and readied himself for cyber-love.

 

But as he propelled his skinny buttocks forward, hoisting himself into the form, he felt the organ growing larger, expanding beneath him. Soon it was completely unsatisfying to continue in the same manner and he flopped back into the swivel chair, dejected.

 

The vagina on the monitor continued to grow until it took up the entire screen. Looking at it, Stewart felt an ecstasy rush around his ears. Behind his lobes, an aching, sugary desire. He touched the top of his shaved head. It had developed a hypersensitivity from absorbing the imagery before him. It felt orgasmic to even brush it with his fingers, as though his head had taken on the characteristics of his glans. As he looked at the now enormous, pulsating vagina, he realised what he had to do and blindly thrust his entire cranium into the slit on the screen. He pushed his neck back and forth, lost in a wave of needy euphoria.

 

It wasn’t to last. After two or three minutes, he felt the cleft become resistant to his stroke. It began to feel rougher against his cheeks and forehead as he repeated the push forward, until it was too uncomfortable to even move. And then the problem began. He actually couldn’t move. He was stuck fast.

 

Stewart tried in vain to pull his head from the dried screen vagina, but any resistance was met with complete inertia and a strain to his delicate neck muscles. The only solution was to lift the monitor using all his strength and frantically unplug it. Once it was detached, he haphazardly staggered around the front room using his hands to balance the computer equipment now wedged upon his head as his shoulders took the strain.

 

It had been an awkward situation. With his dressing gown flapping around his naked body, he tried to call for an ambulance but, blindly pressing 999, he found that he could hear nothing from the operator through the thick plastic of the machine’s rim. Out of fear, he stumbled to his neighbour’s front door and banged on it with his new head extension, holding his modesty in one hand and steadying the screen with the other. It had taken them all day to remove it using screwdrivers and soldering irons. It had taken even longer to restore his dignity. After some months, he and the man next door were able to laugh about it, though he was sure his neighbour laughed harder and with more spite when telling his friends about it.

 

With such a depressing history in the area, it was no wonder Stewart felt reluctant to use the same relief-tool again. But the twinge in his underpants dictated his actions.

 

His tastes since the incident had warped gently over time until he was only really able to pleasure himself while looking at simulated scenes of sexual violence. He had been alone so long, he considered, that his view of women had depressingly swung into the realms of misogyny. He thanked God that he was actually aware of it, that he had the intelligence to realise that the actual scenario was criminal and wrong. He wished he wasn’t interested in that niche of the pornography industry, but he consoled himself with the thought that these women were, at least, actresses and in actual fact came to no harm. His fingers hovered over the keyboard for the first time since his head had embedded.

 

‘Rape, sex’ he typed, before clicking the ‘search’ function.

 

It seemed to take an inordinately long amount of time to process the search. Eventually, a page loaded, slowly and clumsily. Unlike the usual graphic-heavy sites devoted to onanism, this one was text heavy. He read it hurriedly.

 

Stewart Daubney

 

You have ordered RAPE and SEX. Your bank details are as follows:

Sort code: 45-55-98

Account number:  67823988

Account:  VISA

 

Your delivery has been processed and will arrive with you in the next ten minutes.

 

We hope you enjoy your order

 

Stewart read it again to properly understand what had happened.

 

 

 

Stewart Daubney

 

You have ordered RAPE and SEX. Your bank details are as follows:

Sort code: 45-55-98

Account number:  67823988

Account:  VISA

 

Your delivery has been processed and will arrive with you in the next ten minutes.

 

We hope you enjoy your order

 

He considered that it must be a hoax. Someone must have stolen his bank details and used them in a deranged prank. Panic gradually rose in his chest and he tried to click the browser window shut. It held fast. Outside, in his drive, a car door slammed.

 

He heard two sets of footsteps outside on his front step as he switched the monitor off.

 

The door swung open as he attempted a quick shutdown of the PC. He looked across at the men who arrived with restrainers and gags. The chains they’d bought with them rattled, and their gruff, sexually sinister voices rattled behind him as he tried to escape.


© Copyright 2017 Swineshead. All rights reserved.

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