Day 27 - S&M - Spiderman

Olivia sat in her office chair as it spun slowly and pondered the meaning of life. Or at least, the series of choices that had led to her working a job that required having to show off everything she was working on in a half-finished state to a guy with the emotional maturity of a child and the body of a family-sized station wagon. There just wasn’t any grant money for the truly evil sides of science any more, though evil was always a semantic and relative term in both life and the pursuit of a brighter future. Those guys in the sixties who’d been able to get millions in government funding to put lead in the gasoline and asbestos in the homes, those guys had had it made. The majority of older practices could be filed under either “They don’t make them like that any more (positive)” and “They don’t make them like that any more (Negative)” and this was a case where the decreases in mortality (positive) directly intersected with the need to answer privately to rich weirdos and perverts instead of faceless government entities with poor oversight (negative). Evil still got done in the name of science, always would so long as there was a person, a fire, and a desire to know what happened when he stuck something living into it, but it was merely a question of long-term financial viability. Some people didn’t have Apartheid mine money to waste on dead-ends.

For what it was worth, the thing on the table was genuinely a step forward and would have impressed the majority of people looking at it. It wasn’t one of those half-breakthroughs or “breakthroughs before the breakthrough” that science was always producing. This one was a bona-fide game-changing bit of tech. It was also something that didn’t have any applications for the less one-track and more one-dotted-line brain of her boss. Masterpieces in cooking food are occasionally lost because they don’t liquefy Germans correctly. That or one misplaced variable. If Da Vinci had thought to add a stabilizing rotor to his flying machines, some of the shit the conspiracy types said online about hyper-advanced past civilizations might have been true.

She realized that she was letting her mind wander as she spun her chair, but she also realized it was because she was genuinely anxious. Anxious that her boss wouldn’t see the use of something that would be both a huge breakthrough as well as a vindicating feather in her cap. Anxious that her boss would tell her to start looking elsewhere and leave some lab assistant to find her notes and put that final stabilizing rotor on her flying machine. Anxious even, the implicit fear based on the implicit trust of the thing, that he might play coy about her turning her attention elsewhere only for her to see the invention under his name years later. It wasn’t about the settlement he would have had to pay, assuming he didn’t just have her killed. It was about having your name on something. If you couldn’t at least take pride, it was because somebody else had taken it first.

It was occurring to her, the longer she sat, that she was as bored as she was anxious. And that her legs were starting to get tired. Almost without thinking about it consciously, she found her hand wandering down to her crotch and coming to rest there. She wasn’t sure why she was waiting like he might come in at any given second and surprise her. Him keying into the lobby would notify her and give her at least a minute to clean things up if he was making his way up. She could be working on something else, fine-tuning some aspect of her presentation, or…

The hand was firmly in place above the zipper of her lab khakis and tapped the button meaningfully a few times. With each hit she felt the hard bottom of the button press into her waist above the rise between her legs, like the final point on a trail of buttons leading down from her neckline to the… let’s call it magic buried treasure waiting there. Her arms all had minds of their own, and this one was the nervous wanderer with one particular favorite destination. The other kept fiddling with her coffee cup, dragging the paper sleeve up and down in a way that was completely absentminded but which she could find something libidinal in if she really wanted to. The other four, though currently suppressed, also had these sorts of minds of their own.

What she decided, at least for now, was to let them out. While the other two both had their little impulsive moves, they only meant something so long as the majority voted the same way. She slipped out of her lab coat and shrugged out of her shirt, one of the benefits of having a lab to yourself was that you didn’t have to solve the bra-backpack-shirt problem she had found early on. Backpack went on first, where it could directly contact the skin, then shirt went on over it and bra went on not at all. Secondary benefit of having your own lab was that nobody commented on it. The looking like a hunchback or the occasional cold day.

While the arms were inflating and warming up she took another sip of her coffee and bounced one leg nervously. The hand that had been on her button stayed in that general area, and she pinched it between her thighs for the moment, feeling the warmth of them around it and feeling it wriggle like it had been stopped in the pursuit of what it had been after. The top two arms warmed up first, as they always did, and picked her shirt up off the floor to fold and set on the lab counter. They tended to be a little more ego where the lower ones tended to be more id and the ones made of skin the superego. At least, if you believed in that sort of thing. In actuality, everything tended to be a little more totaalvoetbal.

The second set of arms animated and grabbed either of her hands at the wrists and yanked them suddenly behind her back. Olivia gasped slightly but let her arms be pulled behind the chair and held in place by one of them coiling suddenly and tightly around her wrists. The other reached down and deftly undid the button of her pants.

It hesitated for a moment and she nodded to the drawer beside her chair, which it opened. Inside were several different tentacle-end attachments and it grabbed the one which most closely resembled a human hand. She had found early on that the dextrous and useful five digits were actually a hindrance in a lot of purely mechanical cases. Too fragile for heavy use (as many who worked dangerous labor could attest) and not so dextrous or so fine-touched to work for things like microsurgery and extremely precise motion. There was certainly a call for hands in certain places, sensitive places in particular, but it was better to have them on call and use the right tool most of the time.

With a whir, the three-pointed claw on that hand spun off and dropped into the drawer. The arm snaked toward the faux-human hand and tried to slide into the holster like a dog trying to lift a blanket with its nose. It made a few unsuccessful attempts before one of the top arms came to hold it in place. Olivia started to apologize, but the other top arm pressed a digit to her lips suggestively. Then the top arms tried one and then the other to make the same transition, but the last one simply knocked the hand onto the lab floor.

Olivia pinched it between her feet and made a note to look into better ways to do this as it screwed itself into the fake hand and then flexed its silicon fingers. All three hands found a burner and turned it on for long enough to warm themselves up. That was another one she’d have to look into, but that was less important. The one she really wanted to look into now was why only three of them seemed to be as eager as they were to get to the main part of play. She wondered if the voluntary restraint hand simply wasn’t feeling it, or if it had drawn the metaphorical short straw. Perhaps they took turns. It was impossible to say where her mind began and where the complex series of ghosts within the machine ended. Then again, it was basically impossible to tell the same with a human mind and its own complicated series of once-bitten twice-shies. One musn’t get too philosophical when trying to rub one out.

Its hand now screwed on, the arm which looked to be the dominant one laid its palm on her stomach and then slid it down under her waistband and into her underwear. Before she could make any noise one of the other hands pressed warm and not-entirely fleshy over her mouth, even sliding a pair of fingers between her lips and hooking one cheek. Olivia’s mouth hung open and her tongue flicked occasionally against the digits as another hand squirmed in her pants and the third cupped each breath for a moment before slapping them lightly. She hadn’t expected them to be in this harsh of a mood.

Either way, she rolled with it, letting drool drip down her chin for the moment as the hand in her pants pushed a pair of fingers inside of her. She was already wet, probably something they had known through her considering that they weren’t usually the kind to try sticking it in before somebody was warmed up. She felt suddenly warm and worn, dry and pulled thin. The kind of lazy, hazy mood that on days off left to bored self-gratification which became increasingly desperate and harsh in repetition as the fire inside refused to dim from it. If you weren’t careful, you could lose hours to that kind of feeling, but she didn’t have hours. Something the hands likely knew as well.

The one around her wrist uncoiled and let her arms free at the same time it pushed her up out of the chair. Two other hands left her mouth and her chest and lifted her personal arms up together over her head where the passive arm wrapped her wrists again and looped over a girder of the lab ceiling, lifting her from the ground. The two roaming hands pulled her pants and panties down around her ankles, then one looped under one knee and brought her leg up to her chest before hooking her cheek again. The remaining free hand spanked her, far harder than she’d expected it to, enough to really ache and make her swing awkwardly in place. And still, with the way that the fake fingers in her pussy were digging up and out while the palm buzzed softly against her clit, she realized they were as conscious of the time of it as she was, they were just equally as interested in really punishing her with the amount they had.

Her backpack beeped, the hand in her mouth pulled out and gave a thumbs up and a thumbs down, then the hand behind her spanked the other side of her ass with just as much stinging force. It was going to make sitting down again particularly harsh for the first few seconds. It was hard enough to genuinely make her flinch each time. She nodded and the fingers went back into her mouth.

There was a psychologist somewhere who would write a pretty wonderful case study on why sometimes being punished, being treated harshly, could be so comforting. But sometimes, between the desire to know how the sausage was made and the foreknowledge that the wisdom wouldn’t make you any happier, lay an equal awareness that it often didn’t matter the mechanism of a thing so long as it performed a consistent and valuable function. It didn’t matter why Olivia could feel herself relaxing, her anxiety becoming distant and indistinct. Knowing if it came from some Freudian thing or some personal quirk wouldn’t matter. What mattered is that for a moment, the spanks and the harsh, digging fingers were making her forget what her name was, let alone that she had her boss coming in and was dreading the meeting.

She could feel drool running a little more freely down her chin and was subconsciously glad that she had eschewed her shirt earlier. She let her glasses slide down to the tip of her nose and let her eyes sit mostly-closed. Focusing on the feeling of a warm little buzzing sun in just the right spot, a sharp but rhythmic series of slaps which both sent spikes of pain and made every muscle below her waist tighten, and the feeling for a moment of being helpless and having no complaints about it. She only wished that she would have enough free time at some point in the next week or so to finish the speech synthesis module for the arms. Or at the very least a speaker. There’s just something about a particularly gruff, deep voice in one’s ear when one has given over completely to submissiveness that tied the scene together. Made her feel like putty. Made that part of her that kept thinking about somebody cumming inside of her, which she usually kept pretty keenly under wraps, come out of its hole and start really pounding against her ovaries. She was pretty sure she didn’t have a breeding kink. Pretty sure. There was another module she could work on to test that, but speech first. Listening to her own animal grunts got old.

An orgasm was building with pretty serious intensity and Olivia could feel it starting to knock at the door. The fingers left her mouth and she felt the hand close on her throat instead, fingertips and thumbs pressing into the veins either side of her actual windpipe, but squeezing with a pretty intense and thoroughly exciting pressure. Good bot. No broken hyoid, no crushed windpipe, but making it feel like she was actually being choked. She nodded and groaned, a long and low sound which cut off suddenly as she felt the pleasure peak inside of her, holding her for a long moment in that breathless, overflowing moment, one that rolled back the eyes and made you grab like an idiot for the tube holding you up off of the ground. Then the toe-curling release and the undignified noises, the whole-body writhing the waves of bliss that seemed to reduce you down to just a happily marinating brain, even as the hand behind spanked in double time with half force and kept swinging her and making her pussy squeeze at the fingers inside of it. That was one reason she didn’t fully ascribe the hands to herself. Even reduced to a messy, mewling, scatter-firing nervous system, they rode it out with her, stroking and striking and squeezing. Either the perfect lover or the world’s most advanced dildo. Though, ultimately, the difference was one of romanticism.

The hand on her throat let go as the hand between her legs pulled out, then they interchanged places. The fingers that slid into her mouth were soaked with a white, creamy wetness that tasted exactly as they smelled. All salt and sour, that special musk that seemed to cling to your room for an embarrassing amount of time. If she was that color, and that consistency… maybe it wasn’t a breeding kink after all. Maybe it was just the right time for those kinds of inclinations.

She probably could have gone on like that for a lot longer, but the door suddenly keyed open and left her up in the air and suddenly very aware of her surroundings again, hands all moving to assemble her clothes and get her back into a normal position. She glanced over at her laptop and saw that she’d missed the door alarm, either drowned out by some sound or simply ignored. Olivia cleared her throat. At least it wasn’t the first time this had happened. Probably wouldn’t be the last, so long as it continued to not involve keying anybody without clearance past the door.

“Oh, hey boss,” She started the shutdown sequence for the arms, “Give me a minute or two, will you?”

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