A Clockwork Tangerine

I stole my brother Simon’s Tangerine. His security wasn’t exactly bomb-proof; he’d been using the same password since he was thirteen. Father was away at the wars; Mother was out doing her Good Work, Simon was courting; and the servants had all been sent home for the night. If ever the coast was going to be clear, it was now.

I punched it into the alpha-numeric tumblers he’d installed on his closet door about the same time he’d started sprouting body hair and his voice had cracked. T-r-i-X-X-X-i-e was the name of the main character in his favorite pornographic serial. He’d had a manic crush on her for the first year or so of his adolescence, and I had followed her erotic adventures with a mixture of horror, fascinated disgust, and titillated lust.

I’d been breaking into Simon’s closet to snoop around his pornographic picture-novels for about as long as I’d know what pornography is, and what to do with it. Trixxxie, with her impossible breasts and cartoonish, generic features, wasn’t something I masturbated to, but she had taught me all I’d ever wanted to know – and then some — about the mechanical aspects of sex. And there were plenty more picture-novels for me to peruse. I had whiled away many hot and sticky hours locked in Simon’s closet with a dirty picture-novel in one hand and one finger busy between my legs. Eventually I’d discovered that I preferred to get off to the written word, and I had acquired some erotic novellas of my own. I still came back to visit Simon’s closet now and then. But I’d never actually removed anything. I told myself I was just ‘borrowing’ it, even though I had already downloaded an entire new (and pirated) ROM.

The Tangerine was a hand-held tubular little Turing machine, designed with one purpose only: to serve as a pleasure envelope for a lonely penis. I didn’t have a penis myself, but my own parts were just as lonely as could be. The ROM I’d illicitly downloaded was supposed to modify the thing’s operating system to suit my ‘more feminine needs’.

It sort of reminded me of an exotic weapon out of one of Simon’s futurist graphic novels: it was black and plastic, fit nicely in the palm of your hand, and the backside had a small array of buttons above a keyhole for winding and a USB slot. If it weren’t for the anatomically-correct pussy in front, it would have been the exact sort of thing a space-zeppelin officer might wield, shooting energy beams at the enemy or projecting a laser whip. The front part was a different, softer material, sculpted to form a realistic pink plastic vulva. It looked like something straight out of an anatomy textbook, the kind of thing that budding gynecologists might practice exams on. It came with a large brass key.

Josephine had gotten a Schlong from one of her ‘secret admirers’, and it was (in her words) “incredibly fan-fucking-tastic!!” I wasn’t about to buy one of my own. I didn’t have a well-heeled Admiration Society of my own; neither did I have that kind of sterling in the bank. Anyway, the Schlong was pretty intimidating: a big black polymer cock, realistically molded, and studded with knobs and sensors, packing nearly eight pounds of gears and clockwork. I wasn’t ready for that. I wasn’t sure I’d ever be ready for that.

He’d never miss it, I told myself. My heart rate shot through the roof as I slinked back to my own room, the stolen Tangerine clasped in my greedy, sweaty hands. Simon had a real girlfriend now, prissy Miss Violet Verne, and he wouldn’t be needing wind-up toys anymore. He’d never even notice it was gone. Anyway, he would be graduating soon, and beginning his compulsory service, and I doubted they’d let him bring that particular item along with him to the wars.

Back in the privacy of my own room, my jitters swiftly transformed from ‘nervous’ into ‘horny’. I was dying to try out my brand-new ill-gotten contraption. I’d never masturbated with anything but my fingers before, and if my friend Jo was telling anything like the truth, this was going to be intense.

I plugged in the data stick with the pirated ROM into the slot in the back of the Tangerine. A couple million microswitches rearranged their configuration, but nothing appeared to happen. The thing just sat there on my dresser, a sullen pink-and-black lump. I pulled out the key, and wound it up until the master spring clicked. It took a surprising number of turns to wind up. I counted 128 turns before it finally clicked.

I stripped out of my petticoats, garters, and knickers, and sprawled across my bed. The pink polymer vulva seemed to stare at me in my nakedness. It looked disturbing from this angle, almost alien. Did my private parts really look like that, when viewed head-on and in the abstract?

I reached over and grabbed my novella, flipping to a dog-eared corner that marked a particularly steamy bit. I read the words, but I was having trouble concentrating on them. Even so, the pornographic text did the trick; I felt my pussy getting wet and swollen with excitement. I put the book down, and pressed the central button on the back of Simon’s Tangerine.

The clockwork clicked and hummed almost inaudibly as the gears inside came to life. When I held it in my hand, it seemed to tremble, as if it were alive. The thing generated its own heat. The artificial pussy pouted open, like a blooming flower, and clear lubricant started to seep out. I jammed it between my legs, mashing the polymer pussy against my own flesh-and-blood, and the thing vibrated with a fierce intensity.

Jo was right. It was absolutely fan-fucking-tastic. I almost couldn’t stand it, but I rode the wave, squeezing the humming Tangerine between my thighs. I came almost immediately, hard, curling up into a fetal ball and hiccupping with pleasure. I had to take a break then, my parts were suddenly way too sensitive. I paused the machinery and read some more of my smutty book, until I was ready to go again. And go again I did, until I was spent and limp. Each orgasm seemed to me the best one I’d ever had, and it seemed like they’d never stop. Already, I was asking myself how I’d ever gotten by without a Tangerine of my own.

The only distraction was that it kept calling out his name. “Oh Simon, fuck me!” “Oh Simon you’re so big and hard!” “Oh Simon yes, do it now!” Whatever programming my sketchy ROM had overwritten, apparently my brother’s name was hard-written into its BIOS. I didn’t mind so much. It was easy enough to ignore.

When I was really and truly done, I wiped the pink polymer clean and wound it up again before I went to sleep, leaving the thing safe in my top dresser drawer buried under my dainties, the big brass key laying beside it. I slept restlessly, and had murky, sexy, confusing dreams.

I didn’t get to play with the Tangerine again for a few days. We all had to go to the capitol to watch Father march in another victory parade. With all the victory parades, I wondered, when were we going to win the war? Then I was swept along to Aunt Veronica’s under-heated and under-lit mansion to knit socks with Mother and all the ladies for the men at the front for two interminable chilly and joyless days. Anyone under the age of about sixty (which included Mother and me, but not Aunt Veronica) was expected to be seen and not heard. Before we got home, I felt like I was going to die of claustrophobia, annoyance, and pent-up sexual frustration.

First chance I got, I locked myself in my bedroom. The Tangerine had grown in my absence, and it had changed. Now it barely fit inside my unmentionables drawer. It was more pink than black now, and resembled a giant, malignant tadpole. It had a suggestion of arms, and stubby vestigial legs to either side of the vulva. It had grown a head; a small almond-shaped head fused with no neck to the body, devoid of features except for a mouth with delicate, pouting pink lips. The thing kind of gave me the creeps.

It did give me the creeps, but that didn’t stop me. I wound it up – the master spring had come unwound while I was gone – and let it rip. The vulva parted and drooled, and a long pink tongue lolled out of the mouth-opening and probed lasciviously out and around.

I squatted over the thing’s head, straddling it. The Tangerine’s tongue stretched up toward my vagina like a charmed snake. Gingerly, I lowered myself down onto it. It was pure heaven.

The tongue was soft and warm and wet and squirmy, and constantly in motion. It seemed to be driven by an onboard intelligence, some kind of cunnilingus algorithm cooked up by a roomful of horny mathematicians. Unlike my first experience with the wind-up toy, it didn’t drive me straight over the cliff. I discovered that by manipulating the buttons in its black panel, I could control the speed and intensity of the artificial licking it was giving me. I found a setting that made the thing’s tongue zig-zag all over my slit like an automatronic coal-fired sewing machine. I dialed both speed and intensity down to their lowest level, picked up my filthy novella, and read almost an entire chapter while the Tangerine chug-chugged up and down my pussy. It was exquisite. I ignored the muffled cries of “Oh Simon you’re so big and hard!” “Yes Simon, yes you big stud!” and so forth. By the time I was ready to get off, I was sopping wet, absolutely soaked and dripping. I could stand no more torment. I set down the book, reached down, and turned up the controls as high as I could stand them. I bore down against the suddenly racing, humming tongue, and came, hard and fast. It was probably the biggest, longest, most intense orgasm I had ever experienced, and when I rolled off the Tangerine, I was shaking. My thighs were absolutely coated in wetness, both mine and the machine’s. The hair between my legs was wet and matted. My clitoris was throbbing like a collapsed star, a pulsar. I realized that I had probably been screaming.

I wound the Tangerine up again, and stashed it in the back of my closet, behind all the off-season pinafores. I figured it would be safe from the snooping eyes of the chambermaid back there.

There was a massive explosion downtown. We were let out of Academy early. The authorities couldn’t seem to make up their minds whether it was a cowardly act of terrorism, or an innocent industrial accident. My clothes reeked of coal smoke. Dirigibles prowled back and forth through the filthy grey skies like hunting sharks. I got home, disrobed, and showered. The water was only luke-warm, and smelled like sulfur.

The Tangerine had grown again, and changed even more. It was now almost my size, a recognizably human female figure, with the bland, inoffensive features of a dress mannequin. The black control panel was still there, now located on the back of the thing’s neck, but the rest of it was eerie flesh-soft pink polymer. Its pussy, though still prominent between its meaty thighs, was no longer its sole defining feature. The thing had buttocks, breasts, ears, lips, and a nose. Two glassy dead eyes, like camera lenses, had appeared in its face.

It definitely gave me the creeps, but I wound it up anyway. At this point, I could accurately be described as an addict. Winding the master spring took longer than ever. I counted 256 turns before it clicked.

Despite its bulk, the thing was still relatively light. I manhandled the Tangerine up onto my red velvet fainting couch, and straddled it, still pink and damp from my unsatisfying shower. My intention had been to read another chapter of my smutty novella while it percolated away on its lowest settings.

The Tangerine had ideas of its own, however. An impossibly strong, iron grip pried my legs wide apart and gripped my buttocks. It lowered its head into my crotch, and that inhumanely long tongue went to work: licking, lapping, dancing up and down, in and out, vibrating the whole time. I was powerless to get away, even if I had tried, and frankly I didn’t try very hard. After a brief moment of panic, I surrendered to it, arching my back and drowning in the sensations. It kept calling out Simon’s name, lavishing praise on his manly body and his big hard cock, all the while bringing me to orgasm after orgasm. I lost track of how many times I came. Dexterous, artificial fingers caressed my clitoris, stroked and toyed with my vagina, and even probed my anus, making me squirm. I pinched and pulled at my own nipples, crooning wordlessly as I came over and over, again and again.

Just as I was starting to think that I couldn’t take any more, that I was physically spent, it disengaged. Clockwork humming inside, it lifted it’s head from my quivering pussy and slid up my body until its polymer lips were pressed against mine in a parody of a kiss. I could tasty my own salty, tangy juice on the thing’s squishy artificial flesh. Its breasts were squashed up against mine. “Oh Simon, you big stud,” it whispered, and slid one mechanical hand between my thighs. Long fingers pried their way inexorably inside my pussy, plucking my virginity dispassionately away. I yelped as my flesh was torn asunder. The clockwork inside the Tangerine clicked and hummed and ran down, and the thing went limp on top of me, leaving me almost catatonic; still atremble from the multiple orgasms, wounded and bleeding, sweaty and sticky and leaking and still oddly turned on. I needed another shower, in a bad way.

I was sore for days, and not just from being summarily deflowered. It may or may not have been my imagination, but I thought the servants were giving me strange sidelong looks. The government changed again. A new Prime Minister was appointed; as usual no-one said what had become of the last one.

My friend Jo disbanded her Admiration Society. She told me she wanted to join the Air Forces, and asked if Father would give her a recommendation. When I asked her why she would do that, she turned her head so I couldn’t see her eyes and said “Cute airmen and sex on a blimp.” I told her I’d see what I could do.

Something was deeply fishy about that ROM I’d downloaded; this was not the way a Tangerine was supposed to behave. A Tangerine is not supposed to grow and change and mutate and start acting out on its own; it’s supposed to be a passive toy, a warm wet vibrating place for a horny guy to stick his penis. I wondered if Josephine had had any such issues with her Schlong.

Despite my misgivings, and my still tender pussy, I came back for more, like a dog worrying at an old soup bone.

The thing in the back of my closet was me. Or my identical twin. It had gotten all the details right; every freckle, every hair, the crooked toe; the only the wrong was the eyes, which were dark and glassy and dead.

I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t go there. Horny or not, I couldn’t bring myself to wind up that spring. I left it where it lay, folded into a Z in the back of my closet; and I walked away, feeling edgy and unfulfilled. I went downstairs to the library and tried to lose myself in a long, dusty book.

I stayed down there a long time. The house got quiet and dark around me. I thought about masturbating, doing it the good old fashioned way, right there amongst the books, but then I thought better of it. Mother would be back from doing her Good Works soon, and Simon could get home at any moment. I closed the big dry book of history I had been struggling though, and traipsed my long way upstairs toward my bedroom.

I heard them from the bottom of the stairwell. It was my voice, but her words: “Simon, you big stud, fuck me, fuck me all night with your long hard cock!” I hurried up the stairs, thankful that the servants had all gone home for the night.

My bedroom door, of course, was locked against me. I could hear the bed squeaking all the way out in the hall. I knelt down and peered through the keyhole, like a skulking scullery maid.

Simon was facing away from me, standing in front of the bed, with his back to the door. He was still wearing his grey Academy tunic, but he was naked from the waist down. He had, and it bothered me obscurely to admit it, a pretty cute little white butt.

The Tangerine was on all fours on the bed. Even as I watched, Simon turned, removing his penis from her mouth. It was hard and wet, and it jutted erectly up, waggling as he moved. It was the first penis I had seen, outside of pornography, and academically speaking anyway, I liked the look of it. It seemed a nice size; neither too big nor yet too small, crowned with a bulbous scarlet cap, and two ripe, full-looking balls down at the base. If it hadn’t belonged to my brother, I could have wasted a lot of time thinking of interesting things to do with that cock.

“Fuck me with the big hard dick!” the thing that looked just like me cooed, “Fuck my cunt and then fuck my asshole. Fuck me deep and hard!”

Simon readily complied, picking the Tangerine and depositing her on my fainting couch, flat on her back with her legs splayed wide, and driving his erect penis straight up her pussy, penetrating her with an audible squelch. I watched, eye pressed to the keyhole, as his tight little butt humped urgently in time with her clichéd moans and coos, her legs – my legs! – wrapped around his back and kicking wildly in the air.

He pulled out of her, his dick shiny and slick with wetness, and flipped her over once again, so that she was bent over the arm of the couch, pale pink flesh against the red velvet. He carefully parted her ass-cheeks, sliding his dick up and down between them before carefully taking aim and penetrating her with a throaty sigh. I couldn’t see much in the way of details, but I knew where he must be slipping that wet penis of his. I wondered if I would take that particular intrusion so placidly. My own hand found its way inside my knickers where I discovered that my own pussy was not just moist, but completely soaking wet.

I masturbated shamelessly, kneeling on the hall carpet, watching my brother sodomize my mirror image. And when he started humping wildly, grunting and groaning and calling my name out loud, I found myself coming too, a long deep orgasm that left me shaking and spent.

I left them then, and went up to the widow’s walk, where I paced back and forth for a long time under a dark sky that in another age might have been sparkling with bright shining stars.

At breakfast, Mother was, as always, absorbed in her newspaper. More mixed messages from the front lines: another victory to celebrate, a plea for used clothing and blood donations. Simon nodded and smiled absently in my direction from across the table, giving nothing away. The maid may have leered as she brought my breakfast plate, but it may have been my imagination.

That afternoon we got the news that father had been wounded. The telegram was terse, there were no details. Later, Mother was summoned to attend to him in the capital. She blanched at the news, delivered by a rigid, expressionless officer, and warned us that she might not be home until late, or not at all. The house was oddly tense and quiet, as if it were holding its breath.

I don’t know what woke me up, but I startled instantly awake. It was the middle of the night, and the noise of the city had reached its low ebb. My closet door gaped wide open, and door out into the hall was ajar.

Wearing only my nightdress, I got up and padded out into the hall.

Father’s study, where he keeps all his confidential papers, was just down the hall from my room. I had never been inside it, and the door was always locked. Now the door was standing open, and a light was on inside.

There was an explosion, like a clap of thunder directly overhead, and I think I screamed. My scream dragged on and on, and then I realized it wasn’t me screaming. The scream changed pitch, metal grinding on metal, high-tensile steel coming unhinged and unwound with a noise that I thought would shatter the glass in the windowpanes. Suddenly, it was cut off, and there was a silence that echoed in my ears.

Simon stepped out of the study, carrying a smoking blunderbuss in one hand, dragging the wreckage of the Tangerine in the other. He was wearing his Academy grey uniform.

He deposited the still-twitching remains of the Tangerine into the incinerator chute. Then I followed him dumbly downstairs into the kitchen.

He poured us each a tall glass of brandy.

“That wasn’t me in my bedroom the other night.” I told him. The liquor burned the back of my throat.

“I know,” he said, “The eyes were all wrong.”

“What about Violet?” I asked.

He shrugged. “She jilted me.”

“I’m sorry.”

“It’s alright.” He shrugged again, “She’s a cow. Believes everything the government tells her is true. Bit of a prude, too.”

He took a big swallow of brandy.

“You downloaded a corrupt ROM for that thing, didn’t you?” He stated it as a fact, not a question.

“Yeah.” I said.

“It was a virus,” he said, “An enemy espionage tool. If the government found out about this, we’d probably all be arrested.”

“Good gracious.” I blew out a long breath. “What a mess I’ve made of things. I’m sorry I stole your Tangerine. I’ll give you money to help buy a new one. I don’t have much sterling saved up though…”

Simon laughed harshly. “Don’t worry about it. I’ll make do somehow.”

If I’d been another girl, maybe Josephine, I would have gotten down on my knees and crawled under the table and fished his cock out of his crisply ironed uniform pants, and given my brother a blowjob right then and there. But I didn’t, and we finished out drinks in a moody, morose, silence that was loaded with words unsaid.

*

The boys in Simon’s Academy class were mobilized six weeks ahead of schedule. We all lined up by the front door to see Simon off in his dress greys. Father, rigidly erect and wearing his full military regalia, but still swathed in bandages, shook his hand. I couldn’t see the expression on his face: the flesh that wasn’t covered in cotton gauze was a livid salmon pink and slimy with salve. A different Air Forces officer might have landed his son a purely symbolic post, or made sure he was given a clerkship, and would spend his two-year mandatory service safely shuffling paperwork. Not Simon. He would be piloting a Zeppelin over the trenches of the Eastern Front. We all wept as he walked down the hall, looking crisp and manly and invulnerable in his full dress uniform. Mother, me, the maids, were weeping shamelessly. Even stoic Cook had tears streaming down her fat pink cheeks. He kissed each one of us in turn.

I was the last before the door. “Don’t worry Sis,” he whispered in my ear, “I’ll be back.”

I hoped, hoped so hard that it hurt, that he was right.

END

2 Comments »

  1. Creepy, sci-fi-y and sexy all at once… <33!!

  2. rafe said

    Excellent. Thanks Elsie!

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