Work Text:
“It’s still a work in progress,” Maggie says. A tinny sound follows her words as she does something to the machine. “So if you have notes, you know, I’m all ears.”
The mechanical whir behind her is distracting. So is the lack of anything to brace herself against. She’d offer the feedback now, but whatever Maggie just did has sent a vibration along the piece of machinery pistoning steadily inside Holliday.
“Got it,” she says through gritted teeth.
When she volunteered, she thought this would be more interactive, but she might as well be another piece of the machinery for all the attention she’s gotten. She also thought they might do it somewhere comfortable, not the middle of Maggie’s private workshop.
The whole room stinks of machinery — oil and grease and the tang of metal. Less than ten feet away is another prototype for an entirely more professional purpose, lying in pieces next to Maggie’s workbench.
The sole concession to Holliday’s humanity is the rubber mat keeping her hands and knees from being scraped raw by the naked concrete floor.
The machine moves rigidly, pumping in and out and in and out with no fatigue, no loss of rhythm, and she’s dripping wet all around it, but it’s frustrating. She arches her back, and the minute change in angle does something, but it’s not enough. A real person could move with her.
“It’s not—” she pants, swallows around a dry tongue. “The pace is all wrong.”
Maggie’s dirty boots appear in front of her, then the whole woman, crouching. “I got something for that,” she says. There’s a rectangular control with two buttons on it.
Holliday wants to touch her or ask to be touched maybe, but it’s taking most of her concentration not to lose her balance.
“I figured you’d want it rougher,” Maggie goes on, and something judgmental about her tone sends a thrill of shame through Holliday. “That button speeds it up. The other one slows it down. You’re in control.”
She stands then, but doesn’t yet leave. Holliday has to tear her eyes away from the oil stain on one of her boots before she can use the controller. When she presses the button to make the machine work faster, Maggie makes an amused sound above her — then walks away again.
For a moment, there’s nothing but the hum of the machine and the movement between her legs. It’s steady and hard, pounding until there’s nothing between her thighs but wet heat and the blood-swollen throbbing of her own flesh.
Maggie stands a few feet away at that drafting table, but Holliday can’t say whether she’s being ignored or observed at this point. It’s silent over there, and over here is distracting.
She chases the pleasure that’s building between her sweating thighs, fucking herself back onto the machine in uneven stutters of her hips. Every time she gets close to losing herself in it, she can’t quite make it. She fumbles with the controller, urging the stupid thing to thrust faster, but that’s not enough either.
Before she knows it, she’s down on her elbows, tits dragging the rubber mat. What felt so comfortable under her hands and knees feels rough against her tight, tingling nipples. She tilts her hips up, rubbing her wet face against one forearm.
Her stomach clenches into a knot and her thighs cramp, but try as she might, it only ever plateaus.
“Please,” she murmurs, unsure what she’s even asking for.
“What’s that?” Maggie asks. It’s a surprise she heard anything at all over the machine, but maybe her ears aren’t ringing the way Holliday’s are.
“Please,” she says louder. “I need—”
There’s a beat or two where Maggie’s clearly waiting for more. When she gets nothing further, she laughs. “You have two hands.”
Holliday wants to say something rude. She wants to demand Maggie come over here and fix the problem caused by her own stupid invention. She wants to flop onto her back and shove Maggie’s face between her legs. But the machine hasn’t stopped, and maybe she’s preoccupied.
Somehow this is worse than Maggie watching her get fucked by a machine; shame suffuses her entire body as she braces on one forearm and reaches the other hand between her legs. She has to squeeze her eyes shut, but Maggie’s voyeuristic gaze is palpable even so.
Between her thighs the skin is blazing hot, her clit throbbing painfully at the first touch. Below it her cunt is stretched tight around the dildo fucking into her, lips swollen with arousal and too much friction.
Everything is slippery. She drags fingers slick with her own juices back to her clit. She normally likes it slower, likes to warm up to this, but she usually isn’t so on edge before she gets here. Now she rubs as fast as she can, hips twitching between her hand and the relentless fucking behind her.
She nearly loses balance twice, and everything from her hips to her knees is one mass of heat and quaking muscles. It takes too long, but it finally becomes unbearable, the heat diffusing through the rest of her body, and everything comes crashing in around her. She groans with relief, hips twitching uncontrollably.
She has to lower her hand to catch her balance, head swimming. Her body trembles once or twice with the aftershocks. She fumbles, fingertips brushing the controller, but before she can grab it, it’s swept out of her grasp.
“That was one,” Maggie says, her boots once again nearly within reach. “Of course, for a proper experiment, we have to establish a pattern.” The machine speeds up, pounding into her oversensitive cunt. “You can do another two, right?”
The only answer Holliday has is a sob.