Screwed
by Chris Chris
With a shiver, she stepped out of the cold and into the gleaming foyer of her flat. She tossed her keys and cluch on the side table. She unzipped her silver down parka, bending to get the zipper all the way down to the furred hemline below her knees. Like a butterfly leaving a cocoon, she slid out of the coat, her tight wool dress shedding sparks of static electricity. She hooked the hood of the parka on a peg, and sat by the door to unzip her boots, the black nylons letting the boots slide off easily. Flexing her toes, she padded into her bedroom, taking first one arm and then the other out of the dress, and pushing it down towards her waist. Her bra was lavender satin, and a silver chain curved across her cleavage.
On her bed, there was a wooden box. She jumped a little when she saw it. Where had that come from? Someone had been in her apartment! She looked around, heart thumping. She checked the kitchen, the bathroom. Nervously she opened the closets. Nobody.
She came back to the box. It was highly polished wood, a deep cherry, and it had a seam. She opened it. Inside it was black velvet over a soft cushion with four depressions. Each depression perfectly cradled an enormous chrome screw. They were machine screws, with hexagonal heads and tapered points, all pointing at her. Each was almost an inch in diameter and the tops were bigger still. They gleamed in polished chrome, catching the light and almost glowing against the black velvet.
Gingerly, she spread one velvet slot with her red nails. She grasped the screw, just below its hexagonal head, and lifted it from the box. It felt smooth, almost slippery in her hand, and surprisingly a little bit warm. As she held it, her fingers began to impress the material. She switched it to the other hand and saw the two small depressions in the threads where her thumb and finger had held it. As she watched, they slowly returned to their former shape, flat and smooth. She could feel the threads squishing slightly where she now held it in her left hand.
A small drop of clear liquid, like a bead of dew, presented itself at the tip. She held it up, and touched it. It was viscous, and as she moved her hand away from the screw point, a string of clear fluid stretched between her finger and the screw, then broke off, leaving the screw tip dry and her finger moist. She rubbed the drop between her fingers. It was oily, or maybe not, more of a smooth lubricant. As she rubbed, it evaporated. She sniffed her now dry thumb and forefinger. Cinnamon. How delicious. Or was it a floral scent, or maybe strawberry. She inhaled again to try to place the scent.
Another drop was now glistening on the tip of the screw. She wiped it off with her finger, then held it under her nose, rubbing it between her thumb and finger to evaporate the liquid. The smell was amazing, heady, and so intriguing. The screw still had liquid at its tip. She held it to her mouth. Her red lips opened gently, and she slid the tip of her tongue out, tasting. It was good. She tasted again, and then licked another drop off the tip. She put the tip between her lips and sucked at it gently, tasting. The scent filled her head and coated her tongue. She sucked harder, and then compulsively began to slip the screw into her mouth. The tapered tip fit through her lips, but then her teeth caught on the threads as the screw widened. This is a screw, she thought. I need to screw it in.
Another drop of liquid landed on the back of her tongue. She could feel the scent in her sinuses. Behind her eyes. Wrapping its mysterious smoky spicy sweetness around her brain. She breathed deep, and began to turn the screw. It pressed her tongue down, her jaws open. Another twist and it was at the back of her mouth, somehow softening to fill her spaces. The hexagonal bolt head protruded from her mouth only an inch now, and she turned it again. She should be gagging now, but somehow her reflex was suppressed. Another turn and the screw was too deep, too far back. She turned it again and it was at the back of her throat. She could feel the liquid drip down her esophagus. It was deep enough that there was no swallowing involved. That part of her was open, penetrated and held by the screw. The large bolt was touching her lips, still made up and red from her night out. Her lips opened and let the head in. One final turn and it was snug against her teeth. She looked in the mirror. Her mouth was a gleaming chrome hexagon with lips.
The screw was solid in her mouth, but didn’t feel like metal. She could sort of squeeze it with her jaw, it gave a little. And when she did, she could feel liquid in her throat. She was starting to feel floaty, like the room was far away and tinged with halos. She gave another suck/squeeze to the screw in her mouth. She could hardly see her mouth move when she did. The liquid came, trickling into her body, keeping her floaty, and now horny. She was horny. The thought came to her. My pussy is a hole and needs a screw. One hand reached down, on autopilot as she spaced out, staring into the mirror. She began to rub her clit through her nylons, still squeezing and sucking the mouth screw.
She was silent as she rubbed herself, mouth stuffed and unable to move, watching herself in the mirror. My hole, she thought. It is lubricating so the screw can slide in easily. She could feel the wetness through her nylons. She pushed her dress down, stretching it over her hips and stepping out of it. She wanted more. More of the liquid. More fullness. More screws. She picked up a second screw. Its pointed tip was gleaming with a drop of liquid and she touched the tip to her pussy. The liquid flowed into the nylon covering her clit and she shuddered with arousal. Her hole needed the screw. She tore her nylons, opening herself, and slid the gleaming tip of the screw between her pussy lips.
Her pussy was tight. It wouldn’t push in. But the threads were smooth and she was wet and so she turned the screw. The slowness of it was exquisite. She desperately wanted to plunge it in, to fuck, but it would only turn. So she turned it, and each twist filled her more and pressed her open wider. The screw tip went deeper. Her cunt throbbed, and squeezed the screw. She could feel the liquid drip deep inside her, and as it entered her body the warm floaty feeling increased. She turned it again, pushing it deeper. It filled her completely, her cunt straining against it, pushing it, but the threads held it inside her unmoving.
She turned it again. It went unimaginably deeper, and the hexagonal head pressed against her mons, brushing her clit. She came, shudderingly. Her contractions would have pushed a dildo out, but the screw was threaded and it stayed in. Her legs shook and she bent forward, grabbing the vanity with both hands. Her mind cried out but the bolt in her mouth kept her absolutely silent.
It’s not in, she thought. It can go deeper. It needs to go deeper. She gathered herself, looked in the mirror. She could feel her nipples straining with arousal. She took off her bra, let it fall aside. She rolled her nipples in her fingers, still on the edge. The bolt in her mouth was in all the way, spreading her lips wide around its chromed head. But the one in her pussy was still protruding. She leaned forward on the vanity, reached between her legs with one hand. Just touching the screw sent bolts of pleasure through her sex. She turned, gingerly, but it wasn’t enough to move it. Now that she was already full, it needed more force.
She stumbled into her hallway, the screw between her legs causing her to move awkwardly, bent slightly forward and with her knees apart. She found her toolbox, and an adjustable wrench. Shaking, she reached between her legs, trying to adjust the wrench head to fit the screw still protruding from her cunt. She couldn’t get the right angle. Her juices, mixed with the cinnamon scented lubricant, coated the screw and her hands.
She returned to the bedroom and lay down on her back, pushing pillows against the headboard to her slightly upright. She could feel the liquid from the mouth screw drip steadily down her throat, keeping her thoughts soft and the room gauzy. She flexed and raised her hips and legs. Now she could get the wrench in place, its open claws positioned around the angular head of the screw in her pussy. She turned it. The screw went deeper, opening her like a drill. Again she exploded in silent orgasm, her nylon clad legs shuddering in the air.
The head of the screw was now almost touching her pussy lips. It needed to be tighter. She positioned the wrench again and turned. The screw head pressed in, spreading her cunt, mashing against her. She was overfull now, the screw in deep and firm. Her cunt muscles grasped at it, squeezing, pushing, milking. Every movement stimulated her clit, now pressed under the head of the screw. The orgasms continued, and the drugs oozing from the screws took her deeper into head space. Eventually her body relaxed. Her arms fell to her sides, dropping the wrench. Her legs lowered, staying spread. Her hard nipples pointed straight up, and her pale neck and cheeks stayed flushed, red from the ongoing sexual volcano in her cunt.
Two screws remained in the velvet box. Moving robotically now, she rose from the bed. Her two hands reached out together and lifted the screws from their case. She stood before the mirror. She was perfectly symmetric, her reflection in the mirror exactly the same as her body. Both nipples pointing ahead, hard and seeking. Eyes open and staring, mouth geometric with its machine screw stretching her red lips. She held the final screws up, turned them sideways, raised them to her head. When the pointed tips slid into her ears, she came again, her pussy squeezing and pulsing on the screw deep inside. Yet more of the drug soaked into her body.
She felt so detached, a floating observer as her arms moved and her body orgasmed. Her thoughts were smooth and fluffy, her vision filled with pastel bursts of color. Her hands, moving on their own, began to turn the screws. Six inches long, they couldn’t possibly go into her head. But they turned, pressing inside.
Her ears plugged, the only sound she could hear was the wet slither of the screws as she turned them. They pushed deeper, the material threading its way into her brain. She could feel the tips of the screws squeezing drops of liquid. Each hit like an oil slick on a smooth lake, spreading quick from the tip and slowing to a sheer film of pleasure covering her mind.
Her pussy was hot and liquid, sealed tight. Her mouth was wet and full, nothing escaping but the screw’s oil, dripping down her throat. And now her head was stuffed, all thoughts limp and shoved aside by the two screws she had tightened until they locked against her skull. She lay back onto her bed, threw her arms wide, spread her legs, and let the screws soak into her mind.
Hours ed. The sun rose, midwinter late, and its light found her still spread eagled in bed. She was flushed, tits up, naked but for black nylons with the chrome screw head protruding from the hole she had ripped the night before.
She rose mechanically, found her phone, and ordered a car. She covered her nakedness with her parka, then slipped her stockinged feet into boots. She found a mask from the pandemic, and stretched it to cover her mouth screw. Her blonde hair was just long enough to conceal the screws in her ears.
She stood waiting, robotically still, with cunt, mouth, and mind all stuffed. When the car came, she left her building and got in, saying nothing to the driver’s “good morning.” He took her to the address she had typed in, a street with a few bars, only recently gentrifying from its industrial past. She left the car and began to walk, undistracted by the handful of people moving about this Sunday morning. After a few blocks and a few turns designed to avoid observation, she turned into an alley and approached the side door to a warehouse. Her fingers typed a code into the keypad and the door unlocked. Inside, she shed her mask and coat.
The chrome hexagon on her mouth fogged immediately, her lips around it red and wet. Her nipples strained upwards, stiff and hard from the cold. She bent and removed her boots, feeling the fullness of the screw in her cunt, and then slipped off her nylons.
Naked, she walked to a sort of elevator cage with a metal frame in its center. She centered herself and then leaned slightly forward, as if for a kiss. It was a machine kiss, the bolt in her mouth fitting and locking magnetically into a slight depression, just high enough to make her raise her chin.
She spread her legs next, and thrust her hips into the frame. The fucking motion pressed her pussy up and forward, and its screw found a seat in another depression. The magnetic connectors held her head and cunt firmly in place, and she sagged forward to let the frame her weight. She reached up and found two flexible conduits, and with her two hands connected them to the screws sunk deep into her brain. Information began to flow. The metal frame rose up its shaft, higher into the building. She was lifted by her screws, ready to the machine.