Wicked Voltages
In the shadowed heart of the Appalachian foothills, thunder rumbled like a distant lover’s growl. The cabin lab clung to the mountainside, its timber walls groaning under sheets of rain. Professor Marcus Hale had chosen this spot deliberately—far from prying university eyes, perfect for his unorthodox research into neural ecstasy thresholds. Lena Voss, his brilliant but restless grad assistant, had arrived that afternoon, her sleek black Jeep slicing through the downpour. She was no fragile flower; at 28, with sun-kissed blonde waves cropped short, a runner’s lean muscles, and piercing green eyes, she radiated a feral energy that Marcus had noticed from day one in his sensory neuro lab back on campus.
Now, as lightning cracked the sky, they faced each other across the cluttered workspace. Equipment hummed softly—monitors flickering blue, wires snaking like veins over a padded restraint bench cobbled from leather straps and hydraulic arms. The air hung heavy with ozone from the storm and the faint, metallic tang of soldering from Marcus’s latest rig. Lena’s tank top clung damply to her freckled shoulders, outlining the swell of her firm breasts. Marcus, broad-shouldered at 52, his salt-and-pepper beard framing a wicked grin, unzipped his flannel shirt. “Ready to push boundaries, Lena?” he murmured, voice gravelly as the gravel path outside.
She nodded, pulse visible in her throat. This wasn’t their first dance. Weeks ago, on a rattling commuter bus from the city, cramped seats had led to accidental brushes—her thigh against his, heat building until his fingers had slipped under her skirt, teasing her rear in the anonymity of the crowd. She’d shattered silently then, biting her lip bloody. That sparked it all. Now, here, no holds barred.
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Chapter 2: Sparks Ignite 🔥
The bench reclined with a mechanical whine, positioning Lena at a wicked angle—legs splayed wide by padded stirrups, her cargo shorts discarded in a heap smelling of damp earth and pine sap from the hike up. Naked from the waist down, her skin prickled in the cool draft seeping through the cabin’s cracks. Marcus affixed the electrode mesh to her scalp first, thin silver threads whispering against her close-cropped hair. “This maps the fireworks in your brain,” he explained, his callused fingers lingering on her temple. She shivered—not from cold, but the promise in his touch.
Lower still, he peeled away her panties, revealing her core: smooth-shaven except for a neat blonde landing strip, already glistening under the harsh LED lights. The genital stimulator came next—a web of conductive pads, pulsing micro-currents tailored to her nerves. He lubed them generously, the slick gel cool and minty-scented against her heated folds. “Breathe,” he commanded, pressing the device home. It adhered like a second skin, humming faintly as the computer synced.
Lena gripped the armrests, knuckles whitening. The first pulse hit like a tongue of electricity—sharp, insistent, licking deep into her clit. “Fuck,” she gasped, hips bucking involuntarily. Marcus watched the screen: peaks spiking wild, her heart rate climbing. The cabin filled with her ragged breaths, mingled with rain lashing the tin roof. Taste of salt on her lips from nervous sweat. Within ninety seconds, she arched, a guttural cry tearing free as orgasm ripped through her. Juices slicked her thighs, the air thickening with her musky arousal.
Marcus peeled the device off, exposing her swollen sex—puffy lips parted, begging. “Beautiful,” he rumbled, inhaling her scent like fine whiskey. “One down. Now, for something more… personal.” His jeans tented obviously, but he held back, savoring her post-climax haze—eyes glassy, chest heaving, nipples straining her tank like bullets.
Threshold Tease
He stepped closer, freeing his thick length from his zipper. Not monstrous, but veined and heavy, curving upward with a wicked hook. Lena’s eyes locked on it, hand reaching instinctively. “Suck me hard,” he ordered, voice laced with authority. She leaned awkwardly, mouth engulfing the head—warm, velvet over steel. Her tongue swirled, tasting pre-cum’s bitter tang, while her fist pumped the shaft. Saliva dripped, mixing with her sweat. Marcus groaned, threading fingers into her hair, guiding her bob. The storm outside mirrored the one building: thunder boomed as he swelled fully in her throat.
“Recall that bus,” he probed, pulling back with a wet pop. “Your first ass play. Recreated it solo since?” She flushed crimson, nodding, lips shiny. “Bought a plug. Thick one. Felt so… wicked.” Her admission ignited him. “Show me you crave it.”
Chapter 3: Rearward Descent 💋
Rain hammered relentlessly, a symphony to their sin. Marcus adjusted the bench flatter, then climbed aboard, pants shoved to his boots. “Straddle reverse, Lena. Take me in that tight rear.” She rose on shaky legs—thighs toned from trail runs, ass a sculpted peach with a faint tan line. She’d prepped as instructed: cleanses, the jeweled plug he’d gifted that morning, now discarded on the floor amid scattered notebooks reeking of ink and leather polish.
Facing away, she positioned—her rosebud winking, lightly oiled, a dusky pink against pale globes. Hand behind, she notched his tip. The first press: resistance yielding to stretch. Inch by burning inch, she sank, sphincter clenching rhythmic around him. “God, so full,” she moaned, voice husky. Marcus gripped her hips, nails digging crescents into flesh. Heat enveloped him, tighter than velvet vice.
She began to rock—slow grinds building to bounces. Skin slapped wetly, her cheeks rippling. The cabin’s wood creaked under their rhythm, air thick with sweat and sex musk. Marcus’s hand snaked frontward, toying her clit—swollen nub slick under thumb. “Scale it, 1-10,” he demanded between grunts. “Nine… fuck, ten!” Her walls fluttered, milking him wickedly.
“Shame in loving this?” he taunted, thrusting up. She laughed breathlessly. “No shame. Power. Feels wicked good.” Pace frenzied now—her quads flexing, back arched, blonde strands matted. He neared edge, balls drawing tight. “Gonna fill you,” he growled. She slammed down, crying “Yes!” as he erupted—hot jets painting her depths. His palm ground her clit; she convulsed, squirting clear arcs onto his thighs, screams drowning thunder.
Flashback Friction
In her mind, fragments: that bus seat, his whisper “Relax,” finger breaching her virgin rear amid oblivious passengers. The forbidden thrill had hooked her. Now, amplified. Post-peak, she slumped back against his chest, his semi-hard cock lodged deep. Tenderness bloomed—he nuzzled her neck, tasting salt, murmuring “Good girl.”
But mercy was fleeting. As aftershocks ebbed, he stirred fingers anew on her clit—rapid circles sparking overload. “Again,” he insisted, pinning her wrists overhead. She writhed, protesting “Too much!” yet her pussy clenched greedily, betraying. Data on screen (head electrodes askew but logging) showed the surge. Wicked persistence won; she shattered harder, body a quake, juices flooding.
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Chapter 4: Fisting Fury
They disengaged with a obscene schlick, his spend trickling down her crack. Exhaustion tempted, but Marcus’s eyes gleamed predatory. “New protocol,” he said, selecting from a drawer: gloves snapping on, lube bottle glugging viscous clear fluid smelling faintly of cherries. Lena, trembling on the bench, eyed it warily. “Fist? Never…” Conflict flickered—guilt from her straight-laced upbringing warring with hunger.
The cabin’s fire crackled in the corner stove, casting flickering shadows that danced over her sweat-sheened form. He warmed lube between palms, scent blooming sweet amid their funk. Starting gentle: two fingers in her pussy, scissoring, stretching. She moaned, hips canting. Third joined, then fourth—knuckles breaching with a pop. “Breathe through it,” he coached, voice soothing gravel. Her inner walls parted greedily, velvety hot grip sucking him deeper.
Thumb tucked, his fist rotated slow—corkscrew invading. Lena’s eyes rolled white, mouth agape in silent scream. Full now, wrist-deep, he pumped shallow, feeling her ridges massage his skin. “Wicked stretch,” she babbled, tears streaking mascara. Pleasure-pain blurred; she chased it, grinding. Outside, wind howled like banshees. Taste of copper on her bitten tongue. He twisted toward her G-spot bulge—bam. She exploded, convulsions rippling up his arm, a gush soaking floorboards.
Outdoor Echo
Not done. Post-fist collapse led to impulse. “Outside,” he commanded. Rain-slick porch, darkness absolute save lightning strobe. Bent over railing, ass to him, she braced. No electrodes now—just raw. He fisted again, forearm vanishing slickly while pounding her pussy with cock. Dual fill: overstuffed bliss. She wailed into storm, orgasms chaining relentless. Thunder masked her cries; rain washed their joining. Wicked abandon peaked—he unloaded anew, fist withdrawn pulsing void.
They stumbled in, dripping, collapsing on the bearskin rug. Firelight gilded their forms; he cradled her, tracing gooseflesh as she shivered from cold and catharsis. “Why this pull?” she whispered. Marcus pondered: control, discovery, the forbidden mapping of bliss. Vulnerability cracked his shell—stroking her back, sharing breath.
Chapter 5: Reluctant Dawn
Dawn crept gray through mist-shrouded pines, cabin reeking of spent passion—cum, lube, woodsmoke. Lena stirred first, sore deliciously: ass tender, pussy achy, mind alight with endorphins. Marcus snored softly beside, arm possessive over her waist. Data logs blinked on laptops: graphs of neural spikes, proof of multiples beyond norms. Breakthrough? Or excuse for hedonism?
She slipped free, padding naked to the lab bench. Tidying wires, her fingers brushed the plug—smirking wickedly, she inserted it discreetly, clench savoring fullness. Dressed now in fresh jeans hugging her curves, flannel borrowed from him dwarfing her frame. Coffee brewed, bitter steam curling. Marcus woke, stretching, cock twitching at her silhouette. “Data’s gold,” he said, pulling her into lap for a slow kiss—tongues lazy, tasting remnants of night.
But she stood firm. “Variations tomorrow. Map more.” Teasing glint. He chuckled, helping pack gear—electrode webs coiled, bench dismantled with practiced efficiency. Tension hummed: guilt’s whisper (her tenure dreams?), desire’s roar. As they loaded the Jeep, rain easing to drizzle, she paused at driver’s door. Green eyes met his. “This… us… wicked necessity?” He shrugged, wicked smile mirroring. “Science demands it.”
Parting Pulse
She drove off down twisting road, plug a secret thrum with every bump. Marcus watched taillights vanish into fog, hand raising involuntary wave. Cabin empty now, echoing with ghosts of moans. But tomorrow: campus office, subtle glances in seminar hall. Experiments evolved. He grinned at the peaks on screen one last time. Wicked voltages indeed—bodies and boundaries forever altered. 🔥
Yet in her rearview, Lena clenched harder, arousal stirring anew. The drive home stretched long, each mile a tease. Wicked thoughts swirled: next gear? Cabin return? The data wasn’t done compiling, nor their hunger. Storm passed; fire banked, but embers glowed.
Chapter 6: Echoes in the City 💋
Back at the university sprawl, fluorescent sterility clashed with memory’s heat. Lena’s apartment overlooked quad, but tonight she paced, storm echoes in pattering shower. Plug expelled finally, ass gaping slightly in mirror—fingers probed, chasing ghost-fist. Moans fogged glass.
Marcus in his loft, data crunching. Graphs showed unprecedented chains: five peaks in minutes, anal-analog fusion. Email pinged: her attaché, coy note “Protocols refined. Lab. Midnight?” He hardened instantly, stroking slow. Wicked reciprocity.
Midnight: deserted neuro wing. Door clicked shut. She waited, bent over exam table in skirt-no-panties, ass presented. “Surprise variant,” she breathed. He locked, unzipped. Plunge immediate—raw, vengeful. Table rattled; her cries echoed halls empty. Electro pads jury-rigged to her nipples now, zapping syncopated. Climax hit tandem: his seed flooding, her squirt puddling linoleum.
After, tangled on floor—cool tile biting skin, breaths syncing. “Not just data,” she confessed, vulnerability raw. “Need this wicked edge.” He kissed forehead, holding. Bond deepened, beyond power play—mutual unraveling. Dawn neared; they parted with promise, bodies marked, souls entangled.
The research continued, veiled as grants. Cabin calls beckoned. Voltages wicked, pleasures eternal.
