AMATEUR XXX STORIES
-
ALPHABETICAL SEX STORY LISTINGS:
A -
B -
C -
D -
E -
F -
G -
H -
I -
J -
K -
L -
M -
N -
O -
P -
Q -
R -
S -
T -
U -
V -
W -
X -
Y -
Z
TITANIUM girls hour Lines One and
Titanium Kiss
by Cobalt Jade (cobaltjade@aol.com) 10/19/00
(with apologies to Kafka)
I haven't kept you waiting long, have I? Please come this way.
Watch your step. These stairs are metal, and being as we are an
underground operation -- in more than one sense of the word -- they can get
quite slick when moisture condenses in these caves. Please wear this
hardhat, too. Our president was very proud of our safety record and it
would be a shame if the first outside visitor we've had were to suffer some
easily prevented mishap.
Ah, here we are. The main processing plant.
It's a remarkable apparatus, isn't it? It was custom-built for us by a
firm in West Germany and has three production lines, each capable of
processing up to ninety an hour. Lines One and Two receive the most
use; Line Three is used only as back-up should One or Two break down, or
when we have an exceptionally heavy workload. Look to your left and you
will see the tunnel which delivers the ladies to their fate. They
are all naked, of course, and highly aroused. Some may stand or kneel,
with dreamy expressions on their faces; others will be more active,
fondling and stroking themselves as if thinking of a lover. Others will
lose themselves in erotic reveries, rocking back and forth on the black
rubber surface of the conveyer belt while their fingers tweak and pump.
Many are quite athletic in their endeavors and it is all I can do to keep
them on the conveyer. Some days hundreds of ladies come out of the
tunnel, so many that I must bring up the third line to accommodate them
all, and I am so busy then that when I sleep at night I do nothing but
dream of them, some demure, some wickedly wanton, languorous moans and
urgent cries forever silenced in their lovely throats.
What is that you say? How do those ladies come here? That, I do
not know. They do not seem unwilling, but neither, I think, are they fully
cognizant of where they are and what is going to happen to them. A parade
of hapless Eurydices returning from Hades, then; but to look at them
directly might spell your doom not theirs, for one might rush out to ravish
them, and fall victim to the production line himself! Some younger men,
without as much self-control as I, have failed to pay attention to the
equipment and there have been accidents, some of them tragic; so, these
days, except for myself and the other operators, the conveyer is automated.
But, back to the ladies. As far as I have seen they enter the plant
resigned to their fate, though I doubt they know what that fate is. But
perhaps they do know, and do not care. Sometimes I fancy I detect a
self-awareness in their eyes, for many seem to strike deliberate poses as
they enter, to display their charms in the best light. But I truly do not
know. At any rate such things are not my concern.
The klaxon is sounding! I must return to my booth.
Please don't slip. The metal is safety treaded, but a fall could mean
disaster. Remember the production line does not discriminate between males
and females.
I have worked here eight years and never tire of this moment. To hear
the bleating klaxon and see the flashing light turn round and round,
and be the first to see the ladies they have chosen for this
honor...it is truly exhilarating.
Look! The first in line emerges from the tunnel. Ah, a beauty, she.
Of course, they are all beauties. They wouldn't be here if they weren't.
But on the other hand, even a who is merely ordinary in life can be
become quite valuable once processed, depending on the appeal of her pose.
She could come off the production line all sweet and coy, or a panting
whore frozen in lust...it all depends on her personality, the secret side
to her a like me would never see, except in a situation like this. I
feel a real accomplishment when what was squealing, bleating femininity
emerges from the exit flap in graceful silence, knowing I have preserved
their very essences for an audience of appreciative and discerning
connoisseurs, and, indeed, for eternity itself.
Take a close look at the face of the girl. She seems oblivious, doesn't
she. Eyes half-closed, sitting erect on her knees, her pert
pushed forward. Look how her little toes protrude beneath her shapely
derriere, below the peach-cleft of her buttocks. Her head lolls dreamily,
a half-smile takes shape on her face, as she kneads her teats like a
farmgirl. We choose only the finest, you know. Healthy, youthful, without
flaw. We keep names and other information for statistical purposes, but
after she is processed she becomes product, the same as all the other
girls. A serial number serves her instead.
Now she approaches the fork in the conveyer where the paddle will
separate her out onto Line One or Line Two. As I mentioned before, we only
use Line Three when we have a high number of to process. It isn't
used every day. Even two lines aren't used every day. You are very
fortunate in that you chose to visit when you did!
Ah, Line Two. Alabaster, for her. A pity. I was rather hoping it
would be bronze, so I could demonstrate to you the process of gilding her.
But, alabaster will do. It makes one of our more attractive
statues...snow-white, assertively glossed, with a slightly granular, almost
chalky, finish...texture enough to hide the uncanny yet exquisite realism
of our product.
Do you see that? Two of the on the other line have collided on
the conveyer and are involved in some passionate lovemaking. I will keep
them entwined, for they are showing such energy and enthusiasm. Sometimes
I separate them, but more often, I do not, for the happy accident often
nets us a sculpture worth much more than two statues would alone.
Funny you should mention King Midas. We did make statues of precious
metals at one time, but our president, rightly fearing the fate of those
gold and silver ladies (should their new owners go bankrupt, and need some
quick cash) destroyed the programs that created those transformation types,
so now we are now limited to plainer metals, which must be plated over.
With time we have seen the wisdom of it.
Now our enters the machine. Surely she must see the sparks, the
grinding gears, the puffs of vapor that lie ahead of her; yet she continues
her fondling and does not flinch. Let's take a look at the monitors where
we can watch her transformation more closely.
She stirs when she realizes her immediate environment has changed.
Perhaps she even knows something is wrong, but cannot rouse herself from
her stupor. Ultrasonic waves stun and sterilize, arousing her further.
Look at those nipples quiver, those thighs clench! Now, if she would only
raise her hands, push her hair back in a becoming gesture, and give us the
dreamy smile she evinced earlier... but we can't interfere with the
process to pose them. This policy stems from an ancient argument among the
founders of our company. There were those who felt the should be
pre-posed in the manner of erotic models, because, the logic ran, that is
what the mostly male buyers would expect and respond to; drugs or hypnotism
would accomplish the positioning of limbs, and costume items such as
lingerie or leather straps would further enhance the fantasy being
depicted. Other voices, such as that of our president, insisted that
spontaneity was the key; one could not duplicate the active poses and
aroused states of our statues in any other way but through the statue
herself; their unique and unbridled nature would be the key to their
appeal. As you see, our president's view has held out. And while some
poses have been awkward most are pleasing to the eye, because the ladies
seem so unaware of being frozen!
Bright lights flash, sensors blink. Ahead of our girl, and above her,
lurks the heart of the production line, the Tranformatron Mark V. As she
passes beneath it dips down to hover over her like a hawk. A bright flash
of light, a high-pitched whine, and her molecular structure is mapped; now
each of the five cones emits a wavering beam of pale white light which
strike her in concert. See how her frame trembles and quakes! It
never fails to happen, the orgasm occurring in concert with activation.
Probably one causes the other, but I'm not sure how.
The beams hold the fast, and the shrill whine reaches hypersonic
levels. A shaft of pale golden light strikes her from above, and she
begins to change. See how the soft, wrinkled soles of her feet are
changing color, hardening, and fading to white; now the transformation
moves up her calves and her thighs, as if her flesh was an empty vessel and
milky liquid is being poured inside. Her soft curved belly becomes stone,
then the narrow tuck of her waist, as she kneels in frozen silence, aware
of her complete and utter helplessness; though the rays hold her paralyzed
she quivers slightly, as if she realizes her plight and is trying to
escape. But that, of course, is impossible. Now her are becoming
hard, white stone, and their nipples two tiny, rock-hard nubs, and at this
point I am always tempted, though I know it is foolish, to reach out and
depress them like two elevator buttons, or even, in a macabre turn of mind,
to pick up a hammer and see what kind of blow would chip them off those
stony globes, and what the lady, if she were aware, would think of
such an act. But the impulses always pass, because if I were to do such a
thing, I would lose my job, and possibly worse; and besides, it would be a
shame to damage such a fine statue.
The transformation moves up her chest, to her neck and chin. Her long,
tumbled hair is caught and turned into frozen waves, and swiftly a stony
film washes over her face and seals her eyes, the moist, alert surfaces now
white and blind. In an eyeblink the white film reaches the top of her
head, encircles it, and quickly grows together at the center of her skull.
A second passes, then two, with no more movement, as the conveyer
carries her on; and I know for sure she has been fixed in her final moment
of passion. The Mark V lifts, whirring, and moves back to its original
position. The new statue travels on, to the wash tunnel, where robot arms
clamp her and steady her as she moves through a curtain of water jets and
past the rotating brushes that clean off the remains of stone dust, after
which blasts of hot air dry her from above. If she were metal or glass,
she would be buffed and polished at this point. And finally, our new
statue emerges into the light, to the lascivious cheers and lusty comments
of our technicians. Let's walk now to the end of the line so you can see
her up close.
Ah, she is as I thought. Perfect. See how she kneels as if praying,
the palm of one hand almost touching the right thigh, but not quite, while
her other hand is raised and slightly outstretched, as if she meant to
shield her eyes from the glare of the Mark V and failed. She must have
been about to give a scream of pleasure, for her head is thrown back and
her mouth open, with the hint of a tongue and teeth; the detail always
amazes me. Looking lower, you can even see the wrinkled lips of her sex,
from which she has shaven the hairy screen of Eve, so that tiny protrusion
you see could be her clitoris; I doubt she ever displayed herself so
brazenly before. Now look at her eyes and see how wide and blank they are,
full of deadly knowledge and forbidden ecstasy; and if you are like me, you
would buy her in instant, if you had the means.
Now we must step aside, for the technicians must finish their work. You
look alarmed, but it is nothing, really. They're only injecting a sort of
caulk into her, to fill her orifices and seal them off; her buyer must
never suspect she was ever anything other than an alabaster statue. The
caulk matches the color and the texture of the stone exactly. It should
set in a moment. After that she will be inspected, inscribed, and packed
for shipment in one of those crates. Our statues are sent to art
galleries, private collectors, and museums all over the world. Our buyers
and dealers think they are crafted by many different artists, a front the
company has taken pains to create and maintain. The line processes them at
a rate of two per minute, each pose, each face different and unique; yet
somehow they are all the same, as if their individual essences have been
taken from them, distilled to their basic femininity, and poured back into
the empty vessels of their flesh. It makes you wonder what they are
thinking.
No, probably not. But we will never know, really. After all, we don't
have the means to change them back, so they can tell us. It is a crushing
disappointment to some of our customers, who find they have fallen in love
with their crystal or marble ladies, and come to us begging for an
antidote; but there is nothing we can do. None of them think that if we
did change them back, the first thing a former statue would do would be to
run away and resume her life!
Still, I will venture that if these statues are conscious, it's probably
a type of consciousness alien to human minds. Our president, on the other
hand, was certain that the statues experienced the final sensations of
their fleshly bodies over and over again, a never-ending series of orgasms;
if that is so, we can only envy them.
On the other hand, it is entirely possible they know they are trapped
forever in the most embarassing of poses, and hate us. But no one really
knows.
As much as I hate to leave here, it's time to go upstairs. We will be
taking the staircase to the right.
Here we are: the Gallery. This is where our finest specimans are kept
on display. I myself often come here on my meal breaks.
Beautiful, isn't it? The cream of womanhood is kept here,
preserved for the eons for those such as us.
This aisle is devoted to our various stone statues: marble, granite,
obsidian, alabaster and limestone, as well as our limited edition series in
jade, carnelian, and opal. Opposite them, glass and crystal. The finer
ones you see will actually throw out rainbows like a prism. The on
the end is one of my particular favorites. See how she leans back on her
elbows with her toes pointed to the sky, blissfully unaware she was going
to stay in that position forever! If her look a little odd it's
because another girl, with whom she collided on the conveyer, was tweaking
her nipples and pulling them upward, but unfortunately her partner was
shattered when we were taking them out of the freight elevator, so she lies
on her plinth all alone. Fortunately for her, the crystal medium obscures
rather than highlights the details between her legs, for which she would be
grateful.
Yes, she looks fairly ridiculous. But the very awkwardness is
compelling, don't you think? For whoever looks at her can tell what act
she was involved in and how much she enjoyed it, even if the giver of her
oral pleasure is not present. You don't have to whisper by the way.
Although it looks like we are in a museum we are not; it's the lighting
that does it.
Now we come to the plastic transformations; the statues can either be
realistic or artificial, depending on their finish. The medium can create
some very lifelike works of art, as with those over there; though
their immobility marks them as mannequins, they are far too expensive for
even the most high end department store. Go ahead, touch one if you like.
It's eerie to see what looks like soft flesh turn out to be so hard and
slick.
Over there, our metal statues in copper, bronze, and steel. That lewd
yet luscious minx has been allowed to acquire a lovely green patina, while
her is still fresh and shiny as if newly cast. The beside them
is not gold, but electroplated chrome. The gilding is twenty-four carat
though, and quite thick. See how she stands with a secret smile on her
face, holding one nipple, demure. Every lock of her hair is perfect as if
dipped in liquid metal, and her lovely hemispherical buttocks beg even now
for many hours of polishing, and perhaps an inscription or two.
All good things must come to an end, eh? The tour is concluded, and
I'll walk you down to the lobby where our security staff will escort you
back to your car. Please take this small statue reproduction as a souvenir
of your visit. I'm sure it will help keep all those senate reports
anchored to your desk. Come this way.
Oh...that. I was hoping you wouldn't notice her. That's our late
president.
You are shocked. Of course she is and beautiful, and as luscious
and desirable as all the other statues in the gallery; but she was also a
genius, an expert in quantum physics and those branches of science that
deal with the nature of matter and molecular structure; she invented the
statuefication process herself, four days shy of her twenty-fifth birthday,
and succumbed to it four years later. And yes, she is solid, gleaming
titanium.
It was an accident, an altercation involving some former employees. The
scoundrels had planned to kidnap some poor girls, bring them here when the
factory was idle and deserted, and...you can guess the rest: the ingots
from the smelted statues would be sold on the black market, with the
fortune stashed in Swiss banks. But our president had chosen that time to
erase the precious metal programs, and unfortunately, she met up with the
criminals, and met this fate. I would rather not say any more about it.
We are still investigating the incident.
She kneels for eternity now, her thighs slightly spread, her spine
straight; her head is thrown back, her mouth open in a scream of ecstasy.
Her heavy jut forward, nipples hard as bullets, while her arms are
held close to her body, hands balled into fists from the shock of the
transformation, or the eager anticipation of it. She seems frozen with
tension, yet the metal is so gleaming and sensuous with its curves.
Oddly, I think she would have appreciated the sculpture she became. No
passive victim she, but an amazon full of life, power, energy; yet so
vulnerable, for titanium is as valuable as gold. We keep her case locked.
No, we wouldn't sell her. But neither do we know what to do with her.
So, she is kept here, as both a monument and a manifesto.
I don't think she would be displeased.
Look at her face, so transcendent, so triumphant, her eyes nearly
closed, her hair tumbling like frozen, gleaming snakes, and you will know
that theory of hers is true; that if the case was not locked, you might
stand before her, to slip your organ between her pursed silver lips, so
round and ripe and eager for a man's use, so she can give you all that she
is and all that she created, with her singular, prophetic, titanium kiss.
END
This work is copyrighted 2000 by Cobalt Jade (Cobaltjade@aol.com). This
work may be be freely distributed over electronic media provided no fee is
charged for its use. Charging a fee for this story, or publishing without
author credit or this notice violates my copyright.