Humorous Erotica
"Dr. Olsen's Loquacious Automaton" a sex story by Jeremy Edwards
“Frauds!”
The word had reared its head with a tiresome regularity since Danny Olsen and his assistant had struck out on the vaudeville circuit.
“Get ’em out of here!
“Yeah, bring back the unicyclist!”
“I’m getting fairly fed up with this,” said Sal twenty minutes later, as she and Danny scrambled down to the platform, each toting an oversized suitcase containing half of their extraordinary prop.
“Now, now, Sal,” said Danny with that avuncular air he sometimes adopted. Sal always found it to be out of place, given his otherwise waggish demeanor toward her, which was far more evocative of a rascally brother than a sage uncle. “Entertainers and inventors routinely encounter public scorn. And, as we fall into both categories, it’s no surprise we get it double.”
“But it’s nearly the twentieth century, for crying out loud.” She made an attempt to push stray locks of straw-colored hair out of her eyes, and succeeded only in knocking her hat askew. “When will the public finally mature?”
“As soon as I see any evidence of it, I promise to tell you.” They were beside the track now, and Danny lowered his case to the ground. Sal did the same.
“It just burns me up that the selfsame blockheads who fall for real frauds—all those penny-theater mediums and mind readers and mystics—don’t know an honest performance when they see it.”
“So you’ve said every day this week. In fact, you’ve aired that sentiment so often I’m beginning to think you’ve got a prerecorded cylinder up your cunny, like Nora here. Just let me know if it needs adjusting.”
“Very amusing.” But she couldn’t sustain her sarcastic hauteur. Danny was amusing—that was one of the ingredients in their act, for better or worse—and her halfhearted attitude of indignation promptly dissolved into laughter.
“Here,” said Danny. “Since there’s no sign yet of the 4:15 to Hartford, let’s feel around and make sure everything’s intact after that hasty exit.” He reached for Sal’s bosom, stopping short of it to give her his comradely smirk. “Sorry,” he said. “Couldn’t resist.”
Then he opened his suitcase to do the real feeling around. Sal took his cue, opening her own valise with care so that her supply of undergarments—and her supply of illustrated magazines—did not tumble out. Her private, portable collection of boudoir stories about ladies only was a gift from a rather boyish girl cousin who had spent the summer in England. Sal prized these magazines more than any other possession, save Nora.
Danny, who truly was a breast fancier, customarily took charge of Nora’s upper half, while Sal carted around the automaton’s rump and legs.
“Looks like she’s in good shape, eh, Sal?”
Even in two pieces, thought Sal, Nora was absurdly fetching. Before Danny closed his case again, she stole a fond glance at the exquisitely curled woolen head of black hair; the glimmering marbles painted to resemble cerulean eyes; and the rubber lips that had been dyed the brightest scarlet, to ensure they’d show up pert and pretty as far away as the balcony seats.
***
Using scraps of science and technology connected with the recent work toward phonographs and computing machines, an obscure genius had fashioned a simple, yet revolutionary, apparatus that functioned as follows: A sound receptor, calibrated to the range of pitches inhabited by human voices, absorbed spoken input. These sound waves were transmitted, in the form of electrical impulses, to a copper plate, where they were instantaneously “fingerprinted.” The plate was connected by means of electrodes to a rotating cylinder, upon which had been recorded thousands of common words and phrases, cross-referenced by a hole-punched sleeve that had been cut (by a lexicographer turned computations specialist) so as to associate terms that had a logical relationship. Elsewhere on the cylinder were stock, all-purpose fill-in terms, including the automaton’s name and workhorse words such as “like” and “you.” All of this had been rendered by a temporarily idle actress, who gave the apparatus its lovely voice.
Add a lovely body—a repurposed mannequin, with a cylinder inserted in flagrante and the other functional pieces comprising a trail to the ear-level sound receptor—and the result was Nora: Nora, the Loquacious Automaton, a mechanical lady capable of answering the public’s chitchat with a few stilted but germane words of her own.
“Go ahead, sir, ask Nora a question.”
“Oh. Er, um . . .”
“Speak right into her ear, if you will, sir. Don’t be timid. I have introduced you, after all.”
“Yes. Uh . . . how do you like the weather today, Nora?”
“Nora—[whirr]—today—[whirr]—like—[whirr]—rain.”
“My goodness!”
“It is amazing, sir, is it not? And yet you have heard her with your own ears. To be sure, there’s not a cloud in the sky; but of course I didn’t build Nora for meteorology, only polite conversation.”
“Goodness—[whirr]—gracious.”
“Fraud!”
“There’s a girl inside it!”
“No, the assistant is a ventroolakwhatsit! I seen her lips move!”
“Get off the stage!”
Though the theater-going public had evidently yet to be convinced, the scientific community had showered Professor Daniel Olsen with praise, and it was his hope that the investing community would not be far behind.
None of them knew, of course, that Dr. Olsen’s degree was actually in medieval musicology, and Nora was in fact the brainchild of his technically minded “assistant,” Miss Sally Levine—who had spent nearly as much time in laboratories, automated factories, and science libraries as she had attending the entertainments offered at unpublicized “ladies only” clubs.
***
Each night, both halves of Nora resided in Sal’s hotel room—ostensibly so that Sal could see to any routine maintenance, and guarantee that the featured performer would be in top condition for the next day’s show.
Sal knew that Danny would not have been scandalized by Nora’s alternate cylinder—he would have been amused by it, she wagered—but she was a little shy about this accessory.
“I didn’t build Nora for meteorology, only polite conversation.” Danny’s stage patter reverberated in Sal’s mind while she swiftly reassembled her creation that night in Hartford, using the mattress as a worktable. She chuckled salaciously.
She slid the special cylinder into the cavity between Nora’s shapely legs. Then she made certain the door to the room was locked, before returning to the bed.
“I want to kiss your pussy, Nora,” Sal confided.
“Nora—[whirr]—cunt—[whirr]—kiss—[whirr]—like.”
Sal placed both hands between her own thighs and settled back against the pillow to enjoy her bedtime chat, her moist lips inches from Nora’s receptive ear.
As the pillow talk—and pillow whirrs—unfurled, Sal thrilled to Nora’s clumsy, staccato endearments, all the while telegraphing quasielectric pulses of pleasure into herself: plumping her pussy lips open, streaking her honey up and down her aching inside with practiced fingers, and fondling her lurking clitoris with loving expertise. As in a string of previous hotel rooms, Sal cast her sexual scent—and soon the liquid testimony of her gushing climax—onto the sheets as a souvenir.
***
The frenetic knocking roused Sal from a vivid sapphic dream. She struggled to orient herself to the early-morning hotel-room light, and to the familiar phenomena of an automated lady in her bed and a sticky patch in her underclothing.
“Sal! Are you awake?”
“What the hell is it, Danny? What’s the matter?”
“Good news! Come on, open up.”
Still disoriented, Sal jumped to the floor, letting Nora have the bed to herself. She threw on her overcoat in lieu of a robe, then thought better of leaving Nora in so suggestive a location. She therefore deposited her on a wobbly chair by the window—the room’s only seat—before opening the door to Danny.
“Morning, Sal!”
She was shocked to see that he was not alone. But she was delighted to see that his companion was a strikingly handsome woman, a dark-haired beauty dressed almost mannishly, in the style of those in the writing trade. Her eyes burned with intelligence, her nose was proud and fine, and her cheeks looked kissably smooth.
“Won’t you come in?” Danny continued, suavely extending Sal’s hospitality. “Sorry about the mess,” he added, his gaze flickering toward the bedclothes.
“This is my indispensable assistant, Sally Levine. Sal, this is Miss Chaswick from the Hartford Times.”
“How do you do, Miss Chaswick? I—”
The woman cut her off with a brisk wave of her hand, but her voice was gentle. “The boys at the paper just call me ‘Chaswick.’”
“Chaswick,” Danny explained, “has a keen interest in automatons, and when she heard we were in town she rushed over in the hope that she could have a look at Nora right away. If she files her story by ten o’clock, we’ll make the afternoon edition, and we might draw a sensational crowd tonight.”
“You don’t mind, do you, Miss Levine?” asked Chaswick politely.
“Oh, no! No, of course not. It’s always a pleasure to talk to a newspaperwoman.” Her eyes met the journalist’s for an instant.
Chaswick laughed lightly. “And how many newspaperwomen have you encountered?”
“Not enough,” said Sal, under her breath.
“Here we are,” said Danny, removing Nora from her chair and offering the seat to their guest.
“Make yourself comfortable—well,” he amended, noting the chair’s unstable condition, “as comfortable as you can.” He turned self-importantly to his so-called assistant. “Sally, why don’t you tell Chaswick the principles of our invention, and then we’ll give her a private demonstration.”
Sal proceeded to describe Nora’s origins and how she worked, taking care as always to verify certain technical details with Danny, to reinforce the fiction that his was the mind behind Nora. She’d rattled off the information so many times that doing so left most of her brainpower unused, freeing her to focus her thoughts on whatever she wanted.
So she focused them on Chaswick—and on conjectures as to whether the captivating journalist shared Sal’s own tastes in entertainment and . . . friendships.
The exposition concluded, Danny retrieved his showpiece and balanced her on the arm of Chaswick’s chair. Though the two-piece, permanently affixed chintz garment that served as Nora’s “dress” preserved the automaton’s modesty, the impression Nora gave in straddling the chair arm was an unmistakably lewd one.
Danny indicated Nora’s “live” ear, then stepped back to observe Chaswick’s interview with the doll.
Just as Chaswick leaned in to address Nora, Sal’s eye caught something on the nightstand.
Danny noticed it the same moment. “Oh!” he said. “Don’t forget the cylinder, Sal. We won’t get anywhere without—”
But it was too late.
“That’s a pretty dress, Nora,” Chaswick was saying.
“Undress—[whirr]—Nora—[whirr]—tits,” replied the automaton.
Sally didn’t even get a chance to be mortified, because Chaswick, though clearly caught off guard, instantly broke into a huge lady-journalist grin. “Well, I’ll be—”
“Be—[whirr]—Nora—[whirr]—ass—[whirr]—girl.”
Chaswick’s grin broadened. “What a sweet mechanical girlfriend you have here, Professor Olsen,” she said to Danny in a coy, singsong voice, while staring straight at Sal. “Very sweet,” she repeated provocatively into Nora’s ear.
“Sweet—[whirr]—pussy—[whirr]—kiss—[whirr]—kiss,” Nora suggested.
Devotional Aspirations by Alan Daniels
Though Danny was laughing uncontrollably, the look he gave Sal proclaimed that his level of admiration for her had reached a new high.
“All right, Danny,” said his partner through a fever of blushes, “I think I can manage the rest of the demonstration myself.”
“I know,” he answered through his guffaws. “That’s why I’m staying to watch it.”
“Daniel!”
“Okay, okay,” he said, retreating. “I’ll see you two—er, three”—he nodded at the pornographic toy—“later.”
“She’s yours, isn’t she?” said Chaswick tenderly, once the door had closed. She rose to her feet, holding Nora up as well as if to exhibit her, redepositing the doll a moment later in the vacant seat. Then she approached Sal, her eyes inquisitive but sympathetic.
Was it so very obvious? wondered Sally. What instinct made Chaswick so certain that Nora was not Danny’s plaything? Sal felt exposed, and yet, because it was Chaswick doing the exposing, undeniably excited.
“I’m not sure what you mean by mine. You mean my creation?”
The other woman shrugged. “I mean anything and everything applicable.” She was standing surprisingly close now.
Sal took a deep breath and nodded. “Yes.”
She paused to let all the implications of her confession sink in, before elaborating on the facet it was least daunting to speak of.
“Nora is my creation. But please don’t go to press with that. We’ve worked hard to make Danny look like the brilliant, charismatic professor. The ‘charismatic’ part was easy,” she noted.
Chaswick smiled. “I could tell there was some sleight of hand in service here.” The choice of words made Sal blush anew.
She continued her explanation. “I abhor being the center of attention, and he puts on a much better show than I ever could. It was Danny’s idea to make Nora a vaudeville attraction, and he may as well enjoy himself. Anyway, who’s going to take a female inventor seriously?”
Chaswick put her hand on Sal’s waist.
“I am.”
She kissed Sal on the lips, long and hard.
Sal went giddy as the beautiful woman backed her onto the disorderly bed. Her personal scent seemed to enfold Sal, arousing all her desires with its bold, savory allure.
She mounted Sal and undid her overcoat dressing-gown. Sally felt raw and primal in her rumpled underclothes, pinned deliciously beneath the competent newspaperwoman in her crisp, professional outfit.
“Make me whirr like the mechanical lady, my girl genius.” Chaswick directed Sal’s hand under her stiff gray skirt.
She fondled Sally’s breasts while Sal made her first tentative exploration into the recesses of Chaswick’s underwear. And she squeezed her breasts harder when Sal’s fingers, emboldened by their proximity to ultimate intimacy, crept relentlessly toward the journalist’s soft underlips.
Sal noticed how hot the woman felt: her pussy was by far the warmest thing in the room.
Except, possibly, for Sal’s pussy.
Chaswick widened her straddle, spreading herself apart for Sal, coaxing Sal’s fingers farther in. And Sally wriggled around her own dampening core as she responded to Chaswick’s encouragement.
Without taking her eyes off Sal’s face, the other woman sensed her need and began to gratify it, reaching underneath her own bouncing bottom to access Sal’s crotch, unbuttoning as necessary to clutch Sal’s nakedness.
Sal closed her eyes as tickles of pleasure circled her cunt and played down between her arse cheeks. She moaned when a nectar-wet finger brushed her clitty, and moaned louder when it plunged into the thick of her. She giggled as the intimate strokes made her hips grind and her bottom squirm against the mattress, and she didn’t care how foolish the giggles might sound.
She worried that her attention to Chaswick’s luscious hole would slack, she was so overcome; but Chaswick clenched her thighs tightly on Sal’s wrist, holding her in place, letting her cunt fuck Sal’s hand rather than the other way around.
They almost rolled right off the bed when they came. And in that moment of instability, Sal got a glimpse of Nora’s beatific face, which appeared to reflect the kinetic energy of their double climax—as if her workbench-fashioned ear strained to catch the hot, wet, and incoherent utterances that gurgled out of the ecstatic women’s gaping mouths.
Lying securely in Chaswick’s anchoring arms, Sal experienced a surge of confidence. Yes, very soon the backers would materialize. A new assistant could be retained by Danny, and Sal could settle down somewhere—in a place like Hartford, say—to tinker in a laboratory all day . . .
And mingle with the press by night.
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Copyright July 2011, Jeremy Edwards
Published with permission from author on OystersandChocolate.com. Copying or reprinting this work in part or in whole without permission is illegal.