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Style and force. The machine had long considered these the essential aspects of fucking and work. Not that he ever forced anyone to fuck him. He had too much style for that. He did use force at work, but only when essential and always with style. They called him the machine because of the greased arc of his career. No clawing. Too much style for that too. He didn't know they called him the machine but he would have found it complimentary.
He took the girl to the same hotel every other Thursday. He liked it. He liked the way the soapy lips of her cunt felt on his erection as he, naked, embraced her standing body. She was small and dark haired. He liked her smallness, her darkness. He liked the change from his big-boned wife. He called her gravity's mistress and told her he went to Boston every other Thursday. He liked to hold the girl around her tiny waist and fuck her standing up. She was easy to hold up like that. It was like masturbating into a person. He liked to go down on the girl. Perhaps he liked that most of all. He would nestle his big face between the soapy lips and suck like a baby. Once, while eating her in this fashion he farted, very quietly, and even over the smell of her soapy juices he smelled what he had for lunch the day before. He thought of a new machine. One that could analyze the state of people's bodies based on their flatulence, or perhaps the smell of their breath. While he sucked away at the girl's soapy little clitoris he pondered the style and force of the idea. It had some potential. He navigated the ins and outs of the thing; technology, marketing, income. The girl came. He discarded the idea as impractical.
At work, where he became the machine, he is like a chameleon. He takes his personality from the ranking officer closest by and overcomes all obstacles, friendly or not, in this way. This is the secret to his arc and why he is called the machine. No one knows this of him, not even himself. He thinks his arc is greased by carnal mastery. He sees all of his opponents, friendly or not, in this way. The men he compares to his own staminas and they are always limp and wanting. The women he concubines in practice or fact and they can never take all he wants to give. In this way, he thinks he triumphs.
He fucks the girl many times every other Thursday. She has multiple orgasms. He is very proud of this. He wishes there was someone he could tell about it. Sometimes, after they have fucked for hours and the girl is asleep, he will go into the bathroom and masturbate into the toilet while thinking of women he has seen on the street. Other times he will wake the girl up and fuck her again. She is always sore and swollen when this happens, but she lets him despite the pain, because she always comes one or twice more.
Always he leaves before dawn as the girl is sleeping and slips out the door.
Always she feels alone and strangely sad when she wakes up.
He had been a swimmer in college and very proud of the hardness of his
form. The style and force of his exercise. When he became the machine he
lost time for bodily pursuits and the hardness went out. Now he wears the
shame of his body like a bell. No one hears it but the girl and his wife. They
tell him they don't hear anything but he knows they are lying.
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