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The Hitachi Magic Wand has been a reliable and robust vibrator since the late sixties. At twelve inches long, and under a pound and a quarter, it is the ideal aid for female masturbation. Sometimes referred to as the Cadillac of sex toys, its six-foot long cord allows it to function effectively as a clitoral vibrator while removing the risk of batteries dying at inopportune times. Its two-and-a-half-inch rubberized head provides steady stimulation, through a choice of two speeds of ‘?Powerful, Penetrating Vibrations’—83 Hz or 100 Hz. Used by millions of women around the world, it rarely fails.
While Devon’s Magic Wand was employed fairly regularly, it would not be considered worn out. Still, somewhere deep in its workings, one afternoon, it developed a peculiar short-circuit. The one-hundred-ten-volt house-current began leaking, and, while the appliance kept on vibrating faithfully, the leaking energy formed a charged field, surrounding the bulbous head. Gathering inconspicuously, the transformed low-amperage, high-voltage electrical aura randomly built and discharged—five to fifteen seconds to charge; fifteen to thirty seconds to release. Drifting in a sea of orgasmic bliss, Devon was unaware of the changing situation between her legs.
Brandon was in the last stretch of his neighbourhood run. Breathing hard and dripping with sweat, he concentrated hard on maintaining his pace, as he cruised across the alley and alongside a familiar back yard. He had run this route many, many times. This time, however, standing just inside the gate was a little fellow—maybe three years old—looking very forlorn. Barefoot and disheveled, a hanging, sodden diaper, tear-stained cheeks—something about him made Brandon slow to a stop. Leaning over the gate he said, “What’s up, big guy?”
“I think Mommy’s sick. She’s in her room. She won’t open her door.”
Brandon puzzled, muttering, “What to do, what to do.” He didn’t want to butt in where he shouldn’t, and yet… He looked the child in the eye, pensively, before deciding. “Show me,” he said, as he entered through the gate, into the yard. First, crouching beside the little fellow, he asked, “What’s your name, big guy?”
“Well, Kevin, show me where your mommy is.”
Taking Kevin’s proffered hand, he stopped momentarily at the kitchen door. “Hello!” he called out. “Ma’am! Anybody here?” The silence seemed to be too loud. Brandon, waited only a beat before letting Kevin guide him to his mother’s room. Brandon could hear something happening beyond the door, but couldn’t make out what. “Ma’am? You okay?” Except for the continuing indistinguishable noise, there was still no response, so Brandon dropped the tiny hand and pounded on the door. “Ma’am, I’m coming in!”
Of course, the door was locked, and, unlike on the TV, even an inside door would not easily succumb to be rammed by a shoulder; notwithstanding, the latch released quickly with the slip of Brandon’s laminated ID card which he always carried in the pocket of his running shorts. Swinging the door open, he was greeted by the strangest of sights.
Lying on the bed, semi-reclined against two stacked pillows, knees bent and spread wide lay an adult woman—presumably Kevin’s mother. She was glassy-eyed, twitching and gasping, her dressing-gown bunched up around her waist. In that instant, little Kevin howled, “Mommy!” dragging out the vowel, as he tried to push past Brandon’s leg.
Brandon just managed to snag him by the collar, and, pulling him back into the hall, barked sternly, “No! Kevin! Mommy’s not well. You need to wait in your room while I help her.” Kevin burst into tears, so Brandon, dropped to a crouch in front of him, and, in gentle, caring voice, said, “You wait in your room, for just a bit, while I see to your Mommy. Okay?” Giving the child an encouraging push, he was surprised when, with a sob, the frightened little guy padded back down the hall and disappeared into another room.
Quickly turning his focus back into the bedroom, Brandon stepped up to the bed. “Ma’am! Are you all right?” The distressed woman didn’t respond. She was holding, with both hands, the handle of something pressed between her legs. It took Brandon a moment to figure out that it was a vibrator of a type he had only ever seen in blue movies—a Hitachi Magic Wand.
Staring blankly, a sheen of sweat covering her face and the exposed parts of her body, the woman was pressing the round end of the appliance into her dripping slit, holding it against her engorged clitoris. Froth was pushing out around vibrator head, seeping from her genital folds beneath.
For a moment her eyes sparkled with… something: fear; delight; weariness; confusion? Then, they glazed over once again, and rolled back in her head, as she jolted and shuddered through a series of seizures. Frozen for an instant, Brandon watched. And it occurred to him that the juddering spasms really looked more like waves of orgasm than actual seizures. “It looks,” he mused, unsure of how to proceed—of just what escort şişli to do, “like she’s rolling through a continual series of orgasms.” They were apparently peaking every ten to twenty seconds, leaving her basically insensate. He thought he might detect just a hint of consciousness in her entranced eyes—with a distant glitter of what? Terror? Ecstasy?
The machine buzzed on steadily, as the jerking of her body almost stilled, before it started up again, almost immediately. Randomly twitching and quivering, the—what?—victim? patient?—moaned incoherently, as her body spasms calmed momentarily once more. Then, just as suddenly her spine arched, again, and she whimpered, “Unh! Unh! Unh!” A sheen of sweat, gathered and dripped and ran in rivulets down her face and her upper chest, bared by the flapping of her loose gown.
Finally, coming to an assessment of the situation, Brandon reached for the handle of the buzzing machine, but as his fingers came near, he detected the tingling energy field of some sort of live electrical current. He concluded that the vibrator must be short-circuiting; it must be shocking the semi-conscious user.
Yanking violently on the cord he pulled the plug from the wall, and the offending instrument finally went still and silent. Brandon quickly removed vibrator, tossing it onto the nearby chair. Curiously, the tremors and spasms persisted, running through the length of her body like ocean swells, settling ever-so gradually.
“Ma’am? Can you hear me?” Marginally responsive, the woman opened her eyes and looked at him, perplexed and confused. The quavering and jerking of her limbs and body was lessening very slowly. “What’s your name?”
“Devon,” she replied, barely audibly. Despite being completely enervated she attempted to sit up, and looking around wildly, she whispered, “Kevin?”
“He’s okay, Devon,” Brandon assured her. “He’s in his room,” and he eased her back down onto the bed, covering her with the sheet. “You scared your son, you know.” Suddenly she rose, intently trying to look about again. “Don’t worry. Your boy’s okay.” She visibly relaxed, if only slightly. Slowly, she laid back, again. Her knees were up, tenting the bedsheet above her pubic area. As Brandon gently straightened her knees and laid her legs flat, the sheet touched her sex.
Wham! She went off again. Quivering limbs progressed virtually instantaneously to spasmodic full-body jolts. Her whimpering grew to a keening wail, punctuated by gasping sobs—drool running down her chin. Devon seemed to be experiencing a complete loss of motor control. It was as if she were short-circuiting.
Suffering through what appeared to be overwhelming orgasmic seizures, Devon raced from peak to peak, without let-up, seemingly in one continuous climax. “Oh my god, oh my god, oh my god!” she squealed, reaching for, grabbing at something at her crotch—the vibrator—that wasn’t there. “No, no, no,” she whimpered, barely discernable. “Turn it off! Turn it off!” Again, her body snapped rigid, then went limp, flopping about like a rag doll.
There appeared to be an unrestricted, uncontrollable, direct link from her genitals to the pleasure-centre in her brain. Like the lab rats of old, she sought the pleasure-centre stimulation to the exclusion of everything else—including basic needs. Furthermore, unbeknownst to anyone, subtle changes—physiological, neurological changes—had already been made to Devon’s internal wiring.
Panicked, Brandon held her flailing body tight, as he tried to divine what to do. Finally, he pulled the sheet off her, exposing her puffy genitals, glistening, with her juices that oozed between her labia. Happily, her ‘seizures’—the erogenous climaxes—immediately slowed, calmed and faded, as the flowing nectar puddled on the bed beneath her ass. “Devon?” Brandon looked into her still distant eyes. “Devon, I’m calling an ambulance.”
Brandon called 911, explaining the patient had been having seizures, possibly due to electric shock. He didn’t go into detail, unsure of how that might be understood; notwithstanding, the ambulance arrived in short order, just as Devon was regaining a modicum of lucidity.
Brandon called the paramedics upstairs, to the bedroom, where he had remained with Kevin, who had crept back into the room, in the interim, and Kevin’s mom. While trying to remain impassionate, the EMTs listened—along with their patient—intrigued, as Brandon described the initial scene and what he’d done.
Filling out their forms, as they prepared her for transport, the patient was formally IDed as Devon Louise Truly, aged twenty-nine.
Suddenly, as they moved her onto the gurney and wrapped her for transport, she went momentarily stiff, before flailing her limbs uncontrollably. Her eyes went distant, as a high-pitched keening escaped her lips. Once again blindsided by the unexpected orgasm, Devon felt herself blasted back into an elliptical, erotic orbit, spinning around, out and away from the centre of her awareness. If the ambulance escort etiler crew had any earlier doubts, they were now convinced something was not right.
Placing a comforting hand on her shoulder, Brandon pointed, soundlessly, to the covered vee of Devon’s legs, and the EMTs, deciphering his message, pulled at her packaging, releasing the bedding that pressed against her genitalia. As the crisis passed, and she returned slowly to reality, a foam splint pad was formed into a sort of spacer and inserted under the covers to hold them off her pudendum.
As usual, the arrival of an ambulance gathered a small crowd of onlookers, so, as the ambulance departed, Brandon was able to locate a familiar neighbour with whom he could leave Kevin. “Finishing the run,” Brandon thought, as he left the commotion behind, “seems, ironically, rather anti-climactic.”
Devon had regained her clarity by the time she arrived at the hospital. She then spent literally hours and hours in the Emergency Ward, waiting and answering questions. It was, indeed, a medical process of discovery. How many times had she explained, through her intense mortification, that, having just put her son down for a nap, she had just taken a moment to herself, before showering and dressing. “Yes,” she admitted, further humiliated with every repetition, “I engaged in a little masturbation.” She even tried to make light of it, adding, “Using my trusty vibrator.” They stared at her like she was a specimen in a lab, prompting her to go on. “Then everything just went wild! I had never felt anything so intense. It was unbearable.” Shrugging, she concluded, “I don’t really remember anything after that.”
Harking back to Brandon’s objective account of the event, the medical staff could, interestingly, not detect any apparent signs of electrical shock. They couldn’t understand it. The evidence seemed to suggest some sort of pleasure-centre overload. Apparently making it up as they went along, the doctors assigned a somewhat derived diagnosis: Acute Genital Hyper-sensitivity—the how and why remaining unknown, but the symptoms being, basically, extremely sensitive genitals, and extreme orgasmic seizures tripped by the slightest touch stimulation of the genitalia—either the labia or the clitoris.
Devon was kept in emergency for observation. Initially nurses snickered when they heard about it. “Oh, wow! Constant orgasm! Isn’t she lucky?” Some of the medical staff even seemed almost envious, as she was stabilized for the night. A young nurses aid, working the night shift, had not been made party to the precautions surrounding the female patient. Looking over the sleeping figure, she smiled at Devon’s immodest position—’sleeping pretty,’ as it were. Without thinking, she deftly flicked the bedding up to cover the patient’s privates as she walked past. The hyper-stimulation took a couple dozen seconds to foment—taking Devon, in a single detonation, to, through, and beyond waking consciousness.
The telemetry went crazy, alarms and sirens ripped through the sleeping ward, summoning the nighttime staff. Monitors indicated elevated temperature, heart-rate, blood pressure, accelerated respiration. The cause was so obvious that it was not immediately noticed, but when it was, the ward personnel breathed a sigh of relief. Their patient was stabilized once more, and Devon floated gently back to earth amidst the echoes of euphoria still pinging through her psyche. The rest of night was uneventful.
In the morning, Devon woke to several doctors having a discussion about her at foot of her bed, completely ignoring the fact that she had awoken and could hear them talking about her. “Don’t make a fuss,” she warned herself.
“…I don’t know, it could be permanent.” “But who can say?” “It very well may just fade away.” What they seemed to agree on was that the prognosis was uncertain.
“In the interim, I think we need to fit her with an improvised protective appliance, covering, but not touching, her genitalia.” And, before the day was through, that’s what had been done. The casting techs had fashioned a device, shaped like a wide, shallow athletic cup, covering her vulva, with a tail stretching back to cover the anus—made out of fiberglass, like a modern cast, and padded around its circumference and along the anal tag-end. It was initially held in place by a modified jockstrap, but that was quickly replaced by sturdy support-top underpants.
While it felt odd and awkward, it was not really uncomfortable.
Devon was kept one more night for observation. Lying still in the quiet hum of the hospital at night, she inadvertently brushed a hand across her nipple. While she was sure it was more sensitive than it had been, it was a relatively mild, pleasant sensation. Not the sensual shock and overload she had been, so recently, experiencing. So, in the half-light, fingers poised, slowly, tentatively Devon reached, her fingertips touching her nipple oh-so-gently, once again. A lovely sensation of warm stimulation bayan escort taksim flowed through her nubs filling her with the possibility of further arousal.
Experimenting through the wee hours Devon determined that a prolonged, light fondling of her tits would very likely carry her to orgasm—a regular, reasonable orgasm. Not that she dared take it that far just yet. Dropping her hands back to her sides she was still again, but she smiled, pleased at her discovery that at least one aspect of her arousal system still worked as expected.
The next morning, wearing her genital-shield and given lots of advice and warnings, Devon was discharged. Looking about expectantly, she was embarrassed by the conspicuous absence of her husband, Dave. On a whim, just before stepping outside to hale a taxi, Devon went to the admissions desk to inquire if Brandon, whom she kind of thought of as her savior, had given his phone number. She was pleased to find he had left it expressly for her, should she wish to contact him. She smiled. She would definitely call him once the dust had settled.
When she got home Dave was strangely aloof. “You didn’t come to the hospital to see me!” she observed in as non-judgmental way as she could
“Someone had to look after our child!” There was a sharp edge of criticism in his voice.
A long, cold silence rose up between them. In an effort to fill that space, as much as anything, Devon started in an endeavour to explain what had happened. Without too much detail, she described how it appeared she had become hyper-stimulated through an accidental electric shock, and how the resultant hyper-arousal had persisted even after the removal of the electric current. She told him, dispassionately, how the hospital had eventually stabilized her condition. “The hyper-sensitivity might only be temporary,” she declared, relating the doctors’ prognosis, “if we’re lucky.” When her husband made no reply, she added, “Let’s hope.” Then she plowed on, explaining how, in the meantime, she needed to shield her pussy. While describing the athletic-cup-like affair, she lifted her skirt to display the device and the sturdy control-top panties that held it in place.
“Why the fuck didn’t I know about this fucking vibrator?” he shouted.
Taken aback for just a moment, Devon chose not to let the exchange dissolve into a pissing match by bringing up his porno-surfing. She just waited as he continued to rail at her. “And masturbating! While our son napped just down the hall! That’s disgusting!” He shook his head, sputtering. “Aren’t I good enough for you?”
“There’s no doubt I’ve bruised his ego,” Devon thought, silently ignoring his rhetorical question. “So, his upset’s understandable, I suppose; but I sure hadn’t realized he was so fragile.” Yet, Dave’s barely contained rage clearly indicated a serious injury to his self-esteem. Sadly, Devon realized, her husband was more embarrassed by the circumstances of her affliction than he was concerned with her condition.
When she suggested that they show the Hitachi to an electrician to see what went wrong, she was informed that her dear hubby, feeling insulted and dissed, had smashed the perverted device into pieces and flung it into the trash.
Devon really realized that their marriage was beginning to founder when he wouldn’t sleep with her that night. And the next morning he warned her, almost threateningly, about being attentive to their son, and not getting distracted. After he’d left for work, taking his black cloud with him, Devon tried to make sense of the chaos that seemed to be consuming her, until very recently, mundane life.
That afternoon, when Kevin went down for his nap Devon called the number she had for Brandon. After a bit of awkward thanks and chat, she asked, “If you don’t mind, can I call you sometime, just to talk.” About what went unsaid.
“Of course!” He couldn’t help but feel sorry for her. “Yeah, anytime.” He figured her life was probably in quite the turmoil since her strange ordeal.
That evening, when Dave arrived home, sullen and silent, Devon told him of the emergency-room physician’s call earlier that afternoon. “He said,” she related, resignedly, “it has become apparent to him that there is no simple fix to my problem—no silver bullet. And, I ‘…may,’ he said, somewhat sympathetically, then he corrected himself, saying, ‘will,…make that, will…’ just have to—for the time being, at least—live with the condition. With these unusual symptoms, as it were. He then urged me to try and rally my friends in order to get a reliable network in place. He figures I am going to need some help to get through this.”
Dave gave her a freezing look, before hissing, “And why would any of ‘our friends’ want to help out such a disgusting, brazen slut as you’ve turned out to be?” He was getting increasingly bent out of shape, becoming completely unreasonable. Indeed, for the rest of the evening he watched her like she was some kind of unpredictable freak—like she was some sort of sickening pervert.
As the machinations of suspicion and antipathy churned in his head, he suddenly yelled, half barking, half coughing, “And that obscene machine—what was with that?” he spat out. “None of your boyfriend’s were available?”
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