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As Passionate Machines

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Steph makes the mistake of asking, “What do you do for fun?” one afternoon when she and Tony are alone in the mansion, when they’re both sweaty and pleasantly sore from a couple hours spent sparring.

Tony rakes her hand through her hair and leaves spikes jutting up from her head and appraises Steph with one eyebrow raised. They’re sitting in the kitchen, drinking from sweating glasses of water that leave rings on the polished counter. “Do you really want to know?” Tony asks around a smirk that feels a little forced at the edges.

“Yes,” Steph says promptly. “Of course.”

Grinning, Tony slides down from the stool. “Just remember,” she chuckles, “you asked for this, beautiful.”

Steph follows Tony through the bowels of the mansion to her workshop. It’s not as big or well-stocked as the one she has at her private house, but it’s still pretty dang expansive to Steph’e eyes. Tony closes the door behind them and locks it with her key code and hand print protections. The lights overhead hum quietly and cast harsh, unforgiving fluorescent light on piles of half-built machines and long tables covered in blueprints and notes.

“Are we in danger of being caught?” Steph asks, rubbing her hands over her upper arms against the goosebumps.

Tony smirks over her shoulder. “I believe in being prepared.”

Steph rolls her eyes.

They’ve been slowly sinking into their thing for the better part of six months. They don’t talk about it, but Steph minds that less than she would have expected. There’s a kind of freedom in having room to explore without any other demands.

She watches Tony roll a tarp-covered contraption from a dimmer corner of the room on wheels that squeak very softly on the concrete floor. It rises in odd humps and has an oddly foreboding quality. Steph wonders, for a completely genuine moment, if Tony’s side work might be developing science fiction death rays or disintegrating beams. (Steph, personally, never wants to see another thing disintegrate for as long as she is alive.)

“Before I show you this,” Tony says, “You have to promise me you won’t flip.”

“Now you’re worrying me.”

“It’s not bad,” Tony insists. “It’s just. You can be a little nun-ish sometimes.”

Steph frowns. “Are you calling me prude?”

“No!” Tony flaps her hand. “No, I’m not. Jesus, whatever. Voila.” She sweeps the tarp off the machine with a theatrical flourish.

It’s an ornate sort of platform, made of brushed steel, with a solid black box in the rear and a kind of half-circle additional piece in the front. And an impressive phallus jutting heavenward that irrationally reminds Steph of a spear thrust into the sky. It has an unfinished look to it, with a few exposed wires jutting out here and there.

“What is it?” Steph asks eventually. Her cheeks feel hot.

Tony smiles sweetly and claps her hand to it. “This is a fucking machine. A sybian, actually, which is one of the traditional designs. I’ve made a couple modifications to the internal gears, though, which I think will make it particularly satisfying.”

“And--” Steph squeaks and swallows. “This is what you do for fun?”

“What else would I do? Build another gun?” Tony shrugs. “Necessity dictates that most of what I get to knock together is meant to destroy something. That’s almost always interesting, but not necessarily fun. This is fun. You wanna try it?”

Steph claps her hands to her mouth like an old school marm exposed to a naked ankle. “Are you serious?”

Tony caresses the...fucking machine with a loving hand. “I’m always serious when it comes to sex. It’s fun, I swear. I think you’ll like it, considering how much you like the suit.”

There’s no possible way Steph is going to justify that bit of unproven slander with a response. The thing is, shocked as she is, there’s another bit of her that’s intrigued by the concept. She’s not so innocent that she can’t see the gist of how the contraption works. She touches one of her fingers to the base; it’s made of some kind of soft material that feels a little but like leather, soft and supple and appealing.

“Have you ever had anything inside you except my fingers?” Tony asks, skimming her hand up Steph’s arm.

“You know I haven’t,” Steph murmurs.

Tony grins. “I think you want to try it.”

“Okay, then,” Steph says, hiding her tangle of fear and desire behind defiance. “Okay, I want to try it. What do I do?”

“Get naked,” Tony says promptly.

Steph never changed out of her thin tank and shorts after Tony finally collapsed and declared she would die if they went another round sparring. She strips off her clothes, panties, and sports bra, setting them in a pile on the nearest table. Her nipples go hard in the cool basement air and she crosses her arms over her chest, even though Tony has seen her naked hundreds of times at this point. It’s different.

Grinning, Tony pulls Steph close and tips her head up for a kiss. It’s easy, maybe just a little bit more careful than how Tony usually goes. Steph relaxes into it after a resistant, nervous moment, and her hands end up easing down to Tony’s hips. Tony traces soothing circles in the small of Steph’s back, every now and then slipping low enough to thumb the dip at the bottom of her tailbone.

“Do you want to get fucked?” Tony asks, pushing her knee between Steph’s legs.

“Yeah,” Steph says. “Yes.”

Tony’s hand moves from her skin and a low, persistent buzzing sound floods through the room. Steph shivers. “Come on, beautiful. Get up there.”

Climbing on top of the machine -- the Sybian, Tony corrects -- is awkward and requires rather a lot of Steph’s athleticism to keep from falling and impaling herself on the vibrating dildo. “Dildo is a funny word,” she observes, planting her knees on the padded platform where Tony indicates. She’s not touching said dildo, but she can feel the sense of it moving inches away from her skin.

“It is,” Tony agrees, fiddling distractedly with a couple dials on the gear box. “Shakespeare used it in Winter’s Tale, so. You know. It’s a legit word, at least.”

“I didn’t know that,” Steph says. “What do I do?”

Her skin feels flushed and hot all over, and thrumming with sensitivity in her thighs and cunt. Tony makes a final adjustment to the dials and turns, hands planted on her hips like the engineer she is. Steph feels like a prize cow on display at the country fair, though she hopes county fairs haven’t changed so much in the last seventy years that fucking machines are a regular part of the program. She curls her hands into fists on her thighs. What is she supposed to do with them?

“Just one moment,” Tony says, blinking and shifting into a grin. “That depends on you.”

She cups Steph’s cunt in her palm; Steph twitches at the contact on her skin and bites down hard on her bottom lip. Tony strokes her pubic hair with two fingers, then pushes into her cunt with deliberation and ease. The intrusion inside her sends low, heavy warmth rolling through her pelvis. It’s a smooth, wet slide and Tony grins. “That’s how it is? You’re fine. Go for it.”

Steph thinks that might be just a little goddamn bit easier said than done. She’s never done this before. In the forties, she never touched anyone and now it’s just been Tony and her clever, callused fingers. She forces herself inhale and exhale, ignoring how the absence of Tony’s fingers leaves an empty ache behind.

But if she wants to do this and she’s going to do this and there isn’t any point in waiting. So she curls her hand around the base of the dildo to steady it and sinks down.

She gasps at the broad intrusion of the head into her cunt. Steph has had three on Tony’s fingers inside her, fucking with merciless intensity, and the dildo feels so impossibly much larger than that. Larger and unyielding and vibrating against Steph’s flesh with the rigidity of plastic that has no give at all. It is nothing at all like Tony’s fingers. It’s almost painful, and alien, and overwhelming.

“Keep going,” Tony urges, cupping one of Steph’s breasts in her palm. Her voice is low and thick. “Go lower and you’ll get at your clit.”

The way words like that just fall from Tony’s mouth shocks Steph still, no matter how much she adapts to a new century and a new and evolved standard of vulgarity. It’s not vulgar so much as filthy the way Tony says it, growled and purred and laced through with promise and fire. Tony flicks Steph’s nipple and Steph whimpers and forces herself to push lower.

“I don’t --” she gasps. “Tony, Tony.”

“You can,” Tony says. “Yes, you can.”

Steph forces herself lower, thinking with every incremental movement that she’ll reach her limit and find she can take no more. But her body gives and expands, finding a way to make room for the width and length of the dildo. The vibration is insidious, sending heat coursing out through her center to the outward reaches of her fingers and toes. She throws her head back so her hair falls long and heavy down her back, brushing her shoulder blades and back.

When her clit makes contact with the vibrating base of the dildo, Steph shrieks, jerking her knees upward in shock an nearly upending the whole set up.

“Jesus Christ, Jesus goddamn Christ!”

Laughing thickly, Tony’s arm catches her around the waist and holds her up. “Like that?” she asks, nuzzling Steph’s arm. “Tell me.”

Steph frantically shakes her head. “It’s like. I don’t know what it’s like. It’s like dying.”

“There’s a French expression for orgasm that means the little death,” Tony says helpfully.

“Bully for the French,” Steph gasps, squeezing her eyes shut.

The sybian is nothing at all like the slow, easy build that she’s used to. There’s no long, slow waves of pleasure that suffuses through her body and leaves her warm and comfortable and languid in bed with Tony kissing her jaw and palming at her hip.

There’s no tenderness in the pleasure from the machine. It’s a relentless march toward building pleasure that sets Steph’s nerves crackling with an unfamiliar electricity. She claws her fingers into the meat of her thigh, the pain from her blunted nails doesn’t cut through the vibrating, but builds in upon it.

Tony’s teeth catch on her nipple and Steph screams, arching her back and grinding her hips down in movement independent from her conscious thoughts.

Her orgasm feels like it’s ripped bodily from her and Steph pours out the shock of it in a sound that echoes and rebounds in the cavernous work room. It doesn’t sound like her, but her throats feels raw from the incredible force of it. Her stomach muscles clench down so hard she nearly doubles over, and her knees jerk up again. Her ankles twinge from the forced angle and she doesn’t care, because the machine doesn’t kindly stop like Tony does. It keeps going.

“Tony, Tony, Tony,” she chants, meaning she has to turn it off, she has to stop or Steph is going to die.

The second orgasm stuns her. She feels like her insides are liquefying from the force of it. She feels, distantly, a rush of hot wetness on the inside of her thighs. Her cunt feels stretched and sore and she’s whimpering, because she doesn’t have anything else left inside her. She wonders if she’s breaking the skin on her thighs from how hard she’s bearing down.

“Had enough?” Tony growls.

“Yes!” Steph cries.

Tony’s hand moves and the whole machine jerks and then blessed stillness.

Steph exhales a long, shivering breath. Her limbs shake and shudder, jerking with small aftershocks. “Here, I’ve got you,” Tony says in her ear. “Lift up a little, sweetheart.”

It takes just about all the strength Steph has to rise up from the dildo and she whimpers at the pervasiveness emptiness she feels when it slips from her. She means to climb down from the machine with all the dignity she has left, but her limbs give out halfway through and she slithers down to the floor with Tony’s arms her waist just keeping her from collapsing into a boneless heap.

Tony drops down next to her and pulls her close. “So, how was that?” she asks brightly, threading her fingers through Steph’s hair.

Steph feels like she went ten rounds with a supervillain. She hurts from her bellybutton to her knees, but it’s a good hurt still. “Do you have more of those things?” she asks.

Tony laughs, low and rich. “Beautiful, you don’t even know.”