Science Fiction Archives — Page 5 of 44 — NSFW story

A Wife For All Seasons, Part 6 [sci-fi] [MFF, all over 30]

The double seemed more at ease after that first orgasm. She still snuck peeks of me in the shower, still brushed a little too close when we passed in the lab, but she was far less aggressive. If the double seemed like she was growing too restless—like the time Clara caught her sitting on my desk, legs spread before me—then my wife would invite her into our bedroom, tie me to a chair, and they’d take turns riding me until dinner was ready.
Always taking turns. “There used to be more of him,” my wife told her one day.
But Clara seemed unwilling to engage sexually with her double, except through me—despite my best efforts. If I placed Clara’s hand between the legs of her double, she’d jerk it away. If their breasts mistakenly touched during foreplay, my wife would cup her palm over her nipple. If their tongues met while sharing my cock, Clara would immediately stand, kiss me deeper than she had all week, and rub my fingers against her clit.
The closest I could get was to spy on them after a shopping trip. Clara used her double as a mannequin. Peeping through our bedroom keyhole, I watched my wife’s double try on outfit after outfit—hot pink cycling shorts, hemp halter tops with cutoff jeans, one-piece bathing suits, floor-length nighties—and each time Clara would make a few adjustments, tug the fabric this way or that, and decide whether or not the clothes should be returned. But they never touched. Even in so intimate a setting, clothes flying, they never kissed.
How could she resist? Even I succumbed once when I shouldn’t have. Her double and I found ourselves in the kitchen late one night, getting a glass of water. She wore the same pink push up and panties and kept glancing toward my boxers as she drank. She spilled a bit on her chest, and instead of leaving right then, I let her pull me against her to dab the water with my shirt. I kissed her, remembering the garden, this time her mouth cold from the ice, and unable to walk away at this point, I let her pump my cock between her breasts. The rest of the night, lying next to Clara in bed, I worried about the morning. Worried that she’d wake and notice my stain on her double’s bra.
* * *
On her way home from work one day, I heard Clara flirting with the fireman on our stoop. He complimented her dress, a professional gray number which was still cut tight around her backside, and she complimented his t-shirt, then laughed and said that had sounded stupid, then added that the t-shirt did, in fact, show off his arms. After closing the front door, she asked if it would be all right if she took a long shower. I shrugged and she hurried to the bedroom while removing her earrings. I went back to my book.
But a few moments later, her plans evidently changed, Clara returned. Her dress unzipped completely, she grabbed my hand and pulled me toward the bedroom.
I had Clara on her back when the double entered. I stood at the edge of the bed, Clara’s legs wrapped around my waist, as her double watched. Clara’s eyes were closed, her head arched back, so she didn’t see her double stand against me, sliding one hand across my chest. Clara didn’t see me squeeze the double’s ass and pull her closer for a kiss. Clara didn’t see me whisper something into her double’s ear.
The first thing Clara noticed was a pair of delicate fingers sauntering across her ribs. She opened her eyes to see her double on her knees on the bed next to her. The bob cut rustled against her ears each time I thrusted against the mattress.
Clara looked as if she might say something, but instead she closed her eyes again and tightened her legs around my hips.
Then she felt a palm, barely brushing the hairs of her skin, hover northward between her breasts. Clara’s shoulders quivered, I could feel her body tense, but otherwise she didn’t react. She only ran her hands along my arms and held my hands firmly against her pelvis.
“Fuck me, Harry,” she said. “Don’t stop fucking me.”
Then a mouth. I watched her double lean forward. She held Clara’s chin, tilted her head, and kissed gently across her collar bone, then along her neck. This time Clara did protest. She slunk her neck away and removed the hand from her chin. Instead she pulled my hand from her hip and brought it to her mouth, sucking hungrily on my finger.
“Fuck me, Harry,” she said. “Give me your big, long cock.”
I reached over to caress the double’s bottom, gave her a little nudge, then the double leaned lower, wrapping her lips around my wife’s nipple.
Clara’s eyes shot open. “Harry,” she said.
“Do you want me to stop,” I asked.
“No,” she said, tightening her legs.
“Do you want me to take back my cock?”
“No, please no.”
“Go ahead,” I told the double.
I took Clara’s wrists, pinning them against the mattress. She squirmed a bit, but then I slowed my thrusting, threatened to pull out, and she gave in, tightening her legs around me. Her double set her hands against Clara’s stomach. She let her breasts dangle against Clara’s, which bounced in time with her double’s hair. Then she kissed Clara. She kissed her slowly, much slower than the rhythm I’d set. She kissed her without moving. She kissed her as she’d kissed me in the garden.
I felt Clara responding. I felt her squeeze against my cock, felt her grinding against me in a new way, more elliptically, but no less urgently. I released her wrists and, unsure what to do with them, Clara stretched them awkwardly above her head along the mattress, then brought one down to play with her hair, twirling a few strands around a finger, then thought better of it and slid her fingers through the hair of her double instead.
“Should I stop,” I asked again?
Clara shook her head, tightened her legs, but never took her mouth away from the lips of her double.
As I watched, I took Clara’s legs from around my waist. I turned her onto her side and held her legs together. A horizontal side saddle, as it were. I never pulled out, and her double never pulled away, rotating with Clara so their mouths stayed locked. From here, lying on their sides, I watched their tongues stir together. I watched their arms entangle, their bodies press against each other, their breasts rise toward their throats. I watched Clara hold her double’s lower back and watched her double push the hair back from Clara’s face. I watched her double reach between her own legs, eager but unable to touch her pelvis to Clara’s. As I held my wife’s thigh, my cock squeezed tight between her legs, I watched their exquisite naked bodies, identical in every detail, their complimentary contours, one nipple hardening against the other, one glance, a smile against its mirror, an ephemeral giggle followed by an ephemeral whimper, the luring harmony of their ravishing form—I knew I couldn’t last much longer.
“I’m going to cum,” I said.
Clara reached up with one hand and searched blindly, her face still pressed to her double’s. She halfheartedly found my abs with her fingertips, but, lingering too long for me to handle, I pulled my cock from between her legs and came across the side of her thigh.
I held myself as I caught my breath. I rubbed my wife’s lower leg. I leaned down to give her shoulder a peck.
But all of this seemed to go unnoticed. Clara and her double continued as if I’d never been involved. In fact, with Clara’s legs free, the two of them became even more entwined. Clara rubbed against her double’s leg and the double pulled Clara’s thigh up to her hip, her hand disappearing somewhere between their desperate, writhing loins. I went to get a towel for Clara, but by the time I returned, my cum was already forgotten, smeared across their shared body by the oblivious act of love.

A Wife For All Seasons, Part 5 [sci-fi] [MFF, all over 30]

Dinner was awkward that night, each of us silently stirring our soup.
“How could I know?” I said. “It’s not my fault you’re so sexy.”
Clara took a bite of bread, demonstrably unimpressed by my attempt at flattery.
“It’s lucky I don’t have a twin sister, you’d never keep your hands off her.”
“She never kept her hands off me,” I stressed, another failed tactic.
We each took a few quiet sips.
“You remember how it was with my doubles in the beginning,” I said.
“I do, I still think about it sometimes,” Clara said. “Two big, strong men with you stuck at work?”
“My point,” I said, “is that she’s going to be this way until I give her what she wants.” I dipped a piece of bread. “Until we give her what she wants.”
Clara sighed, but knew I was right.
* * *
On Saturday night I spread a white fur rug before the fireplace. I arranged a few throw pillows around the edge, lit the gas logs, and laid back with only a short towel tied around my waist. I picked up a book while I waited, my wife’s copy of Lady Chatterley’s Lover, but found myself rereading the same line six times.
Soon they entered from the darkened hallway. My wife’s silken black robe hung open, a white lace bustier and matching thong underneath. Her double wore red, a skintight, strapless babydoll, transparent across the stomach. They each wore a garter—one white, one red—clipped to black thigh-high stockings.
But more striking than the lingerie was their hair. My wife’s draped across her chest, a few wavy strands nearly tickling her ribs. But the double’s hung straight, shorn just above the shoulders, and she had bangs which—I dared not say—made her look slightly younger.
“No more misunderstandings,” Clara said.
Their high heels clicked across the floor. Clara let her robe fall. They crossed the rug, then knelt, these beautiful women, before me where I lied.
The double stared ardently at my towel, and Clara, noticing, leaned forward to unwrap me. She let each end of the towel fall against my sides, then sat back, both women watching me grow. When her double stretched a hand toward my bare lap, my wife stopped her, shook her head, and insisted on watching until it was clear I couldn’t grow any harder.
“You want us?” my wife said at last.
“Very much so,” I nodded.
Clara bit her lip and looked at me as if reconsidering. Then she began to undo her bustier one button at a time, her cleavage adjusting slightly with each shift in support. The final button undone, she let the bustier fall to the rug behind her.
She turned to her double. She slipped her fingers inside the top edge of the babydoll and began to roll it down her double’s body. A red lace thong waited underneath.
Clara sat up on her knees. Her double did the same. They turned toward each other—for a moment I wondered if they might touch or kiss—but then kept turning, facing away from me. They both hooked their fingers through either side of their thongs, then slipped the threadbare fabric over their rears and down their thighs. I resisted the urge to touch myself. I waited patiently as each thong lingered briefly between their legs on the way down, snagged by a hidden wetness there.
In only their garters and stockings, Clara and her double leaned forward, resting their breasts against the fur rug as they held their hips aloft with their knees.
I luxuriated on my luck for a moment; their bottoms glowed bronze in the firelight.
“I want your cock first,” Clara said.
I crawled forward. I took the red garter in my hands and held Clara’s double firmly in place as I ran my tongue along the length of her pussy, then higher, between her ass cheeks. She shivered, jerked forward, but then settled back awaiting more.
I did the same with my wife. I held her white garter, gave her ass a quick nibble, then licked, more slowly, up the length of her vales. She shuddered more deeply than her double and backed her ass against my tongue.
Kneeling on one knee, I held my erection between Clara’s legs. She reached back to guide me in, but my cock found her so wet, entered so suddenly, so completely, that Clara needed both hands on the rug to keep her balance. I grabbed her garter again, bunched it into one hand against the small of her back, and pulled her back and forth against me. Back and forth, back and forth. Clara stretched her arms along the rug above her head and kept her body limp, occasionally arching her back lower to take me deeper.
Then she held her ass back against me steadily to slow me down.
“Now her,” Clara said.
I held my breath as I pulled out and knelt behind Clara’s double, her body shaking slightly in anticipation. I took her red garter belt in both hands and, finding her just as wet as my wife, pulled her onto my soaking cock.
Unlike Clara, her double stiffened, lifting herself onto all fours as I pounded against her. Her short bob cut bounced in a way I’d never seen. The exposed back of her neck, her naked shoulder blades—I thrusted faster, then slower, then faster again, just to see the effect on her hair.
“Now me,” Clara said.
We took turns in this way for nearly half an hour. Throughout, I saw that Clara never looked at her double. She kept her eyes toward the fire until it was her turn, at which time she was too distracted to notice much of anything.
Clara was the first to cum. Then her double. As I came, a burst of white which shot across their backs before settling into a soft drizzle over their raised bottoms, Clara turned to face her double for the first time. Each wiped the sweat from the other’s brow.

A Wife For All Seasons, Part 4 [sci-fi] [MFF, all over 30]

I couldn’t help but feel this was a step backward in my research. I’d spent months perfecting the cranial transistor, the key component for control of multiple bodies, a technology with so many practical applications outside of the bedroom. Military applications, educational applications. Medicine, probably. And now I was stripping away this accomplishment to make a glorified clone.
I lugged crate after crate of bananas into my lab, dropping them into the bath’s absorption chamber. High potassium levels, after all, had disrupted the transistor in the past. I checked and rechecked the double’s brain wave patterns, digitally decoupling them from those of my wife—a laborious process that required working lobe by lobe. I programmed new personality traits into her biochemical software. After a week of tinkering, I reached into the hibernation bath and, as clinically as possible, massaged the double’s left breast.
“Clara, darling, can you feel that?” I shouted.
“Yes,” she shouted back. “Please stop.”
Was this even feasible, then? To sever a connection with an active double? I pondered the question for hours, took too many dinners at my desk. But new ideas are hard to come by—I called my grocer and asked when they expected their next banana shipment.
I decided to clear my head in our back garden. I sat back in my favorite sling chair, listened to the lilting house sparrows, the goldfinches, and soon fell asleep.
Sometime later I felt Clara sit sideways across my lap, the weight of her delicate frame.
“Clara, darling, I’m hitting another low.”
She caressed my neck, led her fingertips across my stubble.
“Am I trying to accomplish the impossible?”
I wrapped my arms around her; she wasn’t wearing any clothes.
“Am I a fool?”
She squirmed lightly against my lap.
“Am I a bad scientist?”
She kissed me. I felt my bottom lip grow wet between hers. I felt our top lips bend and curve against each other. I felt her tongue, halting at first, not yet ready to breach the brim of my mouth, but then bolder, gliding against mine before retreating again. She held my face with both hands and tilted her head first one way, then another, and then, eager for more, then more still, she sealed the corners of our mouths together and moaned urgently until I gave her my own tongue to play with.
I heard a throat clear. With great effort I pulled away from Clara’s lips, only for her to continue along my neck. Except there Clara was, as well, standing before me in sunglasses, a white floral bikini, and holding a crate of bananas.
“These just arrived,” she said. She raised an eyebrow, dropped the crate to the ground, and stormed back toward the house.
* * *
“Try to lay out in my own yard,” Clara mumbled to herself, pulling a white t-shirt over her bikini. “Where is she?”
“I covered her with a towel, she’s still outside.”
“Deepthroating bananas?”
I rolled my eyes but it wasn’t impossible.
“You didn’t feel a thing?” I asked. “My lips, my tongue, my—”
Clara glared at me.
“Then it worked! You’re decoupled! This is what I’ve been working on all week.”
“And now she’s up and running and not wearing any clothes and if I’m not in the mood one night you’ve got a backup to bend over your desk.”
“We have our rule,” I reminded her. “No sex with a double unless we’re both involved.
Clara smiled, but seemed unconvinced, perhaps remembering how many times she’d bent that rule with my doubles.
“And we don’t have to start now,” I added. “We can wait until you’re ready”
She sighed, but then nodded and gave me a hug.
But her double was less patient. Clara leant her some clothes, an older orange sundress she found unattractive, but which I secretly found very appealing. Her double cornered me in the library one day wearing this dress. She slipped the straps from her shoulders and let it fall to her waist, revealing a strapless pink pushup bra. She pressed herself against me, her generous chest rising and falling as she took long, deep breaths.
She looked me in the eyes, then down at her own panting body, her mouth open slightly, as if realizing for the first time just how alluring her cleavage must be.
An incredibly difficult proposition to reject, but I asked her to excuse me.
One day, while cooking breakfast, I saw her amble into the pantry, that light dress twirling just enough for me to catch a glimpse of her pink panties. She stood for a moment, studying the top shelf, then stretched on her tiptoes toward the all-purpose flour. The dress, short to begin with, creeped higher, and when she caught me looking, she pushed the door closed with her foot.
I sighed. I knew I needed oregano for the eggs. It was pitch black when I entered. I felt her place something in my front pocket, and when I turned on the light I realized it had been her dress. She stood in her matching underwear with her back against the door, her hands behind her back, her legs crossed at the ankle. She looked me over, saw the unmistakable interest in my pants, and slowly turned. She looked back over her shoulder. She arched her pelvis away from the door. She began to slide the panties from her hips.
I scanned the shelves. I grabbed the oregano and a jar of hoisin sauce for some reason, then insisted she let me pass.
One day she followed me into the shower and immediately took my soft loins into her soapy hands. I let her, partly out of need as I felt myself stiffen, felt my responsive tip graze her belly button, but partly because I only realized that she wasn’t my wife after Clara entered to brush her teeth. Her double and I were both caught off guard when Clara tore open the shower door.
An obvious misunderstanding, I said. How could I have known? Then, unwisely, I begged, begged, begged Clara to finish me, any way she liked, lest I spontaneously combust from the tension.
Clara looked us over as she scrubbed, especially focused on the fact that her double’s hand was still washing my cock. Then she leaned forward, spit a mouthful of toothpaste toward the drain by our feet, and closed the door.

A Wife For All Seasons, Part 3 [sci-fi] [MFF, all over 30]

I tried to highlight the benefits Clara seemed to be overlooking. This wasn’t about my pleasure, alone. We weren’t a threesome; we were a twosome with three bodies, and as such, she could now experience simultaneous sensations like no woman in human history.
As she rode me in bed one night, just the two of us in the 3 am dark, I asked Clara to bring in her double.
“Now?” she asked.
“Trust me,” I said.
She never stopped. She held her hands flat against my chest as she slid back and forth against my pelvis. But eventually her second body appeared in the doorway, dripping wet from the bath.
I motioned for her to climb onto the bed, then told her to sit over my face, the two Clara’s facing each other. I licked her once, slowly. Then twice. Then more steadily, all as I pulled the bedsheet up over Clara’s hip and used it to hold her firmly on my cock.
“You can’t cum here,” I said, thrusting upward, “until you’re also ready to cum here,” I said, flicking my tongue.
This took longer than I would have guessed. This was partly intentional, as I more than once brought her to the brink with my tongue before stopping altogether, gently kissing her thigh until she was calm enough to continue. But even beyond my own games, it was at least half an hour before I felt the familiar tightening around my shaft, followed immediately by her bodily flutter against my tongue. In the morning I told her there was no need to savor the moment, that I was her slave as much as she was mine. She told me that no, it had taken her longer than usual because it made her dizzy to watch two versions of herself bouncing in different rhythms.
I tried pointing out that we could go down on each other—Clara’s favorite—but in virtually any position. I found her in the library one day, for instance, pulling a book of landscape photographs from the shelf. I reached under her skirt, pulled the lilac panties down her legs, and asked if she could fetch me a cookbook from the top shelf. I stood beneath the ladder. She pursed her lips at me and held the skirt tight around her thighs as she climbed, but when she reached the right height, one foot a rung above the other, I ran the length of my middle finger along her slit. She nearly fell, knocking some books to the floor in the process, but she caught herself and pulled her skirt a bit higher as I leaned forward to kiss her fragrant lips. I stayed this way, face buried between her legs, until I felt a pair of hands slip my cock from my pants and rest it on a cold lower rung. I stayed this way, massaging the backs of my wife’s thighs, until I felt the hint of a breath and a wet warmth enveloped my shaft inch by luxurious inch.
I tried to highlight the role of spontaneity. My wife went for a jog on Wednesday afternoon. Her outfit, my god, a light blue sports bra with black leggings, elicited a honk of approval from a passing car the moment she left the driveway. I watched Clara disappear around the far bend and instantly wanted her.
My wife’s double was folding clothes in the laundry room. The washing machine rumbled.
“I know what you’re going to say,” I said, untying the belt that held her dress in place.
“What?” she asked, placing a timid hand on my chest.
“You’re going to say that you’re around people, that you’re in public, that we absolutely can’t fool around now.” I backed her toward the washing machine.
“Oh no no no no, you’re exactly right,” she laughed. “You can wash me off when I’m home if you’re good and clean the bathrooms.”
I took off my shirt and let her feel my stomach.
“Harry…”
I lifted her onto the washing machine.
She closed her eyes and tilted her head, as if needing a moment. “Harry,” she repeated, more quietly.
Spontaneity, a double-edged sword. She loved me as we fucked on that vibrating machine. She held her legs around my waist to keep me from pulling out and kept her mouth pinned to mine to keep from screaming. If I tried to kiss her neck or ear, she grabbed my face and pulled my lips back firmly to hers.
She loved me then, but when she got home she was furious. Clara told me she wasn’t on a jog at that instant, that she couldn’t hide her panting behind exercise. She told me she had been shopping for a water bottle in the grocery store. She had attempted shallow breathing in one of the less trafficked aisles, pretending to read the back of a peanut butter jar for ten minutes as my cock vibrated inside of her. She steadied herself with the help of a popcorn display. But the sensations eventually grew so strong that she had to sit down on the floor by the charcoal. Multiple people asked if she was all right, including an elderly woman who seemed, impossibly, to know exactly what was happening.
“So no, you cannot wash me today,” Clara said, storming off for her shower.
Still, she’d gotten a taste for exhibitionism. After she’d rinsed off, she went to the kitchen for a glass of red wine, took it outside, and sat on a step of our front stoop. I watched her through the window. She cinched her short, silken black robe tight at the neck and took a sip. After a few moments, her double entered the living room wearing an identical robe. She drew the curtains closed, turned off the light, and straddled me on the couch.
“I hope you don’t mind,” Clara said. She kissed my neck and pinned my wrists to the couchback. “If any of the neighbors come by we’ll have to pause so I can say hello.” Every five minutes, it seemed, Clara would go from riding me vigorously to a complete stop. She’d kiss across my chest in gentle pecks, her pelvis unmoving, despite my pleas, and I’d hear her friendly voice through the window. They were usually short greetings, though occasionally someone would ask her about work and, unable to play completely by her rules, I’d graze my teeth against her nipple. At one point I heard Clara flirting with the firefighter next door and felt her subtly, mistakenly squeeze against my cock. I spanked her and heard her gasp slightly through the window.
Still, most of Clara’s interest in her double was nonsexual. She experimented with contrasts—washing her hair on one body as she blow dried it on the other. She drank a cup of hot lemon-ginger tea as she also drank an iced coffee. She rubbed lotion along two legs as she shaved the others.
One night I found my wife relaxed in the bath with a lit candle and a glass of rosé as her double ran a soapy loofah across her arms.
“The real potential is in self-pleasure,” I said one evening, setting our empty dinner plates in the sink. “Your own tongue, exactly as you like it.”
“Hmm, do we have dessert?” Clara asked. “Something chocolate?”’
I arranged a small plate of cookies and set it on the table.
“I could be there on standby, just in case. Watching from the wings,” I said. “But you know. Make yourself comfortable with some music. Some oils. Take your time. One body then the other.”
“Sounds too strange.” Clara reached for a cookie. “Is that what you did? Sucked your own dick?”
“There’s no need to be crude, Clara.” I sat back against my chair.
“I’m sorry, Harry, but this just doesn’t mean as much to me as it does to you. In fact, I’ve been thinking about it—can we just turn off my transistor or whatever? Is that possible?”
“I suppose,” I said. “Your second body would just be on autopilot.”
“I don’t want to ruin the experiment or ruin your turn for fun, but this element of control—I don’t like it. It’s too much.”
I can’t pretend I wasn’t a little disappointed. My darling Clara who deserved every pleasure in the world. But if she wasn’t satisfied, I couldn’t force her on my account.
“Let me see what I can do.” I held Clara’s hand across the table. “I may have to shut her down for a week, but it should work out fine.”
That night I was back in the lab and my wife read a George Eliot novel by the fireplace.

A Wife For All Seasons, Part 2 [sci-fi] [MFF, everyone over 30]

Clara has never been much of a lab assistant. The science doesn’t interest her. It’s my hobby, not hers. Still, she agreed to sit for a DNA swab. She let me administer a preliminary brain scan and a neural mapping survey. I made a game of taking her physical measurements, pulling the tape gently across her bust, then to the absolute top of her inseam.
“She’ll look exactly the same, right?” Clara asked.
“Completely identical,” I assured her.
“My age? You’re not creating some 18-year-old version of me, right?”
I kissed her forehead.
“It’s the same process,” I said. “She’ll look just as you look now.”
Clara came by my lab throughout the week to check on my progress. She’d bring me dinner, cast a suspicious eye toward the closed hibernation bath, then sit on my desk and bite her nail.
“Will she be strong?” she asked. “Stronger than me?”
“No,” I said, after considering the question. “She’ll have your muscular makeup, so it should be about the same.”
“What about coquettishness?”
“Coquettishness?”
“I don’t think she should be too flirty. I’m not too flirty, so I don’t think she should be, either.”
“Clara, she won’t be anything. She’s an empty vessel, just a body for you to control.”
“I know.”
“If you’re not coquettish then she won’t be coquettish.”
“I know, I know.”
She started to leave, drumming her fingers against the lid of the bath as she passed.
“We’re not going to name her, right?” Clara said.
“I don’t think so.”
“No, I agree. I see what you meant now, no need to name doubles.”
Clara was clearly apprehensive, so I decided to surprise her one day with a bouquet of purple orchids. They were waiting in a vase on the kitchen table when Clara got home from work. I heard her heels click across the floor and I waited a few moments for her to read my card. It read: All my love—meet me in the lab.
Clara’s new double was lying face-up in the bath when Clara entered. Clara, my beautiful wife, pale in the soft light from the kitchen, so surprisingly timid.
“She’s done?” Clara asked.
“Almost.” I fiddled with a few inputs on my computer and waved her over to me. “Give me a number between one and ten,” I said.
“Seven.”
“Give me a food that starts with M.”
“Mascarpone.”
“Give me the name of your first pet.”
“Lady Bell.”
I ran some last minute scans of the transistor, calibrated the neural interface, addressed any atmospheric static in the biliminal signal, and then the double’s eyes blinked open.
“Done,” I smiled.
But Clara looked a bit dizzy. I took her hands to steady her.
“I’m looking at you and the ceiling at the same time,” Clara said.
“It takes a minute to get used to the extra sensations.”
Clara took a deep breath then smiled.
“What do I do?” she asked.
“Whatever you want!” I laughed.
In a daze, Clara looked around the room for a moment.
“How do I move her?” she asked.
“The same way you move your right and left arm. You just…decide to do it.”
Clara looked at me as if deep in thought. She smiled, looked away, then smiled at me again as I saw her double climb out of the bath.
“I can feel the water,” Clara said. “That’s incredible.”
“You’ll feel a lot more than that,” I said. I lifted Clara’s dress from her shoulders and forced each side down her arms, pulling her against me.
“Harry, you’re so commanding when you’ve had a successful day.” She forced her tongue against mine and backed me against my desk.
“I want you to suck my cock,” I said. I took her breast in my hand and pressed my lips to her neck.
“Yes sir, what else,” she said, ripping the buttons from my shirt and letting it fall to the floor.
“Have you done what I asked yet?” I spanked her through her dress. “Have you sucked my cock?” I lifted her dress and spanked her again,
“No sir, I haven’t sucked your cock yet, sir.” She undid my pants.
“Then don’t ask for more instructions yet.” I grabbed her dress with both hands, bunched as it was around her hips, and used it to pull Clara against me. She wiggled, grinned, and as she took my cock in her hand, I noticed her double standing still by the wall.
“Darling,” I said. “Are you going to…”
“Hmm?”
“She’s ready, just to be clear. Totally ready.”
“Oh, I know. I just don’t really need her right now.” She kissed me and stroked my cock, hand over hand. “Sir.”
“Oh,” I said. “Well, for the sake of the experiment. Best to incorporate your new body.” I kissed her back, still gripping her by the dress around her waist.
“You just have fewer…accessories.” She kissed my neck then moved back to my mouth. “You have your cock. I love your cock,” she said, enthusiastically stroking it with both hands. “Your big, strong, strapping cock. But I’m taking care of it already?” Suddenly realizing a new opportunity, she moved one hand to cup my balls as she stroked.
“Maybe I could make it an order?”
Clara shrugged and nodded, and I told her that I wanted both her and her double to suck my cock at once.
My wife got down on her knees, glancing up at me through a few strands of hair hanging across her forehead. Then her double sat on her knees next to her, her wet hair pulled straight back. I watched my wife’s breast brush innocently against the breast of her double.
Clara held my cock between her two faces, began to touch it to her lips, then stopped.
“How should I…you want me…us, to suck you at the same time?” She looked a bit perplexed.
“Well, not suck, per se. Just use both your mouths.”
“It’s not like there’s two ends.”
“Side to side, though. Like playing two sides of a harmonica.”
Clara positioned herselves and gently pressed both sets of lips against my cock. She moved side to side, caressing every inch and occasionally slipping her tongue along my shaft. She glanced up at me, her two sets of doe eyes.
“Like this?” my wife asked. “Like this, sir?” she asked through her double. I moaned and nodded.
After a few moments, Clara began to wrap her lips around the tip. She’d tease me there, then move back to the side, but eventually make her way back to the tip. She held her breasts in her palms as she took more of me into her mouth and I tilted my head back as she began to suck.
But then I realized that the double was sidelined again.
“Darling,” I panted. “If the experiment is going to work, we really have to include your double.”
Clara drew her head back and stroked me with her hand.
“Oh, sorry. How should…”
“You could take turns,” I suggested.
Clara nodded, but didn’t seem convinced.
“But still one mouth at a time?” she asked.
“It’s worth a shot,” I said.
Clara took me into her mouth for a few wonderful moments, then passed my cock to her double, who did the same. They did this for a few minutes, alternating between their identical mouths, but soon Clara found her own rhythm and began sucking faster, more vigorously. Her double was again unoccupied.
“Darling,” I nudged her.
“Sorry, sorry,” she said. “I just don’t have a job for her right now.” Clara thought for a moment, still stroking me. “Do you want her to play with your asshole?”
“No, not exactly,” I said, alarmed.
“I’m sorry, I think I just don’t understand the point of a threesome with two women.”
I reached over to pull the double to her feet. I pulled her in for a deep kiss, held her bare chest against mine, and used my other hand to guide Clara’s mouth back to my cock. I felt her moan through both mouths. I felt the double’s wet pussy against my hip. I knew I couldn’t last much longer.
“I’m going to cum,” I moaned.
“Cum, sir.”
“I’m going to cum.”
“Yes, sir. Cum, sir.”
I lowered the double to her knees and took my cock in my hand.
“I want to cum all over your beautiful tits.”
“All four?”
I nodded, unable to speak.
“Oh,” Clara hesitated. “Well I thought, as long as we have the double…”
“Baby, hurry, please.”
“I wasn’t going to shower tonight. I thought you could finish on her.”
“The experiment, please baby, the experiment.”
Clara nodded. Of course, of course. She and her double wrapped their arms around each other for a tight hug, their ample breasts rising between them. They looked up at me chastley—one might even say coquettishly—and let my cum drip down their identical cleavage.

A Wife For All Seasons, Part 1 [sci-fi] [MMMF, all in their early 30s]

Three bodies. Two physical copies of myself, but copies still controlled by me. I move them as an octopus moves each of its limbs, aware of every sensation, in command of every desire. The sensation of being three places at once, of tasting her lips, her neck, and her hips, at once. I considered my experiment a great success, even if it only lasted one weekend.
One dizzying weekend. My wife never left my sides. The way my three bodies coordinated and worked together, instead of competing—Clara said she’d never felt anything like it. The way I massaged her shoulders, even as I felt my way along her bare thighs, even as I unclasped the front of her bra. The way I teased my cock between her legs, side to side without entering, in the exact same rhythm as she teased my cock with her tongue. The way I timed kisses on impossibly distant parts of her body, even as she shook and moaned and pressed herself against my mouth; she reached down to hold my head between her legs and reached up to pull me in for a kiss. She moaned into my mouth and at the same time I tasted her cum, like warm jasmine. And at the same moment I stood back and watched her arching back, her right leg bent midair, her breasts pressed between her arms, and I touched myself, I touched myself, I touched myself.
One unstoppable weekend. On Saturday I made sandwiches. Cucumbers and tomatoes. As I spread the mayonnaise, Clara gave me a hug from behind.
“Take off this shirt,” she said. “I like the way your arms look in this shirt. I don’t want it stained.”
I pulled it over my head and kept cutting vegetables as she ran her fingertips along my back. She moved her hands around to my stomach and was reaching for my belt buckle when I stopped her. I came up behind Clara with my second body and grabbed her wrists, gently pinning them behind her back, against the fabric of her lemon sundress. She glanced back over her shoulder as I pressed her against my bare back with my bare chest.
“Harry!” she beamed. She wriggled her ass against me. “The pants, too, please.”
I undid the buckle, lifted the short hem of her dress, and fucked her from behind as she nibbled on my shoulder blades.
An unstoppable weekend, but with occasional moments of rest. A Saturday night movie at home. A drama, nothing sexual. Clara curled into the crook of my arm and fell asleep after just ten minutes.
“That was good,” she mumbled after I nudged her awake during the end credits. Still sleepy, she stretched and sighed and fell back against my arm.
“Harry, do you ever wish you could just magically be in your pajamas and in bed?” she asked. “Without having to do a thing.”
I lifted her from the couch. She smiled without opening her eyes. In the bedroom, I laid her back on the bed and, with all six of my hands, unbuttoned her crop top and shorts. She stirred but didn’t wake. With all six of my hands, I pulled the clothes away from her body. With all six hands, I carefully dressed her in one of my large t-shirts. I pulled the fabric across her nipples, across her stomach, and let it drape against her white cotton panties.
But all this effort was for naught. The sensation of so many hands—I watched her thighs squirm slightly, I watched her lift the shirt toward her navel, and I saw a faint spot of wetness through her underwear.
I undressed for bed, but it was several hours before we slept.
On Sunday, Clara insisted on going to church. She wore her most modest dress, the hem a few inches below the knee and the neckline nearly brushing her chin. It looked itchy, frankly. When she returned, she asked for help undressing. Pulling the zipper down along her back revealed a black bra and black thong. We ordered takeout—spicy thai—and I waited for the delivery man in the living room as Clara gave me two handjobs in the shower.
Just one lovely weekend, because on Monday I found my duplicate bodies unresponsive in their hibernation baths. Their members shot forth from the water, an enormous grin frozen on their faces, but they were unresponsive all the same. My experiment: cut short by my wife’s insatiable appetite.
“*My* appetite,” Clara said over breakfast. She downed a glass of water and poured herself some juice. “You’ve dehydrated me.”
“I’m not blaming you,” I said. “I just think it was too much, too soon.”
Clara shrugged, cutting into a grapefruit.
“If you get a bicycle for Christmas, you ride it all day,” she said. “You’re sure there’s nothing I can do to, you know, stimulate them? Shock them back into coherence?”
“What could be more shocking than what you did with the tablecloth last night?”
Clara laughed, her eyes widened. “Where did that come from? I couldn’t believe it either!”
She held her glass out to me and I filled it with more water.
“Well,” she said. “Back to the drawing board, I guess.”
“I guess,” I said.
Clara took a bite of grapefruit and stretched her neck. “I’m so stiff, too.” She pushed her robe to one side a bit and massaged her collarbone. I watched as she rubbed the clavicle on one side of her neck, then slid her fingers across to the other side. She squeezed one shoulder, then the other. She lifted one leg, then crossed it over the other. She brushed her hair behind one ear, then the other.
“Do we have a second grapefruit?” I asked.
“Just the one,” Clara said. She smiled apologetically and took another bite. She looked away, but I watched her lick the juice from each of her full lips, one after the other.
“Although, it could be a chromosome issue,” I said to myself.
“What could?”
“It’s just an idea. But it’s possible, possible, that the Y chromosome isn’t stable enough. That it interferes with the artificial components or the transistor or who knows.”
“Your doubles are doomed to a single weekend because they’re men?”
“Impossible to say.” I took a long sip of coffee and watched Clara wrap her lips around her spoon, watched her top lip lie across the waiting bottom. “We’ll have to rule it out.”

For those into non-fiction nsfw. Aliens, monsters, fantasy, sci-fi and more.

First I’m struggling to find any decent subreddits to chat on for this topic, all of them are just for posting pictures, if you have any suggestions please let me know.

Second, if you are looking to dive into these topics feel free to DM me. I have a thing for a lot of scenes on this topic but I want to hear if you like something I never heard of or discuss something we share an interest for.