The sound of a blaring car horn shattering the still morning air prematurely ended my exotic wet dream of sex starved nymphs pampering my aged torso with gleeful abandon. Didn't have many of these dream at my age, and silently cursed the owner of the blaring horn knowing it would be highly unlikely to recapture the erotic sensations. Vivian, my trusted companion for the past thirty five years was snoring blissfully next to me with the sheets haphazardly pushed to the foot of the bed. The years had been good to her, a little larger and less will defined than earlier, but when compared to some of the flotsam thundering through Walmart, I considered myself fortunate. Quietly I rolled out of bed and staggered out to the kitchen to get the coffee started. The daily rag was thoughtfully stuck in the mail slot, and I separated the sections and began my morning ritual of digesting the sensationalized BS.
Viv was a light sleeper and was soon shuffling to the kitchen table where I sat in her threadbare robe and bunny slippers. Her hair looked as if it has experienced the business end of a thermonuclear air burst, and her eyes showed a few more wrinkles than they revealed when she wore the face paint it took half on hour to apply before she even considered the thought of leaving the condo. Staggering over to the coffee maker silently, she poured a cup of joe and ceremoniously sprinkled it with powdered creamer before wandering over to the table and plopping down unceremoniously. She glanced at me briefly while I was buried in the headlines and took a tentative sip before opening the "Family Section." Viv liked that section with all the pictures of folks in the community and the Want Ads that posted all the garage sales she and I would frequent most every weekend. Fortunately, Viv had a keen sense of direction and we seldom required a map during our weekend ventures through the sprawling suburbs.
The almost oppressive silence was broken sometime later when Viv spoke up.
"Hey Jack, take a look at this," she said as she handed me a page of the want ads.
"OK dear, what am I looking at?"
"There's an add for ED down in the lower right hand sheet. . ." she mumbled, "some new kind of treatment and they make house calls."
"Oh come on now," I replied indifferently. "Probably just another scam." My "delivery system" went into retirement shortly after I had, and nothing had revived it to its former glory. We tried creams, pills, awkward pumps, and even briefly discussed surgical implants, but combined with Viv's dry and raspy interior, we both inevitably decided to leave well enough alone. I do miss my morning woody at times, like after last nights juicy dream, but the reality was that I'd probably croak with a heart attack if coitus was ever attempted.
Viv snatched the paper back and refocused on the article. "I'm going to call them anyway," she stated firmly. "It says it won't cost anything."
"Honey," I began tentatively, "I smell rip-off from the get go. Can't we let just let a sleeping dog lie?"
"Jack, you may not believe this, but there are still times when I wouldn't mind feeling your 'sleeping dog' inside me;" she punched the numbers on the cordless phone keypad and listened thoughtfully.
"There's cucumbers in the fridge you know," I offered, already resigned to the forthcoming experience in futility. Vivian glared at me until someone answered the phone on the other end.
Viv gave surprisingly little information and hung up with a smug look on her face. "They'll be here this afternoon."
I nodded indifferently, and studied the stats from last nights game. At this point in my life, I have learned to take things as they come. Most all my friends had evolved beyond the wild sperm shooting hunts of our youth towards a mature collective of story tellers that had virtually forgotten performance and conquest issues. Sex was for the young and dumb, far too often resulting in regrets rather than long term fulfillment. Despite the constant array of commercials encouraging youthful pursuits, we were quite content with past conquests and our daily regimen of prescribed medications.
Shortly after one thirty in the afternoon, a small white delivery van pulled into the guest parking and two white figures emerged carrying small bags. The van had a small emblem on the side that I couldn't decipher. Viv answered the door and offered a seat on the couch opposite the two easy chairs she and I most occupied. The male and female "technicians" were strikingly unremarkable in their appearance, early thirties I would guess and set about their tasks quickly and professionally. First, there were a battery of questions concerning our medical backgrounds which was quickly followed by a brief (yet stimulating) physical exam. The male member had my wife disrobe while the female member took me under counsel.
Standing semi-naked, she unemotionally pulled down my bvds and gently examined the offending flesh with the curiosity of a virgins first time exploration. Her hands were cool and baby soft, gently manipulating my wrinkled and lifeless flesh. Although no apparent physical reaction was triggered, the feeling of her gentle manipulations induced sensations that my dreams evoked. Meanwhile, Vivian was slouched in the chair as skillful fingers stirred her genitals into noticeable arousal. The air became thick with her essence and her genitals became fully engorged. The angry red swelling of her clitoris transported me back briefly to the passion filled nights of our youth when she would moan with sexual abandon and squirt forcefully upon climax. Flushed, with hearts pounding and libidos raging, we sank into our perspective chairs to await our prognosis. It had been a most arousing inspection, and I briefly wondered if our two visitors were a new kind of deviant that preyed on aging couples.
From their bags, they withdrew two syringes with a different color extract in each one before sitting on the couch. They explained they were from the Stellar Regenerative Institute, a research community that focused upon procreative dysfunction. They had developed several experimental inoculations that target biological reconstruction through tiny
nanobots. The cumbots (as they were called) would remain active for 48 to 72 hours before being eliminated through the urine with very little discomfort. Thus far, the results were promising and permanent. With over a 98% success rate, we could become the newest participants in this treatment with merely a signature on a consent form and a follow-up phone call.
Vivian was enthusiastic, but I was skeptical. Perhaps years of work in the competitive world had made me so. I always searched for the downside to balance against the positive benefits. This "treatment" triggered alarm bells for several reasons. First, I'm not to keen on inserting mechanical devices into biological organisms (see surgical implants noted above). Second, these "cumbots" were injected into my urethra. Forgive me for my belief in the creation of a tube for elimination shouldn't be used conversely.
I hate enemas for that reason. Finally, along with a fore mentioned "sleeping dog" rational, sex can be both mentally and physically stressful - a condition my Doctor recommended I avoid. We had cucumbers, bananas, my tongue, fingers and no need for impregnation. Needless to say, with a few more assurances and Vivian's ever present encouragement, the technician was soon on her knees in front of me easing my underwear over my knees unceremoniously.
Opening a sterile package containing a long thin flexible tube, she screwed it into the vial with greenish yellow liquid. Firmly holding my lifeless organ upright, she guided the tube in slowly with both hands and returned to bracing my now stunned organ with one hand while the other slowly eased the pre-lubed tube down its length and adjacent to my prostrate where it stopped. Vivian had her legs draped over the arms of her recliner as the male technician screwed a small perforated phallus on to the vial filled with reddish brown liquid. He slowly eased the phallus into her quivering birth canal until it disappeared completely as she drew a deep breath. Almost simultaneously, the technicians pressed the plungers and Vivian an I squirmed with the disquieting sensations of our mutual fluid invasion.
I experienced a slight burning sensation quickly followed by the unmistakable urge to pee. Vivian began to squirm rhythmically until, as the contents were completely drained, she firmly grabbed the technicians free hand and held it to her vulva thrusting her hips in the unmistakable throes of orgasm. Her face and torso were so red they could have stopped rush hour traffic on the freeway. My technician firmly pinched the glans as she withdrew the syringe, trapping the sickly green colored substance securely inside. My prostrate protested vehemently for several seconds, attempting to expel the invaders with rhythmic contractions. The technicians kept the injection sites effectively blocked for several minutes before slowly releasing their pressure. Surprisingly, very little liquid escaped while we were gently massaged and wiped clean. With cool efficiency, they gathered the waste into a small hazardous waste plastic bag. Grabbing their bags, they waved and left after placing an information sheet and business card on the coffee table.
A few minutes passed before the previous events settled amidst the scent of Viv's arousal. My balls felt too big and it felt like tiny needles were indiscriminately pricking my internal plumbing. Viv appeared exhausted, her legs splayed wide open as the redness in her upper torso gradually dissipated. Gingerly I eased myself up and shuffled over to the coffee table to study the information sheet. It advised us not to pee for half an hour, and the Institute would call in a week to ten days to ask a few questions and discuss any issues. The business card had a small green and red emblem with an 800-number printed on cheap white index paper. The entire evolution was like the business card: quick, efficient, and simple. We'd soon find out if my suspicions were justified.
"Was it good for you," I asked as Vivian pulled her legs down into a more feminine pose and adjusted her clothes.
"Hmmm yeah," she murmured, "Feel anything, yet?"
"Don't know quite what to feel, Honey. I think a trip over to the Local Ice Cream parlor may be in order."
"Let me change," she replied enthusiastically. As she struggled to her feet, now void of bunny slippers, her unsteadiness prompted me to wrap my arm around her. She swiveled on to my leg and with a couple of forcible thrusts of her hips, bathed my naked thing with her orgasmic essence. Her body trembled for several minutes as her euphoria waned and her essence pooled around my foot.
