Cocks and Rockets

She dreams that she is straddling the cool metal tip of a space shuttle.

It is night — further down, the orbiter glints. She is perched on the red external tank, where liquid hydrogen fuel and oxidizer fizz between her legs. Rumbling tremors start below, traveling up through her legs, her cunt, her chest. She feels it vibrating through her, although the sun is gone from the sky and the engines are cool and there is not the heat and fire required for liftoff.

Despite this, the shuttle leaves earth and passes coolly into the sky. As it charts a slow course upward, she slips off her surface mount and comes to slide down the shaft of the tank. She is naked, of course. Her clit is the tiniest nub rubbing slowly down a 66,000 lb rising mass of cold slick metal, the largest stripper pole she can't quite straddle. Flush against the tank of the shuttle, her legs wide, she grinds her way down.

At first, the dream always starts frantic: scared, to find herself there and out of control, vulnerable, unprotected against the dangers of heights, fire, and the vast cosmos.

But soon it turns pleasurable: the slick friction of the shuttle between her legs; the rise of the spacecraft, cold and silent. Time slows.

The orbiter detaches and the external tank points down, and she falls freely — in slow motion — back to earth, riding it. Sometimes the dream morphs — it is not an external tank, but a nuclear warhead, and she straddles it as it hones in on its target.

The only thing that can stop its path of destruction is her ability to pull it back on itself — her own movements to impede it — in fact, the only thing that can disarm it is the friction of her own motions as she rides it, rubbing herself against its huge bulk, finding...just the spot...

Then she wakes up. Her hair clings to her forehead. Between her thighs, a pleasant sensation burns.

-

It took her well into adulthood before she realized that the reality of any male cock can never match the enormity of her fantasy ideal.

She did the online searches, early on, for monster cocks. (And, sometimes, "monster" cocks.)

Nothing came close.

How is it possible to find what she wants, when the cock she envisions is impossible? She wants a cock as wide and deep as a waterbed, a solid tree trunk of smooth firm flesh, a cock she can slide down like a fat fireman's pole. She wants it so thick, her toes wouldn't touch when she wrapped her legs around it. She wants a cock she can saddle and ride like a horse.

A cock like a rocket ship.

The comparison came early and easily. The first time it struck, she was in college: drinking wine, lounging on the couch, watching a movie, her feet resting in her boyfriend's lap.

He was in a good mood, as he had particularly enjoyed their earlier bout of love-making, and was expressing his gratitude by stroking and massaging every available part of her. She was not as pleased, for she was simply unable to derive a suitable amount of pleasure from his tool, although the footrubs were starting to make up for it.

Her head was warm and buzzy from the wine when her boyfriend pointed at the screen suddenly and said, "this is the part."

He was a film student, and they were watching Dr. Strangelove (or: How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Love the Bomb), and he was gesturing to the iconic scene when Major Kong rides the bomb, like a cowboy riding a bucking bronco, with much jingoistic whooping and hat waving.

Her boyfriend laughed and made a firework hand motion and an explosiony sound effect to symbolize the overall destruction and hilarity, which also served as a stand-in for the radical epiphany she experienced in her own mind when a warm feeling crept over her, seeing the huge weapon between Slim Pickens' legs, that had never happened when her boyfriend was between her own.

"Hey..." she said as she turned to him. He recognized a certain light in her eye, so did the sensible thing by pressing pause on the movie and scooping her off to bed.

This time, she didn't focus on his member; she envisioned that his whole lean body was the thing, and she grinded against his pelvis while he fucked her. But in her mind, it wasn't really him that she was humping; rather, some half-formed nebulous idea of rubbing her body against one enormous phallus. One huge rocket.

This time, she came.

-

For a while, metal dildos satisfied a certain urge. The cold metal against her clit was a new form of pleasure; she could fuck herself with a shaft that warmed to her touch, its temperature changing with her activity. But soon she needed more.

She sought out the secret places with wide-barreled metal tubes and private spots in basements where the assorted plumbing and heating fixtures lived. She humped water tanks, playground slides, modern art installations, and, every so often, the corner of an enticing building. She crept to metal shafts in the middle of the night to furtively spread her lips against them, sheltered from light and prying eyes.

In front of the supermarket near her home, there were two quarter-operated rides for very small children: a miniature car and a miniature rocket. You could sit in the seat, if you were the size of a four-year-old, and grip the steering wheel while the vehicle moved like a small, jerky, subdued mechanical bull.

The ship was not impressively large, compared to her standards, and it certainly didn't have the girth of true spacecraft, nor of the sleek bullet-shaped fission bombs that initially attracted her. But it was her ideal, writ miniature, and she eyed it every time she walked through the supermarket doors.

It was perfectly positioned, as well: low enough to the ground to straddle easily. If she was in front of the spaceship, its nose was the perfect height to nudge her cunt. She could grind standing against the tip.

But at night, after closing hours, flood lights illuminated the front of the supermarket complex and the tiny metal spaceship twinkled brilliantly, attracting the eye. There was no hope, as long as those lights kept flicking on at 9pm every day, of being able to engage in her typical furtive night time activities.

So she never acted upon her urges, but only gazed wistfully at the ship when she passed, yearning to grind her clit against its smooth rounded sides.

One afternoon, arriving at the supermarket to pick up ingredients for dinner, she discovered workmen ripping out the concrete pavement. The small car and spaceship lay on their sides, exposing their spring-loaded bases and inner gadgetry.

After a few minutes of discussion with the workmen and the store manager, she learned that the business had no further need for the toys, and was likely to dispose of them. The rest was easy. With a few friendly smiles, one of the workmen happily loaded the spaceship into the back of her car.

She didn't bother with the rest of her shopping, but called for takeout and drove the rocket straight home. With some effort (it was heavier than expected, for being such a small thing), she set it up in the corner of her office and admired the aesthetic effect of its vintage lines, appreciating its decorative function.

And then she humped the fuck out of it.

That serendipitous event kicked off a new stage in her life, as she had never previously envisioned the ability to bring actual equipment into her home. But now she trawled the internet, bidding on e-auctions, meeting up in strange locations with independent sellers, and commissioning unique display stands from a woodworking friend.

She didn't just buy old supermarket spaceships; she also bought empty bomb casings, old missile shells, and decommissioned torpedo husks. The average consumer did not have access to these offerings; but her research caused her to dip into the weird, obscure, and sometimes illegal areas of the internet.

The woodworking friend built platforms to her specifications, and she herself added stirrups to many of the larger pieces for her own ease of access so the room which had once been an office was now converted to a full-time vintage rocket storage and display area — during the day — and her own personal sex dungeon — at night.

Which was where she was heading now.

—

The dream is still present in her mind, and her pussy is aching and hot with unaddressed need, when she enters the "office" and flips on the low light setting: dark, dusky, and moody. The glint and sheen of curved metal craft surrounds her.

She is naked, and too impatient to bother with putting on her latex, although there is an undeniable thrill in rubbing her tightly-clad nubile body against the enormous metal shafts in this room. She keeps all her paraphernalia in a locked box in the closet, so walks over to it now to retrieve a bottle of lube.

After trying many different brands, she discovered this one with a spray nozzle tip that lets her squirt lubricant directly onto the rockets, and stuck with it for the sake of convenience.

So now she swings into the saddle of her favorite piece — the enormous torpedo which takes up the center of the room — and squirts a generous amount of lube onto the surface in front of her. When she scoots forward into place, her thighs immediately become slick with it, and she has to curl her toes into the stirrups to avoid slipping off.

She feels a profound relief as soon as her clit touches the cold metal. Wiggling her hips in the seat lets her stimulate herself against the missile's surface.

She starts with a couple minutes of these small grinding movements before energy and enthusiasm take over. Soon her body is draped over the phallus: legs wrapped around it near the base, and her arms hugging the corona as she humps vigorously.

he slides the whole of her pelvis forward and backward against the metal sides; she can feel the lubricant coating her cunt and her asscheeks spreading further apart with each slick thrust.

Still muddled with sleep, she sinks a little into the dreamy part of her consciousness, and lets kaleidoscopic imagination take over. She is spinning in her mind, wheeling from one pornographic image to another, as she humps and grinds.

he tongue-bathes the metal reverently, wraps her arms around it, and pushes her breasts flat against the surface. She could be flying through the air right now and not notice the difference. She is heaving, swelling, surging like a ship on storm waters.

Her body is wrapped around this enormous rock-hard cock, and as she rubs herself against it, she strokes the whole of the shaft with her body. Mental images overlap — sliding down a slick rocket, straddling an enormous cock, riding a honing missile through the wide-open sky, the great surge of power building and collecting under her, holding on for liftoff, and the forceful image of the phallus erupting.

Panting breaths fog up a patch before her mouth with condensation. She is covered from waist to knees with slippery fluids.

When she imagines this tool between her legs ejaculating, surging and spitting forth its potent contents, she is so overcome that she has to hold onto the handrail as she spasms against its curved side.

Her jerking motions wring every last drop of satisfaction from the orgasm as she continues to drag her clit across the smooth sheath.

As her body relaxes, her hands fall to drape down the sides; her legs hang on either side of the metal casing; and her head rests pillowed atop. She kisses its surface as the paroxysms of pleasure retreat.

It wouldn't be the first time that she fell asleep, satiated and exhausted, in this position. Humming with eyes closed, she strokes the side of her mount appreciatively.

If she's lucky, she might wake up to that dream again...