Night at the Sex Museum

It had sounded like a great idea when I first heard about it from my bestie.

"Yeah, they're putting on some new exhibit about the female body and sex," Mina had told me one day after class, as we sauntered back to the dorms together through the crisp fall air. "Honestly, I don't know all the details. But I hear they're looking for folks to help out with it or something? I guess maybe just to greet people and guide them around and stuff. But you know, it might be something to check out…"

Well, short of cash as I was, it definitely seemed like something to look into. Besides – if the Museum of Sex was going to do its part to fight the stereotypes and biases and myths of toxic masculinity, I wanted to be on board. What was the use of doing women's and gender studies if I wasn't willing to get out there and try to help educate people?

So, yeah: I called them. Yes, I was over 18 – over 21, even. About me? Well, that was easy. Layla Jourdain, rising senior at the local liberal arts college. Double majoring in psychology and women's and gender studies. Always interested in expanding my horizons and helping to make the world a better place. Sure, I could work in the US; heck, I was a US citizen. Sure, I'd be available to drop by on Friday. Thanks very much!

As you probably could've figured out, I got the job. It didn't seem like anything super crazy: just working as an assistant staff member for the next two months while this new evening exhibit is running. An exhibit that, from what I'd already heard, was already becoming pretty popular.

To be fair, at that point I didn't yet know precisely how I'd be assisting.

But naïve as I was, I didn't think to ask questions. I waltzed merrily through the exhibit myself, wondering and exclaiming over the hyper-realistic phalluses and the charts of average orgasm length by mammalian species and the detailed, cutaway models of the human reproductive system. I'd snickered quietly over the displays of whips and handcuffs and boots in the room on kinks. And then I'd moved on… not once wondering exactly how and why all these hands-on gizmos actually operated.

Yeah. Maybe I should've asked a few more questions.

***

I'm lying here now, the world dark around me, my heartbeat hammering in my ears. I can barely move, barely squirm in my restraints, barely wriggle my already cramping muscles. God, how long has it been since they first brought me in to this weird back room, brightly thanking me for being such a willing assistant? How long has it been since I blushed and stripped at their command? How long since I donned the crazy, skin-tight, rubbery suit and stepped nervously down into this- this- coffin?

For a coffin is the closest I can come to describing it. It's padded and tight-fitting, and my arms are held rigid by my sides with what seem to be cuffs around each wrist. My ankles too seem to be locked in place, and even my head – for I can't seem to lift it anymore. But even more concerning is the fact that the strange visor-like device they've secured over my eyes is opaque, and I can't see anything of the other weird devices that I had then felt those invisible hands attaching to some of my most intimate regions…

Yeah. Locked down in some crazy box… blindfolded… trapped… I guess I'm kinda screwed.

And then I hear it: the first hum of voices in my ears. What the hell?! I'm not wearing any earbuds, so are these voices from just outside? But no, I finally realize with a jolt. The visor must have bone-conductance audio built in, for these are voices that can only belong to visitors inside the exhibit. And what's more, they seem to be modified: pitch-adjusted and processed to anonymize not only the speaker, but even their gender.

But anonymized or not, it doesn't take a rocket scientist to know these are a bunch of college jocks – and they're growing louder and more boisterous by the second.

"Oh, damn, look at this!" "Bro, that's legit. It's like a real pussy and everything!" "Hey, Dane – dare you to stick your fingers in there…" I twist my head in the darkness in an idiotic attempt to hear them better – but then I give a cry of sudden dismay. It's as if two fingers have just been slipped without warning into my vagina: harsh, cold, and entirely, utterly unexpected.

I cry out again as another sensation hits me: of a hand squeezing my right breast, unceremoniously groping me in the darkness. "Oh, fuck, this feels awesome! Dude, you gotta try this-" "No, no, no. Bro, see the lights? You're not doing it right…"

And that's when I remember that one particular exhibit. The one with the prone, naked female dummy… and her lifelike genitalia… and the lights and sensors mounted above her that encouraged the viewer to give her a try, to learn what sort of sensations and techniques could lead the female body to pleasure and even orgasm…

Oh, fuck. I thought- I thought that was just a model- a computerized dummy-

Nope. I don't know precisely how they're doing it, but that exhibit seems to be attached directly to me. And the sensors that are attached to my suit are not only providing me with audio, but they're faithfully rendering every single sensation that these terrifyingly ignorant museum-goers are idly inflicting on the dummy before them.

I cringe in rising horror as the sensation of rough masculine hands pawing over me ebbs and flows. They're squeezing my breasts – or more precisely, the dummy's breasts – with all the delicate grace of a mechanical claw in an arcade, treating them like stress balls to be squeezed into submission. I whimper in rising horror as the sensation of three, then four fingers thrusts jerkily and roughly between my legs. And all the while, the audio is in my ears, as seductive as nails on a chalkboard. "Fuck, bro, you're going hard!" "Yeah, and that's just with my hand. Wanna see what I can do with my dick?" "Damn, this bitch isn't doing anything, though! Talk about stone-cold, eh?" "Yeah, what a dumb exhibit. Think it's broken?"

When they finally leave, I'm shaking with mute terror and revulsion. Oh, sure, that was all a simulation. I know that. And I did agree to assist. But somehow, the haptic sensation of those guys running their hands so freely over me… treating me like I'm an inanimate plaything… God, it's indescribably humiliating. And disgusting.

Oh, but they're only the first to come through.

And so begins my evening. Helpless fly on the wall that I am, I'm forced to listen to quite the range of reactions as time wears on. There's a lot of hushed giggling. A few prudish exclamations of distaste. A couple of dry, disinterested conversations that sound strangely out of place in what feels to me right now like a sex dungeon. And now and then, a few genuine, enthusiastic attempts to do as the exhibit showed.

Oh, god. I wish I could say that their attempts don't arouse me. But over in that exhibit room, there are a dozen colorful lights that would all contradict me. For as I am now beginning to understand, this suit I'm wearing is only too good at detecting when my pussy grows wet… and my nipples begin to harden… and my heartbeat quickens in primal anticipation…

And yes, even when I come close to the brink of orgasm. Because here in this box, it's impossible not to: not when someone spends a few minutes trying to do things right.

But then, just when I'm beginning to think my shift will never end, that I'll never be free, and that – like it or not – this crazy apparatus will never truly bring me all the way to orgasm – I hear it: a hushed voice, soft and warm and still sweet behind the anonymizing modulation, purring delicately in my ear with all the tenderness of a lover. "Why hello there, beautiful! Aren't you looking tasty tonight?" I gulp, wondering vaguely if I haven't heard this voice somewhere before – but I have little time to wonder before with a quiet shiver I feel the first feather-soft touch of this person's fingers on my skin.

"Such a good little dolly," the voice murmurs, so sweet and gentle in comparison to the others. "So submissive and quiet. Goodness, I love how still you're lying for me. I love how pretty and naked you are right now. Did you know that, dolly?" Fingers are brushing up and down my torso, circling my areolas, sending thrills racing up and down my spine as the moments pass. "Shh, don't think, baby doll," the voice breathes, even as my breath hitches and I bite back a tiny moan at the sensation of a tender finger brushing lazily down over my sensitive pussy. "Don't worry. I'm going to take charge now… and all you need to do is lie still for me and enjoy everything…"

I lose track of the number of times those fingers wander over my naked body. I shiver and squirm in delight when the hands finally pull tight around my breasts, and I can't help the groan of arousal that escapes my lips as I feel the fingers deliver a sharp tweak to my erect nipples. God, I'm getting so wet. I know I'm trapped in this box, and that none of this is really real. But strangely, somehow that makes it easier to accept… easier to give in and simply… enjoy… just like they told me to…

I'm babbling softly by the time the hands have found their way to my aching pussy, mindlessly mouthing my assent to everything the sweet voice is whispering to me. "Yes, yes, I'm a good dolly," I murmur, gasping as a finger slips easily into my intimate folds. And then I'm begging into the darkness, pleading with this invisible lover: "Please, please, fuck me, I'm so ready-" But the unknown voice keeps on murmuring back with a trace of a smile – and then I recall with a burst of regret that this unknown person can't hear a word I say.

"Aww, you're such a pretty dolly… getting so wet for me…" "Shh, you like that? I'm sure you do, baby…" "Now, I need you to hold still. I think you're going to like this…"

Oh, I do. The first orgasm catches me off guard, rippling through my body and setting me squirming in my bonds with soft waves of pleasure. But as the delicious glow subsides, I'm still hearing – strong and soft and steady in my ear – commendations for what a good little dolly I am, and compliments over just how pretty I am when I'm cumming… And, well, fuck me if that voice alone doesn't prime me for another.

And another. And another.

By the fifth orgasm I'm crying, shuddering, squirming like a mewling infant as the fingers and the voice continue to have their sweet, yet relentless way with me. In the background of the audio, I can now hear faint exclamations of admiration and delight, and I recognize dimly that this unknown person and I have attracted quite the audience. Whoever this incredible person might be, they're playing me like a virtuoso might play a violin – and I'm trembling and humming helplessly to life under their skillful hands, a helpless instrument thrilling with their every move and their every murmur.

So when the fingers finally subside, and I'm left hiccuping and shaking in my coffin, and the sound of cheering swells in my ears, I know at last that the performance is over. I'm a physical and psychological wreck… but god, I'm so incredibly, sordidly, beautifully satisfied. And whomever it was that administered that incredible experience to me… well, right now I love them more than I've ever loved anyone before.

Unseen hands help me out of the coffin at last. The suit is stripped off. My skin shivers against the sudden rush of cool air. My eyes blink as the world returns… and as I shakily step forward, I see coming toward me the face of someone- someone familiar-

Mina?!

"Shh," she coos softly, in the voice I've come to know so well, as her arms encircle me and pull my naked self close. "Shh, it's okay. You were such a good little dolly tonight. Such a pretty little dolly for me…"

It's that moment that I realize, with a strangled cry of recognition and a grateful sob, that I'm now in love… with my best friend.

***

"Hmm… writing something spicy, are we?"

As I turn from the glow of my computer screen and gaze up into the smiling eyes of my wife Mina, I shrug and flash a lopsided grin.

"Yeah. Just writing about the night we first got together. That's all."