Folding Space

Folding Space

Image originally published by Victoria Blisse

It has been twenty years, ten months, fourteen days, and twelve hours since my last orgasm, and since we folded space.

The shortcut through higher dimensions made it possible to reach this galaxy in a fraction of the time it would have taken using conventional propulsion. The understatement here is that even at the speed of light it would’ve taken us ten million years to get to this point. In lieu of a meaningful fraction of that speed, the heat death of the universe would have occurred before we reached our destination, because–as a consequence of the Big Bang–our destination is moving away much faster than any speed we could hope to accelerate to.

“I can see how tense you are,” she says, her hands working over my shoulders and neck. “Remember our pact?”

I nod. Of course I remember. Usually the first thing I do after a bout of fugue is rub one out. I mean, two decades worth of pent up desire leaves me barely functional for anything except heart pounding emergencies. But, not this time. No orgasm for me until she gives me one. The thought crossed my mind of just cumming anyway but I’m a man of my word after all.

“Mmhmm,” is all I can manage as her soft knuckles dig into the fugue atrophied musculature around my spine. Electrical stimulators tried to reduce the rate of muscle loss, but in the end all they did was leave me waking with an aching body.

“Oh you’re ready huh?”


“Alright, roll over onto your back.”

This only works as a consequence of the one g of thrust below us, allowing me to roll over on a massage table smuggled aboard using the combined unallocated personal mass allowance of the two of us. It just meant we brought less superfluous shit.

Once on my back my semi-erect cock immediately rears itself to its most turgid posture. I want nothing more than to feel her hands there, but instead she is massaging my feet and ankles which only makes me hornier. It must’ve been written on my face because she says, “Sshhh, good things come to little fuck toys that wait.”

I bite my tongue and try to relax as her hands move up my calves and to my knees, parting them gently as she teases those spots of skin just inside. It sends my legs trembling momentarily and so she stops, waiting for me to relax again before resuming her painfully slow ascent to my needy, aching, pent up dick.

At my thighs I can feel her climbing atop the table, kneeling between my legs. Her thumbs press up against my hip adductors, moving along the tendons and viscera to just on either side of my scrotum.

“Open your eyes.”

And I do. She’s kneeling there, naked, hovering over me with her lascivious breasts. I’m torn between feeling her nipples in my mouth and feeling her hands on my cock. I know I won’t be allowed both, and so I just watch and wait, patiently while she extracts every ounce of pleasure from my anticipation.

At last she reaches for more oil and pours some on her hands. Her fingers find the head of my—her—cock, and rub the frenulum in tight circles. I nearly scream but choke it back.

When she’s done abusing the frenulum I feel her reach for the base, holding the shaft straight up. She reaches for the oil and then after a moment’s pause she pours a thin stream right onto the slit, letting it trickle and cover the overly stretched head and slip down the shaft all the way to her hand which immediately begins stroking me urgently.

There is no more subtlety here. She is stroking me to orgasm with all due haste. When she really gets going she uses both hands, on my shaft, balls, and—moments before I ejaculate—a finger into my ass.

And she’s watching with great intensity and focus, like a researcher looking for clues. I’m being studied, even as I empty the contents of my genitals all over her perfectly manicured hands.

11 thoughts on “Folding Space

    1. Thank you, MM! I’m flattered to know you read this. Beloved had me write it on the spot. No prolonged editing allowed, no rewrites. I fought with myself about it, because things like this are arguably the most difficult tasks she gives me.

      I was raised as a perfectionist by a pair of rather judgmental parents. This act of deconstructing my self-consciousness from the inside out is daunting.

    1. I have a thing for space opera, and one constant in the universe of space opera is that sex is common subject matter in micro-gravity.

  1. Gosh – what a torturous long wait he’s had! I loved this, away from the sci-fi nature of this, sex is still sex and a wank (however delicious) works the same way too.
    Loved this: she’s watching with great intensity and focus, like a researcher looking for clues. – my OH accuses me of this!

    1. He slept through most of it, though. I tried to tie in several tropes from common space opera:

      1: Cryogenic fugue is not restful. It’s actually very taxing on the body, so even though he wasn’t conscious the entire time he awoke keenly aware of how long it’d been.

      2: Space folding as instantaneous travel. Between common interstellar distances it probably would be, but I needed to manage the time scale and that required me to greatly exaggerate the distances involved. Ten million years in twenty seemed like a good number, but even then it wasn’t sufficient to manage the near instantaneous nature of space folding. It put me at about 17 hours per 1,000 light years. I should’ve done some math before I began writing but…I wasn’t given the time. ?

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