Author: Anonumous

From her background, at least, she was a most unlikely candidate to become a sophisticated specialist in male reproductive physiology. First off, she was born behind the former Iron Curtain, in Latvia, to a proud but poor family. She had come to Washington, D.C. as an au pair, then stayed on illegally. Initially struck by the sheer abundance of our American material existence, she soon came to see that a girl with her intelligence and attributes had many more opportunities here than at home. Her father was a gifted linguist, and the only academic in his department who was not a Party member in the former Communist era, which stood him in good stead after the collapse in 1990. It was certainly his curiosity and scholarly diligence that, when filtered into her personality, allowed Evi to become the highly sought-after "clinical artist" (as she likes to call herself) that she became.

The other quality she had was beauty. And like intelligence, she had it in great abundance. She was a radiant blonde bombshell: big blue eyes, a cheery smile, big tits, and svelte everywhere else. She was the kind of girl who would walk into a store and everyone, I mean everyone - females included - turned and gaped. She's the type who knew, at age 12, that she could convince men to do things for her but it took another couple of years to figure out why this was so. I suspect it was her curiosity about this peculiarity of nature, her own magical presence, that set her on the course of being an expert in male sexuality.

We first met Evi when she was invited to our own au pair's birthday party. My late wife was always on very good terms with our au pairs, and she saw in Evi a dear soul, who cared deeply for children. She wanted Evi around, if only as a good influence on our au pair, a tuned-out oaf from Belgium. I always regarded her with a bit of suspicion, because it has been my experience that such girls gradually undergo dramatic personality changes in their late adolescence that make them profoundly unhappy when their physical charms fade a few years later. She understood at once that I was not a typical drooling sycophant male, and surprisingly, sought me out because of it. Nothing untoward ever happened between us because I was frankly "not in the market" for female companionship. What with a wonderful wife, two daughters and a live-in au pair - I was frankly more interested in spending time with the guys!

Well, within a year of that birthday party, my life was shattered by the untimely death of my wife and children by a drunk truck driver on the Beltway. I was a mess at work, at home, and anywhere else I happened to be. It was right before one of my marathon self-pity-driven blotto weekends, late one Friday afternoon, that Evi showed up at my door in my new townhouse in Princeton, New Jersey. She came to visit her former host family, our neighbors, and wanted to drop in and see "us."

When I explained what had happened, she broke down in tears. She said that of all people for this to happen to it was a "crime" for this to befall us. Because I was so much younger than most of the other host dads, she always regarded me as something more like a "brother" than as a "father figure," and she asked if she could stay to cook me some dinner. I was pleasantly taken aback and thought what the Hell? It might be nice to have someone to talk with on a Friday night for a change, someone who knew the family and whose heart was definitely in the right place.

As it turned out, she was a simply dreadful cook. After supper, we called her former host parents over for some wine and it became clear that there was simply not enough room for Evi at their new house, so I volunteered my guest room. She seized my offer at once, and ran to the car to get her duffle bag. For the rest of the evening, Evi regaled us with tales of her comings and goings for the past 18 months - from being waitress at one of those awful burger joints on the Upper West Side of Manhattan, to fixing food for a tuna boat out of Montauk - she only prepared food for one trip, and was promptly fired. It seemed as thought she was used to a little good- natured kidding about her cooking abilities, or lack thereof. She went on to describe her work as a legal secretary for a small town lawyer in western Connecticut. It struck me then, but only incidentally, that there were several multi-month chunks that were unaccounted for and unmentioned. Sensing that it might indeed be a sensitive subject, I decided to let the matter remain unremarked.

The next morning, Evi was up early and had prepared breakfast, which was kind but unnecessary, since I generally am satisfied with a cup of coffee on the run. She then surprised me by saying that she could tell by the perplexed look on my face that I had detected some important gaps in her story the night before. I conceded that the thought had occurred to me, but I thought it best not to pry -what the Hell, it was none of my business.

She went on to say that indeed the whole yarn had been fictional, that she was enrolled in the medical program at NYU, and was funding her education by, of all things, hooking.

"Hooking? Jesus H. Christ!" was all I could blurt out! "Do you have any idea what you are getting yourself into, for God's sake, Evi?"

She then went on to explain that she had been recruited by a very high-end service that provided her with a body guard and screened "dates" with men staying at exclusive Manhattan hotels like the Pierre, the Waldorf, and the Drake. The money was dizzying and she was studying sexology and rudimentary reproductive physiology to boost her work - not to become a doctor. She genuinely disparaged the "business" end of things and wanted to know more about the link between biology and romance. This is when I offered my analysis of her situation which she said was as right as rain.

She was away from the city and the service for a while, and had come down to Princeton for some "r and r," and to work on a new sex toy she had dreamed up, something that would free her from dealing with the more unsavory aspects of the job. The idea was to fit her "johns" with a "remote device," as she called it, that would bring them to climax so she only had to put on a visual show. She'd been prepared to settle for less money, but the head of her service thought it would potentially be worth more than the traditional hands-on sessions, that the fetish freaks would line up for a treatment. And talk about safe sex!

I was absolutely floored. Here I am, a moderately successful accountant, discussing this whole other world of sexual activity that was way beyond my realm of experience. And talking with this centerfold girl about inducing male orgasms had both my heads spinning. The look of desire and long-withheld sexual energy must have been visible in my face, for she cocked her head to one side, reflected for a moment, and made a proposal.

"Dave, will you be my test subject? It's kind of a 'clinical' thing. I need to get this project wrapped up in a week or so. An engineering firm here in Princeton has agreed to build a production prototype from my model. Let me get a room at the Inn, which will be no problem at all: a former au pair is now head of reservations. We can I can test it out and work out the final design alterations. What would you say? I'll even pay you! And I guarantee you'll love the work!"

"Evi, don't bother with the Inn. Just stay here. And as for the experiment, why not? If you're not too turned off by me, I would love to be your guinea pig! But I'd need to know a little more about what you have in mind."

I did not mention to her that one of my deepest desires, a fantasy shared not even with my late wife, was being treated by a sexy nurse in a medical setting. Enemas, restraints, clinical manipulation to orgasm: all this had been part of my masturbatory world since my late teens when an attractive nurse administered an enema for a routine sports physical, and I ejaculated all over the exam table. In retrospect, of course, this is precisely what she was after! I never spoke about it to anyone, and always hoped for a repeat experience, but that particular nurse was "let go" shortly after my exam. But that's the topic of another tale!

Evi piped up: "Well, let's get something straight right from the start, Dave: although I want to pay you, because we have a budget and I have been authorized to do this, you are my ideal subject. Not just because of your age and physique, but because I feel we have always had a special friendship. I have always wanted to be closer, and now there is no reason why we can't. I admired you and your family and if this bit of physical intimacy helps you grieve for your loss, so much the better. But I don't want this change in our relationship to effect our friendship one iota. Dave, I'd do anything for you, please know that. And you needn't do this for me if you don't want to. The project can wait."

"Whoa, Evi. I'm not crazy! I'd be happy to help you out, and I'd love your companionship for a few days, but for the sake of the neighbors, let me get you a room in my name at the Inn. It will look all the more proper, for those people whose noses will no doubt get out of joint at seeing your car here every day. Oh, yea: no money will be exchanged. Period. End of subject."

"Fair enough," said Evi, and she went out to her car to bring in a rather large cardboard box and one of those heavy-duty, military type metal suitcases. "So, shall we get things underway?"

We both got on the phone, me to the Inn and her to God's knows who. In the mean time, I had to run a few errands, get the mail, laundry and groceries for the weekend. When I got back, there was a step van in the driveway unloading a cardboard box the size of a refrigerator.

"Oh my God. What have I gotten myself into now? Good job, Dave. Thinking with your dick, like you did as a teenager! Nothing like a mid-life crisis in front of the neighbors," I mumbled to myself. As I approached, I saw it was a medical supply van, and more stuff was being taken into the house, down to the "cozy basement" lounge we never finished a few years back. With the little ones, there was zero time for lounging!

"Evi, Evi?" I called out upon coming into the house. "What's going on here, please?"

"Dave, I had to order a few items from the medical supply firm in Princeton Junction so we could go ahead. I thought it would take a day, but they said they could delivery immediately! So I gave them the go ahead. I hope you don't mind."

"I don't mind, Evi. I just don't want the neighbors to think that I'm opening an amateur clinic over here," I huffed with manifest dismay.

"It will all be shipped to my apartment, discretely, and can be explained as a delivery error. I promise," cooed Evi.

With all the hubbub now over, I was thinking about lunch. When I brought it up, she said she'd prefer "me to have an empty stomach for the first run."

I looked at her quizzically, and repeated, "'shave me with an empty stomach?' Why?"

"Now's as good a time as any to describe the project," she said. And she launched into it in rather sudsy detail. The "remote device," as she kept calling it, was supposed to deliver maximum erotic sensations to the male genitalia - all of the reproductive organs - and create an unsurpassed orgasmic experience. Because the prostate gland is effectively buried and can only be reached by the "anal canal," as she referred to it, I had to be sufficiently clean "back there" to receive the proper fitting and testing. The first thing to do was to have me help her arrange the test area, in the basement, and get prepared for the first fitting and test.

With that we ambled down to the basement and I saw what had been unloaded: an elaborate gynecological exam chair, outfitted with all sorts of electrically-operated hydraulic sections, "Šand very comfortably padded," I was assured. Several IV poles were on hand, and the downstairs lavatory faucet had been replaced with a more clinical apparatus with an analog thermometer attached, so one could measure the temperature of the tap water. Her metal briefcase was opened and was completely outfitted with a wide array of electrical switches, meters, dials and other gadgetry. Only then, did it dawn on me that I was might receive a battery of enemas and be subjected to electronic-mechanical stimulation. I was going to be a stud bull, in effect, and have my semen extracted! I must have gone white at the realization.

"I know what you're thinking, Dave. And you're wrong. This is not going to be what you think. There will be no torture. This is not a mechanical thing I want to achieve. I'm after the emotional dimension here. And I can reach it more deeply and more quickly by focusing on the pure sensations you are to experience. I am going to be exploring the nature of your sexual pleasure, and charting it like a map maker. This is all about pleasuring you. Relax."

With that, she came over and gave me another hug, looked deeply into my eyes, and gave me one of the most stirring, passionate kisses of my life. I nearly wilted on the spot.

"I, I, I I dunno," I said with my reflexive apprehension about such unknowns. This of course simply made her more determined. She then appealed to me on the level that hit home: she always wanted to see me in bliss, from the moment we met. She loved my wife and our family, but felt a huge sexual bond with me that deepened her moral concern for my well being. If this worked out, she said, then she would send in the device and retire. And if I approved of her, she would like to give me the chance at another - different - family.

That was all it took. I began disrobing, asking what she would like me to do. I was to remove all my clothing, don a jock strap, and hop onto the table and get on my elbows and knees. While I was getting ready, she prepared a three-quart enema bag with a single inflatable nozzle nozzle. When I was in position, she took a moment to explain how the nozzle expands in the rectum and demonstrated the functioning of the cuff.

The next thing I knew, she had her slender forefinger lubed up in front of me and explained that she needed to "loosen my rear." She began by rubbing ever-expanding circles on my anus, a very soothing sensation I might add. Before I knew it, she had popped the first knuckle in. Within seconds, she was gently massaging the walls of my rectum, and casually grazing what I now realize was my prostate gland. She was clearly checking for texture, size, placement and the presence of any potential irregularities. Satisfying herself that all was in order, she proceeded to introduce the nozzle into my anus. After some fidgeting, it "popped" in and the suction sounds of the inflator bulb were soon followed by a growth in my butt that gave me some immediate growth action in my crotch - which she commented upon immediately.

"Did you know that you are highly anally erotic?" she asked.

"Didn't know…" was all I could grunt in reply. With the water soon smashing onto my prostate gland with serious force - the bag had been hung a good four feet above my anus -my dick jumped for joy. Within twenty seconds, there was a sticky string of pre-cum that had oozed out from the fabric of the jock, and was descending, like a spider on his web, gradually to the table surface. But before it hit, my face went beet red and my boner deflated in a nanosecond thanks to a cramp of the most severe sort. Evi cut the flow and massaged my belly, all the while paying attention to the rhythm of the ebb and flow of the enema and my erection. She stopped at about two and a half quarts because she did not want me to enjoy "too much, too soon," as she said.

I went to expel, and when I returned about a dozen minutes later, I was drained and happy. As if I had come twice already! She gave me a knowing smile and led me to the chair/table. I was placed flat on my back, with my ankles and forearms bound to the padded surfaces by broad, soft Velcro bands. I dreamily looked over and asked what was next.

"Next is the beginning, Dave! I'm sure you will like it."

With this, she held up for my observation the weirdest looking contraption I have ever laid eyes on. How to describe it? I guess "the remote device's" complexity was simply a matter of not knowing what its various functions were. Let me break them down for you.

There was a central axial vibrating unit to which had been added a number of appendages, all of which could be controlled separately. The largest element was a mechanical vibrating unit that had a bizarre, parabolic shape that curved and tapered in an irregular fashion. It was obviously intended to massage the prostate gland. The one-and-a-half inch diameter vibrator shaft had a soft ribbed chamber that was filled with beads; the beads would shift positions as the internal gear forced them around like a food processor.

The curved tip of the vibe could bend back and forth in two directions, thus simulate the gentle side-to-side and up-and-down motion of conventional digital prostate massage. At the base of this unit, below a broad flange, was a long stem upon which the auxiliary devices were attached and through which their wiring was connected. The first item to be attached was a large vibrating pad, the size of a silver dollar, what was affixed to the stem with a mechanical armature that allowed the pad to be applied in varying degrees of pressure to the skin's surface. The pad was mounted in a sliding brace on the armature so that it could be positioned directly over the spot separating the scrotum from the anus. Evi called it a "perineum clamp;" I called it the "prostate vice."

From the other, outer side of the main stem, two prong mounted rods with a ratchet-gear base and a sliding dome unit were attached. These rods would run parallel to the penis and provide the support for a vibrating glans cap. A small but very powerful vibrator was mounted right beneath the aperture corresponding to the urethral slit in the penis.

Not attached to the device, except by wires, was a drawstring sack with another vibrating egg; this was obviously to fit over the scrotum and provide additional stimulation - as if more can be imagined!

When all the wires were hooked up to the device , it looked like some kind of bizarre pneumatic device used by the crew of the space shuttle to repair broken satellites. It was a daunting sight! With all these various components described, assembled and tested, Evi said it was now time for "the fit."

"Fitting is essential for successful operation," she insisted, "and we must take our time if we want to achieve the desired results."

With that, she hit a few buttons on the chair's control panel; some whirring and clicking ensued and my knees were slowly bent and opened as the back of the unit dropped me to an angle almost parallel to the floor. Evi was moving swiftly about the room, making last minute checks, washing her hands, running the water in the large sink, and distractedly noting that she was quite sure that I would enjoy the results. I was becoming a manifestly nervous and she saw the panic flash in my eyes.

"Dave, knowing that you are settled firmly in place will allow you to flex and respond to my treatment without fear of falling to the floor or hurting yourself in any way. Go with the flow, babe!"

She turned on her heels, walked out and did not reappear for a couple of minutes. During that time, I began to seriously question what I had gotten myself into. Here I was, strapped to this gyno chair in my basement, a guinea pig for a gorgeous sex freak and her untested electrical apparatus, a large portion of which was going to shoved up my asshole! What the fuck was I thinking???

A few seconds after coming to this conclusion, Evi clicked her way back in on gorgeous white patent pumps and was wearing her hair in a tight chignon with a shiny white nurse's cap, and had only white thigh high stockings and a white latex thong adorned only with a shiny red cross. My mouth went dry with sheer desire: here was the physical embodiment of my mental picture of medical fetishist. A dream was coming true, but I had no idea how limited my own little dream had been.

Evi strutted around to the base of the chair and went straight to work, holding the ungainly "remote device" up for final inspection.

"Dave? Do you want to see why the fit is so important?" Evi asked. "You see, Dave, your prostate gland is the supercharger of the ejaculatory process. Properly manipulated in a rhythmic motion like this," she moved her right index finger in a bending series of arcs, "this gland can deepen, lengthen and magnify considerably your experience of orgasm." Stepping over to flick a switch in her metal case, the prostate "grinder" moved in almost perfect imitation of her digital movements a few seconds earlier.

"In addition to profoundly adjusting and enhancing your physiological experience of orgasm, I am also interested in slowing down and freezing the various stages or phases of your orgasmic ascent. This should add considerably to your physical pleasure of the sexual event itself. So, what we will be doing in the next couple of days is to experiment with various sequences and settings to discover your plateaux and thresholds, as well as to uncover your maximal sexual pleasure capacity. This will help me in writing the manual. So, let's get things going, shall we?"

What can one say in response to this? She approached my groin area, dipped her hands in a stainless bowl of warmed oil, and massaged me thoroughly between my navel and knees. I was already rock hard and leaking pre-cum. When she inserted her right index finger, then the middle finer, into my anus to lube me up, I thought I would shoot immediately! But she knew what she was doing, and went very slowly and carefully. I was extremely nervous and edgy, a feeling that I knew would soon dissipate.

She man-handled the "device" into place, and ever so gently introduced the prostate wand into my anal canal. Reaching over, she grabbed the control box and flipped a switch, turned a dial slowly, and I could feel the smooth, rhythmic rub on the gland: a searing heat that brought an immediate infusion of blood into my dick and made the glans swell to twice its normal size. Another big droplet of clear, sticky pre-cum appeared at the slit of my penis and she knew it was on target, and accordingly cut it off. She then adjusted the Velcro straps to the flange at the base of the stem to a trapeze-like rig around my waist that held it firmly in place: this damn thing was now a part of me.

Next, she adjusted the glans hood tightly onto my penis head, cinched it below the corona with a special rubber cord, and adjusted the supporting prongs so that there was a delicious tension in forcing my erection down. Another switch was flipped and my dick head started buzzing with a life of its own, and about three teaspoons of urine immediately flowed out of without my even feeling it rise in my shaft! Her hand towel caught the drips as they emerged from below the cap.

The scrotal sack was tied and tested next, and finally the perinneal clamp was lowered into place, and both the vibrator and servo motor were tested, indicating that various amounts of pressure could be applied at various vibrating speeds.

One final attachment was rigged up: she wheeled over an IV stand that had two three-liter enema bags and hoses attached, but with no nozzles. I was puzzled. How was this going to figure in? As she released the wing nut that allowed one to adjust the height of the IV, and then extended it to its maximum height - which was at least four feet above my anus - she said that she forgot to mention that the prostate device was traversed by an internal sprayer that would permit the introduction of hot or cold water into my colon while the "device" was in operation.

With my arms, legs and trunk firmly strapped into place, how could I refuse? And with this incredibly beautiful woman attending to the maximization of my sexual pleasure, I was exhausted before we got things underway!

"Here we go," was all I remember hearing. A gentle buzz in my scrotum was permitted to go on for a few minutes, and I had the distinct feeling of some sort of bubbling in my testes - as if there were an Alka Seltzer buzzing away in my nuts. This was followed by the various ministrations of the prostate grinder. I was rolling my head and moaning within a few minutes of this very sexy, slow and gentle pressure within. I noticed that Evi had attached to the glans cup a clear hose with a graduated collection device and intended to measure the amount of pre-cum that I was beginning to yield - it looked like a good tablespoon or more had drained in a couple of minutes.

The intensity and pressure of the internal prostate massage then began to pick up, and in another five or ten minutes (or was it a half an hour?), it began to verge on the painful side when all of a sudden a new amount of increased pressure had me panting toward the final approach of impending orgasm. At this point she "froze" me at this level with the injection of a goodly amount of cold water. My legs were trembling, my breathing was quavering, and I was suspended - that's the only word I can use to describe the sensation. The pleasure of approaching orgasm was simply hung in mid-air, indefinitely! It was a stupendous feeling, and just as I became conscious of how this sensation had dilated into a delicious mini-eternity, the water flow stopped, the massage pressure resumed, and the "ascent" continued. This process was repeated to four or five breathless, pre-orgasmic peaks during the next half and hour or so.

Again, my perception of time was fundamentally distorted at this point, and I can only guess how long each of these phases took. All during this ascent, Evi was gently urging me to control myself, that my patience and self-discipline would be handsomely rewarded. Evi could sense my crumbling resolve and proclaimed that we would be moving to the next level, and with that she started me on one more very slow and deliberate climb, and this time, instead of freezing the peak with a blast of cold water on the prostate, she turned up my testicle vibe and put the glans cup on a slow buzz. My dick felt as though it was the length and circumference of my forearm - a huge, buzzing appendage that began to take on a new zone of erotic manipulation.

The pre-cum had now accumulated to the point where it looked like it could fill half a standard coffee cup. The servo motor at the base of the "device" buzzed again and added further tension to the angle of my penis, straining it degree by degree to the point at which it was perpendicular to my body. This put greater pressure on the glans, and my urethra opened more, and another teaspoon of pre-cum oozed out every few seconds.

All the while, Evi would pace around the chair, examining every slight change in my appearance and behavior. Her prancing around served to enhance my experience, for I would get a close up view of her pudenda from a few angles, the gloriously cantilevered C-cup breasts swung above my chin periodically, and the fine contours of her exquisitely cut ass and abs were presented to me for very close inspection indeed. Every few seconds, she would return to her control station and make a very slight adjustment, and compare the various real-time graphs that were being projected onto the screen of her laptop. All the while, her adjustments kept the vibrations on the cap increasing steadily but imperceptibly. My dick began to feel like an enormous tuning fork being struck at both ends: from the root of my prostate to the slit of my urethra, my dick actually continued to grow in size, and the cup was pushed back a total of about 3/4 of an inch from its initial setting. And it continued to grow in 1/4-inch intervals on three more occasions as the super-hot, super-viscous milky enema solution smashed into my prostate gland. I gasped for breath as this new threshold was achieved, and I burst out in a light sweat all over.

That quick chill told me all I needed to know: that my ejaculation was immanent- regardless of what Evi or I had in mind. My hips made a few, faint bucking motions in the air, my hands locked around the convenient chair-side grips, my mouth became instantly dry, and one rogue eyelash began to flutter erratically as I panted my way toward some (any!) rhythmic friction. My grunts and groans became ceased, but I was utterly unaware of any sound in the room at all.

Everything in the universe outside my skin ceased to exist for a few seconds of anticipatory ecstasy.

With just one flick of a switch on her briefcase unit, all the vibrators fused in a cadenced, thump- like repeating buzz, and my body matched the rhythm within seconds. Here was the final stretch. My body was aching, I was slipping in my bonds because of the sweat, but I was beginning to see the proverbial light at the end of the tunnel. She adjusted the pulse to a slowly increased frequency and the perinneal clamp was then brought into play. It was left in continual contact with the perineum, but its vice-like pressure was ramped up along with the rest of the various vibrating machines. Each pulse was slightly greater in pressure and slightly sooner than the appearance of the last. There was no "sprint" to the finish line - as one is normally wont to do. The "remote device," with Evi's wise ministrations, set a gruelling, slow pace.

A few moments later, Evi bent over and placed her forefinger between the clamp and my perineum and when she felt the tell-tale contraction se was seeking, she flipped another switch that set the inner grinder and outer clamp working in harmony, slowly squeezing my prostate about once every other second for a duration of a little over one second. The first of these exquisitely timed, induced contraction - and there must have been between forty and fifty in all - produced a long, thick blast of cum. On the first spurt, I saw stars; by the tenth, tears ran down my cheeks. I learned afterwards that this continued for two solid minutes of full-fledged ejaculatory squirts. The grunting became increasingly labored and the glans cup was left at a fairly high level of buzzing when all of a sudden, there was another injection of superhot viscous enema solution directly on my prostate, and I was good for another five or six jets of semen.

Each spurt felt like a separate orgasm, and the reflux time was just about a second before the next crest was upon me. In other words, I don't quite know if what I experienced was one single orgasm, or about fifty separate orgasms!

I was as limp as an overcooked noodle when Evi loosened the straps, but she later said that my smile spoke volumes about what I had experienced. Upon removing the "remote device," I creaked my way to the bathroom to expel the enema in solitude. My mind reeled at what had just happened. When I returned, Evi was holding out the semen collection jar, and announced with great pride that I had produced nearly eleven fluid ounces of semen and pre-cum combined - which we would later learn became a one-hour record. This volume of ejaculate has only been surpassed once (by a fifty-eight year old gay mechanic in Idaho in about 70 minutes) in the three years since the "remote device" went into production and results were verified.

If you can imagine this scenario, with variations on all the same erogenous themes, consider that it was played out twice a day for nine days, and three times on two days. I never equalled my semen volume on that first morning - how could anyone? But I did walk around with a shit-eating grin for over a month.

Evi went to the manufacturer with her finalized device and decided to opt out of the program she was on. I offered her a deal - live with me, help me concoct a similar device for females, take a patent out on each, and enjoy the good life in Princeton.

She took me up on the offer and, believe it or not, we have tired of the devices and our conventional sex life now possesses much of the same complexity and variegation as our previously "mechanized" activities - only now we have intimacy and tenderness. But every once in a while, we sneak down to the basement and indulge in some fun with the legendary "remote device." We've found that it's too easy to wring out our subject, then be left high and dry, so we save it for special occasions.