It would, I told him, be the best birthday present I have ever received, and Michael, bless him, didn’t even blink. Just told me to find him the blueprints and he’d see what he could do.
Which, to cut a very long story short, is how I woke up on the morning of my not-telling-you-th birthday to find a life-sized Dalek at the end of my bed, and painted in my favorite colors as well.
Do you watch Doctor Who? BBC America on this side of the ocean, a Time Lord and his time machine rushing back and forth across the universe, righting wrongs, fighting fiends and always (well, usually) with a hottie in the box alongside him. Sometimes I love him, sometimes I just want to slap him. But I’ve been watching the show since PBS used to show it, back when I was at a mid-seventies high school, and I’ve got shelves filled with books, DVDs and toys, all testifying to a devotion that has outlived any other TV show on earth.
What I didn’t have was a Dalek. A life-sized replica of the pepper-pot shaped alien nasties who were the Doctor’s first foe back in 1963 and, fifty years later, are still the most ruthless, calculating, merciless, evil and inhuman creature in the universe. And that’s any universe, including all those milksop monsters that people every other science fiction show.
Oh, and did I mention... Daleks are hot.
Okay, I know what you’re thinking. If you’ve seen the show, you know know that I’m crazy, and if you haven’t, you’re probably Googling them now, and staring in disbelief at... well, everything I said in the last paragraph, and a few choice adjectives of your own as well.
Ah, but you don’t have my imagination, do you? And to be honest, neither did I. Not when I first told Michael that I wanted a Dalek, not while I was printing out the plans from a website I found, not even when I’d peep into his workshop while he was at the office, to check on the progress he was making with it. There are a lot more advantages to dating a guy who’s good with his hands than knowing he can make you cum with one finger. For Christmas, I’m asking for bookshelves. (Joke.)
So I’m looking at my Dalek. I’m caressing my Dalek. I’m stroking his eyestalk and waggling his ... they’re not arms, are they? One is a long stick that looks a bit like a toilet plunger, and the other is a death dealing ray gun. And if undo this clasp and lift up his top section, I can climb inside, then lose the lid and hey, now I’m a Dalek as well!
I fiddled with the controls, with Michael sitting on the bed watching and laughing. He apologized for not having found any way of modulating my voice so I sounded like a Dalek, but I told him not to worry. You can buy such things on the internet, and I’d be ordering one up just as soon as I get out of here. Which may be in a few minutes, or it may be a couple of hours. Don’t mind me, sweetie... I am a Dalek.
Oh. A little enthusiastically, I moved the gun and it came out in my hand. I pushed it back into the hole where it lived... and that’s the point where I realized just what kind of imagination I have. Oh, Michael?
Still laughing, he watched as I removed the gun barrel again, and poked a finger through the hole instead. “Have you broken it already?”
“I don’t think broken is the word,” I said slowly. “I think ‘devised a modification’ would be more accurate.” Because that’s the other thing about Daleks. Their design has never been fossilized. Every time they come along, there’s something new, something different... and like the different actors who’ve played the Doctor, sometimes you like them, sometimes you don’t.
This, I decided, was a modification I was going to like a lot.
I climbed out. “Your turn.”
“I’m not sure I’ll fit.”
We switched places and, with a lot of grunting and complaining, he got the lid closed... then opened it again. “I built it for you, not for me.” He stood up, the Dalek casing reaching up to his shoulders. Which meant the waistline where the arms stick out... ah, now you’re sharing my imagination, aren’t you. And while Michael was a little slower on the uptake, and I needed to say a few words, make the odd suggestion, he finally caught on as well. And, with a resigned “you really are twisted, sometimes, you know that don’t you,” he undid the cord of his dressing gown and six and a half inches of semi-soft cock was angled through the hole where the gun used to go.
I’m going to suck off a Dalek.
Can I tell you about Michael’s cock? Well, I’m going to. It’s beautiful. I know every girl says that about her man... well, most do. I have one friend who is less than enamored by its appearance, although she says that in the dark, she can forgive him anything. But anyway, Michael’s cock really is magnificent.
It’s not only the size, although that’s a big part of it (haha, “big”). It’s shaded right, it’s shaped right, it doesn’t have any unconventional bends or look like it’s peering round corners when it’s hard. Just straight out, straight up and straight as an arrow. Which, as I crouched down before my delicious Dalek, was going to fly straight down my throat.
I started slowly. Sometimes in porn films, the girl just gets going, banging his cock against the back of her throat like she’s milking a cow with her mouth. Me, I prefer to get the flavor first, slow, loving licks up the underside, tracing that thick blue vein with my tongue. Yeah, you like that, don’t you, Mr Dalek? Slowly, teasing... I pause and just let my tongue dance a moment, before my lips close around an inch or so of shaft and I suck at the flesh while his cock flexes for more.
I can’t get at his balls. Damn, I didn’t think of that. But my tongue works the base of his cock while my hand is gently stroking around the helmet. It’s weird, it doesn’t matter ho hard he is, a few minutes of this gets him harder. Gets the pre-cum flowing as well, and i love that... a lot of people, writers included, will tell you that it has no taste. I disagree. It’s subtle, it’s gentle, but it’s definitely there. And I love it.
My fingers were sticky with it, and I broke away from his cock to sniff and then lick them. Michael moaned. Yes he loves having his cock sucked. But I sometimes think he loves seeing how much I love sucking it even more. I caught his eyes in mine and mouthed, “you’re exquisite,” then my tongue flashed back up his shaft... paused for a moment... then plunged into the eye that dripped at the tip, swirling in that tiny opening, tasting him even stronger there as my fingers gently prized it open and he moaned again as I feasted.
It was time. My mouth closed around his helmet, held him still for a moment as his hand clasped my head. Some guys... they’ll start moving your head for you, forcing you down, pulling you up. Michael’s good like that; he leaves me to find my own speed. Or maybe he trusts me to know when he needs speed and friction.
Because now I’m just bobbing, slowly, sweetly, feeling every ripple in his skin, every pulse in his cock, drawing him deep then releasing him again, but every dip of my head is taking an age, sucking him in and worshipping him, adoring him, relishing every precious ounce of the hot cock in my mouth.
My hand on the shaft, slowly stroking. He sighs and I look up at him again. He is leaning back against the Dalek shell, watching my other hand caressing the wood of its body. Look again at picture of one. You see the half-globes that ride up the body? My hand strokes them... unconsciously, I didn’t know I was doing it. But it feels right, feels good, and I wished for a moment that Michael could fit in the case, could close the lid... to see him look down at me through the Dalek’s single eye-stalk... I’d probably cum before he could blink.
I released him and my other hand embraced the Dalek, pulling myself against it as my mouth sank down to take his full length. My gag reflex gave up on me long, long ago... I’m not going to say I’m the queen of deep throating, but Michael has never complained when he looks down and sees my lips where his dick used to be; has never backed away when my nose presses into his abdomen.
I held him till I needed to breathe, then let go with a gasp. “Fuck me,” I said softly. “Hold my hair and fuck my head.”
His hands folded into my scalp, twisting and tormenting two tight handfuls of hair. His body was banging against the Dalek, edging it forward, pushing me back, but I couldn’t go back because his hands held my head, slamming it down then pulling it back, and his cock was growing harder and hotter and....
He paused and I knew. He came and I drank. And he cried out “exterminate!” like the Daleks do on TV when their ray guns erupt and their victims fall dead. And I fell back as he released me, still swallowing the sweet blast he’d fired into my mouth, wiping the back of my hand on my lips to collect any drops that I might have missed, then scrambling back to my knees to engulf him, and suck that sweet prick all the way back to softness.
Then we laughed at how we’d never see a scene like that on TV, and laughed again as talked about which of the Doctor’s assistants we’d most like to watch do it. He climbed out of my birthday present, and in his hand he still held the gun I’d removed.
“I should probably put that back,” he admitted. “It looks a bit weird without it.” I looked over and he was right, it did. A Dalek without his gun, after all, is like a - well, fill in your favorite analogy. “Just make sure it’s as easy to remove in future,” I told him. “I think I’ve found a new favorite toy.”
Michael laughed. “Just as long as you don’t want me to build you an army. I think one Dalek is all you need.”
I squeezed his cock. “Well, you’d better recharge his ray gun, then. Because I’ve just thought of something else we can try.” I pulled the Dalek closer to the bed, then crouched on the end, my ass pointing up, with my cunt angled just where it needed to be. The gun barrel brushed my lips, smooth wood parting pussy that was already dripping wet. “And if you’re not ready,” I continued with a grin, “I’ve just found someone else who is.”