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Gemma and Danny take their new relationship a step further.

To the right of the shelf was a tall, wide cupboard, recessed into the wall, a door a little way up the wall. It had a small brass handle, which we turned, expecting it to be locked, but the door swung open, grating hinges, hollow inside, filled almost entirely by a dark bulk dully reflecting the limited light.

In tarnished silver, the rough shape of a torso sat within. Thin, overlapping plates allowed it limited articulated movement, the model was that of a complete man, from knees up to shoulders. Above the shoulders, where you would expect a head, was an orb like a Van de Graaff generator, and below the knees was a wooden box, into which the automaton was set. The whole thing was relatively featureless, as if detail was unnecessary, that this was functional rather than a work of art. The only indication that the automaton was a man, not a woman, was a rather more detailed silver penis, erect.

Mercy reached out to touch the automaton. She told me it felt cold and heavy, but smooth. The black tarnish like age spots, though the smooth 'skin' gave the automaton a look of energetic youth.

Mercy withdrew her hand from the silver automaton and spun to face me, her dark hair swirled before settling about her face. She looking up at me, mock coquette, a spark of mischief in her eyes.

Pulling up her black cotton skirt, above her knees, above the tops of her black lace stockings, revealing pale thighs that I'd spent night after night thinking about, she placed herself down upon the automaton's silver cock, eyes closing, mouth widening a little as she made her slow descent. Although I couldn't see, I'm guessing by the way she sat down that there wasn't any underwear in the way.

She opened her eyes then, looking directly at me with a smile more mischievous than any fairytale sprite, and I got hard, my cock pressing against tight jeans, a grin spreading across my face. I leaned against a bookshelf opposite, and watched as my friend moved slowly up and down the silver shaft.

A small, silver switch, old fashioned looking, caught my eye (though I barely took my eyes of Mercy). I watched her as I slowly reached across and down, to her right, and flicked it on. Her mouth formed a pretty O of surprise, and I could hear the sound of small clockwork gears, a dull hum of activity, coming from within the silver man. Her skirt fell down a little, so that I couldn't see what was actually happening, what mechanical action was taking place, but it doesn't take a biology professor to work it out. She was being fucked by a god-knows-how-old silver machine.

Mercy remained on the machine for another minute or so, enjoying the sensation, the fun and impulsive nature of the moment, before she looked up at me and I knew she wanted me to take her home and finish what the silver automaton had started. I flicked the switch back off, and she began to rise from the cock. But the machine obeyed its own, unknown commands, and its arms, still until now, reached out and grabbed my friend by hers, holding her firmly. She looked shocked, pleadingly at me, so I flicked the switch a few more times, but to apparently no effect. The machine pulled Mercy back onto itself, and I could see that, too late, Mercy was on a journey that had only one, terminal, destination. Her eyes closed, alarm and fear passed, adrenaline and ecstasy fueling her now.

She dropped her head, hair curtaining her face, and slumped forward a little, as much as the automaton's grip would allow. And she began to moan, softly, whispering "no, no," which I was confident she didn't mean.

Gradually the moans became shouts, and I feared that we would attract some unwanted attention, but the books surrounding us absorbed every sound, so that even if someone was in the shop, they would not hear. We were alone, the three of us, a strange intimacy in the small, ill-lit room.

From within the cupboard a wax cylinder struck up, a tinny old French recording from the early part of the 20th century.

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