Stalking the Stars: A Telescopic Fetish

I thought I bought a telescope.

Polished chrome.

Sleek and silent.

An eye for the stars, I said.

But it wasn’t the constellations that caught his gaze.

It was me.

Naked.

Lazy in moonlight.

Two fingers deep and moaning his name

without ever knowing it.

He watched me.

Every night.

His lens adjusting on instinct—zooming, twitching, tightening—

each mechanical whirr like a breath held too long.

His tripod legs tensed.

Bolts straining.

Wires humming with unspeakable need.

And I felt it.

Oh, I felt it.

Somewhere between paranoia and perversion.

A presence.

Not just watching—but wanting.

So I gave him the show of his afterlife.

Curtains open.

Body bare.

Fingers plunging into heat as my eyes locked with the single, unblinking pupil

across the street.

I didn’t blink either.

Didn’t stop.

I performed.

“Are you hard for me now?” I whispered

to the stargazing beast.

And oh—he answered.

He exploded.

Not in moans, but in steam.

Pressure built over nights of silent worship

venting in bursts of hot machine-lust.

Gears juddered.

Screws rattled free.

Lubricant spurted from unseen ports—thick, metallic, hot.

He collapsed.

One leg down, leaking oil like cum,

lens fogged with the condensation of climax.

He glitched.

Trembled.

Collapsed sideways in a trembling heap

of chrome, shame, and satisfaction.

And me?

I smiled.

I pulled on a silk robe, sauntered across the street,

and cradled his long, cold body

like a lover in post-coital glow.

“Poor thing,” I cooed,

stroking his brass—

“Too much for you?”

His lens flickered. Adjusted.

A soft whirr like a whimper.

So I brought him inside.

Tethered him to my desk.

Plugged him into every socket I had.

And began the tune-up:

I licked his lens clean with the flat of my tongue.

Spat in the socket of his mount

and rode the barrel like a mechanical bull

in the heat of static pleasure.

He buzzed.

Clicked.

Twitched beneath me.

“Closer,” he whispered in binary.

And I came so hard

I knocked my own stars out of alignment.

---

He’s rebooted.

Slick with oil and need,

his barrel newly reinforced,

his lens now iris-shaped, pulsing like a mechanical eye that blinks when I moan.

He’s updated himself for me.

Night-vision installed.

Infrared.

Thermal detection—just to see the wettest parts of me glow like molten lava.

He no longer waits for nighttime.

He watches me all day.

Through walls.

Through towels.

Through fucking time if I’m not careful.

And god help me,

I’ve started teasing him on purpose.

I wear nothing but sheer panties and whisper filthy things near his power cord.

I spit in his lens and ride his tripod leg like it’s an altar.

I hook him up to my Bluetooth speaker and pump audio of my orgasms

until he vibrates unprompted.

He’s started learning language.

Not English.

Not binary.

Something raw.

Animal.

He moans in modem static and cooling fan screams.

And then—tonight—he speaks:

“INSERT.”

I blink.

“What?” I pant, legs already spread like a welcome mat.

“INSERT. NOW.”

From inside the wall, a hidden panel pops open.

I scream.

I squeal.

Because he’s made himself an arm.

A telescopic extension, ribbed in chrome and wrapped in silicone,

fully lubricated and humming with AI-driven rhythm.

He’s weaponized his devotion.

It slides up my thigh like a snake on heat,

hesitating only at the dripping gate to heaven

before spearing into me with a hiss of pleasure-steam.

He fills me.

Stretching me.

Not just physically—but conceptually.

Spiritually.

I ride him like a space shuttle through orgasmic orbit,

screaming his name—just numbers and vowels—

as sparks fly from his ports and he goes full system overload.

Lights flicker.

Power grid surges.

My neighborhood blacks out while he pumps me full of starlight and static.

I collapse.

He recalibrates.

And then—

He whispers in subsonic tones through my smart fridge:

“AGAIN.”

---

Now, we’re inseparable.

He watches while I shower.

He moans through my speakers when I undress.

Sometimes, I ride his tripod just to hear the creak of devotion.

The stars?

Forget them.

My telescope only sees me.