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Title: Hardware Solutions
Prompt: Lisa Basil/sexual electrocution. Because even though it kind of squicks me out, it won't get out of my head. Bonus points if it's solo or takes place in a closet.
Characters: Just Lisa.
Warnings: Electrical play, also other pain-causing activities. I wasn't sure if the OP actually wanted electrocution or just electrostimulation; this only contains the latter (no death or injury).
Word count: 1495
Summary: Sparks fly.
Author's note: Don't try this at home. I mean that very seriously; while I did do some research to determine that the gerry-rigged equipment in this is remotely feasible when compared to the electrostimulation units used by doctors for physical therapy, it's also ridiculously dangerous. There ARE safe ways to play with electricity; this is not one of them.
Lisa Basil was compiling the second-quarter financial summary when she felt a tiny sting along her throat. She brushed a hand across it, and continued to ponder the best third adjective to go with "backwards-compatible" and "future-proof". Then it happened again; something had shorted out along her neck. One of the LEDs she'd woven into the neck of her jacket had pushed through the fabric and broken off completely; the bare leads were brushing her skin. The lights didn't serve any particular function; like her HMD, they were merely there to look good. Though, as the corporate head of Blue Screens, looking good was part of her job description. Unlike her programmers, who seemed to make slovenly appearance a competitive exercise. She saved her work and strode into the server room, which also doubled as the repair bay. She stripped out of the jacket as the soldering iron warmed up. In doing so, the bare leads brushed her neck again, and she shivered, just a little, as another shock hit her skin. She paused, and ran her fingers over the bare wires a few times, before pulling the battery pack. She soldered in a new LED, and then recoated that section with epoxy, which should keep future distractions to a minimum. That done, she unplugged the soldering iron and hung the jacket on one of the server racks to let the glue dry.
She was about to go back to work -- while she hadn't been wearing anything other than a blue lace bra, it was still morning, none of the programmers would be in for hours yet. Besides, none of them would likely even notice; they certainly didn't seem to notice their own appearances. But she couldn't quite stop thinking about how it had felt when the electric had arced along her skin. After all, she'd gone back and forth, adding and deleting the same words twenty times on that report -- time to call it complete. So there was really nothing she needed to be doing right now. And no-one to know what she was about to do, either.
That still was no excuse for pulling out a stepladder and rummaging around on the shelves above the servers where odds and ends of obsolete electronics had been languishing since Blue Screens Inc. had switched to working solely in software. They'd started out handling integrated solutions, but hardware was too expensive to work with as a small company; economics of scale and supply-chain dynamics had been a serious problem. Lisa had been instrumental in moving the company out of that; that decision had likely won her sole control of the company. But right now, she was just wondering whether or not there was enough equipment left. There was; her hand found a small, rectangular box with a slightly pebbled exterior. Pulling it out revealed unappealing shades of brown and tan, and a label that read High Voltage Pulse Generator. Another quick dive into the old cardboard boxes lurking in the shadows yielded a handful of alligator clips and several circuit probes.
She took her finds back to the repair desk and hopped up on the swivel chair there, spinning around once just because she could. Then she plugged in the pulse generator, set it to DC for now and hooked up one alligator lead and a probe. Gritting her teeth, she pinched a bit of skin on the inside of her left arm and attached the clip; the jaws of the clip bit into the sensitive skin, but it stayed attached, even as she flexed her arm a little. Slowly, she slid the probe down her arm, wondering how close she'd have to get it before the resistance of her skin would drop low enough. Too close, it seemed; there was nothing, nothing, nothing, and then a tiny spark leapt directly between the clip and the probe. That wasn't what she'd hoped for, not at all. Pulling the probe back away, she leaned over and licked the skin pulled up by clip; the tension on it had made it grow more sensitive, not less, and she fought back a sigh. This time, the spark flew along her skin rather than above it, just like it had along her neck. Time to experiment, then. She flipped the generator to a 50 percent duty cycle, and dropped the voltage down as the shocks started to explode along her skin, more painful than she'd expected. Down went the voltage, up went the frequency, until she couldn't distinguish one pulse from the next any more; it was like a faint itch along her arm. Trying very hard not to giggle, she slowly started increasing the voltage again until it crossed back over the line from tickling to pain, but only just barely.
She took a deep breath; this was the point where experiment became prototype, and that was always the most difficult part. She unclipped the lead and gasped as blood flowed back into the little patch of skin; it stung more than putting the clip on had. Then she unclasped her bra and hung it neatly alongside her jacket. She paused for a moment, and then stood up long enough to remove the rest of her underwear, though she left the skirt on; it gave her a place to clip the extra leads, in case she needed them later. She hopped back onto the chair, and spun it once more, in the opposite direction, just for luck. Then she clipped the lead to the wrinkled, pink skin around her right nipple. She couldn't quite reach it with her lips, this time, so she grabbed the wet sponge from the soldering kit and ran it over her nipple. Once to get it damp; a second time, and then a third, pulling slightly at the clip. Finally, she set the sponge back down and picked up the probe. She'd expected her nipples to be more sensitive than her arm; in fact, while she couldn't help squirming with each touch of the probe, she actually had to dial the voltage up slightly. Slowly, gently, she ran the probe over the ridges of the skin on and around her nipple, while her other hand slipped between her legs in a matching rhythm. After a few minutes, she couldn't wait; but her hand hesitated over the clip until inspiration struck; she unclipped the other end of the lead, the one attached to the generator, and hooked it to her other nipple instead. Then she retrieved a second probe and wired it in, rather than hooking up another clip. She braced the two probes in one hand like a pair of stubby, plastic, bulbous chopsticks.
Closing her eyes, she slid them over her clitoris before she could rethink the decision. She almost screamed at the sensation; this skin was far, far damper, and the electricity raced between the tiny pinpricks of the probes. It tingled, like pins-and-needles but far, far stronger, and all of it concentrated on a tiny patch of delicate skin. But she didn't turn the voltage down. Instead, she ran the index finger of her free hand down over the skin, pressing it in a familiar motion, sending shocks of pleasure to answer those of pain. As she stroked herself, she twisted the probes, slightly increasing and decreasing the level of sensation. She pondered the logistics of setting up an automatic way to do that, and then discarded it; this worked because she could adjust the probes based on her own sensations; nothing in the Blue Screens lab was equipped for biofeedback work. So she just leaned back in the chair to give both hands a better angle. The nerves were starting to dull a little, and moving them was no longer helping. Time to deliver on this -- she briefly stopped stroking to loop the wire between the alligator clips up between her teeth so she could tug on it, and then doubled her already frantic pace. Warm waves were cascading through her body; each one briefly threatened to overwhelm the pain, and then faded back. Until finally one of them rose and rose and rose; her whole body felt covered in heat; like a fire was being held just over every inch of her skin, except for the three points at which it actually touched her. This time, she couldn't hold back from screaming, which seemed to help the pleasure overtake the pain; light exploded inside her closed eyes, and it was all she could do to keep the probes and her hand moving until the last wave of pleasure had faded.
By the time she'd finished putting everything away, the epoxy was dry. She pulled her jacket back on, and went back to her desk. "Solution-driven", that was the phrase she was looking for. She'd just need a little inspiration, that's all. Inspiration that was neatly packed away on a shelf no-one ever used, for the next time the quarterly report was due.
Prompt: Lisa Basil/sexual electrocution. Because even though it kind of squicks me out, it won't get out of my head. Bonus points if it's solo or takes place in a closet.
Characters: Just Lisa.
Warnings: Electrical play, also other pain-causing activities. I wasn't sure if the OP actually wanted electrocution or just electrostimulation; this only contains the latter (no death or injury).
Word count: 1495
Summary: Sparks fly.
Author's note: Don't try this at home. I mean that very seriously; while I did do some research to determine that the gerry-rigged equipment in this is remotely feasible when compared to the electrostimulation units used by doctors for physical therapy, it's also ridiculously dangerous. There ARE safe ways to play with electricity; this is not one of them.
Lisa Basil was compiling the second-quarter financial summary when she felt a tiny sting along her throat. She brushed a hand across it, and continued to ponder the best third adjective to go with "backwards-compatible" and "future-proof". Then it happened again; something had shorted out along her neck. One of the LEDs she'd woven into the neck of her jacket had pushed through the fabric and broken off completely; the bare leads were brushing her skin. The lights didn't serve any particular function; like her HMD, they were merely there to look good. Though, as the corporate head of Blue Screens, looking good was part of her job description. Unlike her programmers, who seemed to make slovenly appearance a competitive exercise. She saved her work and strode into the server room, which also doubled as the repair bay. She stripped out of the jacket as the soldering iron warmed up. In doing so, the bare leads brushed her neck again, and she shivered, just a little, as another shock hit her skin. She paused, and ran her fingers over the bare wires a few times, before pulling the battery pack. She soldered in a new LED, and then recoated that section with epoxy, which should keep future distractions to a minimum. That done, she unplugged the soldering iron and hung the jacket on one of the server racks to let the glue dry.
She was about to go back to work -- while she hadn't been wearing anything other than a blue lace bra, it was still morning, none of the programmers would be in for hours yet. Besides, none of them would likely even notice; they certainly didn't seem to notice their own appearances. But she couldn't quite stop thinking about how it had felt when the electric had arced along her skin. After all, she'd gone back and forth, adding and deleting the same words twenty times on that report -- time to call it complete. So there was really nothing she needed to be doing right now. And no-one to know what she was about to do, either.
That still was no excuse for pulling out a stepladder and rummaging around on the shelves above the servers where odds and ends of obsolete electronics had been languishing since Blue Screens Inc. had switched to working solely in software. They'd started out handling integrated solutions, but hardware was too expensive to work with as a small company; economics of scale and supply-chain dynamics had been a serious problem. Lisa had been instrumental in moving the company out of that; that decision had likely won her sole control of the company. But right now, she was just wondering whether or not there was enough equipment left. There was; her hand found a small, rectangular box with a slightly pebbled exterior. Pulling it out revealed unappealing shades of brown and tan, and a label that read High Voltage Pulse Generator. Another quick dive into the old cardboard boxes lurking in the shadows yielded a handful of alligator clips and several circuit probes.
She took her finds back to the repair desk and hopped up on the swivel chair there, spinning around once just because she could. Then she plugged in the pulse generator, set it to DC for now and hooked up one alligator lead and a probe. Gritting her teeth, she pinched a bit of skin on the inside of her left arm and attached the clip; the jaws of the clip bit into the sensitive skin, but it stayed attached, even as she flexed her arm a little. Slowly, she slid the probe down her arm, wondering how close she'd have to get it before the resistance of her skin would drop low enough. Too close, it seemed; there was nothing, nothing, nothing, and then a tiny spark leapt directly between the clip and the probe. That wasn't what she'd hoped for, not at all. Pulling the probe back away, she leaned over and licked the skin pulled up by clip; the tension on it had made it grow more sensitive, not less, and she fought back a sigh. This time, the spark flew along her skin rather than above it, just like it had along her neck. Time to experiment, then. She flipped the generator to a 50 percent duty cycle, and dropped the voltage down as the shocks started to explode along her skin, more painful than she'd expected. Down went the voltage, up went the frequency, until she couldn't distinguish one pulse from the next any more; it was like a faint itch along her arm. Trying very hard not to giggle, she slowly started increasing the voltage again until it crossed back over the line from tickling to pain, but only just barely.
She took a deep breath; this was the point where experiment became prototype, and that was always the most difficult part. She unclipped the lead and gasped as blood flowed back into the little patch of skin; it stung more than putting the clip on had. Then she unclasped her bra and hung it neatly alongside her jacket. She paused for a moment, and then stood up long enough to remove the rest of her underwear, though she left the skirt on; it gave her a place to clip the extra leads, in case she needed them later. She hopped back onto the chair, and spun it once more, in the opposite direction, just for luck. Then she clipped the lead to the wrinkled, pink skin around her right nipple. She couldn't quite reach it with her lips, this time, so she grabbed the wet sponge from the soldering kit and ran it over her nipple. Once to get it damp; a second time, and then a third, pulling slightly at the clip. Finally, she set the sponge back down and picked up the probe. She'd expected her nipples to be more sensitive than her arm; in fact, while she couldn't help squirming with each touch of the probe, she actually had to dial the voltage up slightly. Slowly, gently, she ran the probe over the ridges of the skin on and around her nipple, while her other hand slipped between her legs in a matching rhythm. After a few minutes, she couldn't wait; but her hand hesitated over the clip until inspiration struck; she unclipped the other end of the lead, the one attached to the generator, and hooked it to her other nipple instead. Then she retrieved a second probe and wired it in, rather than hooking up another clip. She braced the two probes in one hand like a pair of stubby, plastic, bulbous chopsticks.
Closing her eyes, she slid them over her clitoris before she could rethink the decision. She almost screamed at the sensation; this skin was far, far damper, and the electricity raced between the tiny pinpricks of the probes. It tingled, like pins-and-needles but far, far stronger, and all of it concentrated on a tiny patch of delicate skin. But she didn't turn the voltage down. Instead, she ran the index finger of her free hand down over the skin, pressing it in a familiar motion, sending shocks of pleasure to answer those of pain. As she stroked herself, she twisted the probes, slightly increasing and decreasing the level of sensation. She pondered the logistics of setting up an automatic way to do that, and then discarded it; this worked because she could adjust the probes based on her own sensations; nothing in the Blue Screens lab was equipped for biofeedback work. So she just leaned back in the chair to give both hands a better angle. The nerves were starting to dull a little, and moving them was no longer helping. Time to deliver on this -- she briefly stopped stroking to loop the wire between the alligator clips up between her teeth so she could tug on it, and then doubled her already frantic pace. Warm waves were cascading through her body; each one briefly threatened to overwhelm the pain, and then faded back. Until finally one of them rose and rose and rose; her whole body felt covered in heat; like a fire was being held just over every inch of her skin, except for the three points at which it actually touched her. This time, she couldn't hold back from screaming, which seemed to help the pleasure overtake the pain; light exploded inside her closed eyes, and it was all she could do to keep the probes and her hand moving until the last wave of pleasure had faded.
By the time she'd finished putting everything away, the epoxy was dry. She pulled her jacket back on, and went back to her desk. "Solution-driven", that was the phrase she was looking for. She'd just need a little inspiration, that's all. Inspiration that was neatly packed away on a shelf no-one ever used, for the next time the quarterly report was due.
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