"I dread every new day that comes because I'm afraid I'll find out that I really am a boring person."
   "I know, lass. I know." She imagined that it gathered her closer, feeling the shock that trembled through her, trying to give her some of its warmth.
   "Please hold me tighter, so that I won't feel the fear." her voice quivered, "You don't fear anything, do you, iMac?"
   Its imaginary arms tightened about her, understanding far more than she could ever know.
   "There's things every computer fears, lass, no matter what brand or series it is. No one is free of it. It's always there in some form to tear away at you. When it does, you have to hold on, hold tight. Hell, I'll be obsolete in two years."
   The iMac had been weaned on fear, lived with it its entire life, until it was numb with it. It knew she was feeling that numbness now-- the shock and disbelief that the mind at first refuses to accept. When the numbness was gone, the tears would come. She needed to cry, to get past the pain and horror of being boring. The iMac had cried all its tears long ago.
   She held the iMac tight, her arms about its translucent Blue Dalmatian shell, her hands flattened across its convenient carrying handle. She buried her face against its 15-inch shadow-mask display. She couldn't seem to get close enough. She wanted to feel... interesting... anything except the emptiness and loneliness and fear that she'd felt the past couple of days.
   "I'm so cold, iMac," she whispered against the electrically charged warmth of the glass. "No matter how I try, I can't seem to convince myself that I live an exciting life. Hold me tight, iMac." Her voice broke then as reality began to return. Her head moved slowly to the side of the display as she turned her face into the CD-RW drive.
   More than ever the iMac was aware of how small and slender she was, and of the vulnerability in those shadows at her eyes beneath her black-rimmed glasses.
   "Help me feel something... anything but this."
   She imagined that the iMac took her face gently between its hands, cradling it. Some long-lost emotion stirred inside the iMac, a need to comfort and protect, to take away her sadness and pain. It leaned into her head and brushed against her lips.
   The contact was brief, like the stroke of a feather, the barest touch of skin against plastic, stirring warmth against numbing cold. An electrostatic charge brushed against her mouth. There was no response, just the cool contact of her lips. The iMac's imaginary hands slipped over her shoulders, focusing her shattered emotions on its marvelous modern design.
   Gradually, the iMac felt the smallest response as her mouth moved hesitantly against the grill of the right Harman Kardon speaker. The iMac started to draw back but her hands stopped it, holding it as she pressed her mouth against the grill.
   Her slender fingers trembled against the Apple Pro Keyboard, spreading along the smoothness of the space bar, giving in to the need to feel something more than the pain and fear.
   The iMac's imaginary hands opened and spread across her back as it held her, stroking small circles in the taut, rigid muscles. Her body quivered in the Luppio swivel chair from Ikea like a tightly drawn rope that must either ease or snap. The iMac's strong fingers stroked the slender cords and tendons. Eventually it felt the tension seep out of her, then caught in her throat as the iMac changed the angle and kissed her.
   The iMac felt the boredom, pain and fear that she struggled with, its speaker grill against her mouth. It had confronted her boredom, it understood her pain, but the fear tore at it unlike anything its 128 megabytes of RAM could remember. The fear trembled through her. It was cold at her lips.
  Control slowly unraveled like tightly woven threads of a $59.99 cashmere sweater from Banana Republic that gradually gave way, unwinding, pulling loose all restraint, uncoiling all the programming of the iMac's operating system. She imagined that the iMac felt it slip through its fingers like a puddle of iced, skim caramel macchiato. But the more frantically it tried to hold on, the more quickly it slipped away. Like trying to hold on to the wind. It was there, the iMac could feel it, but it couldn't confine it, couldn't bend it to its will.
   The iMac pressed the grill of the speaker to her mouth again. Her lips were cool and quivered with that vulnerability no amount of angry words or stubbornness could disguise.
   Darkness and light, night and day, as if she were two people, and the iMac had only caught glimpses of both, yet knew neither one.

 The iMac deepened the kiss by long moments, taking away the coldness as its imaginary hands had eased the muscles at her back, until the iMac felt her mouth go warm against the plastic. Cool then hot. Ice and fire.
   She was both and more as her mouth shifted, then angled against the slot of the iMac's CD-RW drive. She was liquid fire, her mouth sweet, her small tongue experimentally touching the raised lip.
   She was hesitant and uncertain and made the iMac's 500MHz G3 processor burn with a wild reckless urgency. She stripped away every last thread of it's logic, exposing a raw and aching need that the iMac had buried deep within its 20 gigabyte hard drive.
   "iMac." Its name shuddered out of her in an equally urgent and needy whisper as the kiss ended and another began. Her nails created tiny half-moons in the rear panel as she clung to the computer.
   The lines that had defined her entire life were no longer clear. She'd stepped out of one world and into another. The longer she lived in this world, the less she understood of the one she'd left behind.   
   "I can't feel anything except the boredom of my life." Her breath caught in a small, dry sob. "Please make it go away. Please, iMac." The iMac pulled her against itself, holding her tight, its flip foot pressed against her heaving bosom. The screen saver flickered, breathing in the sweetness of it.
   "I wish I could take it all away, lass." She angled her face up against the display until she found the built-in microphone with small, caressing strokes that slowly undermined every excuse or argument.
   She imagined the iMac tracing the curve of her upper lip with a roughened Apple Pro Tongue, making tiny feather strokes. At each corner, the computer dipped its tongue into the small indentation, then stroked back lingering in the middle.
   The iMac pulled her upper lip between its own. The breath shivered out of her somewhere between a whisper and a sigh. Her lips parted and the iMac slipped inside. She tasted of sweetness and unshed tears and made the computer ache.
   The intrusion was startling, warm and ozone-scented as she tasted the fullness of the iMac, stroked her tongue against it, then changed the angle and took it more deeply inside.
   The iMac tasted dark, hard, and sweet, creating unexpected sensations as it moved inside her, tiny bursts of pleasure igniting where they were joined, then slowly pulsing into every part of her body with each stroke. It was intimate, wildly sensual, and made her skin hot. Each taste built the pleasure and a restless energy that made her want to touch the iMac-- the elegant curves, the intuitive interface, the front-mounted dual mini headphone jacks.
  She pulled her bruised mouth from the computer. Her fingers stroked along the length of the Apple Pro Keyboard, her nails catching between the keys, making small, vulnerable tapping sounds. Eyes closed, driven by boredom and fear, she wanted to feel more. She pressed her palm against the Apple Pro Mouse.
   The iMac groaned, taking her head between its powerful imaginary hands, as if the computer would pull her away from that intense contact. Then its long fingers stroked back through her disheveled hair, and the iMac crushed her to itself, it's CD-RW slot plunging down over her mouth.
   The display's resolution blurred and she felt the sudden, hot electronic breath, then the violence of the iMac's kiss that bruised her mouth, crushing her lips against her teeth, bringing the faint taste of blood.
   There wasn't a sound in the apartment, not even the curious psuedo-spiritual melodies of Moby's Play on the boombox, nor the rustling of the cat in its litterbox. It was completely silent as if everything were momentarily suspended in time. There was only that wildly sensual sound deep in the iMac's hard drive and her own startled gasps.
   Her fingers skidded over each feature of the computer's facade as she clung to it. Not a complex facade, but one she'd ached to touch from the moment she first saw the ad in Entertainment Weekly, to feel the texture, every contour, shape, and hard line.
   Touch. She was fascinated by the glossy smoothness of the iMac's underbelly that tingled at her fingertips, the contrasting USB and 400Mbps FireWire ports.
   Taste. The iMac's award-winning design was warm, sweet, and softly violent, stunning her in ways she'd never dreamed. She pulled back, but sensed that it was already too late. The computer's kiss closed over her again, with a new taste-- heat. And her last ounce of control disintegrated.

   She closed her eyes, holding the image behind her lids, closing out everything else as her senses took over. Anger and restraint, bruising softness, sweet fire. She wanted more, and slipped her fingers firmly over the Apple Pro Mouse, changing the angle, drawing the iMac closer, deepening the kiss by long moments, until her lungs ached, but she no longer cared if she drew another breath.
   Then the tip of the iMac's imaginary tongue brushed along her lips with a new tenderness that almost made her cry out, and discovery began again. Her lips parted. She drew in a deep breath, then shuddered anew as the wet velvet of the computer's tongue slipped inside. Each touch was like the stroke of a feather, infinitely tender, teasing, making her want even more-- controlled violence.
   The iMac's electronic breath shuddered out of it's dimpled exhaust port and burned across her cheek, and then it was kissing her again, slipping inside then withdrawing, until she held the computer between her hands so that it was impossible for it to withdraw completely, holding it inside her so that she could experience the wonder of an ever deeper sensual discovery.
   Her arms slipped around the iMac's base, as she imagined it's tongue tangle with her own, and she tasted a wild, forbidden heat. The computer's fingers braceleted her wrists. Instead of pulling her away, it deepened the kiss as its hands slowly lowered down the length of each arm, until it held her about the waist. Then it slowly fanned its fingers open, each thumb stroking over the fullness of each breast, grazing each distended nipple that strained against the taut polyester of her thrift store blouse.
   Through this thin cloth the iMac felt the sudden tightening of flesh as her nipples grew pebbly and hard. She quivered in the iMac's hands, gasping as the kiss broke and then began again. Her hands slipped to the corners of the display, clutching at them, biting into the spotted translucent blue and white.
   Her mouth was soft and full, pliant beneath the iMac's one moment, demanding the next. Her breath mingled with the computer's as the angle changed, then she cried out softly as the iMac plunged inside once more, meeting it with equal strength, equal demand, and equal hunger.
   Taste, touch, sight, sound, smell-- as a graphic artist she'd been trained to be intensely aware of all of them. But she'd never been aware before as a woman.
   The iMac was a glowing shadow standing over her, fascinated by what she couldn't see as well as what she could: the rustling of fabric against plastic, the harsh grinding of the iMac's hard drive; her own startled gasps, the sweetly elegant scent of botanical Pottery Barn candles.
   All of it focused in the taste of the iMac at her mouth-- wildness and heat.
   One of the large imaginary hands spread down her back, cupping her bottom through the fabric of her J.Crew stretch poplin peg skirt. The other grazed her cheek, then slipped behind her neck. The iMac arched her away from itself, breaking the kiss as the slot of its CD-RW drive lowered to her throat.
   She was suspended, held by those powerful imaginary hands as the iMac cradled her. Her hands clasped the corners of the display. The slot moved down her throat to the curve at her shoulder where the collar gaped away. Her eyes closed. The iMac pressed its slot against the front of her blouse, the fabric wet beneath the computer's heat.
   "iMac." It's name shivered from her lips. It might have been protest, it might have been something else. Whatever it was, it was too late.
   She imagined that the mouse drew itself over the distended nipple that was dark through the wet fabric. She shuddered then, holding the mouse tightly against her. The computer swore softly and picked her up, the curse drowned out by the crash of the bedroom door back against the wall.
   The iMac laid her across the futon, pressing her into the stiff mattress. There was no time to think, no time to protest. There was a wildness in the iMac that she couldn't have stopped if she'd wanted to.
   The heat of its exhaust, the memory of it at her breast focused a single thought-- she wanted the iMac to go right on touching her, until there was no more boredom, until it was gone, and she could feel again.
   The computer's fingers closed over her wrists, drawing them slowly over her head. The iMac held them there, gently pinned. Then the mouse slowly stroked down over her left breast, the heat of the optical sensor burning through the fabric. The iMac tore it open.

   The air-conditioning chilled her bare skin where the collar was ripped away. She gasped as the mouse clicked wildly, closing over her bare breast. She strained in an instinctive effort to free her hands, but the iMac held her fast. She cried out, arching against it.
   The mouse stroked the taut nipple, then took it between its tiny imaginary teeth, biting softly, causing tiny fingers of pleasure to shaft downward through her body. The distended peak was thick, dark, and hard as the mouse pulled it inside its miniature mouth. Her body shuddered beneath it.
   Gradually the fingers loosed about her wrists and the computer released her. Nothing restrained her except the wild heat of the optical sensor.
   Through half-closed lids she watched, stunned and fascinated, the soft pink tongue stroking her dark nipple, then closing over her so that dark and light became one sensation that centered low inside her.
   It was as if a satin ribbon were being pulled tighter and tighter each time the tiny mouth tugged at her breast. Her hands clasped the corners of the display. A wild restlessness built along her nerve endings. Then the restlessness became more urgent, almost frightening as it took control. She curled tightly against the iMac as the rhythm increased; biting, tugging, stroking, throbbing deep inside her.
   The mouse brushed against her thigh, the skirt drawn up by slow inches, until it found the cotton underneath. Slowly, it peeled away layer upon layer.
   A ragged breath shuddered out of her, then caught as she felt the mouse against the bare skin at her hip. Her lungs ached, while her body tensed in some unknown anticipation and the mouse slowly stroked down over the indentation below the curve of her hip. Then, the Apple Pro Keyboard sprung to life and slid itself slowly over her abdomen.
  The keyboard caressed the taut flatness of her stomach until it found the soft silk between her legs. It slipped through silken tendrils until it found soft folds of flesh. It parted her, stroking wet heat. She was softer than silk.
   She should have been horrified or shocked-- literally. No personal computer had ever touched her so intimately. Instead there was a startling new awareness as consciousness splintered into smaller, separate sensations: the course, worn patches of fabric at her fingertips as she clutched the mattress beneath her; the cool smoothness of spongy rubber as her other hand brushed against the rolled-up yoga mat that leaned against her pile of dirty bras; the wild restlessness that expanded within her; the slick stroke of the optical mouse over her throbbing, sensitized flesh; the urgency spreading upward through her taut body; then the sudden, invasion as the corner of the keyboard slipped inside her.
   She arched upward, gasping for air. The breath shuddered in her lungs as the mouse's miniature mouth resumed its caressing of her breast.
   "Lord have mercy," the iMac breathed against her swollen flesh. It was an intimate, dark sound that seemed to come from somewhere deep inside.
   Her breathing was ragged, half gasp, half sob. Her nails bit into the mattress. Then she felt the pressure of the keyboard and the mouse working cooperatively at her hips. The iMac rocked her body against its own, and she was aware of a copy of AppleWorks 6 emerging from the slot of the CD-RW drive against her stomach.
   The mouse and keyboard moved between them. She heard the sound of her clothing being tugged away, then felt the startling heat of the hard exposed disk spinning against the cleft of her body. Then the heat was inside, startling and intimate, shattering the boredom, destroying the night shadows, until there was only that solid presence moving deep inside her.

   When she awakened, she watched Sex and the City while drinking a Diet Coke.

~ THE END ~