Men are scarce.

I only know one woman who keeps her own man at home. She is wealthy and powerful, and says that the expense is worth it, as she uses him for political gain, not just as a bed toy. Most of her other friends (who are also rich and powerful, unlike myself) have been presented with the man for the night, when they have stayed at her home. Most of them have accepted. Why wouldn't they?

He's a tall strong handsome thing, dark in a cross-European way. Strong shoulders support large but gentle arms, honed by daily training and nightly bedroom acrobatics. A professionally cheerful face and genetically mobile tongue add to the package. But down below is where the real money went. His genes have been tampered with here as well, and the result is not so much a size enhancement (though there is a little of that), so much as a combination of stability, rigidity, longevity and controllability. Oh, and texture. God yes. Let's not underestimate texture. Take all of that, and add professional level acrobatic ability, short immaculate black hair and transparent blue eyes, and you have a winning proposition. And I haven't mentioned the French accent yet.

I just wish to God I could afford one of my own, but men are so expensive now. I'm going to be stuck with this vibrator forever, I know.

So here I am, prodding myself with this buzzing lump of plastic, imagining how it might be with a real man. If he were to burst through the door, and throw himself on me, I'd welcome him with open arms. Not just arms either.

The rising heat between my legs, and the gradual release of lubrication ease the movements of the hugger as it strokes me expertly. I try to forget it's there, and concentrate on the fantasy with the French man. How his velvet smooth erection would impale me gently but thoroughly, his hardness pushing against the sides of me, the delicious sliding of myself around him, as he whispers sweet foreign nothings to my unfocused ears.

The hugger's electronic lack of intelligence is picking up on the biometric cues, and increasing the pace. Supposedly subtle pheromones are emitted from its plas-alloy case, providing feedback bios, and in turn increasing my pulse, and temperature.

I know if I had him here, I'd be stroking his skin delicately with my fingertips, as he stroked me with his whole body. The hugger wants to stroke me too, in a way. Its sensor studded digit extends to my now erect clitoris, attempting to replicate the feel of a real man there. I have no idea how successful it is. I've never had a real man. Well, except for this rich lady's man. And he's never going to be here for real. Only in my head. He'd cost more to rent for a day than I earn in a year.

The hugger is trying some complicated movements now, dancing its digit up and down my labia in a futile attempt to fool me. As if anyone would think this was a man. The insistent computerised rhythm was getting to me though, just the same. As it was programmed to do.

A real man, like my Frenchman except actually here, would have lowered his lips and tongue down there, his nose perched in my pubic hair as he licks and sucks and blows my most delicate parts. As the hugger pretends to do, using some mixture of hot and cold air, and moisture to imitate a man's mouth, and his penis at the same time, reaching down inside me, unselfishly reading my signs, pumping gently and then more vigorously as I surround the fake phallus, and the digit stroking directly across my clitoris now, my hips lifting from the bed involuntarily, my body nearly ready for the mechanical release.

A real man, French or not, is a different beast. I'm told they can sometimes finish too fast, or too slow, but in my head the man is perfect. His pumping cock is perfectly in time with my needs, the level of friction exactly right. My hips thrust more enthusiastically beneath him, his warm breath on my ears, his fingertips caressing my intimacy.

As I pass plateau, and head for that tense pain/pleasure bind/release point, the man and machine merge, and I cannot tell any more who is providing the pleasure. A tall strong man from my head, and the hugger clamped to my hips both needle my nerves to the point of no return, my whole sexual system being played like a single string on a perfect guitar, drifting inexorably on to orgasm.

And I burst. Dreams, fantasies, realities, impossibilities all collapse under the weight of my throbbing muscles, the pulse to my head overwhelming, and I come, quivering, straining, releasing now, muscles still pinging, but sliding down the other side now.

The Frenchman is returned to the cupboard in my head, the hugger to the closet beside the bed. And I sleep. And dream. Not of huggers.