Before she finally passed out from exhaustion.
It was more like sleep deprivation, really, because her perfectly-shaved pussy, as always, was still ready to go. But, whatever the cause, she was sleeping naked and spread-eagle (in case someone, anyone, wanted another go at her) on one of the cum-soaked king-sized beds.
“Thank God,” the president of the swinger's club announced.
Even a triple-dose of Viagra hadn't been enough to keep his substantial cock at more than half-mast after a full night of Kendra. He'd fucked her five times, the club record with or without erection pill assistance, but it was barely enough fucking to make a dent in her urgent needs.
In fact, after the fourth time, cheered on by the watching male members who were fucking her considerably less, he'd wanted no more than to crawl into a naked ball and take a long nap.
But, no such luck.
As president of the Keep on Fucking swinger's club, and seriously regretting that now ironic choice of name (which alerted Kendra to them in the first place), he managed to somehow go once more, honestly feeling his very life was on the line, his heart pounding away like a jackhammer.
He'd also gotten a bad case of pussy-burn on his poor penis, similar to rug-burn but…well, you can figure it out.
“She's fucked the entire club half to death,” the man panted. “My wife and I'll be on a vacation for the next month in Hawaii, having absolutely no sex. Not even a hand job. Here, Johnson, you're in charge.”
And as he left, he handed his second-in-command the club's keys, attached to a miniature pink vibrator/dildo.
Johnson, now in charge, looked fearfully to a fitfully snoring Kendra, her flawless naked body streaked with dried cum, her cunt leaking it and her bare ass lying in an actual pool of the stuff.
He looked down to his own overworked organ, still stiff from the miraculous little blue pills but understandably sore. In addition, his entire frame was so lacking in further energy he sagged with merely the thought of going on.
Instead, he motioned for the remaining swinger club members to silently, stealthily, sneak out of the motel room with him, lest the girl awaken and shame them some more. Once outside, he ordered them to never speak of it again.
Kendra's pussy, after all, just wouldn't quit.
Which, being a young woman of very large inherited means living in a huge penthouse at the top of an 8-story luxury building downtown, became the reason for her personalized order of a extremely expensive sex machine.
By personalized, it meant she had to fill in a lengthy questionnaire, being brutally candid, so that the machine (designed for nothing other than the all-out pleasure of mindless fucking) would best match Kendra's specialized needs.
“At last,” she thought, stuffing the filled-in questionnaire and her platinum credit card number for an outrageous sum into a large overnight envelope. “Maybe I can finally be satisfied sexually.”
And when the machine arrived at her door two weeks later, a complicated and computerized chrome contraption, outfitted with an ultra-modern control panel, plush cushions and soft glove-leather straps and stirrups, she learned it came complete with three able-bodied technicians to assemble it.
It was no surprise, of course, that throughout that long day of both work and play, all three young probable geniuses took multiple turns fucking the beautiful Kendra in every position imaginable.
After all, they'd all read her questionnaire and volunteered for her particular assignment instantly, knowing exactly what to expect. In addition, Kendra had left her oversized full-color copy of the Kama Sutra lying open on the glass coffee table for immediate reference.
It didn't take a genius to figure out what she so desperately needed.
That night, alone at last with the sex machine of her dreams, the tall willowy girl with the spectacular breasts stood silently studying it.
“Where to start?” she wondered aloud, naked and having showered thoroughly so that her first machine-fucking experience would be a fresh one. “You do look like a lot of fun.”
“Thank you, sweetheart,” a soothing male voice, that of her years-dead father, came from the machine, standing otherwise silent and awaiting her first sexual command. “I greatly appreciate your confidence in me.”
Kendra nodded slowly, not surprised.
The techs, between bouts of entering her vaginally, orally and anally, had explained the complex sex-machine's voice-activated feature. They'd programmed it, the on-board computer, from the audio on her old videotapes and DVD's, using her own beloved father's voice.
And the technicians were so well-suited to their profession, they'd shown not a single nuance of disapproval or shock at her choice of voice request.
After all, for other, often older and more jaded customers of either sex, they'd voice-programmed sons, horny underaged daughters using strap-on dildos, barking dogs of every variety, the occasional horse neighing through a massive eruption of equine semen, and once even a demon-like character named Baal.