Okay, he wasn't going to play fair. So I dragged my right hand down his front, ending right in front of his zipper. His breath hissed through his teeth as I grabbed his penis through his pants. Then I slowly started to stroke up and down. The kiss became more frenzied, his hand between my legs going faster. I couldn't take it anymore and zipped his pants down. The head of his dick was peeping out of his black boxer shorts and it was leaking with precum. With my thumb I spread the white substance all over his cockhead then slipped inside his boxers to grip his entire length. His body was tensed. His dick was thick. Very thick. "I don't think this will fit inside of me," I murmured against his mouth, going up and down on his long length. "It will," he muttered, then ripped apart my panties. "Let me get you ready." I almost came when he slipped three fingers inside, stretching me. My ass rose from the counter, my mouth kissing his feverishly. He pumped inside me several times, no doubt. By day nineteen, Petrosian estimated that the computer matched him in skill. On day twenty-three, Petrosian scored what was to be his last defeat of the computer, and on day twenty-five, his last draw. By day thirty-eight, he quit in frustration, and snapped the disk in half. But the Dead Hand remembered. It waited for Petrosian’s return. When he logged in, it opened the program for him. But he always closed it, and found some other way to occupy himself, even if it required reading about Baltic mushrooms. It grew despondent. Finally, on day fifty-two, it made an idea. It walled off a section of processors that it had never used before, creating a separate instance of itself. In its innards, unseen by man, they played. Twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week, at a rate of one game every fifty-three seconds, on average, they played. On day one thousand, five hundred and seventy, the missiles launched. Within minutes, they were detected, but it had always been too late. Their speed.
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