35. Groceries (and Tangents)

     It had been a long time since I’d had an out-of-the-house task to complete. I was terribly excited about it, but my excitement quickly gave way to trepidation. Of course, trepidation is part of what makes public tasks arousing, so basically I was spinning myself up into a tizzy. Snapshot memories of similar situations paraded through me, as I was forced to get out of my car much more slowly and carefully than I usually do. More sense-memories than the actual events surrounding my past experiences with this – physical reminders of how hard it is to be in a fitful tizzy when your own personal conditions demand that you proceed with motions that are slow and controlled. Carefully, carefully now… I entered the market with what I hoped was a subtle shift of my ass, and then, breaking out in the slightest of sweats, I remembered the fear. Fucking hell. Tell me again why this hard, glass impediment is my favorite toy?! Then I remembered that that right there is the reason it is. Breathe. There is no rush. No one is staring at you. Take your time.

     He’d come home the night before, too tired and stressed to do much beyond groping me, after talking the trip out of his system. He fell asleep with his hand in my crotch, which I always feel is sweet because I’m sentimental like that. This morning I’d woken up to the same sensation, only with a little more violence in his grip. We’d only have a couple of nights together, before more trips would separate us all over again (I was even going away this time, to visit Harpo in New Orleans), and we were both aware that tonight was going to have to be a main event. We’d spent the early part of the morning torqueing each other up, but we didn’t fuck. I may have mentioned before that I’m near impossible to get off that early. It’s not a need to be more awake, because if you let me sleep really late you can make me come before I’ve cracked an eyelid; it’s more like my vagina simply doesn’t deign to recognize the outside world before ten o-clock. So we’d made out and rolled around and fondled and frolicked, and then he’d given me my assignments and gone off to work.

     I had already had one really phenomenal, vaginal orgasm today. It’s rare that I get myself off without any clitoral stimulation, even with the use of a vibrator, but I‘d recently bought an interesting new one, and met that challenge. We’d lately been on this run of fun and games – a new sort of epoch. Laughter and beatings were interspersed one with another in a way they hadn’t been, before. The formality of all submission and a little masochism had been elbowed out by all masochism and a little submission. It was weird. Good and weird. He’d taken to using his regular old belt on me, and that had a few times led to beatings with no accompanying sex. It was like the atmosphere around that division of our sex life got sort of casual for awhile… Oh and by the way THWACK! Weird. Good and weird. Anyway, I’d made a couple of new purchases during that time. One of them I was so horribly ashamed of that I didn’t tell him about it when I ordered it, and then couldn’t bear to open the box when it finally arrived. By then he knew what the box contained, and he let me stew over it, silently watched me struggle with wanting what was inside and being unable to face breaching the packing tape. When I finally got up the nerve and brought the thing out, I didn’t even use it. I just held it in my hands. I sat there on the bed for over an hour, just holding and touching it, in all its embarrassing glory. That’s not the one I’d gotten off with earlier today, though. 

     Today’s orgasm had been brought to me by* the other thing I’d purchased during this sexually matter-of-fact period. We’d been pretty deep into fooling around a few days before, when something reminded me of a new toy I’d seen in the adult store. Before, I never would have stopped in the middle of sex to say Hey, guess what I saw yesterday, it wouldn’t have even occurred to me to do so, but the atmosphere had changed. Plus, it was something I’d never seen before, and that never happens! We rarely even go into adult stores anymore, because invariably there’s nothing there that we’d want, that we don’t already have. That kind of shopping is supposed to be fun, and it just ends up disappointing. This time though, I’d been surprised. It was a vibrator with three bendy arms. They are all identical, kind of paddle-shaped, and made of what I can only describe as something similar to Stretch Armstrong. If that reference is too old and obscure for you, try to imagine what rubber would feel like, coated over an extremely thick syrup or putty. In this case, if you bend an arm, it stays bent in whatever position you’ve chosen for it, completely independent of whatever the other two are doing. And they all have separate vibrators in them, with multiple settings, and separate controls. You can set each one to do something different, and in a different place or position, or from a different angle. Kinda cool. I hadn’t bought it, because I couldn’t tell if it was more than the novelty of finding something new that made it interesting. Also, it weighed a thousand pounds and was Bright Pink. So mid-sex, we’d stopped to look it up online, and in doing so we’d discovered that it also came in dark purple(!!), and we ordered it on the spot before falling back into the main activities of the evening. 

     So it was that toy that I’d been experimenting with, earlier. I’d tried it with all three arms together, and I’d tried it with each of them spread into various directions, outside, inside, over, under, around and through.** It took only a micro-second however, to determine that if one of them was settled on my clit, the deal was going to be over and done. What with my unfortunate clitoral refractory period – and I think my assignment may also have been restricted to a single orgasm anyway – that wasn’t going to do at all. I once returned a vibrator to a store with an expansive refund policy, because it made me come too quickly. (Okay, credit where it’s due, I chickened out and made my husband return it for me.) Regardless, I wasn’t about to waste all the potential this toy had for three and a half seconds of orgasm. So I’d left my clit completely alone, and played with everything else. Despite all the different combinations of position and vibration (all of which were fun and effective), the one that finally tipped me over the edge was just all three arms in my pussy, at the same time. What I did was bend them out until they were way too wide, and then push them in anyway. In reality, all that happened was that my pussy forced the arms to bend back in, to squeeze together so they’d fit, but in the imagination, it cleverly lined up with images of virgins being deflowered… I came all over it.

     And there I was, some hour or two later, trying to remember how to buy groceries with a glass plug in my ass. Breathe. There is no rush. No one is staring at you. Take your time. I made my way down the aisles as tense as a bowstring, gathering items. Every gesture and reach intended to look graceful from the outside, trying to cover the tight grip of every muscle in my body. My pussy was wet, and making the tops of my inner thighs slippery. As delicious as that was, it was also extremely dangerous, in that particular scenario. Too slippery could be disastrous just then, when the floor is tiled and the plug is glass. I tried hard not to bail, after getting just the items that were necessities for that night. He’d be fine with that – my task would be technically complete – but I wouldn’t. I had to do the thing all the way. I was grocery shopping, not dinner shopping, damn it. Oh hell, did it shift, or was I just afraid it would shift? I had forgotten about that particular threat of panic. I tried to casually lean against the edge of a refrigerated section, pretending to check my list, to reassure myself that the toy was still planted firmly in my ass, give it a little extra shove, maybe. I tried to think about those people who can willfully bring down their own heart rates – how hard could it be? I paced myself around the store trying to deep breathe.

     Seriously? How could there be NO green peppers?! Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck. I couldn’t make the same dinner, without them. I was going to have to go back through the store and change ingredients. Already I knew I still had to stop at the drug store before I could go home. It would take a million years, I knew it would. I kept reminding myself that I could do this – I had done this. I had succeeded at this very task! But when have there EVER been no green peppers?! Slowly… carefully… I just had to do it until it was done, that’s all. I stopped and backed up next to a display, to pretend to check my list again. I knew there was little chance that a security camera couldn’t see me, but all the actual humans I could see we facing other directions. Plus, hadn’t I once taken a picture of myself with my hand in my pussy, right underneath the eye in the sky at Target? I tried to give an actual, full-on readjustment, but manually maneuvering a butt plug in my ass, in the midst of all my public fear, only made my pussy wetter and my fear of slippage worse. I had to set the rational side of my brain to actively remind me that the toy was secure – I’d felt it, I knew it was secure – over and over again, as I went on.

     Really I could get away with not going to the deli. It was an after-thought at the bottom of my list. But there was no line, so I couldn’t bring myself to skip it. They made me wait to be waited on, anyway. Then a friendly young woman took my order, but decided she’d better clean the slicer before she filled it. I watched her do her job while I slow danced under my skirt. I made myself hold, made myself breathe, made myself pause, made myself chat, rolled my hips ever so slowly around the article impaling my ass, feeling three times its actual size. Shit. I realized that now that I was getting deli stuff, I’d have to go back to the vegetable aisle and get lettuce. I made myself smile. Did I usually fuck up this many things in one trip to the market? Did it just feel like everything was fucked because I was being anally penetrated while I tried to do it, or was the anal penetration actually making me fuck up everything? It didn’t matter, I was going to the vegetable aisle fucked and fucking.

     I tried to think about something else. Tried to think about later, because I still had another orgasm to accomplish, after this. That wouldn’t be hard, I could still feel slippery, melted, liquid between my legs. And what about after that? There’s no way he’d set me this task if his mind wasn’t already set on fucking my ass tonight. I had clothing choices to make, before then. I had to choose a corset, had to choose shoes. I had to set up the bed with the crispest sheets, lay out the switch and the floggers, Oh shit, I still had to send him a picture to document the orgasm I’d had before I left! I was at the checkout now, trying to function and make small-talk with Lars at the register (that’s right, his name was Lars), while trying not to forget all my jobs, while the majority of my brain still couldn’t pull away from the fact that I was standing there being silently drilled, invisibly probed. I still needed to take a bath – maybe I would make myself come in the tub, before I shaved my legs. I’d done all my girl-grooming the day before, so any prickles left from that would have softened by now… 

     Lars the cashier was smiling at my request for cash back in singles. Really it was for New Orleans buskers, on my trip to visit Harpo, but since I couldn’t tell him the more interesting thing he should have been smirking at, I let him believe. He went so far as to ask where I’d be spending them, and I smiled and said I’d let him use his imagination on that one. Slowly, finally, I managed to navigate my cart out of the store and over the speed bumps (careful, careful) in the parking lot, thinking He has no idea that the reality is even better than what he imagines.


*Yep, that was a Sesame Street reference; you didn’t imagine it.
** So was that.

(Nope, still not telling you what the other toy is.)

34. Alright, where the hell was I?

     Ah yes, the Harlequin was still new. I still bore the marks from the first night we’d had it. They were still fresh enough to be red and purple… I didn’t think it was a go, this night. Usually there’s a build-up, a consensus, whether it’s spoken or not. Usually there’s an atmosphere about the house and an undercurrent to our interactions. On this night there were no outward signs at all. Just out of nowhere, there was music playing and our ever-growing slide show collection of erotic stills on the TV. He told me to get out the new flogger, and I brought it to him, handed it over while trying to arrange my expression to contain and suppress the seventy-five different emotions that were suddenly drag racing through my bloodstream. He gave me several preliminary cracks against my legs with it, and said “Mercy, right?” My new safe word ... I went off to do my preparations like a roller coaster virgin packing for Six Flags.
     I came back from my initial groundwork (I didn’t want to stay away for long, as I wasn’t sure how much slack was in the proverbial leash, tonight), to find that he had the ropes out. Sweet mother of fuck, it was a rope night. I really hate surprises, except when I really don’t. In fact, now that I think about it, that edge of uncertainty that I can’t tolerate in the rest of my life is precisely what spins me up and makes my breath flutter, in the internal ritual that begins the releasing of my will. Turning my volition over to him, begins with not knowing. With loving not knowing.
     He chose the dark red ropes, and began with a beautiful breast wrap. The basic function of it was standard, but he made up the design of it as he went along. I love it when he experiments like this, appraising and adjusting for aesthetics on the fly. There’s a casual concentration on his face that has everything and nothing to do with me, at the same time. It’s sexy as hell, and rope work is the only thing that brings it out. The breast-bind was absolutely lovely. I wanted to dress to go with it, to set it off (and to officially make myself complicit in the turn this night had taken), but I didn’t want enough clothing to inhibit whatever other ropish inspiration might come to him. Panties can be enhanced by ropes, or they can be completely in the way. High heels can anchor a tie really effectively, but they also rule out the feeling of a tight wrap around the arch of the foot or a single cord pulled between the toes… I decided that my good, black-on-black corset was minimal enough to not get in the way, and nice enough to make me feel dressed up for the evening all on its own, so I went with that and nothing else. It was the last decision I made that night.
     I went to get us drinks, and stopped at the mirror in the hallway to admire the rope work and the effect of black against wine red. When I returned, he put one finger on the bedspread and said “Put your face here.” I still don’t know if it was punishment for tardiness or for pride or simply for his pleasure, but the result was the same. He’d been maintaining that detached air of suavity and nonchalance, like he had one foot on either side of the line, up until that moment. He stepped into the night for real then. With my face down, my ass up, and my arms over my head, he stood behind me and almost in a frenzy, he flogged my back, my ass, my underarms, and my pussy. When I couldn’t keep from squirming, he tied my feet together and flogged me harder.
     He put me on my back then, leaning slightly against the headrest, and tied my legs together. He takes his time with this kind of thing, for the sake of pleasing lines and symmetry, intricacy and function. And then he lifted my legs high and straight, and secured the live ends of the rope to the binding at my chest. I was piked, and I was bound. My pussy and my ass were exposed and vulnerable, and he made a point of noting this for me with a slow dose of hot spit dropped from above, that landed on one and slid down into the other. He moved out of my sight for a moment, letting me feel the sensation and the totality of my restraint, the tactile indulgence of rope sunk into flesh, then he picked up the Harlequin again, and let me feel that rope in my flesh as well.
     He had access to the underside of my ass from above in that position, and he took full advantage of it. Saved his upswings for the backs of my legs, and swung down on my wet pussy and my ass and the soles of my feet, as punctuation between them. One crack on my underside landed with such force and precision that it was a line of fresh pain all night, never seeming to dull or fade out. When he put down the flogger, he did it to pick up my pink glass plug, and told me in accurate, murmuring detail what I was feeling as he worked it slowly into my ass. He lifted me to sitting then, so I could feel it under my own weight, and detached my legs from my chest so that he could reach his fingers into my crotch, spreading his spit and my own wetness over the bright spots of pain he’d left there, and squeezed my breasts until runners and droplets of milk seeped into the ropes that bound them. He bent me at the knees to gain access to the toy in my ass, manipulating it (and me) from underneath, while he watched my face for every trace of arousal and fear.
     He did not let me come. As soon as he had me close, he untied my legs and sent me for fresh drinks. I asked if I could stop for eyeliner, after I got them. There is no armor in the world like black eyeliner, and I knew if I could have that, I could let go of everything else. When I came back, a little less trembly and sliding around the plug still in my ass, he had out the “switch” (which thankfully isn’t really a switch – I can’t bear that level of sting), the riding crop, and one of his long, bamboo poles. He put me on my knees first, arms over my head, and lay stripes across my shoulders, front and back. My stomach and lower back were still corseted, but he left marks I wouldn’t be able to hide everywhere between its top and my neck. The riding crop was small and precise enough to work around and in between the ropes forcing my breasts out between them, and he paid special attention there, and to the top of my back and shoulders. When he was satisfied, he lay the bamboo sideways across the bed, and put me down onto my back, above it – on top of all the stinging red lines he’d just placed so carefully. He placed my feet on it, wide apart, and with multiple, heavy wraps around my ankles and then under and around the pole on both sides of each, he lashed me to it like it was a spreader bar. My knees were bent, so that the pole was just lower than my ass, and he took my wrists next, and lashed them to it on the outside of my feet. Squirm at all then, and the pole pressed against the flange of the toy in my ass, forcing it further into me.
     I assume that it was the shaft of the crop that he used to put lines down across the fronts and inners of my thighs; I couldn’t look, at the time. The pain was immense. The marks were tight and deep and they lasted many, many days. He also took the switch, which is stingier, to my pussy, and repeated the gravity propelled drop of spit-from-above, so the slaps were wet and splashy. He beat the ever-loving fuck out of me, and every writhing motion I couldn’t control affirmed the rope and the pole and the plug that occupied me. Then he produced the Hitachi Magic Wand. We rarely bust that thing out. I hate it every bit as much as much as I like it, so just when I’d given in to the beating, he’d managed to reanimate my fear and I had to give in to that, too. It’s a near impossible thing that happens to your head, when you have to resolve yourself to being afraid. Fear is a thing that, by its very nature, should prevent you from coming to grips with it. Under regular circumstances, getting used to a situation in which you are afraid, generally lessens the fear. If you accept the fear, you undermine it in doing so. You can abide it though, consent to it, without losing it. The crossover is just sort of in another place. If you can let go of where you usually live in your head, you can take up residence at the intersection.
     For a long time, he alternated beatings with near-coming and that low murmur of profane suggestion and narration that does to my head exactly what his hands do to my body. It purrs around the edges of my brain, flicking switches as it goes, and he was keeping it up until the internal chaos that was pleasure was just topping the internal chaos that was distress, and then he’d trade the horrible, buzzing weapon of undeniable orgasm for the crop or the switch or the flogger and I’d fall down another rabbit hole. It sounds like I’m over-describing it, but it was just like that, and it was endless.
     Then he let me come, and it wasn’t endless after all.
     He untied me from everything but the breast binding and put me back on my knees. He flogged my breasts and my shoulders again, not hard enough to make me fight escape but just to reignite the fires he’d put into them before, and took the riding crop to my underarms (fucking hell, that’s another kind of pain). When he stopped, I couldn’t keep myself from kissing him – I didn’t try; there was no time or thought, I just fell into him. He let me kiss him, he seemed amused by it, and didn’t stop me from moving straight to cock sucking from there. That didn’t last long, though. Pretty quickly he demanded my pussy on his cock, and when he got it, he began fucking my ass with the toy while I was fucking him. I got three vaginal orgasms, one on top of another, out of that. The second and third were both super-twos, and the last one went on for so long that it was like losing consciousness. Right on the heels of the clitoral orgasm he’d pulled from me with the evil/not at all evil Hitachi wand, the first one was like coming home. Like a conclusion. The second one surprised me – sneak attack before I’d come all the way down off the first – and then surprised me again when it went over the top and exploded through my whole body. The third, well, like I said, it was very like blacking out, only if the blackness was a sea of pleasure. It was like drowning in orgasm.
     It’s at this point that I reached that stage where I would do anything at all. This is an interesting point to reach. It always leaves me a little embarrassed afterward, but it’s always worth it. Anything. He could whip out Japanese tentacle porn and start giving directions when I’m like this, and I would throw myself into it like I’d been waiting my whole life. My skills would be lacking though – not only for obvious reasons but also because I am fully out of control at this stage. I am a creature of emotion. I have blown the fuse on the frontal lobe of my brain. I am a mess. A flailing, devoted, probably crying, enthusiastic, madly in love, oversexed mess. Fortunately, he didn’t whip out any Japanese tentacle porn.
     What he did was slow fuck me. At the same time, he was maneuvering the toy in my ass – not for my benefit, but for the sensation it was giving him, with his cock in my pussy. It did benefit me though, of course, and the doubly penetrative stroking kept me right on that brink of control that I was struggling so hard to maintain. When he ordered me to suck my come off of him, I still wasn’t right in the head. I was incapable of precision and intricacy, so it was a long, happy, non-technique-specific cock sucking, with lots of deep throating and drenching volumes of spit. I used various exit strategies from a wide mouthed withdrawal, one finger pressing his cock against the full length of my tongue, to tight suction right up over the tip. I used a pulse from the back of my throat while I had him at depth, pulled out through a suicide squeeze. I played with the good gag and pushed through to various feats of past-gag heroics. (That game is particularly fun when I have crested the peak of anything at all. Then it’s not just that I would do anything, it’s that suddenly I can do anything. Does miracles for the ego.) I got both of his balls in my mouth and slid my tongue up behind them as far as it would reach. I played spiderwebs with the spit between my fingers and the head of his cock. He was still playing with the toy in my ass, and at least twice as I pulled his cock out of my throat in one way or another, he slid his fingers into me to my g-spot, and made me girl-come all over his hand and wrist.

     The threshold move, the brink before deep throat, was getting notable response from him, so I started alternating between that and some tip tricks, now that my head was starting to come around enough to accomplish them. I did a little exploring of that older sister move I’d been working on and made up another thing with more hand and just a tease of lips and tongue, between sinking him back to pop against that ridge at the top of the throat. Then, on a whim, I picked up the Hitachi wand and stroked it just from the tip of his cock to back along the frenulum. He let me get away with it, so I added my mouth to his cock, at the same time. You have to be ready for it, if you’re going to take a vibrator of that strength basically to your face, but it was fun and effective. I used generally the same motions I usually do, just substituting the wand for one of my hands, or using my tongue as I would have used my hand and placing the wand where my tongue would have been.
     I’ve been over-stimulated by that wand before and I didn’t want to do it to him, so I backed off into the good old blow job while he found the toy in my ass again, and then my g-spot again, and again. And as I finished him off between the ripe peach, the dragonfly, and something I’m afraid I’m simply going to have to call bubbles, I began to wonder again if I should actually start compiling all these little techniques and ideas onto a page. The whole room was a steamy mess and smelled of hot sex, and I lay back into it, against the stinging welts on my shoulders, thinking Would anyone buy it? Would You? Should I do it?

(“Mercy, right?”)