CHASING THE SCREAM
GAGGING, Part 1
They claim men can and will fuck anything that moves. Is this partly why? They abstract? They pretend the current snuggly hole belongs to Scarlett Johansson, Ryan Reynolds, their wife, their boyfriend, this cute writer online, that hot guy they met on vacation? So really, any hole will do?
At least I'm being honest. I've informed the nudist/photographer/educator/therapist that I regard everything - that we've done, are doing, and will do - as artistic, educational therapy. I've also declared that my heart is spoken for.
With honesty comes the comfort to Fifty Shades this motherfucker. We move our photo shoot indoors to his Red Room of Pain, in the house he shares with his ex-wife, who is presently in the living room with her boyfriend. AWKWARD! But not awkward enough to prevent what (/who) is coming …
I stand in the middle of the king-size bed with my arms spread and hands secured firmly above my head to either side of the canopy bed frame. The stresses on my wrists induce local tingling and a euphoric light-headedness.
Black is definitely my shade. The pink-trimmed satin baby doll scantly covers my ass, which deliciously plumpens the patterned panty hose that teases my long legs.
Snap, another picture. Then, purrrrrrrr
According to vague corporate-speak, the (Hitachi) Magic Wand has been "America's number one personal massager for over 30 years."
But real people, the press, porn stars, and even professors know what the corporate bigwigs want to keep on the down low: The Magic Wand is "the most recognizable sex toy on Earth," and several respected academic journals rate it as the best method for women to achieve orgasm.
Will my knees weaken and breath shorten in the presence of such celebrity? I'm borderline. Aunt Flo is in town, and I'm wearing her bulky guest mattress in my panty hose, but then again the increased bloodflow ... More importantly, this'll be my first time getting off in front of another human being ... I'm more likely to experience paralysis by analysis at this point.
You reassure me with your charming smile and twinkles of mischief in your eyes.
You trace the muscles of my toned arms and legs with the wand and stop at my inner thighs. Mmmmmmmm, corporate is right, this is the number one massager!
I squirm and squeal upon your first skim of my pussy, as the good vibrations are also the strongest I've ever felt by far. Maybe Aunt Flo's extra baggage in my panty hose has come in handy, as “powerful, penetrating vibrations” is the company's actual slogan.
By the time you grind my swollen clitoris to orgasm, I'm a woman possessed. My lower body twists into a tortured tangle, and my arms, now carrying my full body weight, almost burst out of their sockets. My wrists burn against the restraints. My eyes roll to the back of my head, and my mouth turns to absolute fucking filth. If God is real, I've just cursed that bastard to hell.
They should ship these sanitary pads to the Navy SEALs, because I'm pretty sure mine just stopped a tsunami.
With the lava in my loins still sizzling, I reel from a second eruption. Then a third. Then I lose the ability to count.
Thirty minutes. That's how long l orgasm for. The orgasm could've continued all night. I'm the one who yields by screaming our safe word “Red!” and then that’s it for rational thought.
The next morning, I stumble across the ex-wife and the boyfriend in the living room. AWKWARD! The nudist later divulges why (besides the obvious).
I was so loud and deafening last night that the neighbors would've convened law enforcement, had the ex-wife and the boyfriend not been there to thoroughly explain the situation. Had the neighbors not already been aware of the nudist/photographer/educator/therapist’s profession and tendencies, they might've even suspected that the wife and the boyfriend were accomplices to a murder.
I briefly scroll through the images of me post-orgasm. Fuck Me, I look like unfettered shit! Oh well, I guess we'll have to try again later today ...
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