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Act II: The Toy
“How’s the night going?” she asks me, putting something of a sashay into her walk when she comes into the office — an extra movement of the hips. She reminds me of a schoolgirl, pleased at having returned from some fresh mischief.
“It’s okay,” I tell her, wondering what she’s up to.
“It’s about to get even better,” she says, smiling as she drops a non-descript brown paper bag on the desk. And though I know what it is, it seems somehow more significant lurking down at the bottom of that crinkly paper bag.
She’s been threatening to bring me the toy for several weeks now, and I wish I could rip into the bag like a kid on Christmas. But my new trainee is still on shift with me, wrapping up his portion of the day’s paperwork. And though I’d wager he gives a fine blowjob (and certainly don’t begrudge him the action), I can tell already that discretion is not one of his stronger suits.
And so I ignore the bag for now, working on my own allotment of charts as I let the new guy try his hand at filling her in on the day’s important happenings. The trainee’s a gabby fellow, embodying every gay stereotype in the book. I wish he’d just give her the Reader’s Digest condensed version and get the fuck out. I look forward to the thirty minutes or so I get with her alone on Thursdays and — unfairly or otherwise — I resent him for horning in on it.
She on the other hand appears perfectly at ease, smiling and nodding in all the right spots as he prattles on. I can’t tell if she’s just a better actor than I, or if she really isn’t the slightest bit offended by his continued presence. All the while the bag just sits there on the desk, giving no clue as to its contents. It could just as easily contain one of the candles she also sells on the side rather than a ‘top-selling masturbation sleeve’ that is ‘extremely stretchy to pleasure men of all sizes, and lined with ribbing for extra pleasure…completely reversible for cleaning’.
Mercifully my new coworker finally wraps up his monologue and makes his exit. Once he’s gone, I try to play it cool. Though this is all new to me, I decide that it’s never wise to look too eager in these situations. I pretend to be focusing on the last of my charts, but when I look up she’s there in front of me again — head cocked and arms akimbo. She’s positioned herself in front of the desk, gazing down at me over the generous slope of her chest. The mischievous look is back on her face as she takes up the bag, shaking it a time or two before presenting it to me.
The bag’s heavier than I’d anticipated, weighty with the promise of sexual gratification. I can feel myself blushing as I open the mouth of it, peering down into the shadows.
Down inside the bag, the sleeve’s pink. Given what it’s meant to replicate, the color seems to me a more sensible choice than the glow-in-the-dark model they also stock. The gigi sits in one corner, not unlike a new pet just home from the store, bewildered by the move and a more than a little bit frightened.
“Pussy,” I quip as I reach in to pull it out. “The gift that keeps on giving.”
My new toy is approximately five inches long, tubular, and as thick around as a good-sized cucumber. When I remove the protective plastic, the material feels firm and yet yielding all at the same time — like a nicely formed tit. I wouldn’t care to venture a guess as to what the material is called, but I imagine its molecular structure is first cousin to the gross-out substances like ‘Gak’ that one sees advertised on Nickelodeon to the delight of little boys everywhere.
There’s a small hole in one end of the thing the diameter of a pencil. I infer that it’s there to provide pressure relief, but I’m far more interested in the business end. The little ersatz slit is perfectly shaped, the type rarely encountered in real life. I wonder briefly if it’s actually been modeled after a real live woman. If so, she’s never had a child. And likely not a penis either.
Feeling bold all of a sudden, I make a show of trying to get a finger inside. Gigi’s too tight though. The material sticks and grabs at me — making me think of a chubby surfer struggling to pack himself into a wetsuit — until she reaches into the bag, pulling out a small sample bottle of lubricant that I’ve overlooked. My hand is shaking noticeably as I apply a drop or two to the little lips and try the finger again. This time it catches momentarily at the nail and then goes right in, and I feel the wet slippery suction of the thing for the first time.
“Oh my,” I say, finger-fucking it a few times, my penis thickening and elongating in my lap as I catch her eye.
“So, how’s it feel?” she asks me.
“It feels pretty damned good,” I tell her truthfully, withdrawing the digit and holding the Gigi with the pretty little lips facing her now. It feels delightfully obscene to be pointing the thing at her like that. “Here.”
I know she’s inspected her wares before, and I expect that she’ll pass on the offer. But she surprises me, sticking her middle finger in deep, making me wonder if it’s the same finger she bahis firmaları uses on herself in her more private moments.
“Well?” I ask.
“It’s definitely better than your fifi,” she shrugs, as if she could take it or leave it. “Do I need to give you the standard demonstration so you’ll know what to do?”
“Yes please,” I answer at once, trying not to get my hopes up.
She’s smiling again as she stands. But it’s a less-confident one than she wore earlier as she leaves the office, returning a moment later with a firm, nicely curved banana.
Taking a moment to gather her thoughts, she starts in on the approved product pitch, standing up tall like she’s been taught, causing her chest to be thrown forward. I’m all ears and eyes as I watch her take the piece of fruit low down at the stem end, placing it without preliminaries between Gigi’s stretchy little lips. At first the banana resists the unnatural coupling, hanging up at the opening, making her back off a little, picking up more lube at the entrance before driving it firmly home.
Holy shit, I think.
Once it’s in, she runs the banana back and forth several times, twisting her wrist to make sure the entirety of the thing is nice and wet before pushing it to the hilt, the tip of the banana emerging from out the little hole in the other end.
“Oh yeah, faster baby,” I wisecrack, making her blush and withdraw the banana prematurely before gathering herself once more.
“Well, that’s the idea. When you’re um…finishing, you just pull back inside the hole and it’s like she’s swallowing. That way there’s less mess,” she tells me, wrapping up her spiel, watching as I nod in understanding. It’s obviously a trade secret, a tip for those of us in the know. I feel honored to be let in the club, like I’m some sort of Sex Mason.
It’s a fine demonstration, and I’m sad to see it come to an end. Clearly she knows her way around fruit, but just the same I can’t help but think that a better saleswoman would have taken full advantage of the props that presented themselves. It’s plain that a more effective presentation strategy would have involved unbuttoning my pants and digging my hard cock out, baptizing it liberally in lube and then slowly working the toy over the length of me while holding on by the root. As she leaves to go dispose of the banana and wash her hands, I imagine her jerking me off hard and fast with the thing, working her arm until I throw my head back and erupt like a geyser, viscous white drops raining down on her hand.
When she returns I catch her eye again, bouncing the Gigi a time or two in the palm of my hand.
“I’ll think of you whenever I use it,” I deadpan, making her redden before I relent, standing and facing away from her, concerned that she’ll spot my erection.
“I guess we both know what I’ll be doing tonight,” I continue. I want her to picture it, to know how worked up she’s gotten me.
She laughs and then throws out a disclaimer. “My ex says they don’t work.”
“I’ll let you know,” I tell her.
Once safely home and undressed, I grab a beer from out of the refrigerator and toss the sleeve gently on the coffee table. I’m anxious to try it out, but without the possibility of her there to watch, the prospect has become decidedly less urgent. As usual, I realize belatedly that I’ve played it all wrong. I curse myself, knowing that a more clever man would have asked her to help make sure the Gigi’s a good fit, maybe even to oversee the inaugural attempt to ensure that he’d gotten the basic principle down. Nothing sordid or unseemly of course, merely in her official capacity as product demonstrator.
Annoyed by my incompetence, I take up my phone and text her, ostensibly to be considerate, but also because she’s whetted my appetite and I want more.
“Oh yeah,” I punch in. “There’s a plate of fish for you in the refrigerator if you haven’t found it yet.”
She sends back a simple thank you. The response is noncommittal at best. Even so, I’m not quite ready to leave well enough alone.
“I think you’ve pretty much guaranteed yourself a plate every day for the next year or so,” I press on, taking another swallow of my beer. I’ve downed half of it by the time that the phone beeps back at me in indication of a new message.
“Oh yeah? So does it work or am I asking too soon?”
Thank you thank you thank you, I think to myself, finishing off the beer in a flourish before messaging her back.
“Too soon. Trying to take it slow. Play it smooth, you know? Just having a couple of drinks and getting to know one another. Think I’ve got a pretty good shot though,” I reply, pleased to know that my cleverness hasn’t deserted me entirely.
“Lol. Yeah, you’re right,” it comes back. “Can’t rush that kinda stuff ;-)”
“Slow and steady wins the race. Will definitely keep you updated as the night progresses though…”
I know when I hit send that we’ve reached a critical juncture. I’m hoping she won’t cut me off me here, leave me to navigate the wide world of sex toys and advanced kaçak iddaa masturbation alone. I pace back and forth in the apartment, grabbing a second beer and taking a big swallow as I await her reply, jumping a little when the phone finally beeps.
I say a quick prayer of thanks as I settle in on the couch, reaching down to lightly pet myself through my boxers, drawing envious looks from the cat. The contact serves to make my dick swell with blood. I keep at it until the head creeps down the leg of the shorts and rests hotly up against my leg.
Carefully I unwrap the gigi and lay it back down on its wrapper, worried the stickyish material will pick up dust and little hairs. I poke at it a time or two to feel the way it springs back at me, imagining how it will feel enveloping me, slip-sliding up and down over my penis. Again I run the tip of a finger inside, picking up some residual moisture. My thumb sweeps up over the little clit, and I can’t help but imagine it’s her as I rub myself with my other hand all the while.
I’m so keyed up already that I know I could start and be done inside of fifteen minutes, even should I run into any unforeseen difficulties with the gigi. But I’m enjoying this prolonged sexual tension, and so I release myself and go to shower.
My dick flops heavily from out of my boxers as I undress. As usual, our timetables are not in complete and total agreement. I give him a stroke or two in reassurance and then run my hand down over my testicles, feeling some slight stubble and deciding to shave.
The thing grows even harder as I’m applying the shaving cream. He bobs in the air, getting in the way and generally making a nuisance of himself as I lather up my balls and take up the razor. It’s a delicate job, and I’m careful as a surgeon as I stretch the skin of my scrotum this way and that in order to present a flat surface for the razor. All this friction does not escape the attention of my penis. The head is a vibrant pinkish-red now, and he’s angling upward like a cannon preparing to attack some far-off but ever-advancing enemy.
Still I ignore him though, running my hand over the silky skin of my balls to feel for any missed hairs, enjoying the smooth feel of them before hopping in the shower.
By the time I’m done, my penis has finally reverted to its everyday proportions. Toweled off and garbed in clean boxers, my eyes return to the phone. I grab another beer from the fridge before dashing off another message.
“Update: things going great. Amazing really how much we have in common…”
“Lol! You’re so silly…keep up the good work :-‘)”
Before I can respond, another text hits the inbox.
“By the way, the food was delicious. You’re the best!”
The texts come so quickly that it’s as if she’s been waiting by her phone for my return. I know it’s only the beer and my imagination, but nevertheless the idea has my needy friend stirring down inside the boxers once more.
“Oh no, you’re the best. I’m glad you enjoyed it though. More to come,” I type, proud of the double entendre.
“K,” comes the reply.
Dropping the phone, I throw on the television and stick in a movie I’ve been meaning to see. As it plays I keep glancing over at Gigi, and every time I do she’s still there. My cock has quietly found its way out of the fly in my boxers, peeking out, as if he too would like a look. An hour deep into the movie and the beers are still going down easy, but I realize that I’ve no clue as to what I’ve been watching.
Clearly the time has come; the beer buzz has me tingling and I can no longer focus on anything but the dull ache way down in my testicles.
“Okay. Think I’m about to make my move. What do you suggest?” I text, half-thinking she’ll ignore me, feign that she’s neck-deep in work.
“Be gentle and use lots of gel,” she messages back immediately, and then: “Oh yeah, hold on tight but not too tight ;-)”
Fuck me! I think, closing the phone and then opening it again and checking the messages to make sure I haven’t imagined them. I haven’t; she’s actually giving me practical advice on how to masturbate. The knowledge has me throbbing.
“Sound advice, no question there. Little nervous though. I may need another demonstration,” I type, hoping that she’ll invite me back for the hands-on version.
It’s several minutes before her reply comes back, long enough for my dick to begin to despair.
“Haha very funny. I got kind of embarrassed. That’s why I did it so fast.”
I type as quickly as the little keypad allows. “I wasn’t criticizing you. Fast can be fun. I’d say you did wonderfully. I’d buy any toy you were selling.”
“Lol. I’ll have to remember that. Gook luck.”
When I look at the clock, it’s already one a.m., and I’m worried she’s trying to end the conversation prematurely. I’m stroking myself automatically through my shorts, my cock calling the shots now.
“Speaking of which,” I type, apropos of nothing, but growing desperate, “I never asked you how you liked YOUR toy. Well worth the party I hope?”
It’s kaçak bahis the best I can come up with. I want her to confide to me how they’d all stripped down to their bras and panties, a group of seven or eight randy housewives jokingly pressing vibrating gizmos and plastic phalluses up against their crotches, secret moisture seeping into triangular panels of fabric one drop at a time — the primal sap of them, seven or eight slight variations on the same theme of smell and taste. I want to be there as the frozen drinks pile up and they become more brazen, to watch as they slip giant dildos around the legband of their panties and up inside ever so slightly before shaking their heads and telling each other “wow”, trying to laugh it off but breathing out through clenched teeth all the while.
I’m stroking myself frankly now, moving seamlessly from mere teasing to outright masturbation. My penis is fully extended in anticipation, and I know there’ll be no turning back this time as the phone lights up again.
“Yeah, it’s cool. The party was a blast. Lots of laughs and worth it. Yep yep…”
Lots of laughs? What the hell? The comment throws me a moment. I want to hear how they modeled sheer nighties. I want her to tell me in strict confidence how two of the more adventurous ladies lay crotch-to-crotch on the carpet, the push-pull movements they made as the two-headed dildo moved between them, connecting their bodies for one never-to-be-repeated moment in time. Better yet, I want to hear her describe her own toy in all it’s emasculating glory, the flickery proboscis that feathers up against her clit in all the right places, lashing at the little bundle of nerve endings, getting her juices flowing until the droplets roll down her ass cheeks and glisten wetly on her thigh…
Instead I get: it’s cool.
“Cool? That’s it? Dang,” I type, and then put the phone down in my frustration without hitting send, grabbing another beer from out of the fridge.
When I glance over, Gigi’s still waiting patiently for me on the table. Feeling a twinge of guilt for neglecting her, I take the sleeve up, bringing it up to my face. The smell of the thing assaults my nose and tongue all at once. It seems to be made out of some sort of petroleum product. Again I examine how the little lips come together at the top in perfect symmetry. Labia minora my mind hisses at me, simultaneously activating my saliva glands. Before I’ve a chance to think too much about what I’m about to do, my tongue darts out and in between the little folds.
But she tastes like rubber, and I feel cheated like the time I ordered a shot called ‘Tastes Like Pussy’, having convinced myself against all logic and reason that maybe, just maybe.
It takes several long swallows of the beer to get the oily rubber taste out of my mouth. Once I’ve cleansed my palate, I place Gigi back on her protective plastic and take up the phone again. I know that it’s a dead end, but my penis is adamant that we try another tract and so I add: “Things moving along nicely. Although I have to say she doesn’t score very well on the taste test, which is VERY VERY VERY important.”
I hit send. I’m trying to shock her now, make her experience what I’m feeling, haul her bodily into the place I’m at.
“Uuuggghhh. Lol,” she messages me back a minute later.
And then: “Important yes, but please tell me you didn’t.”
“VERY VERY VERY important,” I reiterate. I want her to know how much I love to eat pussy, how I’d ram my tongue deep inside her body if given half a chance. “My favorite part if truth be told. And yeah, I’m afraid so. Couldn’t resist. Looked like it might taste pretty good.”
“Really?” she messages back. “You must be a stud with the ladies. You must be undercover?”
It’s what I want to hear. I can tell the seed has been planted, the idea of what my tongue might do dancing over her folds. I wonder if she’s wet, if she’s squirming where she sits. I reach down and stoke myself harder, pulling my dick and balls free of the boxers entirely. I know she’s thinking about how my tongue might feel running up and over her burning hot clit, the strong muscle lapping at her juice, burrowing and snaking into all of her secret nooks and crannies, making her ass jump high off the seat.
“Really. Have tongue, will travel. Too undercover it sounds like,” I type, all but offering her my services as I kick off my boxers and jack myself in full strokes.
“Hahaha. Nice! Well what’s up with you and Ms. Gigi?” she texts, clearly having picked up on the invite but steering the conversation into safer waters, unwilling — at least for now anyway — to commit herself fully to such a heightened act of debauchery.
“Nice is right. Wasn’t trying to be a tease,” I respond, referring to both her and to poor neglected Gigi. “Think it’s time she made my acquaintance.”
“Okay, have a great night,” it comes back, making me curse as I move operations to my bedroom. Lying down, I take up both sleeve and lube, using the later to baste Ms. Gigi with a generous amount of the stuff. It’s a messy procedure, and I want to apologize in advance for the liberties I’m about to take. Drops of lube fall down from the pressure hole. I catch them in my hand, working them into my cock, making the head swell hot and full as I place it at the entrance.
Ben Esra telefonda seni bosaltmami ister misin?
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