Disclaimer: This post mentions topics involving consensual sexual violence. Not suitable for individuals under eighteen years of age. Reader discretion is advised.
On Friday, my new toy arrived. Unceremoniously dumped atop another parcel that had been left on the front doorstep in a bid to keep within social distancing guidelines, I stooped to pick them both up. Dear God, what was I even thinking? What confidence I had had now abandoned me and I hastily marched back into the bedroom and tossed the damn thing down the side of the bed to look at another time. Well I tried that anyway, except that instead, the damn package sailed past my husband and stuck on the windowsill before dropping unceremoniously down the gap. A well-deserved -1000 for not drawing attention to myself, I think.
For most of the evening, I’d completely forgotten about the thing. It existed, sure, but I made a note to journal sometime about my lack of confidence over the new toy. Sometime before play time Friday I told myself, if I had the time.
I didn’t, and we didn’t play, either, thanks to stress.
So come bedtime, after my frustration-relieving hot-shower-moody-music session and following the cancellation of our long-awaited and long-planned playtime, I got curious. Daintily retrieving the box from down the side of the bed, I began to read.
The word that stuck out to me most was “anal”. On the side of the box, it read “gently slide it into your anus”. I looked at the box in horror. Shit! £20 on something that I was never going to use. Nothing is going up my butt again and that was a decision that I’d long made after two try-and-didn’t-like sessions with the butt plug,
“Like I said the other day love, maybe it just needs more lube?” Wolfie argued, I shot him a stern look. Nope, I was sure. No to any future butt stuff. My decision, finalised.
Meanwhile, over on the Lovehoney website, an almost identical read for the ‘intimate part spreader’ read “insert it into your vagina”. Well, I decided, armed with my new toy and plentiful amounts of lubricant, it was time for something new.
Oh, that IS new.
I felt stretched and held open, but in a completely different way to how I had ever done with a speculum. I didn’t feel invaded, I felt exposed. I felt vulnerable, and that was a maddening turn on for me. More than just feeling held open, I loved that I was unable to resist. He could fill me with his seed and I wouldn’t be able stop him, and that lack of control was intensely hot.
Well it’s been fun skipping around the rabbit hole, but now I’ve well and truly fucking fallen into it.
And I loved it.
In one last final and brazen move, I took a photo of my purchase. I’d send it to him and hope to all things holy that he liked it.
Nevermind turning him on, the photo turned me on. I was tempted to send the photo to him there and then, but something stopped me.
What if he was freaked out by this?
Wolfie isn’t quite as far down the rabbit hole as me, and in some ways, I worried it might be too much for him. Still, it didn’t stop me admiring my artwork.
I woke early on Saturday morning and updated my shared journal. I talked about some of the thoughts I’d had, about feeling exposed and being unable to resist anything or anyone, male or female, and how much that played into some of my own forced bisexual fantasies. I’d talked about him being able to share photos of me and, if I was in bondage, I’d be unable to say no. I talked about how much that turned me on and left it at that. These thoughts may be far much for him, I concluded, but honest communication was all part of our rules.
“I’d be very interested in seeing this new toy of yours, Mrs S” he said casually, I gasped.
“You’ve read it already?”
“I read fast, comes with my job” he smirked. I surveyed the room for my way out. I needed an out, and fast. With no way past him, I opted for option two: get under the covers and tuck them in. If he grabs one side, I escape from the other. I can be a slippery customer when I get going.
“Where do you think you’re going?” he laughed, catching me by the ankle. I mewled and and tried for my most apologetic look. Let me out of here!
“Now where would it be… Ah ha! Is this it?” he asked, brandishing the black hook-shaped device from the bedside drawer. I pulled the blanket up over my face in an equal mixture of horror and shame. Why did I buy that thing?
“Come on, you’ve already played with it. You can show me how your new toy works.”
Oh, the indignity.
With my new toy cleaned, lubricated and in place, I allowed him to admire my handiwork.
“You can open it a little bit more, if you want to” I offered.
Far from being freaked out by latest purchase, my good Sir has dubbed it possibly his new favourite toy. I was proud, it was a risky gamble to please him and it had paid off well. My good Sir took his time in revelling in the sights of my late night shopping spree.
“Fuck, when I removed it, you dripped. That’s hot as fuck” he observed.
“Mr S, really!” I scolded.
“Yesterday you were talking about Michelangelo painting the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel by hand, and today you make statements like that. Who knew that such a perfect gentleman could possibly be so uncouth?”, I chided. he grinned.
We rested in bed for an hour in a state of elation and surprise. We were both bizarrely happy with how far we had come, but perhaps somewhat surprised too. It’d all started with furry handcuffs and sleep masks and now we were up to vaginal spreaders. Where oh where does the adventure end?
“So,” I began, rolling onto my front to look at Wolfie, “Wednesday was a post-sex takeaway, Friday was because of a fuck-tonne of stress… fancy some we-did-a-wild-thing KFC to soothe the system?”
“No, Kitten we can’t” Wolfie said. “Three lots of takeaway in a week in a week is bad!”
“Good sex is a good reason to have takeaway though?” I concluded.
“NO!” he roared with laughter, burying his face in his hand and shaking his head at my conclusion. “And anyway”, he continued, finding the strength to roll me over and kiss me, “if my memory serves me correctly, Mrs S, then I’ve already eaten.”