This is a rather belated follow up to my previous story: "What Will They Think of Next". I do enjoy your feedback, what you liked about the story, and suggestions for improvement, so please feel free to comment.
Enjoy... TR
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Do you know, the Internet is an amazing thing? I wrote a story a few years ago about my experience with a remote-controlled vibrator. Very much to my surprise it became rather popular, it even won a prize, probably because it made people laugh as well as being quite sexy. You should read it, it's called 'What will they think of Next.' Anyway, I pretty much forgot about the whole episode and was quietly getting on with my life when, out of the blue, I got an email that brought the whole thing back. Initially the mail got sent to my spam folder and it was only by coincidence that I even read it. I was fishing through the junk looking for something that I suspected had been put there in error when it caught my eye.
It was from the manufacturer of said vibrator. In summary the email said that someone from their marketing department had read my story and wanted to put a proposition to me, would I get in touch with them. My first reaction was one of suspicion. A scam I thought, but I did a bit of checking. The email address seemed to tally with the official company domain name, it was professionally written and seemed legitimate on the surface. Even so, I showed the email to my boyfriend, Steve who works in IT and is more expert in these things than I am.
"Looks kosher to me," he said, having read the missive on my iPad. "Can't think what a scammer would be after anyway. Give them a call if you're interested." And he added, "I'd more or less forgotten about that thing, what happened to it?"
Now Steve might have forgotten about it, and truth be told, I was rather glad he had, but I certainly hadn't. We have a full and satisfying sex life, but Steve travels a lot on business and a girl can only go for so long without a bit of stimulation. Well, this girl anyway. So, when Steve was not around to provide his services, the Senseo (for that is its name) was a good substitute. I was wont to have a luxurious hot bath with lots of luxurious oil, get lovely and relaxed, then after drying myself with an enormous soft towel, lie naked on my bed, pop the Senseo in and let it slowly bring me to orgasm. The earth is never going to move very far with this funny little piece of hi-tech plastic, but it's not bad. At least it can hit your G-spot and your clitoris at the same time, which is more than can be said for some of the men I've known. (Let me reassure you, that Steve does not come into this category. He knows what his tongue is for and with minimal guidance can, when he is in the mood, make me see stars).
But I digress. The point is that this little Senseo is a girl's best friend when she wants a quiet orgasm without all the fuss. (although when I say 'quiet', readers of my earlier story will know that this adjective does not really apply to me).
"I have it in my drawer for when you're not here." Why I chose that moment to confess this little side-line I have no idea. It was not a topic of conversation that had ever come up. I had not felt, up to that point, the need to blurt out, say, over dinner, "Oh by the way Steve, when you're away I need to pleasure myself pretty frequently in order to stay sane." It sounds weird. No, it is weird, but it's pretty much the truth.
"What!" Steve was incredulous. He looked at me with such astonishment that I had to laugh. He looked like a cartoon character whose eyes pop out on springs.
"You're kidding right?"
I could so easily have said yes. It would have been entirely within character for me to have said this in jest. We are always winding each other up, it's been like that since we met. In fact, I'd say this shared sense of humour is one of the reasons we've been together for so long. But I didn't. I still don't know why, I obviously needed to tell him.
"No, I'm serious. When you're away I use it to pleasure myself. Anyway, you're the one who bought it for me in the first place." That was true, the Senseo was originally a Valentine's Day present from Steve. He brought it back from a trip to Sweden when he was there on some project he was working on. That's all in my other story, and it's a bit of a sore point, so I wasn't going to bring all that up again.
"Tell me more," now he was interested. And so I told him, about the baths and the oil and the lying naked on the bed, the whole thing, and do you know what? Before I'd even got to bit about how I rubbed a tiny bit of oil on the Senseo so that it would slip more easily inside of me, he'd somehow managed to get my bra undone and was licking my nipples with that prehensile tongue of his.
He knows that once he starts that he can pretty much do what he wants with me, it drives me wild. He just drew me to the edge of my chair, pulled off my knickers and, kneeling in front of me, suckled my clit until I came with a shuddering climax that nearly tore me in half. Before it was even over, he had his trousers open and entered me, and I came again at the sheer hardness of him. I was a rag doll, but I still had the strength to perform that sinuous movement of my pelvis that he can't hold out against and I drew his seed out of him with a great shout of release.
It was wonderful. But I doubt they'll ever let us back into that restaurant again.
That was a joke, really we were at home. After we had cleaned up and normality had returned to our Saturday afternoon, we had a good, deep, and caring discussion about my confession. Steve asked if he could watch the next time, I used the Senseo, I called him a pervert. He said would I video myself and send him a copy, I told him to get lost. But in the end, I was glad not to have this as a secret, and he was pleased that his gift to me wasn't being wasted and was deep down glad that the woman he loved enjoyed her body and needed sex, even if, sometimes, it was with a lump of plastic.
I decided not to follow up on the email by phone, I didn't want to speak to a stranger when I had no idea what it was about. My story had been too self-revealing, and I retained a nagging suspicion that someone who did happen to work for the company could be trying to start something not very nice. Instead, I replied by email, expressing qualified interest but asking for more information before taking it any further.
And lo and behold on the Tuesday a very pleasant email from someone called Helga pinged into my inbox. It said they were considering developing a new version of the Senseo and having read my story, which she said, 'had explored avenues for the product which were not foreseen' they wanted me to participate in a focus group which would help the designers and marketeers create, and I quote, 'A new and innovative solution for the woman of the 21st century' and would I call her for further details as they did not want to commit new product details to email.
Was I flattered? Is the Pope a Catholic? I got on the phone to Roz, my long-time best friend and confidante, the drop-dead gorgeous sex goddess who was the one I turned to in my hour of need during the great dinner-party orgasm caper. Which, as I have said before and will now shut up about, was the subject of the story which had piqued the interest of Helga and her chums at Lovio.
"You'll never guess what? Was my opening gambit as soon as the pleasantries were over.
"Steve's given up playing Boobs?" She said.
Now this did come as a surprise. I had no idea what the mad woman on the other end of the phone was talking about and I told her so.
"You are babbling woman," I said, "what are you talking about?"
"Ah, she said, he hasn't told you about the game of Boobs yet, has he?
"No Roz, he hasn't. Is he supposed to? This conversation is already a bit surreal for a Tuesday."
"OK, I'll give you the gist and you can either wait for Steve to tell you the rest, or spring it on him when he's at his most vulnerable, depending on how vindictive you're feeling. 'Boobs' is a little game that Dave, my loving husband, and Steve dreamed up to keep themselves occupied when we drag them out shopping. I found a score sheet when I was putting one of his shirts in the washing machine yesterday and he told me about it.
"Under torture?" I asked, "Or willingly?"
"Let's just call it extreme rendition shall we. Anyway, the game is basically a souped-up version of 'I -Spy breasts,' played for the amusement of men with a mental age of between 11 and 13 years old.
During a timed period, say the 3 hours of a shopping trip, points are scored according to sightings of female breast flesh. A full-frontal view of a pair of completely naked breasts would score 20 points, 10 points for each breast. Fully clothed breasts score no points, regardless of how wonderful their shape or size. Points between zero and 20 are apportioned according to visible area of skin. Say theoretically there was a sighting of a twin nipple slip, in which the top half of the breasts were exposed, that would score 10, 11 or, maybe even 12 points for two fully exposed nipples. You get the idea.
In practice of course, a score of 20 would be like a hole in one in golf. A once in a lifetime thing. It would be something like an unexpected streaker in a public place. Places of habitual topless dress are excluded from competition. So, three hours on the topless beach is not going to count, nor is attending a strip club or signing up to a life drawing class. All these and similar are excluded. Sightings must be in a regular public place in which naked breasts would be considered taboo.
A general sighting that would be considered good would be a score of 6. Which is roughly a third of each breast being visible. At a glamourous black-tie dinner, a score of 8 would not be that unusual, above that and you are talking about dress malfunctions and accidental down-blouse/no bra sightings. At least according to Dave, and he seems to be at grand-master level.
There are lots of other rules, no score's allowed for those thought to be under 21 years of age, for example. I didn't ask to see the rule book, but I know Dave, there will be one.
I know you'll be wondering, so just to let you know Dave says I habitually score 6, occasionally 8, but I dress like a slut. My words, not his. He was much more polite and hence his testicles remain attached to his body. He says he's rarely seen you score above a 2 in normal dress and even in your bikini you're nearer a 4 than an eight.
So that makes you a bit of a prude Louise, she finished smugly.
"I am not a prude," I was insulted. "The fact that I don't make a habit of giving the world a permanent view of my breasts, does not make me prudish. As it happens, I am way more highly sexed than the average woman and I have the evidence to prove it. In fact, if you hadn't distracted me with these shocking revelations about my boyfriend I would already have told you that I am in demand as a human guinea pig for the trial of a new sex toy."
Now this was an outrageous exaggeration of the actual situation, but I was stung by the accusation of prudishness. And the reason it stung? Because there is an element of truth in it. I would like to be more like Roz whose smouldering sexuality turns heads and erects penises wherever and whenever she wants to. And although she doesn't realise it, she could do it wearing a bin-liner, she doesn't need to even score a 1 on the boob scale. She is just a charismatic person, and I could do with a little more of what she has. But now it was her turn to be amazed.
"You're kidding," she said.
"Not this time, girl," I replied and if you buy me a bottle of decent chardonnay tomorrow night, I'll tell you more. In the meantime, I'm off to see if I can't get a sight of the rule book for 'Boobs' from my juvenile delinquent of a boyfriend." And I hung up.
