Curiousity Ch 01 04

Part 1: Before it all

Her fingers were numb. That was the first sensation that she felt as the handcuffs came off. That wretched, achy, pins and needles feeling that you get when you've been sitting too long in an awkward position. The officer's voice was a dull back beat to the raw enthusiasm she put into shaking her hands, wiggling her little digits alive, sucking and biting at the ends as if it would make it go faster.

"Too fast," he'd said taking pause to watch the woman make over her hands as if they were on fire, then continue on after he was satisfied that she wasn't demonstrating some enigmatic sign of heavy drug use or binge drinking "and you really should slow down on those curves, you haven't lived here long enough to know how many people have died doing stupid shit ball stunts like that..." he finished.

He was right; she'd been driving too fast home from too many drinks consumed in too short a period of time. It was all she could do to hide the fact that there were two of him scolding her at present. The nibbling of her fingers was a distraction; what came next would have to seal the deal.

"Officer I'm sorry, my husband and I just moved up here last month – he has some new job and works 10,000 hours a week, so all this moving stuff is on me. I just had to run into town, probably..." she beat those pretty eyelashes and looked down shamefully, "...in too much of a rush to get home," she stopped short as if there was one too many admissions of guilt..."I won't do it again."

"So you're up there all alone?" the officer said leering back at her. He stopped to tip the corner of his patrol hat up to reveal his arched brow, and receding hairline. This was it, this was her opportunity..."flirt, girl, like you've never flirted before," she mused to herself. The toolkit was all there, draw attention to the boobs, think of something sexy so the nipples wake up, then get your fingers near your mouth and bat those baby blues like there's no tomorrow. He didn't stand a chance, no lawman in the state had ever resisted her charms. The last moments of their interaction were of pure cadence; step one, ensure the young hot girl is thoroughly lectured about how lucky she is to not be dead, and she should be eternally graceful to the officer for letting her off with a warning.

"Oh Mr, Officer, won't you let me suck your cock if I promise to be a good girl on the road, and a bad girl with your dick in my mouth if I promise, promise not to tell anyone." She'd long fantasized about saying that while curtsying in front of whatever John. Q Law was lusting after her oral confession. She wondered what her husband would think if he knew, just how many times, the fantasy of roadside blow jobs had worked to save him what was assuredly millions of dollars in traffic ticket fines.

"Did you want me to follow you up to the house?" His words came out of no where; had she missed some crucial part of the conversation – was there ever any point where she told him that's what she wanted? Better to reinforce the fantasy than screw up that I just got out of a DUI because some hill billy cop got the better of me.

"Oh that's so sweet...Officer Dooley" she said, her eyes darting from his to the name tag, and back again, "I'm so tired, I think I'm just going to go home, get in a big hot bath and then crawl into bed..." she finished. Surely, the Academy would have to acknowledge her raw skill and prowess. Officer Dooley sat dumbfounded, mentally undressing her, wondering what it'd be like to move with her from the hot bath to the cool sheets, all with his mouth hanging open for the better part of a minute before he grumbled something (not in English) and then abruptly left. She sat twirling her long red hair by the roadside as he pulled off.

"Oh, be nice – he put up a good fight," she thought as he pulled off, it even convinced her to go the extra mile and do her best butt-stuck out cheerleader wave as he pulled past her. She giggled as she wondered what he'd have done if she had done a standing cheer – complete with pom pom's.

It was a much slower go of the way back up the long windy road. The superfluous giggly, drunk joy of using her sex to avoid incarceration or deprivation of property, namely financial, had all but worn off. She had now entered, the angry drunk phase, brought on by too few Miller Lights, and too many whiskey sours. The truth was, she hadn't lied to Dooley about all that much, other than about the whiskey sours and Miller Light's, she was pretty much on her own – the moving had been all on her. She had no job, because she was supposed to be a SAHM, an acronym that denoted motherhood. She did have a child, she supposed, but he was in his late-thirties and required her help mostly only with things like laundry, cooking-and unpacking boxes. The errand, as it were, was to go into town and forget about the box farm steadily growing in her living room, and the furniture that rested peacefully six feet under that. Her husband was working ten thousand hours a week, and she was lonely. How lonely?

"Honey, look how far you've stooped." She'd said that afternoon, opening a fresh box left by the front door (a tragic irony which didn't escape her as she threw the skeleton on the pile) as she delved deep in the bubble-wrap guts with the fever of a cheetah digging through an Antelope. "Clear glass, vibrating, temperature holding man replacement" - she said to herself as she tore open the box. One of the many annoyances that moving afforded her was the outright vanishing of "her little box of joy." Thousands, if not millions of memories, vibrating wonders, lubricants of ever type and flavor had been lost.

"Probably some burly fucking Puerto Rican moving guy is showing my vibrators up his boyfriends ass with my lube right now," she'd exclaimed to her husband after hours of laborious and ultimately unfruitful search.

"Aww baby," he'd start in his best Elvis, "why does it matter, you've still got me?" he had finished... stupidly. The shock and awe of his absurd mental vacancy confounded her.

"I have you like 20 minutes a day and even then, it's like every other day – I'm like the kid in that Will Smith movie, except instead of love the kid wants...I want sex...pretty soon, we're going to have to have sex in a subway bathroom with your foot propped up against the door so the homeless guys don't come in and take a shit on the floor." She'd scoffed in retort

Did he not understand, did he not get it? Coming was a ritual, more about event than audience. Sure it was nice to have him there, she appreciated his efforts to help even – but it certainly wasn't about him, or her for that matter, it was about that one tiny moment when the world gave way, and then her panties got a little messy. "And it's not like you even would have sex with me the number of times a day I masturbate – not because I don't want to – but it's just a lot of production for something that doesn't require it," She finished.

"Suddenly, I find this conversation very hot." He'd leered while lurching for her – "plebeian," she thought. Sure she fucked his brains out that afternoon – but clearly, there would have to be more effort to make him understand, that would take time – and time she didn't have. Fingers did a fine job, but God blessed us with the ingenuity to harness electricity, invent the wheel, raise skyscrapers and land on the moon...and most importantly, invent a mulch-speed, vibrating, temperature retaining sexual pleasure device which could be delivered in a brown labeless receptacle by UPS in less than 48-hours. It was a shame that she had to resort to just one toy, and she certainly understood the financial drain the house, the move and new job had taken – but this wasn't a Tolkien book, there wasn't one to rule them all. She fawned over her new toy when she'd finally wrestled it from its wrapping. She'd just been thinking about some dreamy steamy romance scenario and found herself quite wet, so it was a surprise when the doorbell rang.

The UPS man was nice looking indeed, and on any other day, she'd have spent five minutes sticking her chest out, making sure that she laughed at his jokes, even touched his arm just to build material for the next fevered masturbation session – but not this day. This day had already started, and she had plenty of source material in her twisted little orgasm starved mind. The wrappers and trappings discarded she marveled at the new toy. It was glass and mostly smooth, resembling a large diamond penis – only as you worked your way down from the head did it gain texture, an ornamental – but very useful, set of jutting ribs. The bottom of the device was flat, and she fancied that it could be sat upright and used for evil if a small nightstand or unassuming ottoman didn't mind a good afternoon pounding.

"Oh, this is what the doctor ordered," she whispered as she turned the device over in her hands, at once enjoying the smoothness, the coolness of the glass, and then a little rough point at the base? "Oh, that's right – it's a vibrator after all" she screamed comically – giggling at her overzealous exclamation. But to little avail she was afforded victory, as alas, she'd received a model with just enough battery life to power on and demonstrate it's prowess as both a sex toy and auto-jack hammer...and within a microsecond...it was gone. "Well this won't do at all," she thought as she tucked the toy into her nightstand, grabbed her purse and headed out the door. The errand, it first seemed, was simple: grab batteries, preferably in mass quantity, return home, replace batteries, commence to self gratification that only such wonders of modern technology could afford. It was only in the check-out line at the grocery store, that a too friendly soccer mom (one with actual children as well as a bit of a social drinking problem), neighbor would brow beat her into "just one drink," and her plan would be derailed. "And I'm on the road again..." was the anthem she sang to herself, plopping back in her car seat, after way too many beers and whiskey drinks...when the blue lights had come on in the rear view.

Stumbling to her front door, she marveled at her own success. It was quite a thing to have "fought the law, and the law not won" she mused as she sat down on her couch. It wasn't long before the epiphany of her misadventure dawned on her fully - "Oh that's right," she said peeling off her top as she walked toward the bedroom. The skimpy jeans were next, but the socks stayed on – little white ones, no balls on the ends – she wasn't in middle school anymore after all. She dove headlong into the bed, felt the silk of the sheets on her bare breasts, her nipples dragging across the cool fabric and growing taut, her breasts firm. She loved the feeling of cold sheets across her skin, the way it contrasted with the warmth of her thighs, especially between her legs. And it was probably the comfort (or the whiskey) that stifled her efforts to do so much as turn over. She reached into the drawer, sat up on her elbows and negotiated the hardware of her new device, the old batteries dropping to the floor, the new ones clicking into place firmly and the device came whirring to life.

"Mmm...that's better," she said licking up and down the sides of the device. A word to the wise, ladies, in the absence of lube, giving your vibrator a little messy blow job can not only slick up said device, but also warm it. Her toy now ready to play, she slid it down beneath her belly. She liked the way it felt, the weight of her body on her arm replacing the weight of a lover on top of her. Her free hand moved over her left breast – nipples feeling each and every crease on her hand – the subtle callouses, the coolness of her wedding ring. She pinched and tugged at her nipples gently, then harder. It felt foreign, like someone else doing it, and she enjoyed the little pain that came with every squeeze that was just a little too hard. The vibrator tip was cool, and it felt good when it moved over her vaginal mound. It tickled the soft skin above her pubic bone and rattled a little against her hip on the way down. But nothing could compare to that first touch on her clitoris as it moved through her outer lips and nestled itself there in between. The first orgasm came within seconds, and it was as good in a way that a glass of water tastes good when you've been working in the sun, the first sip however made you no less thirsty – and she was thirsty.

The ribs further down the shaft of the vibrator were deeper than she'd felt with her fingers and it almost hurt to move those across her clit too fast. She instead focused on a slower, harder movement, one where each little crevice and indentation mattered, felt good. It wasn't long until she plunged the head of the faux crystal penis inside of her, working the head hard against the tightness of the opening . Once satisfied, and aroused to orgasm, she used long strokes, moving deeper and deeper inside as she fucked herself with this great glass cock. The orgasms were plentiful, each stronger than the last, and by the time she was done, she was sweaty, weak and weary. It took all of her effort just to put the new wonder device in the drawer and close it firmly. She lay there in bed, ass-up, come dripping from her red and tender places for only seconds before she'd fallen off to sleep.

The next morning came fast, in the form of a glaring white light where clearly curtains or drapes, or even mini-blinds should be. The house was east facing, and she'd never regretted anything more than not putting blinds up at that moment. The windows in the house were actually the nicest feature. Her own bedroom was saddled with three giant 10 foot panes of glass in Adirondack fashion, looking out across her bid red-oak porch and further into the woods. It was only in the noon hours that one could truly appreciate the view. In the wee hours of the early morning, it was less appealing.

Still naked and lying on top of her sheets, she scrambled to shield her eyes, looking around curiously for her husband. The fact that she was laying in the same spot was indicative that she'd been the only one there all night, which might sound alarming if you didn't live with that particular bed mate. He was prone to late night "I have to works'" and even worse the "I know we had plans buts," so rather than be alarmed, it was easier to just check her cellphone for an unanswered message.

"There it is, the 3am "I can't come home right now babe...," she uttered to herself on seeing the little blinking light. She didn't need to, but she did confirm the messaging by actually listening to it – she'd been a little off on the time and language – but that's just semantics. Surely he'd be home soon, looking like death, needing coffee and encouragement -

"And little chance of actual sex," she groaned as she contemplated all the ways that she was more like his encouraging guidance counselor than a wife. She supposed that something had changed for the both of them over the last couple of months – the race to procreate and produce progeny proved fruitless, and somewhere in the months of trying – sex had gone past routine, and into the realm of "chore." It wasn't an absence of romance, it wasn't something they could fix – and she had all but convinced herself that it wasn't important, but still she couldn't help feeling like they'd lost something. She wasn't really mad, she was just frustrated...until she remembered what was lying in her drawer.

"No use wasting free time," she thought as she reached for the drawer – but before she could wrestle it open, she saw, very plainly, that the device was sitting upright on her night stand. What was frighting wasn't that it was perched there like a statue of the Virgin Mary on some religious zealots bed stand, but that it was sitting on top of a small write-able DVD, which had written on it:

"Very nice

Won't you play me..."

Part 2: Guest Voyeur

Her mood changed from aroused to full on terrified. She jumped out of bed and away from the nightstand. What was it? Where it come from? She nervously scanned the room, standing in the middle stark naked as the day she was born.

"Calm down," she sputtered, "it's just your stupid husband playing a stupid prank that's all". Still, she thought, it was best to check the doors and windows – after getting dressed of course. It took her no time to throw back on the skimpy jeans and shirt from the evening before, still saturated from whiskey and cigarettes. The smell almost made her nauseous. It was only the plan of action that kept her on her feet: Check the doors and windows, look in all the closets and under the bed; surely the boogeyman can't come out in the day light. She was half way around the house, a mighty three thousand expansive feet, in under two minutes, running through all of the bedrooms hopefully waiting for "the fruit of my womb", she snickered to herself, but she had other things on her mind at the moment. Every door was locked, every window was latched tight and each and every crevice, closet and dust-ruffle covered hiding place was accounted for and empty...it wasn't disappointing, in fact; it was more evidence that it had been her husband after all. She didn't remember locking the door, so whoever was in the house must have. "Why would a would be sex fiend and/or burglar stop to lock the door on his way out?" She hurried past her nightstand and noticed that her cellphone was blinking again.

"There it is, there's his gloaty I scared you message..." She exclaimed, a wave of relief washing over her.

But the cellphone message wasn't relieving, it wasn't at all what she'd expected to hear. It seemed her would-be-burglar sex fiend husband had been called to the country on a work-emergency (not uncommon for him) by way of red-eye. The message had been sent somewhere around 2am , well after the first, which came in as she was having her marathon "come fuck yourself" party around 11pm. The message came from an area code local with the inherent message that he didn't have cell service in the major metropolitan hub of Moose Balls, Wherever USA, and that he had called from the airport and would call to check in after he got to a hotel later that morning.

"I love you and I'm really sorry for the short notice babe – I'll make it up to you when I get home – promise...dinner, dancing, a romant..." - she disconnected the call, the little red phone icon ending what was sure to be a proposal for makeup sex. The fear came back, and all her attention focused on the little blue disc with the pen-scratched words:

"Very nice

Won't you play me..."

She approached the night stand tentatively, as if some giant menacing hand was going to come out from the dildo and say "BOO!" Realizing she was being silly, she picked up her new toy and carried it and the disc with her over to the living room. Her husband hadn't been around much, but he had ensured that the time he spent in the house was spent completing work on the man's sized TV and home entertainment setup. Moving here meant he wouldn't be relegated to a little dark room in the basement with all of his AV junk – he could proudly display it, that other men could come over and waggle their dicks around while talking about it.

"Goddammit, why does this thing have to be like a rubix cube," she shouted fumbling with the 10 different types of remotes, the six different display inputs, trying to figure out how to eject the disc try on the stereo receiver until it was apparent that she should be playing it on the DVD player. Such things were beneath her typically, she was the girl with the easiest gadgets – the "I need an icon on my desktop that says email because "OUTLOOK" doesn't say "email," kind of girl. The frustration of remembering all but the necessary two fucking steps to turn on a DVD from the hour long sermons of technology from her (soon to be late) husband...was driving her mad. She needed to know, she needed to understand all of this, to be able to put it in a little box marked "safe" and put it up on the shelf. But as the screen turned from blue and burst into color, comfort and safe were the furthest two concepts from her mind.