I am thinking of two stories. One about me, now, in another decadent sex game, which makes me wonder about my gravitas. The other about being in a women's prison in upstate New York.
Not me in prison. Nor even a close friend. Friend of a friend, here in the Hamptons, a woman in her early thirties never involved in crime who managed to screw up, compound her screw up, and during two months after she was sentenced alternated breakdown panic with resolute preparation to survive her term.
I met her a week before she reported for prison. I almost threw up with panic just hearing about her "research" on sexual abuse of women in prisons, putting myself in her place, and listened to her horrifyingly detailed description of her "plans" to survive. Anyone could see the girl's problem: tall and willowy, big breasts, show-girl legs, long chestnut hair, and amazingly alive and alluring eyes in a cute face. Victim.
And she knew it, too. She never went anywhere—the Recreation Center, the beach, a bar—without "crazed yellowed eyes of mad lust" following her every move. God, I feel sorry for her.
One part of this girl's plan was to keep a "prison diary"-letters to the woman who introduced us. To describe everything. I'm not sure that is a good idea. If things are tamer than she expects, is she going to light a candle to her patron saint? Or look for a little action?
Don't scoff. It happens. Psychology of justifying in retrospect those months of agonized projection of prison life.
When I kept on about my visceral empathy with this girl (I felt it in my vagina sometimes), my friend said she would share the letters. Said it was okay with her friend. Did she actually ask her friend? Dunno.
I've received copies of three letters, so far. I can't bear to read them, but can't ignore them. So far, they have gotten more and more upsetting. I don't think I'm ready to write about them.
Which leaves us with my latest scientific investigation of the outer limits of clitoral narcissism. I will tell it in the present tense, but you know I'm not writing it lying naked with my wrists bound behind me.
I am on a plush, whitish-green wall-to-wall carpet in an unfurnished room. The overhead lighting is bright enough for video. I am stark naked, arms behind, ankles loosely shackled. I am strapped into a very imaginative get-up for dominated women.
You can buy anything, you know. Even a sex slave. I am saving up for a houseboy from Rwanda-Burundi. I picked him out in the catalog. The spread includes a separate shot of his gorgeous ebony dick. A manicured white hand is reaching into the photograph to push back the flesh around the base of the dick in its bed of crispy black hair, the other hand is pulling the dick straight so the adorably big, shiny glans penis can be examined by the buyer.
Ellen, does this have anything at all to do with this story? Do you think anyone wants to hear your racist, imperialist, exploitative fantasies of a poor young man as your sex slave?
Ah, my point. Okay. Buy anything.
My pale, Vogue-skinny body, with long, elegant legs and perky modest-sized boobs with embarrassingly big nipples, is strapped into a store-bought black-patent-leather harness. Tight straps across my chest above and below my tits are squeezing them so the nipples swell and jut out.
Around my waist and both thighs are more straps, fiendishly designed to hold the head of a Hitachi vibrator jammed against my pussy, the vibrator held in place by straps clipped to my waist strap. You sort of get it. The vibrator is sticking straight out from my pussy like a third, short leg. When I move, all it does is wag slowly; the head never budges.
Enough? Nope. This is another adventure with my buddy, Amanda, last mentioned in my story about riding dildo bikes. I will not reinvent the language; Amanda has not changed. "Amanda is a big bossy girl, a Mighty White Gaia, but all in sexy proportions—long legs heavy but shapely, shoulders suitable for suspension of majestic mountains of breasts, a full face but with generous eyes, lips, cheeks in proportion—and cascades of hair." And, since I have seen it, I will mention her heroic cannoli of a clit running vertically down her slit, with a nubbin of flesh at its head of amazing size. Ms. Gulliver, naked, exposed, and so happy about it.
So, Amanda is next to me on the carpet. This is her idea. She saw it in some porno film. She is naked, on her back, in the same get-up, with a vibrator head buried in the hair of her monumental cunt. Her thick left thigh is roped to my lean right thigh, tightly, and our arms are dragged above our heads, wrists tied down and also tied together. And at our biceps, her left, my right, we also are roped together.
That is the scene: On our backs, naked, vibrators like huge dicks wagging between our legs, roped to each other as tight as Siamese twins.
Trust Amanda? Ah, that is ambiguous. Amanda always gives me a "safety word" to use if things in these situations become too much. The air of danger is that I don't trust Amanda when it comes to high-stakes stimulation. I don't trust her with the safe word and that adds to my excitement, but I do trust her not to slit me from my hairy zlach up to my gluph and leave me dead. That is another way of saying I am not insane.
Still, it bugs me that she recruited some guy to manage this. He looks barely 18, geeky, shy. Did we need a high-school techie to engineer two vibrators fastened to our pussies? Setting it up, he keeps staring at me, every inch, with a look of starvation on his face. Kind of cute, yes, even lanky. But couldn't some female have managed this bondage?
We lie waiting, two nude bodies, two snatches, one black, one light brown, two sets of tits, mine stiff and pointy, Amanda's huge pink smears on half-soccer ball boobs. Amanda rolls her face to mine with a huge grin. Okay. She helped me to avoid an evening of boredom. I grin back at her.
Amanda heaves up and over, just to kiss. Fine with me. She manages to reach my lips. I flick out my tongue. Not much give in these straps. Amanda heaves again, hot to kiss. She connects with my nose.
Then, the Geek walks in. We are mesmerized momentarily. He looks serious. Sees nothing whatsoever funny about this. He bends far over, a long lock of black hair falls, his bony fingers go to one vibrator button, then the other.
Yikes! Suddenly buzzing. Don't these things have low and high settings? Yes, they do. But we are starting on high, buzzing like a bee tree.
I am a gamer. Always have been. Try to beat or cheat the house odds. As Geek had strapped on the torture frame, I had been ready. I held my hips at maximum upward stretch—not moving as he strapped me in—so that when I stopped stretching and relaxed, the head of the vibrator shifted an inch upward just above my clit.
Why? I like control. Especially of my sex parts. Amanda had set this up as an orgasm contest. How many times could each of us come, then endure the agony of nonstop buzzing, get to orgasm again, and so on? I would rather watch Amanda do it.
Okay, lights, camera, action.
"Yow!" yells Amanda. She follows up with a squeal. Looking down, I see her massive hips heaving her light-brown pubic mound upward. She is laughing and squealing. She rolls her face toward me grinning...
What do I feel? A vibrator down there, yes, turned on high. Pressing my pubic bone above my clit. The vibes go all through my loins. Very sensitive area. It is not too difficult to gasp, cry out, lift my pubis, to fool Amanda.
With the vibrator on high, pressed tight to her most sensitive meat, Amanda ramps up to her orgasm. Her tits fascinate me as she becomes more aroused, her orange nipples crinkled and erect on her huge hillocks of breasts like high rise towers on a prairie.
She yelps, now, her gargantuan loins lifting her ginger-haired mound. "Ellen!" she yells. Then, her head rolls to the side, and she begs, jabbering, "Kiss me! Kiss me!"
I give my best heave against the straps and plant my lips squarely on hers. My tongue shoots in and out a few times, then I have to lapse back.
