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Act I: Boundary Issues
Author’s Note: This is a work of non-fiction. Any resemblance to fictional characters or locales is unintended and purely coincidental.
The flirting has been going on for months now, building up, simmering with each week that passes, like a stew that is left to slowly develop character. Up until recently however, it’s been mostly of the harmless variety. After all, she’s freshly divorced and a coworker of mine, and I’ve been in a hit-or-miss (mostly miss) relationship with a certain young lady of my own.
I can’t pinpoint how it all began. Was it the glimpse of the white bulge of her panties beneath her skirt that I lucked into as she climbed off the bench after a staff meeting? Or was it the way that she casually brushed lint and pet hair off her shirt, making her breasts tremble while simultaneously holding a conversation with me? Perhaps it was the time that she came up behind me and tugged on the waistband of my underwear, putting pressure on my testicles as she complimented me on my taste in boxers.
I can’t be certain, but my guess is that it’s a combination of all these things and more. There’s no question though that something has changed, some switch thrown. Now when we pass each other in the close quarters of the office, our bodies come into unneeded contact, sliding up against one another, maddeningly close. It’s become increasingly difficult to ignore the fact that we’re shielded by only the thinnest of layers as we steady ourselves with a hand on the hip, feeling the promissory friction that may not be a promise at all, personal space suddenly at a premium.
Sometimes I think she’s been laying down a careful foundation of mental pictures designed to keep me tossing and turning until finally I can take no more, breaking down and abusing myself in the most fundamental of ways so I can finally get to sleep. It’s gotten to the point where just the mere anticipation of seeing her gets all of my blood flowing downhill.
“I don’t know if it would be considered crossing boundaries or something, but I wanted to show you this,” she tells me one night when we’re on shift together.
We work at a shelter for children, a place for the luckless orphans of the world — kids whose parents have forsaken them for drugs, and hatred, and abusive relationships. It’s nearly eleven pm and she’s on to work the overnight shift, to keep watch over their troubled slumberings. As usual I’m running late, hurrying to finish charting on the myriad temper tantrums and catfights so I can go home. But the unusual boundaries comment grabs my attention, and I can’t help but surreptitiously inspect the tight semicircle of her ass as she turns to one side to root through her purse.
“Here,” she tells me, brandishing a glossy catalogue of some sort.
The cover depicts a woman taking a bubble bath, candles burning on the rim of the tub, her head thrown back in contemplation, or perhaps contentment. The flowery script up at the top reads ‘Pleasures’, or ‘Passions’, or some such thing. Clearly the catalog is geared towards women, and it makes me wonder why she’s showing it to me.
When I open it, I’m inundated by a bevy of elaborate adult toys and novelties. It’s an unexpected surprise, and I feel blessed in the same way I did as a teenager when stumbling across someone’s secret stash of porn in the woods near my parents’ home — some other horny teenager’s cache of jerkoff material. I still recall the sense of anticipation I’d felt carefully separating the pages of some ancient Penthouse, bloated konyaaltı escort by the rains and delicate as tissue paper, but still decipherable, exactly what the doctor ordered. All these years later and I still look back with fondness on those anonymous ladies who’d graciously, if unknowingly, consented to shepherd me through my formative years — the feathered hair and furry muffs they favored back in the eighties, back before stroke books became the overlit and airbrushed gynecological manuals they are today.
I raise one eyebrow when I realize what it is, but she only smiles at me, a slight blush coming prettily into her cheeks.
The catalogue is essentially a showcase for vibrators in all different sizes and colors. There are page after page of the things. I’d never known there were so many varieties of dildos in all the world, many of them in frankly emasculating proportions. I take my time flipping through them, marveling at all the bells and whistles required to coax forth the elusive female orgasm.
“You know, you really don’t need these things. Women can have sex whenever they want,” I say, annoyed by the inherent irony, an irony that is particularly galling in light of how long it’s been since I’ve gotten laid. It’s as if women had no idea they were controlling all of the fucking in the first place.
“True, but sometimes they don’t want to go through all the hassle.”
There’s some validity to that I think, as I return my attention to the catalog. I’m reminded of the time the four year-old daughter of a woman I was dating emerged in the middle of a dinner party with her mother’s shiny white toy, tickled pink by her discovery if you’ll forgive the expression, causing not a little embarrassment for all parties involved, most notably me.
Even so, I can’t help but admire the designs of the things. Some of them are partially disguised as animals, some as shower attachments and neck massagers. Most of the higher-end jobbies have little tongues engineered to stimulate the most intimate of nerve endings, vibrating rubber nubs cozying up to clits, humming against them so many thousand times per second. Still others employ a parallel protuberance contrived to probe and ponder less-frequently treaded territory, making me think of twin-necked guitars. These later ones make me blush and look away. I can feel some commotion going on down inside my underwear, a stirring that is decidedly unwelcome at work.
I ask her what the occasion is, why she’s showing me this. She says a friend of hers gave her the catalogue, having recently signed on to host parties for a concern that dealt primarily in dildos and trashy lingerie. The friend in question hosted get-togethers in her home wherein she would sell the toys to friends and family alike in exchange for product — the 21st century equivalent of the Tupperware party — earning credit towards her own naughty stash of playthings with each butt plug and pair of edible panties sold.
It’s an intriguing premise, if only as a business model, and I wonder aloud what kind of vibrator arsenal the mysterious friend must be sitting on.
“No pun intended,” she says, making us both laugh.
“It’s fascinating,” I tell her in all honesty. “But that’s not really the part I require.”
“Here,” she says. I can feel her tits against my upper arm as she leans in and finds the page she’s looking for.
Sandwiched in the middle of all those dildos is a smattering of other offerings: imported nighties made from latex and from lace, high-viscosity lotions, and even a small selection of products kültür escort designed exclusively for men. I peruse the items on the solitary page, relieved that I’m not in the market for a vibrator, feeling overwhelmed until she thoughtfully points out a masturbation sleeve that she says comes highly recommended.
Truthfully, the ‘Gigi’ doesn’t look like anything special. It comes across as too low-tech amongst all those supercharged vibrators, no place seemingly for batteries or vacuum attachments. From the little blurb, I deduce that it’s some sort of synthetic vagina, allegedly modeled after some faceless, but lovely-crotched woman.
“I can’t look at this,” I tell her once I finish reading the description of the gripping and slipping potential of the thing. “It’s giving me an erection…”
I’m horrified to have let it slip. But she only laughs, clearly amused to see me so flustered.
I hand the catalog back, but as I get ready to leave, the name continues to bounce around in my head. Gigi…gigi, I think. Where have I heard that name before?
“Oh,” I laugh, the name finally ringing some long un-rung bell. “I know why that sounds so familiar. It’s like a glorified fifi.”
“What’s a fifi?” she asks me, flipping casually through the catalog herself now.
“It’s something prisoners make using rubber gloves and towels,” I tell her, wondering if the comment makes me sound mysterious and dangerous, struggling to covertly make out which toy has her attention all the while.
I try to explain the fundamental construction of the thing, but she can’t picture it, and so I take a hand towel and one of the latex gloves we use when a kid gets a cut and needs bandaging. As she watches, I lay the glove on top of the towel with the wrist part hanging off the square of cloth and then roll the glove up inside. She appears fascinated as I fold the wrist back down over the rolled up tube of fabric.
“Here,” I say, presenting her with the fifi.
She sticks a finger partway into the latex orifice and frowns. “Ouch,” she says.
“Hold on,” I tell her, taking a bottle of shampoo and dropping a dollop of the stuff into the glove, allowing gravity to do its thing. “Try it now.”
She still looks doubtful, but gamely gives it another go. I can’t pull my eyes away as she works the finger in and out once more before giving a shrug.
“No,” she says, handing it back to me.
“No good?” I ask, wanting her to keep going. I’m certain the disappointment shows on my face as I imagine her taking her other hand and snaking it down beneath the waistband of her skirt and into the pouch of her panties, silently comparing heat, moisture, and texture, doing a thorough job.
“No,” she says dismissively, snapping me from my reverie. For a moment it had seemed so real that I could imagine her wiping the juice from her fingers on her leg. “Not even close.”
“It beats nothing I guess,” I say, feeling oddly protective of this ingenuity that I’ve had no hand in, this latex ray of hope in so many bleak, institutionalized lives.
The conversation isn’t helping my erection problem though, and I’m grateful for the protection of the desk which shields the lump in my pants from her view.
“I guess, but everyone I talk to says the Gigi is the best,” she tells me, flipping back to the page in question. “I’ve felt it. It feels like one of those toy tubes that rolls over itself and slips out of your hand. You know the kind I mean? One of those stress toys?”
“I have one of those. I may have to try it out when I get home thanks to you,” I markantalya escort say to her with a laugh, gripping myself obviously through my britches down beneath the desk and making her giggle.
“Ohh, I’m sorry,” she says, pouting a little, as if genuinely concerned with my penile welfare. It’s cruel of her to arouse me so. She knows I’ve been having little luck with the ladies lately.
“Maybe when I host my first party and the orders come rolling in I’ll buy you one,” she adds.
I’m caught off-guard to hear that she too has decided to join in on the pyramidal fun. Frankly, I’d never have pegged her for an orgasm peddler. On my way out I offer up the token, half-hearted refusal, telling her it isn’t necessary, hoping to hell she’ll come through just the same.
Once home I try to put the conversation out of my head. It’s the end of my workweek, and I have plans to meet some friends for cocktails. But my penis is having no part of it. He pushes out insistently at the front of my pants, like some sort of pussy divining rod.
“What do you want?” I ask him looking down, knowing the answer already.
He admits to nothing. Like most penises, he’s more the strong silent type.
“Can’t you wait for a couple of hours?” I ask, negotiating for time.
Again he doesn’t answer, and so I pick up the phone, calling to cancel my plans using the obligatory ‘something’s come up’ excuse before finally calling her. My heart pounds as I dial the house number, and I stroke myself absentmindedly while I wait for her to pick up.
“Hey,” she says. “You all right?”
“Oh yeah,” I tell her. “Listen, I don’t suppose that friend of yours would special delivery me one of those gigis in the next twenty minutes or so?”
She laughs. “No, I don’t think so.”
“Damn,” I say. “Well…I guess I’ll have to take care of things the old-fashioned way then.”
“Good luck,” she tells me, the conversation gone suddenly awkward, neither of us sure as how to proceed.
I thank her anyway and hang up feeling stupid and frustrated. My dick is ridiculously hard, and when I pull my pants down, it sticks straight out. I know I’ll need to appease the little fucker soon if I’m going to get anything else accomplished.
Resigning myself to the inevitable, I sigh and move to grab the bottle of ‘personal lubricant’ from the closet. I’d had to buy the stuff exclusively to deal with all the sexual frustration she’s been bringing me over the last couple of months, the remnants of her perfume, and the feel of her skin brushing against mine clouding my head even many hours later.
‘Apply a generous amount to the genitals,’ read the instructions on the side. And though I cringe when I remember making the purchase — standing red-faced and embarrassed as the pretty young cashier rang it up, knowing she too would have read the directions and no way in hell to pretend it would be used otherwise — I’m grateful for it now as I kick the pants and boxers off, laying back on my bed.
Working carefully, I apply the prescribed amount onto the tip of me, letting it run down before taking hold. I call back up the image of her with her hand down in her panties, and almost immediately I’ve settled into a slow, steady, tight-fisted rhythm. I think again of her tits crushed up against my shoulder as my penis begins to leak, the pre-cum overflowing the head. It combines with the lube, and I work the concoction into the entire shaft, knowing that in the state I’m in it won’t take long.
I come hard while still thinking of her tits, how soft they’d feel in my hands, the warmth and smell of them, the way they might hang down over my face, the nipples elongating to brush up against my lips for a moment before I take them into my mouth and begin to suckle.
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